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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

General Literature and Science.

VOL. VII.

APRIL TO SEPTEMBER, 1868.

« « • •

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

1868.

660bb!3

John A. Gray ft Giibsm,

Pnnteni

i6 and i8 Jacob St, New York.

CONTENTS.

A Heroine of Conjagal Love, 781.
A New Face on an Old Question, 577.
Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholat I., 683.
A Sister's Story, 707.
Ancient Insh Church, 764.
Abyssinia and King ITieodore, 165.

Baltimore, Second Plenary Council o(, 6s8.
Breton Le%tnd of St. Christopher, 710,
Bretons, Faith and Poetry of, 567.
Bible and the Catholic Church, 657.
Bishop Doyle, 44.
Bound with Paul, 389.

Catacombs, Children's Graves in, 401.

Campion, Edmund, 28<v

Catholics in England. Condition and Prospects o< 487.

Catholic Church and the Bible, 657.

Catholic Sunday-School Union, 30a

Chi'idren's Gnves in the Catacombs, 40X.

Crisis. The Episcopalian, 37.

Chnstopher, St, Breton Lef^end o( 71a

CoD^mtinople. Harem Life in, 407.

CMBsocnce, Plea for Liberty oC 433-

Caodition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 487.

Confessional, Episcopalian, 373.

C«j script. Story of a, a6.

Colony of the Insane, Gheel, 824.

Conjugal Love, Heroine of, 781.

Ccwicil of Baltimore, Second P^etury, 6x8.

Cowpcr, 347.

Coc-.try Church, a Plan for, 135.

Cous n, Victor, and the Church Review, 95.

Cros\ The, 21.

Count Ladis!a% Zamoyski, 65a

Church, Ancient Irish, 764.

Church, Catholic, and the Bible, 657.

Church Review, and Victor Cousin, 95.

Chtn-ches United, of England amd Ireland, aoo.

Church, Early Irish, 356.

Draper, Professor, Books of, 155.
De Garatson. Notre Dame, 644.
Doyle, Bishop, 44.
Duties^ Household, 70a

Ear*y Irish Church, 356.

£nf;land and Ire\nnd, United Churches of, aoa

England, Catholic^ ot. Condition and Prospects, 487.

Episcopa'j.in Crisis, 37.

Kpi&cnpalian Confessional, 37a.

Educ.ition, Popular, aaS.

Edmund C.imoion. 289.

European Prison Discipline, 77a.

Egypt, Harem Life in, 407.

Face, New. on an Old Question, 577.

Faith and Science, 338, 464.

Kaminia- 705.

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons, 367.

Fltglit of Spiders, 414.

Florence Atbem's Trial, 213.

Garaison, Notre Dame de, 644.

Graves, Children's, in the Caucombs, 401.

Gathering, Roman, 191.

Glastonbury, Legend of, 517.

Gheel. Colony of the Insane, 824.

Girl, Italian, of our Day, 364, 543, 626.

Glimpses of Tuscany— The Duomo, 479 ; The Bobol

Gardens, 679.
Good Works, Merit of, 125.

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople, 4i>7-

Heroine of Conjus^al Love, 781.

History, How told in the Year 3000^ 13a

Holy Shepherdess of Pibrac, 753.

Holy Week in Jerusalem, 77.

How our History will be told in the Year 3ooo» 130.

Insane. Colony of, at Gheel, 824.

Julian Girl of our Day, 364, 543, 626.

Irish Church, F^riy, 356^

Irish Church, Ancient, 764.

"Is it Honest?" 239,

Ireland, Protestant Church of; aoa

Jerusalem, Holv Week in, 77.
John .Sterling, 81 x.
John Tauler, 422.

King Theodore of Abyssinia, 265.
Keeble, 347.

La Fayette, Madame de, 781.

Legend of Glastonbury, S17.

Libertv of Conscience, Plea for, 433.

Life of St. Paula, sketches of, 380, 508, 67a

Life, Harem, in Egypt and ConsUntinople, 407-

Life's Charitv, 839.

Last Gasp of the Anti-Catholic Faction, 850.

Madame de La Fayette, 7^1.
Magas : or, Long Ago, 59, 256.
Miscellany, i:t9.
Merit of Good Works, 125.
Memoirs of Count Segur, 633.
Monks cf the West, x.

New Face on an Old Question, 577.

Newgate, 772.

Newman's Poems, 609.

Nellie Net»erville. 82, 175. 307. 445. 5*9. 73*.

New York City, Sanitary and Moral Condition (<

5%^ 7«2-
Nicholas. Emperor, Memoirs of, 683.
Notre Dame de Garaison, 644.

O'Neil and O'Donnell in Exile, 11.

Quietist Poetry, 347.

Race, The Human, Unity of, 67.
Rights of Catholic Women, 846.
Roman Gathering, 191.

Contents.

St Paala« Sketches of her Life, 380^ 508, 670W

St Christopher, Breton Legend of, 71a

Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert, 76, aaj, 57X

Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City,

SS3. 7".
Segur, Count, Memoirs of, 633.
Shepherdess of librae, 753.
Sterling, John, Six.
Science and Faith, 338, 464.
Sketches of the Life of St Paula, 380^ 508, 67a
Sister Simplida, 115.
Sister's Story, 707.
Spiders, Flight of, 414.
Story of a Conscript, 36.
Story, a Sister's, 707.

Tauler, John, 42a.
The Cross, ai.

The Church Review and Victor OMMil^ 95.

The Episcopalian CrinA, 37.

The Righu of Catholic Wonca. 146^

The Second Pkaary Coimdl «< ffaltimtwr, 618.

The Story of a Cootcript, a&

Theodore, King of Abyvinia, wA$,

Tennyson in his Catholic Aspects, 145.

Unity of the Human Rac^ 67.

United Churches of EngUmd nd Inland, ana

Veneration of Saints and Holj T*— j«^ j^j,

Wordsworth, 347.

Women, Cathol^ Rights ^ 846.

Zamoyski, Count Tadislaa, 6501.

POETRY.

An-Soula* Day— 1867, 136.

Benediction, 444.

Elegy of St. Prudentius, 761.

Full of Grace, 1*9.

lona to Erin, 57.

Love*s Burden, at 3.

Morning at Spring Park, 174.
My Angel, 363.

One Fold, 336.
Poland, 154.

St Columba. 823.

Sonnet on ** Le R^t d*ane Soenr," 506^

St. Mary Magdalen, 476.

Sonnet, 617.

Tears of Jesus, 113.

To the Count de Montalembart, 516.

Wild Flowers, 566.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

AaaemU^e G^n^rale des Catholiques en Beige, 431.
Appleton's Atinual Cyclopaedia for 1867, 574.
^pleton's Short Trip to France, 717.

Book of Moses, 14s.

Campbell's Works, 720.

Catholic Bunday-School Library. 431.

Catholic Crusoe, 719.

Chandler's New Fourth Reader, 575.

Chemical Change in the Eucharist, 385.

Count Lucanor, X4a

De Coeta's Lake Geoiie, 7x8.
Diacuasions in Theology, Skinner, 57>

Elinor Johnson, 576.

FoDta and Fairies, 144.

Great Day, 38S.

Gillct's Democracy, 7x9.

Hhrtaon the Formation of Rdigioas OpinioM, S73*
Histoire de France, 719.
Houee Pamting. 7>o>

In&nt Bridal, by Aubrey de Vcre, 143.
Imitation of Christ, Spiritual Combat, etc, 575.
Iririi HooMt and Irish Ueaita, 576^

Life of St Catharine of Sienna, 14a.

Life in the West, 387.

MeflMin and Letters of Jeaait C Whita-Dd Bal,

1st.

Moses, Book oU 14a.

Mozart, aSS.

Margaret, a Story of Prairie Life, 576.

Newman's Parochial Sermons, 716.
Notes on the Rubrics of the Roman Mieaal, 574.
Northcote's Celebrated Sanctuaries of the ~ ~
574-

Oianam's Civilisation, 43a
O' Kane's Notes on the Rubrics, 574.
0'Shea*s Juvenile Library, 719.
On the Heii^hts, 384.

Palmer's Hints on the Formation of ReUfioaa Opia-

iona, 573.
Prayer the Key of Salvation, 143.
Peter Claver, 143.
Problems of the Age, 715.

Queen's Daughter, 7aa

Red Cross, 575.

Relbrme en Italic, 143.

Rossignoli's Choice of a Sute of Life, 576.

Rhymes of the Poets, 718.

St Catharine of Sienna. Life of, 143.

St Colomba, Apostle of Caledonia, a8i.

Sanctuaries of the Madooiu, 730.

Tales from the Diary of a Sister, s88.

The Catholic Crusoe, 719.

The Queen's Dauf^ter, 73a

The Vickers and Purcell Controversy, 856.

The Woman Blessed by all GeaeratioDe, 88*

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. VII., No.

37.-ief%»»//j?fe&./^>\

THE MONKS OF THE WEST.*

BY THE COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT.

In the galaxy of illustrious men
whom God has given to France in
this century, there is one whom his-
tory' will place in the first rank. We
mean the author of the Monks of the
HVj/, the Count de Montalembert.
There has not been since the seven-
teenth century till now such an as-
semblage of men of genius and lofty
character gathered round the stand-
ard of the church, combating for her
and leaving behind them works that
will never die. Attacked on all sides
at once, the church has found magna-
nimous soldiers to bear the brunt of
the battle, and meet her enemies in
every quarter. Even though the
victor^' has not yet been completely
won, with such defenders she cannot
doubt of final success and future tri-
umph. How great are the names of
Montalembert, Lacordaire, Ravignan,
Dupanloup, Ozanam, Augiistin Co-
chin, the Prince de Broglie, de Fal-

• The Monk* o/tJu West, from St. Bentdict to St.
Bernard. By the Count de MonUlembert, Member
of the French Academy. 5 vols. 8vo. For sale at
the Catholic Publication House, ia6 Nassau Streei;
Kcw York.

VOL. VII, — I

loux, Cauchy, and of so many others !
The natural sciences, history, politi-
cal economy, controversy, parliamen-
tary debates, pulpit eloquence, have
been studied and honored by these
men ; superior in all those sciences
on account of the truth which they
defend, and equal in talent to their
most renowned rivals.

The figure of the Count de Mon-
talembert stands conspicuous in that
group of giant intellects by the uni-
versality of his eminent gifts. A
historian full of erudition, an incom-
parable orator, and a writer combin-
ing the classic purity of the seven-
teenth century with the energy and
fire of the nineteenth, an indefatiga-
ble polemic, a man of the world, yet
an orthodox churchman, but above
all a practical and fer\'ent Christian;
this great defender of Catholic truth,
has merited immortal praise from,
his contemporaries and from poster-
ity.

Among all the works of this ener-
getic champion of the faith, Thf
Monks of the West holds indisputabVy
the first place. It is the vroik oi

The Monks of the West.

Montalembert's entire life. He has
put into it his Benedictine erudition,
his passionate love for truth, the
charming and dramatic power of his
style in the narration of events, his
inimitable talent for painting in
words the portraits of those famous
characters whom he wishes to pre-
sent to the eye of the reader; and
their traits remain inefi^ceably stamp-
ed on the mind. Especially does
the soul of the true Christian breathe
on ever}' page of the volumes. For
more than forty years their author
bent piously over those austere forms
of the Benedictine monks of the ear-
ly ages to ask them the secret of
their lives, of their virtues, of their
influence on their country and their
age. He has studied them with that
infallible instinct of faith which had
disclosed to him a hidden treasure
in those old monastic ruins, and in
those dusty and unexplored monu-
ments of their contemporary litera-
ture ; the treasure, namely, of the in-
fluence of the church acting on the
barbarians through the monks. This
is the leading idea of the whole
work. It would be a mistake to ex-
pect, under the title of Monks of the
West, SL history of mere asceticism,
or a species of continuation of the
Zwes of the Fathers of the Desert.
Writers no longer treat, as that work
does, the lives of the saints. Rea-
ders are not satisfied with the simple
account of the virtues practised or
the number of miracles performed by
the canonized children of the church.
Modem men want to look into the
depths of a saint's soul; to know
what kind of a human heart throb-
bed in his bosom, and how far he par-
ticipated in the thoughts and feel-
ings of ordinary human nature. The
circumstances in which he lived and
studied, the opinions formed of him
by his contemporaries, are weighed,
and the traces left by his sanctity or
genius on the manners and institu-

tions of his country are closely con-
sidered.

The histor>' of The Monks of the West
is nothing else than a history of civi-
lization through monastic causes.
The third, fourth, and fifth volumes
just published contain a complete,
profound, exact, and beautiful ac-
count of the conversion of Great
Britain to Catholicit}-. No work
could be more interesting, not only
to Englishmen, but to all who speak
the English tongue. Hence, but a
few months after the French edition
of these bulky volumes, an English
translation of them was given to the
public, and is now well known and
becoming justly wide-spread in the
United States.

Irish and Anglo-Saxons, Ameri-
cans by birth or by adoption. Catho-
lics and Protestants, there is not
one of us who is not interested in a
work which tells us from whom, and
how, we have inherited our Christian
faith. Even Germans will learn in
the perusal of these volumes their
religious origin ; for it was from the
British isles that the apostles of Ger-
many went forth to their labors. The
English language is the most univer-
sally spoken to-day ; the sceptre of
Britain rules an empire greater than
that of Alexander or of any of the
Cxsars. The latest statistics tell us
that there are one hundred and se-
venty-four millions of British subjects
or vassals. The two Indies, vast
Australia, and the islands of the
Pacific Ocean belong mostly to the
Anglo-Saxon race, and feel its influ-
ence. But what are all those great
conquests compared to these once
British colonies, now called North
America? Who can foresee the
height to which may reach this vigor-
ous graft, cut from the old oak, in-
vigorated by the virgin soil of the
new world, and which already
spreads its shade over immense lati-
tudes, and which promises to be the

The Monks of the West

largest and most powerful country
ever seen ? Is it not therefore useful
and interesting to study the religious
origin of this extraordinary race ? Is
there an American in heart, or by
birth, who is not bound to know the
history of those to whom this privi-
l^ed race owes its having received
in so large a measure the three funda-
mental bases of all grandeur and
stability in nations: the spirit of
liberty, the family spirit, and the
spirit of religion ?

The history of the conversion of
England by the monks answers all
these questions. It comprises the
apostleship of the Irish, and of the
Roman and Anglo-Saxon elements
during the sixth and seventh cen-
turies. The Irish or Celtic portion
of the history centres in St. Co-
liunba, whose majestic form towers
above his age, illustrated by his vir-
tues and influenced by his genius.
The Roman element is represented
by the monk Augustine, the first
apostle of the Anglo-Saxons. Lastly,
^s race itself enters on the mission-
ary career, and sends out as its first
apostle a great man and a great
saint, the monk Wilfrid, whose moral
^auty of character rivals that of St.
Columba. Shortly after these, as it
*ere following in their shadow, walks
^e admirable and gentle Venerable
Bede, the first English historian, the
learned encyclopedist, alike the honor
and glory of his countrymen, and of
the learned of all nations.

We cannot resist the pleasure of
giving, though it be but very in-
complete and pale, a sketch of the
great monk of Clonard, the apostle
of Caledonia, St. Columba.* Sprung
from the noble race of O'Niall, which
niled Ireland during six centuries,
educated at Clonard, in one of those
unmense monasteries which recalled

• The Catholic Publication Society will soon pub-
Hi Tk* Life tf St. C^itmla, as given in the third

the memory of the monastic cities
of the Thebaid, he was the chief
founder, though hardly twenty-nine
years old, of a multitude of religious
houses. More than thirty-seven in
Ireland claim him as their founder.
He was a poet of great renown, and
a musician skilled in singing that
national poetry of Erin, which so in-
timately harmonizes with Catholic
faith. He lived in fraternal union
with the other poets of his country,
with those famous bards, whom he
was afterward to protect and save
from their enemies. Besides being a
great traveller, like the most of the
Irish saints and monks whose
memory has been preserved by his-
tory, he had another passion for
manuscripts. This passion had re-
sults which decided his destiny.
Having shut himself up at night in a
church, where he discovered the
psalter of the Abbot Finnian, Co-
lumba found means to make a clan-
destine copy of it. Finnian com-
plained of it as a theft. The case
was brought to the chief monarch
of Ireland, who decided against Co-
lumba. The copyist protested;
anathematized the king, and raised
against him in revolt the north and
west of Hibernia. Columba's party
conquered, and the recovered psalter,
called the Psalter of Battles^ became
the national relic of the clan O'Don-
nell. This psalter still exists, to the
great joy of the erudite patriots of
Ireland.

Nevertheless, as Christian blood
had flowed for a comparative trifle,
and through the fault of a monk, a
synod was convened and Columba
was excommunicated. He succeed-
ed in having the sentence cancelled ;
but he was commanded to gain to
God, by his preaching, as many
souls as he had destroyed Christians
in the battle of Cooldrewny. To
this injunction his confessor added
the hardest of penances for a sou\ so

^S^^l

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

General Literature and Science.

VOL. VII.

APRIL TO SEPTEMBER, 1868.

NEW YORK:

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,

126 Nassau Street.

1868.

Tki Monks of the West

the island of Britain^ where all had

the same fresh color, and tliat they
were pagans. Then, heaving a deep
sigh, ** what evil luck,** he exclaimed,
" that the prince of darkness should
possess beings with an aspect so ra*
diant, and that the grace of these
countenances should reflect a soul
void of inward grace 1 But what na-
tion are ihey of ?*' " They are An-
gles?" "They are well namedjtfor
these Angles have the faces of angels ;
and they must become the brethren
of the angels in heaven- From what
province, have they been brought?*'
*♦ From Deira/* (one of the two king-
doms of Northumbrian) ** Still good,"
answered he. " Z>/ iru emti — they
shall be snatched from the ire of God,
and called to tlie mercy of Christ
And how name they the king of their
country?" **Alle or ^lla." ''So
be it ; he is right well named, for they
shall soon sing the Alleluia in his
kingdom/**

We will not follow the apostolate
of the monk Augustine in his pacific
conquests, nor the touching solici-
tude of the Pope St. Gregory for his
dear favorites. Not because tliis his-
tory lacks interest — we know none
more attractive, or in which the
glory of the Roman Church shines
forth more brilliantly — but it is bet-
ter known than that of the monk Co-
lumba, which has delayed us longer,
**Wc may simply remark that^ unlike
the churches of Italy, Gaul, and Spain,
in all of which the baptism of blood
Itad either preceded or accompanied
the conver in advance is marked by some

CNeill atid ODonnell in Exile.

chief submitting to be made earl or
baron, and reducing his free kinsmen
to serfdom. Those peerages, accord-
ingly, are monuments of subjugation
and badges of dishonor. Hugh
OT^eill certainly did not value his
title, flung it from him with impa-
tience, quitted earldom and country
i to get rid of it, and protested against
^ it on his tombstone. For these rea-
^ sons, many readers of Fr. Meehan's
book will wish that the author had
given to his heroes the titles by
which they themselves desired to be
remembered.

Having thu^ented our only cen-
sure, upon a matter rather technical
' and formal, the more agreeable task
remains, of making our readers ac-
quainted with all the merits and per-
fections of this charming book. Fr.
Meehan does not undertake to nar-
rate the earlier life and long and
bloody wars against the best generals
of England, but takes up the story
where the chief was desperately main-
taining himself, and still keeping his
Red Hand aloft in the woody fastness
of Glanconkeine, on the side of
Slieve Gallen, and by the banks of
Moyola water, awaiting the return
from Spain of his brother-chief,
Hugh Roe O^Donnell, with the
promised succors from King Philip.
But in those very same days, that
famous Hugh Roe had lain down to
die in Spain, and succor came none
to the sorely pressed Prince of
Ulster. His great enemy, Elizabeth,
too, was on her death-bed, almost
ready to breathe her last curse. But
in her agonies she by no means forgot
O'Xeill. Father Meehan says :

"It is a curious and perhaps suggestive
fact, that Queen Elizabeth, while gasping on
ber cushions at Richmond, and tortured by
rtmembrances of her latest victim, Ksscx,
often directed her thoughts to that Ulster
ttttness, where her great rebel, Tyrone,
vas still defying her, and disputing her
title to supremacy on Irish soil. But of

this, however, there can be no doubt; for
in February, while she was gazing on the
haggard features of death, and vainly striv-
ing to penetrate the opaque void of the
future, she commanded Secretary Cecil to
charge Mountjoy to entrap Tyrone into a
submission on diminished title, such as Ba-
ron of Dungannon, and with lessened terri-
tory, or, if possible, to have his head before
engaging the royal word. It was to accom-
plish any of these objects that Mountjoy
marched to the frontier of the north; but
finding it impossible to procure the assas-
sination of * the sacred person of O'Neill,
who had so many eyes of jealousy about
him,* he wrote to Cecil, from Drogheda,
that nothing prevented Tyrone from mak-
ing his submission but mistrust of his per-
sonal safety, and guarantee for maintenance
commensurate to his princely rank. The
granting of these conditions, Mountjoy con-
cluded, would bring about the pacification
of Ireland, and Tyrone, being converted
into a good subject, would rid her majesty
of the apprehension of another Spanish
landing on the Irish shore. It is possible
that this proposed solution of the Irish
difficulty may have reached Richmond at
a moment when Elizabeth was more in-
tent on the talisman sent her by the old
Welsh woman, or the arcane virtues of the
card fastened to the scat of her chair, than
on matters of statecraft ; but l)e that as it
may, the lords of her privy council empow-
ered Mountjoy to treat with Tyrone, and
bring about his submission with the least
possible delay."

The author next carries us through
the imposing scene of the chiefs sub- .
mission and surrender at Mellifont
Abbey, and gives a vivid account of
that illustrious religious house, and
the lovely vale of the Mattock in
which it stands ; of his gloomy re-
signation to his hated earldom ; of
the organization of Ulster into shires
or counties, (never before heard of in
those parts ;) of the new " earl's "
journey to London, along with Rorj'
O'Donnell, the other ** earl," and Lord
Mountjoy, with a guard of horse :

" Nor was this precaution unnecessary ;
for whenever the latter was recognized, in
city or hamlet, the populace, notwithstand-
ing their respect for Mountjoy, the hero of
the hour, could not be restrained from
stoning Tyrone, and flinging bitter insults

ONeill and aDomuU in Exilt.

at him. Indeed, tbrouRhout the ifholc jour-
ney* the Welsh and English women were
unsparing of their invectives against the
Irish chief. Nor arc we to wonder at
this ; for there was not one among them
but could name some friend or kinsman
whose bones lay buried far away in some
wild pass or glen of Ulster, where the ob-
ject of their maledictions was more often
victor than vanquished*'

The new kinj:, James the First, was
very desirous to see O'Neill^ who had,
after his victory at the Yellow Ford,
sent an ambassador to James at
Holyrood, offering, if supplied with
some money and munitions, to march
upon Dublin, and proclaim him King
of Ireland ; but the Scottish king had
been too timid to close with this offer.
One may imagine with what mingled
feelings O'Neill once more revisited
that London, and Greenwich Palace,
where in his younger days he had
been a favored courtier, had talked
on affairs of state with Burleigh, and
disported himself with Sir Chris-
topher Hatton, **the dancing chan*
cellor," The author describes his
reception at court:

<* Nothing, indeed, could have been more
gracious than the reception which the king
gave those distinguished Irishmen ; and so
marked was the royal courtesy to both, that
it stirred the V>ilc of Sir John Harington,

-who speaks of it thus: 'I have lived to
e that damnable rebel, Tyrone, brought

England honored and well-liked. Oh I

what is there that does not prove the in-
constancy of worldly matters ? How I did
labor after that knave's destruction ! I ad-
ventured perils by sea and land, was near
starving, eat horse-flesh in Munster, and all
to qucU that man» who now smilcth in peace
at those wh" did hazard their lives to destroy
him» A nd now doib Tyrone dare us, old com-
manders, with his presence and protection 1* "

Returning to Ireland, "restored in
blood," 0*NeiH lived as he best could,
in bis new and strange character of
an carl, infested by spies upon all his
movements. " Notice is taken/* says
Attorney-General Davies. ** of every
person that is ab!e to do either good or

hurt. It is known not only \i\

live and what they do, but it

seen what they purpose or ini

do ; insomuch, as Tyrone bit

heard to complain that he

many eyes over him, that ht

not drink a full carouse of sa

the state was advertised thcrc<

hours thereafter/** The autl

taken great pains to ascertain

nature of those dark intrigues

O^Neill and O'Donnell, wh

suited four or five years after

timely escape of those two

from the toils of their cnemi

only measure that cotild sa

from the fate of Sir William

and of Shane O^NcilU O^Neii

himself embroiled in endlc

suits \ with Montgomery, Bij

Derry^ with Usher, Archbi:

Armagh, who each claimed

slice of his estates ; with th

0*Cahan, his own former Ur

sub-chief, who entered into i

spiracy against him, seduced

promises of Montgomery

Lord-Deputy Chichester. T

was, that the " undertaking **

of the north coveted his \

mains, and could not com

how a rebellious O'Neill coul

bly be allowed to possess broi

in fee, which they wanted f<

selves. Fr, Meehan has

light upon these wicked

lions than any previous w^rii

the means and authorities f<

it now appears plain that th

agent of these base plots w

topher St. Laurence, the

second baron of Howth, anc

the ancestors of the noble

that title, now gloriously flcn

amongst the Irish nobiHt

Meehan*s researches have

home to this noble caitiff lh<

anonymous letter dropped

Castle Yard of Dublin, and

* !ur Joliii DavM^'t Uictotkal

CNeill and ODonnell in Exile,

1 deposition, shamelessly set-
th his own long-continued es-
% and on the faith of con-
)ns wixh several persons,
g Tyrone, Lord Mountgarrett,
jobald Burke, and others, with
bring in the Spaniards, and

by surprise the Castle of

O'Neill knew nothing, at

e, of the conspiracy against

ut had a very shrewd sus-

that the Lord-Deputy Chi-

and the northern Anglican

were resolved to have his
n order to get his estate con-
. One of the McGuires, who
nself in danger from these
itions, escaped to the conti-
The author says :

while, Cuconnaught Maguire, grow-
' of his impoverished condition, and
) be rid of vexations he could no long-
ontrived, about the middle of May,
lake his escape from one of the north-
to Ostend, whence he lost no time in
ig to Brussels, where Ix)rd Henry
vas then quartered with his Irish
The latter presented him at the
the archdukes, who received him
id evinced deep sympathy for their
jligionists, and especially the north-
, with whose wrongs they were tho-
X)nversant, through Florence Con-
s Cusack and Stanihurst. Father

would appear, informed Maguire
\ James would certainly arrest Ty-
le went to London ; and Maguire,
ig this, despatched a trusty mes-
3 the earls to put them on their
id then set about providing means
ng them off the Irish shores. The
of Lord Henry with the archdukes

him a donation of 7000 crowns,*
ch he |)urchased, at Rouen, a ves-
irscore tons, mounting sixteen cast

ordnance, manned by marines in
and freighted with a cargo of salt
uen the vessel proceeded to Dun-
Icr command of one John Bath, a

of Drogheda, and lay there, wait-
ictions from Ireland."

.hdukes were greatly indebted to O'Neill,
mple employment to the queen's troops in
•ing the war in the Netherlands, and thus
the English from aiding, as they wished,
il

This Bath, on his arrival in Ire-
land, at once sought both O'Neill
and O'Donnell, and informed them, on
sure information procured by Lord
Henry O'Neill, Hugh's son, that they
would both be certainly arrested,
and at the same time placed at their
service McGuire's ship, which he
commanded. It needed great tact
and coolness on the part of O'Neill
to conceal from the Lord-Deputy his
intention of departure. But at last —

"At midnight, on that ever-memorable
14th of September, 1607, they spread all
sail, and made for the open sea, intending,
however, to land on the island of Aran, oft
the coa§t of Donegal, to provide themselves
with more water and fuel.

" Those who were now sailing away from
their ancient patrimonies were, Hugh, Earl
of Tyrone, with his countess, Catharina,
and their three sons, Hugh, John, and
Bernard. With them also went Art OgeJ
* young Arthur,' son of Cormac, Tyrone's
brother ; Fadorcha, son of Con, the earl's
nephew ; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, brother
of Tyrone, and many more of their faithful
clansmen. Those accompanying Earl Rory
were Cathbar, or Cafiar, his brother ; Nu-
ala, his sister, wife of the traitor, Nial
Garve ; Hugh, the earFs son, wanting
three weeks of being one year old ; Rosa,
daughter of Sir John O'Dohert)', sister of
Sir Cahir, and wife of Cathbar, with her
son, Hugh, aged two years and three
months ; the son of his brother, Donel
Oge ; Naghtan, son of Calvagh, or Charles
O'Donel, with many others of their trusted
friends and followers. * A distinguished
crew,* observe the four masters, *was this
for one ship ; for it is certain that the sea
never carried, and that the winds never
wafted, from the Irish shores, individuals
more illustrious or noble in genealogy, or
more renowned for deeds of valor, prow-
ess, and high achievements.' Ah ! with
what tearful eyes and torn hearts did they
gaze on the fast receding shores, from
which they were forced to fly for the sake
of all they held dearest ! * The entire num-
ber of souls on board this small vessel,' says
O'Keenan, in his narrative, * was ninety-nine,
having little sea-store, and being otherwise
miserably accommodated.' It was, indeed,
the first great exodus of the Irish nobles
and gentry, to be followed, alas ! by many
another, caused, in great measure, by asimi*

aW^n

and ODonnell in Exile,

Lir system of cruel and exceptional legisla-
tion."

There is a most interesting account
of their stormy voyage in that small
vessel ; but after much hardship and
danger, they made the port of Havre,
and went up the River Seine to the
ancient city of Rouen. The English
ambassador at the court of Henry
the Fourth of France, had the assur-
ance to demand of the French go-
vernment to arrest the refugees, but
received a short answer: ** Writing
to Lord Shrewsbury, October 12th,
1607, Salisbury alludes to O'Neiirs
voyage thus : * He was shrewdly
tossed at sea, antl met contrary winds
for Spain. The English ambassador
wishing Hcnr)- to slay them, had for
his answer, France is fray ^ (P, 123.)

From Normandy the party pro*
Receded to Flanders, where they were
received by the archdukes with the
highest distinction ever shown to
sovereign princes and their suite. At
Brussels 0*Neill met his son, the Lord
Henry, then commanding a regiment
of Irish for the archdukes, and also
anotlier young 0*Neill, destined to
do great things in his generation,
namely, Hugh's nephew, Owen Roe,
Our author thus introduces him :

" Even At the risk of interrupting O'Kee-
nan*s nirrative, wc may observe that none
of these Irish exiles could have foreseen
that a little bo)% with auburn ringlets, then
in their company, would one day win re-
nown by defending that same city of Arras
against two of the ablest marshals of France.
Nevertheless, such wa* the case ; for, thirty*
thrrr ■ ■ rw.irtl,0\vcn Roe O'Neill, son

of A ! r w 1 1 he K ar 1 o f Tyrone, w it h

his iL...... j fri,Hh, maintained the place

^ JIgainst Chatillon and Meillarie. till he had
to mad&e a most honoraUc capitulatioiL" •

And tlie same Owen Roe, still
later, in the Irish wars of King
Charles's day, fought and won the
bloody battle of Bcnburb against
the Scottish Presbyterian army, and

• ^Angoit, if.4« See ll^cQuit'i Si^ge* d'Ana*.

trampled their blue banner on
banks of that same Blackwatcr whm i
had seen the glorious victories of
Red Hand. From Brussels the
gitives had an intention of proc&<
ing to Spain, but were diverted fr
that purpose by the archdukes, ;
they finally set out for Rome,
narrative of their journey across
Alps is exceedingly interesting ;
on their arrival at Milan, they w-
welcomed with high honors by f J
Spanish governor, the Conde
Fuentes, and by the nobility of
province j but it need hardly be sat^
that, in all their movements, the
were closely watched by British spie8|
and every attention shown to th
was the subject of violent remoti
strance on tlie part of English
bassadors. Father Meehan gives 1
the letter of Lord Comwallis, th
ambassador at Madrid, to the lor
of tlie privy council, expressing hij
loyal disgust at the splendid hospil
talities of the Governor of Milan :

" * To the hrdi cfthe prhy couna'L

"'Having lately gathered, among^ til
Irish here, that the fugitive carls have bccii"
in Milan, and tkfre mu^h fmsiedh^ the Conde
de Fuenlts^ I expostulated it with the sccre-^
tary of state, who answered that they
not yet had any understanding of their be^
ing there ; that the Conde dc Fuentes wa
not a man disposed to such largess as l<|
entert;iin strangers in any costly manner a|j
his own charge; and that sure he w«is
could not expect any allowance from henc
where there was intended no reaiptt ^»
tename, or tcmfort to any of that conditioq
I sent si thence by Coitington, my sec
concerning one Mack Off^^ lately come hitl
er, a* I have been advised, to solidt for the
people \ which was, that as I hoped the
would have no participation with the prin^
dpals, whose crimes had now been made \
notorious in their own countries, being f

upon pUi»Hc iri ■' ' .^r.J,..,,,w .1 ^n/? Vr- tyf '

rpftr^ as I ht

so I likewii.L ,,

own wi^doms» they wouJd nnt hohl ic 6t ]

majesty here nhould give harbor or car \

any of their mini*tej8» ^x\A especially to 1 '

of Mack Ogg, who could not be supp

ONeill and ODonnell in Exile,

bavc had a hand in their traitorous
s; having bfen the man and the
in person^ to withdraw them by sea
their own countries, in such unduti-
l suspicious manner. That myself
a matter of that nature, solicitous
regard of my own earnest desire
thing might escape this state where-
r intentions might be held different
cir professions. That for these fugi-
!ing now out of their retreats, weak
t, and people condemned atid con-
by those of their own nation, and
; could not but daily expect the
land of God*s justice for their so
inatural and detestable crimes, both
nd heretofore committed, for my awn
irlmade no more account of them than
J fleas; neither did the king, my mas-
irise esteem them than as men repro-
th of God and the world, for their/i-
adiom toward others, and inexcusa-
ititude to himself."

author gives a minute and
narrative of the journey of
iris " through Italy, and their
e into the Eternal City, where
:re affectionately received by
*aul v., who assigned them a
for their dwelling :

time at which the Irish princes
Rome was one of more than usual
; for, on the Thursday preceding
Sunday, the pope solemnly canon-
Franccsca Romana, in the basilica
tcr in the Vatican. Rome was then
by distinguished strangers from all
the known world, each vieing with
r to secure fitting places to witness
d ceremonial. But of them all, none
honored as O'Neill, O'Donel, their
id followers ; for the pope gave or-
it tribunes, especially reserved for
tiould be erected right under the
This, indeed, was a signal mark of
ness's respect for his guests, greater
ich he could not exhibit Among
rutors were many English ; and we
lily conceive how much they were
It seeing O'Neill * and the earl thus
by the supreme head of the church."

now began the long series of

jhoat hb narrative, O'Keenan styles O'Neill
to his Gaelic title, and calls O'Donel tiu earl.
1 was not Boflidently anglicized in accent or
to respect the law which forbade the as-
of the old Irish designation peculiar to the
Tyrooe.

VOL. VII. — 2

negotiations with the King of Spain
and the other Catholic powers, which
were to enable the " earls " to make
a descent upon Ireland, reconquer
their heritage, and liberate their un-
fortunate people from the bondage
and oppression they were now en-
during at the hands of King James's
" undertaking " planters. O'Neill had
written a formal diplomatic letter to
King James, recounting the various
plots and treasons which had been
practised against him by His Majes-
ty's servants in Ireland, demanding
back his ancient inheritance, and an-
nouncing that, in default of compli-
ance, he would hold himself at liberty
to go back to Ireland, with a suffi-
cient force to free his country. This
ultimatum took no effect. The pope
and the King of Spain, though they
treated him with high respect, and
awarded him a handsome pension,,
were slow to give the material aid
that was needed; and in the year
1608, his comrade Rory (Rudraigh)*
O'Donnell, called Earl of Tyrconnell,.
died. Says Father Meehan :

" During his illness he was piously tended
by Rosa, daughter of O'Dogherty, his bro-
ther's wife, the Princess O'Neill, and Flo-
rence Conry, who had performed the same
kind offices for Hugh Roe O'Donel in Si-
mancas. On the 27th July, 1608, he re-
ceived the last sacraments, and on the
morning following surrendered his soul to
God. * Sorrowful it was,* say the Donegal
annalists, * to contemplate his early eclipse,,
for he was a generous and hospitable lord,
to whom the patrimony of his ancestors
seemed nothing for his feasting and spend-
ing.* "

Soon after died O'Neiirs son
Hugh, whom the English called
Baron of Dungannon. O'Donnell's
brother Caffar (Cathbar) died about
the same time, and the old chieftain
was now left nearly alone to carry on
his almost hopeless negotiations.
The Irish exiles in Spain, when they
heard of the death of the two O'Don-

^Neill and ODonncU in Exile,

nells and young 0*Neill, wore mourn-
ing publicly, to the utter disgust of
Lord Comwallis, the English ambas-
sador. He remonstrated with the
King of Spain ag^ainst suffering so in-
decent an exhibition, but received no
satisfaction in that quarter ; and he
wrote thereon, says Father Meehan r

** * The agent of the Irish fugitive* in this
dty has presumed to walk its strectji, fol-
)<yw6d by two pages, and four others of his
countrymen, in black iwecds — a sign that
they are no unwelcome guests here*' This
was bad enough \ but the news he supplied
in another letter was still worse, for he says :
*The Spanish court had l>ecome the staple
of the fugitive ware, since tt allows Tyrone
a pension of six hundred crowns a month ;
Tyrconnel's brother's widowi one of two
hundred crowns a month ; and his bro-
ther's wife, one of the same sum/"

If the British government could
only have got hold of those mourners
in their ^* black weeds," within its
own jurisdiction, they would undoubt-
edly have been prosecuted and pun-
ished, like the men who lately at-
tended a funeral in Dublin. Nothing
can be more provoking to a govern*
ment, sometimes, than public mourn*
ing for its victims. Indeed^ the Rus-
sian autJiorities in Warsaw have been
several times so exasperated by the
sight of the citizens all clothed in
black, mourning for a crowd of inno-
cent people, cut down and ridden
over by the cavalry in the streets, as
to feel compelled to issue instruc-
tions to the police to drag every ves-
tige of black apparel from every man,
and every woman, and child in the
public thoroughfares, and to close
up cver}^ shop or store which should
dare to keep any black fabric for sale.
But in cases where this kind of pro*
vocation is perpetrated in some fo-
reign country, and under the protec-
tion of its laws, then your insulted
government mustonly bear the affront
as it best can.

The author next proceeds, with

the aid of letters in the State 1
Office, to narrate the various pn
and speculations of O'Neill an
friends, with a view to the inv
of their native country; with all y
projects and speculations the
tish government was made full
quainted by means of its spies
diplomatic agents. England
Spain were just then at peace
one main hope of the exiles Wi-a;
a breach might take place b^
them. Our author says : ^|

••Withal, it would appear that jB
had not then a very firm reliance q
good faith of Spain. Indeed, Turr
despatches show this to have bee
case ; and as for O'Neill, there is
reason to suppose that he calculat
some such lucky rupture, and that
would then have an opportunity of u
ing the disaster of Kinsale, by %txki
flotilla to the coast of Ulster, wh«
native population would rally to the
ard of their attainted chieftain, and
the new settlers back to England or
land — anywhere from off the face of I
cicnt patrimony. Yielding to these \
hcnsions, James instructed his mtnis
the court of the archdukes to redoula
vigilance, and make frequent reports i
movements of the Irish troops in their \
ncsscs' pay, and^ above all, to certify t
the names of the Irish officers on who
court of Spain bestowed special marlu
consideration^ In fact, from the mid
1614 till the close of the following
Turn bull's correspondence is wholt
voted 10 these points, so much fto^
the English cabinet bad not only ii
gencc of T)Tone*s designs, but amp
formation concerning all those who
suspected of countenancing them. Nc
could surpass the minister's susocpti
on this subject ; for if we were to b
himself, no Catholic functionary visit*
court of Brussels without impressir
their Hightiesses the expediency, 24
as duty, of aiding the banished car
liis CO religionists in Ireland."

At last, in January, 1615, O'i
resolved to undertake the enter]
himself, some Catholic noblemc
Italy and Belgium engaging to
nish him with funds. He wa
quit Rome by a certain day ; biiL

day; miL

GNeill and ODonnell in Exile.

all his other projects, this was spee-
dily communicated to Trumbull, who
bst no time in making it known to
the English cabinet. He did not
kaveRome as he intended; but two
fflonths later :

"The Belgian agent sent another dispatch
tothe king» informing him ' that O'Neill hath
tent from Rome two of his instruments into
Iidand, called Crone and Conor, with order
to idr np fibctions and seditions in that king-
(km, where, in Waterford alone, there are no
less than thirty-six Jesuits.' "

Next we find the same vigilant
English minister apprising his go-
vernment that O'Neill was about "to
bave some of his countrymen em-
pk)yed at sea in ships of war, <is pi-
nUs^ with conmiission to take all
vessels," etc. In truth, it was for
Eogkuid a genuine " Fenian" alarm,
tiiis constantly menacing attitude of
the veteran warrior of the Blackwa-
ter ; a '' Fenian" alarm, alas I of two
hundred and fifty years ago. And
how many there have been since!
There was also the same eager impa-
tience for action, the same madden-
ing thought that the work must be
done at once or Ireland was lost for
c^'er. A certain physician, who at-
tended 0*Neill in this year, 1615,
writes to a friend in London, giving
him, as a sample of his patient's con-
versation and manner, the following
anecdote :

"Though a man would think that he is
a old man by sight — no, he is lusty and
Mroog, and well able to travel; for a month
ago, at evening, when his frere* and his
potlemen were all with him, they were
talking of England and Ireland, and he
drew out his sword. * His majesty,' said
W, * thinks that I am not strong. I would
be that hates me most in England were
with me to see whether I am strong or no/
Those that were by said, * We would we
»«re with forty thousand pounds of money
in Ireland, to see what we should do.*
Whereon Tyrone remarked, * If I be not
a Ireland within these two years, / will
itecerdtsire more to look for tV "

• F. Chamberlaiae, O.S.F.

So thought Sarsfield when he fled
with the "Wild-geese" almost a cen-
tury later— if they could not return
with a reenforcement of French with-
in one year, within two years, there
was an end of Ireland. So thought
Wolfe Tone, after still another cen-
tury,^ as he was gnawing his own
heart in Paris at the fatal delay, and
crying, " Hell I hell I If fAaf expe-
dition did not sail at that moment,
Ireland was subdued and lost for
ever and ever." It is natural that
the eager spirits of each generation
of Irishmen should be in haste to see
the great work done in their own
day. But divine Providence is in no
haste, and will not be hurried. Be-
yond all doubt, there is a destiny
and a work in store for this Irish race,
so wonderfully preserved through
sore trials, and in spite of repeated
persistent efforts to extirpate it utter-
ly. It has a strong hold upon life,
and a potent individual character.
It will neither perish from the face
of the earth nor forget a single tradi-
tion or aspiration, nor part with its
ancient religious faith. It not only
does not affom to the dominant Eng-
lish sentiment and character, but
seems, on the contrary, to become
more antagonistic, and to cherish that
antagonism.

And it is very notable that this
desperate mutual repulsion between
England and Ireland does not date
from the "Reformation," nor does
it altogether depend upon religi-
ous differences. It is true that the
acceptance of the new religion by
England and its rejection by the
Irish furnished the former with a
new pretext and a convenient ma-
chiner}' for oppression and plunder.
But two centuries before this, Hugh
O'Neiirs time — and when the Eng-
lish were as Catholic as the Irish —
we find his ancestor, Donal O'Neill,
in his famous letter to Pope John

ONHll and ODonnell in Exile,

XXI L, describing the relations of the
two races in hmguagt; which is still
appropriate at lliis day: **A11 hope of
pc.icc between us is completely des-
troyed J forsuch is their pride, such is
their cjtccssive lust of dominion, such
our ardent desire to shake off this in-
supportable yoke, and recover the in-
heritance which they have so unjustly
u Slurped, that as there never was, so
there never will be, any sincere coa-
lition between them and us ; nor is
it possible there should in this life ;
for wc entertain a certain natural en-
Tuity against each other, flowing from
mutual malign ity» descending by in-
heritance from father to son, atid
spreading from generation to genera-
tion."

The aged Prince of Ulster never
saw his native land again. In the
following year, 1616, he became
blind andj some weeks after, ha\ing
received tlic last rites of the church,
he died at the Salviati palace at
Rome.

His history from first to last is
a striking and remarkable one. In
the "religious*^ wars of the period,
he was a conspicuous figure ; and
Henry the Fourth of France called
him the third soldier of his age — he,
Henry, being the first. But Eng*
lish historians of the past and pre-
sent century have made it a rule
to say nothing of him and of his
great battles. They seem to desire
that the name of the Yellow Ford
should be blotted out of history.
But once upon a time 0*Neill oc*
cupied some attention in England,
Spenser and Bacon wrote anxious
treatises to suggest the best method
of crushing him, Shakespeare de-
lighted his audience at the ** Globe"
theatre by triumphant anticipations
of the return of Lord Essex after
destroying the abhorred O'NeUl —

" Wore nam the getitnl «f our grackmA rmpnM
(As, in sood tUncv 1^« B»y) ^m Irtlvod c

Camden^ in his Quern EOm
given to the Irish war at
due rank in the evients of ^
and Fynes Mor)^son tells^

"the general voyce was of
amongst the English after tf
of Blackwater, as of Hannibi
the Romans after the defeat
nae." Mr. Hume, though J
us nothing of O'Neiirs splai
tories over the English, yet*
tally mentions that **in the jf
the queen spent six hundu
sand pounds in six montK
service of Ireland; and Si|
Cecil affirmed that in ten 3II
land cost her three million I
dred thousand pounds," wha
be about sixty millions of pod
ling in money of the pres
So well, however, has the m*
all this been suppressed, that
educated Englishman at thli
you mentioned to him thegre
of the Yellow Ford would not
derstand to what event you'
luding ; so that one is not at*
nished to find that Mr. Motll
voluminous book expressly de
the religious wars of Europe
days» and especially the reigi
2abeth, not only ignores thi
action altogether, but does
much as know CNeiU'*
When he does once undei
name him, he calls him no
O'Neill, but " Shanes Ml
{History of United Nctherlm
iv. p. 94.;

The Irish»howe\Tr, still chi
name and keep his memorj
The peasantry yet tell that]
legend of a troop of the greaf
lancers all lying in tranced \
a cave under the royal hilt
leagh, each holding his horse*
in his hand, and waiting for'

The Cross,

he removed that will set them free
strike a blow for their country ;
id when a man once penetrated
to the cave, and saw the sleepers
their ancient mail, one of them
led his head and asked, Is the tinu
nef To the educated and reflec-
e Irish, also, that cardinal epoch
Irish history, in which O'Neill was

the chief figure, has of late become
a subject of more zealous study than
it ever was before ; and these will
heartily thank the accomplished au-
thor of the present work for the clear
light he has thrown upon one strange
and painful episode in his country's
annals.

THE CROSS.

N all ages, and among all nations,
•ortant events have been comme-
rated and transmitted to future
erations by significant symbols,
ise mute symbols have served to
esent the great leading ideas and
racteristics of nations, communi-
, societies, and schools of religion,
osophy, morals, and politics. En-
histories have been treasured up
ages in these simple and inani-
e emblems. In thousands of in-
ces they have served to call to
i the stirring events of a genera-
, the glories of a great nation,
:hs in human progress, or the rise
fall of false religions, false phi-
phies, and false systems of all
riptions. Each symbol com-
5s a language and a history of its

which can be comprehended at
ance by the most ignorant of
2 whom it addresses. As the
» which they represent pertain,
he most part, to affairs of the
2st magnitude, they have always
regarded with respect and vene-
n.
hen the legions of the Caesars

achieving the conquest of a
i, their emblem of nationality
glory, and their inspiration in

battle, was the Roman flag embla*
zoned with the Roman eagles. In
the midst of the fiercest contests, a
simple glance at the national sjmibol
would fire the heart of the soldier
with patrotic ardor, and often turn
the tide of battle in his favor. As
he looked upon his flag, the Roman
soldier beheld the greatness and glo-
ry of his country, with himself as a
constituent element of all this great-
ness, and his heart and hand were
nerved with Herculean strength to
meet the foe. In the eagles which
floated amid the din of battle, he
read the history of the empire, with
her conquests, her riches, her pow^
her grandeur, and her Caesar ; anl
he cheerfully gave his life for the
ideas thus evoked.

The Saracen, as he marched out
to battle, beheld the crescent of his
prophet, and was willing to die for
his cause. As the crescent waves
before him, his imagination pictures
the prophet beckoning him on to bat-
tle, to conquest, to proselytism, and
to the sensual joys of paradise, and
his courage rises, his blood boils, and
his cimeter leaps from its scabbard.
No danger, no fatigue, no privation
daunts or deters him so long as he

The Crass,

beholds the emblem of his religion
and his race» He loves and vene-
rates the silent symbol for the asso-
ciations it calls to mind.

Napoleon I,, with his battalions,
traversed the continent of Europe,
dictating terms to kings and empe-
rors ; and finally marshalled his vic-
torious forces around the pyramids of
Egypt. Duringthis triumphal march,
his most potent auxiliaries were the
eagles of France draped in their tri-
colored plumage. At the bridge of
Lodi, when the French hosts shrank
back appalled from the carnage caus-
ed by the terrific fire of the Aus*
trian, Napoleon raised aloft the em-
blem of France before the eyes of
-his panic-stricken veterans. In an
'instant every heart was nen^ed, and
amidst storms of balls and the shrieks
of the wounded and dying, the bridge
was carried and the day was won.
The eagles of the first Caesars seem-
ed to have alighted upon the tri-
^colored flags of the modern Cs^san
Yhether in the midst of the deadly
snows of Russia, or of the burning
sands of Egypt, or of the towering
summits of the Alps, the great talis-
man which led the way and gave in-
spiration to the soldier, was the na-
tional symbol. It spoke to them of
J^me, of kindred, friends, and of the
gror)-^ of France ; and they were will-
ing to risk all for the ideas thus in-
spired.

How often has the tide of balde
been turned in favor of England,
both on land and sea, by raising the
S}*mbol of England, and the war-crj^
of St. George and the Dragon, in the
thickest of the fight I How often, in
the midst of battle and slaughter, has
the drooping spirit of the Celt been
roused to fierce enthusiasm and dc*
termination by a sight of his loved
national emblem, the shamrock I
What true American can regard

his own national sj-mbol withou
tion, love, and veneration 1
ther he beholds it unfurled upi
battle-field, upon the ocean, o
foreign land, he reads in cvcj
and every stripe a history of I
live land — of her struggles, h'
ries, and her future destiny,
its shadow the soldier is a
man, the statesman a better p
the citizen a truer loyalist, ai
American traveller in foreign
more proud of his nationality.
We might cite instances ad
turn,* but we have adduced a
cient number for illustration,
is the signification and the uti
these S}Tnbols ? At U>c birth
tions, it has always been the c
to devise some common s
around which the people coulc
as a type of nationality. On a
portant occasions, both in peac
in war, this common emblem is a
in the midst of the people, to n
them of the past, to inspire th
the present, and to render them
ful in the future. It is asso-
with all their public events,
victories, their defeats, their
their sorrows, their glories, thei
gress, their power and greatness
it, then, strange that it should '
garded with love, respect, and v<
tion ? Is it strange that a sight o\
mute talisman in the midst of
should stir the soul of the sold
its verj* depths, or that the he
the patriot should swell with en
and stern resolve when the hoi
welfare of his country is in ds
or that the citizen should hi
higher appreciation of the d
and destiny of man, or that the
vidual should always associate ii
his love of countr)% his pride c
past, his aspirations of the pr<
his hopes of the future, in a
with his nationality ? The mai

Tlie Cross,

lias no love of father-land in his soul,
iho does not love and respect the
emblem of his country's glory, is fit
only for stratagems, conspiracies, and
Woody tumults and disorders. Such
a man can only be regarded as an
enemy of his race ; and will be frown-
ed npon by the wise, the good, and
the humane.

The emblems we have thus far
aDuded to refer to the worldly
a&irs of men, to matters of state,
of government, and national prospe-
rity. We now propose to refer brief-
ly to the highest of all symbols — ^the
symbol of symbols — ^the emblem of
emblems — to one which relates to
the temporal and eternal welfare of
the entire human race, the holy cross..
What is its signification and utility ?
What associations does it call to
mind? It tells us of the Incarnate
God sent to earth to give mankind
a new law, to set them an example
of a perfect life, to teach them those
higher virtues and graces which fit
them for happiness here and here-
after, and then to suffer and to die
an ignominious death to atone for the
sins of man. It calls up all the
dread circumstances connected with
the last days of our blessed Saviour
when on earth. It brings to mind
his betrayal by Judas, his arraign-
ment before Pontius Pilate, his con-
demnation, his march to the place
of execution with the cross upon his
blessed shoulders, amidst the insults,
the scoffs, the scourgings, the crown-
ing with tboms, and other indignities
of a Jewish and pagan rabble. It
presents before us his ascent to the
scaffold, his bloody transfixion be-
tween two thieves, his dreadful agony,
his bloody sweat, his wounds, his
slow and agonizing death. For
whom, and for what, has the omnipo-
tent Redeemer suffered these ignomi-
nies, these agonies, this cruel death ?

For all mankind, as an atonement of
their sins. With his almighty power
he could have summoned around
him legions of destroying angels, who
could have crushed to powder his
persecutors ; • or with his mighty
breath he could have consigned them
to instant annihilation. But his love .
and tenderness for man was infinite ;
and he mercifully refrained from em-
ploying the power which he possess-
ed to their injury. How vast this
condescension, this love, this devo-
tion to mortals under such provoca-
tions !

Since the date of the crucifixion,
the cross, with the image of our
blessed Lord attached thereto, has
been universally recognized as the
chief symbol of Christianity. In the
days of the apostles and their imme-
diate successors it was their ever-
present memento, friend, solace,
badge, and emblem of faith. Recent
discoveries in the catacombs of Rome
have brought to light the rude altars
of the first Christians, always stamp-
ed with and designated by the sign
of the cross. When these early
Christians * were hunted down like
wild beasts, and driven by the sangui-
nary pagans into the most secret re-
cesses of the earth to escape martyr-
dom, the holy cross ever accompa-
nied them, ever symbolized their
faith, ever served as a beacon of
light, and a rallying-point for the per-
secuted followers of Jesus of Naza-
reth.

Whenever the missionaries of the
church have abandoned country and
friends, taken their lives in their
hands, and penetrated into the re-
motest wilds of the savage, in order
to " preach the Gospel to every crea-
ture," the holy cross, with its divine
associations, has always led the way,
beckoning them on in their great life-
work of love, mercy, and Christian i-

The Cross,

ty. Often have these devoted men
met the raart}T's fate ; but they have
died in holy triumph, with smiles and
,. prayers on their lips, with their eyes
iixed on the sacred cross, and their
souls on heaven. If a nation *s flag
has been able to stir the soul of the
soldier to deeds of nobJe daring amid
the excitement of battle, the cross of
Christ has been able, not less often,
to fire the soul of the lone missiona-
ry with holy love and zeal in the
midst of the savage wilderness. If,
with flag in hand, the soldier has
rushed to the cannon *s mouth, and
hiid down his life to win a battle, no
less frequently has the missionary^
holding aloft the sacred cross, rushed
to the desert places of the earth,
where barbarism, pestilence, famine,
cruelties, sufferings, and danger of
martyrdom encompass him on every
.^de. The soldier fights his battles
'imder the eyes ^of his countr\men,
cheered on by applauding comrades,
by martial music, and by hopes of
speedy preferment ; but the Chris-
tian missionary fights alone, sur-
rounded by wild foes, far from home
and friends, with no hope of temjjo-
ral reward, and where, if he is killed
or dies a natural death, he may be
devoured by wild beasts, or remain
iincoffined, unburied, and unrecog-
nized.

Statesmen, philosophers, warriors,
and citizens of all ranks love and
respect their national symbols be-
cause they call to mind the events
and circumstances connected with
their nationalities. These senti-
ments are commended by the whole
world. The true Christian also loves
and respects the symbol which calls
lip before him the fricls and incidents
connected with the passion and cru-
cifixion of the Saviour. Let no one
delude himself with the absurd idea
that it is the makrial of the flag, or

of tlie cross, which calls forth f
powerful emotions, and these
resolutions. Let no one sup
that idolatry Q^x\ spring from the
templation and reverence of ob
which place before the mind's e]
the form of svnibols the impo]
events of a nation, or the su^ei
and death of a God. Let no
question the motives or the
priety of his fellow man wba I
down in tears, in love, in gratij
and devotion before the w
nized emblems and mementos
great nations, and of godlike achj
ments. ^^H

The cross of Christj H9^
and solemn the associations coni
ed with it t How significant its i
appeals to the hearts of mort
How eloquent its reference to f{
deemer*s love for sinful man 1 ]
glorious its history', and how pre
of heavenly aspirations I

The cross of Christ I How b
tiful, how sublime, how soul-inspi
the ideas which encompass thee
with a halo of light and glory \
ages past and gone, in alt the h
of earth, as it has silently ministi
to the souls and thoughts of r
and carried them back to CaJv
what an infinity of blessings it
conferred I As we gaze at the Lt
of God, nailed to the cross, how
and tender the memories which |
before the mind I Every woun<
tlie precious body, every expres.
of the godlike features, calls up s»
act of divine love and mercy 1
lently, sadly, solemnly, the holy c
has borne its sacred burden to
nations, through long ages of cul
and light, of darkness and ignora
of civilization and barbarism — a
neer and potent agent in all g
works — a talisman and solace for
poor and oppressed, as well as for
rich and powerful, a beacon of 1

The Cross,

venly light, and a rallying-point for
all Christendom 1

In the dark ages, when Christia-
nity and barbarism struggled for the
masteiy of Europe, the latter achiev-
ed a physical triumph j but spiritual-
ly die cross of Christ prevailed, and
the barbarian conquerors became
Christian converts. When nations,
communities, or individuals have
been bowed down with calamities
and sorrows, rays of hope and com-
fort have always shone from the holy
cross. However- poor, unfortunate,
wicked, degraded, and despised an
indhridual may be, the cross of Christ
still beams upon him with compas-
sion and mercy.

Languages may be oral or printed,
or pictorial or symbolical. By the
two first, ideas are conveyed seriatim
and slowly ; by the last en masses and
instantaneously. Through the first
die mind gradually grasps historical
events; through the last they are
presented like a living tableaux, com-

plete in all their details. In the lat-
ter category stands the holy cross.
It speaks a language to the Christian
which appeals instantly to every fa-
culty of his mind and soul. It
strikes those chords of memory which
take him back to Calvary, to the jeer-
ing rabble of Pilate, to the mocking
minions of Caiphas, to the spectacle
of a scourged, tortured, and crucified
Redeemer.

Who can look upon this blessed
emblem unmoved ? Who can regard
this mute memento of the Son of
Qod in behalf of fallen man without
sentiments of love, respect, and vene-
ration ? May God in his mercy grant
that every one may properly appre-
ciate this great emblem of Christiani-
nity — the symbol of symbols. The •
likeness of a crucified Redeemer
sanctifies and hallows it. Not only
at the name, but at the semblance
of Jesus, let every knee bend in ado-
ration.

The Story af a Conscript

TRAKSLATKO t%Om TMS ntKHCII.

THE STORY OF A CONSCRIPT.

XIX.

In the midst of such thoughts,
diiy broke. Nothing was stirring yet,
and Z<5bed^ said :

** What a chance for us, if the
enemy should fear to attack us !"

The officers spoke of an armistice ;
but suddenly about nine o*clock,
our couriers came galloping in, crying
that the enemy was moving his whole
line down upon us, and directly after
we heard cannon on our right, along
the Elsten We were already under
arras, and set out across the fields
toward the Partha to return to Schoen-
feld. The battle had begun.

On the hills overlooking the river,
two or three divisions, with batteries
in the intervals, and cannon at the
flanks, awaited the enemy*s approach ;
beyond, over the points of their bayo-
nets, we could see the Prussians, the
Swedes, and the Russians, advanc-
ing on all sides in deep, never-end-
ing masses. Shortly after, we took
our place in line, between two hills,
and then we saw (v\^ or six thou-
sand Prussians crossing the river»
and all together shouting, " Vatiriand!
VatcrlandV^ This caused a tremen-
dous tumult, like that of clouds of
rooks flying north.

At the same instant the musketry
opened from both sides of the river.
The vaJlcy through which the Partha
flows was filled with smoke ; the
Prussians were already upon us — we
could see their furious eyes and wild
looks \ they seemed like savage
beasts mshing down on us. Then

but one shout of " Vive PEmper
smote the sky and we dashe<
ward. The shock was ten
thousands of bayonets crossed
drove them back, were can
driven back ; muskets were clul
the opposing ranks were confoi
and mingled in one mass ; the
were trampled upon, while the
der of artillery, the whistling o
lets, and tlie thick white smok
closing all, made the valley
the pit of hell, peopled by cob
ing demons.

Despair urged us, and the wi
revenge our deaths before yic
up our lives. The pride of boa
that they once defeated Nap
incited the Prussians ; for the
the proudest of men, and their '
ries at Gross-Beeren and Kat;
had made them fools. But the
swept away them and their p
Three times they crossed and n
at us. We were indeed forced
by the shock of their numbers
how ihcy shouted then \ They !
ed to wish to devour us. Thei:
cers, waving their swords in th
cried, *' Vonodrh / Vonvariz P
all advanced like a w^all with thej
est courage — ^that we cannot i
Our cannon opened huge gaps in
lines, still they pressed on ; b
the top of the hill we charged a
and drove them to the river,
would have massacred them
man, were it not for one of
batteries before Mockern, which
laded us and forced us to giv
the piu'suit.

The Story of a Conscript,

This lasted until two o'clock ; half
our officers were killed or wounded ;
the Colonel, Lorain, was* among the
firsthand the Commandant, Gdmeau,
the latter; all along the river side
were heaps of dead, or wounded men
crawling away from the struggle.
Some, furious, would rise to their
knees to fire a last shot or deliver a
final bayonet-thrust The river was
ahnost choked with dead, but no one
thought of the bodies as they swept
by in the current The lines con-
tending in the fight reached from
Sdiocnfeld to Grossdorf.

At length the Swedes and Prus-
sians ceased their attacks, and start-
ed farther up the river to turn our po-
rtion, and masses of Russians came
to occupy the places they ha4 left.

The Russians formed in two col-
ums, and descended to the valley,
with shouldered arms, in admirable
order. Twice they assailed us with
the greatest bravery, but without ut-
tering wild beasts' cries, like the
Prussians. Their calvary attempted
to carry the old bridge above Schoen-
feld, and the cannonade increased.
On all sides, as far as sight could
reach, we saw only the enemy mass-
ing their forces, and when we had
repulsed one of their columns, an-
other of fresh men took its place.
The fight had ever to be fought over
again.

Between two and three o'clock,
we learned that the Swedes and the
Prussian cavalry had crossed the
river above Grossdorf, and were
about to take us in the rear, a mode
which pleased them much better
than fighting face to face. Marshal
Ney immediately changed front,
throwing his right wing to the rear.
Our division still remained supported
on Schoenfeld, but all the others re-
tired from the Partha, to stretch
along the plain, and the entire army
toied but one line around Leipsic.

The Russians, behind the road to
Mockern, prepared for a third attack
toward three o'clock ; our officer*
were making new dispositions to re-
ceive them ; when a sort of shudder
ran from one end of our lines to the
other, and in a few moments all knew
that the sixteen thousand Saxons
and the Wurtemberg calvary, in our
very centre, had passed over to the
enemy, and that on their way they
had the infamy to turn the forty guns
they carried with them, on their old
brothers-in-arms of Durutte's division.

This treason, instead of discourag-
ing us, so added to our fury, that if
we had been allowed, we would have
crossed the river to massacre them.
They say that they were defending
their country. It is false ! They
had only to have left us on the Du-
ben road ; why did they not go then I
They might have done like the Bava-
rians and quitted us before the bat-
tle ; they might have remained neu-
tral — might have refused to serve ;
but they deserted us only because
fortune was against us. If they knew
we were going to win, they would
have continued our very good friends,
so that they might have their share
of the spoil or glory — as after Jena
and Friedland. This is what every
one thought, and it is why those
Saxons are, and will ever remain,
traitors ; not only did they abandon
their friends in distress, but they
murdered them, to make a welcome
with the enemy. • God is just, and so
great was their new allies' scorn of
them, that they divided half Saxony
between themselves after the battle.
The French might well laugh at
Prussian, Austrian, and Russian gra-
titude.

From the time of this desertion
until evening, it was a war of ven-
geance that we carried on ; the allies
might crush us by numbers, but they
should pay deariy for their victory \

The Sioty of a ComcfipL

At nightfall, while two thousand
pieces of artillery were thundering
^together, we were attacked for the
seventh time in Schoenfeld, The
Russians on one side and the Prus-
sians on the other poured in upon
us. We defended every house. In
every lane the walls crumbled be-
neath the bullets, and roofs fell in on
every side. There were now no
shoiits as at the beginning of the bat-
tle; all were cool and pale with rage.
The officers had collected scattered
muskets and cartridge-boxes, and
now loaded and fired like the men.
We defended the gardens, too, and
the cemeter>', where we had bivouack-
ed, until there were more dead above
than beneath the soil. Ever)" inch
of earth cost a life.

It \vas night when Marshal Ney
brought up a reenforcement— whence
I knew not. It was what remained
of Ricard's division and Son ham's
second. The dtbris of our regi-
ments united, and hurled the Rus-
sians to the other side of the old
bridge, which no longer had a rail,
I hat having been swept away by the
shot. Six twelve-pounders were posted
on the bridge, and maintained k fire for
one hour longer. The remainder of the
battalion, and of some others in our
rear, supported the guns \ and I re-
member how their flashes lit up the
forms of men and horses, heaped be-
neath the dark arches. The sight
lasted only a moment, but it was a
horrible moment indeed.

At half past seven, masses of cav-
alry advanced on our left, and we
taw them whirling about two large
squares, which slowly retired. Then
we received orders to retreat. Not
more than two or three thousand
men remained at Schoenfeld with the
six pieces of artillery. We reached
Kohlgarten without being pursued,
and were to bivouac around Rcnd-
nitz. 2^b<fdd was yet living, and

unwounded ; and, as we ma
on, listening to the cannonade, wl
continued, despite the darkness, al
the Elster, he said suddenly :

** How is it that we are here,
seph, when so many others that si
by our side are dead ? It seem
if we bore charmed lives, and C(
not die." ^

I made no reply. B

** Tliink you there was ever Bt
such a battle V he asked. " N
cannot be. It is impossible.'*

It was indeed a battle of gii
From six in the morning until s<
in the evening we had held our
against three hundred and sixty t
sand men, without, at night, ha
lost an inch ; and, nevertheless
were but a hundred and thirty t
sand. God keep me from spea
ill of the Germans. They were I
ing for the independence of
country. But they might do b
than celebrate the anniversary o
battle of Leipsic ever)^ year. 1
is not much to boast of in figl
an enemy three to one.

Approaching Rendnitz, we mar
over heaps of dead. At every stc
encountered dismounted cannon,
ken caissons, and trees cut dow
shot. There a division of the Y
Guard and the grenaJurs-Jt-ch
led by Napoleon himself, hac
pulsed the Swedes who were
vancing into the breach mad<
the treachery of the Saxons,
or three burning houses lit tif
scene. The gr^adiers-ii'dia'al
yet at Rendnitz, but crowds ol
banded troops were passing up
down the street. No rations
been distributed, and al! were \
ing something to eat and drink.

As we defiled by a large hous
saw behind the wall of a court
€ and nitres ^ who were gi^'ing the
dicrs drink from their w^agons. 1
were there chasseurs, cuirassiers

Tlie Story of a Comcript.

cers hassarSy infantry of the line and
of the guard, all mingled together,
with torn uniforms, broken shakos,
aod plumeless helmets, and all seem-
Tsi^ finished.

Two or three dragoons stood on
tbe wall, near a pot of burning pitch,
their arms crossed on their long white
doaks, covered from head to foot with
blood.

Z^^^, without speaking, pushed
Be with his elbow, and we entered
the court, while the others pursued
their way. It took us full a quarter
of an hour to reach one of the wag-
ons. I held up a crown of six livres,
and the cantinihre^ kneeling behind
her cask, handed me a great glass of
brandy and a piece of white bread,
at tbe same time taking my money.
I drank, and passed the glass to Z4-
bti^ who emptied it We had as
imich difficulty in getting out of the
crowd as in entering. Hard, fam-
ished faces and cavernous eyes were
on all sides of us. No one moved
willingly. Each thought only of him-
self, and cared not for his neighbor.
They had escaped a thousand deaths
tOKiay only to dare a thousand more
to-morrow. Well might they mut-
ter, "Every one for himself, and
God for all."

As we went through the village
street, Z^bt^de said, "You have
bread .>*'
"Yes."

I broke it in two, anH gave him
half We began to eat, at the same
I time hastening on, and had taken
our places in the ranks before any
one noticed our absence. The firing
yet continued at a distance. At mid-
night we arrived at the long prome-
nades which border the Pleisse, and
baited under the old leafless lindens,
^ stacked arms. A long line of
fe» flickered in the fog as far as
I^a&dstadt; and, when the flames
^Ksnt high, they threw a glare on

groups of Polish lancers, lines of
horses, cannon, and wagons, while,
at intervals beyond, sentinels stood
like statues in the mist. A heavy,
hollow sound arose from the city,
and mingled with the rolling of our
trains over the bridge at Lindenau.
It was the beginning of the retreat

XX.

What occurred until daybreak I
know not. Baggage, wounded, and
prisoners doubtless continued to
crowd across the bridge. But then
a terrific shock woke us all. We
started up, thinking the enemy were
on us, when two officers of hussars
came galloping in with the news that
a powder-wagon had exploded by ac-
cident in the grand avenue of Rand-
stadt, at the river-side. The dark,
red smoke rolled to the sky, and
slowly disappeared, while the old
houses continued to shake as if an
earthquake were rolling by.

Quiet was soon restored. Some
*lay down again to sleep ; but it was
growing lighter every minute ; and,
glancing toward the river, I saw our
troops extending until lost in dis-
tance along the five bridges of the
Elster and Pleisse, which follow one
after the other, and make, so to speak,
but one. Thousands of men must
defile over this bridge, and, of neces-
sity, take time in doing so. And the
idea struck every one that it would
have been much better to have thrown
several bridges across the two rivers ;
for at any instant the enemy might
attack us, and then retreat would be-
come difficult indeed. But the em-
peror had forgotten to give the order,
and no one dared do anything with-
out orders. Not a marshal of France
would have dared to take it upon
himself to say that two bridges were
better than one. To such a point
had the terrible discipline of Napo-
leon reduced those old captains \

The Story af a Canscript

They obeyed like machines, and
disturbed themselves about noth-
ing. Such was their fear of dis-
I pleasing tJieir master. As I gazed
at the thousands of artillerj^men
and baggage-guards swarming over
the bridge, and saw the tall bear-
skin shakos of the Old Guard, iiii-
movable on the hill of Lindenau» on
the other side of the river — as I
thought they were fairly on the way
ta France, how I longed to be in
their place I

But I felt bitterly, indeed, when,
about seven o'clock, three wagons
came to distribute provisions and
ammunition among us, and it be-
came evident that we were to be the
rear-guard. In spite of my hunger,
I felt like throwing ray bread into
the river. A few moments after,
two squadrons of Polish lancers ap-
|>eared coming up tlve bank, and be-
hind them five or six generals, Po-
ll iatowskl among the number. He
was a man of about fifty, tall, slight,
and with a melancholy expression.
He passed without looking at us.
General Fournier, who now com-
manded our brigade, spurred from
among his stafi^ and cried :

** By file left !■ '

I never so felt my heart sink, I
would have sold my life for two far-
things ; but nevertheless, we had to
move on, and turn our backs to the
bridge.

Wc soon arrived at a place called
Hinterthor — an old gate on the road
to Caunewitz. To the right and left
stretched ancient ramparts, and be-
hind rows of houses. We were posted
in covered roads, near this gate.
whicli the sappers had strongly bar-
, licaded. A few worm-eaten pali-
'sades ser\Td us for intrenchments,
and, on all the roads before us, the
enemy were advancing. This time
they wore white coats and flat caps,
with a raised piece in front, on which

the

»wn^

&S5,I

tenH

we could see the two-headed eagle ol
the kreutzers. Old Pinto^ who re-
cognized them at once, cried ;

*' Those fellows are the Kaiserliks I
We have beaten them fifty times
since 1793 ; but if the father of Ma-
rie Louise had a heart, they would he
with us now instead of against us/'

For some moments a cannonade
had been going on at the otJier side
of the city, where Bliicher was at-
tacking the faubourg of Halle, Soon
after, the firing stretched along to
the right ; it was Bemadotte attack*
ing the faubourg of Kohlgartenthor,
and at the same time the first shells
of the Austrians fell among us. They
fomied their columns of attack on the
Caunewitz road, and poured down
on us from all sides. Nevertheless,
we held our own until about
o'clock, and then were forced back
to the old ramparts, through
breaches of which the Kaiserliks pur-
sued us under the cross-fire of the
fourteenth and twenty-ninth of the
line. The poor Austrians were not
inspired with the fury of the Frus*
sians, but nevertheless, showed a
true courage ; for, in half an hour,
they had won the ramparts, and al-
though, from all the neighboring win-
dows, we kept up a deadly fire,
could not force them back. Sue
months before, it would have horrified
me to think of men being thus slaugh-
tered, but now I was as insensible
as any old soldier, and the death of
one man or of a hundred would not
cost me a thought.

Until this time all had gone well,
but how were we to get out of th&j
houses ? The enemy held every ave*
nue, and it seemed that we would be
caught like foxes in their holes, and
I thought it not unlikely that the
Austrians, in revenge for the loss we
had infiicted upon them, might put
us to the point of the bayonet Me-
ditating thus, I ran back to a room.

The Story of a Conscript.

where a dozen of us yet remained,
and there I saw Sergeant Pinto lean-
ing against the wall, his arms hang-
ing by his sides, and his face white as
paper. He had just received a bul-
let in the breast ; but the old man's
wamor soul was still strong within
him, as he cried :

"Defend yourselves, conscripts I
Defend yourselves ! Show the Kai-
serliks that a French soldier is yet
worthfourof them! Ah! thevillainsi"
We heard the sound of blows on
the door below thundering like can-
non-shots. We still kept up our fire,
but hopelessly, when we heard the
datter of hoofs without The firing
ceased, and we saw through the
smoke four squadrons of lancers
dashmg like a troop of lions through
the midst of the Austrians. All
yielded before them. The Kaiser-
liks fled, but the long, blue lancers,
with their red pennons, were swifter
than they, and many a white coat
was pierced from behind. The lan-
cers were Poles — the most terrible
warriors I have ever seen, and, to
speak truth, our friends and our bro-
thers. They never turned from us
in our hour of need ; they gave us
the last drop of their blood. And
irhat have we done for their unhappy
country ? When I think of our in-
gratitude, my heart bleeds.

The Poles rescued us. Seeing
them so proud and brave, we rushed
out, attacking the Austrians with the
bayonet, and driving them into the
trenches. We were for the time vic-
torious, but it was time to beat a re-
treat, for the enemy were already
filling Leipsic ; the gates of Halle
and Grimma were forced, and that
of Peters-Thau delivered up by our
fiiends the Badeners and our other
friends the Saxons. Soldiers, citi-
zens, and students kept up a fire
from the windows on our retiring
troops.

We had only time to re-form and
take the road along the Pleisse;
the lancers awaited us there; we
defiled behind them, and, as the Aus-
trians again pressed around us, they
charged once more to drive them
back. What brave fellows and mag-
nificent horsemen were those Poles !

The division, reduced from fifteen
to eight thousand men, retired step
by step before fifty thousand foes,
and not without often turning and
replying to the Austrian fire.

We neared the bridge — with what
joy, I need not say. But it was no
easy task to reach it, for infantry and
horse crowded the whole width of the
avenue, and arrived from all the
neighboring roads, until the crowd
formed an impenetrable mass, which
advanced slowly, with groans and
smothered cries, which might be
heard at a distance of half a mile,
despite the rattling of musketry.
Woe to those upon the other side of
the bridge ! they were forced into
the water and no one stretched a
hand to save them. In the middle,
men and even horses were carried
along with the crowd ; they had no
need of making any exertion of their
own. But how were we to get there ?
The enemy were advancing nearer
and nearer every moment. It is true
we had stationed a few cannon so as
to sweep the principal approaches,
and some troops yet remained in line
to repulse their attacks ; but they
had guns to sweep the bridge, and
•those who remained behind must re-
ceive their whole fire. This account-
ed for the press on the bridge.

At two or three hundred paces
from the crowd, the idea of rushing
forward and throwing myself into the
midst entered my mind ; but Captain
Vidal, Lieutenant Br^tonville, and
other old officers said :

" Shoot down the first man that
leaves the ranks !"

The Story of a Conscript,

It was horrible to be so near safe-
ty, and yet unable to escape.

This was between eleven and
twelve o'clock. The fiisilade grew
nearer on the right and left^ and a
few bullets began to whistle over our
heads. From the side of Halle we
saw the Prussians rush out pell-mell
with our own soldiers. Terrible cries
now arose from the bridge. Cavalry,
to make way for themselves, sabred
the infantry, who replied wiih the
bayonet It was a general sauve qui
peuL At every step of the crowd,
some one fell from the bridge, and,
trying to regain his place, dragged
five or six with him into the water.

In the midst of this horrible con-
fusion, this pandemonium of shouts,
cries, groans, musket-shots, and sa-
bre-strokes, a crash like a peal of
thunder was heard, and the first arch
of the bridge rose upward into the
air with all upon it. Hundreds of
wretches were torn to pieces, and
hundreds of others crushed beneath
the falling ruins.

A sapper had b!ow*n up the arch I

At this sight, the cr\' of treason
rang from mouth to mouth. ** We
are lost — betra\^d !'* was now the cry
on all sides. The tumult was fear*
fuJ. Some, in the rage of despair,
turned upon the enemy like wild
beasts at bay, thinking only of ven-
geance j others broke their arms,
cursing heaven and earth for their
misfortunes. Mounted ofTrcers and
generals dashed into the river to
cross it by swimming, and many sol-
diers followed them without taking
time to throw ofif their knapsacks.
The thought that the last hope of
safety was gone, and nothing now
remained but to be massacred, made
men mad. I had seen the Partha
boked with dead bodies the day
efore, but this scene was a thou-
sand times more horrible ; drowning
wretches dragging down those who

happened to be near them ; shrieks
and yells of rage, or for help ; a
broad river concealed by a mass of
heads and struggling arms.

Captain Vidal, who, by his cool-
ness and steady eye, had hitherti
kept us to o\u- duty, even Captain
Vidal now appeared discouraged.
He thrust his sabre into the scab-
bard, and cried, with a strange laugh:

** The game is up 1 Let us be
gone r

I touched his arm • he looked sad-
ly and Jcindly at me. i

"What do you wish, my child TV
he asked. i

** Captain/' said I, " I was fottf
months in the hospital at Leipsic ; I
have batlicd in the Elstcr, and I
know a ford.*'

'* Wliere V

**Ten minutes' march above the
bridge.'*

He drew his sabre at once from its
sheath, and shouted :

" Follow me, mes en/ants I and
you, Bertha, lead."

The entire battalion, which did not
now number more than two hundred
men, followed ; a hundred others,
who saw us start confidently forward,
joined us. I recognized the road
which Zunnier and I had traversed
so often in July, when the ground
was covered with flowers. The ene-
my fired on us, but we did not reply.
I entered the water first ; Captain
Vidal next, then the others, two
abreast. It reached our shoulders,
for the river was swollen by the au-
tumn rains ; but we crossed, not-
withstanding, without the loss of a
man. We pressed onward across
the fields, and soon reached the lit-
tle wooden bridge at Schleissig, and
thence turned to Lindenau.

We marched silently, turning from
time to time to gaze on the other
side of the Elster, where the battle
still raged in the streets of Leipsic*

The Story of a Conscript.

The furious shouts, and the deep
boom of cannon still reached our
eais; and it was only when, about
two o'clock, we overtook the long
column which stretched, till lost in
distance, on the road to Erfurt, that
the sounds of conflict were lost in
I the roll of wagons and artillery trains.

XXI.

Hitherto I have described the
grandeur of war — ^battles glorious to
France, notwithstanding our mistakes
and misfortunes. When we were
figjiiting all Europe alone, always one
against two, and often one to three ;
wben we finally succumbed, not
throi^hthe courage of our foes, but
borne down by treason and the
weight of numbers, we had no reason
to blush for our defeat, and the vic-
tors have little reason to exult in it.
It is not numbers that makes the
glory of a people or an army — it is
virtue and bravery.

But now I must relate the horrors
of retreat It is said that confidence
gives strength, and this is especially
tnieof the French. While they ad-
vanced in full hope of victory, they
were united ; the will of their chiefs
iras their only law ; they knew that
they could succeed only by strict ob-
ser\'ance of discipline. But when
driven back, no one had confidence
save in himself, and commands were
forgotten. Then these men — once
so brave and so proud, who marched
so gayly to the fight — scattered to
right and left; sometimes fieeing
alone, sometimes in groups. Then
those who, a little while before trem-
bled at their approach, grew bold ;
they came on, first timidly, but, meet-
ing no resistance, became insolent.
Then they would swoop down and
cany off three 'or four laggards at a
time, as I have seen crows swoop
upon a fallen borsi^ which they did
VOL. VII. — ^3

not dare approach while he could
yet remain on his feet

I have seen miserable Cossacks —
very beggars, with nothing but old
rags hanging around them ; an old
cap of tattered skin over their ears \
unshorn beards, covered with ver-
min ; mounted on old worn-out hor-
ses, without saddles, and with only a
piece of rope by way of stirrups, an
old rusty pistol all their fire-arms,
and a nail at the end of a pole for a
lance ; I have seen these wretches,
who resembled sallow and decrepit
Jews more than soldiers, stop ten,
fifteen, twenty of our men, and lead
them off like sheep.

And the tall, lank peasants, who,
a few months before, trembled if we
only looked at them — I have seen
them arrogantly repulse old soldiers
— cuirassiers, artillerymen, dragoons
who had fought through the Spanish
war, men who could have crushed
them with a blow of their fist; I
have seen these peasants insist that
they had no bread to sell, while the
odor of the oven arose on all sides
of us; that they had no wine, no
beer, when we heard glasses clinking
to right and left And no one dared
punish them ; no one dared take
what he wanted from the wretches
who laughed to see us in such straits,
for each one was retreating on his
own account ; we had no leaders, no
discipline, and they could easily out-
number us.

And to hunger, misery, weariness,
and fever, the horrors of an approach-
ing winter were added. The rain
never ceased falling from the gray
sky, and the winds pierced us to the
bones. How could poor beardless
conscripts, mere shadows, fleshless
and worn out, endure all this ? They
perished by thousands ; their bodies
covered the roads. The terrible ty-
,phus pursued us. Some said it was
a plague, engendered by the dead not

Sr<w7 of a Co^s^t

being buried deep enough ; others,
that it was the consequence of suffer-
ings that required more than human
Strength to bear. I know not how
^^this may be, but the villages of Alsace
and Lorraine, to which we brought it,
will long remember their sufferings \
of a hundred attacked by it, not more
than ten or twelve, at the most, re-
covered.

• At length, on the evening of the
I mine tee nth, we bivouacked at Lutzen,
yhere our regiments re-foiTued as best
Kbey might. The next day we skir-
ttjnished with the Westphalians, and
«t Erfurt we received new shoes and
uniforms. Five or six disbanded
■ companies joined our battalion —
nearly all conscripts. Our new coats
and shoes were miles too lai^ for us ;
but they were warm. The Cossacks
reconnoitred us from a distance.
Our hussars would drive them off;
but they returned the moment pur-
suit was relaxed. Many of our men
went pillaging in the night, and were
absent at roll-call, and the sentries
ceived orders to shoot all who at-
npted to leave their bivouacs.
I had had the fever ever since we
eft Leipsic ; it increased day by day,
nd I became so weak that I could
^scarcely rise in the mornings to fol-
low the march, ZihM^ looked sad-
ly at me, and sometimes said *

"Courage, Joseph I We will soon
be at home T'

These words reanimated me ; I
felt my face flush.

