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THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



or 



General Literature and Science. 



VOL. VI. 
OCTOBER, 1867, TO MARCH, 1868. 



NEW YORK: 
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE, 
126 Nassau Street. 

1868. 



C b^' 

bb';bb4 



Joan A. GSAT t CBSEW, 
l6 AMD x8 JACOB VTKOn, MKW TOSK. 



CONTENTS. 



A RoTil Nan, loA. 
Aimfc's Sacrifice, 156. 
AWiD(idWord.357. 

Bahcr'i Sacrific*, and what came of it, 114. 

Biby,«7. 

BtHJaTi Romance, 408. 

Stthkbem : A Pilgrimage, 463. 

BoTaii, John, and Plagiarism, 535. 

Baitolcme Las Caaai, 819. 

Oratian Schools and Scholars, 44. 

Ciriyit'i Shooting Niagara, 86. 

Cmcsian Doubt, The, 134. 

ConpoBcr's Difficulty, The, 13 !• 

Onstianity in France, Present Condition ct, tji, 36a 

Cadtolic Congress at Malinca, The Third, 189. 

Oascripl, the Story o(, 310, 441, 607, 73a. 

Cmelins, Peter, the Master of German Painting, 391. 

Cooedy of Coavocation, The, 554. 

Catholic Congress of Malines, Bishop Dupaftloap's 

Speech at, 587. 
Costore's Book, 633. 
Cauda Thistles, 7>i. 
Composers, The Riral, 758L 
Church and her Attributes, The, 788. 

' Doable Marriage, The, 776. 

Futh and the Sciences, 330. 
Fopt Me Not, 639. 

Indians What shall we do with the, 403. 
Imh in America, The, 765. 
Itilf, Affairs in, 814. 

Jcsalu in North America, The, 191 
jMi6cation, The Catholic Doctrine of, 433. 
Jaepb Corres, 497. 



Kings of Enghnd, The Title ct, igj. 

Learned Women and Studious Women, 14, ao> 
Labor Question, The, 471. 

Libraries— Family, Parish, and Sunday-School, 54& 
Lacordaire, Inner Life o(, 689. 

Manager's Dilemma, The, so. 
Martyrs of Goicum, The, 71. 
Meadowbrook Adventure, My, 346. 
Magas ; or, Long Ago, 66(s 804. 
MisceDany, 709. 
Nature and Grace, 509. 

Our Boy Organist, 64. 

Old Guide to Good Manneis, An, 98L 

Old Religion, The, 622. 

Old Roman World, The, 731. 

Protestants, A Few Thoughts about, 13s. 
Paris Impious— and Religious Paris, 377. 
Philosophy not always Vain, 680. 
Paris, The Pre-Historical Congress ol, 70). 

Rome and the World, i. 

Ritualism and iu True Meaning, 375. 

Reign of Law, The, 595. 

Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert, 9a, 171, 421, 700^ 

8$.. 
Subjective in Religion, Function of the, 175. 
Stage-Coach, The Inside oC 41a. 
Sandal of His Holiness, The Ceremonial, 471. 
Sacrifice and the Ransom, The, 485. 

Temporal Power of the Popes, The, 518. 
The Pre-Historical Congress of Paris, 703. 

Women, Learned and Studious, 34, 309. 
Washington, Unpublished Letters of, 145. 
What Doctor Marks died o( 834. 



POETRY. 



AS Souls' Day, 17a. 
AbKondita, 731. 

Bcali Mites, Qooniam Ipse Possidebnnt Temm, 606. 

Dirioe Loadstone, The, 737. 

Is Memoriam, 43. 
laiogea, 190. 

Jor and Grief, 358. 

Lo«t of the Pardoned, The, Saj. 



Mater Filii, 484. 
Matin, 537. 

Our Lady, 63. 

Per Liquidum iEthera Vales, 337. 
Providence, 701. 

Ran Away to Sea, 103. 

Seventy-Three, 366. 

Seven Sleepers, The Legend of the, 544. 

Sub Umbra, 638. 

Whh Christ, 19. 



w 



CcMtents. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Aaer't Retoro, 43a 
Alesii, the Runaway, 575. 

Battle-rields of Ireland, The, aSS. 
Bleswd MaiKaret Mary, Hiatory oC 187. 
Bohemiana of the Fifteenth Century, 144. 
Breaking Away, S7S- 
Blesaed Eucharist, The, 859. 

Clefgy and the Pulpit, 139. 

Catholic Crusoe, 43a 

Climbing the Rope, 575. 

Childhood, Happy Hours oC 576. 

Coral Idand. The, 7r7. 

Catholic Poets, Selections from, 718. 

Cbudia, 719. x 

Coinedy of Convocation, The, 719. 

Catholic Almanac 7>0' 

Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland, The, 859. 

Day's Synthesis and Art of Discourse, 415. 

Dotty Dimple, 576. 

Danghter of an Kmpress, The, 713 

Essays on Religion and Literature, 141. 
Extracts from the Fathers, 144. 

Froude's Short Studies on Great Subjects, 418. 
Folks and Fairies, 86a, 

Galin Method of Musical Inttntctioo, The, 43a 
Golden Truths, 71& 

Heiress of Killorgan, The, 43a. 

Haldeman's Affixes, their Origin and Application, 43ai 

Holy Kings, The 'Iliree, 373. 

Hildebert, lite Hymn of, 574. 

Holly and Mistletoe, 57& 

Home Fairy Tales 86a 

Irish Reformation, Dr.'Brady on the, 371. 
Ireland, an Illustrated Hbtory o( 855. 
Ireland, Legends of the Wars in, 858. 



Lacordaire's Letters to Young Men, 144. 
Lifis of St Aloysius Gonxaga, The, aSS. 
Little Pet Books, 288. 
Life of Curran and Grattan, The, 576. 
Layman's Breriary, The, 717. 
Lovers' Dictionary, 86a 

Modem History, Fredet's and Kean>e)''a, 144. 

Meditations of St Thomas, 431. 

My Prisons, S75- 

Marie Antoinette and her Son, 713. 

Morgan Rattler, 717. 

Manual of Physical Exercises, 86a 

Napoleon and Queen of Prusua, 713. 
Newman's Verses on Various Occasions, 858. 

Preston's I.«ctures on Reason and Revelation, 7iek 
Poems, 711. 

Queens of American Society, The, 719. 

Recamier, Madame, Life o^ 43a 
Rome and the Popes, 718. 

Swetchine, Madame, life of, 419. 

Saint Ignatius and the Society of Jesus, 431. 

Saint Gwendoline, Ye Legend of, 573. 

Shamrock and Thistle, 574. 

Saint Vincent de Paul, The Spirit of. 718. , 

Saint Francis of Assisi, Life oC 718. 

Seek and Kind, 710. 

Strickland's Queens of England, 86a 

T1V0 Thousand Miles on Horsefaadt, 715. 
Tommy Hickup, 7aa 

Uberto. a86. 
Un^ava, 717. 

Votary, I'he, 186. 

Whitney on Ijinguage and the Study of Langng» 

4»J- 
Women, The Friendships of, 851. 



Katrina, Hollaitd's, a85. 



Young Fur Traders, The, 717. 




VTHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL- VI., No. 31.— OCTOBER, ifi6;. 



ROME AND THE WORLD. 



head Rome or Reason 
In The Catholic World 
month thai Catholicitj* is based 
ily, and is the synthesis, so to 
reaior and creature, of 
of heaven and earth, 
grace, faith and reason, 
libert)', revelation and 
that there is in the real 
antagonism between the two 
categories. The supposed 
results from not vinder- 
ihe real nexus that unites 
dialectic whole, and 
of tlieir mutual con- 
peace, expressed in the 
the word "atonement." 
ty is supernatural, in- 
\\ is not an after-thought, 
anomaly in the ori^nal plan 
itkm. Our Lord was the Lamb 
from the foundation of the 
, the Incarnation is included in 
n as its completion or fulfil- 
and hence many theologians 
lat, even if man h.idnot sinned, 
^oxild liave become incarnate, 
deed, to redeem man from sin 
ith whii^h comes by sin, but 
iiturc, and to enable 
mi am lo that iupematural 



union with God in which alone he 
finds or can find his supreme good 
or perfect beatitude. Christianity, 
whether this be so or not, must al- 
ways be regarded as teleological, the 
religion of the end — not accidental- 
ly so, but made so in the original 
plan of the Creator. It enters dia- 
lectically, not arbitrarily, into that 
plan, and really completes it, In^ 
this view of llie case tije Creator's 
works from first to last are dialecti- 
cal, and there is and can be no con- 
tradiction in Uiem; no discrepancy 
between the natural and supernatu- 
ral, between faith and reason, nature 
and grace, the beginning, medium, 
and end, but all form integral parts 
of one indissoluble whole. 

But, if there is and can be no anta- 
gonism between Rome and Reason, 
there certainly is an antagonism be- 
tween Rome and the World, which 
must not be overlooked or counted 
for nothing, and which ivill, in some 
form, most likely, subsist as long as 
the world stands. Rome symbolizes 
for us the catholic religion, or the 
divine order, which is tlie law of life. 
The Catholic Church in its present 
state dates only from the Incamalioti^ 



I 



Rome and the World. 



out of which it grows, and of which 
it is in some sort the visible continu- 
ation; but the Catholic religion, as 
the faith, as the law of life, dates 
from the beginning. The just before 
the coming of Christ were just on 
the same principles, by the same 
faith, and by obedience to the same 
divine law, or conformity to the same 
divine order, that they are now, and 
will be to the end ; and hence the de- 
ist Tindal expressed a truth which he 
was far from comprehending when he 
asserted that " Christianity is as old 
as the world." Tindal 's great error 
was in understanding by Christian- 
ity only the natural law promulgated 
through natural reason, and in denying 
the supernatural. Christianity is that 
and more too. It includes, and from 
the first has included, in their synthe- 
sis, both the natural and the super- 
natural. The human race has never 
had but one true or real religion, but 
one revelation, which, as St. Thomas 
teaches, was made in substance to 
■OUT first parents in the garden. 
Times change, says St. Augustine, 
but faith changes not. As believed 
the fathers — ^the patriarchs — so be- 
lieve we, only they believed in a 
Christ to come, and we in a Christ 
that has come. Prior to the actual 
coming of Christ the Church existed, 
but in a state of promise, and needed 
his actual coming to be perfected, or 
fuMIIed, as St. Paul teaches us in 
hisepistle to the Hebrews ; and hence 
none who died before the Incarnation 
actually entered iieaven till after the 
passion of our Lord. 

Now, to this divineorder.this divine 
law, this catholic faith and worship 
symbolized to ns by Rome, the visi- 
ble centre of its tinity and authority, 
stands opposed another order, not of 
life, but of death, called the world, 
originating with our first parents, and 
in their di.sobedience to the divine 
law, or violation of the divine order 



established by the Creator, confomiitjr 
to which was essential to the moni 
life and perfection of the creature, or 
fulfilment of the promise given man 
in creation. The order violated was 
founded in the eternal wisdom and 
goodness of the Creator, and the re- 
lations which necessarily subsist be-v 
tween God as creator and man as/ 
his creature, the work of his hands. 
There is and can be for roan no 
other law of life ; even God himself 
can establish no other. By obedience 
to the law given or conformity to the 
order established man is normallj 
developed, lives a true normal life, 
and attains to his appointed end, 
which is the completion of his being 
in God, his beatitude or supreme 
good. But Satan tempted our first 
parents to depart from this order 
and to transgress the divine law, and 
in their transgression of the law they 
fell into sin, and founded what we call 
the world — not on the law of life, but 
on what is necessarily the law tA 
death. 

The principle of the world may be 
collected from the words of the Temp- 
ter to Eve : " Ye shall not surely dk^ 
but shall be as gods, knowing good 
and evil." These words deny the law 
of God, declare it false, and promise 
to men independence of their Cre- 
ator, and the ability to be their own 
masters,their own teachers and guides. 
" Ye shall be as gods, knowing good 
and evil;" that is, determining for 
yourselves, independently of any sa- 
jjcrior, what is right or wrong, good 
or evil, or what is or is not fitting for 
you to do. You shall suffice for 
yourselves, and be your own law. 
Hence, as the basis of Rome is the 
assertion of the divine law, con- 
formity to the divine order, or sub- 
mission to the divine reason and 
will, that is, humility, the basis di 
the world is the denial of the divine 
order, the rejection of the law of life 



Rtfuu and tfu World. 



le assertion of the sufficiency 

n for himself, that is, simply, 

Rome is based on humili^, 

Olid on pride; the spirit of 

is loyalty and obedience, the 
of the world is disloyalty and 
tdience, always and everywhere 
iiit of revolt or rebellion. Be- 

these two spirits there is ne- 
ily an indestructible antago- 
and no possible reconciliation, 
e radical difference between 

and the world is the radical 
nee between the humility of 
hristian and the pride of the 
All Christian piety and virtue 
sed on humility ; the piety and 
of the stoic are based on pride. 
Christian is always deeply im- 
d with the greatness and good- 
f God ; the stoic with the great- 
md strength of himself The 
ian submits to crosses and dis- 
Ltments, to the sufferings and 
ons of life, because he loves 
nd is willing to suffer anything 

sake ; the stoic endures them 
It a murmur, because he dis- 
:o complain, and holds that he 
I should be, superior to all the 
tudes and calamities of life. 
Christian weeps as his Master 
at the gfrave of Lazarus, and 
elief in his tears ; the stoic is 
3ud to weep ; he wraps himself 
m-n dignity and self importance, 
■hen his calamities are greater 
iC can bear, he seeks relief, like 

in suicide, thus proving his 
ess by the very means he takes 
ceal it. The Christian throws 
irden on the Lord, and rises 
it ; the stoic insists on bearing 
isclf, and at last sinks under 
he world despises humility, and 
les on the humble. To it the 
ian is tame, passive, mean-spir- 
ontemptible. It has no sympa- 
th the beatitudes, such as, Bless- 
: the poor in spirit ; blessed arc 



the pure in heart; blessed are the 
meek ; blessed are the peacemakers. 
It understands nothing of true Chris- 
tian heroism, or of the greatness of 
repose. It sees strength only in 
effort, which is always a proof of 
weakness, and the harder one strains 
and tugs to raise a weight, the strong- 
er it holds him. We may see it in the 
popular literature of the day, and in 
nearly all recent art The ancients 
had a much truer thought when they 
sculptured their gods asleep, and 
spread over their countenance an air 
of ineffable repose. The Scriptures 
speak of the mighty works of God, 
but represent them as the hiding of 
his power. All the great operations 
of nature are performed in silence, 
and the world notes them not The 
Christian's greatness is concealed by 
the veil of humility, and his strength 
is hidden with God. He works in 
silence, but with effect, because he 
works with the power of Him to whom 
is given all power in heaven and in 
earth. 

Mr. Gladstone thinks he finds in 
Homer the whole body of the patri- 
archal religion, or the primitive tra- 
dition of the race, and he probably 
is not much mistaken ; but no one 
can study Homer's heroes without 
being struck with the contrast they 
offer to the heroes of the Old Testa- 
ment The Old Testament heroes 
are as brave, as daring, and as effect- 
ive as those of Homer ; but they con- 
ceal their own personality, they go 
forth to battle in submission to the di- 
vine command, not seeking to display 
their own skill or prowess, and the 
glory of their achievements they as- 
cribe to God, who goes with them, 
assists them, fights for them, and 
gives the victory. What is manifest 
is the presence and greatness of God, 
not the greatness and strength of the 
hero, who is nothing in himself. In 
Homer the case is reversed, and what 



R<nnc and the World, 



strikes the reader is the littleness of 
God and the greatness of men. The 
gods and goddesses take part in the 
fray, it is true, but they are hardly the 
equals of the human warriors them- 
selves. A human spear wounds Ve- 
nus, and sends Mars howling from 
the field. It is human greatness and 
strength, human prowess and heroism, 
without any reference to God, to whom 
belongs the glory, that the poet sings, 
the creature regarded as independent 
of the Creator. In reading the Old 
Testament, you lose sight of the glory 
of men in the glory of God ; in read- 
ing Homer, you lose sight of the glory 
of God in the glory of men. Abra- 
ham, Joshua, Gideon, Jephtha, David, 
the Maccabees fight as the servants 
of the Most High ; Agamemnon, Ajax, 
Diomed, Achilles, even Hector, to dis- 
play their own power, and to prove 
the stuff that is in them. 

Perhaps no author, ancient or 
modem, has so completely embo- 
died in his writings, tlie spirit of the 
world, the Welt-Geist, as the Ger- 
mans s,iy, as Thomas Carlyle. This 
writer may have done some service to 
society in exposing many cants, in 
demolishing numerous shams, and in 
calling attention to the eternal veri- 
ties, of which few men are more igno- 
rant ; but he has deified force, and 
consecrated the worship of might in 
the place of right Indeed, for him, 
ri^ht is cant, and there is no right but 
might. He spurns humilit)', submis- 
sion, obedience, and recognizes God 
only in human ability. His hero- 
worship is the worship of the strong 
and the successful. Ability, how- 
ever directed or wherever displayed, 
is his divinity. His heroes are Wo- 
den ajid Thor, Cromwell, Frederick 
the Great, Mirabeau, Danton, Napo- 
leon Bonaparte. The men who go 
straight to their object, whether good 
or b.id, and use the means necessary' 
to gain it, whether right or wrong, are 




for him the divine men, and the only 
thing he censures is weakness, wheth- 
er caused by indecision or scrapk 
of conscience. His hero is an 
mental force, who acts as the ligfc 
ning tliat rives the oak, or the wine 
that fill the sails and drive the shi] 
to its port. Old-fashioned moral iti 
which requires a man to seek ji 
ends by just means, is with !um 
cant, a sham, an unreality, and 
true hero nrakes away with it, and i^ 
his own end, his own law, his ov 
means. He is not governed, he gov 
ems, and is the real being, the 
God ', all else belong to the unveraci^ 
ties, are mere simulacra, whose tat 
is to vanish in thin air, to disapj 
in the inane. The man who recog»J 
nizes a power above him, a right iti^ 
dependent of him, and in submissic 
to tlie divine law, and from love OC 
truth and justice, weds himself td 
what is commanded, espouses th< 
right and adheres to it through gc 
report and evil report, takes up 
cause of the oppressed, the wronj 
and outraged, the poor, the friendless 
and the down-trodden, and works fori 
it, gives his soul to it, and sacrifice 
his time, his labor, and his verj- lii«| 
to advance it, when he has no ma 
with him, and all the world unhe 
jeers, or thwarts him, is unheroic, andj 
has no moral grandeur in him, ha 
no virtue — unless he succeeds. HcJ 
is a hero only when he carries the 
world with him, bends the multitude 
to his purpose, and comes out trium- 
phant. The unsuccessful are always^ 
wrong; lost causes are alwaj-s bad| 
causes ; and the imfortunate are un* 
veracious, and deser\'e their fate. 
The good man struggling with fate,5 
and holding fast to his integrity in 
the midst of the sorest triads and 
temptations, and overborne in all, 
things save his unconquerable devo-1 
tion to duty, is no hero, and deserves | 
no honor, though even the ancieni 



Rente and the World. 



a man worthy of the 
of gods and men. Car- 
that tJjere is an hereafter, 
rhal to our dim vision may 
[lo be failure here may there 
iito have been the most emi- 
is. The Christians con- 
world, not by slaying, but 
lain, and the race has been 
by the Cross. Indeed, 
ways a proof of meanness 
less, is an unveracity ; for 
}rn of 3 lie, and rests on a tie : 
magnanimity and strength for 
from humilit)% which is 
lood, but a veracity ; for it 
ity to the truth of things. 
^ciple of opposition to the 
is always and everywhere the 
'invariable in time and place as 
lurch herself, and has a certain 
•in logic of its own; 
in from age to age 
3m nation to nation, and is en- 
cburch because she does 
it, It is always at bot- 
Its form, the assump- 
eature docs or may suf- 
: " Ye shall not surely die, 
be as gods, knowing good 
This primitive falsehood, 
lie, underlies all the hos- 
world to the church, or of 
to Rome. Analyze what 
the world, and you will find 
ly a perpetual effort or se- 
)rts to realize the promise 
ie serpent to Eve in the 
un coiled round the tree of 
The world labors to ex- 
jnity and glor^-^ of man, 
iture dependent for his 
! for all he is or can be, on 
r, which would be just and 
as an independent, self- 
self-<ietcrmimng being, 
;, individually or socially, 
elf for his thoughts, words, 
jeeds — subject to no law but his 
rill, appetites, passions, natural 



propensities, and tendencies. He is 
himself his own law, his own master, 
and should be free from all restraint 
and all control not in himself. 

It is easy, therefore, to understand 
why, with the world and with men 
filled with the spirit of the world. 
Rome is held to be the sj-mbol of 
despotism, and the church to be in- 
herently and necessarily hostile to 
the freedom of thought and to all 
civil and religious liberty. The world 
understands by liberty independence 
of action, and therefore exemption 
from all obligation of obedience, or 
subjection to any law, not self-im- 
posed. It holds the free man to be 
one who is under no control, subject 
to no restraint, and responsible to no 
will but his own. This is its view of 
liberty, and consequently whatever 
restricts liberty in this sense, and 
places man under a law which he is 
bound to recognize and obey, is in 
its vocabulary despotism, opposed 
to the rights of man, the rights of 
the mind, the rights of society, or 
the freedom and independence of the 
secular order. Liberty in this broad 
and universal sense obviously cannot 
be the right or prerogative of any 
creature, for the creature necessarily 
depends for all he is or has on the 
creator. Hence M. Proudhon, who 
maintained that property is robberj", 
with a rigid log^c that has hardly been 
appreciated, asserts that the existence 
of God is incompatible with the as- 
sertion of the liberty of man. Ad- 
mit, he says, the existence of God, and 
you must concede all the authority 
claimed by the Catholic Church. The 
foundation of all despotism is in the 
belief in the existence of God, and 
you must deny, obliterate that belief, 
before you can assert and maintain 
liberty. He was right, if we take li- 
berty as the world takes it. Liberty, as 
the world understands it, is the liber- 
ty of a god, not of a creature. Rome 




Rtmu and the World. 



•sscrts and maintains full liberty of 
roan as a creature ; but she does and 
must oppose liberty in the broad, uni- 
versal sense of the world ; for her very 
mission is to assert and maintain the 
supremacy of the divine order, the 
authorit)' of God overall the works of 
his hands, and alike over men as indi- 
viduals and as nations. She asserts in- 
deed, liberty in its true sense ; but she, 
does and must oppose the liberty the 
world demands, the liberty promised 
by Satan to our first parents, and 
which, in truth, should be called li- 
cense, not liberty, and also those who 
strive for it as disloyal to God, as re- 
bels to their rightful sovereign, chil- 
dren of disobedience, warring against, 
as Carlyle would say, the veracities, 
the eternal verities, the truth of things, 
or divine reality. There is no help for 
it. The church must do so, or be 
false to her trust, false to her God, 
false to the divine order ; for, let the 
world say what it will, man is not 
God, but God's creature, and God is 
sovereign Lord and proprietor of the 
universe, since he has made it, and 
the maker has the sovereign right to 
the thing made. Here is no room 
for compromise, and the struggle must 
continue till the world abandons its 
false notion of liberty, and submits to 
the divine government. Till then 
the church is and must be the church 
militant, and carry on the war against 
the world, whatever shape it may as- 
sume. 

With the ancient Gentiles the world 
rather perverted and corrupted the 
truth tlian absolutely rejected it, and 
fell into idolatry and superstition 
rather than into absolute atheism. 
The Epicureans were, indeed, vir- 
tually atheists, but they never con- 
stituted the great body of any Gentile 

'nation. The heathen generally re- 
tained a dim and shadowy belief in 

'the divinity, even in the unity of God ; 
but they lost the conception of him as 



creator, and consequentl] 

the universe as his creatv 

stituting in their philosoj 

tion, emanation, or formation 

tion* they obscured the sense 

dependence on God as crcj 

consequently destroyed the t 

relation between religion am 

ty. No moral ideas entered 1 

worship, and they worshipped 

to whom they erected temj 

made offerings, not from a 

duty or from the moral oblij 

the creature to adore his Cr( 

give himself to him, but fi 

tives of interest, to avert t] 

pleasure, appease their wra 

render them propitious to 

dertakings, whether privati 

prises or public war and < 

They asserted for man and 

independence of the divine 

a moral order. Severed ; 

moral conceptions, their reli 

came a degraded and degra 

perstition, an intolerable bt 

the soul, and their worship 

bodiment of impurity and CO 

Such was the effect of the gt 

tile apostasy, or Gentile att 

realize the freedom and ir 

ence promised by Satan. ' 

mise proved a lie. fl 

When the church in hV 

state was established, thi 

opposed her in the name 

libertj- or independence of ( 

poral order, which implies 

basis tlie independence of tl 

ture of the creator, and t 

resting on the same satanic 

" Ye shall be as gods, knowi 

and evil." When our Lc 

brought before Pontius Pili 

Pilate was about to disrr 

charges against him and to 

go, the Jews changed his pui 

telling him, "If you let this 

you are no friend to Cxsar, 

heathen persecutions of 



1 



Rome and ike World. 



dais were principally on the ground 
iliat thc>' were disloyal to the empire, 
mtsmuch as they rejected its worship, 
fand a&serted the immediate divine 
|.tuthority of their religion and its 
iRdcpendcnce of the st^te or civil 
fW Moet)', hoiding firmly always and 
ntj^Tihere the maxim, "We must 
nbey God rather than men." All 
.iiown through the barbarous ages. 
Itiiat followed tite downfall of the 
e of the West, through 
^ -S and down even to 
ru liiiies, the state has claimed 
^authority over the church 
I to her temporal goods and 
lent, and has constant- 
soi^ht to subject her to the 
i\i\ authority, which in principle is 
same with subjecting God to 
tun. Tlie world represented by 
Gesar ha^ constandy struggled to 
Mbvert the independence of religion, 
to exalt tJic human above tlie 
fine. This is the meaning of the 
\'a1 contests between the pope 
K emperor, as we have hercto- 
fcre shown. There is not at this 
ay, unless Belgium be an exception, 
sitigle state in Europe where the 
iporal |X)wer leaves religion free 
1 independent, or where the church 
not to strug;gle against the gov- 
icnt to maintain the indepen- 
dence of the divine order she repre- 
Fidelity to God is held to be 
to the state, and hence 
b/abcth of England executes Cath- 
r at Tyburn as traitors. 

age boasts of progress, and 
through all its thousands of 
upon us to admire the mar- 
llous progress it has made, and 
every hour making. It is right, 
what it means by progress really 
he progress. It has certainly gone 
ficrther than any preceding age in 
emancipating itself from the supre- 
of tJie law of God, in tram- 
divine order, and assert- 



ing the supremacy of man. It has 
drawn the last logical consequences 
contained in the Ipng promise of 
Satan, " Ye shall be as gods, know- 
ing good and evil." There is no use 
in denying or seeking to disguise it. 
The world as opposed to Rome, ceases 
entirely to regard man as a creatine, 
and boldly and unblushingly puts him 
in all respects in the place of God. 
God, when not openly denied to 
exist, is denied as creator : he is at 
most nalura twturajis, and identical 
with what are called the laws of 
nature. Hundreds of savans are 
busy with the effort to explain the 
universe without recognizing a cre- 
ator, and to prove that effects may 
be obtained without causes. Science 
stops at second causes, or, rather, with 
the investigation and classification of 
phenomena, laughs at final causes, 
and, if it does not absolutely deny a 
first cause, relegates it to the region 
of the unknowable, and treats it as 
if it were noL The advanced philo- 
sophers of the age see no difference 
between moral laws and physical 
laws, between gratitude and gravita- 
tion. The heart secretes virtue as 
the liver secretes bile, and virtue 
itself consists not in a voluntary act 
of obedience, or in deliberately act- 
ing for a prescribed end, but in force 
of nature, in following one's instincts, 
and acting out one's self, heedless 
of consequences, and without any 
consideration of moral obligation. 
Truth is a variable quantity', and is 
one thing with me and another with 
my neighbor. There is no pro- 
vidence, or providence is fate, and 
God is the theological name given- 
to the forces of nature, especially 
human natxire ; tliere is no divinity 
but man ; all worship except that of 
humanity is idolatry or superstition ;; 
the race is immortal, but individuals 
are mortal, and there is no resur- 
rection of the dead. Some, \\V.e 



Rome and the World. 




Fourier and Augiiste Comie, even 
deny that ihe race is immortal, and 
suppose that in time it will disappear 
in the inane. 

But, without going any further 
Into detail, we may say generally 
tfie age asserts the complete eman- 
cipation of man and his institutions 
from all intellectual, moral, and spi- 
itual control or restraint, and un- 
der the name of liberty asserts the 
complete and absolute independence 
of man both individually and col- 
lectively, and under pretence of de- 
mocratic freedom wars against all 
ilhority and all government, whe- 
ber political or ecclesiastical. It does 
not like to concede even the a.tioms 
of the mathematician or the defini- 
tions of the geometrician, and sees 
in tlicm a certain limitation of intel- 
ectual freedom. To ask it to con- 
form to fixed and invariable princi- 
ples, or to insist that there are 
rinciples independent of the human 
lind, or to maintain that truth is 
■jdepcndent of opinion, and lliat 
)iuions are true or false as they do 
do not conform to it, is to seek 
to trammel free and independent 
thought, and to outrage what is most 
icrcd and divine in man. The 
lind must be free, and to be free it 
lust be free from all obligation to 
ek, to recognize, or to conform to 
ath. Indeed, there is no truth 
' t»ut what the mind conceives to be 
such, and the mind is free to abide 
by its own conceptions, for they are 
the truth for it, Rome, in asserting 
tliat truth is independent of the hu- 
man will, human passions and con- 
ceptions, one and universal, and al* 
•ways and everywhere the same, and 
In condemning as error whatever 
denies it or does not conform to 
it, is a spiritual despotism, which 
every just and noble principle of 
human nature, the irrepressible in- 
stincts of humanity itself, wars 



against, and resists by every 
in its power. 

We have shown that the «< 
opposed to Rome, rests on the i 
falsehood, and this conception 
erty, which Rome rejects ani 
against, has no other basis th 
Satanic promise, "Ye shall 
gods, knowing good and evil,' 
your own masters as God is h 
master, and suffice for yoursel 
he suffices for himself The 
is not wrong in asserting liber 
wrong in its definition of lib< 
in demanding for man not the 
liberty of the creature, but the 
which can exist only for the C 
By claiming for man a libei 
possible for a dependent cr 
the world loses the liberty to 
it has, under God, the right, at 
under the worst of all t>T; 
Liberty is a right, but, if then 
right, how can you defend Jib 
a right ? If liberty is not a rij 
wrong is done in violating i 
t\'ranny is as lawAil as fn 
Here is a difficulty in the \'ery 
that the world cannot get ov 
must assert right, therefore th< 
of justice, before it can ass 
liberty against Rome ; and, if : 
assert such order, it concede; 
Rome maintains, that libe 
founded in the order of justic 
cannot transcend what is trt 
jusL The world does not sei 
in dcnjing the spiritual ord 
presented by Rome, it dcni( 
verj' basis of liberty, and all 
ence between liberty and desf 
because it is only on the suppi 
of such order that liberty can 
fended as a right, or despotist 
demned as a wrong. 

It is alleged against Rome tli 
opposes modern civilization, 
is so or not so, according tc 
we understand by modem ci 
tion. If we understand by n 




Rottu and tke World. 



,tkm the rejection of the di- 
e order, the supremacy of spirit- 
truth, and the assertion of the 
vinjty and independence of man, 
ome undovibtedly opposes it, and 
uit oppose it ; but, if we understand 
by roodem civilization the meliora- 
tion of the laws, the development of 
! lane sentiments, the power ac- 
ijuired by the people in the manage- 
ment of their temporal aifairs, and 
Ifae material progress effected by the 
application of the truths of science 
; :Kc industrial arts, tlie invention 
;]i,e steam-engine, the steamboat, 
: I railway and locomotive, and the 
iigiiuuog telegraph, the extension of 
coauncTCC and increased facilities of 
international communication, though 
probably a greater value is attached 
U> tl>esc things than truth warrants, 
ahe by no means opposes or discour- 
igcs modem cinlization. Undoubt- 
edly she places heaven above earth, 
ind » more intent on training men 
for elemal beatitude than on pro- 
moting temporal prosperity of this 
The earth is not our end, and 
.5 are not the supreme good. 
■ r.> sorts a higher than worldly 
I irtidom, and holds that the beggar 
las at least as good a chance of 
beaven a^ the rich man clothed in 
fine linen and faring sumptuously 
eifrry day. She would rather see 
oen intent on saving their souls than 
eagrossed with money-making. The 
«qy: ' ' -society proves 

I that ;. We live in 

M^^bdusuial a^e, and never in any age 
^HHKe world did people labor longer 
^Br liarder than they do now to ob- 
^Kun tbe means of subsistence, and 
^uerer was the honest poor man less 
cstctrmedt wealth more highly hon- 
ored, or mammon more devoutly 
VorshipfXKl ; yet the church never 
OfipQsea earthly well being, and re- 
gards it with favor when made sub- 
sdiixy to the ultimate end of man. 



Yet certain words have become 
sacramental for the world, and are 
adopted by men who would shrink 
from the sense given them by the 
more advanced liberals of tlie day ; 
and these men regard Rome, when 
condemning them in that extreme 
sense, as condemning modem civiliz- 
ation itself. We take the Encyclical 
of the Holy Father, issued Decem- 
ber 8, 1864. The whole non-Catho- 
Jic world, and even some Catholics, 
poorly informed as to their own re- 
ligion or as to the meaning of the 
errors condemned, regarded that En- 
cyclical as a fulmination against lib- 
erty and all modern civilization. No-* 
body can forget the outcry raised 
ever)-where by the secular press 
against tlic Holy Father, and what 
are called the retrograde tendencies 
of tlie Catholic Church. The pope, 
it was said, has condemned all free 
thought and both civil and religious 
liberty, tlie development of modern 
society, and all modern progress. 
Yet it is very likely that four, fifths 
of those who joined in the outer)*, 
had they been able to discriminate 
between what they themselves really 
mean to defend under the names of 
libert)', progress, and civilization, 
and what the more advanced liber- 
als hold and seek to propagate, would 
have seen that the pof>e in reality 
condemned only the errors which 
they themselves condemn, and as- 
serted only what they themselves 
really hold. He condemned nothing 
which is not a simple logical deduc- 
tion from the words of the arch- 
tempter, the liar from the beginning 
and the father of lies, addressed to 
our first parents. All the errors 
condemned in the Syllabus are errors 
which tend to deny or obscure the 
divine existence, the fact of creation, 
the authority of the Creator, the su- 
premacy of the divine or spiritual 
order, to undermine all religwvx aT\d 




A 



10 



Rome and the World. 



morality, all civil government, and 
even society itself; and to render all 
science, all liberty, all progress, and 
all civilization impossible, as we have 
shown over and over again in the 
pages of this Magazine. 

The numbers who embrace in their 
fullest extent the extreme views we 
have set forth, though greater than 
it is pleasant to believe, are yet 
not great enough to give of them- 
selves any serious alarm, and hence 
many able and well-meaning men 
who have not the least sympathy 
with them attach no great impor- 
tance to them, and treat them with 
superb contempt ; but they are in 
reality only the advance-guard of 
a much larger and more formida- 
ble body, who march under the same 
drapeau and adopt the same counter- 
sign. The Archbishop of Westmin- 
ster, than whom we can hardly name 
an abler or more enlightened prelate 
in the church, has said truly in a late 
Pastoral, 

" That the age of heresies is past. No one 
now dreanis of revising the teaching of the 
church, or of making a new form of Chris- 
tianity. For this the age is too resolute and 
consistent. Faith or unbelief is an intelligi- 
ble alternative ; but between variations and 
frajtmcnls of Christianity men have no care 
to choose. All or none is clear and consist- 
ent ; but more or less is halting and unde- 
cided. Revelation is a perfect whole, per- 
vaded throughout by the veracity and au- 
thority of God, the Father, Son, and Holy 
Ghost To reject any of it is to reject the 
whole iaw of divine faith ; to criticise it and 
to remodel it is to erect the human reason as 
judge and measure of the divine. And such 
is heresy ; .in intellectual aberration which 
in these lost ages has been carried to it.'S final 
analysis, and exposed not only by the theo- 
logy of the church but by the common sense 
of rationalism. We may look for prolific 
xnd antichrtstian errors in abundance, but 
betcsics in Christianity are out of date." 

The great body of those outside of 
the Catholic communion, as well as 
some nominally in it, but not of it, 
who are still attached to the Chris- 



tian name, adopt the watchwords 
of the extreme party, and are tend- 
ing in the same direction. Mai- 
zini and Garibaldi are heroes with 
the mass of Englishmen and Amer- 
icans, who wish thein success in 
their anti-religious and anli-soci.il 
movements. The universal seculoi 
press, the great power in modem so- 
ciety, with the whole sectarian press, 
has applauded the nefarious measures 
of intriguing Italian statesmen, de- 
magogues, and apostates by which 
the Holy Father has been stripjxrd 
of the greater part of his temporal 
possessions, the church despoiled of 
her goods, religious houses suppress- 
ed, and the freedom and independence 
of religion abolished throughout the 
Italian peninsula. The only non- 
Catholic voice we have heard raised 
in sympatliy with the pope is that of 
Guizot, the ex-premier of Louis Phi- 
lippe. Guizot, though a Protestant, 
sees that the papacy is essential to 
the Catholic Church, and that the 
Catholic Church is essential to the 
preservation of Christian civilization, 
the maintenance of society and social 
order. Our own secular press, so 
loud in its praise of religious liberty, 
applauds the Mexican Juarez for lu^ 
confiscation of the goods of the 
church in the poor, distracted repub- 
lic of Mexico. The sjTTipathy of the 
world, of the age, is with everj- move- 
ment that tends to weaken the powir 
of the church, the authority of reli- 
gion, and even the authority of the 
state. The tendency with great mass- 
es who believe themselves Christians^ 
a blind tendency it may be, is to no- 
religion or infidelitA', and to no-go\'- , 
emmentism. It is this fact that con- 
stitutes the danger to be combated. 

The difficulty of combating it is 
very great. The mass of the people 
are caught by words without taking 
note of the meaning attached to thcnu 
Where thej- find the consecrated terms 



J 



lome and tfie World. 



II 



and pifrty, they naturally con- 
that fiaith and piety are there, 
•ent the enemies of 
V '-.e Christianity un- 

t I names. It is charac- 

li : s age that infidelity dis- 

K itself in a Christian garb, and 
r''- ^'' "-^phemy in Christian phra- 
r :iehoods in the language 

liilj. Satan disguises himself as 
Bigel of light, comes as a philan- 
►ist, talks of humanity, professes 
1 the champion of science, intel- 
pe, education, liberty, progress, 
I amelioration, and the moral, 
ectual, and physical elevation 
e poorer and more numerous 
csf— all good things, when right- 
derstood, and in their time and 
I We cannot oppose him with- 
eeming to many to oppose what 
Christian duty. If we oppose 
iBtelligence, we are immediate- 
rused of being opposed to intel- 
ce ; if we oppose a corrupt and 
"ul education, we are accused of 
; In favor of popular ignorance, 
ovwrs of darkness ; if we oppose 
liberty, or license presented 
t the name of liberty, we are 
;ed with being tlie enemies of 
xecdom ; if we assert authority, 
rcr legitimate or necessary, then 
re despots and the advocates of 
ytistn. The press opens its cry 
Mfeto, and the age votes us nie- 
HHrearaers, behind the times, 
^n the past, with our eyes on 
ttcicsidc of our heads, and tlie 
U drowned in the tioods of in- 
lion or ridicule poured out 
St MA. Our success would be 
CSS, if we could not rely on 
apport of Him whose cause we 
to the best of our ability to de- 
and who after all rcigiieth in the 
tns,aod Ls able to make the wrath 
■n praise him, and can overrule 

good, 
is alleged that the church op- 



poses democracy, and is leagued with 
the despots against the people. The 
church herself leagues neither with 
democracy nor with monarchy. She 
leaves the people free to adopt the 
form of government they prefer. She 
opposes movements pretendedly in fa- 
vor of democracy only when they are in 
%'iolation of social order and opposed 
to legitimate authority, and she sup- 
ports monarchy only where monarchy 
is the law, and it is necessary to up- 
hold it as the condition of maintain- 
ing social order, and saving civiliza- 
tion from the barbarism that threatens 
to invade it. In the sixteenth cen- 
tury and the beginning of the seven- 
teenth centurj' the contrar)' charge was 
preferred, and the Church was con- 
demned by the world on the ground 
of being hostile to kingly govern- 
ment ; for public opinion then favored 
absolute monarchy, as it does now 
absolute democracy. We believe our 
own form of government the best for 
us, but we dare not say that other 
forms of government are not the best 
for other nations. Despotism is 
never legitimate ; but we know no law 
of God or nature that makes de- 
mocracy obligatory upon every peo- 
ple, and no reason for supposing that 
real liberty keeps pace with the prog- 
ress of democracy. Democracy did 
not save France from the Reign of 
Terror and the most odious tyranny, 
and it certainly has not secured lib- 
erty and good order in Mexico. With 
us it is yet an experiment and we can 
pronounce nothing with certainty till 
we have seen the result of the crisis we 
are now passing through. We owe to 
it a fearful civil war and the suppres- 
sion of a formidable rebellion, but 
the end is not yeL Still, there is 
nothing in our form of government 
in discord widi the Catholic Church, 
and wc firmly believe that, if main- 
tained in its purity and integrity, slie 
would iind under it a freer feeVd fox 



i 



12 



Rome attd the World. 



her exertions than has ever yet been 
afforded her in the Old World. At 
any rate, there is no room for doubt 
that the country needs the church to 
sustain our political institutions, and 
to secure their free and beneficial 
workings. 

But the world does not gain what 
it seeks. It does not gain inward 
freedom, freedom of soul and of 
thought. It is difficult to conceive 
a worse bondage than he endures 
who feels that for truth and goodness 
he has no dependence but himself. 
One wants something on which to 
rest, something firm and immovable, 
and no bondage is more painful than 
the feeling that we stand on an inse- 
cure foundation, ready to give way 
imder us if we seek to rest our whole 
weight on it, and that our construc- 
tions, however ingenious, can stand 
only as we uphold them with might 
and main. The man with only him- 
self for suppwrt, is Atlas bearing the 
weight of the world on his shoulders 
in a treadmill. He is a man, as we 
know by experience, crossing a deep 
and broad river on floating cakes of 
ice, each too small to bear his weight, 
and sinking as soon as he strikes it. 
He must constantly keep springing 
from one to another to save his life, 
and yet, however rapidly he springs, 
gains nothing more solid or less 
movable. The world in its wisdom 
is just agoing to get on to something 
on which it can stand and rest, but it 
never does. Its castles are built in 
the air, and it spends all its labor for 
naught. All its efforts defeat them- 
selves. Its philanthropy aggravates 
the evils it would redress, or creates 
others that are greater and less easily 
cured. In seeking mental freedom, 
it takes from the mind the light >*ith- 
it which it cannot operate ; in seek- 
frecdom from the king, it falls 
uader the tyranny of the mob ; and, to 
get rid of the tyranny of the mob, it 



falls under that of the nUIitory dc 
jjot ; disdaining heaven, it loses 
earth ; refusing to obey God, it Ic 
man. 

All history, all experience pr 
it. Having rejected the sacredr 
and inviolability of authority in 
religion and politics, and asser 
'*the sacred right of insurrection 
the world finds itself without 
gion, without faith, without 
order, in the midst of perpetual 
volutions, checked or suppres* 
only by large standing armies, wl; 
each nation is overwhelmed with 
public debt that is frightful to 
template. This need not surprise i 
It is tlie truth that liberates or ma 
free, and when truth is denied, or : 
solved into each one's own opinio 
or mental conception, there is notl 
ing to liberate the mind from its 
lusions and to sustain its freedc 
The mind pines away and dies wit 
out truth, as the body without fo 
It was said by one who spake 
never man spake, that he who woul 
save his life shall lose it, and exp 
rience proves that they who seek \ 
world never gain it. " Ye shall n« 
eat thereof nor touch it, lest ye dic5 
This command, which Satan cc 
tradicts, is true and good, and ot 
dience to it is the only condition 
life, or real success in life. In seek 
ing to be God, man becomes les 
than man, because he denies the truth 
and reality of thingp. It is vcr 
pleasant, says Heinrich Heine, 
think one's self a god, but it ct 
too much to keep up the dignity 
majesty of one's godship. Our 
sources are not equal to it, and pur 
and health give way under the effor 
Falsehood yields nothing, because 
is itself nothing, and is infinitelji 
more exj>ensive than truth. False- 
hood has no support, and can give^ 
none ; whoever leans on it must fa 
through. And if ever there was 



j^ .^ 




Romg and the WoritL 



is that man is God, or 
»Qt of God. 

lole question between Rome 

world, turn it as we will, 

(ck always to this : Is man 

the creature of God? He 

is not God : tlien he is a 

God has created him 

, Is his Lord and Mas- 

, is not independent of 

creative act of God is 

continue him in 

enable him to act, 

destiny, or to attain his 

supreme good, as it was to 

from nothing into existence. 

■ Te, medium, and 

f' . Separation from 
' independence of htm, is 
for we live, and move, and 
being in him, not in our- 
The universe, when once 
, does not go ahead on its 
ok or of itself without further 
tmenrcntion ; for the creative 
completed in relation to 
tore, till tlie creature has 
its destiny or reached its 
Cod creates me and at each 
)X. of my existence as much 
y as he did Adam, and 
ion of his creative act for 
le instant would be my anni- 
So of the universe. He 
indeed, a second cause 
moral agent ; but even 
acts or causation I depend 
as my first cause, as the 
of me as a second cause, and 
sphere I can cause or act 
y virtue of his active presence 
ncurrence. When I attempt 
him, as if I were inde- 
"\. ns o'lr first parents 
tions of 
^ : . a->t physi- 
it I die morally and spiritual- 
my moral life, fall into abnor- 
lations w-iih my Creator, and am 
lly dead ; for my moral and 



spiritual life depends on my voluntary 
obedience to the law of all created 
life : " Ye shall not eat thereof, or 
touch it, lest ye die." 

Here is the basis of the divine do- 
minion. God is sovereign lord and 
proprietor because he is creator, 
and man and nature are the work of 
his hands. Hence the Mosaic books 
insist not only on the unity of God, 
but even with more emphasis, if pos- 
sible, on God as creator- The first 
verse of Genesis asserts creation in 
opposition to emanation, generation, 
or formation : " In the beginning God 
created the heavens and the earth." 
All through the Old Testament, es- 
pecially in the hagiograpliical books 
and the prophets, there is a perpe- 
tual recurrence to God as creator, to 
the fact that he has made the world 
and all things therein, and hence the 
call upon all creatures to sing his 
praise, so oft^n repeated in the 
Psalms. Indeed, it was not so much 
by belief in the unity of God as in 
the fact that God is sole and univer- 
sal creator, that the Jews were dis- 
tinguishetl from the Gentiles. It 
may be doubted if the Gentiles ever 
wholly lost the belief in the existence 
of one God. We think we find in 
all heathen mythologies traces of a 
recognition of one God hovering, so 
to speak, over their manifold gods 
and goddesses, who were held to be 
tutelar divinities, never the divinity 
itself But the Gentiles, as we have 
already said, had lost, and did in no 
sense admit, the fact of creation. 
We find no recognition of God as 
creator in any Gentile philosophy, 
Indian, Persian, Chaldean, Kgyptian, 
Chinese, Greek, or Roman. The 
Gentiles were not generally atheists, 
we suspect not atheists at all ; but 
they were invariably pantheists. 
P.intheism is the denial of the pro- 
per creative act of God, or, strictly 
speaking, that God creates aubstan- 



^^ 



14 



Rome and the World, 



I 



I 
I 



I 

L 



ces or existences capable of acting 
from their own centre and producing 
effects as second causes. The Jews 
were the only people, after the great 
Gentile apostasy, that presen'ed the 
tradition of creation. God as crea- 
tor is the basis of all science, all 
faith, all religion ; hence the first 
article of the Creed : " I believe in 
one God. maker of heaven and 
earth, and of all things visible and 
invisible." In this fact is founded 
the inviolable right of the Almighty 
to govern all his works, man among 
the rest, as seems to him good. We 
cannot deny this if we once admit 
the fact of creation ; and if we deny 
the fact of creation, w^e deny our own 
existence and that of the entire 
universe. 

But the right to govern implies the 
correlative duty of obedience. If 
God has the right to govern us, then 
we are bound to obey him and do 
his bidding, whatever it may be. 
There is nothing arbitrary in this, it 
is fotinded in the relation of creator 
and creature, and God himself 
could not make it otherwise without 
annihilating all creatures and ceas- 
ing to be creator. God could not 
create existences without giving them 
a law, because their very relation to 
him as his creatures imposes on them 
an indexible and invariable law^ 
which, if created free agents, they may, 
indeed, refuse to obey, but not and 
live. Here is the whole philosophy 
of authority and obedience. We must 
not confound tl)e symbols employed 
in Genesis wth the meaning they 
symbolize. The command given to 
our first parents was simply the law 
under which they were placed by the 
fact that they were creatures, that 
God had made them, and they be- 
longed to him, owed him obedience, 
and could not disobey him without 
violating the very law of their exist- 
ence. They cannot but die, because 



they depart from the truth of thii^ 
deny their real relation to Got!, and go 
against the divine order, conformity 
to which is in the nature of the case 
their only condition of life. S<»< 
Rome teaches in accordance with 
our highest and best reason. The 
world, listening to the flattering words 
of Satan and the allurements of the 
flesh, denies it, and says, " Ye shall 
not surely die;" you may sin and live, 
may become free and inde|}endent, 
be as gods yourselves, your own' 
master, teacher, and guide. Hence 
the inevitable war bet«'een Roroei 
and the world, she striving to secure ' 
the obedience of men and nations to 
the law of God, and it striving to main- 
tain tJieir independence of the law, 
and to make them believe that they 
can live a life of their own, which in 
the nature of the case is not life, but 
death. 

Other considerations, no doubt en- 
ter into the worship of God beside the 
simple fact that he is our Creator, but 
tliat fact is the basis of our moral obli- 
gation to obey him. This obligation 
is obscured when we seek for it an- 
other basis, as in the intrinsic worth, 
goodness, or excellence of God. No 
doubt, God deserves to be adored for 
his own sake, to be loved and obey- 
ed for what he is in and of himself, 
but it is not easy to prove to men of 
the world that they are morally bound 
to love and obey goodness. 'ITiese 
higher views of God which convert 
obedience into love, and would en- 
able us to love God even if he did 
not command it, and to desire him for 
his own sake without reference to what 
he is to us, may in some sense be at- 
tained to, and are so by the saiots, 
but there arc few of us perfect enough 
for lliat. The law certainly is an ex- 
pression of die goodness and love of 
the Creator, as is creation itself, but 
this is not precisely the reason why it 
is obligatory. It is a good reason why 



i 



.^&i 




Rome and the World, 



15 



tabovld love the law and delight in 
It, but DOt Uie reason why we are bound 
to obey it We are bound to obey it 
becaatse it b the law of our Creator, 
who has the sovereign right to com- 
Btand OS, and hence religion cannot 
be severed from morality. No act of 
religion is of any real worth that xs, 
Dol an act of obedience, of submis- 
sion of our will to the divine will, or 
vhich is not a frank acknowledgment 
of the divine sovereignty and die su- 
premacy of the moral law. There 
must l>c in it an act of self-denial, of 
srij- immolation, or it is not a true act 
ot nbedietMre, and obedience is better 
than any external oflerings we can 
being to the altar, 
^n^ Here is where the world again errs. 
^Ht is ready to oft'er sacrifices to God, 
Bwp loAii hb altars with its offerings of 
Fihe firstlings of flocks and herds, and 
the fruits of the earth, but it revolts 
at any act of obedience, and will not 
leaeinber that the sacrifices pleasing 
to God are an humble and contrite 
heart. It would serve God from love, 
noe duty, forgetting that there is no 
.Jove where there is no obedience. 
obedience is the chief element 
love : *' If ye love me, keep my 
idments." We sliow our love 
the Father by doing the will of the 
There is no way of escap- 
of submission, and walk- 
l-feeaven wiUi our heads erect, 
own pride and strength, and 
our beadtude as our right, 
^er having humbled our- 
t>efore God. We may show 
'tiM< lbe law is good, the source of 
^^^^and life ; we may show its rea- 
^HHnteness and justness, and that 
^^Biere is nothing degrading or humil- 
^■mIk in obeying it ; but, whatever 
^^^Plo in this respect, nothing will 
WTaD \t the act of obedience be with- 
held. Till the world does this, sub- 
Bnls to the law, no matter what fine 
1)ceches it may make, what noble 




sentiments it may indulge, what just 
convictions it may entertain, or what 
rich offerings it may bring to the 
altar, it is at enmity with God, and 
peace between it and Rome is im- 
possible. 

God is in Christ reconciling the 
world to himself, but there can be 
no reconciliation without submission. 
God cannot change, and the world 
must. No humiliating conditions are 
imposed on it, but it must acknow- 
ledge that it has been wrong, and that 
the law it has resisted is just and right, 
and, above all, obligatory. This is 
the hardship the world complains of. 
But what reason has it to complain ? 
W'hat is demanded of it not for its 
good, or that is not demanded by the 
very law of life itself? The world 
demands libert)', but what avails a 
false and impracticable liberty ? True 
liberty is founded in justice, is a right, 
and supported by law. We have 
shown, time and again, that the church 
suppresses no real liberty, and asserts 
and maintains for all men all the 
liberty that can fall to Uie lot of any 
created being. It demands the free 
exercise of human reason. In what 
respect does the church restrain free- 
dom of thought.' Can reason ope- 
rate freely wiUiout principles, without 
data, without light, without any sup- 
port, or anydiing on which to rest ? 
What is the mind without truth, or 
intelligence in which nothing real is 
grasped ? We know only so far as 
we know truth, and our opinions and 
convictions are worth nothing in so 
far as they are false, or not in accord- 
ance with the truth that we neither 
make nor can unmake, which is inde- 
j>endent of us, independent of all men, 
and of all created intellects. What 
harm, then, does the church do us when 
she presents us infallibly that truth 
which the mind needs for its support, 
and reason for its free operation ? 
Society needs law, and how docs \iie 




Rome and the World. 



I 



I 

I 



I 



I 



chxirch hann it by teaching the law 
of God, without which it cannot sub- 
sist ? Men need government. What 
hami does the church do in declaring 
the supreme law of God, from wliich 
all human laws derive their force as 
laws, and which defines and guaran- 
tees both authority and liberty, pro- 
tects the prince from the turbulence 
of tlie mob, and the people from the 
tyranny of the prince ? 

As sure as that man is God's crea- 
tiire and bound to obey God, there is 
for him no good independent of obedi- 
ence to the law of God ; and equally 
sure is it that obedience to that law 
secures to him all the good compati- 
ble with his condition as a created ex- 
istence. The mystery of the I ncama- 
tion, in which God assumes human 
nature to be his own nature, gives him 
the promise of even participating in 
the happiness of God himself. This 
happiness or beatitude with God in 
eternity is the end for which man was 
created, and is included in the crea- 
tive act of which it is the completion 
or fulfilment In estimating the good 
which is sure to us by conformity to 
the divine order and obedience to the 
divine law, we must take into the ac- 
count our whole existence from its 
inception to its completion in Christ 
in glory, and include in that good not 
only the joys and consolations of this 
life, but that eternal beatitude which 
God through his superabundant good- 
ness has provided for us, and remem- 
ber that all this wc forfeit by obey- 
ing the law of de.ith rather than the 
law of life. Wc can fulfil our destiny, 
attain to the stature of full-grown men, 
or complete our existence only by 
conforming to the divine order, by 
adhering to the tnith, and obeying 
the law of life. Instead, then, of re- 
garrling the church as our enemy, as 
opposed to our real good, we should 
regard her as our true friend, and see 
in her a most striking proof of the 



loving-kindness of our God. In her 
he gives us precisely what we need to 
teach us his will, to make known to 
us the truth as it is in him, and to 
declare to us in all the vicissitudes 
and complexities of life the require- 
ments of the law, and to be the medi- 
um of the gracious assistance we need 
to fulfil them. 

No good thing will God wiUihold 
from them that love him. Andhegivcs 
us all good in giving us, as he does, 
himself Nor does he give us only 
the goods of the soul. He lliat will 
lose his life in God shall find IL 
" Seek first the kingdom of God and 
his justice, and all the.se things" — the 
things which the Gentiles seek after— 
" .shall be added to you.'' They who 
lay up the most abundant treasures 
in heaven have the most abundant 
treasures on earth. The true princi- 
ple of political economy, which the 
old French Exx)nomists and Adam 
Smith never knew, is self-denial, is in 
living for God and not for the world, as 
a I/>Hvain professor has amply prov- 
ed with a depth of thought, a profound 
philosophy, and a knowledge of the 
laws of production, distribution, and 
consumption seldom equalled. " I 
have been young, and now I am old, 
but never have I seen the righteous 
forsaken, or his seed begging bread." 
No people are more industrious or 
more bent on accumulating wealth, 
tlian our own, but so little is their 
self-denial and so great is their ex- 
travagance that the mass of them 
arc, notwithstanding appearances, 
really poor. The realized capital 
of the country is not sufficient to 
pay its debts. We have expend- 
ed the surplus earnings of the coun- 
try for half a century or more, and 
llie wealth of the nation is rapidly 
passing into the hands of a few mo- 
ney-lenders and soulless mammoth 
corp)orations, already too strong to b« 
controlled by the government, whe- 



{ 



i 



*. J 



Romt and the World. 



17 



itc or General. If it had not 
}r the vast quantities of cheap 
jietl lands easy of access, we 
tbotUd have seen a poverty and dts- 
la this country to be found in 
sr. The mercantile and indus- 
stom inaugurated by the Peace 
It in 1713, and which is re- 
the crowning glory of the 
worid, has added nothing 
real wealth of nations. But 
tikis is a theme foreign to our present 
ilfpo«e« and has already carried us 
Ux. We will only add that the 
iC ' •' n has the promise of this 
t which is to come. 
no on^ can estimate the ad- 
to men and nations that must 
'''Ibve been derived and continue to be 
derived firom the church placed in the 
aorld to assert at every point tlie di- 
:ignty, and to proclaim con- 
in a clear and ringing voice 
Lord God omnipotent reign- 
his law is the law of life, of 
tss, and of happiness both here 
hereafter, the great truth which 
the world is ever prone to forget or to 
deny, W 'therefore, to regard 
her cxisti: ihe most profound 

giraXitndc. She \\\s done this work 
the firvt and continues to do it 
; strength, in spite of so 
. ructions and tlie oppo- 
I of kings and^peoples. Never 
^lii>-had more numerous, more 
Tiolent. more subtle, nr more power- 
ftd enemies than during the pontifi- 
cate of our present Holy Father, Pius 
the Ninth. Never have her enemies 
Becmcd iKarer obtaining a final tri- 
saiph over lier, and they have felt 
(hataC ta»t she is prostrate, helpless, in 
ker a^ny. Yet do th? y reckon with- 
««tl^irhost. Tt entspec- 

tBckfiit Knmeon Ui ; last June 

ft Ti 1 five hundred bishops, 

ladu/fui-vjii..;. of priests from all parts 
of the world, from every tongue and 
ion on the earth, gathered round 
roL- VI. — z 



giroXita 

*i t 




their chief, and joining with him in 
celebrating the eighteen hundredth 
anniversary of the glorious martyr- 
dom of Peter, the prince of the apos- 
tles, whose succession in the govern- 
ment of the church has never failed, 
proves that their exultation is prema- 
t\ire, that her veins are still ftill of 
life, and that she is as fresh and vigor- 
ous as when she first went forth from 
Jerusalem on her divine mission tO' 
win the world to her Lord. The in- 
dication by the Holy J'ather of his re- 
solve at a near day to convoke a uni- 
versal council, a grand assembly of 
the princes of the church, proves also 
that she is still a fact, a living power on 
the earth, though not of it, with whom' 
the princes of this world must count. 
Before her united voice, assisted by 
the Holy Ghost, her enemies will be 
struck dumb, and to it the nations, 
must listen with awe and conviction, 
and most of the errors we have spoken 
of will shrink back from the face of 
day into darkness and silence. Faith 
will be reinvigorated, the hearts of the 
faithful made glad, and civilization 
resume its march, so long and so 
painfully interrupted by heresy, infi- 
delity, and tlie almost constant revo- 
lutions of states and empires. We 
venture to predict for the church new 
and brilliant victories over the world. 
Heresy has well-nigh run its course. 
It is inherently sophistical, and is too 
much for infidelity and too little for 
religion. In no country lias it ever 
been able to stand alone, and it ac- 
quires no strength by age. The think- 
ing men of all civilized nations have 
come, or are rapidly coming, to the 
conclusbn that the alternative is 
either Rome or no religion, or, as 
they express it, " Rome or Reason," 
which we showed last month is by no 
means the true formula. The real 
formula of the age is, Rome or no 
religion, God or Satan. The attempt 
to support anything worthy of the 



xS 



Rome and tk* World. 



name of rdigion on human antliority, 
whether of the individaal or of the 
state, of private judgment or of the 
' Scriptures interpreted by the pri^'ate 
'judgment of the learned, has notori- 
ously, we might say confessedly, fail- 
ed. Old-established heresies will no 
doubt linger yet longer, and offer their 
opposition to Rome ; but their da}'s 
are numbered, and. save as they may 
be placed in the forefront of the bat- 
; tie with the church, the active non- 
Catholic thought of the age makes 
no account of them, and respects 
them far less than it does Rome her- 
self. They live only a galvanic life. 

We are far from regarding the bat- 
tle that must be fought with the scienti- 
fic no-religion or dry and cold unbelief 
of the age as a light affair. In many 
respects the world is a more formid- 
able enemy than heresy, and the Gen- 
flilism of the nineteenth century Is 
5SS manageable than that of the first, 
it retains fewer elements of truth, 

id f-ir less respect for authority,' and 
iw. It has carried the spirit of re- 
volt further, and holds nothing as 
sacred and inviolable. But it is al- 
ways some gain when the issue is 
fairly presented, and the real question 
is fairly and distinctly stated in its 
appropriate terms ; when there is no 
longer any disguise or subterfuge pos- 
sible ; and when the respective forces 
are fairly arrayed against each other, 
each under its own flag, and shout- 
ing its own war-cry. The battle 
will be long and arduous, for every 
irticle in the creed, from " Patrem 

inipotentem" to "vitam setemam," 
has been succejwively denied ; but we 
cannot doubt to which side victory 
will finally incline, 

Tcrtullian say, "the human heart 
is naturally Christian," and men can 
not be contented to remain long in 
mere vegetable existence without 
some sort of religion. The)* will, 
when they have nothing else to wor- 



shipy evoke the spirits of the d 
and institute an illusory demon-' 
ship, as we see in modem spt 
ism. The Christian religion as 
sented by Rome, though it Haiti 
not human pride, and is offensive 
depraved appetite or passion, is 
adapted to the needs of human 
ture, and satisfies the purer and 
bier aspirations of the soul. Thi 
is, as we have more than once sbo' 
a natural want in man which it oi 
can meet, and, we may almost sajr,, 
natural aptitude to receive it Hei 
we conclude that, when men see 
fore them no alternative but Ki 
or no religion, downright naturali 
able to satisfy nobody, they will, afl 
some hesitation, submit to K< 
and rejoice in Catholicity. Nature 
very well ; we have not a word to 
against it when normally developtdi 
but this world is too bleak and wi 
try for men to walk about in tlie m 
kedness of nature ; they must ha 
clothing of some sort, and, when lb 
are fully convinced that tliey can fi 
proper garments only in the w 
robe of the church, they cannot, 
seems to us, long hold out agai 
Rome or refuse submission to tb^ 
law of life. 

We here close our very inadequa 
discussion of the great subject 
have opened. Our remarks arc 
supplementary to the article on Ro 
or Reason in The Catholic Wor 
for September last, and are intend 
to guard against any false infc 
ences that some might be dis 
to draw from the doctrine we there s 
forth. We hold, as a Catholic, 
dogma of original sin, and that o 
nature has been disordered by the 
fiill and averted from God. We 
have not wished this fact to 
overlooked, or ourselves to be 
derstood as if we recognized 
ant.igonism between this fallen 
averted nature and Rome. Our 



A. 



Witk Christ. 



19 



e b not totally depraved. Under- 
adtng and will, if the former has 
rn darkened and the latter attenu- 
d by the fall, 3ret remain, and re- 
1 their essential character; but 
order has been introduced into 
- nature, and the flesh inclines to 
; its face is turned away from 
d, and it stands in need of being 
iverted or turned to him. The 
irch brings to this disordered and 
iited nature whatever is needed 
convert it, heal its wounds, and 
rate it to the plane of its destiny. 
i after conversion, after regenera- 
1, the flesh, "the carnal mind," 
tains, as the Coimcil of Trent 
±es, and, as long as it remains, 
re must be a combat, a warfare. 
is combat, or warfare, is no^ in> 



deed, between reason and faith, reve- 
lation and science, nor between na- 
ture and grace, but between the law 
of God accepted and served by the 
judgment and will, by the inner man, 
and the law of sin in our members, 
the struggle between holiness and 
sin, an internal stru^le, of which 
every one is conscious who attempts 
to lead a holy life. We have not 
only wished to recognize the fact of 
this struggle as an interior struggle 
in the individual, but also as passing 
from the individual to society, and 
manifesting itself in the perpetual 
struggle between Rome and the 
world, which ceases, and can cease, 
only in proportion as men and so- 
ciety become converted to God, and 
voluntarily submissive to his law. 



WITH CHRIST. 



* Havimg X desire to be ^tsoWed and be with Chritt— a thing bjr bx the better." 

To die and be with Christ ! far better 'tis 
Than all this world of sin and strife can give. 
Whose highest boon to those who easiest live 

Compares not with one moment of heaven's bliss ! 

And to earth's suffering ones, whose hearts are torn 
With anguish, while their bodies writhe in pain, 
What joyous sounds are these : "To die is gain !" 

To leave a world where weary souls forlorn 

In sinful murmuring wish they ne'er were born. 

To be with Christ ! O words of solemn power 
To hush the heart-cry 1 let me hold them fast 
If haply I may reach thee, Lord, at last. 
And, this strange world with all its sorrows past, 

May learn the meaning deep of each sad, suffering hourl 



30 



The Managei^s Dilemma. 



THE MANAGER'S DILEMMA. 



" I TELL you, child, you can do it ; 
and I say you shall !" 

The speaker was the fat hostess of 
a hotel in one of the principal streets 
of Naples ; the time was the summer 
of 1 8 1 2. The lady waddled back and 
forward with an air of importance, 
her hands on her hips. The person 
she addressed was a lad apparently 
sixteen years of age, and very tall 
and stout for his years. His beard- 
less chin and boyish features, com- 
bined with a shuffling bashfulness in 
his deportment, did not tend to in- 
spire confidence in any great achieve- 
ment to be expected from him. 

" But, buona mia donna — " he be- 
gan deprecatingly. 

" I am a judge !" persisted the host- 
ess. "Master Benevolo shall find 
you a treasure, and the jewel of his 
company 1 Such a company ! The 
princess is magnificent ! Did not the 

Duke of Anhalt swear she was 

ravishing in beauty as in acting, with 
eyes like diamonds, and a figure ma- 
jestic as Juno's ?" 

" Superb !" exclaimed the lad. 

"And such an admirable comic 
actor; a figure that is one laugh, 
and a wit like Sancho Panza's; a ge- 
nius, too, for the pathetic ; he weeps 
to enchantment, and will bring tears 
to your eyes after a convulsion of 
mirth. An unrivalled troupe I a co- 
ronet of gems — wanting only an ac- 
tor of tragedy !" 

The boy sighed, and cast his eyes 
on the ground. 

"And you must travel," pleaded 
the landlady. "You arc not safe 
here in Naples. You may be taken, 
and carried back to the conser\'ato- 
rio." 



This last argument had effect The 
lad sprang to his feet 

" Back to school, to be punished 
for a runaway — ^when you might do 
such wonders ! Come, you are ready, 
I see. There is no time to be lost" 

She took the boy by the hand and 
led him into the grand, salon of the 
hotel. Here sat the manager of an 
Italian theatrical company, in abso- 
lute despair. He and his troope 
were to leave Naples in an hour. 
For three days he had staid beyond 
his time, seeking what the city did 
not afford — an actor of tragedy ; and 
he was now bitterly lamenting In 
his landlord the ill luck that would 
compel him to depart for Salerno dee- 
titute of so important an adjunct 

"WTiat shall I do?" cried the im- 
presario, wringing his hands, "with- 
out a Geronimo or a Falerio ?" 

" You may yet find an actor," sug- 
gested the good-natured host 

"He must drop, then, from the 
clouds, and at once 1 My friends at 
Salerno have twice put off the per 
formance, waiting for me. Saint 
Antonio 1 to think of losing so much 
money 1" 

The corpulent hostess had entered 
the room, the bashful youth a few 
paces behind her. 

"I have found you a tragedian, 
Master Benevolo," she cried; "a 
capital fellow. You have' fatigued 
yourself running over Naples in 
search of one — and he has been 
waiting for you here since last 
evening." 

" What do you mean !" exclaimed 
both manager and landlord. 

"You shall have your tragedian. 
All the rest is my secret Oh 1 he is 



The Managet's Dilemma. 



21 



a great genius I If you, had heard 
him last night 1 All the maids were 
in tears. Had he a robe and poni- 
ard, he would have been terrific. 
He sang droll songs, too, and made 
us laugh till my sides ached. I should 
ha\-e told you of him before, but you 
vent out so early." 

" At what theatres has he appear- 
ed?" asked the manager, much inte- 
rested. 

** He has never been on the stage ; 
but he will make his way. Such ge- 
nius — such passion I He has left 
home to embrace the profession." 

The impresario mused. " Let me 
see him," he said. 

The landlady took the lad by the 
hand and pulled him forward. He 
stood with eyes cast down, in the most 
awkward attitude. 

" A mere boy 1" exclaimed the dis- 
appointed director. " He — lit for an 
actor !" And with a look of contempt 
he surveyed the youth who aspired to 
represent the emperors of Rome and 
the tjTants of Italian republics. 

" Everything has a beginning !" per- 
sisted the dame. " Louis, come for- 
ward, and show the maestro what you 
can do." 

The overgrown lad hung his head 
bashfully ; but, on further urging, ad- 
vanced a pace or t\t'o, flung over his 
arms the frayed skirt of his coat to 
&erve as a draper}*, and recited some 
tragic verses of Dante, 

"Not badl" cried the manager. 
"What is your name ?" 

•* Louis," replied the lad, bowing. 

•* Louis — what ?" 

" Louis only for the present," in- 
terposed the hostess, with an air of 
mj-stery. " You are not to know 
his family name. You see — ^he left 
home—" 

" I understand : the runaway might 
be caught Let me hear him in Otel- 
hr 

Louis, encouraged, recited a bril- 



liant tragic scene. The manager fol- 
lowed his gestures with hands and 
head, and, when he had ended, ap- 
plauded loudly, with flashing eyes. 

" Bravo ! bravo I " he cried, rub- 
bing his hands. "That is what I 
want 1 You will make a capital 
Moor, set in shape a little 1 I en- 
gage you at once, at fifteen ducats a 
month : and here is the first month's 
pay in advance for your outfit — a 
suit of clothes to make you look like 
a gentleman. Go, buy them, pack 
up to go with us ; and I will have a 
mule ready for you." 

While the impresario made his 
preparations for departure, the de- 
lighted hostess assisted Louis in his. 
He had spent two or three days 
roaming about Naples before he 
came to the hotel, and had some 
debts to pay. These liquidated, his 
bill paid at the hotel, and a new suit 
purchased, nothing remained of his 
fifteen ducats. In less than two 
hours the troupe was on its way out 
of Naples. 

At Salerno the manager had ad- 
vertisements struck off, announcing 
the dibut of a new tragic actor — a 
wonderful genius — presented to the 
public as a phenomenon — in a 
popular part. Curiosity was soon 
excited to see him. In the evening 
the theatre was crowded. The di- 
rector walked about, rubbing his 
hands in ecstasy, and counting the 
piles of gold as they accumulated. 
Louis, arrayed in an emperor's cos- 
tume of the middle ages, was prac- 
tising behind the scenes how to sus- 
tain the part of a sovereign. A 
pretty young girl — one of the chorus 
— \!\iQ may be called Rosina, stood 
watching him, and commenting free- 
ly on his performance. 

" Oh ! that will not do at all, your 
majesty !" she cried, as he made 
an awkward movement " What an 
emperor ! This is your style !" And 



22 



Thf Managet's Dilemnuu 



¥ 






she began mimicking his gestures so 
provokingly that Louis declared he 
would have his revenge in a kiss. 
He was presently chasing her around 
the scenes, to the disorder of his 
imperial robes. 

The sound of voices and an un- 
usual bustle startled him ; he fancied 
the curtain was going to rise, and 
called lustily for his sword. But the 
noise was outside the private door of 
the theatre. It was flung open, and 
the lad's consternation may be 
imagined when he saw advancing 
toward him the vice-rector of his 
school, followed by six sbirri. The 
man.iger was there, too, wringing Iiis 
hands with gestures of grief and 
despair. Louis stood petrified, till 
the officer, laying a hand on his 
shoulder, arrested him by an order 
from the King of Naples. The 
whole company had rushed together, 
and were astonished to hear that 
their tragedian was forthwith to be 
taken back to the " Conservatorio 
della Pieta dei Turchini," to be re- 
manded to his musical studies under 
the great master Marcello Perrino. 

The emperor in petto forgot his 
dignity, and burst into tears ; Rosina 
cried for sympathy, and there was a 
general murmur of dissatisfaction. 

The manager strove to remon- 
strate. " Such a genius — tragedy is 
his vocation !" he pleaded. 

" His vocation just now is to go 
back to school," said the vice-rcctor 
gruffly. 

" But, signer, you are robbing the 
public." 

" Has not the graceless boy been 
robbing his majesty, who was 
pleased to place him in the conser- 
vatorio after his father's death ?" 

" He is in my service ; I have paid 
him a month in advance." 

" You were wrong to engage a raw 
lad whom you knew to be a runaway 
from his guardians. Come, Louis 1" 





The sbiiiri roughly 
imperial robes from the 
lad. The impresario was ii 
agony, for the assembled aud 
began to give signs of imj 
" Let him only pcrfor 
piece," he urged. 

" Away with him !" answe 
vice- rector. 

Louis wiped away his tc 
Master Benevolo," he sait 
yet be revenged, I will 
dian in spite of them 1" 

" And my losses — my 
cats 1" cried the director, 
" I will make them up, 
you." The vice-rector laughed si 
fully, and the men forced the) 
away. Rosina ran after him, " j 
I^ouis 1" she cried, putting her I 
kerchief into his hands, " You A 
this." Louis thanked her wil 
tender glance, and put the keefl 
in his bo.som. 

When the party had disappei 
the manager went to pacify hid 
patient audience. He was cons 
by the reflection that the vagal 
had left his trunk behind. Il 
wery large and heavy, and, b« 
causing the lock to be broken] 
morning, Signer Benevolo c4 
some of his friends to ma 
ventory of its contents, 
found filled with sand I 
tiibutaiit had resorted to this t] 
that the servants at the inns vrl 
they stopped might believe the t| 
contained gold and treat him \ 
respect accordingly. 

The impresario was in a totrea 
passion. He railed at Louis, sti 
ering on him abusive epithets % 
cheat and an impostor. He c< 
only retaliate for the loss of 
fifteen ducats by writing him a I^ 
full of furious invectives, assuj 
him that so base a thief need n^ 
aspire to the honors of tragedy 1 * 
letter was read quietly by Lo'»f|j 



I'OIO C| 

nak^i 
Th" 




Tk^ Managers Dilemma. 



as 



answer, but applied himself 
ly to his musical studies, 
jgress Mras so rapid that his 
> declared he bade foir to 
ohrer on the violoncello and 
m the flute. As a reward for 
rts, a hall in the conservato- 

arranged for the private re- 
ations of the pupils. 

le autumn of 1830, £z-Mana- 
levolo chanced to be in Paris, 
autifiil Rosina was then noted 

admired singer. She had 
onversations with the Italian, 
LS di^usted with the French 

and declared that the best 
' tragic art were past 
day there was no small ex- 
it at the announcement of 
gic opera of Otello. It was 
out that a new artist of 
reputation would appear at 
d&tre Italien. His progress 

1 the Italian cities had been 
nued triumph. On his first 
mce in Paris the connoisseurs 
:en determined to show him 
T. .As he came on the stage, 
nd, imposing figure and good- 
;d countenance were pre- 
■ing ; but, when his magnifi- 
)ice rose swelling above the 
ra, there was a burst of 
us applause. Powerful and 
;, penetrating to the depths of 

that voice carried all before 
d he was voted by accla- 
the first basse-taille of the age. 
a must hear him 1" said Rosi- 
Jie ex-manager protested that 
not care for it. He would be 
condemn what pleased those 
ical Parisians. 

u must hear him in Otello P'' 
rf the fair singer. " Here is 
tation for you, written by him- 

ly should he have sent this to 
Lsked the g^tified Italian. 



" As a friend of mine," replied the 
singer, " he wished to show you at- 
tention. You will go with me." 

In the evening they went to the 
theatre. There was a thunderburst 
of applaiise as the colossal fonn oS. 
the actor moved across the stage. 
" A noble figure for tragedy I" ex- 
claimed Benevolo. "Hal I should 
like him for the tyrant in Anna JBoic- 
nap* When the superb tones of his 
voice, fiill of power, yet exquisite in 
melody, filled the house with the 
rich volume of sound, the Italian 
gave up his prejudices. In the deep- 
er passion of the part he was carried 
away by enthusiasm like the audience. 
" Stupendo I Tragico !" he exclaimed, 
wiping his eyes, while the curtain de* 
scended. 

" You must speak with him I" in- 
sisted Rosina. And she drew Bene- 
volo through the door leading behind 
the scenes. The great artist came 
to meet them. Benevolo gazed upon 
him in awe and astonishment ; then, 
recovering himself, faltered forth the 
expression of his surprise and delight. 
It was " the king of tragedy" whom 
he had the honor of greeting ! 

" I am rejoiced to see you at last, 
my good master Benevolo !" cried the 
artist. " Tell me if you have really 
been pleased. Shall I ever make a 
tragic actor?" 

"You are wonderful — the first in 
the world 1" cried the enraptured ex- 
manager. "And Rosina says you 
are an Italian ! I am proud of my 
countryman !" 

" Ah ! mio fratello 1 but you had 
once not so good an opinion of me ! 
Do you not recognize your old ac- 
quaintance — the runaway Louis?" 

Benevolo stared in astonishment. 

" I have grown somewhat since the 
affair at Salerno," said the artist, 
laughing, and clapping his stout sides. 
" Ah ! I forgot ; you had good reason 
for being displeased with me. The 



Lntnud Wemem and StHdimu Womun, 



fifteen ducats — and that beavr tnmk 
of mine — that gave you trouble ixx 
nothing ! It oi^t to have been ran- 
somed long ago ; but I waited to do 
it with my pay as a tragedian. I 
wanted to prove your prediction un- 
true! He drew out a paper from his 
pocket-book, and presented it 

** Here is an order for twelve hun- 
dred francs." 

Signor Benevolo stammered a re- 
fiisal. . He could not accept so large 
a gift. 

**Take it, friend. It is your just 
due! Principal and interest — ^)'ou 
know. My fortune has gronn apace 
with my embonpoint" 

"You are a noble fellow!" cried 
the ex-manager, grasping his hand. 
" Now, do me another favor, and tell 



me TOUT real name. Hie <Mie yoa 
act under b assumed, of course !" 

" Xo, it b the same — ^Lablache." 

"Lablacfae! Areyou a Frenchman, 
then?" 

** Mr father was a Frenchman : he 
fled from Marseilles at the time of 
the revolution. I was bom in Na- 
ples. Are you satbfied .>" 

"I thoi^t from the beginning," 
said Benevolo, **you were a noble- 
man in disguise. I know you, now, 
for a monarch in ait." 

Lablache thanked him cordialfy. 
" Now you must come home and sup 
with me, in the Rue Richelieu," he 
said. " I have invited a few friends 
to meet you, and they will be waiting 
for us." 



Tranalatcd from Le CorretpoiMUot 

LEARNED WOMEN AND STUDIOUS WOMEN. 

BY MONSEIGNEUR DUPANLOUP. 



[The following treatise by Mon- 
seigneur Dupanloup is given entire, 
notwithstanding that some portions 
of it bear a more direct application 
to French civilization than to our 
own. The attentive reader will see 
that the fundamental principle on 
which the argument rests applies to 
incomplete mental development in 
every country ; and those who take 
an interest in foreign habits and 
manners will enjoy the lifelike pic- 
tures of French society, so graphic, 
shrewd, and free from exaggeration. 
— Trans. ^ 

My Dear Friend : Several months 



ago, in a volume* of letters address- 
ed to men of the world concerning 
studies adapted to their leisure hours, 
I published a few pages offering sug- 
gestions also to Christian vi-omen 
living in the world upon intellectual 
labor suitable for them. This advice 
I tried to adapt and proportion es- 
pecially to the exigencies of their 
mode of life. 

I endeavored to show how ne- 
cessary it is for a woman to acquire 
habits of serious thought ; all the 
more so because modem education 



* LtUertto Mtnc/ik* IVartd cmcernimg Stmdkt 
suUtMe/»r iktm and Advict ta Ckrittian It'pi 
Pari* : Douniol. 




Leanted Women and Studious Women. 



25 



I inculcates Ihem ; and I main- 
tiut such habits could easily 
■Bd a place in the life of women of 
the world. 

I next indicated grave and noble 
itadies, solid and interesting courses 
a( reading ica), artistic, even 

piflOMphi' .i>ave all, religious, 

M v^tkh lite)' could devote Uiem- 

Then followed a few practical 
details concerning the method and 
conditions of good study, useful 

us composition. 
1 1 ions were ad- 
..--_; '.. iii: ./ , ' ' (■ of this pub- 
■ igctroiKr.ulictionscotntng 
ie with the most favorable 
...Mi* of approbation. This 
-it surprise me. In an age like 
h counsel could hardly be 
impitnity. In the land of 
women to study, 
' s, to cultivate let- 
ne arts, could not be 
I \K' jios unreproved. 
vK mc tiien, to have recourse 
■ •'.'/, that my vari- 
> be answered at 
-;ri>ke. The most considerate 
he most serious among them 
rtisd tliemselves, not upon Mo- 
strange to say, upon M. 
It is M. de Maistre, 
the quotations made from 
works and the objections raised 
b kU name, who demands my first 
rratlon. 



M. M MAi«rnte'3 opiNros. 

Some of M. dc Maistrc's letters 
to iits daughters form a veritable 
tttatisc upon the humble destiny of 
woman here below, and the sump- 
tws that should regulate her 
)ts and education. 

' I," he writes, 
Ir .1 to wish for 




learning is to wish to be a man. 
Enough if a woman be aware that 
Pekin is not in Europe, and that 
Alexander the Great did not de- 
mand a niece of Louis XIV, in mar- 
riage." 

Also M. de Maistre allows her in 
scientific matters to follow and " un- 
derstand tlie doings of men." This 
is her most perfect accomplishment, 
her chef-tTveuvre. 

He permits women, moreover, to 
love and admire the beautiful ; but 
what he does not permit is, that they 
should tliemselves seek to give it ex- 
pression. When his eldest daughter. 
Mademoiselle Ady e de Maistre, avow- 
ed a taste for painting, and when the 
youngest, Mademoiselle Constancy 
coniided to her father her ardent loved 
for literary pursuits, M. de Maistre^J 
in. alarm, taking shelter behind thaj 
triple authority of Solomon, F^ndor 
and Molibre, declared that women'' 
should not devote themselves to pur- 
suits opposed to their duties ; that a 
woman's merit lies in rendering her 
husband happy, in educating children,,^ 
and in making men ; that, from thft^^j 
moment she emulates man, she be- j 
comes an ape \ that women have 
never achieved a chef-irauvr< of ariy 
kind ; that a young girl is insane to 
undertake oil-painting, and should 
content herself with pencil-sketches : 
that, moreover, science is of all 
things the most dangerous for women ; 
that no woman must occupy herself 
with science under pain of being ridic- 
ulous and unhappy ; and, finally, that 
a coquette is far easier to marry than 
a scholar." In virtue of this last ar- 
gument, which embraces the preced- 
ing ones, M. de Maistre recommends 
them all to return to their work-bask- 
ets, conceding, however, tlie consecra- 
tion of a few hours to study by way 
of distraction. 

But let them beware of wishing to 
enlarge tlieir intelligence and under- 



36 



Learned Women and Studious Womeu. 



take great things. They would be 
nicknamed Dame barbue. 

Moreover, " it is not in the medioc- 
rity of education that their weakness 
lies ;" it is their weakness that makes 
"mediocrity of education" inevitable. 
In one word, they are radically inca- 
pable of anything great or serious in 
the way of culture. 

Perhaps it would be presumption 
to contest assertions so firm and un- 
compromising. I shall not attempt 
it I shall b^ leave to inquire — fbr 
this is the most important point now — 
whether or not these principles lead 
us logically and imperiously to the 
conclusion of M. de Maistre ; if a 
woman, " who would make her hus- 
band happy, educate her children well, 
and not transform herself into an ape 
in order to emulate man," must there- 
fore renounce not only the exercise 
of all creative faculty in art and lite- 
rature, but also of serious self-culture, 
and turn to her work-basket with no 
better consolation than the assurance 
that "Pekin is not ip Europe, and 
that Alexander did not ask in mar- 
riage the hand of a niece of Louis 
XIV" r 

n. 

THE QUESTION FAIRLY STATER 

Before grappling with a subject, one 
should clearly define its significance. 

Let us set aside the name of learn- 
ed women, so strangely misused since 
the days of Molifere. We French- 
men are too apt to settle great ques- 
tions with a jest ; sending silly preju- 
dices down to posterity to be nourish- 
ed and perpetuated for centuries with 
idle railleries. In the first place, is 
there not a just distinction to be made, 
lest we commit the error of confound- 
ing in the same anathema studious 
women with learned women, cultiva- 
ted women with absurd women, wo- 
men of sense, reflection, and serious 
habits of application with pedants ? 



Is it not evident that Moli^re, 
Femma Saziantes, attacked n 
study nor education, but pedani 
in his Tartuffie he attacked hype 
not genuine devotion ? 

Did not MoU^ himself writ 
beautiful line ? 

" Et je reuz qu'une fenune ait de* dart^ de 

With these preliminary words, 

ter on the question. The whole 

ly of M. de Maistre is reduced V 

assertion : that women should co 

themselves to their own domait 

not invade that of men. Agi 

but let us see what is man's ] 

liar domain. Is man by divine 

the sole proprietor of the doma 

intelligence? God has reserve 

him physical force, and I agree 

M. de Maistre that, notwithstar 

Judith and Joan of Arc, women st 

not presume to bear arms or to 

armies. But is intelligence meas 

out to them in the same exact pn 

tions and with the same limital 

as physical strength ? I have r 

thought so. The pen seems tc 

as well placed in the hand of St. ' 

resa as in that of M. de Maistre ; 

I select her name with the inter 

of citing many more in the follo< 

pages, because the name of St ' 

resa alone suffices to refute the a 

ment that women should not writi 

the reason that they have never sh 

superior ability in writing. St ' 

resa is one of the greatest, if not 

greatest, prose-writer of Spain, and 

even cultivated poetry occasional 

Beyond discussion, a woman'sg 

merit, her incomparable honor, li< 

rearing her children wisely and in n 

ing men ; as her dearest privilege 

her first duty lies in making her 1 

band happy. But precisely in oi 

to make men, and to ensure the 

tue and happiness of her husband 

children, a woman must be stron, 

intelligence, strong in judgment 



iMnmed Wottun aud Stitdiotts lV&m^». 



27 



dktfucter, assiduous, industrious, and 
«ttenth-e. In iht: wonls of Scripture, 
look, that beauty, that goodness, 
itch adom and embellish a whole 
>ld, must be illumined from on 
ygh ; < untt so/ orirns mundo, sic mu- 
\.toHa tpecUt in ornattifnium do- 
fus.) The hand Uiat holds the 
and manages household mat- 
juld be guided by a head ca- 
pable of conceiving and of governing. 
Tbe poTtriit sketched by Solomon is 
not that of n woman engrossed solely 
with r: fc ; it is that of an able 

nom I . if her children rise up 

atni call her glorious and blessed, it 
• she has an elevated sense 
lirs of life, a provident care 
'fcr xlie luture, and a solicitude for 
ttf;is, ; b^rrsiise she stands on a level 
<.t duties and the most 
ats ; in one word, be- 
*»he b an intelligent compan- 
liy of a spouse who sits at the 
' the city upon the most exalt- 
ch of justice, 
I could quote other passages from 
loly Scripture proving that natural 
art, sacred literature, poetry, 
)u«nce were not foreign to the 
ion of Israelitish maidens or to 
career of. Jewish wiomen. Was 
not the mother of Samuel who pro- 
daitnc<I Gnd the Lord of knowledge 
2nd the Gis-er of understanding? 
it not Miriam, the sister of 
trho taught music and sa- 
canbdcs to tbe young Israet- 

\ 'cially since the enun- 

^ospel that the intellec- 
il dignity of woman has 
itcd, and that Christian wo- 
men have taken so noble a place in 
taiflaii ■. ■ What I demand is, 

ifet .• -judices, coarse names, 

nri wan • should not drag 

do>v !ie exalted rank as- 

to them by tbe gospel into 
ifoBty and materialism. 




Let me be clearly understood. I 

desire, above all, not femmes savan- 
tes, but, for the sake of husbands, 
children, and households, intelligent, 
attentive, and judicious women, well- 
instructed in all things necessary and 
useful for them to know as mothers, 
heads of households, and women of 
the world ; never disdainful of prac- 
tical duties, but knowing how to oc- 
cupy not only their fingers, but their 
minds, understanding the cultivation 
of the whole soul. And I add that 
we ought to dread as disastrous evils 
those frivolous, giddy, sel(-indulgent 
women who, in idleness, ignorance, 
and dissipation, seek for pleasure and 
amusement ; who are hostile to exer- 
tion and to almost every dutj', incapa- 
ble of study or of continuous mental 
effort, and therefore unfitted to exer- 
cise any important influence over the 
education of their children, or over 
the affairs of their household or of 
their husbands. 

III. 

On these conditions I willingly 
resign the name of learned woman, 
claiming it for no one. And yet be- 
fore la)-ing it aside, I would remark 
that ages more Christian than our 
own were far from disdaining it. 
The disciple and biographer of the 
illustrious St. Boniface plainly tells 
us that St. Boniface loved St. Lioba 
for her solid enidition, ervditionis 
sapimtia. This admirable virgin, in 
whom the light of the Holy Ghost en- 
hanced an enlightenment laboriously 
acquired from study, xmited to purity 
and humilit)' (those virtues which pre- 
serve all things in a heart) a know- 
ledge of theology and canon law that 
became one of the glories of the new- 
bom German church. And, more- 
over, St. Boniface, far from despising 
his spiritual daughter's efforts to rise 
tointellectual pursuits, sometimes rob- 
bed the apostolate of hours which he 



T- mTf 



u£Ste 



28 



Learned Womeit and Studious Womni, 



deemed well spent in correcting the 

srary compositions and Latin verses 
Lioba, and in answering her in a 
similar style ; poetic messages carried 
across seas by confessors and mar- 
tyrs. 

And if, going back to earlier ages, 
we closely examine the records of 
liistory, we find that, after the estab- 
lishment of Christianity, feminine 
names are constantly met with on 
the literary monuments most revered 
by posterity ; as, for instance, the ce- 
lebrated HviJatia, who had Clement 
of Alexandria for a disciple ; the il- 
lustrious St. Catharine, teacher of 
Christian philosophy ; and, again, St. 
Perpelua, who wrote the acts of her 
own mart)Tdom and recorded the 
glory of her companions. 

When peace was restored to the 
church, and the age of doctors com- 
menced, succeeding the age of mar- 
t)Ts, who were more celebrated for 
the gravity of their minds and the ex- 
tent of their knowledge than the Pau- 
las, the Marcellas, Melanias, and Eus- 
tochiums with many other saints and 
noble Cliri-stian women ? Remember 
St. Marcella, in whom St. Jerome 
found 50 powerful an auxiliary against 
heresy; and St. Paula, who inspired 
St. Jerome to undertake his noblest 
and most important works, the Latin 
translation of the Bible from the He- 
brew text, aiul a complete series of 
commentaries upon the prophets. 

Nothing is finer than bt. Paula's 
letter to Sl Marcella. There we see 
all that Marcella had done to elevate 
the souls and the intelligence of wo- 
men .nnd maidens who called her their 
mother ; there we comprehend the in- 
ttlli-cnce and the eloquence of St 
Paula.* 



• We ntA wilh erm icirrru in 7"*/ HM**y ff 
S(. r^nltt, josl iwbliihrd by M. TAbW r t J(trangr. 
iboac cJuipter* derolcd to the tluditt in Holy Schp- 
tura of Kumui iaiiie* m St. Juuitie'i xhoot, iiid to 
itwM of St. P>uU in»l( a: BcttilcKca, under the di- 
nctteo o(tiic «ac Mist 




Who does not know what 
was in the following < ■ 
Paulinus, whose reputati auci 

the glory of Aquitaine as the nai 
of Ausonius ? Who docs not knoi# 
that Elpicia (the wife of Buetltius^ 
composed hymns adopted by the Ro» 
man liturgy? 

In the midst of barbarism educa- 
tion was one of the first condition 
imposed on Christian \'irgins. T 
who evinced an aputude for lite 
pursuits were dispensed from mam 
labor, according to the precept of S1 
Cesarius,that they might devote them-] 
selves exclusively to intellectual work. 
In most monasteries we hear of tbeni' 
engrossed in study, writing, translat-! 
ing, copying, or deciphering wi 
interruption. 

St. Radegonde, not content wil 
attracting to Poitiers one of tlw I; 
Roman poets, induced him to gi 
so complete a training to her ni 
as to form among them writers whOj; 
soon eclipsed their master. Cla: 
elegance and purity are revived in 
the writings of liandonovia. All lh« 
charm of Christian inspiration is re» 
vealed in the hymn improvised by a 
nun of Poitiers at the moment of 
Radegonde's death, and one of the 
earliest flowens of the new poetic era 
blooms over the grave of this holy 
queen who so lo\ed letters. 

The monasteries of England, Ire- , 
land, and France were nurseries fbr^ 
erudite and devout women. W 

"It is proved beyond dispute by 
numerous and well-authenticated wit- 
nesses," says M. de Montalrmbert, 
"that literar)' studies were cultivated 
in female monasteries in England 
during the seventh and eighth centtl- 
ries, with no less assiduity and per- 
severance than in communities of. 
men ; perhaps with even more entho* 
siasm. Anglo-Saxon nuns did not 
ncgltxt the occupations proper for 
their sex. But laanual labor was far 



i 




gamed IVofncn and Studious Women. 



them. They willing- 
and needle, not only 
10 transcribe manuscripts and adom 
miniatures according to the lasie of 
the day, but still oftencr to read and 
- ' ' lv book«. the fathers of the 
■ even classic authors."* 

■ " -rt's 
ires 

I : II irt and translated them 
uuai Ujc tJicek. She sent beyond 
leas to Ireland for masters to teach 
OOUic, poeln.', and Greek to the clois- 
ttfed \"irgin» of Nivelle. From all 
theM gIo^- ' ^>>3 issued shining 
SghtS ; a- nee, Lioba, foiind- 

Uc ablxry of Richofsheim ; 
..;...L, and St. Bridget. It was 
' St Edwiga that the study of Greek 
jtroduced into the monaster^' of 
II. And the enlightenment 
oTlhe learned Hilda was so highly 
Otecnted in the Anglo-Saxon churcli 
tuX more tlian once the holy abbess, 
KTCcned behind a veil, was present 
at the deliberations of bishops assem- 
hied " 'or council, who craved 

ibe A 'He whom tliey regard- 

ed as cspeijiaily illumined by the Holy 

II would make a list too long to re- 
thc examples of all the women 

wbcwn sanctity was accompanied 

ninous science. 

iMiu here a daughter of 

ic Conqueror, Cecilia, ab- 

monastcry at Caen ; the 

Emma, abbess of St. 

Aniand ; and, above all, Hcrrade, who 

aatontshed her contemporaries by 

lennrd • i<al works, com- 

icnce of her day. 

In the twcilUi century, St. Hilde- 






.. . In- 

Ibictuura 



29 



garde received revelations concern- 
ing the physical constitution of our 
globe, and wrote treatises upon the 
laws of nature, anticipating modern 
science. Nothing surpasses the ele- 
vation and nobility of intellect reveal- 
ed in the various works of this illus- 
trious woman. 

It was St. Elizabeth, of Thenawge, 
who wrote the admirable page quoted 
in the logic of P^re Gratry. St. Hil- 
degarde and St Elizabeth both lived 
in monasteries on the banks of the 
Rhine, where women wrote, painted, 
and worked ; where they did wonder- 
ful things, says Pfere Gratrj'. 

" What can we say of St Catharine 
of Siena, who shares the glory of the 
great writers ?" asks Ozanam. 

M. de Maistre maintains that a 
young girl is insane to think of painting. 
And yet saints have had this mania. 
St. Catharine of Bologna was a cele- 
brated miniaturist She wrote learn- 
ed treatises and painted cfuf-dixu- 
vns; she corajxjsed sacred music 
and perfected musical instruments ; 
even on her death-bed she played on 
instruments whose conception and 
execution belong to her. It is for 
this reason that she is represented 
over altars holding die lyre or viola 
invented by herself. 

Following all these names claimed 
by the arts as well as by literature 
comes that of St. Theresa, already 
cited above. Here M. de Maistre is 
vanquished. Yes, genius has descend- 
ed upon a feminine intellect endow- 
ing it with a gift as brilliant as any 
that can be cited. One might dread 
the guilt of profanation in using the 
words chef-ifiztrt'rf and human genius 
in speaking of those sublime pages 
penetrated with a divine light those 
marvellous echoes of heaven that stir 
OUT sovils even on earth. But where 
can we find the bevuitiful realized with 
more vividness, more simplicity, more 
nature and grandeur? 



* 



I 

k: 



If all these names have been llie 
names of saints whose ain» aiid su- 
preme inspiration was rehgjion, why 
wonder ? I have already said that 
women had been elevated by Christi- 
anity, heart, soul, and understanding. 
They owed to Christianity the homage 
of all the gifts it had bestowed upon 
tliem, and that homage they rendered. 

'i'o complete this h;isty outline of 
the history, not so much of learned as 
of intelligent women, women of mind 
and heart, of faith and Christian vir- 
tue, I will mention that, in times more 
nearly approaching our own, Christina 
Pisani wrote admirable memoirs of 
Charles V., in which wc find great 
moral elevation as well as a charming 
style. 

Let me name, also, Elizabeth of Va- 
lois and Mary Stuart, who carried on 
a Latin corresiwndence for several 
years concerning the advantages of 
literar)' studies. Elizabeth Sarani,one 
of the most religious painters of the 
Bolognese school in the seventeenth 
century ; Helena Comaro, in the six- 
teenth century, was made iloctor at 
Milan, and died in the odor of sancti- 
ty. And then what a charrning writer 
was the Mbre de Chaugj' in the begin- 
ning of the seventeenth centurj- ! 

In conclusion, I will mention Made- 
moiselle de L^gardibre, who wrote a 
work esteemed by M. Guizot as " Llie 
most instructive now extant upon an- 
cient French law." It was a woman, 
then, who consecrated a life, in which 
severe labor and charitable actions 
alone found place, to the execution 
of the first work that opened the way 
to new discoveries of modern science, 
a work of prodigious enidition, TA^r 
PoUtlail Theory of French Latos. This 
satmntCy for so we must call her, lived 
in an isolated chAteau, where her piety 
was an example to all who knew her, 
and Icfl a memory venerated by her 
countrywomen. 

Many other examples could be cited 



It IM 
» of ^ 

tscut n 



as' 



to reestablish the epithet Uarncd 
man ; but I promised ti-> resign it, 
resign it I do 

M. deMaist nisdt 

tation by saying : " W omen hAve 
ver created masterpieces !" Doe* 
mean to assert that their intelkcti 
efforts have been, and that they 
ways will be, sterile } We have seta^ 
and history proves, to what point ibe 
exertions and the acquirements of 
women have contributed to the 
servation of ancient literature, 
a hard measure to expel them 
the ship they have helped to rcscw 
from the storms of barbarism. M«i»> 
over, one need not create maste 
to prove the possession of 
God sends dew to little flowers 
as to great trees. Humble woi 
may receive the fecundity of a good' 
action. The success of our advei 
ries must be our encouragement. 1 
women of talent have done so mui 
mischief, then Christian women mui 
struggle on the same ground 
arc a great many books, and one 
more is but a drop in tlie oc 
true ! All are not destined to disti 
lion and immortality. Some m 
console a few souls only, and, IDci 
daily bread, meet the day's requi 
ments, without enduring until 
morrow. 

" If you work for God and for you: 
self," says St. Augustine, " the In-tt 
to heed the utterance of the Wo 
within you, there will always be a few 
beings who will understand >x>U-" 

These words are an encouragemeni 
for all humble works, for all faitlifi 
efforts, that, while developing ilie fac-j 
ulties received from God, know nol 
to what purpose they are destined. 
IvCl each one ailtivate her natural 
faculties. Intelligence is one of the 
noblest of gifts, and in the field of the 
f-tthcr of the family no laborer must 
stand unoccupied, useless, without toil 
and without recompense. 




Lmmed Women and Studious Women. 



31 



Bat, it may be argued, most of the 
examples brought forward prove only 
that women are especially fitted for 
Giristian learning. I recognize the 
fact Inspiration, descending into 
their souls, rises again more direct- 
ly toward God. Their talents must 
he intimately allied with virtue, and 
shine forth like those pure rays that 
are filled with the light and warmth 
d the centre whence they emanate. 

Bat, alas I one must recognize also 
die fact that women bom with ta- 
lents and for works of the first order 
have too often never found this su- 
prane source. M. de Maistre, after 
discharging his unjust spleen against 
Madame de Stael, calling her discour- 
teously "Science in petticoats, and 
in impertinent femnuUtte" whose 
vorks he qualifies as "goigeous 
rags," confesses, finally, in one of 
those impetuous contradictions so 
£uniliar to him, that Madame de 
Stael needed only the torch of truth 
to raise her "immense abilities" to 
the highest grade. " If she had been 
a Catholic," he says later, " she would 
have been adorable instead of being 
famous." What would he have said 
of the female writers of our own day? 

\\Tiat intellectual ruins! What 
grief it is that talents like those of 

Mad.ime de and Madame 

should be lost to the good cause ! — 
souls that in their fall bear still the 
impress of the divine ray ; crumbling 
temples that seem to be stru^ling to 
ri<e from their ruins, uttering from 
the depths of their desolation plaints 
like these : 

-O my greatness! O my strength! 
you have passed like a storm-cloud ; 
you have fallen upon the earth to ra- 
vage it like a thunderbolt You have 
smitten with barrenness and death 
al! the fruits and all the blossoms 
of my field. You have made of it 
a desolate arena, where I sit soli- 
I taiy in the midst of my ruins. O 



my greatness I O my strength 1 were 
you good or evil angels ? 

" O my pride I O my knowledge I 
you rose up like burning whirlwinds 
scattered by the simoom through the 
desert ; like gravel, like dust you have 
buried the palm-trees, you have trou- 
bled and exhausted the water-springy. 
And I sought the stream to quench 
my thirst, and I found it not ; for the 
insensate who would cut his way 
over the proud peaks of Horeb for- 
gets the lowly path that leads to the 
shadowy fountain. O my pride 1 O 
my knowledge ! were you the envoys 
of the Lord? were you spirits of 
darkness ? 

" O my religion ! O my hope I 
you have swept me like a fragile and 
wavering bark over shoreless seas, 
through bewildering fogs, vague illu- 
sions, dimmest images of an unknown 
country ; and when, weary with strug- 
gling against the winds, and, groaning, 
bowed down beneath the tempest, I 
asked you whither you led me, you 
lighted beacons upon the rocks to 
show me what to avoid, not where to 
find safety. () my religion I O my 
hope I were you a dream of mad- 
ness, or the voice of the living God ?" 

No ; these impulses toward heaven, 
this need of God, this strength, this 
pride, this greatness, were not bad 
angels ; they were great and noble 
faculties, sublime gifts. But they 
should not have been deluded ! They 
should not have been misled into 
vanity and falsehood ! They should 
have been employed for good ends, 
and not turned into spirits of dark- 
ness. 

IV. 
DUTY. 

The rights of women to intellectual 
culture are not merely rights, they are 
also duties. This is what makes 
them inalienable. If they were only 




Learnid Women and Studious Women. 



rights, women could sacrifice them ; 
but they are duties. The sacrifice is 
either impossible or ruinous. 

This is the point of departure for 
all I have to say. I declare unhesi- 
tatingly that it is a woman's duty to 
study and educate herself, and that 
intellectual labor should have a place 
reserved among her special occupa- 
tions and among her most important 
obligations. 

The primordial reasons of this ob- 
ligation are grave, of divine origin, 
and absolutely unanswerable ; name- 
ly: 

In the first place, God has confer- 
red no useless gifts ; for all the things 
he has made there is a reason and an 
aim. If the companion of man is 
a reasonable creature ; if, like man, 
she is made in the image and likeness 
of God ; if she, too, has received from 
her Creator the sublimest of gifts, 
understanding, she ought to make 
use of it. 

^ These gifts, received from God for 
In especial purpose, must be culti- 
vated. Scripture tells us that .souls 
left to waste, like fallow ground, bring 
forth only wild fruits, spines et tribu- 
tos. And God did not make the souls 
of women, any more than the souls of 
men, to be shifting, barren, or un- 
healthy soil. 

Moreover, every reasonable crea- 
ture is to render to God an account 
of his gifts. Each one in the judg- 
ment day will be dealt with according 
to the gifts he has received and the 
use he has made of them. 

God has given us all hands, (which, 
according to the interpreters, signify 
prompt and intelligent action,) but 
on condition that we do not bring 

I them to him empty. .Again, he has 
categorically explained his intentions 
in the parable of the talents, where 
he declares that a strict account must 
be rendered to him, talent by talent. 
I do not know a fatlicr of llie church 




or any moralist who has 
ed that this parable did nc 
women as well as men. Tl 
serious distinction to be ms 
must give an account of ' 
received ; and good human sen! 
good divine sense, plainly im 
that one sex has no more rig! 
liie other to bury or to waste tl 
sessions granted by HeavMl 
employed and increased. fl 

In short, I say with St. Aug 
no creature to whom God ha, 
fided the lamp of intelligence 
right to behave like a foolia 
letting the oil become exha 
cause she has neglected to 
letting that light die out _ 
have enlightened her path m 
of others too, if only, as in th 
of some wives and mother 
her husband and children. 

The generality of books^ 
to the merits, the destinies,^ 
virtues of woman, far from cQi 
ing her as a being creaW 
image of God, intelligent, 
responsible to her Create 
actions, treat of her as 
sion of man, made solely fo 
and whose end he is. In al! 
books, a woman is only a bJo 
creature meant to be adored, t 
respected — a being esscntiall' 
rior, whose existence .has H 
aim than to secure the hfl| 
of man, or bend to his most 
lous purposes ; dependent, abc 
upon man, who alone is her I 
her legislator, and her jud| 
hitely, as if she had no 
conscience, no moral liber 
God were nothing to her ; 
had not endowed her soal 
cravings, faculties, aspirations, 
word, with rights lliat are , 
same time duties. M 

The world declaims, and lR 
son, ag.tinst the futility of v 
against their love of apj 



;ence 
olia^ 
:h^ 

h a« 

in th 

1 

n CQi 

1 



her I 



?P^ 



Learned Women and Studious Women. 



33 



what is called their coquetry. 
is not this futility produced and 
lied by the fear of making 
learned^ of too fully develop- 
' iag ihcir ' ncc ? — as if such 

irtria g wi. . le, as if that true 

It through which one bet- 
itands duty, and learns to 
kte consequences, could be in- 
Are not women who have 
tastes obliged to hide them 
or inake eJtcuses for them by every 
_acaris in their power, as if they 
concealing a fault? 
Or if, indeed, a woman is allowed 
educate herself^ it is only within 
restricted limits, and merely, 
>rdin|r to the wishes of M. de 
Uais' she may understand 

tiM C' 'H of men, or that she 

•ay be more amusing, and set otT 
lier thding talk in a more piquant 
fashion by mingling it witli odds and 
tods of vmdom. With such a dread 
does the learned woman inspire idle 
mA t' men who will neidier 

cs nor let any one else 

In plainer ternu> still : does not 
tiK present system of education 
neat' " " "or coquetry and a love 
4f a< ', by making man the 

tinly cml i»i ^toman's destiny ? It is 
tain to tell her that she is destined 
far ooe alone, and tliat all others 
ihottid be to her as if they existed 
■ot This is perfectly true from a 
Cliristian point of view, which embra- 
ces at once all rights and all duties ; 
bat apart &om Chrii>tian virtue, when 
dm *me pro\'es tedious, vicious, and 
abjK*lutely unworthy of affection, and 
when temptation presents itself un- 
der the traits of another, a superior 
being, (or one who seems to be su- 
perior,) for whom alone she believes 
iKnclf created, how, I ask, can you 
penuade Her to fly from the l.ttter 
aad lire only for die former? Im- 
pnidnC and fatal guide that you are, 

?OL. VI-— 3 



you have taught her that she is an 
incomplete being, who cannot suffice 
to herself, who must lean upon the 
superiority of another ; and then you 
complain because, when she meets 
this support, this other and truer 
half of herself, she clings to it. and 
cannot fly from the fatal attraction ! 
Undeniably she violates the holiest 
of obligations ; but have you not 
yourselves been blind and guilty ? 
Are you not so still ? 

I have no hesitation in asserting 
that only Christian morality can teach 
a woman with absolute and decisive 
authority her true rights and her true 
duties in t hei necessary corelation. 

Until you have persuaded a wo- 
man that she is first created for God, 
for herself, for her own soul, and in 
the second place for her husband 
and children, to value them next to 
God, with God, and for God, you 
will have done nothing either for the 
happiness or the honor of families. 

Of course, husband and wife are 
two in one, and their children are 
one in them. But, if God is not tlie 
foundation of this providential union. 
Providence will be avenged, and the 
union dissolved. This is the mis- 
fortune, almost always irreparable, 
that so often meets our eyes.* 

This excessive absorption of the 
personality of a wife into her hus 
band's existence was useful, perhaps, 
for the preservation of the antique 
matron. Such moral and intellectu- 
al restrictions were reasonable, per- 
haps, at a period when duty had no 
sanction sufficiently strong. The se- 
clusion of the gyn.'Eceum may have 
served to preserve the domestic cir- 
cle from frightful disorder. But a 
Christian woman is conscious of a 



* Does the reader betiev« these warnioKf uncatted 
for in AmericaD society ? We once ezpUined lo a 
rrtnchman the »y»tem in vogue in many of our 
States, of divorce I'ollowed by a secood marnAgc. 
" All !" uid be, " io France we call thai a Uaisan," 
— I'ntmt. 




Lmnud HfffHTH and Studipu* 



\ ilntiny. For her gyiweceuin 
harem air useless. She loves 
Ite hring to whom God has united 
Iter with a tenderness and devotion 
ly met with in pagan times, if 
may judge by tJie eulogiums 
llavished on those who approached 
I'laost nearly the standard we see 
realized every day. The Christian 
wom^n regards herself as her hus- 
band's companion, as his assistant in 
earthly as in heavenly things, soda, 
tuljutorium ; as bound to console 
him and niakc his happiness ; but 
she thitiks, too, that they should help 
each other to become better, and 
that, after having educated together 
new tlfctf they should share felicity 
together through all eternity. For 
such destinies, a woman's education 
»cannot be too unremitting, too ear- 
nest, or too strong. 

The contrary system rests upon a 
pagan appreciation of bor destiny, 
or, as has been said with reason, 
upon the idleness of men who wish 
to preserve their own superiority at 
small expense. The pagan concep- 
tion consists in believing women to 
be merely charming creatures, pas- 
sive, inferior, and made only for 
man's pleasure and amusement. But, 
as I have already said, Christianity' 
thinks ditferently. In Christianit>' a 
woman's virtue, like a man's, must be 
intelligent, voluntary', and acdve. She 
must understand the full extent of her 
duties, and know how to draw con- 
clusions from divine teaching for her- 
self, her husband, and her children. 

This prejudice against the intellec- 
tual development of women is one 
of the most culpable inventions oi 
the eighteenth century, that age of 
profligacy and impiety. The Regent 
and Louis XV. have fostered it more 
than Moli^re, as they have created 
more prejudices against religion than 
Tartuffe. It was useful to all un- 
principled husbands to have wives as 




worthless as themselves, 

be incapable of controlling t] 

orderly Uvcs. 

A suf)erior woman obliges J 
band to depend upon her. 
forced to submit to the contri 
intelligent spirit, and does : 
free to follow his own caprice 
is why vicious husbands ne< 
rant wives. 

Moli^re struck a blow as 
at fjrivolit)', in the Pridetts^ 
fuUf* as at pedantry in the 
SavanUs. The eighteenth cci 
tained merely a prejudice cor 
to itself, which the regency « 
ed as a law, and finally licentit 
surrendered the honor of lh« 
lies rather than hnd in a wif 
convenient judge, a living con 
an ever-present reproach. T 
ferred to have wives as vain 
volous as themselves, and to 
marriage a contract in which I 
and titles only were considei 
where affection on eithec si) 
for nothing. The world SA 
affright tlic corruption that > 
engulfed French society. 

Why did not M. de Maisi 
saw the remains of this coi 
and the chastisements it had i 
understand that the degrade 
tion assigned to women was 
its cause.s, and that prejudice 
llie intellectual elevation, 
was the work of vice ? 



V. 



I 



THE DANCEXS OF REPaESStl 

The very nature of things 
plainly enough. Human natu 
its faculties demands instruct 
largcment, enlightenment, elt 

* It it aliKi lobe obterved that MoGit 
womcD had only the afliKlatinn and not Ih 
tciencc, josl aa the frtiiruiei merely » 
fint language and manncn of the court. 
«T w^re ignorant women playing ihe part C 
the iMter provincial »oinco apttig Patia 6 



Ltanud W<mun and Studious Women. 



35 



Ihint 



Iter. 



F^rwn my own observadon I must as- 
Mit that nothing is more dangerous 
than smothered faculties, unanswer- 
•«d cravings, unsatisfied hunger and 
Tlience comes the perversion 
ions, created for noble ends, 
against truth and virtue, 
issue those distorted, crook- 
and perverse ways into which we 
: drawn by an ignorance incapable 
Tdioioe, judgment, or self-restraint : 
ii dirumpfnt voi^ says the sacred 
There lies the secret of many 
faUiy many scandals, or, at least, of 
ii vretcbed levity among wo- 
1 1 1/ these rich and ardent pow- 
had been cultivated, we need not 
deplore their ruin ; we should 
■ot h- ^h over the pitifully in- 

tual standarti, the men- 
of so many women of 
ihed nature, called to be or- 
lo the world and to do ho- 
thcir families, but of whom 
education, checked in its develop- 
aeat, has made elegant women per- 
blps, at thirty j-ears of age, but fri- 
waloas, commonplace and useless, 
Svely no one can seriously contra- 
Ha. BM in these assertions. 

his is a very Important 

Bl. de Maistre would make awo- 
huuible and virtuous in the ari- 
dity of her occupations, without any- 
lUag to raise and console her beyond 
Ifac knowledge " that Fekin is not in 
Eioope," and so on. 

This is impossible. She will not 
lonain in this humble sphere. If we 
<bnot give her intellectual interests 
Ii fccreate her from the material du- 
ties, often overwhelming, that weigh 
W dowit, she will reject these verj' 
dsties, which humiliate her when tfuy 
ame alone, and seek relief from ennui 
IB frivrJity. Do not we see t his every 
diy ? I-el us not deceive ourselves. 
Tlie duties of the mistress of a 
ttiold, ever recttrraag with a 



thousand matter-of-fact details — the 
responsibilities of domestic life are 
often wearisome and excessively wea- 
risome. ^^'here shall a woman find 
consolation ? who will give a legiti- 
mate impulse to her sometimes over- 
excited imagination ? Who will oflfer 
to her intelligence the rightful satis- 
faction it demands, and prevent her 
from feeling that she is a mere domes- 
tic drudge ? 

I have no hesitation in saying — and 
how many experiences have contribut- 
ed to fortify my conviction ! — that 
there are times when piety itself does 
not suffice I Work, and sometimes very 
serious intellectual work, is required. 
Drawing and painting are not enough, 
unless the painting be of a very ele- 
vated character. What the hour calls 
for is a strong and firm application 
of the understanding to some serious 
work, literarj', philosophical, or reli- 
gious. Then will calmness, peace 
serenity be restored. Let us acknow- 
ledge the truth. Rigid principles and 
empty occupations, devotion combin- 
ed with a purely material or worldly 
life, make women destitute of resour- 
ces in themselves, and sometimes ia-J 
supportable to their husbands and chil-: 
dren. 

But allow a woman two hours of] 
hird study everj* day, during which 
the faculties of her soul can recove 
their balance, perplexities assume thelt 
true proportions, good sense and judg* 
ment resume their sway, excitement 
subside, and peace reenter the soul : 
then she will lift up her head once 
more ; she will see that the intellectual 
life to which she aspires, in accordance 
with a craving implanted in her being 
by God himself, is not denied to her. 
Then she will be able to fall on her 
knees and accept life with its duties, 
and bless the divine will. 

This is the fruit of genuine wor 
performed in the presence of God. It 
renders her soul submissive, some-' 



Lmnud WvMun tntd Stm£mu Wm 



traes acts so 4aa prajrr itselfl It 
«soc«* ber w order and good sense, 
ocisrrizs vithin her a just and noble 

I '^ive sometiines heard mothers 
ay tii: they dreaded for their child- 
«= ticJties overstepping ordinary 
>rc«5x>Ttions. and that they should en- 
ieavor to repress them. " A\'hat use 
lie the)-?" it is said: **Howcan a 
>lace be found for these great abilities 
n that real life, with its narTov,cramp- 
kI limits, which begins for women 
It the dose of their earliest youth ?" 
rhese remarks have secretly shocked 
me. What! would \x>u check the ex- 
pansion of that fairest of dinne works, 
1 soul where God has implanted a germ 
af ideal life ? You respect this gift in 
men, pro\ided that it be employed in 
practical life, and that it ser\'e to 
make money or create a social posi- 
tion. But, since the utilit}' of great 
jifts is less lucrative among women, 
they had better be repressed ! Then 
lop off the branches of the plant that 
craves too much air and room and 
sunlight; check the redundant sap. 
But the plant was intended to be a 
great tree, and you will make of it a 
stunted shrub. Take care lest the mu- 
tilation do not kill it utterly while tor- 
turing it. To extinguish a soul de- 
signed by God to shine is to bury 
therein the seed of an interior an- 
guish that you will never cure, and 
which may exhaust the soul with 
vague, exaggerated aspirations. There 
is no torture comparable to the sense 
of the beautiful when it cannot 
find utterance, to the interior agony 
of a soul which, perhaps unconscious- 
ly, has missetl its vocation. That 
word, expressive of a call from on high, 
of a solemn and irresistible claim, ap- 
plies to women as well as to men, to the 
ideal life as much as to the external 
life. The soul is a thought of God, 
it \iAfi l)ccn said, lliere is a divine 
plan with regard to it, and our exer- 



tions or oar In^Bar sdmice ori 
the execnaoti v[ that {rfan, wl» 
ists none the less in God's w 

and goodness, and nrast appea 
day as ocr accnser if ve fkil t 
cute it 

And to secure its accomplish 
the development of the whole 
mind, and heart b necessary. 

It is difficult to discorer in ad 
to what God destines his gifh 
none the less tme b it that he de 
them to an especial end, and th 
providential vocation, faithful! 
swered, turns aside the dangc 
dread to meet in its fulfilment 

Indi^-idnal natures should b 
suited, diat we may de\-elop 
according to their capacities. I 
not create factitious talents by 
ture which nature does not de 
but neither would I leave uncult 
those she has bestowed. Notl 
more dangerous for a woman 
incomplete development, half 
ledge, a half-talent that shov 
glimpses of broader horizons w 
gi\-ing force to reach them, male 
think she knows what she dot 
know, and fills her soul with t 
and bewilderment, combined ^ 
pride that often betraj's itself 
misconduct. When equilibri 
not established between aspi 
and the power to realize it, tlw 
after making fruitless struggles 
tain its ideal, becomes discon 
with common life, and, craung 
excitement of mind and imagir 
seeks it in emotions and pie. 
always dangerous and often cul 

If you do not direct the flar 
ward, it will feed upon the cc 
earthly aliment. A superior ] 
once said to me: "In art, mcdi 
is to be above all things feare 
great talent escapes many da 
The impetus once given, one 
reach the goal ; otherwise, wh 
say bow low one may fall ?" 



L*anud Women and Studious Womti^ 



n 



le examples of this I have 
itt : vhat becomes of 

d : and of a rich na- 

ered abortive.* 

VI. 
ICtTS OF IGSORANCE AND tE- 

yvn IN woMEM. 

[npUin of the vanity of wo- 
their luxury and coquetry ; 
Uftt else do we prepare them, 
S do we inculcate in their 
I ? We leave them no other 
r>Ti cirth. Far from elevat- 
strengthening, and 
..i, we dissipate, ener- 
dcbiisc them ; nor am I 
of the most fatal kind of 
X. Far from forming in 
;e for serious things or 
mbjects worthy of interest, 
them to ridicule those who 

«s. We reduce them 
iBsip, every kind of 
mnui. The world is 
irritated against those who 
Remind women what they 
^Kstimation of God, what 
lapabie of doing, what they 
mJ, to society, to France, to 
ands and sons, and to them- 
^nst those who dare to as- 
it i.s for them, daughters of 
o whom humanity owes the 
etit of toil, to accept and 
urs accept this fruit, which, 
uiiaps a little bitter, is ex- 
>norable, and salutary ; that 
follow its holy prac- 
..v.y, and, later, to in- 
}\hiit% a taste for it, or, at 



V^V^i- 



ly 



. _ _ , -.1 -. ..ue- 

ni iX Ute *«h ttrrvcir, tlie k«Im ei- 
M mmI la friToltni* iliMntci i'jtu. PeopI* 
k Ml her Mltttic oaiure. On tlie 
BM wJba if the {•n^.sci^fd the 
IrAolItiH. She ku noi b'.. n ..11. nd 
jrtba lalect bcauneil t. \ma 

,1 ittc jtranitx power . ir 



least, courage to endure it ; that it is 
for them to speak that noble language 
of reason and of faith which calls la- 
bor the primordial law of humanity» 
at once a dominion and a reward. 

The w^orld is angry with those who 
teach women that they should use the 
gift oi tnjluauc with which they are 
endowed, not to become queens of 
the ball-room, and shine beneath the 
candelabra of a drawing-room or be- 
hind foot-lights, but to become in 
tlieir own homes skilful and patient 
advocates of everything noble, just, 
intellectual, and generous ; not \a/u- 
tilize, if I may so express myself, the 
spirits of men, already too inclined 
to futility, but to remind them con- 
stantly that life is composed of du- 
ties, that duty is serious, and that 
happiness is only found in the per- 
formance of duty. 

Instead of this, what are they? 
Stars of a day, meteors too often fa- 
tal to the repose, the fortune, and the 
honor of families. We may say that 
these women who have the brilliancy 
and the passing influence of comets 
exercise also their sinister power. 
Instead of enervating them with non- 
sense, tell them Uiat they will not al- 
ways remain twenty years old, and 
that diey will soon need other re- 
sources than their own beauty and 
caprices. Tell them that, even suph 
posing they can always rule their hus- 
bands so easily, this sophistical au- 
tliorily will never gain a hold upoD 
their children ; and yet it is a woman's 
true aim, her first duty, often, alas ! 
her sole happiness, to possess in- 
fluence over her children and cspt- 
(ially oi'er her sons. But to obtain 
that, she needs not only goodness, 
tenderness, and patience, but reason, 
reflection, good sense, and enlighten- 
ment. To obtain these, real instruc- 
tion, attentive study, serious educa- 
tion are necessary. 
But there are few women who arc 



P^pBvc 



capable of rendering soJid service to 
their husbands and children. 

"As a usual thing," wrote to me 
a womnn of the world, of verj' gen- 
eral interests, but exceedingly intelli- 
ligent — "as a usual thing we know 
nothing, absolutely nothing. Wc can 
talk only about dress, fashions, or 
steeple-chases — nonsense all of them ! 
A woman knows who are the famous 
actors and horses of the day ; she 
knows by heart the personnel of the 
opera and the Vari^lds ; the stud- 
book is more familiar to her than the 
Jmitation ; last year she voted for La 
ue, this year for Vermouth, and 
cly assures us that ^Bois-Koussel 
is full of promise ; the grand Derby 
drives her w-ild, and the triumph of 
FitU de PAir seems to her a nation- 
al victor)'. She can tell who are the 
best dressmakers, what saddler is 
most in vogue, what shop is most 
frequented. She can weigh the re- 
spective merits of the equipages of 
Comte de la Grange, Due de Momy, 
and M. Delamarre. But, alas ! turn 
the conversation to a matter of histo- 
ry or geography ; speak of the mid- 
dle ages, the crusades, the institu- 
tions of Charlemagne or St. Louis ; 
compare Mossuet with Coraeille, 
Rncinc with Frfn^lon ; utter the 
names of Camocns or Dante, of 
Royer-CollarrI, Frdd^ric Ozanam, 
Comte dc Monlalembert, or Pbre 
Gmtry ; ihc poor thing is struck 
dumb. She can only amuse young 
women and frivolous young men ; 
incapable of talking of business, art, 
politics, agriculture, or science, she 
cannot converse with her father-in- 
law, with llie cur<f, or any other sensi- 
ble man. And yet it is a woman's 
first talent to be able to converse with 
every one. If her mother-in-law vi- 
shs schools and poor people, and 
wishe* to enroll her in charitable as- 
alions, she understands neither 
aim nor tlieir importance, for 




compassion and kindness 
do not suffice in a <.< 
the execution of gm 
acquire influence and give to 
fit its true worth, its whole mi 
nificance, one needs an intd 
only to be acquired by study i 
tentive reflectioji." 

And, now, I must go further, 
dicate the fatal results of the f 
condition of things to domi 
to society, and to religion ; 
tell the entire truth. 

I know, I have seen, and 
God in seeing, the sway exercifl 
her family by a Christian wi 
mother ; the pursuits introdue 
der her guidance ; the ideas, ( 
indignantly rejected, adopt 
please her ; thoughts of re)^ 
charity, of devotion, 'resignatia 
forgiveness ; but more rarely, i 
confess, principles of industry. 

It is a painful fact that edu 
not excepting religious edu 
rarely gives a serious taste fo| 
to young girls or young womed 
voys from God to the domestic nl 
guardians of the holy traditioi 
faith, honor, and loyalty, womei 
devout Christian women, seeoi 
the adversaries of work whctlj 
their husbands or their childn 
especially for their sons. I hai 
women who found it difficult 
regard the time given to sti 
stolen from them. Is tliis for II 
intellijjence or aptitude ? I thil 
I attribute this prejudice, tira^ 
education we give them, ligkl 
lous, and superficial, if not aba 
false ; ami, secondly, to the pa 
signed to them in the world, an 
place rcser\ed for tliem in fan 
and even in some Christian fami 

Wc do not wish women to si 
they do not wish those about th' 
study. Wc do not like to see 
employed ; ihcy do not like t< 
others employed, and tlie 



i 



Women and Studio\ 



iwcU in preventing their hus- 
bnth and children from working^. 
TIdk : cnse misfortune, a most 

il ;;.,.„.. .^c. It is useless to say 
)naK " Work, accept offices, occupy 
• line." While women seek to de- 
i^ney the effect of our advice, it will 
produce results. So long as 
advise their daughters not to 
TTj men in office ; so long as the 
'yCNiAg wife uses her whole art to dis- 
{BSt her husband with employment, 
■kd the youn^ mother fails to incul- 
eyt in her children the necessity of 
xlT-culture, of training the mind and 
as one cultivates a precious 
o long will the law of labor 
with rare exceptions, unob- 

fltfVCCL 

Ib the present stage of customs 

atd manners, home life being what it 

, women only can effectively protect 

jirit of industry ; make it habitual ; 

lie, foster, facilitate, and even 

' taforre it upon those around them ; 

onljr preparing the way for it, rendcr- 

1 , according to 

^ lit, and admi- 

r, oo the contrary, children are 
|ibccd as soon as possible en pension ; 
till is the word ; or for the boys a 
is appointed, for the girls a gov- 
The mother, out of love of 
Mteement, deprives herself as early 
as possible of the supreme happiness 
of bestowing upon her children the 
fint gleam of intellectual and spiritual 
Mfe' ■ "She who gave them corporeal ex- 
iMecic«. The children then go to col- 
1^ or to a convent, and what be- 
; the mother s chief care ? That 
>uld not work too hard 1 If 
a tutor or governess, the case 
wora«. The mother often ap- 
liobi '■ ' V of both, 

: yapivr' 1 alienat- 

ing h . and ex- 

torting , „ mptions, 

and tnce&!>ant interruptions. The 





only dream of this weak and blind 
mother, her only idea of occupation for 
her son, is to plan hunting parties for 
him, gatherings of young people, hif>- 
podromes, plays, watering-places, and 
balls, where she follows him with her 
eyes, enchanted with his triumphs in 
society, which should perhaps rather 
make her sigh. No longer daring to 
be vain for herself, she is vain for him. 
What defects does she blame } An 
ungraceful gesture, an unrefined ex- 
pression, or the omission of some 
courtesy. She never says to him ; 
" .Aim at higher things ; cultivate your 
mind ; learn to think, to know men, 
things, yourself ; become a distinguish- 
ed man ; sene your country ; make 
for yourself a name, unless you have 
one already, and in that case be wor- 
thy to bear it" 

Few mothers give such counsel 
to their children — still les.s, young 
wives to their husbands. They seem 
to marry m order to run about in 
search of amusement or of the prin- 
ciple of perpetual motion. Countr 
places, city life, baths, watering-places 
the turf, balls, concerts, and morning 
calls leave not a moment's rest for 
them day or night. Willingly or un- 
willingly, the husband must share this 
restlessness. He yawns frequently, 
scolds sometimes, but no matter for 
that ; he must yield, longing for the 
blessed moment when he can .shake 
off the yoke and take refuge at his 
club. The young wife employs every 
gift of art and nature, everything thafei 
God bestowed upon her for better pt 
poses, grace, beauty, sweetness, ac 
dress, fascination, to make him yield- 
Oh ! tliat she would employ half these 
providential resources to prove to her 
husband that she would be proud to 
be the wife of a distinguished man ; 
that she longs to see him cultivated, 
clever, worthy of his name, worthy one 
day to be held up as an example to 
his son; to persuade him either to 



40 



Learned Women and Studious Womat. 




take some office, or to live upon his 
estates and exercise a righteous influ- 
ence, protecting elective places, gain- 
ing the confidence and esteem of his 
fellow-citizens, settin^if a noble exam- 
ple, and thus serving God and society I 

But far from behaving thus, if the 
poor husband ventures to take up 
a book and seek repose from the 
whirlwind he is condemned to live in, 
madam makes a little face, (consi- 
dered bewitching at twenty, but one 
day to be pronounced insufferable ;) 
she fluttcni about the literar)' man, 
the rhetorician, the scholar, retires to 
put on her hat, comes back, seats her- 
self, springs up again, flits back and 
forth before the mirror, takes her 
gloves, and finally bursts out into ex- 
ecrations against books and reading, 
which are good for nothing except to 
making a man stupid and preoccupied. 
For the sake of peace the husband 
throws down his book, loses the habit 
of reading, suffers gradual annihila- 
tion by a conjugal process, and, hav- 
ing failed to raise his companion to 
his own level, sinks to hers. 

Here we have a deplorable vicious 
circle. So long as women know 
nothing, they will prefer unoccupied 
men ; and so long as men remain idle, 
they will prefer ignorant and frivolous 
women. Men in office are no less 
persecuted than others. Many wo- 
men torment a magistrate, a lawyer, 
a notary, making them fail in exacti- 
tude and in application to business, 
instead of encouraging a strict and 
complete fulfilment of duty. They 
confiider punctuality a bore and assi- 
duity insufferable. VVJien they suc- 
ceed in accomplishing the neglect of 
an appointment or of some important 
occupation, one would think they had 
achieved a \'ictory. The case is worse 
still for certain careers generally 
adopted by rich men or by those 
whose families were fonnerly weal- 
thy, such as the anny and 03^7. 



An officer must remain unmarried* 
or marry a girl without fortune 
Otherwise, in discussing the mar* 
riage, the first tiling demanded Is- 
a resignation. Everj' young lady of 
indep>endent fortune wishes her hus- 
band to do nothing. In view of this 
ignorant prejudice, this conjugal oslnt- 
cism, even sensible mothers hesitate 
about recommending their sons to 
adopt careers which will make marri* 
age possible to them only at the ex- 
pense of a noble fortune ; or else they 
say in words too often heard : " My 
son will serve for a few years, and 
then resign, A married man caimt^- 
pursue a career." 

And young men are asked to wofk 
with this perspective before them 1 
How can one love a position which 
is to be abandoned on such or such 
a day in accordance with a caprice? 
What zeal, what emulation, what 
ambition can a man have who is 
to leave the service at twent)'-fivc or 
twenty-eight years of age, when he is 
perhaps captain of artillery or lieute- 
nant of a ship, that is to say, when he 
has worked his way through the difSr 
culties that beset every career at its 
outset? 

I have known mothers fairly re- 
duced to despair at seeing a son, just 
on the point of attaining an elevat- 
ed position, forced to renounce the 
thought merely in accordance with the 
exigente of a young girl and the blind- 
ness of her mother, who ought to fore- 
see and dread the inevitable regrets 
and inconveniences of idleness suc- 
ceeding to the charm of an occupied 
life, of the monotony of a t^e-^-ttte 
coming after the excitements of Sol- 
ferino, or the perpetual qui vive of our 
Algerian garrisons, or the adventu- 
rous and almost constantly heroic life 
of the navy. 

It is the duty of an intelligent 
Christian wife or mother to point 
out the dangers of idleness and stul* 




Learned Women and Studious Wimten. 



4i 



^ 7 the sodal and intellectual 
resulting from standing aloof 
fcry office and ail occupation j 
litical and religious necessity 
lipping responsible places, dis- 
hing one's self in them, and 
5 them permanently in order 

t; one's influence in favor 
and religion. This is a 
r which will never be un- 
^ until mothers teach it with 
echrsm to their little children. 
I the commentary which every 
' and every catechist must give, 
aioing the important chapter 
Ih, one of the seven deadly 
And the same ideas must be 
ited in instructing their daugh- 
itil they are twenty years old ; 
>em to be reasonable and 
ring them the evil con- 
Fof idleness in a young bus- 
difficulty of amusing him 
r long, of pleasing without 
Ig him, of averting ennui, 
pr, and monotony. And let 
Idler never fail to add the 
b often proved that it is im- 
^ to induce a son to work 
laving dissuaded his fatlier 
Orking. Of course, there are 
. of pain in an occupied life. 
to see a husband embark 
ee years, going perhaps 
>1 or to Kabylia. But it 
11 to see a husband bored 
h, and thinking his wife tedi- 
\ home unbearable, his affairs 
\j ; and this is not uncommon. 
hcArd wives who had consent- 
necessary separations say that 
I had its compensations ; that 
Hoi: r duty fulfilled was 

Wbi it>!e satisfaction ; 

[agony WAS followed by a joy 
(iterated the memory of suiter- 
It as the time of return drew 
»• raiment or the ship ap- 
kght, they experienced a 
unknown to other women. 




It must be so; God leaves nothing 
unrewarded ; every sacrifice has its 
compensation, every wound its balm. 
I am told that lite most admirable 
households are to be found in our 
seaport towns, our great manufac- 
turing centres, and even in our large 
garrison towns in spite of the bus- 
tle, agitation, and dissipation reigning 
there. I can easily believe this — 
every one is busy in such places. A 
husband who has spent tl>e day in 
barrack or factory (still more, one 
who has been at sea a long time) 
thirsts for home, longs to be again by 
his own hearth, enjoying domestic life. 
The wife on her side, separated for 
several hours from her husband, re- 
ser%*es for » him her most cheerful 
mood and her pleasantest smile. 
She saves him from the thousand 
annoyances of the day, the hous 
hold perplexities, the little embai 
rassments of life, the children's 
romping. The little ones run to 
meet their father, and recreate him 
after his work with caresses and- 
prattle. This is the way in whict 
men enjoy children ; as a necessity! 
of every day and all day, they dreac 
them. 

But without rising so high, I ash 
simply what can be more agreeable,^ 
even for a husband who spends his* 
life in hunting or anywhere else out 
of his own house, than to find on 
coming home his wife cheerful and 
good-tempered, because after gettin| 
him a good dinner she has amusec 
herself with painting a pretty picture, 
or studjang with genuine interest 
little natural history, or trying som< 
exp)eriment in domestic chemistry, o« 
even solving a problem in giomftriei 
agrkoU, instead of finding her lan- 
guid and melancholy, n. femme income 
prise, with some novel or another U 
her hand. 

If 1 persist in preaching industry 
to men and women, il is (or ver^ ut- 





Learned Women and Studious Women. 




gent reasons, not only domestic and 
potittrxl. but social. Who does not 
sec that we verge on socialism at 
present ? The masses will not work, 
they detest labor. Salaries haxne been 
nuscd again and again \ for many 
trades they go beyond necessity, and 
so the workman, instead of giving sue 
daj-s in the week to his trade, gives 
bat four, three, or even two days. It 
is for the higher classes who are su|> 
posed to understand their duties and 
to feci the import of their responsibi- 
lities, it is for them to reinstate labor 
in popular estimation. In this as in 
all other things, example must come 
from above ; for here, as in religion 
and morals, the higher classes owe to 
society and to their countr|r some ex- 
piation. The eighteenth centurv*, with 
its corruptions, its scandals, and its ir- 
religion, hangs upon us with the weight 
of a Satanic heritage. Like original 
sin, these errors have been washed 
in blood ; it is the history of all great 
errors. It remains for us to expiate 
the idleness, the inaction, inutility, an- 
nihilation to which we have hitherto 
surrendered ourselves, setting a fatal 
example to those around us. 

Our generation must be steeped in 
labor. There and only there is to be 
found our safety, and mothers. must 
be convinced of this truth. The mo- 
ther is the centre of home, ever)thing 
radiates from her — on one condition, 
that she is a mother worthy of the 
name and mission — and such mo- 
thers are rare. 

We know what is in general the 
education of women. Add to it the 
indulgence and weakness of parents, 
the species of idolatry they have for 
their dauglilers, the premature plea- 
sures lavished upon young girls, the 
pains taken to praise them, to adorn 
them from their earliest infancy, and 
after\vard to show them off and 
m.ake them shine in a sort of matri- 
monial exhibition. How can wc hope 



to find earnest mothers of fit 
among those whose youth has 
spent in balls, /cUs, and ro« 
visits ? Alas I it is not po^ 
Reasonable ideas rarr' - r 
them until age or n 
withdrawn tlieir surest tuc-ai;&| 
fluence. 

And the greatest sufferers frof 
calamity are society and religi< 
cannot be otherwise. A little) 
ing, a little more music, enoughi 
mar and orthograj)hy to pass m 
sufficient history and geograp 
know Gibraltar from tlie Uii^ 
and to recognize Cyrus as KJ 
Persia, but not enough to a 
noble memories outraged or \ 
tify erroneous estimates ; of fi| 
languages a slight smattering, e( 
to enable one to read Engli&l 
German novels, but not to app* 
the glorious pages of Shakes] 
Milton, or Klopstock ; no litei 
nothing of our great authors, v 
a few fables of La Fontaine ani 
haps a chorus out of Usther lo 
in childhood ; of religious know 
a sufficiency to allow of being | 
ted to first communion, not e« 
to answer the most vulgar objec 
the most notorious calumnies 
enough to understand one's po 
and duties, to impose silence o 
detractors of religion, or the a 
saries of reason and Christiat 
dence, to refute the grossest s< 
tr)% to lead back to faith and 
practices a young husband oi 
haps an aged father ; with sue 
education what influence can a) 
woman exercise ? 

If the poor young creature i 
sufficiently prepared by educ 
never reads, or reads only roma 
where will she Hnd arms to dt 
her against error and blasphemy 
spite of sincere pietj% she must 
less and timid soldier that st 
desert the holy cause of 



I 






»r of compromisiiig it by 
t defence. And yet it b 
use, and one that belongs 
to ker, for it is the cause 
ak and defenceless, and 
a its service a sincere con- 
devont heart, and a little 
Bit die knowledge is 
Because she has acquired 
labit of reflection nor of 
good bo(^ necessary in- 
she must be silent, and, 
and his faidi are outraged 
lence with impunity, drop 
xm her worsted wMk and 

— tiiat is right ; and si|^ 
r the poor men iHio read 
led books and intoxicate 
with vile poisons, but also 
; that there is no one to 
syes, to lead diese misled 

into the right path, or, at 
cite a doubt in tiidr per- 
is and warped conscien- 
nother, sister, daughter, 
diligent, enlightened, edu- 
n to fulfil woman's essen- 
No one else can do 

If women are not the 



first apostles of the home circle, no 
one else can penetrate it But diey 
must render themselves thoroughly 
capable of fulfilling their ^>ostle&p. 
Nowadays, when all the world 
reasons or ratlwr cavils, wbiax vrtay- 
diing is discussed and proved, wfaoi 
even light and life must be deauMi- 
strated, it is necessaiy that women 
should participate in die genoral 
movement To speak without re-, 
serve— in (he hct of a masrailine 
generation who graft on to the iow* 
itmrt which eqiecially belong to them 
feminine indifierence, a£EectBtxw, idle- 
neM, Mvoiity, and wrakncws wo- 
men must show themselves seriousi 
thoug^tfiil, firm, and courageous, 
When men copy their defects, it be- 
hooves them to borrow a few manly 
virtues. ** It is time," nobly aayB M . 
Cara^ " that minds possessed of aiqr 
intellectaial claims awoke to fidl Vita^ 
ity. Let every being endowed with 
reason learn to protect himself against 
literary evil-doers and.to repulse their 
attacks upon God, soul, virtoe^ purity, 
and faith." 



IN MEMORIAM. 



When souls like thine rise up and leave 
This Earth's daric prison-place, 
Tis foolishness to grieve : 
Or think thou dost thy life regret, 
And would return if God would let 

Thy feet their steps retrace. 

'TIS he who ends thy banishment. 

And by an angel's hand has sent 

A merciful reprieve; 



44 



The Early Christian Scltools and Scholars, 




THE EARLY CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS AND SCHOLARS 



The history of the schools and 
► ■cholars of the early ages of the 
'church is not only interesting as 
forming an important chapter in the 
history of the church itself, but is full 
of most remarkable facts and valu- 
able suggestions bearing on the as 
• yet apparently unsolved problem of 
education. It is replete with matter 
well worthy the profound attention of 
all who consider the proper training 
of youth one of the gravest and most 
important of public questions ; and 
one which, in this age. of advanced 
enlightenment, still remains the sub- 
ject of many crude and conflicting 
opinions. Not only do we recom- 
mend its perusal to the Catholic 
teacher, who is manfully overcom- 
ing tlie peailiar obstacles present- 
ed in our unsettled communit)', as 
a source of consolation and encou- 
ragement ; but we call it to tlie notice 
of those gentlemen who spend so 
much of their time during summer 
vacations debating on the quantity 
and quality of discipline necessary 
to enforce the time-honored author- 
ity of the teacher, and in endeavor- 
ing to define the exact minimum of 
moral training required to be admi- 
nistered to the secular student to fit 
him for the proper discharge of the 
duties of life. We do this in all sin- 
cerity ; for with this latter class of per- 
sons we are not inclined to find too 
much fault. Many of them are men of 
intelligence and good intentions ; but, 
groping as they are in utter darkness, 
and bringing to their deliberations a 
lamentable ignorance of the essential 
principles of Christian education, it 

* CKfi^uut SckgcttanJ Sikalarj ; or, Sketchei of 
EdDcmlim froin lh« Chrittian Kra to Ihc Council of 
TrcDL Bjr the auihor o( Tki Tkrtt CkamctU^rt, etc. 
T«o««U. Loodoa: LoBsauM^ Gr«wi ft Co. 



is not wonderful that their counsels 
should be divided, and tlieir l.ilxm 
as unprofitable as that of Sisypiiu.'L 
Disguise it as we may, it cannot be 
doubted that the state colleges txA 
schools of our country, after a ixry 
fair trial, have not answered the csr 
pectations of even those who profeat 
themselves their warmest atUniren. 
There is a feeling in the public tniod, 
as yet partially expressed, that thctt 
is something lacking in our method 
of dealing with the ever-constant flood 
of young hearts and minds which i* 
daily looking to us for direction aod 
guidance. It is becoming more and 
more painfully apparent that the racit 
intellect of the children who attenrl 
our public institutions is srimiil.u«l 
into unnatural and unhealthy activi- 
ty, while their moral nati ': 
wholly uncultivated aiid uni. 
Conducted, as such institutions uiv 
necessarily be, by persons unqualifi* 
or unauthorized to administer mor 
instruction, it cannot, of course, 
expected diat the souls for a time 
trusted to their care can be forti( 
by wise counsels and that moral 
cipline which was considered in 
ages and in all nations as the func 
mental basis of all Christian edt 
tion. 

Even in a worldly sense, it ought to 
be a source of our greatest solicitude 
tiiat the generation which is to hold 
the honor and integrity of the nation 
in its keeping should be schooled io 
the principles of jusrice and rectitude 
upon which all true individual and na- 
tional greatness must depend. If, then, 
we have exhausted the wisdom of the 
present, with all its examples before 
our eyes, to no good purpose, let us 
turn reverently to the cxpcrieiux of 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



45 




id sec if we cannot find 
iing tit for meditation in the 
I pag;es of the history of the 
\u\ church, in her struggles 
I ignoraiice and false philoso- 

n the very banning the church 

Ritend against three distinct 
positively or negatively, op- 
er teachings. In the East, 
En known, what was called the 
ci^ I superimposed on 

i all particular gods 
lipping many, and culmi- 
in refined atheism or the 
, of man himself : proud of 
^ts, its arts and literature, 
Ctcd to feel, and perhaps ac- 
feltt a contempt for the simple 
Ims of Christianity, accompa- 
^Btiiey were, by self-denial, 
^^nd lowliness. Over con- 
Europe and many of its is- 
jWave of Roman conquest 
irresistibly and receded 
_ behind it the se- 
gence which sen-- 
to nourish the latent weeds 

Kce and paganism; while 
West existed a people 
uli.ir and, in its way, a 
^er of civilization, untouch- 
lis Inic, by Roman or Greek 
^ism, but completely shut out 
(be light of the gospel, 
hfveivome the scattered and di- 
ed opposition thus presented, 
fcitum false gods and uproot 
bpinions, to bend the stub- 
deck of the barbarian beneath 
k|U>f Christian meekness, and 
^■irhatever was brilliant and 
^Hl in mankind to the serx-ice 
^Hb God, was the ta»k assum- 
^m church through the means 
l^ion. 

|^B|the first three centuries of 
^^biools were established at 
^^P, Jerusalem, Edessa, An- 
Ho other centres of Eastern 



wealth and learning ; of these, 
that at Alexandria, founded by St 
Mark, A.D. 60, was the most cele- 
brated, and had for its teachers and 
scholars some of the most learned 
men of the period. They were ca- 
techetical in Uieir nature, and at first 
were confined to oral instructions on 
the chief articles of the faith and the 
nature of the sacraments ; but in pro- 
cess of time their sphere of usefulness 
was greatly enlarged, and the charac- 
ter of the studies pursued in them as- 
sumed a wider and higher tone, till 
not only dogmatic theology and Chris- 
tian ethics, but human sciences and 
profane literature, were freely taught. 
Thus we read that, toward the close 
of the second century, St. Pantieus, 
a converted Stoic of great erudition, 
and Clement of Alexandria, who is 
said to have "visited all lands and 
studied in all schools in search of 
truth," taught in the school of St. 
Mark, with an eloquence so convinc- 
ing, and a knowledge of Grecian plii- 
losophy so thorough, that multitudes 
of Gentiles flocked to hear them, as- 
tonished to find the doctrines of the 
new faith expounded in the polished 
language of Cicero, and the very logic 
of Aristotle turned against the pan- 
theistic philosophy of Greece. Their 
successor, tlie celebrated Origen, 
whose reputation has outlived all 
the attacks of time, in a letter to 
his friend St. Gregory, gives us some 
idea of the course of instruction pur- 
sued in his time, in this school, in re- 
gard to the study of the human scien- 
ces. " They are to be used," he writes, 
" so that they may contribute to the 
understanding of the Scriptures ; for 
just as philosophers are accustomed 
to say that geometry', music, gram- 
mar, rhetoric, and astronomy, all dis- 
pose us to the study of philosophy, so 
we may say that philosophy, rightly 
studied, disposes us to the study of 
Christianity. We are permiUed, >f{\xen 




46 



The Early Christian Schools and SckoUtrs. 



we go out of Kg)pt, to cany with us 
the riches of the Egyptians wherewith 
to adorn the tabernacle ; only let us 
beware how we reverse the process, 
and leave Israel to go down into 
E^ypt and seek for treasure ; that is 
what Jeroboam did in olden time, 
and what heretics do in our own." 
Here we find expressed, at so early 
a day, the beautiful idea of the church 
respecting education ; that enduring 
pyramid which she would build up, 
whose base is human science, and 
whose apex is the knowledge of God. 
The episcopal seminaries, intended 
exclusively for the training of eccle- 
siastics, were coeval with, if not ante- 
rior to, the catechetical schools, for 
we find the germ of the system in the 
very earliest apostolic times. They 
originally formed but part of the 
bishops' households ; and the students 
were taught by him personally, or by 
his deputy. When the community 
life became more general and the 
number of ecclesiastical pupils in- 
creased, the seminaries assumed 
more extensive proportions, the 
school being held in the church at- 
tached to the bishop's house, but the 
scholars still living under his roof. 
Great care was always manifested by 
the early fathers of the church in the 
moral and intellectual training of 
ecclesiastical students. Thus, Pope 
St Siricius. in his decretal, a.d. 
385, to ilie nishop of Tarragona, lays 
down the following rules to be ob- 
served in preparing candidates for 
the priesthood. He orders that they 
shall be selected principally from 
those who have been devoted to 
the service of the church from child- 
hood. At tliirty years of age they 
are to be advanced through inferior 
orders to sub<liaconate and diaco- 
nate, and after five years thus spent 
they may be ordained priests. In 
several pronncial councils held in 
lh« early centuries wc find the great- 



est stress laid on the importMioe if 
the careful culture of seminariaAS, and 
the second council of Toledo, a.i>. 
53t, fixes the ordination of subdca- 
cons at twenty, and of deacons at 
twenty-five years of age. As to Ihr 
course of studies pursued, besides 
the reading of the Scriptures, Ibe 
Psalter, and a knowledge of tht 
duties of the holy offices, Lsiin, 
Greek, and generally Hebrew were 
taught, together with I he liberal 
sciences, and sometimes even la« 
and medicine. 

Thus did the church gradually bvt 
firmly lay the foundation of her vp- 
tern. First, by giving to the adult 
neophyte such instruction as befitted 
his age and condition, to enable hint 
to become a worthy member of ber 
fold ; and next, by providing, under 
the direct inspection of each bishop, 
a school where children, disciplineid 
in his household, taught from his 
mouth and by his example lessons of 
piety, humility and self-control, and 
armed with all the resources of sa- 
cred and profane learning, were at 
mature years sent forth to convert a 
gentile world, and in turn become 
teachers of men. 

While the catechetical schools 
were flourishing in the East and the 
episcopal seminaries assumir\g form 
in Spain and Gaul, the bloody per- 
secutions which prevailed interroit- 
tingly at Rome retarded for a long 
time education in that city. Many 
of her first citizens, it is true, regard- 
less alike of family considerations 
and imperial edicts, were to be daily 
found by the side of her humblest 
bondmen, listening, through the gloom 
of the catacombs, to the teachings of 
the gospel ; and to this day thcix 
places can be pointed out beside the 
rough hewn seat of their teachers. 
The Roman pontifis also labored in 
llieir own dwellings to educate ihdr 
young priests, many of whom, like 



h^ 



Tke Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



47 




passed only from 
t*to testify their devotion to 
h by a glorious martyrdom, 
lie Emperor Constantine was 
the palace of the Latcrni 
residence of the pof)es, 
l)lished the Patri- 
irj', which for sev- 
jes gave so many distin- 
ipants to the chair of 
The schools of the empire 
lo thrown open to the Chris- 
lu> largely availed themselves 

Pperior advantages to be- 
amed with the old authors. 
x)fcssors of the imperial 
were but semi-christian- 
thoagh conforming out- 
^the new order of things, 
not a little of their old 
cuHtoms. Hence, we find 
opinions entertained by 
rar)' authorities as to the 
y^ of Christians studying in 
In most cases, however, 
^ danger of contamination 
^plmincnt, or where, as in 
^P Victorinus, the academi- 
^b bona-fiili Christians, the 
H|B permitted, so eager were 
|R to encour-ige learning. 
Uianwas of opinion that, while 
B^ could not lawfully teach 
^Piools with pagans, they 
S listeners, without, however, 
lart in idolatrous ceremonies. 
1, who studied for a time in 
jl^who was ji devoted lover 
^kl teaming, entertained 
e same views, comparing the 
to a bee who sucks honey 
the poisoned flower. St. 
who cannot be accused 
ithy to education in all 
egant branches, but who 
own person experienced 
which beset the young 
in the academics, after 

En, and with evident 



lie schools as then conducted. His 
words have a significant sound, evei>| 
in these days. He writes: " If yoi| 
have masters among you who canj 
answer for tlie virtue of your child* 
ren, I should be very far from advo» ' 
eating your sending them to a mon-| 
astery. On the contrary, I should I 
strongly insist on them remaining 
where they are. But, if no one can 
give such a guarantee, we ought no| 
to send our children to schools wher© 
they will learn vice before they learn 
science, and where, in acquiring 
learning of relatively small value, 
they will lose what is far more pre- 
cious, their integrity of soul. . . . 
* Are we, then, to give up literature ?* 
you will exclaim. I do not say that ; 
but I do say that we must not kill 
souls. . . . When the founda- 
tions of a building are sapped, we 
should seek rather fbr architects to 
reconstruct the whole edifice, than 
for artists to adorn the walls. In 
fact, the choice lies between t<vo al- 
ternatives — a liberal education, which 
you may get by sending your children 
to the public schools, or the salvation 
of their souls, which you secure by 
sending them to the monks. Which- 
is to gain the day, science or tlie 
soul ? If you can unite both advan- 
tiiges, do so, by all means ; but, if 
not, choose the most precious." 

The character of the .academies 
must have soon changed for the bet- 
ter J for, when Julian some time after 
closed them to the Christians, osten- 
sibly with a view to the purity of mo- 
rals, but actually to deprive Christian 
students of the benefit of any edu- 
cation, SL Gregory, who quickly saw 
through the Apostate's designs, pro- 
tested in the strongest terms against 
the injustice. " For my part," he 
says, " I trust that every one who , 
cares for learning will t.ake part in 
my indignation. I leave to others 
fortune, birth, and every other fauckd 



48 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 




good which can flatter the imagina- 
tion of man. I value only science 
and letters, and regret no labor tlaat 
I have spent in their acquisition. I 
have preferred, and ever shall prefer, 
learning to all earthly riches, and hold 
nothing dearer on earth neirt to the 
joys of heaven and the hopes of eter- 
nity'." The decree was afterward 
revoked by the Emperor Valentinian 
at the request of St. Ambrose, and 
the academies gradually fell into de- 
cay ; and, growing dim in the light 
of the new Christian foundations of 
other countries, finally ceased to be 
objects of discussion. 

Perhaps the greatest good that re- 
sulted from the evils complained of 
by St. Chr}'sostom was the establish- 
ment of the Benedictine order ; an 
ilganization destined to exercise for 
nluries a controlling influence over 
the educational system of Christen- 
dom. In the year a.d. 522, a poor 
solitary named Benedict, while en- 
gaged at his devotions in the grotto 
of Subiaco, was visited by two Ro- 
man senators, who desired him to take 
charge of the education of their sons, 
Maurus and Placidus. He consented, 
and other children of the same rank, 
whose parents feared the contagion 
of the imperial schools, were soon 
after placed in his care. For their 
goveniment he established a rule, 
and from this apparently slight foun- 
dation sprang the numberless monas- 
teries which were the custodians and 
dispensaries of learning in the middle 
ages. In 543, St. Maurus carrietl the 
Benedictine rule into Gaul, where 
under his charge and that of his suc- 
cessors monasteries multiplied with 
great rapidity. We have seen that 
at first this illustrious order was de- 
signed only for the education of the 
children of the rich, who were to be 
instructed " non solum in Scripturis 
difitias, scd etiam in secularibus litU- 
ris;" but so great did its reputation 



become that, in a short time, «j 
the doors of its schools thrown 
to all classes. ( 

It was not, however, in the pd 
circles of the cities of Greece aj 
colonies, nor even in the fiituil 
tre of Christendom, that the <] 
was destined to achieve her moi 
stantial triumphs. The civflit 
of the East, long in a state of 4 
waned with the decline of the Ei 
and its opulent cities and elal 
literature became part of the 1 
of tlie colossal ruins of that 
stupendous power. The soil in* 
the seeds of education had beeoj 
ed by St. Mark and St. Basil, C 
and Cassian, was already exhai 
and incapable of producing thoa 
dy plants and gigantic trees \ 
defy time and corruption. We 
therefore, look to \Nei>tem Eurd 
the profxr field wherein were 1 
sown the germs of a more^ 
growdi. 

The monastic system, moi? 
defined, was introduced into 
long before the advent of St 
rus, and the education, not on 
monks, was attended to with 
but of the laity also. From the, 
est times we find traces of the 
rior schools attached to the m 
teries for the training of childra 
intended for a clerical life. The 
of Saints Pachominus and Basils 
generally followed, were careful ti 
vide that cliildren should be tau( 
read and write, and instnicM 
psalmody and such portions 
Holy Scriptures as were suit* 
their comprehension. They w« 
live in the monastery and be aU 
to sit at table with the monks 
were strictly ciulioned not to ( 
say anyllting that could disedify 
young minds. With a tend« 
truly paternal, the young scl 
were allowed a separate part o 
building for themselves, and plet 



verc I 




The Early Christian Schools attd Scholars. 



49 



r amusement. On the subject 
■shment, we recommend the 
^Bdvice of St. Basil to mod- 
^B&, believing that juvenile 
^BJre is much the same now 
^Kzteen or seventeen centu- 
" Let every fault have its 
ly," says this experienced 
that, while the offence is 
the soul may be exercised 
its passions. For exam- 
. child been angry with his 
Oblige him to beg par- 
|t>ther and to do him somo 
; for it is by accustom- 
to humility that you will 
anger, which is always the 
of pride. Has he eaten out 
Let him remain fasting 
part of the day. Has he 
excess and in an unbecom- 
: ? At the hour of repast, 
lout eating himself, watch 
their food in a modest 
)d so he will be learning 
ivc at the .same time that 
punished by his absti- 
And if he has offended by 
is, by rudeness, or by telling 
him be corrected by diet and 

Gallicati bishops showed 
fsitt to encourage leanv 
lljcir clergy as did those 
and were never tired of en- 
the necessity of the attentive 
the Scriptures and the culti- 
sttcrs, even in religious 
ipied by women. The re- 
mIous spirit lA to be found 
iblishmcnt of the schools 
; and Lyons, Grinni and Vien- 
ty of Marmonlier and the 
► one of Lerins. which pro- 
mds of I lies, and 

as A; of Ly- 

Uic author of The 
iflu/, and the poets, 
aod Avitus. The 
julouse," of disputa- 



tious memory, is claimed to have had a 
very ancient origin, but was probablyj 
not in existence until the sixth century* 

But the first period of literary cult 
ture on the continent of Europe was { 
fast drawing to a close. At the en4l 
of the fifth century heresy and schisoi 
raged in Africa, Istria, and Spain ; thfi 
converted Ostrogoths of Northern 
Italy were subdued by the semi-pagaft^ \ 
ized Lombards ; the Roman empire 
existed but in name; and civil wac 
broke out in Gaul, desolating heij 
fields and laying in ruins her churches | 
and schools. Darkness succeeded 
light, and anarchy and barbarism pre- i 
vailed on both sides of the Alps. But i 
the cause of Christian learning waa 
not lost. Driven from tlie mainland,, j 
tlic Christian scholars had already j 
taken refuge in the adjacent islands, 
where they rekindled tlieir torches, 
and kept them burning with an efful» 
gence unknown in the palaces of 
kings or the schools of the empire,- 
The providence of God, which permit*, 
ted the ravages of war and heresy 
to prevail for a time in Gaul, Spain| 
and Italy, ordained that a newer an4.| 
more secure asylum should be proj^ 
vided for the handmaid of the faith, 
whence were to issue, when the storn* 
passed over, of hosts of zealous and 
learned men to reconquer for the 
church her desolated and darkened 
dominions. , 

Ireland and England were destined 
to be this asylum, and, even humanljj^ 
speaking, no choice could have beeix ' 
more propitious. The qualities which 
distinguished the people of theso^ 
islands, and which characterize themi 
even at this day, admirably adapted- 
them for missionary life. The Anglo* 
Saxon genius, mollified by contact' 
with the more imaginative mind of the 
Briton, developed a strong, unconquerT 
able will, great tenacity of purpose,' 
vast powers of cooperation, and a| 
capacity for solid attainments ; while 




The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



the Celts of the sister island, who had 
never known a conqueror, exhibited 
the indomitable zeal of a free-bom 
people luiited to an insatiable love of 
learning and fine arts, and a subtitity 
of mind which easily grasped the most 
beautiful and abstruse dogmas of 
Christian philosophy. 

The earliest monastic schools of 
England were destroyed by the Saxon 
invaders about the middle of the fifth 
century, and what remained of their 
teachers were driven with the remnant 
of the Britons into the mountains of 
Wales. Yet even before the invasion 
many of her youth found their way to 
the continent, and there obtaining an 
education, returned to their native 
country to teach their compatriots. 
Thus St. Ninian, who had studied at 
Rome under Pope St. Siricius and had 
visited Tours,established his episcopal 
seminary and a school for the neigh- 
boring children at Witheme, in Gal- 
loway, about the beginning of that 
century. He was, saj's his biographer, 
St. Aclrcd, " assiduous in reading." 
St Germanus of Auxerre and St. Lu- 
pus of Troyes followed in 429, and 
established at Caerleon, the capital of 
the Britons, seminaries and schools, in 
which they lectured on the Scriptures 
and the liberal arts. Stimulated by 
their example,mon.astic schools sprang 
rapidly into existence, the most suc- 
cessful of which were those at Hent- 
land ; Laudwit, among whose first 
scholars was the historian Gildas ; Ban- 
gor on the Dee, in which, according 
to Bcde, there were over two thousand 
students ; Whiiland, where St. David 
studied ; and Llancarvan, founded by 
St. Cadoc. This latter saint was 
educated by an Irish recluse named 
Fathai, who was induced to leave his 
hermitage in the mountains to take 
charge of the school of Gwent, in 
Monmouthshire. 

We must not be surprised to find 
an Irish teacher at that early period 




in Wales ; for already the -w 
exodus of I rish missionaries 
ers had commenced. The 
years' missionary labors of St. 
and his disciples had literal 
verted the entire people of I| 
and, following the lessons taug 
at Tours, Rome, and Lerins^ tbi 
studded the island with sem 
and monastic schools. His a 
Armagh, founded a,d. 455, d« 
formed the model upon which t 
ers were built, "Within a o 
after the death of St. Patrick,' 
Bishop Nicholson, "the Irish s| 
ries had so increased that mos( 
of Europe sent their cbildreni 
educated there, and drew ihenc^ 
bishops and teachers." So nuni 
indeed, were the schools of 1 
founded by the successors of 9 
rick that it is impossible even I 
merate their names in the timita 
article. The most celebrated 
those of Annagh, which at oiw 
furnished education to seven tha 
pupils ; I.ismore ; Cashel ; Aran 
Holy;" Clonard, the alma ma 
Columba the Great ; Connia< 
Benchor, of which St. Bernard 9 
in such terms of admiration ; and 
fert, founded by St. Brendan th< 
igator. When we remember tli 
turbed condition of the continea 
ing the sixth and seventh centurU 
the almost profound peace whic 
vailed in Ireland during that tin 
cCvise to be astonished at the ; 
of foreigners which thron 
schools. St. ./Engus menti 
names of Gauls, Romans, Ge 
and even Egyptians who visi 
shore ; and Sl Aldhelm of Woi 
ster, in the seventh century, t 
petulantly complains of his ( 
tiymen neglecting their own sa 
for those of Ireland. "NowaJ 
he remarks, " the renown of the I 
is so great that one sees thetnj 
going or returning ; and crowdsi 



J 




The Early Christutn Schools and Scholars. 



51 



Ir island to gather up, not 
liberal arts and physical 
Js, but also the four senses of 
Scripture and the allegorical 
^pological interpretation of its 
[oracles." 

p the course of study pursued 
Irish monastic schools, there 
to believe that not only 
Jog>'i grammar, that is, lan- 
and the physical sciences 
>ut poetr)' and music also re- 
attention. The bard- 
were the first to embrace 
id their love for those 
arts was proverbial. 
Hebrew were studied, but 
language of Homer and 
» to have been most in 
on account of its re- 
semblance, in euphony 
to the vernacular Gaelic. 
itics and astronomy ranked 
["list of the sciences, and 
far as then known, 
;en familiar to St Bren- 
ad venturous compa- 

have said, the mission- 
>f the Irish had already 
Obedient to a law be- 
control, the pent-up zeal 
jple liad burst its bounda- 
ox'erflowed Europe. Of the 
aaco destined to roll back 
janism, the first in point 
IS, if not in time, was St. 
the founder of the schools 
A-D. 563. Amid all the 
ionarirs, this saint stands 
' -lief. Of proud 
>s spirit, passion- 
of books, yet sharing will- 
monks the toils of the 
icy wc can almost see 
ire figure stalking amid 
and unheeded perils 
rous Hebrides and the 
of North Britain, with his 
book, overawing hostile 



chiefs and princes by his very pre- 
sence, and winning the hearts of the 
humble shepherds by his sweet voice 
and gentle demeanor. " He suf- 
fered no space of time," says Adam- 
nan, "no, not an hour to pass, in 
which he was not employed cither in 
prayer, or in reading or writing, or 
manual work.'* 

Leaving Ireland forging the wea- 
pons of spiritual and intellectual com- 
bat, and the Albanian Scots to the 
care of Columba and his monks, we 
turn again to England, which, with 
the exception of Wales, was up to the 
end of the sixth century sunk in the' 
grossest paganism. In the year 596, ' 
when, to use the words of Pope Gre- 
gory, " all Europe was in the hands of'-' 
the barbarians," that pontiff con- 
ceived the idea of converting the 
Saxons of England. He accordingly' 
despatched St. Augustine and some 
monks from Monte Cassino, lately 
reduced to ruins. St Augustine 
brought with him a Bible, a psalter, 
the gospels, an apocr)'phal lives of 
the apostles, a martyrology, and the 
exposition of certain epistles and 
gospels, besides sacred vessels, vest- 
ments, church ornaments, and holy 
relics. He forthwith established a 
seminary and school at Canterbury, 
which afterward attained great ce- 
lebrity. But the schools of Lindis- 
fame, founded by St Aiden, a.d. 
635, eclipsed all lesser luminaries. 
Aiden was a worthy descendant of 
Columba, and brought to his task all 
the learning and discipline of lona- 
" All who bore company with Aiden," 
says the Venerable Bede, " whether 
monks or laymen, were employed 
either in studying the Scriptures or 
in singing psalms. This was his own 
daily employment wherever he went." 
In the south of England, Maidulf, 
also an Irish missionary, founded the 
schools of Malmsbury ; Wilfred, a 
student of Lindisfame, the abbey and 




5a 



The Early Christian Scltools and Sckotan. 



school of Ripoii, introducing tlie Ben- 
edictine rule into England ; while 
Archbishop Theodore, a native of 
'Tarsis, and Adrian, described as a 
" fountain of letters and a river of arts,"' 
gave a wonderful impetus to the study 
of letters in Canterbur}-. These lat- 
ter added to St. Augustine's library 
the works of St. Chr)'sostom, the his- 
tory of Josephus, and a copy of Ho- 
mer. The studies pursued at Can- 
terbury consisted of theology, Latin 
and Greek, geometry, arithmetic, mu- 
sic, mechanics, astronomy, and astro- 
logj'. The most illustrious pupil of 
the early schools of Canterbury were 
St. Aldhelm, who was thoroughly 
familiar with the classical authors, 
himself a writer of no mean order, 
and who afterward became teacher 
at Malmsbury ; St. Bennet Biscop, 

.^ho founilutl schools at MonkWear- 
louth. Yarrow, and various other 
places, endowing them with valuable 
books which he had collected on the 
continent. He first introduced the 
i«e of glass in England. 

In the school at Yarrow, Bede com- 
inced his studies. This eJttraor- 
linar\' man, besides attending to his 
duties as a missionary' and teacher, 
found time to compose forty-live 
books on the most diverse subjects, 
including commentaries on the Holy 
Scriptures, works on grammar, as- 
tronomy, the logic of Aristotle, mu- 
sic, geography, arithmetic, orthogra- 
phy, versification, the computum or 
method of calculating Easter, and 
natural philosophy, besides his Ec- 
•iii'tastkal History and Lives of the 

^Saints. He was well versed in the 
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, 
and, for his success in reducing the 
barbarous Anglo-Saxon tongue to 
something like grammatical rules, he 
has been justly styled the father of 
the English lai^guage. For the im- 
mense know ledge which he displayed 
in his various writings, he ^v:ls iti 




debted, doubtless, to the 
braries collected by St. Bcnnc 
like a true son of Ion 
a book whenever or w 
portunity was afforded. At the 
ningof the eighth ccntur^',the( 
of York attained general nototd 
der the management of Kgb«| 
taught the seven liberal sd 
chronolog)', natural history, 
matics,and jurispnidence, H 
cuin, the adviser and friend ol 
lemagne, received liis first lesjl 

Nor are we to suppose tl; 
great schools above mentioned 
pied the entire attention of th 
archy of England. On the ca 
every bishop had his own seni 
and everv' monastery, of whici 
were hundreds in the seveof 
eighth centuries, had its intti 
claustral, and its exterior schi( 
the education of the childreri 
neighborhood. In Er. 
where, wherever am . r 
built, no matter how remote ] 
tuation or how barren the sd| 
pie flocked round it not only t 
the gospel preached, but to lea 
mechanical arts and the laws fl 
culture. Besides this, parish [ 
or, as they were called in the j 
Saxon, " mass priests," were a 
to open and sustain parochit 
schools for the children of thi 
santr)' and serfs. 

It is acknowledged by all n 
no matter how sceptical they n 
on other points, that the churt 
the first to raise woman to h< 
place in society*. In pagan 
woman was treated much the 
as she now is in Mohammedan 
tries, and only the very vilest i 
sex enjoyed any freedom of ^ 
or action ; but Christianity n<} 
threw its scgis aroand her, bu 
vided for her education with i 
only second, if indeed not fully 
to tiiat bestowed on ecclesiastic 





Tfu Early Ckrisiian Schools and Scliolars, 



ic correspondence between 
cc and his relative Lioba, 
nuns of England at that time 
tood and could write the Latin 
and were well versed in the 
res and the writings of the 
Nunneries were, in fact, in 
ages almost as numerous 
teries, and in their sphere 
J agents in the advance- 
of religion and education. 
' the close of the eighth century 
Ind had reached the zenith of 
^st period of literar\' glor)'. Not 
Hrerc ■ iple thoroughly in- 

led .. , to their degree and 

but tlie island abounded in saints 
scholars, many of whom, like 
\ of Ireland, went forth, from 
'to tiine, to repay to benighted 
[>e a portion of the debt con- 
d two centuries earlier. 
••were an interesting study, if 
\ permitted, to trace the diver- 
ts iths nursued by Irish and Eng- 
V n the continent, in what 

|bc- caii'.J their initial campaigns 
lit ijrnorance. We find the Irish 
3 'erland, Italy, 

t' the Anglo- 
"s, witij a like affinity for race 
abtts, preferred the northern 
f Europe, the cradle of their 
St. Columbanus, whose 
fo that of St. Itenedict, was 
F 'v adopted in the 

-teries, founded the 
lis Of Lu-xcuil in Burgimdy and 
k) in lualy ; St. Gall, one of 
anions, laid the foundation of 
schools of that name in 
d ; St. Crifhal of Lismore 
'of Tarentum, 
'1 _ilan were bish- 
in Tuscany and Lucca. 
L .,..., ;.»;d, or, as he was after- 
Icatled. Boniface, the first great 
t-' A' to the continent, 

cesses in the north 
7S3, sutil, bein^ desirous of 




training up a native priesthood to 
perpetuate his works, invited several 
of his countrymen to Germany to lake 
charge of the seminaries of the dif^ 
ferent bishoprics he had founded. 
Among those who accepted the invi- 
tation were his two nephews, one of 
whom, VV'illibald, established a college 
at Ordorp. The seminary of Utrecht 
owes its origin to one of his earliest 
pupils, Luidgcr, a direct descendant 
of Dagobert II., who also built seve- 
ral seminaries and monastic schools 
in Saxony. Anotlier of Sl Boniface's 
students. Strum, laid the foundation 
of the celebrated abbey and school 
of I'ulda in 744 ; and, to complete the 
work of regeneration, thirty nuns were 
brought over from England, who es- 
tablished religious houses innumera- 
ble, and introduced among the rude 
Germans the learning ajul refinement 
which marked the nunneries of their 
native land. St. Boniface, having 
been appointed papal legate and vicar 
with jurisdiction over the bishops of 
Gaul and Germany, applied several 
years of his life to the reformation of 
abuses and the establishment of strict 
rules of life among the clerg)' of both 
countries. To this end we are told 
that in every place where he pla ued 
a monastery he added a school, not 
only for the benefit of young monks, 
"but in order tliat the rude popula- 
tion by whom they were surrounded 
might be trained in holy discipline, 
and that their uncivilized manners 
might be softened by the influence of 
humane learning." His grand work 
having been accomplished, he resign- 
ed his delegated powers, resumed his 
missionary life, and, with nothing but 
his " books and shroud," proceeded 
to Friesland, the scene of his first 
labors, where he suffered martjTdom 
•" 755- This .saint was a devoted 
friend to education, and that portion 
of the decrees of the council of 
C/oveshoc, held in 747, ii\ wVuc\\ Oat 



S4 



The Early Christian Schools and Schotarz, 



subject of learning is treated, is as- 
cribed to his pen. The council or- 
dered that " bishops, abbots, and ab- 
''besses do by all means diligently 
provide that all their people inces- 
santly apply Iheir minds to reading ; 
that boys be brought up in the eccle- 
siastical schools, so as to be useful to 
the church of God ; and that tlieir 
masters do not employ them in bodily 
labor on Sundays." 

Wliile Germany was being reclaim- 
' ed from its primitive barbarism, Gaul, 
which had given so many mission- 
aries to the Western Islands, was not 
neglected. For more than two hun- 
jdred years ihis country, once so fer- 
ile in pious men and learned insti- 
tutions, was the theatre of the most 
rightful disorders, consequent on do- 
lestic wars and foreign invasions, 
'here were but few monasteries sur- 
Iviving, but even these were true to 
le design of their founders, and in 
lem learning, to use the eloquent 
remark of the Protestant historian, 
Guizot, "proscribed and beaten down 
by the tempest that raged around, 
took refuge under the shelter of the 
altar, till happier times should suffer 
It to appear in the world." But a 
memorable epoch had arrived in the 
history of France. In 771 Charle- 
magne became monarch of all the 
Franks, and by his extraordinary 
military successes and political wis- 
dom soon made himself master of 
tile entire continent north of the 
Pyrenees. But great as were his 
conquests in the field, his victories 
in the cause of letters in France were 
more splendid and far more durable. 
Under his long and brilliant sway die 
evils of previous centuries were swept 
away ; churches were restored, mo- 
nasteries rebuilt, seminaries and 
schools every>\here opened. Like 
all great practical men, the Prank- 
ish monarch knew admirably well 
how to choose his assistants when 



TUOOt, 

bett^ 



grand ends were to be reached, 
in this instance he selected AIcibb 
of York as his agent in restoring 
to his dominions religious hanoon/ 
and Christian education. The ~ 
showed the wisdom of his choice, 
to no man of tliat day could so 
culean a task be assigned with bei 
hope of its execution. Trained in 
the schools of York, then among the 
best in England, he united to a solid 
judgment profound learning and 
energy of mind as untiring as 
even of his royal patron. The P 
tine school, though in existence 
vious to the reign of CharleroaL 
was placed under the charge of f& 
cuin, and the emperor and variou* 
members of his family became 
first and most attentive pupils, 
consisted of t\vo distinct parts ; 01 
composed of the royal family 
the courtiers, followed the emperoi 
person ; the other necessarily siai 
ary, in which were educated )oi 
laj-men as well as those intended VX 
the cloister ; Charlemagne, himself 
ting the example of diligent si 
managed to acquire, amid the 
moil of war and the labors of 
cabinet, a considerable knowledge 
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, the libc 
sciences and astronomy, of llic lat 
of which he seems to have been 
cularly fond. 

The first step taken by Alcuiu 
the correction of the copies of t! 
Holy Scriptures, which had be 
almost unintelligible from tlie ao 
mulatcd errors of former transcri 
This he succeeded in doing about 
year Soo. He next turned his a 
tion to the multiplication and repl 
Lshing of libraries. " A stall of 
fill copyists was gradually formi 
and so soon as any work had be< 
revised by Alcuin and his fellow-li 
borers, it was delivered over to 
hands of the monastic scribes." 

The capitulars of Charlemagne i 



J 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



civil affairs and municipal 
hiin as one of the ablest 
len of any age, and are pecu- 
his own; but those on educa- 
■e so comprehensive, and of so 
ite a nature, that we cannot 
linking them the fmits of AI- 
suggestions, embodying, as they 
an official form the precise 
&o often expressed by him in 
and lectures. By these de- 
cnooastic schools were divided 
iimtr and major schools, and 
schools, which answered to the 
irochlal schools of England. In 
:nor schools, which were to be 
td to all mon.-isteries, were to 
ight the "Catholic faith and 
s, grammar, church music, the 
r, and computum ;" in the ma- 
wols, the sciences and liberal 
tre added ; while in the public 
B> the children of all, free and 
\ were to receive gratis such in- 
DQ as was suitable to their con- 
ami comprehension. Those 
\ who, either from neglect or 
of opportunity, had not ac- 
suificient education to enable 

leach in their own monaste- 
cre allowed to study in others 
rr to become duly qualified for 
ly imposed on them. A more 

!• ■ m of general education 

I .1 be devised nor more 

1 carried out. 

din ended his well-spent life in 
ind Charlemagne ten years la- 
it ihtftr reforms lived after them, 
wre perpetuated in succeeding 
with equal vigor, if not with 
munificence. Theodulph, Bish- 
Oricins, not only established 
s in c\*cry part of his large 
, but compiled class-books 
use of their pupils ; the dio- 
>f Verdim was similarly sup- 
rf '■ /rfus ; Be- 

of 11 the Bene- 

order, and like Leidrat^^^ was 



a zealous teacher and a great collec- 
tor of books ; and Adalhard, the em- 
peror's cousin, became, as it were, the 
second founder of Old Corby. 

During the ninth and tenth centu- 
ries, so fruitful of scholars in ever)' part 
of Europe, the monastic schools may 
be said to have reached their highest 
development. Of those north of the 
Alps we may mention Fulda, Old 
and New Corby, Richneau, and St 
Gall, though there were a great many 
others of nearly equal extent and re- 
putation. 

Fuldd, as we have seen, was found- 
ed by Strum, a pupil of St. Boniface^ 
who adopted the Benedictine rule. 
After its founder, its greatest teacher 
was Rabanus, a pupil of Alcuin, who 
assumed the charge of the school 
about 813. His success in teaching 
was so great that it is said tliat all 
the German nobles sent their sons to 
be educated by hira, and that the ab- 
bots of the surrounding monasteries 
were eager to have his students for 
professors. He taught grammar so 
thoroughly that he is mentioned by 
Trithemius as being the first who in- 
doctrinated the Germans in the pro- 
per articulation of Latin and Greek. 
His course embraced all sacred and 
profiine literature, science, and art ; 
yet he still found time to compose, 
and afterward, when Archbishop of 
Mentz, to publish his treatise De In- 
stitutione Clericorum. Among his 
pupils were Strabo, author of the 
Commeniarits on the Text of Scripture : 
Otfried, called the father of the Tu- 
desque, or German literature ; Lupus,, 
author of Roman History: Heinie, 
author of the Life of St. Germanus ; 
Regimus, of Auxerre ; and Ado, com- 
piler of the Martyrology. While 
those great scholars were teaching 
and writing, it is worth our while tO' 
inquire what the lesser lights of the 
monastery were doing. Here is ihe 
picture : 



56 



The Early Christian Schools and Scho/ars, 



" Every variety of useful occupation wa* 
embraced by the monks ; while some were 
at work hewing down the old lorest which a 
few years before had given shelter to the 
mysteries of pagan worship, or tilling the 
soil on those numerous farms which to this 
day perpetuate the memory of the great ab- 
bey in the names uf the towns and villages 
which have sprung up on their site, other 
kinds of industry were kept up within doors, 
where the vi.sitor might have beheld a huge 
nutgc of workshops, in which cunning hands 
were kept constantly busy on every descrip* 
tion of useful and ornamental work, in wood, 
stone, and metal. It was a scene not of 
artistic diU'tUitttfhm, but of earnest, honest 
labor, and the treasurer of the abbey was 
charged to take care that the sculptons. en- 
gravers, and carvers in wood were always 
furnished with plenty to do, Passing on to 
the interior of the building, the stranger 
Would have been introduced to the scrip- 
torium, over the door of which was an in- 
scription warning copyists to abstain from 
idle word-i, to be diligent in copying books, 
and to take care nut to alter the text by care- 
less mistakes. Twelve monks always sat 
here, employed in the labor of transcribing, 
as was the custom at liirsauge, a colony sent 
out from Fulda in S30, and the huge library 
which was thus gradually formed, survived 
tUl the beginning of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, when it was destroyed in the troubles 
of the Thirty Vcar^' Wat.' Not far from the 
scriptorium was the interior school, where 
studies were carried on with an ardor and 
a largeness of views which might have been 
little ex^>cctcd from an academy of the ninth 
century. Our visitor, w ic tie Irom the 
more civilized south, might well have stood 
in mule surprise in the midst of these fancied 
barbarians, whom he would have found en- 
gaged in pursuits nut unworthy of the schools 
of Rome. The monk Prol)us is perhaps lec- 
turing on Virgil and Cicero, and that with 
•iKh hearty enthusia.sm that his brother pro- 
iessofs accuse him, in gootl-naturcd jesting, 
of tanking them with the saints. Elsewhere 
disputations arc l)cing carried on over the 
Categories of Aristotle, and an attentive car 
will discover that the controversy which 
made such a noise in the twelfth century, 
and divided the philosophers of Europe 
into tlic rival sects of the nominalists and 
realists, is perfectly well understood at 
Fulda, though it does not seem to have dis- 
ttirlxKi the peace of the school. To your 
delight, if you be not altogether wedded to 
the dead languages, you may find some en* 
gaged on the uncouth language of thdr 
Jbthcrland. and. looking over iheii- ihouldm, 




you may smile to "•" n>- »«r».* 
which they art 

sarics; words, ir _._■.„_ 

appear centuries hence in the most 
sophical literature of Eurojie."* 

The school of Old Corby o 
reputation not only to its royal 
but also to its master, Pac 
Radpert, who, like Strabo, 
humble origin, and was indcbi 
the nuns of Sois.sons for an 
tion. He was one of the 
markable scholars of the agCjj 
the autlior of several books in 
and verse. His most famous 
was Anscharius, the first teaci 
New Corby, in Saxon}*, fouij 
monks of the parent house in 
and afterward a missionary to 
mark and Archbishop of H 
The two Corbys, founded 01 
same plan, long vied with each 
in the erudition of their maste 
multitude of llieir students, ai 
rarity and number of their boo! 

But the monastery and schi 
St. Gall surpassed in extent 
ricty of studies all their cont 
raries. For the benefit of tho! 
affect to believe that the mona' 
of the middle ages were n^ 
slothfulncss and ignorance> as 
as for the beauty of the sketch 
we transcribe the following dc: 
tion from the author before us 
misiiig that it is a faithful cond 
tion of Kkkehard's account ol 
celebrated house, of which 
one of the inmates : 

" The first foundation of St. Gall's 1 
indeed, to a date far earlier than 
which we arc now treating : it owed 
gin to St Gall, the Irish disciple of 
lumbanus, who. in the seventh centur 
ctrated into the recesses of the Mcli 
mountains and there fixed his abode \ 
midst of a pagan population. UncU 
famous abbot, St Othmar, who flourisl 
the time of Pepin, the monks rcceiv^ 
Benedictine rule, and from that time d| 
iHUtcry rapidly grew in fame and prosl 

* CkriHi»m StAo*tt mtUSiAtian, pp. mm 



The Early Christian Schools and Scliolars. 




57 



in tht ninth centurv-. it was regarded 

[fir* irth of the Alps. 

tviibav., , Ic icgret, called 

by ihc rememhrAncc of a form of 

that b dead and gone forever, that 

ikt mofuslic historian haiigs over the early 

«boaicte9 of St. GolL It lay ia the midst 

fil die Mvagc Helvetian wilderness, an oasis 

fi pkfy and civilitilioiv Looking down 

frwn '.' V mountains, the passes of 

vtiich L- southern extremity of the 

like iM Constance, the traveller would have 

■aad ■mirT'1 aU the sudden appaiition of 

ttac vas< range of stately buildings which 

ikBost dlicd up the valley at his feet. Church- 

tf and dolstcrs, the otiicesof a great abbey, 

I bnUinss set apart for students and guests, 

^^•■^b^jMi uf crvery description, the forge, 

^^^^^^bkctiouse, anid the mill, or, rather, 

^^^^^Blor there were ten of them, all in such 

^^^^^^k (rperation that they every year rc- 

^^^IB ten new millstones; and then the 

' Wttr- I by the vast numbers of ar- 

. .:icn attached to the nionas- 

toe, and vineyards creeping 

stain slopes, and beyond thcni 

• com, and sheep specking 

ws, and. far away, boats bu- 

<: lake and carrying goods 

-what a world it was of life 

..> , ,1.1 how unlike the activity of 

It was, in fact, not a town, but a 

tamily presided over by a lather, 

nboit] oumbers were ail knit together in the 

of t.jininon fraleruity. I know not 

-lual or social side uf such 

were most fitted to rivet 

cend into the valley, and 

tics of u!.cful foil, sec the 

Ouil«k of mde peasants transformed into 

■MtHti^mt artisafis, and you will cany away 

iJw ir iliat the monks of St. Gall 

lud i iir secret of creating a world 

of Kap]!} ^ liM^iian factories^ Enter their 

fhiii li xnii listen to the exquisite modula- 

and sequences, pccu- 

li iKtastcd of posscss- 

school of music in all 

iptof iiim, their librarv, 

;:ic works) i<;ip where the 

jiuiting the finishing touch 

li iij[)per images ajid his 

•^old and jewels, and 

li in some intcllcctei.il 

tblSc academy. But look into the 

spd ^<hnld the hundred monks who 

firm' \t their midnight otfice, 

anit everything save the 

vi ui iliuse servants of God, who 

..I ovc* the desert arnimd them 

; fCwU Mlor of Christ, and are the »poa- 






tics of the provinces which own their gentle 
sway. You may quit the circuit of the ab- 
bey, and plunge once more into the moun- 
tain region which rises l>eyond the reach of 
its softening, humanizing influence. Here 
are dislatit cells and hermitages with their 
chapels, where the shepherds come for early 
mass ; or it may be that there meets you, 
winding over the mountain paths of which 
they sing so sweetly, going up and down 
among the hills, into the thick forests and the 
rocky hollows, a procession of the monks, car- 
rying their relics, and followed by a peasant 
crowd. In the schools you may have been 
listening to lectures in the learned and even 
in the Kastern tongues ; but in the churches, 
and here among the mountains, you will hear 
those fine classical scholars preaching plain 
truths in barbarous idioms to a rude race, 
who, before the monks came among them, 
sacrificed to the evil one, and worshipped 
Slocks and stones. 

" Yet, hidden away as it was among its 
crags and deserts, the abbey of St. Gall's 
was almost as much a place of resort as 
Rome or Athens, at least to the learned 
-world of the ninth century. Her schools 
were a kind of university, frequented by men 
of all nations, who came hither to fit them- 
selves fur all professions. You would have 
found hcTc nut monks alone, and future 
scliolastics, l)ut courtiers, soldiers, and the 
sons of kings. The education given was very 
far from being exclusively intended lor those 
aspiring to the ecclesiastical state ; it had a 
large admi.\ture of the secular clement, at 
any rate, in the exterior school. Not only 
were the sacred sciences taught with the ut- 
most care, but the cla.tsic authors were like- 
wise explained : Cicero, Horace, Virgil, Lu- 
can, and l\.rencc wire read by the scholars, 
and none but very little boys presumed to 
speak in anything but Latin. The subjects 
for their ori^;ina! compositions were mostly 
taken from Scripture and church history,and, 
having written their exercises, they were ex- 
pecicd to recite them, the proper tunes be- 
ing indicated by musical notes. Many of 
the monks excelled .is poets, others culti- 
vated painting and sculpturc.and other exqui- 
site and cloistral arts ; all diligently applied 
to the grammatical formation of the Tu- 
desquc di.dcct and rendered it capable of 
pro<ludng a literature of its own. Their 
llbran,' in the eighth century was only in its 
infancy, but gradually became -jiic of the 
richest in the world. Tliey were in corre- 
spondence with all tK- learned monastic 
houses of France and Italy, from whom they 
received the precious cudcx now of a 
or a Livv, now of the Mcrcd booVa 




n they ■ 
Virgil ■ 



58 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



I 



sometimes of some rare treatise on medicine 
or astronomy. They were Greek students, 
moreover, and those mo«t addicted to the 
cultivation of the Cccropian muse were de- 
nominated the 'Fratica Ellencini.' The 
beauty of their native manuscripts is praised 
by all authopfi, and the names of their best 
transcribers find honorable mention in their 
annals. They manufactured their own parch- 
ment out of the hides of the wild beasts that 
roamed through the mountains and forests 
around them, and prepared it with such skill 
that it acquired a peculiar delicacy. Many 
hands were employed on a single manuscript. 
Some made the parchment, others drew the 
fair rrd lines, others wrote on the page* 
thus jjrepared ; more skilful hands put in the 
gold and the initial letters, and more learned 
heads compared the copy with the orig;inaI 
text — ^this duty being generally discharged 
during the interval between matins and 
lauds, the daylight hours being reserved for 
actual transcription. Erasure, when neces- 
sary, was rarely made with the knife, but an 
erroneous word was delicately drawn 
through by the pen, so as not to spoil the 
beauty of the co<lex. I.astly came the bind- 
ers, who enclosed the whole in boards of 
wood, cramped with ivory or iron, the sacred 
volumes being covered with plates of gold 
and adorned with jewels." 

The English missionary scholars 
of the eighth century were followed 
in the ninth by their Irish brethren 
in even greater numbers. St, Ber- 
nard, in his Life of St. Malcuhi, no- 
tices this learned invasion, and 
Henry of Auxerre declares that it 
appeared as if the whole of Ireland 
were about to pass into Gaul. Vir- 
gil, Bishop of Saltzburg, was not only 
a learned man, but an ardent pro- 
moter of education. Clement, who 
succeeded Alcuin as scholasticus of 
the I'alatine school, was an excellent 
Greek linguist. Dungal, his com- 
panion, opened an academy at I'a- 
via, and finally died at Bobbin, to 
which he bequeathed his valuable 
classical librar)'. Marx and his 
nephew Moengall settled at St. Gall 
in 840, where the latter became mas- 
ter of the interior school, and intro- 
duced the study uf Greek ; and 
finally Scotus Erigcna appeared in 



the literary firmament, like a comel 1 
in brilliancy, and as portentous of I 
dire strifes and contests. ElrigcnStj 
who first came into notoriety by hiij 
translation of Dionysius the Arc^tr\ 
gite, was unquestionably the ta<M 
erudite man of his time, powerfu! ttti 
argiuncnt and exceedingly subtle 
discussion, with a perfect knowledge 
of the learned languages, science . 
and the profane literature of 
ancients and moderns. His gnsUl 
gifts, however, were sadly marred \ 
extravagant vanity and a pt 
which brought him into collision^ 
nearly ever)' contemporary' of note. 
He wrote many books, in which he 
advanced opinions more remarkable 
for their boldness and originality 
than for soundness ; and finally, hiji 
writings having been condemned by ' 
several provincial councils, he watj 
obliged to retire from the Palatine 
school, of which he had enjoyed 
direction for many years unc 
Charles the Bald. 

Let us now return to the country 
of St. Boniface and of Alcuin, whicllJ 
we left at the beginning of the ninth 
century, in the plenitude of its intel- 
lectual greatness. What a changa^ 
has taken place in seventy-five year* I 
Churches, monasteries, and scboolfl 
in utter ruin ; the weeds growir 
rank over broken altars ; the rcplildl 
crawling undisturbed where worked 
the busy hands of a thousand monks \ 
and the solitude of the once noisy 
school disturbed only by the flutter 
of the bat or the screech of the night 
owl. The fierce Northmen, the bar- 
baric executors of the Huns and 
Vandals, had been over the land« 
and desolation everj'where marked 
their foot-prints. "The Anglo-Sax- 
on Church," says Lingard, "present- 
ed a melancholy spectacle ; the laity 
had resumed the ferocious manners 
of their pagjin forefathers ; the clergy 
bad grown indolent, dissolute, and il- 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. 



59 



c ; the monastic order was ap- 
jurcntly annihilated/' When Alfred 
crushed the Danish power at the 
:tle of Ethandun in 873, and, like 
'A wise prince, proposed to revive 
ng iii his kingdonij he could 
d one ecclesiastic south of the 
les who understood the divine 
JcTvicc, or who knew how to trans- 
Cc Latin into English. Neverthe- 
this king, justly sumamed the 
Crvat, resolutely set himself to work, 
and, with the help of the West British 
icholar, Asser, Grimbald of Rheims, 
John of Old Saxony, and other for- 
qga monks, eftected many useful re- 
inms, and to a limited extent pro- 
ndfed the means of education for his 
benighted subjects, setting the ex- 
wa^Xt himself by diligent and perse- 
ng study. He commenced to 
Latin at thirty-six, and leH; 
him several works, principally 
tions from that language. 
grand designs of Alfred were 
earned out in his lifetime. Their 
tuctttioa was reser\'cd for St. Duns- 
tan, a pupil of some poor Irish monks 
viw Knd settled in the ruins of the 
old abbey of his native town, Glas- 
KMbury, and supported themselves 
byteaching the children of the nejgh- 
bwjr itr>'. How strange a 

!idt the countrjTnen of 
iumba and yVidan were again to 
tJjc instruments, under Provi- 
ticncc, of bringing back to England 
tbc lijg^t of the gospel, and all that 
adorns and lieautifies life. St. Duns- 
tan's rcAirms were of the most sweep- 
^^bg tialuru ; be introduced liie Bene- 
^Hiciine rule in all its strictness, not 
^BriK:^t Glastonbury, but in e\nery 
^^^Wstery he restored or established ; 
^^Ba, i'lg of effecting any 

food 1 the medium of the sec- 

ular clcrg)-, he unhesitatingly turned 
^^fcon adrift, and proceeded to create 
^K oev and more intelligent body out 
^Hr tbe jroung men who surrounded 




lui 

t 



him: an exercise of authority the 
right to which he derived from his 
position as primate and apostolic 
legate. Of the assistants of St 
Dunstan in his work of reorganiza- 
tion, tlie most active were St, Ethel- 
wold, a close student not only of 
classics, but of Anglo-Saxon, in 
which language he composed several 
poems ; .^Ifric, author of several 
school-books in Latin and Anglo- 
Saxon, and translator of Latin, Ger- 
man, and French; Abbo of Fleury 
came to England and taught for him 
in the school of Ramsey ; and the 
monks of Corby, mindful, no doubt, 
of their ancient origin, sent him some 
of their best students, well versed in 
monastic discipline. From this time 
forth England, despite the occasional 
inroads of the Danes and the Nor- 
man conquest, advanced steadily in 
educational progress until the blight 
of the " Reformation " long after 
threw her back into ignorance and 
unbelief. 

Britain was not the only country 
which suffered from the greedy 
and ubiquitous sea-kings. Ireland, 
France, Italy, even to the suburbs of 
Rome, were ravished by those bar- 
barians during the tenth century. 
In some countries, as in Italy and 
Ireland, they were eventu.illy expel- 
led or subdued ; in others, like 
France, they made a permanent 
lodgment, and were strong enough 
to dictate terms to kings. Wherever 
they appeared, they seem to have 
been actuated by the same diabolical 
lust of plunder and murder, the mon- 
asteries and schools being special ob- 
jects of hatred, and favorite places 
where their ferocity could be gratified 
at little risk of opposition. Even the 
Saracens, taking courage from the dis- 
tractions of the times, took posses- 
sion of accessible points on the 
French coast, and added to the gen- 
eral disorder. It is not to be y<qu- 



6o 



The Early Christian Schools and Scholars, 



dered at, therefore, that the tentli 
ccntur)' is generally considered the 
darkest intellectual epoch in our era. 
Germany perhaps was the only coun- 
try comparatively free from those dis- 
turbing causes, and, under tlie protec- 
tion of a line of sagacious kings, the 
cause of learning, if it did not ad- 
vance with rapid strides, certainly 
did not retrograde. That country 
continued to produce great teachers 
like Adclberon, Uennon, Notker, and 
Gerbert, afterward Pope Sylvester 
II., and to sustain such schools as 
St. Gall's, Richneau, and Gorze. 

With the opening of the eleventh 
century we begin to perceive the gra- 
dual decay of the monastic schools, the 
rise of scholasticism and the univer- 
sity system, and the consequent evils 
resulting from the teachings of irre- 
ponsible and sceptical professors. 
Heretofore Christian education went 
hand in hand with religion ; the priest 
who celebrated the divine mysteries 
in tlic morning taught his assembled 
pupils during ijie tlay ; religion be- 
came more beautiful, clothed, as she 
was, in the garments of science and 
art ; and education was ennobled by 
losing its selfishness and pride in its 
contact with the faith ; humility, or- 
der, and obedience marked the scho- 
lar, and disinterestedness and a deep 
sense of the greatness of his calling 
distinguished the master. Teaching 
with the monks was a sacred dut}", a 
means by which they might gain sal- 
vation and "shine like stars for all 
eternity ; " with the scholastics of 
the eleventh and succeeding centu- 
ries it became a profession like that 
of law or medicine, in the exercise of 
which money and notoriety could be 
gained, opponents silenced, and, as 
was too often tJie case, vanit)' grati- 
fied and senseless applause won from 
the unthinking multitude. The school 
ceased to be a holy retreat, and the 
professor's chair was converted into 



a rostrum from which the most ab' 
.surd and illogical dogmas were faV 
minated, alike dangerous to religion,! 
morals, and good government. I 
the statement of abuses presented 
the Council of Trent in i537-<5j? 
by the commission appointed 
Paul III., it is declared tliat " il •& 
great and pernicious abuse that, 
the public schools, especially in I 
many philosophers teach impiety; 
and it is a well-recognized fact 
history that, from the time the 
versities adopted tlie study of 
Roman civil law, to the exclusion 
most of ecclesiastical and comtni 
law, they became the strongest 
warks of despotic power, and 
pliant tools of absolute princes. 
It is true that tlte change 
gradual and almost impercepiibTe 
its friends and enemies ; but, when 
come to compare the wild vagaries of 
Berengarius, the eloquent but empts* 
harangues of .Abelard, the scepticism 
of Erasmus, and the revelries which 
disgraced such universities asOxfor 
and Paris, with the moral spirit 
peaceful calm that brooded over 
monasteries of St. Gall, Fuldn, and 
Glastenbury, we can at once percei 
to what monstrous excesses the mi 
of man is prone when unrestrainetl 
religion. Many of the old-establish 
monastic schools continued to fl 
rish, and new ones, like that of 
and the college of St. Victor's at l*j 
ris, became celebrated. Men disti 
guished for piety and learning wei 
numerous during the middle a 
notwitJistanding the growing tc 
dency toward irreligion and he 
among whom may be mentioned su 
theologians as St. Thomas and A 
sclm, scholars like Lanfranc ai 
Thomas » Kempis, great doctors li 
St. Bernard and John Duns Sco 
devotees of science such as Albert 
Magnus and Roger Kacon, authoi 
of the calibre of William of Mai 



IK II 

thfc^ 



The Early Christian SckooU and Scholars. 



r, xaA. the almost inspired writer 

te Ftlltwing of Christy St. Bona- 

UTc, and Peter the Venerable. 

It the schools of Europe, not- 

stundingthe examples and exhor- 

kiis of those illustrious divines, 

\' " ihcirclownwartl tendency 

li . rialism. The introditc- 

of fcastem books of philosophy, 

to the returned crusaders. tJie 

>ic symbolism and pretended ma- 

)i &ome of the Spanish .schools, 

finally, the fall of Constantinople 

! lersion of Greek scholars 

: all had their peculiar 

ccidcd influence on the manners 

s of the generations which 

ly preceded the Council of 

emJnaries had entirely dis- 

so that ecclesiastical edu- 

Id only be obtained in the 

and noisy universities, and it 

Rie the fashion with the dilettanti 

ic great cities to ridicule and 

trrale the quiet teachings of the 

try monasteries. 

m: Council of Trent, mindful of 

Hrelfatc of the children of the 

th, took the first great step 

rd the correction of those abuses. 

Is eighteenth chapter, twenty- 

kth sessions, it reestablished the 

rr I every diocese in Chris- 

i • 5 to each bishop author- 

ihe profes.sors, and makin;» 

of educating ecclesiastics 

on the faithful. In ac- 

oce with this decree, an un- 

d degree of activity was ob- 

le in Europe. Provincial coun- 

k steps to enforce it in their 

localities; saints, like Charles 

rromeo, became champions of 

c Christian education, and the 

. the Franciscans, and 

It order of the Jesuits 

each other in their devo- 

intcrcsts, and became the 

tors of the glories of the monks 

ints Benedict and Columbanus. 




In looking back for fifteen cen- 
turies, and perusing the long and 
brilliant catalogue of those holy 
teachers who, through danger, deg^ra- 
dation,and defeat, never allowed their 
minds to swerve from the even tenor 
of their way ; who cared as tenderly 
for the -soul and intellect of the poor 
young barbarian as for the nursling 
of a palace ; who despised death, 
and braved alike the fury of the sav- 
age and the wrath of princes, that 
they might win souls to God and de- 
velop the God-given gift of human 
genius; we are lost tn astonishment 
at the ignorance or mendacity, or 
lK)th, of some modem writers who 
unblushingly repeat and exaggerate 
the slander of the post-" Reforma- 
tion" writers against the monks of 
the middle ages. With a history 
like that of the Christian Schooli and 
Scholars before us, so fruitful in in- 
cidents and so suggestive of moral 
lessons, we are equally at a loss to 
account for the tenacity with which 
people, othen\isc sensible, cling to 
the idea of education divorced from 
moral instruction. Whatever is great 
in tlie past, personally or nationally 
considered — whatever was pure, un- 
selfish, and heroic, is due, and only 
due, to the monk-teachers of the 
Christian church. They were not 
only the custodians of the books 
which we now prize so much, but 
they were the conservators of arts, 
science, and literature, and the ori- 
ginators and discoverers of most of 
tlie useful inventions which now 
adorn life and make men more civil- 
ized, and bring them nearer to tlieir 
Creator. They were not only all this, 
but they were, as soldiers of the 
church, the guardians of civilization 
itself, and without them the darkness 
that enshrouded the world would 
have been as peqietual as the causes 
which produced it were active, and, 
against any other power, irresistible. 



4 



Omt Lady. 



OUR LADY. 



"ANCILLA DOMINL" 

The Crown of creatures, first in place. 
Was most a creature ; is such still : 

Naught, naught by nature — all by grace— 
The Elect one of the Eternal Will. 

She was a Nothing that in Him 
A creature's sole perfection found ; 

She was the great Rock's shadow dim ; 
She was the Silence, not the Sound. 

She was the Hand of Earth forthheld 

In adoration's self-less suit ; 
A hushed Dependence, tranced and spelled, 

Still yearning toward the Absolute. 

Before the Power Eternal bowed 
She himg, a soft Subjection mute. 

As when a rainbow breasts the cloud 
That mists some mountain cataract's foot 

She was a sea-shell from the deep 
Of God — ^her function this alone— 

Of Him to whisper, as in sleep. 
In everlasting undertone. 

This hour her eyes on Him are set : 
And they who tread the earth she trod 

With nearest heart to hers, forget 
Themselves in her, and her in God. 

II. 
MATER FILIL 

He was no Conqueror, borne abroad 
On all the fiery winds of fame, 

That overstrides a world o'erawed 
To write in desert sands his name. 

No act triumphant, no conquering blow 
Redeemed mankind from Satan's thrall : 



Our Lady. 63 

By suffering He prevailed, that so 
His Father might be all in all. 

His Godhead, veiled from mortal eye, 
Showed forth that Father's Godhead still, 

As calm seas mirror starry skies 
Because themselves invisible. 

Thus Mary in " the Son" was hid : 

Her motherhood her only boast, 
She nothing said, she nothing did : 

Her light in His was merged and lost 

III. 
NAZARETH; OR, THE HIDDEN GREATNESS. 

Ever before his eyes unsealed 

The Beatific Vision stood : 
If God from her that splendor veiled 

Awhile, in Him she looked on God. 

The Eternal Spirit o'er them hung 

Like air : like leaves on Eden trees 
Around them thrilled the viewless throng 

Of archangelic Hierarchies. 

Yet neither He Who said of yore, 

"Let there be light 1" and all was Day, 
Nor she that, still a creature, wore 

Creation's Crown, and wears for aye, 

To mortal insight wondrous seemed : 

The wanderer smote their lowly door. 
Partook their broken bread, and deemed 

The donors kindly — nothing more. 

# 

In Eden thus that primal Pair 

(Undimmed as yet their first estate) 
Sat, side by side, in silent prayer — 

Their first of sunsets fronting, sat. 

And now the lion, now the pard, 

Piercing the Cassia bowers, drew nigh, 
Fixed on the Pair a mute regard, 

Half-pleased, half vacant ; then passed by. 

Aubrey de Verb. 

T OF THE AssniOTION, 1867. 



64 



Our Boy-Organist. 



OUR BOY-ORGANIST. 



WHAT HE SAW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 



" How was it, doctor, that you first 
thought about it?" 

Well. I suppose I had better tell 
you the whole stor>'. It may interest 
you. Just twenty years ago, on a 
bright Sunday morning, I was hurry- 
ing along the road home to Tinton, 
hoping to be in time to hear the ser- 
mon at church. My watch told me 
that I should be too late for the morn- 
ing prayer. Hapf>cning to look across 
the fields, I was surprised to see little 
Ally Dutton, our boy-organist, running 
ver\' fast over the meadows, leaping 
the fences at a bound, and finally dis- 
appear in the woods. " What could 
possibly take our organist away during 
church lime? Surely," thought I, "the 
minister must be sick. And, being the 
village doctor, I hurried still faster. 

" But what could take our boy-organ- 
ist in that out-of-the-way direction at 
such an hour, and in such haste? Is 
it mischief?" I asked myself. But I 
banished that thought immediately, for 
.Ally had no such reputation. " There 
must be something wrong, however ; 
for he ran so fast, and Ally is such a 
quiet, old-fashioned lad. The minis- 
ter is ill, at any rate," said I to myself, 
" or Ally would not be absent." Con- 
trar).' to my expectations, I found the 
minister preaching as usual. I do not 
recollect any thing of the sermon now 
except the text. Rev. Mr, Billups, 
our minister, had a fashion of repeat- 
ing his texts very often, sometimes 
very appropriately, and sometimes not 
It w.is Pilate's question to our Lord : 
"What is truth ?" You will see, after 
what happened subsequently, that I 
had another reason for remembering 
it besides its frequent rvpelition. Th« 



sermon ended, the hymn was si 
but the organ was silent. The silc 
seemed ominous. I cannot expl. 
why ; perhaps it was one of 
strange presentiments of disaster, 
I fancied our boy-organist dead, 
loved Ally very much, and my b 
sank within me as I looked up th 
the drawn choir-curtains, and mi 
his slight little form, perched up 
he was wont to be, on a pile of b 
so as to bring his hands on a lev 
with the key-board, trolling forth his 
gay little voluntary as the congrega- 
tion dispersed after ser\'ice. I missed 
his voice in the hymn, too ; those > ' 
ringing tones which were far sw : 
to me than any notes that musical in* 
slrument ever breathed. I was so 
filled with this presentiment of coming 
evil that I did not dare to ask nny 
onethecause of his absence. " To. h '" 
said I to myself," there is nothinp ■- 
I saw him but just now alive, .in,l 
well enough, if I may judge from the 
way he cleared those fences and the 
swiftness of his footsteps as he ran 
across the meadows." I tliought no 
more of it until a messenger came two 
or three days afterward to my ofiice 
and said : 

" Will you please, ^ctor, come 
down to the widow Dutton's ? Ally i 
sick." 

" I will come immediately," said 
to the messenger. " We shall 1 
our boy-organist," said I to m)-selC 
And so we did ; but not as you sup- 
pose. Ally became — but I must not 
anticipate. 

I found our much loved boy-or- 
ganist in a high fever. " He has 
been constantly raving all night," 



>me 



Our Boy-Orga% 



65 



mother, in answer to my in- 
, ** about what he has seen, 
has been something preying on 
pfd lately," she continued. " He 
en very sad and ner\'ous, and 
t has hel|)ed to make him ill." 
\ lone of command^ which I 
II often elicit a direct answer 
fttients whose minds are wan- 
^ I said to him : " Ally, an- 
£ directly, sir ; what did you 

! Iiis eyes still staring at the 
, he answered in a wondering 
r,*»GodI" 

IS sorely perplexed what fur- 
lest ion to ask, but, thinking to 
m on gradually to some more 
iblc answer, as I thought, I 
" UTjere ?" 

e kneeliog people and the 
' he replied dreamily. " And 
Mid, Neither do I condemn 
And here he burst into tears, 
the remembrance of the last 
y irtorning came back to my 
^nd I knew what had taken 
iros5 die fields, and what he ' 
t " was so faint and weak, 
jl red so unsteadily, that 

1 ihc worst, and the anxious, 
tag look of the mother read 
4ale countenance. She began 
t violently. 
ilher 1" cried Ally. 
», my cbiJd," she responded 
^ vnA. bent over and kissed 

^, mother. God will not 
die till I know what is true. 

It is a strange remark," thought 
' like him to make. What 
iT 

f darling Ally," said the widow, 
|o know what is true. You al- 
ly what is true." 

^■•!rl tliey say it isn't true, 
vlly. 
ii liii t true, my dear?" 
VI.— 5 



" God I" ansT^-ered the boy, turn- 
ing his eyes upward to the coiling 
again, and looking, as if were, at 
some object miles away, " and the 
kneeling people, and the priest. It's 
true, and no lie. Thi.s is my body, 
this is my blood." And he joined his 
hot and feverish little hands together 
as if in prayer. 

" Don't trouble about this," said I 
to the weeping mother. " I know 
what it is. He has been down to 
Mike Maloney's, in the Brook woods, 
and seen the Catholic Mass. Don't 
refer to it again just now. I will give 
him some composing medicine. But 
I wish," I added, "that this had not. 
happened. It only tends to weakew' 
him." 

Presently I noticed him playing 
with his fingers on the coverlet as if 
he were playing the organ. I thought 
to take advantage of this, and said : 

" Ally, my boy, get well soon, now^ 
and let us have a grand voluntary on* 
the organ — one of your very best." 

" For God, for Mass, for the kneel- 
ing people and the priest," he mur- 
mured. 

" Oh ! never mind the Mass," said 
I, "that's nothing lo you." 

Turning his eyes suddenly uponi 
me, he cried : 

" O doctor ! it seems everything 
to me. I never can forget it. How 
could anybody ever forget they had 
seen Mass. Could you ?" 

" That I can't say. Ally," I replied;. 
" for I never saw it." 

'• Never saw it 1 Why, I've seen 
it." 

" Often ?" I asked. 

" Well— I saw \\.—0ne Sunday, any^ 
way," answered Ally, with the air of^ 
one who had never been anywher 
else all his life. 

'* What was it like, Ally dear ?" ask- 
ed the mother. 

"Like heaven, mother, if the an- 
gels had only been there." 



Our Boy-Organist. 



" Angels !" said I contemptuously. 
" Pretty place to find angels, in Mike 
Malonev's shanty ! Why, it's like a 
stable."' 

Again Ally's eyes went up to the 
ceiling, and, while his fingers nervous- 
ly played an invisible organ on the 
coverlet, he began to sing, so plain- 
tively and sadly that it quite un- 
manned me : 

" He came down (o earth from heaven, 

Who u GaH «nd Lord of all, 
Antl till tlicller was a stable. 

And hi& cndl« wa« a >uU. 
With the pwir, and mean, and Inwljr, 
Lired on earth our Saviour holy." 

The widow and I stood watching 
{tnd listening long after he had ceased 
singing. In a few moments a lucid 
intcnal occurred, and, noticing me, 
he said : 

" Doctor, why can't we have Mass 
in our church ? Oh I wouldn't I like 
to play the ot^nn for it always till I 
died !" 

" We couldn't have Mass, Ally/' I 
replied, *' because it is only Catholic 
priests who can say Mass." 

" Is it ? I know I'd like to play 
the organ forever and ever for the 
Mass ; but I'd rather be a priest. Oh ! 
a thousand, thousand limes rather 1" 
And his pale, sad face lighted up with 
an unearthly glow. 

Seeing I could not divert his mind 
from the subject, and fearing to conti- 
nue a conversation which excited him 
so much, I quietly gave directions to 
his mother, and left. I had little 
hopes of Ally's recovery, but his 
words made a deep impression on 
my mind : " <7c</ Jt'i// not let me dit 
till I know what is true, first, " " What 
truth can he mean ?" thought I, " Can 
he have imagined he does not know 
the true religion ? What can have 
made him think that our Episcopal 
Church is not true? What strange 
fancies will get into some children's 
heads ! I should be sorry to lose 
Ally, but I'd rather see him die, I 



think, than grow ap to be a 
Catholic, Ugh I and a priest u 
haps, who knows ? God forbid 
volvtng these disagreeable th 
in my head as I went dovrti tl»e 
I met Mr. Billups, our mini:i1 
shook hands, or rather I shod 
Billups's hand while he shoi 
head, a manner of his thai 
him a general doubling air, 
what puzzling to strangers. 

"Mr. Billups." said I, "( 
know that Ally Dutton is ill ?* 

♦' No, I did nol hear it," he 
emphasizing the word //ri/, as 
to say, "But I hear it now." All 
the negative accompaniment * 
head would seem to imply i 
did not quite believe it. 

" Yes. and verj- ill too," I 
" If his mind becomes caltnei 
it is, I think it might do goa 
to drop in and sec hirn, I 
has been under some bad inill 
lately." 

" You astonish me, not 
grieve me." rejoined Mr. 
" Ally was always a good^ 
hoy, and one of our head bc 
you are aware, in the Sunday-si 

" I meaiL," said I, " that 
been reading or hearing 
about Catholics and their Mi 
other things ; and it really hi 
a deep impression on bis mind 
ought to be effaced ; that is," \ 
ed, " in case he recovers, whict 
is doubtful." 

" Of course, of course, which 
to be effaced," repeatctl he. ** 
doubt of it. 1 remember, novi 
Wliite, his Sunday-school te 
telling me that he had asked 
class what the sixth chapter 
John meant. I hofie he ht 
been reading that chapter 
Bible too attentively, for it is c 
cd, I am sorry to say, to n> 
deep, very deep, not to say, in i 
to the popish Mass doctrine, i 



Our Boy-Organist. 



Joct 



Ml 



[itinmn^ {inpression upon the mind, 
tciilly of a boy like Ally." 
' Well, if you see him," said I, not 
luch relishing this opinion about 
i»e Bible being in favor of Catholic 
:trines, "you can manage to bring 
subject up, and easily explain its 
meaning to him." 
' Yes, oh 1 yes ! easily explain its 
meaning to him," again repeat- 
fr. Billups after me, yet looking 
nther puzzled, as I thought, and 
doabtiul of success ; but perhaps 
i: was only his manner that gave me 
impression. " Would to-mor- 
t, think you, do, doctor ?" he con- 
noed. a.fler a pause, " I am quite 
axy. just now." 

* Better," I replied, " much belter ; 

illy is vcTy low at this moment" 

I do not know what made me say it, 

Ally's words came suddenly to 

liv mind again, and I added con- 

*' He will not die just yet. 

11 surely be better to-morrow." 

Tbade Mr. Billups good-moming, 

; at all satisfied, " The sixth chap- 

■ of St. John 1 the sixth chapter of 

, John !" I went on repeating to my- 

!C Strange 1 I have never read that 

;r with any thought of the doc- 

Calholics. And yet, to judge 

what the minister said, it might 

jble the mind, even of a child. As 

in the parlor of a sick lady 

I went to visit before return- 

honne, I could not refrain from 

over the leaves of a large 

Bible on the centre-table, and 

ling the ch.ipter in question. I 

not time, however, to read many 

before I was summoned to 

•ick<hamber. Attention to my 

prafe^siottal duties drove the subject 

fran my mind during the rest of the 

aad I retired to rest consider- 

isied and fatigued. 

>r a good sleep," said I to 

"and a quick one, for I 

I'l wonder if I were called up 




r waited 




to Ally again before morning." But 
I could not sleep. Tossing to and fro 
in the bed, I began to question my- 
self about the cause of my sleepless- 
ness ; I soon found it. The thought of 
Ally had revived the memory of that 
sixth chapter of Sl John. " Well," 
said I, " I will remove the cause by 
just getting up and reading it, and 
there will be an end of it. Then I 
shall sleep." So I rose and lit my 
lamp, got out my Bible, and there, 
half-dressed, read the troublesome 
chapter. As I reflected upon what 
I was doing, I felt more like a thief, 
a. midnight robber, or some designing 
villain laying plans for murder or 
housebreaking, than as an honest 
Christian reading his Bible ; for was 
I not allowing myself to do what was 
calculated to make a deep, not to say 
an alarming impression on my mind, 
that the Catholic religion was true, 
and the Protestant religion false? 

Now, without vanity I say it, few 
people know their Bibles better than 
I did, and, although I must have read 
that identical chapter many times, it 
seemed to me that I had never read 
it before. I thank God for that raid- 
night perusal of my Bible. 

One thing I then and there deter- 
mined, for private reasons of my 
own, which was, to be on hand at 
Mrs. Button's when the minister call- 
ed ; and there I was. .\lly was a good 
deal better and brighter. After some 
commonplace remarks, Mr. Billups 
said to Ally : 

" You are fond of reading your Bi- 
ble, are you not, my dear child ; and 
would you not like me to read a little 
of the Word to you ?" 

" Ohl yes, sir," answered the 
eagerly. 

" I will read for you, then," con- 
tinued Mr. Billups, producing a Bible 
from his pocket, " a most beautiful 
and instructive passage from St. 
John's gospel, commencing al V.Vit 



68 



Our Boy-Organist. 



sixth chapter." He said this in such 
a church-reading tone that Mrs. Dut- 
ton instinctively responded as far as 
"Glory be" — but, discovering her mis- 
take, covered it up with a very loud 
cough. Mr. Billups read the chapter, 
but quite difierentJy from the manner 
in which I had read it ; slowly and 
distinctly where I had read rather 
quickly, that is, from the beginning to 
the fiftieth verse ; and quickly where 
I had read slowly, from that verse to 
the end. 

"That's very beautiful, and very 
strange," said Ally pensively, as the 
minister paused at the end of the 
chapter. " But, Mr. Billups, is it all 
tnie?" 

" The Bible, my dear Ally ought to 
know, is all true/' replied Mr. Bil- 
lups. 

" And did Jesus give his Besh and 
blood, as he said he would ?" asked 
Ally. 

"Yes, my child," answered Mr. 
Billups, "he certainly made all his 
promises good." 

" I wish I knew where," said Ally 
inquiringly. " I asked Mrs. White, 
and she said she didn't know, and 
that I asked too many questions." 

" When he died on the cross, and 
jcd his blood for our salvation, * 
lid the minister solemnly, closing 
the Bible, and looking at me as if he 
would say : " There's an end of the 
whole matter : you see how easily I 
have explained it to him," Ally did 
not, however, seem so easily satis- 
fied. 

*' But where can we get it to eat 
and drink ?" asked he. " Jesus said 
we must eat and drink it." 

Mr. Billups again glanced at me 
with a look which I interpreted to 
mean, " I fear he has been reading 
this too attentively," and then said : 

" You partake of it by faitli, my 
child, but you do not really eat it." 

" I must believe I eat it, and dotl'l 




eat it alter all," said Ally ezplao; 

rily. 

" Yes — no — not precisely," replied 
Mr. Billups, with some confusion of 
manner, and coughing two or three 
short little coughs in his hand. "We 
eat the communion bread, and diin 
the communion wine, and then 
believe we partake, by faith, of the 
body and blood of the Saviour." 

" But, then," asked Ally, p 
the difficulty, "don't we eat 
drink what we beliet'e we eat 
driiik ?•' 

" H'm, h'ra," coughed the minisi 
shifting uneasily in his seat. 
believe — we tliink — in short, as I wi 
about to remark, we have faith 
Jesus Christ as our blessed Saviour. 

" But don't eat his flesh nor drink 
his blood ?" added Ally. 

" Not at all, not at all," replied Mri 
Billups decidedly. 

" Then I can't see what the Bibl 
means," said Ally, scratching his I; 
in a disappointed manner : " Ii» 
ye eat the flesh of the Son of M 
and drink his blood, ye cannot hai 
life in you." 

" My dear, de-ar child," cried Mr. 
Billups, quite distractedly, *' what can 
you have been reading to put tliis in 
your head ?" 

" Only the Bible, sir," replied Ally 
simply, " what you have read just 
now, sir, and the story of the Last 
Supper ; and I heard Pompey Simp- 
son say it was all true." 

" Pompey Simpson," returned Mr. 
Billups, " is a negro, and I am sorr)-,'* 
he continued, turning to me, " I 
should say both grieved and shock- 
ed, to .add, doctor, one of those mis- 
guided beings groping in the dark 
ness of Roman idolatry, whose nuia*^ 
bers are increasing to an alarmini 
extent in our countr)'. Have tii 
thing to do with Pompey Simpson^ 
my dear," again addressing Ally, " or 
who knows you might be led away to 






^ 









Our Boy-Organist. 



become a Romanist?" An event which 
Mr. Biliups's head intimated at that 
nt to be too deplorable to be 
sed. ** Yes, one of those emis- 
of giant Pope, described so 
tnithfuUy in Bunyan's Pilgrim's J'rv- 
grtis, as jou remember. Do not ^o 
^^acar them. Ally, for my sake, for 
^■^car mother's sake, for the sake of 
^nie church of your baptism, or they 
V%fl) make you like unto them, an 
' Id'jlatTous worshipper of the host ; 
which, as you have never seen it, I 
I will IcU yoo, is only a piece of bread. 
Vou see what ignorant, deluded peo- 
ple these Catholics must be. Just to 
llimk of it — to worship a piece of 
bread r 

"But the Catholic is the old 
diurch and the first one, Pompey 
said," rejoined Ally, "and the old 
church ooght to know. Besides, I — 
1 — saw it m)-se!f." 

"^Saw it yourself!" exclaimed Mr. 
BSOups, his hair fairly standing up- 
right with horror. " My organist 
^da/e to enter a popish Mass-house 1" 
^^niad he frowned very severely at the 
^^»idow. 

" It was only Mike Maloney's," 
ttid Ally deprecatinply, '* And the 
priest in his beautiful robes, and the 
people all kneeling around, didn't 
look mistaken, sir ; and I felt so sure 
at Go<l was there," continued Ally, 
ling, "that I'm all the time 
ing about it. Somehow I can't 
it out of my mind." 
"Your son, madam," said themin- 
tuming to Ally's mother, "otwj/ 
this out of his mind. It would 
be a fearful calamity, madam, to have 

fctbild whom you have reared, and, 
may add in behalf of the vestry of 
tr church, an organist, whose sal- 
y we have paid, fail into the toils 
of^thc man of sin. It would he well 
the inquiring mind of your 
I, and restrain his wander- 
tsteps ; because, if he is per- 





mitted to worship at a foreign altar, 
he can no longer exercise the posi- 
tion of — in short — perform on the 
organ of our church. Good-morn- 
ing." And he rose abruptly, and left 
the house. 

All this nettled me. I had hoped 
he could easily explain the doubts in 
the boy's mind, not to mention ray 
own, and it exasperated me to see 
him have recourse to such base 
means to silence these doubts, in- 
stead of using kindly Christian coun- 
sel and teaching. To deprive Ally 
of his situation, and the widow of the 
support which his salary gave, would 
be, I knew, to inflict a heavy loss 
upon them. Unwilling to depart and 
leave the widow and son without 
some comfort, and yet not knowing 
what to say, I went to the window 
and looked out, flattening my nose 
against the glass in a most uncom- 
fortable state of mind, and present 
ing a spectacle to the passers- 
which must have impressed them 
\\ith the conviction of my being sub- 
ject to temporary fits of derange- 
ment. As I stood there, I heard 
Ally say to his mother : 

" Don't cry, mother. I won't be 
a Catholic if it isn't true. But it's 
better to know what's true than to 
play the organ or get any salary, if 
it's ever so big. Isn't it, mother?" 

I assented to this sentiment so 
strongly with my head that I nearly 
put my nose through the window*! 
pane, an action that elicited a strong 
stare for my supposed impudence 
from the two Misses Stocksup, 
daughters of the Honorable Wash- 
ington Stocksup, who happened to 
be passing the house at that mo- 1 
menL 

" So it is, my dear," answered the 
widow. " But I'm afraid, my darling, 
you are only fancying something to 
be true that is not true." 

" Doctor 1" cried Ally, appealviv^ 



Our Boy'Otxatiist. 



to me, *' isn't it true ? Oh 1 it tnusl be 
true!" 

" I can't say I believe it is," I re- 
plied, " but I'm very much a/raid it 
it." 

"Afraid!" exclaimed Ally, "what 
makes you afraid ?" 

Poor Ally I He could little com- 
prehend how much it would cost him 
or me to say we believed it to be 
true. Excusing myself with all sorts 
of bungling remarks, I left the house, 
my mind torn by many conflicting 
doubts and emotions. Ally slowly, 
very slowly recovered. In the mean 
time a new organist, a jx>or man with 
a dreadful asthma, as I recollect, had 
taken his place. Deprived of the a|d 
which his salary atfordud them, the 
widow and Ally found it hard to 
live. 

The minister, it seems, related to 
his wife what had taken place at Al- 
ly's sick-bed, and it so<jn got bruited 
about that both yVlly and his mother 
were going to turn Catholics. They 
soon left the village, and I did not 
hear of them until several years after. 
As for myself^ it was not long before 
I took Ally's way across the fields 
to Mike Maloney's shanty, and now 
you know how I first came to think 
about it. 

•• What became of Ally ?" 

Well, I'll tell you. One day I hap- 
pened to be in the city of Newark. 
It was the festival of Corpus Chrisd, 



and crowds were flocking to St 
rick's cathedral to assist at tlse gran 
ceremonies that were to take plac 
At the gospel the preacher ascenii 
ed the pulpit, and what was my 
prise to recognize in the person of ih 
youthful priest my dear bo\ 
Ally Duiton. He took f< 
these words, " This is my body, ihtfj 
is my blood," and preached a pa« 
ful and eloquent sermon. After 
services were concluded I went 10' 
the presbytery to call upon bim, but 
he did not recognize me ; so 1 s.aicl . 

" Allow me, reverend sir, to tliauL 
you for your beautiful sermon. Tbil 
doctrine of the real presence whk 
you Catholics hold is a wondc 
and a very consoling doctrine ; 
what is more, / am rather afraid it j 
true." 

" Afraid I" answered Ally, si 
ing. " That reminds nie of a d« 
old friend of mine who once said 
same thing, but he was not long 
coming his fears." 

" And the dear old friend is 
now," added I, looking at him etc 
ly, " that it was even so long as 
was." 

*' Doctor 1" 

" Ally 1" 

As I knelt to crave the blessing of 
our quondam boy-organist, now a 
priest of the holy Catholic church, 
he caught me in his arms and folded 
me in a warm embrace. 



TtaiiUisd from la Ktudcs Religieiues, etc, etc 

THE MARTYRS OF GORCUM. 



hear It sometimes asked, 
does the Catholic Church 
'«o many canonizations, jubi- 
lees, and religious displays?" We 
pitr those who speak in this way, 
rht Ihcy do not seem to understand 
destiny of the church. If the 
:h, connected as she is with 
sKlvance of the human race, 
interests to look after in the 
tions which agitate the world ; 
Icr to defend her rights which 
icked or are not recognized, 
be J« obliged occasionally to inter- 
in the struggles which arise 
tween men, this is but one aspect 
her history, though it seems to be 
only one which impresses super- 
ficial and unthinking minds. At the 
sme time that she shows this ex- 
U«k>r action of catholicity, there is 
VTunght in her heart a mysterious 
work» vrtuch reveals the divine illu- 
minations of the faith. It is an ad- 
mirable rrrhaoge, a divine inter- 
axtn 1 heaven and earth — 

Ibe « ring to heaven its sup- 

pBCfttions, its atonements, the heroic 
t«lae5 of its saints, and the merits 
af its martyrs ; heaven bestowing 
upon the world its aid for the corn- 
hit, iti abundant graces, the seeds 
of ^nctity. At certain eventful 
lods, when greater perils call 
more generous sacrifices and 
»st appeals to heaven, the 
>f this inwarrl life of the 
"^ines forth in marvellous 
ncats, which overturn all precon- 
Onvcd human opinion, and confound 
the wisdom of the world. We see, 
titcn, a throne, which remains firm 



without any apparent support, and 
on this throne an old, helpless man, 
who holds all the powers of revolu- 
tion in check ; we see a society, 
against which are unchained all 
anarchical passions, face the storm 
which threatens to overwhelm it. pro- 
claim its proscribed doctrines with- 
out fear, lead nations which had 
wandered into the paths of natural- 
ism back to the fold of the church, 
and maintain its independencfltj 
against the coalition of tyrannies. 

Has a pontificate ever shown thi 
divine spectacle of the struggle of 
spiritual forces with the powers of 
materialism better tlian that of Pius 
IX. ? To the increasing oppression 
of vice the pope does not cease to 
oppose the miracles of virtue and the 
fruits of grace which distinguish the 
elect of God. To the insolent cries 
of error he replies by the calm affir- 
mation of eternal truth. The as- 
saults of impiety he resists only by 
the prayers of pure souls, by the in- 
tercession of those saints to whotl 
he has granted the honors of ven« 
tion, and by the aid of the Bl« 
Vii^n, whose conception he has 
proclaimed immaculate. So, when 
a voice, disturbing the harmony 
our love and gratitude, was laley 
he.ird to ask the ill-timed questioni' 
" JVAy so many saints f what was 
the reply of the jrontiff, in whom his 
faithful children venerate the wise 
man of the gospel, drawing from his 
treasure in opportune time the old 
good and the new ? " They reproach 
me," said he, with his accustomed 
sweetness, "for making too many 
saints, but I cannot promise to cor- 
rect this fault. Have we nol mote 



72 



The Martyrs of Gorcum, 



need than ever of intercessors in 
heaven, and models of religious vir- 
tue in tJie world ?" 

In 1852, a distinguished prelate, 
•who has since entered into the re- 
pose of the Lord, Mgr. de Salinis, 
pointed out to the faithful of the 
diocese of Amiens, in announcing a 
jubilee, the supernatural character 
which distinguishes the acts of Pius 
IX. " You do not ask," he wrote, 
" the reason of the munificence which 
lavi^hcs upon you favors which at 
otlier times go forth but rarely from 
the treasure of the church. It suf- 
fices for us to know that the Vicar 
of Jesus Christ receives light from 
above which is given only to him. 
He who holds the keys of the king- 
dom of heaven can alone tell the 
time when it is good to spread over 
the earth the waves of divine mercy. 
He who directs the bark of the 
church through the storms of this 
world can question the winds, and 
discover in the horizon the signs 
which warn him to urge on the jour- 
ney of the ship. He who is the 
common father of all Christians 
alone knows the needs of his im- 
mense family. His glance, which 
watches over every place that the sun 
shines upon — his solicitude, which 
embraces all evil and all virtue — his 
heart, which feels all the sorrows of 
tlie Spouse of Christ— his prayers, 
in which are summed up all the 
prayers of the church, the particu- 
lar inspiration which God reserves 
for him who holds his place on 
earth — all these reveal to him, so 
far as is necessary, the proportion 
which should exist between grace 
and misery."* 

This is the reply that should be 
made to these petiti ginUs who pre- 
sume to criticise the holy sec, and 
put tlje counsels of their mean diplo- 

iHnt^wa ^f ^r-. Jt Smlmit. Pari*. ValM. tlfi. 



macy in the place of the rnqjin 
of God. Do these men, whose 1 
are so enlightened, not see thiii 
are in the presence of an admin 
tion of supernatural power * l>c 
not suspect the strength oi 
church militant ranged aboM 
chief, and praying with him A 
assistance of the church ttiump 
Do they not witness the pious < 
ness of the people to venerai 
invoke, and to imitate the nei 
trons which are given them ? ( 

The eyes of all the obcdicnl 
dren of the church are now q 
toward Rome. The Catholic 1 
in a rapture of faith and pie 
united to the pilgrims of the 
city, to the bishops, and to 
bishop of bishops, celebratin 
triumph of Peter, always livinj 
reigning in his successor, appi 
the glory of the legion of the bl 
that the churches of Pola 
Spain, of the Netherlands, of 
of France, and of Japan have 
to the church of Rome, their j 
mon mother, and to the chuit 
heaven, the lasting city of the e] 

We should have liked, if our ^ 
and time allowed, to say sbme^ 
of the many beautiful subject5<| 
this happy time suggests ; the | 
ing, the episcopate, and the m^ 
dom of St. Peter at Rome, the ,| 
and virtues of the saints proposal 
our veneration. We should { 
taken pleasure in retracing the I 
picture of that humble child 01 
people who represents France il 
illustrious group of the Blei 
of that little shepherdess of Pi 
whose name will henceforth be | 
ular in the fatherland of Gcn« 
and Joan of Arc* But who ai 
us has not heard of Gemiaine ; 
sin, her poor and stiifering lifii 

• Vif, r,rlHt rl Mir*tln J» Is n. G*i 
Cmtin, t<rr*^- ft M. Louis VcuUlot., 



Ik 109. 



■ 



The Martyrs of Gorcum. 



71 



Uc virtues, the marvellous favors 

to her intercession ? And who 

■add to the glorj' of this young 

who, in addition to the honor 

being placed upon our altars, has 

ad such a hbtorian as M. Louis 

rewtlot and such a panegyrist as 

Bishop of Poitiers ? 

We propose, then, to follow those 

'taints who are at present less known 

tmong us, but which in the future 

lust not be strangers. It is a page 

the history of the church which 

Id be made prominent, and in de- 

ing our time to it we are sure of 

staining tlie approbation of him 

vhom God has given us to be at 

•Oocc our Father and our Master. 



We are aware that even the name 
of the martjTs of Gorcum was until 
recently quite unknown to the great- 
er part of the learned. Modem histo- 
rians are not accustomed to eulogize 
the merits of the victims of schism 
and heresy. But the church never 
fc(]gets her children who have perish- 
ed In the cause of God ; and God 
\ims< ' care of his sen'ants 

bjr nv. , .; miracles ox^x their 
tOOlM. These nineteen martyrs of 
who suffered for the faith 
the 9lh of July, 1573, were placed 
ranks of the blessed by Cle- 
X. In 1675. and since that 
ttne tbey have always been held in 
reatcst veneration in Belgium 
jltand. It is now almost three 
since our Holy Father, yield- 
to one of those inspirations of 
'iAidi his life is full, felt the desire 
Utat the supreme honors of the 
cfaorch should be paid to these noble 
npions of Jesus Christ ; and 
6ib, :86s, the day of the 
ty, his holiness caused a 
U) be read in his presence, 
the proceedings to be in- 



stituted for their solemn canoniza- 
tion. The preamble of the decree 
deserves notice, it says: "Bom of the 
blood of Jesus Christ and nourished 
with the blood of martyrs, the Cath- 
olic Church will be exposed to bloody 
persecutions until the end of the 
world. .\nd it is not without a mar- 
vellous design of divine Providence 
that the cause of these illustrious vic- 
tims of the Calvinistic heresy of the 
si.xteenth century is taken up and 
completed in these unhappy days, 
when heretics and false brothers are 
recommencing a war, an implacable 
war, against Jesus Christ, against 
his holy church, and against this 
holy apostolic see." The Holy Fa- 
ther expressed the same thought in 
a discourse which followed the pro- 
mulgation of the decree. "The 
Most High," said he, "has reserved 
for this time the glorification of these 
Holl.-ind martyrs, to prove to our 
century, full of scorn or indifference 
for the revealed faith and plunged in 
the grossest materialism, that the 
memory of the martjr is never for- 
gotten in the church of Jesus Christ, 
that there are always men ready to 
shed their blood for that faith, and a 
supreme authority which is always 
ready to recognize their merits." 

The object of the sovereign pontiff 
is not uncertain ; it is to call the at- 
tention of the world to the fact of the 
continual recurrence of martyrs in the 
church ; to cite these heroes, who 
have sealed the faith with their blood, 
as an example and a witness ; such 
has been the special aim in canoniz- 
ing the martyrs of Gorcum. Far be 
it from the holy church to stifle the 
voice of blood which has flowed 
from the veins of her children for 
nineteen centuries I This blood, shed 
in every land from the most barbar- 
ous to the most cultivated, bears wit- 
ness everywhere that the mother of 
martyrs is aJ so the faithful s]^\ise oi 



74 



The Martyrs of Gcrcum. 



Je5us Christ. The Catholic Church 
is peculiarly a wiZ/wss, while the sects 
about us are founded on negation 
and douht. Our blessed Lord was 
the first witness, and the truth of 
his testimony he has sealed on the 
cross and in his cruel passion ; the 
apostles were witnesses to him who 
had sent them and the doctrine 
they were bidden to teach ; they 
have gone to give their testimony to 
the Good Master ; and now their faith 
and prayers sustain their children 
even to Jhe extremities of the earth, 
making them gladly choose to die 
sooner than deny that faith which 
cost the Son of God his life. This 
illustrious testimony of blood has 
never ceased from the day of Calvary 
up to the present nineteenth century ; 
the succession of martyrs is like the 
church herself, for it knows no limits 
of time or space ; they are dying to- 
day in Cochin-China and Corca, as 
they have died in Japan in former 
years, as they have died in Europe, 
when Protestantism swept over that 
fair portion of the flock of Christ, 
and as millions died in the Roman 
Empire under the pagan Caesars, 
Look at what Rome offers to-day to 
the world : a noble army of martyrs 
gathered about Saints Peter and 
Paul, the victims of Nero, the vali- 
ant soldiers of such fearless chiefs ; 
the B. Josophat, Archbishop of Po- 
lotsk, slain by followers of the Mos- 
ccwite schism ; B. Peter of Arbues, 
murdered by Jews in the church of 
Saragossa ; our nineteen martyrs of 
Gorcum, the victims of the assassins 
of Calvinism ; and two hundred and 
five who sweetly yielded up their 
lives for the faith in Japan. 

Schism and heresy are always rea- 
dy to conceal the blood which stains 
so many pages of their annals, and to 
hide the crimes which dishonor their 
ancestors. But, if the living are silent, 
the dead are dow speaking to us from 



their tombs ; the victims of Pj 
tantism have risen from their g 
to bear witness to llie truth. ^ 
cannot thank Pius IX. too inu^ 
proposing for the veneration q 
dmrch these champions of the . 
who have fallen so gloriously ii 
struggles of modem society, ai 
the same battle-field, as it were, t| 
we continue to engage the foes d 
holy mother, the church. Noi 
we praise the historians enough 
have consecrated their talent t 
sacred work of writing the ac^ 
of these jsersecutions, and sha 
forth to Catholic and Protestan 
glorious record of these martyrs ^ 
sixteenth century. The time haj 
come to count our slain, that tl| 
membrance of their fortitude 
awake Christian faith and zeal U| 
souls. J 

The three centuries that have [ 
ed since the impious LutlieTi 
dared to raise the standard of ti 
against the holy church bear i 
semblance to the first centuries a 
Christian era. To-day Protcstaa 
is ready to fall to pieces ; it ij| 
" sick man" among the religion 
the world, as Turkey is amonj 
nations ; it b the time to prescnj 
well-meaning souls that its m) 
sects embrace with a clear vie] 
its origin, and of what it now lea| 
in its closing years. The reestal;|| 
ment of the hierarchy in £n^ 
and Holland, the restoration of 
episcopal see of Geneva, the be 
cation of h. Canisius. the third 
tennial anniversar)' of the counq 
Trent, and several other acts <4 
holy see show us the unity of 
Catholic Church compared wtti 
disorganization of the Protes 
sects, which are now, we can | 
say, without faith or law. We sht 
take care that those who have t 
misguided should know the vio 
means the so-called refoi 



led reformtf^ 



Tkt Martyn of Gorcum. 



75 



atmblUh their opinions. Their 
h iras stained with the b](Kid of 
pthfiil, and they have completed 
course by adopting atheism. 
h .5 been tiie sad storj' of Pro- 
■ m ; a destiny that must ever 
Mt (kte of those who oppose the 
ung of the church that our Lord 
ludden to convert the nations. 
linly do Protestants attempt to 
e tbc shameful acts of the hrst 
Dtmers " by showing its own 
i and frauiing a list of martjTs. 
wounds are glorious while the 
e they sustain is an iniquity ; 
bcfcsy can never be justified in 
rbellion against the church of 
St. If its apologists tell us that 
latkm is necessary in ortler to get 
ty, we deny this theory of the 
lying die means, of a bad 
d by unjust means. Let 
not speak of their martyrs. 
j$ one who witnesses, not 
bo protests ; a man who dies, 
tain a passionate and ob- 
ial, nor in defence of spe- 
inions and personal ideas, 
witness to seal the tradi- 
tcaching, to confirm the faith 
is sustained by unexceptiun- 
erure. A mart)'r is not a 
an instigator, and u|> 
civil war \ he lives without 
defends Uie truth witliout 
, suffers without vain exal la- 
dies without anger ; his 
irreproachable before God 
Would that heresy could 
such heroes ! We are only 
od and happy in presenting to 
and foes the picture of 
whose holy hands the 
the palm of martyr- 

Low Countries more than 

Protestantism has conceal- 

posterity its sanguinary 



and tyrannical instincts. It has [>er' 
fidiously taken advantage of the na- 
tional sentiment and appears clothed 
in the cloak of liberty. How many 
consider Philip IL a monster, tlie 
Duke d'Alba an executioner, and that 
they are solely responsible for all the 
blood shed in the Low Countries? 
But the time has come when we 
should no longer allow ourselves to 
be duped by hj-pocritical declama- 
tions against Catholic reprisals. They 
who have first taken arms and begun 
the war are held responsible for the 
bloo<l that is shed. 

One of the most learned students 
of modem history, Baron de Gerlache, 
said, in opening the congress of Ma- 
lines, on August 24th, 1864: "The 
history of the sixteenth centur)', writ- 
ten by Protestants and copied by 
Catholics, needs to be rewritten from 
beginning to end, from the real state- 
ment of the facts, which are contained 
in the archives of the church. Then 
Protestants will appear as they really 
are, such as they are now in Ireland 
and elsewhere, aggressive, violent, 
intolerant, inaugurating persecution 
when they are powerful enough, and 
demanding liberty when they are 
weak." These words sum up the 
histoiy of the pretended reform, act- 
ing its double part, the farce of liber- 
ty and the tragedy of blood, according 
to the number of its partisans. 

The seventeen provinces had un- 
fortunately prepared their country for 
the introduction of Protestantism ; 
their nobility was immoral and their 
people poorly instructed in their re- 
ligion, strongly attached to worldly 
goods, impatient of the control of iJie 
church, while continual wars kept the 
people in a state of excitement, and 
even the very geographical position 
of the country and its commercial 
relations contributed to open the way 
to the new and, as yet, unknown re- 
ligion. The church could t\ol oppose 



The Martyrs of Gorcum. 



the rapid gjowth of heresy ; there 
were but four episcopal sees in the 
whole territory ; and, although the 
colleges and abbeys were rich and 
numerous, they were subservient to 
the civil power. The church could 
neither guard them from the error, 
nor act with energy when it had ob- 
tained a foothold in the land. Charles 
v., who was aware of the seditious 
and anarchical character of the " re- 
form," put forth in vain all the se- 
verities of the law against its preach- 
ers ; he could not check the torrent. 
Error can scarcely be repressed by 
force when it meets no opposition in 
the conscience, and when it has al- 
ready gained a part of a people. 

The severity of Charles V., while 
it did not prevent the increase of the 
heresy, at least kept the dissenters 
from forming a sect powerful enough 
to menace the church or the state. 
Philip II. added nothing to the edicts 
of his father. And this despot, this 
tyrant, even made concessions to 
them that are to be regretted. Three 
thousand Spanish troops were in the 
Netherlands at that time, and they 
were sufficient to hold the rebels in 
check ; but, when they protested 
against the presence of these soldiers, 
Philip recalled them to Spain. Car- 
dinal GranvcUe aided the regent, 
Margaret of Parma, with his counsel : 
they protested against this able and 
worthy minister, and Philip gave him 
his dismi.ssal. Ever)'lhing served as 
a pretext for the disturbers ; the hy- 
pocritical and ambitious Prince of 
Orange, William of Nassau, the chief 
of the leaders who had taken the 
name of Gueux,* spread discontent 




lowt: J ' 

10 Man: < 

tfT the suvvrnmciit. 

tkii demofutntiim. 



Th« origin of the word UaiicJ- 
! Calrinntic drpulics were •cot 

.1 to protect :ii:a:" ' the meiwire* 
She U j'anmed ac 

when I niitnt mnI. 



aitiidmc 10 \\\K mean? 
intpniilent rcreiiirk wa 
by Ihe iniurxcDta u (hc:r iiiie. 



l..>..jfv) 

riiu 

sec tiouiiici t /iat> 



•s,toS< 
sto^H 



and insurrection on every 
found fault with all the meAsmi 
the government took and all t 
accused it of wishing to lake, 
creation of fourteen new blsh 
by the king with the consent i 
pope was looked upon as an 
geous act of tyranny. At la 
government was unarmed, then 
had been sufficiently worked uj 
their leaders, and the CaihoUc 
completely intimidated : the n 
the sects was now let loose to \ 
and destroy the fair fabric thS 
had raised in the land. VVe sh 
attempt to dcscriljc the hidea 
tumalias of the "reform;" we 
that to Protestant authors, to S4 
to Schoel, to Prescott. W( 
the latter a few lines to giw 
ers an idea of what leai 
tants say of their ancestoi 
work of pillage and devnstatJ< 
carried on throughout the oo 
Cathedrals and chapels, conven 
monasteries, whatever was a rd 
house, even ilio hospitals, wera 
up to the merciless reformer*, 
ther monk nor religious dared i 
]H:ar in their habit. From til 
time, priests were seen fleeinj 
some relic or sacred object tha 
desired to presen'e from pitlag!! 
the violence they did, they l 
ever>' outrage that could exprcsi 
scorn for the faith. In Flander 
hundred churches were sacked, 
ruin of the cathedral of AnvenI 
not be repaired for less than 
hundred thousatid tlucats. . . . 
becomes sad in seeing that th( 
efforts of the reformers were a 
directed against these monumc) 
genius, erected and made perfc< 
dcr the generous protection of C 
licism ; but, if the first steps < 
refonn have been made on the 
of art, the good it has produQ 

tt*n't*trt Vnhtrul i'HitMrw ti 4t <M«| 



Tht Martyrs of Gorcum, 



77 



cannot be denied, in 
chains that bound the 
and opening to it the 
of science, to which until 
cess had been refused." 
know how much this 
IS worth. 
now may we ask, if it be true 
ilip look too severe a ven- 
these outrages, if the 
Iva followed tlie rebels 
reasonable severity, if all 
said of them be multiplied a 
>, is there a single argu- 
i\ _ of that liberty of con- 
I which makes its way at the 
\ point ? Catholicism has 
lesitated to disavow and con- 
nil violence, and every coup 
one in her name ; she has al- 
bpanited from politicians who 
I to defend her in any other 
gUk she demands ; no " com- 
oo" can disarm her justice 
; criminal abuses which are 
d for "slate reasons." The 
n" which does not feel itself 
Bt ventures to proclaim an 
fna. which falls upon its own 
les and disciples. It is more 
Ir their historians to turn the 
[if posterity upon " the sallow 
before whom the people were 
»rilh terror," or upon the cx- 
of hb vengeance, " the ogre 
ig for human tlesh." Such 
% as M. Quinet tind material 
r their eloquence, (?) and sub- 
br *uch articles as suit the 
■'utcs. But history 
n ittetition to these 

ramahc eitusions. What es- 
can scholars demand when 
ilibenitely calumniate govern- 
Oiid nations in order to con- 
Kr heinous crimes jwrpetrated 
ame of free- ^ : or pam- 

\cn who I Kisly cir- 

e silly Stories of the inqui- 
h^ve not a word, a single 



word of blame for the sectarians who 
have covered Europe with blood and 
ruins ? 

To those who desire to know, 
without seeking far, the judgment of 
history upon these facts and persons, 
we counsel the reading of Feller, 
whose opinions always bear the 
stamp of truth. " The severity of 
tlie Duke of Alva — or, if you wish, 
his hardness, or even his inhumanity 
— was legal, and conformed most 
scrupulously to judicial proceeding, 
and forms a striking contrast with 
the chiefs of the rebellion and their 
tools, whose cruelties had no other 
rule tlian fanaticism and caprice. 
William of Marck, for example, the 
des Adrcts of the Low Countries, 
murdered in a single year (1572) 
more peaceable citizens and Catholic 
priests than the Duke of Alva exe- 
cuted rebels in the whole course of 
his administration."* To support his 
statements, Feller quotes three or 
four works which recount the atroci- 
ties of the Protestants. Wc shall 
content ourselves with a statement 
of the death of our nineteen martyrs, 
which happened in tliis same sad 
year, 1572, and by the orders of this 
same William of Marck, one of the 
most abominable of the wretches who 
figured in tive revolution of the six- 
teenth century. In this single ex- 
ample we shall see the barbarous 
fanaticism of the " reform," and the 
sublime virtues which distinguished 
these martyrs of the Catholic faith : 
error will show its power as a perse- 
cutor ; truth, the divine fortitude with 
which it vests its faithful champions. 

IV. 

The Duke of Alva had quelled the 
revolt : he had not rooted it out of 
the land, for its numerous ai d power- 

• Dittiomuun ffutorifur, titicle TolMe, Fer.'i- 
uul Alwet duftduc d'Albe. 



78 



Tfte Martyrs of Gorcum, 



fill razniiications were only waiting to 
begin a new life. The Prince of 
Orange, who had taken care to avoid 
the punishment due to his treason 
by a voluntar)' exile, was raising 
troops, conspiring and intriguing with 
the great Iconoclastic sect of Calvin 
and with the court of France, then 
under the influence of the Huguenots. 
The Admiral de Coligny advised him 
to build a fleet and attack the north- 
em provinces, where the " refomicrs" 
were in greater numbers. There had 
been Beggars on land, and now there 
were to be Beggars at sea ; they 
rivalled each other in massacre and 
sacrilege, to the great honor of the 
" reform" and the '* reformers," who 
by these means had obtained a par- 
tial triumph. We are aware that 
political prejudices are complicated 
uith this religious war ; but facts 
prove beyond doubt that these peo- 
ple were urged on by a deep hatred 
of the Catholic faith. 

A fleet of about forty sail had been 

'fitted out in the ports of England, 

and from thence, under the direction 

pf the ferocious William of Marck, 

^Ihe Beggars made their course across 

'the North Sea and along the coast 

jOf Flandtrs. The Duke of Alva 

'complained to Elizabeth, Queen of 

England, and as she did not wish 

\\ this time to break with Spain, she 

fave the corsairs orders to leave the 
ingdom. This was in the spring of 
^572. An adverse wind drove them 
\fyc\ the isle of Voom, at the mouth 
>f the Meuse ; the neighboring port 
''of Brie) was without defenders, and 
was captured by these Calvinists on 
April 1st, 1572. "They pillaged 
the convents and churches about the 
:ity, broke images, and destroyed 
11 that bore marks of the Roman 
Church."* '1 his town was fortified 

• Tkt DrUtht, ef tfu S'tlhtHamdt. A Cracral 
Hictury of the Scventcm frovincn. New fciim n. 









by the pirates, for whom i 

place of refuge, and afterw 

nucleus for insurrectic 

months after its occupat 

a captain, ascended the'' 

far as Gorcum. As sooti 

people saw his vessels. iHe^ 

shelter in the citadel ; n.lici 

priests hurriedly f 

sacred vessels and ol.,^. .- 

ration to this place of safety, 

ever, the town council and \ 

of magistrates began a pal 

Brandt, who assured thiM 

only desired religious l^BI 

that no outrage would be col 

by his followers. They 

gates. The band was it 

several of the inhabitant 

town, who were partisans of \ 

^^nistic rebellion, and they \ 

quired all the citizens to I 

oath of allegiance to Will 

Nassau, Prince of Orange, ^ 

royal of the Holland pn 

During this time that the rev 

ary troops had possession 

city, the comm.-inder of the 

still held out, but was ev« 

compelled to capitulate beci 

the failure of hoped for si 

Brandt solemnly promised ll 

their lives and give them thei 

ty ; but, scarcely had they tak 

session of the place, when, fin 

their oaths, they confined ih 

tims as prisoners. The laying 

finally released in consideral 

large sums of money, except 

who were put to death as firm 

lies and royalists ; the pries 

religic>us, nineteen in numb 

mained : they could hope for 

liverance but that of martyrdo 

'i'hen the scenes that are « 

curring in the church, the see 

the p.ission of our Lord, were n 

ed. As our divine Saviour had 

dergo the outrages of a brut 

dicry, 80 did these heroes 




The Martyrs of Gordon. 



; they, like him, were forced 

gh crowrds of iniiiriated peo- 

•ted them with scom- 

i >, with blows, and 

and mocker)', and impreca- 

, last of all, with the gibbet. 

In the midst of this display oC rage 

»nd hale, our heroes were entirely 

tranquil, blessing God, praying for 

llkeir executioners, encouraging each 

otftcr to bear their sufferings with 

:;ladly offering their lives as 

;....„ny to their sincerity in pro- 

1 -ing the dogmas denied by the 

>• .t'lN ; in one word, they bore 

Ti'. i-> . es as true witnesses of our 

I. ■ si,.;uld- 

! ae lActs of their martyrdom have 

brcn tiild by well-informed historians. 

O"!. who leaves nothing hidden in 

'i lives of those whom he has de- 

! 'i>i';l to honor, raised witnesses 

: . r -ii ■ to the merits of Those who 

"..--: SI h f.iithful witnesses of his 

^ li Hisiury celebrated their tri- 

i;, ijh vrhilc waiting for the church to 

^-uuwn them. One of the most in- 

^^bcpid of the martyrs, Nicholas 

^HhecV ' <x of the Franciscans, 

^Ptad . living at Gorcum, who 

' WIS a witness to these events, and 

^wlko is now known as the celebrated 

^^Vtlfiam Estius, chancellor of the 

^^^verstty of Douai. He collected 

^^BI the facts that were known, and 

^^len wrote a complete history of 

martyrdom, which reflects so 

credit upon his country and 

A young Franciscan novice, 

ggcd for mercy when he was to 

ted, lived to tell of the firm- 

these confessors of the faith ; 

us Heuterus, who was 

1 to the grace of mar- 

te the story in Holland 

\ is useless, however, to 

lict of our authorities ; for 

no pages in the annals of the 

more luminous than the acts 

nineteen martyrs. SurelyGod 




{bcir 




has wished to erect from their heroic 
virtue a monument to the sanctity 
of the church and to the satanic 
character of this heresy.* 

As we have already said, there 
was but one way to please these Cal- 
vinistic executioners, and that was to 
renounce the faith ; but their victims 
chose rather to endure all the suf- 
fering that their malignant ingenuity 
could suggest. The martyrs affirmed 
successively tlie right of the church 
to impose laws in the name of God, 
the divine maternity of the Blessed 
Virgin, and the veneration which is 
due to the real presence of Jesus 
Christ in the sacrament of the altar 
and the primacy of the pope. 

The first day of their captivity 
{June 27th) was a Friday. They 
had no food offered them but meat, 
from which they cheerfully abstained, 
rather than put in doubt their fidelity 
to the precepts of the church. There 
was but one who thought it neces- 
sary for him to take some nourish- 
ment, and he was one of those who 
did not persevere to the end. 

In the following night, a band of 
Protestants rushed into their cell and 
pretended that they had come \.o ex- 
ecute them immediately. " Behold 
me," said Leonard Vechel, the aged 
pastor of Gorcum, " I am ready." 
His assistant, Nicholas Van Poppel, 
was dared to repeat what he had so 
often preached in the pulpit. "Will- 
ingly," he answered, " and at the 
price of every drop of my blood, I 
confe.ss the Catholic faith ;, above all, 
the dogma of the real presence of 
Jesus Christ in the holy eucharist." 

• The work of Batiut, HuUrur Mtsrtyrum Gfr- 
cinmifntium LiMQmaimn', wa* fint printed in Doua! 
in 1603. It wa» »fler»'3trd rcpublLthtd. with note* and 
a tupplemcnt, by M. Keus«cn, profcuior in (h« uni- 
Tenuiyof Lmiviiii. A French translation of Estius 
■ppearcd it Dou»i in «6oft, under the title, Histcir* 
VtrilaNt d*i Atartyrt <U Gomtm tn HoIIjihcU, etc. 
Acta SaKCtrrmm, t. Mvii. ad 9 Jiilii. fol. 7J6-S47. 
Htftiiufi HUtorifuit del TnmUet Htt Payt-Bat oar 
Xi'JI. SiicU. Par E. It de Cavrinei. Dauniime 
MiL Bnudtes, VromtDt. iS6$. 




8o 



The Martyrs of Gorcum. 



They then threw a rope about his 
neck and began to strangle him ; the 
superior of the Franciscans was treat- 
ed in the same way ; they were both 
choked until they fainted, when the 
ruffians held their torches to the faces 
of their victims, recalling their lives 
in this gentle way I " After all," said 
one of the monsters, " they are only 

L monks. Of what account are they ? 

H Who will trouble themselves about 

V them ?" 

I On July 2d, the feast of tlie Visita- 

H tion of the Blessed Virgin, Father 
H Leonard was released for a short 

V time, as his friends had purchased 
^L^permissionforhim to say Mass, The 
^^■Heourageous pastor, in an address to 

" his flock, extolled the virtues of our 
blessed Lady, and when concluding 
urged them to remain firm in the faith 
of their fathers. This purchased for 
him increased tortures on his return 
to the prison. 

John Van Omal, the apostate ca- 
non of Lifege, was the hero of an- 
other of these prctentled executions. 
He was more than a Judas, for he 
was not only a traitor, but it was 
through his eflforts that the execution 
finally took place. Enraged at hav- 
ing been foiled in his attack on Bom- 
mel, (July 3d,) he determined to re- 
venge himself on the priests and re- 
ligfious of Gorcum. At that time the 
liberation of the captives was spoken 
of, as some members of the town 
council had been sent to the Prince 
of Orange to beg him to release them. 
The apostate, after reflecting upon 
the possibility of their release, con- 
cluded that he had better take them 
to the Count of Marck, who was at 
his headquarters in Briel. In the mid- 
dle of ihenight of the 5th, they were 
hurried, scarcely clothed and with- 
out food, on board of a vessel, which 
rapidly descended the Meuse. They 

I reached Dordrecht at nine o'clock, 
and Van Omal had an opporttinity 



to satisfy his malice by exposing I 
venerable band to the idle curiosit 
and unfeeling taunts of a Calvinisti 
mob. They arrived at Briel in 
evening, but were detained on 
the vessel all night, so that the nei 
of their coming might be well knou 
and tlieir foes properly prepared_ 
torture them. On the mqr 
the 7 th, the count, who esteeme 
self particularly fortunate in havir 
these poor monks and religious 
torment, ordered them to march 
procession through the town 
chose for himself a most uneov 
able position, that of riding bel; 
his unfortunate prisoners, with 
huge whip, and unfeelingly bca.ll 
them as they made their way throuj 
the throngs of infuriated 
That nothing should be want 
this humiliating scene, he cor 
ed the martyrs to sing : a Tlr . 
was first intoned, and then a 
Rcgina. He sought to turn the 
into ridicule ; but their her 
made them sublime. 

The afternoon of the 7lh 
the following morning were t 
up by discussions wiili the mi 
ters in the presence of the count 
The generous soldiers of Christ 
tained their belief firmly and wit 
dignity ; they bore witness partic 
larly to the dogma of the eucharist,! 
and to the supremacy of the RomanJ 
pontiff. " Renounce the pope,' 
they to Father Leonard, " or you ' 
hang." " How," answered he, " he 
can you contradict yourselves in 
way? You are always proclaiminj 
that you wish for religious liberty^ 
and that no one has the right 
prevent tlie exercise of your wof-j 
ship. And now you desire to force ' 
me to deny my faith 1 It is better for 
me to die than to be untrue to mf 
conscience." 

However, a letter came from Gor- 
cum, in which William of Nassau or- , 



1 

r- 

J 



The Martyrs of Goratm. 



8t 



« dauscs of the convention 
a6th to be strictly observed 

d t ■ rs. This, of 

>n 1 the Count 

k, who saw that his prey 
cape him. As he was going 
ifber one of the orgies which 
situal wnth him, he cast his 
lin «>vcf the note of the 
rf Orange. He then for the 
s perceived that Brandt had 
s only a copy of the order, 
pres€r%*ed the original. This 
s a pretext for a display of 
Idft temper, and he declared 
Hk master of the place, and 
high time for it to be 
nn ortler was issued at 
t prisoners and con- 
_ i L u Rugge,* a convent 
,d sacked when he first 
icL The torture began 
o'clock in the morning 
ibe 9th of July ; it 
by shameful out- 
we prefer to pass over 
Their captivity had last- 
ys» of which nine were 
irum. 

ineteen prisoners who 

from that city, only six- 

de>ith. Three priests 

filled the gaps in their 

" A mj^terious judg- 

ividencc, of which there 

n one example in the 

e martyrs. There were 

led to martyrdom, and 

of some did not prevent 

being preser\'ed to the 

. Cahier, S.J.) We have 

two of these unhappy 

horn God deigned to 

himself ; the third en- 

le service of the Count of 

was hung three months 

Img. But apostasy did 

f-Ho'UiwI liirv recently rrptir- 

nt for t(>,ooo florins. It will 

(e for tlie jHoni pexiple of 




not always preserve life, for we read 
that the cur^ of Maasdam was put to 
death eight day? after the mart}TS, 
although he had renounced the pa- 
pacy. 

William of Marck at last received 
his reward from a just Providence ; 
he was bitten by one of his dogs, 
and died in the most horrible agony, 
amid shrieks of rage and despair. 
It is a general law ; the Neros are 
plunged in the depths of shatnc and 
despair, while martjTS ascend to their 
eternal glory. Eighteen centuries 
after his crucifixion, Peter receives 
the honors of a triumph such as 
kings have never had ; three centu- 
ries after their torment, the nineteen 
martyrs of Gorcum are venerated in 
every comer of the earth where 
Cliristianity is known. 

We present to our readers the 
names of these martyrs : Fathers 
Nicholas Pieck, superior of the Fran- 
ciscans; Jerome Werdt; Thierry 
Van Emden ; N. Janssen ; Willehad 
Danus, a venerable old man of ninety 
years who did not cease repeating 
Deo Gratias during the twelve days 
of his confinement ; Antony Werdt ; 
Godfrey Mervel ; Antony Hoornaer ; 
Francis de Roye, who was scarcely 
twenty-four years of age, being the 
youngest of the martyrs ; Cornelius 
Wyk, and Peter Assche. The fore- 
going were all Friars Minor. The 
Dominicans had a representative in 
the person of Father John, of the pro- 
vince of Cologne, who was captured 
while going to baptize an infant 
Father Adrian Beek and his curate, 
F. James Lacops, were seized on the 
night of the seventh or morning of 
the eighth of July and sent to Briel, 
where they joined those who had 
come from Gorcum ; they were both 
Premonstrants, There was a canon 
of Sl Augustine, John Oosterwyk, 
who was directing a convent of the 
order at Gorcum. When he heard 



The Martyrs of Gorcum. 



that his own convent (that of Ten 
Ruggje, the place of martyrdom) was 
sacked and the religious put to death, 
he exclaimed, " Oh I may our Lord 
deign to grant that I may die as 
they have I" How exactly was his 
prayer granted ! The following were 
seculars : Leonard Vechel ; Nicholas 
Van Peppel ; Godfrey Van Duynen, 
a doctor of theology and formerly 
rector of the university of Paris ; he 
had merited by his pure life the 
crown of martyrdom that he receiv- 
ed when more than seventy years of 
age ; and, lastly, Andrew Wouters, 
who was taken near Dordrecht, and 
who was the third substitute for those 
who shrank from the tr}'ing ordeal. 



We are not astonished that God by 
miracles, and the holy church by 
her veneration, has made this epi- 
sode of the religious persecution of 
the Netherlands so prominent. If 
we will but reflect, it offers to us the 
most precious teaching ; it presents 
one of those striking proofs which 
are sure to convince the good sense 
of the people. A cause which suc- 
ceeds by such crimes as this is 
already judged ; we are not called 
upon to condemn it. And if this is 
the cause of a " rrformed religion," 
what need has any honest man of 
any further arguments to convince 
him of its error? Was Christianity 
established in the Roman empire 
by overturning the government and 
giving up its inoffensive citizens to 
pillage, to outrage, and to murder? 
Does the "liberty of conscience" 
preached by the " reform" resemble 
the liberty that the church a.sked 
of the Caesars, and which she is 
asking of Protestant governments to- 
day? The champions of this modem- 
♦'liberty" imposed their doctrines 



upon unwilling people at the 
of the sword, while its op| 
gave their blood in defence 
religious rights. In countries^ 
Protestantism did nri i 

self by an unrelenting . t 

people eagerly returned lo did 
of their fathers, the very violeJ 
the sects causing a healthful 
tion.* And this was also th< 
with the greater part of the 
inces of die Netherlands, which 
ly throw off the yoke of W 
of Orange and returned lo 
former allegiance — an exampl 
wavering faith being revived 
lawlessness of its opponents, 
sectaries retained only seven 
seventeen provinces, now Icno" 
Holland, and which were iw 
with the blood of faitlifu! C 
priests. The martjTS of 
were only a little band of 
army of Jesus Christ In thi 
1572, there were more martyrs 
Low Countries th.an in all thi 
ceding centuries together: 
die of tlie republic of Holland fl( 
in a sea of Catholic blood. | 
We wonder what learned ani 
cere Protestants, such as M. 
think in their hearts of these 
pages of their ancestors ? D 
believe in the " compensation 
Mr. Prcscott talks about, ani 
such dreadful crimes were n^ 
to purchase freedom of con: 
which, after all, is only penni 
believe nothing ? " Notwit 
ing the disorders it cause<l," 
M. Guizot, " and the faults !t 
mitted, the reform of the sixt 
century has rendered tomndcm 
two great sen'ices." M. Guizoi 
the truth ; it has. It has giv< 

• " France," M^s 11 PnitoUnt liUtoruuv* 

haviDi; been almnM rcfinm- ' ' '' "1 
«ulc, KoraanCaltiollc. Tli< 1 

into the Kale, <4u>cd il I" 
A)mI UMAhcr twurd. th^i 
tclva^ iaMred th« tiilur* «! 



ttholic Church a noble anny of 
tf and confirmed the promise 
' Lord to Peter, when he de- 
' the gates of hell shall not 
against the church." " It 
ifonxi) reanimated, even among 
lersaries, the Christian faith."* 
ks Imprinted upon European 
f a decisive movement toward 
;**t Liberty for whom and lib- 
r what ? For Calvinistic Hol- 
t was the liberty of civil war, 
lerty to rob unprotected con- 
the liberty to circulate immoral 
"the liberty to follow licentious 
I, to desecrate the churches, 
bove all, the liberty to per- 
i|he adherents of Catholicism, 
ir must necessarily persecute, 
k is the only way in which it 
edominate ; it never feels suf- 
y protected against the tmth 
rhich it has obtained a tem- 
ph. It is first the tyranny 
, and then the tj-ranny of 
Public opinion has long 
posed upon by followers of 
form," for they have cried so 
- freedom and lib- 
: that few have 
the trouble to ascertain the 
their acts have invariably 
words. But history, 
been made an accomplice 
luston, is now effectually 
it. If we attribute the 

rH, Guixot't •uthoniy 
tUie nKwt learned 

' TtuiT* wboRi I 

aty. 

iImtc I '- :hey 

mpHpelhs , „, : .....ivin- 

■od tKtvlous ; changed, m £ict, 

. . . Luxury, avarice, ant] 

t amcMint them than atoon^tboM 

. . . 1 have KCQ none who 

feem auil< none hy iheir gMpcI." 

ttUtmi G*rtm»ii^ (ti/triarii.) " fjha 

' «p» L«tll«f, ** «T« BOW Kven^Id mora 

llUT ««r« bciurc tli« Refurmaiion. 

I •> w« hear tb« tpm.ft.\, we deal, lie, 

, aaOl. and CDmntit crer^ crime. . . . 

iteanuilUideipKc the wordof Co<i" 

, cA ait tool, iii pt s>t>) 

if JttdM QHHtttimtt «<■ >86i. 

Ik*- 




their 



introduction of religious toleration to 
Protestantism, it is not because it 
has practised it, but because it has 
made it necessary. Truth has to- 
lerated error, while error has conti- 
nually sought to exterminate the 
truth. The principle of religious to- 
leration was introduced by Catholic 
governments, where heresy triumph- 
ed ; as in England, Sweden, and Hol- 
land, the most severe laws were enact- 
ed against the former faith, laws so 
cruel that we can say they were 
written in blood, and that the church 
has been for the past three centuries 
in a state of martyrdom in those 
countries. We shall notice briefly 
some of the enactments of Holland ; 
but, before we do so, we will brief- 
ly refiite a sophism by which the 
Protestants attempt to palliate their 
atrocities. The history of Protestant- 
ism is so constituted that, before 
any question can be discussed, it is 
necessary to remove a number of ob- 
jections due either to ignorance or 
prejudice. 

Religious intolerance, say they, was 
a characteristic feature of the people 
of the middle ages. The church 
held its authority to be a fundamen- 
tal principle, and, seeing this put in 
danger, it forgot the rights of liberty 
and used force and the arm of civil 
power to enforce it dogmas. On the 
other hand, after liberty conquered 
its rights, it unfortunately went be- 
yond its doctrines, and even embraced 
the opposite principle. Thus Chris- 
tians persecuted each other, until the 
progress of society led them to mu- 
tual respect. But the illogical posi- 
tion of Protestantism is apparent: 
it begins a war in the name of reli- 
gious liberty, and finishes by putting 
the church in a state of siege ! The 
church was, at least, consistent, for 
she never said that men were free to 
deny their Maker and adopt a reli- 
gion of their own brain \ or thai tbe^ 



A 



The Martyrs of Gorcnw. 



possessed an imprescriptible right 
to preach and disseminate false doc- 
trine. An illustrious bishop who 
lives now among the children of the 
reformation, lately showed them on 
the forehead of their mother this sign 
of contradiction, and defended the 
honorable consistency which exists 
between the doctrines and the acts 
of the church. "The church dis- 
tinctly holds that society, as well 
as the family, has its duties to Je- 
sus Christ, and tliat God is equally 
the Master and Lord of man, re- 
garded as an isolated indi\'idual, as 
of man in social relations with his 
fellows. She looks back with joy 
upon the times when, seeing her lib- 
erty protected, she became the in- 
spirer of the Christian republic. . . 
But, if she has thankfully received 
the protection of the sword which 
viiylJcated lier justice, and shielded 
her weakness when she was forced 
upon the defensive, she has never 
wished it to be used to impose doc- 
trine ; faith is not a forced belief, 
but a free adhesion of both mind and 
heart to revealed truth. Liberty of 
conscience, in its proper sense, far 
from being scouted and condemned 
by the church, is the essential condi- 
tion of her spiritual sovereignty." 

It was not enough to attempt to 
overturn the secular throne of the 
spouse of Christ, the queen of Euro- 
pean civilization ; it must be put in 
chains and confined in dungeons. 
Let us cite some of the proscrip- 
tions of tlie Protestants in Holland : 

"1596. — The Jesuits are forbid- 
den to enter the country. Whoever at- 
tends their seminaries or universities 
shall be banished from the country." 

" 1602. — 1st. The police are order- 
ed to arrest any Jesuit, monk, or priest 
of the papist religion, 

" ad. The people are forbidden to 
take any oath or make any promise 
to maintain the power of the Pope of 



Rome. Public or privat 
sermons, or collections in favd 
papal superstition are prohibil 

Another placard decrees '*ihi 
person in holy orders shall 1< 
country in less than six dayi 
pain of arrest and being puni 
an enemy to the countr)*.** 
also forbidden Catholic teac 
instruct their pupils, if dthel 
parents had been of the refon 
ligion J and to will any mone] 
priest, religious, or for any hos 
religious edifice. i 

This will be sufficient tO| 
Protestant readers an idea of 
erty of conscience which floitfi 
Holland. Many endeavor ii 
times to hide the accu ' 
these acts, and to con^ 
manner in Which the reltgioi^ 
forefathers has been overcon 
the day is breaking, the shati 
heresy are fast fading away, al 
will not be able to bring tha 
again. Pius IX., in an alloci 
consistory on March 7th, 1851 
ed to the lamentable calamil 
church had suffered in the 1 
lands. The court of HoUan 
did not desire to acknovrle<| 
odious acts of its former govet 
sent a letter to the Roman coi 
testing against these historici 
sions. The .ible minister of t] 
see replied to this effrontwy 
following language : " The po 
document onlypoinled out, in p 
something that is fully told cm 
by Catholic, but also by Pro 
historians, who are interested 
ing impartially the true hi&tot} 
facts."* 

1 here is but one resource £ 
testant powers who blush at 
tolerance of those who have pri 
them, and tltis is to strike fFon 

• Note of hii eminence, Clrdini) i 
"Ami 4r U Jttiigitm," t cl«L Na «}) 



A 



The Martyrs of Gorcum. 



85 



W anjust proscriptions they have 
d against Catholicism. We owe 
Btice to say that, wliile several 
tant countries, Sweden, for ex- 
retain these unjust enact- 
, HoUand is steadilj' giving 
^ former fanaticism, and has 
entered into the way of reli- 
ia>erty. 

VI. 

persectitlon of the sword and 
» h.! :>strated the cruet 

fpocr T racter of tliis her- 

; the same time it has proved 
.ind stability of the church. 
;an once in these nineteen 
' een attempted to 
in from the heart 
Russia is trying to do 
. . i ot know that they have 
ftaccceded. Even under Mo- 
Idan rule, the church has maia- 
■ iL"« ejni.stence for more than 
I 'js in Turkey and in 

t.i ; and though it has 
one continu.^1 persecution. 
tsC innumerable multitudes 
martyrdom, it counts to-day 
r very countries mure than 
itliotts of faithful children.* 
an, where missionaries had 
jr time to sow the seeds of Ca- 
ruth before a savage war was 
upon it, its roots are still Liv- 
J show after two centuries an 
^nog fidelity to the faiin.! 



^E^' 






XbhetB I'. 



X. p. 

• »* 

'liote 

iote- 
hc re- 

Iniv©- 

lliS of 



§■■■ JlpancM itiutfTX ntiT ailJcd to 
|lrf uiiii^ * fiTM ]r<an .Jii. ihere wcr« 



Heresy, inspired with the same 
fury as paganism and Islamism, has 
exhausted every resource to destroy 
the ancient faith: the young and 
flourishing churches of England and 
Holland proclaim its failure. The 
Catholics have vanquished by faith 
those who overcame them by force ; 
the blood of martjTS is always tiie 
seed of its liberty and life. Three 
centuries have passed, and God, 
through his vicar, pronounces the 
word of resurrection : PutUa, tibiJko^ 
surge. And she has risen, weak, but 
glorious and full of hope ; her fair 
countenance again shines over the 
land of St. Boniface and St. Willi- 
brord, making even heretics tremble 
at her marvellous life. Poor fana- 
tics I You said formerly, " Renounce 
the pope, or you will be hung ;" but 
how has God and the children of 
those martyrs revenged your cruelty ! 
The pope yet rules at Rome ; he ap- 
points bishops in your cities to gov- 
ern your sees ; he places your victims 
on the altar ; your fellow-citizens ve- 
nerate these victims. The hour of 
the complete return of Holland to 
Christianity cannot be much longer 
delayed. The canonization of the 
martyrs of Gorcum is an additional 
element of strength for Catholics, 
while it must cause the most bigoted 
of its opponents to reflect upon the 
failure of Protestantism to overthrow 
" the abominations of popery. " 
" When Rome," says the great bish- 
op of Poitiers — " when Rome glorifies 
the saints of heaven, she never fails 
to multiply the saints of earth." 

foan>! t "^ '-'-<- > rhnunnds of ChriiHuii who 

had, .>.ii|ioul 4ny human miniriry 

(olciv ; « mI giurdian aimelk. "^/^ 

count fir.!Hcuiu.-d i'/ the H»ly FMktr a» Ikt Pr*- 
mule-^iitm f/ Ike Dtcrt* nlativt to (Mt UttUificittam 
tf 1*4 »5 Altriyr, ef Jo^h, April 30, 1867. 



86 



Carlyles Sfiooting Niagara. 



CARLYLE'S SHOOTING NIAGARA. 



Of the many expressive words 
with which the English language has 
been endowed few are more forcible 
t!ian the little term " bosh." For a 
long time we have in vain tried to 
discover a synonym with which to 
relieve it from too frequent use, and 
we think tliat Carlyle's last " essay" 
has gratified our patience. Thomas 
Carlyle is what the world sometimes 
calls a philosopher. No one can 
deny that he is a man of excellent 
abilities. Having been an extraor- 
dinarily close observer of men and 
things from his earliest childhood — 
and he is now seventy-two years old — 
and having, from his first apjiearance 
in Bintislirs Encydo^dia, gone 
through a literary career of forty-four 
years with extraordinary success, 
the world is naturally interested in 
any criticism he may see fit to pro- 
[Oouncc upon it. He will he judged, 
f iiowever, us severely as he judges, by 
Miose who have placed him upon the 
ittle pedestal from wliich he looks 
down. People are anxious to know 
whether in his old age he ought to 
be dethroned. Naturally of a serious 
and taciturn mind, having been 
buried from his youth amid the 
works of the most sombre and 
gloomy of Germany's tlieorlzers, 
and given ever to solitude and medi- 
tation, it was not surprising that his 
'writings ever displayed excessive 
tbittcrness, and a distrust of 'human 
lljature more than Calvinistic ; but, 
lifhcn wc heard that, in the good old 
age to which Providence had brought 
him, he had written his ideas upon 
the present state of societ)-, we ex- 
pected to find a little more of kind- 
I ness and of love of truth than had 
[been displayed by Diogenes Teufels- 



riiita 



drockh, the *• Great Censor 
Age." We must regard 5 
Niagara as the rifttmt 
thoughts of Carlyle's life. C 
out of his solitude, as he tclla 
grapple with the problem of 
democracy is drifting, and rtt 
as he does, " that it is not alwi 
part of the infinitesimally sm; 
nority of wise men and good < 
to be silent," we expected, v. 
of his modesty, to meet sow 
interesting and profitable. I 
ed we have been, and so woi 
be at seeing the con\'ulsion 
shark brought to grief upa 
strand. The only profit we h 
ceived is the knowledge a 
miserably small prejudice can 
a great mind. In the present 
Carlyle has used to perfect 
that curious style for whidi 
enjoyed celebrity among mi 
celebrity obtained pretty mu< 
that of certain metaphysicians, 
obscurity makes some give 
credit for profundity. As 
opinions Carlyle always chooa 
more uncharitable, so, of ! 
of expressing an idea, he invT 
adopts the more obscure, lt\l 
and verbose. In our endel 
illustrate his position, we hav< 
obliged to select his more pi 
simple passages, with a sacrifi< 
often to the strength of oul 
opinions, which would have bo 
tcrially increased had we wis 
try the patience of our n 
Paragraph No. i is dcvotq 
kind of clouding over of the 
matter, in anticipation of the 
lian thunder to follow. Wc a 
however, that there are *• thro 
gellter new and very con&idi 



CarfyUs Sfuoting Niagara. 



97 



ements lying ahead of usj" 
e first is, that Democracy is to 
:te itself and run on till each 
. " free to follow his own nose, 
' of guide-post, in this intricate 
' If the length of a man's 
indicates correct perception, 
ordinary power of separating 
from cha^ then, though Mr. 
;'s nose may be a post, it must 
exy small one. The second 
vement" is the deliquescence 
al evaporation of all religions. 
in "achievement" would be 
-fill, but how it can be terrible 
Carlyle we do not know ; for 
have no concern about future 
tion, having been born, it 
seem, without a soul. The 
'achievement" is, that "every- 
ihall start free, and every- 
under enlightened popular suf- 

The race shall be to the 
ind the high office shall fall to 
ID is ablest, if not to do it, at 
) get elected for doing it" 
is M* " achievement" Of all 
:s which the prescient genius 
-lyle has dealt his gushing 
tiiis is the "unkindest cut 

/fine those tears, Ainc those 
rs, /it'w all that follows. With 
reption of a few hundred un- 
ant digressions, the slashing 
e "achievements" is the ob- 
Carlyle's endeavor, 
commencement of paragraph 
characteristic of Mr. Carlyle, 
:ver omits a chance of show- 
nowledge of classic lore. He 
it once into your face the ter- 
.ntoninus with the cry, " Who 
hange the opinion of these 
?' The quoted prophecy was 
ly Greek to Mr. Carlyle, as 
sks it proves that what, in- 
Jly taken, is the human face 
becomes, when collectively re- 
, a cheese ; and that, when 
nan head is regarded in the 



masses, it has about as much intellect 
as a cocoanut In some of his para- 
graphs he tries to prove a point or 
so, but in this one he plainly shows 
that he cannot change the opinion 
of the masses, erroneous though it 
be. He asserts that delusions seize 
whole communities without any basis 
for their notions ; he will not admit 
the possibility of there being even a 
false one. He asserts that the world 
reverberates with ideas eagerly made 
his own by each individual, and 
affects to believe that the original 
propagator had no arguments to en- 
force their adoption ; nay, he seems 
to ignore the existence of the first pro- 
pounder, and to admit that thoughts 
are, like cholera or any other pest, 
inhaled with the air. To be sure, as 
though he felt the absurdity of his 
position, he invents a swartnery 
theory, in which he contends that 
ideas get into the masses by means 
of some " commonplace, stupid bee," 
who gets "inflated into bulk," and 
forms a swarm merely on account of 
his bulk. But he forgets that the 
"bulk" of his specimen-bees, Cleon 
the Tanner and John of Leyden, 
was, in the first case, the flattery 
poured upon the people, and, in the 
second, a religious fanaticism based 
upon well-defined though erroneous 
grounds. Two better specimen-bees 
for a swarmery theory could not have 
been selected than the Athenian 
general and the fierce anabaptist; 
but in neither case did the people 
swarm unless for what they regarded 
as honey. To say the people may 
err is to say they are not God ; but to 
contend that they are insensible to 
argument is worse than foolish. Were 
the laboring classes of England whom 
Carlyle so severely berates but so 
many swarmerkSy he would be drown- 
ed in a horse-pond ; but as his theory 
is false, he will live a little longer — a 
specimen of prostituted intellect and 



Carlyles Shooting N^iagara, 



self-crushed humanity such as many 
of his school have already preseiued 
for the firmer conviction of their op- 
ponents. Mr. Carlyle thinks our late 
war was "the notablest result of swar- 
mery." He calls " the nigger ques- 
tion one of the smallest essentially," 
and says that " the Almighty Maker 
has made him (the negro) a servant." 
With regard to the first of these tAvo 
opinions, the mass of humanity dis- 
agree with the perceptive Thomas ; as 
for the second, not having been pre- 
sent when the ordinance was promul- 
gated, we cannot deny that possibly 
Mr. Carlyle knows more of the matter 
than we do. But, when we are told 
that, "under penalty of Heaven's 
curse, neither party to this preap- 
pointment shall neglect or misdo 
his duties therein — and it is certain 
that ser\'antship on the nomadic 

{>rinciple, at the rate of so many shil- 
Ings a day, tannot be other than mis- 
done" — we thank Providence that all 
armed men are not Carlyles. Take 
away the right of the laborer to leave 
his master when he feels he can bet- 
ter himself, and the earth would be- 
come a pandemonium. Lest his posi- 
tion may be mistaken Mr. Carlyle tells 
lis that the reladon between master and 
sen'ant must become like wedlock, 
which was once nomadic, but is now 
permanent. To refute such " philoso- 
phy" would be to notice the ravings 
of a madman. In commenting upon 
the Reform movement, Mr. Carlyle 
kindly devotes a long passage to prove 
for us that free<lom does not mean 
liberty to sin, and then informs the 
English nation that each privilege it 
has wrung from the monarchy, each 
[extension of the suffrage, was a strap 
tinticd from the body of the devil, so 
that the devil is now an "emancipated 
gentleman." Having thus shown that 
to really tie up his Satanic majesty for 
the advent of the millennium we must 
go back to the good, innocent days 



of Assuerus and Nabuchodonosor,! 
at least, to the pure tiroes i ■'' 
Mr. Carlyle opens his il; 
graph. 

We meet with something refres 
here. Although the extension of I 
franchise is so evidently nothing 1 
"a calling in of new supplies of bk 
headism, gullibility/' etc., th.it M 
Carlyle thinks his oppiinenta to 
men of " finished off and shut up 
tellect, with whom he would not : 
he feels a "malicious andyWH 
in the fact of England's being at 
take tlie Niagara-leap, and, aflerl 
ferocious experience of the horrors « 
democracy, having a chance to K 
up washed of her hypocrisy, " the i 
il's pickle in which she has been : 
ed for two hundred years," and thiisl 
show herself regenerated and re 
for heaven. The desperate philc 
pher mu.st have been reminded at I 
point that most who " shoot " Nia 
get smashed, and don't come up 
generated or unregenerated ; for 
runs out of his way to give a howl 
her majest)''s ministr)' for i 
rewarded Governor Eyre, 
stops to dabble a little more in 
land's "hypocrisy," which he 
"the devil's choicest elixir." 
fear you misname that curious bril 
Mr. Carlyle. You have been dr 
ing o{ it, and your language is 
choice and simply disgusting. Hi 
ing taken a lesson in descriptive 
ography, Mr. Carlyle now opens 
fourth paragraph, ready for the coi 
quences of a trip over tlie falls. 

"From plebs to princcps there I 
no class intrinsically so va'i ^ 

recommendable as aristoci,, 
it is to " this botly of brave men 
beautiful polite women "' that 
Carlyle looks with imploring, half-< 
spairingeyes for the creation of a : 
and better England after the ine 
table " immortal smash " of the 
scnL He thinks that, in tlie smashn 



CarlyUs Shooting Niagara. 




Kn^^h, this class will be 

bed, because no other 

it: "they are looked 

a vulgarly human admira- 

a spontaneous recognition 

|r good qualities and good for- 

\Ve are glad to have found 

n which we can agree with 

We believe that, of all 

of Europe, the English 

Use to assert the princi- 

equality. Great and 

are contending for its 

and powerful journals are 

it their aid, but their influ- 

in realit)- felt more upon the 

than in England herself. 

owing to the degrading 

see to which the masses have 

ndoced, and it may not ; but, 

l{;ard to their love of aristo- 

e same may be said as Mr. 

says, thoiigh unjustly, per- 

- hj-pocrisy, " they 

. it to the bone." 

lyle accuses, in most virulent 

varnishing proclivities of 

ntrjTnen, who, in spite of the 

centuries, he thinks, never 

Id or even repair. But 

to the root of the evil 

be stmiewhat averse to our 

of propriety', if we may 

l^is " devil's strap " theorj-. 

^Be can deny that English 

H^ whether tory or liberal, 

Uost universally vamishers. 

r for ascend- 

t i I . lias been the 

very often die conquering 

gone back of its former 

and been utterly averse 

%ion of the rights of the 

n those cases where 

ilimidation, such as in the 

rm bill, an extension of 

has been granted, it 

rely a diminution of the 

property necessary as 

Tories and liberals 



alike recognize the principle of dis- 
tinction J they berate each other 
merely as to its extent. It is not 
unlikely that, after a few more reforra 
bills have passed, there will be one 
put through, making twopence the 
price of the " privilege " of voting ; 
nor is it at all probable that the few 
friends of manhood suf&age will ever 
in their lifetime see their theory in 
practice on English soil. Though 
we agree, however, with Mr. Carlyle 
in this one fact, we cannot believe 
with him that to the aristocracy of 
England or that of any other land is 
exclusively confided by God and by 
reason a country-saving mission. If 
the selling of one's country to the for- 
eigners, or the betrayal and robbery 
of one's vassals, constitute such a 
mission, then the almost constant 
history of Italy, Ireland, and Poland 
will yet set up a new choir of celes- 
tial spirits crhne de la cr^me. When 
Bulwer invented, in his Strange Sto- 
ry, a man composed of body and 
mind, it<ithout soul, people laughed — 
even those who admired Chateau- 
briand's idea of man's being constitu^ 
ted of body, soul, and biti. Thej 
were wrong, for Bulwer has talkec 
with Carlyle. But, though Mr. Car-' 
lyle may have no soul, he has not 
entirely lost his reason, little though 
there seems to be of it exercised by 
him. As if he realized that his 
blind and unscrupulous devotion to 
titled aristocracy would be ridiculed 
by all outside of his ipse dixit crowd 
of philosophical pigmies, he beats a 
half-retreat with the dismal "and 
what if the titled Aristocracy fail us ?" 
But charge again, Carlyle I About^ 
face we have him as quick as light* 
ning. To be sure, the masses, " wit 
whatever cry of ' liberty ' in tlieilfl 
mouths, are inexorably marked by 
destiny as slaxies •" but to save Eng- 
land after her "immortal smash,**" 
when titles fail, she will yet. rely 



90 



CarlyUs Shooting Niagara. 



upon " the unclassed aristocracy by 
nature, not inconsiderable in num- 
bers, and supreme in faculty, in wis- 
dom, human talent, nobleness, and 
courage, ' who derive tlieir patent of 
nobility direct from Almighty God.' " 
Forgive us, sweet Thomas ! 'Tis 
true that this sounds, after your last 
few remarks, like the declaration of 
one who, on finding it impossible to 
cross the Atlantic upon a donkey 
cries out tliat he'll try a steamship j 
but yet forgive us for the past — there 
is about this latter speech a ring of 
genuine metal. 'Tis ability and cou- 
rage, and not blood and rank, you 
depend upon ? Alas ! our hopes have 
vanished. The man of ability, of 
innate worth, is of some avail, but he 
is not fit to rule until the blood comes 
in. He must become absorbed into 
the good old stock ; Orson must be 
VaUntinized, Still tlie crj-, " Blood Is 
blood." Of the " industrial hero," 
Carlyle's aristocrat by nature, a trans- 
mogrification must take place ere he 
can wear the crown or wield the baton, 
and the change is — new blood for his 
children, and for himself a new alli- 
ance. " If his chivalr)' is still some- 
what in the Orson form, he is already, 
by intermarriage and othen^ise, com- 
ing into contact with the aristocracy 
by title ; and by degrees will acquire 
the fit V'alentinism, and other more 
important advantages there. He can- 
not do better than unite with this 
naturally noble aristocracy by title ; 
the industrial noble and tlus one are 
brothers bom, called and impelled to 
cooperate and go togetlier." The 
state cannot be saved unless by aris- 
tocracy of blood. Even when it con- 
descends to avail itself of the energies 
of the plebeian, it must take that ple- 
beian out from the throng of " brutish 
hobnails," and make of him a tided 
aristocrat. Only this and nothing 
more is Carlyle's idea. Even diough 
the collection of tided rulers become 



fowl 



emasculated for all good, i 
istence are forced to 
ranks from the \'nlgar crow 
conscript Orson must not onl 
under the polite inSuem 
tinty but must acquire the ' 
important advantages *' foii 
society. If Valititinism isne( 
and the titled gentry are alrez 
sessed of tlie " tnor< imp>orti 
vantages," why not use a bon 
Hnc I The truth is, that Mr. 
regards aristocracy ver^- muc! 
would a man, and the 77//^< 
much as we would meat or 
Man stands first in the order i 
dane creation ; but he require 
ment, and so eats meat and ' 
absorbs diem into his bloi 
comes stronger, but remains 
man, lord of creation, 
nips included- As nn 
play their allotted part in r«lj 
man, so has the pUhs its t 
signed precisely for the bei 
aristocracy. Heaven has pla' 
irrevocable seal of slaver)- u|: 
" nigger," 3Jid whoever iulcrf 
remove tliat seal is as guilty o 
lege as diough he robbed ih 
of its victim. As for the whili 
ger," the system of " nomadj 
vantship by means of which h( 
a real " Nigger " is a " misdce 
— oh ! listen, history I " never w 
never will be possible, eic« 
brief periods, among human 
tures." To the eslablisbmi 
these canons of his social i 
Mr, Carlyle devotes the great 
of his essay — his fourth, fift. 
sixth paragraphs, and part 
seventh. When England 
shot Niagara, therefore, 
aristocracy is to recreate htI|^ 
process is to be the rendering 
manent " the relation between 
and servant ; then will die d< 
again tied up, and then will co 
millennium. Well does 



>art 



doesM^ 




imevtr, that it will be a long 
•* before the fool of a vsrorld opens 
% eyes to the tap-root " of its evils, 
id that, when it " has discovered it, 
a puddling, and scolding, and 
ning there will be before ilie 
real step toward remedy is 
nl" 
Mr. Carlyle's seventh paragraph is 
;en up with some pretty sound ad- 
upon domestic economy, especi- 
apon the "cheap and nasty" ten- 
of the times, which leads us to 
often contented with appear- 
instead of realities. His re- 
'ks uf>on the inferiority of the 
adon brick of modem make are 
ictical, but the moral he draws 
ibout the necessity^jf rebuilding Eng- 
at once and properly is much 
so. It is well, however, for hu- 
ll}* that those Englishmen who 
b to rebuild her have a different 
of philosophy from that Mr. 
rfylc advocates at present. It is 
ell, also, for humanity that, while it 
;jOssible that an experienced 
igcant," such as he presents 
has concluding paragraph as a re- 
fer our insubordination in all 
Batters, would be a blessing, it is 
that heaven has not given him 

ton. Mr. Carlyle gave to the 

«0i1d in 1840 his entire political sys- 
lem in his Iftro Worship, and it is 
same substantially in his present 
Then he told us that to he- 
one belonged the right to gov- 
ern society, and that the duty of so- 
ciety was to discover these providen- 
tia) beings and to blindly obey them. 
^iCrDmwcU and Napoleon he pre- 
^^knted AS types of this heroism. By 
^■Miany allusions to " Oliver" in his 
^^^Pfent essay and his two entire para- 
ffiphs itpon his Industrial and his 
JYacocal Hero, we see that he has 
yet realized that the very neces- 
making and following heroes 
the still greater necessity of 



tig Niagai 



raising people to a higher apprecia- 
tion of the dignity of their manhood. 
Could the " devil's strap " theory be 
actuated, there would be in the state a 
hero, but he would only be great be- 
cause his people were contemptible. 
Although Mr. Carlyle promised to 
say sometliing about the second 
" achievement" of democracy, name- 
ly, the gradual deliquescence and final 
evaporation of all religions under its 
baneful influence, he says nothing 
whatever about God or religion. His 
illiberality, bitterness, and love of 
tyranny make us suspect that in his 
heart there dwells but little love for 
that which cannot but be liberal, kind, 
and respectful to the rights of man. 
Indeed, one finds in this essay an 
undercurrent of the same nature as 
the spirit shown in Carlyle's works of 
middle-life, especially in his Latter- 
day PamphUis^ namely, individualism, 
raised to tlie dignity of a principle of 
morality and of a one only rule for 
tJie safety of mankind. 

Most men have an ideal of their 
own of the beautiful in both the aes- 
thetic and the ethical order. Many 
men of tliought have formed to them- 
selves an ideal of a happy and pros- 
perous country, of a wise and benefi- 
cent government, and so has Mr. Car- 
lyle. An ideal is always a key to the 
workings of the brain and to the as- 
pirations of the heart. Mr. Carlyle's 
accords precisely with what we can 
gather of both in his present as well 
as most all his other writings. In 
giving it to the public, he puts his 
seal upon all his pliilosophical spe- 
culations, and shows his opponents 
that he is game to the end. It is his 
'• La garde meurt, mats ue se rend pas" 
For the establishment of his Utopia, 
he sails to tlie West Indies in com- 
pany with a " younger son of a duke, 
of an earl, or of the queen herself." 
He keeps shy of Jamaica, (and well 
he may,) and goes to Don\"m\cti, aa 



I 



Sayitigs of the Fathers of the Desert. 



I 



island which is " a sight to kindle a 
heroic young heart." He gels grandly 
pathetic, and describes Dominica as 
4m " inverted wash-bowl ;" its rim for 
twenty miles up from the sea is fine 
alluvium, tliough unwholesome for 
all except " niggers kept steadily 
at work ;*' its upper portion " is salu- 
brious for the Europeans," of whom 
he puts to dwell 100,000, who are " to 
keep steadily at their work a million 
niggers on the lower ranges," He 
pulls up the cannon wliich aie now 
going to honeycomb and oxide of iron 
in the jungle, and plants them finnly 
on the upper land to guard his nig- 
gers and keep off the sacrilegious in- 
vader. With tears of mingled joy 
and regret he cries, " What a king- 
dom my poor Frederick William, fol- 



lowed by his Frederick, would have 
made of this inverted wash-bowl ; 
clasjjed round and lovingly kissed 
and laved by the beautifulist seas in 
the world, and beshone by the graad- 
est sun and sky 1" This, tlien, is thej 
end for which Carlyle has lived 
enty-two years ; this is what he haft.| 
learned by fifty years' study of hiv | 
tory and political economy 1 
wise men of Gotham once went toJ 
sea in a tub and came to grief ihert-.^ 
in. Carlyle might imitate their ex- 
ample, and, bidding adieu to the ' 
" brutish hobnails" whom he is pow- 
erless to regenerate, go out as far as 
he would ; he could never be so much 
at sea as he was when he penned < 
this remarkable essay. 



SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT. 



Abbot Alois said : " Unless a man 
say in liis heart, * Only God and I are 
in this world,' he will not find rest." 

Abbot Hyperchius said: "He is 
really wise who teaches others by his 
deeds, and not by his words." 

Abbot Moses said : " When the 
hand of the Lord slew the first-born 
of Egypt, there was no house in that 
land in wliich there lay not one dead." 

A brother asked him : " What does 
this mean?" 



The father answered : " If wc look 
at our own sins, we will not see the 
sins of others. It is foolishness for 
a man having a corpse in his ownJ 
house to leave it and go to weep ov« 
that of his neighbor." 

Abbot Marcus said to Abbot 
nius : " Why do you avoid us ?'* 

He answered: "God knows I Uxvcb] 
you, but I cannot be with God 
with men." 



rdcd Martfte 



AN OLD GUIDE TO GOOD MANNERS. 



In the first number of The Cath- 
UC World we gave our reatlers 
account of the great Christian 
si of Alexandria in tlie time of 
Clement, the philosopher. The 
:le, borrowed from The Dublin 
sketched the corrupt, luxu- 
and effeminate society of the 
ian metropolis — that gay, bus- 
ivolous city which was to tlie 
item world what Paris now 
; continent of Europe — and 
how St Clement thought 
it well worth his while to spare an 
occasional hour from the discussions 
of philosophy and dogma, and the de- 
i:"-w,\\ of a code of Christian ethics, 
; : rebuke the scandalous luxury of 
(bjidics and gourmanilt, and the fol- 
lies of fashionable ladies. It would 
have been but a meagre code of ethics, 
indeed, which had overlooked the 
busy trifles Uiat made up so much 
^of the life of Alexandrian gentlefolks, 
teacher who would form a bct- 
• school of morality could not con- 
Ibc himself to the church and the 
ll&arkct-place. He must enter the 
fb«b - ' ' "lanquet-hall, the shops 
of tht L hant, the jeweller, and 

the pert'umer. He must touch with 
^iittrp band little things which are 
Jy foolishness to us, but, to the 
society of Egypt, made up a 
' kxge part of the sura of human ex- 
laence. All this St. Clement did, 
»iid the substance, if not the words, 
of hb directions to the flock has 
, cone down to us in the pages of his 
\httnutor. 

ll Ls a curious picture which he 
us of Alexandrian manners ; 
question, after all, if much of 
says will not apply pretty 
lO our own day. He begins 



with the diet This, he reraarkSi 
ought to be "simple, truly plain, 
suiting precisely simple and artless 
children." He had no faith in the 
fattening of men as one fattens hogs 
and turkeys. If he had lived in tlie 
days of prize-fights and rowing-match- 
es, he would have inveighed against 
the processes of " training," and look- 
ed with no favor upon a bruiser or a 
boatman getting himself into condi- 
tion with raw beef-steaks and pro- 
fuse sweating. Growth, and health, 
and right strength, says the venera- 
ble father, come of lightness of body 
and a good digestion ; he will have 
none of the " strength that is wrong 
or dangerous, and wretched, as is 
that of athletes, produced by com- 
pulsory feeding." Cookery is an 
" unhappy art," and that of making 
pastry is a "useless" one. He points 
the finger of scorn at the gluttons who 
" are not ashamed to sing the praises 
of their delicacies," and in their 
greed and solicitude seem absolute- 
ly to sweep the world with a drag-net 
to gratify their luxurious tastes. They 
give themselves " great trouble to get 
lampreys in the straits of Sicily, the 
eels of the Meander, and the kids 
found in Melos, and the mullets 
in Sciathus, and the muscles of Pelo- 
rus, the oysters of Abydos, not omit- 
ting the sprats found in Lipara, and 
the Mantinican turnip ; and, further- 
more, tlie beet-root that grows among 
the Ascra:ans ; they seek out the 
cockles of Methymna, the turbots of 
Attica, and the thrushes of Daphnis, 
and the reddish-brown dried figs, on 
account of which the ill-starred Per- 
sian marched into Greece with five 
hundred thousand men. Besides 
these they purchase birds iiotti 




Old GuitU to Good Manners. 



Phasis, the Egyptian snipes, and the 
Median pea-fowl. Altering these by 
means of condiments, the gluttons 
gape for the sauces ; and they wear 
away Uieir whole life at the pestle 
and mortar, surrounded with the 
sound of hissing frj'ing-pans." Do 
we not feel a little ashamed at read- 
ing tliis? Are we so much better 
than the gluttons of Egypt? They 
sent to Abydos for their oysters, and 
we export the shell-fish of Norfolk and 
Saddle Rock to all parts of the coun- 
try. If they yearned for snipe, so do 
we. If they had a hankering after 
eel pot-pies, pray, is the taste un- 
known to ourselves? Was the Me- 
dian peafowl, we wonder, a more 
costly luxury than woodcock, or 
the Sicilian lamprey worse than 
Spanish mackerel ? Perhaps we do 
not quite "sweep the world with a 
drag-net ;" but that is only because 
we sliould gain nothing by it. We 
may not ransack the four quarters of 
the globe for unknown viands ; but 
we lay distant climes and fir-off years, 
under contribution to furnish us with 
rare and luscious Avines. The good 
saint.had he lived in the nineteenth cen- 
tury, would have delighted in Graham 
bread ; for he blames his countrymen 
for "emasculating their bread by strain- 
ingoffthe nourishing part of the grain." 
He inveighs against "sweetmeats, 
and honey-cakes, and sugar-plums," 
and a multitude of desserts, and su|>- 
pers where there is naught but "pots 
and pouring of s.iuce, and drink, and 
delicacies, and smok/:" The smoke 
to which he alludes is undoubtedly 
the fimie of the "hissing frying-pans," 
but it almost seems as if he were de- 
scribing a modem carouse with punch 
id tobacco. The properest articles 
food are those which are fit fur im- 
mediate use without fire. The apos- 
tle Matthew ate "seeds, and nuts, 
and vegetables, without flesh ;" and 
Sl John the Baptist, "who carried 



I 

■A 



temperance to the extreme, ale lo- 
custs and wild honey." St Clemeoi 
does not give us his authority for the 
statement regarding St. Matthew's 
diet ; nor, it may be objected, Is there, 
any evidence that the Baptist did not ' 
cook his locusts before he fed upon 
them. In some parts of the East, 
where locusts are still regarded as x.\ 
delicacy, they are prepared for the 
table by pulling off the legs ant! 
wings, and frj'ing the bodies in oil 
But Clement's object was not 
much to prescribe a bill of fare as 
to teach men of gluttonous proclir- 
ities how to emancipate themsch'ei 
from the thraldom of that "nioit 
lickerish demon," whom he c:il'> 
"the Belly-demon, and the wor>t 
and most abandoned of demnn*. " 
First of all, we must guard again 
"those articles of food which 
suade us to eat when vre are notJ 
hungry, bewitching the appetite.'*'^ 
(How he would have shuddered 
a motlem grtind dinner, with she 
and-bitters first to whet the palate >! 
then tlirce or four raw o)'sters, just to 
give a relish to the soup, the fish, and 
the entrifs ; and in the middle of the 
repast a sherbet, or a Roman pun< 
to wipe out the taste of all th.it 
gone before, and give strength for i 
few more courses of meat !) 
being naturally hungn,', he savs, U 
us eat the simplest kind of food] 
bulbs, (we hope he does not m< 
onions,) olives, certain herbs, mil 
cheese, fruits, all kinds of cookc 
food without sauces, and, if we ini 
have flesh, let it be roast rather 
boiled. 

Wine, of course, ought to be take 
in moderation, if it is taken at all 1 
and it is well to mix it al^^ ' N' 

water, and not to drink it d. e 

heat of the day, when the blood is 
already warm enough, but to wait im-^ 
til tlie cool of the evening. Evcd ' 
ter, however, must be drunk spa 



larinM 




Old Guide to Good Manturs, 



95 



the food may not be 
It ground down in order 
s&in." WTiat a disgusting 
the holy philosopher draws 

R miserable wretches whose 
ing but revel, debaucJiery, 
tcess, idleness, drink !" " You 
te some of them, half-drunk, 
ing, with crowns round their 
jjh virine-jars, vomiting drink 
^■bther in the name of good- 
hip ; and others, full of the 
of their debauch, dirtj', pale 
£acc, and still, above yester- 
out, pouring another bout to 
1 next morning." Moreover, 
■r disapproves of imparting 
^V one must drink, the pro- 
^Be's native vines ought to 
^■^ There are the fragrant 
wine, and the pleasant- 
;bian, and a sweet Cre- 
ind sweet Syracusan wine, 
sbn and Egyptian wine, 
isular Naxian, the highly 
id flavored, another wine 
of Italy. These are many 
but for the temperate drinker 
l^ufhces." 

^bent concerns himself not 
llti what people ought to eat 
Ink, but with how they ought 
md drink iL The chief thing 
at table is temperance; 
good manners. We re- 
have had the pleasure 
jf reading once a modem 
^of etiquette which alx)und- 
lost amazing instructions 
icn and ladies at their 
tn you go to a dinner 
dd, do not pick your teeth 
\ table. Do not breathe hard 
".UT liecf Don't snort while 
Don't make a dis- 
.widi your lips while 
And don't do twenty 
ible things which no gen- 
[lady would any more have 
[doing than of standing up 





on their chairs or jumping upon the 
table. But St. Clement's directions 
for polite behavior show that worse 
thuigs than these were in vogue in 
those beastly old days. He pours 
out words of indignation and con- 
tempt upon those gluttonous feast- 
ers who raise themselves from the 
couches on which the ancients used 
to recline at their banquets, stretch 
out their necks, and all but pitch their 
faces into the dishes " that they may 
catch the wandering steam by breath- 
ing in it." They grab every minute 
at the s.iuce ; they besmear their 
hands with condiments ; they cram 
themselves ravenously — in such a 
hurry that both jaws are stuffcil out 
at once, the veins about the face are 
raised, and tlie perspiration runs all 
over as they pant and are tightened 
witli their insatiable greed. 

Suppose St. Clement had dined on 
board an American steamboat! 

Then about drinking. In this, too, 
the old Alexandrians must have had 
some queer ways. "We are to drink 
witliout contortions of the face," says 
the saint, " not greedily grasping the 
cup, nor, before drinking, making the 
eyes roll with unseemly motion ; nor 
from intemperance are we to drain 
the cup at a draught ; nor besprinkle 
the chin, nor splash the garments 
whfle gulping down all the liquor at 
once— our face all but filling tlie 
bowl, and drowned in it. For the 
gurgling occasioned by the drink 
rushing witli violence, and by its be- 
ing drawn in with a great deal of 
breath, as if it were being poured 
into an earthenware vessel, while the 
throat makes a noise through the ra- 
pidity of ingurgitation, is a shameful 
and unseemly spectacle of intemp* 
ranee. . . . Do not haste to mischiefj 
my friend. Your drink is not being 
taken from you. Be not eager to 
burst by draining it down with gap- 
ing' throat." Sad to say, even tiift 



96 



An Old Guide to Good Manners. 



> 



I 



women were addicted to " revelling 
in luxurious riot," and •* drawing hic- 
cups like men." It used to be the 
fashion for ladies to drink out of al- 
abaster vessels with narrow mouths 
— quite too narrow, Clement com- 
plains — and, to get at the liquor, they 
had to throw their heads back so far 
as to bare their necks in a very un- 
seemly manner to their male boon 
companions, and so pour the wine 
down their throats. This custom the 
saint strenuously condemns. It was 
adopted because the women were 
afraid of widening their mouths and 
so spoiling their beaut)', if they rent 
tlieir lips apart by stretching them 
on broad drinking-cups. 