** Yes, yes !** I said; " we will soon be
home ; I must see home once more !"
The tears forced themselves to my
es. TAhid^ carried my knapsack
ben I was tired, and continued :
*' Lean on my arm. We are get-
ting nearer every day, now, Joseph.
few dozen leagues arc nothing."
My heart beat more bravely, but
TTiy stnsngth was gone. I could no
longer carry my nmskct; it was

heavy as lead, I could iiot ealj
my knees trembled beneath me ; sti
I did not despair, but kept mur
ing to myself; *'This is nothmgJ
When you see the spire of Phals>|
bourg^ your fever will leave yoiul
You will have good air, and CaUu- '
rine will nurse you. All will yet be
well I'^ J

Others, no worse than I, fell hf|
the roadside, but still I toiled on;
when, near Folde, we learned that,
fifty thousand Bavarians were poistedj
in the forests through which we werej
to pass, for the purpose of cutting <
our retreat. This was my tints
stroke, for I knew I could no k
]oad, fire, or defend myself with di6^
bayonet. I felt that all my suffer-
ings to get so far toward home wcffrl
useless. Nevertheless, I m;idc
effort when we were ordered
march, and tried to rise.

** Come, come, Joseph !" s.iid Ti-
b^dt! ; ** courage !**

Ikit I could not move, aina id
sobbing like a child.

" Come i stand up V* he said.

" I cannot O God ! I cannot I**

I clutched his arm. Tears stream- 1
ed down his face. He tried to lift]
me, but he was loo weak. I hcH
fast to him, crying :

" Z^^btde, do not abandon me l**

Captain Vidal approached,
gazed sadly on me :

"Cheer up, my lad,*' said be; I
" the ambulances will be along iilj
half an hour,"

But I knew what that meant, audi
I drew Zeb<?d^ closer to me. Hci
embraced me, and I whispered in]
his ear :

** Kiss Catharine for iiic — ^for roy I
last farewell Tell her that I died!
thinking of God's holy mother auid|
of her,"

" Yes, yes I" he sobbed. " My
poor Joseph V*

I could cling to him no longer.

The Story of a ComcripL

*' Catharine !" And she, turning
her head, cried t

"Joseph I Do you know me?"

** Yes," I replied, holding out my
hand.

She approached, trembling and
sobbing, when again and again the
cannon thundered.

"What are those shots I hear?"
I cried.

" The guns of Phalsbourg," she
answered. ** The city is besieged/'

" Phalsbourg besieged I The ene-
my in France I"

I could speak no more. Thus
had so much suflTering, so many tears,
so many thousands of lives gone for
nothing^ — ay, worse than nothing, for
the foe was at our homes. For an
hour I could think of nothing else ;
and even now, old and gray-haired
as I am, the thought fills me with
I i tern ess. Yes, we old men have
seen the German, the Russian, the
Swede, the Spaniard, the Englishman,
masters of France, garrisoning our
cities, taking whatever suited them
from our fortresses, insulting our sol*
diers, changing our flag, and dividing
among themselves* not only our con-
quests since 1804, but even those of
the republic. These were the fruits
often years oig\oTy !

But let us not speak of these
things. They will tell us that after
Lutzen and Bautzen, the enemy of-
fered to leave us Belgium, part o(
flolland, all the left bank of the
Rhine as far as Mle, with Savoy
and the kingdom of Italy ; and that
the emperor refused to accept these
conditions* brilliant as they were,
because he placed the satisfaction of

his own pride before
France I

But to return to my a
two weeks after the battle
thousands of wagons, ;
wounded, crowded the
Strasbourg to Nancy, a
through Phalsbourg. No^
sad AW<f^<f escaped theey^
Gr«fdel and Catharine, and
of fathers and mothers sdfl
them for tlicir children
day Catharine found me
heap of other wretches, w
cheeks and glaring eyes-
hunger.

She knew mc at once,
Gridel gazed long before
** Yes 1 it is he I It is Jos«
They took me home. V
I describe my long illness,
for water, my almost mirai
cape from what seem
death ? Let it suffice the k
to know that, six months aft
fine and I were married
sieur Goulden gave me ha]
ness, and that we lived tc
happy as birds.

The wars were ended|
Bourbons had been taugb
by their misfortunes, and
ror only awaited the mom^
geance. But here let usrcs
pie of sense tell me tliat I
well in relating mycampaig
— that my story may show
vanity of military glory,
that no man can gain happ
by peace, liberty, and labofl
will take up my pen once
give you the story of Watd

The Episcopalian Crisis.

THE EPISCOPALIAN CRISIS.

In medical science, a crisis is the
cboge in a disease which indicates
its event, the recovery or death of the
jHtient; and is, therefore, the critical
■oment Webster also defines crisis
to be "the decisive state of things,
or die point of time when an affau: is
arived at its height, and must soon
terminate, or suffer a material change."
No attentive observer of the religious
Bovements which are going on around
OS can £ul to see that the Episcopa-
lians are, at thb moment, in an in-
vesting condition. On the one
bod, the ritualists are pushing cere-
BKMuai and doctrine much further
tkmeven the elasticity of Protestant-
ism will permit, while, on the other,
the low-dhurchmen, alarmed at the
(kmonstrations of their opponents,
are renewing the battle-cries of the
Reforaiation, lest the labors of Luther
and Henry VIII. should be frustrated
M in their communion. There will soon
"t be the clashing of arms and the in-
f texchange of active hostilities. As
f Catholics, we cannot but take a deep
interest in the result, and we hope
that all the combatants will, before
l^'ng into battle, understand the
cause for which they are fighting,
and then faithfully fight to victory or
death. An honest man should al-
ways stand by his colors, or at least
openly renounce them. The object
of this article is, to give a diagnosis
of the present state of Episcopalian-
ism, and, as far as our abilities and
kind intentions go, to prescribe a
remedy for the patient

In the first place, we find that there
is a feverish excitement about the
trial of the Rev. Mr. Tyng, who, in
violation of a canon, has had the
hardihood to preach in a church of

another denomination than his own.
The canon under which he is ar-
raigned seems to present a case
against the reverend gentleman, and
from the complexion of the court
appointed to try him he has little
chance of escaping conviction. But
we imagine that even his condem-
nation will be nominal, and appear
more as the assertion of a power
than the exercise of it The low-
churchmen are quite excited by the
discussion of the points involved in
the trial. A writer in TMc Episco-
palian considers the afiair as the most
important in the/ annals of American
ecclesiastical history. Whatever the
verdict of the court may be, it is of
little account compared to the an-
gry feelings and bitter divisions
among brethren which will flow from
it, and become more or less penna-
nent Certainly, there is more bitter-
ness among the different sections of
Episcopalians, than there is between
them and other Protestants. Low-
churchmen love their Protestant
brethren, with the one exception of
high-churchmen, whom they regard
with a natural antipathy. High-
churchmen love none but them-
selves, not the sects whom they es-
chew, nor the Catholic Church, which
eschews them. The trial of Rev.
Mr. Tyng is not the cause of the
angry feelings which are now mani-
fested, but merely the occasion for
bringing them out They exist be-
fore any occasion, and are found in
the vdry heart of the Episcopal
Church. If the Rev. Dr. Dix had
preached in a Methodist place of
worship, it is quite possible that no
one would have made objection ; but
Mr. Tyng, being on the other side of

The Episcopalian Crisis.

I
I

the house, cannot have the same
liberty. The truth is, that all rules
bave a wide interpretation, and are
to be explained by custom, and here
the defendant in the exciting trial
has the advantage. Even if he
should be condemned, he will be
likely to have nearly all the popular
sympathy, and so will become the
greater man, as a kind of martyr for
his principles.

The occasion, however, has brought
out a bold manifesto from the high-
churchmen, which is to be under-
stood as their platform, around which
they seek to rally their friends. Sixty*
four clerg)Tnen have joined together
to form what they call *' The American
Church Union," to which they invite
all Episcopalians who sympathize
with them. They declare that the
evils of the lime are fearful, ** the
young are growing up without educa-
tion, the community is familiarized
with scenes of lewdness, the marriage
contract is made contemptible, the
ordinances of the Gospel of Christ
are disused, and the public worship
of God is neglected.*' While thus the
torrent of iniquity rages around them,
they find that an evil has arisen with-
in the Episcopal fold, which threatens
the subversion of their whole system.
It is nothing less than the denial of
the necessity of ordination of minis-
ters by bishops. ** The right is
claimed of preaching an)'where, at
pleasure; ministers of n on -Episcopal
communities are invited to preach in
our churches; and the intention is
announced of breaking down every
barrier between our church and the
religious bodies around her." To
counteract this destructive move-
ment, they associate themselves to-
gether, in a union offensive and de-
fensive. They promise to uphold
the laws, the canons, and to follow
the " godly admonitions of the bish*
Ops,'* while they se<sk ** to maintain

unimpaired principles whi<
have received from their
Seabur}^, White, Griswold, \
Doane, and Wainwright.**

While we confess that our
thies are with the signers oft
toral, we frankly avow that it
what vague and, to our mindl
sistent. No doctrine whatever ij
stated, except that of the t\^q\
episcopal ordination. The cm
referred to, and the (undifl
general councils ; but no e
tion of their teaching is givei
then, he will be a wise man \
follow, at the same time, in t]
of the fathers whom they naim
bury, Hobart, and Doane wd
churchmen in various degrel
titude ; but White and Griswa
quite on the other side of xht
while Dr. Wainwright was g4
thought to have been on bol
at the same time. To us, th|
he seems the best and most
manly model for the rising
tion of churchmen who wa
'* ail things to all men." Theri
he who would follow the go
monitions of the bishops in
able to go to the four poinu
compass at the same time,
an adventurer who would o
admonitions of Bishops Mti
and Potter, or, at the same till
low the counsels of Doctors
and Clark. The convulsions k
zeppa would be nothing to th
nies of his mind* No physici;
prescribe a remedy for such a
"No man can serve two
either he will hate the one al
the other, or cleave to the
despise the other.*' Why, thi
in this enlightened day, write d
dictions and talk nonsense ? 4
time ago, twenty-eight bishopd
a solemn dccTaratioD against^
ism ; " and,** says the
CAunAmaHf "one of the i

Th€ Episcopalian Crisit.

•bo has tigned this address of the
American Union not only soundly
lectured, but held up to scorn and
derision" these prelates, and espe-
cially the Boanerges of Western New
York, who, smelling Romanism from
a£ir, vaults like a beaked bird upon
his prey. ^ O shame 1" says the wri-
ter we have quoted, '' where is thy
Uush?"

While thus the armies of the high-
churchmen have begun to array them-
sdves for battle, the bugle sounds
loudly from the oigaposvag camp, and
the evangelicals are gathering to-
gether in earnest A church union
isheing formed among them, and a
wrriter in the Episcopalian thus
speaks the designs of his party:
"^Let this evangelical church union
be extended to every diocese and
parish in the land where its princi*
pies are approved. The sacramental
system is not the Gospel system, but
its direct antipodes, in which the sa-
craments are degraded from their true
jiQsition of sacred emblems^ and made
to serve as pack-horses to carry lazy
sinners to heaven. I hear hundreds
of ministers and thousands of lay-
men exclaim, ' Oh ! that we had the
power to rescue the church from the
hands of those who are corrupting
it r These will be rejoiced to learn
that nothing is more simple and fea-
sible. How? I reply by saying,
what even high-churchmen will hard-
ly dare to deny, that the church of the
Reformation was eminently an evan-
gelical church, and that the evangeli-
cal portion of the present Episcopal
Quirch constitutes absolutely all of
the real successors of the English
Reformed Church in this country.
Ritualists and sacramentarians have
no more right in this communion than
avowed Romanists." The low-church-
men have the decided majority, and
thus give letters dimissory to their
ofisndi^c brethren. ^' God speed the

Church Union I" says a contributor
to the Protestant Churchman; "but
let Mr. Hopkins and his friends be-
ware lest they themselves should be
the very first upon whom this disci-
pline shall fall. Dr. Guillotine ex-
perienced the beautiful operation of
that ingenious instrument of death
invented by himselfl This is a pre-
cedent from which these gentlemen
might learn a lesson."

The low-churchmen make a point
that, while they prefer the episcopal
form as more scriptural and more
conformed to the primitive system,
they do not unchurch other Christian
denominations, and that, in this re-
spect, they follow the teachings of the
founders of the reformed English com-
munion. They also contend that the
right of the church to amend or change
its laws and services is inalienable,
and that the time has arrived when
some important changes should be
made. Bishop Griswold, whose " god-
ly admonitions" the Church Union de-
sires to follow, thus expressed himself:
" In the baptismal office are, unfortu-
nately, some few words which are well
known to be more injurious to the
peace and growth of our church than
any one thing that can be named."
"Allow me," says the Bishop of
Chester, "to omit or alter fifteen
words, and I will reconcile fifteen
thousand dissenters to the church."^
It appears, also, that an opinion was
expressed by a late presiding bishop
of the Protestant Episcopal Church
that the great body of Episcopalians
desire some change in the phraseo-
logy of their services, and that the
peace and prosperity of the church
require it.

Here, then, the impartial observer
can see how the ground lies. The high-
churchmen insist upon Episcopal or-
dination, and are determined to re-
sist all changes, while they are, many
of them^ disposed to give a Catlio\ic

The Episcopalian Crisis.

interpretation to the articles and li*
tiirgy. The low-churchmen oppose
them on all these points, and insist
that a Protestant communion ought
not to call itself Catholic, or use
words of doubtful meaning ; and
that the literal sense of the articles
which form their real confession of
faith should be imposed upon all Epis-
copalians. We have ventured to call
this a crisis because, if there he vitali-
ty \\\ either party, there must come a
conflict from which one side must re-
tire defeated, leavingthe field and the
spoils of war to the victors. But as
this is not the first crisis which has
occurred in the history of Anglican-
ism, we opine that the battle will be
fought with blank cartridges, and that,
after considerable smoke, it will be
found that nobody is hurt. Then
from the unbloody field the comba*
ants will retire to war with words,
and to be greater enemies than ever.
Individual soldiers will lay down their
arms to sally in the direction of Ge-
neva or Rome ; but the great Epis-
copal body will quietly await an-
other crisis. Yet this condition of a
church which claims (according to
*8omeof its members— *the Pan-Angli-
^^can Synod, for example) to be a part
of the Catholic Church, is not heal-
thy. In contradictories there cannot
be accord, and one is right and the
other is certainly wrong, A careful
diagnosis of the malady of our pa-
tient leads us to the following con-
clusions : No one is bound to impos-
sibilities, and therefore, before tlieir
own church, the low-churchmen are
right on all points of the controver-
sy, while, before the Christian world,
their opponents are singulariy isolat-
ed and unfortunate. The Episcopal
Church contains two opposing ele-
J iTients which must ever war against
|<«aich other, and, while there are in-
sistencies in both liturgy and ar-
^ the low-churchmeo stand upon

the only reasonable ground,'
wnth truth to their adversarie
they who would be sacrament
ought to go where their system p
ly belongs, and where all other
are in harmony with it Sui
are sure, will be the judgment
impartial observer.

I* The Episcopalians have i
to reform their sen^ices whi
they choose, and are at perfed
ty to agitate H^^ question. ]
constitution of their own churd
have the powder to alter, char
modify both their liturgy anc
creeds. Did not the Church o
land do this on several occa
Has not the American Epi
Church done it also ? Did si
materially alter the prayer-bool
ing out, for example, both tii<
of absolution, and also the A
sian Creed ? That which hais
dune can surely be done again
cially in a body which disclaii
fallibility, and is, therefore, s
nothing, and is ever on all
open to progress. Here it se<
us that the high-churchmen h<
ground on which to stand,
cannot assert that anything
church teaches is the voice ol
because she expressly tells iha
she has no authority. They c
hold any reasonable theory of
siastical pretensions, because,
ing so, they would unchurch
selves. A church ought to kn
own powers, if it have any.
may have their own opinionj
press them as such ; but the]
no right to lord it over the cor
ces of their brethren who di^
with them, as if they (the actu
nority) were the church rathei
their more numerous opp€
Their fathers whose " godly ad
tions** they seek to follow, sun
ver meant to cast their " incoi
ble liturgy" in an iron mould

7%/ Episcopalian Crisis.

sides, in sober common sense, all the
extravagancies of the low-churchmen
ve nothing compared to the doings
of the extreme ritualists, who have
so metamorphosed the service that
no uninitiated Episcopalian could
c?er recognize it Think of chang-
ing ever7 rubric, and engrafting upon
rbe common prayer the actual cere-
monies and even the words of the
^inan missal. We understand that
lew of the signers of the union mani-
festo are opposed to these advances
of ritualism, and that many of them
juc ready to hear confessions or ce-
ld)rate Mass when a good occasion
13 offered. With what face, then,- can
tliey find fault with their bretiiren
•^■Ik) exercise their liberty in another
direction? And inasmuch as there
is a manifest inconsistency between
various parts of the prayer-book, it
^rould be well for them and for truth
to have their code revised, that the
Mforld may know precisely what they
A) mean.

2. On the vexed question of Epis-
copal ordination, we are convinced
tiiat the high-churchmen are wrong,
l«fore their own communion and
Wore the world. The reformers
nnder whose inspirations the English
Church was formed, never intended to
unchurch the religious bodies of the
continent with whom they were in
sympathy. The words of the ordi-
nal refer only to the rule to be^
adopted in the Anglican body, and
do not decide at all the question of
the validity of non-Episcopal orders.
The twenty-third of the thirty-nine
articles is so expounded by Burnet.
He says that by common consent a
company of Christians may appoint
one of tiieir own members to minis-
ter to them in holy things ; for we are
sore **that not only those who penned
the articles, but the body of this
church for above half an age after,
did, notwithstanding irregularities,

acknowledge the foreign churches, so
constituted, to be true churches as to
all the essentials of a church. The
article leaves the matter open for
such accidents as had happened, and
such as might still happen. Al-
though their own church had been
less forced to go out of the beaten
path than any other, yet they knew
that all things among themselves had
not gone according to those rules
that ought to be sacred in regular
times. Necessity has no law, and is
a law of itself."

The opinions of Cranmer, and of
Barlow, the reported consecrator of
Archbishop Parker, were distinctly
Erastian. At a conference held at
Windsor, 1547, Cranmer answers to
the question, '' Can a bishop make a
priest ?" as follows : " A bishop may
make a priest, and so may princes
and governors also, by the authority
of God committed to them." Barlow
replies, " Bishops have no authority
to make priests without they be au-
thorized by the Christian princes, and
that laymen have other whiles made
priests."

To the question, " Whether in the
New Testament be required any con-
secration of a bishop or priest, or
only appointing to the office be suf-
ficient?" Cranmer answers, "He
that is appointed to be a bishop or
priest needeth no consecration by
the Scriptures, for election or ap-
pointing thereto is sufficient." Bar-
low also expresses the same senti-
ment. (See Stillingfieet's Irenicum^
and Collier, vol. ii. appendix.)

The "judicious" Hooker undoubt-
edly maintains the true Episcopalian
belief, that ordination by bishops Is
preferable, but not of absolute ne-
cessity to a church. A very able
article in this Magazine, published
September, 1866, (Vol. III. No. 18,)
shows the truth of our view. Pas-
sages are deduced from a work caWed

TAr ^piscopaKan VriH^.

Vox Ecdesiffy which contain the high-
Church position, and admit that in
I case of fucessity (which is left to the
individual to determine) " orthodox
'presbyters may ordain," As Arch-
bishop Parker said, " Extreme neces-
sity in itself implieth dispensation
from all laws/* The author of this
article, to which we beg leave to refer
our readers, shows plainly that such a
. doctrine ** overthrow's the very idea
' of apostolical succession, elevates hu-
man necessity above divine law, and
legitimates every form of error and
schism."

Before their own communion, there-
fore, the low-churchmen have every
1 advantage, as they are consistent
with the principlesof the Reformation
which brought their church into be-
ing. When Protestants desert their
Jow^n platform, on what ground can
they logically stand ?
Secondly,before the Christian world
■ the high-churchmen occupy a very
unfortunate position* They make as*
sertions which unchurch Uiemseh es,
while they separate from their breth-
ren^ and aspire to an ecclesiastical
Status which they have not, which
I the whole world denies to them, and
I which they can never defend. If the
apostolical succession is necessary to
the existence of a church, then by
the verdict of all who hold such a
Idoctrine, they are no church ; for with
11 their pretensions, they have it not
Fit has been shown over and over
again, by arguments incontestable,
that the ordination of Archbishop
Parker, if indeed it ever took place,
yi2& wholly and entirely invalid.
There is not satisfactory evidence
that any ceremony of consecration
was observed ; there is no proof
whatever that Barlow, the officiating
prelate, was ever ordained ; and last-
ly, the form used (according to the
theory of the high-churchmen) was
utterly inadequate to convey valid

orders. What need, then,
further with tho^ who will o
If any Catholic bishop at %
should venture to * \\

the form which they .v^

in Parker's case, he would be)
to severe censure, and his ^
be considered totally null ani
less. One would naturally i
that the judgment of the C
Church on this question ^
held in respect She has pi|
the ancient rite, and holds
lute necessity of episcopal on
and while she considers it a
to reiterate the sacrament
she reordains, without quesl||
without condition, every Engli
ister who, coming into her fol *
to the sacred priesthood,
course has been adopted
the Pan-Angelican Synod
Eastern Orthodox Church, wl
more regards the Episcopalisi
church than she does the Md
or Presbyterians. Is any nM
dence required by any honest
If the opinion of the eastern d
is of any weight, it has becf
than once given. Dr. J. Jl
beck, a Russian priest, in ^
work on "Catholic OrthodoxyJ
at some length of the English'
which he pronounces to tM
These are among his words :

the point of apostolical succe:
its needfulness, held Jatitu<
views, subversive of the wholi
of the church, a. Theboasto
or concord of Anglicans ej
essentials is a specious illui
Anglo-Catholicism is gmuine ^
taniism decked and disfigtij
Catholic spoils."

" As Parker's consecration J
valid, the apostolic line was i
off, irremediably broken off."

" If Rome considered all i
tions by Parker and his succ

Bishop DoyU,

BISHOP DOYLE •

**What can you teach?'* **Any
thing from A, B, C, to the third book
of Canon Law." **Pray, young man,
can you teach and practise humility?"
*' I trust I have, at least, the humility
to feel that the more I read the more
I see how ignorant I have been, and
how little can, at best, be known."
Such were the pithy replies to the
equally condensed questions put by
the venerable Dean Staunton, of
Car low College, to a young August! n-
ian friar who had been proposed as
candidate for a professorship in that
rising institution. The friar was
Father James Doyle, then in his
twenty -seventh year. Erect in sta-
ture, austere in features, the candid
earnestness of his mind beaming
through his expressive countenance,
which bore the evident traces of
studious habits, and the freedom of
his unpretentious manners — al! these
qualities, combined in his looks and
declared by his language, immedi-
ately enlisted the sympathetic esteem
of the dean* Nor was hts youth an
obstacle to his acceptance. His ap*
pointnient to the position followed,
and the six years spent by him in the
college served as a fit preparation
for the public career of this eminent
naan, the narrative of whose life forms
an essential part of the history of* his
country for at least fifteen years.

From the valuable work to which
reference is made in the note to
this article, we find much to admire
in the noble character who forms the
subject of Mr. Fitzpatrick*s literary
eflbrt There must have been placed

• Tkt Liff, Timet, ami Cprrttp^mdenee 0/iAe Jf/.
^"#9. Dr. D<fyU, BiiKap t^ KQdmre mmd Lei^AHm.
i*r ^' J Fittpatfkk, J. R s TOli «m Bg^ott;
P. Doootuw.

at his disposal a rich and
store of material from f
biography was compiled. *
itself, in a literary point n
creditable to tlie diligenc
author; but at present wej
tent ourselves with an «1
gather from its comprehend!
and place before our rea«|(
of the most remarkable ei(
distinguished the life and]
fluenced by the action of t]]|
prelate, j

Of respectable and horn
bellious ancestors, he wa^
New Ross, County of Wi
1786. In an appendix to)
before us there is a chni
article showing the dcsc
Doyle family from some]
royal sept — a portion of
tory by no means unco
which we would refer
should doubt his original
blood* For us it will suffic
that some of his immediatfli
had fallen for their countfj
faith, and that even as fan
1 69 1, there were few mot
guished than the bold 1
chieftain, " Brigadier Doy
was sent from Limerick, by J
to collect men and horsel
Jacobite army.

Anne Warren, the mothi
future bishop, was a Catholj
Quaker extraction, and the ft
died before the child's btrtl
young Doyle was brought]
world under circumstancei
not of indigence, still not 4
fluity in worldly goods. Bi
richly endowed him ; and n
sures can be sought more i
than the intrinsic power of s^

Bishop Doyle.

00 external change can diminish, and
tWch retains its richness, indepen-
dent of the uncertainties of variable
ftrtimel Nor was his childhood
other than obscure, if we may apply
the term to that state which, though
bumble, was illustrated by the tender
cue and enlightened piety of a Chris-
tian mother. His boyhood was not
lemarkable for those extraordinary
manifestations of genius said to be
discovered in the younger days of
great men. No phenomena indica-
tive of unusual fortune or success in
life attended his boyish acts, although
there is a tale of some careless for-
tlm^teller having prognosticated the
liigh position and distinguished labors
^ch afterward rendered his name
ao memorable. At the age of eleven
Ik ran the risk of being shot for his
curiosity in observing, at a distance, a
bittle fought between the patriots of
tie rebellion and the English forces.
His school-days commenced at
Rathnavogue, where a Mr. Grace
]»as conducting a seminary of learn-
ing to whose seats both Catholics and
Protestants had equal access. Hith-
erto his mother had been his instruc-
tor, and there are no impressions so
important or so lasting as those im-
parted to the infant mind by the
Joiicitous teaching of a parent. Un-
der her guidance, the youthful aspira-
tions which inclined his developing
reason to the ecclesiastical state of
life, were fostered and encouraged, as
she early perceived that the tendency
of bis mental faculties directed in the
path of a holy vocation. In the year
1800, she placed him under the care
of an Augustinian friar named Crane,
who soon discovered the talents of
the boy through his eagerness for
knowledge, and his intensely studious
habits. She died in 1802, leaving
him an orphan, but with the prospect
of his soon becoming a member of
the At%;ustiiiian order, which he en-

tered three years afterward. Not-
withstanding that he entertained a
strong repugnance to the eleemosyn-
ary practices of religious communities
of begging from door to door— and
this aversion he ever retained — ^he
still selected a conventual life in pre-
ference to the more public and active
labors of a missionary priest His
respect for the dignity of the priestly
office was a characteristic trait in his
life as bishop, and his ideas on the
subject seem to have originated from
that natural good taste with which he
had been gifted from his infancy.

The ordeal of the novitiate passed
through with fidelity, he made his
vows as member of the order in 1806,
in the small thatched chapel at
Grantstown. The marked abilities
displayed at this period induced his
superiors to select him to be sent
with some others to the college of
their order at Coimbra, in Portugal,
a well-conducted institution, and con-
nected with the celebrated university
of that place. As he was afforded
all the ample opportunities held out
to those attending the university lec-
tures — a privilege accorded only to
a few — his mind was immensely en-
riched, and what is of still neater
importance, his ideas were enabled
to attain a sturdiness of growth and
liberality of expansion which ever
afterward distinguished his writings
and speeches. In his subsequent
examination before a committee of
both houses of parliament, he testi-
fied to the numerous advantages
which were then, as now, derived
from a continental education for the
priesthood. In Ms days, indeed, it
was no longer, as it had been in 1780,
felony in a foreign priest, and high-
treason in a native, to teach or prac-
tise the doctrines of the Catholic re-
ligion in Ireland. Still, the penal
laws, although relaxed, had left their
evil traces long after their name had

ceased to excite terror, even if it oc-
casioned a thnil of hatred in the
breasts of those who had so long
been subjected to the clanking of
Iheir fetters. It seems somewhat of
an anomaly for Protestantism, which
was inaugurated under the plea of
freeing and enlightening the human
mind, to sanction the enactment and
enforce the execution of laws direct-
'ly calculated to crush religious free*
dom, and make it criminal to edu-
cate the children of the conquered
Catholics. It is, however, but one
of the innumerable inconsistencies
with which the histories of nations
and of creeds regale us at intervals.

Whilst young Doyle was deeply
engaged in drinking in from the pur-
•cst and deepest springs theologic
lore, and treasuring up in his capa-
dousmind the classicand philosophic
eloquence of ancient times, the sound
of war disturbed his retirement, A
French invasion overturned the in-

[•dependence of the country, and so

^Tapid was the advance of Junot that
the vessel which bore away in safety
to Brazil the royal family was has*
tened in its departure by some shots
from the conquering army. The
peninsular war ensued, in which the

' Portuguese, aided by the English un-
der Wellington, drove out the irreli-
gious soldiers of the empire. The
enthusiasm which inflamed the minds

, of the natives was taken up by the
I young students, and among them
Doyle shouldered his musket, believ-
ing that tiie best way to prove one's

I ^fidelity to truth and justice is to act
^when action alone is eflTective.

Mr, Fitzpatrick does not explain the
.short stay made by the student in the
college of Coimbra, as we find him in
Ireland, in 1808, preparing for the re-
ception of holy orders. He had con-
eluded a good course of study, and
his natural abilities must have ren-
dered him fully competent to be ad-

mitted to the order of priest!
which he received in 1809, in
humble, thatched chapel of
youthful days. But as there wei
then, to a greater extent than
present, existing prejudices againt
religious orders in Ireland, he
not only refused faculties, but
the preparatory examination, by D:
Ryan, Coadjutor Bishop of Fe
The young priest quietly remained
his convent until called, upon the
commendation of some friends wl
admired his talents, to the positii
of professor in Carlow Coll
Here he rendered most impoi
services. Within its walls he spei
six years most studiously occu]
both for his own advancement
for the benefit of his pupils.
advantage of procuring positions
seminaries or colleges for youi
priests of talent and taste for pr
longed study, is easily perceiv

when we consider the necessity^

more especially at the present day—
of fitting some for the higher duties
of their order — the defence and ex-
position of Catholic doctrines in %
literary manner. Had the talents
of Dr. Doyle received no cidttvatioa
more than that afforded by a super-
ficial knowledge of theology in a ru-
dimentary course of three years, hi$
life would have passed in obscuri^,
and his eminent public services could
never have been successfully accom-
plished. The light of genius is, in-
deed, a gift of nature, but the inten* m
sity of its brilliancy depends upon^
art and culture. Besides this, his
taste for literature excited the enthu-
siasm, whilst it encouraged the e6brt8
of the students* His lectures on elo^
quence, which had, up to that time^
been considerably neglected among
the Irish clergy, served as an incentive
to their ardor in pursuit of that no-
ble science, at the same time that it
furnished his own mind with the in-

Bishop Doyle.

oiianstible resources which he afler-
mrd wielded with such mighty effect
Vft know of similar results having
been attained by the late eminent
Cardinal Waseman whilst rector of
the English College at Rome. The
necessity of a learned clergy was
scarcely ever felt as much as at the
fiesent day, when men of abilities
and cultivation may be daily encoun-
tered, eager and earnest for the truth,
ISBt not ready to admit it upon insuf-
ficient or superficial grounds. This
inew, entertained by Dr. Doyle
wifailst in Carlow College, led him to
iacolcate the same principles to those
axoimd him.

But the scene of his labors changes,
and we now approach the period of
Ui life in which his publications pro-
em for him that general recognition
empower and virtue, hitherto accord-
ed him in a humbler sphere of duty.
% an unprecedented unanimity he
•as elected, in 1 8 19, to succeed Dr.
Corcoran in the diocese of Kildare
and Leighlin. The selection was
oore remarkable, as in those days
there were feelings of strong dislike
entertained against members of reli-
gious communities, and the subject
caused no slight trouble at Rome.
The wise regulations of the church
fo the election of bishops were ob-
served in Ireland then, as they are
now. Assembled together, the cler-
gf received the Holy Eucharist,
prayed for light to direct their ac-
tion, retired in silence, strengthened
and enlightened, to give their voice
for the most fitting subject ; and the
result showed in this case, that, as
they had the generosity to pass over
the bounds of prejudice, the Holy
Ghost guided them in their delibera-
tions. It was not a little surprising
that the choice had fallen upon an
Auigustinian friar ; but that the dignity
ihoiild be conferred upon one so young
— te was only thirty-two years of age

— and with such universal satisfaction,
went far to prove the high esteem
in which he must have been held.
The custom of electing elderly per-
sons to the episcopal office is general*
ly admitted to have traditional usage
in its favor, although we do not read
of our Lord having regarded age as
a qualification in his apostles, and St
John is believed to have been a mere
youth. Innocent HI., one of the
most illustrious popes that ever
reigned, was only thirty-seven years
of age when he ascended the chair
of St. Peter. And although the
youthful appearance of the new bi-
shop was made the occasion of ad-^
verse criticism in some quarters, he
entered upon his office no less deep-
ly impressed with the truth of what
St. Augustine said of the episcopate,
" Nomen sit oneris^ nan honoris^" than
if he were bowed down by age.

Mr. Fitzpatrick's work exposes to
us many evils that had been allowed
to grow up in the diocese under the in-
active government of some of Bishop
Doyle's predecessors. Incompetent
persons are found in every state of
life, and many of the miseries by
which society is affiicted arise from
faithlessness or incapacity in incum-
bents of high positions. Energy
and diligence were not characteristic
of those who had gone before him,
and abuses that had been tolerated
by neligence, grew into evils which
were magnified by their proximity to
the sanctuary. But Bishop Doyle
was one of those faithful ministers
who felt tlie responsibilities enjoined
upon his office, ^^ quasi pro animabus
reddituri ratiofumJ* Some customs
common among the clergy were not
much in accordance with ecclesiasti-
cal propriety, and it is not easy to era-
dicate what has been allowed to attain
a long growth. It is true that the
penal times had but just ceased, and
the decadence in ecclesiastical dia-

itsn

cipline brought about by the dreary
night of persecution, was of such mag-
nitude as not to be quickly remedied.
Still, the new bishop had brought with
him into the office a thorough know-
ledge of the laws of the church, and
a sen&e of the obligation of carrying
these laws into execution whenever
possible. These were the two prin-
cipal reasons to which must be as-
cribed the successful issue of all his
measures at reform. He called the
attention of his clergy to the decrees
of the twent)'-fourth session of the
Council of Trent, with regard to the
reformation of the church, and dwelt
upon the penalties to which he him-
self should be liable w^ere he to neg-
lect the enforcement of those wise
regulations.

For the decency of public worship,
tlie ornaments and linens of the altar,
and everything connected with the
sacred ceremonies of religion, he had
the most scrupulous regard. He in-
stituted regular visitations in his dio-
cese, as he felt that he could not be
exempted from a sinful negligence in
omitting to comply with the decrees
of Trent in this respect. In these
visitations he discovered the sad
state to which ecclesiastical disci-
ph'ne had fallen before his days. In
one instance the vestments were
found to be in such an unbecoming
state that hfe tore them asunder.
Retuniing next year to the same pa-
rish^ he found the identical old vest-
ments sewn together and kept in a
turf'basket. To prevent a repetition,
he consigned them to the flames,
and as the parish priest w^as by no
means a poor man, the wretched
taste displayed by him was wholly
unpardonable.

Hunting was not an unusual
occupation with the clergy of those
days. Practices by no means tend-
ing to increase the respect of the
people for their pastors, had been al-

lowed to accompany the marriai
and funeral services of country dii
tricts, and all these claimed the dili*^
gent reformatory' care of the activ
bishop. The ofi&ce of refomier-
the very sound has to some an odioufli
signification — is not the most en*|
vious one in the world, and it
quires a peculiarly distasteful chara
ter from those whose self-interest
conduct may fall under its actional
Hence the young bishop was some
limes accused of rashness in his uikI
dertaking to correct abuses of sol
long a standing, and the plea wa
set up that good and wise men
tolerated them in the past. No
was he free from the receipt ^ "'
of complaint, principally, th<
always, from old pastors who foun4J
great dilBcuUy in abandoning habit
which their sense of right would no
permit them to justify. They rcmonn
straled with him for carrj'in gout laws!
for the execution of which he was
sponsible. But he kindly reasone
with them on the necessity whtj
pressed him to be faithful to
trust ; and as he never urged his o«
feelings or his own bias as the motive
of his action, but always appealed to
the law of the church, he graduall^fj
eflTcctcd the most beneficent results, i
He never used harshness, even wher
it might appear, if not necessary, i
least justifiable, and never was
accused of disregarding the rcasona
ble explanations of the humblest of
his clergy. Law, not self; justice,!
not caprice, were the motives that if
cited him ; and, guided by such prif
ciples, he confided the success of hb
efforts to God, and thus labored
der the inspiration of the church.

The sacrament of confirmation ha
been but rarely administered be for
his time, and he frequently was ailiect<{
ed to tears when, instead of chil^
dren to receive it, there were crowdsl
of gray-haired men and women* TheJ

Bishop Doyle.

education of the young had been
much neglected by many parish
priests, whose taste for agricultural
pusuits led them to devote more
time to the cultivation of farms than
to the instruction of their people.
One rural gentleman insisted that he
could well attend to his flocks of
sheep without neglecting his spiritual
flock ; but the bishop required that
hs time should be exclusively devot-
ed to his ministry. Many justified
their engagement with worldly occupa-
tions, or their inattention to their du-
ties, by pointing to the curate, and,
loudly affirming his energetic zeal,
declared him fully competent to di-
nct the parish, whilst the old man
should repose from his labors and
ci^ in ease the fruits of his past
senrkes in the vineyard of the Lord.
The persistent labors of the bishop
at length produced that good result
ever to be expected from a faithful
discharge of duty. Visitations were
r^ularly conducted throughout his
diocese, and the long-neglected ca-
nons of the church were reestablish-
ed, to the great satisfaction of all
good priests, as well as with salutary
consequences to the people.

Not less important in their results
were the spiritual retreats which he
inaogurated amongst his clergy. The
efficient means of preserving and
s&engthening the spiritual life of the
priesthood had been long impossible
in die times of persecution; but when
tins obstacle was removed, his pre-
decessors took no steps to remedy
the ill effects of their omission. One
thousand priests and almost every
prelate in Ireland assembled at Car-
kw, in 1820, to avail themselves of
she advantages of silence and prayer
Bodertthe direction of the young
hishop, who conducted the religious
exercises. He had been always
known as an austere man to himself,
ud most conscientiously attentive

VOL. VII. — 4

to even the minor duties of his eccle-
siastical state, and the brilliant man-
ner in which he guided his attentive
hearers through this retreat deeply
impressed them. " These sermons,"
(he preached three times a day,) writes
Rev. Mr. Delany, " were of an extra-
ordinarily impressive character. We
never heard anything to equal them
before or since. The duties of the
ecclesiastical state were never so
eloquently or efficiently expounded.
His frequent application and expo-
sition of the most intricate texts of
Scripture amazed and delighted us ;
We thought he was inspired. I saw
the venerable Archbishop Troy weep
like a child, and raise his hands in
thanksgiving. At the conclusion of
the retreat he wept again, and kissed
his coadjutor with more than a bro-
ther's affection."

Dr. O'Connell narrates that "for
the ten days during which the
retreat lasted. Dr. Doyle knew no
rest. His soul was on fire in the
sacred cause. He was determined
to reform widely. His falcon eye
sparkled with zeal. * The powers of
his intellect were applied to the good
work with telling effect. At the
close of one of his most impassioned
exhortations, he knelt down on a
prie-dieu immediately before me^
The vigorous workings of his mind,
and the intense earnestness of pur-
pose within, affected even the out-
ward man. Big drops of perspira-
tion stood upon his neck, and his
rochet was almost saturated." The
fruits of these labors were propor-
tionate to their intensity, for tiie soil
was good, and needed but that culti-
vation, for want of which it had long
lain fallow. To reform the morals of
the people, he knew that the source
of their moral teaching — the priest-
hood — must be enlightened and ele-
vated. It seems that there can be
nothing better calculated to effect a

lishef

cordial cooperation of ecclesiastical
duties and responsibilities than that
a bishop should thus be willing and
capable of teaching his clergy in
learning as well as in devotion ; and
of impressing, by propriety of lan-
guage and dignity of position, those
sublime truths that should be fre-
quently proposed to their considera-
tion. Another great work underta*
ken by him was the revival of dioce-
san conferences, which had long
fallen into desuetude. He ordained
that they should be held regularly,
and his own learning was a safe guar-
antee of tlieir practical utility* The
many intricate questions of moral
theology, as well as local issues with
which the clergy of a well-conducted
diocese should be conversant, were
usefully discussed in those assem-
blies with freedom and decorum. The
general non-observance of statutes
and laws, arising principally from the
diiBculties of the penal times, called
for more strenuous efforts than would
have been otherwise needed. The
severity of penal laws against the
practices of religion, or the adminis-
tration of the sacraments, diminished
the number of priests, who were oblig-
ed to hide themselves in the moun-
tains, and minister by stealth and un-
der fear of death in solitar)^ places to
the spiritual necessities of their flocks.
This accounts for the statute which
was passed in a synod of Kildare in
1 614, allowing lay persons to admin-
ister the Blessed Eucharist to each
other in cases of necessity. But
tliose times had passed, and Dr.
Doyle believed that what was then
justifiably permitted could be so no
longer without sin on his part. Con-
scientious fulfilment of duty alone
directed him in these many salutary
reforms introduced by him for the
ivelfare of his people ; and we dwell
upon them with greater pleasure, as
they evince the true character of a

bishop. These, and many dtl
neficent changes introduced by
op Doyle, were but in accor<
with the improved condition m\
the Catholics of his day found I
selves. After long and painfii
finally triumphant struggles to r
some of their lost freedom^ the;
felt for a length of time the effe
that odious tyranny, by whose n
the proud, religious ascendencj
hostile sect had long aimed t
complete subjection of the bod;
soul of the Catholic populatior
is pleasing to find that the iir
laxation of rigorous, repressive
against the Catholic Irish was i
to the influence exercised bj
American revolution upon Er
aflliirs. In 1778, Catholics WO
lowed to hold property as wi
their Protestant fellows-citizens ;
although this was but a slight
cession forced from the justi
their rulers, the Irish people d«
from it an encouragement to |
vere in asserting their further cl
so often deceitfully promised an
justly withheld. These clain
his countrj^men now assumed gr
weight in the minds of legish
as they became more importun
urged upon their notice by the
erful efforts of 0*Connell. Bi
Doyle did not hesitate to entei
arena, and throw the weight g
mighty intellect and the no les!
portant influence of his official
tion, into the contest A remarl
vigorous exjxisition of the sta
the question, and of the necessi
yielding to the demands of jui
published in a letter signed J, K
inspired new hope into his fni
and drew upon him the hostile a
tion of numerous opponents.

Polemics have, in our day, assi
a character quite different from
which distinguished them in fc
times. Much of the rancorous s

Bishop Doyle,

called religious, which dis-
society, and caused even do-
life sometimes to bear an un-
a aspect, has passed away,
rbity of feeling which irritates,
t never convinces, is now less
tly encountered than the
one of persuasive argumenta-
t may be that men were then
Droughly in earnest about re-
lan they are at present ; but
not be easy to maintain that
ess must be expressed in
t calculated to offend, and
I acts intended to do violence
erly love. It is more proba-
with the progress of the age,
\ learning more of the true
religion, and are leaving off
f that virulence which poor
>assion is likely to bring with
into the sanctuary of divine
One thing is certain, that a
for the better has come over
X which elicits religious dis-
it present ; and the questions
ite our interest and enlist our
ious consideration are agita-
milder manner than in the
Bishop Doyle, when it was
it a religious dispute closed
abuse or vituperation, and
views were not unfrequently
by blows.

cussion arose between the
3f Kildare and Magee, the
nt Archbishop of Dublin,
both were able combatants
field which afforded ample
r assault and defence, the
vaged was long and fierce,
forth the wit^ and sarcasm,
ling and eloquence undoubt-
sessed by both disputants.
)f cooling by time, it warmed
anced, and increased in in-
it drew into its current many
arriors eager to join in the'
fray. A spirit of domin ation
Lturally arose from the rela-

tions between Catholics and Protest-
ants, determined Magee to assume a
loftier tone, with more pretentious,
and, on that account, less tenable
grounds. These circumstances ren-
dered the humiliation of his defeat
more irksome to his high position.
The Marquis of Wellesley must have
been an impartial judge, and at the
conclusion of the politico-religious
combat, he declared that Magee "had
evidently got the worst of it" Seve-
ral other opponents who successively
assaulted "J. K. L.," were easily dis-
posed of by his mighty pen.

Influenced by his genius and elo-
quent writings, the movement led by
the great "Agitator" progressed
toward its desired result A change
was imperceptibly coming over the
spirit of the times. To retain a
nation in bondage to a political or
religious ascendency not founded on
the good-will of the subject, must, in
the long run, become impossible. As
long as a people preserve unsubdued
their spirit of religious or national
freedom, there is no power on earth
capable of frustrating their ultimate
triumph. A great writer observes
that the war in which violence at-
tempts to oppress truth must be a
strange and an arduous one. No
matter how doubtful may be the result
for a time, no matter how obscure the
horizon of events, truth must in the
end conquer, for it is imperishable —
it is eternal as God himself. Thus
was it in the struggle for emancipa-
tion in Ireland. The truth became
at length generally admitted, that no
civil legislation, no state authority,
has a right to interfere with the sanc-
tity of human conscience ; and that
the power which attempts to violate
th- natural gift of religious freedom
transcends its limits, and is guilty of
a grievous crime against the estab-
lished order of Providence.

Before Dr. Doyle's entrance upon

Bishop Doyle.

the public duties of his episcopal
oflfice, the efforts made for their
emancipation by the Catholics had
produced but little effect Petitions
crowded to the parliament, but they
were hastily and sometimes scorn-
fully rejected. Religious equality had
been promised as a reward for the
parliamentary union of both countries
in 1800; but the insidious policy of
Pitt proved the promise fallacious,
and when the nation found itself
cheated out of its legislative power,
without even this slight recompense
of religious freedom, deep was the
indignation felt. In the movements
preceding Dn IJoyle's ^efforts for the
recovery of their rights, the Catholics
were unaided by the "higher order"
of their countr\Tnen, "who sensitively
shrank from participating in any ap-
peal for redress." (Vol. i. p. 156.)
The people were thus abandoned by
those whom they regarded as their
natural leaders, and, with some ex-
ceptions, "the Catholic clergy not
only held aloof, but deprecated any
attempt to disturb the general apa-
thy." (Ibid.) But Dr, Doyle brought
new energy to the combat, and,
although the victory which crowned
the labors of the great " Liberator *' in
1829 was principally due to his own
herculean powers and indomitable
spirit, still the assistance ^rendered
by the Bishop of Kildare was highly
appreciated by O'Connell himself.
Here it may be remarked that the
Duke of Wellington is sometimes
lauded for yielding to the claims of
the Catholics, It is just to accord
praise wherever merited ; but, as the
hostility of Wellington to the de-
mands of his countrymen had been
for years the greatest obstacle to
their being satisfied, and as he
yielded at last evidently through
fear of revolution in case of refusal,
it would appear that a reluctant con-
cession, rendered when it could not

be safely wlthhdd, is
groundwork upon which to <
monument to bis generosity.

It would be a long though '
ungrateful task^ to trace the tc
progress of the bishop throi
many labors for the temporal \\
nal welfare of his people. Tl
out every page of the work t«
we may perceive the deep so'
with which he continually %
over their moral and social 11
ment Wide-spread disaflec
long misgovemment had evii
self in various species of seen
ties — Ribbonmen, White-boyi
o*-day men, etc, — formed eil
puq>oses hostile to the actual
society, or, more frequently, \
for self defence against the |
and extensive organization of I
men. The Ribbonmen p
"to be true to, and assi;
other in all things lawful ;'
even justifiable in their orij
object, they not unfrequeat
guilty of acts which soon
the opposition of the clergy.
Doyle found his diocese ext<
overrun by numerous parties \
societies; but, as the peopl
him, his disapprobation wj
effectual in checking their p;
As most of the discontent arc
the collection of tithes from
lies for the support of Protesi
nisters, he reprobated the la
were tlius the cause of evHs \
was their office to remove. 1
self counselled his people to
a negative opposition to the
tion of these tithes, by refu
pay them, but never to resi
violence a forcible execution
law. To force obedience to 1
was frequently a dangerous
ment. The legal claims of t
son were sometimes satisfie<J
expense of the lives of his ut
supporters. However incon

Bish^ Dcyle.

laracter it might appear,
lo uncomnion occurrence
the meek parson at tiie
military force, leadmg an
some undefended cabin
i; their manoeuvres in or-
ess himself of a cow, an
»r even a wretched bed
ig of a destitute family,
fury, the people would
resist the soldiers, and
\ of human life was often
it of a tithe-collecting ex-
[t may be interesting to
Uowing verbatim copy of
mcing the sale by auction
table spoil secured in a
foray by an evangelical
in the neighborhood of

soaled by Public Cout in
Ballymoreon the 15 Inst
the property of James
new bed and one gaume
y of John quinn seven
f€tm the property of the
t one petty coctte and one
property of the widow
seized under and by vir-
ng warrant for tythe due^
ohn Ugher. Dated this*
May 1824."

lebrated examination be-
unittee of parliament in
)oyle rendered ample tes-
he practical evils of this
otwithstanding the mer-
ure to which he subjected
tithe business, there was
le to alleviate the misery
the sufierings with which
:gnam, and Ireland still
^r this, one of her most
:alamities — ^the cause of
^nt and the source of her
L Not a little remarka-
istorical feet, that before
the reformation the Irish
sr consented to the sys-
» established in all other

countries by the law of the church.
Before the invasion there was no
such thing known. After that lamen-
table period the English conquerors
attempted to establbh it as in Eng-
land, but ^Guraldus Cambrensis,''
says Doctor Doyle, ^ imputes it to
the Irish as a crime that they would
not pay tithe, notwithstanding the
laws which enjoined such payment ;
and, now at the end of six hundred
years, they are found to persevere,
with increased obstinacy, in their
struggles to cast off this most ob-
noxious impost"

A long letter addressed to his libe-
ral friend. Sir H. Pamell, in 1831,
is occupied in expounding his views
on poor laws and church pn^rty.
His advocacy of laws to relieve the
poor drew forth his eloquent pleading
in their behalf^ whilst his extensive
knowledge of canon law made him
familiar with the ancient l^^lations
of the church with respect to tithes.
A short but characteristic passage
from this letter we cannot omit : ^ I
am a churchman ; but I am unac-
quainted with avarice, and I feel no
worldly ambition. I am, perhaps,
attached to my profession ; but I love
Christianity more than its worldly
appendages. I am a Catholic from
the fullest conviction; but few will
accuse me of bigotry. I am an Irish-
man hating injustice, and abhorring,
with my whole soul, the oppression oif
my country ; but I desire to heal her
sores, not to aggravate her sufferings.
In decrying, as I do, the tithe-system,
and the whole church establishment
in Ireland, I am actuated by no dis-
like to the respectable body of men
who, in the midst of fear and hatred,
gather its spoils; on the contrary,
I esteem those men, notwithstanding
their past and perhaps still existing
hostility to the religious and civil
rights of their fellow-subjects and
countrymen; I even lament the

Bishop Doyle.

painful position in which they are
placed. What I aspire to is the
freedom of the people ; what I most
ardently desire is their union — ^which
can never be effected till injustice, or
the oppression of the many by the
few, is taken away. And as to reli-
gion, what I wish is to see her freed
from the slavery of the state and the
bondage of mammon — to see her re-
stored to that liberty with which
Christ hath made her free— her mi-
nisters laboring and receiving their
hire from those for whom they labor
— that thus religion may be restored
to her empire, which is not of this
world, and men once more worship
God in spirit and in truth." In this
one paragraph we have a compen-
dious exposition of his views and
aims with regard to the civil and re-
ligious freedom of his countr}\

When the disfranchisement of tlie
forty-shilling free-holders — a disas-
trous piece of legislation — was effect-
ed in 183 1, Dr. Doyle undisguisedly
expressed his liberal views of indivi-
dual right and libert)'. One position
maintained by him is somewhat re-
markabie» and we record it, as it ac-
cords with the opinion of our fellow-
citizens. "It is the natural right of
man," he writes — *^ a right interwoven
with the essence of our constitution,
and producing as its necessary effect
the House of Commons^ — that a man
who has life, liberty, and property,
should have some share or influence
in the disposal of them by law. Take
the elective franchise from the Irish
peasant, and you not only strip him
of the present reality or appearance
of this right, but you disable him and
his posterity ever to acquire it He
is now poor and oppressed — ^you then
make him vile and contemptible ; he
is now the image of a freeman — he
will then be the very essence of a
slave. . * . Like the Helot of
Athens, he may go to tlic forum and

gaze at the election, and then
to hew his wood and fetch his,
to the freeman — an inhabltaij
not a citi2en, of the country
gave him birth.**

Whilst thus battling with tl
justice of the times, and VfU
with effect his powerful pen an
quent voice — expounding his'
of human right, reproving im
politicians, reprobating the u4
rous legislation of the goveni
and refuting the calumnies by'
his religion w^as assailed — h&\
lost sight of the humbler dutieai
pastoral office. From the It
and uncertain issues of publi
cussiouj he would revert with a
of relief to the special care of hi
immediate flock. Great was d
licitude which he so frequent
pressed and always felt for the
tion of his people. " Ah 1 " he
exclaim, ** how awful to be ma
sponsible for even one soul I |
then,' as St. Chrysostom says,!
held answerable, not for one, 1
the whole population of an
diocese I * * (?///// dV ilih s<uen
dkendum^ a quibus sunt omniui
ftm r€qmrcfidi]£ V** It will tell|
than volumes, to know his chg
as bishop, the exalted views hi
of the value of a Christian soul.
if such/' he proceeds to say, **^
value of one immortal soul red
by the precious blood of an inc
God, w^hat must be the value ol
sands ? And oh ! what the rci
bility of him who has to answ
for one, but for multitudes — p^
ultimately, for millions I He
he reasonably hope to enter h
unless with his dying breath I
repeat with truth, ^Father, of
whom thou hast confided to m;
not one has perished throti|
fault.**' In this spirit his efTo
the education and moral iro
ment of his people were card

Bishop Doyle.

to a successful issue. His wise resti-
tution of the laws of the church to
their proper control over everj'thing
connected with his diocese, com-
pletely removed the confusion which
had long reigned. The statutes
decreed for the government of his
deigjr were rigorously enforced. He
pbced upon a more intelligible basis
ihe hitherto unsettled relations of
Rfigious orders to regular diocesan
athorityy and although a religious
Umselfy he was never accused of
poitiality toward such communities.
In iact, he found it necessary as it
was difficult to induce them to un-
dertake reforms which he deemed
lay much needed in some points of
Adpline, in order to render their
services more efficient He writes,
(wLiL p. 187,) "I have, from time
Id time, suggested to men of various
lefigious orders the necessity of some
farther improvement, but in vain.
They seem to me the bodies of men
who are profiting least by the lights of
the age. I regret this exceedingly,"
etc In 1822, he wrote that "to
suppress or secularize half or most
of the religious convents of men in
Portugal would be a good work."
Thus his zeal for the cause of truth
and the benefit of the church led him,
not only in this, but in other instances,
to express opinions which not many
lonld venture to publish. It is
curious to notice his estimate of a
writer to whom but few would accord
the same justice. In a letter written
to Mariana in 1830, he says, " You
would like to know something of
Fleury. Well, he is the ablest his-
timan the church has produced ; but
he told truth sometimes without dis-
guise, and censured the views and
conduct of many persons, who in
return gave him a bad name." As
he loved, instead of fearing freedom
of thought, so, too, he boldly ex-
pressed his opinions; and with all

the power at his command endea-
vored to carry out his views. He
was no mere theorist, although he
theorized extensively upon two im-
portant subjects. One was upon the
practicability of effecting a union
between the Anglican and Catholic
churches, and the other had reference
to the formation of a patriarchate for
Ireland. For his action upon both
of these questions, arising as they did
from the circumstances of his time,
he has been made the object of ad-
verse, as well as favorable criticism.
Of his theological knowledge, and of
the light which his own native genius
threw upon every topic he touched,
there can be but one opinion, nor
will there be found any rash enough
to doubt the honesty of his intentions.
This is sufficient to exonerate him
from all unbecoming charges in the
minds of enlightened men, and it is
only the vicious and ignorant that
stoop to the imputation of evil mo-
tives. His view with regard to the
union of the churches appears to have
been a doctrinal submission to the
Catholic Church, and a compromise
in matters of discipline. The ad-
vantages to be derived from having a
patriarch in Ireland, were presented
by Dr. Doyle with his usual argu-
mentative ability; and although ac-
cused of having desired the office for
himself, the charge is an undoubted
fabrication. Both of these projects
fell through for want of cooperation ;
but they show the extent to which
his love of truth, and love of peace,
and love of increasing the power of
Christianity led him. Before conclu-
ding this notice of only a small por-
tion of his labors and of the events
which attended his career, we will
transcribe the opinion formed of him
by the Count de Montalembert, who,
in a tour through Ireland in 1832, visi-
ted Dr. Doyle and Dr. Murray. " They
have inspired fne," he writes, "with

Bishop Doyle.

the greatest veneration, not only for
their piety and other apostolic virtues,
but for their eloquence and elegance
of manners. Dr. Doyle is well known
to the Catholic world as one of the
most solid pillars of ihe true faith,
and the three kingdoms will long re-
member his appearance at the bar
of the House of Lords, where, by his
eloquent exposition of Catholic doc-
trines, he confounded the peers of
England — the descendants of those
men who signed the great charter,
but whose faith they have denied*"

Wasted by his continual labors
and incessant care for the welfare of
his people, he felt the gradual ap-
proach of the last great combat to
which all must ultimately yield. He
might well exclaim with Saint Paul,
** I have fought the good fight. I
have finished my course. I have
kept the faith, and now there is laid
up for me a crown of glory, which
the Lord shall render to me, the just
Judge." **When exhausted nature
apprised him that the last sad strug-
gle was approaching, he called for
the viaticum. But recollecting that
his Master had expired on the hard
bed of the cross, and anxious to re-
semble him even in his end, he or-
dered his mourning priests to lift
him almost naked from his bed, and
stretch him upon the cold and rigid
floor, and there, in humiliation and
penance and prayer, James of Kil-
dare and Leighlin accepted the last

earthly embrace of his God."
was in 1634, in the fortj'-eightl
of his age, and in the fifteenth
episcopate* ^

Mr. Fitzpatrick has renddB
luable ser\ice to his coimtry ani
gion by writing the life of this en
man. The next thing to being a
man is to propose to our peop
example of great and good men,
they should honor, and whose f
ry should inspire those who coi
terthem. Ireland has many sucl
whose histories have not yet
WTitten, and whose lives would
to raise in the souls of her 5
generous emulation of their ac
An incident in the life of Dr.
will show that this was a
ciple with which he himself
deeply impressed, and which b(
emphatically expressed, A ft
monk, dressed rather pictures(
once approached him with a
meek aspect, and said that he
member of a community froB
continent just come to Ireland be
the relics of a man said to have
** beatified." At the same tin
offered to the bishop a considc
portion of the relics. The b
was somewhat ruffled in tempei
r(jplied sternly: •* Sir, we nee<
the ashes of beatified forei;
while we see the bones of our
tyred forefathers whitening till
around us." ~

•/mm to Erin.

lONA TO ERIN!

HAT SAINT OOLUMBA SAID TO THE BIRD BLOWN OVER FROM IRELAND

TO lONA.*

Clino to my breast, my Irish bird.

Poor stonn-tost stranger, sore afraid I
How sadly is thy beauty blurred —
The wing whose hue was as the curd,
Rough as the seagull's pinion made I

Lay close thy head, my Irish bird.
Upon this bosom, human still 1

Nor fear the heart that* still has stirred

To every tale of pity heard
From every shs^ of earthly ill.

III.

For you and I are exiles both j

Rest you, wanderer, rest you here I
Soon fair winds shall waft you forth
Back to our own beloved north —
Would God, I could go with you, dear I

IV.

Were I as you, then would they say,
Hermits and all in choir who join,
* Behold two doves upon their way ;
The pilgrims of the air are they,
Birds from the Liffey or the Boyne 1'

But you will see what I am banned
No more, for my youth's sins, to see—

My Denys oaks in council stand,

By Roseapenna's silver strand —
Or by Raphoe your flight may be,

(» a ^cry andent legend of the great fbonder of lona, and irery characteristic of hit exalted patriotiaa
DC Hi i lf'""* te >U creatorea, in which he waa an antitype of the seimphic St Francia.

58 lima to Erin.

VI.

The shrines of Meath are fair and far,
White-winged one ! not too far for thee—

Emania, shining like a star,

(Bright brooch on Erin's breast you are !)•
That I am never more to see.

VII.

You'll see the homes of holy men
Far west upon the shoreless main —

In sheltered vale, on cloudy Ben,

Where saints still pray, and scribes still pen
The sacred page, despising gain I

VIII.

Above the crofts of virgin saints.
There pause, my dove, and rest thy wing.

But tell them not our sad complaints !

For if they dreamt our spirit faints
There would be fruidess sorrowing.

IX.

Perch as you pass amid their trees.

At noon or eve, my travelled dove,
And blend with voices of their bees
In croft, or school, or on their knees —
They'll bind you with their hymns of love 1

Be thou to them, O dove ! where'er
The men or women saints are found.

My hyssop flying through the air ;

My seven-fold benedictions bear —
To them, and all on Irish ground.

XI.

Thou wilt return, my Irish bird —

I, Colum, do foretell it thee.
Would thou couldst speak as thou hast heard
To all I love — O happy bird I

At home in Eri soon to be !

* It is said that Macha, the queen, traced out the site of the n>]ral rath of Emania, near Armagh, with the pia
of her golden brooch. St* Mrs. Fergns^*t " Irtla$ul b^vn tkt Ccnfmst,'* for this and other interesting Cel-
tic legends.

Magas ; or, Long Ago.

MAGAS j OR, LONG AGO.

A TALE OF THE EARLY TIMES.

CHAPTER VII.

Are there any souls who can read
the gospels as they would a common
history of an heroic being ? Whose
frames do not thrill at the sublime
words the anointed Saviour uttered ?
Whose hearts do not glow with an
unearthly warmth at the touching inci-
dents which mark the divine foot-
steps ? Who see in the miracles only
a temporary relief from natural ail-
ments ? Who feel in the tremendous
agony of the passion only the ordina-
ry tide of human emotion in contem-
plating suffering? Such as these
will not sympathize with Lotis, as
she rose from the cleansing waters
with one sole aspiration in her heart ;
one firm, unchangeable purpose in
her will ; one object of interest for
her intellect; one single love to fill
every affection she was conscious of.
Long ago she had sought the truth,
the light, the life, the way. She
possessed them now ; it remained for
her to form herself upon the model,
to think his thoughts, to act his
deeds, to live in his sight, and be
crucified in him; and all because she
felt that here on earth it was the
only life worth having, the only
love worth loving. The perversion
of the world had become to her the
necessary result of its having forsa-
ken God ; and because it has forsa-
ken God, and cannot recognize truth,
it will ever persecute good ; and they
that live godly in Jesus Christ must
necessarily suffer persecution — the
persecution to which a blessing is
promised. Day and night did Lotis
meditate on the words of God ; nor was
it long ere she desired to bring them

into action. After the example of
the Christians of Jerusalem, she had
placed her resources at the feet of
the Bishop of Athens, and now she
placed her services under his direc-
tion. But there was one thought that
haunted her, and often she uttered
one word in his presence ; that word
was Chione.

" And what do you think can be
done for Chione, my child ?" asked
the good bishop one day.

" I do not know, father, (so let me
call you, I beg ;) I do not know; but
I ifnderstand her struggle now, which
I did not when I sat with her on the
ruins; I see what she meant when
she could not give up Magas, or the
applause of the world. She dreaded
slavery because she was not free in
soul. Would I could win the inte-
rior freedom for her by wearing the
exterior chain. Father, let me beg
Chione's freedom, bodily freedom ;
hers is not a spirit to be coerced into
discipline. Surveillance only exas-
perates her."

" I believe it, my child, when it is
not of her own choosing. Remem-
ber, however, she obeys Magas."

"Because he flatters her, fosters
her pride, and maintains her in her
station ; besides, she loves him, and
a woman easily obeys where she
loves."

" She has bound herself to follow
Christ."

" But she does not feel free to do
it. Perhaps, were exterior freedom
granted to her, she might follow what
she knows to be truth. I shall ne-
ver forget her appearance in the
ruins of Tiryns when first I accosted
her. Chione has not lost her faith."

or. Long Ago.

"Faith Without works is dead/'*
said the bishop ; " for works are the
expression of our love, of that divine
charity without which we are noth-
ing, t Though we speak with the
tongues of men and of angels, and
have not charity, we become as
sounding brass or tinkling cymbals/*

" Chione knows this,** said Lotis ;
" she feels it intensely ; it is this
feeling which occasions the struggle
which she says is destroying her,"

**Well, she shall have her free-
dom, my daughter, though I doubt
its eflTecling a good result. It is
scarcely in the redemptive order.
Our 'Lord cured those only whose
souls were turned to him.J Men
try to penetrate the secrets of mat-
ter, and call their guesses science.
The action of mind they obser\^e not,
or they would see that it obeys laws
as unfalteringly as the insensate
stone, A soul perfectly united to
God is endowed with power that
seems supernatural to those who
know not that * soul* is of divine ori-
gin, and even in its primal attributes
towers above matter. The action of
such a soul on one open to its influ-
ences is miraculous, as all action of
grace is ; but it was once Adam*s
privilege by conferred gift at crea-
tion ; it is now the Christian's right,
purchased for him by Christ. The
apostles, as you know, heal those
whom their shadow f^dls upon, not
of their own power, but by virtue of
the Holy Spirit that dwells in them \
but the power of God thus manifests
itself only when the recipient has at
least some degree of recipient power,
obtained by grace also. Christ is
silent before his unbelieving judges,
works no miracle for Herod ; yet he
cannot exist without grace fldwing
from him ; but grace falling on

t t Cor, sill ;« X.

t *^ABd be <iid not Rumy mighty irarlatbeie, b^dOM
of thfik uobelieC" M«tt. xvL ^

souls who will not receive it^ but
hardens them the more.* This is
why an apostate is ever harder to re-
convert than one who has never re-
ceived the faith ; this is why we are
forbidden to cast our pearls before
swine ; this is why I tremble for Chi-
one. Remorse was busy at her heart
when you left her. If she listens to
the voice of God thus speaking with-
in her, she may yet be a saint ; if
she rejects the proffered voice^ Ifear^
I fear the effect of grace rejected in
such a mind as hers ; it will demon-
strate itself with no ordinary povven**

** At the words she heard at Ephe-
sus she fainted away/* said Lotis.

** Better/* answered the bishop,
** l^etter had she thrown herself at
the feet of the apostle, and said sim-
ply, *I repent me of my sin/ Of
what ser\^ice to her was her remorse?
It stopped her eloquence, paralyzed
her tongue. She could no longer
mystify her hearers by vain terms of
an unintelligible philosophy of which
she held the key in her hand, though
she would not use it. From what
you have told me, it was remorse,
and not repentance, she felt/'

'*Ohl that she might be saved,
though it were as by fire/' fervently
ejaculated Lotis.

The bishop looked at her face
beaming with heavenly charit)*, and
the spirit of prophecy awoke within
him.

"Lotis," said he, "all Christians
are more or less sureties for one an-
other, and must bear each other's
burdens, even as our Master became
surety for each one of us, and bore
our sins upon the cross. It is a fear-
ful burden Chione has to endure,
more especially for one of her dispo-
sition. 'Twill be, indeed, a saving
as if by fire, when salvation comes
to her. Say, would you be willing to

* **Aiia God hardened the h«ut of Pharaa*' Exo-

Magas ; or, Long Ago.

lidp her bear her burden ? If the
flames are kindled, and she shrinks
bm them, will you pass through
them in her place ?"

« To save her ? Yes I Indeed I
would I Father, I love Chione."

"Then offer yourself to God for
her, my daughter, and strengthen
Toursclf by prayer for the suffering
you must look forward to. Chione
will be granted to expiatory love."

CHAPTER VIII.

" Now, my Chione, we will go to
Athens."

"No, not to Athens, Magas ; any-
where rather than to Athens ; I beg
of you not t« take me to Athens."

"Why, what caprice is this? Wh^re
in all the world will you find your-
self likely to be appreciated so well
as at Athens ? What audience more
intelligent, more refined, more sus-
ceptible of sublime emotions? I
love Athens ; you know I do, and
}X)u may judge of the depth of my
love for you, that, to ensure your free-
dom, I have kept from it so long;
but now, no one has a claim upon
you save myself; so we will go to
Athens."

• " I thought you had set your heart
on going to Rome."

"That was only when I deemed
Athens was out of the question. But
my— my Chione, you are free ; we
naay go anywhere. My estates are
suffering from want of my presence ;
besides, I will settle some of the reve-
nues on you. You must come to
Athens with me."

It was very unwillingly that Chione
acceded ; but what could she do ?
Was she less a slave now than be-
fore? Sometimes she thought she
was more so ; for had she gone to
the Lady Damaris, resumed the prac-
tice of her religion, which clung to

her inner being, although outwardly
she gave no sign of faith, she knew
she would have been not only freed,
but placed in a position to render her
independent of Magas. And why did
she not do this now — ^why? Her
fanae had preceded her to the city,
and she resolved to prove worthy of
the reputation she had acquired.
Poetry, art, mythic types, and Chris-
tian dogmas, blended in euphonic
union in the discourses she delivered,
while her impassioned verse thrilled
every heart ; everywhere she was
greeted as the modem Sappho, every-
where honored as the tenth muse ;
and at last the acclamations of- her
fellow-citizens called her to the very
temple of the muses in which we
were first introduced to her, there to
receive the crown of music, eloquence,
and poesy. How could she refuse ?
How could she renounce the world ?
. . . . The throng was immense;
not only the tlite of Athens were
there, but strangers came in crowds
to hear the celebrated Leontium.
The small temple had been some-
what injudiciously chosen, since not
one half of the crowding throng could
enter. The festival had been propos-
ed as a private tribute of friendship
from the most exalted citizens of
Athens to their adorable muse ; but
Leontium (as her public name ran)
was no longer a private person ; it
was found impossible to distance the
crowds ; and hastily a platform was
erected outside the building in the
sacred grove, that the public might
be accommodated and have a chance
of hearing their favorite sing the
glories of Athens.

We will not attempt to describe
the preparatory exercises ; the beau-
tiful intertwinings and graceful
wreathings of the various myths re-
presented on that day, when all the
energies of the city seemed exhaust-
ed to impart glory to the classical

'as : or,

allegories that were about to disap-
pear from among mankind for even
There was an elegance, a chastity
about the perfonnance never witness-
ed before, and an influence was felt
impending that belonged not to the
types before them. To the superior
taste of Magas and Chione some of
this atmosphere of exaltation was
doubtless due ; yet the audience felt
as if something more than this was
around them ; as if the divinities
themselves were present, and insist-
ing on receiving the homage that
for so many ages had been present-
ed as their right

But now it was nearly oven
The walls of Thebes had risen to
the lyre of Amphion, while the slow
but untiring Hours had followed to
its soft music the glorious chariot of
Apollo ; and so artfully was all con-
trived that the spectators could not
discover by what magic the stones
were moved, or the figures represent-
ing the hours supported as they
moved on the mists away.

Hermes, instructing Cadmus in
the art of letters ; Minerva, introduc-
ing the distaff into the household ;
and Ceres, teaching man to sow the
com ; all these had followed with
appropriate poetry and music, with
many others of a similar description.
And then, as if to heighten the effect
by contrast, came a hush, a calm, a
silence ; the stage was covered with
clouds ; the incense rendered every
object indistinct ; low, melancholy
tones uttered at inter\'als, kept ex-
pectation on the stretch ; then sud-
denly a blast of trumpets seemed to
clear away the mists ; and the clouds
repeding, disclosed Aurora opening
the gates of the morning to the mu-
sic of the spheres, who then passed
slowly out of sight as a far more love-
ly vision broke upon the spectators
— ^Vcnus Urania, borne by the graces
into the company of the muses, de-

scending from the skies to greet the
votaries who, garlanded and wreathed^
were waiting to receive her in a burst
of celestial song. The illusion was
complete; the daughter of Ccelus and
of Light was on her first appearance
greeted with a tumult of applause;
and as in wavy, measured movements,
encircled by the graces, she floated
down to earth, scattering her bright
inspirations in sparks of fire upon
the muses who were kindling into
enthusiasm at her approach, the
whole assembly caught the melody
as it rose from the inspired sister-
hood:

Beatitiful aati^Hter ofCdfloi and tisHi,
Cocnmg in j^Iory tanStiM/nn our ttfflit.
Vision Off lovclmcM f ^Ua aT the dif \
Grateful ind ^H \% the tMma^e we piyv
AW (^rt by the jfiaccf, thou comtft to earth ;
Wirh jny and with music «c ^tJoome thjr birth.
Oh ! stay, tliou iwcct goddeu, to bnghtcn our U^v
To bntiiih our torrowt, to *til] every itfifc
O Ven«» Uta&u ! we c»ll upon tbe«^
Inipirer of gbudnav of ccs&uy J

The singers were the multitude ;
the sound of the voices of the muses,
or those who personified them, was
lost in the thrilling greeting which
that multitude gave to their favorite —
Chione,

Dressed in a dazzling robe span-
gled with gold, crowned with rays so
artificially disposed that they seemed
to emit light as she was descending^ m
Chione came forward as the Venis
Urania of the Temple,

The throng hushed as she raised
her arm to speak ; among the thou-
sands there, scarce a sound was
heard ; the very breathing was sup-
pressed, for fear one tone of that elo-
quent voice should be unheard. " My
friends/* she began.

Suddenly a low, piercing wail
broke upon the throng, like the moan
of a distressed spirit, so unearthly
was the sound. Again it rang through
the echoes, under ground, over head.
Chione started, and the throng was
awed. Then, in the fearful silence,

Magas ; or, Long Ago.

these words were heard. Distinctly
they came forth, though uttered in a
wild, unearthly cadence, as if they
were spoken by one of another world :

Once ibr nhrer, noir for gold.
Is the Lofd of (lory sold 1

^v oc« deep v)ue I
JndM went to his own place ;
Nor shall time the sin efiace.
tie nrast eieiy joy forego I

For cv«^ woe 1*

Every heart was chilled ; Chione
paled and trembled. Magas sprang
to her relief. "It is but a trick of
your own devbing; you are paid
back in your own coin. Compose
yourselt it is nothing." The crowd
was too dense to allow a search to be
made. There was a long pause, but
at length Chione was called upon to
pnxxed. Her theme was, "The
Glory of Athens — of Athens, the
Cmlizerof the Nations."

The tremor which was still slightly
apparent in the frame of the Venus
Urania when led forward by Magas,
(now habited as Apollo, that he might
consistently bear a part in the scene,
and watch over any demonstration
that should again affect the goddess
he worshipped with so intense a de-
votion,) gave an increased interest to
her appearance ; the look of appeal
she seemed to cast over that mighty
throng, as if to claim protection from
some invisible enemy of her peace,
imparted an additional tenderness
to the sympathies of the audience.
Chione regained her courage, as she
inhaled the moral atmosphere that
surrounded her ; she forced back the
unwelcome shades of thought that
had been called from their tombs,
^re she intended them to lie buried
forever. She gazed around. The
scene at the back of the stage had been

* It is on record that, at the first preaching of the
(^(Mpd, Bomeroas signs, sounds, and words were ut*
totd in the pagan temples, at the times of worship,
to tht oonfiisiQn of the multitudes therein assembled.
I kare the fact as I ibond it, to the construction of
BymdefB, each one for himselC

changed. The citadel of Athens had
been introduced, and hovering above
it was Minerva, the tutelary divinity
of the place. Chione was evidently
surprised ; perhaps again she sus-
pected an interruption ; but Magas
whispered, " By my command," and
she at length made a gesture, as if to
begin. There was, however, a marked
change in her inspiration ; she was
no longer the commanding genius of
the temple. It was evident to all
that she was under some irrepressible,
some irresistible influence. Magas
looked anxious ; his whole soul was.
bound up in Chione's success. She
was his pride, his glory, his Aspasia,
his Sappho. Never yet had he known
her to fail ; and he watched her words
as if his very life depended upon them.
She commenced :

"Athenians, you have asked me
to speak to you of the glory of our
city. Behold it ! Wisdom is watch-
ing over its citadel. The glorious
Minerva, issuing from the head of the
immortal father of gods and men,
presides over the welfare of Athens —
has ever presided over it 1 This is
our crown, this our glory. The his-
tory of this our Athens, is unlike the
history of any other city in the world ;
for it forms a chain of glory, a long-
continued tissue of renown. Her
history is a web of varied dyes, in-
troducing characters of every degree
of virtue, talent, heroism, or nobility.

"Time was, Athenians, that this
beautiful land, now covered with
fertile fields and richly ornamented
villas; now the splendid resort of
intelligence, philosophy, and science
— time was, that Athens, the enlight-
ened, the refined, the artistic ; Athens,
whose works of beauty will supply all
time with models; Athens, whose
pathways throughout the whole re-
gion round, even to the Piraeus, are
adorned with statues of her illus-
trious sons — the poets, painters, war-

riors, and statesmen she has pro-
duced ^ Athens, within whose citadel
arises the Parthenon, which would it*
self be the wonder of the world, were
not that wonder exhausted on behold-
ing the gigantic statue of our tutelary
goddess which it contains ; time
was, that Athens was a drear and
sandy waste, the resort of savages
who knew not the use of fire —
who were clotlied in skins, and
lived on roots and acorns.* But
Minerva looked with complacency
on the spot she had selected for the
dwelling-place of her chosen people*
She sent Theseus to Attica, to clear
the land from the pirates that infes-
ted it ; to enact laws, and teach the
uncultured men to submit to right-

beous rule. It was first the law of
force, though not unmixed ; for men
unused to government must be co-
erced until their powers of mind ex-
pand ; until they feel what lawful
government can effect; until they
know that lawlessness is not true
liberty. But not long was Athens
ruled by one. Athena;, Queen, who
loves this citadel, had other views.
Her chosen city was to bear the
glorious palm of an enlightened free-
dom,

'* A deed unparalleled in the annals
of nations occurred Codrus, her

■ king, inspired by that sublime divin-
rwho hath care of Athens, devoted
himself to destruction, that the fa-
vored city of Minerva might be saved-
Codrtis died I more sublime in his
death than the loftiest monarch ever
was in life. Who does not bow be-
fore the shade of Codms ? Who does
not feel that, by his patriotism, his

-disinterestedness, his heroism, he laid

■the foundation of his country's great-
ness ?

Stiidcath— otirlifel

•* Bear with roe ; I must pause a
moment here/'

• Thtm wen frolMUy 4

Music filled up that pause ; but
music so solemn, so grand, that tlie
audience felt as if the spirit of the
mighty dead were hovering over ihenL
Chione resumed :

" To so great a hero, it was impossi*
ble to find a worthy successor I Man
is not fit for irresponsible power.
Too commonly he uses it but to give
the reign to his own passions, while
he represses in liis subjects the de-
velopment of those lofty qualities of
soul which distinguish man from the
brutes that scour our plains. No
other king ever wielded the sceptre
in Athens ; for Minen^a intended
that a people should be formed, and
not a single individual. She wished
a body of men to rise to greatness,
not a crowned monarch to acquire
renown by the extirpation of millions.

" Athense loved her children^ and
she gave them a law-giver whose first
act relieved the poor of their bur-
dens ; released them from the op-
pression of the rich. Solon knew
that the poor are the sinews of
nation ; he knew too, that there is a
point in which the crushing powei
of debt destroys the qualities that
form the man, the free-man so d
to wisdom ; and Athens shook off
oppression beneath his righi
sway. The laws of Solon shall be
honored as long as rectitude itself ia
honored, because they recognize that
principle of individual development
which alone can fonn a great people.
Particular modes of bringing out thia
principle may change, may pass inta
other modes ; but the principle itself
is eternal, it is worthy of Solon,
worthy of the descendant of the im-
mortal Codrus; it was a direct ia*
spiration of that wisdom which has
so unweariedly watched over the for-
mation of the Athenian people.

" Such a principle was it to whicti
we owe the sages and the heroes that
adorn our annals. What heart doe$

■;Vv<**^/•;

Magas ; or, Long Ago.

\ I

■ H%

^4.

not thrill on hearing the name of
Uiltiades, of Themistocles, of Cimon;
or Aristides? Who does not glow
with rapture at beholding the works
of Phidias, of Praxiteles, Apelles?
Who can study with Anaxagoras,
converse with Socrates, or speculate
vith Plato and Aristotle, nor feel the
dirine inspiration communicated to
diemselves ? Who can read the an-
nb of Xenophon and Thuc)'dides>
without feeling proud that he himself
is a citizen of Athens ; and which of
OS has not wept tears of ecstatic emo-
tioD at beholding a tragedy of Euri-
pides or of Sophocles ? What coun-
tij in the world could ever boast of
SBcfa a galaxy of celebrated names ?

"Tell me not that these men were
not all of Athenian origin. What if
soDe few of them first saw the light
in some other city than that of
Athens. Not the less to Athens do
they owe their genius and their fame ;
none the less from her did they re-
ceive their inspiration, their culture,
and development. The influence of
Athens is not limited to her own
domain. Her great men live for ever
to kindle thoughts of greatness
throi^hout the world. Many far
distant, both in time and space, will,
to endless ages, love to muse with
Pcrkles on the banks of the Ilissus,
while he is planning those exquisite
creations which have linked his name
*idi all that is sublime and beautiful
B human art. Many will rejoice with
hua as gently he sinks to rest, sus-
tained by the sublime consciousness
that, during the whole of his long
career, he had never caused an
Athenian to shed a tear.

"•His career was for humanity, and
in this he resembled Athens; for
■alike the vulgar glory that crowns
Ac conqueror's arms, the boast of
Atibens is that, although so many
deeds of prowess attest the heroic
nfar of her children, yet never,
VOL. VII. — 5

never did she enter-(»i an aggressalv^
war for the mere sake of conquest,-
for the vain-glorious motive of adding
by injustice another territory to her
own. No, Athens has shed her
benefits abroad; has made known
to the nations all the virtues of the
earth. She has proved herself capa-
ble of great acts, alike in war as in
peace. Her genius is godlike, it is
diffiisive. The very site Minerva
chose for her citadel betokens this
destiny. Athens is compelled by
circumstance to seek by peaceful
commerce the com necessary for her
subsistence. The goddess gave her
the honey of Hymettus, the Pentelic
marble, and the silver mines of
Laurion, that her eloquence might
be sweet, her courage firm, and her
commerce gainful; but she denied
her com, that com which is the
nutriment of the body, that, by fetch-
ing it from foreign lands, she might,
in doing so, communicate to the
world those sublime ideas which fonn
the nobler nutriment of tlie soul.

"Thus is it that wisdom is the
glory of Athens ; it explains the his-
tory of the past ; it affords a key to
our present position.

"The mighty genius of force now
bestrides the nations ; it keeps down
the surging emotions of half-savage
men; itself, with its stoical insensi-
bility to beauty, with its gladiatorial
slaughters, betokening that it is
hardly yet emerged from barbarism.
Is this constrained calm to effect no
purpose in the decrees of wisdom?
Examine, and you will find that the
glory of Athens is still increasing,
even under a supposed subjection.*

"The nominal dependent refines
and civilizes her conqueror. The
wisdom of Athens, which, confined

* The Romans, out of reverence to letters, left to
Athens a nominal freedom a long time after they had
virtually subjugated her. It Mras not till the reign of
Severus that her civilization was crushed. Chione is
supposed to speak one hundred and fifty years before
that period.

Magas t or. Long Ago.

within its own nanx)w domain^ could
but have enlightened the inhabitants
of a few cities, is now spreading over
the entire earth ; the words of its
sages are instructing our haughty
rulers ; the myths of our poets are
civilizing Rome. This, then, is the
glory of Athens; and such glory
must needs be eternal. Lands may
change owners, and physical force
give a momentary, a seeming nobility
to a barbarian ; but mind is immortal !
the empire of ideas lasts for ever.
Thus is Athens the ci^alizer of the
nations.

" Sons of Athens 1 heirs of the
philosophic ages \ children of the
poets I to you I need not explain
how the beautiful devices which sur-
round us are types of a higher know-
ledge — how many a glorious idea
lies hidden under the name Minerva,
The veiled Isis of Egypt, upon whose
statue was inscribed, *I am all that
has been, all that shall be, and none
among mortals has ever yet lifted my
veil/ was, as you know, but another
form of our loved Dtxty, Wisdom
must preside at every institution
designed to last The precepts of
Anaxagoras, the reveries of the divine
Plato, alike instruct us in the eternity
of ideas. Truth goes by different
■names upon this earth ; it is repre-
sented by the nations under different
myths, according to the conception
men form of it It requires a high
intellect to contemplate truth in the
abstract ; to most minds it is simpli-
fied, endowed with power by being
personified ; hence our worship. Isis
in Eg>pt, in Athens becomes Mi-
ner\^a ; the veil, if not lifted, is at least
rendered more transparent; and it
may be that the time of its lifting is
at hand. Portents of wondrous power
are working in men's hearts ; the
principle of development evolved in
Athens is becoming spread over the
^arth. Let us take courage. Athens is

still at the head of civilistatlon ;
mains with her children tha^
continue. ^|

*^ Three i» ordi are awakened within ray
While dwelling ofi Athena's fttory ;

Three wordi are m. key unloduog Ihe real;
lUustntting Atticai^i glory,

ITie&e word* proceed from no oatmrd oiaie,

WiiJiJn us they write iheir

'* Man was credited all free, alt fre«»
Cliams seen at his biftJi were nevef

Believe it, in ipite of the enmity
And ff-iliy of men put tofcether.

I (ear not the slave wha has broken hst

*Tii the Godlike rcaumtng his owo

** And Virtue ts more than an empty c
It may guidance uid practice be,

Thoogih man may stumble, and totfeft and ttfl
He may atrire for divinity.

And what unto reason doth seem unreal.

Full oH, 10 the childlike, doUi Wisdom retral

" For a God difth exist : and a Holy WUI
Is there si ill, though the huraao wiU patten

Over time, over space, the high thought fla«l«
All f;] owing with life that ne'^er fiilters ;

While an thin^ move round in uticeasms cluug

That fpint breaiJies peace through ibe beavenl)

•Tm, .-,',- .', ,1.^ wiilm

y 4!ory ;

Pf . with increwui

lliey'rc the kc>» ui Aihcna's stofy,

No inan can e'er forfeit his inward worth.

While wisdom within to these words gtv(

etni

Chione ceased. She had not s
as she was wont to do ; she felt
scious that in palliating paganls
please the audience, she was pi
ing with her own conscience:, V
she proposed first to speak hei
dress, she had intended to g|
synopsis of the philosophy and j
ry of Greece, and to avoid m;
logy j but the words she had h
had embittered her spirit, rend
it defiant ; and half-angrily, hall
castically, had she uttered the s
ments we have recorded. Thew
not, however, the mesmeric syi
thy between her and the assem
crowd that was wont to produce

♦ The German student will here recognia* III
ftong i* an tmiiatinn, or rather a tran«l«ri<m aili(
the subject of Sdilller's " Drei Worte nenn* idh
inhaltschwcr/* 'Yht infidelity of Chiuiie, lik« 1
modem timesy does not he^ictte to avail itielfol
learned fi«m CI IT ', en such truths can

their iiiuo«ii]id ph uct, the tnith tb

if, tAVtte (Ikeir titc moot i

Tk« Unity of tJu Human Race.

trie bursts of enthusiasm, albeit they
ijpeed with die sentiments express-
ed. Her own enthusiasm had been
qoelled before commencing; she
coeld not then communicate what
Ac did not possess. But it had been
prenously arranged that she was to
be crowned ; she had been invited
there for that purpose ; therefore the
figure representing Minerva ceased
to hover in the air, came forward,
and, to very sweet music, placed the
cioim on Chione's head.

Benity, crowned by Wisdom** han^
Reipit triumphant in the land.

Her scent^ dofpcr

b Buuic linked topoesjTi

In tones of heaveidy haimooy,
Attaned to earth's necessity by Eloquence,
bright power 1

The pause that succeeded was
filled up with throwing of bouquets
and shouts of congratulation. When
a lull came, and Chione was about to
give a parting salute to the specta-
tors, these words came distinctly to
her ear, though in so low a tone that
they were inaudible to any but her-
self and those close to her :

Earth's crown of glory is a crown of thorns ;
Such the Saviour's head adorns,

Who died for thee.
Crowned with thorns, for thee he bled.
On the cross his life-blood shed.

All for thee I

Chione became very pale; she
attempted to come forward, but fell
back in the arms of her attendants ;
she had fainted.

TRANSLATED FROM THB FRBNCK.

THE UNITY OF THE HUMAN RACE.

This is one of a series of popular
discourses given at the Imperial Asy-
Inn of Vincennes, France, by A. de
Qoatrefages, member of the Institute,
and Professor of Natural Science.
After some preliminary remarks to
Us audience, he proceeds to the
qoesdon. What is man ? " It is not
diflkult to perceive that man is nei-
tber a mineral nor a vegetable, nei-
ther a plant nor a stone. But is he
in animal ? Not likely, when we re-
flect upon all his attributes.

"None of you would like to be
compared to those animals who feed
on grass, to the hog who wallows in
the mire, nor to the dog, in whom
■an has found the qualities of both
Kcnd and companion 3 nor further,
to the horse, though he were as cele-
brated as the famous Gladiator.
** Man 18 not an animal. He is

distinguished above the brute crea-
tion by numerous and important at-
tributes. We have only to consider
his intellectual capacity, the power
of articulation, which gives to every
people a special language, the capa-
city to write, which reproduces lan-
guage ; the aid of the fine arts, to
explain and materialize the concep-
tions of his imagination. He is also
distinguished above animals by two
fundamental characters which belong
solely to him. Man is the only or-
ganized and living being who has
the abstract sentiment of both good
and evil, the only being in whom
there exists a moral sense, the only
one who believes in a future state,
and who recognizes the existence of
beings superior to himself, having in-
fluence upon him for good or evil.
It is this two-fold conviction which

The Unity 0f the Hutmn Race.

grasps and holds the great truths
which are called religion.

•* At a later period I will return
to these two questions of morality
and religion, not as a theologian, but
a^ a naturalist. At present I limit
myself to this fact, that man, how-
ever savage he may be, shows signs
of morality and religion that are not
found in any animal Consequently,
man is a being apart, separated from
animals by two great distinctions
which are his own, and also by his
incontestable superiority. There the
difference ceases. With regard to
his body, man is nothing more or
less than an animal. Apart from
some diflTerences of form and dispo-
sition, he is no more than equal to
the superior animals that surround
us. If we take for comparison
those that assimilate to our general
form, anatomy shows us that our or-
gans are the same as theirs \ we find
in them muscle for muscle, nerve for
ncr\*e, that is found in man himself.
PhysiolDg)% in turn, has demonstrated
that, in the body of man, the organs,
the muscles, the nerv^es, have the
same animal functions.

** This fact is indisputable, taken
from a purely scientific and practical
view. We cannot experiment upon
man, but it is possible to do so upon
animals. Human physiology cm-
ploys the means to enlighten us
Uf)on our organic functions. Physi-
cians have carried to the sick-bed
the result of their investigations upon
animal life. Anthropology' also, we
shall sec, has derived useful lessons
from beings who are essentially our
inferiors. Anthropology should de-
scend still lower than animals to en-
lighten us thoroughly. Vegetables
are not animals any more than ani-
mals are men ; but man, animals,
and vegetables are linked together in
the same living organization. By
this only, they arc distinguished from

•J

-uu

the minerals, which are netihei*
one nor the other^ and by ce^
general facts known to all.

"All organized beings liave
ted duration, all are created
and weak, all grow and be€(
strong ; during a part of their I9
ence, all decrease in energy anj
tality, sometimes also in size, |
die. During life, all organize4
ings have need of nourishment
fore dying, all produce, either
seed or by an egg, (I speak
cies, not individuals,) which
of the species that seem to comi
rectly from a shoot, a layer, or a gf
all proceed from a grain, or an i
Thus, all these great phenom(
common to all living organized
ings, including man as well as pl^
suppose a general law for their |
eminent. Science confirms this (
elusion every day, which is no!
invention of reasoning alone, bu
regarded as an experimced/act, \
ther explanations are not necesi
to show the raagnificent result.

" How admirable, that man and
smallest insect, that the lord of
soil and the smallest plant, are
tached one to the other, by the s;
links, and that the entire living q
tion forms together a perfect I
mony 1

** In this communion, and in cen
phenomena of this accordance ^
certain laws, equally common, ll
results one consequence upon wl
I would not too strongly insist W,
ever may be the questions relatinj
man, that we have to examine w|
ever these touch upon any one of
phenomena that are common tq
living organized beings, we must
only investigate animal life, but i
vegetable life, if we would m%\
find the truth.

** When one of these question!
proposed, what can we truthfully u
in reply? We must examine i|

The Unity of the Hutnan Race.

idcr the general laws that govern
tier living organized beings. If the
resd'gation tends to make man an
[reption to these general laws, we
ill know it is false. K you resolve
\ problem so as to include man in
\ general laws, you may be sure
it pu are scientific and correct,
th these proofs, and these only, I
iceed to the second question of
luopologists. Are there several
loss of men, or does there exist
: one, comprising several races ?
'Some explanations are necessary,
amine the designs before you, and
1 will discover the principal varie-
s exhibited in the human type.
Q have there individuals from all
rts of the world ; you see that they
fer considerably in color, some in
»r hair, others in their size, or in
iir peculiar features. It behooves
to ascertain if the differences that
esent themselves in these human
Dups are those of species^ or if they
irely indicate the existence of races
longing to the same species.
" In order to reply to this question,
u must ascertain the true signi-
ance of the words species and race,
»e result of the discussion depends
on these two words. Unhappily,
.7 are often confounded and badly
fined, and we become enveloped
mystery when we wish to consider
an more closely. Let us then form
precise idea before entering into
lerwise profitless details.
'*None ofyou certainly confound the
rse with the ass ; though the horse
ybe no larger than the dogs of
;wfoundland, or though the ass
Hild attain the size of an ordinary
rse — ^for example, the large asses
Poitou. You will immediately say
7 are different species. You will
^ the same if you place a dog and
rolf side by side.

"We call by the one name of dogs
t dtfierent types, such as the

spaniel, the greyhound, the lap-dog,
the Newfoundland, the King Charles ;
and we are right. However, if we
were to judge by the eyes only, and
even after more minute observations,
there is between the dogs I have
named greater differences of color,
proportion, and size, than between
the horse and the ass. The latter
have certainly more similarity be-
tween them than the types of dogs I
have named.

" If I should place a black and a
white water-spaniel side by side, you
would call them both spaniels, though
of a different color. When we ex-
amine vegetables, it is the same thing ;
a red and a white rose are equally
roses ; pears that are sold two for a
penny, are the same species as those
sold at twenty cents each.

" Without any doubt you have ar-
rived at the exact conclusion of the
naturalists ; like them, you have re-
solved the questions of species and
racCy which at first sight seemed, for
the reasons I have given, more or
less confused.

" These examples fully prove that
popular observation and common
sense are in many things fully as re-
liable as the investigations of science.
Were such deductions generalized
into scientific language, I feel sure
there would be found few if any mis-
takes.

"These investigations prove that
animals and vegetables vary within
certain limits. The dog remains but
a dog, whatever may be his general
form, color, or his shape. The pear
is but a pear, whatever may be its
flavor or the color of its skin. It is
from these facts that I am led to be-
lieve that variations can be trans-
mitted through generations. The
union of two spaniels produces span-
iels, the union of two mastiffs pro-
duces mastiffs. Thus, in a general
manner, the result is, that beings of

f%i Unify of i^ Unman Race.

the same species can cease to re-
semble each other absolutely ; more-
over, take exteriorly different charac-
tersj without isolating or forming dif-
ferent species ; as I have said, the dog
remains a dog^ whatever may be the
modifications he presents. These are
precisely the groups formed by indi-
viduals which we have spoken of as
tlie remote primitive tj'pes of species
that have formed distinct secondary
groups, which naturalists call rares^

" You will understand, then, what is
meant in speaking of the races of
beeves, horses, etc. We have do-
mesticated but one kind of beeves,
which have generated the Breton
race, the great beeves of Uri, of such
savage aspect, and also the gentle
Durhams, We have but one kind of
domestic horse, and this has given us
the pony, as well as the enormous
horses that are seen in the streets
of London, commonly used by the
brewers ; finally, the several races of
sheep, goats, etc., belong to one and
the same species* I place this as-
semblage of proof vividly before you
to avoid vagueness in your investiga-
tions, which would be attended with
serious mistakes. I wtll now cite
examples from the vegetable king-
dom, which will be as familiar to you
as the foregoing.

** Let us take the coflTee-tree. Its
history is quite interesting. The
coflfee-tree was originally from Africa.
It has from time immemorial been
cultivated in Abyssinia, on the
borders of the Red Sea. It was not
until toward the fifteenth century
that the seed migrated from this sea
and penetrated into Arabia, where it
has been cuUi\^ted since that epoch.
It is from there in particular that we
get the famous Mocha. The use of
coffee became common im mediately.
From the east it was introduced into
Europe at a later period, and it was

[ I will

ntw

can^
iroU

at Marseilles that U was
first time in France.

" The first cup of coi
drank in Paris, was in the
A few grains were brought
French sailor called Thcvem
years after, Soliman Aga, ami
of the Porte, under Louis XI
an entertainment to some ft
the king, where it was int
and the beverage pronoui
lightful The use of coflTei
did not become general
until the eighteenth cenl
see, then, that coffee has not b
long in use. It was almost a
and a half before it bee;
among Europeans.

" During this time Eu
tributary to Arabia for thil
All the coffee that was A
Europe came from ArabiaM
ticularly from Mocha. Tov
beginning of the eighteenth
the Dutch tried to import h.
tavia, one of their Indian c
They succeeded^ From
some plants were sent to I
and planted in heated eartJ
also proved a success,

" One of these plants wa3 C4
Paris in 17 lo, and was placa
of the beds of the Jardin d^ j
It flourished, and supplied l|
less plants. Toward 17*0 or
French marine officer named '
Desiiaux, thought that, as i
had cultivated coffee in Baf
could also be acclimated
French colonies in the Gulf (
ico. At the moment of em
for Martinique he took thre<
from the Jardin des Plant
carried them with him. The
w^as long and impeded by hea<
Water becoming scarce, it
necessary to put the crew up<
rations. Captain Destiaux,
others, had but a small allowi

The Unity of the Human Race.

each day, and this he shared with his
oofiee-plant& Notwithstanding all
)k care, tiK'o of them died in their
transit One only arrived safe and
souod at Martinique. Planted im-
■ediately, it prospered wonderfully,
and from it have descended all the
cofte-trees in the Antilles, and in
South-America.

"Thirty years after, our western
colonies exported millions of pounds
each year. You see that the plant,
starting from Africa, reached the east,
the extremity of Asia, then America
lod the west It has consequently
Bade almost the tour of the world.
In this long passage it has changed.
•"Laying aside the plant that we are
not familiar with, let us take merely
tk grain. It is not necessary to be
a planter to distinguish its different
qialities and their provinces. No
ooe will confound the Mocha with
the Bourbon, the Rio Janeiro with
the Martinique. Each grain carries
in its form, in its proportions and
aroma, its extraction, so to speak.

" From whence came these changes ?
We cannot certainly explain the why
or the wherefore, and follow rigo-
rously the relation of cause and
effect; but in taking these pheno-
mena together, it is evident that
these modifications result from the
diferences of temperature, climate,
and cultivation.

"This example, taken from the ve-
getable kingdom, shows us that by
transporting the same vegetable to
<ii&rent places, and subjecting it to
liferent culture, diverse races are ob-
tained.

" Tea that was transported to South
America several years since presents
tiie same results.

"Now take an example from among
the animals. You know that the
turkey is a native of America. Its
introduction into Europe is quite'*
recent

" In America the turkey is wild ;
and there, in the condition of its
natural existence, it presents several
characteristics which distinguish it
from the domestic bird. The wild
turkey is beautiful. Of a rich brown
color, its plumage presents the re-
flections of blue, copper, and gold,
making it truly a beautiful ornament
It was on account of its plumage
that it was first brought to France.
No one dreamed of eating it, and the
first one that was served upon a
table in France, was in the year 1570,
and upon the occasion of the nuptials
of King Charles IX.

" When found to be such a luxur}',
it was considered too good to be
merely looked at, and it passed from
the court to the farm-yard, from farm
to farm, from east to west, from north
to south. At this present time it is an
article of commerce all over France.

" In going from farm to farm, and
from country to country, this bird has
sustained different conditions of ex-
istence, nourishment, and tempera-
ture, but never a continuation of its
primitive condition that was natural
to it in America. The result is, that
it has changed, and at this present
time the turkey in France bears no
resemblance to its savage source.
In general, it is smaller, and its rich
plumage has undergone a marked
change. Some are yellow, others
white, some mixed with black, gray,
and yellow. Almost all the localities
devoted to raising the fowl have
caused several new varieties, which
have transformed them into races,

"To have thus changed their habits
so as to lose resemblance to their
first parents, are our French fowls
any the less descendants of the
wild turkeys of America ? Are they
less the brothers, or cousins, if you
like the term better? Have they
ceased to be of the same species 1
Certainly not !

ie Unify cf tke Human Ritce,

" That which is characteristic of the
turkey is also true of the rabbit. The
wild rabbit lives around and about
us, on our downs, and in our woods.
It resembles our domestic rabbits
but h'ttle* Among the latter you will
see the large and the small, the
smooth-haired and the silky; the
black and the white, the yellow and
the gray, and the mixed. In a word,
this species comprises a great num-
ber of difTerent races, all constitut'
ing one and the same kind with the
wild races we see around us. From
these facts, which I could multiply,
we can deduce an important conse-
quence to which I call your atten*
tion. A pair of rabbits left unmolest-
ed in a field, would, in a few years,
people entire France with their de-
sccndants. We have seen how the sin-
gle coffee-plant, carried by Captain
Destiaux, has propagated all the
plants now found in America.

"The wild turkeys and their domes-
tic descendants, the wild rabbits and
theirs, reduced to captivity, could
then be considered by naturalists as
all proving equally their descent from
one primitive pain

" This is the secret of species. Hav-
ing always before cur eyes numbers
of single grtinps of animals or vegeta-
bles, for one reason or other we hard-
ly consider them as descendants of
one only primitive pair ; we call what
we see a species ; if there are differ-
ences observable among these groups,
they are the rtues of this species,

" Observe that, in my explanations,
I have not given for a certainty the
existence of one primitive source for
rabbits and turkeys. I do not aflirm
the fact, as neither obsen'ation nor
experience — the two guides we must
follow in science^ — teaches anything
in this regard. I simply say, all arc
as though descended from one only
primitive pair.

** In summing up the question of

species and r^^f, it is not
understand nor to believe J
know the savage type, and hi
torical authority which permil
attach to this t)T>e the grout
or less different, according^
domestication. But when
norant of the savage typ
want of historical authority, I
tion becomes extremely diffi
first, because the differencesj
in one and the other, and ad|
in the different groups, could
be considered other than j
characterize different speciflB

** Happily, physiolog)^ coni
to our relief. We find in this :
one of those grand and beautil
eral laws, which holds and mn
the established order, and wh
admire the more we study it
the law oi cross ing f which gove;
malsas well as vegetables, and
sequently, applicable to man h

** We understand by the tcm
ifig, all unions effected betwe
mals belonging to different spc
to two different races. The r
the unions obeying these laws
if the animals of different s/^ecic
in the majority of cases the tl
barren.

" Thus, for example, it has bet
a million of times all over the
to effect a union between rabb
hares. It is said to have si
ed twice,

** Much doubt is cast upon tl
ration by the testimony of a :
undoubted talent, habituated
periments, who believed these
to be possible. Though a
himself of all possible means oi
he was not more fortunate tli
predecessors, Buffo n and the h\
Geoffrey St. Hilaire. Thus, the
and the hare, though presenting
conformity in appearance, can
produce. Such is the genera]
of crossing two different specie.

The Unity of the Human Race.

*In a few cases, the union between
ftwdiflerent species may be fruitful,
bot the of&pring cannot reproduce.
For example, the union between a
krse and an ass. The product of
% union is the mule. All the
Dales in the world are the descend-
ants of the ass and the mare. These
aoimals are so numerous in Spain
ffld South America that they are pre-
fered to horses, on account of their
freat strength and powers of endu-
nnce. The genet, which, is less desi-
rable because it is not so robust, is
Ac fruit of the inverse crossing of the
borsc and the female ass. The ge-
aet, no more than the mule, can re-
pitxiucc- If one or the other is de-
sired, of necessity recourse is had to
Ae two species. In extremely rare
Qses, fecundity remains among some
of dieir descendants, but it diminish-
es gradually from the second gene-
ration down to the third, fourth, and
fifth. The same result is shown in
the union of the canary bird. I
could here accumulate a crowd of
analogous details. Above all, two
great general facts appear that com-
prehend all, and are the expression
of the law ; they are that, notwith-
^ding the accumulated observa-
tions of years, made from experi-
•Bcntson certain species, not a-sin-
gje example is known of an interme-
<iiate species being obtained by the
(nssing of animals belonging to two
^firent species,

** This general fact explains how or-
fc is maintained in the actual living
creation. Were it otherwise, the ani-
mal and vegetable world would have
fecn filled with intermediate groups,
passing from one to the other insen-
sibly, and in the confusion, it would
k impossible for naturalists to recog-
nize Uiem. The general conclusion
to draw from these precedents is,
tlttt infecundity is the law of union
^ttmeen animals of different species.

" Unions are always more fruitful
when between two animals of the
same race. Their descend ants are as
fruitful as the parents and the grand-
parents, where pains are taken to
preserve the race pure, and to pre-
vent strange blood from debasing it

" When, on the contrary, a union is
effected between two different races
belonging to the same species, pro-
ducing a mongrel race, the contrary
takes place.

" There is no difficulty in obtaining
a mongrel race — the result of a cross-
ing of races ; but the difficulty is when
there is a pure race, and it is desira-
ble to have it maintained, that great
care is needed to prevent strange
blood from changing it.

"Races crossed by mongrels —
that is to say, by animals of the
same species, but belonging to differ-
ent races, multiply around us. There
are the dogs in the streets, the cats
of the alleys, the coach-horses ; all
beasts among whom the race is un-
decided in consequence of crossing
indiscriminately, their characteristics
becoming confounded.

" P'ar from endeavoring to obtain
cross races, men who are occupied
in raising stock, also bird-fanciers,
know with what care they endeavor
to preserve the purity of the races
they keep. This is the general fact,
and the result is, that infecundity is
the law of unions between animals be-
longing to different races,

" This is the fundamental distinc-
tion between spedes and race. This
distinction ought to be the more
known and considered, as it is bor-
rowed from experience.

" When there are two animals, or
two vegetables, of whom we are un-
certain as to whether they are two
distinct species, we have but to ob-
serve if their union is fruitful ; and if
this quality attaches to their descen-
dants, we can then affirm that, de-

The Unity of the Human Race.

spite the differences that separate
them, thty are the races of the same
species. If, on the contraiy, their
ofiTspring diminishes in a remarkable
manner at the end of several genera-
tions, we can then, without hesitation,
declare them to belong to distinct
species. In citing these examples, I
have not overlooked the subject of
my discourse, or the question at its
commencement

*' In referring to the designs before
our eyes, they show us that between
the human groups the differences are
marked enough, though to all ap-
pearance less considerable than tliey
appeared at first We do not know
the types, or the primitive types, of
the several groups.

"When we meet with one or several
men presenting the characteristics of
these types, and we cannot recognize
them in spite of historical explana-
tions, we are led to judge by our
eyes. Without taking man himself
into account, we cannot decide if
these several differences that pre-
sent themselves in the human family
are those of raceoi of species; if man
can be considered as having had but
one primitive source only, or if he
should have been derived from seve-
ral primitive sources.

**I have said before, and repeat
again, man is an organized and living
being. Under this head he obeys
all the general laws to which are
attached all organized and living
beings ; he obeys, consequently, the
law of crossing. He must then ap-
ply this law to ascertain tf there is
one or sa^eral species of men. Take,
for example, the two types farthest
removed — those which seem more
separated than the others by the
greatest diiferences — ^namely, the
white and the black,

" If these types really constitute dis-
tinct species y the union between these
species should follow the proof that

we have seen characteriie

between animals, and veg
different species. They
unfruitful in the majorit)-
nearly so. Fecundity sh"
pear at the end of a shi
and they could not form vq\
families between the negri
whites. If these are only
one and the same species^ thi
on the contrary, should be
ful, and fecundity should
among their descendants,
should form intermediate \

*^ These facts are decisr
mit of no doubt.

" For three centuries t
par exce//enee, the Europe
achieved, so to say, the ca
the world. They have ga
where. Ever)^where they
local races who have bonn
resemblance. Whenever
crossed with them, these ui
been fruitful ; more so than
indigenous to themselves.

'*^ Man, from the result of 1
tion of slaver)^ — which hi
never stained the soil of Fr
transported the negro
ever)'where he has crossei
slaves, and ever>n^'here
formed a population of
Wherever the negro has crc
local groups or families,
arisen an intermediate rai
character manifest their twi
gin. The whites have final
with the mongrels of all 01
the result is, that in certaii
of the globe — particulariy
America — ^ihere is an
mixture of people, comparabl
the class, to the dogs in
and the cats of our alleys-

" The rapidity with w
mongrel races cross and
really remarkable. It is sea
centuries — hardly twelve
— since Europeans penei

me?

The Unity of the Human Race.

(Kflerent parts of the world. It is es-
mated that already the number of
fflODgrels resulting from the crossing
of wliites with natives, is a seventieth
of the whole population of the globe.
Experience is indisputable, if we even
deny modem science, or at least, wish
to make man an exception to all living
isd organized beings. We must ad-
nit that all men form but one species,
composed of a certain number of dif-
ferent races ; consequently, all men
can only be considered as having de-
scended from one primitive pair.

"We arrive at this conclusion in de-
spite of all kinds of dogmatical, theo-
logical, philosophical, and metaphysi-
cal considerations. Observation and
experience alone, applied to the ani-
ffial and vegetable kingdoms, in a
word, science, conducts us to the con-
clusion, there exists but one species of
nan.

"This result, I do not fear to say, is
of great and serious importance ; for
it creates in our minds an idea of the
universal fraternity of science and
reason, the only schools that many
persons recgnize at this present time.

"I hope that my demonstrations
^11 have convinced you ; mean-
while, I am not ignorant, and you all
bow, that anthropologists differ.
There are among my contemporaries
a number of men, even of great merit,
who believe in the plurality of the
human species. You may possibly
^mt into contact with them. Listen
attentively, then, to the reasons they
^ urge to make you see with their
tyes. You will find that their rea-
sonings all tend to prove that there
is too great a difference between the
Wgro and the white for them to be
of the same species. In reply, state
that between the black and the white
spaniel, the lap-dog and the mastiff,
there exist greater differences than
Crist between the European and the
African. Yet these animals are all

dogs. They may argue, perhaps,
that man, whatever may have been
his characteristics, could not have
generated both blacks and whites.
Then ask why the wild turkey,
whose origin, and that of its an-
cestors, we are acquainted with, and
the wild rabbit, which we find every-
where, could have generated all our
domestic races ?

" We cannot, I repeat, explain per-
fectly the how and the wherefore;
but what we know is, that the fact
exists, and we shall find a general ex-
planation in all states of existence —
in all conditions of people.

^' It is not, then, surprising that man
presents, in the different groups, the
differences herein depicted ; man
who trod the earth long before the
turkey and the rabbit ; man, who for
centuries has existed upon the sur-
face of the globe, submitting to the
most diverse and opposite conditions
of existence, multiplying again the
causes of those modifications by his
manners and habits, by his ways of
living, by more or less care in his
own preservation ; man, finding him-
self in more marked and varied con^
ditions than those sustained by the
animals we have quoted. If any-
thing surprises us, it is that the dis-
tinctions are not more considerable.

" In turn, ask the polygenists — as
those savans are called who believe
in the multiplicity of the human spe-
cies — how it is that when the white
man locates in any countr}', from the
antipodes, if you will, or from America
or Polynesia — that if he unites with
the natives, who differ the most com-
pletely from him, these unions are
fruitful, and that, above all, there re-
mains traces of this alliance in pro-
ducing a mongrel race ?

"If you press the question more
closely, you will find them denying
the truth of species ; by so doing,
placing themselves in contradiction

Sayings of ike Fathers of the Desert,

with all naturalists, botanist^ or zo-
ologists, without exception ; consc-
^quently, with all the eminent minds
who have followed in the wake of
BuiTon, Toumefort^ Jussieu, Cuvier,
and Geoffrey St Hilaire, who made
the animal and vegetable kingdoms
their study, without discussion, or
dreaming of its connection with man-
In agitating these doctrines^ poly-
genists place themselves in opposi-
tion to the most firmly established
science. You will hear them declare
that roan, above all, is an exception ;
that he is guided by laws peculiar to
himself; and that arguments de-
duced from the study of animals and

plants, are not applicable to
Then reply that, in the name oV
the natural sciences, they are
tainly in error, and that it is an
possibility that a living and organi
being can escape the laws of or^
zation and of life^ having a body fc
lied against the laws that goven*^ in
organic matter ; that man, to be Irv
ing and organized, obeys, under i
title, all general laws, and those
intersection like all the others.
conclusion that we have attained
then, legitimate, and the nature
the arguments employed to conibafi
them, is a proof the more in its
vor.

SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT.

A CERTAIN brother was praised in
Abbot Antony's presence. He went
to visit him, and tried to see whether
he would bear mortification ; and
finding that he could not, he said to
Lhim : ** Thou art like a house which

fair to the eye on the outside, but
Within hath been despoiled by rob*
bers."

St Synclitica said: " As a trea-
sure which is exposed is quickly
spent, so. also, is every virtue which
is made public soon reduced to no-
thing. For as wax mclteth before the
face of the fire, even so doth the soul
waste away with praises, and lose the
firmness of virtue.'* Again, she said ;
** As it is impossible that the seed
and shoot should exist at the same
time, even so those who enjoy the
[lor)' of this world arc unable to bear
eavcnly fruit.**

A certain brother said to Abbot

Pastor: " WTiat shall I do, for when
sit in quiet I lose my spirits ?** The
old man replied, "Neither despise
nor condemn any one, nor cast ob-
loquy upon him, and God will give
thee rest."

Abbot Antony said : " There are
persons who wear away their bodies
by fasting ; but because they have
not discretion, they are far distant
from God."

A certain old man said : " If thoQ
art ailing in body, do not lose thy
spirit; for if the Lord God desireth
ihee to become sick, who art lho«
that thou shouldst be impatient un^
der it ? Doth he not provide for thee
in all things ? Canst thou live with^
out him ? Be patient, therefore, ami
beseech him to give what is expe^
dient for thee, that is, to do what*
soever may be his will, and to sit in pdl
tience, eating thy bread in charity^"

Holy Week in JemseUem.

HOLY WEEK IN JERUSALEM.

The sacred offices of the Catholic
jTch, wherever celebrated, are
lirably calculated to increase de-
on, and render intelligible the
rent events of the ecclesiastical
In every land the ceremonies
he great week which ends the
on of Lent have deep interest to
iie faithful, since they portray the
f events of redemption. These
lal commemorations of the pas-
of Christ have, however, an add-
.olemnity and power in the two
it cities of religion, Rome and
isalem. In the first, the vicar of
Lord takes part in the holy rites ;
, in the second, the whole service
nore impressive than elsewhere ;
the great events here occurred,
the remembrance of them is
ie, year by year, in closest proxi-
y to the spot where they took
:e. It is hazarding little to say,
t nowhere on earth does the of-
fer holy week have the deep so-
nity which marks it in Jerusalem,
the reason just given. While
rubrics of the Missal and Brevia-
ire followed with great exactness,
eral things peculiar to the place
e an interest which may render a
cription of them worthy of atten-

►n the morning of Palm Sunday,
5, the writer of this sketch went
le Church of the Holy Sepulchre,
e present at the benediction of
palms by his excellency the Pa-
ch of Jerusalem. The palms,
e branches, seven feet in length,
\ and green, are brought every
from Gaza, a little city about
teen miles distant Tied in bun-
of suitable size, they were placed
in the most holy sepulchre, the

patriarch being outside the sacred
place until the time for sprinkling
them with holy water and incensing,
when he entered for that purpose.
The benediction completed, the dis-
tribution of the palms took place,
and the long procession began.
Chanting the antiphons, the clergy
and laity went twice around the
sepulchre, and once around the
stone of unction, and then passed
into the Latin chapel.

The solemn Mass, to be celebrated
by the patriarch, was to begin imme-
diately. The holy sepulchre, being
about six feet square, is, of course,
much too small for that purpose, and
therefore a temporary altar of large
size was promptly set up in front of
the sacred tomb. While the atten-
dants were preparing and decorating
this, in compliance with an intima-
tion given early in the morning, I
went into the most holy sepulchre,
and offered the Divine Sacrifice — it
being the third time I had been pri-
vileged to say Mass in that holiest of
places. To me it is one of the most
memorable things in life, that this
happiness should, at such a time,
have been mine— that a simple priest
could say Mass in " the new tomb of
Joseph, which he had hewn out of the
rock," while the patriarch was offici-
ating outside the sacred place.

On Wednesday, the office of Tene-
brae was said in the church. The
patriarch was present and a large
number of priests, friars, seminarians,
and choir-boys, and many of the laity.
The service was very solemn, and
the music good. The priests were
seated in front of the holy sepulchre,
and the triangular candlestick was
placed at the right hand of the door

3«

Holy Week in yertisalem.

leading to the tomb. The chanting
of the Lamentations was most impres-
sive ; and when the words, "Jerusalem,
Jerusalem, converkre ad Dominum
Dcum iuum f were uttered, it seemed
that this plaintive entreat)^ even now
could be addressed with fitness to
the city that once was full of people,
but is solitar)% and made tributary to
her enemies. There was a wild pa-
thos and deep earnestness in the
chant when the summons to turn to
the Lord God was made, as if the
singer knew that to-day there is ntttX
for the city to listen and obey. Jeru-
salem is in the power of the follow-
ers of the false prophet of Mecca ;
schismatic Christians outnumber the
Catholics j the Jews know not the
Lord their God ; and the ways of
Sion mourn. Would that the expos-
tulation could be heard by all, that
they might be perfectly united as a
company of brethren, having the
same faith and the same worship I

In tlie afternoon, the column of
the flagellation of Christ was expos-
ed for an hour or two, by removing
the iron grating from the front of it.
As is Well known, a portion of the
column is in Home, in the church of
Saint Praxede. The fragment here
is only aboui one foot high, and of
tlie same diameter. It is kept in the
Latin chapel, in a recess over an
altar named after it, and cannot l>e
seen during the year, as there is lit-
tie light in the chapel, and that comes
through a window high above and
nearly ovtfr the altar, A popular de-
%x>tion is to pray in front of the co-
lumn, and then touch it with a rod,
about twenty inches long, having a
bnu^ ferule or cap on the end ; this
ferule is Wssc^X on ih* place which
had touchcci the stone. It being im-
possible to neach the pillar by tlio
luuid ihrouith the gratin|-, this me*
thod liaa been €Ontri\xd to ^tisfy
th« davoUoii of tboae who ar« aiut*

ious to salute with rcverenc
objects and places coaneclj
the passion of our Lord. Oa '
day, at five o'clock, we went dc
the Church of the Holy Sepulc;
the office was to begin early,
waited nearly an hour, in a <
morning, until it pleased the Ti
door-keeper to come and unloi
portals. While standing here. 2
other subjects for consideratioi
the evident fact that Christiai
siring to celebrate the divine
in the holiest week of the yeai
in the most sacred place on
were compelled to delay the
ment of tlieir wishes until perm
had been given by a Mohamm^
When we were admitted, the
ces were long, occupying five a
half hours. The holy oils wer<
secrated. At the end a proc<
was formed, and the blessed i
ment was carried twice arouni
sepulchre, and once around
stone of unction, and then was
ed in a repository* which sio<
the tomb where our Lord had
centuries ago.

At one o'clock, the Mandatu
ceremony of washing the feet o
pilgrims, was performed by his i
lency the patriarch in front g
most holy sepulchre. He g^i
each of the pilgrims a wooden i
about seven inches long, nw
made, and having spaces unde
of pearl for relics from the sta
of the Via Dolorosa. Of the i
objects of interest brought I
from the Holy Land, ihere is sea
any one valued more than thi
cause of tlie time, placc^ and
sion when it was received. 3

The o^cc of tlie Tenebrae b^
three o'clock, as on the day 1^
Kothiitgcan r ij^

dccpimpre> tit

the LameaUuoos io this pUce.
profound desolatiioiii of tine <

rtbf^^

Holy Week in yerusalem.

irophet as he uttered the sad words
» iiiliy expressed and realized; and
le remembrance of the calamities
lucb have so frequently befallen
inisalem, and even now are her por-
n, gives bitterness to the insulting
imand, " Is this the city of perfect
auty, the joy of all the earth ?"
On Good Friday the patriarch of-
iated again in the Church of the
)ly Sepulchre. The passion was
y% on Calvary by three chanters,
I reciting the narrative by Saint
in, another the words of our Lord,
ile the third sung the remainder.
« voice of the priest who chanted
\ ivords of Jesus was gentle and
i, and so like what we may ima-
« to have been that of our Lord,
to become painful and oppressive.
hen the ejaculation, consummatum
\ had been made, the first chanter
nt to the place where the cross
d been set up on which Jesus died,
i kneeling there, in a low voice
ered the words, et indinato capite^
didit spiritum,

rhe prayers were chanted in front
the altar of the crucifixion, which
ongs to the Catholics, and is at
place properly called of the cru-
rion, as being that where our Lord
\ nailed to the cross ; it is to the
It, and about twelve feet from the
it where the cross was set up.
e unveiling of the cross, at the
mt, ^^ Ecce lignum crucis^^ was
le here also ; and, when the cru-
X was laid on the pavement in
nt of the altar, it covered the stone
ich marks the locality where our
rd was fastened to the tree. The
eration of the cross at such a time
I place was deeply impressive,
er the patriarch, the priests,
iks, and laity, having put off
T shoes, came in their order, and
ed the feet of the image of the
leemer.
Wishing to spend as much of Good

Friday on Calvary as was possible, I
returned to the church in the after-
noon, and sat for a long time on the
floor, leaning against the large square
pillar, within ten feet of the spot
where the great oblation was made.
While there, I meditated and prayed
as well as was possible under Uie cir-
cumstances. For many years the
Catholics have had exclusive posses-
sion of the church during the last
three days of holy week; and ac-
cordingly, when the faithful had been
admitted, the doors were locked, and
the sacred ofiices performed in peace,
free fi'om the annoyance of the crowd
which generally fills the edifice. To-
day, however, on returning, I found
the doors open, and every one allowed
free access. Many who were not
Catholics were now present, and
among them were five or six English
travellers who were out sight-seeing.
Accpmpanied by their dragoman or
interpreter, they came on Calvary,
and looked around with idle curi-
osity. One of them, had he been
alone, would probably have knelt
down and prayed; but, being with
his friends, he only bent one knee,
and bowed his head a moment at the
place where the cross had been set
up. The others of the party, evi-
dently, did not believe this to be the
spot of the crucifixion. They were
more attracted by the gold, silver,
and diamonds on the image of the
Blessed Virgin, on the littie altar of
the Dolors, than by anything else,
and for some time admired the bril-
liancy of these as a candle was held
near, and talked of them as the most
interesting objects. One glance at
the place where the Lord died was
enough for them ; and when they went
away, it was a relief to find the chapel
again occupied by those who came to
worship. People who have no faith
should not visit the Holy Land. If
they do, they derive little benefit

fafy Week in yerttsalan.

themselves^ and give great disediBca-
tion to Christians of every name.

It was now toward the close of the
da)^ Some persons, chiefly Greeks,
were praying on Calvar}% when a
Turkish officer came up, and made
signs for them to depart. Unwilling
to do so, they remained for some
time, when he summoned several
soldiers who, with muskets, came up
to enforce obedience to his com-
mands. They walked slowly around
the chapel, close to the wall ; and
then the people, seeing that they
must go, quietly arose and descended.
I have little doubt that the church
was cleared in order to prepare for
the solemn procession in the evening.
Although the soldiers behaved with
as much decomm as possible, it was
a sad sight for Christians to find
themselves driven from Calvary on
|Good Friday by Turks, and it was
he bitterest thing experienced in
Jerusalem.

There is always a company of sol-
diers on duty when any sen ice of
unusual interest takes place in the
church. They are there by request
of the French Consul, who is the re-
presentative of the European protector
of the Holy Land, and are designed
to preserve order and add to the dis-
play. Although the church covers a
large area of ground, there are no
spaces of great extent ; and thus the
presence of men to keep order is ne-
cessary. 1 1 is record ed w i th pie asu re
that, during a residence of two months
in the holy city, I saw no act of inci*
vility, nor even a rude look, on the
part of the soldiers. The Greeks
and Armenians, not to be excelled by
Catholics, ask for the soldiers ou oc-
casion of their solemnities ; and thus,
the court of the church, and the edi-
fice itself, are not unfrequenlly occu-
pied by the military.

In the evening, the patriarch and
clergy, with a crowd of laity, assem-

bled in the church for the great pro-
cession which is made but on thisj
day. The sacred building was fiUc
to its utmost capacity^ ; but, owing \
the perfect arrangements made, lh6
long service was gone through with«j
out the least irregularity or emfc
rassment. There were seven seM
mons on the passion, in as many difn
ferent languages, by priests from thcl
nations whose vernacular they spoke.!
The office began in the Latin cha
and the first sermon, delivered witJ
much ferv^or and pathos, was in \\sl*\
lian. When this had been concluded,!
tlie procession was formed. As it
moved from one station to the next«l
verses of the M iserere were sung.
of the Franciscan brothers, carryin
a large crucifix, led the procession
an acolyte being on either side of
him. At the place of the division
of the garments of Christ, the ser-j
mon was in Greek — at that of th
mocking, in another Eastern language^!
When we had climbed the stairs
Calvar)', and were at tlie place
crucifixion, the cross was laid on the
ground, while the sermon in Gennaal
was preached. Then the cruciiij
was taken from this place, where our
Lord was once nailed to the
and carried to that where Christ diedH
The sermon at this place was inj
French, and was preached by the I
leader of the French caravan of pil-l
grims, a venerable ecclesiastic. Whetif
the discourse was finished, several I
priests came to take the body down I
from the cross. The crown of thorns j
was first removed, ver)' slowly, and]
with great reverence. The natlsj
were then tenderly drawn from the I
hands; and, as each was rcmovedtl
the arm of the figure, having joints at
the shoulders, was brought down
the side of the body* The feet were, 1
in like manner, disengaged from the
nail J a sheet passed under the arms, I
and the body lowered to the altar J

Holy Weei in yerusaUm.

and laid on fine linen. Holding the
corners of this cloth, four priests slow-
ly carried the figure down the stairs
to the stone of unction, where the
atriarch strewed myrrh over it, and
prinkled rose-water. The sermon
as now preached in Arabic by the
ranciscan curate of the Church of
e Nativity, at Bethlehem, and was
livered in a most energetic manner.

the seven sermons preached, it
s probably the one understood by

largest nimiber of those present
ally, the body was carried to the
St holy sepulchre, and laid in the
le place where once reposed the
ab of God, who taketh away the
. of the world. Here the sermon
in Spanish, in compliment to that
on of Catholic renown; and,
n it had been finished, the pro-
ion went to the Latin chapel,
nee it had started, and the ser-

of the day was over.

will be readily imderstood that
ceremony of taking down from
cross, and carrying the image of
Lord to the tomb, was intended
e a representation of the manner
hich the deposition took place
he day of the earth's redemption.
as a most powerful sermon, reach-
the heart through the sight. By
I were carried back eighteen hun-
l years. Standing on Calvary,
were looking on him whose arms
I stretched out on the cross, as if,
liis infinite love, he would em-
« all mankind. We saw him
ig that we might live, and dead

we might be ransomed from the
'e. No word was spoken, as good
ler Jucundino came with pincers
;move the crown of thorns, which

VOL. VII.— 6

he did in such a devout manner, as
to make us feel that we were witness-
ing the great transaction itself. The
power and impressiveness of the
whole ceremony were such as to ren-
der the bystanders awestruck and
faint A scene like this it is impos-
sible to forget, and neither pencil nor
words could produce a similar result.

On Holy Saturday I prayed a long
time in the sepulchre, where our
Lord had lain, as on this day. To
be on Calvary on Good Friday, and
in the Tomb on Easter eve, had
been the desire of my heart With
the realization of such a wish, any
one should be content ; for he has a ^
privilege granted to but few whose *
homes are distant from the Holy
Land. In the afternoon, the daily
procession was made with solemnity,
the patriarch and many priests and
laymen being present The pilgrims
from Europe were also in the train.

Easter-day was the last of my so-
journ in the holy city. Many
priests wished to say Mass in the
holy sepulchre, some of whom had
not yet had that privilege. I
said Mass on Calvary, for the last
time, that day. During the day the
shrines were visited, and the tomb
was now indeed the place of the re-
surrection. " Surrexit^ non est hic'^
Yes ! the grave is empty, and death
hath no more power over him who
was once here but is risen and gone*
We see the place where the Lord
lay. His day of victory has come,,
and the triumph over death and hell!
is complete. The tears of the Chris-
tian are dried, and the joy of the
Paschal time begins.

Nellie Nctterville,

NELLIE NETTERVILLE; OR, ONE OF THE TRANSPLAN

CHA1»TER I.

The Stream which divides the coun-
ty of Dublin from that of Mealh nins
part of its course through a pretty,
rock-strewn, furze-blossoming valley^
crowned at its western end by the
ruins of a castle, which, in the days
of Cromwell, belonged to one of the
great families of the Pale — the Eng-
lish-Irish, as they were usually called,
in order to distinguish them from the
Celtic race, in whose land they had
cast their fortunes.

A narrow, winding path leads from
the castle to the stream below, and
down this there came, one cold Janu-
ary morning, in the year of the great
Irish ** transplantation/^ a young girl,
wrapt in a hooded mantle of dark
cloth, which, strong as it was, seemed
barely sufficient to defend her from
the heavy night fogs still rolling
through the valley, hanging rock and
bush and castle-turret in a fantastic
drapery of clouds, and then falling
back upon the earth in a mist as per-
sistent, and quite as drenching, as an
actual down-pour of rain could possi-
bly have pro\'ed. Following the
course of the zigzag stream, as, half-
hidden in furze and bramble, it made
its way eastward to the sea, a short
ten minutes' walk brought her to a
low hut, (it could hardly be called a
house,) built against a jutting rock,
which formed, in all probability, the
back wal I of th e te neme n t. H e re she
paused, and after tapping lightly on
the door, as a signal to its inmates,
she turned, and throwing back the
hood which had hitherto concealed
her features, gazed sadly up and
down the valley. In spite of the fog-

mtsts and the cold, the spo
indeed lovely enough in its
deser\*e an admiring glance,
from one already familiar wi
beauty; but in those da^
heavy, as it seemed, with^
tears, there was far less of adfiff
than of the longing, wistful gi
one who felt she was looking hi
upon a scene she loved, and wa
ing, therefore, to imprint upoi
memory even the minutest of it
tures. For a moment she su
her eyes to wander thus, froi
clear, bright stream flowing n
at her feet to the double line o
tastic, irregularly cut rocks \
crowned with patches of gorsi
fern, shut out the valley firor
world beyond as completely a:
had been meant to form a se|
kingdom in itself; and then a
slowly, and as if by a stroni
painful effort of the will, she gl
toward the spot where the
stood, with its tall, square towe
in sharp and strong relief again
gloomy background of the skj
"firm and fearless-looking ke«
was, as the habitation of one
come of an invading race, h;
hold his own against all in-cc
had need to be; but while ii
boldly from a shoulder of out-j
rock, like the guardian fortress
glen, the liule village whicl
nestled at its foot, the mill
turned merrily to tlic music
bright stream, the smooth te
and dark woods immediately a
it, the rich grazing lands, with
herds of cattle, which stretchy
away as the eye could reach be
all seemed to indicate that its i

Nellie Netterville.

had been so long settled on the spot
as (0 have learned at last to look
upon it rather as his rightful in-
heritance than as a gift of conquest
Castled keep and merry mill, trees
aod cattle and cultivated fields, the
girl seemed to take all in, in that
\aiBg, mournful gaze which she cast
npon them; but the thoughts and
regrets which they forced upon her,
(rowing in bitterness as she dwelt
opon diem, became at last too strong
far calm endurance, and throwing
krself down upon her knees upon
tiiecold, damp earth, she covered her
fee with both her hands, and burst
ioto a passionate fit of weeping. Her
Nbs must have roused up die inmates
tfthe hut; for almost immediately
ifierward the door was cautiously
■dosed, and an ancient dame, with
I ilaife colored handkerchief covering
kr gray hairs, and tied under her
duo, even as her descendants wear
it to this hour, peeped out, with an
indent resolve to see as much and
be as little seen as possible in return,
i^the person who had, at that undue
W, disturbed her quiet slumbers.
The moment, however, she discovered
^ko it was that was weeping there,
*11 thoughts of selfish fear seemed to
^ish from her mind, and with a
^Id cry, in which love and grief and
Apathy were mingled, as only an
Irish cry can mix them, she flung her
strong, bony arms around the girl,
^ exclaimed in Irish, a language
*ith which — ^we may as well, once for
aO remark — ^the proud lords of the
We were quite conversant, using
it not only as a medium of com-
nmication with their Irish depen-
dents, but by preference to English,
in their famiUar intercourse with each
other. For this reason, while we en-
deavor to give the old lady's conver-
satk>n verbatim, as far as idiom and
ideas are concerned, we have ven-
twed to omit all the mispronuncia-

tions and bad grammarisms which,
whether on the stage or in a novel,
are rightly or wrongly considered to
be the one thing needed toward the
true delineation of the Irish character,
whatever the rank or education of the
individual thus put on the scene may
happen to be.

"O my darling, my darling 1"
cried the old woman, almost lifting
the girl by main force from the
ground ; "my heart's blood, a-cushla
machree I what are you doing down
there upon the damp grass, (sure it
will be the death of you, it will,) with
the morning fog wrapping round you
like a curtain? Is there an3rthing
wrong up there at the castle? or
what is it all, at all, that brings you
down here before the sun has had
time to say * Good-morrow ' to the
tree-tops?"

"O Grannie, Grannie!" sobbed
the girl, "have you not heard ^ do
you not know already ? It was to say
good-by — I could not go without it,
Grannie I I never shall see you again
— ^perhaps never."

Pity, and love, and sympathy, all
beaming a moment before upon the
face of the old hag, changed as in-
stantaneously as if by magic, into an
expression of wild hatred, worthy the
features of a conquered savage.

"It is true, then!" she cried; "it
is true what I heard last night ! what
I heard — ^but wouldn't believe, Miss
Nellie — if you were not here to the
fore to say it to me yourself! It is
true that they are for robbing the old
master of his own; and that them
murdering Cromwellians — my black
curse on every mother's son of them — "

But before she could bring her de-
nunciation to its due conclusion, the
girl had put her hand across her
mouth, and, with terror written on
every feature of her face, exclaimed :

"Hush, Grannie, hush? For
Christ and his sweet Mother's sake,

Nellie Nettervitfe,

keep quiet 1 Remember such words
have cost many an honest man his
life ere now, and God alone can tell
who may or may not be within hear-
ing at this moment/*

She caught the old woman by the
arm as she spoke, dragging ratl^er
than leading her into the interior of
the cottage. Once there, however,
and with the door carefully closed
behind her» she made no scniple of
yielding to the anguish which old
Grannie's lamentations had rather
sharpened than allayed, and silting
down upon a low settle, suflTered her
tears to flow in silence* Grannie
squatted herself down on the ground
at her feet, and swaying her body
backward and fon^'ard after the
fashion of her people, broke out
once more into vociferous lam en la*
lions over the fallen fortunes of her
darjing*

" Ochone 1 ochone 1 that the young
May morning of my darling's life
(which ought to be as bright as
God*s dear skies above us) should be
clouded over this way like a black
November's I Woe is me I woe is
me ! that I should have lived to see
the day when the old stock is to be
rooted out as if it was a worthless
weed for the sake of a set of beggar-
ly rapscallions, who have only come
to Ireland, may be, because their
own land (my hea\7 curse on it, for
the heavy hand it has ever and al-
ways laid on us !) wasn't big enough
to hold their wickedness."

It was in perfect unconsciousness
and good faith tiiat old Grannie thus
spoke of Nellie and her family as of
the old stock of the country — a fa*
vorite expression to this day among
people of her class in Ireland.

The English descendants of Ire-
land's first invaders had, in fact, as
years rolled by, and even while
proudly asserting their own claims as
Eoglishmen, so thoroughly identiiied

themselves both by intenns
and the adoption of language
and manners with tJie Celtic
of the soil that the latter, evei
too ready for their own inlen
haps J to be won by kiudnej
ended by transferring to th<
clannish feeling once giveo \
own rulers, and fought in th
wc speak o( under the standaj
De Burgh or a Fitzgerald as \
and bitterly against Cromwd
diers as if an 0*Neil or a Mi
rough had led them to the c
To Nellie Nettenille, therefe
sympathy and indignation (
Grannie seemed quite as ii
matter of course as if the blue
coursing through her veins hai
derived from a Celtic chieft]
stead of from an old Normal
of the days of King Henry.J
was, moreover, connected Wl
old woman by a tie which in
days was as strong, and even I
er, than that of race ; for the I
of the Pale had adopted in it
comprehensive sense the Irii
tern of fosterage, and Grannl
ing acted as foster-mother to ^
father, was, to all intents and
ses, as devoted to the person
daughter as if she had been i
deed a grandchild of, her own.
But natural as such syn
might have seemed, and sootfc
no doubt it was to her woundc
ings, it was yet clothed in sue I
gerous language that it had
feet upon Nellie the very oppo
that which, under any other c
stances, it might have been ex]
to produce. It recalled her
necessity of self-possession, an
scious that she must commai
own feelings if she hoped to c
those of her warmhearted (
dent, she deliberately wiped th<
from her e>'cs, and rose from tj
tie on which she had flung 1

NeUi* NatervilU.

Mr minutes before, in an un-
i agony of grie£ When she
»he had thoroughly master-
tm emotion, she drew old
toward her, made her sit
the stool she herself had
:ed, and kneeling down be-
said in a tone of command
ntrasted, oddly yet prettily
vith the child-like attitude
for the purpose of giving it :
must not say such things,

I forbid itl Now and lot
bid itl You must not say
^. They can neither help
e us sorrow, and they might
life, old woman, if any evil*
person heard tiiem."
ifel my life I" cried old
passionately. " And tell
la, what is die value of my
if all that made it pleasant
rt is to be taken from me ?

seen your father, whom I
this breast until (God par-
I loved him as well or bet-
hem that were sent to me
n portion ? haven't I seen
;ht back here for a bloody
he very flower of his days ?
t I lead the keening over
\ self-same moment that I
own poor boy was laying
stark on the battle-field,
[lad fallen (as well became
e defence of his own mas-
l now you come and tell
m — ^you who are all that is
the wide world ; you who
the very pulse of my heart

you were in the cradle —
ind the old lord are to be
of your own kingdom, and

only knows where, into
it— (him an old man of se-

you a slip of a girl that
yesterday, so to speak, in
:'s arms) — and you would
keep quiet, would you?
e me belie the thought of

my heart with a smiling fiu:e ? and
all for the sake of a litde longer life,
forsooth! Troth, a4annah, I have
had a good taste of that same life al-
ready, and it's not so sweet I found
it, that I would go as far as the ri-
ver to fetch another 8iq> of it Not
so sweet-i-not so sweet," moaned the
old woman, rocking herself back-
ward and forward in time to the in-
flection of her voice, ^ not so sweet
for the lone widow woman, with
barely a roof above her head, and
not a chick or child (when you are
out of it) for comfort or for coaz-
ingl"

Grannie had poured forth this har
rangue with all the eloquent volubi-
lity of her Irish heart and tongue,
and though Nellie had made more
than one effi)rt for the purpose, she
had hitherto found it quite impossi-
ble to check her. Want of breath,
however, silenced her at last, and
then her foster-child took advantage
of the lull in the storm to say :

'* Dear old Grannie, do not talk so
sadly. I will love and think of you
every day, even in that far-off" west to
which we are exiled. And I forgot
to say, moreover, that my dear mo-
ther is to remain here for some
months longer, and will be ready (as
she ever is) to give help and comfort
to all that need it, and to you, of
course, dear Grannie, more than to
all the rest — ^you whom she looks
upon almost as the mother of her
dead husband."

"Ready to give help? Ay, that
in troth she is," quoth Grannie.
" God bless her for a sweet and gen-
tle soul, that never did aught but
what was good and kind to any one
ever since she came among us, and
that will be eighteen years come
Christmas twelvemonth. Ochonel
but them were merry times, a-lan-
nah I long before you were bom or
thought of. God pity you that you

Nellie NcttcrvilU.

have burst into blossom in such wea-
ry days as these are t"

** Merry times ? I suppose they
were,** said Nellie good-naturedly,
tr}angto lead poorGrannie^s thoughts
back to the good old times when she
was young and happy, ** Tell me
about it now, dear Granniei (my mo-
ther's coming home, I mean,) that I
may amuse myself by thinking it al!
over again, when I am far away in
the lone west, and no good old
Grannie to go and have a gossip
with when I am tired of my own
company."

** Why, you see, Miss Nellie, and
you mustn't be offended if I say
it," said Grannie, eagerly seizing on
this new turn given to her ideas ;
" we weren't too well pleased at first
to hear that the young master was to
be wedded in foreign parts, and some
of us were even bold enough to ask
if there weren't girls fair enough, ay,
and good enough too, for that matter,
for him in Ireland, that he must
needs bring a Saxon to reign over
us I However, when the old lord up
yonder at the castle, came down and
told us how she had sent him word,
that for all she had the misfortune to
be English born, she meant, once
she was married in Ireland, to be
more Irish than the Irish themselves,
then, I promise you, every vein in
our hearts warmed toward her \ and
on the day of her coming home, there
wasn't, if youll believe me, a man,
woman, or child, within ten miles of
Nettcn^ille, who didn't go out to meet
her, until, what with the shouting and
ilhe hustling, she began to think, (the
creature,) as she has often told me
since, that it was going to massacre
her, may be, that we were ; for sure,
until the day she first saw the young
master, it was nothing but tales upon
tales she had heard of how the wild
Irish were worse than the savages
themselves, and how murder and

robbery were as common and
tie thought of with us as dais
the springtime. Any way,
thought that for a moment, \ ~
think it long ; for when
round upon us at the cas
standing between her husbaS
her father in-law, (the old lord
self,) we gave her a cheer that
have been heard from this tc
dagh, if the wind had set that
and though she didn't then i
stand the * Crad'mUic-faUthe tc
ladyship 1* that we were shouli
our Irish, she was cute enough,
events, to guess by our eyes and
what our tongues were saying*
that wasn't all," continued Gr;
growing more and more garrul<
she warmed to her theme ;
wasn't all neither ; for when ihi
pie were so tired tiiey could she
more, and quiet was restort^
whispered something to the \
master; and what do you ihii
did, my dear, but led her right
to the place where me and m;
(his own foster-brother, that's
God rest him I) were standing^ i
crowd, and she put out her |
white hand and said, (it wa]
first and last time that ever I
the sound of the English,) * It i!
then, that was my husband's i
mother, isn*t it T And says I, i
own tongue, for I had picke
English enough at the castle for

* Please your ladyship, I am, anc
is the boy,' says I, pulling my
boy forM'ard — for he was shy
and had stepped a little back
when she came near — ^ this is thi
that slept with Master Gerald
was the master, you know,^

* on my breast,' "

** * Well, then/ said she, givtn^
hand to me and the other to my

* remember it is with my fostei
ther I mean to lead out the dai
to- night ;' and troth, my pet^shi

Nellie Netterville.

IS food as her word, and not a soul
tozfdshe dance with, for all the fine
fards and gentlemen who had come
to the wedding, until she had footed
i for a good half-hour at least with
oyAndie. Ahl them were times
odeed, my jewel," the old crone que-
rulously wound up her chronicle by
lajring. ^ And to think that I should
bve lived to see the day when the
yoang master's father and the mas-
ter's child are to be hunted out of
didr own by a Cromwellian upstart
with his * buddagh Sassenachs,' (Sax-
OQ downs,) like so many bloodhounds
at his heels, to ride over us rough-
Aod."

So far the young girl had *' serious-
ly mdined her ear " to listen, partly
Id soothe old Grannie's grief by suf-
fering it to flow over, and partly, per-
haps, because her own mind, exhaust-
ed by present sufferings) found some
iiiMx>nscious relief in letting itself be
carried back to those bright days
when the sun of worldly prosperity
still lighted up her home. The in-
stant, however, that the old woman
began, with all the ferocity of a half-
tamed nature, to pour out denuncia-
tions on the foes who had wrought
her ruin, she checked the dangerous
indulgence of her feelings by saying :
"Hush, dear Grannie, and listen
to me. My mother is to stay here
mtil May, (so much grace they have
seen fit to do us,) in order that she
may collect our stock and gather
sodi of our people together as may
dioose to follow us into exile."

"Then, may be, she'll take me,"
cried old Grannie suddenly, her with-
ered face lightening up into an ex-
pression of hope and joy that was
touching to behold. " May be she'll
take me, a-lannah !"

Nellie Netterville eyed Grannie
listfiilly. Nothing, in fact, would
she have better liked than to have
taken that old relic of happier days

with her to her exile ; but old, decre-
pid, bowed down by grief as well as
years, as Grannie was, it would have
been folly, even more than cruelty, to
have suffered her to offer herself for
Connaught transplantation. It would
have been, however, but a thankless
office to have explained this in as
many words; so Nellie only said:
"When the time comes, dear old
woman, when the time comes, it will
be soon enough to talk about it then
— ^that is to say, if you are still able
and willing for the venture."

" Willing enough at all events, God
knows," said Grannie earnestly.
" But why not go at once with you,
my darling? The mistress is the
mistress surely ; but blood is thicker
than water, and aren't you the child
of the man that I suckled on this
bosom ? Why not go at once with
you?"

" I think it is too late in the year
for you — too cold — too wretched ;
and besides, we are only to take one
servant with us, and of course it
must be a man," said Nellie, not
even feeling a temptation to smile at
the blind zeal which prompted Gran-
nie to offer herself, with her sixty
years and her rheumatic limbs, to
the unprofitable post of bower-mai-
den in the wilderness. "It would
not do to alter our arrangements
now," she continued gently ; " but
when spring comes, we will see what
can be done ; and in the mean time,
you must go as oflen as you can to-
the castle, to cheer my dear mother
with a little chat Promise me that
you will, dear Grannie, for she will
be sad enough and lonely enough, I
promise you, this poor mother, and
nothing will help her so much in her
desolation as to talk with you of
those dear absent ones, who well she
knows are almost as precious to you
as they can be to herself. And now
I must begone — I must indeed I I

Nellie Netterville.

could not go in peace without seeing
you once more, and so I stole out
while all the rest of the world were
sleeping ; but now the sun is high in
the heavens* and they will be looking
I for me at the castle. Good-by,
dear Grannie, good-by !"

Sobbing as if her heart would
break, Nellie flung her arms round
the old woman*s neck ; but Grannie,
with a wild crj' of mingled grief and
love, slipt through her embraces and
flung herself at her feet Nellie raised
her gently, placed her once more upon
the settle, and not daring to trust her-
self to another word, walked straight
out of the cottage, and closed the door
behind her.

CHAPTER II,

The sun had by this time nearly
penetrated through the heavy fog,
which had hung since early dawn
like a vail over the valley ; and just
as Nellie reached the foot of the
path leading straight up to the cas-
tle, it fairly broke through every ob-
stacle, and cast a gleam of wintry
sunshine on her face. That face,

I once seen, was not one easily to be
forgotten. The features were almost,
and yet not quite, classic in their
beauty, gaining in expression what
they lost in regularity ; and the fre-
quent mingling, by intermarriages,
of Celtic blood with that of her old
Norman race, had given Nellie that
most especial characteristic of Irish
beauty — hair black and glossy as
the raven *s wing, with eyes blue as
the dark, double violet, and looking
even bluer and darker than they
wxre by nature through the abun-
dance of the long, silken lashes, the
same color as her hair, which fringed
them. She carried her small, beauti-
fully-formed head with the grace and
spirit of a young antelope, and tliere

|ivas something of firmness even in
be elastic lightness of her move-

ments, which gave an idea of en

^ and decision not naturally to
looked for in one so young and g^_^
ish, both as to form and feat\k^
Her tight-fitting robe of dark im.
strong material, though evideim. i
merely adopted for the convcnie*^.
of travelling, rather set off than di
tracted from the beauty of her ioirm^
and over it hung that long, IcKwe
mantle of blue cloth which seeni%
time out of mind, to have been a
favorite garment with the Irish. It
was fastened at the throat by a
brooch of gold, curious and valua-
ble even then for its evident anti-
quity ; and with its broad, graceful
folds falling to her feet, and its hood
drawn forward over her head, aod
throwing her sweet, sad face some*
what into shadow, gave her at that
moment, as the sun shone down
upon her, the very look and expres*
sion of a Mater Dolorosa.

Ten minutes' rapid walking yp %
path, which looked more like an it*
regular staircase cut through rock
and turf-mould than a way worn gra-
dually by the pressure of men*s feci,
brought her to the platform upoit
which tlie castle stood.

Moated and circumvallated toward^
the south and west, which were easy;
of access from tlie flat lands beyond,
Netterville was comparatively dc-,
fenceless on the side from whence,
Nellie now approached it ; its build*
ers and inliabitants having evidently
considered the deep stream and val-
ley which lay beneath as a sufficieDi,
protection against their enemies.

The great gate stood looking east*
ward, and Nellie could see from the,
spot w^here she baited that all the
preparations for her approaching^,
journey were already almost con:i-^
pleted, A couple of sorrj^-looking
nags, (garrans, the Irish would have
called them,) one with a pillion firinr
ly fixed behind the saddle, were be-

NettU NettervUh.

•9

slowly up and down in readi-
r their riders. Litde sorrow-
aps of the Irish dependents
£uni]y stood here and there
le terraceSy waiting (faithful to
: as they ever were in those
> give. one parting glance and
Towfuly long farewell to their
I chiefbdn and his heiress;
little further ofl^ like hawks
^ around their prey, mi^t be
band of those iron-handed,
irted men in whose favor the
intation of the present owners
)il had been decreed, and who
:n set there, half to watch and
nforce departure, should any-
ke evasion or resistance be
ed. Something very like an
Town clouded Nellie's brow
caught sight of these men
)se benefit she was being
of her inheritance ; but, un-
to indulge such evil feelings,
bred her gaze to pass quietly
them until it rested once more
streamlet and valley as they
d eastward toward the sea.
en some one tapped her on
lulder, and, turning sharply
Nellie found herself confront-
woman not many years older,
7, than herself, but with a face
hich, beautiful as it was, the
idulgence of wild passions
mped a look of premature

at would you with me ?" said
surprised at the familiarity of
itation, and not in the least
:ing the person who had been
"it "I know you not What
want with me?*'
! little or nothing," said the
L a harsh and taunting voice ;
tr nothing, my fair young mis-
leiress, that has been, of the
r Netterville— only I thought
y be, you could say if the old
I will be after going with you

into exile. They told me she was,"
she added, with a gesture toward the
soldiers ; ** and yet, as far as I can
see, only one of the garrans has a
pillion to its back. But, may be^
she'll be for going later-—"

""I have ahready said," Nellie
coldly answered, for she neither
liked the matter nor the manner of
the woman's speech — "I have al-
ready said that I know you bo^
and, in all likelihood, neither does
my mother. Why, therefore, do you
ask the question ?"

" Because I hope it I" said the wo-
man, with such a look of hatred on
her face that Nellie involuntarily re-
coiled a step — ^^ because I hope it ;
and then perhaps, when she is house-
less and hungry herself, she will re-
member that cold December night
when she drove me from her door,
to sleep, for all that she cared, under
the shelter of the wjiin-bushes in the
valley."

" If my mother, good and gentle
as she is to all, ever acted as you
say she did, undoubtedly she had
wise and sufficient reasons for it,"
Nellie coldly answered.

" Undoubtedly — good and suffi-
cient reasons had she, and so, for that
matter, had I too, when I put my
heavy curse upon her and all her
breed," retorted the girl, with a
coarse and taunting laugh. '^And
see how it has come to work," she
added wildly — ''see how it has
come to work! Ay, ay — she'll
mind it when it is too late, I
doubt not; and will think twice
before she lets loose her Saxon
pride to flout a poor body for only
asking a night's shelter under her
roof. Roof I she'll soon have no
roof for herself, I guess; but if
ever she has one again, she'll think
better of it, I doubt not"

"She will think next time just
what she thought last time — tha^

Nellie Ncttcrvine.

so long as you lead tlie life you
lead at present, you would not,
though you were a princess, be fit-
ting company for the lowest scullion
in her kitchen."

Thus spoke a grave, sweet voice
(not Nellie*s) close at the woman*s
e!bow« She started, as if a wasp
had stung her, and turned toward
the speaker,

A tall lady, dressed in widow*s
weeds, with a pale face and eyes
weary, it almost seemed, with sor-
row, had approached quietly from be-
hindj and overhearing the girl's defi-
ant speech, saved Nellie the trouble
of an answer by that firm yet most
womanly response. Then passing to
the front, she put her arm round Nel-
lie's waist, as if to protect her from the
very presence of the other, and drew
her away, saying :

" Come along, my daughter j the
morning wears apace, and these long
delays do but embitter partings. Your
grandfather is already waiting. Re-
member, Nellie/' she added in a fal-
tering voice^ ** that he, with his sev-
enty years, wil! be almost as depend-
ent upon your strength and energy
as you can be on his. He is my
dead husband's father, and there-
fore, after a Jong and bitter strug-
gle with my own heart, I have de-
voted you, my own and only trea-
sure, to be his best support and help
and comfort in tlie long and unsea-
sonable journey to which the cruelty
of our conquerors has compelled him.
I trust — I trust in God and his sweet
Mother that I shall see no cause later
to repent me of this decision !"

Nellie drew a tittle closer to her
mother, and a strange firmness of
expression passed over her young
face as she answered quietly ;

** My own unselfish mother, doubt
0ot that I will be all — son and daugh-
ter both in one — to him ; and fear not,
I do beseech you, for our safety. What

tliough he has seen hb seventy wint
and I but barely seventeen 1 We
strong and healthy, both of us ; a
with clean consciences (which is mo-n?
than our foes can boast of) and gocx/
wits, I doubt not we shall reach our
destination safely. Destination T she
repeated bitterly — **ay, desti nation ^
for home, in any sense of the word,
it never can be to us.*'

** Say not so, my Nellie — say not
so," said her mother gently. ** Home,
after all, is only the place where w«^
garner up our treasures ; and, theie^
fore, in the spot where I may rejoin,
you, however wild and desolate i
otherwise shall be, my heart, at all
events, will acknowledge it has foi
its home T*

As they thus conferred togetheri
mother and daughter had been mov^
ing slowly toward the castle, in abso^
lute forgetful ness of the woman who
had originally mnde a third in the
group, and who was still following at
a little distance. She stopped, how-
ever, on discovering that they had noj
intention of making her a sharer
their conversation, and, gazing afte^'
them with a fearful mingling of h**^
tred and wounded pride on her coarsCj
handsome features, exclaimed aloud ;

" The second time you have flout
ed me, good madam I Well, well, tha^
third is the charm, and then it will be
my turn. See if I do not make yoil
rue it r'

Shaking her fist, as she spoke, sc
vagely in the air, she turned her bac
upon Nettervillc towers, and nishe
down a path leading directly to
river.

As Mrs. Netter\'ille and her daugh*
tcr approached the castle-gates, a
young man came out to meet iheoj^^
and, with a look and bearing balA|
way between that of an intelli^nt
and trusted ser\'anl and a petted fol^
lower, said hurriedly :

** My lord grows impatient, mar

Nellie NetterviUe.

dam. He says he is ready to depart
at once, and that the sooner it is
iaot the better. And, in troth, I
tm much of the same way of think-
hg my own self," he added, with
that sort of grim severity which
some men seem almost naturally to
assume the moment they feel them-
selves in t danger of giving way to
fpdy in the womanly fashion of tears.

Hamish was of the same age as
KdHe, though he looked and felt at
least eight years older. He was her
fcster-brother, as we have already
said, and had been her companion
b the nursery ; but as war and pov-
erty thinned the ranks of followers
attached to the house of NetterviUe,
khad been gradually advanced from
oocpost of confidence to another, un-
til, young as he was, he united the va-
rious duties of " bailiff " or " steward,"
as it would be called in Ireland — ^ma-
jor-domo or butler, valet, and footman,
all in his own proper person.

"True," said Mrs. NetterviUe, in
answer to his communication — " too
true. Every moment that he lingers
now will be but a fresh barbing of
the arrow. Come, my Nellie, let us
hasten to your grandfather. Would
that I could persuade him to take
Hamish with him instead of Mat,
who has little strength and less wit
to help you in such a journey. I
should be far more at ease, both on
his account and yours, my daughter."

''Faix, madam, and it was just
Aat same that I was thinkinor to
nyself awhile ago," cried Hamish
eagerly. "Sure, who has a better
right to go with Mistress Nellie than
her own foster-brother ? And am not
I strong enough, and more than will-
ing enough to fight for her — ay, and
to die for her too, if any of them
hlack-browed hypocrites should dare
for to cast their evil eyes upon her or
the old master ?"

"Strong enough and brave enough

undoubtedly you are," said Nellie,
speaking before her mother could
reply, " and true-hearted more than
enough, my dear foster-brother, are
you ; but, if only for that very rea-
son, you must stay here to help and
comfort my dear mother. Bethink
you, Hamish, hers is, in truth, the
hardest lot of any. We shall have
but to etidure the weariness of long
travel ; she will have to contend with
the insolence of men in high places
— ^yes, and perhaps even to dispute
with them, day by day, and hour by
hour, for that which is her rightfiil
due and ours. This is man's work,
not woman's ; and a man, moreover,
quick-witted and fearing no one. Will
you not be that man, Hamish, to stand
by her against the tyrant and oppres-
sor, and to act for her whenever and
wherever it may be impossible for her
to act for herself?"

Hamish would have answered with
a fervor equal to her own, but Mistress
NetterviUe prevented him by saying,
with a mingling of grief and mipa-
tience in her manner :

" It is in vain to talk to you, Nel-
lie ! You have all your grandfather's
stiff'-necked notions on this subject.
Nevertheless it would have been far
more to my real contentment if he
and you had yielded to my wishes,
seeing that there is many a one still
left among our dependents to whom,
on a pinch, I could entrust the care
both of cattle and of household gear,
and but one (and that is Hamish) to
whom willingly I would confide my
child."

" Now, may Heaven bless you for
that very word, madam," cried Ha-
mish eagerly and gratefully ; and
then turning to Nellie, he went on :
" See now, Mistress Nellie, see now,
when her ladyship herself has said it
— surely you would never think of
going contrary to her wishes 1"

"Listen to me, Hamish," said

Nellie NeUervilli,

Nellie, putting her hand on his shoul-
der and standing still, so that her
mother unconsciously moved on with-
out hen " Ever since that weary
day when the sheriff came here to
inform us of our fate, 1 have had a
strange, uncomfortable foreboding
that my mother will soon find her-
self in even a worse plight than ours.
A woman, as she ^\ill be, alone and
friendless — foemen all around ber^ —
foemen domiciled even in her house-
hold — foemen, the worst and cruel-
lest of any, with prayer on their lips
and hypocrisy in their hearts, and a
strong sword at their hips, ready to
smite and slay, as ihey themselves
express it, all who oppose that wicked
lusting for wealth and power which
they so blindly mistake for the
promptings of a good spirit ! With
us, once we have obtained our cerli-
licate from the commissioners at
Loughrea, it will be far otherwise.
Each step we take in our wild jour*
ncy westward will, if, alas 1 it leads
us further from our friends, set, like-
wise, a safer distance between us and
our oppressors. Promise me, there-
fore, to ask no more to follow us who
go to peace and safety, but to abide
quietly here, where alone a real dan-
ger threatens. Promise me even
more than this, my foster-brother —
promise to stay with her so long as
ever she may need you ; and should
aught of evil happen to her, which
may God avert ! promise to let me
know at once, that I may instantly
.return and take a daughter's proper
■place beside her. Promise me this,
Hamish — nay, said \ promise 1 — Ha-
mish, you must swear it !"

"I swear it J by the Mother of
Heaven and her blessed Child, I
swear it I" said Hamish fervently ;
for he saw at once that there was
much probabilit)' in Nellie's view of
the subject, though, in his overween*
ing anxiety for the daughter, he had

.ill

hitherto overlooked tlie chances
danger to the mother. " But, C
save us l" he added suddenly, as soi
wild notes of preparation reached
experienced ear; ** Christ save Ui
the old women are not going to kc^c
for your departure as if it we r^u^j
burial r ^

" Oh 1 do not Jet them — do not ^el
them \ bid them stop if they woi
not break our hearts !" cried Ncl
rushing on to overtake her moths^^^
while Hamish, in obedience to l^ej-
wishes, struck right across the terr^iaB
toward a distant group of womeqp
among whom, judging by their ex-
cited looks and gestures, he kner,
that he should find the keene
Long, however, ere he could reach
them, a wild cr)' of lamentation, taken
up and prolonged until every mau,
woman, and child within ear-shot bad
lent their voices to swell the chonis>
made him feel that he was too late ;
and turning to ascertain the cause of
this sudden outburst, he saw that
Lord Netter\'ille had come forth from
the castle, and was standing at the
open gates. A fine, soldierly-looking
man he was, counting over seventy
years, yet in appearance not muck
more than sixty, and as he stood
there, pale and bare-headed, in the
presence of his people, a shout of
such mingled love and sympathy^
grief and execration rent the air, that
some of the Cromwellian soldiers
made an involuntary step forward,
and handled their muskets in expec-
tation of an attack,

" Tell them to stop 1" cried the old
man, throwing up his arms like one
who could bear his agony no longer,
** For God's sake, tell them to stop I
Let them wait, at least," he added,
half bitterly, half sorrowfully, "until,
like the dead, I am out of hearing."

There was no need for Hamish ta
become the interpreter of his wishes.
That sudden cry of a man's irrepres-

Nellie Netterville.

sible anguish had reached the hearts
of all who heard it, and a silence fell
xm^ the crowd — a silence more ex-
piessive of real S3rmpathy than their
iwildest lamentations could have been.

The old lord bowed, and tried to
^)eak his thanks, but the words died
i;q>on his lips, and he turned abruptly
to take leave of his daughter-in-law.
Sie knelt to receive his blessing.
Be laid his hand upon her head, and
then, making an effort to command
Ins voice, said tenderly:

"Fare thee well, my best and dear-
est! It is the way of these canting
times to be for ever quoting Scrip-
tBie, and for once I will follow
ffihion. May Heaven bless and
bq) thee, daughter ; for a very Ruth
fast thou been to me in my old age;
)ea,and better than seven sons in
4is the day of my poverty and sor-
rowl"

He stooped to kiss her brow and
to help her to rise, and as he did so,
he added in a whisper, meant only
fcr the lady's ear :

" Forgive me, Mary, if I once more
allude to that subject we have so
roach discussed already. Are you
still in the mind to send Nellie with
me? Think better of it, I entreat
you. The daughter's place should
ever, to my poor thinking, be beside
bcr mother!"

** I have thought," she answered,
" and I have decided. If Nellie is my
child, she is your grandchild as well;
and the duty which her father is no
longer here to tender, it must be her
pride and joy to offer you in his stead.
Moreover, my good lord," she added,
in a still lower tone,, "the matter
kath another aspect. Nellie will be
safer with you ! This place and all
it contains is even now at the mercy
of a lawless soldiery, and therefore it
is no place for her. Too well I feel
that even I, her mother, am power-
less to protect her."

Lord Netterville cast a wistful
glance on the fair face of his young
granddaughter, and said reluctantly:
"It may be that you are right,
sweet Moll, as you ever are. Come,
then, if so it must be, give us our
good-speed, and let us hasten on our
way."

He once more pressed her affec-
tionately in his arms, then walked
straight up to his horse, and leaped
almost without assistance to the
saddle. But his face flushed scarlet,
and then grew deadly pale, and as he
shook his reins and settled himself
in his seat, it was evident to Hamish,
who was holding his stirrup for him,
that he was struggling with all his
might and main to bear himself with
a haughty semblance of indifference
before the English soldiery. After
he was seated to his satisfaction, he
ventured a half glance around his
people, and lifted his beaver to sa-
lute them. But the effort was almost
too much ; the big tears gathered in
his eyes, and his hand shook so vio-
lently that he could not replace his
hat, which, escaping from his feeble
grasp, rolled under his horse's feet.
Half a dozen children darted for-
ward to recover it, but Hamish had
already picked -it up and given it to
his master, who instantly put it on
his head, saying, in a tone of affected
indifference :

" Pest on these trembling fingers
which so libel the stout heart within.
This comes of wine and wassail,
Hamish. Drink thou water all thy
life, good youth, if thou wouldst
match a sturdy heart with a steady
hand, when thy seventy years and
odd are on you."

" Faix, my lord, will I or nill I,"
said Hamish, trying to fall in with
the old man's humor by speaking
lightly ; " will I or nill I, it seems
only too likely that water will be the
best part of my wine for some time

Nellie Nettervilk.

to come ; leastways," he added in a
lower voice, "leastways till your
honor comes back to your own again,
and broaches us a good cask of wine
to celebrate the day/'

" Back again 1 back again I*' re-
peated Lord Netten*ille, shaking his
head with a mixture of grief and im*
patience impossible to describe. " I
tell thee, Hamish, that men never
come back again when they cany
seventy years with them to exile.
But where is my granddaughter?
Bid her come forth at once, for it's
ill lingering here with this weeping
crowd around us, and yonder pesti-
lent group of fanatics marking out
every mother*s son among them,
doubtless, for future vengeance.'*

Mrs* Netterville heard this impa-
tient cry for her only child, and flung
her arms for one last passionate em-
brace round Nellie*s neck. Then»
firm and unfaltering to the end, she
led her to Hamish, who lifted her as
reverently as if she had been an em-
press (as indeed she was in his
thoughts) to the pillion behind her
grandfather.

Lord Netterville barely waited un-
til she was comfortably settled, ere
he stooped to kiss once more his

daughter-in-lawV uplifted broi
which, waving his hands towa
weeping people, he dug his spui
into his horse's sides, and rode
forward.

Then, as if moved by one a
impulse, every man, womai
child in presence there, fell
upon their knees, mingling i
and blessings, and howls and
cations, as only an Irish or an ,
crowd can do ; and yet obedi
the last to the wishes of their <
ing chief, it was not until i
well' nigh out of sight that they
out into that wild, wailing kecj
which they were known to \
pany their loved ones to the
But the wind was less consii
and as it unluckily set that ^
bore one or two of the long, sad
to him in whose honor the)
chanted. As they fell upon t
exile's ears, the stoical cal
which he had hitherto maim
forsook him utterly ; the reii
from his hands, he bowed hi
till his while locks mingled w
horse's mane, and, "lifting i
voice,'' he wept as sadly and
strainedly as a woman.

TO •« COITTIirVXI]^

The Church Review and Victor Cousin.

E CHURCH REVIEW AND VICTOR COUSIN.*

tide in the Church Review
an estimate of the charac-
. O. A. Brownson as a phi-
; but what it says has really
n to that gentleman, and is
attempt, not very successful,
brilliant indeed, to vindicate
n's philosophy from the un-
judgment we pronounced
the magazine of last June,
nson is not the editor, nor
i editors, of The Catholic
the*article in question was
r no name, was impersonal,
Review has no authority for
its authorship to any one
[ves, or for holding any but
responsible for its merits
ts. When the name of a wri-
ed to an article, he should be
erable for its contents ; but
not, the magazine in which
i is alone responsible. Ac-
;o this rule, we hold the
Review answerable for its
^' article against ours,
dn purpose of the reviewer
be to prove that we wrote in
tire ignorance of M. Cou-
osophy, and to vindicate it
^ery grave charges we urged
. As to our ignorance, as
his knowledge, that must
itself; but we can say sin-
it we should be most happy
oved to have been in the
d to see Cousin's philosophy
cm the charge of being un-
rationalistic, pantheistic,
lant to Christianity and the
One great name would be
)m the list of our adversaries,

trkan Qmirterfy Church ReoUw. New
Richardson. January, x868. Art. ii.,
rason as a PhUosopher. Victor Cousin
Nophj. CaiMktr^rU:'

and their number would be so mudi
lessened. We should count it a
great service to the cause which is
so dear to us, if the Church Review
could succeed in proving that the er-
rors we laid to his charge are found-
ed only in our ignorance or philoso^
phical ineptness, and that his system
is entirely free from them. But though
it talks largely against us, assumes
a high tone, and makes strong asser*
tions and bold denials, we cannot dis-
cover that it has effected anything,
except the exhibition of itself in an
unenviable light. It has told us
nothing of Cousin or his philosophy
not to be found in our ardcle, and
has not in a single instance convicted
us of ignorance, malice, misstatement,
misrepresentation, or even inexact-
ness. This we shall proceed now to
show, briefly as we can, but at greater
length, perhaps, than its crude state-
ments are worth.