These drinking-cups themselves, 
and much other furniture of the table, 
were causes of offence in tlie good 
father's eyes, and he thunders against 
them with indignant eloquence, as 
marks of the shameless luxury and ex- 
trav.igance which pervaded the daily 
life of the richer classes. The use of 
cups made of silver and gold, and of 
others inlaid with precious stones, is 
out of place, he declares, being only a 
deception of the vision. For, if you 
pour any warm liquid into them, they 
become so hot that you cannot touch 
them, and, if you p>our in anything 
cold, the material changes its quality, 
injuring the mixture. St Cleirifent 
was right. Of jewelled drinking- 
vesscls we freely confess that we 
have no personal knowledge ; but we 
have a very distinct and painful re- 
collection of certain silver mugs and 
silver-gilt goblets which used always 
to be given to children by their god- 
parents, and from which the unfor- 
tunate youngsters were forced to 
drink until, say, lliey were old enough 
to leave boarding-school. How 
many a time have we not longed in 
rOur boyhn«-)d to exchange the uneasy 
sntility of a chased silver cup for 
le plain comfort of a good, honest 



tumbler of greenish pressed 
How hot those dreadful cups 
to be when filled with a vile, 
compound known in the nurse; 
tea I How tliey used to hide 
freshing sparkle of the clear, 
water in summer, and the beaul 
color of the harmless decoc' 
flavored with currant jelly or ol 
delicacies, which were allowed us 
rare occasions of festivity ! St 
ment was right ; they were out 
place and a deception of the visi< 
But there was many a vessel 
the Alexandrian tables, besides tl 
drinking-cups of silver, and g"lil, am 
alabaster, which shocked this fe 
less censor of manners and mo; 
Away, he cries, with Theraclejan 
and Antigonides, and Carilhari, 
goblets, and limpet-shaped cups, 
the endless forms of drinking-its; 
and wine • coolers and wmc-p<m\ 
also. Away with the d " 
ty of chased glass ves 
ble to break on account of ihe 
and teaching us to lt!iX wliile 
drink. Ah I had he seen a Chris 
dinner-party in the nineteenth ccn* 
tury, with the delicately cut wine- 
glasses, slim of stem, fragile as 
eggshell, scarcely safe to touch ; 
claret-jugs of Bohemian ware, elabo- 
rately ornamented and hardly 1 
costly than gold ; the curiously 
trived pitchers for icing cliampagDe 
the decanters, the water-flagona, 
decorated goblets, and all the 01 
glass and china ware, what wouli 
good St. Clement have said ? M 
other things are there which he 
prehends among the apparatus of thi 
banquet, and of these some wc ha' 
assuredly copied or retained, while 
others we can only conjecture the 
nature and uses. There were silver 
couches, and pans and vinfg;u sau- 
cers, and trenchers and bowls, and 
vessels of silver, and gold, and easi- 
ly cleft cedar, aad thyme-wood, and 



ine- , 

4 



Am Old Guide to Good Manners. 



PPtnpods fashioned of ivory, 
chcs with silver feet and in- 
1 ivory, and folding-doors of 
dded with gold and variegat- 
i shell, and bedclolhes 
ijiher colors difficult 
tfitL And let no one wonder 
BOuld enumerate bedclothes 
the objectionable furniture 
rung-room. It must be re- 
ed that in those gluttonous 
s people took their meals not 
>o chairs, but reclining on 
^b that it would hardly be 
VSvay to say that they break- 
md dtnecL, and supped in bed. 
b^to eat and drink so much 
^Bkitude was perhaps, on the 
^■nost convenient for thenu 
Be other blamable luxuries 
e enumerates are ivory-han- 
ives. The basins in which it 
lontary to wash the feet and 
||H<e meals ought to be of no 
jHrial than common potter's 
t5u can get off the dirt just 
a cheap earthen wash- 
the saint, as in one of 
^e Lord did not bring down 
foot-bath from heaven. 
* ' .^ts is an abomination 
shunned, and a comic 

rfurlhy of a Christian gen- 
"burlesque singing is the 
ampanion of drunkenness." 
lie occupy their time with 
and psalteries, and Egyptian 
5 of hands," they become, by 
, quite intractable, and even 
so low as to " beat on cym- 
d dnims, and make a noise 
nstrumcnts of delusion." We 
; on our guard against what- 
a&urc effeminates the soul by 
eye or the ear, and so 
licentious and niis- 
wsic/' which disturbs 
rrupts the morals. 
ate, and modest music 
be permitted, but "li- 
iri.--7 



«r 



in 
lys 




quid" strains and "chromatic har- 
monies" are only for immodest revels. 
All which shows that in Clement's 
time there must have been a wicked- 
ness associated with music which 
that glorious art has now happily 
lost The psalmist, it is true, ex- 
horts us to praise the Lord in the 
sound of the trumpet, with the psal- 
tery, the lyre, the timbrel and dance, 
the chords, and the organ, and the 
clashing cymbals ; but the Alexan- 
drian philosopher interprets all this 
passage symbolically. The trumpet 
to which King David refers is the 
blast which shall wake the dead on 
the last day. The lyre is the mouth 
struck by the spirit The timbrel 
and dance are the church "medi- 
tating on the resurrection of the dead' 
in the resounding skin." Our body is. 
tlie organ ; its nerves are the strings- 
by which it has received harmonious- 
tension ; and the clashing cymbal is 
tlie tongue, resounding with the pul- 
sations of the mouth. Reading St. 
Clement's instructions, with no light 
by which to interpret them, except 
tlie bare words of the text itself, it 
would seem to be but a solemn and 
joyless life which he inculcated — a 
perpetual Puritan Sunday — than 
wiiich, probably, nothing more dole- 
ful was ever imagined of man. But 
we must remember that he lived in* 
an age of ineffable vnleness. Amuse- 
ments, the most innocent in them- 
selves, were the recognized cloaks or 
accompaniments of horrible deeds- 
of licentiousness. The employment 
of certain kinds of music at banquets- 
naturally suggested the criminal ex- 
cesses with which such music was- 
ordinarily associated. It was like 
meats offered to idols. Christians-' 
were bound to shun it, not because 
it was bad, but because it had been 
dedicated to bad uses. So was it 
also with burlesque singing. The- 
songs were not only comical, but 



An Old Guide to Good Manners. 



wicked. And it is in pretty much the 
same sense that wc must understand 
the saint's curious chapter on laugh- 
ing, in which he rebukes ludicrous 
remarks, buffoonery, and " waggerj'," 
and declares that "imitators of ludi- 
crous sensations" (mimics) ought to 
be driven out of good societ)'. It is 
disgraceful to travesty speech, which 
is the most precious of human en- 
dowments, though pleasantry is al- 
, lowable, provided laughter be kept 
(urithin bounds. But we ought not to 
I laugh in the presence of elderly per- 
sons or others to whom we owe re- 
spect, unless they indulge in plea- 
santries for our amusement ; and 
(•Women and children ought to be 
I especially careful not to laugh too 
^much, lest they slip into scandal. It 
[is best to confine ourselves to a 
gentle smile, which our author de- 
;ribes as the seemly relaxation of 
the countenance in a harmonious 
manner, like the relaxation of a mu- 
.aical instrument. "But the discor- 
'dant relaxation of the countenance 
in the case of women is called a gig- 
gle, and is meretricious laughter ; in 
the case of men a guffaw, and is sav- 
age and insulting laughter." Of all 
such as this, it is needless to say, St. 
.Clement disaoproves. 

Young men and young woipen 
ought never to be seen at banquets, 
and it is especially disgraceful for an 
unmarried woman to sit at a feast of 
men. When you go to a banquet, 
you ought to keep your eyes down- 
fCast, and recline upon your elbow 
without moving ; or, if you sit, don't 
cross your legs or rest your chin upon 
your hand. It is vulgar not to bear 
one's self without support, and a sign 
of frivolousncss to 1.k: perpetually 
shifting the position. Then, when the 
Libod is pKiced upon the table, don't 
'grab at it. What if you are hungry ? 
Curb your appedte : hold back your 
hand for a moment : take but little 



at a time ; and leave oflf early, so ) 
to appear indifferent to what is 
before you. If you are an old 
you may now and then, but very i 
ly, joke and play with the young ; \ 
let your jokes have some useful 
in view. For instance, suppose vol 
had a very bashful and silent soij 
with you ; it would be a roost pr 
and notable good joke to say, " ' 
son of mine is perpetually talkir 
That would not only be very 
but it would be an indirect encomit 
upon the young man's modesty, 
men may talk at table, provided 
talk sense. The young should s( 
briefly and with hesitation when ' 
are called upon ; but they ought 
wait until they are called at \t 
twice. Don't whistle at U 
Don't chirrup. Don't call the 
er by blowing through your finget 
Don't spit often, or clear your 1 
or blow your nose. If you have 
sneeze or hiccup, don't startle « 
neighbors with a loud expl 
do it gently. Don't scrape _ 
till the gums bleed, and don't! 
your car ! 

They had a very silly and pre 
terous custom, those disgusting 
pagans, of crowning themselves wi^ 
flowers, and anointing their head at 
feet with perfumed ointments, esp 
cially on occasion of grand banqn 
and drinking bouts. St Clemel 
had no patience with this. Oils 
be good, he says, for medicinal 
certain other purposes. Flowers vt 
not only pretty, but useful in the 
proper place. But what is the 
of sticking a chaplet of roses on 
top of your head where you can ni 
ther see it nor smell it .' It is pir 
sant in spring-time to while away tJ 
hours in the blooming meads, 
rounded by the perfume of roses 4r 
violets and lilies ; but no crowns 
flowers for my head, if you pica 
They are too cold ; they are 



Am Old Gnide to Good ManHcrs. 



99 



brain is naturally cold : 
1655 to it is plainly against 
tien he enumerates the va- 
»ds of ointments made from 
and flowers and other sub- 
Leave these, he says, to 
icians. To smear the body 
I out of pure wanton luxury 

■" supper, first thank God : 
to bed. No magnificent 
fee*, no gold-embroidered car- 
o rich purple sleeping-robes, 
i& of fleece, or thick mantles, 
:hc9 softer than sleep itself; 
rr-footcd couches, savoring of 
lion ; none of those lazy con- 
es for producing sleep. Nei- 
II ihe other hand, is it ncces- 
' unitate Ulysses, who rectified 
pvenncss of his couch with a 
or Diomede, who reposed 
:4 on a wild bull's hide; or 
slept on the ground with 
bis pillow. St. Clement 
L too severe in his instructions. 
Bght moderation to all men, 
; the difficulties of asceticism 
few who were called to en- 
r them. He never forbade 
i, but only rebuked luxury. 
il«, he says, ought to be sim- 
il frugal, but they ought to 
i C'>ol in summer and warm in 
I Those abominable inven- 
r ' ' alher-beds, which let 
I- ! down as into a yawn- 

Jow," he stigmatizes with de- 
contcmpL " For they are not 
t«nt for sleepers turning in 
»n account of the bed rising 
iill nn either side of the body, 
^ '(.! for the diges- 

, It rather for bum- 
p, and so dcstroj-ing the nu- 
' Who (hat has groaned 
X restless night on one of 
: ;s — we were going to 
k ugh the night, but one 

las in ak feather-bed — has been 



half-suffocated by the stufly smell of 
the feathers, and oppressed in his 
dreams by the surging hills of l>ed- 
ding which threaten to engulf him 
on either hand like the billows of 
some horrible sea, will not thank 
good, sensible St. Clement for set- 
ting his face against them, and won- 
der how they have sur\'ived to the 
present time.* The Alexandrian phi- 
losopher knew how to make a good 
bed as well as the most fashionable 
of modem upholsterers. It ought to 
be moderately soft, yet not receive 
too readily the impress of the body. 
It ought to be smooth and level, 
that one can turn over easily. Bui 
the reason he gives for this directiot 
is rather comical : the bed is a sort 
of nocturnal gymnasium, on which 
the sleeper may digest his food by 
frequent rollings and tumblings in 
his dreams. 

The couch ought not to be elabo*< 
rately carved, and the feet of it ought i 
to be smooth and plain. The reason 
for this is not only the avoidance oF 
luxury ; but "elaborate turnings form 
occasionally paths forcreeping things, 
which twine themselves about thei 
mouldings and do not slip off." 

In speaking of dress, St. Clement 
gives free rein to his indignation at 
the folly and extravagance of both 
men and women, and points his re- 
marks with many a shaft of keen wit 
and sallies of dry humor. Of coursej 
he says, we must have clothes, but w^ ' 
require them as a protection for th* , 
body, not asi mere ornaments to at* 
tract notice and inflame greedy eyesj 
Nor is there any good reason why 
the garments of women should differ ' 
from those of men. At the utmost, 
women may be p>ermitted the use of 
softer textures, provided they wea# ' 
them not too thin and curiously wo*j 
ven. A silk dress is Uie mark of a 
weak mind. Dyed gannents are sil- 
ly and extravagant; and arc ihey not, 



roo 



Ah Old Guide to Good Manners. 



after all, offences against truth ? Sar- 
dian, olive, rose-colored, green, scar- 
let, and ten thousand other dyes — 
pray, of what use are they ? Does the 
color make any difference in the 
warnnth of the robe? And, besides, 
the dye rots the stuff, and makes it 
wear out sooner. A good Christian 
who is pure within ought to be clad 
in spotless white. Flowered and em- 
broidered clothing, cunningly wrought 
with gold, and figures of beasts, and 
elaborate tracery, " and that saffron- 
colored robe dipped in ointment, and 
these costly and many-colored gar- 
ments of flaring membranes," are not 
for the children of the church. Let 
us weave for ourselves the fleece of 
the sheep which God created for us, 
but let us not be as silly as sheep. 
Beauty of character shows itself best 
when it is not enveloped in ostenta- 
tious fooleries. When St. Clement 
comes to piuticulars, especially in 
speaking of the dress of women, it 
slmost seems as if he were pointing at 
the fashions of the nineteenth centurj'. 
The modem fondness for mauve, and 
the various other shades of purple, is 
nothing new. The same colors seem 
to have been " the style" in the year 
zoo. "Would it were possible," ex- 
claims the saint, " to abolish puiple 
in dress ! The women will wear 
nothing else; and in truth, so crazy 
have they gone over these stupid and 
luxurious purples, that, in the lan- 
giup:e of the poet, purple death has 
seized them !" So we see that the 
good A\ther was not above making a 
pun. He enumerates some of the 
articles of apparel — -tunics, cloaks, 
and garments, with long and ob- 
scure names, about which the fine 
ladies of Alexandria were perjKtual- 
ly " in a flutter ;" and it is rather star- 
Uinj; lo encounter in the list — what 
lliink you ? Why, nothing less than 
tlic peplum, so dear to the hearts of 
vomctt in 1867. Female extrava- 



gance in coverings ibr the fe^ 
seems to have been as rife ia I 

Egypt as it is in modem P| 
New- York, He condemns thl| 
sandals decorated with goT^ 
curiously studded on the sol<| 
"winding rows" of nails, or omi 
ed with amorous carvings and 
led devices. Attic and Sicyoni4 
boots, and Persian and Tynj 
buskins, are also to be avoidcd^^i 
had better go barefoot unless 
sity prevents, but it is not suita 
a woman to show her nakc<^ 
" besides, woman is a tender: 
easily hurt." She ought Id 
simple white shoes, except 1 
journey, and then her shoes \ 
be greased. | 

Our saintly censor devotes 
dignant chapter to " the stones< 
silly women wear fastened to j 
and set in necklaces ;" and hi 
pares the eagerness with whid 
rush after glittering jewelry | 
senseless attraction which dra«l 
dren to a blazing fire. He | 
from Aristophanes a whole, 
logue of female omamentftj 

" StifwirK, fi1'i"t!>, nntmn, and itcel ; 
I' UAck-band, 

I .iccs 

I' , . -It Kaiin*m, , 

Ginlie, *ti.iw . n c iiiiti'.> IxirtirT, 
I.on;; robe, ionic, Barathrum, rDand I 
E - 'v, ear rlngi, 

I . .,vl_». 

I ..haiiis rine*, pcrailert, 

I . -■atdUn uoiiTS 



1. 



And he cries out, wearied w^ 
enumeration; "I wonder how 
who bear such a burden are ng 
ried to death. O foolish tf( 
O silly craze for display 1" Ik 
what use is it all ? It is nothtf 
art contending against nature, 
hood struggling against truth, 
woman is ugly, she only mak< 
t^lincss more conspicuous by 



• la h poMTb)* thai oo/f i/«/& 



J 




Ah Old Guidi to Good Manners, 



lOI 



out with meretricious or- 
Besldesy \hc custom of 
[ng things unsuitable to tlie 
\ if they were suitable, begets 
ice of lying and a habit of 
xL" The sight of an over- 
woman seems to have affect- 
Lllerocnt veiy much as a worth- 
lure in an elegant frame. " The 
r one of these ladies," he cx- 
" would never fetch more Llian 
odred and fit'ty dollars ; but 
\y see her wearing a dress tJjat 
h»uidr<d and fifty thausand." 
nplain of the ejctravagance of 
\ belles ; but, do they ever 
such enormous sums as that 
tingle dress ? Alexandria, we 
le, must bear away the palm 
(ewport &nd Saratoga. 
re vere particular fashions in 
' and ornament toward which 
Ht had a special dislike. Bracc- 
f ' !i of a serpent, he calls 
i 'tdges of the evil one. 

mBhains and necklaces are 
i-fcetter liian fetters. Ear- 
tfid ear-drops he forbids as 
ry t" -• ' and he beseech- 
iaxi 5 not to have their 

BrcoU. if you pierce your ears, 
s, why not have rings in your 
also? A signet-ring may be 
m the fmger, because it is use> 
sealing ; but no good Chris- 
to wear rings for mere or- 
et he makes one curious 
lie. If a woman 
f , a dissipated hus^ 

may adorn herself as much 
for the purpose of keeping 
home. 

'i- contempt which 

ars out upon the 

lies oi the time, who 

Uj-s in the mysterious 

toilet, curling their 

their cheeks, paint- 

ttyw, " mangling, racking, 

themselves over with 



certain, compositions, chilling the 
skin and • furrowing the flesh with 
poisonous cosmetics ;" and tlien ia; 
the evening "creeping out to candli 
light as out of a hole." Love of di»* 
play is not the charartcristic of a tru* 
lady. The woman who .gives herself 
up to finery is worse li^an one who is 
addicted to the pleasures ni t'le table 
and the bottle! She is a lazy houset 
keeper, silting like a painted ».>Ah| 
to be looked at, not as if made'fojtj 
domestic economy, and she cares ."Si 
great deal more about getting at her 
husband's purse-strings than about 
staying at home with him. And how 
preposterous is her behavior when 
she goes abroad. Is she short ? she 
wears cork-soles. Is she tall? she 
carries her head down on her shoul- 
der. Has she fine teeth? she is 
always laughing. Has she ru 
fiankst she has something seuvti on 
to her, so that the spectators may ex- 
claim on her fine shape. A little 
while ago, a mania fur yellow hair 
broke out in Paris, and fashionable 
ladies had their locks dyed of the 
popular hue. Well, it appears from 
St. Clement's discourses that this 
folly is over sixteen hundred yeaif. 
old. He upbraids the Alexandriaa 
ladies for following the same absurd 
custom, and asks, in (he words of 
Aristophanes, *' What can women do 
wise or brilliant who sit with hair 
dyed yellow ?" Nor is this the only 
mcKlern fashion about the hair which 
was known and condemned in his 
lime. Read this, young ladies: 
"Additions of other peaple's hair are 
entirely to be rejected, and it is a most 
sacrilegious thing for spurious hair to 
shade the head, covering the skull 
with dead locks. For on whom does 
the priest lay his hand ? Whom does 
he bless ? Not the woman decked 
out, but another's hairs, and through 
them anoUier head." Chignons, 
braids, tresses, and all the otl^et wott- 



*' " 



An Old Gmde h Good Manners. 




derful paraphernalia of 'tjii hair- 
dresser's art are conclvxntiftcl* as no 
better than lies, and^'. sliameful de- 
famation of the hy«]uu}*'head, which, 
says St, Clemenjt)" Is ♦ truly beautiful. 
Neither is it all^yp.ible to dye gray 
hairs, or in a.ny other way to conceal 
the a|jpit>i;iclv*of old age. "It is 
enough. J"<I>t women to protect their 
locks.qnirl bind up their hair simply 
al»^TBj,t1ie neck with a plain hair-pin, 
.jjqitrishing chaste locks with simple 
. ckfe to tnie beauty." And then he 
"draws a comical picture of a lady 
with her hair so elaborately *'donc 
up," that she is afraid to touch her 
head, and dares not go to sleep for 
fear of pulling down the whole struc- 
ture. 

A man ought to shave his crown, 
(unless he has curly hair,) but not 
his chin, because the beard gives 
♦* dignity and paternal terror" to the 
face. The mustache, however, 
•* which is dirtied in eating, is to 
be cut round, not by the razor, for 
tl>at were ungentccl, but by a pair of 
cropping scissors." The practice of 
shaving was a mark of effeminacy in 
those days, and it was thought dis- 
graceful for a man to rob himself of 
the " hairiness" which distinguishes 
his sex, even as the lion is known by 
his shaggy mane. So St. Clement 
is unsparing in his denunciations of 
the unmanly creatures who *' comb 
themselves and shave themselves 
with a razor for the sake of fine 
,'ct, and arrange their hair at the 
'looking-glass." Manly sjjorts, pro- 
^vided they be pursued for health's 
sake and not for vainglory, he warm- 
ly approves. A sparing use of the 
gymnasium and an occasional bout 
at wrestling will do no harm, but 
rather good ; yet, when you wrestle, 
j«ays the saint, be sure you stand 
}uarely up to your adversary, and 
try to Uuow him by main strength, 
rby trickery and finesse. A game 



of ball he especially recomq 
(who knows but there may ha»( 
base-ball clubs in Egypt T) a{ 
mildly suggests that, if a roan iri 
handle tiie hoe now and thfll 
labor would not be " ungcntlofli 
Pittacus, King of Miletus, set l| 
example to mankind by grindj 
the mill with his own hand; i 
St. Clement were alive now, m 
add that Charles V. employe*! 
self in constructing time-piccfl 
that notorious savage, lljeo 
Kmperor of Abyssinia, passes i^ 
his days making umbrellas, 
ing is a commendable p,utimcj 
has the example of the aposi 
its favor. Another capital ei 
for a gentleman is chopping 
This, we may remark, is said 
the favorite athletic pursuit ^ 
Honorable Horace Greeley. I 

The daily occupations of \ 
must not be too sedentary, 
ther, on the other hand, oi 
gentler sex to be "cncour 
wrestling or running !" Ins 
dawdling aljout the shops of t] 
merchant, the goldsmith, aq 
perfumer, or riding aimlessly 
town in litters, just to be ad 
the true lady will employ herj 
spinning and weaving, and, if 
sary, will superintend the co 
She must not be above tumit 
mill, or getting her husband a 
dinner. She must shake « 
beds, reach drink to her In 
when he is thirsty, set the Ul 
neatly as possible, and whei 
thing is wanted from the SK 
her go for it and fetch it hoiW 
self. We fear it is not the fi 
even yet, to follow St. Clemen 
vice. She ought to keep be 
clean, and her glances cast 
and to beware of languishing 
and "ogling, which is to wir»| 
the eves," and of a mincing ga 

A gentleman in the street \ 



Ran auMty to Sta, 



w% 



walk furiously, nor sKragger, 
y to stare people out of coun- 
ce ; neither when going up-hill 
: he to be shoved up by his do- 
's I lie ought not to waste his 
in barbers' shops and taverns, 
ing nonsense ; nor to watch the 
:n who pass by ; nor to gamble, 
lust not kiss his wife in thepre- 

of his servants. If he is a mer- 

, he must not have two prices 

s goods. He must be his own 

He must wash his own feet, 

ut on his own shoes. 

d so the holy man goes on with 
more sage counsel and Chris- 
iirection, teaching his flock not 
iiow to be faithful children of 
lurch, but how to be true gen- 
n and gentlewomen. The eti- 
: which he lays down is not 
upon the arbitrary and change- 
rules of fashion, but upon the 
principles of morality and good 
ship. We have thought it not 
to give our readers a specimen 



of them, partly, indeed, because they 
show us in such an interesting man- 
ner what kind of lives people used to 
lead in his day, but also because they 
are full of good lessons and whole- 
some rebukes for ourselves, and be- 
cause many of the follies which St 
Clement condemned are still floiuish- 
ing, just as they flourished then, or 
are newly springing into life after 
they have been for so many centuries 
forgotten. Of course, there are many 
of his rules which are not applicable 
to us. Many things which he for- 
bade because they were indications 
or accompaniments of certain sinful 
practices are no longer wrong, be- 
cause they have been completely dis- 
severed from their evil associations. 
But upon the whole, we doubt not 
that a new edition of St. Clement's 
Padagogus, or as we might trans- 
late it, " Complete Guide to Polite- 
ness," would be vastly more benefi- 
cial to the public than any of the 
hand-books of etiquette which are 
multiplied by the modem press. 



RAN AWAY TO SEA. 

A TREACHEROUS spirit Came up from the sea. 
And passing inland found a boy where he 
Lay underneath the green roof of a tree. 
In the golden summer weather. 



And to the boy it whispered sofl and low — 
Come ! let us leave this weary land, and go 
Over the seas where the free breezes blow. 
In the golden summer weather. 

I know green isles in far-off sunny seas. 
Where grow great cocoa-palms and orange-trees, 



104 ^l^^P Ran away to Sea. 

And spicy odors perfume every bfecac, 
In the golden summer weather, 

There, underneath the ever-glowing skies, 
Gay parrokeets and birds of paradise, 
Make bright the woods with plumes of gorgeous dyes. 
In the golden summer weather. 

And in that land a happy people stay : 
No hateful books perplex them night nor day ; 
No cares of business fret their lives away, 
In the golden summer weather. 

But all day long they wander where they please, 
Plucking delicious fruits, that on the trees 
Hang all the year and never know decrease. 
In the golden summer weather. 

Or over flower-enamelled vale and slope 
They chase the silv'ry-footed antelope ; 
Or with the pard in manly conflict cope 
In the golden summer we.itlier. 

And in those islands troops of maidens are, 
Whose lovely shapes no foolish fashions mar ; 
Eyes black as Night, and brighter tiian her stars 
In the golden summer weather. 

Earth hath no maidens like them otherwhere ; 
With teeth like pearls and wreaths of jetty hair, 
And lips more sweet tlian tinted syrups arc, 
In Uie golden summer weather. 

Ah ! what a life it were to live with them ! 
Twould p.iss by sweetly as a happy dream : 
The years like days, the days like minutes seem. 
In the golden summer weather. 



Come ! let us go ! the wind blows fair and free ; 
The clouds s.iil seaward, and to-morrow we 
May see tlie billows dancing on the sea, 
In the golden summer weather. 

The heavens were bright, the earth was fair to see, 
A thousand birds sang rouncl the boy, but he 
Heard nothing but that spirit from the sea. 
In the golden summer weather. 



Rtm atvttjf to Sea. 105 

All night, as sleepless on his bed he lay, 
He seemed to hear that treacherous spirit say, 
Come, let us seek those islands far away, 
In the golden summer weather. 



So ere the morning in the east grew red, 
He stole adown the stairs with barefoot tread. 
Unbarred the door with trembling hands, and fled 
In the golden summer weather. 



In the last hour of nig^t the city slept ; 
Upon his beat the drowsy watchman stept ; 
When like a thief along Uie streets he crept, 
In the golden summer weather. 



And when the sun brought in the busy day. 
His father's home a£ar behind him lay, 
And he stood 'mongst the sailors on the quay, 
In the golden summer weather. 



Like sleeping swans, with white wings folded, ride 
The great ships at their moorings, side by side ; 
Moving but with the pulses of the tide, 
In the golden summer weather. 



And one is slowly ruffling out her wings 
For flight, as seaward round her bowsprit swings ; 
Whilst at the capstan-bars the sailor sings 
In the golden summer weather. 



He is aboard. The wind blows fresh abeam : 
The ship drifts slowly seaward with the stream ; 
And soon the land fades from him like a dream, 
In the golden summer weather. 



And if he found those islands far away. 
Or those fair maidens, there is none can say : 
For ship or boy returned not since that day, 
In the golden summer weather. 

E. Young. 



io6 



A Royal Nun, 



A ROYAL NUN. 



Among the pleasant alleys of Ver- 
sailles, or under the stately groves of 
St. Cloud, or in the grand corridors 
of the Tuileries, might often have 
been seen, about the year 1773, pac- 
ing up and down together in tender 
and confidential converse, two young 
maidens in the early bloom of youth, 
and often by their side would sport a 
careless, wilful, but engaging child 
some eight or nine years old. These 
three young girls were all of royal 
birth, and bound together by the ties 
of close relationship ; they were the 
sisters and cousin of a great king ; 
their lineage one of the proudest of 
the earth ; they were all fair to look 
upon, and all endowed with mental 
gifts of no mean order. How bright 
looked their future I Monarchs often 
sought their hands in marriage, and 
men speculated on their fate, and 
wondered which should form the 
most brilliant alliance. Could the 
angels who guarded their footsteps 
have revealed their future, how the 
wise men of this world would have 
laughed the prophecy to scorn 1 Yet 
above those fair young heads hangs a 
strange destiny. For one the mar- 
tyr's palm ; the name of anollier was 
to echo within the walls of St. Peter, 
as of her whom the church delighl- 
eth to honor ; the third was to wear 
the veil of the religious through dan- 
gers and under vicissitudes such a.s 
seldom foil to the lot of any woman. 
Those of whom we speak were these : 
Clotilde and Elizabeth of France, 
sisters of Louis XVL, and Louise 
de Bourbon Cond^, their cousin. 
Louise and Clotilde, almost of the 
same age, were bound together in close 
intimacy. We may wonder, now, on 
what topics llieir conversation would 
run. Did they speak of the gayeiies 



of the court ; of the rour 
giddy dissipation which had, pel 
reached its culminating point i 
this period ? or were they talkl 
the last sermon of I'ire Beaur^ 
when, with unsparing and apa 
severity, he condemned the fa^ 
able vices of the age ? or wer^ 
speaking of the cases of di 
among the poor who day bj 
trooped to the house of Madem 
as Louise dc Condti was calM 
were there succored by her 
hands? On some such then 
these latter we may be almost 
that their converse ran. The ] 
of Clotilde was never given f 
world ; from her childhood shi 
yearned for a cloister, and wouh 
have found herself at the side a 
aunt, Madame Louise, who wa^ 
prioress of the Carmelites o| 
Denis. To the faille of this 
vent Clotilde, Louise, and Elis 
would often go ; and no doubt i 
partly owing to the conversaliofl| 
example of tlie holy Carmelite, 
cess that the three girls, plac^ 
they all were, in most dangcroui 
difficult positions, not only thrt 
their way through the maze a 
but became examples of etn 
piety and virtue. 

The elder of the three friendl 
Louise, only daughter of \ 
Joseph de Bourbon Cond^, | 
great-grandson of the Great Cj 
and son of the Duke de Bo« 
for some time prime ministt 
Louis XV. He had early cl 
the army as his career, and as < 
won laurels for himself in the 9 
Years' War. On one occasioi 
was entreated by his attendani 
withdraw from the heat of the bt 
" I never heard," said he, 



id he, "of 

A 



A Royal A^u/t, 



107 



Es being taken by the Great 
iis admiration for his glo- 
stor was, indeed, intense, 
i devoted himself to the task 
ing a. histor>' of this great man ; 
kmgh an ardent soldier, he 
»ll educated. Men of science 
tsnius gathered round him in 
Ittau of Chantilly, whither he 
retire in the brief intervals 
ce. At a very- early age the 
de Con<Iti married Charlotte 
>han Soubise, a maiden as 
in her character as her birth. 
IS merciful to the poor, gentle 
laritable to all who surrounded 
marriage was a happy 
yt3S not destined to last 
be princess died in 1760, 
iind her a son, the Duke 
I, and Louise Adelaide, 
re have been speaking. 
little ^rl, thus left motherless 
age of five years, was con- 
to the care of her great-aunt, 
tbess of heaumont les Tours, 
%\xiy leagues from Paris. All 
ligious assembled to receive 
:1c princess on the day of her 
, and evfrr}'thing was done to 
her. After showing her all 
erior of tl>e convent, she was 
where she would like to go. 
take me," cried she, " where 
Is the most noise." Poor 
Skhe was destined to find her 
fe ^ little too noisy. She next 
'o the choir while the 
1 'mpline ; but before the 
' the hrst psalm whispered to 
endant " I have had enough." 
ic peaceful walls her childhood 
away. She grew fond of the 
It, nnd gave every mark of 
She was wont to de- 
1 that the grace of 
le little interior prog- 
licart ; nevertheless, a 
■n of good instruction 
'Aix Ijiid, which was hereafter 



to bear fruiL At twelve ye.ors of 
age she made her first communion, 
and then returned to Paris to finish 
her education in a convent there, 
" to prepare her for the world." 

Years fled on, Louise attained 
womanhood, her brother married one 
of the Orleans princesses, and a mar- 
riage was projected for Louise with the 
Count d'Artois. afterward Charles X., 
but political differences caused the 
match to be broken off. Louise 
was not destined ever to become 
Queen of France. The tender friend- 
ship which subsisted between her 
and the Princess Clotilde was no-.v to 
be broken, in one sense, by their total 
separation. Clotilde's heart's de- 
sire for the religious life was rudely 
crossed ; the daughters of royal 
houses had less control over their 
fates then (and perhaps even now) 
than the meanest peasant in the 
land. A marriage was " arranged" 
for Madame Clotilde with the Prince 
of Piedmont, heir-apparent to the 
throne of Sardinia. She was but six- 
teen years of age when she had to leave 
France and all she loved and clung 
to, and set out to meet her unknown 
husband ; for she was married by 
proxy only in Paris, and was received 
by the Prince of Piedmont at Turin. 
She was verj' beautiful, but unfortu- 
nately excessively stout, to such a 
degree that it injured not only her 
appearance, but her health. At Tu- 
rin she was welcomed by a vast 
crowd, but cries of " C/u grossa /" 
(" How fat she is I") struck unplea- 
santly on her car. " Be consoled," 
said the Queen of Sardinia; "when 
I entered the city, the people cried, 
' Chf brutta P '' (" How plain she 
is!") "You find mc very stout?" 
questioned Clotilde, anxiously look- 
ing into her husband's face. " I 
find you adorable," was the grace- 
ful and affectionate reply. 

Years flew by. MtuiemohdU^ aa 



To8 



A Royal Nun. 



Louise was now called, had her own 
establishment, and presided at royal 
files given by her father at Chantilly. 
Thither came once to partake of his 
hospitality the heir of the throne of 
all the Russias, travelling, together 
with his wife, under the incognito of 
the Comle du Nord. A friendship 
sprang up between them and Louise 
de Cond/', hereafter to be put to the 
proof in extraordinary and unfore- 
seen circumstances, I>iltle did they 
think as they parted within the splen- 
did halls of Chantilly where their 
next meeting should be. 

The license of manners that pre- 
ceded llie Revolution, as the gather- 
ing clouds foretell a storm, was princi- 
pally to be observed in the grossness 
of the theatre and the corniptton of 
literature. The theatre was a favorite 
amusement with Louise de Cond^, 
and she took great delight in private 
theatricals, and frequently played a 
part. She heard Ptre IJeauregard 
prc.ich on the subject, and her reso- 
lution was instantly taken. A com- 
edy was to be acted next day at 
Chantilly, but the princess renounc- 
ed her part. It cost her not a little 
thus to throw out the arrangements 
for the/<'V<r,- but she vanquished all 
human respect, and thus took the 
part of God against the world. 

It was a turning-point in her life. 
It may seem to us that it was but 
a small sacrifice to make ; but one 
Iprace corresponded to lead on to 
Others, and from that resolution to 
give up theatrical entertainments 
I^uise dated the commencement of 
the great spiritual graces and bene- 
fits of her after-life. That she was 
endowed with the courage of her 
race may be known from the fact 
that, having sustained by a fall a se- 
vere fracture of her leg, she sent for 
her Italian master to give her a les- 
son while wailing for the surgeon. 
This broken leg was destined in her 



case, as in that of St. Ignatius 
become one of her greatest bli 
ings. She rose up from her 
determined to give herself more 
tirely to God's service. "^ 
of a deeply affectionate di 
Louise loved her family tenderly, 
in an cspcci;U manner her oolj 
nephew, tlie Due d'Knghicn, then 
his early youth. Day by day 
Louise bring the name of \\\\s 
loved boy before the Mother of G' 
Counsel, begging her, in her o' 
simple words, to become his n>oi 
and protectress, and " never to 
fer his faith to perish." We si 
see a little later on how this pra; 
was answered. And now lime hi 
passed on, and tlie Revolution w; 
at hand, and had even begun. A 
the taking of the Bastile, the Phnco 
de Cond^ quitted P'rance with ail 
his family, and immediately set him- 
self to organize an army for the dfe 
fence of Louis XVI. Ordencd bf 
the Diredory to return to France, he 
disobeyed, and was instantly stripi)ed 
of all his vast property. The prince 
sold all his jewels, and bore 
altered fortunes with patience and, 
courage. Meanwhile, the Princ 
Louise accompanied her father ani 
acted as his secretary. They moved 
about from place to place, and at 
Turin she was able to renew the 
friend.ship of her youth with Clotilde, 
who was now Queen of Sardinia, and 
displayed on her throne a pattern 
of womanly and saintly virtues. 
Near the Queen of Sardinia Hattery 
could not subsist. It is recorded 
of her that she never pronounced a 
doubtful word, far less the smallest 
falsehood. Intercourse with this 
dear friend strengthened in the heart 
of Louise the earnest desire she had 
of belonging entirely to God. " I 
am obliged to lake lime for prayer 
from my sleep," she writes to bcr 
director. "I caanot do without 



I 

icrfl 

J 



A Royal Nun, 



109 



at table, surrounded with offi- 

all talking, I pray inwardly." 

crime of the 21st of January, 

n. fell like a thunderbolt on the 

ondrf ; but, rising from his 

iirave general instantly pro- 

jcd Louis XVI r., alUiough that 

king, v/hosc piteous story his- 

surely can never outdo, was 

Tffl being tortiired by his savage 

■Ajec ts . The Archbishop of Turin 

was deputed to escort the terrible 

news to Queen Clotiklc. " Madam," 

aid he, *' will your majesty pray for 

jwir iHnstrious brother, especially 

fisr his soul ?" The terrible tnith 

Suhc ■ ■ upon her, and, flilling 

OQ h> . she exclaimed : " Let 

a do better still — let us pray for his 

smrderers V Surely, in the annals 

:if 'he saints, few words more truly 

hv.ir rnn have been recorded than 

!?'\ iriifttiktve utterance of Clotilde 

dc Bouibon. The active operations 

of the army commanded by the 

Prince de Conde made it impossible 

j.bt the princess to remain any longer 

her Calher's side ; she accord- 

ffcgh- repaired to Fribourg, a favorite 

place of refuge for French emigrants. 

^ 1 1 in three hundred French 

111 found a temporary asy- 

n its walls, and the ser- 

' . . . . Lhe church were performed 

with ewry possible care and fire- 

qticncy. Among these priests the 

ririncess met one, supposed to be 

err r\( die exiled French bishops, to 

*iiam %lie was able to give her en- 

nfidence, and from whom she 

wise and spiritual advice. 

idea of a religious vocation now 

I firm hold of her mind ; 

>r would not let her 

Step for two years, wishinp 

possible way to lest the 

fity of this call from God. No 

lir^" r,K..-5cles stood in the way 

of th' osiulant. Times had 

dianeea since those when the en- 



trance of Madame Louise, of France, 
into the Carmelites had been hailed 
as an especial mark of God's pro- 
vidence over a poor community. 
Every convent in Europe was now 
trembling for its safety, and few were 
willing to open their doors to one 
bearing the now unfortunate name 
of Bourbon. About this lime, it 
would seem, the princess was in 
communication with the Pfere de 
Toumely, founder of that Society of. 
the Sacred Heart which was after^ 
ward absorbed into the Society ofi 
Jesus, and who was earnestly seek- 
ing to found a new order for women, 
and especially at this moment to 
gatlier together a community of emi- 
grant French ladies, some of whoE 
had been driven from their convents^^ 
The idea naturally presented itself 
of placing the Princess Louise at 
the head of such a community, but 
she shrank from the task. " I shoulc 
fear," she said, '■" from the force oft* 
custom, the deference that would be 
paid to what the world calls my rank» 
The place that I am ambitious of ii 
the last of all. What are the thrones 
of the universe compared to that last 
place?" God had other designs fo^, 
her, and for the projected order ai»^ 
humbler instrument was to be chosen:] 
for the foundation-stone of the ordee 
of the Sacred Heart ; and at this 
moment the foundress, all imcon^ 
scious of her fate, was as yet "playfl 
ing with her dolls." Louise dc 
Conde, detennined to enter a poor, 
obscure convent of Capuchinesses, or 
religious, following Uie rule of St. 
Clare, in Turin, a city which it w.-js 
then hoped was likely to remain in 
tranquillity. Before doing so she had 
obtained her father'* consent, and, 
also that of Louis XV I II., whom) 
the emigrant French had proclaimed! 
as their king when the prison-hous* ' 
of the little Louis XVII. had been 
mercifully opened by death. The 



no 



A Royal Nun. 



I 
I 



I 



emigrants were careful to keep up 
with their exiled monarch all the 
forms and traditions which would 
have surrounded him had he been 
peaceably sitting on the throne of 
his fathere. It is worth while to 
give the princess's own words : 

" S tR E : It is not at the moment when 
I am about to have the happiness 
of consecrating myself to God that I 
could forget for the first time what I 
owe to my king. I have for long past 
fcltmyself called to the religious state, 
and I have come to Turin, where the 
kindness and friendship of the Queen 
of Sardinia has given me the means 
to execute my design — a design which 
has been avcII examined and reflect- 
ed upon ; but, before its final accom- 
plishment, I supplicate your majesty 
to deign to give your consent to it. I 
ask it with the more confidence be- 
cause I am certain it will not be re- 
fused, and that your piety, sire, will 
cause you to find consolation in see- 
ing a princess of your blood invested, 
with the livery of Jesus Christ, May 
God, whose infinite mercy I have 
so wonderfully experienced, hear the 
prayers I shall constantly make for 
the rcestablishment of the altar and 
the throne in my unfortunate coun- 
try. They will be as earnest as the ef- 
forts of my relatives for the same ob- 
ject. The desire for the personal 
happiness of your majesty is equally 
in my heart. 1 implore him to be 
persuaded of it. I am, etc., 

" I.OtJtSE .\l)fL.\IDK nE BotlRDON CONoL 

"Tdkim, November, I79S-" 

There could be no doubt of the de- 
votion of Loui.se's family to the cause 
of Louis XV U I. Her father, bro- 
Iher, and nephew were all under 
arms for the restoration of his crown, 
and Delille celebrated the incident 
in verse ; 

" Tt«U (<oin>'nM vonl CBMinble i U cloire " 



The king wrote back to the roy 
postulant : 

" You have deeply reflected, my dc 

cousin, on the step which ;> 
taken. Your father has u 
consent. 1 give mine also, or r^thiic 
I give you up to Providence, who 
quires this sacrifice from me. 1 wi 
not conceal from you that it is a j 
one, and it is with deep regret that Ij 
give up the ho|>e of seeing you by wu 
virtues become one day an evarai 
to my court, and anedi; t< 

my subjects. I have b'.;: 
lation, and it is that of thinking tha^] 
while the courage and talents of y( 
nearest relations arc aiding me to reco-J 
ver the throne of St. Lor 
ers will drawdown theb. 
the Most High on my cuii>e, and -u- 
terward on all my reign. 1 rccoin* 
mend it to you, and I pray )-ou, inyj 
dear cousin, to be well persuaded of' 
my friendship for you. 

" Louis." 

On the 26th of November, t798»l 
the Queen of Sardinia took her cou* 
sin to the convent, and saw her cDier { 
on the mo<le of life she had »o ar* | 
dently desired for herself, but frooil 
which she had been severed. And hcroj 
Louise began to le.id at once a life of 
hardship and austerity. Earnest in all i 
things by character, she threw herselCj 
into the practice of her rule, and bc*j 
came a model to all the novitiates. 
She counted the monllisas they pa^s* 
ed which should bring her tu hef^ 
profession day ; but it was not to ba i 
God saw fit to purify her by many I 
sufferings, by long anxieties, before she| 
should find rest in his house. She wa 
to be the instrument for a great work 1 
for his glor>', and by many vicissitudes 1 
she was to be trained and fitted for it 
The French Directory had declared 
war against Piedmont, the princess's 
presence endangered the whole of hct . 



J 



A Royal Nun. 



HI 



p-, a.nd she hastened to quit 
jf and take refuge temporari- 
be convent of the Annonciades, 
Krhence, as she was only a board- 
e could fly at any moment ; but 
'. leaving her convent she cutoff 
ur. As a witness to herself, she 
of ihc firm resolution she had 
of living for God only. No one 
5od, she said long afterward, 
tell what her sufferings were at 
g to lea\*e her convent ; but she 
"The graces that God poured 
^ in tliat holy house gave the 
Hy strength to my soul to bear 
m% trials which I had to pass 
jh for so many years 1" Few 
\s are more touching than the 
Ings of this poor novice, thus 
ly lorn away from her beloved 
nt. Shortly after she took up 
bode with the Annonciades, a 
tsion of one of their novices 
place, and the ceremony made 
lor princess feel her disappoint- 
more bitterly. According to 
ustom of the order, the novice 
a crqwn of flowers, and her cell 
ler bed were both decked with 
and the sight moved Louise de 
5 to tears, and, when the novice 
unced her vows, her sobs almost 
I her. She said to herself that 
M unworthy to become the 
Hf Christ, and therefore these 
IB had arisen ; and, hum- 
herself at the feet of her Lord, 
MMiled the follies of her life 
^Brld, of which she took a far 
^Mcw than those did who knew 
Hid been passed, and she im- 
I him to have mercy on her and 
I, to attain a perfect resignation 

\ had not left her convent too 
The rapid approach of the 
h army on Turin obliged her 
t the city and direct her steps 
J Switzerland. There she hoped 
convent of Trappist nuns 



who would venture to receive her; 
but, when she had passed Mount St. 
Bernard, she found that the commu- 
nity had not yet been able to find a 
resting-place in Switzerland. She 
travelled on to Bavaria, and was told 
that no French emigrant could remain 
in the country. Verily, it seemed as 
if she were destined to have nowhere 
to lay her head. She did not know 
where to turn; for war was ruling in 
all directions, and her name was 
dreaded by all who desired to keep 
a neutral part in the conflict. She 
was driven to seek refuge at Vienna, 
and went to board with a convent of 
Visitation nuns ; for this order she 
did not feel any attraction, and she 
cherished the hope that the Trap- 
pist nuns, of whom she had heard 
would be able to find a place of 
refuge and receive her among their 
number. While thus waiting, she 
took, by the advice of her confess- 
or, the three vows privately, thus 
binding herself as closely as possible 
to her crucified Lord. Her descrip- 
tion of this action of her life gives a 
great insight into the beauty of her 
soul. Deep humility, a fervent love 
of God, and a child like simplicity 
were hereminent characteristics. She 
made these vows at communion, un- 
known to all save God, his angels, and 
her spiritual guide. Then she said 
the Te Deum and Magnijicat, which 
would have been sung so joyfully by 
her sisters had she been suffered to 
remain among them. "I neglect- 
ed not in spirit," she adds, " the cere- 
mony of the funeral pull, begging from 
God the grace to die to all, so as to 
live only in God and for God." 

This private act of consecration 
was an immense comfort to her; but 
it by no means prevented her longing 
and striving to reenter a convent, and 
all her hopes continued to be fixed on 
La Trappe. 

At this period an affecting meet- 



I 
I 



I 



112 



A Royal Nun, 



ing took place between her and 
Madame Royale, the only survivor of 
the royal victims of the Temple, the 

3ung girl born to one of the highest 
'destinies in this world, and whose 
youth had been overshadowed by a 
tragedy so prolonged and so frightful 
th:it historj' can scarce furnish a par- 
allel case. It is only extraordinary 
that reason had survived such awful 
suffering, falling on one so young 
and so tenderly nurtured. Is it any 
wonder that a shade was cast over 
the rest of her life, and that she was 
never among the light-hearted or tlie 
gay? From Vienna she wrote to 
Queen Clolilde : '* I have had a 
great pleasure here in finding that 
the virtues of my aunt Elizabeth 
were well known, and she is spoken 
of with veneration. I Iiope that one 
day the pope will place my relation 
in the list of saints." It was, no 
doubt, a great comfort to her to 
speak freely with Louise of the aunt 
and cousin both had so fondly loved. 
Louise could tell Madame Royale 
many anecdotes of the youth of one 
whose end had been so saintly. We 
must now say a few words about the 
convent which the princess wished 
to enter, 

Wlicn the order of La Trappe was 
suppressed in France, in common 
with those of other religious in 1790, 
the Abb<5 L'Kstrange, called in reli- 
gion Dom Auguslin, was master of 
novices, and he conceived the idea 
of removing the whole community 
from France instead of dispersing 
it. 

After many difficulties this was ac- 
complished, and the monastery was 
founded at Val-Sainte, near Fribourg. 
The abbe now conceived the idea 
of founding a convent of Trappist 
nuns, to be composed chiefly of those 
religious who had been driven from 
their own convents, and of fresh 
novices. The director of Madame 



Louise had many doubts as to 
advisability of her entering lliis cc 
munity ; but her desire for it was 
ardent, and continued so long, tt 
he withdrew his opposition ; it 
when the community had really ( 
root, near that of the Trappist monll 
under the title of the Monaster)' 1 
the Will of God, Louise dc Con^ 
set out from Vienna and entered 
None but the superiors knei 
she was — such was the simj 
of her dress, so retiring her ma 
ners, so humble were all her waji 
but instead of a princess many 
the religious thought her to be 
lowly extraction, and wondered 
Dom Augustin gave her so much 
his time. With great delight she 
ceived the holy habit and began 
practise the rule. The life was 
hard one ; the house was a 
deal too small for tiie number of 1 
ligious who occupied it ; there was 
great want of fresh air ; and the 
and austerities were most tryir 
In a very few months the torrent < 
European war was about to 
down on Switzerland, and the wholi 
community were obliged to take 
hasty departure. Dom Augiy 
could see no other place of 
for his flock than the shores of 
sia, and he bade Louise de Cond 
use her influence with the empet 
to allow them to take up their abod4 
in his kingdom. The Kmperor Vax 
was the same who, as archduke and 
under the title of Comtc du Nor 
had sat by the princess's side 
the brilliant banquets and festi^ntic 
of Chantilly, Louise wTote to hin 
with all the grace of a French 
man : " I beg the amiable Comte dx 
Nord to become my interpreter wit 
the Emperor Paul." The advanc 
of the republican army was so rap* 
that there was no lime to wait for 
reply. The community were divide 
into different bands, and starte 



A Royal Nun. 



113 



jfent times and by different 

fell agreeing to reunite their 

B Bavaria. The vicissitudes 

jn* ^frnxyvf^ would be enough 

r 1 volume could we 

IS. At one place she 

by the bishop of the dio- 

cesa, only to be driven 

vil authorities ; at ano- 

lodged in a bake-house, 

d smoke. She observed 

quite good enough for 

that ihe was very happy. 

cr time the cook neglects 

^the copper cooking-ves- 

whole community are 

ed. When the answer 

e Emperor Paul, it was 

,t he consented to receive 

the religious only, to whom 

iked support as well as pro- 

W.1S necessary, therefore, 

place for the others, 

^e accompanied some of 

rs ami the monks to Vienna, 

tx former friends, the good 

n nuns, gave a refuge to 

^ad of the Trappists. Not- 

diijg .ill these changes, 

as strictly as possible ob- 

je rule oi lier order and the 

of her novitiate. Being de- 

ber superiors to write down 

_ IS on the religious life, she 

complied, though she said 

v^as dliEQuk to do so 

t of fourteen persons, 

:cther in a very small 

'ait at different occupa- 

was Uue they kept silent, 

tud to ask necessary ques- 

the prioress, and among so 

ccessity was very fre- 

rnow desired to set out 

thus undertake an- 

irocy of discomfort and 

>plc urged her to leave 

g that the weakness 

which had never wholly 

.—8 



recovered from the fall she had had 
many years before, would render it 
impossible for her to be useful. She 
replied that, if she were only allowed 
to keep the lamp burning before the 
blessed sacrament, she would be 
contented. So she set out for Or- 
cha, the town named by the empe- 
ror for their reception, It proved a 
really terrible journey; sometimes 
the religious had to sleep under the 
open sky j they had the roughest food, 
and more than once were without 
any for twenty-four hours. But never 
once did the patience, sweetness, and 
perfect content of Louise de Cond^ 
fail ; her face was always bright, for 
her whole soul was filled with the 
one thought — a desire of doing pen- 
ance. The arrival in Russia did not 
put an end to the difficulties of 
citlier Madame Louise or her order. 
It was necessary to make some ar- 
rangement for tlie rest of the com- 
munity left in Genuany. The Em- 
peror Paul finally agreed to receive 
fifty. Dom Augustin accordingly 
went to fetch them. During his ab- 
sence no communication could be 
held with him, while various offers of 
help, which had to be accepted or 
refused, were brought to the prin 
cess, embarrassing her greatly. 

After ten months of this suspense 
Dom Augustin relumed, having made 
up his mind to go to America. This 
was a severe blow to Madame Louise ; 
for, being still a novice, it became a 
grave question whether she would, 
in such circumstances, be right in 
accompanying them, and after much 
prayer and thought she, by the 
counsel of her director, decided to 
leave. Once more was she to be 
driven out into the cold world ; once 
more her heart's desire crossed, her 
hopes delayed indefinitely. " I 
thought that God willed in his jus- 
tice to break my heart, and tlius ar- 
rest its impetuous ardor. I had 



iWik 



114 



once more to strip myself of the liv- 
ery of the Lord, which had been my 
glorj' and my happiness. I did it, 
and did not die, that is all 1 can 
say." Before her departure she im- 
plored the emperor, and all over 
whom she had any personal influ- 
ence, to continue their kindness to 
the order. In reality, it was a good 
thing for the order that Madame 
Louise quitted it, as events after- 
ward proved. One of the verj' first 
communities allowed by Bonaparte 
to reenter France was this very one, 
and he certainly would not have 
done so had a Bourbon been in its 
ranks. It is true his favor was but 
short-lived, and the Trappists had 
again to fly to America, but their re- 
turn to France had been in many 
ways a benefit ; and in 1815 they 
came back again, and established 
themselves at Belle Fontaine and at 
Meillerage. The latter house has 
long since become celebrated. Dotn 
Augusiin reached Rome, and re- 
ceived many marks of approval from 
the pope for his long and earnest 
struggle in the cause of his order. 
He died at Lyons in 1827. 

And now where was the exile to 
go? Where should she rest her 
wear)' head ? Where and how begin 
life again under anew aspect? Her 
father, brother, and nephew were 
cither engaged in warfare, or them- 
selves begging shelter from distant 
countries ; her friends were scattered, 
her resources scanty. A Benedic- 
tine nun who had joined the Trappist 
communit)' quitted it, accompanie«l 
her, and Louise endeavored to 
follow under her a kind of novitiate. 
They took refuge at last in a Bene- 
dictine convent in Lithuania, but 
'*here the rule was not kept in its 
strict observance. Here she remain- 
ed for two years, making all possible 
inquiries for a convent in which she 
might be received ; but the greater 




A Royal Nun. 



part were destrt^'ed, aw 
stood in the way of entering 
those she heard of. She wij 
course, to be more than tvtr 
in this her third choice. Ma 
her means of acquiring Jnfor 
were but small ; there was litl 
munication with other countri 
few of the inhabitants spoke I 
While in Lithuania Louise a 
an orphan of four years old, I 
of good family reduced to be? 
she was named Eldonore L)o( 
sha. At last she heard of a 
at Warsaiv, which seemed t 
would fulfil all her desires ; an 
indeed, she haJ reached the 
God had destined her for. H( 
was to lay the foundation of th 
work for which, by many sorm 
much disappointment, he ha* 
preparing her. 

A foundation of Benedictii 
the Blessed Sacrament had 
from Paris to W^arsaw n»any 
before, and were still existing) 
kept the Benedictine rule 9l 
adding to it the adoration C 
Blessed Sacrament. Madame 
asked and received permissl 
the King of Prussia to enter 
minions. He afterward 
follows : 

" Freperick Williaj 
GRACE OF G«n King or 
As we have permitted Madji 
Princesse Louise Ad<?laidc de 
bon Cond^ and Madame de la . 
tree, who arrived at Warsal 
1 8th of June, to remain in thf 
vent of the Holy Sacrament, ' 
they seem to wish to end | 
days, we have in consequence 
all necessarj' orders to the offic 

" Wausaw, 28 August, iSoi." \ 

I 

A striking circumstance oc< 

while on her road to Warsaw, ( 

those many incidents of 



A Rayat Nun. 



vbich has made the history of the 
fncnch Rc\-Dlution read like a ro 
incc. Ha\nng to descend from 
caifriage at Thorn, her eyes fell 
ian poorly clad in the 
'ievidently seeking employ- 
it ; the expression of her face 
Ui.1t of suffering, but of great 
The princess was so struck 
it that she went up to her, 
atwl said by impulse, "Madam, were 
you not a religious ?" '• Yes," she 
eplied, impelled to confidence by 
he sweet face of her who addressed 
And then Louise learnt that 
lady was an exiled member 
tijc French Sisters of Calvary, 
so into exile ; that her slender 
id come to an end ; and that 
she had come out to seek 
or to beg, neither dismayed nor 
El afraid, but putting her full trust 
Diune Providence. 
Icr wants were supplied, and she 
have entered the same con- 
it .15 Madame Louise, but that she 
to rejoin her own community 
ihey should reassemble. This 
afterward took place, and 
generosity of Madame Louise 
shed the means for her journey 
and she lived many years in 
invent, leading a holy life, and 
Ttherc in peace, 
last Madame Louise commenc- 
ird novitiate, and found in 
border all that could j>erfectly 
her heart. She took the 
in September, t8oi,and all the 
Eimily of Prussia were present 
tthe ceremony; the Bishop of War- 
»w preached the sermon, and bade 
her convent for ever, not 
of her name and of her 
tojra! birth, but by her re]ii,nous vir- 
tue*. The habit which she had 
taken^ added he, and which she had 
preferred to all the pomps of the 
trortd, was but the exterior mark of 
lOOQsecntion and a sacrifice that 




At 



her heart had long since made. As 
a novice Madame Louise redoubled 
her ferV'Or and exactness in reli- 
gious life, with many anxious hopes 
and prayers that this time the day of 
her profession would really come. 
A sorrow came upon her in the news 
of the death of her early and loved 
friend, Clotilde of Sardinia, whose 
soul passed to God in March, 1802, 
while her whole people, anticipating 
only the voice of the church, called 
her a saint. On the 21st of Septem- 
ber, 1802, Louise made her solemn 
profession. " I pronounced my vows 
publicly," she said, " but with such 
feelings that I can truly say ray heart 
pronounced them with a thousand 
times greater strength than my 
mouth." She now retook her reli- 
gious name, which she had chosen 
twice before, Sceur Marie Joseph de 
la Mis<5ricorde, The life of an or- 
dinary good religious would have 
seemed sufficiently difficult for a 
princess, but Louise would do no- 
thing by halves. She practised the 
highest virtues of her state, bearing 
undeserved blame without a word of 
excuse ; she never murmured under 
labors ; she was obedient, gentle, 
and humble. So anxious was she to 
prevent her rank being an occasion 
for raising her to offices of authority 
that she wrote to the pope these 
words: 

" Most Holy Father : Louise Ade- 
laide de Bourbon Cond^, now Marie 
Joseph de la Mis^ricorde, professed 
religious of the convent of the Per- 
petual Adoration of the Most Holy 
Sacrament, order of Saint Benedict, 
at Warsaw, supplicates your holiness 
that you deign, for the repose and 
tranquillity of the soul of the suppli- 
ant, to declare her deprived of active 
and passive voice, and to dispense 
her from all the principal officeii of 
the community." 



u6 



A Royal Nun. 



I 



The holy father saw fit to grant 
the request, and sent a brief on the 
subject to her. 

" The efforts that you make to at- 
tain Christian perfection in these 
unhappy days," wrote Pius VI I., 
" have filled us with joy, and make 
us hope that the Divine Spouse to 
whom you have made the laudable 
sacrifice of yourself will not fail to 
grant you his grace, in order that, 
by the exact and religious observa- 
tion of the rules of the institute 
which you have chosen, you will at- 
tain the end tliat you proposed to 
yourself in embracing with so much 
joy this state of life. . . . We 
send you the letters of dispensation 
that you say are necessary for the 
perfect tranquillity of your mind, de- 
siring nothing more than to remove 
the obstacles which could destroy 
your peace ; and further, we give you 
with our whole heart the apostolical 
benediction, as a proof of our pater- 
nal friendship." 

And now one of the sharpest sor- 
rows of Louise de Condi's life was 
at hand. An event which was, even in 
that age of cruelties, to strike Europe 
with horror was to fall with bitterest 
force on the heart of the princess. 
Religious life does not extinguish 
tlic afleclions of the heart ; it but re- 
gulates, ennobles, and purifies diem ; 
and the Due d'Enghien was as ten- 
derly loved by the aunt who had not 
seen him for many years, spent in 
devotion to God, as when, in the halls 
of Chantilly, she had watched his 
childish gambols. The prayer she 
had offered up in his childhood was 
continued more fer\'ently, more con- 
stantly, as the dangers to his body 
and soul increased. She followed him 
in commiseration through the busy 
scenes in which his lot was cast, and 
she saw him brave, loyal, and honor- 
able, a good son and a good hus- 
band, When Louis XVIH. con- 



sulted him, in i^o^, in commi 
with the other French princes, as 
the answer he should return to 
proposal of Bonaparte that he shou 
renounce the throne of France, ll 
duke wrote : "Your majesty knows ti 
well the blood which runs in 
veins to have had the least doubt 
to the answer which you demand 
from me. I am a Frenchman, sire 
and a Frenchman who is faithful t 
his God, to his king, and to 
vows of honor." We have no sp; 
to dwell on the treachery and 
cruelty of the capture and death 
this young prince, one of the fairei 
hopes of the house of Bourbon. I 
vain did he even ask for a priest 
but that ungranted request rous 
have carried consolation to tlie hea 
of Madame Louise. As wo read 
his cutting off his hair to send to his 
" Charlotte," we are forcibly remind 
ed of another prince, who was treach- 
erously slain, sending a last adieu to 
another unhappy princess of ih 
same name. To the doors of th 
convent at Warsaw, bearing the 
news, came the Abb^ Edgeworth, 
whose mission it wiis to console and 
help tlie unfortunate house of Bour- 
bon. He had attended the lost 
moments of Louis XVL ; he 
had stood by him on the scaffold, 
undaunted by the crowd, and bade 
the " son of St. Ix)uis ascend to 
heaven ;" he had been the director 
of Madame Elizabetli ; he had join 
ed the hands of ^L^dame Royale and 
the Due d'Angoulemc in marriage ; 
and now he came to break the news 
of the last great sorrow to Madame 
Louise. The Mfere Sainte Roso 
brought a crucifix to the princess, 
and her countenance told her the 
rest. Louise fell on her face on the 
earth, crjing out, '* Mercy, my God I 
have mercy on him 1" Then she rose, 
and, going to the chapel, poured out 
her sotil before Him who alone could 



4 
i 



Ijer. '* Pardon the faults of 
>uth, O Lord !" she cried, " and 
remember how cruelly his blood has 
^_ be«n shed. G!or)- and misfortune have 
Hittencled him through life ; but what 
^bwcal) glory — has it any merit in thy 
^f^B ? Mercy, my God 1 mercy !'* But 
^ner prayers did not end here. From 
that time fonvard there rose up be- 
fore the throne of God a constant 
.cry for mercy for the soul of Napo- 
)« Bottapartc, from the lips of her 
rest earthly hopes he had 
She never made a retreat 
iftcrtrard without devoting much 
jjTcr and penance for the redemp- 
loa of the enemy of her name and 
ce. Forgiveness of injuries was an 
Special characteristic of the Bour- 
imiiy, and none excelled in it 
than Madame Louise. 
And now anoUier change awaited 
^ibe poor princess : thick, indeed, upon 
^■icr head came trial after trial. No- 
^Wung could, indeed, take from her 
^BQvr the happiness of being a profess- 
^K^^ '-; but that she should 

^^^(u jdbly in one convent 

* — long time was hardly to be 
for at this period. The Lu- 
Prussian government began 
rferc with the government of 
went, to have a voice in the 
>n of superiors, and, of course, 
erfere, at least indirectly, with 
rule. Probably the presence of 
le Louise made tliem take 
notice of that convent than 
i otherwise have done. Be- 
long it, however, as this was 
step to be taken volun- 
by a religious who has made 
yam of enclosure, she wrote for 
tjscJ to the three French bishops 
of Ldon, Vannes, an<l Nantes, who 
ttrc then all living in London. 
Tbeir united opinion was, that " tlie 
icuons v»rre welt grounded and very 
solid, and that the repose of her 
ooucicncc and her advancement in 




the perfection of her state, exact this 
change." Having received permis- 
sion from the bishop of the dio- 
cese, and the full consent of her 
prioress, who bitterly mourned over 
the thraldom in which the commu- 
nity were held, Louise de Cond^ once 
more went out into exile, and this 
time directed her steps toward Eng- 
land. She landed at Gravesend, and 
was, w'e suppose, the first nun since 
the Reformation who was received 
•with public honors by the British au- 
thorities. In London she met her 
father and brother, whom she had 
not seen since the year 1795, ^"^ 
who had since that time endured so 
much, and who were still suffering 
so acutely under their recent sorrow 
in the execution of the Due d'En- 
gliien. There must have been a 
strangely mingled feeling of pain 
and pleasure in this sad meeting. 
After remaining a few days in Lon- 
don, her father and brother escort- 
ed her to a Benedictine convent at 
Rodney Hall, Norfolk, where a re- 
fuge had been offered to her. This 
community followed the mitigated 
rule of St. Benedict, but Louise was 
allowed to observe the fasts and 
other points to which she had bound 
herself by her profession of the rule 
in its strict observance. 

In this house there were fifty choir 
nuns, eight lay sisters, and a large 
school of young ladies. Wherever 
Madame Louise went, she was ac- 
companied by the M&re Sainte Rose 
and the little Eldonore Dombrou- 
sha, tlie child of her adoption. In 
this community Louise was greatly 
beloved. There was about her a 
sweetness and a simplicity, a self- 
forgetfulncss and charity for others 
which gave her an inexpressible 
charm. She was truly noble in cha- 
racter as well as in birth. She gave 
that example which Go<l intends 
those highly bom (as y.e caW '\C^ Xo 



i 



ii8 



A Royal Nun, 



give — that of more closely resembling 
Him whose birth was indeed a royal 
and noble one. During her stay in 
Norfolk, the Princess Louise suffer- 
ed jjreatly from bad health. The trials 
she had undergone, the anxiety of 
mind, her long journeys, and the se- 
verity of the observances to which 
she liad bound herself had their 
effect upon her frame. More than 
once there was such cause for 
serious alarm that the Prince de 
Cond^ and Due de Bourbon came 
to see her. It is probable, too, that 
the English climate, and especially 
tlie part of the country in which she 
was living, might not have agreed 
with her ; the convent, besides, was 
not sufificiently large, and it was a 
favorable change in all respects when 
the community removed to Heath. 
Here Madame Louise met with one 
whose acquaintance she conceived 
to be one of the greatest blessings 
of her life. 

The Society of Jesus was not as 
yet restored to the church ; but 
many of its ancient members were 
living, and showed by their lives 
what had been the heavenly spirit in 
which they had been trained. Pre- 
eminently among these was the P^re 
de la Font.iine, and it was to this 
holy man Louise became known 
while in England. He often said 
Mass at the convent, and frequently 
saw the princess. Under his direc- 
tion, the soul of Louise made ra^ud 
progress toward perfection. He un- 
derstood what Gotl required from 
her, and taught her how to corre- 
spond with God. Among other valu- 
able advice which he gave her, and 
tUfhidi she committed to paper, the 
following is remarkable : *' .\ spouse 
of Jesus Christ ought absolutely to 
avoid all communication with Pro- 
testant societ)'. Their want of deli- 
cacy, in general, on those points 
which wound a heart consecrated to 



God in all purit}', and their unbe-, 
lief, often amounting to aversion, ft 
the great sacrament of the love 
Jesus Christ, are two powerful re 
sons for keeping at a distance fri 
them. A truly religious soul 
reason to fear presumption and 
its attendant evils, if sjie allows 
self, without real necessity, to 
drawn into such dangerous in 
course." 

And so the years ag^in passed oi 
and other changes were at hand. 
Prayers, pen.inces, and suffcrini 
such as Louise de Conde had end 
ed, and sufferings which had b 
borne also in various other w.'iys by 
many holy souls among the French ei 
igrants, had brought down mercy fro 
God on their unhappy country am 
on Europe. The long war wa?. at an' 
end, the muskets ha<l fallen from i 
soldiers' hands, and Napoleon 
a captive. Louis XVHL sat 
more on the throne of his father^ 
The /liur de lis again floated frnm 
the tower of the Louvre. Mathnie 
Royale, who had been sent out of 
France as a prisoner, ransomed by 
treaty, came back to hold the ooii; 
over which her mother had once pre- 
sided ; the princes of the blood -royal 
hastened back to their places, a' 
there was a general wish that Loui 
de Condd should be once more on her 
native soil. Ah ! what a lifetime of 
sorrow had she passed through sini 
she left Chantilly and her house Ii 
the Rue Monsieur, and even now sh( 
would not return to them. 

No, never again could she co 
back to be the princess. If she re- 
turned to France, it must be .is the 
religious to reestablish a convent o! 
her order, and thus aid in bring: 
back rt'Iigiovis life to France. It m 
be confessed that rarely was a perso; 
more fitted for the task. None shouli 
rule, says a proverb, but those who h 
learned to obey, and obedience h: 



re-"n 
lis^^ 




Royal Nulk^ 




which the princess had 
She had passed through 
atcs, and she had in her 
( seen the management of 
Ifiiercnt convents, and she had 
well how to profit by the 
dgc she gained. Accordingly 
Itled the convent at Heath 
b of August, 18(4, and arrived 
as all were preparing to 
of St. Louis for iJie first 
rs. She resided 
:seof her brother, 
Itrturbon ; but she never 
apartments allotted to her, 
the utmost retirement, 
re only till a suitable con- 
be assigned to her. 
rs of the day, after men- 
rrivaJ in Paris, added: " It 
dit that his majesty pro- 
iTC a royal foundation in 
10 establish her with her 
magnificent monastery 
be restored to its primi- 
OT». Already it was sad to 
church of this abbey had 
r profane purposes, and 
of religion and of art 
oyftilly see this edifice restored, 
d be purified by establishing 
»c perpetual adoration, and by 
there a shining example of 
I the person of a princess de- 

k an especial manner to God's 

m 

'edifine was the grand church 
f 1 Grace, one 

^ of the piety 
le of Austria. It was then a 
but, as the paper went on to 
the superb church was not 
use to the sick, and 
one for cultured re- 
er. the idea of giving 
Grlce to M.nd.^me Louise fell 
^TKind. It remained a military 
I, and so continues to this day; 
tick are attended day and 
of diarity of St 





Vincent de Paul. And as their forms 
flit through the corridors, intent on 
works of love, and as their earnest 
prayers rise up in the calm morning 
and close of evening to heaven, the 
founders and the former possessors of 
that splendid pile are, we think, con- 
tented Madame Louise had been so 
long absent that she knew not a single 
friend in Paris. She now entered 
into communication with the Abbd 
d'Astros, vicar-general of the diocese 
of Paris. At her very first interview 
with him she felt impelled to give him 
her full confidence, and this at once 
gave her a proof that it was really the 
will of God she should establish a 
convent in the diocese, since a full 
accord with ecclesiastical superiors 
is one of the most valuable helps a 
new foundation can have. Still, the 
place for the convent remained uncer- 
tain, and the privy council to whom 
it belonged to settle the affair did not 
deem it of much importance, and put 
it aside for other matters. A friend 
of Madame Louise, the Comtesse Ma- 
rie de Courson, proposed to her that 
they should make a novena to Louis 
XVI. It is unusual to pray to those 
whom the church has not canoniz- 
ed, but it is not forbidden to do so 
privately ; and it was hard to believe 
that the soul of the monarch upon 
whom had fallen the long and bitter 
punishment of the sins of his ances- 
tors ^N-as not long since in the enjoy- 
ment of perfect happiness. The no- 
vena was commenced by a certain 
number of earnest and fervent souls. 

On the seventh day, at the mooting 
of the council, although most pressing 
business was that day before its con- 
sideration, a member sutldenly rose, 
and reminding his colleagues Uiat the 
request of Madame Louise had not 
been granted, and as if moved by an 
irresistible impulse, proposed fhat the 
palace of the TanpU should lie given 
to her. A sudden silence fell on the 



assembly, then came a movement of 
unanimous consent. What better spot 
for a convent of rxpiathn than that 
consecrated by such memories — that 
in which such innocent victims had 
sulTered ? The heart of Louis XVI II. 
was deeply touched by the circum- 
stance. 

Truly, royal pomp and ceremony, 
gala and festivity, could never again 
enter those sorrowful halls. Most 
fitting would it be to consecrate 
them to God, and let an unceasing 
strain of prayer and praise ascend 
to heaven. Some doubted whether 
the task would not be too painful for 
the princess herself, and at the first 
announcement she did, in truth, 
shrink back. She had known them 
all so well, had loved Kli/abeth so 
tenderly, had wept over their fates so 
bitterly, had prayed for them so earn- 
estly, she missed them, now that she 
was once more at home ; and how, 
then, could she bear to live for ever 
within those walls, which would be an 
ctcni.il record of their fate. 

Hut the first emotion passed aw.ay, 
and she began more fully to under- 
stand why she had been tried in the 
crucible of sutferings, why her voca- 
tion had been so often crossed, so 
hardly tried. It had been all to 
bring her to this, to let her found in 
Paris a convent of expiation. With- 
out those trials, perhaps, she could 
never have borne the severity of the 
task, the sacrifice she must at once 
make on entering. She tenderly 
loved Madame Royale, or Madame 
la Dauphine, as she was now called, 
and it could not be expected or even 
wished that she should revisit a spot 
which must recall to her those terri- 
ble d.iys whose memor)* already over- 
shadowed her life too much ; but this 
sacrifice Louise was ready tn make, 
and lh(? convent of the Temple was 
accepted. 

Workmen were engaged to convert 



I 

I buill 

artly | 

brougj 

■ed in j 

rtifid^ 

Vir^ 

ict^l 
itei^^ 
irosda 



the old palace idto a coa' 
towers, in one of which 
family had lived, were air 
lished, but it was easy 
where they had stood, 
garden surrounded the buill 
partly in the French, p.nrtly \ 
English style. Water brougj 
from the Seine played in 
tains surrounded by artifii 
among which a grotto 
This grotto was chan, 
oratory to tlie Blessed V'i: 
another to St. Benedi 
Scholastica. The Comte 
son and the Abbd d'Asiros 
the alterations, and all po: 
was being made, when, li 
the news ran through the 
naparte had escaped from F.lb( 
was in France. Then' 
and once more the \\ - i 

was to be an exile. She aj^| 
once procure horses, so (^N 
which happened to be holy wco 
was hidden in the house of < 
her farmer attendants. The 
Sainte Rose was taken ver^' i 
then there was the serious dii 
of procuring passports. Hon 
can those who live in \s>vAqX 
and who breakfast at home ai] 
in Paris, estimate tlie labor, th< 
the dread, which a timid persa 
Madame Louise would feel at 1 
to take the wean,- journey to Ei^ 
posting from Paris to Calais, an 
a long, stormy passage, to say lu 
of tlie dangers of being stopf 
tlie route and taken to prison. 
was obliged to set off on Eastf 
At the city gates they were su 
and it was only by a heavy brit 
they were suifered to pass, < 
way they found themselves 
midst of a popular tumult, an< 
obliged to leave their carriage 
hide till it was over. 'I'hcy 
very bad passiigc from Calais, 
Dover Madame Louise was re 



not the comfort of return- 
the convent at Heath, for it 
ought better that she should 
he course of events in London, 
>e went to a hotel. But a se- 
loess was the result of the sud- 
ock and journey, and after her 
ry she went to the country-house 
PluL All through her after-life 

»-ouise had a great affection 
glish, who, to do them jus- 
ixe certainly generous toward 
nch emigrants. She was wont 
iULt their generositywouldwin 
m ■' . '? of reconciliation 

eC hurch. Although 

ion's second reign lasted but a 
d dap, Madame Louise did 
lum to France for fourteen 
I, p.irtly on account of health, 
because she wished to be fi.)lly 
red of the stability of the lk)ur- 
aasty before she commenced 

PS undertaking, 
ic reached Paris, the Tem- 
t yet ready. She resided 
in tJie Rue St, Dominique 
« of her early friends. There 
de arrangements with various 
MS, with whom she entered 
^■on\'ent on the second of 
UK-, 1816. The Abbe d'As- 
!ss«d the house and said the 
iss in the chapel. And now, at 
} h!i<i found a home ; and though 
',• vicissitudes, after the 
its and the rapid chang- 
vui seen, she could never have 
y secure, she never again quit- 
sc walls. She entered most 
Jy on her duty as superior- 
l as mistress of novices ; for, 
!ion of the Mfere Sainte 
other Benedictine nun 
her, (her own community 
lost in the Revolution,) 
)ne but young subjects to 
iidea this she had to su- 



perintend a large school for young 
ladies, so that her duties were multi- 
plied and heavy. The account of her 
religious life is most touching and 
beautiful. Knowing, aswedo, howthe 
distinctions of rank cling round our 
human nature ; how constantly, ever 
since she had been a nun, she had been 
obliged to remind others not to make 
use of that very rank ; knowing also 
the exaggerated prestige paid under 
the old regime to the Bourbon race, 
it is wonderful to see how utterly she 
forgot her birth or ignored it. She was 
sixty years of age ; she was lame and 
in delicate health ; yet she kept Uie 
rule rigidly; was gentle to others, se- 
vere to herself ; would join in the re- 
creations of her young novices, and 
could be seen making fun witl; them 
in cutting tlie wood for the fires. She 
would often take recreation with the 
lay sisters, and also carefully instruct 
them. In the infirmar)' she would 
perform the most menial offices for 
the sick, and, in short, she was a true 
mother at the head of her house. 
" Those who neglect little sacrifi- 
ces," she would say, " are not likely 
to make great ones." At the appoint- 
ed times she would not exempt herself 
from the penances which the rule per- 
mitted the religious to use. The tirst 
time that she prostrated herself at the 
refectory door, in order that all the 
religious should walk over her, many 
of them could not restrain their emo- 
tion. Aftenvard the princess reprov- 
ed them severely, showing them that 
all distinctions of worldly rank were 
totally contrary to the religious spirit. 
If the sisters brought her better 
food than the others, they were re- 
proved, and forbidden to do it again ; 
or if they tried to make her straw 
mattress any softer, they met the 
same late. In short, to the end of 
her days she was thorough, earnest, 
single-hearted in all things. 
Sorrows did not fail to folVow Vvei 



1 1*^1 



122 



A Royal Nun. 



I 
I 



into her peaceful retreat The assas- 
sination of the Due de Bern, her near 
relative, filled hcrwith grief, recalling 
too vividly the horrors that had dark- 
ened her younger days. She was 
comforted, however, by a visit from 
the venerable Pbre de la Fontaine, 
who came to console her. "The 
Lord has covered him with the man- 
tie of his mercy," said the old 
friend, and those simple words 
calmed her. Could there not, in- 
deed, be hope for tlic soul of hira 
whose first thought on receiving Uie 
death-blow was to say, " Pardon my 
murderer"? The Pfere de la Fon- 
taine had returned to Paris after the 
peace ; and when the Jesuits had been 
restored to their place in the church, 
and had communities in France, he 
often visited the Convent du Temple, 
and was by Madame Louise and 
many others esteemed a saint The 
princess told her sisters that, being 
once in great spiritual perplexity and 
suffering, the father passed by her 
on his way to the altar, and as his 
shadow fell on her all her intense 
sufferings disappeared. In 182 1, this 
holy man died, and at the request of 
Madame Louise the Jesuits sent her 
some account of his last hours. The 
writer described the strong emotion 
felt by all who were present when 
the old man, on his dying-bed, beg- 
ged pardon for all his faults, for his 
breaches of the rule, and renewed 
his vows — vows which he had so 
faithfully kept in exile and solitude, 
when his beloved order had been 
suppressed. He had lived on in 
faith and in prayer, and God had 
allowed him to see the society re- 
stored to the church, so that, like 
Simeon, he could depart in peace. 

Next came the illness of the prin- 
cess's father, the Prince de Condtf. 
She had always been tenderly attach- 
ed to him, and the sorrows tiiey had 
gone through together had naturally 



deepened the affection. He lay 4 
ing at Chantilly, and mutual friend 
begged Madame Louise to go 
him. The ecclesiastical superiot 
would give her dispensation, th« 
said ; she was a princess, no ore 
nary nun. She firmly refused, 
our holy father the pope orders 
to go, as a child of the church I 
obey ; but never will I ask for a 
pensation which should give a pre 
dent for breaking enclosure." Ot 
wardly she was calm before her 
ters, but her stall in the choir 
bathed with tears, so deeply did 
suffer for and with the father whon 
she loved. Her prayers went 
unceasingly, and there is proof 
they were heard. 

The Prince de Condd died \ 
dispositions of most humble pee 
tence, and, when asked if he forgav 
his enemies, exclaimed : *' I am su 
of my salvation, if God will pardc 
me as freely as I pardon ihcm.**^ 
The last words on his lips we 
Cretfo in Dcum. Perhaps the ss 
fice made by his daughter in notl 
assisting his dying hours had wo 
for him Ujc grace of a good death. 1 
The fortune which came to the prio- 1 
cess on her fatlier's death was de-i 
voted to Uie erection of a conventua 
church ; the first stone w.is laid in 
May, 182 1, in the name of Madame 
la Dauphine, by one of her ladies of 1 
honor. Mgr, de Guilen, then coad'* 
jutor of Paris was present and Mgr. 
Tiayssinous preached the sermon* | 
"This place is holy ground," said he j 
"holy because of the extraordina 
misfortunes and the heroic virt 
which it witnessed in the time of ou^J 
impious discords. Within these walls! 
there wept and suffered barbarouslj 
those who should have been moi^j 
worthy than all others of veneratioiki 
and love. VN'iihin these walls raostj 
noble ^nctims of the popular fuiy^i 
were delivered up to inexpressible 



A Royal Nun, 



123 



O days of blood and 
(I O terrible and crael scenes I 
UfflCDtable crime I vrhich I dare 
recall, which every heart in 
would fain banish from his 
Dry, »nd from tiie pages of our 
But no ; we are all con- 
fcmned eternally to bear the shame 
ipMierity. Religion, at least, will 
i»c glory of having done all that 
to expiate it, and to recon- 
Be the people who were so unfortu- 
cly giiilty with Heaven. Here 
»y and night are crying at the foot 
the altar consecrated virgins, 
K)cent and voluntary victims of 
which are not their own. 
prajrers, fastings, vigils, and 
lies, and the sighs of contrite 
itnble hearts, are perpetually 
ing op to the throne of jus- 
it also of divine mercy, to 
iw down on the royal family, and 
the whole of France, grace and 
Thus does religion avenge 
If of ber enemies, by expiating 
past, sanctifying the present, 
preparing the future. . . . 
^ho will raise this building ? 
concealing the beautiful 
c under that of Soiur 
.._^iile, has buried in this 
mil the icliit and grandeur of 
rid. In whose name has the 
stone been laid? In the name 
all that is most touching in suf- 
in c»UTage, in goodness, and 
deaiTit to Ftancc — in the name of 
royal orphan of the Temple." 
Another death awoke consider- 
ble emotkm in the heart of Madame 
On the barren rock of St. 
the proud heart of the great 
oaqueror wore Itself out. 'ITie hand 
mA the brain that had worked such 
fBdIess woe to her and hers were 
fcf ever slilL Far from her all 
ftravfat of triumph and rejoicing. 
iMantly ^^bc had Masses offered for 
tta, and never omitted daily to sup- 



plicate in her private prayers tliat he 
who had given her no rest on earth 
might now have eternal rest given to 
him. 

And now her long and troubled life 
was hastening to its close. She had 
been tossed about, indeed, on a 
troubled sea, seldom in port, yet 
happy and peaceful amid the con- 
flict ; and now eternal peace was at 
hand. 

The bells of the new church were 
blessed in October, 1822, the King 
and Madame la Dauphine being god- 
father and godmother. The church 
was consecrated, in August, 1S23, by 
the Archbishop oi Paris. Louise, 
looking round, might have seen her 
work completed, the community es- 
tablished and flourishing, tlie church 
finished in which the adoration of 
the altar could be worthily carried 
out. The next day she made a false 
step, and fell down. Slight as was 
the accident, fainting fits constantly 
followed, and she was never well af- 
terward. She suffered most from 
her head, but would not give up her 
ordinarj' duties, or lie by. Gradu- 
ally her strength failed. On Decem- 
ber 23d, she fainted on the stairs, 
was carried to bed, and was attacked 
by fever and sickness. Still she 
struggled on with her duties. On 
the last day of the year, she would 
hold the " chapter of peace" — a cus- 
tom of her order to which she was 
much attached, when the religious 
ask mutual pardon of each other for 
any want of charity during the past 
year, and when the prioress has to 
address them on this beautiful sub- 
ject ; and she would not let her ill- 
ness interfere witli the fe.ist of Holy 
Innocents, a gala-day in tlie convent, 
when the youngest novice becomes 
prioress for the day, and innocent 
mirth is in the ascendant ; and she 
assisted at the clothing of two 
novices in January, 18*4. She shovj- 



124 



Mr. Bashers Sacrifice, and why He made it. 



ed by her manner on this last occa- 
sion that she believed it to be the 
last ceremony at which she should 
be present. She saw each of her 
sisters in private, and took leave 
of Uiem with tender affection. She 
suddenly became worse, and lost the 
use of speech, but not conscious- 
ness. She received extreme unction 
from the Archbishop of Paris. The 
communit)', all jn tears, surrounded 
her bed. The archbishop remarked, 
it was like the shower of rain which, 
at the pr.iyer of St. Scholastica, came 
down to prevent St. Benedict from 
leaving her too soon. The dying 
nun understood the allusion, and 
smiled. He bade her bless her 
children, and her hand was raised 
for her, and placed on the head oi 
one of her religious, for she could 
^^_ not move it herself. 
^^P A few days afterward she recover- 

^^ ed her .speech, and she received the 

^"iTal 



viaticum, and answered the queq 
of the priest with a firm tone, ** 
licve with faith." Her dealh-i 
was very long, and, when her b» 
came to see her, she could not 

The desire of seeing her once 
overcame the repugnance that 
dame la Dauphine had to r 
the Temple, and she was about 
out thitlier when the king, fcarin 
consequences for her, forbade 
go. The last smile of Louiq 
Condd was given to a picture 
before her of a dove bearing a 
and flying to heaven. Perhaps 
said inwardly words which 
have been very suitable : ' 
flee away and take my rest" 
ly afterward she expired. Sho 
in the sixty-seventli year of hci 
and the twenty-second of her 
gious profession. And thus en 
life of which it may truly be sah 
it was "stranger than fiction." 



I 



MR. BASHER'S SACRIFICE, AND WHY HE MADE I^ 



Simply because Colonel Dolick- 
wou/t/ feed himself \vith his knife 

: table. But what could the vulgar 
iabit of the colonel have to do with 
such a sacrifice on the part of Mr. 
Basher ? Nevertheless, it is true, and 
had it not been for that, Mr. Basher 
would never have made it. Colonel 
Dolickem cut his mouth and sever- 
ed his hopes at one blow, as it were. 
Fact f .\nd this is the way it came 
about. 

Mr. Basher, as you are aware, was 
not what might be called a marrying 
man. Certainly not. I have heard 
him say, over and over again. In what 
might possibly be considered rather 
too strong language, that he would 



much prefer cutting his throat, 
that he had any aversion to sd 
state of life, or that he had mad 
vow of celibac}'. By no means, 
young lady who might have likf 
marry Mr. Basher coulil have 
so any day, if Mr, Basher had 
the lady, and the lady had bee 
man. As no young lady o 
acquaintance would assume 
masculine proprieties, such as 
ping the question, buying the 
seeking the priest, putting up 
banns and the like, to doinj 
or all of which Mr. Basher prcl 
cutting his throat, there were 
expectations cherished by Mr. i 
er's acquaintances of ever 




Mr. Basher's Sacrifice, and why He made it. 



125 



. Basher. •* I'd never come 
it alive," be would say. But 
you shall hear. 

one thing Mr. Basher 
', and do'more perfectly than 
tn I ever knew, and that w.as to 
Blushing Baslier was the title 
hun the first evening he was 
Kxd at our club. It may be 
At blushing was his normal 
30. " Do you know," said 
the great portrait-painter, to 
day, speaking of Basher as a 
, *' thdt I never painted a man 
complexion was so difficult 
enoine as that of your friend 
i?" " He has a warm complex- 
id I. " Warm !" rejoined the 
•* Warm does not express it, 
i-boL" Old ladies would of- 
thcir fans in the street-cars, 
:hic^x>us young damsels with 
polored ribbons to their hats 
him, and then toy with 
ends of their ribbons, as 
to say: *^ Just this shade." 
\-s, seeing him pass, hailed 
er with the information that 
bad beets for dinner," 
Jiccmen dogged his steps 
impression that he was 
; off with something that lay 
l>n his conscience. 
[f. Basher's blushing face was 
to his blushing heart, mind, or 
whatever it is that blushes 
if a man, and causes him to 
and faint, to get shaky at 
and bungling in speech, 
never finished a complete sen- 
a fact too well known to need 
BtioQ. Even on llie day of 
charming Miss Crig- 
_ to come to his res- 
rhen he got as far as 
Cnzir^es, will you have — " 
lied young lady (ihir- 
. ^ , a day, you know) had 
led his purpose, and said 
just then lost the power of 



saying — *' me, for your owp," I do 
not think we would have seen a Mrs. 
Basher to this day. 

He had no better success in his at- 
tempts to converse with children. I 
remember, as he sat one day in my 
parlor, twiddling his thumbs, break- 
ing down in his remarks, and his co- 
lor coming and going in rapid succes- 
sion, my little daughter Dolly climb- 
ed upon his knee, and covered hini 
with confusion by saying to him : 

" Mi'tcr Bashy, does '00 ever say 
'oor p'ayers ?" 

" I — I — I, sometimes ; a — " blun- 
dered Mr. Basher in reply, his knees 
beginning to involuntarily dandle tlie 
child up and down. 

" What does '00 say ?" persisted 
the little fair}', shaking her curls, and 
giving him an arch look. " I don't 
t'ink '00 do." 

" Why — why — do you a — " Mr. 
Basher got out. 

" 'Cause '00 never 'members what 
'oo's t'inkin' 'bout." 

Poor Basher could do nothing 
after that but stare vacantly at the 
wall, and smile a smile that is often 
seen on board a ship as soon as she 
reaches rough water. Certainly, in 
another sense little Dolly had put 
Mr. Basher completely at sea. 

But I'm forgetting about the sacri- 
fice. You know what a sensation 
the cards produced. The receivers 
whose eyes first fell upon that of 
Miss Rosina Criggles expected, of 
course, to read " Col. Washington 
Doltckem " on the other. That was 
a conclusion everybody had arrived 
at for more than six months pre- 
vious ; and if the bold, heavy card 
of Col. Dolickem did not accom- 
pany the delicately scented, some- 
what thinner and smaller one of 
Miss Criggles, it would be, doubt- 
less, the still heavier, manlier, bolder 
card of General Yinwceski, of the 
Russian Embassy, or Major ThwacV.- 



126 Mr, Bashn's Sacrifice, and why He mcuU it 



emout, of the Ninth Fussyliers, as 
Tom WagstafF used to call them. 
That sa.me /arccur never spoke of the 
dwelling-place of Miss Criggles but 
as " Camp Criggles." 

" None but your generals and your 
colonels and your majors ever get 
their feet under the mahogany at 
Camp Criggles," said Tom ; " and a 
pretty mess they make of it." Tliis 
was in allusion to the everlasting on 
dits about the duel, or the cowhiding, 
or some such other agreeable encoun- 
ter which was daily expected to come 
off between the rival combatants for 
the hand, and, I may add, the five- 
twenties, of the charming Rosina. 

You should have heard Tom when 
he heard the news. 

"Has he? WTiat, Basher! Not 
Blushing Basher I Look again. Some 
other Basher — some general, colo- 
nel, major, or turkey-cock-in-boots 
Basher. No ? Our Basher ? Then 
draw a pen across that line in tlie 
spelling-book, * Faint heart never 
won fair lady,' for Basher of ours 
has done the deed, and none so faint 
as Basher." 

Mr. Bisher, you know, was an ad- 
mirer of Miss Criggles. No, not 
surprising. It was his nature to 
admire ; only he found it so diffi- 
cult to give expression to his senti- 
ments that his nature in this respect 
may be said to have always re- 
mained in an inchoate state. He 
was an exclamation-point minus the 
dot. How so pure a civilian ever 
got an invitation to dine at the Crig- 
gles mess-table is shrouded in mys- 
tery ; and how he ever dared when 
there to brave the martial presence 
of General Yinweeski, of Colonel 
Dolickem, or of Major Thwackem- 
out is no less mysterious. Dining 
at the Criggles table as he did — and 

e\xr the Criggles family made a 

>int of anything in this world it 

'was the ser ijc of tlieir table — he 



may be said to have gradt 

his way into the affectioQsl 

charming Rosina, As he sj 

he had more time, you see, tl 

martial rivals ; and what wa 

to the purpose, he had a betnj 

ner than they. Men of war l| 

not mere "carpet valiants^" \A 

smelt the straw above the ni 

a gusty tent, may be pardoi 

not having studied my 

Bad Habits of Good Society. 

don Colonel Dolickem for 

ing read it. The tactics of 1 

and fork are good tactics 

and practise too ; but as long ( 

I'is-d-vis at table will keep hi 

out of the butter-plate, I wc 

vise you to say nothing ab 

putting it into his mouth 

ally — especially if he wears 

and you do not ; for he mij 

by putting that into you, and th( 

would find yourself quite as n| 

Hiult for want of the knowledg 

soldier's tactics, as Colonel \ 

em was in his ignorance of ll 

tics of a gentlemanly diner-ood 

Wagstaff, the Beau Brumraelj 

dub, and who, by the way, I 

up an entire edition of my ba 

private circulation, heartily da 

the colonel for his slovcnlyf 

"He had the misfortune % 

brought up on a jack-knife, sirj 

Tom, "as some babies are bi 

up on a bottle." 

I said I would advise you i 
say anything to a friend who ■ 
his knife, but I don't object tl 
looking at him when he d<j 
When he cuts the corners \ 
mouth, as he surely will, sooi 
later, unless he has a practised* 
(and I Atnc witnessed feats ol 
terity of this kind which wou| 
prise you quite as much as art 
performed by the Japanese jug| 
you might call his attention I 
and playfully add r " So mud 



M 



Mr. Bai/iet^s Sacrifice, and why He wade it. 



127 




dear fellow, for allowing yourself to 

be so distracted ;" and then you can 

tell a good story to the company 

about another friend of yours — 

cl<rv ,too — to whom the 

acci !<. just happened to 

)XHir fncnd opposite happened so of- 

J^— ten, and from the same unfortunate 

^■labtt of having distractions at table, 

^^■IhAlhevras frequcntlyseen to rise after 

Hr^imcr with both comers of his mouth 

gashed. He was cured, however, 

^ftot of his distractions, but of putting 

is knife in his mouth at such times, 

htelling a joke in his presence about 

rr individual to whom a similar 

:iened under similar cir- 

and who cut himself so 

scTcrcly that he was obliged to be 

ied out of a bottle for a week. I 

ave myself tried this friendly rnse 

1 'intes, and have never known 

rv>ther class of persons 

.vho maychance to carrj' 

a longer sword than you do, about 

whom I would advise you, as a bit of a 

!osopher, not to be too meticulous ; 

mean those who carry a longer head 

an you. The pen is mightier than 

swo' 'ion of school-boy 

leroory, ..) and cuts deeper. 

writer who cut up my book so 

nely in the pages of T/it Square 

was not so far wrong. But he 

I wrote as a professor, 

casuist. Literary men, as 

soldiers, may do certain 

things with impunit)' which some 

crs may not So that Bullhead, 

the Nexf York Sweeper , may gnaw 

his finger-nails, by way of an ap- 

between the courses, and 

inds it — in Bullhead. He 

put both of his elbows on 

table, smell of the fish to find 

o*rt if it be fresh, feed himself with 

lis knife, eat as if he were doing it 

a wager, wipe the perspiration 

hift bee with his napkin, and 






indulge in otlier little eccentricities, 
and nobody would mind him at all, 
bless you I Where Bullhead is con- 
cerned, I agree with my critic of The 
Square Table. I pretend to lay down 
only generallaws: Bullhead is a law 
to himself. 

As to Basher, he is the soul of 
politeness and good breeding. He 
has read my book, and admired it. 
His commendations were rather 
bungling in the manner of delivery, 
but unfeigned. I understood per- 
fectly what he meant to say, that is 
enough. Tom Wagstaff, to whom I 
dedicated it, and who, as I told you, 
bought up an entire edition for pri- 
vate circulation, also admired it. 
"Chupper, my boy," said Tom, 
drawing on his yellow kids, "it's 
grand ! " By the way, I quoted a 
few remarks of his, which were de- 
livered by him one afternoon to a 
half-dozen of us as a mock lecture. 
I think I can recollect some of them. 
Speaking of soup, Tom remarked: 
"If you think the soup particul.irly 
good, be sure and say so, and ask 
for a second or a third plate. You 
will find that the host will be much 
affected by such little marks of your 
esteem — for the soup ; and the com- 
pany will understand that you do not 
often get it." Of being helped at 
table, Tom gave this rule : " Always 
point at whatever you wish, either 
with finger, knife, fork, or spoon. 
They are all equally good for the pur- 
pose." For the proper eating of 
fruit Tom gave us some laughable 
advice : 

" If you are eating fniit, never, by 
any means, convey the stones or pits 
upon your plate in a quiet way, but 
spit them out boldly, and witli con- 
siderable noise. This not only shows 
the height of good breeding, but of 
science also, for it is not everj' one 
who can perform it so f)erfectly ad 
not to spit more than the fnxil-siowes 



128 



Mr. Basher's Sacrifice, and v)hy He made it. 



\ 



into the plate. A much more ele- 
gant way, although it requires con- 
siderable dcxteritN' — and I would not 
advise you to try it witliout a little 
private practice — is to insert the 
blade of your knife into your mouth, 
and with great care get the stones 
balanced upon it ; then convey them 
just outside of tlie edge of your plate 
upon the table-cloth, where you may 
amuse yourself by building up a very 
artistic little heap of any form your 
fancy may suggest or your good judg- 
ment devise. Cherry-stones, it is to 
be remarked, are always to be swal- 
lowed, and take care you let the 
company know it, as it is a highly 
suggestive piece of information. 
Cracking the stones of prunes with 
your teeth is tlie proper way of dis- 
posing of thrm, especially if you are 
seated opposite a nervous old gen- 
tleman. Use your tooth-pick, of 
course, at table, and open your 
mouth wide while operating. The 
best kind of tooth-pick is a large, 
stiff goose-quill, which makes a snap- 
ping noise and calls attention. The 
place to keep it is in your pantaloons' 
pocket. Many prefer, and I am 
among the number, to pick their 
teeth with their fork. It is quite a 
refined practice. You will find that 
your doing so will cause a marked 
sensation at the table." 

Tom said a good many other things 
equally clever. The best of them 
are in my book. Read that. Tom 
had diflcrent individuals in his eye 
at the time. The goose-quill tooth- 
pick was a favorite one of Colonel 
I3olickcm, and went by the name 
of " Dolickem's bayonet" Speak- 
ing of Dolickem reminds me of 
Basher and his heroic sacrifice, about 
which I w;is speaking, was I not ? 

It was the birthday of Miss Ro- 
sina Criggles. A large party was 
invited, and among the guests could 
be se«jn the tall, gaunt, savage-fea- 



tured Colonel Dolickem ; General _ 
Yinweeski's burly form, clothed 
garments which fitted him so tighllj 
that it is a wonder how He move 
without splitting them on all sides H 
Major Thwackemout, moving his stiff j 
little body about from right to Icf 
and from left to right, with that me 
chanical precision which character^ 
izes tlie wooden soldier so priced bf ^ 
patriotic youth; and the blushing face j 
of Mr. Basher. You may think it 
odd, but birthday parties are vcr 
ingenious inventions to retard 
advancing years of young ladic 
When rumor speaks of your daugll 
ter as thirty or thereabouts, give 
a birthday party, and she will 
afresh from twenty-three to twenty- 
five, as you may ple.ise to have it 
hinted. Ever)'body believing she 
thirty at least, no one will prcsum* 
to say a word about it Pleased wjth^ 
your entertainment, and Haltered by] 
yoiu- attention, people arc diipt 
to be generous ; and then, who among] 
your guests will ever acknowlcd^J 
that he or she has bowed, courtcsi* 
danced, and dined at an old maid'sj 
birthday feast 1 I need not mention j 
the names of all who crushed them* 
selves together in the brilli.inlli 
lighted parlors of the Criggles 
sion. Of course, tlie Doldmms andJ 
the Politlles were tliere, and the] 
Boochcrs and the Coochcrs, tlrt 
Tractors and the Factors, the 
Pommes and the De Filets, the Va 
Bumbergs and the Van Humbur| 
and all that set. 

Most people believed that it 
was to be a preparatorj' rout tc 
gwekittt to tlie expected announce 
ment of an engagement betweeai] 
Colonel Dolickem and the heir 
of the house of Criggles. 
colonel believed it also. He had 
waited for a suitable opportunlt 
to ask the hand and five twenties 
Miss Kosiiia, and now that oppor 



Mr. Basher^ s Sacrifice, and why He maJ^ it. 




come. Few %vo«lrl have 
irage to cross the paLli of 
\ of so belligerent a tlisposilion 
p colonel. So thought the 
A himself. He was sure of 
Never be too sure of 
■wit happened that in 
Uf>c of ihc evening, somewhere 
JO A.M., Mr. Basher, after 
savoring to get off one of 
rniences he had prepared 
and practised with assi- 
»t of bis own reflection in 
iTor, and in face of his grand- 
b portrait as lay figures, and 

»oo go» quietly abandoned 
t a sweeping current which 
fonned in the crowd, and 
k>rtie along toward the half- 
jdoora of the consenatorj'. 
{p» as everybody else did, 
liwum, and his face standing 

R-hot point of color, as in- 
d been since he rang the 
ours and a half previous, 
{pluded to saunter a few min- 
^te.cool conservatory, and re- 
^^katcd brow and his memory 
^He time. Glancing first on 
PiPrnd then on another at the 
^ his eye fell upon a rose-bush 
lich bloomed one full-blown 
The sight of it remindetl him 
»a5l he had prepared for this 
>n, and which he devoutly 
to be able to give amid the 

P applause of the company 
teful acknowledgments of 
and the parents of that 
•hose feet he wished to 
throw himself, and be 
tpted in retuni. For 
ix<iher loved Miss Rosina 
llie toast was this : 
Rosina, the Rose of the 
Criggles, and the Flower 
IRprvatory of Fashion and 
' nd that shall 
I Sicml" 
lit in a \ow voice, 




a second time somewhat louder, to 
be sure of giving the right accent at 
the right words. Perfectly satisfied 
at his second rehearsal, he added in 
an audible voice : 

" If I dared, I would pluck that 
rose, (meaning the one on the bush 
before him,) in order to give — " Mr. 
Basher never did fmish a sentence 
yet, but he might have accomplished 
this one had he not turned his head 
at a rustling sound, and seen ap- 
proaching the Rose of the Garden of 
Crigglcs herself. Blushing his deep- 
est, Mr. Basher stumbled out : 

" Cool here — ah — just admiring 
this— ah— " 

" Rose," added Miss Rosina, help- 
ing him out. " Beautiful, is it not, Mr. 
Basher.^ — and precious too. It is 
tlie only one left in llie conserva- 
tory." 

" The conservatory of fashion 
and — " Mr. Basher stopped short. 
It would never do to spoil the origi- 
nality of his toast in that way. 

" What is that you are saying, you 
flatterer?"' asked the charming Ro- 
sina, .shaking her fan at liim in a 
pleasingly threatening manner. 

" I — I — I was saying, no, thinking 
— ah— of — now, positively, do yoi 
know — ah — of plucking — " 

" What 1 thinking of plucking the 
only rose in the house 1 Would 
you be so cruel ? O you naughtyu 
naughty man 1" And Miss Criggle**' 
gave a look at Mr. Basher that made 
his knees knock together, and his 
toes tingle in Ills patent-leather 
pumps. 

'* I mean — ah — if I — ah— dare 
to—" 

'* Oh t you men are so very daring., 
We poor ladies are so timid and 
trusting, Mr. Basher. When people 
ask me for anything, do you know^ 
I do not even dare to refuse Uiem ^J 
Pa is always saying: Rosina, yoa^ 
should be more daring, mote Te^eV 



130 



Mr. Bashers Sacrifice^ and why He made it. 



ling. But I cannot, Mr. Basher. It's 
not in my nature." 

" Then I ask you," exclaimed Mr. 
Basher, making a bold venture, and 
getting ready to drop on his knees 
at the end of his request, " to give 
me the — the — Rose of the Garden — " 
Mr. Basher stopped to lake breath 
and muster courage. 

"The only rose !" broke in Miss 
Criggles. "Think of it!" she con- 
tinued, in a voice of tender com- 
plaint, addressed to the lilies and 
geraniums around, and which made 
Mr. Basher feel very uncomfortable, 
" he has the heart to ask me for my 
one precious rose. He knows, cruel 
man, that I have not the heart, that 
it is not in my timid, trusting nature 
to refuse him." And with that she 
broke the flower from its stem and 
handed it to Mr. Basher, who was a 
second time preparing to throw him- 
self into an attitude and finish the 
sentence Miss Criggles had so has- 
tily interrupted. It is possible that 
Mr. Basher would never have been 
called upon to make the sacrifice he 
did, had not the attention of both been 
arre-sted by a loud " Ahem !" Turn- 
ing suddenly at the sound, they be- 
held the tall, gaimt figure of Colo- 
nel Dolickcm standing bolt upright, 
sentry-wise, in the doorway of the 
conservatory. He had witnessed 
the plucking of the rose, and his soul 
was all aflame with anger. His 
astonishment at what ho saw was 
"flO great that it made him speech* 

ss. Had he not come himself to 
the conservatory, as soon as he could 
disengage himself from that fat, vol- 
uble Mrs. Boggles, to meet Miss 
Criggles, whom he had seen enter- 
ing there, and do what this birthday 
party was given on purpose for him 
ID do? Of course. Had not Miss 
Criggles herself entered the con- 
serv.itory for the same purpose, 
spraking to him. Colonel Dolickcm, 



in passing, that his attentton 
be called to that fact? Of o 
again. Was he brought thd 
purpose to be a witness to this 
giving, thi.<5 toying, and coy-in| 
moying with a — with a — indi^ 
such as he now saw before ll 
the person of a — of a — ' ' 

course, once more, i 
with rage, the colonel could 
utter a word of these reflcctionil 
turning upon his heel, reenten 
crowded parlor. Just then c( 
sounds came to the ears of i 
Criggles, which that lady right 
terpreted to mean supper. Tt| 
terpretation being conveyed tf 
bewildered faculties of Mr. Bi 
he hurriedly fixed the rose il 
button-hole, with the words^ 
ever," presented his arm, and 
soon the object of conimis^r 
on the part of the Misses Boo 
and the Misses Coocher, and ^ 
rest, who whispered to one ana 
" How can Kosina Criggles g 
so I" 

One thing seemed a little stt 
to Mr, Basher when 1- 
the grand diiiing-huli. ^^ ' i 
had released her hold upon hii 
but when or where he could no( 
He im:igined he still felt th& 
sure of her light, t.ipering fin 
even when he stood behind his 
at table, where ho found hiii 
he could hardly tell how. Hij 
prise was not a little augment 
hear the loud voice of Papa Cri| 
crjiiig out, "Colonel I colonel J 
way, colonel, if you please !" an< 
ing a chair pointed out to his y 
ful rival, directly opjjosite hisj 
Rosina — his Kosina, as he preai 
to say to himself — standing b 
him. The colonel cast a lofl 
Mr. Basher, as he moved to tbe | 
appointed him, which was at i 
triumphant and defiant. In fkc 
colonel's liopea began to revii 



^J 



Mr. Basfter^s Sacrifice, and why He made it. 



the blushing rose in the 
-hole of the deeper blushing 
r. 
Kow, I am not going to describe 
tit dinner, or call it supper if yaw 
\ «ifl. You have been to such terribly 
Vytflg afiairs as a party dinner, and 
k is quite enough to be obliged to 
|D through ■with the ordeal without 
joing over it again in retrospect. 

The head of the Crigglcs house was 
I Rtaglcrious humor; GeneraJ Yinwees- 
ose and told several of his 
=i of the battle-field ; Colo- 
devoted himself with 
F^nior tain the charming Ro- 

tm, and was freezingly p>olite and 
uziog to Mr. Basher ; Major 
fkemout, having been put off 
I sioapering Miss Boggles, lost his 
and became morose. In one 
: alarming lulls which you have 
jbt observed will take place in 
dte tempest of talk common to a 
liq^e assembly, and like sudden lulls 
io the wind often presage a heavy 
blow, the e}'e of Miss Boggles acei- 
dentoUy fell upon the rose yet blush- 
ing in (he button-hole of Mr. Basher's 
■Kfiooat. 
■Oh! *liat a beautiful rose, Mr. 
r," cried that enthusiastic young 

" **Yes, miss," responded B.\sher> 
'it is both beautiful and — ah — " a 
»k at Rosina — " and — ah — " 
'V'ery red, you would say, Mr. 
fiksber, would you not ? True, it is," 
%iid t> ■ ^ - - r 1^ shosving all his teeth, 
ytt rv' ; or laughing a whit. 

" No !' thundered Basher, " Pre- 

Bsf 

' Oh ! I beg a thousand pardons. 

fious ! You would not part with it 

», Mr. Basher, would yoa, even for 

lit] ' '. ?" The colonel was 

ariilf rrnined to spur Miss 

! i to ask for it. 

■or my heart's blood," fer- 
Jy Maculated Mr. Basher. Ro- 



sina's glance at him brought out that 
sentence unbroken, and for a moment 
left the colonel quite disconcerted. 
Returning, however, like a veteran to 
the charge, he rejoined with snapping 
eyes, (snapping is just the word, so 
don't interrupt me :) 

" Vot/r heart's blood ! Nor for 
mine, perhaps ?" 

"Yours, colonel ? — ha — 'pon my 
word — ha — Yes, if you'll engage 
to shed it — ha— " 

" Out with it, man," cried the gen- 
eral. 

'' Yourself." 

"Capital! By the gods of war, 
that is a new way of fighting !" 

Colonel Dolickem was confiised 
and baffled. There's not a doubt of 
it. How could he say that he waa^ 
not ready to shed the last drop of" 
his blood to obtain possession of th.it 
rose, coming, as it did, from the hand 
of Rosina ? Vainly beating his brains 
for an evasive reply, he could do 
nothing meanwhile but carr}' two or 
thnee mouthfuls from his plate to his 
mouth, after that ugly fiishion of his, 
as you know, upon his knife, and 
snarl. Now, as a general rule, it is 
not tlie tiling, as I have already said, 
to feed one's self with one's knife. As 
a particular and special rule, never 
attempt it when you are nervous or 
disturbed in mind. Don't, you'll cut 
yourself. That is why the coloncl^i 
his hand trembling with suppressed 
rage, cut himself. In vain he attempt- 
ed to hide it ; the blood trickled down 
upon his chin, and was quickly seen 
by that irrepressible Miss Boggles, 
who cried out in alarm : 

" O Colonel Dolickem ! you hav^ 
cut yourself I" 

" Done, done !" cried the generaU] 
" Chivalry, my dear colonel, had 
knight like you ! Blood is she<U< 
the first blast of the trumpet, and, ac 
cording to the most extraordinary' 
terms of this fray, by your own hand. 



132 



A Few Thoughts about Protestants, 



Basher, you're conquered. Sacrifice 
the rose!" 

Poor Basher did as he was bid- 
den, and slowly, with great reluc- 
tance, drew the flower from its place, 
and held it across the table for the 
colonel's acceptance, saying : " It is 
the greatest sacrifice — ha — I — ha 
— ever — " 

" Mr. Basher," said Rosina, with 
an approving smile, "you are the 
soul of honor." 

But the colonel heeded not the 
outstretched arm of Mr. Basher, and 
the rose for which he bled, I am 
sorrj- to say, dropped from Mr. Bash- 
er's hand into a dish of tomatoes. 
What could the colonel do? No- 
thing, I think, but what he did — 
rise with a lofty aiid majestic air, 



look a black ihundcr-cloud of wrj 
at Mr. John Basher, say to Papa 
Criggles, with his handkerchief 
his raoutli, " Under the circumsta 
ces," and then get out of the house, 
and into a towering passion as he 
drove home. Next day he took the 
first train for Washington. 

It was in tlie conservatory again, at 
about 2. 20 A.M., that Mr. John Bvh 
er tried if the timid and trusting l\i> 
sina Criggles could refuse him. She 
couldn't, as I have already told you. 
He got as far as " Will you have — " 
and she added, " Me for yoxir awn»" 
and there was an end of it. 

" So the sacrifice of Mr. 1 ■ ' 

not consist in popping the qi: _ 

" By no means. Who ever said H 
did ?" 



A FEW THOUGHTS ABOUT PROTESTANTS. 



Faith, though a gift of God, de- 
pends for its actuality upon the 
acceptance of it by men, and its 
continuance upon their careful and 
constant adherence to it. We are at 
liberty to receive the Christian faith 
or to reject it in the first instance 
when it is propose<l to us ; and we 
.in? equally at liberty to misuse it, to 
change it, to garble it, and to make 
it so far of no effect as to retain 
nothing of true Christian religion but 
the name. 

Heresy is possible, all must allow, 
since it is possible to deny a ptirt 
of the whole truth ; and, knowing to 
what extremes men will permit their 
pride and passions to carry them, the 
itLt^ of heresies frequently occurring 
docs not surprise us. The most la- 
mentable fact about heresy is, that 
it does not ordinarily die with the 



first preachers of it ; but s; 
generations rise up to an it;., 
of falsehood, deprived of the entire 
truth, fancying themselves joined to 
the body of Christ's church, nour- 
ishing a dead branch long '^ ; 
from the tree of life, and y 
as they loo often are, by the pri 
of intellect and the natural sf 
bomness of the will, from recogni 
ing their errors and amending tl 
sins of their forefathers by a hca; 
return to the truth that has 
abandoned. 

Such is the condition — unhaj: 
condition, as it appears to us 
American Protestant Christians. De- 
prived of one or another part of the 
truth by the heresy of the several 
founders of their various ; " 
they are called no longer til \ 

people, no longer the wcU-beloved 




A Few Thoughts about Protestants. 



133 



tn of holy church, and they 
hot in those unspeakable mer- 
r predilection which make re- 
fer a Catholic an unfailing 
re of comfort, and his church 
iltse of joy. 

abandon the source of truth, 
ive separated from it, is to cut 
self ofT from any reasonable 
pon the truth, and render the 
ince which one gives to a part 
h a matter rather of sentiment 
>f deep principle. A branch 
)m the living tree may be in- 
L branch, but its life is gone, 
seems to live by the sup- 
its twigs, the greenness 
leaves, and ilie fruit which yet 
upon it. Death is in it, and 
wither. It will bear no more 
i itself, for the source of the 
annot reach it in its separated 

he truths of religious faith, se- 
d from the source of faith, lose 
tality ; and to a reflecting man 
l»ks himself why he believes 
!1 soon appear no long- 
j he has no longer any 
Uic original authority which 
tness of God for them before 
d. For it should be sclf-evi- 
onc of the least intclli- 
reli^ous truth concerning 
ny in an eternity 
og has ever seen 
pend upon one's 
in this world, and 
mysterious doctrines of Chris- 
only appear true to a man 
t authority, and that, too, a 
; authority, which is a 
. as well as to his fore- 
Hcnce the necessity of an 
hoKnt, living source of faith, 
equal necessity of an actual 
\rilh it, in order to have faith 
doctrines of Christianity at all. 
1 of our 
on seems 




to be at variance with this ; for we see 
them having a good, sincere faith in 
many of the revealed doctrines of 
Christianity, and yet are cut off from 
the living source of faith, which we 
know to be the infallible and divine 
voice of the church. And not only 
cut off, but they reject that source 
altogether, deny its authority, and 
look upon it rather as the source of 
falsehood than of truth. But, when 
we examine the matter closely, we 
shall see that they do not deny that 
they have a real source of their faith, 
or that such source is the church of 
Christ — which they suppose their own 
to be — only that they are ignorant of 
the fact that the Catholic Church is 
the church of Christ, and that she 
is the true source of their faith, and, 
if that church was destroyed and its 
authority nullified, they could have 
no faith at all. 

When they have lost all faith and 
obedience to a church which they re- 
gard as the church of Christ, and have 
not returned to Catholicity, they have 
lost at the same time all faith in the 
peculiar doctrines of Christianity. 

It would be hardly worth while to 
consider the answer made by some 
that they believe in Christ on no 
church authority, but on the author- 
ity of the Bible alone, because it is 
plain that one must first know tlie 
Bible itself to be true on some author- 
ity ; and surely the authority of the 
tj'pe-setter, the printer, and the paper- 
maker would not be sufficient, and 
the only authority they have or can 
have of its truth is that of the Chris- 
tian church, which sets its seal upon 
it, and declares it to be the Word of 
God. 

There is no doubt that they are cut 
off from all real church authority, that 
their religion is a separated branch 
from the living tree : and the staie of 
things is such as we would expect lo 
liappen ; the branch will wither, tliey 



J 



-^34 



*(mf jhffu^hts about FtHttstnHtsT 



will lose faith in Christ and his doc- 
trines, and they are deprived of all 
those inestimable blessings and pri- 
vileges which can only be had in 
union with thetnieand living church. 

We who know the history of their 
religious schism, and the course it 
has taken, know that it is more their 
misfortime tlian their fault. We know 
that they remain satisfied with their 
state of poverty, because they are ig- 
norant of the riches of faith ; but we 
bless God the day is approaching, and 
is even now at hand, when that igno- 
ance is fast disappearing, the preju- 
dices and false notions they have 
had of the Catholic Church are 
being rapidly dispelled. The pope 
and the priest are no longer bug- 
bears to frighten children with ; the 
ciames of monk and nun are no 
longer synonymous with villainy and 
crime. Catholics are not generally 
regarded as ignorant idolaters, and 
even a Jesuit may pass in society as 
an honest man, a sincere Christian, 
and a gentleman. 

Three things, then, may give us 
great hopes that diis great and good 
American people, our bretliren, our 
friends, and our fellow-citizens, are 
not far from the kingdom of heaven, 
the church of God — the spread of 
knowledge concerning her character 
and doctrines, the rapid increase of 
the church herself in every part of 
the country, and the fact that the 
separated branch is fast withering, 
and the people look to it no longer 
for the fruit which will nourish their 
souls unto eternal life. 

There is no doubt but that until 
within a very few years the Catljolic 
religion was a hidden faith to the 
mass of the American people. In 
the cities, the churches were few and 
small, and a Protestant could hardly 
get within sight or hearing of a Cath- 
olic preacher. In the country towns 
the scattered flock would get togetlier 



once in a month to h«<ir 
miserable apolo^ for a 
some dirty back-lane, or in a 
in the woods. That is all ch 
Our city churches and cathedr 
getting to be the largest and 
est buildings in the land, 
many places the same con 
which once huddled together 1 
shanty are now assembled in d 
es which rival all others in thiS 
places for size and beaut)'. \ 
this has happened in so short* 
of time that it looks like I 
Those who will not see the tnJ 
son imagine that the wealth k 
Catholic countries has been \x 
poured out to bring it abouL 
cannot comprehend that this 
work, for the most part, of th 
of the Catholic mechanic 
Catholic servant-girL 

The time was — and we h 
it — when the priest took the d 
table for an altar, upon which' 
placed the cmcifix that ordi 
hung at the bedside in the co 
the same room, and two kitchei 
dlesticks for the ornaments, 
same congregations have 
own churches, furnished 
thing needful for divine 
From what we know of liie 
multiplication of church buil 
we can conclude that, as far 
gards the external appearance 
worship, and the crowd - ' ri 
pers who are seen thri' j 

sanctuaries, the church is now 
before the American people, 
can no longer plead ignorances 
existence, or fancy her to be a 
sect diminishing in numbers an 
caying in force. The < ' 
power of the church in 
also forcing itself upon llieir 
They cannot read a newspaj 
book without meeting many 
that the Catholic Church is, 
always has been, the might 





A Fem "ntmghts about Protestants. 



1 church in ihe 
, . ..-.ni the homage and 
n of mankind, and holds 
ny of Christianity itself in 
1 Is. Those who from inte- 

Iier enemies sec tJiis, and 
hand we hear from their 
.id read in their religious 
rs the loudest laments over 
Jul growth of popery," as 
jlcased to st}-le it. 
o interior workings of the 
her doctrines, her moral 
, Are also being presented to 
'.,.: ;n more clearly. Id the common 
' . 'ks of life, in the parlor, in the 
:j i.-t, in the halls of business, our 
i'.' I'-^lant brethren meet many who 
.... j^ble to give a reason for the faith 
Uut is III 'ose lives they 

ir^w. S' -. for truth and 

! 1 in earnest about their salvation, 
rwi nf the claims of Catholicity 
I . sl: .' ;^ many whose religious cha- 
. - ! ). (. li;ive every reason to ad- 
i;. :^. IS..; ..-k questions, and Ameri- 
cana (tfve say it not to their reproach) 
•TTl Ask questions, if it be only for 
-. sake. Catholic books, 
Ui-^-iiiwc^, newspapers, pamphlets, 
ipeeches^ sermons, and other modes 
ofdiftisi' '<> of Catholic 

faUn and \ many readers 

and hearers among Protestants who 
c.mnot fail to be impressed by them, 
ijc divested of their old pre- 
juu3u>r5, wind learn our religion not as 
it ius been taught to them by her 
enefT- 's she is. It would be 

of no 11 an intelligent Ameri- 

ClD I'ri/testant now tliat Catholics 
tre poor, ignorant idolaters who wor- 
• iroages, and who never heard of 
UiL- iiible, because they know better ; 
and if you told him, as you might 
kilfc dOTi' years ago and be 

Mtrrrri. • ape and the priests 

against the liber- 

_ ..y, he would laugh 

io jtHir face. Ik>oks with pictures re- 



T35 



presenting the pope with his tiara on, 
holding up his hands in horror and 
turning away his face from an open 
Bible which a Protestant minister 
presents to his gaze, while ihe light- 
nings from heaven are depicted in the 
background descending in wrath upon 
St. Peter's, may possibly be found 
upon the table of some ignorant back- 
woodsman, but an intelligent PrO: 
testant would blush to know that such 
a book was under his roof. 

People are great travellers nowa- 
days, too, and they see enough in 
Catholic countries to make them at 
least think well of their religion. 

They go to Rome, perhaps have an 
interview with the venerable head of 
the church, and invariably return 
penetrated with sentiments of pro- 
found respect, and often of the most 
attached affection for him. 

They go to heathen countries, they 
see there the work of Catholic apos- 
tles. They find the only Christians 
there are Catholics, living such per- 
fect lives as might put Christians of 
more enlightened nations to shame. 
In every corner of Uie world they find 
tlie Catholic Church doing her ap- 
pointed work for the regeneration, 
civilization, and salvation of men, and 
numbers of them are not slow to 
draw the conclusion, " Truly this is 
the living church of the living God 
the pillar and ground of truth." 

Let us look at tlie second reasoa 
we suggested, namely, the rapid it 
crease of the church, and the charac- 
ter of it. 

In the year i8oo we had only i 
bishop, loo priests, and about 50,000 
Catholics. Now we have 43 bishops, 
4235 priests, and at least 5,000,000 
CaUiolics. That this number is 
made up principally by immigration 
is true ; but we do not forget that 
they bring the true faith in Jesus 
Christ with them, that the truth is 
spreading by their example and in- 



13^ 



A Prio Thoughts about' Proiesfants. * 



fluence, and the American people 
cannot fail to feel the effects of it. 
fall these immigrants were infidels, 
ohanimcdans, or Mormons, they 
oiild naturally affect the religious 
aracter of the people amongst 
horn they are living. How much 
ore may we look for mighty results 
from tlie true religion and the grace 
of God ! 

Catholicity is leavening the whole 
mass. Go where you will, you will 
find a Catholic in almost every 
family of note in the country. " Oh ! 
I respect the Catholic religion very 
much," some one will say to you. 
"I have a father or mother, a sister 
or brother, an aunt or a cousin, who 
is a very good and very strict 
Catholic." From the very fajnilics 
of American Protestant bishops and 
ministers the church draws to her- 
self one or another of the members, 
from whom new .\mcrican Catholic 
families spring up, to give the church 
sLinding and influence in society, 
and compel a respectful hearing and 
a respect fid treatment. 

These considerations, encouraging 
as they are, might still lead us to 
suppose that it will be yet a long 
while before America shall be called, 
as she undoubtedly will be, one of 
the brightest jewels in the crown of 
the holy church, were it not for the 
third thought we have presented, 
which is, that tlieir faith and trust in 
the sapless, separated branch of a 
church is failing. They have planted 
it anew, have watered it, have nursed 
it with every care, at boundless ex- 
pense, with sincere heart's devotion, 
but all to no purpose. It will not 
grow, but withers in their hands. 
Now and then some have thought 
that the branch was too much like 
the old tree, and they cut off a twig, 
a blossom, or plucked a fruit from 
it, and planted tliat, and, with many 
earnest prayers and unceasing la- 




bors, tliey hoped their littJr ph 

would spring into life, but its 
timely decay has disappointed the 
and disgusted them. Anon 
deavored to graft their wit 
branch on an older and npp.^rent 
more healthy stock, such as the 
mer and late attempts of the Ef 
copalians to form a union with ti 
.schismatical Greek Church ; but 
graft will not take, though they 
willing to tie it on witli every a| 
pliance and prune it after eve 
fashion. Again, a few who sly 
themselves Anglo-Catholics and hif 
churchmen trj- to reason ther 
into a belief tliat their par 
little twig of the branch must be tf 
true tree, because it is so much 11 
in size and shape to the young saf 
ling which the apostles first pi 
in the earth. 

Slowly, however, they are 
ning to ask themselves the qu< 
which they should have asked 
beginning, "How shall it grow 
out a root?" Those who take 
trouble to examine the matter 
bottom find out that the brar 
they cherish lias no root, and nc 
they lose all respect for it. Th< 
divide into two parties. '11 
are sincere-minded souls, k- • 
true Christianity, and resting W 
eternal hope5 upon it, seek for 
living Christian tree, and find sw< 
repose beneath its grateful iihad4 
and true nourishment of their soii 
from its never-failing fruit Other 
who are less sincere, cast aside \\ 
dead branch and all tlieir faith 
Christ with it, become discourag 
and disgusted, and fall away into it 
differentism and infidelity. 

This loss of the old traditional 
reverence for Christianity, which 
few" years back was so strong tt 
men felt it was something to 
ashamed of, and to need apolc 
when forced lo say, •• 1 am no Chril 



\attgkts about ProlettMts. 



is now so marked that it is de- 
ed 0« all sides. References are 
mUwjucntly made in the col- 
jtaofour daily journals indicative 
m popular temper, which hold up 
Bated preachers, and with them 
I Ihc whole clerical profession, to 
■ulc and contempt. Still the 
of the people of our country 
h sincere and religious-mind- 
d the character of the conver- 
that arc daily taking place is 
make us not only hopeful, 
f the final result. Surely, 
to be said that the Catholic 
shall prove herself less pow- 
n a country of nominal Chris- 
han she has shown herself to 
any or all the pagan nations 
has not only converted, 
civilized and enlightened. 
fcvr Protestants nowadays are 
lied to unlearn their supposed 
anity to become Catholics. 
sc element which Calvinism 
iced at the* Reformation is be- 
oally eliminated from their 
and all that they really ad- 
15 a part of Catholic truth. 
converts e-xpress themselves 
to find that to enter the 
y are called upon to re- 
thing whatever of what 
y hold. They find, to 
t, that the faith as taught 
church is the completion, the 
and aho the explanation 
gious opinions. 
conversion of our beloved 
a vork that should engage 
DSt aidcnt aspirations, and kin- 
the zeal of which we are ca- 
Both our hearts and our 
should be in iL We feel like 
ifakg a little on this subject 
may help it and hasten it by 
things there is no doubt ; by 
mt and earnest prayer, by good 
Je, by instruction, by the dis- 
on of good books and tracts, 



and such means ; but it seems to us 
that when any one is deeply impress- 
ed with a conviction that a desired 
end will be accomplished, that it 
ought to be, and, as far as in one lies, 
it shall be, then the end is not far off. 
Aside from other things, there is in 
this matter a wide field for the ex- 
ercise of our theological virtues. 

Our faith : an unwavering faith in 
the power of truth, which must pre- 
vail. It is God's work ; it is what 
the church is called upon to do ; the 
people are fast progressing toward 
it ; tlie good expect it, llie wicked 
fear it ; God's grace is never want- 
ing to aid all men in their search 
after, and their acceptance of, the 
truth, and what, then, can hinder it? 
The question put to us a few years 
since, with a smile of mixed incredu- 
lity' and pity, " Do y&ti believe that 
this country will ever become Cath- 
olic ?" is now, " How soon do you 
think it will come to pass?" "Soon, 
very soon," we reply, if your own sta- 
tistics be true ; for we see by one of 
your late writers that tlie rate of • 
growth of the Catholic religion has 
been J<T<mO';/f7'<rper cent greater than 
the ratio of increase of population, 
while the rate of the decrease of Pro- 
testantism is eleven per cent less. 

Our hope : We must have large 
hope in this, as in all things else, 
to bring about speedily what we de- 
sire : such an enthusiastic hope as 
makes us see the end already. It 
will, moreover, encourage them to 
do what we wish. Tell a sinner 
that you give him up and have no 
hopes of him, and you give him a 
fatal encouragement to go on in 
his wickedness. Your want of hope 
takes hope out of him ; but, on the 
contrary', tell him cheerfully that you 
look for his conversion and amend- 
ment as a matter of course, and he 
will conclude at once that he ought 
to convert himself, and will begin *to 




wish himself converted. Then show 
him a picture of llic happiness and 
peace of a good life, the joy of the 
forgiven sinner ; his mind is made 
up, and the grace of God will do the 
re!>t. So it will be with our Protes- 
tant brethren. Let them feel that we 
are sure of their conversion to Cath- 
olicity, tliat we look for it as a cer- 
tain event, and they will begin to 
think it very possible, and ask what 
it is to be a Catliolic. Present them 
a picture of that unspeakable peace 
which one obtains in a sure and cer- 
tain faidi ; tell them of the blessings 
in store for themj show them the 
treasures of God's house, and give 
them to understand that they are 
meant expressly for them, and Uiat 
we are certain tliey will enjoy ihcm j 
tlien it will be strange, indeed, if, 
with the truth before them, and the 
grace of God aiding and encourag- 
ing them, they should turn away and 
re]ect their own happiness. For the 
greater pjirt of sincere Protestants 
there is absolutely nothing to keep 
them out of the church but the old 
worn-out prejudices they have against 
her. We know that it is thought that 
they have an insujaerable fear and 
distrust of some of our practices — 
the confessional, for instance ; but 
our experience convinces us that 
they find no difficulty in overcom- 
ing their fears as soon as lliey firmly 
believe in its necessity, ami perceive 
its consoling and sanctifying influ- 
ence upon the individual soul and 
upon society at large. Besides, this 
opinion is, in fact, groundless. As a 
good old I'rench Jesuit father said 
to us one day : " 1 have noticed that 
when Americans have made up their 
mind to do anything, they never ask 
if it be difficult." 

Our charity; Souls are won by 
love. We tio not, and cannot, love 
the Protestant religion. It has little 
that is lovable in it; and besides, 



UtCIU u 



our own holy fait: 
giXKl ai it is, al 
our hearts can possibly 
could our Protestant brel 
how wc Catholics love 
we yearn over them as 
yearns over her wa)'ward chilck 
we long to welcome tJicm 
again ; could they sec 
"charity of Jesus Chha 
us" to labor and pray 
could they overhear us conv^ 
with one another about iJien 
learn our wishes and plan4 
hopes and our wonderings ai; 
continued absence, then wc j 
win their souls. They coiil^ 
stand all that The power of i 
charity would draw them sweef 
Then tJiey would ask themi^ 
What motive can these Catj 
have to wish us so fervently ( 
come as they are ? Wouk 
might nil be brought tai 
question \ 

When we, who stand upo|| 
firm rock, see them stumbling 
the bogs and marshes of a g^ 
less and unstable faith, there 
strong temptation to lav 
bewilderment, and mock 
they go leaping about from^i 
hillock of opinion to another, 
last fall, sprawling, into the 
religious doubt. IJetter pity 
Human nature, you know, has ^ 
tendency to follow wili-o'-ihe^ 
even if it be only for the purp( 
scientific investigation I i 

Whatever truth they havej 
all, is Catholic truth. Their 1 
their love of religion, their hatj 
sin, their fear of hell and ho| 
heaven, are all the results ^ 
teachings of Jesus Christ, in I 
they believe as far as they I 
and through whom, in some > 
sense, tl^ey hope for salvation. , 
h.-ivc been led away from th( 
fold, and are wandering slieef 



Idjhg 





139 



dog further and further each 
It of hearing of the voice of 
true Shepherd, liut the lime is 
Eir dt&tant when they will re- 
God's hand is stretched out 
this people. His Holy Spirit 
ing their hearts, and the sig^s 
! day of peace and unity of faith 
eady appearing. 
Preachers usually begin with a 
l-lBt; we take the liberty of ending 



with one, vtry ci propos, we tliink, to 
the subject of our tlioughts : *' I will 
call them my people, that were not 
my people : and her beloved, that was 
not beloved : and her, that had not 
obtained mercy, one that hath ob- 
tained mercy. And it shall be, in 
the place where it was said to them : 
you arc not ray people : there they 
shall be called the children of the 
living God.*' 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



tBB CtXRGV AND TIIK Piri.PIT IS 
nirJB KBLATIONS TO THE PEOPLE. 

Bf M. TAbbe Mullois, chaplain to the 
Eot p cfor Napoleon III. and Mission- 
MY Apo&lolic. Translated by George 
Perry Badger. First American edi- 
Ihia. 1 2 mo. pp. 308. New V'ork : The 
CitliOlic Publication Society, 1 26 Nas- 
Sio Street. 1867. 

Thi* work of the learned and pious 
■Kdbm Mulloi* tias attained an immense 
pfidarity in France, wliere it wa.s is- 
mi a (ciK years a^o under the title of 
r,-mri.r /'/.• r:.j ,t.i Sacrie h\ypulaire ; om, 
. de parler au Pen- 

Ij . .. .- .... . :, : ni" a series of essays 
«U(b appeared subsequently, designed 
}. V, TTi t.. tiv- t\-ruy in their p-n-storal 
lily in the pulpit, 
i. li.ijst noticeable books 
issued by the Catholic 
•. <ii>iot fail of receiving as 
i-lcome with us ax it has al- 
' in France. Its remark- 
ic is. the apf>stolic sim- 
l [;i:-,iv HI i;- f.t\le, and its bold, manly 
*9Qe. The author's principal object is 
te di: UeDtion of the clergy to 

A* n : cultivating a popular 

ncc in their discourses 
•> to the masses. But, 
i& iailu iJul the sermon Ije popular, 
Mil reach the hearts uf Uic people. 



the preacher must himself be popular. 
He must be a man loved by the people, 
engaging both their admiration and rev- 
erence by his manner and his language 
when addressing tlicm, and above all, by 
loving dicm. Hence, the author wisely 
treats of the preacher before he treats 
of the sermon. The first chapter is de- 
voted to the elucidation of his great 
maxim ; " To addrcs.'t men well, they 
must l)e loved much." Have many 
rules of eloquence if you will, but do 
not forget the hrst and most essential 
one : Love the people whom you would 
instruct, convert, reprove, sanctify, and 
lead to God. "The end of preacliing is 
to reclaim the hearts of men to God, 
and nodiing but love can find out the 
mysterious avenues which lead to the 
heart. We are always eloquent when 
we wish to save one whom we love ; 
we are always listened to when we are 
loved. . . . If, then, you do not feel a 
fervent love and profound pity for hu- 
manity — if, in beholding its miseries 
and errors, you do not experience the 
tlirobbings, the holy thrillings of char- 
ity, be assured that the gift of Christian 
eloquence has been denied you," which 
is the good abbe's polite way (so truly 
French) of saying, " Don't preach." 

He is not above indulging in a little 
bit of humor now and then when he 
wishes to say something a litUe seveir, 



^40 



New Publications, 



as to take off the edge : "Just look 
It the young priest on his entrance uj)on 
the sacred ministry. He is armed cap- 
a-pie with arguments ; he speaks only 
by syllogisms. His discourse bristles 
with notv, thertfon, consequently. He 
is dogmatic, peremptory. One might 
fancy him a nephew of one of those 
old bearded doctors of the middle ages, 
such as Petit Jean or Courte-Cuisse. 
He is disposed to transfix by his words 
every opponent, and give quarter to 
none. He thrusts, cuts, overturns re- 
lentlessly. My friend, lay aside a part 
of your heavy artillery. Take your 
young man's, your young priest's heart, 
and place it in the van before your au- 
dience, and after lliat you may resurt 
to your batteries, if they are needed. 
Make yourself Ijeloved — Ijc a father. 
Preach affectionately, and your speech, 
instead of gliding over hearts hardened 
by pride, will pierce rven lo the (tiviil- 
ittg of the joints ami marrow ; and then 
that may come to be remarked of you 
which was said of another priest by a 
man of genius who had recently been 
reclaimed to a Christian life : ' 1 al- 
most regret my restoration, so much 
would it have gratified me to have been 
converted by so affectionate a preacher.' 
, . . Apostolical eloquence is no longer 
well understood. It is now made to con- 
sist of 1 hardly know what ; the utterance 
of truths without any order, in a happy- 
go-lucky fashion, cvtravagant self-ex- 
citement, bawling, and thumping on the 
pulpit. There is a tendency in this re- 
spect to follow the injunctions of an old 
divine of the sixteenth century to a 
young bachelor of arts. * Percuie cathe- 
dram fortiter ; respice Crucifixum tor- 
vis oculis : nil die ad propositum, et 
bene fretdicabis.^ " 

It is certainly a great misuke, al- 
though a common one, that what is 
called popular preaching \% relished only 
by the poor and illiterate, and, indeed, is 
only fit for them. The author's senti- 
ments on this subject are so just and 
well timed that we venture to give them 
in the following extracts from the prc- 
fii-c of his second volume. 

" True popular preaching is not that which 
!a adrircsscd exclusively to ihe lower order* ; 
but that which is addressed to all, and h 



understood by all. Such is the import o| 
the word /i»/«/d*-. When a man i» «uil in 
be popular, it implies that he mccu «itb 
sympathy on all sides ; from among \ 
per, the lower, and the middle ^ 
ciety. When we say, charity ia pop 
mean that it finds an echo in the br 
all. The Gospel is essentially popula 
hence Christian eloquence al&o should 
popular at all times and in all p|3«x»jj 
well in large cities as in small toi 
country districts : unless an cxc 
diencc is addressed, and there b 
such in France, najnely, that of Notre- 
at Paris. 

"This is what a sermon ought to 
A learned academician listening to It on i 
side, and a poor illiterate woman on the oth 
lnjth should derive therefrom somcthiog 
enlighten their minds and improve 
hearts. 

" We, the clergy, are debtors to atl. Ifo 
can wc denounce inju-^tice from the puljiitl 
wc exhibit an example of it in our uw-n 
sons ? ThiB is a matter involving a 
trust, which has not met with adcq u ate i 
cration ; fur how can we preach charhy \ 
we deprive the poor of that which i» the 
due — ^the bread of knowledge ? We i 
deem it an atrocity to retain tiie alnu gr 
to us for the needy ; and dues not ovr 
tell us that it would be a still greatcfj 
to withhold from them the saving tr 
the Gospel .' ... It is one of the* 
glories, one of the great powers of the 
nance of preaching, that the word preach 
should emhr,ice all without any excej: 
and we are sadly to blame for having rcnc 
cd that vantage-ground. Hence it 
our sermons nowadays are dry, meaj 
ficial, inctlicacious, and no longer 
that fulness and life, that broad ef 
thought, those throbhings of the h< 
thrilling accents of the soul, which 
a double origin ; indicating that what 
ter is at once the voice of God and the vo 
of the people. 

" I am going to speak without any r« 
Painful as the subject may be, it is dc 
that the clergy should be made thoroogtl 
aware of it. Go where you will in FVtBC 
you meet with nuuibcrs of excellent 
eminently intelligent men who say : 
really cannot account for it ; but I can no 
longer bear listening to sermon* i"^ ''■■'-r 
weary me dreadfully. The phr.i- 
erally used is humdrum and 
and the matter consists of an incub 
mixture of rhetoric and philosophy, .irt 
mysticism, of which nobody - 
anything. Then, again, their n 



Nttv Publications. 



H% 




is enough to send 
Jo£e who have lost the 
»i»g, I sincerely believe that I 
j better by absuining ; but for the 
(c. I resign myself to enduring 
[be it remembered, that these 
not of the ill-disposed, but 
igious men ; proving the ne- 
Luge reform, since it would 
: that such concurrent tea- 
parts of France is imfound- 
nen, be it remarked, alter 
to a r^'nial, diversified, popular, 
rsc, will readily exclaim ; 
1 hat I want I That's what 
M^d 1 That's what I like !' 
wit rercTt, therefore, to the gtnu- 
Bf ev»ngcUcal preaching, which is 
fiither addressing his numerous 
id wfao wishes to be understood 
\ cyUicn from the eldest to the 

b mast not be deluded into think- 

j!ar preaching is easy : on 

ry ditficull of attainment ; 

icss a task than that of 

■-■ which shall be level to 

- . .; of the masses, and at 

adapted to educated minds. 

ster that task ? Study much, 

ig : theology, literature, the 

, more especially the Gospel ; 

iti$ight into the human heart ; 

Itivale your own mind till it 

rST knowledge. Then write and 

one who has really drawn what he 

of the gwxl treasures of the heart, 

cb a way that alt who hear you 

I say : ' Really, what he 

; it is sound sense ; it 

what I would have said 

!.ir circumstances.' Let 

u,.-.. i...-> already been remarked 

^kit Ji little study withdraws us 

utiiriT whereas much study leads 

yo«ir heart, your soul ; 

il ■■r ni^iii, that niastcr- 

s carry fiiorc 

ii'.nts of philo- 

ric ' 

■1-? author s|>eak of what 
Illy comes back to his 
:ij)n; : Lovc the people, if you 
^c any influetice with them for 
|||dk cliaptcr reveals the fact 
Hjhght is the one which is up> 
Pth« writer's mind, .and. there- 
fme he dcsirt?s to impress the 
bly u|K»n the miotls of bis rca- 
kliotra bow totdlpMa, liume- 




ly truths without offence, and criticise 
severely tlie faults of his brethren with- 
out acerbity or presumption, 

It is a book that will do good, a great 
de.il of good, and we commend it most 
heartily to all our readers, who will as- 
suredly derive much pleasure and no 
little profit from its perusal. 

The translation has been made by a 
finished scholar, and leaves nothing to 
be desired for purity of style or fidelity 
to the original. The volume is publish- 
ed in a finished and elegant style. 

Essays on Religion and Litera- 
ture. By Various Writers. Edited 
by Archbishop Manning. Second 
Scries. London : Longmans, Green 
& Co. New York : For sale by The 
Catholic PubticatioQ Society. 

The rilles of these essays and the 
names of their authors will give our read- 
ers a good idea of the character and 
value of this volume : Inau^^ural Ad- 
dress, Session 1866-7, the Most Rev. 
Archbishop Manning, D.D. ; On InUl- 
icihtal Pmver and MatCs Perfection — 
Dangers of Uncontrolled Intellect, W. 
G. Ward, I^'h.D. j On the Mission ana 
Prospects of the Catholic Church in 
Knjiland, F. Oakley, M.A. ; Christianity 
in Relation to Civil Society, Edward Lu- 
cas ; On the Philosophy of Christianity, 
Albany J. Christie, M.A., S.J. ; On some 
Events Preparatory to the Enj^lish Re- 
formation, H. W. \Vill>erforce, M.A. ; On 
the Inspiration of Scripture, Most Rev. 
Archbishop Manning, D.D. ; Church 
and State, Edmund Sheridan Purcell ; 
Certain Sacri/icial IVords nsed by Saint 
Paul, Monsignor Patterson, M.A. 

It is impossible for us to enter here 
into an extended review of all these very 
remarkable essays. They were read at 
different meetingsof the English Catho- 
lic Academia, founded six years ago by 
the present Archbishop of Westminster, 
and which has for its object, as tlie same 
illustrious prelate and scholar informs 
us in his present inaugural address, 
'* the maintenance and defence of tlie 
Catholic religion, both positively and in 
its relation to all other truth, and ix>le- 
mically as against all forms of erroneous 
doctrines, principles, and thought." TWs 



New Puhticatiom. 



first address is a sliort but comprehen- 
sive sketch of the stale of religion in 
England, in whicli the present condition 
and prospects of the faith are contrasted 
chiefly with what they were thirty years 
ago. 

The second and third papers are de- 
signed to uphold the following thesis : 
The perfection of man consists exclu- 
sively in the perfection of his moral and 
spiritual nature, intellectual excellence 
forming no part of it whatever. We 
cannot help but think the author has 
taken a great deal of trouble to prove a 
truism ; for his definition of perfection 
is closely restricted to moral and spiri- 
tual perfection. We do not imagine 
that the antagonists he summons up 
from the ranks of " muscular Christian- 
ity," and from the present atheistical 
school in England, would contend that 
pure intellect, in the sense used by the 
author, would afford more than a subor- 
dinate service to man's spiritual welfare, 
such as he himself proves in a second 
proposition. 'Hie greater part, if not 
the whole, of these antagonists to Ca- 
tholic ascetfcism know nothing of what 
they are discussing. They suppose, and 
falsely so, that the Catholic Church 
teaches that the soul advances in spiri- 
tual perfection precisely at the expense 
of intellectual excellence ; that the saint 
becomes the more holy as he becomes 
the more stupid ; that the cultivation of 
the reasoning power is not only useless 
but a positive hindrance to spiritual per- 
fection. It is not surprising that our 
opponents make the most of intellectual 
acquirements, of physical health and 
strength, and exalt the animal alnive the 
spiritual, because they deny in toio the 
moral state of man as Catholic thcolog>', 
Ixith moral and ascetic, supposes it to be. 
They contend that there is nothing 
wanting in man's moral nature, any more 
than in his purely intellectual nature. 
Doth are weak, it is true, and should be 
strengthened and perfected, but the re- 
sults of moral weakness, which we call 
sin and imperfection, are to be regarded 
in the same light as one would the re- 
sults of ignorance in science. Sin is 
simply a mistake, culpable to the same 
degree as a false deduction in physics 
or aiatbfmadcs would be for want 



of better information am 
knowledge. Hence, it is 
how these philosophers neitKer 
nor in fact comprehend the cxerd 
the spiritual life, and look upon 4 
abnegation and mortificatioa i 
senses as degrading. ** Puri6cal| 
the soul" would be non«-"-^ N 
the soul does not need \ 
needs only advancement, cim;;TH. I 
and nurture, both in its spiritual 4 
tellectual part That a man sho^ 
ply himself to the perfection of H 
ritual nature without equal care j 
\-ance in worldly science, and Ml 
muscles well developed, his s 
full, and his body faj>hionably ai 
fortably clothed, is somef I ! ' '1 

worldly wise cannot uml 
should they when they rate the itfli 
no higher than, if not below, the 
lectual ? Human greatness with 
consists in physical and Intel] 
power ; and they think ll\c wnrk 
more benefited by a regiment of *< 
and a Ixiard o( trade thaji by a ct 
nity of monks and an as: 
prayer. 

iJut too much care cannol 

when we attempt to argue for tl>* 
proposed in this essay. There i| 
ger of giving our arlversartes an it( 
sion that we are contending for thj 
things of which they accuse ns. > 
intellect is not something evil wh 
to be crushed, else we si- 
for a saint in a Chrysost' 
tine, a Thomas of Aquinas, a liorj 
tura, or among lliose thousands al 
and women of great genius and sn^ 
ing intellectual power, whose woH| 
the glory of the world as tbey ij 
religion. j 

But one of the exercises of M 
cism, say our opponents, is to im 
the intellect Yes, just as I mort!| 
sight by restraining it from resting 
vain or immoral objects, my 
from too full an indulgence, 
music from dangerous displ 
gratification, or, what is at le 
a reason, because 1 really have di 
time to give my intellect, my ara 
my love of the beautiful in art, pi 
and music .-Ul that they demand I, 
a (v higher object in life, and (hu 






Mul pure and agreeable (o 

other and inferior objects 

hy in themselves of attention, 

jbc me I am loo busy to spend 

h thought or time u|K»n them. 

,1 r.....,A,. \vhose God is their 

-t aspiration in life 

oil the title-page of 

it either the sanity or tl»e 

e who saj's that he loves 

It God a great deal better 

about what he is g^inj; to 

cr, and chooses rather to 

itatioQ than to read the 

spaper. Such an one is 

as hungrj' as another for 

and mental food, but he 

at anxious thoup^ht about 

ecHncs the invitation to 

and smashes his violin, or 

h]K m.ithematics to oblivion, 

!.ii some or all of 

I to have a tendcn- 

away his thoughts from God ; 

^uot ar>' suffering, my phi- 

e that it cost one of 

ascetics " more pain 

i!sinoIin than all the disci- 

ever look in his life. What 

there to sm.xsh it ? Bccau.se 

and because sacrifice 

most nourishing food 

upon. And the same 

Ity, too, you say. Possibly, 

iti acknowledge that there is 

as vilnglory, which may 

lieart and degrade it, thus 

draacc to its perfection ? 

do, for you are constantly 

the Catholic saints of it Well, 

must allow that mortification 

a tendency is necessary for 

tcrfectinn ; and having once 

the nccesisity of mortification 

thlog, )t)u have given up the 

lit us bear no more of " de- 

ptscctlcism,- ' or of the " unmaJi- 

Itl iupiTbtition of bodily ausle- 

ult of tliis essay consists in the 
" cr says he uses the 
in it«» popular sense, 
it to be 
1 sense, 
ihe 
Cjt 



one. The question of human perfection, 
as put by the enemies of the church 
and the railers at her ascetic principles 
and practices, is : Does not the Catho- 
lic Church teach that man perfects him- 
self alone in the .spiritual order, and that 
all human science is but vanity and 
vexation of spirit, and, therefore, better 
left aside ? And is not this as a conse- 
quence a "degrading" standard to set 
before humanity, and one which tends 
to superstition, ignorance, mean-spirited- 
ness, as well as criminal neglect of 
health and personal cleanliness ? Is not 
intellectual ability a talent, and was not 
the servant of tlie gospel condemned 
for returning l>Is to his lord unimprov- 
ed ? This question the writer of the 
present essay does not meet, as we had 
hoped he would. For ourselves, we 
judge, as the writer acknowledges in his 
second essay, if wc read him aright, that 
there is such a thing as intellectual per- 
fection, artistical, mechanical, and even 
mu.scular perfection, each in their own 
order, but inferior in character, aim, and 
end to the perfection of the spiritual 
nature, which latter perfection it is not i 
only lawful but obligatory to cultivate, " 
even at the expense of either of the 
former. 

To advance in spiritual perfection is 
(he first and highest duly of man. 
" Seek first the kingdom of God and 
his justice." If one can advance in 
any other perfection at the same time 
without detriment to the first, all well 
and good. There is no danger that the 
devil's Advocate will object to his canon- ' 
ization on the score of his great intel- 
lectual superiority, his wonderful mecha- j- 
nical genius, or the firmness and beauti- 
ful development of his muscles. But 
let any of these things prove detrimen-^ 
tal to his spiritual perfection, as thej 
without doubt frequently do, then he' 
must shut up his books or smash his 
violin, as the case may be. 

The essay by Mr. Wilberforce, On 
somi Events Preparalory to the Erti^ish 
lie/orntatuin, will be found an exceed- 
ingly interesting paper. That On the 
IttxpiratioH o/Sctipturf, by Archljishi^p 
Manning, presents a concise view rfthe 
teaching of the church, and the differ- 
cnt opinions of Protestant and CathoUl 



144 



New Publications. 



theologians on that subject. All tlie 
essays are, in fact, literary productions 
of a high order, and merit the perusal 
of every scliolar of English Catliolic 
literature. 

Lacordaiuk's Letters to Young 
Mi:n. Edited by the Count de Mon- 
lalembert. Translated by the Rev. 
James Trcnor. Baltimore : Kelly & 
Piet 1S67. 

This volume is composed of letters 
written to his young friends whilst the 
author was en,a:aged in the most arduous 
and responsible duties. They arc not 
studied productions of tlie great Domi- 
nican's literary' {genius, but rather sim- 
ple outpourings of paternal love and so- 
licitude toward those young men for 
whose spiritual direction he was at once 
so wise a guide, so zealous a pastor, 
and so warm a friend. They reveal the 
wealth of affection which enriched his 
own heart, and the consecration of that 
affection to the highest and noblest pur- 
jjosc of life — the perfection and salva- 
tion of souls. These letters have been 
published that other young men may 
also listen to his wise counsels, and re* 
ceive that direction and encouragement 
which the writer was so eminently quali- 
fied to bestow. 

Tliose which refer to the painful steps 
that fidelity to tlic truth and loyalty to 
tlie church led him to take in reference 
to M. de la Mennais will be found ex- 
ceedingly interesting. There is no book 
that we could wish to see more exten- 
sively circulated among and read by the 
young men of our day than this col- 
lection of letters. The penjsal of them 
will do much toward strengthening that 
bond of holy friendship and mutual con- 
fidence which exists bet^vccn youth and 
the priesthood, so truly beneficial to the 
one and full of consolation to the other. 

Extracts prom the Fathers axd 
CiiUBCit Historians. W. B. Kelly, 
8 Grafton Street Dublin. For sale 
by the Catholic Pulilication Socirty, 
\tk Nassau Street, New- York. 

T^s volume contains choice selec- 
tions from the ^tlicn, faiUifuHy tr-in^- 
htted into En^li^. 




Modern History; 
of Christ and changi 
Republic into an Empire, to thi 
of our Lord 1867, with qucstid 
the use of schools. By I'ct« 
det, D.D. 22d edition, revise 
I voL i2mo, pp. 566 and 38, 
more : John Murphy & Co. t 

A COMPENWUM OF ANCIEVT 

Modern History — with qu« 
adapted to the use of schouU 
an appendix, etc.— from the Ct 
to the year 1867. By M 
A.M. 1 vol. 1 2 mo, pp 
more : John Murphy & C 



1 



These works are excelli 
of history, and are very popular 
Catholic schools of the United 
and tlie Canadas. The fin>t of 
Fredet's History, is a useful T 
and gives the reader a clear ai 
rect idea of modern history, 
cially if he has not time lo ro 
more voluminous histories of th 
ous countries of the world. Til 
seat edition of both these volai 
brought down to the year 1867, a 
account of our late terrible war i 
ten with candor and without bi; 
bare facts and dates of battles 
given. They are gotten up in gob 
viccable style for schools. 

The Bohemians of the Finl 
Century. Translated from 
Frencb of Henri Gucnot, by 
J. Sadlier. New-York : D. St I 
lier&Co. 

This is a very correct translatk 
beautiful little tale by M. Gucno? 
trating the peculiar habits and 
of living of tliat strange people, 
rally Called Gipsies, who appca: 
Europe about the lime selected 
autlior for his illustration. The i 
Well told in the original, with an 
tion to time and place ch;iractcri 
the best French writers of fictit 
in the English version t>efore 
loses nothing in accuracy or cvci 
vacily of style. 1 1 is an excellen 
for young readers, and will doubll 
a brge circulation among that dl 




PUBLISHED LETTERS OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. 



ago, Count Henri de 
,Te to the world, through 
*soi Le Correspomiant of Pa- 
knslation of thirteen letters of 
[ton's never before printed. 
ire addressed to the Marquis 
^tellux, that gallant and ac- 
ted French nobleman who 
rith the patriot army during 
tolutionary war, serving as 
»neral under Rocharobeau, 
whose subsequent travels in 
\ we gave some account in 
^amnber of The Catholic 
^B^Ashington seems to have 
PoPa sincere regard for this 
soldier and man of let- 
ides being in complete 
the founder of the 
rqpubllc in his views of 
tnd politics, was a gentle- 
amiable private charac- 
fle manners, and ejcten- 
rmattoiu After his return to 
kept up a correspondence 
tshhigtoo as long as he lived, 
letter in the present collec- 
ring date only six months be- 
marqnis's death. Although it 
said Uiat Washington's Icl- 
afijr facts of importance not 
known, they are not devoid 
to 



of historical interest, apart from the 
value which all confidential commu- 
nications from his pen must possess 
in the eyes of patriotic Americans. 
We are indebted to the efforts of 
the Abbe Cazali in procuring copies 
of the original from the Count Henri 
de Chastellux, who was kind enough 
to copy them himself. To both of 
these gentlemen we return our most 
sincere thanks. The first is dated 
at New-Windsor, January 28th, 1781. 
Count de Chastellux had just arrived 
at Newf>ort, where the French army 
was then quartered. 



My Dear Sir: I congratulate 
you on your safe arrival in good 
health at Newport, after travelling 
through so large an extent of the 
theatre of war in America. Receive 
my thanks for your courtesy in in- 
forming me of the same, and also 
for making me acquainted with the 
Comte de Charius. His prepossess- 
ing appearance is a sufficient indica- 
tion of the amiable qualities of his 
mind, and fails not to produce at first 
view a favorable impression upon all 
who see him. 

After spending several daya with 



146 



Unpublished Letters of General Washington. 



lis at headquarters, he has gone to 
Philadelphia, accompanied by Count 
Dillon. 

I left them at Ringwood, whither 
I went to repress a partial revolt 
at Pompton among the New-Jersey 
troops, who, after the example of 
those of Pennsylvania, mutinied and 
refused to obey their officers. The 
aifair happily ended without blood- 
shed. Two of the ringleacferl were 
executed on the spot, and order had 
been completely restored before I 
left 

I am at a loss for words to express 
my appreciation of your approval and 
friendship, and the value I attach to 
them. It shall be the desire and hap- 
piness of my life to merit their conti- 
nuance, and to assure you on every 
occasion of my admiration for your 
character and virtues. I am, dear 
sir, your most obedient servant, 

G. Washington. 



New WiNrjsoK, May 7, 1781. 

Dear Str: Permit me, on this 
occasion of writing to you, to begin 
my letter with congratulations on 
your recovered health, and I offer 
them sincerely. 

Colonel Menoville put into my 
hands two days since your favor of 
the 29lh ultimo. If my inclination was 
seconded by the means, I should not 
fail to meet this gentleman as the 
friend of my friend ; and if it is not 
in my power to comply with his wish- 
es on the score of pro\Hsions, I will 
deal with him candidly by communi- 
cating the causes. 

I am impressed with too high a 
sense of the abilities and candor of 
the Chevalier Chastellux to conceive 
that he is capable of creating false 
liopes. His communication, therefore, 
<jf the West Indies intelligence comes 
with merited force, and I would to God 
It were in my power to take the pro- 



per advantage of it I But if yt 
recollect a private conversation 
I had with you in the Cotint i 
chambeau's chamber, you will 1 
suaded it is not ; especially m 
add, that the want of which j 
complained exists in much J 
force than it did at that raomefl 
such preparations as can be ni 
will make for the events you 
to. The candid world and well-i 
ed officer will expect no more. 

May you participate in thoi 
ings you have invoked hereon 
and may you live to see a haj 
mination of a struggle which 1 
gun, and has been continued, 1 
purpose of rescuing Americi 
impending slaver)', and securiq 
inhabitants their indubitable 
in which you bear a conspicuou 
is the ardent wish of, dear si 
most obedient and most affecl 
servant, G. Washisgc 



lli- 

Nkw Winmor, June 13, 
My Dear Chevalier: 1 
from the purport of the lett< 
did me the honor to write fron 
port on the 9th, that my sent 
respecting the council of war b 
board the Duke de Bourgog^ 
3tst of May,) have been misc< 
ed, and I shall be very un' 
they receive an interpretation 
ent from the true intent and 
ing of them. If this is the 
can only be attributed to my 
derstanding the business of th 
de Lau2un perfectly. I will rely, 
fore, on your goodness and ( 
to explain and rectify the mist 
any has happened. 

My wishes perfectly coincidi 
the determination of the board 
to continue the fleet at Rhode 
provided it could remain there 



Jk 



Un^Misktd LetUn of General WashingUm, 



147 



the force required, and did 
xle the march of the army 
he North river; but, when 
.uzun infonned me that my 
>f the propriety and safe^ 
leasure was required by the 
id that he came hither at the 
r request of the Counts Ro- 
a and de Barras to obtain 
reduced to the painful ne- 
f delivering a sentiment dif- 
m that of a most respectable 

of forfeiting all pretensions 
' by the concealment of it 
this ground it was I wrote 
merals to the effect I did, 
jecause I was dissatisfied at 
ition of the plan agreed to 
:rsfield. My fears for the 
the fleet, which I am now 
1 were carried too far, were 
e of a belief that the gen- 
^n separated, might feel un- 
irery mysterious preparation 
lemy, and occasion a fresh 
ilitia. This had some weight 
:ermination to give Boston 
was sure no danger could 
altered but that of a block- 
eference to Newport, where, 
ime circumstances, though 

as were likely to happen, 
^ might be cnterprised. 
et being at Rhode Island is 
certainly with maiiy advan- 
lie operation proposed, and 
that you, and the gentlemen 
: of opinion that it ought to 
1 there for these purposes, 
issured that I have a high 
the obligation you mean to 
1 America by that resolve, 
: your zeal to promote the 
cause, and my anxiety for 
^ of so valuable a fleet, were 
motives which gave birth to 
lent difference in our opi- 

liat value upon your friend- 
candor, and have that im- 



plicit belief in yoiu: attachment to 
America, that they are only to be 
equalled by the sincerity with which 
I have the honor to be, dear sir, 
your most obedient and obliged, and 
faithful servant, 

G. Washington. 

IV. 
Philadelphia, January 4, 1783. 

My Dear Chevalier : I cannot 
suffer your old acquaintance, Mrs. 
Carter, to psoceed to Williamsburg 
without taking with her a remem- 
brance of my friendship for you. 

I have been detained here by Con- 
gress to assist in making the neces- 
sary arrangements for next campaign, 
and am happy to find so favorable 
a disposition in that body to prepare 
vigorously for it They have resolv- 
ed to keep up the same number of regi- 
ments as constituted the army of last 
year, and have called upon the States 
in a pressing manner to complete 
them. Requisitions of money are 
also made ; but how far the abili- 
ties and inclinations of the States 
individually will coincide with the 
demands is more than I am able, at 
this early period, to inform you. A 
further pecuniary aid from your gen- 
erous nation, and a decisive naval 
force upon this coast in the latter 
end of May or beginning of June, 
unlimited in its stay and operations, 
would, unless the resources of Great 
Britain are inexhaustible, or she can 
form powerful alliances, bid fair to 
finish the war in the course of next 
campaign, (if she mean to prosecute 
it,) with the ruin of that people. 

The first, that is, an aid of money, 
would enable our financier to sup- 
port the expenses of the war with 
ease and credit, without anticipating 
a change in those funds which Con- 
gress are endeavoring to establish, 
and which will be productive in 
the operation. 



I4B 



Unpublished Letters of General Wasltingtctu 



The second, a naval superiority, 
would compel the enemy to draw 
their whole force to a point, which 
would not only be a disgrace to their 
arms by the relinquishment of posts, 
and the States which they affect to 
have conquered, but might eventu- 
ally be fatal to their army, or, by at- 
tempting to hold these, be cut off in 
detail. So lliat in ciilier case the 
most important good consequences 
would result from the measure. 

As you will have received in a 
more direct channel than from me 
the news of the surprise and recap- 
ture of St. Eustatia by the arras of 
France, I shall only congratulate you 
on the event, and add that it marks, 
in a striking point of view, the genius 
of the Marquis de Bouill^ for enter- 
prise, and for intrepidity and re- 
sources in difficult circumstances. 
His conduct upon this occasion does 
him infinite honor. 

Amid the numerous friends who 
would rejoice to see you at this place, 
none (while I stay here) could give 
you a more sincere and cordial wel- 
come than I should. Shall I entreat 
you to present me to the circle of 
your friends in the army around you, 
with all tliat warmth and attachment 
I am sensible of, and to believe that 
with sentiments of the purest friend- 
ship and regard I have the honor to 
be, etc., G. Washington. 



V. 

Hkadquartehs, Newuurc, 
Aug. 10, 1782. 

Mv Dear Chevalier : I love and 
thank you for the sentiments con- 
■ tained in your letter of the 5th. I 
'look forward with pleasure to the 
epoch which will place us as conve- 
niently in one camp as we are con- 
genial in our sentiments. I shall em- 
brace you when it happens with the 
ith of perfect friendship. 
My time, during my winter resi- 



dence in Philadelphia, was a 
(for me) divided between pi 
pleasure and parlies of t 
The first, nearly of a samenc 
times and places in this infai 
try, is easily conceived ; at 
too unimportant for dea 
The second was only diven 
perplexities, and cotild ■! 
entertainment. Convinced < 
things myself, and knowing t 
intelligence with respect to 
affairs was better and mon I 
ing than mine, I had no 811 
address you upon 3 thus, the 
account for my silence. 

My time since 1 joined tl 
in this quarter has been 
principally in providing for^d 
ing, and preparing, under in 
barrassments, the troops for tl 
Cramped as we have been i 
are for the want of money 
thing moves slowly, but, as 
no new case, I am not disci 
by it. 

The enemy talk loudly 
confidently of peace ; 
they are in earnest, or wM 
to amuse and while away tl 
till they can prepare for a nu 
orous prosecution of the Wi 
will evince. Certain it is» tl 
gees at New York are violett 
vulsed by'a letter which ere t! 
will have seen published, fr 
Guy Carleton and Admiral D 
me, upon the subject of a | 
pacification and acknowledgt 
the independency of this com 

Adieu, my dear Chevalio". 
cere esteem and regard bids 
sure you that, with sentiments 
affection, etc., G. VVashimc 

V,. • 

Kewbukc, Dec 14, 

Mv Dear Chkvalikx : 1 1 

roucli to express anything t&€ 



whfli 



Ut^Ushid Lttttrs of General Waskitigton, 



149 



^tfa you. A sense of your 
services to this country and 
le for your private friendship 
neicame me at the moment of 
taration. But I should be 
', to the feelings of my heart, 

> violence to my inclination, 
to suffer you to leave this 

without the warmest assu- 
of an affectionate regard for 
rson and character. 
good friend, the Marquis de 
te, prepared me (long be- 
ad the honor to see you) for 
npressions of esteem which 
jiities and your own benevo- 
id have since improved into a 
d lasting friendship— a friend- 
ich neither time nor distance 
r eradicate. 
I truly say that never in my 

I part with a man to whom 
1 clave more sincerely than 
you. My warmest wishes 
!nd you in your voyage across 
intic, to the rewards of a gen- 
rince — ^the arms of affection- 
nds — ^and be assured that it 
one of my highest gratifica- 

> keep a regular intercourse 
tu by letter, 

ret exceedingly that circum- 
should withdraw you from 
mtry before the final accom- 
nt of that independence and 
vhich the arms of our good 
3 assisted in placing before 
:h an agreeable point of view. 
J would give me more plea- 
in to accompany you afler the 
a, tour through the great con- 
f North America, in search of 
U'al curiosities with which it 
s, and to view at the same 
e foundation of a rising em- 
have the honor, etc., 

G. Washington. 
— Permit me to trouble you 
! inclosed letter to the Mar- 
Laiayette. 



VII. 



Hkasquakteks, Nbwbukc, } 
May 10, 1783. J 

My Dear Chevalier : The affec- 
tionate expressions in your farewell 
letter of the 8th of June from Anna- 
polis gave a new spring to the pleas- 
ing remembrance of our past intima- 
cy, and your letter of the 4th of 
March from Paris has convinced me 
that time nor distance can eradicate 
the seeds of friendship when they 
have taken root in a good soil and are 
nurtured by philanthropy and benevo- 
lence. That I value your esteem, 
and wish to retain a place in your 
affections, are truths of which I hope 
you are convinced, as I wish you to 
be of my sincerity when I assure you 
that it is among the first wishes of 
my heart to pay the tribute of re- 
spect to your nation, to which I am 
prompted by motives of public con- 
sideration and private friendships ; 
but how far it may be in my power 
to jrield a prompt obedience to my 
inclination is more than I can decide 
upon at present 

You have, my dear Chevalier, 
placed before my eyes the exposed 
situation of my seat on the Potomack, 
and warned me of the danger which 
is to be apprehended from a surprise ; 
but as I have an entire confidence in 
it, and an affection for your country- 
men, I shall bid defiance to the en- 
terprise, under a full persuasion that, 
if success should attend it and I can- 
not make terms for my releasement, 
I shall be generously treated by my 
captors, and there is such a thing as 
a pleasing captivity. 

At present both armies remain in 
the situation you left them, except 
that all acts of hostilities have ceased 
in this quarter and things have put 
on a more tranquil appearance than 
heretofore. We look forward with 
anxx(»is expectation for the definitive 



150 



Unpublished Litters of General Waskingtim. 



treaty to remove the doubts and 
difficulties which prevail at present, 
and our country of our newly acquir- 
ed friends in New York, and other 
places within these States, of whose 
company we are heartily tired. Sir 
Guy, with whom I have had a meet- 
ing at Dobb's Feny for the purpose 
of ascertaining the epoch of this 
event, could give me no definitive 
answer, but general assurances that 
he was taking every preparatory 
measure for it ; one of which was, 
that, a few days previous to the inter- 
view, he had shipped off for Nova 
Scotia upward of 6000 refugees or 
loyalists, who, apprehending they 
would not be received as citizens of 
these United States, he thought it 
his duty to remove previous to the 
evacuation of the city by the king's 
troops. 

The Indians have recommenced 
hostilities on the frontiers of Penn- 
sylvania and Virginia, killing and 
scalping whole families who had just 
returned to the habitations, from 
which they had fled, in expectation of 
enjoying them in peace. These peo- 
ple will be troublesome neighbors to 
us, unJQBS they can be removed to a 
greater distance, and this is 
,' tft be done by purchase or con- 
fW^. ^ Which of the two will be 
^Aptgd byt Congress, I know not. 
■The Asf| I believe, would be cheap- 
rft*na perhaps most consistent with 
iustice. The latter most effectual. 

Mrs. Washington is very sensible 
of your kind remembrance of her, and 
presents her best respects to you, 
in which all the gentleman of my 
family who are with me cordially and 
sincerely join. Tilghraan, I expect, 
has before this entered into the ma- 
trimonial state with a cousin of his 
whom you may have seen at Mr, 
Carroll's near Baltimore. My best 
wishes attend Baron Montesquieu, 
and such other gentlemen witliin 




your circle as I have the hon< 
acquainted with, I can only 
you assurances of the most 
friendship and attachment, 

c. WAsr 

Vllt. 

Princeton, October tz, 
Mv Dear Chevalier : I hj 
iiad the honor of a letter fro 
since the 4th of March last. 
will ascribe my disappointmt 
any cause rather than to a de 
your friendship. 

Having the appearances, a 
deed the enjoyment of peace, « 
the final declaration of it, I, w 
only waiting for the ceremoni 
till the British forces shall have 
their leave of New York, am hcU 
awkward and disagreeable situ 
be-ng anxiously desirous to qi 
walks of public life, and, und( 
own vine and my own fig trve, ti 
tliose enjoyments and that itlal 
whicli a mind that has been con 
Ijr upon the stretch for more 
eight years stands so much in 
of. 

I have fixed this epoch to th4 
val of the definitive treaty, or I 
evacuation of my countrj' by oui 
ly acquired friends. In the 
while, at the request of Congr 
spend my time with them 9 
place ; where tliey came in < 
quence of the riots at Philadclpl 
which, doubtless, you have bcej 
informed, for it is not a veij \ 
transaction. 

They have lately determined 
the permanent residence of Cot 
near the falls of Delaware, bat 1 
they will hold their session til 
can be properly establishi 
place is yet undecided. 

I have lately made a to 
the Lakes George and Cham] 
far as Crown Point ; then. 



riE 



Unpublished Letters of General Washington, 



ISI 



ady, I proceeded up the 
to Fort Schuyler, (for- 
'ort Stanwix,) crossed over to 
)od creek, which empties into 
eida. Lake and affords the wa- 
nmunication with Ontario ; I 
raversed the country to the 
tf the eastern branch of the 
3)anna. and arrived at the Lake 
V and the portage between that 
id the Mohawk river at Cana- 

npted by these actual obser- 

k. I could not help takinga more 

r ind extensive view of 

d navigation of these 

States from maps, and the 

ion of others, and could not 

struck with the immense dif- 

importance of it, and with 

5 of that Providence 

dealt her favors to us with 

use a hand. Would to God 

y have wisdom enough to 

good use of them. I shall 

t contented till I have explored 

ttem part of this country, and 

ed these lines (or great part 

t) which have given bounds to 

empire. But when it may, if 

' should, happen, I dare not 

my first attention must be 

;q the deranged situation of 

(rate concerns, which are not 

injured by almost nine years 

c and total disregard of them. 

c\*ery wish for your health 

pptness, and wih the most 

: and affectionate regard, etc., 

G. Washington. 

rx. 

TtKSQH, February i, 1784. 

itAW. Chevalier : I have had 
to receive your favor of 
of August from L'Orient, 
>pe this letter will find you in 
le of your friends at Paris, 
rered from the fatigues of 



your long inspection on the frontiers 
of the kingdom. 

I am, at length, become a private 
citizen on the banks of the Potomack, 
where, under my own vine and my 
own fig-tree, free from the bustle of a 
camp and the intrigues of a court, 
I shall view the busy world with 
calm indifference, and with that 
serenity of mind which the soldier 
in pursuit of glory and the statesman 
of a name have not leisure to enjoy. 
I am not only retired from all public 
employments, but am retiring within 
myself, and shall lead the private 
walks of life with heartfelt satis- 
faction. After seeing New York 
evacuated by the British forces on 
the 25 th of November, and civil 
government established in the city, 
I repaired to Congress and surren- 
dered all my powers, with my com- 
mission, into their hands on the 23d 
of December, and arrived at this 
cottage the day before Christmas, 
where I have been close locked in 
frost and snow ever since, Mrs. 
Washington Uianks you for your kind 
remembrance of her, and prays you 
to accept her best wi shes in return. 
With sentiments, etrT,' 




Mount VERNosi^ 
Mv Dear Sir : I had 
receive a short letter from y< 
jor I'Enfant My official letters to 
the Counts d'Elstaing and Rocham- 
beau (which, I expect, will be sub- 
mitted to the members of the Cin- 
cinnatis in France) will inform you 
of the proceedings of the General 
Meeting, held at Philadelphia, on 
the 3d ult., of the reasons which in- 
duced a departure from some of the 
original principles and rules of the 
society. As these have been detailed^ 
J will not repeat then), and as we 



is^i 



fjH^f^ut 




ublUktd Letters of General Washitt^m. 



hav'e no occurrences out of the com- 
mon course, except the establishment 
of ten new States in the western ter- 
ritory, and the appointment of Mr. 
Jefferson (whose talents and worth 
are well known to you) as one of the 
commissioners for forming commer- 
cial treaties in Europe, I will only 
repeat to you the assurances of my 
friendship, and eapress to you a 
wish that I could see you in the 
shade of those trees which ray hands 
have planted, and which by their 
rapid growth at once indicate a 
knowledge of my declination and 
their wiUingness to spread their 
mantles over me before I go home 
to return no more. For this their 
gratitude I will nurture them while 
I stay. 

Before I conclude, permit me to 
recommend Colonel Humphreys, who 
is appointed secretary to the commis- 
sion, to your countenance and civili- 
ties whilst he remains in France. He 
possesses an excellent heart and a 
good understanding. With every, 
etc., G. WASHiNCTOhf. 

Xt. 

Motnrr Vkrnon, September 5, 1785. 

My Dear Sir : I am your debtor 
for two letters, one of the 12th of 
December, the other of the 8th of 
* ' Since the receipt of the first 
■ paid my respects to you in a 
lioe or two by a Major Swan, but, as 
it was introductory only of him, it 
requires an apology rather than en- 
titles me to a credit in our epistolary 
corresf>ondence. 

If I had as good a knack, my dear 
Marquis,* as you have at saj-ing 
handsome things, I woiild endeavor 
to pay you in kind for the many 
flattering expressions of your letters, 

• By the ikadi of ki* brathw, Fhilipp* Louii of 
CbaMdluz, 00 ihc jAih J«Rtuu7. \jl^ ibe OwvaUw 
kad Ukn thb tiU«.-l!;i>. C W. 



A^ 



having an ample field to 
but as I am a clumsy laborer 
manufactory of compliments, I 
first profess my unworthiness o| 
which you have bestowed on m( 
then, conscious of my inabili 
meeting you upon that grouo^ 
fess that it is better for me not 
ter the list, than to retreat froq 
disgrace. 

It gives me great pleasure tl 
by my last letters from Franc< 
the dark clouds which oven 
your hemisphere are vnelding 
sunshine of peace. My first % 
to see the blessings of it di 
through all countries, and una 
ranks in every country, and thi 
should consider ourselves as ih 
drcn of a common Parent, af 
disposed to acis of brotherly kit] 
toward one another. In thai 
restrictions of trade would vi 
we should take your wines, 
fruits, and surplusage of such ai 
as our necessities or convci 
might require and in return 
you our fish, our oil, our tobaoo 
naval stores, etc. ; and in ike< 
ner should exchange produoo 
other countries, to the recti 
advantage of each. And as the 
is large, why need we wrangle 
small spot of it ? If one 
try cannot contain us, another 
open its arms to us. But theai 
cyon days (if they e^•er did 
are now no more. A wise Provi< 
I presume, has decreed it othi 
and we shall be obliged to go 
the old way, disputing and noi 
then fighting, until the great 
itself dissolves. 

I rarely go from home, bv 
friends in and out of Congress 
times inform me of what is 
caq>et. To hand it to you afla 
would be circuitous and idle, 
persuaded you have correspol 
at New York, who give them • 



' ». J»4 



Unpublished Letttrs of General 




jcl, and can relate them 
^e clearness and precision. 
^^chief of my time to rural 
^■s ; but I have lately been 
in instituting a plan which, 
ess attends it, and of which I 
3 doubt, may be productive of 
:al as well as commercial 
to the States on the At 
rially the Middle ones, 
iproving and extending 
negations of the rivers 
James, and commu- 
irith the western wa- 
test and easiest port- 
good roads. Acts have 
assemblies of Virginia 
id authorizing private 
to undertake the work, 
in consequence, arc in- 
and that on tliis river is 
Jt when we come to the 
ts of it, we shall require 
er of skill and practical 
in this branch of busi- 
from that countrj' where 
of improvements have 
icted with the greatest 
WUfe very, etc., 

G. Washington. 



VeuwoN, August i8, 1786, 
iRQUis : I cannot omit 
rliest occasion to ac- 
kipt of the very af- 
did me the hon- 
1 me on the a 2d of May, 
thank you for the pre- 
your Trat-eh in Amtrua, and 
of Colonel Hum- 
all which came safely 
same conveyance, 
as I did the candor, libe- 
^|)hilanthropy of the Mar- 
bIIux, I was prepared 
ii«ny imputations Uiat 
^•gainst those amiable 
laracters and habits 
t^en up or suddenly 




laid aside. Nor docs"tirafH«Br8pc- 
cies of philosophy which aims at pro- 
moting human happiness ever belie 
itself by deviating from the generous 
and godlike pursuit. Having, notwith- 
standing, understood that some mis- 
representations of the work in ques- 
tion bad been circulated, I was happy 
to team tliat you had taken the most 
effectual method to put a stop to 
their circulation by publishing a more 
ample and correct edition. Colonel 
Humphreys (who spent some weeks 
at Mount Vernon) confirmed me in 
the sentiment by giving a most flat- 
tering account of the whole perfor- 
mance. He has also put into my 
hands the translation of that part in 
which you say such and so many 
handsome things, that (although no 
sceptic on ordinary occasions) I 
may, perhaps, be allowed to doubt 
whether your friendship and par- 
tiality have not, in this one instance, 
acquired an ascendency over your 
cooler judgment. 

Having been thus unwarily, and I 
may be permitted to add, almost un- 
avoidably betrayed into a kind of ne- 
cessity to speak of myself, and not 
wishing to resume that subject, I 
choose to close it for ever by observ- 
ing, that as, on the one hand, I con- 
sider it an indubitable mark of mean- 
spiritedness and pitiful vanity to 
court applause from the pen or 
tongue of man, so on the other, I 
believe it to be a proof of false 
modesty or an unworthy affectation 
of humility to appear altogether in- 
sensible to the commendations of the 
virtuous and enlightened part of our' 
species. Perhaps nothing can excite 
more perfect harmony in the soul 
than to have this string vibrate in 
unison with the internal conscious- 
ness of rectitude in our intentions 
and an humble hope of approbation 
from the supreme Disposer of all 
tilings. 



154 



Unpublished Letters of General Washington, 



I liavt vwiiimunicated to Colonel 
Humphreys that paragraph in your 
letter which announces the very favo- 
rable reception his poem has met with 
in France. Upon the principles I 
have just laid down, he cannot be in- 
different to the applause of so en- 
lightened a nation, nor to the suffrage 
of die king and queen, who have 
pleased to honor it with their royal 
approbation. 

We have no news this side the At- 
lantic worth the pains of sending 
across it. The country is recovering 
rapidly from the ravages of war. 
The seeds of population are scatter- 
ed far in the wilderness ; agriculture 
is prosecuted with industry. The 
works of peace, such as opening 
rivers, building brfdges, are carried 
on with spirit. Trade is not so suc- 
cessful as we could wish. Our Stale 
governments are well administered. 
Some objects in our federal system 
might probably be altered for better. 
I rely much on the good sense of 
my countrjTnen, and trust that a 
superintending Providence will dis- 
appoint the hopes of our enemies. 
With sentiments, etc., 

G. WASHlIiGTOX. 

XI u. 

Mount Vernon, April 25, 178&. 
My Dear Marquis: In reading 
your very friendly and acceptable 
letter of the 21st of December, 1787, 
which came to hand by the last mail, 
I was, as you may well suppose, not 
less delighted than surprised to come 
across that plain American word, 
my wife ! A wife ! Well, my dear 
Marquis, I can hardly refrain from 
smiling to find you are caught at 
last I saw, by the eulogium you 
often made on the happiness of do- 
mestic life in America, that you had 
swallowed the bait, and that you 
would as surely be taken (one day or 



another) as you were a phik 
and a soldier. So your day has at 
length come. I am glad of it mi 
all my heart and soul. It is quit 
good enough for you. Now )-ou 
well sen-ed for coming to ftght 
favor of the American rebels, all 
way across the Atlantic ocean, 
catching that terrible contagk 
domestic felicity, which, like 
small-pox or the plague, a ni.an 
have only once in his life, because 
commonly lasts him (at least withi 
in America — I don't know how; 
manage these matters in France) ; 
his whole lifetime. And yet, 
all the maledictions you so nc 
merit on the subject, the worst wi 
which I can find it in my heart 
make against Madame de Chasi 
lux and yourself is, that you 
neither of you ever get the 
of this same domestic felicity dl 
the entire course of your mor 
existence. 

If so wonderful an event she 
have occasioned me, my dear 
quis, to have written in a str 
style, you will understand rae 
clearly as if I had said, (the simf 
truth in plain English,) Do 
the justice to belie\e that I 
a heart felt interest in whatsoc\'< 
concerns your happiness. And 
this view I sincerely congratula 
you on your auspicious matrimoni 
connection. I am happy to find 
Madame dc Chastellux is so inti- 
mately connected with the Ducbeas 
of Orieans, as I have always un- 
derstood this noble lady wa& an ij 
lustrious pattern of connubial It 
as well as an excellent model 
virtue in general. 

While you have been making Ic 
under tlie banner of Hymen, 
great personages of the North hatj 
been making war under the insf 
ration, or ratlier the infatuation. 
Mars. Now, for my part, I humt 



Unpublished Letters of General Weishington. 



IS5 



^ou have had much the best 
t of the bargain. For cer- 
% more consonant to all the 
of reason and religion 
id revealed) to replenish the 
1 inhabitants, rather than to 
:e it by killing those already 
ce. Besides, it is time for 
f knight-errantry and mad 
> be at an end. Your young 
nen, who want to reap the 
f laurels, don't care (I sup- 
n many seeds of war are 
ut for tihie sake of humanity 
(Utly to be wished that the 
ployment of agriculture, and 
lizing benefits of commerce, 
>ersede the waste of war and 
f conquest. That the swords 
turned into ploughshares, 
s into pruning-hooks, and, 
ripture expresses it, the na- 
n war no more, 
now give you a little news 
side of the water, and then 
Ls for us, we are plodding 
dull road of peace and poli- 
;, who live at these ends of 
only hear of the rumors of 
the roar of distant thun- 
is to be hoped our remote 
ation will prevent us from 
:pt into its vortex, 
institution which was pro- 
the federal convention has 
pted by the States of Mas- 
5, Connecticut, Jersey, Penn- 
Delaware, and Georgia. No 
rejected it. The convention 
ind is now sitting and will 
idopt it ; as that of South Ca- 
jxpected to do in May. The 
ventions will assemble early 
mmer. Hitherto there has 
:h greater unanimity in fa- 



vor of the proposed government than 
could have been reasonably expect- 
ed. Should it be adopted, (and I 
think it will be,) America will lift up 
her head again, and in a few years 
become respectable among the na- 
tions. It is a flattering and consol- 
ing reflection that our rising repub- 
lic has the good wishes of all the 
philosophers, patriots, and virtuous 
men in all nations, and that they look 
upon it as a kind of asylum for man- 
kind. God grant that we may not 
disappoint their honest expectations 
by our folly or perverseness 1 With 
sentiments, etc., 

G. Washington. 

P. S. — If the Duke de Lauzun is 
still with you, I beg you will thank 
him, in my name, for his kind remem- 
brance of me, and make my compli- 
ments to him. 

May ist. — Since writing the above, 
I have been favored with a duplicate 
of your letter in the handwriting of a 
lady, and cannot close this without 
acknowledging my obligations for the 
flattering postscript of the fair tran- 
scriber. In effect, my dear Marquis, 
the characters of this interpreter of 
your sentiments are so much fairer 
than those through which I have been 
accustomed to decipher them, that 
I already consider myself as no small 
gainer by your matrimonial connec- 
tion. Especially as I hope your 
amiable amanuensis will not forget 
at the same time to add a few anno- 
tations of her own to your original 
text. 

I have just received information 
that the convention of Maryland has 
ratified the proposed constitution by 
a majority of 63 to 1 1. 



156 



AinUis Sacrifice, 



AIMfiE'S SACRIFICE. 



A TALE. 



CHAPTER I. 



The sun was sinking in the hori- 
zon, and the sky was overspread with 
a glorious array of many-colored 
clouds — those hues which artists so 
vainly try to reproduce on canvas, 
and which it is still more impossible 
to describe in words. It was a soft, 
balmy summer evening, the 14th of 
August, and nature seemed as if ready 
to join with faithful hearts in keeping 
the coming feast and to give them a 
faint shadow of the glories of heaven. 
Very fair was the landscape which lay 
outspread before the spectator's eye 
from the churchyard of the little vil- 
lage of St. Victor, raised as it was on 
a slight eminence above the rest of 
the village. Beech-woods, softly un- 
dulating hills, fertile dales, cottages 
scattered here and there, and the sea 
shining like silver in the far distance, 
formed the delightful prospect ; and 
llie old currf, as he traversed the 
churchyard which alone separated 
the modest presbytery from the 
church, could never prevent himself 
from pausing to admire the wonderful 
beaut)' of the scene. On this evening 
particularly, he stood looking up into 
the gorgeous sky with the earnest, 
wistful gaze of one who would fain 
pierce through " each tissued fold " 
of that marvellous curtain of blue and 
gold. 

The little church of St Victor did 
not boast much architectural beauty, 
and the churchyard was filled with 
simple green mounds and wooden 
crosses, with here and there a few 
shrubs and wild flowers, showing that 
it was the resting-place for the poor 



and the lowly. The village it 
very small, but there were ms 
lying hamlets, so that on Sm 
goodly congregation filled the 
While the cur^ was still stanc 
sorbed in thought, a side-doo; 
church gently opened, and a 
girl, about eighteen, very 
dressed, but with a graoj 
appearance and mov 
showed her to be above 
rank, came out. The fa 
raised as she ^pproac! 
was radiant with beauty 
nocence ; the lines of 
yet marked their furro 
smooth brow or cheeks ; 
was a sh.ade, as if cast by comi 
row, over the countenance, j 
the long, dark eyelashes tear 
still trembling. 

" Well, my child," said th< 
"are your labors over?" 

** Yes, father," she repliec 
have finished everything, anc 
think Our Lady's altar looks I 
ful. The ferns make such a 
background and show all the i 
to advantage. Oh I I think 
look lovely at benediction lo-ro 
and we will take such pains w 
music 1 O father !" she coni 
" \{ mamma could but come ■ 
it and hear Mass I I did s< 
she would be well enough, 
prayed so often for it." And hi 
filled with tears. 

"Ah! Aim^e," said the 
" sometimes our prayers an 
blind ones, and, like the apost 
old, we know not what we a 
have just been to see your motl 
" And how did you find her 



Att 



Aimiis Sacrifice. 



157 



think of her, father?" said 

tagerly. " I do think she is 

better — just a trifle, you 

priest made no answer for a 
\ dien he said : " Aim^e, I 
think she is better, and she 
ed me to ^>eak to you. She 
lot have sorrow come on you 
Idenly. My child, my poor 
rour mother is going fast 
ihe will no longer need an 
altar, and where she may 
flowers in the gardens of 
bliss. You have loved her 
r poor Aim^ ; will you not 
- up to His keepmg who hath 
ir best of all ?" 
e had clasped her hands 
together, and the color had 
x>m her cheek. She raised 
5 to the sky above, still ra- 
1th its glorious hues. With- 
: masses of golden clouds she 
she could see the pathway 
liould lead to the paradise of 
She turned her eyes to earth 
and, bowing her head, she 
Ra/ voluntas tua. Father," 
:inued, " I have all but known 
weeks past. I have seen it 
octor's face, in yours, but I 
5 hide it from myself" 
ive hesitated to speak soon- 
l the priest, " but this day a 
IS come from your uncle in 
I for your mother, enclosed 
I took it to her ; and its con- 
% such that it made us feel 
: has come when you must 
truth with her and listen to 
isels for the future." 
e closed her eyes in sudden 
, while a sharp pain shot 
her heart " The future, fa- 
ie said — " the future without 

irage, dear child," answered 
ife is not long. When we 
ck on the years, they seem 



but as a day. Even for the young, 
who knows what its length maybe?" 
And Aim^ knew from the tone of 
his voice that he was thinking of the 
fair young sisters, of- the merry bro- 
thers, one week laughing gayly in the 
old Chateau de Clareau and planning 
their future ; the next, standing on 
the scaffold, already wet with the 
blood of their father and mother. 
This scene he had witnessed as a 
young man, escaping by miracle from 
a similar fate. And it is not to be 
wondered that from henceforth life 
had seemed to him but a troubled 
and rapidly passing dream. 

" I must go to the church, now," 
said the curd, after a moment's pause. 
Aim^ followed him, and, entering in, 
sank on her knees at the foot of Our 
Lady's altar, so recently decked by 
her own nimble fingers. The church 
was silent, and the last rays of the 
setting sun came through the west 
window, made lines of golden light 
upon the pavement, and cast a halo 
around the head of the young girl 
who knelt there absorbed in prayer. 
Never had Aimde prayed before as 
she prayed now. It is not till sor- 
row is fairly upon us, till we realize 
that our individual battle is begun, 
that the bitterness which only our 
own heart knows is really at our lips 
— that we pray with intensity. Ai- 
mde poured out her whole heart, and 
offered herself to do the will of God 
in all things. She asked that his will 
might be done in her and by her ; 
she renounced the happiness of life, 
if it were necessary for its accomplish- 
ment. 

In after years, Aimde looked back 
upon that prayer, and felt that her 
offering on the threshold of her life 
had indeed been accepted. 

The sunset had faded; at last 
twilight had settled on the earth, 
when Aimde left the church and has- 
tened home. 



158 



Aifn//s Sacrifice. 



CHAPTER 11. 

Before we follow her footsteps, we 
must pause for a few instants to tell 
the past history of Aimde's mother. 
Marie Angelique de Brissac was, like 
the cur^, the sole survivor of a nu- 
merous family, who all perished in 
the Revolution. She, then a mere 
child, escaped in the arms of her 
foster-motlier, who conveyed her to 
England, and devoted her whole life 
to hringing up the little girl and pro- 
curing for her a good education. 
When Marie was about seventeen, 
she insisted on sharing her old nurse's 
burdens, and procured daily pupils. 
She taught the children of a surgeon 
in the small country town where the 
old French woman had taken up her 
abode. And it .so happened that 
Captain George Morton, of her ma- 
jesty's th cavalry, was thrown 

from his horse and broke his leg at 
the very door of Mr. Grant's house. 
His recovery was tedious, and he 
chafed exceedingly at the confine- 
ment, and became at last so irritable 
and peevish that poor Mrs. Grant, 
unable to please him, delegated the 
task to her young French governess. 
The result may be easily foreseen. 
George Morton loved Marie passion- 
ately, and was beloved in return. 
They were speedily married ; and as 
George ^forton knew it would be 
useless to ask his father's consent, he 
did without it, and then wrote to an- 
nounce his marriage to the old man, 
and ask leave to bring his bride to 
the paternal mansion in Russell 
Square, London. The spoilt and 
favorite son of a rich merchant, in- 
dulged in every whim he could recol- 
lect, George was little prepared for 
the storm of anger that burst upon 
him for the step he had taken. 
Mr. Morton had lost his wife many 
years before, and devoted himself — 
heart and soul, body and mind 



— to the acquisition 

in which pursuit he was y 

aided by his eldest son, Ralpij 

the whole hearts of the two 

cold, apparently sordid-minde 

were set on George, the han^ 

careless, liberal, merr)- young< 

George was to make a great ) 

to sit in parliament, and in t| 

lain a peerage ; and as, accord 

rumor. Lady Adelaide Oswal 

only too willing to enable him C 

the first step in the programi^ 

news of George's marriage to 

niless French governess was 

than the concentrated pride of lj 

natures could bear. George wj 

bidden ever to communicate wi 

family again, and his handjol 

lowance was cut off. George \ 

ed heartily, told his wife the 

would si>on pass, thanked Hcall 

was not in debt, and declared it I 

be an agreeable novelty to hi 

live on his pay and the tnted 

the few thousands he had inh 

from his mother. In less tha| 

years after his marriage he was^ 

thrown from his horse, and mfl 

time with such mortal injurief 

he never spoke again, and expi] 

a few hours. His fellow-officcl 

all they could for the jt)ung, bfl 

hearted widow and his infant d 

ter. The commanding officer WI 

Mr. Morton to implore help, fa< 

appeal was in vain. It was then tb 

better to purchase a small an 

for Mrs. Morton with the little ' 

George had died possessed of] 

as she had heard that one a 

early friends of her family had 

appointed cur^ to the little villa 

St. Victor, she determined upon 

there, at least for a time. Thei 

old nurse, who followed her 4 

where, died, and there she cont 

to live and educate her child, i 

had softened her great sorrow! 

her existence had been 



1 



Aim^/s Sacrifice. 



159 



happy and tranquil one. 
ild grew up in beauty and 
id possessing every disposi- 

heart and mind a mother 
»ire. If she had a fear, it 
t her nature was too gentle, 
It; too ready to forget herself 
s, to enable her to battle alone 
ard and cruel world. Aim^e 

was one of those beings 
ature seems to intend should 
ys safely sheltered from the 
s of life. They should lean 
: nature stronger than their 
:e the tendrils which wind 
res round a tree. But when 
orton spoke of this fear of 
the curd, he only smiled, and 
;r remember that it is the 
10 inherit the earth. When, 
, Mrs. Morton perceived that 
}tion was making rapid strides 
onstitution, a pang of mortal 
>hot through her when she 

of what was to be Aimde's 
i alone in a pitiless world. 
•^ was an old man, and she 
ot, therefore, hope that he 
>ng watch over and protect 
iing child. Besides, Mrs. 
s annuity ceased with her 

there were no means at St. 
or Aimde to earn her bread. 
1 well educated ; her mother 
:en great pains in teaching 
[ the curd had made it his 
:o increase her stock of know- 
George Morton's father had 
ce been dead, and Ralph had 
ed to the full enjoyment of 

man's wealth. No sign of 
I had come from that death- 
the unoffending widow and 
of his once loved son. And 
iboldened by the approach of 
rhich so levels the distinction 
1 in the eyes of those just 
I on eternity, Mrs. Morton 
3 Ralph, telling him she was 
brink of the grave, and im- 



ploring his help for the child she 
would leave behind her. She enr 
closed her letter in one from the 
curd and doctor confirming her state- 
ment. 

And after many days' suspense 
the answer had come. 

Aimde and her mother lived in a 
little cottage close by the presbytery. 
It had originally been but a peasant^s 
cottage, and it did, in fact, contain but 
four small rooms ; but Mrs. Morton 
had gradually transformed it into a 
most graceful little home. Creepers 
twined round the white walls, and 
roses peeped in at the window. A 
pretty garden surrounded the house ; 
while inside, the furniture, though 
simple, was gracefully arranged ; 
flowers, books, and pictures adorned 
the little sitting-room, and an air of 
refinement pervaded the dwelling. 
In that sitting-room, reclining in an 
easy-chair, propped up with pillows, 
lay Mrs. Morton. A stranger would 
have been astonished to find that 
Aimde could possibly have been in 
ignorance as to her mother's state; 
but the change had come so gradu- 
ally that it was not to be wondered at 
that the poor child had fondly hoped 
on even to the last. But to other 
eyes the emaciated form, the sunken 
eyes, the hectic glow, the short, 
dry cough, told their own tale. 
Aimde hastened to her mother, and 
was clasped in her arms in a long, 
close embrace. 

"You know all, my darling?" said 
she. 

" Yes, sweet mother, the curd has 
spoken." And Aimde resolutely 
steadied her voice and drove back 
the rising tears. " Be at peace about 
me, mother dear. God has given you 
to me for a long time: I must not 
grudge you to him, if he wants you 
now." 

" My own child 1" said Mrs. Mor- 
ton. And she fondly kissed \]b& 



i6o 



Aim^is Sacrifice. 



bright, soft brown hair of the head 
lying on her shoulder. "God guard 
thee ever, and he a//// guard thee. He 
is the Father of the orphan. Aim<5e, 
I will trust him about you." 

" And may be it won't be very 
long, you know, mother," said Aim^e, 
** You are going home before me : 
you will be waiting for me on the 
other side." 

A long, silent kiss was Mrs. Mor- 
ton's answer. 

" And this letter, mother — may I 
see it ?" 

" Yes, dearest, here it is." And 
a letter in a thick, blue envelope, with 
a large, red, ofHciaJ-Iooking seal, was 
put into her hands. Its contents 
were brief, and might have been sup- 
posed rather to refer to an assign- 
ment of goods than the future fate 
of an orphan niece. 

Mr. Ralph Morton stated that, in 
the event of Mrs. George Morton's 
death, he was willing to adopt her 
daughter Aimee, to provide for her 
during his life, and to leave her a 
sufficiency at his death, provided her 
conduct was such as he should ap- 
prove of ; that before her arrival in 
England he should require copies of 
his brother's marriage certificate and 
the child's baptismal register; that he 
should be willing to pay all expenses 
of her journey to England so soon as 
he should receive intimation of her 
readiness for departure ; but that he 
wished it to be distinctly understood 
that he would have nothing to do 
with his niece during Mrs. Morton's 
lifetime, nor would he pay any debts 
contracted by that lady, or hold any 
iurtiier communication with her. The 
blood rushed to Aim^e's cheek and 
brow as she read the last sentences. 
" Even on the threshold of the grave, 
oould not that last insult have been 
spared?" thought she. She gave a 
glance at her motlier's peaceful face, 
and realized that it is precisely on 



^^^^gi 



that threshold that insult 
sting. Mr. Morton's taunt 
power to move the heart so si 
be done with earth. 

From this day the mothi^ 
daughter often spoke together ( 
time when they should be sepf 
and Aim^e received many « 
counsel from her mother's U|j 
be treasured up for days lo \ 
Mrs. Morton told her all she 
of the character of the uncl< 
would soon be her only rcl 
Very early in life he had 
disappointed in his affection^ 
treated with great treachery, j 
that hour he grew hard, inoros4 
unfeeling, and threw himself Mrj 
the strength of his iron natur< 
the acquisiticKi of wealth. Still, 
ever, his strong affection for hj 
thcr George had survived the t 
of his better nature, and Georgj 
always firmly believed that It4 
anger would in the event a| 
death be ended, and that he woti 
tend protection to his wife and ( 
" And therefore, my child," 
Mrs. Morton, " I felt compel! 
write once more to your uncl< 
lieving that in doing so I was i 
ing what would have been mj 
band's will ; and it will comfort 
to feci, when you are with him, 
you are doing what your father i 
have wished." Mr. Morton was, 
Morton believed, a man totally 
out religion. She counselled A 
to bear the trials of her lot pal 
ly, to do all she could to cona 
her uncle, and to draw him to i 
ter life ; but, if she found her U 
his house was more than her str( 
could bear, or if any principle 
in danger, she was to try and 
employment as a governess. 
cur<< was going to furnish her k»i 
letter of introduction to a FH 
priest in London, who would in 
case advise her how to act. 



A 



Aimiis Sacrifice. 



l6t 



id so the days went on. Sep- 
er, which happened to be that 
a warm, radiant summer month, 
by without any perceptible 
ge in the invalid \ but early in 
ber came cold north winds, rain, 
nbts. Mrs. Morton was taken 
enly worse, and the last sacra- 
s were administered. After re- 
ng them, she rallied and was 
to be lified from her bed to a 
placed near the window. Aim^ 
ly left her for an instant; she 
■gsA that any one else but her- 
ihould render any service to the 
; so soon to leave her. One 
: Mrs. Morton awoke from an 
sy sleep ; the day was beginning 
eak, and, as the fueling of suffo- 
n which she often experienced 
ed came on, Aimde assisted 

the sofa, and then kneeling by 
dde, they both watched the sun 

in his glory, just purpling the 
ibove, then making the heavens 
3US with his presence. Mrs. 
on opened her eyes and took 
lo^ g32e on the earth which 
id so fair, and on the beautiful 

Then she turned to her daugh- 
ind she laid her head on that 
g breast. 

; am going from you, my Ai- 
" she said ; " but remember al- 
,\ na not gone to a Stranger." 
m& pressed her lips softly, and 

Morton seemed to sleep. In 
attitude the old servant Marthe 

1 them when she entered the 
I an hour later. And then only 
Aim^ wake to the conscious- 
that her mother had slept into 
1, and that she had heard her 
words. Those words rang in 
?e*s ears as she performed the 
sacred offices to the dead. Sol- 
y she fulfilled her task ; there 
no tears in the large, soft eyes 
I the pale cheek ; she compass- 
K»e dear limbs in their shroud ; 

'U VI. — II 



she crossed the wasted hands upon 
the breast, and laid the crucifix, so 
loved in life, between the fingers ; 
then, when the cur^ entered the room, 
she turned to him and said : " Father, 
she is not gone to a Stranger." * 

" No," he answered; " to her Friend 
and Brother, and who is also yours 
and mine, my child. Leave, then, 
this poor, earthly tabernacle, Aim^, 
for a while, and come and meet her 
at his feet." And Aim^e went with 
him to Mass. 



CHAPTER III. 

It was all over : the wasted form 
of Marie Angelique de Brissac Mor* 
tonwas laid in the quiet grave, where 
the rays of the rising sun would play 
upon the grass ; where the shadow of 
the sanctuary wall would shelter it ; 
where wild roses and sweet-brier 
would scent the air ; where the cur^ 
would come daily to say a De Pro- 
fundis; and which the faithful Nil- 
lagers, who had loved the sleeper 
well, would always reverently tend. 
There Aimde left her ; there she shed 
her last tears in the early morn- 
ing before she began her journey ; 
there she knelt at the curb's feet 
for his last blessing, and the old 
man's voice faltered as he pronounc- 
ed the words. Mrs. Morton's death 
and Aim^e's departure had robbed 
his life of the little sunshine that it 
had possessed ; but he murraxured 
not, and rather rejoiced that tie after 
tie was cut which should bind him 
to the love of earth. With far more 
calmness than could have been ex- 
pected, Aim^e bade farewell to the 
only home and friends she had ever 
known, and set out to meet her new 
and untried future. She had never 
been further than to the country town 

* These words were used by an Iruh girl on her 
mother'! death. 



l62 



AifftZ/s Sacrifice, 



nearest her village, and the journey 
astonished and bewildered her. More 
than one compassionate and admiring 
glance was cast on the slight, lovely 
girl, attired in such deep mourning, 
and whose eyes were so dim with un- 
shed tears. A trusty farmer of St 
Victor, saw her to the sea-coast, 
and put her into the charge of the 
captain of the vessel in which she 
was to reach England. He in his 
turn consigned her to the guard df 
the train. At length, Aimde found 
herself standing in the great wilder- 
ness of a London railway station, 
with people jostling, pushing, vocife- 
rating, swearing around her, each 
intent on his own business, and all 
unmindful of others. A footman at 
last came up to ask her name, and, 
finding she was Miss Morton, told 
her he was sent for her. He showed 
her to a fly, which was waiting, and 
having found her luggage, she was 
soon rolling through the streets. 
At those long, dreary, interminable 
streets Aimde looked with a kind of 
awe and oppression. She was thank- 
ful when the carriage stopped at the 
door of one of the large, gloomy- 
looking mansions to be found in 
Russell Square. Another footman 
opened the door, and she entered. 
No voice welcomed her, no hand was 
stretched out to meet hers, no smile 
greeted her. A housemaid appeared 
to lead her up-stairs. She found her- 
self in possession of a large room, 
furnished in the heavy style in fash- 
ion forty years ago. A luxurious 
four-post mahogany bedstead half-fill- 
ed the apartment, hung vdth dark- 
brown damask ; the window-curtains 
were of the same hue. There was a 
massive wardrobe, chairs which could 
hardly be moved, and an empty fire- 
place. Aimde shuddered, but not 
with cold ; and, when the door closed 
behind the servant, she threw herself 
into a chair and wept bitterly. Pre- 



sently she rose, weeping still, 
was to cast herself on her kne« 
press her crucifix to her lips, 
soon grew calm ; the sense of 
ness passed away. She had a 1 
who never left her, in whose c 
ny the dreariest room was brigli 
Aimde rose comforted and at 
She went to the window and 1 
out. Below her was a small 
court, and beyond the house av 
other houses and lanes ; not a 
of green or a flower met hei 
but she looked higher still, ai 
saw the sky, very cloudy a1 
moment certainly; "but I 
thought she, " it will be often 
and I can always look at it" J 
she tried to enliven the prospec 
knock at the door interrupte 
musings, and there entered a 
ful, elderly woman, who cour 
respectfully, and announced sh 
Mrs. Connell, the housekeeper 
her eyes travelled over Aim^'i 
wan face and deep black, a 
pression of compassion and in 
came into her countenance. " I 
want anything, miss?" she : 
"Sure, it was only this m< 
that Mr. Morton told me you 
coming, and so things are I 
straight for you. Will you take 
tea, ma'am ? Dinner won't be s 
for an hour." 

" Is my uncle at home ?" 

"No, miss, and will not fc 
half an hour ; then he goes to ' 
and then dinner is served. 
Miss Morton," said the good wt 
brightening as she saw Aim^'s 
cifix on the table, " you're a C 
lie I To be sure, I never thou| 
that, though I knew Mr. Georg 
married a French lady." 

" Are you one, Mrs. Com 
said Aimde, with a smile. 

" To be sure, miss. I am an 
woman, as perhaps you may k 
But as Aimtfe had never heard 



Axmdis Sacrifice. 



163 



save from her mother and the 
Mrs. Connell's accent was quite 
upon her. She felt, however, 
had found a friend ; and she 
^ accepted Mrs. Connell's help 
ipacking and getting ready for 
formidable interview with her 
!. They met in the drawing- 
a few moments before dinner, 
^lorton put out two of his fingers 
an icy, "How are you?" af- 
chich he relapsed into silence. 
1 dinner was announced, he gave 
.is arm, and they went into the 
g-room. Two footmen and a 
r waited. The plate was magnifi- 
the dinner very fine ; but not one 
was addressed to the poor, lone- 
1, too terrified to eat. Once or 
she made a desperate effort to 
L the ice of her own accord, but 
)und evidently that this was dis- 
, and she gave it up. And so 
succeeded day, and there was no 
ition in her uncle's behavior, 
night have been deaf and dumb 
ir as intercourse with him was 
imed. His orders about her — 
brief, and decisive — ^were given 
rs. Connell. She was to furnish 
:lf with clothes from certain 
> which he named, and whose 
were to be sent to him. As 
as possible, she was to leave off 
leavy mourning. She was never 
out alone ; and as for exercise. 
Square Gardens would suffice. 
having delivered himself of 
: sentiments, Mr. Morton ap- 
Uly considered his duty to his 
m niece was done. He provid- 
er with neither employnvent nor 
ement; he gave her no pocket 
;y; and she had nothing but a 
sum which remained to her when 
le expenses at St. Victor were 
The young girl, brought up, as 
lad been, in the open country, 
etomed to sea and mountain air, 
trie in her garden, and take long, 



rambling walks to the hamlets round 
the village, felt like a caged bird pac- 
ing up and down the gravel patks of 
Russell Square, and watching the 
London blacks settle on the leafless 
trees. She enjoyed one comfort, that 
of the daily walk to Mass with Mrs. 
Connell ; and be the weather what it 
might, the two figures of the old woman 
and young girl might be seen flit- 
ting Uirough the dusk to the nearest 
Catholic church. Still it was almost 
impossible to avoid losing both health 
and .spirits in such an atmosphere. 
She was very courageous, and she 
struggled resolutely against depres- 
sion and ennui, a word of which she 
for the first time began to understand 
the meaning. She wrote long letters 
to the curd, and his answers, contain- 
ing every scrap of village news, were 
eagerly devoured, as well as some 
beautiful thoughts on higher themes 
which he never failed to give her. 
She pulled down the long disused 
books in her uncle's library, and, 
guided by a list the curd had g^ven 
her — for in the days of exile he had at- 
tained a good knowledge of English 
literature — she read a good deal. 
She practised on the old, long-dis- 
used piano in the drawing-room, much 
to Mrs. Connell's delight. She tried 
to teach herself Italian ; and, as visit- 
ing the poor was strictly forbidden by 
her uncle, she spent some of her own 
money in buying materials, and made 
clothes for them. Then, in the Square 
Gardens, she made friends with the 
children who with their nurse-maids 
overspread the place. She soon be- 
came their friend, favorite, and slave, 
was alternately a horse for Master 
Walter and a lady in waiting for Miss 
Beatrice, or a perpetual fountain of 
story-telling to the whole tribe. 
Society she saw literally none ; one 
guest only ever sat at Mr. Morton's 
table, and his appearance Aimde soon 
learnt to dread rather than desne. 



]64 




Aimi^s Sacrifice. 



Mr. Hulme was Mr. Morton's part- 
ner, a little wiry man with sharp ferret 
eyes, and his harsh cynical conversa- 
tion was far worse to Aimde than her 
uncle's silence. He took little notice 
of her ; but it was deeply painful to 
the poor girl to have all that she held 
most sacred treated as a fit subject 
for scorn and ridicule, to hear honor 
and faith and nobility and truth scoff- 
ed at as impossibilities. Many na- 
tures might have been warped by 
hearingsuch sentiments; but Aim^e's 
childlike faith and innocence were a 
secure shield, and not one of Mr. 
Hulmc's coarse remarks ever clung 
to her memory. 



CHAPTER rv. 

Every now and again Aim^e under- 
stood that she, though not direct- 
ly named, formed the subject of 
conversation between the two 
partners. She was in some way 
connected with the return of " Ro- 
bert," though who Robert was, 
or where he was coming from, she 
had not the slightest conception, 
and she felt too weary at heart to 
indulge much curiosity. Christmas 
came, and poor Aim^e's heart was 
sore indeed. At such a period the 
happiest family has some s.id memo- 
ries — there are some vacant places at 
the board, some voices whose tone 
we listen for in vain ; but with Aim^e 
what a change since last year ! She 
could not but think of the midnight 
Mass, the gathering of the villagers, 
the sky radiant with stars, her mo- 
ther's kiss, the curb's blessing ; how, 
later in the day, she had waited on 

Be poor and gladdened many a 

beart, and how she had trimmed 

the church's arches with holly, and 

:how she had dressed the trirhe. 

Tow there were no such delights 
for her; still she drove back her 



'4 

in tw 

holly- 
lon th 

ning 1 

>bject 

in he 

reates) 

faUHl 



tears. She thought of h« 
Christmas in heaven, rej 
the angelic song. And in ' 
London chapel a few holly- 
were glistening, and upon th 
was the same Lord, the sa 
and Comforter; and Ail 
walked home through 
when a fog was beginning 1 
to rain, and when everj' object 
a dirty brown color, felt in he 
that she possessed the greatest 
ing the festival could 
of heart. 

She dreaded the dinn( 
she feared Mr. Hulme w« 
present ; but on entering the 
ing-room she found, to her si 
a gentleman whom she had 
seen before. He was lying 
in one of the easy-chairs, a 
paper in his hand, as if qi 
home. On her entrance he 
to his feet, and Aim^ saw 1 
a young man about five-and-( 
witli a fair, open countenance 
ing with good humor and cf 
ness. 

" Miss Morton, I presume, 
me to introduce myself, as t] 
no one at hand to f>erform th 
mony. I am Robert Claj^ 
your service, nephew to the it 
able Mr. Hulme. I am no 
enough to suppose he has 
of me in my absence." ^H 

" I have heard him ^P 
some one called Robert," Sid 
m^e, smiling. 

".I have been in Holland 
three months," he replied, " o 
ness of the firm, and only n 
last night." 

The entrance of Mr. Mort< 
Mr. Hulme put a stop to the ( 
sation ; but Aim^e soon fout 
dinner was a very diflereot 
in presence of the new gues 

Mr. Hulme was in the 1 
good humor, Mr. Mot 



3rtoi^l 



Aimiis Sacrifice. 



KSS 



isual, while Robert's flow of 

seemed inexhaustible. All the 
incidents of an ordinary jour- 
xn Hamburg to London were 
Q such a manner as to make 

amusing ; and when Aim^ 
to bed that night, she felt as 
ray of sunshine had sudden- 
itened her life. Sunshine, in- 
was the word that could best 
iS the effix:t produced by Rob- 
aydon's presence. There was 
ne in his laughing blue eyes, 
I merry smile, in his joyous 
Having learned the secret 
'sonal happiness, his one de- 
as to make others happy, and 
e indeed were the natures he 
}t gladden ; and Aim^ soon 

that he was not only bright 
enial, but noble in character 
iart 

Hulme had long intended to 
Robert his heir, and since the 
. of Aim^e, the partners had 
i the scheme of marrying her 
lert, and thus keeping the pro- 
jf the firm intact Her wish- 
the matter the old men little 
tt of, nor were Robert's much 
ered, except that they each 
:oo well Robert would not be 
d to in so important a matter 
choice of'a wife, 
as, however, not long after his 

to England that the "firm" 
ted the purport of their august 

Robert. 

le course of true love never 
1 smooth," was his smiling an- 
"This little Aimde is, I believe, 
ry ideal I have imagined to 

for a wife, and by all laws of 
:e, you, our respected uncles, 
to forbid the match, or cut us 
h a shilling, instead of actu- 
ging us on ; but now, remem- 
dded he, " a fair field, or I am 

bargain. No using of com- 

to the poor little maiden. I 



will win her on my own merits and 
after my own fashion, or not at all." 
And so the weeks passed on, and 
Robert began seriously to doubt 
whether he had really made pro- 
gress. Aimde was always pleased 
to see him; she had lost all shy- 
ness and embarrassment in his pre- 
sence. There is no self-possession so 
perfect as that given by simplicity, 
and Aim^e, who rarely thought about 
herself, was always at her ease. She 
trusted Robert implicitly, and had 
learned to tell him about her home, 
her former pursuits, and even of her 
darling mother. She never tried to 
analyze her feelings ; she only knew 
that her whole life was changed since 
that Christmas-day by the constant 
intercourse with this new friend ; and 
Robert, whose whole heart was given 
to her, feared that she only regarded 
him with sisterly affection, and he fear- 
ed to speak the words which might, 
instead of crowning his hopes, ban- 
ish him from her side. 

One evening in the early spring, 
Aim^e was sitting at the piano try- 
ing some new music Robert had given 
her. Robert was not far off, and Mr. 
Hulme and Mr. Morton were linger- 
ing, according to their custom, in the 
dining-room. A servant entered with 
letters. 

" Are there any for me ?" said Ai- 
mde, turning round eagerly. " The 
French letters often come by this 
post, and it is so long since I heard 
from St Victor." 

" Yes," said Robert, bringing the 
letter to her, " here it is, post-mark, 
foreign stamp, and all." 

"But not his handwriting?" said 
Aimde in a surprised tone, and she 
tore the letter open. A sudden pale- 
ness overspread her face, and the let- 
ter fell from her hands, and she look- 
ed up into Robert's face with an ex- 
pression of mute agony. 

" My poor child I" said Robert, uv 



i66 



Aimiis Sacrifice. 



a tone so gentle, so full of sympathy, 
that Aimde broke down. 

"He is gonel" she sobbed out; 
** my last, my only friend." 

" Nay, not so," cried Robert ; " I 
would give my life for you, my Aim^e 
— my love — ^my lovel O darling! 
can you care for me; can you give 
me your heart for mine ?" 

She gave one look only from her 
innocent eyes, still full of tears, but 
that one glance sufficed ; it removed 
all doubt from Robert's mind. He 
felt that he was indeed beloved with 
a woman's first and ardent attach- 
ment; and gathering her into his 
arms, he bade her weep out her sor- 
rows on his breast, henceforth to be 
her refuge. Henceforth their joys 
and their sorrows were to be in 
common. After a time they read the 
letter together. Itwas from the doctor 
of St. Victor, and told how the old cur^ 
had died suddenly while kneeling 
before the altar in silent prayer — a 
frequent custom of his throughout 
the day. He had fallen sideways, 
his head resting on the altar-step, 
a smile of childlike sweetness on his 
lips, his rosary twined about his hands, 
his breviary by his side — a soldier 
with his armor on, he had been called 
by his Master to join the church tri- 
umphant. For such a loss there 
could be no bitterness, and Aimdc's 
sorrow was calm and gentle. And 
round her life now there hung a halo 
such as had never brightened it be- 
fore. She had been happy with her 
mother, and in her village, with the 
springtide joy of childhood and early 
youth ; but now the rich, full summer 
of her life was come. True it was, 
no voice, save poor Mrs. Connell's, 
wished her joy. She had no mother 
or sister or even friend to tell out 
the many new thoughts that her posi- 
tion brought to her mind ; but, to make 
up for this, she found she had won a 



heart such as rarely falls to the 
mortal. 

To the lonely girl Rober 
literally all— knottier, and brothc 
lover in one. Her happines 
his own gratification, was th« 
vading thought of his life. Sh 
not only loved, but watched 
tenderly and cared for with ea 
ing thoughtfulness. There w; 
course, nothing to wait for ; a 
soon as the settlements were * 
up, Easter would have come 
then the marriage would take ; 
Knowing Aimde's love for the 
try, Robert took a cottage in c 
the pretty villages that surrounc 
don, and there, as he planned 
could garden together in the sui 
evenings and sometimes take 
upon the Thames. 

Meanwhile, Robert took i 
away as much as possible froi 
gloomy atmosphere of Russell S< 
They went together to the Park 
to Kensington Gardens, whcr 
trees were fast beginning to pi 
their first, fresh green ; and they 
together to the different Ca 
churches, for the beautiful sei 
which abound in such variety d 
Lent ; and during their walks t( 
fro Aimde learned more and mt 
the nobility of the Inind thai 
hereafter to guide and goverr 
own. They were no ordinary 1< 
these two ; their affection wa; 
pure, too deep, too real to need : 
outward demonstration, or man 
pressions of its warmth. They 
each possessed the other's heart 
that was enough. Their com 
tion often ran on grave subj< 
and often, leaving the things of c 
they mounted to the thoughts 
higher and better life — and A 
found, to her astonishment, tha 
young merchant, active in busi 
the laughiag, merry Robert in s 



Aimiis Sacrifice. 



167 



s in reality leading in secret a 
: strict Christian holiness, and 
he secret of the perpetual sun- 

of his nature proceeded from 
iving found out where alone the 

of man can find it. Deep as 
lis love for her, Aimde knew it 
ccond only to his love for his 
at ; and at the call of duty he 
1 not hesitate to sacrifice the 
St hopes of his life. Here, she 
she could not follow him ; her 
or him very nearly approached 
ry. The thought was painful, 
ihe banished it from her mind, 
rave herself up to the full en- 
int of her first perfect dream of 

iras a late Easter, and the feast 
in a glorious burst of spring, 
a brief ten days now intervened 
en Aim^e's marriage-day. Al- 
the simple bridal attire was rea- 
for," as Mrs. Connell observed, 
% was nothing like being in 
;" and the orange-flowers and 
'eil were already in the good 
keeper's charge, and she look- 
:ward with no little pleasure to 
oi'cl sight of a wedding from 
taster's gloomy abode. Robert 
d Aim^e to see the house he 
iken for their future home ; and 
in Elaster week Mrs. Connell 
ipanied them thither, to give 
age advice as to the finishing 
es of furniture and house-linen, 
lly was a little gem of a house, 
mded with fairy-like gardens, 
all trees shading it on one side, 
\ic silver Thames shining in the 
-ound ; and as Aimde stood, 
with delight, before the open 
:h window of her drawing-room, 
rt showed her a little steeple 
tig through the trees, and told 
le pretty new Catholic church 
lot five minutes' walk from their 
i. " And this tiny room, dear- 
said he, opening a miniature 



window adjoining the drawing-room, 
" I thought we would make into a lit- 
tle oratory, and hang up those pictures 
and crucifix which belonged to your 
dead mother." 

Aimde's head fell on his shoulder. 
" Robert, I feel as if it were much too 
bright for earth. The curd always 
seemed to be trying to prepare me for 
a life of suffering, for a sad future, for 
a heavy cross. Long before mam- 
ma's death, he used to speak so much 
in the confessional of the love of 
suffering, of enduring life — and I al- 
ways believed he had some strange 
insight into the future. But where 
is the suffering in my lot now, Ro- 
bert, I ask myself sometimes, where 
is the cross 1" 

"It will come, my dear one," 
answered he with his bright smile ; 
" never fear, God gives us sunshine 
sometimes, and we must be ready for 
the clouds when they come, but we 
need not be looking out for them. 
We may have some great trials to- 
gether — ^who knows ? But now come 
and look at the way I am going to lay 
out my garden," Aimde followed him 
without answering, but in her heart 
there swelled the thought that, with 
him, no trial could be really great. 

On returning to town, Robert took 
leave of Aimde at the station and put 
her and Mrs. Connell into a car, and 
promised to return to Russell Square 
for dinner. As the car rolled through 
the streets, now bright and cheerful 
in the sunlight, Aim^e thought of her 
first journey through them six months 
before, and how her life, then so sad, 
had so strangely brightened ; and it 
was with a radiant face that she en- 
tered the gloomy portal of her uncle's 
house. 

The footman stopped Mrs. Con- 
nell as she followed her young mis- 
tress. " My master has come home," 
he said, "and asked for you, and 
precious cross he was because 'jfOU 



i€B 



Aim/cs Sacrifice. 



wasn't in ; he seems ill like, for he 
sent for a cup of tea." 

" Master at home ! a cup of tea !'' 
ejaculated Mrs. Connell in dismay, 
and she hastened to the study to find 
Mr. Morton shivering over the fire, 
and so testy and irritable it was diffi- 
cult to know what to do for him. He 
was evidently ill, but would not hear 
of sending for a doctor. " Nonsenie, 
he was never ill ; he should dine as 
usual," he exclaimed sharply ; but 
when dinner-time came, he was unable 
to partake of it, and his illness was so 
evidently gaining on him that he 
yielded to Robert's persuasion, and 
rDr. Bruce was summoned. The 
rdoctor ordered his patient to bed, 
looked serious, and promised to 
come again in the morning. By that 
time Mr. Morton was delirious, and 
it was with no surprise that the 
household learnt the illness was a low 
t>'phus fever, A nurse was sent for 
to assist Mrs. Connell. Aim^e was 
forbidden to approach the bedroom, 
and die wedding was postponed. 



CHAPTER V. 

Robert's first wish had been to 
send Aim(*e away, but she shrank 
from the idea, and as Dr, Bruce con- 
sidered the risk of infection had al- 
ready been run, he did not press the 
point. He was careful to take her 
out as much as possible into the open 
air, and to prevent the silence and 
gloom of the house from depress- 
ing her. Mr. Morton's life was in the 
utmost danger, and therefore, do what 
ihey would, they could not be so cheer- 
ful as before. Hitherto the lovers 
had, by a tacit consent, avoided the 
mention of Aim^e's uncle ; for the six 
months that had elapsed since she 
had entered his doors had made no 
difference apparently in Mr. Morton's 



feelings toward her. 
icy as ever; and when her i 
ment was announced, he neve( 
ed her joy or seemed glad ol 
her sake. Cold and hard he n 
ly was, but Aimde could rot h 
that he had an actual dislike f 
for he would smile now and d 
Mr. Hulme's jokes, and his q 
to Robert often ^-crged on cor( 
With her only he was invari.ll 
lent, stem, and freezing ; an4 
Aimde's heart, so full of aifecf 
ready to be grateful for the U| 
did for her, felt deeply paincdj 
now Robert and she spoke ami 
of that soul which was han^ 
the balance between life and j 
He had lived without God, in 
defiance of his laws, in a\'ow« 
belief of the very existence 1 
Maker, and now was he, with^ 
hour's consciousnes.s, wiihod 
space for repentance, to be h| 
into the presence of his J| 
They shrank in horror frotf 
thought ; and many were their p^ 
many were the Masses ofTered i^ 
God in his mercy would not ^ 
this man in his sins. Their p| 
were granted ; he did not di( 
after three weeks of intense all 
the crisis passed, and he begj 
mend. Mental improvement 
not to be perceived with retl 
health. No expression of gra 
for having escaped death ci 
his lips — apparently the shadi 
death had not terrified him — hi 
up from his sick-bed as hat 
cj-nical, as icy as before. '. 
Aim^e's fond hope that at U 
would thaw to her was disappq 
As soon as Mr. Morton could, 
his room, Dr. Bruce prcs^ 
change of air ; and it was an^ 
that Robert and Aim^ shoulj 
company him. Mrs. Connell «l 
thoroughly used up with ni 
that she was to be sent 



ent to ti 



AtHU^s Sacrifice. 



169 



holiday among her friends in Ire- 
land. 

It was hard work to persuade Mr. 
Morton to go at all, still harder to 
find a place to suit him ; he moved 
fiom spot to spot, till at last, to his 
companions' surprise, he seemed to 
take a fancy for a wild spot on the 
Noith Devon coast, and there settled 
ibwn for some weeks. It was a 
most out-of-the-way spot, and the 
only place in which they could reside 
was a homely village inn. It pleased 
lum, however, and day by day he 
npidly regained his strength. Ro- 
bert and Aim^ were well contented ; 
die beauty and quiet of the place 
were delightful, and not a mile from 
it was a Catholic church, which hap- 
pened to be served by a priest who 
had known Robert in his boyhood. 
Great was Aimue's pleasure in listen- 
ii^ to their laughing reminiscences 
. of bygone years, and greater still 
' was her happiness when she chanced 
to be left alone with Father Dunne, 
and he spoke of Robert, of his in- 
nocent childhood, his holy life, the 
' bright example he set in his position, 
and assured her that few women had 
won such a prize as she had for life. 
Then .\im^e's heart swelled with joy 
and pride. On one lovely day in 
June, Aimde was specially happy ; 
for her uncle's improvement was so 
marked, Robert had been asking 
her to fix an early day in July for 
fteir wedding. Mr. Hulme and Mrs. 
Connell could join them, and they 
could be married at this little church, 
which had become dear to them, and 
Father Dunne could pronounce the 
nuptial benediction. Aimde greatly 
preferred this to being married in 
London, and her heart was very light. 
That morning she had knelt by Ro- 
bert's side at communion. She could 
not help observing the rapt, almost 
celestial expression of his face after- 
ward. It was the Feast of the Sa- 



cred Heart, and Father Dunne had 
Benediction early in the afternoon. 

As they walked to church together, 
their conversation turned on religious 
subjects, and Robert spoke in a more 
unreserved way than he had ever 
done before. He spoke of Heaven, 
the rest it would be after earth's 
toils, of the sweetness of sacrifice, 
of the joy of God's service. Aimde 
was silent. He looked down into 
her face. 

" Well," he said, smiling, " is it not 
true?" 

"O Robert!" she cried, "your 
love is heaven to me now ! Is not, 
oh 1 is not mine so to you ?" 

"No, my Aimde," he answered, 
gravely yet sweetly ; " my heart's 
darling, God first, then you." 

" I cannot !" she answered, in a sti- 
fled voice. 

" You will soon, darling, never fear. 
I prayed tliis morning that our love 
might be sanctified, might draw us 
closer to God — and I feel it will be 
so. Pray with me for it at Benedic- 
tion." 

So they went and knelt before the 
altar, and their Lord blessed them 
as they bent before him. Passing 
out of church, Father Dunne joined 
them, and remarked on the beauty 
of the evening. 

" We shall go with my uncle on 
the cliff," said Aimde, "and watch 
the coast." 

" And perhaps I shall meet you 
there," answered the priest, "for I 
have a sick call from which I can 
return in that direction." So saying, 
he turned into another road. 

Mr. Morton was ready when they 
returned to the inn, and the three 
passed up on the cliff and wandered 
on far beyond their usual distance. 
They came to a part where the cliff 
was one sheer sheet of rock descend- 
ing to the beach, save one large crag 
which jutted out, and on one side 



170 



AinUis Sacrifice. 



obscured the view. Aim^e had a 
great horror of looking down any 
steep place, and shrank back from 
the clifi^ while Mr. Morton, who de- 
spised her weakness, always chose 
to walk at the very edge. 

" See here, little one," said Robert, 
" here is a safe place for you." An 
iron stanchion had been thrust into 
the ground, and a thick rope was 
carelessly coiled round it. " It must 
■ be used for throwing signals to the 
boats below," said Robert, " but you 
can lean against it, Aim^e." 

"I think I shall step on that 
crag, Robert," said Mr. Morton, " if 
you will lend me an arm. I want 
to catch the whole view at once." 

" O uncle !" said Aimde, in a tone 
of terror. 

" Do you think it is very prudent, 
sir ?" remarked Robert. " It is none 
too wide to stand on." 

" Oh ! very well," said Mr. Morton 
testily, " if you are afraid, I shall go 
by myself." Robert's merry laugh 
was the only answer, and, giving his 
arm to Mr. Morton, they both de- 
scended. 

Aim^e hid her face, sick with ter- 
ror. She heard their voices for a 
minute, then, O horror! what was 
that? A crash, a rush, a sudden 
shout of pain ! She rushed to the 
edge to see the crag detach itself 
from the rock, and the two figures 
falling. She saw both clutching for 
some support — she saw both catch 
hold of different bits of rock jutting 
out — she knew, for her senses were 
sharpened by fear, that they could 
not long sustain their weight. She 
thought of the rope, rushed for it, 
uncoiled it, and ran back. All was 
the work of one moment. An un- 
natural activity seemed to possess her. 
She was like one in a dream. She 
saw the rope would not reach both ; 
she must choose between them ; and 
Another could see her I But on the 



still evening air, with her ears quick- 
ened unnaturally, she heard— oaths 
from one j from the other, " Lord, 
into thy hands I commend my spirit" 

Aimbe threw the rope to Mr. Mor- 
ton, and saw him catch it The neit 
instant she heard another crash — a 
dull thudy as of something falling — and 
nature could bear no more. Aim^ 
fell on the ground insensible just as 
Father Dunne, and some laborers 
alarmed by the shout in the distance, 
came running to the spot 

When Aimde woke to conscious- 
ness, she was in her own bed at the 
inn. Her first thought was, that she 
had been dreaming ; but she started 
back, the landlady was walking by 
her, and now came forward, trj-ing to 
put on an appearance of composure. 

" My uncle ?" said Aim^. 

" Lies in bed, miss, and going on 
well," answered the good woman 
hurriedly. 

Aimde gave one searching look 
into Mrs. Barton's face, and sank 
back on her pillow. In another 
moment the door opened, Mrs. Bar- 
ton disappeared, and Father Dunne 
stood by her side. The silent look 
at him was all she gave. 

"Yes, my child," he said, "your 
sacrifice has been accepted, and Ro- 
bert is with those who follow the Lamb 
whithersoever he goeth." And then, 
sitting down beside her, the priest 
drew out the truth which, by a sud- 
den instinct, he had all but guessed. 
No one but he ever knew it \ it was 
generally believed that Robert had 
failed to catch the rope when throu'n 
to him — he had fallen on the beach, 
and was dashed to pieces. Aimde 
could not look upon his form or kii» 
for the last time the pale, cold face. 
He had passed in one brief instant 
from her sight for aye. In the heat 
of noonday her sun had gone down. 

From this fresh shock to his con- 
stitution Mr. Morton could not rally; 



Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert. 



171 



s fearfully shaken and bruised, 
,e lingered many weeks, and 
e waited on him with a daugh- • 
ca/e. And at last the stern 
was softened, and Mr. Morton 
ired mercy from the God he had 
3g offended. He died a sincere 
ent J and th^e grief for Robert's 
i caused a salutary change in 
Hulme also. Aim^e had now 
ne a great heiress, but money 
}t heal a broken heart She 
I fain have remained in the lit- 
llage where the tragedy of her 
lad been worked out, and de- 
serself to the poor; but Father 
e would not allow it, and to him 
>w looked for guidance and help. 
ade her go to Italy and Rome in 
any with some quiet friends of 
m for two years ; and time and 



the sight of the woes of others gra- 
dually softened Aimde's grief And 
by degrees a great peace stole over 
her spirit; a love deeper than hers 
for Robert took possession of her 
heart ; and the hour came when she 
acknowledged that in sacrifice lay 
much sweetness. She did not live 
many years; she distributed her 
large fortune among various good 
works. A fair church replaces the 
humble building in which Robert 
and she for the last time prayed to- 
gether, and a convent stands near 
the spot where he breathed out his 
last sigh to God. And when her 
work was done, death came to Ai- 
m^e ■; and, with a smile on her lips, 
and joy in her eyes, she went to meet 
again those fondly loved, so strange- 
ly lost on earth. 



SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT. 



BOT Pambo once asked Abbot 
ny what he should do. The ven- 
e man replied : Do not rely too 
I upon your own sanctity ; never 
useless regrets for what has 
xi, and always be watchful over 
tongue and your appetite. 

int Gregory used to say: God 
res these three things of every 
who has been baptized ; strong 
iving faith, moderation in speech, 
chastit}' of body. 

>bot Joseph the Theban said : 
% are three classes of men who 
)Ieasing in the sight of the Lord. 



The first are those who, though weak, 
accept temptations with a thankfiil 
heart. The second are those who 
perform all their actions before God 
with purity of heart and without hu- 
man motives. The third are those 
who subject themselves to the com- 
mands of their spiritual Father and 
entirely renounce their own will. 

Abbot Cassian narrates of Abbot 
John that, when he was on his death- 
bed and preparing to depart with 
joyful soul, his brethren stood around 
him and earnestly besought that he 
would leave them as an heritage a 
compendium, as it were, of sanctitY> 



172 



Au S6uU r^. 



by means of which they might rise 
to that perfection which is in Christ. 
Then he with sighs replied : I have 
never done my own will, nor have I 
ever taught any one anything which 
I have not previously done myself. 

Abbot Pastor said : To be watch- 
ful, to examine one's self, to be dis- 
creet, are the three great duties of 
the soul. 

They tell of Abbot Pambo that, 
when about to die, he said to those 
holy men who stood near : From the 
time when I first came to this place 
and built my cell and dwelt therein, 
I do not remember to have eaten 
bread that I did not gain by the la- 
bor of my hands, nor have I ever re- 
pented of any thing that I have said 
up to this very hour. And thus I 
go to the Lord, I who have not even 
begun to serve God. 



Abbot Sisois said : Be abjec 
cast pleasures away; be free ai 
^nire from the cares of the worid 
you shall have rest 

A brother once asked a £ 
how one may acquire a fear o\ 
Lord. And he replied: If a 
practise humility and poverty, 
judge not another, he shall si 
fear the Lord. 

A certain father used to say 
thou hate one who speaks ill of i 
speak ill of no one ; if thou hate 
who calumniates thee, do not ca 
niate any one ; if thou hate him 
injures thee or takes away wh 
thine, or docs any thing of a Uk< 
ture, do none of these things to 
one. He who can observe this 
shall be saved. 



ALL SOULS' DAY. 



1866. 

Ok every cross or slab, a wreath — on some, 
Two, .three, or more — of radiant autumn leaves, 

Mingled with gold and white chrj'santhemum ; 
Even the nameless, unmarked grave receives 
Some pledge from mortal love 

Unto peace-parted souls, we trust, with God above. 

The choral chaunt is hushed, the Mass is said : 

Noon, but already the last pilgrim gone : 
Brief visits pay the living to the dead. 

But once a ^-car we meet o'er those we mourn. 
I wait unwatched, ialonc, 
To muse o'er some once loved, o'er many more unknown. 

That cross of marble, with its sculptured base, 
Guards the blest ashes of a friend whose form 



All Soul^ Day. 1^3 

Was half my boyhood ; his arch, laughing face — 
The last you'd take to front a coining storm, 
Or dare what none else durst : 
Read how he fell, of all the best and bravest, first ! 

Another pastor near him lies asleep. 

Fresh wreaths, love-woven, mark the newer sod ; 

Each lettered white cross bids me pause to weep 
Some lost companion or some man of God. 
Beneath this sacred ground, 

More friends I nimiber than in all the world around. 

There, side by side, far from the forfeit home 
For which they vainly bled, three soldiers rest, 

In sight of the round peak, whose bannered dome 
Crowns the defiles wherein the fiery crest 
Of a dead nation paled 

Before the heights, where erst the great Virginian failed. 

Westward, a little higher up the steep. 

Rests a young mother — on her cross, a bar 
Of golden music : since she fell asleep 

The world she left has somehow seemed ajar ; 
Those patient, peaceful eyes, 
With which she watched the world, diffused sweet harmonies. 

For she was pure — ^pure as the snows of Yule 
That hailed her birth : pure as the autumnal snow 

That flecked her coffin : she was beautiful, 
Heroic, gentle : none could ever know 
That face and then forget : 

Though vanished years ago, her smile seems living yet. 

And near her, happy in that nearness, lies 
The world-worn consul by his best-loved child — 

The first rest of a life of sacrifice : 

The native stars, that on his labors smiled 
So rarely, o'er the wave 

Beckoned him to the peace of home — and of the grave. 

Here, too, a relic of primeval ways 

And statelier manners, mingled with the grace 
Of Israel : in the evening of her days, 

Baptized at fourscore — strongest of her race, 
Yet twice a child — that rain 
Supernal leaving all those years without a stain. 

And thou, young soldier, teach me how to turn 
From earth to heaven, as in the solemn hour 
Thy soul was tamed. Ah I well for thee to learn 



174 ^ii Sottish Day. 

So soon that festal board and bridal flower 
May foil the out-stretched hand : 
That life's best conquest is the holy afterland. 

Holding the very summit of the slope, 
A pointed chapel, girt with evergreen 

And frailer summer foliage — still as hope — 
Watches the east for morning's earliest sheen : 
Beneath it slumbers one 

For whom the tears of unextinguished grief still tun. 

A twelve-month mourned, yet deeper now the loss 
Than when first fell the slowly sudden doom. 

And on her pale breast lay the unmoving cross : 
Lone tenant of that solitary tomb. 
Love's daily widowed prayer 

Still craves reunion in thy chambered sepuldire. 

The sunset shadow of this chapel falls 
Upon a classmate's grave : a rare delight 

Laughed in his youth : but, one by one, the halls 
Of life were darkened, till, amid the night, ' 
A single star remained — 

Bright herald of the paradise by tears regained. 

High in the bending trees the north wind sings. 
The shining chestnut to my feet is rolled ; 

The shivering mountains, bare as bankrupt kings, 
Sit beggared of their purple and their gold : 
The naked plain below 

Sighs to the clouds, impatient of its robe of snow. 

Death is in all things : yet how small it seems, 
God's chosen acre on this mountain-side : 

A speck, a mote : while yonder cornland gleams 
With hoarded plenty, stretching far and wide. 
A hundred acres there 

Content not one : one acre serves a thousand here. 

Ah 1 we forget them in our changing lot — 
Forget the past in present weal or woe ; . 

But yet, perchance, more angels guard this spot 
Than wander in the living fields below : 
And, as I pass the gate. 

The world without seems strangely void and desolate. 



TXr Function of tk* Subjective in Religion. 



m 



[E FUNCTION OF THE SUBJECTIVE IN RELIGION • 



one not a Catholic, but fairly 
ted with the church's past 
sent, if he had to define by a 
r prevailing character, would 
le such word as unchangeable. 
ht use it with admiration, as 
tis have done \ or with vexa- 
d anger, as controversialists 
e might regard it as a quality 
>ed the church above, or kept 
id the age ; made it vencra- 

noble^ or deprived it of all 
sive and free spirit But, 
1 report or good report, and 
ever contrast Mrith the com- 
$ around it, which rise and 

modified and melt away, he 
onfess the church to be un- 
ible. 

Catholic accepts this state- 
id completes it by adding the 
f the church's preternatural 
;s. He calls it " the pillar 
und of the truth ;" the per- 
home and impregnable for- 

the divine revelation. The 
iristics of the one faith, he 
low those of the one Lord, 
hadow attends the substance 
•ejects it. The mystical spouse 
itable in faith and morality, 

with her divine Lord there 
:hange nor shadow of vicissi- 

The passage of centuries, 
of human society, rise, pro- 
id dissolution of theories and 
5 opinions leave her where 
lund her ; because " Jesus 
is yesterday and to-day, and 
e forever." " Tempus non oc- 
xclesia;" because He is " Al- 
l Omega, the beginning and 



aper «rat read before the Academia of the 
elifion, in London, June ii, 1867, by Very 
\. AMDmKooN, D.D., M.A. Oxon. 



the end," "who inhabiteth eter- 
nity." 

This is but to say that religion is 
essentially objective. Religion, if 
true, is divine ; if divine, above the 
recipient; if above him, authorita- 
tive ; if authoritative, over him, un- 
influenced by him. It is the mould 
and matrix in which he is to be cast 
and receive shape ; not the material 
on which his mind is to work by pro- 
cess of individual judgment. This 
objective character enters so com- 
pletely into the idea of revelation, 
that the wonder is, how the term "pri- 
vate judgment" should have found 
place in the language of professing 
Christians. When did it arise ? Who 
was its author ? Was it pre-Lutheran ? 
May we not rather say, it was pre- 
Adamite ? He who led our parents 
astray in Paradise, by a suggestion of 
private judgment, had already in- 
augurated what he has since taught 
men to call the " right" of exercising 
it, when he revolted against the fore- 
sight given to him of his Maker's 
future incarnation. And the apos- 
tle, more closely to our point, con- 
demns all subjective religious opin- 
ions when he says, " If thou judge 
the law, thou art not a doer of the 
law, but a judge." To judge implies 
superiority of intelligence, better 
means of knowing, and the capacity 
of a teacher : to learn is the acknow- 
ledgment of inferiority, and the sub- 
mission of desiring to receive. But 
if revelation could be modified by the 
mind of the receiver, that is, if faith 
could be subjective, the disciple 
would be exalted into a critic, and 
private judgment would occupy the 
position of faith. The " doer of the 
law" and the "judge" would chatig,e 



176 



Tlu Function of the Subjective in Rtligum. 



places. Tliis breaks up the whole 
tribunal, and implies a revolt against 
the primary authority of revelation. 

Hence, nothing is more common 
with us than to say, that the revela- 
tion which comes from God, and is 
proposed by the church, admits of no 
■criticism short of absolute rejection. 
To one, indeed, who has never yet 
received this full revelation, to criti- 
cise is a necessary act, and lies on 
the way toward accepting. The 
case of the Bereans is here in point, 
and of those Athenians who believed 
■when St. Paul preached on Mars' 
Hill. Dionysius the Areopagite and 
Damaris criticised equally with the 
Epicureans and Stoics, to show the 
apostle was a " babbler j" though 
with a different result. But to one 
who has inherited the faith, or has 
been brought by private judgment, 
guided by the notes of the church, 
which are prcambula Jitfa, up to the 
threshold, and then by an act of su- 
pernatural belief has passed within, 
every after-criticism means rejection. 
True religion must ever refuse to be 
treated by its disciples as opinion. 
If faith, it is not opinion ; if it were 
opinion, it would cease to be faith. 
The choice as to revelation is a sim- 
ple alternative ; accept the whole and 
believe ; reject the whole and di.s- 
believe. Ou Catkolique, ou Deiste^ 
as Ftfn^lon said long ago. 

No one, then, can retain his Catho- 
lic sense, and speak of accommo 
dating faith, or subjective religion. 
We have lately heard one voice from 
out of doors uttering incoherent 
words about a " maximum" and a 
" minimum," which are supposed to 
have some undefined point of junc- 
tion and cohesion. * But such invi- 



* Dr. Putey lately, in i letter \a one of the public 
Dewipapen, reported a i^jn>erulion which he had 
held wiih > foreign Uynun, who expressed hi* opin- 
ion that the Angliaui miucimitm and (he Catholic 
munimtm might be fouiul tu (iiiiKide lufficicnlljr to 
lira the buaa of tome kiad of unian. Is kia Einmt 



tations and embassies of 
to us like the uncouth atti 
Thracian ambassador, in the 
comedy, to explain in somelhl^ 
Greek a message into which q 
tive tongue largely enters. It ij 
to make such a foreign dialec 
ligible to those who are 
to tlie pure Attic of the 
voice. 

So far we have advanced 
gation. There can be nothi 
jective in a revelation propouni 
omniscience, and through an 
ble organ. To suppose critici 
modification of dogma in the 
the recipient, is like supposii 
tion during a process of phoi 
or of crystalliization. It implit 
agency indeed ; but it destroi 
truth aiid accuracy of Uie who! 
cess. " Be still, and see that \ 
God." In this stillness, whi 
passiveness in one sense, and I 
tuitive gaze upon truths reti 
consists the high prerogative oi 
This forms its noble attribute 
lifts it to a sovereignty over all 
acts of the human intelligence 

On tlie otlier hand, what plj 
to be found in true religion fc| 
subjective principle ? In what <^ 
ment docs or can the CathoU 
tern adapt itself to the manifo] 
versities between men, entc 
their idiosyncrasies, and s 
them individually? Can it 
to each of us the personal 
mate thing, which may convi 
us as a friend while we subnut 
an authoritative guide ? Does 
account of me, with my turn 
acter and peculiar needs, while 
mulgates canons and definitia 
my acceptance, in common 
two hundred millions who oi 



era, aUn, pp. 17, iS, he quolei Kmke «0(dt I 
Pin, Ur. Doyle, an another, in proof Of wikMI 
" the lacK* hearted aiatementi oiF Rodmd CsI 
other day*." 



riHk 



Tk£ Function of the Subjective in Religion, 



177 



swxft Granted that Catholicity is 
objective in its essence, is it subjec- 
tire in any of its qualities or manifes- 
tations? 

To see the breadth of this ques- 
tion, it should be viewed in connec- 
tion with the acknowledged needs of 
himan nature. The first requisite to 
a soul is truth ; and it may be said, 
its first act is an act of desire after 
tnitfa, even abstract. But as prima- 
17, too, is man's need of some one 
above himself to inspire a reveren- 
tial and a personal love. In order 
to love, indeed, he must first know ; 
for neither will nor affections can go 
forth toward the utterly unknown. 
Still, in religious truth, lov^ is the 
perfection of knowledge. " The end 
of the commandment is charity, from 
a pure heart, and a good conscience, 
and an unfeigned faith." We are 
created, not like the heavenly bodies, 
to move by unerring laws ; nor like 
plants, to receive form and tincture 
undistinguishably, specimen from 
specimen ; nor like the inferior or- 
ders of animal life, that build, mi- 
grate, seek their prey, by an instinct 
inherited and uivariable. Man is 
a creature of idiosyncrasies. His 
thoughts, tastes, and bent, his mode of 
ai^rehending truths recognized and 
believed, assimilating them into him- 
self^ and developing them in action, 
constitute each individual a being di- 
\'erse, in all that can be subjective, 
from his brother and nearest friend. 
In all that can be subjective : for the 
very turn of these remarks will show 
that I would carefully guard myself 
within the limits of that expression. 
Now, the true religion appeals to 
man as man ; and is herein distin- 
guished from every other, which ad- 
dresses a side or a section only of the 
lunnan character and needs. The 
^t of true religion is neither the 
pseudo-enthusiasm of the non-con- 
fcnmst, nor the surface-uniformity of 

VOU VI. — 13 



the establishment, nor the false mysti- 
cism of the Society of Friends. Her 
appeal, like herself, is Catholic : to 
the four quarters of the globe, to the 
race that {peoples earth and occupies 
ages, and for whom Christ died. 

While, therefore, religion exacts 
the unquestioning assent of all, 
whatever their antecedent systems, 
modes of thought, or training, we 
might expect even beforehand that 
she would come with some adaptive 
power that would appeal to each. Ob- 
jective to the intelligence and faith, 
we are permitted to desire that she 
should also manifest herself as sub- 
jective to the spiritual affections. 
For her mission is neither to re- 
duce the individual to a machine 
nor to fuse her multitudes into one 
uniform, undistinguishable mass. She 
claims their unreserved and' interior 
assent to dogma ; for she is the em- 
bassadress of the Most High, sent 
into all the world, to preach the gos- 
pel to every creature. "There are 
no speeches nor languages" where 
that voice is not heard: nor any 
where it falters or gives an uncer- 
tain sound. But she wins the ob- 
jects of her mission, meanwhile, one 
by one, to devotion^ by adapting her- 
self to the characters and special- 
ties of her millions and races. The 
church knows how to modulate her 
authoritative tone, till it sinks into 
the whisper of a mother teaching 
her child to lisp its first prayer. 

We seem now to have arrived at 
the distinction of which we are in 
search. It is surely no play of words 
nor mere subtlety to say that true 
religion must possess both the cha- 
racteristics we have named : it must 
be objective and subjective together. 
Man, let us repeat, finds in himself a 
twofold desire to know and to love. 
His great desire after truth was the 
first and prevailing temprtation under 
which he fell : " You shall be as gods, 



I7« 



The Function of the Subjective in RtHgiotu 



knowing good and evil." Having in 
his fall grasped at the shadow and 
let go the substance, he lost his per- 
ception of the true light and his hold 
upon the true love. Ignorance and 
concupiscence came in together. But 
he retained his yearning after the two- 
fold inheritance he had thus forfeit- 
ed : an attraction to truth and a need 
of love. Hence tlie various and con- 
tradictory systems of mythology which 
overran the heathen world, under their 
double aspect (if we may so use the 
terms) of doctrine and devotion. Out 
of the depths of their debasement, 
and amid all their extravagance, they 
witnessed to the agonized desire af- 
ter truth in which, says the apostle, 
the whole creation groaned and tra- 
vailed in pain together. 

Now, what was lost in the first 
Adam has been abundantly restored 
in the second. The "grace and 
truth " which " came by Jesus 
Christ " is the divine remedy for 
this twofold loss by the original 
fali : it restores light to man, the 
light of revelation ; and love, the 
supernatural love of Divine Good- 
ness. It is "faith that worketh by 
charity." And let us observe, be- 
tween light and love there is an ob- 
vious difference : light may be de- 
scribed as objective, love as subjec- 
rive ; light is imiversal, love is p>er- 
lljBonal ; light is received upon the 
Bye, whereas love springs up In the 
heart ; and while light is diffused 
mdiscriminately, love varies with the 
individual. In the future perfection 
of the glorified soul, light and love 
will be commensurate. "When he 
shall appear," says the apostle, " we 
ihall be like him ; for we shall see 
him as he is." Here, in pilgrimage 
and imperfection, the members of 
the church militant possess three 
gifts in unequal degrees. Light is 
perpetually outstripping love, and we 
Icnow more than we practise. Still, 



canoi 
f tl5 



>a^^ 
er cH 



the efforts of the chur 
exerted to presene to 
each of these great gifts," 
love \ to perpetuate and exi 
one, to heighten and inten 
other. She is " the light 
world," By her creeds, cana 
nitions of doctrine, by he^ 
theologv', her doctorate 
ship, by the vigilance of 
office, by the perpetual exei 
that instinct of truth whicdH 
tribute and inheritance, ^( 
serves, whole and undcfiled 
faith once delivered to tted 
Her multiplied prayers, e^H 
ed with its special indulge? 
nous, yet blending in one hj 
and one" whole like the chor 
lute or the flowers in a pa 
vide abundantly not for' 
and absolute needs of her 
souls, but, moreover, for what 
called their religious tastes a 
cial turn of devotion. For o 
the faithful laity are invited, 
have an attraction for it, t< 
with her clergy and religioua 
citing the canonical hourSt 
form her chief prayer. This i 
" common prayer-book," if ye 
but common only to those w] 
fer to communicate in it. To 
of a different attraction, 
supply for the demand. 

We need only transport ' 
into the heart of some great C 
city, to see with what unrest 
variety our brethren of the on 
munion unite in prayer. Let 
to Rome, " the mother of us a] 
heart and centre of Christe 
In that great seat and organ < 
of vital functions and warmth, 
pulsations thrill to the extremi 
the mystical body, what is prs 
ly going on ? what meets thee 
ear? You pass under the wi 
some monastic choir, from whi 
deep voices of a score 



thesB 
3rtV 



J 



The Function of the Subjective in Religion. 



179 



or the slenderer tones of cloistered 
nuns arrest you. They have been 
trained, not by art, but simply by 
kmg practice of united prayer, to re- 
cite the divine office, as if theiis 
; were not several voices blending, nor 
Kveral intelligences and soids wo- 
Ten, in a devotion, but, like the early 
diurch, "one heart and one soul." 
You enter; it is not in the retro- 
dioir alone, nor behind the grate, 
that the work of prayer and praise 
b going on. The church is more or 
I less filled for vespers ; it is a feast- 
\ day ; and a certain proportion, with 
I- their vesper-books in the ancient 
r language or in their own familiar 
tongue, follow the words. A secu- 
' lar priest has turned in at the open 
door, on his way to some avocation, 
and is whispering another portion of 
his breviary. Near him kneels a 
diild saying the penance for its last 
confession, or an old woman with her 
beads. Others examine their con- 
sciences and make their acts of con- 
trition, for the confessionals will be 
occupied when vespers are over. 
Throughout the nave move three or 
four, quietly following the stations of 
the cross. On this side is an altar 
to the sacred heart ; a member of 
die confraternity kneels before it : 
he is saying some of the prayers 
mdulgenced for that devotion. A 
childless mother with slow steps 
passes on to pray for her dead child 
at the altar for the souls in purga- 
tory. She does not distract others 
there, who are praying for their pa- 
rents, or for the poor souls in gener- 
al, or the most abandoned, the most 
rich in merits, or the nearest to its 
lelease. Her next neighbor offers 
np her own sick child to an image 
of the Mother of Compassion. You 
make way for a small tradesman 
taring the church for his evening 
meal ; he will then hasten to take 
lus hours of night-watching and 



prayer in some closed sanctuary, be- 
fore the Most Holy, exposed day and 
night for the Quaranf ore. By his 
side, sharing his night-watch, will 
kneel a nobleman of ancestral name, 
whose family has furnished popes to 
the Christian world. These t«'o 
men are members together of the 
association for perpetually adoring 
the Blessed Sacrament; and they 
meet there before the Supreme, in the 
true "liberty, equality, fraternity" 
which the world aims at and the 
church alone produces. What is 
that sound of hymns coming down 
the street? A procession headed 
by a cardinal bearing a large and 
rude cross: he is followed by the 
brothers of another distinct confrater- 
nity, "the lovers of Jesus and Mary," 
and a miscellany of devout people. 
They are on their way to the Colos- 
seum, where they, too, will make the 
stations of the cross, and chant their 
hearty and almost passionate strophes 
of contrition in the old consecrated 
amphitheatre. All is movement, all is 
affectionate liberty, warmth, and ease. 
You turn into any church that oc- 
curs, and transport your chair from 
part to part of the building ; for you 
are fi1;e of the whole by the birth- 
right of your baptism into the one 
body. Go from this altar to that ; 
range, as it were, up and down the 
creed, now in meditation, now in vo- 
cal prayer, now alone with God, now 
cheered on and animated by the pre- 
sence of those who pray with you. 
Now it is latria, now hyperdulia ; 
now again duliay then back again to 
latria ; then contemplation, then any 
of the former resumed. Your guar- 
dian angel is at your side ; you 
recognize it and address him. Your 
patron saint, the patrons of your 
friends for whom you are anxious, 
St. Peter, St. Joseph, our Lady ; and 
the Divine Guest in the tabernacle ; 
all are there, each (if I may say W") 



I 



awaiting you in turn. VVliatever the 
feeling of tlie moment, or your bent of 
character, or special needs, there is 
your yearning met, and your soul's 
food and remedy supplied. " Thou 
didst feed thy people with the food 
of angels, and gavest them bread 
from heaven, prepared without la- 
bor; having in it all that is deli- 
cious, and the sweetness of every taste. 
For thy sustenance showed thy 
sweetness to thy children, and, serv- 
ing every man's will, it was turned to 
what every man liked."* And this 
unity in variety, this elasticity and 
freedom, change, and appropriation, 
and trustful individuality, is it or is 
it not the XoyiKi\ Xarpeia which the 
apo.stle recommends ? 

Rising, again, from the manifold 
'devotions pursued by the faithful 
for tliemselves to that in which the 
priest stands for them all in the most 
holy place, the central devotion 
round which all others revolve, the 
adorable sacrifice of Mass, we see 
the same unity in the same variety. 
There is still a subjective action of 
the individual heart, grounded on an 
objective dogma embraced by all. 
Faith and love are coincident ; we 
adore in our own way what is inde- 
pendent of our adoration, though 
presented to it. The words I am 
about to quote are put in the lips of 
one who is defending the faith, newly 
found by him, against the objection 
of some of his former friends that 
the Mass is a formal, unreasonable 
service. 

"To mc," he answers, "nothing 
is so consoling, so piercing, so 
thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass, 
said as it is among us. I could at- 
tend Masses for ever and not be tired. 
It is not a mere form of words — it is 
a great action, the greatest action 
that can be on earth. It is not the 

• Wi«4 s«i m M. 






invocation merely, but, if I dare use 
the word, the evocation of the Elef' 
nal. He becomes present on 
altar in flesh and blood, bclr 
whom angels bow and devils trcm 
ble. This is that awful c\'ent v. ' ' 
is the scope and tlie inti-r; 
tion of every part of the solci: 
Words are necessary, but as rn 
not as ends. They are not mere ad- 
dresses to the throne of gjrace ; '^••''^ 
are instruments of what is far bi 
of consecration, of sacrifice, 
hurry on, as if impatient t<i 
their mission. Quickly they go : 
whole is quick j for they are parts 
one integral action. Quickly 
go ; for they are awfiil words of 
rifice : they are a work too great 
delay upon. Quickly they pass ; 
cause, as the lightning which shinel 
from one part of the heaven to 
other, so is the coming of the Son 
Man. ... As Moses on the moun- 
tain, so we too * make haste and bow 
our heads to the earth, and adore.' 
So we, all around, each in his place, 
look out for the great advent, ' wail- 
ing for the movbg of the water.' 
Each in his place, with his own heart, 
with his own wants, with his own 
thoughts, with his own inlentinn, 
with his own prayers, separate but 
concordant, watching what is going 
on, watching its progress, uniting in 
its consummation ; not painfully and 
hopelessly following a hard form of 
prayer from beginning to end, but, 
like a concert of musical instruTi" 
each different, but concurring 
sweet harmony, we take our 
with God's priest, supporting ;.._., 
and yet guided by him. There 
little children there, and old r 
and simple laborers, and studcr 
seminaries, priests preparing 
Mass, priests making their thn 
gi\'ing ; there are innocent ma- 
and there are penitent sinner?, 
out of these many minds rise- 



ait 



-1.. 



The Function of the Subjective in Religion. 



i8i 



eucharistic hymn, and the great ac- 
tion is the measure and the scope of 
it"* 

This union of a changeless creed 
with an adaptive devotional system, 
of dogmatic authority with elasticity 
and play, and of unquestioning sub- 
mission with the fieest choice, has 
one obvious consequence. It ren- 
ders the church unintelligible to the 
vorld, and to all professors of the 
vorld's many religions. A casual 
obser\'er, looking on the Catholic 
system from without its pale, is at a 
loss to reconcile attributes which to 
him appear inconsistent. Why, he 
isks, should the church be so un- 
s«•er^^ng under one aspect, yet so 
|diant under another? If she will 
not yield one jot or tittle of doctrine, 
why allow so large an oscillation in 
fonns of devotion ? or, if she aims at 
iccommodating and condescending 
in the latter, why remain inflexible in 
the former ? He would perhaps add : 
The Catholic system has advantages 
over others in virtue of this her spirit 
of adaptation, so far as it reaches. 
But it is partial ! The same economy 
and consultation for individual minds 
should extend into the sphere of its 
dogma; then the character of the 
church would be consistent, its re- 
sponse to the demands of the age 
Tould be satisfactory, and its triumph 
might be complete. 

We are here only concerned with one 
side of this supposed theorist's diffi- 
cult)*. The answer is surely as fol- 
lows : I. On one hand, the church is 
Directive, or what he would call un- 
accommodating in her teaching, be- 
cause she is- the guardian and depos- 
itory of supernatural truth. All truth 
is o4>jective, because it is the reflec- 
tion of the mind of God, and the 
wbject-matter of his revelation. 
Hnce, in spite of the infldel's sar- 

* Ncamaii'i Lm* and Gmiu, pp. ai^-j. 



casm that between Homoousion and 
Homoiousion there is but an iota, 
and an iota (he adds) that divides 
the Christian world, the church will 
neither add to nor take from the 
" form of sound words" committed 
to her by that one small letter. That 
jot, that titde stands against the re- 
turn and salvation of countless souls 
till they shall themselves erase it; 
for the question involved is nothing 
less than the fulness of the truth and 
revelation of God. Human state- 
ments in religion aim at a compro- 
mise ; the church, like Job under 
trial, "still continues in her simpli- 
city." They would avoid extremes ; 
she is zealous for the full and expli- 
cit enunciation of the whole deposit 
of faith. Whatever portions of dog- 
matic teaching can still be retained, 
apart from the faith, are in constant 
process of disintegration and fusion: 
diminutee sunt veritates a filiis homi- 
nutn. But, on the other hand, if 
there can be degrees and measures 
where all is essential truth, the 
church may be said to become more 
dogmatic, and so, if possible, more 
objective, as her life proceeds. This, 
it is plain, is a simple result from her 
office of perpetual teacher ; it is the 
fulfilment of the primary commission, 
"MoO/yrcuffttTe Trivro to. eOvTj." She 
must expand her teachings to the 
needs of the day, and meet emergent 
heresies by fresh definitions. Hence, 
to take some salient points history pre- 
sents to us, the objectivity ol Homoou- 
sion against Arius, of Theotokos against 
Nestorius, of Filioque against the her- 
esies of the East, of Transubstantia- 
tion against Luther and others, of the 
Immaculate Conception in our own day. 
2. All this being so, and being 
one great ground of objection 
against the church, why is her sys- 
tem so subjective, all the while, in 
other departments? She seems to 
men to err as much on the other s\dt 



lS2 



The Function of tlu Subjective im Religion, 



by overcondescension and adapta- 
tion. We need not linger over such 
charges as that of Macaulay, who, 
► following perhaps in the steps of the 
Provineial Letters, accuses certain 
theologians of accommodating even 
the moral law to retain men within 
the Catholic unity ; as thinking, un- 
less I misquote him, " that, if a man 
must needs be a libertine, that was 
no reason for his being a heretic be- 
sides." An impression less hurtful 
certainly, and less gratuitous, though 
)ually false, pervades much that we 
find in other non-Catholic writers. 
The church seems to them to lay her- 
self out in her devotional functions, 
to captivate the senses and the im- 
agination. We might adduce a ca- 
tena of passages to prove this impres- 
sion of theirs, from controversialists 
assuming the fact and reasoning upjon 
it, down to tourists recording their 
personal experiences of tlie Conti- 
nent. A leading article in a prom- 
inent journal on some recent celebra- 
tions at Boulogne, and, with a deeper 
personal impression, the descriptions 
of newspaper correspondents on the 
late centenary and canonizations in 
Rome, contribute their quota to swell 
this great tradition or p>opular be- 
lief. The church, according to such 
theorists, is wide enough to compen- 
sate for the inflexibility of her dog- 
ma by pliancy, adaptation, and at- 
tractiveness in all besides. Like the 
old Roman tyrants, they would say, 
whose home and whose spirit she has 
inherited, she is prodigal to her sub- 
jects of the Pattern et Cirtensesy that 
take off their attention from the 
thraldom in which they are held. 
There is a story of Bolingbroke being 
present at high Mass in the Chapel 
Royal, in Paris. Struck with the 
majesty of the function, he turns to a 
friend and whispers, " If [ were king 
of France, I would allow no one to 
perform this but myself." The an- 



their, 
tion fol 



ecdote is no unfair sample of Ij 
ular impression made by C 
ceremonies on those who mil 
stand them, because they dia 
the truths which they dulhe. 
are taken to be the result of a 
and deliberation to arrest the 
native facujt}', and thus to na 
supremacy over the will. Tl 
will owns the church's suproi 
a patent fact ; the supposed ca 
of the imagination tlirough e 
ear is, to such thinkers, one c) 
tionaU of it. She leads captiv 
say, the intellect of her votari 
she has the art to gild their , 
by the richness and bea 
ceremonial. 

To consider this assertion \ 
ment. May we not advance 
rect contrary? May it not h 
that, if, apart from experien 
were to speculate on the pr 
ceremonies with which the i 
would surround the adorable 
fice, and the solemn adminis 
of her sacraments, our anticif 
would outrun what she actual 
decreed ? Let us instance th 
monies of the Mass. What i 
that does more than carry, so i 
the great m)'stery round whid 
cluster ? Give it as a problet 
political theorist, to a Bolingbrt 
to a minister of public worship 
vent and combine certain ceren 
in order to express the high< 
of a nation's worship. The fu 
is to be one tliat shall symboli] 
a belief as the Catholic belief 
adorable sacrifice. I think i 
safely be said, the result pro 
would be something of more on 
show, more complicated, and 
arresting to the eye and the ini 
tion, than is seen in the ccrcmo 
solemn high Mass. i 

To meet more broadly the ! 
tion that the devotional system 
church b unduly subjective^ ti 




Tilr Function of the Subjective in Religion. 



183 



overpliant to the varieties of her 
chfldren. She condescends, she 
adapts herself, she seems to mere 
spectators to be one great economy. 
We accept the charge, not in their 
sense. Why should the church not 
be so ? The changelessness of the 
fiuth being first secured, her problem 
tfien is, the greatest devotion of the 
greatest number. "I am made all 
things to all men, that I might by all 
means save some." This is her mis- 
son: to attract souls, to win them, 
and to save them. She would not 
attract them, were she not beautiful ; 
nor gather them in, were she not all- 
sided ; rvat save the mass of them, 
were she not elastic. There is no 
stifhess about the church, or she 
would not work with breadth and 
fieedom. It is St. Peter's net, and 
is drawn, as the prophet says, " with 
cords of Adam." She is not anti- 
qnarian, or she would only affect the 
mind of each age as a venerable re- 
cord or curious relic of the past. The 
church is not primitive, mediaeval, or 
modem ; not Celtic, Teutonic, south- 
em, classical, barbarian, Scythian, 
bond, or free, in any exclusive sense. 
She is simply Catholic ; that one ti- 
tle interprets all. And being the 
church of the " great multitude which 
DO man can number, of all nations, 
and languages, and peoples, and 
tongues," she authorizes their popu- 
lar devotions by sanction and per- 
mission. 

WTien we grant or assert that the 
diurch in her devotional aspect is 
adaptive, elastic, or (to return to our 
tenn) subjective, what is this but to 
say diat she has life ? Life as dis- 
tinct from machinery, stereotype, or 
notine. It is saying that she has a 
IHing intelligence, spiritual instinct, 
a Acuity to discriminate between es- 
sentials and non-essentials in her wor- 
ihip, and a versatility and a resource 
to ^iply, to modify, to expand the 



non-sacramental and therefore acci- 
dental channels of grace to her chil- 
dren. Because she is thus alive with 
the indwelling life of the Paraclete 
who abides with her for ever, and 
thus animated with a supernatural 
wisdom and maternal charity, she 
is prompt to seize occasions, and 
to extemporize combinations /<? tAe 
greater glory of God. Hers is an 
ever quick and energizing power, ex- 
erted over man as man, and over all 
men indifferently. In the inspired 
words of the wise man : " Being but 
one, she can do all things ; and re- 
maining in herself the same, she re- 
neweth all things, and through na- 
tions conveyeth herself into holy 
souls." Wisd. vii. 27. What the phi- 
losopher claimed as being man, she 
claims as being the church of men : 
Nihil humanum a me alienum puto. 
She raises no question on the form 
of government or previous training, 
any more than on the clime or color 
of the "Trojans or Tyrians" within 
her realm. She translates her pray- 
ers, and imparts her indulgences in as 
many tongues as were found in Je- 
rusalem on the day of Pentecost. 
In the political sphere she will bless 
the banners and chant a Te Deum on 
the triumphs of every righteous cause, 
whether the tricolor and stripes of a 
republic or the blazonings of an an- 
cient monarchy. And so in her de- 
votional element, finding more stabil- 
ity of character in some provinces of 
her kingdom, more versatility and im- 
pulse in others, some of her children 
more given to contemplation, some to 
a larger amount of vocal prayer, she 
accepts these differing conditions 
without disturbance or hesitation. 
Wise householder and faithful stew- 
ardess, as tiie gospel declares her to 
be, the church brings out from her 
treasury things new and old. She 
adopts and sanctions every new devo- 
tion that has been inspired mto Vvet 



IS4 



The Function of tJu Subjective in Religion. 



saints: the rosaty of St Dominic, 
the scapular of St. Simon Stock, 
the discipline of St. Peter Daniian, 
the meditations of St. Benedict, the 
spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius and 
his systematized methods of prayer. 
Nothing is a dangerous novelty, while 
she has inerrancy of judgment. No 
dubious expression or practice can 
spread, or even live, while in her hand 
is the sword of the Spirit, opdoTOfihv 
rdv Xoyov rTj^ dXTjOeia^. No fer\'or 
can lead to ill-regulated enthusiasm 
while she exercises the twofold of- 
fice, to animate and to control. 

In direct contrast with this divine 
adjustment and harmony stand the 
arrangements of that communion in 
the midst of us which has so long 
claimed the title of a church. Eng- 
land, as represented by her rulers, 
three hundred years ago, breaking 
from the centre of unity, and dis- 
owning every link with St. Peter's 
chair, isolated thenceforward and self- 
contained, had before her a three-fold 
task. She was to extemporize at 
once doctrine, discipline, and devo- 
tion. The process was in many ways 
remarkable. Rut its chief feature for 
our present purpose is one especial 
travesty and reversal of the due or- 
der of things which was then exhibit- 
ed. While doctrine, by the necessi- 
ty of the case^ became subjective, the 
formularies or " common prayer" 
were stereotyped or frozen into a 
form that was well named uni/ormity, 
and might in a kind of perverse sense 
be called objective. The Anglican 
communion is the reed where the 
Catholic Church is the oak ; but en 
rei'ani'/ig, she is stiff and wooden where 
the church is pliant and tender. She 
has bent to every breath of doctrine : 
then, as if in tribute to tlie principle 
of stability, has bound down her chil- 
dren to pray, at least, by rule. She . 
does not pipe to them that they may 
dance, and mourn to them that they 



may lament. There is no i 
in her pastoral reed ; no chani 
prcssion in her fixed unifoi| 
demeanor. An exception a| 
be made for tiie ritualist exil 
of these later years ; but I 
exception which proves the n 
tualism is a protest against 1 
negations of the Establishmei 
in turn protested against wi 
energy by the indignant gOQ 
of the country, and, so far 
venture, by tbe country's 1: 
The clergy appear in colore<j 
and are met by a mandate ti 
off those ribbons." Decoratk 
be removed from the commu 
ble before consecration of the 
can take place. Each openli 
er is nipped by the breath 
pal authority, 






•"Elmo* 
Bnunn recamt incn.**] 



Not to speak, then, of rS 
but of the genuine spirit of 
tablishmcnt. This holds til 
tenor of its way, undistufi 
signs and seasons, and dM^ 
years. The established chui> 
not quench her tapers on Go 
day because she does not ligl 
on Easter morning ; has no 
for stripping her altars, and g 
encouragement for their deci 
She sprinkles no ashes on As 
ncsday, sings no allelubs I 
Resurrection, lights no candU 
no Mass on Candelmas. Lik( 
thing learned by rote and 
by a machine, her ministers i 
their Hocks in the self-same la) 
whether the morning usher in 
nual solemn fast or the queen 
tivals. Their form most trul; 
itself. " The Order for Momi 
Evening Prayer, daily to be^ 
used throughout the year, 
the objectivity of the 
church, as " authorized 
Parliament, holden in the' 



be SI 



Tkt Function of tkt Subjective in Religion. 



i8S 



years of our said late sover- 
ordy King Edward the Sixth, 
with the alterations and addi- 
therein added and appointed 
I statute," " Prima Elizabetfue." 
was this stereotyped, unelastic 
d optional with them. It was 
ssi^ of the position of the es- 
iment from its beginning. Hav- 
m down the altar and set up 
iding-desk, abolished the daily 
:^ and made the lion and uni- 
>tand in the holy place, con- 
the priest into a minister, and 
ded, under the hydraulic pres- 
if royal mandates, in forcing 
ts of doctrines to coexist with- 
space of one communion, the 
s of the new order of things 
s a chief part of tt, to invent a 
f prayer. This form must be 
shensive as to doctrine, uni- 
s to expression ; subjective in 
it, quasi-objective in tfie latter. 
. to provide for Catholics in 
rho had not fortitude for mar- 
i, and for honest sacramenta- 
meeling with them at the same 
mion-rail. After several alter- 
therefore, in which the pre- 
>f the Most High was affirmed 
ied, and, as far as man could 
t, was restored or taken away, 
• a higher, now a lower school 
ed, the new religion welded 
;r two forms of administration 
Catholic and the Zwinglian — 
mply left the choice of doc- 
the receiver. It was a pro- 
at brings to mind the ancient 
ment of chaining the living 
;r to the corpse of his dead 
le ; and the language ever 
if Uiose in the Anglican com- 
i who have aspired after some- 
learer to God than a memorial 
s been : " Unhappy man that 
who shall deliver me from the 
f this death?" 
it of space prevents our draw- 



ing out a contrast which here natur- 
ally presents itself. It would be, on 
one side, the solemn and heart-stir- 
ring functions of the church during 
her round of fast and festival : the 
day that ushers in her Lent, the Glo- 
ria hushed, organ and alleluias si- 
lent, the wailing Tenebrcty the strange, 
disjointed Mass of the pre-sanctified 
on Good Friday, which is Calvary, 
with the rocks rent and the sun hid- 
den ; then the burst of Easter morn- 
ing, when all is light and triumph ; 
or again, the three Masses of Christ- 
mas, symbols of our Lord's triple na- 
tivity. These, and much that might 
be added, would form an epitome of 
Durandus, and writers who have fol- 
lowed him, on the symbolism of the 
church's functions. What would ap- 
pear on the other side? Silence is 
perhaps its best description, lest a 
thing in its own nature so fearful to 
contemplate as man^s attempts to 
"create in opposition to his Creator 
should present too forcibly its lu- 
dicrous aspect. It does not appear 
to have been very attractive, even in 
its cradle, to judge from the act, 
which sets forth that " all and every 
person and persons . . . shall dili- 
gently and faithfully . . . endeavor 
themselves to resort to their parish 
church, . . . where common prayer 
and such service shall be used, . . . 
and then and there to abide orderly 
and soberly during the time of com- 
mon prayer, preachings, or other ser- 
vice of God there to be used and 
ministered, upon pain of punishment 
by the censures of the church, and 
also upon pain that every person so 
offending shall forfeit for every such 
offence twelve pence, to be levied 
by the church-wardens of the parish 
where such offence shall be done, . . . 
of the goods, lands, and tenements of 
such offender, by way of distress." 

No wonder they who love the es- 
tablished church should fix their spe- 



186 



TIu Function of the Subjective in Religion. 



cial admiration oa the feature of her 
simplicity. The act of uniformity 

^enforced by Procrustes was as sim- 
ile a process, and with as simple a 
result. In both cases, it was a cut- 
ting down, paring away, shorten- 
ing, disjointing, dislocating. Only, 
as tliey who decreed the form and 
measurements of the new religion, 
unlike Procrustes, had to recon- 
struct as well as simply to wrench 

lAnd amputate, they added that other 
jrocess to their labor j and under 
difficulties which have excited th^ 
compassion of their disciples in all 
later time ; for a system of theology 
and theological devotion is as com- 

tple.x and delicate, to say the least, 
as the human frame : you cannot 
give back the sinews and organs you 
have removed, nor restore action to 
the joints you have sundered. We 
have lived to see the result of such 
simplifying as went on in the six- 
teenth century. After a career which 
has given time for irreconcilable 
schools to exhibit their full diver- 
gence, the communion so arranged 
seems likely to fall to pieces on 
the very question of ritualism. "We 
never, sir," says a popular clerical 
writer to the Times newspaper, "we 
never shall have peace again in the 
church until some plain order of 
conducting the service is made more 
or less imperative, confused rubrics 
relaid down in clear language, and 
some court established, easy of ac- 
cess, cheap, and speedy in process, 
by which it may be adjudged, as well 
in the case of clergy as of bishops, 
whether the parties accused of false 
teaching or false practice are guilty 
according to a rational, legal inter- 
pretation of our formularies in the 
spirit in which for three centuries 
they have been conducted."* 
The simplicity of the church of 

*^S.G. O." la Oie Londoa Tiimft, J««e its 1967. 



England has steered too pri 
mean between the sjonbolis 
suggestive ceremonies of the 
that believes, and tlie absence 
form on the part of those who { 
Her preamble, " of ceretnooic 
some be abolished and some 
ed," like other compromii 
pleasing everybody and j 
pleasing no one. With 
Milton says in an expressive Ij 



some 

ndB 
on^l 




" New Pre»byter is but «M |iric« «rrit I 

With the other, the mii 
be a priest, the communf 
and the Catholic servic 
This comes of invent 
ligion in a hurry, patcl 
provisional government by 
who have disowned a time-h4 
throne. TTiis comes of arrayioj 
self in the shreds of what om 
has rent from the seamless ga 
So much for aiming at what 
late of that communion has r< 
called "a satisfying amount 
ual," which is to clothe no 
stand for nothing beyond ilse 
soothe the senses without app 
to the faith. So much for the 
gance of deciding that the *' 
and decent order of the anci* 
thers had been altered, broke 
neglected, by planting in unc 
stories and legends, with a mu] 
of responds, verses, vain repet 
commemorations, and synodals 
to speak of the " hardness ( 
rules called the /*/>, and the_; 
changings of the service." 
VV'e shall wait to see the 
that " satisfying |piount of ritii 
which it is proposed to invest 
vice purely Protestant ; wher< 
on the scale the satisfaction is 
placed, and so, whom it is ij 
to satisfy. One ritual s} 
has a gift from heaven 
and fulAl the yearnings of the 
One act of uniformity alon< 



enu 

«l 

ritu 

vest 

'her< 

^wOn is 

is vajk 

systflj 

rn tW 




TJke FunctioH of the Subj^tive in Religion. 



187 



of a thought to the worshipper. The 
creed rehearses it : "I profess that 
there are truly and properly seven 
saaaments of the new law instituted 
bf our Lord, and necessary for the 
sahration of mankind." Then, "I 
also receive and admit the received 
ind approved ceremonies of the 
Catholic Church in the solemn ad- 
ministration of the aforesaid sacra- 
ments." It is to express the invisi- 
ble, and to fence round what is all 
sacred, and to respond by the tribute 
of man to the gift of God, that the 
church has ordained these details of 
beauty and solemnity. It is essen- 
tially as an homage and a reverence 
to her Lord. This does not contra- 
dict what has been said above either 
of the variety or of the adaptive 
character of Cathol ic devotions. For 
He are here speaking not of devo- 
tions as voices of human expression 
toward God, but of sacraments, the 
channels of his communications with 
man. 

Let me now only mention two 
other chief instances of the subjec- 
tivity of the church's dealings with 
her children. The whole theor)% then, 
of intentions in prayer is a proof of 
the adaptive character of Catholic 
devotion. The Pater^ Atv, G/on'a, 
Credo, the Vent Creator, Miserere, 
Memorare, these are, as it were, so 
many notes in the church's scale. 
Let me here adopt, though I should 
also modify, the words of a g^cat 
writer on a kindred subject. They 
apply, partly at least, to that on 
iriiich our thoiights are turned : 

"There are seven notes in the scale; 
■ake them thirteen, yet what a slen- 
der outfit for so vast an enterprise ! 
What science brings so much out of 
so little ? Out of what poor elements 
does some great master in it create 
his new world ! Shall we say that 
)U this exuberant inventiveness is a 
■ere ingenuity or trick of art, like 



some game or fashion of the day, 
without reality, without meaning? 
We may do so ; and then, perhaps, 
we shall also account the science of 
theology to be a matter of words ; 
yet, as there is a divinity in the the- 
ology of the church which those who 
feel cannot communicate, so is there 
also in the wonderful creation of sub- 
limity and beauty of which I am 
speaking. ... Is it possible that 
that inexhaustible evolution and dis- 
position of notes, so rich yet so sim- 
ple, so intricate yet so regulated, so 
various yet so majestic, should be a 
mere sound, which is gone and per- 
ishes ? Can it be that those myste- 
rious stirrings of heart, and keen emo- 
tions, and strange yearnings after we 
know not what, and awful impres- 
sions from we know not whence, 
should be wrought in us by what is 
unsubstantial, and comes and goes, 
and begins and ends in itself? . . . 
No ; they have escap>ed from some 
higher sphere ; . . . they are echoes 
from our home ; they are the voice 
of angels, or the Magnificat of saints, 
or the living laws of divine govern- 
ance, or tlie divine attributes ; some- 
thing are they besides themselves, 
which we cannot compass, which we 
cannot utter."* 

The beauty of this extract, from 
perhaps one of the greatest passages 
of its eminent author, may be my 
apology for its length. What Dr. 
Newman here says of the evolution 
of musical harmony from simple ele- 
ments may be applied to the vast 
fabric of intentions, re-iching to no 
less than three worlds, the church 
militant, triumphant, and purifying, 
which we are taught to build out ot 
such few brief prayers as a child 
might utter. 

Once more : the variety of the re- 
ligious orders, congregations, insti- 

♦ Newman's Sermem tr/ort the l/HtvtrsUy of 
Ojff*rd. ad edition, pp. 349, 350. 



Tke Futution of the Subjective in Religion. 




l88 



tutes, existing in the church, and 
marked by her approval, afford a fur- 
ther proof of her adaptation to the 
various needs and characters of men. 
The system which recognizes the 
sanctity of marriage by elevating it 
to the rank of a sacrament proclaims 
also the superiority of the "best 
part" chosen by Mary, " which shall 
not be taken from her;" and, within 
this first great principle of classifica- 
tion among the church's children, 
separating between the secular and 
the religious life, and strictly subjec- 
tive in the sense in which the word 
has here been used, we find an almost 
endless diversity of what are techni- 
cally called "religions." The clois- 
tered and the uncloistered ; and 
among the former, the eremitic and 
the conventual, with their subdi- 
visions ; among the latter, a devo- 
tion sjjecial and concentrated upon 
every malady to which man is heir. 
Brothers of the hospitals, brothers 
of Christian doctrine, communities 
devoted to the leper, the lunatic, the 
ordinary sick, the hopelessly diseas- 
ed, the poor as such, the young, the 
orphan, the ignorant, the upper 
classes, the middle rank, the home- 
less pauper, the pilgrim, the peni- 
tent, the connct, the galley-slave, the 
felon condemned to die. 

This very glory of the King's 
daughter, her beauty in the variety 
with which she is surrounded, the 
subjective provisions she makes for 
each of her children called to reli- 
gion, has been made by writers of 
more than common shallowness an 
argument against her unity. It is 
difficult to treat with gravity a 
distortion of the truth so perverse. 
"Look," says a platform orator — 
" look at the divisions of the Church 
of Rome. She taunts us with our 
dissensions. It is true, we have our 
high church, and our low, and our 
broad ; there are those amongst us 



ving 1 



who hold the sacrament 
and those who deny it. 
too, has her divisions, as 
as fundamental. Has she n 
Franciscans and her Domii 
her Benedictines and her Se 
her Jesuits, and I know no 
besides? Have not her re 
orders and her secular cano 
times past, carved grotesque ■ 
tures of each other in th< 
goyles and misereres of their I 
tive churches ? And yet, wil 
characteristic effrontery, she 
to tell us that she is one !" 

It was well answered. Yow 
with equal reason argue that ai 
was not one, not one in its opei 
and campaign, nor moving i 
nod of one commander, 
had its several branches at 
of the service ; its \\% 
troops of the line, skirmisher 
alt)' for the charge, heavy art 
Rather, the essential unity < 
whole is all the more demons 
by the distinct lines and moc 
operation belonging to each d 
ment. Herodotus is at much 
to detail the different nation 
and customs of warfare in the 
of Xerxes before he proceeds t 
rate their combined descent 
Greece. And to return U 
thesis: the objective unity c 
religious orders throughout 
church's long life, in all that 
concerned her faith and ess 
teaching, has been enhanced, 
conspicuous, and shown to be 
natural, by their acknowledged 
jective diversity in much besid* 

But we are not here in need 
Catholic apologist A vivid 
popular writer, if not of histoi 
of widely accepted historjca 
mance, had the intelligence t< 
ceive this very characteristic < 
church. He has thrown no 
power into developing the ' 



1 



TAe Function of the Subjective in Religion. 



189 



lolic system is thus univer- 
>jective, has a place for every 
icts none of earth's children, 

retain them, find them em- 
t, and communicate to them 
5S, within the ample breadth 
nity. 

lescribes the merely local 
rs of the Church of Eng- 
id her consequent inability 
2 way in foreign missions. 

a fling at what he calls the 
■ the Church of Rome as the 
asterpiece of human wis- 
t is, he says, a system of 
:o be regarded with reluc- 
airation. Then more par- 
: "She thoroughly under- 
what no other church has 
derstood, how to deal with 
sts. In some sects, parti- 
1 infant sects, enthusiasm is 

to be rampant. In other 
irticularly in sects long es- 
l and richly endowed, it is 
I with aversion. The Cath- 
irch neither submits to en- 
1 nor proscribes it, but uses 

considers it as a great 
force, which in itself, like 
;ular powers of a fine horse, 
jr good nor evil, but which 

so directed as to produce 
>od or great evil, and she 
the direction to herself. . . . 
ows that, where religious 
have obtained the complete 
)f the mind, they impart a 
energy, that they raise man 
he dominion of pain and 
, that obloquy becomes 
She knows that a person in 
e of enthusiasm is no object 
npt He may be vulgar, ig- 
risionary, extravagant ; but 
,0 and suffer things which it 
ler interest that somebody 
lo and suffer. She accord- 
lists him in her service, as- 
him some forlorn hope, and 



sends him forth with her benedictions 
and her applause." 

Then, ailer showing how the Angli- 
can system expels from itself the en- 
thusiasm it can neither wield nor con- 
trol, he proceeds to draw his contrast : 

"Far different is the policy of 
Rome. The ignorant enthusiast 
whom the Anglican Church makes 
an enemy, and, whatever the polite 
and learned may think, a most dan- 
gerous enemy, the Catholic Church 
makes a champion. She bids him 
nurse his beard, covers him" with a 
gown and hood of coarse, dark stuf!J 
ties a rope round his waist, and 
sends him forth to teach in her name. 
He costs her nothing. He takes 
not a ducat away from the resources 
of her beneficed clergy. He lives by 
the alms of those who respect his 
spiritual character and are grateful 
for his instructions. He preaches 
not exactly in the style of Massillon, 
but in a way which moves the pas- 
sions of uneducated hearers ; and 
all his influence is employed to 
strengthen the church of which he is 
a minister. To that church he be- 
comes as strongly attached as any of 
the cardinals whose scarlet carriages 
and liveries crowd the entrance of 
the palace on the Quirinal. In this 
way the Church of Rome unites in 
herself all the strength of establish- 
ment, and all the strength of dissent. 
With the utmost pomp of a dominant 
hierarchy above, she has all the en- 
ergy of the voluntary system below. 
It would be easy to mention very re- 
cent instances in which the hearts 
of hundreds of thousands, estranged 
from her by the selfishness, sloth, 
and cowardice of the beneficed 
clergy, have been brought back 'by 
the zeal of the begging friars. At 
Rome the Countess of Huntingdon 
would have a place in the calendar 
as St. Sabina, and Mrs. Fry would be 
ioundvQss and first supenoi oi \ihe 



190 



Imogen. 



blessed order of Sisters of the Gaols. 
Place Ignatius Loyola at Oxford: 
he is certain to become the head of 
a formidable secession. Place John 
Wesley at Rome : he is certain to 
be the first general of a new society 
devoted to the interests and honor 
of the church. Place Johanna 
Southcote at Rome: she founds an 
order of barefooted Carmelites, 
every one of whom is ready to suffer 
mar^dom for the church ; a solemn 
service is consecrated to her memory ; 
and her statue, placed over the holy 
water, strikes the eye of every stranger 
who enters St Peter's." 

Such thoughts as I have endea- 
vored to suggest will not be vain, if 
they lead us to recognize the attri- 
. bates and credentials of the church in 
her mission to the world, not less in 
the comparison of part with part 
among her manifestations, than in 
the harmony of the whole. She is 
as divine, as Catholic, as faithful to 
her trust, and as unerring in her 
functions, in the subjective character 
of her devotions, as in the objectivity 
of her teachii^. Nothing surely 



can be more attractive to thi 
nation, more winning to the 1 
more persuasive to the will t 
condescension and personal 
that which is all the while loi 
attributes and authoritative 
claims and power. The chu 
mother while she is a queen, 
her children no less than h 
jects and disciples. She tea 
to pray while she command 
believe; and gives a pterso 
perience of her science in t 
while affording abundant p 
her embassy and her inerr 
the other. Thus, while I am 
ened by her truth, I am fost 
her charity. The need of i 
am conscious in myself, das 
something on which to feed 
ulty within me for supematu: 
and personal devotion, is a 
pletely met and fulfilled as ai 
ing for a truth above mys 
nicht Ich, which comes down 
from heaven that it may ra 
thither. *' Descendit" says J 
gustine, " misericordiaf ut t 
tniseria." 



IMOGEN. 



She was all compact of beauty, 

Like the sunlight and the flowers ; 
One of those radiant beings 

That prove this world of ours 
Not utterly forsaken 

By the angel host of God, 
Since now and then its valleys 

By their holy feet are trod. 
If her hair was black and glossy 

Or golden-hued and bright, 
Or if her eyes were azure, 

Or dark and deep as nighty 



Imogm. 191 



I know not — ^this truth only 

Do I know or care to know ; 
Never a lovelier maiden 

Blest this weary world below. 
In the castle ruled her father, 

And his lands stretched miles away ; 
Mine toiled down in the hamlet 

For his daily bread each day ; 
Too far apart were we. 

Too high wert thou for me, 
O Lady Imogen ! 



When the meadow was all golden 

With the cowslips' May-day bells. 
And the sweet breath of the primrose 

Came up from fragrant dells ; 
When the blackbird and the throstle 

Whistled cheerly in the mom, 
And the skylark, quivering upward, 

Rose singing from the com ; 
Then when the blessed spring-time 

Filled with beauty all the earth. 
From her father's lordly castle 

Would this maiden wander forth, 
Where the violets were blooming 

In unfrequented dells ; 
O'er the mead where zephyrs pilfered 

Fragrance from the cowslips' bells. 
Wheresoever beauty lingered, 

There this radiant maiden strayed, 
And beauty by her presence 

More beautiful was made ; 
The sunshine looked more golden 

As it gleamed around her head ; 
And the grass more green and living 

Rose up beneath her tread ; 
And the flowers more bright and fragrant 

To gjreet her coming grew ; 
And mad with love and music 

The birds about her flew. 
Oh I she was the loveliest maiden 

That ever eye did see ; 
She was sunshine, she was music, 

She was all the world to me. 
But she never knew the passion 

That set my soul aflame ; 
That hid me by the hedge-row 

To watch "tthenc^cT she camCf 



T93 The Jesuits in North America. 

To see her glorious beauty, 

Like a star from heaven, go by. 

Oh ! to see her but one moment 
God knows that I would die, 

O peerless Imogen I 

They bore her to the abbey 

With the pomp of princely woe, 
With steeds and hearsb and snowy pall, 

And white plumes drooping low : 
And high, proud heads were bending 

In her funereal train, 
And princely eyes were weeping 

Heavy tears like summer rain. 
I far off followed slowly, 

No tears were in mine eye ; 
'Twas not for one so lowly 

To weep for one so high ; 
But, oh 1 since she hath vanished. 

With her have seemed to go 
. All the beauty, all the music, 

Of this weary world below ! 

Dead, dead, and buried, Imogen t 

£. Youiro. 



THE JESUITS IN NORTH AMERICA.* 

The illustrious Society of Jesus, the south, established flourishing mi^ 

which has sanctified by its martyrs sions, some of which have lasted to 

every comer of the earth, has reaped this day. They labored with a zeil 

more glory probably in North Ame- and singleness of purpose which could 

rica than any other missionary order, not be surpassed, and a large propoi<' 

though it was not the first to enter tion of them gave up their lives fcr 

the field. The Franciscans, the Do- the faith ; but unfortunately the crimei 

minicans, and other devoted soldiers of their countrymen have been pe^ 

of the cross who followed in the foot- mitted, by the prejudice of modoB 

steps of the Spanish adventurers in writers, to tarnish the renown of theie 

heroic preachers, and the crueltks 

• Tkt jetuiisiH Kertk America in the Srvfn- of a Cortez are better remembcRd s 

tetnth Ctntury. By Francis Parkman. Botton: .. ^. ._. ^ ., n • t t\_ S 

Little. Brown & Co. 1867. than the virtucs of the Spanish Do- | 

Hist»ry andGtntral D*icfitli<m »/ New France. minicanS. The JeSuitS in the DOrA- J 
Bjr the Rev. P. F. X. de Charlevoix, S.J. Trans- . r^i. ..• ^v _^l! 

kted with notes, by John Gilmary Shea. In six vols. Cm partS Of the COntment haVC «• | 

V(^ i. ana ii. New York: John Gilmaiy Shea, ccived morC jUStice in histOiy. AbOOT 

HiMioryc/ the caikoiieMitiiontamtmrtiu Indian their Character and achievement 

Trii„^tkeUniudsta^,'Rjj6tmG\^ there is Only oife voice. Oppit 

Shea. New York: Edward Duniiaa & Brother. 1 . . '^^ 

iSss- • sion and outrage have fortnuale 




The yesuits in North America. 



193 



ly from their path. It was, 
fer, their practice to live al- 
irholly aloof fVom tlieir own 
fmen, and to compose their 
an settlements entirely of In- 
knverts. They may not have 
jed their brethren of other or- 
\ devotedness or in perseve- 
but they have a renown in 
\ Protestant literature which 
Kqual except in the glorious re- 
t the early Christian persecu- 

R the Jesuits first came to Ga- 
te Franciscans had been be- 
jTOi but there was little trace 
fie Christianity which they had 
L The capture of Quebec by 
g^ish, in 1629, almost wholly 
(ted the mission, and it was 
U the colony was restored to 
\ in 1632, tliat the history of 

r^ enterprise in that part of 
really begins. One of the 
is of the French government 
to secure a body of priests, 
^a their recovered posses- 
^^B work was offered to the 
IH. but they declined it. It 
n given to the Jesuits, and on 
^ of April, 1632, two priests, Le 
De Noue, with a lay-bro- 
ed Gilbert, set sail from 
Quebec It was but a 
iDie in which, after a tJiree 
pcstuous voyage, they set 
ling themselves. Their 
rs had left on the out- 
If the settlement two wretched 
[buildings, thatched with long 
plastered with mud. One 
had been half-burned by the 
was still in ruins. Here 
issionaries fixed their 
prepared for the recep- 
brethren who were soon 
One of the build- 
iverted into a store-house, 
orlc-shop, and bakery. The 
ed four principal rooms. 



One was fitted up as a rude chapel, 
one as a refector)', one as a kitchen, 
and the fourth as a sleeping-room 
for workmen. Four small rooms, 
the largest eight feet square, opened 
off the refectory, and here, when the 
rest of the little band arrived, six 
priests were lodged, while two lay- 
brolhers found shelter in the garret. 
The whole establishment was sur- 
rounded by a palisade. About the 
end of May, Champlain arrived, to 
resume the command of Quebec, and 
with him came four more Jesuits — 
Br<fbeuf, Masse, Daniel, and Davost, 
The superior of the little community 
was Father Le Jeune. Of the otliers. 
Masse, whom by reason of his useful 
qualities they nicknamed " Le Pfere 
Utile," had been in America before. 
His special duty was lo take care of 
the pigs and cows, upon which the 
missionaries relied for a great part 
of their sustenance. De Noue had 
charge of the eight or ten laborers 
employed about the " residence." 
AH the fathers, in the intervals of 
leisure left from their duties of 
preaching, saying mass and vespers^ 
hearing confessions at the fort of 
Quebec, catechising a few Indians^ 
and striving lo master the enormous 
difficulties of the Algonquin and Hu- 
ron languages, worked with the men, 
spade in hand. 

To learn the language was at first 
the greatest of all their troubles. 
There were French interpreters in 
the colony, fur traders who had spent 
years among the tribes, and were al- 
most as savage as the Indians them- 
selves. But these men were no friends 
to the Jesuits, and one and all refused 
their assistance. Father Le Jeune 
gives an amusing description of his 
perplexity, as he sat with an Indian 
child on one side, and a litde negro 
boy left by the English on the other, 
neither of the three able to under- 
stand the language of the othet^ 



rfh 



194 



The yesuits in North America, 



Convinced that there was little to be 
taught and little to be learned in that 
way, he set off one morning to visit 
a band of Indians who were fishing 
on the St. Lawrence. He found 
their bark lodges set up by the 
brink of the river, and a boy led 
him into the hut of an old squaw, his 
grandmother, who hastened to give 
him four smoked eels on a piece of 
birch bark. There were several other 
women in the lodge, and while they 
showed him how to roast his eels on 
a forked stick, or squatted around the 
fire, eating their rude meal, and using 
their dogs as napkins, the good fa- 
ther made strenuous attempts to talk 
a little broken Algonquin, eking out 
his defect of words with such panto- 
mime as he could invent. All, how- 
ever, was in vain. If he trusted to 
what he could pick up from strag- 
gling fishing parties, it might be 
years before he could fairly begin 
to preach the gospel to these poor 
tribes of the wilderness. In his dif- 
ficulty he had recourse to the saints. 
It was not long before what he deem- 
ed the direct interposition of Provi- 
dence came to his aid. Several years 
before an Indian who had been con- 
verted by the Recollects, and bap- 
tized by the name of Pierre, had 
been taken to France and partial- 
ly educated. He had lately return- 
ed to Canada, and not only relapsed 
into his old savage way of life, but 
apostatized from the faith. Nothing 
was left of his French education save 
a few French vices and a knowledge 
of the French language. He often 
came to the fort begging drink and 
tobacco, but he shunned the Jesuits, 
of whose rigid virtue he stood in 
lorror. But one day, about this lime, 
ri^ierre incurred the displeasure of the 
French commandant, and the fort was 
closed against him. Repulsed by a 
young squaw whom he wanted to 
make his vtife, and unfitted by his 





French education for Lite 
precarious life of a hunt 
to the priests for food 
Le Jcunc hailed him as a gii 
heaven in answer to his praye< 
installed the poor wretch m^ 
sion-house, begged for hit 
a suit of cast-off clothes, 
ously to work to learn frc 
mysteries of the Algonquin^ 
" How thankful I am," wro 
Jeune, "to those who gave mei 
CO last year ! At every diiHc 
give my master a piece of it to 
him more attentive." » | 

The terribly severe wintql 
passed in studies such as thi 
practising with snow-shoes, and 
ing Indian children. Bands <| 
ages often encamped nea 
sion-house in the cour 
hunting journeys, and 
whenever they appeared, woul^ 
his stand at the door and ring I 
The children would gather | 
him, and leading them into d 
fectory, which also served 
room, he would teach thei 
ter, Ave, and Credo, with 
prayer which he had comj 
the assistance of Pierre, si 
how to make the sign of the 
and explain portions of tbej 
chism. The exercises closed 
the singing of the Lord's praj 
Algonquin rhymes, and aftd 
cath pupil was rewarded wilh , 
ringer of peas. As spring appi 
ed, Pierre began to bethinl^ 
of the fasting and prayer 
and ran off one day to 
Englishmen, at Tadoussac 
drowned in liquor the smalt 
of his Christianity. Then he j 
his t%vo brothers, one a famoui 
ter named Mestigoit, the 
most noted sorcerer or 
man" of the tribe. 

The next autumn Fath« 
was in\'ited by the Indis 



igappi 
linl^faj 

1 



TAr y^suits in NortJi Anurica. 



195 



arty, in which these three 
ivere included; not that 
m1 the good missionary's 

but they were shrewd 
> suspect that, if he went 
, he would be well supplied 
isions. Father de Noue 
on a similar expedition in 
■, and returned nearly dead; 
une resolved to risk it, and 
tter part of October, with 
dians, embarked in canoes 

Lawrence. Landing after 
ind being joined by two 
ds, they spent five months 
through the trackless and 
:red wilderness; sleeping by 
le stifling huts which they 
digging holes in the snow 
ing over them a covering of 
birch bark ; hunting by day 
r, the moose, and the car- 
:n half-starved when game 
i holding the most disgust- 
$ of gluttony when it was 
omebody had unfortunately 
I the priest's stores a small 
»e. Pierre stole it and got 
d when Mestigoit had so- 
I by a liberal application of 
water, which took all the 
is face and breast, the apos- 
e Jeune always calls him) 
revenge himself by killing 
onary whose strong drink 
jht him into trouble. The 
;r fled to the woods until 
enzy had passed away, and 
iays, " though my bed had 
made up since the creation 
rid, it was not hard enough 
t me from sleeping." We 
pace to follow the narrative 
ird winter. The days were 
lunger and exhausting toil, 
Ls in frightful discomfort. 

in a space some thirteen 
e, were made to accommo- 
teen savages, men, women, 
ren, not to speak of a num- 



ber of wild and hungry dogs, A fire 
of pine-knots in the centre fiJled the 
place with a blinding, acrid smoke, 
and at times they could breathe only 
by lying flat on their faces with their 
mouths to the cold ground. In this 
horrible den, the dogs fought for his 
food, and the savages, instigated by 
the sorcerer, loaded him with insults 
and shocked his ears with their filthy 
conversation. The sorcerer, whose 
pretensions he ridiculed, and whose 
influence he lost no opportunity of 
undermining, hated him with an es- 
pecially malignant animosity. Un- 
der pretence of teaching him Algon- 
quin, he palmed off upon the priest 
the foulest words in the Indian lan- 
guage, so that poor Father Le Jeune's 
attempts to explain the mysteries of 
the faith were often interrupted by 
shouts of laughter. On Christmas 
day there had been a great scarcity 
of game, and the party were in dan- 
ger of famishing. The incantations 
of the medicine man had failed. In 
despair the savages came to Le 
Jeune, and begged him to try his 
God. The sorcerer showed some 
gleam of faith. Even Pierre gave 
signs of repentance. The mission- 
ary was filled with hope. He wrote 
out two prayers in Algonquin. He 
hung against the side of the hut a 
crucifix and a reliquary, and bade 
the Indians kneel before them and 
repeat the prayers, promising to re- 
nounce their superstitions and obey 
Christ if he would save them from 
perishing of hunger. Then he dis- 
missed the hunters with his blessing. 
At night they came back successful. 
A feast was ordered. In the midst 
of the repast, Le Jeune arose to re- 
mind them of their promise ; but 
Pierre, who had killed nothing, was 
sulky and incredulous. He said, 
with a laugh, that it was not the cru- 
cifix and prayers which had brought 
them luck. The sorcereT cued out 



196 



Ths yesuits in North America, 



to the missionary, " Hold your tongue ! 
you have no sense !" And the multi- 
tude, whose good disposition had 
vanished with their hunger, took 
their cue from him, as usual. 

All this was discouraging enough, 
nor was it the worst ; and when Fa- 
ther Le Jeune, at three o'clock one 
April morning, knocked at the door 
of his humble mission-house, and was 
received in the arms of his brother 
apostles, it was with the melancholy 
reflection that his painful and peril- 
ous journey had been, except as a 
tour of observation, little more than 
a failure. An absolute failure, how- 
ever, it certainly was not. Careful 
reconnoissances must always precede 
great campaigns. It was only by 
pushing out into the heart of the pa- 
gan realm which they had come to 
conquer, that the soldiers of Christ 
could determine where they might 
best make their main assault and in 
what quarter a victory ensured the 
most glorious results. The mission- 
aries were but a handful ; the field 
before them was immense ; they 
could only cultivate such portions of 
it as promised the richest harvest. 
They had now learned that the Al- 
gonquins were comparatively few in 
number, and of little influence or im- 
portance among the North American 
tribes. Wandering to and fro as 
they did from year's end to year's 
end, it was impossible to establish 
among them the sort of Christian 
settlements or missions which the 
Jesuits proposed founding as cen- 
tres from which the light of truth 
might radiate through the wilderness. 
But further westward, on the shores 
of the great lakes, dwelt numerous 
stationary tribes, among whom strong- 
holds of the faith might be erected. 
The conversion of any considerable 
part of these people would affect 
many kindred tribes, and so it might 
be possible to found in the heart of 



the forest a great Christ 
As the first basis for their opei 
they chose the Hurons, on tfc 
which bears their name. The 
pie, they learned, had populc 
lages, knew how to till the g 
and carried on some trad< 
neighboring nations. Their i 
exceeded that of the Algonqui 
prisoner who bore the torture 
ly was cooked and eaten, tl 
captors might increase thci 
courage ; and the missionaries 
of the Huron country as tht 
fortress and donjon-keep of 1 
mon, " um des principaUs fori 
et commi un donjon des dimons,*^ 
distance to be traversed, by th 
route it was possible to follO 
about nine hundred miles. 71 
was dangerous and painful, 
goal to be reached was possibl 
tyrdom — certainly continuous 
ing of body and mind. Thr< 
sionaries, fir^beuf, Daniel, ai] 
vost, oflered themselves for t 
terprise, Le Jeune's duties ai 
rior obliged him to confine his 
to the neighboring Algonquio 
was not easy, however, for tb< 
band of apostles to 
roic purpose into executit 
year a company of several ht 
Hurons used to visit Quebec, ( 
ter their furs and tobacco for h 
hatchets, knives, cloth, beadj 
other commodities. It was re 
that the priests should retun 
them when they made their ne 
nual journey. The Hurons a 
July, 1633, six or seven hundl 
them, with a hundred and fot 
noes. They staid four days, tf 
gambling, feasting, and hold 
council with the French offio 
the fort. Cham plain introduo 
three missionaries, and comm 
them to the care and friends 
the Indians. They were recer 
first with acclamations of delig^ 



:cutioaP^ 



J 



Ttkf yesMtts in North America. 



197 



le6 of difTereiit villages dis- 
for the honor of entertaining 
But before the hour of de- 
! came, they changed their 
The Indians went away and 
ests returned to the mission- 
Here they spent a year study- 
Huron language. At the end 
relvemonth, the Indians came 
A second time they were be- 
to take the Jesuits back with 
They consented, wavered, 
!, hesitated, the missionaries 
3^ to be received, as if the hard- 
hey would have to suffer were 
satest of privileges. At last 
Br^beuf made a vow to St 
. At once, he says, the Indi- 
:rame tractable, and the whole 
onbarked in the frail canoes 
shores of Lake Huron. Their 
was up the Ottawa river, 
ii Lake Nipissing,down French 
and along the shores of the 
xeorgian Bay of Lake Huron, 
'oyage occupied thirty days, 
ree missionaries were in sepa- 
noes, barefoot, lest their shoes 
injure the vessel, toiling la- 
>ly at the paddle, wading often 
h. the rapids and pushing or 

• up their barks, and doing 
hare of the burden of trans- 
on at the long and frequent 
£S. They had no food but a 
)m crushed between two stones 
3istened with water. The In- 
:reated them with great harsh- 
itole or threw away a part of 
aggage, including most of their 

and writing materials, and 
deserted Father Daniel and 

• Davost on the way. When 
if reached the end of the voy- 
t the shores of Georgian Bay, 
iian companions threw his bag- 
n the ground, left him to his 
esources, and trudged off to 
illages, some twenty miles dis- 
Br^beuf, however, was not dis- 



heartened. He threw himself upon 
his knees and thanked God who had 
preserved him so far. Then he pro- 
ceeded to examine the country. He 
knew the spot well, for before the 
suspension of the Canada missions 
which followed the capture of Que- 
bec, he had passed three years 
among the Hurons of this region, at 
an Indian town which had since been 
burned. Hiding his baggage and 
the sacred vessels in the woods, he 
set off in search of the new town, 
which he knew had been built a few 
miles from the site of the old one. 
It was evening when he reached 
it A crowd who recognized his tall, 
soldier-{ike figure and black robes 
ran out to meet him, shouting for joy 
at his return. They took him to the 
lodge of one Awandoay, the richest 
and most hospitable of the Hurons. 
After many days his two lost breth- 
ren rejoined him. Daniel had been 
picked up by another party of In- 
dians. Davost had been lefl among 
the Algonquins on Allumette Island, 
and now appeared half-dead with fa- 
mine and fatigue. With them came 
four French laymen from Quebec. 
Awandoay received them all, and as 
soon as they had determined to make 
this village, which the natives called 
Ihonatiria, the headquarters of their 
mission, all the inhabitants of the 
place, as well as the people of the 
neighboring town of Wenrio, fell to 
and built them a house. It was a 
structure of sapling poles and sheets 
of bark, thirty-six feet long, and about 
twenty feet wide, built after the Hu- 
ron fashion ; but the priests, with the 
aid of their tools, made several im- 
provements of the interior, which 
were to the savages a never-failing 
source of wonder and admiration. 
They divided their dwelling into 
three rooms. The first was a store- 
house ; the second, a sleeping cham- 
ber, kitchen, workshop, refectory, axvd 



198 



The yesuits in North America. 



school-room, all in one ; ihe third 
was the chapel. 