The principal charges against us
are: i. We said M. Cousin called
his philosophy eclecticism ; 2. We
wrongly denied scepticism to be a
system of philosophy; 3. Showed
our ignorance of Cousin's doctrine
in saying it remained in pyschology,
never attained to the objective, or
rose to ontology; 4. Misstated his
doctrine of substance and cause ; 5.
Falsely denied that he admits a nex^
us between the creative substance and
the created existence ; 6. Falsely as-
serted that he holds creation to be
necessary ; 7. Wrongly and ignorant-
ly accused him of Pantheism ; 8.
Asserted that he had but little know-
ledge of Catholic theology ; 9. Ac-
cused him of denying the necessity
of language to thought.

In preferring these charges against

Review and Victor Cousin.

M. Cousin's philosophy, we have
shown our ignorance of his real doc-
trine, our contempt for his express
declarations, and our philosophical in-
capacity, and the reviewer thinks one
may search in vain through any num-
ber of magazine articles of equal
length, for one more full of errors
and fallacies than ours. This is bad,
and, if true, not at all to our credit.
We shall not say as much of his arti-
cle, for tliat would not be courteous,
and instead of saying it, prefer to let
him prove it We objected that M.
Cousin assuming that to the opera-
tion of reason no objective reality is
necessary, can never, on his system,
establish such reality ; the reviewer,
p, 541, gravely asserts that we our-
selves hold, that to the operations of
reason no objective reality is neces-
sary, and can never be established !
This is charming. But are these
charges true ? We propose to take
them up seriatim^ and examine the
reviewer's proofs,

I. We said M, Cousin called his
philosophical system eclecticism.
1 o this the reviewer replies ;

** * Eclecticism can never be a phHoscphy ;'
making, among other arguments* the perti-
nent inquiry : * How, if you know not the
truth in its unity and integrity beforebandi
ire you, in studying those several systems,
\ determine which U the part of truth and
irhich of error?*

*We beg his pardon, but M. Cousin
ever called his philosophical system Eckc-
In the introduction to the P'rait
Btiiu^ tt BuH^ he writes :

" * One word as to an opinion too much ac-
credited. Some persons persist in reprc-
|ienting eclecticism as the doctrine to which
tbcy would attach my name. I declare,
then, that eclecticism is, undoubtedly, very
dear to me, for it is in my eyes the light of
the history of philosophy ; but the fire which
supplies this light is elsewhere. Eciecti*
d&m is one of the most important and use-
ful applications of the philosophy I profess,
|but It is not its principle. My true doctrine,
true flag, is spintitalism ; that philoso-
phy, as stable as il is generous, which be*
fMi with SocratM tnd Fiatpi which the gos-

Llo^fl

dhj
I. 1

gel spread abroad in the world, ftiu!
Descartes placed under the severe J
modem thought.*

"And the principles of thisphilo
ply the touchstone with which to
several systems, and to determine wl
the part of truth and which of error.'
Iccticism, in Cousin's view of it, as one
have discovered who bad * studied his
with some care,' is something more
blind syncretism, destitute of prindji
a fumbling among conflicting syitc
pick out such theories as please us^"*

If M, Cousin never called
losophical s}^tem ecleclict:
did he defend it from the 0I
brought on against it, that, i
ticism is a syncretism — all sy:
mingled together ; 2, Eclecticis
proves of everything, the true an
false, the good and the bad ; 3, I
ticism is fatalism \ 4* Eclectlci
the absence of all system ? Wh
he not say at once that he d«
profess eclecticism, instead of s
and endeavoring to prove thi
eclectic method is at once ph
phical and historical ?•

Everybody knows that he pf
ed eclecticism and defended il^
a method, do you say? Be
Does he not maintain, from {
last, that a philosopher's whoU
tem is in his method? Does
say, ** Given a philosopher'fi
thod, we can foretell his whol«
tem " ? And is not his whole (
of the history of philosophy
on this assumption ? We wroi
article for those who knew Cc
writings, not for those who
them not There is nothing
passage quoted from the rev
quotL'd from Cousin, that conti
what we said. We did not sa
he always called philosophy
cism, or pretend that il was thi
ciple of his system. We said

♦♦There is no doubt that all school
sects, have their part of truth, as

Tie Ckurfk Review and Victor Cousin.

of error ; for the human mind can-
ct pore, mimized error any more
rill can pure, unmixed evil ; but
c method is not the method of con-
roe philosophy any more than it
lod of constructing true Christian
The Catholic acknowledges will-
ruth which the several sects hold ;
s not derive it from them, nor ar-
by studying their systems. He
iependently of them ; and having
in its unity and integrity, he is
idying them, to distinguish what
that is true from the errors they
h it It most be the same with
>pher. Af. Cvmm was noi tma'
r, andhefintUljf asserted eeleetUUm
I method of historical verificaUcn^
real and origimal metkodrf eoi§'
Mlosopky. The name was there-
pily chosen, and is now seldom
Taikolic Worlds p. 335.)

lie reviewer read this pas-
would have seen that we
re 0/ the fact that latterly
tased to profess eclecticism
method of verification; and
read our article through, he
/e seen that we were aware
leld spiritualism to be the
of his system, and that we
it as such.

in counts scepticism as a
f philosophy. We object,
very pertinently, since he
ry system has a truth, and
ways something affirmative,
'What, then, is the truth of
I, which is a system of pure
and not only affirms noth-
^nies that any thing can be
' Will the reviewer an-
juestion ?

newer, of course, finds us
>ng. Here is his reply :

istory of the progress of the hu-
the phase of scepticism is not
3oked. At different periods it
\ to wield a strong, sometimes a
often a salutary, influence over
of an age. Its work, it is true,
ve, and not constructive ; but
as a check and restraint upon
culation, and the establishment
. hypotheses, it has its raismi
rOL. VII. — 7

d^Hre^ and contributes, hi its way, to the ad-
vancement of truth. Nor can the works of
Seztus, Pyrrho^ Glanvil, Montaigne, Gas-
send!, or Hume be considered less ' syste-
matic* than those of any dogmatist, merely
from their being 'systems of pure nega-
tion.'" (P.S33.)

That it is sometimes reasonable
and salutary to doubt, as if the re-
viewer should doubt his extraordina-
ry genius as a philosopher, we rea-
dily admit ; but what salutary influ-
ence has ever been exerted on sci-
ence or morals by any so-called sys->
tem of scepticism, wl^ch denies die
possibility of science, and renders
the binding nature of virtue uncer-
tain, we have never yet been able to
ascertain* Moreover, a system of
pure negation is simply no system at
all, for it has no principle and af^
firms nothing. A sceptical turn of
mind is as undesirable as a credU>-
lous mind. That the persons named;
of whom only one, Pyrrho, professed
universal scepticism, and perhaps
even he carried his scepticism no far-
ther than to doubt the reality of mat-
ter, may have rendered some service
to the cause of truth, as the drunken
helotse promoted temperance among
the Spartan youth, is possible; but
they have done it by the truth they
asserted, not by the doubt they dis-
seminated. There is, moreover^ agreat
difference between doubting, or sus-
pending our judgment where we are
ignorant or where our knowledge b
incomplete, and erecting jdoubt into
the principle of a system which as-
sumes all knowledge to be impossi-
ble, and that certainty is nowhere at-
tained or attainable. It seems, we
confess, a little odd to find a Church
Review taking up the defence of
scepticism.

3. We assert in our article that
M. Cousin, though he professes to
come out of the sphere of psychology,
and to rise legitimately to ontology, re-
mains always there ; and,, in point of

The Church Reinew and Victor Cousin.

fact, the ontology- he asserts is only
an abstraction or generalization of
psychological facts. The re\'iewer
is almost shocked at this, and is
** tempted to think that the time** we
claim to have spent in studying
the works of Cousin with some care
"might have been better employed
in the acquisition of some useful
knowledge more %vithin the reach
of our * understanding.* *' It is
possible. But what has he to allege
against what we asserted, and think
we proved? Nothing that we can
find except that Cousin professes to
attain, and perhaps believes he does
attain, to real objective existence,
and, scientifically, to real ontology.
But, my good friend, that is notliing
to the purpose. The question is not
as to what Cousin professes to have
done, or what he has really attempt-
ed to do, but what he has actually
done. When we allege that the be-
ing, the God asserted by Cousin, is,
on his system, his principles, and me-
thod, only an abstraction or a genera-
iization ; you do not prove us wrong
l>y reiterating his assertion that it is
real being, that it is the living God,
for it is, though you seem not to be
aware of it, that very assertion that
is denied. We readily concede that
Cousin does not profess to rise to on-
tology by induction from his psycho-
log)', but we maintain that the only
ontology he attains to is simply an
induction from his psychology, and
therefore is, and can be, only an
abstraction or a genemlization. We
must here reproduce a passage from
our own article,

** What is certain, and this is ali the on-
tologist need assert, or, in fact, can assert,
18, that ontology is neither an induction nor
a deduction from psychological data. GcxI
is not, and cannot be, the generalization of
our own souls, liut it docs not follow from
this that wc do not think that which is God,
and that it is from thought we do and must
iL Wc take it from thought and by

thinking. What is objected to J
chologists is the assutnption that!
a purely psychological or suJ>jectj?cl
that from this psychological or m
fact wc can, by way of induciion, attai
tological truth. But as wc nndcrstj
Cousin, and we studied his works wii
care thirty or thirty- live years ;i?o, ;
the honor of his pri v.^tc cor r >
he never pretends to do. \
is, that in the analysts of consimiLr
detect a class of facts or ideas which
psyLhological or subjective, but real
logical, and do actually carry us oul
region of psychology into that of o\
That his account of these fact$ cir \
to be accepted as correct or n*1« nititi
not pretend, but that hc/^
nize them and distinguish tb
psychological facts is undeniable.

*' The delect or error of M. Cousin
point was in failing, as wc have aire
served, to identify the absolute or n«
Jdcas he detects and asserts wttli G
only e$ts tucessarium et realty and in
to assert them in their o1 '
whole subject, and in presti
as objective to the human ptrs'^nam
never succeeded in cutting himself
loose from the German noir^ * ■ '^*
jective- object or objcctivc-sii
he had clearly proved an ide.L ., .;. ,
to the reflective reason and the huiu
sonality, he did not dare assert it IC
jective in relation to the whole subji
was impersonal, but might be in a
sense subjective, as Kant maintaim
regard to the categories." ( Ca/Aul^
pp. 335» 336.)

liBR

The reviewer, after snul
for our ignorance and inep
which are very great, as we ar
aware and humbly confess, reo
lis in this manner: fl

** And yet nothing in Cousin is em
more positive than that this * pure sti
lime degree of the reason, when will,
tion, and personality are as j'Ct ab
this * intuition and spontaneous ncfw
which is the primitive mode of rcas
objective to the whole subject in ever
dlf Bcusc, and is, consequently, con
to the objective, and a revelation of i

"Can the critic have read Cousin
tures on Kant, 'thirty or thirty-fivi
ago' ? If so, wc advise him to refresh
mory by a rc-pcrusal, and perhaps 1
withdraw the strange assertion that <
held an * absolute idea to be imp

y^/>.

., ^^ THE '^'j\

The Church Riview and V^iCkl^t^:^ ^ fap

kt be in a certain sense subjecUvei

'4ttHtCttH€G Wuh Tt^OTn iotht CttiClgO*

le scepticism of Kant,' says Con-
a o|i his finding tiie laws of the
be snbjectivey personal to man ;
is a mode of Uie reason where
t laws are, as it were, deprived of
ivit]r— where the reason shows it-
entirely impersonaL
he critic would wish this imper-
ity to be objective to the *whole
id not to the 'personal only,' as if
any greater d^ree of objectivity
i than in the other, it is not easy
looks like a distinction widiout a
The abstract and logical dls-
apparent, bat though ditfdnct, the
bject,' and the 'human personal-
t be separated, so that what Is ob-
one, shall not be so to the other
i ' whole subject ' is, simply, the
feeling, willing being, which we
inguished from the world external
an idea, then, is revealed to us by
•mpletely foreign to us — if an act
son is spontaneous and unreflec-
8, impersonal— what Is there Uiat
re objective to the subject ?
ive said, that such an act is objec-
e subject in tvtiypassihU sense.
; not to forget the conditions of
' Docs one wish,' says Cousin, ' in
elieve in the objectivity and valid-
reason, that it should cease to
>pearance in a particular subject^
r instance ? But then, if reason
of the subject, that is, of myself
ng to me. For me to have con-
of it, it must descend into me, it
e itself mine, and become in this
jective. A reason which is not
h, in itself being entirely universal,
icamate itself in some manner in
)usness, is for me as though it did
\ Consequently, to wish that the
order to be trustworthy, should
-ely to be subjective, is to demand
ibiUty.'" (Pp. 534. 535.)

ive introduced this long ex-
order to give our readers a
imen of the reviewer's style
icity as a reasoner. It will
that the reviewer alleges, as
;ainst us» what is in question
iry thing that he is to prove.
s read Cousin's Lectures on
nd we know well, and have

! vSL t Lectures on Kant, Till

never thdagttt/oT ^^f^^if^h^ht
criticises Kant^siMifplyi-says many
admirable things against him, and
professes to reject his subjectivism ;
we know, also, that he holds idiat he
calls the impersonal reason to be ob*
jective, operating independendy of
us ; all this we know and so stated,
we thought, clearly enough, in our arr
tide ; but we, nevertheless, maintain
that he does not make this imper-
sonal reason really objective, but
simply independent in its operations
of otur personality. He holds that
reason has two modes of activity —
the one personal, the other imper-
sonal; but he recognizes only a dis-
tinction of modes, sometimes only a
difference of degrees, making, as we
have seen, as quoted by the review-
er, the impersonal reason a sublimer
^degree" of reason than the person-
•al. He calls the impersonal reason
the spontaneous reason, sometimes
simply spontaneity. All this is evi-
dent enough to any one at all fami-
liar with Cousin's philosophical writ-
ings.

But what b this reason which ope-
rates in these two modes, impersonal
and spontaneous in the one, person-
al and reflective in the other? As
the distincddn between the personal
and impersonal is, by Cousin's own
avowal, a difference simply of modes
or degrees, there can be no entitative
or substantial difference between
them. They are not two different
or distinct reasons, but one and the
same reason, operating in two differ-
ent modes or degrees. Now, we de-
mand, what is this one substantive
reason operating in these two differ-
ent degrees or modes ? It certainly
is not an abstraction, for abstrac-
tions are nullities and cannot ope-
rate or act at all. What, then, is it?
Is it God, or is it man ? If you say
it is God, then you deny reason to
man, make him a brute, unless you

ido

The Church Review and Vkiar Consin,

identify man with God. If you say
it is man, that it is a faculty of the
human soul, as Cousin certainly does
say — for he makes it our faculty and
only faculty of intelligence — then you
make it subjective, since nothing is
more subjective than one's own fa-
culties. They are the subject itself.
Consequently the impersonal reason
belongs as truly to man, the subject,
as the personal reason, and therefore
is not objective, as we said, to the
whole subject, but at best only to
the wili and the personality — \vhat
Cousin calls k moL The most dis-
tinguished of the disciples of Cousin
was Theodore Jouffroy, who, in his
confessions, nearly curses Cousin
for having seduced him from his
Christian faith, whose loss he so bit-
terly regretted on his dying-bed, and
who was, in Cousin's judgment, as
expressed in a letter to the writer of*
this article, **a true philosopher/*
This true philosopher and favorite
disciple of Cousin illustrates the dif-
ference between the impersonal rea-
son and the personal by the differ-
ence between seeing and hokin^^y
hearing and listenings which corre-
sponds precisely to the difference
noted by Leibnitz between what he
calls simple pereeptian ind appercep-
tion. In both cases it is the man
who sees, hears, or perceives ; but
in the latter case, the will intervenes
and we not only see, but look, not
only perceive, but apperceive.

Now, it is very clear, such being
Uie case, that Cousin does not get out
of the sphere of the subject any more
than does Kant, and all the argu-
ments he adduces against Kant, ap-
ply equally against himself; for he
recognizes no actor in thought, or
what he calls the fact of conscious-
ness^ but the subject. The fact which
^hc alleges, that the impersonal rea-
son necessitates the mind, irresistibly
controls it, is no more than Kant

says of his categories, which h<
lutely maintains are -forms c
subject Hence» as Cousin d
Kant very justly with subjec
and scepticism, we are equally
fied in preferring the same d
against himself. Tliis is wh
showed in the article die review
criticising, and to this he shouti
replied, but, unhappily, has nol
only quotes Cousin to the eiTec
** to wish the reason, in order
trustworthy, should cease cntii
be subjective, is to demand a
possibilit)\" which only coi
what we have said.

We pursue in our article the
ment still further, and add;

** Reduced to its proper character
scrttd by M. Cousin, intuition x% em]
and stands opposed not to rcflecticMi»
discursion, and is simply the immedia
direct j^crccption of the object withe
intervention of any process, more <
elaborate, of reasoning. This i% I
not an unusual sense of the word, p
its more common sense, hut it is a
that renders the distinction between
tion and reflection of no importance
Cousin, for it does not carry hinn out
sphere of the subject, or afford him an
for his ontological inductions. He h
the question as to the objectivity and re
the ideal to solve, and no recognized
of solving it. His ontological cofidi
therefore, as a writer rn the Christk
amtner told him as long ago as 1 83
simply on the credibility of reason e
in its trustworthiness, which can ne
estabHshed, because it is assumed t
the operation of reason, no objective
is necessary, since the object, if imfjc
may, for aught that appears, be inclu
the subject" [Catholk Wm-id, p. jjl

We quote the reply of the rev
to this at full length, for no n
man can abridge or condense it
out losing its essence.

" Tf a man speaks tht^ after a \
study of Cousin, tt is almost useless tc
with him. He either has not unde
the philosopher, or his scepticism is
essly obstinate. Intuition, as assert
Cousin, is not reduced to its proper c

The Church Review and: VSctor Cousin.

• • • •

mt simply misrepresented, when it is
1 empirical ; for it is the primitive mode
ison, and pilor to all experience. It
evelation of the objective to the sub-
and to be a revelation must, of course,
into the consciousness of the subject
in has carefully and repeatedly estab-
1 the true character of intuition as a
»ure to the understanding in the rea-
and free from any touch of subjectivity.
ursfy his ontohgkal conclusions rest on a
' in tki credibility of reason^ ancU of
i^ this credibility can never be establishea
logical way^ although^ metaphysically^ it
mdantly established. One may ' assume,'
le end of time, that ' to the operation
:ason no objective reality is necessary,
: the object may, for aught that appears,
iduded in the subject,' but the universal
invincible opinion of the human race
been, and will be, to the contrary of such
ssomption.

As firmly as Reid and Hamilton have
blished the doctrine of sensible percep-
, and the objective existence of the ma-
il world, has Cousin that of the objective
tence of the absolute, and, on the very
e ground, the veracity of consciousness.
1 the mass of manlund have lived in
py ignorance of any necessity for such
imcnts. When they sowed and reaped,
bought and sold, they never questioned
real existence of the objects they dealt
i ; nordidthey^ when the idea of duty or
VtwH made itself felt in their souls, dream
, *for such an operation of reason, no ob*
'te reality was necessary^
Men have an unquestioning but uncon-
rable belief that the very idea of obliga-
implies something outside of them, that
gei. Something other than itsel f it must
that commands the souL Right is a re-
', and duty a £act The philosophy, that
i not come round to an enlightened and
IHgent holding of the unreflecting belief
Bankind, but separates itself from it, is
se than useless. In such wisdom it is
td 'folly to be wise.' And this philo-
uc folly comes from insisting on a logi-
iemonstration of what is logically unde-
straWe— of what is superior, because
lior to reasoning. We cznnot prove to
onderstanding truths which are the very
s and groundwork of that understand-
i^lt" (Pp. 536, 537.)

rhis speaks for itself, and concedes,

tually, all we alleged against Cou-

I's system ; at least it convicts us

no misapprehension or misrep-

lOI

•

resentatiom* Jj? Jjiat system ; and the
reviewer's sn^tft-V pur ignorance and
incapacity, hoWfev^?.much they may
enliven his style ajftljstrengthen his
argimfient, do not sfifchtTt^ have been
specially called for. '•'ifcl*>e think
both he and M. Cousin ^iV mi^t^en
when they assume that to .^enymd
any other basis for science thW.-rffc^
credibility or faith in the trustwdfrfj^f/,
ness of reason, is to demand an in> \
possibility, for a science founded on*
faith is simply no science at all.
There is science only where the mind
grasps, and appropriates, not its own
faculties only, but the object itself.
The reason, personal or impersonal,
is the faculty by which we grasp it,
or the light by which we behold it ;
not the object in which the mental ac-
tion terminates, but the medium by
which we attain to the object If it
were otherwise, there might be faith,
but not science, and though reason
might search for the object, yet it
would always be pertinent to ask,
Who or what vouches for reason?
Descartes answered. The veracity ot
God, which, in one sense, is true, but
not in the sense alleged ; for on the
Cartesian theory we might ask, what
vouches for the veracity of God ?
The only possible answer would be,
it is reason, and we should simply
traverse a circle without making the
slightest advance.

The difficult}' arises from adopting
the psychological method of philoso-
phizing, or assuming, as Descartes
does in his famous cogito, ergo sum,
I think, therefore, I exist, that man
can think in and of himself, or with-
out the presence and active concur-
rence of that which is not himself,
and which we call the object. Intu-
ition, on Cousin's theory, is the spon-
taneous operation of reason as op-
posed to discursion, which is its re-
flex or reflective operation, but sup-
poses tliat reason suffices for its own

102

The CfQlrdk^Review and Victor Cousik

operation. In his cguli'eof philoso-
phy professed at th^^F^ulty of Let-
ters in 1 8 18, he 9d)i5,/n the conscious-
ness, that i^ {uiv thought, there are
two elemepft^Ji^' subject and object ;
or, in hisTbaftarous dialect, /^ mot et
ie n(ffhjnoi; but he is careful to assert
th^,sul§ect as active and the object
asVg5is*sive. Now, a passive object
,\}$*a'& if it were not, andean concur in
j V». kothing with the activity of the sub-
ject. Then, as all the activity is on
the side of the subject, the subject
must be able to think in and of itself
alone. The fact that I think an
existence other tlian myself, on this
theory, is no proof that there is real-
ly any other existence than myself
till my thought is validated, and I
have nothing but thought with which
lo validate thought

The co^to^ ergo sum is, of course,
worthless as an argument, as has
often been shown ; but there is in it
an assumption not generally noted ;
namely, that man suffices for his own
thought, and, therefore, that man is
God, God alone suffices, or can suf-
fice, for his own thought, and needs
nothing but himself for his thought or
his science* He knows himself in
himself, and is in himself the infinite
Intelligibile, and the infinite Intelli-
gens. He knows in himself all his
works, from beginning to end, for he
has made them, and all events, for he
has decreed them. There is for him
no medium of science distinguisha-
ble from himself; for he is, as the
theologians say, the adequate object
of his own intelligence. But man be-
ing a creature, and therefore depen-
dent for his existence, his life, and
all his operations, interior and exte-
rior, on the support and active con-
currence of that which is not himself,
does not and cannot suffice for his
thought, and he does not and cannot
think in and of himself alone, in any
ner, mode, form, or degree,or with-

out the active presence and <
rence of tlie object, as Pierre
has well shown in his od
very objectionable Rhfutatum .
lectins me. The object being ii
dent of the subject, and not s
by the subject, must exist a^
since, if it did not, it could not
ly concur with the subject in 1
duction of thought. There cat
therefore, to the true philosop
question as to the credibility o
worthiness of reason, the i
or invalidity of thought. Th
question for him is, Do we
What do we think ? He who
knows that he thinks, and w
thinks, for thought is science, ft
knowsj knows that he know
what he knows.

The difficulty which Cousin i
reviewer encounter arises fro!
placing the question of meth
fore the question of princip
we showed in our former artic
such difficulty can arise in th
of him who has settled the qi
of principles — which are give
found, or obtained by the ac
the subject without them — ai
lows the method they pre
The error, we repeat, arise!
the psychological method, whl«
poses all the activity in thot
in the subject, and supposes
to b« operative in and of its
without any objective reality,
reality, on Cousin^s system,
the psychological method, can
be established.

The reviewer concedes th
jective reality cannot be estal
in a logical wa\\ but maintain
there is no need of so estab
it; for **men have an unquest
an unconquerable Miefthzt tl
idea of obligation implies son]
outside of them.*' Nobody den
belief, but its validity is pr
tlie matter in question.

The Church Review and Victor Cousin,

103

rove the validity of the idea
gation ? But the reviewer for-
tat Cousin makes it the pre-
d of philosophy to legitimate
lief, and all the universal be-

mankind, and convert them
iliefe into science. How can
3hy do this, if obliged to sup-
ilf on these very beliefs ?
•eviewer follows the last pas-
th a bit of philosophy of his
ut, as it has no relevancy to
ter in hand, and is, withal, a
) transcendental for our taste,
t excuse us for declining to

it. We cannot accept it,
:annot accept what we do not
and, and it professes to be
ill understanding. In fact,
iewer seems to have a very
inion of understanding, and
5 contempt for logic. He re-
us of a friend we once had,
id to us, one day, that if he

his understanding and fol-
his logic he should go to

but, as neither logic nor un-
ding is trustworthy or of any
:, he should join the Anglican
, which he incontinently did,
ce, we doubt not, found him-
home. Can it be that he is
er of the article criticising us ?
reviewer, in favoring us with
t of philosophy of his own,
», in support of it, that Sir
I Hamilton says, " All think-
egation." So much the worse,
»r Sir William Hamilton. All
g is affirmative, and pure ne-

can neither think nor be
:. Every thought is a judg-
md affirms both the subject
g and the object thought, and
elation to each other. This,
: sometimes, is the doctrine of
, as any one may ascertain by
\ his essays, Du Fait de Con-
and Du 'Premier et du dernier

Fait de Conscience^ Though even in
these essays the doctrine is mixed up
with much that is objectionable, and
which leads one, after all, to doubt if
the philosopher ever clearly perceived
the fact, or the bearing of the fact, he
asserted. Cousin often sails along
near the coast of truth, sometimes al-
most rubs his bark against it, without
perceiving it But we hasten on.

4. We are accused of misstating
Cousin's doctrine of substance and
cause. ' Here is our statement and
the reviewer's charge :

" * M. Cousin,' continues The Catholic
World, ' professes to have reduced the ca-
tegories of Kant and Aristotle to two— sub-
stance and cause ; but as he in fact identi-
fies cause with substance, declaring substance
to be substance only in so much [the italics are
ours] as it is cause, and cause to be cause
only in so much as it is substance, he really
reduces them to the single category of sub-
stance, which you may call, indifferently,
substance or cause. But, though every sub-
stance is intrinsically and essentially a cause,
yet, as it may be something more than a cause,
it is not necessary to insist on this, and it may
be admitted that he recognized two catego-
ries.*

" What is exactly meant by these two con-
tradictory statements it is not easy to guess ;
but let Cousin speak for himself :t

" * Previous to I^eibnitz, these two ideas
seemed separated in modem philosophy by
an impassable barrier. He, the first to sound
the nature of the idea of substance, brought
it back to the notion of force. This was the
foundation of all his philosophy, and of what
afterward became the Monadology. ....
But has Leibnitz, in identifying the notion
of substance with that of cause, presented
it with justness ? Certainly, substance is
revealed to us by cause ; for, suppress all
exercise of the cause and force which is in
ourselves, and we do not exist to ourselves.
It is, then, the idea of cause which introdu-
ces into the mind the idea of substance.
But is substance nothing more than cause
which manifests it ? . . . . The causative pow-
er is the essential attribute of substance ; it
is not substance itselC In a word, if has
seemed to us surer to hold to these two

• Fragments PhUosophujues^ t i. pp. 148, a56.
t VI. Lecture, Course of x8i8, on the Absolute.

104

The Church Review and Victor ComitK

primitive notions ; distinct, though insepar-
ably united ; one, which is the sign and mini*
featation of the othtrr, this, which is the root
and foundation of that.*

" One would think this sufficiently explicit
for all who are not afliicied with the blind-
ness that will not sec/' (P. 539.)

We see no self-contradiction in our
statement, and no contradiction of M.
Cousin. We maintain that M, Cou-
sin really, though probably not inten-
tionally or consciously, reduces the
categories of Kant and Aristotle to
the single category of substance, and
prove it by the words italicized by the
reviewer, which are our translation of
Cousin's own words. Cousin says, in
his own language, in a well-known
passage in the first preface of his
Fragments Philosophiqua^ " Le Dieu
de la conscience n'cst pas un Dieu
abstrait, un roi solitaire, re'legue par-
dellt la cr(5ation sur le trone de-
sert d*une dtemit^ silencieusc, et
d'une existence absolue qui ressem-
ble au n<5ant ra^me de I'existence:
c est un Dieu \ la fois vrai et r^el, k
la fois substance et cause, toujours
substance et toujours cause, jiHant
substance qti*en tant que cause, ct
cause gu^eri tant que substance^ c'est-k-
dire, ^tant cause absolue, un et plu-
sieurs, ^ternit<f et temps, espace et
n ombre, essence et vie, indivisibility
et tota!it<5, principe, fin, et milieu, au
sommet de Tctre ct k son plus hum-
ble dcgref, infini et fini, tout ensem-
b!e, triple enfin, c'est-h-dire, \ la fois
Dieu, nature, et human itd En eflet,
si Dieu n\*st pas tout il rCest ricn'^^
This passage justifies our first state-
ment, because Cousin calls God sub-
stance, the one, absolute substance,
besides which there is no substance.
But as our purpose, at the moment,
was not so much to show that Cousin
made substance and cause identical,
as it was to show that he made sub-
stance a necessary cause, we allowed,

for reasons which he himself
in the passage cited by the re^
from his course of 18 18 on tl
solute, that he might be said 1
tingtiish them, and to have re
the categories to two, instead c
only, as he professes to have
But the reviewer hardly needs
told that, when it is assumec
substance is cause only on con
of causing, that is, causing fro
necessity of its own being, the
is not substantially distinguis
from die substance causing, a
only a mode or affection of th<
sative substance itself, or, a|
phenomenon.

5. Accepting substance ail
as two categories, we contend
Cousin requires a third ; na
the creative act of the can
substance, and contingent ex
ces, as asserted in the ideal fi
la. Efts crcat existerttias. To
the reviewer cites, from Cousii
following passage in reply :

•* In the fifth lecture of the course oi
M. Cousin saj-s ;

" * The tivo terms of this so corapreh
formula do not constitute a dualism, in
the first term is on one side and the 1
on the other, without any other cont*
between them than that of bcinjj per
at the same time by the intelligence ;
from this, the tic which hinds them is
tial. It is a connection of gentratitm
draws the second from the first, and cor
ly carries it back to it, and which, wi
Iwo terms, constitutes the three integral
ments of inielligcnce, , . , . '
draw this relation which binds vari<
unity, and you destroy the necessary
of the two terms of every propo
These three terms, distinct, but insepa
constitute at onoc a triplicity and an

visible unity Carricc

Theodicy, the theory I have explair
you is nothing less than the very founi
of Christianity. The Christians' Go
once triple and one, and the antmadve
which rise against the doctrine I
ought to ascend to the Christian Trix

We said in our article, "Undi

The Church Review and Victor Cousin,

105

head of substances he (Cousin) ran-
g^ all that is substantial or that per-
tains to real and necessary being, and
raider the head of cause the phenome-
nal or the effects of the causative ac-
tion of substance. He says he un-
derstands, by substance, the univer-
sal and absolute substance, the real
and necessary being of the theolo-
g^ns ; and by phenomena, not mere
nodes or appearances of substance,
bat finite and relative substances, and
caOs them phenomena only in opposi-
tioQ to the one absolute substance.
They are created or produced by
tbe causative action of substance.*
If this has any real meaning, he
Aould recognize three categories as
iatiie ideal formula. Ens creat exis-
laUuSy that is. Being, existences, or
Greatures, and the creative act of
beings the real nexus between sub-
stance or being and contingent exis-
tCDces, for it is that which places
them and binds them to the Crea-
tor."

The passage cited by the reviewer
ftom Cousin is brought forward, we
suppose, to show that it does recog-
nize this third category ; but if so,
»faat becomes of the formal state-
ment that he has reduced the catego-
ries to two^ substance and cause, or,
u he sometimes says, substance or
Wng and phenomenon ? Besides,
the passage cited does not recognize
the third term or category of the for-
noia. It asserts not the creative act
rf being as the nexus between sul^-
stance and phenomenon, the infinite
and the finite, the absolute and the
relative, etc. ; but generation^ which
is a very different thing, for the gene-
Qted is consubstantial with the gene-
lator.

i We were arguing against Cou-
5m*5 doctrine, that God, being intrin-
sically active, or, as Aristotle and
the schoolmen say, actus purissimus^

^rngmndt PkOftc^kiqmtt 1 1 pp. six. zx.

most pure act, must therefore neces-
sarily create or produce exteriorly.
In prosecuting the argument, we an-
ticipated an objection which, per-
haps, some might be disposed to
bring from Leibnitz's definition of
substance, as a vis activa^ and endea-
vored to show that, even accepting
that definition, it would make nothing
in favor of the doctrine we were re-
futing, and which Cousin undeniably
maintains. We say, "The doctrine
that substance is essentially cause,
and must, from intrinsic necessity,
cause in the sense of creating, is not
tenable. We are aware that Leib-
nitz, a great name in philosophy, de-
fines substance to be an active force,
a vis activa^ but we do not recollect
that he anywhere pretends that its
activity necessarily extends beyond
itself. God is vis activa, if you
will, in a supereminent degree ; he is
essentially active, and would be nei-
ther being nor substance if he were
not ; he is, as Aristotle and the school-
men say, most pure act ; . . but
nothing in this implies that he must
necessarily act ad extra^ or create.
He acts eternally from the necessity
of his own divine nature, but not ne-
cessarily out of the circle of his infi-
nite being, for he is complete in him-
self, is in himself the plenitude of be-
ing, and always and everywhere suf-
fices for himself, and therefore for
his own activity. Creation, or the
production of effects exterior to him-
self, is not necessary to the perfec-
tion of his activity, adds nothing to
him, as it can take nothing from him.
Hence, though we cannot conceive
of him without conceiving him as in-
finitely, eternally, and essentially ac-
tive, we can conceive of him as abso-
lute substance or being, without con-
ceiving him to be necessarily acting
or creating ad extra^

The reviewer says, sneeringly,
"This is the most remarkable passage

to6

furcA Rnnew and Vidtfr Cousin,

in this remarkable arllcle," He com*
ments on it in this manner :

**Thus appearing \o accept the now
exploded Lcibnitiian theory, which Cousin
has combated both in its original form, and
as maintained by De Biran^ our critic tries
to escape from it by this subtle distinction
between the southern and south^caBtcrn
sides of the hair. He enlarges upon it,
God^ according to him, is indeed vh acth*a
in the most eminent degree, but this docs
not imply that he must act ad extra^ or cre»
ate. He acts eternally from the necessity
of his nature, but not necessarily out of the
drde of his own infinite being* Hence,
though we cannot conceive of him but as
infinitely and essentially active, we can con-
ccivc of him as absolute substance without
conceiving him to be necessarily creating,
or acting ad extra. M, Cousin, he says,
evidently confounds the interior acts of the
divine t>eing with his exterior or creative
acts.

" We have no wish to deny that he does
make such a confusion. To one who holds
that * to the operation of reason no objective
reality is necessary, and that such reality
can never be established,' this kind of sub-
jcctivc activity of the will, which seems so
nearly to resemble passivity — these pure
acts, or voiitians, which never pass out of
the sphere of the will into causation — may
be satisfactory; but to one who believes
that God is not a scholastic abstraction — to
one who worships the * living God' of the
Scriptures — it will sound like a pitiful jug-
glery with words thinly veiling a lamentable
confusion of ideas. God is a person, and
he acts as a person. The divine will is no
otherwise conceivable by us than as of the
same nature as man's will ; it differs from it
only in the mode of its operation — for with
him this is always immediate, and no delib-
eration or choice is possible — and it is as
absurd to speak of the activity of his will,
the eminently active force, never extending
* out of the drclc of his own infinite being,*
as it would be to call a man eminently an
active person whose activity was all merely
purpose or volition, never passing into the
creative act ad extra^ or out of the circle of
his own finite being.

" If Sl Anselm is right, that, to be iW re
b greater than to be in inteiUcht^ then has
the creature man, according to the critic, a
higher faculty than his Creator tssentiaily ana
necessarily has. For his will is by nature
causative, creative, productive ad extra, and
St is nothing unless its activity be called
into act external to his personality,

while the pure acts of the divine ^
remain forever enclosed in the cird
divine consciousness w ithout realixu
selves ad extra r (Pp. 540, S^U\

We do not like to tell a m^
face, especially when he asstm
lofty airs and makes the laq
tensions of our reviewer, thath
not know what he is talking at
understand the ordinary tena
distinctions of the science h
fesses to have m.istered, for t
our judgment, would be 11
but what better is to be said
philosopher who sees nothing
in the distinction between the
act ad intra J whence the e tenia
ration of the Son and the {
procession of the Holy Ghoi
the divine act ad extra ^ whenc
and nature, the universe, a
things visible and invisible^
guishable from the one neccssa:
versal, immutable, and eternal
than in "the distinction betwe
southern and south-eastern sii
the hair *^? The Episcopal iai
nals were right in calling the (
Hei'inv^scfiuvism on ns " racy,"
ing," "scathing;" it is certaii
tounding, such as no morta
could foresee, or be prepared
swer to the satisfaction of its t

In the passage reproducec
oyrselves we neither accept noi
the definition of substance gi\
Leibnitz, nor do we say that <
accepts it, although he cei
favors it in his introduction
Posthumous Works cf Maim de.
and adduces the fact of his \
adopted it in his defence agaii
charge of pantheism,* but sim
gue that, if any one should ac
and urge it as an argument fo:
sin, it would be of no avail, b
Leibnitz does not pretend tlu
stance is or must be active <
of itself, or out of its own ir

The Church Review and Victor Cousin,

107

: is, must be creative of exterior
cts. This is our argument, and
mst go for what it is worth.
V'e admit that in some sense God
jT be a ftr activa^ but we show
lost immediately tiiat it is in the
se that he is most pure act, that
in the sense opposed to ih^poten-
nuda of the schoolmen, and means
it God is in acta most perfect be-
;, and that nothing in his being is
tential, in need of being filled up
actualized. When we speak of his
tivity, within the circle of his own
ing, we refer to the fact that he is
ing God, therefore, Triune, Father,
n, and Holy Ghost. As all life is
dve, not passive, we mean to imply
at his life is in himself^ and that he
n and does eternally and necessa-
y live, and in the very fulness of
e in himself ; and therefore nothing
wanting to his infinite and perfect
th'ity and beatitude in himself, or
thout anything but himself. This
so because he is Trinity, three
ual persons in one essence, and
a'cfore he has no need of any-
ng but himself; nothing in his
ng or nature necessitates him to
ad extra^ that is, create exist-
es distinct from himself. Does

reviewer understand us now?
is an Episcopalian, and believes,
>rofesses to believe, in the Trinity,
, therefore, in the eternal gene-
on of the Son, and the eternal
:ession of the Holy Ghost. Do
this generation and this proces-
i imply action ? Action assuredly

necessarily, and eternal action
, because they are necessary in
very essence or being of God,
I he could not be otherwise than
ee persons in one God, xi^per im-
iihile, he would. The unity of
ence and trinity of persons do
t depend on the divine will, but on
i divine nature. Well, is this eter-
1 action of generation and proces-

sion ad intray or ad extra? Is the
distinction of three persons a dis-
tinction /r<7»i God, or a distinction in
God? Are we here making a dis-
tinction as frivolous as that " between
the southern and south-eastern sides
of a hair"? Do you not know
the importance of the distinction?
Think a moment, my good friend.
If you say the distinction is a dis-
tinction from God, you deny the
divine unity — assert three Gods ; if
you say it is a distinction in God, you
simply assert one God in three per-
sons, or three persons in one God,
or one divine essence. If you deny
both, your God is a dead unity in
himself, not a living God.

The action of God ad intra is ne-
cessary, proceeds from the fulness
of the divine nature, and the result is
the generation of the Son and the
procession of the Holy Ghost. Now,
can you understand what would be
the consequence, if we made the ac-
tion of God adextra^ or creation, pro-
ceed from the necessity of the divine
nature ? The first consequence would
be that creation is God, for what pro-
ceeds from God by the necessity of
his own nature is God, as the Arian
controversy long ago taught the world.
The second consequence would be
that God is incomplete in himself,
and has need to operate without, in
order to complete himself, which
really denies God, and therefore
creation, everjrthing, which is really
the doctrine of Cousin, namely, God
completes himself in his works. Can
you understand now, dear reviewer,
why we so strenuously deny that God
creates or produces existences dis-
tinguishable from himself, through
necessity? Cousin says that God
creates from the intrinsic necessit)'
of his CAvn nature, that creation is
necessary. You say he has retracted
the expression. Be it so. But, with
all deference, we assert that he has

not retracted or explained away bis
doctrine, for it nins through his
whole system ; and as he nowhere
makes the distinction between action
ad intra and action ad extra^ his very
assertion that God is substance only
in that he is cause, and cause only in
that be is substance, implies the doc-
trine that God, if substance at all,
cannot but create, or manifest him-
self without, or develop externally.
What say we ? Even the reviewer
sneers at the distinction we have
made, and at the efforts of theolo-
gians to save the freedom of God in
creating. Thus, in the paragraph
immediately succeeding our last ex-
tract, he says, " But all this quibbling
comes from an ignorant terror, lest
God's free-will should be attacked,'*
The revicw^er, on the page following,
admits all w^e asserted, and falls
himself, blindfold, as it were, into
the Vi^xy error he contends we falsely
charge to the account of Cousin,
"The necessity he (Cousin) speaks
of is a metaphysical necessity, w hich
no more destroys the free-will of
God, than the metaphysical necessity
of doing right, that is, obligation,
destroys man's free-will/'* (P. 542.)
Mdaphyikal necessity, according to
the reviewer, p. 537, means real neces-
sity, since he says, " Metaphysics is
the science of the real," and therefore
God is under a real necessity of crea-
ting. Yet it is to misrepresent Cousin
to say that, according to him, creation
is necessary I But assume tliat, by

• The i e Ti e we r« rotsled \tf the evaahre answer of
Cotutin, ftippoMa the obJeclioQ urged at^iuic hU doc-
inoe, ilial creation b necc«kary^ it, that it destroy* the
free-will of Cod ; but that, though a grave objectiofi, i»
not the one we insivted on ; the real objection », I hat if
{jtoA is assumed (o create ^m ih^ nece«stty of tm own
naitirc, he u aiKiimcd not to create at all, ibr what U
called hifi creation can be only an evolution or develop-
ment of hintel^ and con>equentiy prcKlucioK nothing
divdncuuhiible to aubstance from him«elf, which la
piire pantheiatfL Of cottrse, all pajitheifttn irapljea
fatalism, for if we deny finee-wtll in the cause, we
nroal deny il in the effeel ; but it ia not to escape £ual'
jani« but pkntheu^ni that Cousin** doctrine of nece»Mjy
crvaikxn ia denied, aa we pointed OMt in oar former
artiGli.

metaphyska!^ the reviewer xtm
moral; then God is under a mc
necessity^ that is, morally bound
create, and consequently would
if he did not But we have mote ^
in the same paragraph: "A po'
essentially creative caniwt but €rm
Agreed. But to assert that Goi
essentially creative, is to assert f
he is necessary creator, and t
creation is neces3ar}% for God can
change his essence or belie it in
act But this assertion of God
essentially creative, is precisely nw
we objected to in Cousin, and th(
fore, while asserting that God ts
finitely and essentially active m
own being, we denied that he
essentially creative. He is free
his own nature to create or not^
he pleases. The review^er does
seem to make much progress in
fending Cousin against our criticis

7. That Cousin was knowingly 1
intentionally a pantheist, we k
never pretended, but have given i
our belief that he was not We do
think th;it he ever comprehended
essential principle of pantheisin,
foresaw all the logical consequec
of the principles he himself adop
and defended. But his doctr
notwithstanding all his protests
the contrar}% is undeniably pani
ism, if any doctrine ever deservec
be called by that name. It is foi
not here and there in an incidei
phrase, but is integral ; enters i
the very substance and marrow of
thought, and pervades all his writu
We felt it when we attempted to
low him as our master, and had
greatest difficulty in the world to %
him a non-pantheistic sense, and
ver succeeded to our own satisfkcl
in doing it -H

Cousin's pantheism follows M
sarily from two doctrines that
from first to last, maintains. Fi
there is only one substance.

The Church Review and Victor Cousin.

109

ood, Creation is necessary. He says in
the Avcrtissement to the third edition
of his PMlosophiccU Fragments that he
only in rare passages speaks of sub-
stance as one, and one only, and when
he does so, he uses the word, not in
its ordinary sense, but in the sense of
Plato, of the most illustrious doctors
of the church, and of the Holy Scrip-
ture in that sublime word, I am that
I ASi ; that is, in the sense of eternal,
Becessary, and self-existent Being.
Bat this is not the case. The pas-
sa^ in which he asserts there is
and can be only one substance, are
not rare, but frequent, and to un-
derstand it in any of these passages
it any but its ordinary sense, would
Bake him write nonsense. He re-
peats a hundred times that there is,
md can be, only one substance, and
vsf^ expressly, that substance is one
01 there is no substance, and that re-
lative substances contradict and de-
stroy the very idea of substance. He
B talking, he says in his defence, of
absolute substance. Be it so ; inter-
pret him accordingly. '' Besides the
ooe only absolute substance, there is
ad can be no substance, that is, no
other one only absolute substance."
Think you M. Cousin writes in that
fashion ? But we fully discussed this
matter in our former article, and as
the reviewer discreetly refrains from
cren attempting to show that we un-
jittly accused him of maintaining
that there is and can be but one sub-
stance, we need not attempt any ad-
ditional proof. The second doctrine,
tittt creation is necessary, the re-
viewer concedes and asserts, ''In
Cousin, as we have attempted to ex-
plain, creation is not only possible,
but KECESSARY," repeating Cousin's
wm words.

"As to Coittin*8 pantheism, if any one is
<fiipQ9ed to believe that the systems of Spi-
•Qoi and of Cousin have anything in com-
■0Bi irt GUI only recommend to him a dili-

gent study of both writers, freedom from
prejudice, and a distrust of his own hastily
formed opinions. It is too large a question
to enter upon here, but we would like to
ask the critic how he reconciles the two
philosophers on the great question he last
considered— the creation. In Spinoza, there
is no creation. The universe is only the
various modes and attributes of substance,
subsisting with it from eternity in a neces-
sary relation. In Cousin, creation, as we
have attempted to explain, is ' not only pos-
sible but necessary.' The relation between
the universe and the supreme Substance is
not a necessary relation of substance and
attribute, but a contingent relation of cause
and effect, produced by a creative fiat"
(P. 545.)

A necessitated creation is no pro-
per creation at all. And Cousin
denies that God does or can create
from nothing ; says God creates
out of his own fulness, that the stuft
of creation is his own substance, and
time and again resolves what he
calls creation into evolution or devel-
opment, and makes the relation be-
tween the infinite and the finite, as
we have seen, not that oi creation^ but
that of generation^ which is only de-
velopment or explication. He also
denies that individuals are substan-
ces, and says they have their sub-
stance in the one absolute substance.
Let the reviewer read the preface to
the first edition of the Fragments, re-
produced without change in subse-
quent editions, and he will find
enough more passages to the same
effect, two at least in which he asserts
that finite substances, not being able
to exist in themselves without some-
thing beyond themselves, are very
much like phenomena ; and his very
pretension is, that he has reduced
the categories of Kant and Aristotle
to two, substance or being, and phe-
nomenon. .

Now, the essential principle of pan-
theism is the assertion of one only
substance and the denial of all finite
substances. It is not necessary, in
order to be a pantheist, to maintain

The Church Review and Vkior Ceusifi.

that the apparent universe is an eter-
nal mode or attribute of the one
only substance, as Spinoza does ; for
pantheism may even assert the crea-
tion of modes and phenomena, which
are perishable ; its essence is in
the assertion of one only substance,
which is the ground or reality of all
things, as Cousin maintains, and in
denying the creation of finite sub-
stances^ that can act or operate as
second causes. Cousin, in his doc-
trine, does not escape pantheism, and
we repeat, that he is as decided a
pantheist as was Spinoza, though not
precisely of the same schooL

The reviewer says, p* 544, "We
proceed to another specimen of the
critic's accuracy ; * M. Cousin says
pantheism is the divinization of nature,
taken in its totality as God* But this
is sheer atheism/ " Are we wrong ?
Here is what Cousin says in his own
language : ** Le pantlie'ism est proprc-
ment ja divinisation du tout, le grand
tout donnt? comme Dieu, I'universe-
Dieu de la plupart de mes adver-
saires, de Saint-Simon, par example.
C'est au fond un veritable athe'*
isme."* If he elsewhere gives a dif-
ferent definition, that is the review-
er's affair, not ours. We never pre-
tended that Cousin never contradicts
himself, or undertook to reconcile
him with himself; but the reviewer
should not be over-hasty in charging
inaccuracy, misrepresentation, or ig-
norance where none is evident. He
may be caught himself. The re-
viewer stares at us for saying Cou-
sin's ** exposition of the Alexandrian
philosophy is a marvel of misappre-
hension/* Can the reviewer say it
is not? Has he studied that philoso-
phy? We repeat, it is a marv^el of
misapprehension, both of Christian
theolog)' and of that philosophy it-
selL The Neoplatonists were pan-
theists and emanationists, and Cou-

atUn

Ie9

sin saj-s the creation tbey asi
was a creation proper. Let till
fice to save us from the scati
of the reviewen-

8. We said, in our article,'^
a great misfortune for M. Cousi
what little he knew of Catiioli(
olog>% caught up, apparently, fl
ond hand, serv^cd only to m
him. The great controversi^
Catholic dogmas have enlightem
darkest passages of psycholog
ontology, and placed the Ca
theologian on a vantage-groii
which they who know it not tl
capable of conceiving. Belbli
your Descartes, Spinozas, I
Fichtes, Hegcls, and Cousins dv
into pigmies." The revii
to this :

** This is something new iivdce4 *
think the great Gilltcan churchmen
seventeenth century, whont Cousin
stood so intimately, and for whom he
sincere an admiration, would be the
claim an exclusive vantage-ground fro
knowledge of the controversies on C
dogma. Forlhesc mcn» alike of the C
and of Port Royal, were Ca.rfe»i»£
their faith was interwoven with their f
phy ; it was not in opposition to it Ai
knew that that philosophy was base<
a thorough understanding of thegrca
trovcrsies on Catholic dogma,* whi
been carried on In the schools by Uy
well as by ecclesiastics.

*' But who is the Romish theologi
critic refers lo» and how is it he ma
little use of his ' vantage-ground ' ?
Bescartes brought modem philosop
being by its final secularization, we
recollect any theologian so eminent 1
the great men he has named dwiod
pigmies before him. Unless, indc<
should take place from their being
out of the worthy man's »)ght and c
hension, as to be ' dwarfed by the di
as Coleridge sap," (Pp. $46^ 547.)

We referred to no Romish \
gian in particular ; but if the re^
wants names, we give him the ;
of St, Augustine, St, Gregoj
Great, St Anselm, St Bonav*
St Thomas of Aquiiio, Fo

The Church Review and Victor Cousin.

Ill

^alebranche, even Cardinal
nd Gioberti, the last, in &c^
nporary of Cousin, whose
iziani sopra le dottrim del
x)ve his immense superiority
, and of the others named
u Cousin may have ad-
le great Gallican church-
ie seventeenth century, but
f understand them as theolo-
did not, if we may judge
writings ; moreover, all the
rchmen of that century were
chmen. As great, if not
rere found among Italians,
;, Poles, and Gennans,
ss known to the Protestant
las the reviewer forgotten,
never known, the great men
e sixteenth and seventeenth
flourished in the great re-
ders, the Dominicans, Frai^
he Augustinians, and espc-
Jesuits — ^men whose learn-
us, and ability were sur-
nly by their humility and

spoke not of Cousin's little
e of churchmen, but of his
wledge of Catholic theolo-

reviewer here, probably, is
mpetent judge, not being
. Catholic theologian, and
mparatively a stranger to
theology ; but we will ac-

his judgment in the case.
inies that there is an}thing
ilosophy not in consonance
istiani^ and the church;
) that his philosophy im-
: dogma of the Word or the
nd challenges proof to the

Yet what docs the review-
f Cousin's resolution of the
s cited some pages back, in
anguage, into God, nature,
anity? He says God is

Cest-irdire^ d la fois Dieu,
humaniU** Is diat in con-
with Catholic theology ?

Then, of the Word, after having
proved in his way that the ideas of
the true, the beautiful, and the good
are necessary and absolute ideas, and
identified them with the impersonal
reason, and the impersonal reason
with the Logos, he asks what then ?
Are they God ? No, gentlemen, they
are not God, he answers, but the
Word of God, thus plainly denymg
the Word of God to be God. Does
that prove he knew intimately Cath-
olic theology ? What says the review-
er of Cousin's doctrine of insph-ation
and revelation? That doctrine is,
that inspiration and revelation are
the spontaneous operations of the
impersonal reason as distinguished
fipom the reflective operations of the
personal reason, which is pure ra-
tionalism. Is that Catholic theolo-
gy, or does it indicate much know-
ledge of Catholic theology, to say it
is in consonance with that theol-
ogy?

In his criticism on the Alexaiv-
drians or Neoplatonists, he blames
them for representing the multiple,
the finite, what they ^1 creation, as
a fall, and for not placing them on
the same line with unity, the infinite, or
God considered in himself. Is that
in accordance with Catholicity, or is it
a proof of his knowledge of Catholic
theology to assert that it is, and to
challenge the world to prove the con-
trary? But enough. No Catholic
theologian, not dazzled by Cousin's
style, or carried away by his glowing
eloquence and brilliant generaliza-
tions, can read his philosophical
works without feeling that he was no
Christian believer, and that he nei-
ther knew nor respected Catholic
faith or theology. In his own mind
he reduced Catholic faith to the pri-
mitive beliefs of the race, inspired by
the impersonal reason, and as he ne-
ver contradicted these as he under-
stood them, he persuaded himself

[12

The Church Revitw and Victor Causin,

that his philosophy did not impugn

Christianity and the church.
9. The reviewer says :

" Ouc more extract^ by way of capping
the climax. Secmitigly ignorant of Cou-
sin's criticism upon Dc Bonald'a now ex-
ploded theory of language, and his exposi-
tion of Dc Biran's, the critic ihinks, * He
would have done well to have studied more
carefully the remarkable work of De Bonald;
had he done so, he might have seen that
the reflective reason cannot operate without
language.* Has this man not read what
Cousin has written, on the origin, purpose,
uses, and cflect^ of language, that he re pre*
sents him as believing that the reflective
reason can operate without language, with-
out signs r (P. 5470

If M, Cousin maintains that the
reflective reason cannot operate with-
out language, as in some sense he
does, it is in a sense different from
that in which we implied he had
need to learn that fiict. We were
objecting to the spiritualism — we
should say intellect ism, or noeticism
— which he professed, that it assum-
ed that we can have pure intellec-
tions. Cousin's doctrine is that,
though we apprehend the intelligible
only on the occasion of some sensi-
ble aflfectton, yet we do apprehend
it without a sensible medium. This
doctrine we denied, and maintained,
in opposition, that» being the union
of soul and body, man has, and can
have in this life, no pure intellec-
tions, and that we apprehend the in-
telligible, as distinguished from the
sensible, only through the medium of
the sensible or of a sensible repre-
sentation, as taught by Aristotle and
St. Thomas. The sensisls teach that
we can apprehend only the sensible,
and that our science is limited to
our sensations and inductions there-
from ; the pure tran see n dental is ts,
or pure spiritualists, assert that we
can and do apprehend immediately
the noetic, or, as they say, the spiri-
tual ; the peripatetics hold that we

apprehend it, but only
medium of sensible repne
Cousin, in his ecleclici
the sensation the occasion
prehension of the intelligib
its medium. On his theol
sible is no more a medium
apprehension than on th
transcendentalists ; for tl
of doing a thing is verj
from the medium of doing

Now, language is for us
sensible representation of
gible, and, as cver>^ thougl
the apprehension of the 11
therefore to every thought
of some sort, is essential,
er stumbles, and supposes
accusing Cousin of being
what he is not ignorant, I
supposes that we mean bj
reason the discursive as d
ed from the intuitive faculi
soul, which, if he had compi
at all our philosophy, he wo
seen is not the case. Intui
us is ideal, not empirical,
our act, whether spontaneoi
iiective, but' a divine judg
firmed by the Creator to us,
slituting us capable of int<
of reason, and reasoning. J
reason is our reason, and t
of the divine judgment, or tl
reason, directly and immed
firmed to us by the Create
ver)' act of creating us, 1
discursion, then, but what b
sin and the reviewer call
or immediate apprehensioi
operation of the reflective
Hence, to the operation of 1
the simple, direct apprche
the inteliipbie^ as well as 11
sion or reasoning, language
sort, as a sensible medium,
sary and indispensable, M
reviewer will prove to us tha
held, or in any sense admit
he will tell us something o

The Tears of yesus.

113

that we did not know before, and we
will then give him leave to abuse us
to his heart's content

But we have already dwelt too
long on this attempt at criticism on
us in the Church Review — a Review
from which, considering the general
character of Episcopalians, we ex-
pected, if not much profound philo-
sophy or any very rigid logic, at
least the courtesy and fairness of
the well-bred genUeman, sugh as we
might expect from a cultivated and
polished pagan. We regret to say
that we have been disappointed. It
sets out with a promise to discuss
the character of Dr. Brownson as a
philosopher, and confines itself to a
criticism on an article in our maga-
zine without the slightest allusion to
a single one of that gentleman's
avowed writings. Even supposing,
which the Review has no authority
for supposing, that Dr. Brownson
wrote the article on Cousin, that ar-
ticle was entitled to be treated grave-
ly and respectfully; for no man in
this country can speak with more au-
thority on Cousin's philosophy, for
no one in this country has had more
iatimate relations with the author, or

was accounted by him a more trust
worthy expositor of his system. •

As to the reviewer's own philoso-
phical speculations, which he now
and then obtrudes, we have, for the
most part, passed them over in si-
lence, for they have not seemed to us to
have the stuff to bear refuting. The wri-
ter evidently has no occasion to pride
himself on his aptitude for philosophi-
cal studies, and is very far from under-
standing either the merits or defects of
such a man as Victor Cousin, in every
respect so immeasurably above him.
We regret that he should have un-
dertaken the defence of the great
French philosopher, for he had lit-
tle qualification for the task. He
has provoked us to render more
glaring the objectionable features of
Cousin's philosophy than we wished.
If he sends us a rejoinder, we shall
be obliged to render them still more
glaring, and to sustain our statements
by citation of passages from his works,
book and page marked, so express, so
explicit, and so numerous, as to ren-
der it impossible for the most scep-
tical to doubt the justice of our cri-
ticism.

THE TEARS OF JESUS.

And Martha said : Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. . . . Jesus saith to her :
^ brother shall rise again. . . . And Mary saith to him : Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had
■««fie4 . . And Jesus wept'*

DISCIPLE.

VOL. VII. — 8

" Kind Lord,
Dost Martha's love prefer ?
Cheer Mary's heavy heart likewise,

And say to her,
Thy brother once again shall rise.

114 The Tears of yesus.

^ " Why fall those voiceless tears

In sad reply
To her, as if thine ears
Heard not her cry ?

" What opens sorrow's deep abyss
At Mary's word ?
When Martha spoke, no grief like this
Thy spirit stirred."

MASTER.

" My child,
Remember what I said to her —

The elder of the. twain.
When she, the busy minister,

Of Mary did complain.

" Know, they who choose the better part
And love but me alone,
Ask only that my loving heart
Shall make their griefs mine own.

" To Martha is the promise given

That Lazarus shall rise from sleep ;
But Mary is the bride of heaven —
With her shall not the bridegroom weep ?"

DISCIPLE.

' Kind Lord,

When breaks my neart in agony,
Dost ever shed a tear with me f*

MASTER.

" My Child,
Wilt all things else for me resign ?
Wilt others' love for mine forego ?
Wilt find thy joy alone in me ?
Then will I count thy griefs as mine,
And with thy tears my tears shall flow
In loving sympathy."

Sister Simplicia,

SISTER SIMPLICIA.

Vhat a wet, disagreeable day it
U papa hadn't bought the tick-
ist evening, I don't believe I
J have come out to-day, even for
ke of hearing Rbtori in Marie
lette. She can't do better than
>es in Mary Stuart, and I alrea-
h ourselves back in your cosy
Ibrary again ; besides, I haven't
lished looking at those curious
iminated books of your father's,
i we go home to-morrow, I fear I
have time, for papa has an in-
n for us all this evening."
>oke Anita Hartridge as she and
ICenton took their places in the
jvay stage on their way to a mati-
the French Theatre. Anita's
was a Baltimore merchant He
:en in the city buying goods, but
IS the first time he had brought
ighter with him. The two girls
rarra friends. They had been
ed together, and it was not yet

since they had bidden adieu
: convent walls, the one to
, motherless, the gay mazes of
ore society ; the other to come
as a household angel to the fa-
id mother, who were already be-
g to grow old. It has been a
week, a week all too soon com-
m end ; and Mary Kenton sits
\g sadly, so wrapped in her re-
that she does not even raise
3s when the stage stops to take
e passengers,
is thinking of Anita, of her

and brilliancy, her quick,
gy Southern gayety, and yet
true, sympathetic heart; and
nders what will become of her
with no mother to restrain her
veness and a father who thinks
' gratifying her lightest wish.

How gladly she would share with her
her own mother's tender care ; and
if she could but be taken from this
whirl of amusement for a short time ;
but no ; they return to-morrow. Well,
here they are at Union Square, and
Anita is speaking softly.

" Mary, did you ever see so beau-
tiful a face ? No, not opposite ; over
there in the comer next the door—
that younger Sister of Mercy. She
looks like Elizabeth of Hungary. I
have been watching her all this time,
and she has never looked up once.
She seems inspired. Do you believe
any one can be so happy as she looks,
I mean any one who leads so self-
denying a life ?"

But there is no time to reply. They
leave the omnibus and are soon en-
tranced under the magic power of
the great tragedian.

** I wish I were Ristori," said Ani-
ta, as they left the theatre. "To
have her power and to be admired as
she is admired ; oh I that were grand.
That were a life worth living. What
is it to live as we do — ^to-day as yes-
terday, and to-morrow as to-day
again — ^no grand purpose ; and when
we die, have the world go on just the
same as before ? Such lives are not
worth living. I wish I could be
great as Madame de Stael, or beauti-
ful as Madame Recamier."

"'Oworldl w few the yean we live,
Would that the hie that thou dost give
Were lUe indeed T **

repeated Mary slowly; "and yet,
there are other lives that I had ra-
ther take for my model than any of
these."

" Yes, I know, Mary. You would
take rather the life of some saint, St
Elizabeth herself, perhaps ; you are

always so good and gentle ; and Sister
Agnes used to say that she knew you
would come back to her some time as
a sister yourself. But I am not at all
so ; I love the world, and society,
and amusement, and am only dissa-
tisfied because I am neither so briU
liant nor beautiful as I should like to
be. I feel that your ideal is the bet-
ter one, but I have not strength of
cliaracter enough to live anything but
a gay, butterfly life. You know my
favorite song is, * Td be a butterfly/
and indeed I do wish for beauty more
than anything else in the world.
And yet, after all, that face that I saw
uniler the plain black bonnet was of
a heavenly beauty that I cannot for-
get. Page's copy of the Maiionna
deiiaSeggioia that we admired so much
yesterday is scarcely more beautiful."

" And her life has been as beauti-

tful as her face, they say. But there

"is our stage. Let us hurry a little ;

mother will be waiting dinner for us

J already,"

A low rap at Mrs. Kenton*s' door-
It is the hour after dinner, and Dr.
Kenton and Mr Hart ridge are in the
library, alternately discussing busi-
ness and their meerschaums. There
are two hours yet before the ladies
need dress for the evening. Mrs,
Kenton is sitting in her large chair
before the grate, and the girls come
in quietly and draw up tw*o low otto-
mans at her feet. The gas is not yet
lighted, and the twilight throws long,
deep shadows from the curtains and
the quaint, old-fashioned high bed-
posts.

" Mother, we have seen Sister Sim-
pi ici a to-day. Anita very much
wishes to hear her histor)', and you
have never told it to me yet. It is
just the night to tell a story, just
such a night as we read of, 'without,
the snow falling thick and fast, but
within a bright fire throwing its chccr-
fol light around the room and light-

ing up the countenance of the
tor,' " said Mary, smiling. M

" I imagine the fire you 0H
ing about was of hickory log
great, wide fireplace ; and thi^
a city grate,*' said her moth^
same tone ; and then more set
" but I will tell you the story
you wish it, and all tlie more i
as I was thinking of her at tJ
ment you entered.

** Eight years ago Rose H
was the belle of our circle. I
her as I would have loved a lit
ter of my own, had I been I
with one. She was the young
ter of my dearest friend ; and
Rachel cOed, she left Rose half
care, for their mother was dca
the father only too indulgent
Rose was not easily spoiled
looking back now at this dista
think that I have never known 1
er that was her equal. Mr. H
was wealthy, and she had a
heart could wish. Of course ^
much sought after and much 1
but few were made unhappy tf
her, for she was far too generoi
too conscientious to be a coq
and when one evening she ca!
me, blushing and trembling, an
me that Willis Courtney loved I

"Willis Courtney, the son 1
pa*s old partner ?" asked Aniti

" You have seen him V

** Yes ; he was my ideal m
was still a ver>^ little girl, Bu
I was sent away to be educates
never saw him afterward."

"He was worthy of Rose, t
ver)' different- How proud h
of her I I loved to watch then;
ther. He was so gentle and tb(
ful of every liiilc attention, an
trusted and honored him b4
ly. It seemed there never coi
a brighter future in store fa
than for these two, and surely
never could be any more desi

Sister Simplicia.

117

of the choicest bfessmgs of earth.
Mr. Harding was happy in his child's
happiness, and Willis only waited a
visit from his father to give him the
giad surprise. Mr. Courtney was at
dtat time the senior partner in your
father's firm, Anita 1 Willis was in
the second year of his law studies,
and in less than a year he could
look forward to establishing a home ;
for his father was growing old, and
had told him often that he only
wished to see him happily settled in
life before he died. And so the
weeks passed in happiness, and to-
Borrow Mr. Courtney should come.
I shall never forget how anxiously
Rose awaited this coming — expec-
tant, hopeful, timid. 'Willis says
ius father is a stem man. I shall be
so afraid of him. Perhaps he will
Dot approve of me' — with a half-
frightened laugh ; ' I do so want him
to like me. Willis honors him so,
*J»d yet sajrs he always stood in awe
of him. Do you think he will like
^t\ I wish to-morrow were past,
I dread it so ; and yet Willis says he
*s sure to love me, and that he will
l>e so glad to have a daughter.*

"And Willis was at the depot, im-
patient to see his father again, and
still more impatient to have the
crowning seal of approval set upon
^ choice.

"At length the shrill whistle of the

<listant train, a few anxious glances

through the darkness, and the bright

^ light of the engine glides past

slowly. Why is it that this red glare,

^ng as it passes, seems to throw

a sort of supernatural glare over the

platform and the waiting figures?

A strange, weird feeling comes over

him. Is it himself standing there,

or is he, too, only some phantom of

his own imagination ? In a moment

he lives over his whole past life in

one comprehensive flash, as people

1^ are drowning are said to do.

But the train has stopped, and there
is his father's bald head among the
crowd of rushing passengers. Wil-
lis passes his hand quickly over his
forehead, as if to brush away the il-
'lusion, and advances to meet him.

" It is a glad meeting, Mr. Courtney
looks at his son, and, as he looks,
the benignant smile on his face
broadens and deepens. It is some-
thing to have delved in the counting-
house all these years, and bent his
shoulders over tiie dull ledgers, that
these shoulders may have no need to^
bend, and that this intellect shall
have the means of making the best
of itself; and, as he walks beside
him to the waiting carriage, he says
in his heart, 'There is none equal
to my son.*

"And now they sit in their parlor

at the ' House,' and the bottle

of old port is almost emptied, for
Mr. Courtney is fond of good wine.
The waiter has arranged the fire,
and brought in a fresh bottle, and
father and son are alone.

" *And now, Willis, who is she, this
divinest of her sex ; and when am I
to see her ?'

"* To-morrow, or this evening if
you prefer. Mr. Harding is almost
an invalid, and so spends his even-
ings at home, and Rose seldom leaves
him.'

" 'Harding! What Harding is this .>
You always spoke of her as " Rose,"
and I never thought to ask her fami-
ly name,' said Mr. Courtney, in ill-
suppressed anxiety.

"* Thomas Harding, formerly of
New-Orleans. Why, father, what is
it ; are you ill ? What can I do for
you?' said Willis, rising from his
chair quickly, as Mr. Courtney arose
and staggered toward the mantle-
piece. He stood there, resting his
folded arms on it, with his head so
buried in them that the son could
see nothing of his face. John Court-

lis

Sister Simplicia,

ney was not a man to be approached
easily. Whatever the joys or sorrows
of his life might have been, his son was
L as ignorant of them as the stranger
who met him just an hour ago. So
Willis stood now at a Htlle distance,
not feeling sufficient freedom to ap-
proach, and anxiously awaiting some
word or movement that should give
him pennission to speak. But none
such came, and, after a few moments,
Mr. Courtney raised his head, saying,
* A glass of wine, Willis. I felt a
Jittle faint a moment ago. Travel-
ling is tiresome work for an old
man/ And Willis filled the glass si-
lently ; for there was a look in the
white face that chilled, while it awed
him — a look of determination, and
yet of indecision at the same time.

"It seemed as if a cold, misty at-
mosphere had suddenly entered the
rroom ; and the two men spent the re-
mainder of the evening in a vain ef-
fort to sustain a conversation upon
all manner of general subjects, which
the son seemed always to succeed in
shaping till it just approached the sub-
ject in which alone he was then inte-
rested, and the father always to tuni it
off just in time to prevent its touch-
ing. At length Willis arose, saying :

** * But your journey has tired you
very much, father. I will go now,
that you may have a long night*s
rest*

**'Yes, yes, I am no longer so
young as I was once/

** But after bis son had gone, he for-
got his weariness, and spent the
night in walking up and down the
length of the parlor, and drinking
wine, as the waiter said in the morn-
ing, * like a high-bred gentleman ;*
, and when the morning came, the
•look of indecision had passed away,
and the determination alone remain-
ed.

"And Willis passed the long hours
of darkness in a nightmare of unde-

fined dread, half asleep, bul
tirely conscious of all aro
state that confused imaginai
reality, till the most frightfu
became impressed with all ti
of real events — so real that
morning, with the unchang*
liar face of the ser\^ant cou
him feel certain that they
waking dreams, and that he
lived a horrible year. But
water, and the cheerful bres
ble, and all the invigorating
influences ser\'cd to restore h
he laughed at the absurd
wvid went around to his falhe
wondering that he should \
so discouraged and uncomfoi
his presence last evening,
tally resolving to let no stl
come over their intercom
morning.

**.Vs he stepped into the h
liced the well-known baggaj
the initials, * }. C./ and sau
waiter :

^* * What carelessness is thi
have never carried up my
baggage.^

*' 'As soon as you had gc
evening,* said the waiter, *I
to his door, sir, and asked if \
send it up then ; but he said,
as he should leave early
morning, sir.*

"Willis hurried up and ft
old man at breakfast, or rathe;
there beside it, for he had ei
eaten nothing, although he
had finished.

** ' Why, father ! your baggi

" * Yes, yes, a telegram, I
turn immediately ; and now i
a moment. There is half \
yet before going to the train*
do you fmish your studies ?'

" * In two months.*

***So I thought— so I 1
There is no hurry about yom
ning to practise, and I net

Sister Simplicia.

119

^ assistance in my business just at
present. There are some specula-
tions in the West that must be at-
tended to. There is money in them,
but I can't trust Stephens to go alone,
and I want to send you with him. I
shall make all arrangements for you
to start at the end of two months.'
"*But, father— Rose?'
"*Time enough. There's nothing
will test your affections like a little
absence. Besides, you aren't either
of you old enough to know what you
want yet If in two years you both
feel as you do now, why, then we'll
see about matters ; and you know
your means don't depend on your
practice; besides, you'll get along
better in that for seeing something
rf the world before you commence.
Im getting to be an old man, Willis,
^ need my son's help a little now.
^ely he won't make any objections
to doing what I desire ?'

"Filial respect and affection w^s a
strong trait in Willis Courtney's cha-
'^cter. Disobedience to the father
^hom he had always feared, and to
^hom he was really so much in-
debted, was a thing of which he had
^^er thought before, and thought of
^ow only to put away the idea as
One unworthy of him ; and Rose,
^ho loved her own father devotedly,
respected him the more for his duty
to his; and so it came about that
when the two months had passed, he
vent to California with Stephens, the
head clerk of the firm, and Rose had
only the long, tender letters ; and Mr.
Harding, who had never been dis-
satisfied while Willis was here, grew
suddenly restless, and longed to
travel.

** *As long as Rose was so happy, I
was contented here,' he said, *but
now she is often sad, and I think a
little change will be good for both of
us. I have travelled too much in my
life to be satisfied to settle down in

one spot and remain there. I must
see Italy once again before I die.'

"And so their passage was taken,
and one morning we stood on the
deck of an English steamer to bid
them * God speed ;' and after we had
come on shore again, stood long
watching the ship till it was far
down the bay.

"At first Rose wrote long, cheerful,
descriptive letters. A summer at a
German watering-place had almost
entirely restored Mr. Harding's
health, and in the early autumn they
began their tour, intending to visit
Vienna, and, passing directly from
there to Venice, make a short stay
in two or three cities of Northern:
Italy, and then go on to Rome ta
spend the winter.

" Letters came seldom now — it was
at the beginning of our civil war —
and when they came, there was no
longer any mention of Willis, nor of
glad anticipations of return ;, and
later, in a letter dated at Brescia,
she wrote: *I am in the city of
Angela da Brescia. How was it
possible for her to be what she was I
I cannot understand it. To rise up.
out of the shadow of a great grief,
and to go forth cheerfully into the
world and work to do good and make
others happy. It needs more than
human will. God alone can give the
strength to do this, and yet if he does
it sometimes, as he did for her, why
not always ?'

"And still there was no mention of
any personal grief; but the whole
tone of her letter was sad, and I felt
that something more than a mere
transient annoyance had occurred to
thus destroy her accustomed cheerful-
ness.

"At first, the genial climate and the
revival of old associations — for he
had spent several winters there in his
youth — had seemed to give Mr. Hard-
ing a new life,, and almost a second

120

Sisfer Shnplida.

)^uthj while they visited the familiar
places, and he pointed out to his
daughter the glorious relics of past
architecture and the grand works of
the old masters ; but it was only for
a time, and when we heard again » his
strength was failing rapidly. At
Rome they had met an old friend
who was staying there with his wife,
so they joined company, and planned
their return together for the ensuing
summer.

"And all this time we had only
heard of Willis Courtney that he had,
without returning home, joined the
Union army as a pri%^ate, and that
his father, whose sympathies were
entirely Sou I hern, was very much
displeased ; and, in addition, that
he had sold out his interest in the
business, some said in order to retire
and enjoy his weahh, others, to avoid
a financial crisis which he imagined
to be impend »ng»

"In May came another letter from
Rose, The time of their return was
uncertain ; her father was feeble, and
wished neither to leave the mild
climate, nor to risk the danger of a
voyage, till he should be stronger.
And in reply to some question of
mine — • I have heard no word from
Willis Courtney this winter, and even
last autumn his letters had changed
and were no longer like him. But I
cannot ^Tite of this. I do not under-
stand it all * . I have spent almost
the entire day in St, Peter*s, I do
this often. It is God's grandest
-monument on earth, and I never feel
so near him as here. I never truly
felt the love of holiness before ; but
here, under the influence of the in-
imitable grandeur of his church, and
in the presence of his earthly repre-
sentative, I can almost shut out the
vanities of the world, and bow before
•God alone, worshipping him in su-
preme love and reverence. I love
the beautiful rites of the church.

Ah I how gladly I would '
beneath the shadow of her i
sleep the last sleep— or if
not be, take the vows whic
make me the bride of heav
and shut out for ever the
and deceptions of the world,
poor father needs me so mm
so entirely dependent upon
I cannot leave him while
He is fearfully changed,
grown so much older witliin
two months that you would
recognize him now. I hopi
soon be better, and am sure
be, for he is always so cheet

" But this was not to be,
lingering a few weeks long
died amid the scenes he had
well, having first exacted a
from Rose that she would
New York with Mr. and \C
land.

** They had a pleasant vo;
weafther and a smooth sea,
vessel glided along, makini
day her full number of knoi
making glad the hearts of the i
gers» who were returning to ho:
friends. jl

" Mr. and Mrs. Rowland spA
of the time on deck, and R(
near them, always with a boo
open on her lap ; to the carel
server she appeared to be readl
those who, after a few days, bl
notice the sad face, noticed^
the leaves of the book
turned and that her glance
ways on the sea. These
of rest. The slow rolHuj
waves lent her an artificial cal
The events of the last few i
had stunned her, and this ■
transition state before rcacw
sort of veil seemed to have be
between her \ision and tht
and the future seemed a bl
desert that she had no wish
plore, and before which she i

h she £

Sister Sitf^^da.

121

s. She seemed to be falling into
dreamy melancholy which so of-
precedes insanity, and Mrs. Row-
watched her anxiously, and Mr.
land made every exertion to dis-
her attention, making every lit-
Kcuse to get her to walk on deck,
to notice some peculiar cloud or
liar fish. And so the days pass-
11 they were within two days of
York ; then the pilot came on
j, and they began to realize, for
irst time, that they were almost
2. He brought the last papers,
\ days old now, and the hitherto
: passengers were all fsxcitement,
ered here and there in little
ps eagerly discussing the news
ad brought, for those were times
)f interest, and this news was the
It at Bull Run.

\lr. Rowland had put a paper into
!'s hands, and as she read, she
me first interested ; then the
c blood mounted to her face, and
Rowland remarked :
You have not yet forgotten that
are an American, Miss Hard-

Ihe replied quickly and continued
ng. Presently the paper drop-
from her hands; her face be-
: deadly pale, and she leaned
lly ^rainst the rail for support
R.owland took up the paper and
hed the page she had been read-
but in vain ; he saw nothing that
Id have startled her, and so
:d away, thinking he had been
aken, thus leaving her alone to
stom herself to the reality of
t she had read.

What she had read ? It was only
ime, and that the name of a com-
\ soldier.

In looking over the list of the
aes of those found dead on the bat-
bid of Bull Run, she had found
i of Wilis Courtney.
*The next day they reached Sandy

Hook. But it was already evening,
knd they were obliged to anchor over
night, and defer running up to the
city till the next morning. There were
many impatient at this detention, but
none more so than Rose Harding.
What has come over her ? her kind
friends asked each other in vain; but
she was no longer indifferent, and
her face expressed a cheerful deter-
mination. It was a conviction of
duty, and a resolution to fulfil it.
All the night after the news, she had
lain awake and pictured to herself
the horrors of lying wounded on the
battle-field, and of dying alone in the
cold and darkness. She had loved
Willis Courtney with the full depths of
a first matured affection, and she
loved him now, despite the indiffer*
ence and coldness with which he had
rewarded that love. And now he
was dead, and whatever had come
between them on earth had passed
away ; and, strange as it seemed to
her, she felt that he had come back
to her, and that they were nearer to-
gether than they had ever been. But
he was dead, and he had died in a
noble cause, and she felt ashamed of
her own selfish grief, that had shut
out the world and its cares and sor-
rows. The old words came ringing
in her ears :

* The noblest place for man to die,
Is where he dies ior man.'

"Had he not died nobly? And
then she contrasted her own life with
his. What had she done to make
any of God's creatures better or hap-
pier I ' Nothing 1 nothing I' Then
came bitter regrets, and accusations
against her destiny. Why had she
not been permitted to be near him in
the last struggle ? Had not her own
pride been perhaps somewhat to
blame ? He had suffered alone.

" Then suddenly he seemed to stand
beside her, and pointing upward, to
repeat to her those words of Christ :

122

SistfT Simplicia.

* Inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of the least of these, ray bre-
thren, ye have done it unto me.*

** It was a revelation. What God
had done for Angela da Brescia, he
had done for her. Darkness had
passed avsay^ and in its place was
light, and the warmth of renewed
life, * Unto the least of tliese/
Willis was gone. On earth she could
do nothing more for him ; but there
were others, others who were laying
down tlicir lives as nobly and in the
same cause ; for these she could
work ; and whatever she could do

* unto the least/ she should be do-
ing for him and for Christ,

"It was no mere momentary en-
thusiasm. She came home to join
the devoted band of the Sisters
of Mercy, and among these she
w^as one of the bravest and tru-
est No duties were too arduous
and no dangers too great^ for this
child of hixury to encounter. Her-
self^ and the great wealth which she
had inherited from her father, she
consecrated to the ser\'ice of God.
Like the noble Paula of old, who
went forth from pagan Rome to as-
semble around her a community of
sisters in Palestine, * she was piteous
to them that were sick, and comforted
them, and served them right hum-
bly/ and * laid the pillows aright'
with a tender hand ; and raany a
poor soldier thanked her for his life,
and many more blessed w^ith dying
lips, the name of her who had robbed
the grim messenger of his terrors,
and shown the light of God's love
gilding the horizon of the valley of
the shadow of death,

** And when the war was ended, she
came back to New York, to continue,
in another field, her labors of love.
Here she visited hospitals and pri-
sons, carrying the promises of the
Father's forgiveness to the repentant,
and words of comfort and consola-

tion to those who were sick a
ry of life.

*'One morning, about ayeai
she was visiting prisoners in
ny with an older sister, she
in the Tombs a new prison
attracted her attention by hi«
fied bearing, and evident reli
to speak to any of his compi
and as he turned, and she ca
view of his profile, she was \
with a feeling that it was fan:
her; and yet she had surel)
seen tJie man. But he seem<
to talk of religion ; and whens
she gave him a pocket Bible \
until she should next visit the
But all that day the face seci
haunt her. It came between 1
her prayers ; it visited her dri
the night, and hung over her 1
incubus that would not away
entreaties; and she found
looking fonvard to her next vi;
a mixed feeling of anxiety anc
sity. When at last she went
the old man recognized her, a3
ed suddenly » in a trembling v«

" * Are you Rose Harding ?'

" * I am Sister Simplicia.
Rose Harding,' she replied, si
at the suddenness and cagen
the question.

** He looked at her wonde
and then said :

" * Are you happy? But wl
to ask. Your face and void
it. See here/ he added, and
ed her back the open Btbl
was one that Willis had
her years ago, and on the fly-
which the man now opened wi
ten —

♦ Rose Harding.

From Willis Courtney/

**This was the one relic si
kept of her past life. She h
tcned those leaves together wi
white wafers, so that the
should be invisible, and had U

Sister Simplida.

123

is book must be especially
I, and so had given it often to
rs to read She had intend-
estroy everything that should
her of Rose Harding ; but
imes, written in his hand, she
3t destroy, but had thought to
(m even from herselfl
this man had torn them open,
as if he had committed a
2 ; as if he had opened the
: the dead; for were these not
ong ago?

he was speaking hurriedly :
un John Courtney. I have
ng to tell you; something
hunted me down for years,
/en me here at last' And
:ned.

had been her father's confi-
clerk years ago in New Or-
In an evil moment, he had
himself to take a small sum
I drawer ; for his salary, large
it was, was not sufficient to
e expenses of a young man
ed gay company, drank much
ibled more. It was not dis-
, and so he had helped him-
lin, and Mr. Harding, who
rcely older than himself, and
olute confidence in him, had
ie no discovery ; but when it
time to balance the yearly
5, he knew it could be con-

10 longer, and so one night
enough more to pay travel-

)enses, and to help him in
into some business for him-

1 left on a night-boat for the
He remained secreted in St.

11 he had discovered through
ers that Mr. Harding had no
n of prosecuting him ; then,
iving adopted the precaution
iging his appearance as much
^le, and his name from James
onto John Courtney, had come
imore and gone into business,
:h he had prospered, and had

mai;ped into one of the first families
in the place. His wife had died
while Willis was yet a child, and he
had centered his pride and affection
upon this only boy. For his sake
he bad work^ untiringly, and had
showered his wealth upon him, that
he might never know the temptation
that had overcome his father. But
from making any acknowledgment to
Mr. Harding his pride shrunk. He
had, indeed, sent back the money he
.had taken, but to see Mr. Harding
he had felt to be impossible. J^mes
Rellerton was dead, and John Court-
ney must stand without reproach be-
fore the world, and no man living
must know that there was any con-
nection between the twa

" But when Willis had spoken the
name of Thomas Harding as that of
the Either of his affianced bride, it
seemed that retribution, from being
so long delayed, had come upon him
with double harshness, as the inte-
rest of a debt that has run long is
sometimes greater than the principal
itself. Should he destroy the happi-
ness of the son for whom he would
have given his life, or run the risk of
being recognized by Mr. Harding ?

''He could do neither; and besides,
would Mr. Harding allow his daugh-
ter to marry the son of James Reller-
ton?

" Then he had resolved to separate
them, and let time and events de-
cide the future means to be employ-
ed. It had been a double game. If
Willis had been instructed to watch
Stephens, Stephens had been no less
definitely instructed to watch Willis ;
and when, after six months, he had
reported that the correspondence be-
tween him and Rose was undimi-
nished, he had received instructions
that he must 'see to it that it
should cease gradually;' and so the
letters had been intercepted, a few
times changed, and then no longer

Sister SimpHcia.

sent in any form, Tlie father had
said:

" * My son will blame her, arwi his
pride wilt pre\'ent his suflfermg/

** But when did pride prevent suf-
fering ? It may prevent the showing
of any sigti» and it did here ; but
Willis had been one of the first vo-
lunteers, and then he had fallen ;
and the old man bad been left deso-
late with a double crime upon his
conscience. He had no object in
attending to business and making
money now, so had sold his interest,
and tried to find in travel that alle-
viation from thought which could
alone make life endurable. But he
could not leave himself — the one
thing he desired to leave ---and an
attraction beyond his control had
brought him back to New Orleans.
Here the necessity for excitement
had again led him into the old temp-
tation of gambling. But he was not
always successful ; and when the
Mississippi was again open, he had
travelled on the boats, at first with
better successj but at last had be-
come too well known, and in look-
ing for a new field, had fallen in
with a band of counterfeiters, and so
had come to New York in their em-
ploy.

"And this was the end of it alU

"At first Rose had listened with
an intense loathing for the man.
Had he not wronged her father, and
bligniea ner own youth, and even
chased his own son to his death ;
and was he not a counterfeiter and
a gambler ; an outcast before God
and man ?

" Then, as she tamed her glance.

it fell upon her cross, and it b
back the scene on Calvary^
face of Him who had prayed
forgive them/ Then she'
again at the old man, and,
with emotion, he cast htmsQ
floor at her feet, crying :

*** Merciful sister, pray

"And the peace of God ci
to her, as she clasped her I
and raising to heaven her evnes
with the tears of a gentle p^
ed aloud :

" * O Jesus I be merciful; \
with me even as I deal with l\
pentant man,' ,

" The Bible of his son firsts ai
labors of the appointed minisi
God afterward, brought him aga
der the benediction of the churcl
she it was who stood beside t
the last struggle, and closed th<
with more tenderness than a d
tcr ; for hers was that holy
born of heaven and earth,
dwells only in the consecral

iry^
edS

he"

cr \

eves

helF

Mrs, Kenton had fintsheo
long shadows had grown longc
mingled together, till it had hi
only darkness ; and then the
had arisen and was shining f
pale light through the masses o
\7 clouds. They arose silent!;
went each to her own room,
for Anita Hartridge this nigh
the turning-point in life. The
terfly" was such no longer, a
its place grew up the noble woi

Did Sister Simplicia, as she,
at her prayers that night, knc
w^ork she had done for
that day ?

The Merit of Good Works.

laS

THE MERIT OF GOOD WORKS

recent article we endeavored
in the catholic doctrine, that
)rks as well as faith are an
1 condition of justification,
iplies, of course, that good
re meritorious, and diat eter-
is due to them as a recom-
We wish to elucidate thi^
little more fiilly, and to show
iie nature of that merit which
t>ed to good works proceed-
1 the principle of faith in-
by charity.

e widest sense of the word,
^ifies any kind of excellence
liness. In this sense, a pic-
aid to have merit ; and piu'e-
:al or intellectual perfections,
je merely natural gifts, are
nerit admiration and praise,
strict sense of the word, me-
fies the quality by which cer-
i, voluntary acts entitle the
who performs them to an
e recompense. It is in this
lat merit is ascribed to the
)rks of a just man. These
re said by Catholic theolo-
> deserve eternal life by a
condignity and a title of jus-
is meant by merit of condig-
[t means that there is an
of dignity or intrinsic worth
le between the work perform-
the recompense bestowed,
easily understood in regard
ly human affairs. It is not
understand, however, how a
i can deserve the reward of
life from the Creator. Good
however excellent they may
tie finite order, and as mea-
)y a human standard, appear

to be totally incommensurate with
the infinite, and therefore wanting in
all c6ndignitywidian infinite recom-
pense. So far as the mere physical
entity of the works is concerned, this
is really so. The gift of a cup of
cold water to a person suffering bom
thirst, the recital of a few prayers, a
trivial act of self-denial, evidently
bear no proportion to eternal beati-
tude. Neither does a life like that
of St. Paul, filled with labors, or a
long course of penance and prayer
like that of St Romuald, or a mar-
tyrdom like that of St Polycarp.
The mere extent or duration of the
labor or suffering, considered assome-
thing endured for the sake of God,
is nothing in comparison with the
crown of immortal life. The condig-
nity of good works is not derived
from an equality or proportion be-
tween their physical extent and du-
ration and the physical extent and
duration of the recompense. It is
derived from an equality in kind be-
tween the interior principle from
which good works proceed, and the
interior principle of beatitude. The
interior principle of good works is
charity ; not a merely natural cha-
rity, but a supernatural, a divine cha-
rity, produced by the Holy Spirit.
Good works proceed from a superna-
tural principle, and are performed by
a concurrence of Uie human will with
the divine Spirit They have, there-
fore, a superhuman, divine quality,
and are elevated to the supernatural
order, the same order to which eter-
nal beatitude belongs. They are,
therefore, equal to it in dignity in
this sense, that they are equally su-
pernatural. The principle of divine

126

The Merit of Goad Works.

chanty in the soul is, moreover, the
germ of the etenial life itself, which
is promised as the reward of the acts
which proceed from charity. The
life of grace is the life of glory begun,
and the life of glorj' is the life of
grace consummated. The gcrra is
equal in grade and quality with the
tree which it produces, though not
equal in extent and perft^ction. In
the same manner, a little act, Hke
that of giving a cup of water to an-
other for the love of God, althotigh
trivial in itself, contains a principle
which is capable of uniting the soul
to GcMd for all eternity. It is the
principle of divine love, making the
soul like to God, imitating on a small
scale those acts of the love of God
toward men which are the most stu-
pendous, and therefore, making the
soul worthy to be loved by God with
a love of compbcency similar in
kind to that love which he has toward
himself.

Again, the value and merit of ser-
vices rendered by one person to an-
other are estimated, not alone by the
substance of the services rendered,
but by the quality of the person who
renders them. An article of small
utility or cost is sometimes more va-
hied as a token of affection from a
dear friend, or as a sign of esteem
and honor from a person of high
rank, than a large sum of money
would be which had been accumu-
lated by tlie industry of a servant
The good works of a just man fall
under this category. They are esti-
mated according to the qualit}* and
rank of the person who performs
them. The Just man is the friend
of God, and the services he renders
to God are valued accordingly, not
as so much work done, but as tokens
of love and fidelity. As a frit^nd of
God, the just man is a person of high
rank in the scale of being. He is a
** partaker of the divine nature/* as

St. Peter distinctly affirmi
man nature is exalted an
ed to a certain similitude,
nature of God; and the
proeeed from it have a
ing dignity and elevati
tioned to their end, which'
life, or the consummatU
union between liuman
the divine nature in et
tude. The just man is 1
son of God the Father, tl
union with God the Son
This adoption into a part
with Jesus Christ in his soi
fleets the dignity and ex«
the person of Christ upon
and upon all his works,
ber of Christ and a son <
person and his works are
the whole natural order,
fore, there is nothing whii
relation of condignity t
except the supernatural o^

It is evident, therefore,
nerate nature has condi
the state of glor}% and tha
works which proceed frc
condignity with degrees d
in this state of glory. Re
nature bears the image of
pi res after union with God,
to find its beatitude in th
of God, is made apt and
to be admitted into the
of heaven. It demands,
as its last complement,
gloria: wiiich enables it t<
face to face. The perso
the soul to God as its fn<
Father, and the personal lo\^
to the soul as his friend and
quire tliat they should ha¥|
vision of each other and tivJ
This living with God is etci
which is, therefore, tlie onl;
recompense for the love of C
cised by the just man upoi

Theologians do not, h
gard the title in strict j

he 1

Th€ Merit of Good Works,

\Z7

^ral reward, or the ratio of
merit, as consisting solely
)ndignity of the meritorious
lemselves. They place it
in the promise of God, or
^e of his providence which
romulgated, in which special
are assigned as the recom-

good works perfomjed in
of grace. Therefore, they
'eward of eternal life is due
ustice, not by an obligation
>er se from the act of the
but by an obligation of the
to himself to fulfil his own
'hey say that God may re-
virtue of his sovereign do-
my amount of service from
ire as his simple due, with-
ig him any reward for it ;
may even annihilate him if
is, and, moreover, that the

of the blessed in heaven,
they have a perfect condig-

supematural rewards, do
/e any. Therefore, they say,
re cannot merit a reward
I according to rigorous jus-
only according to a rule of
irived from the free deter-
and promise of God. Sco-
Dme others even hold that the
y of meritorious works with
ised reward is altogether ex-
id denotes merely that they
jrmed to the standard or
h is laid down by the divine
is, therefore, only required
ess by the definition of the
liat one should confess that
works of the just man enti-
3 a supernatural reward by
a promise which God has
Those who are so extremely
d at the sound of the phrase,
f condignity," as applied to

I adopt the opinion of Sco-
iy please. For our own part,

II the other and more com-
:trine of condignity which we

have already explained. We do not
apprehend any danger to the glory
of the Almighty from the exaltation
of his own works, or any diminution
of the merits of Christ from the glo-
rification of his saints. On the con-
trary, the power and glory of God
are magnified the more, the more
like to himself the creature is shown
to be which he has- created. " God is
admirable in his saints ;" and, the
more excellent their works are, the
greater is the praise and homage
which accrues to him from these
works which are offered up to him
as acts of worship. The only error
to be feared is the attributing of
something to the creature which he
derives from himself, as having self-
existent, independent being. To at-
tribute to angel or man as much good
as is in a withered leaf, is equivalent
to a total denial of God, if this good
is not referred to God as first cause.
But to attribute to created nature all
possible good, even to the degree of
hypostatic union with the divine na-
ture, does not detract in the slight-
est degree from the truth that God
alone is good in himself, if the good
of the creature is referred to him as
its source and author. No doubt all
right to existence, to immortality, to
felicity of any kind, is derived from
God, and is originally a free gift to
the creature from him. But the right
is a real right, of which the creature has
just possession when God has given
it to him, one which may be an in-
alienable right in certain circumstan-
ces, that is, a right which God can-
not, in consistency with his own at-
tributes, withdraw. When God cre-
ates a rational nature, in which he
has implanted the desire and expec-
tation of immortal existence and fe-
licity, he implicitly promises immor-
tality and felicity. We do not like
to hear it said that he can annihilate
such a creature or withhold from it

128

The Merit of Good Works,

the felicity afler which it naturally
aspires, unless it be as a just punish-
ment for sin. So, when God creates
man anew in the supernatural order,
by giving him the grace of regenera-
tion, he gives him an implicit pro-
mise of eternal beatitude. It is very
true that he can exact from him any
amount of service he pleases, as a
debt that is due to his sovereign ma-
jesty ; yet he cannot justly withhold
from him final beatitude, unless he
forfeits it by his own fault The
special reward afinexed to ever)' good
work is undoubtedly due only by vir-
tue of the explicit promise which
God has made, to reward every such
good work by an increase of grace
and glory. It is also true that God
does confer some degrees of glory on
the just out of pure liberality and
beyond the degree of merit. More-
over, the period of merit is limited
by the decree of God to this life^ be-
cause it is fitting that the creature
should increase and progress, during
his probation* toward the full mea-
sure of his perfection, and should
afterward remain in that perfection
when he has arrived at his term.
We think, therefore, that we have
made it plain enough that good
works have a merit of condign ity in
relation to eteniaJ life, and neverthe-
less derive this merit from the pro-
mise and appointment of God, sub-
ject to such conditions as he has seen
fit, in his sovereign wisdom and libe-
rahty, to establish.

The doctrine we have laid down
detracts in no way from the merits
of Christ Christ alone has the
principle of merit in his own person
as an original source. He alone has
merited of condign ity grace to be
bestowed on others. His merits
alone are the cause of the remission
of sins, and the bestowal of regene-
rating, sahctifying, saving grace* His
merits are as much superior to the

merits of the saints as the

superior to the inferior men
the body. His incarnation^ \
death are, in a word, the
meritorious cause of humac
tion from the beginning to tl
and, in their own proper sp
order of causation, are enttrel
Christ is the only mediator
demption and salvation \
God and man, in whom the
is reconciling the world to \
His acts alone are Teferabh
principle higher or more i
than his own personalit)^ h
ly human grace, sanctity, or r
therefore, to be referred to hij
chief author, and to merely
subjects only as recipients oi
dary and concurrent causes
easy to understand, therefoi
is meant by presenting the n
the Blessed Virgin Mary z
saints before God as •a mo
bestowing grace. The sain
not merited anything over am
that which Christ has merit
have they merited, by a merit
dignity, even the application
merits of Christ to others. 1
their personal merits, they h
taincd a kind of right of fri«
to ask in a specially efficacioi
ncr for graces and favors to 1
ferred on those for whom the
cede. Their mediation and
are, therefore, only efficacious
of impetration and prayer, a
by virtue of a right which lh<
obtained by a title of justice
is what is meant by merit of i
ity, which denotes a certain
in a person to obtain from C
favors for which he asks. Tl
rit of congruity is all that is
ed to the Blessed Virgin or the
as a groundwork of their inte
power, by any Catholic the<
It is the same in kind wi
which the just on earth pp«

Full of Grace. 129

rtoe of which they obtain, through those who imagine that it either

?]> prayers, blessings and graces places man in the room of Christ, as

other persons. It is easy to see, his own Saviour, or substitutes the

-efore, how completely the Ca- mediation of the Blessed Virgin and

ic doctrine is misunderstood by the saints for the mediation of Christ.

FULL OF GRACE.

Flowers in the fields, and odors on the air.

The spring-time everywhere ;
Music of singing birds and rippling rills,

Soft breezes from the hills ;
So broke the sweetest season, long ago.

Far from this death-cold snow,
In that blest land which smiles to every eye,

Most favored from on high ;
And in one town whose sheltering mountains stand

Broad breast-plates of the land ;
So fair a spring-time sure was never seen,

Since Eden's walks were green.

A sudden glory flashed upon the air,

A face unearthly fair ;
A beauty given but to those alone

The nearest to the throne ;
The great archangels who upon their hair

The seven planets wear.
Lightly as diamonds — such the form that now.

With brilliant eyes and brow,
Paused by the humble dwellings of the poor,

Entered the humblest door.
Veiling his awful beauty, far loo bright,

With wide wings, strong and white.

Within the dwelling where his flight was stayed

A kneeling woman prayed.
The angel bowed before that holy face,

And hailed her " Full of Grace."
No other title, not the kingly name

Which David's line can claim ;
Not highest rank, though unto her was given

Queenship of earth and heaven ;

VOL. VIL— p

130 How Our History will be told in the Yt'ar 300a

Not as that one who gave life to tlie dead^

Bnifsing the serpent's head ;
Not even as mother of the Sacrificed,

The world-redeeming Christ,

This thought might be a sermon, while yet we,

Heirs of eternity,
Walk this brief, sin -surrounded tract of life,

Wage this short, sharpest strife,
Which must be passed and won before the rest^

The triumph of the blessed.
And when the hour supreme of fate shall come,

And at our promised home
We wait in breathless and expectant dread

Between the quick and dead,
Then may the angel warders of the place

Welcome us, ** Full of Grace."

TltANSLATED fROH l'eCONOIHISTK ^WLQM,

HOW OUR HISTORY WILL BE TOLD IN THE YEAR 3c

In those days — our latest posterity
loquitur — the people were not entirely
freed from the savage instincts of
their ancestors, the anthropophagi,
those ferocious contemporaries of the
deluge and such great inundations
of the world. True, they did not
still eat their enemies, nor break
their skulls with clubs ; they did not
pierce their bodies with arrows of
bone and flint; but they did the
work more delicately, entirely accord-
ing to the rules of art, with the pre-
cision of a surgeon who cuts off a
limb, or tlie coolness of a butcher
who bleeds a sheep. By dint of in-
ventions, calculations, and trials of
every kind, they fabricated, at last,
most ingenious tools, ver)' convenient
and ver)^ simple, and which they
handled witli equal dexterity. They
were not instruments of natural phi-
losophy, chemistry, astronomy, or

mathematics ; our fathers posscssed|1
it is tnie, objects of this kind, butl
they did not think it proper to
them in the hands of the peopteJ
Their thermometers, microscopes, 1
telescopes, and electrical machine
remained in the shade of libraries '
the cabinets of the learned. The ]
pie were ignorant of their names ai
uses, while they well understood
management of the tools of whic
speak. So you will suppose the
were very useful articles, as it
were so generally employed m cv€^^^
clime and nation, and their obje^: '
moralize and instruct mankind,
governments consented to their g ^
tnitous distribution among their sL
jects — ^went farther, even, and i^
posed their use. But alas I no
were only tools of death and cama
worthy to figure among the arms j
instruments of torture of precc

Haw Our History will be told in the Year 3000. 131

s; for while some shot off bullets,
;rs threw to enormous distances
; of brass and steel, that made
s in human walls, burnt up
s, and sunk ships,
le men of this time were called
iized''I Strange to say, they had
shed torture, and wished to do

with the pain of death. The
>lcl horrified them, and the sight
e gallows gave them a vertigo !

had journals and books filled
beautiful phrases in honor of
; and civilization. But they did
:omprehend the sense of apho-

which they repeated incessant-
d inscribed everywhere, on the
> of their temples, and the first
of their constitutions,
leir age to them was the age of

and they seemed ready to burst
pride when they considered their
nous riches, the fame of their
and the extent of their sciences.
, in appearance, one might have
ved them wise, and as good as
beings who inhabit the more
red planets of our solar system.
^' had noble aspirations and a
:rous ardor.

I the penumbra in which they
; plunged, a confused mass of
ling and exasperated workers

alone distinguishable, hungry,
fatigable, running up and down,

busy ants seeking their sub-
nce. The ear heard only a
ening and monotonous noise,
the buzzing of a hive. But in
I of shocks and hurts, inevitable
I such a clamorous multitude,
r and harmony seemed about
g established, when suddenly the
e beings who until then had
sared so laborious and active,
i seized with a sort of rage, and
violently upon each other. The

light of incendiarism and the
odering brightness of battle thus
iK)nstrated to the astonished gaze

of philanthropists and thiuKers, that
vices, sanguinary passions, and brutal
instincts, always alive and always in-
domitable, were only hidden in shade,
and awaiting the favorable moment
to break their bonds and annihilate
civilization. By the artificial and
slightly tarnished light of their sci-
ences, philosophers had gathered
round them men of policy and amia-
bility, civilized and peaceable, dis-
tinguished by good manners, and
saying pretty things about fra-
ternity and progress ; but the
light that broke upon them, the
evidence that disenchanted them in
this shock of nations, showed them
only coarse and ignorant crowds,
capable of committing, in their folly
and cruelty, every crime and every
infamy. They had believed that the
type of their epoch was the man of
business, industrial or negotiating,
the sharp worker, armed for compe-
tition, and prepared for the incessant
struggles of production ; and behold !
suddenly this personage quits the
scene, transforming himself into a
fantastical being, clothed in brilliant
colors, his head ornamented with
cock's feathers, his step stiffened,
his manners brusque, and his voice
short and sonorous. At the first
boom of the cannon, the rolling of
the drum, or the sound of a warlike
march, millions of men, clothed in
red, like the common hangman,
marched out of the shade, furnished
with instruments suitable for bleed-
ing, scorching, disembowelling, crush-
ing, burning, and stopping the breath
of their neighbors. And perhaps
you think these men were the refuse
of society ; that they came from low
haunts and prisons ; had neither
heart nor intelligence ; that they
were given up to public execration.
You never were more mistaken.
Each one of these auxiliaries of
death was considered healthy in

132 How Our History mill te told in ffic Ymr 3006,

mind and body, vigorous and intel-
Ugent, honest and disciplined. To
exercise his trade suitably, he was
obliged to possess a crowd of pre-
cious qualities, know perfectly how
to behave himself, be honorable, and
of unimpeachable integrity !

As to the great generals, they
were wise men, and men of the
world. They w^re expected to study
mathematics, as it specially teaches
order and harmony ; histor)% which
proves that \iolence and force have
never established anything ; and
many other sciences, which one
would have imagined capable of
directing their thoughts from their
impious career, and rendering them
pacific and humane.

Toward 1S66 a great invention
agitated the workL You are ready
to believe it was some means of
aerial locomotion, or some process
for utilizing centra! heat, or placing
our planet in communication with
the neighboring ones of Mars and
Venus, Alas ! no. Such discoveries
were not yet ripe ; and besides, men
of this age had other preoccupa-
tions. A small province of the
north of Germany, with an erudite
and philosophical people, had the
honor of giving to the world the
celebrated tuedie-gun. Tired of
thinking, they relinquished their
ideal, to move heavily and noisily
under the sun of reality, and set
about acting ; but instead of invent-
ing a philosophy, they considered a
new engine of destruction more ere-
ditable, and having tried it with the
most magnificent resuUs, they offered
to the public the instrument which
was entirely to change the map of
Europe, break the equilibrium of
power, and annihilate all interna-
tional right After ha\^ng laid low
several millions of men on the field
of battle, this comparatively insigni-
ficant people on the borders of the

Spree, who until then had ijfl
academical laurels than '<9
and more truths than promise
gan to comprehend that they
play a splendid rtfU^ and exert
preponderating influence in Ei
Formerly they had invented ai
solute philosophy; now the
vented and practised an abj
policy. And this was the uni(
the German people, the trium
Prussian institutions^ the decay i
Latin and rise of the Germanic \
and many other changes which
absolute power can effect 1
little people on the borders c
Spree awoke to a new life, an<
termined to take all and absarl
they threatened Holland ; co
Alsace ; were disposed to swall<
Bavaria, the grand-duchy of S
and Wilrtemberg- Other HI
were troubled, and justly ; fo
power of the Germans seem*
them very much like absolutisn
each of them, in great haste, \
to perfect their own instrumcr
death with the faint hope, too
tliey might very soon make 1
them. Old France, tired of
quests and interior struggles, %
only to rest. Having disturbe
tranquillity of Europe so ofter
had come to that age when rep
the chief good \ so she feigned
ranee of the insolent aspect an<
tures of defiance of her young
but unhappily a few judicious
and many more of an intrigufa
turc, fools and ambitious ones,
at the head of affairs. These
war as a golden egg, and bit
prey, wc know, derive their
nance from a field of battl^B
already dreamed of wadlngTH
blood to conquer an epaulette, \
that they gained millions in sup
and became great dignitaries i
empire. So they went about n
ing that tlicir country was

ntry wa^eg

Haw Our History will be told in the Year 3000.

133

to a second rank ; that Ger-
solence must be chastised,
g;lorious tricolor planted on
shore of the Rhine. The
commented on their words,
-ustic in his hut, the laborer
ge, and the financier in his
house dreamed with terror
awning evil. Certain poli-
neditating on the situation
march of events, declared
[table, necessary, providen-
done able to reestablish the
of the country and the ^res-
he government. So they
: in eloquent discourses in
military armaments, while
side strategists, inventors,
inistrators set to work, be-
ley were the foundation of
e prosperity of their coun-

heory was very simple. The
a nation, they said, depend-
; number of men capable of
irms, and on the quantity
ity of the engines of des-
that they possessed. That
>untry must be powerful in

be rich, prosperous, and
"go, let us increase to eve-
t the effectiveness of our
id fabricate without parsi-
h arms as are unparalleled
3. Weak patriots and eco-
the Sancho JPanzas of these
'zotte politics, murmured a
It they found themselves
o be silent and bow their
ider the taunts and re-
with which they were load-
opists," cried the inventors,

our machines are not use-
3ok down there in the direc-
Jadowa and Custozza, and
fterward if we have not ra-
d economically fabricated
id glory. Ask the surgeons,
will describe to you the gap-
ds, the deep rents they can

produce,^ ask statesmen, and they
will tell you the services they render
to the ambitious, and the good liv-
ings they secure thereby." •* Mise-
rable citizens! men without energy
and honor," cry they to others, " you
lazily prefer well-being to glory, and
the success of your personal enter-
prises to that of the national glory ;
but let the hour of danger come,
and we will make you walk at the
point of the bayonet, notwithstand-
ing your cries and menaces." . . .
And people who cared nothing for
truth, and judged by appearances,
echoed the cry, and called them
utopists, hollow dreamers, theorists,
and, after all, cowardly and egotis-
tical.

So soon as such a river of ink
flowed from the desks of the jour-
nalists, dragging in its course these
insults and injuries, the workmen com-
menced their labors. They made
rifled cannon of steel; hammered
coats of mail for their men-of-war;
pointed their sword-blades with steel
and iron; made bullets, balls, bombs,
and howitzers, heaped up in their

^ At Strash<mrg iJu effects of the Chasupot gnn
have just been certified by experiments oh a corpse
huKg at a distance of fifteen yards. The experi-
ments were made by M. Sarazin^ and corroborated
by the medical faculty. We will hear the good doc-
tor in his own words ; " / am far from exaggera -
««^," said he modestly t " the practical value ^ my
experiences^ and / well know the desiderata^ easier
to distinguish than resolve^ that they present from
the point of view in which the effect of the Chassepot
gun is produced according to distance and on the liv-
ing being. However^ everywhere I have drawn the
following conclusions :

*'Ata short distance^ and on a corpse the projec-
tiles have not deviated in their course.

'* X. The diameter of the orificct as it enter s^ is ihj
same as that of the projectile.

" 3. The diameter of the orifice^ as it goes out, is
enonnotiSf seven to thirteen times larger than tltat of
the ball.

" 3. The arteries and veins are cut transversely^
drawn bach and gaping. The muscles are torn and
reduced to the consistency of pulp,

" 4. The bones are shattered to a considerable ex-
tent^ and out of all proportion to the shoch of the pro-
jectile.

" To sum upt the effects present a remarkable intensi-
ty ^ and it is well to note that^ after having traversed
the corpu^ the projectile pierced two planksy each an
inch thick, and buried itself deeply in the wall."

134 //i?w/ Our History will be told in the Year 3000,

arsenals great quantities of powden
And one bright day the government
announced with pride to the country
that it owned 9173 brass cannons,
2774 howitzer cannons, of the same
material, 3210 bronze mortars^ 3924
small bronze howitzers, 1615 cast-
iron cannons, 1220 howitzers, 20,000
carriages for ordnance, 10,000 cover-
ed wagons, 4,933,688 filled cannon-
balls, 3.630,738 howitzer-balls, 18,-
778,549 iron bullets, 3S»*^o7.S74
balUcartouches, 1,712,693 percus-
sion guns, 817,413 guns of flint,
10,263,986 pounds of powder ^ — in
short, enough to exterminate the
entire globe. Admirable litany, which
the good citizens were to recite men-
tally ever)^ time they thought of the fu-
ture of their country I Yet profound
politicians said it was not enough,
and the great statesmen were not
at all satisfied, "We must have/'
said they, **some terrible invention
that will strike our enemies with ter-
ror. We would like a machine that
would mow them down like the scythe
of the reaper in the harv^est, with move-
ment so regular and continued that it
would be impossible for one to es-
cape."

They did speak of a new appara-
tus, ornamented by its inventor with
the pretty name of the grape-gim,
and which could send off, twice a
minute, a shower of fifty balls. But
public opinion demanded something
better, and the mortified death-seek-
ers recomjuenced their labors.

In those days philanthropists and
politicians tried to think of the best
means of establishing peace in £u-

ttsj

rope. So they met in a
Switzerland, on the borders
beautiful lake, and in presei
grand and lovely scener
place which ought to have ir
them with high and holy resol
But, unfortunately, they brougl
them the bellicose thoughtsj
own countries ; and so
eluded the only way to
peace was to destroy all ht
weak governments, abolishj
upset society, and so unite V
pies. One might have sug
that a state of peace could
have produced such harmon;
they did not so closely cou
question.

They were so-called dem
and they sincerely believed t
rora of justice would shine
future on the field of battj
brighten the smoking ruin
fonner society. . . .

But let us pardon our
they were more ignorant than
ed. Peace to their ashes L
mingling now with the fl
circulate in the universe, ■

Since their time, the glot
many times recommenced it!
nal evolutions ; the sun has
out of its orbit, and carried
the planets into the depths of
science has become theprincipi
of human existence, and orderi!
Hshed everywhere; andwc, thi
comers on the earth, live happ
cause we are free — free, beca
are united — united, because '
members of the same fan
children of the same God.

ime
batt|

Plan for a Country Church.

I3S

PLAN FOR A COUNTRY CHURCH.

he request of several bishops
rgymen, we intend to publish
ne to time in this magazine,
tural plans suitable for church-
oderate size and costliness,
ire many churches of this
specially in small country
equired by the wants of the
Wfhere an architect cannot be
nd where the materials, fur-
nd other necessary parts or
ges of the sacred edifice
5 of the cheapest possible
generally speaking, church-
is sort are built and furnish-
)ut any regard to beauty or
propriety. It is, however,
heap and easy to make them
e, neat, and strictly ecclesi-
\ their style and proportions
Dntrary, if only proper plans
actions can be obtained.
I'e purpose to furnish after
styles of architecture, and
to the different exigencies
tes of different places and
In so doing, we hope to
I want tliat has long been
. to assist a great number of
vho are laboriously engaged
leritorious but difficult task
ing churches with but limited
or carr) ing out their plans.

DESCRIPTION.

iesign which we have engrav-
lis number will give accom-
n to two hundred and fifty
seated, the area of the floor of
rch being 41 x 25 feet in the
th a sanctuary of 12 x 16 feet,
:y 12 X 15 feet, and a porch to
t of the church sheltering the
linst exposure. The confes-

sional is placed in such a position
that the comfort of the priest as well
as the convenience of the people
may be secured.

The church should be framed with
good, stout sills 8x12 inch section,
resting on a substantial wall of rubble
masonry, where stone can be obtain-
ed, or of brick where this material
becomes necessary, which wall should
be carried deep enough to be unaf-
fected by the frosts of winter, and
raised one foot at least above the
earth, a wall of rubble or brick be-
ing built along the centre to bear
the joists of the floor. The joists
should be (3 X 10) framed into the
sills so that the top of the floor, when
finished, may be twenty-eight inches
above the earth, giving four steps to
the church, the floor of the sanctuary
and sacristy being one step higher^
and both on a level. The comer-
posts should be 8 X 8 pine timber,,
and four intermediate posts of 4 x 8
under each principal of the roof. The
plate on the top should be 4 x 8, and
carried round the whole building ex-
cept where the chancel intervenes,
and care should be taken that alt
the scarfs of this piece of timber
should be carefully made. The posts
should all be braced with 4x6 pie-
ces, and the walls studded with 4x4,
so that, should it be deemed neces-
sary, in particular localities, to render
the building less susceptible to the
changes of temperature, the inner
space may be filled.

The roof should be framed as high
as shown on the elevation, with a
slope of 60** with the horizon, in or-
der to obtain greater height to the
interior and greater strength to the
truss, with a collar about midway

138

Plan for a Cotiniry Church,

I of the height, hnX not lower, and
cun^d braces, resting on hammer
beams projecting from the side-walls
at the height of the plate, and a
curved brace underneath this beam,
bringing the strain of the truss as
low as possible on the side-walls,
but not incommoding the congre-
gation. This simple roof should
be framed of the best seasoned tim-
ber, 4x6 inches scantling, and should
be dressed neatly, and, wherever de-
sired, may be moulded and have
chamfered edges, and the spandrels
filled with two inch tracery.

In the sanctuary shouJd this more
especially be done to mark the dis-
tinction of this part of the church.
The principals of the roof should be

1 oft. 3 in. apart from the centres, with
rafters of 2 x 8 laid across the same

2 ft 6 in, apart, and the plank cover-
ing to be laid neatly with narrow
tongued and grooved boards where
it may not be desired to plaster the
under side of the rafters ; in case it

\ may be thought advisable to plaster
the ceiling, the plaster should be co-
lored a light blue. The chancel arch
should be struck with a curve from
the same centre as the roof-braces,
with the edges of the jambs and sof-
fit chamfered and moulded.

The walls plastered up to the plate
and floated with two coats and finish-
ed a light, pleasing, and warm colon
If means sufficient warranted, a good
cornice neatly moulded should finish
the side-walls and break against the
principals of the roof, and may be of
wood or run in plaster.

A label moulding should be run
around each door and window, and
in the sanctuary should be enriched
whenever possible.

The window over the altar should
be two lights wide or more, filled
with good geometrical tracery, like
that in the front of the pattern shown,

Drde

I ha

da!

the side-windows having t
heads to the frames and sa5
closed in segmental heads on
side. All the windows sld
glazed with plain diamonj"
glass of a warm color, and w
may be possible, the chancel 1
should have enriched bordc
the tracery filled with
symbols.

The front of the chapel hi
shown covered with shingles
bers showing the framing pn
ly, and should be dressed
angles chamfered in the mam
dicated ; the corner-post that 1
the bell-cot should be made
length, and the bell-cot shelte
a roof of considerable projccti*
siu^mounted by a cross, which 1
may not inappropriately be tn
red to the gable of the chapel
opt i o n o f t he p riest. Inst ruGtui
tlie one presented, it is a simpl
at the same time better arranj
to allow the eaves of the roof)
ject and to dispense with the
the earth below being protec
flagging, or a properly graded \
led slope. The chimney sho
the plan should be placed in !
sition marked, to render the d
more equable \ in general, al
details of the church, such as
and a gallery if needed, and the
must be made to accord wi
st)'le of the building, and the
ing should be the natural color
wood, stained, unless it be sm
grain the roof or color in brig
ors.

In presenting these directk
the builder, many details and U
are omitted which can only b
plied by specifications. m

This building can be exe^
the sum of $5150, the work
plain but substantial, in ac
with the description*

Miscellany,

139

MISCELLANY.

learn with much regret that on
th of February the printing estab-
at of the Abb^ Migne, at Mont
in the southern suburb of Paris,
ally destroyed by fire. No par-
of the occurrence have yet been
The enterprise, conducted with
linary vigor and ability by the
is unique in the history of pub-
It was founded for the purpose
•lying books for the Catholic
f France and the whole world,
wo thousand volumes, in large
octavo, comprising the whole
Ireek and Latin £sithers of the
and writers on theology and
itical history, were edited, pub-
nd kept constantly in print, em-
1 staff of several hundred per-
cluding literary men, printers,
etc. — London Publisher^ Cir^

rosis from Tobacco- Smoking,
lutchinson has reported thir-
cases of amaurosis, of which
thirty-one were among tobacco-
. Mr. Hutchinson concludes :
gst men, this peculiar form of
is (primary white atrophy of the
ve) is rarely met, except among
2. Most of its subjects have
ivy smokers — half an ounce to
a day. 3. It is not associated
other affection of the nervous
4. Amongst the measures of
t, the prohibition of tobacco
5t in importance. 5. The cir-
ial evidence tending to connect
tion with the habit of tobacco-
is sufficient to warrant further
nto the matter on the part of
:ssion. — Popular Science Re-

^cw Laboratory at the Sor-
This magnificent establish-
lich is to be devoted to the
f chemical investigation, seems
le for the student's wants on
ore liberal scale than its cele-

brated rival at Berlin. Besides the va-
rious rooms for researches in chemistry,
pur et simple^ there are numberless
apartments exclusively intended for in-
vestigation in optics, electricity, mecha-
nics, and so forth. Motive-power is
provided for by a steam-engine of great
force, which is connected by means of
bands with wheels in the several labora-
tories. Again, besides the ordinary
pipes carrying coal-gas, there will be a
series of pipes supplying oxygen from
retorts kept constantly at work. Indeed,
altogether the new laboratory will be a
species of Elysium for the chemical in-
vestigator.

The Bessemer Steel Spectrum.-^Tz-
ther Secchi, who lately presented to the
French Academy his fine memoir on the
Stellar Spectra, compared the spectra of
certain yellow stars with the spectrum
produced in the Bessemer " converter "
at a certain stage of the process of manu-
facture. The employment of the spec-
troscope in the preparation of this steel
was begun a couple of years since ; but
the comparison of the Bessemer spec-
trum with the spectrum of the fixed
stars has not, so far as we can remem-
ber, been made before. The Bessemer
spectrum is best seen when the iron is
completely decarbonized ; it contains a
great number of very fine lines, and ap-
proaches closely to the spectrum of a
Ononis and a Herculis. The resem-
blance, no doubt, is due to the feet that
the Bessemer flame proceeds firom a
great number of burning metals. The
greatest importance attaches to the
analogy pointed out by Father Secchi.
Father Secchi suggests that beginners
could not do better than practise on the
Bessemer flame before turning the spec-
troscope on the stars. Difficult an in-
strument to conduct investigations with
as the spectroscope undoubtedly is,
the difficulty almost becomes perplexity
when the student tries to examine stel-
lar spectra.

140

New Publications.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

!rO0NT LUCANOR ; OR, TlTE FiFTY

Pleasant Stories of Patronio.
Written by the Prince Don Juan,
A^i>' 1335-1347* First done into
English, from the Spanish^ by James
York, Doctor of Medicine, 186S:
* Basil Montague Pickering, Picca-
■dilly, in the City of Westminster,
For sale at the Catholic Publica-
tion House, 126 Nassau Street, New-
York.

Mr, Pickering seems to revel in lite-
rary oddities. His book on the Pil-
grimes Proi^r^ss was quaint enough, and
this volume is scarcely behind it in any
of its queer qualities* A more totally
fifuign book we do not remember ever
seeing. In style, idiom, turn of thought,
cvery^thing, it is remote, ioto cctlo^ from
all the ideas and criteria of Knglisli and
modern criticism. Its publication stiikes
us as being a remarkably bold stroke ;
we cannot imagine for what class of
readers it could have been intended*
The only market we could conceive of
for such a work in this country, would
be a class of Mr. George Ticknor*&, if
he were to have one, in Spanish archae-
ology. In Spanish, and m Spanish, we
should think it would prove most inte-
resting ; even though the translation is
intensely Iberian, both in structure and
thought

The ** Fifty Pleasant Stories" are
very simple as to the machinery, so to
speak, of the telling of them. *' Count
Lucanor " throughout the book asks ad-
vice of his friend Patronio, stating his
case, and being responded to with a
story. Who Count Lucanor may have
been is^ a mystery for ever. The book
shows him to posterity only as a Spanish
gentleman of apparent consequence,
whose forte, as poor Arte m us Ward
would say, seems to have been to fall into
difficulties and ask advice of Patronio.
This gentleman appears as a sort of
Don Abraham Lincoln, or ScOor Tom

Corwin, ratlier. Every qU(
and irresisdbly reminds Inq
story » you know," etc., etc»
of their history. What the i
must have been who ansi
question with an anecdote,,
shudderingly decline to
Whether the gallant Coy!
sportively ran him throu|
after one story too many
tering day ; whether he wci
the stories gave out, or wl
interrupted him in a sage n|
his sapient hand button
count's doublet, it is not s:
There is a world of d
dusty, aged pithiness aboui
They are generally very
point, and often full of the g
ness so characteristic of Salt
Tlie most remarkable thing
book, though, is the really V
of apparent originals ft conj
are gems of all manner of
principles that others hai
into poetry, and tragedy,
and almost everything. Stl
not call this more than a sett
nality, because direcdy alai
tale we are surijrised to traql
speare, or La FonLiine, \
debtor to Count LucanorJ
other admired author, we a|
to lind some stor)' so aged|
bare, so worn and torn and I
the use of centuries, that on«i
to refer it back to the year I
of the tales arc taken from tB
Nights^ and Don Juan Mantii
modernized them (?) to suit
encd Castilian and anti-Mo(
of A,D. 1335- The old, old 1
naschar, for instance, is dii
**What happened to a Wq
Pruhana," and the note td
quietly goes on to the origin
(skipping old Alnaschar witl^
a mere junior copy,) namely,
part of the Pantcha Pantra^

New Publications.

141

larmed to learn, is entitled
hita Kariteva," which latter
lend translates, " Much good
ye," and our annotator " In-
2 Conduct" We will not quote
ely thrilling narrative of this
assic, but content ourselves
ing our readers, on our honor
nin, that the point is identi-
ime.

he best examples of the cha-
aptness of the book is Chap-
The Invisible Qoth." Count
quandary is all of a man who
: count great advantages if
rust absolutely in him and in
;. Three impostors (we con-
good Patronio mercilessly)
king as weavers of a peculiar
no man but a legitimate son
T could see ; to any one with
et taint upon his authenticity
;rly invisible. The king, de-
[1 this test of so interesting
able a matter, shuts them up
:e to make the cloth, fumish-
ch raw material of all sorts.
e days the king is invited
e the wonderful woof. King-
:ing sends his chamberlain

chamberlain, trembling for
e, opens his mind's eye, sees
istinctly, and returns full of

The king goes next, can't
jr, is terrified for his title to
and decides to see it also ;
and admires it extravagantly,
still rather puzzling, he sends
itendent Kennedy {algttacil)
the case. This functionary,
iling to see it, and fearing
e by the senior inspector of
kes up his mind that the
; are good enough for him,
;h them, sees it too. Next a
goes to report, and, like a
ilman as he is, honors his
mother by seeing it in the
: as the powers that be.
some one of the three hun-
ixty-five extraordinary feast-
ain, the king orders a suit of
le cloth, doesn't dare not to
rides forth among his leal
a costume strikingly like that
grue uniform of the Georgia

cavalry, that we used to hear so much
of during the war. His people gene-
rally, out of respect to their parents,
submit to the optical illusion, till, finally,
a Spanish citizen of African descent,
"having (says Patronio— not we) no-
thing to lose, came to him and said:
* Sire, to me it matters not whose son I
am ; therefore, I tell you that you are
riding without any clothes.' " The re-
sult is a general opening of eyes, a sud-
den change of tailors, it is hoped, by the
king, and the disappearance of the wea-
vers with the rich raw material. Moral
(slightly condensed from one page of
Patronio)—" Don't Trust"

" James York, Doctor of Medicine,"
has wasted valuable medical time in
translating this, with a good deal of fi-
delity to the spirit of the Spanish. His
style really does render much of its
quaintness ; as much, perhaps, as to-
day's English will hold in solution. He
is also very feirly fortunate with certain
small mottoes, or couplets, which close
each story, prefaced thus, with slight
variations: "And Don Juan, (another
utterly mystical character, who does
nothing but what follows,) also seeing
that it was a good example, wrote it in
this book, and made these lines, which
say as follows :

' Who counsels tliee to secrecy with friends.
Seeks to entrap thee for his own base ends.* *'
(Chapter vii., above given.)

The notes appended to each story are
as odd, many of them, as the stories.
Generally, they are little more than
notes of admiration, but often brief ex^
cursuses, showing quite a varied range of
reading, and full of all manner of recon-
diteness. These would seem to be
mainly Mr. York's, and they do him
credit in spite of their ludicrously high
praise now and then.

In the mechanical execution of the
volume, Mr. Pickering, we observe,
cleaves to his chosen model, the Aldine
press, and so gives us in great perfec-
tion that accurate and studious-looking
print which we all feel we ought to like,
and which none of us do like. For our
own part, we frankly own our preference
for the short j, and all the modem im-
provements. Still, one must bear in

Ntw PubNcatwns.

mind a thing very obvious in all this
line of publications, that it is expressly
to meet and foster a kind of taste almost
nnknown ia this country^ and that the
publisher is evidently carrying out witli
consistency and ener^ a peculiar policy
of his own, whose success must at last
be the test of its own merit.

The general American reader will
find this a thoroughly curious book;
the lover of cheap learning, a perfect
treasure-house of rather uncommon
commonplaces ; and the Spanish scho-
lar, "a genuine, if rugged, piece of ore
firom that rich mine of early Spanish
literature which yet lies hidden and un-
wrought.**

Peter Claver: A Sketch op his
Life and Labors im behalf of the
Africak Slave, Boston : Lee &
Shcpard. iS68. For sale at the
Catholic Publication House, 126 Nas-
sau street, New York*

This little book is a brief compendium
of the life of a great saint, who was the
apostle of ihe negro staves in South-
America. Its publication is very timely,
as It shows to the philanthropists of
New- England and of the country at
large, who interest themselves so much
in behalf of the African race^ what Cath-
olic chanty has done and can do in their
behalf. We recommend it to their at-
tention. The Catholic religion, and it
alone, can really and completely meet
the wants of this much-to-be-compas-
sionated portion of mankind. The strik-
ing vignette of this little volume^ repre-
senting St Peter Claver supporting the
head of a dying negro, who holds a
crucifix clasped to his dusky bosom, is
an expressive emblem of this truth. It
would be an excellent thing if our phi-
lanthropists, in Congress and out of
Congress, would get a copy of this very
suggestive photograph framed and hung
up in some place where they are accus-
tomed to say their prayers.

The Book of Moses ; oh. The Pkx-
tatfuch in its Authorship, Cre-

pnULTTV, AND CiVlUZATION- By

the Rev. VV^ Smith, Pk
L London : Longman, \
J86S. For sale at the Ca
cation House, New York

Dr. Smith has given us it^

the first instalment of an t%
on the Pentateuch* The
alone is treated of in this p
work. Dr Smith happily c
thodoxy of doctrine with
spirit He has evidently sti»
oiogy, geology, comparalivi
and other sciences bearin|
science. He has also niad^
miliar with Jewish and Pi
well as Catholic com mental
a cursory examination, we
to judge that his great and
has been thus far very w^
roughly performed* and to e
will he completed in a salisi
ner. The volume is brougli
best style of English typogl
with faC'Similes of ancient ^
inscriptions, which add much
We recommend it to all stu<
Holy Scriptures as one of iH
able aids to their rcscarchet
yet been published in the |
guage.

Life of St, Catharixe oi
By Doctor Caterinus Seneiu
laied by the Rev. John Fe
and Reedited^ with a Prefac
Rev, Father Ay I ward N
Catholic Publication Sodet

This biojxraphy is a cHari
translated in the inimitabh
idiom of the 17th century*
ward has very successfully In
antiquated style in his valuab
The biograpliy leaves nothing
sired as a history of the prival
life of the saint, tliough her
public career is but sli^htl
upon. Tlic sketch of it in I-
ward\s preface induces us to
he would add to the historj
Catharine^s private life by Cai
equally complete history of
life, with translations of her le
his own graceful and devout i

riift

New PublicatioHS.

143

I fiimish the English public with
' the best and most valuable biog-
s of a truly great and heroic wo-
) be found in any language.

R THE Key of Salvation. By
ael Muller, CS.S.R. Baltimore :
& Piet 1868.

book is an expansion of the ex-
vork of St Alphonsus Liguori
er. The object of it seems to
jlain the saint's doctrine and il-
it by examples, so as to bring it
:hin the comprehension of the
the people. But we are sorry
liged to say that the execution
ork does not come up to the
ithout commenting on the mat-
ti is, in general, very good, we
)elled to say that the style is
the extreme ; the sentences are
i-£nglish in their construction,
:limes so long and involved that
hard to understand. It also
n grammatical errors. In short,
ty it was not first thoroughly
jd and revised by a competent
ire being allowed to go to press,
much we may desire to com-
j book, we cannot in conscience
long as it continues in its pre-

RME EN ItALIE, LES PrECUR-

Discours Historiques de Cdsar

Traduitsde I'ltalien par Ani-

ird ct Edmond Martin. Paris :

le Clere, 29 Rue Cassette.

Tantu is the author of the best
history extant, and of other
works of the first class. He
taken the task of crushing the
2 pseudo-reformers of Italy
weight of his massive histori-
on. The first volume of the
ork, which is the only one yet
brings down the subject to
rentury, and will be followed
thers. The author is a sound
lox Catholic, yet, as a layman
istorian, his work has not the

distinctively professional style and spirit
which are usually found in the works of
ecclesiastical authors. He is fearless
and free in speaking the historical truth,
even when it is discreditable to ecclesi-
astical rulers and requires the exposure
of scandals and abuses in the church.
His spirit is calm and impartial, and the
theological and ascetical elements are
carefully eliminated. He has gone back
to the very origin of Christianity, in
order to trace the course of events from
their beginning, and has traced the out-
lines of the constitution of historical
Christianity. Church principles and
dogmas are, however, exhibited in a
purely historical method, and as essen-
tial portions of the history of facts and
events. Such a writer is terrible to par-
ties whose opinions and schemes cannot
bear the light of history. The whole
class of pseudo-reformers, whether semi-
Christian or openly infidel, are of this
sort Cantu sweeps them off the track
of history by the force and weight of his
erudition, as a locomotive tosses the
stray cows on the track of a railway,
with broken legs, to linger and die in
the meadows at each side of it It is
only Catholic truth, either in the super-
natural or the natural order, which can
bear investigation, or survive the crucial
test of history. The so-called Reforma-
tion retains its hold on the respect of
the world only through ignorance. When
history is better and more generally
known, it will be universally admitted
that it was not only a great crime, but a
great blunder, a faux pas in human
progress.

The Infant Bridal, and other Poems.
By Aubrey De Vere. London : Mac-
Millan & Co.

We are glad to see this book, rather
for the memories than the novelties it
brings us. Almost all its contents have
been published in the author's other
volumes, and there is nothing in this to
alter the opinions, either good or ill,
that we took occasion to express in a
former review of them at large. The
most remarkable about the book is the
selection of the republished pieces. It

144

New PnbKcaiwns

only veriiies anew the observation that
authors^ no more than we of the world,
have the giftie to see themselves as
others see them. Some of the best
poems arc there^ and some of the worst
The Infant Bridal and The Search for
Proserpine are perhaps the very two
poorest of ail the aulhor*s longer pro-
ductions. Still, perhaps the many faults
we fancy we sec in the tact of the com-
pUation, only come to this — that we our-
selves would liavc compiled differently,
and possibly worse.

But we meet, all over these elegant
tinted pages, lines and beauties tlxat we
fondly remember loving of old — fine
blank verse, wonderful descriptions, de-
Hcious idyls. These latter, by the way,
are equally remarkable and unremarked.
They are from Uie same fount with
Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. We
cannot resist giving one extract, from
Glanciy p. 64 :

" Come fbrUv d^r maid, the day i* calm and cool,

And bright though »tin1cw. Like a long jcrecn Kaf f,

The tali pine*, cTowtiing yon gmy prttmoolory,

la di'^tnnt cihrr hanf;. and cut the ica.

Btn r love the dell. Cor ihcre

F-v r'» world. HoMT indoteutlf

The ; , . . f»*le poplars^ bcndiog. sway

Over the vtoktbraided river brim I

Wheooe c<mie» ihi* motkm \ ftr no unnd i» heard,

And the bni; };r3i»e^ move no' ' d^

Hero tve wii) %\% and walch t] a

Uke locks, aioitfC the le^idcHi wn

Far off: a»id thou, O dit^d* ihall t^k to oie

OfNvtadi and their loves.**

One more sample of the contents of
this volume, and we have said all there
is to say* It is an unusual vein for De
Vcrc, but one in which, like Tennyson,
he engages never lightly and always
with telling success* It is the close of
A Farewell to Naples^ p. 255 :

" From her vhom gen?u« nerer yet tiispired.
Or virtue rai*«d« or pulM heroic £rcd ;
From her who, in the graod hi«tork page.
Maintains ODe barreti blank from age to age ;
From her, with insect life and insect binz,
Whoj evermore unresting, noihjtif doet \
Fn>m her wh»u. with the future »nd the paal,
Mo ..-— — r - ' - ■' '- -0, Airuc^ure t'. i- ■ '^ ' - *
Ft ^tandjestri

Ra' ■• stM^ thc'rr ...

I limtt.

lialnnd,
cowed;

I.Ailty, from her who planted 1
•Mid heaven-topped lulUatuli
From these bat nerree more i
And the dread ttamp of ■
And, girt not Icu wUh ruin, )h
That worse than wasted weal f
We part ; forth issubg thr<}<
With unreverting £iiCes, not b

Cannot this book speak
self than our good word ?

Folks akd Fatrtes. Stoi
children. By Lucy Ran da
With engravings. New
per & Brothers* iS68,

Judging, not, however, fil
but from hearsay, we think
of Mrs. Comfort's juvenile r
be increased if she had giv^i
** Folks '* and less ** Fairiej
same high authority we
aguinst some of the engravinj
pie, " Otho returning homci'
tions of the text

BOOKS RKOITVWU.

From LKvroLOT h Holt, New %'-

A Bio^rraphical Komance. From tJ'
Heriberr Rau, By E. R. Svll
jaj—kasy French Reading : Beinjff
historical tales ai-i -^.vi,.t-. -.
pious foot'note¥>,
cii>al -^mM. a |>'
ofi!

ed a bticf i> rciivit graj&aur.
voL tjmo, pp. ajj.

From Krlly ft Ptsr. Baltimore : A
the Viiws, For the use of penotis c
God in ihe religious state. By
Peter Cold, S.J.

From Sakuki, R, Wst.LS, New York
Cfed And Secular : or. The Exiempor:
et, With sketches of the mi.*t emine
all a|»e«. % VVilliani Pitienger, aut!
and SuAering. Introduction by \^
Biitgham, ant! nn'cnt^'it rf*fitaining
Guide for . mrctlnj:

llw hestj' « v^^J

—Life in U - of t»

Valley. By K. C Meeker, A-ncu
of the Kew York Tribune, i »"1. ti,

Fr«m L«it ft Sifiti»A«iv, Beetoni It*
Youim Asnenci in Fogtiind and Wa
of Tmvtl aiid Ad^'eiiture. By OUvei

THE

n
J

ATHOLIG WORLD.

VOL. VII., No. 38

TENNYSON IN HIS CATHOLIC ASPECTS.

For a poet eminently modem and
giish in his modes of thought, Ten-
m is singularly free from the spi-
of controversy. His native land
distracted by religious feuds, yet
who has been called "the re-
:nized exponent of all the deeper
ikings of his age," takes no active
tin them, and seldom drops a line
t bespeaks the school of theology
rhich he belongs. At long inter-
i indeed, devout breathings es-
J him. Once now and then he
acts a block of dogma from the
) quarry within, and fixes it in an
ing place. He never scatters
)ts wantonly ; he is always on the
of faith, though not perfect and
olic faith. He alludes to Chris-
doctrines as postulates. For
purpose they need no proof. It
d be idle to prove anything if
were not true. They are the
of the soul, and the vitality of

Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the press,"

Ties ; but he adds this apostrophe
wise:

** Ry happy with iJU minion 0/ the crou^

Tfu Gulden Year,
VOL. VII. — 10

He looks for the resurrection of the
body, and bids the dry dust of his
friend (Spedding) " lie still, secure of
change:' {Lines to y. S,) When the
spirit quits its earthly frame, he fol-
lows it straight into the unseen world
and the presence of its Creator and
God. He points to "the grand old
gardener and his wife " in " yon blue
heavens," smiling at the claims of
long descent, {Lady Clara Vere de
Vere;) and he speeds the soul of the
expiring May Queen toward the
blessed home of just souls and true,
there to wait a little while for her
mother and Effie :

*• To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your

breast —
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary

are at rest."

Tfu May Quten.

Intensely as he loves nature, Ten-
nyson is no Pantheist. Though like
the wild Indian, he "sees God in
clouds and hears him in the wind,"
he does not therefore confound mat-
ter with its Maker, nor lose sight of
the personality of the Being whom he
adores. He is no disciple of fate or
chance, but recognizes in all human
affairs the working of a divine and
retributive providence, whose final

146

Tmnyscn in his Catholic Aspects,

judgment of good and evil is fore-
shadowed and begun during our mor-
tal life. To His presence and promp-
titude in reply to prayer, he refers
more than once in pathetic and point-
i language. He tells us how Enoch
Arden, when cast away on a desert
island, heard in his dream " the peal-
ing of his parish bells," and

" Though he k«cw not wherefore, started up
Shuddering, And when the beauteou*, hateful isJe
Jleturned upon hixn, had nrtt hiv jKior heart
^Spoken Willi that, which, being everywhere,
iXiet» none who 5pekik with Him «erm all ftlone^
f Surely the man Itad dud ^ t^iituJe,**

Emock Awdnt.

It would not be difficult for those
who are acquainted with Tennyson's
earlier hi story » to disco^'er the church
of which he is a member, and the
section of it whose \4ews he adopts.
In Memoriam takes us into the inte-
rior of his falher^s parsonage^ to the
Christmas hearth decorated with lau-
rel, and the old pastimes in tlie hall j
to the witch-elms and tow^ering syca-
more, whose shadows his Arthur had
often found so fair ; to tlie lawn where
they read the Tuscan poets toge-
ther; and the banquet in the neigh-
boring summer woods. We almost
hear the songs that then pealed from
knoll to knoll, while the happy ten-
ants of the presbytery lingered on
I he dry grass till bats went round in
fragrant skies, and the white kine
glimmered, couching at ease, and the
trees laid their dark arms about the
fiekL "The merry, merry bells of
Yule/' with their silver chime, arc re-
ferred to more than once in Tenny-
son's poems. They seem to be ever
ringing in his ears. They controlled
him, he says, in his boyhood, and
they bring him sorrow touched with
joy.

It is in singing of Arthur Hallam
that the poet's faith in the immorta-
lity of the soul is brought out with
beautiful clearness. The bitterness
of his grief draws him to the ** com*

rrienc

fort clasped in truth revea
he looks forward with hop
day when he shall arrive aj
the blessed goal, and He vvhod
Holy Land shall reach out the si
hand to him and his lost frient
take them "as a single sou
Mcmoriam^ Ixxxiii.)

From the verses addresse
Rev. F. D. Maurice, (Januar
we learn that one of Tenii]
children claims that gentlems
his godfather, and we gather {\
and other poems, what all the
reate*s friends know, that his q
thies are with the Bro{ui Chm
which Mr. Maurice, Kingsley,
pie, the Bishop of London, am
Stanley are distinguished \ti
It is one of the peculiarities oi
school to moderate the tormei
the lost and to deny that the;
eternal, to hope that good wi
some way be the final goal o
and that every winter will at
change to spring. It cannot b
puted that this teaching is at
ance with Catholic doctrine ; b
is one which Tennyson puts ibr
with singular modesty, de ~
himself as

" An infant crving in the lUf ht ;
An infant cryiojj ibr the light ;
And with no laDgiiagc bnt « cry.*'
/w Mtmc\

The Broad Churchy as
implies, professes large and If
views. Not wishing to be trie
too strict a standard itself, it re
ates all harsh judgments on ol
Accordingly, we find in Tenr
few allusiuns to errors, real or
posed, in the creed of others,
regards as sacred whatever link
soul to a divine truth. He ha
friends who are Catholics,
have heard that he has ex^
sincere anxiety to publish no
relative to the Catholic r
culated to give offence to u- \

Tmnysoa in his Catholic Aspects.

147

ere are few lines in his vo-
uch grate on the most pious

no devout breathings in
: do not cordially join. It

of his earlier poems, and
sport, that he makes the
)ak tell of—

ummen, when the monk was £it,

1, issuing shorn and sleek,

d twist his girdle tight, and pat

! girls upon the cheek,

et, in scorn of Peter's pence,

d numbered bead, and shrift,

Harry broke into the tpence,

i turned the conds adrift."

ng his verse, therefore,
dHc mind is at ease ; it
no charges to be repelled,
ir as we know, after long
study of ever}' line he has
) no mistakes regarding
which require to be recti-
2re are those who imagine
'/. Simeon StyliteSy he has
isrepresented the character
•lie saint ; but we venture to
1 more lenient opinion, and
avor presently to justify it.
tone of irony, such as we
ire, that he describes the
pulpiteer in chapel, not
simple Christ to simple
fulminating "against the
man and her creed," and
his arms violently, as if he
pocalyptic millstone, while
ts the speedy casting of
)ylon into the sea. (Sea
Nor are there wanting
contact between Tenny-
s on religious matters and
hose dwelt on by Catholic
Thus he, like Dr. Newman,
irguments for the existence
rawn from the power and
scoverable in the works of
Id and inconclusive in com-
ith that one which arises
/oice of conscience and the
►f the heart. The cxxiiid
In Memoriam runs singu-

larly parallel with this beautiful pas-
sage in the Apologia^ (p- 377 •)

*' Were it not ibr this Toice, speaking so clearly ia
my conscience and mv heart, I should be an atheist,
or a pantheist or a poiytheist, when I looked into the
world. . . I am far firom denyii^ the real force d
the aiguments in proof of a God, drawn from the ie-
neral facts of human society ; but these do not warm
me or enlighten me ; they do not take away the winter
of my desolation, or make the buds unfold and the
leares grow within me, and my moral being rejoice.'*

The arguments adduced by infi-
dels, in support of their unbelief
have never been rebutted in verse
more cleverly than by Tennyson.
His blade flashes like lightning, and
severs with as fine a stroke as Sa-
ladin's scimitar. The Thvo Voices
may be cited in proof, and also the
following passages in the matchless
elegy on Arthur Hallam :

The Fates not blind, {In Mtmcriam) vL ^

Life shall live for evermore, " zxnr.
If Death were death, love would not be

true love, (/« Mtmoriam) xm.

Individuality defies the tomb» '* xlvi.

Immortality, " liv. Iv.

Doubt issuing in belief, " xcv.

Knowledge without wisdom, " cxiii.

Progress, " cxvu.

We are not all matter, " cxix.

The course of human things, ** cxxviL

These verses are no doubt the
record of a mental conflict carried
on during some years of the author's
earlier life — a battle between material-
ism and spiritualism, between faith
and unbelief, reason and sense. The
Two Voices is philosophy singing,
as In Memoriam is philosophy in
tears. The English Cydopcedia well
calls the last poem " wonderful," and
adds: "In no language, probably,
is there another series of elegies so
deep, so metaphysical, so imagina-
tive, so musical, and showing such
impassioned, abnormal, and solemni-
zing affection for the dead. "

But it is now time to point to those
passages in which Tennyson may
be said to have, more particularly,
Catholic aspects. Be they few or
many, they are worth noticing, even
though they prove nothing but that %

14*

Tamyson in his Catholic Aspects.

Protestant poet of the highest order
has such aspects, intense, striking,
and lovely in no ordinary degree,
, Every true poet is in a certain sense
j a divine creation, and nothing but a
[ celestial spark could ignite a Words-
worth, a Longfellow, or an Emerson.
It has ever been the delight of the
ancient church and her writers to
discover portions of her truth among
those who are separated from her
visible pale. Far from grudging
them these precious fragments, she
only wishes they were less scanty,
and would willingly add to them till
kthey reached the full measure of the
deposit of the faith. It would be
easy to make out a complete cycle
I of her doctrine in faith and morals
[from the poems of Protestant and
Mohammedan authors, but it would
be only by combining extracts from
many who, in matters of belief, differ
widely from each oUicr, In looking
through the Laureate*s vohimes for
traces of the church's teaching, we
are in a special manner struck by
his treatment of the invocation of the
departed. With what deep feeling
idoes he invite the friend, who is the
subject of his immortal elegy, to be
near him when his light is low, when
^pain is at its height, when life is
fading away, (/« Afcmoriam^ xlix.)
It reminds us of good Dr Johnson's
prayer for the "attention and min-
istration " of his lost wife, as Boswell
has given it us. Can any Catl^olic
express more fully than the Laureate
the frame of mind becoming those
who desire that the departed should
still be near them at their side ? {In
Memoriam^ 1.)

♦'Haw mif* ai he*rt anfl ■
' '<*hat divtmt , ;
Mie the ♦n-iii '■

1 wta I no diC-»d4

canit ttf,

"'rh«7 luunt th«ii}enoe of th«1
IrnAgiuAtiont c»l«» ^tk^ <air.
The memory like a ckKidJes tir»
Tli« €oitiicieDC« a& i tea at re&t*

" But when ibe heart i» full 4>rdio,

A nd Jmtht Utide ikd §^rttU tmmiit^ \

They c^n hut Usten «it th« {tatei,
And hc4r Uie houaeheJd j;ir v^ithin **

" If I can,** says the dyii
Queen in Nau Yearns Ev€^

" If t can, V\\ come again, moUier, 6«A j
ing-pUce .
Though you'il not see inc, inotber» /*

Thoui^h I cinnot tpeak a word, / .

Mtkitt yau Mt$Jf

And h* KffttH^ 0fUn wiiJk jffiv, woMw j

It is not, therefore, in a vagi
dreamy way, but with the full
of the understanding, that Ten
invokes the spirits in their pi;
rest. It is not merely as a j
as a Christian, that he excla

" Oh I there farct from thy aigbltc^a t
With Jio<l& in uncoojectiircil biifl
Oh ! fi^om the distAnc^ of t]ie 4fa|
Of tc&fuld, complicated cJianfiie,

**De«cend» and tovicK and enter: 1
The wi*h too flTon^ for words tar|
I'hAt in the htindoeu of the fn
My {;lM»t may feel that thine t* oe]

We say "as a Christian;

warmly repudiate the harsh ml
talion which is often put <
words addressed to the Son of

** Thou nvftifsi htiman and d!vine» fj
The highest, lioJieit matihood M

" See," it is said, « this is tb<
you can get from your favorij
Christ— that he seems di\ini
an appearance, a scmblan*
Now, this reasoning is mo;
The remainder of the vers«
his godhead —

'* Oiif will* Me oui«, we kndm not
Our wiilU are our«^ t* ma4» Mrnt

The verses which foUoiii
prayer to Christ, implori
him light and aid, wisdom oi
giveocss* (Prefatory Une«

Tennyson in his Catholic Aspects.

149

7JW.) In fact, it is evident
ther parts of Tennyson's elegy,
: does not use the word seem in
ise of appearing to be what a
s not, but in the sense of its
ng to be what it is. Thus, in
1 stanza, below the lines just
we have —

Dr^ve what teemed mjr sin in me ;
What seemed my worth since I began ;
For merit lives from man to man,
id Dot from man, O Lord ! to thee.*'

n, In Memorianiy xxxiii.,

t that after toil and storm,

'st seem to have reached a purer air ;**

^'seem to have reached" is
jnt to "thou who hast
," with that delicate shade
rence only which belongs to
ather than to English diction,
he verb do^ew is repeatedly
the New Testament as an
e, not meaningless to the ear,
adding no distinct idea which
expressed in a single word.
T\Tt kiyeiv iv kavrolg, (St.
ii. 9,) means to all intents,
" Say not in yourselves," and
\jvTe^ (TTvkoi elvai (Gal. ii. 9)
" who were really the pillars
jmed to be." Such passages,
le, prove nothing as to Ten-
use of the word seem, but

> illustrate it. The perfect
I of Christ is brought out

the sermon preached by
in Aylmer's Field "The
om heaven, born of a village
penter's son," is there styled
)rophet's words, " Wonderful,
of Peace, the Mighty God."
I the Laureate prays that his
orth may be forgiven, he
5 the language of deep hu-
.'hich meets us so constantly
Tilings of Catholic saints. It

> us of their prayers to the
of Lights that the best they
ver done may be pardoned,

that their tears may be washed, their
myrrh incensed, their spikenard's
scent perfumed, and their breathings
after God fumigated. It is no shallow
view that he takes of repentance
when he makes Queen Guinevere
ask:

•' What is true repentance hut in thooght—
Not e*en in inmost thought to think again
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us ?"
Idyll* e/ ike King,

He has been accused of making
St. Simeon Stylites a selfrighteous
saint. That he makes him ambitious
of saintdom is true, but this hope
which he " will not cease to grasp,"
is fostered by no sense of his own
merits, but, on the contrary, springs
from the deepest possible conviction
of his unworthiness. He describes
himself as

*' The haaeat of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin.
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils mad with blasphemy."

He proclaims from his pillar, his
" high nest of penance,"

** That Pontius and Tacariot by his side
Showed like fair seraphs."

He details, indeed, in language
strikingly intense, his sufferings, pray-
ers, and penances ; but he disclaims
all praise on account of them, and
ascribes all his patience to the divine
bounty. He does not breathe or
" whisper any murmur of complaint,"
while he tells how his teeth

♦' Would chatter with the cold, and all his beard
Was Ugged with icy fringes in the moon ;"

how his " thighs were rotted with the
dew ;" and how

" For many weeks about his loins he wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose :"

yet the climax of it all is, " Have
mercy, mercy : take away my sin."

The Catholic aspects in St, Agnes'
Eve and Sir Galahad, are no less
marked than those of St, Simeon Sty-
lites. As a devout breathing of a

ISO

Tennyson in his Catholic Aspects,

dying nun, the first of these poems is
touching and exquisite. The snows
lie deep on the convent-roof, and the
shadows of its towers ** slant down
the snowy sward,*' while she prays
and says :

**K% theie white robe* are soiled And dark.

To yoi»d*r »htn»ns: ground ;
Aa Oiit (*A!e lapcr'» earthly upark.

To yonder argent rv>un(i:
So «hnws my tout bcfure ihe Liimb,

My npirit before Thee ;
So in mine cifthly home I am,

To thai 1 hope to be.*'

All heaven bursts its "starry floors,"
the gates roll back, the heavenly
Bridegroom wails to welcome and
purify the sister*s departing soul.
The vision dilates. It is mysteriously
vague — mysteriously distijict :

"The nbbfttht ofeteniUy,

One sabbath deep and wide —
A liKht upon the fthining sea—
The Bridegroom wiih bii bride !"

There is in such verse an inde-
scribably Catholic tone. It is like
ll^e heavenly music of faith, which
pervades the Paradise of Dante, and
which (in spite of the lax lives of
the authors) runs through the ** Sa-
cred Songs " of Moore, and the Epis-
tle of Ehisa^ and The Dying Chris-
tian's Address to his Soui, by Pope.
But if Tennyson has proved equal to
portraying a Catholic saint, he has
also depicted most graphically a
Catholic knight of romance. Sir
Galahad, one of the ornaments of
King Arthur*s court, {Idyiis (f the
King^ p, 213,) whose

" »treni(th t« ju tlie «trengtU of len.
Because hi* heart ii pure«"

goes in quest of the Sangreal — the
sacred wine. He hears the noise of
hymns amid the dark stems of the
forest, sees in vision the snowy altar-
cloth with swinging censers and ** sil-
ver vessels sparkling clean." He
sails, in magic barks, on " lonely
mountain meres," and catches

glimpses of angcU w*ith folded feet

" in stoles of whitQ
holy grail.

*' Ah t blesjted vi»ion \ i

My spirit beats her moflA} t
As down dark tides the s^ory

And fttar-lij{ht mingies with
So pas^ I hoitelf hmlK and pa

By bridge and fwd, by pirl
All arnicti I ride, wJwte*«r b«l

Until 1 ^d the holy s^aii,*'

A Catholic aspect ma;
be observed in a single w<
so thou lean on our
Christ," {Idylls^ Guinn^i
may perhaps sound slraj
ears, and is familiar to Ca
" He alone is our in wan
Dr. Newman, speaking
" He not only regenerates
allude to a higher mysl
gignit; he is ever renewi
birth and our heavenly s
this sense he may be c
nature so in grace ^ our t
(Letter to Dr. Pusey, p. 8^
in the Litany of the Ho
say, **Jesu, Pater futuri
** Jesu, Pater pauperum.'

The Catholic who w^ell
his own faith will alwa
scrupulous about distiir
olhors. If there is any
rent to him, " it is tli
doubt and unsettling
without necessity." (Ni
logia^ p. 344.) There is
poem in In Menwriam^ (:
admirally illustrates this
quote but one verse, as
memory will no doubt su

*' Leave Ihoo thy »i*tw, when

Her early heaven, her haj

Nor tho« with vhsdowed

A life that leadi melodious

The theory and pr;
wisest Catholics con fori
rit and letter of this injui
devotional life, too, is pe
cd in Tennyson whenevt
prayer. There is a de
in his expressions on ihi:

Tennysoti in his Catholic Aspects.

ISI

reaches to the fact that prayer is the
truest religion — that it is the link
which unites man more closely to
his Creator than any outward acts,
any meditations, any professed creed,
and is the spring and current of re-
ligious life.

" ETennore
Prayfrtom aliTing source within the will,
And beating up through all the Intter world,
like foantains of sweet water in the sea.
Kept him a Itvittg *0mL"

Enoch ArdeHf p. 44.

■Thrice blest whose Ihes are faUhftd prayers.
Whose loves in hq;her lore endure :
What souls possess dtemselves so pure ?
Or is there blessedness like theirs ?"

InMemeria$mt xxzil

Thus again, in the Morte {TAr-
Oatr, which was a forecast of The
Idylls of the King, we are reminded
of the efficacy of prayer in language
worthy of being put into a Catholic's
lips:

"Play Ibr my souL Mere things are wrought By

pruyer
"nan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy

voice
^ like a ibuntain for me night and day.
^'y what are men better than sheep or goats,
^t nourish a blind life within the brain,
K knowing Ood, they lift not hands of prayer
^()d) for themselves and those who call them fiiend ?
^•r 10 the whole round earth is every way
^*>mihygaid chains about the feet 0/ GedV

In the following lines, on the ra-
'^ty of repentance, there is a refer-
^'^ce to the cooperation of human
^11 with divine grace, which equals
^e precision of a Catholic theolo-
gian:

** Foil seldom does a man repent, or use
B^ grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
0/ Uood and custom wholly out of him,
And make all dean, and plant himself afiresh."
Idylls 0/ the King, p. 93.

In the same poem we find lines of
^ distincdy Catholic tone on the re-
^^^ntant queen's entering a convent,
'^^d on a knight who had long been
^^e tenant of a hermitage. Guine-
"^^tre speaks as follows :

^let me, if you do not shudder at me.
J^ »h«m to call me sister, dwell with you ;
^*sr black and white, and be a nun like yon ;
^**tth your fiMts, not feasting with your feasts ;
jTV* *^ STOor fneft, not grieving at your joys,
^ '''t nfjoieiug : iniQii^* with yoor rites;

Pray and be prayed for ; lie before your shrtnot;
Do each low oflke of your holy house ;
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole
To poor sick people, richer in his eyes
Who ransomed us, and haler, too, than I ;
And treat their loathsome hurts, and heal mine own ;
And so wear out in alrasdeed and in prayer
The sombre close of that voluptuous day
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the king.**
Idylls of the Kit^, p. >i6(x

The hermitage is thus described :

** There lived a knight
Not fu from Camelot. now for forty years
A hermit, who had prayed, labored, andpngfed.
And ever laboring had scooped himself
In the white rock a chapel and a hall
On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave,
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry.**
Idylls of the King, p. 168.

Among Tennyson's earlier poems,
the picture of Isabel, "the perfect
wife," with her ^^ hate of gossip par-
lance, and of sway ^^ her

'* locks not tride dispread.
Madonna-wise on either side her head :
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign
The summer calm of golden charity ;"

and

** Eyes not down-dropC nor over-bright, but fod
With the dear-pointed flame of chastity,**

Poems, pp. 7, 8,

is worthy of a Catholic matron. The
description of St. Stephen, in The Two
Voices, has all the depth and pathos of
the poet's happiest mood ; and, though
neither it, nor some other passages
which have been quoted, contain
anything distinctively Catholic as op-
posed to other forms of Christianity,
it is strongly marked with those or-
thodox instincts to which we are
drawing attention :

*' I cannot hide that some have striven.
Achieving calm, to whom was given
The joy that mixes man with heaven ;
Who, rowing hard against the stream.
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam.
And did not dream it ^-Ta a dream ;
But heard, by secret transport led.
E'en in the chamels of the dead,
The murmur of the fountain-head —
Which did accomplish their desire.
Bore and forbore, and did not tire ;
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire.
He heeded not reviling tones.
Nor sold his heart to idle moans.
Though cursed,and scorned, and bruised with stones ;
But looking upward, foil of grace.
He prayed, and from a happy place
God's glory smote him on the fiice."

Poems, p. 399.

We are anxious not to appeal xo

IS2

Tennyson in his Catkalic Aspects,

lay undue stress on these extracts.
Let them go for as much as they are
worth, and no more. We do not
stretch them on any Procrustean
bed to the measure of orthodox.
Others might be adduced, of a lati-
tudinarian tendency, but they are
few in number, and do not neutral-
ize the force of these. In view of
many passages in Shakespeare of a
Catholic bearing, and of several
facts favorable to the belief that he
was a Catholic, M. Rio has come to
the probably sound conclusion that
he really was what he himself wishes
to prove him. We put no such forced
interpretation on our extracts from
Tennyson as M, Rio has certainly
put on many which he has brought
forward from the EliTfabetlian poet j
but we think that they are suffi-
ciently cast in a Calholic mould to
warrant us in applying to Tennyson
the words which Carlyle has used in
reference to his predecessor: "Ca-
tholicism, with and against feudal-
ism, but not against nature and her
bounty, gave us English a Shake-
speare and era of Shakespeare, and
so produced a blossom of Catholicism,^^
{French Rcvoiuiion^ vol. i. lo,)

But religion, as w*e have said, does
not occupy a prominent place in Ten-
nyson's pages. He is, in the main,
like the great dramatist — a poet of
this world. Love and women are
his fiivorite themes, but love within
the bounds of law, and woman
strongly idealized License 6nds in
him no apologist, while he throws
around purity and fidelity all the
charms of song. The most rigid
moralist can find nothing to cen-
sure in his treatment of the guilty
love of Lancelot and Guinevere, the
wedded love of Enid and Geraint,
the meretricious love of Vivien, and
the unrequited love of Elaine, If
Milton had, as he intended,^ cho-

•S<elik JfiiUM, aad Lil<^ bf Tohnd, p. tf.

sen King Arthur as the subject of
his epic, he could not have taken
a higher moral tone than Tennyson
has in the Idylis of the King^ and,
considering how lax were bis nO'
tions about marriage, it is probable
he would have taken a lower one.
King Arthur's praise of hon^Jtable
courtship and conjugal faith is too
long to be quoted here, but it may
be referred to as equally eloquent
and edifying. {Llyits of the King,)
The Laureate has learned at least
one secret of making a great name —
not to write too much. " I hate
many books/' wrote P^re Lacordaire.
**The capital point is, to have an
aim in life, and deeply to respect
posterity by sending it but a small
number of w*ell -meditated works/*
This has been Tennv^on's rule.
With six slender volumes he has
built himself an everlasting name.
He has, till witliin tlie last few
months, seldom contributed to pe-
riodicals, and when he has done so,
the price paid for his stanzas seems
fabulous. The estimation in winch
he is held by critics of a high order
amounts^ in many cases, to a passion
and a worship^ The specimen he
has given of a translation of the Hkxd
promises for it, if completed, all that
Longfellow has wrought for the />i-
vimi Com media. The attempts he
has made at Alcaics^ Hcndccasyllahits^
^xvAGalliambics in English ha\*c been
thoroughly successful, and stamp him
as an accomplished scholar \S^
dicea^ etc., in Enoch Arden and 4Siher
Poems,) As he docs not write
much, so neither does he write fast,
Tlic impetuous oratory of Shake-
speare's and B)Ton's verse is un-
known to him, He never affects it*
He reminds us rather of the opera*
tions of nature, who slowly and calm-
ly, but without difficulty, produces
her marvellous results. Drop by
drop his immortal poems are dis-

Tennyson in his Catholic Aspects.

153

tilled, like the chalybeate droppings
which leave at length on the cavern
floor a perfect red and crystal stalag-
mite. " Day by day," says the Na-
Henal RevieWy when speaking on this
subject — " day by day, as the hours
pass, the delicate sand falls into
beautiful forms, in stillness, in peace,
in brooding." " The particular pow-
fx by which Mr. Tennyson surpasses
all recent English poets," writes the
Edinburgh Review^ " is that of sus-
tained perfection. . . . We look
in vain among his modem rivals for
any who can compete with him in
^ power of saying beautifully the
thing he has to say."

d^i altri poeti onore e lame,

Vagjiiaini 1 lango studio e '1 grande amore

Che B* ham fiuto cercar lo too volume*

During a long period, the origina-
lity of Tennyson's verse was an ob-
stacle to its fame, and indeed conti-
nues to be so in the minds of some
readers. His use of obsolete words
appears to many persons affected,
▼hile others applaud him for his vi-
gorous Saxon, believing, with Dean
Swift, that the Saxon element in our
wmpound tongue should be religi-
ously preserved, and that the writers
*Qd fakers who please us most are
^^ whose style is most Saxon in
'^ character. If Tennyson has mo-
.^^lled his verse after any author, it
^ undoubtedly Shakespeare, and the
j^'^es of this study may perhaps be
^^nd in his vocabulary. Yet no
^ ^n is less of a plagiarist ; not only
^^^ fomis of thought but of language
^ ^0 are original, and though he owes
^xach to the early dramatists, to
*^^ordsworth and to Shelley, he fuses
^^1 metals in the alembic of his own
"^^ind, and turns them to gold. His
»ove of nature is intense, and his ob-
servation of her works is microscopic.

• L Inftmfft L 8x

Yet he is never so occupied with de-
tails as to lose sight of broad out-
lines. In 1845, Wordsworth spoke
of him as " decidedly the first of our
living poets ;" but since that time his
fame has been steadily on the in-
crease. Many of his lines have pass-
ed into proverbs, and a crowd of fee-
bly fluttering imitators have vainly
striven to rival him on the wing.
What the people once called a weed
has grown into a tall flower, wearing
a crown of light, and flourishing far
and wide. {The Flower, Enoch Ar-
den, etc., p. 152.) A concordance
to In Memoriam has been published,
and the several editions of the Lau-
reate's volumes have been collated
as carefully as if they were works
of antiquity. Every ardent lover
of English poetry is familiar with
Mariana, " in the lonely moated
grange;" the good Haroun Alras-
chid among his obelisks and cedars ;
Oriana wailing amid the Norland,
whirlwinds ; the Lady Shalott in her
" four gray walls and four gray tow-
ers ;" the proud Lady Clara Vere de
Vere ; the drowsy Lotos-Eaters ; the
chaste and benevolent Godiva; Maud
in her garden of " woodbine spices ;"
the true love of the Lord of Burleigh,
and the reward of honest Lady Clare.
The highest praise of these ballads
is that they have sunk into the na-
tion's heart. They combine the chief
excellences of other bards, and re-
mind us of some delicious fruit which
unites in itself a variety of the most
exquisite flavors. This richness and
sweetness may be ascribed in part
to that remarkable condensation of
thought which enriches one page of
Tennyson with as many ideas and
images as would, in most other poets,
be found scattered over two or three
pages. "We must not expect,"
wrote Shenstone in one of his es-
says, " to trace the flow of Waller,
the landskip of Thomson, the fire

154

Poland,

of Dryden, the imagery of Shake-
speare^ the simplicity of Spenser,
the courtliness of Prior, the humor
of Swift, the wit of Cowley, the deli-
cacy of Addison, the tenderness of
Otway, and the invention, the spirit,
and sublimity of Milton, joined in
any single writer." Perhaps not.
But S hen stone had never read Ten-
nyson, and there is no knowing what
he might have thought if he had con-
ned the calm majesty of Ulysses ; the
classical beauty of Tithonus and the
Prmcess ; the luxuriant eloquence of
Lacksky Hall ; the deep lyrical flow
of The Loiters and The Voyas^e ; the
^cute drollery of the Northern Farmer;
the idyllic sweetness of Oinone ; the
grandeur of Aforte <f Arthur : I lie
touching simplicity of Efweh Anlcn ;
the power and pathos of Aylmer's
Field ; the perfect minstrelsy of the
Rivulet^ and the songs, O Swalhm^
Swallmv^'XXxA Tears, /die Tears; and
the sharps and trebles of the Brook,
more musical than Mendelssohn.
Far be it from us to carp at any

poetry because it proceed;
who is not a Catholic. \1
indeed, firmly that, if Ten\
been imbued with the an
it would have cleared soi
ness both from his mini
verse. But in these days,
cinianism, positivism, and 1
ing in various shapes a
such strong hold of educd
we rejoice unfeignedly to
lar writings marked, even
perfect degree, witJi Chrii
trine and feeling. The
exerted by the Laureate in
of letters is great, and
therefore, endeavored at sol
to show how far it is fa von
how far unfavorable, to the
truth. Though vmhappily
tholic, we recognize with d
fact that he is not an infide
feel persuaded that some i
our readers will be pleas)
having placed in a promirw
of view the redeeming fei
the religious character of hi

POLAND

When, fixed in righteous wTath, a nation's eye

Torments some crowned tormentor with just hate,

Nor threat nor flattery can that gaze abate ;

Unshriven the unatoning years go by ;

For as that starry archer in the sky

Unbends not his bright bow, though early and late

The syren sings, and folly weds with fate,

Even so that constellated destiny

Which keeps fire-vigil in a night-black heaven.