Thus the Huron mission, which 
had been founded several years pre- 
^^ously, and broken up before it was 
thoroughly established, was opened 
anew. Other priests soon came out 
from France to join it. Gamier, 

IChaumonot, Chabanel, and the illus- 
trious mart>T Isaac Jogues were 
among the Jesuits who gathered 
iround this lodge in the wilderness 
in the course of the next few years. 
In Uie summer-time, when most of 
the Indians were away on their 
hunting or trading excursions, and 
the villages were quiet, the mission- 
aries renewed their strength for 
labor and suffering by the exercise 
of the annual retreat according to 
the instructions of SL Ignatius. It 
was in winter that their hardships 
were the greatest. By day they 
trudged long, weary miles through 
the snow and wet to visit neighbor- 
ing villages ; by night their short rest 
was disturbed and their ears shocked 
by the horrible orgies, incantations, 
and superstitious rites in which the 
Hurons used to pass their winter 
lei.sure. There were the hideous 
ceremonies by which their sorcerers 
pretended to cure the sick; the li- 
centious practices by which they 

^Bought to propitiate the demons of 
pestilence and famine ; sometimes 
the awful tortures of captives taken 
in war, and their agonizing deaths, 
in which the good fathers, though 
every nerve shuddered with horror 
at the dreadful sight, sometimes 
found consolation in making a con- 
vert of the dying wretch, and wash- 
ing out his sins at the last moment 
in the saving waters of baptism. 
At every opportunity they collected 
the children of the village at their 
house ; and Br^beuf, vested in sur- 
plice and cap, led them in chanting 
Ihe Pater Noster, translated into 



Indian rhymfcs, taught them 
Hail Mary, the Creed, and 
Commandments, taught Ihcm 
make the sign of the cross, an^ 
gave a few simple instructions, 
present of two or three beads, 
raisins, or prunes sent them away 
happy and ensured their cominp 
again. Once in a while llie adults 
were induced to listen to ii»st 
tion, and invited to discuss the 
cipal points of religious doct 
They grunted "Good" or "That 
true " at every prop)osition, bat 
a long, long time very few >vere wil 
ing to embrace the faith to whic 
they gave so ready an asseni 
Like the tishes who listened to 
Anthony's sermon, 

" Much delighted w*ti- !tit». 
But yrafcnrd iha oid way " 

Still, they were ready enough to 
the hut of the missionaries, and 
amine their marvels of inj 
and skill, the fame of which'1 
gone abroad throughout the ytY 
Huron nation. They would sit 
the ground by the hour, watchir 
the clock and waiting for it 
strike. They thought it was al» 
and dignified it with the title 
** Captain." " What does the Capt 
say ?" they would often ask. 

"When he strikes twelve timt 
the Jesuits answered, " he says, ' Ha 
on the kettle;' and when he strike 
four times he says, ' Get up and 
home.' " 

So at noon visitors were ne 
wanting to share the Captain's 
pitality ; but at the stroke of fo« 
they all departed, and the mission- 
aries gathered round tlie tire and dis- 
cussed the intricacies of the HijroB_ 
language. Among the other tt^onde 
of the lodge there was a hand-n>9 
which the savages were never tired 4 
turning. A magnet proved a 
puizle to them ; and there was a ma 
nifying-glass which Iransfonned 



TAt yesuits in North America, 



199 



) a frightful monster, and, we 
>pose, filled them with alarm, 
mceived an overpowering re- 
r the wisdom and supematu- 
ers of the black-gowns, and 
them also, upon the whole, a 

good will ; but there were 
s when their influence, and 
leir safety, were endangered 

violence of the Indian su- 
ms. Once in a season of 
: a "rain-maker" persuaded 
rons that the red color of 
iss which stood before the 
dwelling frightened away 
1 of thunder. It was about 
It down. The priests begged 
) paint it white, and see if the 
- would come. It was done, 
1 still kept aloof 
ir spirits cannot help you," 

fathers ; '' ask the aid of him 
de the world, and perhaps he 
r your prayers." 
[ndians were induced to pro- 
bedience to the true God. 
lasses were offered in honor 
foseph, and every day there 
ilemn processions and pray- 
i a few days there were heavy 

rain, and the Hurons con- 
m exalted idea of the pow- 

French " medicine." But 

their promises! They were 
•gotten. 

tie autumn and winter of 
le Huron towns were swept 
ntagious fever, accompanied 

small-pox. Three of the 
— Jogues, Gamier, and Cha- 
were seized with the fever, 
: protection of Providence 
them up for the relief of 
)or red-skinned brethren. In 
Lh of winter the missionaries 
om village to village, visiting 
it, tending the sick, bringing 
uch few delicacies as their 
itores afforded, and pressing 
digious instructions at every 



available occasion. Bot itofap hard 
to make an impression on the stolid 
hearts of the savages. They com- 
prehended the pains and fires of hell, 
but they could not understand the 
happiness of heaven. They had no 
wish to go after death to a place 
where there would , be neither war 
nor hunting, and where, they feared, 
the French would give them nothing 
to eat Nor, when the Huron had 
at last been persuaded that heavea 
was good for Indians as well as 
Frenchmen, was it easy to produce 
in him the proper dispositions for 
baptism. He felt no contrition, for 
he believed that he had never com- 
mitted sin. "Why did you baptize 
that Iroquois?" asked a dying neo* 
phyte ; " he will get to heaven before 
us, and when he sees us coming he 
will drive us out" This was dis- 
heartening ; but once for a few days 
there was a gleam of consolation. 
The whole village of Ossossaa^ re- 
solved to embrace the faith of the 
black-rpbes, to give up their super- 
stitions, and to reform their manners. 
One of their principal sorcerers pro- 
claimed in a loud voice, through the 
streets of the town, that the God of 
the French was henceforth their Mas- 
ter. Nine days afterward a noted 
sorcerer came to Ossossan^, and the 
Indians held a g^and medicine feast, 
hoping to secure the aid of God and 
the devil at once. The superstitious 
rites were all renewed; the nights 
grew hideous with yells of incanta- 
tion, and magic figures to drive away 
the demon of pestilence were put up 
on every house. The danger to the 
missionaries now became imminent 
When they left their hut in the 
morning, it was with a well-ground- 
ed doubt whether they should ever 
return. The sacrament of baptism, 
which it was a part of their daily 
labor to administer to dying chil- 
dren, came to be looked upon as a 



They could only 
giveTt by"stea!tli, sometimes letting 
fall a drop from a spoonful of sugar- 
ed water, with which they pretended 
to cool the patient's parched lips, or 
else touching the skin with a moist 
finger or the comer of a wet hand- 
kerchief. The mysterious black- 
robed magicians were now regard- 
ed as tlie cause of the pestilence ; 
and had it not been for the awe 
in which they were held by the 
savages, their lives would quickly 
have been at an end. As it was, 
they were everywhere repulsed and 
insulted. Children pelted them from 
behind huts, friends looked at them 
askance, and the more violent of their 
enemies clamored for their death. 
The picture ofthe last judgment which 
hung in their chapel was taken to be a 
charm of direful power. The litanies 
which they chanted together were in- 
cantations pregnant with plague and 
famine. The clock was a malignant 
demon, and the poor " Captain" had 
to be slopped. In August, 1637, a 
great council of the Hurons, includ- 
ing deputations from four nations, 
was held to deliberate upon the af- 
fairs of the confederation. The chief, 
whose office it was to preside over the 
feast of the dead, arose, and in a set 
speech accused the Jesuits of being 
the cause of the calamities that afflict- 
ed them. One accuser followed an- 
other, Brcfbeuf replying to their charg- 
es with ingenuity and boldness. The 
debate continued through the night. 
Many of the Indians fell asleep, and 
others went away. One old chief 
as he passed out said to Bre'beuf, "If 
some young man should split your 
head open, we should have nothing 
to say." "What sort of men are 
these ?" cried out another impatient- 
ly, as the Jesuit went on with his ha- 
rangx:e j '* they are always saying the 
same thing, and repeating the same 
words a hundred times." Another 



in North 



council was called to pronounce 
sentence of death. The priests aj 
peared before it with such unflinci 
ing courage that their judges, stnicll 
with admiration, deferred the de- 
cree. Still it seemed as if their fate 
could not be long deferred. Tli« 
wrote a farewell letter to their supe- 
rior. Father Le Jeune, and commit- 
ted to the care of an Indian convert 
the most precious properties of the 
mission, the sacred furniture of the 
altar, and the vocabulary which ihey- 
had compiled ofthe Huron languag 
Then they gave a parting feast, aftc 
the Indian custom of those whower 
about to die. The intrepidit)' mani- 
fested by this proceeding was not, 
without its effect. The animosit 
of the savages became less intens 
and though the persecution conti* 
nued, and the liv^s of indiVidua 
members of the little band we 
more than once attempted, the pro-^ 
ject of a massacre was for the 
sent abandoned. 

By the end of the year 163S, the 
mission had seven priests who spoke 
Huron, and three more who wer 
learning it. There were about sixt 
converts, and at Ossossan^ a 
modious chapel of wood had 
built by the labor of artisans scnl 
for tlie purpose from Quebec, 
original intention of the Jesuits 
to form ijermanent missions in ca 
of the principal Huron 'towns. This 
however, proved impracticable, an^ 
a spot was chosen on the little n\x 
Wye, near Matchedash Bay of Lak« 
Huron, for a great central station, 
which tliey gave the name of Saint 
Marie. The Huron towns were m 
apportioned into districts, and a 
tain number of priests assigned ta 
each. Father Gamier and Fat 
Jogues made an ineffectual attcm|: 
to establish a mission among the 
bacco nation, two days' journey tol 
south-west. But their evil reputatic 



led them. The children 
^ut, when ihey saw them ap- 
It famine and pest were 
Lvery door was closed 
, them ; and when in despair 
^^^e town, a band of young 
^^feowed them, hatchet in 
l^put them to death. Un- 
^e^ of the darkness they made 
Bcaf>e, and Father Jogues, with 
I RaymbauJt, afterward passed 
I the northern shore of Lake 
L and preached the faith among 
ibwas, as far as Sault Sainte 
pt the outlet of Lake Superior. 
Imean lime Br^euf and Chau 
[went on a mission to the pow- 
Lnd ferocious Neutral nation 
inhabited the country between 
: and Ontario, on both sides 
[Niagara river. They visited 
of the Neutral towns. In 
were received with a storm 
lis, blows, and maledictions, 
IS had been afraid to kill 
[Ireading the vengeance of the 
I at Quebec ; but they had sent 
jtmUsaries to incite the Neu- 
rainst them, and had promised 
[rench hatchets to the tribe 
Should be their executioners. 
f was the object of their spe- 
ped. Thb glorious man, whom 
|n calls the truest hero and 
St martyr of the Huron 
feared with an intensi- 
le of his companions in- 
But in the midst of his per- 
consoied him with 
roTS. Celestial visions 
iim in his toilsome jour- 
ihe forest. He saw the 
irast and gorgeous palace, 
assured him that such 
le reward of those who 
^els for the cause of God, 
»ared to him, and more 
"the Blessed Virgin and his 
^tron^ Sl Joseph, were reveal- 
sight Now, when the Neu- 



tral nation shut hir 
es, half famished and nearly irozen, 
the apparition of a great cross — 
" large enough," he said to his bre^ 
thren, " to crucify us all" — came slow- 
ly up from the country of the Iroquois. 
It seems like a warning of the glo ' 
rious fate which awaited him, and to 
those heroic souls who longed for mar- 
tyrdom as the bright crown of their 
labor, we cannot doubt that it was 
also a sweet consolation. 

The day of persecution, however, 
was only, dawning. The suffer- 
ings of the past few years were as 
nothing in comparison with the tor- 
ments that were to follow. In the 
summer of 1642, the mission had 
been reduced to great destitution, 
and Father Jogues was sent to Que- 
bec to obtain clothing, writing mate- 
rials, wine for the altar, and other 
necessary stores. He returned with 
the annual fleet of Huron canoes, 
having with him two young French 
lajTTien, Ren^ Goupil and Guillaume 
Couture, who had attached them- 
selves without pay to the mission, 
and a few Indian converts. They 
were passing the Lake of St. Peter, 
in tlie St. LawTCnce river, when they 
were suddenly attacked by a war- 
party of Mohawks. The greater 
part of the Hurons leaped ashore and 
took to the woods. The French and 
their converts made fight for a while, 
but were soon overpowered. Fa- 
ther Jogues sprang into a clump of 
bulrushes and might have escaped, 
but, seeing Goupil in the hands of the 
.savages, he came forward, resolved to 
share his fate. Couture, too, got away, 
but came back to join his companions. 
In his excitement he shot dead one 
of a band of Mohawks who sprang 
upon him. The others rushed upon 
him, tore away his finger-nails with 
their teeth, gnawed at his fingers 
like wild beasts, and thrust a sword 
through one of his hands. The ^e- 




202 



Tlu yesuits in North America, 



suit threw his arms about his friend's 
neck, but the Indians dragged hira 
away, beat him till he was senseless, 
and when he revived lacerated his 
fingers as they had done those of 
Couture. Goupil was then treated 
in the same manner. They set off 
with their prisoners for the Mohawk 
towns, rowing across Lake Cham- 
plain and Lake George. Thirteen 
days of horrible suffering were pass- 
ed on the journey. At last tliey reach- 
ed a palisaded village, built upon a 
hill on the banks of tht; Mohawk 
river. At the entrance the prison- 
ers were forced to run the gauntlet 
Then they were placed on a high plat- 
form, disfigured, livid, and streaming 
with blood, and the crowd proceeded 
to " caress" them. A Christian Al- 
gonquin woman, a prisoner among 
them, was compelled to cut off the 
priest's left thumb with a clam-shell. 
Goupil was mutilated in the same 
manner. The torture lasted all day. 
At night the captives were stretched 
on their backs with limbs extended, 
and tlieir wrists and ankles fastened 
to stakes. The children now amused 
themselves by placing live coals on 
their naked bodies. For three days 
more they were exposed on the scaf- 
fold ; then they were led to two other 
Mohawk towns in turn, and at each 
the tortures were repeated. Once 
some Huron prisoners were placed 
on the same platform with them, and 
Father Jogues found an opportunity 
to convert them in the midst of the 
torture, and to baptize them with a 
few rain-flrops from an ear of com 
that had been thrown to him for food. 
Couture, having won the respect of 
the savages by his intrepid bearin^^, 
was adopted into one of their fam- 
ilies, and gained in time great in- 
fluence over them. Goupil was one 
day detected making the sign of the 
cross on the forehead of a child, and 
for this was killed by a blow from 



Ilia v.<ipiui| 

badlu^yl 
dragg^H 
!. nowufl 



It, when 
sc wUbj 

J 

ans^^H 
Albaoyl 



a hatchet, falling at the fe 
Jogues, who gave him at 
fore he expired. The priesr 
warned every hour that his dcil 
near, and hated by his capton 
thought he brought bad k 
himting parties, was 
from place to place, 
the hunters through the fore^ 
laboring in the villages to C(| 
the old men and squaws, or b| 
dying children. He brotighl 
wood for his masters, did ibd 
ding without a murmur, was 
under their abuse ; but, when 
reviled his faith, he rose wiUii 
jcstic air, and rebuked 
liaving authorit)-. 

He had been nearly 
slavery when the Indians j 
with them on a trading 
Dutch at Fort Orange, (^ 
can imagine how his heart must 
beat at the sight of a white fac« 
his long banishment ; but he h 
thought of turning back after hil 
had once been put to the plougl 
no plans of escape entered his; 
While here, however, he leama 
the Indians of the village had I 
resolved to kill him as soon i 
returned. He had found me| 
warn the French at Three Riv; 
intended treachery on the ^ 
some Mohawk visitors, and t| 
vages had determined to be \i 
ed. To trust himself longer i]| 
hands would not be heroism, bt^ 
hardiness. A Dutch settler n 
Van Curler offered him a passi 
a little vessel then lying in the H^ 
either to Bordeaux or Rochclleu 
Jesuit spent a night in prayci 
then resolved to accept the prq 
With the assistance of hi$ | 
friends, and after several narr^ 
capes from detection, he got) 
from his savage masters by j 
rowed to the vessel in a boaXJ 
the settlers left for his 




TJu yesuits in North America, 



203 



id was kindly received by the 
ind stowed away in the hold, 
le remained half-stifled for 
"s and a half, while the en- 
f(^awks ransacked the set- 
and searched the vessel For 
curityvuitil the day of sailing, 
hen concealed in the garret of 
on shore, where his host stole 
'isions that the kind-hearted 
en sent for his use. The 
iominie, Megapolensis, visit- 
here, and did all he could 
comfort At last, an order 
)m Manhattan that he should 
down to the Director-General 
ho exchanged his squalid In- 
tss for a suit of Dutch cloth, 
t him passage in a small ves- 
^almouth. After various ad- 
s, having fallen into the hands 
ers in the English port, and 
is way to France in a coal- 
)e presented himself, on the 
; of the 5th of January, 1644, 
tatters, at the door of the Je- 
[ege in Rennes. He asked 
father rector, but was told 
was busy and could not be 
'Tell him, if you please," 
ither Jogues, "that a man 
anada would speak a few 
ith him." The Canada mis- 
\ an object of deep interest 
time all through the society, 
2 father rector, though he 
»ut vesting for mass, ordered 
I to be admitted. He asked 
lestions about the affairs of 
, and at last inquired if the 
• knew Father Jogues. 
30W him very well," was the 

Iroquois have taken him," 
id the reverend Superior, 
dead ?" 

' answered the missionary, 
alive and at liberty. I am 
hen he fell on his knees and 
le rector's blessing. 



His arrival was celebrated, as we 
might well suppose, with great re- 
joicing. He was summoned to Pa- 
ris, where the queen kissed his muti- 
lated hands and the whole court 
strove to honor him. The blandish- 
ments of the great, however, gave no 
pleasure to this scarred veteran of 
Christ's army. He longed to be 
again in the field, and in two or three 
months he sailed once more for Ca- 
nada. 

In the mean time the missions had 
fared ill. Violent warfare raged be- 
tween the Iroquois confederation (of 
which the Mohawks formed a part) 
and the Hurons and Algonquins. 
In one respect and for a short time 
this was of some benefit to the faith, 
for the Algonquins, threatened with 
destruction by their more powerful 
enemies, became docile, and listened 
more readily to the exhortations of 
the French priests. Yet they were 
rapidly approaching exterminatiotu 
Whole villages were destroyed in the 
periodical incursions of the Iroquois. 
The neophytes were massacred. The 
missionaries were intercepted on 
their journeys. Father Joseph Bres- 
sani was captured on his way to the 
Huron country in the spring of 1644. 
One of his Indian companions was 
roasted and eaten before his eyes. 
The father himself was beaten with 
sticks until he was covered with 
blood. His hands were fearfully 
mutilated. His fingers were slit ; 
one day a nail would be burned off; 
the next, a joint. He was made to 
walk on hot cinders. He was given 
up to the children to be tortured. 
He was hanged by the feet with 
chains. He was tied to the ground, 
and food was placed upon his naked 
body that the dogs might lacerate him 
as they ate. Ten weeks afterward 
he wrote to the father -general at 
Rome : "I do not know if your pa- 
ternity will recognize the handvmtvn^ 



204 



The yesuits in North America. 



of one whom you once knew very well. 
The letter is soiled and ill-written ; 
because the .writer has only one fin- 
ger of his right hand left entire, and 
cannot prevent tlie blood from his 
wounds, which are still open, from 
staining the paper. His ink is gun- 
powder mixed with water, and his ta- 
ble is the earth." He survived and 
was carried to Fort Orange, where 
the Dutch ransomed him and sent 
him back to France. The next 
spring he too returned and succeeded 
in reaching the Hurons. Father de 
Noue, whom we have mentioned as 
one of the first companions of Le 
Jeune, perished in tlie snow in Feb- 
ruary, 1646, on the way from Quebec 
to a French port at the mouth of the 
river Richelieu, where he was to hear 
confessions. A peace had indeed been 
concluded with the Mohawks just 
before Jogues' return, but a peace 
with them could be no better than a 
precarious truce. Couture, who had 
been with Father Jogues in his cap- 
tivit}', and become a person of con- 
sideration with the tribe, had render- 
ed good service in tlie negotiation, 
and would continue to serve his 
country-men to the utmost of his 
power; yet it was felt that to keep 
the Indians to their engagements an 
agent of still higher personal charac- 
ter was required, and Father Jogues 
was assigned to the duty. " I shall 
go," he wTote to a friend, " but I 
shall not return." 

His mission was partly political, 
but mainly, of course, religious. By 
the advice of an Algonquin convert, 
he exchanged hii cassock for a civi- 
lian's doublet, not wishing to irritate 
the savages by a premature declara- 
tion of his heavenly message. He 
held a council with tlie head men of 
the Mohawks, presented the gifts of 
the Canadian government, and then 
set about founding a new mission, to 
be called tlie Mission of the Martyrs. 






There were three pnnc 
among the Mohawks — Uk 
Bear, the Tortoise, and tl 
The first were bitter foes 
French, and eager for war;' 
others stood out resolutely ; 
Many were the fierce debati 
their council-fires whether' 
sionary should be killed or not 
last, one day, a band of warri4 
the Bear clan met the priest I 
young lay companion of his, nj 
Lalande, in the woods, stripped | 
and led them in triumph to the] 
There they were beaten with al 
and strips of flesh were cut froU 
ther Jogues' back and arms. Ii 
evening, the priest wa.s sitting i| 
of the lodges, when an Indiana 
and invited him to a feast.i 
fuse would have been an it 
arose and followed the mes 
the cabin of the chief of the \ 
As he bent his head to ent 
age, concealed within, cloved 
with a hatchet, the weapon 
through the arm of an Indian; 
tried to avert the blow. The 0) 
sank at the feet of his murd 
His head was instantly cut ofi^ 
stuck upon tlie palisade whidj 
closed the town, and his 
thrown into the river. Th« 
Lalande was killed, and his^ 
received the same treatment 



wniu) 



The murder of Father J(^^ 
the signal for a reopening of th< 
with the colonists and their « 
and among the first victims wen 
Algonquin converts. We 
space to relate the story of li 
prise of their villages, the 
torture of the captives, or the' 
sacre of the children, the old, 
tlie infirm. But some of the pi 
ers escaped, and the adventurl 
one of them were so interesting 
we cannot resist the tcmpt3ti< 
copy them from the animat 



i weq 

snSi 






T6f yesuUs in North America. 



205 



Parkman. This was an Al- 
1 woman named Marie, whose 
d had been burned with other 
s. One night, while the sav- 
nere dancing and shrieking 
he flames in which one of her 
men was being consumed, 
le away into the forest The 

was covered with snow, so, 
- footsteps should betray her, 
aced the beaten path in which 
dians had already travelled 
he came near a village of 
^ndagas. There she hid her- 
a thicket, and at night crept 

> g^ope in the snow for a few 
>f com left from the last year's 

She saw many Indians 
er lurking-place, and once a 
'age with an axe came direct- 
rd her, but she murmured a 
md he turned away. Certain 
h if discovered, and disheart- 
the prospect of the long and 
journey through the frozen 
ess to Canada, she tried to 
suicide by hanging herself 
r girdle, but it broke twice, 
B plucked up heart. With 
hing but a thin tunic, she 
1 on, directing her course 
sun, and living upon roots 
inner bark of trees, and now 
in catching tortoises in the 

At night she kindled a fire 
riction of two sticks in some 
ok of the forest, warmed her- 
ked her food, if she had any, 
i her rosary. Once she dis- 
a party of Iroquois warriors, 

lay concealed and they 
xrithout observing her. Fol- 
heir trail, she found their bark 
>y the bank of a river. It 

> large for her to manage 
tut with a hatchet which she 
ked up in a deserted camp 
uced it to a convenient size, 
ited down the stream to the 
rence. Her journey was now 



much easier. There were eggs of 
Mrild fowl to be found along the 
shore, and fish in the river, which 
she speared with a sharp pole. She 
even killed deer by driving them 
into the water, chasing them in her 
canoe, and striking them on the 
head with her hatchet At the end 
of two months she reached Montreal, 
after hardships which no woman but 
an Indian could have supported. 

The central mission of Sainte Ma- 
rie was meanwhile in the flush of 
prosperity. The buildings included 
a church, a kitchen, a refectory, large 
rooms for spiritual instruction and 
the exercises of retreat, and lodgings 
for at least sixty persons. Around 
these principal houses ran a fortified 
line of palisades and masonry, out- 
side which was a hospital and a large 
bark hut for the reception of wan- 
dering Indians. Here every alter- 
nate week the converts from all the 
Huron villages gathered in immense 
crowds to attend divine service, cele- 
brated with all the pomp which the 
resources of the mission allowed, and 
to partake for three days of the 
bounteous hospitality of the good 
fathers. In times of pestilence and 
famine they flocked hither for relief, 
and at one time, in a year of scarcity, 
as many as three thousand received 
food and shelter at Sainte Marie. 
Hither, also, two or three times every 
year, the Jesuits — ^now twenty-two in 
number, including four lay-brothers 
— came together from their outlying 
missions, to refresh their souls by 
mutual counsel, and gather strength 
in prayer and meditation for the 
work of the next twelve months. 
To assist in the manual labor of 
the establishment there were seven 
hired men and four boys, and 
as a defence against the dread- 
ed Iroquois the commandant of 
Quebec had sent them a guard of 
eight soldiers. They received also 



206 



The yesuits in North America, 



much valuable help from the dontUs, 
or "given men" — French la}'men, 
who from pure zeal devoted them- 
selves to the service of the mission, 
travelling with the fathers on their 
dangerous journeys, and sometimes 
sharing — like Goupil, called "the 
good R^nif " — in the glories of their 
mart}Tdom. These pious men — 
"seculars in garb," Father Gamier 
called them, " but religious in heart" 
•^received no pay except a bare 
maintenance. There were eleven 
smaller missions dependent upon 
Sainte Marie, eight among the Hu- 
rons and three among the Algon- 
quins. At several of them tliere 
was a church where every morn- 
ing a bell summoned the dusky 
converts to Mass, and every even- 
ing the)' met again for prayer. 
Despite the enormous difficulties of 
transportation through that tangled 
wilderness, the fathers had found 
means to carry with them from place 
to place large colored pictures, gay 
draperies, and many a showy orna- 
ment for the altar or the walls, which 
they well knew would invest tlieir 
rude chapels with an almost irresis- 
tible attraction for the savage mind. 
In many villages the Christians, by 
the year 1649, outnumbered the pa- 
gans. Sundays and feast-days were 
almost wholly devoted to religious 
exercises ; and if the Indians had 
not wholly abandoned their barbar- 
ous and cruel practices, it is certain 
that the ferocity even of those who 
refused to become Christians was 
sensibly tamed. 

But the season of good fort;me 
which followed the martyrdom of 
Goupil and Jcgues was destined to 
be but short. The increasing hosti- 
lity of the Iroquois was to be the 
destruction at once of the Huron 
nation and of the high hopes which 
had been built upon that people. 
Yet it may be questioned whether 






the Jesuits would have lon| 
left at peace even had these I 
foes kept within the range a 
own villages. Even among tl 
rons tlie munnurs of suspidc 
dislike had begun to be heard 
The French ceremony of " pi 
said the savages, had blight 
crops, and the mystic rites 
priests had brought famii 
solation upon the nati 
was even a stor)', widely 
the Huron lodges, that an I 
girl, baptized before her deati 
been to the French heaven, a 
ter suffering horrible tormenta 
from the pale faces, had ma^ 
escape back to eartli to det< 
countrymen from rushing to lh< 
fate. A young Frenchman i 
service of the mission had 
treacherously murdered ; and I 
the missionaries by a wise si) 
resolution had compelled the i 
to make satisfaction for the 01 
by the ceremonious offering < 
merous strings of wampum, an 
thus restored their waning infli 
it was clear that their position . 
best was extremely prccariotu 
that persecution, if it came no^ 
abroad, would pretty surely be 
menced at home. The catast) 
therefore, when it came, foun 
priests not unprepared. For 
they had carried their Wves in 
hands, ready to cast them da 
any moment. For years the] 
walked through the valley o 
shadow of death, and in the roif 
the dark river and in the bitter 1 
they knew that the almighty 
was stretched forth to hold the 
The final act opened at the 1 
of Teanaustay»f, or St. Josep 
the south-eastern frontier of tl« 
ron countrj'. On the 4th o( 
1648, Father Daniel, fresh froi 
annual retreat at Sainte MarM 
just finished M: 



ilass, and hi^di 



The ytsuits in North America. 



207 



gition were still kneeling in the 
diurch, when the Iroquois burst 
upon the town and attacked the pa- 
lisade which surrounded it. The 
priest, after rallying the warriors to de- 
fend their homes, ran from house to 
bouse urging unbelievers to repent 
A panic-stricken crowd fell at his 
knees and declared themselves Chris- 
tians, and he baptized them vrith 
water sprinkled f^om a wet hand- 
kerchief, for there was no time to do 
more. When the palisade was bro- 
ken down, he showed his flock how 
to escape at the other end of the 
town. "I will stay here," said he. 
"^^'e shall meet again in heaven." 
He would not fly while there was a 
Mai to be saved in the village. In 
his priestly vestments he went out 
to the church-door to meet the Iro- 
quois. For a moment they paused 
m amazement Then, pierced with 
scores of arrows and a musket-ball 
through the heart, he fell, gasping 
the name of Jesus. The savages 
hacked his lifeless body, bathed 
their faces in his blood to make 
them brave, and consumed in one 
great conflagration the village, the 
church, and the sacred remains. 

The following March the missions 
of St Loub and St Ignace were 
burned by the same terrible enemy. 
At the latter were two of the Jesuits ; 
Br^beuf, sturdy offspring of a war- 
rior race, with all the soldierly cha- 
racteristics of his Norman ancestors ; 
and Lalemant, delicate in body and 
m spirit, yet in the glorious cause no 
vfait less courageous and resolute 
than his stronger companion. They 
were seized by their captors, and 
Bnfbeuf was bound to a stake, and, 
as he ceased not to exhort and en- 
courage the convert prisoners, the 
Iroquois scorched him from head to 
foot to silence him. That failing, 
they cut away his lower lip, and thrust 
a red-hot iron down his throat, yet 



still he held himself erect without ut- 
tering a groan. Lalemant, led out 
to be burned, with strips of bark 
smeared with pitch tied about his 
naked body, broke loose from his 
guards and cast himself at the hero's 
feet, crying out in a broken voice : 
"We are made a spectacle to the 
world, to angels, and to men." He 
was immediately seized and made 
fast to a post, and as the flames en- 
veloped him he threw up his arms 
to heaven with a shriek of agony. 
Brdbeuf, with a collar of red-hot 
hatchets round his neck and with his 
hands and nose cut off, had to wit- 
ness the tortures of his friend and 
could not even utter a word of com- 
fort An apostate Indian in the 
crowd cried out, " Baptize them ! bap- 
tize them !" Instantly kettles were 
placed upon the fire, the priests' 
scalps were torn away, and scalding 
water was jxiured slowly over their 
bleeding heads. BrAcuf s feet were 
next cut off, strips of flesh were 
sliced from his limbs and eaten be- 
fore his eyes, and at last, when life 
was nearly extinct, the savages laid 
open his breast, tore out his heart 
and devoured it, and thronged 
around the mangled corpse to drink 
the blood of so magnificent and in- 
domitable a hero. His torments 
had lasted four hours. Father Lale- 
mant, though a man of extreme fee- 
bleness of constitution, survived the 
torture seventeen hours, writhing 
through the night in the most ex- 
cruciating sufferings, until an Iroquois, 
surfeited with the long entertainment, 
killed him with a hatchet. 

This massacre was the death-knell 
of the Huron mission — of the mis- 
sion, that is to say, in the form and 
extent in which the society had 
originally designed it Other vil- 
lages were burned ; two other mis- 
sionaries. Gamier and Chabanel, 



2o3 



The yesuits in North America, 



were martyred ; the entire establish- 
ment was withdrawn from Sainte 
Marie ; and the miserable remnant 
of the Hurons was scattered far and 
jWide. A portion of them, after a 
inter of starvation, embarked with 
the sur\'iving missionaries for Que- 
bec, and near that city founded a 
settlement, in which the Christian 
faith was preserved and is cherished 
to this day. Others voluntarily 
abandoned their nationality and were 
adopted into the Seneca tribe of tlie 
Iroquois, where eighteen years after- 
ward many of them were found to be 
still good Catholics- 

The story which we have briefly 
traced in its most striking outlines 
is but one chapter in the long history 
of the labors, the sufferings, and the 
glorious achievements of the Jesuits 
in North America. We would glad- 
ly have followed them further in 
their journeys through the wilder- 
ness, traced them with a Huron rem- 
nant in the far west, and lingered 
for a while about their headquarters 
at Quebec watching the growth of 
rthe central establishment which sent 
forth its apostles to the great lakes 
on the one hand, and through the 
forests of Maine to the sea-coast on 
tlie other. But we must bring our 
story to a close. The record of 
their work has been well preserved 
in the tliree books whose titles we 
have placed at the head of this arti- 
cle. The history by Mr, John 
G. Shea, to whom Catholics in gen- 
eral and American Catholics es- 
pecially are under the deepest obli- 
gations for his careful and success- 
fill researches, is the fullest and, we 
doubt not, the most correct. The 
narrative of Mr. Parkman, which we 
have followed closely, giving in some 
parts of our article merely an ab- 



stract of what he has told in pic 
esque detail, is written in a cl 
ing style, and is valuable as tcstf- 
mony to the exalted character of the 
missionaries from one who has 
sympathy with their faith and is 
able to appreciate their piety. 

The Iroquois, in destroying 
Huron nation, and with it the Alj 
quins, to whom tlie Hurons had hit 
erto served as a bulwark, had 
stroyed the Jesuit scheme of a Chril 
tian Indian empire ; but the lat 
of the missionaries had not been 
vain. The seed which they ha 
planted was not allowed to da 
The exiles carried the sacred def 
of faith with them in their wand« 
ings, as the Israelites in the wildc 
ness bore the ark of the covenant^ 
Years afterward, when Father Grc- 
Ion, one of those who escaped fr 
the Iroquois massacre, was travi 
in the heart of Tartary.he met a Ht 
ron woman who had learned 
truth from him in the little chapel 
Sainte Marie, and after the fir 
catastrophe had been sold from irifc 
to tribe until she reached the inta 
rior of Asia. She knelt at hisfc 
and in her native tongue, which sb 
had not spoken nor the priest heaf 
for years, she made her confessic 
Nor was it only in the fidelity of 
dividuals that t^e missionaries reap 
their harvest. When, after the nrifl^ 
of their enterprise on the shores of the 
Georgian Bay, they sent their un- 
daunted preachers among that terri- 
ble people who had wrought such 
havoc, how can we doubt that the 
blood of Br^euf and his brethren was 
permitted to fructify their labors, and 
that the saintly men who gave tlvtir 
sufferings for the poor savage dar* 
ing so many years pleaded and 
vailed in the same great cav 
they had entered into their 



Learnt Wtmun and Studious WomM. 



209 



Tmulated from Le Correipaiidant 

LEARNED WOMEN AND STUDIOUS WOMEN. 



BY MONSEIGNEUR DUPANLOUP. 
(Concladcd.) 



Vlt. 
.NTAGES OP INTEIXXCTUAL LABOS. 

iM) not recommend self-culture 
y for the personal satisfaction 
nnen, or in order that they may 
mental gratification. Study is 
Dtly useful and important for 
:xx>mplishment of important du- 
Is it not a convenience, in se- 
g a teacher or governess, for 
daughters to understand what 
led /<r /ond du mittfr better than 
do, so that one may superin- 
and direct them, and even if ne- 
ry, supply their place? Should 
her give her children life and 
leave the duties of maternity in 
uids of mercenaries, no matter 
x>nscientious and devoted they 
>e? 

: it is in relation to sons that ma- 
1 ignorance has the most fatal 
s. Not only is a wife not con- 
1 about her boys, but, if she 
s any objection to an irreligious 
1, the husband answers : " I 
my son to have a career. I 
place him where he will be pre- 
fer it You do not know even 
ames of the sciences he must 
re — leave the direction of his 
tion to me." And when the 
individual leaves school, puffed 
idi conceit rather than with 
iedge, and the mother's Chris- 
beait shows her the sophistry 
which her son's mind has been 
ou wt — 14 



filled, she must keep silence for want 
of one single fact, one precise datum 
in her memory to oppose to perilous 
errors. 

Often a father, engaged in some 
especial career, loses sight of the lit- 
erary or artistic movement which in- 
terests his son in early manhood. 
Then is the time when an intelligent^ 
well-informed mother could initiate 
him in pursuits which she has loved 
and cultivated all her life. She could 
point out to him good authors and 
books worth reading, read with him, 
teach him to reject dangerous writ- 
ers and bad books, and stimulate 
his taste for study, by directing it to 
noble objects. 

Surely a mother is bound to cher- 
ish the body and the soul of her 
child. Indeed, her place may be 
more easily filled with respect to the 
details of physical education, than to 
those of intellectual and moral train- 
ing. Many persons can assist her 
in the former ; with regard to the lat- 
ter, she often stands alone, and some- 
times surrounded by obstacles. 

To follow a young man's "mental 
development and course of study, to 
watch over him and guide him with 
the authority belonging to a rectitude 
of judgment which carries conviction 
along with it, and to an enlightened 
understanding which unites with 
goodness in inspiring admiration and 
confidence — all this, presupposes a 
rare combination of mental qualities. 
How many mothers there axe -«\io 



Learned Wonteti and Studious 



lose their hold upon a son's soul be- 
cause they have not borne, nursed, 
reared, and nourished his understand- 
ing as well as his physical being. To 
be a mother, a mother in all the ele- 
vation, extent, and depth of that great 
name ! This aim alone justifies a 
woman's noblest efforts to acquire 
tlie highest intellectual culture. 

But if you agree to favor the men- 
tal development of women, for the 
sake even of domestic usefulness, ac- 
cept this development in its com- 
pleteness ; do not impose upon it 
arbitrary Umit.'s. There are minds 
that cannot unfold in mutilation or 
inaction, which need expansion, as 
St Augustine says, to become strong. 
A woman who, from a sentiment 
for art or literature, has developed 
talent, does not lose, by becoming 
skilful, the advantages that mediocre 
faculties would have given her. We 
may feel sure that gifts of this nature 
answer to duties, and find themselves 
in harmony with the providential des- 
tiny of their possessors. 

I do not believe, with M. de Mais- 
tre, that science in petticoats, as he 
calls it, or talent of any description 
whatsoever, makes a woman less ex- 
cellent as a wife or mother. 

Study renders a wife worthy of her 
husband if he is intelligent. Union 
can hardly be preserved in a house- 
hold unless community of intellect 
completes that of affection. As a 
woman loses her youthful charms, 
the worth of her mind must increase 
in her husband's eyes, and esteem 
perpetuate affection. By that time 
the husband, if he has ability, is 
entering upon the period of his great- 
est activity, while too often the wife, 
brought up in the severest principles 
and in habits of empty occupations, 
bores him with her mechanical piety, 
her music, and her worsted work. A 
crowd of engrossing duties gain ever 
5i/tv}^r possession of the husband, 



forming a circle which the u 
pied wife cannot penetrate, and 
is brought about between them wl 
one may call a mental separation. 
On the other hand, a studious 
man shares her husband's preoc^ 
pation, and sustains him in his 
bors and struggles. She follows 
husband and precedes her son, 
pying in the home circle a lofty 
sition that makes her an aid and 
viser to its ma.ster. She feels 
he is proud of her, and needs h' 
but this does not make her presum] 
tuous. She leans securely on her 
happiness, feeling confident that noth- 
ing can shake a union formed upoo 
a principle of perfect community 
two souls and two intelligences, ft 
ing sure that her love will last 
long as the souls it unites. To 
woman who is superior lo her hi 
band, study gives an intellectual 
ment without which she would f< 
rebellious, and in such a houschol 
there may be great happiness am 
tranquillity. Even in the case of 
husband who is unworthy of his wifi 
he is forced to respect her for the su- 
periority of her intellect The St. 
ing which she cams for herself in 
world by her talent and virtue, wii 
his regard, and she at least holds t 
honor of her family in her own hm 
Woman, in becoming Christiai 
has become man's companion, 
cia, and moreover an aid, assistan 
support, and adviser, adjutortui 
Religion, while elevating her soul an^ 
heart, has also rendered her mind 
capable of comprehending, soi 
times of equalling, but most cs; 
cially of assisting the intelligence oi 
man. While leaving her ph\'sicaO 
weak, God has implanted in her 
germs of every greatness and t:\rrf 
moral power. There has never been 
a noble work in which women have 
not assisted ; as the teachers of men, 
as their inspirers, and often as the 




J 



Learned Women and Studious Women. 



311 



ions of their labor, the world 
{n women devote intellect and 
ihose whom they loved, dwell- 
^ level with thoughts which, 
ConAded Arst to them, had 
I a swift and strong develop- 
nm the double influence. Wo- 
ires to education the union of 
l&llectual life to that of man. 
|(S worked for him, she has 
j like him for God, and man has 
U subtile growth from the frail 
le entrusted to his protection. 
ym nothing more generous than 
tnacy that does not stop at a 
^1 union of interests or even 

f'ons, but passes on to the do- 
thought. I have seen such 
I I know too more than one 
Ivrho, notwithstanding his rare 
ence, must have left the work 
fetimc unfinished but for the 
la mind placed at the service 
and infirmity by filial de- 

that a woman's acquire- 

ijelp her to fulfil great duties 

her husband, and I know 

bten (no offence to M. de 

b) who could get along better 

tte than with a coquette. 

iave spoken of domestic 

now examine the ques- 

regard to society, taking 

)wing theses to argue. 

intain that, if the world were 

nduigent a...J refrained from 

, stupid anathemas at stu- 

►n, those who have such 

indulge them without 

lemselves to be extraor- 

>ns ; and that they would 

I certain life into society, even 

iber were limited. Per- 

Stmdard of conversation, 

lions, and ideas would rise, 

td subjects inspire more 

W\o would complain of 

}dJn^ iheir education 




on a certain fixed day, and throwing 
themselves heart and soul into so- 
ciety, young women would preserve 
the habits of intellectual training; 
they would carry on and complete 
for themselves, their husband and 
their children the education already 
commenced ; some cultivating art, 
others writing or studying, others 
reading. Thus they would become 
acquainted with the interests of re- 
ligion and society ; with opinions 
and books and ideas in general cir- 
culation. Would they not exercise a 
new and salutary influence at home 
and in the world ? 

But it is especially in the provinces 
that such aspirations are severely cri- 
ticised. Those women have small 
liberty to learn, and still less to make 
use of their acquirements. The most 
tolerant say, " Study on condition 
that you conceal what you learn. 
Your whole inner life claims expan- 
sion and sjTnpathy ? Never mind 
that!" 

But if you forbid women to write or 
speak of the things that interest them, 
how can you suppose they will have 
the courage to work for the acquire- 
ment of knowledge that is to be 
buried for ever in their own minds? 

And I repeat, if the standard of 
conversation could be raised a little, 
drawn out of the monotonous circle 
in which it moves, where would be 
the harm ? Instead of seeking in 
society a sterile distraction, and often 
finding ennui, if some intercourse of 
mind at least, if not of heart andj 
soul, could be established, replacing 
town-gossip and dissertations on the 
fashions by interesting and instruc- 
tive conversations from which one 
could derive the advantage that al- 
ways results from effort made in 
common to arrive at an appreciation 
of the beautiful, and of noble ideasi 
and interests, would not the change 
betoken genuine progress? 



212 



.contfA 



This is to be found in some sa- 
lons. There are homes where young 
girls are not excluded from general 
conversation. They arc not, as else- 
U'here, banished to a comer of the 
drawng-room to enjoy the privilege 
and habit of discussing together 
every sort of nonsense, but are al- 
lowed to listen to anything that in- 
terests them, and even to talk agree- 
ably without being thought conspicu- 
ous. This was the habit at M, 's, 

where his two daughters joined the 
most serious reunions, mingling in 
very interesting conversations, or at 
least listening, and all quite natur- 
ally, without pretension or pedantry. 
Those two young girls have become 
very superior women. How many, 
on the other hand, suffer from ennui 
or become deteriorated, because their 
active minds receive no nourish- 
ment 1 

Is it then so difficult to prove that 
the intellectual development of wo- 
jnen through literature and the fine 
arts, far from introducing a foreign 
element into their lives, or creating 
necessities and interfering with duty, 
is, on the contrary, a source of daily 
advantage to domestic life and to so- 
ciety ? 

In the domestic circle, whose moral 
atmosphere they create as it were, 
elevating or debasing by their influ- 
ence, sentiments, occupations, and 
ideas ; and in society, where a well- 
directed employment of their talents 
and cultivation would substitute soli- 
dity for the hollow frivolity of the ri- 
unions of the present day. " For three 
years I have seen society in the pro- 
vinces," writes to ime a young woman. 
" It differs little from that of other 
(provincial) places, I suppose. Ah 
me ! sometimes at the end of the day 
I sum up six or seven hours spent, 
with or against my will, in gossip 
about my neighbors that, while com- 
promising ch^ty, has exhausted the 



mind and narrowed the alt 
row horizon." 

Is there no middle cotirse J 
men between the folly of dan] 
and frivolous amusements, 81 
balls and theatres, and the insu 
rble bore of parties where long 
ing hours are spent in the SA 
of small talk ? Efforts in a dt 
direction meet with success, 
winter, an intelligent and rd 
woman, who likes societ)' but 
not dance, tried the experimei 
provincial town. She conceiv 
idea of having really good mt 
her drawing-room. Quartett 
Mozart and Beethoven were p 
The admiration aroused by 
chfj-d'auvres naturally lifle< 
mind above the level of thos< 
mon preocaipations that find 
echo in society. Conversatk 
the influence; everyone was d 
ed, and brought away soroethinj 
these soiriei, where the sense o( 
ty, while reasserting itself, i 
good thoughts and strengthened 
sentiments. 

I think that, if women tool 
the initiative, giving an upwa 
rection to that craving for recr 
which we seek to satisfy in so 
if men found other ways of pi 
women, more acceptable than i 
dity and frivolity ; perhaps woi 
young men would feel themselvi 
masters of the world, and clubs 
be less generally the refuge of | 
men who find themselves bo| 
drawing-rooms. ' 

If we could conquer' the tl 
prejudice that forbids a woman 
well educated, to talk of or e*n 
jjcar interested in serious things 
would be a goodly number wha 
take a nobler aim and find pleaj 
something better than drea 
an intelligent woman wc 
greater exception than one^ 
on the piano, and would not hav^ 



tne^H 




Learned Women and Studious Women, 



213 



itions to pride, which are said 
wassail her in her position of pheno- 
iDcnon. 

We cannot destroy the world, but 

C can ameliorate it, by giving it 

attractions than those of idle 

Uing pleasure. Would not 

il progress pave the way for 

jgress ? I know ja/owi- where, 

to the dignity and intelligence 

the thoughtful, amiable hostess, 

events, noble ideas, and good 

rks ever find an echo ; where solid 

n'ersatioD slimulates ardor for stu- 

f, by opening broader intellectual 

rons, and where pure artistic 

notions develop a love of the beau- 

til. If a little more artistic and 

Itellectual life were introduced into 

slian society, one would not feel 

to go to the theatre to catch 

few rffiits, as I have heard said, 

;in families where religion was in 

respects quite faitlifully prac- 

No doubt — and here I sum up the 

matter under discussion — no 

iatcUectual culture may pre- 

•t three perils, but perils easily 

led against. 
ML .\ neglect of practical duties. 
ais danger must be met by forti- 
praclical education, by giving 
girls habits of order and of 
Jlgularity, which double time and as- 
% place in life to every dut>'; 
labove all, habits of practical and 
piety, which means nothing else 
courageous fulfilment of duty. 
scL An exaltation of imagination, 
one to crave intellectual en- 
that cannot always be grant- 

iHc re ai^in piety alone can pre- 

; equilibrium. The important 

jb, lo make education respond 

of God without overload- 

joihering them, for they usual- 

witli them counterbalancing 

Excessive culture is danger- 



ous, insi^cient culture perhaps more 
so. 

3d. Pride, This must be prevent- 
ed by good sense cultivated in a 
Christian manner. It is to be re- 
marked that, if mental culture, like 
personal charms, can excite pride, 
study has at least a counterpoise. 
It gives an enlightened seriousness 
to the mind, while successes due to 
beauty and dress cannot but be fri- 
volous and mischievous. 

Pride, I acknowledge, affords a 
specious plea for the maintenance of 
systems restricting feminine educa- 
tion. We would preserve to them 
that modesty which is said to be 
their brightest ornament. I agree 
that modesty is not only a virtue, but 
a great charm ; but I am by no means 
sure that ignorance is its best guardian. 
Nay, taken in a certain sense, it is a 
pagan virtue, that is to say, a false 
or very imperfect quality. Give to a 
womhn, as you would to a man, all the 
knowledge, capacity', development of 
which she is susceptible ; give her 
at the same time Christian humility, 
and she will be adorned with a mod- 
est simplicity, truer and more charm- 
ing than that of the poor Hindoo wo- 
man who believes herself to be an 
animal, rather superior to the crea- 
tures in her poultry-yard, but very in- 
ferior in nature to her husband. This 
enlightened humility is a genuine 
virtue, the mother of many other 
virtues, the inspirer of a high degrefi 
of perfection. For humility does not' 
prevent our recognizing the progress 
we nave made. By opening our eyes 
to the merits of others, it shows us our 
own defects ; and if we were to attain 
the summit of human ability, it would 
hold up an ideal superiority Utat 
should stimulate effort without arous- 
ing eitlier pride or discouragement. 

We may be sure that a cultii-ated 
mind is of all others the best fitted 
to a comprehension of duty, it V& 



214 



Learned Wmnen aud Studious Women. 



intelligent humilty, that is to say, 
true modesty, which presen-es us 
from pedantry. 

Vanity I That is the great danger, 
it is said. But the reputation that a 
woman acquires by literary or artis- 
tic talent is not the rock most to be 
dreaded. I say again that self-con- 
scious beauty and worldly triumphs 
fill the heart with a vanity that has 
no corrective in the cause that pro- 
duced it. 

Study and art, by elevating the 
soul, serve as a counterpoise to the 
sentiments of vanitj' they may excite. 
I see no such safeguard in successes 
won by advantages of another sort. 

All is summed up in saying that 
great gifts bring with them a danger 
against which the mind must be for- 
tified in advance by education. Edu- 
cation must adapt itself to different 
natures : it must, while developing 
the germs planted by God, direct 
this development with firmness, avert- 
ing perils and avoiding mistakes. It 
must make the moral development 
keep pace with the mental ; preserv- 
ing equilibrium between the ideal and 
the practical life, which interfere with 
each other less than is supposed, and 
accordance of which alone consti- 
tutes the dignity of existence. 

I confess that education is a more 
difficult and critical affair when ap>- 
plied to a richly endowed nature ; 
but it is also more beautiful and con- 
soling. 

viit. 

Tltl THtltD STAGE. 

I crave pardon of the ladies of the 
so-called grand monde for a truth, a 
painful truth intended solely for them. 

It is in the fashionable world that 
studious women are rarely found, and 
that they arc obliged to hide their 
worth. Strange tyranny of fortune ! 
It gives women leisure, and deprives 



MM 



them of the right to use it for th 
velopment of intellect, it is to 
fashionable women, that industry] 
be preached. Women less wca 
do not generally need the exh 
tion. In modest careers, when 
is the necessary condition of do 
tic well-being, cultivated womcB 
numerous. It is in the boni 
artists, scholars, physicians, lav 
judges, professors, that we moji 
quently find clever and studioui 
men, conversant with matters o 
possessed of real taleht, highly 
cated, but nicknamed by no ona 
mes savantes, because they an 
pride and treasure of home, ui 
sure by their intelligence don 
ease and comfort, nay, even a 
delicate luxury that has nothing 
with riches, and can be purcl 
only by feminine taste, llie 
ture is pretty in form, and grai 
arranged ; engravings recall fa' 
works of art, and reveal iJie 
and preferences of the housi 
Flowers, pictures, books, musi< 
pretty work, all show the home 
one much lived in, seldom left, 
happiness is to be found. Thi 
not empty and magnificent est 
ments whose masters are alwa 
sent, pursuing pleasure with a 
ish activity, and flying from the fl 
of their hottu except when the a 
ment of refurnishing it attracts f 
only to be driven away again 
the gilded ottomans are all in 
In these modest lodgings on the 
story the mother is surround 
her children. She brings l! 
herself. Thank God ! she mi 
so, and great is her reward, 
reigns over her children, and. 
understand her merits and s 
and love their mother tenderly, 
soon know the blessing of bein^^i 
in a rank of life where mothers 
not afford to pay servants, 
esses, and tutors to usurp their 



heir 11 

J 



Learned Wonten and Studious Women. 



2X5 



a difference there is between 

> systems of education ! The 
ank first at college and at 
; the daughters receive superior 
ions that I would gladly pro- 
t a model to fashionable young 

They wish to equal the moth- 

> studies with them, directing 
■lowing their work with sym- 
ng interest The law of labor 
more stringently upon a moth- 

upon any other creature ; the 
' her children is the field that 
list till by the sweat of her 
no other persons have receiv- 
:es to enable them to take her 
md if the most complete ed- 
iS are to be found in modest 
olds such as I have described, 
(wing to maternal industry, 
lany young people acquire a 
taste for horses and dogs from 
rcenaries who educate them I 
ler, in teaching her children, 
tes other tastes and ambitions, 
mes anxiety takes possession 
»oul as she asks herself wheth- 
;an arm their consciences with 
id honor sufficient to give them 
: to bear in their turn a retired 
[ never consent to win fortune 
se action. Then she redoubles 
e of their education, knowing 

be their only dower, and be- 
ever more attentive, virtuous, 
;ous, in order to transmit to 
ler own admirable dignity of 
id merit for them this heaven- 
r. 

children who see their mother 
ire secretly anxious to comfort 
iFard her. A desire to do good 
: vivid in these abodes of mod- 
ppiness than elsewhere, and 

of duty fulfilled makes each 
ntented with his lot and at 
vith God. The whole day is 
activity ; the father is at work, 
ther attends to her household 
or takes the children to school 



or to catechism ; and when evening 
comes, every one is tired with the day's 
work and glad to stay at home. Then 
comes the time for repose, children's 
g^mes, talking, reading, music, in- 
timacy, and gayety ; and the day 
closes peaceably without that worldly 
bustle and excitement which put to a 
severe test the virtue of even the 
most Christian women. 

A mother, thus occupied, never 
thinks of devoting herself to matters 
connected \nth her personal interests. 
She has not the time. Her girlhood, 
her early womanhood were spent in 
study. Now she is given up to the 
service of others. But this disinter- 
ested devotion, at once toil and sacri- 
fice, is more elevating to both soul 
and understanding than any other 
employment could be. No danger 
of vanity or pedantry for her ! and 
yet the instruction of her children is 
a great work. One marvels at the 
physical power that maternal love can 
give to a mother bent on carrying out 
her duties completely. Never wonder 
to find her capable, elevated, active, 
intelligent, indifferent to idle trifling 
and worldly coquetry. 

In these modest households again, 
I find model servants. It is a sajring, 
nowadays, that there are no good 
domestics to be had. People talk 
of the servants in old times. Read 
Molifere and the police regulations of 
the days of Louis XIV., and you will 
find that the grands seigneurs had 
worse attendants than we have now. 
Old-fashioned servants have no more 
disappeared than old-fashioned vir- 
tues. The virtues reign in simple, 
industrious homes, and there too we 
must look for devoted domestics. 
Do not expect hard work in the 
abodes of magnificent idleness. The 
servants of the unoccupied soon be- 
come unoccupied themselves ; in>- 
stinctively they imitate from a dis- 
tance their master's example, caXcYi 



3l6 



Learned Women and Studious Womtn, 




L 



the tone of the establishment, and 
assume irreproachable manners and 
lazy habits. A servant knows very 
well when he is assisting in an os- 
tentatious parade. He is quick to 
abuse opportunities, and needs often, 
in order to avenge himself for the in- 
feriority of his position, merely im- 
itate his master, even with no inten- 
tion of ridiculing him. But a devot- 
ed and courageous woman who is 
the first to take hold of work, trans- 
forms the souls of her domestics and 
raises their service to the dignity of 
devotion. Of course, the etiquette 
and perfect discipline that one ad- 
mires in some establishments are not 
to be found here. No ! Good ser- 
vants who are not held in immeasur- 
able distance from their masters, as- 
sume another sort of livery, the liv- 
ery of the virtues they see and study 
closely. They breathe a healthy, 
strengthening air, and in this atmos- 
phere of industr)', honesty, and con- 
fidence both masters and servants 
are happy. Ah ! I could mention 
splendid mansions that are inhabited 
by ennui, (not to speak of discord,) 
and I could tell of the happiness 
and dignity I have often witnessed 
in the third story. 

But in justice it must be added 
that I have not always met these 
virtues in the third story, nor enmn 
and idleness in grand establishments. 
There, too, when industry reigns, I 
have seen great virtues. It must be 
said that all depends upon education 
and habits. 

n. 

BAD HABITS AND PRETtTOICKS. 

But does education as it is bestow- 
ed to-day often accomplish great 
tilings ? I answer regretfully. No ; 
too often the education of the pre- 
sent day offers no such advantages. 
It cannot resist worldly dissipation 



or the idle mockery lavished bj 
ty ignorance on stitdious «i 
Connected study and atientii 
flection are most of all want 
the training of girls and the 
of life adopted by young womei 

As Ozanam has said, a t] 
upon instruction for girls and 
women is still to be written, 
subject is in no respect rightly \ 
stood ; no durable fruit has y 
peared. 

I know young girls whose i 
tion in music and drawing ha^ 
twenty or thirty francs a lesson, 
cultivating these expensive tal4l 
the first day of freedom. 

I take a single instance, 
young ladies for .seven or eight 
of their lives spend two and 
times three and four hours a ( 
the piano. But this study to j 
so much time is given, ami \ 
opens glorious horizons to mint 
soul, generally ends in one of 
soulless talents spoken of by Tc 
which borrow life from vanit/i 
talents useless for any practical 
]X)se, taking no root in the min^ 
seldom destined to sur^'ive th« 
ding-day. 

This charming author, rising 
indignation against the use ma 
educating young people in th< 
arts and of what are popularly tc 
talents tfagriment, exclaims : " 
much I have seen of these chxu 
talents and how little of their c% 
Young girls are interested in tJo( 
understand little, feel not at id 
believe, however, that they \ 
seek in artistic pursuits, insteij 
mere amusing recreation, cxcrcij 
the mind, expansion for the | 
development for the imagination 
find in these faculties which axi 
ally destroyed or left idle by feiii 
occupations, a perfection that \1 
as it were, clothe and ador 
soul." 



^ 




Learned Women and Studious Women. 



217 



t, as matters stand, music is a 
', more or less mechanical, that 
' reaches the soul, and seldom 
» at the commonest comprehen- 
of art How many girls who 

their days at the piano have 
er sense nor appreciation of 

they are doing ! ** We had 
c," says P. Gratry, " a brilliant 
ing that did not even rest one's 
s." Teachers are eager to im- 
a facile execution, but there are 
rho seek to form a good style, to 
i their pupils understand and 
!ciate composers, or grasp the 
I of musical ideas, 
ople play on the piano without 
:(Mnprehension of what they are 
»sing ; as one might recite poems 
:art in a language that one did 
nderstand. In Germany, where 
c claims a large share in the 
ation of girls, it is treated more 
usly. Through the study of har- 
j they rise from mechanism to 

awing is often equally misused, 
r'e seen persons who drew with 
litude and even with facility, 
yet could not distinguish good 
res from bad, or remember 
her Raphael was the master or 
nipil of Perugino. Even talent 
lot developed in them a sense of 

le world leaves the domain of mu- 
» to young girls on condition that 
shall derive no spiritual eleva- 
Tom it and merely waste a great 
of time. As to the plastic arts, 
a taste for painting arouses cri- 
n, and M. de Maistrc shudders 
« his daughter painting in oil. 
ne word, the arts must be re- 
ed to accomplishments, and 
»tuary laws even more se^'ere 
■ced with regard to literary pur- 

ccepting in music and drawing 
I's education must be finished at 



a certain age. "Ever since my 
eighteenth year," writes a young 
friend, to whom I had recommended 
study, "if I expressed a wish to 
study, I have been asked if my edu- 
cation was not finished." Finish 
one's education! that means throw- 
ing aside books, writing, embroidery, 
and accomplishments if one has any. 

But, we are told, young ladies learn 
a great variety of things during the 
time of education. Quite true, and 
the very subject of my complaint 
They are not destined to pass exam- 
ination for a bachelor's degree, and 
their whole training tends to give 
them general notions as shallow as 
they are widely diffused. Nothing 
serious, nothing grave, nothing pro- 
found — a little of every thing. In 
the words of an intelligent minisfer, 
" Who does not know that what we 
gain in surface we lose in depth ! " 

Beyond dispute the plan is com- 
prehensive. I see many young girls 
who, in addition to common studies, 
geography, history, rhetoric, begin to 
learn one or two languages, play on 
the piano, take singing lessons, draw 
and paint, and learn to do all sorts of 
fancy work, as they succeed each 
other in the caprice of fashion — poly- 
chromania, leather flowers, etc., etc. 
Of course, a life of efforts so scatter- 
ed and diffused, can lead to no good 
result; and I have heard wise in- 
structors sigh over the obligation im- 
posed upon them of fulfilling such 
programmes. A little of everything 
is studied and nothing properly learn- 
ed ; not one talent or faculty devel- 
oped, not one earnest taste acquired 
for anything whatsoever. Such half 
talents and superficial tastes achieve 
nothing. 

If there be a danger in the study 
of art and literature, it is to be found 
in stopping precisely at the point in- 
dicated by M. de Maistre ; at general 
notions, not solid acquirements ; acr 



2l8 



Learned Women and Studious IVemm. 



complishments, not earnest talents j 
a lack of something to elevate the 
soul and nourish the mind. Such 
smattering helps one to make a mo- 
mentary show, but not to accomplish 
anything or to be any one. It in- 
dicates that nothing more will be ac- 
quired from the moment of leaving 
the convent 

Precisely the contrary is needed if 
one would train earnest and assidu- 
ous women who may one day prove 
useful to their husbands and child- 
ren. 

It is difficult to explain why in- 
dulgence is shown or exception taken 
by men of the world. They approve, 
and ver)' properly, of a girl's speaking 
two or three living langiiages. But 
if, in accordance with F<^n^lon's ad- 
vice, you learn a little Latin, hide it 
as a sint or be accounted a blue- 
stocking. You will hardly obtain 
pardon for a taste for solid reading 
or historical studies, I have heard 
of a young woman who drew upon 
herself that sort of admiration that 
implies blame, from intelligent people, 
because she was said to read Z<r 
Correspondant. The same persons, 
on learning that she reserved the 
morning hours for study, testified im- 
mense astonishment and treated her 
as a savante. 

What maybe called study — mak- 
ing abstracts or taking notes of what 
one has read — is not considered 
proper for women, especially in coun- 
try towns. Reading is hardly per- 
missible and only within restricted 
limits. A lady of my acquaintance 
incurred general censure because, 
during the first year of her married 
life, she did not receive or make 
visits before four o'clock, that she 
might reserve a few hours for study, 
in accordance, moreover, with her 
husband's wishes. 

Young girls should regard the close 
of their first studies as the commence- 



ment of a life-long work, 
men should, in the very begin 
married life, establish study as 
the duties of existence, Lai 
are engrossed with the educa 
their children, and can no 
work to please themselves, 
even tlien, the precious habi| 
cling to them as an inestimabi 
solation to be enjoyed in 
sure hour. Above all, it r 
fill the void that becomes so 
when children escape from the 
er's guidance, and she once m 
freedom and leisure without 
its joys or its energy. 

Labor is a faithful friend that 
itself to the age and disposi 
ever)' being who takes it as aj 
panion for life. 

That women may learn to 
habits of industry, it is inciimb| 
us to convince young girls that 
education does not end at ^a 
and that their first ball-dress hi 
like a bachelor's degree, the 
of giving to learning its pcrfee 
summation. At that age th 
barely information enough to 
them to study alone. Leading' 
are no longer needed in their 
tion, and that is all. They ai 
ply capable of continuing th( 
dies, and of enjoying the pie 
individual exertion. If a girl 
be made to believe this, a scri' 
earnest future would be secti 
her. But the present custoi 
mands that she should study 
and history until she is fifteci 
from fifteen to eighteen, pian^ 
ing and drawing. Then co 
pink dress, the crowning glory 
education, the great day so 
dreamed of. She goes into 
and marries, determined to I 
work behind her in accordanc^ 
universal practice. This 
the joys of marriage — to do no 
— and so she wastes a period 



A 



Learned Women and Studious Women, 



219 



precious in a woman's life, a period 
when she has leisure, and that flame 
that youth and happiness alone can 
kindle; expansion of soul, the illu- 
mined eyes of the heart, ittuminatos 
tados cordis f as St Paul says, giving 
to toil facility, impetus, horizon, 
power. Sut so it is ; all must be lost, 
squandered, sunk in those early years, 
even happiness I Study would have 
a secret power to draw this young 
creature frdtai the whirl o£ life, and 
pve her the calmness and recollec- 
tion she so much needs, if merely to 
enjoy her blessings ; but no, every- 
diing must be frittered away and de- 
ttroyed. 

Tlien follow years when the ex- 
* dtement of youth dies out, a void is 
kft, beauty vanishes, ennui comes to 
take possession, and there is nothing 
to dispute its sway. The children 
are in the midst of their education, 
and need no looking after. A moth- 
er who knows not the value of indus- 
try, is ever ready to excuse idleness 
in her children, and notwithstanding 
this indulgence, her sons think very 
little of their mother when they grow 
up, and soon regard her as beneath 
them. 



PRACTICE. 

But to come to practical results, 
vhat are the faculties to be cultivat- 
ed in women ? The same as in men ? 
Must they study the exact sciences, 
politics, the secret of government, 
military art? Are they to emulate 
Judith, Joan of Arc, Jeanne Ha- 
chette, Hormengarde, foundress and 
regent of the second kingdom of Bur- 
pmdy, Marguerite d'Albon, Isabella 
of Castile, Maria Theresa ? 

Certainly not Women are to be 
cnunerated who could be and have 
been all this. Providence creates 
Aese extraordinary beings. But 



though we recognize occasional voca- 
tions of genius, courage, and virtue, 
it would be folly to educate women 
for careers so exceptional. 

Women are physipally weak, but 
theii intelligence must not be under- 
valued. They often have a great 
deal of mind and always a fund of 
good sense, demanding nothing but 
use. Why wonder at all I have im- 
plied? They acquire with remark- 
able ease. Who can fail to recog- 
nize the keenness and delicacy of 
sensibility bestowed on them by hea- 
ven, or the natural bent with which 
their souls turn to the vivifying rays 
of beauty ? 

I do not agree with a lady who 
wrote to me : "We skim over things 
and seem to know them ; we open a 
book, run through a few pages, and 
are prepared to discuss it, to give 
praise or blame, recommendation or 
warning." I do not grant this. But 
beyond dispute, they have great fa- 
cility for everything. It costs them 
little to assimilate to themselves re- 
quired information, to make some- 
thing out of nothing, and a gjeat deal 
out of scant material. God, not des- 
tining them to long and abstract stu- 
dies, has endowed them with mar- 
vellous perspicacity and intuition. 
They rarely speak of business be- 
cause it fatigues and bores them ; 
yet if circumstances demand their 
participation, how useful and sensible 
they almost invariably prove them- 
selves ! Generally, the restoration ot 
family property is due to them ; 
when left widows, they rebuild the 
fortunes of their children. 

It is to be understood that in this 
vindication, as it were, of woman's 
right to intellectual culture, I give to 
study only its due share in the occu- 
pations of life. Cleariy, household 
cares and home duties have a supe- 
rior claim ; husband, children, domes- 
tics, must be the first interest ol a. 



220 



Learned Women and Studious Women. 



woman who understands the hier- 
archy of her duties. My advice, if 
it must be precisely defined, would 
be, that she reserve at least two hours 
— if possible, three hours — of each 
day, for life, for intellectual culture. 

So long as women content them- 
selves with reading, looking, and lis- 
tening, no great opposition is made, 
and men willingly grant them a place 
among their auditors. But if the pro- 
found emotions of the interior life 
seek a fuller development ; if they 
seek in the absorption of pursuits 
answering to their spiritual aspira- 
tions an echo that the soul misses in 
the external world, then society rises 
up in judgment. 

Some women are bom artists, that 
is to say, they are possessed by a 
craving to give form to thought, to a 
feeling for beauty which penetrates 
them, and that too under conditions 
suitable for the development of this 
side of their nature. But it is pre- 
cisely this exercise of the creative 
faculty which is denied them, and 
which I wonder to see withheld, since 
the gift comes from God himself 

Vainly does M. de Maistre main- 
tain that " women have never pro- 
duced a masterpiece, and that in 
wishing to emulate men, they become 
apes." Vainly does he add with 
unbecoming impertinence, *' I have 
always thought them incomparably 
handsomer, more attractive, and more 
useful than apes. I only say and 
repeat, that women who would make 
men of themselves are nothing but 
apes." Or again, "A woman's i^ef 
d'auvre in science is to understand 
the works of men." 

But soon M. de Maistre contra- 
dicts and refutes himself: " We must 
exaggerate nothing," he says, "belles 
lettres, moralists, great orators, etc., 
suffice to give women all the culture 
they need." 

A little later, he congratulates him- 



self on having a daughter, «-ho ; 
and appreciates Sl Augustln^ 
who " passionately loves bcai 
every kind ; recites equally wdj 
cine and Tasso ; draws, plays,| 
very prettily ; and, as in her 
there are low chords that pas 
yond the feminine range of lol 
are there in her character c| 
grave fundamental qualities, ti| 
long especially to our sex, and 1 
dominate the rest of her»naturc 

This is enough ; my disci 
with M. de Maistre is ended. , 
entertain, in fact, the same \ 
and I now address myself it 
to worldly prejudice. 1 

We have then, even in % 
Maistrc's estimation, as studiei 
sible for women : , 

I St. Belles lettres, literature 
light and serious, a wide fiel^ 
one as attractive as it is extfl 
The range of history alone \ 
mense. There is a philosophj 
which the feminine mind is ful 
pable of grasping, and whose \ 
tial ideas are necessary to I 
natural mobility and insure to I 
rectness of thought. Teach j 
man to reason justly, and conse^ 
ly to give precedence to duty 
things, and you have securo( 
essential part of education asi 
needed in every class and con 
of life. 

2d. The arts — so admirably i 
to their im.igination, to the d4 
grace of their nature. And t 
must remark that we unhcsita 
leave open to female competitij 
most pcrilqus of the fine arts, tt 
least compatible with their dutj< 
vocation, while shutting tbcij 
from the pure and lofty rcgi< 
the intellect. Many detractc 
women, who cultivate or criticii 
would on no account suppr 
singers or actresses. 

But, you will tell me, 




Learned Women and Studious Women. 



221 



ely because female artistes are 

)re or less degraded that virtuous 
jmen should not become artistes, 
\ think as you do, and more strongly 
you, yet I cannot help seeing 
U you recognize the fact of wo- 
j's capacity to rise in art, since a 
among them have received the 
gift of inspiration. If they have re- 
ceived this gift, it must be used ; 
kooestly and nobly of course, but 
wed. The fact you advance brings 
its OUT) application. 

3d. If a woman can express the 
I beautiful, she can do so through all 
iguages of the beautiful. Art 
itical in principle, whatever be 
^the mode of its expression. Paint- 
music, poetry, eloquence, the ex- 
sion of beauty through an ex- 
alte st)Ie, or through the accent 
vx inspired voice, is always beau- 
■ bound within the limits of a sensi- 
Jc form to render it perceptible to 
die soul through the medium of the 
se&ses. Each one must clothe it in 
X fimn not self-chosen. If you open 
wonian the most dangerous and 
jIous of all the arts, why close to 
ker the others ? Because she sinks 
,»ith the art that ministers to your 
lesAure, is it impossible for her to 
with noble, true, serious art ? 
If a woman can be a cantatrUey she 
can be a musician in the elevated 
•e&se of the word, a writer or a 
paiater. 
Many men affirm authoritatively 
women cannot and should not 
It is surprising that a ques- 
tioD so easily settled for some per- 
loas should be so often discussed. 
Eqikil patns have not been taken to 
piove that women cannot be gene- 
ab or ministers, yet I am not aware 
tfat the example of female warriors 
fcM been often claimed by their peers. 
TTic present day is an ill chosen 
tiae to contest women's right to 
MtbonhJp, when ihe three works 



most generally read are Z> /^fcH 
t/'une Sceur, the writings of Eugenie 
de Gu^rin, and Madame Swetchine's 
Letters. 

In becoming writers women do 
not infringe on the rights of men, 
" They do not seek to emulate man ;" 
and when alt is said, what is it, that 
M. de Maistre calls " emulating 
man" ? Is it desiring to do all tliat 
he does ? Of course not. Certain 
pursuits exclusively belong to him, 
and are not to be cultivated by wo- 
men. But if there are points of 
separation, there is also a common 
domain where all souls may work to- 
gether. The most natural is that of 
art and literature. Even here it may 
be that woman's field is more re- 
stricted than that of man ; but she 
will find her place, and perhaps a 
place lliat men could not so well fill. 

There are differences between tlie 
masculine and the feminine intellect ; 
and it is on this fact that M. de 
Maistre founds his assertion that 
because one sex can wsite the other 
cannot. We may found upon it a 
different conclusion, that, bringing 
another kind of genius into intellec- 
tual regions, women will cultivate 
them after a fashion of their own, 
adapting their talents in preference 
to more delicate subjects. In a con- 
cert all dissimilar voices must be 
moulded together : why should not 
women bear their part in the great 
harmony of human thought express- 
ed through art? There are notes 
they only can reach. Silvio PelHco 
says something similar when, after 
vainly trying to give women a pen- 
dent to the Treatise on the Duties oj 
Men, he exclaims I " Only a woman 
could write such a book." In a wo- 
man's writing there is always a cer- 
tain touch that reveals her sex. A 
female author must ever remain a 
woman. Thus may we reassure xVve 
susceptifaiJjties of M. de Maistte asiA 



A 



22« 



Learned Women and Studious Women. 



[quiet our own fears as to the result 
of wishing to emulate man. 

" Woman b a weak creature, ig- 
norant, timid, and indolent," says 

Mme. de j " possessed of violent 

Ipassions and petty ideas, a being full 
of inconsistency and caprice. . . . 
Capable of displaying charming de- 
fects every day of her life ; a treasure 
of cruelty and of hope." Then moum- 
,ing over the almost complete disap- 
jearance of this type, she seeks an 
explanation of the fact : " Women 
have lost in attractions what they 
have gained in virtues. . . . Wo- 
man was not made to share men's 
toils, but to afford them recreation." 
And, finally, summing up in one word 
the errors that have ruined her sex, 
she exclaims indignantly,. " Woman 
has aspired to be the companion of 
man." 

Thus, to be a companion instead 
of a plaything, a Christian rather 
than a pagan, a being to be respect- 
ed, trusted, relied upon, rather than 
one who holds you by a passing 
attraction, amusing you by her frivo- 
lity, and distracting you from graver 
tlioughts — this is a culpable mistake 
of judgment, aiid moreover, it is a wo- 
man who dares to bring forward such 
a doctrine. 

4th. In my first letters I gave it as 
my opinion that, in a measure, a wo- 
man could occupy herself with sci- 
ences, and even with agriculture. 
The latter assertion provoked some 
surprise. Let me answer them by a 
few fragments of a letter written to 
me upon the subject, by a very sen- 
sible and distinguished woman : 

" How wisely, monseigneur, you 
have advised women to interest them- 
selves in business matters and other 
serious subjects, even studying agri- 
culture. My own observation con- 
firms your opinion. At present, 
while my son is in the service, and I 
am sepinitid from a/I my family, liv- 



ing in the countr)', and alii 
ways in tete-d-iete^ what wot 
come of me if my mother \ 
given me the habit, from chi 
of interesting myself in e\'cr 
about me ? Agriculture, with 
stacks and its progress, a£t 
inexhaustible source of coim 
with one's husband, with ctl 
lage notaries, farmers, countl] 
bors, and pctUs bourgeois. It i 
inflammatory subject than ) 
and one that adapts itself Ic 
understanding. My bust 
not disdain to discuss crc 
nuring with me — I have 
ories upon drainage, be 
cabbages, t and he fihd»' 
progressive in my ideas, perhi 
much so ; he, however, never 
a stable without consulting t 
before a lease is signed, I mu 
it read several times. I be! 
to be very important to thc| 
and to their children th^l 
should understand busine^l 
vestment of funds, the manaj 
of property. They should noi 
but listen and advise. Htu 
generally, ask nothing better \ 
talk openly of these things, fa 
such subjects interest them 
than any others ; but usually i 
listens. When a man meet 
yawning inattention, all is ov( 
has recourse to silence, ado| 
habit of managing everything i 
self, of following his own bci 
the beginning, a young husb 
full of confiding openness ; Is 
becomes more suspicious of i 
which wounds him in proport 
it is needed. Capacity and e 
ness are indispensable to a w< 
I ask that women should be 

* La ttedc raTc, the kiod of beet fraoi «ti 
il made, aod iherefbre an iruponant tdkjll 
oriic upon. Benholici n M>d lo h«v« toii 
bjr Euiing lo aiuwer Mlis6icianly \ qartlioa 
pul (o him by Napoleon, concemiim la \«ni 

1 Colia. a rabba^ used for making ml, si 
■Inoil aa cntroMis( >a be«t& 



tMimed Women and Studious Womm. 



223 



rultivate any art or science 
y choose, and even aim at 
ninence in its acquirement, 
being annoyed in their hon- 
ursuit by the terrible anathe- 
h the world launches against 
: we will use the coarse ex- 
) bluestockings.* If there 
nen who, while attending 
ily and seriously to their 
td affairs, rise above material 
love and appreciation of the 
[, seeking therein a delicate 
and pure emotions, enjoying 
vation of the soul, and list- 
ttentively to the claims of 
i goodness, it is a shame to 
'oach upon them. 
Lbove all things should rank 
lest study of religion. I 
ng upon this subject in my 
> to Men and Women of the 
I will therefore simply say 
is above all in the higher 
where fortune authorizes a 
of the luxury of education, 
g;ious instruction should be 
is far as the individual ca- 
f man and women allows ; 
proofs of religion, explana- 
ceremonies, church history, 
works of the fathers, great 
itors, lives of the saints, etc., 
this I have explained and 
1 detail. In a course of cd- 
here should be an appropri- 
'essive study of all that con- 
!igion. Religious facts are 
ately connected with those 
:m history, that one can 
s have a true idea of the 
ly by becoming acquainted 
former. 

ijection of want of time, the 
jection so often brought for- 
mains to be examined. 

igwige of unreflecting penoni who in- 
"tto attack every thinK elevated, perhaps 
tag othen down to their own level, the 
Aockinc" wgnifies a wemaa who icadi^ 

t«raii«~ 



Have women the time to devote to 
intellectual pursuits ? Let us be hon- 
est and confess that there are two 
obstacles to the leisure required : 
talking and dress. 

Yes, the great misfortune of women 
is, that they indulge in long hours of 
conversation among themselves, and 
about what, if not dress, gossip, and 
housekeeping ? 

Now, nothing lowers the mind and 
soul like talking about trifles for 
hours, and there is but one method 
of remedying the evil ; increase the 
time devoted to study, thus shorten- 
ing in an equal degree the hours frit- 
tered away in conversation, and sup- 
plying mental food far superior to 
the vulgar subjects that now exhaust 
so many minds and souls. 

As for dress, too much cannot be 
said against it, not only as a cause 
of ruin to women of the world, but as 
a dissolvent of all earnestness even 
among virtuous Christian women. 

Dress! That is what wastes the 
time and exhausts the spirit of wo- 
men ; that is what takes them from 
their domestic duties, and not these 
poor calumniated books. Every at- 
tentive observer will recognize, as I 
do, that it is a taste for the world and 
for dress that detaches them from 
home interests far more than a taste 
for study. 

For my own part, I can assert that 
the truly superior women I have 
known, those whose superiority was 
genuine and not a pretence or an 
affectation, were models of practical 
wisdom. 

There are, on the other hand, cer- 
tain households admirable in every 
respect but one — that on an average 
they discuss dress four or five hours 
a day. The mother of the family is 
a woman of great merit and virtue ; 
she dresses with great simplicity; 
and yet there are no preoccupatlotia 
so serious, no anxieties or suffenng;s 



224 



Learned Women and Studious Women. 



so pressing, that they cannot be dissi- 
pated at least for the moment by the 
interest of ordering a new gown or 
bonnet. 

These affairs are of vast impor- 
tance ; life slips away while the 
mind is wasting itself in their service. 

Mothers of great merit teach their 
daughters to consider dress as one 
of their interests and principal duties, 
discussing and letting them discuss 
toiUtte for hours every day, and judg- 
ing ever)' earthly thing from the stand- 
point of toilette. The business of 
dressing, shopping, choosing mate- 
rials, talking with shopkeepers and 
dressmakers, and the time passed 
by young girls, and even young wo- 
men, with lady's maids in more confi- 
dential intercourse than is becoming; 
these are in truth the great obstacles 
to habits of industry. 

But leaving the subject of friTO- 
lous persons and unoccupied lives, 
how, you will ask, can a motlier who 
owes all her time to her family find 
leisure to study ? 

It is hardly necessary to remark 
that I am speaking of women in easy 
circumstances, for the reason that 
tliey especially have the means of 
putting in practice these suggestions. 
Poor women who earn their bread 
by the sweat of their brow, are not 
less precious in the eyes of God or 
in our o\vn than the favorites of for- 
tune ; but daily toil can hardly leave 
them opportunity to cultivate their 
minds. And yet even among them 
tliere are many not called upon to sup- 
port their families who, without be- 
ing rich, keep one domestic, or do 
the housework themselves with ease 
and quickness, and thus have nearly 
as much leisure as women of wealth. 
How many women there are in bus- 
iness, shop-girls, for instance, or book- 
Keepers, who surely have time for 
reading, since they do read — and 
read — whati 



iL 



It is well known that 
reading is now penctratii 
country villages, affording a 
of spending pleasantly the la 
ter evenings. There are usi 
rections, an elevated impulsf 
given to the class of women o 
we have just spoken ; but I 
worthy of interest such a 
may be, it is not our present 
Perhaps we may enter on it I 
future day. 

We address ourselves then 
men in easy circumstances, 
the head of a grand establishi 
wife, a mother, find time to si 

Beyond a doubt, yes I T< 
with, she can devote to sti 
time that other women give tc 
ly entertainments that consunc 
nights, and to personal ador 
that devour tlieir fortunes, 
can lay aside all the pursuit 
while absorbing them withou 
ing any advantage, prepare ti 
for the duties toward their c 
that belong to them as motl 
immortal souls. 

Does not the secret of Hvin 
the reconciliation of apparent ( 
ties ? Do not duties, tastes 
tions of^cn appear to contradii 
other? I have often seen tl 
bits of orderly activity combim 
a simplicity that suppresses 
exactions multiply an iiidu 
woman's hours and make it p 
to meet every demand. It u 
man's science to understand 
give herself and yet reserve I 
a science compjoscd of gen 
and activity, of devotion an 
ness, whose first result is t 
trenching of idle indulgences, \ 
keeping within due bounds I 
bute to be paid to the clai 
society. 

In preceding writings I have 
in detail that there are more 
hours, even in a busy w( 



J 



Ltanud Women and Studious Womhi. 



225 



s supposed. When once her 
:n are grown up, she has often 
ich liberty on her hands. I 
mew a lady who had six chil- 

Her two elder sons were at a 
ng-school ; her three daugh- 
issed the whole day with their 
ess ; even the youngest had 
son hours. This lonely moth- 
[ to me mournfully on one oc- 
, " I pass the whole day alone 
iy sewing, and poor company 
' and she was reduced, poor 
seeking outside distractions, 
nt but futile. If she had had 

for study and habits of indus- 
e would not have been driven 
liome. Study makes women 
leir homes, the attraction of 
commenced always drawing 
thither. How little need of 
ind society such persons feel ! 
joy to steal off to one's room 
ntinue one's reading or draw- 
It is with a light step that one 
reward home when heart and 
; filled with a love of study in- 
>f with an immoderate, ruinous 
)r dress and luxury, 
h firmness, sweetness, andper- 
ice are necessary to secure 
■berty in a household, to make 
rorking hours respected, with- 
mg in any other duty ; in one 
o give and reserve one's self 
tly. It is a question of degree, 
»st other questions of conduct. 

order to 'acquire courage for 
•uggle, women must be very 
0,1 the right is on their side, 
ire too apt to mistake for a 
ersonal taste the duty of cul- 
r their mental faculties. 
vc given strong and unanswer- 
g^iimcnts for the necessity of a 

life. But in this, as in every 

affair, temperament must be 
:ed. Though it may easily be 
in illusion and a convenient 
: to cover self-indulgence, yet 
L VI. — 15 



one can easily believe that some 
women, with the best will in the 
world, must plead the impossibility 
of having a rule of life, or must sub- 
mit to see it violated so often as to 
become a dead letter. 

The mistress of a household rises 
in the morning, she feels unwell, or 
her husband comes in to discuss 
plans, business, no matter what; 
work-people, children little and big, 
invade her room : the mother of a 
family has not an hour when she can 
shut herself up and forbid intrusion. 

There are women and even girls 
whose lives slip away under the op- 
pression of these absolutely tyranni- 
cal customs, from, which it is the 
more difficult to escape because they 
assert themselves in the name of 
devotion and domestic virtue. 

If we tell these young people, 
" crushed and flattened out," as M. 
de Maistre expresses it, " under the 
enormous weight of nothing," to 
create an individual life for them- 
selves, and seek occasional retire- 
ment, they answer : " But I cannot ; 
I have not one moment absolutely 
my own. If I leave the parlor, my 
room is invaded ; somebody wants 
to speak to me, and so somebody 
stands about for a quarter of an hour 
and then sits down. Then some one 
else comes, and so the time is de- 
voured. With all the efforts in the 
world to keep my patience, I cannot 
conceal the annoyance this is to me 
skilfully enough to avoid being 
voted a strong-minded woman,"* the 
correlative term of blue-stocking. 

Very well, I say, for want of regu- 
lar hours let a woman devote odd 
minutes to study. There are always 
some in the busiest lives ; moments 
that occur between the various occu- 
pations of the day ; and she must 
learn to work by fits and starts, in a 

* Cinctirc roide, femmes aSuxfe. 



226 



Learned Womc/t and Studious Women. 



desultory fashion. There i3 a vride 
difference between the woman who 
reads sometimes and the woman 
who never reads. 

If the desire to reserve a short 
time for study led to nothing more 
than the acquisition of the science of 
odd minuteSf the result would be very 
important. T/ie science of odd min- 
utes ! It multiplies and fertilizes 
time, but books cannot impart it. 
It gives habits of order, attention, 
and precision that react from the 
external upon the moral life. The 
most cheerful women, the most 
equable, serviceable, and, I may add, 
the healthiest women, are those who 
are intelligent and industrious, and 
who, through the medium of a well- 
ordered activity, have discovered the 
secret of reconciling the duties they 
owe to God, to their families, and to 
themselves. 

Between the spiritual and the 
material life, which answer to two 
orders of duty, the intellectual life 
must have its place ; a place at pre- 
sent usurped by frivolity. 

The intellectual life should be the 
porch of the spiritual life, material 
existence the support and instrument 
of the other two. But alas ! it is far 
otherwise. Material existence usurps, 
suffocates, extinguishes the light of 
mind and soul. Art and literature 
elevate the heart, excite a distaste for 
gross enjoyments, and spiritualize 
life. Thev afford nourishment to 




mental acti^ty, which is now the: 
of lc\'ity, especially among 
seducing them to vain and dan 
pleasures, All grand and be 
things, so worthy of the human 
lect, betray the emptiness of m; 
enjoyments, ennoble the soul 
lead it to heights that apj 
heaven. 

The culture of art and 
would occupy the feminine 
ation profitably. It would ere. 
ra#ier reveal to women adml 
resources conducive to hap; ' 
virtue, in short to a complete 
ence ; whether in society, 
woman's influence can elevate 
base ideas, occupations, inta 
and sentiments ; or at home, 1 
talents and information, white I 
ferring a great charm, would r< 
her more skilful in the di recti 
children and in the exercise of 
tary influence as a wife. 

Thus the intellectual and 
spiritual life would be united 
the blessing of God ; thus we 
find in the various classes of 
intelligent Christian women, clc 
above frivolity, capable of sust 
and inspiring every noble idea, 
useful effort, every productive 
women who at home and in 
world would be more enlight 
energetic, influential, estimable, 
ful than th-^ women of the 
day. 



Baby. 



227 



BABY. 



ot a baby, you know, 
you laugh, I'll not tell you 
vord about it. You worCt 
morel Very well; then 
y dear old toad — ^husband, 
— Dan, who is the born 
aby— oh ! yes, a very pret- 
ideed, pretending to blow 
. Can't I see you laugh- 
1 your handkerchief? I've 
eyes/ Of course I have, 
irs have. Now, be good, 
like a man, and — there — 
cutting your hand up that 
your face, because I can 
through it. A\Tiat do you 
td gracious I That remark 
ropriate. However, I for- 
"or it might be if you knew 
foing to tell you. My dear 
usband — is so fond of ba- 
Jon't think I am fonder of 
f ; and that is saying all I 
id all I could wish to say, 
iby's me, and I'm baby, as 
magine sometimes when I 
' how much I want Dan to 
x>lish little wife and Our 
eally, please don't hold 
:h in that style ; I'm al- 
idfully frightened when 
it. 

sband loving baby and me 

there's not the least doubt 

Id that I am the happiest 

m, and the most contented 

that the world ever saw. 

may exaggerate, but ask 

If his opinion differs from 

modify it; for / think 

le best judgment of any 

;r saw. "Tot," he often 

dear old toad always calls 

because I'm small,) "my 

:x>incides precisely vfiQi 



yours, and, if I have any amendment 
to make, I feel sure that you yourself 
would have made it under the cir- 
cumstances." Of course, I ask if 
any amendment occurs to his mind. 
Then he tells me, and, in fact, I see 
that it is just such an amendment as 
I would make under the circumstan- 
ces. Oh ! he has the most perfect 
judgment, has my husband. He 
not only knows what is best, but he 
knows just what I would think best 
For instance, about what name baby 
should be christened. If it was to 
be a boy, I settled at once in my 
mind that he should be called Daniel, 
after his papa, to be sure. To think 
of any other name would be sheer 
nonsense. But now see the judg- 
ment of my old toad. " I was think- 
ing just the same as you. Tot," said 
he, "and your choice of my own 
name for the little stranger is the 
very one I had hoped you would 
choose ; but, knowing how much you 
and I loved poor brother Alf — who 
was drowned at sea — I determined to 
renounce my name in his favor, and so 
dear brother Alf with his sunny face 
would live again in our child. If 
little Tot thinks of that, she will be 
sure to agree with me." Did I 
agree with him 1 Of course I did. 
What foolish questions you men will 
ask. I'd no more think of calling 
him Daniel after that, than of call* 
ing him, well — Nebuchodonosor — or 
some other such heathen name. So 
the priest christened him Alfred. 

Oh ! wc had such fun at the par- 
ty. Old Mr. Pillikins — the old gen- 
tleman, you recollect, you met here 
last winter, with the gold spectacles 
and shiny bald head — was so droW. 
He wanted to drink baby's YiealtUci, 



328 



but somehow he had not heard his 
name, so looking over to me he says : 
"And his nan^e is — " 
" Begins with an A," said I. 
" Begins with an A," he says after 
mc. "Good, very good. First letter 
of the alphabet, where all good chil- 
dren ought to begin, 

' A wM lu ipple tlut hung on a li«e :' 

and the second letter is — " 

" Is L, to be sure," said I. 

•* L ! what else could it be ?" Mr. 
Pillikins accented the word else, and 
then, after he had explained it to us, 
we had such a good laugh. Wasn't 
it an excellent pun ? Then he thought 
he had it. So, taking up his glass in 
his right hand and putting the tJiumb 
of his left hand in the armhole of his 
waistcoat, he says : 

" Alexander !" 

"No, no," sa)-s I, "not Alexan- 
der." 

•* Not Alexander ! True," says he, 
putting his glass down again. " I 
was about to add that Alexander 
had an A and an L, but did not 
have an — " 

"F after it," cried Mrs. Gowsky, 
from the bottom of the table. 

** Madam, you are quite right," 
replied Mr. Pillikins, bowing. "It 
has not an F after it, as the baby's 
name undoubtedly has, and the ^ect 
is certainly more in^/fable on account 
of it Ha, ha ! you understand ?" 
Never was there such a punster as 
the old gentleman. " And then fol- 
lows a — " 

"All the rest," said I, "is just 
what you did with your Herald this 
morning, Mr. Pillikins. What was 
that?" 

" Madam, I tore it up." 

" No, no. What was the first thing 
you did with it ?" 

"Madam, I dried it before the 
prate. The ncwspajjcrs nowaday 
come so damp to one that it is enough 



ill 



to give one the gout in the ; 
bold them." 

"Think again," I 
" What did you do with i 
ing dried it ?" 

" Madam, I glanced over 
tents, and — " 

" O you tease !" said 
didn't do anything of the I 
read it. There !" 

" Yes, madam. I read' 

"Well, there's the baby'i 
then," I exclaimed, almost Ic 
patience. " Don't you sc 

" Positively, madam, 1 1 
is not the fashion to rec 
nowadays. Only the marria 
deaths." 

" Well," said I, after the la 
raised had somewhat subsic 
might have been recordc 
all I care. It would have] 
py piece of information, 
a good example — " Now i 
^•ou laughing at ? — " A hajspy 
information," saj-s I, " an< 
more than can be said of ma 
items to be found in it»i 

Having got at the nj 
Mr. Pillikins made a 
speech, at which everybody 
their hands and smiled, ani 
thing went off pleasantly, 
Gowsky's son, Peter, whc 
wine-glass by hammerir 
table, and then fell ba 
sprawling on the floor, froB 
habit he has of tilting his t 
He scared baby so, that, to 
truth, I had no pity for hiz 
confusion, and rather enjc 
blushes, which never left " 
rest of the evening. 

/ am malicious t Not" 
poor, dear baby that cantiol 
itself must not be abused i 
punity. I was near faintl 
fright, too, when I beard tb 
for I thought it must be I 
that bad fallen out of 



aes 

i 

iver 
id 

JW 

aby'i 

jst Ic 

eroR 

arria 

he la 

ubsic 

i e<yi 

:1 

OW 1 

appy 
"an< 

its^ 

'"% 

body 
d, ani 

m 



ctijc 

i 




Baby. 



329 



First thought always about 
1 To be sure, bless his little 
t, and the last too I You can sit 
! twiddling your thumbs as if you 
not agree with me ; but I don't 
I you ; for what do you know about 
!S ? Dan says, and very truly, 
a mother whose first and last 
;ht is not about her baby is not 
f to give much thought at all, 
r first or last, to her husband. I 

understand it; but Dan tells 
hat nowadays Protestant wives 

a horror of babies. I never 
;ht of it before ; but there is Mrs. 
son, she has only one child ; and 
; is Mrs. Thompson, who has but 
and Mrs. Simpson, who is mar- 
now six years, and has no child- 
it all. It is so all through the 
»tant community, Dan says ; 
that there are actually more 
stants die than are bom. It 
be their religion, I suppose, but 
nnot imagine how a woman, if 
lad no religion at all — and the 
tstants have got some kind of 
►r other — could hate babies. 

for me, I can hardly tell you 
much I love baby, and how 
i I am of him ; and well I may 
Dinah Jenkins, his nurse, says 
she has nursed a good many 
s, but such a baby as Our Baby 
ever yet saw. 
li, missus, " said she one day, 

colored woman t'ought she 
ed all kinds o' babies as ever 
T ever could be. G'way, Dinah, 
[, soon as I luff my eyes on to 
hild," (that's Our Baby,) " dis 
ain't no mo' like de babies you's 
d, an' I'se nussed a heap on 
in my time, dan— dan — stick 
iad in de fire !" And as I often 
:o dear Dan, she is the most 
til woman I ever met. 
we I a black 7Votnanfor a wet- 
t No, I have'nt a black woman 
wet-nurse, nor a white woman 
r. Oh 1 yoa are stuA a. stupid t 



I am the child's mother, am I not? 
That's enough. I hope I shall never 
be reduced to such an extremity as 
that I pity poor mothers who are. 
If you were a mother, you would say 
the same. People have wet-nurses i 
Yes, just as they have the cholera or 
the typhoid fever, I suppose, because 
they cannot help it. As to any woman, 
any mother, choosing to have one, I 
should say that is the sheerest non'< 
sense ever dreamed of. Great people 
have them, queens and empresses, and 
I needn't be above them? Thank 
Heaven, I am neither a queen nor an 
empress, but the devoted wife of my 
dear old toad of a husband, Dan 
Gay] ark, and the mother of Our 
Baby I 

What is that you are saying to 
relieve your mind ? Good gracious/ 
You have made that remark once 
before, and equally to the point, as it 
seems to me. I was going to tell 
you all about the baby, but you are 
such a tease, Ned, and interrupt one 
so often with your exceedingly 
strange remarks, that I feel very 
much as one might suppose the 
"skirmishun" train feels in being 
"generally switched off into a si- 
din'." But, when I'm not switched 
off, I am good as the " skirmishun" 
at any rate. I " doos all as lays in 
my power" to get on. I suppose you 
csdl yourself the express train that 
is too proud even to whistle a salute 
in passing a poor, heavy-laden freight 
train, and utterly despises a modest 
country station as it goes thundering 
by, as if that was no place fit for its 
majesty to " stop at and blow at," as 
Professor Haman says in his Cavalry 
Tactics. I study military tactics t 
Yes, infantry tactics, you rogue, un- 
der Mrs. Professor Dinah Jenkins; 
but I read that in a book of Dan's 
one day. Dan has a great fancy for 
horses and dogs. Which of course, 
Tm Jealous oft Not the least llotAy 
makes me love horses and do^s 



230 



Baby. 



more than I otherwise would. Simply 
hetause Dan ioi'ts them t Simply 
because Dan lores them ; and if 
that is not good enough reason, I 
don't know what is. All ! smile 
away as you please. What do you 
know about it, you wretched old 
bachelor ! 

Here I Dixie ! Dixie I Dixie ! Come 
here, you good-for-nothing old black 

There, then, that's enough 

now. Say " How d'ye" to Mr. Ned. 
Oh ! you needn't be afraid of him. He 
barks loud, I know, but he won't bite. 
And he is so knowing. I sometimes 
wish he did not know quite so much. 
And so affectionate. He takes a great 
fancy for everything he sees that Dan 
and I are fond of. I do think he 
would die for baby any day. Yes, 
you would, wouldn't you, you dear 
old fellow ? There, you see, he says 
yes ; he always grins and wags his 
tail that way when he wants to say 
yes. 

It was about Dixie and baby I was 
going to tell you. He was so fond 
of baby that he wanted to take him 
out to walk and play with him on the 
Palisades. Ah ! I shudder when I 
think of it 

You recollect that hot Thursday in 
July? The very air seemed to be 
holding its own breath. I felt so 
oppressed with the heat and the 
closeness of the atmosphere that I 
could bear the inside of the house no 
longer, and after taking a look — and 
a kiss 1 — yes, and a kiss of baby, who 
was sleeping soundly in his cradle, 
I went out to saunter down the shady 
lane that leads to the Palisades. I 
noticed that Dinah was asleep in a 
chair, too, beside the window, and 
thought that, if she could sleep in 
such weather, it was a mercy, and 
so 1 left her undisturbed. As I went 
out of the room, I left the door open, 
so that, if any little breeze might spring 
up, it would refresh baby in his sleep. 
J'aa sorry enough now that 1 did. 



You know what curious ni 
presentiments, or whatever you 
to call them, will come into 
heads without their being able t 
any reason for them? Soitwaswil 
then. I had no sooner got out 
house than I thought about my 
ing the door open, and half- 
mined to go back and close it. 
same thought came to me agai 
was turning the lane ; and when 
once upon the green sward 
pine-trees, looking down the 
height from the top of the P-ili. 
upon the river, I would most 
ly have returned and closed the 
had it not been for the intense 
and I may say the cool and rel 
ing appearance the water had 
time, y'ou don't bdiet'c in p\ 
fnmtsi Well, I acknowledge 
savors a little of the fanciful 
romantic — reason enough, I 
for you to reject any such notio 
mailcr-of-fact old stick. But 
men cannot take life as you me: 
or, at least, as some men do. V 
you are very glad we cannot f 
what do you mean by that ? Q 
see, you incorrigible old bacheloi 
different habits, idiosyncrasies 
tastes lead us to avoid (not 
company, you know better) but 
own pet schemes and fancies. , 
one, don't ask cither to meddle 
them or to share them. But yo 
very fond of getting our approbi 
of them, nevertheless. Daa 
that there is not an orator 
country who would not prefcfil 
waving of a lady's handkc 
all that abominable rat-a-tat-i 
men make with your heels and 
The more silent the sign of one' 
preciation is, the better. Sin 
Ned, is seldom noisy. True I 
dumb as well as blind. But 
hardly Apropos of Dixie and the 
Where was I ? Oh r the Pali 
yes. If you were anything of 
\erveT, 1 might take the trouble t 



Bahy. 



231 



tlittle bit of description of 
y afternoon and the beauti- 

which the river presented 
ize J but I won't, because I 
ire gaping. 

been seated on the grass 
fan hour, watching the boats 
bout in the water as if they 

lazy to move in such hot 
when not a breath of air was 
md I had been thinking how 
y* life had been, and what a 
^ier future might yet be in 
me ; and, as I looked up at 
t, cloudless sky, 1 said to my- 
itis has God blessed my life, 
cloud can I see in the firma- 
•iysoul,"when myreverie was 
sd by the noise of footsteps 
»e. Thinking it was some 

I turned my head, smiling 
oe time, that they might see 
« •welcome. Imagine my 
It was Dixie and baby. 
:aught baby up in his mouth 
ust, and was bringing him 
it as he is accustomed to 

R basket to market, wag- 
and cun'eting about in 
late of delight. My first 
ras lh.1t, the baby was dead 
111 thought that went through 
I, and felt like an electric 
ither that Dixie had bitten 
t|tfi, or had struck his poor, 
^pead against the trees, or 
l^r the stones, or something 
I a second glance assured 
he was yet unhurt, for he 
bUng up his fat little fists, 
I you believe xO. — actually 
eg Dixie on his black nose. 
] of coming up to me as I 
e would, Dixie no sooner 
ight of me than he dashed 
ng round and round on the 
issy bank, stopping sudden- 
oking at me as if he would 
^^ cha»e hii^- 
^V that pre tr>'' .spot at the 
^Kc^ /iow smooth the sward 



is, and how gently the ground slopes 
down to the sudden brink of the Pa- 
lisades ? The circles Dixie described 
in his gambols began to grow larger 
and larger, and to my horror I saw 
him run nearer and nearer to the 
edge of the dreadful precipice each 
time he came around. You know 
the edge there is just as sharp as if 
it had been cut away with a knife, 
and that, with the exception of a nar- 
row line of jagged rocky ledges, the 
whole front of the Palisades is a 
smooth, perpendicular height of a 
hundred and fifty feet at least 
What if the dog should lose his foot- 
ing and slip off in one of those rapid 
courses he made ! Now, I'm sure 
you cannot tell me what I did. / 
sprang- up and ran after him / I 
knew you would think so. You are 
mistaken. I never moved a muscle. 
I sat as still as a statue, and as silent 
too. Dan said that was mother's 
wisdom, and wished that he had 
never missed baby out of his cradle 
when he came home ; for, when Dixie 
had had his play out, 1 would have 
obtained quiet possession of baby, 
and all the fearful consequences of 
his appearance on the bank would 
have been spared. As it was, he no 
sooner saw the empty cradle and the 
little white coverlet lying on the 
floor all marked with Dixie's dirty 
paws, than he suspected the truth in- 
stantly. Cook told him, besides, that 
she had seen me going olT to walk 
down the lane, and that she was sure 
I had not carried baby with me. 
Dinah had fallen so fast asleep that 
she had heard nothing. 

I heard his footsteps as he came 
running down the lane, and knew il 
was he, but did not turn niy head tO' 
look. By this time Dixie seemed to> 
take delight in running straight down* 
the bank, as if he were about to jump 
over the Palisades with baby in h\i 
mouthy but would wheel aboul shajp- 
// as he came to the edge. It "was 



232 



horrible. My eyes followed his 
e\*ery movement, and they ached 
with pain. I did not dare to close 
them long enough even to wink. You 
think my he.irt was beating fast? 
No. It beat slowly, very slowly. I 
could feel its dull, heavy strokes like 
a sexton slapping the earth as he 
heaps it over a newly filled grave. 
Dati said I was not only as still and 
as silent as a statue, but as white too. 
I do not think I shaJl suffer more 
when I come to die. 

No sooner had Dixie espied my 
husband running toward him than 
he bounded off to the extremity of 
the sward, just where that narrow 
line of ragged rocks runs down the 
front of the Palisades. He saw that 
his master had anger in his face, and 
began to slink off to escape punish- 
mcnL It is a wonder he did not 
drop the baby on the ground ; but, do 
you know, I fancy that he thought the 
baby was going to get whipf>ed too, 
and wanted to get him to a place of 
safety. Nothing else will explain 
why, finding hIThself ncirly overtak- 
en, he looked first on one side and 
tlien on another for a way to escaF»e, 
and not seeing any, he went straight 
to the dizzy edge, and, gathering up 
his feet, sprang over the precipice. 
I saw them both disappear, and 
heard that most heart-rending of 
sounds, a man's cry of anguish ; the 
very ground seemed whirling around 
me and the sky coming down upon 
ine, and crushing me ; but I did not 
faint. "You are a brave little wo- 
man. Tot," Dan has said to me ma- 
ny a time since, " and worth a whole 
regiment of soldiers." I rose from 
the ground, and staggered toward 
Dan, who ran to me and threw his 
arms about me and pressed my head 
to his breast. O moment of ago- 
ny imtold, and of the supremest com- 
fort I He uttered only one word, 
speaking the two syllables separately, 
as Uiough he loved to dwell upon 



every letter, and in a tone of roin| 
horror, grief, tcnderest love, and ; 
lime resignation^ 

" Ba— by !" 

I thought I had loved dear Dan i» 
fore that with all the love nr 
little woman's heart could \xok, 
The deepest love is only bora 
the deepest suffering. There 
chords of love whose music joy can nfr 
ver waken. Since then Dan is to i 
more than he ever was, more tJao 1 
ever could have been, had .Jot 
souls passed together that ra.inw 
of agony. 

I do not know how long we st 
thus, neither daring to go to 
brink of the precipice and look CNi 
Baby and Dixie must be both Ijis 
dead on tlie rocks btrlow. At b 
Dan mustered up courage enough 
say to me, 

"It is all over, darling. Godisj 

"God is good," I repeated; "1 
O Dan, dear 1 it is a cruel blow." 

"For us to bear. Tot, for us 
bear ; but not for him to gjv< 
not for him to give." 

He seemed to wrii\g the wof 
from his noble Christian heart, as I 
he tore away bis very life and offe 
it to God. 

" Slay here, Tot," said he, " I 
strong enough now." But his wli 
body trembled from head to foot, 
his voice was hoarse and brol 
" I will go and look." 

I feared to let him go. Yd 
should I detain him? But I 
not watch him. Throwing m) 
upon the ground, I buried nay 
in my hands, and gave way to flc 
of bitter, bitter tears. 

I had not lain thus a mc 
when I heard a sharp, piercing 
Raising my head in alarm, to my i 
utterable surprise and horror, 1 
Dan spring over the edge of the Pa 
sades and disappear. Ag^in I he 
him cr)' as before, " Ba — by !" but there 
Mi as Tvov* 3L loue of '^oy mingled 



Bttby. 



233 



fear, which told me that the 
IS not dead. It was a brief 
that I was on my knees, it is 
ras nothing more than a look 
tude I gave to God ; but he 
hat not all the language ever 
^ by man could fully tell -all 
•ught of thanksgiving which 
sent up to him, as I raised 
>ed hands to the cloudless sky. 
noment I was at the edge of 
sades, just where that ra^ed, 
ne runs down its fi-ont, jut- 
here and there in rough led- 
here was a story of a man 
ng pursued by the officers of 
had clambered down there 
aped. Few people who saw 
e believed it The very first 
t jutted out was ten feet from 

and that did not present 
ui two or three feet of sur- 
L little to the right of this, 
)ut three feet lower, was an- 
n which a man might easily 
Jt not for any length of time, 
iirface shelved outward, and 
. overhanging it above would 
V him to stand perfectly up- 
k.ny one who had gotten thus 

perforce take his chances of 
ing down the rest or be pre- 
l head foremost below, to cer- 
th. 

is second ledge, I saw Dan 
the baby by his mouth, just 
; had held him before. Dix- 
;lf was crouched up beside 
oor Dan could not hold his 
ng there. As it was, he was 
3 grasp little, sharp edges of 
h both hands to prevent him- 
ng ofE He saw at once that 
IS no time to send for help 
3ve, and that he must try the 

descent. As he told me 
d, he had not calculated 
s when he leapt from above, 
t glance he caught of the dog 
1 that, if he released his hold 
9 child's dress and opened 



his mouth, were it but for an instant, 
baby would roll over the edge and 
be dashed to pieces. Dan says now 
that he shall never regret taking one 
hasty step in his life. He makes 
that an exception, you see, for he is 
always saying to me, " Now, darling 
Tot, let us see the pros and the cons ; 
for it is my principle never to leap 
before I think, but to let my mind 
jump before my feet" 

Holding on, as I told you, to baby 
by his teeth, Dan went clambering 
down the line of rocks. He had 
managed to wave his hand back- 
ward to me as he left the ledge where 
Dixie was. I knew what that meant 
—"Don't look." There was little 
or no hope of his ever reaching the 
bottom safely, and he wished to spare 
me the awful sight of his headlong 
fall, which might take place at any 
step of the way. But I could not 
stir; my feet were riveted to the 
ground. Besides, could I not help 
him ? It seemed to me that, as he 
went down, almost falling from one 
sharp rock to another, I held him 
up with my eyes. When I told Dan 
my fancy afterward, he laughed and 
said : 

" Not the least doubt of it, Tot I 
have felt the power of those eyes be- 
fore." 

It did not last long, but it appear- 
ed to my mind, wrought up to such a 
state of excitement, as if it had been 
going on and was going on forever. 
It is stamped on my mind to-day as 
a memory of years. As for dear 
Dan, it cost him, he said, the strength 
of many days. He was no sooner at 
the bottom than he turned and lift- 
ed up the baby in one hand, and, 
looking up to me, waved the other 
as a sign of safety. Ah ! his hands, 
his poor hands, you should have 
seen them, all cut and gashed by 
the rocks. Those hands seem to 
have something sacred about them, 
ever since that day. I saw bim on 



234 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



his knees, and then off I scamper- 
ed to the house to get tJie carri- 
age. It is two miles around by the 
road to tJie bottom of the Palisades, 
and it took us a long while to get to 
him. When we did, he was still so 
weak that Mike, the coachman, and 
I had to lift him up into the carriage. 
Dinah went down to the place I 
had left, to make signs to him that 
he should remain. Poor dear, there 
was no need of it. So we came 
home in more joy than I can tell you 
—Dan, baby, and I. Mike rescued 



Dixie afterward, by gel 
let down from above with a x\ 
where the patient old dog sll 
wondering, who knows ? 
came to be lliere. 

What is that you say ? 
cious f Well, I don't mind yon 
ing it now, after what I havi 
you. But don't you think, 
Ned, that I ought to be 
of Our Baby after that] 
Ought to be very careful of hi 
idea I An old bachelor t«l] 
mother to be careful of her bfl 



% 

d yon 
ha VI 

1 

hm\ 



THE CARTESIAN DOUBT.* 



The Churchman^ an Episcopalian 
weekly periodical, contains an article 
of no little philosophic pretension, en- 
titled Scienec and God, which we pro- 
pose to make the occasion of a brief 
discussion of what is known in the 
philosophic world as the Cartesian 
Doubt, or Method of Philosophizing. 
The Churchman begins by saying: 

"A distinction is frequently and very 
justly taken between philosophic and reli- 
gious socpticism. When Descartes, in order 
to find firm i;round for his philosophical sys- 
tem, declared th-at he doubted the truth of 
every thing, even of the existence of the sen- 
sible world and the being of God, he did it 
in the interest of science, lie wished to 
stand upon a principle which could not \x 
denied, to find a first truth which no one 
could questioiu And this philosophic scep- 
ticism is an essential clement in all investi- 
gations of truth. It says to every accredited 
opinion. Have you any right to exist ? are 
you a reality or a sham ? By thus explor- 
ing the foundation of current licliefs, we 
come to distinguish those which have real 
vitality in them, and stand on the rock and 
not on the sand ; and by gathering up the 
living (true) and casting away the dead, 
(false,) science goes step by step toward iu 
goal" 

Whether Descartes recommended 
a real or only a feigned doubt, as the 




y u » 

i 






CAmrtAmam, Hartfe(4 Ci, Auput ]^ 



first step in the scientific 
defended, has been and still is 
putcd point. If it is only a ft 
or pretended doubt, it is noi 
at all, and he who affects ; 
believer all the time. It 
doubt, and we have never se« 
good in science or in anyihin| 
come from shams or shammin| 
the doubt is real, and is extcni 
all things, even to the being d 
and our own e.Yistence, as De^ 
recommends, we are at a \{ 
(Understand any process by wli 
can be scientifically removed 
him who really doubts of every 
even for a moment, nothing G 
proved, for he doubts the pro< 
well as the propositions to be pq 
All proofs must be drawn eithei 
facts or from principles, and not 
avail anything with one who hoi 
facts and principles doubtful, 
man who really doubts everyth 
out of the condition of ever kn 
or believing anything. There \ 
way of refuting a sceptic but I 
recting his attention to sooM 
which he does not and cannot A 
and if there is nothing of lb 
refutation is imp>ossible. 
De&cane&, a,ccord.vn^ 



mot A 

tl^ 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



235 



'<»», when he declared he 
d the truth of everything, 
f the existence of the sensi- 
rld and the being of God, did 
e interest of science, in order 
firm ground for his philosophi- 
lem. Doubt is ignorance, for 
I doubts where he knows. So 
tes sougljt a firm ground for 
losopbical system in universal 
tK£ 1 " He wished to stand 
(on) a principle which could 
[denied, a first truth wliich no 
old question." If he held there 
i a principle, such a first truth, 
thing which cannot be denied, 
talrdy did not and could not 
of ever>'thing. If he doubt- 
being of God, how could he 
to find sucli a principle or 
first truth ? The Churchman 
to approve of the Cartesian 

Ksays, " This pliilosophical 
is an essential element in 
^tions of truth." If this 
feigned scepticism were pos- 
ho investigations could end in 
ig but doubt, for it would al- 
le possible, whatever the con- 
» arrived at, to doubt them. 
y can I not investigate the 
do not doubt or deny ? 
bovcr, is it lawful, even pro- 
lly, in the interest of science, to 
that is, to deny, the being of 
No roan has the right to make 
'an atheist even for a moment, 
lligation to believe in God, to 
irve, and obey him, is a univer- 
ral obligation, and binds every 
km the first dawn of reason, 
the being of God is to 
hole moral order, all the 
of faiUi, the entire Chris- 
on. And does The Church- 
that any man in the in- 
ience or any other interest 
;ht voluntarily to do that? 
ly, every man has the 
rrogate "every accredit- 



ed opinion," and to demand of it, 
" Have you any right to exist ? are 
you a reality or a sham ?" But the 
right to question " accredited opin- 
ions" is one thing, and the right to 
question the first principles either of 
science or of faith is another. A man 
has no more right voluntarily to deny 
the truth than he has to lie or steal. 
The Churchman will not deny this. 
Then either it holds that all science 
as all faith is simply opinion, or it de- 
ceives itself in supposing that it ac- 
cepts the Cartesian doubt or adopts 
his philosophical scepticism. Doubt 
in the region of simple opinion is very 
proper. It would be perfectly right 
for The Churchman to doubt the 
opinion accredited among Protes- 
tants that Rome is a despotism, the 
papacy a usurpation, the Catholic 
religion a superstition, or that the 
church has lost, falsified, corrupted, 
or overlaid the pure Christian faith, 
and demand of that opinion, " Have 
you any right to exist ? are you a rea- 
lity or a sham ?" And we have little 
doubt, if it would do so, iliat it would 
find itself exchanging its present opi- 
nion for the faith "once delivered to 
the saints." It is clear enough from 
the extract we have made that The 
Churchman means to justify scep- 
ticism only in matters of opinion, 
and that it is far enough from doubt- 
ing of ever)'thing, or supposing that 
there is nothing real which no man 
can doubt. 

But, if we examine a little more 
closely this Cartesian method which 
bids us doubt of everything till 
we have proved it, we shall find 
more than one reason for rejecting 
it. The doubt must be either real or 
feigned. If the doubt is only feign- 
ed for the purpose of investigation, it 
amounts to nothing, serves no pur- 
pose whatever ; for every man carries 
himself with him wherever he goes, 
and enters into his thought as he \s. 



236 



Tkf Cartesian Doubt. 



with all the faith or science he really 
has. No man ever does or can di- 
vest himself of himself. Hence the 
difficulty we find even in imagining 
ourselves dead, for even in imagina- 
tion we think, and in all thinking we 
think ourselves living, are conscious 
that we are not dead. In every 
thought, whatever else we affirm, we 
affirm our own existence, and this af- 
firmation of our own existence is an 
essential and inseparable element of 
every thought. When I attempt to 
think myself dead, I necessarily think 
myself as surviving my own death, 
and as hovering over my own grave. 
No one ever thinks his own death 
as the total extinction of his exist- 
ence, and hence we always think of 
the grave as dark, lonely, cold, as if 
'•omething of life or feeling remain- 
ed in thebody buried in it. Men ask 
for proofs that the soul survives the 
dissolution of the body, but what they 
really need is proof that the soul dies. 
Life we know ; but death, in the sense 
of total extinction of life, we know 
not ; it is no fact of our experience. 
Life we can conceive, death we cannot. 
I am always living in my conceptions, 
and that I die with my body I am ut- 
terly unable to think, because I can 
think myself only as living. 

The thinker, then, enters as an in- 
destnictible element into every one 
of his thoughts. Then he must en- 
ter as he is and for what he is. His 
real faith or science enters with him, 
and no doubt can enter that is not a 
real doubt. A feigned or factitious 
doubt, being unreal, does not and can- 
not enter with him. He is always 
conscious that he does not entertain 
it, and therefore can never think as 
he would if he did. The Christian, 
firm in his Christian faith, whose soul 
is clothed with Christian habits, 
cannot think as an infidel, or even in 
thought put himself in the infidel's 
position. Hence one reason why so 



many defences of Christ: 
fectly conclusive to the b. 
of tlieir purpose with tiie unijchevi 
Even tlie unbeliever trained in 
Christian community or bred 
bom under Christian ciinlizadc 
cannot think as one brcil and bom 
under paganism. What we assert ii^ 
that every man thinks as he is. iM 
cannot think otherwise ; simpl. 
all the world means w^hen it s.i., 
a writer, " Whatever else he writes, 1 
always writes himself." Men 
mimic one another, but always 
in his own way. The same 
from different writers produce not I 
same impression upon the n* 
Something of himself enters mt 
whatever a man thinks or does, 
and no translator has ever yet been 
able to translate an author from one 
language to another without f; '■•;:; 
something of himself in his trj"; 
tion. The Cartesian doubt, then, : 
feigned, factitious, or merely met 
ical, is impracticable, is unre.al, an 
counts for nothing; for all along 1 
investigator thinks with whatever 
and knowledge he really has ; or sin 
ply, we cannot feign a doubt we i 
not feel. 

It will be no better if we 
that the doubt recommended is 
No man really doubts what he dc 
not doubt, and no man does or 
doubt of everything ; for even tn 
doubt the existence of the doubter b^ 
affirmed. But suppose a man re 
does doubt of everjthing, the 
sian method will never help him to I 
solve his doubts. From doubt jtio 
can get only doubt To propOM^ 
doubt as a method of philosophirir 
is simply absurd, as absurd as it wc 
be to call scepticism philosophy, fait 
or science. The mind that doubts > 
everything, if such a mind can be i 
posed, is a perfect blank, and, wb< 
the mind is a perfect blank, b total!] 
ignorant of everything, how b it 




TAe Cartesian Doubt. 



237 



sind, discover, or know that 
g is or exists? There have 
been men, sometimes men 
ihilosophers, who tell us that 
d is at first a tabula rasa, or 
beet, and exists without a sin- 
racter written on it. If so, if 
!xist in a state of blank igno- 
low can it, we should like to 
ever become an intelligent 
)r ever know anything more 
e sheet of paper on which we 
V writing? Intelligence can 
only to intelligence, and no 
}solutelyunintelligent can ever 
;ht or ever come to know any- 
But if we assume that the 
\ in any degree intelligent, we 
at it can doubt of everything ; 
e is no intelligence where noth- 
known, and what the mind 
it does not and cannot doubt 
then, this blank igpiorance is 
ible, or no intelligence is pos- 

as we have already said, no 
>es or can doubt of everything, 
nee the Cartesian method is 
Kjssible method. Descartes 
ikcly meant that we should 
of everjihing, the external 
and even the being of God, 
:ept nothing till we have found 
nple that cannot be denied, 
5t truth that cannot be doubt- 
1 which all that is true or real 
5 deduced after the manner 
geometricians. He did not 
3 deny that there is such first 
r principle, but to maintain 
le philosopher should doubt 

has found or obtained it. 
or is in taking up the ques- 
roethod before that of princi- 

first truths — an error com- 
nearly all philosophers who 
icceeded him, but which we 
ncounter in the great Gentile 
phers, far less in the great 
and mediaeval doctors of the 



church. These always begin with 
principles, and their principles de* 
termine their method. Descartes be> 
g^ns with method, and, as Cousin has 
jifstly said, all his philosophy is in 
his method. But, unhappily, his 
method, based on doubt, recognizes 
and conducts to no principles, there- 
fore to no philosophy, to no science, 
and necessarily leaves the mind in 
the doubt in which it is held to be- 
gin. The discussion of method be- 
fore discussing principles assumes 
that the mind is at the outset with- 
out principles, or, at least, totally 
ignorant of principles ; and that, being 
without principles or totally ignorant 
of them, it is obliged to go forth and 
seek them, and, if possible, find or 
obtain them by its own active efforts. 
But here comes the difficulty, too 
often overlooked by our modern phi- 
losophers. The mind can neither 
exist nor operate without principles, 
or what some philosophers call first 
truths. The mind is constituted 
mind by the principles, and without 
them it is nothing and can do no- 
thing. The supposed tabula rasa is 
simply no miod at all. Principles 
must be given, not found or obtained. 
We cannot even doubt without them, 
for doubt itself is a mental act, and 
therefore the principles themselves, 
without which no doubt or denial is 
possible, are not and cannot be de- 
nied or doubted ; for even in deny- 
ing or doubting the mind affirms 
them. Principles, again, cannot be 
given the mind without its possess- 
ing them, and for the mind to pos- 
sess a thing is to know it. As the 
principles create or constitute the 
mind, tlie mind always knows them, 
and what it knows it does not and 
cannot doubt. The philosopher, as 
distinguished from the sophist, does 
not start from doubt, and doubt of 
everything till he has found something 
which he cannot doubt \ but he t/taxXa 



238 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



from the principles themselveSj which, 
being given, are nota per se, or self- 
evident, and therefore need no 
proof — in fact, are provable only 
from the absurd consequences which 
would follow their denial. 

Having begun with a false method, 
Descartes fails in regard to princi- 
ples, and takes as the first truth which 
cannot be doubted what, either in 
the order of being or knowing, is no 
first truth or ultimate principle at 
all. He takes as a principle what is 
simply a fact — the fact of his own 
personal existence, or of an internal 
personal sentiment : Cogito, ergo sum, 
I think, therefore I exist. Regarded 
as an argument to prove his exist- 
ence, as Descartes evidently at first 
regarded it, this enthjnnem is a 
sheer paralogism, and proves no- 
thing ; for the consequence only re- 
peats the antecedent; sum is already 
in cogito. I affirm that I exist in 
affirming that I think. But pass 
over this, and give Descartes the 
benefit of an explanation, which he 
gives in one of his letters when hard 
pressed by his acute Jesuit oppo- 
nent, th-it he does not pretend to 
offer it as an argument to prove that 
he exists, but presents it simply as 
the fact in which he finds or becomes 
conscious of his existence. There is 
no doubt that in the act of thinking 
I become conscious that I exist ; for, 
as we have already shown, the sub- 
ject enters into ever)' thought as one 
of its integral and indestructible ele- 
ments ; but this does not relieve him. 
He " wished," as says The Church- 
man, "to stand upon (on) a principle 
which could not be denied, to find a 
first truth which no one could ques- 
tion." This principle or first truth 
he pretends is his ovm. personal ex- 
istence, expressed in the sophism, 
I think, therefore I exist, Cogito, 
ergo sum. We agree, indeed have 
already proved, thait no one can deny 



or doubt his own personal e.xistenc 
although it is possible for a man 
set forth propositions wluch, in the 
logical development, would deny 
But the method Descartes defen 
permits him to assert nothing wli 
cannot be deduced, after the 
ner of the geometricians, from tt 
principle or first truth on whi< 
he takes his stand ; and unle 
he can so deduce God and the 
verse, he must deny them. 

But from the fact that I exist, 
is, from my own personal existenc 
nothing hut myself and what is 
me and dependent on me can be M 
duced. Geometrical or matlier 
cal deduction is nothing but Anal] 
sis, and analysis can give nothing b« 
the subject analyzed. Now, it co 
happens that I do not contain God 
and the external universe Ln mysel£ 
Following the Cartesian method, I 
can attain, then, to no existence but 
myself, my own personal phenom* 
ena. I can deduce no existenre but 
my own, and am forced, if !■ 
doubt or deny all otlier c 
that is, all existence but my per- 
sonal existence, and my own interior 
sentiments and affections. I am the 
only existence ; I am all th.it is 
or exists, and hence either I am God 
or God is not. What is this but the 
absolute egoism of Fichte ? 

Descartes himself seems to have 
felt the difficulty, and to have 
that God cannot, after all, be deduc 
from the fact of personal existence ;^ 
he therefore asserts God as an innate 
idea, and concludes his real and 
dependent being from the idea innate? 
in his own mind. Analysis of his own 
mind discloses the idea, and from thaj 
idea he concludes, after the ma 
of St, Anselm, that God is. But wl 
I am given as the principle or 
truth, how conclude from my idea 
which is simply a fact of my inter 
life, that there is anything inde{ 



see^^ 

:nc«;^1 

latc J 

in^H 

ata^ 



TX* Cartesian Doubt, 



239 




l^OTrespond to it ? Here 
\es was forced to depart from 
k method, and make what on 
rem is a most unwarrantable 
don, namely, that the idea, be- 
&te, is deposited by God in the 
pd, as God cannot lie, the idea 
fe true, and therefore God is. 
_be takes the idea to prove 
■ God, and the veracity of 
>ve the trustworthiness of 
a I But he was to doubt the 
'God till he had geometrically 
ited it ; he therefore must 
hat God is before he can ap- 
} his veracit)'. His method 
d him in a maze of sophistries 
^ch he was never able lo es- 
God concluded from my idea, 
.•rwise, is only my idea, 
reality independent of 
lent of Sl Anselm is 
iiiea is taken objec- 
subjectively, as Descartes 
i 

E: Descartes really meant by 
dcas we do not know, and we 
t certain that he knew himself ; 
saj's, somewhere in his corre- 
nce, that, when he calls the 
God innate, he only means 
we. the innate faculty of 
)d. His argument is, '* I 
and therefore God is." 
^ difficulty according to his 
bthod remains unsolved. 
in my own personal existence 
u the principle or first truth, 
ps that, at least in science, I 
■dent for myself. Then noih- 
Hi»guishable from myself is ne- 
r to my thought, and there is 
kd of my going out of myself 
ic. How, then, conclude that 
i thought seems to be object is 

tiing distinguishable from 
think God, but how con- 
this that God is distinct 
lid independent of me, or that 
^ything but a mode or a/lec- 



tion of my own personal existence ? 
The fact is, when we take our own 
personal existence alone as the prin- 
ciple from which all objects of faith 
or science are to be deduced, we can 
never attain to any reality not con- 
tained in our existence as the part in 
the whole, the effect in the cause, or 
the property in the essence. Exclu- 
sive psychology, as has been shown 
over and over again, can give us only 
the subjectivism of Kant, or the ego- 
ism of Fichte, resulting necessarily 
in the nihilism, or identity of being 
and not-being, of Hegel. 

The psychologists generally do 
not, we are aware, concede this ; but 
they are not in fact, whatever they 
are in theorv', exclusive psychologists, 
and their inductions of God and an 
external universe are made from on- 
tological as well as from psychologi- 
cal data. They begin their pro- 
cess, indeed, by analyzing the mind, 
what they call the facts of conscious- 
ness, but they always include in their 
premises non-psychological elements. 
Their inductions all suppose man and 
tlie universe are contingent existen- 
ces, and as the contingent is incon- 
ceivable as contingent without the ne- 
cessary, they conclude, since the con- 
tingent exists, very logically, that there 
really is also the necessarj', or neces- 
sary being, which is God. But the 
necessary, without which their con- 
clusion would and could have no 
validity, is not a psychological fact 
or element ; otherwise the soul itself 
would be necessary being, would be 
itself God. The mistake arises from 
regarding what philosophers call ne- 
cessary ideas, such as the idea of 
the necessar)', the universal, the im- 
mutable, the eternal, etc., because 
held by the mind, as psychological, in- 
stead of being, as they really are, on- 
tological. Being ontological, real 
being, the inductions of the psycho- 
Jogists, as they call themse\\'es,do ttaX.- 




240 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



ly carry us out of the psychological 
order, out of the subjective into the 
objective. But, if their inductions 
■were, as they pretend, from exclusive- 
ly psychological data, they would have 
no value beyond the soul itself, and 
the God concluded would be only a 
psychological abstracfion. Indeed, 
most psychologists assert more truth 
than their method allows, are better 
than their systems. Especially is 
this the case with Descartes. On 
his own system, logically developed, 
he could assert no reality but his own 
individual soul or personal existence; 
yet, in point of fact, he asserts nearly 
all that the Catholic theologian as- 
serts, but he does it inconsistently, il- 
logically, unscientifically, and thus 
leads his followers to deny everj'thing 
not assertable by his method. 

But, as we have said, Descartes 
does not attain by his method to a 
first principle. Not only cannot the 
being of God and the existence of 
the external universe be deduced 
from our own jjersonal existence, 
but, by his method, our personal ex- 
istence itself cannot be logically 
asserted. It is not ultimate, a first 
principle, or a first truth. Our per- 
sonal existence cannot stand by itself 
alone. It is true Descartes says, 
Cagito, ergo sum j but I cannot even 
think by myself alone, and even he 
does not venture to take sum in the 
absolute sense of am, as in the in- 
communicable name by which God 
reveals himself to Moses, I Am who 
Am, or I Am that Am. Even he takes 
it in the sense of exist, Cogito, ergo 
sum, I think, therefore I exist He 
never dared assert his own person- 
al existence as absolute, underived, 
eternal, and necessary being ; it re- 
mained for a Fichte, adopting the 
Cartesian method, to do that. Be- 
tween being and existence, essentia And 
exislentiii, tlicrc is a difference which 
our philosophers are not always care- 



mim 



fill to note. Existence 
stare, and strictly taken, means 
ing from another, or a derivat 
dependent, therefore a contin| 
istence, or creature, whose bd 
another, not in itself. We sp 
deed, of human beings, but a 
beings only in a derivative sei 
in the primary or absolute 
Hence the apostle to the C 
says, " In him (God) we lii 
move, and are," or ha\'e oui 
In ourselves we have no beii 
are something only as creat 
upheld by Him who is being i1 
to speak i la Plato, being in 1 
Evidently, then, our persona 
ence is not ultimate, ther^t 
the first principle, nor tlie fin 
The ultimate, at least in the c 
being, is not the soul, a co«i 
existence, but, real being, that 
himself. 

But as we have and can 1 
personal existence except froi 
it is evident that we cannot aa 
personal existence by itself aloi 
to be able to assert it at ail, y> 
be able to assert the being c 
Now, Descartes tells us that ¥ 
doubt the being of God tOl 
prove it after the manner 
metricians. But how are] 
this ? We cannot, as we 
deduce his being from our c 
sonal existence ; and what is sd 
to the purpose, while we d 
doubt liis being, we cannot au 
even conceive of our own, I 
our existence, being derivati 
pendent, having not its beinj 
self, is not intelligible or cone 
inor by itself alone. Thecontii 
not conceivable without the n 
ry. They are correlatives, a 
relatives connote each other, 
if we deny or doubt the being i 
wc necessarily deny or doubt c 
personal existence, imposaafa 
inconceivable without 



i 



1 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



241 



: i the existence of the 

: se and our own. If, 

iSm, it were possible to doubt of the 

\ian% of God, we should doubt of all 

. and should have nothing left 

»iiii v^Hich to prove that God is. God 

»lbe first principle in being and in 

kaowing, and if he is denied, all is de- 

aied. Atheism is nihilism. 

Descartes evidently assumes that it 
ii both possible and lawful to doubt 
d>e being of God, nay, that we ought 
to do so, till we have geometrically 
demonstrated that he is, and The 
Churchman tells us that this " scep- 
ticism is an essential element in the 
investigation of truth." We cannot 
bring ourselves to believe it. God, the 
theologians tell us, is real and neces- 
nry being, the contrary of which can- 
aot be thought, and it is the fool, the 
SctipCures tell us, that says ^' in his 
ieirt, God is not." The evidence of 
ihit is tn the fact that we do in every 
thought think our own existence, and 
caaoot deny it if we would ; and in 
tbe £uther fact that we always do 
think our own existence as contingent, 
■ot IS necessary being ; and tliat we 
cianot think the contingent without 
at tbe same time thinking the ncces- 
tuj, as was sufficiently shown in the 
pifCRt on The Problems of the Age^ 
fbtiiKpH sometime since in this Ma- 
princ As there can without God 
be nothing to be known, we must dis- 
acnt from The Churchman, as from 
Descartes himself, that a philosophi- 
^ scepticism which extends even to 
die being of God '' is an essential ele- 
aeat in the investigation of truth." 
It seems to us the worst way possible 
to troth, that of beginning by deny- 
rr;i' all truth, and even the possibility 
•Ju The man who does so, hu- 
Q^Ar.iy speaking, puts himself out of 
tkr condition of discovering or re- 
cciriBg truth of any sort He who 
seeks for the truth should do so with 
ao open tmod and heart, and with the 
▼ot. VI. — 16 



conviction that it is. We must open 
our eyes to the light, if we would be- 
hold it, and our hearts to the entrance 
of truth, if we would have it warm and 
vivify us. Those men who shut their 
eyes, compress their lips, and close 
the aperture of their minds are the 
last men in the world to discover or 
to receive the truth, and they must ex- 
pect to walk in darkness and doubt 
all their lives. Scepticism is a worse 
preparation for investigating truth 
than even credulity, though scep- 
ticism and credulity are blood rela- 
tions, and usually walk hand in hand. 
If it were possible to doubt the 
being of God, or to think a single 
thought without thinking him, we 
should prove ourselves independent 
of him, and therefore deprive our- 
selves of all possible means of prov- 
ing that he is. If, for instance, we 
could think our own existence, as is 
assumed in the Cartesian enlhymem, 
Cogito, ergo sum, without in the same 
indissoluble thought thinking God, 
there would be no necessity of assert- 
ing God, and no possible argument 
by which we could prove his being, or 
data from wliich he could be con- 
cluded. Man can no more exist 
and act in the intellectual order, 
without God, than in the physical 
order. If you suppose men capable 
of thinking and reasoning without 
the intellectual apprehension of (he 
Divine Being, as must be the man 
who really doubts the being of God, 
there is no possible reason for as- 
serting God, and it is a matter of no 
practical moment in the conduct of 
life whether we believe in God or 
not. The fact is, no man can doubt 
the being of God any more than he 
can his own personal existence. 7*he 
Cartesian method, if followed strictly, 
would lead logically to universal ni- 
hilism ; for he who doubts the being 
of God must, if logical, doubt of 
everything, and he who doubts ol 



b 



dk 



ever)*thing can be convinced of no- 
thing. 

We say not only that atheism is 
absurd, but that it is impossible ; and 
they who with the fool say there is 
no God, if sincere, deceive them- 
selves, or are deceived by the false 
methods and theories of philoso- 
phers, or sophists rather. No man 
can think a single thought without 
thinking both God and himself. 
The man may not advert, as St. Au- 
gustine says, to the fact that he 
thinks God, but he certainly thinks, 
as we showed in our article last May, 
on An Old Quarrel, that which is 
God. No man ever thinks the im- 
perfect without thinking the perfect, 
the particular without the universal, 
the mutable without the immutable, 
the temporal without the eternal, the 
contingent without the necessary. 
The perfect, the universal, the immu- 
table, the eternal, the necessary are 
not abstract ideas, for there are no 
abstractions in nature. Abstrac- 
tions are nullities, and cannot be 
thought. The ideas must be real, and 
therefore being ; and what is ]>erfect, 
universal, immutable, eternal, real 
and necessary being but God .' 
That which is God enters into every 
one of our thoughts, and can no 
more l>e denied or doubted than our 
own existence. Those poor people 
•who regard themselves as atheists 
so regard themselves because they 
■do not understand that the so-called 
abstract or necessary ideas are not 
simply ideas in the mind or psj-cho- 
logical phenomena, but are objective, 
real being, the eternal, immutable, 
Self-existent God, in whom we live, 
and move, and have our being. No 
doubt we need instruction and re- 
flection to understand this, but this 
instruction is within the reach of all 
men, and every mind of ordinary ca- 
pacity is adequate to the necessary 
reflection. In point of fact, It is the 



philosophers that make atheists 
the atheism is always lheorctic4 
ver real. 

ITiere is no doubt that a lit( 
genuity may deduce somethinj 
this doctrine from Descartes's 
tion of innate ideas, but not ii 
sense Descartes himself under 
the word idfci. \^'ith Descart< 
word idea never means the objl 
reality, but its image in the 1 
never being itself, but its ment) 
presentation, leaving it necc 
after having ascertained that «1 
the idea, to prove that it rcpn 
an objective reality — a thing ' 
no man has ever done or ev« 
do. His subsequent e.tploi 
that he meant, by asserting ihj 
idea of God is innate, simply f 
natc faculty of thinking God. 
nearer appro.ich to the • r| 

but did not reach it, !■ J 

sumed that the intuition o\ 
which realty is God follows tl 
ercise of the faculty of thinki] 
stead oi preceding and consti 
it, and is not an h priori but a 
pirical intuition. If we couU 
pose the faculty constituted, ex 
and operative, without the inl 
of real and necessary being, an 
the idea is obtained by our thi 
there would still remain the qii 
as to the objective validity 
thought. If Descartes had ; 
fied the idea with being regart 
intelligible to us, and rcprcseil 
as creating or constituting tt 
ulty of thinking, he would 
reached the truth ; but this he 
not do by his method, which r«s 
him to recognize as his pr 
only his own persona] existcnc 
to deduce from it, after the mat 
the geometricians, whatever he 
nized as true. God, or what i 
could be obtained or pre^ate< 
by the exercise of our faa 
thinking, and not by the creat 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



inning himself as the first 

alike of thought and the 
thinking. 

aites had properly analyzed 
ad ascertained its essential 
tructible elements, he would 
ded the error of resolving 
.er into thought, la pcnsie, 
nied the substantive char- 
he soul and made it purely 
lal, and have ascertained 
de the subject or our per- 
stence, but simultaneously 
ere is affirmed what in tlie 
reality precedes it, — God 
nder the form, if I may so 

real, necessary, universal, 
id independent idea or being. 

gi%'en in every thought, as 
■y and essential element, a 
^logical element, without 
thought is possible. This, 
personal existence, is the 

or principle which every 
er must recognize, if he 
lUd on a solid foundation 
ic air, and this principle 
be denied or doubted 
}nal e.\istcnce itself, for 

*ire could not think our 
existence, nay, could not ex- 
as capable of thought, 
en if, by a just analysis, 
. had found tliat this onto- 
-jtktni is a nccessarj' and in- 
ile element of thought, he 

S»till greatly, fatally erred 
len it as his first princi- 
sed to admit any exist- 
logically deducible from it, 
educible from it "after the 
geometricians," as re- 
method. Father Ro- 
IX Foumier, and the 
)rs reject the Carte- 
, and assume Ens, 
twhich they very pro- 
ilify with God, as the first 
jucicnce. This is proper. 
^hhey pass from being to 




existences, from the necessary to the 
contingent, from God to creation ? 
We cannot deduce logically exist- 
ences from being, because logic can 
deduce from being only what is ne- 
cessarily contained in being, that is, 
only being. If we say, given being 
existences logically follow, we assume 
with Cousin that God cannot but 
create, that creation is a necessity of 
his own nature, and tlierefore neces- 
sary, as necessary as God himself, 
which denies the contingency of crea- 
tures, and identifies tliem with ne- 
cessary being. This is precisely 
what Descartes himself does after he 
has once got possession, as he sup- 
poses, of the idea of God, or proved 
that God is. Creation on his system 
is the necessary, not the free act of 
the Creator. 

There are, as has often been re- 
marked, two systems in Descartes, 
the one psychological and the other 
ontological ; as there are in his great 
admirer and follower, Victor Cousin. 
The two systems are found in juxta- 
position indeed, but without any log- 
ical or genetic relation. Descartes 
proceeds from his personal existence 
as his principle, which gives him no- 
thing but his personal existence ; 
then finding that he has the idea of 
God, for we presume he had been 
taught his catechism, he takes the 
idea as his principle, and erects on 
it a system of ontology. In this last 
he was followed by Malebranche, a 
far greater man than himself. Male* 
branche perceived, what we have 
shown, that we have direct and im- 
mediate intelligence of God, that 
he, as idea, is the immediate object 
of the understanding, and that we 
see all things in him. Hence his 
well-known Visio in Deo, or Vision in 
God, which would be true enough if 
we had the vision of the blest, and 
could see God as he is in himself; 
for God sees or knows aU things m 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



Iiimself, and has no need to go out 
(if himself to know anything he has 
made. But this is not the case with 
us. We do not see things them- 
selves in God, but only their idea or 
possibility. From the idea of God 
we may deduce his ability to create, 
and that the tj-pe of all creatable 
things must be in him ; but as cre- 
, ation is on his part a free, not a ne- 
cessary act, we can, as Malebranche 
was told at the time, see a possible, 
but not an actual universe in God ; 
hence, by his vision in God, he at- 
tained only to a pure idealism, in 
which nothing actually distinguish- 
able from God was apprehended or 
asserted. 

Spinoza, greater still than Male- 
branche, followed also Descartes in 
his ontological system, and took be- 
ing, which he calls substance, as his 
principle. Substance, he said, is 
one and ultimate, and nothing is to 
be admitted not obtainable ffom it 
by way of logical deduction. Spi- 
noza was too good a logician to sup- 
pose that the idea of creation is de- 
ducible from the idea of God, for a 
necessar)' creation is no creation at 
all, but the simple evolution of ne- 
cessary being or substance. Hence 
nothing is or exists except the one 
only substance and its modes and 
attributes. His attributes are in- 
finite, since he is infinite sub- 
stance ; but we know only two, 
thought and extension. The so-call- 
ed German ontologists in the main 
follow Spinoza, and like him admit 
only being or substance, or its attri- 
butes or modes. This system makes 
what are called creatures, men and 
things, modes of the Divine Being, in 
which he manifests his attributes, 
thought and extension ; hence it is 
justly called pantheism, which, under 
some of its forms, no one can escape 
who admits notliingnot logically dedu- 
dbie from the idea of substance^ be- 



ing, or God ; for d -!. 

said, is simply ana- i d 

can give only the subject anai 
As the analysis of my personal 
ence or the soul can give on 
and my attributes, modes, \ 
fections, and therefore the 
of Fichte, which underlies 
purely psychological system, 
analysis of tJie idea of being ca 
only being and its modes or 
butes, or the pantheism of Sp 
which underlies the ontology O, 
cartes, and every system of cxc 
ontolog}'. 

No philosopher is ever able 
velop his whole system, and p( 
it in all its parts, or foresee aJl it 
cal consequences. It is only 
that can do this, and the licea 
method or a system can be col 
fully only from its historical del 
ments. The disciples of Des< 
who in France started with hil 
chological principle, ended 
pure sensism, or sensation 
formed, of Condillac, and those 
Germany started with the same 
ciple, ended in the absolute egoi 
Fichte, who completed the sub} 
ism of Kant, and reached the 
where egoism and pantheism b< 
identical. Those, again, who i 
country have started with the 
logical principle of Descartes ail 
lowed his method, have, hoi 
they may have attempted to dij 
their conclusions, ended in d 
creation and asserting son>e fc 
pantheism. The materialism 
prevailed in the last century, al 
tains to a g^eat extent even 
present, is not a historical de! 
ment of Cartesianism, so mudi 
the English school founded li 
con, and developed by Hobbd 
Locke, and completed by tiie F 
idcalogists of Autueil, ^thxt 
noted for their Artglomania. 
tesianism led rather to what 



The Cartisian Doubt. 



245 



termed 



idealism, to the de- 
ihe material universe, or its 
ion into pure sensation. 
it is instructive to observe that 
storical development of the 
logical principle represented 
Jile and that of the ontologi- 
Rciple represented by Spinoza 
ate in identity. Fichte saw 
Id not make the soul the first 
lie without taking it as ultimate 
tnying its contingency, or that 
kid not make the soul that 
rhich all that exists proceeds 
I assuming that the soul, the 
God. Hence his twofold ego> 
e absolute and the other phe- 
ftl or modal. He thus identifies 
lul with God, and concludes 
)thing except me and my phe- 
, or attributes and modes, is 
fts : I am all. Spinoza, start- 
m the opposite pole, the onto- 
I finds that he can logically 
from being only being ; and 
being substance, and sub- 
God, he concludes with an in- 
6 logic nothing is or exists, 
God and his modes or attri* 
■ The form may differ, but the 
iion is identical with the last 
tion of ^oism, and it is note- 
that even Fichte, in tlie last 
rmation of his doctrine, sub- 
God for the soul, and made 
e absolute, and the soul re la- 
id phenomenal, or a mode of 
rine Being. 

iher, then, we start with the 
► first principle or with God, 
I never by logical deduction 
»t rr<>.itjon, or be able to as- 
r nee as distinguishable 

ic i^nine Being, Neither can 
pn exclusively as the primum 
\kitttm, and exclusive ontology 
ralty and as fafal in its con- 
Ms Jis exclusive psychology, 
rt is, we can neither doubt the 
»f God nor our own personal 



existence ; for both are equally es- 
sential and indestructible elements 
of thought, given in the primitive in- 
tuition, though being is logically prior 
to existence, and our primum phih- 
iophicum must include both. 

But the soul is given in the intuition 
as contingent, and being is given as 
necessary. The contingent cannot 
exist any more than it can be thought 
without the necessary. It then de- 
pends on the necessary, and can exist 
only as created and upheld by it. Vhe 
real principle, or primum philosophi- 
cum^ is then, as has been amply 
shown in the essays on The ProbUms 
of the Age, the ideal formula, Ens 
creat exisietttias^ or Being creates 
existences. This presents the onto- 
logical principle and the psychologi- 
cal not in juxtaposition merely, but 
in their real and true relation. This 
formula enables us to avoid alike 
pantheism, atheism, idealism, an^l 
materialism, and to conform in prin- 
ciple our philosophy to the real or- 
der of things and the Catholic faith. 
But it is only in principle, for Giober- 
ti himself calls the formula ideal. It 
does not, after all, give us any science 
of actual existences, or itself furnish 
its own scientific explication and ap- 
plication. Apply to it the method of 
Descartes, and lay it down that every- 
thing is to be doubted till proved, 
and we are not much in advance of 
Cartesianism. Wc know God is, we 
know things exist, and God has creat- 
ed or creates them ; but we do not 
know by knowing the formula what 
God is, what things do or do not exist. 
It gives us the principles of science, 
but not the sciences; the law which 
governs the explication of facts, not 
the facts themselves. We cannot de- 
duce, after the manner of the geome- 
tricians, any actual existence or fact 
from the formula, nor any of the sci- 
ences. There is an empirical ele- 
ment in all the sciences, and nowe ol 



24^ 



The Cartesian Doubt 



them can be constructed by logical 
deduction even from a true ideal for- 
mula, and to deny everything not lo- 
gically deducible from it would leave 
us in the purely ideal, and practically 
very little better off than Descartes 
himself left us. The Cartesian me- 
thod based on doubt, then, whether 
we start with an incomplete or a com- 
plete ideal formula, can never answer 
the purpose of the philosopher, or 
enable us to construct a concrete 
philosophy that includes the whole 
body of truth and all the scientific 
facts of the universe. 

We do not pretend that philoso- 
phy must embrace all the knowable, 
cmne icibUe, in detail ; it suffices that 
it does so in principle. No doubt 
the ideal formula does this, as in fact 
always has done the philosophy that 
has obtained in the Catholic schools. 
But though the ideas expressed in the 
ideal formula are intuitive, the con- 
stitution of the mind, and basis of all 
intelligence, and are really asserted 
in every thought, we very much doubt 
if they could ever have been reduced 
to the formula given by Gioberti if 
men had never received a divine 
revelation from God, or if they had 
been left without any positive instruc- 
tion from their Creator. We are as far 
as any one can be from building sci- 
ence on faith ; but we so far agree 
with the traditionalists as to hold 
that revelation is necessary to the 
full development of reason and its 
perfect mastery of itself One great 
objection to the Cartesian doubt or 
nvethod is, that it detaches philosophy 
from theology, and assumes that it 
can be erected into an independent 
science sufficient for itself without 
any aid ftom supernatural revelation, 
and free from all allegiance to it. 
This had ne\'er been done nor at- 
tempted by any Christian school or 
even non-Christian school prior to 
Descartes, unless the pretension of 



Pomponatius and some others, 
things may be theologically true 
philosophically false, and who 
promptly condemned by Leo X., 
understood as an attempt in that i 
rection. The great fathers of the" 
church and the mediaeval doctors al- 
ways recognized the sjmthesis of rea- 
son and revelation ; and, while they 
gave to each its part, they seem nctr- 
er to have dreamed of separatiag 
them, and of cultivating either as B* 
dependent of the other ; yet Aey 
have given us a philosophy which 
if not free from all defects, is 
rior, under the point of \'iew of r« 
son alone, to anything that has < 
where ever been given under 
name. He who would construct 
philosophy that can stand the 
even of reason must borrow 
from St. Athanasius, St. Ai 
St. Gregory the Great, St Ti 
St Buenaventura, and the later ; 
lastics. 

It 13 also an objection to the 
tesian doubt that it is not only a i 
plete rupture with revealed the 
but also with tradition, and is an 
tempt to break the continuity of 
life of the race, and to sever thi 
ture of humanity from its past Vi 
are among those who regard the cat 
olic beliefs and traditions of mankii 
as integral elements in the life of I 
race itself, and indispensable to il| 
continuous progress. The future 
ways has its germ in thie past and]| 
beginning t/e noi'O for the individv 
as for society is alike impossible 
undesirable. The Cartesian doti 
overlooks this, and requires the 
vidual to disgamish his mind of i 
relic and memorial of the past of < 
rything furnished by his parents 
teachers, or the wisdom of 
after having become absolui 
and empty, and made hiraself as i| 
norant and impotent as the new-J 
babe, to receive nothing till he, witbc 



Th* Cartesian Doubt. 



247 



without instruction, has 
aided powers tested its 
asonable would it be for 
infant to refuse the milk 
er's breast, till it had by 
ie of its faculties settled the 
af its wholesomeness. 
ject, finally, that it tends to 
^respect for authority, all 
Wbx tradition, all regard for 
^m and science of other ages 
Hben, and to puff up the in- 
nth an overweening self-con- 
gense of his own sufficiency 
It renders all education 
ion useless and an im- 
It tends to crush the 
t of our nature, and to 
e individualism, no less 
t to government and socie- 
» religion and the divine or- 

tling to which all men are 
^ly dependent, one on an- 
hlbtless, Descartes only de- 
d gave expression to ten- 
hich were in his time begin- 
Active and strong ; but the 
Wti the civilized world only 
Vj verifies their destructive, 
fegphical, anti-religious, and 
^maracter. Vet his method 
I substance if not in form, 
t&ively accepted and follow- 
ple of Thi Churchman 

>t by any means believe 

les had any suspicion of 

racter of his philosophic 

We are far from agreeing 

that he was a disguis- 
lant designedly laboring to 
: work undertaken by Lu- 
loubt not that he really 

church, as he always 

do, though most likely 
tnough from being a fer- 

; but he was bred a sol- 

jhilosopher or a thcolo- 

jugh he may have been. 

It, he was for his time, a 



great matliematician and a respect- 
able physicist, he was always a poor 
theologian, and a still poorer metaphy- 
sician. His natural ability was no 
doubt worthy of admiration, but he 
had no genius for metaphysics, and 
his ignorance of the profounder philo- 
sophy of antiquity and of the mediae- 
val doctors was almost maiTcllous. 
He owed in his own day his popular- 
it)' to the fact that he discoursed on 
philosophy in the language of the 
world, free from the slitT formulas, 
the barbarous locutions, and llie dry 
technicalities of the schools. He 
owed much to the merits of his st)'le, 
but still more to the feet thjt he wrote 
in the vernacular instead of the Latin 
tongue, then unusual with writers of 
philosophical treatises, and non-pro- 
fessional men and court-bred ladies 
could read him and fancy they unr- 
derstood philosophy. His worka 
were "philosophy-made-easy," and he 
soon became the vogue in France, 
and France gives the fashion to the 
world. But it would be difficult to 
name a writer who has exerted in al« 
most every direction an equally dis- 
astrous influence on modern thought 
and civilization ; not that his inten- 
tions were bad, but that his igno- 
rance and presumption were great. 

The Cartesian method has no doubt 
favored that lawless and independent 
spirit which we sec throughout mod- 
em society, and which is manifested 
in those Jacobin revolutions which 
have struck alike at ecclesiastical 
and f>olitical authority, and at times 
threatened the civilized world with a 
new barbarian invasion ; but the evil 
resulting from that method which is 
now the most to be deplored is the 
arrogant and independent tone as- 
sumed by modem science, and its 
insolence toward the sacred dogmas, 
of faith. Descartes detached philoso-- 
phy, and with it all the sciences, {roxw 
fzith, and declared them mdtipeudctsX. 



248 



The Cartesian Doubt. 



of revelation. It is especially for this 
that Cousin praises him. But mod- 
em so-called science is not content- 
ed even with independence ; it as- 
pires to dominate and subject faith 
to itself, or to set up its own conclu- 
sions as the infallible test of tnttli. 
Jt makes certain inductions from a 
vferj' partial survey of facts, concocts 
(xrtain geological, physiological, eth- 
nological, and philological theories 
at war with the dogmas of faith, 
and says with sublime insolence that 
therefore faith must give way, for 
science has demonstrated its falsity ! 
If the church condemns its unsup>- 
ported conclusions, there is forthwith 
a deafening clamor raised that the 
church is hostile to science, and de- 
nies the freedom of thought and the 
inalienable rights of the mind ! The 
Churchman sees this, and has written 
the very article from which we have 
made our extract to show its injus- 
tice ; but with what success can it 
hope to do it, after beginning by ap- 
proving the Cartesian method and 
conceding modern science, in prin- 
ciple, all it asks ? 

We have said and shown over and 
over again that the church does not 
condemn science. Facts, no matter 
of what order, if facts, never do and 
never can come in collision with her 
teaching, nor can their real scientific 
explanations ever conflict with reve- 
lation or her dogmas. The church 
interferes not with the speculations 
or the theories of the so-called savans, 
however crude, extravagant, or ab- 
surd they may be, unless they put 
forth conclusions under the name of 
science which militate against the 
Christian faith. If they do that, she 
condemns their conclusions so far as 
repugnant to that faith. This super- 
vision of the labors of sat>ans she 
claims and exercises for the protec- 
tion of her children, and it is as 
much ia the interest of science as of 



faith that she should do so. II 
were to believe what men countc 
eminent in science tell us, there 
not a single Christian dogma whic 
science has not exploded; yet, the 
modem investigations and discov 
ries may have exploded several sdet 
tific theories once taught in the school 
and accepted by C-itholics, we sf 
advisedly when we say science hasnc 
exploded a single dogma of the churcl^l| 
or a single proposition of faith she hj 
ever taught. No doubt, ni 
tendedly scientific conclus; 
been drawn and are drawn 
impugn the faith ; but scienc t 

yet confirmed one of them, and we 
want no better proof that it never will 
confirm them than the bare fact that 
they contradict the faitli the chii'cli 
believes and teaches. They can .ill 
be scientifically refuted, and probablf 
one day will be, but not by the people 
at large, the simple and unlcttcicl ; 
and therefore it is necessary- that tiit 
church from time to time should ex- 
ert her authority to condemn them, 
and put the faithful on tbeir guard 
against them. This is no assump- 
tion to the injury of science, for in 
condemning them she seeks only to 
save the revealed trath which they 
impugn. It b necessary, also, llut 
men should understand that in scicnc 
as well as in faith they are not inde 
pendent of God, and are bound by htl 
word wherever or whatoxr it spca 
Descartes taught the world to 
this and even God himself till 
tifically proved, and hence the pi 
we have taken to reftite his metli 
to show its unscientific character, 
to indicate some of the iatal 
quences of adopting it 

We know ver)' well that Bossuetar 
F^n^lon are frequently classed wit 
the disciples of Descartes, but 
men were learned men and 
theologians, and they followed 
cartes only where he coincided wit 



The Cartesian Doubt, 



249 



il current of Catholic phi- 
Either was a far profound- 
pher than Descartes ever 
! been, and neither adopted 
3. The same may be said 
ninent men, sometimes call- 
ans. The French place a 
itional pride in upholding 
, and pardon much to the so- 
>nsideration of the French- 
this consideration cannot 
lis any more than it did wiih 
k Jesuit, the eminent Father 
i, we believe, who a few 
ce, in some remarkable 
X<» CivxItA Cattolica, gave 
Btcrly refutation of Descar- 
ihological method. Truth 
ation, and a national philo- 
B more commendable than 
I theolog\', or a national 
[t is no doubt to the credit 
D to have produced a real- 
philosopher, but it adds 
3 its glor)' to attempt to 
s for a great philosopher 
> was in reality only a shal- 
it. It was one of the ob- 
: features in the late M, 
at he sought to avail him- 
national prejudices of his ■ 
;n, and to make his system 

Kch or the product of 
The English are in 
t less national than the 
•d Bacon owes his princi- 
■kh them to the fact that 
H) Englishman. All real 
^ike all truth, is catholic, 
al. 

id to the scepticism The 
n deems so essential in 
igation of truth, we have 
' <J that a sceptical 
worst possible pre- 
jr Ihat investigation. ~He 
I find truth must open his 
t, as the sunflower opens 
the sun> and turns her 
It in whatever quar- 



ter of the heavens it may be. Those 
who, like The Churchman, know not 
the truth in its unity and catholicity, 
and substitute opinion for faith, will 
do well so far to doubt their opin- 
ions as to be able thoroughly to in- 
vestigate them, and ascenain if they 
have any solid foundation. There 
are reasons enough why they should 
distrust their own opinions, and see 
if the truth is not really where the 
great majority of the civilized world 
for ages has told them it is to be 
found. They ought to doubt, for they 
have reason to doubt, not of cverjlhing, 
not of God, not of truth, but of their 
own opinions, which they know are 
not science nor faith, and therefore 
may be false. Scientific men should 
doubt not science, nor the possibility 
of science, but their theories, hypo- 
theses, and conjectures till they have 
proved them ; and this all the same 
whether their theories, hypotheses, 
and conjectures are taken from the 
schools or are of their own concoc- 
tion. But this is something ver)' dif- 
ferent from presenting to the world or 
to one's self the being of God, the 
creation, the immortality of tlie soul, 
and the mysteries of faith as opin- 
ions or as theories to be doubted till 
proven after the manner of geo- 
metricians. These are great truths 
which cannot be reasonably doubt- 
ed ; and, if we find people doubting 
them, we must, in the best way we 
can, convince them that their doubts 
are unreasonable. The believer need 
not doubt or deny them in order to 
investigate the grounds of his faith, 
and to be able to give a reason for 
the hope that is in him. We ad- 
vance in the knowledge of truth by 
means of the truth we have ; and the 
believer is much better fitted for the 
investigation of truth than the un- < 
believer, for he knows much better 
the points that need to be proved, 
And has his mind and heart itv aTOOift 



The Cartesian Doubt 



normal condition, more in harmony 
with tiie real order of things, and is 
more able to see and recognize truth. 
But this investigation is not ne- 
cessary to justify faith in the believer. 
It is necessary only that the believer 
may the better comprehend faith in its 
relations with the general system of 
things, of which he forms a part, and 
the more readily meet the objections, 
doubts, and difficulties of unbelievers. 
But all cannot enter into this inves- 
tigation, and master the whole field 
of theology, philosophy, and tlie 
sciences, and those who have not 
the leisure, the opportunit)', and abi- 
lity to do it, ought not to attempt it 
The worst possible service we can 
render mankind is to teach them 
that their faith is unreasonable, or 
tliat they should hold themselves in 
suspense till they have done it, each 
for himself. They who can make 
the investigation for themselves are 
comparatively few; and shall no man 
venture to believe in God and im- 
mortality till he has made it? What, 
then, would become of the great 
body of the people, the poorer and 
more numerous classes, who must be 
almost wholly occupied with procur- 
ing the means of subsistence? If 
the tender mercies of God were no 
greater than those of the Cartesian 
philosophers and our Episcopalian 
Churchman, the poor, the unlettered, 
tlie simple, the feeble of intellect 
would be obliged to live without any 
rule of duty, without God in the 
world, or hope in the world to come. 
For them the guidance and consola- 
tions of religion would alike be want- 
ing. 

We may see here why the church 
visits with her censures whatever 
tends to unsettle or disturb the faith 
of the people, for which an unbeliev- 
ing and unreasoning world charges 
her with denying reason, and being 
hosti\e Xo freedom of thought and 




scientific investigation, we 
hope to convince the world 
unjust. The church is willinj 
every man who can and will 
for himself should do so ; a 
difficulty is, that only here anq 
one, even at best, does or q 
think. It is not that she is unt 
that men should reason, if tU 
really reason, on the grounds o| 
but that most persons who a| 
to do so only reason a litU^ 
just far enough to raise dou| 
their minds, doubts which d 
more knowledge would solv< 
then stop, and refuse or are q 
to reason any farther. It is thi 
reason, the half-learning, thq 
science that does the mischij 
Pope sings : 

" A little learning it a daaKcmua 
Drink (le;p, or taste nut the Pii 
Ttvere shallow draught* intoxM 
llut drinkJog laigeJy aobvn ua 

Many may take " shallow drau] 
but very few can " drink deep, 
those shallow draughts, which a 
that except the ver>' few can 
are more hurtful to both inielll 
and moral health than none a 
The church certainly does n^ 
courage those to reason on I 
subjects who can or will reasotj 
far enough to doubt, and to puffi 
selves up with pride and cq 
She, however, teaches all the . 
and gives to every one who will, 
to her voice as solid reasons | 
as the wisest and roost Icame^ 
scientific have or can have. Il 
however the world may blamcj 
tuperate her, she only pursufl 
course which experience an<l' 
mon sense approve and 
wise and just. 

Tlie attempt to educate 
of the people up to the point oj 
ing each individual able to <| 
stand and solve all the difficultl 
the way of faith has never 



cr !uid 



Tkt Composei^s Difficulty. 



as I 



ind can never succeed. The 
> of the people need and always 
have teachers of some sort 
a they do and must trust ' We 
: in politics. In the most demo- 
: state the mass of the people 
m like sheep a few leaders, wise 
prudent men sometimes, per- 
oftener ignorant but cunning 
unscrupulous demagogues. All 
be made to understand that in 
ers of faith the teachers are com- 
ioned by the church, and that 
hurch is commissioned by God 
elf, who teaches in and through 
and no one has or can have any 
!r reason for believing anything, 
lone better is conceivable. It is 
issumption that the people are 



to judge for themselves without in- 
structors or instruction that causes 
so much unbelief in the modem 
world j but as they have been very 
extensively told that it is their right 
to do so, and made to believe it, the 
chiu'ch, of course, must meet their 
factitious wants the best way she 
can, and educate them up to the 
highest point possible, and give them 
all the instruction, not only in the 
faith, but on its grounds and reasons, 
they are or can be made capable of 
receiving. She must do this, not 
because the people believe or are 
already enlightened, but because 
they have learned only just enough 
to doubt and rebel. 



Abridged from the German. 

THE COMPOSER'S DIFFICULTY. 



IE good old custom in London, 
41, was for the members of the 
Club to assemble in the parlor of 
ed tavern in Fleet street, kept by 
er Farren, who had a sharp- 
led wife and a young and lovely 
liter. This young girl had been 
ig the large room in order, and 
ig fresh flowers in the vase, in 
iration for the expected guests, 

the door opened softly, and a 
y man came in. Ellen did not 
up till he was close to her, then 
started and blushed crimson, 

he took her hand and kissed 
h the air of a cavalier. 

did not know it was you, Jo- 
" faltered the maiden. 

can stay but a moment," said 
foung student of music, " for 
will all be here presently. I 



came to tell you to come to the gar- 
den witho)it fail this evening ; I want 
to g^ve you a first lesson, in a new 
part" 

Ellen's face brightened. Just then 
a shrill voice called her name, and she 
knew her mother would be angry if 
she saw her with the German, Joseph 
Wach. 

"I will come!" she answered 
quickly. " Now I must leave you." 
And she ran out at a repetition of 
the shrewish call. Joseph did not 
attempt to detain her; though the 
two loved each other well he knew 
that Dame Farren regarded him with 
good will no longer, now that Master 
Handel, his teacher and patron, no 
longer stood high in the king's fa- 
vor, and went no more to Carlton 
House. The father, old 3Q^ti Yai- 



252 



The Composers Difficulty. 



ren, was still the friend of the young 
roan. 

An hour later, and the round ta- 
ble, on which stood mugs of porter 
and glasses, was surrounded by men, 
members of the musical club, con- 
versing on a subject deeply interest- 
ing to them all. One of them — a 
very tall man, with large, flashing 
eyes and a noble and expressive 
countenance — was addressed as 
"Master Handel;" another, simple 
in his dress and plain in his exterior, 
■with a world of shrewdness and wag- 
gery in his laughing eyes, was Wil- 
liam Hogarth, the painter. 

They were talking about the com- 
poser's great work, The Mtssiah, 
which Handel had not as yet been 
able to get properly represented. 
Hogarth was urging an application to 
the Duke of Bedford, Handel, dis- 
gusted at his want of success hither- 
to, was reluctant to sue for the favor 
of any patron to have his best work 
brought before the public. 

" If his grace only comprehend- 
ed a note of it I" he exclaimed petu- 
lantly ; " but he knows no more of 
music than that lout of a linen-wea- 
ver in Yorkshire." 

"Whom you corrected with your 
fist, when he blundered with your 
Saul r' cried the painter, "You 
should have learned better policy, my 
good master, from your eight-and- 
twenty years in England ! A stupid, 
great nobleman can do no harm to a 
work of art! If I dealt only with 
those who understood my work, my 
wife and children might starve." 

Handel was leaning on the table, 
his face buried in his hands. His 
thoughts were wandering toward 
Germany. When he spoke, it was 
to express his bitter regret that he 
had left his fatherland just as new 
life in art began to be stirring. 
While the Germans achieved great- 



ness in music, he had been tona* 
ing himself in vain with dolts of sii 
ers and musicians in England, wt 
hard heads could not take in a nc 
of music! "I will return to Ger 
ny !" he concluded. " Better a 
herd there than here director of 
Haymarket Theatre, or chapelmas 
to his majesty, who, with his cc 
rabble, takes such delight in thd 
blings of that foppish Italias — ^Fa 
nelli." 

Some other members came in 
join them, among them the you5 
German, Joseph Wach. Handel nc 
dcd kindly to him, and asked howj 
was getting on with his part 

"I am very industrious. Mast 
Handel, and will do my best." 
plied Joseph. "You shall bear 
soon." 

The conversation about the 
work was resumed. The AblMf Dul 
described how the chorus, 
glory of the Lord shall be rcvcalc 
had sounded all night in his 
" y'bur glory, Master Handel, wj 
be revealed through your hfesttA 
when once you can get it brought oi 
I understand the lord archbishop 
against it 1" 

The flush of anger rushed to Ha 
dels brow. " The lord archbishop I 
he repeated scornfully. " He offe 
ed to compose me a text for the Ma 
siah, and when I asked if he ihoug 
I knew nothing of the Bible, or if 1 
expected to improve the Holy 
tures, he turned his back on me, ; 
represented me to the court as 
rude, thankless boor." 

Master Tycrs, the lessee of Va 
hall, remarked that it was not poiit 
to speak one's mind too openly, 
pecially with the great Dr. Huj 
tried to soothe the irritited com{ 
by speaking of the admiration he hi 
already won, after a long st 
with ignorance and intrigue. 



The Composer's Difficulty. 



>i5i 



at care T," interrupted Han- 
Ibr the admiration of fools and 

re were many to give the 
answer'* which " tumeth away 
^ and tn deprecate too severe 

icntof the English people be- 

Ithey had accomplished little in 

rtous art and failed at once to 

ize the best ** Admitting," 

ihe abW, ** that the court and 

ha%'« done you injustice ; that 
no such musicians and sing- 
in Germany ; that we cannot 
the grand spirit of your 
you not, nevertheless, 
^ by the people of Britain ?• 
I not the name of Handel in 
Wth of honest John Bull, cher- 
as the names of his proudest 
Inen 1 Give him, then, a little 
cnce I Let us have a chance 
ir j'our Messiah : condescend 
the aid you need in bringing it 
rour honor will not suffer, and 
od you will do will be your re- 

lat Is just what I have told 
exclaimed Hogarth, And the 
ed in their eager assent, 
rly host coaxed him, and, 
of argument, said : " You 
Master Handel, how often I 
Id bend to my good woman ; 
s no detriment to my authori- 
naster of the house." 
idel sat silent for a time, look- 
>omily around the circle. Then 
nly he burst into a laugh. *' By 
llidome, old fellow," he cried, 
are right I To-morrow I 7C'i// 
the Duke of Bedford. You 
lear the Messiah, were all the 
I in the three kingdoms against 

re was a burst of delighted ap- 
Irom all the company. The 
idlord gave a leap of joy, and 
I clasped his hands ; for he 
iandel's success would be the 




making of his own and Ellen's for- 
tune. 

Handel waited on the Duke of 
Bedford, who happened to be giving 
a grand breakfast The duke prized 
the reputation of a patron of the arts, 
and knew well that Handel's ab- 
sence from court and the circles of 
the nobility was owing more to his 
disregard of the forms and ceremo- 
nies held indispensable than to any 
want of esteem for the composer. 
His oratorio of Saul had won him 
proud distinction. WTien informed 
that Handel had called on him, the 
duke himself came out to welcome 
him and lead him into the drawing- 
rooms. But the composer drew back, 
saying he had come to solicit a favor. 
The duke then took him into his ca- 
binet, and listened graciously to his 
petition that he " would be pleased 
to set right the heads of the I^ord 
Mayor and the Archbishop of Lon- 
don, so that they should cease laying 
hindrances in the way of the repre- 
sentation of the Messiah" 

The duke not only listened, but 
promised to use all his means and 
influence to remove the obstacles. 
Handel knew he could depend on 
the promise. He accepted the in- 
vitation to Join the company with 
joy, when he heard that his celebrat- 
ed countryman, Kellermann, was 
there and engaged in the duke's ser- 
vice. 

His grace led in and introduced 
his distinguished guest. The sight 
of the great composer produced a 
sensation. Handel cared nothing 
for the noble company, but greeted 
his old friend Kellermann with all 
the warmth of his nature. They had 
a cordial talk together, while the idol 
of the London fashionables, Signor 
Farinelli, hemmed and cleared his 
throat over the piano, in token that 
he was about to sing, and wanted 
KeJ/ermann to accompany huiv. TYie 



The Composers Difficulty. 



musician at length noticed his un- 
easiness, pressed his friend's hand, 
returned to his place, and took up 
his flute, while FarinelU began a 
melting air in his sweet, clear voice. 

Handel, a powerful man, austere 
and vigorous in nature, abhorred the 
singing of such effeminate creatures, 
and despised the luxurious ornamen- 
tation of the Italian's style. Farinel- 
li's soft trilling was accompanied by 
Kellermann on the flwte with dexter- 
ous imitation. Handel laughed in- 
wardly to see the effect on the com- 
pany. The ladies were in raptures ; 
and, when Farinelli ceased, the most 
eager applause rewarded him. 

The duke introduced the Italian 
to Handel. Farinelli complimented 
him in broken English, said he had 
heard that '' Signor /Endel had com- 
posed una opera — il Mtssia" and 
begged to know, with a complacent 
smile, if there would be a part in 
the opera for " il famous musico Fa- 
rinelli.*" 

Handel surveyed the ornamented 
httle figure from head to fool, and 
answered in his deepest bass tone, 
" No, signora." 

There was suppressed laughter, 
and the ladies covered their faces. 
Not long afterward Handel look his 
leave, with his friend Hogarth, who 
.was a guesL 

The Messiah was announced for 
representation. But an unexpected 
difficulty presented itself The lady 
who had been engaged to sing the 
first soprano part sent word that she 
was ill and could not sing ; and the 
oratorio had to be postponed. 

Handel knew it was mcie caprice 
on the part of tJie spoiled prima-don- 
na, and was excessively indignant. 
When he heard from tlie leader of 
the orchestra that a second postpone- 
ment might be necessary', he roundly 
declared it should uot be. " It sAaJi 



^& 



take place I " he exclaimed, an 
off to call upon the signora' 
self. 

Signora Lucia, the Italian vo 
that morning held a /nre of b( 
mirers. Their conversation, i 
reclined on a couch in a |;(i 
deshabiile, was of " il bari)an) 1 
CO," his unreasonable expects 
and the pleasure the beautiful j 
took in disappointing him. 
dared to order me about at rel 
al !" she cried. " For that, he 
not have his troublesome oi 
performed at all!" The gen 
applauded her spirit. Thrn 
related how the fair si ij 

had refused to sing i-u ^ 

Handel's opera, and he had g< 
her room, seized her, and, rush 
the open window, had held her 
arms' length, threatening to dr 
unless she promised to sustaii 
part 

" He shall find mc harder td 
with," saul the beauty langi 
Just then the name of the great 
poser was announced, and H« 
heavy step was heard in the 
The gentlemen visitors huddled 
selves off in such confusion, 
could only retreat behind tlie a 
drawing the damask curtain ov4 
recess so as to conceal them 

Lucia was uneasy, but maint 
her composure. Handel, he 
had not come, as she expect 
entreat her to sing. He stood 
the door, and, vouchsafing no si 
lion, haughtily demanded her/( 

The singer made no answer 
Handel strode forward. Lucia 
up, seized iht; bell, and rang 
lently. but not one of her adi 
answered the call. Handel a 
ed, and coolly lifted tlie curtai 
hind the sofa, revealing the gra 
terrified Italians. He laughed $ 
fully, and agam demanded 
of the signora. 



d^ 



Thi Compisef's Difficulty. 



255 



Litterable passion, she snatch- 
roll of music from the table 
ig it at the composer. He 
it up, bowed ironically, and 
mt of the room. The anger 
1. with her cowardly friends 
d not interfered to avenge 
lit, and their confusion, may 
ined. 

el had punished the capri- 
iger, but he could find no one 
ier place. His friends sym- 

in his distress, but could 
aid nor consolation. Hogarth 
he underrated the Italians, 
\ too conceited. "You re- 
," he said, "when Correggio's 
LS sold in London at auction 
thousand guineas, I said, 'I 
it something as good for such 
Lord Grosvenor took me 
vord, I painted my picture, 
:alled his friends together to 
it They all laughed at me, 
id to take back my picture." 
el replied that the old Italian 
were worthy of all respect, 
were the old Italian church 
:rs. The modem ones he 

in their way, more or less 
lor Farinelli. 

ay before the oratorio was to 
iced Handel sat in his study 
g the .work. Now he would 
er a passage, now pause over 
ig that did not satisfy him, 
)g, striking out, and altering 
lis judgment. At length his 
sted on the last " Amen," 
ngi till a tear fell on the 

i work," he said solemnly, 
king upwards, " is my best ! 

my best thanks, O bene- 
Father ! Thou, Lord ! hast 

me ; and what comes forth 
!e, that endureth, though all 
irthly perish. Amen." 
aid aside the notes, and 
a few times up and down 



the room, then seated himself in 
his easy-chair. His pupil, Joseph, 
opened the door sofdy and came in. 
Handel started from his reverie, and 
asked what he wanted. The young 
man, with an air of mystery, begged 
the master to come with him. 

In a few moments they were in a 
room in the upper story of Master 
Farren's tavern, a room where Joseph 
practised his music. There, to Han- 
del's no small astonishment, he saw 
the host's pretty daughter, Ellen. 

"What may all this mean?" he 
asked, while his brow darkened. 
" What do you here. Miss Ellen, in 
this young man's study ?" 

"He may tell you that himself, 
Master Handel," answered the dam- 
sel, turning away her blushing face. 

Joseph hastened to say, " I am ready 
to answer, dear master, for what we 
do." 

"Open your mouth, and speak, 
then," said Handel sternly. 

"You have done much for me, 
dear master," said Joseph with emo- 
tion. " When I came a stranger and 
penniless, you put me in the way of 
earning a support. You gave me 
instruction in music and singing, 
spending hours you might have given 
to doing something great." 

" And does the fool think making 
a good singer was not doing some- 
thing great — eh?" 

" And I have tried to make a sing- 
er for you!" said the young man. 
" Will you hear her ?" And he point- 
ed to Ellen. 

Handel, in his surprise, opened his 
eyes wide as he looked at the damsel. 

" Yes — Ellen I" she repeated, com- 
ing close to him, and lifting her clear, 
hazel eyes to his face. " Now you 
know, Master Handel, what Joseph 
and I have been about, and for what 
I am here in his study." 

" We wanted to be of service Ixv 
your dilemma," sadd JosepK " SkViaSiL 



25« 



The Title of the Kings of Engiaud, 



fore him and said ; Sire, in less than 
fourteen years you will belie all your 
protestations of filial devotedness and 
submission to the Vicar of Jesus 
Christ; you will rebel against the 
Roman Church in just as striking 
a way as Martin Luther has done ; 
you will proclaim yourself the head 
of the Church of England ; you will 
be the author of a .schism which will 
make blood flow in torrents and will 
desolate England, Scotland, and Ire- 
land for more than three centuries ; 
you, the victorious Henry VIII., who 
would be the delight of your people 
if you were the master of your pas- 
sions instead of being their slave ; 
you will become the Nero of Eng- 
land : had such words been spoken, 
their author would have been looked 
upon as insane. The proud and 
passionate Tudor would have ex- 
hausted his ingenuity in inventing 
means to torture a traitor like this. 
But, at tlie end of 1534, he who 
would venture to print this book, 
which had purchased for Henry 
VIII. the title which the sovereigns 
of England are so proud to use even 
to-day, would have been declared 
guilty of high treason. 

Thus, God has wished that the 
very coins of his country shall be- 
come for the Englishman who reflects 
and sludiesa precious and lasting his- 
torical monument of the ancient Aiith 
of the countr)', the Catholic, Aposto- 
lic, and Roman faith, the faith of 
France, of Spain, of It-aly, of Austria, 
and of all Christianity. The title 
Defensor Fidci signified at that time 
defender of the Roman Faith. What 
does it mean now? After 1534, 
Henry VII I: pretended to defend 
the Catholic faith, by refusing obe- 
dience to the pope and submitting to 
his own spiritual supremacy, a new 
star in the firmament of the church. 

Under the reign of Edward VI., or 



ratlier under that of the 
sive protectors, the Dukes 
set and Northumberland, ihi 
was defended in the shape 
Fort}'-two Articles. It was no 
the Catholic faith in its purity. 

Under the reign of Elij 
the governess of the Church 4 
land, the creed of Edward Y 
modified, and the faith was m 
clared to consist in the Thirl 
Articles. 

Since Elizabeth these Thirt 
Articles have continued to i 
official creed of the estat 
church. In a country where < 
holds such sway, all the memi 
the Anglican clergy are obljj 
profess their faith in these 
under oath ; but do we scr 
queen and her pri\'y council 
the performance of this oai 
would be answered that sudi 4 
has become impracticable, an 
no one is held to the perform^ 
the impossible. We cheerfully 
to this, for we are not in the h| 
contesting what is plainly m-idJ 

The striking and multiplied n 
contemporaneous history will i 
compel every serious-minded t 
ask himself this question : Is 1 
title Defensor Fidd very muc 
that of Kifi,^ of France whi< 
sovereign of England rcnound 
the beginning of this century, M 
really losing anything ? To tl 
truth, they are "defenders ( 
faith " in much the same mafl 
Victor Emmanuel is King of 
and Jerusalem. 

If we were English, we woi 
light in publishing a truly ai 
book, which would contain 
our own intellectual labor, 
perhaps, the choice of matcrii 
the manner of arranging them 
would it be a controversial wa 
controversy only embitters i 




Thi Title of the Kings of 



aS9 



; and, if our readers will per- 
l^yful but striking comparison, 
Id make our adversaries ap- 
t^iro inimical squirrels, who 
^bally niQ about in a circle, 
^^ looks and lively motions, 
cr getting one step nearer to 
titer. Wc should make the 
hd impartial voice of history 
Lntl our publication would be 
\lIistoriial Documents on the 
the Kings of England, Defen- 

: books find few readers now- 

Ukd so we would make ours 

"; its contents these : The 

)n of the seven sacraments 

Martin Luther by Henry 

r'ith the defervce of his book 
Fisher, Bishop of Rochester ; 
I of Leo X., which gave Henry 
ae title oi Defensor Fidci ; the 
parliament which declared 
fVin. supreme head of the 
I of England ; the Forty-two 
i of Anglican faith under the 
If Elizabeth and her success- 
le profession of faith in the 
Bine Articles exacted officially 
Lnglican clergy ; and, finally, 
^fession of faith of Pius IV,, 
ins the whole doctrine 
Ijr Council of Trent. We 
ire the Latin text of all those 
yand a good English trans- 
(lat the exactness of the 
could be verified. We 
trown our work with a little 
! appendix,which would 

rs an insight of the 
the queen in ecclesi- 
•Optima legutn inter- 
Showing on one 
: of the condemnations 
upon the Puseyites for hav- 
Catholic doctrines de- 
Anglican Church ; and, 
'blher, the recapitulation of 
apal acts, which have favor- 
led evangelical and even 




rationalistic tendencies in the very 
heart of the establishment, and which 
are recalled by the names, now be- 
come so famous, of Gorham, Hamp)- 
den, and Colenso. Nor should we 
omit the nomination of a bishop of 
Jerusalem, made with such touching 
concord by England and her Pro- 
testant sister, Prussia. This charac- 
teristic fact impresses the seal of 
worldly policy on the forehead of the 
Anglican Church. 

\N'hat can make a book more at- 
tractive than fine engravings ? And 
so our manual would contain the 
portraits of all the kings and queens 
of England who have bom the title 
oi Defensor Fidei ; and, in this gallery 
of sovereigns, would figure in his 
place the sombre protector Crom- 
well, who was a defender of the faith 
in a manner peculiarly his own. Fac- 
ing the rulers of England, we would 
place the popes of Rome. We 
should strictly deny ourselves the 
pleasure of making any comment- 
aries. We should content ourselves 
with a single exposition of authentic 
facts, and look for the fruit of our 
book from the grace of God, who 
enlightens the mind and touches the 
heart in his own good time, and from 
the good sense, the integrity, and well- 
known straightforward spirit of the 
English nation. 

Our reader has no need for us to tell 
him what the subject of this work 
would be. He sees clearly that this 
book of Henry VIII. against Luther, , 
and its defence by John Fisher, Bishop 
of Rochester — a book now extremely 
rare, buried, as it were, in the dust 
of a few libraries as an arch^ologicaT 
curiosity, or at most only quoted to 
show the monstrous self-contradictions 
that Henry VIII. exhibited — that 
this book, we say, is the most au- 
thentic and precious monument of the 
ancient and Catholic faith in Eng- 
land, and, at the same time, a itr 



26o 



TIu Title of the Kings of England. 



•utation in advance of the Anglican 
schism, of all the Anglican heresies, 
and of the Lutheran diatribes of 
Anglicanism against the pope as 
Antichrist, and Rome as a new 
Babylon. 

Is there not a sign in this verj' 
work of wondrous divine predilec- 
tion for England, and a distant pre- 
paration for a future, such as we 
see with so much joy, springing from 
the seed sown then, centuries ago ? 

In religious and wise England 
many souls are eagerly seeking the 
unity and antiquity of the Christian 
faith ; like others, who have pre- 
ceded them in finding tlie fold of 
Christ, tliey are ready to make tJie 
most heroic sacrifices as soon as 
they have discovered the pearl with- 
out price. These brothers are al- 
ready Catholic by the aspirations of 
their hearts, Perhaps many belong 
already, without their own knowledge 
and without ours, to the soul of the only 
true church, because they have valid- 
ly received holy baptism, which has 
made them members of Jesus Christ 
and children of the church ; because 
they are only material heretics ; and 
because tliey walk in humility in the 
way that he who is the only Mediator 
attracts them by his grace. They 
always take a step in the true faith 
at each new light that ihcy receive 
from heaven. These Christians 
whom we respect and love, and who 
love us, honor their country more 
than we can readily express. We 
cannot think of them without the 
deepest interest and sympathetic 
veneration. 

With the exception of the trials of 
Pius IX., the father of the Christian 
universe, the most venerable and the 
most magnanimous of all the oppress- 
ed, except this holy, old man, this 
pontiff king, surrounded by his legion 
of Machabees, crowned with his gray 
lodOf his virtues, and his misfortunes. 



we know of nothing so bcadi 
tlie devotion of our Catholic b: 
of England, Scotland, and Irel 
God and his church, and the 
assistance which continually ( 
new neophytes about thera wheB 
calls them. It is a flood desu'n 
overspread the land. " Woni 
are the surges of the sea." • 

A religious of one of the mil 
ary orders recently wrote from 
concerning a Protestant lady 1 
he had met, and said, " Her c<J 
sation made me think that sh< 
only a Protestant by mistake." 
many Englishmen to-day are 
Anglicans by mistake 1 

While the Episcopal Church h 
ing to pieces under the disinte^ 
influence of Protestantism, which 
essence, and of rationalism, whie 
invaded it, as the lamefitcd R 
Wilberforce has clearly shoi 
many Christians bon; within its 
munion, but animated by a di 
spirit which urges them to 
vine centre of Catholicity, 
longer willing to build tlieir 
on the shifting sand of human 
ions, and cement a religious sC 
by the dissolving principle ol 
vate judgment. For them thi 
thority and the common faith 
universal church are necessary: 
demand the integrity of the gos 
Jesus Christ and the sacred gu; 
of apostolic traditions. For su 
these, the book of Henry VII] 
John Fisher is a most striking 
ument of the unity and antiquity 
faith, a sort of beacon to show 
the great impending shipwreck 
ligion in England what di 
must take in order to find 

You who seek the unity of tbft 
then, *' one heart and one sd 
see in what splendor she shines! 



'1 



* Putin xc 4. 

t The priacipie of aMthorttf b tfa« 

i Act» IT. 3a. 



] 



g of KngJ.ind, and with 
t pious and learned Kng- 
bop of the sixteenth century, 
Uccs his profession of faith, 
Iries in his submission to the 
ijr of the pope, who defends 
en sacraments. Does a sin- 
K>p protest ? Are Oxford and 
j|fl| silent ? Do the secular 
^■r dergj', the parliament. 
Ken of every condition of life, 
Uiesce ? Does not a single 
[man present this respectful 
bunce : " Sire, you are sacri- 
ite rights and prerogatives of 
own I A King of England sub- 
Ihe pope ! Is not one king 
jreme head of the church ? 
fend seven sacraments : how 
k there are only two ?" 
\s, then, evidently the faith of 
'A that Henry VIII. and John 
'defended ; and this monu- 
eared before the schism and 
It creeds that it has created, 
lis that those who would dare 
^ the doctrines there put forth 

» considered innovators, 
le church of Jesus Christ, 
been considered synony- 
rith heretics. 
If this book is the monument 

II of England in the six- , 
luy, before 15J4, it is at 
ime a monument of the 
h, that is to say, of the 
Catholic Church. At that 
Ifaen the pontiffs were more 
^By vigilant on account of 
PH> which were springing up 
irious countries of Europe, two 
Leo X. and Clement VII., 
ot content with sanctioning 
rk of Henry VIII., but gave 
ifirmcd to him the title of the 
idcr of the Faith." England 
i her belief; Rome, and 
I her the Catholic Church, an- 
: " Your faith is ours ; we con- 
>u on your able defence of 




it." Here was indeed 
unanimit}'. 

Is this all the light that we can 
gather from this source ? This mon- 
ument was erected in the midst of 
the religious life of England, between 
its Roman Catholic past, of more 
than a thousand years from the birth 
of the Anglo-Saxon Church, and its 
schismatic future, which would count 
more than three hundred years. No- 
where can one belter stand to see the 
different policies and course travelled 
by England than here : once as the 
cherished daughter of the Roman 
Church, the sister of Catholic nations ; 
and then how she has changed since 
she rebelled against Rome, and has 
gone on in her isolation, sufficient for 
herself. Christian in her own way, 
even while an oecumenical council was 
assembled. 

The Roman Catholic past of Eng- 
land is known by the certain evi- 
dence of histor>' ; and from the mon- 
ument of Henry VIII., which can 
well be considered its terminus, we 
propose to cast a hasty glance at its 
most distant events ; and of these by 
far the most interesting are the glo- 
rious acts of the pontificate of Pope 
St. Gregory the Great, who sent mis- 
sionaries to convert his dear Eng- 
lish, although yet idolaters, and who 
chose their first bishop from the Ben- 
edictine monks of his convent at 
Rome. What unity, what unanimity 
between Rome and England in the 
time of the monk St. Augustine ! It 
was the union of a daughter and 
mother : it was precisely the same 
union, the same faith, in the sixth as 
in the sixteenth century, until 1534. 

The sixth century makes us go far 
back in the history of the church ; but, 
in admiring tlie apostolic works of 
Sl Augustine and his companion, we 
find about tliem precious and striking 
witnesses of a past yet more d\sla.w\. 
St. Augustine convokes the bishops 



i 



The Title of the Kings of England, 



of ih: Britons to beg them to aid him 
in converting the Saxons to Chris- 
tianity. He acknowledged, then, that 
the Britons were in the same commu- 
nion, and professed the same Roman 
Cathoh'c faith. Indeed, if the Britons 
were wrong in refusing their help, 
it was only because of their hatred 
against their oppressors, for the an- 
cient British Church was never sepa- 
rated from the communion of the Ro- 
man Church, never lost the purity of 
the Catholic faith.* 

Pelagius, it is true, was a Briton, 
and his heresy, which he first sowed 
at Rome, was not long in reaching 
Great Britain, yet it never took deep 
root tliere. The British Catholics 
sent a deputation to the bishops of 
Gaul, urging them to send a number 
of missionaries to them. Pope Ccles- 
tine, warned of the danger to the 
faith, sent St. Germain of Auxerre ; 
the bishops of Gaul, assembled for 
this purpose, added St. Loup of 
Troyes. These two great bishops 
left their peaceful flocks in all haste 
to come to the rescue of the invaded 
folds ; and while they were working 
so faithfully for the glorj' of God and 
of his holy church, all Catholic Gaul 
was praying most fervently for its sis- 
ter. Great Britain. Pelagianism was 
vanquished and found no home in 
the land of Pelagius ; it was in an- 
other land that it made its most de- 
plorable ravages. 

Thus it was in Great Britain that 
the bishops, who arc established by 
the Holy Spirit to govern the church.t 
triumphed over this sad and insidious 
heresy, when they were free to exer- 
cise their divine mission in that coun- 
try, and when they were closely united 
to the centre of unity. 

There was something like it in the 
fourteenth century, when the heresy 
of Wickliff arose. He was condemned 

• See TIU Moidki ifftkt WtO, by M. tc Comle d« 
Uoaulemlxn. t Acl» M. »*• 



by the council of London, (r^l 
though an Englishman, and on 
had studied at Oxford, and wh 
been the principal of the Coll^ 
Canterbury, at once the flatter! 
the favorite of his sovereigns, 
doctrine, which contained the g< 
all the Anglicanism of the time ( 
zabcth, caused considerable U 
in England ; but, thanks to Hm 
ness of the episcopate, these trd 
are not to be compared with 
from which Bohemia suffered, ' 
John Huss taught the same he 

Before the Anglican " rcl 
which has created a system | 
unheard of, and which unite 
lumny M'ith historical delu 
every Englishman was pro« 
claim for his country the hoii 
having preserved the faith a 
in its purity from the time thi 
gospel had first been pre] 
there.* 

Was England, then, in error 
so, she has deceived herself ai 
Christendom ; and this univera 
ror has lasted from the ponlifici 
Pope St. Eleutherius, to that of 
Clement VH., a period of mora 
tliirteen hundred and fifty years 
must say that anyone who looks 
this fact as of slight importance 
greatly astonish us. Where d 
think that the tnje church of 
Christ was during these Jong 
ries, that church against whic 
gates of hell shall not prevail ?t 
it disappear, this city of God, \ 
was to be placed on the mou 
and seen by all people IX Surel 
spirit of delusion and darkness 
be very potent when it can nu 
pious Englishman declare tha 
glory of the English Church wj 
duced to nothing before the suctt 
century, and that then Henry ^ 

• Acnirdinc to th« Vrnenble Bfdc, Calhd 
aion«iic« were Mni there ia th« wa a o A ctcrna] 
cm, by Pope t^leuth«riiu. 

\ SC Muk KvL il. ; St MattkwB 




an infamous libertine 
ile courtier, were raised 
open a new career to her. 
; England, notwithstanding its 
religious state, is not revolu- 
ry. She loves order as warmly 
does liberty. Even in religion, 
aires by subordination the only 
of preser\'ing it. 
fw much light for Anglicans of 
faith (and tliey are numerous) 
i in the violent and even inde- 
ittacks made by their preachers 
>sto riansupon the greatest names 
England — names that 
red in former times with 
Christian world — names 
to the Catholic Church, al- 
are now almost vmknown 
d. To efface so much glo- 
needful that a new kind of 
should appear and dazzle by its 
contrast, 

the end of 1534, and still more 
itively in 1559, at the commence- 
of the reign of Elizabeth, the 
in Catholic Church and the An- 
» Church were violently separa- 
they no more profess the same 
, they have no longer the same 
lip, their hierarchies are strang- 
icy mutually reproach each with 
etng the true church of Jesus 
:, It is from the monument of 
y VIII. and John Fisher that 
see the different paths they 
red and the daily increasing dif- 
which has separated them. 
Roman Church this epoch 
f those glorious epiphanies 
Lord Jesus Christ prepares 
iifeient times, and of which 
are sown in tears. After a 
desolate winter a spring 
for the divine tree, full of 
perfumed with celestial blos- 
owed by a summer and 
rich in precious fruits of 
, of knowledge, and charity. 
il of Tren l was convoked in 



folic 



1542 by Paul III. for the spread and 
exaltation of the Christian faith, for 
the extirpation of heresies, the peace 
and union of the church, /or the re- 
formation of the clergy and the Chris- 
tian people, for the repression and ex- 
tinction of the enemies of the Chris- 
tian name. The evils that existed 
were fearful. The holy council, with 
the divine assistance, acquitted itself 
of its task in a manner which would 
bring a speedy and certain remedy to 
all the prevalent abuses. God, the 
supreme King of kings, recompensed 
so many generous efforts on the part 
of his faithful people by according to 
them, before the end of the sixteenth 
century, under the glorious pontificate 
of St. Pius v., that memorable vic- 
tory of Lepanto, which crowned the 
work of the crusades and shattered 
for ever the power of the Mussulman. 

But what avail the laws the most 
salutar)' in the bosom of nations pro- 
foundly ignorant and deeply corrupt, 
if there do not rise in their midst men 
powerful in word and work to instruct 
them, and, above all, to regenerate 
them by the irresistible attraction of 
the most heroic virtue ? It was then 
God rai.sed up in Italy, in France, in 
Spain, in Germany, true reformers, 
who, after the example of their di- 
vine Master, began to act before they 
began to leach. Their names are too 
well known to need mention here. 
They compelled men to acknowledge 
the divine tree by its fruits. They 
professed the faith proclaimed by the 
Council of Trent, which was nothing 
else than the faith of Nice in its le- 
gitimate development The faith of 
Nice was the iailh of the apostles. 
This faith of the apostles, of Nice, of 
all the cecumenical councils, is the 
faith to-<lay of the Roman Church in 
the solenu) profession of faith of Pius 
IV., which is a risume of all the doc- 
trine of the holy Council ol Trent. 

As for England, inseparaxingttova 



i 



264 



The Title of the Kings of England. 



the Roman Church she commenced 
the history of her variations : she en- 
tered upon that downward path of re- 
ligious decline which naturally ends 
in a sudden descent into the gulf of 
scepticism. With a creed subject to 
the changing will of man, she was 
Anglican after one fashion under 
Henry VIII., after another fashion 
under Edward VI., after a third 
under Elizabeth, and now, to the in- 
expressible confusion and grief of 
those pious Christians born and nur- 
tured in the bosom of the established 
church, she has arrived, step by step, 
at a point where she offers the spec- 
tacle of a chaos of incoherent doc- 
trines, some true, some fiilsc, some 
orthodox, others heretical, some 
pious, otliers monstrously wicked, but 
all tolerated out of respect for the 
genius of the individuals who took 
the pains to invent them ; all publicly 
and peaceably taught beneath the 
standard of the Thirty-nine Articles. 
Le p<n>iUon couvrela marchanJisi. 

While so many great servants of 
God and his poor, venerated and 
blessed throughout the rest of Chris- 
tendom, adorned the Roman Church, 
unfortunate England, shut up in its 
island and still closer imprisoned by 
an atrocious religious persecution, saw 
generations of her children grow up 
in hate, contempt, and horror of pope- 
ry and papists. Every source of edu- 
cation, all the pulpits of the Anglican 
Church, all books alloftred to be pub- 
lished, helped to keep up this spirit 
of ignorant and bigoted hate against 
the church of God. 

While St. Vincent de Paul, that 
great reformer of tlie clergy and 
saintly founder of world-wide works 
of charity, prepared, together with so 
many other apostolic men, the glory 
and prosperity of our present great 
age ; in sanctifying the f;unily, divinely 
Instituted as the practical school of 
social virtues ; in arousing a spirit of 



generous devotion and sacrifice ' 
led men to comfort all forms ( 
sery and reconcile rich ami p 
those bretliren so easily mad« 
mies — England was deprived 
her religious orders, consecral 
former times to the senicc a 
poor and the sick, to the educati 
youth, to the stubborn labors c 
ence, to the contemplation of < 
things, to the crucitied life, ih 
of prayer, the life of the soul, a 
which the world blasphemes bi 
it cannot comprehend it ■ Shi 
tlie blessings of a celib.ittf c 
she was despoiled of the sacred 
mony of the poor by her kinj 
lords, who distributed it among 
selves, together with the greaua 
of the wealth of the church, t 
enemy's spoils are divided and 
cd after a victorj'. (We intend 
polite.) England beheld the \ 
of pauperism open wider each 
and found herself forced to h% 
course to the poor-tax, imhea 
in old Catholic times. Withit 
boundaries will be found to-di 
excessive wealth in face of p< 
unknown elsewhere. By the 
slant progress of science an 
dustr)', machine labor tends 1 
place the labor of the indiv 
and self-aggrandizement dimii 
wages in proportion as it augi 
the daily task of the worl 
What a harvest would he a 
to the works of Catholic ch.-ir 
her divine activity were only 
to replace the horrible world] 
where souls are withering and < 
We yet have in France and 
where the money of St. Vincc 
Paul in an innumerable numl 
works of charity truly Christian 
that enables us to Live withoM 
ing the poor. 

Such arc the different path* 
the Roman and Anglican C 
have fol\pwed since tlie dcpH 



The Title of the Kings of England. 



265 



schism of Henry VIII., renewed and 
aggravated under Elizabeth. If be- 
fore his death Henry VIII, had re- 
pented of his wicked attack upon 
the church, what would he have been 
obliged to do to reconcile himself 
vith Rome ? He would have needed 
only to return to that profession 
of &ith which he made in his book 
igainst Luther. Since the begin- 
nii^ of the Anglican schism, and 
It any point of its successive vari- 
ations, any Englishman, to return to 
• the bosom of the Catholic Church, 
would have nothing to do but to re- 
turn to that same profession, con- 
formable in every point to the-pro- 
^ iession of faith of Pius IV. This 
is what has been done in our own 
j day by Father Spencer, Archbishop 
: Manning, Fathers Newman and Fa- 
I ber, Palmer and Wilberforce, and a 



\ 



host of others, eminent for their 
virtues, their knowledge, their public 
and private character, whom no 
Englishman capable of appreciating 
the merit of sacrifices made for God 
and in fidelity to conscience can 
name without respect and pride. 

But possibly some of our readers 
may be astonished that we insist so 
strongly upon the book written by 
Henrj' VIII., for it might seem that 
the shameful life of the author re- 
flects discredit upon the work. Let 
OS not be mistaken. In 'the first 
place, when Henry VIII. wrote 
a^nst Luther, he was very far from 
being the monster of iniquity which 
he became afterward, and whose his- 
tory I leave to the severe judgment 
of a Christian Tacitus. Again, it is 
important to understand that Henry 
VIII. was not the sole author of 
this monument of his former faith 
reared by his hand fourteen years 
before his apostasy. The universal 
judgment of critics has always at< 
tribated the more solid part of the 
voric, at least, to John Fisher, Bishop 



of Rochester, who assumed osten- 
sibly all the responsibility of it in the 
public defence he made of it. 

Thus we see, on the one hand, 
Henry VIII., who, after putting forth 
his work with so much ostentation, 
belied it without shame and strove 
to mutilate it ; and, on the other, 
John Fisher, who plants it upon the 
immovable rock where he had taken 
his place, and with glorious magnani- 
mity sacrifices his life to defend it. 
This is the choice offered. He who 
returns to the ancient faith of Henry 
VIII. separates himself from the t)'- 
rantand the murderer, and joins him- 
self to the company of his victim. 
He ranks himself beside the glo- 
rious martyr who, during the second 
half of King Henry's reign, was, of 
all the episcopate of England, the 
only guardian left of English honor, 
and the last champion of the liberty 
of conscience. 

An unwelcome truth, but a hard 
fact. In 1521, at the time of the 
publication of the king's book 
against Luther, the whole pjiglish 
episcopate most undoubtedly be- 
lieved in the primacy of the pope 
with Fisher, with Henry VIII., with 
all the Catholic Church, and in no 
sense believed in the spiritual supre- 
macy of the king. Then there was 
unity and unanimit)', and the present 
and past of England were in harmony. 
But in 1534 the king changes his doc- 
trine, and with him the whole episco- 
pate and parliament. One English 
bishop only was found to display the 
firmness of a Basil, a Hilar)', an 
Athanasius, an Ambrose, a Chrj'sos- 
tom, a Lanfranc, an Anselm, an Ed- 
ward, a Thomas of Canterbury. The 
number of the cowards does but 
make the immortal beauty of the 
contrast shine out with the greater 
splendor. How many rough stones 
are not thrown together pell-mell in 
iheir shapelessness and obscux\\Y) ^o 



366 



The Title of the Kings of Engkmd. 



form the foundation of the pedestal 
of one chosen stone, carved with the 
sublime inspiration of genius by the 
chisel of a Michael Angelo, to be- 
come the statue of a great man 1 

If John Fisher, like the heroic Tho- 
mas More, had not the support of his 
own nation, he had that of all Chris- 
tendom. Yes, the monument of 
John Fisher is worthy to become the 
rallying point of every generous- 
hearted Christian Englishman, who 
ardently looks for the realization of 
the promise and dearest wish of our 
common Redeemer and Saviour, 
Jesus Christ — ^There shall be one 
flock and one Shepherd. 

With what indescribable emotion 
the heart of an Englishman must 
beat when, after a long interior com- 
bat with so many prejudices in which 
he has been nurtured, he at last 
breaks the chains of his slavery, and 
when, feeling himself free with that 
liberty which only a Catholic can 
feel, he cries out : " 111 do it : I ab- 
jure the schism of Henry VIII., the 



creed of Cranmer and Par 
will go back to the faith c 
Fisher I" 

Such, doubtless, were thi 
ments of the pious and leame 
ert Wilberforce when he retu 
the bosom of the holy C 
Church. His words, so sen 
marked by the ardent love o 
so touching in their tone of 
and fVatcmal charity for his 
saries, fall upon our ears in 
of majestic solemnity as tht 
back to us from the depths 
tomb. This is what his ha 
written whose memory is en 
in the noblest hearts : 

*' When national distinction 
to exist, and mankind, sm: 
great, are assembled before 
will be seen whether it was 
like Henry VIII. and his 
Cromwell, to break up the 
Catholic for the sake of rulin 
like More and Fisher, to di< 
unity." 



SEVENTY-THREE. 



Be merry as May, 

If you want to be 
As merry and gay. 

At seventy-three. 

To be merry and gay 
Though, at seventy-three. 

Argues Life's primal May 
Spent virtuously. 



A Winged Word. 



267 



A WINGED WORD. 

" O power of life and death 
In the tongue 1 as the preacher auth." 



Mr. Basil Andrew paused in 
writing and held his pen suspended, 
his breath also slightly in suspense, 
as he contemplated his subject anew. 
He had been reviewing a theological 
work just published ; but his thoughts 
had developed as he dwelt on them, 
and were no longer a plan, but the 
torso of a plan. 

He sat like one in a trance while 
the new idea grew ; grew slowly, al- 
most painfully, seeming to find scant 
loom in his brain, albeit his brows 
were wide. Touches from the ut- 
most limits of his nature and his ex- 
perience shaped and modified it : 
tiw swell of feeling with the ray of 
mtellect that ruled its tide ; vague 
emotions and vaguer speculations, in 
those mists sparks of truth were dis- 
apated, from whose sudden meeting 
bad sometimes sprung the electric 
flash of intelligence ; aspirations that 
had climbed their Jacob's ladder, 
leason fixing the rounds till the 
climbers took wings, and dazzled 
Iier with their transfigured faces ; 
ftag[ments of knowledge hard and 
shatp-edged ; stray conclusions find- 
ing their premises, and stray prem- 
ises their conclusions — mallet and 
handle for blows — all working the 
shape till there it stood in his brain, 
the perfect form of a truth. 

One instant he contemplated it 
irith rapture, while it glowed alive 
under his gaze ; the next, he looked 
outward and perceived its relations 
with the world. As he did so, a 
wave of color swept over his face ; 
and, heart failing, that form was no 
longer to him a living truth, but the 
iUtue of a truth. 



"I might have known," he mut- 
tered, flinging his pen aside, "for 
me, at least, 'all roads lead to 
Rome.' I believe I am bewitched." 

With that flush still upon his face, 
he rolled up the unfinished manu- 
script, and deliberately laid it on the 
coals that burned redly in the grate, 
where it quivered like a sentient 
thing. One might fancy that the 
thoughts just warm from his brain 
still retained some clinging sensation, 
telling where their rest had been, as, 
stepping ashore, for a while we con- 
tinue to feel the motion of the sea on 
which we have been tossing. Then 
the edges of the leaves blackened, 
slender fingers of flame stole over 
them, opened them out, drew rustling 
leaf from leaf, scorching them, till 
one sentence started out vivid as 
lightning on a cloud, that sentence 
on which he had paused, finding it 
not a conclusion, but an indication. 
Then a strong draught caught the yet 
quivering cinders and carried them 
up the chimney. 

"There they go in a swirl, like 
Dante's ghosts," he thought ; and 
turned away to look out into the 
north-eastern storm that, having 
brushed the bloom from a crimson 
sunrising, was now, at afternoon, 
rushing in power over the city. The 
air was thick with snow, through 
which, far aloft, dark objects occa- 
sionally sailed with the wind-witches, 
probably. Passers struggled in wind 
and drift, and the houses seemed not 
sure of their footing, and had a for- 
lorn and smothered aspect. But 
Mr. Andrew perceived YfilYv saAv 
iaction that the mansion 'ui7)Vuc\iYA 



268 



A Winged Word, 



dwelt maintained its dignified dow- 
ager port, and that, if ever a feathery 
drift presumed to alight on the door- 
steps, an obsequious little flirt of 
wind darted round a corner of the 
house and wlii-sked it ofT. 

While the gentleman sstood there, 
the door of tlie room opened for the 
first time in three hours, and Miss 
Madeleine, Mrs. Hayward's niece, 
came in with a book in her hand. 
He watched her as she crossed the 
room without noticing him, and, when 
she had seated herself at another win- 
dow, he breathed out, " How sweet is 
solitude !" speaking in one of tliose 
cloudy, golden voices, such a voice 
as might have swept over the chords 
of David's harp when David sang. 

The lady looked up, brightening 
for an instant as though shone upon. 
Then she opened her book, and Mr. 
Andrew returned to his table and 
read also. And there was silence 
for another hour. 

Mr. Basil Andrew was in person 
rather superb, tall till he bent slight- 
ly with a languid grace, which also 
hung about his motions and his 
speech. But when he was excited, 
these mists were scorched up. Then 
he grew erect as a palm-tree, the 
not large but beautifully shaped eyes 
flashed out their crj-stalline blue, and 
delicate lines trembled or hardened 
in mouth and nostril. Then, too, it 
appeared that those tones of his could 
ring as well as melt. If it be true 
that " soul is the form, and doth the 
body make," the philosophical read- 
er may be able to guess the shape of 
his nose and chin. Lavater would 
have pronounced favorably concern- 
ing his intellect from seeing only that 
significant inch across the brows. In 
color he was white and flaxen-haired, 
but had some indefinable glow about 
him, like a pale object seen in a warm 
light. 
Mr. Andrew at thirt)'-five years of 



age found himself in th.it p.-iusc 
life which, in natures too well pois 
for violent reaction, comes betwj 
the disgust of unsatisfying pur 
and the adoption of higher aims, 
the disdainfiil and half-dcsp.^irii 
resumption of the former life, 
awaited the inspiring circumstanc 
which should waft him hither or 
ther, or perhaps for his soul to g.itl 
itself and make its own will the »-ii 
will, whichever might be more 
tential. Pending this afllatus, int 
rior or exterior, he rested upon life 

" A» idle u a paioled iMp 
Vpoo a punled poeuh" 

Miss Madeleine was a 
enough young woman, baptixe 
into the church, but from an 
age subjected to Protestant infloe 
ces ; oscillating between the 
never verj' conspicuously Catholg 
except when the faith was assailc 
tlien />/us Arclnr que I'Arcil 
other times following out Prot 
ism to its ultimate pantheism, 
had a dimly remembered father ; 
mother somewhere in church sti 
ing or triumphant, and occasic 
when life seemed to her unstabl 
sent out a little prayer for or to \\ 
a prayer too weak to find olive-leavx 
This young woman was not wilhc 
power, but it escaped in reverie 
dreaming ; what she meant to do 
vividly imagined that she rested tl 
as on accomplished work. Too ii 
petuous and flimsily ambitious 
think with profit, her mind w.is 
cumbered with fragments of though^ 
often with a sparkle in them, like iV 
broken snow-crj-stals she now dr 
ped her book to watch. In fine, he 
outer life was a purposeless st 
her inner life one of Carlyle's 
chanted nightmares" in miniature. 

As the clock struck four, Mr. 
drew closed his book and approachc 
his companion. 



A Winged Word. 



269 



**I have been reading Thoreau's 
description of autiunn woods," she 
said, " and I feel all colored. I am 
steeped in crimson, and purple, and 
amber, and rich tawny browns. My 
eyes are violet, and my hair is 
golden." 

"Your hair is brown, and your 
ejes are gray," was the matter-of- 
iact reply, it being Mr. Andrew's 
opinion that the girl's mind needed 
ballast 

"What book have you there ?" she 
asked, settling into place. 

"Oh!" just aware he still held it, 
"it is Father de Ravignan'st ^i^rif/y 
tad Institute of the Jesuits — very 
l^ood if one desires information on the 
nbject Moreover, one is charmed 
to learn that P^re de Ravignan, 
dxMigh himself a Jesuit, has been a 
na{^trate and a man of his time ; 
also that he is still a man, and, 
far exceiienee, a Frenchman. The 
good father becomes a little Hu- 
goish and staccato when he refers 
to himself." 

Since she still waited, watching 
him with eager, imperative eyes, he 
went on. " You know the story of 
the Florentine and Genoese who 
wished to compliment each other : 
*If I were not a Genoese, I should 
wish to be a Florentine,' said one. 
' And I,' said the other, ' if I were 
not a Florentine, should wish to 
be — ' ' A Genoese !' suggested the 
«her. * No, a Florentine I' So I, 
if I were not a free-thinker, would 
wish to be — " 

"A Catholic 1" the girl broke in. 
"Don't deny. You already tire of 
jour Theodore Parker, whose in- 
tellect was to him what astronomers 
call a crown of aberration. You 
have but to look at the church, 
asd (aith is easy t How beautiful 
are thy steps, O prince's daughter 1" 
"Very pretty, but not very con- 
dnsive," was the cool comment 



"You once said to me, 'Epithets 
are not arguments.' Allow me to 
retort that apostrophes are not ar- 
guments. By the way, how impos- 
sible it is to calculate on where 
you may be found, except that it 
is sure to be 'in issimo.^ The arc 
of your motion takes in both poles." 

Miss Madeleine relapsed again 
inmiediately, and with a somewhat 
weary expression. 

At the same moment the door 
opened wide, and Mrs. Hayward en- 
tered, producing the effect of being 
preceded by a band of music. This 
lady of fifty was ample, rustling, and 
complacent, and, being lymphatic, 
was called dignified. If, on being 
left a widow in straitened circum- 
stances, and finding herself obliged 
to take a few boarders, Mrs. Hay- 
ward had felt any sense of diminish- 
ed social lustre, no one had perceiv- 
ed it. " They pay my housekeeping 
expenses," she said serenely ; and 
immediately tliat seemed the end 
of their beincj. 

There is something imposing in 
the suave conceit of such persons. 
Possessing themselves so completely, 
they also possess those who approach 
them, abashing larger and more 
slowly ripening natures. Names re- 
spectfully pronounced by them be- 
come at once names of consequence, 
and trivial incidents by them related 
swell into significant events. If they 
are something, then I am nothing, is 
the thought with which we approach 
them ; and the fact that they are 
something seems so clear that the 
mortifying conclusion is inevitable. 

After this lady followed Mrs. 
Blake, obviously the wife of Mr. 
Blake, also the mother of an uproar- 
ious boy of six years who accompanied 
her, and who was at this moment 
quieted by the possession of an enor- 
mous cake which be was devouring. 

"O the cherub r cried M.i&a 



2/0 



A Winged Word. 



Madeleine wickedly. "That child 
has genius. See, he eats his cake in 
the epical manner, beginning in the 
middle. Little pocket edition of his 
papa I Only," in an aside to her 
aunt, " I hope they haven't stereo- 
typed him. And here comes his 
papa now." 

A bang of the street-door, and en- 
ter Mr. Blake, rubbing his hands, and 
quoting, 

* It [« not that mjr lot ic low, 
Tlut bub the nlBnt tear to Bow :' 

it is the cold. No, my son ; no kiss 
now. Sydney Smith says that there 
is no affection beyond seventy or 
below twenty degrees Fahrenheit. 
Wait till I rise to the paternal tem- 
perature." 

Mr. Blake was assistant editor of 
a second-class magazine, considered 
himself literarj', and had a way of 
saying" we scribblers" to Mr. Andrew, 
which made that gentleman stiffen 
slightly. While the one entertained 
the ladies with an account of the im- 
mense amount of literary labor per- 
formed by him since breakfast, the 
other looked from the window and 
absently watched the wild wind curl 
itself to edge off the crest of a drift, 
curling it over like the petal of a 
tuberose, but more thinly, hanging, 
wavering, flake to flake, daintily and 
airily touching the frail cr}'sta!s. 

" Oh ! there's to be a great Christ- 
mas at your cathedral tomorrow," 
Mr. Blake said to Madeleine, as they 
went out to dinner. " Bassoon's 
going to sing, and Kohn's orchestra 
to play. It will be worth seeing and 
hearing, especially at five o'clock. I 
mean to go if I can wake. And 
you ?" 

" Yes," Madeleine said, glancing at 
Mr. Andrews, who flushed a little as 
he nodded acquiescence. 

" 'Similia similibus curantur,*" he 
thoughL " I'll go and gel cured," 



"They really do things of 
sort well at the cathedral," said Mi 
Hayward patronizingly, seeming 
pat a personified cathedral on tl 
head as she softly touched the 
with her plump white hand. 

Madeleine groaned inwardly. 

"Mr. Andrew," she said, "wj 
should put me in mind of the 
that tried to swell to the size of 
ox?" 

Mr. Andrew found himself unat 
to guess. 

'' But wouldn't it have been 
she pursued, with the air of a ph 
sophical child, *' if the frog had : 
ceedcti, and had swelled to the 
of an ox ?" 

Mr. Andrew admitted that it wc 
have been a phenomenon. 

" But," she concluded, with an 
of infantile nah'etiy " it wouldn't 
been anvthing but a great frog, wc 
it ?" 

" My dear, what are you tall 
about ?" said her aunt " Pray 
your dinner." 

" Christmas-eve is a fast-day of oil 
ligation," says Madeleine. 

A little raising of three pairs 
eyebrows fanned the flame. ThS 
young woman had a tongue of 
own, and while the others dined &l 
entertained them with a th' 
discourse, which, if not a! 
cal, had some telling points, and i 
certainly did not assist the dig 
of her hearers. They sat with v< 
red faces, choking a little, but tiyix 
to appear indifferent 

" Do people take bitters wit!» t\ 
dinner ?" asked Mr. Andrew, at lenj 
" I should think it would spoil the' 
taste," 

" I must say, Madeleine/' Mrs. Hay- 
ward interposed, '* that, considerii 
you address Protestants, aiul 
we are all friends of yours, you she 
very little regard for our feelings." 

The best thing that could ba^j 



A Wirtged IVcfd, 



271 



said. Madeleine melted at 

*^0 aunlic I" she cried penitently, 

• it is not that 1 love Csesar leas, but 

e more,' I own that it is you 

have shown the Christian spirit, 

reminded me that centuries ago 

to-night the angels sang * Peace on 

earth.' I'm going to banish myself in 

dtsgrace to the parlor. Rest you 

■erry." 

Going into the parlor, she saw all 
oat-doors siiifused with a soft rosc-co- 
ior, a blubh so tender and evanescent 
that it seemed everj^vhere but where 
the eye rested. " The sky side of this 
»torm b all a sea of fire," she thought, 
Ihrowingup the window, and drawing 
a delicious breath of mingled sun- 
west wind, and frost. " How 
clouds melt ! And the winds 
and sunbeams, with their convex 
s, build up the blue dome of 
air." 

ing in later, the others found 

ing at the piano in the amethys- 

light, and singing a faint and 

y sounding Gloria. 

*Hush !" said Mr. Blake, pausing 

on the threshold, " the evening stars 

have begun, that the moniing stars 

Buy know. See thera all of a tremor 

B.ky !" 
ing to those strains of thread- 
Mr. Andrew sat looking into 
jht through which the grand- 
Jlations burned with outlines 
laiblurred by the lesser stars. There 
•as Orion, erect, with his girdle of 
vorids; Taurus, with starred horns 
lowered ; the Dogs, witnessed to by 
ibtt Equid brilliance of Sinus, match- 
leas in shifting hues ; the Lion, just 
coming out of the East, his great paw 
ftsting on the ecliptic ; all those hie- 
Wf^hs of fire in which God has writ- 
len his antograph upK)n the heavens. 

"What a pretty myth it was," he 

thooght, "that of the morning-stars 

together. And that other of 



JL 





the .star of Bethlehem !" He half wish- 
ed he could believe tho.se things, they 
saved so much weary thought, so 
much maddening speculation. Some- 
times, while straining to grasp at ex- 
traordinary knowledge, he had felt as 
though falling from a giddy height 
into an outer darkness, and had 
drawn back shuddering, eager to 
catch at some homely fact for sup- 
port. He smiled now mockingly to 
himself. " Perhaps the stars did sing. 
Like a child, I'm going to make be- 
lieve they did, and that one ' hand- 
maid lamp' did attend llie birth of 
Jesus." It was easier to believe any- 
thing while he listened to that Gloria. 
For, disregarded as Miss Madeleine 
might be at other times, when she 
sang she was regnant. Her voice 
was magnetic enough to draw the 
links from any man's logic. 

Ceasing, she called Mr. and Mrs. 
Blake to the piano, and the three 
voices sang Milton's Hymn on the 
Nativity. 

It is astonishing how magnificently 
some small-souled persons do con- 
trive to sing, expressing sentiments 
which they must be totally incapable 
of experiencing. Mrs. Blake sang a 
superb contralto, and the three per- 
fect voices struck fire from one lis- 
tener's heart as they beat the em- 
phatic rhythm of that majestical 
measure. 

All but Miss Madeleine went to 
bed early. She kept vigil, and was 
to call them. They seemed scarcely 
to have slept when they heard her 
voice ring up the stairs in the muez- 
zin which she christianized for the 
occasion, being in no mood to call 
Mohammed a prophet : 

" Great iii<he Lord t Great ii the Lord I 
I bear witness that there U no God but the Lord ! 
I bear wi(ne<» that Jttut \% the Son of G->4 I 
Come unto ptayer— com* unto happineu — 
Great » the Lord t Great h (he L.arU I 
There is no God but the Lord I 
Player is better than deep— prayer is beUci tikas 
siecpi" 



272 



A Winded Word. 



As the last word died U|X)n the 
air, every fool touched the floor, and 
in half an hour the party had gather- 
ed as wild as witches. 

Mr. Andrew came down late and 
grumbling. " Cannot we hear music 
and see candles without getting out 
of bed for the purpose at such un- 
earthly hours ? I had just gone to 
sleep, and was in Elysium. Miss 
Madeleine, why should you say that 
prayer is better than sleep } VVe are 
not going to pray ; we are going to 
hear demi-semi-quavers, and Mr. Bas- 
soon's C in tlie deeps. I'll go to bed 
again." 

" Possibly we may pray, Mr. An- 
drew," she said in a low tone. " I 
have been thinking to-night, and it 
seems to me that God had a Son, 
and that he will come down this 
morning and stand in the midst of 
the candles." 

A Catholic, unless a convert, can 
scarcely understand the emotions of 
a stranger who enters a church for 
the first time on one of our great 
festivals. That " cool, silver shock " 
must be taken from another element. 
Our party stepped from the dim and 
frosty starlight into an illumination 
more dazzling than daylight, into a 
warmth that was fragrant with flowers, 
into a crowd where every face had a 
smile dissolved in it. And over all 
waved a sparkling tissue of violin 
music from the orchestra, 

"By George!" was Mr. Blake's 
only audible comment. 

" It is like the Arabian Nights !" 
exclaimed his wife. 

" Turns up the mastodon strata in 
them," whispered Mr. Andrew to the 
lady on his arm. 

They were shown to seats, and 
sat watching the steadily increas- 
ing crowd, and the altar that was 
a pyramid of fire. The worship- 
pers were, of course, various : rag- 
ged Irish women, whose faith in- 




vested them with better tiian 
of gold ; rich ladies, sweeping in v« 
vets and sables, but with thought 
of better things in their faces ; air 
bilious working-girls, finer than their 
mistresses. A pretty young woraa 
came into the slip in front of 
part)', her face beautifully 
to represent modesty and sweetnc 
She cast a glance behind at 
audience, then sank upon her knt 
and beat her breast with one hi 
while she arranged her bonnet-strinj 
with the other. This performanc 
at an end, she faced about and 
closely scanned the galler)', turning 
again and again till those behind her 
began to feel annoyed. 

" I do wish he'd come I" said Ma* 
dcleine impatiently. 

" He has come," whispered Mr, 
Andrew, as the young wm 
denly returned toward the . 
began a series of languishing at 
tudes and prostrations, all her 
(oirt of theatrical devotion. 

A grand-looking man next attra 
ed their attention, walking past wit 
the unmistakable sailor roll, 
head w.is erect, and his massif 
shoulders looked fit for Atlas 
dens ; but the clear, blue ev'es w« 
gentle, and his face was full of 
beautiful solemnity and rever 
As he walked, the long, tawny 
flowing down his breast waved slight- 

Madeleine gave Mr. Andrew's arm 
a delighted squeeze, and whi.« 

• With many a tempest had hU beard been 





Fancy him on the ship's deck, 
mid-ocean, in darkness and sto« 
beaten by the wind, drenched inl 
spray, the lightnings blazing and the 
thunders crashing about him, shoul 
ing to the men to cut the mast awayllj 

Here the organ and choir' broli 
fortli in glad acclaim, and the 
cession came winding in from the : 



A Winged Word. 



273 



cristy. Cloth of gold and cloth of 
silver, lace and fine linen, and crim- 
son and purple, all combined, gave 
the effect of a many-jewelled band 
coiled about the sanctuary. 

Attending alternately to the altar 
and the choir, Mr. Andrew tried to 
believe it all a vain pageant; but 
thoughts will enter, though the doors 
be shut What a stupendous thing, 
be thought, if the Real Presence were 
true ; if, as this girl said, God had a 
Son, and he should come down this 
morning and stand in the midst of 
the candles ! 

For one instant he was dazzled 
and confounded by the possibility; 
the next, he recoiled from it. 

"Gloria in excelsis" sang the choir 
with otgan and orchestra in many an 
involved and thrilling strain, a pure 
melody springing up here and there 
ftom the midst, voice and instrument 
meeting and parting, catching the 
lone from each other, swelling till the 
vaulted roof of the cathedral rang, 
fading again, dropping away one 
after another, till there was left but 
a many-toned sigh of instruments, 
and one voice hanging far aloft, with 
a silvery flutter, upon a trill, like a 
humming-bird sucking the sweetness 
from that flower of sound. A pause 
of palpitating silence, then an amen 
that set swinging the myrtle vines 
banging over the St. Cecilia in front 
of the organ, and made the pennons 
of blue and scarlet that hung about 
the altar wave on their standards. 

Contrary to custom, there was to 
be a sermon at that Mass, and, ns the 
preacher ascended the pulpit, Mr. 
Andrew said to himself: "If Christ 
was the Son of God, he is on that al- 
tar; and if there, 1 wish he would 
speak to me by this man." 

He hoped to hear an argument 
to provq the divinity of Christ, not 
aware that his reason had already 
been pampered with such until it 

VOU VI. — 18 



had grown insolent. The speaker, 
however, handled his subject quite 
otherwise. Assuming that divinity, 
he took for his theme, "what thoughts 
should fill the mind, what sentiments 
dilate the heart," on the feast of the 
Nativity. Calling up before them 
then, in a few words, a picture of that 
scene at once so humble and so mar- 
vellous, and pointing to the myste- 
rious babe, he boldly announced on 
the threshold of his discourse the dif- 
ficulties connected with the dogma 
for which he demanded their hom- 
age : 

"This babe is a creature as you 
and I : this babe is the Creator of all 
contingent being. This babe is just 
bom ; this babe is from all eternity. 
This babe is contained in the man- 
ger ; this babe pervades all space. 
It suffers : hear its cries 1 It enjoys 
bliss beyond power of augmentation. 
It is poor: see the swaddling-clothes 1 
To it belong the treasures of the uni- 
verse. Here present are husband 
and wife ; yet I am required to be- 
lieve that her the Holy Spirit over- 
shadowed, a virgin conceived, a vir- 
gin bore a Son." 

Not Ulysses' arrow flew through 
the rings with surer, swifter aim than 
these words through the winding 
doubts that had bound that listener's 
heart. It was too sublime not to be 
true ! Almost the triumphant para- 
dox — I believe, because it is impos- 
sible — broke from his lips. The 
human mind was incapable of invent- 
ing a falsity so glorious. 

In that tumult of feeling he lost 
what came next ; but, listening again, 
heard : "If I must bow down and 
worship, I elect him as the object of 
my adoration whose dwelling is in 
light inaccessible, who is inscnitable 
in his nature, and incomprehensible 
in his works.'' 

" Amen !" said Basil Andrew. 

"A virgin conceived, a virgin bore 



274 



A Winged Word. 



ft Son," repeated itself again and 
again in his thought. All the singing 
of voices and the playing of instru- 
ments were because of that ; all the 
splendor of the festival, the gathering 
of the crowd in the midst of the win- 
ter night, were for that " O sweetest 
and most glorious mother in all the 
universe 1" he thought, bowing Avhere 
it is, perhaps, most difficult for a con- 
vert to render homage. 

Clouds are unsubstantial things for 
anything but rainbows to stand on, 
and even they find but vanishing foot- 
hold. Had that delight in Basil An- 
drews's heart warmed only his ima- 
agination, it would have faded with 
the moment ; but thought and study 
had done their part, and that uprising 
of the heart was Pygmalion's kiss to 
his statue. The feeling with which 
he turned to leave the cathedral was 
one of thankful content with perfect- 
ed work. 

Pausing in the vestibule for the 
crowd to pass, he looked back with a 
tender fear toward the altar. 

Poor Madeleine's religion was iris 
and the cloud. She had known well 
what was going on in her compan- 
ion's mind, and, as she stood waiting 
with him, a text went sighing through 
her memory like a sighing wind. ** / 
say unto you that the i:ing(^i>m of God 
shall be taken from you, and shall be 
^iven to a nation yieldin); the fruits 
thereof:' While she, a cliild of the 
church, had given it a fitful obedience 
more insulting than a consistent dis- 
regard, this man had toiled every 
.•itep of the way from a far-off heresy, 
and, passing by her as she loitered 
outside, had walked into the very 
penetralia. 



i>eauti| 
ghter] 

1 



She stood looking gloomily <| 
the morning that was one cl< 
glow of pale gold. j 

" The air has crystallized sl 
came in," she said, "and we ai 
inside a great gem, like flies in \ 
We will have to stay here for d 

He bent a smiling face towa 
as they went out into the m<l 
and said softly : " How beautij 
thy steps, O Prince's daughU 
were right, Madeleine !" 

A fortnight from that 
leine Hayward stood on 
her aunt's house, saying 
its inmates. S. Southern ^ 
cold skies of the North fto*| 
She wanted to get into a war 
shine, and, being prompt 
mined, obstacles vaiiist 
her. 

"Mr. Andrew," she 
gave her his ann to ibc car 
am sorry I can't stay to beyoi 
mother." J 

" I wouldn't have you," b^ 
" I'm going to have my old nti 

Madeleine took her seat in a 
riage, gave a smiling nod tow| 
group in the door, then held < 
hand out to her companion, j 

*' When you are a priest, and 
you hear th.it I am di ^ 
for me," she said faint, 
her face resolutely away. 

The violent color that '. 
tlie gentleman's face al 
faded into a paleness as 
the steps. By what power dji 
girl sometimes divine the lh( 
which he had not yet owned 
self? 

But she was a prophet 



h^i 




Tkt Promt Com Bt iet t tf Ckristuuiitjf in Frama, aj$ 



Traailated from th« French of L. Vitet 

PRESENT CONDITION OF CHRISTI- 
ANITY IN FRANCE. 



me ago M. Guizot publish- 
}nd series of his Meditations 
istian Religion, He is now 
g right valiantly, and will 
lave completed, the noble 
von for him two years since 
triumph among his many 
ind crowned his illustrious 
hat may be considered its 
glory. That calmest and 
le of creeds, a lucid defini- 
iuramary of the fundamen- 
s of Christianity, viewed 
highest stand-point, in all 
e simplicity and grandeur, 
ed, it will be remembered, 
tude by some who looked 
is furnishing most timely 
with respect and partial 
ment by others ; and so 
as its effect that the most 
eligious polemics were for 
being quieted. The first 
rred to the vcrj' essence of 
tian religion ; what is the 
the second ? 

hor, in his preface, had thus 
general plan of the work : 
essence of Christianity, 
istor)', then its present con- 
J, finally, its future. Thus 
le history of Christianity 
r promised us. The plan 
d upon had, perhaps, some 
:s. The history of Chris- 
nowadays the point that 
;ian critics would show to 
ible, and the portion of the 
y seek to penetrate. The 
awever, after a moment's 
las of itself meted out par- 
: to this manner of attack .; 



or at all events, new attempts, as 
skilfully devised as the first, have 
been received with a coolness of 
good augury that weakens vastly the 
importance of previously achieved 
successes. Was it not most oppor- 
tune, then, to enlighten still more and 
at once a public whose furore had 
but just died away ? was it not most 
important not to adjourn, even by 
a brief delay, a decisive refutation ? 
As for ourselves, we yearned to be- 
hold, striving with the new-comers of 
criticism and history — ^who claim to 
be their masters and almost their in- 
ventors — him who, nearly half a cen- 
tury since, founded in our land mod- 
em historical criticism. By setting 
face to face with their rash assertions 
the true and severe laws of historic 
certainty ; by taking down, piece by 
piece, their most cleverly contrived 
scaffolding; by reducing to naught 
their credit, was not the writer ren- 
dering to Christianity a most great 
and needed service ? 

M. Guizot has thought that there 
was something still more urgent to 
be accomplished ; without abandon- 
ing his original idea, involving the 
four series, he has inverted their or- 
der of sequence ; he now dwells 
upon the present state of Christian 
beliefs. At a later day he proposes 
to resume the discussion of historical 
questions, dilate upon the authority of 
holy books, continue his commentary 
on the concord of the Scriptures, and 
his arguments concerning technicali- 
ties and minor details ; subsequently 
he will try to look into the future. 
At present he has but one care) oi\e 



2^6 The Present Condition of Christianity in France, 



thought : he wishes to know what is 
occurring, or rather what men are 
belie\'ing, around him. To place in 
the strongest light the present state 
of Christianity j to enumerate its 
armies and those of its opp>onents, 
and establish a comparison between 
the strength of both ; thus to sum- 
mon all Christians to awaken to a 
sense of tlie events concerning the 
common safety ] to teach tliem not to 
be deceived either as to iheir might or 
as to the magnitude of the perils be- 
setting them, and to guard against 
a feeling of treacherous security as 
against cowardly discouragement ; 
this it is that engrosses his attention, 
and, forming the subject of all his 
thoughts, indicates to him that which 
he is to consider his first duty. As 
he says himself, he supplies the most 
pressing emergency, and, hunying to 
the spot where the struggle is com- 
mencing, rushes into the thick of the 
fight. 

We can readily understand his im- 
patience. All other questions be- 
come unimportant when compared 
with such a problem. No eagerness 
can be more legitimate than tliat of 
M. Guizot, and tlie investigation 
which it is necessar)' to make is 
surely the most serious and interest- 
ing that could be prosecuted. Let us 
add that few inquiries are as intricate 
and as difficult. 

It is not, in fact, the mere exterior 
and apparent state of Christianity 
that it is necessary to depict ; but its 
life, its action, its power, which sim- 
ple statistics can by no means de- 
scribe. Figures may set forth how 
many churches there are in France ; 
how many priests, congregations, and 
convents ; how many children are 
baptized, and couples married ; how 
many dying mortals receive spiritual 
succor ; but after these computations 
are completed, are they of any genu- 
ine value ? Though the civil code is 



ved al 
IT refl< 
:r froij 
medi) 
r li|m 

eal^H 



rchea 



not compulsory as to the 
a religion, and though each { 
to elect his own belief, dc 
that the conclusion arrived al 
ways the result of proper refl< 
Are all those who, either froij 
childhood, through the medit 
their parents, or in after Ij 
their own free will, on cei 
days, publicly proclaim 
rence to Christianity, rea 
Christians ? How many cw 
designate who knew w:hat the 
doing, who did not simpl]^ 
with a custom, and for wbc 
crcd contract did not becc 
a dead letter? To arrive' 
rect estimate as to the actual sl| 
of Christianity, we must not C 
registers, but i\iake rescarci 
bosoms of families, and de 
the depths of consciene 
should we make our soundll 
ascertain the state of Chrislij 
lief. We admit that such a tni 
investigation would be • 
we must be content, : < 

less precise data, and pass jud 
upon apparent events. DraWi 
allel, then, benvcen Christioni^ 
was in the early part of the C 
and Christianity as it is, critid 
two periods in accordance wil 
same rules, make allowances I 
ceptive appearances on both 
and exclude from your calctl 
the apocryphal believers 
only Christians in name J 
numerous the false men 
at present, you will, nevi 
be compelled to conccd^ 
our country, during the 
years, Christianity has at 
root again in the soil, that it I 
covered its life, and that its p^ 
has been undeniable. 

M. Guizot describes the phi 
the resurrection or rather 
ening of Christianity . 
hensiveness of his > 



everq 

1 




The Preiott Conditioti of Christianity in France. 277 



[less of his expressions render 
ly de\*doped portion of his 
; of absorbing interest. We have, 
•vcr, no intention to attempt its 
In these later medita- 
as in those that precede 
em, one would in vain seek to fol- 
the author step by step. His 
alone can speak for its con- 
; a person must peruse it, or 
sdon ilie idea of becoming ac- 
»ted with it. Let us only point 
plan the writer has drawn, and 
■ the succession of his thoughts. 
5m its commencement, by a na- 
division, the volume to which 
allude forms two parts : one re- 
lo Christianity, the other to its 
srsaries. Uliat do we see in tlie 
St? The narrative of the Christian 
toning, or rather an cxposi of the 
ligious beliefs in France since the 
t8oo. This is a composition 
which the incidents follow each 
la natural sequence, an his- 
painting as well as a picture- 
Jcry, comprising none but portraits 
1 nature, such as M. Guizot, with 
>t firmness and concision that 
rlerize in few words ideas as 
AS men, can produce ; portraits 
of expression and life, though al- 
I of a sober coloring and subdued 
IkL Guizot had abundant 
intttes for word-painting, for 
were not scarce. Evidently 
was resolved, from the 
of the century, to repair 
lost perceptible progress the 
CU of the great disaster of Chris- 
ity, and the damage caused by 
!Cafach*sm into which it seemed 
hare sunken. How numerous 
men who suddenly came into 
each worthy of the mis- 
be entriisted to him ! How 
the contrast with the days 
\Y There was none to shiv- 

taU:, 1. It ancient religion still 

with honors, wealth, and ap- 



parent life, but without credit, with- 
out influence upon souls, without 
new adepts, and gradually forsaken, 
like unto those tottering edifices 
whose abandonment ere their fall is 
decreed by a prophetic instinct I The 
scaffold wa.s needed to restore it to 
life. The first symptom of regenera- 
tion was observed when humble priests 
and monks, who, a day previous, were 
heedless of their duty, arose as intre- 
pid and as ready for martyrdom as if 
theirs had been austere lives, passed 
in the desert or in the darkness of 
the catacombs. Then a brighter sig- 
nal and one more easiJy understood 
was to be given by t\vo men, who, 
each in his sphere and within the 
limits of his power, were really the 
earliest promoters of the Christian 
awakening. We refer to a great po- 
litician and to a great writer — to the 
First Consul and to M.de Chateaubri- 
and, to the Concordat and to the Ge- 
nius of Christianity. There is noth- 
ing artificial nor strained in this 
connection ; for these two men and 
these two works, at the commence- 
ment of this centurj", played the most 
important part in the work of resur- 
recting the traditions of Christianity. 
M. Guizot speaks of Bonaparte and 
Chateaubriand in a rare spirit of jus- 
tice and impartiality. Though pos- 
sessed of little sympathy for them, and 
aware that their works have become 
antiquated and, so to say, .somewhat 
out of fashion, he asserts quite warm- 
ly that the Genius of Christianity, de- 
spite its imperfections, is a great and 
powerful work, such as only appears 
at long intervals — one of those pro- 
ductions that, having deeply moved 
men's souls, leave behind them traces 
never to be effaced. And as for the 
Concordat, albeit the sincerest friends 
of Christian beliefs point out nowa- 
days with sadness, if not with bitter- 
ness, its defects and dangers, M. 
Guizot concedes that, in iftoi, \X* 



278 



The Presnit Condition of Christianity in Fntmct 



promulgation was, on the part of the 
First Consul, an act of superior in- 
telligence rather than of despotism, 
and, for the sake of religion, the most 
opportune and necessary of events, 
the sine qua non condition of the 
existence of Christianity. He thinks 
that, after ten years of revolutionary 
orgies, a solemn recognition of reli- 
fion by the state was needed to en- 
'dow it with that influence, dignity, 
and stability which it had totally losL 
In this respect, we share M. Gui- 
zot's opinion, certain reservations, 
r however, being made. The Concor- 
iat was a welcome gift ; neither its 
timely advent nor the necessity for it 
can be disputed. Why? Because 
iro years previous the national move- 
ment of 1789 was suddenly trans- 
formed into an abdication, by which 
one man benefited. If, 'nstead of 
submitting to this saviour, half out of 
lassitude and half out of enthusiasm, 
France had had the energ)', by mak- 
ing a supreme effort, and, perhaps, at 
the cost of new calamities, to see to 
her own safety and remain mistress 
of her fate, the Concordat would have 
been an unneeded blessing. Chris- 
tianity would have had more labor 
and expended more time in regain- 
ing the lost ground ; it would not 
have obtained possession at once, by 
the scratch of a pen, and between 
sunrise and sunset, of all its presby- 
teries and churches ; it would have 
recovered tliem little by little, after 
having conquered men's souls. Had 
it had no other staflf of support but 
its flock, it would have neglected 
nothing to strengthen it and increase 
its numbers ; it would have won the 
confidence of the people and obtained 
their acceptance of it as a counsellor, a 
father, a friend, and would not have 
been looked upon as an emigrant, 
amnestied and recalled by tolerance, 
favor, and an act of authority, and 
thus placed under obligations to one 




^1 



man, and made the 
power. It is not suffic 
should be cured of a I 
the remedy, in destroying til 
must not leave the patient % 
altered constitution or impaired 
ity. The Concordat undoubte 
livered us from a great afilictt 
a nation, and saved us ^ 
complete divorce from God ; 
stored Christianity to Frano 
restored it less robust and lei 
pared for the strife, less lUe-li| 
less popular, and in a less 6t cot 
to face the danger than if the 1 
liffs had been compelled, whc 
anew, to clear their own pati 
In religion, as in politics, Fi 
feels, and will probably d 
ence, the effects of having ' 
by the events of the 18th of Brt 
That which wc roust admit t 
Guizot is that, when, in lhes< 
days, we criticise the work of 1 
thers, written upward of sixtj 
ago, we can speak of then 
wondrous facility. Their > 
at hand to enlighten 
must carrj' ourselves bad 
and behold flocks without 1 
tombs without prayers, 
without baptismal fonts 1 
the proud and far seeing 
who would then have refused 
destructive present, in the 
his belief and for the 
faith, a regime lliat did 
Christian restoration, and 
touch of a magic wand 
the evils that bore it dowi 
then would have e\T:n 
such a paradox. Let us, 
blame with indulgence^ : 
tain degree only, the m< 
vented the compromise, althc 
consequential events subsist 
when we examine the presenj 
of Christian belief, wc cannot 
meeting at every step the 
dent traces of defective 



f theij 
•ac^H 

utflH 

and< 






j;^ 



he 4ti 

I 



Tifer Pnsent Condition of Christianity in France. 279 



its resurrection by process of law. 
Even as the government of tlie Re- 
storation, despite its sincerest efforts 
and never-failing good-will, was never 
absolved by France from the re- 
proach that attached to its self-com- 
mitment by friendship with the Em- 
peror Alexander and Lord Welling- 
ton, even so Christianity in this land, 
during the past sixty years, is partly 
indebted for its weakness, and for the 
prejudices that maintain it in a state 
of excitement, to the honor of hav- 
ing had for a godfather the Empe- 
Tor Napoleon. Sheltered and warmed 
onder the purple, and having become 
an imperial pensioner, Christianity 
acquired, against its will, a certain 
need of protection and certain hab- 
its of submission and almost of com- 
plaisance, which having rendered it 
under some rigimes a party to the acts 
of the government, has caused it to 
be called upon to share the respon- 
nbility of many errors, and exposed 
it to the perils of unpopularity. 

Within the sixty years gone by, 
have we not seen by a transient ex- 
ample how much religion would have 
gainsxi by remaining on less compro- 
mising terms with the heads of the na- 
tion and boldly dispensing with their 
(avors ? There was once a govern- 
ment whose members were imbued 
with profound respect for the reli- 
gious interests of the country, and 
who were always ready to render 
unto its ministers the most kindly 
oflkes ; this same government, how- 
ever, from its earliest days, was view- 
ed with coldness and hostility by a 
certain number of Catholics and a 
great portion of the clergy ; is it not 
known how favorable that attitude 
proved to Catholicism itself? For 
d^teen years it was looked upon as 
possessed of no credit, and, for that 
very reason, each day acquired more 
and more power, not, indeed, in pub- 
lic places and in ante-chambers, but 



in men's consciences. It may be 
boldly asserted that the greatest and 
most definite progress which the 
Christian religion can justly claim 
for itself since the commencement of 
the present century was made dur- 
ing that period. We do not deduce 
from this fact that systematic hostili- 
ty to the ruling powers is necessary 
for the propagation of religious ideas, 
for intestine strifes are evils and not 
to be fomented ; but that the sacred 
ministry, to have influence upon rulers, 
must possess a degree of indepen- 
dence carried even to the extent ol 
pride, and bringing into prominence 
its abandonment of all things earth- 
ly, and its absolute indifference to 
worldly interests. 

From 1830 to 185 1, whatever may 
have been the true motives of its 
estrangement and indifference, the 
Catholic clergy was benefited by the 
situation. It had prospered and in- 
creas(.!d in numbers, it had won for 
itself, to the gceat advantage of Chris- 
tian belief, the esteem, the respect, 
and even the minds of persons who, 
until then, had been rebellious <ind 
inclined to disparage it. Was it 
aware of the cause of this unusual 
kindliness of feeling ? Did it com- 
prehend how much this was to be pre- 
ferred, for the cause of religion and 
for its own sake, to former courtly fa- 
vors ? Has it since guarded against 
the temptations which have surround- 
ed it? Has it persevered in burning 
incense before God only, in adoring 
none but him ? Have not more earth- 
ly and apparently less disinterested 
bursts of enthusiasm caused it to lose 
a goodly portion of the conquered 
ground ? These are questions which 
it may be well not to look into too 
deeply ; but enough is known con- 
cerning them to enable us to under- 
stand how it came that, during the 
fifteen years that have just elapsed, 
the radical vice of the Concoidal, liScve 



spirit in which it was framed, the dan- 
ger of establishing between Chris- 
tianity and the absolute power a so- 
called natural alliance, a kind of 
necessary complicity, have awakened 
in the hearts of some Christians 
objections, fears, and antipathies 
now more active and potent than 
ever. 

We next behold one of the great 
incidents of the Christian awakening 
whose history M. Guizot recounts. 
The First Consul, by raising the altar 
from the dust, partly obeying the great 
views of his genius, and partly yielding 
to his despotic instincts ; M. de Cha- 
teaubriand, by moving and delighting 
French society by the revelation of 
the treasures of Christian poetrj', of 
the existence of which it was unaware ; 
M. de Bonald, by honoring the gov- 
ernmental traditions of the old /r- 
gime by translating them into meta- 
physical theories ; M. de Maisire, 
by outpouring, in floods of fiery 
eloquence, ovenvhelming invective 
against the revolutionary' spirit ; all 
these but paid homage to noblo ruins, 
and, hurling indignation at the de- 
stroyers, made a generous attempt to 
rehabilitate the past, to glorify it, and 
to gjive it renewed life. The impor- 
tant questions, the questions of the 
fiiturc, are not yet propounded. It is 
not sufficient that Christianity should 
be restored ; it must be given health, 
and taught to live in peace and friend- 
ship with a power henceforward be- 
yond all estimate, with an irresisti- 
ble force — that of modem civiliza- 
tion. How could the Christian, and 
more especially the Catholic Church, 
be led to acknowledge the liberty of 
civil society as constituted by the 
French revolution ? How could that 
society be brought to respect the just 
rights of the church ? Such was the 
problem that could not fail to spced- 
Hy appwar. 

Until the year rSjo, the question 




280 TAr Present Condition of Christianity in France. 



was only foreshadowed ; tt 
was by no means argent.' 
tholicism had recovered 
government of. the Restoratifl 
former privilege as a state reli 
reconciliation, or a reciprocal 
ranee between itself and socict 
no longer in discussion. It wi 
derstood that its portion wras 
secured by an actual struggle 
the secular power was at it 
— without violence, with di 
tion, but not without inji 
authority and detriment to 
fluence upon men's souls, 
tholic religion had to as 
responsibility as well as accet 
profits of its prinlegcd 
Subsequent to 1830, circt 
changed. Inasmuch as 
"state religion" had bee 
from the constitutional comj 
one religion could lay claim toi 
immunities or. occupy an 
ally exalted position. All' 
equal rights. Whatever the 
ber of their adherenLs, 
they we re recognized by 
ing a subsidy from the stat 
held them to be equally sa 
deserving of respect. The 
titude of the government 
anger of some Catholics, 
opinion, privilege was the verj 
sence, the normal and vital o| 
tion of their belief The po«^ 
the day, by reducing them toji 
slender diet of equality and con) 
rights, was guilty not only of ( 
ference and culpable abandonlj 
but of spoliation and persccci 
Theircomplaints were loudest! 
their adversaries feigned to 1 
a most brilliant triumph, 
meet : on both sides a 
prevailed that, without sj: 
port, without the favors of tijd 
gistracy and the soldiery, Ca| 
cism had no chance of 
both armies being 



persccci 
destbcd 

t 

of tijd 
ry, QA 

f life, a^ 
prori^M 



TJke Present Condition ef Christianity in Fntnee. 281 



!Iy effective weapons, it could 
- withstand the onslaughts of 
DC. The conduct of the per- 
nterested, however, differed ; for 
wished to be regarded as mar- 
ind cursed the atheism of the 
anient, charging it with bring- 
txnit the inevitable ruin of the 

whilst others reproached the 
government for its supposed 
less toward the once privi- 
religion, and accused it of pro- 
ig its existence by secretly favor- 
ing the progress of this con- 
here was gradually formed a 
of Cattiolics who contemplated 
i in an entirely new light. They 
all young in years and men 
: age ; their hearts throbbed 
the noble thoughts of liberty 
idependence that were madden- 
-ance for the second time, and, 
ugly, carrying the nation back 
dawn of 1789. What did these 
t and sincere Christians, ani- 

by a firm resolve, propose to 
Were they to sacrifice to their 
us faith that political faith just 
within them ? To what end ? 

was to prevent them from 

both Catholic and liberals? 
at respect were the principles 
; evangels and those of a free 
iment incompatible .with each 
' Was not the government of 
urch, in the early ages, the re- 

the free choice of the faithful? 
not respect for human liberty, 
>f justice, and opposition to 
y and barbarity, the glory 
:tual essence of Christian be- 
rlad not they who for three cen- 
had linked religion to the for- 
uid precepts of the old monar- 
.nd identified it with them, 
ieformed Catholicism ? 
;n these men had become 
^ly convinced not only that 
iews and their faith were by 



no means irreconcilable, but also 
that it was their duty as Christians 
to render the church the greatest 
of all services by checking its retro- 
gressive tendency and reconciling it 
with the world and with modem 
ideas, they inaugurated the cam- 
paign, unfurled their flag, organized 
a committee, and commenced the 
publication of a journal, neglecting 
none of the means by which to dis- 
seminate their ideas and gain acces- 
sions to their ranks. Had they been 
so fortunate as to choose, not a more 
eloquent, but a less rash and more 
unimpassioned chief than the Abb^ 
de Lamennais ; had the noble minds, 
the brave hearts, the wondrous talent 
centred in those grouped around him 
belonged to men of riper years ; had 
his adherents been less fiery and im- 
patient, and less prejudiced against a 
new power which was still insecure 
on its foundation, but was imbued 
with the spirit of true liberty to such 
a degree that it imperilled its own 
existence every day to avoid attack- 
ing the rights of its adversaries, and 
thus overstep the limits of the law ; 
had they understood what service 
their cause could have expected of 
that government on the sole condi- 
tion of not demanding impossibili- 
ties, of not harassing and chiding 
it on all occasions, and of not aiding 
and abetting its destroyers ; in a 
word, had the same talent, ardor, 
sincerity, and devotedness been 
coupled with greater experience, 
prudence, and practicability, perhaps, 
after thirty years had gone by, the 
great work of effecting a reconcilia- 
tion between the church and the 
spirit of the age would be more 
thoroughly comprehended and ap- 
proved than it is at present. The 
boldness of the opinions professed 
from the commencement by liberal 
Catholics increased the difficulty and 
rendered the problem mote com- 



382 The Present Condition of Christianity in Fnmu. 



plicated. Their enterprise would 
certainly not have been one of easy 
achievement had it even been re- 
duced to the simplest form. Was 
it not enough to ensure the accept- 
ance, by a majority of the clergy and 
of the faithful, of the definite results 
of the revolution, the for ever acquir- 
ed rights of civil society, the bless- 
ings of liberty as understood by the 
July government and by all truly 
free governments ; of liberty based 
upon the sovereignty of the law, 
a respect for the rights of all, for 
the rights of the power as for those 
of the poorest citizen ? By preach- 
ing to Catholics extreme liberalism, 
without either limits or guarantee, 
Utopian, absolute, aggressive, and re- 
volutionary liberalism, such as was 
advocated by FAvenir, the organ of 
the Abhi de Lamennais and his 
young friends, they compromised 
everything, put an end to all at- 
tempts at encouragement, terrified 
tliose whom they sought to convert, 
and furnished a pretext to the faith- 
ful, in the event of an opportunity 
being offered them, to throw them- 
selves, out of prudential considera- 
tions, into the arms of the absolute 
power. 

The same ardor that carried them, 
in politics, even to the practice of 
liberty unrestrained, led them, in re- 
ligion, to the recognition of the prin- 
ciples of excessive obedience. They 
never dared disp>ense with the expli- 
cit approval of Rome ; her silent con- 
sent was deemed insuflicient. They 
ever sought to elicit a reply, notwith- 
standing the expectant reserve usually 
and most prudently maintained by the 
Holy See previous to passing judg- 
ment upon any new enterprise. 
They required a notice or a formal 
decision. With this object in view, 
they never hesitated to risk their all ; 
they ceased not their endeavors until 
the Holy Father had sanctioned or 



disapproved their action. The 
the sentence had gone forth, aft 
words of censure, as might haA 
anticipated, had been uttere« 
were compelled, under pain of 
ing themselves amenable to a 
of revolt, to submit, to bow thci 
and abandon the field, to thi 
detriment of the cause in ■whi< 
labored. Not only had thi 
their authority over the mine 
certain portion of the faithful, 
seen when, a few years later, 
of inaction, they reentered the 
but they had brought about i 
and greater misfortune : the 
made the court of Rome em 
fore the time had come, and \ 
the slightest necessity for sue! 
ceeding, upon the course th; 
now follows, kept to it by hi 
words. Is it not possible 
had she been questioned at : 
day, in other terms and unde; 
circumstances, her reply migh 
been different ? 

But it happens that we cam 
admit that,- though since the 
ning of this century Christian 
achieved in France great an 
progress; though valiant adl 
and illustrious champions hav 
en ; though it has recovered li 
little a portion of its domains ; : 
it has in certain respects ext 
the field of its conquests, one s 
is wanting, one victory has no 
achieved, the work commenced : 
is still unfinished, the questio 
nearer its solution, the ^«/^/i/<'< 
is not yet established, and the 
of peace between Christiani 
the spirit of the times has i 
been concluded. 

Some persons find consolat 
this state of affairs : the atte 
remedy it has borne in their 
chimerical appearance, and th 
upon the discord which mo 
would quell as most natural 



Tkg Present Condition of Christianity in France. 283 



lanner of war, they say, 
between the lay spirit 
religious spirit ? Has 
ianity, since its infancy, 
led to blame and combat, 
vc century, the prevailing 
astes ; has not this been 
5 mission, and, it may 
s glory? Why seek to 
\ which has always been ? 
faith is now, as ever, 
*rant toward the age in 
thrives: do not inter- 
ments ; it must be so. To 
nents we would answer 
that, not to discriminate 
3 objects as distinct from 
as the spirit of the age — 
[>eak in general terms, is 
i spirit, that train of 
ring passions and vices 
; at all periods under 
srent forms — and the spi- 
ige taken separately — that 
: uniformity of ideas, man- 
istitutions which give to 
of each century its pecu- 
is to quibble as to the sig- 
words and deal in mere 
1. That Christianity is 
permanent, and necessary 
f the worldly spirit and 
s and passions of men ; 
uch at all times, in all 
le present as in the past ; 
at to give its followers a 
f'ice as to the adoption of 
under any of these heads 
J mistake and forget its 
to exist, is incontestable : 
m that its very character 
icapable of adaptation to 
such and such an epoch, 
can only blame and op- 
eas, tendencies, and laws 
n which it lives, is to give 
mony of history, to the 
ident and authentic facts, 
enial. Compare the lat- 
:s of the empire of the 



West and the first of the feudal ages: 
was the state of society, were the 
manners, customs, and institutions of 
those days the same ? Could aught 
have been more dissimilar and con- 
tradictory? Yet, did not Christian- 
ity first uphold the empire until it 
crumbled into the dust, and subse- 
quently aid most cheerfully and effir 
caciously in the establishment of the 
feudal power ? Again, when the mo- 
narchical system gradually reg^ained 
the ascendency and triumphed over 
feudal anarchy, did Christianity prove 
an obstacle to the movement ? Did 
it offer any opposition to the change ? 
Did it not submit to it with a good 
will? Did it not share the ideas, 
principles, and even the good for- 
tune and greatness of royalty ? What 
we now demand of it is, to do once 
more that which it has always done, 
to recognize without regret and with- 
out hostility a necessary and irrevo- 
cable change — a change in conformi- 
ty with the nature of circumstances, 
and therefore legitimate ; in a word, 
we call upon it to treat the modem 
spirit of the day as it has treated all 
other modern spirits that have suc- 
cessively appeared. 

Why should a reconciliation be at 
present peculiarly difficult and em- 
barrassing ? Are thoughts of liberty 
foreign and unknown to Christianity ? 
Has Christianity never acted in ac- 
cordance with them ? Have not those 
thoughts watched, rather, over the 
cradle of religion? Has not that 
system of elections, discussion, and 
censure which honors our modern 
spirit come forth from the very womb 
of the church ? To make peace with 
liberty, to become suited to its rule, 
to understand and bless its gifts, does 
not imply the necessity of absolving 
it from its errors, approving its 
crimes, or making the slightest con- 
cession to disorder and anarchy. 
Never mind, it will be sajd, do wot 



2S4 The Present Condition of Christianity in Frttnte, 



mingle religion and party questions, 
do not inspire it with any interest in 
wrangles of such a kind. The more 
persistently Christianity stands aloof 
from the affairs of this world, the more 
solid will be the foundation of its pow- 
er. With these views we cordially 
agree, and but recently dwelt upon 
their importance ; butof howeverlittle 
moment jjolitics or worldly affairs be 
to them, however deeply engrossed by 
prayer and good works, can the most 
religious mind and the clergy itself 
live on this earth in utter ignorance 
of events? To attack the vices, 
meannesses, and misdeeds of the 
time, must they not know them, and 
by their own knowledge ? We ask of 
those pious souls who are most terri- 
fied by the coupling of the words li- 
beralism and religion, do they com- 
plain because eloquent speakers de- 
nounce and stigmatize from the pul- 
pit the wanderings of the spirit of 
modern times and the revolutionar}' 
delirium, those impious doctrines, 
the curse of families .md society "i If 
religion is to wage war upon civil li- 
berty, ought it not to be authorized to 
allude to beneficial freedom ? Ought 
it not to be encouraged to speak of 
it in kindly terms, to place it in 
the brightest light, to make us under- 
stand and cherish it ? If not, what is 
Chrisrianity, and what fate have you 
in store for it ? Would you make of 
it but a puny doctrine, a privilege 
to be enjoyed by a few chosen ones 



only, the tardy and solitary coj 
tion of those whom old age an4 
separate from the world ? If j-oij 
nothing else of it, if it be suffictti 
you to have it live just enough t 
vent the recording of its death, 
ruin guarded by archaeology, an 
served and respected in its toe 
condition, then keep it apart fro 
rising generation, from the flo 
democracy ; let it be isolato 
grow old ; let it seek a place <J 
ccalmcnt, and there, contenting 
with tlie praises of the past, d 
disdain of the present, larking 
gcncc for all persons and thing: 
grin, morose, and unpopular, 
with abetter understanding of i 
destiny, you desire it to exc 
salutary influence not only upon] 
selves and your friends, but u] 
humanity ; if you wish it to eni 
the hearts of all your brothers, 
and old, small and great — to 
men with the spirit of justice atli 
— to transform, purify, and re^i 
them, let it speak to il 
own language ; let it I 
ested in iheir ideas ; let it suit 
to their peculiarities — not like \ 
flatterer, but as a loving fathei] 
takes unto himself his children 11 
comes a child for their sake, by 
ing their tastes while correcting 
errors, guarding them from the 
of life, and pointing out to ih 
narrow and straight paths of wi 
and truth. 



TO M COMCLUOKO tK NEXT HVMBSS. 



New Publications. 



385 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



rA, Her Life and Mine, in 
M. By J. G. Holland. New 
Charles Scribner & Co. 1867. 

can be little doubt that this is 
n a commonplace poem. The 
has a charming simplicity about 
i happily told ; the rhythm is 
nd graceful ; and the language, 
exception of a rather too free 
>rds tortured into English from 

I and German, both choice and 
ite. In a first perusal of it, 

II not be our last, (for it is a 
ich frill bear more than one 
two points in the narrative im- 
os disagreeably — the revelation 
ture career to the hero when 
ild rambling over the moun- 
.d the suicide of his mother. 
cidents were a part of the au- 
n, and had to be told ; but they 
forced and unnatural, the more 
y so because all other threads 
nee which run through the 
i closely woven in harmony 

life. Very many passages arc 
5y the truest pathos, with here 
; touches of quiet humor worthy 
Icens. There is a deeper moral 
culcated in this poem than we 
U be appreciated or even pcr- 
>y the mass of Dr. Holland's 

and we venture to predict that 
J either entirely overlooked, or 
• subject of ridicule by the ma- 

the Protestant or rationalistic 

and reviews which may notice 
me. We say this boldly, be- 
: know that it elucidates a doc- 
irely foreign to their experience, 
ased upon principles of life as- 
»nly by the Catholic religion, 
le author has endeavored to 
jt is nothing new in Catholic 
theology. It is the old cry of 
istine : '* Inquietum est cor tios- 
)eus, donee requiescat in te." 
the supreme illumination of the 
1 the object of its highest aspi- 

Life without God is a life of 



disquietude, of disgust, and disappoint- 
ment The hero is made to learn this 
truth through years of self-worship, of 
creature-worship, and of world-worship. 
His mind passes from ignorance to in- 
difference, from that to scepticism, in- 
fidelity, despair. A true and sad picture 
of many noble souls who, in our age and 
country, grow up under the sterile influ- 
ence of the spirit of naturalism, the re- 
volt of reason without the guidance of 
faith against Protestantism. There is 
more than one who will read the stor}' 
of his own life depicted in Dr. Holland's 
poem. Such will read it with more than 
an ordinary interest, and find, we trust, 
some glimpses of that hidden truth whose 
clear statement can only be found in the 
teachings of that religion which shows 
man his true destiny and has the mis- 
sion to guide him to it. 

We do not think the author is himself 
wholly aware of the ultimate logical con- 
sequences of the principles of life he has 
here developed. A study of Catholic 
ascetic theology, the perusal of a few 
books like the Imitation of Christ, Hen- 
ry Suso's Eternal Wisdom, or Father 
Baker's Sancta Sophia would be, if we 
mistake not, a revelation to him. In 
conclusion, we cannot refrain from quot- 
ing one of those passages which con- 
firm the truth of the impressions we 
have received and the reflections we 
have made. The hero, chagrined with 
the disappointments of his career, find- 
ing the idols he has worshipped turned 
to clay, deprived of all human consola- 
tion, disgusted with the hollowness and 
unreality of his sceptical life, at last 
turns to Him whom he had shunned, 
and yields his soul to that higher will 
whose inspirations he had all his life 
long so vainly rebelled against 

" Then the impulse came, 
And I poured out like water all my heart. 
' O God I ' I said, ' be merciful to me 
A reprobate I I have blasphemed thy name. 
Abused thy patient love, and held from thee 
My heart and life ; and now, in my extreme 
Of need and of despair, I come to thee. 
Oh J cast me not away, fat beie, atUA, 



286 



New Publicatiotts, 



After a life of selfishness and sin, 
I yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul — 
All that I am, all I can ever be — 
Supremely to thy service. I renounce 
All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise. 
And dedicate the remnant of my power 
To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me t 
Oh I come and comfort me, for I despair I 
Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed I 
Feed me with love, else I shall die of want t 
Behold I I empty out my worthlessneis, 
And beg thee to come in, and All my soul 
With thy rich presence. I adore thy love ; 
I seek for thy approval : I bow down 
And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme. 
I've tasted of the sweetest that the world 
Can give to me ; and human love and praise, 
And all of excellence within the scope 
Of my conception, and my power to readi 
And realize in highest forms of art. 
Have left me hungry, thirsty for thysel£ 
Ob I feed and fire me I Fill and furnish me I 
And, if thou hast for me some humble task- 
Some service for thysel( or for thy own — 
Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child. 
Or use him as thy willing instrument 
I ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ, 
Henceforth my Master 1' " 

This beautiful prayer is the true cli- 
max of the jwem. There is not a word 
in it we could wish to see suppressed 
or a sentiment altered. There are deep 
truths written in those fiew lines, well 
put and timely uttered in a worldly- 
minded age like ours. 

We observe the work placarded about 
the city as "Timothy Titcomb's last 
poem." We arc glad to see that this 
paltry tiom de plume does not deface 
the title-page of the publication. 



The Votary. A Narrative Poem. By 
James D, Hewett New York : G. W. 
Carlcton & Co. 1867. 

"Great wits jump." This poem of 
Mr. Hewett is like Dr. Holland's Kath- 
rina — the story of a false and dis- 
appointed ambition. The hero, Rudi- 
ger, loves Sybilla, goes forth to seek a 
famous name, sacrifices his honor to 
the greed of ambition by forgetting his 
first vows, and espousing Adelaide, the 
daughter of an influential and rich poli- 
tician. His wife, di.scovcring his infi- 
delity to Sybilla and his subsequent 
remorse, becomes jealous, charges him 
with having buried his heart in the 
grave, (for Sybilla died of grie^) but 
offers to receive him back to her affec- 
tions if he can say his love is now 
wholly hers. This, unfortunately, he 



cannot honestly do, and flies fr 
home for ever, betaking himself 1 
religious brotherhood, there to < 
ance, and labor, preach, and prs 
purpose which, to judge from iJ 
sual character of the entire poem 
vaguely described to allow us to I 
sure what is meant : 

" He 6uhomed now the mighty tnilh that 
I<ove, the sole ass on which earth ia twi 
Is the prime essence of the Deity, 
And Intellect tubsenrient to Love : 
And that true glory is to serve, and blea 
If need be, in Love's bleseed cauM." 

And so he becomes a missionary 
eign parts : 

" To teach all men the everlasting truth, 
llie blest, eternal truth of perfect Love, 
I will go forth. I'll preach it Cur and wii 
To earth's last threshold will I pierce mj 
And speak to all the dweUcfs there of Lc 

And again: 

" Henceforth to Lore my life I dcdiotc— 
Uod's love, including every hunuB plw 

This would do if we were not sc 
fiilly impressed by the perusal 
whole poem, that the author's h 
idea of love is a sort of deificat 
the sensual Being false to his ti 
Sybilla he calls "losing love's 
repast," in the very line precedir 
last quotation above. We do n( 
the book. Its moral tone is not h( 
The poem is, however, full of rid 
ger)', and evidences no little drs 
Ijowcr ; but the rhythm is not a 
faultless, such words as " of" and ' 
frequently forming the last sylla' 
the verse, and couplets like the £ 
ing are not uncommon : 

" With fitful step, across a verdurous la* 
Close venueing a dwelling, paced a yoi 

Happily, we think, for the stren| 
our language, we are becoming 
day less and less tolerant of the: 
tempts to foist foreign words upbn 



Uberto ; or, The Errors of the \ 
A Drama in Five Acts. By i 
Middleton. New York. 1867. 

The writing of a drama is reckoi 
bold project, for there is scarce anj 
of literary production apt to 



New Publications. 



287 



treatment at the hands of cri- 
he present one, hovever, pos- 
nerit enough to command their 
if it does not win their praise. 
>t b well conceived, and the 
TS sustained and combined with 
inordinary ability. The speeches 
ever, rather too lengthy, and be- 
Riany places prosy. The litde 
Introduced, of the loves of Bella- 
d Bonita, detracts considerably 
e merit of the tragedy, and is 
ipon our notice, most unseason- 
the preparation for the final ta- 



Y OF Blessed Margaret 
r, a Religious of the Visitation 
Mary ; and of the Origin of De- 
i to the Heart of Jesus. By Fa- 
n». Daniel, S.J. Translated by 
nthoress of the Ufe of Cath- 
McAuUy. New York: P. 



subject of this memoir is cele- 
n church history and in Catholic 
T. In church history she was 
rument chosen by God to intro- 
new feast, to render public and 
ry in worship what had been 
a matter of private and volun- 
irotion, and against which for 
I the learning and determination 
nism unsuccessfully battled. In 
: theology she was the means 
oping another branch of divine 
td asceticism. She popularized 
otion to the Sacred Heart of Je- 
le devotion to it . the character- 
one religious order of women ; 

name become the title of an- 
Margaret M.-iry Alacoquc is the 
of tlie Sacred Heart of Jesus. 
Fas a young girl, who, led by the 
)f grace, entered the Visitation 
sanctified her soul, fulfilled the 

appointed for her by God, died 
and after death was beatified by 
rch. 

>istory before us tells admirably 
y of her life. It is an agreeable 
e, full of edification, of pleasant 
es, and interesting details, 
lest Uographles in the world are 



those of the saints. They not only give 
us information, but they snake us better. 
It is impossible to read the life of one 
devoted to God's service, full of the 
spirit of Christian love and sacrifice, 
without being stirred up to imitate, in 
some degree, the example set before us. 
The world has its heroes, it is true, and 
makes the most of them ; but religion 
has hers also, and it is not surprising if 
she does the same ; the less so, as those 
whom she exalts and honors are in eve- 
ry resjject so much the more worthy of 
our admiration and reverence. 

He does a positive good to humanity, 
therefore, who calls attention to the life 
and deeds of the Christian hero. That 
was a good answer of the holy father. 
"I am complained of," said he, "fpr 
canonizing so many saints ; but it is a 
fault I cannot promise to amend. Have 
we not more need than ever of interces- 
sors in heaven, and models of religious 
virtue in the world ?" 

The style of the translation of the 
present memoir does not please us. It 
bears signs of^ haste and literary care- 
lessness. Whatever may be the char- 
acter of the original French of Father 
Daniel, the English of this is verbose, 
weak, and tiresome. It makes the book 
larger, it is true, to use twice as many 
words as are needful, and to select the 
longest words of the dictionary to say 
what one wants to say ; and we may 
add, it makes it heavier, too. It is a 
common fault of religious biographies. 
Neither is the style of the publication 
praiseworthy. Its typography is close 
and heavy, and presents anything but 
an inviting page. If this book were 
read to us, we should go to sleep ; and 
if we were to read it through ourselves 
without giving our eyes frequent re- 
pose, we should seriously damage our 
eye-sight. 

Nevertheless, it is a good book ; it is 
written on a good subject, and will do 
good ; and as such our thanks are due 
to both translator and publisher, whose 
efforts toward the formation of a Cath- 
olic literature and the fostering of Cath- 
olic piety in the reproduction of works 
like the present will not fail of earning 
a higher reward than any amount of 
commendation on our part is worth. 



288 



New Publications. 



The BattlE'Fielus of Irbland, 
FROM 1688 TO 1691, including Lim- 
erick and Athlone, Aughrim, and the 
Boyne. Being an outline of the His- 
tory of the Jacobite Wars in Ireland 
and the Causes which led to it. i vol. 
I2mo, pp. 323. New York ; Robert 
Cotldington. 1867. 

Those who wish to read that portion 
of the sad record of Ireland's check- 
ered history which led to its subjuga- 
tion to the Prince of Orange will find 
this volume sadly interesting. Like all 
of Ireland's history since the advent of 
Slrongbow and his robbers, it presents 
the usual amount of blunders, mistakes, 
jealousies, .ind treachery on the part of 
those who should have been faithful to 
their country. This epoch in Ireland's 
history h.as been familiar to us since 
boyhood, and we think die author has 
done his jjart of the work faithfully and 
honestly. His description of the batUes 
of the Boyne and of Aughrim arc con- 
cise and in tlie main correct ; but we 
think he overestimates William's army 
in the first-mentioned Iwttle. His asser- 
tion, in a nt ite on page 304, tliat the dog- 
gerel, known as the " Battle of .'\ugh- 
rim," was written by Garrick, is an error. 
It was the pnxluction of Richard Ash- 
ton, an Englishman. 

The book is handsomely printed, and 
makes a very respectable-looking vol- 
ume. 

The Life of St. ALovsrus Gonzaga, 
of the Company of Jesus. Philadel- 
phia ; Peter F. Cunningham. 1867. 

The republication of the English edi- 
tion of this life will meet, we are sure, 
with univcrs.-il and hearty commenda- 
tion. Such a l>ook as this is one for all 
Catholic parents to present to their chil- 
dren, that they may learn how one may 
become a saint even in youth. Reading 
the lives of such holy young men as a Sl 
Aloysius or a Su Stanislaus Kostka, our 
memory goes back to the friends of our 
own youth, when they with ourself 
thought it necessary to wait until we 
grew to be men before we could '"get re- 
ligion.'' %Ve advise our readers to do what 
we would w ish to do ourself— give a copy 



of Ihis book to every ProM 
man of their acquaintance, 
sal of it will show them how a C 
boy gets religion when he is bajl 
Christian, and may posscu rel| 
its perfection and be a saint al 
when a Protestant boy is nol Cl 
to have any religion at alL 






Little Pf.t Books, By 
Containing Books 1, 3, 
York : James O'Kane, 484 Br< 
These little books are the be 
with which we are acquainted ii 
drcn. They contain pleasing 
written in plain, small words, n< 
than five letters toe.ichword — al 
task, but one which the gifted au 
has accomplished in a most satil 
manner. I'hc illustratk>ns are gQ 
the books are printed on good 
bound in gooti style, and ]>ut < 
neat box, making the >>t • 
presents th.-it one con!' 
kind of books, to a child. 

From P. O'Siik a. Life of tA 
written for children, by E. Cei* 
pages, J 2mo, Tki Bean «f A 
burg, an Episode in Saxon Hi*' 
Gustavc Nieritt ; translated b)' 1 
mantel; 251 pages, laino. Ht*n^ 
tht Holidays^ or The Pleasurt 
Pains of Freedom ; translated ft 
German ; 220 pages, i2mo. .■« 
fe'afel Case, or Tnie Stories aad 
Tales translatetl from the Cera 
Trauermantcl ; 223 pages, I2mai| 
Begun is Half Done, or The 
Painter and Fiddlehanns ; Talc 
latcd from the German of KSdu 
ron and Dr. C, Dcutsch ; 246 
i2mo. Price, $1.25 each. 

From D. & J. SAt>UF.R * C< 

York, The Book of C' 
for the use of Colleges, 
the High CLisscs of 
By a membtT of the Ofi 
Cross. I vol. i2mo, pp. 64S. 

From Fow lkr & Wells, Net 
An Essay on Man, by Alcxandc 
and The (jospel among the Anin 
Samuel Osgood, D.D. Paper. 



THE 



lTholic world. 



VOL. VI., No. 33.— DECEMBER, tmf.^ ^ijN 



THIRD CATHOLIC CONGRESS OF MALINES. 



lit cttyofMalines, which 
■ '1 the seat of one 
.le Catholic con- 
\ already described in our 
is well worthy of tlie distin- 
1 honor conferred upon it by 
lluslrious assemblages. A few 
of description will not, there- 
t an nctory to our 

of i -s of the con- 

|f last September, 
f province of South firabant, in 
the city of MaUnes, or, as it is 
in Flemish, Mechelen, is situ- 
Ms had a most varied and 
I histon'. Having originally 
• pait of the province of Bel- 
li, onder the Roman empire, 
sorcessively included in the 
t» of the l-'rankish and Austra- 
Ingdoins, and of the duchy of 
me. In the year 1005. Bra- 
pduding North i^rabant which 
la orovince of Holland as well 
I I province of South 

h, >«.i-> erected into a duchy. 
y of Bouillon wa.s one of its 
Itit in' " lice ceased in 

■hen it • \ed to Bur- 

in V484 It pa<ised under the 
m of the emperor of Ger- 
VI. — «9 



many, at the death of Charles V. was 
transferred to Spain, again reverted 
to Germany at the beginning of the 
eighteenth century, was annexed by 
conquest to France in 1794, taken 
from France and annexed to Holland 
by the Congress of Vienna.and finally, 
by the revolution of 1830, became a 
portion of the new kingdom of BelgS, 
um, to which we wish perpetuity and 
prosperity with our whole heart. 

South Brabant covers an area of 
1369 square miles, containing a pop- 
ulation of about 750,000. It is a flat, 
wcll-wooded country, crowded with 
beautiful towns and villages, inter- 
sected by several rivers and canals, 
cultivated tliroughout like a garden, 
and alive with thrift and industry. 
The city of Malines is at the point of 
intersection of the principal Belgian' 
railways, about fifteen miles from Bru»<| 
sels, and at the same distance froiril 
Antwerp and Louvain. The rivel' 
Dyle partly encircles and partly in- 
tersects the city, affording pleasant 
walks, well shaded, on the outskiri5> 
and creating some most picturesqtie^ 
scenes within the town, by windir 
among some of the streets, whose re- 
sidences and warehouses ttoni u^otv 



290 



The Third Catholic Congress of Malittes. 



I 



the river. The railway depKits have 
been kept, by the city authorities, on 
a remote outskirt of the town, so that 
its quiet and antique streets are not 
disturbed by the noise and bustle of 
the trains. Nor are they disturbed 
by any other kind of noise or bustle. 
Whatever business is done there 
seems to be out of sight and hearing. 
It is the most quiet, tranquil, and 
clean city that can possibly be ima- 
gined. In the centre is a great pub- 
lic square, upon which are situated 
the cathedral, the headquarters of ad- 
ministration, the militarj' barracks, lo- 
cated in a ver)' antique and pictu- 
resque building, the mu.seum, and two 
hotels, as well as numerous shops and 
houses. In the centre of the square 
stands a statue of Margaret of Aus- 
tria. The city contains a population 
of 33,000. The streets are wide and 
regular, but winding. Nearly all 
the buildings are white, being either 
constructed of white stone, or cov- 
ered with a ver)' fine and durable 
white stucco. Among them are nu- 
nnerous residences of great comfort 
and elegance, some of them really 
pal.itial, although their exterior sur- 
face is perfectly plain and simple, 
without porches, balconies, or grand 
entrances, to relieve their monoto- 
nous smoothness, or break up the 
continuity of white wall which gives 
Malines the appearance of a city of 
mural monuments. The great metro- 
politan cathedral of St. Rumbold, in 
the Grand Place, presents, however, 
a striking contrast to this general ef- 
fect ofuniform and brilliant whiteness, 
by its va:st mass of dark stone and its 
immense unfinished tower. 340 feet 
high, which domineers in dark, som- 
bre grandeur over llie city. Return- 
ing on thf Saturday night before the 
congress to Malines, from Ostend, in 
company with a friend who has 
travelled throughout all Europe and 
seen aJl its finest churches, vre were 



particularly impressed by 
beauty of the picture presented 
Grand Place and the cathedra 
very clear moonlight and our 
remarked that he never saw anj 
more grand than the view of \hi 
dark catfkedral, overshadowii^ 
white walls of the adjacent bui) 
and towering above them in i 
relief against their moon-brigl 
faces. Notwithstanding the I 
of M. Baedeker, the cathcd 
Malines is a truly grand and ii 
ing church. It was commcitc 
the twelfth and completed I 
fifteenth centurj' ; the tower, 1 
is slowly growing upward towj 
proposed height of 480 feet, wai 
menced in 1452, with the aid a 
tributions from the pilgrims n 
sorted there to gain the indulj 
of the crusade, granted by Nid 
V. The patron saint of the cataj 



called in French St- 
Flemish St. Rtimbold, . ii 

Sl Rumold, was the tirst s| 
of Brabant. He is supposed by 
writers to have been an Irishmi 
though others think that he H 
Englishman. Not being able • 
any opinion of our own on this 
we will take leave to quote 
Alban Butler &a\'s on the subjo 
" The place of St, Rumold'J 
is contested. According to a 
Belgic and other raartyrokigiesi 
of the blood royal of ScotUiid( 
land was then called) and BM 
Dublin. This opinion is afal 
ported by F. Hugh Ward, an 
Franciscan, a man well skilled 
antiquities of his country', in | 
entitled Disscrtatio Histarita i 
et patrid S, Rumoldt, Arckk 
DuHiniensn, published at Ll 
in 1662, in 4to. The learned 
Bcnetlict XIV. seems to adju< 
Rumold to Ireland, in his 1 
the prelates of that kingdom, 
the 1st of August, 1741, 



PRlring won 



Tkt Third Catholic Congress of Malines. 



tgi 



!ng words: *If we were 
led to recount those most holy 
I Columbanus, Kilianus, Virgi- 
\RumoldHS, Gallus, and many 
\ who brought the Catholic faith 
f Ireland into other provinces, 
Jtmted by shedding the blood 

lorn.' {Hib. Dom. SuppL 

)n the other hand, Janning, 
fflTidist, undertakes to prove 

Rumoid was an English 

Sl Rumoid was Irish or 
all events his reputation 
saint obtained for us the 
having two very agreea- 
from Ireland to dine with 
ay afternoon, who had 
raate for Aix-la-Chapelle 
visit the cathedral, 
old, after spending the 
Ttof his life in a monastery, 
k» Rome in order to receive the 
: ^ing of the pope and 

\ ■ J reach the faith in the 
teathen country of Lower Ger- 
He was consecrated bishop 
dc period of his missionary 
wc are not informed, and 
a great number of the peo- 
bant. He was assassinated 
,wicked men whose crimes 
oved, on the 24th of June, 
is therefore honored as a 
*A church was built to hon- 
or)' and receive his relics 
nes, and these are still pre- 
and renerated in the present 
the successor of the ori- 
h of Sl. Rumbold. The 
M alines was made a me- 
see by Paul IV., and is now 
al see of Itelgium, includ- 
s within its diocesan limits, 
c recent tiroes, the archbishops 
tsually been raised to the dig- 
f cju'dinais. The Cardinal de 
tnberg, whogovemed the see in 

■^a LmMt^lkt Sti^t, July 1. Kotc 



the reign of Joseph II., distinguished 
himself by his firm opposition to the 
anti-catholic policy of that emperor. 
Cardinal de Mean, who died in 1831, 
and has a Beautiful monument in the 
cathedral, has left behind him the 
reputation of an intrepid and valiant 
defender of the rights of the church 
in most difficult and dangerous times. 
Cardinal de Sterckx is the present 
Archbishop of Malines, a prelate 
advanced in years, but still retaining 
the full vigor of mind and body, and 
universally beloved for his patriarchal 
benignity and mildness of character, 
as was evident by the genuine and 
heartfelt warmth of the expressions 
of attachment which greeted his pre- 
sence at the congress. 

The chapter consists of twcnty-t>vo 
resident canons, who chant the entire 
office with great solemnity every day. 
The interior of the cathedral is im- 
posing, and contains some fine pic- 
tures, especially a Crucifixion by Van- 
dyke, a Last Supper by VVouters, and 
other paintings by Flemish masters. 
The chimes of the cathedral tower, 
which are unusually melodious and 
joyous in their tone, ring al the strik- 
ing of the hours and half-hours, and on 
many other occasions, especially on 
festivals and their eves, when they are 
rung almost without cessation during 
the greater part of the day, with a 
very festive and enlivening effect. 

There are eight or ten other 
churches, some of them very large 
and of imposing architecture, the 
most remarkable of which is the 
church of Notre Dame d'Hanswyck, 
on the outskirts of the city, contain- 
ing a picture by Rubens of the mira- 
culous draught of fishes, St. John's 
church has a picture of the Adoration 
of the Magi, and several smaller pic- 
tures, all by Rubens, forming an al- 
tar-piece with wings on the high al- 
tar. St. Peter's was formerly the 
Jesuits' diurch, and some ad^suxtvl 



293 



The Third Catholic Congress of Afaliues. . 



buildings were once usetl as a novi- 
tiate. Here the B. John Berchmans, 
whose picture is in the church, lived 
for a time j and here are still memo- 
rials of the noble order 'so unjustly 
expelled from their peaceful home, 
in a beautiful marble statue of St. 
Francis Xavier placed in a recum- 
bent position under the high altar, 
and in a scries of large paintings on 
the side walls representing scenes in 
the life of the saint. The car\'ed 
work oi the pulpit and the confession- 
als in this church is remarkably fine, 
and in general this is the case 
throughout Belgium. 

There is a large and commodious 
grand seminary at Malines, a little 
seminary, which is on a correspond- 
ing scale of completeness and extent, 
and a college. There are several 
religious communities of men and 
women, and, under the care of one 
of the latter, a very extensive and 
well-built hospital of recent construc- 
tion. 

The motto of the city, JnjiiU con- 
stans, was conferred upon it two cen- 
turies and a half ago by one of the 
emperors of Germany, and is still ap- 
propriate, notwithstanding the strenu- 
ous and in part successful efforts of 
the anti-catholic party to seduce the 
population from their lidelity to the 
church. Malines is still one of the 
most thoroughly and openly Catho- 
lic cities of Europe. It would be 
impossible to find more intelligent, 
courageous, warmhearted, or devout 
Catholics than are found in great 
numbers among the nobility and 
higher classes. A large proportion 
of the people are also, as indeed 
throughout Belgium, especially in the 
country places, sincerely attached to 
their religion and in tlie habit of com- 
plying with its duties. Nevertheless, 
even in Malines that infidel clique 
calling itself the liberal party, which 
has the control of tlie administration, 




is able to influence a suAden 
number of the voters to carry 
elections. We were infomied 
telligent gentlemen of Malin 
this is due in great nv k 

official patronage in fi u 

the railway system, which is ^ 
alTair, and places a great nutnfl 
appointments in the hands d 
government A large clais ari 
excluded from voting in Belgii 
the peculiar law of property qo; 
tion. The keepers of estami 
the drinking-shops are call 
also there as here a very nu: 
clas?, and possessed of great 
ence in politics, all of which is 
side of die pseudo-liberals. 

The liberal part)' is und 
thoroughly anti-catholic an<l 
in its principles and aims, 
theless, as the devil knows 
than to send up his carte 
with his n.imc and likeness on 
leaders of that party are adro 
plausible enough to carry with 
not only the portion of the 
which is corrupt, but also a ni 
of good and well-meaning CatI 
as well as a large number of , 
who are apathetic and indiii 
All the bad Catholics are Ub 
we were told, but not all the Ua 
arc bad Catholics. It is a greJ 
grace, however, to such an aa 
and Catholic city as Malines, 
tlie anti-catholic party should n 
and we hope the stain <■' ^ 

eon may ere long be wi[ 

On the Sunday morning befo| 
opening of the congress, it was 
cult to imagine that anything < 
sort was at hand. Ever • ' - ' - 
as quiet as usual, and i 
visible signs of any i.; 
sirangerji. All atonct. 
congress came, like the sun buj 
suddenly in its full splendor ou 
cloud. The preparations had 
made quietly but efficiently, aiH 



Tfu Third Catholic Congress of Maiirus, 



fatter part of Sunday after- 
r»e became aware all at once 
Hhing going on. The city ap- 
H^MCome full at once, as if 
Hk* a thousand or more of 
l^r and lay gentlemen from 

parts of Belgium, France, and 
countries of the world, and 

few adventurous ladies made 
ippca ranee at the tab/es if 
' the hotels. The central bu- 

ihe congress held its prelimi- 
tssion on Sunday afternoon, 
rring the ceremony of tea, af 
tel on the Grand Place. M. 
laux, the founder, the prime 

and the secretary-general of 
JHBKS, made his appearance, 
^Bfei ted and blue tickets 
niued programmes in his 
i, which indicated that the ball 
Slot to open. 

tt the guidance of this exjje- 
I pilot, we put out into the 

Ilknown sea of congression- 
ferossing the Grand Place 
[cathedral, to take part in 
^ven by an association of 
n, called "The Circle of 
k\s we approached the 
eeting, the first object 
d our eyes was a brilli- 
inicircular jet of gas over the 
entrance to a garden enclosed 
l^b wall, forming the words, 
^^t/Mifite." A crowd of ju- 
^Kianders with their broad 
tnd good-humored countenan- 
1, and clutted, and peep- 
ouLside, as is always the 
le boj-s of all countries 
sre aru great doings go- 
wbich they are excluded- 
fate, which was vigilantly 
by well-<lressed young men 
with the usual badges of 
[Neiiouwi ourselves in the midst 
^^^Hftd with a gay and talk- 
■HIMpriests in various sorts 
riasdcal costumes, and of gen- 




tlemen of all ages and many coun- , 
tries, all making tltemselves as social 
and happy as possible. Passing 
through the garden, we were ushered 
into the large and commodious build- 
ing which forms the hall of the as- 
sociation, and which was also filled 
with the members of the circle and of 
the congress from top to bottom. Jn 
the first room we entered, we found 
the president of the circle, M. Can- 
nart d'Hamalle, one of the principal 
gentlemen of Malines, and a mem- 
ber of the Belgian senate, in full even- 
ing dress, receiving the members as 
they arrived, with that courtly and at 
the same time cordial politeness in 
which the Belgians excel all others. 
From the lower apartments of the 
hall we were soon summoned to the . 
audience-room above, where speeches 
were made and applauded ton arnore^ 
and a musical entertainment given by 
a choir and orchestra, consisting of 
Belgian national hymns, the hymn ol 
Pius IX., and concluding with an 
exquisite morceau on the violoncello 
by a young artist of merit, which was 
vehemently applauded. These social 
rkunions were continued withomt the 
formalities every evening daring the 
week. 

The congress was opened on the 
next morning. The place of meeting; j 
was the little seminary, situated on 
the outskirts of the city, near the bou- 
levard which skirts the banks of the 
river Dyle. The grounds and build- 
ings of the seminary are extremely 
convenient for the purpose. Thci^ 
buildings are extensive, and, together, 
with the high wall connecting them, 
enclose a large, quadrangular space.. ] 
Within this space the membcrb of the 
congress assembled at an early hour 
on Monday. The entrances were, 
guarded by young men of the Circle* j 
of Loyalty, who formed a body ofi] 
volunteer police and commissariat*' 
Axii'xng the sessions of the corvgtesa. 



294 



The Third Catholic Congress of Malines^ 



performing their duties in such a man- 
ner as to recei\'e well-merited eulogi- 
ums approved by tlie entire assembly, 
the most eloquent and delicate of 
which came from the lips of the Count 
de Falloux. The illustrious states- 
man and orator, with that felicity and 
larming grace of manner and ex- 

jssion which are his peculiar char- 
acteristics, uttered the sentiment, dur- 
ing one of his speeches, that the ar- 
ray of Catholic youth in attendance 
upon the congress was its most beau- 
tiful and attractive feature, and seem- 
ed, as it were, like a little legion of 
Stanislas Kostkas. 

In the enclosure of the seminary, 
everj'thing was arranged which could 
facilitate the business of the congress 
or promote the comfort and conveni- 
ence of its members. A post-office, 
booths for the sale of newspapers and 
for writing letters, a restaurant where 
refreshments could be obtained at all 
hours, and where a dinner was pro- 
vided every day, with other similar 
conveniences, were established on the 
premises. The assembly-room was 
a large exhibition hall, tastefully de- 
corated with the busts of the pope 
and king, the flags of various na- 
tions, and appropriate mottoes. All 
the members of the congress were 
furnished with a ticket of member- 
ship ; no other persons being admit- 
ted within the enclosure, except a few 
ladies, for whora seats were reserved. 
Special tickets for reserved places 
and the platform were given to the 
foreign members and others specially 
privileged. The number of members 
in attendance during the week was 
about three thousand, a large propor- 
tion of whom were assembled at the 
place of rendezvous on Monday morn- 
ing, the majority being clergymen 
dressed in the various ecclesiastical 
costumes of Belgium, France, and 
Germany, with a sprinkling of the 
picturesque habits of the old religious 



orders. At the appoii 
moved in a proccs.sion, 
ably well ordered, but very 
and respectable in apj 
cathedral, through a double be) 
citizens lining the streets, by a 
long route, along which many 4 
houses and shops were deco 
banners, armorial bearings, 
ornaments of a festal and ireli 
nature. After the arrival of 
cession, pontifical Mass was 
ed by the cardinal, a number 
gian and foreign bishops and pi 
assisting, and the 1 •" 1 

once more to the »•' 
opening session was held. 

The cardinal, who is alwa' 
honorar)' president of the c 
on his arrival at the hall of 
blage, assumed the ch.iir ami 
cheers and \nvas, and, .1' 
ing a short prayer, del;-. 
and paternal allocution. At thi 
of his allocution, he descended 
the platform to a chair in from 
near which were placed chairs A 
prelates. Among the foreign 
ops assisting at the congress 
Patriarch of Antiodi, the A 
of Bosra, Vicar-Apostolic of 
the Vicar-Apostolic of Ali 
the Ardibishop of Rio Ci 
Brazil, the Bishop of Vancou' 
Bishops of Natchez and Cha 
U. S., and Chatham. N 
dc Merode was aJso pr 
the early part of the si 
Dupanloup, Pbre Hyaciniinr, .*ii 
Count de Falloux came by 5 
vitation as the great oratoa 
congress. A few clergymen 
tlemen from Germany, Italy, 
Spain, Holland, and Aroericig ■ 
erately large number from F 
and some scattering individuals/ 
almost everywhere, reprcscntiil 
was said, eighteen different nal 
made up the foreign eletncni oJ 
congress. Among the more cU 



M 



Third Catholic Congress of Malines, 



29$ 



members of the con- 
Mgr. Kubinski, rector of 
aary of Pesth, in Hungary j 
lodlock, rector of the Cath- 
ersity of Dublin ; F. Form- 
igland ; Mgr. Sacr^, rector of 
lan College in Rome ; Baron 

formerly Austrian ambassa- 
me ; Cheva.lier Alberiof Flor- 
iscount de la Fuente, profes- 
inon law in the University 
d i Don Man^ y Flaquer, an 

Spanish publicist ; Count 
ir^ of Poland ; the Abb^ 
\t editor of the 7)v/, of Am- 

etc The strangers were 
filh marked distinction and 
; cordial kindness by their 
confreres. Nevertheless, 
m the brilliant orators from 
whose eloquence was chietly 

to an object identical with 
al and local purposes of tlic 
imbcrs of the congress, the 
>nal character of the assem- 

rouch less marked than 
MBftrs. England had but one 
^ive, F. Formby, and other 
\ countries were not strong- 
Bated, with the single excep- 
^2. Germany had its own 
eek after the one at Ma- 
id it appears probable that 
olic congresses will become 

CDoTe and more exclusively 

tcupied with local alfairs 
necessity, and having less 
taracter of international re- 
The Saron del la Faille, in 
e published in La Jifvue 
-, however, to regret 
Li^d to desire ihat the 
lid become more of an in- 
iunion. The late con- 
icially marked by this 
business-like character, 
behind the former ones 
ibers and Mat, was 
in practical utili- 
itance. This 




is precisely the view taken iii the 
Comptc-Remiti of the congress pub- 
lished in Le Catholique of Brussels : 

" Its labors went more directly to 
their object, had something about 
them stronger and better developed, 
and a more practical character. The 
accessor}' aspects occupied a smaller 
space. Eloquence, even — we speak 
of the eloquence of words, not of real- 
ities — splayed a lesser rble. We may 
say that rhetorical display scarcely 
appeared at all, and that there was 
a decided preference for the reality of 
ideas and facts. Read the details of 
the general sessions and of tlie sec- 
tions. You will see there fewer 
speeches for effect, but more that 
give information and instruction. 
The congress meddled little with 
speculations, properly so-called; it 
did not set forth any religious or po- 
litical metaphysics ; it proceeded to 
its end by the shortest and surest 
routes. The rights of the church, its 
necessities, the liberty which it needs, 
its perils and trials in various coun- 
tries, the organization and results of 
pious undertakings, the means of pro- 
pagating them, the precise and urgent 
<luties of Catholics in respect to re- 
ligion, such were the matters princi- 
pally discussed." 

It may be well to state also, in 
this connection, that purely political 
discussions were prohibited in the 
congress, and strictly excluded from 
its deliberations. 

The Cardinal Archbishop of Ma- 
lines, as we have said, is always the 
honorary president of the congress, 
and it is by him that the sessions are 
solemnly opened and closed. The 
active presidency is contided to some 
distinguished Belgian nobleman, and 
this high office h.is been hitherto filled 
by the Baron de Gerlache, a states- 
man and patriot of one of the most 
illustrious families of the kingdom, 
who was tlie president of ttvetiAUavvaX 



296 



The Third Catholic Congress of Malines, 



congress by which the constitution 
was established, and until of Lite the 
chief judge of the court of cassation. 
The Raron de Gerlache having re- 
signed the office of president of the 
Catholic congress on account of his 
advanced age and infirmities, he 
was associated with the cardinal as 
honorary president, in order to testify 
the gratitude and veneration of the 
Catholics of Belgium for his illustri- 
ous career of public service ; and the 
office of active president was left va- 
cant. Its duties were performed 
with great dignity and ability by the 
first vice-president, Baron Hippo- 
lyte della Faille, a senator and lead- 
ing Catholic statesman. The other 
vice-presidents were Viscount Kerck- 
hove, Mgr. Laforet, rector mag- 
nificus of the University of Lou- 
vain, Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, 
senator, and Count de Theux, honor- 
ary vice-president, to whom were add- 
ed as honorary vice-presidents the 
Count de Falloux and a number of 
the other foreigners present. The 
central bureau, which is a supreme 
council of management, was com- 
posed of the active vice-presidents, 
M. Ducjietiaux, secretary-general, 
with four other secretaries and a 
treasurer, and ten other gentlemen 
of distinguished rank and character, 
three of whom are clergj-men and 
seven laymen. The presideiUs of 
the sections were Count Legrelle, 
Canon de Haeme, Mgr. Laforet, 
Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, and 
M. Dechamps, with a number of vice- 
presidents and secretaries. About 
fifty or sixty clergymen and lay-gen- 
tlemen of rank are thus placed at the 
head of the congress as members of 
the central and subordinate bureaux, 
constituting really the working con- 
gress. The great mass of the mem- 
bers, the majority of whom are clergy- 
men of Belgium, constitute the audi- 
ence, and cooperate chiefly by their 



presence ami ''iv. 

member is ai to 

section and gain a hearing "fi 
self, if he has anything to pro 
the attention of his colleagues 
measures to be proposed are ii 
by the central bureau, sent d 
the appropriate section for diw 
and preparation, and, after a] 
tion by the central bureau, laii 
the congress for their ratifi 
which is usually given without 
discussion, either by acda 
or by a formal vote. The re 
ness meetings are consei 
those of the bureaux and M 
the general sessions being d« 
hearing speeches, addresses^ i 
ports. The sections meet doi 
morning, the members attend! 
of them they may choose. T 
five in number. The first so< 
occupied with works of Catholi 
the second with social scieru 
works of general public improv 
the third with education, the 
with Christian art, and the fif 
the Catholic press. 

The general sessions are he 
ing the afternoon, and at ti 
congress one of the cveninj 
devoted to a musical cntertaii 
another to ay?/A given by the 
the Botanical Garden ; and tb< 
were spent, by many of (he \m. 
in social conversation at theC 
circle. 

Before we give a rhumt of t 
ceedings of these sectional ai 
eral sessions of the late coQ| 
may he well to state the reasc 
jects, and guiding Drinciples i 
of which the assemblage oi du 
gresscs at Malines has been i 
rated and carried on. A grs 
has been already published 
former numbers upon this topi 
as our readers may have forgo 
and not care to look it up afn 
think it will enable them to 



The Third Catkolu 




I^Kirocecdingsof the congress 
^l^cribin^ more thoroughly, if 
hnish them the substance anew 
irief and summary' manner. In 
ig this explanation, we shall be 
1 by the published and official 
lents of His Eminence the Gar- 
de Sterckx. the Baron de Ger- 
and M. Ducpetiaux, which are 
found in the authentic docu- 
of the first congress. 
\ necessity of the times which 
kl the leading Catholics of Bel- 
Ifo conceive and execute the 
■x general assembly 
^ I ity of the kingdom, 

I the auspices of their primate 
ishops, was the peculiar condi- 
Ithe Catholic Church in relation 
I ' 'iiinistration of the state. 
I 1 of 1830, which severed 

lim from Holland and made it 
Idcpcndent kingdom, was ac- 
jlshed by the concurrence of 
lie majority of the no- 
people with the smaller 
active and enterprising 
who were the origin- 
movement. By a simi- 
nce and compromise 
diese two totally different 
constitution was formed 
es of very enlarged civil 
pous liberty, and a Protcs- 
, Leopold I., was called to 
The late king is usually 
y Catholics as a monarch 
)le and upright character, 
vored to fulfil the duties 
to him in a just and im- 
ncr. Nevertheless, it is 
that the position of af- 
A Protestant sovereign at 
a Catholic people was 
s one, most unfavorable 
sts of the church and 
'the •rreatest facilities to 
als to obtain a 
..•_nce in the state. 
lie nobility and gentry. 



whose positiofr,- ictifHt^hfce*^ and 
wealth made them the most ca- 
pable of taking the principal part 
in directing political affairs, seem 
to have been too apathetic, and to 
have confidetl too much in the sin- 
cerity, loyalty, and good faith of the 
opposite party. The consequence 
was, that this party was allowed to 
get the control into its own hands, 
and enabled to secure an amount 
of influence over the people, who 
are fuiid.-imtn tally good, but too 
apathetic to their own highest in- 
terests, which has proved ver\' dan- 
gerous, and has threatened to prove 
very disastrous, to religion. The ac- 
cusation publicly made against this 
party by the gravest and most high- 
minded statesmen of Belgium is, 
that it has pursued an unremit- 
tingly perfidious policy in direct 
violation of the constitution, the 
end of which is to deprive the Ca- 
tholic Church of that liberty and 
those rights solemnly guaranteed to 
it by the fundamental law of the 
realm, and, as far as possible, to 
decatholicize and unchristianize the 
people. The Catholic congress was 
called together and organised in or- 
der to unite the most influential lay- 
men of the kingdom with the lead- 
ing members of the clerical order, 
to take counsel together and adopt 
measures for counteracting this anti- 
catholic, infidel policy of the pseudo- 
liberal party. The honor of originat- 
ing this glorious and happy enter- 
prise, and of doing more than any 
other individual to promote its suc- 
cess, is ascribed by unanimous con- 
sent to M. Edouard Ducpetiaux, of 
Brussels, a gentleman whose name 
deserves to be enrolled with those 
of the most illustrious benefactors 
of his country, ^f. Ducpetiaux is 
a gentleman of wealth and high edu- 
cation, the author of some ^'aluable 
works on social science, at. cotxe- 



A 



»9« 



The Third Catholic Congress of Malints. 



spending member of the French In- 
slitule, and was formerly ins{>ector- 
general of the prisons and public 
charitable institutions of Belgium. 
It is impossible to find in the world 
a man more genial, kind-hearted, 
unassuming, and energetic in prose- 
cuting every benevolent work ; or 
one more enthusiastically beloved 
by those who are associated with 
him in the noble cause of promo- 
ting the Catholic faith in Belgium 
and Europe. Happily for the inte- 
rests of religion in this ancient Ca- 
tholic country, a number of other 
gentlemen of the highest standing 
and the most thorough Catholic 
loyalty cooperated with him in his 
great undertaking. The wise, gene- 
rous, and unfaltering patronage and 
support of the venerable primate of 
Belgium, the Cardinal Archbishop of 
Malines, crowned it with that sanc- 
tion and imparted to it that spirit of 
union with the Holy Roman Church 
and the hierarchy, which are the 
guarantee of its genuine Catholicity 
and the vital principle of its activity. 
The congress was intended to serve 
as an instnmient for thwarting the 
destructive policy of the infidel party 
by combining together those zealous 
and loyal Catholics who, in their iso- 
lation and .separation, were in danger 
of losing courage ; revealing to them 
their real strength, animating their 
faith and ardor by able and eloquent 
addresses from the most illustrious 
champions of the church, concert- 
ing and taking means to carr)' out 
all kinds of mea.sures for preserv- 
ing and extending a Catholic spirit 
among the jjeople. The more precise 
and definite objects to be aimed at 
were, to win for the church the full 
and perfect possession of her liberty 
and other divine rights, to promote 
the cause of Catholic education, to 
make known and give new impetus 
to all kinds o( religious aod cliari- 



thB^ 

and 



table works and associations 
ready existing, as well as to f( 
new ones ; to provide for tJ 
lication of books, tracts. ma\ 
and newspapers devoted to the 
and wholesome instruction of 
people ; to preserve, restore, 
augment the treasures of reii-' ■ ■ 
artj and to work for social tl. ti 
by alleviating the burdens, miio. • 
and privations of the laboring claj;>o» 
The special reason for calling a con' 
gress for these purposes was, in or- 
der that the nobility and otljtr lu 
fluential classes of the laity might 
be brought into direct anci inttncdi- 
ate cooperation with the clerg\- fi)r 
promoting and defending tlie sactcJ 
cause of religion. The words of the 
Most Eminent Cardinal do " '" 
carry with them such a v. 
authority and wisdom on lhi)> 
not only on account of his 
as primate of the Belgian hierarchyj 
but also from the still higher rank 
which he holds as a prince of the Ro- 
man Church, and from the fact X 
he has spoken and acted through 
after seeking counsel and dircrti* 
from the Holy Father, as well aji i 
his ovni high personal character, 
we will make a citation of them froi 
his allocution at the opening of 
first congress : 

"It is true, gentlemen, that 
government of the church belongs 
the clergy ; it is true that it is to 
sovereign pontiff^ to the bishops, 
to the priests that llic deposit 
faitti and the care of souls has 
confided. It is to them that t 
vine Founder of the church has 
*G<\ Uath all nationiy Imptizinf^ 
in the name oj the Father , and {/ ikt 
San, and of the Holy Ghost: It is to 
them that He has said : ' Vou are 
tlte light of the world, you art the 
salt of the earth: Nev. "" - jhe 
Christian laity are also . cjc- 

tribute to the propagation ot the gos- 




A 




sn<rt.iin and defend the church 
By baptism they have be- 
ihe children of the church, 
Ihey are bound to lake to heart 
Interests of their mother ; by 
Rnation they have become sol- 
i of tlie church, and they are 
d to defend her against the at- 
I of her enemies. It is, more- 
'by th« practice of good works 
fc^e are all obliged, both eccle- 
tcs and lajTuen, to secure our 
ition. '.S'/mr,' says the prince of 
Ie» to all Christians without dis- 
00, '■strive to secure your voca- 
eUetian by the practice of good 



lot, if such is the duty of the laity, 
ought to concert together in or- 
t> fulfil it with zeal and perseve- 
! ; they ought to combine and 
lusociations ; they ought to con- 
Dgetber, in order to plan the 
B of doing with more certainty 
success that which they could 
do in a very incomplete manner 
Sy were abandoned to their own 
Idual capacities." 
i add one more sentence from 
ime allocution, which manifests 
lenuine and large-minded libe- 
linent so conspicuous in 
. venerable prelate and in 
y of eminent men who have 
principal direction of the 

honest opinions may be ex- 
ed, all measures proper for pro- 
U that which is good may be 
leed. Both the one and the 
may be defended, discussed, 
ombated with the greatest liber- 
tat you will also be all ready 
aadon, if necessary, your senti- 
and your projects, in order to 
support of those measures 
be judged to be the best 
way you will arrive at that 
union which the Saviour de- 
for his disciples : You wiJJ 



all have but one heart and one soul, 
and the success of your labors will 
be secured." 

There can be no doubt that the 
congress of Malines has accomplish- 
ed a great deal of the good contem- 
plated by its eminent and excellent 
promoters. The mere assemblage of 
so many fervent Catholics together, 
and the enunciation of their common 
sentiments, wishes, and purposes, 
have had a great influence in giving 
increased courage, confidence, and 
zeal to the faithful adherents of the 
church in Belgium. Moreover, many 
works of great practical utility have 
either been inaugurated or have re- 
ceived additional extent and vigor. 
Among them may be mentioned the 
support given to the Catholic U niver- 
sity of Louvain, the formation of a 
society among the alumni of the 
university, the establishment of Cath- 
olic circles of young men in the 
towns, the formation of libraries, the 
establishment of lectures and confer- 
ences, the formation of charitable 
and religious associations, the foun- 
dation of a Catholic publication 
house, the multiplication of books, 
tracts, and newspapers, the care given 
to the presen'ation, repair, and in- 
crease of churches, the cultivation of 
the fine arts in connection with reli- 
gion, the efforts made for the sanctifi- 
cation of the Sunday and for the 
amelioration of the condition of the 
laboring classes. It is impossible to 
enumerate all that has been done, 
and would require a more minute 
knowledge of the state of things in 
Belgium than we possess — such a 
knowledge as is possessed only by 
those who have been engaged perma- 
nently in the work of the congress 
from the beginning. 

In regard to the work of the con- 
gress lately held, our information is 
also much restricted and very gene- 
ral, as we are obliged to Te\y ot\ \3afe 



* ' 



30ff 



The Third Catholic Congress of Malints. 



succinct reports already published. 
The meetings of the sections be- 
ing held simultaneously in different 
rooms, and their proceedings being 
a continuation of those of preceding 
congresses as well as of a great num- 
ber of various branches of active 
effort carried on perpetually by those 
engaged in them, we cannot pretend 
to give any complete and detailed 
statement of practical results, but 
merely an indication of the general 
topics discussed and the general ob- 
jects had in view in tlie measures 
adopted. 

In the first section, the topics dis- 
cussed related to the Christian burial 
of the poor, tlie sanctification of the 
Sunday, the work of St. Francis 
Xavier for the instruction of laboring 
men, which has forty tliousand mem- 
bers from this class in the cities of 
Belgium, the work of St. Francis Re- 
gis for legitimating illicit unions and 
facilitating marriages among the 
pxjor, and the contribution in aid of 
the pope called St Peter's pence. 

The second section was exclusive- 
ly occupied with considering the in- 
terest of the laboring class and the 
relation of capital to labor, the terri- 
ble and at present insoluble Euro- 
pean question ouvriire. The discus- 
sions in this section were more 
lively and the interest excited more 
general than in any other section. 

The third section discussed three 
questions : 

1. The attitude which Catholics 
ought to take in view of the war de- 
clared against the law of 1842, and in 
the eventuality of its abrogation. 

2. The means of protecting the 
schools of the middle class against 
the incursions of official bureaucracy. 

3. The improvement to be intro- 
duced in the Catholic system of in- 
struction, under which head the im- 
provement of historical text-books 
wits especially considered. 



The fourth section discuss 
subject of instruction and i 
ment in religious art, the permanei 
exposition of line paintings and sta 
ary in churches, the means of 
veloping and propagating religioi 
art, and literary works imbued with 
Christian spirit. M. Bordeaux 
eminent French archaiologist, vn% 
present, and spoke with ability in thi» 
section, giving interesting details of 
the progress of sacred arcbjeologr 
in France. Among other recom- 
mendations, we were happy to find 
one relative to the removal of the 
ridiculous images which disfi;^ 
some fine churches, and the aboliti 
of the unpleasant custom of payi 
a franc to the sacristan for remo 
the curtains before certain picturri 
Desires were expressed for the publi 
cation of a manual of sacred arthan 
logy and architecture as a guide 
priests and architects. 