Upon the countenance of the doomed looks forth

Consentient w^ith a nation's gaze on earth:

To the twinned powers a single gaze h given ;

The earthly fate reveals the fate on high^

A brazen serpent raised, that says, not ** live," but ** die

AUBKEY 01

Professor Draper's Books,

PROFESSOR DRAPER'S BOOKS.*

Professor Draper's works have
iiad, and are having, a very rapid
sale, and are evidently very highly
esteemed by that class of readers
who take an interest, without being
Tery profoundly versed, in the grave
subjects which he treats. He is, we
believe, a good chemist and a re-
spectable physiologist. His work
on Human Physiolog}', we have
been assured by those whose judg-
ment in such matters we prefer to
oar own, is a work of real merit, and
vas, when first published, up to the
level of the science to which it is
devoted. We read it with care on
its first appearance, and the impres-
sion it left on our mind was, that the
author yields too much to the theory
of chemical action in physiology, and
does not remember that man is the
union of soul and body, and that the
soul modifies, even in the body, the
action of the natural laws ; or rather,
that the physiological laws of brute
matter, or even of animals, cannot be
applied to man without many im-
portant reserves. The Professor,
indeed, recognizes, or says he recog-
nizes, in man a rational soul, or an
unmaterial principle ; but the recog-
nition seems to be only a verbal con-
cession, made to the prejudices of
f^ who have some lingering belief
in Christianity, for we find no use
^or it in his physiology. All the
physiological phenomena he dwells

i-ffuman Pkyiidogy^ Statical and Dynatni-
^ .• tr, CoHdUuMS and Cottrse of tlu Life of Man.
?1 J W. Draper, M.D.. LL.D., Professor of Chem-
^ »nd Physiology in the University of New York.
^*2 ^^ ' Harper & Brothers. 1856. 8vo, pp. 649.
\ ^«<rr •ftMi InteUtctmU Development of Europe.
»y *« ume. Fifth edition. 1867. 8vo, pp. 628.
^^Wto M tk* Civil Policy of America. By
5J*. »««. Third edition. 1867. 8vo, pp. a^S- 4-
f "?? •/'** A nuHcan Civil ITar. By the same.
» three tolumc. Vol.1. 1867. 8vo, ppi 567.

on he explains without it, that is,
as far as he explains them at all.
Whatever his personal belief may
be, his doctrine is as purely mate-
rialistic as is Mr. Herbert Spencer's,
which explains all the phenomena of
life by the mechanical, chemical, and
electrical changes and combinations
of matter.

It is due to Professor Draper to
say, that in this respect he only sins
in common with the great body of
modern physiologists. Physiology
— indeed, all the inductive sciences —
have been for a long time cast in a
materialistic mould, and men of firm
faith, and sincere and ardent piety,
are materialists, and, therefore, athe-
ists, the moment they enter the field
of physical science, and deny in their
science what they resolutely affirm
and would die for in their faith.
Hence the quarrel between the theo-
logians and the savans. The savans
have not reconciled their so-called
science with the great theological
truths, whether of reason or revela-
tion, which only the fool doubts, or
in his heart denies. This proves that
our physicists have made far less
progress in the sciences than they
are in the habit of boasting. That
cannot be true in physiology which
is false in theology ; and a physiology
that denies all reality but matter, or
finds no place in it for God and the
human soul, is no true physiological
science.^ The physiologist has far
less evidence of the existence of mat-
ter than I have of the existence of
spirit ; and it is only by spirit that
the material is apprehensible, or can
be shown to exist. Matter only mi-
mics or imitates spirit.

The continual changes that take

tS6

Professor Dmpcrs Books.

place from time to time in physiology
I show — we say it with all deference to
Iphysiologists — that it has not risen
I as yet to the dignity of a science. It
is of no use to speak of progress, for
changes which transform the whole
body of a pretended science are not
progre ss . We m ay n ot h a ve m a s t e red
kali the facts of a science ; we may be
miscovering new facts every day ; but
fif we have, for instance, the true phy-
siological science, the discover}^ of
new facts may throw new light on
the science — may enable us to see
clearer its reach^ and understand
better its application, but cannot
change or modify its principles. As
long as your pretended science is
liable to be changed in its principles,
it is a theor}% an hypothesis, not a
science. Physiologists have accu-
lifiiilated a large stock of physiologi-
cal facts, to which they arc daily
adding new facts. We willingly ad-
mit these facts are not useless, and
the time spent in collecting them is
not wasted ; on the contrary, wc hold
them to be valuable, and appreciate
Very liighly the labor, the patient re-
{•iearch, and the nice obsen'ation that
Ihas collected, classified, and de-
[ scribed them ; but we dare assert,
I notwithstanding, that the science of
physiolog)^ is yet to be created ; and
ated it will not be till physiolo-
have learned and are able to
set forth the dialectic relations of
spirit and matter, soul and body,
God and nature, free-will and neces-
sity. Till then there may be known
facts, but there will be no physiological
science. As far as what is called
^the science of human life, or human
physiology, goes, Professor Draper^s
|work is an nblc and commendable
irork ; but he must permit us to say
thai the real science of physiology
he has not touched, has not dreamed
lOf; nor have any of his brethren
»who see in the human soul only a

5, or
io|U

ism

useless appendage to the 1
soul is ih^ forma corporis ^ itsU
iwg^ its vital principle, and per
so to speak, and determines, or
fies, the whole life and actiofl
human body, from the first
of conception to the very m^
death. The human body _
exist, even in its embryonic
first as a vegetable, then as ai
mal, and aftenvard as united '
immaterial soul. It is bodyti
to soul from the first instant of
ception, and man lives, in any
of his existence, but one am
same human life. There is m
ment after conception when I
ful destruction of the fcetus i
murder of a human life.

As we said on a former <
or at least implied, man, thong
ancients called him a microco^n
universe in little, and contair
himself all the elements oi nalu
neither a mineral nor a vegetabli
simply an animal, and the anal
which the physiologist detect:
tween him and the kingdoms 1
him, form no scientific basis c
man physioIog)% for like is
same. There may be no diifc
that the microscope or the cii
can detect between the b!ood»
ox and the blood of a man ;f
microscope and chemical tests I
both cases applied to the dead
ject, not the living, and the h
blood tested is withdrawn fror
li\ang action of the soul, an \
that escapes the most powerful f
scope, and the most subiile che
agent. Comparative physiolog;
gratify the curiosity, and, whcj
pressed beyond its legitimate be
it may even be useful, and help
a belter understanding of oui
bodies ; but it can never be the
of a scientific induction, becauj
tween man and all animals tb
the difference of species.

Professor Dmpet^s Books.

157

iology is, therefore, unlike
tve philology ; for, however
lay be the dialects com-
xe is no difference of spe-
ig them, and nothing hin-
ological inductions from
^, in the secondary order,
cientific character. Phy-
inductions, resting on the
^e study of different indi-
' different races or families
lay also be truly scientific ;
e individuals, and all these
imilies belong to one and
species. But the compa-
siology that compares men
Is, gives only analogies, not

not undervalue science ;
ntrary, what we complain
: our physiologists do not
:ience ; they give us facts,
5r hypotheses. Facts are
e till referred to the prin-
t explain them, and these
themselves are not science
ted in the principles of that
niversal science called the-
l which is really the science
ices. The men who pass for
d are the hierophants and
of the age, sin not by
ice, but by their want of
Their ideal of science is
id grovelling. Science is
re than they conceive it ;
deeper, broader than they

the best of them are, as
lid of himself, mere bo3rs
3 shells on the shores of
ocean of truth. They, at
lin in the vestibule of the

science ; they have not
e penetralia and knelt be-
tar. We find no fault with
Draper^s science, where sci-
las ; we only complain of
tempting to palm off upon
trance for science, and ac-
id laboring to make us ac-

cept as science what is really no
science. Yet he is not worse than
others of his class.

The second work named in our
list is the professor's attempt to ex-
tend the principles of his human
physiology to the human race at
large, and to apply them specially
to the intellectual development of
Europe ; the third is an attempt to
apply them to the civil policy of
America, and the fourth is an at-
tempt to get a counter-proof of his
theoHes in the history of our late ci-
vil war. Through the four works we
detect one and the same purpose,
one and the same doctrine, of which
the principal data are presented in
his work on human physiology, which
is cast in a purely materialistic mould.
They are all written to show that all
philosophy, all religion, all morality,
and all history are to be physiologi-
cally explained, that is, by fixed, in-
flexible, and irreversible natural laws.
He admits, in words, that man has
free-will, but denies that it influen-
ces events or anything in the life and
conduct of men. He also admits,
and claims credit for admitting, a
Supreme Being, as if there could be
subordinate beings, or any being but
one who declares himself I am that
am; but a living and ever-present
God, Creator, and upholder of the
universe, finds no recognition in his
physiological system. His God, like
the gods of the old Epicureans,
has nothing to do, but, as Dr. Eva-
rist de Gypendole, in his Ointment
for the Bite of the Black Serpent,
happily expresses it, to "sleep all
night and to doze all day." He is
a superfluity in science, like the im-
material soul in the author's Human
Physiology. All things, in Professor
Draper's system, originate, proceed
from, and terminate in, natural devel-
opment, with a most superb contempt
for the ratio sufficiens of Leibnitz,

IS8

Professor Drapers Boohs,

and the first and fmal cause of the
theologians and philosophers. The
only God his system recognizes is

Lpatural law, the law of the genera-
^on and death of phenomena, and
iistinguishable from nature only as

^tbe natura naiurans is distinguishable
from tfve natura naiurata of Spino-
za, His system is, therefore, not-
withstanding his concessions to the
Christian prejudices which still lin-
ger with the unscientific^ a system of
^iire naturalism, and differs in no

"important respect from the Religion
Fasiiive of M, Auguste Comtc.

The Duke of Arg\le, in his Reign
o/Zaw^\s\nc\i wc reviewed last Febru-
ary, a man well versed in the modem
sciences, sought, while asserting the
universal reign of law, to escape this
system of pure naturalism, by defin-
ing law to be **will enforcing itself
with power," or making what are
called the laws of nature the direct
action of the divine Will. But this
asserted activity only for the divine
Being, therefore denied second cau-
scs, and bound not only nature, but
the human will fast in fate, or rather,
absorbed man and nature in God ;
for man and nature do and can ex-
ist only in so far as active, or in
some sense causative. The passive
does not exist, and to place all ac-
tivity in God alone is to deny the
creation of active existences or se-
cond causes, which is the very es-
sence of pantheism. Professor Dra-
per and the positivists, whom he foN
lows, reverse the shield, and absorb
not man and nature iii God, but
both God and man in nature, John
and James are not Peter, but Peter
15 James and John. There is no
real difierencc between pantheism
and atheism ; both arc absurd, but
the absurdity of atheism is more ea-
sily detected by the common mind

^ti^in the absurdity of pantheism,
rbc one loses God by losing unity,

prM

and the other by losing diversit
everj'thing distinguishable fn
The God of the atheist is
the God of the pantheist is ai"
were not, and it makes no prM
difference whether you say^
all or all is God.

To undertake a critical
of these several works woo
ceed both our space and our
tience, and, moreover, wcre^
that docs not seem to be ca
Professor Draper, w^e believ
high among his scientific!
ren. He writes in a clea
graceful, and pleasing style,'
have found nothing new or profc
in his works. His theories an
most as old as the hills, and <
older, if the hills are no older l
he pretends. His w*ork on th<
tellectual Development of Eurof
in substance, taken from the pos
ists, and the positivist philosopl
only a reproduction, with no sci
fie advance on that of the old
siologers or hylozoists, as Cudf
calls them. He agrees pcrf
with the positivists in the reo
tion of three ages or epochs, we si:
rather say stages, in human dev
menl ; the theological, the metap
cal, and the scientific or po
In the theological age, man
intellectual infancy, is filled
timeuts of fear and wonder
rant of natural causes and
of the natural laws thcms«
he sees the supernatural in
event that surpasses his undf
ing or ejcperience, and bowi
a God in ever)' natural fore
rior lo his own. It is the ag
norance, w*onder, credulity,
perstilion. In the second tli
lect has been, to a certain ej(
veloped,and the gross fetichisi
first age disappears, and mcn\
gcr worship the visible apis,
invisiblt; apis, the spiritual 0x4

Professor Drapef^s Books.

159

pis ; not the bull, but, as
American Indian says,
tou of bulls f and instead
ping the visible objects of
>e, as the sun, moon, and
ocean and rivers, groves
ins, storms and tempests,
atheism in the outset, they
srtain metaphysical ab-
n to .which they have refin-
id which they finally gene-
one grand abstraction,
call Zeus, Jupiter, Jeho-
, Deus, or God, and thus
Hebrew and Christian
n. In the third and last
is no longer fetichism,
, or monotheism ; men no
nize nature, or their own
s, no longer believe in
itural or the metaphysical
g supposed to be supra-
but reject whatever is not
aterial, positive as the ob-
itive science.

essor develops this system
:ience than its inventor or
. Auguste Comte and his
disciples ; but as well as
be expected to do it, in
; English. He takes it as
9f his History of the In-
^evelopmmt of Europe^ and
3 reconcile with it all the
i unknown facts of that
nt. We make no quota-
ove that we state the prp-
ctrine correctly, for no one
ad him, with any attention,
Dn our statement ; and, in-
might find it difficult to
ages which clearly and ex-
nfirm it, for it is a grave
against him, as against
writers of his school, that
►t deal in clear and express
> of doctrine. Had Pro-
iper put forth what is evi-
doctrine in clear, simple,
ict propositions, so that his

doctrine could at once be seen and
understood, his works, instead of
going through several editions, and
being commended in reviews and
journals, as scientific, learned, and
profound, would have fallen dead
from the press, or been received with
a universal burst of public indigna-
tion ; for they attack everything dear
to the heart of the Christian, the
philosopher, and the citizen. Noth-
ing worse is to be found in the old
French Encyclopedists, in the Sys-
t}me de la Nature of D'Holbach, or in
r Homme-Plant, and VHomfne-Mor
chine of Lamettrie. His doctrine is
nothing in the world but pure mate-
rialism and atheism, and we do not
believe the American people are as
yet prepared to deny either God, or
creation and Providence. The suc-
cess of these authors is in their vague-
ness, in their refiisal to reduce their
doctrine to distinct propositions, in
hinting, rather than stating it, and in
pretending to speak always in the
name of science, thus: "Science
shows this," or " Science shows that ;"
when, if they knew anything of the
matter, they would know that science
does no such thing. Then, how can
you accuse Professor Draper of athe-
ism or materialism ; for does he not
expressly declare his belief, as a man
of science, in the existence of the Su-
preme Being, and in an immaterial
and immortal soul ? What Dr. Draper
believes or disbelieves, is his affeir, not
ours ; we only assert that the doctrine
he defends in his professedly scienti-
fic books, from beginning to end, is
purely physiological, and has no God
or soul in it. As a man, Dr. Draper
may believe much ; as an author, he
is a materialist and an atheist, beyond
all dispute : if he knows it, little can
be said for his honesty ; if he does
not know it, little can be said for his
science, or his competency to write
on the intellectual development of

t60

Professor Drapers BaaJts.

Europe, or of any oilier quarter of the
globe*

But to return to the theory the
professor borrows from the positiv-
isls. As the professor excludes from
his physiology the idea of creation,
we cannot easily understand how
he determines what is the infancy of
the human race, or when the hu-
man race was in its infancy. If the
race had no beginning, if, like Topsy»
•* it didn't come, but grow'd," it had
no infancy ; if it had a beginning,
and you assume its earliest stage
was that of infancy, then it is neces-
sary to know which stage is the ear-
liest, and what man really was in
that stage. Hence, chronology be-
comes all-important, and, as the
author's science rejects all received
chronology* and speaks of changes
and events which took place mil-
lions and millions of ages ago, and
of which there remains no record
but that chronicled in the rocks ;
but, as in that record exact dates
arc not given, chronolog)', with him,
whether of the earth or of man, m«sl
be ver}' uncertain, and it seems to
us that it must be very difficult for
science to determine, with much pre-
cision, when the race was, or what it
was, in its infancy. Thus he says :

" In the intellectual infancy of the savage
state, man transfers to nature his concep-
tions of himself, and, con^kicring that eve-
rything he docs is determined by his own
pleasure, regards all passing events as de-
pending on the arbitrary volition of a supc*
rior but inviiiiblc power. He gives to the
world a consn*ti»tion like his own. The ten-
dency is nectsiarily to superstition. What-
ever is strange, or powerful, or vast, impres-
ses his imagination with dread. Such ob-
jects are only the outward manifestations of
jin indwelling spirit, and, therefore, worthy
of his veneration." {IhUUhL IkvcL p. 2.)

We beg the professor's pardon,
but he has only imperfectly learned
his lesson. In this which he regards
as the age of fetich worship, and the

first stage of human develop
includes ideas and conceptio
belong to the second, or
cal age of hrs masters. Bu
pass for the present. Th
evidently assumes that lb
state is the intellectual
the race. But how knows ^
it is not the intellectual old ^
decrepitude of the race? T
thor, while he holds, or app<
hold, like the positivists, to tJ
tinuous progress of the race, d<
hold to the continuous pr
any given nation.

"A national type," he says,
** pursues its way physically
tually thrmigh changes and dc
answering to those of the individiS
scntcd byiiifanc5\ youth, manhood,
and death respectively***

How, then, say scientific
your fetich age, or the age of
stition, ihe theological age<

positivists, instead being llii

of the nation, is not its
next preceding death \ \\t
mine physiologically or scieni
that the savage is the infant m
not the worn-out man ? Then ]
termine that the superstition o
you have so much to say, and
with you, means religion, rev
the church, everything that cl;
bCt or that asserts, anything SJ
tural, is not characteristic <
stage of human developmer
of the first ?

Our modem physiolog
anti-Christian speculators see
take it for granted that the
gives us the type of the p]
man. Wc refuted this at
tion in our essay on Faith
Seknccs. There are no kjio'
torical facts to support it. <
ihe record chronicled in the
as read by geologists. Whj
it prove? Why, in the lowj

IgSJ

Prrfessar Dmp^s Books.

I$l

nt strata in which human
e found, along with those
ipecies of animals, you find
nen of that epoch used
laments, and were igno-
etals or imable to work
I, therefore, must have
^es. That is, the men
then, and in that loca-
so. But does this prove

did not, contemporary
in other localities or in
ters of the globe, live
1 nations in the full vigor
ihood of the race, having
» and implements of civi-

Did the savages of New
•hen first discovered, un-
orking in iron, and used

stone axes, and stone
ly of which we have our-
xlup? And was it the same
>eans ? From the rude-
mcivilized condition of a
me locality, you can con-
ling as to the primitive
f the race.

ncy of the race, if there
ice in the analogy assum-
ge of growth, of progress ;
y is less progressive, or
y stationary, in a moral
:tual sense, than the sav-
Since history began, there
no instance on record of
ibe rising by indigenous
/ilization, but none of a
age tribe having ever,
eign assistance, become
nation. The Greeks in
historical or semi-histori-
ere not savages, and we
dence that they ever were.
:ic poems were never the
a savage people, or of a
emerging from the savage
ivilization, and they are a
le Greeks, as a people, had
of religion, and were less
s in the age of Homer

>L. VII. — II

than in the age of St Paul. The
Germans are a civilized people, and
if they were first revealed to us as
what the Greeks and Romans called
barbarians, they were never, as hx
as known, savages. We all know how
exceedingly difficult it is to civilize
our North American Indians. Indi-
viduals now and then take up the
elements of our civilization, but rare-
ly, if they are of pure Indian blood.
They recoil before the advance of
civilization. The native Mexicans
and Peruvians have, indeed, received
some elements of Christian civiliza-
tion along with the Christian faith
and worship ; but they were not, on
the discovery of this continent, pure
savages, but had many of the ele-
ments of a civilized people, and that
they were of the same race with the
savages that roamed our northern
forests, is not yet proved. The his-
torical probabilities are not on the
side of the hypothesis of the modem
progressivists, but are on the side of
the contrary doctrine, that the savage
state belongs to the old age of the
race — is not that from which man ris-
es, but that into which he falls.

Nor is there any historical evi-
dence that superstition is older thaa
religion, that men begin in the coun-
terfeit and proceed to the genuine, —
in the false, and proceed by way of
development to the true. They do
not abuse a thing before having it.
Superstition presupposes religion, as-
falsehood presupposes truth ; for false-
hood being unable to stand by itself,,
it is only by the aid of truth that it
can be asserted. " Fear made the
gods," sings Lucretius; but it can
make none where belief in the gods
does not already exist Men may
transfer their own sentiments and
passions to the divinity ; but they
must believe that the divinity exists,
before they can do it They must be-
lieve that God is, before they can heap

Prcfessar Drapers Books,

him in the wind, see him in the son
and stars, or dread him in the storm
and the earthquake. It is not frotn
dread of the strange, the powerful, or
the vast, that men develop the idea
of God, the spiritual, the supernatu-
ral ^ the dread presupposes the pre-
sence and activity of the idea. Men,
again, who, like the professors man in
the infancy of the savage state, are
able to conceive of spirit and to dis-
tinguish between the outward mani-
festation and the indwelling spirit,
are not fetich worshippers, and for
them the fetich is no longer a god,
but if retained at all, it is as a sign or
symbol of the invisible. Fctichism
is the grossest form of superstition,
and obtains only among tribes fall-
en into the grossest ignorance, that
lie at the lowest round of the scale
of human beings \ not among tribes
in whom intelligence is commencing,
but in whom it is well-nigh extin-
guished.

Monotheism is older than polythe-
ism, for polytheism, as the author
himself seems to hold, grows out of
pantheism, and pantheism evidently
grows out of theism, out of the loss
or perversion of tiie idea of creation,
or of the relation l>etween the crea-
tor and the creature, or cause and
ef{ect» and is and can be found only
among a people who have once be-
lieved in one God, creator of heaven
and earth and all things visible and
invisible. Moreover, the earliest
forms of the heathen superstitions
are, so far as histarical evidence goes,
the least gross, the least corrupt
The religion of tlie early Romans was
pure in comparison with what it
subsequently became, especially after
the Etruscan domination or influence,
The Homeric poems show a religion
less corrupt than that defended by
Aristophanes* The earliest of the
Vcdas, or sacred books of the Hin-
«doosy axe free from the grosser super-

stitions of the latest, and
ten, the author very justly 1
fore those grosser forms n
duccd. This is \tTy remi
we are to assume that thi
forms of superstition are ttil
But we have with Greel
tians, Indians, no books tl
earlier dale than the books I
at least none that can be ■
have been written earlier ; I
books of Moses, in what*
or character we take then
shown a religion older thi
the heathen mythologies, I
lutely free from every form'
stition, what is called tlie p
religion, and which is sul
the Jewish and Christiaa
The earliest notices we havi
tries and superstitions are tl
these books, the oldest t
least none older are knownj
books are regarded as hisU
cuments, then what we <
hold to be the true religioi
tained with a portion of the
the creation of man, and, I
series of years, from the ck
Nimrod, the mighty huntfi
queror, was the only religifl
and your felichisms, poly th^
theisms, idolatries, and sup<
which you note among thai
instead of being the religii
infancy of the race, are, coQ
ly speaking, only recent infl
If their authenticity as hislj
cuments be denied, they
their antiquity is undcni
the patriarchal reUgion obti
earlier date than it can
any of the heathen myl
ed. It is certain, then, tha
archal, we may say, the Ch
gion, is the earliest known
the race, and therefore that
as contended by the posi
the professor after them,
asserted to have been the

Professor Druptis Books.

«J3

human race in the earliest stage
its existence, nor the germ from
ich all the various religions or
)erstitions of the world have been
reloped.

But we may go still farther. The
jempt to explain the origin and
urse of religion by the study of the
rious heathen mythologies, and
Diatries, and superstitions, is as ab-
rd as to attempt to determine the
igin and course of the Christian
ligion by the study of the thousand
id one sects that have broken off
)m the church, and set up to be
luches themselves. They can
acfa us nothing except the gradual
iterioration of religious thought, and
e development and growth of super-
ition or irreligion among those se-
irated from the central religious
e of the race. In the ancient In-
an, Egyptian, and Greek mytholo-
»,on which the author dwells with

much emphasis, we trace no gra-
lal purification of the religious idea,
:t its continual corruption and de-
sement As the sects all presup-
se the Christian church, and could
ither exist nor be intelligible with-
t her, so those various heathen my-
)Iogies presuppose the patriarchal
igion, are unintelligible without
and could not have originated or
St without it. The professor hav-
: studied these mythologies in the
kness of no-religion, understands
:hing of them, and finds no sense
them — as little sense as a man
torant of Catholicity would find in
\ creeds, confessions, and religious
servances of the several Protestant
:ts ; but if he had studied them in
i light of the patriarchal religion,
wch they mutilate, corrupt, or tra-
sty, he might have understood
«n, and have traced with a steady
ind their origin and course, and
^ir relation to the intellectual de-
tlopmentofthe race.

V^e have no space to enter at

length into the question here si^
gested. In all the civilized heathen
nations, the gods are divided into
two classes, the Dii Majores and
the Dii Minores. The Dii Majores
are only the result of a false e0brt to
explain the mysterious dogma of the
Trinity, and the perversion of the
Christian doctrine of the Eternal
Generation of the Son, and the Eter-
nal Procession of the Holy Ghost
The type from which these mytholo-
gies depart, not which they realize,
is undeniably the mystery of the
Trinity asserted, more or less expli-
citly, by the patriarchal religion;
and hence, we find them all, from
the burning South to the frozen
North, from the East to the West^
from the Old World to the New, as-
serting, in some form, in the Divinity
the sacred and mysterious Triad.
The Dii Minores are a corruption or
perversion of the Catholic doctrine
of saints and angels, or that doctrine
is the type which has been perverted
or corrupted, by substituting heroes
for saints, and the angels that
fell for the angels that stood, and
taking these for gods instead of
creatures. The enemies of Christi-
anity have sufficiently proved that
the common type of both is given in
the patriarchal religion, hoping there-
by to get a conclusive argument
against Christianity ; but they have
forgotten to state that, while the one
conforms to the type, the other de-
parts from it, perverts or corrupts it;
and that the one that conforms is
prior in date to the one that corrupts,
perverts or departs from it. No man
can study the patriarchal religion
without seeing at a glance that it is
the various forms of heathenism that
are the corrupt forms, as no man can
study both Catholicity and Protes-
tantism without seeing that Protes-
tantism is the corruption, or perver-
sion — sometimes even the travesty
oi Catholicity. The same conc\us\OTi

Professor Drapsi^s Books,

is warranted aJike by Indian and
Egyptian gloom and Greek gayety.
The gloom speaks for itself* The
gayety is that of despair — the gayety
that says : ** Come, let us eat, drink,
and be merry, for to-morrow we die/'
Through all. heathendom you hear the
wail, sometimes loud and stormy,
sometimes low and melodious, over
some great and irreparable loss, over
a broken and unrealized ideal ^ just
as you do in the modern sectarian
and unbelieving world.

But why is it that the professor
and others, when seeking to give the
origin and course of religion, as re-
lated to the intellectual development
of the race, pass by the patriarchal,
Jewish, or Christian religion, and
fosten on the religions or supersti-
tions of the Gentiles? It is their
art, which consists in adroitly avoid-
ing all direct attacks on the faith of
Christendom, and confining them-
selves in their dissertations on the
natural history of the pagan supersti-
tions, to establishing principles which
alike undermine both them and Chris-
tianity, It is evident to every intel-
ligent reader of Professor Draper's
InidUcttMl Dci'eiopmcftt of Europe^
that he means the principles he as-
serts shall be applied to Christianity
as well as to Indian, Eg}'ptian, Greek,
and Roman mytholog)% and he gives
many broad hints to that effect
i~What then ? Is he not giving the
'history of the intellectual develop-
ment of Europe? Can one give the
history of that development without
taking notice of religion ? If, in giv-
ing the natural history of religion,
showing whence and how it origi-
nates, what have been its develop-
ments, its course, its modifications,
changes, decay, and death, by the
influence of natural causes, science
establishes principles which over-
throw all religions, and render pre-
|K?sterous all claims of man to have

received a supernatural ncreh
to be in communion with the Ix
ble, or to be under any other |
dence than that of the fixed, is
able, and irresistible laws of na
or purely physiological laws, k
fault is it? Would you com
science, or subordinate it to
needs of a crafty and unscnipi
priesthood, fearful of losing tte
fluence^ and having the human \
emancipated from their despo4
That is, you lay down certain
principles, repudiated by reason
common sense, and whidi all rea
ence rejects with contempt, call \
false principles science, and i
we protest, you cry out with all
lungs, aided by all the simph
of the age, that we are hosti]
science, would prevent fr<
tific investigation, restrain fit
thought, and would keep the
from getting a glimpse of tlie
that would emancipate them»
place them on the same line witJ
baboon or the gorilla ! A wond
thing, is this modern scienc
always places, whatever it
denies, its adepts in the
against the theologians and th*
ointed priests of God 1

The mystery is not difficiiU t
plain. The physiologists, of CO
arc good Sadducees, and reall)
less going through a churdi
after dark, or caught in a ston
sea, and in danger of shipw
believe in neither angel nor s
They wish to reduce all eveiil
phenomena, intellectual, moral,
religious, to ^x^^^ invariable, in
ble, irreversible, and necessary
of nature. ^Fhey exclude in docl
if not in words, the supernal
creation, providence, and all oc;
gency. Every thing in man an
the universe is generated or dev
ed by physiological or ns
and follows them in all

thcfl
i tlie
them»
le witJ
wond

J rji

Professor Dntpet's Books.

i«5

tions and changes. Religion, then,
most be a natural production, gene-
rated by man, in conjunction with
Batare, and modified, changed, or de-
stroyed, according to the physical
asses to which he is subjected in
time and place. This is partially
tnie, or, at least, not manifestly false
io til respects of the various pagan
nperstitions, and many facts may be
dted that seem to prove it ; but it is
ttnifestly not true of the patriarchal,
Jewish, and Christian religion, and
te only way to make it appear true,
is to not distinguish that religion from
die others, to include all religions in
(Be and the same category, and con-
dnde that what they prove to be par-
tidly true of a part, is and must be
trae of the whole. That this is fair
vlogical, is not a matter that the phy-
siologists, who, where they detect an
analogy, conclude identity, trouble
themselves at all about ; besides, no-
tiiingin their view is illogical or unfair
that tends to discredit priests and the-
' ^ogians. Very likely, also, such is
4eir disdain or contempt of religion,
ftatthey really do not know that there
^ any radical difference between
Christianity and Gentooisra. We have
^^er encountered a physiologist, in
5He sense we use the term here, that
^> one who maintains that all in the
^tory of man and the universe pro-
^^'^cds from nature alone, who had
^uch knowledge of Christian theo-
Ogy, or knowledge enough to be
^>rare that in substance it is not iden-
$cal with the pagan superstitions.
tTicir ignorance of our religion is
Xiblime.

We have thus far proceeded on the
'Opposition that the professor means
^^ the infancy of the savage state the
*"^£fticy of the race ; we are not sure,
^Aer all, that this is precisely his
ivjught, or that he means anything
c^Bore than the infancy of a particular
or family of nations is the sa-

vage state. He, however, sums up
his doctrine in his table of contents^
chapter i., of his Intellectual Develop-
ment^ in the proposition: "Indivi-
dual man is an emblem of communi-
ties, nations, and universal humani-
ty. They exhibit epochs of life like
his, and like him are under the con-
trol of physical conditions, and there-
fore of law ;" that is, physical or phjr-
siological law, for " human physiolo-
gy " is only a special department of
universal physiology, as we have al-
ready indicated. It would seem
from this that the author makes the
savage state, as we have supposed, cor-
respond, in the race, in universal hu-
manity, as well as in communities, to
the epoch of infancy in the indivi-
dual. But does he mean to teach
that the race itself has its epoch of
infancy, youth, manhood, old age^
and death ? He can, perhaps, in a
loose sense, predicate these several
epochs of nations and of political or
civil communities ; but how can he
predicate them all of the race ? " In-
dividuals die, humanity survives,"
says Seneca ; and are we to under-
stand that the professor means to as^
sert that the race is bom like the in-
dividual, passes through childhood,
youth, nianhood, to old age, and
then dies? Who knows what he
means ?

But suppose that he has not settled
in his own mind his meaning on this
point, as is most likely the case ; that
he has not asked himself whether man
on the earth has a beginning or an
end, and that he regards the race as
a natural evolution, revolving always
in the same circle, and takes, there-
fore, the infancy he speaks of as the
infancy of a nation or a given com-
munity. Then his doctrine is, that
the earliest stage of every civilized
nation or community is the savage
state, that the ancestors of the civilis-
ed in every age are savages, and that

i66

Professor Vmpei^s

all civilization has been developed
under the control of physical condi-
tions from the savage state. The
genn of all civilization then must be
in the savage, and civilization tlien
must be evolved from the savage as
the chicken from the egg, or the egg
from the sperm. But of this there is
no evidence ; for, as we have seen,
there is no nation knowTi that has
sprung from exclusively savage an-
cestors, no known instance of a sa-
vage people developing, if we may so
speak, into a civilized people. The
theory rests on no historical or scien-
tific basis, and is perfectly gratuitous.
In the savage state we detect reuii-
oiscences of a past civilization, not
the genus of a future civil izationj or
tf germs — germs that are dead, and
that never do or can germinate.
There are degrees of civilization ;
people may be more or less civiliz-
ed ; but we have no evidence, histo-
rical or scientific, of a time when
there was no civilized people extant.
There are civilized nations now, and
contemporary with them are various
savage tribes, and the same may be
said of every epoch since history be-
gan. The civilized nations whose
origin w*e know have all sprung from
races more or less civilized, never
from purely savage tribes. The
physiologists overlook history, and
mistake the evening twilight for the
dawn.

But pass over this. Let us come
to the doctrine for which the profes-
sor writes his book, namely, indivi-
duals, communities, nations, univer-
sal humanity, are under the control ol
physical conditions, therefore of phy-
sical law, or law* in the sense of the
physiologists or the physicists. If
this means anything, it means that
the religion, the morality, the intel-
lectual development, the growth and
decay, the littleness and Uie gnin-
deur of men and nations depend sole

ot 11 i
tan |fl

ly on physical causes, not It i
moral causes — a doctrine
throughout even in human
gy, and supported by no fact

in a very restricted deg

applied to nations and comtntn
Jn the corporeal phenomena*
individual the soul counts foM
and in morbid physiology ihCT
often counts for more tlian the
sical ; perhaps it always doeg^
know from revelation that th^
dity of nature is the penalty or i
of man's transgression. It is pi
to be false as applied to nationj
communities by the fact thai
Christian religion, which is sub
tially that of the ancient patriti
is, at least as far as science ca;
older than any of the false reU|
has maintained itself the \
essential respects, unvaried n
variable, in every variety of
change, and in every diversit
physical condition, and absoJ
unaifected by any natural a
whatever.

The chief physical condition
which the professor relies are cli
and geographical position. Yet
we hold to be the true religion
primitive religion of mankind,
prevailed in all climates, and
found the same in all gcograp
positions. Nay, even the false p
religions have varied only in
accidents with climatic and ge<
phical positions. We find the
substance the same in India, C«
Asia, on the banks of the Daoul
the heart of Europe, in the an
Scania, the Northern Isles, in Mi
and Peru. The substance of C
and Roman or Etrurian mythi
is the same with that of India
F^^pt, M. Rdnan tells us tha
monotheism so firmly held
Arabic branch of tlie SemiticJ
is due to the vast deserts ovi
the Arab tribes wander^ wl:

, Professor Drapep^s Books.

i6r

gest the ideas of unity and uni-
versality ; and yet for centuries be-
fore Mohammedy these same Arabs,
wandering over the same deserts,
were polytheists and idolaters ; and
not fromcont^nplating those deserts,
bot by recalling the primitive tradi-
tions of mankind, preserved by Jews
and Christians, did the founder of
Islamism attain to the monotheism of
the Koran. The professor is misled
by taking, in the heathen mythology
he has studied, the poetic imagery
and embellishments, which indeed
my according to the natural aspects,
objects, and productions of the loca-
lity, for their substance, thought, or
doctrine. The poetic illustrations,
inagery, and embellishments of Ju-
(fadsm are all oriental ; but the Jew in
ill climates and in ail geographical
positions holds one and the same re-
Ugioos faith even to this day ; and his
only real difference from us is, that
be is still looking for a Christ to
come, while we believe the Christ he
^ looking for has come, and is the
s^e Jesus of Nazareth who was
Crucified at Jerusalem, under Pontius
i'ilate.

We know the author contends that
Uiere has been from the beginning a
^^ical difference between the Chris-
tianity of the East and that of the
V^cst ; but we know that such is not
^nd never has been the fact The
^reat Eastern fathers and theolo-
gians are held in as high honor in
\Vcstcm Christendom as they ever
'^rerc in Eastern Christendom. Near-
l^y all the great councils that defined
^^ike dogmas held by the Catholic
Church throughout the whole world
^vrere held in the East The Greeks
"^rerc more speculative and more ad-
ciicted to philosophical subtilties and
Tefinements than the Latins, and
therefore more liable to originate he-
'wsies ) but nowhere was heresy more
^ngoroQsly combated, or the one

faith of the universal church more
ably, more intelligently, or more fer-
vently defended than in the East,
before the Emperors and the Bishop
of Constantinople drew the Eastern
Church, or the larger part of it, into
schism. But the united Greek
Church, the real Eastern Church,
the church of St Athanasius, of
the Basils, and the Gregories, is one
in spirit, one in faith, one in commu-
nion with the Church of the West

The author gravely tells us that
Christianity had three primitive forms,
the Judaical, which has ended ; the
Gnostic, which has also ended ; the
African, which still continues. But
he has no authority for what he says.
Some Jewish observances were re-
tained for a time by Christians of
Jewish origin, till the synagogue
could be buried with honor; but
there never was a Jewish form of
Christianity, except among heretics,
different from the Christianity still
held by the church. There are
some phrases in the Gospel of St
John, and in the Epistles of St Paul
that have been thought to be direct-
ed against the gnostics ; and Cle-
mens of Alexandria writes a work
in which he uses the terms gnosis^
knowledge, and gnostic, a man pos-
sessing knowledge or spiritual science,
in a good sense ; but, we suspect,
with a design of rescuing these from
the bad sense in which they were be-
ginning to be used, as some of our
European friends are trying to do with
the terms liberal and iiberaiist. Nev-
ertheless, what Clemens defends un-
der these terms is held by Catholics
to-day in the same sense in which
he defends it There never was an
African form of Christianity distinct
from the Christianity either of Eu-
rope or Asia. The two great theo-
logians of Africa are St Cyprian
and St Augustine, both probably of
Roman, or, at least, of Italian ex-

i68

Professor Drapcf^s Bo&ks,

traction. The doctrine which St
Cyprian is said to have maintained
on baptism administered by heretics,
the only matter on which he differ-
ed from Rome, has never been, and
is not now, the doctrine of the
church. St. Augustine was convert-
ed in Milan, and had St. Ambrose,
a Roman, for his master, and differ-
ed from the theologians either of the
East or the West only in the un-
matched ability and science with
which he defended the faith common
to all He may have had some pe-
culiar notions on some points, but
if so, these have never been received
as Catholic doctrine.

The professor might as well assert
the distinction, asserted in Germa-
ny a few years since, which attract-
ed some attention at the time, but
now forgotten, between the Petrinc
gospel, the Pauline gospel, and the
Joannine gospel, as the distinction of
the three primitive forms of Chris-
tianity which he asserts. We were
told by some learned German* we
forget his name, that Peter, Paul,
and John represent three different
phases or successive forms of Chris-
tianity. The Petrine gospel repre-
sents religion, based on authorit)'' ; the
Pauline, religion as based on intelli-
gence ; and the Joannine, religion as
based on love. The first was the so-
called Catholic or Roman Church.
The reformation made an end of
that, and ushered in the Pauline form,
or Protestantism, the religion of the
intellect. Philosophy, science, Bib-
lical criticism, and exegesis, the
growth of liberal ideas, and the de-
velopment of ihc sentiments and af-
fections of the heart, have made an
end of Protestantism, and are usher-
ing in the Joannine gospel, the re-
ligion of love, which is never to be
supenjeded or to pass away. The ad-
vocate of this theory had got beyond
authority and intelligence, whether

he had attained lo the rel
love or not ; yet the theory "
the revival of the well-knov
of the Eternal Evangel of
teenth century. So hard is it to ii
a new heresy. It were a wai
words to attempt to show thai
theory has not the slightest foi
tion in fact Paul and Jobs
authority as strenuously as I
Peter and John give as ivi^ \
the intellect as Paul ; and Pc
Paul agree with John in regai
love or charity. There is no
in the Gospel or Epistles of Jol
surpass the burning love rev^
we might almost say conceato
unostentatious is it, by the inflj
Epistles of Paul. As for Protei
ism., silence best becomes
there is speech of intelligenc
markable is it for its illog
un intellectual character. Pn
have their share of nativne inte
and the ordinarv* degree of ir
lence on many subjects ; but ii
science of theology* the basis c
the sciences, and witliout j
there is, and can be, no real M
they have never yet excelled. "
Nor did the reformation ptj
end to the so-called Petrine
pel, the religion of authority
church founded on Peter, prim
the apostles. It may be that
testantism is losing what lillle
lectual character it once had»
developing in a vague philonth
a watery sentimentality, or a 1
fanaticism, sometimes called
thodism, sometimes Evangelical
but Peter still teaches and goi
in his successor. The Cat
Church has survived the attacl
the reformation and the later
Union, as she survived the attad
the persecuting Jews and pa|
and the power and craft of civ
rants who sought to destroyer i
slave her, and is to-day tlie od

Professor Draper^ s Books.

169

jon that advances by personal con-
tion and conversion. Mohamme-
nism can no longer propagate it-
f even by the sword ; the varioirs
^n superstitions have reached
ir limits^ and are recoiling on
mselves; and Protestantism has
ned no accession of territory or
nbers since the death of Luther,
ept by colonization and the natu-
increase of the population then
rtestant. The Catholic Church is

only a living religion, but the
y living religion, the only religion
t does, or can, command the ho-
ge of science, reason, free thought,
I the uncorrupted affections of the
irt. The Catholic religion is at
:c light, freedom, and love — the
gion of authority, of the intellect,
I of the heart, embracing in its
issoluble unity Peter, Paul, and
m.

rhe professor's work on the in-
ectual development of Europe
ves that religion in some form

constituted a chief element in
t development. It always has
n, and still is, the chief element
he life of communities and na-
s, the spring and centre of intel-
lal activity and progress. Even
works before us revolve around
r owe their existence to their re-
>n to it, and would have no intel-
»le purpose without it. The au-

has written them to divest reli-
. of its supernatural character, to
ice it to a physiological law, and
rove that it originates in the ig-
ince of men and nations, and de-
ds solely on physical conditions,
;fly on climate and geographical
ition. But in this patriarchal,
rish, Christian religion there is
lething, and that of no slight in-
ance on the life of individuals and
tions, on universal humanity, that
il\y contradicts him, that is essen-
% one and the same from first to

last, superior to climate and geogra-
phical position, unaffected by natu*
ral causes, independent of physical
conditions, and in no sense subject
to physiological laws. This suffices
to refiite his theory, and that of the
positivists, of whom he is a distin-
guished disciple ; for it proves the
uniform presence and activity in the
life and development of men and
nations, ever since history began, of
a power, a being, or cause above na-
ture and independent of nature, and
therefore supernatural.

The theory that the rise, growth,
decay, and death of nations depend
on physical conditions alone, chiefly
on climate and geographical position,
seems to us attended with some grave
difficulties. Have the climate and
geographical positions of India, Per-
sia, Assyria, Egypt,Greece, and Rome,
essentially changed from what they
were at the epoch of their greatness ?
Did not all the great and renowned
nations of antiquity rise, grow, pros-
per, decline, and die, in substantially
the same physical conditions, under
the same climate, and in the same
geographical position ? Like causes
produce like effects. How could the
same physical causes cause alike the
rise and growth, and the decay and
death of one and the same people,
in one and the same climate, and in
one and the same geographical posi-
tion ? Do you say, climate and even
physical geography change wiih the
lapse of time } Be it so. Be it as
the author maintains, that formerly
there was no variation of climate on
this continent, from the equator to
either pole ; but was there for Rome
any appreciable change in the cli-
mate and geography from the time
of the third Punic war to that of Ho-
norius, or even of Augustulus, the
last of the Emperors? Or what
change in the physical conditions of
the nation was tiiere when it was

10L WIr Mft ast K^ooie

Aftl bb any pltygtctt chiifri i

thft VtntuMk A <te cp p ta e» « reUtive* it'
not a po»iliv^ dccrcikiie, of the AAlirt
pO|iiikck»^ and ite pliysicil nan ac>
tuaUjp dcfeneratii^ aid to an exieel

that shot! Id aJ.irm the stattfsman and
the patriot Do you cxpbia this
fact hy the changie in the ciimatc
and the gcogrnphical position ? The
gieographical position remains uo-

tmal

chaiigjed at all, it has been I
of amdioration. Do you atin
to a change in the physical
tkm of the country? Not
There is no mystery as to the s
and tho«igh the effects may b
steal or physiological, the caus
wtU known to be moral, and
them b the immoral iol
oC llbe doctrine the professor a
physiologists are doing
hesk ta diffuse among the p
The csutse is iu the loss of ret
fMlh, in the lack of moral aiM
poBS instruction, in the S|i
and the rejectic
grace — without
cannot be sustained in
the growth of luxur
of material goc
pleasures* as the cm
of lifc. There is always
■KxmUy «Tong where
to be ofiered to indue
lo many, and to indue
their childr^

^ alsov do we know the sec
the ijse, prosperity, decline,
of tlie lenowned nations
The Rofuans owed
of tlK world to their te
Ibftitudc, and n
fer fd%iaiia piinciple* all of
iQOffid carases f and they owed
dediDC and £dl to the toss of
Tkttie% lo their moral corruj
Tbe same may be said of all tl
Their religion,
or comparatively pure, in the c
becomes gradttally corrtipt, de
rates into a corrupt and com]
supcfstttjon^ which hangs as a f
ful AJ^tmarc on tlie breasts o
people^ destroying their moral
aed v^r. To this follows, w
class, scepticism, the denial of
or the gods, an Epicurean moi
and the worship of the sense^s.

Proftssor Dn^et^s Books.

171

s of all public spirit — ^public as
U as private virtue, and the na-
1 £dls of its own internal moral
)ecility and rottenness, as our own
ton, not yet a century old, is in a
way of doing, and most assuredly
1 do, if the atheistic philosophy
I morality of the physiologists or
itivists become much more widely
used than they are. The church
t be as unable, with all her super-
oral truth, grace, life, and strength,
save it, as she was to save the an-
Qt Graeco-Roman Empire, for to
e it would require a resurrection
the dead.

Fbe common sense of mankind,
all ages of the world, has uni-
nly attributed the downfall of na-
is, states, and empires, to moral
ises, not to physiological la^s,
oatic influences, or geographi-
position. The wicked shall be
led into hell, and all the nations
t forget God. Righteousness ex-
:th a nation, and sin is a reproach
any people. This is alike the
:e of inspiration and of universal
erience. The traveller who visits
sites of nations renowned in
y, now buried in ruins, of cities
e thronged with a teeming popu-
3n, the marts of the world, in
ch were heard, from morning till
It — ^till far into night — ^the din of
istry, and marks the solitude that
r reigns there ; the barren waste
: has succeeded to once fruitful
is and vineyards, and observes the
r shepherd that feeds a petty
k on the scanty pasturage, or the
led robber that watches for a vie-
to plunder, receives a far less
id impression of the dependence
nations on physical causes and
iditions, than of the influence of
' moral world on the natural, and
aids in legible characters the mean-
gof that fearful penalty which God
tOQounced, when he said to the

man: ''And the eaith for thy sake
shall be cursed." The physical
changes that have come over As-
syria, Syria, Lybia, Egypt, and Pales-
tine, are the effects of the moral de-
terioration of man, not the cause of
that deterioration.

The professor, after dilating almost
eloquently, and as a sage, on the
changeability, the transitoriness, the
evanescent nature of all the visible
forms of things, says : " If from visible
forms we turn to directing law, how
vast the difference I We pass from the
finite, the momentary, the inciden-
tal, the conditional, to the illimita-
ble, the eternal, the necessary, the
unshackled. It is of law I am to
speak in this book. In a world
composed of vanishing forms, I am
to vindicate the imperishability, the
majesty of law, and to show how man
proceeds in his social march in obe-
dience to it." (Ihid. p. 16.) This
sounds well ; but, unhappily, he has
told us that communities and na-
tions, like individuals, are under the
control of physical conditions, and
therefore of law. If therefore of
law, then under the law of physical
conditions, and consequently of a
physical or physiological law. He
dwells on the grandeur of this con-
ception, and challenges for it our
deepest admiration. But we see not
much to admire in a purely physical
law manifesting itself in ceaseless
instability, metamorphosis, and death.
Will the author forgive us, if we hint
that he possibly does not very well
understand himself, or know precise-
ly what it is that he says ? Hear him.
" I am to lead my reader, perhaps in a
reluctant path, from the outward phan-
tasmagorial illusions which surround
us and so ostentatiously obtrude
themselves on our attention, to some-
thing that lies in silence and strength
behind. I am to draw his thoughts
from the tangible to the invisible.

Professor Dmpei^s BmtT

from the limited to the universal,
from the changeable to the invaria-
ble, from the transitory to the eter-
nal ; from the expedients and voli-
tions so largely amustNgin the life of
man, to the predestined and resistless
issuing of law from the fiat of God."
{Il*id, p. i6, 17,) Very respectable
rhetoric, but what does it mean ? If
It means anything, it means that the
visible universe is unreal, an illusioHj
a phantasmagoria ; that nothing is
real, stable, permanent, but law,
which lies in silence and strengtii be-
hind the phantasmagoria, and that
this law producing the illusion, daz-
zling us with mere sense-shows, is
.identically God, from whose fiat the
r-phantasmagorial world issues. Is
not this grand ? is it not sublime ?
The scientific professor forgets that
he may find readers, who can per-
ceive through his rhetoric that he
makes law or God the reality of
things, instead of their creator or ma-
ker, simply their causa esscnthiht the
causa mmamrns of Spmoza, and there-
fore asserts nothing but a very vul-
gar form of pantheism, material pan-
theism, indistinguishable from naked
atheism ; for his doctrine recognizes
only the material, the sensible, and
by law he can mean only a physiolo-
gical law like that by which the hver
secretes bile, the blood circulates
through the heart, seeds germinate,
or plants bear fruit — a law which has
and can have no indivisible unit^^

If the professor means simply that
in the universe all proceeds according
to the law of cause and effect, be
should bear in mind that there are
mora! causes and effects as well as
physical, and supernatural as well
as natural ; but then he might find
himself in accord with theologians,
some of whom, perhaps, in his own
favorite sciences are able to be his
masters. It is not always safe to
measure the ignorance of others by

our own. No theologian d6!nl
every one asserts the law of
and efi*ect, precisely what no a
pantheist, or naturalist does c
none of them ever rise abon
the schools call musa essenHm
thing itself, that which, as w
makes the thing, makes it tttl
not another, or constitutes iW
ty. Every theologian believo
God is logical, logic in itsel
that all his works are dialetia
realize a divine plan, w^hich as a
and in all its parts is strictly and
ly logical If the professor 1
simply to assert not only that aJ
tures and all events are undi
control of the law of cause and
but also under the law of diaU
there need be no quarrel be
him and us ; but in such case^
had known a little theology, he
have spared himself and us a
deal of trouble, for we believe aj
ly in the universal reign of h
he or his Grace of Argylc* B
would have gained little credit fi
ginal genius, depth of thought
found science, or rare leamini
most likely would not have liv
see any one of his volumes re
fifth edition, ^

But wc must not be undersil
deny in the development of ni
or individuals all dependeno
physical conditions, or even q
mate and geographical pos
Man is neither pure spirit, nor
matter ; he is the union of sou
body, and can no more live wi
communion with nature, than hn
without communion with his
and with God. Hence he rec
the three great institutions of
gion, society, and property, whi<
some form, are found in all tj
nations, or civil communities,
without which no people ever do
can subsist. Climate and g^
phical iufiuences, no doubt

Pnfas&r Dro^et^s Bcais.

thing, for how much, science has
^tdetenninecL There is a differ-
in character between the inha-
s of mountains and the inhabit
of plains, the dwellers on the
ast and the dwellers inland,
le people of the north and the
: of the south; yet the Bas
is and the Irish have not lost per-
ly anything, in three thousand
of their original character as
hem people, though dwelling
t space of time, we know not
any centuries longer, far to the

Among the Irish you may
pes of northern races, some of
have overrun the Island as
rrors ; but amid all their politi-
I social vicissitudes, the Irish
etained, and still retain, their
m character. The English
iceived many accessions from
I and from the south, but they
, the great body of them, as
originally were, essentially a
n people, and hence the mark-
srence between the Irish cha-
ind the English, though inha-
rery nearly the same parallels
ude, and subject to much the
limatic and geographical influ-

The character of both the
I and the Irish is modified on
ntinent, but more by amalga-
, and by political and social in-
s, than by climate or geogra-
The Irish type is the most te-
, and is not unlikely in time
linate the Anglo-Saxon. It
reat power of absorption, and
lerican people may ultimately
;ir northern type, and assume
racteristics of a southern race,
: of the constant influx of the
ic element What we object to
giving something to physical

and conditions, but making
^elusive, and thus rejecting
causes, and reducing man and
to an inexorable fatalism.

In the several volumes of the pro-
fessor, except the first named, we are
able to detect neither the philosophi-
cal historian nor the man of real sci-
ence. The respectable author has
neither logic nor exact, or even ex-
tensive, learning, and the only thing
to be admired in him, except his style,
is the sublime confidence in himself
with which he undertakes to dis-
cuss and settle questions, of which,
for the most part, he knows nothing,
and perhaps the subluner confidence
with which he follows masters that
know as little as himself.

We own we have treated Professor
Draper's work with very little re-
spect, for we have felt very little.
His InUUeetual Development of Eu-
rope is full of crudities from begin-
ning to end, and for the most part
below criticism, or would be were it
not that it is levelled at all the prin-
ciples of individual and social life
and progress.' The book belongs to
the age of Leucippus and Democri-
tus, and ignores^ if we may use an ex-
pressive term, though hardly English,
Christian civilization and all the
progress men and nations have effect-
ed since the opening of the Christian
era. It is a monument not of sci-
ence, but of gross ignorance.

Yet in our remarks we have criti-
cised the class to which the author be-
longs, rather than the author himself.
Men of real science are modest, re-
verential, and we honor them, what-
ever the department of nature to
which they devote their studies. We
delight to sit at their feet and drink
in instruction from their lips; but
when men, because they are passable
chemists, know something of human
physiology, or the natural history of
fishes, undertake to propagate theo-
ries on God, man, and nature, that
violate the most sacred traditions of
the race, deny the Gospel, reduce
the universe to matter, and place man

T74

MafTting at Spring Park,

on a level with the brute, theories,
too» which are utterly baseless, we
cannot reverence them, or listen to

them with patience, however grto

their elocution or charming tf
rhetoric.

MORNING AT SPRING PARK.

Along the upland swell and wooded lawn
The aged fanner's voice is heard at dawn :
That well-known call across the d^\\y vale
Calls Spark and Daisy to the milking-pail

The robin chirps ; from farm to farm I hear
The bugle-note of wakeful chanticleer j
And far, far off, through grove and bosky dell.
The dreamy tinkle of sleek Snowflake's bell.

The huddling sheep, just loose from kindly fold,
Their nibbling way along the hill-side hold ;
And timid squirrels and shy quails are seen
Flitting, unscared, across the shaded green*

The low horizon's dusky, violet blue
Is tinged with coming daylight's rosy hue,
Till o'er the golden fields of tasselled corn
Breaks all Uie rapture of the summer mom.

Through forest rifts the level sunbeams dart.

And gloomy nooks to sudden beauty start ;

Those long, still lines which through rank foliage steal*

Undreamed-of charms among Uie woods reveal.

The yellow wheat-stooks catch the early li^'
Far-nested homesteads gleam at once to si_
While, from yon glimmering height, one spire serene
Points duly heavenward this terrestrial scene.

Ix>ng may the aged farmer*s call be heard,
At dewy dawn, with song of matin bird,
Among his loving tlocks and herds oi kine,
A guileless master, watchful and benign.

And, when no more his agile footstep roves
These flowery pastures and these pleasant groves,
Good Shepherd, may thy call to fields more fair
Wean every thought ^ora earth, make heaven his cans 1

NMU Netterviits.

ITS

E NETTERVILLE ; OR, ONE OF THE TRANSPLANTED.

CHAPTER III.

sun of the Nettenrflle's glory 1
the dust its bright banners are trailing I
OUT anguish we whisper the story,
1, as they listen, like women are wailing.

:o us— woe I we shall see him no more ;
i like the rains of November are flowing ;
to as — ^woe ! for the diief we deplore
his exile of sorrow is goiqg.

t alone I for our dastardly foemen—

IS base in the day of their power—

d their hands against maidens and

:n :

1 the tree, and then trampled the flower.

:y have sent Aer to mep by strange

•f our hearts and the light of om-
and &iirest of Netternlle's daughtecs,
the last link of their destiny Uck

mother, thy waking to-morrow 1
o weep o*er thy dove-rifled nest ;
nd childless— two-fold is thy sorrow,
edged the sword that is lodged in thy

e mourn her— when we too deplore her—
lis and ser& of thy conquering race ;
old but do it, our Uood should restore

kcr to thee and thy loving embrace.

her only, or thee, are we weeping ;

for our country, £ast bound in that chain

ood from her wrung heart the foeman is

ing,

•ks as if reddened and rusted by rain.

(hall a leader to true hearts be given,
I the stranger and force him to flee ?
iiall the shackles that bind her be riven?
stand up in her strength, and be free I"

g Hamish, the son of the
: long line of minstrels who,
and voice, had recorded the
of the house of Netterville,
id over the death or sorrow
ftains. For, in spite of the
ich it was strictly forbidden,
ih of the Pale had persisted
tional qiistom of keeping a
ninstrel — whose office was
r almost always, hereditary
d to their households ; and
ny days of power the family
ville was far too jealous of

its own importance not to have been
always provided with a similar appen-
dage. Its last recognized minstrel
had fallen, however, in the same battle
which had deprived Nellie of her
father, and, Ilamish being then too
young to take up his father's office,
the harp had ever since, literally as
well as figuratively, hung mute and
unstrung in the halls of Netterville.
But grief and indignation over its ut-
ter ruin had unlocked at last the tide
of poetry and song, ever ready to flow
over in the Celtic breast, and Hamish
felt hunself changed into a bard upon
the spot Forgetting the presence of
the English soldiers, or, more proba-
bly, exulting in the knowledge that
they did not understand the language
in which he gave expression to his
feelings, he stepped out into the midst
of the people, pouring forth his la-
mentations, stanza after stanza, with
all the readiness and fire of a bom
improvisatore ; and when at last he
paused, more for want of breath than
want of matter, the keeners took up
the tale, and told, in their wild, wailing
chant, of the goodness and greatness,
the glory and honour of their depart-
ed chieftain and his heiress, precisely
as they would have done had the
twain over whom they were lamenting
been that very day deposited in their
graves. Up to this moment Mrs.
Netterville had preserved in a mar-
vellous degree that statue-like calm-
ness of outward bearing which hid,
and even at times belied, the work-
ings of a heart full of generous emo-
tions ; but the wild wailing of the
keeners broke down the artificial re-
straint she had put upon her conduct,
and, unable to listen quietly to what
seemed to her ears a positive pro-

phecy of death to her beloved ones,
she hastily reentered the house and
retreated to her own apartment This
was a small, dark chamber, which in
happier limes had been set apart as
a quiet retreat for prayer and house*
hold purposes, but which now was the
only one the mistress of the ntansion
could call her own — ^the soldiers hav-
ing that ver>' morning taken posses*
sion of all the others, devoting some
of Ihem to their own particular
accommodation and locking up the
others, It was, in fact, as a very
singular and especial favour, and as
some return for the kindness she had
shown in nursing one of their num-
ber who had been taken suddenly ill
on the night of their arrival, that the
use even of this small chamber had
been allowed her j for it was not the
custom of CromweH's army to deal
too gently by the vanquished, and
many of the "transplanted/' as high-
born and well-educated as she was,
had been compelled, in similar cir-
cumstances, to retire to the outer of-
fices of their own abode, while the
rough soldiery who displaced them
installed themselves in the luxurious
apartments of the interior.

Hidden from all curious eyes in
this dark retreat, Mrs. Netterville
yielded at last to the cry of her weak
iiuman heart, and, flinging herself
face downward on the floor, gave
way to a passion of grief which was
all the more terrible that it was ab-
solutely tearless. One or tw o of the
few remaining women of the house-
hold, knowing how fearfully her soul^
in spite of all outward show of calm-
ness, must be wrung, tapped occa-
sionally at the door ; but eitlier she
did not hear or did not choose to
answer, and they dared not enter
without permission.

At last one of them went to Ha*
inish, feeling instinctively that, if any
one could venture to intrude unbid*

e an

den, it would be the foster-
Nellie, and said :

"The mistress, God he
just drowned with the
won*t even answer when
Hamish, a-bouchal^ could n^
nage to go in, just by accj
and say something or oth*
turn to her thoughts?''

"Give a turn to her
said Hamish crustily; **g
to her thoughts, do you
certie, but you take it easy
the woman lost husband
to say nothing of the old
was all as one to her as h
ther ? and isn't she going,
to be turned out of house
and sent adrift upon the wi
and you talk of giving a
thoughts, as if it was the
she was troubled with or
had stung her ?"

" As you please, Mr. Hoii
said the girl angrily ; ** I only
that, as you were a bit of a
on account of our young i
you might have ventured oj
berty. Not having set up
line myself, I cannot, of CO
tempt to meddle in the mall

But though Hamish had
roughly, his heart was very
all that, over the sorrows of i
ly mistress.

He waited until Cathie
vanished in a huff, and the
quietly to the sludy-door. 1
softly for admission.

But Mrs. Netterville g
sign, and, after knocking
three times in vain, he ope
door gently and looked h
room was naturally a glooi
being panelled in black oa
Hamish felt as if it never f^i
looked before so gloomy as it
moment Half study, half
as it was. Mrs. Netterville hi
here many a long hour of loi

Nellie Netterville.

177

impassioned prayer, what time her
husband and her father-in-law were
fighting the battles of their royal
and most ungrateful master. A tall
cnicifix, carved, like the rest of the
furniture, in black oak, stood, there-
fore, on a sort oi prU-dicu at the far-
ther end of the room, and nSar it
was a table arranged in desk-fashion,
at which she had been in the habit
of transacting the business of her
household.

Room and pnenlieu^ crucifix and
table, Hamish had th^m all by heart
already.

Here in his baby days he had
been used to come, when he and his
little foster-sister were wearied with
their own play, to sit at the feet of
Mrs. Netterville and listen to the
tales which she invented for their
amusement. Here, as time went on,
separating Nellie outwardly from his
society, yet leaving her as near to
ium in heart as ever, he had been
wont to bring his morning offerings
of fish from the running stream, or
bunches of purple heather from the
rock. Here he had come for news
of the war, and of the master, on
that very day which brought tidings
of his death ; and here, too, even
^ile he tried to comfort Nellie, who
^ad flung herself down in her child-
kh misery just on the spot where
^er mother lay prostrate now, he
kad wondered, and, young as he
'^ had in part, at least, compre-
«^ended the marvellous self-forgetfuf-
*iess of Mrs. Netterville, who, in the
^dst of her own bereavement, had
yet found heart and voice to comfort
^r aged father-in-law and her child,
^ if the blow which had struck
^hem down had not fallen with three-
^Id force on her own head. In the
^rkness of the room and the confu-
sion of his own thoughts, he did not,
*wwever, at first perceive Mrs. Net-
terville in her lowly posture, and
VOU VII. — 12

glanced instinctively toward the prie-
dieu^ where he had so often before
seen her take refuge in the hour of
trial.

But she was not there, and a thrill
of terror ran through his frame when
he at last discovered her, face down-
ward, on the floor, her widow's coif
flung far away, and her long locks,
streaked — by the hand of grief, not
time — abundantly with gray, stream-
ing round her in a disorder which
struck Hamish all the more forcibly,
that it was in such direct contrast
to the natural habits of order and
propriety she had brought with her
from her English home. There she
lay, not weeping — such misery as
hers knows nothing of the relief of
tears — ^not weeping, but crushed and
powerless, as if her very body had
proved unequal to the weight of sor-
row put upon it, and had fallen be-
neath the burthen. She seemed,
indeed, not in a swoon, but stunned
and stupefied, and quite unconscious
that she was not alone. Hamish
trembled for her intellect ; but young
as he was, he was used to sorrow, and
understood both the danger and the
remedy.

His lady must be roused at any
cost, even at that the very thought
of which made him tremble, the re-
calling her to a full knowledge of her
misery. He advanced farther into
the room, moving softly, in his great
reverence for her desolation, as we
move, almost unconsciously to our-
selves, in the presence of the dead,
and occupied himself for a few min-
utes in arranging the loose papers on
her desk, and the flowers which Nel-
lie had placed upon the prie dieu
only a day or two before. They
were faded now — faded as the poor
child's fortunes — ^but instead of throw-
ing them away, he poured fresh water
into the vase which held them, as if
that could have restored their beauty.

178

Nellie Nettcfvillc.

Yet he sighed heavily as he did so
for the thought would flash across his
mind that, whether he sought to give,
back life to a withered flower, or joy-
to the heart of a bereaved mother, in
either case his task was hopeless,
Mrs, Netterville took no notice of
his proceedings, though, as he began
to get used to the situation, he pur-
posely made rather more bustle than
was needed, in hopes of arousing her.
At last, in despair of succeeding by
milder methods, he let fall a hea\7
inkstand, smashing it into a thousand
pieces, and scattering the ink in all
directions, an event that in happier
times would certainly not have passed
unreproved. But now she lay with-
in a few inches of tJie inky stream, as
heedless as though she were dead in
earnest ; and, hopeless of recalling her
to consciousness by anything short
of a personal appeal, he knelt down
beside her and tapped her shaqily on
the shoulder, half wondering at his
own temerity as he did so. She
shuddered as if, light as the touch
had been, it yet had hurt her, and
muttered impatiently, and like one
half asleep :

** Not now, Hamish I not now ! —
leave me for the present, I entreat
you!"

" And why not now ?*' Hamish
answered almost roughly, " Do you
think you only have a cause for griev-
ing ? Tell me, my mistress, if we,
humble as we arc, and not to be
thought of in comparison witli your
ladyship's honor, if we have not
lost^ — are losing nothing? Ah! if
you could but hear the weeping and
wailing that is going on among the
creatures down-stairs, you would never
<lo us such a wrong as to suppose
that your heart is the only one sore
and bleeding to-day !**

^* Sore and bleeding ! Yes I yes I
T doubt it not," moaned the lady
sadly. *^Sore and bleeding; but

not widowed — not childleafl
have still husbands and chi
they have not lost as I have 1

"They have lost — not, n
quite so much, but yet enou|
more than enough, to set the
ing," answered Hamish %
" they have lost a master, m
more like a fatlier than a mas
a young mistress, who was all
as a daughter to every one of
and moreover,*' he added mot
— ** and moreover, instead
kind hand and generous hea
has reigned over them till no
are going to be handed over
they were so many stocks or
encumbering the land,) wheth
like it or whether they don't,
tender mercies of those vd
who thought it neither sin nor
to make the child a shield
the soldier's sword, when they
knee-deep in blood at the si
Tredagh !*' A

" Why do you say thes^
Hamish ?*' she almost shrie
her anguish. " Is it my fault ?
1 help it ? or why do you re
me with it ?*'

•* Your fault I No, indc
not. Morels the pit}*^ ; i^
could have helped it, to a '
tainty it never would havi
pcned," said Hamish, glad^
had roused her, even if onq
of anger, ** But though you
prevent these things, my m
you can at al! events comft
creatures that have to bear th
showing that you have fecHt
their sorrows as well as ft
own.'* 1

** I give comfort ! God bl
I give comfort 1" she answe]q|
a sort of passionate irotijH
manner ; adding, however,
diateiy afterward, in a soflei
** How can I give comfort, I-
— ^I who need it so entirely

ii re

ircty m

NeUie NettervilU.

179

"That is the very thing," cried
Hamish eagerly. "God love you,
madam I Do you not see that the
only real comfort you could give
them would be the blowing them to
tiy at least and comfort you ?"

''Bid them pray, then, for the safe
joomey of my loved ones," she an-
wcred hoarsely — ^"that is the only
real comfort they can give me."

"And why, then, couldn't we pray
afl together ?" cried Hamish, struck
soddcnly by a bright idea. "Why
looldn't you let diem come up here,
madam ? I warrant you they would
pny as the best of them never pray-
ed before, if they only seen your lady-
siiip's honor kneeling and praying in
dK midst of them."

"I— I cannot pray — I cannot even
dankj'' she answered, laying her
iMiad once more on her folded arras,
fte a weary or a chidden child. " Go
yoa, good Hamish, and pray yourself
with them down-stairs."

"In the kitchen, is it?" said Ha-
mish, with a considerable portion of
irony in his voice. " Faix, my lady,
«nd it's queer thoughts we'd have,
Jod queer prayers we would be say-
ing there, with the pot forenent us,
fcoiling on the fire, and Cromwell's
I Nack rogues of troopers coming and
|Oing, and flinging curses and scraps
of Scriptures (according to their
osuaJ custom) in equal measure at
our heads. No ! no I my lady,"
he continued vehemently, "if you
would have us pray at all, it must be
here — here where the cross will mind
us of a Mother who once stood at its
foot» and who was even more deso-
late than you are ; a Mother silent
and heart-broken — ^not because her
Child had gone before her into exile,
from whence He might any day re-
turn, but because she saw Him dying
— <iying in the midst of tortures —
and forsaken so entirely that it
Bugfat well have seemed to her (only

she knew that never could be) as if
God as well as man had utterly aban-
doned Him."

" You are right, Hamish ; you are
right," cried Mrs. Netterville sud-
denly, touched to the quick by his
voice and eloquence. "Go you
down at once, good Hamish, and
bid them come here directly. I
shall be ready by the time they are
assembled."

As Mrs. Netterville spoke thus,
she rose from the floor, and then, all
at once perceiving the strange disor-
der of her attire, she began hastily
to gather up her tresses, previous to
placing her widow's coif upon them.

Hamish waited to hear no more,
but instantly left the room to do her
bidding. As he walked rapidly to-
ward the lower part of the mansion,
he drew a long sigh of relief, like
one who has just got rid of a heavy
burden, as in truth he had ; for he
felt that he had gained his point,
and that whatever his mistress might
have yet to suffer, she was safe, at all
events, from the effects of that first
great shock of sorrow which had
threatened to overturn her intellect.

When he returned to announce
that the household was assembled
and waiting for her further orders
he found her kneeling at the prie-
dieu^ in all the grave composure of
her usual manner. She did not trust
herself, however, to look round, but
merely signed to him that they should
come in ; and the instant the noise
and bustle of their first entrance had
subsided, she commenced reading
from her open missal.

But the very sound of her own
voice in supplicatory accents seemed
to break the spell which had hither-
to been laid upon her faculties. She
fairly broke down and burst into a
flood of tears. This was more than
enough for the excitable hearts
around her, and the room was filled

in a moment with the wailing of her
people. Hamish was in despair ;
and yet, perhaps, no other mode of
proceeding could have done so much
toward calming her as did this sud-
den outburst ; for Mrs. Netter\'illc
had a true Englishwoman's aversion
to "scenes," however real and na-
tural to the circumstances of the case
tliey might be. She instantly check-
ed her tears, and waiting quietly un-
til the storm of grief had in some de-
gree died out, she collected all her
energies, and read in a low, steady
voice the prayer or collect for those
travelling by land or sea, as she
found it in her missal. A few other
short but earnest prayers succeeded,
and then she paused once more.
Her audience took the hint and
quietly retired. Hamish was about
to follow, but she rose from the pric-
dieu^ and signed to him to remain.

'* Hamish," she said, gently but
decidedly, " I have done your bid-
ding, and now I expect that you wili
do mine. I wish to be alone for the
rest of the day — do you understand ?
alone with God and my great sor-
row ! To-morrow I will begin the
work for which I have been left here,
but to-day must be my own. Come
not here yourself, and look to it that
no one else disturbs me. Keep a
heedful watch upon the soldiers, and
see that no mischance occurs be-
tween them and any of our people,
I trust to you for this and all things.
Now leave me. If I have need of
anything, I will let you know."

There was that in Mrs* Netter-
%'ille*s tone and manner which made
Hamish feel he had gone quite far
enough already ; so, without another
word of remonstrance or expostula*
lion, he made his reverence and re-
tired.

Mrs. Netterviixe wa8
the echo of his retreating fee
had died away in the corrido
tJien fastening the door so as
cure herself from any further
ruption from the outside, sht
more fell on her knees befoi
crucifix, and buried her face ii
her hands. How long she id
thus she neter knew exacflP
the shades of a short January ei
were already gathering in the
when, with a start and a look
her conscience smote her, sh^
suddenly from her knees* " i
pardon mc !'*she muttered half.
" that, in my own selfish sorrc
have forgotten others I Poor wi
By this time he must be we!
famished, if, indeed, (though I
it will not,) the delay has notH
him deeper mischief."

As these thoughts passed r
through her mind, she opened \
board close at hand, and drem
thence a bottle of wine, with
other articles of delicate food^
ed carefully in a wicker-baskel
evidently left there for some es
purpose. She then sought th
the gloom for a cloak, whtc
threw upon her shoulders,
drawing the h(X>d down ove
face, and taking the basket q
arm, she hastily left the room,
however, by the door through
Hamish and the sen'ants had t\
ed, but by another at theopposil
and which was almost invisil
consequence of its forming <
the panels in the black oak waj
ingof the chamber. It led her <
ly by a short stone passage
other door or low wicket^ on o^
which she found herself in tl
vate grounds of the castle,
her at no great distance, stc
old ivy-covered church, half J

Nellie NettervilU.

i8l

in a group of tall Irish trees, which
sheltered its little cemetery. This was
not the parish church, but a private
chapel, built by the Netterville fami-
ly for their own particular use ; and
here their infants had been baptized,
their daughters married, and their
old men and women laid reverently
to their last slumbers, ever since
tlieyhad established their existence
io the land.

Mrs. Netterville could not resist a
s^ as she glanced toward its vene-
rable walls. It seemed as if it were
only yesterday that she had gone there
to lay down her husband in his low-
ly grave, hoping and praying, out of
the depths of her own great grief,
titatshe might soon be permitted to
sleep quietly beside him. And now,
even this sad hope was to be hers
Bobnger ; this poor possession of six
feet of earth was to be wrested from
lier; strangers would lay her in a dis-
tant grave, and even in death she
voold be separated from her husband.
The thought was too painful to bear
omch lingering upon it, and turning
lier back upon the church, Mrs. Net-
terville followed a path which lay
I close under the castle walls, and led
[ to a court-yard at a considerable dis-
tance. Round this court-yard were
grouped stables and other offices,
which, having been built at different
periods and without any consecutive
idea as a whole, presented rather the
appearance of a collection of stunted
£urin4iouses, than of the regular out-
buildings of an important mansion.

Each of these houses had a private
entrance of its own; and opening the
ioor of one of them, Mrs. Netterville
looked in quietly and entered. The
hterior was a room, poorly but yet
iecently furnished, and on a low set-
le-bed at the farther end lay a young
nan, who, with his sunken eyes and
lollow cheeks, had all the look of a
xrson just rescued from the jaws of

death. A knapsack on the floor, a
pike and musket in one comer of the
room, and a steel cap and buff coat
in another, seemed to announce him
as one of the band of successful sol-
diers who were even then in posses-
sion of the castle.

Poor fellow! he lay, with closed
eyes, wan and weary, on his bed, look-
ing, at that moment, like any tiling
rather than like a successful soldier ;
but he lifted his head as he caught
the noise of the door creaking on its
hinges, and his face brightened into
an expression of joy and gratitude
pleasant to behold when he discover-
ed Mrs. Netterville standing on the
threshold.

"Can you ever forgive me ?" she said,
going up to him at once. "I cannot
easily forgive myself for having left
you so long alone. In the grief and
anguish in which I have been plunged
all day, I had well-nigh forgotten your
existence, and you must be faint, I
fear me, for want of nourishment."

" Nay, madam," he answered, gen-
tly, indeed, but yet with a good deal
of that comfortable self-assurance
in spiritual matters which seems to
have been an especial inheritance of
"Cromweirs saints." ^^ If you have
forgotten, the Lord at least hath been
mindful of his servant, and hath cast
so deep a slumber on my senses, that
I have been altogether unconscious
of the lapse of time, or of the absence
of those carnal comforts which, how-
ever the spirit may rebel against them,
are nevertheless not altogether to be
despised, as being the means by which
we receive strength to do the bidding
of our Master."

Mrs. Netterville could not help
thinking that the posset-cup and
soothing draught, which she had ad-
ministered the night before, might
have had as much as any especial in-
terposition of Providence to say to
his seasonable slumbers; but the

I 82

Nellie N'ettervillc.

times were too much out of joint to
permit of her making, however reve-
rently, such an observ^ation, so she
merely touched his brow and hand,
and said :

•* I am right glad, at all events, that
you seem in nowise to have suffered
from my neglect. Eat now and drink,
I pray you ; for I perceive by this
refreshing moisture on your skin that
all danger has passed away, and that
you need at present no worse physic
than good food and wine to restore
you to your former strength/*

*'Nay, madam,'* said the soldier,
with great and hardly repressed feel-
ing in his voice and manner. **Eat
or drink I cannot, or in any way re-
fresh myself, until I have poured forth
my song of gratitude, first to the Lord
of hosts, who hath delivered me from
this great danger, and then to you,
who have tended me (even as the
widow of Sarepla might have waited
on Elias) through the perils of a sick-
ness from which my very comrades
and fellow-laborers in the vineyard
fled, trembling and afraid,'*

"You must pardon them, good
Jackson/' said Mrs. Netterville, "and
all the more readily, because this dis-
ease, from which you have so marvel-
lously recovered, is, men say, in its
rapid progress and almost sure mor-
tality, akin, if not indeed wholly simi-
lar, to tliat terrible malady the pLigue,
which is the scourge of the Easteni
nations, and leaves crowded cities,
once it has entered in, as silent and
deserted as the sepulchres of the
dead. You cannot therefore wonder,
and you need not feel aggrieved, if
men who would have risked their lives
or you on the battle-field, yet shrunk
rom its unseen, and therefore, to poor
human nature, its mof« awful dan-
gers.

" Nay, madam, I blame them not ;
perhaps even in their place I should
have done the same. Nevertheless

— and though I have no
toward them — I cannot foig
you, a Popish woman and an
have done that for me which t
children of my own househol
shrunk from doing, and I woi
show my gratitude if I could.*'

" You can show it, and iha
easily, if you will,'" she an
kindly, '* by eating and drinktt
tily of the provisions I have b
and so regaining strenglJi to i
the sooner on yourself. For
soon, as you doubtless know j
have work in hand which will
me to make my visits fewe
yet I shall not like to risk o\
by sending any of the hoi
wait on you in my stead."

**Alas ! madam, I fear I ha^
but a troublesome and unpn
though not altogether, I do
you, a thankless guest." th
answered, in a somewhai
deprecatory manner.

*' Nay ; but now you m
altogether," she answered ea
" You have been a most pati
ferer, and that trouble — whic
together unavoidable in any s
— has been, you may believe
pleasure rather than an uneas
mc. I only meant to say that,
I shall still continue to vi
morning and evening, I shall
able to come so often in the <
as I have been used to do ;
matters in this sad affair of tlj
plantation having fallen ir
hands, you may well imagine
mudi or more than one poor
can well accomplish by her o
aided efforts."

** Would that I could aid y
answered fervently — ** would
could comfort you 1 But, s
this matter of the transplant
can do naught, seeing that ii
Lord himself who hath girdet
swords, bidding us to smite

c o^

Nellie NettervilU.

183

not Nevertheless, lady, I am not
ungratefbl, and in the long, sleepless
ni^ts of my weary malady I have
wrestled for you in prayer, striving
exceedingly and being much exer-
cised on your account ; nor gave I
over until I had received the com-
fortable assurance that, as the Lord
sent angels to Lot to deliver him out
of Sodom, so he would some day
make of me a shield and a defence,
thereby you might be snatched from
the woes that he is about to rain
down on this land, because ' the cry
of its idolatry is waxen great before
his fece,' and he hath sworn to des-
troy it."

"Well, well !" she answered a little
impatiently, " I thank you for your
good-will, at all events ; but for the
Ittscnt we will discourse no further
00 this matter. God will one day
jndge between us, and by his fiat I
an content to stand or fall, in all
those matters of religion on which, un-
happily, we differ. See, I have trim-
med the lamp so that it will burn
brightly until morning, and there is
food and wine on this little table. I
^U put it close to the bed, so that
then you need nourishment, you will
have but to put forth your hand to
take it And now I must say good-
oigfat — to-morrow I will be with you
fcjr the early dawn."

Having thus done all that either
charity or hospitality could ask at her
bands, Mrs. Netterville retired from
fte room, sooner, probably, than she
^foald have done if the soldier's last
^wds had not grated on her ear, and
itwised more angry passions than she
wished to yield to in her breast.

" He has a good heart, poor
wretch," she thought, as she took her
Way back to the castle ; " but strange
and fearful is it to see how pride, in
Urn, as in all his comrades, usurps
the place of true humility and reli-
gioiL"

The sudden sound of a pistol going
off disturbed her in the midst of her
cogitations ; and with a pang of in-
describable fear and presentiment of
evil at her heart, she stood still. It
seemed to come from the grove of
yew-trees round the church, and was
not repeated. Having ascertained
this fact, she walked rapidly forward
in the direction of the sound, her
mind in a perfect whirl of fear, and
only able to shape itself into the one
thought, pregnant of future evil, that,
either by some of her own people, or
by one of the English soldiers, a mur-
der had been committed. Just as she
entered the grove of yew-trees, she
perceived something like the loose
garb of a woman fluttering down the
path before her, and then suddenly
disappearing behind the tower of the
little church. She did not dare to
call out \ but feeling certain that this
person must either have fired the shot
herself, or have seen it fired by some
one else, she quickened her pace in
order to overtake her. Twilight was
already deepening among the yew-
trees ; the path, moreover, was over-
grown with weeds and brambles, and
as she ran with her eyes fixed on the
spot where the figure had disappear-
ed, she felt herself suddenly tripped
up by some object lying right before
her, and fell heavily against it. At
the first touch of that unseen some-
thing, a sense of terror, such as ani-
mals are said to be conscious of in
the presence of their own dead, seized
upon her senses, and all the blood
was curdling in her veins as slowly
and with difficulty she removed her-
self from its contact. Gradually, as
she recovered from the stunning ef-
fects of her fall, and her eyes grew
accustomed to the gloom around her,
the "thing" on the ground shaped
itself inio the form of a human being
— but of a human being so still and
motionless, that it seemed probable

r84

Nellie NcttervilU,

it was a corpse al ready. Very reluct-
antly she put forth her hand to try if
life were really extinct ; but suddenly
discovering that she was dabbling it
in a pool of yet warm blood, she with-
drew it with a shudder,

" My God ! my God !" she moan-
ed, ** what enemy hath done this ?
Surely it is one of the soldiers from
the casde, and they will accuse
our people of the murder I Grant
Heaven, indeed, that they are inno-
cent ! Would that Hamish were
here to help me. Vet no ! they
would certainly in that case try to
fix the guilt on him, I will go hence
and let them discover it as they can.
Vet what if I should meet them ? I
am ail dabbled in his gore V*

With a new and sharp terror in
her heart, as this thought took pos-
session of it, she began hastily to rub
her hands in the moss and dry^ leaves
around her, in order to free them
from the blood which clung to them ;
and she was still engaged in this
rather equivocal occupation when a
sudden stream of light was cast on
'her from behind, and. rising sudden-
ly, she found herself face to face with
the officer who had been left in com-
mand of the garrison of the castle.

Half-a-dozen of his men were at
his back» and by the light of the lan-
tern, which he carried, she read in
their faces their conviction of her
guilt. At a sign from their chief
they surrounded her in awful silence,
and he himself laid his hand heavily
on her shoulder :

*' Murderess )*' he said, "thou art
taken in thy sin !"