The fifth section had a great num- 
ber of important questions before it 
relating to the Catholic press, C.itho 
lie circles, popular lectures, secrti 
societies, judicial oaths, etc., wht< 
it appears were not so well prcpa; 
beforehand or dealt with tn so i 
rough a manner as tiie qucsti 
laid before the other sections, 
most important resolution arri%ed at 
by this section was that of effecting a^ 
union of the Catholic circles 
young men by means of a cent 
organization. The formation of si 
lar circles for the benefit of the ti 
dustrial classes, and the giving 
popular lectures on a more extcns 
scale, were also recommended. 

Such is an imperfect and mi 
outline of the work accomplished 
the morning sessions of the scvci 
congressional sections. These 
sions were opened at eight or ni 
o'clock, and contined until ! ' 

later. At three o'clock tlu 
sessions of the congress were open 




J 



The Third Catholic Congress of Maliues, 



301 




ng until six or seven in 
; and we will now attempt 
etch of their proceedings, 
ing of the congress by 
has already been no- 
er His Eminence had 
ident's chair, the nomina- 
e central and sectional 
de by the committee of 
s were proposed and ratified 
^ assembly, and tlie chair was 
by the Baron della Faille, who 
[y pronounced a long, ela- 
tten, and extremely able 
^Siscourse. The baron is a 
of plain but impressive 
y, whose entire bearing and 
Ige bear the stamp of solid 
elevated principles, thorough 
Icntiousness, and quiet but in- 
rWc courage. A lone of pro- 
and deeply meditative Ckris- 
ihought and fervent CatWlic 
predominates in his discourses, 
\ little shadow of sadness, as if 
I the great interests of the 
b And society to be in great dan- 
together with an undercurrent 
' emotion, as of a just 
I ^ tied man indignant at 

tseness of those who are faith- 
jo their duty toward God and 
fellow-men ; as well as deeply 
led to be faithful to the death 
Uf at whatever cost of selfish 

■» outset of his discourse, 

tftinguished vice-president laid 

t the proposition that a state 

liflict i* the perpetual condition 

1, and proceeded to de- 

.5 concerning the radi- 

of the hostility which 

ianity perpetually excites in 

inaan bosom against its princi- 

precepls, and its claim of 

o\'er reason, conscience, 

n activity. This part of 

: was profoundly theo- 

views and reasonings 



presented being all derived from the 
doctrine that man, in consequence 
of the original sin into which he fell 
from his primitive state of integrity, 
finds a perf>etual repugnance and 
struggle in his own bosom of selfish 
passion against the supernatural law. 
This repugnance and resistance 
tends to produce itself in society 
even after it has been christianized 
and civilized, in the form of a retro- 
grade movement toward irreligion 
and barbarism. 

The orator proceeded then to ex- 
amine the question whether this con- 
flict could be terminated, so far as its 
disturbing influence on political tran- 
quillity and the peace of society is 
concerned, by a reformation or re- 
construction of the relations between 
tlie two orders, spiritual and temporal, 
religion and society, the church and 
the state. To this question he ad- 
dressed himself to give a historical 
solution, arguing from tlie facts of 
the past as to what might be exj>ect- 
ed in the future. " When the irre- 
concilable adversaries of the truth," 
said the orator, with energj' and emo- 
tion, " tear the state away from the 
church, reject Christ, ah 1 gentlemen, 
it is not in order to create for us a 
more peaceful condition ; it is, on 
the contrar}', in order to attack us 
more freely. If the civil power 
forces itself to be impartial, guided 
by reason alone, it is not secure from 
error; it will often be deceived, and 
the Catholic religion, being incapable 
of submitting to the manipulations 
of the temporal authority, will always 
be the first thing menaced. But 
what if this same power is malevo- 
lent? what if it has fallen into the 
hands of our enemies ?'' The orator 
then went on to .sustain the position 
thus laid <lown by a reference to the 
actual policy of the so-called liberal 
governments of Europe toward the 
CathoJic Church- He denvA\\Ae.d 



302 



The Third Catholic Congrtst of Malines, 



I 



that a single European state should 
be indicated, where liberalism is in 
power, which has not persecuted the 
church. After reproaching the blind- 
ness and apathy of a great number 
of Catholics who hang loose frora an 
active part in the conflict against in- 
fidelity, he set forth, in very forcible 
language, the common duty of all 
to maintain, or rather to make a con- 
quest of, the liberties of the church. 
This, he said, could only be accom- 
plished by an obstinate conflict with 
the enemies of the church, in which 
there could be ni pnix tit trh<e. 
Touching then upon Belgium in par- 
ricular, llie country which liberty has 
made so famous, he asketl the ques- 
tion, What is the condition of things 
tliere now? Without disparaging 
the amount of liberty still left to 
them, he declared that they had al- 
ready lost enough to awaken just re- 
gret in their own minds, and to sug- 
gest the caution to their too confi- 
dent friends : " Do not exaggerate 
the authority of this example, and 
take care for yourselves." He then 
went on to affirm that the church 
in Belgium is combated in its reli- 
gious and charitable works — in the 
exercise of worship, where it has 
new assaults to expect, without any 
respect for the conditions which have 
been affixed to charitable institu- 
tions, or to the solemn ' tits 
of the state. Such, he ' i. is 
our situation, in spite of our legisla- 
tion which was favorable to us, in 
spite of promises the most formal, 
compacts the most solemn. Else- 
where, he asked, is the situation 
more favorable ? The orator then 
deduced the conclusion which was 
the final object aimed at throughout 
his closely reasoned discourse, that 
the Catholics of Europe must rely 
on themselves alone, and prepare 
for a combat which must be sustained 
with courage, constancy, and union. 



-i^ 
tbeH 



In this part of his discooi 
baron proved how tegitimatfl 
title he has received from his 
ancestors, and we were 
the old days and old see 
chivalrous, warlike N( 
when the fathers of the' 
gentlemen in the costume ( 
who sat upon the platform 01 
floor of the congress, rod( 
with their pennons flyif 
steel armor and coat of 
against the pa}'nim for the 
sepulchre. " We are the chil 
the Crusaders !" he exclaiiHJ 
a threatening infidelity lct^| 
a new crusade, and let us ea 
bring his own arms with him. 

On the conclusion of the dis 
which had been frequently inl 
ed by applause, the asscinbl 
Io|^ and long-continued exp 
to^e universal sentiment of ! 
tion with which this introc 
discourse of the illustriot 
statesman was received. 

An address to the Holy 
then voted by the assembly ; 
dress was intrusted to ^| 
Merode, to be presented ^P 
His Holiness on his return to 
Information of the vote was 
mitted to Rome by telegraph, 
response to it tiie Holy P'ath* 
his benediction on theopeninj 
congress, and subsequently i 
benediction on its close. Aftfi 
communications from the aei 
the first public session 
gress was adjourned. 

At the second session, ( 
aftenioon, the hall was 
crowded than on the dayl 
A few moments before it ^ 
the Count de Fallouxentcc 
on the arm of Mgr. La 
prolonged and enthusiast 
tions. 

At the opening of the 
address to the caidioal ' 






Th« Third Catholic Congress of Malines. 



303 



M. de Falloux was nom- 
ononiry vice-president, and a 
mber of the foreign members 
nored with the same mark of 
on. 

favorite demonstration of 
; accompanied all these 
IS formalities, and no sooner 
ibsided than it was awakened 

K increased vigor by the 
e cardinal with the ac- 
prelates, conducting the 
ishop of Orleans, Mgr. 
mp, together wth the cele- 
irntot of the Carmelite order, 
H^'acinthe. Long, loud, and 
~ were the acclamations 
the assembly greeted the 
icteran champion of the Cath- 
isc, " the Lamorici^re of the 
ite," as he was happily desig- 
y one of the orators of the 
J. The president succeeded 
:ing the thunders of congra- 
long enough to allow him to 
a few words of salutation to 
jManloup in the name of 
Hkly, when they again burst 
tn irrepressible energy, and 
jl be appeased until the il- 
i orator, reluctantly yielding 
rresistiblc demand of three 
i voices, ascended the tri- 
pronounce a short but fervid 

loup presents much 
inr aspect of a hard- 
apostolic missionary, or of 
re and self-denying religious, 
a stately dignitary of the 
and his stj-le of address is 
dance with his personal ap- 
r, having more of the un- 
cnergy, the spontaneous fire, 
roest. popular preacher, than 
bfighcd. artistic eloquence of 
Academician, 
ress was a simple black cas- 
ith the slightest possible 
of purple trimming, and a 



cloak of the same color, just enough 
to indicate his episcopal rank, but 
still more significant of his profoundj 
indifference for its decorations. Eve» 
rj'thing else about his pnirson and 
manner wore the same air of unstudi- 
ed neglige and inattention to the ce- 
remonial of exterior elegance and 
polish. As he appeared in full view 
of the audience upon the platform, an 
expression used by Rufus Choate of 
Napoleon the First could be applied ' 
to him, as giving with terse complete- 
ness a designation to the impression 
we received of tlie physical, intellec- 
tual, and moral tout ensemble of 
the man — "' the worn child of a 
thousand battles." The same idea 
is conveyed by the title given 
him by general acclamation at the 
congres.s, "the Lamorici^re of the 
episcopate." The bishop is some- 
what over si.\ty years of age, his hair 
is gray, his movements somewhat in- 
dicative of failing bodily strength, hill I 
countenance vi\id, lighting up as if 1 
from the flame of an internal, ever* 
burning furnace which is consuminj^j 
his physical frame, his manner natu* 
ral, easy, familiar, yet kindling at in- 
tervals into a startling, vibrating elo- 
quence that thrills through the ner\'e3 
like an electric shock. Mgr. Du- 
panloup had not preached in his dio- 
cese for the last two years on account 
of weakness in the throat, and, on 
taking the tribune at Malines, he 
apologized for himself on the ground 
that his voice was weakened by long 
and laborious use. In point of fact, 
his excuses seemed to be well-ground- 
ed ; yet, as he caught the expression 
of the eyes and faces of his sympa- 
thetic audience, the electrical influ- 
ence of the atmosphere of the place, 
surcharged with the enthusiasm of 
the Catholic faith, seemed to reani- 
mate all his ancient fire, and he sent 
forth, like a flash of lightning, with a 
tone that vibrated llnrougVv ever^ 




304 



The Third Catholic Congress of MaUmt. 



» 



heart in that august assembly, the 
eloquent exclamation, " Naus savions 
que le feu sacri est immortel dans 
tEglise; mats ici OV EN voiT LA 
n.AMME I" The bishop sp(»kc but a 
few minutes, seizing tlie opportunity 
of the renewed applause which broke 
out on his uttering these words to de- 
scend hastily from the tribune, hav- 
ing produced an effect by this sudden 
r«7/// tic main of eloquence which it 
would be impossible to describe in 
any language we have at command. 

The acclamations caused by Mgr. 
Dupanloup's dibut in the assembly 
having subsided, a short and amusing 
conflict arose between the amiable 
pertinacity of M. Ducpctiaux in in- 
sisting upon an immediate address 
from the Count de Talloux, and the 
reluctance of that gentleman to yield 
to the demand ; in which the latter 
was obliged tu succumb. Indeed, 
the audience came at once to the 
support of their secretary in such 
overwhelming force that resistance 
was impossible, and the illustrious 
French statesman was borne up to 
the tribune just vacated by the illus- 
trious French bishop, as it were by 
a great wave of applause. 

The Count de Falloux is a finish- 
ed specimen of the most graceful and 
polished type of French gentlemen, 
orators, and men of polite letters. 
The paleness of his countenance, to- 
gether with • an expression of sub- 
dued languor in his eye and move- 
ments, bore witness to the truth 
of his avowal, that a pitiable 
state of health had prevented him 
from making any preparation for 
addressing the congress. In conse- 
quence of this, the count made no 
long or elaborate discourses. In his 
discourse of Tuesday, which was the 
longest, he spoke but half an hour. 
Nevertheless, this biief discourse, 
altliough apparently an unstudied, 
impromptu utterance of thoughts 



and sentiments occurring at th« 
ment ; delivered, without any effort i 
orator)*, in a simple, almost con^ 
tional manner ; was a specimen of I 
most consummate, captivating, and 
classical eloquence; as our readc 
will see for themselves, we hope, 
far as a translation can enable ll 
to do so, when the text of the di 
course is published in full in ou 
pages, as we intend it shall be ; t<| 
gether with those of Mgr. Oupa 
and Father Hyacinthe. The i 
sion ofM. de Failoux's countenanc 
the tones of his voice, and his txaja 
manner of address bear an impr 
of gentleness, of graceful, charmi 
f>ersua.siveness, through which 
wins the hearts of his audience 
once, and gains ati easy, almost 
perceptible dominion over 
minds. With exquisite grace 
delicac)', he complimented all 
most distinguished persons pnrscn| 
the congress, and the Belgian natioQ^ 
thanking the latter especially for 
honor and kindness shown to hi 
illustrious and suffering friend Mc 
talembert, then confined to hi.s chai 
ber by sickness at his villa of K 
ensart, near Brussels. The gvnuin* 
affectionate tenderness and emotic 
with which he spoke of Montalen* 
bert communicated itself at once 
his sympathetic audience, and cj 
out the most energetic, enthua 
acclamations of the name so 
the Belgian Catholics. " II b lo ; 
said the orator, " that MontJlc 
owes the motto expressive of 
sacred cause to which his life 
been devoted. Liberty as in 
giumP llic theme thus intr 
with such consummate skill 
feet occupied the remainder 
discourse, which was in its drift 
aim a modest, reserved, courle 
but not the less p<:'V. 
defence of the n ii 

and the cause uf liberty agaitiat tlic' 




Tht Third Catholic Congress of Malims, 



, of being essentially anti-ca- 
ind irreligious. 

xume of Montalembert was, 

f instance when it was men- 

■M|Pted with the same hearty 

Hpduring all the sessions of 

gress ; a circumstance which 

from him a letter of thanks 

ropathy, afterward publicly 

jf the Count de Falloux, and 

t with acclamations of the 

leigetic character by tiie as- 

o not feel ourselves competent 
tss an opinion on the question 
r the applause given by the 
a to these two illustrious 
ic statesmen of France indi- 
in approbation of the princi- 
rcgard to the alliance of reli- 
d liberty which they advocate. 
s, no doubt, a great difference 
pg this ver\' important, deli- 
nd complicated question, in 
p as well as throughout Eu- 
a difference existing, conse- 
f, among the members of the 
ss of Malines. The Count 
Unxs speech has been cour- 
but searchJogly criticised by 
>f the most prominent writers 
fe Catholic press in Belgium, 
I severely by another 

Li ' ►f the English papers ; 

as is natural, it is sustained 
|ua] courtesy as well as with 
ledsion by Zi Correspondanl 
loe. All the members of the 
15, as well as all other firm 
Bis of the Catholic cause in 
! and the world, are of one 
knd one heart, in filial devo- 
ihe Pope, loyalt)' to the Holy 
d the Catholic Church, deter- 
to to fight against anti-catho- 
idcl piieudo- liberal ism in both 
of despotism and radical 
"II. ii.m for the perfect libera- 
ic-te liberty of the Ca- 
i;urcji tJrom the tyranny, both 

VL 20 





of governments and of revolutions. 
In regard to the basis of settlement 
between tlie church and civil, politi- 
cal society, or the state, through 
which this libertycan be most effectu- 
ally gained, most durably establish- 
ed, there is a divergence which 
sometimes threatens to become a 
sharp contest, involving in its issues 
other questions more directly eccle- 
siastical or theological. The most 
admirable feature of the Congress of 
Malines was, that this difference of 
opinion was neither violently smoth- 
ered nor permitted to burst into a 
flame of discord, but subdued by the 
dominant power of mutual charity, 
respect, and courtesy. The Catho- 
lics of Belgium, we may also add 
those of France also, give a good 
example in this respect worthy to be 
imitated by all, but especially nectiing 
to be imitated by the Catholics of 
England and our own country. The 
Belgian Catholics are too deeply 
sensible of the imminent duties and 
perils of the Catholic cause in front 
of the deadly enemy of all religion,, 
to tolerate the excesses of party 
spirit or internal dissension among 
themselves, to allow the tyranny of 
theological opinion the right of 
branding all dissidents as disloyal to 
the church, to tolerate the secret 
undermining or open detraction of 
the reputation of eminent, meritori- 
ous advocates of the Catholic cause, 
much less to permit the violation of 
the rules of Christian charity and 
courtesy by those who write for the 
press. They have felt tlie necessity 
of shunning personal or party dis- 
putes, rising above the spirit of 
clique or sectional interest, throwing 
off indifference and apathy toward 
measures or enterprises set on foot 
by men of ^eal and courage for the 
common good, and combining to- 
gether in a spirit of disinterested, 
selfsacrificing effort, strong enough 



3o6 



The Third Catholic Congress of Matines. 




to sweep away and drown all pet- 
ty interests, for the common, the sa- 
cred, the glorious, but deeply endan- 
gered cause of God, religion, and 
true philanthropy. If we are so for- 
tunate as to have a Catholic congress 
in the United States, we trust it will 
be animated by the same spirit 
which prevailed in the Congress nf 
Malines, and that its influence will 
promote powerfully this truly Catho- 
lic spirit wherever it is felt. 

To return from this digression ; 
when the Count de Falloux had fin- 
ished his speech, a ver)' pleasing in- 
terlude occurred in the presentation of 
a magnificent vase of gold, on the part 
of the central bureau, to M. Duqae- 
tiaux, by the Viscount Kerckhove, 
who made a graceful and appropriate 
speech on the occasion, embracing 
affectionately the amiable secretary 
at its conclusion, to the unboumled 
delight of the audience. Several other 
addresses were then read, some com- 
pliments were passed between the 
congress and the representatives of 
the city of Malines, an excellent re- 
port was read by Mgr. Nameche, 
vice-rector of the University of Lou- 
vain, from a committee appointed to 
give a premium to the best treatise 
on the education of young ladies, an 
animated speech was made by one 
•of the juvenile members of the con- 
gress, and the session was adjourned. 

The general session of WednestLiy 
was addressed, after a few prelimi- 
nary proceedings, by Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral de Lannoy, a veteran warrior of 
ihe Belgian army, in a brief but ex- 
ceedingly eloquent speech, commend- 
ing the charitable heroism of the pon- 
tifical Zouaves during the visitation 
of Rome and Albano by the cholera. 
It w:is resolved to send an expres- 
sion of the sentiment of the assembly 
to the secretary of war at Rome, and 
two young Belgian Zouaves present in 
the audience v.cre invited to a seat 






eel 



on the platform. FaAer Ton 
Italian Barnabite, then rend 
per relating to a work in 
engaged, for promoting 
Russia to the unity o{ 
He was followed by the 
Mgr. Dechamps, formerly a I 
torist missionary, now the B| 
Namur, who pronounced m i^ 
quent discourse on the 
Catholicunit)'. After this 
late had left the tribune, 
by the Bishop of Charles' 
ployed the remaining tii 
sion, the hour of adjou; 
ing been fixed at five 
count of the oratorio in 
in a discourse on the 
Catholic religion in the Unl 
but principally in his own ( 
ITie learned bishop, whose |l 
did so much honor to ti 
and the Catholic body 
counir\* at the Congress 
ex])oscd the sad state ofj 
lie people of South Carol 
as of the whole populatic 
especially of the colored i 
sequence of the late warj 
municated a project of 
establishing a communlt 
upon an island on the c< 
Carolina, as the nucleus] 
work for converting and 
colored population. TJ 
Bishop Lynch produced i 
found impression upon 
and wc are happy to state" 
of the wealthy members of \ 
gjess gave handsome contri 
toward his benevolent un( 

On Thursday the gr< 
the session was the disc 
Dupanloup, of which we| 
alysis here, as the text 
course is to appear in ourj 
was throughout a scathii 
tion of the principle of 
liberals, the liberdtres, as he 
ted them, thc/iderruidfSfi 




The Third Catholic Congress of Malines. 



307 



to call them in English. 
the close of. his discourse he 
Ivc uticrance to a sentence which 
ajvased the attention of all Eu- 
5, and bids fair to make its echo 
for a long time to come. It 
1 i prvfos of a plan, proposed, we 
liere, by the editor of the Paris 
fy for erecting a statue to Vol- 

'Shatl I remind you of Voltaire, 

► inventor of the title The Infamous, 

• which he designated the church ? 

he, what name did he give him- 

lf> He called himself philosopher. 

i! well, gentlemen, no one shall ever 

me to give the name of philo 

ers to a d'Holbach, to a Lamet- 

, or the rest of the impious men 

»spired with their master to 

ihc Infamous. But what do 

? People say that they desire 

; a statue to the man who gave 

le to Christianity, Indeed ! 

r, on my part, say that they will 

ive raised a statue to infamy per- 

iriED. (Prolonged bravos.) I 

lid like to encounter here a man 

would contradict me ! I would 

to pve him, as soon as he 

i, proofs with which all Europe 

resound. This violence done 

Ipxnl sense, to rectitude, to French 

nor, re^TjIts me. I repeat it, they 

raise a statue to infamy per- 

ririrt>. The Bishop of the Or- 

»s of Joan of Arc could not have 

' cKpn.-ss a more wortliy sentiment." 

rl acclamadons.) The ed- 

SiMf has offered to take 

iirown at him, and 

rrespondence has 

iged between himself 

il.v, ,..,...,] J, who is preparing to 

cm his pledge in a pamphlet con- 

»iog the proofs of his assertion. 

[Wc cannot refrain from noticing 

)rc - u this remarkable 

(1 came like a flash 

itniog from the bishop's mouth, 



striking the assembly with an irre- 
sistible force, but especially kindling 
every heart of a Belgian there pre- 
sent into aflame of patriotic enthusi- 
asm. The effect was indeed inde- 
scribable. We add our fervent hojje 
that it may be ineffacrable^ especially 
upon the hearts of the Belgian youth 
there present, to whom their country 
looks with such fond hope for the 
future. 

" O patriotism I it is not to you 
that I have to preach it ; but I say to 
you simply, You have a country, 
KNOW HOW TO KEEP IT'." Words ap- 
parently simple and commonplace as 
written down on paper to be read by 
those who are remote from the scene 
of their utterance, strangers to the 
memories, the associations, the hopes 
and fears whose key-note they struck, 
and unable to represent to them- 
selves the attitude, the tone, the ex- 
pression of the orator who gave them 
utterance. But words which, as Du- 
panloup uttered them, with a sudden 
Han, in which his whole soul of fire 
seemed to blaze forth before the eyes 
of his audience, "Vous avkz une 

PATRIE, SACHEZ LA CARDER !" WefC 

sufficient to set a whole nation on hre. 
The castigation given to infidelity 
by the intrepid Bishop of Orleanf/j 
caused the party suffering from hii 
well-applied lash to give utterance to' 
its smarting sensation.s by an outcry 
in the Indfficndame Belffe, repeated 
by tlie London Twtes^ and echoed by 
some of its feeble imitators in ,'\me» 
rica. The burden of the complainlj 
against Mgr. Dupanloup is, that h4i 
did not treat the soi-disant libera 
party with sufficient courtesy 0% 
respect. For our own part, we didj 
not find anything in his discourse^J 
nor have we ever seen anything inj 
any of his writings, in the slightest 
decree contrary to the charity of •] 
Christian or the dignity of a bishop. 
In speaking of the party called by the 



3o8 



The Third Catholic Congress of MaliMts. 



extremely vague, general name of 
liberal, we must distinguish. We 
assent to the opinion of the amiable 
writer who furnished the sketch of the 
Idle congress in Le Corrcspomiant, 
that it is incumbent on the champion 
of the Catholic cause to combat for it 
with courteous arms. We allow that 
a very large proportion of those who 
would class themselves under the 
general head of liberals, whether they 
call themselves liberal Christi;uis or 
liberal philosophers, are entitled to 
courtesy. But, when it is question of 
such men as Voltaire and his modem 
disciples, who are engaged in the ne- 
farious work of destroying all Chris- 
tian faith in the hearts of the Catho- 
lic people, as well as poisoning the 
very well-spring of all political and 
social life, we deny that, apart from 
courtesies of private life, and in the 
public arena of discussion, they are 
entitled to any courtesy at the hands 
of a loyal defender of Christian faith 
and civilization, beyond that which 
his own self-resjject and Christian 
charity require him to show to the 
deadliest enemies of the human race. 
We trust the time has not yet come 
in England or America when the 
name of Voltaire must be mentioned 
with respect. VMiatever courtesy 
any man of that class desen'es can 
only be given on the same principle 
that the poor woman addressed the 
executioner during the French reign 
of terror, with a plea to spare the 
lives of herself and her children, in 
the words, " Ayes pitie, M. le Hour- 
reau.'' We hope it is through ignor- 
ance only that so many in England 
and America, calling themselves by 
the Christian name, extend their s)nn- 
pathy to a class of men who are la- 
boring for the destruction of all re- 
ligion and all social order ; if it be 
through ignorance, tlieir eyes will be 
[opened in due lime, perhaps in a 
50/ncwhat startling manner. 




• UAL «. 

>n^ 



When the thunders of 
in the midst of which 
Orleans descended from 
had subsided, the audicn 
they had been swept up, byl 
cane of his eloquence, to 
from which it was difficult a 
unpleasant to descend on 
His discourse was well 
Bulletin of the next momf 
iours monument" and, in, 4 
mind, it is like some of 
tfixuire of Rafiaelle in 
whose excellence is more 
preciated in the reminisci 
the actual moment of v-l 

The remainder of the 
occupied by an interest] 
the state of Italy, by thi 
Alberi of Elorence, and 
on North .'Vmerican mis 
Bishop of Vancouver. 

The great speech of 
session was that of Father 
It was preceded by a shon 
brilliant address from the 
statesman M. Adrian Dcchai 
another short address fr 
Count dc Ealloux, who read 
from M. de Monlalenjbert,* 
be published hereafter. ^ 

Father Hyacintlie, drefll 
picturesque, impressive habi 
Carmelites, presented a &1 
trast in appearance, as 
style of his eloquence, 
great French orators wi 
ceded him. He is still 
vigor of the prime of m; 
touched by any token of ded 
the contrary, hardly mo 
arrived at the full effloi 
physical and inleltcctu 
The poetic sentiment sc 
dominate in him, with an 
of the tender and expansi 
of the heart, tlie pleasi 
creations of the imaginatii 
without the power of desccr 
the deeper region of tragic sci 



ivft| 

tidl 



The Third Cathoiic Congress of Maliues. 



309 



^■cnit more bold and sub- 
sptions. His ordinar)' 
f'Und expression are gentle 
inning, his eye and counte- 
fiill of benevolence, his voice 
musical, somewhat feminine, 
the spirit of oratorical inspi- 
rarries him away, his counte- 
thanges to a more earnest, ini- 
fed expression, his gestures 
lid and vehement, his voice 
|dy sinks to a deep, low, or- 
i lone, or rings out clearly 
Rnnpet, and the whole mind 
ay are roused into an action 
li every cord and ner\'e has 
tion of a ship's cordage under 
L After the discourse, which 
\ hours long, and held the au- 
in a breathless attention in- 
^d only by their applauses, the 
It father was completely ex- 
I and obliged to return home 
lodgings at once for a period 
ict quiet and repose. Of the 
Se, which was on the qufstion 
\ vre will not speak, leaving 
Scrs to p>eruse it in the trans- 
frhkh wnll be given in our 
lereaftcr. 
k>rt address was made by Mgr. 

Bfahop of Chatham, N. S., 
be Catholics of Europe for 
table assistance to the mis- 
f America, and giving some 
kaQsof the primitive manners 
kcadians. Canon Rousseau 
TO an analysis of the memoir 
bd by Father Hecker in a 
translation for publication 
Ihe congressional documents, 
[to the progress of the Catholic 
in the United States. Finally, 
Brouwers, a young priest of 
succeeded in gaining the 
jf the audience, already 
: impatient, to an addrass 
jiou3 condition of Hol- 
young priest exhibited 
iTiis speech of possessing the 



gift of sacred eloquence in no com- 
mon degree. Another thing about 
him that pleased every one was, that 
he gave a bright, cheerful picture of 
the state of things in his own coun- 
try. Ever^nhing was going on well, 
and promised to go on still better in 
the future — a circumstance quite cre- 
ditable to the contented disposition 
of the compatriots of our first set- 
tlers in New York. 

The closing service on Saturday 
morning was devoted to the reading of 
the reports of the sections and voting 
their conclusions. This work had 
been commenced at an extraordinary 
general session on Friday morning. 
The president gave a short conclud- 
ing discourse, and after .some usual 
formalities the members of the con- 
gress repaired to the cathedral, where 
a sermon was preached by Father 
Hyacinthe, the Te Deum was chant- 
ed, and the cardinal gave his bene- 
diction on the close of the congress. 
A general communion of the Society 
of St. Vincent de Paul had already 
been made on Friday morning in the 
church of Notre Dame d'Hanswyck. 
We may add here that a bulletin of 
the acts of the congress was published 
every morning, and also that there b 
an association called the Catholic 
Union, which is a sort of permanent 
standing committee of the congress 
during the intervals of its assem* 
blages. 

An elegant and rechereftk banquet, 
at which about three hundred gentle- 
men were present, concluded the Ca- 
tholic rhinion at Malines in a very 
pleasant manner, and before nighLfall 
we had bidden adieu to Malines and 
were on our way to Brussels, prepara- 
tory to a return to Paris, and thence 
to America. 

Iji conclusion, we beg leave to 
thank, in the name of the entire Ame- 
rican delegation, the Cardinal Arch- 
bishop of Malines, and tii'& oQcvei 




3IO 

^distinguished gentlemen of Belgium 
►ho are ihe chief directors of the 
congress, especially the noble-hearted 
and amiable secretary, M. Ducpe- 
tiaux, for the hospitality and consi- 
deration so kindly extended by them 
during our stay at Malines ; and we 



Tht Stoty of a Omscript. 




trust that it may be in 
a future day to return this hosj 
in an equally cordial manner U 
of their number as guests < 
Catholics of the United Stal 
America, Vive la Belgiqut t 
k Cpngrh Caiholique de MoUm 



TtAMSLATUl raoW TMK rKBOfCH. 



THE STORY OF A CONSCRIPT, 



Those who have not seen the glo- 
ry of the Emperor Napoleon, during 
the years i8io, x8ii, and 1812, can 
never conceive what a pitch of pow- 
er one man may reach. 

When he passed through Cham- 
pagne, or Lorraine, or Alsace, pieople 
gathering the harvest or the vintage 
would leave everything to run and 
see him ; women, children, and old 
men would come a distance of eight 
or ten leagues to line his route, and 
cheer and cr>', " Vive VEmpereur! 
Vh'e rEmpereur!" One would think 
that he was a god, that mankind 
owed its life to him, and that, if he 
died, the world would crumble and 
be no more. A few old republicans 
might shake their heads and mutter 
over their wine that the emperor 
might yet fall, but they passed for 
fools. 

I was in my apprenticeship since 
1804, with an old watchmaker, Mel- 
chior Goulden, at Phalsbourg. As 
1 seemed weak and was a little lame, 
my mother wished me to learn an 
easier trade than those of our vil- 
lage, for at Dagsberg there were only 
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners. 
Monsieur Gouldea liked me very 



much. We lived on the first 
of a large house opposite tl»e ' 
Ox " inn, and neax 
gate. 

That was the place to 
ambassadors, and generals^ 
go, some on foot, and son 
riages drawn by two or fo 
there they passed in embr 
uniforms, with waving plumcl 
decorations from every countrjri 
the sun. And in the highwaji 
couriers, what baggage-wagoiu^ 
powder-trains, cannon, 
air)', and infantry did we ; 
were stirring times I 

In five or six years the it 
George, had made a fortune, 
had fields, orchards, houses, 
money in abundance ; for all 
people, coming from Germany, 
zerland, Russia, Poland, or clsei« 
cared little for a few handit] 
gold scattered upon their road ; 
were all nobles who took a pfj 
showing their prodigality. 

From morning until nighty 
even during tlie night, the *• Red 
kept its tables in readiness. 
tl\e long windows on the 
nothing was to be seen 
white table-cloths, glittering witi 
ver and covered Mrith game, (isl^ 




t^n 




Tk£ Story of a Conscript. 



311 



■^riands, around which the 
^Eu side by side. In the 
^Ki, horses neighed, posti- 
^Kdf ru aid-servants laughed, 
1 fattled. 

times, too, people of the city 
there, who in other times 
own to gather sticks in the 
r vrork on the highway. But 
Vf were commandants, colo- 
merals, and had won tlieir 
by fighting in every land on 

thior, with his black silk 
over his ears, his weak 
nose pinched between 
spectacles, and his lips 
ied together, could not 
ivoid putting his magni- 
and punch upon the 
and throwing a glance 
[inn, especially when the 
the wliips of the posti- 
the echoes of the ram- 
inounced a new arrival. 
:ame all attention, and 
time would exclaim : 
It is the son of Jacob, 
or of " the old scold, 
or of "the cooper, 
si I He has made his 

i world ; there he is, colo- 
bn of the empire into the 
why don't he stop at the 
I father who lives yonder 
da Cafucinsi'' 
irben he saw them shaking 
■fet and left in the street 
^^vho recognized (hem, his 
^Hed ; he wiped his eyes 
^Hat spotted lundkerchief, 
H«d: 

{^pleased poor old Annette 
Good ! good I He is not 
a man. God prcsen-e 
inon-baJls 1" 
&sed as if ashamed to 
»eir birthplace ; others 
see their sisters or 
everybody spoke of 




them. One would imagine that all 
Phalsbourg wore their crosses and 
their epaulettes ; while the arrogant 
were despised even more tlian when 
they swept the roads. 

Nearly every month TJr Deums 
were chanted, and the cannon at the 
arsenal fired their salutes of twenty- 
one rounds for some new victory. 
During the week following every 
family was uneasy ; poor mothers 
especially waited for letters, and the 
first that came all the city knew of; 
the rumor spread like wildfire that 
such an one had received a letter 
from Jacques or Claude, and all ran to 
see if it spoke of their Joseph or their 
Jean-Baptistc. I do not speak of 
promotions or the official reports of 
deaths ; as for the first, every one 
knew that the killed must be re- 
placed ; and as for the reports of 
deaths, parents awaited tliem weep- 
ing, for they did not come immediate- 
ly ; sometimes they never came, and 
the poor father and mother hoped on, 
saying, " Perhaps our boy is a pri- 
soner. When they make peace, he 
will return. How many have re- 
turned whom we thought dead !" 

But they never made peace. 
When one war was finished, another 
was begun. We always needed some- 
thing, either from Russia or from 
Spain, or some other country. The 
emperor was never satisfied. 

Often when regiments passed 
through the city, with their great-coats 
pulled back, their knapsacks on their 
backs, tlieir great gaiters reaching to 
the knee, and muskets carried at will ; 
often when they passed covered with 
mud or white with dust, would Fa- 
ther Melchior, aftergazing upon them, 
ask me dreamily : 

" How many, Joseph, tlunk you we 
have seen pass since 1804 ?" 

" I cannot say, Monsieur Goulden," 
I would reply , " at least four or five 
hundred thousand." 



3i» 



The Story of a Conscript, 



" Yes, at least 1" he said, " and how 
many have returned ?" 

Then I understood his meaning, 
and answered : " Perhaps the)' return 
by Mayence or some other route. It 
cannot be possible otherwise !" 

But he only shook his head, and 
said : " Those whom you have not 
seen retiim are dead, as hundreds 
and hundreds of thousands more will 
die, if the good God does not take 
pity on us, for the emperor loves only 
war. He has already spilt more blood 
to give his brothers crowns than our 
Revolution cost to win the rights of 
man." 

Then we set about our work again ; 
but the reflections of Monsieur Goul- 
den gave me some terrible subjects 
for thought. 

It was true that I was a little lame 
in the left leg ; but how many others 
with defects of body had received 
their orders to march notwithstand- 
ing ! 

These ideas kept nuining through 
my head, and when I thought long 
over them, I grew very melancholy. 
They seemed terrible to me, not only 
because I had no love for war, but 
because I was going to marry Cath- 
.irine of Quatre- Vents. We had been 
in some sort reared together. No- 
where could be found a girl so fresh 
and laughing. She was fair-haired, 
with beautiful blue eyes, rosy cheeks, 
and teeth white as milk. She was ap- 
proaching eighteen ; I was nineteen, 
and Aunt Margnfdcl seemed pleased 
to see me coming early every Sunday 
morning to breakfast and dine with 
them. 

It was 1 who took her to high Mass 
and vespers ; and on holidays she 
never left my arm, and refused to 
dance with the other youths of the 
village. Everybody knew that we 
would some day be married ; but, if 
I should be so unfortunate as to be 
drawn in the conscription, there was 



::aUU 



an end of matters, I wished 
was a thousand times more iam 
at the time of which I speak 
first taken the unmarried: 
the married men who ha 
dren, then those with one child 
I constantly asked myself, " Art 
fellows of more consequence th 
thers of families ? Could the 
put me in the cavalry ?" 
made me so unhappy tha 
thought of fleeing. 

But in 1812, at the b^r 
Russian war, my fear incren 
February until the end of 
day we saw pass regiments ( 
ments — dragoons, cuirassil 
ncers, hussars, lancers of 
artillery, caissons, ambulan 
ons, provisions, rolling or 
like the waters of a river, 
ed through the French gal 
the Place d'Armcs, and streaiiH 
at the German gate. 

At last, on the lothofMayJ 
18 1 J, in the early morning, ( 
the arsenal announced the com 
the master of all, I was yet sl< 
when the first shot shook., 
panes of my window till 
like a drum, and Monsiei 
with a lighted candle, opena 
door, saying, " Rise up, he is 1 

We opened the window. IT) 
the^ night I saw a hundred draj 
of whom many bore torches, en 
at a gallop ; they shook the e^ 
they passed ; their light 
along the house-fronts HI 
flames, and from every 
heard the shouts of " Vivt t 
ratr /" 

I was gazing at the car 
a horse crashed against 
which the butcher Klein 
tomcd to fasten his cattle. T! 
goon was thrown to tiie pav 
his helmet rolled in the gatt4 
a head leaned out of the carri 
sec what had happened- 



e com 
• yet sl< 

okJta 

:urTm 



ine es 
wImI 

in tVf 




The Story of a Comcript, 



S'J 



t, with a tuft of hair on the 
it was Napoleon ; he held 
Ittp as if about taking a pinch 
, and said a few words roughly. 
fcer galloping by the side of 

tbent down to reply ; and 
Hook his snuff and turned 
', while the shouts rcdou- 
d the cannons roared louder 
er. 

was all that I saw. 
^kperor did not stop at 
^^ 3^f>d, when he was on 
^B> Saveme, the guns fired 
l^hot, and silence reigned 
)re. The guards at the French 
ised the drawbridge, and the 
:hmaker said : 
t have seen him?" 
ive. Monsieur Goulden." 
II," he continued, "that man 
II our lives in his hand ; he 
il breathe upon us and we are 
Let us bless Heaven that he is 
-minded ; for if he were, the 
ould see again the fforrors of 
& of the barbarian kings and 
ks." 

eemed lost in thought, but in 
'nl he added : 

I can go to bed again. The 
striking three." 
etomcd to his room, and I to 
^^rhe deep silence without 
^Bnge after such a tumult, 
iPflaybreak I never ceased 
Mf of the emperor. I 
^■Ino, of the dragoon, and 
^B know if he were killed. 
^Hfty we learned that he was 
Inbe hospital and would re- 

\ that day until the month of 
her they often sang the Te 
and fired twenty one guns for 
tones. It was nearly always 
Doming, and Monsieur Goul- 



ih ! Another battle won 1 
d men lost! Twenty-five 




standards, a hundred guns won. All 
goes well, all goes well. It only re- 
mains now to order a new levy to re- 
place the dead !" 

He pushed open my door, and I 
saw him bald, in his shirt-sleeves, 
with his neck bare, washing his face 
in the wash-bowl. 

"Do you think, Monsieur Goulden,** 
I asked, in great trouble, " that they 
will take the lame ?" 

"No, no," he said kindly; "fear 
nothing, my child, you could not 
serve. We will fi.x that. Only work 
well, and never mind the rest," 

He saw my anxiety, and it pained 
him. I never met a better man. 
Then he dressed himself to go to 
wnd up the city clocks — those of 
Monsieur the Commandant of the 
place, of Monsieur the Mayor, and 
other notable personages. I re- 
mained at home. Monsieur Goulden 
did not return until after the Te Detim. 
He took off his great brown coat, put 
his peruke back in its box, and 
again pulling his silk Cap over his 
ears, said : 

" The army is at Wllna or at Smo- 
lensk, as I learn from Monsieur the 
Commandant. God grant that we 
may succeed this time and make 
peace, and the sooner the better, for 
war is a terrible thing." 

I thought, too, that, if we had p>eace, 
so many men would not be needed, 
and that I could marry Catharine. 
Any one can imagine the wishes I 
formed for the emperor's glory. 

II- 

It was on the r5th of September, 
1812, that the news came of the great 
victory of the Moskowa. Every one 
was full of joy, and all cried, " Now 
we will have peace I now the war !§ 
ended !" 

Some discontented folks might say 
that China yet remained lo bt c«Ot 



314 



Tht Story of a Conscript, 



qxiered ; such mar-joys are always to 
be found. 

A ^^eek after, we learned that our 
forces were in Moscow, the largest 
and richest city in Russia, and then 
everybody figured to himself the 
booty we would capture, and the re- 
duction it would make in the taxes. 
But soon came the rumor that the 
Russians had set Are to their capital, 
and that it was necessary to retreat 
on Poland or to die of hunger. 
Nothing else was spoken of in the 
inns, the breweries, or the market ; 
no one could meet his neighbor with- 
out saying, " Well, well, things go 
^badly ; the retreat has commenced." 

People grew pale, and hundreds of 
peasants waited morning and night 
at the post-office, but no letters came 
now. I passed and repassed through 
the crowd without paying much at- 
teiltion to it, for I had seen so much 
of the same thing. And besides, I 
had a thought in my mind which 
gladdened my heart, and made ever>'- 
thing seem rosy to me. 

You must know that for six months 
past I had wished to make Catharine 
a magnificent present for \\^x file day, 
which fell on the iSth of December, 
.^mong the watches which hung in 
Monsieur Goulden's window was one 
little one, of the prettiest kind, with 
a silver case full of little circles, 
which made it shine like a star. 
Around the face, under the glass, 
was a thread of copper, and on 
the face were painted two lovers, 
the youth evidently declaring his 
love, and giving to his sweetheart a 
large bouquet of roses, while she 
modestly lowered her eyes and held 
out her hand. 

The first time I saw the watch, I 
said to myself: "You will not let 
that escape ; that watch is for Catha- 
rine, and, although you must work 
every day till midnight for it, she 
must have it" Monsieur Goulden, 



after seven in the evenwg^aUafvredinft 
to work on my own account H« 
had old watches to cle.-ui .-■ -^ ■ ^ ; 
late ; and, as this work was 
troublesome, old father Mclclu 
me reasonably for it. But ih^ 
watch was thirty-five francs, and i 
can imagine how many hours at nij 
I would have to work for it. I 
sure that, if Monsieur Goulden! 
that I wanted it, he would have ow 
it me for a present, but I wou] 
have let him take a farthing U 
it ; I would have regarded doing 
something shameful. I kept sayi 
" You must earn it ; no one elscmu 
have any claim upon it." Only fa| 
fear somebody else might lake tXxt 
to buy it, I put it aside in a lx)s, te 
ing father Melchior that I kikcw 
purchaser. 

Under these ciraimstances, i 
one can readily understand how 
was that all these stories of w;ir we 
in at one ear ;vnd out at the eft 
with met While I worked I 
gined Catharine's joy, and for 
months that was .ill I had berore mji 
eyes. I thought how pleased 
would look, and asked myself «rh 
she would say. Sometimes I ia 
gined she would cr\' out, "O J« 
scph ! what are you thinking of.* \i 
is much too beautiful for nie. No 
no i I cannot take so 5ne a inti 
from you I" Then I thought I 
force it upon her ; I would slip Ft inb 
her apron-pocket, saying, "Cor 
come, Catharine 1 Do you wish, 
give me pain V I con! .rj 

wanted it, and that she . 

to seem to refuse it. 'Ihcn I 
gined her blushing, witli her ha 
raised, saying, "Joseph, now I 
indeed that you love me I'' And ^alT 
would embrace me willi tears in hct 
eyes. I felt very happy. Aunt Gl 
del approved of all. In a 
thousand such scenes passed thro 
my mind, and when I retired 




^B : " There is no one as 
^Ppu, Joseph. See what a 
you can make Catharine by 
I ; and she surely is prepar- 
icthing for your y?/*^, for she 
)iily of you ; you are both 
>py, and, when you are mar- 
will go well." 

1 was thus working on, think- 
f of happiness, the winter 
tarlier than usual, toward the 
cement of November. It 
begin with snow, but with 
i weather and strong frosts. 
r days all the leaves had faii- 
ihe earth was hard as ice and 
:rcd witli hoar-frost ; tiles, 
It, and window-panes gl i ttered 
Fires had to be made to 
cold out, and, when the doors 
;ned for a moment, the heat 
to disappear at once. The 
rackled in llie stoves and 
way like straw in the fierce 
of the chimneys, 
morning I hastened to wash 
es of the shop-window witli 
Iter, and I scarcely closed it 
iiosty sheen covered it. 
, people ran puffing with 
kt-collars over their ears and 
nds in their pockets. No 
od still, and, when doois 
they soon closed. 
't know what became of tJie 
i, whether they were dead or 
4U not one twittered in the 
■u)d, save the reveille and 
Iftded in tl\e barracks, no 
poke the silence. 

in the fire crackled mer- 
sieur Goulden stop his 
dng on the frost-covered 
n : 

poor soldiers ! our poor sol- 
id this so mournfully that I 
toking in my throat as I re- 

osieur Goulden, tliey 



Tk* Story of a Conscript. 



3^5 




■ifoasiei 



ought now to be in Poland in good 
barracks ] for to suppose that human 
beings could endure a cold like this, 
it is impossible." 

" Such a cold as this," he said ; 
" yes, here it is cold, very cold, from 
the winds from the mountains ; but 
what is this frost to that of the 
north, of Russia and of Poland? 
God grant that they started early 
enough. My God ! my God 1 tlie 
leaders of men have a heavy wei^t 
to bear." 

After the frosts so much snow fell 
that the couriers were stopped on 
the road toward Quatre-Vents. I 
feared that I could not go to see 
Catharine on Yier fttt day ; but two 
companies of infantry set out with 
pickaxes, and dug through the frozen 
snow a way for carriages, and that 
road remained open until the com- 
mencement of the monlli of April, 
1813. 

Nevertheless, Catharine's fete ap- 
proached day by day, and my happi- 
ness increased in proportion. I had 
already the thirty-five francs, but I 
did not know how to tell Monsieur 
Goulden that I wished to buy the 
watch ; I wanted to keep tlie whole 
matter secret ; and it annoyed me 
greatly to talk about it. 

At length, on the eve of the event- 
ful day, between six and seven in the 
evening, while we were working in 
silence, the lamp between us, sud- 
denly I took my resolution, and s.a»d : 

*' You know. Monsieur Goulden, 
that I spoke to you of a purchaser 
for the little silver watch." 

"Yes, Joseph," said he, without 
raising his head, **but he has not 
come yet." 

"It is I who am the purchaser, 
Monsieur Goulden." 

Then he looked up in astonish- 
ment. I took out the thirty-five 
francs and laid them on the work- 
bench. He stared at me. 



316 



The Story of a Conscript, 



" But," he said, " it is not such a 
watch as that you want, Joseph ; you 
want one that will fill your pocket 
and mark the seconds. Those little 
watches are only for women." 

I knew not what to say. 

Monsieur Goulden, after meditat- 
ing a few moments, began to smile. 

" Ah !" he exclaimed j " good I 
good ! I understand now ; to-morrow 
is Catharine's /?ff. Now I know 
why you worked day and night. 
Hold ! take back this money j I do 
not want it." 

I was all confiision. 

" Monsieur Goulden, I thank you," 
I replied ; " but this watch is for Ca- 
tharine, and I wish to have earned 
it You will pain me if you refuse 
the money ; I would as lief not take 
the watch." 

He said nothing more, but took 
the thirty-five francs ; then he open- 
ed his drawer, and chose a pretty 
steel chain, with two little keys of 
silver-gilt, which he fastened to the 
watch. Then he put all together in 
a box with a rose-colored favor He 
did all this slowly, as if affected ; then 
he gave me the box. 

"It is a pretty present, Joseph," 
said he. " Catharine ought to deem 
herself happy in having such a lover 
as you. She is a good girl. Now 
we can take our supper. Set the 
table." 

The table was arranged, and then 
Monsieur Goulden took from a closet 
a bottle of his Metz wine, which he 
kept for great occasions, and we sup- 
ped like old friends rather than as 
master and apprentice j all the even- 
ing he never stopped speaking of the 
merry days of his youth ; telling me 
how he once had a sweetheart, but 
that, in 1792, he left home in the /n'ff 
fn masse at the time of the Prussian 
invasion, and that on his return to 
F<fn«?trange, he found her married— 
a very natural thing, since he had 



miM 



never mustered courage CIKM 
declare his love. Howe\xr, tfa 
not prevent his remaining faitl 
the tender remembrance, and 
he spoke of it he seenn 
I recounted all this in ji ^u 
Catharine, and it was noti 
stroke of ten, at the passi 
rounds, which relieved 
on post every tw^enty 
account of the great cold, thi 
put two good logs in the fire, 1 
length went to bed. 



minw 



in. 



The next day, the i8tT 
bcr, I arose about six in 
ing. It was terribly cold 
window was covered with 
frost. 

I had taken care the nij 
to lay out on the back of a cha 
sky-blue coat, my trousers, my 
skin vest, and my fine black 
cravat. Everything was ready 
well-polished shoes lay atj 
of the bed ; 1 had only to 1 
self; but the cold I felt 
face, the sight of those windov*! 
and the deep silence wit! 
me shiver in advance, 
not Catharine's fete, I 
remained in bed until rait 
suddenly that recollection tnad 
rush to the great delf stoi 
some embers of the precc 
almost always remained 
cinders. I found two or 
h.istened to collect and pt 
der some split wood and 
logs, after which I ran 
bed. 

Monsieur Goulden, under the 
curtains, with the coverings pull 
to his nose and his cotton nigl 
over his eyes, woke up, and crie< 

"Joseph, we have not had 
cold for forty years. I never | 
90. What a winter we shall hi 



Stl^wnl 
^^ 

igjIH 
a cha 

i, my 
black 
ready 

« 

dov-| 

'3 

t)i(^^ 
}n tnaid 
StOlMJj 

1 am^ 
)r tl»«g 

,d| 




Tht Story of a Conscript. 



317 



answer, but looked out 
If the fire was lighting ; the 
burnt well ; I heard the chim- 
w, and at once all blazed up. 
ind of the flames was merry 
but it required a good half- 
fsel the air any warmer. 
taK arose and dressed my- 
HBieur Goulden kept on 
^but r thought only of Ca- 
and when at length, toward 
clock, I started out, he e.\- 

ph, what are you thinking of? 
I going to Quatre-Vents in 
e coat ? You would be dead 
)rou accomplished half the 
into my closet, and 
It cloak, and the mit- 
le double-soled shoes 
lannel." 

kmart in my fine clothes 
led whether it would be 
low his advice, and he, 
citation, said : 
• B man was found frozen 
"Sh the way to Wecham, 
iteinbrenner said that he 
a piece of dry wood 
ipped him. He was a 
'had left the village be- 
seven o'clock, and at 
>und him ; so that the 
"not take long to do its 
>u want your nose and 
you have only to go 
re." 

len, that he was right ; 
the thick shoes, and 
cord of the mittens over 
and put the cloak 
'hus accoutred, I sal- 
fj", after th.inking Monsieur 
y who warned me not to 
_Iale, for the cold increased 
and great numbers 
ire crossing the Rhine 

ane as far as the church 
tip the foxskin collar 



of the cloak lo shield my ears. The 
cold was so keen that it seemed as 
though the air were filled wth nee- 
dles, and one's body shrank involun- 
tarily from head to foot. 

Under t^e German gate, I saw the 
soldier on guard, in his great gray 
mantle, standing back in his box like 
a saint in his niche ; he had his sleeve 
wrapped about his musket where he 
held it, to keep his fingers from the 
iron, and tvvo long icicles hung from 
his mustaches. No one was on the 
bridge, but, a little ftirther on, I saw 
three carts in the middle of the road 
with their canvas-tops all covered 
with frost J they were unharnessed 
and abandoned. Everj'thing in the 
distance seemed dead ; aH living 
things had hidden themselves from 
the cold ; and I could hear nothing 
but the snow crunching under my 
feet. On each side were walls of ice, 
as I ran along the trench the soldiers 
had dug in the snow ; in some places 
swept by the wind, I could see the 
oak forest and the bluish mountain, 
both seeming much nearer than they 
were, on account of the clearness of 
the air. Not a dog barked in a 
farm-yard ; it was even too cold for 
that. 

But the thought of Catharine warm- 
ed my heart, and soon I descried 
the first houses ofQuatre-Vents. The 
chimneys and the thatched roofs, to 
the right and left of the road, were 
scarcely higher than the mountains 
of snow, and the ^^llagers had dug 
trenches along the walls, so that they 
could pass to each other's houses. 
But that day ever)' family kept around 
its hearth, and the little round win- 
dow-panes seemed painted red, firom 
the great fires burning within. Be- 
fore each door was a truss of straw 
to keep the cold from entering be- 
neath it. 

At the fifth door to the right I 
stopped to take off my mittens; then 



318 



The Story of a Conscript. 



I opened and closed it very quickly. 
I was at the house of Grddel Bauer, 
the widow of Matthias Bauer and 
Catharine's mother. 

As I entered, and while Aunt Gr^- 
del, astonished at my fox-skin collar, 
was yet turning her gray head, Catha- 
rine, in her Sunday dress — a pretty 
striped petticoat, a kerchief with long 
fringe folded across her bosom, a red 
apron fastened around her slender 
waist, a pretty cap of blue silk with 
black velvet bands setting off her 
rosy and white face, soft eyes, and 
slightly retroussi nose — Catharine, I 
say, exclaimed : 

" It is Joseph ! " 

And she ran to greet me. saying : 

" I knew the cold would not keep 
you from coming." 

I was so happy that I could not 
speak. I took off my cloak, which I 
hung upon a nail on tlie wall, with my 
mitlens ; I took off Monsieur Goul- 
den's great shoes, and felt myself pale 
with joy. 

I would have said something 
agreeable, but could not ; suddenly I 
exclaimed : 

" See here, Catharine ; here is 
something for your/^/V*." 

She ran to the table. Aunt Gr^- 
del also came to see the present. Ca- 
tharine untied tlie cord and opened 
the box. I was behind them, my 
heart bounding — T feared that the 
watch was not pretty enough. Bxit 
in an instant, Catharine, clasping her 
hands, said in a low voice : 

" How beautiful I It is a watch !" 

"Yes," said Aunt Gr^del ; "it is 
beautiful ; I never saw so fine a one. 
One would think it was silver," 

" But it is silver." returned Catha- 
rine, turning toward me inquiringly. 

Then I said : 

" Do you think, Aunt Grddel, that 
I would be capable of giving a gill 
watch to one whom I love better than 
n/ own life? If I could do such a 



thing, I would despise 
than the dirt of my she 

Aunt Grt'del asked : 

" But what is this paini 
face ?" 

" That painting, Aui 
snid I, "represents two 
love each other more 
tell: Joseph Bertha anc 
Bauer; Joseph i 
of roses to his 
stretching out her ha 
them." 

When .Aunt Gr^del hac 
admired the watch, she 

"Come until I kiss 
I see very well that you nw 
economized very much and 
hard fur this watch, and I Um 
very pretty, and that you are 
workman, and will do tis 
credit." 

From then until midday « 
happy as birds. Aunt Grdd 
tied .ibnut to prepare a large ] 
with dried prunes, and wine, : 
namon and other good thiiif 
but we paid no attention to I 
it was only when she put on 
jacket and black sabots, anfl 
"Come, my children : 
we saw the fine tabic • 
IX)rringer, the pitcher ol 
the large round, golden 
plate in the middle. 11 
joiced us not a little^ aQ<j 
said : 

" Sit there, Joseph, oppo 
window, that I may look 
you must fix my watch, 
know where to put it." 

I passed tile chain 
neck, and then, seating 
ate gayly. Without, not : 
heard ; within the fire cr 
rily upon the hcanh. It 
pleasant in the large kitcl 
gray cat, a little wild, 
through the balusters of U; 
without daring 



1 

of Ui 



Story of a Conscript. 



319 



N^ra^aflcr dinner, sang Der 
lotl. She liad a sweet, clear 
and it seemed to float to 
I sang low, merely to sus- 
Aunt Gr^del, who could 
rest doing nothing, began 
_ ; the hum of her wheel filled 
silences, and we all felt happy. 
one air was ended, we began 
Mr. At three o'clock, Aunt 
t seni-ed up the pancake, and 
ale it, laughing, she would ex- 
come, now, you are child- 
rrvality." 

pretended to be angry, but we 
;e in her eyes that she was 
from the bottom of her heart. 
ted until four o'clock, when 
m to come on apace ; the 
semed to enter by the little 
and, knowing that we must 
lit, we sat sadly around the 
on which the red flames were 
I would almost have given 
to remain longer. Another 
>3ssed, when Aunt Gr^del 

fehm, Joseph? It is time for 
\ go ; the moon does not rise 
icr midnight, and it will soon be 
IS a kiln outside, and an acci- 
tappens so easily in these great 

Ise words seemed to fall like a 
►f fce, and I felt Catharine's 
lighten on my hand. But Aunt 
I wa«i right. 

Wne," said she, rising and tak- 
DWTi the cloak from the wall ; 
^11 come again Sunday." 
lad to put on the heavy shoes, 
kittens, and the cloak of Mon- 
Coulden, and would have 
d that I were a hundred years 
\ - ^it, tmfortunately. Aunt 
t : 1 mc. When I had the 

collar drawn up to my ears, 
id: 
ow, Joseph, you must go I" 



^ -^ 



Catharine remained silent. I 
opened the door, and the terrible 
cold, entering, admonished me not to 
wait 

" Hasten, Joseph," said my aunt. 

" Good-night, Joseph, good-night !" 
cried Catharine, * and do not forget 
to come Sunday." 

I turned around to wave my hand ; 
then I ran on without raising my 
head, for the cold was so intense that 
it brought tears to my eyes even be- 
hind the great collar. 

I ran on thus some twenty minutes, 
scarcely daring to breathe, when a 
drunken voice called out: 

" Who goes there ?" 

I looked through the dim night, 
and saw, fifty paces before me, Pin- 
acle, the pedler, with his huge bas- 
ket, his otter-skin cap, woollen gloves, 
and iron-pointed staff. The lantern, 
hanging from the strap of his basket 
lit up his debauched face, his chin 
bristling with yellow beard, and his 
great nose shaped like an extinguish- 
er. He glared with his little eyes 
like a wolf, and repeated, "Who goes 
tliere ?" 

This Pinacle was the greatest 
rogue in the country. He had, the 
year before, a difficulty with Mon- 
sieur Goulden, who demanded of him 
the price of a watch which he under- 
took to deliver to Monsieur Anstett, 
the curate of Homert, and the money 
for which he put into his pocket, say- 
ing he had paid it to me. fiut, al- 
though the villain made oath before 
the justice of the peace, Monsieur 
Goulden knew the contrary, for on 
the day in question neither he nor I 
had left the house. Besides, Pinacle 
w^anted to dance with Catharine at a 
festival at Quatre- Vents, and she re- 
fused because she knew the story of 
the watch, and was, besides, unwilling 
to leave me. 

The sight, then, of this rogue with 
his iron-shod stick in Ihe TO\AA\e tA 



I 




Thf Story of a CoHScript 



tlie road did not tend to rejoice my 
heart. Happily a little path which 
wound around the cemetery was at 
my left, and, without replying, I 
diished tlirough it, although the snow 
reached my waist 

Then he, guessing who I was, cried 
furiously : 

" Aha I it is the little lame fellow ! 
■ Halt! hall! I want to bid yougood- 
B evening. You came from Catharine's, 
~ you watch -stealer." 

But I sprang like a hare through 
tl)e heaps of snow ; he at first tried 
lo follow me, but his pack hindered 
him, and, when I gained the ground 
again, he put his hands around his 
mouth, and shrieked : 

" Never mind, cripple, never mind ! 
Your reckoning is coming all the 
same; the conscription is coming — 
the grand conscription of. the one- 
eyed, the lame, and the hunch-backed. 
You will have to go, and you will 
find a place under ground like the 
others." 

He continued his way, laughing 
like the sot he was, and I, scarcely 
nble to breathe, kept on, thanking 
Heaven that the little alley was so 
near me ; for Pinacle, who was known 
always to draw his knife in a fight, 
might have done me an ill turn. 

In spite of my exertion, my feet, 
even in tlie thick shoes, were in- 
tensely cold, and I again began run- 
ning. 

That night the water froze in the 
cisterns of Phalsbourg and the wines 
in ihe cellars — things that had not 
happened before for sixty years. 

On the bridge and under the Ger- 
man gate the silence seemed yet 
deep>cr than in the morning, and the 
night made it seem terrible. A few 
stars shone between the masses of 
white cloud that hung over the city. 
All along the street I met not a soul, 
and when I reached home, after shut- 
flag the door of our lower passage, it 



seemed warm to me, although Ac 
little stream that ran from ilic yanl 
along tlie wall was frozen. I sti 
a moment to take breadi ; then 
ccnded in the dark, my hand on tel 
baluster. 

When I opened the door of my, 
room, the cheerful warmth of the 
stove was grateful indeed. Mon- 
sieur Goulden was seated in his am* 
chair before tlie fire, his cap of blade 
silk pulled over tiis cars, and hit 
hands resting upon his knees. 

" Is that you, Joseph ?" be «ked 
without turning round. 

"It is," I answered. " How plcv 
sant it is here, and how cold out tH 
doors! VVe never had such a wj»- 
ter." 

" No," said he gravely. "It fe t 
winter that will long be remem- 
bered." 

I went into the closet and htny 
the cloak and mittens in th' 
and was about relating my ;m 
with Pinacle, when he resumed : 

" You had a pleasant day of X 
Joseph." 

" I have had, indeed. Auat 
del and Catharine wished me to 
you their compliments," 

"Very good, very good," jtaitlbe; 
" the young arc i^ght to amuse thca- 
selves, for when we grow old, and 
suffer, and see so much of inju»tkt, 
selfishness, and i " "•, tst:f 
tiling is spoiled in . 

He spwke as if lalki :-:eW, 

gazing at the fire. I h.. -«<n 

him so sad, and I asked : 

"Are you not well, Monsi''"' 
Goulden?" 

Dut he, without replying, tnu: 
mured : 

" Yes, yes ; this is to be a git* 
militar}' nation ; this is glory 3" 

He shook his head and Ueot oftf 
gloomily, his lieavy gray bnnrs ock^ 
tracted in a frown. 

I \- >t what to think of aB 





The Story of a Conscript. 



331 



falsing his iiead again, he 



his moment, Joseph, there are 
idred thousand families weep- 
France; the grand army has 
I in the snows of Russia; 
^ stout young men whom 
k months we saw passing 
bs are buried beneath them. 
^ came this afternoon. Oh I 
rible! horrible!" 
I^flent Now I saw clearly 
^bt have another conscrip- 
SRer all campaigns, and this 
! lame would most probably 
p. I grew pale, and Pinacle's 
|f made my hair stand on end. 
to bed, Joseph; rest easy," 
nsieur Goulden. " I am not 
I will stay here ; all this up- 
Did you remark anything 

ST 

^■Dsieur Goulden." 

|Ho my room and to bed. 

Qg time I could not close my 

liking of tlie conscription, of 

k^ and of so many thousands 

buried in the snow, and then 

I flight to Switzerland. 

: three o'clock Monsieur Goul- 

red, and a few minutes after, 

God's grace, I fell asleep. 



Hwosei 



vr. 



I in the morning, about 
went to Monsieur Goulden's 
b^in work ; but he was still 
Qoking weary and sick, 
ph," said he, " I am not well. 
riblc news has made me sick, 
ive not slept at all. I will 
Vf and by. But this is the 
gulate the city clocks ; I can- 
for to see so many good peo- 
iple I have known for thirty 
n miser)', wxmld kill me. Lis- 
ph ; Lake those keys hanging 
hit door, and go, I will try 
a little. If I could sleep 



an hour or two, it would do me 
good." 

" Very well. Monsieur Goulden," I 
replied ; " I will go at once." 

After putting more wood in the 
stove, I took the cloak and mittens, 
drew Monsieur Goulden's bed-cur- 
tains, and went out, the bunch of keys 
in my pocket. The illness of Fathefi 
Melchior grieved me very much for 
a while, but a thought came to console 
me, and I said to myself: "You can 
climb up ttie city clock-tower, and see 
the house of Catharine and AuqjLi 
Gr^del." Thinking thus, I arrived at 
the house of Brainstein, the bell-ring- 
er, who lived at the corner of the lit- 
tle court, in an old, tumble-down bar- 
rack. His two sons were weavers, and 
in their old home the noise of the loon* 
and the whistle of tlie shuttle was heard 
from morning till night. The grand- 
mother, old and blind, slept in an arm- 
chair, on the back of which perched 
a magpie. Father Brainstein, when 
he did not have to ring the bells for 
a christening, a funeral, or a marriage, 
kept reading his almanac behind 
the small round panes of his win- 
dow. 

The old man, when he saw me, rose 
up, saying: 

"It is you, Monsieur Joseph." 

" Yes, Father Brainstein ; I come 
in place of Monsieur Goulden, who b 
not well." 

" Very well ; it is all the same," 

He took up his staff and put on his 
woollen cap, driving away the cat that 
was sleeping upon it ; then he took 
the great key of the steeple from a 
drawer, and we went out together, I 
glad to find myself again in the open 
air, despite the cold ; for their misera- 
ble room was gray with vapor, and as 
hard to breathe in as a kettle ; I 
could never understand how people 
could live in such a way. 

At last we gained the street, and 
Father Brainstein said ; 



The Story of a Conscript. 



323 



r, were kneeling on the 
n the midst of the deepest 
ihey prayed for the absent, 
m only to see them once 

Vcli<l not realize all this ; 
inty the thought that, if I had 
jpear before, Catharine would 
praying and asking me of 
like a bolt on my heart, and 
my body tremble. 
iS go I let us go I" I exclaim- 

§ terrible." 
r he asked. 

icended the stairs under the 
:e, and I went across the 
the house of Monsieur ihe 
lant Meunier, while Brain- 
c the way to his house. 
corner of the Hotel de Ville, 
ight which I shall remember 
t There, around a placard, 
B than five hundred people, 
I women crowded against 
T, all pale and with necks 
ij|d, gazing at it as at some- 
Hlritton. They could not 
Da from time to time one 
r in German or French : 
ley are not all dead ! Some 

out: 

it! let us get near it." 
jld woman in the rear 
arms, and cried : 
ber I my poor Christo- 

■ at her clamor, called 
her. 
le crowd continued to 
ugli the German gate. 
{th, Harmautier, the sergent- 
wne out of the guard-house, 
i at the top of the steps, with 
•lacard like the first ; a few 
otlowcd him. Then a rash 

El him, but the sol- 
le crowd, and old 
n to read the pi a- 




card, which he called the twenty- 
ninth bulletin, and in which the em* 
peror informed them that during the 
retreat the horses perished ever}" night 
by thousands. He said nothing of 
the men ! 

The sergent-de-i'ilU read slowly ; 
not a breath w.os heard in tlie crowd ; 
even the old woman, who did not un- 
derstand French, listened like the 
others. The buzz of a fly could have 
been heard. But when he came to 
this passage, " Our cavalry was dis- 
mounted to such an extent that we 
were forced to collect the officers who 
yet owned horses to form four com- 
panies of one hundred and fifty ijien 
each. Generals rated as captains, 
and colonels as under-officers" — 
when he read this passage, which 
told more of the miserj'of the grand 
army than all the rest, cries and 
groans arose on all sides ; two or 
three women fell and were carried 
.ivvay. 

It is true that the bulletin added, 
*' The health of his majesty was never 
better," and that was a great conso- 
lation. Unfortunately it could not 
restore life to three hundred thou- 
sand men buried in the snow ; and 
so the people went away very sad. 
Others came by dozens who had not 
heard the news read, and from time 
to time Harmautier came out to read 
the bulletin. 

This lasted until night ; still the 
same scene over again. 

I ran from the place ; I wanted to 
know nothing about it. 

I went to Monsieur the Command- 
ant's. Entering a parlor, I saw him 
at breakfast. He was an old man, 
but hale, with a red face and good 
appetite. 

" Ah I it is you !" said he, " Mon- 
sieur Goulden is not coming, then ?" 

" No, Monsieur the Commandant, 
the bad news has made him ill." 

" Ah ! I understand," he said, 



The Story of a Cofiscript. 



325 



>nsieur ordered me to Or, 



m.' 

p very cheerful here." 

^" she said ; " and it is 

■time in years; I don't 

IS the matter." 

« done, I left the house, 

SjOn these occurrences, 
id to me strange. The 
itered my mind that they 
at our defeat. 
i«l the comer of the 
Father F^ral's, who 
le ** Standard-Bearer," 
be age of fortj-fivcj he, 
(h, and for many years the 
I, family, had carried the 
A^ volunteers of Phals- 
■and only returned after 
Campaign. He had his 
in the army of Russia, 
lis, and George F^ral. 
icommandant of dragoons j 
kers, officers of infantry. 
Jgd the grief of Father 
■ was going, but it was 
^hat I saw when I en- 
X)ra. The poor old man, 
^d, was sitting in an arm- 
pd the stove, his bead 
H his breast, and his sight- 
^n, and staring as if he 
tee sons stretched at his 
not speak, but great 
It rolled down his fore- 
)ng, thin cheeks, while 
i>ale as that of a corpse. 
»f his old comrades of 
die republic — Father 
Father Nivoi, old Paradis, 
d. Froissard — had come to 
p. They sat around him 
smoking their pipes, and 
if they themselves needed 

Mte^ time one or the 

Bofne, Ft?ral I arc we no 
Bans of the army of the 
d Meuse ?" 



" Courage, Standard-Bearer I cou- 
rage ! Did we not carry the battery 
at Fleuries ?" 

But he did not reply ; every minute 
he sighed, and the old friends made 
signs to each other, shaking their 
heads, as if to say : 

" This looks bad." 

I hastened to regulate the clock 
and depart, for to see the poor old 
man in such a plight made my heart 
bleed. 

When I arrived at home, I found 
Monsieur Goulden at his work -bench. 

" You are returned, Joseph," said 
he. " Well ?" 

"Well, Monsieur Goulden, you 
had reason to stay away ; it is terri- 
ble." 
• And I told him all in detail. 

He arose. I set the table, and, 
whilst we were dining in silence, the 
bells of the steeples began to ring. 

" Some one is dead in the city," 
said Monsieur Goulden. 

" Indeed ? I did not hear of it." 

Ten minutesafter, the Rabbi Rose 
came in to have a glass put in his 
watch. 

" Who is dead ?" asked Monsieur 
Goulden, 

" Poor old Standard-Bearer." 

" What ! P'ather F^ral ?" 

"Yes. near an hour ago. Father 
Demarets and several others tried to 
comfort him ; at last, he asked them 
to read to him the last letter of his son 
George, the commandant of dragoons, 
in which he says that next spring he 
hoped to embrace his father with a 
colonel's epaulettes. As tlieoldman 
heard this, he tried to rise, but fell 
back with his head upon his knees. 
That letter had broken his heart" 

Monsieur Goulden made no remark 
on the news. 

" Here is your watch. Monsieur 
Rose," said he, handing it back to 
the rabbi ; •' it is twelve sous." 



Per Liquidum'jEthera VaUs. 



327 



at, my children, and fear not ; 
will soon be a change !" 
itumed about four in the even- 
> Phalsbourg, somewhat more 
than when I set out. But as I 
ip the Rue de la Munitionnaire, 
d at the comer of the college 
um of the sergent-de-vilU, Har- 
:r, and I saw a throng gathered 
1 him. I ran to hear what was 
on, and I arrived just as he be- 
ading a proclamation, 
mautier read that, by the sma- 
sultus of the 3d, the drawing 
i conscription would take place 

! 15th. 

ras already the 8th, and only 

days remained. This upset me 

etely. 

: crowd dispersed in the deepest 

J. I went home sad enough, 

lid to Monsieur Goulden : 

le drawing takes place next 

day." 

1!" he exclaimed, "they are 

no time ; things are pressing.'' 

i easy to imagine my grief that 

id the days following. I could 

ly stand ; I constantly saw my- 

i the point of leaving home. I 

lyself flying to the woods, the 

farmes at my heels, crying, 



"Halt! haft!" Then I thought of 
the misery of Catharine, of Aunt Gr^- 
del, of Monsieur Goulden. Then I 
imagined myself marching in the ranks 
with a number of other wretches, to 
whom they were crying out, "For- 
ward I charge bayonets I" while whole 
files were being swept away. I heard 
bullets whistle and shells shriek ; in 
a word, I was in a pitiable state. 

" Be calm, Joseph," said Monsieur 
Goulden ; " do not torment yourself 
thus. I think that of all who may be 
drawn there are probably not ten who 
can give as good reasons as you for 
staying at home. The surgeon must 
be blind to receive you. Besides, I 
will see Monsieur the Commandant. 
Calm yourself." 

But these kind words could not re- 
assure me. 

Thus I passed an entire week al- 
most in a trance, and when the day 
of the drawing arrived, Thursday 
morning, I was so pale, so sick-look- 
ing, that the parents of conscripts en- 
vied, so to speak, my appearance for 
their sons. " That fellow," they said, 
"has a chance; he would drop the 
first mile. Some people are bom un- 
der a lucky star l" 

10 BK CONTINUSa 



«PER LIQUIDUM iETHERA VATES." 



Oh ! to chant the grander story, 
And to muse the melting tale 1 

Oh ! to rouse the soul of glory. 
And to charm the happy vale 1 

I should love to make the nations 
Bow before my lofty song, 

While my fancy's fair creations 
Endless pleasures should prolong. 




Per Liqmdum ^tiera Votes. 329 

Even Heaven will grant me kinship, 
I would tell what God hath made. 



I will dwell apart with heroes, 
I will mate with saintly men ; 

God and nature ever near us, 
I shall be more blessed then. 

Humbled, chaste, my soul shall listen 
To the chiming of the spheres, 

Wliere, on high, His glories glisten, 
As Hb throne the spirit nears. 



IV. 

Yes, ye bands of bright immortals. 
Free throughout all earth and time, 

I would ope the grand old portals 
Leading to your realms sublime ; 

Suns and starry worlds beneath you. 
Lords of wisdom, light, and air, 

I would sip rare nectar with you, 
I would taste ambrosia there ; 

There to feel exultant powers 
Lift me up the ethereal tide, 

O'er your bright and airy towers, 
WTiere the boldest plume is tried. 



V. 



Holiest helpers, lend assistance, 

That I fail not in the flight! 
Pride, away ! in that grand distance 

Thou art black as shades of night 

Faithful, pure, and single-hearted, 

I may soar on tireless wing, 
Till the folds of light are parted 

Where the heavenly muses sing. 

Whitmorb. 




Faith and the Sciences, 



33 » 



ig a revolution, or enjoying the 
nent of a battle ; so the mulii- 
f little men go not with them, 
bey who would deem it gross 
irtual weakness to rely on the 
ity of St. Paul, or even of our 
liimself, have followed blindly 
th full confidence an Agassiz, 
Jey, a Lyell, or any other sec- 
third-rate physicist, who is un- 
xi to defend theories that un- 
le the authority of the church 
J Bible. 

are not, we frankly confess, 
i in the sciences. They have 
!d so rapidly and so essenti- 
tce our younger days, when we 
tt some pains to master them, 
S do not know what they are 
tny more than we do what they 
to-morrow. We have not, in 

Rss, been able to keep pace 
and we only know enough 
ow to know that they are 
lally changing under the very 
the spectator. But, if we do 
)W all the achievements of the 
s, we claim to know something 
Kiience of sciences, the science 
pves the law to them, and to 
Ehey must conform or cease to 
Lto have any scientific cha- 
Wjt we know not what they 
P^ we know something which 
ive not done. 

laid, in our article on the Car- 
Doubt^ that the ideal formula 

Kgive us the sciences ; but 
rw, what it did not comport 
ir purpose to add then, that, 

Ifdoes not give them, it gives 
ir law and controls them, 
k deduce our physics from 
|k)'sics ; but our metaphysics 
bsophy gi\'es the law to the 
vc or empirical sciences, and 
bes the bounds beyond which 
nnot pass without ceasing to 
[ices. Knowing the ideal for- 
'C do not know all the sciences, 



but we do know what Is not and can* 
not be science. 

The ideal formula, being creates ex- 
istences, which is only the first arti- 
cle of the creed, is indisputable, cer- 
tain, atul the principle alike of all the 
real and all the knowable, of all exist- 
ence and of all science. This for- 
mula expresses the primitive intuition, 
and it is given us by God himself in 
creating us intelligent creatures, be- 
cause without it our minds cannot 
exist, and, if it had not been given us 
in the very constitution of the mind, 
we never could have obtained it. It 
is the essential basis of the mind, the 
necessary condition of all thought, 
and we cannot even in thought deny 
it, or think at all without affirming it. 
This we have heretofore amply shown ; 
and we may add here that no one 
ever thinks without thinking some- 
thing the contrani' of which cannot 
be thought, as St. .Anselm asserts. 

As Berkeley says to the mathema- 
ticians, "Logic is logic, and the same 
to whatever subject it is applied." 
When, therefore, the cultivators of the 
inductive sciences allege a theory or 
hypothesis which contradicts in any 
respect the ideal formula, however 
firmly persuaded they may be that it is 
warranted by the facts obser^'cd and 
analyzed, we tell them at once, with- 
out any examination of their proofs 
or reasonings, that their hypothesis 
is unfounded, and their theor)- false, 
because it contradicts the first prin- 
ciple alike of the real and the know- 
able, and therefore cannot possibi) 
be true. We deny no facts well a*" ' 
certained to be facts, but no induc- 
tion from any facts can be of as high 
authority as the ideal formula, for 
without it no induction is p>ossible.j 
Hence we have no need to examina 
details any more than we have to en- 
ter into proofs of the innocence or 
guilt of a man who confesses that he 
has openly, know'mg\y, atvd Vtv^eTVCxanc 



Faith and the Sciences. 



developed. A uni- 
developed from nothing is 

more difficult to compre- 
ihe creation of the universe 
ling through the word of 
^v One able to create and 
IHTou can develop a germ, 
annot develop where there 
to be developed. Then the 
s not developed from no- 
{^ from something. What 
Hthing? Whatever you 

«o be, it cannot be some- 
ted, for you deny all crea- 
Ti it is eternal, self-existent 
ug in itself, therefore being 
snitude, independent, im- 
romplete, perfect in itself, 
"ore incapable of develop- 
rvelopment is possible only 
ch is imperfect, incomplete, 
nply the reduction of what 

Ke:\'elopcd is potential to 
■eat lack of sound phi- 
ith our modem theorists. 
^feot to be aware that the 
Recede the possible, and 
ossible is only the ability 
L^They assume the con- 
[B|ace possible being be- 
ffilg. Even Leibnitz says 
nselm's argument to prove 
»ce of God, drawn from the 
c most perfect being, the 
f which cannot be thought, 
ive only on condition that 
ret being is first proved to 
e. Hegel makes the start- 
af all reality and all sci- 
: naked being in the sense 
^nd not-being are identi- 
H not real, but possible 
H^xJWJ of the Gnostics, 
Vof the Buddhists, which 
roux labors hard, in his 
ite and in the article Le Cicl 
yciopidit Nouvelle, to prove 

t, tliough conceding it 
thing, as i/ there cotdd 



be any medium between .something 
and nothing. In itself, or as abstract- 
ed from the real, the possible is sheer 
nullity ; nothing at all. The possi- 
bility of the universe is the ability 
of God to create it. If God were 
not himself real, noAniverse would 
be possible. The Kssibility of a 
creature may be understood either 
in relation to its creabilily on the 
part of God, or in relation to its own 
perfectibility. In relation to God 
every creature is complete the mo- 
ment the Divine Mind has decreed 
its creation, and, therefore, incapable 
of development ; but, in relation to 
itself, it has unrealized possibilities 
which can be only progressively ful- 
filled. Creatures, in this latter sense, 
can be developed because there are 
in them unrealized possibilities or 
capacities for becoming, by aid of 
the real, more than ihey actually 
are, that is, because they are cre- 
ated, in relation to themselves, not 
perfect, but perfectible. Hence, crea- 
tures, not the Creator, are progres- 
sive, or capable, eacJi after its kind, 
of being progressively developed and 
completed according to the original 
design of the Creator. 

Aristotle, whom it is the fa.shion 
just now to sneer at, avoided the 
error of our modern sophists ; he 
did not place the possible before 
the real, for he knew that without 
tlie real there is no possible. The 
principiumy or beginning, must be 
real being, and, therefore, he asserted 
God, not as possible, but real, most 
real, and called him actus purissimus, 
most pure act, which excludes all un- 
actualized potentialities or unreal- 
ized possibilities, and implies that 
he is most pure, that is, most perfect 
being, being in its plenitude. God 
being eternally being in himself, 
being in its plenitude, as he must 
be if self-existent, and ae\C-ex\slfeivX 
he must be if not created, Yie \s \w 




capable of development, because in 
bira there are no fK)s.sibilities not re- 
duced to act. The developmentists 
must, tlien, either admit the fact of 
creation, or deny the development 
they assert and attempt to maintain j 
for, if there i^no creation, nothing 
distinguishablSrom the uncreated, 
nothing exists lo be developed, and 
the uncreated, being cither nothing, 
and therefore incapable of develop- 
ment, or self-existent, eternal, and 
immutable being, being in its pleni- 
tude, and therefore from the very 
fulness and perfection of its being 
also incapable of development. If 
the developmentists had a little phi- 
losophy or a little logic, they would 
sec that, so far from being able to 
substitute development for creation, 
they must assert creation in or- 
der to be able to assert even the 
possibility of development. Is it on 
the authority of such sciolists, so- 
phists, and sad blunderers as these 
developmentists that we are expected 
to reject the Holy Scriptures, and to 
abandon our faith in Christianity ? 
We have a profound reverence for 
the sciences, and for all really scien- 
tific men ; but really it is too much 
to expect us to listen, with the slight- 
est respect, to such absurdities as 
most of our savans are in the habit 
of venting, when they leave their 
own proper sphere and attempt to 
enter the domain of philosophy or 
theology. In the investigation of 
the laws of nature and the obsen'a- 
tion and accumulation of facts tliey 
are respectable, and often render 
valuable service to mankind ; but, 
when they undertake to determine 
by their inductions from facts of a 
secondary order what is true or false 
in philosophy or theology, they mis- 
take their vocation and their apti- 
tudes, and, if they do not render 
themselves ridiculous, it is because 
their speculations are too gravely 




FaieA ami the Sciences. 



injurious to permit us to fe«l 
them anything but grief or ii 
tion. 

None of the sciences arc 
tic ; they are all as special sc 
empirical, and are simply fonj 
inductions from facts obserre 
classified. To their absolut 
tainty two things arc Mec< 
?'irst, that the obser\'alion 
facts of the natural world 
be complete, leaving no cl( 
order of facts unobserved and 
alyzed ; and, second, that the 
tions from them should be inii 
excluding all error, and all 
lity of error. But wc &ay onl; 
every one knows, when we sa 
neither of these conditions is 
ble to any mortal man. Evrfl 
ton, it is said, compared \\\mM 
child picking up shells on the I 
and after all the exploratioQ 
have been made it is but a 
part of nature that is known, 
inductive method, ignorant!] 
posed to be an invention i 
Lord Bacon, but which is as 
the human mind itself, and < 
ways adopted by philosopbi 
their investigations of nature, 
proper method in the science 
all we need to advance them 
follow it honestly and strictly, 
every day, facts not before an 
or obsened come under the 
vation of the investigator, and 
new inductions, which ncc 
modify more or less those 
ously made. Hence it is th 
natural sciences arc contlnua 
dergoing more or less imp 
changes. Certain principles, ii 
remain the same ; but set a 
we must set aside, mailiematii 
mechanics, there is not a sin^j 
of the sciences thai is now \ 
was in the youth of men not y 
Some of them are almost lh< 
tions of yesterday. Take chd 



Faitk and the Scicuus. 



335 



letism, geology, zoo- 
logy, physiolog>', philology, 
\ to mention no more ; they 
inger what they were in our 
ti, and the treatises in which 
d them are now obsolete. 
at likely that these sciences 
k as yet reached perfection, 
ew facts will be discovered, 
irther changes and modifi- 
>e called for. We by no 
implain of this, and are far 
ng that investigation in any 
lid be arrested, and these 
remain unchanged, as they 

No : let the investigations 
t all be discovered that is 
ble, and the sciences be 

as complete as possible. 

is it not a little presump- 
Igical even, to set up any 
bese incomplete, inchoate 
against the primitive intui- 

reason or the profound 

of the Christian faith ? 

ductions to-day militate 

lie ideal formula and the 

creed ; but how know you 

tions of to-morrow 

itially modified by a 

rloser observation of facts ? 

iclusions must be certain 

can on their authority re- 
received dogma of faith or 
kI dictamen of reason. 
ow <i priori that investiga- 
lisclose no fact or fiicts that 
tcompatibic with the ideal 

No possible induction can 
' any one of its three terms. 
Incss to pretend that from 
of nature one can disprove 
^ of necessary and eternal 
^^ct of creation, or of 
HMistcnccs. The most 
He, not mad, does or can 
is, that they cannot be 
^ way of deduction or in- 
Tom facts of the natural 
rhe atheist Lalande went 



no further than to say, " I have 
never seen God at the end of my 
telescope." Be it so, what then? 
Because you have never seen God 
at the end of your telescope, can 
you logically conclude that there is 
no God ? For ourselves, we do not 
pretend that God is, or can be assert- 
ed by way of deduction or induction 
from the facts of nature, though we 
hold that what he is, even his 
eternal power and divinity, may be 
clearly seen from them ; but the fact 
that God cannot be proved in one 
way to be docs not warrant tht con- 
clusion that he cannot in some other 
way be proved, far less that there is 
no God. 

We do not deduce the dogmas of 
faith from the ideal formula, for that 
is in the domain of science ; but they 
all accord with it, and presuppose it 
as the necessary preamble to faith. 
We have not the same kind of ccr- 
taint)' for faith that we have for the 
scientific formula ; but we have a cer- 
tainty equally high and eqtially infal- 
lible. Consequently, the inductions 
or theories of naturalists are as 
impotent against it as against the 
formula itself. The authority of 
faith is superior, we say not to sci- 
ence, but to any logical inductions 
drawn from the facts of the natural 
world, or theories framed by natural 
philosophers, and those then, how- 
ever plausible, can never override it. 
No doubt the evidences of our faith 
are drawn in part from histor)*, and 
therefore from inductive science ; but 
even as to that part the certainty is 
of the same kind with that of any of 
the sciences, rests on the analysis of 
facts and induction from them, and 
is at the very lowest equal to theirs at 
the highest. 

But let us descend to matters of 
fact. We will take geology, which 
seems just now to be regarded as the 
most formidable weapon agamsX, vVve 



336 



Faith and the Scimces. 



Christian religion. Well, what has 
geology done ? It has by its re- 
searches proved an antiquity of the 
eartli and of man on the earth which 
is far gfreater than is admissible by 
the chronology of the Holy Scrip- 
tures. It has thus disproved the 
chronology of the Bible ; therefore it 
has disproved the divine inspiration of 
the Bible, and therefore, again, the 
truth of the Christian dogmas, which 
have no other authority than that in- 
spiration. But have you, geologists, 
really proved what you pretend ? 
You have discovered certain facts, 
fossils, etc., which, if some half a 
dozen possible suppositions are true, 
not one of which you have proved 
or in the nature of the case can prove, 
render it highly probable that the 
earth is somewhat more than six 
thousand years old, and that it is 
more tlian tive thousand eight hun- 
dred and sixtj'-seven years since the 
creation of man. As to the antiquity 
of man, at least, you have not proved 
what you pretend. Your proofs, to 
be worth anything, must destroy all 
possible suppositions except the one 
you adopt, which they do not do, for 
we can suppose many other explana- 
tions of the undisputed facts besides 
the one you insist on our accepting. 
Moreover, the facts on which you 
rely, if fairly given by Sir Charles 
Lyell in his Antiquity of A fan, by no 
means warrant his inductions. Sup> 
pose there is no mistake as to facts, 
which is more than we are willing to 
concede, especially as to the stone 
axes and knives, which, according 
to the drawings given of them, are 
exactly similar to hundreds which we 
have seen when a boy strewing the 
surface of the ground, the logic by 
which the conclusion is obtained is 
puerile, and discreditable to any 
man who has had the slightest intel- 
lectual training. 
But suppose you have proved ilie 



uiru 



antiquity of the earth and 
to be as you pretend, wl 
the first place, you ha^ 
that the earth and ms 
not created, that God 
beginning create the heal 
earth, and all things thei 
leave, then, intact both tl 
and the dogma which pi 
and reasserts it as a trui 
lation as well as of science 
have disproved the chro 
the Bible, Is it the 
the Bible or chronology 
by learned men that 
proved? Say the chroD( 
actually is in the BibU 
learned men know that 
gy is exceedingly diffict 
possible to make out, ai 
selves have never been 
it at all to our entire 
is it certain that the Scr 
selves even pretend tha 
signed to the creation ol 
given by divine revelati^ 
be received as an artit 
There is an important difi 
tween the chronology gii 
Hebrew Bible and that 
Septuagint used by tlie i 
Greek fathers, and still 
united as well as by 
Greeks, and we are nc 
there has ever been an 
decision as to which or 
two chronologies must 
The commonly receivec 
certainly ought not to 
from without strong anc 
sons ; but, if such reasons J 
we do not understand tha 
be departed from withe 
the authority of either 
or the church. V\'e kn< 
tian doctrine or dogma 
affected by carrying the 
creation of the world a 
many centuries further 
recognize the fact of 



Faith and the Sciences. 



137 



Ui does not depend on a ques- 
aritiunetic, as seems to have 
ssumed by the Anglican Bi- 
*olenso. Numbers are easily 
d in transcription, and no 
tntator has yet been able to 
ile all the numbers as we now 
^em in our Hebrew Bibles, or 
{I the Greek translation of the 

jpo&ing, then, that geologists 
Btorians of civilizaUon liave 
acts, not to be denied, which 
} require for the existence of 
>be, and roan on its face, a 
period than is allowed by the 
inly received chronology, we 
see that this warrants any in- 
I against any point of Chris- 
th or doctrine. \Vc could, we 
\, more easily explain some of 
Is which we meet in the study 
pry, the political and social 
|s which have evidently taken 
tf more time were allowed us 
Ibl Noah and Moses than is 
pd by Usher's chronology ; 
|id enable us to account for 
pilngs which now embarrass 
(torical science ; yet whether 
allowed more time or not, or 
r we can account for the his- 
iacts or not, our faith remains 
for we have long since 
that, in the subjects with 
ice proposes to deal, as 
^velalion itself, there are 

igs which will be inexpli- 
i'cn to the greatest, wisest, and 
iOf men, and that the greatest 
liicb any man can entertain is 
f expecting to explain eVery- 
anlcss concluding a thing must 
pe false because we know not 
planation is a still greater 
True science as well as true 
yt modest, humble indeed, and 
more depressed by what it 

it cannot do than elated by 
have done. 




Science, it is furtlier said, has ex- 
ploded the Christian doctrine of the \ 
unity and the Adamic origin of the 
species, and therefore the doctrines 
of Original Sin, the Incarnation, the 
Redemption, indeed the whole of 
Christianity so far as it is a super- 
natural system, and not a sjstenii 
of bald and meagre rationalism^^ 
Some people perhaps believe it 
But science is knowledge, either 
intuitive or discursive ; and who 
dares say that he kncnvs the dogma 
of the unity of the human species is 
false, or that all the kindreds and 
nations of men have tfot spnmg from 
one and the same original pair ? The 
most that can be said is that the 
sciences have not as yet proved it, 
and it must be taken, if at all, from 
revelation. 

Take the unity of the species. The 
naturalists have undoubtedly proved 
the existence of races or varieties of 
men, like the Caucasian, the Mongo- 
lian, the Malayan, the American, and 
the African, more or less distinctly 
marked, and separated from one an- 
other by greater or less distances ; 
but have they proved that these seve-, 
ral races or varieties are distinct 
species, or that they could not all 
have sprung from the same original 
pair ? Physiologists, we are told, de- 
tect some structural differences be- 
tween the negro and the white man. 
The black differs from the white \x\ 
the greater length of the spine, in 
the shape of the head, leg, and foot 
and he;el, in the facial angles, th© 
size and convolutions of the brain. 
Be it so ; but do these differences 
prove diversity of species, or, at 
most, only a distinct variety in the 
same species ? May they not all be 
owing to accidental causes ? The 
t)'pe of the physical structure of thQ 
African is undeniably the same with 
that of the Caucasian, and all that 
can be said is, that in lYve ne^o M 



Faith and the Sciencts. 



is less perfectly realized, constituting 
a difference in degree, indeed, but 
not in kind. 

But before settling the question 
whether the several races of men be- 
long to one and the same species or 
not, and have or have not had the 
same origin, it is necessary to deter- 
mine the characteristic or diffrrcntia 
of man. Naturalists treat man as 
simply an animal standing at the 
head of the class or order mamma- 
lia, and are therefore obliged to 
seek his differentia or characteristic 
in his physical stnicture ; but if it be 
true, as some naturalists tell ns, that ' 
the same type runs through the phy- 
sical structure of all animals, unless 
insects, reptiles, and Crustacea form 
an exception, it is difficult to find in 
man's physical structure his diffe- 
rentia. The schoolmen generally 
<lefine man, a rational animal, ani- 
mal rationale, and make the genus 
animal, and the differentia reason. 
The characteristic of the species, 
that which constitutes it, is reason 
or the rational mind, and certainly 
science can prove nothing to the con- 
trary. Some animals may have a 
degree of intelligence, but none of 
them have reason, free will, moral 
perceptions, or are capable of acting 
from considerations of right and 
wrong. We assume, then, that the 
differentia of the species homo, or 
•man, is reason, or the rational soul. 
If our naturalists had understood this, 
they might have spared the pains they 
have taken to assimilate man to the 
brute, and to prove that he is a mon- 
key developed. 

This p>oint settled, the question of 
•unity of the species is settled. There 
may be differences among individuals 
and races as to the degree of reason, 
"but all have reason in some degree. 
Reason may be weaker in the African 
than in the European, whether owing 
to the lack of cultivation or to other 



accidental causes, but it is 
tially the same in the on« as 
other, and there is no diffcrc 
ccpt in degree ; and e^^en as 
gree, it is not rare to find nfl 
that are, in point of reasoi 
superior to many white men. 
grocs, supposed to stand \ovrt 
the scale, have the same mart 
ception and the same capacity 
tinguishing between right and 
and of acting from free will 
white men have ; and if there 
difference, it is simply adtfTereq 
degree, not a difference of kij 
species. ' 

But conceding the unity of tK 
cies, science has, at least, prove< 
the several races or varieties i 
same species could not have all » 
from one and the s.ime origina 
Where has science done this ,* 
do it only by way of induction 
facts scientifically observed an 
alyzed. What facts has it obs 
and analyzed that warrant iixii 
elusion against the Adamic ori 
all men ? There are, as we hav 
said, no anatomical, phj'siolc 
intellectual, or moral facts that 
rant such conclusion, and no 
facts are i)ossibIe. Wherever m( 
found, they all have the essentia 
racteristic of men as distingt 
from the mere animal ; they alt 
substantially the same physical l 
ture ; all have thought, specclj 
reason, and, though some may 
ferior to others, nothing proves 
all may not have sprung frou 
same Adam and Eve. Do yoi 
ethnology cannot trace all tb( 
dreds and nations of men bacli 
common origin ? That is nothi 
the purpo,se ; can it say they c 
have had a common origin ? 
men are found everywhere, and i 
they have reached from the ] 
of Shinar continents separated 
Asia by a wide expanse of watci 



Fait/t aiid the Sciences. 



339 



ten distributed over America, New 
[olland, and Uie remotest islands of 
1. when they had no ships 
^norant of navigation ? Do 
know that they had, in wliat are 
us antehistorical times, no ships 
nd no knowledge of navigation, as 
know they have had them both 
since the first dawn of history ? 
|o f Then you allege not your 
tte against the Christian dogma, 
bat your ignorance, which we submit 
ind sufficient to override faith. You 
« prove that men could not have 
distributed from a common cen- 
tre as we now find them before you 
assert that they could not have 
ad X common origin. Besides, are 
fou able to say what changes of land 
and water have taken place since 
Ben first appeared on the face of the 
earth .' Many changes, geologists as- 
lUTc as^ have taken place, and more 
tn they know may have occurred, 
have left men where they are 
found, and where they may have 
Bne without crossing large bodies of 
water. So long as any other hypo- 
theats is possible, you cannot assert 
own as certain. 

the difference of complexion, 
lage, and usage which we note 
sn the several races of men 
; that they could not have sprung 
or»e and the same pair. Do you 
^ey could not .' Know it ? No ; 
>lutely, perhaps ; but how can 
I prove they could and have? That 
not the question. Christianity is 
possession, and must be held to 
rightfully in possession till real 
idfence shows the contrary. I may 
not be able to explain the origin of 
diflfcrences noted in accordance 
the assertion of the common ori- 
of all men in a single primitive 
". but my ignorance can avail you 
vn. My nescience 
Your business 
by science to disprove faith; if 



your science does not do that, it does 
nothing, and you are silenced. We do 
not pretend to be able to account for 
tlie differences of tlie several races, any 
more than we pretend to be able to 
account for tJie well-known fact that 
children born of the same parents 
have different facial angles, different 
sized brains, different shaped mouths 
and noses, different temperaments, 
different intellectual powers, and dif- 
ferent moral tendencies. We may 
have conjectures on the subject, but 
conjectures are not science. If ne- 
cessary to the argument, we might, 
perhaps, suggest a not improbable 
hypothesis for explaining the differ- 
ence of complexion between the white 
and the colored races. The colored 
races, the yellow, the olive, tlie red, 
the copper-colored, and the black, 
are inferior to the Caucasian, have 
departed farther from the norma of 
the species, and approached nearer 
to the animal, and therefore, like ani- 
mals, have become more or less sub- 
ject to the action of the elements. 
External nature, acting for ages on a 
race, enfeebled by over-civilization and 
refinement, and therefore having in a 
great niea^sure lost the moral and in- 
tellectual power of resisting the ele- 
mental action of nature, may, per- 
haps, sufficiently explain tlie differ- 
ences we note in the complexion of 
the several races. If the Europeans 
and their American descendants were 
to lose all tr.idition of the Christian 
religion, as they are rapidly doing, 
and to take up with spiritism or 
some other degrading superstition, 
as they seem disposed to do, and to 
devote themselves solely to the lux- 
uries and refinements of the material 
civilization of which they are now 
so proud, and boast so much, it is 
by no means improbable Uiat in 
time they would become as dark, 
as deformed, as imbecile as the 
despised African or the ua'd.ve '^^'<n 



340 



Faith and the Sciences. 



Hollander. We might gpve ver)' 
plausible reasons for regarding the 
negro as the degraded remnant of a 
once over-civilized and corrupted race ; 
and perhaps, if recovered, Christian- 
ized, civilized, and restored to com- 
munication with the great central cur- 
rent of human life, he may in time 
lose his negro hue and features, and 
become once more a white man, a 
Caucasian. But be this as it may, 
we rest, as is our right, on the fact 
that the unity of the human species 
and its Adamic origin are in posses- 
sion, and it is for those who deny 
either point to make good their de- 
nial. 

Hut the Scriptures say mankind were 
originally of one speech, and we find 
that every species of animals has its 
peculiar song or crj', which is the 
same in every individual of the same 
species ; yet this is not the case with 
the different kindred and nations of 
men ; they speak different tongues, 
which the philologist is utterly un- 
able to refer to a common origin- 
al. Therefore there cannot be in 
men unity of species, and the asser- 
tion of the Scriptures of all being of 
one speech is untrue. If the song of 
the same species of birds or the cry 
of the same species of animals is the 
same in all the individuals of that 
species, it still requires no very nice 
ear to distinguish the song or the cry 
of one individual from that of an- 
other ; and therefore the analogy 
relied on, even if admissible, which 
it is not, would not sustain the con- 
clusion. Conceding, if you insist on 
it, that unity of species demands unity 
of speech, the facts adduced war- 
rant no conclusion against the Scrip- 
tural assertion ; for the language of all 
men is even now one and the same, 
and all realty have one and the same 
speech. Take the elements of lan- 
g\xagiR as the sensible sign by which 
men coniznunicate with one another, 



and there is even now, at leant' 
as known or conceivable, onl| 
language. The essential ckf 
of all dialects are the sanM.' 
have in all the subject, the prM 
and the copula, or the noun, ad}( 
and verb, to which all the othen 
of speech are reducible. Henfl 
philologist speaks of univenuil i 
mar, and constructs a gramtni 
pticable alike to all dialects, i 
philologists also contend thai 
signs adopted by all dialects a| 
dically the same, and that the 
rences encountered are onlyacd 
al. This has been actually prol 
the case of what are called the i 
or Indo-European dialects. Tlu 
Sanskrit, the Pchlvi or old I^ 
the Keltic, the Teutonic, the S 
nic, the Greek, and the Latin^ 
which are derived the modern 
lects of Europe, as Italian, Ffl 
Spanish, Portuguese, English, IJ 
German, Scaninn, Turk, Polish, 
sian, Welsh, Gaelic, and IrisJt, 4 
cept the Basque and Lettish or^ 
nish, have had a common origij 
philologist doubts. That the i 
of dialects called Semitic, mdill 
the Hebrew, Ch.i Id .lie, S ' ii 

and Ethiopic, have had .. ^^ j 
tical with that of the Ar)'an ■ 
is, we believe, now hardly di 
All that can be said is, that pfa 
gists have not proved it, nor the 1 
fact with regarti to the so-calla 
ranian group, as the Chinese; 
Turkish, the Basque, the Lelti 
Finnish, the Tataric or Mongi 
etc., the dialects of the aboii 
tribes or nations of America « 
Africa. But what con' " ' 1 
be drawn from the fact 1! *l 

a science confessedly in its ttik 
and hardly a science at all, ha 
as yet established an idcnti 
origin with these for the most 
barbarous dialects? From tba 
that philology has not asceill 






conclude that the iden- 
tes not exist, or even that philo- 
My not one day discover and 

Wogy may haie also proceed- 
assumptions, which have 
progress and led it to 
sions. It has proceeded 
' assumption that the savage is 
biiti%'e man, and that his agglft- 
I dialect represents a primitive 
if language instead of a dege- 

Re. A broader view of his- 
i jusler induction from its 
d, perhaps, upset this as- 
lon. The savage is the dege- 

§the primeval man ; man in 
childhood, not in his first ; 
: the reason why he has 
, no inherent progressive 
and why, as Niebuhr asserts, 
Is no instance on record of a 
[ people having by its own indi- 
I efforts passed from the savage 
'civilized state. The thing is 
bssible as for the old man, de- 
ly age, to renew the vigor and 
y of his youth or early man- 
nstead of studying the dialects 
tribes to obtain specimens of 
itive forms of speech, philo- 
hould study them only to ob- 
tcimens of worn-out or used up 
or of language in its dotage. 
\c savage dialects that we have 
t>wlcdge of, we detect or seem 
Ct traces of a culture, a civil- 
of which they who now speak 

■ lost all memory and are 
capable. This seems to 
ittr witness to a fall, a loss. 
%, when the .American and Afri- 
«cts are better known, and are 
with reference to this view of 
Kgc state, and we have better 
incd the influence of climate 
nts of life on the organs of 
and therefore on pronuncia- 
Ispecially of the consonants, 
1 be able to discover indica- 



tions of an identity of origin where 
now we can detect only traces of di- 
ve rsitj". As long as philology has 
only partially explored the field of 
observation, it is idle to pretend that 
seietue has established anything 
against the scriptural doctrine of the 
unity of speech. The fact that philo- 
legists have not traced all the various 
dialects now spoken or extinct to a 
common original amounts to nothing 
against faith, unless it can be proved 
that no such original ever existed. It 
may have been lost and only the dis- 
tinctions retained. 

Naturalists point to the various 
species of plants and animals distri- 
buted over the whole surface of the 
globe, and ask us if we mean to say 
that each of these has also sprung 
from one original pair, or male and 
female, and if we maintain that the 
primogenitors of each species of ani- 
mal were in the garden of Eden with 
.Adam and Eve, or in the Ark with 
Noah. If so, how have they become 
distributed over the several conti- 
nents of the earth and the islands 
of the ocean ? Argumentum a spede 
ad speciem, non vaktf as say the books 
on logic. And even if it were proved 
that in case of plants and animals 
God duplicates, triplicates, or quad- 
riplicates the parents by direct crea- 
tion, or that he creates anew the 
pair in each remote locality where the 
same species is found, as prominent 
naturalists maintain or are inclined 
to maintain, it would prove nothing 
in the case of man. For we cannor 
reason from animals to man, or from 
flora to faun.-u Neariy all the argu- 
ments adduced from so-called science 
against the faith are drawn from sup- 
posed analogies of men and animals, 
and rest for their validity on the as- 
sumption that man is not only generi- 
cal ly, but specifically, an animal, which 
is simply a begging the question. 
Species again, it is said, \s>x\ \)fe Afc> 



L 



veloped by way of selection, as the flo- 
rist proves in regard to flowers, and 
the shepherd or herdsman in regard 
to sheep and cattle. That new varie- 
ties in the lower orders of creation 
may be attained by some sort of de- 
velopment is not denied, but as yet 
it is not proved that any new species 
is ever so obtained. Moreover, facts 
would seem to establish that, at least 
in the case of domestic animals, 
horses, cattle, and sheep, the new va- 
rieties do not become species and are 
not self-perpetuating. Experiments 
in what is called crossing the breed 
have proved that, unless the crossing 
is frequently renewed, the variety in 
a very few generations runs out. 
There is a perpetual tendency of each 
original ty|3e to gain the ascendency, 
and of the stronger to eliminate the 
others. Cattle-breeders now do not 
rely on crossing, but seek to improve 
their stock by selecting the be^t 
breed they know, and improving it by 
improved care and nourishment The 
different varieties of men may be, 
perhaps, improved in their physique 
by selection, as was attempted in the 
institutions of Lycurgus; but, ai; the 
moral and intellectual nature predo- 
minates in man and is his character- 
istic, all conclusions as to him drawn 
from the lower orders of creation, evqn 
in his physical constitution, arc sus- 
picious and always to be accepted 
with extreme caution. The church 
has defined what no physiologist has 
disproved, that anima est forma cor- 
poris. The soul is the informing or 
vital principle of the body, which 
modifies all its actions, and enables 
it to resist, at least to some extent, 
the chemical and other natural laws 
which act on anim.ils, plants, and 
unorganized matter. 'I'he physiolo- 
gical and medical theories based on 
chemistry, which were for a time in 
vogue and are not yet wholly aban- 
dotted, contain at best oaly a modi- 



cum of truth, and can no'Crbel 
followed, for in the life of man 
is at work a subtiler power I 
chemical or any other physical I 
We do not deny that mi 
through his body related to tli< 
terial world, or that many of lh< 
of that world, mineral, vegelabli 
animal, are in some degree ap 
ble to him ; but, as far as scicw 
yet proceeded, they are so onlj 
many limitations and n^odihd 
which the physician — wc us 
word in its etymological a»wcl| 
its conventional sense — can U 
determine. 'Ihe morale ever) 
sician knows has an immense | 
over the physujiu. The high< 
morale, the greater the power ( 
physical system to resist ph 
laws, to endure fatigue, to be 
against and even to throw o6f dii 
Physical disease is often geiK 
by moral depression, and not 5< 
thrown off by moral exhilar 
What is called strength of %» 
times seems not only to subjec 
ease to its control, but to bold . 
itself at bay. In armies the « 
with more care, more labor, 
h.-irdship, and less food and i 
will survive the common sc 
vasUy his superior as to his men 
sical constitution. These facfi 
innumerable others like then» \ 
a strong protest against the too 
mon practice of applying to 
without any reservation the 
which we observe in the lower ( 
of creation, and arguing from 
is true of them what must be tl 
him. Tear oflT the claw of a lo 
and a new one will be pushed 
cut the polypus in pieces, ax»d 
piece becomes a perfect pol 
at least so we arc told, fa 
have not ourselves made or se« 
experiment But nothing of th 
is true of man, nor even of the t 
classes of animals in which of 



J 



Faith and the ScioKes, 



343 



piore complex- V\'e place lit- 
liidence in conclusions drawn 
[le assumed analogies between 
ind animals, and even the de- 
lent of species in them by se- 
I or otherwise, if proved, would 
jDve to us the possibility of a 
•\-elopment in him. We must 
monkey by development grow 
pian before we can believe it. 
U^hy, even in the case of ani- 
bat can be propagated only by 
lion of male and female, we 
isuppose the necessity of dupli- 
the parents of the species is 
dan we are able to understand, 
dividuals of the species could 
ere man could go. Suppose 
|l a species of <ish in a North 
^an lake, and the same species 
Uropean or Asiatic lake which 
\ water communication with it, 
M say the two lakes have never 
in communication, you who 
Ihat the earth has existed for 
|5 of ages ? Much of what is 
tid was once covered with wa- 
^ much now covered with wa- 
I probable was once land in- 
1 by plants, animals, and men. 
tven indicate that the part of 
|th now under the Arctic and 
lie circles once lay nearer to 
^tor, if not under it, and that 
fe now mountains were once 
z the surface of the 
i notions which exclude 
Kobabilities or indications are 
Be, or can be accepted as con- 
L 

^ then, all the facts on which 
Ituralists support their hypo- 
they establish nothing against 
The facts really established 
favor faith or are perfectlycom- 
^|U> it ; and if any are alleged 
Hko militate against it, they 
IS not proved to be facts, or 
|ue character is not fully ascer- 
I and no conclusion from them 



can be taken as really scientific. We 
do not pretend that the natural sci- 
ences, as such, tend to establish the 
truth of revelation, and we think some 
over-zealous apologists of the foith 
go further in this respect than they 
should. The sciences deal with facts 
and causes of the secondary order ; 
and it is very certain that one may 
detennine the quality of an acorn as 
food for swine without considering 
the first cause of the oak that bore it. 
A man may ascertain the properties 
of steam and apply it to impel vari- 
ous kinds of machinery, without giv- 
ing any direct argument in favor of 
the unity and Adamic origin of the 
race. The atheist may be a good 
geometrician ; but, if there were no 
God, there could be neither geometry 
nor an atheist to study it. All we 
contend is, that the facts with which 
science deals are none of them shown 
to contradict faith or to warrant any 
conclusions incompatible with it. 

Hence it may be assumed iJiat, 
while the sciences remain in their own 
order of facts, they neither aid faith 
nor impugn it, for faith deals with a 
higher order of facts, and moves in a 
superior plane. The order of facts 
with which the sciences deal no doubt 
depends on the order revealed by 
faith ; and no doubt the particular 
sciences should be connected with 
science or the explanation and appli- 
cation of the ideal formula or first' 
principles, what we call philosophy, as 
this formula in turn is connected with 
the faith ; but it does not lie within 
the province of the particular science*' 
as such to show this dependence Of 
this connection, and qwx mvans inva-l 
riably blunder whenever they attempt^ 
to do it, or to rise from tlie special tttlj 
the general, the particular to the uni- 
versal, or from the sciences to faith. 
Here is where they err. What theyj 
allege that transcends tlie particular 
order of facts with wVvkb l\ve ?>c\e.wcfes 




344 



Faith and the Scimees, 



deal is only theory, hypothesis, con- 
jecture, imagination, or fancy, and 
has not the slightest scientific value, 
and can warrant no conclusions either 
for or against faith. Tliere is no 
logical ascent from the particular to 
the universal, unless there has been 
first a descent from the universal to 
the particular. Jacob saw, on the 
ladder reaching from heaven to earth, 
the angels of God descending and 
ascending, not ascending and de- 
scending. There must be a descent 
from the highest to the lowest before 
there can be an ascent from the low- 
est to the highest God becomes 
man that man may become God. 
The sciences ail deal with particulars 
and cannot of themselves rise above 
particulars, and from them universal 
science is not obtainable. 

He who starts from revelation, 
which includes the principles of uni- 
versal science, can, no doubt, find all 
nature harmonizing with failh, and 
all the sciences bearing witness to 
its trudi, for he has the key to their 
real and higher sense ; but he who 
starts with the particular only can 
never rise above the particular, and 
hence he finds in the particulars, or 
the nature to which he is restricted, 
no immaterial and immortal soul, and 
no God, creator, and upholder of the 
universe. His generalizations are 
only classifications of facts, with no 
intuition of their relation to an order 
above themselves ; his universal is tlie 
particular, and he sees in the plane 
of his vision no steps by which to 
ascend to science, far less to faith. 
Saint-Simon and Auguste Comte 
both understood well the necessity of 
subordinating all the sciences to a 
general principle or law, and of inte- 
grating them in a universal science ; 
but starting with the special sciences 
themselves, they could never attain 
to a universal science, or a science 
'hat accepted, generalized^ and ex- 




plained them all, and hence ^ 
ended in atheism, or, what is the| 
thing, the divinization of humi 
The positivists really recognize 
particulars, and only particnlal 
the material order, the only ordfl 
sciences, distinguished from phj 
phy and revelation, do or catt 
with. Alexander von Humboldt 
probably, no superior in the scid 
an<l he has given their rhumi \ 
Cosmos ; but, if we recollect 4 
the word God does not once ^ 
in that work, and yet, except 1 
he ventures to theorize bc^'on^ 
order of facts on which the sci<| 
immediately rest, there is HttI 
that work that an orthodo.\ Ckt 
need deny. Herbert Spenc 
a man of abilit}', who discln 
a follower of Auguste Ct 
positivist, excludes from li 
ble, principles and causes, all d 
.sensible phenomena ; and alth 
wrong in view of a higherphilos 
than can be obtained by tndu 
from the sensible or particular j 
yet he is not wrong in contei] 
that the sciences cannot of i 
selves rise above the particulai 
the phenomenal. 

Hence we do not agre« 
those Christian apologists who HI 
that the tendency of the scien^ 
to corroborate thedoctrinesof ri 
tion. They no more tend of thcmli 
to corroborate revelation than th< 
to impair it. They who press i 
into the cause of infidelitj,', and 1| 
conclude that science explodes \ 
mistake their reach, for we cai 
more conclude from them a| 
faith than we can in favor ofl 
The fact is, the sciences ar4 
science, and lie quite belo«r 
sphere of both science and j 
\Vhen arrayed against either, ^ 
authority is null. Hence 
elude, d priori, against 
they presume to impugn 



eimcr, ^ 




Faith and the Sciences, 



34$ 



6nce as expressed in the 
mula, or against faiih which 
lered in itself objecrivcly, no 
ain than the formula itself ; 
have shown, i posUriori, by 
ing to the particulars, that 
tC€S present no facts that im- 
Telation or contradict the 
|B of faith. The conclu- 
the savans against the Chris- 
grnas are no logical deduc- 
inductions from any facts or 
irs in their possession, and 
B, however they may carry 
oHsts, or the half-learned, or 
nds, greedy of novelties, they 
y of no scientific account. 
at faith demands of the sci- 
\ auch is their silence. She 
t demand their support, she 
ttands that they keep in their 
ler, that the cobbler should 
his last, ne sutor ultra crept- 
•"aith herself is in the super- 
order, and proceeds from the 
Muce as nature herself; it 
OSes science indeed, and ele- 
id confirms it, but no more 
► upon it than the creator 
I on the creature. The highest 
needs faith to complete it, and 
robability never could have 
t^ned to without revelation ; 
her science nor the sciences, 
:. they may need revelation, 
^^ without revelation, have 
PK conception of a divine 
iernatural revelation. It is 
11, to suppose that without rev- 
W could hnd by the sciences 
onstration or evidence of rev- 
Lai ande was right when he 
had never seen God at the 
is telescope, and his assertion 
k'cigh with all natural tlieologi- 
callcd. who attempt to prove 
lence of God by way of in- 
from the facts which natura- 
er\-e and analyze ; but he was 
Lnd grossly illogical when he 



concluded from that fact, with the 
fool of the Hible, there is no God, as 
wrong as those chemists are who 
conclude against the real presence 
in holy eucharist, because by their 
profane analysis of the consecrated' 
host they find in it the properties of 
bread. The most searching chem- 
ical analysis cannot go beyond the 
visible or sensible properties of the 
subject analyzed, and the sensible pro- 
perties of the bread and wine nobody 
pretends are changed in transubstan- 
tiation. None of the revealed dog- 
mas are either provable or disprova- 
ble by any empirical science, for they 
all He in the supernatural order, above 
the reach of natural science, and 
while they control all the empirical 
sciences they can be controlled by 
none. 

But when we have revelation and 
with it, consciously or unconsciously, 
the ideal formula, which gives us the 
principles of all science and of all 
things, and descend from the higher 
to the lower, the case is essentially 
different. We then find all the sci- 
ences so far as based on facts, and 
all the observable facts or phenome- 
na of nature, moral, intellectual, or 
physical, both illustrating and con- 
firming the truths of revelation and 
the mysteries of faith. We then ap- 
proach nature from the point of view 
of the Creator, read nature by the 
divine light of revelation, and study 
it from above, not from below ; we 
then follow the real order of things, 
proceed from principles to facts, from 
the cause to the effect, from the uni- 
versal to the particular, and are, afker 
having thus descended from heaven 
to earth, able to reascenci from earth 
to heaven. In this way we can see all 
nature joining in one toshowforth the 
being and glory of God, and to hymn 
his praise. This method of study- 
ing nature from high to low by the 
light of first principles and of divine 



54S 



My Meadowbrook Adventure. 



revelation enables us to press all the 
sciences into the service of failh, to 
unite thcin in a common principle, 
and do what the SaintSimonians 
and positivists cannot do, integrate 
Jthem in a general or universal sci- 
ence, bring the whole intellectual life 
of man, as we showed in our article 
on Rome or Reason, into unison with 
faith and the real life and order of 
things, leaving to rend our bosoms on- 
ly that moral struggle symbolized by 
Rome and the World, of which we 

ive heretofore treated at length. 

But this can never be done by in- 
duction from the facts obser\^ed and 
analyzed by the several empirical or 
inductive sciences. We think we have 
shown that the pretension, that these 
sciences have set aside any of the 
doctrines of Christianit)', or impaired 
the faith, except in feeble and unin- 
structed minds, is unfounded ; we 

jink we have also shown that they 
only have not, but cannot do it, 

scause tliey lie in a region too low 
to establish anything against revela- 



tion. Yet as the sciences are insuffi- 
cient, while restricted to their proper 
sphere, to satisfy the demand of rca- j 
son for apodictic principles, for unity 
and universality, there is a perpelDil 
tendency in the men devoted exdu* 
sively to their culture to draw from 
them conclusions which are unwM^ 
ranted, illogical, and antagonistic 
both to philosophy and to (aitk 
Against tliis tendency, perhaps never 
more strongly manift:sled llian at this 
moment, there is in natural .tcience 
alone no sufficient safeguard, and coih 
scquently we need tlie supemalunl 
light of revelation to protect botfc 
failh and science itself. With the ICM 
of the light of r«vclalion we lose, in 
fact, the ideal formula, or the liglit of 
philosophy ; and with the light of 
philosophy, we lose both science aikd ■ 
the sciences, and retain only iky T 
facts which signify nothing, or base- 
less theories and wild conjcctunei^ Jl 
which, when substituted for real \ 
science, are far worse than nothing. 



MY MEADOWBROOK ADVENTURE. 



" No, no, Tom ; that is out of the 
question. I can't afford to go away 
just now. I am getting into a fine 
practice ; the courts open in ten 
days ; and besides, I am in the midst 
of an essay on the Law of Contracts 
which I promised for the next num- 
ber of a certain law magajrine. Your 
prescription is a very pleasant one ; 
but really I can't take it. You must 
give me a good dose of medicine in- 
stead." 

" I tell you what it is, Franklin, I 
don't let my patients dictate to me in 
rfcaf srvJe, You have been fool 



enough to throw yourself into a ne*^| 
vous fever by working in thi* na»tfj 
den all summer, instead of takingti 
vacation-run to the country as yc*' 
ought to have done ; and now, if yw 
don't follow my directions, 1 swear 
won't cure you ! Go off to s<itn<? qui 
farm-house for a week or t 
your essay on contracts wc n 

your mind, take the stupid \\ 

you. I'll risk your working .... ' 
it after you get within scent "i 
fields." 

I could not stand out 
against the bluff orders of my \f\t.tA 



^ 



My Mcadoxvbrook Adventure. 



347 



rphysictan Tom Bowlder. I 
I too, that he was right. I had 
{Isked myself. 1 had been dan- 
fcly ill ; and, eager as I was to 
b with my work, I could not 
feeling that rest and change 
[absolutely necessary for me. 
F packed my portmanteau, not 
ting my precious essay and a 
1 supply of writing-paper, and 
isxt morning saw me on the way 
(adovvbrook. 

Iras a quiet, sleepy little village, 
fcg at the foot of a beautifully 
kl ridge, and looking out from 
fclter, across a slope of green 
\ to a little istream which ran 
{g over the stones a quarter of a 
|<ktant. Majestic old elm-trees 
fl the grassy roads and swung 
branches over the roofs of the 
|hle cottages. There was only 
Ihise in the place which pretcnd- 
ieanjthing better than a cottage, 
|at was a rather stately villa, a 
liundred years old at least, 
i stood a little way out of the 
L surrounded with trees, and 
p from the public gaze by an 
IDUS hawthorn hedge which 
round the extensive grounds, 
bwbrook House, or " the house," 
ilras generally called by the vil- 
L was the property of an old 
b lady named Forsythe, the 
lier of a retired merchant who 
cars ago had chosen tliis quiet 
retreat for his old age. Mr. 
ie was a Catholic, and one of 
St actions after removing to 
R'brook was to build the pret- 
pe church in the main street of 
llage, and to pledge a certain 
Ibnually from his ample income 
I support of the priest- When, 
k long life of usefulness, ho 
md was buried by the side of 
jfe, leaving all his property to 
lighter, who had already long 
I the period of )X)uth, the gene- 



rosity of Miss Forsythe continued to 
supply what the poor little Catholic 
congregation was unable to give, and 
the excellent spinster was still the 
mainstayof the church. Poor Father 
James, an old man now of ne;irly 
seventy, would have fared ill but for 
her assistance. 

So much I learned in an after-sup- 
per chat with my landlady on the 
night of my arrival, I cannot say 
that I was much engrossed at the 
time by the good woman's garrulous 
narrative, but after-events were to 
give me a deep interest in Meadow- 
brook House and in everything con- 
nected with it. I had taken lodg- 
ings in the village inn, a neat, quiet, 
respectable establishment, where 
there were few guests except the viU 
lagers who used to drop in of an even- 
ing to enjoy a little gossip and a 
pipe, and with whom, after a days' 
ramble, I used often to sit and smoke 
my cigar. I led an idle but most 
delicious life during my ten day's 
holiday. I ranged through the 
woods, with my gun on my shoukler, 
bringing home now and then a bird 
or so, but caring in reality move for 
the walk than the shooting, I whip- 
ped the brook for trout. I searched 
the fields for botanical specimens. 
I wandered about with a volume of 
Tennyson or Buchanan in my poc- 
ket, stopping at limes to lie down 
and read under the trees. I did al- 
most everything, in fact, except work 
at my essay, which remained in the 
portfolio where I had originally pack- 
ed it. 

One sunny afternoon I was dozing 
on my back in the shade of an apple 
orchard, when a strain of music was 
borne to my ears, beginning like the 
distant hum of bees, and gradually 
swelling on the air with slow and ma- 
jestic cadences. 1 had never heard, 
such music in Meadowbrook beforeiif ' 
Curious to know whei\ce it caxcife, \. 



34« 



My Mcadowbrook Adventure. 



followed the sound, and was not long 
in discovering that some practised 
.Jiand was touching llie wheezy little 
ll>rgan in the village church. Not the 
[Bame hand which was accustomed 
painfully to struggle with the keys 
there on Sunday, and wring from 
them broken and doleful sounds to 
the distress of all nervous listeners. 
The person who was playing now had 
the touch of a master ; and as the 
plaintive phrases of the Agnus Dei 
from Mozart's First Mass broke upon 
the solitude of the church, the rick- 
ety organ seemed infused with a new 
spirit. I could not have believed 
that so much pathos and such ex- 
quisite delicacy of tone could be 
drawn from the wretched instrument 
whose laborious whistling and puff- 
ing had set my teeth on edge the pre- 
vious' Sunday. I sat down in a pew 
under the gallery, and listened. It 
was not until twilight approached 
that the playing ceased. I heard the 
organ closed ; the player was silent 
for a few moments ; " He is saying a 
prayer," thought I ; and then a soft 
step began to descend the stairs. 
Thinking it possible the performer 
might feel annoyed at perceiving a 
stranger in the church, I sat quietly 
in my place, confident that the grow- 
ing darkness and the shelter of one 
of the pillars would screen me from 
observation. I could see very well, 
however, though 1 could not be seen, 
and my surj>rise was great when a 
slender female figure issued from the 
gallery staircase, and came within 
the light of the open street door. 
She was young — not more than eigh- 
teen, I should think — with a face 
of rare beautj^, a pretty form, a light 
and graceful carriage, and theunmi.s- 
takable air of a gentlewoman. Small, 
regular features, light brown eyes, 
cheeks like a peach, blooming with 
health, a profusion of dark hair, and 
an expression of remarkable simpli' 




city and sweetness made up a pic- 
ture of loveliness such as I had never 
seen before. She wore a fascinating 
little round hat, and when I first caught 
sight of her was just drawing on ho 
gloves, and I could see that her 
hands were small and shapely. She 
bent her knee as she passed before 
the altar, and when she went out 
into the street the church seemed 
denly to have grown darker. My fii 
impulse was to follow her : but 1 si 
ped, feeling that it would be an ii 
trusion, and trusting that she woo 
return the next day, if she sup 
herself to be unobserved. So 1 ke| 
still until she had been gone several 
minutes, and when I left the cbuich 
she was nowhere to be seen 

I determined to ask my landUi 
about the fair musician, and 
evening, when worthy Mrs, Bro 
brought me my supper, I detail 
her a few minutes in conversation— 
an amusement to which slie was in 
noway adverse. 

" It's been an elegant day, hasn' 
it, now. Mr. Franklin ?" said the 
woman, as she placed on the 
the smoking rasher of ham and 
pile of buttered toast; "and it's plain 
to see what a world of good 
tramping about the country is dot 
you. I wouldn't say you were 
strong yet ; but, Lord bless inc I 
you first came here, you were Hi 
better than a ghost. Well, well, s: 
and I hope you won't find our 
village too dull for you I" 

"Dull! Mrs. Brown. Not a bit 
it. I wish 1 could stay here a 
By the way, who is it pUvs the 
gan so beautifully in '■>' hr 

church? I heard the ni> ; s 

ped awhile to listen." 

" Plays the organ, sir ? Well, 
know there's Mr. Thrasher, the sci 
master ; he's the organist on Sunda 
and very like you heard him pi 
ing — though why he should be oat 



lasn^^J 




My Mcadowbrook Adventure. 



349 



to^av, and this not a holi- 

Ir. Thrasher, Mrs. Brown, 
►s on the organ as if he was 
Mng his pupils, and his singers 
D as if they felt the blows. This 
Ot Mr. Thrasher. It was a young 

leH, sir, I never knowed of no 
; lady plaj-ing the organ except 
Betty Cox, the butcher's daugh- 
They do say she has a wonder- 
lent for music, and Mr. Thrash- 
{ has been giving her lessons 
1st month, and 1 wouldn't won- 
it was her !" 

fcr, it had been my privilege to 
^liss Betty Cox finger the keys 
ay after Mass, and a. more dole- 
rforroance I never had listened 
[\-en if I had not seen the p>er- 
r, I should have been sure it 
[>t Miss Betty; but, quite apart 
lier musical proficiency, I felt 
\ bit indignant that the beauti- 
I who had made such an impres- 
|X7n mc should be mistaken for 
y Cox. No, she was not one 
tvillage damsels ; that was clear, 
unfortunately it was equally 
that Mrs. Brown knew no more 
her than I did myself. 
U a&leep that night humming 

KD(i^ and dreamed of an- 
und hats and brown kid 
ingon rickety org.ins, and 
g legions of musty school-mas- 
Ht of the clouds. 
\ next day I took my book to 
»urch-yard, and chose a shady 
iherc I could hear the first notes 
i organ. 1 waited a long while, 
Ig little, for I could not fix my 
ioQ on the page. At last she 
as I had hoped. For more 
in hour I listened to the exqui- 
Mics which seemed to flow from 
Igflie fingers. I'hen she went 
irithout perceiving me. 
iced hardly say that I made 



many another visit to the church, for 
the pursuit of the fair organist had 
now become a genuine passion with 
me. Sometimes I waited all the 
afternoon without seeing or hearing 
her. I'hen I used to go to my room 
and be moody and miserable all the 
evening. A rainy day would throw 
me into despair, and I watched the 
clouds with the eagerness of a school- 
boy on a holiday. My readers will 
not need to be told that I was falling 
desperately in love. Once or twice 
I met her walking, and had an oppor- 
tunity to notice more particularly the 
singular beauty of her fonn and 
countenance, and the refined and 
quiet air which pervaded her whole 
person. Once I met her by accident 
at the crossing of a brook. I gave 
her my hand to help her over, and 
she took it with the modest frankness 
of a true lady, saying, "Thank you, 
sir,'^ in a voice which seemed to me 
as sweet as her face. Yes, I was 
certainly in love. 

I might easily have found out all 
about her by asking a few questions 
in tlie village, where the shopkeepers, 
at ali events, would hardly be as ill 
informed as my landlady ; but since 
my conversation with Mrs. Brown I 
had become, I know not why, unwill- 
ing to sp>eak of her. I had grown 
to look upon her as my secret, which 
I was disposed to guard pretty jea- 
lously. A bit of mystery, be it ever 
so little and unnecessary, is one of 
the most charming things in the 
world to a young lover, and I have 
always thought that Sheridan dis- 
played great knowledge of human 
nature when he made Lydia Lan- 
guish refuse to be married without an 
elopement. At some time in our 
lives almost all of us give way to 
more or less of the same sort of non- 
sense. 

I'here came a sudden end at last 
to my mooning ai\d dieanutvg, ^tvd. 



350 



My Meadowbnok Advc/ttun, 



it came in a way with which even 
Lydia Languish herself could not 
have quarrelled. I had been off one 
day on a long ramble among the hills, 
and.missingmy way, didnot get back 
to Meadowbrook until close upon 
evening. As I came near the village, 
I was made aware of some extraor- 
dinary commotion in the place. Men 
and women were hurrj'ing through 
the streets, and voices were shouting 
in excited tones. 1 ran after the 
crowd, and as I turned into the main 
street a glance in the direction of the 
church reve.iled the cause of the dis- 
turbance. Flames were bursting 
through the gallery windows, and a 
j^ense smoke poured through the open 
fdoor. Nearly the whole population 
of Meadowbrook had gathered around 
the scene of disaster. The men, and 
some of the women with them, had 
[formed lines leading to one or two 
)f the nearest wells, and were pass- 
'fcg buckets >vith all the speed they 
could ; but it was too evident with 
but little prosfject of subduing the 
conflagration. I have already men- 
Ltioned that the building was of stone, 
Iso there was little fear of the 
walls falling ; but the wotxlwork of 
the interior was old, and burned al- 
most like tinder. The organ-gallery 
was, of course, of wood, and inside 
I tfie tower, which stood at the front of 
the edifice, there was a wooden stair- 
case, fonning the only means of 
r access to the gallery. It was in the 
lower, I saw at once, that the flames 
wore burning most fiercely. The rear 
of the church was as yet untouched. 
I need hardly tell what my first 
thought was when I saw the cruel 
jlare that lighted up the approaching 
[twilight. A sickening sensation 
crept over me. If the fair musician 
was in the gallery when the fire broke 
out, her escape seemed effectually cut 
off. I ran forward ; but there was 
tittle need to ask questions. The 



of tl 
L> see 

■4 

■oke< 
a m< 
rd, ^ 



distressed expression on 
the eager eyes fixed upon 
dows of the gallery, the fr; 
vain efforts of one or rwc 
boldest of the crowd to f 
the doorway, out of whicli^ 
was rolling in great bti 
told me that my worst fear 

" Ah ! sir," said one of tl 
"it's a dreadful thing to see 
young creature like that 
death before our very eyi 
c^n't get to hex!" 

A cold perspiration broke < 
my forehead, and for a in< 
reeled like a drunkard, 
heavens!" I cried j "hs 
ladders .>" 

" Yes, we have two ; 
the tower, sir. There's 
except in the belfry, and 
ladders together would 
that." 

"Take the ladders into! 
by the back way," I criec 
up the front of the gallet 
I added, pulling out my 
for the first man who reaches 

" \Vc wouldn't want )'out 
sir, if we could get at iIm 
lady," answered one or tfl 
together ; " but there's littlMl 
ing. Three men have gone 
church already." 

They were still speakin 
there was a stir among the c 
the side of the budding, : 
three men reappeared. Thdi 
were scorched, and even, 
was slightly singed. 

" Can't do it," said onej 
lery front is burning like 
We got the ladders up. hx 
not climb them and hare 
away again." 

" Did you see anything of 

*' No, and didn't hear a so 
she has not been choked alu 
the smoke, she must bavcj 
into the tower," 




My Meadowbrook Adventure. 



351 



sUght hope, yet there was 
in it after all. Behind the 
there was, as I knew, a door 
ig into a sort of lumber-room 
tower, from which a rude flight 
^9, terminating in a ladder, led 
the bell. It wa? possible that 
she found the gallery staircase 
nes, (r aftenvard learned that it 
ere the fire broke out ; it was 
sed to have been caused by a 
Iropped on the stairs by a tin- 
ho had been repairing the roof 
ftemoon) — it was just possible, 
that she might have retreated 
Sse steps in the hope of being 
td through the belfry window. 
'moment or two after the failure 
leh her through the interior, 
was a pause of awful suspense. 
iver was to be done, however, 
)e done at once. The flames 
alcing rapid headway, and in 
utes nothing would be left of 
er but the bare stone shell. 
ly h was doubtful if any one 
Tvive even in the upper por- 
it. The men were still throw- 
cketfuls of water into the 
Ig porch with frantic speed ; 
I, of course, did little good, for 
was spreading high abore 
rcAch. Others were running 
wly about with coils of rope, 
nly a iJwught seized me. Just 
It of the church, but on the op- 
Siideof the road, stood an enor- 
iclm-tree. Some of its upper 
>es reached within fift>' feet of 
I of the tower. Was it not 
!e to bridge across that chasm ? 
there any opening," I cried, 
e tower rtH)f ?" 
[>, «r ; none at all." 
ve roe an axe and some rope." 
three axes were thrust at 
one, and tied it round 
with a long coil of rope. 
c out another coil, and, 
it over one of the lower 




limbs of the elm-tree, clambered with 
some difficulty into the branches. It 
would have been very hard climbing 
without the rope ; but as 1 could throw 
it from limb to limb where I could 
not reach, and as I was a sufficiently 
expert gymnast to pull myself up by 
it, a few seconds saw me on one of 
the upper branches which had caught 
my eye from below. There was a 
battlement around the top of tlie tow- 
er, and I thought if I could secure 
one end of the rope to one of the 
projections of tliis battlement, I 
might contrive, by tying the other to 
the tree, to work my way across. I 
made a large slip-noose, gathered up 
the line like a lasso, and cast it with 
all my strength. The first attempt 
failed. The crowd below saw my 
object now, and gave a tremendous 
cheer. I tried again, and this time 
the noose caught upon the battle- 
ment. I drew up the rope as tight 
as I could, tied it fast to the tree, and, 
clasping it with my legs and hands, 
began the most dangerous and diffi- 
cult part of my enteqjrise. There 
was a brtathless silence below as I 
pulled myself across the awful chasm. 
I could hear the roar and crackling 
of the flames, and the hot air and 
acrid smoke were driven into my 
face until T thought I should have 
fainted and fallen to the ground. At 
last I reached the battlement. With 
much trouble 1 clambered upon the 
roof, and while the excited villagers 
were screaming themselves hoarse 
and hurrahing like madmen — I hard- 
ly heard their cries at the time, but, 
with other incidents of that memo- 
rable afternoon, they came to me af- 
terward — I plied my a.xe so vigor- 
ously that in a few minutes I had 
stripped off a section of the roofing, 
and made an opening two or three 
feet square. It was too dark now to 
distinguish anything in the interior, 
but 1 knew that ihe p\atfcTn\ otv 



S5« 



My Mcadowbrook Advttiturc. 



which the bell rested must be some 
twelve or fifteen feet below me. 
Fastening the second coil of rope to 
llie battlement, I let myself down 
through the hole until I felt the solid 
planking under my feet. There was 
I'ft suffocating odor of fire, but the air 
was still pure enough to be breathed 
without serious inconvenience. I 
groped about in the dark until I 
found the ladder leading below, and, 
trembling with apprehension, hurried 
down as fast as I was able. I shout- 
ed, but there was no answer. I 
reached the landing-stage where the 
ladder stopped and the rough steps, 
Already mentioned, began, and at this 
^moment some barrier which had kept 
the flames confined below seemed to 
give way, and a flood of light 
reamed up the staircase. I hurried 
[on witli the energy of desperation. 
I When I reached the lumber-room, tlie 
I'door-way leading into the galler)' was 
wrapped in lire. Through it I could 
see the old organ blazing, the planks 
dropping off one by one, and the 
metal pipes melting under the in- 
tense heat. The lower staircase was 
nearly consumed, and the floor of 
the room itself had caught in several 
places. The drcidful glow reflected 
I upon the rough stone walls and 
! nigged beams showed me in a mo- 
[ment what I had come to seek. 
There, in a remote comer which the 
fire had not yel reached, was a fe- 
rinale form stretched senseless on the 
''floor. A round hat was lying beside 
her, and her rich brown hair fell in 
graceful waves over her neck. Her 
white arms, from which the sleeves 
had fallen back, were stretched out 
before her, and her fingers clasped a 
rosary, as if her last conscious act 
had been a prayer. I seized her by 
the waist, and, with a strength at 
which I even now wonder, rushed 
iHrith my burden toward the steps 
which I had just descended. She 



was still living. I could feel the beat 
ing of her heart and the heaving of 
her breast, and my joy at this disco- 
very gave me fresh energy. How I 
got her up the steps I never clearly 
knew ; but in a short space of time I 
had reached the top of the ladder and 
burst open the single window whick. 
looked out from the bell-chainb 
The cool air revived her almost il 
slantly, I held her up for a mon 
by the window, and, as she open 
her eyes with a bewildered sLire, Ij 
tried to say a word to calm lier. 
gazed at me an instant and tb 
burst into tears, and her head fell fo( 
ward on my shoulder. 

" Fear nothing, dear lady," ssail 
"you are safe now. Collect 
strength as much as you can. I < 
going to let you down through 
window." 

" And yourself!" she asked, stag- 
gering to her feet. 

" Oh ! make yourself easy about mc. 
I shall follow you by the s.ame wiy. 
You have only to keep calm, and 
there is little real danger." 

The rope by which I had dcsccn 
ed from the roof was still hangio 
tliere. I whipped out my knife, an 
cut it off as high as I could. Tt 
was still enough left to reach witbil 
fifteen feet of the ground. I tied ftl 
around her waist, wrapping my coal 
about it, so that it might chafe her 
as little as possible, gave it iwu turw 
around the windlass of the bell '» 
strengthen my hold, and then shou; 
ed to the crowd below to put up their 
longest ladder under the window. .^ 
cheer told me that I was understood, 
and, before the preparations for the 
descent were quite finished, 1 saw * 
ladder raised against the wall, t ! 
two or three stout fellows standing; 
ready to receive my burden. 

" Now," said I, " you have ( 
be careful to keep yourself clear 
the stones with your feet ; gratp 



knot to diminish the 
fonu waist, and trust me for 

i window was so near the floor 
b|K was little difficulty in her 
HpL I braced my feel firmly 
pt the windlass, and lowered 

(fully, but as fast as I dared, 
preased roaring of the flames 
|mcd mc that I had not a 
[lose. The openings I had 
the roof and window had, 
irse, created a strong draught 
tower, and the fire was now 
»g in it like a furnace. Her feet 
td the topmost round of the lad- 

Pi,as I had got within a yard 
Id of the rope. A pair of 
arms received her, and at 
loment the floor of the lumber 
and galler>' fell in with an awful 
; there was a lull for an instant ; 
I dense mass of smoke, flame, 
[nders burst forth, as if belched 
& volcano, and in less than a 
■■ke culsiJe as well as the in- 
^fthe tower was wrapped in 
Not soon enough, however, 
ph what I had fought so hard 
B. I lliank God I had the pre- 
of mind, when I heard the crash, 
m what was coming ; and, that 
scious moments might be lost 
filistening the rope from her 
I threw the other end out the 
m the instant I saw her foot- 
ras secure, and the men hurri- 
' down the ladder just in time. 
d her utter a cry of horror as I 
zed my own means of escape, 
EK>king out, I saw her carried 
ess away. Terrible as my dan- 
15, 1 could not help noticing the 
grandeur of the scene, Twi- 
given way to night, but the 
luminated the surrounding 
rcw a flickering, un- 
n the upturned faces 
crcxtt'd. I saw women running 
d fro, wringing their hands in 
Tl.— aj 




despair, and men looking up at the 
window where I stood, with an ex- 
pression of mingled fright and pity. 
But, if I had had a mile of rope, it 
would have been of little use to me 
now. The burning timbers had fall- 
en outside the door of the tower, and 
I could not have let myself down 
without falling into the midst of them. 
I thought of the bell-rope ; if I coukl 
get back to the roof with that, I might 
let myself down at the side. It would 
not be long enough to reach near the 
ground, but, if I escaped with a bro- 
ken leg, that would be better anyhow 
than being burnt to death. I seized 
the rope where it was attached to the 
bell, and began to pull it up through 
the hole in the floor ; a few feel of it 
only came away in my hand ; the rest 
had been consumed. The smoke by 
this time was pouring through every 
crack, and the heat of the small cham- 
ber in which I stood was so intense 
that I knew that, too, must soon fall 
in. The roof was about twelve feet 
above me. My last hope was to reach 
it, and return by the same frightful 
bridge by which I had worked my 
way over. I shuddered to think of 
trusting myself again upon that dizzy- 
crossing, with my hands already torn 
and bleeding, my brain reeling, and 
my eyes half-blinded. I sprang, how- 
ever, upon the windlass, and made 
one desperate leap for the hole in the 
roof. I just grasped the rafters, and 
as I did so the planks upon which I 
had been standing gave way. and the 
bell and its platform sank into the 
ruins. I never can forget the horror 
of that moment when, as I made my 
leap, I felt the timbers crack and fall 
under my foot into the blazing abyss. 
For the present, however, I was safe. 
I had got a Arm hold, and with much 
exertion, ner\'ed by the strength of 
desperation, I succeeded in drawing 
myself up and getting upon the roof. 
The rope-bridge was still thtit. V 



My Mcadowbrook Advetiture. 



355 



Xky whose dress indicated that 
as some sort of an upper ser- 

rame into the room. She ut- 
an exclamation of pleasure 
'»he caught my ej-e, and came 
the bedside. 

tU, sir," said she, " it does my 
'good to see you looking so 
better. You've had a hard 
►f it, that's the truth ; but we'll 
Uive you up, now." 
jtt're very kind,'' I ansiwered ; 
tody might get well in this 
; but please tell me where I 

sir] you're at Meadowbrook 
!. Miss Forsythe had you 
1 here right after the fire." 
ow long ago was that ?" 
XHil two weeks." 
long I I roust have been very 
You are \'ery good.'' 
ou^t she seemed a little sur- 
al the fervor of my gratitude ; 
took no notice of it, and was 
on to ask her further questions 
ibe very peremptorily shut me 

>vr, that will do," said she ; 
: say another word. You must 
juiet for a while ; if you talk, 

away and not come near you 

» 

M one thing more. Who 
XL those flowers ?" 
ell, if you must know, Miss 
he herself. She brings them 
lay. I suppose she'd scold if 
lew I told you. But now, keep 
ill the doctor comes, .ind, if he 
Dg, I'll chat with you as much 
please." 
ttying, the good-natured nurse 
lire my silence, left the room, 
ideed, I felt little desire to talk 
just then. 1 had asked 
flowers with a vague hope 
ight have been culled by 
which I had learned to prize 
and I am ashamed to say 



that, when the name of the excellent 
old lady, whose hospitality I was re- 
ceiving was mentioned, I turned my 
head with a sigh of disappointment. 
I fell to worrying about the fair organ- 
ist ; wondering whether she had suf- 
fered any harm from the perilous 
occurrences of that memorable night j 
whether I should ever meet her again, 
and how we should meet ; how I 
could approach her without seeming 
to presume upon the service 1 had 
rendered ; and, finally, why Miss 
Forsythe should have lavished so 
much care and kindness on a total 
stranger. I was in the midst of such 
reveries when my nurse returned and 
ushered in the doctor. 

" Well, Franklin, old fellow ! Got 
your wits again, have you ?"' exclaim- 
ed a cheery and familiar voice. 
" That's right ; now we'll soon get 
you on your legs." 

The doctor was no other than my 
old friend Tom Bowlder. He had 
heard of my accident, hurried down 
to Meadowbrook, taken entire con- 
trol of me, established a close friend- 
ship with the lady of the mansion, 
put himself on the best of terms with 
the housekeeper, Mrs. Benson, and 
installed her as nurse, and, thanks 
to his skill and tenderness, 1 had 
passed safely through a dangerous 
crisis. After putting a few profes- 
sional questions, he sat down by the 
bedside, and indulged me with a lit- 
tle conversation. 

" Well, old boy," said he, *' I sup- 
pose you want to be told first about 
yourself." (I did not ; but I let him 
go on.) "You've had an ugly time 
of it — brain fever and ttiat sort of 
thing, you know — and it's a wonder 
you weren't killed outright. But you 
are all right now, and you can have 
the satisfaction of knowing that you 
saved one of the prettiest girls that 
ever breathed, and I do believe on« 
of the best" 



356 



My Mcadowbtvok Advaiture. 






r. 



*' She is not hurt, then >" 

" Not a bit." 

" And you have seen her ? Is she 
still in Meadowbrook ?" 

" Seen her I Why, of course I have, 

ow could I help it? I see her 
every day." 

In spite of my previous perplexity 
how I should conduct myself if I 
ever met her again, I was now so 
eager for the meeting that, weak as I 
was, I wanted to get up at once. 
But to this, of course, Doctor Tom 
would not listen. 

** Yes ; but, Tom, you mustn't keep 
me here for ever. I want to — to see " 
— I stammered and broke dowTi — 
"to see Miss Forsythe, you know, 
and thank her for taking care of me." 

" All in good time, Franklin. I 
don't mean to keep you in bed much 
longer ; and the moment you are able 
to leave the room, I promise you 
^-shall see her, and make as many 
cknowledgments as you want to. 
Yox the rest of the afternoon, how- 
ever, you must keep quiet. There, 
now, you have talked enough for one 
day. Good-by." And so saying, 
Tom left me to myself. 

Mrs. Benson soon came back, 
bringing a tray covered with a snow- 
hite napkin, a bowl of gruel, and a 
glass of wine. Tom had evidently 
given her instructions; for I could 
not draw her into conversation, and, 
as soon as she had seen me comforta- 
bly fixed, she went away again. 

The next morning, Tom paid me 
%Xi early visit, and doled out a few 
more scraps of information. I learn- 
ed that Miss Forsythe had caused all 
iny luggage to be brought from the 
n, and that, as long as I could be 
uaded to remain in Meadow- 
rook, I was to make her house my 
home. *' You need not look sur- 
prised," added Bowlder. " I satisfied 
her that you were a very respectable 
person ; and, indeed, I belie\e the 




I 



old lady knows some 
Uy." 

•'Well, see here, To^ 
was out of my head, did I \ 
" Talk ! I should thill 
Chattered like a magi 
about round hats and 1 
gloves, talked a good del 
nonsense, and sometimei 
few bars of music — MiJ 
said it was a bit out of onej 
Masses. One day you'i 
hold of me, and asked if j 
had been listening under 
and ' if she knew about 
her.' Miss Forsythe bl 
rose, and went out of 

"Did she?" said I, b 
in my turn, " I don't 
ferencc that ought to m 

Tom opened his eyes 
mark in a very curious 

"Well," said he, "7 
might make a good d 
rcnce ; but I suppose yoj 
best. Now I must be ofO 
tor Jalap, who physics tlj 
has fallen sick hirasclC I 
to take care of him and H 
too. I mean to let you 
morrow, tliough I would 
you to go into the strcl 
have got all your old stS 
some to spare. The pJ 
here have got the prepodi 
lljat you're a sort of a,| 
whenever you show youil 
shake you to death with | 
tions." 

\\Tien Tom had gonej 
a great deal over his red 
Miss Forsythe, but I cotjj 
prehend it. The old lad 
tainly been very kind toi 
even if she did know m| 
was unreasonable to st^ 
she should take a veiy I 
rest in my love afBun. I 
did Tom mean by sayii^ 
two knew best ?" The tat 



lemoi 



I got puzzled. Pos- 
said I, Miss Forsyihe knows 
|)*oung lady. At any rate, I'll 
|iio time in seeing her. I can't 
lere, muddling my brains, any 
br. So I got up, found my 
l^s, dressed, and made my way 
l^tairs. Mrs. Benson met me 
|e hall, and, of course, began to 
I ; but she had to admit that I 
ted stronger, after all, than any- 
I suspected me to be, and, now 
the mischief was done, I might 
HI see Miss Fors}'the. "You'll 
lier in the parlor, sir ; she's just 
t in from the garden." 
lere was no one in the parlor 
i I entered it, but at the further 
pf the room was an open door 
pg to a conser\'atory, and there 
ght a glimpse of somebody mov- 
kaong the flowers. I went for- 
L and saw a lady, whose back 
loward me, in the act of pluck- 
Lflower to add to a bunch in her 
I She did not hear me until I 

kiss Forsythe, I don't know how 
knk you properly for — " 
■topped in amazement, for, as 
tamed, I beheld not the good 
}inster, but that sweet, inno- 
(foung face which had so long 
ed me. She started at my 
A deep blush suffused her 
She hesitated a moment ; 
5t down her eyes ; and then, 
I a frankness which was even 
jchamiing than her maiden mo- 
she sprang forward to meet 
id placed both her little hands 
le. 

ive no purpose of repeating all 

>li5h things we said in the next 

jr. This was the Miss For- 

[who had watched over my sick- 

and had run away when I 

about her in my delirium. It 

occurred to me, when Tom 

ier made his last puzzling re- 



marks, that there could be any otlier 
Miss Forsythe than the mistress of 
Meadowbrook House. My Miss 
Forsythe was the niece of that 
good lady, and, when I first met 
her, had just arrived in Meadow- 
brook on a visit for the first time 
in her life. The aunt came into 
the room, after a while, and I then 
had an opportunity of making my 
interrupted acknowledgments in the 
right quarter, and beginning a friend- 
ship with her which I look upon as 
one of the blessings of my life. 
Tom came back, too, before long, 
and, though he pretended, at first, 
to scold me for breaking out of 
bounds before I had been re- 
gularly discharged by my physi- 
cian, he must have seen, by the 
sparkle in my eyes and the elas- 
ticity which happiness imparted to 
my whole frame, that my rashness 
had been of a vast deal of service 
to me. 

" Doctor," said the old lady, " I 
think you and I must let him atone. 
Mr. Franklin seems to have changed 
his physician, and I dare say Mary, 
there, will do him more good now 
than all the medicines in the world." 

" Upon my word, Miss Forsythe, 
I believe you're right ; and, if Miss 
Mar).' wilt take care not to lead her 
patient through any more fiery fur- 
naces, I'll trust the case to her 
hands." 

I have only to add to my story 
that the essay on the Law of Con- 
tracts was never finished, business 
of a ver)' engrossing nature (includ- 
ing a contract of a peculiarly inte- 
resting kind) absorbing all my spare 
moments during the next few months. 
By tlie liberality of the elder Miss 
Forsythe the little church was soon 
restored, and the asthmatic organ 
which had ptaycti such a memorable 
part in my life was replaced by a 
new and exccUcat mstmiivewX.. 'IW 



358 Joy in Grirf. 

flames, foitnnately, had spared the our delireianoe. Once or twio 

•anctuaiy and all the rear portion year we make a visit of a week 

of the building. As soon as the so to dear Aunt Fonytbe at U 

repairs were finished, there was a dowbrook. Maiy and I never 

merry wedding at Meadowbrook, and at such times to say a prayer 

Father James gave us his blessing as thanksgiving in the churcL 11 

we knelt together in the sacred place we stray together into the of] 

where we had so narrowly escaped gallery, and, iriiile the old fami 

together from a horrible death. The strains flow from her touch, I 

little side-altar, which has since been by her side, and thank God in : 

put up in the church, was built by heart for blessing me with so sm 

my wife and me to commemorate a wife. 



JOY IN GRIEF. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA. 

" Blbsmo are they that moum : for they shall be cemibrted.'* 

Friend I in vain thy bosom hides the sharp and cruel sword that wound* 
I have understood thy silence, and my prayer hath still been for thee. 
Cast away the foolish pride that shuts thy heart against my friendship ; 
Come, and weep before me. 

Well I know that there are days of hea\7 grief and lonely sufTering, 
When the soul doth find in solitude a grim and bitter pleasure ; 
And the thoughtless world beholds its shrouded majesty pass by it 
Pale, and wrapped in silence. 

Then the friendly hand, uncertain, stops and hesitates before it, 
Fearing lest too rudely it may draw aside the veil of mourning : 
There are griefs so great and sacred that all human thought and languaj 
Dies upon the threshold. 

Now, however, days are past ; and it is time I came and sought thee. 
Oh I permit a friend to share the heavy burden of thy sorrow. 
Put thy hand in mine, thy wcar>' head upon my heart, and rest thee : 
I have suffered also. 

I will not approach thee with those vain and heartless words of fashion, 
Words which grief receives and spurns as mocking echoes of its wailinf 
No, I have a word to whisper that will bring a holy comfort : 
Tis a heavenly secret 



Joy in GrUf. 359 

ligh^ as from an urn, before thy feet pour out my treasures, 
and peace would fill thy soul now groping in despairing darkness, 
would shine upon thy pathway ; sweet repose would mark thy slumberSi 
Dreams of happy moments. 

\ are pure and lofty summits where the soul of man reposes. 
he sword which cleaves our hearts asunder opens up the pathway, 
d of mine, believe me that the loss of all things counts as nothing 
If those heights be mastered. 

bees, we flit from flower to flower in this world's pleasure-garden ; 
:ing in their rich perfumes and tasting of their honeyed sweetness, 
ng there, and living on its passing charms as if its beauty 
Were enough for ever. 

> we dream away our life, and precious moments pass unheeded ; 
ig all our joys in pleasures fleeting as the summer sunshine, 
Jiat vanish when the evening casts its shadows o'er the garden ; 
Gone before the moonlight. ■ 

rhen robbed of human love ; when seated desolate and lonely 
le wide and arid desert, with no kindly eye to gjreet us ; 
the howling tempest rages, and the frightful darkness thickens, 
Comfort has a meaning. 

the brow defeat has humbled, and the heart grown sick with sorrow, 
an arm and hand divine to lean upon and bear its burden : 
he spirit wrung with anguish, crushed by cruel disappointment, 
Sings a hymn unspoken. 

before the lost one's footsteps opens an abyss of horror, 
appears a bridge of safety stretching o'er the gulfs dark passage : 
:, where danger threatens most, and death menaces, God is standing 
Open-armed to meet him. 

the fitful joys of human passion are consimied within us, 
joys begin their reign of which the soul as yet knew nothing, 
what matter, when a brilliant star appears in heaven above us. 
If the lamp burn dimly ? 

u mystery of suffering, deep abyss for human wonder ! 
that day when on a shameful cross love gained its greatest triumph, , 
:gin to sound thy awful depths, and catch at least faint glimpses 
Of thy hidden meaning ! 

ifor there the lesson may be learned which only He, the Master, teaches 
his throne of truth and wisdom. At the feet of Jesus seated, 
s will fall upon our ears that human lips have never spoken — 
yfords of heaven's langui^e. 



Present Condition of Christianity 



thin the reach of a cer- 
gToup in whose midst 
upward of thirt)' years 
:ly more numerous now 
1 is, perhaps, less favor- 
of and less sustained 
Yet how many rea- 
for its more general re- 
not the party under a 
than in earlier days ? 
terrify by its temerity ? 
mly aspires to the pos- 
most harmless liberty ; 
tendencies are ultra- 
to the extent prescribed 
lat, then, does it lack ? 
ibscure, badly defined, 
Never were its traits 
brilliant prominence, 
iwed upon it defenders 
ight. When an idea is 
e indefatigable energy 
ling eloquence of the 
eans. by such masters 
. de Montalembert and 
daire, by writers such 
de Broglie and Father 
roungand valiant cham- 
. Charles Lenormant, 
iim, and Henri Per- 
:d in its service ; if it 
it make not great and 
sts ; if it secure not at 
ivdl of the competent, 
im the people naught 
)plause, there can be 
landing, its time is not 
's minds are not pre- 
•ception. But does it 
nion has espoused the 
and that hostility 
^inst modern laws and 
rally favored ? that all 
ms accept unreservedly 
of certain violently re- 
mals that do religion 
being regarded as its 
!Jo ; the masses, by their 
escape tiie contagion 
opinions; bur, without 



breaking off entirely from modern 
ideas, the great majority of the faith- 
ful hold them to be dangerous and 
avoid their contact. Between civil 
and religious society there is a marked 
coldness and restraint ; there is a want 
of confidence and sympathy ; the least 
that can be said is, that they live in 
two separate camps. 

This should not be. We cannot 
calculate upon a new uprising or 
upon a complete awakening of Chris- 
tian belief, unless sincere concord be- 
tween the church and society be re- 
established. The present disagree- 
ment, if prolonged, would seem to in- 
dicate a decline of Christianity ; it 
might be said that religion was los- 
ing, for the first time, the knowledgeot 
the needs of the epoch, as well as that 
power ofrejuvenation that for eighteen 
centuries has endowed it with such 
unexampled longevit)'. That the pre- 
diction that preceded its birth may be 
realized, that it may live as long as 
this earth, upon which nothing lives 
and endures without change or mod- 
ification, must it not submit to the 
common law, and, while remaining 
fundamentally the same, be trans- 
formed and renewed, superficially at 
least? To sentence it to immovability 
lest some change take place in its 
elements ; to petrify it that its pu- 
rity may be greater, is to proclaim its 
ruin and announce its death. A ces- 
sation of life and a life of lethargy are 
about the same. 

How comes it, then, that, despite 
so many causes of alarm, in the depth 
of our soul we are calm, and our fears 
are mingled with so much hope .' Do 
faith without reasoning and pure in- 
stinct comfort us ? No ; it is Chris- 
tianity itself, and Christianity of to- 
day, that reassures us by its acts, 
Notwithstanding the disagreement 
with the age that hinders its pro- 
gress, notwithstanding the vionT\A?> 
from which it suffers, liic coVdtvesa 



T^ke Present Cotidition of Christianity in France. 363 



lAt the attention paid is more 

IS ? Do you not obsen'e, also, 

many men mingle with the 

n? At the commencement of 

tntury the appearance of a man 

jrch was an event. Now it is 

\txv a subject of astonishment ; 

^rtainly we note no mediocre 

>h of faith over human respect 

we record the return of men 

asylum of prayer. Many other 

incidents of similar purport 

no less extraordinary, such as 

Its in our schools and soldiers 

camps publicly asserting their 

practical Christians having a 

ty in the councils of large cities 

faculties of physicians, this lat- 

^tance being a most exception- 

wrrence. If there were aught 

rained nowadays by passing for 

istian, if men were living in 

;e of the Restoration and had 

hance of bringing themselves 

Dtice, and being of good service 

T femily by proclaiming their 

ire might not take into account 

this inciease of apparent fervor, 

crowded houses of worship, or 

unerous communions. Such, 

er, is not the case ; and is it 

w a better policy, if one wish 

in advancement, to become a 

ason, in preference to commit- 

self by figuring in some 

of a St. Vincent de Paul's 

^? That there are still hypo- 

and false devotees, we all are 

Such there always will be ; 

ppocrisy and feigned piety are 

hionable vices. In our time, 

r a church one must really 

ence a desire to pray. We 

nge the most sceptical, giving 

he privilege of broadly criticis- 

id pruning as they please, not 

)gnize as genuine the progress, 

1 no doubt, but, nevertheless, 

rovertible, of modem Christian- 

iesides, there cai? he applied 



a test that will dispel all doubts on 
the subject : of the three divine vir- 
tues, the most difficult of imitation is 
that which depletes our purse and 
compels us to be generous. Inquire 
of the clergy, the treasurers of the 
poor, what charity is at present ; ask 
if it slumber or decay ; or rather, if 
day after day it gain not new pow- 
ers of existence in proportion as, in 
certain classes of society, Christian 
sentiments are awakening. Ask of the 
clergy if these tokens of largesse are 
only entrusted to it for reasons of 
vanity, and if the most modest are 
not those who give most liberally, an 
evident sign that the source whence 
the gifts come is a Christian one. 
No doubt, men can bestow much in 
charity without believing — the former 
act is easier of performance than the 
latter ; but tnie charity is, as it were, 
inseparable " from the two virtues 
whose sister it is : he who gives libe- 
rally, hopes and believes. 

Be ye. then, reassured, for Christian 
faith still endures. It lives, labors, 
and wins over souls ; it has not for- 
gotten its old secrets, and can once 
again become youthful and associate 
itself with the destinies of the world. 
AH that is needed is to give it lime. 
If there be hesitation on iLs part to 
accept modern ideas, it is not owing 
to lack or indolence of spirit. The 
fault is first to be ascribed to the 
age itself, whose explanations are so 
obscure and whose aspirations are 
so unintelligibly expressed. "The 
principles of 1789" are most el.\stic 
words. What sense can be given 
them ? How can they be applied ? 
Does the century intend to belong 
to liberty and its severe duties, to 
the caprices of demagogvies, or would 
it be fired by the military spirit? 
The second day of December, that 
period of inaction in our apprentice- 
ship to free institutions, compWcaVe^ 
events and added to t\iu ptx^XeiiVj 



d 



The Present Condition of Christianity in France, 365 



■Itsm, or the countless ramifi- 
s of Ihese principal doctrines, 
'which has its faithful adherents. 
I not mean to advance that all 
ristians have espoused the 
les of philosophy, that each 
tect, a banner, or a credo of his 
'We shall even be convinced 
hortly that the most danger- 
ponenls are those who do not 
1 in philosophy, and who stand 
inst the progress of holy truths 
ifFerence and indolence ; but 
nuttaneous birth of all these 
istian systems is nevertheless 
ige fact, and one desening of 
!>n. Taken apart, they can 
r unheeded ; their fundament- 
ctples are neither novel nor 
cnt ! When seen together, 
tr, theirs is a battle array of a 
imjwsing magnitude. Weun- 
td, therefore, all the more 
^ that M. Guizot, wishing to 
ie the strength of the anti- 
m forces, should have taken 
ystems one by one, and sub- 
each to a careful examination. 
uld, however, misconstrue, we 
end, his most obvious inten- 
' wc were to look upon his 
» as regular refutations and 
fetio treatises. He has only 
cd to give the measurement of 
iffcrent systems by comparison 
le measuring-rod of common 
To enter into more thorough 
ktona would have been unne- 
f ; better work was left undone, 
. Gui/ot's preface has clearly 
»cd his views on that point. 

PHttle, aAer all, how these 
re criticised ; the result is 
whether one examine them 
cblly, master their secrets, or 
their scientific mysteries. 
can be little difference of opi- 
rcgard to their value. It is to 
advantage if they be only 
d It The more searching the 



investigation, the more conclusive the 
proof as to the frailty of their forma- 
tions and deficiencies, pettiness, im- 
potence, and vanity. We repeat 
what we said, that we have little to 
dread on this score. A few minds 
may be won over, but the contagion, 
in this country, cannot spread. The 
darkness of pantheism, the dreams of 
ide.ilism, the dr)'ness of positivism, 
or the coarseness of materialism will 
never seduce the mass of fVench 
minds. The alarm is greater than the 
real danger ; yet, when gathered to- 
gether, these systems, however dis- 
cordant among themselves, however 
much opposed to each other, consti- 
tute, from the very fact that all are 
equally hostile to Christianity, a pow- 
er which must be taken into account 
They form v^fascfs ; theirs is a coali- 
tion, a league that belongs only to our 
age. 

Is it to be supposed that we assert 
that Christianity has ever lacked en- 
emies, and enemies acting in concert 
in their attacks? Without looking 
far back into its history, was not the 
concentration of all the wits of the 
age clustered under the leadership of 
Voltaire for the purpose of freeing the 
world from religious supierstition, an 
anti-christian league, if ever there 
was one "*. Perhaps even the move- 
ment of the eighteenth century seem- 
ed, at first, more violently anlichris- 
tian than that undertaken in our 
days. Its determination was more 
evident ; it proceeded direct to the 
objective point. Its weapons were 
light, but they were ever in use, and 
there was no truce to the warfare. 
It was a sharp fire of irony, a shower 
of sarcasm ; nothing could withstand 
it, no one could retort ; the dread of 
ridicule silenced the boldest ; the 
panic was followed by a general rout, 
and terror was engendered by laugh- 
ter. And what sad results ! what a 
disaster! The altars were c(V«- 



Tlu Present Condition of Christianity in France. 



367 



some Biblical narratives which 
rs only had, until then, ac- 
out of motives of pure obe- 
and which indifferent per- 
fie'wed Avith suspicion, and the 
doctors of the eighteenth cen- 
wghed to scorn. Evil forlvine, 
Er, ■wills it, that for every one of 
conciliatory, because clairvoy- 
i^icls, for a Cuvier, a Kepler, a 
2f and a Newton, there are 
*ids of men who see the out- 
^Omblance only, who stumble 
^consistencies, and who, often 
% il 1-will, make use of tlieir small 
!*f knowledge in accomplishing 
*^ of the holy truths. Indeed, 
''joy the credit of the masses 
J'* as, and perhaps more than, 
^ masters \ the public is con- 
brought into contact with 
*^ey are numerous, ubiquitous, 
ve associates in all profes- 
Ihe race of half-learned men 
^Hitidation of humanity, with- 
">ing into account the more 
Persons who, seeking to win 
at any cost, and even at the 
scandal, borrow from science 
ish required to give popu- 
^ their productions. These 
'^s constitute a new fashion 
'bating Christianity, a method 
^*iiig the traditions of Vol- 
^Koso whose intentions are 
^^ are deceived by it ; the 
^*^Wn out is that which ihey 
Sensible lure ; their reason 
•**pp<ialed to, and they fancy 
^ s»rc surrendering to proven 
^ What would you have 
^ They are not entertained 
stories and epigrams, they 
^de the objects of jests or 
tlie facts submitted to them 
•^tlc. So much the worse 
I^Man beliefs if these facts 
^ them ! Can the laws of 
^^ denounced as forgeries ? 
*^nce truth? 



Such are modem tactics ; neither 
mockery nor impatience, and great 
apparent impartiality ; it is no longer 
a skirmish, a sudden attack, but a 
siege in accordance with all the rules 
of war ; the citadel is surrounded, the 
enemy advances, with the authority 
and under the protection of science. 
This is not all. The experience of 
the past century has suggested other 
precautionary measures, other strate- 
gic movements. It is now recog- 
nized that our poor human nature 
has not made sufficient progress, not 
even in France, to feel happy and 
proud because of a belief in absolute- 
ly nothing. Tliis is a weakness for 
which time will work a cure, but one 
which must be taken into due con- 
sideration. For instance, can it be 
brought about that most women's 
hearts will not yield to the necessity 
of praying and believing ? Does not 
man himself, when bowed down by 
great afHiclion, feel that a woman's 
heart is being born and awakening 
within him ? When death separates 
him from those he loves, when 
he sur\-ives and suffers, can it 
be that he will not seek, with eyes 
upturned to heaven, a little strength 
in hope ,' These inclinations and in- 
stincts may seem strange and ab- 
surd, if you will ; but they are inde- 
structible, and to think of doing away 
with them is a sheer loss of time. 
This is known in our age, and the 
skilful profit by their knowledge. To 
make havoc for a second time, to 
tear down the altars, and persecute 
the priests, would be to enact the parts 
and do the work of dupes I Such 
a course would prepare an inevitable 
reaction, and a certain resurrection 
of all it was proposed to destroy. 
There are none but a few mad- 
men, a few lost children who would 
resort to such superannuated mea- 
sures. Instead of attacking openly 
the need for belief, better to conc^aei 



368 



The Present Condition of Christianity in FnuiciA 



it by flattery and the tender of fasci- 
nating compromises. Why these 
onslaughts on Christianity ? Why 
overtly batter its walls ? To please 
the libertines ? Is it not quite cer- 
tain that they will side with the anli- 
christians ? It is urgent to please 
the simple-hearted Christians only. 

Instead of exhibiting the slightest 
after-thought of opposition to Chris- 
tianity, better to dwell upon its 
beauties, to draw an admirable por- 
trait of its Founder, to recognize him 
as the model of all the virtues, as the 
type of all perfection, to speak of 
him in impassioned and eloquent 
tones, and in exchange for these 
gentle concessions to a.sk — what ? A 
trifling sacrifice, a modest erratum 
to the text of the Evangels, a simple 
change of the value of a word, or 
rather the politic and reasonable 
yielding up of a valueless title, a worn- 
out parchment, a purely nominal 
letter of nobility, the so-called divi- 
nity of that admirable man ? Why 
cling to that fiction ? Renounce it, 
and we shall all be agreed. Reason 
will have nothing more to say on the 
subject. With yourselves we will do 
homage to that wonderful mortal, 
and, if you will, call him divine with- 
out attaching too much importance 
to the condescension. We will over- 
look the epithet if you concede us 
the dogma. 

Thus, with skill and a certain com- 
mingling of philosophic scepticism, 
mysdc reveries, and a feigned zeal for 
Christian ideas, men hope nowadays 
to undermine Christianity. The plan 
of action is by no means novel. In 
that very year during which Constan- 
line, by his omnipotence, seemed to 
have ensured the peace and security 
of the church, in that very year one 
single man, with a few words, threw 
the church into far greater perils than 
were indicated by the lictors and ex- 
ecutioners of its fiercest persecutors. 



:s» qiBH 

eaa^ 
san^l 



He, too, pretended he 
war against Jesus Christ 
for his doctrine, and de$i 
of his divinity to guaranu 
triumph, propagate his blessing 
while rendering faith less dift 
acquire, to satisfy re£ 
compromise was the ss 
which is now put forward. A^ 
is the power of these enen'atifl 
trines that, even in the d.^ys 
faith was still young and full < 
the world fell a victim to the ( 
tion. Scarcely half a ccntuf 
gone by since the death of Ar^ 
the contagion had extended tli 
out the Orient, spread over a | 
the west, and reached, beyof 
limits of the Roman empire ( 
all the recently converted 
nations. Look back to ti 
crisis when the destiny of ' 
was at stake ; seek to gue 
to happen. After a cor 
human laws, after a calc 
probabilities, did not Chr 
pear doomed ? Its adv( 
won for himself Constant 
the ardent adhesion of thet 
son, the support of all the ibij 
the empire, all the powci 
governed the world. Tc 
faith, to save fmm shipwre<2 
divinity of Jesus Christ, a 
new revelation, another pi 
St. Paul were needed, 
was performed ; what a ma 
a man undid ; Athanasiusi 
Arius. But Christianili 
theless, seemed about ^ 
modem A nanism can' 
itself that it will now havtt 
fortune, and that an AthaiuH 
Basil, a Gregory, or a Jp«>n 
not ever be at hand to 
ments and conquer the i 

benefit of truth. Its threal 
sinister predictions are 
mere boasts ; the danger 
modem heresy has 



1%. «viy 

ipwre<2 
a Bnfl 

TOT 





^resent Condition of Christianity in France. 



369 



ouble its might. It no longer 
in the arena, face to face witli 
oxy, and uses purely theolo- 
weapons ; the struggle is 
everybody participates in 
weapons are effective. A for- 
blc coalition attacks faith most 
Mently ; the natural sciences 
half understood, the metaphy- 
sciences conducted with pride, 
ric criticism skilfully rojnanli- 
are forces that unite for the 
lit of the new Arianism. Can it 
»e readily seen that the league 
more powerfvil and inflicts 
serious wounds than the ironi- 
ivolities brought into play in 
last century ? The progress 
is not only evidenced in the 
and armament ; the ground of 
iggle itself has changed, to the 
ly's advantage. From a Chris- 
||>-<.t:in«l point, it may be said that 
i^ > now dismantled. Of 

li ^ -^ of shelter, of all the 
Ions which belonged to Chris- 
ty a hundred years ago, in the 
, in the institutions and customs, 
I the means of credit, influence, 
legitimate resistance won for it 
right of agts, and of which its 
rsaries, while deriding its belief, 
10 thought of robbing it, nothing 
■ns. The levelling power of the 
p has passed over them. The 
k must now be witlistood in an 
I field. If under such circum- 
jes and in presence of such perils 
Itiaos opened not their eyes, if 
Isdnct of self-preservation did 
|»duce them to come to an un- 
Ikiiding upon the essential points 
rir faith, if the)' sought to oppose 
any joint eflforls while divided 
disagreeing, we say, without 
bole, that we would have to 
oar heads and consider this 
8 al an end, and civilization, de- 
its apparent triumphs and proud 
R, stricken to the heart and 

IL. VI. — 74 



menaced' with a prompt decline. 
But have we reached that point ? 
No, a hundred times no, if our will be 
against it, and if we understand the 
magnitude of the danger, its real 
novelty, and the novelty and youth 
needed to conquer it. 

And at the outset let there be 
no misunderstanding between Chris- 
tians. Do not believe that Catholi- 
cism is alone involved, and the sole 
excitant of anger and object of the 
warfare. It is Christianity itself, 
Christian faith in its entirety, and in 
evcrj' shape, that it is intended to an- 
nihilate. Any Protestant sect that 
accepts the Evangels, without re- 
ser\'e or restrictions, is at least a& 
open to suspicion as pure Catholi- 
cism. Tolerance and amnesty are 
withheld, save from that Christianity 
which believes not in Jesus Christ, 
and in which certain pastors, from 
evangelical pulpits, now profess a 
belief. Enlightened and sincere Pro- 
testants entertain no longer any 
doubts on that point. They have pro- 
gressed since the sixteenth century : 
without being less zealous or less 
ardent in their belief, they no longer 
proclaim that Antichrist and the 
Catholic Church are one and the 
same thing. In our age the Anti- 
christ is the common foe ; if you 
would resist its onslaughts, close up 
the ranks ; this is no time for discord 
among brethren. The Protestants 
who are friendly to the Evangels, 
however numerous they may be in 
certain states of Europe, know what 
they lack as regards cohesion and 
unity ; they feel that that powerful 
church so persistently attacked now- 
adaj-s, will ever be the true rampart. 
While all the blows dealt fall upon 
her, they breathe freely, for she pro- 
tects them ; if her walls were over- 
tlirown, tliey would be left defenceless. 
Hence arises among the more far- 
seeing that solicitude vihidv va i«ix 



370 The Prestnt Condition of Christianity in France. 



for all Christian interests without dis- 
tinction, and that defensive alliance 
which seems to be suggested in the 
minds of those whose Convictions as 
to the essence of things are identical. 
Unfortunately, this wholly modem 
blessing, one of the few conquests 
which, in the moral order of affairs, 
might do honor to our age, is not yet 
very widely disseminated. FA'en in 
the opinion of the persons who are 
horror-stricken at the antichristian 
coalition, the idea of helping each 
•other, of forming an alliance, of 
postponing intestine strife and lend- 
ing a helping hand to each other, 
•makes but little headway. Habit, 
prejudices, and a sectarian spirit are 
so powerful ! If some nwn cast off 
their yoke, if a chosen few who see 
events from a higher stand-point take 
•delight in putting into practice these 
'tolerant tdeiis, do the masses follow 
in their footsteps.' and do the chosen 
few themselves alw.ays set generous 
examples only? If it were only 
among Catholics that the tendency 
to exclusion, the aversion to schism 
carried to a forgetfulnessof the actu.il 
interests of faith, were observable, 
many persons would confess that 
they were less surprised than grieved ; 
for excuse can ever be found for the 
Catholic, in whose defence it can be 
argued that, if he went too far in that 
direction, it was because he may have 
believed that, by holding aloof and 
avoiding the contact of error, he ex- 
hibited his obedience and rendered 
himself more accept.able unto God I 
But for the Protestant, what apology 
can be offered ? He who asserts so 
boldly his right to believe what he 
thinks cannot t.ike offence because 
his neighbor does likewise. The 
same intolerance that, in the one case 
■saddens us without causing astonish- 
■menl, shocks us in the other. Can 
you understand how it is that an ed- 
ucated, an erudite Pxotestant, good- 



hearted, endowed with sot 
glorying in generous principle! 
carrying to very energj' his lo>i 
respect for right, as soon as it 
gested that he concede to Cul 
that which he believes to be \\ 
true for all humanity, the 
to worship with the liberty ar 
surroundings their mode of w« 
requires, cries out in d^ 
to brute force, admits i 
that it decides all similar quc3 
and sanctions and renders legit 
in advance all sentences which i 
passed ? Though his views ar 
sible on all other points, on thi: 
ject they are devoid of reasor 
the man speaks of tlic Catholic C 
in the nineteenth cenlur)' as 
quisitor of the sixteenth would] 
spoken of heresy ! What a st 
spectacle, and how humiliating | 
son ! Does there exist a more i 
whelming proof of the poverty i 
intellect ? 

Yet the part to be taken by x\ 
em Protestant, who wotitd sen c i 
tianity and combat its irae en« 
is a glorious one ! All things 
to give him influence : everylhl 
in readiness to bestow upon his ' 
an increase, as it were, of autJ 
He would ignore and forget nitl 
passions and jealousy. He 
seek to bring about the trmmf 
the divine word, to di 
eternal truth, its transui: 
centuries. WTiy attempt to 
from the Catholic Church the 
to which she lays claim ? 
set her with invidious qucstior 
excite captious quarrels ? Insi 
giving vitality to th 
would it not be be; i 

certain on what points 
subsists, what dogmas r s 

all controversy and survived all d 
He would become attar'--' • • 1 
same dogmas ; in his e^ .1 

be the heart, the basis oi 



o! ai^ml 



The Present Condition of Christianity in France. 371 



auxand concord, which no true 
;n can avoid defending, since 
tily he must profess allegiance 
JCtrines. Because there was 
br llie existence of the Re- 
kit three centuries ago, be- 
te Reformation was the spur 
to save faiih^ was to rouse 
irch from slumber, does it 
Ihat now, tine times having 
I, actions should be the same ? 
be that, to preserve in the 
that same Christian faith, a 
Ji» because he chances to be a 
Ult» must espouse his fathers' 
ght only against the men and 
'ilh which they strove, and 
idle when beholding the 
k of the conflagration which 
p Christianity, for the sole 
batCatliolicism appears to be 
Ijf imperilled by the flames ? 
repudiate that absurd inherit- 
:t him break with such rou- 
rs. Not only must he abstain 
tacking, even indirectly, the 
; Church, and feel no bilter- 
rard her, for the simple reason 
undertakes a campaign in co- 
in with her, and because we 
)t fire ufxjn one's allies ; he 
er still more, more than re- 

Rlhan mere courtesies ; 
er full justice. His duty 
prominence with frank- 
i loyalty to the great features, 
jties, the splendor of the tra- 
frora which he stands apart. 
ts and reservations will be 
with his praises ; better still, 
estimony will be all the more 
:. Whether he recall the ser- 
indered or refute vigorously 
any, by telling the unalloyed 
■en if it be attenuated, he will 
; for Catholicism than a pro- 
I panegyrist. 

is not all : to keep the false 
»her spirit at bay, no posi- 
ild be better tlian that which 



he holds. He has not to struggle 
against the antipathy engendered by 
a supposed obedience to the princi- 
ple of authority ; and when he con- 
fesses unreservedly his belief in 
supernatural facts, his words are 
fraught with far more importance than 
if he who uttered them were not 
trammelled in the matter of free inves- 
tigation. How different, too, the case 
when to this superiority are added 
personal advantages, when the Pro- 
test'ant is a man of powerful mind, 
accustomed to deal with the most 
weighty matters, and retaining, in the 
autumn of life, besides the treasures 
garnered by experience ami learning, 
the fecund ardor of youth. This ex- 
plains the characteristic trait of M. 
(luizot's Meditations ; it is not a reli- 
gious work like so many others. 
The best priests, the most eloquent 
preachers, the profoundcst theolo- 
gians are afflicted with a disability 
for which there is no remedy ; they 
are professional defenders of religion ; 
the truths they affirm seem to consti- 
tute their patrimony, and, while plead- 
ing the holiest of suits, they seem 
to argue in their own behalf; while 
a histori.in, a philosopher, a states- 
man, and, above all, a free and inde- 
pendent mind, who, after ripe exami- 
nation and prolonged reflection, and 
not without a struggle and an eflfort, 
has become a Christian, and who 
proves in broad daylight that neither 
his intellect nor his reasoning powers 
have suffered in the least, and that 
the thinker and Christian live within 
him in perfect concord, by his testi- 
mony gives courage to many men, 
dispels many doubts, and inspires the 
faltering with firmness ; his example 
is the best of sennons and the most 
reliable mode of propag-.iting faith. 

Be assured, nevertheless, tJiat re- 
marks of disapproval will be heard 
amid the kindly greetings. TK^tt 
will be opposition mauxfeiled ^tot 



The Present Condition of Christianity tn Frantf. 



I 



I 

I 

I 
I 






the very first, and principally by the 
reformed worshippers. The broad 
views and extreme tolerance of the 
author will not be acceptable to all. 
The writer will be told, You forsake 
us ; you arc a Catholic in spirit and 
intention, why not be wholly a Catho- 
lic ? A poor quarrel, indeed, a sin- 
gular fashion of returning thanks for 
the most faithful devotedness and the 
most signal services I In the matter 
of ingratitude, the sectarian spirit 
stands in the foremost rank. There 
is, therefore, no cause for surprise that 
the Protestants of Paris, when occa- 
sionally gathered about the ballot-box, 
should not always care to express to 
M- Guizot, by a unanimous vote, their 
just and respectful pride at number- 
inghim among their forces. But then, 
let us not forget that, if in the opinion 
of a few Protestants these Meditations 
are a trifle too Catholic, certain Ca- 
tholics would have them still less 
Protestant. We do not assert that 
the Catholics, even the most exclu- 
sive, are not at heart filled with esteem 
and gratitude for a work of such evi- 
dent usefulness to the cause of Chris- 
tianity ; the esteem and gratitude ex- 
hibited are, however, wrested from 
them. They praise aloud the inten- 
tions and courage of the author ; as 
for the work itself, they do not re- 
strict themselves to prudently leaving 
in obscurity the points in discussion, 
but involuntarily allow inopportune 
objections to arise. We venture to 
slate that in doing this they do not 
appreciate the circumstances sur- 
rounding us, and the greatness of the 
need of alliance and concord forced 
upon Christianity by the formidable 
m^ waged against it That in ordi- 
fiiry times, when the only struggle in 
progress concerns the form and not 
the foundation of things, believers 
should resolve only to accept and ex- 
tol the productions resonant with the 
pure and faithful echo of their faith, 



nothing can be better ; in such 
each citizen of the Christian rqp 
may be permitted to be watch 
tlie interests of his province r 
than of those of his country \ but, 
an invasion is imminent, other < 
gencies are to be looked to : the 
mon safety is the first law. Tl( 
the time to welcome recruits, wbi 
they are, provided tlieir reenforce: 
will be productive of good re 
Do not deceive yourselves ; thcC 
tian community, even if united 
agreed on all points, will only ju; 
equal to the task : for its members 
not only repel the assailants — ain^ 
defensive attitude would be eq 
lent to a partial defeat — ^but mus 
vance and invade, and subji 
souls. The world is to be r< 
quered, and a more giddy, friw 
and somniferous world, } 

the world of nineteen cci .j^ 

Again, we say that we havflf 
be alarmed at the antichrist^V 
Its horde of systems, its dreams 
chimeras, its wily contr^ 
philosophic disorder do . 
us. The spectacle is a s ii in 
it is not a state of slumber. I 
feverish activity you can brin 
bear a healthful action ; your 
adversaries favor your cause 
deaden the weight of the blows 
would deal you. WTial tim 
underlies their audacit)- ! How 
retreat before the most direct 
inevitable consequences of their 
trines ! How they complain of u 
presentation when shown a m 
reflecting the defoimity of 
doctrines ! Let them contiou 
speak and write, they but call 
overwhelming replies ; let thctn 
history and the Scriptunes» for 
but alter their own authority aac 
dentials : they fall into the pit t 
selves have digged. All thii^ 
agitate and startle men's roiodti 
awaken even in initatijig tben 



i^m; 



Tfu Present Condition of Christianity in Frame. 



373 



imph of truth; indifference, 
the numbness of souls only are 
1* to error, and constitute tlie 
lady of the age. Let us not 
conceal it, its ravages are too 
discernible. While impiety, 
^ speaking, despite its appa- 
^gre^s and the brazen boasts 
''nicism, makes but few prose- 

jour midst, indilTerence in- 
jnds, and becomes accli- 
icontagion; whosoever 
a mere earthly life, 
»sed by nothing save 
^ cares, business, and plea- 
le great problems of our des- 
! wondrous mysteries consti- 
)ur torment and our honor, 
t for him ; lie only recognizes 
tivates his coarse and frivo- 
tincts \ the divine portion of 
g is in a state of utter lethargy. 
ild there, among the indiffe- 
ti meet a few agitated hearts 
(rplexed spirits. Perplexity 
iifference as twilight to dark- 
1 uncertain light that strug- 
h the gloom, sometimes con- 
and sometimes conciuered. 
5 can be less decisive than a 
h«ron over such a spirit. The 
of perplexed minds is effected 
cly as was accomplished their 
. Never mind ; would to God 
en such a condition of souls 
[e greater evil 1 It is toward 
snce, that is to say, toward 
ness and death, that all things 
our footsteps. 

iry was made, a short time 
s to the present condition of 
nity in France. Number those 
jupy the two hostile camps in 
Hninant of life still asserts 
f9oK camp for the purpose of 
ig, tn the other for the pur- 
■ defending. Christian faith ; 
e)-ond the limits of the two, 

what remains? There, are 
d crowds vnnumbered, inert, 



inanimate, forming, as it were, a great 
desert, a Dead Sea uninhabited by 
any living thing. There lies the 
world to be reconquered ; such are 
the men who are to be reclaimed. 
How act upon them ? how move their 
hearts ? how gain mastery over them ? 
In these questions lies the secret of 
the future. 

Seek, then, and try to ascertain the 
most reliable means of acting upon, 
these thoughtless mortals. Is the 
work to be accomplished by prao 
tices of high piety and by productions 
intended for the edification of skilled 
believers ? Tliitik you that at once 
you will change them into thoroughly 
faithful Christians .' that you will in- 
stantly inspire them with a holy fer- 
vor? Only to speak the language of 
pure devoutness, to keep in unison 
with the utterances of the vestry-room, 
is to waste time. Climb tlie heights, 
display the brilliancy of those univer' 
sal truths in whose presence every be- 
ing gifted with reason and accessible 
to reflection feels compelled to bend 
the knee. It is by exhibiting in all 
their grandeur, in all their primitive 
beauty, the bases of our faith, that 
souls can be attracted to seek them 
for shelter. The work to which we 
allude excels in this respect. M". 
Guizot's AMitations throw light upon 
the my<iterious summits which, in the 
eyes of the torpid, appear overhung 
by thick and impenetrable fogs. 
They give these men a desire to ex- 
amine them more closely. In a word, 
though the work may not satisfy si- 
multaneously, in each communion, 
all who are possessed of a definite 
belief, it is endowed with a more pre- 
cious virtue upon the excellence of 
which we can dwell the more consci- 
entiously, as having viewed itsefifects; 
it moves the indifferent. 

More than this, however, must be 
done. However powerful m sX^Xt 
and thought a book may be, '\V ca.xv 




The Present Condition of Christianity in Fratue, 



I 



I 



I 



only, in the present crisis, dear the 
road. To make greater headway, to 
effect a more decisive advance, to act 
upon the masses and rouse them 
from tlicir slumber, other agencies 
than books are necessary, and deeds, 
examples, striking evidence, and in- 
contestable proofs of abnegation, dc- 
votedness, charity, and sacrifices are 
required. These are the sermons 
that awaken souls ; these the wea- 
pons that triumph over the world, 
however careless, frivolous, and hard- 
ened it may be. In days by-gone, 
they conquered the men who wore 
the Roman toga and the rough hab- 
its of the barbarians ; in this century, 
they are still the only means of con- 
quest. — VVhat do we ask ? What are 
we thinking of? Preaching by deeds I 
The apostieship of the early ages! 
Real apostles, heroic confessors, if 
needed, martyrs ! In our times 1 
Is it possible ? — Why not ? What 
contradiction and surprise but can be 
looked for nowadays ? Is it not the 
destiny of the age to carry every tiling 
lo extremes, to be zealous for evil 
»rid even for good, to be swayed in 
turn or simultaneously by all currents, 
and to subscribe to the most irrecon- 
cilable principles ? Just because the 
world appears to have fiillen almost 
to the lowest degree of depression, 
just because it sinks more deeply 
from day to day, there is a chance 
that a sublime and immediate reac- 
tion may occur. Was imperial Rome 
less corrupt, less effeminate, less do- 
cile while the avengers and restorers 
of human dignity, the future masters 
of the world, were at work beneath 
her foundations ? Be reassured, even 
^ in these days of doubt and egotism, 
K a true and great resurrection of Chris- 
H tianity in J<>ance is not a Utopian 
H vision. Not only is such a miracle 
H possible, but we may declare it ne- 
H cessar)% 
H EiLlicT we must suppose \hat ^c 

i-- 



are nearing the last phase of I 
velopment of humanity ; that tl 
commencing decadence will I 
last : ti^at, unlike so many d( 
that have preceded it, this lat4 
dine will have no place of &to] 
no new birth ; that an unbroken 
is leading irresistibly to the foi 
debasement of our race, orfl|| 
without delay find means of ^ 
ing to the masses religious 
What has democracy gained I 
umphing and being about to Im 
the sovereign mistress of the ' 
world, if it cannot maintain and 
sway over its conquest simpl 
cause it cannot rule and govern i 
Democracj', without the i 
ligion, without other pre 
that afforded by inde|:>cnUent J 
ity, is a swollen torrent, anarch] 
potism, and a return to baibi 
But when the brake is old and 
tered, how replace it ? Nn 
can create a religious ! 
folly to attempt it. Such' 
created things could never be 
but impotent parodies. But ith; 
so far that which is near at 1 
The new faith whose advent isi 
ed, and hoped, and called foi 
such eagemcss is here ; we p 
it ; it is Christianity itself, ever 
if we but know how to compr 
its eternal light, and if we kuoi 
selves how to be novel. It iikC 
object of the belief that is to 1 
modelled, but the routine of bcli 
Christianity, in itself, is as yo 
as at its birth ; that which 
annuated is that which dc 
long to it, that earthly rust ' 
it has been incrustcd by its iol 
ters, its ministers, and it-- 
all ages. Of this it must i 
ginal appearance and \< 
restored. By what Pti^i^ 
using for its reestahHiifl{ 
means which were fonnen^H| 
«\\l\ succe^ to lay its iou^ 



ich ^ 

stvmi 



Ritualism and its true Miming. 



37S 



etermination is a violent one, yet 
must be no half measures ; an at- 
in any other direction would be 
ry and vain. To proceed half- 
spare abuses, flatter habit, and 
ve the surface of things only, 
. be to make Christianity one of 
edifices which are kept standing 
>ps and by cementing the cracks 
: walls : it would be as well to 
totter and fall to the ground at 
To give it back true power, 
stability, that it may defy the 
s of a long series of years, there 
t one course to adopt : to be- 
ic work anew. 

: the church, then, be courage- 
let her begin again, even as she 
enced, and with the same mod- 
nd holiness ; let her be chaste, 
«, laborious, teamed, intelligent, 
iree ; without taste for honors, 
It care for wealth ; lavish of her 
her blood, and her tears ; as in- 
dent toward the migbty as she 



is indulgent and tender for the weak. 
Let her advance, thus armed, step 
by step, approaching souls, and 
souls only, and the world will again 
be hers. There is no miscalculation 
to be feared, the same causes will have 
identical effects ; but hasten, lose not 
an hour, the monftnt is a solemn one. 
Let the cry, "The church is begin- 
ning anew," be not a vain word, and 
let not its results be tardy. Think 
not of honoring God by raising to the 
heavens prdud cupolas, and making 
for him a dwelling in palaces glitter- 
ing with gold and marble ; it is 
around the manger, in the grotto of 
Bethlehem, that the pastors should be 
convoked. Let all true ChristianSi 
all sons of the church, know and pro- 
claim it : on them everything deptends, 
through them all things are possible, 
upon them all things rest ; in their 
hands lies not only the fate of their 
beloved and venerated belief, but the 
future of the civilized world. 



RITUALISM AND ITS TRUE MEANING. 



have had the pleasure of read- 
article on the subject of ritual- 
y the Rev. Dr. Dix, rector of 
y church in this city. This 
, which appeared in the July 
;r of the Galaxy, suggested to 
inds some very interesting and 
::al reflections. It is undcr- 
that the respected doctor who 
so important a position in his 
hurch is one of the principal 
Iters of the movement in regard 
ich he writes. Although he 
lot yet introduce into Trinity 
1 and its chapels the external 
ranees of the ritualists which 
amends, still it b bis deare to 



do so at the first practicable moment. 
The weight of his character and influ- 
ence is given to the restoration of 
those rites and ceremonies which 
were dropped at the Protestant Refor- 
mation through the undue force of 
Calvinism and what he calls religious 
radicalism. Whether he will suc- 
ceed is a question which the minis- 
ters and influential laymen of his own 
church can better answer than we 
can. In examining his article care- 
fully, we think there is a slight want 
of candor on one or two points, and 
some misunderstanding upon others. 
For example, he disclaims tbe ^o^- 
iar use of the woid ** nXuaWsmC' «Ad 



3/6 



Ritnalism and its trut Meamng. 



says, " It has lost its respectability, 
and has become a slang expression. 
The unlucky word is bandied about 
till it must have lost all perception of 
its own identity. Hence, we respect- 
fully decline the attempt to say what 
the word ' ritualism ' means, as now 
lost and merged in the category of 
cant and slang." Now, as far as we 
are able to judge, we really believe 
that the majority of people call things 
by their right names, and that the pub- 
lic can have no end to gain by any other 
course. It may be that the Episco- 
palians are not forbearing enough 
toward those of their brethren who 
would innovate upon their establish- 
ed forms of worship ; but they cannot 
be found fault with if they are sur- 
prised and offended at changes which 
are sr> radical. If they use harsh 
language in the controversy, they are 
not to be excused, for no good ever 
arises from .icrimony, or the forget- 
fulncss of the decencies of life. Yet 
can any honest man say that he does 
not know what they mean to attack, 
or th.it he cannot explain what *' ri- 
tualism " is ? The definition which 
the reverend doctor gives is hardly 
adequate, because it includes all man- 
kind, since, according to his terms, 
tliere is no one who is not a ritualist. 
There i.s no necessity of proving tliat 
all religions have had their rites and 
ceremonies for there is no one who 
will deny so well received a fact. 
Wc must take the word in its popu- 
lar acceptation ; and it simply refers 
to those who are now endeavoring to 
introduce great changes in the wor- 
ship of the Protestant Episcopal 
Church, who are using vestments 
never known in their communion for 
at least three centuries, and who, in 
doctrine and outward observance, are 
approaching as nearly as possible 
the time-hallowed ceremonial of the 
Catholic f hurch. Whellier they arc 
\n xhtt right or in the wrong is ano- 



ther question ; the name by 
they are called may be appr 
or not, but it has a plain signifies 
Kverj' one can understand 
do not see in it anythujg .: 
unclxari table. 

After objecting to the term "ri- 
tualist," Dr. Dix proceeds to defend 
at some length the course of those 
who bear this name, and his view i« 
easily summed up, and we hear i(J 
now for about the thousandth lime i 
our life : 

"The Christian dispensation t$ boundl^J 
on the one side, by the mapnih'-tnt ritu 
of Israel, and, cm the other, 
and not less glowing ritu' 
Fur fifteen hundred years (after CtiriJlIn 
there was no ritualistic controversy dcKn»-| 
ing the name. In general feature*, ditria 
worship was the same throughout the ' 
Hut errors and abuses crept into the Aottlfc 
and these became s)'nil)olized in novtl riltt 
and practices, bj- which ritual becaise. ta 
some respects, dctiled and corrupted 
Then came the kcfor: 'lic »J»i«Mt!l 

century. That movi t ilfect tlM 

Kastcrn portions of Clu i-iv ■• '^teccC 

and Kus.4ia the old traditii 'i iOti^ 

although under a load of u^ nk^ 

b.ick to the commcnccmen; i»tljii 

era, . . . Looking about ili ■••«*. 

in the Eastern part of Christcmlofn. an »»• 
dent ritual in u«, very ornate, very »yBi' 
1x>lical, and full of reminiscences of the old 
church of Israel ; the tnitrc, the icona«tiiit, 
the veil, the lamps, the incense, are tliirr' 
heirk«5ms from th.tt venerable p.t«f. In Hh- 
West, the Roman Catholi« 'xii 

bit in their ritual a system • 
tied by later ideas and exprL>;i v^ .. 

mas which by degrees have ai. • : •' : 
around tlieir once pure creed.** 

Here the reverend doctor sctyns 
to labor under a strange niisu 
standing, and evidently has taken m 
pains to examine for bims«-.lf I 
oriental liturgies. There is no si 
stantial difference whaiexer Ijct* 
the liturgies of the lilast and thoce 
of the West All contain the same 
essential parts, and are probably of 
apostolic origin. Whatever cormi 
Vvon belongs to the Roman 





Ritualism and its true Meanu 



It sense of the term, be- 
5C to the Eastern rites, 
ceremonies now in use in 
the sacraments and popu- 
ions, there may be some 
but it is in favor of the West, 
1 the Protestant point of 
le Eastern churches pay as 
>r to the Blessed Mother of 
to the saints as we do, 
eir expressions are fully as 
The attempt, therefore, to 
stinction between the East 
w if the oriental churches 
Bn sympathy with the re- 
fcrlnes than the Catholic 
■lingularly futile, because 
rted by the least shadow of 
js, as we shall see in this 
ritualists draw all their 
id ceremonies from us, 
ind for the use of their 
^ the very words of the 

fal. If in their view we 
o corrupt, why have they 
mselves die ritual which 
says is essentially modified 
deas ? We are convinced 
j^ertions we have quoted 
md the test of examina- 
lest common sense. 
Dix says that there was 
: variance of opinion be- 
jlish reformers and the 
tl Calvinistic communi- 
his own words : '' The 
fthe Reformation in Eng- 
the most cautiously con- 
inel. Wh at I hey aim ed at 
all that was truly Cath- 
rejcct only what was dis- 
>man." We do not be- 
icse assertions can be 
^y the most ingenious in- 
)f historj'. The English 
I refonn were certainly in 
iection with the continent.al 

tdrew their inspiration 
That in England more of 



retained was, we thinlc, cwing^ttTthe 
pertinacity of the court, more than to 
the conser\'ative views of Cranmer 
and his co-laborers. Henry VIII. 
was inexorabJe on many points dur- 
ing his singularly exemplary life- 
Edward VI. was pliant enough, "but 
the church and parliament were not 
sufficiently advanced to follow all 
lengths in the wake of Luther and 
Calvin ; and the truth, is that the 
English Church had nothing to do 
with the Reformation but to bear it, 
and by it to lose all its liberties. It 
is a patent fact that the voice of con- 
vocation, the only one which could 
speak for the ecclesiastical body, was 
hushed by Henry VIII., and that the 
refonn was carried on by the king and 
his parliament. If the first prayer- 
book of Edward VI. was so perfect, 
why did not the " cautiously conser- 
vative " movement stop with " that 
most perfect specimen of a reformed 
Catholic liturgy " ? why are the poor 
Calvinists to be blamed for following 
their own consciences, and for ask- 
ing for a rexnsion of the liturgy ? 
That they were successful is a proof, 
at least, that they had great influence 
in the English Church, and that the 
Reformation was not so cautiously 
consen-atlve. 

As for the Protestant Episcopal 
Church, the doctor tells us that it is 
in an inchoate state, where all its 
component elements are in fusion. 
" Only eighty-two )-ears have elapsed 
since the first American bishop was 
consecrated ; these years have been 
formative ; usages and customs have 
been undergoing continual changes, 
and men have been feeling their way, 
under circumstances in which, since 
the time of Constantine, no national 
branch of the Catholic Church has 
been placed." Is this really the case ? 
Have Episcopalians no settled forms 
of worship, and no ftxed creeA"* VQt 
always were led to suppose vViaX. vViak'' 



RituaHsm and its true Meaning. 



conservative body of Christians were 
decidedly fixed in their hostility of 
heart to Romanism, and what may 
be called extreme Protestantism. Is 
it not so ? Is the Book of Common 
Prayer no established rule for the 
order of divine worship? Arc the 
Thirty-nine Articles, to which every 
ministereflectuallysubscribes, no rule 
of faith whatever? Are all Episco- 
palians feeling their way to some- 
thing settled in faith and worship? 
If such is the case, we have been 
strangely misinformed, and have sin- 
gularly misinterpreted the decisions 
of bishops and conventions. The 
Episcopalian clergy and laity can 
settle this matter belter than we can, 
and therefore we leave its solution to 
them. But, to Catholic eyes, these 
" fonnative years " seem only like the 
constant changes which are ever 
passing over all Protestant bodies, 
an«l which inhere in every merely 
human organization. And we must 
say that, as far as we know, tliough 
llie faith of Episcopalians may differ 
very much, their external worship is 
plainly enough fixed by rubrics and 
canons whose meaning can hardly 
be misunderstood. We pay the high- 
est tribute of respect to Rev. Dr. Dix 
and his friends, and wc give thanks 
to God for tlie light and grace he has 
given them ; but truth obliges us to 
say that tlieir whole movement (if it 
be sincere, as wc are bound to believe) 
is away from their own church with 
its riles and ceremonies, and toward 
the old faith and the old home of 
Christians. May the divine mercy 
perfect that which has been begun, 
and which gives such promise of con- 
version to the truth. We deeply 
syTiipathize with the ritualists, and 
pray for them continually, that they 
may not falter on the path they have 
begun to tread, that they may pcrsc- 
vere amid all discouragements and 
temptations until they reacVv \hc\t 



cin 



Father's house, where 
faith shines without a sh 
Having made these 
remarks, we proceed to 
of this short essay, and 
deavor to make manife:>t w 
alism is and what is its 
ing. We believe it to 
important movement, which 
grace will lead many souls 
full possession of tlte trul 
consider it as simply an Imm 
sincere attempt to introd 
English Church and the 
Episcopal Church, the m. 
doctrines of the Catholii 
and to restore the wor 
passed away at the Refo 
the rejection of the ancie 
does not seem to us that anj 
person can long be a rili^ 
out becoming Catholic, 
pose is, then, to make this 
the public by the simple pi 
of facts. It will be very 
both to Catholics and Prol 
know the real doctrine an4 
of the upholders of one of 
striking movements of our 
will, for the sake of order 
ncss, speak in detail of thi 
of the Mass antl the blc^s^ 
rist, of auricular confession 
sacramental observances, 
ligious communities. I!« 
ceeding to these subjects, 
wc reproduce and atiirm 
points of Rev. Dr. Dix, 
shall have in view as fi 
ciples : 

" First. There must be ritual 
where there is rcligiL<n. 

" Second There is the cJ 
from Holy Scripture and 
tory in fovor of a beautiful and 
titualisni, as a powerful agency 
their gotxL 

" Third. Such riCualisTn must 
it most symbolize somethi 
forcibly as possible what 
itXua>\itMa ^lOXWoX 3l 




Ritualism and its true Meaning. 



379 



nitli which the intellect can gra:»p, i^ 
ece of trifling and a sham. 
rth. Ritual must teach truth, pure 
dnUeratcd truth ; God's truth, which 
evealcd to man. 

b. People should try to discuss the 
with calmness. They should not 
it in X party light ; they had belter 
lar of the agitators, whose aim it is 
I vague fears, and affright the unin- 
wilh awful disclosures of conspiracy 
the sinipiiciiy of their faith and the 
»f Iheir worship ; and especially 
Ihey remember that there is super- 
\ defect as well as in cxccssl" 

itualists are believers in the 
e of the Mass and the real 
:e of our Lord in the holy 
ist. The Communion scr\'- 
tead, therefore, of being sim- 
ftffecting memorial of Christ's 
is transformed into a true and 
sacrifice, in which he is really 
under the forms of bread and 
ind is offered for the living 
e dead. The adaptation of 
forms of the prayer-book to 
so Catholic as this requires 
alterations in rubrics and in 
oduction of new matter. We 
uoie from a book called the 

f'4rgif<j, which is the re- 
ar of service, and con- 
iccording to its title, " brief 
|^(br the administration of 
Hkents, and the celebration 
Otvlne ser\'ice according to 
jsent use of the Church of 
ti." The introductory note 
s that the book was drawn 
order to provide the clergy, 
ns, and others with a small 
manual, by which such accu- 
■L and reverence may be 
Wk those ministering at, or 
the altar, as has been so 
itly recommended by such 
t standard divines of our 
I church, as the Venerable 
Lrchbishop Peckham, Bishop 

kCardmal fo/e. Bishop 
iivhbishop Laud. '' The 



Directorium Anglieannm contaitts 

more ample directions ; but the pre- 
sent work, being briefer, is more 
suited for our purpose at this mo- 
ment. It commences with the re- 
mark that, " in the interpretations 
of the hook of Common Prayer, 
ihc following cardinal maxim should 
never be lost sight of, namely, that 
what was not legally and formally 
abandoned at the Reformation by 
express law is now in full force, 
and should be carefully, judiciously, 
and firmly restored. This key un- 
locks many diflicuhies which would 
be otherwise both theoretically and 
practically insurmountable." Then 
follow the directions for the building 
and dressing of the altar, and for a 
"Low and High Celebration." We 
cannot do better than give them at 
length : 

" The greatest care should be invariably 
bestowed upcvn the altar of the church. It 
should be well r-iistd. of proper proportions, 
and of costly materials. In size it should 
never be less Ih.in seven feet long, and three 
feet and a half in hci((ht. It should always 
be raised on a substantia] and solid platfona I 
of at Ica-st three steps. Ikhind it there 
should be a reredos of wood or stone, either 
carved or decorated, or else a hanging of 
cloth, velvet, satin, d.^mxsk, or embroidery. 
Green is the best color for a hanging — un- 
less the church is dedicated in honor of Our 
I^dy, when blac may !< used — which can 
he changed on high festivals for white. The 
carpet upon the sanctuaryifloor should inva- 
riably be green, as it is a good contrast to 
the alt.ir vestments. The altar vestments 
should fit accurately, and not be allowed to 
hang loosely. On a shelf or ledge behind 
the altar — sometimes called a retabic, and 
sometimes, but inaccurately, a super-altar 
— should be placed a metal cross or crucifix ; 
or a painting of the crucitixiun should be 
fixed over the centre of the altar, against the 
cast wall. At least tivo large and hand- 
some candlesticks for the Eucharistic cele- 
bration should be placed one on either side 
of the crossL Other branch candlesticks for 
tapers nuy be affixed to the cast wall on each 
side of the altar, and standar^^ (or V\\c &%me 
may he added on festivals. ¥\oy«« nmc* 
may be also used for the adioinmcnV oi x^ 



38o 



Ritualism and its true Meaning. 



V 



reUhle of the altar, and pots of flowers and 
shrubs for the sanctuary floor, which should 
\k carefully but closely grouped against the 
north and ?outh ends of the altar. 

** The following order should be observed 
l)oth in the ilsc of the vestments of the clergy 
and of the altar : 

" H 'hitt. — From the eyening of Oiristmaj Eve to 
the Octave of Epiphiny uidiutive, (except on the two 
fcisU t'f Si. Stephen aiij the Holy lnn<xenU ;) »tlhe 
cclebnlion on M»unday Thurvlay, and on Kaiter 
Etc, from the evening of Easter Eve to the Vigil of 
Peneccoit, on Trinity Suudjy, on Csrfut Lhritti Day 
and its Ofiave, on (he (euls of the Puriiicalion, Con- 
ver»i<iii of Sl Pakil. Annunciation, Si John Baptist, 
S|. MicKart, All Sairilv on all feasts of Our Lady, »n<I 
of Saints and Virgins, not Martym, at weddings, and 
on the Auiiivetsary Keast of (he dedication of the 
church. 

" ^r</.— Vigil of PcDlecost to the n«xt Saturday. 
Holy Innocents, (if on a Sundiy.) and all other fcaiis. 

" Violet. — ?'rom Septiiaccsiina Sunday lo Easter 
Eve, from Advent to Christmns Eve, Ember week in 
September, all vigils tluU are £wtc<l< Holy InnocenO> 
(mileu on Snndav ) 

" BUck.—CruoA Fnday fekd fancnU 

" CnwK.— All feiial days. 

"rtAlN DIRECTIOWS FOR A LOW CF.I.KBRA- 
TlON, 

(itV A rillE<>T WITH ONC tCRVXR.) 

fettmtntt /or tht Cflt^ramt — Caisncli, amice, alb, 
and girdle, with maniple, stole, andclkasubte, of the 
color of Ihe day. 

Vrttmrntt /^"- ikt Jrrp^r— Caaaock and surplice. 

" The altar candles being lighted, and the 
cruets of wine and water being on their 
stand upon the credence, as well as the al- 
tar breads, basin, and towel, the priest, bear- 
ing the sacred vessels, duly arranged antl 
covered, preceded by the server, proceeds 
from the sacristy to the altar. 

" Having Iwtvcd to the cross, ami then 
spread the corporal and placed the chalice 
on the centre of the altar, he steps back to 
the foot of the altar, and Ixgiiis by saying 
privately : * "J"* In the name of the Father, 
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
A men,' 

" He then recites Psalm xliii,, (which shoidd 
be learned by heart.) 

" Then, going up to the altar, according 
to the Rubric he says the ' Our Father' 
and collect at the 'north side' or gospel 
corner ; after which, turning lo the people, 
and standing in the middle of the alt.ir, he 
nrcites the Ten Commandments, the server 
making (he appointed responses. 

"Then he Itims to the gosjiel comer, aa 
the Rubric directs, and says the pra^Tr for 
the yuccn, and the collect fir the day. 

" Then the server moves the lx>ok-re4t to 
the epistle corner, where the priest teada 
tht epistle; and then the Krvt» repVacw 



it, as before, at the gospel comer, whert 
priest reads the gospel, at the conaoitnp- 
ment of which all present cross theaiMlvei 
on the forehead, mouth, and breast 

"Custom sanctions the response^ ' C3Uy 
be to Tfiff, O lufrd,' and 'Praise /V t» 71i^ 
O ChrisI' before and after the Gospel ; bslk 
of which arc said by the server. 

" The creed is said by the priest jtmtkt 
mantbut in the middle ot the altar iidM 
the cross. The scrA-er, therefore, than 
move the book toward the priest, Froa 
the words ' and TMJ incamate' to ' rttu mth 
man^ the celebrant bows profoum!!; ; ok 
at the words 'it/t ePfrinftiHff* makes da 
sign of the cross on his hrc-ist 

" The ofliertory sentence '^ — - ' ••: Ae 
same (K>sition. The alms iiK> 

scnted standing. At the ;.;......_ -A tie 

bread, the prie.st should ii5ic privateiir ikl 
following prayer from the SalislNiry Miaill 

" 'Sttci/*, Satuia TrmHas, kamt »lht{\mmtmm 
epo mdi^iit tfffrc in kenm tut *t fif-.' ' "— • 
et atmmitim tniulcrum liMrtim, fr» /r. . 
ti/fnitui mrii ; /rw vituU Drvjimm ft r,-., . 
fidtlium dt/ftuUnnn. /« m>mitu /*«/nj, ti Hik. 
et Sfiritu* SAncti, A mrm.' 

" .\nd at the offering of the chalice : 

" OfffrjmHt tifii, Pflmlif. caJitim tmiml^nt. htH 
def>rr\anlti cltmentii»m, Ht in (¥mtft<lm 4MaC 
mnifUiUis lu*. ftrtt nittlri ti iMimt m»mJ§ laMl 
cwm adrrt imtvilMit AMCtnd^l. A mm. ' 

" Here the server should bring frtim <!• 
credence-ewer, water, and towel fnr tic 
priest to wash his hands. Duritit tliii 
symbolical ceremony, i' ' ' " **f 

Psalm x.xvi., which ni- .iJ\ 

"At the ' JV that do ,'v,, , Tinn n -inHiJd 
also l)e learnt by heart, and said wit^oot 
the service-book, the priest turn* tn tbt 
people, still standing in Ihe midst ei tkt 
altar. 

" The server, or • minister,' as the Rultrlc 
terms him, says the confc-ssion in \\\k nao* 
of the people, the priest standintr tua% 
eastward. At its conclusion, be tana 
round /««<-/<> moHiinu, and gives the »l»o<ti- 
ticm, which should also be said wiihoot (te 
book, making the sign rif the crou iritk ^ 
right hand at the words, 'Jvnbm mmdMatr 
you^ etc. 

"The 'ComfertmUi iy*nii' «re lukl 
the same poshion. 

"The prcf,ic<, '/J/t w/ jKmr ^Mfti,* 
its response, is said with ^-••'- 
and eyes uplitted. At the /t 

fjrr l^iiPii-t,' etc, the |>ri.-^: 
and at '// it ifryiHt<- 
to the altar, bending _ -. jcdi, 

'tMy.koiy. My.' 

"TVkC uVt^Rat&.VsnetX&VvVfcviidsl of 



Rttualism and its tme Meaning. 



3$l 



he prayer of humMe accc!>8, ' IVt 
immt.' 

i prajxr of consecration, the priest 
jr genuflects after the consecration 
cad, to worship Jeaus Christ, truly 
nder a sacramental veil, and again 
consecration of the chalice, 
the following extract from the an- 
um Canon, to be said privately, 
irding to the suggestion of Bishop 
)« profitably introduced : 

ktt mt m t» r »t, Dtmine mas trrvi hti, $td 
I tOKcU, */tudem Ckriiti Filii tui Dtm- 
ifri Ittm tfotm Piutimn'i, mtcnam H ab r'lc 
TtrSiimij. ttJ fl !* arlci gltrieta A ictn- 
rifma fnr^-tar,t MuftUaii tu^ dt titii 
'aiit iliMiuim fiil'jratn, Hetiiam sattci'jt 
tin, imm^fcvialam : Pamm taiutr^m 
*, el ciij'i<>1m rm uiltUu frr^ttut. 
t #»« /r-cfilio <u urtHO vmltn mfu-fn 
It mtitfia hohtrt, iktUi »ti€^t kaiert 
I tmnmrnt fttf-i tut jmtti AM, ft tarri/!- 
I ' 'rtfut: ttqutdtitifUutU 

fAtcky tumlum sacrifi- 

\ ' : "f. 

,~<-f /« r<-f:aiMHi otKHlpotem Dtut ; jtiht 

'fV/rr' m*Hnt sancti nngtli lui in tuUinu 

" — - •■ - '^rtn Divinit .Vnjttlatii Ttui ; 

in't fnrluifatiome, sacraiane- 

•'.• ■ "f tt Sam!!f gviHftn tutnfttri- 

i Ay./v>*»y.;,»/^<«/ ialtili tt c^atia rrf^nt- 

ntiutem C'krirtmn Vominuui Hfttrttm. 

mtm ttiami, Dominr am'mamm famHl*- 
fcwoii tusmm ( N. ct N.) ^i um /r-*- 

- "^Yrt, rt Jamiiuttt in temmo ^ 

>mmhut in Ckristo fiiftffHli- 

lucis el ftKii, Ht imitttceat, 

tL.ftr eumdem Ckriilim J^amtHttm Mi>t- 

*'— '" ■•' t^'CAtfrittit fatmlit tuii de titul- 

tH,tmm sfernnliha, farieim 

■I Jotutrt dignerii cum Imil 

tuMu tt m,irlj>riiut ; nim ytamnf, Sir- 

kttAAi, Barmih^ Jgiutlif, AlexamlfV, 

t ftlr*, Fftititate, Per^ita, AgMihtt, 

ttete, CttciHa, An&stula, el evm omtilnu 

', httm ^irrtnn nin cimierlium, mom ti- 

Vifi, ted veitim, iffueivmui, Lirg'Uar ad- 

^Ctrirftim Pemiimm Hatttiim. 

hwr */r.-- (■CT>?.'',i ('•'mine, irmf*r hanei 

•'• ■•»Jw//i ('/. ///nrr- 

•'«» 11 ifil'jiti' eit 

_' ■ tHiUtie S/irittu 

*» A^w «r jf .'•»*.*. J 'er metniu ntcuU *•- 



%m^' 



wiest communicates himself stand- 
mAcrting before receiving our 
^Lhe nuy sny : 

^Fmrrittim mmtlstima Can Ciriili : 
tmmta el m/^r emmia iMmmf dtttced*. 
Htm tuiln JttH Ckrisli lil miki feccale- 
k,>S«/« n»m(me f»tru, rt Filit, it S/iri- 



fe^. 



g before receiving Christ's 
Bluod: 



elttnntm CaUtIi* Petwt, miiiamO <>mf- 
MMi* tm mm i i AA*idf, Cfr;^ etSmei' 




guit Dtmim imiri Jem Ckritli firctint miki/et^a- 
ten ttd rrmedium umf'ilrmunt in vilam »temam. 
Amen.t^n runnine Fatrts' etc. 

"After zll have cummuntcatcd, the con- 
tents of the paten may be carefully placed into 
the chalice, the paten placed on the chalice, 
and the vci I put over it. 

" The ' Our Father' and the following 
prayer are said with hands extended, in the 
centre of the altar, facing eastward, as also 
the intonation of the ' Gloria in Excdsis,' 
At the words^ * we tvonhip thtf^ the celebrant 
will bow profoundly ; at the words, ' To thf 
f^ory of God the Fat/ter' he signs himself 
with the sign of the cross. 

" In giving the benediction, in which the 
sign of the cross should always be made 
with the right hand, care should be taken by 
the priest not to turn his back upon the 
blessed sacrament. The server will here 
kneel in the centre of the lower step, 

" Immediately after this — before the 
priest uses any private devotions whatsoever 
and before the people attempt to go away — 
the consecrated species should be reverently 
consumed; and the ablutions (i) of wine. 
(2) of wine and water mixed, an<l (3) of water 
alone should be given to the priest by the 
server. 

"The greatest possible cire should be 
taken that no single particle remains on the 
paten ; and it is alwa\'s better that the priest 
himself should consume all thai remains of 
both kinds. The officials of the church and 
members of the choir should be expressly 
taught never to rise from their knees until 
the ablutions have been taken and the priest 
is about to leave the altar. 

" Aflcr the cleansing of the vessels, the 
corporal, purificator, chalice-cover, etc., 
should be carefully put in their places ; and 
then, bowing to the cross, the priest should 
return to the sacristy, preceded by the ser- 
ver, and say, according to the Saium rite, St, 
John's Gospel, cap. i. 1-14. 

" The priest, having t;iken off hU vest- 
ments, says his thanksgiving. 

TLAtN DIRECTIONS FOR A HIGU CELE- 
BRATION. 

(■T A PRIEST WITH DEACOil AND SUfr-DaACOH.) 

I'ttlmenit /er the C//**>n««f— CmsiocV, amicf, alU 

and girJIe, wiih maniple, tloie, iHMi cha*«bie of 

the coU.if of iht diy. 
I'tsimeuti /or Ike DetK<m — CuKKk, atnice, alb, 

and girdle, with maaiple, itolc, and dalmatic o^ ih* 

color of llie djy. 
t'eitrntntt /or Ike Stti-Deac^i — C-»»««ick. amice, 

alb, and girdle, with maniple and luniclc oflhccokir 

aftht day. 
I'et/uien/t far the <H f o/y***— C**»odi», CViWV. im 
crdiiury cUpi, but purple at ataxlci on CNMi 1«m.V 



«aU,) whh eilhcr ihort nuplice*, girded alb*, or 
rodieCL 

"The directions which Lave already been 
given in the case of a ' Low Celebration ' arc 
equally appropriate here, as far as regards 
the actual ceremonies of the Eucharist. Sev- 
eral additional points, however, need tt> be 
particularly insisted on : 

" (ij) The normal position of the deacon 

vritl W on the right hand side of the priest. 

Wanding on the first step from the footpace ; 

^■tid that of the sub-deacon on his left hand, 

Btandinjt on the second step. 

" {/>) Both deacon and sub-deacon stand 
when the celebrant stands, genuflect when 
he genuflects, and kneel when he kneels. 

" {{■) At the epistle, the deacon and sub- 
deacon change places, the latter chanting the 
epistle on his own, the second step from the 
footpace, from a good-sized book, held by 
one of the acolytes on the epistle side, so 
that the sub-deacon may face the cast. 

"{d) At the gospel, the deacon chants 
the gospel from his step, near the gos|>el 
corner of the altar — the book of the Gospels 
being held by the sub-deacon, so that the 
deacon may face the north. 

" M AfVcr the gospel, the celebrant, in the 
midst of the altar — with the deacon behind 
him on his own step, and the sub-deacon on 
his step, again behind the dctcon — intones 
the first sentence of the Niccnc Creed. 
When the choir take up the words , 'the 
Father Almighty,' the deacon and sub-de.i- 
con go up to the altar footpace, respectively 
to the right and left of the priest. 

"(/) Duringihe sermon, the priest, deacon, 
and sub-deacon occupy the sedilia, or scats 
placed for them on the south side of the sanc- 
tuary, facing the north. 

" (.r) At the offertory they return to the al- 
tar, and the sub-deacon brings the sacred 
vessels from the credence. The deacon, 
taking the cor^x^ral out of the burse, spreads 
the corporal, and arranges the sacred ves- 
sels. The chalice should be placed immedi- 
ately behind the paten, in the centre of the 
cor)>oral and of the altar. 

"(*) The plate «>r box with the altar 
breads should l)e handed to the deacon by 
the sub-deacon, who will receive it from one 
of the acolytes, in order that the priest may 
be supplied with the elements requirecL The 
same will be observed as regards the cruets 
of wine and water, and also for the ceremony 
of washing the priest's fingers. The priest- 
celebrant should not leave his place at the 
altar, but should he carcluUy served by his 
assistant clergy and the acoU-tcs. 
" (i] The confession may Ix: said in mono- 
te, or with suitable inflections \fj vSlaxx 



its true Meanittg. 

the deacon or sub-deacon. T>ii 
face and sanctu>, the deacon 
stnnd Ixhind the priest, respective 
to his right and left. 

" {k) At the consecration, the dca^ 
sub-deacon, standing rcsitctivtlT 
right and left, will reverent 
the priest genuflects, and ' i 

low during the communion 

" (/) At the tfV.'r;.! in / 
brant — in the midiit of the .n-.j;. n 
deacon l>eh)t>d him on his own strj'. i 
sub-deacon on his step, tf^ain tiri^ 
deacon — intones the first sentence, 
the choir take up the worrU • Ai.ifJ 
peace' the deacon and st 
to the altar footpace, rt.' 
right and left of the priest. 

" (»«) •A.fter the Glorii in 
two, or three of the collects at tftr^ 
the communion service mar be *aj 
cording to the number of tl> 
of the day — xs a post-comni 

" («) In giving the' t 

celebrant should turn 
ing careful not to stanii i-cHiic mc im-n 
cramcnl, and, stretching out his atn| 
ing the first part of it — from the d{ 
words to ' His Son Jesus Chri»t our \\ 
will ki<stbcpax which is prr-mir-.^i 
by the deacon ; and then, 
hand open on his breast, wi \\ 

hand and bless the people with the I 
sign of the cross. 

" (<») The deacon and su!' 
mediately serve wine and u 
tion.s, and having rearranged the i-tr« 
scis and their coverings, will place I 
the credence, together with the 
service-book. 



1 at tftr' 



Such is the cxtcnial ril 
mended and practised as far aS] 
ble by the ritualists in wb.t \\\A 
not hesitate to call the 
Mass. That it is conrninnjci. ;i 
as can be, to the Liturg>' of ihl 
thotic Church will be c-\ ' 

sight to any one acquair 
Miss.il. The cei^monit ■; .u < n 
of the integral parts :iic a»ia 
without change frotn the Wcstena 
and not from the Easlertj, «1iidl 
Dix thinks more pure. Ttie \ 
ments may be of \V' ■ ' 

but this is not a mat. 
^triest, having placed the cbalMl 




its 



feofting'. 



', steps back to the foot of the 
d be^ns, according to the Ca- 
ller, by makinf^the sign of the 
d saying the Psalm, "Judica 
u" The epistle and gospel 

precisely as we read them ; 
e creed is said, "junctis 
," in the middle of the altar, 
he cross. It is also said 

same reverences as our ser- 
tscribes, and ends with the 
the cross. The offering of 
d is made in a Latin form, 
iie taken from the Salisbury 

The oblation is made in the 
f the Holy Trinity and the 
Mary, for the salvation of the 
td the rest of the faithful de- 

At the offering of the cha- 
pricst is directed to say the 

prayer used in our Liturgj-. 
lows the washingof the hands, 
« recitation of Psalm jcxv., 
5 manus meas," as in the 

rite ; and the extracts in 
>in our Missal are directed 
"written out, printed, or 
ted, and then framed and 
gainst the super-altar as 
mis." At the consecra- 
e priest reverently genu- 
Vforship Jesus Christ truly 

after which he is recom- 

to use privately the e.xact 
f our canon in Latin. It 
■Jat they coincide with the 
lanon, and that some years 
yap Wilson had the good 
|B suggest their use. The 
Hbf the service will speak 
'; and we think any Episco- 
tU find himself strangely puz- 
uld he undertake to follow 

|)rics of his B<x)k of Com- 
; He would, it seems to 
Inch at home in a Catho- 
The directions for a 
clebralion " are all taken 
rubrics for a solemn Mass, 
con and sub-deacon, and are 



conformed to them as much as possi- 
ble. The saddest reflection which 
strikes us, is the thought that those 
who go through with such real and 
meaning ceremonies have nn priestly 
character, and therefore no power to 
consecrate Christ's Body and Ulood. 
Such i.s not only the verdict of the 
Catholic Church in regard to Anglican 
orders, but the opinion of everj' East- 
ern church which has retained the 
traditions of the apostolic succession. 
It is a fearful responsibility for any 
man to lake, to make himself a priest 
on his own private judgment ; for, after 
all, if the Catholic Church is good for 
rites and doctrines, she is good for 
everything. 

So far the external observance of 
the ritualists is in favor of the sac- 
rifice of the Mass, and the real pre- 
sence of our Lord in the blessed 
Eucharist. We shall find that they 
do not hesitate to teach the doctrine 
which their ritual symbolizes, accord- 
ing to the principles of Dr. Dix. 
which exact that " ritual must teach 
truth, pure and unadulterated truth." 
We have before us several books 
which are recommended, and, as far 
as we have been able to learn, in 
constant use. The books for devo- 
tion before hearing Mass and receiv- 
ing Holy Communion, such as 77if 
Altar Book, The Little Sacrament 
Booky Thf Supper of the Lord^ 
contain the plainest expressions of 
belief in the real and true corporeal 
presence of Jesus Christ in tlie sac- 
rament. We could quoic many 
pages, but we shall only give a few 
passages from The Chunhmatt's 
Guide to Faith and Piety, a work 
which is quite comprehensive, and is 
published with directions for all de- 
votions, both in and out of the church. 
It bears a dedication, by permission, 
to the Rt, Rev. H. Potter, D.D., 
LL.D., D.C.L., the Bis\\op o^ "Hev! 
Fork, thus receiving ihe saivcuou oi 



384 



Ritualism and its 



che liighest Episcopalian authority. 
The " Instruction on the Holy Eucha- 
rist" contains very plainly the doctrine 
of the Mass; " In this sacrament he 
(Icsus Christ) has bequeathed to us 
his Body and Blood under the forms 
of bread and wine, not only to be 
received by us for the food and nou- 
rishment of our souls, but as a means 
whereby Ihe same oblation of him- 
self which he offers before the Failier 
in heaven might be offered also by 
his ministers on earth. They thus 
commemorate his one atoning sacri- 
fice by a perpetual memorial, repre- 
senting his death and passion before 
the Father. ... In this sacrifice 
Christ himself is the real ofterer, 
though he acts through his priests, 
whom he appointed as his represen- 
tatives when he commanded his 
apostles, saying, * Do this in remem- 
brance of mc.' . . . When, there- 
fore, ihe priests of liis church, in his 
name and according to his com- 
mands, rehearse the words of insti- 
tution in the prayer of consecration, 
God the Holy Ghost comes down 
upon the creatures of bread and wine, 
and thfy become the Body and Blood 
of Christ. The priest offers, there- 
fore, on God's altar a sacrifice com- 
memorative of that perfect and suffi- 
cient sacrifice once offered on tlie 
cross, and at the same time Jesus 
Christ presents it before the Father, 
pleading his wounds, and the merits 
of his passion for the pardon and sal- 
vation of his people." During the 
comrpunion many beautiful devotions 
are given, all of which speak fer- 
yenlly of Christ's real presence, and 
the Catholic hymn, " Ave Verum 
Corpus," is translated for use at that 
great moment : 

" Hail I CbriM'i bodr, Inic ami real, of the Virgin 
Mary born. 
Tnity juffcrinji. truly offeml on »h< lull of acont. 
HaQ I iat nua't »alvUiuit pltfud. fnp*>t wouadl 

and riven lidc, 
WlMBM Mittow4 widi loTt uiurtntiAg, Blood imd 
WaMr,aHi«tcdtMa: 



Now upQO lluu badir te»i m^ nam 

foutilaiit drink, 
L«st, when death relcnilea* mim ns ^ 

Judfc't March we liikk." 

The beautiful h)Tnn of St. TT> 
" Adoro Te devot^" is added : 

" Devoully t adore thee. IViiy miiCcn, 
Why (hy slory hiilnt 'neaih lh( 
TatU anH tawh and vutfm in lh»c an 
Bdi the hearing only, welt may tx b(lim4 

The prayer " Anima ChrisI 
then recommended to be said 
the inmost affections and dcsif 
the soul. The manner of rec< 
is also worthy of notice : 
reverently at the .t1 ' ' 

upright ami the hc-.i 
Say to yourself, ' Lord, 1 \xt\\ niA 
thy that thou shouldest con»c 
my roof.' Make thy left lia 
throne for the right, which is o^ 
eve of receiving the Kini^, and^ 
ing hollowed thy palir 
Body of Christ, and C(' 
fully to thy mouth." Ihe 
called The Supper of tkt Jj>rd ^ 
the like directions: "When 

priest gives you the ?- 'i 

ceivc it in the Ojjen ! 

right hand, and so i 
rently, lest any portirii i 

to the ground ; for St. Cyril ob« 
' Whosoever loses any pari of i 
better lose part of himscIC ** 
not necessar>' to quote aoy lu 
passages, although tlie same dot 
is contained in the entire book. 
page 86, vol. ii., there is the 
" that the bread and wine 
changed in their substance ;' 
we arc inclined to think t 
comes from inad\crteni 
or bad philosophy. T^ i 

cannot coexist in the same ftpic« 
therefore, if tlie bread aod 
cunie the Body and Blood of C 
they Ciinnot still be simple breai 
wine. And if the presence of ( 
is only in them ^ ' " ..haj 

them, it is a sin tu .. <xi%^ 

they are only cresuurts sttU. 




Ritualism and its true Meaning. 



38s 



fft of them would, then, be 
IS Episcopalians have al- 
"ed. The language of the 
etofore quoted would be 
ut of place. Lutherans 
their theories of consub- 
•nd eminent Protestants 
led a kind of impanation ; 
se matters may safely be 
riterions of good common 
: feel satisfied that any 
tsires to hold consistently 
le of a real presence of 
t in the blessed Eucharist 
>ach the Catholic dogma, 
a substantial change in 
md wine. 

ular confession is taught 
wd by the ritualists. We 
ar confession, because the 
•een used by Protestants, 
nay be considered exple- 
a confession heard by no 
ly a confession in any pro- 
The books of devotion 
jy the ritualists, both in 
y and in England^ give 
ain and explicit directions 
ion. The ministers who 
r views are always ready 
dr penitents, and, on ac- 
he spiritual relation they 
leir children, call them- 
love to be called, by the 
ither." as is customary in 
ch. The Chapter 
L -hmatCs Guide, yo\. 
«J *' Of Sacramental Con- 
U gives the prayers and 
br self-examination such 
found in our manuals. 
tf confession is thus re- 



I, 



the priest is rcidy, begin 
on after this manner : In the 
Kathcr, »nd of ihe Son, and of 
rwt, .\mea I confess to God 
jhty, to Hia onlybcgotlcn 
our Lord, and to Cod the 
the whole company of 
»ii, my father, that i have 
VS.~2S 



tinned exceedingly in thought, word, and 
deed, by my fault, my own fault, my own 
grievous fault. Then confess the sins you 
have noted down as the result of your self- 
examination, tailing them in the order 0/ 
the commandments, or tieginning with your 
bc&ctting sins, and then proceeding to the 
lesser sins. Do so simjily, sincerely, earn- 
estly, unreservedly, in as plain a manner as 
possible, remembering that no sin which you 
have discovered should be held back, that 
any conscious omission will render the con- 
fession nothing worth, and the absolution 
null and void. In accusing yourself, be 
very careful not to mention another, unless 
it is necessary to the completeness of your 
confession. Answer any questions that the 
confessor may feel it necessary to ask truth- 
fully and unhesitatingly. When you have 
completed your confession, say as follows : 
F"or these and all my other sins which I can- 
not at present remember, [ humbly beg p.-u- 
don of Almighty God, and of you, my spiri- 
tual father, penance, counsel, .ind absolution. 
Wherefore I pray God the Father yMmighty, 
His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, and 
God the Holy Ghost to pity me and have 
mercy upon me, and you, my father, to pray 
for me. The priest will then remark upon 
the confession as he deems most fitting, giv- 
ing such ghostly counsel as to disfiose the 
soul for the receiving of the great gift Lis- 
ten to him with all reverence and care, 
receiving the advice which he gives you as 
the message of God to your soul, and deter- 
mine punctually and exactly to. fulfil the 
penance which he may assign to you. After 
such exhortation, the priest will pray with 
you and for you, and then lay his hands 
upon your head, and pronounce the words 
of al^solulion. Doubt not, but earnestly be- 
lieve that, according to God's sure promise, 
the sins that are so loosed upon earth are 
Ifxjsed in heaven. After confession, spcnt^ 
if possible, a quarter of an hour in church, 
or in private, using one or more of the fol- 
lowing acts of devotion." 

Then follow some beautiful .ind 
fervent prayers and thanksgivingSw 
Catholics will see very little differ- 
ence between this form and that to 
which they have been accustomed 
from their childhood. We have no 
means of judging how extensive is 
the practice of confession among 
Episcopalians in New- York, but we 
carnesdy hope it will increase atvd 
bccomt general. Although \hwe Ss 



386 



Ritualism and its true Meaning, 



no priestly character, no jurisdiction, 
and no absolution, still the habit of 
confessing leads to self-examination 
and strictnessof life, and will in God's 
good time open the heart to the light 
of the true faith. We are not aware 
that confessionals have been erected 
in any Episcopal church in this coun- 
tr)', and do not know whether confes- 
sions are heard in the church or at 
the houses of the ministers. English 
ritualists are far beyond their Ameri- 
can brethren, and therefore we pre- 
sume that ever)'tliing will follow in 
due time. 

3. The ritualists are also approach- 
ing to the doctrine of the church in 
regard to the sacraments, and cer- 
tainly admit more than two sacra- 
ments. A sacrament is, according 
to our catechism, " an outward sign 
of inward grace, or a sacred and mys- 
terious sign by which grace is com- 
municated to our souls." We need 
not speak of baptism, in which rege- 
neration is fully admitted, nor allude 
to the holy Eucharist, already suffi- 
ciently spoken of, but will simply men- 
lion penance, confirmation, and mat- 
rimony, which the Episcopal Church 
denies to be sacraments. What we 
have quoted in regard to " sacramen- 
tal confession" will show tliat, to all 
intents and purposes, ihey believe in 
penance very much as we do. Con- 
firmation is regarded as a rite having 
an external sign, and convejnng the 
gift of the Holy Ghost. Special pre- 
paration for so great a gift is deemed 
necessary, and confession is recom- 
mended. " White is the color of the 
vestments of both clergy and altar 
at confirmation. At confession, the 
stole should be violet." 

The Notitia Litiirjpca gives the 
following directions for holy matri- 
'wony : " The service for holy matri- 
monvconsists of three parts, namely, 
ihe address to the congregation, the be- 
trothal, (both of which are to uke 




-e-bMi 
»edfl 
rm cOl 
ilhnlic 
liis rin| 
, that s] 
ivioiabl 
:v«h| 

rist.^w 



place in the nave or 
church,) and the more saen 
part, imploring the graces neei 
the married state, which is 5Mii< 
altar. The ring is evidenilyl 
to be laid on the service-t 
purpose of being blesse 
lowing is a common form 
tion. (It is the Catholic 
* Sanctify, "C* O Lord, this rin| 
we bless •J-* in thy name, that s] 
shall wear it, keeping invioiabl 
lit)' to her spouse, maye* 
peace and love; and livel 
to Thy law, through Christ.' 
Amen.' In pronouncing thi 
benediction, the priest should 
hands upon the heads of 1 
woman. Whiie is the cc 
vestments of both clergy; 
the celebration of holy 
The priest should wear ca 
plice, and stole ; and the 
clerks, or ministers, cas 
plices. If the holy cor 
celebrated, of course the! 
will retire to the veslryj 
the proper vestments. Oi 
and bridegroom and theirj 
friends should communicj 
can be very little doubt that 
this there is the open profess 
belief in an inward sanctif)-in| 
attached to the external 

In regard to holy ordef 
no direct evidence beforct 
we have only seen books 
for the people ; but we are qui 
suaded that the rituali.'^tSj 
the sacramental character^ 
tion, and that a ^^) 
the imposition ol . 
when ministers and prie 
emnly set apart to their 
for the sacrament of < 
we are not aware ih.1t it 11 
in England or among lite 
lians in this country, 
the advances they have 
the last few years, ve baf« 



►rofesa 
tif)-inj 

I 




'1 

xttm 




that it will ere long be intro- 
|(L It was in use in the early 

iof the Reformation, and is very 
ly taught in Holy Scripture. (St, 
« V. 14,) 
The vast progress in Catholic 
which has been made has also 
lo the establishment of religious 
|niunilies. In England, there are, 
ire informed, quite a number of 
Irs, who live by rule and devote 
■selves to the works of charity. 
iRev. Dr. Neale devoted his life 
iBiIl his zeal to this most impor- 
I movement. We have seen some 
kliful sermons which were preach- 
•y him to the sisterhood of St. 
taret'sjinEastGrinsted. In them 
pe found not only the belief of the 
kipal Catholic verities, but the 
f fer\'ent descriptions of the religi- 
Ife, and the plainest directions for 
liaining its strictness. The move- 
I has gone so far in England that 
p a/Tord to defy public prejudice. 
be United States there has been 
^rresponding movement among 
fcopalians, though somewhat be- 
[the footsteps of their brethren in 
inother country. The Rev. Dr. 
lenberg was among the first in 
pty lo establish a community of 
is ; but we believe that his idea 
ivLCcd more the relief of the sick 
Ipoor than the consecration to 
W)( those who should devote them- 
es to this charity. Latterly, how- 
there has been established here 
rhood on more Catholic prin- 
I, under the auspices of Rev. Dr. 
which contains now nine mem- 
not counting postulants, who 
etitle of ''Sisters of St. Mar>-." 
community was instituted three 
r years ago, and placed untler 
similar to those of the Catho- 
nvents. Postulants to the com- 
y have a trial of six months, 
bey are refdrtti by the pastor. 
and a half from this time, 




that is, after two years of probation, 
they are set apart to their work by 
the bishop. The public will recollect 
the account, which appeared in the 
journals, of a consecration of sisters 
by Rt. Rev. Dr. Potter in one of the 
Episcopal churches. At this service, 
though we believe they take no vows, 
the sisters consider themselves set 
apart /t;/- /i/c, and bound to the com- 
munity, except in special exigencies, 
when dispensation can be obtained 
from the pastor or bishop. They 
have a religious dress of black, with 
a large black cape, a large while 
collar, and a white cap. They also 
wear a cross made of black work, 
with a white lily in silver set in it, 
which is hung around the neck. They 
live strictly, rise early, and work labo- 
riously. They observe several of the 
canonical hours, and for this puqjose 
use the book prepared and published 
by Dr. Di.\. They have their hours 
of silence, of recreation, and of com- 
munity observances. They seldom 
visit any one, but can go to their 
homes occasionally, by special per- 
mission. They are expected to go to 
confession and communion monthly, 
unless they obtain the privilege of 
going oftener. Rev. Dr. Dix is their 
spiritual director, although some are 
permitted to confess to one of the 
" fathers" at St. Alban's, or to any 
other Episcopal minister. 

These sisters have charge of two 
houses, the " Sheltering Arms," at 
One Hundredth street, on the Bloom- 
ingdale road, and the " House of 
Mercy," in Eighty-sixth street, near 
the Hudson river. St Barnabas's 
House, in Mulberrystreet, near Hous- 
ton, was at one time under their care, 
but, as the managers were not suffi- 
ciently Catholic in their ideas, they 
were constrained to leave it. On 
Sundays and holydays, when there is 
no service in these private chapel^ 
thay attend the neigVibot\t\^ Tt^v&ccjr 



i 
I 




388 



Ritualism and its true Mtaning. 



pal churches. Once a month they 
have an especial service in one of 
their houses, when their pastor is pre- 
sent, and the holy communion is 
cek'bratecl. After this ser\'ice the 
sisters hold a meetings, which is call- 
ed a '* chapter," in which the affairs 
of the community are discussed and 
nrmnged. *rhey often attend St. Al- 
ban's church, where the holy com- 
munion is celebrated e\'er)' Sunday, 
on all the saints' days, and each day 
on the octaves of Christmas, Easter, 
and .'\scension. Here there is a "low 
slebration" on the week-days above 
lentioncd, or " Low Mass," as it is 
sometimes called by them. 

5. In regard to other practical de- 
votions of Catholics, the ritualists 
have also made great progress. The 
" Way of the Cross " is used and re- 
commended by them. A beautiful 
form of this devotion will be found in 
the bf>ok entitled Thf Supper of the 
Lord, and Holy Communion. The 
Churchman^s Guide contains some 
pious litanies, and some devotions to 
the sacre<l wounds of our Lord, which 
are conceived entirely in the tone of 
Catholic piety. The ** Lenten Fast '' 
is also recommended to be strictly 
observ'ed by abstinence from flesh 
meat, and even the rules of our own 
diocese are quoted with favor. We 
have seen a little book, called The 
Rosary of the Holy Name of Jesus, 
to which is added the " Rosary of the 
Passion of our T^ord," set forth for the 
use of the faithful members of the 
Enj;lish Church, with an introduction 
by Charles Walker, author of Three 
Months in an English Monastery. In 
tJie introduction, heads, adapted to 
these rosaries, are ap]3roved, but how 
far they are in use we liave no 
means of knowing. 

The invocation of the saints cer- 
tainly is not very prominent in their 
l>ooks of devotion, but they have be- 
gun the good work. The ftrel pau 



eof 



of the •' Hail, Mary" is used in 
rosaries, and this is, at least, a step 
the right direction. We have been 
informed that private prayers to the 
Blessed Virgin and the saints are in 
use by some ; and, as this invocation 
is founded on the simple principle of 
intercession, it will undoubtedly, 
long, be generally practised. No 
jection can be found against it wh; 
does not exist against asking ea 
other's prayers in this life. llvewoA 
entitled Prayers for Children, br 
Rev. F. G. Lee, gives Fal^r's hcao- 
tiful hymn to Our L.idy, to be •^n ! 
on feasts of the Blessed Virgin Man' 

" Mollier of Mrrty, day by ilar 

My love I'tir llirc k<^o»i> tnnn and mofC 
Thy giflft art vtrcwn upon n\\ way. 
Like nnds apnn the gxCJt tf-t-slMre. 

" Get me llie itrace In love tWee mon : 
Jcsin will give if Ihini «{ll picarf : 
And, DioOicr, when life'* caman o'er. 
Oh ! I shall lave thee then ind«e<l" 

The hymn to the g^iardian angdj 
is also given from the same author; 

" Vc«, when I pray, thou pcaycal loo: 
Thy imyer is all for me ; 
Ditl when [ *lerp, tbmt Wecpen Mat, 
But watchcsl pati<iiU)-. " 

Prayer for the faithful dcpa 
may be found in nearly allUic pmj 
books of the ritualists, and the 
ri.nl service is animated with that te 
der devotion wliich forms such 
characteristic of the Call ' 
The holy Eucharist is reC" 
to be celebrated at funerals, and 1 
rections for so doing are given m 
Notitia JMurgiea. The Jntrttit 
"Grant them eternal rest, and 
light perpetual shine upon tliem.1 
The Dies free is to be divided asti 
sung at different parts of the set 
before the gospel, al the 
during the communion, and 
the blessing. 

The Booik pf ff9urs^\yi v. m 
Dix, has a prayer for the U •■ 
parted, and the "low celct 
already quoted, has the ** M( 
(or the Dead," extracted Iran our 



J 




Ritualism and its tme Meaning. 



: give the following prayer 

Vu Supper of the Lord, 

1 1 by whose mercy the souls 

lithful find rest, grant to all 

uits who have gone before 

the sign of faith, and who 

nber in the sleep of peace, a 

refreshment, light, and peace, 

the same Jesus Christ our 

At a funeral the following is 

jnded : '* O Lord, look gra- 

we beseecli thee, upon this 

(the holy Eucharist) which 

thee for tlie perfecting of 

of thy servant N , and 

U this medicine which Thou 
ichsafed to provide for the 
of all the living may avail 
the departed, through our 
iUS Christ. Amen." 
acred sign of the cross, as 
\ obscr\'ed, is used common- 
^anie manner as Catholics 
Hk in private and in pub- 

itroduction of altar-boys took 
me time ago, in this city, 

S,s said that it was accord- 
use of the English calhe- 
fbr tlie purpose of chanting 
ice. It appears, however, 
^ are only a part of an al- 
revive ihc " minor orders," 
lave them in the Catholic 
.At the '* high celebration " 
St is attended by a deacon 
ietuvn and by acolyta. We 
sow if there be any form of 
; sub-deacons and acolytes, 
ems that there is a form for 
ission of choristers. How 
Ihc boys ser\'ing in the Epis- 
urches here have been re- 
vf this form, we have no 
f ascertaining. It will be 
ig, however, to Catholics, to 
progress which has been 
nd therefore we give the 



A FORM FOR TUE ADMISSfON OP A 
CHORISTER. 

"Ty^/ a ttmvtnimi timt h*/«rt murmimg tr 
tvrHotg ^mytr, alt tAe mumitrt »/ tk* thrir 
tuirml>lt in tAe veitry, "tit J im dkrir tvtftr 
tccUtiiutititi kahitt : attd nngt tktmtthfti «» 
tJuir rttffctw* tidet, ' Dttani' *nd ' C«c 

'"£ fi'irit >' ^ '*< "//»''■ "*'' "/ '^ raowt and 
fai ing Ike ch«ir. The htfy to he nJmitttd rr- 

uutiut mdiidi ; mil frtumt k»ttimgdffmm,tkt 
prusi ttuktl uty .' 

" Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings 
with thy most gracioua favor, and further 
us with thy continual help ; that in all our 
works b«gun. continued, and ended in thee, 
we may glorify thy holy name, a:id finally, 
by thy mcrcj-, obtain everlasting life ; 
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

" Our Father, etc 

" IT TktM, as frrfiiTHsty iialriutrd. Ihe twa w 
HiertkeruUrs gc out, an J t ring in the frota- 
tioner, %uka, vttteJ im caitock, ^anting in, »net 
gviJfdhy them, tlmmti im /rpM of Ike frht* 
e^cinting. 
" H Them then tha/i be read the Leutm. 

" I Samuel iiL i-to; and ii. 18, 19. 

" ^ The L euoH teing ended, the priett thmll pro- 
ceed thus, utfing : 

"V. Our help is in the name of the 

Lord: 
R. ^Vho hath made heaven and 

earth. 
V. Blessed be the name of the Lord : 
R. Henceforth, world without end. 

"^ Amd then, taking tkt hoy by thr r-ight hand, 

the priett thati mdmtU him, niinr thit ferm, 

Ike bey kmeetimg : 

" jV. I admit thee to sing as a chorister 

in — ^ In the name of the Father, and of 

the Son, and of the Holy Ghost Amen. 

" H Then aha// he /rpimmce Ihii admam'tiaH, ni 

the tame time prwsrnting him with the Prayer. 

Back, Piailer, and Hymnal iu wiU mte im 

the ihifir : 

" Sec what thoa singcst with thy mouth 

thou believe in thine heart, and what thou 

liclievest in thine heart thou prove by thy 

works. 

"% Then, fntlimg Ike twr^iee 9m Ik* meta ckrrU- 

ler, he that/ sny : 

" I clothe thee in the white garment of 
the surplice, and sec that thou so serve God, 
and sing his praises, that thou mayctt here> 
aAer be admitted into the ranks of those 
who have washed their robes, and made 
them white in the blood of the I^imb, and 
are before the throne of God, and serve him 
day and night continually. 

" ^ Then, It ring hie hand u^n the nwcv rhsru 
ler't /lead, l/u /rrrrf thai/ frvnnmie the hemt- 
didJ^tkttfjrtttUkmit li mgi 



390 



Ritualism and its tru€ Meaning. 



" The Lord bless thee, and keep thee, and 
m:tkc his face to shine upon thee, and be 
^acii^us unto thee ; the Ixjrd lift up his 
•ountenance upon thee, and give thee peace 
now and for ever. Amen." 

We have thus completed the task 
proposed to ourselves, and have 
shown from the clearest testimonies 
what the true meaning of ritualism 
rs. No honest mind will, it seems 
to us, reject the assertion which we 
made, when we defined it as a great 
and most important movement from 
the doctrines and worship of Protes- 
tants toward the ancient and un- 
changeable faith of the Catholic 
Church. In other words, it is a re- 
turn to the dogmas and ceremonies 
which were cast away by the unspar- 
ing radicalism of the Reformation. 
As such a movement, wc look upon 
it with the greatest interest, and ear- 
nestly pray God to bless it to the 
conversion of many souls. And wc 
say to our ritualistic brethren, be firm 
and fer\'ent in the profession and 
practice of what you believe to be 
true ; shrink not from the conse- 
quences of any doctrine you hold, 
and follow on by prayer and perse- 
Ycrance until you reach the portals 
of that temple which the God-Man 
erected on earth, wherein there are 
no shadows. Catholics are your 
only friends ; and when you find that 
you believe almost every truth which 
we hold, and that your own church 
repudiates nearly everj-thing which is 
to you most sacred, then come home 
to yoiir Father's house, and take the 
Bread of life for which your souls are 
famishing. May the infinite mercy 
which has done so much for you pwr- 
fect and accomplish its gracious work. 
Here is all that you desire in its full 
proportions, the length and breadth 
of divine love, in that one mystical 
body which is the church of God, the 
/tiJness of him who fiUeth all and in 
aJf. 



We have only one more rer 
make. The view of ritualism 
we have given is, without doubt, 
view of ever)' disinterfsled min<l 
The world is oftentimes harsh ati^ 
sometimes unjust, but xn the end 
calls things by their right nar 
Why, then, try to slultif 
sense of mankind by i 
corruptions of Romanism, wlicrn ail 
the time you admit ever}' substiiitia 
part of its creed .* Why be so di< 
honest to yourselves as to refuse 
see that which is quite evident 
CA'ery one else ? Why talk cr 
and profess devotion to the Ea 
churches, as if there were anything 
there more palatable to Protestants 1 
than the undisguised creed of Komc? 
In this country, the rilu.ilisli* harej 
endeavored to enlist some of their 1 
shops on their side. Would to Gfnll 
they could gain them all ; but cvea'j 
this would not remove Calvinism/ 
Lutheranism, and what Dr. Dix C-3 
Radicalism from the pni)'er-lMX)k.| 
Yet have they gained any? 'W 
approbation of The Chunkmaiii 
Guitlf, by Right Rev. Dr. Potter, i< 
the only quasi-Episcopal sic 
which they have, and this is 
cautiously given, and no orr --■ 
how far it goes. Several 
some time ago addressed a Iclt 
Right Rev. Dr. Hopkins, pr 
bishop of the Protestant Episcof 
Church, asking for his opinions oa 
the subject in question. We fiwcf | 
the dismay of the advanced ritoalistt 
when he gives his opinion in Uxxk et 
changes in vestments, the introdoc- 
tion of incense and other things of 
this kind, and then, with an unspn- 
ing bitterness, attacks their inudl 
cherished doctrines, the sacriiice of 
the Mass, and the real presence nf 
oiu" Lord in tlie blessed Eucha;..; 
While this has been done on one 
side, a large m.ijority of the Episco- 
^^Ua,a bishops on the other have de- 



Peter Cornelius, the Master of German Painting. 391 



) themselves of an open protest 
|C the whole movement, con- 
Dg it as nothing less than an 
>t to Romanise tlie Protestant 
b of England. Is it really so, 
le voice of the bishops is of no 
t, that it neither declares the 
»jor speaks the authority of the 
»pal Church ? What thinks the 
of the high Anglican position 
present day? The world has 
irsh things enough of the CaUio- 



lic Church, but yet has ever given us 
the credit of consistency. If it con- 
demn us, it docs not declare that we 
are illogical. On the contrar}', there 
is not one honest writer, disinterested 
in the question, who does not say 
that the Anglican position is wholly 
untenable, that it is neither Protes- 
tantism nor Catholicity, and that it 
can never stand either the test of 
time or that of reason. 



I — 

^^V TtANSlATBD PROM TUB IIISTOKISOi-rOLITUCKC BLABTTSIL 

R CORNELIUS, THE MASTER OF GERMAN PAINTING. 



ER Cornelius was born on 
h of September, 1783, in art- 
ied Dusseldorf. Here had 
Elected for some time, through 
Stic taste of the nobles of the 
ate, those paintings and copies 
que sculpture known by the 
of the Dusseldorf Gallerj', 
was afterward transferred to 
>yal Palace of Munich. In 
\ century a school of art was 
Bnccted with this gallery. 
Bius Cornelius, father of Peter, 
spector of the galler)', and 
[-master in the art school, 
le boy was born in an atmos- 
f art. It is said that, when 
ttcr was attacked by fits of 
I Ul-humor and uneasiness, his 
could quiet him by carrj'ing 
ler arms into the hall of antique 
r, where the stern and strik- 
kts of the heathen divinities 
Us cries and dried his tears. 
D not historically true, it is 
clcss a poetic fact recorded in 
y his uncle, Peter Cornelius, 
Iguished musician, stiJl in 



Munich, that the boy, on one occa- 
sion being offered his choice of a 
piece of gold and a crayon, took 
the latter from his mother's hand, and 
ran immediately to make figures on 
the wall. This is a characteristic 
anecdote, though it may not be true ; 
for during his whole life the painter 
despised money. Mammon had no 
charms for him ; while his pencil, the 
instrument of his art, and the art it- 
self had for him irresistible attrac-' 
tions. Peter grew up in the pious, 
stem Catholic family of his parents, 
and preserved to tlie end of his life 
a simple, childlike belief in his reli- 
gion. Little was then known among 
the families of Rhineland of opposi- 
tion to the faith, or of the doubts 
and objections of the philosophers 
against it. Cornelius himself, later 
in life, confessed that be had never 
read a book of philosophy. Such 
works were distasteful to hira on ac- 
count of their abstract and unideal 
character. 

His school education was short 
and simple. Peter CotneWua vjeoX. 




392 Peter Cornelius, the Master of German Painting. 



only four years to the primary school 
of his native city, as his school-fellow, 
Clement Zimmerman, can still attest. 
He made little progress ; he never 
learned to spell correctly. Singular 
phenomenon ! Cornelius, who thought 
so profoundly, and wrote so sublimely, 
arrd spoke so eloquently without pre- 
paration, like Napoleon I., could 
never write without blunders ! But 
perhaps freedom from school re- 
straint only made the genius of the 
artist to take a wider scope. The 
very fact that he did not sp>end many 
years of his life on the school-bench, 
filling his mind with useless items of 
knowledge, allowed his nature to ex- 
pand, and gave him that sound fresh- 
ness of mind and body, that purity 
of imagination, that directness and 
rectitude of feeling and character 
which are the causes of the beautiful 
creations of his genius. 

Of the mathematics, the favorite 
science of modem times, he knew 
almost nothing. He used to say, in 
his curt manner, of an artistic dunce, 
" The booby knows as much of art 
as I do of algebra !" His peculiar 
talent displayed itself even in the pri- 
mary school. When the professor of 
Scripture history described the .<vcene?> 
and persons of the Old Testament, 
(hey became real to the eyes of the 
boy, and on arriving home he was wont 
to cut their forms out of black paper 
with a dexterity that astonished every 
one. He was much in the studio of 
his father, who painted altar-pieces 
and portraits ; he cleaned the pen- 
cils, brought him the colors, and 
performed other minor services. 
Soon he became a pupil in his 
father's drawing ac-ademy. Here he 
rapidly acquired the principles of art, 
and his fiither gave him Volpato's 
engravings of Raphael's masterpieces 
as models. Hand and eye of the 
young artist wene thus early accus- 
tomed to the immortal works of the 



prince artist of Urbino. At th 
time, he ^-isited frequently ihc 
of paintings, where the expn 
and lively colored pictures of Rl 
captivated his fancy. Con 
copied at a later period scvc 
these. In the year 1805, bcfol 
transfer of the collection to Ml 
besides others he made a ca 
" Diana and the Nymphs k 
Chase," which was so well cxa 
that it was very difficult to distifl 
it from the original. 

Young Peter now passed I 
Academy of Art. The Greek c 
st}'Ie ruled in it at that time ; x 
distinguished artist, Peter Ll 
was its director. Here Cor 
prosecuted his studies w^ith tbcj 
•fest diligence. He made a »| 
study of the antiques which wci 
tant in the collection. Still it ap 
that even then be had more in 
tion for the awakening na 
Christian and romantic scfaa 
Germany ilian for the cold itniu 
of ancient art. 

But this very circumstance t 
ened to give an unlucky turn ( 
life. His father, Aloysius Cora 
died in the year 1809, leavi 
wife, five daughters, and two 
with little resources. The 
mother despaired of being afa 
provide for the support and cdudj 
of her large family. The diri 
Peter Langcr, misundcrst:ind»r^ 
genius of Peter, then a i< 

apprentice him to a g> ,, 

ing that he would earn his 1 
more quickly at a trade, for 
were too many painters. Cort 
thus experienced the same mil 
mcnt of his superiors as Carslc 
Copenhagen, and iichwaftthal 
Munich. 

But the maternal eye was sh 
than that of tlie learned director, 
mother recognized the decide! 
cation of her son, and ber mol 



L 



PsUr Cornelius^ the Master of Gaman Painting, 



393 



^t!o>n triumpherl. She could not 
tennine from worldly motives to 
her SUM away from his high call- 
and so Conjelius was for ever 
Ided to his art. How grateful 
the youth of eighteen years for 
determination of his mother! 
romelius himself writes of it in his 
tlebrated report to Count Rac^nski, 
which he quotes a saying of his 
kther Aloysius, that, " if we tr)f tomake 
feet e\'er\lhing that we do, we may 
im a lesson from things the most 
ia!." This expression is like 
Raphael's : " No one becomes great 
art who despises the smallest de- 
il." 

In this year, (1S09,) Peter Corne- 
was introduced into a new so- 
ty, which exercised great influence 
bis development and historj'. He 
cm frequently to the neighboring 
of Cologne, the splendidly artis- 
: and Christian mediceval city of the 
ine. Here he became acquainted 
I the noble Canon Wallraf and the 
ro brothers Boisser^e, who, at this 
triod of Vandal ic ravage and de- 
letion, saved all that was to be 
fed of ancient art, and formed those 
:ious collections which render 
le and Munich famous. By 
means Cornelius obtained a 
Ige of the world of old German 
lof art hitherto unknown to him. 
(ley appeared to him in all the sim- 
-Jixy, religiosity, and freshness of 
German middle ages, and he 
ind himself drawn toward them by 
cindred feeling. He studied and 
•m zealously, and witli great- 
'[i than he had shown to- 
rd the gorgeous masterpieces of 
ily. His study of these German 
rks obtained for him his first ap- 
jintineni of any consequence. 
Willraf, who was called by the 
of Nyoii to consult regarding 
restoration of the interesting 
diurch in that town, recognized in 



Peter Cornelius, whom he loved, the 
man for monumental painting. He 
was commissioned, therefore, to orna- 
ment the cupola and choir of the 
church of Nyon with frescoes. Wall- 
raf, the theologian, who, as practical 
painter, also possessed wondrous 
gifts, determined on the character of 
this circle of paintings. 

Cornelius executed these pictures 
in 1806-1808 on a yellow ground, 
with water colors. They represented 
the choirs of angels in the semi-circle ; 
then Moses and David of the Old 
Testament, Peter and Paul of the 
New Testament, in the cupola ; 
pictures well expressed, living and 
characteristic, reminding one more 
of the Italian than of the German 
school. Unfortunately these paint- 
ings, spoiled by dampness, have been 
retouched by modem artists, so that 
they may be considered as entirely 
lost to view. 

Besides the study of the old Ger- 
man masters, Cornelius missed no 
occasion of making himself familiar 
with the fhc/s-d'arux-'re of classic an- 
tiquity. He read with avidity Ho- 
mer and Virgil, and endeavored to 
make use of the materials of art 
supplied from these sources. He 
contended for the prize at Weimar 
with works from ancient mythology, 
but without success. He was not 
fitted to paint the smooth, external 
attributes of the ancient forms. 
Hence came this criticism on his 
works. Through the influence of 
Goethe he received the following 
note : " Valuable, good talent, and 
excellent essays !" 

We pass over those episodes in the 
lives of all men — ^the first love of 
Cornelius for Miss Linder, which was 
unsuccessful, and made him vow 
never to wed any other than the muse 
of his art — a vow which he did not 
keep ; his friendship with the eldtsX. 
son of the merchant YWmtcvvcv^ «X 



394 Peter Cornelius, the Master cf German Paintuig. 



Nyon, pledged under a linden-tree, 
and lasting until death with a loyally 
like that of David and Jonathan, 
Orestes and Pylades, Don Carlos and 
Posa. 
In 1809, we find him in Frankfort, 
ler Napoleon had annexed the 
Ihine provinces to France and the 
paintings at Diissoldorf had been re- 
moved to Munich. In this centre of 
Germany, CorneJius having read the 
Faust of Goethe, and, penetrated 
with its spirit, represented the crea- 
tion of the poet's brain on the can- 
vas, Goethe wrote him a letter, thank- 
ing him and full of appreciative com- 
pliments to his genius. The booksel- 
ler, Wenner, in Frankfort, undertook 
to publish the painter's sketches ; 
and thus enabled him to realize a 
long-cherished desire of going to 
Italy, the land of the fine arts. 

At this period, in Rome, there was 
colony of German artists, like an 
jis of peace in a desert of trouble, 
who devoted themselves to the un- 
shackling of art from the chains of 
mannerism and French insipidity. 
Karstens, the Dane, enthusiastically 
partial to ancient art, may be consi- 
dered the leader and pioneer of this 
effort. Thorwaldsen, Koch, Schick, 
VVachter, and Reinhard followed in 
his footsteps. Many an artist's no- 
ble heart was then also possessed 
with the love of the romantic school, 
and inspired with its spirit. Frede- 
ric Schlegel, Ticck, Novalis, and 
Wackenroder aided the movement by 
proclaiming and tcadiing that all 
Christian art was a s>'mbol of the 
heavenly ; that in it all was mysteri- 
ous and ideal, whilst ancient art 
merely represented the external and 
real. They taught tliat severity, 
strength, and modesty were to be 
sought for in the works of prc-Ra- 
phaelite masters, who alone were the 
true models of Christian art. In the 
year 1801, the standard of this school 



^ 




jv'as borne by Frederic Overbcrl: -' 
Liibeck, who was joined by tin 
Schadows, Pforr, Louis Vogel. aiul., 
later by Philip Veit, Wach, Charict' 
Vogel of Vogelstein, I. Schnorr, 
both Eberhards of Munich, Raraboia , 
of Cologne, and others. The onistj 
world of Rome was then di^- ' 
two groups, one of which . 
followed the ancients, and ihc uiiict 
revived the Christian and n;)tiona 
ideal with the spirit of the Roman 
school. 

When Cornelius went to Rome, be 
was immediately introduced to bJBj 
fellow-countrymen ; and he bccan 
naturally attached to their schodi 
as the illustrator of Faust and^ 
Shakespeare. He formed a friend-, 
ship for Overbeck which la5te<l 
broken till death, through a period 1 
fifty years ! Cornelius alwa) ^ 
ed his gratitude to Over! 
loved him as a brother. Kv 
I., of Bavaria, with his m 
wit, likened the pair of artists to ti 
of the apostles : Overbeck, the pic 
and sentimental, to John ; Coroelit 
the fervent conqueror of the world 
art, to Paul. Overljeck with scvera 
companions had rented the old mon', 
astery of St. Isidore, behind MunM 
Pincio, and lived there like a reck 
Cornelius, who boarded near hinJ 
was a frequent visitor. They studied] 
and worked together. They made] 
drawings of nature and from the an«| 
tique, sat side by side at the c:anva%| 
and communicated their future pL 
to each other. They copied aiMJ 
imitated the old Italian mastccSS 
Giotto, Masaccio, Ghirlandajo, lippal 
Lippi, Peter Perxigino, and Ficsolc. 
They made excursions to the nei^i-^ 
boring mountains, and relieved thei^| 
labors by many a pleasant evcaio^^ 
or innocent conversation. 

Cornelius, writing about this tuna|H 
of his life to Count Racz)'nskl. sij-sSj 
"It is impossible fpr me tu icll you" 




^eter Comelins, the Master of German Painting. 395 



^■notice nil the incidents of 
^kojoum in Rome. Dut I 
^K wandered over the paths 
jB^peak not only for myself, 
|Hur association of talent and 
\t% who drew from everytliing 
\ holy, great, and beautiful in 
y or Italy the inspiration to 
French tyranny and frivolity." 
loble band had their battles 
T sufferings. Their means of 
ice, on the one hand, were 

« For," said Overbeck, "the 
le enthusiasm of art does not 
fire on the hearth." On the 
nd, the Greco-German school 
liled to treat them with con- 
Ind haughtiness. They re- 
ihe nickname of " Naza- 
(vhich has remained attached 

ever since. The name was 
iartly because of their inno- 
l^^d partly because their 
Hpaints after the old Italian 
BR 2 mortified and spiritual 
b the sect of the rigorous 
les are represented among 

Swar of freedom had 
enewcd in Germany, the 
me were fully possessed 
t. Since all could not 
rt in it, they sent substitutes 
for fatherland. Those who 

KRome, or were too old 
sword, use<l pencil and 
of the national cause. 
ned by patriotism, Cornelius 
B^ome his celebrated illus- 
j^Pie Niebdun^n, which had 
Published, and the reading 
id so much toward awa- 
lan self-consciousness, 
le great heroes of those 
Ito for so many years had 
borne the yoke of the 
sand represented those na- 
^Bof the German race with- 
^■reproach, full of power, 
^■esty, simplicity. aixA ho- 




nor, all aglow with passion, irresisti- 
ble in love and hatred ! Cornelius 
had, in his paintings for the Nicbf- 
lun_^en, which was henceforth seldom 
printed without them, given person- 
ality to the heroes of the poem. His 
two queens, Hagen the fierce, Sig- 
fried, and King Gunther will live 
among Germans as long as the Nie- 
bcliingcn will continue to be read. 
Though the faces are harsh, rough, 
and ungracious, like the German he- 
roes of that time, they are neverthe- 
less thoroughly true, sound, and cha- 
racteristic. 

The whole work was dedicated to 
the new Prussian ambassador in 
Rome, the celebrated historian Nie- 
buhr. For, after the fall of Napoleon, 
Pius VII. returned in triumph to 
Rome, March 14th, 18 14 ; the m.ts- 
terpieces of art taken away by the 
French were being gradually restor- 
ed ; and the ambassadors of the 
European courts took their stations 
as usual. Niebuhr came to Rome in 
18 1 6. No sooner had he, who had 
such a love for art and science, recog- 
nized the geniality, freshness, and 
imaginative power of Cornelius, his 
fellow-countrj'man from Rhineland, 
th.in he became warmly attached to 
the artist. Niebuhr often visited him 
and his companions, called him 
friend, and divided his wonderful 
learning with Cornelius. 

So far Cornelius had executed in 
Rome only a few drawings and oil 
paintings. Among the latter may be 
named the picture of" The Three Ma- 
rys at the Sepulchre," "The Flight in- 
to Eg}pt," and " The Wise and Foolish 
Virgins." But, in spiteof their expres- 
siveness and excellence, these works 
show that the artist had not yet found 
the special field for the display of his 
genius. His powerful imagination 
was confined in these subjects, and 
could only feel nt home on the broviid^ 
hx^ walls of fresco-pamlm^. 



Peter Cornelius, the Master of German Painting, 



Through a singular accident, he 
had soon a chance for his art. The 
Prussian consul-general, Solomon 
Bartholdy, had rented the old house 
belonging to the family of the painter 
Zucheri, near Trinita di Monti, and 
wanted to ornament it with frescoes. 
Cornelius was asked to undertake 
the task. Aided by his friends, he 
agreed to paint the t\vo rooms with 
frescoes. They asked no fees, only 
scaffolding, mason work, colors, and 
support. The noble offer of the poor 
artists — rich, however, in their love of 
art — was accepted ; and this was the 
origin of those renowned frescoes al- 
most universally known by copies 
and descriptions of them. Corne- 
lius, Overbeck, Philip Veit, and W. 
Schadow were engaged in the work. 
On account of tlie Jewish religion of 
Bartholdy, the artists chose the inte- 
resting story of Joseph in Kg)'pt as 
the subject of their art. Cornelius 
painted the explanation of the dreams 
of Pharao and the meeting of Joseph 
and his brethren ; Veit painted the 
temptation of Potiphar's wife and the 
seven years of plenty; Schadow, 
the complaint of Jacob and Joseph 
in prison ; and Overbeck, the seven 
years of famine. They are beautiful, 
imaginative, expressive, graceful pic- 
tures, and not surpassed in coloring 
by the later creations of the master. 
All Rome, which had seen no frescoes 
for fifty years and was taken with 
the Raphael taste, was astonished at 
the works of the young German 
painter, and even yet the amateur 
turns with reverence to this cradle of 
Gennan monumental painting in 
Rome, and the rooms so adorned 
are still rented by strangers for a 
high price. 

Thus for the first time had Corne- 
lius found the means of letting out 
thefloodof his genial thoughts. He 
had found his vocation in fresco- 
pa/nting, to which he remained attach- 






y-st^ki 
5rklW| 



ed thenceforth to the end 
Soon he received a new comm 
for his art. The rich M 1 

mi, who had seen the fn. 
tlioldy's house, wished to 
villa at St. John Lateran's 
ornamented by scenes 
great classic poets of Ita 
beck should select his sul 
Tasso, J. Schnorr from Aric 
nelius out of Dante's Ditint 
(/(', a poem which, on account \ 
depth, grandeur, and m)'st 
been a life-study of our ar 
nelius undertook the work^ 
light. He executed nine '\\\\ 
tions to the Paradise, which sll 
profound knowledge of the 
history ; faces of saints 
piety and strikingly 
Unfortunately these project 
executed. Koch obtained] 
stitution of his own rati 
Dante pictures, in the steac 
of Cornelius ; and the lalt< 
two calls from his own German \ 

The Crown-Prince LouL 
ria, who had conceived 
plans for the spread of art 
countrj', came to Rome in Js 
18 iS. Informed by his attctj 
physician, Ringseis, who 
the Ntebetungen pictures of ( 
in Berlin, the prince sougll 
gifted artist. L^uis saw the I 
ings at Hartholdy's, and immcd] 
perceived that Cornelius wasj 
to make art flourish in Bava 
prince gave him two gallt 
museum of statuary' in 
ornament with frescoes tj 
Greek mythology, A cry 1 
ed through the circle of ar 
looked on the Crown-Prir 
as the restorer of true art 
creator of a new era. When \ 
patron left Rome, they celebr.\t 
departure by a glorious fc4 
evening of April SQth, tSt] 
Uus had ornamented the 



rmani 

t inB 

in Jail 

attc^ 



Petfr Conulitis, the Master of German Paintmg^^^^^ 



hall with symbols of the artis- 
ng of the prince. There were 
Intations of Hercules cleaning 

Augean stable, and of Sam- 
Itiog the Philistines to flight. 
rt, in the name of art and the 
'made the poetical address to 
^rn-prince. He, full of delight 
atitude, offered a toast to the 
Q artists, and ended it, amidst 
iplause, with the words, " That 
' meet again in Germany 1" 
lUps now left everything else 
B^evoted himself to the stu- 
Homer and Hesiod, and con- 
r made sketches from them, 
er to have perfect leisure for 
H'k, he sfHrnt the summer in 
L In the fall, he travelled with 
anti, the biographer of Ra- 
p Naples, where he made se- 
Dpies, among others the bust 
man after Perugino, which is 
^ to represent the mother of 

a. 

time for his departure for 
I approached. Nicbuhr, who 
( embittered against the artists 
lost everything Roman, endea- 
[> get him to remain in Prus- 
to live in Diisseldorf. When 
us announced his departure 
jich, in order to paint the fros- 
thc museum, Niebuhr wept in 

Ksaid, " Cornelius, why do 
to me?" He conversed 
a long time, and received 
jst's promise to accept a call 
leldorf after the erection of the 
y of Arts in that town. The 
Cornelius throbbed for Gcr- 
often felt homesick, and 
:t, when a German artist 
fatherland, he loses more 
than he can gain in other 

doubted the faith and 

lius. But they are 

fisions sprang up among 

lan artists of Rome, and 



ever)' day party spirit increased in 
violence. Whilst many of the ro- 
mantic school in Germany looked on 
Christian truth, the life of the church 
and Catholicism, as things merely to 
influence the imagination and as 
helps to poetr)', the majority of the 
Roman artists called " Nazarenes "- 
were carried away by the grandeui 
and beauty of faiih, and became fer- 
ventmembers of the Catholic Church. 
Several of those born Protestants be- 
came converts ; as, for instance. Over- 
beck, the two Schadows, Veit, Vo- 
gel of Vogelstein, and others. A cry 
was immediately raised against them. 
Niebuhr became enraged, and sent 
for the works of Luther against the 
papacy, in order to counteract the 
Catholic tendencies of the artists. 

The question now arises, what part 
Cornelius took in these quarrels. 
Some have called him a '' free-think- 
er" and an enemy of Christianity. 
They were induced to do so from cer- 
tain things that happened about this 
time. But it is certain that he was a 
firm believer in revelation and a fer- 
vent Catholic. All his friends attest 
the fact that he never failed to go to 
confession and make his Easter Com- 
munion. He had, indeed, a large 
heart, was very tolerant toward those 
who professed a different religion 
from his own. He never aimed at a 
high degree of perfection or a com- 
plete knowledge of theolog)'. There 
are many degrees of the Christian life, 
as there are in nature. Every bapti;ced 
person who simply believes the doc- 
trines of the church and keeps the 
commandments is a member of the 
Catholic Church. But he must take 
a low pl.ice among her children if he 
does not aim at perfection, while 
other souls avoid the smallest sins, 
mortify themselves, follow the evan- 
gelical counsels, and perform acts of 
heroism. Cornelius belonged lo Itvt 
fonner class of CathoUcs. He aDC- 



\ 



398 



Peter Cornelius, Uie Master of German PeUntittg. 



knowlcdged himself that he had nev- 
er attained to a high degree of per- 
fection, and consoled himself by say- 
ing: "In God's heaven there are 
many dwellings ; there will be one 
there for a poor artist." 

Cornelius, like mostly all artists, 
was an idealist in politics as in his 
judgment of Christian life. As he 
saw in the actual condition of Rome 
and the church many things which 
he could not reconcile with his ideal 
of the church, he six)ke his opinions 
candidly and openly, like a true 
Rhinelander, against every abuse- 
He sjwke of the necessity of a gene- 
ral council, and told the pope his 
views in frequent audiences. His 
advice was kindly taken, and the pon- 
tiff answered him quietly by saying: 
" My son, circumstances are often 
more powerful than ourselves. We 
wnnot cast off all that weighs upon 
us through life." To accuse Corne- 
lius of being a Protestant because 
sometimes he e.^res.sed in art or con- 
versation very peculiar sentiments is 
ridiculous. On this plea, Peter Da- 
mica, St. Bernard, and many other 
saints who have spoken boldly 
against abuses in the church should 
be considered as unorthodox. They 
say of Cornelius that he was dis- 
pleased at the conversion of his Pro- 
testant fellow-artists in Kome. He 
is reported to have said : *' If another 
becomes Catholic, I shall turn Pro- 
testant." iJut this is a fiction. The 
whole character of Cornelius proves 
it to be such. He who always incul- 
cated truth to his pupils, and elcspised 
all hollowness and hypt>crisy in life 
or art, cannot be supposed to have 
blamed men for following out to the 
letter their religious convictions. It 
is Impossible. We have, besides, a 
testimony to prove it. When his 
friend. Miss Linder, became a con- 
Vert to Catholicism, in Munich, in the 
year 1843, he wrote her a letter which 



is still extant. In tliis he | 
instead of proposing obji 
her. " I n Rome tlie new 
me," he writes, " that you I 
taken courage to make th 
step. I am not surpris< 
bless you and keep )'ou fret 
ritual pride and rigorism, (i 
almost the only sinji.)" H 
therefore, have been offimc 
conversion of his Protefitai 
for we find him continuing ! 
ship with Overbcck after ll 
entrance into the church. 

Finally, Niebuhr relates 
dote which has given riic ! 
of Cornelius's orthodoxy, 
was a supper-party of an 
learned men, one evening.in 
relli Palace, on the Capitol 
much wine had been drun 
party, they went out on the 
of the building, and beheld t 
Jupiter shining with unus 
liancy. Then Cornelius 
Thorwaldsen, "Let us dril 
health of old Jupiter, 
my heart," answered 
And they drank the t 
cidenl is ,iil<luced as 
Cornelius was then a 
for he showed by his ai 
of Christianity and a 
ism. But this toast pr 
It ^^'as a mere impulse ; 
over-heated by wine 
tainly in tliis anecdote 
show a deliberate protesi 
the truth of revelation 

So much for the 
ment of Cornelius's c 
time. 

He w.ns now no Iohl' 
had married a Ri- 
daughter of a dealer 
art. She was called 
Carolina, a noble and 
simple and «.//*r, like thc^ 
of Faust, .She bore him a i 
and with this small faoiily 



iote noi 

rj 

chanH 

J 

heV 



'leave Rome and return to 

Munich, Cornelius became the 
lor of a world-renowned aca- 
', a centre of art, a friend of the 

esteemed and visited by all 
bs. But in Berlin he was a 

private individual, without posi- 
thought little of, without occa- 
for the proper display of his ar- 

Vii'ers, working quietly in his 
f*To use his own expression, 
** a solitary sparrow on the 
Elop," But this trial was neces- 
for the spiritual welfare and 
greatness of the master. On 
!jth of April, of the year 1841, 
elius, with wife and children, 
left Munich, where a farewell 
*r was given him. In Dresden, 
IS honored by a torchlight pro- 
pn of artists. On April 23d, 
kched Berlin. All received him 
honor and applause. He visited 
elebrated men of the city, Hum- 
, Grimm, Rauch, and Schinkcl, 
received him into their circle, 
hjonials of esteem from abroad 
led him. The Queen of Portu- 

R! to request him to send 
Portugal to introduce 
nting ; and Lord Monsnn 
\sXcd him to ornament his castle 
frescoes. Corneluis travelled 
igland, but the sudden death of 
brd and an ophthalmia of the 
necessitated his return to Bcr- 

iw days of gloom began to dawn 
m. The aristocratic society of 
ty did not suit him. He pre- 
I fiJs Bavarian beer to the insipid 
if the Berlin aristocracy. He 
not flatter the affected connois- 
of art. He was too indepen- 
to be a toady. " He does not 
>ach us I" was the complaint, 
men began to criticise himself 
pis works harshly, 
melius had executed a painting' 



k. 



in oil for Count Raczynski in 1843- 
It was placed on exhibition. It re- 
presented the liberation of the souls in 
limbo by the Saviour. Though the 
coloring is heavy and disagreeable, 
still the grouping of the patriarchs 
and their countenances are highly 
characteristic and almost unsurpass- 
able. But the cry was immediately 
raised by the whole crowd of art 
critics, " How can we call these 
bodiless, unnatural forms artistic, or 
those heavy colors painting ?'' They 
treated the artist with contempt and 
looked on him as a fallen man. 
A celebrated portrait-painter of Ber- 
lin gave expression to this sentiment : 
"If I found in the street a picture 
executed by Cornelius, I would not 
pick it up !" This opinion became 
general in Berlin. This was fortu- 
nate for the salvation of the master 
and for his art. He withdrew from 
the world, and became more recol- 
lected and devoted more exclusively 
to his art. 

For some time he made little 
show. However, the king gave him 
an order for a work in which he had 
an opportimity of displaying his 
powers of imagination. It was the 
design of a shield which William 
IV. wished to present to the young 
Prince of Wales as a godfather's 
gift. Cornelius finished it in six 
weeks. It was a round shield, in the 
middle of which Christ is represented 
on the cross ] in the corners appear 
the four evangelists, and over them 
the four cardinal virtues ; in the four 
arms of the cross, baptism and the 
Last Supper, and their figures in the 
Old Testament, the gushing of the 
water from the rock, and the rain of 
manna. Round about the shield 
were carved the busts of the twelve 
apostles. On its rim were depicted 
scenes from the passion and triumph 
of Christ, from the entry into l|ervL- 
salem to the apostoWc m\s%\ov\, \\!k 



i 



i 




400 Peter Conulitts, the Master of Gertrtatt Painfht^. 






I 



order to show the connection of the 
ancient church with the present, one 
of the apostles is represented as 
landing with the distinguished guests 
from Prussia in order to administer 
baptism to the prince. This little 
work breathes the spirit of the artist ; 
it is genial, severe, expressive, full of 
style ; often quaint and singular, by 
the induction of modern personages, 
Queen Victoria, Wellington, and 
Humboldt. 

King Frederick William IV. deter- 
mined, at this time, to erect a church 
which should vie with that of St. Pe- 
ter's in Rome and St. Paul's in Lon- 
don. Stiller made the plan. Cor- 
nelius was to ornament the walls with 
fi-escoes. He undertook this task in 
1843. He felt again all his powers 
revive. Exultingly he wrote to the 
academy of Miinster, which had given 
the great artist the diploma of a doc- 
tor in philosophy in recognition of 
his ability : " A great, holy field, (am- 
po santo, has been opened to me, 
through the favor of Providence and 
the grace of my illustrious king* and 
sovereign, in order to execute upon it 
what God has put in my soul. May 
he enlighten my spirit and penetrate 
my heart with his love ; open my eyes 
to the glory of his works, fill me with 
piety and truth, and guide every mo- 
tion of my hand I" 

In order to have the requisite quiet 
and leisure for this gigantic work, 
Cornelius made a second trip to 
Rome, that paradise of painters and 
head of Catholicity. From the spring 
of the year 1843 to May, 1844, and 
again from March, 1845 to 1S46, he 
dwelt in the Eternal City. 

After his return from Rome, he la- 
bored incessantly at Berlin to finish 
his great undertaking. In January, 

1845, the first sketch was ended ; ia 

1846, tJie glorious, unequalled cartoon 
of the horsemen in the apocalypse, 
vrhich H'as exhibited itx Romft, IkiUn, 



Ghent, and Vienna, and at '' 
which the whole school of J 
tists laid a laurel crown, 
ernment also gave Jiim a i 
the royal square, in which to prose- 
cute his undertaking. He finished: 
the whole series of decorations 
twenty-tHe years. He worked wit 
inexpressible pleasure and joy. %l 
though none of those pictures really^ 
came to its destined place. He U 
bored without desire of fame. H« 
painted as the bird sings on 
boughs. As none of his great work 
or frescoes were exposed publicly 
Berlin, he remained almost unknov 
to the people ; but he found his sole 
delight in the love of his art, and in 
application to its expression. 

In the year 1833, he lost his firslj 
wife. He married again, in Rome, 
lady named Gertrude, disi' T' 

for beauty and virtue. Shi 
1859, His daughter Marie alv) died] 
at tlie same time, who had been 
poused to the Marquis MarcctlL 
Thus he drank of a bitter chalice I 
\W\cn he went to Rome for Uie \x 
time, on the t4th of April, 1861, al-l 
though aged, he made a third marri* 
age in espousing Theresa of I'rbino,! 
whom he had met and admired in tbftf 
house of his daughter ! Tlii» wife at-i 
tended the last years of his life, 
stood by his death-bed. 

The residence of Cornelius in 
lin had made him more and moreat-l 
tached to the Catholic Church. H« 
wrote in 1S51 to a friend in Munich t| 
" The invisible church is the only oc 
to be found among German Prote** 
tanls. I have tried to find a church 
among them here, but so far ray search 
has been in vain. In Rome, I am al- 
ways a halfherclic, but here I am 
more Catholic every day." When he 
made his last voyage to Rome, he 
passed through Munich on fits re- 
turn, and pai«l a visit to hts frietti] 
Schloithauer, to whom he spoke thus: 



Petti 



Peter Cornelius, the Master of German Painting. 401 



d, I am now entirely of your 
' thinking in religious matters. 
has made me entirely Catho- 
Inly now do I prize Catholicism 
kntly. If the King of Bavaria 
:, I would seek him and say 
openly : ' Your majesty, Ba- 
still a Catholic countr}', and 
the cause of its strengtli and 
sss. Try to keep it so. This 
jst policy.' " To his friend 
he made a similar state- 
bdding that he had travelled to 
ti on purpose to inform them 
thorough conversion, 
tnother instance, also, the fer- 
' Cornelius's faith and charity 
red itself. He presented the 
ltc« who were engaged inerect- 
l^atholic hospital with a paint- 
St. EH/abeth surprised by her 
id in the act of nursing a sick 
\ in her own bed. The picture 
old, after having been litho- 
kl, and realized a large sum 
\ intended purpose, 
was extiremcly hostile to the 
'' yeius, by Renan, and consi- 
ihe attempt to t.akc away the 
trs of divinity from the head 
bt as highly injurious to Chris- 
(L The gray-headed prince of 
Ig, on lliis account, painted the 
jrrection," choosing for subject 
ty moment when tJie hitherto 
lilous Thomas exclaims, " My 
Bd my Lord !" He exhibited 
tture with religious enthusiasm, 
tonted it out to visitors, saying, 
; is against Renan I" He wish- 
leave behind him a clear pro- 
\ of his belief in the divinity of 

i^lius sp>ent the last six years 
life in Berlin, in a kind of hid- 
fe, continually occupied, like 
in his old age, always lively, 
aous, and fond of society, so 
t gathered around him a host 
log artists and savans. The 
VOL. vj. — 26 



tranquillity of his life was only broken 
at this period by a few excursion^. 
In the year 1863, he went to Diissel- 
dorf; in 1863, to Trier on professional 
business. In 1864, he made his last 
visit to Munich, toward which his 
heart always yearned. 

His visit to Munich shortened his 
life. The fatigues of the journey, and 
the visits which he received and was 
obliged to make, as well as the ova- 
tions tendered him, wore him out. 
He became ill, and returned sick to 
Berlin. A disease of the heart d^-^ 
dared itself; in February, 1867, hi 
case became hopeless. He called fo 
a priest, and received all the sacra- 
ments of the church twenty-four hours 
before his death. He took leave of 
his beloved wife and friends, seized 
his crucifix, and breathed his last, ut- 
tering the words : " Pray 1 pray '"^ 
He died on the 6th of March, at ten 
A.M., on Ash-Wednesday. Over his 
remains was hung his own painting of 
Pentecost, as oyer those of Raphael 
the picture of the Resurrection. He 
was buried on the 9th of Mardi, and 
all the nobility and talent of Berlin 
formed a part of his funeral cortege. 

De.ath has taken from us this great 
master of German painting ; but, to 
use the language of SL Bernard, it ' 
has only taken his cloak, for his spi- I 
rit still lives 1 It lives in the hcav* 
enly Jerusalem. It lives in his works, 
in the histor}' of art, and in the breasts 
of his pupils on earth, who bear aloft 
the standard of pure, ideal, religious 
art. All will bear testimony that 
Cornelius is the man who freed mod- 
em German painting from foreign 
mannerism, opened the way for gen- 
erous monumental frescoes, which 
embraced with equ.il cordiality the 
three worlds of the classic German,* 
national, and Christian manifesta- 
tions ; who portrayed the deepest 
thoughts in the most noble forms, 
and whose works are unmaWed \xx 



402 Peter Cornelius, the Master of German PaintM 



colossal proportions, richness of ex- 
pression, and striking characteriza- 
tion, architectural proportions and 
dramatic life, by any masterpieces of 
antiquity ; while, in the piety and 
sweetness of the countenances por- 
trayed and the harmonious coloring 
of the whole, they exceed anything in 
modern art. 

The news of his death brought 
sadness evcrj-where. In Munich, 
Mozart's solemn Requiem was sung 
for his soul. Professor Carriere pro- 
nounced a paneg}'ric on him in the 
•evening. A few days after, Professor 
Sepp pronounced another eulogium 
on him, calling him the Shakespeare 
■of painting, whilst Overbeck he call- 
ed the Calderon of the art. 

In Stuttgart, when the news of his 
death was heard, the halls of the 
church, where a requiem was sung 
for his soul, were hung with copies of 
his own paintings. Liibke spoke on 
the occasion, and drew a parallel be- 
tween Cornelius and Phidias and 
Michael Angelo. In Dresden, Hett- 
ner made the funeral discourse. Fi- 
nally, in Rome, the Eternal City, from 
which Cornelius had gone forth to 
conquer a new world of art, and to 
which he had returned in order to 
draw inspiration from its associations 
and have a perfect intuition of the 
ideai, a «o(emn requiem was sung 



for him in vhe German natioi 
of the '* Anima," at whi 
Louis I,, of Bavaria, who ha 
the path of immortality to i 
Overbeck, who had \crrtA 
fifty-six years, and all the 
Rome, assisted. A few da] 
King Louis had written a 
the widow of Cornelius, whd 
Berlin. In it occurred thes 
" Be assured of my profoi 
pathy in your great loss ; 
alone your loss, but our comi 
The sun of heaven became d 
he who was the sun of an w 
guished. But the sun will sh 
in the heavens, but we sha 
ever see another Cornelius 1 

I'he whole world on botll 
the Alps have united in ff 
homage to the genius of C 
and laying crowns on his t 
at Berlin. But the last m 
to his glory would be the ( 
tation of the cathedral in that 
his wonderful compositioofi 
such an event should happ 
was given to Cornelius the 
a king. 

We who admired and Ic 
artist and his genius only | 
he may enjoy now an etcma 
rest in the bosom of the A 
beauty, from whom he alwa 
the inspiration of his an. 



WAat shall we do with the Indiaits? 



403 



WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THE INDIANS? 



K Commissioners whom our 
oment recently sent out to 
ains to negotiate treaties with 
bstiie Indians, have patched 
truce with some of the most 
rous of the tribes, and the 
t arc congratulating themselves 
he warfare is over. We might 
been on good terms with the 
cs any time this last half-centu- 
wre had been honestly so mind- 
id had known how to govern 
ves and the red man too. Yet 
cord of our intercourse with the 
pnes has been nothing but a 
|rof long wars and short truces. 
of the most terrible hostilities 
)een followed by a few months 
carious quiet, and the Western 
tx has been almost invariably 
id, like his New-England ances- 
D till his acres with one hand 
e plough and the other on his 
. He has never known a month 
;urity. He has never left his 
libin in the morning without rea- 

ee fear that he would find it in 
when he returned at night. 
IS learned to look upon the In- 
s a noxious beast, whom no pro- 
(x>uld bind, no good treatment 
mollify ; as a pest which every 
man was justified in con- 
je, if he was not bound in duty, 
his utmost to exterminate. A 
races bet\vecn the red and the 
has long been a cardinal doc- 
n the creed of the prairie set- 
ind his chief social principle 
leen, War to the knife with the 
h, and no quarter. 
re is a dreadful state of things 
Christian people to contem- 
; and the fault of it, to speak 
English, is all our own. Man- 
kis we manage them, Indian af- 



fairs can be nothing else than a per- 
petual affliction. Treated as we 
treat them, the aborigines of the 
West cannot help being our cruel 
and implacable foes. The devil him- 
self could hardly invent a wrong 
which we have not done to the prim- 
itive owners of our territory. They 
once stood in awe of us as superior 
beings ; we have committed every 
conceivable baseness that could be- 
litlle us in their estimation. They 
had noble traits of character; we 
have done all we could to obliterate 
them. They had the common faults 
of uncivilized pagans ; we have in- 
tensified them. They are proud ; 
we insult them. They are revenge- 
ful ; we aggravate them. They are 
covetous ; we rob them. They have 
a natural tendency toward drunken- 
ness ; we keep them supplied with 
liquor. They are cruel ; we tempt 
them to murder. The " noble sav- 
age " of the novel and the stage, we 
grant, is a fiction ; but he is not 
more unreal than the irredeemable 
brute who is popularly depicted as 
the terror of the frontiersman and 
the western emigrant. The Indians, 
after all, are not so very different 
from other human beings. Like all 
mankind, they have great virtues and 
great faults ; and if a fair balance 
could be struck, we are by no means 
certain that their credits would not 
exceed our own. There is many a 
vice which they never would have 
known if they . had not learned it 
from us ; but we can think of no 
species of crime which tlie Indians 
have taught to white men. It is an 
insane piece of wickedness to treat 
any race of human beings as vermin, 
whom it is a mercy to the rest of 
mankind to sweep out of exvs\?;tvct. 



WAat shall wc do tuiUt the IndiamsT 



I 



God never made tribes of men to be 
slaughtered. All creatures with hu- 
man souls are capable of moral and 
mental improvement ; capable of a 
greater or less degree of civilization ; 
capable of being brought under the 
rule of law, and being made useful 
to the rest of the world. If we have 
failed sensibly to improve the condi- 
tion of the Indians, or to teach them 
anjlliing more of civilization than 
some of its worst vices, the fault is 
our own. 

We have to deal with two classes 
of Indians in the West, and our sys- 
tem with both is as bad as any sp- 
tcm can be. As settlements have 
encroached upon the prairies and 
forests where the savages roamed in 
pursuit of game, we have, as a rule, 
gone tluough the form of buj-ing the 
territorj* from the tribes which claim- 
ed it These tribes have then been 
removed further westward, or have 
been assigned certain lands called 
reservations. The consideration for 
which the lands are bought is not a 
sum of money, paid to the savages in 
hand, but a fixed annuity, given to 
them in form of merchandise, cloth- 
ing, blankets, implements of the 
chase and of husbandry, trinkets, 
and other goods chiefly prized hy 
the red men ; and to oversee the for 
: (Warding and distribution of these ar- 
ticles, as well as to look after the 
general interests of the tribes, to pro- 
tect them from oppression on the 
part of the whites, and to check 
crimes and outrages, we send out 
into the Indian country a num- 
ber of officers called Indian .Agents 
and Superintendents. On the reser- 
vations, where some effort has been 
made to teach the savages the habits 
of civilized life, there are schools, 
; farms, and workshops. The wander- 
, log tribes of the far West, however, 
subsist wholly by the chase, and pre- 
%&nre all their primitive wUdoiess. 



ilan o^^H 
er, wfadVH 



The Indian Agent in their txt 
has little to do but distribute 
annuities, and when they comm 
outrage upon the settlers try to 
them punished. Now, there bi 
ing very objectionable in out 
of dealing with these two daa 
Indians, provided the agentsi 
superintendents are honest and 
petent men ; but experience 
proved that, as a rule, they arc 
though, of course, there arc hooi| 
exceptions. One unprim 
venturer in power over tfaese 
tribes can raise a tumult 
^•ears of warfare cannot si 
One swindling agent can upl 
treaty which has cost tlie p 
ment hundred of lives and 
of dollars. How often ha» 
been done I It is 
most of the men who 
pointments in the Indian 
persons of no character, 
an opportunity of enriching 
selves at the red man's expensi 
reward for political services rem 
to the party in power. It is | 
bly a rare thing for any tribe { 
dians to receive the whole 
the annuitj' to which they arc 
and for which the government 
They are swindled first in the 
which government pays fo^ 
goods, and iJien they arc 
again by the agents, who deUvi 
as many of the articles as-, 
please, and no more, or by the 
bters who " lose " packages o 
road. VV'orse still are the tl 
who sell the p>oor sav;iges v 
and gunpowder, and collect 
" debts " from the distributon i 
nuities. How many of these 
do our readers suppose are 
And when there is a corrupt i 
standing between the trader aq 
agent, what chance has the pot 
dian for justice ? It is in this 
cious maoner that the ori^iaal 



What skail we do with the Indians? 



405 



wo3r soil have bartered away 
birthright for a mess of pottage 
t their rich acres for a glass of 
I It is in this way that the trea- 
hh the tribes are continually 
L The Indians gave up their 
|br a certain annual considera- 
[The consideration is not paid 
fiiU, and often is hardly paid 
How are they to know 
' we are all swindlers alike, or 
ly in the habit of appointing 
fers to positions of trust and 
bibilit>- ? 

i*e, however, are not the only 
of which the Indian has to 
The testimony of tnission- 
d other trusty witnesses, is 
ons in saying that the frontier 
as a genera! rule are perfecl- 
piilous and lawless in all 
alings with the tribes. Con- 
h the whites always means 
tzation, drunkenness, and do- 
infamy for the Indian. His 
is appropriated, his cabin 
ded, his house is defiled, 
resists he is murdered, and 
lercr ne\'er b punished. He 
rights which the white man is 
to respect. He is nothing 
te, to be hunted as men 
le buffalo, or killed off like 
es, with a price set upon his 
No wonder we have war ; it 
dcr we ever have peace, 
commissioners who were re- 
nt out to the plains by the 
government to investigate the 
and try to devise a way out 
are unilerstood to favor the 
of all the Indian tribes to 
ons where tliey will be out 
way of the great routes of 
across the continent, and 
white men will have no ex- 
interfere with them. That is 
their plan consists merely of 
■rgemcnt of the supcrinten- 
stem. Cut off fix>m a great 



part of their hunting-grounds, th« 
savages will become more than ev< 
dependent upon the liberality of 
United Slates government, and mor 
than ever in the power of the agent 
and traders through whose hands iY 
national largeness must pass. More 
over, it is evident that the boundarie 
of the reservations cannot be perma 
nently fixed. As the white settle^] 
ments expand, the Indian territoric 
must contract Nobody can for 
moment suppose that the proprietary 
rights of the Indians will long be re- 
spected when the Yankee emigra 
wants their lands. What will hap 
pen when the boundaries are brokeqJ 
through? Unless the Indians have 
learned by that time to support thenn] 
selves by labor and to conform to itj 
civilized mode of life, they will infal- 
libly be crushed out of existence. 
There will be another horrible war, 
which will have no end until the red, 
men are virtually exterminated,, 
Now, the serious duty of preparir 
these riiide tribes for the changec 
conditions of life which must soon 
come 4ipon them, and fitting them 
for a gradual and peaceable absorp- 
tion into the rest of the community — » 
which is their only hope of existence 
— must fall, if the plan of the com- 
missioners be adopted, uix)n the 
Indian agents and superintendents. 
The power of these men for good or 
for mischief will be enormously in- 
creased. Hence, unless some effec- 
tive measures be taken to fill these 
important offices with men of a bet- 
ter class than have hitherto secured 
them, our present evils will be cor- 
respondingly increased. The gov- 
ernment swindler will come back to 
the savages with seven other devils 
more wicked th.in himself, and th« 
last state of those poor wTctchcs will 
be worse tlian the hrsL 

Is there any reason to expect VBte 
proveroent ? We see not tiit s\t^ 




4P6 



What shall we do with the Indians f 



f^X so long as these offices are dis- 
tributed on the same principle as 
Other government appointments, and 
rated among the political spoils 
that belong to the party in power. 
An Indian agent ought to be a man 
of superior abilities ; but men of 
superior abilities will not banish 
themselves to the desert except for 
one of two reasons : either they 
must be animated by disinterested 
charity, or they must expect to make 
a good deal of money out of the of- 
fice over and above their trifling sala- 
ries. Charity is not one of the cha- 
racteristics of politica! hacks. As 
for the other motive, we know pretty 
well how often it operates. To find 
capable persons to undertake this 
■work ; men of incorruptible integri- 
ty, of lofty purpose, and of moral 
force: men whom the Indians will 
respect and obey, and who will be 
likely to persevere in their arduous 
, task, we must go outside the partisan 
i^ranks. Where shall we fmd them and 
how shall we recognize them ? 

There are such men, who have been 
.At work in this very enterprise ever 
since the discovery of America, and 
tliere are numerous communities of 
f Indians whom they have almost en- 
»tJrely reclaimed from savage life and 
made quiet and useful members of 
[ society. If they have not done more, 
lit is because they have never been 
free from interference. The unruly 
settler has invariably broken in upon 
their work and brought into the com- 
munities which they were laboriously 
civilizing the fatal disturbances of 
■ drunkenness and license. If the 
lissionaries could be left alone, they 
' would soon not only Christianize the 
savages but reduce them to order. 
Scattered all over the West there 
are thriving little settlements where 
the dusky hunter has turned his spear 
into a ploughshare, and under liie 
directions of the priest has Veamed 



more or less of industry 
ful arts, and forgotten the fic 
pulses which once made him 
to the plains. In these quiet 
the school-house and the clia 
crowded with zealous Icanu 
fields and gardens bloom wi 
evidences of thrift. So long 
white man keeps away, tliere 
and prosperity. The great ; 
of St. Mar)-'s, among the Pott 
mies in Eastern Kansas, is a 
example of what the missionai 
do toward civilizing the poor 
es whom we have so long b< 
ing to tame with gunpowder 
the testimony of travellers, an 
cers, and government functj 
generally is unanimous as 
complete success of the C 
priests in dealing with the grc 
lem which perplexes our r 
legislature. 

Why then should we not I 
these missionaries the task ii 
they have made such sati4 
progress ? If we let them 
'their progress will be tcnfoU 
rapid than it has ever bw 
Their conquests will soon b 
bered not by villages but by r 
The mission of St. Mar\'*s wil 
peated in every comer of the 
and if the government can q 
vise some means of keeping 
from these nurseries of Chris 
the corrupting influence of 
thieves, drunkards, and advei 
the Indians in the course of a 
generation will be ready fiir 1 
tion into the rest of the popt 
will be fit to live side by si( 
us, to till the land as we d 
earn their bread by honest lab 
then all the trouble will be ov 
this policy could be adoptc 
reservation plan of tiie peac 
missioners would be a very goi 
White men should be strktly 
den to trespass apoo the U 




IV/iat shall we do with the Indians f 



407 



set apart, and the military 
be employed to enforce the 
lition. Let the whole machi- 
of agencies, etc., be utterly 
bed, as useless and demoraliz- 
Then let the money now spent 
\ purchase of beads and simi- 
ys, which the Indians them- 
are learning to despise, be de- 
to the establishment, stocking, 
lipport of schools, farms, and 
Hal establishments, under the 
» of any authorized mission- 
►f good standing who are m\\- 
sKTvt without pay. Of course, 
licipate little success from any 
naries except Catholic priests ; 
\ cannot exjiect a non-Catholic 
iment to restrict its confidence 
In, and we ask no more than 
jf« the field thrown open to 
ecrs of all denominations on 
terms. We know well enough, 
be done, that the great majori- 
the laborers will be those of 
ini household. The purchase 
tuity goods should be made in 
lance with the recommenda- 
1" the superiors of the missions ; 
heir distribution, lest there 
I be even a suspicion of unfair 
gf, might be arranged through 
terest military commanders, 
|uld not have clergj-men mixed 
\k government money matters, 
prmy officers would probably 
^ them honestly. Visitors 
I be appointed periodically by 
ess to inspect and report upon 
bdition of the missions, and 
which were not properly or- 
should be put into other 

let this arrangement the mis- 
les would ask nothing from the 
Inent but a free field and no 
Irooce. They would receive 



none of the public money. They 
would ask for no power except what 
the Indians chose to confer upon 
them. The domestic government of 
the tribes could be managed just as 
that of all other American settle- 
ments is managed, by the settlers 
themselves. The missionary would 
be merely their guide and te.icher. 
He would desire no power over tliem 
beyond what he has already. The 
Catholic priest never fails to secure 
an ascendency over the mavage mind 
by the legitimate influence of his per- 
sonal character and of the message 
which he comes to preach. Of 
course it would be many years be- 
fore the whole field could be occu- 
pied ; but if the United States gov- 
ernment would invite the cooperation 
of all religious denominations in the 
great work of civilization, we are 
persuaded that scores of zealous 
priests would offer themselves for the 
labor, that the Jesuits and other 
great missionary orders would be 
prodigal of their subjects, and that a 
generous and earnest spirit would be 
aroused among the Catholic people 
and would lead to the collection of 
an ample fund for the support of the 
enterprise. 

We are not sanguine that the gov- 
ernment will adopt this plan. There 
are too many opposing influences ; 
it is too hard to do right ; and it is^ 
so easy to oppress an inferior people 
when you can make money by doing 
it, and get public applause at the 
same time. But we see no other 
hope for the Indian except in the 
protection of the missionary, and no 
prospect of peace on the frontier un- 
til in our dealings with the aborigines 
we take as our motto. Justice and 
Benevolence. 




4De 



Bellini^ t Romanct, 



TSAMLATKa FmOM TMK CBaiiAN. 

BELLINI'S ROMANCE. 



I WAS a guest at a pleasant coun- 
try festival at Ebenberg, a few hours' 
ride from Dresden, at the close of 
September, 1835. The f>ost-boy 
brought me a letter that caused mc 
to order my horse saddled immedi- 
ately. It was a brief note from my 
friend J. P. Pixis, informing me that 
La Sonnambula was to be per- 
formed that evening; my favorite 

songstress, Francilla , in the part 

of Amina. I was more than half in 
love with that enchantress, and trem- 
bled with delight at the prospect of 
seeing her, while I took a hasty leave 
of my rural entertainers, 

I arrived in time, but would not 
call upon Francilla till after the 
opera : not until the next morning, 
for I wished to sec her alone, I was 
early at the door of her lodgings in 
Castle street. When she came into 
the drawing-room and advanced to 
greet me, I was startled to sec her 
pale, with eyes red with weeping. I 
gazed anxiously on her face, pressing 
the hand she held out to me in si- 
lence, for my emotion was too 
great for speech. She asked quiet- 
ly if I had witnessed the last even- 
ing's representation, I assured her 
I had, and endeavored to express my 
rapturous appreciation of her singing. 
But my praises were dashed with 
gloom as I saw her so sadly altered. 

"It is no wonder I am dejected," 
she replied to my questioning looks. 
** We have all cause to moum." 

" What has happened ?" 

"Alas !" she faltered, weeping 
afresh, " Bellini is dead !" 

I had not heard the fatal news. 
Bellini I the glorious composer of the 
nohit work that had so delijrhted me 



a few hours before I So admirable xn 
artist — so young — so much bonorc<l 
and beloved ! I could hare wept 
with Francilla. 

After a few moments' stleace^ she 
wiped her eyes, then rose, and look 
a volume from tlie table. It was Icr 
album, for which I had sent her 1 
drawing — a sketch of her fair self u 
Romeo, at the moment when Juliet 
calls on his name in the tomby while 
he thinks it the voice of an angel 
from the skies. 

We turned over the leaves of ihe 
album, lingering as we came to the 
different autographs. Francilla's 
soft, languishing eyes kindled with 
haughty fire as we noted th< bold*. 
rude character!) traced by the hand 
of Judith Pasta ; and when we came 
to tlie signature of Countess Rossi, 
her expressive features were lighted 
with a tender smile. 

One letter was written by htr 
Uncle Pixis in Prague. She stopped 
to give me an account of his fiutily. 
Turning the leax'es and taiking rapid* 
ly, she paused of a sudden, aod I 
saw two names recorded opposie 
each other — those of Vincer'" ^v-"'- 
ni and Maria Malibran. I- 
written a passage from the 

Francilla signed for me i , 
my pencil — it was one she had %v^<s^ 
mc — and drew a large ctxms under 
Bellini's signature. Her look «t< 
intensely significant. Her sikwt 
was strangely prolonged. At last I 
asked, merely to say somethsng: 
" V\'hy is it, Francilla, that, io tbelaf(_ 
act of the Capuletti, you use Vaccsi) 
music instead of Bellini's ? Bellini'^ 
composition, as a whole, is super 
and the close far more touching. 




BeiiinVs Romance, 



understand why a cele- 
vocalist like yourself should 
he tamer close of Vaccai." 
cilia looked earnestly in my 
tit did not answer for some 
At length, fixing her eyes on 
MS she had pencilled, she 

a tone of deepest solemnity : 
tell you a story, my friend, 
I will see then how much our 
end suffered. Neither Maria 
!xnild sing his last act ; you 
low why." 

dame Malibran, too ?" I ex- 
I. 

interrupted me with a ges- 
olning silence. " You know," 
idf " though of fair cora- 

and blue eyes, Bellini was 
X the foot of Etna, You 
lurself described him to me as 
&te and a little foppish ; but 
a genuine son of Sicily, and 
red with the warmth of the 
notwithstanding his gentle- 
Id weakness. That wSs a 
!ul nature of his I It was 
! Sicily's volcano, spread over 
It meadows, through woods 
iV^elds, across a lava waste 
^bc of the fiery abyss ; nor 
WKt the Hecia of your own 
here eternal fire bums under 
||e. He reminded me of an 
Burden tastefully laid out, 
ooth walks and quiet streams, 
cflowers and quaint shrubbery, 
^bnd fluted shafts ; beneath 
P«ed an abyss of fire ! That 
Itini; under his sentimental 

Ened a quenchless flame — 
art, fed by another love — 
in !" 
I amaze me, Francilla," I ex- 
1. " His passion for art was 

tiria, too. How could he 
as it Dot she who inspired 
as creations with their ir- 
le charm ? Was she not his 
all other performers in the 



operas "*. * What •• 
it ?* was Bellini's question concern- 
ing everything he composed. She 
was his queen of art, his muse, his 
ideal I Life without her was gloom. 
How can Malibran survive him ? 
Your own imagination, Francilla," 
I said, '* weaves this pretty ro- 
mance. You know Malibran married 
M. Beriot" 

" Do I not remember how the news 
of that marriage affected Vincenzo ?" 
she retorted. " How pale he grew, 
how he trembled, and left the com- 
pany in silence ! Yet he could not 
have hoped to win Malibran ; for she 
always treated him as a boy, though 
he was a year older than hersel^"^ 
But he could not have dreamed she 
would marry M. Beriot, who was at 
one time distracted for Madame Son- 
tag." 

With a pause she went on : " Bel- 
lini avoided both Maria and her hus- 
band after the marriage. If he saw 
M. Beriot, he went out of the way — 
very wi.sely ; for in case of an en- 
counter he might have been tempted 
— after the Sicilian fashion — you un- 
derstand ?" And with flashing eyes 
she swung her arm as one who gives 
a dagger-thrust. 

" I understand the pantomime, my 
pretty Romeo ! But your fancy car- 
ries the thing too far." 

" No one knows what might have 
happened," she said, " in spite of 
Vincenzo's soft heart. It was wclJ' 
Malibran left Paris and went to Italy. 
Bellini never confided his secret to 
any one ; but it became suspected 
among his friends. And Malibran, 
must have heard of it : for she sud- 
denly became reluctant to sing in 
any of Bellini's pieces. She con- 
tinued, however, to represent Romeo ; 
she could not give up that j>art. 
When the last representation of the 
CapuUtii was given in Milan, it hap- 
pened that, in the final &cl, NtVueti 



4to 



Bellini's Romanes. 



Romeo takes the poison, such a 
death-like shuddering seized Maria's 
frame, it was with great difficulty she 
could go through with the part. After 
the perfonnance was over, she was 
greatly exhausted ; and with emotion 
she declared that no power on earth 
should compel her to sing again the 
Romeo of Bellini. She adopted the 
part as composed by Vaccai. But 
she was not satisfied with that ; and 
afterward she returned to poor 
Bellini's music so far as to retain the 
first acts of the opera. The last act 
she always sang as Vaccai wrote it." 

*' What said Vincenzo to this ?" 

"When he heard of It, he fell into 
tJie deepest despondency. He would 
neitlicr write nor think anything 
more ; he seemed at limes to forget 
himself, and smiled and talked like a 
man who had lost his reason. All 
his friends noticed and lamented the 
change. 

•' One day, Lablache came to see 
him. He found Bellini lying listless 
on the sofa, pale, depressed, misera- 
ble, his eyes halt'-closed, indifferent 
to every one. The giant singer went 
up to him, opened his big moutii, and 
roared out: 'Halloa, Bellini! what 
are you lying there for, like an idle 
lout of a lazzaroni on the Molo, wea- 
ry of doing nothing ! Get up and go 
to work ! Paris, France, all Europe 
is full of expectation as to what you 
are to give the world after your Nor- 
ma, which your adversaries silenced. 
Up, I say ! Do you hear me, Bellini ?* 

" ' Indeed, I do hear you, my dear 
Lablache,' replied the composer in a 
lachr)'mose voice. ' I have good ears, 
and, if I had not, your brazen base 
pierces like a trumpet ! Leave me, 
faro; leave me to myself I am 
good for nothing, unless it be the 
dolcefar niente ! I have lost interest 
in everything !' 

" ' The mischief you have !' ex- 
dairaed Lablache, striking his hands 



together, with a tone that cau5<;d 
walls to vibrate. 'And you — Belli! 
— talk thus ? You, who have eii 
pressed on to the goal, and reached i 
in spite of obstacles ! Are you 
artist? Arc you a man.' An 
mio ! will you be checked midway in 
your glorious career ? Will you lose 
the prize fame holds out ? Will you 
spend your life whining out loverlike 
complaints, like some silly Damon M 
his cruel Doris or Phillis ? Sharo« 
on you I Such womanish pinings ire 
unworthy of you !' 

" Bellini interrupted him verygeni- \ 
ly. 'My good Lablache,' he said,i 
'you do me injustice! I make do] 
complaints ; I am not pining- 

** ' Silence 1' roared Lablache. 
' You are a fool I Do you think I do 
not know where the shoe pinches.*' 

" Bellini colored deeply and C4sl | 
down his eyes. 

"'Have you nothing to say, Be'-] 
lini ?' continued Lablache. ' Don't i 
look%o stupidly like an apprehended 
school-boy !' 

" Vincenzo sighed piteously. *If 
you know all,' he replied, ' you know 
that she will sing nothing of my mu- 
sic !' 

"Lablache came closer, grajped'l 
the shoulders of the young composef 
in his powerful hands, lifted him fr»« | 
the cushions of the sofa to his iect« I 
and gave him a good shaking 1 llien, ' 
as he released him, he said, with flash- 
ing eyes : 

" ' You shall hear me sing something 
of yours.' He began the allqpt to j 
the duet from / Puntam, " Suooi 1« i 
tromba e inlrepido." HisstcntonaBJ 
voice rang like a clarion or a maroalj 
shout. The flush of enthusiasm nish- 
ed to Bellini's pale face ; the tcirt 
sprang into his eyes ; at length, l*j 
threw himself into Lablache's arms 
and joined his voice in llie spier 
song. When it was ended, he 
ed his friend, and pledged his 



BeUinVs Romance. 



411 



le would finish the composition 
entire opera in a few weeks, 
lie promise was kept. Bellini 
d diligently, and in the stipu- 
time put the opera into the 

of Lablache, who undertook 
: that it shoiild be worthily re- 
tted. 

It Paris was delighted at the 
ncement of the representation, 
ipera was splendidly cast, and 
hearsals commenced. Bellini 
resent at the first rehearsal ; 

second, he was absent, and 
»ime that he was ill at his coun- 
t at Porteaux, near the capital, 
loped he would recover in time 
nd the first performance of the 

[ went on successfully ; and a 
Ludience attended the opening 
intation. The famous duet 
;he had sung was repeated and 
d amid thunders of applause, 
len a murmur went round the 
!, and the applause was silenc- 
"he news was : 

sUini died an hour ago, at his 
|r-seat."' 

icilla ceased. She closed the 
rose hastily, and went to the 
r. I was deeply affected, and 
aving the room quietly. But 



she turned round, and, bidding me 
stay, went and seated herself at the 
piano. The song was a melancholy 
one, sung with wonderful expression 
and feeling. It was a farewell to the 
dead. 

My friend Pixis came into the room 
at its close, and asked what it was we 
were so mournful about 

I replied, " Francilla has been tell- 
ing me of Bellini's unhappy love for 
Malibran." 

"Do not believe a word of it!" 
cried Pixis, laughing. " She will get 
you up a fine romance on that chap- 
ter." 

I had my doubts of its truth ; yet 
the fact is indisputable that BelUni 
was always in love. 

Here die pretty artist, Maschinka 
Schneider, came in, and the conver- 
sation was of the representation of 
the Capuletti, already announced. I 
gave advice as to improvements in 
the arrangement of the scenes. 

I could not help remembering the 
sad tale my little friend had told me. 
I thought of it again when, a year 
afterward, I read in the newspap>ers 
that Malibran had died at Manches- 
ter, on the 23d of September, the 
same day on which Bellini had ex- 
pired a year before. 



Tkt Inside of a Stagc-Coack. 



413 



it to establish yder in 
Ifaars. I have been too much 
yeA by her want of system and 
0-" 

^hink of her excellent heart and 
rill forigive her." 

^h I I know that you will alwap 
\ good reason for me to bear my 
»rs patiently ; you have a recipe 
rcry wound of the soul, and if I 
I you a little, you will prove me 
t wrong to complain, and that 
iquite right here below." 
Iwdon me," replied Grugel ; " in 
bvemment of this world I find 
I to wound me, but I am not 
[ am the best judge. Life is a 
[jnystcry, of which we compre- 
Iso little. Must I own it to you, 
»are hours when I pjersuade my- 
liat God has not afflicted men 
fto many scourges without in- 
to. Happy and invulnerable, 
could be endured ; each one 
\ count on his incUvidual 
^, delight in his own isolation, 
teiuse all sympathy to his fel- 
ring. But weakness has no 
resource ; on the contrary, it 
\ men to be friendly, to aid and 
tec another. Grief has become 
Hi of sympathy, and we owe to it 
kiUcst and best sentiments, gra- 
1^ devotion, and piety." 
Idl done," said Darvon, smiling ; 
being able to sustain the good 
^ings, you give me the bright 
feviL" 

jfcrhaps so," said Grugel ; " only 
fe that eril itself is not absolute. 
fce borrows its remedies from 
Ip of venomous plants ; why, 
may we not from passion, mis- 
le, or inequality draw much 
\ good? Believe me, Darvon, 
lis no human dross, however 
irithout its particles of gold." 
I good faith, then, I would like 
fcmr what could be found in our 
kin^ companiovis," cried Gon- 



tran. " Let us see, cousin ; suppose 
we put to the test these curious pat- 
terns of our race, as we proclaim it so 
intelligent." 

"It is very certain," said Jacques, 
smiling, " fate has not favored us." 

(. Never mind, never mind," re- 
plied Darvon, whose misanthropy was 
niggardly in its character j "disen- 
gage the gold from the dross, as you 
say. But first, how many grains do 
you expect to find in this cattle-mer- 
chant before us ?" 

Grugel raised his head and saw, a 
few steps in advance, tlie traveller 
who had called him cousin. A 
coarse man in a blue bloase, follow- 
ing with heavy steps the side of the 
road, while finishing his well-picked 
chicken-bone. 

" I declare, that is the seventh repast 
I have seen him make to-day," conti- 
nued Darvon, "and the coach- pockets 
are still laden with his provisions. 
When he has eaten enougli, he goes 
to sleep, tlien he eats again, then 
goes to sleep in order to recommence 
his programme. He is a mere di- 
gesting machine, too imbecile to 
draw from him eitlier response or in- 
formation." 

*' Our companion with the felt hat 
can sufficiently acquit himself in that 
respect." 

" Ah ! yes, let us consider him 
and try also to extract his gold. He 
joined our party only this morning, 
and already the conductor has sent 
him from the impiriale to the travel- 
lers in the coupe, who again have 
sent him to the interieur. We have 
had him but two hours, and he has 
already given us his own and his 
family history to the fifth degree, I 
know his name is Peter Lepr^, that 
for twenty years he has been com- 
missioner of colonial produce in the 
departments of the Saone and Loire, 
of Ain, Isbre, and of the Rhone, and' 
he has been married \bxee ^ifcve&. 




The Inside of a Stage-Coach, 



415 



ict6r? I will complain to 
;hief." 
\ diligence starting, cut the old 

sentence in two, so she fell 
In her comer with an exclama- 
f dissatisfaction. 
ques Grugel felt himself obliged 
I her that the route they were 
\ would lead them away from 
none and avoid the danger, 
kit where will I get ray soup ?" 
ed she, slightly reassured. 
fe will not stop till we reach 
* resumed Lepr^ ; " the conduc- 
s said so, and Gotl only knows 
kind of roads we will meet with. 
\ of the department ; that says 
lung. And then I know the en- 
', a talented man ; his son was 
id the same day as my eldest. 
re won't arrive till to-morrow, 
my words," 

►re was a general cr\' from the 
ligers. They had eaten nothing 
morning, calculating on the 

usually obtained at Villefran- 
nd Gontran had alread)' pro- 
, with his usual vivacity, to 
a descent on the first village 
hrce them to serve up a supper, 
the cattle-merchant cried out : 
. supper 1 I have one at your 



e.' 



^e 



! for everj'body ?" asked 



everybody, citizen. I can 
fou three courses, with your des- 
ind something for a heeltap."' 
ile speaking he drew from the 
ts of the carriage a half-dozen 
ts, and, rolling his tongue 
d his mouth, proceeded to open 
[ they contained provisions of 
kind, properly enveloped and 
■ith care. 

^on'l we have a feast ?" said Le- 
^ho had asked the cattle mer- 
[ In his inventorj', " my friend, 
jur name ?" 



to yo ur na 



" Good, Mr. Barnau ; but what 
good care you take of yourself." 

" How can a man be at his ease," 
said the fat merchant, with a certain 
pride, " if he can't eat the best of 
everything ? However, these gentle- 
men and mademoiselle can judge of 
my victuals." 

Grugel turned lo Gontran, and 
gave him a significant look. 

" Truly," said he smiling, and in 
an under-voice, " here are the grains 
of gold you looked for." 

" Grains of gold P repeated Bar- 
nau, who did not understand him ; 
" why, man, that's a sausage with 
truffles." 

" And these gentlemen would have 
us believe grains of gold are good 
for famished people," resumed Pierre 
Lepre, laughing ; " that is a figure 
of speech, .Monsieur H.irnau. " I 
have a son who studied those figures 
in rhetoric. He explained it all to 
me ; but, pardon me, let us first help 
madfmoiselle." 

They presented the food to Ma- 
demoiselle de Locherais, who return- 
ed each piece, but finally ended by 
choosing the most delicate, com- 
plaining, as she ate, of the privations 
of travellers. To console her, Bar- 
nau offered her some old brandy ; but 
mademoiselle cried out with horror : 

" Brandy to me I What do you 
take me for, sir ?" 

" You like sherr)' better, perhaps," 
said the cattle-merchant, in a care- 
less way. 

" I drink neither sherry nor 
brandy," cried Mademoiselle Ath^- 
nals fiercely. " I take water only," she 
said, turning toward Grugel. '* Did 
you ever hear anything like this rus- 
tic ?" she murmured ; " offer me cog- 
nac, as if the spices he has given us 
were not sufficient to burn one's 
blood. I shall surely be ill from it." 

Finishing what she had to saYi^^*^ 
arranged herself in hex coxv^et, «> •*& 



4i6 



The Inside of a Stage-Coadt. 



to turn her back on the cattle-mer- 
chant, picked up a pillow she had 
with her, leaned her head on it, and 
feJl asleep. 

The diligence continued its tedious 
route. Though humid, the air was 
cold, and not a star was to be seen. 
Relieved by the repast which the 
gastronomical foresight of Barnau 
had permitted him to make. Lcpr<5 
resumed his loquacit}*, and, although 
his fellow-travellers had long since 
ceased to answer him, he continued 
to talk on without being in the least 
concerned to know if he was listened 
to. 

This noise of words, the slowness 
of tJieir progress, the darkness, and 
the cold combined to render the pas- 
sengers nervously impatient, and 
every few moments might be heard 
yawns, shudderings, or subdued com- 
plaints. Darvon, particularly, seem- 
ed more and more excitable j a prey 
to nervous irritation. He had al- 
ready opened and shut for the tenth 
time the blind of the coach-door, 
leaned his head to the right, to the 
left, and back on the cushion, fixed 
his legs in ever)!- possible position 
that the narrow space of which he 
could dispose allowed him ; and, 
finally, at the break of day, his pa- 
tience was entirely exhausted. 

" I would give ten of the days 
which remain of my life to be at the 
end of this journey," cried he. 

" Here we are at Ansc," replied 
Grugel. 

"True, upon my word," said 
Lepr^, who had been asleep an in- 
stant. " Hallo, conductor, how long 
do you remain here t" 

" Five minutes." 

" Open the door ; I am just going 
to say good day to the post-mas- 
ter." 

The door was opened, and Barnau 
got down with Lepr^ to renew his pro- 
visions. Nearly at the same tnoraent 



the clerk came fbm ard to sec if that 

were any vacant places. 

" Only one," replied Grugel. 

" How !" cried Mademoiselle de 

Locherais, who had just awakened 

with a start ; " would monsieur by Wf 

chance ask any one to come in )caatt 

" A traveller for Lyons." 

"But it is quite impossible," re- 
sumed the old maid ; " we i ■ 
dy frightfully crowded. M 
your coaches are too small ; i tiili 
complain to the administraiioo." 

" Ah I without doubt here is our 
new companion," said Grugel, who 
was looking out of the door. "M. 
Lcprd has already seized upon hinL** 

" He is a military man," cried 
mademoiselle. 

" A non-commissioned ofioer flf 
the Chasseurs." 

" Oh 1 is he coming in beie? 
Why don't they make soldiers go on 
foot ?" 

*' In such a time as this it would 
be hard and fatiguing for lhem,lnad^ 
moiselle." 

" Is it not their trade ? Such peo- 
ple are never fatigued. These pub- 
lic conveyances do give you such di* 
agreeable neighbors I , . . , The de- 
rangement of your usual habits, to 
have nothing warm, pass the night 
without any sleep, be crowded, chok- 
ed ! ... . I don't see why one of 
these gentlemen don't get up in the 
imperial." 

" Notwithstanding the fog ?" 

" What does that signify, for raea?" 

" Mademoiselle would be less in- 
commoded," added Darvon ironical* 
ly. " She had better make the pro- 
position herself to our compa. " " 

"What! I speak to a s. 
said Mademoiselle Ath^nais fiercel)' ; 
" I prefer being incommoded, sirT 

" Well, here he is," said Jacques. 

The non-commissioned officer had 
indeed just appeared before the door, 
followed by the clerk with wfaoo ha 



The Inside of a Stage-Coaek. 



rnelling. He was a spnice, 
)oking young man, but his 
and soldierly manners dis- 
)arvon at first sight. He 
ed of the delay of the coach, 
ailed for it since the night 
5, and with words abused 
of the office, whose respons- 
imid and embarrassed. At 
conductor declaring they 
rt, he came to the coach- 
looked inside, 

lificent collection," murmur- 
ker having cast an imperti- 
: on the travellers ; *' I won- 
coupi and the rotonde are as 
shed. Havre you no women 
onductor ?" 

insolent creature t" mur- 
ademoiselle. 

i" resumed tiie soldier, " one 
be too particular in the 
And he took his place. 
K leaned toward Grugel, 
^ a low voice, " This one 
s our collection of absurdi- 

care he don't hear you," 
acques. 

I shrugged his shoulders, 
^ngjjeople inspire more dis- 
■» fear," said he, " and this 
iinly needs a lesson in po- 

Barnau returned with- 
Aftcr having looked for 
the inn, and waited for 
minutes, the diligence 
>ut him, to the great joy 
selle, who hoped to be 
ler ease. But her joy was 
iurntion, for the non-com- 
icer, who had located 
rst on the other bench, 
Dk the seat next to her. 
Id maid adjusted herself 
id pulled down her veil, 
ry man turned toward 

said he, in a mocki/i^ lone, 



" madame seems afraid of being look- 
ed at." 

" Perhaps so, sir," said she, dryly. 

" I quite understand the reason," 
resumed the soldier. "But she can 
calm her nerves, I can deprive 
myself of the pleasure." And as he 
noticed the movement of indignation 
of Mademoiselle de Locherais, conti- 
nued, " I speak .solely for the interest 
of her health; and to allow her to 
breathe with her face uncovered, as 
we want air in this box, I think I 
had better lower the window." 

" I object to it," said mademoiselle 
quickly ; " my doctor has forbidden 
any exposure to the* morning air." 

" And mine has forbidden me to 
smother," replied the young man, 
putting out his hand to open the 
sash. 

Hut the old maid cried out. TJie 
window was on her side, she had a 
right to have it closed, and appealed 
to the other travellers. 

However little disposed Darvon 
had been in favor of Mademoiselle 
de Locherais, he consitlercd it right 
to defend her, and the result was a 
sharp discussion between him and 
the soldier, which would have end- 
ed in trouble had not Grugel ceded 
his place at the other window. 

The soldier accepted it with a 
bad grace, preserving a strong feeling 
against Darvon. 

Now, the rearler has already per- 
ceived that Gontran's predominani; 
qualities were neither resignation 
nor patience. The contrarieties of 
the journey had excited bis sickly 
inability, therefore the disagreement 
which had already broken out be- 
tween them was renewed several 
times, and only awaited a favorable 
opportunity to become a later 
quarrel. 

Some of. the smaller baggage had 
been placed by Darvou in a i\fe\. su^ 
pcnded from the top o{ the d\\\^etvct •, 



TIks TnsuU of a Stage-Coack. 



419 



tTwhelmed with questions, and 
a related all he had heard ; 
itemipting himself, according 
usual habit, and recognizing 
ing officer, he cried out : 
I ! this is the gentleman I had 
lor of seeing at Anse." 
e same," replied the soldier, 
ilighted to meet you again,"* 
epr^. " Whatever you may 
)f me, I am the bom friend 
the military. I should have 
serve myself if they had not 
I substitute for me." 
vas interrupted by Mademoi- 
i.thtfnais, who just perceived 

was quite wet. 

is this abominable fog," said 
le wiping the water off with 
idkerchief. 

t people don't come into a 
e in such a condition," replied 
oiselle, in a discontented way. 
J you are covered with fog, 
ght as well remain out." 

dry one's self?" asked Lepr^, 
ig. " Great goodness, I had 

of it ; then my coach,man 
ink, and just missed turning 
gon over into the river." 
« deuce !" said Gontran. 

would have been added to 
igence of yesterday, unless 

found some good soul brave 
to fish for us. But such 
lave been. Three years ago, 
great inundation, a work- 
one saved five persons who 
owning near the Guillotibre." 
knew of him particularly," 
rugel, "as my cousin's best 
iras one of the saved." 
le ?" asked the soldier. 
d he owed his safety to the 
n of that young man." 
I all the detaib of that action 
loiirable," said Darvon, with 
armth ; '* the frightened horse 
lied the carriage into the 
St of the current; on the short 



the crowd looked on, without daring 
to go to their relief ; there seemed to 
be no hope for the five persons in 
the carriage." 

"Bah!" interrupted the soldier, 
" perhaps some of them could swim, 
and have got nicely out of the 
scrape." 

Gontran disdained a reply. 

" The carriage commenced to 
sink," continued he, " when a work- 
man appeared with a small boat, 
which with difficulty he guided into 
the midst of the Rhone. Three times 
it was on the point of upsetting. The 
people who looked on from the shore 
cried out, * Do not go any further ; 
come ashore ; you are going to perish.' 
But he did not listen to them — still 
advancing toward the carriage, which 
by dint of skill and courage, he 
finally reached." 

" And most happily," the militaiy 
man replied. 

" Without doubt," replied Grugel, 
who remarked Gontran's movement 
of impatience, " but only good- 
he<lrted people find happiness in such 
acts." 

" It was a beautiful incident," in- 
terrupted Mademoiselle de Locherais, 
" and one that should have benefited 
its author." 

" Pardon me, madame," said 
Darvon. "The workman no doubt 
considered that the true recompense 
for any generous action is in our- 
selves ; for, after having saved these 
people, he retired without wishing to 
receive either reward or praise." 

" Humph I perhaps he thought it 
useless to demand payment," said the 
officer. 

" And is his name unknown ?" said 
Pierre Lepr^. 

" Pardon me, he was called Louis 
Duroc." 

" WTiat 1 what do you say, Louis — ^" 

« Duroc." 

Ix^xi turned towards tbit of&cec. 



4ao 



The Inside of a Stage-Coaeh. 



" Why, that is your name ?" cried 
he. 

"This gentleman's name I" re- 
peated all the travellers. 

•' Ix)uis Duroc, called the African ; 
I asked him his name at Anse, while 
we were talking at the inn, and I 
have seen it, besides, on his port- 
manteau." 

"Well, what next?" asked the 
officer, laughing. " It certainly is 
my name." 

" Can it be I" interrupted Gontran ; 
" and you are — •" 

" The workman in question ; yes, 
gentlemen. There would have been 
no use in telling it, but now there is 
no use in concealing it. I entered 
the service a week after the accident, 
and my regiment had to leave for 
Algeria, so that I never again met 
my friends of the carriage ; however, 
1 hope to see them again at Ly- 
ons," 

" I will take you to them," said 
Darvon quickly, while offering his 
hand to the officer ; " for I wish we 
may be friends, Monsieur Ix)uis." 

*' What, we !" replied the military 
nian, regarding Gontran with hesita- 
tion. 

"Ohl please forget all that has 
passed," replied the latter ; " I am 
ready, if necessary, to acknowledge 
I have been wTong — " 

" No !" interrupted Duroc, " no, 
indeed ; I was the wrong-headed one, 
and I regret it, I give you my word 
of honor. Bad habits of the regi- 
ment, you see. Because we have no 
fcar, we like to show it on all occa- 
sions, and to each new-comer, and 
so play the bully, but at heart good 
children ; so without malice, mon- 
sieur." 

He had cordially pressed Gon- 
tran's hand, Lcprjf seizing his at the 
same time. 

" Good !" cried he ; " you are a true 
Frenchmen, and so is Moivsitvvr. 



Between Frenchmen, peer' '" 
always agree. I am di 
have made your acquaii 
Louis Duroc. But, 4 / 
you know it was a most bif 
coincidence that I obliged you 
tell me your name, that you did no 
want to give me ? Witljout mc. o4 
one would have known what you wrreJ 
worth." 

"It is true," replied Grugtl. 
this gentleman had talked less, tfailJ 
explanation would not hare takcBrI 
place, and my cousin would havel 
mistaken the true character of Mon-j 
sieur Louis. You see, chance sccflttj 
to have taken the task of supp 
my theory, and all iJie honor 
journey is mine." 

As he finished these words, tk| 
coach stopjjed ; they had arri\Td. 

The travellers found the diitgcncfrl 
yard crowded with rclationsorfrieoAj 
awaiting their arrival. The misfb^ 
tune of the day before was knowKi 
and had awakened all possible ii^j 
guish. 

Dan'on no sooner stepped do«ft| 
than he heard his name pr( 
and, turning, saw his sister 
to him with cries of joy. Her ant-J 
iety on his account had caused he 
to forget their quarrel. 

They embraced over and 
again ; their eyes moistened 
tears as they looked ' ■ \het,\ 

smiling. They wore rt 

As they went togeti.. i 
diligence-yard Gontran nn.. ... 
veiling companions. Bamau 
Lcpr^ saluted them ; Louis Doioej 
renewed his promise to visit thd»i] 
Mademoiselle Athdnais de 
alone passed without any sign ' 
cognition. She was too modi i 
pied watching her baggage. Ji 
Grugel turned then to Gontran. 

" There is the only cl^' ' 

doctrine," said he, pc 
old maid. "All out oilier 



Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert. 



4*« 



live more or less redeemed 
res in our eyes : the gourmand 
I us a supper; the babbler 

a iisefiil secret ; the quarrel- 
e gave proof of his generous 
; but of what use has been 
le selfish egotism of Made- 

de Locherais ?" 
nake me realize the value of 



true devotion and tenderness," re^ 
plied Gontran, who pressed his 
sister's arm more cFosely to his 
heart " Yes, from to-day, cousin, I 
will ado^t your system. I firmly be- 
lieve there is a good side to every- 
thing, and that it. is only necessary 
to know where to look for the vein of 
goldr 



HNGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT. 



ho remains alone by himself, 
ntains a state of tranquillity, 
. the waging of three wars ; 
3 say, the warfare of hearing, 
li, and of sight ; and he will 
: one to carry on, and that is 
are of the heart 

t Arsenius, while he still 
a palace, prayed to the Lord 
, and said, " O Lord I point 
; the way to salvation." And 
came to him saying, " Arse- 
>id the society of men, and you 
saved." Thereupon he went 
lead a monastic life, and it 
d that he again made the 
lyer. And he heard a voice 
nto him, " Arsenius, flee, re- 
vA, be tranquil." 

t Evagrius said : Cast from 
K;tion for many things, lest 
1 be full of trouble and lose 
uillity. 

tain brother once went to 
to ask advice of Abbot Mo- 
id the old man said to him, 
in thy cell, and thy cell will 
ee all things." 

t Nilus said : He who lov- 
t shall be unpenetrable to 



he darts of the enemy ; but he who 
mingleth with the multitude shall re- 
ceive many wounds. 

A certain father told this story : 
Three persons who loved their souls 
became monks. One of them chose 
^ his task the making up of quar- 
rels, according as it is written, 
"Blessed are the peacemakers." 
(Matt V.) The second determined 
to visit the sick. The third went 
away into the desert to remain in 
solitude. Now, the first, who busied 
himself about the quarrels of men, 
could not always succeed in bringing 
about a reconciliation. Sick at heart, 
he went to see how he fared who was 
visiting the sick, and found that he 
also was growing weary, and was" 
quite unable to carry out his purpose. 
These two then went together to see 
the one who had gone into the desert, 
and told him all their troubles. And 
then they asked him to tell them how 
he himself had got along. After a 
short pause, he poured some water 
into a basin and said to them, '.'Look 
at the water." And it was troubled. 
After a little while he again said to 
them, " Now look at the water, and see 
how clear it has grown." And they, 
looking in the water, saw their faces 
reflected as from a minot. MA 



42? 



Sayings of thi Fathers of the Dettrt. 



then he said to them, "Thus it is 
with him who lives among men ; 
for from the turbulence of his life he 
sees not his own sins ; when, how- 
ever, he is become tranquil, and espe- 
cially when he lives in solitude, then 
he clearly perceives his faults." 

Abbot Elias said : Three things I 
fear. One is,' the separation of soul 
and body ; the second, my meeting 
with God ; the third, the sentence 
which shall be pronounced upon me. 

Abbot James said : Asa light iilu- 
minateth a room, even so doth the 
fear of God, when it shall have enter- 
ed the heart of man, illuminate and 
teach him every virtue and the pre- 
cepts of God. ^ 

Syncletica, of holy memorj', said : 
The wicked who are converted to 
God have to toil and struggle 
much, but afterward their joy is in- 
effable. For as those who wish to 
kindle a fire have first to bear the 
smoke, and are ofttimes forced to 
shed tears before they succeed — for 
It is written, " Our God is a consum- 
ing fire " — so ought we also to kindle 
witliin us the divine flame amid toils 
and tears. 

• A father said : As we carry our 
shadow about with us everywhere, 
even so ought we always to weep and 
be contrite. 

They tell of Abbot Agatho that 
he kept a pebble in his mouth three 
years, and thus iicquired silence. 

Abbot Agatho was once making 
a journey with his disciples, when 
one of them found a little bundle of 
green vetches lying on the roadside, 
and said to his master, " Father, if 



you wish it, I will take them.' 
old man looked at him \x\ asl 
ment, and asked, " Didst thou 
them there .'" And the disciple i 
'* No." .\nd then the father replie 
" Why, then, do you desire to 
away what you have oot pi 
there ?" 

Abbot EvagrJus tells that a fati 
once said : I deprive mj-scif of caf-1 
nal delights, in order that 1 may 
more readily avoid occasions of anfl 
ger. For I know that tliis pa 
always attacks and disturbs my tniD 
and clouds my intellect accurdtngi 
I indulge in carnal delights. 

Epiphanius, Bishop of Qs\ 
once sent for Abbot Hilarian, 
he might see him before he died. 
When they had met and were dinti)|. 
a fowl was set on the table which ik 
bishop offered Hilarion. And thcui 
Hilarion said, " Pardon mr. fatbcrj 
for ever since I have >■ 
I have never eaten of .1 
And then Epiphanius replied, " An 
I, since I have worn this habit, 
never allowed any one to sleep 1 
had anything against me, nor bw I 
ever slept having auijbt as^irv^t anf 
one," " Pardon • 
man, "your life 1 , 

mine." 

They tell of Abbot Elladius tl 
lived in his cell twenty yea' • 
ever lifting his eyes to tl)e 

Abbot John the Small said : If » 
king should wish to take a hcBtil< 
city, he would first intercept supprif 
of water and provisions, and thi: 
enemy, being in danger of star>.i:' 
would fall into his funds. Soiti* 
with the inordinate desires of tke 
stomach. If a man fast well, the 
enemies of his soul grow weak. 



New Publications. 



423 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



lOE, AND THE STUDY OF Lan- 

8S. In Twelve Lectures on the 
Iples of Linpiistic Science, By 
sck Dwight Whitney, Professor 
nskrit and Modern Languages 
te College. New York : Scrib- 

K1867. i2mo, pp. 489. 
Whitney, with a full know- 
f the chief results thus far ob- 
a linguistic science by philolo- 
3pears to be passably free and 
dent in his judgments, and cau- 
d sober in his inductions. His 
however, rather an introduction 
study of linguistics than a full 
Bt and vindication of its princi- 
i science. Its chief merit is in 
ection of the exaggerations of 
iStic and hasty philologists, and 
ling away numerous false theo- 
hypolhcscs unsustained and un- 
ite by the facts in the case, 
^■nost part, the principles laid 
^hc author are sound and in- 
otible ; but in some instances 
ication of them, and the conclu- 
! draws, may be disputed. Even 
^tition of language, as tlic medi- 
which men communicate their 
s to one another, may be objected 
perficial and inadequate, and as 
eluding only one of its functions. 
5e is better defined : the sen.sible 
"epresentation of the ideal or the 
:Je, and is as indispensable to 
nation of thought in one's own 
to the communication of thought 
linds of others. For intuition, no 
kf what sort, language indeed is 
ssary ; but intuition is the Apri- 
ition of thought, as necessary to 
;ation is to contingent existence, 
light itself. Without intuition 
no thought ; but thought itself 
of the mindon the intuitioq 
not possible without the 
n which holds and repre- 
sents — the intuition. What 
in algebra or the calculus 



without sensible signs ; or in philosophy 
or theology, or anything that belongs to 
the noetic or intelligible order, without 
the words which hold and represent the 
noetic object ? There is a more intimate 
connection of thought and the word than 
the professor admits — a deeper signifi- 
cance, a profounder philosophy, a more 
inscrutable mystery in language, than 
most philologists dream of, and he who 
masters its secret masters the secret of 
the univer.se. He who is no theologian, 
no philosopher, can at best be only a 
sorry philologist. The part can be fully 
understood only in its relation to the 
whole, nor the effect without its cause, 
and hence it is that man and the uni- 
verse cannot be understood without 
the knowledge of God. 

The author regards linguistics as a 
moral science, dependent wholly on 
moral causes, and denies that it is a 
physical science, or that physical causes 
have anything to do in producing the 
dialectic changes, modifications, or dif- 
ferences of language, which the science 
notes. Here he is too sweeping in 
both his assertion and his denial. Moral 
causes operate in the changes language 
undergoes ; and so do physical causes, 
especially in its phonetic change. At 
any rate, linguistics is to be classed 
with the inductive sciences, and, there- 
fore, is a subordinate science, and can 
never without foreign aid be raised to the 
dignity or certainty of science itself. 
None of the inductive sciences are com- 
plete in themselves, or sufficient for 
themselves, and they all do and must, 
consciously or unconsciously, borrow 
from philosophy or theology, which has 
been very properly called scientia sci- 
fittiarum, the science of sciences. 
Facts are &cts alwaj-s and everywhere ; 
but facts are the matter of science, not 
science itself. The science is in their 
explication, or their reduction to the 
principles from which they proceed, and 
the law of their procession or production. 
The inductive philosophers sttV. Vo ciVy 



New Publications. 



42$ 



laws ; they add to its vo- 
bttt are subjected to its regi- 
me ha\e borrowed largely from 
B, but we cannot construct a 
with words so borrowed till we 
de them English words. No- 
, talk Latin in English, though 
tile English in words wholly of 
Igin. The vocabularj' is of va- 
gin, but the language is Eng- 
has remained so through all 
ges the vocabulary has under- 
id lliis English language defies 
mtions, and the influence of 
learned and the unlearned. 
lor Whitney, who appears nev- 
ve understood the relation of 
;live sciences either to science 
h, denies the divine and super- 
origin of language, supposes 
lave commenced his career on 
I without language, and to have 
ir himself voluntarily but irre- 
fanguage, by attempting to 

r various cries of animals and 
striking sounds of nature, 
hich there is not a single arti- 
lund, the distinguishing mark 
1 speech. He does not reprc- 
JHsa)-ing to one another, ''Go 
^pus construct a language, so 
ffitU each other our thoughts ;" 
'presents them as listening to 
, barking, and howling of dogs, 
ng of sheep, the mooing of cows, 
Ing of birds, the crowing of the 
f hissing of the serpent, the 
Uod whistling of the winds, the 
t the shower or pouring of the 
bellowing of the storm, and. by 
mitation, forming out of Uiese 
.t« sounds language in which 
! God and communicate with 
e adopts the onomatopoetic or 
theory, so contemptuously 
I by Max Miillp-r. There is no 
at in all dialects tliere have 
oduced vocables in which there 
anpt in the word itself to imi- 
ound or cry of the object nam- 
mpposing men had no language 
unable to converse, how were 
free on the meaning to be given 
imitated sounds, or construct 
rds into sentences composed 
, predicate, and copula, inflected 



according to the demands of number, 
gender, case, mood, and tense ? There 
may have also been vocables formed 
from interjections, and there may be some 
truth in the interjectional or pooh ! 
pooh ! theory ; but how form them into 
words, and these words into language 
with its grammadcal laws and inflections 
before any knowledge of grammar or 
language, and bring about a general un- 
derstanding as to the sense they are to 
bear ? The same objections may be 
urged against the ding-dong theory, or 
that man is so constructed ll»at, when 
touched in a certain manner, he involun- 
tarily emits a certain sound. These 
theories explain the origin of certain vo- 
cables, but not of language. 

Professor Whitney is not willing, by 
any means, to admit the supernatural 
origin of language, for the inductive 
sciences recognize nothing above na- 
ture. But none of the facts treated by 
any one of the inductive sciences are 
explicable witl)out God, and God is su- 
pernatural. Man has his origin in the 
supernatural, though the sjwcies is de- 
veloped by natural generation. In like 
manner, language, though developed, 
modified, or changed structurally or 
phonetically by natural causes accord- 
ing to natural laws, has its origin in tlie 
supernatural, or the direct act of God 
infusing it along with the ideal truth it 
signifies into tlic first man. Its origin 
is divine, as is iIk origin of man. This 
is ewdcnt because it requires in man 
the possession of language to be able to 
invent language, as we have already 
seen. It is from God, because it can 
come from no other source ; and imme- 
dialety from God to the first man, though 
traditionally to us, because there is no 
natural medium through which its ori- 
gination is possible ; yet not the entire 
vocabulary of language, but language in 
the respect that it is the sensible sign 
or representation of the ideal or the in- 
telligible, whence proceeds the sensible, 
which copies or imitates it 

I. GRAMMATICAI. SVNTHF.SIS: The 
Art of English Composition. By 
Henry N. Day. New York : Scrib- 
ncr & Co. 1867. lamo, p^. :J56^ — 
2. The Art of D\scovnfcsE. •. X 



^U 



426 



New Publications. 



System of Rhetoric. By Henry 
N. Day. New Vork : Scribner & Co, 
1867. i2mo, pp. 343. 

We know Mr. Day only a-s the author 
of these two books, and these do not 
give us a very high opinion of him 
either as a master of English grammar 
Of of English composition. His volumes 
are e2alx)rate, and evidently have cost 
hint much lime and hard study ; he has 
aimed to make them profound, logical, 
philosophical, attractive, and profiuble 
to the student ; but their depth is less 
than he believes, their logic is more pre- 
tentious than real, and their philosophy 
is lx>rrowed from a bad school. 

The first work purports to be a gram- 
mar of the English language, and aims, 
while teaching the art of composition or 
the construction of sentences, to make 
the study of grammar attractive by exer- 
cising the thought and reasoning faculty 
of ihe pvipil. The aim is commendable, 
but is rarely successful. The author 
lacks simplicity, case, and grace as a 
writer, and a thorough mastery of his 
subject ; and his grammar, by its at- 
tempt at logic and philosophy, is bet- 
ter fitted to discourage than to quicken 
thought As far as we can discover, the 
work is no improvement on Lindley 
Murray's well-known English grammar ; 
it is less simple, and not a whit more 
logical or philosophical. It departs 
widely from the old grammatical tech- 
nology, but with no advantage, that we 
Can discover, to the pupil. What is 
gained by calling adjectives and adverbs 
modijitrs, a name appropriate to adverbs 
only ? Adjectives qualify j adverbs mo- 
dify. Murray defines the verb," A word 
that signifies to be, to do, or to suffer." 
What do wc gain by rejecting this defi- 
nition, and defining it to Ije the word in 
a sentence that asserts ? The autlior 
makes a sentence, as a judgment, con- 
sist of three parts, subject, predicate, and 
copula, which is correct. He identifies 
the verb with tlie copula, which is also 
correct ; but hp makes its essence con- 
sist in assertion, wliich is not correct 
There is, indeed, no assertion without 
the cojnila; but the copula alone does 
not mate tlie assertion. The assertion 
is made by the whole setitcuce-, uid the 



three terms, subject, pvicdicate, aod 
pula, are each equally necessary to 
assertion or judgment. The 
right in making the verb the 
not when he makes its csMcncei 
in assertion. The verb, the 
says, is the copula, and cs««nl 
copula merely expresses the 
or non-identity of the subject and 
dicate ; but the copula, in a ji 
distinguishes as well as unitts 
subject and predicate, and the 
is never ideniiLal with the subject ; fc 
it were, it would lie sul:>ject and not 
cate. When an author ! ' la 

grammar, logic, and j 
spond, be can escape ctusuic iwly 
success. Murray's definition 
verb is sufficient for us and for, 
purposes of grammar. As si 
enough to say a verb is a word 
nifies " to be, to do, or to suffer ;' 
you insist on running grammar 
logic, and making the verb exprcM 
copula of llie judgment, we insist 
you shall make it represent, as it 
philosophically, the creative act, 
real copula between beinc .-ind cxUtr! 
in which case the predi' 
by the copula to the sit I ,, i _ .. 
duct, as when we say. Two and iwo 
four. The verb, then, while it cxpresfrt 
the union of the predicate with Mbfcct, 
distinguishes i( from the subject, aa tki 
effect from the cause. 

The details of the book are freqani 
objectionable. The author makei 
when it follows scmty such, to, xad 44, 
relative pronoun, and /Aaf, in the 
"The last time that I saw hi— " 
tive pronoun, and in other ]< i 
actly similar, a conjunction, .-ij is nm 
a relative pronoun in any correct spc*i< 
but an adverb or conjunction of 
parison. Wc doubt if lU e\-er 
follows same. " It is the sjime *nil*'' 
nial " is not good English, althoQ^ 
sometimes met with ; but, if M^ die 4tt* 
tcnce is elliptical '* It is tlie saraeu &^ 
nial would he." Ordinarily, samt rcqciitf 
/Aa/, which, or who after it ; and »&«*« 
it will not take one or another k/L (kcK 
terms, it requires wi/h ; for utmi <»• 
presses identity not comparisois an^ 
therefore, can never be properly foQiywed 
by as. The $am4 tu secmi to a* 00 



^ 



New Publicatiotts. 



427 



¥ 



:er than equal as. So, when it must 
followed by a relative pronoun, de- 
ids /Aae. "He went as far as the 
ite " is good English, but neither as 
a relative pronoun. The phrase, " Such 
en as these " is elliptical for, ♦' Such 
in as these men are," where as is 
leajly an adverb or conjunction of com- 
m, and no relative pronoun at all. 
lercver as is used as a relative, the 
>hra.^e or sentence is a vulgarism ; as, 
tlie phrase mentioned by Mrs. Trol- 
►pc, "The lady as takes in washing 
:r tlie way," though not a Yankee 
igarism. 

The second work should, by its title. 
Art of Discourse, be a work on 
>gic, not on rhetoric. Discourse is 
iin the Latin disairsus, and means 
;oning as distinguished from intui- 
ion, if taken etymologically, and it is 
ly in a ncological sense that it stands 
(f an oration. We sec no gain in ex- 
ging the old term rhetoric for that 
discourse, which in the sense used is 
pure neologism. In the first work, the 
Ltjthor to a great extent confuses gram- 
with rhetoric, and in this second 
rk he confuses rhetoric with logic. 
\t arts of grammar, rhetoric, and logic 
are undoubtedly three kindred arts, but 
X ' ^uishable by well-defined lines 
< ice. Grammar treats of words 

an'l ilicir formation into sentences ; 
rhetoric, of the arrangement of sentences 
xn oration, essay, dissertation, or 
•ati^e ; logic, of the construction, ar- 
it, and relation of propositions 
. ichls. Grammar teaches to 
and write correctly ; rhetoric, to 
ik or write pleasingly and persua- 
llvcly ; logic teaches us to reason Justly 
conclu^vely. Grammar makes us 
inted with lanE;ii.-»s:c ; rhetoric ad- 
language to the affections, pas- 
suid sentiments ; logic addresses 
ion and judgment. Though they 
all tJiree unite in forming what Mr. 
■ay would call a perfect discourse, they 
ihoald be taught separately. Sentences 
ly l« correctly formed, and yet the dis- 
»« I* hca\'y and dull ; the sentences 
be rhetorically arranged so as to 
the feelings, without instructing or 
icing the understanding; but still, 
teaching, each art shouJJ he /cept 



distinct, and prevented from encroaching 
on the province of cither of the others. 

Mr. Day's treatise on rhetoric is not, 
in our judgment, superior, or, as a whole, 
equal to that of Campbell or even that 
of Blair. Yet it is not without value, 
though better adapted to private study 
tlian to colleges and academies. No 
man can treat the art of rhetoric wcU 
who does not understand well the science 
both of language and of logic. Mr. Day 
is well aware of this, and attempts to 
connect the art with the science of 
which it is the application. This is 
well and praiseworthy ; but, unhappily, 
he understands the science neitiier of lan- 
guage nor of logic. He does not under- 
stand the relation of the word to thought 
anymore than docs Professor Whitney; 
andno one can understand the science 
of logic until he has mastered phi- 
losophical science, which Mr. Day is 
very far from having done. The science 
neither of language nor of logic can be 
mastered hy one who holds Sir William 
Hamilton was a philosopher, whose pre- 
tended philosophy is substantially that 
of the Positivists. The school Sir Wil- 
liam Hamilton founded, and of which 
Professor Kerrier and Mr. Manscl are 
distinguished disdple.s, avowedly main- 
tains that philosophy cannot rise above 
the sensible, and that l]>e supersensible 
as well as the superintclligible must be 
taken, if at all, on the authority of faith 
or revelation. 

Mr, Day belongs to thi? school, and 
adopts, to a great extent, its manner of 
writing English, which is hardly more 
intelligible to us than Choctaw or the 
dialects of South Africx His example, 
if not his precept, is likely to encourage 
the distortion, we may say corruption, 
of plain, simple, and nervous English, 
which we see coming into fashion with 
our English as well as Scottish writers. 
The present race of Englishmen, when 
treating philosophical or theological .sub- 
jects, seem to mistike obscurity for 
depth, and darkness for sublimity. Un- 
deniably Jeffrey is dead. We wish 
the authors of school-books would show 
that they know and love our real Eng- 
lish tongue, and are aware that sim- 
plicity and clearness of st^lc ait tntrAs 
that should V)c retaitved. 



438 



New Publications. 



P 



Short Studies on Great Subjects. 
Ry James Anthony Frourie, M. A.,' late 
Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford. 
Crown 8vo, pp. 534. New York : 
Charles Scribner & Co. 

Mr. Froude is a verj' startling instance 
of the truth of a statement often made 
during the last few years — and made by 
men within the Church of England as 
well by men outside her pale — that the 
Anglican establishment is nipidly losing 
all hold upon the most thoughtful and 
best educated of those who profess to be 
her subjects. Time, which tries all thitUfs, 
is demonstrating beyond cavil the insuf- 
ficiency of Anglicanism not only to con- 
tent the soul but to satisfy the intellect. 
There are fashions of thought just as 
llicre are fashions of dress, and the 
church which Henry VIII. made to fit 
iis well as he could the prevailing style 
~ mental activity in his day has been 
Etting more and more antiquated ever 
since, until now it will no more suit the 
intelligence of the present century than 
King Harry's hose aod doublet would 
accoitl with a modern fine gentleman's 
idea of dress. In the sixteenth century, 
the mass of men knew very little ; and 
so, when the king's clergy told them to 
believe this or to believe that, they were 
ready enough to oljcy, not twcausc they 
heard the church as the voice of God, 
but because it was only the churchmen 
who had learning enough to know any- 
thing al>out it Now all this is changed. 
The relative jjositions of the Protestant 
clergy and laity have Ijecn reversed. 
The education of the former is for the 
most part narrow and superficial. The 
best class of laj-men, on the contrary, 
receive a broad and lil>eral schooling ; 
ihcy sound the remotest depths of sci- 
ence, and penetrate recesses of nature 
to which the clergy, as a general thing, 
never approach. Taking the average of 
all the educated classes, the laity know 
more than the churchmen. The olscdi- 
cnce, therefore, which ignorance once 
paid to learning has >'anished. What 
is there to substitute in its stead ? The 
Anglican establishment claims no direct 
authority from heaven to teach and 
ctfrecr, or, If she does assert any such 
prerogative, she asserts it In so \oo4t a 




Mr. J 
■h ev^ 



manner, claiming ajid di« ■'^■'-■- , '- 
same breath, that her > 
help feeling themselves at ptncti ur.-c 
to obey or not as Uiey please. 

What is the natural consequence 0I> 
this state of things ? Why, ejinefl, 
thinking men are driven a«ray 
English establishment in con 
increasing numl>ers. In a few 
if matters go on as they are n 
going, the regular old humdrum Epii 
copalian or Anglican will be as 
a curiosity as the last soldier of the 
Revolution. Some are taking refuge 
in ritualism, and trying to ^uppltnl 
their cold and cheerless establishmeni 
by a counterfeit Catholicism, whr 
may, and we hope will, lead them uiti 
mately to the one true faith, but whi 
is at present only a pretty sham. Othc 
and among these is Mr. Froude, ru«hii 
the opposite extreme, and profess 
extravagant rationalism which is nearly 
equivalent to no creed at all. Mr. 
Froude has been regarded as in * 
sense the champion of the English 
tablishment. He is the admiring chroni- 
cler of its infancy, the apologist and 
biogr.ipher of its earliest apctsilcs am 
prophets, Henry and Elizabctii, Croi 
well and Cranmer. He has made ihi 
history of its foundation the study of hi: 
life, and has told that history in a »traii 
of enthusiasm such as has inspired na 
other reputable writer. If there i» any 
man from whom we might have expected 
a vigorous defence of the claims of A 
glicanism, a recognition of its neht 
to command our obedience, it is .Mr. 
Froude. Yet he has given us just the 
reverse of this. His volume is at once 
a startling indication of the mental un- 
rest which has kept thinking Aaglictas 
disturbed of late years, and a stnmg 
protest against the right of the Chioth 
of England to seek to quiet that ui 
ness by the exercise of eccle&l 
authority or the bold promulgation 
clerical dogmas. In his " Plea fur the 
Free Discussion of Theological Difii* 
cultics," reprinted in the present volume 
from Fraser's Mni^asine, he calls for * 
reopening of all the fundamental qoes* 
tions of religious belief, a subjection </ 
every article of every creed to the aaort 
se.axcV\\Tv^ discussion. The clet]gy, be 



htH 



New Publications. 



429 



arc not to be our instruc- 
a matters of theology. We are 
as competent to judge as they are. 
logical truth is not different from 
|hcr truth. The Holy Spirit does 
uide the Church, and there is no 
Uil but public opinion which is com- 
\ to decide disputed questions df 
ras belief. In a word, the great 
I of theology are all to be declared 

roblems, and the world is to be 
into one great debating society 
Cir free discussion. 
8 is not the place to show the tcn- 

of Mr. Froude's principles, npr 
ibolic readers is there much need 
Dwing it We only refer to them 
remarkable example of a state of 
f which prevails among a large 
of the most intellectual members 
\ Oiurch of England, and what 
nult of that state of feeling must 
B not difficult to tell. 
the other essays in this volume we 
ittle to say. The three lectures on 
Times of Erasmus and Luther" 
rt very pleasant reading for us, but 
» counterbalanced by a paper on 

Philosophy of Catholicism," in 

U>e writer pays an eloquent tri- 
|> "the beautiful creed which for 
hears tuned the heart and formed 
Jnd of the noblest of mankind." 
dmiration, of course, stops short 
logical term, and is but a coldly 
ctual sort of appreciation at best 

that emotional comprehension 
I^MSt accompany the grace of 
^ft such as it is, we thank him 

R55 Lf.ttt-rs of Madame Swkt- 
^E. By Count de Failoux, of the 
^^Academy. Translated by H. 
BIftton. I vol. i2nio, pp. 369. 
!lon : Rolierts Brothers. New 
k : The Catholic Publication So- 
^. 1867. 

an hardly be necessary to inform 

fadcrs who Madame Swelchine 
what are the claims of her life 
ftrcer to llic interest and attention 
public. A sketch of her remark- 
lixtory has been already given ir 
Cathouc WorId for ]\i\y, i86j, 



m 



Her bit^rapher was one of her most 
intimate friends — a member of the dis- 
tinguished coterie of French ecclesi- 
astics and lajTnen with whose aims 
and aspirations she most deeply sym- 
pathized — a witness of her dying hours, 
and the executor of her last will and 
testament. He is the Count de Failoux, 
and that is more than any cuiogium we 
could pronounce on his qualities as a 
writer. Mr. Alger, under whose alls- 
pices this life has been translated and 
published, has done a great service, and 
has added, no little to the \'alue of the 
book, in its English dress, by the short 
preface with which he introduces it to 
the American public. The following 
pjjssage shows what has been the inten- 
tion and the spirit with which he has 
been animated : 

" It may seem strange thai a wfirk so eminfntly 
CatJioIic in it* quality as iht» biography diould be 
introduced \o a Promtant people by .1 ProlcXant 
Inntlatrir and Prolnlanl publiaherv Bui, cm fur- 
ther conrideratiun, wilJ not thii be found eupccially 6t 
and serviceable ? In tliia counti>'. ■ tradiliona] an- 
tipathy or bigoted repugnance tti the Catluilic Churrh 
prevails in an unjuitifLiblc extreme- Wlutcver i> te- 
pultive in the Ciithnlic d»gma5 or rule is fastened oil 
with unwarmntablc acrimony and exclusivenest. ITie 
■ntcre«ts alike of juitice and of good feeling demand 
that the altenlion of Protestants shall, at least ucca- 
rioiuHjr, be given to (he best ingrcdienU and work- 
ings of the Catholic system. In the present work, we 
have the forensic doctrine and authority of Catholicity 
in the background, its purest inner aims and life in the 
foreground. We here have a beautiful specimen of 
the style of character and ejt|>ericnce which the mott 
imposing organic Symbul of Christendom tends to ytn>- 
duce, and has, in all the ages of its mighty reign, 
lar^ly produced. If every biRotcd dislikcr of the 
Roman Catholic CImrch within the English <ipeaking 
race cnuld read this book, and, as a consequence, 
have his prejudices lessened, his fynipatliirs en- 
larged, the result, so far from being deprecated, 
should be urarmly welcomed, 'litis is wrilleo by one 
who, while cnthiuiastically admiring the spiritual 
wealth of the Catholic Churcli, the ineffable tender- 
ness utd beauty o( its moral and religious ministra- 
tions, is, at tn its dojpnalic l.ibric and secular sway, 
even more than a Protestant of Uie Protestants. 
Finally, this book is especially commended to women 
as a work of inestimable worth. The character and 
life of Madame Swetchine, her lonely studies aiul as- 
pirations, her sublime personal altainmenis, her phi- 
lanthropic labors, her litpr.iry prHucfi'ms. h<-r sw^et 
social charm and vast ' ' il 

friendships with kings .n ■' 

sober raptun-s of her i- i :i. 

form an example whose exutiuit aa>l edil.wn^ iiilticit 
aitd value are scarcely surpa&scd in the annals of her 
sex." 

The translation has been well done, 
and the typographical execution is un- 
exceptionable. We desire for the book, 
as wide si ciicuUvioQ as ^^VLtAit. 



4 
4 



L 



Niw PuhliccUums. 



I 



The Catholic Crusoe. Adventures 
of Owen Erans, Esq., Surgeon's Mate, 
set Ashoi'e with Five Companions on 
a Desolate Island in the Caribbean 
Sea, 1739. f'i^'cn from the original 
MS. By Rev. W. H. Anderdon, 
M.A. lamo, pp. 344- London : Burns, 
Lambert & Oates. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. . 

*rhe name of Dr. Andcrdon's inter- 
esting story is so well indicated by tke 
title that we have only to .add that it 
seems admirably adapted both to amuse 
and instruct young people, is full of in- 
cident, and is written in a pleasant and 
simple style. A supplement entitled 
" Don Manuel's Narrative," a marvel- 
lous relation purporting to have been 
picked up at sea, is a second story of a 
nature similar to the first. We com- 
mend the book to parents and teachers 
as a very acceptable present for lads of 
a somewhat ad\*anccd age. 

Ankr's Return ; or, The Migrations 
of a Soul. An Allegorical Tale. By 
Alto S. Hoerm.inn, O.S.B. Trans- 
lated from the Original German by 
Innocent A, Bergrath. i2mo, pp. 
394. New York : P. O'Shea. 



This is an allegor)- of human life, sin, 
repentance, and forgiveness, the idea of 
which seems to have been inspired by 
Bunyan's Pil^ritti's Progress. The ex- 
cellence of the author's intentions and 
the soundness of his theology must 
plead in excuse for a great many short- 
Comings, the most serious of which is 
that the book is not very readable. The 
ambitious style, we fear, will repel a 
great many readers from a storj- wldch 
displays considerable ingenuity, and, as 
we are assured by the translator, has 
proved very popular in Europe. It is 
very neatly printed and prettily bound, 

■ and will sene well as a holiday present 
I or school premium. 

I Mem 
I M 

■ fro 

■ T>>> 

■ Be 



I 




Memoirs ajjd Correspondence of 
Madame Recamif.r. Translated 
from the French, and edited by Is.i- 
phene M. Luyster. i2mo. pp. 408. 
Boston : Roberts Brothers. 
We published in an carlv Trtimbcr of 



The Catholic World a sketch of 
remarkable and brilliant vroman wbose 
life forms the subject of this attractive 
little volume. The French wiitk, from 
which Miss Luystcr's tnuislalion u 
made, appeared in Paris in 1859. It 
was from the pen of Madame Leoor- 
nTiant, the adopted daughter of Madame 
Rccamicr, and niece of her husband 
The lady seems, from all account*, lo 
have performed her task in a rather Iook 
and confused manner, so that Miss Lut- 
ster's part has been not only to torn it 
into readable English, but to prune, con- 
dense, and arrange it in readable fonn: 
and this we judge she has done in a *rty 
satisfactory manner. The corre»pODd> 
ence is strangely deficient in Madame 
R^camier's own letters ; but the lade of 
these is well compensated for V\ nrnno- 
ous ones from Chateaubri 
de Montmorency, and Bn 
few from Madame de Staci, La H r : 
Bemadotte, Louis Napoleon, \i' i 
Hugo, and B<?ranger. 

The Galin Method op Musical \*- 
STRUCTioN. By C. H. Famham. 
New York : American News CoiB- 
pany. I S67. 

Mr. Famham gives us a verj- condsf 
comparative view of the common s}* 
tern of mnsical notation and the dct 
one known as the Galin Method, which 
has already received so much considen- 
tion in Europe, and must soon attt«ct 
the attention of tlie musical world in 
this country. In France, m.iir. fllvtin- 
guished musicians have <lic 

general adoption of the u.. .... L.^ihod, 

and it is the only one now used at tie 
Polytechnic and superior normal schuolc 
in Paris and in the govemn>cnt school* 
of Russia. It aims at simplit)ing the 
system of musical signs, now certainly 

somewhat complicated, bv *' '■ 'iJn- 

tion of a uniform scries of • ' die 

old staff, with itis diflereat cici> and mtay 
shaped notes. 

It is claimed th,it by this method nine 
persons out of ten can be taught the 
whole theor)" of music in a few months, 
and learn at the same time to sing at 
sight and to write under il 'iJt- 

pendently of an instrumcri ■ iw- 

dinary difhculty.' We have \cr; little 



i 



that this system possesses im- 
mense advantages over the old one for 
learning the iheoni' of music and for the 
execution of a vocal score. But we are 
not quite sure tliat a pajjje of instrumen- 
tal music written according to the Galin 
method would be any less difficult to 
raid than one written in tlie old style. 
We have already simplitied matters a 
good deal by the abandonment of seve- 
ral of the clefs formerly in use, and we 
do not see why a still further reforma- 
t it not be made. We had the 

1 assisting at one of Mr. Fam- 
. s clisses, given in this city, and can 
iiify to tiie remarkable facility of read- 
writing music according to this 
i, as exhibited by his pupils. Our 
J readers will not fail to find much 
interest them in a perusal of this 



[St. Ignatius and the Society of Je- 
sus : Their Influence on Cinliiation 
and Christianity. A Sermon deliver- 
ed in the Church of the Immaculate 
Conception, in Boston, on Sunday, 
AugiLHt 4th, 1867. By Rev. G. V. Has- 
kins. Rector of the Home of the An- 
gel Guardian. Boston : Bernard Carr, 
Printer, 5 Chatham Row. 1S67. 

Father Haskins is one of our most 
juent preachers and most graphic 
iters, although he seldom favors us 
any published productions. His 
juence is that eloquence of realities 
:h flies off like a glowing stream of 
'^ttrks from the energetic action of a 
soul on fire with zeal, incessantly occu- 
pied in practical works of cliarity. The 
•erraon Ijcfore us is a paneg\'ric pro- 
nounced In the church of the Jesuits in 
Boston, on the occasion of the celebra- 
tion of the feast of St. Ignatius. It re- 
counts \n a succinct but forcible and 
:' 'K.anncr the services rendered 

. and humanity by the .Society 
of Jesus, Although the language is 
glowing and the eulogium of the high- 
est kind, yet, in point of fact. Father 
K^kins has not e.xaggerated the real- 
ity. History bears out all that he so 
Warmly claims for this great religious 
order, Hrhich has equalled in its history 



the greatest orders of past ages, while 
far surpassing all others in modern 
times. The hatred and calumny which 
the Jesuits have encountered on the 
p>art of anti-Catholics were never more 
gratuitous and undeserved. The whole 
sum of the accusations which Catholic 
writers have been able to bring against 
them merely show lliat some portions 
of the society have at times degenerat- 
ed from its true spirit ; that individuals 
have erred in doctrine, or committed 
faults in administration ; that a mistaken 
policy has sometimes been adopted ; 
and that the order has not, any more 
than the other great orders, tran.scended 
that limited though elevated sphere to 
which every order is confined by the 
law of its being. The Jesuits were con- 
stituted as one of the cor/>s d' elite of the 
church militant. As such they have 
rendered the most signal services, which 
will ever cover their names with imper- 
ishable glory; and we ascribe their suc- 
cess, in subordination to the grace of 
God and the unfailing vigor of the Cath- 
olic Church whose otispring they are, to 
the genius elevated by sanctity of their 
founder, and the admirable constitutions 
which he bequeathed to the institute. 

Meditations of St. Thomas, etc. 
For a Retreat of Ten Days. Follow- 
ed by a Treatise on the V^irtues, etc 
By Father Massoulic, O.P. Trans- 
lated from the Frencli. London : 
Richardson. New York : The Catho- 
lic Publication Society, 

These Meditations have been taken, 
as to their substance, from the wTitin]k;s 
of St. Thomas, but arranged and sup- 
plemented by the learned Dominican 
whose name is given in the title. Their 
great .idvantage lies in the fact tliat they 
embody the doctrine of one who was not 
only the most consummate theologian 
the world has ever seen, but also a con- 
templative saint of the highest order. 
This gives one who wishes to use them 
for his own profit a secure warrant that 
they will furnish his mind and heart 
with the most choice as welt as whole- 
some nutriment they can possibly ftedj 
upon. The works of saints arc always' 
to be preferred to a]l\ oti\ws. \^ e t«^ 



Hn 



432 



Neuf Publicatiom. 



commend, therefore, this work, derived 
from the writings of a most iHustrious 
saint, to all ; especially to thoughtful 
and educated men who can relish, and 
who, therefore, desire and need, the most 
solid spiritual footi to promote the 
growth of intelligent, solid piety and 
virtue in their souls. 

The Heiress of KiLbORCAN ; or, Eve- 
nings WITH THE Old GEKALIilNES, 
By Mrs. J. Sadlier. New York ; D. 
& J. Sadlier & Ca 

The author of this very interesting 
novel has given to our literature a great 
number of works of various kinds, in- 
tended not only for our amusement but 
for our instruction ; and the present 
volume is perhaps the ver\' best speci- 
men of her productions, combining, as 
it docs, the interest of a romance with 
many genuine liistorical and personal 
reminiscences of the celebrated Anglo- 
Norman family of Fitzgerald, with which 
is associated so much of the history of 
Ireland from the English invasion until 
the present time. It cannot be said 
that there is any plot in the tale, being 
a simple narration of the incidents oc- 
curring in the household of a refined fa- 
mily reduced in fortune, but still retain- 
ing its native dignity and pride of an- 
,qestry; hut the characters, though few, 
clearly, gracefully, and vividly drawn. 

ie heiress of the decayed house of 
Killorgan is admirably sketched with a 
pencil which aims less at personal de- 
scription than at those delicate lines of 
thought and feeling which, after all, 
give us the truest idea of the excellence 
of the female ciiaracter. The greatest 
merit, however, of the work rests in its 
histiuical descriptions, which, being tak- 
en from the best authorities, are tho- 
roughly reliable and presented in a very 
attractive and concise form. 

Affixes in their Origin avd Appi.t- 
CATlON, Exhibiting the Etymologi- 
cal Str\jcturc of En>;lish Wonls. By 
S. ,S. Haklcman. A.M. rhiIa<!elphU : 
Butler & Co. 1865. umo, pp. 371. 

Professor Haldeman has few if aoy 



superiors in the science of Luigtafc, 
and he has also the modesty tliat alvaji 
accompanies real merit. He pnteoJl 
to no more knowledge titan he naflf 
has, and he never undertakes to 1 
what in the present state uf lingunti^ 
science is not explicable. Hi* ~ 
fault is his fear of saying 00 any j 
more than is necessary, which 
him in his brevity soniclimcs 
We should find his wor'v. 
understood if he allowed i 
large a little more on the iadcj, 
meaning of the prefixes and ss 
English words. But perhaps he is I 
enough for others. 

The importance of affixes in thc^ 
struction of English words may \* \ 
thered from the fact that there 
English only about three th'iiTsnml 
hundred monosyllables, a 
of these even are not j. 
have a prefix, a suDix, « ■ 
evident that affixes mu>,t 
in the formation of ' 
part of the Engli.sh \> 
an accurate knowledge oi i 
is to be obtained only " 1 
tinct appreciation of the n 
var>' tliem according to tl 
of thought and speech." i 
tion in the case of our xv,-:.,.-. ...a 
becomes the more difficult because 
a composite tongue, art' ."i i ■ fbt 
Greek and Welsh, for inM ;<ol 

its chief ctymolnj ■ • ' -I; 

and its words c.> r* 

lyzed independent!} 01 mjTrr i.injL;i^^^s^ 
To liave a scientific knowledge of OW 
language wc roust know (he lango^fc* 
from which its words are dcrii'ed.M 
the deri^-ation, meaning, and use of thrir 
affixes in those lansuAgcs as well as io 
our own. Professor Haldeoan bn in 
this small but compact volmnc attCBp^ 
ed to give us the derivalion. OKaoinc* 
and use of all the aAxct, dMdcd tnlti 
prefixes and sufnxes. in the £ii;;fiali ha* 
guage, from whatever language takc^ 
and he has done it in A> MlUftclMj t 
manner v^ po^-JtVile tn the pre K ent tOlt 

of con KD|;&ii 

schol.ir I mas^ 

it, if he wishcts rcaiiy to utuicrstanii I ' 
own Jacguage. 



THE 



ITHOLIG WQi>LD. 



VOL. VL, No. 



34.— JANUARVVtii^58.^/, 'S^^ 






CATHOLIC DOCTRINE OF JUSTIFICATION. 



emarks we are about to 
this article grow out of the 

I of the philosophy of con- 
etween this magazine and 
Englander. Nevertheless, 
> expect a continuation of 
controversy on the topics 

in our last article, and a 
oinder to the respected wri- 
New-Englander\iho replied 

II be disappointed. Our 
he subject matter of discus- 
: expressed, as we think, 
ough to be understood, and 
as our purpose required, 
them, therefore, to the judg- 
lose of our readers who are 
earnest, that they may give 
tever weight their intrinsic 
\f demand in the court of 
e ; and as for the opinion of 
! care nothing. Controver- 
linor topics and side issues 
ery nature interminable, as 
f little comparative utility, 
oversy between the Catho- 
h and Protestants on the 
idamental principles and 
at issue, has been so ably 
oughiy argued out that 
itde left to be done in that 
It of theology. For those 
re information, there are 
.—28 



plenty of books to be had treating of 
every topic in a much more satisfac- 
tory manner than it is possible to 
treat them in the short compass of 
magazine articles. The great con- 
troversy of the day, in our opinion, 
and the one which interests us most 
deeply, is the one which is waging 
between Christianity and infidelity, 
in its various phases of rationalism, 
scepticism, and atheism. So far as 
Protestants of the more orthodox 
schools are concerned, the aspect of 
the question we feel most disposed 
to present to them is that which Gui- 
zot and others of their own number 
have seen with more or less distinct- 
ness — namely, that in the great con- 
flict of the age their real interest is 
at stake in the success of the Catho- 
lic side ; that, as Christians, they be- 
long to us, and ought to make with 
us common cause against the enemy. 
That method of removing the difficul- 
ty in the way of their doing so which re- 
commends itself to our judgment and 
feelings is one which brings into 
strong relief the grand, fundamental 
principles of Christianity in which 
we agree ; and with the^e principles 
as a point of departure, endeavors 
to explain and develop the complete 
Catholic system in such a way a& to 



7}lr Catholic Doctrine of yustificatum. 



435 



y", what was it ? It was not a 
irensic and exterior modifica- 
f their relation to God, but 
nor, sanctifying g^race, jnaking 
lubjectively holy, like to God, 
;d to him, united to him in an 
te union whose final term is 
de. It is evident that this 
^ing grace, which in act was 
e of God, made them fit and 
to be the friends of God, and 
admitted to the fellowship of 
y. It is also certain that they 
laced in probation. What was 
}bation ? Was it not a trial of 
ice, in which certain definite 
free-will were prescribed as 
ditions of being confirmed in 
and consummated in glory? 
1 life was therefore proposed 
I as the reward of goo4 works, 
:mium of voluntary obedience, 
such is actually possessed by 
ly angels in heaven. It is, 
re, true that the angels were 

1 by grace, justified by chari- 
ified by good works; that 
Uvation proceeds from the 
odness of God, and has been 
d by their own good acts : 
lere the least contradiction in 
Jiese statements. 

2 being no intrinsic, necessary 
iction between the two proposi- 
e creature is justified and bea- 
r the gratuitous grace of God ; 
le creature is justified and 
i by his personal sanctity — 

no necessary logical deduc 
ivable from the premise that 
his present state is justified 
uitous grace to the condu- 
it he is not justified by his 
: sanctity. The redemption 
>aired the fall, has restored 
nan race to the condition 
lich it fell by the sin of Adam, 
no reason, therefore, why man 
lot be justified now, in essen- 
e same manner as before ; no 



reason why the order of grace, repair- 
ed by redemption, should not follow 
the same essential laws as before the 
fall. If a change has taken place, 
it must be proved that it is so. If 
this change was' required by the fact 
that the restoration of man is due to 
the merits of Christ, the reason of 
it must be shown. It must be shown 
that the recovery of justification 
through the merits of Christ is incom- 
patible with justification by intrinsic 
sanctity and glorification as the 
reward of good works done from 
the principle of charity. If this can- 
not be shown, no argument can be 
derived from the doctrine that the 
work of Christ is the meritorious 
cause of the justification of fallen 
man to prove that the formal cause 
of his justification is any other than 
the formal cause of the justification of 
the angels and of man in his original 
state. 

The Catholic doctrine teaches that 
the sacrifice of himself which Jesus 
Christ offered up on the cross is the 
meritorious cause of justification 
through the expiation which it made 
of original and actual sin, and the 
new title which it obtained to the 
lost inheritance of everlasting life. 
This includes in itself the grant of 
all those graces which are necessary 
in order to the remission of sins, the 
sanctification of the soul, and its 
complete preparation for the state of 
beatitude and glory. Consequently, 
all Catholic theologians teach that 
the initial movement of the sinner to 
return to God, the faith which dis- 
poses him for justification, the sancti- 
fying grace which makes him really 
just and the friend of God, the actual 
graces which enable him to perform 
salutary acts, the special aid which 
enables him to persevere, all proceed 
from the grace of God, which is gratu- 
itous in reference to the original pro- 
vision of a plan of tedemp^OTmgraSDx- 



Tilr OahoUc DocUin* ef yustification. 



437 



omiplement of glory 1^ the 
ercise of his free-will in pro- 
acts which proceed from the 
i of sanctity within him. 
latholic doctrine teaches that 
ctually placed in this state of 
n under the law of grace es- 
1 in Christ This probation 
hat the initial, inchoate prin- 
the divine everlasting life to 
e is destined should be im- 
within him, as the centre of 
matural force giving him a 
It toward his prefixed end. 
IS, also, that a series of acts 
J him forward should pro- 
n this principle by the effort 
e-will. This principle can be 
else than sanctifying grace, 
itifying grace, in its essence, 
othing else than the love of 
Ixjve is the only principle 
}f uniting the soiU with God. 
me cannot do it It is fur- 
ent that faith cannot be the 

principle which makes the 
for two reasons : First That 
ire capable of justification, 
e suppose, no one will deny, 
lot capable of an act of faith. 
That faith is a temporary 
iasing in the beatified state, 
the principle of justification 
lent and eternal, 
ver, the sphere of probation 
.sarily identical with the 
r free-will, and the sphere of 
is coextensive with all the 

which God has given as 
»r for free-will to exercise its 
>on, by selecting the good and 

the evil. The acts which 
x;eed from the principle of 
order to bring the soul to 
3 ultimate term, must, there- 
sr the whole ground of the 
«r, and include the fulfilment 

commandments. It is im- 

therefore, that faith alone 
istify, unless probation, free- 



will, and the law of God are strictly 
confined to the sphere of faith. No 
one will pretend that they are. If 
they are not, it is impossible that a 
mere habit of faith, or the mere ex- 
ercise of faith in act, should alone 
constitute a man just before God. 
God is not bound to place a creature 
on probation. He can justify, sanc- 
tify, and glorify him immediately, 
without leaving him any liberty of 
choice between good and evil. But he 
cannot elevate him to the high state of 
personal union and friendship with 
himself without giving him that love 
which fixes the will immovably in God- 
as the supreme good, and includes in 
itself all virtue and sanctity. Union 
between the soul and God requires 
likeness. The soul must be made 
like to God in order that it may love 
God, and that God may love the 
soul. Although, therefore, God is 
not bound to place a creature on 
probation — ^that is, to require of him 
the particular exercise of love which 
consists in a voluntary obedience to 
certain precepts — ^yet he cannot dis- 
pense with love itself, which is the 
sole and indispensable requisite to a 
state of perfect justification ; and al- 
though he is not bound to place a 
creature in a state of probation, yet if 
he does so, he cannot dispense with 
those acts of love which are suitable 
to such a state. The very notion of 
a state of probation requires that cer- 
tain precepts should be g^ven to a ra- 
tional creature, who is free to keep 
them or violate them as he may 
choose, and who is to receive the fa- 
vor of God during his probation and 
an eternal reward at the end of it if he 
keeps them, forfeiting both if he fails 
to do so. On any other supposition, 
the state of probation is entirely illu- 
sory and unreal. The attributes ot 
God require him to carry out the 
terms of the probation to which he 
has subjected man. Yfbmv \)j& m- 



438 



The Catholic Doctrine of yustificatkn. 



poses precepts, he mxist from his very 
nature withdraw his friendship from 
the transgressor. He may still re- 
gard him with the love of benevo- 
lence, and offer him forjijiveness ; but 
he cannot actually forgive him and 
look upon him again witJi the love 
of complacency until he has regained 
his lost sanctity and returned to the 
love of God. Sin of its own nature 
turns the soul away from God as its 
supreme good to some created object 
It is, therefore, a contradiction in 
terms to say that a man can be in 
the state of sin and the state of jus- 
tification at the same time ; for it is 
equivalent to saying that he can at 
the same instant be turned toward 
God as his supreme good, and away 
from him. Love is therefore the 
conditio situ quA non, at least, of jus- 
tification. Faith alone cannot, tliere- 
fore, formally justify. If it did, there 
would be no need of love in order to 
constitute a man just before God. 
A man might be completely justified 
while in the very act of the most 
grievous sin, as, for instance, blasphe- 
my, murder, or suicide, and might die 
without having changed his will to 
commit those sins, yet pass immedi- 
ately to heaven. These sins are not 
incompatible with faith, though they 
are with charily. If they are incom- 
patible with faith, all mortal sins — 
that is, all those which, in the strict 
and proper sense, alienate the soul 
from God, and destroy charity — must 
be incompatible with faith. Why is 
this? Does faith, of its own nature, 
produce charity ? if it does, it must 
contain within itself the radical prin- 
ciple of charity, and while it exists 
in the soul it must exclude all sins 
which are directly contran,' to cha- 
rity and incompatible with it. Then, 
one who has faith cannot commit a 
mortal sin. If faith is inamissible, 
and a man once justified can no more 
\oBA his justification, ihet^, as soon as 



"A 



one has obtained faith,^ 

tained also exemption fdl 

tal sins for the future. 

not inamissible. then ev<?ry9in 

charity, or i 

faith and jn 

nition of faith, however, ifl 

love and sanctifying grace,! 

faitli to be \ht jitJcs /ormatA 

olic theology. 

If it is said that faith 
itself, produce charity, y< 
accompanied by charity,, 
then, that faith gives oi 
sanctifying grace and cha 
whoever makes an act of d 
ceives an additional gift whiclj 
him holy. In that case, ert 
who was once justified would 
cmpt from mortal sin while & 
lasts. If the first act of ^ 
fies once for all, then the 1 
can never again commit a moi 
If it justifies only for the timfl 
then while it lasts it prcstti 
soul from sin, and whc 
proves that he has alrcad) 
This is contrary to reas 
rience. It is certain 
have had faith and grace hav| 
wards sinned mortaUy. Th^ 
faith docs not, by its first ac^ 
with it an inamissible gift of j 
It is also certain that men I 
always lose faith when they i 
sin against faith first before 1^ 
against charity. Many a tai 
believes firmly in Je^v 
Son of God and the .^ 
and who hopes for salvation i 
his merits, commits mortal a 
even lives for years in the tj 
state of sin. It may be m] 
such persons have no s<nt't^ 
never did have it, i 
But what is saving !> 
the tiifftrtntiti of that tailhl 
really justifies ? It is evident t 
that a certain kind of habitual 
in Jesus Christ and his doctiil 



: prcstn 
whoeW 

isoq^l 
thani 




The Catholic Doctrine of yusHficatum, 



439 



lied by a desire and hope of 
;aved through his merits and 

does frequently exist in per- 
ho are living in habitual sin. 
is not genuine faith, or saving 
here must be in saving faith 
additional quality which dis- 
hes it from that faith which 
es no fruits of sanctity. Is it 
aving by its quality of super- 
ness, or as proceeding from 
ce of the Holy Spirit ? This 
ame as saying that supematu- 
\ as such, or because it is a 
i the Holy Spirit, necessarily 
with it sanctification. This is 
The Holy Spirit may and 
ive men a firm belief in re- 
truths, and a hope of obtain- 
rcy from God through Christ 
they are actually forgiven and 
i. This remains in them, of- 
er they have lost sanctifying 
y sin, as a disposition which 
es their return to God. It 
3t, however, per se, produce 
ts of sanctity, or implant the 
e of love, from which these 
•oceed, which is the very prin- 

union with God, and, there- 
le formal cause of justifica- . 
That quality which faith must 
I order to render it justifying 
innot be, therefore, anything 
: charity, or the love of God, 
lakes it fides formata. 
ire convinced that a great 

of Protestants substantially 
! doctrines we have laid down, 
ilieve that man has free-will ; 
1 to believe and obey the doc- 
id precepts of Jesus Christ; 

the friend of God by sancti- 
■ace brought into the active 

of Christian virtue by his 
iintary cooperation ; is placed 
work out his own salvation ; 
live heaven as a reward if he 
God faithfully, and will be 

if he lives in sin. Even 



those who hold the Calvinistic tradi- 
tion either modify its tenets or hold 
more sound and rational opinions ia 
juxtaposition with them, which really 
control their sentiments and conduct 
It would be easy to show this by a 
multitude of citations. So far as 
metaphysical opinions and technical 
statements are concerned, we judge 
every work and every formula of 
doctrine by its obvious, objective 
sense, and accept every individual 
writer's statements respecting his 
own opinions. But in regard to the 
real, genuine ideas which form the 
true intellectual and spiritual life of 
men, we take the liberty of judging 
them more by the language they use 
in common life, by their indirect 
statements, and by the general spirit 
and scope of what they say ajid 
write, when not immediately intent 
upon stating their technical formulas, 
than from their technical formulas 
themselves. We have heard it said 
of the illustrious President Dwight 
that his real sentiments and conduct 
toward his fellow-men indicated a 
belief in the goodness of all men, 
whereas he held theoretically that 
all men were totally depraved. We 
have no doubt that President Ed- 
wards always acted on the belief that 
his children possessed the self-deter- 
mining power of the will, against 
which he wrote so acutely, or that 
Bishop Berkeley was persuaded of 
the reality of the external world. 
Therefore, we still think that a large 
number of non-Catholics are more 
Catholic in their belief than they are 
aware, and that their rejection of 
what they suppose to be Catholic 
doctrine is frequently only a rejection 
of opinions attributed by mistake to 
the Catholic Church. In regard to 
this special question of justification, 
it is our opinion that the objection 
prevalent among the more orthodox 
Protestants is based on the supposk.- 



440 



751^ CatkoHe Doctrine of yustificaiioH. 



Hon that the Catholic doctrine as- 
cribes a justifying and saving effica- 
cy to a mere intellectual submission 
10 church-authority, and a mere ex- 
ternal compliance with its precepts, 
without reference to the interior dis- 

\ position of the soul toward God, or 
recognition of the merits of Christ as 
the source of all the supernatural ex- 
cellence and value of good works. 
It is believed that the Catholic sub- 

I stitutes the merits of the Blessed Vir- 
gin Mary, the merits of the saints, 
and his own merits, as an indepen- 
dent ground of justification, in lieu 
of the merits of Christ. Also, that 
merit is ascribed to mere external 
works, such as fasting, hearing mass, 
and performing ceremonial rites or 
penitential labors, on account of the 
mere physical nature and extent of 
the works done, without reference to 
the motive from which they proceed. 
The vague and timorous pastoral of 
the late Synod of Lambeth is explicit 
and bold only on this one point, of 
condemning the substitution of the 
Virgin Mary as a mediator in the 
place of Christ. For this reason, we 
think that the simple statement of 
the genuine Catholic doctrine is the 
surest way to remove objections 
linst it, and that most of these ob- 
jections fall away of themselves as 
soon as the misapprehensions of the 
doctrine are removed. This is no 
private fancy of our own, but the 
judgment of some of the ablest the- 
ologians of the world, Protestant 
as well as Catholic. Leibnitz, the 
greatest philosopher among Protes- 
tants, found nothing to object to in 
the doctrines of the Council of Trent 
respecting justification. Dr. Pusey, 
one of the most learned men of the age 
in scriptural and patristic theology, 
has publicly expressed his adhesion 
lo the same doctrine. It is easy to 
ridicule that movement in the Angii- 
CM church, of which he Is \he l\cad ; 



but it would be much more seodk 
for those who do it to study his el»- 
borate and profound writings, and 
much more ditficult to refute than. 
Protestantism has produced nothii^, 
at least in the English 1 
which can approach the gjeat w 
of the High-Church divines of 
land. These works contain the 
ments of all the theology of Catholic 
doctrine respecting the justifiabMj 
of man, in tlie ascetical, spiri 
sacramental aspects of the q 
All the life of Protestantism in 
land is centred in the Catholici; 
movement. On the continent, thd 
orthodox I'rotestantism which i»de 
rived from Luther and Calvin is a 
nullity. The real issue of the wirW, 
as we have repeatedly said, i» 
the fundamental principles of CI 
tianity. The question between C 
olics and those Protestants who 
with us these fundamental princi] 
is not, as many of them suppose, n 
specting the first principles of ll 
doctrine of Christ, but respectii 
the deductions to be derived 
them and their due dcv 
That God is revealed in J 
as our sovereign teacher, our 
reign Lord, our sovereign redeemer 
and mediator, the sovereign au< 
of our spiritual and everlasting life 
that we are lx>und to render him 
absolute homage of our faiih and 
obedience, is admitted by all. TJ 
only question is, by what mc' 
means can we ascertain with 
ty the exACt and complete » 
the doctrine he has commaiKled 
to believe and the law he has 
manded us to keep. This b 
question to be decided by c^-idepce- 
The sooner the f>rohibmtia in tke 
way of examining carefully and ca«^ 
didly this evidence are removed 4* 
better. This is the only 
have been aiming at — the onl; 
we desire to reach. Wc havt; 




Tlu Story of a CoHscript 



44X 



remove some of the obsta- 
he way of a fair hearing of 
US of the Catholic Church, 
rom it priori conceptions of 
trine, which are thought to 
e a forgone concliision 
them. We have also pre- 
ome of the reasons specially 
t present, why the basis for 
lich the Catholic Church of- 
uld be carefully and studi- 
msidered by all those who 
:he union and welfare of 
idem, its victory over every 
anti-Christianity, and its uni- 
ttension in the world. The 
rmata, or faith working by 
ich we have set forth as the 
nciple of spiritual life in the 
al, must also be the principle 
r in the Christian society. 
r has faith implicitly believes 



all those revealed doctrines whidv 
without his own fault, he does not 
explicitly know to be revealed. 
Whoever has love has the principle 
of obedience to those laws whose 
existence he does not know. There- 
fore, we say that whoever hasj£^x 
formata is justified, and, of course, 
spiritually united to the true church. 
But whoever regains culpably in er- 
ror respecting essential doctrines 
and precepts, or refuses to believe 
and obey what is fairly presented to 
him as Uie revealed truth and will of 
Jesus Christ, cannot hzM^ fides for- 
mata. It is evident, therefore, that 
we are all bound to strive after as 
great a certitude as possible respect- 
ing the important question at issue 
between the Catholic Church and 
Protestants. 



TBAMSLATKD PKOM THK VKKNCH. 



THE STORY OF A CONSCRIPT. 



vr. 

mairie of Phalsbourg, that 
y morning, January 15th, 
uring the drawing for the 
ition, was a sight to be seen. 
It is bad enough to be drawn, 
•ced to leave parents, friends, 
ne's goods and one's fields, 
i learn — God knows where — 
hvo ! one ! two ! halt ! eyes 
js right ! front ! carry arms !" 

Yes, this is all bad enough, 
•e is a chance of returning. 
I say, with something like con- 

" In seven years I will see 
nest again, and my parents, 
laps my sweetheart. I sfaaJi 



have seen the world, and will perhaps 
have some title to be appointed forest- 
er or gend'arme." This is a com- 
fort for reasonable people. But 
then, if you had the ill-luck to lose in 
the lottery, there was an end of you; 
often not one in a hundred returned. 
The idea that you were only going for 
a time never entered your head. 

The enrolled of Harberg, of Gar- 
bouig, and of Quatre- Vents were to 
draw first ; then those of the city, 
and lastly those of Wdehem and 
Mittlebronn. 

I was up early in the morning, and 
with my elbows on the work-bench I 
watched the people pass by ; yowvj^ 
men in blouses, poot o\dme».\i\ coV 



44* 



The Story of a Omscr^. 



ton caps and short vests ; old wo- 
men in jackets and woolen skirts, 
bent almost double, with staff or um- 
brella under their arms. They arriv- 
ed by families. Monsieur the Sous- 
Prdfet of Lanrebourg, with his silver 
collar, and his secretary, had stopped 
the day before at the "Red Ox," 
and they were also looking out of 
the window. Toward eight o'clock, 
Monsieur Goulden began work, after 
breakfasting. I ate nothing, but 
stared and stared until Monsieur the 
Mayor, Parmentier and his coadju- 
tor, came for Monsieur the Sous-Pr^- 
fet 

The drawing began at nine, and 
soon we heard the clarionet of Pfifer- 
Karl and the violin of great An- 
dr^ resounding through the streets. 
They were playing the " March of 
the Swedes," an air to which thou- 
sands of poor wretches had left old 
Alsace for ever. The conscripts 
danced, linked arms, shouted until 
their voices seemed to pierce the 
clouds, stamped on the ground, wav- 
ed their hats, trying to seem joyful 
while death was at their hearts. 
Well, it was the fashion ; and big An- 
dres, withered, stiff, and yellow as 
boxwood, and his short chubby com- 
rade, with cheeks extended to their 
utmost tension, seemed like people 
who would lead you to the church- 
yard all the while chatting indiffer- 
ently. 

That music, those cries, sent a 
shudder through my heart. 

I had just put on my swallow- 
tailed coat and my beaver hat to go 
out, when Aunt Grddel and Catharine 
entered, saying : 

"Good morning, Monsieur Goul- 
den. We have come for the conscrip- 
tion." 

Then I saw how Catharine had 
been crying. Her eyes were red, and 
she threw her arms around my neck, 
while her mother turned lo me. 



Monsieur Goulden said : 

" It will soon be the turn of the 
young men of the city." 

" Yes, Monsieur Goulden," an- 
swered Catharine^ in a chddi^ 
voice; "they have finished Har- 
berg." 

" Then it is time for you to go, 
Joseph," said he ; " bat do not grieve ; 
do not be frightened. These draw- 
ings, you know, are only a matter of 
form. For a long while past none can 
escape j or if they escape one draw- 
ing, they are caught a year or two 
after. All the numbers are bad. 
When the council of exemption meets, 
we will see what is best to be dcme. 
To-day it is merely a sort of satis&c- 
tion they give people to draw in the 
lottery ; but every one loses." 

" No matter," said Aunt GrWel ; 
" Joseph will win." 

" Yes, yes," replied Monsieur Goul- 
den, smiling, '* he cannot fail." 

Then I sallied forth with Catharine 
and Aunt Grddel, and we went to the 
town place, where the crowd was. 
In all the shops, dozens of con- 
scripts, purchasing ribbons, thronged 
around the counters, weeping and 
singing as if possessed. Others in 
the inns embraced, sobbing; but 
still they sang. Two or three niust-_ 
cians of the neighborhood — theGipqr 
Walteufel, Rosselkasten, and Ge<Hge 
Adam — had arrived, and their pieces 
thundered in terrible and heart-rend- 
ing strains. 

Catharine squeezed my arak 
Aunt Gr^del followed. 

Opposite the guard-house I sa* 
the peddler Pinacle afJTar ofl^ his 
pack opened on a little table, and be- 
side it a long pole decked with rib- 
bons which he was selling to the con- 
scripts. 

I hastened to pass by him, wha 
he cried : 

"Ha! Cripple! Haiti Come 
here ; I have a fine ribbon for you; 



The Story of a Conscript. 



443 



lust have a magnificent one — 

► draw a prize by." 

waved a long black ribbon 
his head, and I grew pale de- 
myself. But as we ascended 
eps of the mairie, a conscript 
St descending ; it was Klipfel, 
lith of the French gate ; he had 
number eight, and shouted : 
lie black for me, Pinacle ! 
it here, whatever may happen." 
face wa% gloomy, but he laugh- 
3is little brother Jean was cry- 
hind him, and said : 
o, no, Jacob ! not the black !" 
Pinacle fastened the ribbon to 
lith's hat, while the latter said : 
hat is what we want now. We 
1 dead, and should wear our 
louming." 
I he cried savagely : 
Ive PEmpereur/" 
as better satisfied to see the 
ribbon on his hat than on 
and I slipped quickly through 
3wd to avoid Pinacle. 
had great difficulty in getting 
le mairie and in climbing the 
ik stairs, where people where 
up and down in swarms. In 
•eat hall above, the gendarme 
walked about, maintaining or- 

> well as he could, and in the 
il-chamber at the side, where 
s a painting of Justice with her 
blindfolded, we heard them 
I off the numbers. From time 
le a conscript came out with 
d face, fastening his number on 
p and passing with bowed head 
jh the crowd, like a furious bull 
:annot see clearly and who 

seem to wish to break his 
against the walls. Others, on 
ntrary, passed pale as death, 
windows of the mairie were 
and without were heard six or 

pieces playing together. It 
orrible. 
ressed Catharine's hand, and 



we passed slowly through the crowd 
to the hall where Monsieur the Sous- 
Prdfet, the Mayors, and the Secre- 
taries were seated on their tribune, 
calling the numbers aloud as if pro- 
nouncing sentence of death in a court 
of justice ] for all those numbers 
were really sentences of death. 

We waited a long while. 

It seemed as if there was no longer 
a drop of blood in my veins, when at 
last my name was called. 

I advanced, seeing and hearing 
nothing ; I put my hand in the box and 
drew a number. 

Monsieur the Sous-Prdfet cried 
out : 

" Number seventeen." 

Then I.departed without speaking, 
Catharine and her mother behind 
me. We went out into the place, and, 
the air reviving me, I remembered 
that I had drawn number seven- 
teen. 

Aunt Gr^del seemed confounded. 

" And I put something into your 
pocket, too," said she ; " but that 
rascal of a Pinacle gave you ill luck." , 

At the same time she drew from 
my coat-pocket the end of a cord. 
Great drops of sweat rolled dow» 
my forehead ; Catharine was white 
as marble, and so we returned to 
Monsieur Goulden's. 

" What number did you draw, Jo- 
seph ?" he asked, as soon as he saw 
us. 

" Seventeen," replied Aunt Gr^del, 
sitting down, with her hands upon 
her knees. 

Monsieur Goulden seemed troubled 
for a moment, but he said instantly : 

" One is as good as another. All 
will go ; the skeletons must be filled. 
But it don't matter for Joseph. I 
will go and see Monsieur the Mayor 
and Monsieur the Commandant. It 
will be telling no lie to say that Jo- 
seph is lame ; all the town kivow% 
that ; but among so loanY ^e} T&.vi 



444 



The Story of a Corner^. 



overlook him. That is why I go, so 
rest easy ; do not be anxious." 

These words of good Monsieur 
Goulden reassured Aunt Gr^del and 
Catharine, who returned to Quatre- 
Vents full of hope ; but they did not 
affect me, for from that moment I 
had not a moment of rest day or 
night 

The emperor had a good custom : 
he did not allow the conscripts to 
languish at home. Soon as the 
drawing was complete, the council of 
revision met, and a few days after 
came the orders to march. He did 
not do like those tooth-pullers who 
first show you their pincers and hooks 
and gaze for an hour into your mouth, 
so that you feel half dead before 
they make up their minds to begin 
work: he proceeded without loss of 
time. 

A week after the drawing, the 
council of revision sat at the town 
hall, with all the mayors and a few 
notables of the country to give ad- 
vice in case of need. 

The day before Monsieur Goulden 
had put on his brown great-coat and 
his best wig to go to wind up Mon- 
sieur the Mayor's clock and that of 
the Commandant He returned laugh- 
ing and said : 

" All goes well, Joseph. Mon- 
sieur the Mayor and Monsieur the 
Commandant know that you are 
lame ; that is easy enough to be seen. 
They replied at once, Eh, Monsieur 
Goulden, the young man is lame ; 
why speak of him ? Do not be un- 
easy ; we do not want the infirm ; we 
want soldiers." 

These words poured balm on my 
wounds, and that nieht I slept like 
one of the blessed. But the next 
day fear again assailed me ; I remem- 
bered suddenly how many men full 
of defects had gone all the same, 
and how many others invented de- 
fects to deceive the coutvc\\-, for 



instance, swallowing injurious sub* 
stances to make them pale ; tying up 
their legs to give themselves swollen 
veins ; or playing deaf^ blind, or 
foolish. I had heard that vinq;ar 
would make one sick, and, without 
telling Monsieur Goulden, in my 
fear I swallowed all the vin^rar in 
his bottle. Then I dressed myself^ 
thinking that I looked like a dead 
man, for the vinegar was very strong ; 
but when I entered Monsieur Goul- 
den's room, he cried out : 

" Joseph, what is the matter with 
you? You are as red as a cock's 
comb." 

And, looking at myself in the lni^ 
ror, I saw that my face was red to my 
ears and to the very tip of my nose. 
I was frightened, but instead of grow- 
ing pale I became redder yet, and I 
cried out in my distress : 

" Now I am lost indeed I I will 
seem like a man without a single 
defect, and full of health. The vine- 
gar is rushing to my head." 

" What vinegar?" asked Monsieur 
Goulden. 

"That in your bottle. I drank 
it to make myself pale, as they say 
Mademoiselle Selapp, the organist, 
does. O Heavens 1 what a fod I 
was." 

" That does not prevent your b^ 
ing lame," said Monsieur Goulden; 
"but you tried to deceive the council, 
which was dishonest But it is half- 
past nine, and Werner is come to 
tell me you must be there at ten 
o'clock. So, hurry." 

I had to go in that state; the beat 
of the vinegar seemed bursting from 
my cheeks, and when I met Catharine 
and her mother, who were waiting fcr 
me at the mairie, they scarcely kne* 
me. 

" How happy and satisfied yon 
look !" said Aunt Gr^el. 

I would have fainted on heariif 
this if the vinegar had not sustained 



Tk* Story of a Conscript, 



44S 



spite of myself. I went up- 
in terrible agony, without being 
) move my tongue to reply, so 
iras the horror I felt at my 

►ve, more than twenty-five con- 
I who pretended to be infirm, 
leen examined and received, 
twenty-five others, on a bench 

the wall, sat with drooping 

awaiting their turn. 

old gendarme, Kelz, with his 
locked hat, was walking about, 

soon as he saw me exclaimed : 
: last ! At last ! Here is one, 
5vents, who will not be sorry to 
le love of glory is shining in 
■es. Very good, Joseph; I 
t that at the end of the cam- 
you will be corporal." 
it I am lame," I cried angrily. 
me !" repeated Kelz, winking 
tniling ; " lame ! No matter, 
such health as yours you can 

hold your own." 
had scarcely ceased speaking 
the door of the hall of the 
il of Revision opened, and the 
^ndarme, Werner, putting out 
id, called, "Joseph Bertha." 
ttered, limping as much as I 

and Werner shut the door, 
nayors of the canton were 

in a semi-circle, Monsieur the 
'rdfet and the Mayor of Phals- 
in the middle, in arm-chairs, 
e Secretary Frdig at his table, 
rberg conscript was dressing 
f, the gendarme Descarmes 
\ him. This conscript, with a 
)f brown hair falling over his 
lis neck bare, and his mouth 
s he caught his breath, seemed 
man going to be hanged. Two 
ns — the Surgeon-in-Chief of 
>spital, with another in uniform 
; conversing in the middle of 
11. They turned to me, saying, 
5 off your coat." 
i so. The others looked on. 



Monsieur the Sous-Prdfet observ- 
ed: 

"There is a young man fiill of 
health." 

These words angered me, but I 
nevertheless replied respectfully: 

'^ I am lame, Monsieur the Sous> 
Prdfet 

The surgeons examined me, and 
the one from the hospital, to whom 
Monsieur the Commandant had 
doubtless spoken of me, said : 

" The left leg is a little short" 

"Bah!" said the other; "it is 
sound." 

Then placing his hand upon my 
chest he said, "The conformation 
is good. Cough." 

I coughed as freely as I could ; 
but he found me all right, and said 
again : 

"Look at his color. How good 
his blood must be 1" 

Then I, seeing that they would 
pass me if I remained silent, replied : 

" I have drank vinegar." 

" Ah !" said he ; " that proves you 
have a good stomach ; you like 
vinegar." 

" But I am lame !" I cried in my 
distress. 

" Bah ! don't grieve at that," he 
answered ; " your leg is sound. I'll 
answer for it." 

"But that," said Monsieur the 
Mayor, " does not prevent his being 
lame from birth; all Phalsbourg 
knows that." 

" The leg is too short," said the 
surgeon from the hospital; "it is 
doubtless a case for exemption." 

" Yes," said the Mayor ; " I am 
sure that this young man could not 
endure a long march ; he would 
drop on the road the second mile." 

The first surgeon said nothing 
more. 

I thought myself saved, when 
Monsieur the Sous-Prefet asked : 

« You are really 3oa«p\i'BfW«ttaLY' 



446 



The Story of a Conscript. 



"Yes, Monsieur the Sous Pr^fet," 
I answered. 

"Well, gentlemen," said he, tak- 
ing a letter out of his portfolio, " lis- 
ten." 

He began to reail the letter, which 
stated that, six months before, I had 
bet that I could go to Laverne and 
back quicker than Pinacle ; that we 
had run the race, and I had won. 

It was unhappily too true. The 
villain Pinacle had always taunted 
me with being a cripple, and in ray 
anger I laid the wager. Every one 
knew of it. I could not deny it. 

While I stood utterly confounded, 
the first surgeon said : 

" That settles the question. Dress 
yourself." And, turning to the Secre- 
tary, he cried, " Good for ser\'ice." 

I took up my coat in despair. 

Werner called another. I no 
longer saw anything. Some one 
helped me to get my arms in my 
coat-sleeves. Then I found myself 
upon the stairs, and while Catharine 
asked me what had passed, I sobbed 
aloud and would have fallen from top 
to bottom if Aunt Gr^del had not 
supported me. 

We went out by the rear-way and 
crossed the little court. I wept like 
a child, and Catharine did too. 

Monsieur Goulden knowing that 
Aunt Grddel and Catharine would 
come to dine with us the day of the 
revision, had had a stuffed goose 
and two bottles of good -\lsace wine 
sent from the "Golden Sheep." He 
was sure that I would be exempted 
at once. What was his surprise, then, 
to see us enter together in such 
distress. 

"What is the matter?" said he, 
raising his silk cap over his bald 
forehead, and staring at us with eyes 
wide open. 

I had not strength enough to an- 
swer. I threw myself into the arm- 
chair and burst into tears. Catha- 



rine sat down beside me, and our sofas 
redoubled. 

Aunt Gr^del said : 
" The robbers have taken him." 
" It is not possible I" exclaimed 
Monsieur Goulden, letting fall his 
arms by his side. 

" It shows their villainy," replied 
my aunt, and, growing more and 
more excited, she cried, "Will a revo- 
lution never come again ? Shall tiiose 
wretches always be our masters?" 

" Calm yourself Mother Gr^" 
said Monsieur Goulden. "In the 
name of Heaven don't cry so load. 
Joseph, tell me how it happened 
They are surely mistaken ; it cannot 
be possible otherwise. Did Mon- 
sieur the Mayor and the hospital av- 
geon say nothing ?" 

I told the history of the letter, and 
Aunt Gr^el, who until then knew 
nothing of it, again shrieked with ber 
hands clenched. 

" O the scoundrel I God grant 
that he may cross my thr^)otd 
again. I will cleave his head with 
my hatchet," 

Monsieur Goulden was astounded. 

" And you did not say that it 
was false. Then the story was true.'" 

And as I bowed my head without 
replying, he clasped his hands, say- 
ing : 

" O youth ! youth I it thinks of 
nothing. What folly 1 what folly I" 

He walked around the room ; then 
sat down to wipe his spectacles, and 
Aunt Gr^del exclaimed : 

"Yes, but they shall not ha« 
him yet 1 Their wickedness shall yet 
go for nothing. This very evening 
Joseph shall be in the mountains on 
the way to Switzerland." 

Monsieur Goulden hearing this, 
looked grave ; he bent his brows, 
and replied in a few moments : 

" It is a misfortune, a great mis- 
fortune, for Joseph is really lame. 
They will yet find it ou^ for he can- 



Tlkt Story of a Conscript. 



Ml 



\i two days without falling 
d becoming sick. But you 
;, Mother Gr^el, to spteak 
and give him bad advice." 
dvice 1" she cried. " Then 
tr having people massacred 

he answered ; "I do not 
,, especially where a hun- 
isand men lose their lives 
lory of one. But wars of 

are ended. It is not now 
and to win new kingdoms 
srs are levied, but to defend 
ry, which had been put in 

tyranny and ambition. We 
dly have peace now. Un- 
le Russians are advancing ; 
ians are joining them ; and 
s, the Austrians, only await 
>portunity to fall upon our 
/e do not go to meet them, 
:ome to our homes ; for we 
: to have Europe on our 
we had in '93. It is now 
t matter from our wars in 

Russia, and in Germany ; 
1 as I am, Mother Grddel, 
iger continues to increase 
eterans of the republic are 

would be ashamed to go 
e clocks in Switzerland 
srs were pouring out their 
efend my country. Besides, 
• this well, that deserters 
>ed everywhere ; after hav- 
itted such an act, they have 
d or home anywhere. They 
her father, mother, church, 
ry. They are incapable of 
the first duty of man — to 
sustain their country, even 
le be in the wrong." 
1 no more at the moment, 
avely down. 

s eat," he exclaimed, after 
utes of silence. " Midday is 

Mother Grddel and Catha- 
yourselves there." 
at down, and we heguk din- 



ner. I meditated upon the words of 
Monsieur Goulden, which seemed 
right to me. Aunt Gr^el compress- 
ed her lips, and from time to time 
gazed at me as if to read my thoughts. 
At length she said : 

" I despise a country where they 
take fathers of families after carrying 
off the sons. If I were in Joseph's 
place, I would fly at once." 

" Listen, Aunt Gr^el," I replied ; 
" you know that I love nothing so much 
as peace and quiet ; but I would not, 
nevertheless, run away like a coward 
to another country. But, notwith- 
standing, I will do as Catharine says ; 
if she wishes me to go to Switzerland, 
I will go." 

Then Catharine, lowering her 
head to hide her tears, said in a low 
voice : 

" I would not have them call you 
a deserter." 

"Well, then, I will do like the 
others," I cried ; " and as those of 
Phalsbourg and Dagsberg are going 
to the wars, I will go." 

Monsieur Goulden made no re- 
mark. 

" Every one is free to do as he 
pleases," said he, after a while ; 
" but I am glad that Joseph thinks 
as I do." 

Then there was silence, and toward 
two o'clock Aunt Gr^del arose and 
took her basket. She seemed ut- 
terly cast down, and said : 

" Joseph, you will not listen to 
me, but no matter. With God's grace, 
all will yet be well. You will return 
if he wills it, and Catharine will wait 
for you." 

Catharine wept again, and I more 
than she ; so that Monsieur Goulden 
himself could not help shedding tears. 

At length Catharine and her mo- 
ther descended the stairs, and Aunt 
Grddel called out from the bottom : 

" Try to come and see va oiuc'^ Qt 
twice again, Joseph." 



448 



The Story of a Conscript. 



"Yes, yes,' I answered, shutting 
the door. 

I could no longer stand. Never 
had I been so miserable, and even 
now, when I think of it, my heart 
chills. 

VII. 

From that day I could think of 
nothing but my misfortune. I tried 
to work, but my thoughts were far 
away, and Monsieur Gouiden said : 

"Joseph, lay labor aside. Profit 
by the little time you can remain 
among us ; go to see Catharine and 
Mother Gr^del. I still think they will 
exempt you, but who can tell ? They 
need men so much that it may be a 
long time coming." 

I went then every morning to Qua- 
tre-Vents, and passed my days with 
Catharine. We were very sorrow- 
ful, but very glad to see each other. 
We loved one another even more than 
before, if that were possible. Catha- 
rine sometimes tried to sing as in 
• the good old times ; but suddenly 
she would burst into tears. Then 
we wept together, and Aunt Grt-del 
would rail at the wars which brought 
misery to every one. She said that 
the Council of Revision deserved to 
be hung ; that they were all robbers, 
banded together to poison our lives. 
It solaced us a little to hear her talk 
thus, and we thought she was right. 

I returned to the city about eight 
or nine o'clock in the evening. When 
they closed the gates, and as I pass- 
ed, I saw the small inns full of con- 
scripts and old returned soldiers 
drinking together. The conscripts 
always paid ; the others, with dirty 
police-caps cocked over their ears, 
red noses, and horse-hair stocks in 
place of shirt-collars, twisted their 
mustaches and related with majestic 
'air their battles, their marches, and 
their duels. Onecanuna^nttioiOxvn^ 



viler than those holes, full of smoke^ 
cobwebs hanging on the black beams, 
those old sworders and young men 
drinking, shouting, and beatit^ the 
tables like crazy people ; and behind 
in the shadow old Annette Schnaps 
or Marie Hiring — her old wig stuck 
back on her head, her comb with only 
three teeth remaining, crosswise, in 
it — gazing on the scene, or emptying 
a mug to the health of the braves. 

It was sad to see the sons of pea- 
sants, honest and laborious fellom, 
leading such an existence ; but no 
one thought of working, and anyone 
of them would have given his life for 
two farthings. Worn out with shou^ 
ing, drinking, and internal grie^tfaejr 
ended by falling asleep over the 
table, while the old fellows emptied 
their cups, singing : 

" 'Tis glory calls us on 1" 

I saw these things, and I blessed 
heaven for having given me, in mf 
wretchedness, kind hearts to keep up 
my courage and prevent my faJliif 
into such hands. 

This state of affairs lasted uotfl 
the twenty-fifth of January. For 
some days a great number of Italiu i 
conscripts — Piedmontese and Geno- 
ese — had been arriving in thedtjr; 
some stout and fat as Savoyards fed 
upon chestnuts — their great cocked 
hats on their curly heads ; their lis- 
scy-woolscy pantaloons dyed a dadc 
green, and their short vests also flf 
wool, but brick-red, fastened aroimd 
their waists by a leather belt Tb^ 
wore enormous shoes, and ate their 
cheese seated along the old maikd- 
place. Others were dried up^ letti 
brown, shivering in their long cil' 
socks, seeing nothing but snow qM* 
the roofs and gazing with their la^ 
black, mournful eyes upon the Xh 
men who passed. They were fstt^ ~ 
cised every day in marchingf ^ 
were going to fill up the skektoo <f 
the sixth re^^ent of the line atMif' 



The Story of a Conscript. 



449 



d were then resting for a 
:he infantry barracks, 
aptain of the recruits, who 
ed Vidal, lodged over our 
le was a square-built, solid, 
>ng-looking man, and was, 
kind and civil. He came 
lave his watch repaired, and 

learned that I was a con- 
d was afraid I should never 
: encouraged me, saying that 
habit ; that at the end of five 
nths one fights and marches 
s his dinner ; and that many 
:om themselves to shooting 
i that they consider them- 
ihappy when they are de- 
■ that amusement. 
\ mode of reasoning was not 
5te; the more so as I saw 
K large grains of powder on 
s cheeks, which had entered 
iiid as he explained to me 
' came from a shot which a 
fired almost under his nose, 
ife disgusted me more and 
d as several days had alrea- 
i without news, I began to 
y had forgotten me, as they 
b, of Ch^vre-Hof, of whose 
nkry luck everyone yet talks, 
r^del herself said to me 
le I went there, " Well, well ! 
. let us alone after all !" 

the morning of the twenty- 
muary, as I was about start- 
uatre- Vents, Monsieur Goul- 

was working at his bench 

thoughtful air, turned to 

tears in his eyes and 

a, Joseph ! I wanted to let 
s one night more of quiat 
it you must know now, my 
at yesterday evening the 
of gendarmerie brought me 
ching orders. You go with 
nontese and Genoese and 
X young men of the city — 
Uipfel, youi^ Loer^, Jean 
L — ag 



L^ger, and Gaspard "LPcAAi. You go 
to Mayence." 

I felt my knees give way as he 
spoke, and I sat down unable to 
speak. Monsieur Goulden took my 
marching orders, beautifully written, 
out of a drawer, and began to read 
them slowly. All that I remember 
is that Joseph Bertha, native of Dabo, 
Canton of Phalsbourg, Arrondisse- 
ment of Sarrebourg, was incorporated 
in the sixth regiment of the line, 
and that he should join his corps 
the twenty-ninth of January at May- 
ence. 

This letter produced as evil an 
effect on me as if I had known 
nothing of it before. It seemed 
something new, and I grew angry. 
Monsieur Goulden, after a mo- 
ment's silence, added : 

"The Italians start to-day at' 
eleven." 

Then, as if awakening from a horri-' 
ble dream, I cried : 

" But shall I not see Catharine 
again ?" 

" Yes, Joseph, yes," said he, in 1 
trembling voice. " I notified Mother 
Gr^del and Catharine, and thus, my 
boy, they will come, and you can em- 
brace them before leaving." 

I saw his grief, and it made me 
sadder yet, so that I had a hard 
struggle to keep m}rself from bursting ' 
into tears. 
He continued, after a pause : 
" You need not be anxious about 
anything, Joseph. I have prepared 
all beforehand ; and when you return, 
if it please God to keep me so long 
in this world, you will find me always 
the same. I am beginning to grow 
old, and my greatest happiness would 
be to keep you for a son, for I found 
you good-hearted and honest I 
would have given you what I possess, 
and we would have been happy to- 
gether. Catharine and you wcn14 
hMw been 1117 chttdxen. 'But «a 



450 



The Story of a Conscript. 



k is otherwise, let us resign ourselves. 
It is only for a little while. You 
will be sent back, I am sure. They 
will soon see that you cannot make 
long marches." 

While he spoke, I sat silently sob- 
bing, my face buried in my hands. 

At last he arose and took from a 
closet a soldier's knapsack of cow- 
skin, which he placed upon the table. 
I looked at hira, thinking of nothing 
but the pain of parting. 

"Here is your knapsack," he 
added ; " and I have put in it all 
that you require ; two linen shirts, 
two flannel waistcoats, and all the 
'rest. Well, well, that is all." 

He placed the knapsack upon the 
table and sat down. 

Without, we heard the Italians 
making ready to depart Above us 
Captain Vidal was giving his orders. 
He had his horse at the barracks of 
the gendarmerie, and was telling his 
orderly to see that he was well rub- 
bed and had received his hay. 

All this bustle and movement pro- 
duced a strange effect upon me, and 
I could not yet realize that I must 
quit the city. As I was thus in the 
greatest distress, the door opened 
and Catharine entered weeping, while 
Mother GrCdel cried : 

" I told you you should have fled to 
Switzerland ; that these rogues would 
finish by carrying you ofi". I told 
you so,4ind you would not believe 
me." 

" Mother Gredel," replied Mon- 
sieur Goulden, " to go to do his duty 
is not so great an evil as to be de- 
mised by honest people. Instead of 
all these cries and reproaches, which 
serve no good purpose, you would 
€k) better to comfort and encoiu^ge 
Joseph." 

•• Ah I" said she ; " I do not re- 
])rdach him, although this is terri- 

Catharine did not leave me •, ^Vve 






sat by me and saic 
arm: 

" You will return ?" 

" Yes, yes," said I, in 
" And you — you will all 
me; you will not love ar 

She answered, sobbinj 

'* No, no ! I will ne 
but you." I 

This lasted a quarter 
when the door opened 
Vidal entered, his cloak ro 
a hunting horn over his 

" \^'eIl," said he, " wel^ 
our young man ?" 

" Here he is," answered M 
Goulden. 

"Ah!" remarked die < 
" you are making yourself nd 
It is natural. 1 remember 
departed for the army. >\'c 
a home." ^H 

Then, raising his voice, ^| 

"Come, come, young mai 
age ! We are no longer i 

He looked at Catliarir 

" I see all," said he tc 
Goulden. " I can und< 
he does not want to go," . 

The drums beat in if* 
he added. 

" We have }'et twenty 
fore starting," and, throwii 
at me, " Do not fail to b« 
call, young man," said 
Monsieur Goulden's han< 

He went out, and. 
horse at the door. 

The morning was 
grief overwhelmed rat- 
leave Catharine. 

Suddenly the roll 
drums were all ci 
Monsieur Gouldc: , 
sack by its straps, said 
voice : 

"Joseph, now the las^ 
it is time lo go." 

I stood up, pale as asi: 
tened the koapsack to my : 



The Story of a Conscript. 



451 



sat sobbing, her face cov- 

her apron. Mother Gr^- 
1 on with lips compressed. 
1 continued for a time, then 
ceased. 

all is about commencing," 
sieur Goulden, embracing 
n the fountains of his heart 
1 ; tears sprang to his eyes ; 
ig me his child, his son, he 
, " Courage !" 

Gr^del seated herself 
i as I bent toward her, 

head between her hands, 
J: 
ys loved you, Joseph ; ever 

were a baby. You never 
luse of grief — and now you 

God ! O God !" 
lo longer. 

Lunt Grddel released me, I 

uoment at Catharine, who 

tionless. Then I turned 

I go, when she cried, in 

king tones : 

:ph ! Joseph !" 

:d back. Her strength 

leave her, and I placed 
arm-chair, and fled, 
ready on the Place, in the 
le Italians and of a crowd 

crying for their sons or 

1 saw nothing ; I heard 

le roll of the drums recom- 
looked around, and saw 
jetween Klipfel and Furst, 
ith our knapsacks on our 
eir parents stood before us, 
J if at their funeral. To 
ear the town-hall. Captain 
his little gray mare, was 
with two infantry officers, 
ants called the roll, and 
led. They called Furst, 
;rtha j we answered like 
Then the captain gave 
"March I" and we went, 
St, toward the French 



At the corner of the baker Spitz, 
an old woman cried, in a choking 
voice, from a window : 
"Kasperl Kasper!" 
It was 2/&y6A€s grandmother. 
His lips trembled. He waved his 
hand, without replying, and passed 
on with downcast face. 

I shuddered at the thought of 
passing my home. As we neared it, 
my knees trembled, and I heard 
some one call at the window ; but I 
turned my head toward the " Red 
Ox," and the rattle of the dnuns 
drowned the voices. 

The children ran after us, shout- 
ing: 

"There goes Joseph! there goes 
Klipfel !" 

Under the French gate, the men 
on guard, drawn up in line on each 
side, gazed on us as we passed at 
shoulder arms. We passed the out- 
posts, and the drums ceased playing 
as we turned to the right. Nothing 
was heard but the plash of footsteps 
in the mud, for the snow was melt- 
ing. 

We had passed the farm-house of 
GerberhofT, and were going to the 
great bridge, when I heard some one 
call me. It was the captain, who 
cried from his horse : 

" Very well done, young man j I 
am satisfied with you." 

Hearing this, I could not help 
again bursting into tears, and the 
great Furst, too, wept, as we march- 
ed along ; the others, pale as marble, 
said nothing. At the bridge, Zdb^dd 
took out his pipe to smoke. In 
front of us, the Italians talked and 
laughed among themselves ; their' 
three weeks of service had accus- 
tomed them to this life. 

Once on the way to Metting, more 

than a league from the city, as we' 

began to descend, Klipfel touched- 

me on the shoulder, and whispecedi 

"Look yonder.** 



4SS 



Tlu Story of a Conscript. 



I looked, and saw Phalsbourg far 
beneath us ; the barracks, the maga- 
zines, the steeple whence I had seen 
Catharine's home, six weeks before, 
with old Brainstein — all were in the 
gray distance, with the wootls al 
around. I would have stopped a 
few moments, but the troop marched 
on, and I had to keep pace with 
them. We entered Metting. 

VIII. 

That same day we went as far as 
Bitche ; the next, to Hombach ; then 
to Kaiserslantern. It began to snow 
again. 

How often during that long march 
did I sigh for the thick cloak of 
ilfonsieur Goulden, and his double- 
(■soled shoes. 

We passed through innumerable 
illages, sometimes on the moun- 
kins, sometimes in the plains. As 
reentered each little town, the drums 
began to beat, and we marched with 
heads erect, marking the step, tr)Mng 
to assume the mien of old soldiers. 
The people looked out of their little 
windows, or came to the doors, say- 
ing, " There go the conscripts !" 

At night we halted, glad to rest 
our weary feet — I, especially. I 
cannot say that my leg hurt me, but 
Diy fcett I had never undergone 
such fatigue. With our billet for 

Iging we had the right to a corner 

the fire, but our hosts also gave us 

place at the table. We had nearly 
Iways buttermilk and potatoes, and 
ften fresh lard on a dish of sauer- 

wt The children came to look 
at us, and the old women asked us 
i£rom what place we came, and what 
-our business was before we left 
home. The young girls looked sor- 
rowfully at us, thinking of their 
sweethearts, who had gone Bve, six, 
or seven months before. Then they 



would take us to the son's bed. 
With what pleasure 1 stretched oui 
my tired limbs ! How I wished to 
sleep all our twelve hours' lull' 
But early in the morning, at day 
break, the rattling of the drums 
awoke me. I gazed at the bnww 
rafters of the ceiling, the window* 
panes covered witJi frost, and asked 
myself where I was. Then m; 
would grow cold, as I thought 
was at Bitche — at Kaiscrslant 
that I was a conscript ; and I 
to dress fast as I could, catch 
my knapsack, and answer the n 
can. 

" A good journey to you !" said 
hostess, awakened so early in 
morning. 

"Thank you," replied the 
script 

And we marched on. 

Yes! a good journey to yoo 
They will not see you again, 
wretch 1 How many oiliers haw liil* 
lowed the same road 1 

I will never forget how at KaiMO' 
lantern, the second day of our 
having unstrapped my knai^ack 
take out a white shirt, I dLcuvered.! 
beneath, a little pocket, an 
it I found fifty-four fran 
livre pieces. On the paper 
around them were these words, 
ten by Monsieur Goulden : 

" While you are at the wars, be al- 
ways good and honest. Think d 
your friends and of those for whoa 
you would be willing to sacrifior 
your life, and treat ll»e enemy wiA 
humanity that they may so treat our 
soldiers. May heaven guide yWi 
and protect you in yoixr dangcnl 
You will find some money indo&td \ 
for it is a good thing, when far froia 
home and all who love you, to have 
a little of it. Write to us as often s 
you can. I embrace you, mj dlil^ 
and press you to my heart." 

As I read this, the tean Jbned 



i 



Tk€ Story of a Conscript. 



A"^ 



s to my eyes, and I thought, 

rt not wholly abandoned, 

bnd hearts are yearning to- 

Never forget their kind 

on the fifth day, about five 
I the evening, we entered 
As long as I live I will 
• it. It was terribly cold, 
begun our march at early 
1, long before reaching the 
passed through villages fill- 
joldiers — calvary, infantry, 
in their short jackets — some 
oles in the ice to get water 

horses, others dragging 
f forage to the doors of the 
powder-wagons, carts full 
i-balls, all white with frost, 

every side ; couriers, de- 
\ of artillery, pontoon-trains 
ning and going over the 
md ; and no more attention 
:o us than if we were not in 

I Vidal, to warm himself, 
unted and marched with us 
The officers and sergeants 
us on. Five or six Italians 
1 behind and remained in 
;es, no longer able to ad- 
ly feet were sore and burn- 

at the last halt I could 
•ise to resume the match, 
s from Phalsbourg, however, 
ely on. 

ad fallen ; the sky sparkled 
5. Every one gazed for- 

said to his comrade, " We 
ig it ! we are nearing it 1" 
the horizon a dark line of 
cloud, glittering here and 

flashing points, announced 
at city lay before us. 

we entered the advanced 
d passed through the zig- 
len bastions. Then we 
lur ranks and marked the 
we usually did when ap- 
: a town. At the corner of 



a sort of demilune we saw die frozen 
fosse of the city, and the brick ram- 
parts towering above, and opposite 
us an old, dark gate, with the draw- 
bridge raised. Above stood a seiy- 
tinel, who, with his musket raised, 
cried out : 

" Who goes there ?" 

The captain, going forward alone, 
replied : 

" France !" 

" What regiment ?" 

"Recruits for the Sixth of the 
Line." 

A silence ensued. Then the draw- 
bridge was lowered, and the guard 
turned out and examined us, one of 
them carrying a great torch. Cap- 
tain Vidal, a few paces in advance 
of us, spoke to the commandant of 
the post, who called out at lengt^ : 

" Whenever you please." 

Our drums began to beat, but the 
captain ordered them to cease, and 
we crossed a long bridge and passed 
through a second gate like the first 
Then we were in the streets of the 
city, which were paved with smooth 
round stones. Every one tried his 
best to march steadily ; for, although 
it was night, all the inns and shops 
along the way were open and their 
large windows were shining, and 
hundreds of people were passing to 
and fro as if it were broad day. 

We turned five or six comers and 
soon arrived in a little op>en place be- 
fore a high barrack, where we were 
ordered to halt. 

There was a shed at the comer of 
the barrack, and in it a cantinUrt 
seated behind a small table, under a 
great tri-colored umbrella from which 
hung two lanterns. 

Several officers arrived as soon as 
we halted ; they were the Command- 
ant G^meau and some others whom 
I have since known. They pressed 
our captain's hand la.uglv\tv^f VSnea 
looked at us and otdeied ^ xoYL \» 



4S4 



Tke Story of a Conscript. 



be called. After that, we each re- 
jceived a ration of bread and a billet 
l^r lodging. V\'e were told that roll- 
jiCall would take place the next mom- 
at eight o'clock for the distribu- 
ion of arms, and then we were or- 
iered to break ranks, while the offi- 
cers turned up a street to the left 
and went into a great coffee-house, 
the entrance to which was approach- 
ed by a flight of fifteen steps. 

But we, with our billets for lodging 
— what were we to do with them in 
the middle of such a city, and, above 
all, the Italians, who did not know a 
word either of German or French ? 

My first idea was to see the can- 
tini'ere under her umbrella. She was 
an old Alsatian, round and chubby, 
»nd, when I asked for the Capougncr- 
Strasse, she replied : 

*• What will you pay for .^" 

I was obliged to take a glass of 
gau-di-vie with her ; then she said : 
I " Look just opposite there ; if you 
turn the first corner to the right, you 
will find the Cafou^ur-Strasse, Good 
evening, conscript." 

She laughed. 

Furst And Zebedd were also billet- 
ed in the Cafiougrur-Strasse, and we 
set out, glad enough to be able to 
Jimp together through the strange 
city. 

Furst first found his house, but it 
was shut; and while he was knock- 
ing at the door, I found mine, which 
had alight in two windows. I push- 
ed at the door, it opened, and I en- 
tered a dark alley, whence came a 
smell of fresh bread, which was very 
welcome. Zebede had to go further 
on. 

I called out in the alley : 

" Is any one here ?" 

Then an old woman appeared with 

candle at the top of a wooden 
staircase. 

•' What do you want ?" she asked. 

I told her that 1 vras bv\\c\£d -A 



Itei 




her house. She came 
and, looking at my billet, tok 
German to follow her. 

I ascended the stairs. I'a! 
open door, I saw two men i 
before an oven. I was, the 
baker's, and this accounted 
old woman being up so \xu 
wore a cap witli black ribboi 
arms were bare to the elbow 
too, had been working, and i 
very sorrowful. ^f, 

" You come late," she sflj 

" We were marching all daj 
plied, "and I am fainting wi 
ger and weariness." 

She looked at me and mun 

" Poor child I poor child !" 

" Your feet are sore," saj 
" take off your shoes and J 
these sabots." 

She put the candle upon th 
and went out. I took off my 
My feet were blistered and bli 
and pained me horribly, and I 
the moment as if it would aln 
better to die at once than to oc 
in such suffering. 

This thought had more thai 
arisen to my mind in the man 
now, before that good Ah^^i 
worn, so miserable, thaoV 
gladly have Uid myself do 
sleep for ever, notwithstanding i 
rine, Aunt Gr^del, and al 
loved me. Truly, I nee 
assistance. 

While these thoughts we 
through my head, the door 0| 
and a tall, stout man, gray-l 
but yet strong and healthy, ci' 
He was one of those I had & 
work below, and held in his hj 
bottle of wine and two glasses. 

" Good evening l" said he g 
and kindly. 

I looked up. The old womi 
behind him. She was carrvini 
lie wooden tub, which she piw 
the floor near my chair. ' 



na al 
wef^ 



lair. X| 



The Story of a Conscript. 



455 



ce a foot-bath," said she ; " it 
you good." 

kindness, on the part of a 
r, affected me more than I 

show. I took off my stock- 
ny feet were bleeding, and 
>d old dame repeated, as she 
it them : 

}r child 1 poor child I" 
man asked me whence I 
I told him from Phalsbourg 
aine. Then he told his wife 
; some bread, adding that, af- 
iiad taken a glass of wine to- 
he would leave me to the re- 
needed so much, 
lushed the table before me, as 
ith my feet in the bath, and 
h drained a glass of good 
'ine. The old woman return- 
some hot bread, over which 
d spread fresh, half-melted 
Then I knew how hungry I 
; Was almost ill. The good 
saw my eagerness for food ; 
woman said : 

ore eating, my child, you 
ke your feet out of the bath." 
cnelt down and dried my feet 
:r apron before I knew what 
> about to do. I cried : 
xi Heavens ! madame j you 
e as if I were your son." 
replied, after a moment's 
Lil silence : 

have a son in the army." 
voice trembled as she spoke, 
ght of Catharine and Aunt 
and could not speak again, 
.nd drank with a pleasure I 
lefore felt in doing so. The 
people sat gazing kindly on 
d, when I had finished, the 
id: 

I, we have a son in the army ; 
t to Russia last year, and we 
lOt since heard from him. 
vars are terrible !" 
poke dreamily, as if to him- 

1 the while walking up and 



down the room, his hands crossed 
behind his back. My eyes began to 
close, when he said suddenly : 

"Come, wife. Good night, cour 
script." 

They went out together, she car- 
rying the tub. 

" God reward you," I cried, " and 
bring your son safe home I" 

In a minute I was undressed, and* 
sinking on the bed, I was almost im- 
mediately buried in a deep sleep. 

IX. 

The next morning I awoke at 
about seven o'clock. A trumpet 
was sounding the recall at the cor- 
ner of the street; horses, wagons, 
and men and women on foot, were 
hurrying past the house. My feet 
were yet somewhat sore, but nothing 
to what they had been ; and when I 
had dressed, I felt like a new maq, 
and thought to myself: 

"Joseph, if this continues, you 
will soon be a soldier. It is only the 
first step that costs." 

The baker's wife had put vaj 
shoes to dry before the fire, after fill- 
ing them with hot ashes, to ke^ 
them from growing hard. They 
were well greased and shining. 

Then I buckled on my knapsack, 
and hurried out, without having time 
to thank those good people — a duty. 
I intended to fulfil after roll-call. 

At the end of the street — on the 
Place — many of our Italians were al^ 
ready waiting, shivering around the 
fountain. Furst, Klipfel, and TAh^ 
di arrived a moment after. 

Cannon and their caissons covered 
one entire side of the Place. Horses 
were being brought to water, led by 
hussars and dragoons. Opposite us 
were cavalry barracks, high as the 
church at Phalsbourg, while around 
the other three sides rose old houses 
with sculptured gables, likft Xho^ iX. 



456 



The Story of a Conscript. 



Saveme, but much larger. I had 
never seen anything like all this, and 
while I stood gazing around, the 
drums began to beat, and each man 
took his place in the ranks, and we 
were informed, first in Italian and 
then in French, that we were about 
to receive our arms, and each one 
was ordered to stand forth as his 
name was called. 

The wagons containing the arms 
now came up, and the call began. 
Each received a cartouche box, a sa- 
bre, a bayonet, and a musket. We 
put them on as well as we could, over 
our blouses, coats, or great-coats, and 
we looked, with our hats, our caps, 
and our arms, like a veritable band 
of banditti. My musket was so long 
and heavy that I could scarcely car- 
ry it ; and the Sergeant Pinto show- 
ed me how to buckle on the car- 
touche-box. He was a fine fellow, 
Pinto. 

So many belts crossing my chest 
made me feel as if I could scarcely 
breathe, and I saw at once that my 
miseries had not yet ended. 

After the arms, an ammunition- 
wagon advanced, and they distribut- 
ed fifty rounds of cartridges to each 
man. This was no pleasant augury. 
Then, instead of ordering us to break 
ranks and return to our lodgings, 
Captain Vidal drew his sabre and 
shouted : 

" By file right— march !" 

The drums began to beat. I was 
grieved at not being able to thank 
my hosts for their kindness, and 
thought that they would consider 
me ungrateful. But that did not 
prevent my following the line of 
march. 

We passed through a long winding 
street, and soon found ourselves 
without the glads, and near tlie 
frozen Rhine. Across the river high 
hills appeared, and on tlie hills, old, 
^ray, ruined castles, like those of 



Haut-Bas and Gcroldseck in Ike 

Vosges. 

The battalion descended to the 
river-bank, and crossed upon the ict 
The scere was magnificent — dar 
zling. We were not alone on the 
ice ; five or six hundred paces bft- 
fore us was a bagg.Tge-|rain on da 
way to Frankfort. Crossing the fi- 
ver, we continued our raarch ihroofb 
the mountains. Sometimes we di> 
covered villages in the defiles ; and 
Zebed^, who was next to mc, said : 

" As we had to leave home, 1 
would rather go as a soldier tha 
otherwise. At least we shall see 
something new every day, and, if w 
are lucky enough ever to return, bo« 
much we will have to talk off" 

" Yes," said I ; " but J would like 
better to have less to talk about, aid 
to live quietly, toiling on my own afr 
count and not on accoun( of otben^ 
who remain safe at home while «( 
climb about here on the ice." 

" You do not care far glory,** uid 
he ; " and yet glory is a fraod 
thing." 

" Yes ; the glory of fighting aid 
losing our lives for others* and beuf 
called lazy idlers and drunkanis 
when wc get home again. I wouU 
rather have these friends of glory go 
fight themselves, and leave us to re* 
main in peace at home." 

" Well," he replied, « I thmknmA 
as you do ; but, as we are fixe- 
ed to fight, we may as well make the 
most of it. If we go about looking 
miserable, people will laugh at us." 

Conversing thus, we reached I 
large river, which, the sergeant lol<l 
us, was the Main, and nc.tr it, upon 
our road, was a little village. We 
did not know the name of tlie villa^ 
but there we halted. 

We entered the houses, and ihoec 
who could bought some brandy, wine, 
and bread. Those who bad no nn^ 
ney crunched their ration of bisctdt, 



wistfully at their more for- 
le comrades. 

K)ut six in the evening we arriv- 
; Frankfort^ which is a city yet 
' than Mayence, and full of Jews. 
• took us to the barracks of the 
b Hussars, where our Captain, 
Jhtin, and the two Lieutenants, 
and Bretonville, awaited us. 



Uanc 



Inkfort I began to learn a 
fir's duty in earnest. Up to that 
1 had been but a simple con- 
{. I do not speak merely of 
^that is only an affair of a 
h or two, if a man really de- 
\o learn ; but I speak of disci- 
•— of remembering that the cor- 
is always in the right when he 
is to a private soldier, the ser- 
: when he speaks to the corporal, 
trgeant-major when speaking to 
crgeant, the second lieutenant 
' he orders the sergeant-major, 
D on to the Marshal of France 
!n if the superior asserts that 
jnd two make five, or that the 

[shines at midday, 
s is very difficult to learn ; but 
lis one thing that assists you im- 
ely, and that is a sort of placard 
tip in every room in the bar- 
^ and which is from time to 
fead to you. This placard pre- 
Ises everything that a soldier 
I wish to do, as, for instance, to 
I home, to refuse to serve, to 
[Ws officer, and always ends by 
jjng of death or at least five 
(with a ball and chain. 
Jk day after our arrival at Frank- 
I wrote to Monsieur Goulden, to 
bine, and to Aunt Gr^del. I 
jb<!m that I was m good health, 
||icli I thanked God, and that I 
|ven stronger than before I left 

Eit them a thousand re- 
Our Phalsbourg con- 



scripts, who sW meC^riting, made 
me add a few words for each of their 
families. I^rOj^^.^isO'to Mayence, 
to the good COBpte^oflhe Capougner' 
Strasse, who had been so kind to me, 
telling them how I was forced to 
march without being able to thank 
them, and asking their forgiveness for 
so doing. 

That day, in the afternoon, we re- 
ceived our uniforms. Dozens of Jews 
made their appearance and bought 
our old clothes. The Italians had 
great difficulty in making these re- 
spectable merchants comprehend 
their wishes, but the Genoese were 
as cunning as the Jews, and their 
bargainings lasted until night. Our 
corporals received more than one 
glass of wine ; it was policy to make 
friends of them, for morning and 
evening they taught us the drill in 
the snow-covered yard. The (unti' 
n/^r^ Christine was always at her post 
with a warming-pan under her feet 
She took young men of good family 
into special favor, and the young men 
of good family were all those who 
spent their money freely. Poor fools I 
How many of them parted with their 
last sou in return for her miserable 
flattery ! When that was gone, they 
were mere beggars ; but vanity rules 
all, from conscripts to generals. 

All this time recruits were con- 
stantly arriving from France, and 
ambulances full of wounded from Po- 
land. Klipfel, Zebed«J, Furst, and I 
often went to see these poor wretches, 
and never did we see men so misera- 
bly clad. Some wore jackets which 
once belonged to Cossacks, crushed 
shakos, women's dresses, and many 
had only handkerchiefs wound 
around tlieir feet in lieu of shoes and 
stockings. They gave us a history 
of the retreat from Moscow, and then 
we knew that the twenty-ninth bul- 
letin told only truth. 

These stories entageA out mtYk 



A 



The Story of a Conscript. 



459 



example, and that if Zebed^ 
;d to fight he would be unworthy 
Qain in the Third Battalion of 
ixth of the Line. 

that night I could not close 
^es. I heard the deep breath- 
f my poor comrade as he slept, 
I thought: "Poor Zebed^ ! 
er day, and you will breathe no 
" I shuddered to think how 
[ was to a man so near death. 
St, as day broke, I fell asleep, 
suddenly I felt a cold blast of 
strike me. I opened my eyes, 
lere I saw the old hussar. He 
fted up the coverlid of our bed, 
aid as I awoke : 
Tp, sluggard ! I will show you 
manner of man you struck." 
>ed^ rose tranquilly, saying : 

was asleep, veteran ; I was 
>." 

J other, hearing himself thus 
ingly called "veteran," would 
fallen upon my comrade in his 
but two tall fellows who served 
s seconds held him back, and, 
;s, the Phalsbourg men were 

uick, quick ! Hurry I" cried 
d hussar. 

2^bed^ dressed himself calm- 
Jiout any haste. After a mo- 
s silence, h^said : 
[ave we permission to go out- 
\xx quarters, old fellows ?" 
here is room enough for us in 
ird," replied one of the hussars. 
led^ put on his great-coat, and, 
ig to me, said : 

tseph, and you, Klipfel, I choose 
>r my seconds." 
: T shook my head, 
^ell, then, Furst," said he. 
J whole party descended the 

together. I thought Zebedd 
DSt, and thougkt it hard that 
mly must the Russians and 
ians seek our lives, but that -we 
seek each other's. 



All the men in the room crowded 
to the windows. I alone remained 
behind, upon my bed. At the end of 
five minutes the clash of sabres made 
my heart almost cease to beat ; the 
blood seemed no longer to flow 
through my veins. 

But this did not last long; 
for suddenly Klipfel exclaimed, 
" Touched !" 

Then I made my way — I know 
not how — ^to a window, and, looking 
over the heads of the others, saw the 
old hussar leaning against the wall, 
and Zebede rising, his sabre all drip- 
ping with blood. He had fallen upon 
his knees during the fight, and, while 
the old man's sword pierced the air 
just above his shoulder, he plunged his 
blade into the hussar's breast. If 
he had not slipped, he himself would 
have been run through and through. 

The hussar sank at the foot of the 
walL His seconds lifted him in 
their arms, while ZebedS, pale as' a 
corpse, gazed at his bloody sabre. 

And so, for a few thoughtless words, 
was a soul sent to meet its Maker. 

XI. 

The events of the preceding chap- 
ter happened on the eighteenth of 
February. The same day we re- 
ceived orders to pack our knapsacks, 
and lefl Frankfort for Seligenstadt,. 
where we remained until the eighth 
of March, by which time all the re- 
cruits were well instructed in the 
use of the musket and the school of 
the platoon. From Seligenstadt we 
went to Schweinheim, and on the 
twenty-fourth of March, 1813, joined 
^he division at Aschaffenbourg, where 
Marshal Ney passed us in review. 

The captain of the company was 
named Florentin ; the lieutenant, Bre- 
tonville ; the commandant of the bat- 
talion, Gemeau ; the colonel^ Ixi^f^^ 
the general of brig^e, lAdo^SkC^Xfc *, 



Tlu Story of a Conscri^. 



45i 



t you should at last speak 

d man, who was none other 
jastor of Schweinheim, then 
e: 

iieur, your manner of acting 
f an honest man; believe 
Vf onsieur Kalkreuth is inca- 
such a deed — of doing evil 
lur enemies." 

believe it, sir," I replied, 
3uld not eat so heartily of 
sages." 

postmaster, hearing these 
;gan to laugh, and, in the 
* his joy, cried : 
lid never have thought that 
man could have made* me 
ind bringing out a bottle of 

drank it together. It was 
time we met; for while we 
iver our wine, the order to 
.me. 

low the whole army was 
advancing, on Erfurt. Our 

kept repeating, "We are 
them I there will be hot 
n;" and we thought, "So 

better !" that those beggar- 
ms and Russians had drawn 

upon themselves. If they 
lined quiet, we would have 
in France. 

thoughts embittered us all 
he enemy, and, as we meet 
re people who seem to re- 
y in fighting, Klipfel and 
liked only of the pleasure it 
/e them to meet the Prus- 
id I, not to seem less cou- 
ban they, adopted the same 



On the eighth of April, the bat- 
talion entered Erfurt, and I will 
never forget how, when we broke 
ranks before the barracks, a package 
of letters was handed to the sergeant 
of the company. Among the num- 
ber was one for me, and I recog- 
nized Catharine's writing at once. 
Zdb^de took my musket, telling me 
to read it, for he, too, was glad to 
hear from home. 

I put it in my pocket, and all our 
Phalsbourg men followed me to hear 
it, but I only commenced when I 
was quietly seated on my bed in the 
barracks, while they crowded around. 
Tears rolled down my cheeks as she 
told me how she remembered and 
prayed for the far-off conscript 

My comrades, as I read, ex- 
claimed : 

"And we are sure that there are 
some at home to pray for us, too." 

One spoke of his mother, another 
of his sisters, and another of his 
sweetheart. 

At the end of the letter. Monsieur 
Goulden added a few words, telling 
me that all our friends were well, and 
that I should take courage, for our 
troubles could not last for ever. He 
charged me to be sure to tell my 
comrades that their friends thought 
of them and complained of not hav- 
ing received a word from them. 

This letter was a consolation to us 
all. We knew that before many 
days passed we must be on the field 
of battle, and it seemed a last farewell 
from home. 



TO as OONTtMUIft 



Bethlehem — A Pilgrimage. 



463 



lem is one of the oldest 
he worlcT, having a history of 
1 three thousand six hundred 
he name signified the House 
; now its Arabic form, Beit 
inotes the House of Flesh, 
jne is suitable for the place 
the true bread of life, whose 
he food of immortality, was 
•n. It is called Bethlehem- 
distinguish it from another 
n in the region of Zebulun ; 
called Bethlehem Ephratah, 
itful. The earliest mention 
in the book of Genesis, 
3,) in the description of the 
d burial of Rachel. Six 
years afterward occurred the 
irrated in the book of Ruth, 
ry after the marriage of 
d Ruth, David was bom 
), at the age of seventeen 
> anointed king over Israel — 
:e it obtained the name of 
>f David, and is thus called 
ly Gospel. 

thousand years the 'history 
;hem is obscure, until the 
rt's into prominence and im- 
ory as the scene of the won- 
ints attending the birth of 
With this narrative every 
is familiar ; and each year, 
; guidance of the church, we 
Christmas and Epiphany, 
hich its telling brings. An 
he Roman emperor required 
eople of Judea to present 
iS for enrolment in the cities 
ey belonged, even should 
residing in other and dis- 
cs. In obedience to this 
1, Joseph, the espoused hus- 
:he Virgin Mary, accompa- 
er, repaired to nis own city, 
n, he being of the house and 
' David. A long journey of 
lies from Nazareth in the 
ere he lived, to Bethlehem in 
1 was thus imperative; /or 



Roman rulers were strict in demuid- 
ing obedience to their laws on the 
part of conquered peoples. By the 
time they reached Bethlehem, the 
town was already full, and there was 
no room for them in the inn or 
public place for the reception of tra- 
vellers. They were thus compelled 
to do the best they could, and found 
shelter in a rude place where some 
cattle were kept This was not only 
better than none, but was such as 
many travellers since that time have 
been obliged to content themselves 
with. Even now, it is sometimes 
found in the East that the house and 
stable are together, being the same 
apartment ; a floor somewhat raised 
above the ground being the place for 
the people, while the other part is 
tenanted by cattle, sheep, or goats. 
There was no evidence that it was 
cruel indiflFerence on the part of the 
Bethlehemites which led to the choice 
of this place by the holy ones who 
came there. That they were poor 
is more certainly known from the 
offering made in the temple in Jerusa- 
lem, when the Divine Infant was pre- 
sented there, at the purification of 
his stainless mother. 

It was in this cheerless place that 
Christ was born of the Holy Vii^n, 
according to the prophecies of Isaias 
and Micheas. Now, indeed, was it 
true that " Thou, Bethlehem Ephrata, 
out of thee shall he come forth unto 
me that is to be the ruler in Israel ; 
and his going forth is from the begin- 
ning, from the days of eternity." 
Shepherds were keeping watch over 
their flocks by night ; and the angel 
of God appeared to them, and the 
brightness of God shone round 
about them ; and while they feared, 
the angel said to them : " Fear not ; 
for behold I bring you good tidings 
of great joy that shall be to all the 
people ; for this day is bortv to '^<3!Ql 
a Saviour, ivho isCbrol^DAliQiidk^m 



Bethlehem — A Piigrimag^. 



46$ 



1 being a mile or more to 
Beitjala is a thriving place, 
any beautiful olive-trees, 
I ever saw. The Catholic 
for Priests of the Patriarch 
[em is there, and a fine 
:h has just been completed. 
:or of the Seminary was 
:d Bishop of Beitjala in the 
the Holy Sepulchre some 
:r our departure. 
g Bethlbefore the age denoted by na- 
ture and by religion. To do this is to 
commit a crime more odious than 
that which has so long stained Ame- 
rica, and that she has been obliged' 
to wash out in waves of blood, 
Among those men who owned other 
men there were those who were just 
and good, who were more the bene- 
factors of their slaves than their mas- 
ters. But there were also those who 
were without conscience and without 
feeling. They saw in the negro only 
an instrument, and they required of 
him unmeasured labor without re- 
pose. This was the oppression of 
the body. But all oppression, as all 
liberty, passes from that of the body 
to that of the soul. If the truth 
could come in them, the truth would 
deliver them I No communication, 
then, with those who possess science, 
with men who speak too high, nor 
with books that teach too thoroughly. 
And, finally, to intellectual <y9i^T«&- 
sion, these cautious axvd. cna«\VFaxi\& 



476 



The Labor Quest ion. 



added moral oppression. They were 
Joubly right, for, of all the accessories 
of liberty, the most dangerous is not 
science but virtue. No virtue, then, 
for the slave ! He has been deprived 
of the gospel ; he must also be de- 
prived of nature I And because in 
the absence of the gospel, and even 
in the ruins of human nature, when 
this nature has not entirely perished, 
there yet dwell two noble sentiments, 
two powerful roots, whence all can 
spring up again and flourish — conju- 
gal love and paternal love — family 
life was rendered impossible, and in 
these horrible cases men could no 
longer embrace, in honor as in tender- 
ness, the companion of their misfor- 
tunes and the fruit of their love. 

You shudder, gentlemen, and you 
are right. But nothing which has 
been lost, however great may be the 
evil, is ever entirely without remedy. 
This negro is an adult, a man grown ; 
and if, in a childhood more happy 
than his maturity, he has been warm- 
ed upon the bosom of a black but 
Christian mother, ni^ra sed formosa, 
and has drawn the chaste and health- 
ful milk of virtue ; if he has known 
the gospel, and if he has loved Jesus 
Christ, he holds in his innennost life 
concealed resources ; he will feci the 
sudden and powerful awakenings of 
an honest conscience and of Christian 
truth, and against the triple tyranny 
of the body, of the intelligence, and 
of the heart there will be victorious 
rebellions. 

Gentlemen, the being most effec- 
tually oppressed, the victim irreme- 
diably crushed, is not the man \ it is 
the child. It is the little white slave 
of our Europe, who has known nei- 
ther his cradle nor his mother, and 
who has awakened to life in the dark 
workshop, a kind of hell on earth, of 
which we may write — 

" Toq who enler here leave all hop* behio4" 

His active lungs brearivt \tv M\ 



draughts of air which are simply 
draughts of poison ; his little Itmhs, 
bent under the work before beiif 
formed, are dedicated from infano 
to decrepitude. His intelligencr, 
too, arrested in its early budding, xs 
sadly locked tn darkness. It is in 
vain that, later, tn fruitless rcmnrv. 
we would attempt to imbue him v, .-.h 
some truths. The negro will rt'.-.J 
lect himself after years of brutish 
ness ; the child will learn no more 
after a few months of this odious sys- 
tem. He will never hold in his h.^rd 
the three keys, at once common and 
sublime, which open so many things 
in life and in the soul — rcid- 
ing, writing, and arithmetic. He 
will never possess those rudiments 
of science which ought to be the por 
tion of all — something of the form 
and life of this globe that he inh* 
bits, and much of the glor)' and d 
tinies of that country which he ouj 
to love and to serNT. Never, above 
will he have the clear and strong re- 
velation of his own soul and of God. 
His soul and God ! it t<» not o«1y1f- 
norance which steals 1 1 ' 

it is vice. What has i 
this dark workshop, in this hcti, pi 
cociousbut not the less hopeless } 
will not attempt to speak ir, but 
listen to the words of a poet* of 
age, eloquent interpreter of the' 
frenzies and anguishes of evil in the 
deptlis of the human soul : 






" Thi heart of man, mispoucd. ia •« 
If the fint watrr poorol into it be imiMic, 
The tei may poaa orer urilltMit »lriitn ai 

itain. 
Fur tlic abya U un&lhonafale and iIm i^** ** ^| 

drptlia." 

(.Applause.) O hands that hatt 

abused the child ! you will be nirseli 
in spite of all your splendor, in sp>l*{ 
of all your science, and in apite fl« 
your riches ! Hands of a ^elen^ 
less industjy, you will remain dry «pl] 

• tLUraddalluMet. 



The Labor Question. 



A77 



s the hand of the tyrant of 
er the malediction of the 
Judos, " The hand of Je- 
ithered and he was not 
aw it back again to him, 
le Lord had cursed it." 
committed the most cow- 
most revolting, and the 
tarable of crimes. (Pro- 
ilause.) 

ir. 
ltion of the workshop. 

>een too difiuse upon the 
ducation of man. The 
emen, is in your attention 
thy ; and then in the emp- 

the absent mother, this 
side, where I had need to 
lope with you. 
le education is concluded 
nd religious ceremony, the 
union, which serves as the 
lipation of the child. More 

in that than the sons of 
le sons of the workman en- 
lere a sort of public life ; 
family, they pass to the 
Am I mistaken, gentle- 
lere not a school between 
and the workshop, the pri- 
ll first and the profession- 
'terward ? No ; the school 
ween the family and the 
it is beside them. It does 
n connection with them, a 
e in the popular education. 
, its part is not principal 
indent, but secondary and 
e. I am full of sympathy 
zX for those modest and 
( teachers of the people, to 
:orps of instructors they 
g, whether they wear the 
r the layman's dress, pro- 
' remain at the height of 
ssion. I will never asso- 
If with the gross and un- 



merited injuries of which they are the 
objects, in different senses, on the 
part of. all extreme parties. But 
grand as is their mission, I repeat it, 
it is secondary ; and practical rea- 
son fails to see in the school what a 
large number of our contemporaries 
see in it — ^the most efficacious instru- 
ment for the elevation of the labor- 
ing classes. Permit me, gentlemen, 
to cite the words of an economist, a 
patient, impartial, and wise observ- 
er, whose name and works I would 
wish to popularize among Catholics. 
" With a free and prosperous people," 
saysM. LePlay, "the instructor occu- 
pies only a subordinate position. The 
true education is given by the family, 
aided by the priest ; it is completed 
by apprenticeship to a profession, 
and by the observance of social dur 
ties."* 

The workshop is, then, after the 
family, the second centre, the second 
home, for the education of the people. 
But what is a well-planned and well- 
organized workshop ? It is one 
where the dignity and rights of per- 
sonal being are recognized in the 
workmen, and especially in the child. 
A personal being is always an end, 
never a means ; it cannot be used as 
an animal without reason, nor as an 
instrument without consciousness. If 
one expect services of it, and receive 
profit from it, it is necessary to dis- 
pose of it, as God does of us, with a 
great respect ; cum magna revefentia 
disponis nos. What is a well-appoint- 
ed workshop ? It is one which has 
at its head a patron who is an honor- 
able man, a patron truly worthy of 
the name he bears. Some have seen 
something ridiculous and disagreea- 
ble in this name ; but, for my part, I 
find it very grand, very elevated, and, 
above all, very Christian. I see in 

* StdalRt/erm in Frmmtt^hf IL Le Play, inthot 
of Euroftan Lab»rtrt, Commitsiooer-Qeneral to the 
VnivemI Kxhibitiona of itjSi '6a, wuii *(n. 3)i «&• 
tioii,ToL u. p. 3169. 



Tk€ Labor Question. 



479 



elves deceived ; the great 
: of lAen and things is not, 
3t be, what they have told 
this contradiction of the 
is childhood penetrate his 
heart through the constant 
of word and example, by 
uences of these moral me- 
lich act upon us with far 
ce than physical mediums, 
e to pass that he will aban- 
inciples of his parents and 
I as a weak support, and 
himself to glide down the 
declivities of doubt and 
But if, on the contrary, he 
f these workshops too rare 
ich are the continuation of 
I and fireside experience; 
and see the practical com- 
n all he has believed and 
he breathe the pure air of 
jouls which refreshes and 
t conscience and the heart ; 
•on see developed to manly 
ose virtues of childhood 
1 him by the sacred influ- 
ne and of religion, warmed 
itact of those two hearts 
;qual — I dare not say that 
5ses the other; God has 
sm with so nearly the same 
. and the same piety, for 
of mankind — the heart of 
r and the heart of the 
Ipplause.) 

in, 

IN BY MEANS OF THE 
SUNDAY. 

just compared the priest 
lother. And indeed, gen- 
I have spoken separately 
lily and the workshop, I 
itended by that to separate 
religion. With these two 
laws of love and of labor 
have indicated the double 



home — ^tbe family and the workshop 
— ^is connected, and, as it were, inter 
laced, a third still grander law, which 
forms with them the divine net-woric 
of human existence — ^prayer. 

We cannot be the disciples of an 
independent morality, because we 
are not participators in an imperso- 
nal deity. We have a morality whidi 
comes from the living God and whidi 
returns to him, and in this golden 
chain which binds the earth to hea- 
ven all the links are not the duties 
of man in respect to man ; and when 
one desires to be an honorable man 
in the fulness and holiness of this 
term, so often profaned, he must not 
disregard in his practical respect the 
most living and sacred of all peno- 
nalities. Now, this intercourse of 
the living and personal soul with the 
living and personal God is what we 
call prayer, in the fullest and most 
comprehensive sense of the word. 
It is not sufficient to think of God ; 
it is necessary to pray to him. When 
one habituates himself to reach him 
only by thought, he finishes by no 
longer believing in God ; he vanishes, 
or at least he transforms himself into 
a mass of confused and icy clouds — 
evanuerunt in cogitationibus suis-— 
and of the Being of beings there re- 
mains only a sublime but chimerical 
ideality. It is necessary to have a 
heart, to have the arts and move- 
ments of a soul which looks up with 
respect and tenderness to the God 
who makes it to live upon the earth, 
to the Father who awaits it in the 
heavens. Not even individual prayer 
suffices ; collective prayer is necessa- 
ry — the meeting and communion of 
souls in the same illumination and 
fervich^ess of love. This prayer has 
a sacred day and place — the Sunday 
and the temple. It is of this day 
and this place, gentlemen, that it re- 
mains to say to you that they are, 
after as before the fust coaacNaD^raa, 



The Labor Question. 



481 



is of God, as they have carried 
1 the kiss of the mother. 
5 is the day of which their 
s wish to deprive the people — 
friends, who believe only in 
idy, who see in it only material 
, the work and the pleasures 
: beast of burden 1 Courtiers of 
;racy, you who flatter the peo- 
nd despise it, believe in its 
rede anima, and by that begin 
ieve in your own. (Applause.) 
., this law of Sunday, so reli- 
y democratic, is to-day every- 
unrecognized. Patriotism im- 
upon me still greater considera- 
or my country when I speak 
soil which is not her own, I 
staken ; my country asks of me 
equity, and I know that if 
evil can be said of France as 
to-day, much good may also 
be said of her. I will speak, 
[ireely ; I will complain of the 
on of the Sunday in the great 
rial cities of France. Some- 
I must pass through the streets 
ng to the church to speak the 
. word. I revolve in my heart the 
s of the Gospel and all along 
ly are visions of hell ; heavy 
s, axle-trees that groan, pave- 
that reek, clouds of dust which 
i-om me the sun and the face 
d. I cover my eyes with my 
and say, groaning, It is France 
oes this. 

! answer comes, Undoubtedly ; 
s is liberty. Resp>ect the liberty 
ince ! Respect the conscience 
r fellow-citizens ! Ah ! I have 
ig to say against liberty. I 
of it with lips as much more 
e and fervent as they are more 
ian and more Catholic. The 
s not yet come, gentlemen, but 
nir will come, in which misap- 
isions shall cease, and it will be 
lefore the end of this century 
le pontiff so great and so un- 
. VI. — ^31 



appreciated, Pius IX., who has most 
valiantly combated against revolu- 
tion, is the same who has opened the 
initiatives the most bold and most 
fruitful — ^yes, in spite of apparent re- 
verses, I say the most fruitful — ^for 
the liberty of Europe. Let us not do 
that with which St Paul reproaches 
the Christians of Corinth. We will 
not depart from Christ ; we will not 
divide ourselves from Pius IX., dhn- 
sus est Christus I As for me, in all 
the extent of his glory I accept him ; 
from his prosperity so pure to his 
misfortunes so touching; from the 
raising of the standard of reform and 
progress in his royal and priestly 
hand, previous to 1848, to the con- 
vocation of the ecumenical council 
which unites at this hour to the ap- 
plause of Catholics the sympathy of 
Protestants and Rationalists. 

No ! we will not lessen liberty. 
We will not wound the interests of 
labor nor the exigencies of trade. 
What contemptible sophisms thesie 
are ! Do you not see two great free 
nations, two great industrial nations, 
which are equal to yours, if they do 
not surpass you — England and the 
United States ? I have had the hap- 
piness to visit London. I shall never 
forget the emotion which filled me 
at the sight of this city, similar to 
the ancient metropolis of the sea 
which the prophets paint ; the wo- 
man who is seated up>on the waters, 
mulUr qua sedet super aquas. And in 
the deep waves I saw no abysses, 
but only an immense and solemn 
fluctuation, and as the majesty of an 
ever moving but firmly established 
throne. And the great queen of the 
seas was there, commanding the isl- 
ands and the continents, reaching 
out in the distance over kings and 
peoples, no longer, as her predeces- 
sors, the rod of oppression, but the 
beneflcent sceptre of her riches and 
her liberty. And 1 heaccd th& wnsA 



The Labor Question. 



4<3 



what I could wish is, that each 
•f us could also be among the 
ard-bearers ; that we could have 
lOnor, we Catholics, of being in 
ice of others in the practical 
ledge of what is preparing in 
pproximate future, 
lat is aproaching I It is called 
I illy-defined name, which awak- 
>assions and dissensions — de- 
acy. Two years ago I attempt- 
> explain this word at Notre- 
e de Paris,* and I have been 
2d for it by some. I have since 

I a similar definition in the re- 
writings of the honored bishop 

I I have just named. I retake 
in, with pride, and I say to all 

who invoke this name. There 
wo democracies in the world, 
h is yours ? Is it radical revo- 
\ ? Does social hierarchy, en- 
prostrated before the force of 
lers, constitute the grandeur of 
igence and virtue? Is it the 
1 level which passes over all 
5 to crush and to lower? If 
e your democracy, it is the worst 
rbarisms, and we will combat it, 
essary, even to the shedding of 
lood. But if democracy be the 
:al and peaceable elevation of 
aboring and suffering masses, 
ire called peasants in the coun- 
id workmen in our cities ; if it 
;ir elevation to a more extended 
ledge, to a more secure well-be- 
o a more efficient and refined 
ity, and by legitimate conse- 
:e to a more extensive social in- 
:e ; we are with this democracy, 
Illy because we are the sons of 
mtury, but because we are the 
jf the Gospel.t 

pent Conferences of 1865. (3d conference.) 
democracy be the rising of the common peo- 



I see it arise. I salute it in your 
name ; this Christian democracy, 
having its deep and solid founda- 
tions in the homes, the workshops 
of trade, and in the sanctuary of our 
temples. It will change history, 
which, in the past, has only recorded 
the intrigues of the wily or the con- 
quests of the strong, the powerless- 
ness of policy, the too frequent cor- 
ruption of riches and art. It will 
give to the sages a subject of medita- 
tion in the intelligent and faithftd 
working out of the laws of private 
life, to which public life itself is sub- 
ordinate when it is understood. It 
will cause a great people to spring 
up who will seek the practical wel- 
fare of their existence, as well as the 
inspiration of their literature and art, 
in family affection, the struggles and 
joys of labor, and in the chaste emo- 
tions of prayer and the splendid fes- 
tivities of religion. 

Undoubtedly, the crisis that we 
are passing through is one of the most 
important and terrible that our race 
has known. Let us raise our efforts, 
our courage, and our faith to the 
height of these solemn events, but 
never doubt the final issue. I can 
explain the ruins of p^an society; 
but the society which has touched 
Jesus Christ, the humanity which 
has possessed for centuries the spirit 
of the Gospel — in a word, Europe — 
she may suffer, she may be in the 
pangs of death, but she cannot die. 
(Prolonged applause.) 



pie, of the peasants and the laborers, to a higher 
standard of education, of well-being, of morality, of 
legitimate inAuence, the church is with democracy. 
—A theitm and Social Ptril, by Moosignor the Bishop 
of Orleans. 1866. p. 166. 



Tt* Sacr^ and tkt Ratuom, 



THE SACRIFICE AND THE RANSOM. 



INTRODUCTION. 

he various manifestations 
n charity in the middle 
ity sometimes ill-under- 
aps, but always sincere 
astic — there are few that 
expressively to what a de- 
ve of our fellow-creature 
>s all egotistical instincts, 
rder of Mercy for the re- 
* captives. Sustained and 
by holy charity, the Fa- 
rcy embarked each year 
!S, braving plague, martyr- 
lavery. In the name of 
,ly King, of whom he con- 
iself the ambassador, he 
from the astonished ty- 
giers the liberty of the 
aptives, until then appa- 
smned never to see again 
The savage Dey, awed 
tie confidence of the un- 
im — ^moved, perhaps, by 
;t compassion, accepted 
ered as ransom ; and the 
I humble father recrossed 
1 returned again on foot 
It monastery. 
t was the origin of this in- 
No legislative assembly, 
3f ministers is entitled to 
Df having conceived the 
5 pious enterprise. The 
t of a man who had de- 
elf from his childhood to 
of suffering humanity was 
devise a plan of carrying 
onsolation to misfortunes 
1 then, had seemed be- 
dinary action of Christian 
eter Nolasque, the foun- 
)rder of Mercy, was bom 
ar Castelnaudari» in Lan- 



guedoc, France. His learning was 
as remarkable as his piety, so that 
at the age of twenty-five, ^ educa- 
tion of the son of Peter of Aragon 
was confided to him by the celebra- 
ted Simon of Montfort It was while 
at the court of Barcelona, in this 
high and responsible position, that 
Peter Nolasque resolved to devote 
his life and fortune to the ransom of 
the Christian slaves who languished 
hopelessly under the burning sun of 
Africa. 

For this purpose he deljsrmined tQ> 
establish a religious order for the de-^ 
liverance of captives. Several n(K 
blemen contributed lai^ sums of 
money toward the good work ; the 
court of Rome gave its supreme ap- 
probation, and on St Lawrence's day, 
1223, Peter Nolasque was declared 
the first general of the new institu- 
tion, and invested with the monastic 
habit He lived far from courts dur- 
ing the rest of his life, travelling 
painfiilly on foot to carry consolation 
and freedom to the wretched beings 
he pitied so truly. . More than four 
hundred Christians were delivered 
from the hands of the Mussulman by 
his efiforts alone. 

He died on Christmas-day, 1956, 
leaving behind him the memory of a 
pure and generous life, and an insti- 
tution which soon numbered among 
its members many of the bravest and 
noblest chevaliers of France. 



THE SACRmCB. 

It was in the year of our Lmd 
1363. The corfiew bell had ^ust 
been ning, the doom «£ Ite tWNi ^» 



Th* Sacrifice attd the Ransom. 



487 



soldier, but never was the es- 

>n of your house dimmed with- 

igwashed in blood — and would 

the first to let it lie soiled in 

it?" 

IS ! Michel, it is indeed true 

much blood has been shed 
[quarrels of our house 1" 

►ly Virgin ! can it be possible 
^ liege lord has forgotten the 
of a valiant knight ?" 
end," replied the young war- 
:mly while his pale cheek red- 
writh the emotion awakened by 
uire's reproach, "I have re- 
ared that I was a Christian be- 
was made a knight !" 
lel drew back in silence, gaz- 
his master with a countenance 
:h astonishment and grief were 
equally portrayed, while the 
of Montorgueil silently pro- 

to take off his shoulder-belt 
[tie his silken scarf. 

heavy oaken door at length 

1 and the venerable prior en- 
Quick as thought, the knight 

Jie sword he held in his hands 
monk's feet ; then, falling on 
^s, exclaimed in a loud, firm 
' Reverend Father, in the name 
and of the holy Virgin Mary, 
ul de Montorgueil, chevalier, 
nd conjure you to admit me 
e religious and devout observ- 
f our Lady of Mercy, for the 
ance of captives !" 
nen, my son, so be it, if it be 
'ho sends thee," replied the 

ly lord, my lord," cried Mi- 
remember the Sire of Valeri 1 
will he be, and loud his boast 
;ar of him has moved you 
1. You know his otitre-cui- 

my worshipful lord!" ex- 
i the timid page, bursting into 
' think of your lady-mother 1" 
Lhink of the salvation of my 



soul more than of all else," replied 
the chevalier. 

" Silence, good friend 1" said the 
prior, as Michel appeared about to 
attempt another remonstrance; " and 
you, my son, seat yourself here by 
my side, and tell me what has in- 
duced you to seek this peaceful sanc- 
tuary." 

• The young knight arose and 
placed himself on the wooden bench 
by the monk ; then, keeping his eyes 
steadfastly bent to the ground as if 
to avoid die sight of his two weeping 
retainers, " Reverend Father," he 
said, " most bitter is the remem- 
brance of the past ; for the last time 
will I recount the evil thoughts and 
deeds that once seemed so natural 
to me. For many a year all Brittany 
has resounded with the feuds of the 
Lords of Montorgueil and the Sires 
of Valeri ; bitter has been the hatred 
and bloody the strife between these 
two proud houses ; but I will not 
recall past outrages — let me relate 
only the last deadly vfrong that filled 
my heart with unspeakable thirst of 
vengeance. 

" Twelve days have not yet ex- 
pired since the passage of arms at 
Rennes j the Sire of Valeri was 
there at the head of a numerous com- 
pany of his partisans, and defied 
me to single combat, with many a 
vain and bragging word. I accepted 
his challenge, resolved to be the victor 
or die. The onslaught was terrible, 
for we were equal in strength and 
skill, and we long parried each 
other's thrusts. Forced at last to 
pause to take breath, the Sire of 
Valeri proposed a truce. 

" * Let us meet a month hence,' he 
cried, ' with twenty good men each, 
and end our quarrel.' 

" ' Why should we adjourn till an- 
other day what can be so well ended 
now ?' I replied ; * our swords v»U\. 
be no sharper and ous \AXft tm> VAr 



like Saint Paul ; like him thou 
lerhaps, destined to become a 
ai vessel of grace. In the 
: of God and of the blessed Vir- 
receive thee into our holy order, 
idmit thee to the ordeal of our 
iate." 

e sobs of the two retainers had 
the only sign of their presence 
they had given while the knight 
peaking ; but now the old squire 
limself at his feet, and in broken 
its besought him to have pity 
5 poor vassals, and not abandon 
to the scoffs and outrages of the 
y of his house. 

lave pity on us," repeated the 
wringing his hands. 
[y friends, weep not like women," 
'.d their master, " I have thought 
jrything. God will comfort my 
Mother, and she will rejoice to 
her son a knight of the holy Vir- 
My kinsman Gaston will be 
Orel ; he is worthy of the inherit- 

1 leave him, for he has a noble 
generous heart. He is young, 
rue, but I will place him under 
itelage of Messire Bertrand du 
:lin, and foolhardy will he be who 
then attack our house or harm 
ssals. Reverend Father, I crave 
[lospitality for my two retainers, 

entreat you to permit me now 
k peace and strength in prayer." 

2 prior took his hand and con- 
d him in silence to the chapel, 
gle lamp burnt before the sanc- 

and shed a faint, solemn light 
the image of our Lady of Mercy. 
[ prostrated himself at the foot 
: altar and poured forth his ar- 
joul in supplication. When he 

the marble steps were wet with 



ather," he said to the prior, 
n strong now — the sacrifice is 
iplished." 

; young convert passed that 
in writing. He addressed a 



The Sacrifice and the ^O/Ufif/^o ^ ^ \ 4S9 

long and loving leMUo 1^ mother, 
relating to her ainilsrl&uggle — ^his 
burning wish for vengeance, his fear 
of shame, the tender mercy that had 
touched his heart : the parchment <»i 
which he wrote was stained with 
many a tear. " I could not remain 
in the secular world without reveng- 
ing our injuries," said he in conclu- 
sion, " I have left it that I may par- 
don. Honored lady and dear mo- 
ther, bless your son and pray for 
him." 

To Messire Bertrand du GuescUn 
he gave a rapid sketch of the facts, 
and besought his protection for his 
young kinsman, now Lord of Mont- 
orgueil. 

A third letter still remained to be 
written ; how much it cost him to 
break this last link with the outward 
world, was revealed by the sobs that 
burst from his quivering lips, by the 
tears that dropped heavily on the oak- 
en table on which he leaned. " No," 
cried he at last, " this tie cannot be 
broken," and taking his pen he trac- 
ed some hurried words: they were 
addre^ed to his brother-in-arms, his 
friend, his playmate in happy child- 
hood, his rival in his first feats of 
arms. 

" Dear Aymar," were his conclu- 
ding words, "my heart can never 
change toward you — oh ! believe that 
it beats the same under the monk's 
frock as under the knight's armor! 
Jvr loveofnUi Aymar, avenge not my 
quarrel." 

The ancient squire, who had passed 
the night in lamentations, interrupt- 
ed only by exclamations of indignant 
surprise at the peaceful slumbers of 
his young companion, looked very sad 
and weary when Raoul entered his 
chamber at break of day. 

" Michel," said the knight, " spare 
me your reproaches and tears ; they 
can avail nothing to change my pur- 
pose, but I have need oi ai^ tiv^ ^"Oa^ 



TAe Sacrifice and the Ransom. 



49« 



; the state, without money or 
IS unable either to prevent or 
At length the brave du 
1 imagined a means to employ 
ery spirits. He sought the 
ble band, then encamped on 
ns of Chalon, at the head of 
dred chevaliers, and address- 
1 : " Most of you," said he, 
>nce my companions-in-arms, 
all my friends. Your voca- 
lot to ravage and destroy, but 
[uer and save. Necessity, 
<now, has forced you to such 
lies. I come now to offer you 
ns of living honorably and of 
gloriously. Spain gp'oans be- 
le yoke of the Saracen : would 
rather choose to be the de- 
of a great nation than the 
his fair country ?" 
lese words the Free Com- 
surrounded the chief, and 
husiastic acclamations swore 
man to follow him whitherso- 
should lead. The noblest 
rench chivalry joined the en- 
and Spain soon reechoed 
well-known war-cry of " No- 
e Guesclin !" 

Sire of Valeri and young 
of Boncourt were among the 
)f du Guesclin's gallant band, 
ir exploits soon became the 
themes of the troubadours 
vbres of tuneful, glory-loving 
But when the chief and his 
is warriors returned to their 
md, Aymar and the Sire of 
ere not among them. Had 
len in the last bloody en- 
' Had they been traitorously 
1 and were they now lan- 
in some Moorish dungeon ? 
af the adventurers affirmed 
two knights had embarked 
ice, but no vessel from Gal- 
reached a port of Brittany, 
'athers of the Order of Mercy 
on aware of the rumors that 



circulated concerning the fate of the 
two bravest chevaliers of the age; 
their continual efforts to collect funds 
for the ransom of captives placed 
them in communication with all parts 
of Christendom, and the news of the 
disappearance of the Sire of Valeri 
quickly reached the ears of Brother 
Sainte Foi. The mysterious fate of 
him who was Raoul's enemy sad- 
dened him, but terrible indeed was 
the pang he felt when he learnt that 
his friend Aymar was also lost. All 
his fortitude, all his resignation, sud- 
denly forsook him, and he wept bit- 
terly. 

" My son," said the prior reproach- 
fully, " I thought thou wast dead to 
all earthly things." 

" O reverend father !" replied 
he, "earthly things are perishable, 
but holy friendship comes from 
Heaven and dieth not. Let me weep 
for my friend. David wept for Jona- 
than ; their souls were one ; mine 
also was one with Aymar's." 

From this time forward the young 
monk seemed to waste away, his 
cheek grew thinner and paler, his 
eyes were dim and tear-worn. In 
vain, hoping to arouse him, his .su- 
perior sent him without, to seek funds 
for their work of charity ; no change 
of scene could dispel the melancholy 
languor that had taken possession ot 
him, and the whole fraternity de- 
plored that so pious and ardent a 
spirit would, in all probability, be so 
soon taken from among them. After 
much anxious deliberation the chap- 
ter at last resolved to invest him 
with the title and functions of Re- 
demptorist, and, on account of his 
youth and inexperience, to associate 
him with an aged monk who had 
been several times sent on the errand 
of love and mercy. 

Brother Sainte Foi was according- 
ly summoned one day before tJoib «6r 
sembled fathers. 



The Sacrifice and the Ransom. 



493 



"we have come hither in the 
[ace for the salvation of your 
during eight days we shall be 
aiting to listen to your confes- 
and to give you ghostly conso- 
to preach to you the word of 
id to bestow on you the sacra- 
of our holy mother church. In 
;ond place, we have come to 
aryour deliverance from cap- 
Pray for us, brethren, that 
y worthily acquit ourselves of 
;red tasks." 

unhappy slaves, whose hopes 
irs could be read in their agi- 
satures, gave a great cry when 
xi father ceased speaking. It 
I as if despair was calling on 
for mercy, and then slowly 
sw. 

next, and the following days, 
vrA masters besieged the hos- 
ite, and the two monks knew 
moment's rest while daylight 
Each evening, when they 
ice more alone. Father Sainte 
>uld enquire eagerly of his 
ompanion if he thought that 
}uld be able to ransom all the 
s. 

I shall be able to save them 
ler, shall we not?" he would 
ti trembling anxiety ; " I have 
sd their hopes to-day that I 
ot leave one now to despair." 
er Antoine returned no an- 
these enquiries ; he seemed 
to avoid the pleading eyes 
2d to read his thoughts. So 
the eight days allowed them 
infidel. At length, on the eve 
fixed for their departure, a lit- 
re the solemn hour, when all 
es that the alms of the faith- 
been able to ransom were to 
;ndered into the hands of the 
ptorists, the old man sought 
ng coadjutor. 

»re are two hundred and twen- 
• brother," cried he, with a ra- 



diant look of triumph; " and we have 
ransomed them all !" 

" All, father ! oh i thank God and 
our Lady;" and the monk cast him- 
self on his knees, and prayed silent- 
ly ; then rising, clasped the good old 
father in his arms, in an ecstasy of 

joy- 
That night Father Antoine repeat- 
ed the evening prayer, as usual, with 
the captives, but his voice trembled, 
while Father Sainte Foi could scarce- 
ly restrain his tears. All hearts beat 
hard, and every face was pale and 
anxious. In the midst of the solemn 
silence that followed the repetition of 
•the last supplication to the throne of 
grace, the priest arose ^lowly, and 
cast upon the woe-begone crowd a 
look so pitiful and so loving, that 
consolation seemed to fall like hea- 
venly dew upon even the most des- 
pondent. 

" Brethren," said he, " dear breth- 
ren ! dear children I this is the 
twelfth time that the honored title 
of Redemptorist has been conferred 
on me ; sometimes it has been the 
cause of much pain and disappoint- 
ment to me, sometimes too of great 
joy." 

Here the slaves stretched their 
trembling hands toward him, but 
their lips uttered no sound. 

" My children, my dear children I 
at this moment ray heart overflows 
with joy !" 

A cry, a terrible, unearthly cry 
escaped from every mouth, as, moved 
by one and the same impulse, the libe- 
rated slaves flung themselves on their 
knees. 

" In the name df our omnipotent 
God and of the Mother of our Re- 
deemer, the Blessed Lady of Mercy, 
I, an unworthy priest, and my com- 
panion here present, declare you to 
be all free I The alms of the faith- 
ful have been sufficient to ransom 
you all. All of you, CbxialvaLtkYn^^ 



The Sacrifice and the Ransom. 



49S 



stifled voice as he fell back 

.le. 

p I help !" exclaimed Aymar, 

IS indeed he, " I have killed 

id !" 

inconscious father was car- 

o the hospital chapel, Aymar 

ng him in his arms, while 

mingled joy and grief cours- 

n his thin cheeks. Father 

desired him to retire, but 
il his friend gave signs of re- 
life would Aymar leave him, 
: in silence at the other end 
hapel the effect of the aged 
:onsolations and admonitions, 
ler Antoine," spoke the young 
t length, raising himself on 
:h on which he had been laid, 
low the vow I made on the 
ly profession ? If gold I had 

give my body for the ran- 

Christian captives. That 
come, father, but I cannot 
)etween these two. One is — 

my enemy, and the other 
learest friend! O reverend 

fear to fail in my duty to- 
xl if I refuse to return good 

if I leave the Sire of Valeri 
vity. And yet — how can I 
ira to my dear Aymar ? — to 
"or whom I would gladly give 

Venerable father, help me 
:errible struggle and choose 

d !" cried Aymar, coming for- 
there is no choice needful 
Zzxi you believe, Raoul, that 
Dcept your sacrifice ? What, 
ave in my place 1 / return 
France at the cost oiyour 
! Raoul, Raoul, ' do you 
le so little ? If your noble 
rompts you to ransom the 
''aleri at such a cost, let it be 
lever will Aymar consent to 
nself !" 

erous friend 1" exclaimed the 
aonk, seizing his hand. 



"Nay, Raoul, we. have been bro- 
thers-in-arms, we will now be bro- 
thers-in-chains ; it is but a change 
of harness I" The two friends threw 
themselves into each other's arms, 
and Father Antoine blessed them 
while he wept. 

" I cjmnot prevent you from making 
this sacrifice, my son," said he, at 
length, " it is according to our holy 
rules ; but if God grant me life, next 
spring will see me here again to 
deliver you both. And now go, tell 
the Sire of Valeri what your chari^ 
has inspired you to do for him." 

" No, no, father ; I must not see 
him again. He is too proud — I 
know him well — to receive a gift 
from the hands of Raoul de Montor- 
gueil ; he would rather die a slave 
than be delivered by me. Let him 
never learn, I entreat you, by what 
means he recovered his freedom." 

" It is well, my brother ; it shall be 
as you desire." 

Father Antoine hastened to the 
beach, where he found the Sire of 
Valeri recovered from his swoon. 
Without further explanation the good 
father told him simply that he was 
free, and invited the Mussulman, his 
master, to accompany him back to 
the hospital, where Father Sainte 
Foi, with a calm, clear voice, pro- 
posed to the astonished unbeliever to 
take him, a strong, young man — and 
he showed his muscular, nervous 
arm — in exchange for the broken- 
down and aged slave on the strand. 

The avaricious master willingly 
accepted an offer so advantageous 
to himself, and Father Sainte Foi 
put on with a smile of ineffable hap- 
piness, the chains that had weighed 
so heavily on the once stalwart limbs 
of the enemy of his name and race. 
Father Antoine pressed his lips rev- 
erentially to those chains, and then 
seizing his cross, hastened to take 
his place at the head of the lotv^Vvnib 



yoseph GSrres. 



497 



nOM THa CSKMAK OF DK. J. >. HINKr. 



JOSEPH GORRES. 



A LIFE-PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR OF DIE MYSTIK. 



;lls of Coblenz were tolling 
lis at noon on January 25th, 
feast of the Conversion of 
when John Joseph Gorres 

the son of a timber mer- 
n old Catholic family of the 
I. In this traditional land 
eauty, poetry, and art Gor- 

his childhood. Here he 
first studies, devoting him- 
ially to history, geography, 
atural sciences, which had 

peculiar attraction. This 

the University of Bonn to 
dicine as a profession. But 
s were hardly begun than 
i, so that Gorres, who, later, 
ny disciples himself, never 
T length of time at the feet 

IT. 

rent of the French revolu- 
over his home, and carried 
along on its waves. At a 
exciting, when all order 
> be destroyed, and when 
evil were so strongly mark- 
Gorres rose above his com- 
arkable for his uncommon 
Jent, a powerful eloquence, 
ermined, persevering cha- 
ardly twenty years old, he 
y great weight in the clubs ; 
ifluence became still more 
t by the publication of a 
aper called The Red Let- 
i, suppressed by the re- 
lirectory, reappeared with 
>f Ptuk in Blue; and a 
called The Political Me- 
ill distinguished for their 
ind philosophical depth of 
—32 



thought, as well as for a vigorous and 
glowing style. 

At the age of twenty-four he was 
sent, at the head of a deputation, in 
November, 1799, to Paris, to obtain 
from the First Consul, in whom Gor- 
res already saw the future emperor 
and despot, the cessation of the op- 
pressive occupation of the Rhine pro- 
vince. . In a pamphlet entitled Re-- 
suit of my Embassy to Paris in BAt'" 
maire VIII., A.D. 1800, he gave a 
full account of his mission ; but ex- 
pressed a complete change in his 
political opinions, after he had clearly 
perceived the abyss in which the 
French revolution ended; and he 
never after this returned to the errors 
of his youth. 

When, at a later date, Gorres stood 
forth as the champion of the rights 
and freedom of the Catholic Church, 
his enemies reproached him with 
having proved a traitor to the cause 
of liberty, which he had defended in 
his youth, and tried to represent him 
sometimes as a revolutionist, and then 
again as a man of weak, inconsequent, 
and vacillating character. He was 
thus severely blamed for an enthusi- 
astic aberration of youth, into which 
not only Schiller but even the grave 
and aged Klopstock, as well as many 
other distinguished Germans of the 
time, had fallen. 

It was a time of such confusion that 
even the foundations of the earth 
quaked and the stars from heaven fell. 
The glorious edifice of the German 
empire, encircled with the halo of a 
thousand years of ^oty, Ya,d cxvrat- 



yoseph Gorres. 



499 



roust be aroused. Noth- 
have more power, in this 
jan the revival of the hither- 
ed Christian-German mid- 
nd its glorious ballad poe- 
this purpose the Pilgrim, a 
•as started by Arnim, Bren- 
Gorres. The undertaking 
the want of cooperation ; 
iced fruit at a later period. 
as more successful in ob- 
la purjjose in the year 1807 
'■erman Books for the Pea- 
ich he held up to the eyes 
ntemporaries the mirror of 
e ages. 

ig his mind more and more 
:o the Christian middle age, 
rehensive intellect turned 
ion to another domain of 
wnely, to the primeval limes 
ast. After his return to 
in 1808, appeared in two 
his Mythology of the Asia- 
\ a work of great impor- 
ich influenced considerably 
of both Creuzer and Schel- 
ihe same time he explained 
Biytholog)', as contained in 
; cultivated the German 
muse, and enriched the 
of the Nibelung Song, by 
ndiscovered fragments. 
Jorres was tlius engaged, a 
mge had taken place in 
The absolutism and god- 
)f the revolution naturally 
: unlimited despotism of 
. His was not the tyranny 
tutc force, as in the barba- 
but a despotism engender- 
adem civilization and en- 
tism. Napoleon made 
of the revolution sub- 
11, and with them con- 
e degenerate nations of 
the corruption and infi- 
age of Louis XIV. and 
hich caused the revolu- 
re or less extended and 



felt in the neighboring nations in the 
eighteenth century. Hence, France 
was to be punished, first by Jier own 
hands, and, through her, the other 
peoples were to be chastised. 

Since Christianity had destroyed 
the universal monarchy of Rome, 
God had never allowed another to 
arise and destroy the autonomy of 
nations, and with it the independence 
of the church ; for both are insepara- 
ble. WTiat was the empire Napoleon 
tried to found but the same work 
which the Hohenstaufens failed in 
accomplishing; what was it else but 
an attempt to revive the old Roman 
pagan sovereignty of the world ? 
His work seemed completed ; the 
outside power of all the states of the 
continent seemed broken ; within, 
minds were enslaved, and, under the 
appearance of liberal forms, freedom 
was destroyed ; the sciences, the 
whole instruction of youth moulded, 
on military' principles, to aid the im- 
perial power ; religion even became 
ihe handmaid of worldly majesty, and 
a mere affair of policy ; the pope him- 
self, the last refuge of religious liberty, 
was in chains, for refusing to become 
the court chaplain of the new Caesar. 

Thus stood matters, when the spi- 
rit of God, breathing over the earth, ^ 
destroyed the enchanter who had 
chained victory to his car of triumph, 
and awaked the nations from the 
slumber of death. That was a grand 
period in histor\> when the nations • 
arose, and above all Germany — Ger- 
many that had been the most enslaved 
and dishonored, because she had be- 
trayed, disgraced, and sold herself. 
Peoples broke their gyves on the 
head of the conqueror. The man 
who, at this time above all his con- 
temporaries, felt the chains of slavery 
iji his very soul, and in whose heart 
the flames of patriotism burned most 
brightly; whose genius made him 
the spokesman, heTa\d,a.T\d^xo^Vve.\. ol 



500 



yoseph Gorres. 



liberty against French despotism, 
was Joseph Gorres. In the year 
1814 he left his retirement, and, con- 
scious of his vocation by the spirit 
that quickened him, he spoke out for 
all in the name of God and father- 
land. He edited the Mercury of tfu 
Rhim^ a journal which has never 
been equalled since. As Menzel ob- 
senes, he wrote it, not with ink, but 
with fire ; and in a short time this 
newspaper, full of Gorres' best essays, 
became universally received as the . 
vehicle of public opinion. Napoleon 
himself felt the influence of this 
powerful journal, and called the man 
at Coblenz the fifth of tlie allied 
powers against him. It was in the 
Mercury of the Rhine that Gorres 
wrote the " Proclamation to the Peo- 
ples of Europe," which he puts into 
the mouth of Napoleon after the es- 
cape from Elba. In this proclama- 
tion the character of the great sol- 
dier is p>ersonified with a creative 
power hardly surpassed by any pro- 
duction of Shakespeare's genius.* 

It was not enough, then, to crush 
the Napoleonic tyranny ; but it was 
also necessary to renovate the Euro- 
pean states, especially Germany, with 
an infusion of Christian and national 
^principles ; and thus connect, in an 
enduring relation, the rights of princes 
and the nobility with the liberties of 
the people. It was then the convic- 
tion of many, and of the best men, 
that the unity, the freedom, and the 
kjfreatness of Germany could be placed 
■ on a solid foundation only by a rein- 
kstallment of the old empire, under 
which Germany had existed and 
flourished for a thousand year^. Of 

* At the end uF Ihli fictitiout pnclamajfnn Napo- 
leon U niadc to ctprus himKlf lliut : " I luve con- 
quered the revolution, and then devuured and uai- 
IKiUced it to my»el(i and worked thmush it and br it» 
4pTce«. But now, tired out. I give it t»ck to you unin- 
jured, and >pew it out upon jrou. And you willcooli- 
oue In tile condition in which I foimd yoo; for m)r 
■;iirit rest! upon ynu, though my body may be ab- 
»ei>t." After a period of afty thr«e yean the** worda 
wem sdll fophetic 



this conviction Gorres vnxe a 
year 1819 : "A glance at the 
of the past shows us that 
was the true guardian and refuge 
Christianity, and a bulwark 
internal and external enemies, 
when its stirring, living^ vari-ctj 
made unity under the directioa 
sole emperor. It therefore 
almost an instinct with many, 
the stone which the builders r 
should become the head of the 
ner ; that the old ideas should be 
vived, quickened with an infusion 
young blood, and accommodated 
the march of progress." Some of 
ablest men agreed with C61 
vor of a revival of the old 
empire, modified according to 
dem notions. 

This was the ideal for the 
tion of which Gorres strove with 
the power of his genius and 
quence ] while at the same tisM 
attacked with vigor the egotism 
meanness of selfish jxilitics 
ever he met ihcra. On this ai 
as the most independent and yet 
most conservative pubhcist of 
time, he came into collision with 
statesmen and go\-ernments. H 
the Mercury of the Rhine was 
pressed ; but Gorres, in a 
called the Future ContHHon tf 
many, stilt argued for the 
lishment of the old empire. In \ti\ 
during the famine, he went froim B 
delberg to his own li 
became president of .1 
and thus was a benefactor ot 
Rhine province. At the same 
he found leisure to publish 
German Ballads and Ctauic 
Appointed director of public 
tion by Justus Grijner, governor 
the middle countries of th<; Rhiat 
he was soon rcn>oved froto his p^ 
sition by the Prussian govefwn*** 
and offered a Large pcruuoo if b 
would agree to tvritc nothiag 




h o ttaij i 



existing order. But money 
>ersonal interest never had the 
est influence over Gorres. By 
idress to the city and province 
A)Ienz ; and more especially by 
Dphlet published in 1820, on 
Wtny and the Rci'olution, he drew 
msclf the hatred of the prime 
ter Hardenberg, escaped im- 
minent in a fortress only bv 
I and not being able to succeed 
Itaining a trial by the ordinary 
iudges, he never more returned 
■ birthplace. 

I spent almost a year in Stras- 
' where he occupied his leisure 
tin translating from the Persian 
pic poem of Shah Nameh of 
isi. It is called The Heroes of 
J and was published in two vol- 
in 1820. From Strasburg he 
rto Swtzerland which he travel- 
foot ; and from the Alpine 
ts he studied and looked down 
the past and present of Europe, 
w with a prophet's eye the his- 
its future. He wrote in twen- 
n days the fruits of his mcdi- 
on European society, and 
them under the title of Eu- 
d the Re-i'olution. This was in 
Finding that all efforts to 
khe decree against him revoked 
ardenberg were vain, he wrote 
22 his work on The Condition 
4ffairs of the Rhine Province; 
Ive a full account of his thoughts, 
1^ and resignation in another work 
n on the eve of the Congress of 
la in 1822, entitled The Holy 
tee and the People in the Con- 
of Verona. After this he re- 
in Strasburg. 

cannot be denied that Gorres 
fcen carried away in his youth by 
>irit of the French revolution ; 
iat his faith, if not entirely de- 
,was then of a very uncertain 
ppery character. Still, we never 
him that poisonous hate and 



contempt for ireligion and the church, 
which the spirit of sect is apt to in- 
fuse into its votaries, and which ren- 
ders their minds almost impervious to 
truth. He was also saved by God 
from moral corruption. We even per- 
ceive in his early writings traces of 
that deep religious feeling which he 
had imbibed with his mother's milk, 
and of love for the religion of his 
race and fathers. In the Afercury of 
the Rhitte he often raised his voice in 
defence of the rights and interests of 
the abused Catholic Church. When 
he began to study more closely the 
dogmas and history of Christianity, 
he learned to appreciate it better, 
and grew less confident in the reign- 
ing German philosophy, which had 
captivated his youth. It was not the 
triumph of his system, but of truth 
that he sought with all the love of 
his heart, and the force and clear- 
ness of his penetrating genius. When 
he found tnith, no one could be a 
more ardent and able champion of it. 
There was no half-way in his charac- 
ter. He trampled on human respect. 
Undoubtedly it was at Strasburg 
that he became thoroughly catholi- 
cized. Maria Gorres, the heiress of 
her father's talents, thus beautifully 
and appropriately writes of his reli- 
gious life: " As in the legend of St. 
Christopher, he would obey only the 
strongest ; so can it be truly said of 
my father that he was tlie slave of 
truth and of truth alone. With great 
rectitude of heart he strove ever to 
attain it, and came nearer to it as he 
increased in years ; new prospects of 
it, and new insights into it, develop- 
ing gradually before his mind's eye. 
Principles were not for him the limits 
of science, but secure foundations on 
which he could build further without 
fear or deceit. He never wanted to 
systematize truth ; but rather to make 
systems subservient to it. Hence he 
never thought thai bis ovjtv discos- 



J 



yoseph Got res. 



50s 



te Gospel ceased to com- 
!spect, the civil power had 
force, and ihe liberty of llie 
id become unstable and unde- 
that Europe wavered with fe- 
itlessness between despotism 
chy, revolution and reaction. 

this doubtful conflict be- 
e egotism of princes and the 
of subjects, become wrapped 
ic natural and earthly, and 
the higher, spiritual and su- 
al. 

igating the causes of this de- 
Christianity, Gorres discov- 
,t the faith of Christ is not 
etter, but a thing endowed 
ne life ; and as political and 
! has stability and force only 
ate, so Christian life is only 
lurch, the kingdom founded 
It J and as a sound social 
depends on the autonomy 
lom of the state, so religious 
on the liberty of the church. 
le chief cause of the decay 
)n is in the dependence and 
n of the church to the state. 
Ueenth centur}', that age of 
and unbelief, had enslaved 
A ; the revolution and Na- 
nade the slavery complete- 
animus of the war of freedom 
igious as well as a national 

Holy Alliance, formed in 
c of the Trinity, proclaimed 
lity as the groundwork of 
nd popular rights ; but this 

enthusiasm of 1813 and 
t resting on the solid basis 
!3eing rather a vague feeling 
ronviction, soon cooled off, 
Christian principles of the 
liance were only written on 
rt on the hearts and minds 
gh contracting parties. In 
iligion and church remained 
>ressed and debased condi- 
hich Josephism and Napo- 
had traced them. Educat- 



ed in the school of the 18th century, 
and under Napoleonic influence, 
statesmen, even after the restoration, 
continued to mistrust the church, to 
keep her in the leading-strings of 
high policy, and repress every one of 
her free motions. To cap the climax 
of evil, the church herself, especially 
in Germany, was so poor and power- 
less, that she could make no valid 
opposition to the insulting guardian- 
ship of the state ; and even church- 
men were found weak and selfish 
enough to become the willing tools 
of the ci\Tl government in destroying 
their own rights. The curse and 
plague of the church has ever been 
cowardly or renegade churchmen. 
This enslavement of the church was 
most oppressive and dangerous in 
those districts of Germany which 
had been governed by catholic, and, 
as long as the empire lasted, by spiri- 
tual lords, but were now controlled 
by Protestant rulers. These, accus- 
tomed to Protestant teaching, which 
admitted an unlimited civil sur\'eil- 
lance in ecclesiastical affairs, were 
only too willing to exercise their pow- 
er over the Catholic Church. They 
wished and hoped to sever her con- 
neqition with Rome ; change her into 
a national church, and, uniting her 
with Lutherans and other sectaries, 
form one state church. Such a 
thought will not appear strange to 
us, if we consider that religious in- 
difference reigned supreme, particu- 
larly among the educated classes. 
A fierce battle, not with the material 
sword, but with the weapons of faith 
and talent, was to be fought, in order 
to free the church from the shackles 
of state control. The standard-bear- 
er in this great conflict was, again, 
Joseph Gorres. 

The 1 1 th of November, 1837, marks 
the turning-point of the career of the 
modem church in Germany, From 
that date it revived and YiegjLTv to \it 



yast^ Gifms, 



505 



n, rationalism, and infi- 
lade ravages, and men 
5 was the faith of the Ca- 
ptions? A striking an- 
( question was the Pil- 
rrier; the extraordinary 

over a million of free 
g their living belief in 
an of God ', a proof that 

people despised sham 
id sham enlightenment, 
is at defiance, and pro- 
me faith as in the days 
!rs. This was the mean- 
emarkable event, which 
ins in his last published 
died the Pilgrimage to 

1 ceased to be a publicist 
en countless works ; he 
ith with word and work, 
done more. No one had 
ly into the future. He 
selfishness in hig^ and 
lemies were countless, 
ived so much abuse as 
'as the object of greater 
ore fierce persecution. 
seek in vain for one ivord 
gainst his adversaries in 
wrks. His blood boils; 
•h; his lips quiver; his 
vously along the paper; 
'low and thrill in defence 
f he is never abusive or 
e chastises wickedness, 
y with the knife of sa- 
rges folly by his wit ; but 
3f the battle he has ever 
id to stretch out to his 
ould that all our modem 
ight take a lesson from 
sspecti 

ings from the standpoint 
ndence, and having no 
at of seeing the divine 
I, he was always tranquil 
>f storms and confusion, 
as a publicist are conse- 
merely ephemeral, kx kA 



passing importance but contain the 
most profound views on the relatioiu 
of church and state, on the dogmas 
of religion, the principles of philo- 
sophy, politics, and history. 

But the influence of Gorres was 
not confined to mere journalism ; he 
studied and developml science and 
art Gorres possessed immense 
knowledge ; yet little of it was school 
learning. He had aided to free his 
&therland and the church ; he also 
helped to free science and art from 
their shackles. The learned almost 
despised the supernatural. The lives 
of Uie saints were looked on as so 
many myths ; their miracles absurd ; 
ahd everything that was not rational 
or natural was considered as the !»• 
suit of superstition and ignorance. 
In order to counteract this tendency 
of the age, and bring out boldly the 
belief in the supernatural, Gdrres 
wrote in i8a6, his St. IhrandSt a 
TVoubadour; in 1837, Emmtmud 
Swedeniorgt his Visions^ and Rela^n 
to the Church; an introduction to 
Diepenbrock's edition of the works 
of Blessed Henry Suso ; and in 184a, 
his greatest work, in five volume en- 
titled Christian Mysticism, 

The foundation and source of all 
mystic theology is the incarnation of 
God, the union of the divine with the 
human, in order that the latter should 
be united with the divine. But what 
took place in Christ is not merely a 
passing events but a living, enduring 
act of God ; who continues the in- 
carnation in the most holy sacrament 
of the altar, the mystery of mysteries ; 
through which the wonderful life and 
works of Christ, according to his pro- 
mise, are continued in the saints of 
his church. Hence come the super- 
natural phenomena of visi(His and ec- 
stasies in the corporal and si»ritual 
life of the saints. Gorres sought to 
give not a bare, dry history of those 
marrelsi but to ei{ibm «eA ^kcr^ 



yoseph GSrres. 



SOT 



f executed from deep foun- 
spire-top ; rich and finish- 
rpieces; Ijut entirely dis- 
different from other crea- 
he human mind by their 
holy, and ecclesiastical 
Hence arises .their un- 
in our time. Those who 
) understand and love art, 
idmire only the superficial, 
Qcapable of fathoming the 
. work of Gorres, and com- 
g, in all its grandeur and 
his spiritual architecture. 
Dns who have genius enough 
leeply are inspired by too 
spirit to contemplate pro- 
feel the force of Gorres' 
which the incense of the 
>lies is ever wreathing with 
)us aroma. The literati, 
call him bombastic ; and 
ophists say he is mystical; 
ne of the richest and deep- 
cts of the nation remains 
to them, if not actually 
3f their contempt." Thus 

t observation is not, how- 
ely true. As Catholic Ger- 
kes from its lethargy, and 
lally higher over the mate- 
d frivolity of the present, 
rith it again into notice the 

eternal ideas of religion 
y, recalling the glories of 
days, attested by its grand 
:s and cathedrals, the fame 

will grow, his merits be 
his mind and services be 
ireciated. Men will say of 
e future what he himself 
n of the architect of the 

of Cologne in his little 
TAe Cathedral of Cologne 

Minster of Strasburg : 
thedral of Cologne is the 
ne of the greatest minds 

left a trace of its power 

The dizzy height of the 



building, which we cannot contem- 
plate without awe, gives its an idea 
of the profundity of the genius that 
planned it In the conceiver of 
such a work were harmoniously blen- 
ded the most singular and excep- 
tional mental faculties. A creative 
imagination, productive as nature, 
which takes pleasure in the genera- 
tion of manifold forms of being; 
power of intellect, which penetrates 
the very essence of things, and com- 
prehends the whole ideal realm 
without effort ; a clearness of appre- 
hension, which, like a flash, lays bare 
Ae darkest objects ; a reason which 
grasps the relation of. things with 
perspicuity ; arranging with ease 
their synthetic and analytic connec- 
tions ; finally, a deep feeling and 
sentiment of the beautiful, of the 
most pure and exalted character ; all 
united to make their possessor ca- 
pable for his undertaking. Besides, 
had he succeeded in completing it, 
he must have possessed a persever- 
ing will, a most extensive tech- 
nical knowledge of the arts and 
trades ; and an amount of practical 
knowledgje which alone would make 
him an extraordinary genius." Gor- 
res, in thus describing the architect 
of the Cologne Cathedral, leaves us 
his own portrait. , 

The private life of Gorres was free 
from blame ; and in this regjard he 
is a model among so many distin- 
guished men, who are not always 
free from reproach in their domestic 
relations. Even his youth was 
marked by no follies. His domestic 
life was pure, and he brought up his 
children not only with a high intel- 
lectual training, but also in the fear 
of God and in the principles of 
Christian morality. 

His house was the picture of a 
German farmer's. It was open to 
every gobd man, and closed oxvVf Ma 
the wicked and false. lx& laaaXKt 



Nature and Grace. 



S09 



e, by aping foreign manners, to 
r the fatherland to which we be- 
by speech and nativity ; a liber- 
of the church from state tute- 
, which injured the civil as 
as the ecclesiastical power; 
erator of the sciences from the 
kles of rationalism and infi- 
y; a liberator of the catholic 
t and of catholic self-conscious- 
from the slumber of indifferent- 
and the chains of the spirit of 
age ; an agitator and excitator 
he in the cause of truth and 



virtue ; he dragged Catholic Germany 
out of the miry dungeon of pusilla- 
nimity, taught her self-respect, and 
made the blood, which had been 
stagnant, flow again in her veins. 
As O'Connell loved his country, his 
church, and liberty, so did Gorres ; 
especially that true liberty which is 
as distinct from the false as God b 
from idols. May Germany and the 
church never want geniuses like 
Gorres in their need ; and may God 
send a shower of such men to our 
own United States 1 



NATURE AND GRACE. 



' the article on Rome and the 
Id in the Magazine for Novem- 
ast, it was shown that there is 
repressible conflict between the 
t which dominates in the world 
that which reigns in the church, 
e antagonism which there is and 
: be between Christ and Satan, 
aw of life and the law of death ; 
every one who has attempted to 
in strict obedience to the law of 
has found that he has to sustain 
inceasing warfare between the 
t and the flesh, between the law 
e mind and the law in the mem- 
We see the right, we approve 
5 resolve to do it, and do it not. 
are drawn away from it by the 
ctions of the flesh, our appetites, 
ions, and carnal aflections, so 
the good we would do, we do not, 
the evil we would not, that we 
This, which is really a struggle 
ir own bosom between the higher 
ne and the lower, is sometimes 
rded as a struggle between na- 
and grace, and taken as a proof 
our nature is evil, and that be- 



tween it and grace there is an inher- 
ent antagonism which can be remov- 
ed only by the destruction either of 
nature by grace, or of grace by nature. 
Antagonism there certainly is be- 
tween the spirit of Christ and the 
spirit of the world, and in the bosom 
of the individual between the spi- , 
rit and the flesh. This antagonism 
must last as long as this life lasts, for 
the carnal mind is not subject to the 
law of God, neither indeed can be ; 
but this implies no antagonism be- 
tween the law of grace and the law of 
nature \ for there is, as St. Paul as- 
sures us, " no condemnation to them 
who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not 
according to the flesh." (Rom. viii. 
I.) Nor does this struggle imply that 
our nature is evil or has been cor- 
rupted by the fall ; for the Council of 
Trent has defined that the flesh in* 
deed inclines to sin, but is not itself 
sin. It remains even after baptism, 
and renders the combat necessary 
through life \ biit they who resist it 
and walk after the spirit are not sin- 
ners, because they TeXaki \X^ le^\ \\& 



Nature and Grace. 




I 



I 



motions, and are exposed to its se- 
ductions. All evil originates in the 
abuse of good, for God has never 
made anything evil. We have suf- 
fered and suffer from original sin ; 
we have lost innocence, the original 
righteousness in which we were consti- 
tuted, the gifts originally added there- 
to, or the integrity of our nature — as 
immunity from disease and death, the 
subjection of the body to the soul, 
the inferior soul to the higher — and 
fallen into a disordered or abnormal 
state ; but our nature has undergone 
no entitative or physical change or 
corruption, and it is essentially now 
what it was before the fall. It re- 
tains all its original faculties, and 
these all retain their original nature. 
The understanding lacks the super- 
natural light that illumined it in the 
state of innocence ; but it is still un- 
derstanding, and still op>erates and 
can operate only ad verUaUm ; free- 
will, as the Council of Trent defines, 
has been enfeebled, attenuated, either 
positively in itself by being dcsjwilcd 
of its integrity and of its supernatu- 
ral endowment, or negatively by the 
greater obstacles in the appetites and 
passions it has to overcome ; but it is 
free-will still, and operates and can 
operate only propter bonitatcm. We 
can will only good, or things only in 
the respect that they are good, and 
only for the reason they are good. 
We do not and cannot will evil as evil, 
or for the sake of evil. The object 
and only object of the intellect is 
truth, the object and only object of 
the will is good, as it was before the 
prevarication of Adam or original 
sin. 

EX'en our lower nature, concupiscen- 
tia, in which is the fames peccati, is 
still entitatively good, and the due sa- 
tisfaction of all its tendencies is use- 
ful and necessary in the economy of 
human life. Food and drink are ne- 
cessary to supply the waste oi the 



body and to maintain its health i 
strength. Every natural affedion.] 
sion, appetite, or tendency points 
a good of some sort, which cannot I 
neglected without greater or less il 
jury; nor is the sensible pU 
that accompanies the gratlttcatioo ( 
our nature in itself e\-il, orwitboiitl 
good and necessary end. 
then, is the evil, and in what 
the damage done to our nattm 
original sin ? The damage, andto~ 
from the aslpa, or sin and consequoitj 
loss of communion with God, is in I 
disorder introduced, the abnc 
development of the flesh or the 
petites and passions consequent* 
their escape from the control of 
son, their fall under Satanic 
ence, and the ignoble slaver}', 
they became dominant, to whickl 
they reduce reason and free-will 
ministers of their pleasure. All t^J 
tendencies of our nature have 
its special end, which each 
without respect for the special codsj 
of the others \ and hence, if not »• 
strained by reason within the bouods { 
of moderation and sobriety, they ran 
athwart one another, and introduce 
into the bosom of the ii ' ' (iis-j 

order and anarchy, wh- .eed' 

the disordcr.and anarchy, the tyranny 
and oppression, the wars and r • i.- In<n 
in society. The appetites ami 
are all despotic and destitti- 
son, each seeking blindly 
all its force its special graiitKaliOO, 
and the evil is in the 5tru:;n;lc ^ 
each for the masterj' of \\a 
and in their tendency to nu«~ — 
son and free-will their servants, or to 
bring the superior soul into boDdage 
to the inferior, as is said, when we UJ 
of a man, " He is the slave of his 
appetites," or " the slave of hi* p*** 
sions," so that we are led to pndtf 
a present and temporary goo^ 
though smaller, to a distant fuWt 
and etemaJ beatitude, thoi^ Vr 



djr greater. Hence, under their 

rot we not only are afflicted with 

mal disorder and anarchy, but 

lonie to regard the pleasure that 

Mtnpanies the gratification of our 

itive appetites and passions as 

peal and true end of life. We eat 

> drink, not in order to live, but 

Ive in order to eat and drink. We 

m sensual pleasure our end, the 

ve of our activity and the mea- 

of our progress. Hence we are 

m\ men, soTd under sin, follow 

bamal mind, which is antagonis- 

the spiritual mind, or to reason 
twill, which, though they do in 
camal man the bidding of the 
I, never approve it, nor mistake 
i the flesh craves for the true end 
VI. 

te antagonism here is antagonism 

ceo the spirit and the flesh, not 

■ntagonism between nature and 

m — certainly not between the law 

Iture and the law of grace. The 

bf nature is something verj' dif- 

|t from the natural laws of the 

^ists, which are simply physi- 

iws. Transcendentalists, huma- 

lans, and naturalists confound 

physical laws with what theolo- 

call the natural law as distin- 

;d from the revealed law, and 

as their rule of morals the maxim, 

low nature," that is, follow one's 

inclinations and tendencies. 

recognize no real difference be- 

thelawofobedicnceandthe law 

vitalion, and allow no distinc- 

tween physical laws and moral 

Hence for them there is a phy- 

ibut no moral order. The law 

ture, as recognized by theolo- 

and moralists, is a moral law, 

1 physical law, a law which is ad- 
d to reason and free-will, and 

Inds motives, not simply a mov- 
It is called natural because it 
bmulgated by the Supreme Law- 
r through natural reason, instead 



of supernatural revelation, and is, at 
least in a measure, known to all 
men ; for all men have reason, and a 
natural sense of right and wrong, and, 
therefore, a conscience. 

Natural reason is able to attain to 
the full knowledge of the natural law, 
but, as St, Thomas maintains, only in 
the f/i/i of the race. For the bulk of 
mankind a revelation is necessary to 
give them an adequate knowledge 
even of the precepts of the natural 
law ; but as in some men it can be 
known by reason alone, it is within 
the reach of our natural faculties, 
and therefore properly called natural. 
Not that nature is the source from 
which it derives its legal character, 
but the medium of its promulgation. 

The law of grace or the revealed 
law presupposes the natural law — ■ 
gratia snpponit uaturam — and how- 
ever much or little it contains that 
surpasses it, it contains nothing that 
contradicts, abrogates, or overrides it. 
The natural law itself requires that all 
our natural appgtites, passions, and 
tendencies be restrained within the 
bounds of moderation, and subordi- 
nated to a moral end or the true end 
of man, the great purjK)sc of his ex- 
istence ; and even Epicurus, who 
makes pleasure the end of our exist- 
ence, our supreme good, requires, at 
least theoretically, tlie lower nature to 
be indulged only with sobriety and 
moderation. His error is not so 
much in the indulgence he allowed 
to the sensual or carnal nature, which 
he was as well aware as others, needs 
the restraints of reason and will, as 
in placing the supreme good in the 
pleasure that accompanies the grati- 
fication of nature, and in giving as 
the reason or motive of the restraint, 
not the will of God, but the greater 
amount and security of natural plea- 
sure. The natural law not only com-, 
mands the restraint, but forbids us to 
make the pleasure the supTcrcve. ^ocA, 



512 



Nature and Grace. 



V 



or the motive of the restraint. It 
places the supreme good in the Ailfil- 
ment of the real purpose of our ex- 
istence, makes the proper motive jus- 
tice or right, not pleasure, and com- 
mands us to subordinate inclination 
to duty as determined by reason or 
the law itself. It requires the lower 
nature to move in subordination to 
the higher, and the higher to act al- 
ways in reference to tlie ultimate end 
of man, which, we know even from 
reason itself, is God, the final as well 
as the first cause of all things. The 
revealed law and the natural law here 
perfectly coincide, and there is no 
discrepancy between them. If. then, 
we understand by nature the law of 
nature, natural justice and equity, or 
what we know or may know natural- 
ly is reasonable and just, there is no 
contrariety between nature and grace, 
for grace demands only what nature 
herself demands. The supposed 
war of grace against nature is only 
the war of reason and free-will 
against appetite, p^^sion, and incli- 
nation, which can be safely followed 
only when restrained within proper 
bounds. The crucifixion or annihila- 
tion of nature, which Christian asce- 
ticism enjoins, is a moral, not a phy- 
sical crucifixion or annihilation ; the 
destruction of pleasure as our motive 
or end. No physical destruction of 
anything natural, nor physical change 
in anything natural, is demanded by 
grace or Christian perfection. The law 
of grace neither forbids nor diminish- 
es the pleasure that accompanies the 
satisfaction of nature ; it only forbids 
our making it our good, an end to 
be lived for. When the saints mor- 
tify the flesh, chastise the body, or 
sprinkle with ashes their mess of bit- 
ter herbs, it is to maintain inward 
freedom, to prevent pleasure from 
gaining a mastery over them, and be- 
coming a motive of action, or per- 
haps oftener from a love of sacrifice. 



and the desire to share with Chnt 
in his sufferings to redeem the «odd. 
We all of us, if we have any 
thies, feel an invincible repugt 
to feasting and making merry 
our friends, those we tenderly lo 
are suflering near us, and the 
see always the suffering Rede 
Christ in his agony in tlie 
and on the cross, before their 
him whom they love deeply, t« 
ly, with the whole heart ar 

But though the law of i 
the law of grace re.illy coiiu 
have so suffered from origina 
that we cannot, by our ui 
natural strength, perfectly \ 
the law of nature. The la" 
requires us to love God tt*Ui 
whole heart and with otir i 
soul, and with all our str. 
with all our mind, and oui 
as ourselves. This law, th. 
above our powers in iTi- 
is above them in our i- 
mal state. Grace is tiic 
ral assistance given us thrt. 
Christ to deliver us from the 
dage of Satan and the flesh, and I 
enable us to fulfil this great Ufl 
This is what is sometimes calleti i 
dicinal gr.icc ; and however 
nistic it may be to the moral i 
introduced by original sin and \ 
vated by actual sin, it is no nuire . 
t.igonistic to nature itself than b I 
medicine admiuistcred by the ]i)fi 
cian to the body to enable it to thnrt 
off a disease too strong for it, aadl 
recover its health. What assi] 
ture, aids it to keep the law 
tain to freedom and nonnal develop- 
ment, cannot be opposed to natutt i 
in any manner hurtful to it. 

Moreover, grace is not mcfrljr me*' 
dicinal, nor simply restricted to ifr 
pairing the damage done by nngina 
sin. Where sin abounded, grace < 
abounds. Whether, if man had vA\ 
sinned, God would have bcoooe 



Nature and Grace. 



sn 



)t is a question which we 
t raise here, any more than 
jtion whether God could or 
It, congruously with liis known 
ts, have created man in what 
ologians call the state of 
Iture, as he is now born, 
rations culpte tt ptena, and 
e for a natural beatitude ; for 
eed on all hands that he did 
reate him, and that the incar- 
s not restricted in its inten- 
effect to the simple redemp- 
inan from sin, original or ac- 
d his restoration to the inte- 
his nature, lost by the preva- 
lof Adam. All schools teach 
a matter of fact the incarna- 
ks higher and farther, and is 
d to elevate man to a super- 
order of spiritual life, and to 
lim a, supernatural beatitude, 
kd beatitude to which his na- 
ne is not adequate, 
regarded in the present de- 
God has not only his origin 
lupematural, but also his last 
, final cause. He proceeds 
)d as first cause, and returns 
IS final cause. The oriental 
S, the Egyptian, Hindu, Chi- 
»d the Buddhist, etc., all say 
K but fall into the error of 
hJm proceed from God by 
sanation, generation, forma- 
idevulopmcnt, and his return 
,as final cause, absorption in 
Ihe stream in the fountain, or 
I loss of individuality, which, 
I of being perfect beatitude 
M absolute personal annihila- 
pit these religions Iiavc origi- 
I a truth which they misap- 
,, pervert, or travesty. Man, 
jfistian faith and sound philo- 
Sach us, proceeds from God 
:ause by way of creation pro- 
I returns to him as final cause 
absorption in him or loss of 
ality. God creates man, not 
in.— 33 



indeed an independent, but a sub- 
stantive existence, capable of acting 
from his own centre as a second 
cause ; and however intimate may be 
his relation with God, he is always 
distinguish.ible from him, andean no 
more be confounded with him as his 
iinal cause than he can be confound- 
ed with him as his first cause. Not 
only the race but the individual man 
returns to God, and finds in him his 
supreme good, and individually unit- 
ed to him, through the Word made 
flesh, enjoys personally in him an 
infinite beatitude. 

God alike as first cause and as final 
cause is supernatural. And man 
therefore can neither exist nor find 
his beatitude without the intcneri- 
lion of the supernatural. He can 
no more rise to a supernatural beati- 
tude or beatitude in God without the 
supernatural act of God, than he 
could begin to exist without that act 
Tlic natural is created and finite, and 
can be no medium of the infinite or 
supernatural. Man, as he is in the 
present decree of God, cannot obtain 
his end, rise to his supreme good or 
beatitude, without a supernatural me^ 
dium. This medium in relation to 
the end, or in the teleological order, 
is the Word made flesh, God incqjj 
nate, Jesus Christ, the only mediator 
between God and men. Jesus Christ 
is not only the medium of our re- 
demption from sin and the conse- 
quences of the fall, but of our eleva- 
tion to the plane of a supernatural 
destiny, and perfect beatitude in the 
intimate and eternal possession of 
God, who is both our good and the 
Good in itself. This is a higher, aa 
infinitely greater good than man 
could ever have attained to by his 
natural powers even in a state of 
integral nature, or if he had not 
sinned, and had had no need of a Re- 
deemer ; and hence the apostle tells 
us where sin aboui\dedgta.ce sm^cxit. 



514 



Nature and Grace. 



bounded, and the church sings on 
Holy Saturday, Ofelix culpa. The 
incarnate Word is the medium of this 
superalMJunding good, as the Father 
is its principle and the Holy Ghost 
its consummator. 

Whether grace is something creat- 
ed, as Sl Thomas maintains, and as 
would seem to follow from the doc- 
trine of infused virtues asserted by 
the Council of Trent, or the direct 
action of the Holy Ghost within us, 
as was held by Petrus Lombardus, 
the Master of Sentences, it is certain 
that the medium of all grace given to 
enable us to attain to beatitude is 
the Incarnation, and hence is termed 
by theologians gratia Christi, and 
distinguishable from ihc^\m\Ae gratia 
Dei, which is bestowed on man in 
the initial order, or order of genesis, 
commonly the natural order, because 
its explication is by natural genera- 
tion, and not as the teleologicaJ or- 
der, by the election of grace. The 
grace of Christ by which our nature 
is elevated to the plane of the super- 
natural, and enabled to attain to a 
supernatural end or beatitude, can- 
not be opposed to nature, or in any 
sense antagonistic to nature. Nature 
is not denied or injured because its 
author prepares for it a greater, an 
infinitely greater than a natural or 
created good, to which no created 
nature by its own powers, however 
■exaltetl, could ever attain. Men 
may doubt if such a good remains for 
those who love our Lord Jesus Christ 
and by his grace follow him in the 
regeneration, but nobody can pretend 
that the proffer of such good, and the 
gift of the means to attain it, can be 
any injury or slight to nature. 

There is no doubt that in the flesh 
which resists grace, because grace 
would subordinate it to reason and 
free-will, but this, though the practi- 
cal difficulty, is not the real dialectic 
difficulty which metv feel in the way of 




accepting the Christian 
grace. Men object to it on 
ground that it substitutes grace 
nature, and renders nature good 
nothing in the Christian or teleolnp 
cal order — the order of return to Goc 
as our last end or (inal cause. Kr 
have anticipated and reiut«d tliK 
objection in condemning the paalk- 
istic doctrine of the orientals, and bjp 
maintaining that the return toGod£ 
without absorption in him, in I 
our individuality or distinct 
ity. 

The beatitude which the regcamle 
soul attains to in God by the grweof 
our Lord Jesus Christ is t 
tude of that ver)' individual 
proceeds, by way of creati* 
God. The saints by being 
God are not tost in hira, but 
glory their original human nature 
their identical personal exisi 
This the church plainly te: 
her cuitus sandorum. She 
the saints in heaven, and honors iliem 
as individuals distinct from God, vsA 
as distinct personalities ; and hco«, 
she teaches us that the saints arc soirt 
of.God only by adoption, and. (hoqgb 
living by and in the Incarnate W( 
are not themselves Christ, 
Word made flesh. In the 
tion, the human personality 
sorbed or superseded by the 
personality, so that the hn- 
assumed had a divine bn 
personality. The Word assanaed 
man nature, not a human 
Hence the error of the Nestoi 
Adoptionists, and also of 
in our own tiroes are willing to 
Mary the mother of Christ, but shrini 
from calling her e*OT6«of, or the 
Mother of God. But in the m 
who arc not hypostaticalljr united 
the Word, human nature not only 
mains unchanged, but retains its 
man personality ; and the safnts 
as really men^ as really btcmaa 



Jlw 



Nature and Grace. 



5J5 



lory, as they were while in 
and are the same human 
lat they were before either 
ion or glorification. The 
r her cultus samtorum, teach- 
jgard the glorified saints as 
an persons, and to honor 
tuman persons, who by the 
ice have merited the honor 
em. We undoubtedly hon- 
I his saints as well as in all 
of nature or of grace ; but 
r of God in his works is that 
and is not that which is 
to the saints. In the cultus 
, we not only honor him in 
i, but we also honor the 
mselves for their own per- 
rth, acquired not, indeed, 
race, but still acquired by 
1 is as much theirs as if it 
acquired by their unassist- 
il powers ; for our natural 
e from God as first cause, 
lan grace itself, only grace 
m through the Incarnation, 
it is objected, that grace 
nature, gratia supponit na- 
t St. Paul calls the regen- 
new creation, and the re- 
soul a new creature. Very 
he says this not because 
-e given in generation is 
I or superseded in regen- 
ttt because regeneration no 
n generation can be ini- 
sustained without the di- 
tive act ; because gencra- 
never become of itself re- 
t), or make the first motion 
Without the divine regen- 
t we cannot enter upon our 
al or spiritual life, but must 
T ever in the order of gen- 
nd infinitely below our des- 
the case with the reprobate 
vbo die unregenerate. But 
lerson born of Adam that is 
ed, that is translated into 
|Bi of God's dear Son, and 



that is the recipient of regenerating, 
persevering, and glorifying grace. 
This is the point we insist on ; for, if 
so, the objection that grace destroys 
or supersedes nature is refuted. The 
whole of Catholic theolc^y teaches 
that grace assists nature, but does not 
create or substitute a new nature, as is 
evident from the fact that it teaches 
that in regeneration even we must 
concur with grace, that we can resist 
it, and after regeneration lose all 
that grace confers, apostatize from 
the faith, and fall even below the 
condition of the unregenerate. This 
would be impossible, if we did not 
retain our nature as active in and af- 
ter regeneration. In this life it is 
certain that regeneration is a moral, 
a spiritual, not a physical change, 
and that our reason and will are 
emancipated from the bondage of sin, 
and are simply enabled to act from a 
higher plane and gain a higher end 
than it could unassisted ; but it is the 
natural pterson that is enabled and 
that acts in gaining (he higher end. 
Grace, then, does not in this life de- 
stroy or supersede nature, and the 
authorized aiUus of the saints proves 
that it does not in the glorified saint 
or life to come. 

The same conclusion follows from 
the fact that regeneration only fulfils 
generation. "I am not come," said 
our Lord, " to destroy, but to fulfil." 
The creative act, completed, as to the 
order of procession of existences from 
God, in the Incarnation or hypostatic 
union, which closes the initial order 
and institutes the teleological, in- 
cludes both the procession of exist- 
ences from God and their return to 
him. It is completed, fulfilled, and con- 
summated only in regeneration and 
glorification. If the nature that pro- 
ceeds from God is changed or super- 
seded by grace, the creative act is 
not fulfilled, for that which proceeds 
from God does laot letuxu U> Vihxa. 



St6 



Nature and Grace. 



The initial man must himself return, 
[ or with regard to him the creative act 
I remains initial and incomplete. In 
[the first order, man is only initial or 
linchoate, and is a complete, a per- 
fect man only when he has returned 
to God as his final cause. To main- 
tain that it is not this initial man that 
returns, but, if the supposition be 
possible, another than he, or some- 
ithing substituted for him, and that 
I lias not by way of creation proceed- 
fcd from God, would deny the very 
purpose and end of the Incarnation, 
and the very idea of redemption, 
regeneration, and glorification, the 
grace of Christ, and leave man with- 
out any means of redemption or deli- 
verance from sin, or of fulfilling his 
destiny — the doom of the damned in 
hell. The destruction or change of 
man's nature is the destruction of 
man himself, the destruction of his 
identity, his human personality ; yet 
St. Paul teaches, Rom. viii. 30, that 
the persons called are they who are 
redeemed and glorified : " Whom he 
predestinated, them also he called ; 
and whom he called, them also he 
justified ; and whom he justified, 
them also he glorified." 

We can, indeed, do nothing in 
relation to our end without the 
grace of Christ ; but, with that grace 
freely given and strengthening us, 
it is equally certain that we can 
work, and work even meritori- 
ously, or else how could heaven be 
promised us as n reward ? Yet it is 
so promised : " He that cometh to 
God must believe that he is, and is 
the rewarder of them that seek him." 
(Heb. xi. 6.) Moses " looked to the 

t reward ;" David had respect to the 
divine " retributions ;" and all Chris- 
tians, as nearly all heathen, believe 
In a future state of rewards and pun- 
ishments. We are exhorted to flee 
to Christ and obey him that we may 



h^K 



grace by which we are born again 
and are enabled to merit b unques- 
tionably gratuitous, for grace is al 
ways gratuitous, omnino gratis, as 
say the theologians, and we can do 
nothing to merit it, no more than *t 
could do something to merit our crej- 
tion from nothing ; but though gratni 
tous, a free gift of God, grace is be- 
stowed on or infused into a subject 
already existing in the order of gene- 
ration or natural order, ajid we Ml 
act by it, and can and do, if fiAlh 
ful to it, merit heaven or eternal liiiEi 
Hence says the apostle, " Work out 
your salvation with fear and trem- 
bling ; for it is God that workcth ia 
you both to will and to do, or to 
accomplish." (I'hilip. ii. la.) Butths 
no more implies that the willit 
doing in the order of rcgcn* 
are not ours than that our act 
the order of nature is not ours 
cause wc can even in that order act, 
whether for good or for evil, only 
the divine concurrence. 

The heterodox confound ihe 
of grace by which we arc able 
merit the reward with the 1 
self; hence they mainl.-iii 
we can merit nothing u;-', ■ 
that we can merit nothing r\.:\) « 
it, and that we are justified by faitik] 
alone, which is the free gift of I 
conferred on whom he w ills, and I 
grace is irresistible, and oner 
grace we are always in grace. 
St. James tells us that we are *'jii 
ficd by our works, and not bjr CdA^ 
only, for faith without works is dead." 
(St. James ii. 14-25.) Are we who 
work by grace and merit the rcw^d 
the same 7oe that prior to iLgniBrt' 
tion sinned and were undiier 
Is it we who by the aid of 
rit the reward, or is it (he 
us ? I f the grace itself, how \ 
said that itv are rewarded? 
reward is given not to us who aiooe^ 
bit to the new person or new 



OoAA 




Nature and Grace. 



V7 



grace is said to change 
can it be said that 7ve either 
r are rewarded ? Man has 
ccific nature, and if you 
or change that specific na- 
u annihilate him as man, in- 
f aiding his return to God as 
d cause. The theologians 
ace not as a new nature or a 
;ulty bestowed on nature, but 
Wus., or habit, an infused ha- 
eed, not an acquired habit, 
It the less a habit on tliat ac- 
vbich changes not, transforms 
:ure, but gives it, as do all 
a power or facility of doing 
rithout it would exceed its 
1, The subject of the habit 
Irnman soul, and that which 
, under, or with the habit is 
5 human soul, not the habit 
J, as before receiving it, is the 
mt it acts with an increased 
1, and does what before it 
lot; yet its nature is simply 
lened, not changed. The 
idea oihadit must be preserv- 
ighout. The personality is not 
labit, but in the rational iia- 
him into whom the habit is 
by the Holy Ghost. In our 
,ere are the two natures ; but 
he divine personality assumes 
tan nature, and is always the 
acting, whether acting in the 
nature or in tlie diivine. In 
cnerated there are also the 
and the divine ; but the hu- 
I may so speak, assumes the 
and retains from first to last 
personality, as is implied in 
im to God without absorption 
or loss of personal individua- 
i in tlie fact that, though with- 
ice, we cannot concur with 
yet by the aid of grace we 
I must concur with it the mo- 
e come to the use of reason, 
s not effectual. The sacra- 
lie, indeed, efficacious ex ope- 



re operatOy not by the faith or virtue 
of the recipient, but only in case the 
will, as in infants, opposes no obsta- 
cle to Ihe grace they signify. Yet 
even in infants the concurrence of | 
the will is required when they, ' 
come to the use of reason, and thft j 
refusal to elicit the act loses the ha- 
bit infused by baptism. The bap- 
tized infant must concur with grace 
as soon as capable of a rational act. 
The heterodox who are exclusive 
supcrnaturalists, because we cannot 
without grace concur with grace, deny 
that the concurrence is needed, andj 
assert that grace is irresistible and 
overcomes all resistance, and, as^<i-. ' 
tia victrix, subjects the will. HencC. 
they hold that, in faith, regeneration, 
justification, sanclification, nature 
does nolliing, and all that is done is 
done by sovereign grace even ia 
spite of nature ; but the fact on which 
they rely is not sufficient to sustain 
their theory. The schoolmen, for the 
convenience of teaching, divide and. 
subdivide grace till we are in danger 
of losing sight of its essential unity. 
They tell us of prevenient grace, or 
the grace that goes before and excites 
the will ; of assisting grace, the grace 
that aids the will when excited to 
elect to concur with grace ; and effi- 
cacious grace, the grace that renders 
th2 act of concurrence effectual. But 
these three graces are really one and^j 
the same grace, and the gratia priZ-\ 
veniens, when not resisted, becomcs- 
immed lately gratia atijuvans, and<^ 
aids the will to concur with grace, 
and, if concurred with, it becomes,,,] 
ipso facto and immediately, gratia:\ 
efficax. It needs no grace to resist] 
grace, and none, it would seem to ' 
follow from the freedom of the will,,l 
not to resist it Freedom of the} 
will, according to the decision of iho;' 
church in the case of ^t gratia <-'/<s' 
trix of the Jansenists, implies the 
power to will the coivlt^T^^ ^Yvd^ \\ 



St8 



Nature and Grace. 



Jbt^ to resist it, why not free not to 
6sist ? There is, it seems to us, a 
real distinction between not willing 
to resist and willing to concur. 
Nothing in nature compels or forces 
the will to resist, for its natural ope- 
ration is to the good, as that of the 
intellect is to the true. The grace 
excites it to action, and, if it do not 
will to resist, the grace is present to 
assist it to elect to comply. If this 
be tenable, and we see not why it is 
not, both the aid of grace and the 
freedom and activity of the will are 
asserted, are saved, are harmoniz- 
ed, and the soul is elevated into the 
order of regeneration without any 
derogation either from nature or 
from grace, or lesion to cither. 

We are well aware of the old ques- 
tion debated in Catholic schools, 
whether grace is to be regarded as 
aitxtiium quod or as auxilixtm quo ; 
but it is not necessary either to in- 
quire what was the precise sen.se of 
the question debated, or to enter 
into any discussion of its merits, for 
both schools held the Catholic faith, 
which asserts the freedom of the 
will, and both held that grace is 
auxilium, and therefore an aid given 
to nature, not its destruction, nor 
its change into something else. The 
word auxilium, or aid, says of itself 
all that we are contending for. St. 
Paul says, indeed, when reluctantly 
comparing his labors with those of 
the other apostles, that he had la- 
bored more abundantly than they all, 
but adds, " Yet not I, but the grace 
of God with me." But he recognizes 
himself, for he saj's, " grace with me:" 
and his sense is easily explained by 
what he says in a passage already 
quoted, namely, " Work out your own 
salvation ; for it is God that worketh 
in you to will and to do," or to ac- 
complish, and also by what he says 
in the text itself (i Cor. xv. i.) "By 
the^ace of God, 1 am v»Yv4t 1 am-,*' 



which has primary reference to bb 
calling to be an apostle. God by 
his grace works in us to will and tn 
do, and we can will or do nothing in 
relation to our final end, as has been 
explained, without his grace ; but. ne- 
vertheless, it is tve who will anii 
Hence St. Paul could say to ii 
Timothy, " I have fought a gcwH. 
fight, I have finished my course, I 
have kept the faith. For the rest 
there is laid up for me a crown ofjis- 
tice, which the Lord, the just judgl^ 
will render to me at that day : vcA 
not to me only, but to ihem also who 
love his coming." (2 Tim. iv. 7. 8.^ 
Here St. Paul speaks of 1 
the actor and as the recipii 
crown. St. Augustine says that (Jod, 
in crowning the saints, " crowns his 
own gifts," but evidently means that 
he crowns them for \\\ " hiw 
become by his gifts ; m . «wly 

by virtue of his gifts thai 
become worthy of crowns, ti. ^ = 
redounds primarily to him, and only 
in a subordinate sense to the 
There is, in exclusive superni 
ists and exaggerated ;tscetics, 
suspected panthei.sm, nolcK 1 
cal and uncatholic than the pant 
of our pseudo-ontologists. The ^ 
racteristic mark of pantheism it : 
simply the denial of creation, but 
denial of the creation nf smI 
capable of acting as s 
In the order of regen 
the order of generation wc are 
indeed primary, but arc really seoco*] 
dary causes ; and (he denial of lftif| 
fact, and the assertion of Cod ■•' 
the direct and immediate actor froo] 
first to last, is pure panthenm. 
is as true in the order of reget 
as in the order of generation, tbcn^' 
in the order of grace it is thought to , 
be a proof of piety, when, in fact, it I 
denies the verj- subject that can be 
pious. Count dc Maistrc someirbcfe 
says, ** The worst error against fcaff 




Nature and Grace. 



519 



of asserting too much grace," 
ust exist, and exist as second 
t to be the recipients of grace, 
» able even with grace to be 
toward God, or the subject of 
ther virtue. In the regenera- 
e do by the aid of grace, but 
.nevertheless, the doers, whence 
ws that regeneration no more 
^neralion is wholly superna- 
Regeneration supposes gen- 
I, takes it up to itself and corn- 
it, otherwise the first Adam 
have no relation to the second 
and man would find no place 
order of regeneration, which 
be the more surprising since 
let itself originates in tlie In- 
lOn, in the God-Man, who is its 
OmI Omega, its beginning and 

|T)eople are, perhaps, misled 
s subject by the habit of re- 
ig the word natural exclusively 
procession of existences from 
nd what pertains to tJie initial 
)f creation, and tlie word su- 
tral to the return of exis- 
to God as their last end, and 
tans by which they return or 
iiatend and complete the cycle 
ence or the creative act. The 
sion is initial, the return is 
gical. The initial is called na- 
because it is developed and 

on by natural generation ; 
^logical is called supernatural, 
e it is developed and carried 

grace, and the election by 
takes the place of hereditary 
t* This is well enough, except 
ne have to deal with persons 
sist on separating — not sim- 
linguishing, but separating, the 

and the supernatural, and on 
g either the one or the other. 
X reality, what we ordinarily 
e natural is not wholly natural, 
at we call the supernatural is 
supernatural. Strictly speak- 



ing, tlie supernatural is God himself 
and what he does with no other me- 
dium than his own eternal Word, 
that is, without any created medium 
or agency of second causes ; the na- 
tural is that which is created and 
what God does through the medium 
of second causes or created agencies, 
called by physicists natural laws. 
Thus, creation is a supernatural fact, 
because eflfected immediately by God 
himself; generation is a natural fact, 
because effected by God incdiately 
by natural laws or second causes ; 
the hypostatic union, or the assump- 
tion of flesh by the Word, which 
completes the creative act in the 
initial order and institutes the tele- 
ological or final order, is supema-. 
tural ; all the operations of grace are 
supernatural, though operations in 
and with nature ; the sacraments 
are supernatural, for they are effect', 
ivc ex opcre opcraio, and the natural 
parts are only signs of the grace, not 
its natural medium. The water used 
in baptism is not a natural medium 
of the grace of regeneration ; it is 
made by the divine will the sign, 
though an appropriate sign, of it ; 
the grace itself is communicated by 
the direct action of the Holy Ghost, 
which is supernatural. Regeneration, 
as well as its complement, glorifica- 
tion, is supernatural, for it cannot be 
naturally developed from generation,, 
and regeneration does not necessari-- 
ly carry with it glorification j for it 
does not of itself, as St. Augustine 
teaches, insure the grace of persever- 
ance, since grace is omnino gratis^ 
and only he that perseveres to the end 
will be glorified. Hence, even in 
the teleological order, the natural, that 
is, the human, reason and will have 
their share, and without their activity 
the end would not and could not be 
gained. Revelation demands the 
active reception of reason, or else it 
might as well be made Vo axx ot. ox ^ 



I 

I 



520 




Nature and Grace. 



horse as to a man ; and the will tliat 
perseveres to the end is the human 
will, though the human will be regen- 
erated by grace. Wherever you see 
the action of the creature as second 
cause you see the natural, and wher- 
ever you see the direct action of God, 
whether as sustaining the creature 
or immediately producing the effect, 
you see the supernatural. 

The nict that Gbd work.s in us to 
will and to do, or that we can do 
nothing in the order of regeneration 
without grace moving and assisting 
us, no more denies the presence and 
activity of nature than does the ana- 
logous fact that we can do nothing 
even in the order of generation with- 
out the supernatural presence and con- 
currence of the Creator. We are as 
apt to forget that God has any hand 
in the action of nature as we are to 
deny that where God acts nature can 
ever cooperate; we are apt to con- 
clude that the action of the one ex- 
cludes that of the other, and to run 
cither into Pelagianism on the one 
hand, or into Calvinism or Jansen- 
ism on the other j and we find a 
difficulty in harmonizing in our 
minds the divine sovereignty 01 
God and human liberty. We can- 
not, on this occasion, enter fully 
into the question of their concilia- 
lion. Catholic faith requires us to 
assert both, whether we can or can- 
not see how they can coexist. We 
think, however, that we can see a 
distinction between tlie divine gov- 
ernment of a free active subject 
and of an inanimate and passive 
subject. God governs each subject 
according to the nature he has given 
it ; and, if he has given man a free na- 
ture, his government, although abso- 
lute, must leave human freedom in- 
tact, and to man the capacity of exer- 
cising his own free activity, without 
miming athwart the divine sovereign- 



ty. How this can be done, we do Ml 

undertake to say. 

But be this as it may, there is im 
act even in the natural order th«t it 
or can be performed without the 
assistance of the supernatural; ioi 
we arc absolutely dependent on tk 
creative act of God in everythiog, is 
those very acts in which we act mott 
freely. The grace of Gotl b as neott- 
sary as the grace of Christ God 
has not created a universe, and nadt 
it, when once created, capak 
going alone as a setf-movir 
chine. He creates substance^ 
deed, capable of acting as setOfrf* 
causes ; but these subst.inccs caa da 
nothing, are nothing as separated 
from the creative act of God thu 
produces them, upholds them, is ; 
sent in them, and active in all 
acts, even in the most free dct< 
tions of the will. \\'ilhout lhis4 
presence, always an efficient 
sence, and this divine activity in 
created activities, there is and 
be no natural activity or action, anf"' 
more than, in relation to our lasteflt^ 
there can be the first 1 'iwad 

grace without grace. ^ 1 ici|dl 

of action in both orders is »tricilf 
analogous, and our acting with ^ntt 
or by the assistance of grace in dw 
order of regeneration is as naluni 
as is our acting by the divine pie* 
sence and concurrence in the aritf 
of generation. The human actirirf 
in either ortlcr is equally natural, uA 
in neither is it possible or explidiik 
without the constant presence »d 
activity of the supernatural. I** 
two orders, the initial and the tcleokh 
gical, then, are not antagrmistical *> 
each other, arc not based on WO 
mutually destructive principles, K 
are really two distinct parts, as 
so often say, of one dialectic 

The Holy Scriptures, since 
causa /-minens, the cause of 



irst cause operative in all second 
Ss, speak of God as doing this 
tat, without always taking spe- 
liote of the fact that, though he 
f does it, he does it through the 
cy of second causes or the acti- 
)f creatures. This is frequently 
ase in die Scriptures of the Old 
kment, and sometimes, though 
frequently, in the New Tcsta- 
, though never in either without 
thing to indicate whether it is 
lircct and immediate or the in- 
I and mefdiate action of God 
Is meant. Paying no atten- 
to this, many overlook the dis- 
on altogether, and fall into a 
if pantheistic fatalism, and prac- 
f deny the freedom and activity 
tcond causes, as is the case 
Calvin when he declares God 
the author of sin, which on his 
principles is absurd, for he 
ft the will of God the criterion 
ht, and therefore whatever God 
must be right, and nothing that 
ht can be sin. On the other 
I men, fi.\ing their attention on 
^ency of second causes, over- 
the constant presence and acti; 
If the first cause, treat second 
% as independent causes, or as 
y were themselves first cause, 
ill into pure naturalism, which 
ly another name for atheism, 
miverse is not a clock or a 
^ but even a clock or a watch 
Ites not its own motive power ; 
jjter in either has only so con- 
fcd it as to utilize for his pur- 
a motive power that exists and 
ies independently both of him 
f his mechanism. 
d speak of nature as superna* 
!ed in regeneration, and hence 
e that grace transforms nature ; 
this there must be some misun- 
liding or exaggeration. In re- 
jtJon we are born into the order 
end, or started, so to speak, on 



our return to God as our final cause. 
The principle of this new birth, which 
is grace, and the end, which is God, 
are supernatural; but our nature is 
not changed except as to its motives 
and the assistance it receives, though 
it receives in baptism an indelible 
mark not easy to explain. This fol- 
lows from the Incarnation. In the 
Incarnation our nature is raised to be 
the nature of God, and yet remains 
human nature, as is evident from the 
condemnation by the church of the 
monophysites and the monothelites. 
Catholic faith requires us to hold 
that the two natures, the human and 
the divine, remain for ever distinct in 
the one divine person of the Word. 
Some prelates thought to save their 
orthodoxy by maintaining that, after 
his resurrection, the two natures of 
our Lord became fused or transform- 
ed into one theandric nature ; but 
they did not succeed, and were con- 
demned and deposed. The mono- 
thelites asserted that there was in 
Christ two natures indeed, but only 
one will, or that his human will was 
absorbed in the divine. But they 
also were condemned as heretics. 
Our Lord, addressing the Father, says, 
" Not mywilljbuttliinebe done," thus 
plainly implying a human will dis- 
tinct from, though not contrary to, 
the divine will. Can wc suppose 
that the grace of regeneration or 
even of glorification works a greater 
change of nature in us than the 
grace of union worked in our nature 
as assumed by the Word ? If hu- 
man nature and human will remain in 
Christ after the h)'postatic union, so 
that to regard him after his resurrec- 
tion as having but one will or one 
theandric nature is a heresy, how 
can we hold without heresy that 
grace, which flows from that union, 
either destroys our nature or trans* 
forms it into a theandric or supec 
naturalized nature ? 




SM 



Nature and Grace. 



Let us understand, then, that grace 
neither annihilates nor supersedes or 
transforms our nature. It isour nature 
that is redeemed or delivered from 
the bondage of sin, our nature that is 
translated from the king^lom of dark- 
ness into the kingdom of lights our 
nature that is reborn, that is justified, 
that by the help of grace perse\Teres 
to the end, that is rewarded, that is 
glorified, and enters into the glory of 
our Lord. It then persists in regen- 
eration and glorification as one and 
the same human nature, with its human 
reason, its human will, its human 
personality, its human activity, only 
assisted by grace to act from a super- 
natural principle to or for a superna- 
tural end. The assistance is super- 
natural, and so is the end ; but that 
which receives the assistance, profits 
by it, and attains the end, is human 
nature, the man that was born of 
Adam as well as reborn of Christ, 
the second Adam. 

We have dwelt long, perhaps to 
tediousness, upon this point, because 
wc have wished to efface entirely 
the fatal impression that nature and 
grace are mutually antagonistic, and 
to make it appear that the two or- 
ders, commonly called the natural 
and the supernatural, are both mu- 
tually consistent parts of one whole ; 
that grace simply completes nature ; 
and that Christianity is no anomaly, 
no after-thought, or succedaneum, in 
the original design of creation. 

The heterodox, with theirdoctrine 
of total depravity, and the essential 
corruption or evil of nature, and their 
doctrine, growing out of this assumed 
depravity or corruption, of irresist- 
ible grace, and the inactivity or pas- 
sivity of man in faith and justifica- 
tion, obscure this great fact, and make 
men regard nature as a failure, and 
that to save some God had to sup- 
plant and create a new nature in its 
piace. A more immoxal doctrine, or 



one more fatal to all human activity '■^ 
not conceivable, if it could be : 
and seriously believed and acteti oa 
prior to regeneration, which is im* 
possible. The heterodox are bettef 
than their system. The systca 
teaches that all our works before 
regeneration are sins ; e^-cn oat 
prayers are unacceptable, some say, 
an abomination to the Lord, aod 
consequently, there is no use io 
striving to be virtuous. After «• 
generation there is no need of our 
activity, for grace is inamissibl^ 
and if really born again, sin as much 
as we will, our salv.ition is sure, fee 
the sins of the regenerated arc w* 
reputed to them or counted as sin*. 
There is no telling how many souls 
this exclusive and exaggerated super- 
naturalism (which we ow> to the t^ 
formers of the sixteenth century) h<i 
destroyed, or how many persons it 
has deterred from rrt i tk» 

Catholic Church by tl.. u im- 

pression, that, since she asserts origi* 
nal sin and the necessity of grace, dit 
holds and teaches the same frightful 
system. Men who are able to 
and accustomed to sober 
find themselves unable to eml 
Calvinism, and, confounding Calvii 
ism with Christianity, reject Chi 
tianity itself, and fall into a m 
rationism, a naked naturalism, 
worst of all, an unreasoning in 
entism ; yet there is no greal 
take than to suppose that the 
holds it or has the slightest 
pathy with it. We have wished 
mark clearly the difference bei 
it and her teaching. Christian 
coticism, when rightly understcx)^ 
is not based on the as-Humptioa 
that nature is evil, and needs to 
be destroyed, repressed, or chaafed. 
It is based on two great ideal 
liberty and sacrifice. It is directed 
not to the destruction of the flesk 
or the body, for in the creed «e 



J 



Nature and Grace. 



523 



belteve in the " resurrec- 
\i the flesh." Our Lord as- 
, flesh in the womb of the Vir- 
le had a real body, ascended 
leaven with it, and in it sit- 
\ the right hand of the Father 
hty. He feeds and nourishes 
\ it in Holy Communion ; and 
f eating his flesh and drinking 
od that our spiritual life is sus- 
' and strengthened. Our own 
shall rise again, and, spJritual- 
ifler the manner of Chri.st's 
|s body, shall, reunited to the 
live for ever. We show 
lis is our belief by the honor 
/ to the relics of the saints. 
sacred flesh, these sacred 
which wc cherish with so much 

piety, shall live again, and re- 
he glorified body of the saint. 
• is not evil, as the Plalonists 
and as the false asceticism of 
ithen assumes, and with which 
^n asceticism has no affinity, 
I many who ought to know bet- 
ttend to tlie contrar)'. The 
an ascetic aims, indeed, at a 
rictory over the flesh, labors by 
p of grace to liberate the sou! 
^bondage, to gain the command 
self, to be at all times free to 
in the truth, and to keep the 
mdments of God ; to bring 
^y into subjection to the soul, 
kce the appetites and passions 
the control of his reason and 
lit never to destroy them or in 
lanner to injure his material 

Far less does he seek to ab- 
, destroy, or repress either 
\ reason, in order to give grace 
jnd fuller scope ; he only la- 
b purify and strengthen both 
fee. Nature is less abnormal, 
stronger, more active, more 
lie in the true ascetic than in 

E\ no pains to train and 
tlie influence of divine 



The principle of all sacrifice is 
love. It was because God so loved 
men that he gave his only-begotten 
Son to die for them that they might 
not perish, but have everlasting life. 
It was love that died on the cross fo« 
otir redemption. Nothing is hard ( 
diflicult to love, and there is nothing 
love will not do or sacrifice for the 
object loved. The saint can never 
make for his Lord a sacrifice great 
enough to satisfy his love, and givei 
up for him the most precious thinj 
he has, not because they are evil offj 
it would be sin in him to retain them ; 
not because his Lord needs them,''! 
but because they are the most costlj 
sacrifice he can make, and he it 
making the sacrifice can give soin< 
proof of his love. The chief basia 
of monastic life is sacrifice. The 
modern notion that monastic institu-* 
tions were designed to be a sort o! 
hospital for infirm sotils is essentially! 
false. As a rule, a virtue that cannoP-l 
sustain itself in the world will hardly^l 
acquire firmness and strength in 
monastery. The first monks did notf j 
retire from the world because unfit tof j 
live in it, but because the world tq^\ 
strained their liberty,'', and because i0J 
afi'orded them no adequate field for 
the heroic sacrifices to which they 
aspired. Their austerities, which we so , 
little robust as Christians, accustomed! 
to pamper our bodies, and to denj^ j 
ourselves nothing, regard as sublimtf ] 
folly, if not with a shudder of horrorj 
were heroic sacrifices to the Spouse 
of the soul, for whom they wished to 
give up everything but their love^. 
They rejoiced in affliction for hit ' 
sake, and they wished to share, as we 
have already said, with him in the 
passion and cross which he en- 
dured for our sake, so as to be as 
like him as possible. There are 
saints to-day in monasteries, and out , 
of monasteries in the world, living in 
our midst, whotn "we Vtvow t»o\ wi 




Nature and Grace. 



I side of religion than is desir- 



bnc allowance must be made for 
jiew position in which Catholics 
k century or more have been 
pd, and it would be very wrong 
insure them with severity, even 
■ found them failing to show 
selves all at once equal to the 
duties imposed upon them. The 
ling up of old governments and 
litions, founded by Catholic an- 
|s, llie political, social, and in- 
iat revolutions that have been 
idll are going on, must have, to 
I extent, displaced the Catholic 
, and required it, so to speak, tu 
itself, or to take a new and diffi- 
(bservation, and determine its fii- 
Eourse. Catholics to-day stand 
Ben the old, which was theirs, and 
I is passing away, and the new, 
I is rising, and which is not yet 
I. They must needs be partially 
yzetl, and at a momentary loss 
low what course to take. Na- 
y conservative, as all men are 
]iave something to lose or on 
I to rely, their sympathies are 
the past, they have not been 
►as yet to accept the new state 
ings, and convert regrets into 
I. A certain hesitation marks 
conduct, as if in doubt whether 
md out against the new at all 
ds, and, if need be, fall martyrs 
lost cause, or to accept it and 
e best they can with it. In this 
ti)', where Catholicity is not as- 
led with any sort of political in- 
ions, and Catholics have no old 
Ealion to retain or any new or- 
ID resist, we, unless educated 
id, are hardly able to appreciate 
loubts, hesitations, and discou- 
lients of Catholics in the old 
I, and to make the proper allow- 
I if at times they seem to attach 
Itholics undue importance to the 
Btl and social changes going on 




around them, to be too de^ndent, 
and more disposed to cry out against 
the wickedness of the age, to fold 
their hands, and wait for Providence 
to rearrange all things for them with- 
out their cooperation, than to look 
the changes events have produced 
full in the face, and to exert them- 
selves, with the help of grace, to 
bring order out of the new chaos, as 
their brave old ancestors did out ot 
the chaos that followed the irruption 
of the northern barbarians, and the 
breaking up of tlie Grrcco-Roman civ- 
ilization. It is no light thing to see 
the social and political world in which 
we have lived, and with which we 
have been accustomed to associate 
the interests of religion and society 
falling in ruins under our very eyes, 
and we must be pardoned if for a 
moment we feel that all is gone or 
going. 

But Catholic energy can never be 
long paralyzed, and already the 
Catholics of Europe are arousing 
themselves from their apathy, recov- 
ering their courage, and beginning to 
feel aware that the church depends on 
nothing temporary, is identified with 
no political or social organization, 
and can sun'ive all the mutations ot 
the wortd aroimd her. Leading 
Catholics in Europe, instead of wast- 
ing their strength in vain regrets 
for a past that is gone, or in vainer 
efforts to restore what can no longer 
be restored, are beginning to adjust 
themselves to the present, and to labor 
to command the future. They are leav- 
ing the dead to bury their dead, and 
preparing to follow their Lord in the 
new work to be done for tl'.e new 
and turbulent times in which their lot 
is cast " All these things are against 
me," said the patriarch Jacob, and 
yet they proved to be all for him and 
his family. Who knows but the un- 
toward events of the last century 
and the present will turn o\x\ itw >iMi 



1 



Matin. 



527 



fordi as clearly and as simply as we 
could what we have been taught by 
our Catholic masters on the relation of 
the natural to the supernatural ; and 
if we have succeeded in showing that 
there is no antagonism between na> 
tnre and grace, the natural and the 
sapematoral, the divine sovereignty 
and human liberty, and that we can 
be at once pious and manly, eneTgetic 
as men, and humble and devout as 
Christians, or if we have thrown out 
any suggestions that will aid others 
in showing it to the intelligence of 
our age, and if we have been able to 
soeak a word of comfort and hope to 



our brethren who find themselves in 
a position in which it is difficult to 
determine how to act, our purpose 
will have been accomplished, and we 
shall have done no great but some 
slight service to the cause to which 
we feel that we are devoted heart 
and soul. We have aimed to av<nd 
svfvag anythii^ that could wound the 
susceptibilities of any Catholic school 
of theolc^, and to touch as lightly 
as possible on matters debated 
among Catholics. We hope we have 
succeeded; for these are times in 
which Catholics need to be united in 
action as well as in faith. 



MATIN. 



Only when mounting sings the lark. 
Struggling to fields of purer air 

Silent her music when she turns 
Back to a world of gloom and care 1 



11. 



Only when mounting sings my heart, 
Fluttering on tremulous wing to God I 

Fainter the music as I fall — 
Mute, when I reach the lower sod 1 



III. 



Lark, in my heart this mom astir. 
Upward to God on eager wing ! 

Seek for one pure, celestial draught. 
Fresh from th' eternal Music-Spring ! 



Richard Storks Vfn.\.\&. 



t for the Roman people to have 

Mr government, and that they 

m right, if they please, to estab- 

lolher. We do not believe they 

ly more right to do this, than 

jple of the District of Colum- 

n, to shake off the government 

United States and establish 

But we will not argue this 

for it is unnecessary'. The Ro- 

ple have recently shown that 

prefer to remain as they are. 

uestion is, as to the right of 

ssing the pope of his king- 

ly a force from without. What 

as the Italian kingdom to the 

territory ? Does the pretence 

,e glor)' and advantage of Italy 

te it to have Rome as a politi- 

pital justify its forcible annexa- 

Then interest and might alone 

right, we must bid farewell to 

bpe that justice and law will 

Ule in the world, and be content 

»e old, barbarous reign of vio- 

vrar, and conquest should con- 

ifor ever. 

I what are we to say of a war, 
tvied by one king and people 
St another, but waged by a band 
Tauders invading a nation from 
cr nation with which it is at 
!, and which is bound by solemn 
<■ to repress all such invasions ? 
shmen and Americans are loud 
^ in condemning rebellions, in- 
rtions, violations of the laws and 
i of nations, where their own 
rics are the aggrieved parties. 
gross and shameful inconsis- 
, Uien, is it, for them to applaud 
lack like that of the bandit (Ja- 
li and his horde of robbers upon 
:oman kingdom. Sympathy and 
iragement given to Mazzini, Ga- 
ll, and their associates, is sym- 
' and encouragement to a party 
heists and sociaU-sts who are 
ig at the complete extirpation 
1 religion and all established 
t. VI.— 34 



political and social order from the 
world. Protestants little know to 
what ruin they are exposing them' 
selves in abetting such a pa'rty. Their 
treacherous allies are making use of 
them as ipere dupes and tools in their 
war upon the outward bulwarks of 
the Catholic Church ; knowing well 
that, if they have once carried these, 
the slight barriers of Protestantism 
will offer but a feeble and momentary 
resistance. The friends of political 
and social order little think what a 
mine they are helping to run under 
their own feet, in abetting socialism. 
England is beginning already to reap 
the bitter fruit of the seeds of sedi- 
tion and revolution she has been 
busily sowing in the soil of Europe. 
There is no knowing where the just 
retribution of her unprincipled agi- 
tation will stop. We have just as 
much cause to dread the irruption 
of infidelity and socialism in our own 
country. And if it does come, those 
who boast so much of their wealth, 
their prosperity, their superior cul- 
ture and enlightenment, and attribute 
this material glory to their emancipa- 
tion from Catholic ideas, will be the 
first victims of the volcano that will 
burst under their feet. We trust no. 
such catastrophe will come, either in. 
Europe or America. But if it is: 
averted, it will be because the pope. 
will stand his ground ; and the event, 
will prove that he has been the saviour 
not only of religion but also of civil- 
ization. 

There are also some considerations 
which merit the attention of Cath- 
olics, who do acknowledge the Pope 
to be the Vicar of Christ, and give 
him their allegiance as the Chief 
Ruler and Teacher of the Church 
throughout the whole worid. 

The cause of the Catholic Church, 
everywhere, and of every individual 
Catholic as a member of the Church,^ 
is bound up with the c?k.\isfc o^ ^^ 



J 



A Word about the Temporal Power of the Pope. 531 



IT their loyalty to the pope 
le Irish people were reduced 
f on nettles^ both literally and 
Ively. The glorious archbi- 
'Hurley, tortured on Stephen's 
• and hanged, the intrepid 

hurled into the sea from the 
\ ©f Ban try, the slaughtered 
I of Drogheda and Wexford, 
fc rest of the noble anny of 
lartyrs and confessors, suffered 
lied for this doctrine of the 
It faith, that the Pope is the 
of Jesus Christ and the su- 

head of the Church upon 

The whole Irish nation has 
I martyrdom for three centu- 
t its uns\ver\'ing fidelity to the 
SPeter. It would be unworthy 
iwho have received the sacred 
X faith watered by the blood 
sen'ed by the heroism of this 

nation, and now enjoy full 
to partake of its fruits and to 
ite it far and wide, in peace, 
berate from the sentiments of 
fljlc ancestors. 

lover, the Catholic Church 
rica has ever been under the 
bmediate and special care of 
|>ly See, ever obedient and 
Mid therefore, ever united 
idsperous. Nowhere in the 
lo the bishops and priests re- 
greater degree of respect and 
ice from their people, or a 
abundant fruit from their 
In preaching the word and 

rjring the sacraments of 
No heresy or schism, no 
Ijisputes, no extensive aliena- 
the faithful from their pas- 
be of those internal disorders 
ire far more dangerous than 
\nxA opposition, have as yet 
\d trouble our peace. The 
ison of this is found in the per- 
I unbroken union of our hier- 

I»eople with the apostolic 
Peter Were it not for 



this, as there is no coercive force. of 
the state to enforce a compulsory^ 
exterior unity like that of the Russiaa 
Church, and no patriarchal jurisdic- 
tion of one bishop over all the oth- 
ers, the decrees of national or pro- 
vincial synods would have no bind- 
ing efficac)', the union of bishopMi 
with each other would be brokerv 
the authoritv* of the bishops would 
be defied by the clergy, of the clergy 
by the people, and the same disinter 
gration tending to final dissolution 
would take place among us which 
we see in the surrounding sects. 
The same result would inevitably 
take place throughout the world, \i 
the supremacy of the successor of 
St. Peter were overthrown. State 
policy, and the power of kings and 
parliaments, arc broken reeds to lean 
upon. Were the church left to de- 
pend upon these, they would soon 
withdraw their support, and, bereft 
of a principle of internal life antf 
unity, Christianity would resolve it* 
self everj'where into dust and air, 
never again to be revived on earth. 

Peter, living in the unbroken line 
of his successors, is the rock and foun-» 
dation upon which the church, that 
is, Christianity itself, is built ; and 
because the gates of hell shall nevta 
prevail against this rock, to over- 
throw it, therefore Christianity shall 
endure to the end of the world. 

The full and unimpeded exercise 
of the spiritual supremacy of the pope 
over the Catholic Church througboot 
the whole world being necessary to 
its well-being, the perfect independ- 
ence of this supremacy from all po- 
litical power is also necessary as the 
condition of its free exercise. The 
experience both of the past and ths 
present proves that the political pow^ 
er is always disposed to tyrannize ov6l 
the church and deprive it of its dtr 
vine right to libertj'. The only check 
to this donainalioTi o( Vuv^s ONCxXvvdCfe- 



53* 



A Word about the Temporal Power ef the Popt. 



^ps, and the only lever by whidi the 
jiscopate may be raised out of this 
dependence on the civil power, is the 
independent power of the Holy See. 
The pope must confirm the nomina- 
tions to bishoprics, and the decrees 
tof local councils, otherwise they are 
[Bull and void. Were it not for this 
rerogative, which Napoleon the First 
iolently but unsuccessfully attempt- 
to wrest from Pius VII., the king 
[would be the real head of each na- 
[tional church in nearly ever)' Catho- 
[Bc state. If one of these national 
churches had within its bounds the 
principal and supreme see of the 
whole Catholic Church, the sovereign 
of that nation, through his power 
over the nomination to that see and 
!ts administration, would have power 
to exercise dominion over the Catho- 
lic Church. If the archbishop of 
I Paris or of Vienna had the suprema- 
ll'Cy, the emperor of France or of Aus- 
ria would be the virtual head of the 
Catholic Church, as the English sov- 
ereign and the Russian sovereign are 
tlie real heads of the English and 
Russian churches, notwithstanding 
le nominal primacy of the archbish- 
as of Canterbury and of Moscow, 
^ust so, if the pope became the sub- 
ject of a king ruling over his episco- 
pal city of Rome. He could not ex- 
ircisc his spiritual supremacy, except 
in dependence on the will of the sov- 
ereign. He could not call an cccu- 
menical council, send a legate, receive 
an ambassador, issue an encyclical, 
promulgate a decree, receive or send 
out the documents necessary for the 
government of the universal church, 
or possess the necessary means for 
tile transaction of indispensable bus- 
iness, without the permission of the 
political authority. In time of war, 
kb communication with the bellige- 
snls would be completely cut off. 
^The nomination to the sovereign pon- 
rifiCAte would cithet TtaLVV>f,ot ai least 



in the opinion of otfier nadosis' 
ways be controlled by polttic»l i 
ence, and so also would be the 
firmations or direct appointrrw 
episcopal sees t!r 
Laws in regard t< 
matters, over which the sover 
pontiff has direct jurisdiction, ni^ 
be passed, which he would be obl^ 
to condemn, and yet be unable lo^ 
so, or at least without perpetxial oo» 
flicts with the civil power. He vooU 
be continually subject to the ticih 
ment which the Archbishop ol O 
It^ne received from the Ringi 
sia, and the bishops of It;vlv 
tor Emmanuel, confisr ■ jn 

ment, or exile. The • of 

supremacy would thertiVin: bccGOar 
impossible. For, it couUi only 
exercised in dependence on the^ 
of a monarch or a cabinet, and i 
kings, bishops, or people woutd 
submit to such a supremacy. H^ 
would American Catholics like 
have King Victor Emmanuel and 
tazzi or RicasoU dictating the 
of the church in this country ? 
hierarchy here is, thank Godl frtt 
from the dictation of the stale, add 
the head of our hierarchy must aJV 
be a free and independent pope. 

It is folly to imagine another ind 
purely ideal state of things, in whkb 
the pope might have pcricct in^ 
pendence without sovereignty*. TheW 
is no likelihood that such a stale of 
things will become actual, and (bat 
would be no security for its pcmtt- 
nence did it ever begin to cxi*L 
Divine Providence has giveo (Im 
vicar of Christ a temporal sovcreiga- 
ity as the security of hi- ' ' uleoce 
and the bulwark of ll. of ikc 

universal church. The pope l«« 
solemnly declared that it is the 
sary and the boundcn duty of 
the members of the church, whet" 
kings, prelates, or people, to 
tain that sovereignt)* a| all 



A Word about the Temporal Power of the Pope. ^^^ 




the whole burden of sus- 
the Holy See and the autho- 
the successor of St, Peter 
Divine Providence, is botli pre- 
ous and cowardly. Christ 
Tomised that his church shall 
the end of the world, and he 
ilfil this promise, if necessary, 
culous intervention. But he 
t promised that particular na- 
shall not lose tJie faith, or that 
ssness and cowardice sJiall not 
after them their natural disas- 
consequences. The glory, pros- 
and extension of the Catholic 
depend on the efforts of the 
an will ; and the providence 
e of God will not aid us, ex- 
proportion to our fidelity and 
sity in maintaining his cause 
r own. Our confidence that 
loly Roman Church cannot be 
rown rests on the sure founda- 
»f that divine yjofd, not one iota 
lich can fail, even though heaven 
earth may pass away. *' Thou 
ietcr, and upon tlus rock I will 
my church, and the gates of 
shall never prevail against iL" 
is no warrant for our abandon- 
le ground to the enemies of the 
ih, trustrag that God will thwart 
(designs by miraculous interven- 
) But it is an encouragement to 
Vf, fidelit}', and unalterable hope 
p ultimate triumph of the holy 
k It is our duty to do all in 
bwer to secure this triumph by 
efforts, and having done 
e may then leave the result in 
ids of Divine Providence. We 
ver foresee, with certainty, 
h what straits Divine Provi- 
l will permit the church to pass, 
fn far it will allow the designs 
r enemies to proceed toward an 
tent ultimate success. Never- 
, there does not appear at pre- 
lO much reason to apprehend 
and disastrous days for the 



church and religion, as there did 
during the epoch preceding the pre- 
sent one. Even during the reign of 
the present severely tried butindomt 
table chief pastor of the church, 
there have been periods far more 
critical and threatening than the pre- 
sent Indeed, we may say that those 
Catholics who are desponding and 
discouraged now, derive tlieir reason 
for foreboding evil more from their 
own timidity and impatience than 
from any real external motives. The 
Holy See is in perpetual conflict 
against powerful enemies, no doubt, 
and the Holy Father sometimes 
threatened with a prospect of exile 
from Rome. Yet, notwithstanding 
this, the march of events continually 
brings nearer the reconciliation and 
pacification of Christendom, upon 
the basis of a universal recognition 
of the independence and inviolability 
of the sacred domain of the Roman 
Church, which God has set apart as 
the seat of the successor of St Peter. 
In truth, there has often been in the 
past a greater need of absolute re- 
liance on the predictions of the di- 
vine word as the only firm ground ot 
hope, than at present We are not 
called upon for the same heroic ex- 
ercise of faith and hope which was 
exacted from our ancestors. We 
can look back tipon the dangers and 
trials through which they passed, and 
find in their result a reproach for our 
own pusilLinimity, and a support for 
our confidence in the present and fu- 
ture triumph of the church. We are in 
an invincible fortress, on an immov- 
able rock J and yet we do not appre- 
ciate the strength of our position as 
clearly as those do who are tossing 
about on the turbulent sea of the 
surrounding world. Although hu- 
miliating, it is yet true, that we can 
find no language so well adapted to 
stimulate faint-hearted Catholics to 
courage, as that utteied vkxvdsx ^s^ 



J 



534 ^ H'oni about the Temporal Poit^er of t/tr Pofie. 



overawing compulsion by adversaries 
or aliens to the church. One of the 
taost eloquent of these reluctant tri- 
butaries, carried away by a kind of 
natural ecstasy, in contemplating 
this glorious theme, like another 
Balaam blessing the tents of Israel, 
rises to a kind of sublimity far above 
bis usual flight, and seems to speak 
with a catholic inspiration worthy 
of a Ik>ssuct. He is speaking of 
that dark era when Pius VII. as- 
cended the chair of St. Peter, and 
these are his words : 

*' It is not strange thst in the \*ear 1799 
even sagacious observers should have 
thought that at length the hour of the 
Church of Rome was come ; an infidel pow- 
er ascendant, the pope dying in captivity, 
the mo«t illustrious prelates of France living 
h) a foreign country on Protestant alms, the 
noblest edifices ■ which the munificence of 
former ages had consecrated to the worship 
of God turned into temples of victory, or 
into banqueting houses for political societies. 
M into Thcophilajuhropic ch.npcis ; such 
signs might well be supposed to indicate the 
Afiproicjing end of tltat long domination. 
But ilie end was not yet j again doomed to 
death, the milkwhite hind was still fated not 
to die. Kven before the funeral rites had 
been i>erformcd over the ashes of Pius VI., 
a gicat reaction had conunenced, whkli, af- 
ter the lai»e of more than forty j-ears, ap- 
pears to be still ui progress. Anarchy had 
had its day ; a new order of things rose out 
of the confusion, new dynasties, new laws, 
new titles, and amidst them emerged the an- 
cient religioiu The Arabs have a fable that 



the great Pyramid was buDt bj : 
kings, and alone, of the works of nen. I 
the weight of the flood. Such as thk 1 
the fate of the papacy ; it had been 
under the great inundaticm, but its 
foundations had remained ansbaken, 
when the watera abated, it appeared) 
amid the ruins of a world which had 
away. The republic of Holland was ptv^ 
the empire of Germany, .in-' •' — — it 1 
oil of Venice, and the 1 ! 
and the house of Hourl<oii. .. 
iiicnts and aristocracy of France. Eisc^ 
was full of young creations ; a Frcach 1 
pirc, a kingdom of Italy, a confedcratfon rf 
the Rhine ; nor had the late events alcQiil 
only territorial limits and political laaite* 
tions ; the disposition of property, tbe am 
position and spirit of society, had, throq^* 
great part of Catholic Europe, undcffMi 
a complete change ; but tkr mm ifc>^iMi> 
(kuTfA ■xtHu still tierr," 

The unchangeable church was : 
there, when Pius VII. was r« 
tu his episcopal city, where bis 
cessors, one after the oilier, 
ded the throne of St. Peter, and 
when Macaulay wrote the words "t 
have quoted. It is still there, nov, 
after all the comnjotions of the U*l 
twenty years ; there it Mill be until 
tlie day prefixed by the Creator Jbc 
the end of all human iostituiiocHL 
We may apply to it, in a more clev*' 
ted and spiritual sense, the vorils of 
the poet — « 




Plagiarism and yoka BtmjMm, 



sn 



PLAGIARISM AND JOHN BUNYAN. 



BRE are not many writers of 
opularity or eminence who have 
I their day, either in their own 
f or by the sensitive proxy of 
intimate friends, had occasion 
lf-de(f nee against the charge of 
irism. From young authors 
ially, some little slur or other 
is tender point is pretty sure, at 

time, to evoke a thin-skinned 
;r, replete with a peculiar modest 
sive ferocity that critics know by 
, and grin overwith a grim relish, 
s a thing of course — a. well-mark- 
age of the fever of authorship. 

we notice that most of those 
)egin with young Byron's philip- 
nd with old Wordsworth's philo- 
'. The fact is, splendid sensi- 
;ss, here as everywhere, does 
ay, and beyond most men the 
r finds it cost him dear. For 

ill-matched and absurd contro- 
ls, there is none like a wrangle 

plagiarism. It is a duel of 
ns and catapults, of fly and lion, 
le advantage is with the attack- 
irty. The accusation is vagfue 
weeping to the last degree, and 
asiest imaginable to make. It 

not even be said ; it can be 
sd. And how cheap it is to be 
stical about it I A little inge- 
to cook up a factitious resem- 
e, a little malice to point a bit 
ny or innuendo, and the thing is 
To rebut such crimination 
;ake days of labor. These verj' 

consumed, too, are so much 
disadvantage ; the whole matter 
1 stale the while. Then the an- 
nust not only conclusively meet 
large, both as to the animus fu- 
and the fact of thef^ but it must 



be intrinsically interesting, both tt 
revive interest enough in the subject 
for the reading public to go to thtf 
trouble of revising its opinion, and 
because every word an author writes 
is matter for fresh criticism, while 
his opponent may waive all preten? 
sions to style. Practically we inr 
cline to think it is much as in batde^ 
where it takes a man's weight in lead 
to kill him. Now and then, some one 
is demolished utterly by one of these 
elaborate broadsides, but the number 
of them that miss the mark must be 
enormous. It is only effects and suo 
cesses that we all remember. The 
shot that sunk the Alabama at a few 
hundred yards, made more impression 
in history than the dozens of idle 
shell that the great Sawyer gun used 
to send spinning miles away over the 
Ripraps. One general net result is 
a vast waste of the author's time, 
which is always valuable to him, and 
sometimes to the public. And after 
all, with the truest aim and best 
powder — who is hit? Ninety-nine 
times out of a hundred, some nobO' 
dy. And this is truer every day. 
Pope and Byron could at least single 
out their Dennises and Amos Cottles 
by name ; but nowadays, what with 
pseudonyms and anonyms, and above 
all the editorial pronoun, one fights 
the very air. 

Thus we find authors of stand- 
ing strangely meek under auda^ 
cious strictures of this sort, and 
very little given to tilting at the moih 
quitoes of the press. This is moif 
than dignity; it is sense. But (and 
now we strike the point we have 
been coming at all this while) the 
world draws from this (acX ^^ '^t>i!| 



536 



Plagiarism and yohn Bunyan. 



exaggerated inference. It seems to 
reverse the old law rule, that one 
story's good till another is told. The 
very fact of an accusation's going unan- 
swered seems to crush it under a vis 
uurtur of silence. This is all world- 
ly wise, but not very infallible. If a 
man shouts something against me 
before my streei-door, and I let him 
shout away at his own sweet will, 
I am tolerably sure, whether it be 
truth or calumny he is vociferat- 
ing, that his wind must give out 
after a while. The world, though, 
is apt, instead of listening to him, 
to stare up at my window, and 
see if I mind it. If I make no sign, 
he is a vituperator, and some good 
citizen just mentions him to the 
policeman round the corner. But 
all this while may not he be bawling 
the blessed truth, and I slinking be- 
hind the shutters? Public opinion 
says no. If a man of standing docs 
not deign or see fit to come out 
against a charge, it is a fabrication or 
a fancy sketch. Now, the truth is, 
as history well knows, that there is a 
vast amount of systematic stealing in 
the world of letters, and that these 
same majestic gentlemen, who are 
above replies, have done their very 
fair share of tlie stealing, What is the 
effect, then, of this false estimate of 
men and things / This : that when 
a writer has once attained station, 
with a decent regard to the conven- 
tionalities of literary larceny, he can 
steal all he chooses with impunity. 
All he has to do is to alter enough 
to keep him that runs from reading 
the resemblance. This done, there 
remains the one risk that some one 
who cannot be ignored may expose 
the theft. But this risk is not, by 
far, so great as it seems. The man 
of calibre enough for the task is gen- 
erally an amiable man, and always a 
busy one, and has plenty of pleasanter 
tilings to do than airing his ncigli- 



bor's peccadilloes. Residttt it is a 
even chance but he has somciiil 
appropriation of his own to coivr^ 
and this fellow-feeling makes us wm 
drous kind. Thus a very little fdf 
ment in the selection of the author fl» 
len from passes tJie whole fraud M 
free. And there are good roMV 
why there should be a good derf# 
this fraud. First-f/ass fi/agiarismftgl^ 
like ever)'thing first-class. It lull 
high market valuc^ %v :- aa^ 

ungrudging profits, i .oiirti 

power b omnivorou.s and it iiecii 
that an old author made modem, or 
a foreign author made native, is tot 
as good as new but better. Pl bbU i ^ 
tus Caxton is a vast improvcnrt 
on Tristram Shandy, and the Ctmi^ 
of Errors on the Maueckmi; aadttft 
primmest of the dccriers read Bulva 
and Shakespeare, and do tmt mi 
Plautus and Sterne. Boackarill^ 
plays draw in Ix)ndon, and we i>e»« 
hear of English purists slaying •< 
till they can go to sec the on, 
Paris. But it is idle to multi 
stances. The fact is too patent 
need illustrating, that the nineti 
century prefers essences of books 
books, and the juice of literary 
to the fruit itself. Extracts, and 
gcsts, and compilations and abrt^ 
ments, and horti tied of all softs SK 
the order of tlie day. and the oU 
fogies, who prate of m '"Miib 

and dream of intemaii" ' ^ifK 

and read old authors through, " a^ 
rnnturque nihil nisi pto4 LU'itut* 
cr<n>it" find that these are all 
issues. The public does not cue 
rush where a man gets what it waatt- 
This may be the best law. or it nay 
not; the law it certainly is. LetAHJ 
one who doubts the popularity rf 
plagiarism, only take up that filMi 
furious, generous little book, Mc 
Reade's Eighth C funt, uA 

see for himself ^^ ic ftihJIT 

and what is not 



4k' 



Plagiarism and yohn Bunyan, 



537 



the honest crusader against 
despoilers and desecrators, 
nds that without the limits of 
[ght pillage lies a vast debata- 
d, which has been the Flan- 
e Kentucky, the Quadrilateral 
; controversy from time im- 
il — the territory of mere re- 
ce. This is far more diffi- 
und, because the critic's own 
perceptions of likeness enter 
element of possible error into 
idgment, and the danger of do- 
Bjustice is great. Here, it is 
ure found the ex|>ertest plagiar- 
if all — the vampires of litera- 
Mhe thieves that steal the soul 
leave the body. But close be- 
em stand the true scholars, to 
assiduity books yield up an 
wealth, and who melt and 
their well-worn treasure into 
gots of golden tliought or ex- 
fretwork of glittering fancies, 
ore puzzling than both, we 
e myriad legions of fugitive 
lances — an army of ghosts, 
;t to the comparing conscious- 
■ut impalpable to the analyzing 
Obviously it will not do to 
here the martial law of literary 
lation. Men are too much 
lo be damned for striking even 
coincidences. Among the 
iters there are so many paral- 
that a mind with any turn for 
ig phantoms of similarity, soon 
to the saying of King Solo- 
Iftbout nothing new under the 
At any rale, if it ever did e.x- 
era of entire novelty is of 
now. Take out what a keen, 
man could trace to Shake- 
Byron, Macaulay, Carlyle, the 
^the Greek tragedians, the Stan- 
ers, and the Declaration 
ndcnce, and how much is 
of to-day's English and 
literature ? Yet among the 



imitations, if there are many wilful 
and culpable, there are many more 
innocent and unwitting. True, not 
every one is born with so developed 
an organ of unconsciousness as Mr. 
A. M. W. Hall, who astonished him- 
self by originating some one else's, 
poem in full. But very few read 
over their familiar authors without 
finding the germs of a thousand 
thoughts they had never suspected 
not to be all their own. Indeed, for 
some time after beginning, a young 
author could, if he should choose, 
(which he doesn't,) pluck up his 
ideas like young blades of com, and 
find the original seed of some pet 
author at the root. 

But critics have called the name 
of plagiarist far too often and too 
lightly. The charge is old enough, 
heaven knows, for people to know 
what they mean by it. Waiving 
those ancient Sanscrit sages, who 
seem with malice prepense to have 
been born .so long ago that we can't 
more than half believe in them, and 
before there was any intelligible lan- 
guage for them lo be wise in, we find 
that Job, our oldest modem writer, 
has been read out of the mbric by a 
theologue somewhere out West, who 
has discovered in his style gross and 
servile plagiarisms from the Bible. 
Homer stood tolerably well till 
the German omniscients found out 
that, like Artemus Ward's friend, 
Brigham Young's mother-in-law, he 
was numerous, when it at once 
becomes plain, from the gpreat 
uniformity of style, that mch one 
of him must have been a most ac- 
complished plagiarist from the re- 
maining fractional bards. Horace's 
spiteful and uncalled for commenta- 
ries on Lucilius, besides the outrage- 
ous ill taste of them, show that there 
was some shrewdness in the bite of 
tlie citiux Pantiiius, the blear -e^ed 



S3« 



Plagiarism and y<fJftn Btutygit 



Crispinus, and other literary gentle- 
men — probably good fellows enough, 
too — as those ancient Bohemians 
went — who, no doubt, hinted at lit- 
tle likenesses between his sfrmo merus 
and Luciiius' sai nip-urn, Martial's 
epigrams have crucified a dozen 
thieves into immortality. And so 
*he old bandying of hard words has 
come down the annals of literature, 
till the self-same wave of bitterness 
that whelmed the luckless insect Pan- 
tilius foams about the shallows of Mr. 
Swinburne's self-defence, and finally 
goes combing over the City Hall 
with Mr. Charles Reade for its Nep- 
tune, and threatens to make flotsam 
of that cosy fixture, the Round TahU, 
Yet, with all these precedents to define 
it, plagiarism is to-day a purely rela- 
tive term — a weapon o{ the partisan 
wars of letters. If our enemies com- 
mit a coincidence, that is plagiarism ; 
when our friends pilfer, it is adapta- 
tion, version, studies in style, or some 
other euphemism. 

Modern criticism has not signaliz- 
ed its advance by establishing any 
principle to decide this difficult ques- 
tion of what is really plagiarism. 
There is absolutely no standard or 
criterion yet, and each one who wish- 
es to form a right opinion, is thrown 
upon his own devices to reach it. 
Amid the many delicacies and diffi- 
culties of judging in this matter, we 
have found, or fancied we found, one 
rule of singular service in guiding us 
to a satisfactory conclusion. It is 
noteworthy, to say the least, that al- 
most all the great plagiarists and imi- 
tators of nil time have been writers of 
the selfconscious or suhjective ord^r ; 
men who wrote with Mrs. Gnindy 
upj>ermost, and their theme next ; 
whose real and primary aim was to 
exhibit and exalt themselves ; to feed 
their personal vanity, ambition, or 
greed. The objective or intuitive 



class, on the conti 
wrote because they were fiill < 
.subject ; thinking of it, 
full of it ; those inbnefwhot 
their natures 'livw 

themselves, ai nc.i-r 

depredating intentionally, "ii 
very intentncss on what tbef^ 
have to say makes lliem ^ ' 
frequent of unconscious i 
mere manner and cTprewoB-* 

It may be gem 
to say that this faci - ... 
ciplc, but we do think it 
presumption. The more ! 
the rule, however, the more • 
the exception, and in npf' 
test of subjectivity, wc strike t 
a little oisui comatntia, in iw n*| 
presented by the two boob 
form our text. 

Of all English writers, ( 
last to pitch on for a pla 
honest John Bunyan, He 
man was, is sincere, objeiti.' 
vinced missionary an< 
Grave, rough, outspoken. ^^ 
ing, yet rigid, he seems al « 
glance to embody and < 
age ; lliat strange, fcnn 
cal age, when England >' 
presbyter)' — a Ma'^'^^'' 
litical, social, and r. 
and extremes ; when ih 
of history seem to lose 
teristics for a while, and Uim i^- 
shadowed, mediaeval Y.ink''f^; 
we never think of them in o"" 
with blonde love-locks ati'i bl 
and slashed doublets, an<l 
ale, and big, merry, unnici"' 
and cheery t.ivems, and '^'^'^'^ 
steeds ; but as stem, somber '*^ 
a-vised, steel-capped, pr->^-"- "^ 
ry, with jerkins on tliei 
Sternhold and Hopkins mc^' 
knapsack. Yet, wheD w« loo^ 
ly, Bunyan is not so represent*'^" 
m.in as he appears. He was »** ^ 



nn^1lt 



Plagiarism aud yokn Bunyan. 



539 



)lder man than his fel- 
bottom a different one. 
hy he typifies so much of 
really tl\at the man had 
are of that tact for ap- 
rmity with the m;isses 
ssence of popularity, 
»im covered much in- 
A hundred years later, 
been the Francis As- 
id. Under the Puri- 
hidden a red-hot Melh- 
autobiography — by far 
teresting work, in our 
uH of an ebullient fervor 
11 a favorite novelty, is 
: of us a psychological 
luld waken only electric 
hout a touch of surprise 
rcuil-riding itinerant of 
st — unless, perhaps, he 
er that there were such 
Jthodists so long ago. 
in not representing that 
hj^xDcrisy which culmi- 
Rump I'arliament and 
rebones, and finally rot- 
(lonwealth into the Res- 
•ntroversial and conceit- 
.ve been, and he had no 
to be honestly proud of 
brce of manliness that 
p imbrutcd tinker-boy, 
it a respected leader of 
But in his great work no 
more sclf-forgctful, more 
iore transparent to the 
I him. He is rife, per> 
issed with his subject 
! imagination, always 
d, and at times in his 
d, bends its full force 
'He saw the things of 
^ writing," says one of 
" as distinctly with 
[as if they were indeed 
kim in a dream." Now, 
>rt of man to go cu!l- 
s's words for his warm 
fancies. But more- 



over Bunyan was attacked in his life- 
time with charges of plagiarism, and 
replied with his usual aggressive em- 
phasis, and in his characteristic dog- 
gerel — in the preface to his Holy War. 

" Some U]r the PilBrim's Prdgress ii not mine, 
I ntunualing at if I woiilil shine 
111 name and fame by ihc ■•■orth of amilSer, 
Like some made rJcb by robbing of their brother. 

** Or that to fond 1 am of being »ire, 
I'll father baMards, or, if need require, 
I'll tell a lie in print to get apjtlanii.-. 
I icom it ; John such dirl-hcap never wai 
Since God converted him. Let thi« tuSica 
To sliow why I iny Pilgrim patronize, 

" It came firom mine own heart, so to my hea^ 
And Ihence into my hngcrs trickled : 
Then to inv pen, from whence immediately 
On paper 1 did dripple it daintily. 

" Manner and matter too WM all mine own ; 
Nor was it unto any mortal known. 
Till I had done it. Nnr did any then. 
By books, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen, * 
Aild 6ve words to it. or wrote half a line 
Thereof; the whole and every whit is mine." . , 

This leaves the suggestion of plagi- 
arism apparently little room to stand 
upon, unless it fall back upon some 
safe generality, such as that in a re- 
public (or commonwealth) all things 
are possible, or that the heart is de- 
ceitful and desperately wicked, etc. 

Against this giant of truth, pano- 
plied in the very roburet as triplex of 
self-conscious originality, comes out 
the queerest antagonist imaginable — 
a French David against a Welsh 
Goliath. These little books alto- 
gether deserve a passing word. Both 
are published privately and by sub- 
scription. One, the later, is a mere 
translation, arising out of its prede- 
cessor. The other is a most singu- 
lar compilation, from a number of 
notes which one Mr. Nathaniel Hill, 
M.R.S.L., as we are not surprised to 
learn, died making. They make a 
book very unlike most books. To 
begin with, Mr. Basil Montagu Pick- 
ering, the publisher, has Liken for 
his motto, *' Aldi Discipulus Anglus," 
and the printing is an excellent imi- 
tation of that famous o\A pttsa >«VJkc\v 



■ 



Plagiarism and yokn Buttfwm. 



54t 



Bmmm of 1330 and a live English 
bok of 1670, by a man innocent of 
Vench, any resemblance in diction 
iQuld not only be matter of wonder 
Qt matter of die merest chance. We 
rill, however, cite a few of the paral- 
disms given in the comparison 
liich forms the gist and pith of these 
olumes. And first comes one which 
e cite because it contains the only 
nes we have seen worth remember- 
ig in De Guileville's dreary waste of 
ialogue. He is describing the lady 
Sracedieu) whom his Fikrin meets 
t the outset. 

DE GUILEVILLB. 

** tfmdt cttirteut tt Je douct chirt 
Mt /ut graHdemtHt car prtmUrt 
M* uaUua en dttiuindaHt 
Ppurquoy nauoit mtilUur ttmhlamt 
Mt pour guelU cause ie plmroyt 
St saucntu Je/auUe aueie. 
AdtHC U/ta comme tur^rit 
Ptierc* ftt* pas tuuioye aprit 
Qtit dame de si grant atanr 
Daignatt vers met /aire vng uul tetir 
Fars et uuUiment pour autani 
Que cil qui a botUe plus grunt 
PluM * en soy dkumUite 
Grant doulceur et benigniU 
Car plus a le roMMiBX di fomubs 
Plus bas skncline vers les hommes, 
£t ue scny eigne de bonte 
Si grant comme est kumilite. 
Qui ne parte cestt baniere 
Ha vertu ne bottte entiere."* 

lydcate's translation. 
This ladye that I spak of here 
Was curteys and of noble chere 
And wonderljr of gret vertu. 
And fl^t <he 'gan me to salue 
In goodly wise axynge of me 
What maner thjmg yt myght be 
Or cause why I should hyr let* 
That I made so heavy chere, 
Or why that I was aye wepyng, 
Wher of when I gan take hede 
I ^1 into a maner drede 
For unkonnyng and leudnesse 



Fan courteously, and in most gentle wise 
Ibde she first salutation, questioning 
Wherefore that I bore not more cheerful mien 
Aad why I wept, and if in aught I lacked. 
Aad Aen I was as one o'erta'en with wonder. 
That lady of so great nobility 
Sboold even deign to turn towards such as I, 
Saving for this sole cause, that whoso most 
Of gncious ruth doth bless, the same alway 
Moat ID his bosom bears of lowliness. 
Tor the more rich in store of golden fruit, 
Man deeply beodeth onto man the trea. 
Hot know I any sign of gradousaes* 
OnM a» bomDity. Who bears not that 

t OB hi* baoncr, hath net tndy virtue." 



That sdit of ao great noMeaaa 
Dysdenede not in her degra 
To speke to on so pom a> me ; 
But yiffit were so^ as I gnaas, 
Al only of hjrr gentyllenesse. 
For gladly wher is most beuta 
Ther is grettest humylyte. 
And that ys venylye the sygne 
Snych ar moat goodly and benygne, 
An apple tre with frut most lade 
To folk that stooden ia the shade 
More lowly doth his brandies loota 
Then a nother tre witboate. 
Wher haboundeth most goodness 
There is ay most of meeknesse, 
None so gret token of bewta 
As is parfyt hiunylyte. 
yfho wanlelh hyr in hys banere 
Hath not vertu hool and entere. 



"The same gracious salutation," 
says our book, " is made by Evan- 
gelist to Christian whilst he is weep- 
ing," "I looked then," says Bun- 
yan, " and saw a man named Evan- 
gelist coming to him, who asked, 
' Wherefore dost thou cry ?' ' Be- 
cause I fear,' replies Christian, • that 
this burden that is upon my back 
will sink me lower than the grave, 
and I shall fall into the grave.' " 

The simile of the fruit-tree is ex- 
cellent, and perhaps strikes us the 
better for its being the one oasis. 
The resemblance also is strong be- 
tween the greetings of Graceduu and 
Evangelist, and in fact, in the whole 
situation, and seems hard to account 
for without supposing Bunyan to have 
known Lydgate's or some other 
translation of the earlier author. 

The next point is one of apparent 
discrepancy, but really of likeness. 
The Pelerin is stopped by a stream, at 
which he desponds — signifying the 
water of baptism at the entrance to 
the church. Bunyan being a Baptist, 
with strong liberal views of commu- 
nion, (which, indeed, embroiled him 
at one time with the radicals of his 
sect,) naturally balked at this abhor- 
rent papistical metaphor, and sub- 
stituted his famous Slough of Despond^ 
which, it will be remembered, he 
makes to be sixteen hundred years old 
— ^the age of ChmtiaxAty aX\us ^^. 



Plagiarism and yohn ButtyoH 



543 



rselves. But what every one 
it think is, that we are slow 

Any one who happens to 
)ver the shelves of any of our 
>ublishing houses can find 
imbers of dull-seeming works, 
9US specialties, full of facts, 
demonstrations, discoveries, 
at seems to us literally lum- 
all sorts. Yet these books 
1 pay an invariable profit to a 
ablished house. Who buys 
»d what becomes of them, we 
obably learn when the disap- 
e of pins, and the necessity 
mer clothing, and the origin 
are duly cleared up. Certain 
at the Pelerinage de V Homme 

a wide reputation and diflRi- 
[^haucer, especially, was famil- 
1 its author, and his famous 
C," is a palpable and, so far 
now, an undisguised imitation 
Juileville's Prayer to the Vir- 
iblished in the same year 
Now, a work which, after fil- 
hrough three hundred years, 

language and the brains of 
lUe " translators, could still 
e germ of the most nationally 

book in all English litera- 
s some claim to be called its 

shall not attempt to pass 
e question of plagiarism, for 
est reason that, as we have 
: really do not exactly know 
t word means in the critical 
lar of to-day. The coinci- 
ve have cited would certainly 
how that The Pilgrim's Pro- 
not the entire novelty which 
or so explicitly proclaims it. 
other hand, it is not proven 
jlete satisfaction that "John 
irt-heap ever was" as to mean 
anything from anybody. Per- 
e most peaceable as well as 
t novel conclusion that sug- 
elf, is to harmonize.both sides 



of this question by a third theory, 
namely, that one may be a palpable 
plagiarist, as the word is often used, 
without in the slightest degree de- 
tracting from his originality. The 
statement sounds extraordinary, but 
its ingenious advocate, M. Philarbte 
Chasles, is an extraordinary French- 
man, and is talking when he ad- 
vances it, about the "divine Wil- 
liams," who is an extraordinary sub- 
ject for a Frenchman to talk about. 
We are very much mistaken if those 
who smile at this seeming contradic- 
tion of terms will not find some force 
in the subjoined excerpt, which we 
premise, however, suffers greatly in 
translation for want of the peculiar 
super-emphatic style of the original 
French. 



"Genius arranges and imitates, studies 
and deepens ; it never invents" 

" Genius consists in understanding better, 
penetrating better, surrounding with more 
light, what every one does superficially, or 
understands by half. One of the singular 
traits of Shakespeare is his supreme indiffer- 
ence as to the subject he is to treat o£ He 
never cares ahout it ; the excellent artisan 
knows how to find material in everything. 
He takes up at hap-hazard a pebble, a bit ot 
wood, a block of granite, a block of marble. 
Little he cares for his predecessor's having 
made an old king disinherited by his daugh- 
ters, act and Ulk upon the stage ; it is a fact 
like any other fact, that counts for no more 
and no less. Shakespeare goes on to find 
whatever of tears and of power there is in 
the soul of this old man." 

" People to-day are running after an inven- 
tiveness which real originality laelts ; it dwells 
in the artist, not in the materials he employs. 
With all great men it is tradition, it is the 
people, it is the common heritage of ideas 
and customs that has gathered the materials. 
They have taken them as they came, and 
then laid their foundations, transmuted 
them, immortalized them. 

" If what is called invention were not a de- 
ceptive quality, we should have to rate much 
higher than Dante, the first idle monk, who 
wrote, in lumbering style, a vision of Para- 
dise and Hell ; the coarse authors of certain 
Italian delin^tions would carry th« daN ONCt 
Moli^; the ttskninm ^n\\n» <A cmXa&Sk 



Tkg Ltgmd of the Swm Sh^mt, 545 

Then one ceased his work, who was wrinkled and gray, 

And, his hand on his mattock, he said : " It appears 
Now since Decius did reign, from what wise people say, 

To be clear of one hundred and eighty good years. 
When his cruelty flourished, I'm told there were seven 
Good youths of our city — so long gone to heaven — 

Who fled to these parts and were pent 
By the emperor's soldiers, who came on a sally, 

And built up the cave." To his mattock he bent, 
And a rock that he loosened rolled down to the valley. 

They found a large rent where the rock had its bed. 

Which with eager assault they made larger by delving ; 
And a cave was disclosed like a home of the dead — 

It was horrid and cold, it was ru§^d and shelving. 
The foulness of ages, unused to the light, 
Seemed grimly reclaiming its curtain of night 

But look 1 as the mist grows more clear. 
There's a form moving outward— of hell or of heaveiv— 

The slaves did not question, but fled in their fear ; 
But in truth this was lamblichus, one of the seven. 

* 

He paused at the mouth ; placed his hands on his eyes ; 

Then he looked toward Ephesus, bathM in light ; 
And he journeyed in haste, till with speechless surprise 

A cross on the grand city gate met his sight. 
He wondered, he doubted, he hearkened the din 
Of the city ; and kissing the symbol, passed in ; 

This place he so lately had known 
Was transformed — had grown foreign, and altered, and cold j 

He was famished for bread, and his wishes were shown ; 
But they liked not his accents, his dress, or his gold. 

" Away to the judge with this madman or worse !" 
" He has treasure that must be accounted." They went. 

" I'm a Christian," he said, " and am wealthy ; my purse ^ 

I have offered for bread. Should it be your intent 
To enroll me a martyr, my life I'll lay down : 
Take my life ! Take my wealth in exchange for the crown." 
• Then the judge when he looked and saw clearly 
That Decius' head on the coin did appear, 

Declared, while he doubted, " this youth must be nearly 
Two hundred years older than any one here !" 

The bishop was sent for, and lamblichus spoke : 
" Six others and he had but yesterday fled ; 
They had slept in a cave, and this morning awoke j 
And he had been sent to the city for bread." 
" True sons," said the bishop, " of God's predilection ! 
These men are all saints who have fiaund resurrectton. 
rot. VI.— 35 



Family, Parish, and Sunday-School Libraries. 



54^ 



a huge monster, sending 
n its giant jaws poison, that 
s in the blood of society. 
' and false theology ; immo- 
ene, and useless books are 
ring. Reviews, magazines, 
.nd daily papers, issue from 
remade the vehicles of false- 
d vice. Such is the fact. 
; the friends of religion to 

its enemies are so active ? 
) for us to sit down and ex- 
r longings for the good old 
len there were no printed 

Hold up our eyes in holy 
ut let our hands hang unem- 
by our side ? Decry the 
:ss of the press ; the disho- 

the authors, and deplore 
ted taste of the populace, 
inds we see daily devouring 
oned trash of novels and 
;rs ; and remain content 
ring an empty sigh ? No ; 
be up and doing. We must 
foes of religion with their own 
We must use the press 
lose who abuse it. The old 
ivas accustomed to see only 
ships contend on the ocean ; 
teran of the battle-field who 
»r liberty with an antiquated 
would be laughed at now for 
g against the use of iron- 
needle-guns in warfare. In 
lid he say that what won bat- 

a century ago ought to win 
11. So would it be unrea- 
to cling solely to those wea- 
spiritual combat which were 
•ugh a century ago, but which 
•e blunt or rusty. We must 
he keels and plate the sides 
wooden vessels with iron ; 
jodel the ancient shooting- 

the scholastics to meet the 
iS of modern circumstances. 
\ hardly be questioned that 
int of bad or useless books 
d daily is greater than the 



quantity of good ones. Now, whose 
fault is this .> The fault of the writ- 
ers ? Yes, in part. But they tell us, . 
when asked why they write improper 
works, that the people will not read 
any other kind ; and that if they 
were to follow truth, and not to 
please the passions in their compK)- 
sitions, they would starve. The 
great cause of bad literature is, there- 
fore, the corrupt taste of the masses. 
It is at the same time cause and 
effect; for literary men suit their 
books to it ; and these again help to 
spread moral diseases farther, and 
make them sink more deeply into the 
brains of the community. 

The chief means of counteracting 
the influence of bad books is by 
writing good ones ; by spreading a 
taste for sound and wholesome read- 
ing. In this way can morality be 
preserved in the soul. To this end 
should we Catholics direct our ener- 
gies. We number in this country 
many millions ; and if we were all 
filled with an ardent zeal for souls, 
we should think no sacrifice too great, 
of time, labor, or purse, in order to 
destroy the pernicious effects of un- 
Catholic or anti-Catholic books and 
journals. Men will read. They 
need food for the mind as well as for 
the \)ody. Let us give them whole- 
some food. It was in this sense that 
Pius IX., in speaking of France, said, 
"You Frenchmen have planted the 
tree of science almost everywhere. 
I do not object to this, provided you 
do not allow it to become the science 
of evil ; and this will happen, if you 
do not inundate France with good pub- 
lications." The words apply to our 
own country as well as to France. 

Write and publish good books then I 
We do not mean by good books, mere- 
ly technical, spiritual books. We 
mean interesting books, in which no- 
thing against faith or morals i&{QK]xitdL\ 
and in which everythiTiglend%\o ^co- - 



MS 



Family, Parish, and Sunday-Scliool Libraries. 



mote good morals. A good novel, 
or any work of fiction, a pamphlet or 
brochure, a newspaper article — any- 
thing and everj'thing, from a dear fo- 
lio to a one cent tract, provided it be 
moral in aim and method, comes un- 
der the class of "good publications." 
We prefer small, cheap books to large 
and expensive ones. The people can- 
not understand learned works, but 
lliey can comprehend a tract, a mag- 
azine, or a small book, like those pub- 
lished in Paris, and scattered among 
the population by the zealous Abb^ 
Mullois and his fervent associates of 
the French clergy and laity. Books 
for general and popular reading should 
be written and dressed in a popular 
Style. Small works of fiction and 
anecdote, or an allegory containing a 
, wholesome truth, will do more than a 
dry sermon. Horace tells us that 
the old schoolmasters used to give 
their pupils cakes, to incite them to 
learn : 

" ut paerU olim dull cnuiula bluKli 

Doctores, eicioeota vdiiil ul ducerc priau." 

We too, laughing, may tell the truth, 
and sugar-coat the pill so as to make 
its bitterness less sensible. It is as- 
tonishing to learn how much good 
has been done among the lower class- 
es in France by the good priests and 
lay-men just mentioned. The Abb^ 
Mullois gives us instances of conver- 
sions effected, of wicked men reclaim- 
ed, of virtues instilled into minds 
almost brutal, by the casual perusal 
of some little book or tract. These 
' small publications are put in a valise 
or trunk, and read in the cars, in the 
work-shop, at home, or in the house 
of a friend, and they leave a lasting 
impression behind them. Thus we 
quote the good Abbd's words : 

•• There was a poor widow with many chil- 

^eiu The eldest, who alone could help her, 

mym « very hard cue Instead of bringing 

l4V)/<iu»g home, he ofteo «U)\e Odic vxseK\ q£- 



ccsaary for tha support of liie btaSrf^ 
poor mother suffered, prajKii, and 
vain. But one d^y this younic mn 
at home, had no money with which M fi 
a spree. He be^^an to unusc }i 
looking over a colleaion of oldboo4s«i{ 
chimney. He takes up one, reaids \u 
comes interested and is mored by it 
even weeps ; he leaves the book reli 
but returns to its pcra^al next day. 
thcr oljscrvcd a great change in \m 
cvcQ his figure was transfomed; ha 
was more surprised when her son, aasof 
an opportunity to find her aJone, aiMraM 
her as follows : * My dear motfaier, I te* 
made you suffer much ; I am a «reUk:l 
have seen it in a book. Ishallacntbe^ 
by work to aid you enough or pay all t^ I 
owe you. I have found a means of isaait 
you till my brothers and sisters grow tf I 
am going to enlist ; you will receitc a lap 
bounty. This is the only way in «kkAl«* 
atone for my neglect of you,' And !■ 1^ 
mediately after joined the ajinv 



/^ 




This is but one of many tns 
recorded by Abbt Mullnis in 
du yeunc Clfrgf, a nv 
devoted to the intere- 

Go into many houses, and you mi 
find the Ledger, \\\c Suii4iay Mfn 
the daily newspapers, the ,i 
Monthly, and often, even in Chri 
families, you may find publtcal 
far worse than these ; cx-caiioniDj", 
even lay hold of an obscene or gfw* 
ly immoral book lying around loose, 
within reach of the children. U* 
our Catholic publications dri>c «> 
all others — at least, such as are poe- 
lively injurious — from Catholic fxal^ 
lies. Let the children, the younf 
men and women, have Catholic 
to read, and let the Catholic d' 
trines percolate through their 
even from early life. 

How can we effect this ? Bjf 
dren's, family, and parish libniiA 
We must write good bookst for d« 
young, and give them opportunitici 
of reading - parents should see f 
this ; and should always 
tlieir families a supply of 
olic reading matter ; a coUcctkiO 





Family, Parish, and Sunday-Scfiool Libraries. 



549 



OT of tales, like those of Canon 
It, or a Catholic newspaper, 
ne, or review. A family library 
Nasure in a house, and goes 
from father to child as a most 
llus heirloom. Its benefits are 
lal ; and it is often better than 
(me. 

I the principal means of promo- 
l taste for Catholic literature, 
licouraging those who have de- 
their lives to its cause, is by 
fmation of parish libraries. Let 
lir the Abbd Mullois pleading 
\ cause. " In order to combat 
boks and bad doctrines, we 
kave and spread good books as 
Wy efficacious method. It is 
k to spend the lime in com- 
Ig or in railing against evil 
ptions. There is a new want 
'days not known to the middle 
The people know how to read, 
iey will read. The popular in- 
i is hungry, and we must feed 
bu cannot argue with hunger ; 
j»onger than you ; it will break 
ireep away all your arguments 

rons. You have no right to 
some one who is dying of 
Ir, ' You are wrong to eat such 
it is unhealthy,' unless you can 
im something good and whole- 
In hunger, people eat tuhat 
tve, not what they would like to 

e say, then, that actions, not 
,are necessary, and that every 
lould help, for there is plenty 
ibr all, both priests and lait)'. 
jhat must we do? Let us go 
tt to the point. In the first 
1 every parish should have a 
library of select books, both 
ktive and amusing. Books of 
L of science, of agriculture, on 
I or religion, at the disp>osal of 
t>ne to read, and to bring back 
jj Vou must have one, my re- 



be considered the worst managed iti 
France ; for these libraries are almost 
everywhere in it." — Is this true of 
the United States ? — " If it already 
exists, Increase it annually, embellish 
and complete it. It brings in a rev- 
enue. Can it be possible that you 
have no parish librar}'? Oh 1 how 
difficult it is to propagate good ideas ! 
We spend money for schools, and in- 
vite the world to the banquet of sci- 
ence j Ve create appetites, but when 
they are willing to eat, we tell them 
there is little or nothing for them. 
We have schools for boys, and for 
girls, day, night, and Sunday-schools ; 
but where is the use of all these if 
there is nothing to read, or nothing 
but what is pernicious } If we teach 
children to read, we must provide in- 
tellectual food for them, or show our- 
selves devoid of logic, reason, good 
sense, and heart." 

To whom are we to look for the 
realization of the good Abbtf's plan 
in our country ? In the first place, to 
the clergy. They are our guides, our 
fathers, our leaders in every good 
enterprise. Their influence is un- 
limited. Probably in no country has 
a priest so much power, or so many 
opportunities of doing good, as in the 
United States. The politician may 
control several thousand votes ; a 
brave general may so infuse his own 
courage into the hearts of his soldiers 
as to make them carry the fiercest' 
battery with the cold steel. But no 
one can do as the priest. On a Sun- 
day, from his pulpit or altar, he can, 
in a short discourse of fifteen or 
twenty minutes, influence the actions, 
open the purses, and create the spirit-, 
of enthusiastic sacrifice in a wholt 
community. He can build a church ; 
he can found a benevolent society ; 
surely he can found a parish or Sun- 
day-school library. He knows the 
ravages of souls committed by non- 
Catholic periodka\ ot ovVTYvtw^xxat. 



550 



Family, Patis/t, and SttHday-School Librarits, 



He has only to say the word, and he, in 
a great measure, stops them. A ser- 
'mon on the dangers of bad books 
will have its completion in the found- 
ing or enlarging of a parish library-, 
filled witli good publications. What 
an easy means of preventing so much 
evil ! 

•* But," you say, "the cl erg)' have 
no time." Undoubtedly their time 
is greatly taken up with parochial 
duties. In our country, bricks and 
mortar are by necessit)' as familiar to 
the eye of the priest, as books of 
theolog)'. He has no time to write ; 
very little time to read. This is true 
of the venerable senior clergy. But 
they need not do more than give 
their sanction to the work, and en- 
trust it to the hands of the assistant, 
or of some responsible layman. A 
few words from the pastor, recopi- 
mendtng the library, and an occa- 
sional inspection of its management, 
will be sufficient. The curate, whose 
duties are not of so engrossing a na- 
ture as those of the pastor ; or some 
good lay members of the parish ; the 
young men. of a literary or debating 
society ; or members of the Saint 
Vincent de Paul Society ; or the 
school-teacher, or, if need be, the 
schoolmistress, will do all that is 
necessary. In many parishes there 
are libraries, well conducted, well 
managed, and jirotluctive of immense 
moral and intellectual benefits among 
the young and old of both sexes. 
Our readers must know that there 
are such from their own experience. 
It will, therefore, require very little 
time from the pastor to have and to 
kecj) a parish library in perfect work- 
ing order, according to rules laid 
down or sanctioned by himself. No 
zealous ])!iest, who has once known 
tJie beneficial results of good family 
and parish libraries among his flock, 
would allow them to be neglected ; or 
would not becoinc a champion of our 



good cause. We ask, then» In dil 

name of religion, of charity and ■> 
rality ; by the love of our ho'- • ■> 
and by the zeal of the aposi 1 
all the clerg)', young and old. 
put their shoulders to the win 
us, and roll on the car of Caiiiouc 
progress, which carries in it our Q- 
iholic books and publications. 

So many hundred priests, talcni 
and learned, speaking from so m 
hundred pulpits and altars^ guiding iff 
consciences of so many millions U 
men, arc a power able to defeat aUtk 
productions of a licentious press: 
if, united by a common zeal, 
but lock hands and pull together, 
cannot fail to realize ihe alrtadf 
quoted expression of > ! jiicr, 

Pius IX., speaking of i ' in» 

date the country ivilh goo4 fubti.'c^m. 
We priests often fail to rcolue 
power and influence. 

Nor should the laity be idle, •ff 
the day of a nation's peril," sjp 
Tcrtullian, "cverj' citizen bccoDcsi 
soldier ; in the great struggles of the 
faith, every Christian becomes »a 
apostle." Let the sacred fire of joi 
pass from the bosom of tile priest to 
burn in the breasts of the laity. There 
is a certain priesthood of the ijit)', 
which they do not sufficiently »nulcf-j 
stand. They are too apt to ht pM», 
sivc-, to let the priest do all the laboi^ 
and only help him when called vA 
urged ; they forget that piety aad 
good works are as c.'j^ th«B 

as to their spiritual , ind 

that so far from their zeal being aa 
intrusion on that of the pricsilwod, 
it is an acceptable assistance. Ho» 
many a poor, tired priest loop 
that some good layman would rdirnl 
him of a portion of his burden, awl 
enable him to bear the load anilir 
sponsibilily of his parish I Wc all 
on the laity, then, to come to the res- 
cue : help in the cause of God' 
Found libraries ; or at any nte,stiK^ 



Family, Parish, and Sunday-School Libraries. 



551 



lielves in your own homes 
d books for yourselves and 
:nds or children. Become 
idists ! You propagate the 
ou aid the pope, the bishops, 
priests ; you are doing a 
;eptable to God, when you 
spread good books or peri- 
Encourage others by your 
Are you a young man ? 
Jthers with you in the cause 
olic literature. Can you 
iave you a ready pen ? Why 
; a tract, or a good article 
atholic paper ? or buy it 
to your infidel or Protes- 
jhbors ? You may save a 
iving that little tract. You 
; a soul for one cent 1 Do 
raid because you are said to 
foung; or, if some one pa- 
ly informs you of the fact, 
ou are right, and that God 
r side ; then go ahead, 
how the zealous Montalem- 
jvered the charge of being 
nan, slurringly made against 
VI. Villemain, in the house 
n the time of Louis Philippe, 
nbert had been defending 
ty of the church. " I shall 
erhaps, too ardently, too 
irith that youthful vivacity of 
; minister of public instruc- 
othcrs accuse me. Youth 
of which I am daily correct- 
If. I thought myself alrea- 
of it, until the honorable M. 
1 told me the contrary, and 
all always remain a young 
is eyes. (Laughter.) But 
he youth of age which pass- 
:here is another youthful ness 
I shall never make an apol- 
lefence ; it is the youthful- 
sart and courage inspired by 
/hose doctrines never grow 
luse they are immortal ! 
thfulness of faith is my hap- 
id glory ; and I hope never 



to excuse myself for it before you." 
'Inexperience is not always the com- 
panion of youth. Young priest or 
young layman then, let your youth of 
years be like that of Montalembert, 
and not prevent you from aiding the 
holy cause of the Catholic press. 

Little leisure is therefore required ; 
and we have undoubtedly plenty of 
talent to write and give good books 
to the million ; to establish family, 
children's, Sunday-school, or parish 
libraries. . 

The rules for the special manage- 
ment of libraries are easily found. 
Either obtain those already in use, or 
obtain a set of new regulations from 
the pastor. The regulations of many 
of our public libraries are used in 
many Protestant Sunday-school libra- 
ries. For false religions know how 
to use the press ; and Protestants 
know well the influence which their 
religious journals, periodicals, tracts, 
and other publications exercise on 
the minds of both young and old. 
We certainly ought not to be behind 
the propagandists of error in our 
propagandisra of truth. We need 
not, therefore, specify any system of 
rules for the maintenance of good or- 
der in the case of libraries. Any li- 
brarian will easily find regulations 
that have been found to work success- 
fully. 

A more grave difficulty than that 
of finding rules to manage a library 
is that of obtaining the money to cre- 
ate it. Money is the main-stay and 
the backbone of Catholic publica- 
tions. If it be the sinews of war, it 
is certainly the life of the press. 
Unless the public pays the author, he 
will not write ; and you cannot col- 
lect books without money to purchase 
them. A hard-worked priest will say, 
" I have enough to do to raise money 
to build my church, or school, or pa- 
rochial house, without spending it on 
books." The laymatv vj'\\\ ^21-^ , ^'^ Xavx 



$53 



Family, Parish, and Sunday-School Libnuitt. 



are always begging. We cannot give 
for everything ; and 1 have no cash 
to spare for your magazine, for your 
tracts, or your books, for I have to 
, give it for the new church, or the new 
fichool, or the new priest's house." 