" I did it not,'* cried Mrs. Netter-
ville, so utterly confounded by this
terrible accusation that she hardly
knew what she said, " So help me
Heaven! I am innocent of this
deed !*'

** Innocent 1 sayest thou ?" tlie of-
ficer answered firmly. ** Innocent I

thou with his blood red upo
hands ! Yea, and thy very gar
clotted in his gore ! If then th
innocent, as thou wouldst have
believe, say what wert thou dc
this lonely spot at an hour
none but the murderer or thM
would care to be abroad ?" fl

**I was returning from a vi
the soldier Jackson — a visit wh
thou knowest, Master Rippel,
him ever)^ evening at the he
dusk ; and I had well-nigh «
the castle, when hearing a shot I
direction, and fearing miscliief
for my own people or for th
came hither if possible to preve

**A likely story, truly !"• r
the officer, who, unluckily few
was one of the fiercest, if nc
saintliest, of the band of wi
then domiciled at the castle* •
woman, and for thine own sake
thy peace, or out of thine own 1
thou shalt stand presently con<
ed. P'or tell me, my masterfl
added, addressing the other
" where will you find a woman,
hearing a shot, and dreading
cliief, would not have fied froi
danger, instead of incontinently
ing, as she wouJd have us to b
she did, into its very jaws?**

** Yet have I rushed into the
of danger more than once al
within this fortnight, and that n
the sake of my owi people h
thine ; as none ought to know 1
than thou, Master Rippel, an"
comrades," Mrs. Netterville,
fairly put upon her mettle, ret
bravely.

" Nay, and that is naught bi
very tnith, though the fatlier o
(which is Beelzebub) himself
said it," one of the men here v<
ed to remark. ** For surely, Oi
Rippel, you cannot have foi^g
that we should have had a m
the less in the camp of Is

IS|^

NeUie NetterviUe.

I8S

^^<I not nursed the good youth Jack-
son through this black business of
^fec plague, when we, even we, men
^-xiointed and girded to the fight, did
b^itate to go near him."

"Ha ! Dost thou also venture to
defend her?" cried the officer angri-
ly, "Nay, then, let that woman
^wrliich is called Deborah be brought
forward and confronted with the pri-
soner. Her testimony must decide
l3«tween us."

One or two of the soldiers who had
t>een lingering at a little distance in
ttut dusky twilight now advanced.
Half pushing before them, half lead-
ing, the very woman who had ad-
dressed Nellie so impudently in the
morning. She came forward with
a strange mixture of eagerness and
reluctance in her manner ; willing
enough, it might be, to bear false
testimony against her neighbor, but
very unwilling to be confronted with
its object

They placed her face to face with
Mrs. NetterviUe, and the captain
turned his lantern so that the light
feu full on the features of the latter.
THey were cold and calm, and al-
•^lost disdainfiil in their expression,
'^ow that she knew who was her ac-
^^iser ; and Deborah, spite of all her
^fibrts to brazen out the interview,
^^^wered beneath her glance of scorn.
"Nay, but look well upon her,
C^borah," said the captain, seeing
that her eyes fell beneath those of
tfce woman she had accused. " Look
^U upon her, and say if this be not
^t Moabitish woman whom thou
Rawest, as thou wert lingering (for no
pood purpose, I do fear me greatly)
^^ the shadow of the trees — whom
^oa sawest, say I, steal hither be-
^een light and darkness, and trea-
cherously do to death our brother
Tomkins, who, being — as methinks
)"ou revealed to me just now — ^wearied
overmuch with prayer and holding

forth, (he was, as I myself can testi-
fy, a man of most precious doctrine,
and greatly favored in the gifl of
preaching,) had come hither to repose
himself."

" Nay," said the woman, speaking
in very tolerable English, an accom-
plishment she had picked up when
in service in Dublin ; " of that great
weariness caused by too much prayer
and preaching. Master Rippel, I said
naught — my own impression being,"
she added, unable even before such
an audience to repress the gibe, " that
the slumberous inclinations of wor-
thy Master Tomkins had been caused
by a somewhat too ardent devotion
lately tendered to the wine-cask."

" Peace, scoffer I peace !" cried the
captain. " And if thou wouldst have
thy blasphemy against the Lord and
against his saints forgiven, in this
world or the next, look once more on
the face of the prisoner, and be not
shamefaced or afraid, but say out
boldly whether you can swear to her
in a court of justice as being the
person whom you espied just now
in the act — yea, the very act of
murder."

** I can," said the woman shortly,
and avoiding the eye of Mrs. Netter-
viUe as she spoke.

"Thou canst?" the latter said
in a tone of indignant astonishment.
"And pray, if thou wert watching
me so narrowly, why didst thou not
endeavor to prevent me? — why not
strike up my weapon ? — why not cry
out, at least, so as to rouse up the
sleeping soldier ?"

" I did what I could," the woman
sullenly responded. " I sought out
his comrades. It was their look-out,
not mine, and to them accordingly I
left it."

** She, speaks the truth, as we who
so lately heard her tale can testify,"
the captain answered quickly. " You
see, my men," he added, addressing

1 86

Nellie Ncttennlle,

the other soldiers, *' Beelzebub is di-
vided against himself, and the very
children of his kingdom bear witness
against each other Surely the wo-
man Netterville is guilty. Take her,
therefore, some of you, a prisoner to
the castle, while the rest prepare a
decent burial for our murdered broth-
er. I myself must speak apart with
the witness Deborah, in order to put
her testimony into a fitting shape to
*be laid before the court of my lords,
the high commissioners of justice."

CHAPTER V.

The sun had climbed well-nigh mid-
way in the heavens, lighting up Clew
Bay and its hundred isles until they
glinted like emeralds in the blue setting
of the sea, as an old, while-haired man
and a young girl — the latter carrjnng
a small bundle in one hand, while
with the other she supported the fail-
ing strength of her companion, made
their way, slowly and painfully, along
the valley through which runs the
bright ** Eriff ** river on its way to the
ocean. Following the up course of
the stream, they had passed » almost
without knowing it^ through some of
the finest of the mountain scenery of
the west, up hill and down hill, by
pretty cascades, in which the river
seemed to be playing with the ob-
stacles which opposed it ; round
huge bare shoulders of rifted and
out-jutting rock ; through dark, deep
purple gorges, which looked as if the
mountains had been wrenched vio-
lently asunder in order to produce
them ; and now, at last, they found
themselves in a quiet, dreary-look-
ing glen, where cushions of soft moss
and yielding heather seemed to woo
them to repose. Nevertheless, foot-
sore and worn out as they evidently
were, they continued to press bravely
forward until they had nearly arrived
at the farther end of the valley ; but

by that time the old man^
begun to droop wearily on!
and his steps had become;
and uncertain that it wa|
would be perilous to proci
without giving him the rd|
solutely required, Chool
fore, a little nook, where tl|
soft and Ats\ and where (
tall fern and heather, ri|
six feet from the root,
promise at least partial s|
the midday sun, the girl %
posed of her bundle as 9
his head, and invited 1^
smile to a siesta. He *
readily as if he had been i
she then sat down beside \
ing an old nursery lulla]
him into slumber. But j
no such salutary oblivion \
and no sooner had his ey<
close in sleep than she x%
if anxiety had rendered hd
of remaining quiet, watH
lessly on until she reached
a hill which shut in the ^
the land beyond. There il
fear and foreboding, wei
sorrow, all forgotten or sn
in the breathless admiral
took instant possession
Around her, crumbled at
in all directions, were hit
deed of trees, but green f
summit, and strangely pi<|
the fantastic variety of li
'Fhere were quiet glens a}
rock'Strewn passes, withi
swelled into cataracts bj
of spring, yet looking in i
like mere threads of \%
spirting from their rug
There were long brown tfj
land, brightened and t
patches of golden, flowe
or of that thin herbage H
perfectly emerald green, it
seen in such like boggy]
over and above all this,1

Ntllie Netteroille.

187

the shadowy outlines of more than
one far-off range of mountains melt-
ing into the delicate blue back-
ground of the sky, and changing
color, as rapidly as the young cheek
of beauty, beneath the ever-shifting
lights and shadows of that "cloud
scenery" which is nowhere more
beautiful or varied than in Ireland.
To the left, and looking, in the clear
atmosphere, so close that she almost
felt she could have touched it with
her outstretched hand, rose " Croagh
Patrick," sacred to the memory of
Ireland's great apostle; and Clew
. Bay lay, or seemed to lie, bright and
shining at her feet — Clew Bay, with
its gracefully winding shore, and its
archipelago of islets; some bold,
beetling rocks, ready and able to do
battle with the storm, others mere
baskets of verdure floating on the
tide; while the largest and most
picturesque of them all, the sea,
girt kingdom of Grana-Uaile, Clare
Island, stood bravely up, cliff over
clifi^ at the very mouth of the har-
hor, guarding it against the winter
encroachments of the Atlantic, which,
^een as liquid jasper, and calm, in
that summer weather, as a giant
sleeping in the sunshine, unrolled
itself beyond. Long and wistfully
Jfellie fixed her gaze upon that fair
prospect; and it was with a strange
^luctance and foreboding of future
^onow, that she at last withdrew
in order to examine attentively that
portion of the country which lay
more immediately around her, and
>rith which she believed herself about
to be more intimately connected. As
she did so, a building, perched half-
'Way up a hill, rather more inland
than that upon which she herself was
standing, attracted her eye, and she
gasped, with a sudden mingling of
hope and fear, like a person choking ;
for she felt a sudden conviction that
'li the wild, uncultivated lands be-

neath her she beheld the portion
assigned to her grandfather by the
commissioners at Loughrea, and in
that edifice, which seemed to have
been built for the express purpose
of commanding and overawing the
entire district, the house in which
they had told her she was to estab-
lish her new home. House^ indeed,
it could scarcely be called in any-
thing like the modem acceptation of
the term, though it was probably
perfectly well suited to the wants
and wishes of the wild chieftains by
whom it had been erected. The
original building had consisted of a
single tower, of which the rough,
rude walls, formed of huge stones,
put unhammered and uncemented
together, betrayed its origin in times
so far remote as to have no history
even in the oldest annals of the land.
Added on to this gray relic of the
past, however, a new building was
now evidently in process of erection.
It was far from finished yet, as Nellie
knew by the poles and scaffoldings
around it ; but even in its embryo
state it bore a terribly suspicious
resemblance to that square, simple
fortalice type of building which seems
to have been the one architectural
idea of CromweH's Irish drafted sol-
diers, and which still remains in
many places, the silent but uncontro-
vertible witness — the seal which they
themselves have set upon their for-
cible and unjust possession of the
land. The very look of that half-
finished building seemed an answer
to Nellie's late foreboding, and with
a sinking heart she turned her back
upon it and retraced her steps to the
place where she had left Lord Net-
terville. The old man had already
shaken off his fitful slumbers, and was
toiling feebly up the hill.

Nellie ran back to fetch her bundle,
which he had been unable to bring
with him ; but overtaking him in an

Nellie Nettcrville.

instant, she gave him her arm, led
him to the spot from whence she had
just been taking her bird*s-eye view
of the country, and, pointing to
the fortalice in process of erection,
watched anxiously to discover what
sort of impression it would make on
his mind. But either he did not ob-
ser\^e it, or did not take in the pe-
culiar significance of its presence in
those wilds ; and finding that he re-
mained silent and apparently un-
moved, she collected a!l her remain-
ing energy to say cheerfully ;

" Look at that old gray tower to
the righL If the man whom we met
this morning among the hills spoke
truth, we have reached die end of
our weary journey, and yonder is our
future home. It is not like our own
dear Netterville, indeed, and yet it
seems a goodly enough mansion. So
goodly," she added, stealing a glance
beneath her long lashes to see how
he took the insinuation, ** that I al-
most wonder they should have dealt
thus kindly by us ; for I know that
many of the first of the * trans-
planted ' have had, their lots assigned
them in places where there was not
even the hut of a peasant to shelter
them from the weather."

" Tush, child I talk not to me of
houses,** the old man answered que-
rulously, too much occupied with the
actual disadvantages of his position
to catch the hidden drift of Nellie's
observ^ation* " What boots a goodly
mansion, if starvation be at its por-
tal? And what, I pray you» but
starvation are they condemned to,
who have been sent to make them*
selves a home among these barren
mountains?"

Nellie suffered her eyes to roam
once more over the bright waters of
the bay, and then, with a quick sense
of beauty kindling up in her soul,
she turned them hopefully upon Lord
Netterville.

" Nay, dear grandfather,

all, a country fair and pleas^
eye, and once my dear moth*
us with the cows and * garr^
can be no lack of plenty, eve(
wilds.** ,

" Cows and garrans 1 ^
are we to feed them, girl ? \
expect to find the pleasant
lands of Meath on the topi
barren hills ? or are we to Q
flocks on the sea-drift, whid
heard say, the natives of th
are in the habit of gatherio
shore and boiling down into
for their cattle, (they have H
wretches !) but themselves !*

" Some of these hills cerO
black and bare enough, b
doubt not that among theirj
hollow places we shall finij
good acre of green grass fof
ing oi our cattle,*' the girl <
patiently, and with an evidf
mination to look, for the g
least, only on the bright sj
question. " And now, deai(
added gently, *^ had we not 1
onward ? for if yonder tow^
to be our home, the sooni
there tlie better.** ]

She glanced toward the
she spoke, and the old mail
she started violently as sh
She said not another word,>
but he fancied that her cl^
a shade paler — if that werf
— ^than it had been beforl
continued to gaze silent^
direction. ,

"What is it, Nellie?*' ^
last, frightened by her strai
and silence, ''What do
child, that you look so
scared ?"

**Sec!" she answered
reluctantly, "there seems^
part)' of many people gat
the court-yard ; the house»
must be inhabited aire;

;ed atreadvl

Nellie Netterville,

189

"People in the court-yard I" cried
the old man, now fairly aroused to
that same fear which had been haunt-
ing Nellie for the last half-hour.
"HTiat people, Nellie ? Tell me,
child, \{ you can distinguish whether
they seem to be natives or strangers
to the place. Our fate, alas ! may
be dependent on that fact"

The girl walked forward, and shad-
ing her eyes with her hand from the
blinding sunshine, looked again, and
yet again, in the direction of the tower.
"Yes," she said at last; "I was
not mistaken. There is a party in
the court-yard, and some of them
arc even standing in the gate-way,
IS if they had but this instant stept
fcrth from the mansion. Surely,
grandfather, we cannot have mis-
understood or mistaken our instruc-
tions? There is no other building
to be seen — even in the distance —
and this one answers in all respects
to the description. The man, too,
from whom we inquired our way this
morning, assured us that it was called
'The Rath ' — the very name set down
in our certificate. We cannot have
been mistaken, and yet — and yet —
if there be persons already in posses-
sion, their claim must needs be supe-
rior to our own."

She spoke hesitatingly, and in
broken sentences, as if she were fol-
lowing out a train of thought in her
o*n mind, rather than addressing
ber companion. He listened anxious-
ly* and a cloud gathered on his brow
^ he gradually took in her meaning.
" It may be only some of the na-
tives," he said at last, in a low voice.
The original owners, perhaps, of the
to^er, who have waited our arrival
before giving up possession."
"Owners!" said Nellie quickly.
They told us at Loughrea that the
^^erhad perished in the war, and
^at therefore we should find it emp-
ty."

" They may have been mistaken,
Nellie. They know little enough, I
think, those high and mighty com-
missioners at Loughrea, of the land
of which they are so liberally dispos-
ing ; and still less, I doubt me, of its
original possessors."

"And if they are mistaken, we
shall take the place of the rightful
owners, and so deal out to others
the very measure which our enemies
have dealt to us. Grandfather, if
we are guilty of this thing, we shall
have a twofold sin upon our souls —
their iniquity and our own."

" What would you have, child ?"
he answered pettishly ; for, truth to
say, he had yet quite enough of the
Englishman about him, not to be
over-particular as to the rights of
the native Irish. " What would you
have.^ Did you not know already
that, in the acceptation of these
lands, we were taking that which it
was neither in the Cromwellians*
right to give or in ours to receive ?
And what if an old tumble-down
tower be thrown into the bargain?
Trust me, Nellie, the business is so
black already that, like the face of
his Satanic majesty, who is the au-
thor of it, a little more or less of
smutch will hardly make it blacker
or uglier than it is."

" I never thought of this before,"
said Nellie sadly ; " I thought only
— fool that I was, so selfishly intent
on my own misfortunes -=- I thought
only of tracts of land left barren for
want of inhabitants to till them, and
of houses emptied by the fate of war.
I never dreamed of men and women
and little children turned out of their
pleasant homes to make room for us
— us who have as little right to their
possessions as the English soldiers
have to ours !"

" Nevertheless it has been done in
almost every other case of transplan-
tation which I have heard of," the

190

Nellie NettennlU,

old man answered restlessly. "And
the iniquity — for it is an iniquity —
is theirs who have driven us to such
spoliation, not ours who have been
compelled in our own despite to do
it/'

But Kellie was far too noble, and
oo clear-sighted in her nobleness,
to shelter her actions behind such a
subterfuge, and she answered vehe-
mently :

** But it must not be in ours, sir —
it must not be in ours ! We will go
down at once, and if the persons
whom we see yonder be the rightful
ow*ners of that tower, we will merely
crave rest and hospitality at their
bands, until such a time as we have
found a place, however humble, in
which, without injury to honor or
conscience, we can make ourselves
a home,'*

" As you will, Nellie^ — as you will,'*
he answered, too weary, perhaps, to
be able longer to dispute the point.
" But after all, we may be mistaken
as to the ownership of these people.
Look again, and tell me, if you can,
' W^helher they are clad like English-
men, or in the native weeds ?**

" Not in tlie native weeds, I think»
my father. Rather I should say, if
it were not impossible, that the men
whom I see down yonder belonged
10 the army of the oppressor. Ha I

Now a lady is coming forth,

now they are mounting her» a
tall, stately personage in — yej-
tainly in military attire, is mou
also, and takes his place at her
Now half a dozen servants, I
pose, or friends, are on their fa
likewise, and now they are ro
forward. Father, they must
this way, there is none other
I can see by which horses
pass with safety. Let us wii
them behind the bank^ and
wiien they are near enough, wi
accost them, and if they be C
conquering army, show them ou
tificate, I'hey will, of course,
to its authority, and help us to
possession of that house whic
document assigns us, I am |
woman is among them ; it will
it easier, I think, to speak/*

As Nellie ran on thus, she
her grandfather with her beh
bank which dipt down sud
upon the path, narrowing it ui
was all but impassable to I
There, with pale face and tigh
breath, she nervously awaited
advent of the party upon who
vorablc or unfavorable dispo
toward them she felt her owi
and Lord Netterville*s to be ]
fully dependent.

TO KB CONTtNtnUX

TIte Rotnan Gathering.

191

THE ROMAN GATHERING*

BY W. G. DIX.

K MAN of many years, without vast
iporal resources, despoiled of a
tof his possessions, having many
vigorous enemies about him, and
irded by many even of those who
bs the Christian faith as about
ill from his high place in Christen-
, such a man invites his brethren
ie apostolical ministry through-
the world to honor by their per-
J presence at Rome the anniver-
of the martyrdom, eighteen
ired years ago, of Saint Peter
Saint Paul, and to join with him
le exaltation of martyrs who, like
1, though in far distant lands,
i "faithful unto death." They
ond with eager joy and haste to
call, and those who cannot go
i on the wings of the wind their
ds of loving veneration.
say not a word of the spiritual
ms of the man who sent forth the
tation, so eagerly and widely ac-
ted, there is in the fact just stated
owing evidence that, even in these
^ of triumphant and insolent ma-
alism, moral power has not entire-
ost ascendency. Though millions
knees are bent in honor of the
gon of materialism, in some one or
erof its myriad forms of degrading
latry, yet millions of hearts also
ognize the gift of God as present
nnore in his holy church. Never
Dre has the Catholic Church be-
i so great a multitude, from so dis-
t places, assembled at her call at
central city of the faith.

Ve give place to the above article in our columns,
;h from a non-Catholic pen, thinking that it will
id with interest by our readers, while it indicates,
e same time, the religious tendencies which are
aing more and more prevalent among not a small
of minds in oar country — Editor C. W.

The enemies of catholicity have
again and again referred to the great
inventions of modern times as sure
destroyers of the claims of the Catho-
lic Church and of her hold upon her
millions of members ; but lo ! these
very inventions are brought into the
service of the church. The printing-
press, which was going to annihilate
the Catholic Church, has proved one
of her most effectual bulwarks ; mil-
lions of printed pages inspire the
devotion of her children, and make
known her claims to reading men,
until many who were even her enemies
and revilers, from ignorance and pre-
judice, acknowledge their error, and
make haste to go to " their father's
house." Steam, in the view of many,
was about so to change the structure
of society that the old and decrepid
Church of Rome, the great obstacle
on the railroad of materialism, was
about to be run over and cast to the
roadside, a weak and useless wreck ;
but lo ! the power of steam enables
hundreds and thousands more to go
up to the sacred city, as the tribes of
Israel were wont to visit Jerusalem,
tlian could otherwise attend the fes-
tivals of the faith in St. Peter's
Church. Of the manifold uses of
steam, a large proportion is in the ser-
vice of catholic truth. And then the
telegraph; that, surely, was to show an
advanced state of civilization which
could not tolerate the slow and an-
cient ways of catholicity ; but lo !
here, again, the event has contra-
dicted the prophecy ; for, by means of
the telegraph, the assemblage of the
vast host at Rome was known through-
out the world on the very day of its

192

The Roman Gathering.

occurrence ; and almost literally, in
all parts of Christendom, thousands
of devout worshippers could lum their
faces reverently toward the altar of
God in Rome at the very instant when
those in its immediate presence were
• bending before it, and could join in
the same prayers and anthems, as
though the world itself were one vast
St Peter's Church, and the strains
of penitence and hymns of joy could
reverberate across oceans and moun-
tains, among distant nations and is-
lands of the sea, as among the corri-
dors and arches of one great temple
sacred to tiie triune God.

As in these instances, so in many
others, the church has extended her
sway and deepened her power by the
very forces which many supposed
would 'work her ruin. The history
of the church has shown in the do-
main of natural science, so often ap-
plied in the service of infidelity and
disorder, as in the field of human pas-
sion, that God will make the wrath of
man to praise him, and turn weapons
designed to attack hrs holy Church
into her consecrated annor of defence.
The grace of God so o\'erru!es the in-
ventions of man and the powers of
nature, that even the terrible light*
ning becomes the vivid messenger to
convey to the ends of the earth the be-
nediction of the Vicar of Christ

What is the chief lesson of the re-
cent gathering at Rome ? It is this,
that the church of God, so often, in
the view of her enemies, destroyed,
will not stay destroyed ; that after
every "destruction" she renews her
invincible youth, and rises to pursue
her career of conquest over sin, pre-
judice, and wrong ; that, though she
may bend awhile to the storm that
beats upon her sacred head, she has
never been wholly overcome ; that,
notwithstanding all that mortal en-
mity, defection, outrage, have done or
can do, she yet lifts her forehead to

the sky to be anew baptized wit

from the sun of truth above
strong in the faith and promise
Eternal God, she falleis not
endeavors^ patient and persi
subdue the world to Christ

The history of the Catholic'
abounds with instances like t
man gathering in June, whicli
that her hours of affliction are
very ones when her failhiul cl
gather to her side, to assun
their prayers and suppo
discern upon her saintly
" smiles through tears,'* whi
times of trial, are the warine
most touching acknowledgme
filial veneration. m

The commemorative asseini
the capital of Christendom, si
that the church of God is
structible by any forces that
or hell, singly or united, can
against her. She may be at
like the bird in the snare i
fowler ; but she is sure of
released at length, and the
plumes her wings afresh, and
heaven ward» filling the air wi
divine, exultant music of her
The powerful of the earth hai
times loaded tlie church wi
but by the strength of Cl
dwells evermore in her, she h^
ken the bonds asunder, o^
transforming grace, they ■
come ihc wreaths and garlai
new victory, even as the cross
m illation has become* by the si
of our Lord, the emblem of uo
glory.

The church ot Christ, bear
her brow his holy seal, and
hands his gifts of power, ki
sorrow at his grave \ but she
his resurrection with joy, an
endowed anew with treasures
mortal life. Afterward, the ml
heathendom arose against he
she descended from tlie

tiie wn

The Roman Gathering,

193

) the catacombs ; but she re-
i, to wear upon her brow the
of a spiritual empire that
ver fall until the elements
;lt with fervent heat; and
I, true to all her history in de-
w glory from every apparent
le will rise again from the
ive of nature to enjoy for
vision of God. Kings of
I have denied her right to
i pastors of her children with
prerogatives, and have even
^r to mortal combat; but
istressed and thwarted, she
r relinquished her inherent
id she never will. As many
the head of the church on
1 been driven from Rome by
ngrateful violence, so many
ictly has he been welcomed
:h tears of penitence and
' rapture.

iled of treasures committed
ire by faithful stewards of
unty, she has labored with
hands to feed her needy
At one time, persecuted
ilderness, she has found a
id a welcome in the courts
:s ; at another, driven from
ts of princes, because she
>t deny her Lord or her di-
imission, she has found a
anctuary in the wilderness,
it upon the bare earth to
e Lord of life and light,
child in the manger, and to
ill the saints in glory to
r cause in the ear of infinite
nd goodness.

IS spurned the anointed king
temple of God, until he re-
f his crime ; and on the head
(vly monk who was spending
in labor and prayer, she has
hie triple crown. With one
has bathed with " baptismal
e brow of the day-laborer's
liie the other she has raised
VOL. VII. — 13

in defiance of imperial might, which
dared to assail her holy altar.

One of the most violent objections
to the Catholic Church has been
urged for the very reason that she
has so faithfully held the balance be-
tween the contending forces of so-
ciety. She has been accused of fa-
voring the claims of absolutism or
popular demands, as the triumph of
either at the time would favor her
own ends, irrespective of right The
charge is unjust, is urged by many
who know better, yet it springs from
an honest misapprehension in many
minds. It would have been utterly
impossible for an institution, design-
ed to enlighten and guide mankind
in its higher relations, not to touch
human interests of every kind, and
human institutions generally in many
ways; yet the challenge may safely be
given to any thoughtful student of
history, to acknowledge with candor,
whatever may be his ecclesiastical
position, that the Catholic Church,
having often been chosen to be,
and having an inherent right to be,
the umpire between the rights of au-
thority and the rights of individuals,
has faithfully labored to sustain law-
ful authority when assailed by the
wild fury of misguided multitudes,
and that she has interposed her
powerful shield, often with the most
triumphant success, to protect men
whose rights as men were assailed
by authority changed by ambition
into arrogant and exacting tyranny.
What inconsistency and insincerity
have been charged against the Csk
tholic Church for this remarkable a)K^.
noble fact in her history ! In this ae-
spect the Catholic Church has fodlbw-
ed strictly in the steps of her Divine
Author, who, when on earth, invari-
ably upheld the rights of authority,
while vehemently denouncing those
who unjustly exercised it ; and while
going about doing good, the friend.

The Roman Gathering^

of the friendless and the helper of

the helpless, pleading with divine

eloquence, and laboring with divine

power for the outcast and the poor,

hnever and nowhere sanctioned the

spirit of insurrection, but enjoined

obedience as one of the main duties

of life. Hence, it has coiee about,

by one of those sublime mysteries,

j which prove the divine origin of

[Christianity, that the greatest revo-

llution which has ever taken place

ID religious belief and in civil society

I in all their bearings, has been effect-

* cd by the teachings, by die life and
[death of one who by no word or
[deed ever assailed authority itself or
Elicited resistance to it.

Beauty and order being the same
[thing, and religious truth being the
beauty of holiness, Christ, who was
truth in person, must have made his
church the friend and upholder of all
beauty and order; and so it has
proved for eighteen hundred years.
' The church has been the celestial
crucible in which whatever of human
art or invention had witliin it the
essential attributes of higher and spi-
ritual goodness has been purified
and adapted to the ser\ice of reli-
.gion. Has poetr}^ sought to please

* the imaginations of men ? the church
of Christ unfolded before her the
annals of Christianity, with her grand
central sacrifice of infinite love, and
all her demonstrations of heroic suf-

^fering and courageous faith ; and
poetry drew holier inspiration from
the view, and incited men by higher
motives to a higher life. Have paint-
ing and sculpture sought to represent
objects of refining grace and sublim-
ity ? the church of Christ persuaded
tJiem to look into the records of i^'t
Christian past, and there they found
treasures of beauty and splendor, de-

I voUon and mart}Tdom, whose wealth
of illustration as examples; incentives,
and memorials^ art has not exhausted

exh|i
ie<n

for centuries, and will never ex
Christian history is the inexh
quarry of whatever is mc
and heroic in man, purifie
grace of God. Has arch it
sought to invest stone with the
butes of spiritual and intcU
grace? the church of God 1
portrayed before her the subli
of the Christian faith, that she
at her feet in veneradon, and ll
forth consecrated herself to
enduring structures, which, the
they show of human power aiii;
the more they persuade mdf
worship of God. Has mf
sought to nenx men for the
conHicts of life ? the church of
has touched the lips of elaq
with living fire from her altai
have sprung forth w^ords that (
with love to man and love to
Has music sought to weave h
trancing spells around the ea
heart and soul ? the church of
has breathed into music he:
divine being, until the music i
church seems like beatific iK
and worship on earth llke^
music. ^

As in these respects, so in c
the church has made a holy coi
of whatever is noblest among t
dowments of men. In speak:
Catholic history, even from the s
point of view, it may be justl)
that nowhere else has there
such wonderful discernment <
vat ious capacities of the human
and of their various adapts
Tenacious of the tnith and of
prerogatives, the Catholic C
has, nevertheless, allowed a
liberty of thought. That the <
lie Church has narrowed the \
standings of men, is a si i
to make in the face of tb
Catholic philosophy, in which i
varying mental structure, traini
habits of thought, have had fu]

Tk* Roman Gathering.

»95

)f their faculties. And where
ive there been so many free and
% activities as in the Catholic
1 ? The false charge that the
fetters the minds and move-
3f men, may be traced to the
at all Catholic diversities of
: have converged, like different

light, in the elucidation of
and that varying modes of
c action have had one object
dvancement of truth.

is the intended force of all
lustrations, for they have had
il purpose. The world will
•iitgrow the church. All the

improvements in science, in
ivilization, so far from imped-

church of Christ, and mak-

existence no longer needed,
the same time, advance her
and make her more needed
'er. If in the middle ages,
Dciety was in the process of
)n from the old to the new,
ch was pre-eminently needed

what was just and right and
the older forms of civilization,
dually to adapt to them what
;t and right and true in the
levelopments of society, most
the church needed now, when
:ists a perfect chaos of opin- .
d when a part of the civilized
5 in another transition, from
I less, rudderless vagaries of
mtism to the solid rock of
:ity. If ever the voice of
y was needed, like the voice
ngel of God, heard amid and
^e bowlings of the storm, it is
now.
I false reasoning has been

about the " unchangeable
' as though, because "un-
ible," it was not adapted to
ing and striving world, when,
1, for the very reason that the
of Christ is unchangeably
e is required and adapted for

all the changes and emergencies of
time. Who ever heard a sailor com-
plain of the mariner's compass, be-
cause, on account of its unchange-
able obstinacy, it would not conform
to his private judgments and capri-
ces about the right course ? No one.
It is for the very reason that the
mariner's compass is unchangeably
true to the eternal law of magnetic
attraction, under all circumstances
and in all places, that it is the unerr-
ing guide among the whirlwinds and
heavings of the great deep. Catho-
licity is the mariner's compass upon a
greater deep — even that of the wild
and rolling, beating ocean of human-
ity, pointing, amid sunny calms, or
gentle "winds, or raging gales, unerr-
ingly to the cross of Jesus Christ, as
the needle of the mariner's compass
points to the north — guiding, age
after age, the precious freights of
immortal souls to the harbor of infi-
nite and unending joy.

The force of this illustration is all
the stronger that the mariner's com-
pass is a human adaptation of an im-
mutable law of nature to navigation,
while the church of the living God
is divine alike in origin and applica-
tion, and has existed from the begin-
ning, unchangeable, like God him-
self, yet adapting herself to the wants
of every age. The church of God is
like his own infinite providence, in
which unchangeable truth meets in
the harmony of mercy the innumera-
ble changes of human need.

Much has been written and more
said about "the church of the future,"
as though it were to be some mil-
lennial manifestation altogether diffe-
rent from the historic church ; but
the church of the future, which is not
also the church of the past and of
the present, can be no church ; for a
true church must reach to the ages
back as well as to these before. If
the continuity is broken, truth is

156

The Raman Gatttcring.

broken, and cannot be restored. As
for eighteen centuries there have been
no forms of civit socict>% no calms or
tempests in the moral, political, so-
cial* or religious world, in which the
Catholic Church has not been true to
the organic principles of her divine
life, even the enemy of catholicity
should admit — that fact being grant-
ed — that the presumption is on her
side that she will be equally tme to
those principles during the centuries
that are to come. He may deny that
the church has been tnte, and^ con-
sequently, that she will be true, but
he will not admit one proposition and
deny the other; he will admit both
or deny both. In other words, he
will admit, equally with the friend of
cathoiicit)S the identity of the church,
pastt present, and to come. Now, it
will be impossible for a friend or
enemy of the Catholic Church, from
her beginning to this very day, to
point to an hour when she was not a
living church ; it is, then, probable,
that she will continue to be a living
church. But where, since the pro-
mulgvition of Christianity to this
time, has existed a body of Christian
believers, which, for the quality of
continual existence, has so good a
right to be called the church of
Christ as the Catholic Church ? Con-
sidering her numbers, extent, and
duration, that church has been pre*
eminently the church of the past ;
considering numbers, extent, and du-
ration, that church is pre-eminently
the church of the present ; consider-
ing all analogies and probabilities,
then the Catholic Church will be pre-
eminently the church of the future.
In truth, the vindictive anger of
the enemies of the Catholic Church,
in whatever form of opposition it may
be showTi, proceeds from the fact, not
that she is the dead church of the
past, as she is sometimes called, for
there would be no reason to war with

olutigi

teaiH

lat m

the dead, but because she
has been and will be, tli
church- The Catholic Cht
hated not for being too deadH
being too living. She hasB
birth and death of counties
provements ** of her principle
she has received with gladne
her fold many an eager and
entious inquirer for the "newd
who has at length reached an
his wanderings and a soluti
doubts in finding, with
turous submission, tliat
church, for which he was seel
the same church which has sti
ages, ever old, yet ever new, \
representing Him w^ho is all
Living God and the Ancientol

The Catholic Church, so fh
ly and unjustly denounced 1
behind the age, or even as fad
past has been foremost in all |
tlie world. She has sent her 1
soldiers of the cross where th<
of commerce dared not go ; s]
the first in the east and the firs^
West ; it was her lamp of divir
which dispelled the gloomy
of the barbarous north of E
it was her sceptre of celestial I
whichj under the guidance of H
transformed the political and
wreck of soutliern Europe into
In what part of the world whi(
could reach has she not plan!
cross? Where on the face >
earth is the mountain whose 1
sides have not, at one time or
er, sent back into the soundj
the echoes of Catholic worshi;

Daniel Webster gave a n\\
ture of the extent of the po^
England, in what I think to
grandest sentence which Am*
contributed to the common
of English literature.
** The morning drumbeat, fol
tlie sun, and keeping compan
the hours, circles the earth ckil

The Roman GatJuring,

197

oae unbroken strain of the martial
airs oi England." That grand figure
of speech may be applied to the ex-
tent of the Catholic Church. Yet it
is not by martial airs, but by hymns
of praise and penitential orisons and
the continuous sacrifice that the
Catholic Church daily celebrates,
''from the rising of the sun unto the
going down of the same," the trium-
phant march of the Prince of Peace.
How like '' the sound of many waters "
rolls hourly heavenward the anthems
of catholic worship throughout the
worid! Not only is every moment
of every day consecrated by catholic
liTmns sung somewhere on earth;
but how majestically roll down
through eighteen hundred years the
unbroken anthems of catholic devo-
tion I Minute after minute, hour
after hour, day after day, night after
night, month after month, year after
year, century after century, the holy
strains go on unending. To the
mind's ear seem blended in one almost
overpowering flood of holy harmony
the unnumbered voices which have
sounded from the very hour when the
shepherds of Bethlehem heard the
angelic song to this very moment,
when, somewhere, catholic voices are
dianting praise to the Lord and Sa-
viour of men.

And, in this view, how literally has
been fulfilled that consoling prophecy,
"Henceforth all generations shall call
tte blessed." Wherever the Divine
Son has been duly honored, there
also she, who was remembered with
filial love even amid his dying agonies
for a world's salvation, has been re-
membered and called blessed ; called
blessed from that lowly home and
&om that mount of sorrow in the dis-
tant east, in millions of lowly homes,
and under the shadow of mountains
to the farthest west ; called blessed
by millions of loving and imploring
voices through all the ages since;

called blessed in all the languages that
have been spoken since tliat time in
all the world ; called blessed in the ru-
dest forms of human speech and in the
most ecstatic music of voice and skill;
called blessed by the lips of the lit-
tle child that can hardly speak the
name of mother, and by the lips that
tremble with age and sorrow ; called
blessed by the sailor on the deep, by
the ploughman on the land, by the
scholar at his books, by the soldier
drawing his sword for right upon the
battle-field; called blessed by the
voices of peasant-girls singing in
sunny vineyards, and by the voices of
those from whose brows have flashed
the gems of royal diadems ; called
blessed in cottages and palaces, at
wayside shrines, and under the gol-
den roofs of grand cathedrals ; called
blessed in the hour of joy and in the
hour of anguish — in the strength and
beauty of life, and at the gates of
death. How long, how ardently, how
faithfully has all this loving honor
been paid for so many generations,
and will continue to be paid for all
generations to come, to that sorrow-
ing yet benignant one, who bore him
who bore our woe !

The recent gathering at Rome in-
dicates that there is no demand which
civilization can rightfully make of the
Christian Church which she will not
eagerly, fully, and faithfully meet The
largest assemblage of professed min-
isters of Christ which this age has
known — leaving here out of view the
claims of the Catholic Church to an
apostolical priesthood — has been held
in Rome by the church, so extensively
proclaimed and derided as being be-
hind the age. If there is life, deep,
full, pervading life anywhere on earth,
it is in the Catholic Church and in
all her movements. She will continue
to draw to herself all the qualities
and capacities of life which are in
harmony with her spirit; and this

The Roman

henng.

accumulated spiritual flirce will con-
stantly weaken the barriers that di-
vide her from the sympathies of a
large part of Christendom, until at
Jength she will be acknowledged by

I ^11 as the only living and true church
t>f Christ.

"The restoration of the unity of
the church" has been the subject of
lany thoughts, of many words, of

' earnest and devout prayer, of much
and noble elTort, and» when under-
stood as referring to the reconcilia-
tion of those who have left the Cath-
olic Church, or who are now out of it
because their fathers left it, the phrase
may pass without objection ; but the
phrase is greatly objectionable, even
to the extent of expressing an untruth,
when it is used to convey the idea
that the unity of the church has ever
been broken* This has not been, and
could not be. The church, intended

^o be one, and to endure until the
end of time, could not, in its organic
Structure, be really broken at any
period of its history, without des-
troying its title as the one church of

IChrist. Individuals, communities,
ven nations, as such, have been bro-
ken off from it ; but the essential
church herself has remained one and
unbroken through all vicissitudes.
Tlie theory that the Church of Rome,
the Greek Church, and the Church
of England are equal and co-ordinate
branches of the one church of Christ
has no foundation as an historical

iliict, and is as destructive of all true

I ideas of the unity of the church as

Ithe wildest vagaries of Protestantism.
[s there on earth an institution which
chism, heresy, and political ambition
avc tried to destroy and have tried

rin vain ? There is j it is the Catholic
Church. Is there an institution on
earth which, leaving out of regard all
its claims, has had tlic quality of his-
torical continuity for eighteen cen*

turies ? There is ; it is tlie Cattolie

Church. _

The charge, if not of bigotry, yet ■
of most unreasonable arrogance, has
been more or less directly made
against the Catliolic Church, becauje
she has not received overtures of _
reconciliation from enthusiastic and
earnest individuals claiming to repre-
sent national churches, as cordially
as was expected. But how can she
accept, or even consider, any s«d»
overtures, proceeding as they do from
the assumption of equal position and
authority, without disowning herself,
without denying even those claims
and prerogatives, the existence of
which alone makes union with hcT
desirable ? If there is no institution
on earth which has a valid title to be
the continuous church of Christ, all
efforts will be vain to supply the gap
of centuries by an establishment now,
A union of churches will not satisfy
the design or promise of our I>ord,
when he founded the unity of his
church. If the Christian church Itos
really been broken into pieces, il
will be in vain to gather up Uic frag-
ments; for, on that supposition, the
divine principle has long since dc*
parted, and the gates of hell have
prevailed. Those men of strong
Catholic predilections, who. never-
theless, have clung to the theory
that the church of Christ has beeil
really broken, and must be repaired
by management, will yet thank God
from their inmost souls for tlie iwi*
movable firmness with which thdl
theory has been denied at Rome.

The Catholic Church has never
condemned a heresy more filse or
destructive than the prof hat

she is herself but one of 1 1 yn^

of the Christian church, having no aiH
thority to speak or to ruie in the name
of her Lord, To deny that the (me
church of Christ is now existing, and

The Raman Gathering.

199

that she has existed for ages, is to
deny not merely a fact in history,
bnt it is to deny the word of our
Lord ; and to do diat, is to deny alike
his holiness and his divinity. How
can the Catholic Church treat with
those who wish to make terms before
submitting to her authority, on the
basis of a positive untruth ? Catho-
licity is not an inheritance, to be de-
ddod among many claimants, no one
of whom has any right to be or to be
regarded as the sole heir of the home-
stead; but it is an estate left by the
divine Lord of the manor, in charge
of the Prince of the Apostles and his
SQoressors, on the express injunction
tiiat it is to be kept one and undivi-
vided, in trust for the benefit of the
£uthfbl for all time. The estate has
been kept one and undivided, accord-
ing to the title-deed ; the injunction
has peverbeen broken ; notwithstand-
ing all defections from the household,
the homestead of the Christian world
remains in the hands of the same
£uthful succession to which it was
committed by our Lord himself. May
God grant that all the younger sons
idx) have gone astray, may return
with penitential alacrity to their Fa-
ther's house !

The Catholic Church will not stop
m her progress, until she has convert-
ed the world to Christ; but she has
not denied, and will not deny, her
sacred trust and prerogative of catho-
licity for the sake even of adding
whole nations to her fold. Whoever
enters her fold must admit by that
act her claim to be the one, undi-
Tided, indivisible Church of Christ
There can be no "branches of the
Catholic Church " which are not di-
rectly joined to the root and trunk of
catholicity. A severed branch is no
branch.

It is not the fault of the Catholic
Church that multitudes "who profess
and call themselves Christians " are

not members of her communion. She
affords the very largest liberty for
individual or associated action that
can be yielded without denying her
faith or her commission. The high-
est poetry and the severest logic may
kneel in brotherly harmony at her
altar. Gifts and talents the most di-
verse have been consecrated to her
service. The Catholic Church ad-
vancing, century after century, under
the banner of the cross and dove, to
the spiritual conquest of the world !
how far more sublime a spectacle it
is than that of some parts of Chris-
tendom, which are broken into little
independent bands of sectarian skir-
mishers, keeping up a kind of guer-
rilla warfare against " the world, the
flesh, and the devil," and each other.

There are inspiring tokens which
show the depth and breadth of the con-
viction, that the great schism of three
centuries ago has proved a terrible
mistake. Multitudes outside of the
Catholic Church are inquiring with
earnest solicitude about the meaning
of catholic unity. The main course
of intellectual inquiry is, in both hem-
ispheres, respecting the claims of the
Catholic Church. There are evident
signs that the chaos of Protestantism
is about to be broken up, and the wild
and dreary waste to bloom and glow
with Catholic beauty and order. God
grant that it may be so, and that noti
only thousands of individuals may
know how precious a prize it is to*
kneel devoutly and sincerely before,
the altar of God ; but that evea
mighty nations may be convinced
what priceless gifts they have for-
feited by three centuries of separation!
from the source of all they have that
has been or is worth keeping.

In view of the fact that the revival
of catholic feeling enkindles also the
enmity of those who scan it, the ga-
thering at Rome is not only an assu-
rance before the world that the Ca-

200

The United Churches in Trehnd,

tholic Church will continue to be the
guide of life and the empire of civHli-
f ation, but it is also a sublime chal-
[lenge against all the agencies of every
[kind that have been, or may be tried,
[to eh'minate Catholicity from the age.
The Catholic Church has a work to
do, and she will do it She can no
more forego it, than she can die by her
own will* She has never flinched yet ;
■she never will It is the very neces-
sity as well as the reason of her being
that she shall fulfil her charge without
wavering or diminition; and this she
will do. If the " gates of hell" can-
not prevail against the church of

God, she may safely defy all mortil'
might The sun might more easily
have refused to come forth at the bid-
ding of the Creator, ihan die church
can refuse to do his will in conquer-
ing the w^orld for Christ God speed
the day when the divisions of Chris-
tendom shall end ; when all who pro-
fess to be the disciples of Jesus Christ j
shall seek and find consolation in lus |
one, true, enduring fold ; and when
the sceptre of God, manifest in the
church, shall be extended in benig-
nant power over an obedient and ne*
joicing world.

•THE UNITED CHURCHES OF ENGLAND AND IRELAND,

IN IRELAND/'*

It is well to be accurate in the be-
Istowal of titles, and we give, there-
fore, the institution whose latest his-
tory lies before us the exact defini-
tion by which, these sixty years past,
it rejoices to be known. Under this
desigpnation of its own choice this
institution is open to the reflection
of being one of the most modem of
all the churches pretending to be na-
tional ; the junior of even our own
American Episcopal Church, which
is not itself very far stricken in years ;
the junior, indeed, of all the other
churches we can at this moment re-
call to memory, unless we were to in-
<:lude "the Church of the Latter-Day
Saints," whose Mecca stands upon
Salt Lake.

On the first day of January, in the
first year of this century, the eccle-
siastical system, establishment, or or-
ganization which designates itself as

•IrtLmd amd ktr CkurcJug, By Jamcft Godkin.
r Ctupnuui ft UaU. 1867. a irol ppL 6ji.

" the United Church of England and
Ireland, in Ireland," came, i^-ith sound
of many trumpets, into the wo rid » On
that auspicious day, the legislative
union of Ireland and Great Britain
was proclaimed ; a new national flag,
"the Union Jack/* was run up from
the royal towers of Londoa, Dublin,
and Edinburgh; a new royal title was
assumed for the coinage of the new
realm, and in all great public trans-
actions ; a new "great seal" was
struck for the sovereign* of the new*
ly modelled state ; new peers and new
commoners were added to the two
houses of Parliament, and» to complete
the revolution, by the 5th claiisc of
the same act, the matters previously
mentioned having been first disposed
of, this new church was, on that same
day and hour, by the same authority,
called into existence. His majesty's
proclamation, announced at PauFs
Cross in London, at the Cross in
Edinburgh^ and where the Cross of

{

[

The United Churches in Ireland.

van

UDame street ought to have been, in
Dublin, that "the doctrine, worship,
disdpline, and government of the
said United Church shall be and
shaH remain in full force for ever, as
tbe same are now by law established
ibrtfae Church of England.''

The two national churches, thus by
act of parliament and royal procla-
nation, united into, so to speak, one
imperial church, with an identical
''doctrine, worship, and discipline,"
had a good many antecedents in com-
mon, and a good many others that
were peculiar to each side of the
channel. Irish Protestantism had
Dcvcr been a servile or even a close
copy of its English senior. Whether,
as Swift sarcastically maintained, the
sennons of Dublin pulpits were fla-
Tored by the soil, or whether the
cause of difference lay in the atmo-
sphere, the Irish variety of "the
drarches of the Reformation," was as
full of self-complacency and self-
assertion, as any of the sisterhood.
It imbibed at the start, chiefly from
Usher, a larger draught of Genevan
theology than was quite reconcilable
with the Thirty-nine Articles ; it has
been almost invariably toryish in its
relations to the state ; while the Eng-
lish establishment, at least since
1668, has been pretty equally divided
between the two great political par-
ties. But the most singular peculi-
arity of this very modem church of
Ireland was the persuasion it arrived
at, and endeavored to impress upon
die world, that it was the veritable
primitive Christianity of the Green
Isle ; that instead of tracing its origin
to quite recent acts of parliament,
its pedigree ran up nearly to the Acts
of the Apostles ; that Saint Patrick
and Saint Colimiba were its true
ibonders, and not such saints of yes-
terday as George Browne and James
Usher. Whenever it was necessary
to enforce the collection of tithes, or

to protect the monopdlg^f uninrer^ty
education, the statutes atAa^e #m
resorted to as the true cWi^Sr qlots
institution ; but whenever it bfeciSne
requisite to defend its anomalous
position, by writing or speaking, the
Protestantism of Saint Patrick — ^his
independence of Rome more espe-
cially — ^was the favorite argument of
its defenders.

No "reformed" community has
ever made such desperate and per-
sistent efforts, with such flimsy or
wholly imaginary materials, to bridge
over the long space of the middle
ages, in order to make some show of
historical connection with the first
founders of Christianity. But the re-
cent revival of genuine ecclesiastical
learning has utterly dissipated the
last fond efforts of these spiritual
genealogists ; and the very first acts
of its existence as a separated body,
are now as well understood as the
41st of George III., by which it be-
came a copartner in "the United
Church of England and Ireland," no
longer ago than the first day of the
year of our Lord, i8or.

The history of the Irish member
of this curious ecclesiastical firm
may best be traced through the sta-
tutes at large. As its parentage was
parliamentary, so its life has been
legislative. There is one advantage in
having this description of authority
to refer to, that it cannot be disputed.
The " Journals of Parliament" in Eng-
land and Ireland, from the reforma-
tion to the civil emancipation of the
Catholics in 1829, are good Protes-
tant authority. The peers and com-
moners of the old religion were ex-
cluded from the English houses, from
the loth of Elizabeth (1567) to the
9th of George IV., (1829,) a period
of 262 years ; and in Ireland, the
last parliament in which Catholics
sat was that of 4th James II., (1689,)
followed by a period of exclusion.

The United Churches %n

.before the union, of iii years. It
was not found possible, so early as
the time of the two first Stuarts and
Elizabeth, to wholly exclude Catho-
lics, or, as they were then called,
" recusants,*^ from membership in
either house in Ireland ; and accord-
ingly we find them a formidable mi-
nority in those rarely occurring as-
semblies, such as the Irish parlia-
ments held in the nth and 25th of
Elizabeth, the nth James L, the
14th Charles I., and the i2t)i of
Charles II. In the second Jameses
short-lived parliament of one session,
hastily adjourned to allow his lords
and gentlemen to foUow their master
to the banks of the " ill-fated river,"
they were a majority ; but with that
evanescent exception, the statutes of
Ireland are quite as exclusively Pro-
testant authority on all church mat-
ters as those of England previous to
the union of the legislatures and the
churches, and subsequently down to
X829.

The histor)^of Protestantism in Ire-
land, from first to last, is a political
history. Its best record is to be found
in the parliamentary journals as well
in tlie reign of Henry VIIL as of
George IIL And though we do
not propose to dwell, in the present
paper, in anything like detail on the
annals of that establishment pre-
vious to the present centuiy, we
must condense into a short space
the main facts of its first appearance
on the scene, and its early parlia-
mentar)^ nurture and education, to
account for the facility with which it
ceased to be, even in pretence, a na-
tional church at the time of the le-
gislative union. Political in its ori-
gin, its organization, and its govern-
ment, from the first hour of its exis-
tence, it had neither will, nor wish,
nor abilit)', if it had either, to resist
the designs of the state, w^hich in-
eluded its incorporation into the im-

ntl

penal system* As the lay n^
tation of Ireland was recast,
seal and the standard were ch
so the institution started l^h
and royal orders in councij
sixteenth century came natu*
have its individuality ex ting
by other statxites and orders if
cil in the nineteenth. If tl
caHed ** Church of Ireland" ha
ly believed itself to be what its
pions had so often asserted, tl
and ancient national church
kingdom, it would at all event
made some show of patriotic
tance before making its surrcr

Not only, however, was it n<
ly national in its origin, but
then, and always, an eminent!
popular institution. There
as in other countries during
formation, even the pretext
is called a popular ** mi
against Rome." No Luilie
arisen among the Celtic of^
glo-lrish Catholics in that agB
turbation. The ancient fail
received as implicitly by the bi
es of Dublin as by the clansi
Connaught, and the spiritual
macy of the pope seemed a ijh
as impossible of contradiction
descendants of Strongbow as
children of Milesius, No ii
revolt against Roman discipl
Roman doctrine had shown
within the western island.
was no spiritual insurrecti<
tempted from within to justi
resort to external intervention
annalists of Donegal, wh'
commonly called ** The Foui
ters,'* and who were old enoi
remember the first mention c
testantism in their own provinc
unconsciously express the
mcnt of the educated Irish
those days at the new d^
doctrines :

**A.D. 1537. A heresy and

The United Churches in Ireland,

203

broke oat in England, the effects of pride,

vainglory, avarice, sensual desire, and the

prevalence of a variety of scientific and

pfailosophical speculations, so that the people

of England went into opposition to the pope

and to Rome. At the same time they fol-

loired a variety of opinions, and the old law

of Moses, after the manner of the Jewish

people, and they gave the title of Head of

tbe Church of God to the kmg. There

were enacted by the king and council new

hvs and statutes after their own will."

But the laws and statutes enacted
by the king and council in England,
for changing the national religion,
vere not immediately either extend-
ed to, or proposed for imitation in,
Ireland. The zeal of the crowned
aposde was tempered by the ex-
igencies of the politician. Before
this king's time, the English power in
Ireland had been essentially a colo-
nial power ; "a pale" or enclosure, or
garrison. Whoever will not mark
the point, will miss the very pivot of
: all the operations of the new religion
in Ireland. Henry VIII. had in-
herited from his father, the first king
of united England for a century, the
ambition of making himself equally
master of the neighboring nation.
During the twenty years of the sway
cf his great cardinal-chancellor, this
object never was for a moment lost
sight of. When Wolsey went down
to the grave in disgrace without see-
ing it fulfilled, his royal pupil con-
tinoed to prosecute the plan to its
entire accomplishment This result,
however, he only reached in the
thirty-second year of his reign,
(1541,) some six years before his
Biiserable end. Ten years previous-
ly, (153 1,) he may be said to have
established the new religion in Eng-
land by compelling the majority of
^ clergy to subscribe to his suprem-
^ in spirituals \ within two years
^owcd his marriage with Anne
^leyn; and in 1535, his order ap)-
Peaitd commanding the omission

" of the name of the Bishop of Rome
from every liturgical book," which
may be said to have completed the
severance of England from Rome.

Not only did not Henry, in obedi-
ence to his political design of adding
another crown to his dominions, not
press his reformed doctrines imme-
diately upon the Irish of either race,
but he expressly reprehended his
deputies at Dublin for having pre-
maturely attempted the national con-
version. In the same year in which
he struck the pope's name from
every liturgical book, he sharply re-
buked George Browne, an English
ex-Augustinian whom he had ap-
pointed Archbishop of Dublin, for
destroying certain relics of saints in
the churches of that city. Again in
the same year. Secretary Cromwell
writes officially to contradict "a
common rumor,'' that he intended to
pluck down the statue of " our Lady
of Trim," which was as famous on
the west, as our " Lady of Walsing-
ham" on the east of the channel.
Four years later, we find the Lord
Deputy Grey, after a victory over
O'Neill at Bellahoe, halting with the
whole court and army at this cele-
brated place of pilgrimage, and visit-
ing this same shrine of our Lady—
" very devoutly kneeling before her,
he heard three or four masses." At
that moment, in the thirtieth year of
Henry VIII., and the sixth of his
open rupture with Rome, any Celtic-
Irish or Anglo-Irish Catholic, in the
ranks of Lord Grey, not particularly
well informed as to the affairs of the
neighboring kingdom, might have
rested honestly in the belief that he
was serving a Catholic prince in full
communion with the rest of Chris-
tendom.

But as soon as the election to the
kingship, which it is not in our way
here to dwell upon, was successfully
over, and the new royal title pro-

2CX|

The United Churches in

claimed, coiifimied, and acknowl-
edged abroad, especially in Scotland
and France, and by the emperor,
then there came a change. The po-
litician being satisfied, the apostle
awoke, A commission of reforma-
tion, at the head of which sat Arch-
bishop Browne, undertook the pur-
gation of the Dublin and neighbor-
ing churches, producing as their
warrant the royal authorit)^, " dated
years before." A sufficient guard of
, horse and foot accompanied these
commissioners, and were much need-
ed to protect them from the popu-
lace. The statues and relics in the
I cathedrals of Leigh! in, Ferns, and
Kildare ; the Lady statue at Trim,
and a famous crucifixion in Bally-
khogan Abbey, were forthwith des-
troyed. So far and so soon as they
could venture into the interior,
this "work of reformation/' under
the royal warrant, was pushed on
. vigorously, io order, as Henry*s com-
} mission expressed it, **that no fool-
furies of this kind might henceforth
for ever be in use in said land."
This royal order (1539) sounded
the key-note of spoliation, and little
more than this was attempted during
Lihe remainder of this reign. The
irst serious effort at national con-
J^ersion was made under the orders
council of the 4th of Edward
JVL, (1551,) when on Easter day
the English liturgy was for the first
time publicly recited in Christ Church
JCathedral, the ex-Augustinian arch-
bishop preaching from the text>
'Open mine eyes, that I may see
the wonders of the laws," (Ps. 119,)
The liturgy was printed the same
tar at Dublin, in English, and the
:)rd deputy was instructed to take
neasures to have it "translated into
Irish in those places that need it/*
The following year the work of spo-
liation was resumed with new vigor at
the famous seven churches of Clon-

forrt
I wi
tcm]

>0|M]

i.aticM
al«

macnoise, and other points njN
Shannon. \Viti\in twelve m
thereafter, young Edward died
tlie five years* reign of Que
gave a respite to the Irish
It was a period too short for 3
tion, but long remembered wi
grelfyl affection for the temj
exemption from persecution
afforded. '

Anti-national and anti-pop
its conception, the reformatiiM
sented itself in Ireland as
at once of the useful and alH
arts ; of all that amused and ■
and entertained the people.
both races, war was a businesi
the la)'man's hand was always \
reach of his weapon. The t]
peace — ^agriculture, architecttirt
tany, medicine, music, were fl
mates of the convent and the in
tery. The civil glories and trea
of the country were hoarded up 1
alone they could be secured, it
chancel and the cloister. It
however, the first duty of tl
formers to strike down and
these venerated remains of
of former generations-
brought from abroad, or the wo
native artists, were defaced ; st:
windows were brutally broken; sh
smashed ; beautiful missals th
into tlie fire ; croziers broken to
chalices and ciboriums melted
bullion ; bells blessed to the O
of peace and forgiveness melted <
to be cast into ordnance ; and i^
endearing, civilizing, and sotemi
sociations interwoven from child
with these consecrated objects c
were nulely torn out of the ble<
hearts of the people. In the s
maining years of Henry, and th
of Edward VI., nearly six hur
religious houses were thus stri]
desecrated, and dismantled. **
sold their roofs and bcHs," sa;
Four Masters^ in the aimal ah

The Untied Churches in Ireland,

205

so there was not a monas-
3m the Arran of the Saints
:ian Sea, which was not
d shattered, except a few
[le remoter comers of the

Of the regular religious
1 established in that small
the rule of St. Augustine
ed by 256 houses, male and
lat of St Bernard by 44 ;
icis by 114 ; of St. Domi-
i ; of St Benedict by 14 ;

Carmel by 29. Besides

a pathetic and instructive
ice to remember, that there

even in that far western
t less than 22 houses of
* Saint John of Jerusalem,
he redemption of the Holy

and 14 of the Trinitarian
he redemption of Christian
'om African slavery. All

their interior furniture and
assessions, were with ruth-
transferred to the new
converted to worldly pur-
>rder to prepare the way of
iligion as set forth by the
er.

fair to point out, that the
of this religious revolution
in part, though in a very
►le part, the receivers of the

new aristocracy arose on

of the monasteries and

Some Irish houses may
ive ancestors who came in
ngbow ; but many more
►f families came in penni-
turers at the reformation,
lis and Chichesters, in the
e St Legers, Boyles, and
he south ; and the Burkes
3ns in the west, were for-
l some of their descendants
e largest inheritors of eccle-
plunder. The chartered

of townsmen, whose con-
onsented to take the oath
icy, were not without their

recompense even in this world. The
neighboring church and convent pro-
perty was frequently assigned to these
corporators, no matter how few in
number, for the use indeed of the cor-
poration ; but as they generally con-
trived to become in their individual
capacity tenants under themselves as
a corporation, there was at least one
description of occupants in the coun-
try, who held their lands on easy con-
ditions. These corporate bodies,
which continued exclusively Protest-
ant down to the passage of the Irish
Municipal Reform Bill in 1834, were
often reduced to a ludicrously small
number; but even in such Catholic
cities as Limerick, Cashel, Clonmel,
and Waterford and Drogheda, they
continued to possess and dispose of,
and often to alienate, the former en-
dowments of pious chiefs and barons
to the suppressed convents and col-
leges of the vicinity.

The new proprietory and clerical
interests thus created at the expense
of the confiscated church, were placed
in a position to require the constant
protection and superintendence of
the creative power. And this again
required, most unhappily both for
church and state in that country, the
continuous proscription and suppres-
sion of those who represented the im-
portant interests so dispossessed and
disinherited. From thence arose the
deadly feud between law and nature,
which has disfigured and degraded hu-*
manity in Ireland ; which has so effec-
tually separated the very ideas of law
and justice in the modem Irishman's
mind that his first presumption in all
conflicting cases is (to his own loss
frequently) against the law, rather
than in its favor. ' The body of legis-
lation of which we speak had long
ago swelled to the dimensions of a
code, and since the early years of
George III. has been known exclu-
sively by the name of The Penal

Th€ United Ckurtkes in Treldnd.

[ Code, The principal collections of

f this code are by Sir Henry Parnell,
(afterward Lord Congleton,) Mr,
Bedford, an Englisli barrister, Mn
Mathew O'Conor, of the Irish bar,
and the late indefatigable Dn R. R*
Madden* The commentators on the
code, from Edmund Burke to Bishop
Doyle, or rather the advocates for its

. amelioration in the first place, and
after^vard for its total repeal, includ-
ed almost every name distinguished

\ for liberality in the British annals of

: the last hundred years.

The first of these proscriptive en-
actments dates from the 2d year of
Elizabeth, when a parliament repre-

. senting tfin counties was held at Dub-

*Kn, By this assembly the acts en-
forcing uniformity of worship, and the
quecn*ssupremicy in spirituals as well
as temporals, are said to have been

!>assed ; though others say this par-
. lament adjourned without regularly
[iidopting those measures. In the jd
year of the same reign a further act
is found on the Irish Statute-Book,
obliging, under forfeiture of office and
civil disfranchisement for life, " ec
ciesiastical persons and officers, judg-
es, justices, mayors, temporal officers,
and every other person who hath the
queen*s wages, to take the oath of
supremacy." Commissioners of ec-
clesiastical causes were created by an
act of the same session, ** to adjudge
heresy" according to the canonical
^riptures, the first four general coun*
cils, and the laws of parliament. By
this commission, five years later,
(1564,) the English Book of Articles
was declared of full force in Ireland*
These articles were twelve in number,

I. The Trinity in V"i*yj 2- TKe Suffi-
dency of the Scriptures to Salvation ; 3,
The Orthodoxy of PartiailAr Churches ; 4.
The Necessity of Holy Orders; 5. The
Queen** Supremacy ; 6. Denial of the Pope'*
authority * to be more than other liUhtn>9
have I* 7, The Conformity of the Book of
Common Prayer to the Scriptures j & The

Ministration of BaptiMn does not
on the Ceremonial ; 91 Condemns '
Masses,' and denies that the Mjw^
a propitiatory Sacrifice for the Dc:
Asserts the Propriety of Cotnmui
Both Kinds ; ii. Utterly disallows
Kctics^ and Pilgrimages ; 12, Ktt\
General Subscription to tJjc forcgoii
dcs,"

The subsequent legislation
zabetlt in Ireland was chiefly

cal, if we except (in the ill
1 2th of her reign) liicactresf
vacant benefices, and the act
lishing [Protestant] free schoo
Parliaments in those days \
bled at long and uncertain inn
The only one held during th
James's reign in Ireland — tl
seven years after Elizabetli*s lai
twenty-one before Charles L
vened another — was purely poi
This parliament was opened
managed by the Lord Deputy, 1
worth, Earl of Strafford, whose
ed and almost only object in
such an agency was to make his
master *^ as absolute as any ki
Christendom/' Four years
(1639) was held the second aa
Irish parliament of this reign
simultaneously, (at the instaiicc
under the advice of Laud)* the
iron -nerved, and most unscrup
deputy summoned a convocali
the bishops and clergy of the <
lishcd religion, which forms a
curious picture of the state of
establishment at the end of the
century of the reformation* Stn
himself shall be our authority^
point, and as abbreviated in
kin's book, pp. 64 and 65.

*' He had ordered a cotivc _
clergy to meet simultaneously witj
1 lament for the purpose of ade.
Thirty-nine Article* of the Church tA
land, 50 that the Irish artii l«s mi-ht b
a dead letter. The c w

work conscientiously, <ii :ic c

ctc*t to the best of thctr judgmcnl
Went worth found that they wctemt

Tkt Untied Churches in Ireland.

«Pjr

d, and resolved to bring them
rs. In a letter to Laud he
his victory, apparently quite
hat he had been playing the
f ra, in a style worthy of Henry
g learned what the committee
I had done, he instantly sent
irews, its chairman, requiring
the Book of Canons noted in
agcther with the draught he
that afternoon to the house,
lie obeyed; *but,* says the
*whcn I came to open the
over the tUlibtrandums in the
isss I was not so much moved
ato Ireland. I told him, cer-
can of Limerick, but an Ana-
1 the chair of that committee ;
I was an Ananias had been
if not in body, with all the
I conventicles of Amsterdam,
amed and scandalized with it
c.' He gave the dean im-
5 not to report anything until
1 him again. He also issued
•rimate, the Bishops of Meath,
loe, and Derry, together with
he prolucutor, and the whole
wait upon him next morning.
icly rebuked them for acting
chmen ; told them that a few
id presumed to make articles
>ut the privity or consent of
t, as if they purposed at once
• all government and order
lurch. But those heady and
ies he would not endure, nor
r them either to be mad in
n nor in their pulpits.' He
I strict injunctions as to wlyit
ti should do. They were to
not content, to the Articles
»r he would not endure that
!: disputed. He ordered the
mc a canon on the subject ;
neet his approval, and so the
Vamcd one himself, where-
\ came to him instantly and
the canon would never pass
as his lordship had made,
•peful it might pass as he had
;elf. He therefore besought
y to think a little better of
il is best told in Strafford's
language — *But I confess,
little jealousy that his pro-
not open and free to those
eye upon, it was too late now
ade or to affright me. I told
vas resolved to put it to them
ords, and was most confident
six in the house that would

refuse them, telling him, by the sequel, we
should see whether his lordship or myself
better understood their minds in that point,
and by that I would be content to be judged,
only for order's sake I desired his lordship
would vote this canon first in the upper
house of convocation, and so voted, then
to pass the question beneath also.' He
adds that he enclosed the canon * to Dean
Leslie, 'which, accordingly, that afternoon
was unanimously voted, first with the bish*
ops, and then by the rest of the clergy, ex-
cepting one man, who simply did deliberate
upon the receiving of the Articles of Eng-
land' "

We pause and draw a hard breath,
after this dictatorialdescription of how
to rule a church and have a church,
to observe that the Irish Protestant
prelates of those days were no mean
men ; Bramhall was Bishop of Derry,
and Bedell of Kilmore, and the pri-
mate so hectored and overawed by
this Cavalier-Cromwell was no less
a personage than James Usher. But
being as they were, as they well knew
they were, the creatures of the state,
what could they do when brought
into conflict with the author and fin-
isher of their law ?

Omittmg the period of the civil
wars and the Cromwellian Protecto-
rate as a period phenomenal and ex-
ceptional, deserving study apart, we
pass to the first parliament of Charles
II., (1662,) in which one of the first
contributions to the statutes which
we find, is the renewal of the Eliza-
bethan act of uniformity. In the same
session was passed the acts of set-
tlement and explanation, which hare
been called "the Magna Charta of
Irish Protestantism." These acts
confirmed to their Puritan posses-
sors the properties of the Catholic
gentry confiscated by Cromwell for
their attachment to both Charleses,
and extending into almost every
county. Of 6000 proprietors, so
confiscated, but 60— one per cent-
were restored, in part or whole, to
their hereditary estates. Thirty years

*Tbe first Irish canoiu

The United Churcms

later, after William's victory over
James II., 4000 remaining Catholic
proprietors were subjected to a simi-
lar proscription — so that in that half-
century 10,000 owners of estates for-
feited them for their fidelity to their
ancient, and tlieir hostility to what
Mr, Froude correctly calls *• the in-
trusive religion."

No parliament sat again in Ire-
land, till that short one of a single

[session before mentioned, (the 4th

I James II.,) summoned in 1689.
This parliament repealed the acts of
settlement and explanation, Poyn-
ing's law, and other coercive and in-
tolerant statutes ; but the issue of bat-
tle went against King James, and
tlie two succeeding reigns became
^fruitful beyond precedent of penal
^legislation. Although the 9th of the

f ** Articles of Limerick *^ — at die close
of the war — had simply imposed one
unobjectionable sentence as an oath
of allegiance on the defeated party,
the act (2d and 3d William and Ma-
ry) prescribed an elaborate form of
abjuration of the doctrines of tran-

Faubstantiation and of the invocation

wf saints, and declaring the holysacri-
Bce of the Mass " superstitious and

lidolatrous/* The oath of abjuration

Iconcluded by the denial to any fo-
eign prince or prelate (namely, the
>pe) of " any jurisdiction, power, su-
eriority, preeminence, or authority,

\^(ksiasHciii or spiritual^ within the
Balm." There never was a more

fihameful breach of public faith than
this statute. The treaty of Limerick
had simply prescribed this form of
oath for the restoration to their for-
mer status of all who chose to take
it ; " I, A. B., do solemnly promise
ami swear that I will be faithful and

[ bear tnte allegiance to their majesties
King William and Queen Mary j so
help me God/*

And the loth article of the same
treaty had provided : " The oath to
be administered to such Roman

Catholics as submit to tfrcfr n
ties' government, shall be the
aforesaid and no other." \nX\
the same twelvemonths in wt
llamas generals and lord-justS
e.d this latter compact, tlie n€
law was passed, and the new CMI
abjuration was imposed- In 1
the tolerant treaty was sjg
1692, when the few Catbo
and commoners who vent
present themselves appea
sworn in of the new Irish parUai
they were met by this infamous
of abjuration, driven outanc^f
lified. Above a million J^
broad acres were forfeited, as 3
ther penalty on those who refose
oath, and we need not be surpris
find, at King Will iam*s death, (i
that but '* one sixth part " of j
perty of the kingdom ren
Catholic hands.

The 7th and Sth William 1
r>^ re-enacted^ with additions,!
zabethan penal laws. Of
ditions the principal were : 1,
thorizing the Protestant chanc
to name guardians for Catholic
nors, 2. Act to prevent
sants (Catholics) from becominj
tors in private families, 1
cense of the Protestant 1
their several dioceses. 3. An ai
prevent Roman Catholics
guardians to minor childl^
An act to disarm Roman Ci
5. An act for the banishmer
popish priests and prelates. Dt
the reign of Queen Anne, how«
the code received its last finis
contributions* In the 1st an
this queen was passed " the|
discouraging the further
popK:ry/* of which the follov
the principal provisions :

"The third clause provides
son of an estate d Paptst shall
the established rcltgion, the Either slii
incapaciutcd frumstUingor 1
estate, c»r disposuig of any portio

portJOfl^l

Tki UnUed Ckunhes m Ireland.

309

e fbtirth dause prohibits a Papist
ig the gnardian of his own child ;
rs Chat, if at any time the child,
trer so young, pretends to be a
; it shall be taken from its own
d placed under the guardianship
arest Protestant relation. The
sit renders Papists incapable of
I any manors, tenements, heredi-
r any rents or profits arising out
e, or of holding any lease of lives,
ease whatever, for any term ex-
irty-one years. And with respect
ch limited leases, it further enacts
'apist should hold a farm produ-
ct greater than one third of the
the rent, his right to such should
ly cease, and pass over entirely
t Protestant who should discover
' profit The seventh clause pro*
lists from succeeding to the pro-
estates of their Protestant rela^
the tenth dause, the estate of a
>t having a Protestant heir, is
) be gavelled, or divided in equal
tween all his children. The six-
l twenty-fourth clauses impose the
juration, and the sacramental test,
ication for office, and for voting
IS. The twenty-third clause de-
Catholics of Limerick and Galway
itection secured to them by the
" the treaty of Limerick. The
h clause vests in her majesty all
( possessed by Papists,
her act was passed, in 1709, impo-
ional penalties. The first dause
hat no Papist shall be capable of
, annuity for life. The third pro-
the child of a Papist, on conform-
at once receive an annuity from
; and that the chancellor shall
e father to discover, upon oath,
ue of his estate, real and personal,
pen make an order for the support
>nforming child or children, and
ig such a share of the property,
lather's death, as the court shall

The fourteenth and fifteenth
cure jointures to Popish wives
ronform. The sixteenth prohibits
om teaching, even as assistant to
nt master. The eighteenth gives
;f 30 per annum to Popish priests
confornL The twentieth provides
r the discovery of Popish prelates,
id teachers, according to the fol-
limsical scale : For discovering
bop, bishop, vicar-general, or other
erdsing any foreign ecclesiastical
n, ;f 50 ; for discovering each regu-
nan, and each secular dergyman

VOL. VII. — 14

not registered, £7^ and for discovering each
Popish schoolmaster or usher, £\o. The
twenty-first dause empowers two justices to
summon before them any Papist over eigh-
teen years of age, and interrogate him when
and where he last heard Mass said, and the
names of the persons present, and likewise
touching the residence of any Popish priest
or schoolmaster ; and if he refuses to give
testimony, subjects him to a fine of /"so, or
imprisonment for twelve months.

" Several other penal laws were enacted
by the same parliament, of which we can
only notice one ; it exdudes Catholics from
the office of sheri£^ and from grand juries,
and enacts that, in trials upon any statute
for strengthening the Protestant interest, the
plaintiff might challenge a juror for being 4
Papist, which challenge the judge was to
allow." — AfcGee's Irdand, voL iL pp. 605,
60&

We may here turn from this repul-
sive record of tyrannous legislation to
inquire into the consequences of it
all at the end of the second, and
once again at the end of the third
century, from the reformation.

George IL came to the tHrone in
1727, and bequeathed it to his suc-
cessor in 1760. This generation saw,
therefore, the close of the second
century of the great Protestant ex^
periment ; and if a centennial cele-
bration had been proposed to them
in 1751, the report of progress made
must have included the following
principal facts.

" We have dispossessed the Catho-
lic proprietors of five sixths of their
property during this last century ; we
have excluded them from the bench,
the bar, and parliament ; we have
prohibited them being guardians or
teachers of youth ; we have disfran-
chised and disarmed their whole
body, even their nobles and gentry ;
yet as far as the people are concern-
ed, we labor in vain. There has been
lately (1747) a census of the king-
dom, and out of 4,300,000 inhabi-
tants, 3,500,000 are returned as pa-
pists. Even in Ulster they are not
supplanted; in Leinster they are

The United Ckurc^t in Tm\

I three to one ; in Munster, seven to
[one; in Connaught, twelve to one,
[•JVithout property, with few priests,
and scarce any bishops, still doth
this perverse generation increjise and
rinultiply. What can we do with them
tJiore than we have done to convince
and convert them ?** To this search-
ing question some observer more
[profound than the others seems to
[have replied, "Try education I"

The third centennial celebration
of the introduction of the English li-
turgy into Ireland — the 51st year of
Hhe union of the t^^o national churches
— would have afforded an excellent
opportunity of taking stock, human-
ly speaking, of the progress made
in a hundred years. But no one
thought of suggesting an appropriate
celebration of the great event, and
fio, unhappily, the precious opportu-
nity has been lost. We shall endea-
vor, however, to supply the want of
such a comprehensive retrospect ;
and here, for the first time, we find
the facts and figures of Mr. Godkin*s
book of considerable service to the
itbject. From the House of Com-
nons debates of the year 1834, Mr,
^Godkin gives the following sketch of
the arguments and illustrations used
in support of ** the Church Tempo-
ralities Act :**

" Lord John Russell, Lord Howick, and
lUr. Shcil, while fully admitting that an
establishment tends to promote religion
and to preserve good order, contended that
it ought not to be maintained where it fails
10 secure these objects, and that it must
alwa)-s fall when, as in Ireland, the members
of the Established Church arc only a mino-
rity of the nation, while the majority, con-
stituting most of the poorer classes, are
thrown upon the voluntary system for the
support of their clergy. Concurring with
Wey in his view of a Church Esiabliah-
mcnf — that it should be founded upon utility,
that it should communicate religious know-
ledge to the masses ^i the people, that it
ij^lOUM not be debased into a state engine or
|An instrument of political power — ihcy de-
l whether the Chur^ of Ireland ful-

ther lis Ifl
ed in ^1

sometUQ

rjx waa

dUQQ^

stai^l

te tiq

in l8d
4i,io8

istaots

no«S

<otsJ|

le FM

filled these essential condttionS oft
lishmetit They asked whether its J
revenues had been employed in | ~
and extending the Itotestant
land ? In the course of
than a century tt was stated that Its R
had increased sevenfold, and now am
to /'8oo,ooo a year. Had its el
inci cased in the same proportiots ?
even succeeded in keeping its owi
flock w'thin the fold? On the cc
they adduced statistics to show a laxm
falling off in their numbers. For cj»
Lord John Russell said, * By Tighc
t&ry of Kilkinny, it appears that the J
of Protestant families in ijji
but in tSoo they had been reduo
The total number of Protest
former period was 5^238* while
tion of the county, which in l8d
loS,ooo, in 1751 was only 42,108
From Stuart*s History ef Armagh, 1
that sixty years ago the Protestaots
country were as two to one ; no«
as one to three* In 1733. the Ra
lies in Kerry were twelve to one \
and now the former are much more
rous than even that proportion. In
more, in 1731, there were 64 Protest
613 Roman Catholics ; but acoordi
Mason's parochial survey, in 1818 tl
testants had diminished lo^r-ir ^"'^
the Roman Catholics had
2455. On the whole, from thL . _ . .
tation he had seen — and he believed
not exaggerated one way or the oth<
entire numl>er of Protestants belong
the Established Church in IrelaiK
hardly be stated higher than JSO^OOC
of those 400,000 are resident in tlift
siastical province of Armagh.* ''-^fl

Now, for the maintenance ol
church of 700,000 out of a po
tion of 7,000,000 — this charch
tenth of the people — there were
and now are held in mortma
the best lands of the kingdom, 1
doo,ooo acres. We are
poet :

" A time there WM ere England't
When trtrf rood of ground ai

The Irish soil is not so ni]
still, even there, every
for a sonl saved or to be savif
cording to " the doctrine afl
pline" of the united churcki

T^ UnHed Churches in Ireland.

2li

dUoQ to the lands and their reve-
ones, there are also certain supple-
fflentaiy parliamentary grants not to
be despised even by light and world-
Jy-fflinded persons. Mr. Godkin enu-

I fflerates, in his introduction, several

! of these:

"It may be desirable to add some more
piedse inibrmationon that subject There
tis a retorn made to Parliament, dated 24th
Jfllj, 1803, and signed by the then Chief
Secretary, Mr. Wickham, who certified that
it was made up from the best materials in
the chief secretary's office, and believed
to he nearly accurate. From this return it
appears that the number of parishes in Ire-
faaid then was 2436 ; of benefices, 1 120 ; of
dnrcfaes, looi ; and of glebe-houses, 355.
This represents the state of the establish-
Bent in the year 1791.

•From 1 79 1 to 1803 the Board of First
Thnts granted the sum of /"soo, in 88 cases,
far the building of churches, making a total
of ;C44,ooa Daring the same period the
Board granted £100 each for 116 glebe-
bouses, making a total of ;f ii,6oa

•From a parliamentary return, ordered
IB 1826, it appears that within the present
century the following amounts have been
voted by parliament up to that date : Gifts
far building churches, ;f 224,946 ; loans for
toiii^ churches, ^"286,572; total, £sih'
S3^ for building churches in twenty-five
yen.

"During the same period gifts were made
fcr glebes, ^'61,484 ; gifts for building glebe-
kowcs, ^'144,734. Loans were granted for
^ same purpose amounting to ;f 222,291,
making a total for glebes and glebe-houses
^ i^^y^* Thus, between the year 1791
«nd 1826 the Establishment obUined for
duvches and glebes the sum of ;f 940,047.
Jltt number of glebe-houses in 1826 was
■oeased to 771, and of benefices to 1396.
^ number of cures with non-residence
ias286."»

And, on'the other hand, the cele-
Iwants of the third centenary, if
^y bad thought of holding one,
*ould have learned from Mr. God-
fe (himself a resolute Protestant of
fc Unitariaa school, and an ex-re-

*ThefeUowtiig additional figures (from the Uuicn
J^ l^iear 1844) aregivtn on page 96 :

for bukliag chnzcbes, ;C5>5.37i

rorlnediiiKglebe-hoases, 336,889

'WFrocestant charity schools, ...... ....... 1,105,588

f» the Sodctj lor Discountenancing Victi etc 101,991

verend) of the alarming mcrease of
popery of late days even in the very
capital of English authority.

"Indeed, the progress of the Roman
Catholic Church in this dty is astonishing,
and has no parallel perhaps in any country
in Europe. In 1820, there were in Dublin
only ten parochial chapels, most of them of
an humble character and occupying obscure
positions. There were at the same time
seven convents or 'friaries,' as they were
then called, and ten nunneries, which Mr.
"Wright described as 'religious asylums
where the females of the Roman Catholic
religion find shelter when deprived of the
protection of their relatives by the hand of
Providence.** Now the loveliest daughters
of some of the most respectable and the
best connected Roman Catholic families
leave their happy homes and take the veil,
sometimes bringing with them ample for-
tunes — devoting themselves to the work of
education and the relief of the poor as ' Sis-
ters of Mercy,' * Sisters of Charity,' etc.

"There are now thirty-two churches and
chapels in Dublin and its vicinity. In the
diocese the total number of secular clergy
is 287, and of regulars 125 ; total priests^
412. The number of nuns is 11 50. Be-
sides the Catholic University, with its ample
staff of professors, there are in the diocese
sU colleges, seven superior schools for boys,
fourteen superior schools for ladies, twelve
monastic primary ' schools, forty convent
schools, and 200 lay schools, without inclu-
ding those which are under the National
Board of Education. The Christian Broth-
ers have 7000 pupils under their instruction,
while the schools connected with the con-
vents in the diocese contain 15,000. Besides-
Maynooth, which is amply endowed by the
state, and contains 500 or 600 students, alii
designed for the priesthood, there is the:
College of All Hallows, at Drumcondra, in:
which 250 young men are being trained for
the foreign mission. The Roman Catholic
charities of the city are varied and nume-
rous. There are magnificent hospitals, one
of which especially — the Mater Misericordiae-
— has been not inappropriately called * the
Palace of the Sick Poor* — ^numerous or-
phanages, several widows* houses, and other
refuges for virtuous women ; ragged and in-
dustrial schools, night asylums, peniten-
tiaries, reformatories, institutions for the
blind and deaf and dimib ; institutions for
relieving the poor at their own houses, and
Christian doctrine fraternities almost in-
numerable. All these wonderful organiza-^

•Wright's DubltHt p. 174-

tions of feligion and chanty arc supported
wholly on the voluntary principle^ and ihcy
h^vc nearly all sprung into existence withm
half a century." ^>, 94.

Such is the latest presentation of
facts in relation to ** Ireland and her
churches/' Of Mr. Godkin's book
(we don't know whether or not he is
still called Ret^ermd) we can only say
that it is very fairly intended, and
shows great industry in the accu*

mulation of materials. From SQ
statements in the historical intnxi
tion we most decidedly demur \
the valuable collection of facts
the second part, under the h
** Inspection of Bishoprics/* and
manifest desire to do, and to ini
cate the doing of, justice to men oi
churches, throughout the whole be
must bring in every true friend
Ireland the author^s debtor.

LOVE'S BURDEN.

THE DISCIPLE.

" Dear Lord, how canst thou say

Tis light.
When I behold thee on the way

To Calvary's height,
Faintmg and falling 'neath its heavy weight?
Ah 1 no. For me thy burden is too great.'*

THK MASTER.

" Good child, thou dost mistake
The burden I would have thee take.

The cruel load
That crushed me down on Calvary's road

Was thine»

Not mine.
What lighter burden can there be
Than that which Love would lay on thee ?*

THE BISCIPLE.