In answer to this difficulty, we ob' 
serve, firstly, that a library, or collec- 
tion of books, is almost of equal im- 
portance, in some respects more im- 
portant, than a school or a house ; 
secondly, a parish library costs but a 
trifle, which will not be missed either 
by priest or people. 

Let us hear, before developing 
our answer, how the good Abbd Mul- 
k)ts, whose spirit inspires the whole of 
this article, resolves the objection in 
IJAmi dtt yeune Ctergi, for May and 
June, 1867 : 

" Wc know a man," says he, " who has 
gK-en away in four y^^Ji forty tuw thousand 
x-aiumesP' — Would any one in .-Vmerica do 
this ? — "A zealous woman in Paris gives six 
or eight thousand francs yearly to help Ca- 
tholic publications ; and after sending every 
package of good books for distribution, she 
is sure to receive letters of this kind : ' Ma- 
dfun, t have heard of your great charity ; 
yott have sent books to such a place ; they 
were liked, and so interesting that everybody 
wanted one to read. They did much good. 
Would you be kind enough to send me 
some?' 

"The Society of St. Fr.incis dc Sales gives 
twenty-five or thirty thous.ind francs annu- 
ally for this purpose ; the society for the 
amelioration and propagation of good books 
spends fifty thousand francs a year in the 
work. It i? not books, therefore, that are 
wanting. Let them be sought, and they will 
be found. Why are there so many corrupt 
pabiications ? I>ccau5c they find readers, I.ct 
us make readers of good publications by do- 
ing our duty. 

" In order to begin a library, thirty, forty, 
or fifty francs will do. A good pastor of the 
diocese of SDtssun.i tells U5 the way in which 
he niised the fiuuls Im found a tibran-, in the 
following tcrm«: ' I wanted to esiablioh this 
food work in n«y parish, but money was the 
""Scutl}'. I soim oncjuered il. On .Sur- 
ly, I prcactied on the necessity of rdura. 
tton in genera! ; nnd I told my parishioners 
that, if they wanted to he eduraterl, I coutd 
Amish (hem about fifty volunKs fur thirtf 



ft^mcs, to make a beginning. , But ' 
I to get the thirty francs ? Let 1 
sons give me a franc apiece. Thii^ 
able me to found a tilnary, and 
be able to rettd all jxmr Sfe fur 
Next day, forty-five persnns \ 
thirty-five paid the cash down. 
will pay during the year.* *• 

When we remember that \ 
is about equal to a quarter-doUar ( 
our currency ; we, who are ac 
ed to give dollars by the tens 
twenties for e\'ery collectioo, 
smile at the naivtti of the Aw 
and the modestj' of his request. 

He helps us, however, to 
our own difficulty. From all lioti 
have written concerning the pmt" 
cious influence of bad publicatki^ 
and the necessity of counteractiafft 
by good ones, it foUows thit a r.jj 
library in a parish, witli r 
rishioners, is almost as iiii]iij(i:>ni u 
a good school. In fact, what gool 
is the school, if, after leaving it, o« 
children have no reading-room, bo 
good books, to keep up the rciBe» 
brance of what was learned in child* 
hood ? It is after his school <bj\ 
that the young man meets all ite 
great perils of his faith and morality. 
It is tlicn young women want good 
books to read, instead of the }"cllo»» 
covered trash, or pictorial, sensadoa- 
al serials, ox-er which you may 6ad 
the yoimg of both sexes gloatit^ of • 
Sunday afternoon, or of a rainy Q^i» 
wasting their health of body aad 
mind in this midnight perusal. The 
cause, then, of Calliolic publications, 
of Catholic tracts, of the Catholic 
press, is the cause of religioti itaelt 
We are not exaggerating ; we a« 
only giving it that place among llit 
means of preserving and prt>p^t> 
ing faith and good morals wfaick ilM 
Catholic Church, speaking tlnomjk 
the mouth of the supreme potuiffiiBd 
bishops, give it. 

A good book in lh« Ikxi 
guardian angel. It has the 




Family, Parish, and Sundt^School Libraries. 



55S 



md the tongue of inspira- 
speaks and enlightens the 

it warms the heart, and 
mind with good thoughts, 
pagination with holy ima- 
peaks in the silence of the 
ivell as in the effulgence of 

and its impressions pass 
vritten pages to be engrav- 
r on the soul of the reader. 
, trifle to found a library ! 
cts to give it ? We do not 
f thirty francs, like the par- 
of the diocese of Soissons. 
le sum to the generous and 
character of the people, 
poor people are wealthy 

with the poor of Europe. 
;ons giving a dollar apiece 
the foundation of a library 
it grow in the course of 

great magnitude and cele- 
clubbing together, expenses 
s diminished. It is the 
J we know, of Catholic pub- 

well of all booksellers, to 
eduction in price when a 
itity of books is bought. A 
of one or two cents a week 
lent from the library brings 

a large revenue, which 
le librarian to increase his 
hat parish would miss fifty 

What priest or people be- 

for so good a purpose ? 

the work be undertaken, 
lias not yet been begun ; 
ress with renewed zeal, 
re has already been made 

'g- 

pulpits ring ; give at least 
on in favor of this good 
brothers of the clergy, vet- 
sc hair has grown gray in 
h militant ; you know that 
exaggetate the importance 
c publications in the battle 
ily faith against the devil, 
md the world ; we appeal 
Ifoung Levites, fresh from 



your school glories, do not foi^t 
your projects for God's honor and 
for the spread of his holy faith ; we 
ask your succor also. And you, 
over-tasked yet generous laity, ever 
ready to res|)ond joyfully to a call 
made on your faith or your charity, 
we ask you, too, to interest your- 
selves in the cause of Catholic publi- 
cations. We ask all to unite with' 
God, with the church, with the su- 
preme pontiff and the episcopate, in 
furthering the work of the Cadio* 
lie press, Catholic books. Catholic 
literature of every description ; from 
the tract or litde tale, the Sun- 
day-school paper, to the ponderous 
theological or philosophical folio. 
God will crown our work. He asks 
but our cordial cooperation. Suc- 
cess must therefore follow our efforts ; 
for if God is for us, who can with- 
stand us ? Si Dots pro nobis, quis 
contra nos f 

" The necessity of a Sunday-school 
library no one disputes. But how am 
I to get one ?" says the pastor. 

Make a beginning. Buy Catholic 
tales, biographies, and the smaller 
class of books which are popular 
among children. More costly books 
can be added afterward. 

At first give books to the more ad- 
vanced classes as a reward for good 
lessons, good conduct, etc. As the 
library increases, the privilege can be 
extended till it embraces every class 
capable of profiting by it. 

But how is the library to be sup- 
ported and enlarged ? Take up a 
collection every Sunday at the chil- 
dren's Mass, as is done in many 
churches in this city and elsewhere, 
where good libraries are already in ex- 
istence. This will not only create a 
fund sufficient to sustain and enlarge 
the library, but will also give the chil- 
dren the habit of contributing to the 
support of religion, which will be of 
the greatest benefit \o Vbenv \a ^Sxec 



554 



The Comedy of Convocation, 



life. This plan has been successfully 
tried ; the children have been able 
to support and steadily enlarge the 
h'brary, and have also given liberally 
to other charitable objects. 

Again, When and how shall the 
books be distributed ? A very suc- 
cessful method is the following : 

Number the classes in the Sunday- 
school. Divide the library into as 
many sections or alco\ cs as }ou have 
classes. There must be at least as 
many books in each alcove as there 
are scholars in any class. A separ- 
ate catalogue of each alcove should 
be made and designated as section 
A, B, C, etc. 

Erasive tablets may be easily pro- 
cured. On one side may be written 
tlie names and numbers of the books 
in each section, and the other side 
used to record the numbers of the 
I books selected. This being done, 
after the Sunday-school is opened, 
let the librarian or assistant give a 
catalogue of a section to each class ; 
section A to class i, section B to 
class 2, etc. 

The teachers will then select books 
for the class, and mark the numbers 



on the tablet Tlie ttbrarun k 
the tablets and carritis to a 
the books selected. The 
notes the number of tlie book: 
the name of the child who 
in his class-book. The next! 
let the books be first collected . 
turned to their places. The 
logues are then given out. 
who chose from selection A 
should now have section B, nd] 
on in rotation. Thus all will in I 
select from each section of thci 
brary, and the books arc di*4r 
in a short time, witliout noise or« 
fusion. 

How shall the books be 
This is not an easy i.isk. Manrl 
been deterred from s- 
on account of the ditn. 
this selection. In view of this, 
have prepared a catalogue suit 
for a parochial and Sunday-School I 
bran,', which tlic reader can find i 
our advertising pages. These an: j 
down at the lowest terms, and tfC) 
lected with care, as the most sintjli|1 
to make a beginning witli. .As findll 
increase, others can be added ires 
lijne to time. 



THE COMEDY OF CONVOCATION.* 



-Satire without bitternessor rancor 
isaphenomenon in literatureof which 
the world has seen few examples, and 
genuine, religious satire has been so 
rare, that we can hardly recall a sin- 
gle unexceptionable specimen. There 
was a day, to be sure, when every 
poet held it a part of his profession 
to lacerate )vith the weapon of his wit. 



• The Cem*JyafC»at>«(«t(»n in Ik* fCnglUi Ciutrck, 
•■ Tm SfrMti. Edited by Airh<lc«'^ riiumVJe, 
O.D. SrOiPp.!]}. Loudoo : WillUna ftaenun. 



or with the rhymed inTectiv« 
too often passed for wit. whjteetf 
creed happened at the time to b< 
most unpopular. Some few ctm <i 
the great m.istcrs of \ ■ "' '■"''■ 
den and Butler, trcn- 
dom.iin of religious cooLrovcf»]r i ^ 
Dr)'den's Jlinti and Pamihtr and Rt 
Ugio Laid are rather dogmatical po- 
ems than satires, and Butler's /f>^ 
bras, which i-s pure satire, is 
less at a religious sect ihaa at * ; 



Tk$ Comedy of Convocation. 



555 



1 party. Here we have, how- 
a prose satire in the Church of 
and, which is one of the most ad- 
ble specimens of that class of lit- 
re in our own or any other lan- 
e. It is sharp without unkind- 
; it contains not a syllable of in- 
sre ; it is honest ; it is logical ; 
rit is radiant ; the fun is over- 
ring ; and the application is ir- 
ible. Volumes could not ex- 
the preposterous errors of An- 
lism with half the effect produc- 
' this little pamphlet. The trou- 
and perplexities of the English 
es, the absurdities of the privy 
:il, the purposeless debates of 
)cations, the conflict of beliefs, 
mcertainty of dogmas, the vain 
ies of deans and doctors, the 
less, the wavering, the inconsist- 
the worldliness of the Angli- 
"hurch, are pictured in this lit- 
imedy to the very life. Its ap- 
nce has created in London a 
und sensation. Anglicans are 
:ing under the exposure, and 
body else is laughing at the lu- 
us exhibition. The authorship 
known, but we are inclined to 
.'e that the current rumor which 
)es it to Dr. J. H, Newman is 
founded. We doubt whether 
is another man in England ca- 
of writing it. 

e Dramatis Persona embrace a 
>er of deans, archdeacons, and 
' ecclesiastical dignitaries, and 
;rst scene takes place in "the 
alem Chamber," where Convo- 
1 is in session. 

)octor Easy rose to propose 
uestion of which he had given 
; at the previous sitting of Con- 
ion : ' Would it be considered 
jr in the Church of England to 
the existence of God ?' It had 
red to him that he should, per- 
adopt a form more convenient 
e present debate, if he put the 



question thus : ' Would a clergy- 
man, openly teaching that there was 
no God, be liable to suspension ?' 

" Archdeacon Jolly thought not 
What the Church of England espe- 
cially prided herself upon was the 
breadth of her views. No view could 
be broader, than the one just stated, 
and therefore, none more likely to 
meet with the sanction of the privy 
council, which, he apprehended, was 
the real point to be kept in view in 
the discussion of this interesting ques- 
tion. (Hear, hear.) 

" Dean Blunt concurred in the 
opinion that breadth and the privy 
council were kindred ideas. Still, it 
might be asked, could even the doc- 
trinal elasticity of that tribunal be- 
come sufficiently expansive to em- 
brace the enormous hypothesis of his 
learned friend? He ventured to 
think that it could. Let it be sup- 
posed that some clergymen of the 
Church of England — say the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury — should pub- 
licly teach that there was no God. 
The case being brought before the 
privy council, it might be reasonably 
assumed that that supreme arbiter 
of Anglican doctrine would deliver 
some such judgment as the follow- ' 
ing: 

' We find that the Chorch of England is not sppem- 
ed to the exutence of a God. At the same time, we 
cannot overlook the &ct tUa^tiie nineteenth article, 
in airirming that all churches, even the apostolic, 
have erred in matters of iaith, obvionsly impUes that 
the Church of England may err also in the same wajr. 
Ilierefore the Church of England may err in teaching 
thai there is a God. We conclude, that whilst, oa 
the one hand, the archbishop has taken an extreme 
or one-sided view of the teaching of the church ; on 
the other, for the reason assigned, it is undoubtedly 
open to every clergyman either to believe in or to deny 
the existence of a God.' 

" Archdeacon Theory would be 
disposed cordially to approve the 
judgment which the learned dean 
anticipated. He had always main- 
tained that it was the duty of every 
Anglican to doubt the existence of 
God. (Uproai.) Lei Vum xwox \jfc 



556 



Tke Comedy of Coiwocatiom, 



V 



misunderstood. Speaking for him- 
self, he had a moral and intellectual 
conviction that there was a God. 
He was not disputing the objective 
truth of the existence of a God : 
about that he could not supfKJse that 
a single member of Convocation 
could entertain the most transitory 
doubt. He was speaking only or 
their duty as members of the Church 
[of England, and not at all of their 
obligation as Christians ; two things 
which might happen in a particular 
case to be as wide apart as the poles, 
and to involve distinct and opposite 
responsibilities. Now, as members 
of the Church of England, he believ- 
ed it was their duty to doubt, not 
only the existence of God, but also 
every separate article which the 
Church of England now taught, or 
might teach hereafter \ and the more 
emphatically the Church of England 
appeared to teach, the n»oro impera- 
tive was their duty to doubt. For, 
referring to the ingenious argument 
which Dean Blunt had put into the 
mouth of their national oracle, it was 
clear that the Church of England in 
denying her own infallibility', laid all 
her members under the religious ob- 
ligation of doubting everything she 
taught. Fallibility, properly defined, 
was not simply liability to err, it was 
the state of error. As infallibilityis a 
state of certainty, which does not ad- 
mil of error ; so fallibility is a state 
of doubt which does not admit of 
conviction. Now, the Church of 
England, in proclaiming her own fal- 
iblHty, did so with a peremptoriness 
which elevated this part of her teach- 
ing, and this alone, to the dignity of 
dogma. For, whereas, in propound- 
ing other Anglican tenets, she so ad- 
justed her definitions of doctrine as 
to leave the choice of possible and 
opposite interpretations to the discre- 
tion of her members ; when speaking 
of this, the fundamental axiom of 



her whole theolo0cal sj'Sfcin, il 
rose for the moment to the aulkd^ 
of a teaiher, and consented to p« 
on the robe of infallibility, m onto 
to promulgate with greater force te 
dogma of her own liability to cnw* 

Here is the key to the first 
The discussion is maintained it 
siderable length, and carries us 
the whole ground of the aul 
the English church to teadi 
truth ; and in the course of it. 
representative of each of tbe 
prominent schools of theological 
nion in the establi.shmeni take* 
sion to express his mind. Pr.Vi 
holds that since heresy is the 
of one's creed, as opposed to 
submission of the will to auiiioriQ; 
no Anglican can be guilty of hoOf 
who obeys the tcachinirs of hheedfr 
siastical superiors; ir milie 

Church of England, ii ,. < *•• 
ditionally, but could not be futestarif, 
heresy to deny the cxlitencc of Goi 
As that church is taunted bv fatf 
enemies with holding and rejcctni 
every Imaginable creed, the onlyofe 
course for a clcrg)-man is to cratif 
the whole of his obedience in tiut 
one bishop or rector, under «iH0, 
for the time being, he may iiad \itt 
self placed. "In other words, jiart 
to obey any /wtf ecclf^i ithof- 

ities at the same moi. . :lv«d 

the risk of Mng pronounced a Jwc- 
tic by either one or the otiiei'— b^ 
cause no two clergymen arc exjdff 
of the same belief — the only dfcfr 
tive safeguard against the possibiiy 
of heresy was personal obedieoctW 
one clergyman at a time. UTjco 
first ordained to the office of the ifi*" 
conate, from which he had been ao^ 
sequently elevated to unmerited diT 
nities, he found himself in the dio- 
cese of a low-church bi«.hop— k 
might say a very low i sbop 

— so low that any h; ^<trt 

into the regions of a purely Mgirt)** 





The Comedy of Convocation. 



557 



would have left no doctrinal 
lum whatever. He at once de- 
in virtue of his principle of 
Eence to authority, to teach his 
the religion of his bishop, which, 
ireful analysis, he resolved into 
^icles of belief — the denial of 
9a, and the assertion of self. 
^ Pompous audibly whispered, 
)hly unbecoming.') But here he 
©et with a difficulty in starting ; 
t happened that his rector was a 
^ite; and that, consequently, in 
oain, whatever the bisJiop taught 
} true, the rector taught to be 
land whatever the bishop taught 
|B false, the rector taught to 
|ue. The case, as convocation 
\ was so common in this coun- 
^ to form, perhaps, the rule in a 
fity of parochial cures. Hisprin- 
\ however, suggested an easy es- 
Ifrom the embarrassing position. 
t)plied it thus : manifestly more 
(ence was due to a bishop than 
^ctor ; yet a certain quantum of 
)ence was due to a rector, if only 
\Bft a bishop had appointed him. 
JDame, so to speak, a question of 
)rtion rather than of theology, 
^as soluble, not by the thirty- 
hrticles, but by the rule of three; 
jlfter working it out with religious 
flhe following commended itself 
iD as the solution of the pro- 
I He would 'preach low-church 
Ines on the Sundays, denying 
Icramcntal view and all its con- 
tnces, as the homage of clerical 
knee due to the bishop ; but he 
I teach high-church doctrines 
1^ the week, without abating a 
^teoet, in discharge of the pro- 
taiaie measure of obedience due 
|c rector. This practice gave 
|kc was bound to admit, to some 

Enent in the parish, and led to 
pular conviction that, however 
:nt his teaching might be in de- 
berc was a want of unity aboi^ 



it when looked at as a whole. Yet 
when he explained to his parishion- 
ers the purity of the motive which 
induced the apparent contradictions, 
and proved to them that his duplex 
system was designed only to reflect 
justly and proportionately the two as- 
pects of Christianity e.\hibited by 
their bishop and tiieir rector, the 
whole parish at once applauded the 
delicacy of his conscience, while it 
ceased not to question the value of 
his teaching, And so things went 
on with tolerable harmony for the 
space of a year; when, unh.ippily, 
both the bishop and the rector died 
about the same time ; the former 
being quickly replaced by a high- 
church bishop, appointed by a friend 
in the cabinet, and the latter by a 
low-church rector, nominated by Mr. 
Simeon's trustees. It now became 
his duty, in consistency with his 
principle of obedience to personal 
authority, to invert the order and 
portion of his teaching. He would 
continue to give the Sundays to the 
bishop, and the week-days to the 
rector ; but on Sundays he must now 
be a Puseyite, and on week-days an 
Evangelical ; and this simple inver- 
sion, so equitable in itself, and in- 
spired solely by the desire of sub- 
mitting himself to his superiors, creat- 
ed such discord in the parish, that 
fmally he was entreated, as the only 
means of restoring peace, to resign 
his cure of souls. 

" Dean Pliable concurred, in the 
main, with the principle of the learned 
divine who had just resumed his seat, 
that obedience to authority was the 
first duty of a clergj'man ; but he ut- 
terly differed from him in his appli- 
cation of the principle, which ap- 
peared to him to be equally servile 
and injudicious. That principle be 
conceived to be most effectually car- 
ried out, not by abject submission to 
this bishop or that, ihUiccVot ox ^'&\. 



I 



558 



The Comedy of Conxiocai 



— which might be both possible and 
convenient, if, in the Church of Eng- 
land, as in the Church of Rome, 
every bishop and every rector taught 
the same Christianity — but in the 
'larger and nobler aim of faithfully 
representing at one and the same 
time all the Christianities taught by 
all the bishops and all the rectors of 
the Church of England. In other 
words, since every one confessed 
that it was impossible to teach a uni- 
form theology in the Church of Eng- 
land, whose highest tribunal had 
ruled that her clergy might teach 
tlther of two opposite doctrines — and 
therefore both alternately — he was 
brought to the conviction that the 
only course open to Anglicans solici- 
tous about theoretical unity was to 
profess at the same moment every 
doctrine held within their commu- 
nion, and all their contradictories. 
(Gleat uproar : a well-known preach- 
er was heard to exclaim — " He would 
convert us into ecclesiastical acro- 
bats.") 

" Dean Critical inquired, with a 
touch of irony in his voice and man- 
ner — ' Could any of his reverend 
friends undertake to inform him what 
wps the authority of the Church o{ 
England ?' Hitherto (he debate had 
gone only to show what it was not. 
Dr. Theory had maintained that there 
was no such thing. Dr. Viewy and 
Dean Pliable had each of them 
proved that it did not reside in the 
bishops and clerg)% unless, indeed, it 
might be supposed to exist in equal 
measure in ever}' one of them ; but, as 
they were unhappily in direct oppo- 
sition to one another on many funda- 
mental doctrines, this was equivalent 
to saying that no authority to decide 
Christian doctrine existed in the 
Church of England. Lf there really 
were any such authority, convocation 
could hardly be more usefully cm- 



ploj'ed than in defining its native 
fixing its limits. 

" Archdeacon Jolly obsen-etl, *i^ 
out. ri.sing from his scat — 'Whit My 
you to the Archbishop of ( intr- 
bury?' (Some laughter, which ni 
immediately suppressed.) 

" Dean Critical reminded thcm«» 
rable archdeacon that the Archhi<.lwf 
of Canterbury was not alluded toil 
their formularies in any such dk^ 
racter, and feared, it must l« uU 
without disrespect, that he had M 
more power to determine a dispatrf 
point of doctrine than his aroiibk 
lady, whose hospitality many of ihea 
had enjoyed. It was a lamentafak 
fact that his Grace had no more au- 
thority over the people of Englafld. 
nor over a single individual out rf 
his own household, than . > . (a 
voice exclaimed, ' the King of tir 
Sandwich Islands,' a si^j^tstioa 
which was greeted with min»lc?d ap- 
plause and disapprobation.) 

" .\rchdeacon Jolly : Wtll, then, 
her Majesty the Queen, whom the 
church admits to be 'supreme* m 
all causes, spiritual as well as |ei»' 
poral ? 

" Dean Critical couh! not frrjrt 
that her Majcst)', in whom they »* 
cognized a model of every Christiia 
virtue, frequented, indifferently. Prrt* 
byterian meeting-houses ami the 
churches of their own commuoiotk 
If, therefore, as the law appcired le 
admit, the authority of the Anglican 
Church resided in her rov:>^ ir, tM-m. 
it followed that the V 
Confession and the Thirty muc v 
tides were equally tnte, and thai 
every Anglican was also a Tresby 
terian. 

*' Archdeacon Jolly: • How ab»>n( 
the Pri\-y Council ? If it be the ulli-j 
mate judge of doctn'nc, must it 
be the authority for which yoQ 
seeking ?' 



The Comedy of Convocatum. 



559 



m Critical thought not, because 
t, the sum of its decisions 
ted to this — that the Church 
land taught nothing and de- 
othing, which was equivalent 
ig that she believed nothing, 
anal which decided in every 
f disputed doctrine, as the 
council invariably did, that 
le plaintiff and defendant were 
xras a judicial curiosity that 
lardly be said to afford the li- 
parties much assistance in 
g their cause to an issue. The 
auncil might be an authority 
e Church of England, whose 
ns the latter was obliged to 
; but no one could seriously 
in that it was an authority to 
iny Anglican, of whatever par- 
le church, professed to submit 
science in matters of faith. 
:hdeacon Jolly : ' Will you ac- 
nvocation as your authority?' 
laughter, with cries of ' shame' 
ean Pompous.) 
an Critical regretted that he 
not accept convocation in the 
er of an Anglican Holy See : 
;, to say nothing of the gene- 
ling of the country, and the 
us comments of the public 
vhich appeared to treat them 
erision, and talked of their 
ig round a may-pole,' his own 
ition of the proceedings of 
sembly dissuaded him from 
ch view. Much experience 
ought him to the sorrowful 
ion that convocation was only 
cal debating-club, of which 
nember took himself for the 
nd the church for his pupil. 
;hdeacon Jolly: 'Might it 
nitted to suggest the formu- 

an Critical: So supple and 

in their nature as to be sworn 

equal facility both by those 

aim to 'hold all Roman doc- 



trine' and those who protest against 
it. 

"Archdeacon Jolly: 'Well, there 
are still the thirty-nine articles.' 

"Dean Critical: Thirty-nine opi- 
nions, one of which declares of all 
others, that they are human and fal- 
lible. 

"Archdeacon Jolly did not know 
that he could offer any fvirther sug- 
gestion, but, at least, one of the ar- 
ticles declared, 'the church hath au- 
thority in matters of faith.' 

" Dean Critical was not unmind- 
ful of the fact, which had always ap- 
peared to him to be a device of the 
framers to express this idea : * We 
•admit that the church we are form- 
ing has no authority, but we recog- 
nize that if it were a church, it would 
have authority.' For it should be 
observed that while they said, ' the 
church hath authority,' they at the 
same time enjoined the clergy not to 
believe a single word she taught 
them, unless they found their own 
interpretation of the Scriptures to 
agree with hers! Thus they made 
the Church of England say to all her 
members : * If you should accidentally 
be right in your interpretation of the 
Bible, put that down to me, for I am 
the church that teaches you ; but if, 
which is far more probable, you 
should be wrong, put that down to 
yourself, for I have warned you to 
believe in nothing which you cannot 
prove for yourself out of the Bible.' 
('Hear, hear,' from the Rev. La- 
vender Kidds.)" 

This Rev. Lavender Kidds is the 
comic man of the drama. His one 
principle is " Bible Christianit)'," his 
one passion a dread of the pope. 

" The Rev. Lavender Kidds (who 
seemed much excited, and rose 
amidst cries of 'order, order,' and 
considerable laughter) observed that 
he now assisted for tiie first time at 
the assembly of coxwocailXotv, «cA 



560 



had been deeply shocked by the vm- 
scriptural tone of the discussion. 
(Suppressed merriment.) For his 
part, he gloried in the thirty-nine 
articles of their pure and reformed 
church, and especially in their noble 
testimony to the grand truth that the 
religion of Protestants was 'tlie 
Bible, the whole Bible, and nothing 
but the Bible.' This was the true 
* authority ' of vital Christiarw, and 
he cared for no other. This was the 
simple and grand lesson of those 
venerable formularies which had 
been that day so grievously under- 
valued and calumniated. Really, 
it seemed to him to be prepwDsterous 
in any Protestant assembly to talk* 
somuch of ' fhurch-authority.' Au- 
thority, indeed! Who wanted it? 
And if tliey had it, who would olicy 
it? Certainly no member of that 
house with whom he had llie happi- 
ness of being acquainted — (laughter 
and ironical cheers) — least of all the 
high-church party, who had recently 
"been forming a society to protect 
themselves a^ainsf their bishops. 
(Renewed disapprobation.) He con- 
tended that their forefathers had 
done without authority, and had 
(wisely regarded it as a mark of the 
ast He was for the Bible and the 
^ Bible only. Perish the articles, and 
the church itself — no, his zeal was 
perhaps carrying him too far. What 
he meant to say was — in fact, he 
wished to observe — as long as they 
had the Word they wanted nolliing 
else. He knew, indeed, that Dean 
Primitive and Archdeacon Chasuble 
preferred authority to Scripture — as 
long, that was, as they could keep 
the former entirely in their own 
hands ; but he had invariably re- 
marked that they refused to their 
bishops and superiors the obedience 
they required from their curates and 
parishioners. But Englishmen, he 
feh convinced, were not to be ca* 




TAe Comedy of Convocatiom, 



IS ttHl 

i 



joled by a spurious 
they must rcnoi 
would not be tu ) use 

liberty themselves to resist iJn 
church they copied, in everythii 
their obedience. (General ci 
' Enough, enough,' amid whid 
Kidds resumed his seat, vitiill 
of one who had deliv<ire4^| 
and suitable protest.') ^^ 

" Dean Primitive was uiw 
that the observations of, 
should pass without any 
than Dean Blunt had thou 
give them. He had spent thirif ] 
of his life in combating tlK * 
of that party in the church w * 
Mr. Kidds belonged, and hft^ 
to continue the same holyj 
to the end. He w 
so-called evangi 
the ptainntss of ~ 
accustomed to assume, ' 
disregard of notorious 
nobody need find any 
deciding the true mcar 
text whatever. With the 
of the house, he would | 
few illustrations of the 
method of dealing with 
book ; from which it 
clearly appear, that wbca 
boasted of 
they only aj>j. 
sion of it, that is, to thet 
their favorite shibboleth, J 
and the Bible only,' m< 
as Dean Blunt had wel 
' my interpretation of th< 
not yours.' 

" Thus, when our Lore 
priests, ' I give to yon 
the kingdom of heaven,* 
according to the rva 
he meant, 'I give to 
keys of the kingdom of 1 

"When He declared, 
ever sins ^t>« remit, they 
ted,' beyond doubt be 
them to understand, ' I 



1 




The Comedy of Convocation, 



56t 



you the power to remit 

jave the promise to his 
with you always, even 
the world,' manifestly 
3 say, ' I am with you 
i of the third or fourth 
which I shall desert 
.ixteenth.' 

nnounced, ' I will send 
St, and he shall guide 
uth,' it is clearer than 
le wished to tell them, 
jhost will teach you 
f truth as each indiviji- 
from the private study 
es.' 

made the wonderful 
le gates of hell shall 
against the church,* 
:an see that he meant, 
umph over the church 
ed years and more.' " 
1 is raised whether the 
he first four General 
3t be taken as guides, 
1 that they are as hard 
the Bible itself. But 
•gy be appealed to as 
rpreters ? In replying 
he professor of theol- 

not, he conceived, in 
human religion — of 
iber was now almost 
etical calculation— r-so 
iox as that which was 
iseyite theology. The 
> the Great, or a Gre- 
nth, which, at least, 
stants might think of 
rdially admitted both 
neration and in those 
\ it, were only the 
timid self-abasement, 
the super-cecumenical 
their high-church 
y me,' said these gen- 
disciples, 'for obedi- 
rogative of the laity ; 



but I obey nobody except my own 
interpretation of the fathers, or of 
such of them as I approve, because 
my church is not yet sufficiently 
catholic to deserve my obedience. 
At present I am obliged to create a 
church for you, because nothing wor- 
thy of the name is found just now on 
earth. The day will come when she 
will have been sufficiently taught by 
me, will cease to be Protestant with- 
out becoming Roman, and then I 
shall be able to obey the church, be- 
cause, having learned from me the 
exact form of primitive Christianity, 
which exists nowhere at present but 
in my own ideal conception, the 
church will have come again into 
corporate existence, and will be wor- 
thy of your dutiful regard. It will 
then no longer be necessary for me, 
as it is unfortunately at present, to 
cumulate in my own person the func- 
tions of the pope, the saints, the 
fathers', the general councils, and 
Almighty God.' 

" (Considerable agitation followed 
this speech, during which the sitting 
was suspended for some minutes.) 

"The Rev. Lavender Kidds ob- 
served, as soon as the composure of 
the assembly was restored, that, how- 
ever forcible the remarks of the learn- 
ed professor might be as applied to 
Puseyism, he had shown that he was 
unwilling to grapple with the grand 
principle of Bible Christianity, of 
which he was the humble advocate. 

"The professor intended no dis- 
respect to Mr. Kidds and his party. 
Bible Christianity, since he must 
speak of it, (though he thought that 
former speakers had sufficiently dis- 
posed of the subject,) was only less 
preposterous than the rival theory 
which he had just ventured to describe. 
It required personal infallibility in 
all who professed it It simply trans- 
ferred to the individual the supernat- 
ural prerogative which thftiLoi!i«xa&\ 



562 



The Comedy of Cotrvocatien. 



attributed to his church. It was 
obvious to common sense that, if Mr. 
Kidds could interpret a particular 
translation of the Scriptures, so as to 
know infallibly both how much was 
necessar)' to be salvation, and exact- 
ly what was necessary to believed 
about it, he must himself be person- 
ally infallible. 

"The professor must decline to 
give his own opinion, though of course 
he had one, on the question proposed 
by Dr. Easy ; but he had no objection 
to state how he conceived it ought to 
be answered by the so-called Bible- 
Christian. That answer might be as 
follows : 

"The existence of a church as- 
sumes the existencft of a God ; there- 
fore, the denial of a God would be 
the same with the denial of a church. 
But tlie Church of England is a fact 
Her teaching may be doubtful or con- 
tradictory, but her existence as a po- 
litico-ecclesiastical institution, pro- 
fessing belief in a God, is beyond 
dispute. It would, therefore, be he- 

ly in the Bible Christian to deny 
'li»e existence of a GofI ; but it was 
quite open to him to believe in any 
kind of divinity he might prefer, and 
to clothe him with whatever attri- 
butes the Privy Council had permit- 
ted him to retain. . . . 

"Archdeacon Jolly doubted whether 
the universal Nego of Mr. Kidds and 
his friends could combat successfully 
the eternal Cndo of two hundred 
millions of Catholics. However, he 
was quite willing to consider Mr. 
Kidd's proposition ; but he must be 
excused if he did so from his own 
point of view. 

*' The re was a large class of persons 
in this country," continued the arch- 
deacon, "who, having no definite re- 
ligion of their own, and being slen- 
derly endowed with common sense, 
were indebted to tlie Roman Catho- 
JiC Church both for employment and 



QgS 

who 4 



% 



maintenance. Let Mr. 
his excitement; he would eip 
meaning, lie did not, of coi 
elude Mr. Kidds among ch(< 
question, though he 
gentleman would willinglj 
statement of Sterne, 
confessed, that, ' when he hai 
to say or little to give liispco] 
had resource to the abuse uf p 
Hence he called it his "Q* 
Cheese." It had a t "' 
tage ; it cost him vr 
found by experience 
lisfied so Well the i ■ 
of his congregation, 
devoured it greedily.' 

" Perhaps Mr. Kidds wasftrt, 
th.it in his zeal to hi 
fall of popery — whii i 
ing to modem pro] : 
few years to last, an-i 
by a recent tour he had mi<l< 
continent, presented anj 
moribund aspect — he wj 
opfKisition with many ac 
voted Protestants. Tli 
whom he alluded werc,^ 
ment, full of anxiety 
should perish too soon I , 
not afford to say farewcU| 
friend at present, and dt 
keep him on his legs a 
Mr. Kidds was proba 
that a society h.id receni 
formed in London, in <--."—- 
believed, widi the Pro! 
tion Society, to which u t. .i^ . 
to act as a timely and impoti 
liar>'. 'i'he title of tlib 
tion was: '^ Society /^ 
bat means of keeping i 
tiotts of Popery in lke\ 
pel Truth. ' I c was, of cc 
ly secret oi 
been favorc ; 

a copy of the prosjK-ctus, m 
had no intention of 
ber, he would communi< 
house. It appeared 






The Comedy of Convocation. 



563 



Id be confirmed from 
, that a deputation was 
Rome, to obtain a 
»w with the pope, in 
teat his holiness ftot to 
tie popish corruption, 
that they had reason 
lid not know on what 
ie pope was about to 
8ive reforms, bcEfinning 
ktitution of the thirty-nine 
creed of Pope Pius, 
Bnt Anglican convoca- 
i occasional cecumen- 
A handsome present 
I to the deputation, and 
Hbution to the Peter's 
The motives set forth 
ible of the address pre- 
iholiness were, in sub- 
■bllowing nature : They 
^ry larfje body of most 
clergymen, who had no 
will toward the present 
the Holy See, had main- 
■Ives and iheir families 
vmany years exclusively 

■ of popery ; and if 
taken away, they could 

itempiate the probable 

uneasiness and alarm. 

lany eminent members of 

■ had gained a reputa- 
■igelical wit, learning, 
Bwell as high dignities 
n of England, by setting 
r sermons and at public 
th all their harrowing de- 

mding abominations of 

'Rome. The petition- 

lis holiness not to be 

the jxjsition of these 

[any of their number 

requested the ileputa- 

their cause with the 

benevolent Pius IX. 

It and good Doctor 

)resented respectfully 

led his church, and let 

iring three-and-twenty 



years, by elegantly slandering priests 
and nuns, and powerfully illustrating 
Romish superstitions. A clergyman 
of noble birth had attained to the 
honors of the episcopate by handling 
alternately the same subjects, and a 
particularly pleasing doctrine of the 
Millennium, and had thus been en- 
abled to confer a valuable living on 
his daughter's husband, who other- 
wise could not have hoped to obtain 
one. An eminent canon of an old 
Roman Catholic abbey owed his dis- 
tinguished position, which he hoped 
to be allowed to retain, to the fact of 
his having proved so clearly that the 
pope was Antichrist ; and earnestly 
entreated his holiness to do nothing 
to forfeit that character. A well- 
known doctor of Anglican divinity 
was on the point of quitting the coun- 
try in despair of gaining a livelihood, 
when the idea of preaching against 
popery was suggested to him, and he 
had now reason to rejoice that he 
had abandoned the foolish scheme 
of emigration. Even a high-church 
bishop had been so hampered by 
suspicions of Romanistic tendencies, • 
which were perfectly unfounded, that 
he had only saved himself from gen- 
eral discredit by incessant abuse of 
pof>ery, though he was able to say, 
in self-defpnce, that he did not be- 
lieve a word of his own invectives. 
Finally, a young clergyman, who had 
not hitherto mech distinguished him- 
self, having often but vainly solicited 
a member of his congregation to fa- 
vor his evangelical attachment, at 
length hit upon a new expedient, 
and preached so ravishing a dis- 
course on the matrimonial prohibi- 
tions of the Romish Church, and 
drew so appalling a picture of the 
domestic infelicities of the Romish 
priesthood, that on the following Mon- 
day morning the young lady made 
him an offer of her hand and fortune. 
It was hoped tlial his hoVvnessHJOAAA 



SH 



The Comedy of Convocation. 



give due consideration to interests 
so grave and manifold, and not peril 
tliem by hasty reforms, which nobody 
desired, and which nobody would re- 
ceive with satisfaction. 

"Another class of clergymen ap- 
pealed still more urgently to the for- 
bearance of the pope. They repre- 
sented that they were in the habit of 
realizing large sums by the publica- 
tion of prophetical works of which 
the whole interest turned upon the 
approximate destruction of * the 
beast,' and that while they indicat- 
ed, by the help of the apocalj-pse, the 
precise hour of his fall, they j'et man- 
aged to put off the final catastrophe 
from year lo year, and could hardly 
supply the successive editions which 
the curiosity of the public demanded. 
They hoped that his holiness would 
do nothing rash and imprudent which 
might compromise their particular 
industry. One of these gentlemen 
ingenuously coi.fessed that without 
Antichrist, who was his best friend, 
and the invaluable book of Revela- 
tion, which was his chief source of 
income, he saw nothing before him 
but the workhouse. He begged to 
forward to the pope a copy of each 
of his works, including the following : 
'Horns of the Beast,' neatly bound, 
with gilt edges ; ' Antichrist,' hand- 
somely got up, ' positively his last ap- 
pearance in 1864, in consequence of 
other engagements,* with new edi- 
tions in 1865, 1866, and 1867 ; also, 
* Answer to an insolent pamphlet, 
entitled the "The Number and Street 
of the Beast proved to be that of the 
Rev. Dr. Con>eagain." ' 

" Lastly, even members of parlia- 
ment to whom nature had not been 
prodigal in intellectual endowments, 
urged with great force that they were 
able to get on their legs, and to stay 
dierc, detailing the prodigious inci- 
dents of conventual turpitude ; mak- 
ing the blood to curdle, and the hair 



to stand on end, by thrilling 
tives of nuns immured, and 
chains, and bereaved mothers 
ing in agonized chorus, ^ Liberty I 
Mr. Newdegate.* They hoped 
pope would see in this (Jict lJ« 
cessity of caution, lest he sboold' 
wittingly put to silence ronm 
one independent member of 
ment, deprive an illustrious 
of its chief amusement, and 
change the com' ' of iJw 

tish House of C 

"Dean Pompous inquired (1 
somewhat thick utterance, but 
great dignity of manner) wbesbcr| 
understood tlie archdeanm to 
that he bad actually seen this doct 
ment? 

" Archdeacon Jolly : He had 
tainly said so ; it bad been si 
him in Rome by Cardinal Ann 

Archdeacon Chasuble heid lit 
theory that the .-Xnglican estabfi^ 
ment is a braneh of the C; 
Church, and proved 
lie Church was nccc - 
at one period of her existence- 
gift of infallibility was susfettJeJ' 
Christendom became divided, 
will be recovered when the Ri 
the Roman, the Greek, the Ai 
and the Oriental branches nrunile-^ 
a happy period, of whose aniral, k 
regretted to say, there was no ktmt 
diate prospect To this Dr. Candotf 
undertook to reply: 

'•When tlie Roman, Grcdc. aa^ 
Anglican communities should all be 
come one, the church would coce 
more become infallible. Thi 
ous and defective Christianitii 
together, if anybody could 
them to coalesce, would make 
tme and perfect Chi' 
giving up what c;ich t 
cally true, and the ii 

each believed specific 

that travail in the womb of Chrtstt*- 
dom which would give birth 10 





The Comedy of Convocation. 



jfallibility. He would only say, 
professor of theology had dis- 
of that point, that this was an 
trical phenomenon which he did 
ink any one present would live 
:nough to witness, 
ut he would now approach an- 
aspect of the question, to which 
rclideacon had attracted their 
ion. The low<hurch theory, 
d lold them, and the language 
;ir articles and homilies, which 
led the defection of the Catholic 
Ji, ' made void the promises of 
Was the archdeacon quite 
that low-churchinen were the 
►r sole offenders ? He thought 
Let him ask his friend whether 
the ' diabolical millennium' of 
iiglish refonners, that dismal 
|U between the sixth and six- 
i centuries, was ^a conception 
insolently subversive of the 
3 of God, more fatal to the 
idea of a divine, indefec- 
d ' teaching church,' than the 
own Anglican conceit, that 
ly church was wholly pure, 
ediaival much less pure, and 
em quite unworthy of their 
nee ? Was it really so very re- 
to the catholic idea, of which 
hdeacon claimed to be the 
.te, to assert, as he and his 
id in every act of their lives, 
spite of the 'promises ol 
the only really perfect church 
hour, protesting at once against 
Itant heresies and popish cor- 
ds, was the little group of Pu- 
( and ritualists within the na- 
establishmcnt ? (Great laugh- 

archdcacon had reproached 
r-church school, and the foun- 

Anglicanism, with making 

je promises of God. Let the 

[consider how the high-church 

>terpreted those promises for 

Ives. According to their theory, 



the promise to be ' always ' with the 
church applied only to the beginning 
and the end of her career, but not to 
the long interv'al between the two, 
during wliich the whole of Christen- 
dom was hopelessly sunk in error 
and corruption. It was curious to see 
that the high-church party cordially 
agreed with ultra- Protestants, that 
the Catholic Church during long ages 
had been leaching falsehoods! This 
was their reverence for ' the promises 
of God 1' 

"Again. The promise to guide the 
Church into '■all truth' had reference 
only to the integrity of truth before 
the mission of St. Augustine to Eng- 
land, and after the publication of tlie 
Tracts for the Times. The twelve 
hundred years between them, rather 
a long period in the life of tJie churcli, 
during which all Christians obstinate- 
ly believed the supremacy of the pope, 
the office of the mother of God, and 
the mystery of transubstantiation — 
doctrines highly offensive to Pusey- 
ites — were merely an unfortunate 
parenthesis in the faithfulness of God, 
during which the catholic idea was 
lamentably obscured, and God forgot 
his * promises.' 

"Once more. The promise that 
tlie 'gates of hell' should '■never' 
prevail against the church meant 
ooily, according to the same school, 
that the principalities of evil, doing 
active work under the father of lies, 
should certainly prevail for a good 
many centuries, but that finally a 
little sect should rise up in the Church 
of England, able to discriminate with 
precision the errors of the Anglican, 
the Greek, and the Roman churches, 
and peacefully to conduct them all 
to the perfect truth which they had 
lost, to the unity which they had for- 
feited, and to a very remarkable and 
final triumph over the 'gales of 
hell.' 

"The only true lesl ot ^ xJwtor^ 



566 



The Comedy of Ccnvccation. 



was tlie result to which it led in prac- 
tice. The branch-theorj' did not look 
well on paper, but perhaps it redeem- 
ed itself in its practical evolution. 
He would suppose, then, that the 
archdeacon, resolving to try his ihe- 
orj', set out on a foreign tour. Did 
he leave Dover an Anglican, and dis- 
embark at Calais a Roman Catholic? 
If so, at what particular spot in the 
Channel did he drop the Anglican 
articles and take up the Roman mis- 
sal ? Was it marked by a buoy? or 
was the transformation a gradual pro- 
cess, like the changes of temiwra- 
ture ? On leaving Dover, he carried 
with him only two sacraments, which 
had grown into seven by the time he 
landed at Calais. Supposing the dis- 
tance to be twenty-five miles, did he 
take up a new sacrament — he was 
going to say at every fifth milestone 
but the sea knew not such measures 
of distance. Were there fixed points 
at which he began to believe that 
transubstantiation was a holy mys- 
ter)', and not a ' blasphemous fable ;' 
tluit confirmation and extreme unc- 
tion were divine sacraments, and not, 
as he had believed while breakfasting 
at Dover, a mere 'corrupt following 
of the Apostles'? Did he, in spite 
of the injunction with wliich they 
were all familiar, 'not to speak to 
the man at the wheel,' anxiously in- 
terrogate that individual as to the 
precise longitude in which it behoved 
him to cast away some Anglican de- 
lusion, and take up some Catholic 
truth? At what point of the voyage 
did the pope's supremacy begin to 
dawn upon him ? And, finally, did 
the process of transformation, to 
which all branch-Christians were in- 
tvitably subject when they went to 
foreign lands, depend in any degree 
upon the weather ? Was it quicker 
or slower in a heavy sea ? or did sea- 
sickness in any way affect its devC' 
iopment ? 



"The proloctitor of the boose 1 
rose, wiih an air of dignity becaH|J 
his official character, .-uxi cxpr 
his conviction that the general 
ing of the house was tiiat tbe 
should now close. (Hear, 
That debate had proved • 
things, which were more or 
structive to the oationol 
nothing perhaps more d« 
this, that the public was 
garding their discussions a» 
profitable to the interests o^ i 
either in their own land or 

other 

house shared -his opinion, it < 
maincd to detrrmine what 
be the place of Lhdr future 
(Applause.) 

" Doctor Easy was delighted I 
able to offer hospit.ility to hisi 
end friends. He lived, as they I 
in the immcdiiJte nri^rhborhoail 



their fine old li 
his apartments 
cious to afford a 
meeting. He • 
on the undcrsi 



abbey, 
Uidently! 
convenient 

•hat 



cation was now luppjJy rxtinct, ' 
they should mt- ct at his rcsidencei 
that day week, *hen they 
either resume the debate thai 
hitlierto occupied theni, or tttm their 
attention to nny other topic mklA 
might promise greater profit if 
amusement (Loud cries of' AgiefidL') 
\ExeuHt omHfs" 

The second scene is inttodoEMi 
with the following descripcioa,! 
icate humor of which is 

" Dr. Easy's drawing-) 
scnted an animated 
Frientlly greetings were 
and decent hilarity perraded 
assembly. The gravest coonteotf- 
ces relaxed from conventiotul *<««•* 
ity. Archdeacons smiled a* if *■ 
anticipation of coming cnjojino^ 
and even deans responded t0 tl^ 
salutations of the ioferioc cief|7 *^ 





Tke Conudy of Convocatum. 



567 



)nted urbanity. The bright mir- 
well-selected pictures, and far- 
ling sofas which adorned Dr. 
''s saloon, and bore witness at 
to the amplitude of his revenues 
the refinement of his taste, were 
;ntly felt to be an improvement 
le decorous gloom of the Jeru- 
a chamber. Tables of marble 
rosewood were covered with 
« engravings and other works 
L Portraits of the Misses Easy 
cted the attention of the young- 
si^. The absence of reporters 
rted to their elder brethren a 
)me sense of liberty. Free but 
undignified postures preluded 
uniliar dialogue in which each 
[ take cheerful part, without the 
:asant fear of newspaper criti- 
Convocation had become a 
[ or family reunion, and was 
ntly satisfied with the change, 
mal discussion preceded the 
ig debate, and themes which 
• fail to interest the clerical 
occupied the company. Dean 
x>us disputed with a neighbor 
icact pecuniary value of a bene- 
ikely to be shortly vacant, and 
:sted a probable successor to 
ying incumbent. Dean Primi- 
conversed with Archdeacon 
jble on the recent letter of the 
ite, inv-iting the bishops * in 
e communion with the Church 
igland ' to a council in Sep- 
;r. Had his friend noticed, he 
., that remarkable announce- 
that 'such council would not 
mpetent to make declarations, 
y down definitions on points 
ctrine ' ? His friend had cer- 
noticed it. He had heard of 
lis, both general and local, 
, had assembled to decide on 
i of doctrine, but it was the 
time he had ever heard of a 
II summoned with the avowed 
•,fA avoiding ^ such questions. 



In such cheerful talk the reverend 
guests continued to indulge, till their 
number being at length complete* 
there arose suddenly, amid the hum 
of general conversation, a loud ciy 
of * Chair, chair !' Then the hos^ 
leaning against a chimney-piece, 
bowed to his friends, and prayed 
them to be seated. Silence being 
restored, the debate commenced as 
follows : 

" Dr. Easy rejoiced that his rev- 
erend friends had attended in such 
imposing numbers. In compliance 
vrith their invitation, he had selected 
a subject to be submitted to their 
notice. Their last debate, as they 
seemed generally to feel, had proved 
to themselves and to the public that 
authority neither did nor could re- 
side in Uie English Church. It was 
certain that no individual clergyman, 
nor all the clergy put together, could 
decide any point of doctrine what- 
ever ; so that the day seemed close 
at hand — if it had not actually arriv- 
ed — ^when an Anglican would be at 
liberty either to accept or reject 
every truth contained in the Chris- 
tian revelation. The learned prolo- 
cutor had well epitomized all the 
points of their last debate, and grace- 
fully justified the characteristic de- 
cisions of privy council, when he 
said, or at least implied, that the 
practical result of all Anglican teach- 
ing, as of all Anglican history, might 
be expressed in such a formula as 
this, ' Christianity, from first to last, 
is simply a matter of opinion ;' or, 
' The primary object of the Christian 
revelation is to render it impossible 
for any man to know the truth with 
certainty.' 

" In confirmation of this view of 
their position as members of the 
Established Church, he was happy 
to be able to call their attention to 
the recent declaration of one of her 
highest dignitaries. H.^ tdgcc^^Kn^ 



S68 



Comedy of Convocatum. 



that he was not present with them, 
that he might have enforced in per- 
son the very striking statements 
vhich he was about to quote from a 
published volume of his sermons, with 
which he (Dr. Easy) had only be- 
come acquainted since their last 
meeting. The verj- Rev. Dr. Elliot, 
the present Dean of Bristol, had 
publicly asserted, without incurring 
the slightest shadow of reproach, 
these two momentous truths ; (i) 
that the Church of England is, in all 
respects, a purely human institu- 
tion ; and (3) that her members 
are not bound in conscience to be- 
lieve a single doctrine taught by her. 
But he would quote his exact words : 

" * The Church of England,' said 
the Dean of Bristol, 'is created by 
the law, upheld by the law, paid by 
the law, and may be changed by the 
law, just as any other institution in 
the /ant/.' 

''That was his first proposition, 
and hore was the second : 

" ' 1 cannot desire you to accept 
either what I affirm, or what the 
churcii affirms, as undoubtedly true, 
or t/w !'///»• true interpretation of the 
mysteries of God.' 

" It was pleasant to see the con- 
clusions at which they had arrived 
in a former debate embraced with so 
much cnerg>- of conviction by one of 
the hij:;hest fuctionaries of their na- 
tional church. And now, accepting 
these conclusions as indisputable, 
and harmonizing perfectly with the 
life and history of that church, he 
was led to ask, * If the authority of 
the English Church be purely hu- 
man, can her orders be divine ?' 
This was the question he should 
propose for their consideration, and 
without another word of preface, he 
would submit the following motion 
to their vote : ' That this meeting, 
being unanimous on the point that 
authority can have no e.xistcnce in 



the Church of England, desires l> 
pass to the discussion of the cognatt 
question, " Are English orders is- 
man or divine ?" ' " 

The discussion as to the validicf 
of these orders is pretty exbaustiK^ 
and the arguments are put with 2 
terseness and effect quite beyutd 
adequate praise. The hand of i 
master in dialectics is evident fit« 
beginning to end. Instead of at- 
tempting a summary, which vouU 
necessarily fall far short of doing 
justice to this part of the pamphlet, 
we shall let the ritualistic c!erg}inaii 
give the following account of himself: 

"I call myself a Catholic priest, 
because I am either that or a ridicu- 
lous impostor, and I object to be 
considered in that light. I claim the 
power of the keys, because they be- 
long to the priestly office, and I sill 
not allow that the clergy of any other 
church have more power than I have. 
I can consecrate the host, thou^ I 
am not quite sure what that meaoit 
because I should be only a Protest- 
ant minister if I could not, and t 
Protestant minister is the object of 
my contempt. I can absolve froitt 
sin, though tlae English clergy never 
knew they could do it, because the 
commission was given to somebody, 
and, therefore, it must have been 
given to me. I teach the Church of 
England what she ought to hold, and 
instruct the Church of Rome what she 
ought to retract, because 1 clearly per- 
ceive the deficiencies of the one, and 
detect the excesses of the other. I 
assert that my doctrines are part of 
God's truth, but I comnmnicate with 
those who flatly deny them, because, 
when I am taunted with this. I can 
always reply, that it is the mark of a 
self-willed man to seek another com- 
munion in order to quiet his con* 
science. I countenance, by rcnnininj 
in the Church of England, all the 
mortal heresies which have ever ex- 



The Comedy of Comv'ocatum. 



569 



\ her, but I tell my accusers 
)nly remain in her in order to 

them. I am in communion 
3 church in the world, but I 
them all to come into com- 

with me, and indicate the 
>n which I will permit them 
>. I am not in schism, though 

in solitude, because the other 
m bodies refuse to associate 
e; and I am not in heresy, 

I every day communicate 
jretics, because I do it only 
ir good. I do not obey my 

but I propose to him to 
e, which he foolishly declines 
AH churches have erred, but 
;ady to teach them all, if they 
ly listen to me ; and though 
•feet idea of Christianity has 
d from the earth, I am able 
are it at any moment, when- 
shall be requested to do so. 
n in the Church of England, 
she allows most of her clergy 
1 lies, because I do not choose 
her ; and I refuse to enter the 
of Rome, though she forces all 
;sts to teach truth, because I do 
)ose to obey her. I prefer to 
yself, because I find no other 
ty worthy to be obeyed ; and, 
I admit that this position has 
idvantages, I must positively 
to exchange it for any other." 
conclusion of the meeting is 
ated: 

, Easy said he could not per- 
friends to depart, as they now 
ited their intention to do, with- 
Lnking them both for their at- 
;e on that occasion and for 
■t which they had taken in a 
ion of great interest and im- 
:e. He would not abuse his 
;e as their host by adding to 
scourse of the archdeacon 
lan a few brief words. They 
rived, he supposed, at a com- 
onviction on the two great 



questions . of authority in the An- 
glican Church, and the real charac- 
ter of her orders. It was at once 
their wisdom and their safety to in- 
sist that both were purely human. 
Any other theory, as the archdea- 
con had clearly proved, would expose 
not only themselves but their common 
Christianity to contempt and ruin. 
Either ordination, as it existed ia 
the English Church, was not a rite 
intended to produce a supernatural 
effect, except in a sense which might 
with equal justice be applied to the 
orders of Mr. Spurgeon or Mr. New- 
man Hall ; or, if it was, the Reformed 
and Protestant ministry established 
by Elizabeth and inaugurated by 
Parker, which had never displayed 
the faintest trace of any such effect^ 
was a failure so portentous, that they 
must remain for ever silent in the 
presence of any scoffing infidel who 
should use it as an argument against 
the truth of Christianity. 

" He trusted, therefore, that they 
were about to separate that night 
with this practical conclusion, that 
the idea of a catholic priesthood, 
one in doctrine and divine in endow- 
ments, existuig in the English Church, 
was not only a contradiction of her 
whole history, but absolutely incon- 
sistent with the belief that Christian- 
ity was true. Either that foolish no- 
tion must be abandoned, or they 
must honestly admit that, at leas^ 
the English Church was a delusion. 
For if any man could deliberately 
maintain, as a small party among 
them desired to do, that the entire 
body of the English clergy had been, 
from the beginning, a supernatural 
caste, though it was undeniable that 
they had always exactly resembled 
the laity in all their habits, princi- 
ples, and actions ; that they had 
received a special vocation from 
Heaven to teach the same unvary- 
ing doctrine, thougVi no ts«o ol ^sicL«ai 



570 



The Comedy of Convocation. 



could ever agree together what that 
doctrine was ; tliat they possessed 
the faculty of retaining or remitting 
sin, though, for three centuries, they 
had never once attempted to use it, 
and had bitterly derided the assump- 
tion of it by the clergy of another 
community ; that they were clothed, 
by the transforming grace of orders, 
with angelic purity and virginity, 
though they and their bishops had 
e\'er been even more impatient of a 
life ol continence than any other 
class of human society ; that they 
were able to call down God up>on a 
huntan altar, though their own foun- 
ders began their career by pulling 
down altars, and their own tribu- 
nals ruled that the English Church 
denied their existence; that the 
chief function of their ecclesias- 
tical life was to offer the daily sac- 
rifice, though the Church of England 
had carefully obliterated every trace 
of that mystery from the national 
mind ; and, finally, that the highest 
spiritual privilege of their tiocks was 
to adore the consecrated host, though 
their own prax^er-book expressly de- 
clared it was ' idolatry to be abhorred 
of all faithful Christians.' If, he 
said, any man could seriously affirm 
the scries of propositions here enu- 
merated, and many more like them, 
he should be ready to admit, what it 
would no longer be possible to deny, 
that neither religion nor history had 
any real meaning, and that modern 
Christianity had been more fertile in 
childish conceits and preposterous 
delusions than any system of hea- 
then mythology with which he was 
acquainted. 



" If, on the otlier band, thejr 
content to believe with the whok 

nation, that the I 
were simply tlie rtji 
the English reformation; thn 
were Protestant ministers* nui 
olic priests ; that they were ■ • • 
guished in nothing from r-> 
except as having undert.i 
mind them, from time ; 
truths which all were tcx^ . 
get ; they would then assiuae Oi 
only character which neailjr 1» 
longed to them, or in which dtbtf 
their own communion or any odKf 
would ever consent to rccog;aiie 
them. In that case, they would do 
longer expose either ibcmsdwi or 
their religion to the world's OOP' 
tempt, nor unwittingly fumisli tks 
unbeliever vrith a fatal arfuoieat ' 
against the truth and the reaMOibfe* 
ness of Christianity. TheChurciiaf 
England had never been the hooe 
of the supernatural, as all mankind 
knew from her own history ; sad 10 
try to introduce so strange an dfr 
ment into such a receptacle would 
be a far more dar vpcfiBCSt 

than to 'pour ii. into dd 

bottles.' They might a* well ft- 
tempt to inclose the Ughlning 
could shiver rocks in the h. 
an infant, a« to make the 
Church the shrine of m>*stcric« wkiA 
she had existed only to deny. 

The pamphlet from whic 
above excerpts are made is 
press, and will soon be publi»hed hf 
" The Catliolic Publication Howfc" 



New Publications. 



sri 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



¥ 



Irish Reformation ; or, The Al- 
leged Conversion of the Irish iJishops 
at the accession of Queen Elizabeth, 
and the assumed descent of the pre- 
sent estabhshed hierarcliy in Ireland 
from the ancient Irish Church, dis- 
provicd. ByW. Mazierc Brady, D.D., 
Vicat of Donoghpatrick and Rector of 
Kilberry, Diocese of Meath, and for- 
tneriy Chaplain to the Earls of Claren- 
don, Sl Germans, and Carlisle, Lord 
Lieutenant of Ireland, etc., etc. Fifth 
edition, containing also a letter from 
James A. Froude, .M.A.; notices of the 
early Elizabethan Prelates, and of the 
sufferings of the Roman Catholic 
Bishops J and tables showing in juxta- 
position the Anglican and Roman 
Catholic successions of Irish Archbish- 
ops, with list.s of all Irish Roman 
Catholic Bishop.^ from 1558 to the 
present time. London : Longman.s, 
Green & Co. 1867. For sale by the 
Catholic Publication Societ)', 126 
Nassau Street, New York- 



The author of this book, which has 

ecotne celebrated in Great Britain, and 

received the highest cnmmenda- 

3ns from tl»e English secular pre.ss, is 

Irish Protestant clerg}'man. Catho- 

clergymen and scholars may, there- 

>re, think diat it is written in favor of 

le Irish establishment, or lacking in 

JOTOugh information on Catholic topics. 

>D the contrary, it is tlie most damaging 

:k on that iniquitous institution tliat 

yet appeared ; replete with solid 

'learning, and an inv.^uablc companion 

to the excellent works of Msgr. Moran, 

of Ihiblin, on the Irish Catholic Church 

and hierarchy. It is not to be supposed, 

jwever, that Dr. Brady is a Catholic 

disguise, a Romanizer, or an enemy 

of the church whose minister he is. He 

J is a Protestant Episcopalian, a real be- 

^■leTcr in religious liberty, and a man of 
^^Uoal sentiments, who respects the 
^^^^Btolic Church and loves the rights 
^^^^PKlfare of the Irish people. He has 
IRitten this work not against the doc- 



; and 
■Aov 

~oft 



trine or discipline of the Protestant 
Episcopal Church, but against tlie false- 
hoods, and ignorant or fraudulent mis- 
representations of historical fact.s, by 
which certain \vriters have attempted to 
Justify and bolster up the absurd pre- 
tence that the Anglican establishment 
in Ireland is the true Catholic Church 
of that country. These writers, among 
whom Palmer is a signal instance, pre- 
tend that the Marian bishops in Ireland, 
as a body, accepted the pretended refor- 
mation of Elizabeth ; that the Irish hier- 
archy, church, and nation, renounced 
their allegiance to the Bishop of Rome, 
and to the doctrine of the Roman Church ; 
that the apostolic succession wxs regular- 
ly transmitted to the Protestant bishops 
of Ireland, and that tlie present Rom- 
an Catholic hierarchy and church were 
established de ntn'o, in a schismatical 
manner, by emissaries of the Pope. Con- 
.sequently, they say, the Protestant arch- 
bishops of Armagh and Dublin are tlie 
canonical successors of Sl Patrick and 
St. Lawrence ; the other Protestant 
bishops are also the canonical succes- 
sors to the ancient Catholic bishops of 
the sees they pretend to fill, the eccle- 
siastical property legally belongs to the 
Protestant establishment, and the Ro- 
man Catholic bishops are intruders who 
have drawn the majority of the Irish 
people into a schism. It was enough to 
have forced Protestantism into domina- 
tion in Ireland by force, rapine, slaagh> 
ter, and persecution without a par- 
allel ; to have robbed the Irish church 
and the Irish people of everything they 
possessed, without adding insult to in- 
jury by this preposterous pretence. Dr. 
Brady has laboriously and triumphantly 
refuted it, and Mr. Froude, the English 
historian, has given his full indorsement 
to Dr. Brady's statements. Dr. Brady 
proves that, at the most, two of tlie Ma- 
rian bishops submitted to Elizabeth — 
Curwin, of Dublin, and O'Fihil, of Leigh- 
lin. Curwin's apostasy is a notorious 
fact, but that of O'Fihil is denied by Dt. 
Moran, who adduces evSAervct ■a.'^xtvs.X. 





572 



New Pubticaiions. 



it. Curwin was an Englishman, and 
consecrated by Englisli bishops. There- 
/ore, according to Dr. Brady, but one 
Irishman, having Irish consecration, de- 
serted the communion of the Pope for 
that of the Queen and Parker. He goes 
through all the Irish sees seriatim, prov- 
ing the continuity of succession from 
their ancient to tlieir modern Catholic 
incumbents, and proving, also, the forc- 
ible intrusion of Protestants by deuces, 
and with many breaks, into the same 
titular sees. He states the conclusion 
derived from his facts and arguments 
, thus : " In point of fact, the Irish na- 
'tJon from 1558 to 1867 has continued in 
communion with Rome, never ha\nng 
ceased to be, in its clergj-, priests, and 
people, as thoroughly Roman Catholic as 
at the accession of Elirabetli," (p. 199.) 
1 The claim of a succession of orders by 
].» line traceable to the old Irish hier- 
l.*rchy is also disposed of. The doctor 
Tshows that whatever orders the Irish 
If rotestant church has are derived from 
Curwin, and from him alone, through 
Loftus, who was con.secrated by him to 
Armagh, and thence transferred to Dub- 
lin, in lieu of Curwin himself, who was 
transferred to O-Tlbrd. Of course he 
does not deny the x-alidity of the orders, 
but merely the fact that they descend 
from an Irish source. These orders 
cannot, however, be recognized by the 
Catholic Church for two reasons. First, 
there is a probability that Loftus was 
never ordained priest, and, consequently, 
was incapable of receiving Episcopal 
consecration. Second, he \va5 conse- 
crated by K. Edward's Ordinal, which is 
an invalid form. Anglicans may solace 
themselves as rnuch as they please by 
the reflection that they can trace the 
Irish ordinations up to Curwin. an un- 
doubted bishop, and may cover up the 
two great flaws we have pointed out in 
their validit)-, by the special pleading 
they are such adepts in using. This 
will not. however, benefit in any way 
those who are obliged to trace their 
orders to Parker, nor will it affect the 
position of cither English or Irish Pro- 
testant clerKymtn in relation to the 
Catholic Church, or even to the scliis- 
natics of the East. 
Dr. Brady throws inucVvW^ht on some 



other topics of historical intercftt. VU 
shows, among other things, liow lad 
was the character of Curwin, hotcOf 
and several others of the first Protctiul 
bishops of Irelaiid, and, on the otho 
hand, does justice to the rirtaes arf 
martyr-like constancy of the Cathofic 
prelates. He proves, against the dmiali 
of some Protestant writers, ifac txutS 
of the history of the cruel mart>T'!ua of 
that great hero of the faitii, AtchbUbop 
O'Hurley, a man who richly deserves, 
in common with many other IriA wtt- 
tyrs, to be canonired. 

The lists of Catholic bishops add 
much to the value of the work, and m 
also does the refutation of many Pro- 
testant calumnies against the Iri»h pee> 
pie, and the exposure of several bllii* 
cations of history. 

On Catholic principles, the rHiMiriinl 
church of Ireland is nothing butasdi^ 
matical sect, whose bishops are islratkn 
upon the domain of the lawful bbbopi 
of the country. Even had they rafid 
ordination, they could miVc tv.> claim 10 
a lawful succession in jn 

On Protestant princi; ' . . no< b 
any way entitled to be considered as tke 
n.-itional church of Ireland, but only as 
the church of a sm.ill minority of tbe 
people, whose ancestors forvihly kotrad- 
ed themselves upon the Irish toil bf 
the aid of fire, and swor<-' •'-' --^afisj^ 
tion. Wc have no host 1 -t tlM 

Episcopalians of Irclan<^. ...,., ..<«; not 
accovmtable for the crimes of their i»- 

cestors, .and many of w> — '■ — '^t 

persons and tnie Irish 

would not have them n 

religious liberty, or evci 

churches in their poss*. 

they can make any use ot 

it is so painful to Catholic u 

these ancient sacre<l shrines 

in their hands. But wc would 

deprived of the privileges ' 

establishment. Catholic and 

dissenters freed from the ol 

paying tithes to tlseir clc 

selves left to sustain th 

by their own contributions. 

establishment is a trying 'u.\ 

it ought to he suppressed. It ii i- . 

also, that the glorious history oi >-' 

Catholic Church in Jrelipd, since ^ 



L. 



pus epoch of Henry VIII., should 
fcr known than it is. We thank 
fcdy for his valu.ible contribution 
I and the cause of justice, and we 
liend his work, as the production 
t>testant Episcopal clergyman of 
|, honesty, and candor, to all who 
^rested in the history of Ireland, 
p«cially to his own brethren in 
tistry in this country. 

IBREK Holy Kings. With Pho- 
iphic Illustrations. New York : 
1 and Houghton. 

mxiter of this volume presents us 
essay upon the Holy Wise Men 
East who came to adore our Lord 
fter his nativity. The subject is 
Ich requires considerable research 
^ out a vivid picture of the cha- 
jf the Ala^, the circumstances of 
lurney to Juden, and their subse- 
^rtunes. The author confines 
? to a simple reproduction of the 
narrative, with a passing notice 
original bass-relief and pictures, 
^otographs of wliich the book is 
led. It is well known tliat in the 
l^thedral of Cologne is to be seen 
ine containing the relics of Uicse 
ngs. We are not surprised to 
i writer discrediting the authen- 
' these relics ; but in the face of 
dl testimony, and against tl)e 
'df such ancient traditions, he 
Istions their truth must give solid, 
^t. plausible reasons, and not 

for granted as the author (we 
pnocently) does, that " some of 
es said to be of Saint Ursula and 
ren thousand virgins, which are 
jcre exposed throughout the walls 
Tment of the church of Saint Vr- 

the same city of Cologne, have 
Iscovcred to be those of sheep 
jcr animals," in order to throw 
It upon the authenticity of all 

refer him to an article entitled 
Truth of Supposed Legends and 
" Catholic World, July, 1865, 
^e will tind the subject of Saint 
treated in a masterly manner by 
Dinencc, the late Canlinal Wise- 



L 



We are surprised, however, to find the 
writer designating the Catholic Church 
as the Romish Church. This appellation 
every scholar knows, or ought to know, 
is slang, except in the mouths and on 
the pages of bitter and ignorant contro- 
versialists, where it is idiomatic. Messrs. 
Hurd & Houghton have published the 
book in their best style ; and were these 
defects removed, we would cheerfully re- 
commend it to our readers. 



Ye Legekde op St. Gwendoline. 
With Eight Photographs, by Addis, 
from Drawings by John W. Ehninger. 
New York : G. P. Putnam and Son. 
1867. 

This truly magnificent volume, from 
the press of the Messrs. Putnam, is one 
of the choicest specimens of typography 
ever issued in the United States. Tlie 
legend is written in early Englisli, and 
the author has closely adhered through- 
out to the use of Saxon words and to the 
Saxon form of phrases. The story, re- 
plete with romance, is charmingly told, 
and reflects great credit upon the wrilcr*a 
literary ability. Sl Gwendoline is first* 
a princess, " fulle, fayre, and statelic, and 
of manie excellent dispositions, and vcrie 
learned, soe that there was no queene 0^1 
princesse like her for beautie and good- 
lincsse and alle learninge." The king, 
her father, gives her a realm of her own, 
and then invites the neighboring kings 
and princes to \'isit her, hoping she would 
marrj' one of them. Thougli many came, 
slie refused them all, because she did not 
love them. One, the King of Mynwede, 
dies in her presence, broken-hearted at 
her refusal. The description of this scene 
is unequalled for its simple and touching 
patjjos. Atlast, Queen Gwendoline sees 
in a dream the face of a knight, whom, 
if a real person, she would certainly love ; 
and at a tournament slie discovers in the 
victorious champion the knight himself^ 
L^nfortunately for the love-sick queen, 

" SIk who wed» not when she may, 
When the wilt the must have nay." 

The knight is already a husband. Queens 
Gwendoline is good, pious, charitable ; 
but love makes sad ba.voc v(\\^ v& 'sl^ 



574 



New Publkatums. 



She will not givr up her unlawful affec- 
tion, and even prays for ihe death of the 
Itnighl's own lady. Prostrate before the 
altnr, with heart rebelling against God, 
an angel appears to her, and reasons with 
her. But what avail the be:5t reasons, 
were they given by angeU, when we have 
wilfully yielded ourselves up to the ty- 
rannicil mastery of passion ? But God 
had great designs on Queen Gwendoline, 
and he lets this suffering fall upon her 
that he may purify her soul the more 
perfectly. The scene of her vision 
changes ; the chapel walls divide, and 
, before her is Calvary, with its " grayle 
Icrosse, whereon hung in pa)'nes and 
woe ye Saviour of ye world. And ever 
moumfullie and stedfastlic Hee gazed 
upon her. And when ye Queene saw ye 
vision, shee ca.<»t her ownc wille and 
her sinnes from her with a grayte crye." 
And more than that. She becomes one 
.of those who, for the love of God, sacri- 
Ifice all human love. She lays aside her 
I queenly crown, and ro>*al rolies, enters a 
' convent ; becomes, after many years, the 
abbess, and dies a saint. 

We have given but a very imperfect 
icketch of this beautiful legend, but we 
hope enough to induce many of our re.id- 
lers to penisc it entire. The photographic 
illnstrations are good, but such a rare 
[publication as this ought to be adorned 
with first-class line engravings. Its ap- 
pearance at the present Lime is verj' op- 
portune, for it is a volume which will 
make a valuable and most appropriate 
present for the holidays. 



Shamrock and Thistle ; or. Young 
America ih Ireland A>fD ScoT- 
UiND. A Story of Travel and Adven- 
ture, by OH\-er Optic. Boston : Lee 
& Shepard. J vol. lamo, pp. 343. 

The author of this volume is well 
known as the writer of several intcrest- 
lijng stories for boys. The book before 
us purports to be adventures of United 
States Naval Catlets in Ireland and 
Scotland during the visit of the school- 
ship to British waters. The author's 
brief sketch of Irish history, and his 
descriptions of Irish scenery, is very 



fair, and generaHy correcc 
ally he lets out the asuol sneer at IrA 
ix>verty and 1 rish customs. He is esp^ 
cially severe on the Irish hackiaea il 
Cork and the bo3tm<rn nf Klliniw 
The book will interest 
for whom it is written. 1 1 - .-.i * .t . - r-— - 
what inflated, and it hasa gieneral toaed 
boyish exaggeration Lhroughoat wlucA 
we suppose wa^ the intention of tb> 
author, as he wrote it for boys, Thij. 
however, we cannot approve^ fc» •» 
think the youth of America pick ■ptboc 
ideas easily enough without having thea 
put before them as examples, ta l>.»."4i 
intended for their use. Wc an* willib^ 
to lorgTve the author for ; ; 
aggeration, for the faim 
him in speaking of I r 
histor>', and her. man\ 
English rule. It will .u 
"Young America" a more r 
of that country than t 'i 
"Peter Parley's" book., 
that some stamp. 



The Hvxt?« op HtLDKBenr, andodicf 
Mcdia'va! Hymns, with TraiMlMkMM. 
By Erastus C. Benedict New York: 
Anson D. F. Raodolpb. 1867. 

Mr. Erastii^ nnaes hia* 

self "in his oci fleisare,* 

as he teUs u.s, by ■ ^rami 

old hymns of the * _ :. inii* 

English rhjone. But he tiniia tbca foil 
of horrible anti-protcstant doctrtMv aai) 
it would never do to put the true tnei*' 
ing of the verses before tlw rM^. m' hai 
Protestant brethren. ! -ilbef 

his literary or his P'-'i- .,...ii 

would doubtless fn; ii«»t ! 

lation. Not bein^ ^.i... ..iciiefere. W 
make an honest one, lie makes a <5<p 
honest one rather than n^^' -^ -^ - ; Ivjok. 
We give him credit, hot\ . -Jtiftf 

an apology for doin.- li c.ja»ii 

is. AH the doctrin i^oftbeac 

hjTnns were undom : . )r.r V v tftr 

writers of them to I >• l1|,l'r^<^ ■'. 3 
Catholic sense; but, s.i ;• r 

may be understood in a I i-^- 

(just as 4hc Scriptures ,1" r:r^' 

in a Protestant sense, wc ..ui-,«--r.. i^^l 




Niew Publicatums. 



575 



tibns garbled, distorted, and falsified, he 
pnts them out in print. 

It is bad enough to disgrace one's 
wUls with ridiculous imitations of the 
pictures of great masters, but to cut 
down a genuine Murillo or Vandyke to 
•nit a second-hand frame, bought in a 
dieap auction lot, and then touch up 
lahat is left of the subject with a white- 
vaah brush, is something too execrable 
to be expressed. We append an ex- 
ample or two for our readers' amuse- 
Bient. 

" Verbum caro, panera venun. 
Vefbo camem efficit ; 
Filque sai^piis Christi merum. 

"Word made flesh, among us dwelling, 
With true bread and wine regaleth ; 
By His word the mystery telling." 
Page Si- 

" Inflammatas et accensus. 
Per te, Virgo, sim defensus 
In die judidi. 

*• By a hearenly teal excited, 
When the judgment fires are lighted. 
Then may I be justified." 

Page 67. 

" Dogma datur Christianis, 
Quod In camem transit pania, 
Et vinum in sanguinem. 

" Here to Christians Jesus preacheth, 
Here to us the mystery teacheth, 
Never sense perceiving it — 
Flesh and blood for us devoted. 
Are by bread and wine denoted. 
Living £uth believing it" Page 95. 

These, we think, will suffice. The 
appearance of this new one among the 
many late republications in various 
forms of these h)rmns furnishes us with 
another gratifying proof that our Pro- 
testant friends are beginning to regret 
having consigned all the works of "po- 
pery " to perdition ; and we rejoice that 
they rehabilitate her poetry among the 
first of them ; for the poetry of a church 
is as truly the sincerest expression of 
its heart as it is of a people's. But in 
the name of sincerity let us have an 
honest version. When or where did a 
Catholic ever "understand" the works 
of a Protestant in a Catholic sense .'* 
Let Mr. Benedict try again. We are 
sore he can and will do better, for there 
is no sign of malicious intent in his vol- 
ume ; and his language, when speaking 
of the Catholic Church, and of the writers 
whose poems he reprints, is that of a 
■dKdar and a gentleman. 



My Prisons. Memoirs of Silvio Pei- 
lico. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 
1868. 

This well known and popular book is 
republished in beautiful form, with ex- 
cellent illustrations, by the Messrs. Rob- 
erts, with an introductory notice by 
Epes Sargent. We cannot agree with 
Mr. Sargent, however, that Silvio Pel- 
lico, if living now, would have had any 
sympathy with the present Italian re- 
bellion, or its unworthy and anti-Qiris- 
tian leaders, as he intimates. The pul>* 
lishers would do well to leave out the 
introductory notice. 

Breaking Away : or. The Fortunes of 
a Student. By Oliver Optic. Boston: 
Lee & Shepard. 

In this volume are described the ad- 
ventures of the pupils of the Parkville 
Liberal Institute, consequent on their re- 
volt against a tyrannical principal. Their 
"treasons, stratagems, and spoils" are 
told in pleasing style, and will meet none 
the less with boj-ish approval if some- 
what difficult of imitation. 

Climbing the Rope; or, God Helps 
Those who Help Themselves : and 
Billy Grimes's Favorite ; or, John- 
ny Greenleafs Talent. By May Man- 
nering. Boston : Lee & Shepard. 

These two volumes, the first of the 
" Helping Hand Series," are well adapt- 
ed to make the youthful reader self-reli- ■ 
ant, while carefully guarding against self- 
sufficiency. The principal diameters are 
well drawn, and there are several charm- 
ing episodes of village life. There is one 
blemish. How could Biddy O'Rooke, 
{sic) " a good Catholic," say that " though 
she had been always to church, and con- 
fessed all her life, when she had a chance, 
it wasn't much of the Great Father him- 
self that she heard" ? 

Alexis, the Runaway; or, Afloat in 
the World. By Mrs. Rosa Abbott 
Parker. Boston : Lee & Shepard. 

Th© search of Alexis for his master, 
the Count von Hombuc^,x«svAxs Vo. &o\&ft 



5:/6 



New Publications. 



striking adventures by sea and land ; in 
the New World and the Old. Pierre 
Grepan, fairly love-crazed Prissy Dean, 
and the kind-hearted Jacqueline Rashe- 
bume, are well conceived. 

Dotty Dimple at her Grandmoth- 
er's. By Sophie May, author of Lit- 



tle Prudie Stories. 
Shepard. 



Boston: Lee & 



A charming little tale, attractive from 
its very simplicity ; a true child's book. 

The Life of the Right Hon. J. 
P. CuRRAN. By Thomas Davis, 
M.R.I. A. ; and a Memoir op the 
Life of the Right Hon. Henry 
Grattan. By D. O. Madden, of the 
Inner Temple ; with Addenda, andiet- 
ter to Lord Clare. Boston: Patrick 
Donahoe. 

Those whom a bulky volume affrights 
will welcome this excellent abridgment 
of the early days, matured labors, and 
closing years of two of the most illus- 
trious among the many eminent orators 
and statesmen whose eloquence and pa- 
triotism irradiated that saddest era in the 
history of Ireland, the extinction of her 
national independence. 

Happy Hours of Childhood. A Se- 
ries of Talcs for the Little Ones. By 
a member of the Order of Mercy, au- 
thoress of the Life of Catherine Mc- 
Auley, etc. New York: P. O'Shea. 

Among the many books for children 
which tlie approach of the holidays yields, 
we accord the first rank to these charm- 
ing tales, " which combine," to quote tlie 



aflthoress's own ideal of a really good )» 
venile, "all the fascinations of a kmif 
fairy tale with the highest spiritual teadi- 
ings of which childhood is capable. We 
hope she will soon repeat this, her most 
happy experiment in childish literatuR 



Holly and Mistletoe : Tales 
lated from the German of Rosafi 
Koch. New York : P. O'Shea. 

A collection of stories intended maiD- 
ly for children, all inculcating self-dcni4 
truth, and Christian trust. The trans- 
lation is occasionally somewhat defeO' 
tive. Otherwise, the work is to be com- 
mended to the attention of those who 
wish to put into the hands of children 
pleasant and instructive reading. 

The Catholic Publication Society lai 
in press, and will soon publish, Tht 
Diary of a Sister of Mercy y by Mrs. C 
M. Braine. 

The Society will also publish, about 
New- Year's, Lectures on Reason ad 
Revelation, by Rev. T.. S. Prestoa i 
vol. i2mo. Price, I1.50. 



BOOKS XSCXIVKIX 

From Charles ScitiBKKK, New- York. The^dX> 
man World : the Grandeur and Failure of in Cm- 
liialion. By John Lord, LL.D. i voL Sra ppi fas. 
The History of the Church of God, during ^ P*- 
ri»d of Revelation. By Rer. Qurla Cokodt 
Jones, D.D. I vd. 8va, pp. 554 Prayen kam 
Plymouth Pulpit By IL W. Beecher. imo,» 

From P. Do.NAHoe, Bocton. Tlie Gloriei of like Vb>- 
gin Mother, and Channel of Dirinc Grace. Turn 
the Latin of St Bernard, i voL 161D0., pp. 17a. 

From KstLY ft Pirr, Baltimore. The LHc of ite 
Rev. J. n. M. Vianney. the celebrated ParHh-Piic« 
of Ars, France. Abridged from the French «tiM 
Mouin, by Rer. B. S. Piot i vol. item, pp, atfc 



i 



THE 



^THOLIC WORLD. 



li 



VOL. VI., No. 






PARIS I\tPIOUS— AND REtlGIO^S PAWS.* 



English lady, with whom the 
►f this article fell into conver- 
One day at the fai/ir ifhbte o( 
s hotel, made the remark, 
a pity that the Parisians are 
led 1" This remark expresses 
kmon opinion of English and 
an Protestants about Paris, 
heral desecration of Sunday, 
lent lack of religion among a 
brtion of the people, the open 
ty of many of the leading 
pers, and other things oS the 
(me, strike their attention im- 



tholic religion in consequence of what 
they see in Paris which is either reaJ- 
\y, or in their opinion impious an^ 
immoral. Thisjudgment is, however, 
altogether superficial ; first, because 
the actual estimate of the religious 
and moral state of Paris is partial 
and one-sided ; and second, because 
the responsibility of the really exist- 
ing evils is unjustly cast upon the 
Catholic religion. 

We propose, therefore, to give a 
more just and correct estimate of 
Paris as it is, by presenting its reli- 
\]y. The extreme gayety of gious aspect in the same c^u^ J'aU 
lich character appears, more- with its irreligious aspect, and show- 
ing the true relations of the good 
and evil, as they exist side by side ia 
mutual hostility and struggle, with 
each other and with their causes. 

The light in which Paris is re- 
garded as a Catholic city, and France 
as a Catholic nation, by English and 
American Protestants, is an incorrect 
one. As Paris represents France, 
we will speak of P;uis alone, leaving 
the reader to apply to France gene- 
rally, guided by his own knowledge 
and discretion, what we say about 
the capital. Paris is ratlier to be 
called a city which was ouccC4\ixc>\«:^ 



> the sedate Anglo-Saxon like 
r levity and frivolity. Puritan 
I about Sunday, as foreign to 
ids of continental Protestants 
f are to those of Catholics, 
hem look also upon many in- 
^creattonsand amusements in 
ihe French people indulge on 
f, as marks of an irreligious 
Irhen they are not at ail so. 
nsequence is, that they make 
tvorable jadgment of the Ca- 
I 

^MVrVI dt C^riti « Parii, fU Julie Gou- 
iJHtHiwiM/aH em Fnmct, pax M. I'Abb^ 



▼I.— 37 



h 



iifa 



S78 



Paris Impious — and Rdigi^us Paris. 



and which Catliolicity is striving to 
reconquer, than an actually Catholic 
city. The French Revolution abol- 
ished the Catholic Church, extermi- 
nated the clergy and religious orders, 
and put an end to the Christian re- 
ligion in Paris. The mass of the 
people lost all faith and religious 
SfntimeQt, and consequently could 
not transmit them to the generations 
which have been born since, and 
which have grown up in ignorance 
and heatlienism. Since the partial 
restoration of the Catholic religion 
by Napoleon the First, constant and 
zealous efforts have been made to 
convert this heatlien mass, yet a vast 
number of the people remain still 
practically heathen, and a consider- 
able proportion of them are not even 
baptized. With the common people 
there is more of ignorance and 
thoughtlessness than of positi\'e in- 
fidelity or aversion from the church. 
In thehigher\valksof life, beside the 
Ignorant and thoughtless class who 
have but a slight tincture of Catholic 
belief, there is the large and influen- 
tial class of the positive infidels, who 
keep up a continual war ujwn ever)' 
form of revealed religion. The ma- 
jority of the people of Paris hav- 
ing thus been always in a state of 
greater or less alienation from all 
positive Christian belief and wholly 
regartlless of the authority of the 
church since the French Re^•olution^ 
the proper observance of the Sun- 
day has never been reestablished. 
The people having lost the habit of 
resting on that day, and having drop- 
ped all thought of going to churcli, 
business and work have gone on upon 
Sunday from the mere vis trur far. The 
church and the minority of the popu- 
lation have not been able to bring 
back the general observance of the 
day. Consequently, tliose who wish 
Id observe it and to have it observed, 
9Te to a great extent dragged in to 



follow the common custom bj ik 
necessity of the case, and the clcp 
are not able to insist as strorij'i • 
they would wish on the oblig.i; - n ■ 
resting from scrv-ile labor, how 
to be supposed that the c\rr^ td 
the genuin«^ 
prove of thi' 
Let any one read t 
marks of F. Hyacii.w.v, .,.-. .. 
celebrated preacher of Paris, ou -t::. 
subject, in our last number, and be 
will see a correct sutcmcnt at it 
sentiments of the .Archbishop of fti» 
and all his clergy respecting the «^ 
servance of Sunday. It is indeed i 
shocking spectacle, and one diagncr 
fill to the great French nation, to «r 
all public works going on, neariyil 
shops open, all factories in moliBa, 
and to meet the crowd of btovm 
shoving their way through the 
well-dressed crowd, as tbey 
from work on Su - ' V ' 

to be the poor m A» 

consequence of i ' 
tion of the day <■! ^. i.m 

God, the laborer, from sheer iaabiUtf 
to make a mere machine of hiond^ 
seizes on the Mottday. Inftlead d 
the holy, cheerful re&l of Sondljt 
there is a dull, apathetic cosatign 
work on Monday, and the 
arc again met loitering a 
streets and quays» too often ia a 
state of intoxication. Tbe accooota- 
bilityfor this falls not upon the CadMK 
lie Church, but u|x>n tl^ arfaidb 

has been and ever is \. r h(f 

destruction, and which rvccivc* to a 
great extent the sympathy and at 
couragement of Protestants in EMf^ 
land and America. 

We cannot pretend to s^iy p' 
what proporti uUtioa 

Paris is pr;^ c 

Catholic Church. We have I 

by an An-i-^'rii-in .7. ul'.n- •.-. •»i.)| 

of the . 

estimateo me poputanon 01 




I ^(RMUJ» 



Paris Impious — and Religious Paris. 



579 



,000, of whom 10,000 at- 
Mass, and 3000 approach the 
bents. If this estimate can be 
d to the whole city, then 900^000 
[ people habitually neglect the 
i, leaving 300,000 who habitu- 
jequent it, out of whom some- 
less than 100,000 receive the 
lients. If this estimate is in- 
t, it will probably call out a 
sorrect statement from some of 
tends in Paris, which we shall 
{I to receive. Without commit- 
Ives, therefore, to any exact 
es, we may nevertheless affirm 
an evident fact, that there 
ithin the great world of Paris 
ller, but still in magnitude a 
erable religious and Catholic 
ivhich is really one of the glo- 
f Christendom for the extent 
pror of its works of faith, cha- 
picty. There is a religious 
as an impious Paris, which, 
respects descr\'cs to be held 
|a model to the other portions 
atholic Church, and is entitled 
admiration of all Christians 
ut the world. 

ill begin with the charities of 
aving its religion to be spoke 
ferwards. Paris is world-re- 
' for the number and excelleoce 
aritable institutions. These 
exclusively the work of the 
portion of the people, but 
to all, from the imperial 
)wn to the humblest class. 
is a natural basis for charity 
l^rench character, France is 
lost completely, highly, and 
ially civilized nation in the 
I This civilization has been 
id and brought to perfection 
ttstianity, yet the superiority of 
jd and degree is due to the 
t Christianity found in the 
character an uncommonly 
aiul ductile material to work 
The truth of this observation 



is proved by the refinement and po. 
liteness prevailing so universal!) 
among all classes. There must 
something naturally amiable in th< 
French character, which takes easily 
the refining, gentilizing influences of 
Christian ciA-ilization. In the ordi- 
nar\', small affairs of life and com^^ji 
mon intercourse this is politeness,'" 
and it adds no little to the pleasant- 
ness and happiness of every-day ex- 
istence, detracts no little from its 
burdens. Carried into a higher, 
sphere, it becomes philanthropy.! 
The Catholic religion evolved it into 
the highest activity and elevated it 
to the rank of supernatural charity. 
This charity is stil! the interior and 
principal wheel which imparts move- 
ment and supplies force. Yet its 
movement, once communicated, is re- 
tained even by those who have lost 
Catholic faith and charit}', or who 
are acting chiefly in view of temporal 
motives. There is a general interest 
in and desire for the well-being and 
happiness of the whole people. 
There is not so much liberty in 
France as in some other countries, 
yet there is more equality and frater- 
nity there th.an anywhere else on 
the globe. The government is some- 
what despotic, yet there is no doubt 
that it labors for tlie well-being of its 
subjects. The utmost c^e is taken 
of life and propertj', and the mostj 
extreme vigilance is exercised to see 
that the public is well served in everyH 
branch of administration. The em- 
peror is the hardest working man in^ 
Paris, and the empress is not at all' 
behindhand in sustaining her part 01' 
the arduous as well as honorable du- 
ties of tJie throne. Who does not 
know that plans for model tenements, 
projects for relieving the laboring 
classes, charitable and benevolent 
enterprises of various sorts, are the 
continual subjects of interest atvd 
consultation m the paiXac^ o^ ^e 



«»o 



Paris Impious — and JRfligious Paris. 



Tuileries? The emperor's f^te on 
ihe fifteenth of August, with the 
ablinclant alms distributed on that 
day throughout every quarter of Pa- 
ris, and the permission to ask alms 
of evcrjbody conceded to the mendi- 
cant class, arc like a gleam of more 
Catholic times, and present a pleas- 
ing contrast with the glum dcme;uior 
and frozen state of royalty in Eng- 
land and Prussia. We may speak 
here, also, of the remarkable honesty 
and fidelity in taking care of the 
property of others which is so gene- 
ral in Paris among all sorts of per- 
sons, especially those engaged in serv- 
ing the public, and of which we might 
give a great number of instances, 
were it convenient to do so. In regard 
to hospitals, and other public institu- 
tions for the relief of the sick, poor, 
and otherwise suffering classes, it is 
needless to go into particulars to 
^ow how energetic and liberal is 
tiie action of the French government 
in regard to them. 

English and American Protestants 
exaggerate too much the good of 
their own civilization, and blow their 
own trumpet in a fearfully sonorous 
manner. They think too much of 
long faces, measured gravity of de- 
meanor, drawling tones, long prayers, 
set, evangelical phrases, and the 
tithing, in a metaphorical sense, of 
mint, anise, hnd cummin. They are 
blind to the gross social defects and 
evils marring their civilization ; and 
to the corruptions and immoralities 
which are poisoning their national 
life-blood. We do not deny the evils 
■which exist in Paris; nevertheless, 
tre maintain that it is in a far sound- 
er moral state, and far superior 
in general social well-being, to Lon- 
don or New- York. There remains, 
even in impious and worldly Paris, 
an effect produced by the Catholic 
religion in former times, and sus- 
tained even now by a secret supply of 



force from the same cause, whicli 
places it in a much nearer pro 
to genuine Christianity than ani 
other great city in the world. But 
we will leave these generalities and 
come to a closer inspection of the 
specific charities of Paris which ire 
in an immediate relation with the 
Catholic Church, and chiefly va- 
tained by her faitJiful members, 

(i.) T/i( ll'ork of the Pavbottrp. 
This is a society of ladies for 
in 1848. Its object is to pr 
clothing and schooling for the | 
est children in the outskirts of l'.ii.% 
who are sought out and cared for by 
the ladies of the socict)' in person 
A concert of the first qu;ility i^ l ■ 1 
once a year which \ 
6000 to 8000 francs, 
numerous subscribers at fiv« francs a 
year. 

(2.) TA^ Maternal Shitty. This 
society was founded in 178S, with 
Queen Marie Antoinette a^ dttrrt- 
ress. Its object is to end 

thers to nurse their own it : 

to furnish them the assistance n- ■ 
sary to enable them to do it. 1 "• 
eight sections of thecityareas5.ip . 
each one to a lady of llv 
and these forty-eight lafl 
once a month to regulate the <i 
bution of the charities. On the . 
of the infant's birth, the mother 
ceives ten francs and a set of hzh 
clothes, five francs a month for 
months, and a change of dress 
the infant. If the mother is anabi 
to nurse the infant, a nur&e is prot 
ed. The ladies, moreover, take | 
ticular care to give good counsel 
advice to the mothers of famiti< 
whom they visit respecting tbeir 1 
gious and moral duties. Napolc 
the First placed the society undc 
the protection of the Empress Maria' 
Louisa, and gave it a donation o^ 
100,000 francs. Nine handred fami- 
lies are assisted and 60^000 firancs 



.v.« 



Paris Tmptous — and Rftigious Paris, 



the society, every 

TTie Cribs. The institution of 
»as established to fumish a 
■nent to the work of the mater- 
icty. Great numbers of poor 
are unable to remain at home 
the day with their children, 
3unt of the necessity of going 
work. The cribs afford them 
turn where their infants are 
care of during the hours of 
►sence from home. The merit 
sing this work of charity be- 
o M. Marbeau, a member of 
mcil of charities, who found- 
first crib in 1844 at Chaillot 
lbs arc now established in 
tplarter of Paris. They are 
id by a council of administra- 
ider the presidency of the 
A committee of ladies ap- 
and superintends the inspec- 
of the work. Sisters of Cha- 
led by nurses, have charge of 
bs. A medical committee 
( over the sanitar)' depart- 
Since the foundation of the 
bout fifteen thousands infants 
»een admitted. Neat little 
or beds are provided for the 
It Infants, walking-stools and 
igs for the older ones, and 
lire left to tumble about and 
on the floor of a small room 
is carpeted with a mattress, 
others bring their infants in 
uing, come during the day to 
hem, and take them home at 
5n holidays they keep them at 
uring the day, and can do so 
■ days when they have no work. 
Wails of Asylum. This is the 
name given with true French 
sss, that politeness to the poor 
a little is known in England 
srica, to what we should call 
ools or ragf^edschools. The 

It to institute these schools 
Vas made in 1770, and 



the celebrated Oberlin, a Protestant 
pastor in the Vosges, is said to have 
been the first proposer of the plan. 
It is only since 1826 that they have 
been in general and successful opera- 
tion, owing chiefly to the exertions of 
Madame de Pastoret and M. Cochin. 
There are now in France 3308 asj 
lums, which have educated 3,833,85<* 
children, besides 2022 gardtries, or 
little schools, which have received 
5026 children. Many of these asy- 
lums are under the charge of reli- 
gious of different orders, and others 
under lay teachers. 

(5.) Comtrum Schools. Besides the 
above-mentioned class of schools, 
there are 1168 public primary 
schools in Paris, upon which the mut 
nicipal council expend yearly 497,344 
francs. The whole number of 
schools in France is 73,271, attend- 
ed by 4,855,238 children. A great 
many of these schools are under the 
care of religious of both sexes. To 
speak only of the Christian Brothers^ 
this society has in France more than 
one thousand houses, and above nine 
thousand members. Thirty-one of 
these houses are in Paris, and they 
have several hundred schools under 
their charge. We have no exact sta- 
tistics of a recent date, but in 1852 
the number of their schools In Paris 
was 275. • 

(6.) Patronages. The work of pa- 
tronage has for its object to watch 
over children of the laboring class 
after leaving school and going to 
work. The houses of the society are 
distributed all over Paris, and the 
number of apprentices under its carC 
is 1800. The members are persons 
of the higher classes, and they exert 
themselves personally to find good 
places for their clients, to watch over 
them during their apprenticeship, and 
to lend them a helping hand in vari- 
ous ways. The young people anc as- 
sembled at the ^a.\roxva«;e5, i«\'5j>Mcy 



fjea 



Paris Impious — and Religious Paris. 



days, where they have Mass and Ves- 
pers, religious instruction, study and 
recreation. They have also evening- 
schools during the week. 

(7.) Thi Friends 0/ Childhood. This 
society was founded in 1827, by a 
number of young gentlemen of for- 
tune, for the succor of poor children 
without parents, or having parents 
who neglect to take proper care of 
tliem. The children adopted by the 
society are taken care of until they 
can be placed as apprentices. There 
is also a house in a pleasant quarter 
of the city, called thefumily tnansiott, 
where the apprentices who have been 
brought up by the society resort on 
Sundays and holidays, to meet their 
protectors and pass the day in a pro- 
fitable and pleasant manner. 

<8.) The Work of the Prisons. This 
is a very extensive charity and has 
many ramifications. The House of 
jPatemal Correction is a place of de- 
' lention where parents may place dis- 
orderly children, and in which, under 
the direction of religious brothers 
or sisters, an effort is made to reform, 
instruct, and prepare lliem for some 
kind of work in which they can gain 
a decent living. The Patronage of 
the Liberated watches over young 
persons after they have been dismiss- 
ed from the place of detention. The 
.Colony of Mettray receive youngcrimi- 
nals, who are kept there, and employed 
in agriculture or shop-work until they 
come of age, when they are Hberated. 
The Work of Imprisoned Debtors^ 
established during the latter part of 
the si.\teenlh centurj', by Madame de 
Lamoignon, has in view the libera- 
tion of this unfortunate class by ar- 
rangements with their creditors, and 
for this purpose engages the services 
of magistrates and lawyers. In the 
mean time they are visited and looked 
after in prison, and help is given to 
ilicir families. After they are dis- 
missed from prison, ai\ asylum U fur- 



of 



nished them until they caxx obtain tk 
means of gaining their own livehhood, 
or the means are pro\ " " ; 

lliem to their own hoin <c 

come to Paris from a distance, gsj 
the case with the greater numb 
The Work of St. Lmarus^ maiiaj 
by ladies, is directed to the carc| 
women of bad life, detained in 
prison of St. Lazarus. Madame 
Lamartine, an English lady, was 
foundress of this branch of c\ 
encouraged and aided by the advid 
of the celebrated Mrs. Fry. 
first object proposed and accompli: 
ed was the amelioration of ihc 
discipline, by introd' 
and order, regular en _ 
gious instruction, and the happy 
flucnce of continual visits by 
ladies engaged in the work, 
second was the foundation 
house of refuge for the poor 
whose term of imprisonment 
pi red. In this house every tl 
done to complete their refor 
and at the proper time arrangeiBC 
are made to restore tliose whose cc 
duct has been good to their parefit 
to find places for them in rc^pct 
families, or to procure • ' 
to some religious com : :. .ibotc 
rules admit of receiving pcnitentv 
Those who desire to remain, and arc 
worthy to do so, continue in the 
house permanently, f n •sepa- 

rate class, under the 1. IjgiU* 

lens. On certain festival daj*» the 
ladies go to communion with the pri- 
soners of St. Lazanis in tbcir chapet, 
and afterward give them a baixjod 
at which the ladies themselves scrre 
the table in white aprons, and -t'-it 
ward accept an invitation to ia»c 
their own breakfast. 

(9.) The Society of St. Frantit . 
gis. This society was founded 
1812 by M. Gossin, an emh ' ~ 
gistrate of Paris, in order i 
tlic widely-spread looral evil of iMA^ 



issun 




Paris Impious — and Religious Paris. 



583 



Tast numbers of the lower 
I in Paris and throughout France 
Jgether as mnn and wife in a 
aient union without being law- 
iiarried either in the eye of the 
I or in that of tiie civil law. The 
)r searches out persons of this 
' persuades them to contract 
parriages, and provides for the 
Iting of all the documents and 
formalities necessary for this 
Je, as well as for the expenses. 
fen the years 1826 and 1866, 
I illicit unions were rchabilita- 
)r its efforts in the department 
t Seine alone, beside all that 
tee in other parts of the em- 
! 

) TTie Work of the Sick Poor. 
♦ork derives its systematic or- 
Ition from St. Vincent de Paul, 
•the special sphere of the Sis- 
X Charity, of whom there are 
( in Paris alone. These dcvo- 
tigious are not, however, alone 
tided in their work of visiting 
k poor. The work is systema- 

crganized in each parish un- 
e direction of the curt-, and a 
H supervision is e.xerci.sed by 
iperior General of the Lazar- 
There is a society of ladies 
teist the cure and the Sisters of 
y in each parish in their labors, 
than 50,000 sick persons are 
rear visited and provided with 
t is necessary for their bodily 
{ritual relief by the charity of 
adics. 

sick poor in hospitals receive 
he kind and charitable succor, 
k'ivate convalescent hospitals 
ben established to receive those 
^e dismissed from the public 
Us. One of these establish- 
' called The Asylum of the Sa- 
fari of Mary, founded in 1840, 
fccived more than 17,000 young 
f convalescents. There is one 
Idren, called the Asylum of St. 



Hilary, in a pleasant place in the 
country, near Paris, founded by a 
young Parisian gentleman of rank, 
whose initials only are given as M. 
le Due de L. 

(11.) The LittU Sisters of the Poor. 
The nature of this institute is so 
well known that there is no need to 
enlarge upon it. It has five houses 
in Paris, one of them partly founded 
by the 7th Legion of the National 
Guard, which gave 14,000 francs for 
the purpose. 

(12.) Convetit of the Blind Sisters 
of St. Paul. This is a religious com- 
munity not entirely" composed of 
blind persons, but into which such 
are admitted, founded in 1853. Con- 
nected with it is an asylum for blind 
girls, who are received from tlie age 
of six years, and can remain during 
life if they please. 

(13.) The IVork of the Soldiers. 
This is intended to provide schools 
of elementary education and religious 
instruction for the young soldiers of 
the garrison of Paris. The schools 
are established with the consent of the 
military authorities near some church, 
or chapel, in order that there may 
be a place of easy access for the mem- 
bers of the school to perform their 
devotions. Each school has its 
chaplain who superintends the reli- 
gious exercises. The classes are- 
taught by the Brothers of the Chris- 
tian Doctrine, by educated lay gen- 
tlemen, and sometimes by the more* 
intelligent and well-instructed sol- 
diers. The school is held every 
evening between the hours of supper 
and rappd. After the lessons are 
over, prayer-books are distributed, 
usually The Soldier's Manual, or 
books containing hymns especially 
composed for soldiers, of which they 
are very fond. After some prayers 
have been recited or some hymui 
sung, an instruction is given or sor 
good book is read •, \\xttv %ow\t tXraa. 




5«4 



Paris Impious — aud Religious Paris. 



^m ac\ 



ing prayers arc recited, and the school 
is dismissed. Once a week there is 
a service entirely devoted to innocent 
recreations and religious exercises. 
On Sundays they have mass at an 
hour convenient for the soldiers, and 
vespers, with the Benediction, in tlie 
evening. At Easter, there is a re- 
treat, followed by a general commu- 
nion. The gentlemen engaged in this 
work are very punctual in their at- 

ndance, take great interest in their 
■pupils, and find their intercourse 
with the soldiers very agreeable. 
When a regiment is exchanged to an- 
other military' post, a register of the 
members of the school belonging to 
the regiment is confided to a trust- 
worthy soldier, who delivers it to the 
priest in charge of the school at the 
new post, if there is one, and if not, 
is himself charged to keep up the 
good work among his comrades the 
best way he can. The number of 
soldiers brought under the influence 
of these schools is not very large, 
there being not more than 600 in at- 
tendance at Paris, but llie admirable 
excellence of the plan is obvious, and 
there seems to be no reason why it 
should not have a more extensive suc- 
cess in due time. 

(14.) The Society of St. lament de 
Paul. This society is tlie most ex- 
tensive and celebrated of all existing 
religious associations among laymen, 
and has spread itself from Paris not 
only throughout France, but also into 
otlicr countrius of Europe, and into 
America. It was founded in 1833 by 
M. Bailly as a centre of reunion for 
Catholic young men, where they might 
learn to know each other, might give 
each other their mutual support and 
encouragement, and might act in com- 
bination for carrying on charitable 
works. Eight young students formed 
the original nucleus of the society, 
one of whom was the renowned Fre- 
deric Ozanam. The immediate sti- 




mulus to the formation of the 
was given by the reproach of 
Simonians that Catholicity wjls men 
and incapable of doing any good is 
the social community'. At Uic pre- 
sent time the society has 2400 wem 
bers in Paris, many of whom are gah 
tlemen of rank, judges, advocates, 
thors, physicians, or merchants, 
is divided into numerous confci 
each one of which is perfectly 
nizcd. Its active work extend* to 
searching out and relieving, as fax 
possible, ever)' kind of moral tsA 
physical misery among the 
classes. In a Urge number of 
for boys there are juvenile cool 
ces where members arc trained 
der experienced guides to the praC" 
tice of diaritable work, and tljcre aie 
analogous conferences also In >ome 
female schools. 

There are many other charifi 
works carried on in i" 
publication of good ! 
provision of vestments .1; il 

vessels for poor countr\'chiji .d 

for a variety of other purposes wludi 

it would be impossible to f " 

completely. It is also w 
that Paris is one of the great 
of foreign missionary 0| 
Yet, as it would be difficult to 
rate what beloiigs to Psiris 
general work of the pro] 
the faith, and the subject of 
foreign missions is too extcnbi^e 
a passing notice, we mtist leave 
alone altogether. 

Our meagre sketch of charities 
in Paris is necessarily somewhM 
skeletonian. Mile. Gouraud, in bet 
lively, charming volume, tells thestofj 
with that filling in of circumsf.i'viiil 
narration and illustrative 
necessary to give its form . 
ness. She writes under the guise 01 
Letters from an £ftx''-'^ ^ ■• h m 
Paris to a Friend in . isii 

although like her couqit^ioik in gco- 




Paris Impious — and Religious Paris. 



585 



onsuccessfiil in spelling 
I, yet her book is made more 
ining by the pretty little arti- 
>Ye would recommend our 
■women to order this little 
tid some others of the same 
ith their Parisian gloves, and 
them in lieu of the novels of 
and Hugo, if we had any 
^at our advice would be list- 

lave said enough to show that 
writable side of religion in 
If it be not in its extent of 
adequate to the dimensions 
great capital, is nevertheless 
)rof)ortion to the numbers and 
es of the really Catholic pop- 
Out of about one hundred 
id practical Catholics, from 
to thirty thoasan«^, including 
rgy and religious, make it 
Ihe exclusive, or at least a 
lI end of their lives, to per- 
yjUble n'orks. Out of these, 
^■fmber may justly be en- 
He heroes and heroines of 
If there were a legion of 
)f charity, its grand crosses 
c plentifully distributed in Pa- 
ligion in Paris atones for its 
cy in quantity by the superior 
ICC of its quality. Like ottar 
I, a little of it diffuses a wide 
!, and it is even able to disin- 
I atmosphere redolent of the 
5r Paris. If the whole popu- 
F Paris were really Catholic, 
J whole bidy of the easy 
would cooperate with the 
md magistracy to reform the 
vils and miseries which fester 
osom of the working class, it 
^to conceive the greatness 
H|t which might be accom- 
^The French people are the 
ghly civilized, and the great- 
lizers in the world. Their 
ion extends downward into 
nblest classes, and ramifies 



indefinitely in every direction. Take 
Paris even as it is, in our opinion it 
is the best governed city in the 
world, and less immoral than any 
other great capital. There are great 
miseries in it, no doubt, but these 
miseries make more impression on 
philosophic Frenchmen than on 
other men, and they make more ado 
about them. It is a fixed idea in 
the French mind that every human 
being ought to have a pleasant time 
and enjoy life. Evidently, the French 
are, as a whole, the most cheerful 
and joyous j>eople in the world, and 
even the cockers, who are among the 
most forlorn human beings in Paris, 
do not seem very discontented. Let 
the Catholic religion regain full sway 
over the French mind and heart, and 
it seems to us that the civilization of 
Christianity might attain its ultima- 
tum in France. To regain that sway 
it is now bravely striving against 
formidable difficulties and opposi- 
tion. And although we do not ven- 
ture to pronounce a positive judgment 
on the probabilities of final and com- 
plete success, we think the aspect of 
affairs encouraging, and believe that 
the church has gained ground steadi- 
ly in Paris and throughout France, 

Historically, and according to the 
exterior, Paris is a Catholic city. 
The Catholic religion is the religion 
of the French people, and, as such, 
enters into the whole structure of the 
political, civil, and social fabric. The 
French Revolution was a moment of 
national delirium. \Vhen the nation 
came to itself, it was forced by its 
common sense to reestablish reli- 
gion, restore the desecrated temples 
to Catholic worship, and recall the 
sur\'iving remnant of the expatriated 
clergy. The H6tel Dieu, a hospital 
near Notre Dame de Paris, built by 
Saint Vincent de Paul, still bears on 
its front the half-effaced inscriptions, 
Libert, E^M^ Frofcrniti. IVw^ 



^f86 



Paris Impious — aud Religious Paris. 



could not be a more expressive sym- 
bol of the triumph of religion over in- 
fidehty. The past, the present, and 
"the future glory of France is identi- 
fied with religion. The traditions of 
the first foundation of Paris, which 
cast a halo of sacred association over 
it, and which are perpetuated by so 
many splendid monuments, are reli- 
^ous. The names of Saint Diony- 
sius, Saint Genevieve, Saint Louis, 
familiar as household words, contin- 
ually recall them. The glorious 
churches, which are the chief onia- 
ments of the city, Notre Dame de 
Paris, La Sainte Chapelle, Saint 
Denys, Saint Eustache, The Made- 
leine ; the streets even, with their 
appellations borrowed from religion, 
impress them continually on the 
memory and imagination. The mas- 
terpieces of art which fill the galler- 
Ues of painting embody the mysteries, 
the events, the great personages of 
religion. The sublime services of the 
church give their principal grandeur 
to the national festivals, and to the 
public pomp of the imperial govern- 
ment. This exterior Catholicity is 
not much in itself, it is true. Never- 
theless, it is vl point d'appui, of great 
service to religion in laboring to im- 
bue with the living principles of 
Christian faith and virtue the minds 
and hearts of the people. Awaken 
them to a belief that religion is a re- 
ality, and to an earnest desire to act 
according to its precepts, and they 
become fervent Catholics at once. 
The general atmosphere holds tlie 
Catholic spirit in solution, ready to 
be precipitated under the proper in- 
fluences. 

So far as the actual piety and re- 
ligion of Paris is concerned, we have 
anticipated in a great measure what 
is to be said about it, in speaking of 
the charities of Paris. We need do 
no more than allude to certain facts 
ireii known to all who have visited 



the city in such a w.\v n^ \-> r- i'lf 

learn anything about it, ur .•. ii,, .;« 

well informed by reading. The 

gy are numerous, well organized, 

above all praise for their high sacci 

tal virtues. The colleges a«d se 

aries for ecclesiastical training 

certainly imsuqiassed except by tJu« 

of Rome. A rich and abundant 

stream of theological and rcligiou* 

literature is perennially flowing fi 

the Paris press. Active and able 

are the infidel writers of Paris, 

are overmatched by the ad\'x>cates of 

religion, who have \ " 1 am! 

are vindicating Cii , in i 

most triumphiinl roaiuicr iu cfwy 

branch of polemics. The princij 

parish churches in Paris arc n)< 

which the world might imitate. 

for the piety of that portion of 

people who are really prac • ' ^ W 

olics, it is enough to 

churches on week-days or iiuniU 

especially such as are placi:^ of s 

cial devotion, like Notre Dame 

Victoires, to be most powerfully a 

agreeably impressed with the 

dence of its high (]uality and fen" 

Those who are best qualified to 

consider it beyond a doubt t! 

gion has made a great adv 

Paris within the last twenty -five jrcuv 

and is advancing gradually but sv 

ly toward a reconquest of the m 

of the population. A;: n 

going on throughout 1 

ing the Christian religion and 

tian civilization, and one of its d 

battle-grounds is Paris. We canci 

dissemble our solicitude f 

or our sentiment of tJi' 

crisis. \N'e trust, how 

noble words of that i^i 

orator Pere Hyacinthe may be ^t* 

fied : '* Christian society may agotuMi 

but it cannot die ; for it beari 

the principle of hnmortality in it> 

bosom." 



Bishop Dupanloup' s Speech at Malines. 



587 



TKAMSLATKO PSOM TIM JOVMIAL DB MUZXLLB. 

DUPANLOUP'S SPEECH AT THE CATHOLIC CON- 
GRESS OF MALINES. 



rroe, gentlemen, first of all 
^u for having kept up and 
your excellent congress, 
ulate you not only on the 
me which animates you, or 
which shines so highly in 
!c sessions, but also on the 
ich are the enduring fruits 
neetings. In reading, yes- 
d this morning, the volumes 
itaia the reports of the pro- 
of your former sessions, I 
\ astonished at the amount 
tfion, at the resolutions, and 
tituiions which have re- 
your labors. 

*, done a good work, a sa- 

jilful work ; bonum opus. 

give thanks to God, the 

I good ; and after liim to 

e the cardinal archbi- 

lines, who. in his wisdom, 

the means of sustaining 

spite of all opposition. 

applause.) 

Bscnce, on this occasion, of 

kPechamps will not permit 
Msjng all that I feel in my 
ard him. I remember with 
hat my first battles at Liege 
ht under the inspiring influ- 
oble example. Twenty- 
ave elapsed since then, 
lesc years have left the 
upon me, it seems as if 
ly had the effect of mak- 
iger. (Laughter and ap- 

told you of the deep Ira- 
rhich has been made upon 

tto the praiseworthy cha- 
ir work, it will hardly be 



expected that I should attempt to 
fan the fiame of your zeal : that would 
be useless. My object at present is, 
just by a few simple words, to add 
something if I can to that sacred fire 
burning in your hearts, of whose re- 
sults, as set forth in the proceedings 
of your last sessions, I have read 
with so much admiration. 

You need not fear, then, that I 
will, on tile present occasion, as hap- 
pened three years ago, impose upon 
your good nature. (Cries from all 
parts of *' No, no ! Speak, speak at 
length.") To abuse it this time is 
impossible, for my strength will not 
permit. I shall, consequently, be on 
my guard against the temptations to 
which one is exposed before such an 
audience as this. 

I wish simply to remind you of the 
words of St. Paul, which arc appli- 
cable now : "Be not overcome of evil, 
but overcome evil with good." No- 
li vitui a tnaJo, sed vince milium bono. 
You will perceive that these are 
words of great importance ; and, 
with your permission, I shall offer a 
few remarks upon them. They are 
words deserving of serious considera- 
tion, for evil surrounds us, or rather 
presses upon us. This evil is pre- 
sent, acting, speaking. We must 
overcome this evil, but we must over- 
come it not by evil, but by good ; in 
bono. Here we see our duty. The 
evil, gentlemen, has been in the 
world for a long time, and for this 
reason we should neither be astonish- 
ed at it nor discouraged in our ef- 
forts. Let me simply remind you 
of the few last centuries. What has 



I 



v588 



Bishop Dupanloup's Spctch at Malittes. 



Protestantism done ? It has attacked 
the church which was in the sixteenth 
century. What has the eighteenth 
century done ? It has attacked Chris- 
tianit)'. The nineteenth century, 
gentlemen, has attacked everything 
— it has attacked God, the soul, rea- 
son, morals, society, the distinction 
between good and evil. Yes, gen- 
tlemen, everything is to<lay shame- 
fully, audaciously, impudently attack- 
ed. (Prolonged applause.) Here 
we see the extent and the intensity 
of the evil ; here we see the necessi- 
ty of overcoming it with good. We 
caft do it ; not without effort, it is true; 
but still we can do it. For us is re- 
served, henceforth, the glory of de- 
fending the law of reason, as well as 
that of faith ; the natural, as well as 
llie supernatural ; the immortality of 
le soul, and the existence of the 
'I)eit}', against the most audacious and 
the most foolish enemies that have 
ever been known, (.\pplause.) 

I tell you, nevertheless, that the 
battle is a hard one, and certainly 
the acclamations which, on this 
occasion, greet tlie names of the 
church, the pope, and the holy Vir- 
gin, show that the evil is serious, that 
the sore is deeply sealed, tliat the 
disease has thoroughly infected souls 
that are dear to us, and for which we 
ought to fight; has laid hold upon 
souls dear to us, and which we 
should save from ruin. Ah ! gentle- 
men, what ought we not to do in or- 
der to save souls! We should be 
prepared to sacrifice our strength, 
J blood, our lives if necessary. This 
'is the price of victoiy ; and tliat you 
may not forget it, the cross which is 
raised over this assembly reminds 
you of what is the price of souls. 
(Sensation.) 

The struggle, then, is a severe one, 
and it is especially so now, seeing that 
never at any previous period has 



evil had more powerful means 
ployed in its service than at the ; 
sent time. We have to ennoouMr ' 
not only against an immense, 
cealed organization, that of secret i 
cieties, the ramifications of which 
tend on all sides, but against a 
public organization, and *i 
press which spreads calumti 
lies in every quarter. 

From whatever point of vkw ^ 
look at it, the contest is a 
one. And observe, gentlemen, 
the propaganda of c\'i] knovt 06 
limitii, and respects nothing i^ 
tacks the rich, the poor, 
dren, young girls. What do 
It attacks even the dying, doit 
lence shamefully to their conscie 
and snatching from them the roiuo- 
lation to be derived from a renim to 
the faith. I ask these mni' 
after all we are not here in 
but we fight in the light 01 day,) 
Whence came the idea of indudnf 
any one to sign this info-nal com* 
pact ? W1i.1t sort of man can he b« 
who will persuade his fcllow<rM' 
turcs to enter into an engagement of 
this kind ? And yet there are men wba 
yield I Yes, there are men who pledgfl 

themselves never to return. - "> 

their dying hour, to the r^' 

the hearts of their wi> • 

gion and hearts of th- 

for this is what these t^kiced, I 

barbarous separations amouot 

(Sensation.) 

The hatred of religion, gendc 
is nowhere more marked than in 
gium. But I may add — v 
perhaps, astonish you wh 
— that it is to your lu"' 

it is doubtless beciust ..., . 

sibly the power of your religion, U 
your faith, of your 7cal, '^•' '*■" 
have been driven to hate .v 
It is to your hunor, for it pro^-ca UuJ 
you are a CaliioLic nation, (he aOft 




Bishop Dupanloup's Speak at Malims. 



S»9 



:, perhaps, that there has yet 

in spite of tliese good and 
:asons for battling on, some 
juently tempted to ask, " Is 
ggle to go on for ever ? It is 
it to wear out tlie stoutest 
Well, gentlemen, I tell 
t, under different phases, the 
will be eternal. Do you wish 
the proof of this ? Hear it, 
en, from the mouth of the Mas- 
ir it with that respect which 
ne word commands : *' TAa 
iUts you, but YOU kmnu that it 
]c before it hated you." And 
" I send you forth as sheep in 
If/ of wolves. If they have 
'd me, they will persecute you, 
ciple is not above his master, 
servant abnie his lord. If 
9e {tilled the master Beclsebub, 
xk more will they also call his 

tinderstand, then, gentlemen, 
at is good they persecute in 
daghe good, it is justice, it is 
jHof souls, it is eternal glory 
ey hate in you. It is the 
e name of Jesiis Christ which 
irsecute in you. This is to 
inor ; and allow me to say, it 
B particular glory of that so- 
ith which Belgium is honored, 
cicty which has provided for 
liildren such highly accom- 
, apd devout masters, that so- 
B members of which cultivate 
peasfully in your midst the 
f and letters, and who are, I 
)r> the princes of learning and 
lolic divinity. (Applause.) 
i Jesus Christ has predicted 
^don, he says to us at the 
time, Fear not ; fiolite iimere. 
\. Augustine in his admirable 
nt on this exhortation says : 
:on)plaIn, you are astonished, 
Iga tlood of persecution rising 



then, O Lord 1 is thy justice ? But God 
.mswers you, Where, then, is your 
faith ? Did I promise you anything 
else than from the height of my cross . 
I baptized you in my blood ? Did 
you become a Christian in order to 
enjoy here below all temporal pros- 
perit)' ? Num quid Christ ianus f actus 
es ut in hoc sa:culo floreres /" 

Let us look more closely into this, 
great question. It may certainly be , 
asked, Since God holds in his eternal 
hands the hearts of all nations in 
every age — since he can turn the 
hearts of princes as he wills, may it 
not be presumed that he will put a 
check upon tlie passions of men, and 
allow his children to enjoy eternal 
peace ? Well, no. " As high," says 
the prophet, "as the heavens are 
above the earth, so high are my 
thoughts above yours." What, then, 
does he to whom belongs the wisdom 
and the power think on this subject? 
Gentlemen, God, in hjs eternal coun- 
cils, has judged that there is nothing 
more glorious for him, nothing more 
salutary for man, than tiiat good 
was to prevail by conflict Overcome 
evil with good, is the tower of strength 
of the divine power. God has 
thought — and let this thought, gentle- 
men, sink deep into your hearts ; for 
you all, whatever your condition in 
life, have need frequently to meditate 
upon those teachings of Christianity 
which are at once a solid foundation 
and a glorious crown ; God has 
thought, I say, that conflict in this 
world is necessary, that it is more 
worthy of him, and more worthy of 
us. In leaving men free to choose 
the good, God knows th.it there is 
tiie possibility of evil, which he has, 
thereby, haiarded j but he has or- 
dained that there shall be conflict 
and struggle, without which that 
glorious thing we call virtue, virtus, 
would be unknown in the world. 

And not only lias he iVvou^V >2c\a.V, 



590 



Bishop Dnfanhup's Speech at Maiittes. 



even after the fall, we were stiU great 
enough to be equal to great trials, but 
he has thought, also, that it would be 
more worthy of him and of us for us 
to pass through those trials. So, 
gentlemen, when Christ descended 
on earth, he chose the lot of suf- 
fering and of the cross. And St. 
Paul has found this foundation so 
solid, that he has made it the basis 
of his doctrine when he says that it 
was necessary that Christ should 
suffer in order that he might be 
raised in glory. 

Well, permit me, gentlemen, to use 
this plainness of speech, fur we are 
here as a family. I believe that God 
has judged rightly. I believe that 
bold adversaries are better for us 
than partial friends and unbounded 
prosperity. I believe that he will 
never leave our sufferings without 
their compensations. There is no 
age that has not had its glory. 
There are periods of consolation. 
Sometimes the sun rises and all 
seems easy. 

We are told in Scripture that these 
bright periods often follow the dark- 
ness. There are times when the light 
of faith seems to be obscured. There 
are sometimes grievous misunder- 
standings among the friends of God, 
and sometimes deplorable manifesta- 
tions of self-will. In this season of 
darkness, under the cover of this 
night, the beasts of prey leave their 
hiding-places : in ipsa hora periransi- 
bunt btstia. We hear men saying, 
God is evil. Property is robbery. 
We must have a new morality. And 
they would instil these things into 
ie minds of your wives and your 
lildren. This is what we hear in 
ie night. But tlie sun rises, and 
immediately these creatures retire 
into their holes. (Laughter.) Then 
the good man opens his door, sees 
that the weather Is fine, that the sky 
is dear, and he goes fotth to works 



of charity and tnrtue, laborii 
lively hope until the return 
darkness. (Applause.) 

It is true tliat, when we 
much evil in the world, wl 
feel it near to us, and exj 
effects, we are apt to become 
Butthat would be wrong. Ashortt 
ago, on returning from Romr, 
every one goes for ci ' ri^ 

hope, I passed throu<^i 
I found an admirable type of 
church in the leaning tower 
which you have all beard. 
who are ignorant of the secret 
the skilful architect to vrhnm ^r 
indebted for this woi 
ment, cannot contcmii 
a certain degree of fear. But 
craziness of tlie structure is in 
pearance only. Tt is the same will 
the church, which the ?^ 
call the Tower of Da>i(l, 
Davidcea^ surroun<lc(l by . a ti 
sand defences. When this Icann 
tower raises itself, it is like Sl Pctcr'^ 
at Rome — an incomparable roc 
ment, grand, majestic, shtnmg as! 
lighted with the fire of the settii^" 
sun. At tliis sight, gentlemen, w«_ 
console ourselves, and take 
courage, saying to ourselves, W 
afflictions come, I will think oC 
Peter's at Rome, even when if aj 
like the leaning tower of Pisa. (Aj>- 
plause.) 

This, gcndemcn, is what I hare to 
say to you about that conflict to 
which we are called to dcrote our 
strength, to consecrate our life, laA 
even our death. Y». - ' men, 

when, upon my arriv:i w^ 

the illustrious writer who b no« 
your host struggling with sickoefS 
and suffering, at iJie ! K 

was required to write -v-i..^ i.i .Joe 
pages which awaken such noble fist 
liments in our souls, the rrSertioo 
forced itself upon me: It is iJu* 
that we should combat, aad ncw 




Bishop Ditpaf I loupes Speech at Maliues. 



591 



k (The orator was here about 
pe the platform, but the oppo- 
( and entreaties of the audience 
jttted him.) 

^ve your indulgence, gentle- 

I he resumed ; it is now two 

isince I have opened my mouth 

r diocese. But let it be as you 

I only I throw the responsibility 

I you of making my peace for 

nth the people of Orleans. 

Ilnius.) (Great merriment.) I 

id a few words respecting the 

tions of this conflict. 

! first is courage. Saint James 

rangelist, in addressing himself 

men, calls upon them to be 

to be courageous ; he says to 

I speak to you because you 

rong : quia fort'n estis. I 

iy no more to you than this : 

jrageous, never yield. Re- 

sr that you are, every day and 

^alJ circumstances, called upon 

at." 

' there is something greater and 

|enduring than courage : it is 

iness. Yes, gentlemen, you 

devoted, in order that you 

the true friends of the poor, 

working people, of those who 

(and who weep, the support of all 

arks which is the life, the soul 

church, the blood — if I may so 

-which circulates in its veins. 

I third quality which is demand- 

jtthis conflict is patriotism. O 

sm ! I need not enlarge upon 

ly speech. I will simply con- 

lyself with saying to you. You 

country; know Iww to de- 

(Iramense applause.) You 

ie arts : in this respect there 

lation that surpasses you, and 

ie at most that equals you, 

kave industry, commerce, names 

the most honored in Europe. 

»ve I know not how much of 

w, instinctive impulses against 

against debasing vices, 



agairl5t everything mean and degrad- 
ing. Cherish, then, the strongest 
attachment to your country, and see 
that you preserve it. 

I was told a few days ago that a 
journal of some character had said 
that Belgium is the sink of Europe. 
I said to myself, this is not abuse. 
There is, in fact, no nation of which 
so much can be said in the sense in 
which I wish now to speak. I my- 
self, gentlemen, saw proof of this in 
walking through your city yesterday. 
In the street which runs along the 
magnificent city hotel of Brussels 
my eyes fell upon this sign : Libirtu 
Association and Constitutional Union 
of Brussels. And what was there 
below ? A wine-shop ; and lower 
down another wine-shop, having for a 
sign the words "to Hell." (General 
merriment.) This, alas ! is not all 
that I have seen in Brussels, gentle- 
men ; but I pass on. 

The fourth condition of the conflict 
is labor. Oh ! how I wish that the 
Catholics were the most diligent, the 
most laborious of men. Yes ; what- 
ever you may be, work will benefit 
your family, your posterity. De- 
pend upon it, gentlemen, the desti- 
nies of the world are in the hands 
of those who know how to work. 

To this condition, to industry', to 
science, I would add intelligence and 
prudence. And here again, gentle- 
men, it is our Lord himself who gives 
us counsel : we are to have, he says, - 
the artlessness of the dove, with the 
wisdom of the serpent. Yes, gentle*' 
men, however much these words may' 
have been abused, I insist upon them,' 
and I call upon you to give heed to' 
them. We must exercise that pru-' 
dence of which the serpent is the' 
symbol in the language of the cast. 
We must use our judgment ; we must' 
intelligently apply ourprinciples ; we^| 
must maintain that good understand-'! 
ing which should ever exist amotv^\«t- 



Bishop Dupanhup^s Speech at Maiims. 



593 



>ne with this beautiful French 
ge ?" A liberal I But in our 
tion he is the liberal man who 
,ot deny to others the same jus- 
nd truth which he cltims to 
limself. The Portuguese Free- 
s who drove out the Sisters of 
y, those of you who insult them, 
ill liberals 1 I say again, the 
s intolerable ; and if I were a 
n I would never betray my 
ige, my honor, and my con- 
e by giving such a name to 
len. (Applause.) 
1 so far as we are concerned, 
now, gentlemen, how they pay 
k. They call us the clerical 
-that is to say, fools of the sa- 
; or better still, the priest party. 
[ remind you of Voltaire, who 
id the name wretch, by which 
signated the church ? And 
lame did he bear? He was 
philosopher. Gentlemen, they 
never get me to give the title 
!osopher to a d'Holbach, to a 
trie, to any of those wicked 
onspiring with their master to 
the "wretch." I understand 
ey contemplate erecting a sta- 

the man who has given this 
;o Christianity. For my part, 
they will have raised a statue 
.my personified. (Prolonged 
.) I am prepared to meet any 
:nt on this ground ; and I will 
e to give him, whenever he 

to have them, such proofs of 

say as will resound through- 
e whole of Europe. This vio- 
ione to common sense, to hon- 
) French honor, is revolting to 
; repeat it, they are raising a 

to infamy personified. The 
I of Orleans can think nothing 

can say nothing better of it. 
nged applause.) 
. see, then, that we must have 
e, devotedness, patriotism, pru- 

and intelligence; I will add 
VOL. VI. — 38 



to these moderation and gentleness 
Did not Christ say to his Apostles, 
" I send you forth as sheep among 
wolves"? Perhaps you will say to 
me, " But you give us several appli- 
cations of this evangelical saying 
which it will not bear." Gentlemen, 
it is nowhere forbidden to the shep- 
herd to give the alarm of the wol^ 
and to the sheep to believe it Yes, 
we must be gentle, and Saint Chry- 
sostom, commenting on these words, 
says : " We require protectors who 
attack little, but who defend well— 
pro pugnatorem, non impugnatorem." 
It is in this way, gentlemen — it is by 
gentleness — that we are to conquer. 
But if, instead of being sheep, we 
become wolves by abuse, if we wish 
to conquer and not to be convio^ped, 
we run the risk of being vanquished. 
Si lupi sumus vineimur. 

And now, to conclude, I would ex- 
press to you the deepest impressions 
of my soul. That which I admire 
most in this beautiful creation of the 
Deity, which makes man like the 
angels, is the flame of love which 
God has kindled in his soul. Gen- 
tlemen, what do the radiant looks of 
this assembly, this clapping of hands, 
these outbursts of enthusiasm, ex- 
press ? They express love. You love, 
gentlemen, and you love nobly. Yo» 
love the church, your mother. Ah I 
you do well to love her with the 
purest and most generous love I The 
church is the fellowship of souls; 
herein is her beauty and her imnoor- 
tal glory. This is why, although she 
is in the world, she is not of the 
world. She lives by faith, hope, and 
love. She believes, she hopes, she 
loves. This earth is only the place 
of her pilgrimage; Heaven is her 
country, the King of Heaven is her 
father, Jesus Christ is her immorta] 
spouse, the Holy Spirit her inspirer 
and her guide. She has her ponti^ 
whom you venerate, her doctors^ baa 




Bishop Dupanloup's Speech at Malines. 



I 
I 

I 
I 



priests. There, at least, we find here 
below a divine and unchangeable 
constitution. Built on a rock that 
can never be moved, wc have a su- 
preme authority, a teachable people, 
faithful ministers, and, in short, (not 
to speak of others.) rights scrupulous- 
ly respected, and duties faithfully 
performed. (Applause.) 

That which seems astonishing at 
first sight is, that the church, notwith- 
standing her divine origin and her 
immortal destinies, should so often 
come to us with thorns on her brow. 
But this is because she comes from 
Calvary, and her favorite strains were 
those which inspired Saint Paul when 
he said, *' God forbid that I should 
glory save in the cross of Jesus 
Christ." Among the songs of glad- 
ness sung by the church, as she tra- 
vels through this world, there are 
none more dear to her than those 
which celebrate the passion, the 
temptations, the sorrows of Calvary. 
These are her household words. We 
feel that she received them from the 
dying lips of a divine being ; but, 
sharing the grief of the God-man, 
she should go forth with him from 
tlie tomb to cover the earth with her 
children, in innumerable multitudes. 

The church must expect to meet 
here below with indifference, with 
adversaries, with persecutors. This 
has been announced, or rather prom- 
ised, to her ; she is not to enjoy 
where she has not suffered ; at some 
time or other we all suffer, we die for 
her. Yes I She always has martyrs, 
and it is only recently that several 
have been laid upon the altar. Ah ! 
it is during these festivals, gentlemen, 
that you should see the church in 
order to feel how her heart beats. 
On the recent occasion the Vicar of 



Jesus Christ was surrounded by fi\«; 
hundred bishops, who ha.stened to 
him from all parts of the world, Vo« 
should have seen the gladness, the 
glory, tJie universal enthusiasm whirk 
prevailed. W<* found there a strcngik 
to encounter anything — to go Ireelv, 
cheerfully, to Abyssinia, to Indb. 10 
America, everywhere. How rigor- 
ous, how deep, how indissoluble il 
the union of souls f fibhold the 
church here, as we have seen her 
and experienced her power ! Ameri- 
ca sent thirty-five bishofK; ; for a cen- 
tury she had not more than one. At 
the last council of Baltimore tbrre 
were fort).'-three, and the Amcricaa 
bishops, on leaving Rome, obtaiaed, 
from the Holy Kalher the erecti||^|p^ 
twenty-three dioceses. Yoo 
fruitful is this imtnortaJ cause if 
yours. 

And in the midst of ail these b 
the grand thought of the S 
Pontiff proclaiming the utili 
necessity of a genera? council. 1 ixic 
is wisdom, there is energ}' ! No, 
gentlemen, I have never seen a fintr 
sight than this old man going direct 
to his object with a firmness which 
nothing can overcome. All around 
him may be in a state of troubk; 
the earth may fail under hb fcci; 
still he maintains his grotmd, and 
the church shall liave her council 
Yes, gentlemen, the kingdoins of tbii 
earth may be removed, ime/inmta asit 
regna; but the bishop^ 
meet in council, and \^ 
will hold forth the light to th 
require their help. Tha ditirch 
have its council, in order that di> 
putes may cease, that peace way 
dwell in our hearts ; that the peopit 
may be drawn into the 
comi||on father, so th.it t 
but one flock and but one shepbeii 



The Reign of Law. 



S9S 



THE REIGN OF LAW* 



E is much in this work that 

to be true and important, 
ansidered by itself, without 
e to the general views or 
s of the author; but they 
jterwoven with other things, 
us are evidently unscientific 
le, that they lose nearly all 
actical value. The author 
^ does not lack ability, and 
ently learned in the sciences; 
lappily for such a work as 
irs to have meditated, he is 
logian and no philosopher. 

such a want of distinctness 
inciples, and of clearness and 
1 in his statements, that, with 

intentions in the world to 
.nd him, we are unable to 
ut to our own satisfaction 
is driving at, or for what pur- 
has written his book, 
topics treated are : i. The 
ural; 2. Law — its definitions; 
rivance, a necessity arising 
he reign of law ; 4. Appa- 
eptions to the supremacy of 
; 5. Creation by law; 6. 
the realm of mind ; 7. Law 
:s. These are great topics, 
, intimately connected with 

and philosophy, faith and 
But what has the author 
1 to himself in treating them ? 
ineral view of religion or of 
ioes he seek to bring out, 11- 
or establish ? We can find 
»ok no satisfactory answer to 
f these questions. He is a 
lot a philosopher, and there 
> be in his mind and in his 
; same want of unity and 
5S, the same tendency to lose 

gm 0/ Lam. By the Duke of Aigyll. 
rahan. 1867. 8vo, pp. 435. 



itself in details, that there is and 
must be in the special or inductive 
sciences when not subordinated to a 
general or a superior science, to be 
supplied only by theology or philo- 
sophy, which deals with the ideal, the 
universal, and the necessary; and 
we find it impossible to hannonize 
the several special views which he 
takes, integrate them in any gen- 
eral view which it can be supposed 
that he accepts, or which he is not 
found, first or last, directly or indi> 
rectly impugning. We understand 
well enough his language, which is 
simple and clear, so far as the words 
and sentences go ; we understand, 
too, the parts of his book taken se- 
parately ; but we frankly confess our 
inability to put the several parts to- 
gether and understand them as a 
whole. 

Our first impression, on looking 
through the work, was that the au- 
thor wished to harmonize the scien- 
ces with the great primary truths of 
religion, by showing that the universe 
in all its departments, laws, facts, 
and phenomena proceeds from a 
productive will under the direction 
of mind or intelligence, for a purpose 
or end. In this view the laws of na- 
ture, producing effects in their order, 
could be carried up for their first 
cause to the divine will, or that will 
itself using the instrumentality of laws 
or means it had itself created. To 
harmonize the sciences with faith, or 
to render them compatible with faith, 
all that would need to be done would 
be to show that since the so-called 
natural laws themselves depend whol- 
ly on God, they can never restraia 
his freedom, or compel him to act 
through them, and ot\^ ^Qcnya^ 



596 



Tiu Reign of Law. 



them. We will not say that he has 
not had something of the sort in 
view; but, certainly, not uniformly 
and steadily. 

We thought, again, that having the 
same end in view, he wished to show 
that all things are produced accord- 
ing to one and the same dialectic 
law, and, therefore, that viewed as a 
whole, in its principle, medium, and 
end, as the external expression of 
the Holy Trinity, which God is in 
himself, the universe must be really 
dialectic, and strictly logical in alt 
its parts. Creation is the external 
word of God, as the Son is his in- 
ternal word or expression. As the 
Creator is in himself the supreme 
logic, 6 A/»yo,-, logic itself, creation as 
his expression ad extra, or external 
image, must be as a whole and in all 
its parts strictly logical, as St. Tho- 
mas implies when he says, " God is 
the similitudeofall things — similitudo 
rerum omnium" Not that the type of 
Go<1 is in the creature, as the noble 
duke more than once implies; but 
that the type of the creature, of crea- 
tion, is in God. Hence there can 
be no anom.ilics, no sophisms in the 
(Creator's works ; nothing arbitrary, 
tapricious ; but order must run 
through all, and all must be sub- 
jected to the law of order, implied in 
the doctrine of Scripture, "God hath 
made all things by weight and mea- 
sure." The author, then, might be 
inderstood as attempting, by his 
tnowlcdge of the physical sciences, 
to prove 3 posteriori that this is true, 
end to show that this law of order 
tigns in the world of matter and in 
[the realm of mind, in the plant and 
[in the animal, in science and in faith, 
\\(\ religion and in poUlics, as the uni- 
Vcrsal law of creation. Hence, the 
possibility and reality of science, 
%vhich consists in recognizing this 
Uw and tracing it in all things, little 
5r great 



Some things, the author saf^au^ 
be construed in favor of SQcb a pur- 
pose, but he seems sometimes to be 
asserting the universal reign of !i» 
and at others to be censuring tb*« 
who do assert it, and refuting thoK 
who maintain that life is the prodiid 
of law : plainly showin|^ that be dotf 
not understand law in the sense up- 
posed, nor alwa>-s in the same seMft 
His definitions of law also pcxnnethlt 
he is a stranger to the view we f^f 
gest, and has his mind fuced oi 
something quite different. Therf*l«l 
idea" of law, he says, is tliat of force; 
and he defines law to be in its pti- 
marj' sense " will enforcing itidtf 
with power" — a very erroneous defi' 
nition, by the way, for law is will &t 
rected by reason. He also UDdc^ 
stands by it the means, medium, or 
instrument by which will creates, for 
he does not seem to hold that God 
creates from tiolhing, or withmrt 
means distinguish.ible from hiirueli; 
so we are thrown back, and again 
puzzled to determine what he rcilly 
does mean. We ask ourselves if be 
is not a re.ally profound ih--' - -i, 
master of the deepest Chi: 
losnphy, and simply i 
translate it into the l,i 
savans, or if he is not totally Tig» 
rant of that philosophy, suggcsdiy 
to those who know it far more tkaa 
he has ever dreamed of htntself? 
Something almost inclines us to think 
the former; but upon 
incline to the latter, an., 
the less profound in philosophy 
ilieology we regard him, the 
er the justice we shall do him. 

The author, as near as we caft 
come at his meaning, hnlds thai 
action of the divine win v, 

that law is the means or 
which it acts and protluces i . 
or, in other words, God al. -.., —^ 
everywhere makes use of natural Ia»"» 
or forces to effect bis purposes. The 



< 



i 



The Reign of Law. 



59r 



n he has given of law in its 
sense, " will enforcing itself 
wer," would seem to identify 
irod himself, or at least with 
lling and effecting his pur- 
}ut he says : " Law is taken 
in derivative senses, in which 
1 trace of the primary sense 
led : I. Law as applied sim- 
an observed order of facts, 
dat order as involving the ac- 
iome force or forces, of which 
more may be known. 3. As 
to individual forces the mea- 
whose operation has been 
less defined or ascertained, 
pplied to those combinations 
which have reference to the 
It of purpose or the discharge 
ion. 5. As applied to the ab- 
onceptions of mind, not cor- 
ing with any actual phenome- 
deduced therefrom as axioms 
;ht necessary to our under- 
j of them — not merely to an 
f facts, but to an order of 
" (Pp. 64, 65.) The last 
jiven to law proves clearly 
that the author knows nothing 
iophy, for it supposes the ideal 
ntelligible is an abstract men- 
leption deduced from sensible 
ena, and therefore is objec- 
lothing, instead of being an 
e reality affirmed to and ap- 
led by the mind. He is one 
ices the type of his God in 
ature, not the type of the 
: in God, and represents God 
jif as the creature fulfilled or 
d, as do all inductive philo- 
But we will pass over this, 
g been already amply discuss- 
is magazine. 

onfess that we find very little 
efinite in these pretended de- 
. of law. They tell us to what 
of facts law is applied, but do 
\ us what law is, or define 
it is the force which produ- 



ces the facts to which it is applied 
or simply the rule according to which 
they are pnoduced ; whether it desig- 
nates the order of their production 
or is simply their classification. The . 
author may reply that it is applied in 
all these senses and several more^ 
but that defines nothing. What is it 
in itself, apart from its application, 
or the manner of its use ? A word, 
and nothing more ? Then it is no- 
thing, is unreal, a nullity, and how 
then can it ever be a force, or even 
an instrument of force? "These 
great leading significations of the 
word law," he continues, " all circle 
round the three great questions whick 
science asks of nature, the What, the 
How, and the Why: i. What are 
the facts in their established order ? 

2. How, that is, from what physical 
causes, does that order come to be ? 

3. Why have those causes been so 
combined ? What relation do they 
bear to purpose, to the fulfilment of 
intention, to the discharge of func- 
tion ?" (P. 65.) This would be very 
well, if the sciences raised no ques- 
tions beyond the order of second 
causes, but this is not the case. The 
author himself brings in other than 
physical causes. Will is not, in the 
ordinary sense of the word, physical ; 
and he defines law to be, in its primar 
ry sense, will enforcing itself with powd- 
er; and the question comes up. If 
these facts of nature are the product 
of will, of whose will ? Does nature 
will or act from will? Is it by its 
will fire melts wax, the winds propel 
the ship at sea, or the lightning rends 
the oak ? The author speaks of the 
facts of nature. Fact is something 
done, and implies a doer; what or 
who, then, is the doer ? Here is a 
great question which the author 
raises, and which his definitions of law 
exclude. The whence is as impor- 
tant as the what, the how, or the 
why. MoreoveT,tVve au\i!hot mvs>\ak.c^ 



59S 



The Reign of Law. 



the sense of tlie how. The answer 
to the question, how? is not the 
question, from or by what cause or 
causes, but in what mode or manner. 
Law in " these great leading signifi- 
cations " which circle round the what, 
the how, and the why, does in no 
sense answer the question whence, 
or from what or by what cause, and 
leaves, by the way, both the first 
cause and the medial cause, the prin- 
ciple and medium of the facts ob- 
served and analyzed. How then can 
assert the universal reign of law ? 
As far as we can collect from ihe sen- 
ses of the word given, law does not 
reign at all j it lies in the order of natu- 
ral facts, and simply marks the order, 
manner, and purpvose of their exis- 
tence in nature, or their arrangement 
or classification in our scientific sys- 
tems. Nothing more. 

Yet his grace means more than 
this. He means, sometimes at least, 
that to arrange facts under their law 
is to reduce them to their physical 
cause or principle of producrion. 
Such and such facts owe their exis- 
tence to such and such a law, that 
is, to such or such a natural cause or 
productive force. And his doctrine is 
that all causes are natural, and that 
there is no real distinction between 
natural and supernatural. "The 
truth is," he says, pp. 46-47, "that 
there is no such distinction between 
what we find in nature, and what we 
are called upon to believe in religion, 
as men pretend to draw between the 
natural and the supernatural. // is 
a distinction purtly artificial^ arbitra- 
ry, unreal. Nature presents to our 
intelligence, the more clearly the 
more we search her, the designs, 
ideas, and intentions of some 

' Liiritig win thai thati endure. 
When all llut ■ecms khall sufler shock.' " 

But, does nature when she presents 
the designs, the ideas, intentions, 
present the will v;liose the>( ate? 



i 



And if so, does she present it as bcr 
own will, or as a will above herself? 
Undoubtedly, the will ]3reseuted by 
religion is the same will that is oF>^ 
rative in nature, but rt 
that will not as natur> 
nature, therefore as supernatural, (at 
nothing can be both itself and ri'^-^r 
itself. Nobody pretend.^, c«.t 
no theologian pretends, that the «U1 
presented by religion is above tbt 
will tliat is operative tri nature^ and 
calls it for that reason supenutmaL 
The will in both is one and ihesatni^ 
but religion assert.s that it is alike 
supernatural whether in reJigion or 
in nature. That will is the will of 
the creator : and does the author 
mean to assert that the distinclio& 
between the creator and the creatait 
is unreal ? Certainly not. Then Ik 
must be mistaken in asserting tliat 
the distinction between the naianl 
and supernatural is " purely anifidiL 
arbitrarj', unreal," and also in cw»- 
troverling, as he does, the assertion 
of M. Guizot that "a belief in the 
supernatural is essential to all pofli- 
live religion." He himself admits, 
p. 48, that M. Guizot's affirmation is 
true in the special sen- ' 1 relief 

in the existence of a li ..of * 

personal God, is indeed a reqotalt 
condition," and we will not be so OP' 
just as to suppose that he cither idcih 
tifies this living will, this pcrsoasl 
God with nature, or denies thit he is 
above nature, its first and t- 
its principle, medium, an : 
sovereign proprietor and suprant 
ruler ; for this lies at the very thrr-J*- 
hold of all true religion, is a tr 
reason, and a necessary preamble [•< 
faith. 

" But," the author continues, •*lki 
intellectual yoke, in the comrooci Ma 
of the supernatural, is & yoke vbicb 
men impose upon Ihemsehres,^ 0^ 
scure thought and confused laofiMg* 
are the main source of the difficidi}:>* 



Ji 



The Reign of Law. 



599 



of the noble duke, per- 
bulif he had been familiar 

clear thought and distinct 
of the theologians, he pro- 
ild have experienced no dif- 

the case. What he really 
not the .fi//(rniatural, but, if 
»o speak, the conirax\?X\xta\^ 
a verj' different thing, and 
I real theologians are as 
1 as earnest to deny as any 

can be ; for they all hold 
upernaturai, and yet adopt 
m^ gratia supponit naturam, 
e heretofore shown in an ar- 
Vature and Grace. The au- 
conclusively shows that the 
tory of what is true in na- 
ot be true in religion. Some 
I philosophers in the time 
Leo X. maintained that (he 
ty of the soul is true in 
but false in philosophy. The 
Jemned their doctrine and 
i common sense, which 
very one that what is true 
ry cannot be false in philo- 
what Is true in philosophy 
5 false in theology. Truth 
Iways and everj'where, and 
or can be in contradiction 
f. But we cannot agree with 
r that " the common idea " 
>ernalural is that it is some- 
igonistic to nature. There 
ome heterodox theologians 
ach, or seem to teach, and 
n who are devoted to the 
he natural sciences suppose 
:ived theologians assert the 
iral in the same sense, and 
reason why they take such a 
theology and become averse 
supernatural revelation. But 
hem mistaken ; at least we 
^customed to see the super- 
•lescnted by learned and or- 
eologians as opposed to the 

If such is the leaching of 
tdox, it is very unfortunate 



for his grace that he has taken their 
teaching to be that of the Christian 
church, or the faith of orthodox be- 
lievers. 

But the author's difficulty about the 
supernatural has its principal origin 
in his theology, not in his science. 
We do not like his habit of speaking 
of the divine action in nature as the 
action of will, for God never acts as 
mere will. We may distinguish in re- 
lation to our mode of apprehending 
him, between his essence and his at- 
tributes, and between one attribute 
and another ; indeed we must do so, 
for our powers are too feeble to form 
an adequate conception of the Divine 
Being ; but we must never forget that 
the distinctions we make in our mode 
of apprehending have no real exis- 
tence in God himself. He is one, and 
acts always as one, in the unity of 
his being, and his action is always 
identically the action of reason, love, 
wisdom, will, power. When we speak 
of him as living will, we are apt to 
divide or mutilate him in our thought, 
and to forget that he never acts or 
pfbduces effects by any one attribute 
alone. But pass over this — though 
we cannot approve it, for God is eter- 
nal reason as really and as fully as 
he is eternal will ; the noble duke, 
following his theology, makes in re- 
ality this one living will the only 
actor in nature, the direct and imme- 
diate cause of all the effects produced 
in the universe. He thus denies se- 
cond causes, as Calvin did when he 
asserted that " God is the author oi 
sin." Taking this view, what is na- 
ture? Nature is only the divine will 
and its direct effects, or the one liv- 
ing w^ill enforcing itself witli power,, 
using what are called natural laws or 
forces, not as second causes, but as 
means or instruments for effecting 
its purpose or purposes. Recogniz- 
ing no created or second causes, and 
therefore no citufo cmirufu ot causa 



e ordinary elements 
t are our bodies formed, and 
es of all living things." But 
chat was the "dust of the 
or "the ordinary elements 
e" formed ? He continues : 
there anything which should 
in the idea that the creation 
>rms, anymore than in their 
ion, has been brought about 
stnimentality of means. In 
jical point of view it matters 
vhat these means have been." 
srer, matters something in a 
:al point of view whether we 
at God creates without other 
lan is contained in his own 
teing, or only by working 
Existing materials, which are 
lent of him, and eternal like 

uthor professes not to know 
authority creation is denied 
lation unless from nothing as 
rials, and by nothing as its 
but he must have said this 
(veil weighing the words he 
i man makes a watch out of 
i vhich are supplied to his 
»d by availing himself of a 
brce which exists and ope- 
ependcntlyof him; but nobo- 
him the creator of the watch. 
5, strictly speaking, no crea- 
ers, because he can operate 
and with materials furnished 
God or nature, and cannot 
)riginate his own powers nor 
ers he uses. He can form, 
utilize, to a limited extent, 
%ady exist;, but he cannot 
! a new law nor a new force, 
itile philosophers, finding in 
proper creative power, con- 
hat there is no proper crea- 
Kin God, and hence they 
In their systems for crea- 
Ion, generation, or fonna- 
id you will search in vain 
Plato or even Aristotle for 



^cognition 
Holding that God cannot, a? 
than man, work without materia 
even the soundest of the Gentile phi- 
losophers, say Pythagoras, Plato, and 
Aristotle, asserted the eternity of 
matter, and explained the origin of 
things by supposing that God im- 
presses on this eternal matter, as the 
seal on wax, or in some way unites 
with it, the ideas or forms eternal in 
his own mind. Here is no creation, 
for though there is combination of 
the preexisting, there is no produc- 
tion of something where nothing was 
before ; yet we cannot go beyond 
them, if we deny that creation proper 
is creation from nothing, or, as we 
have explained, that Gnd creates 
without any material, means, or me- 
dium distinguishable from himself. 

Yet no theologian pretends that 
God, in creating, works without means. 
No work, no act is possible or con- 
ceivable without principle, medium, 
and end, God can no more create 
without a medial cause than man can 
build a house without materials ; but 
if the author had meditated on the 
significance of the dogma of the Trin- 
ity', he would have understood that 
God has the means or medium in 
himself, in his own eternal Word, by 
whom all things are made, and with- 
out whom was made nothing that 
was made. G(xl in himself, in the 
unity of his own being, the mystery 
of the Trinity teaches us, is eternally 
and indissolubly, principle, medium, 
and end, in three distinct persons. 
The Father is principle, the Son or 
Word is medium, and the Holy Ghost 
is end or consummator. Hence God 
is complete, being in its plenitude, in 
himself, most pure act, as say the 
theologians, and, therefore, able to 
do what he wills without going out 
of himself, or using means not in 
himself. The medium of creation Is 
the Word who was in \.Vve.\ie,^\wTvYc\^, 



602 



The Reign of Law. 



who was with God, and who is God. 
Hence not only by and for God, but 
Iso in him " we live and move and 
have our being." To suppose other- 
wise is, as we have seen, to suppose 
God does not and cannot create by 
himself alone, or without the aid of 
something exterior to and distinguish 
able from himself, and nothing is dis* 
tinguishable from him and his own 
creatures, but another being in some 
sort eternal like himself, which plii- 
'losophy, as well as theology, denies. 
Rectifying the noble author's mis- 
take as to the creative act, and bear- 
ing in mind that God creates exis- 
tences by himself alone, and creates 
them substances or second causes, 
capable of producing effects in the 
secondary order, we are able to as- 
sert a very real and a very intelligible 
distinction between the natural and 
the supernatural. Nature is the name 
for all that is created, the whole or- 
der of second causes, and as God 
creates and sustains nature, he must 
be himself supernatural. God has, 
or at least may have, two modes of 
acting; the one directly, immediately, 
with no medium but the medium he 
is in himself, and this mode of act- 
ing is supernatural ; the other mode 
is acting in and through nature, in 
the law according to which he has 
constituted nature, or the forces 
which he has given her, called natu- 
ral laws, and this mode is natural, 
because in it nature acts as second 
cause. God himself is above this or- 
der of nature, but is always present 
in it by his creative act, for the uni- 
verse, neither as a whole nor in any 
of its parts, can stand save as upheld 
by the Creator. A miracle is a sen- 
sible fact not explicable by the laws 
of nature, and, therefore, a fact that 
can be explained only by being re- 
ferred to the direct and immediate 
or supernatural action of God. Whe- 
ther a miracle is ever wrought is sim- 



ply a question of fact, to be dririMJi 

ed by the testimony or cvidctKc iatk 
case. That God can work mir»db 
may be inferred from the fac< dMt 
creation does not ex! ' m :J. 

from the fact, the noL 
ply proved, that the natuiiil Uwidi 
not bind him to act only throq^ 
them, or in any way restrain his fr» 
dom or liberty of action. In yn^ 
ing a miracle, God does not coaXOf 
vene or violate the natural la«)i,« 
the orderof second causes, that i* tie 
order of nature ; he simply act> 
it, and the fact is not contracc: 
but supernatural. It does not Ax* 
troy nature; for if it did, there wodd 
be no nature below it, and it wxAi 
therefore, not be supn 

The author very |h .ij«c:j 

the origin of species in deveiopmrnt, 
at least in the higher forms of organic 
life, and shows that Darwin's theot; 
of the formation of new species bf 
natural selection does not form nc« 
species, but only selects th« matt 
vigorous of preexisting species, voA 
as survive the struggle for life. Old 
species indeed become extinct 
new species spring into exist 
but those new species or new 
of life which science disco 
not developments, but new cmtkwft 
Creation, he holds, has a history, and 
is successive, continually going oa> 
We doubt whether science is la a 
condition to say with absolute CCf 
tainly that any species that once ex- 
isted are now extinct, or that nc« 
species have successively sprung ii»» 
existence ; but assuming the f»ct » 
be as alleged, and we certainly ait 
un.-ible to deny it, we cannot accept 
the author's explanation. We «^itt 
with him that the cro ■ '■• " 

present and as active . i;i i. l 

beginning, or that creation i:l ahriys 
a present act ; but for this vicfy n** 
son, if for no other, we should Aa^ 
that it is successive, or reso^viUe 



The Reign of Law. 



603 



successive acts, since that would 
- that it is past or future as well 
esent. Regarded on the side of 
there can be no succession in 
Teative act Succession is in 
; but God dwells not in time, 
habiteth eternity. His act on 
de must be complete from the 
It he wills to create, and can be 
ssive only as externized in time, 
iduals and species when they 
served their purpose disappear, 
others come forward and take 
places, not by a new creation 
nothing, but because in the one 
ve act the appointed time and 
for their external appearance 
:ome. It is rather we who come 
ssively to the knowledge of 
on than creation that is itself 
ssive. The creative act is one, 
ts extemization is successive, 
livine act effecting the h)T)osta- 
lion of human nature with the 
! person of the Word was in- 
i in the one creative act, and 
ation to God and his act was 
lete from the first; but as a fact of 
t did not take place till long after 
eation of the world. It is very 
>le then to accept fully all the 
with regard to the appearance 
e species that science discovers, 
at asserting successive creations; 
re only the successive manifesta* 
of the origfinal creative act, re- 
g to us what we had not before 
n it. 

point of fact the author does 
lOugh he thinks he does, assert 
jsive creations, for he contends 
he new are in some way made 
f the old. He supposes the 
ire will prepares in what goes 
: for what comes after, and that 
xm% of life about to be extin- 
td approach close to and al- 
3verlap the forms that are com- 
be, and are in some way used 
: creation of the new forms or 



species. This, as We have seen, is 
not creation, but formation or deve- 
lopment, and hardly differs in sub- 
stance from the doctrine of develop- 
ment that was held by some natura- 
lists prior to Darwin's theory of natu- 
ral selection. It supposes the mate- 
rial of the new creation, the causa 
materiaiis, is in the old, and the de- 
velopment theory only supposes that 
the material exists in the old in the 
form of a germ of the new. The 
difference, if any, is not worth notic- 
ing. The development again can, 
on any theory, go on only under the 
presence and constant action of the 
cause to which nature owes her exis- 
tence, constitution, and powers. 

For ourselves, we have no quarrel 
with the developmentists when they 
do not deny the conditions without 
which there can be no develop- 
ment, or understand by development 
what is not development but really 
creation. There is no development 
where there is no germ to be develop- 
ed, and that is not development 
which places something different in 
kind from the nature of-the germ. 
In the lower forms of organic life, of 
plants and animals, where the differ- 
ences of species are indistinct or fee- 
bly marked, there may be, for aught 
we know, a natural development of 
new species, or what appears to be 
new species, that is, organic forms, not 
before brought out, or not perceived 
to be wrapped up in the forms examin- 
ed ;. but in the higher forms of life, 
where the types are distinct and 
strongly marked, as in the mammalia, 
this cannot be the c?ise, for there is no 
germ in one species of another. We 
object also to the doctrine that the 
higher forms of life are developed 
from the lower forms. Grant, what 
is possible, perhaps probable, but 
which every naturalist knows has 
not scientifically been made out, 
that there is a gradual ascsnl HiV&iiCN^ 



The Reign of LavA 



break from ihe lowest forms of orga- 
nic life to the highest, it would by no 
means follow that the higher form 
but develops and completes the 
lower. Science has not proved it, 
and cannot from any facts in its pos- 
session even begin to prove it. The 
law ofgradation is very distinguishable 
from the law of production, and it is 
a grave blunder in logic to confound 
them ; yet it seems to us that this is 
what the noble author does, only 
substituting the term natural creation 
for that of natural development. He 
seems to us to mean by the univer- 
sal reign of law, which he seeks to 
establish, that through all nature 
the divine will educes the higher 
from the lower, or at least makes the 
lower the stepping-stone of the high- 
er ; yet all that science can assert is 
that the lower in some form sub- 
serves ihe higher, but not that it is 
\\^fons, or principle, or the germ from 
•which it is developed. 

On the side of God, who is its 
principle, medium, and end, creation 
is complete, consummated, both as a 
whole and in all its parts ; but as 
extern! zed, it is incomplete, imper- 
fect, in part potential, not actual, 
and is completed by development in 
time. Looked at from our side or 
the point of view of the creature, we 
may say it was created in germ, or 
with unrealized possibilities. Hence 
development, not from one species 
to another, but of each .species in its 
own order, and of each individual 
according lo its species ; hence pro- 
gress, about which we hear so much, 
in realizing the uniealized possibili- 
ties of nature, or in reducing what is 
potential in the created order to act, 
is not only possible, but necessary 
to the complete extemization of the 
creative act. This development or 
this progress is effected by provi- 
dence acting through natural laws or 
natural forces, that is, second or creat- 



ed causes, and also, as the 
holds, by g^acc, which is &u{ 
ral, and which, without desi 
superseding, or changing na: 
sists it to attain an end above x 
yond the reach of nature, as 
shown in the article on Na 
Grace. 

We, as well as the author, 
the universal reign of law, but wt 
not accept his defin*tJon of Ian, 
"will enforcing itself with po 
whether wc speak of humao bv ori 
divine law, for that is precisely 
definition we give to will or poi 
acting without law, or from mere if*' 
bitrariness. The ' 
a citizen of a cons I 
professes to lie a liix?ral 5. 

he should not then adopts 

of law which makes might the f 
sure of right, or denies to right 
principle, type, or foundation in 
divine nature. We have 
suggested the true definition « 
— will directed by reason; and 
will is always law, because in 
eternal will and his eternal reasM 
are inseparable, and in ' " 

distinguishable. His > 
always law, because it is \\\< »iil o( 
God, our creator ; but if it wtr« 
possible to conceive him willing witb« 
out his eternal reason, his will wouki 
not and could not bind, though it 
might compel. The law is not la 
will alone, or in reason alone, but 
really in the synthetic action of both. 
Hence St. Augustine tells Us that on* 
just laws are violences rather ihaa 
laws, and all jurists, as distinguished 
from mere legists, tell us that aO 
legislative acts that dir " 
vene the law. of Goti, 
natural justice, do not "•- 

null and void from the i ., ^ 

Law in the other senses the authn* 
notes, and has written his work, io 
part at least, to elucidate and ^ 
fend, in so far as the natural or to* 




The Reign of Lam. 



605 



sciences, without theology 
>sophy, that is, so called me- 
:s, can go, is not law at all, 
nere fact, or classification of 
id simply marks the order of 
:nce or of succession of the 
facts and phenomena of the 
world. The so-called law of 
ion states to the physicist 
an order or series of facts, 
: cause *or force producing 
s Hume, Kant, the Positi- 
Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, 
uallyeven Sir William Hamil- 
d his disciple Mr. Mansel, 
:lude the ontological element 
:ience, have amply proved, 
a of cause, of force, is not an 
al idea, but is given i pri- 

; are several other points in 
k before us on which we in- 
to comment, but we are oblig- 
ur diminishing space to pass 
^er. The author says many 
d important things, and says 
;11 too ; but we think in his ef- 
econcile theology and science 
, in consequence of being not 
versed in theology as he is in 
nces. He does not take note 
iact that the sciences are spe- 
d deal only with facts of a se- 
r order, and are, therefore, in* 
:e without the science of the 
use, or theology. He does 
p sufficiently before his mind 
inction between God, as first 
md nature, as second cause ; 
ice when he asserts the divine 
le inclines to pantheism, and 
e asserts the action of nature 
ines to naturalism. Yet his 
> been good, and we feel as- 
lat he has wished to serve the 
if religion as well as that of 

ourselves, we hold, and have 
are proved, that theology is the 
of the sciences, scimtia sciat- 



ftarum, but we have a profound re- 
gard for the men of real science, and 
should be sorry to be found warring 
against them. There b nothing es- 
tablished by any of the sciences that 
conflicts with our theology, which is 
that of the Church of Christ ; and we 
have remarked that the quarrels be- 
tween the Savons and the theologians 
are, for the most part, not quarrels 
between science and theology, but 
between different schools of science. 
The professors of natural science, 
who had long taught the geocentric 
theory, and associated it with their 
faith, when Galileo brought forward 
the heliocentric theory, opposed it, 
and found it easier to denounce him 
as a heretic than to refute him scien- 
tifically. A quarrel arose, and the 
church was appealed to, and, for the 
sake of peace, she imposed silence 
on Galileo, which she might well do, 
since his theory was not received in 
the schools, and was not then scien- 
tifically established ; and when he 
broke silence against orders, she 
slightly punished him. But the dis- 
pute really turned on a purely scien- 
tific question, and faith was by no 
means necessarily implicated, for 
faith can adjust itself to either the- 
ory. Men of science oppose the su- 
pernatural not because they have any 
scientific facts that militate against 
it, but because it appears to militate 
against the theory of the fixedness of 
natural laws, or of the order of nature. 
The quarrel is really between a he- 
terodox theology, or erroneous mter- 
pretation of the supernatural on the 
one side, and the misinterpretation of 
the natural order on the other, that is, 
between two opinions. A reference to 
orthodox theology would soon settle 
the dispute, by showing that neither 
militates against the other, when both 
are rightly understood. There is no 
conflict between theology, as taught 
by the church, and an^tioitv^Wv^V. v£v 



6o6 



Beati Mitts, quoniam ipH possidebunt Temtm, 



ence has really established with re- 
gard to the order of nature. 

We cannot accept all the theories 
of the noble duke, but we can accept 
all the scientific facts he adduces, 
and find ourselves instructed and 
edified by them. It is time the quar- 
rel between theologians and savans 
should end. It is of recent origin. 
Till the revival of letters in the fif- 
teenth century, there was no such 
quarrel — not that men did not begin 
to think till then, or were ignorant 
till then of the true method of study- 
ing nature — and there need be none, 
and would be none now, if the theo- 
logians never added or substituted 
for the teaching of revelation unau- 



thorized speculations of their 
and if the savans would nev< 
forward, as science, what is n< 
ence. The blame, we are will 
admit, has not been all on one 
Theologians in their zeal have 
out against scientific theories I 
ascertaining whether they rea 
or do not conflict with faith 
savans have too often concluded 
scientific discoveries conflict 
faith, and therefore said, Let fai 
before ascertaining whether th 
so or not There should, for the 
of truth, be a better mutual u 
standing, for both may work tog 
in harmony. 



"BEATI MITES, QUONIAM IPSI POSSIDEBUNT TERRAl 

Thy song is not the song of mom, 
O Thrush ! but calmer and more strong, 

While sunset woods around thee burn, 
And fire-touched stems resound thy song. 

songstress of the thorn, whereon 

As yet the white but streaks the green. 
Sing on ! sing on I Thou sing'st as one / 

That sings of what his eyes have seen. 

In thee some Seraph's rapture tells 
Of things thou know'st not 1 Heaven draws near: 

1 hear the Immortal City's bells : 
The triumph of the blest I hear. 

• The whole wide earth, to God heart-bare, 
Basks like some happy Umbrian vale 
By Francis trodden and by Clare, 
When anthems sweetened every gale. 

When greatness thirsted to be good. 
When faith was meek, and love was brave, 

When hope by every cradle stood. 

And rainbows spanned each new-wade grave. 

Aubrey ds Va 



Tke Stoty of a Conscript. 



€tOJ 



TKANSLATSD FROM THK FRKNCU. 



THE STORY OF A CONSCRIPT. 



XII. 

LS Sergeant Pinto said, all we 

seen was but the prelude to 

; the dance was now about 

lence. 

lergeant had formed a parti- 

endship for me, and on the 

th, on relieving guard at the 

I gate, he said : 

lier Bertha, the emperor has 
> 

yet heard nothing of this, 
ied respectfully : 
ve just seen the sapper Mer- 
eant, who was on duty last 

the general's quarters, and 
lothing of it." 

he, closing his eye, said 
eculiar expression : 
rything is moving ; I feel his 
; in the air. You do not yet 
ind this, conscript, but he is 
verything says so. Before 
;, we were lame, crippled ; 
ng of the army seemed able 
at once. But now, look there, 
e couriers galloping over the 
.11 is life. The dance is be- 
; the dance is beginning! 
ks and the Cossacks do not 
ictacles to see that he is with 
Y will feel him presently." 
the sergeant's laugh rang 

from beneath his long mus- 
and he was right, for that 
f, about three in the after- 
1 the troops stationed around 
were in motion, and at five 
put under arms. The Mar- 
ice of Moskowa entered the 
rrounded by the oflScers and 



generals who composed his stafi^ and, 
almost immediately after, the grey- 
haired Sunham followed and passed 
us in review upon the Piace. Then 
he spoke in a loud, clear voice so 
that every one could hear. 

" Soldiers !" said he, " you will 
form part of the advance-guard of 
the third corps. Try to remember 
that you are Frenchmen. Vive FEm- 
pereur /" 

All shouted " Vive FEtnpereuf'^ till 
the echoes rang again, while the gen- 
eral departed with Colonel Zapfel. 

That night we were relieved by 
the Hessians, and left Erfurt with 
the Tenth hussars and a regiment 
of chasseurs. At six»or seven in the 
morning we were before the city of 
Weimar, and saw the sun rising on 
its gardens, its churches, and its 
houses, as well as on an old castle to 
the right. Here we bivouacked, and 
the hussars went forward to recon- 
noitre the town. About nine, while 
we were breakfasting, suddenly we 
heard the rattle of pistols and car- 
bines. Our hussars had encountered 
the Russian hussars in the streets, 
and they were firing on each other. 
But it was so far off that we saw 
nothing of the combat 

At the end of an hour the hussars 
returned, having lost two men. Thus 
began the campaign. 

We remained five days in our 
camp, while the whole third corps 
were coming up. As we were the 
advance-guard, we started ag^n by 
wayof SiUzaandWarthan. Then we 
saw the enemy ; Cossacks who kept 
ever beyond the rang^ oC ooit ^sxca^ 



6o8 



Tlie Story of a • Conscript. 



and the further they retired the 
greater grew our courage. 

But it annoyed me to hear 7j&a€^i. 
constantly exclaiming in a tone of 
ill-humor : 

" Will they never stop ; never 
make a stand !" 

I thought that if they kept retreat- 
ing we could ask nothing better. We 
>vould gain all we wanted without 
loss of life or suffering. 

But at last they halted on the fur- 
ther side of a broad and deep river, 
and I saw a great number posted 
near the bank to cut us to pieces if 
we should cross unsupported. 

It was the twentj'-ninth of April, 
and growing late. Never did I see 
a more glorious sunset. On the op- 
posite side of the river stretched a 
wide plain as far as the eye could 
reach, and on this, sharply outlined 
'■gainst the glowing sky, stood horse- 
men, with their shakos drooping for- 
ward, their green jackets, little car- 
tridge-boxes slung under the arm, and 
their sky-blue trousers ; behind them 
glittered thousands of lances, and 
Sergeant Pinto recognized them as 
the Prussian cavalry and Cossacks. 
He knew the river, too, which, he said 
was the Saale. 

We wetit as near as we could to 
the water to exchange shots with the 
horsemen, but they retired and at 
last disappeared entirely under the 
i blood-red sky. We made our bivou- 
ac along the river, and posted our 
sentries. On our left was a large 
village ; a detachment was sent to it 
to purchase meat; for since the arri- 
val of the emperor we had orders to 
pay for everything. 

During the night other regiments 
of the division came up ; they, too, 
bivouacked along the bank, and tJieir 
long lines of fires, reflected in the 
ever-moving waters, glared grandly 
through the darkness. 

No one felt inclined to sleep. Z^s 



b^dd, Klipfel, Furst, and I 
together, and we chatted as we 
around our fire. 

"To-morrow we will have it Im 
enough, if we attempt to cross tbe 
river ! Our friends in Phalstxns^ 
over their warm supjjers, scatcdlf 
think of us lying here, with 
but a piece of cow-beef to cat, 4 1 
ver flowing beside us, the damp < 
beneath, and only the sky for a i 
without speaking of the saf>r 
and bayonet-thrusts our frieods JK* , 
der have in store for us." 

" Bah 1" said KUpfel j " this is 
I would not pass my daj-s othenrii 
To enjoy life we must be well tod^ 
sick to-morrow ; then we apprtrci; 
the pleasure of the cl»ange from 
to ease. As for shots and 
strokes, with God's aid, we will g|«t 
as good as we take 1" 

"Yes," said Z<fb^d(<, lighting les 
pipe, " when I lose my place in tk 
ranks,, it will not be for the W4tit ^ 
striking hard at the Rus.sians!" 

So we lay wakeful for two or time 
hours. Leger lay stretched out in Ui 
great coat, his feet to the fire, aslcfp^ 
when the sentinel cried : 

"Who goes there?" 

" France I" 

" What regiment ?*' 

" Sixth of the Line." 

It was Marshal Ney and Geo 
Brenier, with engineer and artSlc 
officers, and guns. The marshal J 
plied " Sixth of tlie Line," beouuc k 
knew beforehand that we were thcrft 
and this little fact rejoiced us 
made us feel verj' proud. W^ 
him pass on horseback with 
Sunham and five or six other ( 
of high grade, and although 
night we could see i[ 
for the sky was covl 
and the moon shone bright; itW 
almost as light as day. 

They stopped at a beod ti tbc 
river and posted six guns, and ib' 



Tlie Story of a Conscript. 



609 






ar 
fui 



ediately after a pontoon train ar- 
ived with oak. planks and all things 
'necessary for throwing tAvo bridges 
across. Our hussars scoured the 
banks collecting boats, and the artil- 
lerymen stood at their pieces to 
weep down any who might try to 
der the work. For a long while 
watched their labor, while again 
d again we heard the sentry's 
Qui vivei" It was the regiments 
f the third corps arriving. 
At daybreak I fell asleep, and 
ipfel had to shake me to arouse 
e. On every side they were beat- 
ing the reveille ; the bridges were 
nished, and we were going to cross 
Saale. 
A heavy dew had fallen, and each 
man hastened to wipe his musket, to 
roll ijp his great-coat and buckle it 
on his knapsack. One assisted the 
other, and we were soon m the ranks. 
It might have been fuur o'clock in 
the morning, and everything seemed 
grey in the mist that arose from the 
river. Already two battalions were 
crossing on llie bridges, the officers 
and colors in the centre. Then the 
artillery and caissons crossed. 

Captain Florentin had just ordered 

us to renew our primings, when Ge- 

eral Sunham, General Cbcmineau, 

olonel Zapfel, and our commandant 

arrived. The battalion began its 

arch. I looked forward expecting 

see the Russians coming on at a 

gallop, but nothing stirred. 

As each regiment reached the 
further bank it formed square wilh 
rdered arms. At five o'clock the 
itire division had passed. The sun 
ispersed the mist, and we saw, about 
three fourths of a league to our right, 
an old city with its pointed roofs, 
slated clock-tower, surmounted by a 
cross, and, further away, a castle j it 
was VVeissenfels. 

Between the city and us was a deep 
valley. Marshal Ney, who had just 
VOL. VI.— 39 



come up, wished to reconnoitre this 
before advancing into it. Two com- 
panies of the Twentj'-seventh were 
deployed as skirmishers and the 
squares moved onward in common 
time, with the officers, sappers, and 
drums in the centre, the cannon in 
the intervals and the caissons in the 
rear. 

We all mistrusted this valley — the 
more so since we had seen, the eve- 
ning before, a mass of cavalr)', which 
could not have retired beyond the 
great plain that lay before us. Not- 
withstanding our distrust, it made us 
feel very proud and brave to see our- 
selves drawn up in our long ranks — 
our muskets loaded, the colors ad- 
vanced, the generals in the rear full 
of confidence — to see our masses 
thus moving onward without hurry, 
but calmly marking the step ; yes, it 
was enough to make our hearts beat 
high with pride and hope ! And I 
thought that the enemy might still 
retire and no blood be spilt, after all. 

I was in the second rank, behind 
Zdbdde', and from time to time I 
glanced at the other square which 
was moving on the same line with 
us, in the centre of which I saw the 
marshal and Ins staff, all trying to 
catch a glimpse of what was going 
on ahead. 

The skirmishers had by this time 
reached the ravine, which was bor- 
dered with brambles and hedges. I 
had already seen a movement on its 
further side, like the motion of a 
corn-field in the wind, and the 
thought struck me that the Russians, 
with their lances and sabres, were 
there, although I could scarcely be- 
lieve it. But when our skirmishers 
reached the hedges, the fusilade be- 
gan, and I saw clearly the glitter of 
their lances. At the same instant a 
flash like lightning gleamed in front 
of us, followed by a fierce report. ' 
The Prussians had their caxrtvowN«\\3Q. 



i 




6io 



The Story of a Conscript. 



them ; they bad ofiened on us. I 
know not what noise made me turn 
my head, and there 1 saw an empty 
space in the ranks to my left. 

At the same time Colonel Zapfel 
said quietly: 

" Close up the ranks !" 

And Captain Florentin repeated : 

"Close up the ranks 1" 

All this was done so quickly that I 
had no lime for thought. But fifty 
paces further on another flash shone 
out ; there was another murmur in 
the ranks — as if a fierce wind was 
passing — and another vacant space, 
this time to the right. 

And thus, after every shot from 
the Prussians, the colonel said, " Close 
up the ranks V and I knew that each 
time he spoke there was a breach in 
the living wall ! It was no pleasant 
thing to think of, but still we march- 
ed on toward the valley. At last I 
did not dure to tliink at all, when 
General Chemineau, who had en- 
tered our square, cried in a terrible 
voice : 

« Halt !" 

I looked forward, and saw a mass 
of Prussians coming down upon us. 

•' Front rank, kneel ? Fix bayo- 
nets I Ready I" cried the general. 

As Zdb^di' knelt, I was now, so to 
speak, in the front rank. On came 
Uk line of horses, each rider bend- 
ing over his saddle-bow, with sabre 
flashing in his hand. Then again 
the general's voice was heard behind 
us, calm, tranquil, giving orders as 
coolly as on parade : 

" Attention for the command of 
fire I Aim 1 Fire 1" 

The four squares fired together ; 
it seemed as if the skies were falling 
in the crash. When the smoke lift- 
ed, we saw the Prussians broken and 
flying ; but our artillery opened, and 
the cannon-balls sped faster llian 
they. 
" Charge I" shouted' the general. 





Never in my life did such a ir!M 
joy possess me. On ever 
cry of Vive CEmpicrtur / - 
air, and in my excitement I shouted 
like the others. But we could eat 
pursue them far, and soon wc im« 
again moving calmly on. V' ' ': 
the fight was ended ; but i. 
in two or tliree hundred pacta ofik. 
ravine, we heard the rush of hOTSC\ 
and again the general cried : 

"Halt! Kneel! Charge !««► 
nets I" 

On came the Prussians fxom lie 
valley like a whirlwind; the eaf^ 
shook beneath their weight \ ire 
heard no more orders, but each nun 
knew that he must fire into the luo, 
and the file-firing began, rattling like 
the drums in a grand renew. Tl 
who have not seen a 1 v 
but little idea of the c- •\\ 

confusion, and yet the order, of 
a moment. A few of the Pr 
neared us ; we saw their forms 
pear a moment through the stnc 
and then saw them no more, 
few moments more the ringing vc 
of General Chemineau arose, so« 
ing above the crash and nttJc : 

" Cease firing!'' 

We scarcely dared obey. 
one hastened to d ' " -hot, 

then the smoke tit J ct 

saw a mass of cav.ilry ascending tbt 
further side of the ravine. 

The squares deployed at once \t 
columns ; the drums beat the chatgej 
our artillery still continued ia firej 
we rushed on, shouting : 

"Forward! forward I VhtFk 
pcretirr 

We descended the ravine, 
heaps of horses and Russians ; samt] 
dead, some writhing upon the eiilK 
and we ascended the s.|<^pe towat^ 
Weissenfels at a fp. The 

Cossacks and cha.-^ - i a {bmni 

in their saddles, tJieir cartridge-boxe* 
dangling behind them, gallof 



»W 




The Story of a Conscr^ 



6i» 



in full, flight. The battle was 

s we reached the gardens of 
•, they posted their cannon, 
they had brought off with 
ehind a sort of orchard, and 
d upon us, a ball carrying 
3th the axe and head of the 
Merlin. The corporal of 
, Thornd, had his arm frac- 
yr a piece of the axe, and they 
mpelled to amputate his arm 
ssenfels. Then we started 
them on a run, for the sooner 
:hed them the less time they 
lave for firing. 

intered the city at three places, 
ig through hedges, gardens, 
ds, and climbing over walls, 
irshals and generals followed 
Our regiment entered by an 
bordered with poplars, which 
ng the cemetery, and, as we 
led in the public square, an- 
)lumn came through the main 

e we halted, and the mar- 
ithout losing a moment, dis- 
1 the Twenty-seventh to take 
t and cut off the enemy's re- 
During this time the rest of 
ision arrived, and was drawn 
le square. The burgomaster 
mcillors of Weissenfels were 
on the steps of the town-hall 
is welcome. 

I we were re-formed, the 
1-Prince of Moskowa passed 
he front of our battalion and 
fully : 

U done I I am satisfied with 
The emperor will know of 
nduct !" 

ould not help laughing at the 
ran on the guns. General 
\ cried : 

ngs go bravely on 1" 
iplied : 
;, yes ; but in blood 1 in 



The battalion remdned there until 
the next day. We were lodged with 
the citizens, who were afraid of us 
and gave us all we asked. The 
Twenty-seventh returned in the eve- 
ning and was quartered in the old 
chiteau. We were very tired. After 
smoking two or three pipes together, 
chatting about oiu: glory, Z^b^d, 
Klipfel, and I went together to the 
shop of a joiner on a heap of shav- 
ings, and remained there until mid- 
night, when they beat the reveille. 
We rose ; the joiner gave us some 
brandy, and we went out. The rain 
was falling in torrents. That night 
the battalion went to bivouac before 
the village of Cl^pen, two hours 
march from Weissenfels. 

Other detachments came and re- 
joined us. The emperor had ar- 
rived at Weissenfels, and all the 
third corps were to follow us. We 
talked only of this all the day ; but 
the day aiiter, at five in the morn- 
ing, we set off again in the ad- 
vance. 

Before us rolled a river called the 
Rippach. Instead of turning aside 
to take the bridge, we forded it 
where we were. The water reached 
oiu' waists ; and I thought how terri- 
ble this would have seemed to me 
when I was so much afraid of taking 
cold at Monsieur Goulden's. 

As we passed down the other 
bank of the river in the rushes, we 
discovered a band of Cossacks ob- 
serving us from the heights to the 
left They followed slowly, without 
daring to attack us, and so we kept 
on until it was broad day, when sud- 
denly a terrific fusilade and the 
thunder of heavy guns made us turn 
our heads toward Ci^pen. The 
commandant, on horseback, looked 
at us over the reeds. 

The sounds of conflict lasted a 
considerable time, and Sergeant 
Pinto said: 



6l2 



The Story of a Conscript. 



♦* The division is advancing ; it is 
attacked." 

The Cossacks gazed, too, toward 
the fight, and at the end of an hour 
disappeared. Then we saw the divi- 
sion advancing in column in the plain 
to the right, driving before them the 
masses of Russian cavalry. 

'^ En avant ! Forward!" cried 
the commandant 

We ran, without knowing why, 
along the river bank, until we reach- 
ed an old bridge where the Rippach 
and Gruna met. Here we were to 
intercept the enemy ; but the Cos- 
sacks had discovered our design, 
and their whole army fell back be- 
hind the Gruna, which they forded, 
and, the division rejoining us, we 
learned that Marshal Bessibres had 
been killed by a cannon-ball. 

We left the bridge to bivouac be- 
fore the village of Gorschen. The 
himor that a great battle was ap- 
proaching ran through the ranks, 
and they said that all that had 
passed was only a trial to see how 
the recnnts would act under fire. 
One may imagine the reflections of 
a thoughtful man under such cir- 
cumstances, among such hare-brained 
fellows as Furst, Z^b^dd, and Klip- 
fel, who seemed to rejoice at the 
prospect, as tf it could bring them 
aught else than bullet-wounds or sa- 
bre-cuts. All night long I thought 
of Catharine, and prayed God to pre- 
scr\'e my life and my hands, which 
are so needfiil for poor people to 
gain their bread. 



xtn. 

We lighted our fires on the hill 
before Gross -Gorschen and a de- 
tachment descended to the village 
and brought back five or six old 
cows to make soup of But we were 
O worn out that many would rather 



sleep than eat. Other 
arrived with cannon and mum 
About eleven o'clock there 
from ten to twelve thousand 
there and two thousand and moct 
the village — all Sunham's div 
The general and bis ordnance 
cers were quartered in an old miB 
the left, near a stream called \\» 
Graben. The line of sentries woe 
stretched along the base of tiie H 
a musket-shot ofT 

At length I fell a&leep, bat I 
awoke every hour, and behind a^ 
towards* the road leading from ^ 
old bridge of Poscma to Lutzeo ifll 
Leipzig, I heard the rolling of wa- 
gons, of artillery and caissotit, risil!| 
and falling through the aileooe. 

Sergeant Pinto did not deep; 
sat smoking his pipe and drytx^ 
feet at the fire. Everj* lime on 
us moved, he would try to talk i 
say : 

'"Well, conscript?" 

But they pretended not to hf 
and turned over, gaping, to sleep 

The clock of Gross-Gorscben 
striking six when I awoke. I wassolt 
and wear}- yet. Nevertheless, I sot ip 
and tried to warm mj-self^ for I •»» 
cold. The fires were smoking, and 
most extinguished. Notliing of 
remained but the ashes and a few 
bers. The sergeant, erect, was pfllf" 
over the vast plain where the son 
a few long lines of gold, and, seeaf 
me awake, put a coal in his pipe v/k 
said : 

*' Well, fusilier Bertha, we ai« so* 
in the rear-guard." 

I did not know what he meant. 

" That astonishes you," he coolif^ 
ued ; *' but we have not stirred, •Mt 
the army has made a half-wheel. V» 
terday it was before us in the Rippadi; 
now it is behind us, near Lut/cQ ; aai 
instead of being in tlie (runt, '•c SK 
in the rear ; so that now,** said b^ 
closing an eye and drawing two 



Tk€ Story of a Conscript. 



613 



of his pipe, " we are the last, in- 
of the foremost." 
nd what do we gain by it ?'' I 

^e gain the honor of first reach- 
icipzig, and falling on the Prus- 
1" he replied. '* You will under- 

this by and by, conscript." 
tood up, and looked around. I 
)efore us a wide, marshy plain, 
Fsed by the Gruna-I3ach and the 
rGraben. Afew hills arose along 
streams, and beyond ran a large 
which the sergeant told me was 
Ister. The morning mist hung 
dh We saw no fires on the hills 
hose of our division ; but the en- 
lird corps occupied the villages 
(red in our rear, and headquar- 
fere at Kaya. 

Kven o'clock tlie drums and the 
ets of the artillerj' sounded the 
le. Ammunition-wagons came 
ad bread and cartridges were 
Wted. Two cantinit-res ar- 

from the village ; and, as I 
let a few crowns remaining, I 
d Klipfcl and Zc-budi; a glass 
landy each, to counteract the 
I of the fogs of the night. I 
)resumed to offer one to Ser- 

Pinto, who accepted it, saying 
fread and brandy warmed the 

I 

I felt quite happy, and no one 
cted the horrors the day was to 
forth. We thought the Rus- 
and the Prussians were seek- 
I behind the Gruna-Bach j but 
tnew well where we were. And 
hly, almost ten o'clock. General 
im, mounted, arrived with his of- 
I I was sentry near the stacks 
ns, and I think I can now see 
•s he rode to the top of the 
irith his grey hair and white- 
red hat ; and as he took out 
lid-glass, and, after an earnest 
returned quickly, and ordered 
rums to beat the recall. The 



sentries at once fell into the ranks, 
and Zeb6dc, who had the eyes of a 
falcon, said : 

" I see yonder, near the Elster, 
masses of men forming and advanc- 
ing in good order, and others com- 
ing from the marshes by the three 
bridges. We are lost if all those 
fall upon our rear !" 

" A battle is beginning," said Ser- 
geant Pinto, shading his eyes with 
his hands, "or I know nothing of 
war. Those beggarly Prussians and 
Russians want to take us on the 
flank with their whole force, as we 
defile on Leipzig, so as to cut us in 
two. It is well thought of on their 
part. We are always teaching lliem 
the art of war." 

"But what will we do?" asked 
Klipfel. 

"Our part is simple," answered 
the sergeant. " We are here twelve 
to fifteen thousand men, with old 
Sunham, who never gave an enemy 
an inch. We will stand here like a 
wall, one to si.x or seven, until the 
emperor is informed how matters 
stand, and sends us aid. There go 
the staff officers now." 

It was true ; five or .six officers 
were galloping over the plain of Lut- 
zen toward Leipzig. They sped like 
the wind, and I prayed God to have 
them reach the emperor in time to 
send the whole army to our assist- 
ance ; for there is something horri- 
ble in the certainty that we are 
about to perish, and I would not 
wish my greatest enemy in such a 
position as ours was then. 

Sergeant Pinto continued : 

" You will have a chance now, 
conscripts ; and if any of you come 
out alive, they will have something 
to boast of Look at those blue 
lines advancing, with their muskets 
on their shoulders, along Floss-Gra- 
ben. Each of those lines is a regi- 
ment There are iKlttY o^ >3tkftxa. 



6i4 



The Story of a Conscript. 



That makes sixty thousand Prus- 
sians, without co^lnting those lines 
of horsemen, each of which is a 
squadron. Those advancing to their 
left, near the Rippach, glittering in 
the sun, are the dragoons and cuiras- 
Isiers of the Russian Imperial Guard. 
'J'here are eighteen or twenty thou- 
sand of them, and I first saw them 
at Austerlitz, where we fixed them 
finely. Those masses of lances in 
the rear are Cossacks. We will 
have a hundred thousand men on 
ir hands in an hour. This is a 
:ht to win the cross in I" 

Do you think so, sergeant?" said 
ZtbM6, whose ideas were never 
very clear, and who already imag- 
ined he held the cross in his fingers, 
while his eyes glittered with excite- 
tnent, 

" It will be hand to hand," replied 
the sergeant ; " and suppose that, in 
the m^lee^ you sec a colonel or a 
flag near you, spring on him or it ; 
lever mind sabres or bayonets ; seize 
lem, and then your name goes on 
the list" 

As he spoke, I remembered that 
the Mayor of Phalsbourg had re- 
ceived the cross for ha\'ing gone to 
meet tlie Empress Marie Louise in 
carriages garlanded with flowers, and 
1 thought his method much prefer- 
able to that of Sergeant Pinto. 

But I had not time to think more, 
for the drums beat on all sides, and 
each one ran to where the arms of 
his company were stacked and seized 
his musket. Our officers formed us, 
great guns came at a gallop from the 
village, and were posted on the brow 
of the hill a little to the rear, so that 
the slope served ihem as a species 
of redoubt. Further away, in the 
villages of Rahna, of Kaya, and of 
Klein-Gorschen, all was motion, but 
we were the first ihe Prussians would 
fill upon. 

The enemy halted about twice a 



cannon-shot offi and the cinfcr 
swarmed by hundreds up the IT'' 
reconnoitre us. 1 was in otter * 
spair as I gazed on their imicoM 
masses, and thought that all «■ 
ended ; nothing remained for B>ck> 
to sell my life as dearly as I codd, 
to fight pitilessly, and die. 

While these thoughts were psaiff 
through my head, General Cli«» 
neau galloped along our froot,cr}ilf: 

" Form squares." 

The oflricers in the rear look if 
the word and it passed from r%;kt to 
left ; four squares of four baU^otl 
each were formed. I found wftA 
in the third, on one of the iotaiv 
sides, a circumstance which in vm 
degree reassured me ; for I iIkm^ 
that the Prussians, who were adrjnr 
ing in three columns, would first tf- 
tack those directly opposite tk(& 
But scarcely had the thought aCnxi 
me when a hail of c.innon-sJ)ots«f|l( 
through us. They had thirty pieoo 
of artillery playing on us, and d* 
balls shrieked sometimes over O* 
heads, sometimes through the vtia, 
and then again struck the eutK 
which they scattered over us^ 

Our heavy guns replied lo lief 
fire, but could not silence it, and lk 
horrible cry of " Close up the nabl 
Close up the ranks I" w.us cvt-r sanity 
ing in our ears. 

We were enveloped li. ^^ll..^ 
out having fired a shot, and 1 1 
that in another quarter df an iMOf 
should have been all massacred vldk- 
out having a chance to delend 4^ 
selves, when the head of the PnoMM 
columns appeared between the kiOa 
moving forward, with a deepy boaoe 
murmur, like the noise oTaa n 
tion. Then the tlinec 
our square, the secon'i 
liquing to the ri^t . 
God only knows how m 
fell. But instead td stoppcqg iter 
rushed on, ahouting ** V^ 




J ta. 



-"A 



The Story of a Conscript. 



615 



ftrland r and we fired again into 
very bosoms. 

en begAn the work of death in 

t Bayonet-thrust, sabre-stroke, 

from the butt-end of our pieces 

ed on all sides. They tried to 

5h us by mere weight of numbers, 

1 came on like furious bulls. A 

talion rushed upon us, thrusting 

\ their bayonets ; we returned 

Ir blows without leaving the ranks, 

■they were swept away almost to 

pn by two cannon which were in 

ition toward our rear. 

'hey were the last who tried to 

jk our squares. They turned and 

rdown the hillside, we firing as 

fran, when their cavalry dashed 

B upon our right, seeking to pene- 

\ by ihe gaps made by their arlil- 

\ I could not see the fight, for it 

it the other end of the division, 

freir heavy guns swept us off by 

ins as we stood inactive. Gene- 

Jhemineau had his thigh broken ; 

Jould not hold out much longer 

I the order was given to beat the 

At. 

fe retired to Gross-Gorschen, pur- 
' by the Prussians, both sides 
Itaining a constant fire. The 
'thousand men in the village 
Iced the enemy while we ascended 
opposite slope to gain Klein- 
then. But the Prussian cavalry 
on once more to cut off oar re- 
and keep us under the fire of 
artillery. Then my blood boil- 
ih anger, and I heard Z^b^d^ 
' Let us fight our way to the top 
r than remain here I" 
i do tliis was fearfully dangerous, 
heir regiments of hussars and 
leurs advanced in good order to 
e. Still we kept retreating, 
a voice on the top of the ridge 
"Halt I" and at the same mo- 
thc hussars, who were already 
Dg down upon us, received a ter- 
jUscharge of case and grape-shot 



which swept them down by hundreds. 
It was Girard's division who had come 
to our assistance from Klein-Gor- 
schen and had placed sixteen pieces 
in position to open upon them. The 
hussars fled faster than tliey came, 
and the six squares of Girard's divi- 
sion united with ours at Klein-Gor- 
schen, to check the Prussian infantry, 
which still continued to advance, the 
three first columns in front and three 
otliers, equally strong, supporting 
them. 

We had lost Gross-Gorschen, but 
the battle was not yet ended. 

I thougiit now of nothing but ven- 
geance. I was wild with excitement 
and wrath against those who sought 
to kill me. I felt a sort of hatred 
against those Prussiarvs whose shouts 
and insolent manner disgusted me, 
I was, nevertheless, very glad to see 
Zt'bede near me yet, and as we stood 
awaiting new attacks, with our arms 
resting on the ground, 1 pressed his 
hand. 

*'\Ve have escaped narrowly 
enough," said he. " God grant the 
emperor may soon arrive, for they 
are twenty times our strength." 

He no longer spoke of winning the 
cross. 

I looked around to see if the ser- 
geant was with us yet, and saw him 
calmly wiping his bayonet ; not a fea- 
ture showed any trace of excitement. 
I would have wished to know if Klip- 
fel and Furst were unhurt, but the 
command, "Carry arms!" made mc 
think of myself. 

The three first columns of the ene- 
my had halted on the hill of Gross- 
Gorschen to await their supports. 
The village in the valley between us 
was on fire, the flames bursting from 
the thatched roofs and the smoke 
rising to the sky, and to the left we 
saw a long line of cannon coming 
down to open upon us. 

It might have been xcvidi^vj ^'Vvt'w 




The Story of a Conscript. 



617 



tabre in hand, and by him the 
so torn by shot that they were 
lags hanging on the staff, 
>nd, a column of the enemy 
iebouching from the road and 
ing on Klein-Gorschen. This 
|l evidently designed cutting off 
treat on the village, but hun- 
of disbanded soldiers like us 
rrived, and were pouring in 
lU sides ; some turning ever 
Ion to fire, others wounded, try- 
crawl to some place of shelter, 
look possession of the houses, 
i the column approached, mus- 
ftttled upon them from all the 
ITS. This checked the enemy, 
the same moment the divisions 
hier and Marchaud, which the 
I of Moskowa had dispatched 
assistance, began to deploy to 
ht 

I' Prussians halted, and the fir- 
(ascd on both sides. Our 
% and columns began to climb 
Qs again, opposite Starsiedel, 
S defenders of the village rushed 
he houses to rejoin their regi- 
Ours had become mingled with 
tluee others; and, when the 
fcing divisions halted before 
|we could scarcely find our pla- 
rhc roll was called, and of our 
py but forty-two men remain- 
irst and Leger were dead, but 
L Klipfel, and I were un- 

ithe battle was not yet over, 
Prussians, flushed with victory, 
already making their disposi- 
io attack us at Kaya ; reen- 
lents were hurrying to them, 
seemed tJiat, for so great a ge- 
Ihe emperor had made a gross 
|b in stretching his lines to 
f, and leaving us to be over- 
)A. by an army of over a hun- 
housand men. 

|re were reforming behind Bre- 
ivision, eighteen thousand ve- 



terans of the Prussian guard charged 
up the hill, carrying the shakos of 
our killed on their bayonets in siga-, 
of victory. Once more the fight be* 
gan, and the mass of Russian caval- 
r)', which we had seen glittering in 
the sun in the morning, came down 
on our flank ; the si.xth corps had 
arrived in time to cover it, and stood 
tlie shock like a castle wall. Once 
more shouts, groans, the clashing of 
sabre against bayonet, the crash ot 
musketry and thunder of cannon 
shook the sky, while the plain was 
hidden in a cloud of smoke, through 
which we could see the glitter of hel-' 
mets, cuirasses, and thousands of 
lances. 

We were retiring, when somethingfl 
passed along our front like a flash ot 
lightning. It was Marshal Ncy sur- 
rounded by his staff, and his eyes 
sparkled and his lips trembled with 
rage. In a second's time he had 
dashed along tlie lines, and drew up 
in front of our columns. The re* 
treat stopped at once j he called us 
on, and, as if led by a kind of fascina- 
tion, we dashed on to meet the Prus- 
sians, cheering like madmen as we 
went. But the Prussian line stood 
firm ; they fought hard to keep the 
victory they had won, and besides 
were constantly receiving reenforce- 
ments, while we were worn out with 
five hours' fighting. 

Our battalion was now in the se- 
cond line, and the enemy's shot pass- 
ed over our heads ; but a horrible 
din made my flesh creep ; it was the 
rattling of the grape-shot among the 
bayonets. 

In the midst of shouts, orders, and 
the whistling of bullets, we again be- 
gan to fall back over heaps of dead; 
our first divisions reentered Klein- 
Gorschen, and once more the fight 
was hand to hand. In the main street 
of the village notliing was seen or 
heard but shots and \iVo>K%, mA ig^ 



6t8 



Tkr Story of a Conscript. 



iJierals fought sword in hand like 

jrivate soldiers. 
Tliis lasted some minutes ; we 
[checked iheni again, but again they 

rerc reenforced, and we were obliged 

continue our retreat, which was 

fast becoming a rout If the enemy 

irced us to Kaya, our army was 
cut in two. The battle seemed irre- 
trievably lost, for Marshal Ney him- 
self, in the centre of a square, was re- 
treating ; and many soldiers, to get 
away from the milie^ were carrying 
off wounded officers on their mus- 
kets. Everything looked gloomy, 
indeed. 

I entered Kaya on the right of the 
village, leaping over the hedges, and 
creeping under the fences whidi se- 
parated the gardens, and was turn- 
ing the corner of a street, when I 
saw some fifty officers on the brow 
of a hill before me, and behind them 
masses of artillery galloping at 
full speed along the Leipzig road. 
Then I saw the emperor himself, a 
little in advance of the others ; he 
was seated, as if in an arm-chair, on 
bis white horse, and I could see him 
well, beneath the clear sky, motion- 
less and looking at the battle through 
his field-glass. 

My heart beat gladly; I cried 
" Vive rEmperfurP' with all my 
Strength, and rtished along the main 
street of Kaya. I was one of the 
first to enter, and I saw the inhabi- 
tants of the village, men, women, 
and children, hastening to the cel- 
lars for protection. 

Many to whom I have related the 
foregoing have sneered at me for 
running so fast ; but I can only re- 
ply tliat when Michel Ney retired, 
it was high time for Joseph Bertha 
to do so too. 

Klipfel, Z^bddd, Sergeant Pinto, 
and the others of the company had 
not yet arrived, when masses of black 
smoke arose above \he roofs ; shat- 



tered tiles fell into the stretti 
and shot buried thcnosclves in Ik 
walls, or crashed through the htim 
with a horrible noise. 

At the same time, our soUkn 
rushed in through the l.tnes, ovcrt^ 
hedges and fences, turning from xaat. 
to time to fire on the enemy. M« 
of all arms were mingled, some wil^ 
out shakos or knapsacks, tlteir dotha 
torn and covered witli blood \ bat 
they retreated furiously, and «i« 
nearly all mere cliildrcn, boys of tf 
teen or twenty ; but courage is in- 
born in the French people. 

The Prussians — led by old o&et» 
who shouted " Fonvdris f /vrwirUf 
— followed like packs of wolves, but 
we turned and opened fire fma the 
hedges, and fences, and howe*. 
How many of them bit the duct I 
know not, but oUicrs n i 
the places of those w, a 

dreds of balls whistled by our cm 
and flattened themselves on the stooe 
walls ; the plaster was broken bvm 
the walls, and the thatch hung tnm 
the rafters, and as I turned for the 
twentieth time to fire, my mwfal 
dropped from my hand ; I tXQOftd 
to lift it, but I fell too ; I had recdr 
ed a shot in the left shoulder uA 
the blood ran like warm water do»n 
my breast. I tried to rise, but ^1 
that I could do was to scat mj-self 
against the wall while the blood coo* 
tinned to flow, and 1 shuddered A 
the thought that I was to die there 

Still the fight went on. 

Fearful that another bullet m^ 
reach me, I crawled to the comer of 
a house, and fell into a little trench 
which brought water from the sOtCt 
to the garden. My left arm ■» 
heavy as lead ; my head swan ; I 
still heard the firing, but it seaacd a 
dream, and I closed my eyes. 

When I again - "' 

was coming on, .. 
filled the village: in the gankas 



The Story cf a Conscript 



619 



before me, was an old general, with 
white hair, on a tall brown horse. 
He shouted in a trumpet-like voice 
to bring on the cannon, and officers 
hurried away with his orders. Near 
him, standing on a little wall, two 
surgeons were bandaging his arm. 
Behind, on the other side, was a little 
Russian officer, whose plume of 
green feathers almost covered his 
hat I saw all this at a glance — ^the 
old man with his large nose and 
broad forehead, his quick glancing 
eyes, and bold air ; the others around 
him y the surgeon, a little bald man 
with spectacles, and five or six hun- 
dred paces away, between two hous- 
es, our soldiers reforming. 

The firing had ceased, but between 
Klein-Gorschen and Kaya I could 
hear the heavy rumble of artillery, 
neighing of horses, cries and shouts 
of drivers, and cracking of whips. 
Without knowing why, I dragged my- 
self to the wall, and scarcely had I 
done so, when two sixteen pounders, 
each drawn by six horses, turned the 
comer of the street The artillery- 
men beat the horses with all their 
strength, and the wheels rolled over 
the heaps of dead and wounded. 
Now I knew whence came the cries I 
had heard, and my hair stood on end 
with horror. 

"Here!" cried the old man in 
German; "aim yonder, between 
those two houses near the foun- 
tain." 

The two guns were turned at once ; 
the old man, his left arm in a sling, 
cantered up the street, and I heard 
him say, in short, quick tones to the 
young officer as he passed where I 
lay: 

" Tell the Emperor Alexander that 
I am in Kaya. The battle is won 
if I am reenforced. Let them not 
discuss the matter, but send help at 
once. Napoleon is coming, and in 
half an hour we will have him upon 



us with his Guard. I will stand, let 
it cost what it may. But in God's 
name do not lose a minute, and the 
victory is ours !" 

The young man set off at a gallop, 
and at the same moment a voice 
near me whispered : 

"That old wretch is Bliicher. Ah, 
scoundrel ! if I only had my gun I" 

Turning my head, I saw an old 
sergeant, withered and thin, with 
long wrinkles in his cheeks, sitting 
against the door of the house, sup- 
porting himself with his hands on 
thegfTound as with a pair of crutches, 
for a ball had passed through him 
from side to side. His yellow eyes 
followed the Prussian general ; his 
hooked nose seemed to droop like 
the beak of an eagle over his thick 
mustache, and his look was fierce 
and proud. 

" If I had my musket," he repeat- 
ed, " I would show you whether the 
battle is won." 

We were the only two living be- 
ings among heaps of dead. 

I thought that perhaps I should be 
buried in the morning, with the others 
in the garden opposite us, and that I 
would never again see Catharine; 
the tears ran down my cheeks and I 
could not help murmuring : 

" Now all is indeed ended I" 

The sergeant gazed at me and, 
seeing that I was yet so young, said 
kindly : 

"What is the matter with you, 
conscript ?" 

" A ball in the shoulder, mon ser- 
geant." 

" In the shoulder ! That is better 
than one through the body. You 
will get over it" 

And after a moment's thought he 
continued : 

"Fear nothing. You will sec 
home again !" 

I thought that he pitied mv ' 
and wished to console nit*^ 



620 



Th< Story of a Cotiscript. 



I 

I 

I 
I 



che$t seemed crushed, and I could 
not hope. 

The sergeant said no more, only 
from time to time he raised his head 
to see if our columns were coming. 
He swore between his teetli and 
ended by falling at length upon the 
ground, saying: 

" My business is done ! The vil- 
lain has finished me at last !" 

He gazed at the hedge opposite, 
where a Prussian grenadier was 
stretched, cold and stiff, the old ser- 
geant's bayonet yet in iiis body. 

It might then have been si.x in the 
evening. I was cold and had drop- 
ped my head forward upon my knees, 
when the roll of artillery called me 
again to my senses. The two pieces 
in the garden and many others posted 
behind them threw their broad flashes 
through the darkness, while Russians 
and Prussians crowded through the 
street. But all this was as nothing 
in comparison to the fire of the 
French, from the hill opposite Uie 
village, while the constant glare 
showed the Young Guard coming on 
at the double-quick, generals and 
colonels on horseback in the midst 
of the bayonets, waving their swords 
and cheering them on, while the 
twenty-four guns the emperor had 
sent to support the movement thun- 
derc<l behind. The old wall against 
which I leaned shook to its founda- 
tions. In the street the balls mowed 
down the enemy like grass before the 
scythe. It was their turn to close up 
the ranks. 

1 paid no further attention to the 
sergeant, but listened to the inspiring 
shouts of " Vive rEmpertut !" ring- 
ing out in the momentar)' silence be- 
tween the reports of the guns. 

The Russians and the Prussians 
were forced back ; the shouts of our 
troops grew nearer and nearer. The 
cannoneers at the pieces before me 
loaded and tired at iheir utmost 




speed, when three or four graj 
fell among them and broke the wbed 
of one of their guns, besides kilting 
two and wounding another of ihdf 
men. I felt a hand seize my ajVL 
It was the old sergeant. His eyej 
were glazing in dealli, but he laughed 
scornfully and savagely. The nxrf 
of our shelter fell in ; the walls benC; 
but we cared not, we only saw the 
defeat of the enemy and heard the 
nearer and nearer shou I ' y^tn^ 
when the old sergeant ^ 
ear: 

•' Here he is I " 

He rose to his knees, supf 
himself with one hand, while wid»1 
other he waved his hat in U>c 
and cried in a ringing voice : 

" Vive rEmpcreurf" 

They were his last words ; he 
on his face to the earth, and 
no more. 

And I, raising myself too from' 
ground, saw Napoleon, riding eal 
through the hail of shot — his 
pulled down over his large hcac 
his grey great-coat open, a broad 
ribbon crossing his white vest — t) 
he rode, calm and imperturbable, I 
face lit up with the reflection fr 
the bayonets. None stood 
ground before him ; the Prussian ar- 
tillerymen abandoned tJieir picoet 
and sprang over the garden-hec%e, 
despite the cries of their officers ato 
sought to keep them back. 

I saw no more, our victory was 
certain ; and I fell like a cofpac ta 
the midst of corpses. 




xtv. 

When sense returned, all 
lent around. Clouds were scuddi 
across the sky, and the moon shone 
doM-n upon the abandoned village, tltt 
broken guns, and llie pole upturned 
faces of the dead, a$ calmly » ^ 



i. 



The Story of a Conscript. 



621 



U- ages she had looked on the flowing 
^ water, the waving grass, and the rust- 
j. ling leaves. Men are but insects in 
1^. the midst of creation ; lives but drops 
^^n the ocean of eternity, and none so 
^Pruly feel their insignificance as the 
. dying. 

^_^ I could not move from where I 

^■^y in the intcnsest pain. My right 

^^^rm alone could I stirj and raising 

^ myself with difficulty upon my el- 

^H>ow, I saw the deail heaped along 

^^Rhe street, their white faces shining 

like snow in the moonlight. The 

sight thrilled me with horror, and 

my teeth chattered. 

I would have cried for help, but 

my voice was no louder than that of 

a sobbing child. But my feeble cry 

^^awoke others, and groans and shrieks 

^^ux)se on all sides. The wounded 

^^hought succor was coming, and all 

who could cried piteously. .^nd I 

heard, too, a horse neigh painfully 

on the other side of the hedge. The 

p>oor animal tried to rise, and I saw 

^_its head and long neck appear j then 

^■t fell again to the earth. 

^^ The effort I made reopened my 

wound, and again I felt the blood 

running down my breast. I closed 

my eyes to die, and tlie scenes 01 

my early childhood, of my native 

jVillage, the face of my poor mother 

she sang me to sleep, my liltle 

)m, with its niched Virgin, our old 

log Pommer — all rose before my 

ves ; my flither embraced me again, 

he laid aside his axe at his return 

work — all rose dreamily before 

le. 

How little those poor parents 

iought that they were rearing their 

jy to die miserably far from friends, 

id home, and succor 1 Would that 

could have asked their forgiveness 

for all the pain I had given them I 

Tears rolled down my checks j I 

sobbed like a child. 

^K Then Catharine, Aunt Gr^'del, and 



Monsieur Goutden passed before me. 
I saw their grief and fear when the 
news of the battle came. Aunt 
Gri-del running to the post-office to 
learn something of me, and Catha- 
rine prayerfully awaiting her return, 
while Monsieur Goulden searched 
the gazette for intelligence of our 
corps. 1 saw Aunt Gredel return 
disappointed, and heard Catharine's 
sobs as she asked eagerly for me. 
Then a messenger seemed to arrive 
at Quatre-Vents. He opened his 
leathern sack, and lianded a large 
paper to Aunt Gredel, while Catha- 
rine stood, pale as death, beside her. 
It was the official notice of my 
death ! I heard Catharine's heart- 
rending cries . and Aunt Grodel's 
maledictions. Then good Monsieur 
Goulden came to console them, and 
all wept together. 

Toward morning, a heavy shower 
began to fall, and the monotonous 
dripping on the roofs alone broke 
the siltrnce. I thought of the good 
God, whose power and mercy are 
limitless, and I hoped that he 
■would pardon my sins in considera- 
tion of my sufferings. 

The rain filled the little trench in 
which 1 had been lying. From time 
to time a wall fell in the village, and 
the cattle, scared away by the bat- 
tle, began to resume confidence and 
return. I heard a goat bleat in a 
neighboring stable. A great shep>- 
herd's dog wandered fearfully among 
the heaps of dead. The horse, see- 
ing him, neighed in terror — he took 
him for a wolf — and the dog fled. 

I remember all these details, for, 
when we are dying, we see every- 
thing, we hear everything, for we 
know that we are seeing and hear- 
ing our last. 

But how my whole frame thrilled 
with joy when, at tlie corner of the 
street, I thought I heard the sound 
of voices I How eagerly I \ia\iwv«i<^\ 



< 



«sa 



Tiu Old Religion. 



And I raised myself upon my elbow, 
and called for help. It was yet night ; 
but the first grey streak of day was 
becoming visible in the cast, and 
afar off, through the falling rain, I 
saw a light in the fields, now coming 
onward, now stopping. I saw dark 
forms bending around it. They were 

) only confused shadows. But others 
beside me saw the light ; for on all 
sides arose g^ans and plaintive 
cries, from voices so feeble that 

[they seemed like those of children 

I calling their mothers. 

What is this life to which we at- 
tach so great a price ? This miser- 
able existence, so full of pain and 
sufTering? Why do we so cling to 
it, and fear more to lose it than 
aught else in the world ? What is it 
Ihat is to come hereafter that makes 
us shudder at the mere thought of 



death? Who knows? For^ 

ages all have tliought and 
on the great qucstiou, bul nooe ! 
yet solved iL I, in my 
to live, gazed on that light as 
drowning man looks to the 
I could not take my eyes from 
and my heart thrilled with hope 
tried again to shout, but my roi 
died on my lips. The pattering^ 
the rain on the ruined dwell 
and on the trees, and the 
drowned all other sounds, aod, 
though I kept repeating, '* Tliey hew" 
us 1 Theyare coming 1" and altluM^ 
the lantern seemed to grow larger afld 
larger, after wandering for some limr 
over the field, it slowly disappcBtd 
behind a little hill. 

I fell once more senseless to tbt 
ground. 



THE OLD RELIGION; 

OR, MOW SHALi WE FIND PRIMITIVE CHRISTIANnT? 



We Americans, generally, have got 
the name of being the most "go- 
ahead " people on earth. We are 
always looking out for "the last new 
thing," and, when we have got it, we 
try to sail past it, to do something 
better. We have tried our hands at 
ever)'thing under the sun ; we have 
had our fair share in original inven- 
tion, and when we have not invented 
we have brought out the last improve- 
ments. Amongst other things, we 
have tried our hands at the m.anufac- 
lure of religions, and if man could 
have made a religion, there is not a 
doubt that we should have succeeded. 
As it is, we worked the religious ele- 
ment with considerable originality. 



W^e have made tracks wFiich BOt 
people have ever thought of, audi 
imitations of religion have been a pro- 
digious success. 

But, in truth, the great majority d 
thinking people in this country tuitrt 
always remained deeply conrinoei 
of the truth of the old original Chria- 
tianity as the work of God's rrvda- 
tion to man, not as the result otf 
human thought. As a mrdadoa, 
they know it must have bceo g:ivco 
once for all as a heavenly trcaiatfc, 
to be preserved in its antiqtatj 
to the end, not to be Impnverf 
upon and adapted and remc 
by human ingenuity. Hence, as 
people, we axe convinced of 




The Old Religion. 



633 



IS of the Christian religion 

our allegiance, and under- 

[ moreover that not "the newest 

in religions," but the " verita- 
jld religion," is not only the 

but is the only truth; our 
gth in life, our hope in death j 
nly thing we have to seek after, 
yet we have not found it, the 

of priceless value, the purchase 
r admission into heaven, 
e question, therefore, as be- 
i Christians, narrows itself to 
imple issue, Which is the old 
3n, and what was primitive 
tianity ? 

t, again, we may narrow the 
ion still more. All admit, as 
id all doubt, that there is one 
h, and one only, which is his- 
lly in possession of the old re- 
. Other churches in this coun- 
ive their history, and we know 

each began ; some are not as 
s the Declaration of Indepen- 
!, none are older than the era 
e Reformation, 300 years ago. 
Catholic Church stands alone 

ancient descent and undaunted 
;e amongst the churches of the 
rn creation. " True," it is an- 
d, ' the Catholic Church is the 
hurchj' In the line of her 
ps she can, no doubt, trace her 
nt until, as Macaulay says, 
iry is lost in the twilight of 
' If s/ig cannot count name 
me the long succession of her 
fs up to the apostles, there is 
nly no other church that can 
n the shadow of a claim to 
jlic succession. But ancient 
e is, she is not old enough to 
imitive, and we should hardly 

that any educated Catholic 

venture to stand up before the 
: and say honestly that he 
ed, and was ready to give proof^ 
the Catholic Church of the 



present day and primitive Chris- 
tianity are identical." 

Such, strange as it seems to Catho- 
lics, is very much the attitude of the 
educated Protestant mind, when least 
prejudiced toward the church. Pro- 
testants, even of this class, do not 
know that the identity of the Catho- 
lic religion and primitive Christianity 
is a first principle with us, and has 
always been so, centuries before 
Protestantism was heard of; that this 
is the one only basis on which the 
Catholic Church rests her exclusive 
right to " teach all nations," and has 
always rested it. Disprove the just- 
ness of this claim, and you have re- 
duced the Catholic Church to the 
level of one of the sects. So ancient 
and world-wide a challenge can only 
seem new and strange to Protest- 
ants, because they do not know even 
our first principles, still less the rea- 
sonings on which they rest. But 
clearly it cannot be rash and fool- 
hardy in us to put forward claims to 
which the intellect of the vast ma- 
jority of Christians, for nearly twenty 
centuries, has given in its adhesion. 
But to come to our own age and to 
facts of our own experience which 
meet us at every turn, we hear every 
day and have heard for the last 
thirty years, here and in England, 
and in all other Protestant countries, 
of great numbers of conversions to 
the Catholic religion. Amongst 
them there have been many of the 
leading minds of the day, high- 
classed men, the flower of the univer- 
sities, now holding eminent positions 
in different walks of science and 
literature, at the bar, in the senate, 
and in the church. To name Dr. 
Newman as the leading intellect 
amongst recent converts to the 
Catholic Church, is to name one 
who possesses a more than European 
reputation, nay, who is as well known 



t that my opposite neighbors are 
jlly discussing with interest, 

Emg or defending, the Catliolic 
n. 
ig into town by the cars the other 
1 met my uncle Joe in a brown 
|l "Good morning, sir! why so 

hy, John, my eldest son, has 

,e a Papist, sir ; sorry for it ; a 

steady lad, but he has got 

e hands of tlie priests, sir ; 1 

is all up with him. I suppose 

•shave his head next, leave liis 

at home, and turn out like one 

e bare-footed friars we used to 

i Belgium last fall." 

fell, but, uncle," say I, "it cannot 

|ped,you see; you would not have 

ly, as you call him — though he 

and twenty if he is a day — go 

his conscience and remain a 

Protestant to please you." 

b, sir," he replies, "you have me 

I stand up for the principleoflib- 

jf conscience, sir. Yes, sir, liberty 

^cience. I know all about it, 

mSL religious liberty, which the 

i of our glorious republic cstab- 

once and for all time as the pal- 

n of our constitution. But how 

y can fitncy the Catholic religion 

true, and make a matter of con- 

e to join it, that is my puzzle, 

tell you." 

ell, but my deai» sir, it is no 

y to say to you, your son is 

ol. He knows what he is 

for his age, there is not a 

promising young fellow at our 

inly last week old Judge Davis 

imented him for the way in 

he had taken a very com- 

d case in equity and literally 

it inside out and held it up for 

tion. He is not a child; he has 

his teeth, and is not one to be 

the nose by any man, be he 

or lawyer — you don't walk 

a Yankee lawyer in a hurry." 

ell, that is true, " sixd my uncle. 

rot, Vi. — 40 



" He has as sound a head as any 
lad I know, and at school and college 
he was always well up. Whate\'er 
has turned his head to Papacy ? Do 
you know I sometimes think it is 
what they call a monomctnta — like the 
man who was sensible enough in 
ever)'thing else but mad on one 
point, and thought he was a pump; 
and another took to his room and 
could not be got to go out because he 
thought he was made of glass, and 
would not stand jostling in the streets. 
Then think of Joanna Souihcote, 
Joe Smith, and the rest. My word ! 
there is no end of the aberrations of 
the human intellect." 

•'Well, sir," I replied, "I don't 
think that will hold water, for you 
and I know a dozen sensible, first- 
rate men who have turned Catho- 
lics ; no" fanatics, but cool-headed 
men of business, good neighbors, 
good husbands, honest men. There 
is Mr, A., Judge B., General C, 
within the present year. They are 
not men to make a serious change, 
which they know would set every one 
talking and criticising them, unless 
they knew well what they were about, 
and could give reasons for the change 
and stand a little criticism." 

"Well, that is nothing but common 
sensc,"he replied; "still I am puzzled,! 
can tell you, to think why they did it." 
"Well, my dear sir, I think 1 can 
tell you why they did it. Because 
ihey found out that it was the old 
original religion, after all." 

"Well,you do astonish me. I do be- 
lieve you must have turned Catholic 
yourself, by the way you speak." 

" That's a fact uncle ! You see, 
we have not met for more than nine 
months. 1 was led, through the con- 
version of a very dear friend of mine, 
to examine into his reasons, and the 
result is, that I became a Catholic 
just before last Christmas." 

"I am glad 1 rael^ouVo Aa^'" Vcxt- 
joiticd, " for 10 veW^oxwiis; vtM.\is\ Ni-as 



The Old Religion. 



627 



Ira our definitions of what I 
)y primitive Christianity, and 
I mean by the Catholic reli- 

tainly," he assented, 
nitive Christianity, then," I 
led, "is soon settled. By it I 
le religion taught by the apos- 
heir disciples, and by those dis- 
aught to others, and so on — 
gion of the New Testament." 
ry good," he broke in ; " no 
1 find fault with that, only we 
*rays been taught that the re- 
»f the New Testament, a prim- 
Christianity, was substanttatly 
Be as Protestantism, so that it 
truck me till this moment that 
iras any fair doubt that the 
W Christians were Protesl- 
I bnt the name ; and of course 
ow that the name was not 
hem at that day." 
I right ! We will see about 
ter on," I continued. " Now 
tell you, in as few words as I 
^at I mean by a Catholic." 
ill, I am all attention," he said, 
a Catholic, then," I continued, 
m a Christian who is a member 
vast, world-wide society which 
erally known and called, by 
and foe, the Catholic Church, 
Irirual head of which is the 

of Rome. This church, or 
body — for you know the word 

is the same as ecdesia in 
or Greek, and means ' an as- 
>' or ' united body ' — this 
body we call catholic, or uni- 
because it has always vastly 
ibered all other divided bodies 
istians, whether taken singly 
lut together. The number of 
Cs in the world is usually 
to be two hundred millions ; 
ssian, Greek, and Oriental 
Ltics about ninety millions, 
^testants of all denomin.itions 
seventy millions. This vast 



united body, as it has always borne 
the name of Catholic, so is it the only 
body of Christians that can be called 
the catholic or universal church, if 
we attach any meaning to the word 
as a definition of the visible church, 
such as we find set down in the Creed, 
* I believe in the Catholic Church.' 
However, as the name Catholic is 
sometimes claimed in some indefina- 
ble sense by other bodies of Christians, 
those to whom it belongs of right, and 
by the force of terms, have no objec- 
tion, for the sake of distinction, to 
the term sometimes applied to them, 
of Roman Catholic, meaning merely 
the real catholics ; that is to say, 
those who, though universal, or 
spread everj'where, are yet united in 
one visible society, through being all 
in communion with the Bishop of 
Rome ; being Roman in their centre 
of unity, and Catholic in their world- 
wide circumference. 

"Thus the Catholic Church, alone 
of all Christian bodies, bears, as it 
it were, written on her forehead, that 
mark of unity divinely impressed by 
her Heavenly Founder and preserved 
by the power of his dying prayer, as 
a perp>etual note of her heavenly 
origin. * I pray thee, O P'aiher, 
that they may be one in us. that the 
world may believe that thou hast 
sent me.' 

"I think that you will admit that the 
old church founded by our Lord was 
to have on her these marks of unity 
and universality, and that these 
marks are to be found on no church 
at the present day but the church 
Catholic." 

"Yes," he replied after a moment's 
reflection, " I think this may fairly be 
admitted ; but unity is not all that 
our Lord prayed for ; in the same 
prayer he said, ' Holy Father, keep 
them in thy truth,' and we say that 
the old church fell away, and that it 
no longer teaches the es^evvVx'aJLVos.'CKi 



638 



The Old Religion. 



of the gospel, or has obscured them 
by false doctrines." 

" Well, let that pass for the moment," 
I J replied. "We will see later on 
' whether you will continue to maintain 
these propositions. I will now state 
the principal points on which we are 
agreed with Protestants, and after- 
ward the distinctive points on which 
we differ from them. And I think 
you will admit that the points on 
which we are agreed with you are 
precisely every one of those points 
which you would consider to be the 
greatessential, fundamental doctrines 
of the gospel. We believe, then, in 
the unity and trinity of God, three 
coequal persons, one in substance, 
and in the incarnation of God the 
Son, who became the Son of Blessed 
Mar)', ever Virgin, of the substance 
of his mother according to his man- 
hood, as he had been from all eter- 
:rity God the Son, of one substance 
Uilh the Father— Gotl of God. So 
we believe and hope for redemption 
and grace, to do good works accept- 
able to God, and which he will re- 
ward amply and solely from and 
[through Christ our Lord, and in 
I'prayer, love, repentance, obedience, 
^and holiness, as conditions of our sal- 
vation through him. .\nd we be- 
lieve that eternal perdition and end- 
less woe will be the lot of those 
'who neglect so great a salvation.' 
We believe also that all Holy Scrip- 
ture is written by divine inspiration, 
and when studied and rightly under- 
stood, by aid of God's Holy Spirit, 
is most profitable for instruction in 
all Christian perfection. In a word, 
CatJiolics believe all that religious 
Protestants consider to be of the 
essence of true religion ; and they 
also reject every tenet or position 
which can clash with these paramount 
truths of revelation. A Protestant, 
therefore, in becoming a Catholic, 
has to give up nothing which he be- 



lieves essential in religion. Noi 
he would have to add to his 
certain other truths whkb at prei 
he does not hold, because he bul 
come to see that they are parts vit 
vealed truth." 

" I have not lost a word," be re| 
"of what you have been sayir 
confess it is quite a new light to i 
that all these doctrines which )ib 
have stated are part and pared d 
the Catliolic faith ; but, my ^m 
Philip, I cannot help Cincyiiig (!■ 
all Catholics are not like yoa, ibc I 
have always heard that they Attack 
or obscured nearly cverj- one of tlxK 
doctrines." 

" As for these statements of <kc- 
trinc not being the authorized XtiA- 
ing of the church, I can only say 1 
you will find them all stated AiUyl 
the authorities of our church rn 
canons and catechism of the Ce 
cil of Trent, and stated briefly 
every child's catechism. Y«, 
withstanding, as you say. P iute a laa lg 
generally seem to think that tb^ 
know oar religion better (hao ve do 
ourselves; although they seldom cad 
our books, they insist on iieejtte|' 
that we really do ho' 
which we profess to Ip 
with them; but I Unnk you will ad- 
mit that we ought to be allowed to 
know our own creed best. It b a v*a»- 
dcr that they do not r.i' 
believe that we have > 
of faith in common, and lincac tW 
very points in which they cos 
the essence of true religion |o 
sist. It seems as if they had 
stinctive feeling that the strei^th ' 
their position would be broken op 
once it should appear that the diftr- 
cnccs between themselves and tlM 
old religion were on but few poif«% 
and those such as they do not tmA 
der the most essential." 

" Well, anyhow," he le^odxdl 
" whatever be tlie reason, tketc t» 



>nsid^^ 
laoiH 
n op 8 1 



The Old Religion. 



629 



strong prejudice on both sides ; 
rotestants are as strongly convinced 
tat you are in the wrong as you Ca- 
>lics are convinced that you are 
It One or other of us must be 
)ng ; and if we assert that you are 
)ng against such a strong convic- 
g_i'<uon on your part, and one that has 
1,^ s ubsisted for so many ages, and been 
Elfteld by such a vast majority, why, 
l^re are forced to admit that our 
I, ' strong conviction against you is no 
ximent that we are in the right, 
you can't deny that such a strong 
viction as ours must have some 
indation in reason," 
" Just so," I answered, " I do not 
it at alL These same reasons 
•med so convincing to me once 
it I could not have believed that 
reasoning could have convinced 
le that I was mistaken. I will just 
)uch on some of the reasons which 
ighed most with me against the 
lolic religion. From my own cx- 
jnce I am convinced thai the 
ifficulty Protestants generally fee!, 
admitting that Catholics really do 
Did all that they deem to be essen- 
I, arises chiefly from this, that it 
eems to them clear and evident that 
;rtain other doctrines which we 
Id, such as the merit of good 
5, the invocation of Saints, the 
;nt efficacy of Sacraments, Pur- 
j, the real Presence, and the sa- 
ifice of the Mass, tlie use of images, 
pictures, and relics, the Immaculate 
Conception, and devotion to the Bless- 
ed Virgin, and perhaps other doc- 
trines and practices, must necessarily 
interfere with the mediatorial office 
of Christ and with the worship of 
God, and be impious or idolatrous." 
"Well," he answered, "you have 
given a long list enough, and it 
makes me feel all over just as I was 
sifore I met you. I declare, to my 
ig day I never could take in all 
3se things; and I can't see how 




you, or any sensible man, could cnme 
to believe them. Nay, don't tell me 
you believe them. Why, your church 
can't expect it of an American 
citizen, whatever may be the case 
with Frenchmen and Spaniards, that 
have been, as one may say, brought 
up to it, and had it bred in the bone, 
I am sure I could easier turn Jew 
and go back to the old original reli- 
gion of all than become a Catholic." 

" Have a care, my dear sir," I an- 
swered; "make no rash statements. 
I once thought as you do now. I 
can't answer all objections against 
these* doctrines in one breath. Give 
me time, and I am not afraid of go- 
ing into them one after the other. 
But I can't attempt it now ; and now, 
as we are getting near home, just 
walk your horse along this shady bit 
of road, and I will finish for to-day. 
Now, with regard to al! these doc- 
trines which seem so strange and re- 
pugnant to you, let me say, as an hon- 
est man who once thought and felt 
as you do now, but who has come 
by God's grace to see things differ- 
ently — let me say, as one who knows 
that he must answer for his every 
word before Christ's unerring tribu- 
nal, that there is not one of those 
points which is not capable of being 
shown in no degree to interfere with 
the supreme prerogatives of our di- 
vine Lord and only S.iviour, and 
which is not cap.ible of conclusive 
proof. Would to God that Protes- 
tants, instead of reading and hearing 
only what is said again-st us, would 
hear and read wh.it we have to say 
for ourselves. These early preju- 
dices, this • human tradition,' which 
' they have received to hold,' would 
be dispersed like the morning mists 
before the sun. 

" The general answer that I would 
gpve to such objections is, read Ca- 
tholic books, and you will find that 
all these allegations axe as o\dL a&'^'vo 



630 



The Old Religion. 



testantism, and tliat they have been 
answered a hundred times over. 

" If we are Catholics, it is simply 
under God's grace, because we have 
read for ourselves, and have been 
satisfied with the Catholic answer 
on ever)' single point. If I am ask- 
ed to name any particular works 
which would be found specially use- 
ful — I mean works of a popular char- 
acter — I would mention Bishop Mil- 
ner's End of Cotitroversy ; The Faith 
of Catholiis, by Waterworth ; various 
works of Dr. Newman and Archbi- 
shop Manning; Temporal Mission of 
the Holy Ghost, and Rule ofFaitft ; the 
works of Archbishop Kenrick ; and 
other works which may be obtained 
at any Catholic bookstore. But 
most Protestants, as was my own case 
when a Protestant, have a strong 
prejudice against reading Catholic 
books. I believe the basis of this 
prejudice (which would be logical 
enough if its basis were just) is much 
the same as that which would right- 
ly disincline all religious persons, un- 
less in some way it became a duty, 
from reading Socinian and deistical 
writings. They have been accus- 
tomed to consider that Catholics 
lave tliis in common with Socinians 
id deists, that they all, more or 
5S, reject those doctrines of re- 
demption through Christ which every 
baptized and thinking Christian feels 
to be part of the inner life of his soul, 
which he would die rather than part 
from. But those who reason thus 
against the Catholic religion, and 
.^e unwilling to examine its evidence, 
)rget that Thomas i Kempis, or the 
Wtlior of the Jmitaiion of Christ, was 
a Catholic, a monk of the middle 
ages, devoted to every Catholic doc- 
trine. His fourth book on the Eu- 
charist manifests, in every page, his 
belief in the real Presence, and the 
sacrifice of the Mass; and he speaks 




of invocation of saints, 
priestly absolution, and other 
lie doctrines. Yet this work« 
count of the pure love of 
trust in a Saviour, which it 
in every line, is almost as 
vorite with devout Pi 
is with pious Catholics. 
from beginning to end by Johl 
ley, it is to be found as a 
piety, with his imprimaimry 
mended by him, in the 
his followers. 

" The same may be said I 
works of St. Bernard, Fi'nviai 
chal, all well-known names i 
through translations of their 
to all well-read Protestants. , 
the Jansenist writers of the j 
of Port Royal are, I believe, 
ly admired by what are 
Evangelical school ami 
tanls. Yet the Jan 
the creed of Pop>e Pius, laid 
the Council of Trent, and a 
distinctive doctrines of the C 
religion. 

" I have spoken before of I)i; 
man as a name honortftl by 
ProtestaJits as well as Catliolici 
one has written more ably in di 
of every doctrine of the d 
Could he, who is the author 
lines I am just going t- — ",1 
written so Imlyand to; a 

love of our Blessed Lord mA 
in him, if he had held any< 
trine which interfered with or|| 
shadowed the suprcmac); of| 
Lord and only Saviour ? 

* Firmly t bdicvtt and tnJy, 

Go<1 i« iKrr«, uid (J4d tx o 
And I next ackiiu wltj^a Atltf ^ 

Manhood uksa by lilt ! 
Arul I li»{* #1x1 miM moa 

In thai manlmwl cfWiC 
And (4cb lliousht «*d im 

Do to dnili i» ha tutli i 
Simply to hia Riareti, aad i 

\jAt ami lighl aad dm^^ I 
And I Ifivc auprcmcljr, acJtlf 

HUB tilt Uo^ lite Atf 



Tfu Old Religion. 



631 



And I hold in vcncnlion. 

For the love of Christ alooe. 
Holy church, aa hii creation, 

And her leachiog u his o«nL' 

Drtam 0/ G*r»mtnu. 



fow, ray dear uncle, you will un- 
iand the earnestness of a man 
feels that it is beyond the powor 
ords to express the depth of his 
ictions. These, indeed, I can- 
(tnpart to you. I cannot give 
tfie gift of faith. But so far, at 
i I feel sure you will go with me, 
knitting that the facts I have 
Mated should lead serious Fro- 
nts to admit that they have been 
g in assuming that the Catholic 
on, although a great religious 
,majestic for her antiquity, uni- 
Jity, and unit)', as all must admit, 
jret a mark against her which 
mses them from all search after 
t in that direction. My last 
S shall be those which, though 
seemed to St. Augustine to be 
ed by the voice of a child, were 
ts he tells us, blessed to his own 
fersion : Tollty lege — 'Take and 

It as I had finished my last 
&ice, we drove into Ihe approach 
p mansion, where the ladies were 
|dy assembled on the lawn, a 
ihat the arrangements for dinner 
I completed, and that all were 
ting only the return of the mas- 
|f the house. So, kindly greet- 
I' inquiries after absent friends 
Jurope and America, and the 
f happy little accompaniments of 
fvening at home in the country 
Vely autumn weather, effectually 
i stop to all further conversation 
kc engrossing topics which had 
pied us during the morning. 
le next day rose bright and beau- 
ialmost too cloudless and sultry, 
\ had had a journey before us, 
tix or seven hours to pass in the 
^ heat of — . But we had 



agreed to take a day's holiday in 
the country, and, after breakfast, we 
strolled out together to the summer- 
house by the brook, where the daily 
papers and the last reviews, American 
and English, were laid out on the 
library-table of the cool retreat be- 
neath the broad chestnut trees, which 
served my uncle as his study during 
the summer months. The other 
members of the family had their 
own reading and work to attend to. 
So we had the prospect of a long fore- 
noon of leisure for reading or con- 
versation. After the news of the 
day had been read and discussed, we 
each took up a review and read on 
pretty steadily for an hour or more. 
Then my uncle began to light his 
cigar, and I saw that he was watch- 
ing wiien I should have finished the 
article I was reading, and that he 
was ready for a chat. When he saw 
that I was closing the volume, he 
began : " I have tliought a good deal 
over all you said yesterday. Just give 
me a memorandum of one or two of 
the books you spoke of" I pencilled 
lliem down on the back of a letter 
and handed it to him ; he put the 
memorandum into his pocket-book. 

"Now," he said, "I should like to 
hear how you make out that the 
primitive Christians were Catholics. 
You know all my family are strict 
Episcopalians ; tliere was one of them 
a bishop over in the old country, and 
we always took great pride in the 
Church of England ; and I know we 
were always taught, and I've read 
several books about the old aborigi- 
nal British Church, which seemed to 
me to prove pretty clearly that, up to 
the year 600, or thereabouts, after 
Christ, the early Christians in Britain 
knew nothing of the authority of the 
Bishop of Rome, and opposed his 
claims when they were put forward, 
by Augustine on his coming over to 
convert the Saxous." 




6^2 



The Old Religion. 



** Well, sir," I replied, " curiously 
enough, I have just been reading 
your last number of the Saturday 
HrvinVy which, as we all know, is no 

^^friend to Catholics, and 1 have been 
much struck by a very able article 
which, 1 think, you will find well 
worth reading. If you will allow 
me, I will read you a passage which 

.may serve me as a text for what I shall 

"fcave to say in answer to your ques- 
tion about the British Church, and 
how 1 make out that tlie early Chris- 
tians were Catholics : ' The dislincl- 
ive principle of the English Refor- 
mation was an appeal to Christian 

lantiquity, as admirable, and probably 
as imaginary, as the "Golden Age" 
of the poets.' The writer then goes 
on to say, ' that the era of the Re- 
formation was before the age of ac- 
curate historical criticism. The true 

'nethodof historical criticism was as 
yet uncrt;ated, and it is not too much 
to say that whatever accurate know- 
ledge we now possess of the church 
of the first centuries, has been ob- 
tained within the last fifty years, and 
that a better acquaintance with the 
remains of antiquity has convinced 
us that many doctrines and practices 
which have been commonly account- 
ed to be peculiarities of later Roman- 
im, eJtlsted in the best and purest 
fjes of Christianity.' {Saturday Re- 
virrv, i866 ) 

" Ah ! I should not wonder," he re- 
plied, " if they had hit the right nail 
on the head there ; I must read that 
article — how is it headed ?" 

"Oh 1 you can't miss it," I answer- 
ed, "the title is Primrtivt Christiani- 
ty* Well, then, to answer your 
question. We argued yesterday as to 
le great leading doctrines on which 
Protestants and Catholics are at one, 
and which all Christians hold as es- 
sential. Now for what you would 



call the distinctive doctrines of! 
Catholic reli^on, or as the 
in The Saturday eJtp i. 

are commonly accou. 
tants) as peculiarities of iaicf 
nisra,' but which we Catbohcs 
to be no less essential truikii 
Christianity, part arwJ pored of ( 
same revelation which teacho itfi 
doctrine of the Trinity and die I 
carnation. I will name three ^ 
I think you will admit are suffidott^ 
ly distinctive. We hold. th«TC<«ir: 

"^ First. That for Christ's sake n. 
are to obey the church, which he ka 
made his infallible witness in tk, 
world, until he shall come 
'The church of the li%-ingGodtl 
pillar and foundation of the 
(i Tim. iik 15.) 

" Secondly. That for the sanei 
son we are bound to subtail to tbe 
spiritual supremacy of the Pope it 
Bishop of Rome, the sue 
St. Peter, whom Christ, who 
self 'The Rock,* or sore 
tion of his church, left, when 
ascended up out of sight, to be tbc 
I'isibte Rock^on which he willed N 
build up his church in iinitv. 

" Thirdly. That G. 
shipped by sacrifice. .» 
of the typical stut •; . • . , 

from the time of Auaut tu 
and fnum Moses to the tiOK 
Christ in the Levitical worship^ bf 
h.is instituted the S'''ot rrajity tf Air 
tudtariitit sacrifice of Christ's body 
and blood, commonly called 
Mass. 

" Of course there are other 1 
which I might name, but these 
are sufiicicui for my purpose. My 
proposition is, that ihc^ie doc- 
trines were as distincti\'cly character 
istics of primitive Chrisi 
they are of the Catholic 
the present day, or what our 1 
\wThe Saturday calls ' LafeCT J 
ism. 



-ist's bedf 
ailed l^y 

rdoctno^^H 
KscdmlH 




fcl^ell I go on," he rejoined, " I am 
itentioii. I do not want to raise 
jrtion to details. I want to hear 
^ whole argument to the end, 
1 1 shall see what I may find to 
■bout it — meantime, I am much 
Ksted, and want to see how you 
h out your points. I like your 
b of stating the question ; it is 
rhtforward, right up and down, 
p)o mistake, as far as the state- 
I of the case goes, only I want 
how you set about proving it. 
I'herc, I am smoking all the 
; don't you smoke ?" 
hy, bless the man ! how can I 
ie and talk? There, you do all 
loking, and I'l! do the talking 
jw ; and then, when I've done, 
lay turn on the steam, and Til 
iie smoking — turn about is fair 

sU, then, learned Protestants are 

jeginning to admit 'that many 

les and practices which (at 

le of the Reformation) were 

lonly accounted to be peculia- 

of later Romanism, existed in 

5t and purest ages of ChrJs- 
f 

ow, this is precisely whnt we 
ttlics have always maintained ; 
my proposition is, that the rt'w- 
pK- ftatitres of the Catholic re- 
\ are precisely those which mark 
mitive church and the British 
h in primitive ages, centuries 
the lime when St. Augustine, 
t Bishop of Canterbury, came 
Rome to cou'ert our Anglo- 
forefathers, ajout the year of 
rd 600. 

ose who delight in the dream 
rgolden age of primitive Chris- 
which was Protestant in all 
name, and only not Protest- 
name because, as they imagine, 
was then no pope to protest 
t, take special delight in 
on imaginary pictures of an 



early British Church, and this for a 
very simple reason, because here 
they can strike out boldly on the 
wings of fancy, without much danger 
of coming to grief against the hard- 
stone wall of historical facts. There 
is no British writer, of whose works 
we have any vestige, earlier than 
the historian Gildas, who wrote 
about the year of our Lord 55° '• 
All they have to rely on for 
proof of any difference between 
the British Church and the other 
churches of Christendom is one 
single fact, which they learn from 
the historian Bede, who wrote in the 
eighth century. He relates th.it 
about the year 600 certain British 
bishops were found differing from 
Ihe Roman Church on certain points, 
not of doctrine, but of discipline, 
and acting with a considerable 
amount of contumaciousness toward 
St. Augustine, the Roman mission- 
ary and first Archbishop of Canter- 
bury. All this we fully admit, and 
are quite prepared to account for. 
But my proposition concerns the 
British Church, not in the year of 
our Lord 600, but centuries before, 
in the early primitive times, from the 
first conversion of Britain." 

" Yes, that is the point ; Tm all 
attention to hear how you make it 
out" 

" Christianity was probably estab- 
lished, partially in Britain, in very 
early times, possibly in the days of 
tlie apostles, not impossibly by St. 
Paul himself, and, if so, it must have 
been the same in all essential fea- 
tures as that religion which the 
apostles and their immediate dis- 
ciples preached and established ev- 
erywhere else. History, however, 
records nothing definite concerning 
the Christianity of Britain, earlier 
than the fact related by the historian 
Bede, that, in the reign of Marcus 
Aurelius, emperor of Rome, as. NSaa 



634 



The Old RcUgiou. 



request of Lucius, a British king, 
Pope Eleutherius sent missionaries 
into Britain. Next, as to what kind 
of Christianity this was. I shall 
show that it was sharply marked with 
the characteristics of the Catholic 
religion which I laid down just now. 
Submission to the authority of the 
Sishop of Rome as head of the 
church, and a belief in the Real Pre- 
sence and Eucharistic Sacrifice, com- 
monly called the Mass. 

"With regard to the authority of the 
Bishop of Rome, as Head of the 
Church, I will quote a well-known 
ancient writer, St. Irenasus, Bishop 
of Lyons in Gaul, born a.d. 120, 
martyred a.d. 202. He was a na- 
tive of Asia Minor, a disciple of St. 
Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, who was 
himself a disciple of St. John the 
Evangelist He was a contempor- 
ary of Pope Eleutherius, and visited 
Rome during his pontificate, as we 
learn from the historian Eusebius. 
Irenaeus is, therefore, a witness of 
peculiar value, since he was in a posi- 
tion to testify as to the belief of all 
Christians in his day, as well of 
the Eastern Church, in which he was 
trained, as of the Western Church, 
of which he became a bishop. The 
presumption is, also, that he taught 
to others what had first been taught 
to him by his master, St. Polycarp, 
and that St. Polycarp taught what he 
had learned from the inspired apos- 
tle. In the work of Irenaeus, Athtr- 
sus Hiereses, (Book III., chap, ii., 
n. I and 2,) which may be consulted 
in any good library, we find it written. 
I will read from some short manu- 
script notes which I have here in 
my pocket-book, and which I made 
at the time I was looking into these 
matters before I becime a Catholic. 

"*As it would be a long task to 
enumerate the successions of all the 
churches, I will point out that tradi- 
tion which is of the greatest, most an- 



cient, and universally known 
founded and constituted at Romcl 
the most glorious apostles, Pc 
Paul, and which derives fr 
two apostles that faith announc 
all men, which, throtigh the surca>| 
sion of her bishops, has come ( 
to us.' 

" Here, let me observe, by the t 
in passing, we have the testimony I 
a great writer, who lived within ; 
years of St. John the Evangelist,] 
was instructed by his immediate dir 
ciple, that the Church of Rome »a» 
founded by St. Peter ai>d St Pat 
What then becomes of the ^llt^ 
ment, so often repeated — sbaQ I cd 
it ignorant, or impudent ?— tiul tfe 
Bishop of Rome can have no cUiu 
to authority as successor of St PdH, 
because there b no evidence thJlSt 
Peter was ever at Rome in hrs lifcf 

•* Well, certainly," he interpose! 
"that statement will not hold «nia^ 
for Ircnseus is an uncjtceptxnMUe 
witness. But I interrupt ymia xam- 
tive. Pray, go on." 

" Well, then, to continue what I wj« 
saying, before I made this digrestsioi^ 
St Irenaeus goes on in the ■*am/t 
passage, 'With this church, (oaindf. 
the Church of Rome,) on account of 
its more powerful headship, (or pri- 
macy,) it is necessary that crm 
church, that is, the faithful on cveri 
side, should be in accordance, ii 
which church has always been pre- 
served the tradition which b froia 
the apostles. The blessed apostles. 
then, h.iving founded and bailt if 
this church, committed the oAce d 
the episcopacy to Linus, of wheat 
Paul makes mention in his EpiittU* to 
Timothy. And to him succeeded 
Anaclctus, and after him ClciBeat 
who had also seen the bkssed 
apostles, and conferred with tlKK 
and had before his eyes their funflitf 
preaching and the tradition of tl* 
apostles ; and not he alone, bat ifatf^ 





The Old Religion. 



many at that time, still alive, 
had been instructed by tlie 
btles. To Clement succeeded 
tistus, Alexander Sixtus, Teles- 
rus, Hyginus, Pius Anicetus, Sa- 
and to him Eleutherius, who 
f in tlie twelfth place from the 
Sties, holds the office of the 
bopate. By this order, and by 
succession, that tradition wbic"h 
Dm the apostles, and the preach- 
Of the truth, have come down to 

iJere then we have the testimony 

ne who wrote only fifty years 

' the death of the last apostle, 

the existing pope was the suc- 

XiX of Peter in the see of Rome, 

there could have been as little 

pt about the past as there is now 

p the succession of the presidents 

■he United States or the sove- 

is of England during the last 

iwy. 

hnd the testimony of St. Irenseus 
\ the authority of the bishops of 
»e over the whole church, since 
lam from Eusebius, that Irenseus 
toffered a firm but respectful op- 
lion to two successive pontiffs, 
llherius and Victor, on the ques- 
(of the time of keeping Easter, 
Int on which some of the E;istcm 
Ches as also later the churches of 
tnd and Britain, followed a differ- 
SUstom from the church of Rome. 
IrcnaEUs visited Rome on the mat- 
tnd dissuaded the pope from mak- 
his question at that time a term 
inmunion. He succeeded in his 
avors, and so different churches 
left to follow their own custom, 
the matter was finally decided, 
the Roman practice made obli- 
ry on all, at the general Council 
icsa, A,D. 325. 

luch then is the testimony of St. 
us concerning the general be- 
f all Christians of his day as to 
;hts and authority of the bish- 



ops of Rome, or holy and aposto- 
lic see, as it was generally termed in 
very early times. He taught that it 
was the duty of all churches and of 
each one of the faithful, that is to say, 
of all who believe in Christ, to ad- 
here to the faith and the communion 
of the holy see, which by Christ's 
institution had been constituted in 
the person of Peter and his succes- 
sors the necessary centre of unity 
of all other churches — which held on 
this account the supremacy of more 
powerful headship or primacy of au- 
thority in the universal church, under 
Christ our Lord. 

" It is manifest therefore, that this 
doctrine concerning the authority of 
the pope must have been taught, to- 
gether with all other doctrines of the 
universal church, by the missionaries 
sent into Britain by Pope Eleutherius. 
St. Irenseus tells us in another place 
that the faith of the whole church 
was one and the same. He says, for 
instance, in the following passage, 
*The church spread over tlie whole 
world to the earth's boundaries, hav- 
ing received the faith, . . . sedu- 
lously guards it, as though dwelling 
in one house,' ' as having one soul,' 
and * one heart,* and ' teaching 
uniformly as having one mouth, . , 
nor do the churches of Spain or 
Gaul, or the East, or Egypt, or Africa, 
believe or deliver a different faith.' 
{Adv. Hieres. b. i. c. x.) 

" But we are not left to conjecture 
as to the relation of Britain to \\vt 
rest of Christendom, and to the see 
of Rome in primitive times. The 
next notice we have of the British 
Church is, that British bishops were sit- 
ting with tlie other Catholic bishops at 
the Council of xArles in Gaul in 314, 
when the Roman practice as to the 
time was confirmed and accepted, 
and at the Council of Sardica in 
lUyricum in 347, where the right of 
appeal from all bishop \.o \.W ^v^iv 



I 



636 



The Old Religion. 



tolic see was confirmed b}*^ a -special 
decree. This council, at the conclu- 
sion of Its deliberations, writes to 
Pope Julius in the following terms : 
' That though absent in body, he had 
been present with them in spirit,' 
and that it was best and most fitting 
that the bishops of each particular 
province should have recourse to him 
who is their head, that is, to the see 
of the Apostle Peter. (See Labbe's 
Councils, ii, 690.) 

" That the primacy of the Roman 
see involved a real right of jurisdic- 
tion over other churches is manifest 
from the next fact of history bearing 
on the British Church. St. Prosper 
of Aquitain, a contemporary of the 
events he describes, writing in 430, 
tells us how a British priest, by name 
Morgan or Pelagius, had invented a 
heresy, (which still bears his name,) 
in which he denied the necessity 
of Divine Grace. That this heresy 
Spread greatly in Britain, whereupon 
Pope Celestine, the same pope who 
sent Palladius and Patrick, to Ireland, 
dispatched St. Germanus, Bishop of 
Auxcrre in Gaul, as * his vicar with 
Britain, and that he might drive away 
heresy, and restore Britain to the 
Catholic faith.' He tells us that he 
was received by the British bishops 
and presided at several national sy- 
nods. St. Prosper also states as an 
existing fact then, just as any Cath- 
olic might make the same statement 
at the present day, that ' Rome as 
Ihe See of Peter is head of the 
episcopal order in the whole world, 
and holds in subjection through the 
influence of religion, more nations 
than ever had been subdued by her 
arms.' (St. Prosper de Jngr<uitudin€ 
et ViKiitionf Gentium.) 

"With the mission of St. Germanus 
the early histor)' of the British Church 
closes. A dark and calamitous period 
of a hundred years succeeds, in which 
Britain is heard of no move until the 



time of Gildas, the Bridsb hi 
who wrote about the ^%x of our 1 
550, that is to say, about fifty 
before the coming of Sr, Aiicjust 

"Britain, during tl i 

abandoned by the 1 ,1 

is left a prey to continua] mvj 
first by the Picts and Scots, and I 
by the Saxons, who had settled <)am 
like a swarm of locusts upoa ik 
countrj', and driv-in? the BritOfisfc^ 
fore them into th(.- rastoeacieC 

Wales and Corn-. I corepleldf 

occupied the country and made it 
their own. At length the %*ery root 
of Britain is lost ; it had nowbecane 
England, and a heathen land «■* 
more. 

" The n.ilive historian Gildas de- 
scribes the condition of his misenfck 
countrymen, isolated from the rest of 
Christendom, overwhelmed by iar6^ 
invasion and by ci\il wars. As t» 
religion, he tells us that it was aids 
lowest ebb, and that no herefjr hid 
arisen in tlie church which had Ml 
effected a lodgment in Britain ' i> 
to morals, he informs us that priocei, 
nobles, and people were infected «ilk 
the most shameful vices, and AM 
even a large portion of the clcr|7 
were sunk in profligacy*. *rhere««rt 
still many bright exceptions anuu^ 
all classes, especially in the tnoas- 
tcries, which were ntunerous aad 
filled with a multitude of holy sook 
who had fied from tl)e alnxtft 00- 
versal corruption of morals tn lk(t 
miserable age. 

"Gildas, moreover, upbraids the 
clerg)' for their want of charity, vbA 
because through hatred of their Sax- 
on conquerors they could not be in- 
duced to attempt their converuooi to 
the faith of Christ. 

"And be it remembered ihntnnilu 
wrote all this as an eye 
the state of the Britisla Ch\: 
day, and that be wrote 
years before the airival of St. Aqgu** 



The Old Religion. 



637 



) preach the faith to the Anglo- 
is. Can we wonder then that 
he invited the remnant of the 
[i clergy to join him in his holy 
)n he met with a contumacious 
1, at least from some of them ? 
juote from a Protestant histori- 
Tart's Ecclesiastical Record. ) He 
J as follows from Bede's Eccle- 
:al History. • In many things,' 
t. Augustine, ' ye act contrary to 
stom, and those of the universal 
I ; yet if in these three respects 
ill obey me, to celebrate Easter 
! proper time, to perform the 
f baptism according to the cus- 
r the Roman Apostolic Church, 
) join me in preaching the Gos- 
the English nation the word of 
rord, all other changes which 
), although contrary to our cus- 
we will bear with equanimity.' 

terms they refused to comply 
md the above-named Protestant 
thus comments on their refusal, 
e we triumphantly cite these 
onies to our original indepen- 
, let us not seek to palliate the 
nacious spirit displayed by the 
1 clergy in their conference with 
;tine. As Christians they ought 
ully to have assisted in evan- 
ig the pagan Saxons. The 
which he proposed were mild 
:asonable, and the faith which 
jfessed was as pure and ortho- 
> their own.' 

is quite clear that the faith of 
itish Church was essentially the 
as that of St. Augustine, other- 
le would certainly have taken 
tion to such differences in es- 
!s, and not solely of accidental 

of discipline, and moreover 
inconceivable that he should 
invited them to preach to the 
s a faith different from his own. 
the faith taught to our forefath- 
1 St. Augustine was the same 
t of the Catholic Church of the 



present day, does not require proof 
to any one who has made the most 
superficial study of the annals of the 
Anglo-Saxon Church. The supre- 
macy of Rome, the doctrines of the 
real Presence, the sacrifice of the 
Mass, purgatory, devotion to the 
blessed Virgin and the Saints, are 
written on every page of her history, 
as narrated by Bede and the ancient 
chroniclers, and came to be incorpo- 
rated into the very language and cus- 
toms of the people. 

"As for the grounds of the opposi- 
tion of the British bishops to St, 
Augustine, this can be fully accounted 
for. The decay of faith and morals 
amongst clergy and people, isola- 
tion from the rest of Christendom, 
natural pride and hatred of the Sax- 
ons, all which Gildas tells us existed 
in the British Church in his day, are 
quite enough to account for their op- 
position to St. Augustine, and this 
opposition cannot in the truth of 
history be attributed to any primitive 
independence of Rome in the British 
Church. In the whole early history 
of British Christianity there is not one 
fact which proves any difference in 
faith whatever, or any variation in 
discipline inconsistent with that obe- 
dience to the Bishop of Rome as suc- 
cessor of St. Peter, which Irenajus 
tells us was in his time considered 
essential for all churches, and which 
is at the present day as then, an es- 
sential feature of Catholic Christian- 
ity. 

" In the absence, then, of all proof 
to the contrary, and in the presence of 
the positive evidence which I have 
given that the British Church stood in 
the same relation to Rome during the 
earlier arid purer ages of her history, 
as all the other churches of Christen- 
dom, it is surely disingenuous not to 
admit the fact. It seems to me that 
thoughtful and candid persons can 
hardly fail to adnut that ?& 2^. c»iv 



638 



Sub Umbra. 



troversial argument against the Cath- 
olic Church the less said about the 
British Church the better." 

"Well, upon my word, my boy, I 
must say that my first impression — 
but mind, I reserve my judgment till 
after I have had time to reflect on the 
matter, read up your quotations in 
the original, and compare them with 
the context — I say my first impres- 
sion is, that you have a good case, 
and that you have handled it very 
fairly. A good deal is involved in 
your being right or wrong in this mat- 
ter; so much that, if you please, I 



would rather not pursue the quesda 
any further at present ; but I shall not 
let it sleep. And now I see your coo- 
sins coming this way with their bro- 
ther John. I must go and meet theoW 
fellow, and shall treat him as if noth- 
ing had happened. I am very glad I 
happened to meet you yesterday; the 
truths you have suggested to my mind 
are serious ones." 

" That is so," I replied, «* and nuf 
they ripen in your mind and proie 
refreshing to your soul as they hare 
to mine I Good-by 1" 



SUB UMBRA. 



The hills that like billows swell clear in the dawn. 
Seem heaving with conscious existence this mom ; 
For all the broad woods on their bosom serene 
Are waving their ocean of green I 



II. 
How fair ! Save yon cloud sailing up from the west, 
Whose shadow falls dark on that bright, leafy breast ; 
But softly 'tis rocked : while beneath it is heard, 
In wood haunts, the note of the bird. 



in. 
O heart ! in yon shadow and soft-heaving sea. 
Thy God hath unfolded a lesson for thee ; 
For oft while reposing 'neath sunniest skies, 
A cloud o'er thy rest may arise. 



IV. 



But when from that cloud the dark shadow shall fall. 
Heave gently, heave gently — though under the pall 1 
And 'neath the dark shadow let, sweet as the bird. 
Thy low, quiet music be heard ! 

Richard Storks Wnui 



Forget-Me-Not. 



639 



TKAHSLATED FROM THH CBSMAN. 

FORGET-ME-NOT J 

OR, THE PICTURE THAT WAS NEVER SEEW. 



lord chamberlain, wUn had 
turned from Italy, had become 
jbject of the greatest attention 
he brilliant but not extensive 
which the queen w^ accus- 
to assemble around her, in 
ing's secluded summer resi- 

I narratives of the count's tra- 
erved to shorten an unplea- 
^tormy evening, which visit- 
i shady park surrounding the 
Vith gusts of rain and hail, 
►ersed with streaks of lightning 
feavy reiichoing claps of thun- 
The imagination of the queen 
jd in the recollections which 
Mies of the count awakened \ 
ie king, more interested in 
lis of state, interrupted the 
ir suddenly, with the question 
whether anything new had 
ired in die capital city, which 
\ passed through on his return, 
brd chamberlain praised the 
knd elegance of the city, not 
ting to extol the wisdom of the 
{gn to whom all this prosperity 
ie attributed, and closed with 
furance that, excepting the ex- 
ti of industry and art, the in- 
lits of the city were occupying 
flves, at present, with nothing 
|eir own homes and amuse- 
The Princess Eliza inquired 
tcdly concerning the success 
t institution which owed its 
|ce to her suggestion, and the 
passing slowly from one thing 
kher, ran easily into the enu- 
>r» of the articles exhibited in 
keful gallery. He teil till the 



last what he considered the crowning 
glory' of the collection — the paintings 
by native artists — and described with 
the versatility of a cicerone all the 
pictures of Madonnas, pictures from 
every-<lay life, historical pictures and 
portraits, which were worthy of at- 
tention. Having come to the end, 
he interrupted himself suddenly, as 
if rebuking himself, and said — 

" I had almost forgotten to men- 
tion a picture, which, although anony- 
mous, and very unfavorably placed, 
deser\'es to be named as the gem of 
the gallery, both in idea and execu- 
tion. I have seen nothing more 
wonderful in my life, and even now, 
when I speak of it, all the details of 
the striking picture appear clear and 
decided before the mind, so that I 
can give them without omitting any- 
thing essential." 

This preliminary was calculated to 
raise the greatest curiosity, and the 
queen, with the company, formed a 
narrow circle around the narrator. 

"Imagine, your majesties, a me- 
dium-sized tablet divided into two 
parts, of which each represents a 
single picure," began the lord cham- 
berlain ; " the conditions of space 
divide this picture in form ; the clia- 
racter is one and the same. In the 
first, the principal figure is a maiden 
in the full blooming freshness of 
youth. The flowing drapery flutters 
lighdy in the wind. One foot already 
rests upon the edge of the barge 
which wavers in suspended dance, 
and which the stream, curling up 
into foaming waves, seems about to 
drive from the shore, without tuddKC 




640 



Forget-Me-Not 



or anchor. The eyes of the maiden 
look longingly into the distance : in 
her features lies romantic enthusiasm. 
On the shore which the mariner 
leaves, stand sympathizing friends. 
An old man, with silver hair, waves 
a farewell : a group of maidens, 
blooming as she, and familiarly cling- 
ing to each other, wave handkerchiefs 
and ribbons after the departing: a 
youth, handsome and earnest, folds 
his hands together, and out of the 
clouds, a friendly, loving, sorrowful 
countenance looks down upon her. 
Luxuriant roses signal from the beau- 
tiful shore, and form a rare contrast 
to the lurking, green-haired water- 
fairies who swim under the mirror of 
tlie water in scarcely defined outlines, 
and seem to pull the frail boat for- 
ward. The maiden, it is plain, goes 
hence on a dangerous journey ; but 
a tender, shimmering cloud-figure, 
doubtless the ever young Hegemone, 
hovers near her, and by solicitous 
glance and imploring gesture, seems 
to express admonition and prayer. 
Whether the mariner shall be saved 
by the grace of this guardian angel, 
or fall by the wiles of the waiting 
fairies, is the question with which the 
gazer unwillingly leaves the charming 
picture to turn to its companion 
piece. 

" In the picture which we know 
consider, the principal figure is a 
young man with walking-staff and 
travelling-bag, who passes rapidly 
away from the n-irrow doorway of a 
house, and steps out boldly on the 
broad highway. He breathes freely, 
and an earnest satisfiiction speaks 
from his eyes. Joyfully starting out 
to meet life, he takes notice neither 
of the noble matron who would hold 
him back, nor of the affectionate 
maiden who longingly extends her 
hands to him, nor of the fixithful dog 
that, although fastened by the chain, 
nevertheless raises himself entreat- 



cc^V 



ingly. From the windows 
inn may be seen a waiter, st 
at a counting table and swinging 
hat: a Jew stands in the way 
holds out a paper, which the wanA* 
er refuses; at the well in the furr 
ground a thoughtless maid wA 
saucily and piquantly to the foath, 
and so far the picture reprcMoa i 
gay scene, a little sr. ' ' 
quiet grief in the b;i 
before the wanderer, v^hu l.xiks 
le.ssly abound, gapes an ab}>s^ 
which is suspended a frightful * 
body, with a severe but honest 
tenance. Its eyes are shut, bat ft 
raises the right hand wantii^ 
toward the approachit^g youth, wl^ 
the left rests on the breast in quid 
consciousness. 

" And so," continued the lunstar, 
" the picture is finished." 

A short silence reigned io ibt 
company. The king rested glijomily 
in his chair ; while the queen, oo 
whom the affectionate daughters »ae 
leaning, at length replied ; 

" The picture is finished, and «« 
have an obscure allegory, to ftod the 
key to which will not be difficult 
Man and woman going from tl 
row homc-circic to enter u; 
leaving behind them the shdi 
paternal roof, and the innocent 
of childhood ; the youthful desire 
toss upon tempestuous waters *>*^ W 
journey on tlic parched highway \ 
these are — or my feeling must be *cty 
muchat fault — the subjects which the 
poetical painter wishes to represent." 
" Your majesty's ponctrntinn b 
equal to the solution of the xnoa. ob- 
scure enigma," replied the count; 
" but in the attracti\'e double piciipe 
lies still more, if one leave no< ovtc/ 
notice that it is surrounded fagr a 
wreath of forgcl-rae-nots ; that the 
mariner wears these flovif-v in \\r* 
hair, and the wanderer on li 
The artist thought lo give tur 








Forget-Me-Not. 



641 






:ation of the harmless little flower, 
id how well he has succeeded in 
iinting its characteristics. The de- 
|>arting is for those remaining behind 
forget-me-not ; but even these who 
lain on the spxjt which the loved 
»e leaves, desire to impress their 
imembrance on the bird of passage 
ist as firmly. ' Forget me not !' call 
;r her the silver-haired father, 
le youthful friead, and the play 
jmpanions of the maiden. * Forget 
not !' whispers the glorified mother 
"but of tlie clouds, and the protecting 
spirit hovering over the waters. Well 
)r the mariner if she fail not to hear 
\t warning voice. Well for the 
youth, if the forget-me-not of the 
mother, the bride, and the creditor, 
cling long to his heart : he will return 
true and noble, scorning the tempta- 
^tions on the way of life, and remem- 
^■>enng the paternal honor, which, 
^^Hirough the dumb mouth of the dead 
^^pody, calls to him ' Forget me not !' " 
^^ The queen rose liastily, nodded, 
as it seemed, overcome by tears, to 
the narrator, leaned upon the arm 
of her daughter, and apparently 
struggling to hide her emotion, left 
the room. The king tlirew a disap 
proving glance after her, which finally 
met that of the count, who stood 
I transfixed in the middle of the hatl, 
^kritliout knowing how or why so pe- 
^^culiar a circumstance had transpired. 
I Tlie courtiers had fallen back and 

^Kwcre whispering among themselves. 
^H " Will your majesty condescend to 
^^point out to me whether any indis- 
cretion of mine has caused the pre- 
sent event, or whether it may be 
^^attributed to an unfortunate co- 
^■Incidence," said the count dmid- 
^Hy. Instead of answering, the ruler 
^l^ve those standing around the sig- 
^^nal of departure, and commanded 
the count to remain. Being called 
nearer, and permitted to sit opposite 
the king, he waited impatiently for 
VOL. VI.-41 



the discourse which his commander 
should direct to him. 

" Your ignorance is excused," com- 
menced the latter, in his usual short 
manner of speaking, " but the queen 
is unpleasantly affected by the name 
Forget-me-not. It is an old wound 
that has to-day been opened afresh, 
and hence the strange scene. It is, 
perhaps, nineteen years since I un- 
dertook the rule of this state. The 
care of it called me into the field 
against the enemy formed by the ex- 
iled royal family. I was but just mar- 
ried. In order to acquaint my aged 
falher-in-Iaw with the fortunate result 
of a battle, I sent to the capital a 
young ordnance officer. He returned 
to the camp at the time designated, 
but at the same thne came secret dis- 
patches from my zealous agents, who 
noted the disposition of the people, 
and kept guard on the actions of the 
crown-princess, my wife. The ord- 
nance officer, who had long loved my 
wife in secret, had, in special audi- 
ence, received from her hands, a bou- 
quet of forget-me-nots." My jealousy 
knew no bounds. In the next tour- 
nament, the officer found his death, 
and — as it is said — on his breast lay 
the fatal flowers. After I had re- 
turned as victor, it became clear that 
my wife had intended this present 
for me, and diat she was unacquaint- 
ed with the feelings of the unsafe 
messenger who had retained for him- 
self the love-gift of a queen. But 
now it was too late. Mother and 
sister mourned on his grave, and the 
tender heart of my wife was so 
shocked by such a catastrophe that 
even to-day, after so many years, her 
grief has again been manifested." 
The king was silent, and leaned his 
head on his hand. The count, over- 
come by the unusual confidence of 
his sovereign, and feeling himself in- 
adequate to console, did not venture 
to reply. The king, instead of dia- 



k. 



643 



F<jrget-M4-Not, 



I 



missing him, remained in troubled 
thought, while a bitter smile played 
around his mouth. " Finally," he 
continued, "my position at that lime 
was difficult. My zealous tempera- 
ment was bent on vanquishing the 
obstacles in the way of my successful 
career. My motto was, * Onward !' 
The people were dissatisfied that a 
man not of royal descent should 
have the audacity to claim the crown. 
I had, by force of arms, held the old 
king On his tlirone, banished the pre- 
tenders, and rescued the people, the 
property, and the church. I had 
shown that no one understood better 
how to readjust the disorganized 
affairs of state ; but when the eyes of 
the old man closed, and I seized the 
sceptre, according to agreement, 
then arose a cry of consternation. 
The fools had believed that I would 
give the house which 1 had built up 
to the alienated Merovingians, and 
myself be satisfied with the position 
of major-domo. A conspiracy was 
formed. You remember that the 
flower forget me-not passed for the 
symbol of rebellion. The faction of 
the refugees have not yet forgotten 
the day on which I gave the com- 
mand which the times demanded. 
The first name which met me upon 
the list of those seized was Albo. 
The family of that officer bore this 
name. I knew that the baroness 
had hated me irreconcilably since 
the death of her son \ that her daugh- 
ter hated me not less, and tliat a de- 
termined ally of the exiles was about 
to offer his hand to the latter. Now 
burst the bombshell. In the house 
of Albo were said to have been held 
meetings. The baroness was said to 
have sworn to give her daughter to 
the one among her countless suitors 
who would take the most prominent 
part in my overthrow. My sternness 
passed the sentence of death upcm 
the women ; but the entreaties of my 



wifis— to whom it had been tvpf» 
sented that the accusations wdiich M 
been heaped u|x>n the mother ai 
daughter were only the work of esiy 
and private hatred — disarmed 19 
sentence. I banished the wonMi 
and confiscated their property. Tk 
bridegroom died in prison ; and <o 
the fate of that family v 
fulfilled." The king'.> 
in a monotonous tone : ** 1 wiii ttM 
deny that later I have thought of tbcM 
poor women who must wander in a- 
ile, with a certain unwilling pity, oad 
that still later I made inquiries coo- 
cerning them. No trace of llica 
could be found. But I sec that I 
have allowed myself to say more tiiB 
is customary for mc. Wc will ptsf 
to something else. Who is the paist- 
cr who executed the picture of whick 
you have spoken ?'' 

'* Sire," replied the count, " I d« 
not know. He cannot, however, be 
unknown to the inspector of the 
ler)*. I know only that he is not 01 
of your majesty's subjects, and tJi 
he begged permission to exhibit the' 
double picture for a few di>ys. For 
the present he remains in the capi* 
tal." 

" Yes, yes," replied the kti«; "■* 
one but Creiiiati can have crealei 
tliis picture ; his power alone omd- 
fests itself in such all 
positions; and the a! : ti^ 

forget-me-not — yes, yes, «ratdif4, 
man we will make peace, amj 
pride of art shall melt in the » 
shine of my favor. I wish to see 
painter, count. You will take paiot^' 
to bring him here. He will not wil- 
lingly obey, but an aulc^raphic ooia- 
mand shall place all authority at 
your disf>osal. Depart as early 
possible, and the day after 
row I sli ." '■ to sec the 

Gooflni. :!" 

The couni departed, and the kitf 
retreated to hiscabineL After 







1 



Forget'Me-Nit. 



64s 



ess struggles, he overcame the 
ncholy which clouded his soul, 
went to the table, on which lay 
eat numbers the reports and 
itches just brought in by the 
er. He sought impatiently 
ig the letters for one, which 
i found, he broke with anxious- 
ispcnded breath; but after the 

line, the restless expectation 
hed from his features ; cheer- 
ss spread over them, and with 
ht " Good, good !" he took up 
silver candlestick, impatient to 
; his satisfaction, and opened the 
tr)' door which led into the cor- 

connecting his rooms with the 
n's. As he approached the 

he heard voices, and upon en- 
\ found the queen sitting in an 
:hair, and leaning, in pleasant 
lation, upon Eliza's shoulder, 
leir feet, on an ottoman, sat So- 

the younger princess, resting 
railing face on the mother's lap. 
)eautiful family picture charmed 
ing, and he commanded the la- 
who would have risen in his 
r, to remain in their positions, 
group remained, but the former 

was gone; and the king him- 
after a few moments' thought, 
! the restraint. 

forgot," he said, as he gave his 
(iters a sign to leave their places, 
>rgot that my wish serves only 
»vem the actions of my family, 
:annot charm away a grief. I 
>t approve of the tears which I 
I your eyes, madame. You have 

to the court a spectacle, the 
I of which is too antiquated to 
;r it any longer excusable, and 
mimportant to have been en- 
id to your daughters, as I must 
ine has been done." 
'ou err, sire !" replied the queen, 
g the last traces of tears from, 
yes ; " the tenderness, not the 



curiosity of my daughters has com- 
forted me." 

The princesses kissed the queen's 
hands caressingly, and the king re- 
plied : 

"Right; that I must commend; 
and to prove that it pleases me to 
give pleasure, I will confide to you 
what gladdens my heart and some- 
what lightens my paternal cares. 
This letter from my ambassador in a 
neighboring kingdom makes the hea- 
vens look joyful. The dissensions 
which have for so long a time threar 
tened to separate that country and 
mine, are peacefully settled, and I 
hope to see soon at my court an 
ambassador with instructions to sue 
for Eliza's hand. So I have final- 
ly succeeded in entering fully into 
the band of sovereigns. The fortii- 
nate soldier is forgotten, and here- 
after king^ will speak to a king, and 
make room in their ranks for him 
whom fortune raised to their level. 
My name and the remembrance of 
my deeds will not pass away with 
my body. If I am blessed with no 
son, my grandchildren will wear my 
crown, and enjoy the fruits of my la- 
bors." 

The queen gave him her haad 
sofdy, and spoke : 

" May fortune still further attend 
you, gracious sire. Your wife wil- 
lingly submits to your wisdom, and 
your daughters will fulfil the duties 
which your position irhposes upon 
them." 

" Have you not taught me early, 
beloved mother, that renunciation 
and offering is our destiny?" said 
Eliza calmly, but sighing softly. " I 
will obey my royal father without ob- 
jection, without complaint, if — " 

" If the prince do not disappoint 
the ideal that a maiden's heart is ac- 
customed to create," said the king. 
" Be without fear, my daughter; the 



644 



Forget-Me-Not, 



prince is renowned as a second Bay- 
ard, whose bravery goes hand in hand 
with the most pleasant courtesy. 
He is not remarkably beautiful, as I 
understand, but moderately so, and 
possesses all those brilliant accom- 
plishments which pertain to a royal 
education. At least you will be able 
to boast of a better suitor than your 
mother, whom I, having neither the 
advantage of beauty nor of birth, and 
grown up in the rough customs of the 
camp, won by the power of my sword, 
to the astonishment of her father. 
The brazen age ruled in the land 
then, and my sword must cut out for 
your grandfather the royal robe that 
he had taken from his cousins, as the 
people demanded. But with your 
marriage, daughter Eliza, shall begin 
the golden iige, I will give files, 
and the world shall wonder before 
my splendor as it has before my re- 
nown. This old Prankish building 
shall put on a festival dress, and 
gleam with gay pictures as for a car- 
nival. Cremate comes again, and 
his brush shall prove worthy of my 
generosity." 

" Cremato !" repeated the queen 
wonderingly ; " Cremato," cried the 
princesses together, as they recalled 
the wonderful, sprightly Italian, who 
had many times appeared at the 
court like a flying shadow, and as 
quickly disappeared ; and who did 
not fear to express the strongest cri- 
ticisms on the drawings of the royal 
children, but from whom the little 
students learned more in a quarter 
of an hour — when he sometimes con- 
descended to instruct — than from 
their well-paid court teacher in 
months. The queen thought propter 
to send the curious princesses to 
their apartments, a command that 
.was quietly obeyed. 

"What will Cremato here?" she 
asked her husband who, sunken in 
plans for the brilliant future, walked 



silently back and forvr&rd. 
name wakes only sorrowful re 
tions. Is there a new coaspil 
denounce ? Shall blood Aov i 
Shall the innocent again wan 
misery ? Speak, roy husband I 
shall the terrible accuser, wl| 
the misery of thousands on hii 
return ?" 

" Woman condemns as qakk 
as thoughtlessly as she excoM 
plied the king eamestlj. *< 
to, having by accident beool 
quainted with the first ihrcMls 
conspiracy, fulfilled the dtiq 
brave citizen in disclosing 
Cremato owed this sen'ice ( 
land and the prince who 
gave him protection and { 
ty. The most indifferent St! 
would have been to that extei 
der moral obligations. Crcma 
cued thy throne through his de 
ation. Neither for this favor ■ 
disinterestedness which refused 
reward does he deser\-e the vxA 
fulness which thy mouth has s|| 
against him. It is true thatl 
persons fell, but the pressure q 
cessity absolutely demanded 
Therefore, no word more 
For all I have done — except 
I will answer before Him who} 
the most powerful." 

" And must this one exoiB! 
vengeance work on for ever? 
suspicious jealousy drove pK>0T 
to a certain death ; and still, 
my innocence was manifest, 1 
make his family the offering ( 
ever insatiate revenge, Cren 
accusation — " 

" Not so," replied the Vxag, 
vexation. "The guilt of the 
came to my ear from another 
A report was spread that Albo 

sacrificed ' the 

ther breathed vengc 

the law demanded bcr life 

gracious still 1" 



Forgft-Me-Not. 



645 



sarful grace," cried the queen, 
:h drove the unfortunate from 
home and the graves of their 

to wander in poverty and 
Hn a strange land. That was 
hat I asked when I prayed for 

for the innocent. That was not 
they expected when they sent 
•ns to thy throne to recall the 
ice, and to allow them to return 
lir native land, even if it must 
poverty and want." 

ruler does not play with law 
erdict like the conjurer with 
ke," spoke the king sharply. 

women who were thirsting for 
^ could not be allowed to 
back at that time : they cannot 
nevermore. And you, madame, 
better let the dead rest. Your 
js lead you to a false conclu- 

The gift of a few flowers 
1 the death of the thoughtless 
Your tears for that are shed 
in. The youth's destiny and 
5sion bear all the blame. You 
;e from all responsibility. Do 
listurb yourself longer with 
ill fancies. Leave the burden 
conscience. Admonishing to 
tance is of no use, and only 
ters. Such attempts it was. 
Tie, that drove from my side 
inter Cremato, to whom I had 

my confidence. He did not 
; Albo's family, as you falsely 
e ; he defended them only too 
'. He took the liberty to speak 
f conscience — to play the Mas- 
to me. I am tolerant only to 
ain extent, and for nine years 
s avoided the court, at which 

often appeared and went like 

of passage." 

did not know the man as you 
painted him to me, sire," said 
|ueen, only half convinced, 
heart shudders before extreme 
iment and severe retribution, 
3re I trembled before the in- 



former who called forth both at that 
time. . You say he comes again ? 
Where has he lived, and how, until 
now?" 

" I must explain," replied the king, 
"that I have no correct account 
of this man's residence for some 
time. He was a person worthy to 
be the friend of a king. I am not 
a chief of police. I need to know 
nothing more. Had he any settled, 
dwelling-place ? I do not know. In 
my dominions he has only wandered 
back and forth since that time. 
But, so tnuch as I desire to see him 
again, I do not know whether I 
should not rather dread the meeting, 
as for many years I preserve his re- 
membrance in fear." 

"Fear I" asked the queen, with 
wondering eyes; "does the hero, 
my husband, know the possibility of 
fear?" 

"The heart of iron trembles before 
the Eternal Judge, even when he 
speaks through the fearless tongue 
of a human being," answered the 
king, with anxiety depicted on his 
countenance, ' "Cremato's last words 
might convince thee, my guileless 
wife 1 He pleaded with impetuous 
eloquence for Albo's sentenced fami- 
ly ; painted their suffering, that they 
must die far from the land that bore 
them, and asked their recall in the 
name of humanity. I refused. 

" ' Well 1' spoke then the peculiar 
man, coldly and threateningly to me. 
'I desist from further attempts to 
move the cold heart of the conqueror. 
Fortune's son no longer recognizes 
the unfortunate. But, from now on, 
another shall speak to him in my 
stead. Albo's fall, and the accom- 
panying circumstances, are no secret, 
and my brush shall immortalize the 
unfortunate. His picture, in the 
pale mask of death — his picture— 
the herald of bloody tyranny, be my 
next work, and the recolleclvcm. ^ctaX 



646 



Forgtt-Me~Not 



I leave to you, sire. Take it as my 
legacy ; and as often as an injustice 
or cruelty comes into your soul, or 
on your lips, so often may this pale 
face, swaying on black ground, stand 
before your eyes. May it serve to 
moderate your vengeance : may it be 
to presumption a reminder of anni- 
hilation : may it sharpen the peni- 
tence of your conscience.' He 
went, but the sting of his words re- 
mained with me from that hour. My 
self-consciousness turned, thousands 
and thousands of times, back to the 
terrible picture which he had left to 
torture me. Many times, as my 
dreaming thoughts wandered over 
my battle-fields, arose, from all the 
bodies only this one giant counte- 
nance, ghost-like, before me. Often, 
when overcome by the weariness of 
business, I rested upon a chair, I 
have seen on the wall the promised 
picture — like to the old countenan- 
ces of Christ, which swung on a 
black ground without neck or robe 
— frightfully and threateningly com- 
ing nearer, as a phantasmagoric 
image." 

"Stop!" cried the queen, in ter- 
ror, for, in addition to the shock 
which the reference to Albo had 
given her, the countenance of her 
husband had, while he had been 
speaking, become like that of a ghost, 
and his voice had sunk to a hoarse 
whisper. " The dreadful Cremato," 
continued she, "has he kept his 
word? How long h.xs the unholy 
gift been in your hands ? and have 
you destroyed it ? " 

Tlie king shook his head, " I 
have never seen the painting," he 
answered. " Cremato has not kept 
his word ; but I feel — I know cer- 
tainly — that the picture is ended ; 
that it exists, and that, if it came 
into my hands, the strength to de- 
stroy it would fail me ; but look upon 
^ I could noi, fot TO^ ta.T\cy has al- 



ready created it to 
Countless sentences ha* it mitigiteA 
countless misfortunes arrested ; fct 
whenever I have t^kcn the poa ff 
opened the mouth to decide orer At 
life, happiness, or honor of anysii^ 
ject, I saw him — I saw CremHoV 
dreadful work opposite me." 

The king stopped suddenly, took a 
few thoughtful steps through thenar 
and went out ; but the oveipowerilf 
feeling which the disclosure of tk 
long-kept secret had aroused in hia. 
prevented the monarch's cnjoyiaf 
his rest. He left his couch, opeaed 
the window, and looked out inio^ 
still, cool summer night The trra 
oi the grove whispered, whfle hwe 
and there a drop, condensed ftoa the 
moist air, fell sounding from laf » 
leaf, and from the distance came M 
indistinct harmony, disturbing tk 
song of the nightingale. As the !» 
tener's ear became accustomed totk 
nistling of the forest, ihc distart 
sounds became more distinct and 
figured themselves into a song tkM 
the king recogni/ed, while it rtcalkd 
a sweet tide of youthful recdledioas. 
The past, lying far back beluMl iW 
confusion of endless wars, beiuad tl* 
tumultuous years of ambitioD ud 
seeking for glory, worked its iuae> 
less magic on his soul. He saw hin* 
self again a boy on the rocks of Ibc 
Mediterranean sea ; he heaid afdi 
as then — with never-ending satiste- 
tion, the melodiuu» song erf tlve fitfc- 
ermen as they rowed out in the fol- 
den gleaming of the morning ned, • 
in the rosy shimmer of eventur vbev 
returning into secure harbors andlkc 
peace of their homes. 

n iiiifiiwiiiM. 

O pSMinft 

Cnlci* Vlisp M«na t 

MMtr aoMU. 

InteracfMa, 

OnprvBotwl 

But now it was no loiter tlir 
strong tenor \-oices of the — *" 



Forga-M«-NoJ. 



64r 



nn^o sweet female voices, so low 
melodious, that rest and peace 
: back to him, and turning to his 
1, he murmured softly : 
loly, blessed fatherland. The 
g fates have taken me from thy 
} fasten me in a strange land, 
a strange crown, but with bless- 
I think of thee; and blessed, 
: blessed, may'st thou be, O my 
fatherland, my sweet home!" 

'hat is not Cremato," spoke the 
as the count, according to the 
land, presented the modest 
;r, a slender, handsome youth, 
;ly arrived at manhood. 

am called Guido, sire!" an- 
d he fearlessly, 
uido was always a fortunate 

for one of your art," replied 
ng, as he dismissed the count, 
ive heard good of you. Have 
rought with you the picture of 

the count has spoken ?" 
o, sire," said the painter ; " a 
1 connoisseur had bought it and 

it away, before the command 
ir majesty reached me." 
^hat a misfortune!" said the 
:ondescendingly. " I am a pa- 
jf art, and desire to employ 
)rush." 

am sorry," replied Guido, " that 
e no specimen of my poor ta- 
) show to your majesty. But I 
brought with me a work which 
e will obtain your favor, sire. 

on my way to your court, and 
Cremato's masterpiece to give 
;r majesty." 

! king became pale at these 
. He looked at the painter 
igly, but as he received the 
\ without restraint, questioned 
irther. 

remato ! His last work ? You, 
erhaps his son ?" 
is studei^ gracious sire! his 
It who biuied him a few months 



ago at Naples, and promised the dy- 
ing man to bring the picture to your 
majesty." 

" Cremato dead 1" sighed the king. 
" In him died a true artist, a pecu- 
liar but noble man. I have never 
inquired further concerning him. 
He was to me only a human being 
whom I could protect," added he 
slowly. " The last sign of his inde- 
pendence I You have brought it with 
you?" 

" Yes, your majesty," replied Gui- 
do. " It stands in the anteroom. I 
hasten to bring it." 

" Yet a word," began the king di$- 
turbedly to the artist " The subject 
of the picture ?" 

" For me a secret," answered Gui- 
do. " The master worked on it 
with closed door— embellished it 
with his own hands, and locked it in 
the box. It stood long so, ready 
for departure. Cremato would entrust 
it only to me, and said to me, on bis 
dying-bed, that only your majesty 
knew what that picture designar 
ted." 

The king's countenance cleared, 
and he allowed that Guido should 
bring the box, in which the picture 
was locked, into the room. With a 
kind of grim horror, he refused to 
have it opened. 

" Some other time," he said ab- 
ruptly, " I will see if you are the stu- 
dent of your teacher. Did Cremato 
leave relatives to whom I can return 
the price of this masterpiece ?" 

" A mother and two daughters," 
replied Guido. " It is true, they are 
not pressed by want, but from % 
painter's inheritance is seldom left a 
surplus. Yet, do not pay for this gift 
in gold. Weighty grounds compel 
them to remain in a foreign land, and 
they wished to find a refuge in the 
kingdom that your majesty's wisdom 
makes happy." 

" To take caxe oi CnsoAXoS^asa!^* 



648 



Forget-Me-Not. 



Ids shall be my work, but perhaps 
his student has found his way to the 
heart of one of them ?" 

Guido bowed blushingly and de- 
nied. 

** I am already bound," said Ke, 
"but to take to them the hope of 
your majesty's grace will be my first 
duty. They will soon thank you in 
person." The king bowed and said : 

" Let yourself be presented to 
ithe queen and look at the drawings 
of my two young daughters. Crema- 
to's pupil has certainly inherited 
quickness in art from him. His 
spirit is in your eyes. You please 
me." 

He di.smissed the joyful pdnter 
and turned toward the secret picture. 
"It seems to me," he said to him- 
self, "as if Albo's eyes looked through 
the wood in order to wound me. 
Angry friend I On thy deathbed, 
hast thou after so m.iny jxars kept 
thy pledge and made the shade of 
the murdered one at home in my 
court? When will I obtain the 
strength to look at thy earnest work ? 
To look at it ! Never ! I think I 
should die from the glance. I will 
never see it. I know it already too 
well. Away with it 1" 

With his own hands he set the 
box away behind the heavy silken 
curtain that fell down in long folds 
before a window. Then he threw 
himself into an iirm-chair and asked 
himself, " How is it possible that 
one single deed performed in unjust 
revenge must perpetually swing its 
whip over my wounded heart ? The 
fields which my battles have enriched 
with blood, the scaffolds which have 
been erected in the course of time — 
these disappear when my eyes look 
into the past ; but Albo's grave lies 
ever open before them." 

It had become late in the evening. 
Govcniment cares occuv>v*:*i ^he king. 
He had vrorked with \us co\xv\stt\\ots. 



The reception room was deseilai] 
but the tapers still burned in ttc 
rooms of the queen. The Pria 
Sophia, overcome by weariness, 
gone to her room. The more 
tiful sister kept her mother 
She endured impatiently the 
of the governess. An indi 
unrest spoke in every 
the beautiful maid. Her cyc« rai 
from the ceiling to the walls, 
looked fixedly down at the 
The light work with which she 
ployed herself did not increase 
her hands, and dropped, finally, 
tirely from Ihcm, With growing 
rest she changed her place a 
limes and started when the 
struck the departure of anoi 

The queen, a careful, I 
ther, delayed not to notice this 
usual behavior, and hcniclf beco» 
ing anxious, took advantage of Hi 
first suitable pause whic^ came it 
the reading, and released the 
from furtlicr duty for the evei 
Mother and daughter remained 

" Please do me the favor lo pUy 
something un the harp," sjid the 
mother to Kli/a. *' Ilie instnnacM 
that I once played so readily will 
not do duty under my ncglectfiil fin- 
gers. Quick young fingers succeed 
better in bringing feeling out of iti 
strings. Play, my cliild ; I need tbe 
enlivening." 

Kliza obeyed. Her lender fiofen 
glided over the strings in prelliie;. 
Hut the affectionate perforPMT oodd 
not long hold the measured ma o( 
the selected piece. The restlctit 
trembling spirit betrayed itself in Uie 
rising and falling tones. Andiale 
became presto, and presently broke 
out into a striking dissonance 

" Fojgive mc, mother," cried the 
princess, springing; up. "I canaeC 
play any longer. M^ heart will laneak 
that I have since mn^lnif kept sone- 
thing secret, and must VA 





|t shall not," replied the mother, 
Py, *' because thy own feelings 
fitiiee to confide." 
le princess came closer to the 
r, and related that in the mom- 
her sister's room, almost un- 
« eyes of Aja, while the strange 
r was looking over Sophia's 
sketches, a paper was dropped 
her bands, on which she, with 
hment, read the words, ' Most 
us princess I DoubtJess your 

I is what your lovely features 
k, noble, tender, gracious, and 
liable. Oh ! will you plead for 

fifortunates who arc hidden by 
reita in the forest, and wait 
gleam of hope? Hear their 
fer. Interest your elevated mo- 
Mn this work of love. Protect 
poost humble from the anger of 
\ father.' These strange, en- 
jjltg words," continued the prin- 
ks took possession of my heart. 
[' painter must have placed the 
w in my hands. My searching 
Pe read in his the answer, ' Yes.' 
Id, perhaps, have scorned the 
ss ; but his entreating glance 
ed me. I could not shame 
fore my sister and the instnic- 
I concealed the paper, and 
ftemoon my devoted maid has 
to Hergereita, and found an 
lubled-Iooking woman and two 
Hful young girls, and, at my 
fland, requested them to be in 
pom at eleven o'clock to hear 
p can be useful to them. I 
Id have liked to hear what the 
pig ones wanted before spcak- 

II you of them, dearest mother, 
^y unrest has betrayed me, and 
^ you allow, 1 will bring the pe- 
Icrs immediately before you." 
piou hast done rightly, my 
■ter," said the queen, kissing 
Ps brow. " Thy trust excuses the 

able indiscretion of taking apa- 
a stranger's hand. We will 



together find out what the circumstarr- 
ces of the strangers are, and deal 
with the young artist accoi^ing to 
the truthfulness of his representa- 
tion." 

"The maid of her royal highness 
waits in the ante-room," said a maid 
to the queen. 

Eliza blushed. 

"The pointer stands on the ele- 
venth hour," whispered she. " The 
petitioners are certainly already in 
attendance, and, if you will allow it, 
I will command that they be con- 
ducted here." 

The queen consented. The prin- 
cess gave the necessary command, 
and in a short time a lady, dressed 
in mourning, entered the room. She 
seemed astonished at finding herself 
in the presence of the queen ; but 
this circumstance failed to deprive 
her of the security of carriage which 
immediately betrayed her acquain- 
tance with life of the highest stand, 
although her dress belonged to a 
time long past. Her noble, ex- 
pressive countenance betrayed her 
great age, but the firm, erect gait al- 
most denied the white hairs which 
spread out thiniy under the black 
veil. With the usual bow, the ma- 
tron approached the queen, kissed, 
before she could prevent if, the hem 
of her robe, then arose, and spolce 
with a voice filled with emotion : 

" Your majesty sees before you a 
woman who has had the misfortune 
to become gray under sorrow, and 
older than her years would speak. 
Unjust fate has finally overcome my 
pride, and now when I have lost all 
except two hearts which love me, I 
pray only for the favor to be allowed 
to die within the borders of this 
kingdom. The making of a new 
throne could not so rejoice your il- 
lustrious husband as a grave in this 
land would rejoice me." 

" Madame," replied the <^«w,'isr 



J 



65< 



Forget-Mc-Not, 



tonished and overcome by the weary- 
sadness in the suppliant's voice, "be- 
fore yoy speak further, who are you ? 
Your name ?" 

At this moment the tapestry door 
opened, through which the king was 
accustomed to enter, and the mon- 
arch appeared suddenly before the 
women. The queen and Eliza were 
silent in terror. The stranger look- 
ed him fearlessly in the eyes. His 
•wrathful look fell only on her. With 
a curious mixture of hardness, aston- 
ishment, and anger, he finally broke 
out into the words : 

" Whom do I see here ? What is 
passing here ? How did you come 
into this room, Frau von Albo ?"' 

" Albo !" cried the queen, and 
threw herself upon the arm of her 
trembling daughter. 

" You have not forgotten me, sire I" 
answered the lady, earnestly and 
firmly. " For many years I have been 
unaccustomed to this name, and just 
here where it is proscribed I hear it 
again. Your presence, sire, decides 
my fate, which I would have intrusted 
to friendly hands. Unjustly banish- 
ed from your state, I know only too 
well that I stand before you now as 
a criminal. I have stepped over the 
ban, and death is my fate. Dispose 
of this gray head as you will, only 
pfotect my grand-daughters, my king ! 
Their mother has departed. They 
do not bear the hated name of Albo. 
Let them live in the home of their 
mother, to plant flowers on mine and 
their uncle's grave." 

For a long lime the king made no 
reply, but his expression was dark 
and menacing. 

" I am no tyTant who thirsts for 
your blood," said he finally, "but 
guilty you are. I must know how all 
this has come about." 

Eliza threw herself at her father's 
feet, and related to him what had 
happened. 



"Guido!" replied the kit^ 
pulled the bell, ^ this presutnf 
stranger shaJl answer to me oa I 
spot." 

The servant, who had cone,! 
ordered to bring the painter i 
dialely into the royal presence. 
lady appeared to hear nothing G^j 
that was passing. H*- eyes 
toward heaven and her Hps 
as if in prayer, she stood there 
separated from her surrouiidinpi 
belonging to another worfd. 
queen spoke conci! to 

husband, but his fc.-i: ^_ 
hard and dark. 

" Must pictures of a tat 
past swing for ever before me ?" 
mured he. " Must death resign I 
booty long due him in order lo I* 
ment me .' And what could hjiiei» 
duccd you, Frau von Albo, nov tm. 
you are on the verge of the gm^ 



toptf 



;cl : ! iii'.-tU 



and have lived so Iot: 
yourself into such a | 

" Age makes roe 
replied the baroness •: 
miserable in the Strang 
even at the price of my Uit.,s£i; cb« 
again the spot which bore me. It 
remains my fatherlaiid, in whoK 
bosom my bones would gladly fctt 
near those of my son," 

•' O sanctis.sima J" sang the two an- 
gel voices through tlic forekt, and t)» 
tones came through the open wiodov, 
and the king thought again of kit 
fatherland, and sighed deeply. 

At that moment thr p.'tinter Goidi 
entered, quickly :v v. "YcBI 

command, your t said be 

The baroness interrupted him witfc 
the words. " I have lust my pixf, 
most gracious prince, and I cooMiKBii 
to you the orphans whom I OMBI 
leave." 

*'That will God and the brut 
king's m;)gnanimity not allow,** l^ 
plied tlie betrayed, and went rcvcreBl- 
ly to the royal pair. " I aoi Pnoce 



Fofget-Me-Not 



651 



s," said he. " I wished to con- 
I myself, without being recog- 
l, whether the soul of the beau- 
princess, whose hand I wish to 
were like her rare charms. My 

has not deceived me, and my 
dence in your majesty's grace 
lurely be justified to the favor of 
wo innocent suppliants whom I 
nmend to your mercy." 
le queen bowed pleasantly to the 
e. Eliza, overcome by delighted 
ise, clung bashfully to her moth- 
The king reached his hand to 
irince and 'spoke with light re- 
:h. . . . 
'he young hero, who is so wel- 

to my court, had no need of 
nulation in order to call out my 
e. His word alone" .... 
lire 1" The prince interrupted 
" I flattered myself that the cir- 
tances themselves would speak 
: heart, of the wisest of kings more 
any word of the undistinguished 

who would consider himself 
^ if the ruler whom he so ad- 
i would allow him to become his 
nt and belong to his family." 
e ambition of the king was so 
red by these words from a de- 
lant of an old royal family that 
ith joyful pride, led the exultant 
> to Eliza, with the words, " My 
e, your bride." Turning toward 
>aroness, he spoke, " You have 
d yourself under the protection 
e queen. I will not have seen 
but a woman who conspires 
st me I will not endure in my 
lom. Go back. An amount 
lent to meet your expenses shall 
that I do not allow private ven- 
: to work against you — I cannot 
ore." 

Lway from the home I" cried 
von Albo sorrowfully; "no, no, 
! Be merciful, your majesty! 
/e never plotted against you. 
mother's heart commanded it- 



self. I have never cursed you. The 
calumniation of your dead chancellor 
ruined me and chased me into ban- 
ishment, and still I have never cursed 
you. Therefore show mercy. Do 
not keep an old woman in doubt 
My daughter found her grave in the 
waves. I cannot seek it out to die 
on it. The grave-mound of my sxm 
is in this land. I cannot leave it 
again. Keep the gift of your gra- 
ciousness, sire I Keep the property 
which was unjustly taken from us. 
Take my life. Take the last trea- 
sure, the legacy of my son ; only let 
me finish my days here where I was 
bom." In the outburst of feeling, the 
baroness had pulled a letter from 
her bosom, and with trembling hands 
handed it to the king. A few with- 
ered forget-me-nots, sprinkled with 
drops of blood, fell out on the floor. 
The king' and queen stood trembling, 
and " O sanctissima 1" sounded anew, 
blessing and entreating, through the 
silent grove. 

"Whence these wonderfully en- 
trancing tones of home ?" asked the 
king quickly. 

"Cremato's daughters it is," an- 
swered Prince Julius, "and here 
stands his mother. Albo's sister was 
Cremato's wife, and, shortly before his 
death, perished on a pleasure excur- 
sion near the coast. Grief for her loss 
hastened his death, and his family, 
to whom your majesty to-day prom- 
ised your protection, pray for a home 
in their fatherland. Shall they pray 
in vain ?" 

" Cremato the husband of your 
daughter?" asked the king, aston- 
ished. " Riddles multiply." 

" In our humiliation and poverty 
in a foreign land, the strange man 
found us," answered the lady. "Less 
love than the warmest thankfulness 
which we owed gave him my daugh- 
ter. God bless the noble man I" 

"God bless him I" mimV. ^vQIva 



I 
I 



I 
I 

I 



quickly. " He was nobler than even 
his family knew. I was his stu- 
dent. To me he disclosed himself. 
His conscience had compelled him 
to discover that plot. His feelings 
tortured him when he discovered 
tliat Albo's innocent family had, 
through calumniation, become en- 
tangled in the terrible affair. Unable 
to disarm the anger of the insulted 
monarch, he sought untiringly the 
helpless family ; found them, and 
compelled himself to take the yoke 
of marriage in order to become the 
protector of those whom he had un- 
designedly and unknowingly driven 
into ruin. The noble man kept his 
relations secret from the king, and 
left his court after he had proved 
that the hatred against the name of 
Albo was ineradicable. The king 
had never discovered that Cremato 
was his countr}-man. On his death- 
bed he confided to me his family and 
that picture which I have never seen. 
A picture which I finished after Cre 
mato's plan, and had exhibited, at- 
tracted the notice of the lord cham 
berlain, and brought me here more 
quickly. Cremato's remembrance ; 
tliat fatherland song that Cremato 
had taught his children ; the sight of 
this worthy matron, of the noble queen, 
and your angel daughter's entreaties, 
shall finally move the heart of the 
king ; and if I see rightly, if these be 
really tears which fill the eyes of the 
most noble-hearted monarch, then 
has my plan succeeded, and this 
night makes three happy." 

The king was silent, struggling with 
his emotion. All eyes were fixed on 
him. 

"Take up the flowers," said he. 
Then, deeply moved, to Albo's mo- 
ther : " I am not able to give you 
anjthing more precious, even when I 
return to you all the property that 
you have lost. Albo's, Cremato's mo- 
ther, be greeted I forget as 1 forget. 




The few days that rennb to yc 
be peaceful, and yoar ptaddM 
shall be my care." 

" Most noble king I" cried 
and fell on his breast, W 
daughter embraced hiiiL Tld 
ess folded her hands and piaj 
"Oh I see, my Albo, bow 
deems the past ! Oh ! fofg:\-e 
repentant, as I for^ve him !" 

As the king freed himself f 
embrace, two beautiful 
at his feet and moistenc 
with their tears. They 
to"s daughters. ** O sai 
he sighed, and sofiJy left 
hide his tears. i 

The monarch kept hia 
peace reigned in his kingdoi 
Cremato's picture he vents 
to look upon, and for long 
stood locked l>chind that 
The baroness had long since 
her grave, and her granddl 
were happy mothers by tbi 
firesides. 

A host of blooming grandc 
Eliza's and Sophia's sons, Usk 
the king himself a grandfa 
death came upon him 
warned him to quit the $i 
Joyfully he made himself 
willingly allowed the crot 
less to the dying, to glide' 
hands. Satistied with life, and 
ed to death, he asked calml) 
Cremato's picture. "I am s 
he said to the weeping wife. ll 
one enlnisted with that secret 
self in the arms of death, the i 
nance of the dead will no lonj 
rify me." The cover fell ; coun 
ly the king threw Iiis glance u{ 
glowing background, and the I 
transfiguration came over hi 
It was no ghastly figure of del 
cherub, beaming in beavenl] 
and glor>'. nodded from the] 
Ethereally be«uii£ed, Albo's 1 




" Cimturis Boohl 



653 



upon him ; the right hand of 
7el pointed above, and the left 
d out conciliatingly the wreath 
;et-me-nots, taken from the 
hair. 

work of the noble painter, a 
' his love for man and his trust 



in God, transformed the last strug- 
gle of the monarch to the gentlest 
peace. 

" Cremato 1 Albo !" stammered he, 
going smilingly. " Wife 1 Children I 
My people 1 farewell ! and thou, my 
fatherland, Foi^et me not I" 



"COUTURE'S BOOK." 



HAPS it would have been more 
ing to rule to have headed 
:icle, " Painting-Room Method 
onversations," which is the 
e author gives his work. But 
is invariably spoken of and 
t of as "Couture's Book," I 
jut followed in the wake of 
The fact is, this is no regu- 
»k ; it is but a series of printed 
so characteristic, so entirely 
d with the individuality of the 
that those who know him re- 
j his peculiar expressions, his 
icities of manner, and almost 
to see his familiar gestures 
li its pages. Therefore it 

perfectly natural to call it 
ure's Book." 

ture, as all those well know 
e at all familiar with modern 
I art, is one of those who has 
lost to raise and invigorate it 
eat picture, the Roman Or- 
in the principal room of the 
bourg, of which it is one of 
latest ornaments. It is not 
H'ince to criticise him as an 
others, far more capable, have 
I favorable verdict long since, 
rpose is to speak of his book, 

say something of the author 
ally, as the best means of un- 
iding it. 
us tenth chapter, M. Couture 



gives us an interesting glimpse of 
his early days, and of the gradual 
development of his powers. All 
through life, one of his most striking 
characteristics seems to have been 
his utter inability to learn by rule; 
as a child, he was looked upon as 
almost a dunce, and his elder brother, 
who, as he expresses it, was " nibbling 
at Latin," looked down upon him from 
his height. From his earliest years, 
however, he had the passion of re- 
production. Before he understood 
the use of pencils, he would cut out, 
with his mother's scissors, the out- 
lines of all he saw. Later, he became 
painter-in-ordinary to all the boys 
of the neighborhood, and, by the 
help of the little men and women 
he drew and painted, became rich 
in tops and marbles. But, when his 
father, a man of remarkable intelli- 
gence for his station in life, placed 
him with a drawing-master, the ** petit 
Thomas " could do nothing ; he did 
not understand his master's instruc- 
tibns ; he could not copy the models 
placed before him ; he longed for 
nature, and for liberty to imitate 
just what struck his fancy. The re- 
sult was, that the drawing-master, 
after a few months' trial, declared 
him to be wanting in ca|>acity, and 
he was taken away ! 
The child b father to the inu^^ «sA 



654 



" Couture' s Bookr 



all through life, the cause of nearly 
all his trials and disappointments, 
and perhaps, too, of his successes, 
has been this inability to subject 
himself to established rules. He en- 
tered the atelier of Gros, as student, 
and fell sick with disappointment 
when, on a certain occasion, spurred 
on by the master's encouragement and 
advice, he pro<iuced what he calls a 
most pitiable failure ; while, on the 
other hand, several of \fis attempts — 
the unaided works of luis own inspi- 
ration — excited great admiration, and 
turned the public attention on the 
young painter. Finally, he deter- 
mined to renounce master and rules, 
to trust to his own instinct, and to 
turn to public opinion for judgment. 
He succeeded ; the public recognized 
and appreciated him. Nevertheless, 
this same disregard for established 
criterions, for academic dignities, 
etc., has proved the source of much 
annoyance to him ; and, for some 
years past, M. Couture has refused 
to exhibit, or to bring himself for- 
ward in any way, as an artist. Aban- 
doning himself to the joys and cares 
of a happy home-circle, enjoying his 
modest fortune as only a man who 
has known poverty, and has fought 
hard against it for nearly thirty 
years can, he lets people say what 
they will of him, and, with sturdy 
independence, works when he likes, 
and at what he likes. Of course, all 
sorts of reports circulate about him, 
and 'I have been told more than 
once, " Oh ! as for Couture, he is 
dead ; he can produce notliing 
more." 

Not long ago, an artist, a firm 
friend of M. Couture, took me to 
see him. We were told by the 
condfrge that monsieur was at home, 
au premier^ d droite. So au premier, 
d droite we went ; rang ; the door 
was opened by a respectable man- 
servant ; but just behind him was 



an extraordinary looking persoi 
it was M. Couture hiniself, 
with the curiosity of a cliild, wa 
to sec who was there. Ima 
figure scarcely five feet high, 
mensely fat — stout is not the worf— 
with a red scarf tied round the iiqc 
waist, the shirt-collar open, unl 
metled by any vestige of a 
and luxuriating in a. sort of 
wool fen jacket. There he 
shaking his friend's hand, sl.ipp«5^ 
him on the back, a hearty, kiodh. 
puffing, panting engine of hunuailf 
When I heard him talk, howni 
forgot his unpoelic exterior; 
flashing eye, the wonderful 
of mimickr)', the modulating of 
voice, fascinated me. I have 
many good actors, but nODC vfts 
possessed the art of bringing ictaa, 
people, expressions, so complc 
before one, as M. Couture. 
thing he touches upon becoaies] 
picture, color and tnith crer 
This is eminently the case 
book ; he himself could 
taught tlirough pictures — brougtit 
his mind by the colors of the paint 
the words of a writer, or the 
nies of the musician ; through 
lures he instructs others. 

But to return to my visit 
were hospitably dragged into his < 
a simple room joining the 
with no pretensions of being a stodid 
about it. There wa* a picture on thf 
easel, casts and • 'tcrc<l 

around, an admir. , ,ij' his 

father, for whom he had an unboami- 
ed admiration, and a charming UtlW 
flower-piece which was tb« botiquet 
he presented to his wife on her I 
day ; a few flowers in a glass^ 
ing more, but these few flowen»i 
the dewy softness and fragraaos 
nature about them, rc%'ealed the \ 
ter's hand to me, as clearly as 
more pretentious picture on wluckl 
was then working. 



" Couture s Book." 



655 



fou have read my book, they tell 

II 

Ifes, M. Couture, and I admire 
|r it is so simple, so easy to be 
stood." 

seemed to please him. 

I find I have allowed myself 
sip on, and have not given you 

any of those foretastes of the 
[which I promised myself should 

staple of this article. I want, 
se foretastes, to interest Ame- 

in this work which, by the 
Je wisdom of its maxims, the re- 
if thirty years' work and expe- 
p, is eminently fitted to be a 
I to young artists. Then, too, 
ledicated to ,\merica. M. Cou- 
bas a real sympathy and admi- 

for our vigorous, ever-grow- 
Jiintry. Some of his favorite 

were Americans, and of late 

most of the pictures which 
ticft his easel have been pur- 

by our wealthy countrymen. 
)ot resist the temptation of tell- 
an anecdote apropos, which 
ird from a reliable source, and 
I is ver>' characteristic : 
Kew York amateur went to M. 
Hre, and bespoke a picture. But 
irtist was probably in a lazy 

tand the picture lagged. Some 
of the New York gentleman 
pd him tliat it was often years 
le Couture would finish a com- 
)n, as he never worked unless 
icy took him. 
It," added one of them, " he is 
Jy honorable man; attack him 
'that point, and you will have 
picture." 
le amateur, writing a very po- 
>le to the artist, enclosed the 
reed upon as the price of the 

)re long, panting and puffing 
the unusual exertion, Couture 
to tlie gentleman's apart- 



ments, exclaiming, as soon as he 
could get breath : 

" But you other Americans, you 
are a people of very singular cus- 
toms ! Here; what for you send me 
the pay before you get the picture .*" 

** O M. Couture! I have such per- 
fect faith in your honor." 

The artist stopped, seemed to 
think it over a few moments, then 
exclaimed: 

" You shall have it, your picture !" 

Accordingly, shortly after, the pic- 
ture was finished and delivered. 

In his original -and clever introduc- 
tion he says : 

'* I am an unlearned man; I know 
nothing ; having had no instruction, 
I feel that I can inspire sympathy, 
only by a profound sincerity. Can 
a man, owing what he has only to his 
battle of life, his observations, and 
the shreds of knowledge and glimp- 
ses of books which came to him like 
real godsends, inspire interest 'i I 
doubt it, and I am even pretty sure 
that many people will find it prepxjs- 
terous that one should dare to write 
a book without having gone though 
the necessary studies. To these per- 
sons I will answer by my book it- 
self wherein I try to prove that in 
everything a simple, sincere expres- 
sion of sentiment is preferable to a 
learned expression thereof; for this 
plain reason, that men,getting their in- 
struction through books are apt to for- 
get, in the multiplicity of documents 
which absorb them, the good, and 
true road — nature; to such I will 
say, ' You have the university on 
your side; well, as for me, I have ray 
God, and do not fear you.' . . . 

" It would be well, I think, to reas- 
sure the bumble. Therefore, I say, 
have faith in your soul; follow your 
God who is within you, express what 
he inspires, and do not fear to op* 
pose your divine lights to the horrUi 



656 



*" Couture s Book!" 



ble Chinese lantems of the univer- 
sity. Enlighten and guide in your 
turn those who would restrain you 
by ridicule. 

" If you are a farmer, speak of the 
products of the earth; if you are a 
business man, speak of that business 
which you understand; if you are an 
artist, speak of your art. Do not 
fear the inelegance of your lang\iage; 
it will always be excellent. Wliat- 
ever you may say, you who under- 
derstand that of which you speak, 
you can never express yourself more 
foolishly than those who make an 
art of words. . . . 

" I compare myself, in my literarj' 
mishaps, to a man surprised in a 
storm. He seeks a refuge to save 
the brightness of his boots; but the 
hour of rendezvous is close at hand, 
and it still pours. He makes a dash, 
keeping close to the houses; the rain 
redoubles its fur)% and he is glad to 
find shelter under a porU-iochire. 
There he stoops and examines him- 
self; his boots have lost their lustre, 
his pantaloons are covered with mud; 
a porter, companion of his misfor- 
tune, has wiped the load of vegeta- 
bles he carried, on his back. The ir- 
reproachableness of his attire is gone; 
he need no longer protect it; he ac- 
cepts his fate bravely, and ceases to 
concern himself. He starts with a 
firm, grave step, and, as a first suc- 
cess, obtains the admiration of others 
less brave. Encouraged in his new 
resolution, he walks on unheeding 
the water which rises above the an- 
kle; he comes to a torrent; he throws 
himself in without hesitation, and 
swimming, reaches the other side; 
another step, and he pulls the door- 
bell. The door opens. What a tri- 
umph I Misfortune has crowned him 
with her poetic charms. He is sur- 
rounded, cared for, and soon finds 
himself clad in comfortable clothes, 
with his feet in the host's slippers; 



he enlivens the g;uest8 vith tktf 
tal of his Odyssey. 

" This is my portrait, dear 
all bespattered with ink, I cometo^ 
you to take me in. 

" Let us return now to that 
has given me courage to write. 

" 1 received my second lessoD 
the greatest writer of the age. 
dame George Sand was good 
to give me a seat in her box, to 
the Champ L You know that ia 
charming play, a young loi-er 
to speak too well to her he 
he has prepared his discourse 
such care, and has so maoT 
things to say, th.it. when the 
moment comes, all his ideasi 

extricably mixed ; the l_ ,_ 

perceives that he is talking very bai 
ly and that his defeat is owin; M 
his unlucky head ; fortunately fc» 
him, however, his heart is on fat 
and will beheani ; then hespoksfl 
he feels, and you know if he «peib 
well !" 

So much for the introduction ; 
let us turn to the real object of 
book — artistic instnictJon. ! 
sure all those who ha- 
culties to beundcrgrni. 
ners in art, will feel grateful to 
Couture for the simple, conci 
in which he explains what 
rience of many years has taught 
They will obsen'c how carcfiiUr 
avoids any fine phrases which s«i» 
to say much, and which in ttrjlitjr 
merely serve to bewilder the stodeit 
Listen to what he says of 

ELEMENTARY DRAWtm;. 

" What is to be done hi onkr tfl 
draw well ? 

" Place yourself in front of tlieob 
ject to be represented ; have foal 
tools, which must be kept aeal la^ 
clean ; look at what you sec witb 



<ab 

I 





"C(mture*s Book.'' 



6$7 



greater attention than at your 
reproduction of it ; keep — ^par- 
my arithmetic — three quarters 
1 eye for the model, and one 
er for the drawing, 
lommence your drawing from a 
distance, compare those which 
tr, making them subservient to 
rst 

stablish either an imaginary or 
1 horizontal and perpendicular 
efore the objects to be represen- 
this means is an excellent guide 
i should always be adhered 

/hen, by slight indications, you 
determined, established your 
5, look at nature with your eyes 
losed. This manner of looking 
ifies objects ; details disappear; 
h^n perceive nothing but the 
divisions of light and shade, 
establish your masses ; when 
are correctly placed, open your 
;ompletely, and add the details, 
ith great moderation. 
Stablish what I call dominants 
lur lights and shades. Look at 
nodel attentively, and ask your- 
rhich is its strongest light, and 
it on your drawing there, where 
n nature ; as, by this means you 
iish a dominant, you must of 
e, not exceed it ; all other lights 
be subordinate to it. The 
thing must be said, the same 
lation must be made, for the 
»ws ; rub in your strongest vigor, 
most intense black ; then use it 
guide, a diapason, in order to 
he value of your different sha- 
and half-tints." 

thing can be more to the point, 
simple than this, and surely 
outure exemplifies what he says 
s introduction: that what is 
wrongly, and understood clearly, 
le expressed with equal strength 
:Ieamess. He goes on to say 
regard to 
•^ vi.-4a 



ELEMENTARY PRINCIPLES OF DRAW- 
ING FROM NATURE. 

"You will only be able to copy 
the mobile objects of nature, when 
you are very certain of finding your 
places with rapidity ; the means are 
always the same, but their applica- 
tion is more difiicult. Therefore 
constant practice is necessary. A 
musician would say to you. Scales, 
more scales I and I say to you, 
Draw, draw incessantly ! Draw from 
morning to night, in order to exer- 
cise your eye, and to acquire a stea- 
dy hand." 

The practical part of his book, 
M. Couture enlivens and illustrates 
by anecdotes taken from his own 
experience; these are the pictures 
by which, principally, he seeks to con- 
vey instruction. I will translate one 
of them for you : 

" A young German entered my 
atelier to perfect himself, as he said, 
in his art ; he made, as a beginning, 
a drawing which showed much tech- 
nical ability. 

" I complimented him on his clever- 
ness, but at the same time told him 
that he had not copied his model 
faithfully, and that it would give me 
gfreat pleasure to see his talent dedi- 
cated to the service of nature. 

" * But indeed, sir,' said the young 
man, ' I assure you that I copied with 
the greatest exactitude.' 

" ' You think so ; did you look at 
your model very attentively ?' 

" ' Yes, sir, I did.' 

" ' It may be so,* and while talking, 
I turned his drawing around. 'With 
whom did you study in Germany ?* 

" The conversation continued — 
then looking at the model who was 
standing, I said to him : 

"'That is a superb model of yours ; 
beautiful form, fine color, is it not so, 
what think you Y 

*" Yes, sir.' 



6s8 



Couture s Bookl 



" ' See now, how the light inundates 
the chest ; evidently that is the most 
luminous part of the body.' 
" ' Yes, sir/ 

" ' Are you certain of it V 
"'Yes, sir.' 
" * Then show me.' 
" ' See,' said he showing me the 
part where the light struck most for- 
cibly ; * it is evidently there, that the 
most brilliant spot is found.' 

" ' I am wiUing to believe, and per- 
ceive with pleasure, that to a skilful 
hand you join a sound judgment. 
Decidedly you have a delicate per- 
ception of the value of light and 
shade ; you will be able to render 
me great services. Let us see now, 
which is the most lummous point in 
your drawing.' 

" Not seeing my purpose, he re- 
plied with great naivete that it was 
found on the knee. 
" ' It is not possible.' 
" ' Yes, sir; permit me to observe 
to you that if one were to compare 
that light to the other lights of the 
drawing, this one would be found to 
be decidedly the brightest.' 

" ' Very well, then ; why is your 
light not placed as it is in nature ? 
You see very clearly that it is found 
on the chest, and you jjut it on the 
knee ; why not on the heel ? And 
you will tell me that you copy your 
model faithfully ! You will allow me 
to tell you that you have paid no at- 
tention to your difterences of light. 
. . Very well ; one may easily make 
mistakes;' and I once more turned 
his drawing around. ' You have great 
painters in Germany. Qvcrbeck, 
Cornelius, Kaulbach, all have talent 
of a high order. . . Oh! just see 
how, at this moment, the model is well 
lighted; what brightness; what vigor 
in the shadows ! See that hair; it is 
like velvet, and the shadows of the 
head, how transparent and strong; it 
reminds one of Titian •, do you not 



think so? the crisping hair, i 
blood rijiing to the head Andj 
throat; all this is splendid to 
and is of far ^cater importaacei 
all the rest What think yoa* 
pose we turn your drawing to 
you have rendered the effect wtl 
just been admiring. Let u 
Why, it is singular ; you have i 
ten that too !' 

" * Yes, sir. I see it nonr.' 
" ' You see your head b 
and gives the idea of papkr-i 
you have the same fault in yowj 
dows as in your lights. 
In your work you compared 
thing; absorbed by details, 70a ! 
them only; drawing small partk] 
forgot the rest, and went oaf ~ 



OCCUrATlONS OF A VOt'NG 

OUTSIDE or MIS ART.^ 

"'You know it now; yoo ar 
to draw morning, noon, and &i(k; 
you have to bedaub a great M«; 
canvases, to use up a gT«at oaj 
colors, and that for a long tiot 
'l*hese e-\ercises, these gymnasdd 
not being very fatiguing, yoo cai 
make good use of this period, to i» 
prove j-our mind with reading goei 
books ; the old classics, and o« 
French classics too, it is well \o slu 
dy. But for you, artist, there are 
certain authors which I wish to poet 
out to you, and which you will fiod 
of great use. Homer, Virgil, Sfcaie 
speare, Molibre, Cer>'anto<, Rott»eJR 
Bemardin de Satnte Pierrt!. 

" In the first three, you » 01 find 
grand lessons, useful to 
Homer gives us primitive »imj 
Virgil, rhythm ; Shakespeare, | 
Molitre, too, will make you ua 
stand how you may ally fine lar 
beauty of fonn, to the cxprcsuoB ' 
truth. 

" Read a great deal ; absorb mackj 




' Keep good company, and fre- 

luent especially the society of young 

len already advanced in art. 

" Abox'e all, beware of wanting to 

»ar more than you really are ; 

especially of using the senti- 

I of others, instead of your own ; 

sre is ruin ; there, is darkness. 

re to be yourself: there is light. 

^ptnily Chri.stian ; soften your 

above alt, be humble ; in the 

~krt of painting, humility is your great- 

5t strength. 

Being prepared by excellent 

iding, give your studies a good 

action. Be careful to avoid ugli- 

" You should always carry about 

ith you a small sketch-book, and 

jh in, with a few lines, the beau- 

which impress you ; any striking 

fects, natural poses, etc. Do not 

St to make yourself ant, bee ; 

indefatigably, and make for 

surself, as soon as possible, a trea- 

ire-house of abundance. E.xercise 

jurself early in composition, but al- 

with elements gathered from 

rown experience. 

" Form the habit of absolute 

ith." . . . - 

Notice how in the foregoing admi- 
ible passages, the author inculcates 
je spirit of truth, as the fundamen- 
tal principle of all art. This has 
>roved the secret of his own success ; 
honest, child-like faith in nature, 
id his simple earnestness in copy- 
ing it, are noticeable in all his works. 
It would be well if our young artists 
took this lesson to heart We have 
lent in our country, great talent 
i^en ; but it has no stamp of indivi- 
duality ; it imitates, it is half afraid 
of being original, therefore it stops 
short of greatness. This perhaps 




[ too! 



painting, and plausible excuses are 
to be found for it ; we are a young 
nation, composed of heterogeneous 
elements ; this is true, but we shall 
not thoroughly command the respect 
of the nations, and lake our proper 
place among ihem, until, as they say 
of young folks, our character is more 
formed. Then we shall see more 
earnest truthfulness in everj'thing. 
Art will take shape and consistency, 
and we shall hear people talk of the 
American school as an established 
fact, like those of France, Belgium, 
England, etc. This exposition year 
has naturally been one of comparison. 
It is a grand thought to have all the 
schools brought together, to compete 
for superiority. Our place in the 
huge building is a small one, and 
though there are clever pictures in 
the American art department, yet 
we shall have to make immense pro- 
gress, before we conquer a place by 
the side of the French and Belgians. 
But our time will come, I feel confi- 
dent. 

But I must interrupt my patriotic 
prophecies, and let you enjoy, as I 
did, this anecdote of B^ranger. I 
select it from others, for 1 thought it 
would be interesting, both as giving 
an insight into the artist's theory, 
and as affording a life-like glimpse 
of a great poet. Couture relates it 
^ propos to his remarks on portrait- 
painting ; of the necessity under 
which the artist labors, of being two 
men in one ; of amusing, enlivening 
his sitter, of bringing out his best ex- 
pression, so that the light of the in- 
ner man may shine through the fea- 
tures j and at the same time of being 
the artist, watchful, eager, earnest, 
with his mind intent on his work ; 
catching the gleams of intelligence 
he evokes, and transfixing them to 
the canvas. 

There are but few who possess 
this quality. 



66o 



" Couture 5 Book: 



BERANCER. 

" I was urged to paint a portrait of 
B«franger. This I did not care to do. 
I had a great admiration for his ta- 
lent and for his character ; I feared 
that seeing him, becoming acquaint- 
ed with his person, might lower the 
ideal I had formed of him. . . . 

"At last a charming letter from 

, Madame Sand, which was to serve 

as an introduction, decides me ; I 

start, and soon find myself in Rue 

d'Enfer. 

" I ask the concifrge for M. Bt^ran- 
ger. 'The right-hand staircase, there, 
in the court.' I direct my steps to- 
ward said staircase, ascend ; before 
long I am stopped by a door \ I 
knock. Shuffling steps are heard, 
an old man appears, wrapi^ed in a 
gray dressing-gown made of some 
common sttiff. 

"'M. B^ranger?' 

" ' I am he.' 

"While answering, he held his door 
tight, leaving but a small opening. 

«' 'What do you want?' 

" It would have been easy to 
present my letter of introduction ; 
but I had had the evil thought to 
keep it. It was a precious auto- 
graph, signed with a very celebrated 
name. In it, it is true, I was Judged 
in terms far too flattering, but one 
willingly abides by such kindly exag- 
erations. In it too, my favorite poet 
was spoken of — the temptation was 
too strong to be resisted. I began 
to expiate my fault ; I stammered a 
few words ; I showed the paper and 
crayon which I had brought with 
which to make my drawing, for it 
was necessarj' to add action to words» 
so hostile was the aspect of the 
great man . . . alas ! my defeat was 
complete, the door was closing. . . . 

" ' No sir,' he said, ' it is disagreea- 
ble to me ; there are many portraits 
of me : among the number some arc 



excellent ; make use of these 
traits, and leave me in peace' 

•' Once more the door seemed 
the point of being shut ; all was 

" * Well. M. Be'ranger, 1 oal» 
what 1 deserve, for I have been pA 
ty of a bad action ; I was to 
given you a letter ; I kept it 
thought, so great was my 
that I could preserit mj-selfwhi 
its aid, and commit this petty th(& 
I am punished, and it is but just' 

" I turned to go, covered with cm- 
fusion and shame ; the door o)xa&. 

" ' What is your name ?' 

" I turned to answer him. 

" ' My name is Couture.* 

" ' You are not Couture who pah*- 
ed the Dkadetta dts Rimtahu f 

" ' Yes, sir.' 

" I felt myself seized by my wairt- 
coat, pulled in violently, then I beanl 
the terrible door close ; but this tine 
I was inside, pushed up against (k( 
wall of the entry. 

" ' You Couture ? is it pcx^stble) 
you so young ; why, what was I aboA 
to do — I was going to shut the door 
in your face !* 

" ' It was already done, M, U^nut- 
ger.' 

" ' But don't you know that I adofc 
you? don't you know that it is one 
of the dreams of my old age to 
my portrait by you ? do 1 consent 
sit ? why, I am entirely at your d 
sition I' 

"Then, taking me by the hand, he 
presented me to bis venerable wif^ 
saying : 

" ' This is Couture, and I was o« 
the point of sending him about In 
business.' 

" I was deeply touched by this 
ception. When we were both 
what calmed, I told him that I 
make the drawing at his boose, 
I had brought all that was Rcccssafyi 
and that I should be happy to wflU^ 
him the trouble of comity to ne. 



tdofc 
\ ooe I 
ba«tj 




'ould listen to nothing, put him- 
entirely at my service, insisted 

I should name my own day and 

I; and at the appointed day and 

f he was at my room. 

I was no small affair, for an old 
I to come all the way from the 
►d'Enfer to the Barriere Blanche, 
R I then resided. He was very 
L and said to me with a benevo- 

mile; 

'Dear child, for any other hut 
. . . But come, where shall I 
myself? what if I were to take 

e nap ? — for I have come a very 

way.' 

! pulled up an arm-chair; he sat 
% and soon fell asleep. . . . 

■ walked about my painting- 

■ on tiptoe, for fear of waking 
R then I came near him to exam- 

!m as he slept. He had a vast 
1 ; by its size, by its form, it was 
to guess the greatness of the 
. The lower part of the face, 
Ver, seemed out of harmony 
the upper. . . . 
ly task was becoming difficult ; 
nain true to simple reality, to give 
fe public the image of an intelli- 
e in its decline, was not what I 
id. What should I do ? I was 
Dg these reflections when he 
), I looked at him for some 
Ifixedly, and I saw hts eyelids 
iem.selves one after the other, and 
fall again over his eyes. . . . 
lowever, let us not despair ; 
>s try; . . . this was mv 
od. 

'Monsieur de B^ranger, are you 
iainted with that new air com- 
d for your /'/>/« CaporalP 
No,' said he, 'some fellows came 
Ig it to me ; there were several 
tm ; they said they had brought 
kno in a carriage. .\s I chose 
rs myself, and I doubt whe- 
thers can choose better than I, 
not wish to encourage these 



encroachments on my work. There- 
fore I refused to receive them.' 

" ' Oh ! I know how you refuse like 
favors t Well, allow me to tell you ihat 
you were in the wrong, for the air 
composed for the thing seems to me 
more dramatic than the one you 
chose ; since circumstances are fa- 
vorable to it, and that it need not 
disturb you, I will sing you the 
Viettx caporal.^ And I sang. 

" ' Yes, you are right, it is very well ; 
sing me the second verse. . . Why, 
it is charming ; sing it all to me ; I 
like to hear you sing.' 

" At the end of the song, his face 
had changed its character; his eye- 
lids were sustained, and let me see 
his bright eyes, which seemed to be the 
light of that fine mind. I kept him 
in this atmosphere which made him 
young again ; I made him live in the 
past ; I spoke to him of Manuel, his 
friend. .'\h ! then, it was a veritable 
resurrection. We were then in 1850, 
but through the enchantment of me- 
mory, he returned to the struggles of 
the Restoration of 1820, thirty years' 
difference ; well, I saw them disap- 
pear as by magic. I saw this genius 
revive ! He would get up, walk 
about, come back to his seat, speak- 
ing of them, of the two hundred and 
twenty-one, as though they were still 
there ; the arrows of Charles X., the 
aim reached, the plaudits of the 
crowds — he seemed to hear it all. 
B«5ranger was before me. All I had to 
do was to copy. . . . 

" I have not been able to resist the 
temptation of relating an anecdote, 
doubtless too flattering for me ; but 
on reflection, I have been so tor- 
mented by fools, that it is excusable 
in me to take comfort in the praises 
of a great mind." 

Now let us turn once more to 
some of his practical instructions. Of 
color he speaks thus : 

" It roust not be iUom^\vV SJcvitWc. 




who reproduces color exactly is a 
colorist. 

" Like the true draughtsman, the 
true colorist purifies, embellishes. 

" If he is a true artist, he will bring 
in his coloring all tlie laws of art : 
Discrimination, development, ideali- 
zation. 

** I cannot help thinking of our critics 
who, in llieir innocence, always make 
sharply defined divisions of colorists 
and draughtsmen ; being persuaded 
that a draughtsman cannot be a color- 
ist, and that a colorist can never be 
a draughtsman. They carr)' this so 
far that when a picture seems to 
them detestable in color, they feel 
compelled to find great qualities of 
wing in it ; but if, on the contrary-, 

work is presented, with incontesta 
ble beauties of drawing, it is neces- 
sary, and you will never be able to 
convince them of the contrar)', that 
the picture should be wanting in 
color. 

"They do not know that all is in all, 
and that the value of execution in a 
picture is in just proportion with its 
conception. 

" With great artists, there is a cer- 
tain choice, an impulse toward a par- 
ticular beauty which captivates tlicm ; 
like real lovers, they sacrifice every 
thing to their passion ; but, understand 
it well ; sacrifice is not abandonment 

" With great masters, such as Ra- 
phael, Poussin, the absence of color- 
ing is a voluntary surrender ; besides, 
they have a coloring peculiar to them- 
selves, and of a superior order. , . . 

" Now, let us turn toward the color- 
ists. Rubens presents himself as 
their king ; but king though he be, 
he is not the equal of Raphael, who 
b a veritable angel." 

In their compositions, Couture 
would have his disciples follow na- 
ture, and the instincts of their owu 
hearts. He wages war against what 
Jie calls dead art, as seen in the 



works of certain French attic 
tried to imitate the Greeks exc 
ly. As he strongly expresses i 
disinterred a dead body, and 
nized it to give it the appe«raiKX 
He would have the pleasing 
of common life represented and 
ualized ; nature, in her dewy 
ning aspect, studied and loaed 
says to them : " Be French, be 
otic, be of your own times ; a 
strong, healthy, inodcm schoc 
not imitate the Greeks ; becom 
equals." It must not be though 
this that the antique is not i 
ciated ; on the contraty, the" 
artist is urged, after he has 
comparatively skilled in dni 
not before — to study the antiq 
seriously, and to take it as 
variable basis of all his worksq 
what Couture urges princtp 
originality and truthfulness. 
pressing the earnest studjr of I 
he says : 

"Love, that is the great 
love enlightens. We are oft 
prised at the tenderness of | 
for their children, and at tha 
ties which they see in thciM 
think they are mistaken, when 
we who are mistaken. 

" Read a book with 
ten lion ; look over the first 
skip twent)' pages, then forty ; 
to the conclusion at once. 
pleasure will you find in 
ing? You would i 

the audacity to ji; . 
you would surely wait until yo 
more familiar with iL 
when, with a good will, you 
by page, the work captivattj 
and you leave it only when tl 
ished ; then you say this wock, 
mirable 1 

" It will be the same with 
if you read it page by page. 

" I do not think I am mi 
when I say that wc are on til 



" Couture s Book." 



663 



ing French high art spring 
life. I see guarantees of it in 
turn of our young artists to 
; they are, if I may so express 
df, at the first stage of that road 
1 leads to the highest beauties." 
ftmewhere about the middle of 
K>ok, our original author stops 
I familiar chat, "between the 
'' as he calls it ; but, after a few 
B, the conversation gets more 
us again, and he gives a critique, 
R-haps, more properly speaking, 
Bsay, on various artists. After 
lering in the sixteenth century 
Jean Goujon — through the me- 
tof a marvellously learned coach- 
r-he comes back to modern 
I, and speaks of Ingres, Dela- 
, and Decamps. It is not my 
ince to question his opinion of 
\ artists ; my task is to give you 
irect idea of his manner of duing 
therefore, leaving the critic to be 
tised by his brother artists, which 
letty sure to happen, I choose 
pssay on the last named, De- 
ls, for translation. It gives a 
idea of his 5t)'le, and in it he 
Hit away his severity, and indul- 
t) genuine admiration, which is 
dnly plcasanter to listen to. 

> DECAMPS. 

iCt US now turn toward the light, 
rd the sunshine ; let us speak of 
ttnps — that abridgment of ail pic- 
que qualities. 

n the grasp of his genius, he 
Irises everything j he makes him- 
the echo of all. 

lis pictures speak to me of Sal- 
r, Teniers, Poussin, Titian, Rem- 
dt, Phidias .... they tell the 
• of cur world : infancy, old age, 
rty, sumptuous wealth, war in 
I horrors, smiling hills and dales, 
f villas. Here, the intimacy of 
torae-circle, there the tempests 



of the imagination. The Shakespeare 
of painters, he translates everything 
into an adorable language of his own ; 
he reminds one of the masters, with- 
out copying them ; he singjs of nature 
and exalts it ; everything with him 
becomes lovable, charming, or ter- 
rible J a mere nothing, a simple knife 
on a table, painted by this marvel- 
lous genius, will awaken in one's 
mind, a whole poem ; less still, a 
simple line, a dash of his pencil, is 
enchanting. 

" I had the happiness of seeing 
this great artist ; he was very simple. 
Living principally in the country, his 
dress was that of a somewhat care- 
less sportsman ; he was rather below 
the medium height ; his head had 
great delicacy of outline, and was of 
rather a ner\'ous character ; he was 
fair ; our sous stamped with the effigy 
of Napoleon III., when somewhat 
worn, remind one strikingly of De- 
camps. He was usually supposed 
to be a great sportsman ; but I, who 
knew him, and observed him with 
Ihe attention which my admiration of 
him inspired, noticed that his hunt- 
ing was a mere pretext I would 
often see him stop in a plain, lift his 
gun, take aim j one expected an ex- 
plosion ; not at all ; after a short 
pause, he would replace the gun on 
his shoulder, and go on his way, to 
recommence the same game a little 
later. He nearly always returned 
with an empty game-bag to the inn 
of the 'Great Conqueror,' in the lit- 
tle village of Verberie ; there he 
would take an old account-book, 
which he used as an album, and with 
whatever he happened to find, he 
would retrace the effects wliich he 
had observed during his pauses. I 
had several of these precious pages 
in my possession, but, unfortunately 
for me, they were stolen. 

" I remember also, that when we 
were conversing, after the evenitv^ 



A 



664 



" Coutun's Book" 



repast, he would roll little balls of 
bread in his fingers, then, with pieces 
of matches, which he added to his 
paste, kneaded in a peculiar manner, 
he would fashion charming little 
figures. I remember, in particular, 
a hunter followed by his dog ; the 
man seemed weighed down by the 
game he carried ; llie tired dog fol- 
lowed his master with drooping ears. 
It was charming: this extraordinary 
artist gave life to everything he 
toucbed. 

" He was fond of painting in the 
studios of his brother artists. It 
was at the room of a mutual friend 
that I saw him make the preparation 
of his beautiful picture, Cheveaux 
de Hallage, which is now at the 
Louvre. His sketch was reddish, 
solidly massed in ; he used a great 
deal of brown, red, and burnt sienna 
io his preparations. 

" He made a drawing before me, 
one day. The most adorable ass's 
head sprang into life from under his 
fingers. As soon as one of the crea- 
ture's cars was abandoned by the 
artist, it seemed to quiver with im- 
patience at having been restrained ; 
all appeared by degrees, progressive- 
ly and completely formed. I saw in 
their order of succession, a real head, 
a real neck, a real body covered with 
its roughened hair ] the good creature 
seemed to have a name, a real cha- 
racter; one might have written its 
history. 

" I have been talking of his amuse- 
ments ; but when he attempted high- 
er productions, when, for example, he 
created his ' Bataille des Cimbres ' 
— I speak of the large drawing, that 
in which an enormous chariot is 
dragged by oxen — what energy 1 what 
grandeur 1 Those men live j one 
shares their ardor, or their fears ; one 
wants to help, to push, to save the 
women and children. See them 
yonder : they come, they crush every- 



thing that comes in their way. 
a formidable mass! clouds of doti 
arise from under their horses' 
and go to join the clouds ta 
heavens, which are numerous^ 
armed for combat, like the 
that cover the earth. And up yomkr, 
do you see? No. Where? 'Iliae, 
no, still higher . . . that cloud df 
ravens . . . they await the end 
the day of slaughter. 

" It is no longer a drawing ; itl 
no longer a painting ; it is an VKt 
mated world which appears u If 
magic, transformed into woodras 
marble, gilded by the sun of Greeoe: 
One looks, admires ; one coines hack 
to it many times, without estt or 
ing ; one leaves so beautiful a tki^ 
Willi regret, to dream of it at nigiu' 

" I should like to be able lo talk 
to you of his Joseph, of SanpMB, 
of the Caf^ Turc, of ihc ^np% 
Cuisinicrs, of the Supplice de 
Crochets, and of all his ocberv 
ders J but that would lead me 
far; so, regretfully, I stop. 

" Decimps was oi an or^ganixat 
rare in the art of painting ; 
the power of giving ilie quaJil 
greatness to small pictures. 
might cite the small works of Rub 
and Rembrandt, and even of the 
great Italian painters ; but all tbcie 
geniuses seemed to grow less in pro- 
portion to tlie restricted dimeniioes 
of their canvases. But Decamps is 
as great in his small pictures 
his more important works. 

" I might hesitate to pi 
myself for or against certain ariistl»^ 
But, as for this one, I maintain tbU 
he will always keep a high place 
the art of painting." 

• • . • • • . 

In the foregoing selections I bnc 
endeavored to give some idea of the 
autlior's manner ; of his vigor, his 
clearness, his origirtality. With sQ 
its irregularity, tliis book is, I fedj 



" Couturis Book!* 



665 



sure, destined to take an important 
place in art-literature. As a hand- 
book of painting, it is most useful, 
and I trust soon to see a clear, 
truthilil translation make it familiar 
to our American public. I should 
like it to be in the hands of every 
art-student 

Good advice, critiques on various 
artists, critiques on the schools, fami- 
liar chit-chat, occasional reveries on 
nature, full of poetry, anecdotes — 
all thrown together with a certain 
picturesque confusion, warm from the 
author's heart and brain : such is 
tills book. It is a mirror of the man. 
Couture talks as he writes, and writes 
as he talks ; if other merits are de- 
nied it, it certainly has that of per- 
fect sincerity, and surely, in these 
days of artificiality, that is a great 
charm; so great a charm indeed, 
that many beside artists would find 
pleasure in reading it And now, 
trusting that I have said enough to 
arouse some curiosity and interest in 
this work, I will let the author say 
his 

FAREWELL 1 

** I have animated your courage ; 



your sympathy, I feel, increases my 
strength ; I have within me what it 
is well to possess — ^hope. Shall I 
live to see true French art bom into 
this world? ... I see it coming. 
Ah I how happy you are to be young I 
" Everything announces it to me, 
this art of which I dreamed; the 
indifference of the public for that 
which exists is a good sign ; why, 
indeed, should it, so fiiU of life, feel 
an interest in this painting, issued 
from the grave ? 

** Look around you, and produce 
pictures. As for me, I have followed 
the order of nature ; I have planted 
in you the good seed of truth; I 
doubt not but that it will germinate. 
By simplifying the means, by shield- 
ing yourself from the embarrassment 
of complications, you will do a use- 
ful underground burrowing. When 
the young shoot springs from the 
earth, cover it with a protecting 
mantle ; this shelter, this protection, 
this tutor, must be your instinct. 
Grow, become strong, cover yourself 
with leaves and fruits, and give re- 
freshment and shade." 




A TALE OP THE EARLY TIMES. 



Yes, long ago, about the year of 
grace 55, that is, about four years 
after the great apostle of the Gentiles 
had preached at Athens, a small but 
evidently a select band of worship- 
pers was pouring forth from a small 
temple on the banks of the Illissus, 
situated but a short distance from 
that renowned city. This temple 
was dedicated to the sacred nine 
who preside over art, science, music, 
poctr}-, and dancing. There had 
been a special festival that day, and 
numerous pleasing exhibitions had 
been brought before the gratified 
audience. The mystic dance of 
the sacred sisterhood had typified 
most gracefully the hannony and 
union that reign among the muses j 
and peace presiding, showed that un- 
der her mild rule alone, tlie harmo- 
nies of earth could work their glo- 
rious mission to civilize and cheer 
the drooping heart of man. No 
sacrifice of blood was here admitted, 
but music, choral song, and recita- 
tion ; poems, plays, and oratorical 
displays ; tablcau.x and dances, sym- 
bolized alike the worship rendered, 
and the honor due to the chaste and 
favored nine. Therefore was it, that 
the audience was so select The 
populace, which at that time consist- 
ed mainly of slaves, were for the 
most part too coarse and unrefined 
to appreciate the higher branches of 
the muses' lore, which were to-day 
brought forward : the games of the 
Saturnalia and the mysteries of Cy- 
bele were more in accordance with 
their taste, and, save tlic few slaves 



who attended on their mastc 
matter of state, or for the 
fashion, the spectators were d 
nified and refined aspect. 

The games or exhibition 
about to close ; a solemn d 
companied by song had proc 
the benefits to earth, which ( 
cred nine occasioned by tlicirpi 
rule ; and the last strophe ran 
effect : 



Here no iirifes must warm tf^ ' 

r..r lilt ni.i«-s' si.tct liAn.l 



iiitlr 



Where ihe iniiin' vxpixe nUe^ 
Skilful «n iiutnict* the litnil. 

Stnfr u buiiNhcil frum lh«iT •<h>«i^ 

CM«r)n; Chonl tislcrk. oitrrriKM 

SinK Ihe pnue Utnm^ 

For the miMet «ra inmtr 

Swell ili« AnUicn to * 

The song had ceased when 
denly, as the audience rose, ihh 
the performance concluded, a 
ing sweep of a lyre unseen arti 
their steps ; and a voice sweetcf 
clearer than any heard before 
out these words : 

The muse I a mytli ! b p— <d— jb 
Wilh earthly l^pca of iMl^ IMMK] 

Twa» bul a cloud — 1 1 fi x lin^. ttf. 
Rolling the h n ' -J »jH,,m 

And man'a a$r ko«l t 

Mar.'s *nul'< ^ earaa Id dM 

(I' ■ fcarth't 

cheladatto 



AkvAk*: I Ihe ildjr-mtar \% afiftea I 
No more thall crmr'a vcii tiMiecal 

I'he littlitHu, bnllianl, t^hi _ 
Now itreaminK, Ktory M impMI 
To vivify each hiimu kcMt. 



The crowd which had sudd 
paused, now wondered, and tui 
to every side to look for the si 
in vain ; the owner of that spl 
voice was not to be seen, aQ)* 



the player on the silver-toned 

i strange influence had passed 
t the throng, unawares : it was 
)ttd, awed, mesmerized as it were 
I another state of feeling. Exul- 
^n had passed away ; bewilder- 
% questioning followed. What 
jit mean ? mytli 1 truth ! glory I 
it philosophy ? was it poetry ? 
pd an oracle speak ? Man's soul 
jie I that was Platonisra ; but Pla- 
yschool, at its height some four 
Ired years previous, was now at a 
punt Many sects discussed and 
(Uted : but truth ? Truth seemed 
p: off as ever j or rather it scem- 
I plaything or a somethmg which 
\i used to sharpen their wits on, 
► they might display their argu- 
^tive skill, in the intellectual 
fi ; but for practical conclusions, 
[ real rule of life, which might be 
^as an everyday necessity, pooh I 
p3.s not to be tliought of ! 
he Grecian world, such of it as 
jfree, that is, not actually enslaved, 
pctually held as another man's 
^I, was speculative and fond of 
ilssion, but it does not appear 
these discussions did much in 
■rding the progress of truth 
|lg the majority of the population ; 
pat majority were slaves — slaves, 
I' for tlie most part in bondage 
tfhd as well as of body. The 
|t>' of manhood among these was 
Ipwn ; and the purity, beauty, 
uoveliness of woman were sacri- 
I remorselessly to tyranny of the 
k description. We can but shud- 
yi we recall doings even in the 
Best days of Grecian freedom, 
(which modesty compels the his- 
b to cast a veil ; for Grecian 
(em even then meant freedom to 
bf'.- the workers, the toiling mul- 
were slaves — slaves who, when 
numbers increased so as to 
their masters, might be sacri- 



ficed en masse, as was too often the 
case. They were slaves not only in 
bo<i\\ but in intelligence, for it was 
deemed dangerous to develop mind. 
Plato himself had been of this opi- 
nion, giving as his reason, " Lest they 
should learn to resist." 

Philosophy was made for the few, 
for the free only, because only the 
free could carry out in practice the 
truths of the soul's divinity which 
philosophy pointed to. 

The words which the poet Lucan 
puts into the mouth of Ccesar, had 
long been acted upon even by the 
"wise and good" of the pagan 
world, though they dared not so 
openly express it. " Hutnanum pau- 
cis vhit genus" (Lucan. Phar.) 
"The human race e.xists but for 
the few." The workers, (that is, the 
slaves,) in other words, the majority, 
were utterly incapable of being bene- 
fited by the teachings of the sages of 
ancient Greece, not only by position, 
but in consequence of the dulness 
of intellect which the long mainten- 
ance of that position had occasioned. 
Poetry and philosophy condemned 
them as beings of an inferior order. 
Homer says in his Odys, 17, "that 
Jupiter has deprived slaves of half 
their mind ;" and in Plato we find 
the following: " It is said that in the 
mind of slaves there is nothing sound 
or complete; and that a prudent man 
ought not to trust that class of per- 
sons." The consequence of this 
teaching wa.s, that they were held to 
be a mean race, little elevated above 
the brute, and bom for the conveni- 
ence of their masters, and subject to 
their caprices ; so the worship of the 
muses was, to them, with rare excep- 
tions, a thing out of the question. 
These rare exceptions <//</, however, 
exist, and produced anomalous posi- 
tions not always fruitful in moralit)-. 
The congregation of worshippers 
issuing from the temple of the vaw'aK.'^ 



Magas : or. Long Ago. 



was then compwsed almost entirely 
of the "fr<e" although some few of 
tlie slaves attended their masters for 
purposes of state or style. Among 
the throng were three young nobles 
thus attended ; and, as they issued 
from the edifice, they made their way 
to a grove in the rear, to which only 
a privileged few had access, and sta- 
tioning their attendants within call, 
yet at some little distance, they 
stretched themselves in the shade, 
and began to discuss the adventure. 
Their names were Magas, Critias, 
and Pierus. 

"The voice was heavenly," said 
Critias, " and the music faultless; but 
who could be the player, who the 
singer?" 

" Nay, surely the divine Euterpe, 
aided by the equally divine Erato," 
said Pierus ; '* who but a muse could 
thus conceal herself ?" 

"But," interposed Magas, "you 
forget that the muse would not pro- 
phesy her own overthrow. The 
words we heard to-day portended 
that the worship was to be supplan- 
ted by another of a higher kind; it 
pronounced the muse 'a myth,' a 
t^-pe of something unseen, unreal in 
herself, but pointing to a reality. 
Now, what can this be ?" 

" I know not," said Critias, " un- 
less it is also a revelation to make 
known the unknown, as that strange 
man said who preached here some 
four or five years ago ; his words 
made an impression on me which 
haunts me still." 

" What man t what did he say ?" 
asked I'icrus. 

'* His name was Paul," said Critias. 
" He was a small man ; a Jew of 
Tarsus, (think of a Jew pretending to 
philosophy !) He came here and 
preached at first in the streets ; then 
he was brought to the Areopagus; 
my father was one of the council, and 
he took me with him to hear what the 



new man would say. The 
thronged, but most of the 
took the matter lightly enoag! 
impression he made was on 
ly, the slaves. T' " ' 

to heart and //»//. -■ 
caught some of Iheru at timc^ 
ing them to each other, as 
were oracles. His ilieorj- 
made for them espiecially." 

" But what good will it do 
asked Pierus. 

"Or him who dares fomci 
tion among them?'* broke in 
" He and others of his iJk hai 
beware. I remember somet 
the circumstance since ya<a. 
it, but my father thoupfit it 
tempt to raise an insur 
the slaves. The pre... 
to take himself oft" 

" I do not see any bann 
do," said Critias. 

"Harm!" answered ^T 
Epicurean that you are, 
see harm till you hear ihc J 
on fire? I tell )*ou there is 
he preaches 'equality* to si 
what good can come of that ?" 

"What harm, rather? 
Tarlets know it for a f r 

are not the equals of til \.{ 

" They are not equal ; no, tin 
not equal," said Magas vchenM 
"and tlieymust never be permiG 
think they are. Their numbers \ 
give trouble to us if they iiii 
such an idea, while to them it i 
be of no real service. Tbey 
muscle, but not intellect. Set 
free, they would soon be at Ip 
heads among themselves," 

" Intellectual greatness," said 
tias, "is rare even among fncei 
but some slavi. ■ ' •.nifested 

there is no i:. in thai 

spect." 

" Some rare exceptions, per 
but that pro\'es nothiii^. Aris 
says, and truly : • The 



Bave are distinguished by nature 

jfes," said Pierus, " I remenmber 
iissage. He says, *If we compare 
woman, we find that the first 

srior, therefore he commands ; 

?inan is inferior, therefore she 
The same thing ought to 
ijplace among all men. Thus it 
|tt those among them who are as 
jor with respect to others as the 
lis with respect to the soul, and 
pimal to man ; those whose pow- 
(rincipally consist in the use of 
jiDdy, (the only service that can 
jftained from them,) they are na- 
fy slaves.' " 

Fhere can be no doubt about it," 
jjif agas. " The very bodies of the 
B are different from ours ; they 
itrong, muscular, and fitted for 
h ours are slimmer, more refin- 
pore sensitive." 

\ cannot see how you can build 
Jlgument on that," said Critias ; 
W grand philosopher, even while 
l^rts a different conformation of 
i to exist between the freeman 
jfce slave, admits that it some- 
i happens that to a fruiiman is 
|| the body of a slave, and to a 
I {he soul of a freeman. I have 
li found it so. I know some very 
(cable citizens; and I have found 
If^ noble sentiments in slaves." 
^ntiments," said Magas ; "what 
l^ss have slaves with senti- 
IB?" 

laughed, and said, " Slaves 
timent, and memory, and re- 

»n ; by whose permission I do 
hiow ; but how are you to get rid 
j? That is the question." 
They must be kept in their place 
bade to work," said Magas. 
|kit," said Pierus, " we are losing 
lof the question as to what the 
Knger intended to convey. Who 

Eink it was ?" 
follower of the Jew Paul : 




I know no other sect who would dare 
call the muse a myth." 

"I would give something to know 
what the Jewish fellow did say ; do 
you remember ?" asked Pierus. 

*' 1 tliink I can summon some one 
who does," And Critias called aloud 
to a slave, who drew near. 

" Merion, do you remember the 
Jew preacher ?" 

" I do, most honored master," 

" Do you remember what he said ?" 

" I have his words by heart, mas- 
ter," replied the slave. 

"By heart!" muttered Magas, "by 
Jove ; but, you ///'// worship the fel- 
low !" 

"Well," rejoined Critias, "and 
what did he say ?" 

The man addressed was a gray- 
headed, stolid looking person ; his 
intelligence on common matters was 
not deemed great ; he was, however, 
esteemed faithful, trustworthy, and 
affectionate, A sudden glow lighted 
up his features, as his master spoke 
to him, and he became animated 
with an expression that puzzled his 
hearers : he stood forth, threw out 
his right arm, and, in the altitude of 
an orator impressed with the dignity 
and importance of the subject, deli- 
vered word for word the speech made 
by the great apostle of the Gentiles 
in the hall of the Areopagus. 

" My masters," said the slave, 
"when the preacher Paul was brought 
to the court of the Areopagites, and 
questioned concerning the new doc- 
trine he was giving out to men, he 
stood in the midst of Mars' Hill and 
said : 

" ' Ye nien of Athens, I perceive 
that, in all things, ye are too super- 
stitious ; for as I passed by, and be- 
held your devotions, I beheld an 
altar with this inscription. To tlie 
unknown God ; whom therefore ye 
ignorantly worship, him declare I 
unto you. God that madt vVvf>«oT\^ 



f 



670 



Magas ; or. Long Ago, 



and all things therein, seeing he is 
Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth 
not in temples made with hands ; 
neither is worshipped with men's 
hands, as though he needed any- 
thing, seeing he giveth to all life and 
breath, and all things ; and hath 
made of one BLOonall nations of men 
for to dwell on all the face of the 
earth ; and hath determined the times 
appointed, and the bounds of their 
habitations ; that they should seek 
the Lord, if haply they might feel 
after him, and find him ; though he 
be not far from every one of us. 
For in him we live, and move, and 
have our being ; as certain also of 
your own poets have said. For wc 
are also his offspring.'" 

" Stop," said Magas ; '* where did 
you find that written ?" 

'' It was not written, noble sir ; it 
was iaid." returned the slax-e. 

" Said 1 five years ago, and you 
repeat it now, word for word like a 
task," said Magas; "did you hear it 
more than once ?" 

" Yes, sir ; some who can write, 
took it down, and read it to me more 
than once." 

" You cannot read ?" 

" I cannot." 

Magas frowned and rose to his 
feet. " A dangerous doctrine for our 
slaves to have by heart," he mutter- 
ed ; then turning to his companions 
he said, " Send the varlets home ; 
let us have our talk to ourselves." 

At a sign from the masters, the 
servitors left the premises, and Ma- 
gas resumed : " Do you leave that 
slave at large, Critias, with such a 
doctrine as that in his bosom ?" 

"And why not.'" asked Critias; 
"poor, harmless old Merion, the un- 
wearied attendant on my father's in- 
firmities \ his place could not be 
supplied in our household for his 
weight in gold." 

**■ You did not wei^ that speech 



then ; did not obsrrre its 4 

cies ?" 

"Well, yw, it is pretty 

enough, rhapsodicAl enough, b 
all rhapsody, harmless. 

" Harmless 1 Did you «a( 
other slaves as the old man 
up ; as he said : ' Alt mamkit 
ofone blood, all tl 'f* 

masttr as well as la 

these varlets understood it so. 
teaching a^ that must kindk 
mens hearts, must enpcodcf, 
lion. That one il vooi 

got that and mort ;t ; 

think it has no effect on him 

"No bad cfTect, at least; 
good and faithful servaat" 

"No bad effect! wlv -" 
not see that if cur > 
lieve they are of one bluuU » 
masters, that they are eqi 
offspring of God, they will 
assert their dignity? Then 
do the work ?" 

"You are troubling: 
unnecessarily, my dcai 
is no slave in our h 
works so well or so faii 
rion." 

" He's but biding his tiise, 
Magas ; " take care. The nuj 
being unlettered, got that doctr 
heart, did so because kr cktrisi 
made much of it ; he has f\ 
its meaning, depend upon it j 
the meaning to him must b^ 
dom." 

" You did not hear hira out.' 
Critias ; " he believes in a jad|| 
after death, which shall ri^ 
wrongs of earth ; the ibllovi^ 
this Jew have the oddest wrat 
the world. You know the Lad 
maris ?" \ 

Magas nodded assenr 

"Well," rejoined Crr \ 

heard her assert that ' ^ j 

sanctifying tcnden» ( 

means ; and they sij ^-, 



^ "i 



1. 



struct her slaves in this singular 
)phy ; she often works with 
and treats them as if they 
I poor relations she was bound 
well provided for. Strange ! 
?" 

Strange enough," said Magas, 
more dangerous than strange. 
^ woman must be looked to." 

Play, leave her to regulate her 
household," said Critias, laugh- 
" if you want to make war, try 
'skill with men. Tiiere's Diony- 
who deserted the Areopagus 

after that preacher was here ; 

jas freed some of his slaves, 

\t others to read, and teaches 
[new philosophy to all." 

'he man must be crazed," said 
bis ; •' thesQ strange notions must 
Vby revolutionising society if they 
[allowed to get to a head. They 
k be put a stop to. Whom shall 
have to work for us, when the 
1^ thinks himself as good as his 
iter?" 
!We will work for ourselves then," 

Critias. " And perhaps that 
Id not be so very hard, after all. 

le early days of the republic, 

jrefathers tilled their own fields ; 

were perhaps as happy as we 

JOW." 

Lre you also touched with this 
I?" asked Magas, stamping his 
' fiercely. ** I say the slaves are 
I by right of conquest ; and, for 

flory of my ancestral race, I'll 
my feet upon their necks." 

Is the Roman keeps his foot 

jrs, eh, Magas ? Could we rouse 
|»laves to noble deeds, through 
(working of noble thoughts, we 
Bt free our country yet" 
|agas looked gloomier yet 
iCome not upon that strain," said 
I, " we cannot overrule fate ! Ha I 
I was that ?" 
Twas a sweep of the same lute, 

rer chord of melody that caught 



his ear. Breathlessly the trio lis- 
tened, and soon these words pealed 
forth : 

He comes 1 He comesin cloucb offtlory I 

Hnste, oh '. luulc to meet thy God I 
AiigeK hymn the tlirilling storyi 

How on earth hU rooi!.te|M trod ; 
How those footfitepii, taint and weary, 

Tracked thy path, thy soul to Kive. 
Quit, oh ! quit kin'i path, so dreary, 

Plunge thee in the saving waves. 
Ransomed U thy lOut for ever, 

Ranaomed by hit pred<Mi blood. 
If bitt now from ftin thou sever, 

Qcansctl in the redeeming flood. 
Haste I oh haste ! he comes to save thes, 
Tbetk no more h^t sin eiulave thee I 

" 'Tis the same voice !" Why did 
Magas turn pale as he said so ? The 
trio separated to search the glades, 
the bushes, tlie thickets ; every nook 
and corner was probed in vain. The 
muse, mentor, genius, or spirit, what- 
ever it might be, was not to be found. 



CHAPTER II. 

" Chione I" 

" Magas !" 

••Have I found thee at last ?" 
. " Alas !" 

Chione covered her face with her 
hands, her bosom heaved, tears 
trickled through her fingers ; it was 
no gladsome greeting that she be- 
stowed on her lover, yet it was she 
who had sought this interview, or 
rather bad given opportunity for it, 
even while pretending to hide her- 
self, and to shun the meeting she 
sought. 

" A whole j-ear have you been in- 
visible, my Chione ; a whole year 
have I sought you in vain ; and, now 
that we meet, you do not throw your- 
self into my arms for very joy ; you 
turn away, and youi eyes are filled 
with tears!" 

"Alas!" 

" You are not glad to see me, Chi- 
one; you have lost yotir love for 
mel" 

" Oh ! would it were so, l<l*:syi2.\ 



J 



672 



Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



I 
I 



would that the sight of you did not 
move mc thus; would I had never 
known you ! Leave me, Magas !" 

"Leave you now when, after a 
year's search, I have found you ! Leave 
you I What is the meaning of this 
altered tone ? Are you no longer Chi- 
one ? Am I not Magas ?" 

" It is true," said Chione, in a 
very low voice ; " it is true I am the 
slave Chione." 

" The slave ! O Chione ! have I 
not promised you freedom if you but 
return my love ? Last year did I not 
bid you become to me what Aspasia 
was to Pericles — my oracle, my inspi- 
rer, my divinity ! and you left me ; 
and now that your glowing charms 
have become endued even with a 
higher lustre ; that your voice can at 
wll enkindle each noble emotion 
while it thrills the soul with ecstasy, 
now your empire over me is all but 
overpowering." 

" Yet you did not recognize me 
when I sang in the temple a week 
ago." 

" Not at first; the theme was so 
strange ; it troubled me. But at the 
first tone uttered in the grove I knew 
you ; I felt that you, and you only, 
could cause such a thrill as then agi- 
tated my whole being. O Chione! 
you were ever to me as the tenth 
muse. Say what has caused )-our 
absence ?" 

" Did you heed the words of the 
last hymn ?" 

"No, no. How should I ? I knew 
the voice, the voice of my own Chione, 
who had so long and so mysterious- 
ly disappeared, and I listened in the 
hope of discovering her retreat. I 
searched, but searched in vain; yet I 
felt sure it was to me she sang. Now 
tell me truly, did you not recognize 
me and address yourself to me ?" 

" Had you heard the words, you 
would not ha\e asked that question." 

" But I did not hear thera. Even 



of the first I heard nothing dist 
or at least, nothing that I could 1 
stand ; of the last, not a word ; 
the tones, the tones of my Chic 
singing as of yore lo enchant me ;i 
sounded like a wail for other dap; I 
promise, perhaps, for happier ones I 
come." 

" It was neither ; it was an taviti- 
tion to a higher life f" 

" A higher life ! Yes, a life 
love with thee, my Chione, A Hfel 
that sublime love where Cuptd 
honor to the muses, and becoacB" 
himself the inspirer of sacred song. 
Ves, thou wilt not deny it, tbo<^ 
for these eight days past, thou hut 
kept me on the search for thee. Tboo 
sawest me in the temple, and to mt 
were thy songs directed. I %xt% soR 
of it; for the serving rn . -vsar- 

ed me 'twas a full yec tboq 

hadst th}'5e1f ministered there, and 
none had seen thee since save the 
daughter of the philosopher of the 
day, save Lotis only I '-' ' r»o*- 

ledged the lute accoroj> , and 

that it was thy voice il agxuMttfocA- 
ed." 

"The traitress r 

" Nay, she was hard preaaed ; she 
could scarcely avoid the avoiraL But 
now, cease this dallying and confc 
the truth : was not thy song for xntT 

But Chione answered no mc 
Perhaps she was asking that questic 
of her own heart, and could not 
swer it. She leant against a tree 
the grove in which they were stasdrl 
ing and sobbed bitterly, but bo 
issued from her lips. At this 
ture a stately personage approached, 
whom Magas perceiving, saluted wit 
the respect due to his evident digni^ 
t)'. Chione, with her veil gathencd^ 
around her, had her featares tntn* 
toward the tTL it.ition 

ing itself, howt slight ct 

sions of her frame. The strai^prt''' 
paused, and looked from one U> llK 




s ; or, Long- Ago. 



673 



•r. Magas was evidently a stran- 

to him ; but when, surprised at 

sudden silence, the maiden for 

an instant changed her posture, and 

the stranger uttered, in amazement, 

■the name Chione, she started, gazed 

distractedly, and, in an instant, fled 

from the spot like an arrow shot from 

a bow, so swiftly did she disappear. 

j^^flagas would have followed ; but 

^B stranger, speaking in a courteous 

^Sne, yet with an authority he dared 

not disobey, inquired: "Is that 

young damsel of your kindred, my 

son?" 

** Not so, my lord," said Magas ; 
"I knew her a >'ear ago, when she 
ministered in the temple of the 
muses. Her ravishing voice then 
enkindled all hearts ; but she disap- 
peared suddenly, and to-day I first 
junter her after a long absence." 

'She is a slave, as perhaps you 

>w already." 

'She would adorn a diadem," 
crcely rejoined Magas. 

" I see how it is," softly rejoined 
the elder man j " beware, my son ; 
set not your heart on one beyond your 
reach. Gold cannot purchase Chione. 
You will find others as fair, others 
who will serve you more readily in 
that very temple from which Chione 
has been taken. Pursue not one 
who belongs to anotlicr master." 

" Who is her master now ?" asked 
Magas impetuously. 

" You must forgive me for not an- 
swering you," replied the sage ; 
*• in your present humor, it would 
but bring disorder to the state." 

" One word," said Magas, spring- 
ing forward so as to prevent the old 
man from departing ; " one word t 
la it yourself?" 

"It is not, my son," replied the 
other gently, as, slightly pushing by 
the young man, he left him with a 
passing salute. 

tagas remained rooted to the spot, 
l~ VI.-43 



knitting his brows and gnashing 
his teeth with vexation, "So near 
the goal of all my hopes, and so 
suddenly foiled ; but I will find her 
yet ; and if gold will buy her, 
well 1 if not, why, other means must 
be tried." 

It is no longer a grove yielding its 
pleasant shades in the sunny light 
of the beautiful climate of Greece ; 
it is no longer the impassioned tone 
of Magas pouring the honeyed tones 
of flattering love into her ear ; the 
slave is at the feet of her mistress, 
in the women's apartment of a small 
but elegantly adorned dwelling near 
unto the cit)% and again she is bathed 
in tears. Yet the voice in which 
she is addressed is more sorrowful 
than angry ; the tones are rather 
those of a grieving mother than of 
an enraged mistress. But there was 
a decision, a firmness in the voice 
that told the lady was not to be tri- 
fled with. 

"What is this I hear of thee, my 
poor child ?" 

** Forgive me, dearest lady, forgive 
me. Lady Damaris." 

" It is not a question of personal 
offence, my Chione j thou hast injured 
thyself, not me. A year ago, thou 
didst put on Christ, and vow alle- 
giance to the one true God. Wilt 
thou now forsake him, to follow thy 
own passion ?" 

" I have not forsaken Christ 1 I 
will never, never forsake him." 

** No ? then why dally with the 
tempter ? why seek again what thou 
hast once abjured ? When our holy 
bishop rescued thee from the service 
of the pagan altars, at thine own ear- 
nest entreaty, and brought thee here, 
to serve the Lord Jesus, didst thou 
not renounce paganism, its vices, its 
crimes, its noeets as well as its bit- 
ters r 

" I renounce them still." 



674 



Magas ; or. Long Ago. 



" And yet thou goest to a pagan 
temple, to attract the notice of a 
young pagan noble, the enemy of our 
faith 1" 

" I went not for that purpose, 
madam, though it ended so. I went 
to see Lotis, as I told you ; she was 
seeking instruction from me as of 
yore ; you are aware she was my 
pupil in music." 

" And you gave it her, by causing 
her to help you attract your former 
admirer; fie ! Chione, your tale hangs 
not well together." 

" Lady, believe me, I knew not of 
the presence of Magas, until I saw 
him there ; I was not thinking of him, 
until he stood beside the pillar with- 
in which I was concealed. It was on 
a sudden impulse that I acted. Lo- 
tis was beside me with her lute ; we 
were both effectually concealed with- 
in one of those hollow, vaulted reces- 
ses used for emitting the more mys- 
terious sounds of the deities, and 
which arc known to so few that I 
felt myself doubly secure, when the 
sight of him who could not see me 
caused a rush of blood to my head ; 
I gave Lotis a signal, which she 
obeyed, as thinking, perhaps, I had 
again a part in the performance as I 
used to have, and I sang, not of the 
muse, save as a thing of the past." 

" I know you cannot believe in 
paganism again, Chione," said the 
lady solemnly ; ** it is not your head 
that is likely to be misled, at least 
not in the first instance. I fear your 
passionsy not your understanding. 
The rush of blood was, methinks, 
to your heart, rather than to your 
head." 

" Lady, I love my religion, or I 
should not have desired to leave the 
temple ; I was honored there." 

" Yes, Chione j and here you are 
not honored in a way that flatters 
your self-love; and that is why, after 
a year of trial, you seek the flattery 



of Magas, rather than the 

sioned love of your Christian 
Yet their love is less seltisb, 
cere." 

" It is cold, cold," mattered 
Aloud she said, "Madam, 
assure you, my faith is as ni 
as it was a year ago." 

" My poor child !" said 
laying her hand upon C 
"go for to-night; anotber 
will resume the subject. 
under the influence of 
this moment ; you know ndi 
own strength nor your own 
you scarcely know what }*oa 
what you doubt. Your p; 
awakened, your self-love 
and perhaps wounded. Tbo 
be subdued ; not by the 
the understanding, which isp« 
against such formidable 
but hy/ailh, which is the ew 
the heart in God ; for with th 
man believeth unto justice* 
you say, your faith is as \ivid 
it was a year ago, go and cJtc 
in prayer, and I too will pn 
you, my poor child, thai oox 
may be fashioned after the 
shown us in the mount." 

Poor Chione I the tenth 
with ever)' pulse palpitating 
inspirations of poeiiraj and i 
genius — a genius '. jj 

for expression, anti 
the shrine of sclf-lo\'e. Poor C 
bred an orphan in the temple 
muses ; gifted with more tha 
nary powers of mind, nhk 
been cultivated even by the res 
which had been hers from ta 
endowed with grace, bcautjr, 
telHgence ; fostered by the 
Magas, who, from being the 
of the beautiful and inte; 
had become i" 
and ever inc i v 




pen. Poor Chione ! The truths 

Christianity unfolded to her by 

n, her uncle, also a slave, at a 

when her understanding was 

to reject the mockeries of a 

ip beautiful and fanciful indeed, 

stained by no interior power, 

ling to no standard on which 

,*ould rely unhesitatingly, had 

h hold of her imagination, had 

nrated her by their beauty, their 

fence, their consistency. They 

I the realization of her fondest 

pis, the filling up of the most 

iful pictures that her fancy had 

ainted ; they were a logical ap- 

to her understanding ; and be- 

they were all these, she adopt- 

lem, not beginning to compre- 

the intfrior spirit, not fathom- 

^ren to the first degree, the niys- 

Bf the cross, that stumbling-bloik 

r yrws, and foolishness to the 

Ix.* Chione'sunderstandingwas 

s, and her imagination also, 

the metaphysical proposi- 

of the apostle met her ap- 

, and the poetry and imagery 

church claimed her admira- 

but her heart seemed still un- 

d, her thoughts still centred 

elf, her loves and her hatreds 

bund their source in human 

an. She judged all things as 

y a mere outward, human stan- 

; and the tragic scenes recount- 

the Gospels but moved her in 

ime manner, though in a higher 

e, as would a tragedy of So- 

es or Euripides. They excited 

feelings to admiration, nay to 

tion ; but for the regidation of 

lispositions of her heart, they 

not yet brought into play. 

'fact, she was disappointed in 

>n, although she did not confess 

iisapjjointment even to herself. 

» the time she had become a 

iCar. i.«s. 



Christian, all things had ministered 
to her self-love. When, yielding to 
the preaching of Merion, (for such it 
was, although addressed to so limited 
an audience,) she had besought his 
intercession to he removed from a 
place where, as her years increased, 
her beauty and position as a slave 
exposed her to danger, she had 
counted on being appreciated by the 
society which she entered ; and as 
she had heard of many slaves having 
been set free by the Christians on 
account of the esteem in which they 
were held, she, fancying herself a 
very superior being to the generality 
of slaves, (her beauty, grace, and 
genius having ever called forth such 
unqualified admiration,) could not 
but deem that she should soon be 
accounted well worthy of such an 
advantage. When, then, she found 
herself at the age of sixteen, secluded 
in the household of the L-ady Dama- 
ris, treated kindly, but not specially 
indulged j when she saw that her 
mistress, far from deeming her a 
prodig}', seemed to find in her serious 
failings needing correction, and that 
a probation was deemed necessary 
ere allowing her to profess the faith ; 
she was more hurt than she permitted 
to appear : and the seclusion to 
which she had committed herself, 
when requesting to be transferred 
from the muses' temple to the silence 
and retirement practised by the house- 
hold of the Lady Damaris, weighed 
upon her spirit, for it gave no scope 
to the love of display which excited 
her genius to pleasurable expression. 
Her intellectual convictions, indeed, 
remained unchanged, but her heart 
sought otlier interests than those 
around her ; and when it appeared 
that one after another of the slaves 
attached to the lady received their 
freedom, according as they demon- 
strated to the satisfaction of their 
mistress that they were likely tq 



676 



Magas ; or. Long Ago. 



make & good use of it, but that no 
hint was ever given to herself tliat 
she might expect a Hke boon, she 
began to wax impatient, to tax her 
mistress with partiality, and finally 
to raise the question whether she 
had not a right to free herself from 
tyranny. Tyranny ! The only re- 
straint exercised in her regard was 
such as a tender mother's vigilance 
would deem necessary. She saw 
not that, at her years, the protection 
of the Lady Damaris was the great- 
est benefit this world could give her, 
accompanied as it was by genuine 
kindness, and an earnest desire to 
cultivate her heart and her under- 
standing in the right direction. 

Freedom I exterior freedom for a 
gfirl of sixteen ! this became her 
dream by night, her exclusive idea 
by day, and in acting upon the idea, 
she often violated the rules the noble 
and charitable lady had laid down 
for ihe regulation of her household. 

On an occasion of this kind it was 
that she had visited the muses' tem- 
ple, saying to herself that it w;is lo 
give instruction to her former com- 
panion, whom she so much desired 
to meet again. There the sight of 
Magas had brought back all the flat- 
teries and self-exulting thoughts of 
former days. She h.id then refrained 

sm making herself known, for — a 
lave ! and the noble Magas ! — her 
heart revolted at the thought of what 
such a connection must be I A year 
ago she had fled from it ; her pride 
had sustained her then; she had 
called it her virtue. Now she felt 
the need of his praises ; now she 
longed for his sweet flatteries ; the 
voice of truth had been too harsh for 
her self-love. She needed adulation, 
passionate adoration. Would Magas 
give it her ? She had heard his 
exclamation recognizing her voice: 
from her hiding-place she had seen 
the zeal with which he had sought 



her ; and eight days afterwan^ i 
dint of watching, she had conl 
to meet him as if by accident, a»i 
have seen ; and what was to be ik] 

result ? 

CUAPTKR III. 

" Chion E, ray niece ; nay, my 
ter in Jesus Christ, tell mc, for pi 
sake, why do I find you here ?" 

"Uncle, I weary of the tedka 
routine of our household. I camt M 
woo the naiads and Ihe fauns of ta 
ly days, for a little relaxation of w^ 
spirit." 

"The naiads and the £Ba»l 
Strange worship for a Chri&tiaa T 

" N.^y, uncle, do not cast rdipoo 
at me for ever. I mean no harK bf 
speaking in the language of my^Dd' 
hoo<lj and, indeed, I need to recreate 
my soul ; my spirit is faintj|i|f «mf 
amid the tedium of our ever imoHCS* 
late hou.sehold." 

" What p>ossiblc fault can yea iuk 
with the Lady Damaris V* 

" None, none at all, absohtfdy 
none. Have I not just said she b 
immaculate, faultless? too perfect, in 
fact, fair as the moon and as duste ; 
ay, and as cold too 1" 

" Cold ! Lady Damaris who 
spent her fortune in relieving the 
digcnt, in soothing the sorrows 
the mourner, in setting free the slave.' 
Cold ! Where, then, will you find lbs 
fire of charity ?" 

" I wish she would set rac free f 

" You I Are you not too fnee 
ready ! as witness this un 
step of visiting these glades 
and unprotected ? Free I Are _ 
not already as free as is safe for you 
is not the Lady Damaris more a 
ther than a mistress to you .* Go I 
your Labors are too lightt your li 
too great, since you know not 
to make a better use of it. A 
tian maiden should have mote 
serve." 



4 



1 



¥ 



"What harm is there in sunning 
myself on the river-banks awhile ?" 

" None, if that is your object, and 
that a/otf, though even so, for one in 
your condition there might be dan- 
ger. But, Chione, }'ou do not come 
here either to woo the naiadii or the 
fauns, or to sun yourself on die river- 
banks. You come here to meet one 
you are bound to avoid, iind I come 
to take you home again." 
" By what right ?" 
" Ay, by what right, base slave ?" 
asked the voice of Magas, as he sud- 
denly came upon the couple. " By what 
right dare you to interfere with the 
^b£urest nmse of earth's bright temple? 
^■wou who have scarcely brains enough 
^Hd know whether Apollo steers his 
^Hthartot from east to west or from 
jVftorth to south." 

" Noble sir," said Merion respect- 

> (uUy, as if unheedful of the insulting 

^hone in which he was addressed, " I 

^■^am this maiden's uncle, and seek but 

to conduct her to a place of safety." 

" 1 will dispense with thine office, 

by fulfilling it myself; take thyself 

hence, I say." 

Merion looked at Chione, who, 
with an incomprehensible caprice, set- 
tled the dispute by rapidly taking 
flight in the direction of the abode of 
e Lady Damaris, thus again leav- 
Magas foiled at the moment he 
ought himself certain of an inter- 
Hriew ; and, what was still more per- 
plexing, leaving him in a state of un- 
certainty as to whether she desired to 
grant him an interview or othenvise. 
He turned fiercely upon Merion : 
^_^ " Where is the girl fiown to ? 
HpHiere does she live ?" 
^^ " I cannot tell you, noble sir," 
said the slave, turning away. 

" For cannot, say will not," said 
Magas, arresting him. " I insist on 
knowing where Chione lives." 

t"You cannot know it from me, 
," said Merion, breaking away, 




while fortunately some persons ap- 
pearing in sight, forbade the noble 
Magas from renewing a contest with 
another person's servant ; and thus 
the faithful guardian of Chione ef- 
fected his escape. 

It was, however, to the house of 
Dionysius he betook himself to con- 
sult with him concerning the mea- 
sures to be taken to insure the saf<&- 
ty of his wayward niece. 

It was a difficult matter for tho 
learned but simple-hearted bishop, 
known in the cit)' as Dionysius the 
Areopagite, to interfere in. The con- 
version of this noble-hearted prelate 
had, in his own case, been so sincere, 
so entire, it was difficult for him to 
comprehend an adhesion given part- 
ly to the intellectual, partly to the 
moral bearings of the religion of 
Christ, an adhesion which more re- 
sembled a philosophical adoption of 
tenets, than the surrender of the 
whole being into the keeping of his 
divine Lord, such as he understood 
to be the requirement demanded of 
himself when, under the tuition of the 
great apostle, he had learned to put 
on Christ. The gospel had come to 
him, not in word only, but also ia 
power, and in the Holy Spirit, and in 
much assurance.* It filled his soul, 
not only with its intellectual delights, 
with its wondrous solutions of the 
dread mysteries of existence, with its 
harmonious developments and sub- 
lime manifestations, but with interior 
light. " Faith" was to him as, alas I 
it is to so few, "tlw substance of 
things hoped for, the evidence of 
things not seen."t It animated hira 
wholly ; it was a part of himself ; he 
could say with the great apostle in 
very truth, "I live, yet not I, but 
Christ liveth in me; and the life which 
I now live in the flesh I live by the 
faith of the Son of God who loved 
me, and gave himself for me."t 

•The*. Is- ^H*V.». V XGnl.^W». 



I 



Magas ; or. Long Ago. 



But Dionysius was the pastor of 
souls; he dared not refuse to come 
to the assistance of one of his flock, 
albeit, that one was a child, a slave, 
and tliat the request for his interfer- 
ence came to him also from a slave. 
The true-hearted Merion was wortliy 
of his highest love ; long since would 
he have redeemed him, and associated 
him in his labors of love, but that 
the slave ever put him off, pointing 
out to him others on whom the mate- 
rial chain weighed more heavily, so 
that its wearers were fainting under 
the burden, while he walked erect. 
The truth had made him free* in 
soul, and he was not willing to en- 
croach on the limited means placed 
at the disposal of the bishop by the 
iiaithful, while so many of the weaker 
jrelhren needed help to sustain their 
' fainting steps. Besides, as a slave, 
bearing his own burden, Merion 
possessed a greater influence among 
his own class than he would have 
done had he accepted the purchase 
of his liberty. " The poor and lowly," 
said he to Dionysius, "have many ad- 
vantages which you in higher stations 
wot not of. Truth is not veiled from 
them by politeness, or by the con- 
ventionalism of society; they see 
things as they are, unmasked, and 
view themselves also by another light 
than that which is shed on the man 
to whom ever)"body bows. I have 
often thought, my lord, that they 
need an extraordinary degree of 
grace, who are dius placed above the 
multitude. Since our Lord has de- 
clared that it is the '^ poor who are 
blessed,' and he himself asks, ' How 
can ye believe, ye who receive honor 
one of another?'! Believe me, then, 
my kind friend, there is a greater 
blessing in a position to which no 
worldly honor is attached than to 
others; at least for poor souls like 






• St John Yiii. 3»- 



\ Sv ]<AAt. i«. 



mine, who cannot claim the 
dinary graces needed to clear 
the mists which obscure the 
from the great ones of this 
Thus pleaded Merion against his otT 
advancement, to which the bishop it^ 
plied : 

"It is true, my Merion, wc 
all become ' poor in spirit,* gi\'in{ 
honor to God alone, for the 
that is in us, since all that nun ha 
done is to pervert his gifts." 

" And the more wonderful, the tdo« 
exalted thegifts, the more they art per 
verted. Chione's beauty and talcntia 
already turning her away from their 
ligion she has professed," 

" Nay, not so bad as that, ray 
rion. Neither is it the beauty or 
talent that are in faulL TbcK 
God's gifts to Chione. It is the Ift- 
man self-love, the self-centralizaMi 
which craves homage and adflun* 
tion, that are to blame. It is the 
repetition of the primeval sin, tlr 
vsilful separation of the soul £coB 
God, for the sake of inordinate fft- 
tiflcation. But Chione has «orsbi)h 
ped Christ. She will see her etror 
and repent." 

" Would I could think so^" s^^ied 
the slave. 

" Nay, now it is you who are want- 
ing in confidence, my good friend 
Chione is the child of your pcajfct^ 
You begot her in the Lord, " 

will prescr\"e her for you. 
not so plain. May be, she 
Gifts like hers too often lack 
ity, and humility, the foundation 
the Christian character, soi 
needs a fall, in order to prodooe 
Faith you ha\"e already won for her, 
from God. Now set yourself to ra- 
tcrccde for her again, to win cKhcr 
gifts which shall render her 
available to sal\-ation. Ask 
humility, at any price of 
yourself or her. God will grwit 
prayer, be assured of that, my 




A ^ 




Magas ; or^ Long Ago. 



679 




Tow, as to what we can do for the 
^_ exterior circumstance, let me know 
our wishes." 
" Is it possible to remove her from 
'the path of that Magas ?" 

" We might try ; though, rich and 
ardent as he is, he would be apt to 
ce her to any place within our 
wer to send her, I have friends 
Corinth. Should you be satisfied 
send her there ?" 
They are Christians ?" 
Ise I would not have named 
But, reflect, to none is she as 
ear as she is to you. None will 
take the same interest in her, watch 
over her — " 

But she will be out of the way of 
agas." 

Her person will. How her mind 

1 be affected, is another question. 

I'e cannot change the affections or 

annihilate desires by change of place. 

But it shall be as you wish." 

" Will the Lady Damaris consent ?" 
" You know, full well, that tiie wel- 
re of her household, temporal and 
f" eternal, is the object of that lady's 
jj^MConstant solicitude. She will agree 
^^k> anything she deems will promote 

w- .■ 

Chione was scarcely surprised when 
she was told that she was to be sent to 
Corinth. Nay, to do her justice, she 
was not altogether grieved. She knew 
her danger. Herpride and self-respect 

volted from any degrading connec- 
3on with Magas. And what other 
could she hope for ? Neither as a 
slave nor as a freed-woman could 
Magas elevate her to the rank of his 
wife. He himself had proposed As- 
pasia for her model ; but Aspasia 
lo a Christian maiden ! Dazzling as 
was the ide.il, not for a moment did 
Chione suffer herself to believe it 
could be hers. Why, then, did she 
hover around her destruction, as a 
moth hovers around the tandle? 



i If 

^^e 



^^r 






Why did her thoughts perpetually 
dwell on Magas as tlie only one 
who understood her, the sole being 
on earth who could appreciate her ? 
Why had she endeavored, why did 
she still endeavor, to attract his at- 
tention the more that she knew the 
burning passion which fired his im- 
petuous and vehement nature ? 

Chione felt but too truly the in- 
ward conflict of her soul. She loved 
Magas. She could not conceal her- 
self from him if he were near — could 
not even avoid him. The attraction 
was too great. But at Corinth she 
could forget him, at Corinth other 
objects would occupy her, at Corinth 
she would again learn to love Christ. 
So to Corinth she consented to go, 
making so little opposition to the 
measure, that Merion half persuaded 
himself he had overrated her weak- 
ness. 

Chione was conveyed away steal- 
thily, in company witli a Christian 
family who were making the journey 
homeward. Days elapsed ; and Ma- 
gas watched in vain, set spies in vain. 
Chione was not to be met with. 

"The girl must be ill, or be- 
witched," said he. " Three appear- 
ances, and notliing heard of her I A 
whole year since I saw her before, 
and she so changed, beautified, and 
siUnced when we met again ! What 
can it mean ?" 

" What can what mean, Magas, 
that you are here talking to yourself, 
and flinging yourself about like a 
madman ?" 

" Critias !" 

" Yes ; it is long since we met 
What have you been doing since ?" 

"Tracing the giri who imposed 
upon us in the muses' temple." 

•• What ! not forgotten that yet ?" 

" No. It was scarcely an adven* 
ture to be forgotten, save by one who 
cares for nothing, like yourself" 

" Well, what have you discovettdV 



I 




6Sd 



pm 



net 



" This much, at least : the girl is 
Merion's niece." 

** So I Then we may suppose her 
rhapsodies referred to the new sect ?" 

" Yes ; and that they must be 
looked to. I wish you would let 
tne question your slave awhile." 

"Question all you like ; but I 
warn you, Merion is not likely to 
answer )'ou unless ke likes." 

" Then we can apply the torture ?" 

* No ! not to Merion ! no ! Not 
on a subject which interferes with no 
, one, even though you have assumed 
it as a cobweb to your brain. Me- 
rion is a faithful sen'anL I consent 
lo no torture while he continues such." 

" Not if you learn that he is con- 
cerned in hatching a conspiracy 
against the state ?" 

** Magas, I think you are taking 
leave of your senses." 



But Magas was in kyv«,SBl^ 
neither hear rcasoo dot be ' 
away from his purpoae. 
would tell him nothhis. 
only that he had no< seen 
for many days, and that it 
his business to Inquire to whalj 
she had been sent. Lotis,the< 
ter of the principal phi 
day, had been her frequents 
in early days, but of 1 
little, and, since the .i 
temple, not at all. Locis «» i 
ted to know the name id 
owner ; but, if she did, ske 
to herself. Months passed $1 
then Magas disappeared iim,i 
for a while, was no< ^gajn 
in Athens. 



PHILOSOPHY NOT ALWAYS VAIN. 



There are persons who think we 
err, and make our magazine too heavy 
by devoting so large a portion of it 
to quasi-philosophical discussions. 
All readers, we are aware, are not 
and need not be interested in such 
discussions ; but there are some who 
want them, value them, and profit by 
them. One of our contributors has 
received the following letter from a 
distinguished professor in a Southern 
university, which proves that our 
heavy articles are read by some, at 
least, and have served the cause of 
truth. 

October 26, 1867. 
To TH» Atrraon or thk Article om 
"The Cartesian Doubt," ruRLisuED 
tw TitE November Nitmber or Thb 
Catholic World : 

OCAlt Six ! I beg too lo accept Ihe pte- 



sentation of this copy of a book I 
as you see, in i860. 

I do not offer it with any uJca tkA }■' 
will find in it anjthing nr«r or tB«lx«C^I* 
jrou, or with any cxpcctotioa thai fM vA 
give it approval or prajce. | ha^'C IkoM 
conscious of several of the rrrar» ii eoobiab 

I send i( to 3roa nndtf iIm ini waci tt tm 
motives : iiA. To ofltr yon a tokca df tt* 
deep gratitude 1 feel toward job for Ae 
article on " The Cartesian Douht," ami edtar 
articles (which I lAkc also lo be tnm y«W 
pen) entitled " Problems of the A(c" f^ 
lishcd in The CAiitoLic WoRXti {t^^ratf- 
tude Iwing felt for the Aood of rc2i|po«a aid 
intellectual light they have abcii opoa 
mind and heart, and ft>r tJieir havk^ 1 
vinccd me of the truth of oMny Ca 
doctrines I had obscurely pei<«i««4 otf ' 
which, through the clcarana and (mtk d>\ 
your language and argument^ now ahkK I 
my eyes with onsttQIcd loatrai Swuwd 
also oinryoa iMs lok«a, thalye« oMyl 
by judge Dv yosmlf how &r 1 was fea 
and therefore what great advance I 
have made toward a dear nnii 



t^^y not afwt^svmin. 



68 1 



t-troe relstton and subordination of pht- 
>phy to Catholic doctrine, nowr tlut I ad- 
i{t that doctrine as rcceiveil through your 
'Hjcles, which I have no doubt are approved 
the Church. 
Hoping, air, you will kindly leceive this 
ession of my heaxtrelt ihaoks, I sub- 
(nysclf, affectionately and respectfully, 
irs. 

The professor is mistaken in sup- 
>sing tliat the article on Thtr Car- 
ton Doubt and those on The Proh- 
of the AgCy are from the same 
iter. This, however, is a matter of 
consequence ; for in both the pro- 
lest principles of philosophy are 
»ttted ; and both, for the most part, 
forth and defend the same philo- 
i^ophtcal doctrine. We lay before 
cur readers another letter, from a dis- 
tinguished lawyer, a recent convert 
the church, which shows that our 
lilosophical articles are read by 
:nt men, and with respect, even 
their doctrine is not accepted. 

December lo, 1867. 
'o THK EorroR of The Catholic World: 
Dear Sir : In The Catholic World for 
mbcr, ytrti say, on page 427, "The 
lool Sir William Hamilton (bunded . . . 
dly maintaiiLs that philosophy cannot 
above the sensible, and that the sii{>cr- 
nsiblc, as well as the supcrintelligible, 
gst be t.-ikcn, if at all, on the authority of 
or revelation." Just before .this, you 
My, " The science neither of language 
of logic can be ituuiered by one who 
Sir William Hamilton was a philoso- 
pher," etc Again, on page 424, you say, 
•* The tendency of all inductive philosophy, 
uiy one may see in the writings of . . . 
lir Wiiliam Hamilton and his tchool, is to 
itrict all science to the phenomcnaJ, and, 
crefore, to exclude principles and causes, 
■ad conwquently laws." 

The ideas here advanced arc new to my 
mind, and my object in troubling you with 
tbis letter is to request you to refer mc to 
imc philosophical work in which they arc 
lly developed, I came into the Catholic 
hurch in the spring of 1865, as I supposed 
X process of induction, and by process 
of induction I am thoroughly convinced 
diat we ha%'e higher and better evidence 
of the truth of the dogmas of the church, 
than of any scientific tact ; indeed, better 



I ■"' 

il 

■■ad 

^ n 
mi 

i 




than we have of any other &ct. save that 
of existence. Hut I have tilled to discover 
in the writings of Sir William Hamilton 
(the only one of the writers you mention 
with whom I am even slightly acquainted) 
the tendency you describe, and I cannot un* 
dcrsland how such a result could be pro- 
duced by a legitimate inductive philosophy. 
Sir William Hamilton shows that induction, 
when applied to Deity, to the infinite or to 
the absolute, (he ought to have said to any 
spiritual existence also,) fails to yield even 
apparent truth, because it yields contradic- 
tions. It seems to me th.at this must be a 
very near approach to a true catholic phi- 
losophy, tliat is, to a definition of the field 
in which induction is to operate ; and I find 
it a weapon which silences, it' it does not 
convince, my Protestant friends ; for if they 
admit that their reasoning powers — those 
faculties which enable them to make the 
boasted progress in physical science — giva 
no help in explaining the relation which 
exists between them and their Creator, they 
then have to deny, with the deist, that any 
such application exists ; or if it docs exist, 
admit that it rests oiv authority, thus dcsiroy- 
ittg the right of private judgment, a result in 
either case fatal to I'rotestant Christianity. 

I don't think I am mistaken about what 
Sir William Hamilton teaches, for I have 
his works before mc ; but it is very possible 
that I do not comprehend the tendency of 
it ; and I may be entirely wrong in regard- 
ing him as a philosopher second to but few 
since Aristotle. I am not seeking contro- 
versy, but information ; and if you can refer 
me to a lx>ok, not too large for a hard-work- 
ing lawyer to read, which will clearly dctine 
what is regarded in the Catholic Church as 
the philosophy or rationale of religion, you 
will confer a favor which will be long re« 
membered. Very rcspcafully. 

The old controvesy with heresy has 
lost its former imp>ortance, for heresy 
in our time gives way to downright 
infidelity, or total religious indiffer* 
ence, and the intelligent Catholic, 
who understands his age, is more 
disposed to recognize and cherish 
the fragments of Christian truth slill 
retained by the sects respectively, 
than to point out and refute their 
heresies. He would be careful not 
to break the bruised reed or to 
quench the smoking flax. In these 
times all who are not against outlicsiti 



I 

I 



682 



Philosophy not always Vain. 




are for him. The field of contro- 
versy has changed. The non-Catho- 
lic world is either slowly retracing its 
steps toward the church, or rushing 
headlong into rationalism, natural- 
ism, humanitarianism, pantheism, 
atheism. The modem atheists are 
a far more numerous class than is 
commonly supposed. Virtually all na- 
turalists, humanitarians, and panthe- 
ists are atheists, and the God ad- 
mitted by the rationalists is not the 
living God, an ever-present Creator 
and upholder of the universe, but an 
abstraction, a vague generalization, 
or a God so bound hand and foot by 
the so-called laws of nature, as to be 
powerless, and incapable of a single 
free movement, or an efficient act. 

These several classes of unbe- 
lievers pretend to base their denial 
of dixnne revelation, the supernatur- 
al, the Christian religion, the freedom, 
and even the very being of God, on 
science and philosophy ; and it is 
only on scientific and philosophical 
ground that we can meet, and logi- 
cally refute them. No doubt their 
objections are sophistical, unscientific, 
and unphilosophical, yet we can 
show that fact only by means of true 
science and sound philosophy. VVe 
say noUiing here of what grace may 
do ; for it works by a method of its 
own, and by inspiring the will and 
enlightening the understanding, it 
enables one, by a single bound, to 
rise from the lowest deep of infide- 
lity to the sublimest height of faith 
— to a faith that penetrates within 
the veil — lays hold of the unseen and 
the eternal, and conquers the world. 
We speak now only of the human 
means of meeting and overcoming 
the objections of unbelievers to our 
most holy faith. W^ can meet and 
overcome them, and produce what 
theologians ciW fides humana., only by 
opposing the true philosophy to their 
fjls^fphilosophy — genuine science to 



their pretended science, real logic K 

their shallow sophistries. 

Is this a work that CalhoHcs cat 
prudently neglect? Wc think aoc 
Every age has its own special ««d 
to perform, its own special c n fi B 
to combat, and there is neither »» 
dom nor utility, nor true courage c 
turning our backs upon the eneana 
that assail us, and dealing forth \i^ 
orous blows against ctiemies Icif 
since vanquished, and now dead, ad 
ready to be buried. We mtut ba 
the evil of to-day, the enemy that ii 
actually in front of us, and with tk 
arms that promise to be cfibctin 
against him. This is not ooij war 
dom. but a necessity, if we «addd^ 
fend the treasure coi to • 

Error is constantly cha I -ivmk 

and we must attack it under thefbm 
it assumes here and now. T<Hi»« 
it apes the form of science ann - - 
losophy. It will avail us i ' 
denounce philosophy a.s 
science as unreal or valuelci^ Wc 
must accept both, and oppoM to tbe 
unreal or false the real and tbe tnie. 
We must meet and beat the cacfl^ 
on his own ground, and with his ovd 
weapons. As the enemy chooses to 
attack us on the ground of sckncc; 
reason, philosophy, wc must meet faifl 
on that ground, and show tliit Oi 
that ground, as on eveiy other, 
Catholicity is invincible, and able to 
command the victory. 

All the great i! ^ns ol tbe 

church have been ;. isopiKn; 

St. Athanasius, St. i . . - . .--t. Grqiocj 
Nazianzcn, St. Au-ir-tii,u, St. Tfc»- 
mas, St. Bonaventura, Suarei, Bo^ 
suet, Pension, to name no otheo, 
and all the glorious ages of tbe 
church have been marked by pi^ 
found and vigorous philosopfaicil 
and theological studies, as tbeibaftk. 
the twelfth, the thirteenth, and scftl^ 
tecnth centuries. If the dcc&ne of 
faith marks a decline of scicnoe avl 



\ 



Philosophy not always Vain. 



683 



Dsophy, so also does the decline 
tience and philosophy mark usu- 
la decline of faith. The revival 
kith in our century has followed 
jeen accompanied by a revival of 
'strong masculine philosophy of 
fathers and the mediasval doc- 
; In proportion as men cast 
e i\it/rivo/fsza of the eighteenth 
Miy, engage in serious studies, 
'learn to think, and think deeply 
[earnestly, faith revives, and men 

as yet are not believers look 
[ reverence and awe on the gran- 
ts and beauty of the Catholic 
jrch, over which time and place 
i no influence, exempt from 
Un vicissitudes, and on which 
itorms and tempests of the ages 
in vain. All serious and ihink- 
jmen turn toward her, and she 
I is able to give free and full 
le to thought, and to satisfy its 
knds. 

Re do not, of course, fall into the 
irdity of seeking to convert faith 
philosophy, nor to substitute phi- 
phy for faith. Philosophy, strictly 
n, is the rational element of 
t, or, more strictly still, the pre- 
le to faith. It does not give us 
irnatural faith, which is the gift 
od j it only removes the intellec- 
prohibentia or obstacles to faith, 

establishes those rational or 
llific truths or principles which 
I or revelation presupposes, which 
ede faith, and without which faith 
d have no rational basis or con- 
ion with science. All faith in 
last analysis is belief and trust in 
veracity of God, or the affirma- 
, Detis at trrax, ancl jiresupposes 
God is. We cannot talk of faith 
ve. have proved from reason with 
;tude the existence of God. The 
ortality of the soul brought to 
i through the Gospel is not the 
)le e.xistcnce of the soul in a 
t« life, but the immortal life of 



the blest in glor)', rendered possible 
and actual through the incarnation, 
and to which man by his natural 
powers neither does nor can attain. 
This immortality presupposes what 
is commonly meant by the immor- 
tality of the soul, an immortality 
common to the beatified and the 
reprobate. The immortality or con- 
tinued existence of the soul is a ra- 
tional truth, and was held by the 
heathen in all ages, and must be 
capable of being proved with cer- 
tainty by reason prior to faith. Faith 
reveals to us a stale of future rewards 
and punishments. But rewards and 
punishments presuppose free agencj', 
or the liberty of man, which is a truth 
of reason, and to be proved from rea- 
son alone. Hence the Holy See re- 
quired the traditionalists, who seemed 
disposed to build science on faith, or 
to found faith on scepticism, to .sub- 
scribe a declaration that the existence 
of God, the spirituality of the soul, 
and the liberty of man are provable 
with certainty from reason atopc 
prior to faith. These arc philoso- 
phical truths, and the philosophy 
that .denies them or declares itself 
unable to prove them is no philoso- 
phy at all. It is because these great 
truths are provable by natural reason 
that we are morally bound to believe 
the revelation of God when duly 
accredited to us as his revelation, 
and that refusal to believe it when 
so accredited is a sin. 

It is easy to see, therefore, that 
Christian faith not only leaves a wide 
field to reason or philosophy, but 
makes large demands on philosophy, 
requires of natural reason the very 
utmost it can do ; for the highest vic- 
tory of reason is precisely in prov- 
ing with certainty these three great 
scientific or philosophical truths just 
named. How little do they under- 
stand of our religion, who pretend 
that it dwarfs the iatelkcv, ^n«;% vtf> 



L 



^ 



Philcsophy not always Vain, 



scope to reason, and appeals only to 
the external senses and the ignorance 
and credulity of the people 1 These 
considerations show that reason, 
science, or philosophy has a great 
and important part in relation to 
Catholic faith, and must have; for all 
the theologians agree that grace sup- 
poses nature, gratia supponit natu- 
ram. It is to the rational soul that 
God speaks. 

Now, it is an undeniable fact, that 
what passes for philosophy with non- 
Catholics either denies those great 
truths which are prior to faith, or 
Jails to prove them with certainty. 
With what effect, then, can we meet 
the errors of the age ©r of our coun- 
try, and advance the cause of Catho- 
lic faith with those who reject it, 
without entering even deeply into 
scientific and philosophical discus- 
sions ? To restore faith^ we must 
restore reason and philosophy, which 
is its expression ; for reason is, at pres- 
ent, more seriously assailed than faith. 
The controversy to-<Iay is not, as it was 
a hundred and fifty years ago, between 
catholicity and heresy, but between 
catholicity and infidelity, between the 
church and those who deny all reli- 
gion deser\'ing the name ; and this 
controversy is precisely in the field 
of philosopFiy. In denying the church 
and rejecting the Christian mysteries, 
the movement party of the age have 
lost reason, while professing to rely 
on it and to be guided by it. * They 
have fallen below reason, and must 
be brought up to it, and l)c made to 
respect it. The so-called advanced 
party of humanity, the march-of-in- 
tellcct or the progress-of-the-species 
parly, deny not the faith only, but, in 
act, reason too. The party has no 
tolerable appreciation of the powers 
and capacities of natural reason ; and 
the moment we can get its members to 
reason, to understand what reason can 
do, and is called upon to do, contro- • 



versy is over. We have got tbeirl 
turned toward the tnttii, and 
selves making their way lovaid 
church. Hence the great wock 
mediately at band is the 
reason. 

Those Catholics who hate 
been in a position to leant, 
have no call, in the way of 
study the wants and tefidi 
the age, may not» be aware 
necessity for this defence of 
and therefore, for the phil 
essays, which, from time to 
we publish, and may well think 
we fill with them a space that 
be better filled with matter less 
and more attractive to the baft' 
readers. But those who, froa 
position or vocation, arc oM^cd II 
study and comprehend the age,«tai 
duty it is to m.istcr the Hteraltae tA 
science of the non -Catholic «t>di^ 
and who are in habits of daSj ialQ*- 
course with fair-minded and tibcnl 
non-Catholics, feel the need of sodk 
essays, both for Uiemselves aad 
those who hold our religion te 
illogical, unintellectual, unphili 
cal, and hostile to science. TTx 
is earnest, terribly in eantest tk iff" 
pursuit of material gain, and ercQ b 
the cultivation of the material or ia- 
ductive sciences ; but, in spiiitsii 
matters, in the higher philo&opfef 
which is the pre.imble to faith, it tk 
sadly deficient, and even indiffcROt; 
and this defect and this indiflbtrMt 
must be overcome. We coidd bc< 
effect our purpose in publishing tUf 
magazine, or dischar;ge our doty IB 
our countr)'Tnen, if we did not do 
our best to overcome them; tostiB^ 
late those we are able to iniflnoioeti 
devote themselves with greater rat- 
nestness to the study of the 
and gravest problems of reason 
up for solution. Our readers 
well that our aim is not siinj 
amine or to render 




Philosophy not always Vain, 



685 



|We do not believe it necessary 
^ty to put on a long face, to 
^ with a nasal twang, or to go 
^ with the head bowed down 
k bulrush. We delight to see 
lowers bloom and to hear the 
I sing ; we love art and all the 
■ties of social life ; but, with all 
Ik publish our magazine with a 
B and earnest purpose. Ernst 
|r Leben. We aim to serve the 
\. of faith, morals, intellectual 
|te, freedom, and civilization ; to 
bat in us lies, God helping us, 
ktore our countrymen to faith in 
tianity, and to Christianity in 
sit)' and integrity j and to make 
jwork with intelligence and zeal 
b high destiny to which God, in 
vidence, is calling our beloved 



■ two letters we publish, among 

other evidences that reach us, 

\ to us that we do not err in de- 

{ a large space to the discussion 

i highest and most difficult philo- 

Cai questions of the day. These 

[ are from men of education, cul- 

id the first order of intellect and 

;nce. The first, which the au- 

the article on The Cartesian 

\t has kindly placed at our dis- 

\ proves that our so-called heavy 

les have cleared up the mind, at 

of one soul, and enabled him 

^ and admit the Catholic truth. 

^cond letter proves equally the 

jthat philosophy plays in bring- 

|ien of a high order of intellect 

t faith, even when the particular 

tD of philosophy followed is not 

iely that which we ourselves de- 

I His letter shows that its writer 

1 an interest in philosophy, and 

pes in its utility. This is enough 

ify us in our course. 

writer of this letter appears 

\a little startled at our censure 

inductive philosophy, and 

ly of Sir William Hamilton. 



We cannot call that eminent and 
erudite Scottish professor a philoso- 
pher, for we understand by philoso- 
phy the science of principles and 
causes. AH real principles arc onto- 
logical, and Sir William Hamilton 
denies that ontology is or can be 
any object of human science. The 
only things pertaining to philosophy 
he admits are logic and psychology. 
But how can there be psychology 
without ontologA'? a soul without 
being ? or science of the soul 
without science of being, that is, 
without ontolog)' ? The soul is not 
self existent, has not its being in it- 
self, but in God ; " for in him we liv« 
and move, and are," or have our 
ing. How, then, construct a real 
science of the soul, or psychology, 
without science of being, and of the 
relation of the soul to real and ne- 
cessary being, that is, of the divine 
creative act ? Logic is both a science, 
and art. Men may, no doubt, prs 
tise the art without a scientific knowl- 
edge of its principles ; but, to under- 
stand logic as a science, he must 
understand its principles, and these 
are ontological. No man fully compre- 
hends logic as a science till he has 
seen its type and origin in the triper- 
sonality of God, and recognized its 
principle in the divine creative act. 
Sir William Hamilton, then, by ex- 
cluding ontolog}', excludes from our 
science principles and causes, and 
leaves both logic and psychology^ 
without any scientific basis. 

The writer saj-s, " Sir William Ham- 
ilton shows that induction, when ap- 
plied to deity, to the infinite, or to 
the absolute, (he ought to have said 
to any spiritual existence also,) fails 
to yield even apparent truth, because 
it yields contradictions." We say the 
same, and therefore, while we admit 
inductive sciences, we do not admit 
inductive science or philosophy. 
Principles are given <} prioriy not ob- 



686 



Philosophy not always Vain, 



tained, as Kant has amply proved, 
by induction from the facts of expe- 
rience, because without them no ex- 
perience is possible. We agree with 
the writer, not that this " is a near 
approach to a true Catholic philoso- 
phy," but, "to a definition of the 
field in which induction is to ope- 
rate." Induction is restricted to the 
analysis and classification of facts, 
which fall or may fall under sensible 
observation, or experiment, and 
therefore the inductive sciences are 
empirical, not apodictic. This is 
what we said, when we said, "The 
tendency of all inductive philosophy, 
as any one may see in the writings 
of Sir William Hamilton, is to restrict 
all science to the phenomenal, and 
therefore to exclude principles and 
causes, and therefore laws." 

The writer says, " I came into the 
Catholic Church in the spring of 
1865, as I supposed by a process of 
induction," etc., and very legitimate- 
ly too, we doubt not. We by no 
means exclude inductive reasoning 
in its place. We do not depreciate 
the inductive sciences, but we hold 
with Bacon that, while the inductive 
method is the true method of study- 
ing the facts of the external world, 
or of constructing the physical scien- 
ces, it is inapplicable in the study of 
philosophy or metaphysics. Philo- 
sophy has been well-nigh banished 
from the English-speaking world by 
neglecting the admonition of Bacon, 
and attempting to construct philoso- 
phy by the inductive method very 
properly adopted in the construction 
of the physical sciences, thus reduc- 
ing the philosopher to a simple phy- 
sicist, and philosophy simply to one 
of the physical sciences, instead of 
recognizing her as their queen, the 
sdenfia irientiarum. The difference 
between our friend and us is not 
that we differ from him with regard to 
induction or the inductive sciences. 



but that wc hold that there is 

encc above Ih' licoDtroh 

gives them 1 ,v, and r 

them possible, and which is s 
tainable by induction. This« 
which corresponds to the a^ 
sapicntia of the ancients, and 
Aristotle held to be not on 
and the science of first pnnd{ 
what we call, and the only » 
that we call, philosophy. \Mi 
friend understands by ioductii 
losophy lies below what lit ex 
losophy, and begins where ow 
sophy ends. 

In proving the miracles as 
cal facts, or the hlstorica.1 ii 
the church in all ages, and hi 
mission to teach alt men and 
all things whatever our Lol 
commanded or revealed to 
follow the inductive procea 
must do so, for no other is pi 
But it must be observed thjui 
ductive process would batt 
here no scientific value withfi 
science of the principles, w 
call the preamble to faith, a 
the existence of Gotl, the 
lity of the soul, and human 
Witliout this science, the in< 
would conclude nothing, 
friend as well as we holds t 
science is not attainable by 
ductive process. It must 
observed that the inductioi 
draw from the historical facts 
case do not give us divine fail 
simply a human faith, or 
lief in the Catholic Churdh, I 
have already explained. TT>e ( 
lie believer is more certain 
truth of what the church ta 
than he is of any historical fiul 
this higher certainty is do( the 1 
of induction, for induction caA 
no certainty greater titan wnc kl 
the facts from which it proa 
The greater certainty U the rc« 
the donum fidei, ot the 



Philosophy not always Vain. 



687 



gift of faith, by which the soul is 
boni again or initiated into the 
order of regeneration, and begins its 
return to God as its final cause. 
The soul is thus really joined by 
grace to Jesus Christ, who is the 
al head of every man in the order 
regeneration, and lives his life, as 
ally as, in the order of generation, 
live the life of Adam our proge- 
tor. This certainty or firm persua- 
lion, which St. Paul tells us " is the 
bstance of things to be hoped for, 
le evidence of things not seen," 
um substantia sperandarum^ argti- 
entum tion appareniium^ which is of 
ace, must not be confounded with 
e fides humanay or certainty which 
the product of induction. This 
tter certainty, which- results from 
e motives of credibility fairly con- 
dered, and fully comprehended, and 
hich, after all, leaves us outside the 
;Oor of the church, is as gpreat as any 
istorical or inductive certainty can 
l)e, but it can be no greater. 
^^ The writer says he has failed to dis- 
^^Bover in the writings of Sir William 
^Blamilton the tendency we describe, 
^Btnd that he cannot understand how 
^Buch a result could be produced by 
^Plie inductive philosophy ; but he 
himself acknowledges that Sir VVil- 
Ljiam shows that induction, applied to 
^■jhe itifinite or the absolute, fails to 
^^ield even apparent truth, and says 
he should have added, "or to any 
spiritual existence." This, with the 
proposed addendum, excludes from 
the inductive philosophy alt but finite 
and material or sensible existences, as 
we asserted. Sir William maintains 
expressly that the infinite, the abso- 
lute, the unconditional cannot even be 
thought, because, if thought, it would 
be bounded and conditioned by our 
thought — an absurd reason, for it 

Kpposes that our thought atTects the 
ject we think I We think things 
cause they are, not they are be- 



cause we think them. The object 
conditions the thought, not the 
thought the object. Sir William's 
reason proves not that the object 
thought is not infinite, absolute, un- 
conditioned, but simply that our 
thought on its subjective side is finite, 
or, in other words, that we are not 
infinite, and cannot think an infi- 
nite thought or i>erform an infinite 
act — no very novel assertion. 

Exclude from philosophy the infi- 
nite, the absolute, the unconditional, 
you exclude God, and deny that the 
existence of God can be proved with 
certainty by reason, prior to faith. 
If you exclude all spiritual existences, 
you deny all but material existences, 
and that the spirituality of the soul is 
provable with certainty from natural 
reason. If you exclude God from 
your philosophy, you exclude the 
causa causarum, and tiierefore all 
finite or second causes. Unable to 
assert any cause or causes, your phi- 
losophy can recognize only, as we 
said, sensible phenomena ; nay, not 
so much, but simply affections of the 
sensibility, without any power to refer 
them to any external object or cause 
producing them. We think it very 
easy, therefore, to understand where- 
fore the inductive philosophy, as 
gathered from the school of Sir Wil- 
liam Hamilton, should, as we said, 
" tend to restrict all science to the 
phenomena, and tiierefore to exclude 
principles and causes, and conse- 
quently laws." Can our friend name 
anything more that can be an object 
of knowledge with Sir William Ham- 
ilton and his school ? Will he say 
this is all philosophy can give ? that 
is, all that can be known or proved 
by natural reason ? If so, what an- 
swer shall we make to Saint Thomas 
and all Catholic theologians who, with 
one accord, maintain that the exist- 
ence of God, universal, neccssarj', im- 
mutable, real, self-existent and most 




688 



Phihsophy not always Vmm^ 



perfect being, is demonstrable by 
reason ? or to the Holy See who has 
reqviired the traditionalist to sub- 
scribe the declaration we have alrea- 
dy mentioned, namely, " Ratiocina- 
tio Dei exlstentiani, aninisespirituali- 
tatem, hominis libertatem cum certi- 
tudine probare potest" ? or to Saint 
Paul, who says, (Rora. i. 20,) "The 
invisible things of God, even his 
eternal power and divinity, are clearly 
seen from the creation of the world, 
being understood by the things that 
are raade,/tfr «/ quic facta sunt ititel- 
kctal 

We have dwell the longer on this 
point because Sir William Hamilton 
happens just now to be esteemed by 
a large class of our countrymen as a 
great philosopher, and his writings 
are exerting a bad influence on phi- 
losophic thought. He, perhaps, had 
no contemporary who suqjassed him 
in the literature of philosophy or phi- 
r losophical erudition ; he knew all sys- 
tems, ancient, mediaeval, and modem, 
but he lacked the true ingagno ^iaso- 
fi(o, and though a bom critic, he can- 
not as an original and comprehensive 
genius be compared even with Dr. 
Thomas Reid, the founder of the 
Scottish school. His great merit 
was in completing the doctrine of 
perception left imperfect by Reid, by 
proving that we jjerceive in the sensi- 
ble order things themselves, not mere- 
ly their phantasms, and that perceiv- 
ing and perceiving that we perceive 
are one and the same thing. So far 
he asserted real objective knowledge, 
but knowledge only in the external 
or sensible order. But he undid all 
this again by maintaining that wc see 
things under the forms of our own 
understanding j not as they are in 
themselves, but as we are intellecta- 
ally constituted to see them. To an 
intellect constituted differently from 
ours they would appear different from 
what they do to us. This has an 



ugly squint toward the 
of Immanuel Kant, and bi 
back to the apparent or purely 
nomcnal. This supposes that aO 
knowledge is only knowledge fd^ 
lively to us, or in relation to the p» 
sentconstitution of our minds, Hcao^ 
there is nothing absolute or apmfirtk 
in our science. Things may be '■ 
reality very different from vfaal « 
see them, or from what they afipMl 
to us. This renders all our kao» 
ledge on its objective side unootM^ 
and opens the door to universal vctf 
ticism. We think we have dow » 
injustice to Sir Williain H; 

We rank Sir William Hi 
with the Positivists, as we < 
Herbert Spencer and Mr. J. 
Mill , because he restricts owr 1 
to the sensible and material OBdff. 
and denies virtually that we can kwt 
principles and causes. We dti vt/^ 
pretend that he. Mill, or Spcuca 
agrees in all things with ko^giA 
Comte, the founder of Po&ilivisa; ft 
have no reason to suppose that Ik 
sympathized knowingly with Co«u'< 
avowed atheism, or with hij« dcifio- 
tion and worship of humanity. But 
the fundamcnlal principle of powtir- 
ism, that which excludes oniaJogy 
from the domain of scieocc, b com* 
mon to them all ; and it b impossiUe 
to establish the e.xistence of God, the 
spirituality of the soul, or the liberty 
of man, nr anything else without tte 
aid of ontological principles. Mr, 
Mansel, the ablest of Sir Willian 
Hamilton's disciples, seems «cd 
aware of it, and attempts to fcond 
science on failli, and faith oo>-ooi]t- 
ing. 

We would willingly comply triik 
our friend's rv-qucst, but wc know «f 
no philosophical work in our bo* 
guage such as he wishes us to namb 
I'he English-speaking world, siaot 
Hobbes and Lotl ' d no pbi* 

losophy, and we ai >i no £1^ 




Father Lacordaire. 



;atise on philosophy that has 
lilosophical vahie, though some 
things may be found in old 
Cudworth, Henry More, and 
id and Beattie. We know noth- 
lin a moderate compass in any 
lodern tongue that would meet 
shes of our friend much better, 
bs's Fundamental Philosophy, 
pated from the Spanish by H. 
jkownson, with an introduction 
Is father, Doctor O. A. Brown- 
id published by the Sadliers in 
ity, is the best that occurs to 
ieveral Latin text-books, used 
colleges, such as Rothenflue's, 
fcier's, Branchereau's, and the 
Iraensis, are, though not free from 




objection, yet good introductions to 
the study of philosophy. For our- 
selves, we collect our philosophy 
from Plato, Aristotle, the fathers and 
theologians, more especially from the 
mediasval doctors of the church, aid- 
ed by various modem writers, and 
our own reflections. We follow no 
one author, but regard St. Augustine 
and St. Thomas as the two greatest 
masters of Catholic philosophy that 
have yet appeared. As philosophy 
is the science of reason, we depend 
on the reason common to all men to 
confirm or to reject such philosophi- 
cal views as we from time to time put 
forth. 



FATHER L.\C0R1>AIRE.» 



MPLETE biography of the elo- 
I Dominican whose name is one 
! most brilliant in the historj- of 
todem French Church is yet to 
oked for. If it is ever ade- 
ly written, it will be a work of 
r fascination. Rich, however, 
ithcr Lacordaire's life was in 
als for such a book, it was a 
mparatively poor in striking 
ts — a life whose best side lay 
from the world, and whose 
could be clearly seen only by 
ht of a genuine religious spi- 
!n a word, it was his inner life 
best merits our notice and 
ns our sympathy. We shall 
be going too far if we say 

hlnner life of the Voy Reveicnd Ptre \a- 
k of the Onlcr of Prr.iclier». TraiisUled rrom 
pch of the Rev. P*re Chocame, OP., with 
^tir'. pTiiMsMim By a K«liKiout of Ibe ume 
I ' -by the Very Rtv. Kjllicr Ayl- 

f; j1 of KMsUtid. Small 8vo, pp. 

^onu. .<.,.. urn U. ICaiy. New YctfV: The 
k Piibtic3tion Society. 

L 



that the history of his soul is a posi- 
tive romance. This romance Father 
Chocame has endeavored to relate 
in his excellent narrative of '* The 
Inner Life of the Very Rev. P^re 
Lacordaire." As a biography, it is 
defective ; but it does not pretend 
to be a biography. It is, rather, a 
description of the mental and spirit- 
ual progress of the man, and a pic- 
ture of his virtues, 

Henry Lacordaire was the son of 
a village doctor of Recey-sur-Ource, 
in Burgundy, where he was bom in 
1802. The gentleness of temper for 
which he was afterward remarkable, 
distinguished him from his cradle, 
and the fier)' eloquence by which he 
was to work such wonders may al- 
most be said to have been a gift of 
his boyhood. As a child, his favo- 
rite amusement was to play at being 
priest, and from his mimic pulpit to 
inveigh against the sins of \hfe.N»Q,A^ 



VI,— 44 




Father Lacordatre^ 



|>y a habit of reflection which 
ipts things to me in all their as- 
I have played the game of 
iterial interests of this world, 
without having much enjoyed 
sures or been intoxicated with 
lights, I have tasted enough to 
invinced that all is vain under 
■n ; and this conviction comes 
I from my imagination, which 
ko limits save the Infinite, and 
J^my reason, which analyzes all 
ches. I have a most religious 
I and a very incredulous mind ; 
|s it is in the nature of things 
mind must at last allow it- 
be subjugated by the affections, 
ost likely that I shall one day 
le a Christian. I am alike ca- 
of living in solitude, and of 
g into the vortex of human 
I love quiet when I think of 
bustle when I am in it, some- 
making my castle in the air to 
it in the life of a village cur6, 
n saying good-by to my day- 
as I pass the Pont-Neuf — held 
t present position by that force 
pson which convinces me that 
» everything and to be always 
jing one's place is not to change 
nature, and that there arc wants 
• heart which earth is powerless 
tisfy." 
what process he was led out 
s darkness into the light of re- 
ts happiness, we do not know, 
ably he never knew himself the 
se means by which the grace of 
irrouglu his conversion. " Would 
believe it," he wrote in 1824, 
n every day growing more and 
a Christian ? It is strange, this 
'essive change in my opinions, 
beginning to believe, and yet I 
never more a philosopher. A 
philosophy draws us from reli- 
but a good deal of it brings us 
again." His progress toward 
tuth was rapid. He shunned 



the society of his acquaintances. 
Sometimes he was detected on his 
knees behind the columns of silent 
churches. Sometimes his friends 
surprised him wrapt in sorrowful 
meditation among his books. At 
length the clouds broke away. The 
divine light burst upon him in all 
its magnificence. The loving friend 
whom he had sought so long he found 
in the person of his Saviour. The 
affectionate heart which had yearned 
for an object upon which to pour out 
its wealth found one in Jesus Christ. 
The eloquent lips had at last a theme 
worthy of their powers. He resolved 
to become a priest, and at the age 
of twenty-jwo accordingly entered the 
Seminary of St. Sulpice. 

The serenity and peace of mind 
which came upon him in his new life 
was like the reaction after long re- 
straint. He seemed created for the 
priesthood, for he had all the natural 
gifts most fitting the sacred calling ; 
but his life had been forced into the 
wrong channel, and now that the 
pressure was removed, his soul re- 
bounded with an elasticity at which 
his directors now and then stood 
aghast The strict formalism of St. 
Sulpice, with its rigorous rules of 
propriety, was but little suited to his 
independent character ; yet it was 
something more than a natural re- 
pugnance to unnecessary restraint 
which inspired him with a gaiety lit- 
tle known in the prim precincts of 
the seminary. 

" It sometimes happened that his lively 
and original nature, not yet under much 
control, betrayed itself in sallies which mani- 
fested something of the gallica Innttu, f«ea- 
soned with Burgundian love of fun. The 
good directors were astounded, and hastened 
to repress this boisterous levity. He never 
could accustom himself to the square capv 
that strange head-dress, the shape of which 
is so grotesque that one dares not call it bv 
its true name. Against these caps Ijicor- 
daire declared war, a war at first carried on 
by epigrams, but which soon became one of 



692 



^atker Lacordaire. 



extenniiutioti. He wodd snatch them out 
of the hands of his friends iuid throw them 
into the fire. This gave rise to a great com- 
motion, and very lively discussions ensued, 
some declaring in fiivor of the square cap, 
and others for the btretta, which was then a 
novelty. But itovelty and argument were 
two things which St. Sulpicc held in equal 
abhorrence. In the evening, therefore, at 
the hoor of spiritual reading, the superior 
addressed them a grave reproof, and order 
was once more rcstured. 

" The Abb^ Lacordaire always displayed 
perfect submission to his directors ; and if 
they were sometimes puzzled hy the con- 
trasts of his singular character, they never 
had occasion ix> complain of his want of hu- 
mility, modesty, or obedience. He was be- 
loved by all his companions : his deep and 
earnest nature, wholly given up to his new 
and sacred duties, was adorned with a cer- 
tain freshness of poetry, with the fragrance 
of worldly refinement, artd the grace ol a 
character long pent up within itself, but now 
recly poured forth ; and all this gave an in- 
describable charm to his personal inter- 
course which made him generally loved and 
sought after. All his masters, however, did 
not understand him ; the singularity- of some 
of his ways, his liberal opinions, and his in- 
stinctive repugnance to certain points of or- 
din.-iry routine, doubtless now and then de- 
ceived their observant eyes, and prevented 
them from at once appreciating at its just 
value the pure gold which lay hidden at the 
bottom of the vessel." 

The consequence of all this was 
that his superiors reinained a long 
time in doubt about his vocation, and 
he was not allowed to receive holy 
orders at the usual time. 

" They felt uneasy when they observed his 
ardor for debates, and the large claims 
which he made for reason. When he 
opened hu lips in class to raise any objec- 
tion, his words took so lively and original a 
turn, and his conclusions were so bold, that 
they often proved somewhat embanrassiog 
to the professors. At Ust, in order to save 
time, they begged him to put off his diflicul- 
tips till the end of the lecture. He (urgot 
this sometimes ; perhaps it was to relate a 
story, but the st. iry generally ended in some 
treacherous question, or some luunc-thrust 
at the (hoMt o< the master." 

A project which he seriously began 
to eutertain of becoming a Jesuit 



L at Si 

cept^ 
to a CO 
^aris, w{ 

'4 

lusM 

Dearhri 



put an end to this 

^827 he was ordained pries 

soon afterward an appoinB 

auditor of the Rota at Si 

offered him. It was 

certain to lead to the 

he refused it, and accept 

ble post of chaplain to a cO 

visitation nuns in Paris, w| 

widowed mother came 

him. The abundant 

remained to him in this I 

tion he diligently empl 

At one time he had nearly 1 

his mind to become a 

the United States, and 

terview respecting the 

Bishop Dubois, of New 

th.it venerable prelate vxi 

in 1830. The bishop 

the post of vicar-genei 

be cunotjs to speculate 

his acceptance of this pr 

have had upon the hist< 

the French or the Ameri< 

Had he been vicar-gcnei 

probably have been the _ 

and successor of Bishop Dul 

the brilliant career of Areh 

Hughes fwould have bceo I 

from our annals. In no otiM 

cese than New York wcMild 

bishop Hughes have found a | 

field for the full exercise of ] 

markable powers ; in no othei 

tion than the one be actually 

pied could he have done sodfa 

ser\'icc to the church as be ci! 

in this chief city of the new 1 

On the other hand, there caa 

question that Henr)' Lac< 

but imperfectly fitted for 

and laborious work requti 

days of an American bisb( 

rough work, and the tools 

be not delicate but strong. 

who had refused a temptinf 

from Kome, the prospect 

generalship in America 

supposed to have held ota 



apiuif 



Fatficr Lacordaire. 



693 



•ents j but there were some 
OS why a career in this country 
hted itself to his mind in a 
lely enticing light. He had 
irgotten his early aspirations for 
ftal independence. He had al- 
\ given deep thought to the 
^ which was aftenvard to bring 
Bto such prominence before the 
I of associating societj' and the 
B, and breaking the unholy alii- 
between democracy and infideli- 
PoUtically he was an earnest 
I \ religiously he was a devout 
\ In France, men did not rea- 
fce how the two characters could 
jted ; but in America he believed 
Catholicism was placed under 
tions of development and action 
[favorable than in any country 
^pe. " Who is there," he ex- 
" who, at pioments when the 
f his own country saddens 
3 not turned his eyes toward 
ublic of Washington ? WTio 
bt, in fancy, at least, sat down 
• under the shadow of her for- 
Bd her laws ? Weary with the 
Itle I beheld in France, it was 
t land that I cast my eyes, and 
f I resolved to go to ask a hos- 
f she has never refused to a 
^x or a priest." Having ob- 
' the consent of his archbishop, 
Bt to Burgundy to bid farewell 
I family. But while there, he 
Id a letter from his friend, the 
Gerbet, w;hich changed his 
I and determined him to re- 
m France. 

Pie spring of 1830, he had be- 

^ntimale with the Abb6 de la 

lis, in whom the hopes of so 

of the most zealous of the 

us party in France then cen- 

He was fascinated by the 

of that remarkable man ; he 

Sd in many of his theories ; he 

With only incomplete success, 

wj\ his philosophy ; but De la 

L 



Mcnnais was an absolutist in poli- 
tics, and Lacordaire was an earnest 
liberal. The revolution of 1830, 
however, swept away this barrier 
which had hitherto kept the two 
men apart. De la Mennais frankly 
accepted the great changes which 
followed the abdication of Charles X., 
and, in conjunction with some of his 
disciples, prepared to discuss the 
same problem of the church and 
society of which I^acordaire was 
about to seek the solution in Ame- 
rica. In this work Lacordaire was 
invited to take part "Nothing," 
says Father Chocame, "could have 
caused him greater joy ; it amountec 
to a sort of intoxication. . . . Anc 
thus the same enthusiastic love o£( 
liberty which was carrying this ardent" 
and generous soul to a country blest 
with a larger freedom than his own, 
stopped him at the very moment of 
his departure, and fixed him for ever 
to take part in the destinies and 
struggles of his native land." 

The Avcnir newspaper, which was 
to be the vehicle of this discussion, 
was founded on the 15th of October, 
1830. The noise of it had no sooneir 
gone abroad than a young FrencM 
gentleman of brilliant parts, then in 
Ireland, hastened home to claim 3 
share of the labor. This was Mon- 
talcmbert, and in him Lacordaire' 
found the friend for whom he had 
long sought, and a worthy object for 
the affection which he was burning 
to bestow. They met for the first 
time at the house of De la Mennais, 
and loved each other from the first 
with a love such as knit together the' j 
souls of Jonathan and David. De la' 
Menruus, Lacordaire, and Montalera- 
bert were three of the principal edi-/ 
tors of the new journal. 

"They declared therr object pUinlf 
enough : it was to claim back for the church 
of France, every privilege of liberty, whilst 
rejecting none of its buTdeto. "Wr t^.N^Nia.- 



694 



Father Lacordaire. 



tion had just made a clean sweep of all an- 
cient traditions. Since the restoration of 
order and public worship at the .beginnir\g 
of the cei\tury, the clergy had learnt to their 
coal the real value of that protection granted 
by a power which was ill-informed as to the 
real nature of its relations with the church; 
they had found out by experience what 
they had gained in consideration under the 
empire, under the restoration, and under the 
recently established rfgime of the hourgoisit. 
AVhat altitude were they to assume toward 
the new government? Would the old cn- 
-dcavors to form an alliance between the 
F throne and the altar now recommence ? The 
vA'^'cnir was founded to prcscr\-e them from 
this temptation. Its programme was, re- 
'tpect for the charter and for just laws ; but 
fbr the rest, an absolute independence of 
the civil government It consequently ad- 
vocated liberty of opinion for the press, and 
war against arbitrary power and privilege ; 
liberty of education, and war against the mo- 
nopoly of the university ; lil)erty of associa- 
tion, and war against the old anti-monastic 
laws revived in evil times ; the liberty and 
moral independence of the clergy, and war 
lagainst the budget of public worship. Very 
Vague and uncertain limits were assigned to 
these different liberties, and the reserves 
Stipulated for in the declarations of doctrine 
Ictisappeared often enough when the writers 
^rcrc carried away by the ardor of discus- 
»ion, and the vehemence of invective. 
They were more frequently engaged, we 
must confess, in obtaining the thing they 
flouglit than in preventing its abuse. Far 
too radical in their principles, the polemics 
of the journal were yet more so in the course 
of action which they recommended. * Li- 
berty b not given, it is taken,' was a phrase 
continually repeated ; nor did they scruple 
to add example to precept Every morning 
the charge was sounded, and every day wit- 
nessed some new feat of arms. The clergy 
were addressed as an army drawn up in bat- 
tle array. Every means was tried to kindle 
their ardor ; the zeal of the tardy was «ti- 
miilated, and deserters were set in the pillo- 
ry. The chic is of the party were harangued, 
the plan of campaign indicated beforehand, 
the enemy pointed out and pursued to death. 
Philosophers, enemies of religion, ministers, 
miserable pro-conauls. members of the uni- 
versity, dtizcns, and Gallicar»$ were all at- 
tacked at once. Resistance did but rouse the 
spirit of the combatants ; it seemed as though 
the sun always set too early on their warlike 
ardor, ratience and discretion were not 
much regarded in their system of tacUcs ; 
they wanted to have everything at once, and 
couid not wait for to-morrow, atvCl "mVox i^-as 



not granted with a good grace vat * k-i 
snatched by force, and at the poiM «f Ife 
sword. This haughty and antagontsiie A 
tude, this want of experience in nca ii 
things, mote excusable in the young <fi» 
pies than it was in tlteir master, tarand '* 
our opinion, the greatest fault rrf the .iwv 
Ics errors and exagger^ 
might have been correct 
advice, and the practical tcatiimg 
Hut those haughty accents, w> Strai' 
heard from the lips of priests, alsnii'^'u ^ - 
their friends, and created a certain eceMt' 
nation at Rome — Rome ever caJa S( tr^ 
and patient as eternity. The reSpoallAy 
of this false attitude must be charcfi dbfft 
on the Abbe de la Mcrmais 
Lacordaire. It was the latter 
the most incendiary har a \ 
the most difficult qucstioi. 

•' The philosophic op?n!rm« of 11 A li 
Mennais. and the -i' ^rorki olki 

journal, particularly ■ h u» i m *^ 

the state payment o{ the ' 
of shame and slavery, ha<' 
feeling of distrust smori 
which daily increased. T 
of M. dc la Mennais were nr 
combat; but their faith and 
not endure the vagtte 5; ■ 
against their orthodoixy. 
sire a clear, open exolAii . 
tcmiined to go an ' 
judge of all ecdesia^i 
successor of St Peter." 

The first suggestion of iKt5 coune 
came from Lacortlaire. He reacfail 
Rome, with his two comjuaioiMii 
about tlie end of Decetnbcr, 183 1, 
and besought art audictice with tbc 
Holy Father Gregory XVI. foe the 
purpose of explaining their vicm 
and intentions, and; we majsuiipaie, 
of defending their orthodoxy. BbI 
Rome is not readily moved lijr ik 
dreams of young enthusiasts, vA 
their reception was a cold ooe. 
They were denied a personal vcita- 
view, and were required to pot «bit 
they had to say into writiii<(. At 
the end of two rdoil 

Pacca condesceii. ti^it 

memorial, proniiseti laat it "sboaU 
be examined," and cotirteovsly b*^ 
\3Mim ^o home. Tl^c eSxt of 



1 



■ • 

R 



OW 

m 



^^e 



treatment upon De Ja Mennais and 
Lacordaire respectively, is a remarka- 
ble illustration of their characters. 
The one, deeply wounded in his 
ride, is sullen under the reproof and 
t last throws away for ever the pre- 
ious gift of faith. The other ac- 
nowlodges his errors, bows humbly 
the command of God, and, deli- 
ered from " the most terrible of all 
pressions, that of the intellect," 
arts afresh upon a more glorious 
reer than the one he is forced to 
ibandon. "When I arrived at 
ome," he writes, " at the tomb of 
e holy apostles, St. Tetcr and St. 
'aul, I knelt down and said to God, 
Lord, I begin to feel my we.ikness, 
y sight fails me, truth and error 
ike escape my grasp ; have pity on 
y servant, who comes to thee with 
sincere heart ; hear the prayer of 
e poor.' I know neither the day 
;Or the liour when it took place, but 
t last I saw what I had not before 
seen, and I left Rome free and vic- 
torious, I had learned from my 
own experience that the church is 
e deliverer of tlie human intellect ; 
nd as from freedom of intellect all 
other freedoms necessarily flow, I 
erceived the questions which then 
tated the world in their true light." 
It was at this moment, as I venture 
to believe," says Montalembert, " that 
God for ever marked him with the 
seal of his grace and laid up for him 
the reward due to his unshaken fideli- 
ty, so worthy of a priestly soul." 

Lacordaire now resolved to return 
it once to France, and abandon the 
vtair entirely. De la Mennais per- 
sisted in remaining at Rome longer 
and resuming the suspended periodi- 
cal ; but when the pope decided at last 
his Encyclical Letter of August 
;5th, 1832, and decided against him, 
e made a temporary submission, 
and withdrew to his country-house 
at La Chcsnalc. In this solitary re- 



treat, where, in the days ofhis great- 
ness, a knot of favorite disciples used 
to sit at his feet, he was once more 
joined by Lacordaire, who had more 
confidence in the reality of his mas- 
ter's obedience to the Holy See than 
after events justified. Before long, 
XJthers of the young school gathered 
under the roof of the lonely manor- 
house. De la Mennais chafed daily 
more and more under the affront to 
his intellect. He gave signs of re- 
bellion. His heart was torn by pas- 
sion, and his lips let fall dark threats 
and alarming murmurs. " The har- 
rowing spectacle," says Lacordaire, 
" became too much for me to bear." 
He wrote M. de la Mennais an af- 
fecting letter of farewell ; and left La 
Chesnaie alone and on foot. It was 
not long before the apostasy of De 
la Mennais brought the sad history 
to an awful close. 

The young priest, who had escaped 
from the snare, hastened to present 
himself to the Archbishop of Paris, 
Mgr. de Quclen. He was received 
with open anns, as a son who had 
returned wounded and wear}' from 
some dangerous adventure. " You 
want another baptism," said the arch- 
bishop, " and I will give you one." 
He reappointed him to the chaplain- 
cy of the Visitation, and in the re- 
tirement of that peaceful retreat he 
found rest for his disturbed soul, and 
girded up his loins for a fresh battle 
with the world. 

He spent about a year in this soli- 
tude, and then accepted an invitation 
from the officers of the Stanislaus 
College in Paris, to preach a series 
of conferences to the students. Here, 
at last, was the vocation for which 
God had designed him. The pulpit 
was his proper sphere. After the 
first day, the pupils had to give up 
their places to crowds of strangers, 
and the chapel could not contain the 
numbers who flocked to Usteu lo bi.* 





Father Lacordairt, 



I 

I 



indescribable eloquence. It was an 
eloquence not restricted by rules. 
The orator trampled under foot the 
artificial forms which for centuries 
had cramped and con6ned the utter- 
ances" of the pulpit. He outraged at 
pleasure all the canons of the schools. 
His conferences were neither lec- 
tures, nor homilies, nor sermons, but 
rather were brilliant discourses on 
sacred subjects in which all the sym- 
pathies of the audience were by tunis 
engaged. He spoke not merely as 
a priest, but as a citizen, a poet, a 
philosopher, as a man of the day, 
appreciating the spirit and the wants 
of his own time. But, like all men 
who strike out in a new path, and are 
not satisfied to follow exactly in tlie 
footsteps of their grandfathers, he 
encountered bitter opposition from a 
certain class of purblind formalists. 
His style, they said, was too human ; 
his rhetoric was too erratic ; his dis- 
respect for the text-books of the 
schools of eloquence was positively 
appalling. Nay, was he not one of 
that pestiferous brood which De la 
Mennais had hatched in the woods 
of La Chesnaie, and which the Pope 
had solemnly condemned ? Was he 
not a liberal in politics, a friend of 
liberty, an admirer of American re- 
publicanism? He had recanted his 
errors ; but that was forgotten. He 
had given the strongest proofs of the 
steadfastness of his faith and the 
completeness of his submission to the 
Holy See ; but tliese were overlook- 
ed. He was not merely an orator, 
but aia accomplished theologian, for 
he had always been a hard student ; 
but to this his opponents resolutely 
shut tlieir eyes. They denounced 
him as a dangerous man, a fanatic, 
an innovator, and a corrupter of 
youth. Their clamor at last prevail- 
ed, and by order of the arclibishop 
the conferences were suspended. 
This second humiliation, which he 



accepted with the same dodlilyi 

the linst, was of short duration. 
AfTre, afterward Arcbbisbop of 
pleaded so earnestly for his 
mcnt that he was not only 
to the pulpit but appointed a sefld 
of conferences in the ^eat c^ihtdal 
of Notre Dame. We shall tell ia \m 
own words how, after a brief haiar 
tion, he entered upon this iinpiTl s fl 
duty : 

" The day having come, Noire Daaf Ml 
filled with a tnuUitude such <» lorf anw 
before been seen within its walla. IVi^ 
benl and the absolutist jouth di Fm^ 
friends and enemies, and that curjoot n««4 
which a great capital has alwap rea^ir 
anything new, had all flocked together, al 
were packed in dense masses wHhia Af ^ 
cathedraL I mounted the palph finaiy VA 
not without emotion, and be^an Mkf 4^ 
course with my cj-c fixed ..»i ilm ar.!i]-t\rs 
who, after CkHf, but ' 
to me the first person 
listened with his head 
a state of absolute ini- 
who was not a mere »p<L' 
judge, but rather as one wl . 
risk by the experiment. I sooa iieit ai :> '-^ 
with my subject and mjr sodioice, an-i ^> 
my breast swelled imder the necntii) '^ 
grasping that vast assembly of oea, Aad tk 
calmofthefirst - ' ntcnees begaiM 

give place to th' 'O of tke viHi^ 

one of those cxc,.^..,.^;,...,, escaped tnmtm 
which, when deep and heartielt, ncvfs Bd 
to move. The archbishop visfNjr Ufii rf 
I watched his countenance changr m \t 
raised his head and c«st on me a glwrrcrf 
astonishmenL I saw that llie bottlr Mi 
gained in his mind, and it w»t *a tk^f 
in that of the audience. llAvlng icuimil 
home, he announced that hr was so4«K !• 
appoint me honorary '^ ■• caAadrlll 

and they had some 
him to wait until the end of the i 



The effect of these diacoaneft«itt 
irresistible. All Paris came Id bes 
them ; and over the youn^ i 
cially, into whose wants, 
ings, hopes, aspiranons> 
raents Father Lacordaire 
thoroughly, because be had 
enced them all himself, his 
was almost uDbounded. 



Father Lacordairt. 



693^ 



above all distinguished his preach- 
nurked its provideutial mission, 
bnned the chief reason of his suc- 
its adaptation to social needs. It 
Kiety what society was hungering 
ling after ; that Living Bread, the 
ition of which had brought it to 
of death ; it spoke to the world of 
of his Son, our Lord and Saviour. 
!ty has a social existence, not only 
le that it is itself a society, the most 
8 most universal, the most ancient, 
Catholic, and the most perfect of 
cs ; but also in this, that all so- 
>end on and live by it, as the body 
m the soul, and draws its life from 
id as man depends and lives on 
Wr the society which the Abbi 
e addressed was remarkable prc- 
his, that it was viithout GchL For 
time, pcrhnps, since civilized na- 
f had a historj', men were to be 
favoring to progress without the 
y positive commerce with heaven. 
S with difliculty that an individual 
rithout religious faith, much more 
ossible for a nation to do so. 
(act, is a nation but a great corn- 
sufferings, miseries, weaknesses, 
lies of mind and body ? Without 
ind above all, without Christian- 
is the remedy for all these evils, 
lation for all these misfortunes? 
i Lacordaire, himself brought back 
idsm by his deep conviction that 
uld not do without the church, re- 
his peculiar mission the task of 
g this truth to the eyes of hia 
tn. 'The old state of society,' 
perished because it had expelled 
new is suffering, because God has 
een admitted into it.' His con- 
the thought which ran through all 
ctions. his labors, and his entire 
IS to contribute what he could in 
t he might reenter into the iaith 
r the age." 

onferences went on for two 
thout interruption, and with 
ly increasing success. The 
lOp bestowed upon the 
: the title of " the new pro- 
All at once, in May, 1836, 
any ostensible reason, he re- 
is pulpit and went to Rome. 
I was, he had not succeeded 
down the misrepresentations 
conceptions which had em- 



barrassed him before. He was still 
regarded in many quarters as a dan- 
gerous man, whose zeal was too rash, 
and whose orthodox)' was, at llie best, 
but unfirm. What better could he 
do than seek refuge from detraction 
in the very bosom of the church ? 
How could he better prove his de- 
vout obedience to the Holy Father 
than by seating himself at the very 
foot of the papal throne ? In the re- 
tirement of the Christian capital, he 
pondered upon his future career. A 
life such as he had hitherto led he 
saw was impossible ; whatever good 
he might effect by his preaching 
would hardly counterbalance the evil 
of the opposition he aroused among 
those who could not or would not un- 
derstand him. Moreover, the arcli- 
bishop had kindly intimated to him 
that there was no line of duty open 
to him except in the routine of regu- 
lar parochial duty. For this he had 
neilher fitness nor vocation. His 
only resource was consequently in 
one of the religious orders. None 
of them except the Society of Jesus 
had yet been restored in France. 
What a glorious task for him to bring 
back some of them to his native 
country! After long deliberation, 
his choice settled upon the Domini- 
cans. The difficulties to be over- 
come were enormous; and not the 
least of the obstacles which he had 
to place under his foot was his own 
character, his independence of spirit, 
his love of liberty, his boldness in 
stepping out of the beaten path. We 
have no space to relate in detail how 
he fought and conquered. He made' 
his novitiate at Viterbo, pronounced 
his vows in May, 1840, and the next 
day set out for Rome, where the 
convent of Santa Sabina had been 
consigned for his use and that of the 
six companions who were to join him 
in his mission. His stay here was 
but brief, for he was eager to ^\. 



698 



Father Lacordaire. 



I 
I 



back to France. In December, he 
reappeared in his native country, 
wearing the habit which had been 
banished from the kingdom for half 
a century. 

" Here and there he met with a few nurka 
of astonishment, and sometimes of hostility. 
At Paris, where he was expected by no one 
excepting his most intimate friends, many 
rejoiced to see him. His former enemies 
bad no time to think of their old rancors, 
nor the lawyers their musty statutes. Every- 
thing else gave way before the sentiment of 
curiosity, All the world 'wished to see the 
friar, the spectre of past ages, the son of 
Dvminic tht Inquisitor; and especially to 
know what he was going to do and to say. 
Mgr. Afire, the new Archbishop of Paris, 
received P^rc Lacordaire with delight, saw 
no ditlicuUy in his preaching at Notre Dame 
in his new habit, and only begged him to 
name whatever day he liked. We must 
leave Perc Lacordaire hin»sclf to relate the 
story of this bold adventure. 

•' ' I appeared injhc pulpit of Notre Dame 
with my white tunic, gray-black mantle, and 
my tonsure. The archbishop presided, the 
keeper of the seals, and minister of public 
•worship, M. Martin, (du Nord,) was also 
present, as he wished to observe for himself 
a scene of which no one could tell the issue. 
Many other distinguished persons concealed 
themselves in the a.*sembly, in the midst of 
the crowd which filled the church from the 
doors to the sanctuary. I had chosen fur the 
subject of my discourse the Vocation of tht 
Frtttck Nation, in order to veil the audacity of 
my presence under the popularity of my 
theme. In this I succeeded, and next day the 
keeper of the seals invited me to a dinner- 
parly of forty persons, which he gave at the 
chancellor's mansion. During the repast, M. 
Bourdain, formerly minister of justice under 
Charles X., leant toward one of his neigh- 
bors, and said, "What a strange turn of 
events ! If, when I was keeper of the seals, 
I had invited a Dominican to my table, my 
house would have been burnt down next 
day." However, the house was not burnt, 
and no newspaper ever invoked the secular 
arm .tgainst my auto-Jafi.'' 

" This was, in fact, one of his happiest 
strokes — one of those surprises which he 
was fond of, and which suited the adventur- 
ous .<i(dc of his character. The effect of this 
reappearance was immense ; the religious 
standard had been planted in the verj- heart 
of the stronghold ; but the victory was not 
yet completely gained, and many of those 
wbo had been daztled and dlsconccttcd by 



the brilliancy and anforcMeii character ofll 
attack, were not long ere tbey tamed af/ut 
him, and detnandcd an cxplanatioa of li 
illegal triumph, in the name of the SLztc." 

The establishment of the order b. 
France was not effected without 
good many troubles. TTierc •! 
trouble at Rome, where he was sa 
pected and misunderstood until he 
proved his humility and obcdieoA 
There was trouble in France, vhtft 
the government opposed the intro- 
duction of an order which was 
forbidden by law, and thrcaier>c-j 
him with penalties which, after all, 
they lacked the c- '.««; 

andwherethe tim<>i ^fttei 

among the clergy would rather hxn 
had him submit to wrong tb >:i fv^»- 
promise a sleepy sort of t: 
by standing up boldly for t ! i 
There was even a tedious co-ir 
sy which, at this distance of lime 
and place, seems wonderfully trhial, 
whether he should be pcrmitied to 
preach in liis white habit, fiut hit 
courage conquered. One or two boat' 
es of the order were soon opcscd; 
and, when the revolutionary troables 
came in 1848, the eIoqi>ent Oomial* 
can was one of the most popolir 
men in France. With the establisih 
ment of the republic^ a somewhat^ 
embarrassing question presented 
self for his decision. It was 
easy for him, occupying such a pcn^j 
tion as he did in the public eye. 
stand aloof from the great put 
questions of the day. The good 
religion seemed to require thil 
should mingle in the turmoil of , 
tics. He tells how his deter 
was at last effected : 

" Whiht I was thus deltbenUiBgwilkSf- 
self, the Abbe Maret and PtcdcricT 
called on me. They spoke to me 
trouble and uncertainty tbat nipied 
Catholics ; all old rallytng-pointi m 
appearing in what seemed Ukciy t» beoaa* 
I hopeless anarchy, which might Radar lh> 
new rfgnHf hostile la us, and de|iri«« ■ ^ 
all chance of obtsniitg thuae UhciltaiwtaA 



Father Lacordaire. 



699 



^Ita 



1"- 

fer 



ki 



d been refused by preceding governments. 

The republic,' they added, ' is well-dis- 

d toward us ; we have no such acts of 

barity and irreligion to charge it with as 

accd the Revolution of 1830. It believes 

d hopes in us ; ought we to discourage it ? 

breovcr, what are we to do ? — to what 

er party can we attach ourselves ? What 

we see before us but ruin ? and what is 

le republic, but the natural government of 

society' that has lost all its former anchors 

and traditions ?' 

" To these reasons, suggested by the sit- 
.tion of aflairs, they added higher and more 
neral views, drawn from the future of Eu- 
ipcan society, and the impossibility that 
archy should ever again find any solid 
ting-place. On this point I did not go so 
as they. Limited monarchy, in spite of 
£iults, had always seemed to me the most 
irablc of all forms of government, and I 
y saw in the rcpul)lic a momentary ne- 
ity until things should naturally take an- 
cr course. This difference of opinion was 
rious, and hardly allowed of our working 
'gether in concert Nevcrthclcss.lhe danger 
urgent, and it was absolutely necessary 
tther to abdicate at this solemn moment, 
or frankly to choose one's party, and bring 
lo the help of society, now shaken to its 
ry foundations, whatever light and strength 
eh one had at his command. Hitherto I 
ad taken a definite position with regard to 
public events ; ought I now to take refuge 
in a selfish silence because the dttSculties 
were more serious ? I might indeed say 
that I was a religious, and so hide mj-self 
under my religious habit ; but I was a reli- 
gums militant, a preacher, a writer, surround- 
ed by a sympathy which created very differ- 
ent duties for me from the duties of a Trap- 
pist or a Carthusian. These considerations 
weighed on my consiencc. Urged by my 
icnds to decide, I at length j-ielded to the 
rce of events, and though I felt a strong 
repugnance to the idea of returning to the 
career of a journalist, I agreed, in concert 
with them, to unfurl a standard on which 
should be inscribed together the names of 
Religion, the Republic, and Liberty." 

This was the origin of a new politi- 
cal journal, the Ere Nou-trIle,o{'wh[ch. 
he commenced the publication in the 
spring of 1848. Nor was this all. 
The city of Marseilles elected him a 
representative in the constituent as- 
sembly ; and, in his white Domini- 
can habit, he took his seat there on the 
extreme left. We need hardly say 



thathis political career was abitterdis- 
appointment to himself, and a disap- 
pointment, too, to many of his friends. 
There was only one pait)' with which 
his principles permitted him to ally 
himself ; but that party, as he saw it 
in tlie assembly, could not enlist his 
sympathies. " I could not sit there," 
he said, " apart from democracy, and 
yet I could not accept democracy as 
I saw it there displayed." He held 
his seat only two weeks. On the 
r5tli of May, a mob invaded the hall 
of meeting, and for three hours held 
their representatives intimidated. 
The next day Lacordaire resigned in 
disgust. "I found out," said he af- 
tenvard, " that I was nothing but a 
poor little friar, and in no way a Ri- 
chelieu ; a poor friar, loving nothing 
but retirement and peace." Very 
soon afterward he withdrew likewise 
from the Ere Nouvelle, and here it 
may be said that his public life came 
to a close. He preached for some 
time longer in Notre Dame, but the 
boldness of his language gave of- 
fence, and, after the coup- d'etat of 
December, 185 1, he resisted all en- 
treaties to appear again in the cathe- 
dral pulpit. The strengthening and 
propagation of his order now took 
up all his attention. He visited hb 
brethren in other countries, and 
made a short trip to England. Then, 
at the age of fifty, he resolved to de- 
vote himself to the education of the 
young. He founded houses of the 
third order of Dominicans for the 
express purpose of carrying on this 
important work, and in one of them, 
at Sor^ze, he finally settled down to 
pass the remainder of his days. Here, 
with powers yet unimpaired, the man 
whose eloquence had stirred all 
France applied himself to teaching 
the Greek and Latin grammar. He 
had no fixed system of education, 
but his personal magnetism made 
up for other defects \ \» ^:a.\Jww«.^ 



TOO 



Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert. 



around him the best instructors ; he 
lived like a father in the bosom of 
his family ; he iilled the place with 
the odor of gentleness and piety. 
Here, on tlae 21st of November, 
i860, after an illness of nearly a 
year, he preached his last. 

Important as the labor was in 
which Father Lacordaire had spent 
the closing years of his life, we can- 
not help feeling that it was not the 
labor for which he had been specially 
endowed, nor was it that in which 
his heart was most deeply engaged. 
It is rather as the preacher of Notre 
Dame than as the president of So- 
rfcze, rather as the reconciler of reli- . 
gion and society than as a teacher of 
boys, that he stands before us in the 
page of history. What a bitter com- 
ment is it upon the condition of af- 
fairs in France, fifteen or twenty 



years ago, that such a man could W I 
stopped in such ti career ! The s«^ 
ry of Lacordaire of^en 
of a passage in one of Gf 
novels, where the life of one 1 
gone through bitter sorrow and 1 
appointment is described as 
" like a spoiled pleasure-<lay»1 
which the music and processions! 
all missed, and nothing is \ii 
evening but the weariness of stril 
after what has been failed of 
was partly so with his life ] noi^ 
ly, of course, for the reward of 
striving came at evening, though 1 
object of the struggle had been 
ed. Disappointment and wc.-ir 
were tlie burdens which God 
upon him, and he leaves a 
renown, as well as reaps a 
reward, for the sweetness with ' 
he bore tliem. 




SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT. 



Abbot Isaac said : I know a bro- 
ther who was reaping, and who wish- 
ed to eat an ear of com, and he said 
to the master of the field : Are you 
willing I should eat one ear of com ? 
And he, hearing these words, was as- 
tonished and said : The field is thine. 
Father, and dost tliou ask me ? So 
scrupmlous was the brother. 

Abbot Sisois once said in confi- 
dence : Believe me, I have been thir- 
ty j-ears without praying to God on 
account of my sins ; but when I pray 
I say this : O Lord Jesus Christ, 
save me from my tongue. And yet 
it causes me to fall every day, and be 
ddinquent 

Abbot Pastor said : As the bee* 



are driven iVom their hives bjr ; 
so that their honey may be ot 
even so does bodily rest banish ite 
fear of the Lord from the soul, tl>d_ 
take from it every good work. 






A certain old man determine 
he would drink nothing for 
days. Whenever he was tonnentcil 
by burning thirst, he took a *«Siel» 
and, having filled it with water, placed 
it before him. And when his breth- 
ren asked why he did this, be so- 
swered : In order that, sedi^ wbtl I 
greatly desire, and yet not tastnf i^ 
my suffering may be the more io- 
tense, and hence that the revani 
which God shall £if« me may be 
greater. 



PfovidgHce. 'jot 



PROVIDENCE. 

When I remember all my days, 

And note what blessings each displays, 

What words can speak my grateful praise ? 

What varied beauty thrills my sight ! 
What sounds my list'ning soul delight ! 
What joys of touch and appetite ! 

And, more than any joy of sense, 

The happiness serene, intense. 

That comes to me, I know not whence, 

Unless it be that He is near, 

And speaks s<Hne words I cannot hear, 

But which unto my soul are clear. 

For there are times — ah ! who can tell 

The gladness inexpressible 

With which my soul doth overswell I 

Ev'n sorrows that once seemed to press 
My soul to brinks of wretchednesSj 
I know were but his means to bless. 



Out of the deeps of pain and fear, 
He led me to a higher sphere, 
Where all his purpose is made clear. 

Had not such sorrow struck my ways, 
I had lived out my earthly days, 
Barren of either prayer or praise. 

Wherefore each day, when I recall 
The blessings which his hands let fall, 
For tkis I thank him most of all ; 

And would not, if I could, forego 
The sorrow which he made me know, 
For unto it so mudi I owe. 



^08 Provideuu. 



This happy life, this lovely earth. 
These joys which every day brings forth. 
Are now to me of tenfold worth. 



Such wondrous love all things disclose^ 
Such joy through all my being glows, 
That in my soul a longing grows 



That I might see this One All-Good, 
And tell him all my gratitude, 
In words however weak and rude. 



But ah 1 I fear it cannot be 
That I this loving God can see, 
For he fills out infinity \ 



And out of him there is no place 
Where I can stand to see his foce : 
Enough, I lie in his embrace. 



And sometimes, albeit dimly, feel 
That he is near, and doth reveal 
Himself in joy unspeakable. 

I said, indeed, ' I shall not see 
Him face to face ;' yet it may be 
That joy of joys awaiteth me. 

For when this grossness, that doth fence 
My being in the bonds of sense. 
Fails off when I am taken hence, 



New powers of which I do not know 
May be revealed in me, and show 
The One to whom myself I owe, 



And I may see him face to &ce. 
Lord, grant it of thy boundless gnoe, 
The crown of all my happiness 1 




Tfu P re-Historical Congress of Paris. 



703 



TMB KTUDU KKLlalKCnxa, HMTOKIQVKS ST LITmtAIIUKi rAK lltt rHEIS I>« LA. COMrACMIS ! 

JKSUS. 

THE PRE-HISTORICAL CONGRESS OF PARIS. 



An " Internatumal Confess of An- 
\nrpology and Prc-historical Arcfueo- 
assembled in the amphitheatre 
the EcoU de Aledecine, at Paris, on 
ie 17th of last August, and held 
ssions until the 30th. The mcan- 
ig of the terms anthropology and 
:hffiology is familiar ; but the word 
re-hiUorUai, being of recent origin, 
squires an explanation. It is used 
designate either material objects, 
k events and epochs, or even men, 
tUrior not only to written his I or)', 
It also to alt oral tradition and to 
ftvery monument having a certain 
late and an origin historically de- 
'rniined. 
In fhe lowest strata o(^ the earth 
yWhich wc tread, in caverns unknown 
)r centuries, under the iumuli or 
leaps of shells and fossils ; in the 
bottom of lakes where formerly dwell- 
ings and villages were built on piles ; 
and in cromlechs and raths, are found, 
with the bones of animals now ex- 
tinct, arms, instruments, and utensils 
of stone, evidently fashioned by the 
hand of man. In the next stra- 
tum above, the same stone objects 
are found ; but this time the stone is 
polished and accompanied with bones 
of a different character — most fre- 
quently the bones and horns of the 
reindeer. Human remains, skulls, 
jaw-bones, and teeth, begin to appear 
in greater quantity. But in these two 
first layers of the earth no metal is 
discovered. It is only in the tliird 
stratum that brass, then iron, often 
all the other metals, are met. These 
singular fossib, and the invariable 
order of their existence, in France 



as well as in other countries, are the 
facts of which the present essay treats. 

The epoch in which iron begins to 
appear in the layers of the earth is 
one the date of which is known to 
us either by the relations of histo- 
rians, or by traditional recollections, 
or by inscriptions and medals found 
in the soil. These strata, therefore, 
and their antiquities, belong to the 
historical epoch. But the lower stra- 
ta, of more ancient formation, all the 
fossils found in them, curious spe- 
cimens of primitive industry, monu- 
ments of the social state and man- 
ners of the first men ; human remains 
also which bear testimony to man's 
physical conformation ; all tliese, an- 
terior to histor)', belong to pre-his- 
tor'ual archaeology and anthropology. 
These sciences are very young in 
years and manners, hvX very old by 
their object and the age to which 
they carry back our thoughts. 

The Paris Congress met to com- 
pare the discoveries of different 
countries, and thus obtain a more 
perfect knowledge of ^s. pre-histori- 
cal period, and draw more general 
inferences from it. 

A first congress assembled iniS66, 
at Neufchitel, in Switzerland ; the 
second is that of Paris, last August ; 
the third will meet this year in Eng- 
land. The Congress of Paris was 
singularly favored by the Universal 
Exposition. The most eminent re- 
presentatives of European science 
were there. Russia alone was not 
represented. Among the foreign 
members who spoke were Franks, 
Squier, Vorsaae, Nilsson, Desor, C16- 




704 



The P re-Historical Congress of Paris. 



ment, Virchow, and especially Carl 
Vogt, the learned naturalist. It was 
this outspoken and venturesome sa- 
vant who at Neufchitel declared him- 
self a partisan of the man-monkey- 
France had there her Lartet, Presi- 
dent, De Mortillet, Secretar>', De 
Longperier, the learned antiquarian 
of the LouvTe, and De Quatrefages, 
the eminent naturalist of the museum. 
These two last illustrious members 
of the French Institute had a pre- 
ponderating influence in the con- 
gress, for the interest of science and 
the glory of their country. The 
Abb6 Bourgeois, the Marquis de 
Vibraye, Alexander Bertrand, Alfred 
Maury, Henry Martin, and Doctor 
Broca, were also present and ad- 
pressed the assembly. 

If we arc to believe certain re- 
ports, of which the positivist sheet La 
Pensee Nouvelle is the organ, it was 
proposed to prove satisfactorily that 
the appearance of man on the earth 
dates from one hundred to sixty, or 
at Igast from forty thousand years ; 
that this appearance is not the result 
of a creation properly so called, but 
the term of a slow and necessary 
evolution, as would be, for instance, 
the progressive transformation of the 
monkey type into tlie human ; im- 
perceptibly taking place for thou- 
sands or rather millions of ages ! In 
this way the authority of the Bible 
would be set at naught, as being old, 
and gradually falling to pieces ; but 
more especially because it is revealed 
and undoubtedly true. We could 
then do without the hypothesis of a 
God, Creator of man, since our learn- 
ed men would show that they could 
do without the hypothesis of a God, 
Creator of heaven and earth. 

Was this the real aim of the Paris 
Congress ? If so, it was the same as 
that which well-informed men allege 
to have been the object of the first 
hall of the history of labor in the 



French Exposition. It is 
that, for several years, many 
reviews, journals, and even 
ofticial discourses which erciy 
may read, have openly tended ia I 
direction. 

But let us confine our remaikst 
the congress. We dislike to 
that such was the fixed thoogbt<tf I 
majority of the foreign and Fn 
members. The love of »QCfioc^( 
praiseworthy desire of coUectiof i 
formation, or of giving it 
facts very ancient in themsdl 
very new in regard to as ; 
motives gathered in Paris 
strangers, and Frenchmen ofi 
rent classes and opinions. On At 
other hand, it seems im| 
deny that an ardent mi 
the intention of overthrowii^ 
biblical theory of creation bolk 
to time and character ; of this ■■ 
rity all except one were Freoc 

Yet — let us hasten to say it- 
minority /lid not succeed. 
scandal did not take plaoe. 
majority was not convinced 
falsity of the traditional 
The new doctrines were not found M 
be certain. A few affirmatioos aid 
eccentric theories were cxprcsac^ 
But. they were so justly. Icam^dii* 
and wittily answered, th-it th^r tkt^ 
rists had to doubt i' 'djwi 

sj-stems. This is a \' _ , y-tisA 
result in such an affair. 

A programme of all the excsniflM 
to be made in common to the Exp»' 
sition, to the Museum, to the Pabce 
of Saint Germ.iin, to the at^alilfeio 
monument at Argenteuil, to the e*- 
viroris of Amiens, to the Musenn of 
Artiller)', and to the Xluscam of the 
Anthropological Society, vas traoai 
in advance. Six principal qttCStioM 
occupied the six evening jiu'inM 
at the Eiolt iL; Mtdedtu, The dif 
after these sittings, the member* nd 
again in tlte same place, in free Jtt 



^ch to propose his difficulties, 
he written communications of 
f members ; examine packages 
Ig Uaiiy, containing new speci- 
pf the primitive works of man, 
[Utensils, different instruments 
pe, in bone, in bronze, or in 
lund in the bowels of the earth, 
ems, or lakes and in Druidi- 
bmlechs, raths, or mounds, in 
t, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, 

I Britain, Denmark — in short, 
bere. 

\ six fundamental questions 
; six theses, comprising the en- 
\t\3.moi />r€-historUai knowledge. 
t are the most ancient vestiges 
I's existence ? In what geologi- 
editions, among what /<;//«« and 
pkve they been found in the dif- 
|>arts of the globe ; and what 
Ss have taken place since then, 

SIsions of land and water?" 
Iras the first question. Next 
pn : " Has the dwelling of the 
ve man in caverns been gene- 
[s it true of one race alone, re- 
\ to one and the same epoch ?" 
question : " What relations are 
between the men to whom we 
le megalithic monuments, and 
irho formed tlie lake dwellings ?" 
Hirth was : " Is brass the pro- 
f indigenous industry, the re- 
f a violent conquest, or the 
of new commercial relations?" 
Ad reference to the use of brass 
west. Fifth question : " What 
, the different countries of Eu- 
he chief characteristics of the 
Doch of iron ? Is this ep>och 
Br to the historical period?" 
Ixtb and last was the most im- 

II question : " What are the no- 
icquired regarding the anatomi- 
iracteristics of man in the pre- 
cal times, from the most re- 
times to the appearance of 
' Can the succession of sev- 
ices, and their traits, be dis- 

24-45 



covered, especially in Western Eu- 
rope ?" 

It is easy to see that the five first 
questions are delicate, difficult, and 
i?nportant, tliough tliey all centre in a 
point of chronology. But chronology 
in this case is the histor)* of man. It 
is the Bible and revelation. It is tra- 
dition. It is faith. We must assign 
a reasonable date for those ancient 
debris of labor, or of the human be- 
ings whom we certainly meet in all 
the strata called quaternary ; and 
probably also in the last layers of the 
tertiary strata, much more ancient 
than the quaternary. This date must 
in no wise change tlie sacred text. 
This date once found and demon- 
strated, would settle the dispute which 
still exists regarding the chronology 
of the Bible. We know that the 
Catholic Church gives us full liberty 
on this point. But the moment has 
not yet come for p re-historical arch- 
aeology to define the limits of the .iges 
or years which xi caWs tfu age of eut 
stone ; the age of polished stone, or of 
the reindeer ; the age of brass ^ and the 
age of iron. The congress under- 
stood this well. Only two or three 
orators were bold enough to speak of 
thousands of years or of millions of 
years. Some savans have wonder- 
ful imaginations ! But in general, no 
one ventured to determine or define 
the time. Almost always the gentle- 
men used the words epoch, age, periody 
without wishing to be more precise. 
They were afraid to compromise their 
reputations. 

Without doubt, for the same rea- 
son, no savant or person of conse- 
quence wished in the beginning to 
sign his name to the catalogues of 
the Exposition, relating to the pre-his^ 
torical antiquities, or hold himself 
personally responsible for them. But 
behold I after five months, when the 
Exposition was near its close, oa 
Thursday, August 29th, M. de MqxuV- 



i 




The Pn-Historical Congress of Paris, 



let offered timidly to the congress a 
little volume of his composition, en- 
titled, Pre-historical Promenades in 
Ihe Universal Exposition. M. de 
Mortillct is also the author of an 
other book, T/u Sign of the Cross he- 
fare Christianity. He is also collec- 
ting materials for the positive, or rather 
positirist and philosophical history of 
man. For M, de Mortillet imagines 
that it is necessary for men of genius 
to astonish others, if not by discov- 
eries in truth, at least by iheir eccen- 
tricities. M. de Mortillet is a man 
of genius. The world may deny it. 
But M. de Moriillet is a better au- 
thority on the subject than any one 
else. This learned gentleman con- 
cludes his Promenades with these 
beautiful phrases : " Tl>c chronology 
• taught in all our schools is terribly 
distanced. It hardly comprises the 
historical period. The law of the 
progress of humanity, the law of the 
development of races, and the great 
antiquity of man, are three conse- 
quences which follow clearly, dis- 
tinctly, precisely, and irrefragably 
from the work which we have made 
on the Exposition." In these three 
phrases we perceive the wonderful 
wit, profundity, brilliancy, and genius 
of the author. It is astonishing how 
a gentleman of his extraordinary 
science, although he was secretary of 
its deliberations, could not exercise 
the smallest influence on the con- 
gress, either by his speeches or his 
books 1 

Pre-historical archaeology was en- 
riched by mai}y new discoveries at 
the congress. The Abbo Bourgeois, 
among other important facts, obser\'cd 
that traces of man were found in the 
tertiary stratum. 

The anthropological quesdon came 
last. Eight days before the close of 
the congress, M. de Quagrefages pro- 
posed that question, in presendng to 
IX the. first copy of his fine work. 



Rapport sttr Us Prvgris de F, 

poloj^. With great scvenccj 
ness, and modesty, the ilh 
naturalist, in rendering an 
of his investigations, held thf 
assembly attentive. TT»e i 
which he received showed 
teem in which the author 
and the value of his book. 

Other incidents formed a 
to the final thesis ; but som 
opposite direction. We cita 
gle example. It was asked 
the first men had been anl 
phagi or not. It is well knot 
there is a school in France^ 
as elsewhere, which deei 
honor to be descended 
bals or monkeys. A ntcroi 
congress made a profes.%ion 
on this point. The admttt 
of this school (Doctor Broca' 
leave to speak on primitive 
pology. He began by ■ i 

had long hesitated lu 
the affirmative, and that the 
so far given did not satisfy 
a human bone, which be 
the assembly, had (tnalljr 
him. This bone had 
the end of it made by 
man of the age of <'«/ * 
to break the bone at this 
could not succeed. He 
tried to saw the bone in the 
with a flint, in order to obi 
marrow, with which be wi*h 
gale himself. Some c 
laughed, especially wt. 
rupting the orator, remarki 
pretended marks made b 
saw seemed fresh, and prod< 
recent rubbing. When the 
stration was finished, 
archseologisL, M. de Lon; 
ed, from the example of 
torical races, and by specIfDcns 
are found in public rr'-'«— •r' 
objects of luxury, as v. 
were often made out of human 



ba^ 



the 



Tfu Pre-Historical Congress of Paris. 



707 



tances ^ytfre f^iven of mallets, bod- 
\, and musical instruments. As 
the bone in question, nothing 
wed that the cuts and scratches 
it pointed out by Doctor Broca 
e not caused by some one trying to 
\e- a whistle f The reader may 
ss the impression left on tlie 
gress by this remark, and the 
ression of the doctor's physiog- 

% anthropology as in archeology 
pelebrities of the congress alleged 
■proven facts ; either real fossils of 
human body, bones, skulls, jaw- 
es, teeth ; or signs naturally con- 
ted with the subject, as hilts of 
rds, or bracelets fitting hands or 
s much smaller than ours. But 
IBS firt* required to prove the 
nticity of these antique objects. 
Dries could not be established 
after the discussion of these 
So the theorists were not at 
They may have complainec' 
ving been troubled or gagged, 
fhora ? By men too learned to 
le slaves of a system. If such 
rfaint were made — and such is 
umor — they are the highest eulo- 
of flios^ eminent men. 

" Si forte virum qiicni 
Conspexere, aitent."* 

the closing session some human 
;, very ancient or supposed to 
ere ranged on a table. Those 

were remarkable for the extra- 
lary length of the occiput, by 
retreating foreheads, high cheek- 
is, and prominent jaw-bones, 
object of these skulls was to 

the great similarity between 
irimitive man and the monkey, 
br Broca, standing before the 
\, made a speech more than an 
long about those skulls, discuss- 
authenticity of some and rea- 
on the others. He spoke 






herd in uJencc awestruck uan 
of Itim wboni mlnre aurki a nuu I 



also of a singular jaw-bone. He said 
a few words about the small hands. 
He should logically have concluded 
that the primitive man was a brother 
of the ape. Everyone expected this. 
But at the decisive moment, he 
wheeled about, and confessed that 
there were Jiot yet proofs enough to 
justify such a conclusion, and thai 
it should not be urged. Was he 
afraid of ridicule or was he really 
convinced in making this conces- 
sion ? Let us say that it was con- 
viction on his part. But the doctor's 
premises were not as inoffensive as 
his conclusion, M. de Quatrefages 
made short work of them. He so 
pulverized the arguments of Doctor 
Broca, that Carl Vogt, summoned 
against his will to help the doctor, 
admitted the conclusion of his col- 
league. 

Vogt began by declaring himself a 
Darwinian. Although the theory of 
Darwin cannot satisfy the best natu- 
ralists, it knocks the man-monkey 
completely off his legs. Vogt admit- 
ted that it was impossible, in the ac- 
tual condition of science, to hold the 
man-monkey opinion ; so great is 
the distance between the lowest hu- 
man t}-pe and the highest ape t>*pe. 
The Genevan Darwinian indeed add- 
ed, that we might imagine, or might 
discover at some future day a com- 
mon type of both races j but he was 
not very sanguine on this point. 
Only one thing, said he in conclusion, 
remains indisputable after all our 
discussions on the capacity of skulls 
and the shape of the head, namely, 
the progressive development of the 
brain and of the human skull, in 
proportion to the increasing develop- 
ment of intelligences. 

We shall not dispute this double 
progress. It has the sanction of 
that most eminent naturalist and 
anthropologist M. de Quatrefages. 
We even admit a third TpflLOgt^?^ '«\'^ 




7o8 



this savant; that made from the 
Congress of Ncufchaiel to the Con- 
gress of Paris. Even though we 
should be accused of optimism, we 
shall even hope for greater progress 
in the future congresses. Yes, we 
expect it Prc-historical studies will 



add to the facts aJf 
others more st^ificativc 
the learned will finally an£ 
nuHjsly adopt, in default of certi 
theories more probable aod 
convincing as they approa 
to the trutiu 



MISCELLANY. 



Singulifr Effects of Ughtning. — Sir 
David Brewster has published an ac- 
count of the effects of lightning in For- 
farshire, which is of much interest. In 
the summer of 1827, a hay-stack was 
struck by lightning. The stack was on 
lire, but before much of the hay was con- 
sumed the tire was extinguished by the 
&rm servants. Upon examining the 
hay-stack, a circular passage was ob- 
served in the middle of it, as if it had 
been cut out with a sharp instrument 
This circular pass-ige extended to tl»e 
bottom of the stack, and terminated in 
a hole in the ground, Captain Thom- 
son, of Montrose, who had a farm in the 
neighborhood, examined the st.nck, and 
found in the hole a subst.ince which he 
described as resembling lava. A por- 
tion of this substance was sent by Cap- 
tain Thomson to Sir David's brother, 
Dr. Brewster, of Craig, wlio forwarded 
it to Sir David, with the preceding 
statement The substance found in the 
hole was a mass of silcx, obviously form- 
ed by the fusion of the silcx in the hay. 
It had a highly greenish tinge, and con- 
tained burnt portions of the hay. Sir 
David presented the specimen to the 
Museum of St Andrew's. 

Ancient Glacier in the Pyrenees. — M. 
Charles Martens, who was present at 
the meeting of the British Association, 
read a paper on the ancient glacier of 
the Valley of Argelcz. This glacier and 
its affluents descended from the crest of 
the Pyrenees, whose summits now reach 
an altitude \'arying fmm 6000 to 9009 
feet The roots of the glacier were in 



croM w 

MB \J3SL 

iho^ 



the cirqHts of Ca\'amie, T( 
Pragn^res, etc., and the glaci< 
ed into the plain as £ar as the] 
of PejTouse, Loubaj,v, Ade, 
Arcisac-les-Anglcs. Along th«1 
polished and striated rocks, 
pebbles, glacial mud. morainca, 
erratic boulders, arc tlie proofs fd \\ 
istence. At Argelez, the thickaeai 
the glacier was about 3100 fcel,sa 
the opening of the \'aUcy at the foe 
the Pic de Geer, near Lourde^ 
feet Between I^urdcs and (he vil 
of Ade, the railway runs acrou W 
moraines ; and the railway from 
to Pnu is cut as far as ihc 
of Peyrousc, through glariol 
The Lake of Lourdcs is a gl 
barred by a moraine, and ^urrtiuadM 
numerous erratic boulders proceed 
from the high Pyrene.an nxniatil 
Some of the boulders are of large dim 
siims: thusoncof tl)em.betD 
and the village of Poucyfo 
feet in lengtii, twenty-three | 
and eleven feci in height 
Lourdes, surrounded by hills 
with briars, reminds one, in 
spects, of the small lakes of Scoll 

A Burning fr///.^Wl>ile^ 
sans were enjfaged In roj 
for an .irtesian well at Narl 
the water rushed forth with 
lence, and soon burst into dan 
flame, which arises from the c«ic 
of carburctted hydrn;;en. I5 
smoky, and does 1 l 

of bitumen or si: _ 
The " sinking" for the spring ' 



Miscellany. 



709 



, If it 



the left branch of the Aude, in a plain 
tuate aboUt two metres above the sca- 
k-el, and composed of alluvial mud. 
le alluvial mud extends to a depth of 

metres ; then follow tertiary lime- 
snes and marls, with the remains of 

ine shells. At the depth of seventy 
Etres, the spring containing the inflam- 

ie gas was met with. 

Comets and Meteors. — In a paper on 
!iis subject, laid before a late meeting 
the Astronomical Society, Mr. Cf. J. 
^tony, Secretary to the Queen's Uni- 
trsitj' in Ireland, makes the following 
Iteresting observations, which tend to 
•how, as Schiaparelli has already point- 
ed out, that there is a very natural rela- 
tionship between comets and meteors. 
If interstellar space, external to the 
>lar system, be, as is most probable, peo- 
with innumerable meteoric bodies 
independent of one another, a comet 

r while outside the solar system would in 

^^taie lapse of ages collect a vast cluster 

^^H such meteorites within itself. Each 

^Kieteorite which approached the comet 

^Krould in general do so in a parabolic 

orbit; and. if it came near enough to 

pass through a part of the comet, this 

parabolic orbit would, by the resistance 

of the matter of the comet, be converted 

into an ellipse. The meteor would, 

therefore, return again and again, and 

on each occasion that it passed through 

the comet its orbit would be still further 

shortened, until at length it would fall 

in, and add one to whatever cluster had 

been brought together by the previous 

repetitions of this process. In this way 

a comet, while moving in outer space, 

^^^yond the reach of the many powerful 

^^BUturbing influences which prevail with- 

^^m tlie solar system, would inevit.ibly 

accumulate within itself just such a 

I lobular cluster of meteors as the No- 
ember meteors must have been before 
»ey became associated with the solar 
ystem. 

How the Earth's Rotation affects 
UHfury. — Some may be found to doubt 
t the movement of the earth affects 
e direction of a ball expelled from a 
nnon ; nevertheless, the fact is correct. 
n the Astronomical Re^ter^ Mr. Kin- 



ft" 



caJd says that a simple illustration of 
this effect may be made by attaching to 
the same axis two wheels of different dia- 
meters, so that both shall rotate togetlicr. 
If the one have a diameter of three 
feet, and the other of one foot, it is evi- 
dent that any point on the circumference 
of the larger will, during a revolution, 
move through three times as much 
space as a similar point on the periphery 
of the lesser circle, and will, therefore, 
move with three times the velocity. The 
figure of the earth may be considered 
as made up of an infinite number of 
such wheels, diminishing in size from 
the equator to the poles, and all revolv- 
ing in twenty-four hours. Now, if a guh 
be fired from the equator in the direc- 
tion of the meridian, which is obviously 
that of maximum deviation, at an object 
nearer the pole, it is plain tliat that ob- 
ject, being situated on a smaller circle 
than tlie gun, but revoking in the same 
interval of time, will move, during the 
flight of the projectile, through less 
space eastward than the shot, which 
will have imparted to it the greater 
velocity of the larger circle from whioh 
it started, and the latter will tlierefore 
tend to strike eastward from its butt. 



Dodo-like Birds of the Maxcarene Is- 
lands. — The Committee appointed in 
18(^5 to investigate this group, lias pro- 
duced Htdc result beyond the collection 
of a number of bones from Rodriguez. 
Professor Newton made some general 
remarks upon the specimens collected, 
and he es])ecially dwelt on an unexpected 
confirmation of the testimony of Leguat, 
by the discovery of an extraordinary 
bony knob near the extremity of the 
wing. Leguat, whose account of the 
"Solitaire's" habits was the only one we 
possessed, mentioned a curious '* ball," 
as big as a "musket-bullet," which the 
male birds possessed under their wing- 
feathers. Now, the existence of this 
ball was proved by the bony knob ex- 
hibited, and thus the veracity of old 
Leguat, on this point, as on so many 
others, was confirmed. In conclusion. 
Professor Newton called attention to 
the fact that at present we only knew of 
the didine bird of the island of Re.xudu.'viL^ 




710 



New Publications. 



that it v/as white. In the course of last 
year, Mr. Tegetmcier had shown him 
an old water-color painting of a white 
dodo, and this, he was inclined to be- 
lieve, might represent this lost species, 
of which he trusted the French natural- 
ists in that island would succeed in ob- 
taining actual relics. 

Mr. Foley's model for the O'Connell 
National Monument in Dublin has been 
unanimously adopted by the Committee. 
The work will be forty feet high, exe- 
cuted in bronze and granite. j^io,ooo 
is already subscribed toward the cost of 
its erection. 



A Slander Refuted. — A work has late- 
ly appeared in England, in which every- 
thing Spanish is spoken of with the 
greatest contempt. In reply to tlie ac- 
cusations made against the queen's chap- 
lin, the Reverend Canon Dalton writes 
thus to the AthencTHin : "Will you allow 
me to />»»/«/ against the character drawn 
by Miss Edwards of Padre Claret in her 
t:cent work entitled, Through Spain to 



tth? Til 
was tN 




the Sahara, vrhich was 
last number, December 14th ? 
Mras in -Spain bst year, I 
interviews with tlie queen' 
The estimate which I was 
to form of his character was 
opposite to that drawTi by the aatb 
I should like to know if MiMEd 
ever spoke a single word to Padin 
or even ever saw him. Then tl| 
the testimony of Lady Hi 
work entitled Impressi<ms 
1866, (London, BeniJey, 1867^" 
211-12 ; her ladyship draws a »« 
ferent character of the Padre, 1 
a personal interview witJi the 1 
prelate. Again I should HI 
what reasons Miss Edwards ; 
ling Claret's work, Aa C7tft% 
coarse work ? AH tlie worli _, 
has published are purely of al 
or literary character, and I am< 
fident that nothing * coarse' or i 
ing can be found in any ooe of 
Lastly, 1 never heard of VtArt O 
coach being driven by. femr 
mules, becau.se 1 believe he 
sessed even of a cab ! J, 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Lectures on Reason and Revei-a- 
TION. Dehvered in St. Ann's Church, 
New York, during the Season of Ad- 
vent, 1867. By the Rev. Thomas S. 
Preston. New York : The Catholic 
Publication House, 126 Nassau Street 

The Lectures published in this vol- 
ume were delivered during the Sunday 
e\'enings of Advent, in St. Ann's Church. 
They are five in number, on the follow- 
ing subjects : The Office of Reason, 
RcLitions of Reason and Faith, Condi- 
tions of Revelation, Revelation and 
Protestantism, Revelation and the Cath- 
olic Church. The author's thesis may 
be thus stated : The Catholic Church is 
proved by reason alone, from the evi- 
dences of credibility by which the 
Christian revelation is demonstrated. 
The Introduction, which is a distinct 
essay m itself, cUsposes of two objec- 



tions ; first, that the evidence 
tianity can be applied to 
tantism, and second, that 
Churih ought to be prov 
occurring in every age of 
well as at the outscL Tlie 
has handled his topics with 
in a clear, neat, and atti 
and with a brevity and si 
detract nothing from the 
reasoning, while they lighten 
the task of the reader. These 
will be of great senice both 
lies and to well-disposed in 
truth. . The typographical e 
the volume is in the liest s' 
a sf>ecimcn of our author's mi 
style, we extract the following 
from the introduction. 



" In the following Icctxtrcs 
the aulbur to set forib, in « 





New Publkatiom. 



7u 



tianner, a simple argument whereby 
laims of the Catholic Church arc sub- 
Mcd by reason alone. In the mitlst of 
Xcitcmcnts of our day some of the 
1st truths are forgotten, and men hold 
Ins or pass to conclusions ^^ithout any 
I grounds whatever. They even some- 
contradict the propositions which are 
Fidcnt to reason in cheir zeal for iiitcl- 
I progress and emancipation from the 
Dm of the past That which is new is 
\ a.fter, even though it overthrow the 
of truths heretofore generally admit- 
We are not believers in total deprav- 
id have, therefore, great confidence in 
lod which still remains in human na- 
And as we know that Gud's grace is 
rith man to assist him to the know- 
of the truth, and to lead him in the 
r virtue, wc have great hopes that the 
Ctual and moral movements of otir 
U guide the honest and sincere mind 
true light which is its only illumina- 
It is a great mistake to suppose that 
Itholic Church requires of any man 
X should do away with his reason, or 
k> exercise those powers which God 
ren him for the proper appreciation of 
tad goodness. To man's intelligence 
BOO Is addressed, and every new light 
fbove only serves to enlarge the thirst 
iowledge. The divine ways arc ever 
puous, and the su|>ernatural truth will 
I contradict the natural. The argu- 
^ these lectures depends upon the 

K reason alone. Wc briefly explain 
re of human reason and the sphere 
operation. We show how the divine 
ion gives its unerring evidence, to 
just intelligence must submit. Wc 
ite all the natural powers, and drfcnd 
tdse of their just prerogatives. God, 
g to man, is bound to give him un- 
ble signs that he is speaking, and 
l> deceiver is imposing upon us. 
these signs are given, then we are 
to believe the divine testimony, and 
to accept truths which the vcra- 
our Maker vouches for. Private 
t h.is its full scope, as to it are clcar- 
■ntcd the tokens of every supematu- 
irvcntion. The extrinsic credibility 
nes proposed to faith is thus assur- 
full conviction of the understand- 
we go on to say that reason assured 
{relation cannot then be the judge of 
tinsic credibility of a dogma clearly 
|1, wc only say that rea.son must act 
sphere, and that the finite must 
hire to measure the infinite. 

:cms to OS that no logical objection 



can be made against such a restriction of 
private judgment. If man, by his unaided 
powers, could find out all necessary truth, 
there would be no need of a revela- 
tion. Of things beyond the scope of his un- 
derstanding, man can certainly be no judge, 
while it is equally certain that the word of 
God can never deceive. 

" It is also a great misunderstanding to 
suppo.se that Catholics arc not allowed to 
use their reason, or that faith has taken the 
place of our ordinary intelligence. So far 
from the truth is this supposition, that the 
aim of the present work will be to show 
that Catholics alone are the followers of 
true rcxson, always yielding obedience to 
its just dictates, and never swerving in any 
way from its rigid conclusions. The Ca- 
tholic faith presents all its unanswerable 
claims before the mind, and then, as it ap- 
peals to our natural sense of truth and jus- 
tice, it cannot contradict itself by doing 
aw.iy with the very faculty which is made 
the judge of its pretensions. Reason, right- 
ly understood, leads with certainty to the 
light of revelation, and that light does in no 
way extinguish the spirit or vitality of na- 
ture. There is full scope for the play of 
the highest intelligence, not in the contra- 
diction of evidence clearly established, nor 
in doubting truth already manifest, but in 
the constant and daily increasing apprecia- 
tion of the beauties of God*s revelation 
whereby all our faculties are brought into 
perfect harmony. There is neither manli- 
ness nor wisdom in the state of perpetual 
doubt which appears to be chosen by many 
as the exercise of a precious liberty. The 
Catholic believes because h^has evidence 
of the divine power and goodness, and in 
the very highest exercise of reason bows 
down to God and him only. No human or- 
ganization has a right to bind our conscien- 
ces, and no body of men can form or direct 
our faith. God alone is our master, whose 
word is a law to our understandings and 
our hearts. The church is recognized by 
us because he has established it, and given 
to it authority to teach in his name, and we 
arc ever ready to give to any honest mind a 
reason for the fsuth wc hold and profess." 



Poems. By Ellen Qementine Howartlt; 
Newark: Martin R. Dennis & Co. 
1868. 

Poets are said to deal in fiction, which 
docs not, however, imply that what they 
sing is false. One may relate a purely 
fictitious story, and it be " an, o'««-Vc>\t, 



New Publications, 



713 






dressed to him personally. It em- 
ies the very spirit and life of his 
structions, and teaches us practically 
iw to carry out in* a systematic way 
teaching of the Sermon on the 
ount. It is easy to read that divine 
lon in a sentimental way, to feci 
hat Rood while reading it, but 
lUt g^aihering much of its meaning, 
th any desire to practise it any 
lOre than may be convenient. This 
k will not be very palatable to such 
ns. It contains the strong meat 
r vigorous and earnest souls, rather 
the light and unsubstantial froth 
hich merely oourishcs a sickly senti- 
entalism. We do not doubt there are 
ousands of devout persons in this 
untry who would find in this little 
rk an invaluable treasure, and, once 
sessing it, they would on no account 
willing to papt with it. They would 
d its directions plain and simple, and 
nently fitted to lift them up out of a 
w spirituality to the highest state of 
ligious peace and perfection. Would 
God this notice may meet their eye, 
that they may not be without it We 
ed just such books now in this coun- 
tr\', to serve to make a number of s.iints 
and saintly persons, who shall draw 
down from heaven a benediction on not 
only themselves, but on the church of 
Cod and all our fellow-citizens. May 
lOre s>i them be drawn nut of the siore- 
use of old true Catholic piety and 
votion, for our spiritual joy and edifi- 
cation. 

It is only necessary to add, that the 
English of the translation is delightful, 
while the mechanical getting up of tlie 
book, its paper and type, render it most 
agreeable to read. 



Napoleon and the Queen of 
Prussia. An Historical Novel, by 
L. Miihibach. Translated from the 
German, by F. Jordan. Complete in 
one volume, with illustrations. New 
York : D. Applcton & Co. 1867. 8vo, 
pp. 365. 

The Daughter op an Empress. 
An Historical Novel, by L. Miihibach ; 
translated from the German by Na- 
thaniel Greene. Complete in one vol- 



ume, with illustrations. New York : 
D. Appleton & Co. 1867, 8vo, pp. 

255- 
3. Marie Antoinette and her Son. 
An Historical Novel, by L. Miihibach. 
Complete in one volume, with illustra- 
tions. New York : D. Appleton & Co. 
1867. 8vo, pp. 301. 

On a former occasion we noticed three 
of the Miihibach books, all we had th^n 
read, as favxirably as our conscience 
would permit ; for we wish to be thought 
capable of recognizing Hterarj' merit in 
books written by others than Catholics. 
Now, Catholics have at least nature, and, 
though we do not recognize the suffi- 
ciency of nature without grace, we yet 
do not hold it to be totally corrupt, or 
count it good for nothing. We are 
always ready to recognize merit in liter- 
ary works, by whom.soever written, if 
able, and true to genuine nature. The 
Miihibach no wis are WTitten with spirit 
and ability, a talent almost approaching 
to genius, with some touches of nature, 
and with considerable historical infor- * 
mation. Having said so much, we have 
exhausted our praise. The works are 
true throughout neither to nature nor to 
history, and their moral tone is low and 
unwholesome — pagan, not Christian. 
Their popularity, which can be but short- 
lived — for it is hardly possible to read 
one of them a second time — speaks very 
little in favor of the taste, the knowledge 
of history, or the moral tone of our 
American reading public, as far as pub- 
lished. The Icist fault}', and to us the 
least repulsive of the series, is Napoleon 
and the Queen of Prussia, though it 
shows less ability than Joseph II. and 
his Court. We broke down before we 
got half through The Daughter of an 
Empress, and we have read only a few 
pages of Marie Antoinette and her S(»*. 
We have had no desire to have our 
feelings harrowed up by a fresh recital 
of the horrors of the French Revolution, 
especially of the wrongs of the beautiful 
and lovely Queen of France, and the 
young Dauphin. Napoleon and the 
Qtieen of Prussia is, however, a book 
we can read, and some portions of it 
with deep interest ; but even this is 
disfigured by namby-pamby sentimenL 




i^<4 



NrM Publkafiik^ 



Adulterous love, Bclf-mardert, and hor- 
rors of all sorts, enough both to disgust 
the Christian reader, arid to give even a 
reader of strong nerves the nightmare 
for weeks after reading it. The Miihl- 
bach is in ecstasy of delight when Na- 
poleon overcomes the virtue of the 
Countess Walewski, and has no doubt 
that the self-murderer has ended all his 
troubles and rests in i>eace. She seems, 
through all her books, not to regard 
aduUerj-, if prompted by love, or suicide 
either, if inspired by disapp<jinted pa- 
triotism, as a sin. Indeed, throughout 
she writes as a low-minded pagan, not 
as a high-minded Christian. She apo- 
theosizes persons who die with impreca- 
lions of vengeance on their enemies in 
their mouths, and by their own hands ; 
and even the beautiful and slandered 
Queen Louisa has no higher aspirations 
than those of patriodsm. 

We have heretofore said of the Miihl- 
bach books that they have too much 
fiction for history, and too much history 
for fiction ; but even a great part of her 
history is itself fiction, in the sense of 
being untrue, which fiction never need 
be. Scott, in his historical novels, com- 
mits a thousand anachronisms, mistakes 
One person for another, and is rarely 
accurate in the minuter details ; but he 
never falsifies history, and the impres- 
sion he gives of an epoch or a historical 
person is always truthful. The impres- 
sion the Miihlbach gives, even when 
historically correct as to details, is un- 
historical and untrue. We are no \yt- 
Uevers in the immaculate virtue or high- 
mindedness of the royal and imperial 
courts of the eighteenth century, but no 
one who reflects a moment can believe 
that the Miihlbach gives a true picture 
of them. There is no doubt at all times 
much illicit lo%e, cunning, intrigue, cruel- 
ty, vice, and crime, in the ranks of the 
great, bul our experience proves that 
there is something else there also. 
At the time of the French Revolution 
the nobility were corrupt enough, but 
were they more so than the people who 
warred against them ? Were the mur- 
derers and applauders of the murder of 
Louis XV L and Marie Antoinette su- 
perior to them in either public or private 
virtue ? If the great arc bad, the little 



are seld 

a more 

than th 

forth by 

fessing 

morals,! 

and mor 

novels a 

tograti^ 

of the en 

ever rea 

of Grcal 

that she 

model ol 

tions. 1 

fesses tl 

write It, 

sarily wl 

the a»tl 

We pas; 

Jesuits i 

nclli, Po| 

us bettci 

she repr 

Spain, ai 

suppress! 

he hod ) 

own dom 

urgent ol 

their su 

France a 

but holdi: 

she couW 

is well ki 

and Cho 

French g 

able to t 

gave the 

parliamei 

them, ani 

obtain {r( 

bitter en< 

edicts in 

France ' 

preservir 

French, , 

Italian p 

under thi 

of tlie ot 

Theresa 

order of 

suppressl 

in her do 

herself di 

his Ctmr 

not 




il their grouping and coloring fal- 
]'but they pervert the judgment, 
ce the mind so against the truth 
is able only with great difficulty 
ignixe it wiien it comes to he pre- 
_ by learned and faithful historians. 
i real name of the writer of the 
■och books is no secret. She is a 
\ said to be personally a very es- 
lady ; and it lias been reported 
le intends coming to this country 
ng up her residence with us, 
Ttainly we would not treat her 
eously. But if the report be 
is a good proof that her works 
t very popular in Germany, and 
er but small pecuniary remunera- 
Her works will not long be popu- 
in this country ; for their popu- 
ere has, to a great extent, been 
their supposed value as truthful 
of the courts of Berlin, Vienna, 
tersburg, Paris, and Rome, in 
t century, not to their weak and 
sentimenlalism, their low moral 
eir worship of Venus or Ante- 
tlieir cynicism in religion. The 
n people are excessively fond of* 
K about courts, kings and queens, 
brs and empresses, dukes and 
Rscs, counts and countesses ; and 
r because they have no such things 
I themselves, they see them only 
Ouded in mystery. But when they 
hat the Miihlbach books do not, 
111, raise the veil, or give any trust- 
y account of them, they will drop 
( for they adopt as their motto, 
I is/ das Leben, and can never be 
^cinated by the debased pagan- 
fthe Muhlbach. We would by no 
\ do the author the slightest harm 
iracter or purse, but we advise her 
\ future not to make her novels 
MIS or moral lectures, but to ani- 
them with a real ethical spirit, so 
hey will make the reader stronger 
>etter, not weaker and worse even 
; natural order. 



Thousand Miles on Horse- 
pK.— Sakta Fe and Back.— a 
MMER Tour through Kansas, 
[draska, Colorado, and New 

OUCO, rS THE YEAR t866. By 



James F. Meline. New York : Hurd 
& Houghton. 1867. 

Really good books of travel have been 
found so entertaining and successful in 
time past, that more recently every quar- 
ter of tJie accessible globe has spawned 
tourists, and journals, and diaries, and 
" notes," and " dsits," of a thousand va- 
rieties of vapidness. England, as usual 
in matters of supfrficial mediocrity, has 
been completely distanced by America. 
We have doEens of diarists who are pro- 
mising candidates for the compliment 
some wicked spirit once paid Bayard 
Taylor^-of having travelled more and 
seen less than any man living. Singu- 
larly enough, our own coimtry has fared 
the worst at our own hands ; singularly, 
because, full of natural wonders of its 
own, it has not to send its Winwood 
Reades to Scnegambia for interesting 
material, and its charming, boy-beloved 
Captain Mayne to swear at the luckless 
"closet-naturalist" from all the corners 
of the world. We could turn all the 
Royal Societies loose along the Mis- 
sissippi, and furnish them matter for a 
quarto to each F.R.S. Yet since Forte 
Crayon sharpened the lead-pencil into 
the war-spear, and his charming cousins 
stepped finally out of the carriage, and 
" Little Mice" sank to the level of a 
" man and a brother, and possible Con- 
gressman," only one traveller worlli fol- 
lowing has kept the field— the inimitable, 
the perennial Ross Browne, in Washoe, 
or Italy, or St. Petersburg, still the 
prince and paladin of tourists. Thus 
there is wondrous great room in the up- 
per stor)- of this literature, with a whole 
fresh young continent to hold the mir- 
ror to. Mr. Meline has challenged bold- 
ly and well for a good place in the front 
rank of our books of travel. He has 
great advantages and great aptitude for 
the Usk. His ad\'antages are that, unless 
our spectacles and his artifice deceive us, 
he is a thorough good fellow— the sine 
qua noH of the traveller everywhere — 
the shibboleth of the brotherhood of cos- 
mopolites. But besides this, mores ho- 
minum multorum vidit et vrbes. If we 
are not mistaken in remembering Mr. 
Meline as the same gentleman who was 
formerly French Consul iu C\uc\i!i.pa5i> 



7i6 




Nfw Publications. 



he is a man who has known European 
capitals and landmarks, and, what is 
better, galleries and sculptures, and not 
known them in vain. And apt he cer- 
tainly is. Id the difficult art not to harp 
QD anything, this book displays consum- 
■Mte judgment, and the choice of sub- 
jects shoe's a tact and skill most remark- 
able in what we understand to be a first 
book. There is just about enough fact 
ID nuke the work decently solid, a good 
deal of tancy and impression, and above 
all, a light hand. The style as a whole 
is really good, because it docs pretty 
evenl}* just what it attempts and pro- 
fesses — sometimes more, seldom less. 
The descriptions of Denver and Central 
City, and the account of the Pueblos of 
New Mexico interested us especially — 
the former for its manner, the latter for 
its interesting and curious facts. But 
another reader would call our selection 
invidious, and cite quite another set of 
incidents. The fact is, Mr. Meline is 
everywhere vivid, easy, and suggestive, 
and we do think wc like those two parts 
best because wc have friends in Denver, 
and take a special interest in tlic old 
Police question. 

Only one thing, barring a little ped- 
antr\' here and tliere, we have to growl 
at in taking a grateful leave of a lieguil- 
ing book. The author feels it his duty 
at painfully short intervals to say some- 
thing funny, and has preser\'cd and dish- 
ed up the selectest assortment of aged, 
stale, and stupid jests we ever saw. We 
suspect him to be one of those terrible 
people who enjoy a witticism not wisely 
but too well. The moment he tries hu- 
mor, his wonted taste and sparkle seem 
to take llight, and he grows to a dotage 
of inane merriment. It is hard to say 
whether the jokes he cracCs himself, or 
those which he rclu^shcs, ready cracked, 
arc the more bcnumbingly dismal The 
most prowKing tiding is, that the man is 
not at aU wanting in play of wit ; there 
are a httndrcd good and a few clever 
little sidc-hit» In his volume. Only he 
must not fo«<« it The moment he sets 
out sy»lB«»licaMy W be jocose, he is 
iiatneu HaelC 

but t»k« Wm for allln all Mr- Melme 
has *rilt«i no cooMnooplace Ux»k on a 
tut^ect wbtw coinwoopbw lu» m«« 




rpose oi 

itsvnll 

tith^H 

vaifflV 



achieved ^quently and I 
will learn to sk ■ 
or half so well, > 
private ubiquitic*., a " 
make no mure jokea, 
quote he must, that others 
within twenty years, 
his liveliness of styl 
before him as a writer 



Goi-DFN Tritt?is. 
Shepherd. 1868- 



The aim of the above vi 
good one. The purpose oi 
is to aid the soul on its 
perfection. The "truth: 
tains are taken fnim 
authors, and a few from Cathd 
The selections struck us at 
ing been made without SI 
bixs or bigotry. Had we 
unto the end, we should ha 
our appmval. But on pag* 
the following: 

"Will tlie martyrs., 
seed of the church in 
no part in the final 
mighty reformers, who 
the walls of tyrant error 
of wicked priests," etc. 
Who G. W. Bethune 
writings the above is exti 
not ; we would, ])ow« 
whoever he may be, w 

the public, to respect 

more, rant less, and n 

commandment whii 

" Thou shall not bei 
The aim of this 

acceptable to all readers ; 

from ll\e above writer 

remove at least what is 
It is not often that a 

lie truth finds .so beauti 

as in the following passiti 

"Countrj' r.ir5on:" 

" There ate few who have K 
this world, and have n*>t Hood 
of the dying ; and let us ' 
many who have seen a CI 
brother depart— who ' 
one as life, but not 
the eye of »en»e pe» 
waxed brighter and 



1 




New Publications. 



717 



uch an one, in bidding you farewell, 

ihat it was not for ever? have you 
Dch an one tell you so to live, as that 
aight only remove you to a place 
Ixcre is no dying ? And as you felt 
isure of that cold hand, and saw the 
spirit that shone through those glaz- 
I, have you not resolved and promis- 
Cod helping you, you would i" And 
Ice have you not felt that, though 
has scaled those lips, and that 
I turning back to day, that voice is 
g yet, that heart is caring for you 
r^)ul is remembering yet the words 
ipoke to you? From the abode of 

says, 'Come up hither.' The way 
, the ascent is toilsome ; it knows it 
r it trod it once ; but it knows now 

knew not then, how bright the re- 
Dw nleasant the rest that xemaineth, 
i ton is pasL And if we go with in- 
I the grave of a much-loved friend, 
Ic us when dying, sometimes to visit 
Je where he should be laid when 
IT you hold a request like <'^/ sacred, 
ihow much more solemnly and ear- 
K should seek to go where the con- 
pirit lives, than where the senseless 
7ulders I If day after day sees you 
I shed the pensive tear of memory 
! narrow bed where that dear one is 
; ; if, amiil the hot whirl of your daily 
Bents, you find a calm impressed as 
id in that still spot where no world- 
ever comes, and think of the heart 
lO grief vexes now ; if the sound of 
Id melts into distance and fades away 
ear, at that point whence the world 

little ; if the setting sun, as it makes 
•estone glow, reminds you of evening 
id evening scenes long since depart- 
Ihe waving grass, through which the 
|hs so softly, speaks of that one who 
Is a leaf' and left you like ' a wind ' 
BCth away and comcth not again,' 
> much more should every day see 
ring up the way which will conduct 
ere the living spirit dwells, and 
{t is ever calling to you, 'Come up 
It was a weak fancy of a dying 
It bade you come to his burying- 
but it is the perpetual entreaty of a 
nph that invites you to join it tJure." 



AYMAK's Breviary. From the 
lan of Leopold Sbefer. By C. T. 

^ Boston ; Roberts Brothers, 
ma^ be the merit of the 



original German, certain it is, this Eng- 
lish version flows like a free rivulet 
Mr. Brooks is singularly happy in his] 
versffication. It might, however, just ; 
well have been entitled by the author," 
the " Priest's Breviary " as the " Lay- 
man's Breviary," for it is quite plain he 
thinks both of those terms convertible. 
We se.irch in vain for any trace of 
faith in the supernatural, and, consider- 
ing the beauty of the sentiments, are 
sorry to find it wanting. The lack of it 
jars upon our Catholic nerves from the 
beginning of its perusal to its ending. 



The Yovng Fur Traders, A Tale of 
the Far North ; The Coral Island, 
A Tale of the Pacific ; Ungava, A 
Tale of Esquimaux Land ; MoRG.AH*J 
Rattlkr ; or, A Boy's Adventures i 
the Forests of Brazil. By R. M. Bal- 
lantyne. New York : Thomas Nelson 
& Sons. 

In tliese " books for boys" amusement 
and instruction are admirably combined, 
the adventures met with being varied and 
thrilling, while the local descriptions em- 
body so thoroughly the natural features 
of the regions visited, the productions, 
atmospheric phenomena, etc., as to ren- 
der them not unworthy the perusal of 
children of a larger growtli ; they are also 
.well got up ; good paper, neat binding 
numerous illustrations. 

Where so much is praiseworthy, we 
arc sorry tlieir universal difiusion should 
be so seriously impeded, or rather utterly 
destroyed, by a most wanton display of 
sectarian rancor. In the Voting Fur 
Traders^ for instance, w^e meet with the 
following definitions, certainly not ac- 
cording to Webster : " Papist, a man 
who has sold his liberty in religious mat- 
ters to the pope ;" '• Protestant, one who 
protests against such an inetlably silly 
and unmanly state of slavery." And in 
Morgan Rattler^ a virulent attack on 
the Brazilian clergj', who, we are told, 
" totally neglected their religious duties ; 
were no better than miscreants in dis- 
guise, teaching the people vice instead 
of virtue — a curse not a blessing to the 
land," etc. 



71 8 



New Publications. 



We regret this pitiful outpouring the 
more that, as books of atlventures for 
boys, they are othersvise all that could be 
desired. 



The Spirit of St. Vincent de PAtn, ; 
OH, A HoLV Model worthv of 
being imitated by ecclesiastics, 
Religious, and all the Faith- 
VVU Translated from the work of 
the learned M. Andre — Joseph An- 
sart, converted Priest of the Order of 
Malta, etc. By the Sisters of Charity, 
\)ount SL Vincent, New York. New 
York : P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street 
1868. 

It is a valualjle service to present to 
the public, as the author of the above 
translation has done, the pith of other 
and more coKipendious lives of the great 
SL Vincent de Paul. The life of our 
Saint cannot be read too often by priests, 
by the people, and by all lovers of their 
race. His zeal for religion and his love 
of the poor were unbounded almost ; 
and the extent of his lab«rs, and the 
good he did to the poor and distressed 
of humanity, were never perhaps equal- 
led by any other man. To our non- 
Catholic readers we would say, read the 
life of tins man, great in goodness, if 
you would obtain a true idea of the gen- 
uine and perfect fruit of the catholic 
faith. No one, whatever may be his 
creed, can read the life of St. Vincent 
de Paul without feeling his love for God 
and his fellow-men increa.scd and in- 
flamed. May it please God to raise up 
in his holy church in our own country a 
priest like St. Vincent de Paul ! 



Rome and the Popes. Translated 
from the German of Dr. Karl Bran- 
des, by Rev. W. J. Wiseman, S.T.L. 
Benziger Brothers. 1868. 

This is a volume containing, wiUiin a 
small compass, and in a popular style, 
suited to the generalityof readers, a his- 
tory of the temix)ral power of the |jopes, 
by an author well acquainted with his 
subject The translator has done a ser- 



>-ice to the public, ia 
chance of reading it in 
present it is quite af , 
set to the ignorant and 
the papal sovereignty vnh 
public ears are filled. We i 
It to all our readers *ho » 
some solid information rm ti> 
We roust repeat, once mare, 
to this volume, a aitiviio 1 
make too often, that its ijra 
appearance is marred by a 
graphical errors. Cannot on 
publishers wake up to the iBi 
correcting their proofs prerjn 

Selections from I'ojt. 
and varioi's 
Poets, who pret > 
Century: with I • 
rary notices of t!; 
tish Catholic Poets ot 
comprising a brief histor 
Catholic Poetry, from aa < 
Designed not'onlv fi.r x. 
but also as a te.vt 
a prize-book for tli. .._... 
Catholic educational insti 
George Hill, autlior of lb( 
Athens." "Titania's 11* 
other poems. ExamiiM 
proved by competcat C»l 
rity. New York- 1867. 

Mr. Hill expresses $0 9 
this old-fashioned title-rio, 
character and aim of his um 
tion that he leaves U!^ in I 
further to say than that 
title good. 



1 



The Life of St. Fraxc«> 
and a sketch of llie Frand 
By a Religious of the On 
Clar'.'s. (in England.) Wi 
tions and additions, by 
PamAlo da Ma^Hani, 
perior of one of the braa^ 
Franciscan Order in the t 
York : P. OShca, 27 Cai 
1867. 



Many beautiful lives 
have been written in 
the List few years. This' 
to 1>e cLxssed amon^ them, an 
whole, the best history of tli 







New Publications, 



of St Francis we have 
The sketches of the history 
tf, especially those relating to 
pieathen countries, and the 
^phies of distinguished 
B, are of great value. The 
Francis has a charm entire- 
which never wears out, and 
lughter has narrated it well, 
ik cannot be too warmly re- 
b in this age of avarice, 
■od luxury. We wish, how- 
Ble proofs had been more 
rrected. 

By Amanda M. Douglas, 
I "In Trust." "Stephen 
■^ Boston : Lee & ^hep- 

%ovel, the characters are 
awn, the incidents varied 
;, the dialogue well sustained, 
neral effect s<imcwhat mar- 
sin of moralizing, which, in 
ire, unless of absolute neces- 
1 high order, always degene- 
nosiness, causing in that vast 
readers who seek amusement 
ess, if not disgust 



\ 



Ms OF AitfERrcAN .Society. 
:llet author of " The Women 
Imerican Revolution," etc. 
k: Charles Scribner & Co. 

Be !s a signal illustration of 
prevailing passions of the 
century ; a craving which 
bloom from the lives of our 
ig girls, and makes our 
latrons common; a passion 
I \ a morbid desire to peep 

r)ple's windows, or engage 
improving occupation of 
> ours. Herfe we have the 
nly into the miniitiie of the 
ms of these queens, but into 
iaml)ers, and stand beside 
l^es, and descend into their 
uhort there is no part of 
^fc^these ladies living and 
l^riUdst, unransacked by 
ig pen, save the nursirus, 
left to doubt if these sump- 
■CODtain such old-fashioned 



apartments. But the gossiping spirit of 
this book is not the only exceptionable 
feature ; it is ejrtremely snobbish. To 
have descended from the nobility, to 
have a thick volume of genealogj* to fall 
back upon, (by the way, we may all have 
even a more ample chronicle than is here 
given us of these noble scions, if we will 
look at the records of the garden of 
Eden for our pedigree,) to be decked in 
velvets, point-lace, and diamonds, to 
have given "select dinners," or "lavish 
and gorgeous suppers," seems to be the 
most apparent end and aim of <4he ma- 
jority of these living "queens." A 
sprinkling of pietism and charitable 
deeds is interpolated through the vo- 
lume, apparently to give an '"odor of 
sanctity" to the otherwise sensuous 
details. A catechism for the use of the 
rising generation of queens might be 
compiled from the pages before us. 
Here are two or three questions and 
answers taken at random from the pro- 
posed text-book : 

" Q. What is the chief end of one aspiring 
to be a queen in American society } 

" A. Tij l>e clothed in purple and fine 
linen, and to fare sumptuously every day. 

" Q. How many gods arc there in the * best 
society' ? 

"A. Three. 

" Q. Which are they ? 

" A. Gcnealogj-, gold, and good eating. 

*' Q. What directions are given for dress } 

" A. Whose adorning let it be the out- 
ward adorning, wearing of gold and pearls, 
and putting on of apparel." 

Other questions and answers will 
readily suggest themselves. 

The Comedy of Convocation, in the 
Endish Church. In two scenes. Ed- 
ited by Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D. 
New Vork : Catholic Publication So- 
ciety. 

This unique work, of which a notice 
appeared in the last issue of Tiir: Ca- 
tholic World, is without doubt one 
oP the most remarkable satires ever 
penned. The thorough knowledge it 
displays of the Anglican establishment, 
its incisive argumentation, the purity of 
its style, and its irresistible humor have 
never been surpassed in any essay of its 
kind. 



720 



New Publications. 



These characteristics have led many 
critics in England and in this country to 
attribute its authorship to Dr. Newman ; 
but while we think it in every respect 
worthy of that great writer, we feel dis- 
posed, from a more careful study of it, to 
believe that it has not emanated from 
his mind, while at the same time we are 
obliged to confess that we know of no 
other man in England who wields such 
a mighty pen. It has given the Angli- 
can Church an herculean blow, and we 
cannot see how an honest member of the 
English Church orof its sister denomina- 
tion, the " Protestant Episcopal Church 
of the United Slates," can rise from its 
jjerusal without an utter loss of confi- 
dence in the discordant, illogical, and 
unauthoritative system to which they 
have hitherto given their adherence. 
The baseless fabric crumbles at the 
touch of this literary giant, and sinks to 
a level where it can hardly elicit the ad- 
miration of its most zealous partisans. 



thur Helps. Learned H''fimm amdi 

dious IX'omen, by lii&hop Dt 
Cradle Lands : Egypt, SyruL, ^m 
Holy lutnd. By l>ic Right Hoa. 
Herbert of Lea. illustrated. 77^ A* 
Touiers of AncuHt Ir elands by 
Keane. The History of Jrith /V 
cat Literaturey from the end of thci 
teenth century to the middle otf' Um \ 
tccnth centurj- : its Origin, ProgrcHrl 
Results. Dy Richard Robert 
2 vols. Svo. 



Seek and Fixd ; or, tme. Ad« 
TURKS OF A Smart Boy. By 

ver Optic. 
TOMMJ' HiCKUP ; OR, A P,U»OPl 
EYE.S. By Rosa Abbott. 
Lee & Shepard. 

Two handsome volumes of j 
told though rather nurvetlcKis 
lure. 



Saduer's Catholic Directory, Al- 
manac, AKD OHDO for the YeAK 
OF OUR Lord 1868: with a full re- 
port of the various Dioceses in the 
United States and British North 
America, and a list of the Archbish- 
ops, Bishops, and Priests in Ireland. 
New York ; D. & J. Sadlicr & Co., 
31 Barclay street. 1868. 

The Catholic Almanac for this year 
makes its appearance a little earlier than 
it has for some years past. From a 
cursory glance at its contents, we think 
it is more correct in its details tJian 
some of its predecessors. It is gotten 
up t»nth an eye to the strictest kind of 
economy. 

We have received from The Catho- 
lic PuiiLiCATiON House, where they 
are for .lale, the following new works 
iust published in England : The Monks 
of the H'est, by Count Montalembcrt, 
Vols. IV and V.— Saint Louis. King of 
France. The curious and characteristic 
life of this monarch, by De Joinvillc, 
translated from the French. The Story 
0/ Chn'a/ier Bayard, from the French 
of the loyal ser\ant, M. de Berville and 
others. T.e Life of Las Cases, by Ar- 



KWKS •CCKTVKJ. 

From L«vroi.DT & Holt. Ne» Vodt : KJ 
Wite. A dranulic pnenv, Wj MoalhokA 
Lruing. Tr.-iry-iUj by KU«n FrothiaglMi^ | 
crHrd by < 'of lite post and hm \ 

and foil*' ' .\y on iha porM bjr i 

Fndier. — Lj „ ^^rc Fnm. -•" 

lc«ucil CD prcae at «d rarm d> 

aiu /chviini lea |iliu ROomni' -^tdk< 

Hiaiiiire d'une BoacM« dc fain i l i<c 

JcAii Mac^ With a FivBcli iMl Bl^i* < 

Un, and a U»t of Mkanaiic caynna 

Manual oCAuclo S«Kn <br B<s'uuBs»: cuavrtMT 

a grammar, reader, and cloaaarjr. wUh tstimtm^ 

noiet. BySanti"' w Sl„.i.. f^.u.~.tat \mCtt^ 

bim Cnllcsr, — daAoiarf 

French Imtruci. 

ercuea, with ctom rcitrcuco. tiT v_ J. DwAk.'^ 

From HAItmt tt BarmffM, N«w Vwk c tiKW i 
llie Qaccnt oT Er>iEl*Tid. fr<«n itkt NoaaaB 
quest. By AgMa SlrkUaiMl, MllMir of Lmwi 
Queena of EngUnd. At>rii1j(rd hj tW { 
Revned am! cdilcd hy Caruline O- ' 
Ital ct Phyucal lxati»*%. By Willi 
Inctmcicir in PhyvKal Edmatiem. Witlit 
drtd *ihI fw^iW-ftvc illu'^ratioiM. — Itoaaa fii*! 
Tile*. r> ■ intUtf^byl 

Rnolli, <N ' 'Jka and 

'Slorit* f. -T ■ Lucy Raa^iJI < 

fort. Will, .1 .. I " -. I''- » trrt 

Ni.mt»ei^ 1 ,..;,.. I „ i,,> \r,T)iaMK.*% 

Johr. H Kt^ii.i 11.1 -Wtmsmmj. 

A P.ciicil Ir^ .o.»t#», r»»- 

cic*, Ad<Jrea»ei, .-•■ -.d vttkaaa'r 

Im ihounad ^T^■*f•^^•cc^ au.l » li.. lUm^ry alC^ 
plimenti, «mI • DkliilMO U Uic Modf U ll» Xmr 
dcr Paanoo. 



THE 



ATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. VI., Na 36.— MARCH/>^y;y '^ "^^ 



i>U 



CANADA THISTLES. 



accident of a heavy snow- 
detained me, a little while 

the house of a friend in the 
'. It was certainly a pleasant 
> be cast away in. My friend 
jentleman-farmer, who united 
f taste for rustic pursuits with 
illy strong as well as an in- 
t fondness for literature and 
W the matter of books and 
J, philosophy and religion, we 
1) sympathy with each other; 
in he came to milch cows and 
, my city education got the 
f me, I could neither under- 
tis conversation nor appreci- 
enthusiasm. It was agreed, 
e, that as soon as he put on 
I boots and set out for the 
d, I should retire into his 
I library, where a blazing fire 
I>ry-logs, shelves well stored 

that is best in literature, and 
gAcn-covered table, on which 
re>'iews, and magazines were 

pleasant confusion, kept me 
Jent spirits while he was at- 
to the daily duties of the farm. 
, enjoyed those idle hours ! 
Ig myself back in a wide 
ir, I passed the winter morn- 
puning over the pages of ray 
VOL. VI. — 46 



favorite authors, half reading them 
and half dreaming ; and when my 
friend returned from his rounds, and 
stretched himself in another chair on 
the oppcsile side of the fire-place, 
we used to chat over the various 
subjects that had occupied my mind 
since breakfast. After dinner, we 
usually went back to the library with 
our cigars. The evening we always 
spent with the rest of the family ia 
the parlor. 

My friend read a great deal, and 
was also something of an author. 
He contributed essays on agricultu- 
ral subjects to one or two magazines. 
He had even published a book or so 
in the course of his life ; and he still 
amused himself by penning literary 
criticisms, for a periodical printed in 
New York. I was not surprised,, 
therefore, to find his table burdened 
with a good many volumes, news- 
papers, and pamphlets, which I knew 
he would never have been at the trou- 
ble of ordering. 

" Yes," said he, when I made a 
remark about the worthless character 
of some of these publications j "there 
is trash enough here to make a. man 
melancholy. People send me these 
things for their own purposes, i"cvd I. 



722 



Canada Thistles. 



read them sometimes for mine. I 
should be tempted to be sorry for 
the invenlion of printing, only if we 
lost the bane, we should lose the an- 
tidote with it. Besides, I have little 
faith in the negative sort of virtue 
which is founded on ignorance. We 
ought to grow wiser, day by day, with 
the number of our teachers j but 
what I spe here often makes me 
doubt It. You will fiml that man- 
kind have tlie same propensity to use 
calumny instead of argument that 
they had two or three hundred years 
ago. la matters of religion and his- 
tory, I believe that lies are very 
snuch like Canada thistles : let them 
•once take root, and it is next to im- 
ipossible to get the field clear of them, 
ifou may cut them all down to day, 
and to-morrow their ugly heads will 
.be as high as ever. Now, here," he 
■continued, picking up a handful of 
pamphlets and newspapers, " is a 
crop of Cirada thistles. These are 
all philippics against the Catholic 
Church. I suppose their authors 
call them polemical publications j 
but there is not an argument in one 
of them. They are nothing what- 
•ever but slanders which have been 
demolished a hundred times ; and 
■yet here they are, as bold as ever. 
It is consoling to be told, as we often 
are, that ' Truth crushed to earth will 
rise again ;' but if a lie crushed to 
earth has not an hicorrigible habit of 
^ rising again, then I am no reader of 
current literature. You and I may 
go out into the field of theological 
controversy, and, being well armed 
^Sand on the right side, we may cut 
down every one of the calumnies 
which are marshalled against the 
church ; but we know that they will 
iump right up again as soon as our 
"Ijacks are turned, and swear that 
'':they'ne\-er went down. It is rather 
•fljscouraging to fight against a man 
who doesn't know when he is dead. 



To answer these things noir, 
hbld in my hand, would be likej 
ning around the battle-field bi 
of a rabble of lively corpsci.'* 
"Well," said I, »^yo« art 
right and panly Vmjng. We i 
got to cut away at the Canada J 
ties, as you call them, whe 
root ihem out or not ; if we 
they will stifle the grain. 
your lively corpses canooc 
ever. You may galvanize a 
body into spasnicKlic activity,, 
you cannot bring^ it to life 
and I believe" that, e\-ery time 
is exposed, there is good 
somebody, though iL -.ifti 

have been made ah 'UiA| 

fore. Take the old Uctioaj 
male pope ; one of the mc 
terous of anti-Catholic call 
and one of the easiest to 
because the admitted facts ( 
were so plain against it. TV 
incredibly long time dying; biui 
dead at last — so dead that crwsJ 
Murphy, of Birminghaiii, 
does not believe it. Well,] 
would never have been lai^ 
shelf if Catholics had not 
away at it until they forced 
mies to listen to them. Tij 
St. Bartholomew massacre — ** 
" I don't know about that," 
rupted my friend ; " there b a ^ 
deal of \-itality in that thistk 
Two things have been proved, J»i 
are now ad n 
Protestant li 

sacre v^'as the crime ot a pr^if*r*^ 
not a religious, party, and that the 
number of Uie slain has brtn ftigbt- 
fully exaggerated. The old stotr uiicd 
to be thai 100,000 fell, and ' "* 
has shown that the number^ 
probability, did not exceed 
Notwithstanding this, 1 \ixvt a vo- 
lume here, called IViltum't OittSaa^ 
Ifist(fry, which, I Icam, is laed aa ■ 
textbook in the CoUpgo of the OXfd 



\oiPfmca I 



Canada Thistles. 



723 



brir, and which represents the 
icre as a rising of the ' Catholics 
ris' against their Huguenot bre- 
i declares that it lasted in the 
ftl 'eight days and eight nights 
*it any apparent diminution of 
iiry of the murderers,' and esti- 
4 the number of the victims at 
jD. Then the writer goes on to 
^t the pope causefd medals to 
fuck in commemoration of the 
cious event, and returned pub- 
^anks to heaven. A student 
1 never suspect from this that 
Ssassins were not the Catholic 

ftants, but the hirelings of the 
mother. Besides, the massa- 
*sted, not eight days and nights, 
iiree days and two nights. This 
is of more importance than at 
^)pears. If the slaughter had 
1 so long, and so many persons 
ieen killed, it could hardly have 
the work of a band of cut- 
is ; but if we remember that, as 
Autable historians admit, it was 
^ the third day, and that the 
er of victims, according to 
|e, who is the latest Protestant 
Hty, certainly did not exceed 
,in Paris, and 10,000 in all 
jB, or, according to Lingard, 
dn the whole kingdom, it is 
It that it could not have been 

I in by the Catholic inhabi- 

«» 

I 

foude, you say, puts the num- 

1 10,000 ?" 

ies, and admits that the French 

lies cried out with horror at 

Btrage. Vet Froude is a most 

jng witness in our favor. His 

Bs you know, is all the other 

The Calvinistic author of the 

rology of the Huguenots, pub- 

I only ten years after the mas- 

jinade careful search, and was 

p find the names of only 786 

£' perished. Froude's es- 
X) high, and Willson's is 




altogether preposterous. Then about 
that medal and the T( Deum at 
Rome ; everybody knows that, as soon 
as the horrible deed was over, the 
first care of tilt French king was to 
justify himself at the other European 
courts by false accounts of what had 
taken place. His ambassador in- 
formed the pope that his majesty had 
discovered a Huguenot conspiracy 
against his life and throne, and had 
overcome it by promptly e.\ecuting 
the criminals. It was in the belief 
of this !ic that the pope caused pub- 
lic thanks to be given for the king's 
victory. This is a fact as well estab- 
lished as any other of the 1 6ih cen- 
tury. Yet Mr. Willson, and men 
like him, choose to goon quietly dis- 
regarding it. I think it simply a sin 
that anj'body so grossly ignorant or 
so shamefully perverse should be 
allowed to deceive the young with 
what they presume to call 'histo- 
ry.'" 

" How does Froude stand in this 
matter of the rejoicings at Rome ?" 

" Froude has too melodramatic a 
mind, if I may use the expression, to 
be a good historian. He has a dan- 
gerous gift of sarcasm and invective, 
and a fatal knack of putting things 
together so as to make an effective 
situation. If an inconvenient truth 
pops up to mar the scene, he quietly 
knocks it on the head, and arranges ' 
the stage to suit himself. For in-- 
stance, he wants to paint the duplici-v 
ty of Charles, so he mentions his ly- 
ing bulletinsto the pop)eand the other 
sovereigns ; but he also wants to im- 
press us with the heartless bigotry of 
the pontiff; so, af^er showing on one 
page that the pope could not know 
the truth, he coolly assumes on the 
next that he did know it," 

" I think the best account of the 
massacre I ever read in a Protestant 
publication is that in The Neut 
AmcrUan Cyclopctdia. '^o^ z. ^jkv- 



7^4 



Canada Thistles. 



feet book, of course, but upon the 
whole, very honest." 

" Yes, if you want to get a plain 
statement of facts, without party co- 
loring, you must go to* some work in 
which many heads and hands have 
worked together. You know an or- 
dinary refracting telescope of the old 
sort shows distant objects, not as 
they really are, but tinged with pris- 
matic colors, because no one lens 
has the power of transmitting all 
rays with equal impartiality ; but by 
a combination of lenses we get at the 
exact truth ; one corrects another. 
So, if you want a thoroughly impar- 
tial, achromatic account of anything, 
let a number of men work at it to- 
gether. J'or this reason, a good cy- 
clopxdia is better than a volume of 
history ; it is perfectly cold-blooded." 

"Our friend VVillson," I said, turn- 
ing over the leaves as I spoke, " is 
certainly a telescope of the old sort 
His book is as gay with prismatic co- 
lors as a parlor candelabrum. See 
here : * The doctrine of infallibility 
means tfie pope' s entire exemption from 
Hability to err ,•' ' Indulgences are bil- 
lets of salvation, professing to remit 
the punishment due to sins even be- 
fore the commission of the contem- 
plated crime.' Mr. Willson knows 
that neither of these definitions is 
correct." 

" No, I don't believe he does. Re- 
member what we said just now about 
thistles. To you and to me these 
statements seem — I don't know whe- 
ther to say ludicrous or shocking. 
We know, as well as we know the 
alphabet, that while the church can- 
not err in defining dogmas, the pope, 
as a private individual, is a-s liable to 
err as Mr. Willson himself; that no 
sin can be forgiven before it is com- 
mitted, and no past sin pardoned so 
long as the culprit purposes commit- 
ting another; but I dare say Mr. 
WilJson is ignocanx of ^V thia. There 



is a certain class of unfbi 
tians, now happily dyiiig 
catechised in their jxmi 
tred of the pope and 
They look upon his hoi 
perior sort of devil, ra 
ed and dangerous upon tli 
than Satan, and not half sq 
a gentleman. Willson was 
full of these sentiments wbei| 
a boy, and now he i* tiding 
the coming generation. Ul 
specimen of the moral ni 
which men of his stamp are 
up on. I cut it out of an o(d 
of The SundaV'Schooi .•tihvcai 
it appeared as a comnicnl c 
ture of a Sp.anish flowcr-girL 
must be a fuiiny twist in the 
the writer who could get \ 
against popery out of thaL 

" ' SKLLIMG VU>WVm 
" * You never saw such ■ flowern 
you ? You have tiot unlets yon t 
in Spain. The piiiurc is meant lo 
a Spani&h lidy, a Spataish fl o w ei -d 
a Spanish muie. 

" ' Spain is a bcautifu} land, tmt t!ie 
arc not as happy as they arc here. Vfh) 
cause they are Roman l.'athoIioL On 
Mrere a brave, |i.iwri(.,i rich, VHbatfi 
people ; but a - ta, called | 

stole into the > . , cnched ti»e» 

of liberty, put out the lights of lei 
trampled upon the true reJigioo, and 
the Spaniards IxMislcts, bi^oti, and i 
staves to their kings and ^iMCMb H 
Spaniards, my children, and 
heavenly Father to Mve ihk 
from ever licing ruined by that 
to all that is good — the Rooua 
Church. 






" How can you wonder l': ' 
who learns such nonsense i: 
hood should say foolish ilun,, 
he grows up ? Still, Mr. \\\\\-> 
norance docs not excuse him 
one who undertakes to write hi 
is bound not to be ignorant 
cannot p' ' ' 
tion in J 
To tejich calumny aJKl rcli^ 



uch a crime as to administer 
fcines without knowing the pro- 
Is of drugs. We have little ten- 
iss for an ignorant chemist's boy 
tooisons us by mistake, and I 
: know why we should have any 
i for an ignorant historian who 
Mit of prejudice. Besides, even 
•-. Willson did not know the truth, 
new there were two sides to the 
'f and he was bound to study and 

them both, which he evidently 

ot done. His ignorance was 

vincible." 

think, however, that the facul- 
I the College of New York are 
I to blame for adopting this 
! as a text-book than the author 
br writing it. You know, I sup- 
i what that college is. It is a 
of our common school system, 
[ned for the youth of every faith, 
pipported by tax on all citizens 
To allow a word taught there 

could offend the religious fcel- 
of either Catholics or Protes- 

is a gross outrage upon pubtic 
It only shows, what wise men 
church have all along main- 

, that Catholics need hope for 

^d from state education. We 

be taxed for what we don't ap- 

^ and support our own schools 

colleges besides. — But enough 

Let us see the rest of your 

s." 

h!" said he, laughing, "there 

ough of them, I can assure you, 
^ for example, is TAg Free- Will 
Vsl Quarterly for January, 1868. 
(ntains an article on ' The Per- 
bns of the Gospel a Proof of its 
hity/ and in the course of it oc- 
|this sentence about the pope : 
can remit sins or permit them, 
I his pardon and indulgences 
; been purchased with money.* 
\ a quarterly is supposed to be 
with care and deliberation, 

hen such a periodical states 




that the holy Father has power * to 
permit sins ' it is guilty of a misstate- 
ment which I hardly know how to 
distinguish from a deliberate false- 
hood. The editor of The Baptist 
Quarterly is utterly inexcusable for 
not knowing that the doctrine which 
he attributes to the church is repu- 
diated with horror by every tlieolo- 
gian who ever wrote on our side. It 
has never been either maintained 
in theory or acted upon in practice- 
The statement of The Quarterly is 
one of the most atrocious calumnies 
ever uttered, and the editor was 
bound to know it. If he is so igno- 
rant as not to know it, he is crimi- 
nally presumptuous in undertaking 
the functions of a popular teacher. 
Then, again, he says that the pope's 
' pardon and indulgences have |)een 
purchased with money.' This, too, 
is a positive falsehood, though we are 
willing to believe not an intentional 
one. In no case, and under no color, 
can pardon be obtained for money. 
The only price ever required, the 
only price which can ever suffice, 
is hearty repentance. After pardon 
has been granted, there remains, as 
we all know, a temporal pwnalty to 
be exacted by way of satisfaction, 
and for this the pope may decree the 
contribution of money for a charita- 
ble object or any other good deed. 
If the editor of The Baptist Quarterly 
does not know that this is the extent 
of an indulgence, then he has no busi- 
ness to be an editor. Ignorance does 
not excuse him. But let this pass. 
We were sfwaking just now of edu- 
cation ; here is an article quite «i pro- 
pos to that subject in TAe Churchman, 
It is called 'Rome and the Scrip- 
tures.' The writer begins by won- 
dering at the insolence of ' Roman- 
ists ' in denying that the church with- 
holds the Bible from the laity ; and 
bow do you think he proceeds to 
prove that she does withhold v^l 



726 



Canada Thistles. 



Why, by showing that she lays some 
very necessary restrictions upon the 
indiscriminate circulation of transla- 
tions of the Bible. But, it is objected, 
every English-speaking Catholic fam- 
ily has a copy of the Douay Bible in 
the house. Yes, says The Church- 
man, because the church lets you have 
it ; she could forbid it if she chose. 
What do you think of that as a spe- 
cimen of argument ? The church 
forbids the Bible, because she might, 
if she pleased, only she doesn't Be- 
sides, this writer continues, the Eng- 
lish of the Douay version is so bad 
that it is practically not the vernacu- 
lar ; the book is as much sealed to 
the comprehension of the common 
reader as if it remained in the origi- 
tial Hebrew and Greek. Thus, he 
say^ ' in Galatians v. 19-23, we have 
a list of llie " works of the flesh," and 
tlie " fruits of tlie Spirit." In our ver- 
sion occur the words, " lasciviousness, 
drunkenness, revellings, long-suffer- 
ing." But in the Douay version in- 
stead of such honest English, which 
any person of ordinary attainments 
can understand, we have the words, 
*' impudicity, elrieties, [ebrieties ?] 
comes-sations, and longanimity." In 
Hebrews Lx. 23, our version reads, 
" the patterns of things in the 
heavens f but the Douay has it, 
*' tiie exemplars of tlie celestials." 
Again, in Hebrews .xiii. 16, instead 
of " to do good, and to communicate, 
forget not ; for with such sacrifices 
God is well pleased," as in our ver- 
sion, the Douay reads, " Beneficence 
and communication forget not, for 
with such hosts God is promeritcd." 
Is tiiis what the Romanists call the 
Bible in the vulgar tongue ? Now, 
in point of fact, not a single one 
of the preceding texts is given in the 
form he quotes in the Catholic Testa- 
ments now in use. The passage 
from Galatians reads, 'immodest)', 
drunkenness, revellings.' Instead 



of ' ibc exemplars of Che 
we have ' the patterns of 
things ;* and the verse firom 
brews xiii. runs thus : * And do 
forget to do good and to :-- — 
by such sacrifices God's 
lained.' In the first edi 
Douay Bible there were 
scure expressions which have a£efl 
been amended. If the traasbua 
knew English but imperfectly, wi« 
fault was it ? The English go«t» 
ment would not allow Catholics.: 
get an education in their 
countr}' — hanged them if they 
them at it. That we have 
their shortcoming^ is proof 
that we are anxious to facilitate ihe 
study of the sacred books. Mibt 
would The Churchman say if wtX- 
cused the Anglican estnhlishtncfll (( 
trying to conceal the Scrtpturcs fi«* 
the common people, because ik 
translations of Wickliffc n- ! '' ^ 
dale contain many ant ^H 

pressions ? That wr.nlij :,, , -n 
whit as just as to f-./iin-i ., . t .U.' 
charge against us upon the in:;". ;•. 
tions of the first editions of ix?^ 
and Rheims, (which are older, it 
should be remarked, than the 
of King James.)" 

" After all," said I, '' I canno* i* 
gard the authorized English 
tant Bible .as a model of mrhat a 
pular translation ought to be." 

" Of course noL Don't ytiu re- 
member what Hallain says about it' 
Here is the passage : * It b hdd ttt 
be the perfection of < -h lan- 

guage. I shall not ci ,14 po- 

position ; but one remark as tc a 
matter of fact cannot rea 
ceiisured, that, in conseqtiem 
principle of adherence to the 
versions, which had,becti kept 
ever since the time of Hen 
it is not the languagt 0/ tht 
James I. It may, in thee}-es 
ny, be a better Et^lish, but 



Vgl'sh of Daniel, or Raleigh, 
fcon, as any one may easily per- 
// aboundiy in fad, especially 
i Old Testament, with obsolete 
wlogy, and with single words 
\nce abandoned or retained only 
pvincial use.' {Literature of 
^ vol. ii. chap. 2.) The early 
ftant versions are proof enough 
I wisdom of our church in set- 
bunds to the license of careless 
Dmpetent editors. You know 
is one edition which is called 
J>k-collectors ' the Breeches Bi- 

account of its rendering of a 
{e in the tliird chapter of Gene- 
lere Adam and Eve are said 
7e * sewed together fig-leaves 
lade themselves ^rrrfArj.' The 
, printers, in 1632, were fined 
iblishlng a Bible in whicli one 

1 commandments appeared in 
(rm, *Thou shalt commit adul- 

During the Commonwealth, 
t impression of the Bible was 
cated on account of its corrup- 
^any of which were the result 
[ign. One edition contained 
[rrors. Archbishop Usher, on 
^y to preach once, bought a 
n Bible in a bookseller's shop, 
!as dismayed to find that the 
je had selected was omitted ! 
1 of the English Bibles llie first 
»f ihe fourteenth (or in our Bj- 
\ thirteenth) Psalm is printed, 
fool hath said in his heart, 
s a God,' instead of ' no God.* 
se what that famous old Pro- 
\ divine, Thomas Fuller, says 

matter: • Considering vrith my- 
e causes of the growth and in- 

of impiety and profaneness in 
id, amongst others this seem- 

me not the least, viz., the 
anyy<7/r/and erroneous impres- 
>f the Bible. Now know, what 
tarelessncss in other books is 
f In setting forth of the Bible, 
jah, in all unclean creatures, 
I 



preser\-ed but two of a kind, so 
among some hundreds in several 
editions, we will insist only on two 
instances. In the Bible printed at 
London in 1653, we read, " i Corin- 
thians vi. 9, Know ye not that the 
unrighteous shalt inherit the kingdom 
of God ?" for " not inherit." Now, 
when a reverend doctor in divinity 
did mildly reprove some libertines 
for their licentious lives, they did 
produce this text from the authority 
of this corrupt edition in jtistification 
of their vicious and inordin.ate con- 
versations. The next instance shall 
be in the Bible printed at London in 
quarto (forbearing the name of the 
printer, because not done wilfully by 
him) in the singing Psalms, Psalm 
lr\-ii. 2 : 

" Thjit »n the emili may 'kttim 
The way lo worUlIy i»e*lih," 

for " godly wealth." ' Such blunders 
too are by no means confined to ear- 
ly impressions. Why, there is an 
edition of the Anglican Liturgy print- 
ed at Oxford, of all places in the 
world, in 1813, in which occurs this 
dreadful blunder : ' Lamb of God, 
who takest away the sins of the 
Lord: " 

"After this, it looks well, doesn't 
it, for The Churchman to blame us 
for repressing the indiscriminate cir-: 
culation of wild versions of the Scripr 
tures ?" 

•'My dear friend, if all men were 
consistent, the whole worid would be 
Catholic. Protestantism from begin- 
ning to end is nothing but a huge ii 
consistency. But come: have we 
any more weeds to look at ?" 

" Here is a copy of 7'he Observer; 
if we don't find something startling 
in it, it will be strange. Yes ; here 
is a letter from the well-known Ire- 
tiiTus on 'the relics at Aix-la-Cha* 
pclle.' Read what he says : 

" ' I found tiva,l ^icXw** oS \VvtwMa"»«* 




728 



for sole in all the shops, and I bought a few 
as sou%enirs of niy Kccidental pilgrimage ; 
particularly I sought for a good representa- 
tion of that one which is first on the tist, and 
first in the admiralion of the people. Ar the 
Vlrpn Mothe^ Mary it held in higher honor 
hy alt good Calkotict than the Sot* of God him- 
stl/t so thcv likewise venerate, Mrith a deep- 
er reverence, the linen garment that she 
wore, than the cloth which was around the 
loins of the Saviour on the cross.' 

What do you say to that ? For my 
partt I cannot believe that a man so 
well informed on most subjects as frc- 
naus is really thinks that 'Catholics 
hold the Virgin Mary in higher hon- 
or than the Son of God himself.' If 
he knows anything at all about the 
Catholic Church, he must know that 
this is a downright slander." 

" In point of fact, I suppose he 
does know it ; but he belongs to a 
class 'of persons who seem to think 
it no harm to say anything evil of 
Catholics for the sake of producing 
a sensation. The church in their 
eyes is merely a convenient subject 
for turning an eloquent sentence ; a 
sort of eorpus viif, upon which it is 
allowable to try all manner of orato- 
rical experiments. Besides, you know 
T^e Obsencr is nothing but a jour- 
nalistic stuffed Guy Faux, brought 
out periodically for the purpose of 
reminding mankind of the wicked- 
ness of the bloody papists." 

" Do you know I pity the editor 
of that paper ? he must have such 
awful nightmares. Just think of per- 
petually dreaming that the pope sits 
scowling on your stomach ready to 
strangle you, and a grand inquisitor 
lurks under the bed ! I suppose The 
Obseri'tr never goes upstairs in the 
dark without dread of st\imbling 
over a rack, or running his hand into 
a thumbscrew, and never falls asleep 
without apprehensions of a popish 
massacre before morning. Has he 
any special bugaboo to day ?" 

"'The ConfessAOTval.' I will not 





*' • The confes&ional in the Re 
He Church, and in every church tl 
corrupt enough to tntrodtic« it, i 
enough to submit to it, is an 
ranny over the social, domestic, \ 
life of the people, with an extent, y 
wickedness it is hardly pbKufalc 
celve. 

"' It operates 1 1 i^tWH 

In most of the k •xttiCj 

men have sulx>tantially klcj«< 
sional. They go (nice a 
at all. Many of thcin, nominil 
do not take the commani'ti. and tM 
do not come andcr the cccl«UAMicri I 
sity of confessing. But wocnCA 4K 
religious, more siipr- •-•- -" uujHOn 
missive to priciitl'. «i thai 

Men have their bu^^ „^ .-'.iiinkal 

often worship amantCMt. 

highest of all mental occuf 

their life is in it ; it is 

that to come. In PrcitcsUint \ 

man churchet wonxn are the 

best of the tncmbcni. It haa In 

the time they outnumbervd ihr i 

the aoas and the grave of ibc .Sa« 

The confei«iional h.-i« its grasp on (he w^ 

of the Kom.in C3t)u)lic Church : andtfeKj 

them it rules the houaehotda wlicn A 

women are wives. mothera« aaMcra, tMm 

or sci-\-ants. It is cncnigh for the piiri 

of the priests that they have une »i«t 

house ; but the more th« better^ 

nearer that spy is to the head vi ' 

the more valuable her scrvioe. 

of ser>-ants is carefully watc 

are changed front time to tir 

lion of priests, when ihe fa 

slightest suspinon of the cair 

oAcn select » i|ttt 

in the caparit , l*. i 

act as spies aitJ cmi^;iries 

thry wi»h to supervise. The 

thus obtained is recorded, trail 

higher |K.i«Tr?i, and ti»ed, wilhovtt 

the secret and cm'.- -Atin 

church to get contr political 

material interests ui uic suir.' 

" There is no excuse foe thb J 
of thing. There is an untruth in 
most ever)' litie. I dt>n't chju^e 
Obsen>€r with deliberate falseho 
but it needs a good deal of chat 
in a case like this, to rcroembei 
difference betwisen a mislake uH 



Canada Thistles, 



PVrel 



ei 






e. Mark you, the writer does not 
ay : ' I believe the confessional to 
e used for purposes of oppression,' 
I suspect that the priests keep spies 
every household.' ' I dare say the 
urch interferes with our ser\'ants,' 
I take it for granted that the priests 
repeat what is said to them in con- 
fession ;' but all these vague and 
diculous notions are stated in the 
oadest manner, as admitted histori- 
facts. That is to say, The Obser- 
makes the most atrocious charges 
ainst us without a particle of evi- 
nce to support tliem. ' I guess 
ey are true,' says the writer ; ' any 
ay, I will make them.* The less the 
ircKjf, the more emphatic the asser- 
bn. Suppose I have a vague sus- 
picion that my neighbor has stolen 
money, and on the strength of that 
picion, not knowing whether it is 
ell-founded or not, and having no 
means of knowing, I proclaim him as 
a thief all over town. Whether he is 
one or not, I commit a grave sin by 
defaming him on mere suspicion ; 
and if he turn out to be an honest 
man after all, the fact that I believed 
my own story will not save me from 
the consequences of uttering slander. 
The old grannies of Protestantism 
act upon the principle that \\ is quite 
fair to ascribe any imaginable sin 
either to the pope or the devil. The 
ickedness of both being infinite, it 
impossible to overshoot the mark." 
" Even if aU priests were demons, 
I don't see why they must also be 
described as idiots. ' Spies in the 
household!' Can you imagine any- 
thing more childish than listening to 
Bridget's and Mar)' Ann's reports of 
e daily life of their master and 
istress ? Can you imagine any use 
which such inform.atlon could be 
turned by the church ? The Obsen^er 
no doubt supposes that the archbi- 
shop of New York has daily morning 
audiences with his domestic emissa- 



ries, who tell him what time The Ob 
server editor got up, how many eggs 
he ate for breakfast, what remarks 
he made at family prayers, whether 
the children were good, and how 
much butcher's meat was used in the 
house during the previous week. 
Then just ihinkof the Roman Catholic 
Churchbeinga vast intelligence-office, 
through which servants are changed 
about from house to house 1 You 
flatter yourself that you chose your 
cook out of a number of applicants 
for the place. Nothing of the kind • 
she was sent to your house by the 
priests, and forced on you by a kind 
of legerdemain, just as a juggler 
forces a card. You think you dis- 
charged your hast chambermaid. Oh \ 
no ; she went away because the 
priests had duties for her elsewhere. 
And the reports of all these spies, 
T/te Observer assures us, are actually 
written out, and transmitted to head- 
quarters ! I believe there is no limit 
to the credulity of a no-popery zea- 
lot." 

" I am glad to see, however, that 
some Protestants have recognized 
the value of the confessional to socie- 
ty, and have spoken warmly of its 
sacred influence, I suppose you 
know how much attention h.-is lately 
been drawn to the great appalling sin 
of modern American women — the 
murder of their offspring yet unborn. 
It is a sin so prevalent that, as I re- 
member reading some time ago in 
The CongregationaUst, it is said that 
in a certain populous district in a 
large western city, not a single An- 
glo-.^merican child had been born 
alive in three years ! It has not es- 
caped the notice of physicians that 
no such practice prevails among the 
Catholic population. Dr. Storer, 
of Boston, (a Protestant.) explains 
this difference in his well-known es- 
say on the subject, by the influence 
of the confessional \ aitvd I'fu Congrt- 




Abscondita, 



731 



al evil ; then they inevitably fill 
10 parties with mutual dislike, 
n time, drive them to antipa- 
Lhe bad feeling gets worse and 
; and some day accident brings 
a clash, and there is a terrible 
(ion, nobody knows exactly how, 
obody knows whQ is most to 
. All we can determine about it 
ise Froude's words, that it could 
.ve happened 'had not theologi- 
;nzy already been heated to the 
g-point.' I think it is high 
hat all decent citizens, all hon- 
eological disputants, should set 
faces against the Gospel of 
y. I am willing to meet any 
n a fair controversy, but there 
hing but danger and aggrava- 
3 bandying hard names. The 
egitimate object of controversy 
make converts, and you can't 
at without good temper and 
t argument. The apparent pur- 
>f such tirades as those of Tfu 



Ohserver, is merely to show the 
preacher's own party how much bet- 
ter they are than the rest of the 
world. Nobody but a fool could ex- 
pect them to do any good to the 
Catholics ; you can't make friends 
with a man by abusing his mother. 
It ought to be clearly understood 
that calm theological disciission over 
points of discipline or dogma is al- 
ways in order ; but atrocious charges, 
unsupported by a tittle of evidence, 
deserve no name but that of sheer 
calumny, and all good men ought to 
detest them. If Protestant preachers 
only carried inter the pulpit and the 
editorial chair the same rules of mo- 
rality which, I am happy to believe, 
they generally practise in private life, 
they would observe this cardinal prin- 
ciple, not to publish infamous accu- 
sations against their neighbors unless 
they have personal knowledge of 
their truth." 



ABSCONDITA. 

Flower of the forest, that, unseen, 
With sweetness fill'st the vernal grove, 

Where hid'st thou ? 'Mid the grasses green, 
Or those dim boughs that mix above ? 

Thou bird that, darkling, sing'st a song 
That shook the bowers of paradise. 

Thou too art hid thy leaves among : 
Thou sing'st unseen of mortal eyes. 

Of her thou sing'st whose every breath 
Sweetened a world too blind to heed ; 

Of Him — Death's Conqueror — ^that from death 
Alone would take the crown decreed. 



Thou siog'st that secret gifts are best ; 

That only like to God are they 
Who keep God's secret in their breast, 

And hide,%s stars are hid by day. 



AtJ«R3EX -Qt^M-CKS^ 



The Russian writhed and groaned, 
but he paid no attention to that, and 
at last, throwing the bullet upon the 
ground, he bandaged up the wound, 
aod cried, " Carry him off!" 

They lifted the Russian from the 
table, and stretched him on a mat- 
tress beside the others ; then they 
laid his neighbor upon the table. 

I could not think that such horrors 
took place in the world ; but I was 
yet to see worse than this. 

At five or six beds from mine was 
an old corporal with his leg bound up. 
He closed one eye knowingly, and 
said to his neighbor, whose arm had 
lust been cut off: 

*' Ccmscript, look at that heap I I 
rill bet that you cannot recognize 
jur arm." 

The other, who had hitherto shown 
le greatest courage, looked, and fell 
jack senseless. 

Then the corporal began, laughing, 
saying : 

*' He did recognize it. It always 
produces that effect.'' 

He looked around self-approvingly, 
but no one laughed with him. 

Ever)' moment the wounded called 
for water. When one began, all fol- 
lowed, and the old soldier had certain- 
ly conceived a liking for me, for each 
time he passed, he presented the cup. 

I did not remain in the shed more 
than an hour. A dozen ambulances 
drew up before the door, and the 
peasants of the country round, in their 
velvet jackets and large black, sloucli- 
ed hats, their whips on their shoul- 
ders, held the horses by the reins. 
A picket of hussars arrived soon 
after, and their officer dismounting, 
entered and said : 

" Excuse me, major, but here is an 
order to escort twelve wagons of 
wounded as far as Lutzen. Is it 
here that we are to receive them ?" 

" Yes, it is here," replied tlie sur- 
geon. 



The peasants and the ambulance- 
drivers, after giving us a last draught 
of wine, began carrj'ing us to the 
wagons. As one was filled, it de- 
parted, and another advancod. They 
had given us our great-coats ; but de- 
spite them and the sun, which was 
shining brightly, we shivered with 
cold. No one spoke ; each was too 
much occupied thinking of himself. 

At moments I was terribly cold ; 
tiien flashes of heat would dart 
through me, and flush me as in fever ; 
and indeed it was the beginning of 
the fever. But as we left Kaya, I 
was yet well ; I saw everything clear- 
ly, and it was not till we neared Leip- 
sic that I felt indeed sick. The 
hussars rode beside us, smoking and 
chatting, paying no attention to us. 

In passing through Kaya, I saw 
all the horrors of war. The village 
was but a mass of cinders ; the roofs 
had fallen, and the walls alone re- 
mained standing ; the rafters were 
broken ; we could see the remnants 
of rooms, stairs, and doors heaped 
widiin. The poor villagers, women, 
children, and old men, came and 
went with sorrowful faces. We could 
see them going up and down in their 
houses ; and in one we saw a mirror 
yet hanging unbroken, showing where 
dwelt a young girl in time of peace. 

Ah ! who of them could foresee that 
their happiness would so soon be de- 
stroyed, not by the fury of the winds 
or the wrath of heaven, but by the 
rage of man ! 

Even the cattle and pigeons seemed 
seeking their lost homes among the 
ruins ; the oxen and the goats scat- 
tered through the streets, lowed and 
bleated plaintively. At the last house 
an old man, with flowing white hair, 
sat at the threshold of what had been 
his cottage, with a child upon his 
knees, glaring on us as we passed. 
His furrowed brow and stony eyes 
spoke of despair. Ho>n taasv^ ■^^•assk 



I 
I 




The Story of a Conscript. 



735 



Yes, yei," said the surgeon kind- 
" and now what is the matter 
ith you?" 

" Three sabre-cuts on my left arm 
hile I was defending my piece from 
Prussians." 
The surgeon unwdimd the ban- 
age, and asked : 
♦* Have you the cross ?" 
" No, Monsieur the Baron." 
" What is your name ?"' 
" Christian Zunnier, second ariille- 
h-chevair 
" Very good I" 
^^ He dressed the wounds, and went 
^Hd the next, saying, 
^H "You wiJl soon be well." 
^» The old artilleryman's heart seem- 
ed overflowing with joy ; and, as I 
•concluded from his name that he 
came from Alsace, I spoke to him in 
our language, at which he was still 
more rejoiced. He called me yo- 
^ma^hety and said : 

^L "Josephel, be careful how you 
^Hiwallow the medicines they give you, 
^Bynly take what you know. All that 
^^oes not taste well is good for nolh- 
' ing. If they would give us a bottle 
of Rikei'ir every day, we would soon 
be well." 

When I told him I was afraid of 
dying of the fever, he laughed long 
and loud, and said : 

" Josephel, you are a fool. Do 
you think that such tall fellows as 
you and 1 were born to die in a hos- 
pJul .> No, no ; drive the idea from 
your head." 

But he spoke in vain, for every 
morning the surgeons, making their 
rounds, found seven or eight dead. 
Some died in fevers, some in a dead- 
^^y chill J so that heat or cold might be 
^B^e pres:ige of death. 
^B Zunnier said that all this proceed- 
^Ppd from the evil drugs which the doc- 
tors invented. " Do you see that 
tall, thin fellow ?" he asked. " Well, 
that man can boast of having killed 



more men than a field-piece ; he is 
always primetl, with his match light- 
ed ; and that little brown fellow — I 
would send him instead of the empe- 
ror to the Russians and i^russians ; 
he would kill more of them than a 
corps d'arnue" 

He would have made me laugh with 
his jokes if the litters were not An- 
stantly passing. 

At the end of three weeks my 
shoulder had begun to heal, and 
Zunnier's wounds were also doing 
well, and they allowed us to walk in 
the large garden, fiill of elms, behind 
the hospital. There were benches 
under the trees, and we walked the 
paths like millionaires in our gray 
great-coats and forage-caps. The 
increasing heat presaged a fine year, 
and often, when looking at the beau- 
tiful scenery around, 1 thought of 
Phalsbourg, and the tears came to 
my eyes. 

" I would like to know what makes 
you cry so," said Zunnier. " Instead 
of catching a fever in the hospital, or 
losing a leg or arm, like hundreds of 
others, here we are quietly seated in 
the shade ; we are well fed, and can 
smoke when we have any tobacco; 
and still you crj'. What more do 
you want, Josephel ?" 

Then I told him of Catharine; of 
our walks at Quatre-Vents ; of our 
promises ; of all my former life, which 
then seemed a dream. He listened, 
smoking his pipe. 

•* Yes, yes," said he ; " all this is 
very sad. Before the conscription 
of 1798, I too was going to marry a 
girl of our village, who was named 
MargrtJdel, and whom I loved better 
tham al! the world beside. We had 
promised to marr}' each other; and 
all through the campaign of Zurich, 
I never passed a day without think- 
ing of her. But when I first receiv- 
ed a furlough and reached home, 
what did I hear? Margjrddel Vk.-a.<L 



Tkt Story of a Conscript. 



m 



lished rcaaing this, Zunnier 

id in my joy, I said : 

Dwn, Zunnier, and I will 

my sweetheart's letter, 
see whether she is a Mar- 
ie light my pipe first," he 
; and' having done so, he 
* Go on, Josephel, but I 
that I am an old bird, and 
ilieve all I hear ; women 
running than we." 
istanding this bit of philo- 
ead Catharine's letter slow- 
When I had ended, he 
d for a long time gazed at 
ly, and then handed it 
ng: 

! Josephel. Shew a good 
a sensible one, and will 
ry any one but you." 
u really think so ?" 
you may rely upon her; 
ever marry a Passauf. I 
her distrust the emperor 
a girl." 

have embraced Zunnier 
vords ; but I said : 
e received a bill for one 
francs. J^ow for some 
: of Alsace. Let us try to 

s well thought of," said he, 
lis mustache and putting 
his pocket. " I do not like 
1 a garden when there are 
itside. We must get per- 

;e joyfully and went to the 
hen the letter-carrier, com- 
opped Zunnier, saying : 
ou Christian Zunnier, of 
I artiUeric-h-cheval ?" 
e that honor, monsieur the 

dere is something for you," 
ither, handing him a little 
id a large letter, 
wasstupified, never having 
nything from home or from 
OL. VI. — 47 



anywhere else. He opened the 
packet — a box appeared — ^then the 
box — and saw the cross of honor. 
He became pale ; his eyes filled 
with tears, he staggered against a 
balustrade, and then shouted " Five 
FEmpereur /" in such tones that the 
three halls rang and rang again. 

The carrier looked on smiling. 

"You are satisfied," said he. 

'*' Satisfied I I need but one thing 
more." 

"Andwhat is that?" 

" Permission to go to the city." 

" You must ask Monsieur Tardieu, 
the surgeon in chief." 

He went away laughing, whil^ we 
ascended arm-in-arm, to ask permis- 
sion of the surgeon-major, an old 
man, who had heard the " Vive F Em- 
pereur /" and demanded gravely : 

" What is the matter ?" 

Zunnier showed his cross and re- 
plied : 

" Pardon, major ; but I am more 
than usually merry." 

"I can easily believe you," said 
Monsieur Tardieu ; " you want a 
pass to the city ?" 

" If you will be so good ; for my- 
self and my comrade, Joseph Bertha." 

The surgeon had examined hay 
wound the day before. He took out 
his portfolio and gave us passes. 
We sallied forth as proud as kings — 
Zunnier of his cross, I, of my letter. 

XVI. 

I WALKED dreamily through the 
streets, led by Zunnier, who recogniz- 
ed every comer, and kept repeating :. 

"There — ^there is the church of 
Saint Nicholas ; that large building 
is the university ; that on yonder 
viii^zmtddeVmer 

He seemed to remember every 
stone, having been there in 1807, 
before the battle of Friedland, and 
continued : 



The Story of a Conscript. 



739 



: glasses were handed us, and 
:r, who observed nothing, tried 
n a conversation with the stu- 
; but they excused themselves, 
ne after another, went out. I 
lat they hated us, but dared 
ow it. 

; gazette spoke of an armistice, 
two new victories at Bautzen 
'urtschen. This armistice com- 
d on the sixth of June, and a 
ence was then being held at 
e, in Bohemia, to arrange on 
of peace. All this naturally 
le pleasure. I thought of again 

home. But Zunnier, with his 
of thinking aloud, filled the 
dth his reflections, and inter- 
1 me at every line, 
n armistice I" he cried. " Do 
.nt an armistice, after having 
1 those Prussians and Rus- 
three times? We should an- 
:e them ! Would they give us 
nistice if they had beaten us ? 
, Joseph, you see the emperor's 
;ter — he is too good. It is his 
lult He did the same thing 
^usterlitz, and we had to begin 
igain. I tell you, he is too 

and if he were not so, we 
. have been masters of Eu- 

le spoke, he looked around as 

:ing assent ; but the students 

d, and no one replied. 

ast Zunnier rose. 

)me, Joseph," said he ; " I know 

g of politics, but I insist that we 

give no armistice to those beg- 
When they are down, we should 
hem there." 

:r we had paid our reckoning, 
;re once more in the street, he 
ued: 

do not know what was the mat- 
h those people to-day. We must 
isturbed them in something." 

is very possible," I replied, 
r certainly did not seem like 



(he good-natured folks you were 
speaking of." 

"No," said he. "The students, 
long ago, used to pass their time 
drinking with us. We sang Fan/an 
la TuUpe and * King Dagobert * to- 
gether, which are not political songs, 
you know. But these fellows are gc«d 
for nothing." 

I knew, afterward, that those stu- 
dents were members of the Tu^nd- 
Butiif No wonder they hated Frencl*- 
men I 

On returning to the hospital, we 
learned that we were to go, that same 
evening, to the barracks of Rosenthal 
— a sort of depot for wounded, near 
Lutzen, where the roll was called 
morning and evening, but where, at 
all other times, we were at liberty to 
do as we pleased. We often strolled 
through the town ; but the citizens 
now slammed their doors in our fa- 
ces, and the tavern-keepers not only 
refused tp give us credit, but at- 
tempted to charge double and triple 
for what we got But my comrade 
could not be cheated. He knew the 
price of ever}'thing as well as any 
Saxon among them. Often we stood 
on the bridge and gazed at the thou- 
sand branches of the Pleisse and the 
Elster, glowing red in the light of the 
setting sun, little thinking that we 
should one day cross those rivers 
after losing the bloodiest of battles, 
and that whole regiments would be 
submerged in the glittering waters 
beneath us. 

But the ill-feeling of the people 
toward us was shown in ^ thousand 
forms. The day afler the conclusion 
of the armistice, we went together to 
bathe in the Elster, and Zunnier, see- 
ing a peasant approaching, cried : 

" Holloa ! comrade I Is there any 
danger here ?" 

« No. Go in boldly," replied the 
man. 

Zunnier, mistrcsting nothing, waO^ 



The Story of a Conscript. 



741. 



►n what authority do you com- 
lis pillage ?" 

r-eral turned their heads, but 
; that we were but three, for 
£st of our party had gone on, 
f them replied : 

[a ! what do you want, old 
? A little of the spoil, I sup- 
But you need not curl up your 
iches on that account Here, 
a drop." 

e speaker held out the cup, and 
aartermaster took it and drank, 
ig at me as he did so. 
^ell, young man," said he, "will 
lave some, too? It is famous 
this." 

'o, I thank you," I replied, 
eral of the pillaging party now 

[urry, there ; it is time to get 
to camp." 

0, no," replied others ; " there 
re to be had here." 
omrades," said the quartermas- 

I a tone of gentle reproof and 
ng> " you know, comrades, you 
go gently about it." 

es, yes, old fellow," replied a 
major, with half-closed eyes, 
, mocking smile ; " do not be 
ed ; we will pluck the chicken 
iing to rule. We will take care ; 

II take care." 

; quartermaster said no more^ 
emed ashamed on my account. 
:mained in a meditative mood 
)me time after we started to 
Jce our companions, and, at 

1, said deprecatingly : 

'hat would you have, young 
War is war. One cannot see 
If starving, with food at hand." 
was afraid I would report him ; 
ild have remained with the pil- 
but for the fear of being cap- 
I replied, to relieve his mind : 
liose are probably good fellows, 
e sight of a cup of wine makes 
forget everything." 



At length, about ten o'clock, we 
saw the bivouac fires, on a gloomy, 
hill-side. Further on, in the plain, 
a gieat number of other fires were 
burning. The night was clear, and 
as we approached the bivouac, the 
sentry challenged : 

" Who goes there ?" 

" France I" replied the quarter- 
master. 

My heart beat, as I thought that, 
in a few moments, I should again 
meet my old comrades, if they were 
yet in the world. 

Two men of the guard came for- 
ward to reconnoitre us. The com 
mandant of the post, a gray-haired 
sous-lieutenant, his arm in a sling un 
der his cloak, asked us whence we 
came, whither we were going, and 
whether we had met any parties of 
Cossacks on our route. The quar- 
termaster answered. The lieutenant 
informed us that Sonham's division 
had that morning left them, and or- 
dered us to follow him, that he might 
examine our marching-papers, which 
we did in silence, passing among the 
bivouac fires, around which men, 
covered with dried mud, were sleep- 
ing, in groups of twenty. Not one 
moved. 

We arrived at the oflScers' quarters. 
It was an old brick-kiln, with an im- 
mense roof, resting on posts driven 
into the ground. A large fire was 
burning in it, and the air was agpree- 
ably warm. Around it soldiers were 
sleeping, with happy faces, and near 
the posts stacks of arms shon6 in the 
light of the flames. One bronzed 
old veteran watched alone, seated on 
the ground, and mending a shoe with 
a needle and thread. 

The officer handed me back my 
paper first, saying : 

" You will rejoin your battalion to- 
morrow, two leagues hence, near 
Torgau." 

Then the old soldier^ looldtv^ ^ 



Tke Story of a Conscript. 



743 



:e. I could only see ragged sol- 
s with their cheeks and famine- 
tening eyes. Their great-coats 
e twice too large for them, and 
in folds along their bodies like 
iks. I say nothing of the mud ; 
as everywhere. No wonder the 
mans were gleeful, even after our 
ories. 

/e went toward a couple of little 
s, before which three or four hor- 
were nibbling the scanty grass. 
,w Colonel Lorain, who now com- 
ided the third battalion — a tall, 

man, with brown mustaches 
a fierce air. He looked at me 
rningly, and when I showed my 
ers, only said : 

Go and rejoin your company." 
started off, thinking that I would 
ignize some of the Fourth ; but, 
e Lutzen, companies had been 
mingled with companies, regi- 
ts with regiments, and divisions 

divisions, that, on arriving at 
camp of the grenadiers, I knew 
one. The men seeing me ap- 
ich, looked distrustfully at me, as 
say: 

Does he want some of our beef? 
us see what he brings to the 

was almost ashamed to ask for 
»mpany, when a bony veteran, 
a nose long and pointed like an 
e's beak, and a worn-out coat 
;ing from his shoulders, lifting 
lead, and gazing at me, said qui- 

Hold ! It is Joseph. I thought 
'as buried four months ago." 
den I recognized my poor Z&A- 
My appearance seemed to af- 
him, for, without rising, he 
ezed my hand, crying : 
iClipfel ! here is Joseph !" 
lother soldier, seated near a pot, 
id his head, saying : 
[t is you, Joseph, is it ? Then 
vere not killed." 



This was all my welcome. Mise- 
ry had made them so selfish that 
they thought only of themselves. 
But ZA^d^ was always good-heart- 
ed ; he made me sit near him, throw- 
ing a glance at the others that com- 
manded respect, and offered me his 
spoon, which he had fastened to the 
button-hole of his coat I thanked 
him, and produced from my knap- 
sack a dozen sausages, a good loaf 
of bread, and a flask of eau-de^k, 
which I had the foresight to pur- 
chase at Risa. I handed a couple 
of the sausages to Z^bddd, who took 
them with tears in his eyes. I was 
also going to ofier some to the others; 
but he put his hand on my arm, say- 
ing: 

" What is good to eat is good to 
keep." 

We retired from the circle and ate, 
drinking at the same time ; the rest 
of the soldiers said nothing, but look- 
ed wistfully at us. Klipfel, smelling 
the sausages, turned and said : 

" Hollo ! Joseph ! Come and eat 
with us. Comrades are always com- 
rades, you know." 

" That is all very well," said 7j6- 
h6M ; " but I find meat and drink 
the best comrades." 

He shut up my knapsack himself, 
saying : 

" Keep that, Joseph. I have not 
been so well regaled for more than a 
month. You shall not lose it." 

A half-hour after, the recall was 
beaten ; the skirmishers came in, and 
Seigeant Pinto, who was among the- 
number, recognized me, and said : 

" Well ; so you have escaped I 
But you came back in an evil mo- 
ment I Things go wrong — wrong I"" 
The colonel and commandants 
mounted, and we began moving. The- 
Cossacks withdrew. We marched 
with arms at will ; Z^b^dd was at my 
side and related all that passed since 
Lutzeu ; the gjceall NrwAanss <ii "^iasafc.- 



744 



The Story of a Omscript, 



zen and Wurtzen ; the forced 
marches to overtake the retreating 
enemy j the march on Berlin ; then 
the armistice, the arrival of the ve- 
terans of Spain — men accustomed to 
pillaging and living on the peasan- 
try. 

Unfortunately, at the close of the 
armistice, all were against us. The 
country people looked on us with 
horror ; they cut the bridges down, 
and kept the Russians and Prussians 
informed of all our movements. It 
rained almost constantly, and the 
day of the battle of Dresden, it fell 
so heavily that the emperor's hat 
hung down upon his shoulders. But 
when victorious, we only laughed at 
these things. Z^b^d^ told me all 
this in detail ; how after the victory 
at Dresden, General Vandamme,who 
was to cut off the retreat of the Aus- 
trians, had penetrated to Kulm in 
his ardor ; and how those whom we 
had beaten the day before fell upon 
him on all sides, front, flank, and 
rear, and captured him and several 
other generals, utterly destroying his 
corps (Tarmke. Two days before, 
owing to a false movement of Mar- 
shal Macdonald, the enemy had sur- 
prised our division, and the fifth, 
sixth, and eleventh corps on the 
heights of Luwenberg, and in the 
milie Tj&oiM received two blows 
from the butt of a grenadier's musket, 
and was thrown into the river Katz- 
bach. Luckily he seized the over- 
hanging branch of a tree, and manag- 
ed to regain the bank. He told me 
how all that night, despite the blood 
that flowed from his nose and ears, 
ihe had marched to the village of 
<joldberg, almost dead with hunger, 
fatigue, and his wounds, and how a 
joiner had taken pity upon him and 
given him bread, onions, and water. 
He told me how, on the day following, 
they had marched across the fields, 
-tAcYi one taking his own course, 



without orders, because the marshals, 
generals, and all mounted officers 
had fled as far as possible, in the fear 
of being captured. He assured me 
that fifty hussars could have captur- 
ed them, one after another ; but that 
by good fortune, Bliicher could not 
cross the river, so that they finally 
rallied at Wolda, and further on at 
Buntzlau their officers met them, sur- 
prised at yet having troops to lead 
He told me how Marshal Oudinot 
and Marshal Ney had been beaten; 
the first at Gross-Beeren, and the 
other at Dennewitz. 

We were between three armies, 
who were uniting to crush us ; that 
of the north, commanded by Beraa- 
dotte ; that of Silesia, commanded 
by Blucher ; and the army of Bohe- 
mia, commanded by Schwartzenberg. 
We marched in turn against each of 
them ; they feared the emperor and 
retreated before us ; but we could 
not be at once in Silesia and Bo- 
hemia, so march followed march, 
and countermarch, countermarch. 
All the men asked was to fight; 
they wanted their misery to end.' 
A sort of guerrilla, named Thiel- 
mann, raised the peasantry against 
us, and the Bavarians and Wurtcm- 
burgers declared against us. We 
had all Europe on our hands. 

On the fourteenth of October, our 
battalion was detached to reconnoi- 
tre the village of Aken. The ene- 
my were in force there and received 
us with a scattering artillery fire, and 
wc remained all night without being 
able to light a fire, on account of the 
pouring rain. The next day we set 
out to rejoin our division by forced 
marches. Every one said, I know 
not why : 

'- The battle is approaching ! the 
fight is coming on !" 

Sergeant Pinto declared that he 
felt the emperor in the air. I felt 
nothing, but I knew that we were 



Tht Story of a Consmpt. 



745 



marching on Leipsic. The night 
following, the weather cleared up a 
little, millions of stars shone out, and 
we still kept on. The next day, 
about ten o'clock, near a little village 
whose name I cannot recollect, we 
were ordered to halt, and then we 
heard a trembling in the air. The 
colonel and Sergeant Pinto said : 

"The battle has begun!" and at 
the same moment, the colonel, wav- 
ing his sword, cried : 

" Forward 1" 

We started at a run, and half an 
hour after saw, at a few thousand 
paces ahead, a long column, in which 
followed artillery, cavalry, and infan- 
try, one upon the other ; behind us, 
on the road to Duben, we saw an- 
other, all pushing forward at their ut- 
most speed. Regiments were even 
hastening across the fields. 

At the end of the road we could 
see the two spires of the churches of 
Saint Nicholas and Saint Thomas in 
Leipsic, rising amidst great clouds 
of smoke through which broad flashes 
were darting. The noise increased ; 
we were yet more than a league from 
the city, but were forced to almost 
shout to hear each other, and men 
gazed around, pale as death, seeming 
by their looks to say : 

« This is indeed a battle !" 

Sergeant Pinto cried that it was 
worse than Eylau. He laughed no 
more, nor did Z^bddd ; but on, on 
we rushed, officers incessandy urging 
us forward. We seemed to grow de- 
lirious ; the love of country was in- 
deed striving within us, but still 
greater was the fiirious eagerness for 
the fight. 

At eleven o'clock, we descried the 
battle-field, about a league in front 
of Leipsic. We saw the steeples and 
roofs of the city crowded with people, 
and the old ramparts on which I had 
walked so often, thinking of Catha- 
rine. Opposite us, twelve or fifteen 



hundred yards distant, two regiments 
of red lancers were drawn up, and 
a little to the left, two or three regi- 
ments of chasseurs-ct-<h£vai, and be- 
tween them filed the long column 
from Duben. Further on, along a 
slope, were the divisions Ricard, 
Dombrowski, Sonham, and several 
•others, with their rear to the city; 
and far behind, on a hill, around one 
of those old farm-houses with flat 
roofs and immense outlpng sheds, 
so often seen in that country, glitter- 
ed the brilliant uniforms of the staff. 

It was the army of reserve, com- 
manded by Ney. His left wing com- 
municated with Marmont, who was 
posted on the road to Halle, and his 
right with the grand army, command- 
ed by the emperor in person. In 
this manner- our troops formed an 
immense circle around Leipsic ; and 
the enemy, arriving from all points, 
sought to join their divisions so as to 
form a yet larger circle around us, 
and to inclose us in Leipsic as in a 
trap. 

While we waited thus, three fear- 
ful battles were going on at once; 
one against the Austrians and Rus- 
sians at Wachau ; another against 
the Prussians at Mockem on the 
road to Halle; and the third on the 
road to Lutzen, to defend the bridge 
of Lindenau, attacked by General 
Giulay. 

xvin. 

The battalion was commencing to 
descend the hill, opposite Leipsic, 
when we saw a staff-officer crossing 
the plain beneath, and Coming at full 
gallop toward us. In two minutes 
he was with us : Colonel Lorain had 
spurred forward to meet him ; they 
exchanged a few words, and the offi- 
cer returned. Hundreds of others 
were rushing over the plain in the , 
same manner, bearing orders. 



-•.*>kv: V^*;v * '^^^^ 



746 



Tk€ Story of a Conscript. 



" Head of column to the right 1" 
shouted the colonel. 

We took the direction of a wood, 
which skirts the Duben road some 
half a league. Once at its borders, 
we were ordered to re-prime our guns, 
and the battalion was deployed 
through the wood as skirmishers. We 
advanced, twenty-five paces apart, 
and each of us kept his eyes well 
opened, as may be imagined. Every 
minute Sergeant Pinto would cry 
out: 

" Get under cover !" 

But he did not need to warn us ; 
each one hastened to take his post 
behind a stout tree, to reconnoitre 
well before proceeding to another. 
We kept on in this manner some ten 
minutes, and, as we saw nothing, be- 
gan to grow confident, when sudden- 
ly, one, two, three shots rang out 
Then they came firom all sides, and 
rattled from end to end of our line. 
At the same instant I saw my com- 
rade on the left fall, trying, as he 
sank to the earth, to support himself 
by the trunk of the tree behind which 
he was standing. This roused me. 
I looked to the right and saw, fifty 
or sixty paces off, an old Prussian 
soldier, with his long red mustaches 
covering the lock of his piece ; he 
was aiming deliberately at me. I fell 
at once to the ground, and at the 
same moment heard the report. It 
was a close escape, for the comb, 
brush, and handkerchief in my shako 
were broken and torn by the bullet. 
A cold shiver ran through me. 

" Well done ! a miss is as good as 
a mile !" cried the old sergeant, 
starting forward at a run, and I, who 
had no wish to remain longer in such 
a place, followed with right good-will. 

Lieulenant Bretonville, waving his 
sabre, cried, " Forward 1" while, to 
the right, the firing still continued. 
We soon arrived at a clearing, where 
Jay five or six trunks of felled trees, 



but not one standing, that mig^t sem 
us for a cover. Neverthekss, five or 
six of our men advanced boldly, nbce 
the sergeant called out : 

" Halt I The PlrussiaDS are in am^ 
bush around. Look sharp 1" 

Scarcely had he spoken, whco a 
dozen bullets whistled through the 
branches, and, at the same time, a 
number of Prussians rose, and 
plunged deeper into the forest op- 
posite. 

"There they go! Forward T cried 
Pinto. 

But the bullet in my shako had 
rendered me cautious ; it seemed as 
if I could almost see through the 
trees, and, as the sergeant started 
forth into the clearing, I held his 
arm, pointing out to him the vDaz£tt 
of a musket peeping out from a bush, 
not a hundred paces before us. The 
others, clustering around, saw it too, 
and Pinto whispered, 

" Stay, Bertha ; remain here, and 
do not lose sight of him, while «e 
turn the position." 

They set off to the right and left, 
and I, behind my tree, my piece at 
my shoulder, waited like a hunter for 
his game. At the end of two or 
three minutes, the Prussian, hearing 
nothing, rose slowly. He was quite 
a boy, with little blonde mustaches 
and a tall, slight, but well-knit f^;ure. 
I could have killed him as he stood, 
but the thought of thus slaying a 
defenceless man froze my blood. Sud- 
denly he saw me, and bounded aside. 
Then I fired, and breathed more free- 
ly as I saw him running, like a stag, 
toward the wood. 

At the same moment, five or six 
reports rang out to the right and 
left; the sergeant, Zebedi, Klipfel 
and the rest appeared, and a hundred 
paces further on, we found the young 
Prussian upon the ground, blood 
gushing frcmi his mouth. He gazed 
at us with a scared expression, rais- 



The Story of a Conscript. 



7A7 



inf; his arms, as if to parry bayonet- 
thrusts, but the sergeant called glee- 
fully to him : 

" Fear nothing ! Your account is 
settled." 

No one offered to injure him fur- 
ther; but Klipfel took a beautiful 
pipe, which was hanging out of his 
pocket, saying : 

'* For a long time I have wanted a 
pipe, and here is a fine one." 

"Fusilier Klipfel!" cried Pinto 
indignantly, " will you be good enough 
to put back that pipe ? Leave it to 
the Cossacks to. rob the wounded! 
A French soldier knows only honor!" 

Klipfel threw down the pipe, and 
we departed, not one caring to look 
back at the wounded Prussian. We 
arrived at the edge of the forest, out 
side which, among tufted bushes, th€ 
Prussians we pursued had taken re- 
fuge. We saw them rise to fire upon 
us, but they immediately lay down 
ag^in. We might have remained 
there tranquilly, since we had orders 
to occupy the wood, and the shots of 
the Prussians could not hurt us, pro- 
tected as we were by the trees. On 
the other side of the slope we heard 
a terrific battle going on ; the thun- 
der of cannon was increasing, it filled 
the air with one continuous roar. But 
our officers held a council, and de- 
cided that the bushes were part of 
the forest, and that the Prussians 
must be driven from them. This de- 
termination cost many a life. 

We received orders, then, to drive 
in the enemy's tirailleurs, and as they 
fired as we came on, we started at a 
run, so as to be upon them before 
they could reload. Our officers ran, 
also, full of ardor. We thought the 
bushes ended at the top of the hill, 
and that then we could sweep off the 
Prussians by dozens. But scarcely 
had we arrived, out of breath, upon 
the ridge, when old Pinto cried : 

" Hussars 1" 



I looked up, and saw the Colbacks 
rushing down upon us like a tempest 
Scarcely had I seen them, when I be- 
gan to spring down the hill, going, I 
verily believe, in spite of weariness 
and my knapsack, fifteen feet at a 
bound. I saw before me, Pinto, TA- 
bed^, and the others, making their 
best speed. Behind, on came the 
hussars, tiieir officers shouting orders 
in German, their scabbards clanking 
and horses neighing. The earth 
shook beneath them. 

I took the shortest road to the 
wood, and had almost reached it, 
when I came upon one of the trench- 
es where the peasants were in the 
habit of digging clay for their houses. 
It was more than twenty feet wide, 
and forty or fifty long, and the rain 
had made the sides very slippery ; 
but as I heard the very breathing 
of the horses behind me, without 
thinking of aught else, I sprang for- 
ward, and fell upon my face j another 
fusilier of my company was already 
there. We arose as soon as we 
could, and at the same instant two 
hussars glided down the slippery side 
of the trench. The first, cursing 
like a fiend, aimed a sabre-stroke 
at my poor comrade's head, but as 
he rose in his stirrups to give force 
to the blow, I buried my bayonet in 
his side, while the other brought 
down his blade upon my shoulder 
with such force, that, were it not for 
my epaulette, I believe that I had 
been well-nigh cloven in two. Then 
he lunged, but as his point touched 
my breast, a bullet from above 
crashed through his skull. I looked 
around, and saw one of our men, up 
to his knees in the clay. He had 
heard the oaths of the hussars and 
the neighing of the horses, and had 
come to the edge of the trench to 
see what was going on. 

"Well, comrade," said he, laugh- 
ing, "it was about time." 



TAe Story of a Conscript, 



749 



nier there at the Golden Sheaf when 
the sun shone brightly and the leaves 
were green around ? But those times 
had passed ! I sat against the cemetery 
wall, and at length fell asleep. About 
three o'clock in the morning, I was 
awakened. 

It was Z6h6d4. "Joseph," said 
he, "come to the fire. If you re- 
main here, you run the risk of catch- 
ing the fever." 

I arose, sick with fatigue and suf- 
fering. A fine rain filled the air. 
My comrade drew me toward the 
fire which smoked in the drizzling 
atmosphere ; it seemed to give out 
no heat ; but 7j6b6d4 having made 
me drink a draught of brandy, I felt 
at least less cold, and gazed at the 
bivouac fires on the other side of the 
Partha. 

" The Prussians are wartning them- 
selves in our wood," said Z^b^dd. 

" Yes," I replied ; " and poor 
Klipfel is there too, but he no long- 
er feels the cold." 

]^y teeth chattered. These words 
saddened us both. A few moments 
after, 2J^b^d^ resumed : 

"Do you remember, Joseph, the 
black ribbon he wore the day of the 
conscription, and how he cried that 
we were all condemned to death, 
like those who had gone to Russia ?" 

I thought how Pinacle had held 
out the black ribbon for me; and the 
remembrance, together with the cold, 
which seemed to freeze the very 
marrow in our bones, made me shud- 
der. I thought Pinacle was right; 
that I had seen the last of home, and 
I cursed those who had forced me 
from it. 

At day-break, wagons arrived with 
, food and brandy for us. The rain 
had ceased ; we made soup, but 
nothing could warm me ; I had 
caught the fever. I was not the 
only one in the battalion in that con- 
dition ; three' fourths of the men 



were suffering from it; and, for a 
month before, those who could no 
longer march had lain down by the 
roadside weeping and calling upon 
their mothers like little children. 
Hunger, forced marches, the rain, 
and grief had done their work, and 
happy was it for the parents that they 
could not see the miserable end of 
their cherished sons. 

As the light increased, we saw to 
the left, on the other side of the ri- 
ver, burnt villages, heaps of dead, 
abandoned wagons, and broken can- 
non, stretching as far as the eye 
could reach. It was worse than at 
Lutzen. We saw the Prussians de- 
ploy, and advance their thousands 
over the battle-field. They were to 
join with the Russians and Austrians 
and close the great circle around us, 
and we could not prevent them, espe- 
cially as Bernadotte and the Rus- 
sian General Benningsen had come 
up with twenty thousand fresh troops. 
Thus, after fighting three battles in 
one day, were we, only one hundred 
thousand strong, seemingly about to 
be entrapped in the midst of three 
hundred thousand bayonets, not to 
speak of fifty thousand horse and 
twelve hundred cannon. 

From Schoenfeld, the battalion 
started to rejoin the division at Kohl- 
garten. All the roads were lined 
with slow-moving ambulances, filled 
with wounded ; all the wagons of 
the country around had been impress- 
ed for this service; and, in the intervals 
between them, marched hundreds of 
poor fellows with their arms in slings, 
or their heads bandaged — pale, crest- 
fallen, half dead. 

We made our way, with a thou- 
sand difficulties, through this mass, 
when, near Kohlgarten, twenty hus- 
sars, galloping at full speed, and . 
with levelled pistols, drove back the 
crowd, right and left, into the fields, 
shouting as they pressed on : 



750 



The Story of a Conscript. 



" The emperor I the emperor I" 

The battalion drew up, and pre- 
sented arms ; and a few moments 
after, the grenaiUers-^-cherat of the 
•guard • — veritable giants, with their 
'great boots, their immense bear-skin 
hats, descending to their shoulders 
and only allowing their mustaches, 
nose, and eyes to remain visible — 
passed at a gallop. Our men looked 
joyfully at them, glad that such robust 
warriors were on our side. 

Scarcely had they passed, when 
the staff lore after. Imagine a hun- 
dred and fifty to two hundred mar- 
shals, generals, and other superior 
officers, mounted on magnificent 
steeds, and so covered with embroi- 
dery that the color of their unitorms 
■was scarcely visible ; some tall, tJiiii, 
and haughty ; others short, thick- 
set, and red-faced ; others again 
young and handsome, sitting like 
statues in their saddles ; all with ea- 
ger look and flashing eyes. It was a 
magnificent and terrible sight. But 
the most striking figure among those 
captains, who for twenty years had 
made Elurope tremble, was Napoleon 
himself, with his old hat and gray 
over-coat ; his large, determined chin 
and neck buried between his shoul- 
ders. All shouted, '' yive VEmpt- 
reiir r' but he heard nothing of iL 
He paid no more attention to us than 
to the drizzling rain which filled the 
air, but gazed with contracted brows 
at the Prussian army stretching along 
the Partha to join the Austrians. 

" Did you see him, Joseph ?" ask- 
ed 7Ah6Ai. 

" I did," I replied ; " I saw him 
well, and I will remember the sight 
all my life." 

"It is strange," said my comrade ; 
•* he {Iocs not seem to be pleased. 
At Wurzen, the day after the bat- 
tle, he seemed rejoiced to hear our 



' Vrtv VEmpereur .** and the generals 
all wore merry faces loo. To-d»y 
they seem savage, and nevetthdess 
the captain said that wc bore ofT the 
victor)' on the other side of Leipnc" 

Others thought the same Ihinf; 
without speaking of it, but there «u 
a growing uneasiness among all. 

We found die regiment bi\-ouacked 
near Kohlgarten. In every dim>- 
tion camp-fires were rolling tbdr 
smoke to the sky. A drl/iJia( 
rain continued to fall, and the mca, 
seated on :hcir knapsacks around the 
fires, seemed depressed and gloony. 
The ofilccrs formed groups of their 
own. On all sides it w.is wht(pe^ 
ed that such a war had never be- 
fore been seen ; it was one of eztct- 
mination \ that it did not help lis to 
defeat the enemy, for they only dfr 
sired to kill us off, knowing that (bey 
had four or five times our number o( 
men, and would finally remain nu^ 
ters. 

Toward evening of •' I'v,, 

we discovered the aniv r-s 

on the plateau of Breitenfeld. I -'i^ 
was sixty thousand more men ftu i«tc 
enemy. I can yet hear the maicdic- 
tions levelled at Ikmadottr — tbe 
cries of indignation of those *bo 
knew him as a simple officer in the 
anny of the republic, who cried out 
that he owed us all — that we made 
him a king with our blood, and tbit 
he now came to give us the fimsfaiag 
blow. 

That night, as we drew our linci 
still closer around Ixipsic, I gaxed ct 
the circle of fires whicb surroQaded 
us, and it seemed as if the whole world 
was bent on our extermlnatioo. fiat 
I remembered that wc had the hooor 
of bearing the name of FrcncbONS, 
and must conquer or die, 

TO «C CONCLOOMB IS Om IRVT. 



The Old Roman World. 



751 



THE OLD ROMAN WORLD* 



Doctor Lord dream that the 
rould pronounce him immor- 
having formed an ill-assorted 
1 of effete ideas gathered from 
vingdoms of thought? While 
writing the sheets of TAf Old 

World, was he thinking of a 
1 world, or an ecclesiastical 
»r a literary world, or a milita- 
i, or conjuring up a visionary 

Did he base his claims to* 
erishable name on his faculty 
ict philosophical truth from 
al facts, or on his powers of 
ing facts and communicating 
o as to be useful to his fellow- 
r on his irrepressible fluency 
ig again and again, what had 
itter said again and again by 
before ? Did he intend to 
book ; or are the sixteen chap- 
his volume sixteen indepen- 
nd unrelated pamphlets, or 
stump speeches, or sixteen 
., or sixteen spiritualistic effu- 
a meandering mood of mind ? 
he write to instruct the stu- 
• amuse the indolent, or de- 
e world, or add to the lore of 
■ned ? Did he ever read, in 
inal languages, the historians, 
osophers, the critics, the poets, 
ntific writers on whose minds 
rits he wrote ; or has he seen 
ily as in a mirror, by means 
clopedian dissertations, hand- 
ind such second-hand deposi- 

Did he think that the world 
•egard his compilations as a 
reflector of ancient minds and 
life? 
e is, however, in Dr. Lord's 



lU Roman W»rU'. tit Gramdtur ami 
<* iu CioUitatwit. By John Lord. LL.O. 
: Charles Scribner & Ca 1867. 



Old JRoman World food for thought 
No one denies the importance of the 
high and momentous questions con- 
nected with the Roman name. It is 
an unquestionable fact that, in the his- 
tory of the human race, the Romansoo 
cupy the most prominent position. To 
the eyes of the historian, the Roman 
world is, amongst the nations of by- 
gone centuries, what, to the eyes of 
the astronomer, the sun is amongst 
the heavenly bodies. The genera- 
tive causes of that outshining social 
edifice have occupied the most splen- 
did intellects in past ages, and have 
been analyzed anew in our day, ac- 
cording to his generalization, by Dr. 
Lord. To his mind it seems that 
the nations of the earth were welded 
into one body by the superior mili- 
tary mechanism of the Romans, and 
that the impaired efficiency of this 
military machinery, together with a 
certain mysterious fatality, produced 
the disintegration of the Roman 
empire, by destroying the cohesive 
qualities of Roman rule. Such 
is the pervading idea of his chap- 
ters. We know that vast empires 
have been' bom of the sword ; but 
we have yet to learn that an empire 
embracing the nations, religions, and 
languages of the earth, could have 
been founded on, and conserved 
for centuries by, military mecha- 
nism. The Romans, like Attila, 
or Genghis Khan, or Alexander, or 
Sesostris, might have gone forth, 
and, either by bravery, or superior 
tactics, or vast levied armies, have 
overrun the nations of the earth; 
but military mechanism could never 
have raised and sustained through 
a long lapse of ages a mighty em- 
pire built on vaoquished peoples. 



752 



Tiu Old Roman World. 



And yet Rome not only conquered 
and incorporated independent races, 
but glued them to the centre Rome ; 
so much so, that they lost animosity, 
language, institutions, and nationali- 
ty to become Romans. Rome not 
only romanized Italy, but Italianized 
the then known world. In the days 
of Hadrian and Trajan, the waves of 
the Mediterranean knew no lord but 
the Roman; from the margin of 
those seas were wafted the wealth 
and the produce of the world toward 
Rome ; and far beyond that margin, 
through hundreds of miles, the genius 
and power of Rome were transform- 
ing the nations, building roads and 
palaces, founding cities, subdividing 
provinces, spreading the Latin lan- 
guage, and stamping the mind of 
Latium on the human race. From 
the Fadus to Japu^um the names of 
the Italian tribes were merged into 
the name of Rome. The men of 
Mesraim bowed before the Roman 
eagle, and saw the traditions of two 
thousand years vanish away before 
the institutions of Rome. The Asia- 
tic cities renounced their pride of 
birth, and Greece yielded up a rich 
heritage of literary and military glo- 
ry. The fiery valor of the Gauls 
and the martial memories of western 
nations were surmounted by the un- 
conquerable energy of the Roman 
mind. To Rome the known nations 
of the world became as handmaids, 
and paid homage through a dozen 
generations. Whatever had been 
great in the world, whatever power- 
ful, whatever beautiful, whatever re- 
nowned, whatever ennobling, was 
swallowed up in the mighty name of 
Rome. And when, amid the upheav- 
ing of humanity and the undulations 
of races, Rome sank as a ship in a 
troubled ocean, her spirit lived to 
elevate the Italian, the Frank, the 
Spaniard, the Norman, to be the 
princes of the families of mankind. 



Could military mechanism have ac- 
complished such results? Could 
military mechanism, when it was xr.- 
more, possess a renovating influ- 
ence? Does not Sallust assen tht 
superiority of the Gauls to the Ro- 
mans in war ? Besides, it is a ques- 
tionable point whether the military 
systems of the Greeks are not pre- 
ferable to the war tactics of the Ro- 
mans. The Thessalian cavalry, and 
the Macedonian phalanx with its 
adaptability to evolutions, can stand 
a strict critical comparison with the 
Roman equites and Roman legion. 
The variety of movements in the 
phalanx, despite its inflexible and 
inseparable character, may well com- 
pensate for the individual and dii- 
played energy of the Roman combina- 
tion. That Polybius judges the tut- 
chanism of the Roman superior to 
that of the Greek, may be ascribable 
to the fact that he preferred attribut- 
ing the subjugation of his countrj mtn, 
not to a superiority of valor, but of 
military manoeuvres. Does any one 
suppose that the army of Pompc)'. 
twice as numerous as that of Casar. 
was worsted through the defect of 
theoretic military mechanism, rather 
than through the deficiency of the 
qualities which make a soldier ? If 
any one will take the trouble of writ- 
ing, in parallel columns, the organiza- 
tion, the sub-organizations, the war 
habiliments, the aggp'essive and de- 
fensive weapons, the laws of army 
management in sieges, in march, in 
battle, and in the tent, as they existed 
in Italy and Greece, we would le.ive 
to his candid judgment the decisii*n 
on the speculative excellence of Gre- 
cian and Roman war systems, con- 
sidered as a whole. And on the sea, 
the Romans were tyros when the 
Greeks had attained considerable 
perfection. The Romans defeated 
the Carthaginians, not on a s}-stem 
indigenously reared on the waters of 



The Old Roman World. 



iHum, but with a fleet formed after 
le fashion of an inimical craft 
wrecked on the Italian shore. In 
le progressive days of Rome, the 
lomenclature of the parts and naval 
rts of a Roman vessel was suggest- 
by, or adopted from, the preexist- 
^tng terminology of Greece. What 
thence ? Do we depreciate the mili- 

Ilary mechanism of Rome ? By no 
means. But we unhesitatingly ob- 
lect to placing it as the primary 
fcause of the elevation of Rome to the 
Ijytnnacle of power. Where Doctor 
ILord placed Roman military mecha- 
nism, he should have mentioned 
Roman character and Roman insti- 
tutions. In no place did character 
and institutions n\ore powerfully con- 
cur to elevate the individual than in 
the city of old Rome, in the state of 
^atium, on the banks of the Tiber. 
'he kings imparted a mviltifold and 
jorous development to the maitial, 
le religious, the jcsthetical, the 
jvernmental, the utilitarian tenden- 
:5es of the people. These fountains 
of grandeur poured their united 
streams of glory during the five cen- 
I turies of the republic into a magnifi- 
^Kcent reservoir, to empty which there 
^Hras demanded the lapse of five hun- 
^Hjred years of enfeebling despotism. 
^ft would be long to trace the single 
developments. But we can see, and 
^Unight explain by facts that, in as 
^^Sir as Rome incorporated with an 
equalization other powers, so far 
did she strengthen and aggrandize 
herself j whereas, incorporations sub- 
ject to inequality were co-causes of 
her destruction. In the books of the 
Machabees we see that the Jews, in 
their emergency, called in the Ro- 
lans as the justest amongst the 
Jentiles. In his preface Li\y says : 
' CtEtenim aut me amor negotii sus- 
epti fallit, aut nulla unquam respub- 
nec major, nee sanctior, nee bo- 
is exemplis ditior fuit ; nee in quam 

VOL. VI. — 48 




tarn serse avaritia luxuriaque immi- 
graverint : nee ubi tantus tamdiuque 
paupertati ac parsimonia; honos fue 
rit : adeo quanto rerum minus tanto 
minus cupiditatis crat. Nuper divi- 
tis avariiiam at abundantes volupta- 
te.s desiderium per luxum atque libi- 
dinem pereundi pcrdendique omnia 
invexere." It is always safer to ac- 
cuse those that are dead than those 
with whom we live ; and surely, the 
historian that did not dread to attack 
the living, would not have failed to 
arraign the dead, had the dead de- 
served it. The expulsion and cause 
of expelling Tarquin, consecrated an 
individual self-respect which ever- 
more remained an important element 
in the Roman character. This self- 
respect is the bulwark of individual 
freedom, and the most indestructible 
foundation of asocial edifice. From 
it arose the acquisition by the popu- 
lace of the jus suffra^ii^ jus commer- 
cii, jus conmthiiy jus honor urn. It 
was the mine which blew up, first, 
the patricians, and then the nobles. 
Where did Dr. Lord learn that patri- 
cians and nobles are synonymous 
terms? This self-respect imparted 
fortitude to the soldier, wisdom to the 
statesman, honor to the merchant. 
The individual was clothed with the 
majesty of his country. To uphold 
that majesty was the first duty of the 
Roman. Allied with self-respect, 
unchangeableness of purpose ap- 
pears as a trait of the Roman charac- 
ter. Athens might have been a 
Rome, had the Athenian spirit the 
persistency of the Roman. There 
was, perhaps, no fonnative element 
of the Roman character so promi- 
nent as the practical common sense 
which made them kaniers in all the 
departments of life. The Romans 
admitted the perfectibilitv' of their 
institutions and practices, so as to 
adopt from foreigners whatever they 
deemed an improvement The Spar- 



7S4 



tan loved his country as intensely 
and as devotedly as the Roman, but 
Sparta, rejecting the eclecticism of 
Rome, remained cramped and unde- 
veloped in its exclusivcness. These 
qualities of the mind, together with a 
physical strength, such as appears 
from the saying of Pyrrhus, *' Had I 
the Romans for soldiers, I could con- 
quer the world," led Rome along the 
highway of glory and power. 

It would be folly to follow Dr. 
Lord through the many subjects on 
which he speaks. We take the first 
chapter of his work as a specimen 
of the wild, thoughtless, rambling 
manner in which he writes. It is 
headed " The Conquests of the Ro- 
mans ;" but in it one finds a para- 
graph on " the lawfulness of war," a 
paragraph on " the evils of war," a 
few pages on "Providence," a dis- 
quisition on the immediate and ulti- 
mate consequences of the Crusades, 
a paragraph on Providence again, 
something on the aspirations of the 
South, a paragr.nph to show "how 
petty legends indicate the existence 
of great virtues," a paragraph to 
show " how petty wars with neigh- 
boring states develop patriotism," 
something on morals and Cato, whom 
he characterizes as "a /kik/, narrow 
statesman," a c/ironicon Homanum, 
the history of the hc]ep>oiis, a para- 
graph to show the necessity for the 
empire. Would any one imagine 
that the same man wrote of Rome 
under the emperors the following pas- 
sages : "The real (page 13) gran- 
deur of Rome is associated with the 
emperors. Great works of art ap- 
pear, and they become historical. 
The city is changed from brick to 
marble, and palaces, and theatres, 
and temples become colossal. There 
are more marble busts than living 
men. A liberal patronage is extend- 
ed to artists. Medicine, law, and 
science flourish. . . . T\\ehi^A- 



The Old Roman World. 





est state 0/ prespfriiy is reacJud 
the ancient world knew." 
"Rome (p. 69) ■ ■ ■ her ItbertteT 
and imperial u>_ , begins 

reign — hard, immuvablc, resol 
under which genius is cnishcd. 
pire is added, but pros^rity L 
der mined. The maehinerj is ^ 
but life is fled." Dr. Lord tclb 
that he loves to ponder on the »• 
cied geese, but we woukl respect 
fully direct his j>ondering to tbe 
inconsistencies, contradictions, aad 
false pronouncements «rith nhich \m 
volume teems. He considers 1 
sades the worst wars in 
called for, unscrupulous, 
but, Uiough they were ur 
unscrupulous, and fanatical, \ 
Bernard, Urban, Philip, and 
great men, far-sighted statesmen, ; 
asserts that " the hand which 
that warfare between Europe 
Asia was the hand that led 
raelites out of Eg\-pt across 
Sea j" and Uiosc wars which 
nounces worst he declares to ha 
developed llie resources of Kt 
built free cities, opened the hotii 
of knowledge, and given a nevstil 
lus to all the energies of the Eunv" 
pcan nations. There are few who 
will agree with Dr. Lord «rbeo he 
says that the Romans "dc^iised 
literature, art, philosophy, agricd* 
ture, and even luxury when ther 
were making their grand conquests.. 
He need only read his own descrip- 
tion of the heroes who made the 
conquests to s«e the falseJiood 
his statements. There are few, l« 
who will say that he describes 
characters of the anc' -•- r'*^ 
curacy. We would 
tice his defect of apprvuatiua in 
case of Homer, of Sophocles, and 
tl)e Latin historians. The grand 
cellence of Homer remains 
by him. The raising up of hero 
ter and over hero, and the 




The Old Roman World. 



755 



ence of a collective glory to Achilles 
may be said to constitute the great- 
est marvel of the Iliad. This gene- 
rates the oneness which has been 
noticed and praised by all the an- 
cients. The Doctor praises extrava- 
gantly Virgil's epic, but every candid 
reader will confess that he feels un- 
concerned, and, it may be, weary, as 
he wades though the last half of the 
</£neid, whereas he becomes more 
and more enraptured as he advances 
through the books of the Iliad. Dio- 
medes is as grand a warrior as 
.^neas, and we doubt very much 
whether Virgil could have raised a 
higher model than .^neas, whereas 
Homer has worked the climax 
through four or five to Achilles. 
Who believes, or has believed, that 
Demosthenes' Philippics are more 
brilliant than his De Corona ? To 
us Dr. Lord seems, in judging of the 
ancients, to have acted as a compiler 
rather than to stand boldly before' 
the extant originals and pronounce 
his own judgment When he does 
speak for himself, he seems to be 
more anxious to make himself sin- 
gular than to see and tell the truth 
with accuracy. Speaking of "the 
solitary grandeur of the Jewish muse 
and the mythological myths of the 
ante-Homeric songsters," he looks 
rather in the light of a foolish fool 
than a serious writer communicating 
truth to a criticising world. 

It is curious, touchy, and, we might 
say, laughable, to read over Dr. Lord's 
notions of the cormection of the old 
Roman world with the church. Bos- 
suet's idea of the old Roman empire 
being an instrument in the hands of 
God to propagate Christianity, has a 
deep fascination for our author; but 
Bossuet never gets the credit of it. 
We err very much if, in writing The 
Old Roman World, Dr. Lord did not 
intend to elaborate this conception in 
a work which the world would recog- 



nize as the rival of Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall. How does he do it ? He 
discovers that there had existed an 
ineffable fatalism, according to which 
the Roman empire was doomed to die. 
What was old and heathen should dis- 
appear, that what was new and Chris- 
tian might arise. The fading away of 
the Roman reign was unworthy to be 
compared with the glories about to 
be manifested. What were they? 
Were they the beauties of a grand 
society whose teaching authority as 
to the things of eternity was to be 
the Holy Spirit, whose head and 
sanctiiier was to be Christ — of a so- 
ciety to be sustained by the hand of 
God, elevated above all societies, 
extended and visible through the 
world such as Bossuet conceived? 
Dr. Lord opines that, when Chris- 
tianity is embraced by all, it is cor- 
rupted, and may be said to be dead 
except with a few chosen spirits ; and 
when Christianity is embraced only 
by a few and is pure, it is valueless 
for the mass of mankind, being limi- 
ted and uninfluential. On either horn 
of the dilemma, Christianity may be 
regarded as an unimportant and un- 
profitable school for the multitude^ 
Yet he says that the world march- 
es on in Christian progress. There 
are always some revivalists, some be- 
lievers, as the Puritans, in a pure 
and personal God ; and Providence,, 
which "grandly and mournfully" eli- 
minates the Roman world, consoles- 
the human race by casting up, here- 
and there, some select ones, some- 
pure ones, some godly ones. But, 
if Dr. Lord merely wished to act the- 
part of a noonday somnambulist or a 
dreamy rhapsodist, we would fain per- 
mit him to revel undisturbed in his 
reypries. We have, however, a right, 
as Catholics, to object to misrepresen- 
tations of Catholic doctrine. There 
are many honest and righteous Pro- 
testant minds whose vision, mvj Viit- 



7S6 



The Old Roman World. 



come jaundiced by the assertions of 
this writer. Where has he learned 
that the Virgin has been made the 
object of absolute worship ? WTicn 
le speaks of ceremonies, and fes- 
tivals, and pomps, he ought to look 
ipon them as those do who use 
Ithera. Wc have always been at a 
[loss to understand what special en- 
jinitysome people have against a spe- 
cial sense. If the senses are chan- 
nels for communicating thought, why 
decr>' the legitimate use of any 
one of ihcm performing its own 
function ? Why instruct through the 
car and not through the eye ? Does 
[Hot a map surpass all language in 
immunicating geographical know- 
[tedge? Logically, one ought to 
)raise God through the intuition of 
I spirit visa-vis spirit and disown 
t corporeal agents, eyes, tongue, cars, 
bands, physical actions ; or recognize 
. all, provided they be means of com- 
municating thought. There is not 
(And there never has been in the 
\ church, any imposing altar typical of 
[Jewish sacrifices. As to the monks, 
lilher Lord admits the truth of what 
[are called evangelical counsels, or 
le does not ; if he docs, he should 
[not be at war with the monks for ac- 
Ituating what is true ; if he does not, 
[Low docs he get rid of the texts of 
le Bible which contain Ihcm? Did 
[the monks effect nothing for the 
jood of humanity } Were all the 
linonks in pursuit of a purely contem- 
kplativc life? Were there no teach- 
[crs, no benefactors of the poor, no 
f-Cultivators of deserts, and woods, 
land wildernesses amongst them? 
Were there no founders of cities, no 
I evangeli^ers of savages? Surely, 
i the disciples of Columbanus, of Bene- 
[<Uct, of Basil, deserve something bet- 
' ter than the following turgid rigma- 
role of a visionary /a«/",rrii/f .■ " Mo- 
nastic life (p. 559) ripened also in a 
^and svstem of penance and ex^^v 



tory rights, such as chai^tcfetffed 
ental asceticism. Armies of mods 
retired to gloomy and ■ -^laco. 

and abandoned thcni> > rhjf>- 

sodies, and fastings, and self-expi*- 
tions in opposition to the grand d 
trine of Christ's expiation. 
despaired of societ)' and abani 
the world to its fate — a dismal and 
fanatical set of men overlooking (tt 
practical aims of life. They Ir 
more like beasts and savages iJi 
enlightened Christians — wild, 
solitar)', superstitious, ignoranl 
tical, filthy, clothed in rags, estiflf 
the coarsest foo<l, practising gloomy 
austerities, introducing a false stand 
ard of virtue, regardless of the 
forts of civilization, and careless 
those great interests which were 
trusted to them to guard. 
The monks and hermits soagfct la 
save themselves by climbing to he* 
ven by the same ladder that tud 
been sought by the sooiis and faki 
which delusion had an immense 
fluencein undermining the doctrines 
of grace. Christianity was fa^t merg- 
ing itself into an oriental theosophv. 
It is a sad thing to see, and a 
menting thing^ to have to 61II1 
through over six hundred pages, 
man, rushing madly from subject 
subject. We h.ive no inter 
cept in the cause of truth and 
to censure Dr. Lord ; and 
we fairly, in the capacity of cri 
have awarded him praise, wre shi 
have, without reluctance, a»d wil 
warmth, performed the task. 
should say that he tnu^t hare 
bored long to compile his 
but if anything distinguishes ti 
work, it is an unlikeness to the 
ces from which it is presomed 
have been gotten up. The 
conceived of a whole, and elal 
the natural con»ponent part* to ftin« 
that whole ; in the work before m 
\iie {otmative materials produce ai 



taad- 

HA- 

bd 

% 



TJu Divine Loadstone. 757 

grotesque a union as that in the thoughts to the world, the Greeks and 

minotaur, or centaur, or gorgon, or Romans were scrupulous down to the 

chinuera, or hydra, or sphinx. In collocation of a particle ; Dr. Lord's 

the ancients, we are pleased with a production is overgrown with exple- 

modesty which dreads alike the over- tives, ambiguities, redundancies, and 

statement or the withholding of the repetitions. To any one accustomed 

truth ; Dr. Lord astounds us with an to gaze on the chaste, crystal, and 

unblushing and unthinking reckless- refreshing pages of classic lore, his 

ness of assertion. In presenting their volume is an unendurable eyesore. 



THE DIVINE LOADSTONE. 

' And I, if I be li.led up firom the earth, w31 draw all things to mjrtelC" 
THE DISCIPLE. 

" Ah rae 1 what doth my feet restrain, 
That I thy cross behold — 
A loadstone all divine — 
Drawing men's hearts with mystic chain 
As misers lured by gold. 
And yet it draws not mine ?" 

THE MASTER. 

" My word is very truth, my son ; 
All hearts to me should freely run ; 
And if I draw not thee 

As sweetly as the rest, 
'Tis thou who wouldst the loadstone be. 
And draw the hearts of men to thee — 

Their love doth mine contest" 

THE DISCIPLE. 

" Nay, Lord j 'tis only for thy heart I pine," 

THE MASTER. 

** Sa/st so ? Then give me, also, all of thine." 



758 



The Rival Compoitrs. 



niANSLATKO ntUM TMB CtRMAN. 



THE RIVAL COMPOSERS. 



Late one afternoon, in the autumn 
of the year 1779, a gentleman, walk- 
ing in the garden of the Tuileries, 
was obsen'ed by the guard near the 
gate of the palace private grounds, 
gesticulating in a manner to excite 
suspicion. He was plainly dressed, 
and advanced in years. When the 
sentinel saw him, after walking brisk- 
ly to and fro, and muttering half 
aloud, stop and lift his hand in a 
threatening manner toward tiie royal 
abode, he promptly arrested him. 
Calling two gms ifarmes^ he put the 
suspected man, supposed guilt)' of 
designs against the king, into their 
hands, to be conveyed to prison. 

At the gate they met a richly gild- 
ed op>cn carriage, in which sat two 
ladies, with a child and nurse. The 
taller of the ladies wore a hat of dark 
velvet, with drooping plumes, and a 
mantle of the same, with a flowing 
dress of satin, the sleeves trimmed 
with rich lace. The soldiers stopf>ed 
to salute the young Queen Marie An- 
toinette, and the prisoner removed his 
hat and bowed low. At the same 
instant the lady leaned from the 
carriage, exclaiming, " Ah ! Master 
Gluck 1" 

The queen laughed heartily when 
she heard her old music-master had 
just been arrested for disloyal prac- 
tices near the palace ; when he was 
only declaiming a passionate recita- 
tive out of his new opera ! She in- 
sisted on his entering die carriage 
and going to the palace with her ; 
while the astonished guards went to 
report tlieir mistake. 

Not unfrcquenlly had the celebra- 
ted composer been \.\\t ^est of the 
royal lady. He yias vjou\. lo Vvs\X\v« 



in the garden of the Triarjon, talttnj 
German with her, and exch : 
miniscenccs of Vienna. X'v ..^.. .... 

opera-house in Paris had resoundej 
with the applause called forth 
representation of one of his 
and he was sent for to the Toyx 
the queen's own hand had cr 
him with the chaplet his genit 
won. 

At this period the inuslc-lovig 
population of Paris was divide 
partisans of the two rival com\ 
Gluck and PiccinL ']'he met 
each were discussed in ever}* 
and comparisons were made, 
with a confused war of tongues^ 
dispute being, to whom the pala 
superior greatness' should be a^ 
ed. Kach had composed a piece a 
the same subject, which was 
to be represented ; the succ 
ciding which of the two should] 
the field. 

Late the some evening a m 
of the Parisian connoisseurs 
tists were assembled in the bril 
ly illuminated saJon of the Ca 
Feu. Many of the noblesse we 
be seen, surrounded by critics, I 
teurs, etc., and the company 
Babel of declamation and 
the battle-cries all over Paris 
"Gluck" and " Piccini." 
young men, who had just cni 
secured a place in a quiet side-r 
where three others were seated ; 
in a corner, deep in the shadow 
a pillar. Comfortably enscor 
an arm-chair, this man sat with 
leaning back, drumming with the| 
gers of one hand on the table, \ 
taking no notice of anything that j 
tA^ K.Tvc>\\v&t <yx.M^ant of the : 



The Rival 

«nandsonie young Frenchman, 
deq>blueeyes shaded with hea\y 
m lashes, and complexion of the 
brown of Provence ; he was 
:ly dressed, but his manner was 
jefiil and spirited. His compan- 
Kt the table was a long, thin, mid- 
Iged man, with an air of discon- 
and spite in his whole demeanor. 
pore a rough brown peruke ; his 
ires were heavy, and he had a 
lof keen, squinting eyes, with a 
lish, sinister twist about the 
ih. He spoke French badly, 
Iccent betraying the Saxon. He 
*' speaking of Gkick, and ended 
remarks by saying : " I cannot 
erstand what a people of so much 
jknent and taste as the French find 
peat in this man !" 
^re you speaking," cried the 
Ig Frenchman, " of the creator 
^rmitia, of Orpheus, o( Ipkige- 
If' 

^hem ! yes. He is not esteemed 
ly among us in Germany, for 
tnows little or nothing of art- 
1^ as the learned Herr Forhel in 
llngen and other distinguished 
ts have proved." 
And you, a musician, a compo- 
k Gennan, speak thus !'' exclaim- 
he young man. " I know little 
jt-rules ; but one thing I know 
feel, the Chevalier Gluck has a 
\A and noble spirit. His music 
Itcns elevated feeling ; no low or 
jnon thought can approach nie 
e I listen to it ; even when spirit- 
'and dejected, my despondency 
k flight before the lofty joy I 
In Gluck's creations." 
And think you," cried young Ar- 
\ who belonged to the other fac- 
'' *• that the great Piccini would 
r into a contest with your cheva- 
lid he not know he was to strive 
ja worthy adversary 1" 
|e German, nettled at the ques- 
nliuffled a little as he answered, 



Compos f a, ) 



759 



" Hem ! I suppcfi^^dfr^r only main- 
tain that M. Glu cl ^'f B not the best 
composer, as the learned Herr For- 
hel has proved. With regard to a 
church style — " 

" Who is talking of church styles !" 
interarpled the brown youth, with 
vi\acity. " The point is, a grand ope- 
ra style ! Would your learned critics 
change Gluck's Armiiia into a nun's 
hymn, or have his wild motels ot 
Tauris sung in the style of Pales- 
trina ?" 

The squinting man moved in his 
seat, sipped his orangeade, and mut- 
tered : "The learned Herr Forhel 
has proved that the Chevalier Gluck 
understands nothing of songs." 

" Nothing of songs !" echoed all 
tlie company, in surprise. The Ger- 
man continued : "' He cannot carry 
through an ordinary melody accord- 
ing to rule ; his song is but an ex- 
travagant declamation." 

The brown youth started to his 
feet in glowing indignation. " You 
are not worthy to be a German, sir," 
he cried, " thus to speak of your 
great countryman. All Paris ac- 
knowledges in Gluck a mighty art- 
ist ; the dispute is only whether he or 
Piccini is the greater. Gluck's mu- 
sic is the true expression of feeling, 
alike removed from the cold con- 
straint of rules and from capricious 
innovation I Whether he would ex- 
cel in church or concert music — or 
would attempt it — we cannot tell ! 
He has set himself one glorious task, 
and pursues that with all the strength 
of a great spirit !" 

" What is your name, young man ?" 
sounded a sonorous voice from the 
corner behind him. 

The stranger, whom all turned to 
look at, had risen from his seat, and 
the light of the candles shone full 
upon his face. 

"The Chevalier Gluck !" exclaim- 
ed several voices. 0^^^c^t vcw\tev. -ajx^ 



The Rival Composers. 



761 



'ome," cried the queen, " you 
^ not tease my good master ! 
|c him to save all his patience 
|is pupil — myself ! He will have 
\ of it, I assure you !" 
Because, Antoinette," said Gluck 
fely, speaking in German, " you 
Bt play half so well as queen, as 
I you were archduchess.'" 
(le queen laughed as she answer- 
^ the same language, " Wait but 
Be, Chrislaphe ! your ears shall 
I presently. Ladies and gentle- 
\ will you be quiet ?" She spoke 
hem in P'rench, as she went to 
k the piano. 

|e inserted the key and turned 

^haps too hastily ; for she could 

^pen the instrument. After se- 

vain attempts, she called impa- 

Jome hither, Gluck, and help 

ick tried, but with no better 
kss ; the others took their turn ; 
Ihe lock resisted all their efforts. 
|()ueen looked vexed, 
jj^'hat fool can ha\e made such a 
f?" exclaimed Gluck. 
^ake care, chevalier, what you 
f said the Cointe de Provence ; 
f lock is of the king's own mak- 
fof a new sort, 1 believe." 
fArtois went out. and in a few 
►ents returned with the king. 

rXVI. wore a short jacket, his 
covered with an unsightly lea- 
il cap, his face glowing and be- 
jed with soot, his hands were 
9i as those of a locksmith, and a 
jDe of keys and picklocks were 
toed to his belt. He went up to 
piano, and examined the lock 
jtthe earnest manner of an arti- 
itried several keys without suc- 
i shook his head dissatisfied, and 
I others. Finding the right one 
i^t, the lock yielded, and with an 
^f triumph, as if he had won a 



" There, the piano is open ! Now, 
madame, you can play !" 

But so long a time had passed, 
that the queen had lost the inclina- 
tion. As she would not take her les- 
son, the Princess Elizabeth asked 
Gluck to play them something from 
his Jphigenia. He played the 
frenzy scene of Orestes. When he 
had finished it, the king exclaimed: 
" Excellent, chevalier ! I am de^ 
lighted. I will have your opera 
produced first, with all the care you 
like ; and I hope the success will 
gratify you." 

Two more visitors were announced 
— Signer Piccini and the Chevalier 
Noverre, who started and colored in 
some embarrassment when he saw 
Gluck. The king commanded the 
two composers to salute each other, 
which they did with dignity, cordi- 
ality, and easy grace. After the 
queen had spoken to them, the Che- 
valier Noverre reniinded her majesty 
that she had been pleased to grant 
permission to Signer Piccini to play 
some new airs from his Iphigcnia be- 
fore her. 

Marie Antoinette assented, and 
asked Piccini what selection he had 
made ; to which he replied that No- 
verre had wished him to play the first 
Scythian dance. 

D'Artois burst into a laugh ; but 
the others restrained their mirth. At 
the queen's command, Piccini seated 
himself at the piano, the Comte de 
Provence and Noverre bcatingtimeto 
his music. All the company thought 
Piccini's Sc}'thian dance more pleas- 
ing and better adapted to the grace 
of motion than that of Gluck. But 
D'Artois whispered to the king that 
the dancc^ though admirable and 
full of melody, was belter suitc<l for 
a m.Tsked ball in the salon of the 
grand opera than for a private abode 
in Tauris. Gluck listened with car- 
nest attention, evvdeuU'^ ia.'\jT0i^^<:i«cC\v^ 



The Rival Composers, 



T63 



t fast, though his heart 
he struggle 1 What will 
;n I confess to you, that 
of the highest — the on/y 
ate — fearfully late to me ! 
all to me from earliest 
en a boy, in lovely Bohe- 
1 her voice in the dense 
loomy ravine, or the ro- 
sy; on the bold, stark 
cheerful hunter's call, or 
iong of stream and tor- 
tught there was nothing 
I glorious, that man, im- 
, could not achieve it. 
learned that something 
jle. How soon are the 
s clipped ! Then come 
jbts, false ambition, thirst 
7, disappointed vanity, 
> ; the hateful gnomes of 
ling to you and drag you 
•hen you would soar like 
ivard the sun. Thus it 
in manhood, in old age. 
many, redeemed from 
is and appreciates the 
ght create the beautiful. 
:ime the ardor and vigor 
gone ; and to his enthu- 
wly acquired knowledge, 
s — a grave !" 
much more — to you !" 
in deep emotion, 
it is true ; for when I 
ers of the unworthy and 
re came to me a radiant 
;he pure, bright Grecian 
irk of holding it fast, and 
1 the external world, is 
d melancholy it is that a 
us lifetime could not be 
alone to such a theme — 
;her ones. But I must 
•pentance and humility, 
:omings ! I will bear it, 
e Parisians adjudge me 
ialth, or hiss down my 

struck for the rehearsal, 



and Gluck, accompanied by his young 
friend, went to the Koyal Academy of 
Music. 

Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of 
humor, was walking up and down his 
room, glancing now and then at the 
manuscript of his opera that lay 
upon his writing-desk. At times he 
would go to the desk as if a happy 
thought had struck him, to add some- 
thing to the notes ; but the next in- 
stant he would let fall the pen, shake 
his head with a dissatisfied and mel- 
ancholy air, and resume his walk 
through the room. 

A knocking was heard ; and after 
it was repeated twice, Piccini opened 
the door. Ellas Hegrin came in. 
The composer seemed disturbed at 
his presence, and gloomily asked 
what he wanted. Hegrin answered 
that the Chevalier Noverre had in- 
formed him Signor Piccini wished to 
see him. 

After a pause, Piccini admitted that 
he had sent for him. 

"And in what can I serve my 
honored patron ?" asked Elias. 

" By speaking the frufA /" sternly 
answered Piccini. "Confess that 
you spoke falsely, when you told me 
Gluck stirred up all his friends to 
make a party against me 1" 

Elias Hegrin changed color, but 
he collected himself, and answered, 
" I spoke the truth." 

" It is false, Elias I It was the 
same when you told me you had 
read the manuscript of my adver- 
sary, and that the work hardly 
deserved the honors of mediocri- 
ty." 

" It was the truth, Signor Piccini, 
and I repeat my opinon of the opera 
of the Chevalier Gluck." 

" So much the worse for your judg- 
ment I I have heard five rehearsals, 
and I must — ay, and wsU declare 
before all the worid, that Gluck'* 
Ipkigmia is the greatest o^cx^ 1 



764 



The Rival Composers. 



L 



know, and ihat in its author I ac- 
knowledge my master." 

Elias stared in amazement. 

"I believed I iiad accomplished 
sometliing worthy in my own worit," 
continued Piccini ; "and, indeed, my 
design was pure ; nor is my work 
altogether without merit; but oh! 
how void and cold, how weak and 
insignificant does it seem to me, 
compared with Cluck's gigantic crea- 
tion I Yes, creation ! mine is only a 
•work ! a work that will vanish with- 
out a trace ; while Gluck's Iphiginia 
will endure as long as feeling for 
Ihe grand and the beautiful is not 
dead in the hearts of men!" 

" But, Signor Piccini," stammered 
Elias. 

" Silence !" interrupted Piccini. 
"Why have you slandered tlie noble 
chevalier, and striven to bring down 
his works and his character to your 
own level ? Are you not ashamed of 
such pitiful behavior? In spite of 
Noverre's recommendation, I have 
never fully trusted you ; for I know 
that Noverre hated Gluck for having 
wounded his ridiculous vanity. But 
I never thought you capable of such 
meanness as I find you guilty of 
Gluck stir up his friends to make a 
party against me ! Look at these 
letters in Gluck's own hand, written 
to Amaud, Rollct, Maurepas, wherein 
he judges my work thoroughly, dwel- 
ling upon the best parts, and entreats 
them to listen impartially to my opera 
as to his own, and to give an im- 
partial judgment, as he is anxious 
only for the truth ! My patron, the 
Comtc de Provence, persuaded those 
gentlemen to send me these let- 
ters, to remove my groundless sus- 
picions. I am deeply mortified that 
I ever condescended to make com- 
mon cause with you ! You have de- 
ceived mc ! Now, tell me, what in- 
duced you to act in this dishonora- 
ble manner lowatdyout beTvetacioi ?" 



Elias, shrunk into V—^' 
in a lachr)-mo6c loi 
an unhappy man, arni ,. 
sympathy! From l>j;. in -.1 
it said at home tltat 1 hadei 
nary talent for mu^tc. and w 
come a great composer, aodi 
wealth and fame. I studied; 
ly ; my first work wiis pnuse 
town where 1 lived ; but 
went to Vienna, I could ( 
ing." 

" Cluck took you by the 
Vienna, supported you. gavi 
struction, and C" 

"He did so; : 
me 1 had nogcniiis. 
could be a great con^v 

** And did he deceive 
have you proved yourscl 
and sLiiidtr him, then 
hop 1 you 

us- 

Elias squinted sullen 
gcd his shoulders. 

"Yes, I hate him r 
fiercely. " Confound 
fame and gold arc for I 
for me ! I will do liini 
1 can I I will embitter 

" Begone !" cried Ptccii] 
horror. " We have nothing 
common. Honor, rcIicQl^ 
true man \ \ 

envy, cowa.' _ 

deser\'e no iyinpathy V 

P'ull of spite and 
Hcgrin left the bouse. 

Piccini's opera wm 
that of Gluck obtai 
awakening universal 
ter its third rep 
left the opera-house, 
acclamations of the cni 
titude. Mchul was %\ 
to sup at hi« house. 

When they entered G 
ing-room, both started 
to see a man wrapped t 
s,tu\diog at the window 



i 



The Irish in America. 



765 



they came in, he turned 

. faced them. 

■ Piccini 1" exclaimed Gluck 

lot an unwelcome guest, I 
lid the composer, with a 

welcome !" cried Gluck 
Laking the offered hand and 
essing it, " I esteem and 
loble an adversary !" 
e no longer adversaries I" 



exclaimed Piccini. "Our strife is 
at an end. I acknowledge yoii as 
my master, and shall be happy and 
proud to call you my friend 1 Let 
the Gluckists and Piccinists dispute 
as they like ; Gluck and Piccini un- 
derstand each other!" 

" And love each other, too 1" cried 
Gluck, with vivacity. " Indeed it 
shall be so !" 

The supper was enjoyed by the 
whole party. 



THE IRISH IN AMERICA.* 



the title of a book recent- 
ed simultaneously in Lon- 
Sfew York, and which bids 
:ite considerable attention 
vest of the Atlantic. The 
[r. John Francis Maguire, 
> long since attained to 
distinction not only in 
lis own country, but in 
sh House of Commons. 
to this country during the 
strengthened the favorable 
1 already made on those 
known him only through 
bed speeches and the pro- 
rt he has taken for many 
the affairs of his native 
Heart and soul devoted to 
interests of that country, 
le Irish race everywhere; 
^ acquainted with the Cel- 
, its capabilities for pro- 
improvement, and fervent- 
[ to the faith which is the 
heritance of Catholic Ire- 
Maguire felt anxious to see 
wn eyes the actual condi- 
le Irish in America, what 
s they had gained by emi- 
nd how far they had re- 

nAmtriem. London : Loncnum, Rees 
fork, Bosteo, and MoDtieal: D. & J. 



tained and carried out in their new 
country the Christian traditions of 
the old. He accordingly visited Ame- 
rica, availing himself of the interval 
between the sessions of parliament, 
and, in so far as his limited time 
permitted, took personal observations 
on the state of " the Irish in Ameri- 
ca." The book before us is the re- 
sult of these observations. 

In the main, Mr. Maguire has gi- 
ven his readers a fair and correct 
view of his subject, vast and compre- 
hensive as it is ; he has taken pains 
to find out the exact condition of the 
people of whom he writes, in the new 
home across the wave to which they 
have carried their broken fortunes 
as a race. The opening paragraph 
of the first chapter is well adapted to 
interest the general reader. It is as 
follows : 

"Crossing the Atlantic, and landing at 
any city of the American seaboard, one is 
enabled, almost at a glance, to recognize 
the marked difference between the position 
of the Irish race in the old country and in 
the new. Nor is the condition of the Irish 
at both sides of the ocean more marked in 
its dissimilarity than are the drcimutances 
and characteristics of the country from 
which they emigrated and the country to 
which they have come. In the old country, 
stagnation, cetiogcessloi^ il n.Q«. aKX'oaik 4«sk| 



766 



The Irish in America. 



— in the new, life, movemenl, progress ; in 
I the one oppression, want of coolidcacc, dark 
apprehension of the future — in the other, 
'energy, self-reliance, and a perpetual look- 
, Ing forward to a grander development and 
I X more glorious destiny. That the tone of 
the public mind of America, should be self- 
reliant and even boastful, is natural in a 
country of brief but pregnant history — a 
country still in its infancy, when compared 
with European states, but possessing, in the 
fullest sense, the strength and vigor of man- 
hood — manhood in all its freshness of youth 
and buoyancy of hope. In such a country 
man is most conscious of his value : he is 
the architect of his country's greatness, the 
author of her civilization, the miracle -work- 
er by whom all has been or can be accom- 
plished. Where a few years since a forest 
waved in mournful grandeur, there are cul- 
tiratcd fields, blooming orchards, comforta- 
ble home«,tead-s, cheerful hamlets — church- 
es, schools, civilization; where but the 
Other day a few huts stood on the river's 
b.ink, by the shore of a lake, or on some es- 
tuary of the sea, swelling domes and lofty 
kpircs and broad porticoes now meet the 
eye ; and the waters but recently skimmed 
by the light bark of the Indian are plnughcd 
into foam by countless steamers. And the 
same man who performed these miracles of 
a few years since — of yesterday — has the 
»amc power of to-morrow achieving the 
same wondrous results of patience and en- 
ergy, courage and skill. But for him, and 
his hands to toil and his brains to plan, the 
vast country' whose commerce is on every 
sea, and whose influence is felt in every 
court, would lie still the abode of savage 
iribcs, dwelling in perpetual conflict, and 
steeped in the grossest ignorance. I.al>or 
ts thus a thing to be honored, not a badge 
of inferiority." 

Mr. M.iguire commence.^ his Ame- 
rican totir^x Halifa-X, which, he says, 
** an enthusiastic Hibernian once 
described as ' the wharf of the Atlan- 
tic,'" He finds that, in that city, 
and indeed, throughout the pro- 
vinces generally, the Irish form an 
import.-int and influential element in 

j^the population. Of Halifa.x he says 

(jn particular : 

"This Irish element is everywhere dis- 

hcertiiblc ; in every description of business 

nd in all branches of industri-, in every 

]ass and in every condition of life, from the 

llighcst to the Wwcst. Thexe ar« w otKct 

cities larger masses o{ IrisV, some \t\ 'wVivc^v 



ihey arc five times and evea tm 
numerous as the whole popul«tk4 
^ i but it may be doubted il \ 
many cities of the entire condMid 
rica in which they afiTord thvntttl 
play for the exercise of their higl 
tics than in the capita] of lio% 
where their moral worth kecfM f 
their material prosperity."— P. t. ll 



progToJ 



Speakin|f of the 
faith in Nova Scotia, and of:} 
duous labors of the devoted 
aries of years past and 
author relates some ficts 
no doubt astonish his 
readers. In America they 
thernew nor strange ; forwl 
of Nova Scotia either apph* 
applied, within the mcniorj- 
living, in a greater or less de 
cverj' part of the new world, j 

" Within the last ten years a I 
tia priest has dischar^d thedutfa 
trict extending considerably orcri 
dred miles in length % and while 
Halifax, the archbishop appointed 
man to the charge of a nusstoa *ij 
necessitate his making journeys ofl 
that many miles in cr — - 'Tidwi 
sionary priest, in 184 
make a three "^..n 
Dartmouth, a' 
of 450 miles ; n 
ten or even twenty r 
into the bush on cith. 
for a population of kxooo C 
no spiritual resource save in 
crepit fellow-laborer on the 
grave. 

" Il is not three y ^ V^ 

piiest, then in the n. hiB< 

received what, to him. was Ij'.craltj 
summons. He was lying III in b 
lhr'bi;k • '"c'd his hoiase, tH 

of the t' >< absenc Tl 

young m;«ii nui n.-v Jiesitate a 
matter what the consequence to 
dying Catholic should not tte wK 
consolations of religion. To ihc 4 
those who knew of bis intention, 1 
remonstrated in vain against wkic 
appeared to be an act of insaaii 
ed on his journey, a distance 
miles, which he acmmpHshed 
the midst of in 

sible to tell ho- |>a«aed 

rily on that tcrtiblL- match, or luw' 



i^H 




It' 



The Irish in America. 



767 



Ion ; but this much is well ascertained 
k scarcely had he reached the sick 
|bed, and performed the functions of 
nistry, vrhcn he was conscious of his 
Ipproaching dissolution ; and there 
ho brother priest to inlnistcr to him 
last hour, he administered the viati- 

10 himself, and died on the floor of 
|ras then, indeed, a chamber of death, 
iras a glorious ending of a life only well 
I 

Ib-mnda is included within the jurisdic- 
f the Archbishop of Halifax, and to 
jet is owing one of the most extraordi- 
istances of a 'sick call' on record. A 
Be lady in Bermuda was dying of a lin^ 
[disease, and knowing that further de- 
^ght be attended with consequences 
I she regarded as worse than death, 
ailed herself of the opportunity of a 
then about to sail for Halifax to send 
Jergyman of that city. The day the 
)pt was delivered to the clergyman, a 
Itras to sail from Halifax to Bermuda, 
i went on board at once, arrived in 

iirseat the Utter place, found the dy- 
y still alive, administered to her the 
f the church, and returned as soon as 
|e to his duties in Halifax ; having, in 
pee to this remarkable 'sick call.'ac- 
Ifebcd a journey of 1600 miles." — P. 16, 

t quite so interesting as this is 
tomewhat prolix account Mr. 
lire gives of his visit to Pictou, 
\ where he toolc passage for 
e Edward's Island. We do 
fink his readers would have sus- 
I any loss by his omission of 

11 pages in which a certain 
!r," resident in those parts, 

as his ficeronf. " Peter" may 
Interested Mr. Magiiire, but he 
jpt interest his readers. There 
ft paragraph, however, in con- 
m with the visit to Prince Ed- 
\ Island that we may not pass 
(ere, for the reason that it, too, is 
leral application. Mr. Maguire 
aking of St. Dunstan's College 

^lottetown : 

I 

[s college is supplied with every mo- 
iquirement aud appliance, and is un- 
table presidency of the Rev. Angus 
iald, a man well qualified for his im- 
t task, and whose title of ' Father 
pi» as aflcctionatdy pronounced by 



F 



the most Irish of the Irish as if it were ' Fa- 
ther Larry,' or 'Father Pat.' The Irish 
love their own priests ; but let the priest 
of any other nationality — English, Scotch, 
French, Belgian, or American — only exhibit 
sympathy with them, or treat them with 
kindness and affection, and at once he is as 
thoroughly ' their priest' as if he h.nd been 
born on the banks of the Boync or the 
Shannon, ' Father Dan' McDonald, the 
vicar -general, is a striking instance of the 
attachment borne by an Irish congregation 
to a good and kindly priest ; and I now the 
more dwell on this thorough fusion of priest 
and people in love and sympathy, because of 
having witnessed with p:iin and sorrow the 
injurious results, alike to my countrymen 
and to the church, of forcing upon almost 
exclusively Irish congregations clergymen 
who, from their imperfect knowledge of the 
Irish tongue, could not for a long time 
make themselves understood by those over 
whom it was essential they should acquire 
a beneficial influence." — Pp. 4.6, 47. 

Very interesting is our author's ac- 
count of the Irish settlements in 
Prince Edward's Island and New 
Brunswick ; one of the latter, John- 
ville, commenced within a few years, 
under the auspices of Right Rev. Dr. 
Sweeny, Bishop of New Brunswick, 
furnishes a striking proof of the ad- 
vantages to be gained by settling on 
the land, instead of congregating in 
the over-crowded cities. The bene- 
ficent effect on their morals, the cul- 
tivation of kind feeling and fraternal 
charity amongst the settlers by the 
formation of these rural colonies is 
happily described in the following 
passage : 

" The settlers of Johnville are invariably 
kind to each other, freely lending to a neigh- 
bor the aid which they may have the next 
day to solicit for themselves. By this mur 
tual and ungrudging assistance, the construc- 
tion of a dwelling, or the rolling of logs and' 
piling them in a heap for future burning, has 
been quickly and easily accomplished ; and 
crops have been cut and gathered in safetr,] 
which, without such neighborly aid, might | 
have Iwen irrecoverably lost. This ncccssai*y1 
dependence on each other for mutual help ' 
in the hour of difficulty draws the scattered j 
settlers together by ties of sympathy and 
friendslnip ; and while none envy the pro- 
gress o( a ue'va'fabOT, •«\vqw 5.\xtw.»» xvJcttx 



yisi 



The Irish in Ameriia. 



a subject for general congratulation, the 
affliction of one of tiiesc humble families 
lirinps a common sorrow to every home. I 
witnessed a touching illustration of this fra- 
ternal and Christian sympathy. Even in the 
heart of the primitive forest we have sick- 
ness and death, and frenzied Rricf, just as 
in cities with histories that go back a thou- 
sand years. A few days previous to my 
visit a poor fellow had become mad, bis in- 
sanity being attributed to the loss of his 
young wife, whose death left him a despair- 
ing widower with four infant children, lie 
had just been conveyed to the lunatic asy- 
lum, and his orphans were already taken by 
the neighbors, and made part of their £iini- 
lies."— P. 68. 

" On our return to St. John," says 
Mr, Magiiire, " we met the postmas- 
ter-general — a Scotchman — who had 
recently paid an official visit to the 
settlement ; and he was loud in the 
expression of his astonishment at the 
progress which the people had made 
in so short a time, and at the unmis- 
takable evidences of comfort he be- 
held in every direction. The settle- 
ment of Johnville," he goes on, " is 
but one of four which Dr. Sweeny 
has established within a recent time. 
He has thus succeeded in establish- 
ing:, as settlers, between 700 and 800 
families, or, at an average of five per- 
sons to each family, between 3500 
and 4000 individuals.*' 

This one fact shows whatmifjht be 
done in that way for the social and 
moral improvement of many, many 
thousands of " the Irish in America," 
who need some favorable change in 
their condition, if they are to be sav- 
ed from total destruction. If the 
vast superfluous populations of the 
cities could only be induced to scat- 
ter abroad through the rural districts, 
and work as laborers until they could 
aflSsrd to purchase land, much misery 
and degradation would be avoided. 
The Irish are chiefly an agricultural 
people at home ; why will they not 
understand that those who were far- 
mers or laborers " in the old coun- 
tiy" would be mosl V\V.e\'j \.o succeed 



by following the same pursaits I 
All the portions of Mr. 
book relating to thes« Irish 
tnents are both useful and inter 
Of the progress of the Irish aikdl 
cherished faith in St. John's, the« 
tal of New Brunswick, our authori 

"Forty yen-- - ' - iry 

would h.ive .1 'on 

lion to the Cat I.' ...^ >',.•>^,,^^.^^l.. viita^i^- 
now congrct;ations nf two tbootutii or ItiB j 
thousand pour i>ut on SwnlijFSi 
through the sculptured (xirtaU-ofll 
of the Immaculate Conccutiun. ' 
Saints' Day I l>chcld - 
issuing from an early m.. .ike) 

in front of the iiplendid tniUduig ; ml Ml ' 
tlic ap])carancc of the thon^ands fii «* 
dressed, rcspect;iblc-lo >». « 

passed before me. I c. . .lUt 

only the material progrc^^ of ibc lakk 
St. John, but the raart'cltoos iki« 
of the Catholic Churdi in iltat ciiv.'' 

Passing on into the CaaJKltf,] 
Maguire finds the Irish oocv 
prominent a po&ition as in 
the Lower Pro\inces, 
Canada at Quebec," he saj 
presence of a strong and r\ 
ential Irish elcinent is at once ob** 
vable. In the staple indostryof I 
fine old city — the lumber traot 
Irish take a prominent part. - 
It is pleasant to hi?ar that not. 
arc the Irish in ' • 
along the Sl Li 
most industrious and ener_ 
of the popiUation, but Ui.,. ..... 

thrifty antl saving, and have ac^ 
considerable property. Thiui, 
the harbor, from the Champlaia : 
kel westw.ard to the limits of & 
city, an extent of two miles, ihc pro- 
perty, including whar\-es,warchoosei 
and dwelling-houses, belorigs princi- 
pally to the Irish, who form the boli 
of the population in tliat qt 
And by Irish I here mean Call 
Irish." 

Following the course 01* l^r 
Lawrence, he reaches M" 
he thus describes the posiuun ^; 



ralfiS 




The Irish in America. 



m 



I no part of the British Provinces of 
. America does the Catholic Irishman 
imself so thoroughly at home as in 
:autiful and flourishing city of Mon- 

He is in a Catholic dty, where his 
m is respected, and his church is sur- 
ed with dignity and splendor. In 
ever direction he turns, he beholds 
magnificent temple — some college, or 
nt, or hospital— everywhere the cross, 
er reared aloft on the spire of a noble 
1, or on the porch or gable of an asy- 
T a schooL In feet, the atmosphere 
athes is Catholic Therefore he finds 
If at home in the thriving commercial 
1 of Lower Canada. In no part of 
}rld is he more perfectly firee and in- 
dent than in this prosperous seat of 
ry and enterprise, in which, it may be 
ked, there is more apparent life and 
f than in any other portion of the Bri- 
'rovinces. It is not, then, to be won- 
at that the Catholic Irish are equal in 
;r to the entire of the English-speak- 
otestant population, including English, 
V and Irish. It is estimated that the 
Catholics are now not less than thirty 
ind. Of these a large proportion 
>ari1y belong to the working classes, 
nd employment in various branches of 
industry. Their increase has been 
and striking. Fifty years since, there 
lot fifty Irish Catholic femilies in Mon- 

It is about that time since Father 
rds, an American, took compassion 
the handful of exiles who were then 
less and unknown, and gathered them 
small sacristy attached to one of the 

churches, to speak to them in a lan- 

which they understood. In thirty 
afterward their number had increased 
ht thousand, and now they are not un- 
irty thousand." — P. 96. 

uch more than he has said, Mr. 
iiire might have said about the 
in Montreal, and the positions 
jnor and emolument to which 
r of them have attained. Of the 
itself, he digresses to sf>eak as 
ws: 

is foreign to the purpose of this book 
icribe the public institutions and build- 
f any place ; but I cannot refrain from 
ssing my admiration of Montreal, which 
very respect worthy of its high reputa- 

It has an air at once elegant and solid, 
of its streets spacious and alive with 

and bustle, its places of doing busi- 
rabstantial and handsome ; its public 
ngB really imposing; and ^ churdie* 
VOL. VI. — 49 . 



generally splendid, and not a few of them 
positively superb^ This description of the 
churches of Montreal is not limited to the 
Jesuits' Church, the stately Faroiste, and 
the grand church of St Patrick, of which 
the Irish are deservedly pioud ; it applies 
with equal propriety to the Episcopalian 
Cathedral, and more than one church be- 
longing to the dissenting bodies. Montreal 
is rich in all kinds of charitable, educational, 
and religious institutions ; and such is the 
influence and power of the Catholic element, 
that this beautifiil city, which is every day 
advancing in prosperity and population, i« 
naturally r^arded by the Catholic Irishman 
as a home. The humble man sees his co- 
religionists advancing in every walk of life, 
filling positions of distinction — ^honored and 
respected ; and, instead of mere toleration 
for his fiuth, he witnesses, in the magnifi- 
cent procession of Corpus Christi, which 
annually pours its solemn splendor through 
the streets, a spectacle consoling alike to 
his religious feeling and his personal pride." 

Although it is not exactly germane 
to our subject, we must be pardoned 
for giving in this connection Mr. Ma- 
guire's observations on the admira- 
ble system of education, of which 
Catholic Lower Canada may well be 
proud. 

" Education in Lower Canada is entirely 
firee. Each denomination enjoys the most 
complete liberty, there being no compulsion 
or restriction of any kind whatever. And 
the magnificent Laval University, so called 
after a French bishop, enjoys and exercises 
every right and privilege possessed by the 
great universities of England. This univer* 
sit}-, which is eminently Catholic, obtained a 
charter conferring upon it all the powers 
that were requisite for its fullest educational 
development 

"The rights of the Protestant minority 
are protected in the amplest manner, aa 
well by law as by the natural tendency and 
feeling of the majority ; for there are no peo- 
pie more liberal and tolerant, or more averse 
to any kind of aggression on the feith or <^ 
nions of others, than the French Canadians ; 
and the Irish Catholics too well remember 
the bitterness caused by religious strife in 
the old country, to desire its introduction, 
in any shape or form, or under any guise or 
pretence, into their adopted home. There 
are abundant means of education within 
every man's reach ; and it is his own fiinlt 
if his children do not receive its fiill advan- 
tage. But the Irishman, «h,ate<(«i tkk)\ia 



770 



The Irish in America. 



rarely neglects that of his children ; and in 
Canada, as in the Sutes, the fault attributed 
to him is not that he neglects to educate 
them at all, but that he is tempted to edu- 
cate them rather too highly, or too ambitious- 
ly, than otherwise."— Ppu 95, 96. 

Following the widely-scattered 
Irish race along the rivers and 
through the forests of the great nor- 
thern countries, Mr. Maguire happi- 
ly describes what they have done 
and are doing in Upper Canada, as 
Protestant, nearly, as Lower Canada is 
Catholic. Even there, he shows us, 
Catholicity is making as rapid pro- 
gress as in any part of America, 
and there, as in many other parts of 
the world, its marvellous growth cor- 
responds with that of the Irish race. 
Mr. Maguire's account of his travels 
in Upper or Western Canada is, in- 
deed, highly interesting. It was his 
good fortune to meet in Hamilton, 
C. W., a well-known and much-honor- 
ed patriarch-priest, Very Rev. Mr. 
Gordon, vicar-general of that dio- 
cese, from whom he obtained much 
valuable information concerning the 
Irish Catholic people of Western 
Canada. Mr. Maguire says in this 
connection : 

" There is still living in Hamilton, Wes- 
tern Canada, as vicar-general of the dio- 
cese, an Irish priest — Father Gordon, from 
Wexford — who hxs witnessed astonishing 
changes in his time. He has seen the city 
founded, and the town spring up, the forest 
cleared, and the settlement created ; the rude 
log chapel, in which a handful of the faithful 
knelt in the midst of a wood, replaced by the 
spacious brick church in which many hun- 
dreds now worship. And not only has 
he witnessed astonishing changes, hut has 
himself done much to effect the changes 
which he has lived to sec accomplished. . 
. . Father CJordon had charge of the back 
towiwhips, twenty-four in number. We 
must appreciate the extent of his spirit'i.il 
jurisdiction when we learn that a township 
comprised an area of twelve miles square; 
and Father tJordon had to attend twenty- 
four of these. . . . Father Gordon 
spent half his time in the saddle ; and though 
he spared neither himself nor his horse — but 
himself much less than his horse — it was 
with the utmost difficulty tVoi Vkc co>Ad.>iV»x 



the more distant portions of his bum! 
oftener than twice or thrice a year ; aaortl 
time did the active missionary lose hit ra 
in the midst of the woods, and after Ikw 
of weary riding find himseli^ in the dak «t 
the evening, in the very same spot fra 
which be set out in the morning T — Pp. 111 
117. 

Some of Father Gordon's early ad- 
ventures in the wild Canadian foresO) 
are extremely interesting, bat vs. 
them we must refer the reader totk 
book itself. Father Edward Gordoo 
is nearly the last of the noble baod 
of Irish missionaries who went io 
those remote regions with the tint 
instalments of the Irish exodus that 
reached there. Another, his fncad 
and fellow-laborer. Very Rev. Mr. 
McDonagh, died but a y«ar or two ago 
at Perth, in the diocese of Kingstoo, 
of which diocese he was vicar-ges- 
eral. A third, if we mistake not, b 
still living, namely. Father Brennaa 
of Bellville, C. W. These are the 
men who laid the foundations of the 
Catholic Church in those parts of 
Upper Canada. In the Scotch set- 
tlements farther east, there arc stiil 
a very few of the old Scotch mission- 
aries remaining, chiefly McDonalds. 

One of the most thrillingly inter- 
esting portions of the book is that 
devoted to the account of the terrible 
ship-fever brought to Canada by the 
Irish emigrants in the ever-memo- 
rable years of 1847-8. Our author's 
description of its mvages at Crosse 
Isle, the quarantine station of Quebec, 
at Point St. Charles, Montreal, and in 
the cities of Upfjer Canada, is of deep 
and painful interest The adoption of 
the orphan children of the poor Irish 
emigrants — of whom twelve thou- 
sand perished at Grosse Isle alone — 
by the friendly French Canadians, is 
beyond expression touching. How 
the good Canadian priests and bish- 
ops took charge, and induced their 
people to take charge of these " chil- 
dren of the faithful Catholic Irish," 
«& xJcv«.'>j «,i33iceasively called the poor 



The Irish in America. 



771 



IS, is told by Mr. Maguire with 
ace of a poet and the skill of 
latist Yet the picture is noth- 
erdrawn, as the writer of this, 
any others yet living, can bear 
s from their own sad memories 
se sorrowful days, 
side the Catholic Church no 
ipectacle of charity was ever 
LS that which met the eyes of 
nadian people in Montreal and 
ther cities in those two disas- 
jrears, but especially the first, 
illowing passage will give some 
F the extent to which Christian 
n was carried then and there : 

: horrors of Grosse Isle had their 

part in Montreal. 

in Quebec the mortality was greater 

than in the year following ; but it 

till the close of 1848 that the plague 
e said to be extinguished, not with- 
rful sacrifice of life. During the 

of June, July, Augtist, and Sep- 
the season when nature wears her 
)rious garb of loveliness, as many as 
lundred of ' the faithful Irish,' as the 
n priest truly described them, were 
one time in the fever -sheds at Point 
rles, in which rough wooden beds 
iced in rows, and so close as scarcely 
: of room to pass. In these mise- 
bs the patients lay, sometimes two to- 
ooking, as a Sister of Charity wrote, 
ey were in their coffins,' from the 

appearance of their wretched beds, 
lout those glorioas months, while 
shone brightly, and the majestic riv- 
I along in golden waves, hundreds of 

Irish were dying daily. The world 
was gay and glad, but death was 
n the fever-sheds. It was a moment 
e devotion which religion inspires, 
he courage with which it animates 
lest breast First came the Grey 
rong in love and faith ; but so ma- 
vas the disease, that thirty of their 

were stricken down, and thirteen 
: death of martyrs. There was no 
, no holding back ; no sooner were 
s thinned by death than the gaps 
ickly filled; and when the Grey 
!re driven to the last extremity, the 
)f Providence came to their assis- 
id took their place by the side of 
g strangers. But when even their 
lot suffice to meet the emergency, 
rs of St Joseph, though cloistered 



nuns, received the permission of the bishop 
to share with their sister religious the hard- 
ships and dangers of labor by day and night 

" * I am the only one lefl,' were the thrill- 
ing words in which the surviving priest an- 
nounced from the pulpit the ravages that 
the ' ocean plague' had made in the ranks of 
the clergy. With a single exception, the 
local priests were either sick or dead. Eight 
of the number fell at their posts, true to their 
duty. The good Bishop, Monseigneur Bout* 
get, then went himself, to take his turn in 
the lazar-house ; but the enemy was too 
mighty for his zeal, and having remained 
in the discharge of his self-imposed task for 
a day and a night, he contracted the fever, 
and was carried home to a sick-bed, where 
he lay for weeks, hovering between life and 
death, amid the tears and prayers of hit 
people, to whom Providence restored him 
after a period of intense anxiety to them, 
and long and weary suffering to him. 

" When the city priests were found inade- 
quate to the discharge of their pressing 
duties, the country priests cheerfully re- 
sponded to the call of their bishop, and came 
to the assistance of their brethren ; and of 
the country priests not a few found the grave 
and the crown of the martyr." — Pp. 145, 146^ 
14S. 

After a glance at the Irish in 
Newfoundland, where, in proportion 
to their numbers, and the extent of 
the island, they have done fully as 
much for their own advancement and 
that of religion, as in any other part 
of America, Mr. Maguire, before 
crossing the great waters that sepa- 
rate British America from the United 
States makes these pertinent remarks 
on the Irish exodus geneAUy : 

"There are few sadder episodes in the 
history of the world than the story of the 
Irish exodus. Impelled, to a certain de- 
gree, by a spirit of adventure, but mainly 
driven from their native land by the operation 
of laws which, if not opposed to the genius of 
the people, were unsuited to the special cir- 
cumstances of their country, millions of the 
Irish race have braved the dangers of an un- 
known element, and faced the perils of a new 
existence, in search of a home across the 
Atlantid At times, this European life- 
stream flowed toward the new world in a 
broad and steady current ; at others, it as* 
sumed the character of a resistless rush, 
breaking on the shores of America with so 
formidable a tide as to \»aS&t e<t«r^ vcv'&o.vv- 
tion, and reivdcT the otditarj \i«m» <A Vas- 



772 



Th* Irish in 'Ammca. 



MMBC or sanitary precaution altugetber in- 
Micquale and unavailing." — P. 1 79. 

Having crossed into the lerritor)' 
of the United Slates, Mr. Mag\iire 
ver)- judiciously prefaces his account 
of wlaat he saw amongst the Irish 
there, by a long and carefully writ- 
ten account of the dangers to which 
emigrants and their pockets are ex- 
posed in New York, the great centre 
of emigration. This is one of the 
most useful portions of the work, and 
should be read, if possible, by every 
intending emigrant to the United 
States. The greater part of Chapter 
X. is devoted to it, comprising some 
amusing and characteristic anecdotes 
and some very important directions 
for tlie guidance of newly-arrived emi- 
grants. * 

Mr. Maguire next turns his atten- 
tion to the tenement-houses of New 
York, and the sanitary condition of 
their inhabitants. He devotes much 
space to this, and his remarks are 
clear, practical, and judicious. He 
evidently examined the condition 
even of the poorest and most wretch- 
ed of the Irish in this metropolis. 
He speaks, in this connection, ear- 
nestly and feelingly on the great mis- 
take, the terrible mistake made by 
those emigrants who, being farmers 
or countrj' people at home, remain 
huddled together in the great cities 
here, instead of spreading abroad 
over the fertile regions of America, 
where land is to l>e had cheap, in 
some places almost for the asking. 

" Let it not be supposed that, in my car- 
ne.<kt (te.^irc to direct the practical attention 
i)f my counlryracn, at both sides of the At- 
lantic, to an evil of universally admitted 
mac'iit'xlc. I desire to exaggerate !n the 
kaKt. From the very nature of things, the 
pri.ii citic* of America — and, in a special 
(Iccicc, New York — must be the refuge of 
tin unfortunate, the home of the helpless, 
the liidiiig-placc of the broken-down, even 
of the criminal ; and theac, while crowding 
the dwelVing-pWccs o« v\\c v«"^t, awd attain- 
ing the resources and ptcT^nfe o«v ^i^* <A»\Vl 



ofth-'" "-•-' " 

evjK 

of tl.. ^ 

they are ; cU- 

and temj . , ^ca 

very freedom ot republican icaiituiiue^l 

less than from the generous soaal kalis 

the.American people — there are thoadi^ 

hundreds of thou^.inH^i, of Trnh Vt» fl 

xens of the Uri 

York and ij» ot: 

who are, in evcr> i expect, the ciiUiU J. \ 

best of Americaui populatioa — I 

and upright in ^' ' ilinp; 

energetic, and < 'ig m bm u— ij 

telligent and <|uick ui i:«pw3tjr s 

and go-ahead ; and as lojnUjrdevuCBlla^ 

institutions of their ulopecd 

they had been bom iin<ler ia 9a^ 

theless, 1 repeat the aaaertko, 

innumerable authorities— uidMfJtie* I 

the iaintcst shadiiw of %,% 

city is not the right plaoe for \ 

ant, and that it is the worst 1 

could select as his boiae." — Pp^. : 

Mr. Maguire 's limited timedid^ 
permit him to travel much in the \ 
tenor of any Stale ; he could ^ 
visit the principal ci(i«i. 
count of the Middle, Sout 
great Western Sl^ttcs, is 
general terms ; he speaks at sofl 
length of the Irish settlements ia tl 
new States and territories, of tJiel 
resources of the country, 
enormous quantity of puMic li 
the disposal of the 1 
government. .\fteT «i..-.«.iiijiti< 
progress of the Irbh in the WiC 
North-west, he adds : 

" It is not at jil nri<-«s,anr thai aa W 
immigrant sIx' :>t, whaicwrr a 

how great the 1 itj i( 

enterprising. Tlicrc is land to I 
certain circumsUnccs and 
most every Slite in the Unioii. 
is no Stale in which the Iri&b 
is living from hai>d to tnouth in 
great cities as a day-laSofrr, may ool I 
prove his c(.>ndiiinn < 1^ bipadt 

his natural and \t^-\ c»tiiai — I 

cultivation of i!. ^ the tmI I 

gion of tlic Son .0 tjke tahx 

oils and encrgcin. iii-.M;iiAn. On ikt ff| 
trary, there i» no portion of the AiMlkj 
continent in wliich be would rrcvive tail 
cordial welcome, or meet with murv fa»« 






TIu Irish in America. 



771 



he war, or the abolition of slavery, 
upset of the land system, which was 
pon the compulsory labor of the ne- 
efore the war, the land was held in 
■ large proprietors, and, whatever its 
r, there was no dividing or selling it 
is, willingly ; for, when land was 
to the hammer, the convenience of 
chaser had to be consulted. But 
as no voluntary division of the soil, 
ng it up into parcels, to be occupied 
LI proprietors. Now, the state of 
s toUlly different"— P. 252. 

author seems much impressed 
he advantages offered by the 
lificent State of California " to 
:migrants. Of it he says : 

:re is not a State in the Union in 
the Irish have taken deeper and 
r root, or thriven more successfully, 
ilifornia, in whose amazing progress 
rial, social, and intellectual — they 
.d a conspicuous share. For nearly 
years past, this region has been asso- 
rt the popular mind with visions of 
:ss wealth and marvellous fortunes ; 
may be interesting to learn under 
rcumstances the Irish became con- 
with a country of such universal re- 
id of whose population they form a 
iportant and valuable portion." — P. 

Maguire waxes eloquent over 
nefits conferred on his country- 
,n all the cities of America, by 
ranee societies. He deplores, 
ind over again, the fatal pro- 
y to spirituous liquors, of which 
erywhere saw lamentable in- 
:s amongst his countrymen in 
ica. He says, in many places, 
Irink, and drink alone, is the 
why so many of the Irish do 
nd in the new world that suc- 
irhich crowns the efforts of so 
thousands and even millions 
eir race. " Drink, accursed 
" he says, " is the cause why 
ny of the Irish in America fail, 
ail miserably." On the other 
he saw, wherever he went, east, 
north, and soiith, that those 
% them who attained to wealth 
position were all sober men, 
of them " teetotalers." 



The love of home and kindred, 
which is one of the most beautiful as 
it is one of the strongest traits in the 
Irish character, is duly noted by Mr. 
Maguire as distinguishing them in 
America. The many and great sac- 
rifices made by Irish emigrants here, 
and especially by servant-girls, are 
thus described by our author : 

" The great ambition of the Irish girl ia 
to send 'something' to her people, as soon 
as possible after she has landed in America ; 
and,. in innumerable instances, the first tid- 
ings of her arrival in the new world ^are 
accompanied with a remittance, the fruits of 
her first earnings in her first place. Loving 
a bit of finery dearly, she will resolutely 
shut her eyes to the attractions of some en- 
ticing article of dress, to prove to the loved 
ones at home that she has not forgotten 
them ; and she will risk the danger of insuf- 
ficient clothing, or boots not proof against 
rain or snow, rather than diminish the 
amount of the little hoard to which she is 
weekly adding, and which she intends as a 
delightful surprise to parents who, possibly, 
did not altogether approve of her hazardous 
enterprise. To send money to her people, 
she will deny herself innocent enjoyments, 
womanly indulgences, and the gratifications 
of legitimate vanity ; and such is the gene- 
rous and affectionate nature of these young 
girls, that they regard the sacrifices they 
make as the most ordinary matter in the 
world, for which they merit neither praise 
nor approval. To assist their relatives, 
whether parents, or brothers and sisters, is 
with them a matter of imperative duty, 
which they do not and cannot think of dis- 
obeying, and which, on the contrary, they 
delight in performing. And the money des- 
tined to that purpose is regarded as sacred, 
and must not be diverted to any object les« 
worthy."— P. 315. 

A very important and deeply in- 
teresting portion of Mr. Maguire's 
book is that which treats of the share 
the Irish have had in building up 
and sustaining the church in Ameri- 
ca. In all the checkered history of 
the Irish race, there is no page more 
glorious than that which records theii 
fidelity to the faith, in foreign landp 
as well as at home ; their heart-warm 
attachment to, and profound reve- 
rence for» their clet%^ •, ^!Bfc \si^N:^ 



774 



TJu Irish in Amcric 



sacrifices they make, and have made 
to promote the interests of religion, 
and the important part they have 
played in the propagation of the 
faith : 

" It has been confidently stated, that the 
moment the Irish touch the free soil of 
America, they lose the old faith — that there 
is something in the verj' nature of rciuiblican 
institutions fatal to the Church of Rome. 
Admitting, as a fact which cannot be denied, 
and which Catholics are themselves the first 
to proclaim, that there has been some, even 
considerable, falling off from the church, 
and no little indifferenti^tm, it must be ac- 
knowledged that there has been less of both 
than, from the circumstances of the country, 
might have been rex^onably expected ; and 
that the same Irish, whose alleged defection 
en masse has l>een the theme of ungenerous 
triumph to those whose * wish was father to 
the thought,' have done more to develop the 
Church, and extend her dominion through- 
out the wide continent of North America, 
than even the most devoted of the children 
of any other of the various races who, with 
them, are merged in the great American na- 
tion. This much may be freely conceded to 
them, even by those who are mf>st sensitive- 
ly and justly proud of what their own na- 
tionality has done to promote the glory of 
the Universal Church. Fortified by suffer- 
ing anil trial at home, and inheritors of 
nu-niorics which intensify dcvoti<m rather 
th.in weaken fidelity, the Irish brought with 
thorn a strong faith, the power to resist as 
well as the courage to persevere, an<l that 
generosity t»f spirit which has ever prompt- 
ed mankind to make large sacrifices ft»r the 
promotion of their religious Miof." — P. 346. 

In order to give a more correct idea 
to his European readers of the servi- 
ces rendered by the Irish in America 
to the cause of religion, our author 
gives a retrospective view of the rise 
and progress of Catholicity in the 
United States. This he illustrates 
by extracts from the writings and cor- 
rcsijondcnce of various bishops and 
priests of the elder time, and also the 
later, and with interesting data from 
otlier sources. He dwells at some 
length on the foundation or iniroduc- 
ti«>M into these countries of the two 
great orders of (.Charily and Mercy, 
the one founded in Dublin by Mrs. 



McAuley, 
Maryland, 
can lady ai 
the latter, 

" It may I 
man, this n 
deeply impr 
nor of the po 
the opening c 
detained in 
and attendee 
sician to tl 
first, thing,' s 
when they g 
on the gras! 
Maker for ti 
sun finds the 
scenes then 
mind one of 
quent in su 
time — 1800, 
num1)cra oft 
New York, 
scourge of ii 
race." — P. 3^ 

For all 
trious prel 
Archbisho 
their wprk 
to the boo 
which Bish 
zealous pi 
found peci 

"One ev< 
this occasior 
priests — Fat 
be added, a 
up at a hoi 
sions, whose 
of the speci« 
tercd into fi 
host wx« wi 
tions, S'lmev 
but there wa 
tir>n, * Vou 
said the agi 
an<l his look 
emphatic as 
KngLind sat 
his 'oliice ;' 
dfsire to en| 
cnti'iLiincr. 
a little di<:ai 
ing the h<>r>.i 
portniantcnii 
mi'Mced his 
SumnuT,' in 



The Irish in America. 



771 



il of tenderness. From one ex- 
xly to another the player wander- 
e negro boy grinned with delight, 
rses enjoyed their food with a 
h. That 

I charms to soothe the savage breast,' 

lemplified. As the sweet notes 
soft night air of the South, and 
: inhospitable mansion, a head 
■ thrust forth, and the projecting 
r appeared eagerly to drink in the 
lody. Another lovely air, one of 
I bring involuntary tears to the 
1 the heart with balm, was played 
ng sweetness, when a voice, hus- 
lotion, was heard uttering these 
rangers ! don't go ! do stay all 
t go ; we'll fix you somehow.' It 
ce of the charmed host ! That 
two guests enjoyed the snuggest 
hearth, Father O'Neill playing 
;ily till a late hour. Next mor- 
ister of the house would not ac- 
least compensation. ' No, no, 
, no, Mr. O'Neill ! not a cent I 
rtily welcome to it. Come as of- 
plcase, and stay as long as you 
be always glad to see you ; but,' 
ddressing Father O'Neill, *be 
•n't forget the flute !' "—P. 323. 

iguire's account of the Irish 
; civil war is long and inter- 
le tells many interesting an- 
r their heroism, their fidelity 
ag, whether Confederate or 
^nd also of the influence they, 
jion, and its ministers ex- 
>n the non-Catholics with 
ey were brought in imme- 
tact. Here are one or two 



hem general said to me, 'The 
m away many a prejudice against 
such was the exemplary conduct 
sts in the camp and the hos]:ital, 
ristian attitude of the church du- 
lole of the struggle. Many kind 
us acts were done by the priests 
ed ladies, who now tell with gra- 
icir services. Wherever an asy- 
luired, they found it for them. I 
nisters had been like the priests, 
;ht never have had this war, or it 
lave been so bitter as it was.' " — 

lingly honorable to the Irish 



soldiers of the Union is the following 
testimony : 

" The Irish displayed a still nobler quality 
than courage, though theirs was of the most 
exalted nature ; they displayed magnanim* 
ity, generosity— Christian chivalry. From 
one end of the South to the other, even 
where the feeling was yet sore, and the 
wound of defeat still rankled in the breast, 
there was no anger against the Irish soldiers 
of the Union. Whenever the feeble or the 
defenceless required a protector, or woman 
a champion, or an endangered church a de- 
fender the protector, the champion, and the 
defender were to be found in the Irishman, 
who fought for a principle, not for vengeance 
or desolation. The evil deeds, the name- 
less horrors, perpetrated in the fury of pas- 
sion and in the license of victory— whatever 
these were, they are not laid at the door o( 
the Irish, On the contrary, from every 
quarter are to be heard praises of the Irish 
for their forbearance, their gallantry, and 
chivalty—xYixa which no word more fitly re- 
presents their bearing at a time when wanton 
outrages and the most horrible cruelties 
were too fi'cquently excused or palliated on 
the absolving plea of stern necessity." — 
Pp- 552, 553. 

Of the Philadelphia riots and 
church-burning, and of the memora- 
ble struggle for the freedom of Cath- 
olic education in New York, Mr. Ma- 
guiregivesinterestingaccounts. From 
this portion of the work we select the 
following. The author has been speak- 
ing of the beneficent effects exercised 
by convent schools ; he goes on to 
say: 

« What is true of convent schools is equal- 
ly true of schools and colleges under the care 
of the great educational orders — Jesuits, 
Sulpicians,Vincentians, Redemptorists, Bro- 
thers and Sisters of the Holy Cross, Chris- 
tian Brothers, Franciscans, and others."— 
P. 504. 

When Mr. Maguire comes to speak 
of the Fenians, he generally takes a 
fair and impartial view of the subject. 
We must, however, object in toto to 
one remark of his. He says, on page 

592: 

" So far as I have been aUe to learn, my 
belief is, that among the Fenians in almost 



77^ 



The Double Marriage. 



f 

» 

I 

f 



every State of the Union there are many 
thousands of the very cream of the Irish 
population." 

So far is this from being the case, 
as it must have been represented to 
Mr. Maguire, that it was, and is, the 
constant complaint of the Fenians 
themselves, precisely that the " cream 
<^the Irish poptilation" kept widely 
aloof from them. 

The concluding pages of the book 
are devoted exclusively to the strange 
phenomenon present^ by the fondly- 
cherished, never-dying, hatred of Eng- 
land found among the Irish in every 
part of America; the deep-seated, 
burning thirst for vengeance on the 
power whose baneful influence has 
for many ages blighted the genius, 
the hopes, the energies of the Irish 
at home — whose colossal shadow has 
tiirown into the shade the fairer and 
more graceful genius of the Celtic 
race, and made " the oldest Christian 



nation of Western Europe,** Aepm 
Celto-Iberian race, the poorest, tl 
most abject of Huropean nation 
with all its wealth of genius, of poetr 
of energy, of all that gives histori 
fame. 

Mr. Maguire has given a goo 
" bird's-eye view '* of the Irish i 
America ; he has shown them in r: 
rious lights, and under various x 
pects ; still hb book has left muc 
untold, much that would have int 
rested the Irish and the friends ni tl 
Irish everywhere. There is, mor 
over, a want of method in the arrang 
ment of this book — a certain hai 
ness and indistinctness, that detrac 
considerably from its value as a boo 
of reference. Too much is saidi 
some things and some persons, tt 
little of other things and persons 
and these omissions unfortunately ii 
elude what we here consider most hi 
norable to " The Irish in America. 



THE DOUBLE MARRIAGE.* 



CHAPTER I. 

Just before vespers, as I came in 
from a visit to the hospital. Mother 
Frances, our superioress, called me 
to her, and said : 

" Dear sister, you have been out 
nearly all day, and were up last even- 
ing ; you can go into the church for 
vespers, and then you had better go 
to your cell." 

After the service was ended, I re- 
-mained a few minutes to say my 
.prayers. When my time had expired, 
I went through the cloisters to my 
cell ; and, just as I opened the door, 

• From Tk€ Diary of a SisUr of Mercy. By Mrs. 
CM. Bnme. Now in press, bjr the Catholic Publka- 
cion Society. 



I heard from the gate-bell a lou 
peal that rang through the siler 
house. I heard the door opened, an 
a hurried message delivered. 

"Another call," I thought; an 
then came a quiet tap at my door, 
opened it quickly, and Mother Frai 
ces entered, saying : 

" I am grieved, sister, to distui 
you so soon ; but that poor girl, Mai 
MacNeal, is dying at the hospita 
and she wishes most earnestly to se 
you." 

" Is she indeed dying ? why, I le 
her so much better." 

" Yes ; but a fatal change ha 
taken place, and she has not long I 
live." 

There was no time to think of m 



Tfu Double Marriage. 



777 



ig head and wearied limbs. I 
ed again hastily, and, together 
the messenger, soon arrived at 
ospital. 

the entrance of the ward where 
' lay I met the nurse. "Oh! 

be praised, sister, that you're 

at last 1 Poor Mary's only cry 

you." 

is Mary MacNeal was a young 
i\\o had been brought up in our 
)ls, and afterward maintained 
If by dressmaking. Hard toil, 
fare, and want of exercise did 
work ; and Mary lay dying in 
ist stage of consumption. She 

I good girl, and had been long 
r my especial care. That very 
lOon she had implored me to be 
her during her last moments. 

I I reached her bed, a calm, hap- 
lile welcomed me, and the feeble, 
voice spoke a few words of greet- 
" And ye'll say the rdsary, sis- 

<nelt down and complied with 
equest. When we said the last 
a, Father Bernard came, and 
' received the last sacraments, 
e stood by many a death-bed : 
'e seen the strong man in his 
y expire ; I have seen the atheist, 
ig, dreading God, die, with de- 
in his glazing eye and faithless 
; I have seen infants die with 
mile of an angel on their little 
J in every form I have met with 
I ; but I never knew a soul leave 
world that seemed more fit for 
:n than that of this young girl, 
rosary in one hand, the crucifix 
: other, she lay so calm and still, 
and anon, as I wiped the death- 
) from the pale brow, she lifted 
|res as though to thank me. She 
ed desirous to speak. I stooped 
her to catch the few struggling 
J, and they were : 
'hank God, I have always loved 
lessed Mother ; she is with me 



now." And she murmured the sweet 
names of Jesus and Mary. 

Then the slight breath stopped; 
anon it came again ; again it went, 
and without a struggle that happy 
soul took flight. I closed the eyes, 
still wearing the lingering look of gra- 
titude and love \ I crossed the hands, 
and twined the beads around them, 
and then knelt down and said the 
litany for the dead. I was now pre- 
paring to leave the hospital, when the 
nurse came, and asked me if I would 
step for a minute into the next ward, 
just to speak to a poor old womaivwho 
seemed to be getting worse. This 
ward was quite full ; but I noticed a 
bed I had seen empty in the morning, 
occupied ; when I had finished talk- 
ing to the old woman, I asked who 
the fresh comer was. 

" Ah ! sister, she's in an awful way, 
let her be who she may. I asked 
her this afternoon if she would see 
you, or the priest ; and I declare the 
look of her frightened me — ^it was so 
wild and fierce. But she's a lady, I 
am sure ; for, though the poor feet of 
her were bare and bleeding, the few 
ragged clothes she had on were of the 
finest, and when she is in her senses, 
she speaks so lady-like ; but she 
went on in a dreadful way, and told 
me not to talk to her of sisters or 
priests, but to do her the only kind- 
ness I could, and let her die alone ; 
so there she lies, and not one bit or 
drop can I get down her." 

" But, nurse, I must see her, poor 
thing ! Perhaps I can help to soothe 
her." 

I approached the bed carefully, 
shading the lamp with my hand. I 
set the light down on the table, and 
drew a chair close to the bedside, and 
sat down upon it. Loud, heavy breath- 
ing, and quick, frightened starts, told 
me the patient slept I gently drew 
aside the sheet, with which she had 
covered her face and head, and start- 



778 



Tlu Double Marriage. 



ed at the picture that met my gaze. 
It was a woman, seemingly about 
two-and-twenty years of age ; her 
face and neck were covered with a 
perfect mass of thick, glossy hair ; it 
spread in its rich profusion over the 
pillow and the bed clothes. I took 
one of the tresses in my hand, and 
wondered at its length and softness. 
One small white hand was thrown 
above her head, and it grasped a 
portion of the hair so tightly that I 
could not move it, lest I should wake 
her. Before I had sat many minutes, 
the peeper awoke with a loud, pierc- 
ing scream, and a quick, fearful start. 
I laid my hands on her, to soothe 
her. 

" Do not be frightened," I said ; 
•• you arc quite safe." 

"Who are you?" she replied ab- 
ruptly and sharply. 

" I am a Sister of Mercy, and'I am 
anxious to assist you." 

" I don't want you ; go away ; you 
only torment me." She turned from 
me, and concealed her face. 

" I am afraid you mistake me," I 
said very gently ; " indeed, I only 
wish to do you good." 

" Do me good ? You cannot ; leave 
me alone ! Let me die as I have 
lived." 

" God is good, and very merciful, 
my poor sister." 

" Don't mention his name to me. 
Leave me ! Let me be forgotten by 
God and man. Let me die, and do 
not tonnent me." 

" God loves you with an infinite 
love — a love more tender than you 
can imagine." 

" I tell you to go ! I am cursed, 
haled ! I want no good ; I will listen 
to none. Your words are all in vain ; 
save ihem, and go !" 

With these words she resolutely 
turned from me, and covered her 
face with the clothes, so that she 
could neither Vieat not see me. I 



took my rosary, and knelt down, a 
said it for her ; and ardently die 
pray that the poor heart might 
turned to God. When I had k: 
above an hour, she turned fiero 
round, and said * 

" Are you still there ? what are i 
doing?" 

" I am praying for you, my sisw 
" Praying for me !" and a tr 
fearful laugh sounded through 
quiet room. " Praying for me ; 
name is forgotten in heaven. \K 
do that. My mother is in hear 
Don't let my name be heard thi 
or she will know ; but go away. : 
leave me. Heaven and earth h 
abandoned me ; why need vou c 
for me ?" 

The delirium and fever seeine< 
increase so rapidly, that I feared 
longer stay would be useless. .X 
rent of words were pouring quit 
from the parched lips ; now a i 
appeal, a fearful cry to God 
mercy; then a dreadful outbun> 
reproaches and contempt againt i 
ven ; then a wild snatch of song, 
a laugh so unearthly, it almost chi 
the blood in my veins. Once, 
once only, the loud voice grew c 
and sweet, and a quiet look c: 
upon the flushed face when she \ 
cied she was a girl at home ag 
and her mother was speaking to I 
I went home, for I was of no i 
and the nurse gave the poor sutt< 
an opiate before I left. I could 
rest ; that wild, beautiful fare 
before me, and those pitiful c 
rang in my ears all night. The 
lowing morning I hastened to 
hospital. I found my patient m 
quiet, and a good deal exh.ius!eii 
I procured a basin of cold wj 
and welting a handkerchief, place 
upon her burning brow. Its ciwl; 
seemed to revive her ; for after 1 
bathed her forehe.id for some r 
utes, she 0]>encd her e}-es, and s 



The Double Marriage. 



779 



faint voice, " Is that you, mother? 
iS you, thank you ;" but after look- 
earnestly at me, she turned away 
1 a despairing sigh I never shall 
;et After I had well bathed her 
! and head, I gathered the long 
• and arranged it neatly under a 

How beautiftil she looked ! the 
flush had gone, and her face was 
and white as marble. The slight 
[jrows were marked so clearly and 
led so beautifully, and the noble 
n brow was so fair, I could dis- 
;uish every vein. Again my tears 
upon her face as I stooped over 

She gave a quick start, and said, 
'ho are you ?" 

I am a Sister of Mercy, one who 
:s you." 

Loves me ! and is that tear for 
?" 

Yes, not only one, but many more 
ive shed for you." 
O sister!" and she turned and 
:w herself on my breast, " that 
le first tear any one has shed over 
since my mother died. My heart 
been so proud, so full of bitter 
er and hatred, that I thought no- 
g could ever again soften it ; that 
was a dew-drop from heaven. A 
moments since, I fancied you 
B my mother, for your hand lay 
a my head just as hers did 
n she used to come, night after 
It, and bless me ; just as it did 
night before I left her. O sister ! 
not let me lie in your arms, you 
so good, and I have been so 
ced and sinful." 

Nay, rest here ; none are so sin- 
but there is love and mercy left 
:hem." 
Mercy ! can I, dare I hope for 

Hush, my child, you are tiring 
self out ; now rest." 
And do you promise never to 
e me till I die ? Say, will you 
with me?" 



" I will indeed do all I can ; for 
the present I must go. Will you let 
me put this around you ?" . (It was a 
medal of the Immaculate Concep- 
tion.) 

"Yes," she replied, and took it 
with a trembling hand. 

"Are you a Catholic?" I asked, 
startled by the haste with which she 
seized it. 

" I am, sister," and then a burning 
blush came over her face. " I am, 
but a giiilty, ungrateful one." 

"Then will you say some short 
prayers, while I go and visit my other 
patients ?" 

" I will, but it is long since I have 
said a prayer." 

At the end of an hour I returned, 
and found her weeping bitterly. She 
took my hand and kissed it. I tried 
to quiet her excessive grief I said, 
" Do not cry, my child. Tell me, 
can I help you — can I do anything 
for you ? My name is Sister Magda- 
len; what shall I call youl" She 
looked up with a sad face, and re- 
plied, " My name is Eva." "Well, 
then, Eva, be comforted ; if you have 
sinned, there is mercy and hope for 
you ; if you are unhappy, there is 
comfort. Look at this ;" and I gave 
her my crucifix — " does not this teach 
you to love and hope ?" There was 
no answer, nothing but bitter sobs. 
I knelt down, and said the Memo- 
rare, and then, taking Eva's hand, I 
was about to speak, when she said, 
" Sister, sister, when I am better, 
and have strength to talk, I will teU 
you my history, and you shall teach 
me to be better." 

Day after day passed on, and she 
became so ill that we thought she 
must die ; but God so willed it that 
she began to improve, and, at last, 
was able to speak and think ration- 
ally again. One evening I sat by 
her bed, saying the rosary while she 
slept, when, looking suddenly at her, 



78o 



The Double Marriage. 



f 

m 



I found her eyes open, and fixed 
upon me intently. 

" Sister- Magdalen," she said, " I 
want to tell you my history ; it is a 
very sad one. I have sinned and 
suffered — ^will you hear me ?" 

" With pleasure, because, when I 
understand you, I can the better 
help you." 

And as she told it to me, I here 
give it. 

CHAPTER II. 

" I NEED not trouble you with the 
history of my childhood ; it was spent 
alone with my dear mother, in a 
pleasant little village near Bristol, 
and was a very happy and innocent 
one. My father died before I was 
bom, but he left an ample fortune to 
my mother. I was her sole care and 
treasure ; next to me she loved and 
cared for our little church. The mis- 
sion in our village was but a poor 
one ; my mother was its chief sup- 
port. To our care was given the 
sacristy, the chapel, the altar-linen 
and flowers. I used to spend hours 
in dressing the altar and arranging 
the flowers. The memory of those 
hours has never died ; it has lived 
with me ever ; and even amid scenes 
of vanity and passion, it has hung 
about me like the fragrance of a 
flower. 

" My mother was the sweetest and 
most gentle of women ; the early loss 
of her husband gjave her a shock 
from which she never recovered ; and 
she made a resolution at his death to 
devote her whole life to my educa- 
tion and to works of charity, I can- 
not think of her without tears ; she 
was so patient and good, nor did I 
ever hear one unkind or hasty word 
from her. 

" I grew up well skilled in all the 
accomplishments my mother loved 
and taught. One I was passionately 



fond of, and that was paintii^. 
had a talent for it, and a cultiva 
taste. 

" Imagine, sbter, the coarse o 
streamlet, with scarcely a ripple u] 
it, glittering in the bright sunlij 
ever flowing calmly and gently, : 
you have a perfect image of 
childhood. 

" This lasted until I was sixteen, 
few days after my birthday, a lei 
came from my mother's agent, a 
licitor in London, requesting her i 
mediate presence. Not liking 
leave me behind, lest I should 
dull, my mother offered to take 
with her. I was overjo)'ed at i 
proposal. London was a disb 
fairyland to me, and I knew no r 
or peace until we started. We m 
to stay at Mr. Clinton's, a dist: 
relative of my father's, wlio kin( 
oflered us the use of his house. 1 
was married, but his wife was de: 
and he had one only daughter, w 
whom I soon became intimately : 
quainted. Bella Clinton was an e 
g^nt girl, and foremost among t 
leaders of fashion. I had not be 
there long before I began to blu 
for my country dresses, and astc 
ished my gentle, yielding mother 1 
the extravagant demands I ma 
upon her purse. Ah ! there I lear 
the fatal truth that I was gifted wi 
beaut)'. I had heard strangers s 
at home, " What a handsome chil' 
how like her father ;" but I nev 
realized the fact until I stood km 
dressed for my first ball, where Be! 
had persuaded my mother to accoi 
pany us. 

" Bella had chosen for me a robe 
pale pink satin and a rich lace skir 
she twined pale pink flowers in n 
long black hair, and golden bracelc 
around my arms, and then led me 
her mirror, and said, ' I am alma 
jealous, Eva I' Ah! the lace pi 
turcd there was very hie, the eyi 



The Double Marriage, 



?8i 



; flashing with light, the cheek 

tinged like a rose, the white 
c and arms shamed even the 
Is that gleamed upon them, 
jtiful, bright, and sparkling the 
ire was ; but would to heaven I 

died as I stood there, for I was 

innocent and good. 
Vou, perhaps, sister, never saw or 
d to see a ball-room ; on me the 
t was electrical. Just as we en- 
i, the sweet, fascinating melo- 
if a popular waltz was floating 
d the room ; the room itself 

radiant with light and beau- 
jewels were shining, feathers 
ng, rich satins were gleaming; 
the wearers, to my novice's gaze, 

like beings from fairyland, 
diiss Clinton was soon surrounded 

friends, and I listened with as- 
hment to her witty repartees and 
ated conversation. I was in- 
iced to many of her friends ; 
jroup or party was, .1 could not 
o perceive, the most select in 
•oom. I sat by my mother, en- 
oring to give my attention to 
: officer who was detailing a 
ing adventure, when a face and 

suddenly attracted my atten- 
; it was that of a noble-looking 

with a head remarkable for the 
me beauty of its contour and 
ichness of its dark curls. The 

too, though not exactly hand- 
, was irresistibly attractive, from 
istocratic mould of feature and 
ncholy expression. His eyes 
a singularly dark gray, shaded 
long eyelashes ; they had a tired, 
>s look. I watched this gentle- 
some few minutes, and then 
ng to my companion, said : 'Can 
ell me who is that distinguished 
ng man standing just beneath 
handelier ?' 

Lord Montford. He is a clever 
; but a very reserved, haughty 
cter J he is known by the name 



of Le Grand Seigneur. I know him 
well, intimately ; but I never can 
penetrate the veil of melancholy that 
hangs over him.' 

" 'Perhaps he is unhappy,' I said 
simply ; ' is he married ?' 

" * No ; he is one of the best/arr/w 
of the season. Some say an early 
disappointment is the cause of his 
want of sociability; others say he 
has a distaste for the society of your 
charming sex.' And my informant 
made a low bow. 

"A dozen more questions trembled 
on my lips ; but not liking to conti- 
nue the conversation, I remained si- 
lent. Suddenly looking up, I saw 
Lord Montford's eyes fixed uf>on me. 
I blushed, feeling like a guilty cul- 
prit. In a few minutes Miss Clin- 
ton came to me, and said : 

" *Eva, you have made a splendid 
conquest. Here is Lord Montford 
asking to be introduced to you. 
Come with me.' 

"'Indeed I cannot,' I replied, 
shrinking, scarcely knowing why. 

" ' Mrs. Leason, make her come,' 
said Bella, smiling to my mother. 

" ' Go, Eva,' my mother said ; and 
I went. My first impulse was to run 
away when J saw that tall, stately 
form bending before me ; but he 
looked at me with so kindly an ex- 
pression of interest and admiration 
that I accepted the invitation for the 
next quadrille with less of fear and 
restraint than I had hitherto felt. 
When the quadrille was over. Lord 
Montford took me into the refresh- 
ment-room. 

" ' It is no idle compliment to tell 
you, Miss Leason, that I enjoyed 
that dance more than I have done 
anything for years.' 

"'Why?' I answered innocently, 
looking up with astonishment He 
smiled and answered : 

" * If I wished to flatter you, I should 
say because you are more beautiiul 



i 



f. 
f 

f 
I 

»- 



782 



TA^ Double Marriage. 



and graceful than any lady I have 
seen for some time; but the real 
truth is, that I can perceive this is 
your first ball, and the freshness of 
your ideas is something novel to me.' 

" 'Are not my ideas like other peo- 
ple's r 

•' ' Far from it.' 

" * I am very sorry,' I began, half 
hesitatingly ; ' indeed, I wish to be 
like every one else.' 

" ' Never wish so again. Miss Lea- 
son ; wish always to be just as you 
are now.' 

"Just at this moment my mother 
and Bella joined us, and he relin- 
quished my arm. 

" • Why, Eva,' said Miss Clinton, 
* Surely you have some charm. I 
have known Lord Montford for years, 
and I never saw him so animated or 
so happy before.' 

"But I need not dwell longer on 
this part of my life. Day after day, 
evening after evening. Lord Mont- 
ford was by my side ; and yet so 
quietly were these meetings conduct- 
ed, that it always seemed that 
chance directed them. As Bella 
ceased jesting, my mother did not 
notice his attentions. I soon began 
to look upon seeing him as the only 
thing worth living for. I had no 
thought save for him. As yet no 
ivonl of love passed his lips, though 
I could not but perceive that he re- 
garded me with no common interest. 

" One day, as we were all in the 
drawing-room, my mother suddenly 
announced her intention of returning 
home — almost directly. I looked at 
Lord Montford, and saw an expres- 
sion of pain upon his face. I rose and 
went to the window to hide the tears 
that were starting to my eyes. In 
an hour after this, a scr\'ant brought 
me a note from Lord Montford, filled 
with expressions of love, and asking 
for an inter\-iew, and praying that I 
would not mention it to any one, even 



to my mother. I knew this 1 
wrong, and this was the first bi. 
step in my career. I knew cooce 
ment from my mother was, in sucl 
case, wrong ; but stronger than I 
voice of conscience, stronger th 
the whispers of my angel guardi; 
stronger than the promptings of iai 
and obedience was the passion tl 
reigned in my heart. I wrote a £ 
words. My mother, Mr. ClinU 
and Bella were going out to dine, 
pleaded indisposition, and remain 
at home. I promised in the aft( 
noon to grant Lord Montford the i 
terview he desired. I went, wb 
three o'clock came, to the librai 
and I left it in an hour the affiano 
bride of Lord Montford. One thi 
surprised me, and that was, that 
used the most urgent entreaties tti 
I would not mention our inter\-ie 
or its result, to any one. Imprudei 
ly I promised. 

"The day came when we left Lc 
don, and yet no word would Lo 
Montford suffer to be spoken of 
engagement. He stood in the h; 
as we passed from the house, and 1 
hastily whispered to me : 

"'You shall hear from me soo 
Eva, and my letter shall explain a! 
- " I could scarcely bear the quit 
tranquil beauty of home ; my who 
time was spent in wishing for ar 
thinking of the promised letter. 

" ,'\t length it came, and I went wi 
it tightly held in my hand, to n 
own room. I cannot now rememb 
all it said, but the concluding won 
I remember, and they were thes< 
' And now, Eva, I have told yc 
how dear you are to me, how yc 
have come across my dark dreai 
life like a bright sunbeam ; withoi 
you I shall again become a dull, m 
lancholy misanthrope; with }x>u 
may become a good and useful mat 
Will you refuse, Eva, to help nu 
One thing more. A reason of tl 



The Double Marriage. 



783 



•St importance prevents me from 
esent making public our engage- 
: and marriage — a reason so po- 
that, if you refuse secrecy, we 
: part. Say, Eva, shall this be ? 
you sacrifice my love, my hope, 
lappiness, for a scruple ?' 
\nd so with a prayer for my con- 

the letter ended ; and then I 
it down and wept — ay, wept — 
iere was a calmer, holier feeling 
ly heart than I had known for a 

time ; and the struggle was 
My mother, could I leave her 
? How had she nursed me, 
1 me! and with what pleasure 
pride had she looked forward to 
ettling in life ! Her sweet face 
! before me with all its goodness 
purity. No ; I could not leave 
I could not thus deceive and 
)point her. There was the 
:h, too, with its altars and flow- 
who would tend them ? I could 
JO, and so I resolved — a resolu- 

alas ! too soon to be broken, 
^t this moment a hand was gently 
upon my shoulder, and looking 
astily, I saw my mother. 
Eva, are you ill, my darling, or 
ppy ? Why are you here alone, 
miserable ?' 

; made no reply, but laid my head 
I my mother's breast and cried 
i. Those were the last tears I 
shed there. I even feel now 
soft hand caressing me, and 
'ing back the hair from my brow, 
I she soothed me as though I 
been a little child. 
I am ill and tired, mother,' I 
, at length. 

I see you are, Eva.* And she laid 
lown gently, and sat by me until 
:pt Two days afterward I was 
and turning round the road that 
to the wood, I met Lord Mont- 
I found he had arrived that 

and had been waiting many 
s for a chance of seeing me ; but 



he looked so pale and ill I scarcely 
knew him. Let me tell the result in 
few words. I promised him to leave 
home, mother, and all things, and to 
accompany him wherever he would. 

" * It is but for a short time, Eva,' 
said he, 'and then we will return, 
and your mother will forgive us and 
bless us.' 

" ' Why not wait the short time ?* I 
said, for my face burned where my 
mother's tears had fallen. 

" ' I cannot ; you do not know the 
reasons, Eva. But do not refuse me. 
You are the last tie that binds me to 
life and hope.' 

" And he arranged that early the 
next morning I should meet his car- 
riage in the park ; that we should go 
straight to London, and there be 
quietly married ; and then go on the 
same day to Paris. 

" That night, sister, I never slept. 
Many times I half knelt to pray, 
and perhaps had I prayed, God would 
have heard me ; but there was that 
in my heart that would not let me : 
and so, in wearily pacing my room, 
in bitter weeping and grief for my 
mother, in passionate tears, when I 
remembered my promise, in hard 
struggle and indecision, did I pass 
my last night under my mother's roof. 
When morning dawned, I tried to go 
and look at my mother ; twice, thrice, 
I half opened the door, and, shudder- 
ing, closed it ; and with my heart 
half breaking at leaving her, and yet 
drawn on irresistibly, I passed from 
my home a guilty fugitive, a cruel, 
wilful child. I went out into the pure, 
sweet, morning air, and it fanned so 
softly my burning face ; the birds 
were singing such glorious carols of 
praise ; the flowers were lifting their 
fair heads, drooping with dew ; peace 
and beauty and joy were all around 
me ; but in my heart were darkness 
and sorrow, grief and remorse. Sud- 
denly a strong arm twined around 



784 



The Double Marriage. 



me, and a loyr voice, whose tones I 
knew and loved too well, poured into 
my ears a rapture of love and thanks. 
And in a whirl of time that seems to 
me now a dream, I was married, and 
in Paris. Immediately on our arri- 
val at Paris, my husband wrote to my 
mother, telling her of our marriage, 
conjuring her for a time not to reveal 
it, and begging her forgiveness and 
blessing. An answer came, and my 
mother's gentle love spoke in every 
line, yet her heart seemed broken as 
she wrote. Trusting that time would 
reveal the mystery of my husband's 
strange desire for concealment, I 
threw myself into the vortex of plea- 
sure and gayety. The hours passed 
like golden moments. I knew no 
wish, no caprice, that my husband 
did not immediately gratify. The 
most devoted love and ardent affec- 
tion were lavished upon me ; he was 
ever with me : if for one hour we 
were separated, he flew to me the 
next. Smiles chased the melancholy 
and languor from his brow, and the 
light in his eyes was to me brighter 
than the rarest jewel he loved to 
adorn nie with. It was short but 
brilliant, this drc.im of mine ; its bliss 
was dearly purchased. You will 
think the story that I am going to 
tell you strange, but there are stranger 
in the world. 

CH/M»TER iir. 

' I Toi.P you, sister, how devoted I 
was to painting ; and this taste my 
husband spared no pains to gratify. 
He took mc, one day, to one of the 
most splirn(li<l picture-galleries in 
Paris, and there, amon{;jst other chef 
(Tixuvres, I noticed a most beautiful 
picture of St. Mary Magdalen. I 
stood entranced before it: it repre- 
sented a graceful,slender figure kneel- 
ing before a rustic altar. The hands 
were clasped in prayer, and the face 



was slightly raised toward beimj 
but anything so exquisite as th 
blended look of remorse and liM 
upon those splendid features I Mn 
saw ; it was as though the nia^ 
tears had softened the dazzling bta 
ty and brightness of the large, liifi 
eyes, and had blanched the rose> a 
both cheek and lip, and had left on 
the fair face a lingering light, » 
and spiritual. Long golden tics 
waved over her shoulders, andl 
(even as she knelt) upon the grw 
in their profusion and luxuriar 
Hope and love were written on 
noble brow, while such humility. $i 
self-abasement were expressed in 
prostrate, kneeling figure, that a; 
glance the history was read. 1 
got time, place, and all things- 
whole soul absorbed in the v 
drous beauty of the picture. My ! 
band had left me to procure a c 
logue, when suddenly a heavy h 
was laid upon my shoulder, an 
voice hissed, rather than spoke, i 
my ear : * Ay, look — for the siii \ 
branded her is marked upon \ 
brow !' The hot breath of the spt 
er flushed upon niy cheek — x I 
scornful laugh, and it was gone. 
wiUlcrcd, I turned round, but .<aw 
one who seemed likely to have 
dressed me or who seemed lo roi 
me. A few paces from ine, look 
intently upon a small painting, th 
stood a tall, stately lady, and noi 
else was near. I hastened, whc 
recovered the use of my facnhici, 
ask lier if slie had seen any one *;">t 
to me. when she quickly aro^o. j 
left the room. As she turned to }i 
to the door, I saw her face : ii ^ 
handsome, but so cold and haugh 
and with so fierce an expression 
self-will, that the words froze u^ 
my lips ; it was a strange face, t 
and it haunted me all day. I » 
bewildered ; but I did not tell 
husband. I did not wi:sh to trou! 



The Double Marriage, 






'^: 



oy him. I was frightened and 
spirits, and when evening came, 
isband would insist upon my 
to the opera. I went ; but I 
lot forget those dreadful words, 
tpcra was beautiful ; 'but my 
on would wander. Looking 
the boxes, I suddenly saw the 
ady I had met in the picture- 
Her handsome, haughty 
>re an expression that surpris- 
; her large, glittering eyes 
ixed upon me, and a smile of 
h, malicious and revengeful, 
her lip. I turned to my hus- 
ind said : '. I do wish, Percy, 
ould tell me who that lady is 
opposite with the pink dress.' 
-ned, at my request ; but when 
1 her, his face became deadly 
ind convulsed with emotion. 
3u know her ? — are you ill ? — 
s the matter, Percy ?' I cried, 
fothing,' said my husband, ' but 
at is too great ; will you come 
Eva r 

ose, terrified, to leave the box, 
ming again to look at the lady, 
d her gone. As we were driv- 
me, when my husband became 
:omposed, I told him of my ad- 
e in the picture-gallery, and 
him if he could possibly con- 
e the meaning of it. 
Dxy, why, Eva, did you not tell 
is before ? Now, do not be 
ned ; but I have decided to 
Paris by the midnight train : 
low ten o'clock ; will you be 
?• 

''es ; but why this haste ?' 
Isk me no questions, Eva ; only 
, and let us be gone.' 
y husband's manner was stem, 
: became so silent that I dared 
terrupt him. Directly we ar- 
ix. home, he Jeft me to arrange 
r journey, and, ringing for my 
I told her to prepare for in- 
departure. I was tired, and 
VOL. VI. — so 



my head ached with usbku confec- 
tures. I felt a foreboding of coming 
misery that I could not account for. 
I was in the drawing-room, packing 
a few books, when a servant en- 
tered and told me I was wanted. I 
said I could not see any one, I was 
engaged ; but in a few minutes thei 
man returned, and said the lady in- 
sisted upon seeing me, and before he 
had finished speaking, the lady I had 
seen at the opera stood before me. 

" ' You are leaving Paris,' she said, 
with a sneering smile ; ' but it is im- 
portant that you should grant me a 
few moments ; perhaps I may altet 
your plans.' 

" I bowed and the servant withdrew. 
She stood and surveyed me for some 
minutes with a strange, glittering look 
in her wild eyes ; and then coming 
to me, she said : 

" ' You are passing fair. Percy Mont- 
ford's second choice speaks well for 
his taste.' 

"'I do not understand you, ma- 
dam,' I said proudly ; ' nor do I 
see by what right you intrude upon 
me or use my husband's name.' 

" ' Your husband, girl 1' and a mock- 
ing laugh rang in my ears. ' Nay, 
Percy Montford is no husband of 
yours.' 

" ' You are mad,' I replied. But 
she interrupted me — ^ 

" ' Mad 1 No ; and yet, I tell you, 
I am Lady Montford I You do not 
believe me ? I will tell you again. 
Sixteen years ago, when I was young, 
and the world said beautiful, I be- 
came the lawful wife of the man who* 
has deceived you.' 

" I rose indignantly, and grasped the 
bell-rope. 

" ' Nay,' said she, ' pause one min- 
ute before you summon aid or assis- 
tance. I repeat — sixteen years ago 
>I was married. My husband had 
then no title ; he was simply Mr. In-> 
gram ; he lived with me one year, 



796 



The Double Marriage. 



and then, finding my temper hot and 
my spirit bitter, he left me, (amply 
provided for, it is true,) and has never 
seen me since. I have followed him, 
I have tracked him from city to city. 
I found out his admiration for you ; 
I knew he would marry you secretly — 
openly he dared not, for fear of me. 
I could have saved you then, but I 
would not ; I hated you because you 
were beautiful and good, and I have 
watched and waited with a fierce 
longing for the moment when your 
cup of joy was full, that I might dash 
it from your lips, and turn it to the 
poisoned chalice I have so long 
drunk. You still disbelieve me ? 
Look,' and she took some papers 
and laid before me. My hands shook, 
and my sight failed me when I tried 
to read them ; but I saw enough ; and 
covering my face, I sank on my knees. 

" I remember now, sister, that in 
my madness and my grief I knelt to 
that woman, and I prayed to her to 
unsay her fearful words. I can re- 
member how she rejected me, how 
she scorned me and my wild prayers, 
and how proudly she stood over me, 
gloating in my misery. 

" ' No, Eva Lcason ! you broke your 
mother's heart — you had no mercy 
upon her, and I have none upon you. 
I am claiming only justice, I am 
spqiiking only truth.' 

"' Percy !' I cried, ' come and save 
me!' 

"' Ah ! Percy, save her ! You are 
so noble and good I You never de- 
ceived her, never betrayed her !' And 
then I remember no more, save that 
darkness seemed to come upon me 
until I lost all sense and feeling. 

"When I recovered in some degree 
my recollection, I was lying upon a 
sofa, and my husband — ah ! mine no 
longer! — knelt beside me, his fiice 
and head hidden, and yet I knew 
that he was weeping. She was gone. 

«• I sprang to my feet. * Percy,' I 



cried, ' tell me, is this tnic 
found her here. Has bhc 
the truth?' And I waitei 
answer with my life depcmii 

" ' I will deceive you no m. 
Alas ! she has told you true 

" 'And you have deceived n 
me from my mother and tr 
and made me an outcast !' '. 
seemed on fire. I tore the 1 
my finger and the jewels 
hair, and threw them at his 
he knelt, and pa.s;sionately 
me not to leave him, to Us 
story, to have mercy on h 
no, I heeded no word ; 1 
dress from his hands ; I n. 
him ; I took no time ; I h 
thought, and that was to fl 
delirious with grief and a 
cloak and bonnet were ir 
I threw them on ; and b< 
Montford knew where I 
taken a carriage, and was c 
to the station. My heart 
my mother. I remembc 
little else. I cros.sed the 
and my passage took neai 
money : I had just enougl 
IiOndon,and then I was per 
seemed to me that I war 
hours in the drearj- street 
last I fell. I was picke 
carried here. Now, tell i 
was not my punishment bii 
you wonder tliat I craved t 
hide my shame and miser)- 

" You are much sinned 
Kva; but toll me how co 
Montford marry you when 
his first wife was living ?"' 

" I do not know, sister : 
think ; yet now I romom 
night he told me that he ha( 
her when he was quite vo 
had never known peace or n 
and that, when he knew me. 
me so and feared to los< 
could not resist the temptat 
I tell you, sister, that the li 



TMt Doublt Mofriagi. 



197 



when I came to Englaqd was 

mother was dead? I saw it 

>er." 

dear reader, I shall weary 

: repeat all poor Eva's long 

; I must hasten and finish my 

: weeks after this, I was sit- 
h. her, reading to her, when 

Frances called me hastily 
t room. I had told her Eva's 
and I felt from her manner 
e had something of impor- 
> say concerning her. 
er," said the superioress, 

is a gentleman in the con- 
rlor, and he has sent in his 
5ee, it is Lord Montford." 
{other Frances ! what shall 

what can we say to him? 
, then, traced poor Eva here !" 
us first discover his errand, 
n we will act as seems best." 
I we entered the parlor, Lord 
rd rose, and when he address- 
is voice trembled. 
yr I ask," he began, "if a lady 
ne time since obtained shel- 
le hospital, is still here ? I 
iced her here ; can I be al- 
3 see her ?" 

d Montford," said Mother 
I, "Eva's history is well 
to me ; and I have no hesita- 

saying that, while this roof 

her, she shall be safe from 
ther deceptions." 
', you mistake. Rev. Mother, 
ime to offer Eva the only re- 
1 in my power. As you know 
>rs, concealment is useless. 



My first wife is dead, and I am come 
to make her my own again." 

It took a long time to prepare Eva 
for this news; I dreaded it. She 
was so near the verge of the grave, 
that I feared the least agitation 
would be fatal. She bore it calmly; 
and when I had told hei', Lord Mont- 
ford entered the room, and I left 
them together. 

Would, dear reader, that I could 
tell you, as the old story-books do, 
that Eva lived long and happily ; but 
alas ! no ; she died three weeks after 
this, reconciled to God and to the 
church. 

Eva Lady Montford lies in her 
quiet grave; violets are growing 
where her bright head was laid low. 
The winds chant drearily among the 
trees that shelter her tomb ; and if 
you visit it when the morning sun 
gilds the flowers, or the moon silvers 
the leaves, you will always meet 
there one who, if he sinned deeply, 
has repented more deeply still. 

From the wind that sighs over 
Eva's grave, comes there, my dear 
young reader, no warning to you? 
Is there no secret hoarded in that 
heart of yours, that a mother's eye 
has never penetrated ; and if so, will 
it lead to your happiness in this 
world or the next? Ah I no; con- 
cealment or deception in the end 
works misery, let the cause be what 
it may. A pure and open heart be- 
fore God, and a just and blameless 
one before the world, b my prayer 
for you. 



788 



The Church and her Attributes. 



THE CHURCH AND HER ATTRIBUTES. 



The heterodox of all shades recog- 
nize, in some form or in some sense, 
what they call the church of Christ, 
and hold it in some way necessary, 
or at least useful, to salvation. The 
Anglicans profess to believe in a 
church founded by Christ himself, of 
which they claim to be a pure or 
purified branch ; the Presbyterians 
profess to believe that there is a 
church, out of which there is no sal- 
vation ; the Methodists and Bap- 
tists call their organizations churches, 
and hold them to be parts or bran- 
ches of one universal or catholic 
church ; and even Socinians, Unita- 
rians, and Universal ists, who deny 
the incarnation, speak of the church, 
thougli precisely what they mean by 
it is not easy to say. So far as we 
know, there is no sect, school, or p:»r- 
ty, not included among those whom 
our theologians call infidels or apos- 
tates, that does not profess a belief, 
of some sort, in the holy catholic 
and apostolic church of the creed. 

In a controversy between us and 
the heterodox, the question is not. An 
sit ecclesia? but. Qui J sit eccUsiaJ 
The controversy hinges, not on the 
existence of the church, but on what 
the church is, and only rarely on 
which is the true church ; for when all 
have once come to agree as to what 
the church is, there will be little dis- 
pute as to which she is. We start, 
then, with the assumption that there 
is something to be called the church 
of Clirist, and proceed at once to 
point out what she is. 

The church of Christ, taken in its 
most comprehensive sense, in all 
states, places, and times, is, says Bil- 
luart : '* Conp^egatio jidelium in vtro 



Dei cultu adunatorum sub Ckrist, 
pite — the congregation of the fai'J 
united under Christ the head, in 
true worship of God." Most of 
heterodox, as well as all Catho 
will accept this definition. Bui 
definition includes the faithful 
lived before Christ ; as well as t 
who have lived since, and as t 
who lived and died before the 
carnation could not enter into 
ven before the way was openet 
our Lord himself, who is the \ 
Ijorn from the dead, and the rvsui 
tion and the life, a definition more 
ticularly adapted to the state of 
church since the coming of Chn 
needed. The church has indeed 
isted from the beginning ; but be 
the Word was actually incarnated, 
existed by prophecy and proi 
only ; but Christ having come 
fulfilled the promise, the church 
ists now in fact, in reality, for 
reality foretold and promised 
come. Hence St. Paul, in refer 
to the faitliful of the Old Testam 
says, " And all these being apprc 
by the testimony of faith, recei 
not the promise"— or the fulfiln 
of the promise — "God provk 
something better for us, that I 
should not be perfected without i 
Heb. xi. 39, 40. The churrh. 
fore Christ, was incomplete, 
needed further fulfilment or perf 
ing ; the church in the state in wh 
she exists since Christ, is the chu 
realized, completed, or perfect 
According to this state, and as 
kingdom of God on earth, she is 
Billuart again defines: "Societasli 
Hum baptizatorum ejusdem fidei { 
fessione^ eorumdem saciameDtoi 



The Church and her AUrihutes. 



7«& 



ipatione, eodem cuitu inter se 
itorum sub uno capite Christo in 

et sub ejus in terris vicario 
lO pontifice — the society of the 
il, baptized in the profession 
! same faith, united in the par- 
tion of the same sacraments 
the same worship, under one 

Christ in heaven, and on 
under his vicar, the supreme 

will not accept the whole of 
definition; but all will agree 
he church is a society embrac- 
1 the faithful, united in the true 
lip of God under one head, Jesus 
t in heaven ; but the heterodox 
the union under one head or 
;gimen on earth. But what is 
jregation or society of the faith- 
ider Christ its head ? A con- 
tion or society under one head 
!S both unity and multiplicity, 
' many made one, or one mani- 
g or explicating itself in many, 
n either sense supposes more 
the heterodox in general under- 

by the church. The faithful, 
•egated or associated under one 
Christ, are one body, for Christ 
J head of the congregation or 
iy, not merely of the individuals 
ally ; but the heterodox gene- 
in our times at least, make the 
h consist solely of individuals 
gated to the collective body of 
rers, because already united as 
iduals by faith and love to 
t, as their head; which supposes 
X to be the head of each indivi- 
of the church, but not of the 
:h herself. According to this 
men are regenerated outside of 
ociety or church, and join the 
:h because supposed to be rege- 
ed or bom again, not that they 
be bom again. The church 
is case is simply the aggregate 

inut^ D* i&tr. Fid. Dinctt. III. D* Bed. 



of r^enerated persons, and derives 
her life from Christ through them, 
instead of their deriving their life 
from Christ the head through her. 
The one view makes the church a 
general term, an abstraction, per- 
forming and capable of performii^ 
no part in the regeneration and sanc- 
tification of souls ; the other makes 
the church a reality, a real existence, 
living a real life not derived from 
her members, and the real medium 
through which our Lord carries on 
his mediatorial work ; and therefore 
union with her is not only profitable 
to spiritual life, but necessary to its 
birth in the soul, and therefore to in- 
dividual salvation. This must be 
the case if we suppose Christ to be 
the head of the congregation or so- 
ciety called the church, and of indi- 
viduals severally only as they are 
affiliated to her. 

There is, we suspect, a deeper 
philosophy in the church than the 
heterodox in general are aware 6£ 
"The church," it was said in this 
magazine, in one of the essays on 
The Problems of the Age, "is the hu- 
man race in its highest sense," that 
is, the regenerated human race, the 
human race in the teleological or- 
der, not in the order of natural 
generation, which is simply cosmic 
and initial. This supposes in the 
church something more than indivi- 
duals, as, indeed, does society itself 
With nothing but individualities 
broxight together there is no society, 
there is only aggregation, because 
there is no unity, nothing that is one 
and common to all the individuals 
brought together. In all real society 
there is a social principle, a social 
life, in which individuals participate, 
but which is itself not individual, nor 
derived from the individuals associ- 
ated. Thus in every real nation, not 
a pseudo nation made up of the forc- 
ed juxtaposition of distincX v»& o^ieck. 



n> 



The Church and hrr Attributes. 



hostile communities, there is a real 
national life. An insult to the nation 
each one feels is an insult to him- 
self ; and if the existence of the na- 
tion is threatened, ever)' one in whose 
heart throbs the national life, rises, 
and all, in the fine tiiblical expres- 
sion, " march as one man " to the 
rescue, prepared to save the nation 
or die in its defence. 

The unity of social life is still 
more manifest when we come to the 
race. We arc aware oi the old quar- 
rel between the nominalists and con- 
ceptualists on the one hand, and the 
old realists on the other ; but we dis- 
posed of that controversy in the ar- 
ticle entitled An Old Quarrtl, in the 
Magazine for May of last year, and 
established, we think, the reality of 
genera and species, while we denied 
tiiat of abstractions, or simple men- 
tal conceptions. If we deny the re- 
ality of genera and species, we must 
deny the fact of generation, and the 
Catholic dogmas of the unity of the 
lapecies and of original sin. If all 
men have not proceeded from Adam 
by way of natural generation, there 
can be no unity of the species ; and 
if no unity of the species, there can 
be no original sin, which is " the sin 
In which we are bom," the sin of ori- 
gin, the sin of the race, transmitted by 
[aiatural generation from Adam to all 
[bis posterity. To deny the reality 
of the species is to deny this, is 
to deny generation, that we are born 
in any sense of Adam ; to deny 
generation is to deny regeneration ; 
and to deny regeneration is to deny 
the whole Christian or teleological 
order. We cannot then logically be 
nominalists or conceptualists and 
Christian believers at one and the 
same time. 

We do not pretend that the species 

•ubsists without individualization any 

iDore than we do that the individual 

.can subsist without the species. 

What we contend tot \%, \3ti&x. \tv 





every individual there b 
is not individual, but distin^ui»i^ 
from die individuality, which tsc 
mon to all the individuals ot 
species, and which in nca 
all men, from tlic 6rst to 
together in the unity of th« 
head or progenitor. The 
more than the individual, 
in the individual, dctcnnii 
ci<ic nature, and scpanl 
which the individual is not 
the species doe3 not subsist ^ 
individealiz.ition, aiid could utot 
explicated by riatural 
if not individualijrcd. Yet the 4 
tire race was individualuced 
A«lam. 

We can now ti ..{ tbcai( 

tion that "The c... 
race in the highest Mmse," 
erated race in its progci 
ly and reality, ihtrefore' 
head, in the 'trsU 

The head of lli^ ^ h rate 
or the race in the supematur 
ological order, is Christ 
second Adam, the Lord (romj 
Hence the apost". {1 

"As in Adam all 
sh;ill be made alive." The 
in thLs fifteenth chapter of his \ 
to the Corinlhianss, draur* 
between the first Adatn and 
Adam, which must hotd 
twecn the race as bom of 
.\dam, and the race as bom < 
the List Adam ; and, tt 
race born anew roust 
in the order of regencratit 
lation strictly analogous to I 
by it in tlic natural or initial 
the first Adam. Thr 
that in the natural 01 < 
e.xplicated by natural generate 
in the supernatural or tele 
order by the election of grac 
the relation beiwen the tnemb 
the head is no less real in 
case than in the other, and 
\tv x^vt «Kd« of reget>erat 




rth^ 



The Church and her Attributes. 



79? 



I, the life of Christ as really and 
as in the natural order we live 
fe of Adam. The church, then, 
>eds as really through grace from 
;t, the supernatural head, as the 
itself proceeds from Adam, the 
al head. 

lis view of the church is sus- 
d by Saint Augustine, who re- 
:nts Christ as both the head and 
X)dy of the church, and says 
it and his members are the 
J Christ — totus Christus. If we 
the church in her origin, her 
iple, her life, that is, in her 
and soul, she is Christ himself; 
view her as the congregation or 
ty of the faithful, made one in 
nity of the head, the church is 
x)dy of Christ. Hence, Saint 
teaches, (Colossians i. i8,) that 
t " is the head of the body ; the 
:h, who is the beginning, the 
K)m from the dead ,•" "the head, 
which all the body, by joints 
sands being supplied with nou- 
lent and compacted groweth 
the increase of God." (lb. iL 19.) 
ist is the head of the church ; 
the Saviour of his body." (Eph. 
.) " Now you-are the body of 
t, and members of member." 
)r. xii. 27.) "We are members 
s body, of his flesh, and of his 
\." (Eph. V. 30.) "And if one 
yet suffer anything, all the mem- 
iuffer with it : or if one member 
, all the members rejoice with 
(i Cor. xii. 26.) Nothing can 
clearly or unequivocally assert 
t as the head of the church, the 
h as the body of Christ, or the 
)ers of the church as members 
s body and members of one 
er, or the perfect solidarity of 
t and the churph, and of the 
>ers of the church in Christ, and 
one another, as implied in the 
tion of the church quoted from 
urt 



The men of the world do not un- 
derstand this, because they recognize 
no existence but that of individual 
things, and have no conception of 
unity. What transcends the indi- 
vidiial or particular, is, for them, an 
empty word, or a pure abstraction, 
therefore nothing. They have never 
asked themselves how individuals or 
particulars can exist without the gen- 
eral or universal, nor how there can 
be men without the generic man. 
What has not for them a sensible ex- 
istence is, indeed, no existence at alL 
They seem never to reflect that, if 
there were no supersensible reality, 
there could be no sensible reality^ 
The sensible is mimetic, depends on 
the intelligible or noetic which it co- 
pies or imitates. Take away the 
intelligible or non-sensible, and the 
sensible would be a mere appearance 
in which nothing would appear — less 
than a vain shadow. 

We have defined the church in her 
origin, principle, and life, to be Christ 
himself; as the society of the faith- 
fill, to which all the faithful are affili- 
ated, to be the body of Christ But 
the principle on which we have as- 
serted this union of the faithful with 
Christ, applies only to those who ate 
in the order of regeneration ; for in that 
order only is Christ our head, or are 
we, as individuals, affiliated to him, 
and included in him, as the father of 
r^^nerated humanity ; and henoe 
they who die unregenerated, suffer the- 
penalty of original sin and of such ac- 
tual sins as they may have committed. 
How then do we enter that order?" 
By the new birth ; by being bom of' 
Christ into it, as we enter the natu- 
ral order by being bom of Adam. 
The Pelagians, Socinians, Unitarians, 
and Universalists reject the distinc- 
tion of the two orders, and recognize 
no regenerated humanity; the Cal> 
vinists, Congregationalists, Baptists^ 
Presbyterians, Methodis\&) ENvb^igeS&r 



799 



The Church attd her Atlribula. 



cals, etc., hold that wc are translated 
from the order of nature into the order 
of grace by tlie direct, immediate, and 
irresistible operation of the Holy 
Ghost. But the Holy Ghost, in his 
Immediate operations, is God acting 
in his di\ine nature, and the medium 
of our regeneration is God in iiis hu- 
man nature, the Man Christ Jesus, 
who, on this view, would be buperse- 
ded as the mediator of God and men. 
The order of regeneration originates 
in the Man Christ Jesus, the Word 
made flesh, or God in his human na- 
ture, not in God in his divine na- 
ture ; and therefore, to be in ilvat 
order, we must be born of God in his 
humanity. If we could be regene- 
rated by the Holy Ghost, or God in 
his divine nature alone, without the 
inter\-ention of God in his human na- 
ture, or the Man Christ Jesus as the 
medium or mediator, the incarnation 
would go for nothing, and we should 
be made by the new birtli, sons of 
God in his divine nature ; since nei- 
ther the Father nor the Holy Ghost 
assumed flesh ; as the eternal Word 
is himself the son of God, and God 
as he is God ; which, we need not 
say, is simply impossible and absurd. 
By the hypostatic union with the 
Word, man becomes God in his per- 
sonality, but not in his nature, for the 
human nature remains always human 
nature. The two natures remain, as 
we arc taught in the condemnation 
of the Monophysitc5, for ever distinct 
in the unity of the one divine person. 
By regeneration we are elevated, in- 
deed, to be sons of God. but sons of 
God by participation with the Eter- 
nal Son in his human, not in his di- 
vine nature. We are made joint-heirs 
with Christ, and .sons of God by adop- 
tion, not by nature. 

There is no act conceivable with- 
out principle, medium, and end. In 
the creation of man and the universe, 
the three persons of the holy and indi- 



visible Trinity concur, 
respect* — the Father 
the Son or Word as 
Holy Ghost aa eod 
tor. In the regcncrat 
Paul calls a " new 
whole Trii ' 

ther as pr. the! 

dium, and the l^iolj 
coDsummator, or »anc 
it is the Son in' hi 
ture, not in his divit 
i$ (he medium ; for 
"There is one 
tor of. God and tno^ 
Jesus." The Son, in 
turc, is the raedtuni 
order of regeneration, j 
demption, new 
God as our fin. 
We must then be 
in his humanity byi 
as the condition of 
the regeneration, •; -- -' 
bers of the rep.. 
The hetero 
even when .. 

leave it no othce in the] 
and sanctihcation of soi 
no continuous or pennane 
According to tliem, the nM 
work was completed 
died on the cross, at 
ascended into hcii\'en 
salvation of souls is 
the Holy Ghost without ' 
or any participation of 
human nature > 
the indivisible I . 
alone, without the co« 
the other two ! 'Iliis, if 
ble, would imply the denial 
unity of God, and the 
the three persons of the'] 
three Gods. 
God, The . 

ralists, as well as the 
really deny the whol 
grace %& proceeding HI 
his humaa nature, its 



the nM 

I w^ 

utH 




1 



Tkf Church and her Attributes. 



793 



lium, and hence the reason why 
4lMy so universally shrink from call- 
Aiig Mary the Mother of God, and 
"l^iiccuse of idolatry the devotion which 
■Catholics pay to her. Though the 
JBtemai Word took the flesh he as- 
.4Hlined from her, yet, as that flesh is 
. \mt in their view the medium of our 
'i^lpiritual life, they cannot see in her, 
.llttore than in any other pure and 
r.fcoly woman, any connection with 
'^' onr regeneration, and our spiritual 
,' or eternal life. They cannot see 
that, in denying her claims, they vir- 
' tualiy reject the whole Christian or- 
der. 

The difficulty, though not the mys- 
tery, disappears the moment we re- 
cognize the sacramental principle, 
which it was the prime object of 
^e Reformers to eliminate from the 
Christian s)rstem. In the definition 
of the chfirch, she is said to be " the 
society of the faithful baptized in the 
profession of the same faith, and 
united inter se in the participation 
of the same sacraments." The sac- 
raments are all visible signs signify- 
ing, that is, communicating grace to 
the recipient. Among these sacra- 
ments is one, which is the sacrament 
of faith, the sacrament of regenera- 
tion, that is, bapHsm, in which we 
receive the gift of faith, and are bom 
members of Christ's body, and uni- 
ted to him as our head, and as the 
head of the regenerated race. In 
baptism we are regenerated, bom 
into the supernatural order, the king- 
dom of heaven, and have the life of 
Christ infused by the Holy Ghost 
into us, so that henceforth we. be- 
come flesh of his flesh, bone of his 
bone, one with him, and one with all 
the ^thful in him, as really united 
to him in the spiritual order, as we 
are to Adam in the natural order, 
and derive our spiritual life from 
him as really as we derive from 
God, throu^ Adam, our natural 



life. This is what we understand 
Sl Paul to mean .when he .says, "It 
is written, the flrst man, Adam, was 
made a living soul; the last Adam a 
quickening spirit." The sacraments 
are all effective ex opere operate^ and 
through them the Holy Ghost infuses 
the grace special to each, when the 
recipient opposes no obstacle to it. 
Infants are incapable of offering any 
obstacle, and are regenerated by 
baptism in Christ and joined to him. 
In the case of adults who have grown 
up without faith, the prohibentia, ox 
obstacles to faith, must be removed, 
by reasons that convince the under- 
standing and produce what theolo- 
gians call _fides humana, or human 
faith, such faith as we have in the 
tnith of historical events ; but this 
faith is wholly in the natural order, 
although it embraces things in the 
sup>ernatural order as its material 
object, and does not at all unite us 
to Christ as .our head. It brings us, 
when faithful to our convictions, to 
the sacrament of baptism, but can- 
not introduce us into the order of re- 
generation ; the faith that unites us 
to the body of Christ, and through it 
with Christ himself, or divine faith, is 
the gift of God, and is infused into 
the soul by the Holy Ghost in the 
sacrament of baptism itself.* 

Hence, in her present state, only 
the baptized belong to the so- 
ciety called the church of Christ, 
and only the baptized are united as 
one body under Christ, their head in 
heaven, or under his vicar on earth. 
The satisfaction or atonement made 
by our Lord to divine justice, though 
it was made for all, and is ample for 
the sins of the whole world, avails 
individuals, or becomes practically 
theirs, only as through baptism, vei 
in rCy vel in voto^ they are really uni- 

* Theoloeian* generally teach that an act <S super- 
natural laith, elicited by the aid of a special tramieat 
grace, precedes the infiiaioa of the habit of fiuth.— Eb. 
Catholic WosLa 



794 



The Church attd fur Attribntes. 



ted to Him, and are in Him as their 
head, as we were in Adam ; and 
hence the dogma, extra ccciesiam 
nuila salus^ judged by the world to 
be so harsh and illiberal, is founded 
in the ver)' nature and design of the 
church, of the whole mediatorial 
work of Christ, and in the ver)' rt:a- 
son of the incarnation itself. To say a 
man can be saved out of the church, 
is saying simply a man can be saved 
out of Christ, without being bom of 
Him, — as impossible as for one to be 
a man and in humanity, without be- 
ing bom of Adam. The justice, the 
sanctity, the merits, the life of Christ, 
can be really ours, only as we are 
really assimilated to His body, and 
are in Him as our living head, our 
Father in the order of grace ; and 
hence it was not idly or inconside- 
rately, that St. Cyprian, one of the 
profoundest of the fathers, said : 
" He cannot have God for his father, 
who has not the church for his mo- 
ther." It lies in the very nature of 
the case. 

The other sacraments are channels 
of grace from the head to the body 
and its members ; and are all means 
of sustaining or restoring the life be- 
gotten in baptism, preser\ing, diflfxis- 
ing, or defending the faith, bringing 
up children in the nurture of the 
Lord, augmenting the life and com- 
pacting the union of the body of 
Christ, and solacing individuals in 
their illnesses, and comforting and 
strengthening souls in their passage 
through the dark valley of death. 
The sacramental sysfcm is complete, 
and provides for all our spiritual 
wants. Baptism initiates us into the 
life of Christ ; the Holy Eucharist 
nourishes that life in us ; Penance 
restores it when lost by sin ; Confir- 
mation gives strength and heroic 
courage to withstand and repel the 
assaults of Satan ; Orders prox-ide 
priests for offering the unbloody sa- 



ws IH| 

m3I 



criiice, th« stewards of the ■ 
ries oi Christ, intcrccsaoo £a| 
people, teachers, directory 
fenders, in the name of 
the Christian societ>' ; Ml 
institutes and ble&scs the Chri 
family; and K^ ''actiool 

the sick, or sust 
consoles tlie departing. Ii 
sacraments meet all the 
of the soul, in both the 
the supernatural orders, froc 
to its departure, and evca . 
not on the brink of ti 
accompany us till rectnl 
choir of the just made per 
The medium of all sa 
grace is the Man Christ jt 
Word made flesh, and the : 
are the media through 
grace of our Lord Jcs 
out from him, the Fc 
grace that begets the netri 
fies, sanctifies, and makes 
to God, we mean, — is infirs 
Holy Ghost into the souU 
stitutes alike the vital pril 
the individual, and of thewbi 
quickening and su^taint 
rejecting sacramental 
rodox separate the indiv 
and also the church herself, 
real communion or intcrcoofse 
Christ, or Ck»d in his human 
and accept the seminal prii 
rationalism, into which we 
ever)'where falling. They dim 
Christ, and render the Word i " ' 
only in his divine nature, 
raments are (he media of 
with God in his honuui 
through which the hypostatic m 
is, in some sort, repeat 
made by the Holy Ghc 
effectual to the ' 
of believers, am! 
diurch. which is liie Uk 
and as this grace, in its { 
medium, is Christ 
are bom of it arc boni 








Tkf Ckurch and her Attributts. 



79S 



life which they live in and by it 
e one life of God in his humanity, 
icing at the church, in what theo- 
ins call her soul, she is literally 
truly the man Christ Jesus, and 
ing at her as the whole congre- 
>n of the fdthfiil, she is the body 
'hrist, and related to him as the 
r to the soul. It is this intimate 
ion of the church to God in his 
an nature, that led Moehler to 
:sent the church as in some 
the continuation on earth, in a 
le form, of the Incarnation ; and 
s certainly so closely united to 
li\'ine personality, that we may 
Tuly, that he is her "personality, 
»lly as he is the personality of 
flesh he assumed and h>'po- 
cally united to himself. Perrone 

that, if we exclude from this 
all pantheistic conceptions, it is 
tural, and, moreover, sustained 
he fathers, especially St Atha- 
is, who says, in writing of the 
mation, " £t cum Petrus dicat : 
isime sciat ergo omnis domus Is- 
quia et Dominum eum, et Chris- 
fecit Deus, hunc Jesum quem vos 
fixistis : non de divinitate ejus 
, quod Dominum ipsum et Chris- 
fuerit, sed de humanitate ejus, 

est UNivERSA ECCLESiA, quae 
>so dominatur et regnat, post- 
1 crucifixus ipse est : et quae 
tur ad regnum coelorum, ut cum 
%gnct, qui seipsum pro ilia ex- 
vit et qui induta servili for- 
i^am assumpsit,"* Christ, in 
umanity, is the universal church, 
li rules and reigns in him. We 
ot study the great fathers of the 
:h too assiduously, and we wish 
ad earlier known it. The doc- 

we are trying to set forth is 

lere is nothing here that favors 

it Manr. opp. tom. L p. >, p. 887 : vpuA Pa- 
takct £«ds Theolc)(. p. I. c a : DtAnimm. 
iv, Act t. 



pantheism : i. Because the hypostatic 
union is by the creative act of God, as 
much so as the creation of Adam. a. 
Because, although God is really the 
church, regarded in her soul, it is 
God in his human, which is for ever 
distinct from his divine nature, and 
therefore in his created nature. 3. 
Because the Word was incarnated in 
an individual, not in the species, as 
some rationalists dream, save as the 
species was individualized in the in- 
dividual nature he assumed ; and, 4. 
Because, though Christ is identically 
the soul, the informing principle, the 
life of the church, the individuals 
affiliated to the body of the church 
retain their individuality, their human 
personality, and therefore their own 
free-will, personal identity, activity, 
or their character as free moral agents. 
Not all individuals apparently affili- 
ated to the body of the church are 
really assimilated to her, and vitally 
united to the body of Christ They 
pertain to the society externally, but 
not by an inward union with Christ, 
the head and soul. They are, as 
St. Augustine says, " in not of the 
church," as the dead particles of mat- 
ter in the human body which receive 
not, or have ceased to receive, life from 
it, and are constantly flying or cast 
oft Gratia supponit naturam. All 
the operations of grace presuppose 
nature, and nature has always the 
power to resist grace. Without grace 
nature cannot concur with grace ; 
yet even they who have been born 
again, and have entered into the 
order of regeneration, are always able 
to fall away, or back, practically, into 
the natural order. Not every indi- 
vidual in the church is assimilated 
to her, nor every one who is assimi- 
lated to her will continue to the end. 
But she herself survives their loss 
and remains always one and the same 
body of Christ 
We have dwelt at great length on 



796 



The Chunk and her Attributa. 



this view of the church, not because 
we have any special partiality or apti- 
tude for mystic theology, but because 
we have wished to show that the 
church is not something purely ex- 
ternal and arbitrary. We hold that 
all the works of God are real, and 
have a real and solid reason of being 
in the order of things which he has 
seen prof)er to create. He does 
nothing in the supernatural order, 
any more than in the natural order, 
without a reason, 9nd a good and 
valid reason. We have wished to 
get at the reality, and to show that 
Catholicity is not a sham, a make- 
believe, a reputing of things to be 
that are not ; but a reality, as real 
in its own order as the order of na- 
ture itself, and, in fact, even more so, 
as nature is mimetic, and Catholicity, 
to borrow a term from Plato, is tne- 
thexie, and participates of the divine 
reality itself. All heterodox systems 
are shams, unphilosophical, sophis- 
tical, and incapable of sustaining a 
rigid examination. Their abettors 
do not, and dare not, reason on them. 
The age supposes Catholicity is no 
better, is equally unsubstantial, un- 
rc.il, dissolving and vanishing in thin 
air at the first glance of reason. We 
have wished to show the age its mis- 
take, and to let it see that Catholici- 
ty can bear the most thorough inves- 
tigation, and that it has nothing 
to fear from the most rigid dialectics. 
Wo do. not protend to divest it of 
mysteries, or to explain the mysteries 
so as to bring them within the com- 
prehension of our feeble understand- 
ings, but to show that the church, 
with all her attributes and functions, 
has a reason in the divine mind and 
in the order of things of which we 
mnke a part, and is 'a real, inward 
life, as well as an outward form. 

From the view of the church, which 
we have presentetl, it is easy to deduce 
her attributes. She is in some sort, 



according to St AthanasiiB, the I 
man nature of Christ, or Cfanii 
his humanity, and he is her i 
personality, for his humanit) si^l 
parable from his divine person. TMl 
she is one, follows, necessanhr,ia| 
the unity of Christ's person, ihiatlW 
fact that, in her soul, she is CUl V 
and, in her body, is his body. Hil 
unity is the unity of Christ M 
and the unity of the life she limll] 
him. There are individual 
tions and even varieties of rut C 
family among men in the naturdf- 
der, but all men are men only 'l 
that they are one in the unity of A 
species. Jesus Christ is not oni 
the individual man Christ Jesus, b 
also in the order of rcgeneratioc t 
species, as Adam was both an in 
vidual man and the entire speries 
the order of genesis or genentii 
The church as growing out of the 
carnation, and, in some sense, coi 
nuing it, and in her body compoM(i 
individuals bom of him and affiliai 
to him, must necessarily be one. c 
in her faith, one in her sacramer 
one in her worship, one in her lo 
one in the life that flows through h 
animates and invigorates her, fii 
the one Christ, who is her forma. 
informing principle, as the soul is t 
infonning principle of the bodv— J 
ma est forma corporis, as the h( 
Council of Clermont defines. Diw 
sity in any of these respircts brea 
the unity of the body and interruj 
communion with the head, and t 
communion of the body with t: 
soul, whence is derived its life, 
is therefore all Christians have ! 
wa}'s held heresy and schism tn I 
deadly sins, and the most deadly 
all. They not only sever those gu 
ty of them from the Ixxly or extern 
communion of the church, but fro 
her internal communion, from Chri 
himself, the only source of supem 
tural and divine life. There is » 



Tke Church and her Attributes, 



797 



grossest ingratitude and 

in heresy and schism, but 
•piritual death in them. By 
die to Christ as, in the na- 
er, we should die to Adam, 
ur natural life, if we were de- 
our humanity or cut off from 
on with its natural head, 
from bigotry or intolerance 
church regards heresy and 
ith horror; it is because they 
ly separate the soul from 
nd destroy its spiritual life ; 
they reject Christ, and cru- 
afresh. It is so in the very 
f the case, and she can no 
Ice it not so, than the mathe- 
can make the three angles 
ngle not equal to two right 
It is not, therefore, without 
lat the church has always in- 
it to keep the unity of the 
le first of Christian duties, 
;t. Paul bids St. Timothy to 
: deposit, and to hold fast 

of sound words ; for with- 
lith it is impossible to please 
'e know men may err with- 
j heretics ; we know that in- 
ignorance, an ignorance not 
in its cause, excuses from 
It whereof one is invincibly 
; but there is no invincible 
£ where one may know the 
t will not J and invincible 
2 itself cannot regenerate 
and elevate it to the super- 
jrder, which can be done 
aith given in baptism, 
hurch is holy, holy in her 
., her worship, her life, and 
iving members. This fol- 
essarily from the fact, that 
oul she is Christ, and her 
! body of Christ. She is 
he is holy, and because he 
s she is one because he is 
•ubtless all individuals in her 
on are not holy; for men 

we have seen, be in the 



church and not of the church. Re- 
generation, or the infused habits of 
faith, justice, and sanctity, do not de- 
stroy one's individuality, or take away 
one's free-will ; men may, if they will, 
profane the sacraments, eat or drink 
tmworthily, even fall from grace, and 
become gross sinners against God 
and criminals before the state. These 
are not holy, but the reverse ; yet all 
who are born again, and are united 
by a living bond to the church, may 
derive, if they will, life from Christ 
through her, and all who do so are 
holy in her holiness, as she is holy 
in the holiness of Christ. His life, 
the life of God .in his humanit}', is 
their life. 

The attempt to disprove the sancti- 
ty of the church from the bad conduct 
of some, if you will many, of her mem- 
bers, overlooks the real character of 
the church, supposes her to be simply 
an a^regation of individuals, living 
only the life she derives from them ; 
and it also starts from thd false as- 
sumption that grace is irresistible 
and inamissible. Poor Luther, in the 
morbid state into which he fell in his 
convent, could find relief only in as- 
suming that, as he had once been in 
grace, he must be still in grace, and 
sure of salvation ; for grace, once had, 
can never be lost, however one may 
sin after having received it. Yet this 
doctrine was false, and but for his 
morbid, half insane state of mind, 
he would never have entertained it 
for a moment. Protestantism sprang 
from the diseased state of Luther's 
soul. A sad origin. 

The church is visible as well as 
invisible. This also follows ne- 
cessarily. The internal life of the 
church is invisible, hidden with God ; 
but the body of the church is visible, 
as was the body of Christ when on 
earth. . The church is composed, as 
we have seen, of body and soul, and 
everybody living on earth in space 



798 



The Church and her Attributes. 



and time, is by Its own nalure \'is- 
ible, and would not bo bo<ly if it 
were not. The body of the church 
.s composed of individuals united in 
the profession of the same faith, and 
in the participation of the same sac- 
raments, under one head, and is 
therefore, since the individuals are 
visible, a visible body. The whole 
analogy of the case supposes her to 
be both invisible and visible, as are 
all the sacraments, which are visible 
signs or media of invisible grace. 
The church is the medium through 
which the soul is regenerated and 
comes into communion with Christ, 
the head, and derives life from his 
life ; and how if not visible could 
we know where to find her, or be 
able to approach her sacraments, and 
through them be bom again, and be 
united in the supernatural order to 
Christ, as in the natural order we are 
united to Adam ? No : the church 
is as a city set on a hill, and cannot 
be hidden ; and is set on a hill, made 
visible, that all may behold her, and 
flock within her walls. 

The church is indefectible. This 
follows from the fact that Christ him- 
self whose body she is, is indefecti- 
ble, and dies no more, but ever livcih 
and reigneth. No matter whether you 
call the rock pn which he said he 
would build his church, and against 
which the gates of hell shall not pre- 
vail, Peter, the truth that Peter con- 
fessetl, or Christ 'himself, her incle- 
fectibility is equally asserted. He 
himself in every case, is the chief 
corner-stone, is, in the last analysis, 
the rock ; and the church cannot fail, 
not because men may not fail, but 
because he who is her support, her 
life, cannot fail, since he is God, and 
as truly God in his human nature as 
in his divine nature. The heterodox 
of all shades, however they may err 
as to what she is, hold, as we have 



seen, that the churrh 
indefectible. 

The church is .^uthoi 
authority is the author 
and his authority is the 
God in his human natur 
power is given unto roe,* 
" in heaven and in earth,' 
fore is he exalted to be " 
kings and Lord of I 
the name of Jesus e 
bow. The church is Chi 
humanity, and his author 
for it is in and through h< 
exercises his authority, 
her, is to resist him, and 
him is to resist God. " H| 
.spiselh you, despiseth mc, a( 
dospiscth me, despiseth him ' 
mc." This is no arbitral 
ity, or authority resting sol 
external commission or apf 
It is internal and real in 
as the body of Christ, 
in her, lives in her, ao< 
and through her. It is, 
light thing to resist the nt 
the church ; for to do so, b 
slst the authori(> " ' ""'i>le ' 
the authority of * ^ to 

authority of the Holy Ghost' 
The age feels it, and seeks 
itself in rejecting the chi 
nying the Divine sovereign! 
God has any rightful aut 
the creatures he has made. 
mands liberty, and M. 
man of iron logic, maintained 
assert liberty in the sense thisj 
serts it, we must dethrone 
annihilate belief in bi.H 
" Once admit the existence i 
he said, " and you must 
thorily claimed by the 
papal despotism and all. 
met this denial of the Divir 
reignty in the essay on Rom* atU 
WtirM, in the current volur 
Magazine, and proveti, wc 



Tk* Church and her Attributts. 



i^ 



i^ely, that God is sovereign Lord 
Proprietor of all his works. Very 
)eople are willing to avow them- 
:s atheists, however atheistic may 
leir speculations ; and most peo- 
lave, after all, a lurking belief 
God is sovereign, and has pie- 
authority over all the creatures 
^ made. Concede this, and the 
jrity of the Son is conceded j and 
; authority of the Son is conced- 
liat of the church cannot be de- 
or questioned. 

le church is infallible. This fol- 
necessarily, if our Lord himself 
allible, which it were impious to 
t Our Lord is God in his hu- 
nature indeed ; but God in his 
m nature is God no less than in 
ivine nature. In this is the mys- 
of the incarnation — that God 
Id humble himself, assume the 
of a servant, annihilate himself, 
were, become man, and be obe- 

unto death, even the death of 
ross, and yet be God, have all 
jlness of the Godhead dwell in 
>odily ; this is a mystery that only 
himself can fathom. We know 
revelation the fact,and can under- 
l its relation to our redemption, 
ication, sanctification, and glori- 
on ; but it remains a fact before 
\ we do, and always must, stand 
e and wonder. If Christ is God, 
in his humanity and also in his 
ity, for he includes both natures 
le unity of his divine person, 
as all the attributes of divinity, 
he has also all the attributes of 
inity, what the fathers mean 

they say, " he is perfect God 
perfect man." He knows all 
s, and can do all things, and 
leither deceive nor be deceived, 
s the divine personality of the 
:h, who is not the individual 
but the human nature hypos- 
Jly united to himself^ as we have 
from St Athanasius. His life is 



her life, and she must, therefore, be 
infallible as he is infallible. He who 
is infallible as God is infallible lives 
in her, and she lives, breathes, moves, 
and acts by him and in him. How 
then, can she be not infallible? How 
could she err ? She could no more 
err as to the truth that lives and 
speaks in her than God himself, for 
she is all in him, and in her soul in- 
distinguishable from him. She is not 
infallible by external appointment or 
commission alone, but really so in her- 
self, in her own life and intelligence. 
We speak of the soul of the church, 
but as her soul and body are not se- 
parated or separable, she must be 
equally infallible in her body, or as 
the body of Christ, who is the life and 
informing principle of the body. The 
body of the church, by virtue of its 
union with Christ is, and must be, in- 
fallible. But the body of the church 
is a society of individuals ; and is it 
meant that all individuals in the com- 
munion of the church are infallible? 
There is in the church regenerated 
humanity which, though it subsists 
not without individualization, is not 
individual. This regenerated human- 
ity is united to Christ, its regenerator^ 
and derives its life from him. In all 
the individuals affiliated or assimilat- 
ed to the body of the church, there is 
both this regenerated humanity and 
their own individuality. As regen- 
erated humanity, no one can err, but 
in their individuality all individuals 
do or may err more or less. Reason 
is in all men, and reason within its 
sphere is infallible ; but all men are 
not infallible in their understanding 
of what is reason, or what reason 
teaches. Individuals who are in the 
communion of the church, so far as 
made one with her body and one 
with the indwelling Christ, are infal- 
lible in his infallibility ; but in their 
individuality they are not infallible. 
Hence, when it is said tha cbsixcSk. Vk 



800 



The Church and her Attributes. 



infallible, the meaning is, that she is 
infallible in the universal, not in the 
particular, or in the sense in which 
she is one, not in the sense in which 
she is many. Our faith as individual 
believers is infallible only in believ- 
ing with the church, what she in her 
unity and integrity believes and 
teaches. 

The church, we should have said 
before, is catholic. This follows 
from her unity and completeness. 
CathelU means the whole, or univer- 
sal ; and since the church is one, and 
is the body of Christ, who is "the 
way, the truth, and the life," she can- 
not but be catholic. She is cath- 
olic, in the words of the catechism, 
"because she subsists in all ages, 
teaches all nations, and maintains 
all truth." She is catholic because 
in her soul she is Christ himself ; be- 
cause in her body she is the body of 
Christ ; because she is the whole re- 
generated human race in their head, 
the second Adam. Having Christ, 
who, in the order of regeneration, is 
at once universal and individual, she 
has the whole, has the universal life 
of Christ, has all truth, for he is the 
tVuth itself and in itself, and is the 
only way of salvation ; for there is no 
other name given under heaven among 
men whereby we can be saved — 
neither is there salvation in another. 
She subsists in all ages, prior to the 
inc;trnation, as we have seen, bv 
prophecy and promise ; since the in- 
carnation, in fact and reality ; and 
has authority to teach all nations, 
and is set to make all the kingdoms 
of this world the kingdom of God and 
his Christ. Whatever is outside of 
her is outside of Christ, and is neces- 
sarily non-catholic. 

Tiie church is apostolic. This 
means that she is endowed with au- 
thority to leach and govern, not mere- 
ly lliat she tlcscends in the direct line 
from the apostles, the chief agents in 



founding and building her u 
of course, that is implied i 
ty and catholicity in time nr 
in space. It means that shc 
with apostolic authority . 
authority in doctrine and il 
This authority* is di.siingui«V 
the sacerdotal character 
in the sacrament of orvici 
may have valid orders, be ri. 
and actually consecrate i 
or even heresy, as is tlic 
the clergy of the schi>mj 
Church and some of thi 
sects. But these schism:^ 
tical priests have no ap 
thority, no authority to ic 
ern in the church, no 2' 
doctrine or discipline, ar 
s.icerdotal act.s are irregu 
cit. This authority, whi( 
seen the church derive: 
indwelling Christ, and p 
his body, we call the apo 
is inherent in Christ hin 
and can be exercised only 
by iiis vicar, the supreme 
the pastors of the cluire! 
and in communion wiih 
the arguments that prf>ve 
ty of the church |jrt>ve eiji 
sibility of the apostoiate, 
Cyprian calls it, the epi>- 
the arguments that ])ro\v i 
the church prove the ur 
apostoiate or episcop.ite ; 
fore, with those which prci 
bility of the church, prov< 
centre of authority, in whii 
copate takes its ri>.e. or i 
the whole teaching an*! 
.authority under Chri>t r.u 
pervades the whole Ixuiy. 
ble church being one. tietn.i 
ble head ; for if >1k' had no \ i 
she would lack visiMe u 
would be, as to her teat hin; 
erning authority, not \W\h 
visible. Hence S.unt Cyp 
asserting the episcopate c 



The Church and her Attributes. 



Sox 



by all the bishops in solido, 
t the unity might be made 
or the apostolate be seen to 
rise from one, our Lord es- 

one cathedra and gave the 

Peter. Saint Cyprian evi- 
lumes the necessity of avis- 
e of authority, so that we 
ndividual members of the 
ir as persons outside the 
eking to ascertain and enter 
union, know what is her au- 
id where to find it. Hence 
inition of the church we be- 
aying she is defined to be 
ety of the faithful, baptized 
Session of the same faith, 

1 inter se in the participation 
tne sacraments, and in the 
lip of God, under Christ the 
eaven, and under his vicar, 
me pontiff on earth." The 
the visible origin and cen- 
apostolate, as Christ is him- 
ivisible origin and centre, 
!ssential to the being of the 
iirch as are any of the attri- 
have seen to be hers. To 
• on the supreme pontiff is 
war on the church, and to 

on the church is to make 
!hrist, and to make war on 
to make war on God and 

part of our present pur- 
liscuss- the constitution of 
rchy or external organiza- 

2 church, which, to a certain 
and must be a matter of 

iw, and which, though hav- 
ison in the very nature and 

the church as founded by 
nation, lies too deep in that 
f mysteries for us to be able 
fn it by way of logical de- 

The idea of one living God 
he three persons in the God- 
; idea of the incarnation in- . 
e church ; and the idea of 
:h includes unity, sanctity, 
VOL. VI.— 51. 



catholicity, visibility, indefectibility> 
infallibility, apostolicity ; and the 
idea of apostolicity includes authori- 
ty in its unity and visibility; and, 
therefore, the papacy is the visible 
origin and centre of the authority of 
the church as the visible body of 
Christ So far we can go by reason- 
ing from the ideas, principles, or data 
supplied by revelation. The rest de- 
pends on authority, and is not ascer- 
tainable by theological reason. 

We know from the New Testament 
that our Ix)rd has set in his church 
some to be apostles, some to be pas- 
tors; etc.; but these are all included 
in the supreme pontiff, who possesses 
the priesthood, the episcopate, the 
apostolate, the pastorate, in their 
plenitude; and all, except what is 
conferred in the sacrament of orders, 
is derived directly or indirectly from 
him, as its origin and source under 
Christ, whose vicar he is. This is 
enough for our present purpose, and 
it is worthy of remark that always 
has the papacy been the chief point 
of attack by the enemies of the church ; 
for they have had the sagacity to per- 
ceive that it is the keystone of the arch, 
and that if it can be displaced, the 
whole edifice will fall of itself. It is 
the pope that heresy and schism to- 
day war against, and the whole non- 
catholic world seek to deprive him of 
the last remains of his temporal au- 
thority, because they foolishly ima- 
gine that the destruction of the prince 
will involve the annihilation of the 
pontiff. It is the pontificate, and 
Garibaldi avows it, not the principal- 
ity, that they seek to get rid of. But 
they may despoil the prince ; they 
cannot touch the pontificate. He 
who is King of kings and Lord of 
lords has pledged his omnipotence to 
sustain it. Our Lord has prayed for 
Peter that his faith fail not. 

It were easy for us to cite the 
commission of our Lord to the teach- 



8o2 



The Church and her Attributes. 




ing church, and from that to argue her 
authority to govern under him, and 
her infallibility in teaching ; but wc 
have had anotlier purpose in view. 
We have wished, by setting forth the 
relation of the church to the incar- 
nation, and deducing from that rela- 
tion her essential attributes, to show 
how the church can be holy and yet 
individual Catholics can be unholy, 
and how individuals, all individuals 
in their individuality, can be fallible 
and err, and yet she be infallible. 
The heterodox argue against the 
church from the misconduct of indi- 
vidual Catholics. They ransack his- 
tory and collect a long list of mis- 
deeds, crimes, and sins, of which Ca- 
tholics have been guilty, and then 
ask. How can a church who has done 
such things be holy or be the church 
of God? In the first place, we an- 
swer, none of the things alleged have 
been committed by llie church, but, 
if committed at all, it has been by in- 
dividuals in the church ; and in the 
second place, even rebirth in bap- 
tism does not, as we have seen, des- 
troy the personality of the individual, 
or take away his free-will. He can sin 
aAer grace as well as before, and 
glorification is promised only to 
those who persevere to tlie end. 
The church is holy by her union 
with Christ, as his body ; individuals 
are so by their assimilation to her, 
and by living through her the life of 
Christ. 

It is asked again how, if the 
church is infallible, can individuals be 
fallible ; and if individuals are fal- 
lible, and do not unfrequently err, 
how can the church be infallible.' 
How from any possible number of 
faliibles gel an infallible ? The an- 
swer is in principle the same. The 
church is infallible, for he who as- 
sumed human nature, and whose 
body she is, is her personality, for she 
is individualized in tiie individual 



i 



human nature he assumed;^ 
individual is not in himself J 
for he retains his own 
with all its limitations and I 
tions. The infaJlibility is 
and proceeds from him to the I 
nerated race, not to the xd&A 
member in his individuality. 
Lord assumed human tuitweint 
its human personality, thoo^ 
man nature individualized ; 
indi\iduals assimilated to C 
through the church retain their 
per human personality, and m 
fallible only in the church, OM 
far as they think and speak 
thoughts, and believe what »h^ 
lieves and teaches. The pope 
self is not personally infa 
at most only when speak 
lira, in union w 
church, and > 
Hence some i ns 

that the pap.il u. . 
arc reformable till expressly < 
accepted by the universal 
though we do not agree 
for wc regard the pope as tfie" 
of Christ in teaching as 
governing, and, therefore, ; 
ing, when speaking officiallj 
fallible failli of the univi 
For us, in the language of j 
brose, ul'i Pet rut, ibi e%'ctesia. 
ever the church speaks, she^ 
the words of her Lord, and 
ble and authoritative ; whcncvrr 
individual speaks in his own iix 
duality, he is fallible, and his no 
as his, have no aut 
church can then be 
individuals fallible. Cc 
any arguments drawn from 
and misdeeds of indinduals i 
weight ag.iinst the church.* 

If non-Catholics would 
tion to this, they would 
books, publish fewer c«a) 
preach fewer sermons, «g»iMt 
church, for fhev \\\\f hitherto 




The Church and her Attributes. 



803 



[ little or nothing against her 
iie errors and bad conduct of 
:hmen. When they wish for 
pies of the purest and most 
c sanctity, they are obliged to 
them in her communion, and the 

anti-Catholic among them feel 
hey may assert without proof any 
ine they happen to like, if the 
h has taught and teaches it. 

remarkable with what confi- 
: and mental relish they assert 
ular doctrines for which they 
lat they have her authority. Is it 
ise a secret conviction of her 
.bility lurks in the minds of all 
are Catholic by their reminis- 
s ? and would they not be far 
;nraged against what they call 
seductions of Rome," if it were 
0, if they did not feel them- 
i constantly tempted to return 
: communion? They resist her 
nee, in fact, only by a constant 

by main strength. 
: it is time to bring our remarks 
:lose. We have opened a vast 
;t, one to which we could do 

justice in a magazine article, 
if we were otherwise- able, as we 
,ot, to treat it not altogether 
•thily. No mortal can speak 
ily of the church of Christ, in 



which the power, the wisdom, the 
justice, the love, and the mercy of 
God, of the indivisible 'and ever 
Blessed Trinity, in all their infini- 
tude are, so to speak, embodied and 
displayed. Even God himself can- 
not do more or better than he has 
done in the church, for he gives in 
her himself, and more than himself 
even he cannot give. How great, 
how glorious, how awful is the 
church 1 How great, how exceed- 
ing great, the loving-kindness of 
God, who perfhits us to call her our 
mother, to draw life from her breasts, 
and to rest on her bosom ! We love 
the church, who is to us the sum 
of all things good and holy, and we 
grieve daily over those who know 
her not ; we grieve when her own 
children seem to treat her with levi- 
ty or indifference ; we are pained to 
the heart When we hear men, who 
have souls to save, for whom Christ 
died, and whom she longs to clasp to 
her loving bosom, railing against her, 
calling her "the mystery of iniqui- 
ty," and her chief pontiff " the man 
of sin." We seem to see our Lord 
crucified afresh on Calvary, and to 
hear her sweet voice pleading, " Fa- 
ther, forgive them, for they know not 
what they do." 



8o4 



Magas ; oVf Long Ago. 



MAGAS; OR, LONG AGO. 



A TALE OF THE EARLY TIMES. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Four years are past since the in- 
cidents above related took place. 
The scene is neither at Athens nor at 
Corinth, but at Nauplia.* Here, sud- 
denly, a new school had been opened 
by a lady, which attracts a vast con- 
course of disciples. The lady is young, 
eloquent, beautiful, and the favor she 
meets with is almost unbounded. 
Powerful protectors are around her ; 
and philosophy and science bow to 
her, though they hardly as yet deter- 
mine to what school the doctrines 
she propounds belong. Among those 
who are attracted by her fame is a 
lady, just arrived from Athens to 
be enrolled among the followers of 
the new Aspasia, or Lcontium as she 
is more generally called. Lotis is her- 
self no mean or obscure daughter of 
those muses which this new profes- 
sor has worshipped to such advan- 
tage. But Lotis is disappointed in 
her expectations ; the entrance to 
the academy is guarded with such 
jealous care, that admission is not 
easy ; in vain she sends her name as 
daughter of a citizen of Athens of 
some distinction in the philosophic 
world ; strangers, and above all those 
from Athens, are carefully excluded. 
Yet the city continues to derive new 
lustre from this new propounder of 
exalted themes ; and those who were 
fortunate enough to gain admission 
to her lectures, rang with applauses 
of the lucid doctrines taught ; they 
compared her eloquence to that of 
IMato, her music to that of Amphion ; 
and contended that, while all other 

* The Kapoli di Romanu. 



sects were tending to the destnoo 
of ancient truth, this lady dcaa 
strated its existence in eveiy naiia 
and brought it home to the heart ii 
feelings. Lotis heard of nodn 
throughout the city but praises of i 
new exponent of wisdom who 1 
travelled thVoughout the earth, i 
had learnt to harmonize the tei 
ings of all philosophies. 

" 'I'is strange she will not ad 
you,*' said Lydon, a young discipk 
whom Lotis was complaining of 
exclusion ; " and the more to be 
gretted as she is preparing for 
parture ; it seems she did not inl 
to stay so long at Nauplia in the 
place ; she was waiting for her ] 
tector, who had business at .Ath 
They will both set out for K( 
when he returns." 

" And is he expected soon ?" 

" It is not easy to say. M.iga 
uncertain in his movements : he o! 
acts from mere caprice. He n 
be here shortly." 

" Magas !" 

" Yes, do you know him ?" 

" I knew one of that name ; 
mcrlv. He was of noble birth ; 
Athe'ns." 

"Likely it is the same. He I 
been travelling for these few ye 
pxst, and in his travels picked 
this philosophcress, who has so 
chanted him." 

" Is she reallv so beautiful as tl 
say ?" 

" Words cannot describe her. S 
has the attractions of Venus « 
the majest}' of Miner\*a. When in 
pose, her calm dignity demands < 
homage ; but when she speaks, 1 



Mdgas; or. Long Ago. 



805 



are lighted up with an ex- 
i which defies description ; 
5, deeply set as they are, daz- 
i the intensity of their fire j 
5 not declaim, she speaks in 
et in a distinct and earnest 
lich all hear, words which 
I have been gathered at the 
mt of wisdom. There is an 
bable melody in her voice, 
lelts the heart, and communi- 
e persuasion that she knows 
an she says ; that she holds 
■mething as fearing the light 
e too bright for our unaccus- 
yes: she infuses the desire 

the truth, the certainty that 

a truth; yet somehow, on 
n, the truth itself seems 
I, and we hope next time to 
uUer exposition of that which 
doubts she possesses." 
■It is her doctrine ?" 
ould take herself to expound 
le clear, musical, irresistible 
with which she enforces con- 
I am afraid I should only 
T discourse by repeating it." 

nevertheless." 

teaches that truth is one — an 
)le, eternal essence, contain- 
in itself all good, all beauty, 
ony, all being ; and that in it 
Jie creative power, 
says this creative power is an 
on of the Deity, or rather the 
imself made manifest It is 
:he Word. 

[ the Word or creative power 
le universe — made all those 
ich we see move around us 

and by day j and moreover, 
I life and intelligence into or- 
rms, that they might become 
IS of, and enjoy existence, 
nan she claims a higher life ; 
. he was created in harmony 
: eternal essence, that he 
now and enjoy a higher life 
It of animds, but that he 



disregarded the conditions on which 
this higher life was held, and by vio- 
lating them brought the disorder into 
the world which now oppresses it 
Man is the only animal unfaithful to 
his instincts ; the only one who does 
not trust his own nature ; the only 
one who is unhappy in the non-re ali 
zation of his aspirations." 

" But what remedy does she pro 
pose ?" 

" She does not propose one ; she 
declares one. She says the Word be- 
came flesh, to communicate to man 
the Holy Spirit he had lost, and by 
losing which his misery was occa- 
sioned. This Holy Spirit comes alike 
from the Eternal Essence, and from; 
the Word which is its manifestation,, 
and purifies the heart of man, and so* 
restores it to its primal state, or to a 
more holy one yet" 

" But how is this to be effected for 
ourselves ?" 

" That is just where she disappoints 
us. She gives glowing descriptions 
of truth, beauty, beneficence in every 
sort of manifestation, material and 
mental, and shows how the aspira- 
tions of the poets prove that a sub- 
lime ideal raises man above the. 
practical existence we see him lead 
every day ; but how to obtain this 
Holy Spirit we have not yet learnt" 

" Has she given no mle ?" 

"None but material ones; and 
according to her, material rules are 
only types of spiritual ideas. She. 
says, as the body has assumed too 
much sway, it must be subdued by- 
violence — that is, by maceration,, 
fasting, and such like. She says pas- 
sion must give way to reason, and the- 
affections be rightly governed. This 
we knew before ; but what we want is- 
^ power ' to cany out in practice the 
precepts we admire ; or as she would 
say, * how to obtain that Holy Spirit 
which is to live in us and direct us.'" 

** And you think she ki>o«« how V 



8o6 



Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



" I feel satisfied she does ; we all 
feel satisfied she does. Her words 
come forth as oracles ; we question 
not — we believe. She has been in 
India, in Cathay, in Tartary ; and 
ever)'where she says the same truth 
lies hidden under some material form, 
and needs but the light of the Holy 
Spirit to pierce through tlie veil and 
make itself manifest." 

" Would I could see her !" 
" You would be carried out of 
yourself. Yesterday she spoke on 
Light. Material light, with her, is 
but a type of a far higher Jiglit, which 
penetrates the spirit with beauty, har- 
mony, and love, and makes it pure, 
holy, eternal, and capable of receiv- 
ing true knowledge. Light, material 
light, was created at the same moment 
that intelligences and harmonies of a 
high spiritual order sprang to life, to 
enjoy it. She went off into some- 
thing of this strain ; 

God Mid : Let there be light 1 
EITulKenl light I 
As the wild watery mas* chaotic lay ; 
WJiile o'er \\ ilid (he Holy Spirit move. 
Obedient to the Woko, the gloriotu day 
Sprang into being \ aud eJTuigent li^bt, 

Inlclligence all brif;hl 
Of ceraph holy and or angel aweel, 
In gloriotu eoiiaay their Maker greet, 
' -And the deep blia* oflhcir creation prove. 

Spirits of beaut)', spirits of power 

Then wakened to welcome the wnn'terfiil hoar 

That gave them eiincinr. wiih liirlii in their dunmr I 

All daulinj; the br ■ 

Inventing all matter 

All lu>trou* the b« :> 111 uivine 

That did in full gl ' iy shiuci 

The Truth— tlKniv,i 
A* in Type, yet cjucciicd 

*rhe rayi of the «un are )e» dauling In sight. 

Than the sparkle* bctgeniining the pinions to bright 
^ Of the spirits who bowed at that mystical shrine. 

When first with an impulse or instinct divine 
I They blent their sweet voicM througboot every sphere, 
-To worship in love that doth worship endeax. 

Entrancing and entranced in love to greet, 
Theic beauteous jpiril* kindled imo k'ow. 
And shed their lustre all that eha,T5 ihrough. 
And as iho^e rays the harder mediums grte^ 
Tlic sleejping atoms wake as ftom a trance ; 
The sparks electric sht>ot ia mfstic dance. 
Housing tite power inert to onward move : 
Imiwlled by rayi of light, cre.->te by love, 
J " ' • ing gleams evolve material day, 

,'lances |irightCD ap the clay ; 
'■ ly*. ihe types of rirtue bright, 

Falfinrllrt Uoms Wixk Ihctf rtai»\<t>^Vitf>t; 



liii" 

Ft-: 

Had !.>ni , 
lliat now 
In whkfi ■ 

AlU.. 
Eml.l. 
Glowinpwun :inrnr^rnt\- ine mil 
TStiJ] dctii tliuu bless our sense, 

Vc-.'iiit of I )i.iiu|f..!c!ii.e ; 



1 Micb boMir i^aip 
uu. wmt tvA ■■! <llK 

liere'U epMll, 

^ly won sfrass 
II >it«l/i>eM|^^^^ 



I' 

11.0 






•od. 



" You must hear her to i 
fire, to glow with her cnti 
I give her words imperfe 
action, her deliver)-, the 
she sounds the very 
hearers' hearts — that I 
you an idea of." 

•* I must hear her, tydon 
you smuggle me into her 

" I will try, but it wn'fl 
the old door-keeper, st.nti^ 
her company select, wilt 
bribe ; and a list of names 
handed to him of those 
be admitted. But I will iry." 

" Has she ever been to .Athott: 

" I think not. I 
speak of Eg)^^!, Indi 
but of Athens, never. 'I'o-i 
will try to get admission for 
resident of the city." 

But neither Lydon, nor 
any disciple was to be admi 
the morrow. The report 
Leontium was ill, syttx ill 
attack of one of those auti 
to which Nauplia is subj« 
her unable to appear in pt^t 
days went on, the accoai 
even more unfavorable 
alarmed her att' 
of her being gi 
Hes, and seemed to »hrin1 
duties. The arrival of 
a few days, enforced at 
the kidy ; the fc\ < 
and subdued, ani i ^ undef ll 

influence of the evil tongues rf fc 



Magas : or, Long Ago. 



807 



•ttendants, Leontium awoke, to find 
much of her former prestige taken 
firom her — nay, she even fancied 
Magas himself grown cold. But this 
last was a mere fancy ; the intellec- 
tuality, the poetic fire with which she 
was endowed, and which never left 
her, animated her features uncon- 
sciously, and the pallor and loss of 
flesh were more than compensated 
%at by the ethereal expression which 
exalted her countenance to some- 
thing beyond the human, albeit there 
were times when it became a ques- 
tion whether the genius that animat- 
ed them were of Elysium or Tartarus. 
Magas paid homage to the mind, 
and was held captive ; he asked not 
whence proceeded the charm that 
entranced him, he yielded to its in- 
fluence, and was blest; the altered 
tone he attributed to the effects of 
fever ; and the signs of mental dis- 
turbance, reported by the attendants, 
were laid to the account of the deli- 
rium usually attending such fever \ 
he little dreamed that it was the 
mind acting on the body, jiot the 
body acting on the mind, diat caused 
the derangement . . . 

CHAPTER V. 

Lons was a woman, with a wo- 
man's curiosity and a woman's perti- 
nacity. She was one who had risen 
superior to the prejudices of her age 
and nation. She reverenced, nay, 
she worshipped greatness ; but great- 
ness, with her, meant power of intel- 
lect, strength of character, genius ; 
thus, herself a free woman, she had 
not disdained to form an intimacy 
with a slave, when, in that slave, 
she recognized superior qualities. 
She had been the pupil of Chi- 
one in poetry, music, and elo- 
quence, and had been aware of 
the passion Magas entertained for 
the beantiAil slave. She was curious 



to see who had replaced her image 
in his heart ; for she remembered 
enough of Magas to feel assured 
that, to ensure his constancy, he must 
worship as well as love ; as also, that 
it required a woman of commanding 
genius to hold his mind in bonds. 

Therefore was it, that she set a 
watch upon the house that contained 
the famed Leontium, that she dili- 
gently informed herself of her conva- 
lescence, and sought to know her 
daily movements. 

One day, she heard that the lady's 
litter was being borne from the house 
to outside the city. Hastily she 
commanded a litter to be got for 
herself, and desired the bearers to 
follow whithersoever the other litter 
was borne. This was not, however, 
altogether so easy a matter ; for the 
litter was no sooner out of the city 
gates, than the bearers proceeded 
rapidly across the plains for upward 
of a mile and a half, when they en- 
tered on a more sandy district. Gray, 
craggy rocks, of a dreary aspect, 
utterly devoid of verdure, began to 
hem in the prospect, and, at length, 
the bearers set down the litter in a 
heap of ruins of very astonishing 
character. Large stones, measuring 
twelve or fifteen feet in length, four or 
five in width, and of an equal length, 
rough and unhewn, were built into 
walls, without mortar, in the most 
solid manner, the walls being from 
twenty to twenty -five feet thick. 
Ruined gateways of unequal size, one 
looking toward Argos, the other 
northward, toward the mountain, 
peculiar in shape and construction, 
attested a workmanship of a . race 
who had long since disappeared, 
since their work was modelled on 
another form than that which is 
termed Grecian, and was beyond the 
physical strength of the present race. 
Evidently, it was a citadel in ruins. 
The site, an abrupt rock, comnvajad- 



8o8 



Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



ing the adjacent countrj', was admi- 
rably fitted for the purpose ; but tJie 
city it was to protect, the inhabitants 
to whom it was to guarantee security, 
where were they to be found ? The 
enclosure, about seven hundred and 
fifty feet long by one hundred and 
sixty broadf was nearly filled with 
rubbish, or rather with stupendous 
stones ; and outside of the enclosure 
all traces of the former city were 
completely obliterated. It was diffi- 
cult to account for the invalid lady's 
choice of such a site for her medita- 
tion ; but certain it is, she got out, 
clambered over the stones, motioned 
her attendants to keep themselves 
at a distance, and disappeared with- 
in the enclosure. 

Lolis was now at a loss what to 
do. She descended from her litter ; 
but to plunge at once into that un- 
known abyss of sand and ruin, she had 
hardly courage. Then what excuse 
could she frame for intruding ? Hesi- 
tatingly she proceeded ; but curiosity 
got the better of every other feeling ; 
she climbed up the ruined citadel and 
looked down. It was not possible ! 
yes, it was true — it could be no other ! 
There, sealed on a fallen column, 
leaning against the ruined arch, sat — 
Ckione, the very picture of de- 
spair ! 

To descend softly, so as not to 
alarm her — to glide to her side as 
gently as tlie rugged pathway would 
allow, was the next idea, and this 
Lotis accomplished, though with some 
difficulty ; she stood beside her far- 
mer friend, unseen, unheard. Chionc's 
distraction was too intense, her reve- 
rie too deep ; her eyes were turned 
upward, tearless from the very depth 
of her emotion, and her hollow voice 
sounded at inten'als but these sad 
words : 

" My God I to know ihce only by 
my loss ! My God 1 can it be possi- 
ble ? My God I n\ay I never, never 



love thee again ? lltoa 
fairest, thou only love I" 

The despair of these 
deadly pallor of Chione's 
attitude, the site, the recoU* 
the past, struck a pang ihr 
frame of Lotis ; her tongue 
to cling to the roof of her mc 
her excitement she could but AdnoCj 
one step, lay her trembling lund d 
her friend's shoulder, and utter oi| 
word, '* Chione 1" 

The lady started, and fgu.\ 
nestly at the form before her. 
some minutes Iieforc she spoil 
she did so, the tone of her m 
very low and soft ; ^^hc sinil 
" And what bring>» Lotis to 
of Tiryns?" 

" To see the famed pi 
the east. Three weeks bav< 
in the city, awaiting an tnti 
This morning I followed tt 
that I might at least see 
brated lady who has made 
plia ring with her name." 

*' And you are punished 
curiosity by finding oidy C( 

" I should have been 
earnest, had I known it was ' 
I was seeking. ^ 
made a great sti. imonf J1 

friends, and none missed you oM 
than myself. Vou had bid 
hope, after that day at the 
tliat our intercourse was 
newed, but my hope was 
Why did you leave without 
roe you were going ?" 

*' I did not know it my. 
mistress disposed of mc to 
of hers at Corinth. I was 
in the night," 

" And how came you vtlh] 
again ?" 

" lied a dreary life at I 
people I was with were good 
but unlettered, and the 
entirely given to houseki 
put a distalf into my h»ad»^ 





you nd 

wJOmA 

wittB 



Magas ; or. Long Ago. 



809 



>adly of me that I would 

from morning to night. I 

; my heart had been devoted 

phy, to poetry, to art ; this 

revolted me, though, as I 

people were good, and of 

religion." 

what religion was Uiat?" 

is, with a smile. 

ask me not ; I cannot tell 

I will tell you how I got 
rather was forced away, 
when on a errand for my 
L encountered Magas, and 

me. He would hear no 
nee ; his boat was in the 
urried me off. I went with 
gh Asia, visiting the tem- 
schools of philosophy, the 
t, the academies of science.' 
is been to me a patron, 
courager; he has brought 
iuced me to appear in pub- 
in fact, done all he could 
iy life an elysiun. Impetu- 
is, to me he has been fault- 

?et you are not happy ?" 
^ 1 Happiness is scarcely 
this earth, Lotis !" sighed 

why have you spoken as if 
tainable ? Why have you 
earts, in speaking to them 
veiling God, who is to re- 
hings to more than primi- 
and happiness ? Why have 
the human soul the divine 
t is not capable of happi- 

not that the human soul is 
e of happiness. I said only 
me happiness is not a plant 
rth, and that is true. The 
been cursed through the 
in ; it cannot yield us this 

n 

vx give your hearers to un- 
diat, through some means 
u^piness may dwell in our 



hearts ; therefore I say, Chione, why 
dwells it not with you ? Have you 
the means, or have you not ?" 

" I had," said Chione sadly. " Once 
I had the means of happiness ; once 
I was blest I have forfeited the 
means, I am happy no more." 

" Are they not recoverable then ?" 
asked Lotis. 

" I hardly know. Sometimes I think 
on certain conditions they might be ; 
but those conditions, those condi- 
tions, O Lotis 1" 

" Are they so very hard ?" 

*' They bid me renounce all I This 
life of excitement, this love of Magas, 
this applause of the multitude, this 
luxury of existence — to become again 
a slave. You know it well, Lotis, I 
am but a runaway slave." 

"Your philosophy must be £dse, 
Chione, which implies such hard con- 
ditions. Slavery is a necessary evil, 
I grant ; but still it is an evil to such 
as you, whose mind is exalted above 
the level of the herd. I cannot think 
that you are bound to slavery by any 
divine law ; and as for human law, 
why, if you can keep clear of that, 
as you have done lately, who on earth 
will blame you ?" 

" You do not understand, you can- 
not understand how I am bound. 
Magas, you are aware, is not — can 
never be my husband." 

" Well, I don't see why he might 
not be, if he paid the purchase- 
money for you, freed you, and then 
married you." 

" He is too proud to marry a name- 
less slave I" 

" Sut you are not nameless ; you 
have made yourself a name in ail the 
cities through which you have passed. 
We have heard of your fame at Smyrna, 
at Halicamassus, at Ephesus, at — " 

" Stop 1 Unconsciously you are 
paining me. It was at Ephesus I 
received the blow which is dntroy^ 
ing me.' 



8io 



Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



" At Ephesus 1" 

" O Lolis ! if I could but tell you 
of the hoUowness of this philosophy 
the world so much admires ; if I 
dared speak to you of the light that 
shinelh in darkness, though the dark- 
ness comprehendelh it not ; if my 
lips were not profane; if my life 
were not blighted like a tree struck 
by lightning] then I might tell you 
of that wisdom which is not in man's 
speech, but ' in the power of God un- 
to salvation to every one that believ- 
eth.' But I dare not ; I am unhal- 
lowed, unworthy. Leave me, Lotis. 
Seek another teacher." 

•' What did you hear at Ephesus 
that has so unnerved you ?" 

" I will tfcll you, though to you the 
words will bear no meaning. But my 
heart must ease itself. I was walk- 
ing through the streets, when I ob- 
served a crowd entering one of those 
temples frequented by the new .«>ects. 
I entered with the rest. The preach- 
er was dilating on the necessity of his 
auditors having the spirit of Christ, 
which if ye have not, he said, ye are 
none of his. He then proceeded to 
show how the world's sin had cruci- 
fied the Lord of heaven ; how essential 
purity, truth, virtue are to the Chris- 
tian character ; how e\'ery Christian's 
body was to become the temple of the 
Holy Spirit ; and how impossible it 
was for the Holy Spirit to dwell with 
aught unholy, or aught not in union 
with God. Hence tlie absolute ne- 
cessity of sanctity to be wrought in 
us by Xh^frnver of God, to whom we 
must surrender our being. He then 
went on to speak of such Christians 
as had apostatized ; and the words 
he used burned into my heart like 
words of fire, • It is impossible,' he 
said, • for those who were once en- 
lightened, and have tasted of the 
heavenly gift, and were made par- 
takers of the Holy Spirit, and have 
tasted the good word of God, and 




the powers of the wor 
tliey fall away, to renew 
unto repentance ; »ediigllie 
to themselves the SonofG« 
and put hi ro to an openj 
heard no more ; I 
When I waked from 
was at home, and Ml 
ing over me. His anxi^ 
my health scarce cnabl 
press his anger at my haw' 
seen in a Christian ; 

"That I can ea 
do I see what you v 
low company, %vho 1: 
witched you ; for wf 
care what was said 
sembly as that ?" 

" What indeed, tvl 
my God ! that it shoulc 
that I dare no longer 
name, that I should 
thee 1" And Chione bttrro 
in her hands, and gave t 
excessive fit of weeping. 

Lotis was puzzled. •* I: 
great philosopher .''" thought 
new Sappho, the Aspa&iao 
Is it illness or magic thj 
this mental derarigcmei 
ment it evidently is." 

Lotis bent over her 
voring to console her, 
ing how, when she waaj 
lieved by the sound of I 
She climbed to the topj 
Magas was in sight, 
to whisper the news to 
one rose, dried her tears b) 
effort of her will, and prt 
greet her protector with a s 
was evidently in an ill-bunx 

" What sudden capiioe 
\Vhat possessed yt»i to c 
here to a city of (he pastj 
place this for a sick woaon. 

" You said yt>u 
gos. I knew not tt 
quire my presence' 






Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



Sii 



'I was going to Argos, but was 
!ered when setting out ; and when 
iquired for you, and heard you had 
le hither, I put oflF my journey to 
what attraction could draw you 
'^ "this place." 

^•The attraction of the past Who 
^*^aed these walls, Magas ?" 

**How should I know? The Cy- 

^^aps, I presume. Who else could 

^^■'Ve lifted these immense stones? 

*^Tiat have you to do with who raised 

^**> t;m or who destroyed them ?" 

. . •• The place was in harmony with 

r''^ feelings, with the meditation I 

"^"'•as about ta make on the transitory 

Itature of human grandeur. It will 

. \t my next theme." 

"You might choose a livelier one 
' to advantage, Leontium," said Ma- 
-gas. . " You are destroying your own 
mind by cherishing these gloomy 
thoughts. If, however, you want a 
&llen city to meditate on, Mycenae 
is but seven miles ahead ; and there 
you may ruminate, if you will, on all 
the incidents of the Homerian epoch ; 
and the wild, savage waste may be 
the savage emblem of the royal Aga- 
memnon ; while the ruins, which are 
absolutely magnificent, may prove 
another puzzle — as to how the 
mighty stones that form the edifi- 
ces could have been lifted there. I 
measured two myself. They were 
immense. One single stone extends 
across a wide passage, and rests on 
the massive walls, forming the lintel. 
Another extends from the lintel to 
the interior of the edifice. It is 
thirty feet long, five feet thick, and 
twenty in width. It is becoming fa- 
shionable to doubt the existence of 
the Cyclops. But, I'd like to know, 
if tfuy did not lift these stones into 
their places, who did do it ? No mor- 
tal men of the present race would be 
at)le. So I go in for the old tradi- 
tion of Cyclopean workers. 

"Ah I Lotis, I did not observe 



you. I inquired for you at Athens, 
but was told you were travelling. Did 
you come out here with Leontium ? 
Our secret will be safe with you, of 
course ?" 

"Of course," answered Lotis. " But 
I think you are somewhat too near 
Athens for safety from other tongues. 
You will not be able to keep the se- 
cret long from the public." 

" I shall not try. We are bound 
for Rome shortly, and there we shall 
be safe. I would purchase safety, 
if safety were \o be bought ; but the 
mistress whcJ held my Chione will 
not part with her right. Many offers 
have been made to her. She still 
hopes to reclaim Chione, and will 
not listen to money proposals. When 
you return, you may renew the offers, 
if you will favor me so much. I 
should prefer a legal release, if I 
could get one ; but it matters little." 

" You have not told me to whom I 
am to apply." 

" I thought you knew. To the 
Lady Damaris." 

** Why, she is said to be a Chris- 
tian." 

"That does not invalidate hex 
rights." 

" No ; but it causes me surprise 
that it should be herself who refuses 
freedom to Chione. I know many 
cases where she has freely granted it." 

" She is an enigma, and so are 
all these people. It is not worth 
talking about. I don't believe she'd 
prosecute her claim to Chione, did 
she know Chione and Leontium were 
one and the same person." 

During this colloquy Chione had 
sat motionless as a statue, and had 
seemed so absorbed in her own 
thoughts as to be unmindful of what 
was said. On its being ended, she 
rose, and requested Magas to call 
for her litter. When he had depart- 
ed to do so, she turned to Lotis, and 
said earnestly : 



8l2 



Magas ; or, Long Ago. 



*• Lotis, when you return to Athens, 
will you do me a favor ?" 

" Assuredly, I will." 

" Let the Bishop Dionysius know, 
in confidence, who Leontium is, and 
what I said to you of Ephesus to- 
day." 

•'The Christian bishop?" 

" Yes." 

" For what earthly purpose ?" 

"No matter. Magas is coming 
back. Do you promise me ?" 

" I do." 

" And you will keep the secret to 
all the rest of the world ?" 

" I will." 

" Even to Magas ?" 

" Yes." 

" Thanks, thanks. We will return 
home now." 

CHAPTER VI. 

" Chione in grief, and a prey to 
despair I" 

It was the Christian bishop who 
spoke, and his interlocutor was Lo- 
tis. 

" Even so, my lord. During her ill- 
ness the report was that she was be- 
set by the furies. When I saw her, 
it seemed as though the hand of 
some avenging god lay heavy on 
her. If, my lord, you Christians are 
adepts in magic, as many people be- 
lieve, I would ask you to disenthrall 
her from the induence under which 
she suffers, whatever it may be." 

" And it is Chione who is this fa- 
mous Leontium, who has made so 
great a sensation in the eastern ci- 
ties ?'* continued Dionysius, as if not 
hearing the last speech of Lotis. 

" It is so." 

" From what I have heard, her 
eloquence is something unusual." 

" I too have heard so ; but for my- 
self, I was never present at one of 
her instructions. I saw her alone, 
bowed down as il Nuete beneath the 



weight of the truth she was cany 
but unable to speak the last « 
that word which promised to be 
key to all the rest, the solutioi 
mystery, the harmonizer of id 
That last word was not spokei 
Nauplia; her pupils awaited it, 
her tongue was as it were paraly; 
Some powerful influence seemed < 
to prevent her from speaking it." 

" Poor Chione I" 

" My lord, may I venture to 
of you, do you believe, as some 
that Chione is in possession o! 
truth she dare not declare? i 
some divine hand is pressing do 
vrithin her the word that is pant 
for expression ? Is Chione bewii 
ed?" 

" She is suffering from a super 
tural influence, that is certain." 

" And can you deliver her ? VII 
else did she send me to you Y' 

" If she so wiii, she may be d< 
vered ; but the supernatural W( 
she cannot speak has been oflendc 
the sacrifice he demands is gre 
will she make it ?" 

" If in her power, I think she w 
She is a mj'ster}* to me, as all ] 
seems to be. What is that Wi 
Chione has offended ? how did i 
offend ? what must she do to appc< 
the divine wrath ?" 

" My child," said the old Areo] 
gite solemnly, " truth is not a pi 
thing wherewith to amuse the ini 
lect, not a toy to while away a te 
ous hour with. Truth is the mj 
festation of the eternal barmoni 
those harmonies which man has int 
fered with, into which he has intro<li 
ed a discord, the discord of sin. T 
humility q{ man, the recognition of s 
such a recognition as brings the \x)h 
tary humiliation of self, must prece 
his admission to the kingdom wh< 
those harmonies are restored. T 
vainglory of philosophy, the pride 
science, however correct may be th 



Magas; or, Long Ago. 



813 



ises, are without life. They can 
ler restore these harmonies, nor 
1 a glimpse of the glory of that 
lal comprehensiveUnity, in which 
eauty, melody, and good reside ; 
eternal idea of which matter is 
iraried type. A type now de- 
5d by man's act so hopelessly, 
human power is utterly inade- 
j to its restoration." 
Jut the restorer comes ; the ex- 
ition of nations points to this," 
Lotis ; " and that expectation 
erywhere; in India as in Ca- 
in Greece and among the bar- 
ns." 

'he deliverer is come already," 
Dionysius. 

'hen why is he not proclaimed ^ 
is the unsp>oken word that Chi- 
might not utter? Why, if the 
irer is here, is he not announc- 

lecause, before the disorder of 
lor things can be remedied, the 
9r remedy must be applied to 
oul. Exterior forms obey the 
or impulse. Man is lord of 
r, and man's disordered soul 
ts itself upon the material sub- 
} him. The disorder manifest 
B^hout exterior creation will be 
lied when the disordered spirit 
an is healed. Therefore is it 
now that the restorer is come, 
lot recognized ; for he insists on 
urification of the spirit, on the 
ilation of selfishness, on the 
sity of being reunited in spirit 
he essential good as a precur- 
other renovations. That done, 
or good follows as of course." 
ven as wealth follows industry, 
lealth the practice of tempe- 
," said Lotis. 

atural virtue brings its results 
imes," said the venerable teach- 
rhen justice rules ; but as mat- 
tand now, the winner of wealth 
ften the least share. Oppres- 



sion is one of the inevitable results 
of making self-love the centre of ac- 
tion insteadoftakingthe justice of the 
eternal God for our guide. Man's 
soul was created in the image of 
God. Hence its affinity for beau- 
ty, its appreciation of lofty idea, 
its glowing enthusiasm at recital of 
heroic deeds : but man's will snap- 
ped the cord that bound it to the 
eternal will. Enamored of his own 
charms, he forgot the source of his 
beauty; proud of his mighty intel- 
lect, he has ceased to adore the God 
of all understanding; freeing him- 
self from the shackles of duty, he 
cast away alike the nourishment 
of his beauty and the food of his 
towering intellect. Man's v/iU must 
be directed to desire God ere he 
can regain good. Hence the work 
of the Redeemer is interior ; it is the 
implanting of the Holy Spirit as the 
necessary step to the true redemp- 
tion." 

"Chione's philosophy resembles 
this in some degree," said Lotis. 

Dionysius did not answer. Lotis 
resumed. 

" Who is t'lis Word of whom Chi- 
one speaks ?" 

The answer came slowly, solemnly, 
deliberately, and it fell on the ear 
of Lotis, as if a divine power accom- 
panied it : 
"Jesus Christ." 

"The Saviour anointed," whis- 
pered she to herself, as she transla- 
ted the words : '* The Saviour of men, 
anointed by God." There was evi- 
dently a revelation to her, conveyed 
by the words ; one of those miracu- 
lous influences which, in the early 
days, " long ago," were so common 
among truth-seeking souls. Her re- 
verie lasted long, and the good bishop 
did not interrupt her. He knew that 
the Holy Spirit was shedding his 
influence upon her. Suddenly she 
turned upon him with the questioat 



8i4 



Affairs in Italy. 



" And is Jesus Christ an inspired 
man, or is he God ?" 

« Jesus Christ is the Word of God, 
and the Word was made flesh, and 
dwelt among us," answered the bi- 
shop. 

Lotis replied not. The bishop con- 
tinued in a very low voice : 

** In the beginning was the Word, 
and the Word was with God, and the 
Word was God. The same was in 
the beginning with God. All things 
were made by him : and without him 
was not anything made that was 
made. In him was life ; and the 
life was the light ot men: and the 
light shineth in darkness ; and the 
darkness comprehended it not." (St. 
John i. 1-5.) 

And Lotis fell on her knees, say- 
ing, " Lead me to him, to the Divine 
Word, to Jesus Christ, for I will have 
no other master." 

"It is well, my child," said the 
good bishop, laying his hand sol- 
emnly on her head. " It is well. 
May he who has thus directed your 
choice give you the further grace to 
continue unto the end. But, Lotis, 



you must learn the price of 
tion ; you must know who 1 
ter is you have chosen." 

And the venerable bishop 
short but impressive word 
the history of the world fron 
fall, through the line of p 
through the per\-ersion o: 
which galled forth the dcli 
spoke of the call of Abrah: 
mission of Moses, of the s 
of the prophets unto John 
tist ; and finally, of the a 
our Lord himself ; of his c 
his <mm, and of his own 
him not ; of his life, mir^ 
crucifixion ; of his death, rci 
and ascension ; and final 
descent of the Holy Spirit 

Lotis listened and beli 
demanded to be washeil 
sins, that she might undcral 
yet a neophyte, seemed ti 
hend that sin forms the 
which hinders the soul froi 
plating God. ** Wash me 
sins," she said, " that I m 
light." 



TO HE CONTIXfED. 



AFFAIRS IN ITALY. 



Though the disgraceful part which 
the Italian monarchy has played in 
the late invasion of Rome by ma- 
rauding bands is now a matter of 
common notoriety, elaborate efforts 
are still being made by a majority of 
the Italian, and a certain portion of 
the European, press to deny the well- 
known facts of the case. These or- 
gans are, however, only following the 
illustrious example set to them by 
Victor Emmanue\ atvd. CooicvV Mena- 



brea, whose official dcclara 
the revolutionists had acte 
without the authority and k 
of the Italian gnvernmeni 
tainly the most pitiful subt< 
which the king and ih^ prei 
great power couKl possibly 1 
reduced. Indeed, we can h; 
ceive a more humiliating 
than that which the Italiai 
ment presents in solemnly 
♦•"* «'orld that it had not be< 



Affairs in Italy. 



^^S 



Q witn filibusters, while, to 
e disgrace of the spectacle, 
elieves a word of its denial. 
:ral Menabrca has attempt- 
nore than this. In his an- 
le invitation to the European 
ce, dated November 19th, 
had the assurance to state 
ne, not Italy, was the real 
the present trouble. On 
occasion he ventured upon 
hat similar statement by 
lat e.xperience had taught 
impossibility of maintaining 
'elations with her neighbor 
iber ! It is difficult to be- 
t any public man should 
ittle for his reputation for 
to utter such reckless false- 
The whole history of the 
t years gives him the lie, for 
clearly that every provoca- 
come from that Piedmont 
now styled Italy. Provo- 
•y resort to the revolution, 
! seizure of the Legations 
and again in that of the 
and Umbria in i860, when 
:he capital of the patrimony, 
taken by force ; provoca- 
resort to legislation, as in 
h of the concordats, in the 
triages in an unchristian 
;he suppression of the spi- 
lers, in the confiscation of 
;siastical property, in the 
easures adopted against the 
e, and in the parliament- 
utions about Rome; pro- 
by.the personal speeches 
of King Victor Emmanuel, 
ither the sense of liis ex- 
tion nor the traditions of 
ly orthodox dynasty have 
from expressions which he 
ave cause to deplore when 
they are destined to bear 
uUy apparent; in a word, 
evocations have come from 
fitaly. All the evidences of 



moderation* and conciliation (as was 
seen to the very last in the case of 
the bishoprics) have come from the 
side of the Holy Father ; but they 
were always repaid with the black- 
est ingratitude. The piratical raid 
against the church state was merely 
the fit ending and the ](^cal result 
of that long series of aggressive 
measures which furnishes the counts 
in the indictment against the Italian 
monarchy. We need not recapitu- 
late the provocations that have foi 
years preceded the invasion of Gari- 
baldi's filibusters ; for everybody will 
readily recall to mind the machina- 
tions to excite a spirit of discontent 
in the holy city and the surrounding 
districts ; the aid and comfort ex- 
tended to the self-styled Roman Re- 
volutionary Committee, which has its 
seat at Florence ; the libels against 
the person of the supreme pontiff 
and his sacred office, which have 
disgraced not only the press, but 
the floor of the two chambers ; the 
encouragement afforded to every in- 
cendiary and fugitive from Roman 
justice, and the marked favor shown 
to all such characters by the author- 
ities. Indeed, but for the agency 
which the Italian monarchy had in 
bringing about the invasion, that 
demonstration would never have be- 
come what it is, one of the most 
flagrant outrages known- to the law 
of nations in modem days. In the 
midst of profound peace, without a 
shadow of an excuse or a pretext on 
the other side, Italy has not only 
tolerated, but sanctioned, the publi- 
cation of the most indecent attacks 
on the head of the church. She 
has permitted the circulation of re- 
volutionary manifestoes and appeals 
against a neighboring state, whose 
integrity the honor of the nation was 
pledged to respect and enforce. She 
has suffered the raising of money and 
arms for avowedly hostile and un- 



Affairs in Italy. 



817 



ivention. We cannot bring 
to believe for a moment 
cent outrage will result to 
tage of its authors and 
In the sense of the parlia- 
isolutions passed at Turin 
ice, the solution of the Ro- 
lem means nothing less 
destruction of the papal 
\ the spoliation and the 
; of the church. It will, be 
ear this fact distinctly in 
le new monarchy has un- 
' shown how it means to 
. most solemn obligations 
sted rights of others ; and, 
it has shown how it would 
It the head of the church, 
taly dares to demand that 
■ the papacy should be in- 
ler safe-keeping ? Were it 
> obliterate the whole his- 
le last eight years from 
Dllection, the occurrences 
: few months would alone 
varn Christendom against 
1 such a proposition. The 
!atholic community will 
1 dis{x>sed to see Victor 
the intestate heir of Gari- 
.ome, as it has seen him 
e at Naples. 

man problem requires, no 
)lution, for the French are 

momentary expedient, 
ct is one that interests 
world, and which demands 
at that will not again ex- 
ipreme pontiff to the dan- 
g besieged at the Vatican, 

handful of defenders in 
e Monte Rotondo, where 
it one against ten. We 
!ven touch here upon the 
he pope as a mere tempo- 
ind the most ancient on 
tiat Our religious senti- 
s against dragging a ques- 
two component elements 
ble into the narrow sphere 
OL. VI. — ^52 



of politics, and still more into the 
sphere of revolutionary politics which: 
has made the nationality idea its 
god. The Catholic sentiment re- 
sents the base suggestion of peril to 
the independence of the church and 
its head. It cannot conceive a pope- 
dom like the one to which the Byzan- 
tine exarchs have been reduced. It 
wants no repetition of a Greek patri- 
archate among Greeks and Turks. 
This is a question which concerns 
the entire civilized Christian world,, 
and not the Roman Catholic powers 
alone. The royal speech from the 
throne to the North German Diet 
contained a passage alluding to the 
important interests which Germany 
and Italy arc supposed to hold in 
common, and the chances of Prus- 
sia's support in the case of a war 
with France about Rome have, no 
doubt, entered largely into the calcu- 
lations of the Florence cabinet. But 
Prussia alone has over eight millions 
of Roman Catholic subjects, who 
will never consent to the total de- 
struction of the foundation on which 
the independence of their church 
rests, and who will therefore oppose 
every attempt to rob the pope of his 
temporality. Such, at least, is the 
inference which we are warranted in 
drawing from the spirit displayed 
during the last month in Germany, and 
especially at the Mainz meeting, where 
two thousand leading Catholics from 
all parts of the country discussed the 
dangers of the church state. The 
following are the resolutions which 
were passed unanimously on that oc- 
casion : " I. Divine Providence has 
made the successor of St. Peter the 
sovereign of the Roman church state,, 
and raised him above all mere na- 
tional interests, that he might be the- 
subject of no political power, but 
manage the religious affairs of all! 
Christian nations in perfect indepen- 
dence. This sovereign ri^t, con- 



Affairs in Italy. 



819 



Iready because Rome and 
nnillion of people are ruled 
pe, it will never be accom- 

The monarchy wants to 
1 itself internally, not to ex- 
•nally. A strong, able, and 
vemment, an efficient ad- 
on, a restored finance, a 
system of public instruction, 
ment of its commerce, agri- 
id industry^, and, above all, 
I harmony — these are the 
ible conditions to its future 
iren to its existence. Noth- 
therefore have been more 
n from the narrowest and 
>h point of view, than the 
the September convention, 
tpon the whole, the most 
like programme which the 
vernment has yet adopted 
brief life, and should have 
redly observed. Neither 
' of alliance with Prussia, 
ve Italy the chance to ac- 
letia, nor the peace of Vien- 
I ratified that acquisition, 
e exerted so far-reaching an 
on the domestic and foreign 
f the country. The alliance 
sia, it is true, contained the 

advantages which might 
T have extended much be- 
settlement of the Venetian 
ind the abandonment of the 
eral by the Austrians. But 
■n of these promises requir- 
for, as soon as Venetia was 
of, it became evident that 
BCtion between Italy and 
'ould have to remain long 
ate and important than the 
n between Italy and France. 
is the latter power remained 
the attention of the Italian 
L would have to continue 
er on Paris than on Beriin. 
g to the intentions of its 
ramers, the convention of 
ar 15th was to serve gradu- 



ally to loosen the ties which bound 
Italy to France, and which began 
then already to be borne with impa- 
tience by the nation. By the evacua- 
tion of the Eternal City the Roman 
question was to be changed into an 
exclusively Italian question. But 
this project the conduct of the Ital- 
ian monarchy, or, to speak more pre- 
cisely, that of the statesmen who suc- 
ceeded in office those who had de- 
vised the programme, has defeated, 
as we shall hereafter fiilly explain; 
and the result is, that the Roman 
problem has once more assumed a 
diplomatic, international phase, pend- 
ing again between Florence and Pa- 
ris. 

The September convention has 
failed to put an end to these fur- 
ther pretexts for foreign interference 
in the domestic affairs of Italy, be- 
cause its terms were never observed, 
and because its authors were not af- 
forded a chance to carry their policy 
out Nothing could have been more 
inauspicious than the fact that the 
statesmen who concluded the con- 
vention should have been driven from 
office on account of the Turin difficul- 
ties, at the very time when their mea- 
sures had received the approbation 
of a large majority of the nation, and 
the sanction of the majority of the two 
chambers. The fall of the Ming^etti 
ministry was an anomaly utterly con- 
trary to all ideas of constitutional gov- 
ernment. An important programme, 
which changed the entire policy of 
the country and committed it to a 
new one for the next future, had 
been accepted. It could never have 
been adopted without the sanction 
of the sovereign, nor without the ap- 
proval of the country and its repre- 
sentatives in parliament And yet 
those who had originated it and as- 
sumed all its responsibilities were 
compelled to resign power to men 
that accepted the le^|C) ctcAc^ \)i^ 



820 



Affairs in Italy. 



cause they could not help them- 
selves, and whose views differed to- 
tally from those of their predecessors 
in office. The Minghetti cabinet, 
which had to retire in consequence 
of the excitement caused among the 
people of Piedmont by the transfer 
of the national capital stipulated for 
in the September convention, was 
succeeded by the La Marmora, com- 
posed chiefly out of Piedmontese 
elements, although it repudiated all 
the principles of the Minghetti, while 
pretending to recognize the obliga- 
tions resulting from the convention 
itself. It is easy to conceive the 
profound agitation produced by this 
change in the ranks of the moderate 
party, which had hitherto constituted 
the parliamentary majority. The most 
energetic element of this party had 
been the Piedmontese. Through its 
intimate relations with the reigning 
house, its long parliamentary e.xperi- 
cnce, its business knowledge, its mark- 
ed predominance in the administration 
and the army, the Piedmontese had al- 
wa)'S been the most trustworthy sup- 
porters of the moderate cause, the 
strongest bulwark against the inces- 
sant encroachments of radicalism. 
It was the majority of this clement 
that now coalesced with the radicals 
for the purpose of fighting by their 
side against the late moderate lead- 
ers, whom they could not pardon for 
having severed the hegemony of Pied- 
mont and Turin by the transfer of the 
capital to Florence. In addition to the 
desertion of the bulk of the Piedmon- 
tese, the remainder of the moderates 
split among themselves. Some re- 
fused to desert their fallen leaders ; 
others, and especially such as had 
joined the new administration, while 
still content to adhere to a moderate 
policy and to accept the September 
convention as a part of it, yet thought 
they might safely venture to sacrifice 
the auVVvoTSol \!hft \a.llet to the preju- 



dices of Piedmont, and 
serious injury to the i 
tures of the program m 
vision between the supj 
old cabinet, the so-calle 
ria," and the new, becai 
spicuous at the electioi 
tumn of 1865, when t1 
posed, or permitted its 
opf>ose, the candidates ( 
which resulted in large 
the radicals. The Ric 
formed in the spring < 
hoped to strengthen ii 
ciliating the radicals, ' 
tinned to maintain the 1 
titude of its predecesso 
Consorteria. But the r« 
the Ricasoli ministry* fa 
a majority when it diss 
nient in February, 1867 
Is the steady decadcii 
lian monarchy due to tl 
tion of the moderate pa 
disintegration of the p: 
merely a symptom ©f 
decline of the old ecu 
new kingdom? It \v 
throw out these querie* 
testate at the same tini^ 
stance that the intluonc 
emmont h.is diminished 
ratio as that of the rac 
creased ; that the confu 
order in all departments 
lie service have kept p 
financial embarrassmen 
every ministrj' called tc 
1864 has been more or 1 
from the debris of the < 
party, each succeeding a( 
has proved itself less c; 
sisting the advances of 
and the Piedmontese op 
the last Katazzi minisir 
at the start to depend : 
their support and forbeai 
being the facts, it is onh 
the programme of the 1 
relation to the Roman a 



Affairs in Italy. 



83X 



uestions should have lost 
ear after year, session after 
itil it has finally become 
ble of execution. The non- 
n policy presupposed first 
emment strong and honest 
enforce a pacific course to- 
ope. But no such govern- 
ever yet been known in 
e secret negotiations with 
ducted by the La Marmora 
Licasoli cabinets, (through 
nd Tonello,) related only 
1 affairs; but even these 
ted by the machinations of 
s in parliament and in the 
lis party desires no deal- 
ver with the papal govem- 
ler in relation to temporal 
lal matters. It is an un- 
ling opponent of Cavour's 
hero chiesa in libera stato, 
>nsiders the greatest mis- 
it could befall the country, 
he radicals of Italy and 
1 of Rome the war is one 
1 death. They charge the 
h having caused the divi- 
iibjugation of the peninsu- 
hold up the whole institu- 
! mortal foe of every na- 
ration for unity and inde- 
They say that only doc- 
and disguised clericals can 
e of demarcation between 
mporal and spiritual rule, 
r boast that it is their mis- 
nplete at once the unity of 
o free the world from papa- 
ire the leadingpoints in the 
ogramme, and they are, 
he exact opposite to those 
in the September conven- 

>pite the disintegration of 
ate party, despite the fee- 
the consecutive ministries 
(ince 1864, a programme 
stitutes the subjugation of 
t for its freedom, the phy- 



sical conquest of Rome for its moral, 
would perhaps have less rapidly 
gained ground, had not an entirely 
new factor entered into the relations 
between the Italian and the papal 
gdVemments — between church and 
state ; and this factor was the all- 
engrossing financial question. The ' 
radicals cunningly used it to hasten 
the solution of the Roman problem 
by advocating the confiscation of the 
ecclesiastical property, and they suc- 
ceeded in persuading the moderates 
to countenance a policy which was 
felt to be an outrage to all justice. 
The latter, instead of acting in ac- 
cordance with the principle of a free 
church in a free state, accepted the 
radical postulates. The influence of 
the radicals constantly grew, because 
they were perfectly united, decided, 
and logical on all questions relating 
to church and state, while the mode- 
rates only reluctantly, and with the 
secret consciousness of their own in- 
consequence, assented to measures 
which endangered both the discipline 
and possessions of the church. A 
party which fights boldly under its 
own colors may be vanquished to- 
day, yet rally again to-morrow and 
conquer at last ; but a party which 
is compelled to hide its colors and 
to hoist those of its foes resigns all 
hopes of resuming the contest after 
the first reverse. As far as the in- 
terests of the papacy are, therefore, 
concerned, there is very little differ- 
ence between the radicals and the 
moderates of Italy. Both would like 
to obtain Rome, only that the latter 
differ in regard to the means. While 
the radicals would resort to brute 
force, the moderates would trust to 
cunning and plotting j for they know 
that the Roman question is not, like 
the Venetian, a mere question of 
national independence and unity, 
which can be solved permanently by 
war or revolution. Their object is 



822 



Affairs in Italy, 



not simply the destruction of the 
worldly power of the pope and the 
annexation of the small strip of terri* 
tory still left to him. 'J'he supreme 
pontiff has more than once lost his 
temporality ; but his ascendency ov'cr 
the minds of men was rather strength- 
ened than weakened by his adversity, 
and with the aid of his moral autho- 
rity, his spiritual influence, he has 
every time regained what he had 
lost To deprive him, once for all, 
of his worldly power, he must first be 
reduced to a condition which will not 
allow him to avail himself again of 
his moral authority as the head of 
the church, and it is to this end that 
the moderates have been working in 
various ways. 

In relation to the proposed Euro- 
pean congress we have nothing to 
say, except that it is an impossibility. 
As the pastoral letter of the Dishop 
of Orleans forcibly remarked, such a 
conference could only be composed 
of kings ; for the fate of the supreme 
pontiff should never be left to the 
decision of a Gortschakoff or a Bis- 
marck. 

Since the above article was writ- 
ten, the debates in the Italian cham- 
bers have shown to us anew that the 
Holy Father can expect nothing from 
the monarchy. They have proved 
again that the Roman question is 
considered by them to be a mere 
political question, and this without 
the slightest reference to its religious 
and international features. Cavour 
once announced, with the approba- 
tion of parliament, that Italy must 
have Rome ; but General Menabrea 
knows full well the pressure under 
which the modern Machiavelli, the 
man of impromptu and chicane, was 
forced to resort to this expedient. 
Menabrea may, perhaps, never make 
common cause with Garibaldi as 
Ratajzv has done, not even for the 
sake of i^otae ■,\>>xX>v«t Ss. ^OL^Wi A«ssr 



titute of moral principles, 
appears, has not been rendc 
whit the wiser or more hones 
deep humiliation which she 
cently undergone ; otherw 
would not have the audacit 
that the Catholic world shoi 
fide the fate of the church to 
which has for years persistc 
rided, oppressed, and plunde 
church. Italy has too recent 
leagued with one who never c 
utter the vilest invectives and 
against the papacy, and she 
ready to avail herself again of : 
opportunity to outrage the la^ 
tions by proclaiming the law- 
revolution. Italy, even had 
wish,which she has not,would r 
the power to protect the chu 
she has unchained e\'er\' i 
most hostile to it, and can m 
self only exist by a chain o 
tions. To a state like this, tt 
nothing has been sacred since ( 
Albert's revolt against Ausi 
May, 1848, and which is sn 
internally, the Catholic work! 
never dream of intrusting its 
and highest interests. Whole ] 
would first have to take Ic.ive 
senses. It is not solely tho C' 
powers which — unless, imleci 
aim, like Russia, at the tot;ii il 
tion of Catholicism — arc pror 
concerned in this question, 
existing state has a vital into 
opposing this openly avowe<l s 
to unsettle all fundamental prii 
of equity and justice. Shou 
Italian doctrine triumph, as 
brea dares to prophesy, the old 
times, when might made rig: 
brute force niled supreme, wo 
turn on earth in this nineteen 
tur)'. The church state exist 
eleven centuries, the Italian ; 
chy not yet as many year: 
church state owes its rise to tl 
sent of its populations, the 



The Love of the Pardoned. 823 

\archy to a series of intrigues and day of October, 1867, for the purpose 

ence, rendered successful through of inaugurating their heroic achieve- 

:ign support And now the Ita- ments with deeds of murder and 

1 monarchy comes again, in the arson ? This is the policy — these 

1st of peace, without cause or pro- are the principles — which General 

ation, without the wish of those Menabrea, the putative father of 

it deeply interested in the ques- the September convention and of a 

I, the Romans themselves, to de- " moral solution " of the Roman 

« once more, " Rome is mine !" question, has the unblushing hardi- 

rs ? how ? Through those boasted hood to proclaim in the face of civil- 

'al means, which have turned out ized and christianized Europe ! What 

>e a band of filibusters, the ac- answer will the two hundred millions 

iplices of the banditti who selected of Roman Catholics return ? 
evening of the twenty-second 



THE LOVE OF THE PARDONED. 

" He to whom less u fcngiven, the same loveth less," 
DISCIPLE. 

" Sweet Lord, 
'Tis true thy love no measure knows ; 

And yet thou must agree, 
A love within my bosom glows 

Thou canst not feel for me — 
The love that springs in pardoned hearts 
With all the joy such love imparts. 
I long, but why I do not know. 
That thou, dear Lord, couldst love me so.** 

MASTER. 

« My child, 
Thy brethren are my images. 

Wherefore I said to thee : 
Whatever thou doest unto these 

Thou doest unto me. 
Shall I have joy if thou dispense 

Thy bounty on their need. 
And if thou pardonest their offence 

Feel not the loving deed ? 
That which thou doest is divine. 
Doubt not ; their love is also mine !** 



824 



What Doctor Marks died of. 



WHAT DOCTOR MARKS DIED OF. 



i 



Some one at our camp-iire had 
chanced to mention Dr. Marks, 
which called forth the comment 
that the doctor iiad died of heart- 
disease — been found dead in his 
bed. 

Major Arnold lifted his dark, bright 
eyes from dreaming over the coals, 
and looked steadily at the last speak- 
er. " Died of heart-disease ?" he re- 
peated, with a slightly sceptical in- 
flection. 

" Yes, sir !" — ^very positively. 

The major looked into the fire 
again, and thoughtfully thridded his 
beard through his fingers, while he 
appeared to weigh the pros and cons 
of some impulse in his mind. The 
pros tilted the beam, and the major 
spoke. But he first drew his hand 
down across his eyes, and swept 
away, with that pass, the present 
scene of myriad tents, ghostly-white 
in the moonlight, or shining crimson 
in the light of scattered fires ; of close- 
ly-crowding, shadow-haunted south- 
em crags and forests that lifted them- 
selves from our feet to the horizon, 
their black and ragged rim standing 
boldly out against a sky that was 
flooded with the mellow radiance of 
the full moon, all its stars and all its 
purple swamped in that silent and 
melancholy tide. 

"Poor Anne Atherton!" I had 
not thought that our rough major 
could speak so softly. " I had been 
going to the door every day, for weeks, 
to ask how she was, hoping in spite 
of the doctors. But one morning, 
when I reached the steps, I saw a 
strip of crape tied round the bell- 
knob. No need of questions that 
day. Poot UtAe Nsaafc ^^ ?j«v«t\ 



«I call her little; but s 
eighteen, and well-grown. Il 
a fond way of intimating t 
crept into all our hearts, 
liked her for her honest bei 
ready smile, and her cheerfi 
Anne was not one of your 
sublime sort, but a strong 
sensible girl, with an apple- 
complexion and a clear cot 
Her family were old friends 
and Anne was engaged and 
be married to my particular 
John Sharon — one of the bes 
that ever trod shoe-leather 
John ! My heart ached for 
I went down-town that day. 

"There's a little Scottis 
that reminded me, the first 
read it, of John Sharon's lo 
hates : 

' Tweed said to Tfll, 
" What gars ye rin sae stiU ?" 

Till laid lo Tweed, 
" Though ye rin wi" %pt*A, 

And I rin slaw, 

Whar ye droon ae man, 

I drooo twa." ' 

"The current of John's 
was like the current of Till r 

"That evening I went uj 
house with my arms full c 
flowers. Minnie Atherton wa 
to go in to see her sister ; bu 
tated. I had alwa^'s disliked 
at a corpse, and I hated to Ic 
my mind the picture it held 
rosy-cheeked girl, and take 
place ever so fair an image o 

" ' She looks very peacefii 
nie said tearfiilly, seeing m] 
lingness. ' And you may be 
comfort John. We can't get hi 
from her.' 

" I never was much at cor 
V«»^le. All that I know hoi 



IVAat Doctor Marks died of. 



825 



rying woman is, * Now, don't, 
ar !' and to a crying man I 
't utter a word. Since then I 
narched up to a battery with 
aking of the nerves than I felt 
It day when I went into the 
led room where Anne Ather 
^ dead, and John Sharon sat 
% at her. There were no tears 

eyes, there was no trembling 

lip or voice. He looked as 
t he had so long gazed upon 
tudied that face of hers that 
n had learned the secret of its 

calm. I could not tell which 

two was whiter, 
ow beautiful she was ! There 
ill a faint pink in her lips ; but 

that marvellous rich color had 
ed in the cheeks, and a fainter 
I the small ears and rounded 
here was now only pure white, 
at pallor revealed many an ex- 
; outline which had been un- 

when her color dazzled the 
Her head was turned aside, 
>ne hand under the cheek, and 
ng, fair hair was put back from 
ce, and lay in shining ripples 
her shoulders and back. She 
ler bridal dress and veil, some 

frosty stuff, that looked as 
1 it might melt, being so near 
jster of candles that burned at 
:ad. There was no light in the 
but from those candles, 
innie scattered my flowers over 
ster's hair and dress. ' I am 
that you brought tuberoses,' 
id, * Anne always loved them.' 

long, 'slow sigh heaved John 
n's breast. He carefully took 
i of the blossoms and looked 
iver — the flower that Anne had 
! Then he laid it tenderly 
igain. Not all the blooms of 

could, for any other reason, 
von a glance from him at that 
at ; but I know that he has a 
»se engraven as sharply upon 



his memory as you ever saw any 
white flower cut upon a tomb-stone. 

" Presently Minnie left the room, 
glancing at me as she went. I ven- 
tured to lay my hand on John's 
shoulder. • I know it, Arnold,' he 
said quietly. 'You would help me 
if you could. But there is no help 
on earth. Don't worry about me. I 
can't leave while she is above ground. 
There will be time enough, by and 
by, for rest.' 

" ' I have no word of consolation to 
offer,' I said. 

" ' But I have a thought that con- 
soles me,' he replied, leaning forward 
with tender passion to lay his hand 
on hers ; ' I have not altogether lost 
her. I shall meet her again, my dar- 
ling ! I Shall meet her again !' 

" I turned away and left them there 
hand in hand. 

" When I went up the next mor- 
ning I found John trembling with 
excitement. * I have just restrained 
myself from taking Dr. Marks's life !' 
he said, his teeth fairly chattering. 
'What do you think that the brute 
dared to propose to me ? He wants 
to make a post-mortem examination 
of Anne ! That young form that the 
hand of man has never touched, to be 
cut up for the gratification of a mere 
professional curiosity I I told him to 
run for his life, or I would strangle 
him.' 

" Telling this, John panted like a 
man out of breath. 

" I tried to soothe him. ' These 
doctors get used to everything,' I 
said. 'Marks could have no idea 
how you feel about it.' 

" He wrung his hands, still shiver- 
ing with loathing of the thought that 
had been forced on him. ' I can't 
get over it T he said. ' I am sorry 
that he was called in at the consulta- 
tion. If I had known in season, he 
should not have come. He is a 
coarse-grained fellow, who, <ot ^ictft. 



826 



What Doctor Marks died of. 



sake of gratifying his curiosity about 
a disease, would outrage all the de- 
cencies of life. * I believe, Arnold — ' 
here John choked with the words he 
would have uttered. 

" ' My dear fellow, try to forget it,' 
I said. 'He has asked, and you 
have refused, and there's an end of 
the matter.' 

" • I don't believe that it is ended,' 
John said, looking at me strangely. 

" ' You don't mean — ' I began. 

" But he lifted his hand as though 
he could not bear to have the thought 
put into words. ' I shall watch her 
grave every night for a week,' he 
said. 'Will you watch with me to- 
night, Arnold ?' 

" I promised, and we parted. 

** Anne Atherton's case was a pe- 
culiar one. They had called it quick 
consumption, for want of a better 
name. She always persisted in say- 
ing that she had swallowed some 
thing sharp like a pin, and that it 
had entered her left lung ; but of all 
her physicians. Doctor Marks was 
the only one who believed it possible 
that she might be right. On the 
strength of this half agreement he 
had proi>osed the examination. 

♦' The South cemetery, just outside 
the city, used to be the paradise of 
body-snatchers. It was in a lone- 
some neighborhood, and two sides 
bordered on the open country. Many 
a grave in that cemetery had pven 
up its dead to the dissecting-knife, 
while the bereaved ones at home lit- 
tle dreamed that its sacred rest had 
been disturbed. The Athertons had 
a lot there, and Anne was buried in 
it We covered the new-made grave 
with evergreens, wreath linked in 
wreath, the whole sprinkled with 
white flowers — a pretty counterpane 
for the fair sleeper below. 

•• It wis five minutes past nine in 
the evening when I vaulted over the 
Stone vral\, aiA 'w^Wt^ Aowv the 



central avenue. The Ath< 
was not far from the entra 
instead of a high fence, with 
lock like the others, it was s 
ed only by a low rim of grat 
I approached, I saw the t 
monument in the centre, a 
Sharon leaning against it, a 
ing down on the wreath 
mound at his feet. He start 
he heard my step, and came 
me, taking my hand in a 
cold clasp. 

"'We will sit here,' he sa 
ing me to a shady nook at i 
side of the avenue. 

" The place he had selec 
a grove of Norway spruce 
formed a half-circle, the op 
facing the Atherton lot, 3 
more than two rods distant 
Thoughtful for my comfort, 
indifferent to his own, Jo 
thrown a shawl over the ho 
slab of marble in the centre 
grave, and on that we seat 
selves. He had brought, to 
tie flask of brandy, which he 
into my hand, but would not 
himself. It did not come ami 
the season was the last of C 
and the night chilly, thoug 
and calm. 

" I asked John what he m 
do if the doctor should make 
pearance. 

" ' I shall frighten him,' h 
' I have my pistol here, and r 
fire it. I couldn't bear to 
fight over her grave.' 

" We sat there and awaite 
lence, John with his eyes fi 
the mound across the way. 1 
ray of the setting moon touchi 
a white lustre its vdTeaths, an< 
little ghost of a flower, then 
up the shaft of marble near by 
ed with a luminous finger 
' rest in peace,' engraven there 
ed name after name, and dal 



WAat Doctor Marks died of. 



827 



date, stole up the cross at the top, 
lingered an instant on its summit, 
dwn melted into the air. Following 
hs flight with my glance, I saw that 
die sky was of a pale, transparent 
gray, with a few large stars in it. 
Clearly out against this background 
Stood the roofs and spires of that 
slieeping city that breathed while it 
slept; and more clearly yet the monu- 
ments, and a fine tracery of the bare 
trees, branch, stem, and twig show- 
ing delicate as lace-work, of that 
nearer city which slept in awful, 
breathless silence, never stirring for 
sunrise nor sunset, never starting at 
any alarm, nor opening its eyes, let 
4riK> would go by. 

** The evening had been calm, but 
as it grew toward midnight a faint 
and fitful breeze came now and then, 
like a sigh, setting that net-work of 
branches in a shiver, and sweeping 
tiie dry leaves about with a low and 
mournful rustling. The place and 
time, the silence that was only bro- 
ken by that weird and spirit-like 
wind, and yet more, the face of my 
companion, affected me strongly. 
John sat leaning slightly forward, his 
bands clasped on his knees, his gaze 
fixed on that grave he had come to 
watch, and as motionless as any 
stone about us. The frozen look of 
his face chilled me. I could not see 
nor hear that he breathed; and 
there was no movement of an eyelid 
even. I would have spoken to him if 
I had dared. I longed for some sound 
which would startle him out of that 
trance ; but there he sat motionless, 
apparently lifeless. 

" I took a swallow of brandy and 
tried to occupy my thoughts other- 
wise. I looked through the intersti- 
.ces of the trees near me and counted 
grave-stones. Close by were two old 
sunken graves with slate stones lean- 
ing awry at their heads, where lay, or 
had lain, grandfather and grandmoth- 



er Sawj-er — a later John Anderson and 
his wife, who had gone, hand in hand, 
up and down the hill, and now slept 
thegither at the foot I say they had 
lain there ; for, in the fifty odd years 
since their burial, it was most proba- 
ble that their dust had left its place 
beneath those tumble-down slate 
'Stones and gone about other busi- 
ness, rising, may be, in grasses and 
flowers. Not much of the old cou- 
ple left in their coffins, be sure. Per- 
haps the children had carried the last 
of them away in violets and may«'eed, 
that very summer. Possibly the birds 
had pecked them up, in one shape or 
another. 

" Would John Sharon never move ? 

" I turned and peered back to where 
a small white cross stood, looking like 
achild in its night-gown, with arms ex- 
tended. I could fancy some dear lit- 
tle frightened thing coming to me in 
that lonely place, silent from fear, or 
only faintly whimpering, all of a tre- 
mor, poor babe ! till I should reach 
and clasp it safe. The rustling of 
the leaves was its little bare feet in ' 
them, the sigh of air was its sobbing 
breath. 

" I gave myself a shake. Well, to 
be sure ! a white marble cross to mark 
where a child had been buried a year 
or two before. I remembered having 
seen, in June, a red-ripe strawberry on 
that grave, looking as though the little 
creature's mouth were put up through 
the sod to be kissed. 

" I turned to John Sharon again. 
He had not stirred. I looked at the 
grave he watched, and wondered if, 
with that steadfast gaze, he could 
pierce the sod, as clairvoyants tell, 
and see Anne lying, cold and lovely, 
far below, with one hand under her 
cheek and the other on her breast, 
and her hair flowing down unbound, 
never again to float on any breeze, 
to toss with any light motion of hers, 
to be twisted about his fingers. 



828 



W^t Doctor Marks died of. 



X 






" I turned quickly to touch him, 
but, as I raised my hand, he started. 
A sough of air had arisen, faint but 
far-reaching ; the leaves rustled and 
crept all about the many graves ; and 
through that sound I heard a step. 

" John's form came erect, as though 
stiflTened by a galvanic shock, and 
he sharply turned his head aside to 
listen. For one moment there was si- 
lence again, then a sound of feet care- 
fully treading down the avenue toward 
us. I heard the breath shiver through 
John's teeth, and saw him take some- 
thing from his breast. Then two men 
came stealing across our \'iew, their 
forms, as we sat low, defined against 
the sky. One was unknown to me, 
but the other was easy to recognize 
— Dr. Marks's large, athletic form 
loomed against the stars. Both men 
carried spades, and the doctor had a 
sack hanging over his arm. They 
went directly to the Atherton lot, 
and, after whispering together for a 
moment, the smaller man stooped to 
pull away the wreaths from the grave, 
and Dr. Marks set his spade to the 
earth and his foot to the spade. 

" ' We must make haste,' I heard 
him say. * Our time is short.' 
. " His was shorter than he knew. 

" Without looking directly at John, 
I had seen him come forward with his 
knee to the ground, and raise his hand 
level with his eyes, and I was aware of 
a flicker before his face, as of light on 
polished metal. There was a faint 
sound of the spade thrust through 
loose gravel, and, as he heard it, 
John started, and cried out as if the 
thrust had been through his heart. 
At the same instant a flame leaped 



out from the gloom wherein 
ed, the silence cracked wit] 
report, and both men drop] 
spades and ran. 

•* John started to his feet, 
to the grave which he had sa 
profanation, and, after havin 
ed from it, with loving care, e 
of disturbance, tifirew himsel: 
and sobbed as though his be: 
break." 

The major paused, brushed 
across his eyes, and gazed a 
longer into the coals, in whic 
seemed to read that story. 
looked up quickly, straightei 
self, and became aware agai 
southern night, the many te 
the fire-lighted faces of sold 
tening toward him. 

" I had my suspicions," he r 
in a changed voice, ** that Jol 
was not so harmless as he had 
ed it to be ; but I said nothing 
and when he told me to go 1 
went. When I reached the ! 
saw two men walking slowl; 
one supporting the other. T 
day I heard that Dr. Marks wj 
Strangely enough, we were able 
the knowledge from John. H 
left the house, except at night 
ter a week, when we joined o 
ments ; and since then he li 
enough to think of and to c 
out inquiring after Dr. Marks's 

" TTie doctor's family said i 
of heart-disease ; and I don'i 
them for putting the best fa 
could on the affair. The h< 
most people, when they di< 
something the matter with 
they are likely to stop." 



Bartoletue Las Casas. 



829 



BARTOLEME LAS CASAS* 



IS THE CHARGE IN HISTORY AGAINST HIM SUSTAINED? 



•F all the great men of the Span- 
race who ever visited the shores 
he American continent, it may 
I truth be said that Bartoleme de 
Casas, Bishop of Chiapa, was the 
test His personal virtues, in 
:h he surpassed others, were only 
died by the exalted purpose to 
Ji his long life was exclusively 
)ted. His career was beset with 
Is that would have appalled one 

had not the courage and the 
tancy of a paladin ; his toils, pri- 
ms, and sufferings were without 
ber. The insults, contumely, 
n, and malice to which he was 
', hourly exposed, not from a few 
, but from all of his countrymen 
he new world, were enough to 
1 the stoutest heart. He was, 
tninently, the most hated, the 
: despised, the most universally 
•pular being that crossed the 
d Atlantic from Spain. Some- 
s they denied him shelter ; some- 
\ they refused him food ; some- 
\ they threatened his safety, in 
leditated assaults for his assassi- 
>n ; they fled from his presence 
te altar as they would flee from 
itilence ; and they compelled him 
t to become a fugitive in order 
eserve his life. 
}t only in America, but in Eu- 

also, was he subjected to abuse 
ridicule ; but in Europe these 

not universal. Public opinion 
there divided. Those who had 
ned from the Western Indies, 



\t Lift »/Lmt Cmtat, " Tkt AftttU »/ Hit 
." Bjr Arthur Hdi» London : B«U & Dal- 
Hft. itato, pp. J9a. Fortale by th« Catholic 
Mka Sodctjr, New Yoric 



covered with renown and rolling 
in riches, who were celebrated in 
story, not only after the Manner of 
knights-errant in romance, but in the 
very words, phrases, and language of 
romance-7-those who went forth from 
home, poor, needy, plebeian, and 
came back with untold wealth, to 
intermarry with, the families of che 
highest grandees, to intermix their 
blood with the purest hidalgo, poured 
forth their concentrated wrath upon 
his devoted head. But, on the other 
hand, courtiers all-powerful, prime 
ministers, and sovereigns received him 
with open arms, granted him prolonged 
audience, and commiserated his trou- 
bles, sympathizing deeply in his no- 
ble undertaking. In secret, however, 
they had often to regret their inabili- 
ty to render him the aid required for 
its success. With the clergy, and 
especially among the highest pre- 
lates, the confessors of royalty, the 
professors of the universities, the 
bishops, the archbishops, the pri- 
mates, and cardinals, his return was 
greeted with the same satisfaction. 
From the lowly cloister to the impe- 
rial palace the same good wishes for 
him prevailed. 

In the respectable classes of so- 
ciety at large, a singular reception 
awaited him. Although they vene- 
rated him as one among the best of 
mankind, they manifested their re- 
gard in the most opposite deport- 
ment When he ascended the pul- 
pit to discourse before the pious 
upon the unheard-of outrages, the 
fiendish wickedness, the appalling 
cruelties inflicted by Christians, and 
moreover, Christiai;is who were their 



830 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



countrymen, upon simple, confiding, 
weak, inoffensive thousands and tens 
of thousands of Indians in the new 
world, the horror and abhorrence 
of congregations knew no bounds. 
Their fears of Divine vengeance fall- 
ing upon themselves rose in the same 
proportion, until they stood aghast 
lest a national calamity should come 
upon them, like unto that which 
swept away of old the cities of the 
plain. On the other hand, that por- 
tion of the public which is light- 
minded, full of levity, and for ever in 
search of novelty, encountered him 
elsewhere, on the plaza, in the college 
court, on the prado, where he walked 
under the trees, or at a posada where 
he dined ; and they paused to listen 
to his talk, for he talked much and 
ICO often on the same theme — the ra- 
pacity and brutality of the cavaliers 
to the helpless, the innocent, the ig- 
norant, defenceless aborigines — the 
adopted children of the holy fiither 
at Rome, the accepted wards confid- 
ed to the tender keeping of the good 
Queen Isabella of blessed memory, 
to christianize and to civilize. While 
the monk poured forth an eloquent 
statement of their wrongs, the wiien, 
the where, and on what occasion, he 
named no names, in charity to the 
bad men ; but his hearers made the 
proper application, well knowing the 
persons from common report ; those 
millionaires just returned, whose 
mushroom bloom of dunghill beauty, 
outshone the roseate lustre of the 
ancient Guzmans and Colonas. 

The successful ad\cnturers to the 
Indies of the West had already re- 
ceived the popular and insulting nick- 
name of the Cachopins of Laredo ; 
thev were of Ihe same breed with 
the'lndiann.ibobs of England in after- 
da>-s, and of the shotldy in our own. 
While, therefore, the sitigle-niiiulcd 
monk, in the fer>or of his eloquence. 
in ttic 0\«tl\ovj«^ itai V^^ *vv4 cause. 



narrated what these peop 
to the natives, his aud 
learning how these men 
their money ; and the 
and indignation exhibit 
speaker, the more highh 
amused, the more heart! 
shake with silent laug 
monk saw the scenes i 
serious light ; they saw- 
most ludicrous aspect ; i 
quietly in their mind coi 
world-wide extent betv 
pin pretensions and Cac 
And these, thought they 
bom and brutish fellu 
receiving patents of no 
score, who aspire to c 
crests upon the aristoci 
eon possessed by gran 
first class, emblazoned ' 
bears, eagles, lions, elc 
leopards, borne, ccnti 
upon banners of that < 
fought for Christendom 
of Covodonga, and for 
nence of Spanish honor, 
courtesy over France : 
vale of Roncesvallfs — l 
fellows who wish to 
proud emblematic anim. 
new coals of arms, the 
the t'omata, the roastin 
dian corn, the sweet pot 
the appropriate devices 
querors dubbed with ; 
from a miseniblc tish-i 
meanest, poverty-slricki 
producing province in th 

• The Cic'i'T'n Srur-d in xV-i 
r^'niar.cr*. arrt 'ive'.y |M»;.»r.-.;< .>t'tl. 

In the bcaat'.i'u! lu^ruro^ o:' ihv 
M.i-.:eniiy.'r, ".n i »■ i'v '.•r::«fcr. Fj 
Kf;:»T.«T.v «!•. ■ ■' <'..<^y.<ei .u i S 

•■ I pr'im'.'i: >i'j —r. ;'■.• i'.i::}i oi a 
ara. i: r ~i> rA:!".-r .> a licl; ■; :n • :' 
rr.i»:«r Vj« r>t:"i- tf-rr:*.'" — jiV.- ^ 
eJ.::fi ."' 154s. 

1' r. ii—\ :i- r?(: '.hi Tr.>%e"er- - 
c. •ii>f i;e<cr-.'.-<-: 'Vr ;-.i'.:y ..-i h 
»!-.en JMC\! '»'.'• '■ 'iii »a«— 

■■ H-.r '.irtfijif. rn-i. \r.-.e<T," ir 
"i* •...-tv-; thi .'•; Ko:"xri ^.-.irr:-.-. 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



831 



yreat object which Las Casas 
to attain was, in its magni- 
>inmensurate with the mighty 
ions produced in the minds 
}wn nationality. It was not 
ect or defend a parish, or a 
, or a state from oppression, 
;ave from destruction a conti- 
hemisphcre of the habitable 
it was to snatch and to shield 
; of the natives in the Indies 
^est from slavery to the white 
or, enslaved, the feeble Indian 
e to sink under the burdens 
1, most of them perishing 
wo months, and none of them 
ig two years. If they went 
) the grave in their ignorance 
idelity, their souls might be 
the pale of salvation in their 
lerate state ; if they were ci- 
believed in Christ, and were 
3, what glory would redound 
what treasure laid up in hea- 
those aiding in their conver- 
lat myriads of communicants 
o the church I Natural com- 
ion for their hard lot in this 
spiritual considerations for 
te in the next, along with re- 
Id out to those who alleviated 
>tress now and prepared them 
nal happiness hereafter, were 
Ited motives that prompted 
las to undertake the herculean 

such sublime intentions, his 
ras strengthened to undergo 
il and privation the body can 
o endure every agony, every 
y the spirit can receive. The 
:s he adopted for success, the 
le employed to sustain them, 
truments he made use of, 
te the materials for his life, 
were numerous, varied, dis- 

nor Gosmans of Castile, bat of Tobota de 

M 

ne," Mid the traveller, " it of the Cacho- 
edo." 



similar, and seemingly discordant. 
One was the simple being, almost in 
a state of nature in the rudest hut, 
living upon roots, sheltered by a frail 
canopy of leaves, clothed with a rab- 
bit-skin or a yard of cotton, or without 
any covering at all, and possessed of 
an intellect just dawning into con- 
sciousness of its faculties, so that the 
common, almost universal opinion 
was that he did not as yet belong to the 
human species, but was born to live, 
to be worked, and to die like beasts of 
the field. On the other hand. Las 
Casas invoked the assistance of the 
most illustrious of the age, the refined 
and intellectual in the most4>owerful 
state in Europe. He impressed his 
thoughts upon the august Cesar, 
seated upon his imperial throne, who 
claimed legitimate succession in the 
divine line from the celestial deitv. 

For fifty j'ears was his time devot- 
ed to this cause, with varied hope of 
success and disaster ; but before he 
lay d own to die, much - had been 
achieved, and with the encourage- 
ment that more could be accomplish- 
ed in the future. The life of Las Ca- 
sas is yet to be written. Those who 
have essayed it so far have only fur- 
nished a few facts, mixed with many 
errors. They have not attempted to 
combine the materials into general 
principles, and to analyze the incen- 
tives of those who were his enemies, 
or who were his friends, and tllus re- 
duce the conduct of all into a gene- 
ral consistency. Sympathizing with 
him in his exertions, they conclude 
that those who opposed him were all 
bad men, and those who encouraged 
him were all good men. But that is 
not the temper in which biography 
and history ought to be written. 
Facts or events are only one part of 
the work ; the causes which preced- 
ed or influenced them should be in- 
vestigated. Nothing should be left 
to ignorant conjecture, to idle infer- 



832 



Bartolcme Las Casas. 



ence or gratuitous suspicion. All 
the surroundinp must be explained. 
In writing his biography some insight 
into the learning of that period and 
into the state of science at the time 
should be gained, especially in the 
departments of histor}', of moral phi- 
losophy, ol the civil law, of the canon 
law, and international jurisprudence. 
Not even the lighter literature, includ- 
ing the popular poetrj', the drama, 
and romances, can with safety es- 
cape observation. Above all, being 
at the era of the revival of learning, 
along with the first improvements in 
the art of printing, the changes made 
in modem languages are to be noted. 
In these transformations, the signi- 
ficance of many words and phrases 
was often doubtful. Sometimes they 
had to be taken according to their 
old meaning ; sometimes again in the 
new. When astrology was banislicd, 
its theory was discarded; but at 
least two -thirds of its terms wore re- 
tained : when alchemy suffered the 
same fate, its vocabulary, as well as its 
crucibles, retorts, and alembics, were 
transferred to the chemical laborato- 
ry : when the practice of medicine was 
relinquished, physicians took posses- 
sion of its expressions for comments, 
and wrote out their prescriptions in 
many of its hieroglyphics. These mu- 
tations were progressing when Colum- 
bus was sailing due west in search uf a 
route to the east. Whether words were 
to be interpreted according to science, 
or according to suppositions which 
had prevailed before science, was 
often a difficult question to solve. 

Illustrations would indicate how 
far research must go to understand 
the times and transitions taking 
place. It is needless to ad<l, that 
nothing of the kind has been noted ; 
nor, from appearances, will it ever 
be thought of. His writings have 
been glanced at to elucidate some 
pomt coxilTovwVsA, tiiw^ N-Vvwv hastily 



thrown aside. What was 
moreover, was in a confu 
of facts and dates, which 
ficult to comprehend, and 
ficult to reduce to a < 
form. The consequence 
that, instead of a knowled 
learning and science at tl 
when he lived, to enlarge 
of their literarj* reputatic 
have embarrassed some histc 
jects, and well will it be ft 
they have not endangered 
rels. It would seem that n 
have treated of Las Casa*; 
touched upon liis charad 
fallen into some mistake, 
curious blunder. Nor is tl 
ber confined to writers of a; 
order; it embraces some ii 
nowned in Europe and .Vm 
justly merited historical ex 
They learned a few facts : tl 
sed the rest ; and their j 
like all loose conjectures in 
leads to false conclusions, 
consequent danger therefror 

Las Casas comnicnceil 
tory of the Indies in 15^7, 
was in his fifty-third year ; 
eluded it in 1559, when ho w 
eighty-fifth. He had in hia 
sion some valuable docum 
tained from Columbus : bul 
these he relied for the most 
his own knowledge of even 
with accredited rumors anc 
in circulation. In his wii; ]-. 
that the Historia shall not 1 
public for forty years after 
cease. But reasons exist fn 
lief that it was read by Phili 
cond, in the Kscorial ; and 
tain Antonio de Herrera ava 
self of its information before 
1600, when he completed 
scription of the Indies of A 
The Historia by Las Casa: 
mains in manuscript in th 
Academy of Madrid. Herrci 



BartoUme Las Casas. 



8S3 



:hief royal chromcler of the In- 
and chronicler for Castile, was 
red by the supreme council of 
Indies to prepare his Descrip- 
It is presented in the form of 
Js, where events are recorded 
le year in which they transpired, 
iequently the breaks are inces- 
in the r^;ular sequence, to con- 
to chronological arrangement 
historical effect was not design- 
historical accuracy in the state- 
t of facts being all that was de- 
ded. 

this end, Herrera consulted 
^ book, in print or in manuscript, 
m to him, and had access to 
^ official document in the ar- 
!s of Simancas and Seville, to 
•e accuracy and verify every as- 
on. He does not often explain 
)olicy or intentions of the govem- 
t; because statecraft, in those 
, enjoined the silence of Italian 
>macy and practised the secrecy 
e Venetian Council of Ten. The 

1 purpose in what was done or 
red, was above the sphere of the 
ilist ; the introduction of perso- 
)r private biography was below 
He took for his model and guide, 
igh the intricate maze of voyages, 
)veries, and adventures, the Ifts- 

of Las Casas. He adopted 
part only, however, which his 
required ; he rejected that which 
uncertain, untrue, or purely of 
3nal interest. In rejecting, he 
not discredit Las Casas, believ- 
lim to be of undoubted veracity, 
in general very accurate. But 
Casas had unavoidably fallen in- 
rors, from defect of memory, with 
ncing years, and from misinfor- 
on, or from facts misunderstood 
le manner in which they reached 

That Herrera should improve 

I him or defer to his accuracy as 

storian is not singular, and ex- 

ses a high appreciation of his ex- 

voL. VI.— 53 



cellence. Nor can it be surprising 
when called upon to pronounce, in his 
Description, between the statements 
of Las Casas and his enemies, Ovi- 
edo and Gomara, he should decide 
that Las Casas had good cause for 
much feeling against them. When 
the voluminous work of Herrera was 
printed, it was found to be a masterly 
production ; nor has its authority, 
been seriously questioned since. At 
the present day it stands as imput- 
ing perfect verity. It ranks with the 
Annua! Register and National Alma- 
nac; it is of the same class of publi- 
cations, but far more extensive in its 
design. 

The imperfections of Las Casas in 
his Historia and those portions not 
quoted by Herrera are the parts 
which first claim attention. In un- 
derstanding his peculiar position 
toward those with jgehom he was 
thrown in contact, his inferences of 
the motives by which they were ac- 
tuated cannot be implicitly relied on. 
He did not comprehend fully their 
situation ; he could not account for 
their conduct, because explanatic«» 
were not made which at a flash would 
have revealed the difficulties. In the 
absence of those he could not refrain 
from ascribing bad motives to some 
officials, such as Fonseca, Bbhop of 
Burgos. Others he honored, because 
they were disinterested, pure, virtu- 
ous personages, with their sensibili- 
ties excited at the wrongs done to 
the aborigines, and who sympathiz- 
ed with him in his praiseworthy en- 
terprise. Such, in his opinion, were 
Cesneros, Cardinal Ximenes, and 
Adrian, Cardinal de Tortosa. These 
prelates were in turn prime minis- 
ters, but their mode of receiving 
Las Casas was different Xime- 
nes was cold and austere in general, 
with his thoughts absorbed in af- 
fairs of state. To Las Casas his 
deportment was not reserved; he 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



831 



r what was in their school-books ; 
hey know nothing more. Every 
)f Columbus, of Cortez, of Las 
s is written in the same vein. 

Bishop of Burgos is abused in 
' them. He treated the disco- 

of America shamefully ; he in- 
d the Protector of the Indians ; 
irsecuted the conqueror of Mex- 

These illustrious men denounc- 
m, and their biographers are in 
1 biographical fealty bound to 
unce him also. Their heroes 
lever wrong; for what hero in 
aphy or romance can ever be 
5? In the very nature of such 
ositions it is an utter impossibi- 
Fonseca was never in the right ; 
thzX. opponent of their idols 

have any reason or justice on 
de? 

w, the best of reasons may be 
[ for his policy to Columbus and 
'asas. They both wanted funds 
the treasury when he was minis- 
md when no funds could be 
d ; for the nation was insolvent — 
et well known to him, but which 
5 all-important should not be 
n to the public. He would not 
. ducat for any exploring voyage 
)spective discovery, or for any 
ises after a discovery was made. 
1 Isabella begged and implored 
old minister to yield to her im- 
nities for Columbus, he posi- 

refused ; nor could any entrea- 
induce him to relent. The 
I, in consequence, had to pawn 
jwels to equip the armada fit- 
tut at Palos. Fonseca was not 
iced for his obstinacy ; and al- 
h nothing of a courtier, he was 
iseful to be removed. Las 
I was served in the same way 

Charles was anxious to aid 
dth funds. Fonseca was again 
rly, and when at last the sove- 

determined in council that, 
what might, Las Casas should 



have aid, Fonseca washed his hands 
of the business, and soon after met 
him with a smile. This unexpected 
amiability Las Casas describes as 
evincing "some nobleness of na- 
ture." How many meritorious sub- 
jects, with honest claims on the trea- 
sury, were disappointed of a pittance 
thereby, is not considered. Knights 
who had spent their estates in pro- 
secuting the wars against the Moors« 
who had grown old and poor in the 
royal service, who had fought .for 
Christendom at Alhama, conquered at 
Malaga, and contributed to the siege 
and capture of Cordova, may have 
turned away heart-sick, in want 
of a maravedi, and only diminish- 
ed the importunate, unsuccessful 
crowd besieging the doors of minis- . 
ters, to swell the number of daily 
beggars at the hatch ofsome convent. 
In the novel of Gil Bias a picture is 
presented of the neglect shown to 
meritorious subjects, whose neces- 
sities are no less imperative than 
their deeds were commendable. Cap- 
tain Chinchilla is a sample of thou- 
sands. He had lost an eye at Na- 
ples, an arm in Lombardy, and a 
leg in the Low Countries ; but his 
sovereign had not a ducat to spare. 
In such condition of the finances, a 
ininister required a heart of stone 
to turn away from starving appeals 
for a bare pittance or the smallest 
pension. Fonseca could not be just ; 
how much less could he be gene- 
rous ? A man who would endure this 
for the crown deserved much of the 
royal favor. For this was Fonseca 
invaluable ; his nerve to save every 
real to* the state was a quality much 
wanted. 

But Hernando Cortez never be- 
sought the royal bounty ; why, then, 
should Fonseca persecute him? It 
is said he exhibited uniform malig- 
nity against all great men ; he per- 
secute Cortez. To this last ia- 



iruv ttt 



9i6 



Bartoliwu Las Casas. 



4 






stance a reason can be interposed. 
For some cause Fonseca took part 
in the private quarrel between him 
and Velasquez, the Governor of Cu- 
ba. What was the minister's motive 
b merely conjecture ; but if true, it is 
not worthy of consideration. Velas- 
quez and Cortez were both villains ; 
and a controversy between them 
arose about the division of the Mexi- 
can spoils. The governor furnished 
the ^ds for that expedition, and 
fitted out the ships on joint accoimt 
He complained that Cortez made no 
return of the profits, Fonseca took 
the side of Velasquez and aided him 
in his suit It was difficut to deter- 
mine who had the law in his favor ; 
but the man who would cheat his pa- 
tron and partner, as Cortez certainly 
did, who would torture to death an 
innocent prisoner and that prisoner 
a dethroned monarch, as Cortez in 
cold blood put Guatomotz to the 
torture, is not only a contemptible 
knave, but a hideous monster in hu- 
man form. 

Velasquez was another of the same 
breed ; and if his infamy was less, 
the opportunity for the display of 
his propensities was wanting; his 
field was not so magnificent; but 
he cultivated to the utmost extent 
the smaller space which Cuba pre- 
sented. Bad faith toward each other 
was the common practice among co- 
lonial chiefs. Velasquez owed his 
appointment to the judges of the Au- 
diencia of Hispaniola, who fitted him 
out to do business for both ; in the 
same way that he in turn had com- 
missioned and supplied Cortez, and 
as Cortez again nominated certain 
confidential friends to govern Mexi- 
co when he undertook his unfortu- 
nate expedition to Honduras. Of 
course these friends cheated Cortez, 
as he had cheated Governor Velas- 
quez, and as the governor had cheat- 
ed the judges of the Audiencia, and 



as the judges were peq>etua 
frauding their sovereign. N< 
SfKuk of honor or honesty wa< 
bited by any of them. The] 
rapacious, reckless, restrained 
law or teaching or sense of i 
ty ; while the temptation befor 
eyes was too splendid and over] 
ing to resist The breach of 
lemn promise was cheap as a < 
oath ; it was not even a vei 
fence ; the torture of the Ii 
was not a crime ; the burning 
at a slow fire of the royal Azti 
at best only an indiscretion, 
sands, including girls and boy 
been subjected to the same treat 
and for the same purpose, to 
the last ounce of gold-dust fro 
unhappy creatures. 

The proceedings of Go\'em< 
lasquez, in Cuba, were not unlil 
conduct of Cortez in Mexica 
governor enslaved, he torture 
destroyed ; and so did every ca 
who came in contact with th< 
tives. The only gentlemen ii 
Antilles were the buccaneers 
British, Dutch, and French pi 
They, to be sure, in search of t 
cut the throats of the Spaniards « 
they captured ; but they were o 
much principle to conceal the 
der from their companions or i 
vide unfairly. But the Castiliar 
not stop with cutting thro.ats of 
cent Indians ; they despoiled 
other. They had not the pro\T 
honor found among thieves, 
such a delightful socict}*, mora 
titudc was not one of the car 
virtues ; and if Fonseca inclined t 
lasquez while popular opinion is 
Cortez, the discrepancy may b 
cribed to the fact that popular 
nion will in such cases decide in 
of him whose baseness is the grt 
the more magnificent and succe: 

Las Casas detested Cortez, 
preferred the governor ; but he 



BartoUme'Las Casas. 



^n 



IS of the unjust policy of Ferdi- 
I to Columbus. It is probable 
Casas is mistaken again; he 
r nothing of cabinet secrets, 
character of the great navigator 
rvedly stands high, not only for 
splendor of his discoveries, but 
he purity of his life. His fame 
ot be assailed with any truth or 
riety ; while on the other hand, 
ry does not accord much credit 
;rdinand for his public or private 
1. Yet it is impossible, in con- 
ing all the circumstances, to 
1 the conclusion that the king was 
, and had at least equity to sus- 
lim, or rather to justify his Conn- 
ie, for it was a matter of state, 
true, the crown of Castile had 
ed into a formal contract with 
mbus to confer upon him a high 
land over all the countries he 
d discover. The king now re- 
to make good this stipulation ; 
oke the contract, and proposed 
ensation by estates conferred 
stile. Columbus held the crown 
5 bond and refused all compro- 
He had set his heart on be- 
ig the man of greatest wealth in 
rarld and to bestow it all to 
tendom in a cruza for the re- 
y of the holy places from the in- 
A more sublime purpose could 
€ conceived ; for at the time, 
:anttnople was captured, the is- 
for the most part in the Levant 
m, Italy in danger, a foothold 
d in Sicily and Sardinia, France 
y sending troops to the frontiers 
ustria, Hungary invaded, the 
its Templars of St. John far in 
ice at Rhodes under fire, and 
rs daily offered up by the peo- 
i their churches at Amsterdam, 
ring the Almighty to avert the 
en from their gates ; the crown- 
ctory for the Christians was not 
i for a half-century later at the 
>f Lepanto. 



This brilliant scheme of Columbus 
to roll back the tide of war, engrossed 
his leisure hours. For its accom* 
plishment, he hoped to obtain riche$ 
from the new world ; and when made 
governor of Hispaniola, was avari- 
cious to amass a stupendous fortune. 
Among other measures he sent three 
hundred natives to Seville, to be sold 
as slaves. Queen Isabella, hearing 
of it, ordered that they be sent bacl^ 
declaring no one had a right to en« 
slave her vassals. Although incen* 
sed, she did not reprimand Columbus. 
He had enough of difficulties to con- 
tend with in his administration, with- 
out the further burden of her displea* 
sure ; for it was soon fqund out • he 
evinced an incapacity to govern men 
in civil society. Successful he might 
be in ruling sailors on the forecastle ; 
but that had not taught him how to 
govern men on shore. He exacted 
implicit obedience; he pursued his 
own plans without consultation ; he 
compelled cavaliers to assist in man- 
ual labor. Worse than all, he was 
a foreigner, and it ended in a revolt 
with open war. A royal commis- 
sioner was sent out to institute aa 
investigation, which terminated in 
Columbus being sent to Seville in 
chains. Isabella, at this indignity 
offered to her favorite admiral, or- 
dered the irons to be removed, but 
would not consent, withal, to rein- 
state him in authority. After her 
death, he renewed his application, 
without a better result ; the king re- 
fused to comply with the words of 
the royal contract. The promise 
had been made, but it was made for 
the state — for the public benefit — and 
the opinion of lawyers was, that it 
could be broken if it were for the 
common good not to cany out its 
provisions. A proper equivalent 
could be awarded for the damage 
done to the admiral. This was the 
theory of rif^ts then ; it b still the 



«38 



Bartoleme Las Casus, 



i 



f 



^ 



theory and practice of all govern- 
ments at the present time. But Co- 
lumbus refused every offer in the 
nature of a recompense, which would 
have left him rich, and placed him 
on a level with the highest grandees 
in the realm. He nursed his wrongs 
in silence, languished in compara- 
tive poverty, and died of a broken 
heart. 

Las Casas never forgot this treat- 
ment of the great admiral, his warm 
personal friend ; he distrusted princes 
ever after. He fell into the error 
common to most men soliciting court 
favor, that whatever was done to pro- 
mote his wishes was done from per- 
tonal considerations to him, through 
his individual exertions and influ- 
ence, and not out of any regard for 
the welfare of the Indians. On the 
contrary, the welfare of the Indians 
was all that recommended him to the 
attention af the cardinals, or to royal 
hotice, and invested him with impor- 
.tance. The policy of the crown was 
to save the aborigines from destruc- 
tion. It might be a selfish policy, 
but it surely was, at the same time, 
enlightened and correct in every 
point of view. But every colonial 
official, every special agent, every 
Spaniard was thwarting the govern- 
mental plan, to promote their own 
interests and their private emolument. 
The proceeds of the plantations, of 
the mines, of the pearl fisheries, were 
in great demand at fabulous values, 
while the labor of the Indians en- 
slaved was cheap and abundant ; 
therefore, they were made slaves in 
the very face of the royal prohibition. 

It is true these slaves sickened 
and died within a short period, but 
plenty more were forthcoming at a 
low rate ; and thus the desolation 
went on. The crown had resolved 
to check the atrocity ; but how could 
it be accomplished ? The clergy were 
not impWcaled m V\ve ^Wv, but. they 



were incapable of assisting at 
or advising. The most of them, i 
over, believed at one time tha 
natives were not human. Th< 
minicans, who arrived out about 
thought otherwise ; and the}', in 
under the guidance of Las Cass 
fused their opinion into the other I 
ren. His discussion before the y 
emperor with Quevedo, Bishop a 
rien',was to settle their status ; for 
vedo contended tlicy were not i 
lectual beings. Many doubts 
vailed also among the clei^, ai 
was the universal belief of the 1 
according to Remisal, until, in i 
Paul III. issued his famous bol 
daring they were human and 
capable of instruction and salva 
The crown had great difficu 
in the matter, and the ministers < 
much perplexed in learning whi 
do ; but the imperiah troubles ^ 
not disclosed to I-as Casas, foi 
troubles were diplomatic se< 
which to none could be divulj 
Their confidence in his veracity, 
cerity, and disinterestedness, was 
bounded ; he was the only one I 
could trust for a correct acco 
He was successively created Pre 
tor of the Indians, chaplain to 
emperor, and Bishop of Chi; 
While the sovereigns apprcci; 
him, esteemed him, heard ever)' v 
he had to say bearing upon the : 
ject, he mixed it up so often vii 
many extraneous remarks, obsc 
tions, and quotations, that they t 
now and then have considered 
an intolerable bore. With this < 
prehension of the principles m 
tained by the Castilian cabine 
clue is discovered to guide thro 
the mazes and intricacies of In( 
p>olitics. Emergencies someti 
compelled deviations or except 
for the moment ; but when the 
cessity passed away, the polic]f 
immediately restored. 



Batioleme Las Casas, 



839 



t is now time to turn to the new 
k of Mr. Arthur Helps. To those 

have read a page about Las Ca- 
this book can excite only feelings 
lisappointment and regret. The 
lie expected some improvement 
east on preceding biographies, 
:h was certainly a very moderate 
;ctation ; but it has not been grati- 
The volume is written with the 
gn to expatiate on the great vir- 

of the bishop, to eulogize his 
Dns, to excuse his errors, to de- 
I his fame. But the memory of 
Casas needs no aid of this kind 
aneg)Tic or palliation. His deeds 
i passed into history, and by its 
1, enlightened, disinterested ver- 
he must stand or fall. So far he 
not been favored with a dispas- 
ate hearing, nor by any means 
I an enlightened public. A pre- 
ce has prevailed against him, 
1 one cause among his country- 
, from another source abroad ; 
Mr. Helps, without intending to 
lim harm, would strengthen the 
'ailing impression abroad by his 
lication, if it were generally read, 
which is doubtful. On the second 
;, in stating " the character of Las 
as," he writes : 

The utmost that friends or enemies, I 
ine, could with the slightest truth allege 
1st him was an over-fervent tempera- 
. If we had to arrange the faculties of 
: men, we should generally, according to 
;asy-working fancies, combine two cha- 
rs to make our men of. And in this case 
lould not be sorry, if it might have been 
> have had a little of the wary nature of 
a man as King Ferdinand the Second 
mixed with the nobler elements of Las 
s. Considering, however, what great 
;s Las Casas strove after and how much 
ccomplished, it is ungracious to dwell 
: than is needful upon any defect or su- 
uity of his character. If it can be proved 
ras on any occasion too impetuous in 
[ or deed, it was in a cause that might 
driven any man charged with it bk- 
all bounds of prudence in the expres- 
of his indignadon." 



It will be perceived, on perusal 
that, wherever the bishop has been 
charged with any fault, imperfection, 
failure, or inconsistency, this au- 
thor readily admits it, and then pro- 
ceeds to offer extenuating circum- 
stances, or to petition for mercy for 
his hero, on the plea that he had 
good intentions or had done important 
services. When, again, the author 
has some bright spot to dwell upon 
in his career, it is presented in a 
questionable shape, which deprives 
it of all lustre, leaving the suspicion 
on the mind of readers that the bi- 
shop, is a much overrated man. Mr. 
Helps furnishes no new facts, he ex- 
plains none that are old, he states 
very few correctly. About dates the 
author is most commonly in error 
when given ; but for the most part 
he does not deig^ to notice them, 
which in this case is a blessing ; for 
he seems as indifferent to their im- 
portance as if he were writing a novel 
or a love-letter. In the composition, 
he has had recourse to two works 
only — the History of the Indies, by 
Las Casas himself, and the History 
of Guatemala and Chiqpa, by Keme- 
sal. 

The Historia, by the bishop, is not 
the most important of his many pro- 
ductions, nor are the selections from 
Remesal made with much discrimi- 
nation. The Conversion of the Indians 
in VerapaZy or the Land of War^ is 
interesting; but Mr. Helps in his 
account does not leave much of its 
glory to Las Casas, while Las Casas 
was for ever boasting, with truth, of 
that achievement as his first success, 
and claiming it justly as peculiarly 
his own. In the same History of 
Guatemala it is narrated how Las 
Casas refused to visit the viceroy in 
Mexico, because he had ordered the 
hand of a priest to be cut off at An- 
tequera. Mr. Helps translates it, the 
priest's head at Anteqiieta. •, i3tob«JaV«j 



840 



BartoUme Las Casus, 






9 



he does not know Aat Antequera is 
the ancient Spanish name for the 
modem city of Oaxaca. 

With this slender stock of material 
the book was written ; and in conse- 
quence, whenever a doubt arose about 
a fact, or a further reason was re- 
quired for some elucidation, it will 
be seen, on every page, that writing 
history was made easy by guessing, 
at moral observations, of which some 
iqiecimens are selected : 

" I do not know what transaction he 
alludes to." "I hardly see him without 
prsphetic vision." " It moves our gity to 
think." " Probably being somewhat tired." 
" Perhaps not' wisbjng to alarm." " I 
think with Las Casas." "There is no 
doubt" "I have scarcely a doubt" "If 
tiie writer of this narrative may be per- 
mitted to £uicy himselC" " I conceive for 
a single day." " I femcy him sitting." " It 
may be doubted, however." " As it appears 
to me." " I suspect the wisest amongst us 
would." " I cannot but attribute." " We 
may very well imagine." " A youi^ man, 
as I conjecture." "Probably on that ac- 
count" "To me it seems." "Always I 
imagine." " We must not suppose." " And 
M I think." 

And so will every reader think. 
Mr. Arthur Helps has essayed to 
write history before. 27u Spanish 
Conquest in America stands to his lite- 
rary credit. But he has a way pecu- 
liar to himself in the gestation and 
parturition of his historical of&pring. 
He explains, in the preface to the 
third volume of his Spanish Con- 
quests his obstetrical mode of doing 
this thing. It is thus accounted for : 

" In issuing this third volume, I take this 
opportunity of making a statement, wtkch 
perhaps it would have been well to have 
made before. 

"The reader will observe that there is 
scarcely any allusion in this work to the kin- 
dred works of modern writers on the same 
subject Tliis is not from any want of re- 
spect for the aWe historians who have written 
apon the discovcrj oi ttie conquest of Ame- 
rica. I felt, bowe^iei, fcom ^<t tox« i^EaX xocj 



dbject In investigating tMs portkn ( 
was dififierent from theirs, and I \ 
keep my mind clear firom the inflnei 
these eminent persons might have 
upon it . . .' . Moreover, whi 
ting fully die advantages to be deri 
the study of these modern writers, 1 
it was better upon the whole to hav 
composed from independent souro 
would convey the impression that t 
nal documents had made upon the 
mind." 

With this explanation, \ 
more remains to observe, 
has founded a school in this e 
or if his original plan upon ^ 
write history will die out wil 
is yet to be seen. The L 
Conquest, by Mr. Arthur H< 
in thick, solid, heavy form, : 
volumes no less than four. Ir 
Arthur ! would not one suffice 
moral reflections and his axlon 
one merit, if the number of a 
which they have been in comn 
can make them venerable, 
the PjTamids centuries maj 
down upon some of them. 

In the Life of Las Casas, t 
thor in the preface informs the 
that— 

" There are few men to whom, oi 
present time, the words which Shak 
makes Mark Antony say of Cxsar, 
more apply than to Las Casas : 

' The eyfl that men do Irres after thca 
The good is oft interred with their be 

At one inauspicious moment of his 
advised a course which has ever sin 
the one blot upon his well-earned ix. 
too often has this advice been the on! 
which, when the name of Las Casas 1 
mentioned, has occiu-red to men's m 
specting him. He certainly did ad« 
negroes should be brought to the Neti 
I think, however, I have amply show 
Spanish Coti^iust, he was not the 
give this advice." 

This is the way Mr. Helps 
the lists to be his champion, 
not know where the evils c 
Cv -n — iirhen the ossi£ 



Bartoleme Las Casas, 



841 



lie good with his bones super- 
:d. Instead of quoting Shake* 
.re, a few lines written by the 
t British statesman, George Can- 
, for the Anti-Jacobin, in his ode 
e " New Morality," would be more 
icable to Mr. Helps himself : 

me th' avowed, erect, the manljr foe, 

can meet, perchance avert hi* blow ; 

all plagues, good heavens ! thy wrath can tend, 

Bve, oh I save me from the candid friend." 

le memory of Las Casas has suf- 
l greatly from many of those 
inking, unsearching plagues, who 
ver ready to confess what " it is 

candor to state," etc. A dozen 
ast might be counted of names 
in the roll of literature : Llorente, 
lington Irving, Mr. Prescott, are 
ig the number. The time has 

to explode this bubble about 
ant of fixed principles. All are 
ed to admit he was a good man, 
ig a virtuous life, with a noble 
)se in view ; but that he was in- 
stent in recommending negro 
ry, while advocating the emanci- 

1 of the Indians. Now, if one 
his right mind, and yet incon- 

it in opinions or conduct, he can- 
e virtuous in principle or prac- 
The expressions are incongru- 
How can he be accounted vir- 
, if at times he is vicious ? How 
e be received as good, when he 
Ivised what is bad ? Rectitude is 
ng. In public life an inconsist- 
lan is dangerous; because he 
lys order and promotes dis- 
; he creates distrust in the 
ce of integrity in purpose. In 
e life no dependence can be re- 
in him ; he is not respected, 
f the infirmity be great, his 
s send him to an asylum for 
sane. 

rarete thus states the charge 
•t Las Casas : 

is this expedient of Las Casas which 
wn down severe censure upon his 



memory. He has been charged with gross 
inconsistency, and even with having origi« 
nated the inhuman traffic in the new world. 
This last is a grievous charge ; but historic 
cal &ct8 and dates remove the original sin 
from hb door, and prove that the practice 
existed in the colonies, and was authorized 
by royal decree long before he took part in 
the question."* 

This charge was first made against 
the bishop by Dr. Robertson, in his 
History of America, in 1777. The 
doctor therein contrasts him with 
Cardinal Ximenes, Prime Minister of 
Spain, observing : 

" Cardinal Ximenes, when solicited to en> 
courage this commerce, peremptorily rejected 
the proposition, because he perceived the 
iniquity of reducing one race of men to sis- 
very, while he was consulting about the 
means of restoring liberty to another. (Her' 
rera Dec. ii. lii. W. caf. 8.) But Las Casas, 
from the inconsistency natural to men who 
hurry with headlong impetuosity toward a 
favorite point, was incapable of making the 
distinction." (Herrera Dee. lib. ii. cap. aa) 

If Ximenes had been living when 
this exalted morality was accorded to 
him, his astonishment would have 
been great ; he claimed no morality 
of that kind. 

In turning to Herrera, at the eighth 
chapter, referred to by Dr. Robert- 
son, it will be found the doctor has 
drawn upon his imagination for the 
paragraph on Ximenes. The cardinal 
was not thinking about morality, but 
about money. Herrera states it thus : 

" At the same time it was ordered that ne* 
gro slaves should not pass to the Indies; 
whidi order was imderstood at once ; for, as 
they went out, in the scarcity of Indians, and 
as it was known that one negro did the work 
of four, whereby a great demand had arisen 
for them, it appeared to the Cardinal Xime* 
nes, that he might place some tax on their 
exportation, from whence would result a be- 
nefit to the treasury." 

But Herrera, in the twentieth chap- 
ter, does, with truth, connect Las 



ia.Vi4il. 



Detcatrimmmlm. Tern. 



842 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



Casas with the recommending of ne- 
gro slaves. Every line of this pas- 
sage must be careAiUy noted, in or- 
der to understand what follows. It 
is in these words : 

"The licentiate Bartoleme de Las Casas 
. . . turned to another expedient, advo- 
cating that the Castilians, living in the In- 
dies, might import negroes ; for with them on 
the plantations and in the mines, the Indians 
would be much alleviated ; and that it be 
advised to carry out a large number of work- 
men, with certain privileges accorded to 
them. Adrian, Cardinal of Tortosa, heard 
these suggestions with much pleasure. . . 
And in order to know better the number of 
slaves required for the four islands, Hispa- 
oiola, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica, an 
opinion was asked from the Royal House of 
Trade at Seville, and they responding four 
thousand, persons were not wanting, who, 
to gain favor, informed the Governor de la 
Btesa, a Flemish gentleman of the council 
of the king, and his major-domo. De Bresa 
begged the monopoly of it ; the king grant- 
ed it, and De Bresa sold it to the Genoese for 
25,000 ducats, on condition that the king 
would not bestow another monopoly for 
eight years. The grant was very injurious 
to the settlers of these islands, and for the 
Indians, for whose alleviation it had been 
ordered. Because when the trafAc was free, 
as has been stated, every Castilian carried 
out slaves. But as the Genoese sold the 
privilege for each one for a large sum, few 
purchased, and thus this benefit ceased." 

Searches were made in Herrera to 
prove that the traffic did not com- 
mence with Las Casas' advice. This 
fact was easily established j but it 
did not meet the issue. The ques- 
tion was, did Las Casas, in 15 17, re- 
commend the importation of negroes? 
and the fact was made out Several 
points were rendered clear, and made 
so from the bishop's own History of 
the Indies ; that he recommended 
the measure hastily ; that it was an 
unfortunate recommendation ; that 
his remorse was great for it ; that he 
hoped God would forgive him, for 
he had done it in ignorance. Those 
who never examined further, infer 
tliat the crim\na\V\.v t>f the «lave-trade 



was deemed as sinful at that ti 
the first half of the sixteenth a 
now in the last half of the ninei 
century. Hence the mistakes a 
modem historians. 

When the investigation woul 
pear to be concluded, and Lasi 
condemned out of his own wri 
the difficulty in the case in r 
only commences. The rubbisl 
rounding it is removed ; nc 
more. What did Las Casas ai 
Surely not the charge that he w 
consistent ; for two centuries el< 
before the charge was made ; b 
accuses himself for having give 
advice hastily ; that it eventuate 
fortunately, (but not to him ;) th 
gave it ignorantly ; that he hop 
be forgiven. To present the ca 
its opF>osite aspect : if the advia 
proved beneficial instead of inju 
to the Indians, he would not 
suffered remorse. He had givei 
advice without reflecting, withov 
amination, consequently in ignon 
for if he had reflected for one 
ment, he would have foreseen 
consequences would follow, and w 
proved disastrous to the natives, 

But, while presented in this 1 
it is somewhat weakened by th< 
companying words of Las Casas. 
Ticknor, in his excellent Ifistot 
Spanish Literature, explains th 
morse from another view. He 
eludes that the bishop, in giving 
advice, was ignorant of the fact 
the African negroes were captun 
unjust war ; and when he learns 
were made slaves, as the Indians 
enslaved, his soul was filled with 
ror for the sin he had committe 
recommending the importation. £ 
of the words of Las Casas will 
out this hypothesis — on the firs^ 
pression it'would apptcar conglus 
but, unfortunately, other express 
must be explained, so as to give e 
to every line. Besides this, why ab 



BartoUme Las Casus. 



«43 



' tiie bishop feel remorse for what was 
' done ignorantly, when engaged in the 
lioly work to promote the salvation of 
t souls ? Las Casas was too well versed 
in casuistry to deem himself criminal 
under these circumstances. Moreover, 
the bishop, when in the exercise of hfe 
sacred duties in his diocese of Chiapa, 
wrote out a rescript for his clergy, 
dated in November, 1546, wherein he 
charges them not to confess Chris- 
tians holding Indian slaves, but does 
not include negro slaves. This, to be 
sure, might have been an oversight, 
were it not for a few lines written 
ibrther down, where he cautions his 
deigy to guard well the holy sacra- 
ment of marriage as well among the 
n^^oes as the Indians. The docu- 
ment will be found in full in Reme- 
sal. From this it appears Las Ca- 
sas, thirty years later, had not dis- 
covered that negroes were on the 
same footing with the Indians, be- 
ing then seventy-two years old. 

In his Historia, one hundred and 
first chapter, he writes of himself: 

"This advice — that license be given to 
bring negro slaves to these countries — ^the 
Clerigo Casas first gave, not understanding 
the injustice with which the Portuguese take 
them and enslave them, which, from what 
happened from it, he would not have given 
Sat all he had in the world ; for he always 
held it unjust and tyrannical making them 
slaves ; for the same right as in them as in 
the Indians." 

The translation of Mr. Helps is 
not followed ; because he does not 
translate some of the words at all ; 
and, in one instance, gives to a verb 
a wrong expression, inconsistent with 
the sentence and with a subsequent 
paragraph. The line, " After he had 
apprehended the nature of the thing," 
is no more to be found in the passage 
than in the Psalms. In the one hun- 
dred and twenty-eighth chapter of the 
Historia, Las Casas again refers to 
the subject, and states why, on the 
•representation of the planters that 



they would free their Indians if permis- 
sion were given to them to import ne- 
groes, he consented to recommend the 
measure to the crown. He next al- 
ludes to the bad consequences flow* 
ing from the monopoly, and concludes 
thus: 

"Of this ad''ice, which the clerigo gave, 
not a little did he afterward repent, judg- 
ing himself guilty from his haste, {inadver' 
UnH;) and because he saw, as it turned out 
to be, as unjust, the capture of the negroes 
as of the Indians. There was no other re- 
medy than what he advised — to bring dC' 
groes in order to free the Indians, althou«(b 
he might suppose they were just captures, 
although he was not certain that his igno- 
rance and good intention would excuse him 
in the divine wisdom." 

It appears from the passage in Her- 
rera, quoted above, that the advice was 
bad ; for a monoply of the traffic in ne- 
groes was granted to De Bresa, who 
sold his speculation to the Genoese, 
and they raised the price so high 
that the planters could not purchase 
Africans nor import Christian-bom 
negroes from Spain as formerly. In 
consequence, the trade in Indian 
slaves, who were cheaper, increased, 
to the chagrin of Las Casas for his 
inconsiderate suggestion. His heed- 
less conduct, in his own eyes, at last 
appeared sinful. In some part of it 
he had displeased God ; for the De- 
ity permitted the Indian servitude 
to go on, which, in the mind of Las 
Casas, he would not have permitted 
had not he incurred, in some way, 
the divine displeasure. Wa^s it his 
precipitancy of action in the mea- 
sure ? was it advising the importation 
of Africans, some of whom might have 
been captured in an unjust war, which 
incensed the Deity ? Las Casas could 
not determine, and hence his confusion 
of mind and forgetfulness of the inci- 
dents in writing the Historia. What- 
ever view, however, may be taken 
of it, or which preferred, it is certain 
that, under no aspect, can .the charge 



844 



Bartoieme Las Casas. 



of inconsistency made by Dr. Rob- 
ertson, and stated by Navarete, be 
sustained. 

Washington Irving's note on Las 
Casas, in the appendix to his Coium- 
bitSy evinces much commendable re- 
search, and a collection of all the 
facts he could find. But unfortu- 
nately, he had not studied the career 
of the bishop ; he did not pursue his 
examination deep enough ; he also 
overlooked some evidence before his 
eyes in Herrera. When Mr. Irving 
had finished his search and noted the 
evidence, he stated confusedly what 
he had collected, without discrimi- 
nating between inferences and facts ; 
sometimes treating facts as inferen- 
ces or excuses in the biographies of 
Ximencs ; sometimes treating the 
inferences in Robertson and Quin- 
tana as facts. He entered upon the 
examination impressed with the con- 
viction that Las Casas had been in- 
consistent ; that the moral conscience 
of that age was against slavery as 
much as it is now. He comes to no 
conclusion, and leaves the charge 
against the bishop in the same con- 
dition he approached it. 

Mr. Prescott, in his excellent His- 
tory of the Conquest of Mexico, in a 
note on Las Casas, copies only from 
Quintana, and thereby copies also, 
many of the mistakes of that cele- 
brated Spanish author. The singular 
spectacle, therefore, among the curi- 
osities of literature is presented in 
Mr. Prescott's Conquest, a work of 
sterling value, for ils accuracy resting 
always upon resi>ectable authorities, 
wherein a note is seen abounding in 
errors. Mr. Prescott is also a be- 
liever in the inconsistency of the 
bishop, and that the moral sense at 
that time was against slaver}'. 

Mr. Ticknor, too, in his History of 
Spanish Literature, a histor}- renown- 
ed and properly admired everj-where, 
with all his respecl foi the bishop, is 



not without his little literary 
fections. It is evident he 
familiar with the events, an 
surroundings in the life of Las 
He places the famous contro\ 
the bishop with Sepulveda in 
But in that year was the well- 
debate of Las Casas with Qi 
the Bishop of Daricn, in the pi 
of the youthful sovereign. S 
da was then a >'Oung man of \ 
six years. But Mr. Ticknor n 
in good company, one of th 
eminent of England, the celt 
Sir James Mackintosh, whc. 
Proi^ess of Ethical Philosophy 
Sepulveda met Las Casas ii 
ment in 1542. That, howev< 
the year of the famous assemb 
voked by imperial order, at 
lona and Molino del Rev. t 
into consideration the bishop' 
Account of the Z>estructiort of < 
dies. Both of these able his 
are wrong about the date of i 
pulveda discussion : even Mr. 
knows better ; it was in 1550 
Ticknor further reports tliat thi 
Account was written for the ci 
and dedicated to the prince, 
ward Philip the Second. It 
have l>een more proper to wri 
the Brief Account was written 
emperor, and ten years after \ 
and dedicated to the prince, t 
England, the Prince Consorl 
Queen Marj'. 

The state of public opinion, 
gard to slavery at that perio 
quires a few words in e.xplan.it 
order to leave no uncertainty i 
law, or stain on the crown, f 
church, or civilization. It di 
much front the present, bec.iu 
condition of society was in m.i 
spects not analogous. Slaver 
not then considered immoral ; hi 
actually, in its practice, indii 
of progress, in ameliorating il: 
lamities of war and the fate ol 



Bartoleme Las Outu. 



«45 



Itod and sea. Every war un- 
n by a civilized nation, and 
d in the usual forms, with the 
religious ceremonies, was held 
just war. It was an appeal 
}od of armies, as an umpire 
; ; it was the ordeal by battle. 
L victory was won, it was held 
victors a divine decision in 
ivor ; the vanquished were 
criminals before high heaven ; 
a punishment they were put 
b. When the prisoners were 
lerous for a general massacre, 
ere led captive to colonize 
acant territory, and to work 
ir masters. These victims 

feel grateful to their enemies 
r clemency ; but poured forth 
lanks to Providence for his 
Their offspring continued 
ry ; for the sins of the father 
iited on the children to the 
d fourth generations, for ever. 

in the course of time, when 
termixed in blood, language, 
igion with the descendants of 
nquerors, they were often held 
itude. This was the theory 

practice under it ; but sub- 
nany exceptions. Exchange 
ners was sometimes effected ; 
ere ransomed ; some were re- 
At the date of the discovery 
rica, Spain had been at war 
; Saracen for seven centuries ; 
lot only a just war, but a holy 
:. When captures were made 
jr side, slaughter ensued with- 
punction ; but not invariably, 
•mies and navies were acting 
gious conviction; but both 
jtter civilized, the infidel be- 
med the more refined of the 

is true, the old and young, 
irm and diseased, who were 
;re slain or pitched overboard ; 
e rich and the strong were held 
es or for ransom. When a pa- 
ined that his child or relation 



was spared, only enslaved, he felt the 
joy with which an American mother 
on the border hears the news that her 
little girl has not been scalped by the 
Camanchcs when captured. 

In Europe, therefore, slavery was 
deemed a mitigation of the horrors 
of war : an evil inflicted by the hand 
of Providence, but a lesser evil. No 
one spoke or wrote against the insti- 
tution J whoever had dared would 
have been consideted not much bet- 
ter than a brute. Perhaps a few 
Moslem fanatics desired more Chris- 
tian blood-letting; perhaps a few 
Christian fanatics wished a little 
more of the fluid from the arteries 
of Moors. Yet in no period of the 
world's history was it held just to 
retain slaves not captured in a just 
war. In Jerusalem, they were re- 
turned to the neighboring nations 
when acquired in private piratical 
forays. This was the Hebrew law. 
The law of Moses forbade man-steal- 
ing, mentioned in Isaiah, and repeat- 
ed by Saint Paul in Timothy ; but 
man-stealing meant no more than any 
other stealing of movable property. 

In Athens, the same morality was 
recognized. Aristotle laid it down 
in his "Politics" that barbarians 
could not be held in servitude unless 
taken in a just war. Rome bor- 
rowed her international code from 
Greece, as she borrowed everything 
else intellectual. On the revival of 
learning in the west, the Roman civil 
law was introduced through the 
continent of Europe. The justice 
of war, the property acquired un-. 
der it, the moral power to enslave, 
when, where, and in what cases, 
was elaborately taught at- the uni- 
versities. Its principles were as 
well understood in the canon law 
as in the civil law ; teachers in ethi- 
cal philosophy also expounded the 
doctrine which prevailed in every 
tribunal or judicature. The^j ^ 



846 



BartoUme Las Casas. 



agreed in their premises and max- 
ims ; they only differed in their ap- 
plication, as their minds were clear 
or obtuse. 

The rules for the interpretation 
of laws were the same in the courts 
of civil or ecclesiastical jurisdiction. 
The presumption of law was that, 
as slavery of the foreign infidel exist- 
ed in Spain, every infidel of a fo- 
reign nation was a slave. If one 
claimed his freetfom, the burden of 
proof lay upon him to prove he was 
free. When negroes from Africa 
were brought by Portuguese slave- 
traders to the Seville market, the 
presumption arose that these crea- 
tures were of that condition. If one 
of them could show that he was not 
a slave, that he was not captured in 
war, but stolen from his tribe, he 
was adjudged a free man. It had 
always been known that men were 
stolen and sold; but every slave 
claiming to be free had to prove it. 
The public did not inquire into the 
fact when they purchased ; they did 
not send to Senegambia. It is well 
known that mule-stealing is as com- 
mon in Kentucky as sheep-stealing 
in the State of New York. Yet no 
one in the city, purchasing either 
kind of animal in the open market, 
will hesitate to buy mules or mutton 
from a regular drover or butcher. 
Who could wait, when taking his seat 
at breakfast, until his conscience was 
appeased to find out first whether 
the veal cutlei before him was not 
cut from a stolen calf ? No one, high 
or low, in Spain, had any misgiving 
in 'he traffic of slaves, either in im- 
porting them to Andalucia or in ex- 
porting them to Jamaica. 

But the natives of the Western In- 
dies stood on a different footing, and 
when their question was first present- 
ed by Queen Isabella to the univer- 
sities of Valladolid and Salamanca 
for a just opimon, v{\\e\Yvex \!Bft \tv- 



dians could be enslaved, tbe profe 
sors unanimously decided they coul 
not. The doctors of theology, verse 
in the canon law, maintained the ab( 
rigines of the western hemisphei 
were conceded to the crown by ih 
bull of Alexander VI. granting th 
sovereignty of America to the kin| 
dom of Castile and Leon, and the ii 
habitants, as wards to civilize an 
make Christians in express tenns t 
be found in the pontifical document 
that the sovereign had accepted it o 
these conditions. To break the pro 
mise was to betray the trust Oi 
the other hand, the civil jurists bek 
the Indians were vassals of th 
crown acquired in peaceful discover 
and not reduced by war. There 
fore they were never captured, aw 
consequently could never be en 
slaved. 

The crown agreed with the la» 
yers on the question of title by whid 
the Indies of the West were held 
The crown also recognized the stipu 
lations in the bull to civilize am 
christianize the Indians. Conse 
quently, it was resolved that jus 
war could not be undertaken agains 
them ; but the government ptace< 
over them should be a missionar 
government ; with a political polit) 
at the same time, for colonists onlj 
from Castile. Hence, the innumera 
ble mission establishments in .Ante 
rica, and the comparatively insignifi 
cant civil institutions for the Euro 
peans ; hence, also, the double as 
pect of formation in the vice-royalt] 
— the dual government under cm 
head. 

The royal officials sent out hat 
no jurisdiction over the Indians, ex 
cept the viceroy ; the religious mis 
sionaries had no charge over th( 
Spaniards. As the natives greatlj 
outnumbered the Castilians, the in 
stitutions, in a short time, inclioe<i 
mote to Uie ecclesiastical than to th< 



Bartoleme Las Castis. 



847 



or political ; and the religious 
lent continues predominant to the 
ent day. Presidents still govern 
ct, although not in the same form 
le old viceroys ; and as the vice- 
represented the king in tempo- 
ind spiritual matters, the repub- 
1 presidents endeavor to imitate, 
le plenitude of their power, both 
sovereign and the jxjntift 
as Casas imderstood the law as 
down by the civil jurists, and as 
erstood also by the theologians, 
letimes he defended the Indians 
cr the civil code ; sometimes un- 
the canon law. In one way he 
ealed to his countrymen's sense 
ustice ; in another, to their con- 
nce. In general his arguments 
: based on the bull of Alexander, 
tending that the natives were 
:ed in charge of the sovereigns 
he head of the church for a reli- 
is purpose. Llorente considers 
course the weaker side to take, 
luse the pope has no prerogative 
rant kingdoms, and principalities, 
discoveries at pleasure ; yet he 
ises Las Casas, because this as- 
ption of the pope's was generally 
>gnized in ^at age. But the 
illent biographer overlooks the 
ds in the petition from Isabella 
Alexander, desiring the sove- 
nty. A saving clause will be 
id in it, which intimates : " Dis- 
uished lawyers are of opinion 
: the confirmation or donation 
■x the pontificate is not requisite 
lold possession justly of the new 
Id." In that it will be perceived 
servation is inserted against the 
1 power to gp'ant that which it was 
jested to be granted. 
lie bishop was aware of this, but 
preferred to appeal to the con- 
nce of the conquerors and colo- 
s ; to portray the wickedness in 
aving, where their religious con- 
ions might be touched, rather 



than rely upon the law of the case 
where every secular law was continu< 
ally broken, and where even divine 
law was not much better respected. 
His policy was correct ; its good 
effects ultimately were manifest, and 
at last eminently successful. 

At this time died Hernando Cor- 
tez, the conqueror and scourge of 
Mexico. When his will was opened, 
one item directed, as Mr. Prescott 
translates : 

" It has long been a question whether <me 
can conscientiously hold property in Indian 
slaves. Since this point has not yet been de- 
termined, I enjoin it on my sou Martin and 
hu heirs, that they spare no pains to come 
to an exact knowledge of the truth, as a 
matter which deeply touches the conscience 
of each of them no less than mine.' 

The historian, in a note on the 
same page, gives this extract in the 
original, where it reads differently, 
thus: 

"Item, concerning the native slaves in 
New Spain, aforesaid ; those of war as well 
as of purchase, there have been, and are 
many doubts," etc 

The term, " by purchase," refers to 
those natives who were slaves before 
the arrival of the Spaniards, and sold 
to him. Mr. Prescott does not per- 
ceive the point for which Las Casas 
was contending, and which touched 
the conqueror on his death-bed with 
all his mighty crimes fresh on his soul 
at the last moment, whether Indians, 
although taken in war, could be en- 
slaved. On the next page Mr. Pres- 
cott remarks: "Las Casas and the 
Dominicans of the former age, the 
abolitionists of their day, thundered 
out their uncompromising invectives 
against the system, on the broad 
ground of natural equity and the 
rights of man." This is a mistake ; 
Las Casas and other Dominicans al- 
ways held up the bull of Alexander 
VI., as our abolitionists pointed to 
the National Declaration of Inde- 



848 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



pendence. The glamour perpetual* 
ly before the eyes of modern bio- 
graphers about the natural equity 
and the rights of man prevailing in 
the sixteenth century has misled 
them into many errors. 

Cortez had no scruples on the 
subject of his negro slaves ! He 
does not provide for them. His man, 
Estevan, had the honor of introduc- 
ing the small-pox to this continent, 
at Vera Cruz. Many of the race, 
both African and Spanish-bom, were 
brought to the Indies before 1500; 
but soon after their arrival, proving 
refractory, they rebelled against the 
masters in whac was called the Ma- 
roon war. Others ran away to the 
mountains, enticing the simple na- 
tives with them, where the negro 
lived in oriental leisure and luxury, 
in his harem, who worked for him, 
and provided for all his wants. In 
1502, Governor Ovando recommend- 
ed that further importation be pro- 
hibited ; because they escaped, and 
would not work for the planters. 
The clergj' joined in the recommen- 
dation, because the negroes took the 
Indians with them, whereby the In- 
dians could not be instructed in re- 
ligion. 

In 1506, Ovando's recommenda- 
tion was adopted ; but in part only. 
The introduction of negroes from Afri- 
ca was prohibited, while the colo- 
nists were permitted to bring over 
Christian negroes born in Spain. The 
king gave a special license for a few 
Africans to work in the mines, where 
they would not come in contact with 
the natives. Mr. B.incroft, in the 
fifth chapter of his History of the 
United States, is quite indignant at 
the royal hypocrisy ; he, too, has the 
disease of natural equity and rights 
of man in the cerebellum. This his- 
torian obsen-es : 

"The Spanish gvwcrnmcnt attcniptcil to 
disguise the tr'utvt by pnj\\i\Av\tv^vVit\TvVi<4- 



duction of bUtcs who had been bon 
Moorish families. . . . But the idle 
tence was soon abandoned. . . . } 
Ferdinand himself (1510} sent fiflv slaxt 
labor in the mines." 

The same chapter fifth is full 
precious reading to those who 
curious to learn how facts sometii 
may be interpreted, and history m^ 
up. 

These are the reasons why Cai 
nal Ximenes was opposed to the tni 
as explained by his biographers ; 2 
these, also, for the repugnance of I 
Casas to it, as stated several time; 
his works. But the cardinal det 
mined to raise revenue from the tr 
fie; he thereupon, in 15 16, stopp 
the trade until he could arrange 1 
duties to be levied. For this sic 
page. Dr. Robertson fired otF 
eulogium, which was not applicab 
Washington In-ing eagerly sought e 
the chapter in Herrera, referred to 
the doctor, and was duly disgusted 1 
finding that Ximenes was not thin 
ing about sublime moral sentimcn 
but about money. The biograpli 
of Columbus was much perjMi.xo 
he could only console himself for l 
discrepancy by remarking th.it, " C. 
dinal Ximenes in fact, though a wi 
and upright statesman, was not trc 
bled with scruples of con>cicni"e > 
the question of natural righi>." He 
a cardinal can be an upright m 
without an invariable delicacy of t( 
science, wherewith to decide justly 
all times, surpasses common coiiipi 
hension. The excuse for Ximcii 
is about equal to the compliment 1 
John Smith, if it were said that t 
ubiquitous John is an e\emp!:i 
member of society when he is soN 

On second thoughts, Mr. IKl} 
after all, may be entitled to higli 
rank, by comparison with other a 
tliors, than on first impression is a 
corded to him. His home is in 
hemisphere where historical que 
\\oivs, purely American, are reccdii 



Bartolemt Las Casas. 



849 



e and more from public conside- 
m ; while most of the other gen- 
en belong to this side of the At- 

c, where such subjects are rising 
le horizon, and claiming greater 
ilion. If facts, then, of the first 
nitude are overlooked in the new 

d, how many more will be over- 
ed in the old ? If they do these 
js in the green tree at Boston, 
: shall be done by a Dryasdust 
ondon ? 

>ace does not permit an exami- 
>n of other faults of less gravity 
3uted to Las Casas. It is said 

when he wrote his Brief Ac- 
', he exaggerated in over-sta- 
the immense extent of the de- 
tion among the aborigines ; 
his excited feelings and tender 
bilities had led him astray by 
mparalleled atrocities perpetra- 
n his presence. But on the con- 
, it was the magnitude of these 
ities which exTcited his feelings 
shocked his sensibilities. Every 

in the Brief Account can be 
tained ; furthermore, it will be 
i his statement in that tale of 
•r is not only true, but falls short 
I the truth. Foreign nations, 
us and dreading the greatness of 
1, eagerly translated and publish- 
;e Account. It soon appeared in 
in English, in French, in Dutch, 
Latin ; it would have also been 
;nted in German, if a German 
.ture had b^en in existence. 
:ature pictures embellished the 
J, depicting scenes in the many 
!S of torture practised upon the 
tns, up>on the simple, innocent, 
ding, naked men and women, 
little boys and girls, scarce be- 
infancy. 
lese unheard-of crimes sent a 

throughout Christendom, and 
I stigma for cruelty on the Cas- 

name. The Spanish people, 
srbial for their honesty, human* 
VOL. VI. — 54 



ity, and integrity, acting with little 
wisdom, denied tlie correctness of 
the account ; consequently, they were 
required to make good their denial. 
This being impossible, the nation 
took vengeance on the memory of 
Las Casas, when in his grave. But 
the conduct was foolish ; the nation 
was no more responsible for the out- 
rage on the natives, than it is re- 
sponsible for a gang of desperadoes 
and outlaws in the mountain, who 
let loose their bull-dogs on kids and 
lambs in the Sierra Morena. Con- 
sequently, the name of Las Casas 
was held up to national execration, 
wherever was spoken the beautiful 
idiom of Castile. The learned looked 
upon his virtuous exertions with cold 
suspicion j literature became tinc- 
tured with it; the church, catching 
the tone of public opinion in the Ibe- 
rian peninsula, withheld her recogni- 
tion and recompense ; thus ignoring 
perhaps her greatest ornament and 
benefactor in modem times. In the 
course of years, his name passed al- 
most into oblivion in Spain when the 
asperity died out. But among the offi- 
cials in Spanish America, hatred to 
him was imperishable. So far down» 
even in 181 1, the Consulado of the 
City of Mexico denounced him as a 
" most illustrious Spanish declaimer, 
who wished to* make himself renown- 
ed at the expense of the true national 
glory ; and if he followed it some 
time, he gained at last the merited 
odium of posterity and the contempt 
of all honest and right-minded for- 
eigners." At the same moment; 
nearly thirty millions of the native 
population, the descendants of those 
whom he was mainly instrumental in 
saving from slavery and consequent 
destruction, sent forth daily their 
grateful hymns in praise of his vir- 
tues, and in their orisons besought 
the heavenly grace to grant sweet 
repose to his imperishable souL 



850 



Bartoleme Las Casas. 



Well does he deserve their grati- 
tude. At the beginning, Las Casas 
was a missionary unto the missions ; 
he taught the clergy first that the 
natives were intellectual beings like 
themselves ; he organized the move- 
ment for the extirpation of slavery; he 
instructed them how to appeal to the 
conscience of the dying man holding 
fellow-men in bondage; he ordered 
them to refuse the sacraments to 
the strong, who approached the holy 
altar; he reported the plan for the 
missionary government to the sove- 
reigns in Spain ; he organized it in 
America ; and originated the method 
by which the docile creatures were col- 
lected into communities or pueblos, 
far removed from the white race ; he 
laid down the rules for the hours of 
labor and repose, for their instruc- 
tion and for their civilization. He 
instituted the regulations for the gui- 
dance of the priests, and instilled into 
them the duty of watching over their 
flock at all times, in all places; to 
shield them from oppression ; to alle- 
viate their distress in sickness ; to 
soothe them in affliction ; to counsel 
them when in health ; to be their 
guide, comforter, and friend. Nor has 
one of his teachings been changed 
or set aside. They remain to this 
day in full vigor in every pueblo, 
from the furthest confines of Califor- 
nia to the most remote mission of 
Paraguay. When he passed away 
from earth, at the extreme age of 
ninety-two, the spirit with which his 
zeal was animated, was caught up by 
the priesthood who sat at his feet to 
listen to his inspired words. The 
germ he planted in their bosom grew 
with their growth, strengthened with 
their strength. A world was re- 
deemed, and an humble monk from 
Seville, a truly God-fearing man, 
Bartoleme Las Casas, was their re- 
deemer. 

The time Vvas gotve \i>j ^Wv the 



European mind can do him jusi 
Colonial affairs of the Western i 
tinent have no longer an interes 
that quarter. His native land 
thrown him off. It is only in Amei 
the greatness of his achievement 
be portrayed, the lustre of his f: 
renewed. Nor can this pleasing t 
be accomplished in Spanish An 
ica, where as yet a provincial literal 
prevails. It must come, if come at 
from out of our own republic. M 
than one half of the immense, wi 
spreading territory of the I'ni 
States once belonged to Spain ; : 
Spanish missionary institutio 
laws, customs, and manners un(! 
lie the Anglo-Saxon historical, ! 
islative, and judicial superstructi 
of a later period. Jurists are n 
in search, groping in the dark, 
the clue to that seemingly inex 
cable labyrinth of civilization 
which Spanish-.\merican bistor\' 
founded, and from -A-hence conti 
poraneous laws and customs 
derived, in order to elucidate ir. 
cate principles daily ari>ing ir. 
adjudication of titles to lands. 

The highest court approaches ' 
deciding of such cases with so 
trepidatioji and more disti-j-^t. I 
they misapprehend a Spanish cc 
nial law or do not imderstanJ 
reason for the enactment of the \i 
or because, also, a contract m\\' 
misinterpreted from misinformat'Oi 
local institutions and local phrs' 
that throw their atmosphere aroi 
expressed stipulations in legal do 
ments. They now feel the neces: 
for an exposition dating back to 
commencement of Castilian oc 
pancy on this continent and the 
stitution of missions. In vain b: 
they sought for that source 
knowledge, for that comer-stc 
upon which to construct the tj 
theory over again of vicer^al do 
inatiou. At last they will turn 



Sayings of the Fattiers of the Desert. 



851 



the works of Las Casas, to master 
tfkeir contents ; and when understood, 
tfaey will lay their hand on what re- 
mains of his noble intellect, and ex- 
claini, "Thou art the man." Then 
will be unfolded the mysteries of the 
Spanish colonial double codes, and 
advocates will expound them with 
the courage and confidence with 
idiich they expatiate upon the com- 
mon law of England. 

It was as idle to look among va- 
rious races of peaceful aborigines, 
for the founder of their civilization, 
clothed in the garb of a warrior, wear- 
ing a sword at his side, as to expect 
to encounter the great protector and 
first chief magistrate of a mighty mi- 
litary nation under the cowl of a 
monk. Las Casas was to the Span- 
ish domain west of the Mississippi 
river what Washington was to our 
English territory east of it ; and as 



resort is constantly had to the^writ- 
ings of the great general, to under- 
stand the principles of government 
in one portion of the republic, refer- 
ence must be made to the essays of 
the great missionary to explain the 
ideas and objects for which the 
other was inhabited. American ju- 
risprudence will be the channel 
through which a proper estimate of 
Las Casas will be attained. Then 
shall his works be placed in the al- 
coves of libraries along with the 
documentary legacies of Washington, 
of Jefferson, of Hamilton, and Adams ; 
and chapels will be erected to enshrine 
his relics in marbles, in malachite 
and lazuli, in gems and in gold. 
For it will then be established that 
Bartoleme Las Casas in America 
gained and preserved more souls to 
the church, than in Europe the here- 
sy of Luther ever lost 



SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT. 



Tbere were two brothers of great 
sanctity, living in the same congrega- 
tion, who, by their merits, saw in 
each other the grace of God. Now, 
it chanced that one of them went 
out on the sixth feria, apart from the 
rest of the congregation, and saw a 
person eating at an early hour. 
** Dost eat at this hour on the sixth 
feria T said he. The next day Mass 
was celebrated as usual, and when 
the other brother looked at him, and 
saw that the grace which had been 
given him was gone, he was sad. 
And idien they had entered his cell, 
he said : " What hast thou done, bro- 
dkr, for I no longer see the grace of 
God itt thee as heretofore ?" *" I re- 



member to have done nothing bad 
either in thought or in deed," was 
the answer. " Have you spoken to 
any ohe in an uncharitable manner ?" 
asked the brother. Then recollect- 
ing himself, he replied : " Yes. Yes- 
terday I saw some one eating at an 
early hour, and asked him whether he 
ate so early on the sixth feria. This, 
then, is my fault. But come, work 
with me for two weeks, and let us 
pray God to foi^ive me." They did 
so, and after two weeks' time he be- 
held God's grace again descending 
upon his brother, and, giving thanks 
to God, who alone is good, they were 
full of consolation. 



652 



New Puhlicatiotts. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



The Frieotjships of Women. By 
William Rounseville Alger. Boston : 
Roberts Brothers. 1868. 

Mr. Alger has certainly given us a 
charming volume, and one which is dis- 
tinguished for its freedom firom the tVeak 
sentimentality and doubtful moral tone 
that one fears to find in publications of 
our day, whose aim it is to treat of the 
passions of the human heart He has 
chosen the noblest and purest examples 
in history to illustrate his subject, and 
the incidents of life are selected with 
good taste and judgment The Catholic 
Church refines and elevates every genu- 
ine sentiment of the heart, and we 
should, therefore, naturally look for the 
most shining examples of friendship 
among those of her children who have 
instanced in their lives her divine pow- 
er of purification and exaltation of the 
soul. The best examples in this volume 
are such — St Monica, and her great 
son, St Augustine ; St Scholastica and 
her brother, St Benedict; St Jerome 
and St Paula ; St Francis of Assisi and 
St Clara ; St Francis de Sales and St 
Jane Frances de Chantal ; St Theresa 
and St John of the Cross ; Sir Thomas 
More and his daughter, Margaret Ro- 
per ; Eugenie de Gu^rin and her broth- 
er Maurice ; Madame Swetchine and 
Father Lacordaire. In several places 
Mr. Alger recognizes this fac^ and 
acknowledges that the Catholic faith 
tends to foster pure and exalted friend- 
ships. Noticing some very remarkable 
intimate friendships which sprung up 
between certain holy priests and their 
female penitents, he adds : " Unques- 
tionably there have been very numerous 
friendships, worthy of notice, between 
clergymen and devout women in the 
Protestant sects. But they are difTer- 
eat from those in the Catholic commun- 
ion, which has, in this respect, great 
advantages. In the Protestant estab- 
Ushment a\\ we ou a free equality, and 
the teUpoti. is mv e\tmetv\. ^t^ \w\o 



the life. With the Catholics, the 

whelming authority of the chun 

vests the priests with godlike attril 

while celibacy detaches their 1 

from the home and family, Iea\'ing 

ready for other calls. The lait 

placed in a passive attitude, exce 

to &ith and afTection, which are 

active for the restrictions applied 

where : and religion is pursued and 

tised as an art by itsel£ The d 

ritual, by its dramatic contents 

movements, peerless in its patheti( 

aginative power, intensifies and de 

the passions of those who appreciai 

celebrate or witness it, and who ai 

turally attracted together, as, in bk 

devotional emotions and aims, the; 

tivate that supernatural act whose 

nite interests make all earthly caa 

appear dwarfed and pale. The in 

ces already cited of the friendships 

originating, suffice to indicate the « 

in this kind of experience which 

remain for ever unknown to the pul 

The fact is plain, although Mr. ; 

makes sorry work in attempting to 

losophize upon it A month's ei 

ence in the confessional, if that 

possible for him, w^ould teach him 

whom " religion is an element fusee 

the life," and that the faith of a C 

lie is not a matter of sentiment only 

it might reveal to him, also, the s 

of that holy friendship of which, in t 

the world outside knows nothing. 

certainly does surprise us that, fror 

close perusal of the lives of these fri 

in God, he has failed to discover it 

can tell him, however, the reason 

he has not found the secret of their a 

tion, for we read it plainly on every j 

of his book. He fails to recognize 

realit)' of the supernatural, and then 

has no appreciation of any friend 

which is not wholly human in its fbu 

tion and motive. This is the faoll 

have to find with modern noo-Catl 

literature, and «diich renders it so 1 

^aoA. sterile. We are not tiM one 



New Publications. 



853 



carp at human love and human friend- 
ship. Both are of God, and blessed by 
him. The doctrines of Calvinism, which 
has darkened the spiritual life of those 
who have been nourished under its in- 
fluence, and which stigmatizes the na- 
ture of man, with all its aspirations, as ot 
the devil, devilish, is alone responsible 
for the degradation of the heart's affec- 
tions, and that dearth of human friend- 
ship of which the author complains in 
his introduction, and the desire to re- 
establish which appears to have moved 
him to the composition of this work. 
The revolt against the doctrine of total 
depravity has resulted in pure natural- 
ism and transcendentalism. Hence, hu- 
man reason is deified together with the 
instincts. Reason is the highest, for 
there is nothing above it ; and "act out 
thy instincts," is the holiest, for tlicy are 
divine. 

May not this inordinate cultivation of 
the passions, and their unbridled grati- t 
^cation, which is the burden of the sen- 
sational literature of our day, be a reac- 
tion from the unnatural restraints of 
Puritanism ? The actual state of things 
we leave our author to give in his own 
words. " The proportionate number of 
examples of virtuous love, cnm])lcting 
itself in marriage, will probably dimin- 
ish, and the relative examples of defeat- 
ed or of unlawful love increase, until we 
reach some new phase of civilization, 
with better harmonized social arrange- 
ments — arrangements both more eco- 
nomical and more tnithful. In the 
mean time, everj'thing which tends to 
inflame the exclusive passion of love, to 
stimulate thought upon it, or to magnify 
its imagined importance, contributes so 
much to enhance the misery of its with- 
holding or loss, and thus to augment an 
evil already lamentably extensive and 
severe." Why does not Mr. Alger ask 
himself the reason of this increasing 
immorality, and the diminution of the 
number of marriages ? He says, again, 
" There never were so many morally baf- 
fled, uneasy, and complaining women on 
the earth as now." And why ? His an- 
swer confirms what we have before said. 
** Because never before did the capacities 
of intelligence and affection so greatly 
txceed dieir gratification.^^ Mr. Alger 



sees no other heaven than this earth, 
no " better part" than marriage ; is blind 
to the supernatural end of man ; fails to 
appreciate the examples of divine friend- 
ships he cites, and has no remedy to 
offer for the evils he deplores, but the 
stimulation of another human sentiment, 
purer in its conception, and less liable to 
abuse than the more ardent passion of 
love, and the establishment and cultiva- 
tion of " woman's rights," to replace (we 
cannot help thinking it) the convent 
and its supernatural life of divine love ; 
and substituting personal fi-iendships for 
that charity which embraces the whole 
race. For, he says : " Now, the most 
healthful, effective antidote for the evils 
of an extravagant passion, is to call into 
action neutralizing or supplementary 
passions ; to balance the excess of one 
power by stimulating weaker powers, 
and fixing attention on them ; to assuage 
disappointments in one direction by se- 
curing gratification in another." And, 
again : " The go<xi wife and mother fills 
a beautiful and sublime office — the fittest 
and the happiest office she can fulfil. 
If her domestic cares occupy and satis- 
fy her faculties, it is a fortunate adjust- 
ment ; and it is right that her husband 
should relieve her of the duty of provid- 
ing for her subsistence. But what shall 
be said of those millions of women who 
are not wives and mothers ; who have, 
no adequate domestic life, no genial, 
private occupation or support ? Multi- 
tudes of women have too much self-re- 
spect to be desirous of being sujjported 
in idleness by men, too much genius and 
ambition to be content with spending 
their lives in trifles ; and too much de- 
votcdness not to burn to be doing their 
share in the relief of humanity, the work 
and progress of the world. If these were 
but all happy wives and mothers, that 
might be best. But denied that func- 
tion, and being what they are, why 
should not all the provinces of public 
labor and usefulness which they are 
capable of occupying, be freely open- 
ed to them ! What else is it save 
prejudice that applauds a woman 
dancing a ballet or performing an op- 
era, but shrinks with disgust from 
one delivering an oration, preaching a 
sermon, or casting a vote ? Wliy is it 



854 



New Publications. 



less womanly to prescribe as a phjrsician 
than to tend as a nurse ? If a woman 
have a calling to medicine, divinity, law, 
literature, art, instruction, trade, or hon- 
orable handicraft, it is hard to see any 
reason why she should not have a fair 
chance of pursuing it." 

Mr. Alger, however, catches some 
faint glimpses of the truth to which we 
have alluded, and we wish that he would 
ponder well the fiill meaning of his own 
language, when speaking of the friend- 
ship of Madame Swetchine and Father 
Lacordaire — i. friendship which appears 
to have been a subject of intense inter- 
est to him, and to have awakened his 
unqualified admiration. '' No one wlio 
has not read their correspondence, reach- 
ing richly through a whole genc'ration, 
can easily imagine the ser\'ices rendered 
by this gifted and saintly woman to this 
holy and powerful man. Community 
of faith, of loyalty, of nobleness, joined 
them. It was in looking to heaven * 
together that their souls grev/ united. 
Drawn by the same attractions, and held 
by one sovereign allegiance, such souls 
need no vows, nor lean on any foreign 
support. The divinity of truth and 
t[ood is their doftd." What is this "di- 
vinity of truth and good " ? Is it God, 
the living, personal God, who redeems, 
inspires, regenerates, sanctifies, and 
glorifies humanity, or is it not ."• What 
is the character of the life born of this 
communion in God ? Are such friend- 
ships possible outside of revealed reli- 
gion ? We think not, and we regret 
that a mind of such culture as our au- 
thor lias shown his to be, should not see 
that he has been forced to go outside 
of the bounds of his own theory to find 
the realization of his ideal. 

The final chapter of his work, " On 
the present needs and duties of women," 
is not so foreign to the title of the vol- 
ume as one might be tempted to believe 
on a cursory reading. ^Ir. Alger finds, 
as he says in his introduction, that the 
position of woman in society is de- 
scending. He looks for some "new 
phase of civilization" to bring her back 
to a position of honor and usefulness 
equivalent to that which she is so rapid- 
ly losinji;. He \)lamcs Christianity and 
its traditions {ut nvaVdv\j^ >NOTnaxL >^« 



weaker vessel, and reducing her to 
jection under the rule of man, a 
head of the divine institution oi 
family. It seems to us that this rt] 
position of the man and the vom 
established by pretty high authorii 

" To the woman, also, he said, I 
multiply thy sorrows and thy coi 
tions : in sorrow shalt thou bring 
children, and thou shalt be vnda 
husband s power, and he shall haz- 
minion over thee." This, however 
Alger conveniently rejects as a leg 
But does he forget that the Chrii 
church emancipated woman, and 
deemed her from that degraded cc 
tion, into which, for want of the re; 
rating influence of the supernaturJ 
of that church, she is once again 
scending ? We are not surprised to 
Mr. Alger throwing all revelation x< 
denying original sin and its ca 
quences. But let him beware. He 
drag humanity back into the state of 1 
barism, or drown it in the sink of t 
then licentiousness. This modem f\ 
of materialism, this throwing ofT 
yoke of divine authority, is the resu! 
the old temptation, *'Ye shall be 
gods, knowing good from t\\\." and 
are present witnesses to the curse i 
is falling upon those who give ear to 
tempter. Men and women forget •! 
and there is a fearful resuscitation <m 
basest forms of heathen immnrj 
among them. Will Mr. Alger tcl: u 
what principle (cither of civjli/aiioi 
of religion) he attributes the dying 
of the non-Catholic native .Amcri 
stock in New England, and what i 
phase of civilization will pre\-ent iy 
tal extinction ? 

Mr. Alger would regenerate the 
lions of women whose aimless life 
deplores, by making woman equal ii 
the duties of life to the man. No mj 
what the whole world has said IjcI 
no matter what su[>erstitious revelati 
have .said, no matter if the teachin 
the Bible distinctly shows the contr 
no matter if the Christian church am 
by the mouth of St. Paul, " I suffer 
a woman to teach, nor to usurp auth 
ty over the man, but to be in silen 
for Adam was first formed, then Y.\ 
"■'■N^t •Mt \siai," says our author, * 



New Publications. 



«S5 



? teachings of philosophy and science 

■i which we cannot resist," to differ with 

~ the traditions of the whole world and the 

Christian church, and as for the Apos- 

i tie, " his logic limps ;" for, " did priority 

of creation confer authority to govern, 

then man should obey the lower ani- 

:; nals." (!) 

Mr. Alger has a theory, and endea- 
vors to illustrate it, and draw the logical 
\ conclusions. We fear tliat those con- 
tusions will harmonize but ill with the 
experience of the human race, and will 
be found sadly wanting in their adapta- 
bility to its needs. 



An Illustrated History of Ire- 
l^ND. With ten first-class full-page 
Engravings of Historical Scenes, de- 
signed by Henry Doyle, and en- 
graved by George Hanlon and George 
Pearson; together with upwards of 
loo woodcuts by eminent artists, illus- 
trating the Antiquities, Scenery, and 
Sites of Remarkable Events, i vol. 
8vo, pp. xiv., 581. London: Long- 
man & Co. ; New York : Catholic Pub- 
lication Society, 126 Nassau Street. 

We extend a most cordial welcome to 
this "Popular Illustrated History of Ire- 
land." It is precisely such a manual of 
that deeply interesting and suggestive 
history, as should be in the hands of 
every man or woman who claims connec- 
tion with the ancient race of the Gael, or 
who wishes to obtain a correct know- 
ledge of that people. Such a manual 
could only have been produced in our 
generation. Thirty or forty years ago, 
it were an impossibility. Little was then 
known of the genuine materials of 
the history of Ireland ; of the vast 
body of annals, which Eugene O' Curry 
deliberately affirmed, some twelve years 
since, must form the basis of any 
really intelligible version of the story 
of "ancient Erinn;" of the Genealo- 
gies and Pedigrees, the Historic Tales, 
the Law Books, the Topographical 
Poems, and of the whole mass of miscel- 
laneous historical literature, which the 
national historian must avail himself of^ 
before he can give us anything more 
tiian a diy and meagre outline ; before he 



can bring out in full relief the pregnant 
record of the colonization, conversion, 
invasions, persecutions, wars, struggles, 
triumphs and reverses, sufferings and 
sorrows of Innis&il; before he can 
supply those lights and shades, all those 
minute circumstances, "which explain 
not only historical events, but Uiose 
equally or even more important descrip- 
tions, in which the habits and manners, 
the social ideas and cultivation, the very 
life of the actors in those events are" 
depicted for our instruction as well as 
entertainment It is true there were 
then as now accessible scores, even 
hundreds of so-called " Histories of Ire- 
land," from Dermod O'Connor's rude 
and ruthless translation of the Foras 
Fetua Ar Eirinn of Dr. Geoffrey Keat- 
ing, down through the ponderous vo- 
lumes of Leland, and Warner, and 
O'Halloran, and Plowden, andLedwich, 
and Musgrave, to the crude compilations 
of Taaffe, and Gordon, and Crawford, 
and Commerford, and Lawless ; to the 
more polished and pretentious, but not 
practically more useful, rather more 
pernicious epitome of Thomas Moore. 
There were Ogygias, Itineraries, Collec- 
tanea, Chronicles of Eri, and such pedan- 
tic rubbish, in heaps on the shelves of 
public libraries, in old book-stores, in the 
closets and chests of fossilized book- 
worms. All of those pseudo-histories 
served rather to discourage than advance 
the study of the real history of Ireland ; 
to bring into disrepute, rather than to 
exalt, the Irish name, and race, and na- 
tion, and the glorious church founded 
by the great apostle of the faith. 

To a learned and faithful, though al- 
most forgotten representative of the ve- 
nerable priesthood of Ireland belongs 
the high honor of having produced, in 
the hmguage of the stranger, the first 
truly original work of an historical na- 
ture, an able, erudite, and inspiring hiv 
tory of the most devoutly cherished 
inheritance of the race, the ancient 
church of his native land ; and this, too, 
vrithin the memory ofmen yet living, and* 
not far past the prime of life. We allude 
to the Ecclesiastical History of Irt- 
land, of the Rev. Dr. John Lanigan,. 
which was issued in four volumes octavo^ 
firom a Dublin press^ in the year \%xl^ 



856 



New Publicatiotu. 



Jt commenced with the introduction of 
Christianity into Ireland, and closed with 
the era of the Anglo-Norman invasion. 
Half a life-time was given to the prepa- 
ration of the book, the accomplished au- 
thor of which " spared no pains in the 
collection and collation of such docu- 
ments as materially " bore on the subject, 
and such as were in his time accessible 
in the British Islands, and on the con- 
tinent. His aim was " to exhibit a faithful 
picture of the doctrine and practice of 
the ancient Irish Church, and to show 
its connection, at all times, with the uni- 
versal church of Christ." This he did as 
far as it was then in the power of a great 
and zealous scholar to do. But he felt, 
and his contemporaries were by him 
taught to appreciate, the want of a fami- 
liar and critical knowledge of the im- 
mense stores of Celtic lore, the full mag- 
nitude and importance of which it has 
since taken more than the average of a 
generation of unprcccdentedly diligent 
research, and of unsurpassed ability, to 
ascertain and make clear. 

Soon after the publication of the real- 
ly great work of Ur. Lanigan — now alto- 
gether out of print — the famous Ord- 
nance Sun-ey of Ireland was fairly enter- 
ed upon. In its prosecution, some of 
the most profoundly learned men of the 
countrj'were employed, under the super- 
intendence of Colonel Thomas A. I-ar- 
com and Ur. George Tetrie. It was in 
connection with this great national un- 
dertaking that the knowledge and skill 
of the lamented scholars. Dr. John O' Do- 
novan and Professor Eugene O'Currj', 
were first utilized for the public good. 
Thenceforward, with and witliout the aid 
of government, these great men pusliod 
earnestly, cntluisiastically onward, in 
their investigations into the extant ma- 
terials of their country's history ; rescu- 
ing from ol>livion and decay priceless 
memorials of the past, in every form 
and shape, in Ireland and elsewhere 
whither tliey were called \\\xm to exert 
themselves ; and classifying, systematiz- 
ing, translating, editing, annotating, and 
publishing, with unremitting industry, 
and with marvellous power and tact, until 
they ceased from their Libors for ever, 
and passed hence Vo vXwt tcNvird. ( I rcat, 
indeed irre\)ara.\Ac, nv^s xYvt \osi?. vsVacXx 



the history and literature of Ircloni 
tained in their deaths. 

Without the impetus given to tl 
vcstigation of the past of Ireland li 
great, single-handed enterprise <■ 
Kev. Dr. Lanigan, it is c^uotio 
whether the progress that was m.i 
the succeeding thirty years could j 
bly have been achieved in the in; 
of the historical literature of the n. 
Without the help of O' Donovan 
O'Curry and Petrie, the race coul. 
have had placed within its rcac'i : 
tally im|X>rtant a portion of that I 
ture as has been given to the put^l 
a thoroughly scholarly form anil 
within the past twenty-eight \eir 
the Irish Archaeological, Celtic. <')»! 
and kindred archxological socieiii.' 
Messrs. Hodges & Smith, by .Mr. J, 
Duffy, of Dublin, and ihrou;ih vi 
other agencies. Without the advan; 
resulting from their labors, we c-'uli 
have had the many very able wurk 
general and special to])ic.> of 11.1:- 
historical interest which, within 
own recollection, have pmceedei! 
the pens of truly national writers. V 
out the \'ast stores of iiiformati-w 
cjuired by (^'Donovan and OC 
theni-ielves. while prosccuiir.g ilu'r : 
ful studies .-md researches, eveii tin .' 
CraiHuiiir and the m.i'..jnitice:it \(.t 
of the Annuls of' Iri'/ti/ttf i\\ the f"' 
and the celebrated lM\turis,'n r'':r.\'. 
script Materials of . I tuLnt />•./: . 
torv, the crowning wurk of the 1' 
could not have been prtHUiccil i:s ':ii' 
and generation. Antl it is .»..ivm,. 
more than is frankly avowe«I \>\ :i' 
gorous writer of the Popuhn /.''u>tr 
History of Ireland, that, wit!, •.! 
benefit of the lijuht that h.is Iiv.i.r. t:.; 
upon bygone times in Irelani;, >V] ■. 
I^mi^^an published his /:'.■ •.'; jV,.-. 
Ilislory, this late.st and l-c-.; of 
modern histories of Ireland v.i>ii!i.! 
have been preixired for public. it 'n. 
issued in suih an appropriate .■»;vii-. 

The work before us, for a a-y.' 
which we are indebted to •• The Ci;) 
Publication Society." makes a han^l* 
octavo volume of over 600 pages, div 
into 36 chapters, prefaced by an adn 
blj' written and very timely disqui<>i 
ow >\vi. UviiK land and church questi< 



New Publications, 



857 



nost vital questions of reform in Ire- 

in our time ; and supplemented by 
ry full index. It is illustrated by ten 
page historical engravings, from de- 
s by Mr. Henry Doyle, a worthy son 
le noble Irish Catholic artist, Rich- 
Doyle, who refused to prostitute his 
us in the interests of tiie assailants 
is church through the columns of 
London Punch; and by over one 
Ired very beautiful sketches on wood 
le scenery, antiquities, sites of re- 
cable events, etc. etc. The illustra- 
i, woodcuts and all, are in the very 

style of the art which they repre- 
Mr. Doyle's contributions of 
iselves would form an attractive col- 
3n. The emblematic title-page, sug- 
ve of all that is grand and noble in 
jeriod of the independence of the 
in, is an exquisite picture. Of rare 
t, likewise, are most of the other 
jns furnished by Mr. Doyle. The 
^nt's Farewell, opposite page 571, 
ruthful, characteristic, and painfully 
estive sketch. 

le narrative itself is as fine a speci- 
of comprehensive analysis and con- 
ation as we have any knowledge of 
thfuUy reflects the present advanced 

of historical research in and relat- 
o.the country. It embodies all the 
-tained facts of the history of Ireland, 
character of its early inhabitants ; 

social, civil, and religious habits 
:ustoms ; their martial, legal, litera- 
id — noblest, most glorious, mosten- 
igof all — their missionary triumphs ; 
ire accurately, though succinctly, 
ayed. The tragic eras of the history 
e nation, from the Invasion to the 
tvement of Catholic Emancipation 
»re than 650 years — are also limned 
^id colors. No available source of 
mation has been unheeded by the 
r, who seems to have not merely 

but studied earnestly, every pub- 
d work of value or interest, down to 
rery latest publication, bearing di- 
f or indirectly on the subject, not 
excepting the driest and most ab- 
e of the several society tracts and 
>grams of the archaeologists. The 
hes of early Celtic literature are 
ly of even O' Donovan or O'Curry, 

precise, and satisfactory. The 



book is trustworthy in all its peculiari- 
ties, eminently so in its text and notes, 
which are presented in a clear, unafTect- 
* ed, but most interesting style, and with 
a conscientiousness which is not obtru- 
sive, but which is recognizable in every 
line of the writer. 

We have been so interested in the de- 
tails of the history, and so delighted by 
the more purely narrative parts, that we 
find we have mdrked for citation several 
peculiarly striking passages, for which 
we have no room. One passage which 
we give will serve as the meetest con- 
clusion to our notice of the work; as 
well as to indicate the spirit of the his- 
tory, and illustrate the flowing, artless, 
and pathetic style of the writer. In 
treating of the extant memorials of St 
Patrick, it is thus beautifully remarked : 

" One prayer uttered by St. Patrick has 
been singularly fulfilled. ' May my Lord 
grant,' he exclaims, * that I may never lose 
his people, which he has acquired in the 
ends of the earth.' From hill and dale, from 
camp and cottage, from plebeian and noble, 
there rang out a grand ' Amen.' The strain 
was caught by Secundinus and Benignus, by 
Columba and Columbanus, by Brigid and 
Brendan. It floated away from Lindisfame 
and lona to Iceland and Tarentum. It was 
beard on the sunny banks of the Rhine, at 
Antwerp and Cologne, in Oxford, in Pavia, 
and in Paris. And still the old echo is breath- 
ing its holy prayer by the priest who toils 
in cold and storm to the ' station ' on the 
mountain-side, iax from his humble home. 
By the confessor who spends hour after hour, 
in the heat of summer and the cold of winter, 
absolving the penitent children of Patrick. 
By the monk in his cloister. By noble and 
true-hearted men, faithful through centuries 
of persecution. And loudly and nobly, 
though it be but faint to human ears, is that 
echo uttered also by the aged woman who 
lies down by the wa^'side to die in the fa- 
mine years, because she prefers the bread of 
heaven to the bread of earth, and the faith 
taught by Patrick to the tempter's gold. By 
the emigrant, who with broken heart bids a 
long farewell to the dear island home, to the 
old fiither, to the gray-haired mother, be- 
cause his adherence to his faith tends not to 
further his temporal interests, and he must 
starve or go beyond the sea for bread. Thus, 
ever and ever, that echo is gushing up into 
the ear of God, and never will it cease until 
it shall have merged into the eternal alleluia 
which the often-martyred and ever fidthftd 



858 



New Publications. 



children of the saint shall shout with him in 
rapturous voice before the Eternal Throne." 



Legends of the Warsin Ireland. 
By Robert Dwyer Joyce, M.D. i vol. 
1 2mo, pp. 352. Boston : James Camp- 
bell. 1868. 

This handsome little volume is, we be- 
lieve, the first contribution of Dr. Joyce 
to Irish-American literature since his 
arri\'al in this country. We have read 
several of his sketches, years ago, in the 
Irish periodicals, and one of them, the 
" Building of Mourne," appeared in one 
of the first numbers of this magazine. 

The stories Dr. Joyce has collated in 
this volume are told in an easy, racy 
style, and make pleasant reading for a 
winter's evening. They please us better 
than the majority of the sketches and 
stories al>out Ireland which have fre- 
quently appeared here and in England, 
as they are, with a few exceptions, free 
from that exaggeration of plot and detail 
which take away.thu moral effect of too 
many of the so-called legends. The 
book contains the following stories : A 
Batch of Legends ; The Master of Lis- 
finry ; The Fair Maid of Killamey ; An 
Eye for an Eye ; The Rose of Drim- 
magh ; The House of Lisbloom ; The 
White Knight's Present ; The First and 
Last Lords of Firmoy, The Chase from 
the Hostel ; The Whitethorn Tree ; 
The White Lady of Basna ; The Bridal 
Ring ; The Little Battle of Bottle Hill. 



Verses ox Various Occasions. By 
John Henry Newman, D.D. London : 
Burns, Oatcs & Co. For sale at the 
Catholic Publication House. 

Dr. Newman has conferred a long- 
expected favor upon m.-iny friends in 
the collection ami publication of his 
poems under the present form. Those 
who have known and honored his course 
will appreciate the thoughtfulness which 
prompted him to subjoin the dates of 
their com])<>sition, as also the names 
of places wliore they were written. 
To such also those poems will, of 
course, be of l\\c greavcr VnVextsV, >n\\\c\v 



are, in £u:t, the sighs of his troi 
heart as God led him step by stej 
ward the church. These were comt 
between 1830 and 1833, and make 
large part of the volume. In the A 
gia we get an insight into the trij 
his mind, as he faithfully held it. 
truth, and fought for it, even again: 
own, for conscience' sake. Her 
look into his heart, and witness the 
munton of his spirit with God. Dr. } 
man had many to doubt the sinceri 
his course, the purity of his motives 
the singleness of his purpose, 
can read these spoken thoughts. s]> 
rather to God than to man. and doubi 
still "i We cannot refrain from 
scribing one already well known. « 
is remarkable for the expression it 
veys of the deep emotions of his 
at a time when his mind was tnm 
anxious doubt concerning tlie trui! 
Anglicinism. He felt, as mo>i 1 
verts feel in their journey to the H 
of Faith and Truth, that they are on 
way to a promised land, led by the- cl 
of desolation that Grxl raiNes in 
desert, and yet know not where 1 
Home is nor of what sort or faslii"r 
it may be. The poem we allude u 
entitled, 

"THE PILLAR OK THE CLiUP 

" Lead, Kindly Light, amid the enciixlln; ■;'■'■'« 
I«ad ihiHi inc mi ! 
The niKht i» d.irk. anil I am far from lioae— 

I.*:ad thou me (>» ! 
Keep thiiu my fvvt ; I do not ask t» xee 
'J'hc diHUnI scene — one step cnnuish X-x me. 

" I was not ever thus, nor prayed that ihou 

.Sliouldsl lead me i>n. 
I loved 10 choiiM and sec my path : bu: iNnr 

Xjc^A thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears 
Pride ruled niy >»iU ; remcral>i.-T nut past nan 

" So lonri lliy power hath blest me, sure it lu'.l 

Will lead me <in, 
O'er miHir and fen, o'er crag and lorren;, till 

'I'he niRht is gone : 
And with the mom those anKel Cues «mile 
Which I have loved long since and lost a«rhiJ< 

We think some one has said — an< 
not, wc say it ourselves — ^that the 1 
difficult thing to writing a l^ook i: 
give it a name. What every one has 
failed to notice, who* is conversant \ 
the sermons of Dr. Neninan. we 
equally true of these poems, the feli 
cX \v\s cW\ce of titles. It is the to 



New Publications. 



859 



of genius ; and we venture to assert that 
Dr. Newman excels in this all living 
writers. There is no evidence that these 
*• Verses" were written or are published 
now for poetic &me, and yet no one can 
help but accord to them the praise due 
to poetry of a high order of merit ; re- 
vealing at the same time, as they do, 
what a great deal of true poetry does not 
aud need not necessarily show, the mind 
of the scholar and of the master of lan- 
guage. The volume closes with the re- 
markable poem entitled, " The Dream 
of Gerontius," which our readers have 
already enjoyed from the pages of The 
Cathouc World. 



The Blessed Eucharist our Great- 
est Treasure. By Michael Miiller, 
Priest of the Congregation of the Most 
Holy Redeemer. Baltimore: Kelly 
& Piet 

This work is written in plain and un- 
affected style to promote the noblest, best, 
and most useful of objects, the devotion 
to our Lord Jesus Christ present in 
the Most Holy Sacrament of the altar. 
Catholics are taught and believe this 
great mystery of love ; but many, though 
they believe, do not seem to realize suf- 
ficiently what it is they believe. They 
have not thought much upon it. They 
have not penetrated its depths. Their 
knowledge is superficial, and their devo- 
tion consequently is cold. And this for 
many reasons is particularly the case in 
this country. Here we have immense 
congregations and few priests, and they 
loaded down with the building of church- 
es, and a variety of work which has been 
already done in other countries. The 
people often are either out of reach 
of the church, or struggling for the 
means of living, and therefore have 
grown careless, and foiled to receive the 
instruction which they require. Hence 
there is need, and great need, of all 
the means of instruction which can be 
brou^t to bear, and good books on the 
grand doctrines of religion are calculated 
to do an incalculable amount of good. 
This book of Father Miiller's is intended 
to snj^Iy much needed instruction on the 
Bless^ Sacrament, and we hope it will 



receive an extensive circulation. In 
reading it, we are reminded of the Visits 
to the Blessed Sacrament by Saint Al- 
phonsus, which have been so acceptable 
and useful throughout the whole church, 
and we do not doubt many souls will 
derive great edification and pleasure 
from its perusal 



The Cromwellian Settlement ok 
Ireland. By John P. Prendergast, 
Esq. With three maps, i vol pp. 
228. New York: P. M. Haverty. 
1868. 

This is the most thorough exposi of 
the wholesale plunder and robbery of 
the unfortunate Irish by the English 
soldiers under Cromwell yet published. 
It quotes the documents by the author- 
ity of which the land was taken from its 
rightful owners, and parcelled out to the 
jail-birds of the " protector." 

Mr. Prendergast is a Dublin lawyer. 
He was in the circuit in the counties of 
Wicklow, Wexford, Waterford, Kilken- 
ny, and Tipperary for ten years, when he 
received a commission to make pedigree 
researches in the latter coimty. His 
search for documents relating to Ire- 
land was not confined to that country 
alone. He visited England, and exam- 
ined the extensive Irish documents in 
the libraries there. But, he tell us, it 
was in the castle of Dublin he found the 
most important ones. These, along with 
extracts from others, found elsewhere, 
make up his book. It is full of histori- 
cal materials on the confiscation of Ire- 
land, never before published, which 
make it an important work to be studied 
by every student in Irish history. It 
throws a flood of light on the manner in 
which the Irish were robbed, exiled, 
murdered, and for no other purpose but 
to get their property for the invaders. 
It tells a sad and sickening story of 
wrong and outrage, unknown in the his- 
tory of any other country in Europe, 
much of which has been kept hidden, 
because the guilty parties did not wish 
such things should see the light But 
truth, like murder, will out, and Mr. 
Prendergast, who, it is well to observe, is 
not a Catholic, has done a good service 



860 



New Publications. 



to the cause of truth, in the volume be- 
fore us. 



MAxrAL OF Physical Exercjsfs. By 
William WckhI. With one hundred 
and t^vcnty-hve illustrations. New 
York: Harper & Brothers. 1867. 

That phy.sical education is absolutely 
necessary to a full and perfect devcloji- 
ment of the intellectual faculties, is now 
universally conceded. <'n this connec- 
tion, therefore, we have hut to add that 
the manual now before us gives, in sim- 
ple phrase, aided by numerous appro- 
priate illustrations, a vast amount of in- 
formation by which our liealtli may be 
preserved, our strength incrcasctl, our 
mental powers as a conse(|uence im- 
proved, and therefore, not only our indi- 
vidual comfort promoted, but our gene- 
ral usefulness as members of the body 
politic very materially enhanced. 



Lives of the Qu mens of England, 
fkom the xormax conquest. ijy 
Agnes Strickland, auilior of Lives of 
the (jMtvns 0/ /\Hi;!iinif. .Xbridj^'cil hv 
the author. Kt-visL-d and c-dited l.'v 
Caroline G. P;irker, .Ww York: 
Harper S: Broilicrs. i S6;. 

This excellent a!jri.!:;meiit jjrescnts 
us with a scries of pen-in irir.iits. >:iik- 
ini;]y ami imparti.-illy di-pictvd. "i the 
Oueens of Knijland, from -AF.r.iMa "f 
Flanders, wife of William tlu- Ci>:i>jui.T.>r. 
to the pre^cnt q.icLn-n-Ljnant. \'i>:tiri.i. 
While iiivinj;, in a moilir.fd \i>T-.n. tiie 
more dcl:c.t:c farts of their hi-.:i..ry. it 
carefully retains .ill th.it is cs>LivJ;d 'ti> a 
complete knowledge of their liv,. .-.. j,.:! .-'c 
and domestic, their ;v)litii\il tiiu:iv,-'!iS 
and reverses, tlieir priv.ue joys .iin: sur- 
rows. 



first amongst the many which. <! 
holiday season just passe<i, h.iv 
ed the favorable regard of t h c r i « 
ration. But, while chfcrfi-.-i',- 1 
this meed of praise to thu- M? .« 
per. and no less acknowlcr!::!;-^ 
of Miss Booth's tiansi;iti' in. .. 
mcmbrance of what best |•^J.. 
selves, in days gone l>v. ci-r^i;-, 
add, that these Ltles. uiilikt- n'..: 
we might enumcr.ito. will pv; lt 
household words witii thikir..:; 
tiles intended, as these evii.:«.;.;: 
convey a moral, may be likv:;-, 
gar-coated jiills. Th.c f;r,i:: v. 
tales is, that the coating, sr. ?. 1 . 
too thin. and. consfciiiL-n*.!-., 
palatable though sanati\e i.'. .. 
easily detected. 



The Lovers" I)if:Tiox vky. A I' 
Treasury of Lovers* Ti;- ;_ ■* 
cies. Addre>ses. and HileT^-i :■.;.■■,. 
ed with ton thmisind rc:V.rv-..i 
Diction.iry of Compliment-. ,i:-. . 
to the Study of tiie 'lerniLr > 
New York: Harj.er & I;r'j:: .;•-. 

Of this anonymiius V'-l.:Ti:e. i:' : 
tliiir"s judgment -.xnd -.::,. ;..- 
eiiuailed his indu^iiA. :;;eri- :•■;■. ■•: 
our part would sufike. \\: : «. . ■ 
s<iry e.Mmination r<inipe!> •.!» :■ ■ .. 
while it contiiins m.i.'iv ;.■.!.; 
and elegant cxrr.xct-;. u e !'• ,:■.:• . \ . ■ . 
inflirferent, n'">t a few <<! ii .. :■ .•: 
a want of aj :io.->i'.eni>-. . ■.:..: , 
sh'nild no: h.r.e :»een ip- r:. 1'.. 

.'^liouid the autluir (.'I'v; !;.• .:' 
voi'.inu'. inteiiiied I'or t':-,e i' ...-,«- 
bot!i sexes, we heanilv ■.■. .'^r- !: 
Ci">n>:.:er.ition nf lii^ /e.ik •• .1 ;■•.:;. 
ta>'.e."' the nvire fully to c.iri-,- ■ .. 
goot: intentions. 



Home Fairy Tales. By Jo.-in M.-ioo. 
TransLitcJ by M.iry I.. B-.iv.;;, Wi-Ji 
Engr.ivings. New York: ll.irj)er& 
Brothers. 1S6S. 

In its \"u>UiV.>^Vw>, Ma>.'.:;;^. a!\J '-> po- 
graphvcal cx«'Aetice, \\v.s \o\v\vftc v.\v\V4 



"The Cath-.!:.: PLiLlicitiin S . 
has the fulinwing Im-ks ii; ;:,«» 
will pii!.li>h t!icm .is f..l! .ws : M <■.. 
The I>i.ji\ i]f iiSi.iUr,>r' M ■■■ . . 
\. In t'W S'l-u; !»./ 7d.v> .'.'■ J/ . 
lienun.f. ly Kcv. Dr. Ander^l'n : . 
20. .W.'.VV Xft/t-n/i/,- : o. .1 /'.:.', 
ti:z /':-'.\{ ly CnwiUc//. hy .M:..> ( 
AvVv-. May 10, Probhms of tkc A^f. 



35 DD? fi3b m ''\ O^*^ rt^