" Kind Lord, how foolish is my speech !
I mark the truth which thou wouldst teach

To my cold heart.
Love all the burden bears of others' woes.

Beyond its might ;
But of its own on them it would impose

Only a part,

And makes that light."

Piortnu Atltertis Trial.

ais

FLORENCE ATHERN'S TRIAL.

irm-house occupied by the
nry and Margaret, was an
>ned, plain brick building,
it right angles to a country
:h formed a short cut from
>ike (leading from the city
- to Hamilton, the county-
Butler county, Ohio) to the
vn on the Miami, passing
rlr. Lee's property and by his
ite. The house was some

twenty feet back from the
i built one room deep three
th an old-fashioned garret
e whole of the main build-
wide brick pavement ran
gate opening into the road
Vont of the house to another
ing into a private lane, lead-
^he barn and stables, a hun-
s or so back of the house, to
3me distance in front, which
I dammed up to afford a
it watering-place for the
e ; another brick pavement,
i so wide, encircled the

sides of the house. A
vel walk led from the back

to a gate, which, with a
iparated the grassy yard
egetable-garden, up through
le bam ; another path led

front-door down between
iss-plats of grass, studded
^eens and fruit-trees, over
ridge that spanned a deep

some stone st^ leading
a spring, which, with the
und and the hill behind,
I with stone, beneath which
ran a few feet, then spread

creek fringed with willows.

On the right of the path from the
bridge to some distance behind thd
spring was a cherry orchard ; on the
left an open knoll bordered with
flower-beds and shrubbery, and occih
pied in the centre by a rustic sum*
mer-house.

In front of the farm-house on the
edge of the grass-plats was a row of
locust-trees. The parlor was at the
end of the house toward the road
and to the right of the hall ; to the
left of that was the dining-room ; and
on the left of that again the kitch-
en, not fronting evenly with the
rest, but leaving space for a porch
running to the end of the house, into
the end of which a door opened from
the dining-room.

It was Christmas eve, i8 — . A
lovely, clear moonlight night, ren-
dered brighter by six or eight inches
of snow that had fallen the day be*
fore, and now lay glistening like dia-
mond-dust in the rays of the full
moon. No sound disturbed the si-
lence save the occasional crackling
of a branch or twig among the trees^
and one or two passers-by on horse-
back or in wagon, trudging merrily
homeward ; for though the railroad
had long since made a much shorter
route from thfi city to the mills and
Hamilton, Mr. Lee had not retracted
the permit to pass through his farm,
and the road still remained open.

The parlor windows gave out a
brilliant light from the candles burn"
ing on the mantle-piece and the
Christmas tree, that blazed between
them and the wood fire on the old-
fashioned hearth. A group was
seated round it Harry Lee, with
just a shade of care on his joyoa»

«♦

Florefue Atkenh Trial

face and a few threads of silver
through his thick brown hair, sat op-
posite the front windows at one
side of the hearth j at his side, with
her arm resting on his knee^ seated
on a low ottoman, was a young girl,
his niece» Florence Athern ; from
the lamp on the table a little behind
I Jier the soft light fell on the masses
of golden hair that covered her well-
I shaped head, and on the pages of a
richly illustrated book, the leaves of
which were held open by a hand
..perfect in its size, shape» and texture \
nd her face, as she raised it from
[ tune to time, in answer to a caressing
[jiod or motion of her uncle, was very
Bvely, with a tinge of sadness in the
Vht of the soft blue eyes and the
cun'e of the sensitive lips. Opposite
ythese two sat Margaret Lee. Young-
i«r than her brother, but old before
I her time, her sad face was still inter-
luting, diough it could not be called
lliandsome. At her side was a
younger sister, whose whole attention
was given to the three children seat-
ed on the floor in the space before
the lire, eagerly examining the gifts
just taken from the Christmas-trees.
Her husband sat on the other side
of the table, on which was the lamp,
looking over a book of engravings,
and trj^ing, from time to time^ to re-
strain the uproar made by the juve-
nile group. Watching the children
while her hands were full of gifts that
had fallen to her share, stood an old
colored woman, shorthand fat, and
dressed in a neat black dress, while
on her head she wore a false front of
crinkled black hair and a black lace
cap. Her kind old face beamed
with enjoyment at the children's
pleasure.

The room was furnished handsome-
ly and with taste. One or two por-
traits and paintings of merit hung on
the walbt and over the mantlepic^ce
was a picture of the Nativity, wreath-

ed with holly, and before which two
wax candles w*ere burning.

No one heard the step that ap-
proached the house ; no one saw the
wan but handsome face that was
thrust close to the panes for a fe
moments. A tall, well-dressed man
stood there looking in, then turned
away with a sound like a sob and a
sigh and covered his face with hb
hands. **lt is she, my child, my
darling; but I am not worthy, O
God ! I am not worthy !" He did
not look in again, but turned and
walked down the path leading to the
spring, murmuring, *' Fifteen >^ars^
and so little change in outward things*
The same trees, the porch, the door*
steps, only that snow-ball and these
ail an I buses grown into lai]gc bushes,
and here and there a flower-bed where
there had been grass ; but she —
ah 1 how has my darling passed
these years that have been so dreaiy
to me r* Just then the kitchen door
opened, flooding the porch floor, the
steps, and portion of the walk witi
light. One of the workmen caro«
out, and the stranger drew hmis<lf
closely behind a pear-shaped ever*
green. ** I hope," he thought, "tJie
fellow will not bring a dog with him.
He has a bucket in his hand, and may
be going to the spring ; in that case,
I have no escape, for the snow will
betray me if I move !" Eut the man
said good-night in a German accent
and, whistling to the NcvvfounillM<t
which had come out with him, ^^
now stood snuffing the air to
where the stranger was hiding, ti
and walked the length of the
down the steps at the end, past
pump and smoke-house, out ihrmi^
the gate inio the back lane, and so?
to the barn. '* So,** said the sirai
** he has gone to feed the horsei
the night, and I am safe.** He walVei
slowly down across the bridge, an4
stood for a few moments on the top^

Fkftnu Aik&fis TrktL

iliS

:p leading to tiie spring; then
xm there, and kneeling on the
t the edge, scooped up some
1 his hand and drank ; then
id brushing the snow off his
he retraced his steps and
3re gazed in at the parlor
It happened that the old
woman had just picked up
Lgest child in her arms, and,

by the others, was moving
he door, her face turned fiiU
indow, when she made an ex-
in and nearly drc^ped the
\ held. "Why, Tamar," ex-
Miss Lee, " what's the mat-
Dh ! nothinV' replied the wo-
>ec this colored pusson gettin'
iat's all. Come long, chicks,
' And she left the room with-
-ding a chance to the group
le fire to See her face, which
ightened look. Butthechild-
r with their happy prattle, did
ce it, neither did the nurse
• waiting for them. As soon
ad seen them snug in their
ith stockings duly hung, and
lyers said, she started to re-
the kitchen. Her mistress
*r, and came into the hall
k to her, preceding her
the dining-room and across
:e on the porch between the
)om and kitchen doors, much
atisfaction, to the latter de-
t, to make some necessary ar-
nts for breakfast On Miss
turn to the parlor, a game of
is proposed, in which the four
>ined, leaving Floreixce to the
joyment of her book. After
' of three games, a motion to
is made by the sisters ; and
<,ee, turning to Florence, said,
Puss, is it not time to give up
ok? Half-past eleven, my
3king at his watch,) " and we

up early, you know, to be
r church, and dinner at Uncle
morrow."

At last the brodier and sister were
left alone, and stood looking at one.
ianother for afew moments ; then Mr.
Lee spoke : " It must be done to-mor-
row. Who shall do it— you or I ?'V .

«< I think I had better, Harry dear.
Women can deal better with women
in such a time, although I know your
tender, loving hoart, and do not doubt
it"

'^ I am glad, Mag, you will take it
on yourself, for I feel a very coward
in the matter."

''Oh 1 yes, it is better that I should;
but I will not tell her till night—
I will not mar the happiness of her
Christmas till I cannot help it"

'' As you will; and now good-nighty
I must go and see that matters are all
right for the night You say Anthony
has gone up ?"

*' Oh I yes, some time ago."

'' Well, good-night i" He left the
parlor, and getting a lantern from
the closet under the stairs, lit it, and
started to the bam.

It had been the custom in this
family, since Anna Lee married, that
she and her husband should spend
Christmas eve at the old homestead^
and return to their own house in
Hamilton, with her brother, sister,
and niece, on Christmas morning.
The early Mass was too early for
them to hear it, so the clergyman
was willing to give them the holy
communion as soon as they had
spent a sufficient time in preparation
on their arrival. After making their
thanksgiving, they adjourned to Mrs.
Mohun's house for breakfast. Then»
after High Mass and a Christmas
dinner at Mrs. Mohun's, the two
Lees and Florence returned to " The
Solitude."

This programme was carried out
as usual on this Christmas day, and
the evening found th^ three sitting
quietly in the parlor round the fire-
place, with no noise of children's
prattle to distract their attentian.

2ti

Fhrmce/iih

On pretence of letters to write, Mr.
Lee left the women alone with a
glance at his sister. No face was
flattened against the windows to*
night, though old Tamar refrained
from looking toward them,

Florence occupied a low seat be-
tween her aunt and uncle ; and when
the latter left the room, Margaret laid
her head gently on the young girl's
shoulder, and drew her toward her,
saying :

** Florence, dearest, your uncle had
a letter yesterday from Arthur Hins-
dale. One to you came by the same
mail ; but on reading that directed to
him, your uncle decided not to give
you yours till he or I had told you
^something which you must know be-
fore you can answer it. Here are both
the letters, dear ; you can read them in
your own room when I have finished.
You have often asked," she continu-
ed» as Florence took the letters in
silence, ** to be told something about
your mother and father. To-night I
will tell you." A hardness came into
her voice as she spoke tliat made the
girl look up in surprise. " We lived,
till your mother married, in the north-
em part of the State of New York,
among the mountains, where people
from the city came every summer to
spend the hot months. My father
was wealthy, but cared for no life but
that of the covmtry, so we saw no-
thin^ of the Hishionable world, be-
yond the glimpse caught in the sum-
mer. My mother was an invalid, and
cared for little beyond herown health ;
and Anna, who was then a child ten
or twelve years old» your mother, and
I did pretty much as we pleased.
Harr>' was away at college at Ford-
ham, and, when at home in the vaca-
tions, was our constant companion in
our rides and walks,

" One summer a party of gentlemen
from Philadelphia came up to the
Adirondacks to fish. Our farm and

house was not far ffx>m the spat
they encamped, and we mc
several times in riding. Yo«
was among them." Here she \
as if choking back some strong
ing, and Florence, slipping oc
knees, wound her arms around
resting her head against her. **
mother was very beautiful,*^
tinned Margaret, threading ■
gers through the young girl's gi
hair lingeringly, as though she \
resemblance that she loved to •
"and it is not to be wondered a
she should have attracted attei
After several accidental meetiii|
your father, took advantage of
trivial accident, the dropping ol
rencc's whip, or something o
kind, to speak when, one da
came upon them suddenly,
this it was easy to make an exa
visit the farm-house with some c
friends. My father was a n»;
cultivation and education, thotij
chose to bury himself from the i
and liked the young men. AfM
or two visits, he invited them I
hotise freely. I need not tell y(
old, old story, dear. Before the
came for the visitors to brca
their camp, Paul Athem was enj
to my sister. Florence was bu
teen ; Paul said he was nearly tv
one ; and my father insisted thai
should wait two years, and ther
to be no regular engagement fc
year. This was at length agrc
with great reluctance by, by-
father. He also^ being a Prote
made all the necessar}' promise;
your mother should be a Howe
full enjoyment of her religion.

" Well, the winter passed quie
usual, and toward spring a cou;
my mother's wrote, inviting us \
her a visit in New York. \\\
once before visited her when
fourteen and Florence twelve ; i
membering the former pteasii

Fhnnee AHenis Trial

217

ivere quite eager to go, Florence par-
ticalarly seemed anxious. Tamar's
motlier was our cook, and had been
my grandfather's slave before slavery
was done away with in New York.
Tamar, a girl of my own age, was our
waidng-maid and humble companion
and amJIdoHtey and was to go with
OS. After a good deal of hesitation —
fer he'^med to feel a presentiment
of evil — my father consented, and we
I lent to New York. Our visit was
I neariy over, when, one day, on coming
I home from a walk with my cousin,
i I found Florence in the drawing-room
with Paul Athern. She looked guilty,
and blushed when she saw my look
of surprise ; but Paul greeted me with
great apparent pleasure, and an easy
grace that covered whatever confii-
m he may have felt That night,
iben alone in our room, Florence
said, * Mag, was I very, very wrong to
let Paul know I was here? I did want
to see him so much, dear. Oh I you
^t know how I have craved a sight
of his dear face !' I could not resist
her gentle pleading, so did not blame
ber very much; but told her I must
trite to father, it was the right thing
to do and I must do it. The answer
to ay letter was a peremptory order
hour instant return home. We, or
It had no idea of disobedience, and
so prepared to return at once. The
^ before we were to have left, Flo-
Pttce was particularly affectionate,
mk! seemed not to wish to be left
4»e. I had some last errands to
attend to, and leaving Tamar and
Rorence busy with their packing,
*ttitout for two or three hours. I
"toned to find the trunks packed,
jw neither Florence nor Tamar was
in the house. My cousin said Flo-
ftDce kissed her when she went out,
sapng laughingly, * May be you won't
see me again.' Tamar Went with
her, carrying her satchel. As evening
drew on and they did not return, a

great fear came over me, and Cousin
Mary had difficulty in keeping me
from rushing into the street to seek
for them. At last, a ring at the door
was followed by Tamar*s rushing into
the drawing-room. She threw her-
self at my feet, buried her face in my
lap, and cried as if her heart would
break. At last, when she could speak.
Cousin Mary had great trouble to un-
derstand her broken sentences. As
for me, I sat stupefied, filled with the
one idea that Tamar had come back
without Florence.

II.

"At last the frightened girl's story
was made out Florence had taken
her, on pretence of carrying her bag ;
but at Unioii Square, Paul Athern
met them witli a carriage, into which
they got, and were taken to a hotel
down Broadway, (the Aster House, we
afterward found it was.) Here they
were shown into a private parlor where
there was a strange gentleman, who
looked, Tamar said, like the minister
at home who preached in the little
country church near us. He bowed
to Paul and Florence when they enter-
ed, and then walked over to the farthest
window and stood looking out. Mr.
Athern had to talk a long time to
Miss Florence before she was willing
to do something that he wanted her
to do. At last he said something that
seemed to frighten her, and then he
made a sign to the strange gentleman
who went to the door of another room
opening into this, and opened it Mr.
Tremaine, one of the fishing-party of
the previous summer, came in, and
before Tamar knew what they were
doing, she heard the strange gentle-
man say, * I pronounce you man and
wife ! *• Then Florence fainted, and
they had great trouble to bring her
to. Then they all signed a paper, and

3l8

Florence Athetifs Trial

the gentlemen shook hands with Mr,
and Afrs. Athern, and left them. Paul,
after a few words to Florence, fol-
lowed them. As soon as they were
alone, Florence threw herself on her
knees and cried, ' Oh I what hare I
done ? what have I done ? Tamar, do
you think my darling father will ever
forgive me ?' She sobbed and cried,
but by the time Paul returned had
become quic^. When he came, she
asked for paper and pen, as she wish-
ed to write to her father. The letter
was given to Tamar, with a note to
me, exonerating the girl from all
blame. Then Mr, A them said it was
time to start to the depot. Florence
turned very pale, but didn't say a
word, only got up and began to put
on her things, Mn Athem turned
to Tamar and told her she was to go
home and tel! mc and Cousin Mary
that we would never see Miss Flo-
rence again, but that Mr. and Mrs.
At hern would be happy to see them
on their return from their wedding
tour. Then they went to the depot in
a carriage, taking Tamar with them,
) trusting to her getting safe home after
they had left, which, thanks to a kind
Providence, she did,

"This news threw me into a brain-
fever ; and when I came to myself,
t eight weeks after, I was tokl how my
kmother had died of a heart disease at
I the shock of Florence's flight ; how
la letter had come from Germantown,
^saying how happy she was if only she
knew her dear father had forgiven her ;
then another^ full of grief at the death
of her mother and my illness ; how my
father had sold the old house, and was
waiting for my recov^ery to bury him-
Lfielf and his griefs in the far west. So
Fthe next fall saw us fixed out here;
and Florence was told of the change,
and that her father would never cross
the mountains again. My father had
not cast her off, as parents do in
PQVcls, but his displeasure and dis-

appointment w^ere very greats
let her know it ; his letters, i
seldom, were cold and formal
again the fond, loving missive
had been during the short sep
from him in her childhood. Mo
all, he grieved over the Pro
marriage ; for it was a Presb
minister who had performed U
mony, and Florence had nevi
tioned having had it performs
priest. One day, the next sum
I was sitting at the open dear,
a carriage drive up to the gale
lady get out ; in a moment I 1
was Florence, and calling Tam
out to meet her, only to rccd
fiiinttng in my arms. Tamar
to carr\' her in and lay her -
sofa. Father had gone to Hail
and before he returned, wc h;
her up-stairs, and all traces of
rival done away with. I waite
iously for him to come, and woi
how I should tell him; but my :j
was useless, for he came in
small glove in his hand, and hi
question was, * Where's Floreoc
had hardly time to tell him, w||
door opened, and Florence h€^
at his feet ^j

** I left them a!one togcthc
when 1 returned, he had plao
on the sofa, and was sitting cl
her, holding her hand,

"It was not till the next da
we asked about her journey, an
she told her stor}'.

" Paul had never told his fatl
his marriage, knowing what dii
plans the old gentleman had fc
and weakly putting off the evil
dreading the scene tfiat would f
He often told Florence of the ui
his father used to induce him to
a young lady of the fashionable '
and laughed as he compare
*meado\wJaisy,' as hccalled Flo
to the 'hothouse plant,' thatw
father's choice* They ma

Florence Athertis Trial.

219

longon the handsome allowance
ither made him, and Florence's
of my mother's fortune. One
tie little cottage at Germantown
overshadowed by a stately car-
and out of the carriage came an
:ratic-looking gentleman, who
ed for Mrs. Paul Athem. Whcjn
ice presented herself, her gentle
^ had no effect in melting his
heart, for he did his work well.
Paul's father. He told her of
ns for Paul, and how he had dis-
d their secret at last \ and, with
:lty I cannot understand even
nformed her quietly that that
ige was null and void ; they
eing minors, by the statutes of
.''ork could not contract legal
ge without consent of parents
irdians. Florence heard him
id then rose and said she would
ill her husband came home
)w the truth. ' Your husband,
1, has taken my advice and
) New York for a few days, and
U not have the opportunity of
him what he knows already,
new when, to satisfy you, he
lirough the mockery of a mar-
" The listener tightened her
1 Margaret and hid her face ;
It put both arms around her, and
led : " Here Florence lost all
msness, and when she came to
^ she was alone. The afternoon
jarly gone ; but she called her
:, made her help to pack her
then sent her for a carriage,
; a note for Paul with the girl
ge of the house. She drove to
ilphia, waited quietly at a hotel
next morning, then started for
>t.

' father's anger was fearful, all
)re so that he was powerless.
:e was ill for several weeks af-
retum, and even after she re-
1 she never looked like her-
5he came to us in June; in

July came a letter to my father in
Paul's handwriting, which he threw
into the fire unopened. In October
you were bom, and in six weeks*
more your poor mother — died."
Here she paused again, and bent
her head close to the golden-tressed
one pressed to her breast. "My
father lived till the next fall, but
never the same man. Harry came
home from Fordham that summer,
and took entire charge of the farm,
my father caring for nothing but to
carry you about and watch you.
For two years we heard nothing of
your father ; and then the eastern pa-
pers were full of a great forgery that
had been committed, and the forger
was a son of one of the first families
in the city. Florence, darling, need I
tell his name ? The trial proved his
guilt, but he managed to escape,
and one day we were surprised by his
sudden appearance here. He came
without any announcement, and walk-
ed right into the parlor where I was
sitting sewing and Uncle Harry
reading, while you were asleep in
your cradle. Before we could recog-
nize him almost, he asked in a hoarse
voice, * Where is Florence — where,
for God's sake, is my wife ?' Then
a glance at my black dress and Har-
ry's stern face as he rose to repel
his intrusion, seemed to reveal all,
and he sank on the floor in a deep
swoon.

" We kept his presence in the house
a secret from the men on the farm,
and only Tamar knew it ; fortunately^
the house-girl had gone to Hamilton
for a few days. He was quite wild
for a day or so ; and when he came
to himself, Harry demanded an ex-
planation, and he gave it.

" He had not known of his father's
visit to Germantown till he returned
from New York, where he had gone
that day at his father's request, hav-
ing written a letter to that effect to

220

Florence Atkertis Trial,

Florence, which must have reached

the house very soon after she left it.
He was kept in New York on some
pretext or another for three or four
weeks. His letters to Florence, of
course, never reached her, and on his
return home he was told by his father
that he * had seen his pretty play-
thing, and told her some home
truths.' A fearful scene followed,
when he left his father*s house, swear-
ing never to set foot in it again, and
that he would be revenged. He did
not know that the marriage was ille-
gal, as he was under the impression
that he was twenty-one, till his father
showed him the record, and then he
found his mistake ; and, as of course
he knew that no Catholic clergyman
would perform the ceremony, the
Rev% Mr. Bell was the only one who
could be found to do it. He had
searched for Florence, and written to
her father ; but, as I knew too well,,
had received no answer His allow-
ance being stopped, he suddenly
found himself without a penny, and
no business or business habits ; so
he could not come out here to us,
and gradually sought forgctfulness In
dissipation. At last, by the treache-
ry of a friend, himself tlie guilty one,
he was proved a forger so skilfully
that there was no getting over it.
He swore solemnly that he was in-
nocent, and felt sure his innocence
would one day be proved. He did
not stay long, being anxious to get
out of the countT)' and the clutches
of the law. You were a great com-
fort to him, dear, during his short stay,
but he had to leave you. In fifteen
years, Florence, we have heard or
seen nothing of him, and his guilt is
still believed by those who have not
forgotten the circumstances. Now,
tny darling, you know why I told you
ibis ere your uncle gave you Arthur
Hinsdale's letter,'* The young girl
made no answer save a shiver that

ran through her frame as she clung
closer to her aunt For a full hou
they sat thus in silence; then Har
Lee came into the room. Florenc
rose to her feet and would have
en, had her uncle not caught tier
his arms, and tenderly, as if she ]
been a baby, he lifted her, and canie
her up to her bed-room. Margaret
followed, and tenderly prepared the
broken-hearted girl for bed.
letters lay unheeded on tlie park
floor,

At.L through the night Mar;
Lee sat by her niece's bed*si<i
praying for strength for her darlinj
and watching the fitful slumbers ;
soothing the sad awakenings. At
in the silent watches of the night aros
the long-buried ghost of her ow^
life's happiness, and kept guard
sidQ her. There was an episode
the sad story she told her niece tha
was never mentioned — ^ihat she haj
not allowed herself to think of lor
many a long year ; but to-night fnc*
mory will not be silenced, and she ]
brings up, once more, tlie pleasant
days when young Tremaine whim-
pered into her ear the same sto7
which Paul told Florence, and tiie
fearful crushing of all her hopes oi |
happiness, when her father forbad* j
her ever to see or speak to him \
his anger was so great against him fflC j
having assisted Paul. Margaret i
mitted quietly, as such nat
but she never cared for
afterward beyond doing her ^ii
duty — cheerfully and heartily ;
never joyously. Perhaps the old
man repented when it was lix> late ^
for in two years after, they heard
Tremaine was married, and he
very tender to her then* On hi^
death-bed he drew her to him, and
asking her forgiveness if he had ma

Florence Athertis Trial.

221

[ler soffer, blessed her for the fondest
lave and gentlest tending that ever
parent had from child. In that hour
Maigaret felt repaid for all that had
gone before. So, through the long
watches of the night, came up the me-
nones of the lon|^ ago, and Margaret
lived over again the dead joys and sor-
rows. Toward morning Florence slept
qmedy, and her watcher threw herself
on the bed beside her, and soon fell
Btoa deep sleep. When she awoke,
the son had risen, and on glancing at
Florence, she found her lying quietly
iwake.

**Aunt Margaret," said the young
girl, "that — that — ^letter. I know
wliat he wrote, and it is not neces-
wy to tell bun, bit?"

*Onlyunder certain circumstances,
■y darling ; your own heart will tell
jwwhat"

''Oh I yes, auntie; but that can
never be. I can tell him that, and
Mthing more."

"My poor, dear child, have you
not ^th enough ? do you not think
his love for you is strong enough to
be through this trial?''

"Yes, oh I yes ! But would it be
n^t to inflict the trial on him ? I
tfak not ; I think the burden is
ni&e alone, and I alone must bear

itr

"God grant you strength to do so,
>ff precious one ! If I could have
9ved you the suffering, how gladly .
tooMIhavedoneitl"
"I know that, auntie, dear. Do
Jon think I do not feel and appre-
(itte the years of care and tender
Iwe I have had from you and Uncle
bny ? I was as happy as any one
ftfcid be before — ^before — and I can
I lad will be happy with you still."
I *God bless you, dearest!" was
I Ibigaret's answer, as she pressed a
bss on her forehead and left the

lOOIII.

As soon as she was alone, Florence

turned the key in her door; then,
throwing a dressing-gown around her,
fell on her knees before a beautiful
engraving of the Mater Dolorosa,
which hung over a prU-dieu at the
side of her bed. Long she knelt
there, her golden hair falling in dis-
hevelled masses over her shoulders,
and nearly touching the floor as she
knelt At first there was no sound,
but presentiy her slight frame was
convulsed with suppressed weeping
that soon found voice in sobs. At
last she rose, and began to dress,
ever and anon pressing her hands to
her head or heart to still their aching.
When she was ready to go down-
stairs, she again knelt before the pic-
ture, and prayed for strength to bear
her cross, so that not even the shadow
of it should fall on those whose ten-
derness and love had been her shield
in the years that had gone.

And then she went down and
greeted her uncle with a brave at-
tempt at her usual manner ; she ne-
glected nothing that she had been
accustomed to do, none of the little
services she had been in the habit of
rendering ; and, but for the sadness
that no strength of will could drive
from her face, and the silence of the
bird-like voice that before made
music through the house the whole
day long, a casual observer would
not have guessed at the sufferings of
the previous night

On going into the parlor, she saw
the letters where she had dropped
them the night before, and the sight
of them sent a cold thrill of pain to
her heart ; but she picked them up
and put them in her pocket After
going through the house as usual,
she locked herself up in her room
once more, to read the letters. Ar-
thur Hinsdale's to herself was, as
she anticipated, a declaration of af-
fection; that to her uncle, written
the day after, expressed a hope that

he would support his cause if it
needed it. And how were they to
be answered ? Florence paused long
in painful thought on the subject,
but felt too utterly miserable to
come to any conclusion. So the
day passed sadly, and so the night
and the next day. On the third day
Florence felt that some answer must
be given and written before another
night went by, and set herself to her
painful task. Having completed it,
she brought the letter down with her
into the parlor, and sat down to some
pretence of emploj^nent that kept
her hands busy, though her mind
was far off. Presently she heard the
galloping of a horse in the lane, and
in a few moments a knock at the
front-door. The blinds were down
over the front windows^ so she had
not seen any one pass, and, rising,
she tried to make her escape before
the visitor was admitted. But she
l?as too late. As she opened the
parlor door, the frontdoor was
opened from without by her uncle,
and she stood face to face with Ar-
thur Hinsdale. The hearty greeting
he had met with from Mn Lee had
reassured the yoimg man» and he
was not prepared for the frightened
look and deadly pallor tliat over-
spread Florence*s face when she saw
him. She stepped back into the
parlor, and held out her hand with
a desperate attempt to smile. Ar*
thur took the hand and pressed it to
his lips. Mn Lee had closed the
parlor door, and she was alone with
him. With a desperate effort she
commanded her voice enough to
m.ake some commonplace remark
about his journey, signing him to
a chair, while she seated herselt

"I ventured to come, although I
had received no answer to my letter*
Did you receive it ?**
Florence inclined her head,
^•Thcn you knew the reason of my
coming ?'*

able, i

the I

►ved, I

Again Florence
not speak,

"Miss Athem, was ni
plain enough — do you
me? I do not undcrstj
lence."

" Your — yourlettcr wa
stood, Mr. Hinsdale, and

"You thank me, Florej

Then in earnest langii
her how he loved her, ai
fear that his letter had ^
her had brought him tlieil
the pain of a double re|
doubt in which he must hi
her reply by post To sj
rence listened with head]
and hands clasped ; ani
paused for a reply, she pq
letter lying on the table,
up and walked to
painful silence followc
by the rustling of the
hands. When he had fin
ing, he came to her side, j
over her said :

**Am I to receive tli
answer V ']

" Yes f said Florence if

"A final and decisive m

"YesT* i

" Then pardon me, Mj
that I allowed my heart ti
conduct as I hoped it wasi
as you really meant it ]
credit for a nobler heart
possess. Let me tell yod
though what I say seems j
that offer would never 1
made had I not felt assui4
treatment of me, that i^
accepted.'* 1

Florence started, and tl|
blood rushed to her ver

**Mr. Hinsdale, you ha
to speak thus to me !**

She attempted to dra^
from his grasp, but could j

"No right! — vvelU perh)
not Forgive me. Florcnd
remember iliat I love yoi4

Florence Atherris Trial.

223

He still held her hands and tried
to look into her face, but she bent
her head away from him.

"I love you, Florence, and I feel
tiiat I am entitled to a little more
consideration than that letter shows.
Florence, will you be my wife ?"

A low but distinct " No," was the
answer.

''Do you mean you do not love

She made no answer, and he drop-
ped or rather flung her hands from
turn and started to his feet

** Strange, unfeeling! O fool,
fcol that I was ! to build my happi-
ness on such a crumbling base; to be
caogfat in the net of a false woman's
beauty, the smiles of a vain coquette !"
"Arthur, Arthur! you will break
By heart!"

She had risen and was standing
vith one hand resdng on the back of
adiair, the other pressed to her head.
He made a motion to approach her,
but she put out her hand with a sign
to stop him.

'^Now listen to me. I am no false
«oman, no vain coquette. Until the
wght I received your letter, I knew
»o reason why I should not — ^not — "
She hesitated a moment. " I knew
Bo reason why I should not have
answered it according to the dictates
^Jf my heart ; but that night a story of
<life was told me that — ^that changed
^'^ whole existence. It is a heavy
Wien to bear."

" But not, dearest, if I can help you
*^r it" He would have taken her
^nd, but she drew back from him.
You cannot, no one can — O God !
'^Ip me, my heart is broken !" She
'^ew her arms up over her head, and
^ould have fallen had he not caught
^^r. She had not fainted, though for
^ moment she thought death had
^me to her relief; and almost in a
^iioment released herself from his
^nns, and said sadly : '' I hoped to

have spared us both this misery ; but
it was God's will that we should ,not
escape it For myself, a little more
does not matter; but for you — O
Arthur ! forgive me the pain I have
made you suffer, and remember my
own cross is as heavy as I can bear.
Good-by I" She held out her hand
— "good-by! You cannot return
home to-day, it is too late ; but you
must excuse me. I will send uncle."

" Florence ! I am not going to re-
main if this is your answer. Do you
think I could break bread or sleep
under your roof after what has pass-
ed ? Heavens ! do you think I'm a
stick or a stone ?"

" As you will !" she said wearily,
f' I cannot help it!"

" Then I will take my leave." He
was going; but as he laid his hand on
the door-knob, he glanced at her, and
the expression of heart-broken misery
in the sweet face overcame his injured
feelings, and he turned and took her
hand. " Forgive me, Florence ; I have
been rude and unfeeling — selfish in
my great disappointment Forgive me,
darling ; remember my love is strong
enough to bear the heaviest burden
you could lay upon it, if your own
strength fails. Good-by and God bless
you." He raised her hand to his lips,
and in another moment was gone.

Every day Florence strove manfully
with her trouble, and every night her
prayers were said before Xh&MaterDo-
lorosa^ for strength to bear with silent
patience the sorrow her loving friends
could not cure. But her face grew
pale and wan, her form more slight
and delicate, till her aunt, in alarm,
proposed a change of scene. It was
in the early spring, and Margaret
Lee proposed a tour through the
eastern cities ; but Florence begged
so hard not to be taken to New York
or Philadelphia that the idea was
given up. At last they determin-
ed to go direct to Boston, and sail

•H

Fhrcnci Atkertis Trial

thence for Liverpool. This plan was
carried out in Junei leaving the farm
in charge of the overseer, and the
house to Tamar,

To a mind like Florence's, im*
bued with a loving reverence for all
connected with the church, filled with
a love for the beautiful and grand,
and a heart ready to receive their im-
pressions; with an intellect of no
common order, and a quick apprecia-
tion of the good and noble, a tour
through Europe, particularly Spain,
France, and Italy, had many charms,
and could not but awake an interest
that surprised herself. When they
settled at Rome for the winter, they
had the satisfaction of a decided
change for the better in Florence's
appearance.

But she had not forgotten ; she was
only glad that returning strength of
body enabled her to hide more effec*
tually the anguish and heart-sick year*
ning that sometimes seemed unbear-
able. Several letters came from Ar-
thur Hinsdale during the first year ;
but Florence returned the same an-
swer to all ; and at last the young
inan desisted. Three years were
passed in idling from one point of in*
tcrest to another, when the tocsin of
civil war in the United States waked
up the nations, and called the coun-
try's loyal children from far and wide
lo her assistance.

Once more the scene is laid at
**The Solitude;" but this time the
earth is not clothed in winter's snowy
mantle. Hid in the wealth of foliage
the trees are wearing, the birds are
singing their vesper hy^nns, the sun
is just sinking behind the woods, and
throws his last ra)^ over a group
seated on the grass near the slope
into the ravine.

Henry Lee is there, and Margaret
and Annie and her children j but Mr.
Mohun is down in Tennessee with
RosecranSj and the wife's brow wears

ol^
nc^

an expression of anxi«
watches her children, tha
stranger to it when we last i
Florence, too, is there, look
well, people say ; but there i
finable change that those nc
feel, though they cannot say
or in what it lies. One or two
ladies are added to the grou]
a young gentleman, whose she
straps show his rank as second
tenant, while the foot still bcMH
and the crutches lying neafi
cause for his presence on the ;
He is William Mohun, a yc
brother of Annie's husband, aa
wounded in the siege of Vidi
What he is saying now must
tened to.

" I wish you knew our cc
Mn Lee ; for a braver, nobler,
erhearted man never lived. F
a charge at Vicksburg, and ex
himself unsparingly ; indeed, he
ed to court death ; yet when h&
help a wounded man, he was m
tie as a woman. O Miss Flor
a friend of yours is the regin
surgeon — Arthur Hinsdale,
you remember him ?"

*' Oh ! yes/' replied Florejioc;
wonderful self-command.

" He, too," continued th
man, " deserves the thanks
nation ; for I never saw such |
to the wounded and dyic
Warrington ! hope he is nc
ly wounded, for he wiD be^
loss to us ; and I hope Hir
with him, for then I know he
well cared for/*

" See, is there any men tic
regiment, Will ?'* asked his sis!
law ; and the young man refen
the paper in whose columns h
seen the wounding of his cote
Warrington. Florence ros
and went into the house ;
Newfoundland, who had
beside her, got up and walked J

ikVl

^ heji

iofrOi
lis sis!
re fen
ims h
i cote

liked J

Fhrence Athertis Trial.

225

\ stately satisfaction, ever and
linisting his cold nose into her
a token of sympathy. When
:e returned, there were traces
s in her eyes ; but her face

1 expression of loving gratifi-
ter aunt understood well,
onth and more has passed,
:tober began to touch, with
mging pencil, the trees and

The air was hazy and balmy,
sun still warm ; so the fami-
The Solitude" spent many of
enings in the open air. Wil-
)hun was gone back to duty,

2 young lady friends were
t home. Florence and her
Its were busy over comforts
ioldiers, to help them Ijhrough
iry winter with the tliought
ing hearts at home had not
n them. One evening Flo-
ad been down to the spring,
id by the lovely evening, seat-
elf in the summer-house on
11 above it, with a book. She

hear a carriage which ap-
d the house from the direc-
Hamilton, nor did she see
5 gentlemen who alighted
Mr. Lee received Arthur
e and his companion with
welcome, though surprised at
len arrival, and wondering at
i eager, excited manner. He
Henry and Margaret warm-
asked instantly for Florence.
>ld him where she waes, and
ng man, instead of crossing
ge, which would have appris-
of his coming, passed with a
>t down the lane, and, spring-
: the fence among the cherry-
lown the slope, across the
as in the summer-house al-
:fore Florence saw him.
rence, my darling, our trial is
id. My precious one, I know
cret now. . Cruel ! that you
I me. Could you not feel

YOL. VII. — 15

that nothing could change my
love?"

He had taken her hands in his,
and held them, looking down into
her sweet face while he spoke. Flo-
rence looked at him in bewilderment ;
then, with a sobbing, convulsive move-
ment of her lips, almost fainted.

Meanwhile the gentleman, whom
Arthur had introduced as Colonel
Warrington, followed Henry and
Margaret into the parlor by the door
that opened at the end of the house
toward the gate. When they enter-
ed and Margaret turned to offer him
a chair, she saw he was deadly pale,
and was glancing round the room as
if it recalled something painful. At
the same moment a veil dropped from
Margaret's eyes. She walked up to
him, and, laying her hand on his arm,
said, '' Paul Athem, in heaven's name
speak."

" Paul Athem ?" said Henry Lee,
with a start of surprise.

" Yes," replied the colonel sadly,
" I am Paul Athem. God bless you
for the care you have taken of my
darling. I can see her now without
fear. Henry Lee, I can offer you my
hand, and you, an honest man, can
take it without hesitation."

Henry Lee grasped the hand ex-
tended to him warmly, saying, " I ne-
ver thought anything else, Athem,
after the interview we had ; but I re-
joice that you are relieved from youi*
painful situation and are living to
enjoy the change. We began to fear
you had died. Tell us all about it ;
for Florence and Arthur will not join
us yet."

Then Paul Athem told how he had
gone from "The Solitude" to New
Orleans with a firm purpose to win
fortune and a fame that would ena-
ble him to present himself before
Florence in his true relationship. He
worked hard and steadily, and gained
the confidence of his employers to<

226

Florence A them's Trial,

such an extent that they took him
into partnership, and then he came
to Ohio to see his child. But the
stain was not removed from his name,
and he shrank from the meeting at
the last, as much as at first he had
longed for it. He rode out to **The
Solitude'' on Christmas eve, and took
a peep at the family group through
the window, and had gone again with-
out the consolation of hearing Flo-
rence speak. He told them how, in
looking in at the window the second
time, he feared Tamar had seen him,
and he had hurried out to his horse and
ridden away quickly. So he went back
with only the crumb of comfort that
stolen look afforded to his star\ing
heart. When the war broke out, he
withdrew from business with a comfort-
able fortune, and returned to C ,

raised a company for the — regiment,
and rose to the rank of colonel* Du-
ring his stay in C — — , the family were
still in Europe ; but he came out to
"The Solitnde," and had a long talk
with Tamar. Then came the wound
that had prostrated him and put him
into Arthur Hinsdale's hands; du-
ring the ravings of the fever he
had mentioned names and revealed
enough to arouse Arthur's interest
and curiosity. As soon as he was
well enough, the young man asked for
an explanation, first telling why he
asked it. Paul told him all, and bis
story only bound the young surgeon
more closely to him. The colonel
then paid a glowing tribute to the
kindness and care he had received
from Arthur, and to his general inter-
est in and treatment of the wounded
men. He watched till Paul was well
enough to travel, and then obtaining
a leave of absence for both from the
commanding general, started home.
At first Paul refused to accompany
Arthur ; but one day a wounded offi-
cer was brought in and laid on the
bed next to the one occupied by him

Arthur made a sign to P;
him to remove the man's cl
stooped over him to unl
coat, when the man openei
and, after looking round
tied gaze, fixed them on P
frightened stare, Paul i
recognized the man who hi
his whole existence. A £
gle arose in his breast, z^A.
ceased their work, while
away with a look of disgtU
like. Arthur looked up a1
surprise, and just then the
a desperate effort and p
hand, saying faintly :

"Athern, forgive — here-
—all here."

And his hand fluttered
heart, then fell, and his e;
Paul's with agonized enl
was a hard struggle ; but
angel conquered, and Pan
hand and said :

**I do forgive you, Bri
hope to 1>e forgiven."

A smile passed over
face ; he moved his head
was dead. In his breast-p
two packages, one address*
father, the other to an influ
tleman in Philadelphia,
was mailed duly, and the fon
his father being dead, c
contained a full acknowh
having committed the !
which Paul suffered, and i
tion of how it was mana
determined him at once t
his wife's family. Me;
same stor>^ had been told
words in the summer-hous
the springs and it took so
telling that it was almost
Margaret, going to call
saw them rise and ap;
house, Florence, with a
of happiness her face ha
for years, leaning on Ai
She hastened with trcmbll

Sayings of^the Fathers of the Desert.

^ the parlor, at the door of which
Arthur left her, and in another mo-
oeot she was clasped in her father's
anns.

A gay wedding-party is assembled,
when the spring once more puts on
her robes of ferial green, in the par-
lor of "The Solitude." All brides
look lovely, they say; but certainly
May never smiled on a lovelier one
than Florence Athem. Arthur Hins-
dale certainly seemed to think so, for
he looked at her with reverence
flushed with his deep love, as though

227

she were a spirit dropped from the
skies. The venerable and dearly
loved and honored archbishop is
there, and has blessed the new ties;
and the bride was given away by that
tall, handsome man in brigadier-gen-
eral's uniform, with one arm in a
sling yet, at whose side is the noble
form of Henry Lee, while Margaret
moves about through the company
with her usual quiet grace, and Ta-
mar's face is filled with satisfaction
at her young mistress' joy, as she
looks in at the door.

SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT.

A BROTHER asked Abbot Antony to
pray for him. The old man respond-
ed : " Neither I can pity thee nor can
God, unless thou shalt have been
anxious about thyself, and prayed to
God."

Abbot Antony again said : " God
doth not allow wars to arise in this
Seneration, because he knoweth they
are weak and unable to bear them."

Abbot Agathi said : '' If a man of
vrathful spirit should raise the dead
to life, he would not be pleasing to
Cod because of his wrath."

Abbot Pastor said: "Teach thy
heart, to observe what thy tongue
teacheth others." Again, he said :
''Men wish to appear adepts in
^)eaking ; but in carrying out those
things of which they speak, they are
bund wanting."

Abbot Macarius said : " If we re-
member the evils done to us by men,

we shall deprive our soul of the
power to remember God ; but if we
call to mind those evils which the
demons raise against us, we shall be
invulnerable."

Abbot Pastor said of Abbot John
the Small that, having prayed to
God, all his passions had been taken
away, and, thus made proof, he came
to a certain old man and said : " Be-
hold a man freed from passion, and
compelled to battle with no tempta-
tions." And the old man replied:
" Go, pray the Lord that he command
thee to be tempted, for the soul
grows perfect by temptation." And
when temptations came back upon
him, he no longer prayed to be freed
from them, but said, " Lord, give me
patience to bear with these tempta-
tions."

Abbot Daniel used to say : " The
stronger the body the weaker the soul ;
and the weaker the body the stronger
the soul."

Z2B

Popular Education,

POPULAR EDUCATION**

At no period of the world's history
have nations and their governments
seemed to be in such a feverish state
of uncertainty and apprehension.
From all quarters of Christendom

' we hear the cry of change. The last
-vestiges of the ancient order are dis-
appearing. The rule of caste is eve-
rywhere confronted by self-asserting
populations, who are no longer will-
ing to bear the patient yoke of s er*
vitudc, even though consecrated by
the traditions of centuries. Russia
has abolished her serfdom, so long
and so deeply rooted in her soil ; and
the more advanced nations of Eu*
rope, whilst yet retaining their accus-
tonicd forms of government, are heav-
ing with the volcanic fires of revolu-
tion. Wc speak not of violent revo-
lution, mainly ; but of that other more

\ radical and enduring change, which
is the inevitable result of the wonder-
ful mechanical inver.tions of this age.
It is simply impossible in the dread
presence of steam and the electric ca-
ble, for nations to continue to be what
the Greek republics and tlie Roman
empire were, or what mediaeval Eu-

, rope was, centuries ago. The Chris-
tian world is now, for all great prac-
tical purposes, one nation. Even
tliat ** despotism tempered by assiissimt-
timt* is not now the thing that Tal-
leyrand described in his witty apho-
rism; for the Czar himself bows to the
censure of the world. Napoleon pro-
secutes tlie Parisian editors, and
sends them to prison ; but it avails
nothing toward the suppression of the
po^*er of opinion. He, tonlay, has
greater fear of the sentiment of
France, than ever his terrible uncle

felt for the combined annle
rope. In England, the Hd
Peers has become a gloomy pa
and the Commons, under thi
Reform Bill, will henceforth
sent, not the gentry, nor ev«
moneyed lords of the loom, fa
toiling millions of Great Britiui
a word, power is passing fro;
few to the many, from the here
rulers to the multitude. Wc
nothing to do, in dus article
the merits of this vast revoluti
to the manner of change, its ff
e\nl, its probable success or I
We accept it as a fact, and pi
to deal with it as such. It i
possible that all this would ha
curred if America had never
discovered ; but it is absolute]
tain that the achievements of
topher Columbus and George "
ington have been the chief, hi
ate causes of its rapid consumni
When a Bourbon king» to gmii
traditional policy and animosit
his house, sent his fleets and i
to help the glorious work of bu
up the independence of this p
little did either he or his en
and maniac foe, King Geof^
gine what the end of it all wou]
Little did they dream that Mi
would, in ninety years, contain
millions of men of European 1
and that the whole European
lation would learn new prin<
catch new inspirations, and be
with new longings, new hopes
stern resolves by intercourse
tliis young republic. Those pa
ed kings could not foresee tl
vent of steam-ships and the
graph I They could not forcti
power of eraigratioii — ]

Popular Educatiofu

229

people a continent, build up its com-
merce, fortify it with the materials
for armies and navies, ready to be
called into existence more magically
than the palace of Aladdin, and,
abo?e and beyond all, how its sweep-
ing currents of democratic ideas
would rush back upon the father-
lands everywhere, washing away the
old dikes of royalty and caste, and
(bating the populations over the bat-
tlements of feudal castles, musket
in hand, and with loud cries for
"diange ;" that is, for the all-essen-
tial change which shall see that go-
vernments be henceforth established
and conducted for the benefit for the
gwcmed, and not that the governed
shall be held, as they have been for
nany thousand years heretofore, as
theproperty of the ruler, existing sole-
ly for his glory and profit Europe
sends her millions hither, and they in
torn send back by every ship to those
they left behind, tfie wonderful record
of what they see here; and these in-
^Mring testimonies are read at the fire-
[ sides of ten thousand hamlets by kin-
^fred men whose awakening intelli-
gence and energies are stirring the
^inundations of European society and
shaking all thrones to inevitable ruin,
^Oikss they speedily plant themselves
^^ more solid ground than the divim
*^ki 0/ kings. It is now very cer-
^^m that no government anywhere
^^^on be said to rest on a sure basis,
^^^uless it stand upon the love and
^^>^)nfidence of the people. Any other
^asis is the lawful prey of time and
^CDttune, and will go with the oppor-
^Xmity that may arise for its destruc-
tion.

Now, if these be facts with which
'^•e have to deal, then a very grave
Question meets us right here, and it
U this : Can any such solid founda-
tion for government be found in a
self-governing community? In other
vords^ can £e people govern them-

selves for their own weal, and main-
tain institutions soUly by the force of
their own willy which shall accom-
plish the purposes of good govern-
ment, and for ever secure the appro-
val of all wise and virtuous citizens?
If nay, then, royalty and aristocracy
being repudiated, whither shall we
fly for refuge and hope? If yea,
then how is this most precious end
to be attained ? We Americans, by
birth and blood, and still more so
by passionate love of country, say
most emphatically that we have ne-
ver doubted that the way to such
a consummation is plain, if only the
nation will pursue it It is nothing
new; simply the old and trite apho-
rism, that a free, self-governing na-
tion can only be so upon the condi-
tions precedent of a clear intelli-
gence and a well-established virtue ;
the latter (if we may separate the
two) must always take precedence,
and be regarded as the indispensa-
ble prerequisite. It follows, there-
fore, that education without morality
would be at least futile. It is very
certain that it would be absolutely
fatal ; because the intelligent man
of vice is armed with keen weapons,
which are greatly blunted by igno-
rance, and are consequently then
less dangerous to society. Cati-
line, the polished patrician, was a
greater object of alarm to Cicero and
the Roman senate than the rude as-
sassins whom he had hired to do his
treason. Before and during the first
French revolution, France was ablaze
with genius ; but, like the high in-,
telligence of the " Archangel ruin-
ed," it brought death in its fiery
track. Education without morality
is more terrible than the sword in
the hands of men or a nation. It
is not the part of patriotism to deny
that we have seen some instances of
this in our own favored country, and
that the tendency to that perilovis

230

Popular Education,

condition is very apparent even now.
This has resulted from the too pre-
valent idea, taught by the infidel or
indifferent press, and accepted by
the unreflecting or equally indiffer-
ent citizen, that morality can be
maintained without formal or doc-
trinal religion ; that one morality
is as good as another \ that Plato
would answer as well as Christ ;
that what even the pagans taught—
to deal honestly by your neighbor
and perform the domestic and pub-
lic duties of life with reasonable de-
cency — is quite sufficient ; and that
all else is nothing more than priest-
ly dogmatism and controversial j:ir-
gon. So that, indeed, the prevail-
ing opinion of the country would al-
most seem to be (if we judge it by
the secular press and multitudes of
very honest and intelligent citizens)
that America, as a Christian demo-
cratic nation, may be satisfied to be
as moral, and consequently as grand
and powerful, as was pagan Rome in
the days of her republican simplicity
of manners. They forget or ignore
the history of the Daime and Faii^
and fail to see in that tremendous
catastrophe of the most extraordina-
ry people of the ancient world, the
logical development of the certain
causes of destruction which were in*
berent in the nation from the day that
Romulus slew his brother upon the
wall of the rising city. It cannot be
I that Christ came for a delusion and
a snare, or even as a simple fatuit}'.
If his coming was necessar)% then it
was to teach a new religion and a
new morality ; tht one inseparahk
from the other. If this be indispu-
table, then all education which is
not based expressly and clearly upon
. religion is heathenish^ and will prove
^destructive in the end. It will des-
troy the very people whom it was
expected to save. It will consume
them as a fire. Pride and lust of

power will bum out tlie
science. The nation will di
the blood of unjustifiable co
as did pagan Rome, or be gi
to the ferocious struggle for
dual aggrandizement, as seci
ter revolutionary times. The
of our country fully recognize
principles, and in the foregc
have but echoed his words ol
ing in his Farewell Addms
American People : ^^H

'* Of all dispositions and habttBi^
*' which lead to political prosperity,
and morality arc indispensable »opp
volume could not trace all their coi
with pn%'ate and public felicity. Le
ply be asked, Where is the security
pcrty, for regulation, for lite, if the
religious obligation desert the oatt
are the instruments in courts
And let us with caution indulg
position that mor;dity can be
without religion,"

To this it \K\\\ be replied
well-meaning persons, ** How<
place education in the United
upon the basis of doctrinal re
when we have innumerable
none of which absolutely a|
And now we approach the
of the subject

First, let us clear away
culty. Let it be i^ery dis
comprehended that nowhereS
state find its commission fl
sive educator of the people,
is a duty and a privilege belo
of original right, to the family
domestical and not political, t
it may be always, and is mo
quently, wise and politic th:
state should lend efficient aid
j/j/, but not ar bit rarity to cantf
training of the free citizen's
The parent is placed over thi
by the Creator* and is the r
guardian, primarily responsib
the training whxh is to lead tF
this valley of probation to
nal home. Religious freed

I to ^
reeds

Papular Education.

23t

dom of conscience, is not a right
granted by constitutions, but is the
result of the relation of man as a
free, moral agent to the Creator
who thought fit to make him the
master of his own destiny here and
hereafter. To coerce the conscience
of the child by an educational sys-
tem, actively or passively, (for there
may be effective coercion by nega-
tive means,) is to violate the sacred
ri^ts pf the parent, vested in him
b]r the divine appointment There
is not a religious man, following any
form of worship, professing to be a
Christian and an American, who can
seriously deny this proposition, or
ibo would accept any other in a
((oestion involving his rights and
duties in regard to his own off-
^ving. No such man, we are sure,
lould tolerate any assumption of the
authority on the part of the state to
step between him and his child in
tiie matter of religious belief and
instruction. No other form of ty-
numy would arouse so quickly the
iodignant resistance of an American
citizen and father; and every upright
i&an feels in his heart that what
^uld be so grievous to him should
Jtotbe imposed upon any other of his
feUow-citizens, directly or indirectly.
Actuated by such views in the
Jiuun, the state provides a system
^ public schools from which, theo-
^tically, (and it may be practically
in most cases,) all forms of doctrinal
^digion are excluded, and education
is based upon a vague, undefined,
generalized moral teaching which
"very many eminent men of different
Yeligious denominations have pro-
nounced to be " godless," because
the doctrines of Christ (the founda-
tion of his moral law) are not taught
in such schools according to any in-
terpretation whatever, for the plain
reason that it could not be done
without such manifest injustice and

wrong as we have already protested
against. To read the Bible, without
note or comment^ to young children is,
in reality, to lead them to the foun-
tain of living waters and forbid them
to drink ; whereas, " to expound
the word" is, at once, to violate the
absolute neutrality which the state is
bound to maintain in the presence
of conflicting interpretations and dis-
senting consciences. Such is the
precise difficulty. Hence it is, that
the Catholic Church has set its face
against the peril with which such a
system of education threatens its
youth ; and the Catholic pastors and
their flocks, though struggling with
poverty, and harassed by ten thou-
sand pressing claims upon their cha
rity, have strained every nerve to es-
tablish parochial and other denomi-
national schools where secular edu-
cation could be imparted without sa-
crificing religious instruction.

There is no doubt but that there are
many strong and marked doctrinal
differences between the various Pro-
testant denominations which have
led some of their most emineiU men
to argue against the possibility of a
perfect or desirable system of public
schools upon the mixed or non-inter-
vention basis. Nevertheless, it is
also true that in the fundamental
point, essentially characteristic of
Protestantism, and in which it es-
pecially differs from the Catholic
Church (private interpretation and
the rejection of tradition) all Protes-
tant churches agree ; and herein we
find the reason why they can con-
form to the necessities of such a
public-school system as we have de-
scribed, with some degree of amalga-
mation ; whereas their Catholic fel-
low-citizens cannot avail themselves of
the secular advantages of such schools
without a total sacrifice of religious
training. We are told by the Rev.
James Fraser, despatched on an offi-

*3»

Popular Educatian*

cial mission for the purpose of re-
porting on the whole subject to the
commissioners appointed by her Ma-
jesty Queen Victoria, and who visit-
ed the United States in 1865, ihat
one of the influences adverse to tlie
success of our American common-
school system is, ** the growing feeling
thai more distinetly religious teaching is
required^ and thai etfen the interests of
morality are imperfectly attmdcd to ;*'
and another " influence'^ is " the very
lukewarm support thai It receives
from the clergy of any denomination^
and the languid itmy in which its
claims on support and sympathy are
rested on the higher motives of Chris-
tian duty ;'* from which, and other
causes, the Rev. Mn Fraser reluc-
tantly augurs misfortune to the sys-
tem itself in the future. There can
be no doubt but that such " lukewarm-
ness" does exist, and that it is produc-
ed solely by the " growing feeling that
more distinctly religious teaching is
I required," No accord of the Pro-
'testant sects upon what they call
"essentials," can permanently re-
concile them to either a doctrinal
teaching at the public schools, in
which it would be impossible for
them all to agree, or to the alterna-
tive necessity of excluding from the
schools all manner of *' distinct reli-
gious teaching/' without which **even
the interests of morality are imper-
fectly attended to,** Hence springs
not only the lukewarmness, but the
affirmative opposition of distinguish-
ed Protestant clerg^^menio the ** god-
less system."

It is altogether erroneous, how-
ever, to suppose, and unjust to
charge, that Catholics are hostile
to the continuance of the present
schools. Far from it. They rejoice
to see their Protestant fellow-citizens
availing themselves freely of those
great opportunities to instruct the
future self-governing citizens of the

^oinL

>ufpQ

young republic. They ap
nay, they insist upon die ab
necessity of raising the standi
popular intelligence, so as to i
the wisest possible administrai:
public afTairs through the agei
the elective franchise. That
church is profoundly solicit
the secular education of he
is too manifest for dispute, !
has, by the instrumentalilj
various religious orders, estal
universities, colleges, academies
innumerable preparatory scho<
evei*}^ great city, and tliroughoi
rural districts of the country^
ever it was possible to do s<
glance at the Catholic Regisi
Directory, for 1868, will satis(
most sceptical upon tliat poiniL
Roman Catholic Church haS4
Europe with such institution
in design, and magnificent ii
ment ; and it is not her puf
permit her children in Ameri
fall behind the age for the wa;
similar advantages, if she can Si
their necessities. She is ^M
pealing to their public spii^
patriotism, their religious sentii
to obtain the means to build
conduct her educational estal
ments ; and most nobly have
ever responded ; for it wa
steady contributions of
mainly, that nearly all of the
works were begun and perfecte
But we may well adopt the ;
tion of a writer in the last
number of Blacktvooifs
that " the fact is palpable
statesman^ philosopher ^ and ca
dent of the educational ques^
fesses^ that voluntary agcticiesi
ly unable to undertake a task
tic" as tliat of reaching til
mass of helpless ignorance cxl
even in the most favored conii
ties. It is exactly here that go
ment may legitimately step in

Popular Education.

233

its organized Resources, but without
wearing the pedagogue's cap. The
wisest governments of Europe, Ca-
tiiolic and Protestant, have done
tiui They have abandoned the La-
cedemonian usurpation of domestic
ngiits, reproduced by the first Napo-
bn, as he expressed the policy in
kb curt style, " My principal end in
ik atablishmcnt of a teaching corps is
t9 possess the means of directing politi-
ui and moral opinions.** A candid
confession for an autocrat The ne-
phew, who now reigns over France,
\as learned by the experience of mis-
ibrtane to be ¥nser and more faithful
to natural rights. In Catholic France
education Is entirely free and with-
out favoritism. The public educa-
tional fund is equitably distributed
to Catholic and Protestant, and each
is permitted to rear, under the su-
pervision of their respective clergy,
as tbey may elect, the children of
their own religious household. Con-
science is respected ; and yet the
fouth of the country are not depriv-
ed of instruction in the Christian
&ith at the public schools. Protes-
tant Prussia is as liberal and as wise
9U France, and her system of public
Uistmction is based upon the neces-
^ of religious teaching, and the
H|^ of the parent to direct the
cUd, and the just relation of the
Pastor to the parent, and therefore
^lie equity of a proper distribution of
Uie pubUc-school fund. We have
^^ the time, nor is it necessary to
CSO into the details ; but it is suffi-
cient to say that the Prussian system
Concedes more to the Prussian Ca-
^iiolic than the American Catholic
^us yet asked from an enlightened
^nd democratic American govern-
*»ent ; and yet, strange to say, the
-American Catholic has been violent-
ly and persistently charged with hos-
ti% to pabJic education, and a con-
spincy to destroy republican institu-

tions I Even England, iron-clad in
her prejudices, has adopted the prin-
ciples of Prussia, niggardly as her
policy toward the public schools has
always been. And what shall we say
of " benighted Austria," the land of
popish concordats ! Let Mr. Kay,
a recognized authority upon matters
of education, and a Protestant, an-
swer this question.

"The most interesting and satisfactory
feature of the Austrian system is the great
liberality with which the government,
though so staunch an adherent and sup-
porter of the Romanist priesthood, has
treated the religious parties who differ
from themselves in their religious dogma.
It has been entirely owing to this liberality
that neither the great number of the sects
in Austria, nor the great differences of their
religious tenets, has hindered the work of
the education of the poor throughout the
empire. Here, as elsewhere, it has been
demonstrated that such difficulties may be
easily overcome, when a government under-
stands how to raise a nation in civilization,
and wishes earnestly to do so.

" In those parishes of the Austrian em-
pire where there are any dissenters from the
Roman Church, the education of their chil-
dren is not directed by the ppests, but is
committed to the care of the dissenting
ministers. These latter are empowered and
required by government to provide for, to
watch over, and to educate the children of
their own sects in the same manner as the
priests are required to do for the education
of their children."

He also says :

"And yet in these countries — Austria, Ba-
varia, and the Rhine provinces, and the Ca-
tholic Swiss cantons — ^the difficulties arising
from religious differences have been over-
come, and all their children have been
brought under the influence of religious
education without any religious party hav-
ing been offended.'* (A'iy, vol. il p. 3.)

And bearing testimony to the ear-
nest desire of the Catholic Church
to advance the education of her chil-
dren everywhere, he sa)'S :

"In Catholic Germany, in France, and
even in Italy, the education of the common
people in reading, writing, arithmetic, mu,*

234

Popular Education,

sic, manners^ and morals is, at leo-st, as ge>
nerally diffused and as faith fully promoted
by the clerical body as in Scotland, It is
by their own advance, and not by keeping
back the advance of the i>coiile, that the
popish priesthood of the present day seeks
to keep ahead of the intellectual progress
of the community in Catholic lands ; and
they might, perhaps, retort upon our Pres-
byterian clergy* and ask if they, too, are in
their countries, at the head of the intellectual
movement of the age ? Education is, in
realityt not only not suppressed, but U en-
couraged by the popish church and is a
mighty instrument in its hands and ably
used. In every street in Komc, for in-
stance, there are at short distances public pri-
mary schools for the education of the chil»
dren of the lower and middle classes of the
Iieilfhborhood. Rome, with a population
of 15^,000 souls, has 57a public prinviry
schools, with 483 teachers, and 14,000 chil-
dren attending them. Has K din burgh so
many schools for the instruction of these
classes ? I doubt it Berlin, with a popu-
lation about double that of Rome, has only
264 schools. Rome has also her university,
with an average number of 600 stutlents,
and the papal states, with a population of
2,500,000, contains seven universities ; Prus-
fiia, with a population of i4,ooo»ooo, has but
•even,"

If the church has been found in
hostility to educational systems, it
has been when, as in Ireland, the
I schools have been made proselything
agencUs and imtrumcnis of oppression ;
and if she has disfavored without op-
posing other systems, as here, it was
solely to preset^'e her own people
from the damaging effects of a pure-
ly secular education, and to secure
for them the higher advantages of
a religious training. If others fmd
that the schools answer all tlieir
wants, she is well pleased to see
them derive every benefit there-
from which the best administration
of such a system can produce. But
the Catholic people say : If we who
^ are counted by millions, and who
^are daily adding to the wealth of the
nation by our labor and enterprise.
are required to pay taxes for the
support of the public schools which

we cannot use for th^
our children, ought we not,
to receive an equitable prop
the public fund, to assist us in
ing what every good citizeQ
to see accomplished, the cdt
of our youth ? We are now m
and millions more are cooaj
ship and steamer, every d^9
every hour. We are a part
nation, children and citizens
great republic. Shall we add
virtue and intelligence of thi
munity, or to its ignorance ^m
We are struggling with all our
and devoting all our means tc
the lowest stratum of our 9
and lift it up into the light a
of secular knowledge and sp
grace. Why should not tlic S
New York help in the good wn
The regulations of France,
si a, Austria, England, and oihei
tries of Europe would assuredly
to our legislators the practical \
of a good working system, whii
not our province to suggest in
uninvited- Let it be conceded
ever, that millions of men throi
this country should not be tax<
establishments of which they (
conscientiously avail themsem
less, at the same time, they are p
ted to participate, in a reason abl
in the enormous funds derivec
those tax -rates. Let the sc
though denominational when e
cd by the state, be subject to
inspection so far as to insure d
compliance with the requireme
the general law as to the standi
education to be bestowed, biii
no further control over manage
or discipline.

In the European countries
red to, (it may be said here ge
ly,} each religious denomination
sufficiently numerous in a disti
justify it, is permitted to estab
denominational school ; reccivi

Popular Edtication.

^iS

share of the public fund, and being
subject to governmental inspection as
to the proper application of the mo-
ney, and the faithful discharge of the
engagement to impart secular know-
ledge according to the fixed educa-
tional standard. The selection of
the school-books and the religious
training of the children are in such
cases placed in the charge of the
deigy, or made subject to their revi-
sion. Where the religious denomi-
nation has not sufficient numerical
strength to enable it to establish a
separate school, its children attend
the other public school or schools,
hot are carefully guarded against all
attempts at proselytizing, and their
religious instruction is confided to
their own ministers. In no instance
is the proper proportion of the school
fbd ever revised to any denomina-
tbn which has the number requisite
under the law for the establishment
of a separate school. By these means,
perfect freedom of conscience is pre-
senred, and public harmony and
good-will promoted; whilst at the
same time, the children of all church-
, tt are brought up in the wisdom of
j fte world without losing the fear of
God. In this way, too, religious
freedom becomes a practical things
and not a constitutional platitude or
an onpty national boast. In this
serious matter, this great nation-
al concern, those European monar-
^es have expelled sham altogether.
Have we? Da we in the United
States, vaunting our hatred of
^church and state,** our devotion to
entire freedom of conscience, our
preeminent love of ^^fair play^* our
respect for the inviolable rights of
^inaritiesy do we imitate the liberal
example of monarchical Europe, Ca-
tholic and Protestant, when we tax

our six millions of Catholics for pub-
lic schools, and then refuse them a
patricipation in the fund ? What just
man will say that such a rule is
right ? What wise man will say that it
is politic f At least, let it not be said
that in our great cities, where there
are tens of thousands of poor Catholic
children, and in those rural districts
where the numbers are notoriously
sufficient to justify the establishment
of one or more schools, they shall be
driven to seek an education under a
system which their parents cannot
conscientiously sanction, or be left
to the chances of procuring the rudi-
ments of learning from the over-taxed
and doubly-taxed resources of their
co-religionists. Help the schools
now actually existing, and which are
filled to overflowing with eager scho-
lars j and assist those who are will-
ing to build up others ; the cost is no
greater; the educational policy of
the state is equally satisfied, whilst
the morals of the rising generation, .
purified by religious faith and
strengthened by religious practices,
will give the republic assurance of
a glorious future.

We are satisfied that such a sys-
tem would give us an enlightened
Christian people, and not merely a
nation of intelligent men of the
world, as cold as they are polished,
and as indifferent to divine things as
they are eager for the pleasures of
sense and the pride of life.

This would be a truly solid basis
upon which to build and perpetuate
the empire of a self-governing nation.
Without this, our constitution is a
rope of sand, our republicanism a
delusion, and our freedom a misera-
ble snare to the down-trodden na-
tionalities all over the earth.

2^6

/]// Smls' Day—iZey.

ALL SOULS' DAY— 1867.

Dying ? alon^ the trembling ttiountain Hies
The fearful whisper fast from cot to cot ;

Strong fathers stand aghast and mothers* eyes
Melt as their white lips stammer, ** Not, oh ! not
Him of all others ? Nay,

Not him who from our hearths so oft drove death away ?'*

Well may those pale groups gather at each door, fl

Well may those tears that dread the worst be shed.

The hand that healed their ills will bless no more,
The life that served to lengthen theirs has fled ;
And while they pray and weep,

Unto his rest he passeth like a child asleep.

Ah! this is sudden ! why, this very mom

He rode amongst us : sick men woke to hear

The step of his black pacer: the new-born

Smiled at him from their cradles ; many a tear
On faces wan and dim,

He dried to-day i to-night those cheeks are wet for hiB

For there he lies, together gently laid

The hands we were so proud of, his white hair

Making the silver halo that it made

In life around his brow ; as if in prayer
The gentle face composed,

With nameless peace o'ershadowing the eyelids clos

And as beside him through the night we hold
Our solitary watch, 1 had not started

To hear my name break from him, as of old,

Or see the tranquil lips a moment parted.

To speak the word unsaid,

The last supreme adieu that instant death forbada.

I dread the day-dawn^ for his silent rest
Befits the night : I half believe him mine,

While in the tapers* shadowy light, his breast
Seems heaving, and, amid the pale moonshine
That wanders o*er the lawn,

Crouch the still hounds unknowing that their master's \

All SauU Da^—i967. 237

But when the morning at his window stands

In glory beckoning, and he answers not ;
Not for the wringing of the widowed hands,

Or orphans wrestling with their bitter lot,
I feel, old friend, too well.
That naught can wake thee but the final miracle.

Was it but yesterday, that at my gate.

Beneath the over-arching oaks we met ;
Throned in his saddle, statue-like he sate,

A horseman every inch : I see him yet.
His morning mission done.
His deep-mouthed pack behind him trailing, one by one.

Mute are the mountains now I No more that cry

Of the full chase by all the breezes borne
Down the defiles, while echo's swift reply

Speeds the loud chorus 1 Nevermore the horn
Of our lost chief will shake
Those tempest-riven crags, or pierce the startled brake I

Those summits were his refuge when the touch

Of gloom was on him, and the gathered care
Of long lifb, that braved and suffered much,

Drove him from beaten walks, to breathe the air
That haunts gray Carrick's crest.
And spur from dawn to dusk till effort purchased rest.

But yet, in all these thirty years, how few

The days we saw not the familiar form
Amid the valleys passing, till it grew

Part of the landscape : through the sun or storm
With equal front he rode.
Punctual as planets moving in the paths of God.

IVe seen him, when the frozen tempest beat.

Breast it as gayly as the birds that played
Upon the drifts : and through the deadly heat

That drove the fainting reapers to the shade,
Smiling he passed along,
Erect the good gray head, and on his lips a song.

I've known him too, by anguish chained abed,

Forsake his midnight pillow with a moan.
And meekly ride wherever pity led,

To heal a sorrow slighter than his own ;
Or rich or poor the same —
It mattered not : let any sorrow call, he came.

238 All Smils' Day—imj,

Thy life was sacrifice, my own old friend.
Yet sacritice that earned a sacred joy^

For in thy breast kept beating to the end,
The trust and honest gladness of a boy ;
The seventy years that span

Thy course, leave thee as pure as when their date begao.

Who could have dreamed the sharp, sad overthrow
Of such a life, so tender, strong, and brave ?

My pulse seems answering thy finger now —
Twas one step from the stirrup to the grave !
Oh ! lift your load with care,

And gently to its rest the precious burden bear.

All Souls' Day ! as they place him in the aisle,
The bells his youth obeyed for Mass are ringing ;

And, as beneath the churchyard gate we file,
To latest rite his honored relics bringing,
You'd think the dead had all

Arrayed their little homes for some high festival

As if for him the flowering chaplets, strewn
Throughout God's acre, breathe a second spring |

To him the ivy on the sculptured stone

A welcome from the tomb seems whispering :
The buried wear their best,

As, in their midst, their old companion takes his rest

Yes» he is yours, not ours : set down the bier :

To you we leave him with a ready trust :
Beneath this sod there's scarce a spirit here
That was not once his friend : Oh \ guard his dust !
And if your ashes may
Thrill to old love, your graves are gladder than our hea
day.

Is it Honest t

239

IS IT HONEST?*

A BRiEr tract, issued a short time
since by The Catholic Publication
Society, seems to have produced
an unusual commotion among our
noQ-CathoIic brethren, and has called
feith reply after reply from the sec-
f tarian press and pulpit. The tract
is very brief, and consists only of a
few pointed questions ; but it has
kindled a great fire, and compelled
Protestants to come forward and at-
tempt to defend their honesty, in ut-
tering their false charges and gross
oalumnies against Catholics and the
oliurch. It has put them on their
ciefence, made them feel that they,
*^t the church, are now on trial be-
icre the public. This is no little
Sain, and they do not have so easy a
tine of it, in defending their libels,
^s they had in forging and uttering
tlem, when Catholics had no organ
though which they could speak, and
'^ere so borne down by public cla-
^r that their voice could not have
^en heard in denial, even if they
had raised it Times have changed
^i»ce those sad days when it was only
^wcessary to vent a false charge
Siainst the church, to have it accre-
<fited and insisted on by a fanatical
oiultitude as undeniable truth, how-
ever ridiculous or absurd it might
be.

Since our sectarian opponents

kave been put upon their defence,

we trust Catholics will keep them to

it We have acted on the defensive

Jong enough, and turn about is only

fair play. They must now prove

their libels, or suffer judgment to go

against them. They feel that it is

Br Rer.UW. Bacon.
,lKt7tlHa4lli,it61

> to the Tract, It it Hotuxt f
TkeBivcUjm Titms, March

so, and they open their defence reso-
lutely, with apparent confidence and
pluck. They have no lack of words
and show no misgiving. This is
well ; it is as we would have it, for
we wish them to have a fair trial,
and to make the strongest, boldest,
and best defence the nature of the
case admits.

In our remarks we shall confine
ourselves principally to the justifica-
tion attempted by Mr. Bacon, in his
sermons, as we find them in the
Brooklyn Times; and we must remind
him in the outset that the assump-
tion with which he commences — ^that
the tract, in appealing to the good
sense of the public, whether it is
honest to insist on certain charges
against the church as true, when the
slightest inquiry would show them to
be false — makes an important con-
cession, or any concession at all to
the Protestant rule, is altogether un-
warranted. He says: "This sub-
mitting of the questions in dispute
to the public, man by man, after the
Protestant, the American fashion —
concedes at the outset one great and
most vital principle, to wit, that the
ultimate appeal in questions of per-
sonal belief, is to each man's reason
and conscience in the sight of God."
Quite a mistake. There is no ques-
tion of personal belief in the case.
The question submitted to the public
by the tract is not whether what the
church teaches and Catholics believe
is true or false, but whether it is hon-
est to continue to accuse the church
and Catholics of holding and doing
what it is well known, or may easily
be known, they do not do, and de-
clare they do not hold ? This is the
question, and the only question, sub

240

Is ii Honest?

mitted. Is it honest to continue re-
peating^ day after day, and year after
year, foul calumnies against your
neighbor, when the proofs that they
are calumnies lie under your hand,
and spread out before your eyes so
plainly that he who nins may read?
We think even the smallest measure
of common sense is sufficient to an-
swer that question, which is, on one
side, simply a question of fact, and
on the other, a question of very^ ordi-
tiary morals. The competency of
reason to decide far more difficult
questions than that, no Catholic ever
disputes, We think even the reason
of a pagan can go as far as that.
" Why even of yourselves judge ye
not what is right ?'*

** But this tract,** the preacher con-
tinues, *• is a plain assertion ihat no
man ought blindly to accept the reli-
gious opinions to which he is bom,
nor the instructions of his religious
teachers ; but that he is bound, in
[honesty and justice, to bear the other
side, and decide between them by
his own private judgment" If by
I opinions is meant faith, it does no
pBuch thing ; if by opinions are meant
only opinions, it may pass, though
the tract neither argues nor touches
the question. The Catholic always
supposes man is endowed with reason
and understanding, and that both are
active in the act of faith as in an act
of science. There is and can be no
such thing as himd faith, though
blind prejudices are not uncommon.
Men seek or inquire for what they
have not, not for what they have.
They who have the faith do not seek
it, and can examine what is opposed
to it only for the purpose of avoiding
or refuting it. Catholics have the
faith ; they are in possession of the
truth, and have no need to make for .
themselves the examination sup-
posed. Non-Catholics have not the
faith ; they have only opinions, oflen

very erroneous, very absurd^
hurtful opinions, and they
fore bound, not by the c^pl
have received from their
teachers, or to which they Wd
but to seek diligently, with opci
and open hearts, for the truth I
find it. When tJ\ey find it, tj
not be bound to seek it,
here to it, and obey it Ti
Protestant teaching in this
nothing ** different from wli
Church of Korae always tead
followers."

The tract says: "Americi
fair play.** The preacher ss

** 1 believe it is no more than
If Ihere is one thing rather ihti
that Americans do love, it U
thing — absolute freedom and faini
ligious discussion* Curious, xnCX
came Americans to * love fair p1a|
lishmen seem to have a similar tail
olic or Prolestant in England oui
write his thoughts, on cither sidi
hinderancc or constraint. The
may be remarked, in a measure, ia
Germany. How can you accoui
What is the reason, do you sup^
they don*t *love fair play* in SJ
Austria ? or in Mexico ? or in Roflj
injured innocent stands in New
the corners of the streets^ t^cmooq
self that he is treated ' dishund
unjustly/ because the public wilM
and read his books ; and all the lid
Holy City itself— yndcr the dirce(
government of the pope — a subj«
allowed to be (as this tract say^
and just' toward Protestant Ch] '
examining l>oth sides, except at I
being punished as for an jnfamc
•Americans love fair play,* Wb
Roman Catholic nations suppress "
docs the pope forbid it in hb en
ions } And what reason have w«|
that, if these uho are clamoring ;
play* should ever hold the poira
country, they woukl put it to any dil
here, from that which prevails ia
countries generally ?*'

We are not aware that then
less love of fair play in SpatI
J CO, or Rome, than io the
States, England, or North^G^

Is it Honest f

241

in Catholic than in non-Catholic coun-
tries, only there is more faith and less
need to seek it, or to examine both
sides in order to find it As a matter
of £ict, though we cannot regard it as
any great merit, Catholics are gene-
rally far more ready to hear both
sides, and to read Protestant books,
than Protestants are to read Catholic
books. We have never met with intel-
ligent Catholics as ignorant of Pro-
testantism as we have generally found
intelligent Protestants of Catholicity.
There is nothing among Catholics to
correspond to the blind prejudice, de-
plorable ignorance, and narrow-mind-
ed bigotry of sectarians ; but we are
liappy to believe that even these are
mellowing with time, losing many of
their old prejudices, and becoming
more enlightened and less bigoted
and intolerant ; there is still room
£nr improvement

" Let OS understand in the outset;" sa3rs the
freadier, ** that the charges against Catho-
lb and the Catholic Church that are com-
plained of in this tract, are conceded by the
^Titer to be of grave importance. The pro-
HWting of the Bible to the people — the
iKUcfthat priestly absolution has efficacy
^ itself; and is not merely conditional on
the sincerity of the sinner's repentance — the
S^fing to images of such worship as the
iKatben do— all these are declared by this
"Writer to be * detestable and horrible.' So
^ if it should appear that any one of
•^ is proved against Catholics or the
^itiiolic Church, the case is closed against
^^ He is not at liberty to go back and
^ologize for the doctrine or palliate it He
^ declared it to be * false doctrine * — * de-
'^^ablc and horrible.*"

What the tract regards as impor-

^*itt or unimportant, is nothing to the

T^Urpose; what the preacher must

P^e is, that it is honest to continue

^ repeat charges against Catholics

^d the Catholic Church which have

W amply refuted, and the refuta-

tioa of which is within the reach of

C'wy one who would know the truth ;

or at least he must show that the re-

VOL. VII.— 16

futation is insufficient, and that the
charges are not false, but true. He
will hot find us shrinking from the
truth, apologizing for it, or seeking
to get behind it or around it. We,
however, beg him to understand that
he is the party accused, and on trial,
not we, and that we are probably bet-
ter judges on doubtful points, of what
is or is not Catholic doctrine and
practice, than he or any of his breth-
ren. He will do well, also, to bear in
mind that the question raised by the
tract is not whether the doctrine of
the church is true or false, but whe-
ther it is honest to persist in saying
that it is what the church and all Ca-
tholics affirm that it is not. What
he must prove, in order to be ac-
quitted, is that the church and Cath-
olics do hold what the tract denies,
and denies on authority, or that there
are good and sufficient reasons for
believing that they do so hold.

I. The tract asks, " Is it honest to
say that the Catholic Church prohi-
bits the use of the Bible, when any-
body who chooses can buj- as many
as he likes at any Catholic book-
store, and can see on the page of
any one of them the approbation of
the bishops of the Catholic Church,
with the pope at their head, encou-
raging Catholics to read the Bible,
in these words, "The faithful should
be excited to the reading of the Holy
Scriptures," and that not only for the
Catholics of the United States, but
also for those of the whole world."
Mr. Bacon does not meet directly the
facts alleged by the tract, nor plead
truth in justification of the libel ;
but undertakes to show that even if
false, yet Protestants may be person-
ally honest in uttering it ; and he ad-
duces various circumstances which
he thinks may very innocently in-
duce Protestants to suppose that the
church does prohibit the use of the
Bible. We have aot the patience ta

'24^

I&nesfi

Make up in detail all the circumstances
alleged, and refute the inferences
drawn from them ; most of them are
mere inventions, perv^ersions of the
truth, misapprehensions of the facts
in the case, and none, nor all of them
together, justify the inference* in face
of what the tract alleges, that the
church prohibits the use of the Bible ;
and it is easy for any one who honest-
ly seeks the truth to know that ihey
do not

The facts alleged by the tract are
accessible to all who wish to know
them. He who makes a false charge
through ignorance, when he can with
ordinary prudence know that it is
false, is not excusable ; and it is t*t
surely in those who claim to be the
tnlightened p<jrtion of mankind to
attempt ^to defend their honest)' at the
expense of their intelligence. They
are the last people in the world, if
we take them at their estimate of
themselves, to be permitted to plead
invincible ignorance.

The Nmuirk Evening journal is
bolder and more direct than Mr. Ba-
con. It asserts that the Church ac-
tually forbids the reading of the
Scriptures, and boldly challenges the

^ fact alleged by the tract. It says :
**0n the ver)' page from which are
taken the words, *The faithful should
be excited to read the Holy Scrip-
tures,* are quoted, it is also said,
*To guard against error it was judged
necessary to forbid the reading of
the Scriptures in the vulgar languages,
without the advice and permission of
the pastors and spiritual guides whom
Cod has appointed to govern his
Church.* How then can it be false
to say that the Church prohibits the
use of the Holy Scriptures ?'* Simply
because to forbid the abuse of a thing
is not to prohibit its use. The faith-
ful, for die promotion of faith and
piety, are excited to read the Scrip-

' lures ; but to gtiard against error or

the abuse of the sacred

those who would wrest th
own destruction are forbidd
them in the vulgar language
under the direction of their
guides. A prudent and lovi
forbids his child, who has
appetite or a sickly constit
eat of a certain kind of foi
under the direction of the fai
sician, lest the child should b
by it ; can you therefore sa^
prohibits the use of that kin-
Certain ly not All you can si
while he concedes the use,
precautions against the abii
is in no sense inconsistent
thing asserted by the tract,

Mr. Bacon, referring to
cases of the confiscation c
circulated by the Bible Sod<
in the hands of the laity,
French Bible confiscated wa
tholic version of De Sacy;
Polish Bible circulated by
Society was, word for word,
of the version published t
ries before, and approved
popes ; the Italian Bible, fot
which the godly family Ma<
persecuted and imprisoned.
Catholic version [not so] of
Archbishop of Florence,
with the approbation and
Pope Pius VL Suppose this {
does not prove that the Chut
bits the use of the Holy Scripl
is very good proof to the
These versions were made l
lished for the people, and w<
been neither made nor pub!
the use of the Scriptures
den. And how can you
popes prohibit what you sb
approved and sanctioned?
was a Gennan Bible before
and our Douay Bible was j
before the version of King

**But I am not willing/*
the preachefi 'Hhat this

Is a Honest f

343

cflfrontery?] of this question
1 be let go even with this an-
We can easily believe it. " I
idy to call witnesses." Well,
octor, your witnesses ; we are
hear their testimony. "Who-
ard of a Catholic Bible Society
ying copies of the Bible?" No-
hat we know of. But how
it since Protestants had a Bi-
:iety ? Prior to that, did they
t the use of the Holy Scrip-
" Popes have fulminated their
jainst Bible Societies, denoun-
em as an invention of the de-
^ot unlikely; but it is one
o denounce Bible Societies,
3ther to prohibit the use or the
; of the Bible. Your witnesses,
r, do not testify to the point.
5, all the facts, or pretended
ou bring forward are too re-
r your purpose. The accusa-
Lt the Church prohibits the use
Scriptures was made by Pro-
> long before any of them are
id to have occurred, and there-
luld not have originated in
Ex-post facto causes are not
d in catholic philosophy. The
brought against the Church
no little folly and ingratitude,
'hurch had prohibited the use
Jcriptures, how could the Re-
have got a copy of them?
srtainly purloined them from
i could have got them from
r source.

preacher concludes his first
by saying : " I am glad the
s come when it is understood
^1 sides that, if the Roman
is to commend itself to the
\n people, it must begin by
ting, as horrible and detesta-
: teaching and practice for
undred years of the church."
lias for three hundred years
Isely alleged by her enemies
her teaching and practice.

agreed ; but what has really been htt
teaching and practice, denied. " Let
it but make good this new claim, and
we thank God for the new refor-
mation, and welcome it to the plat-
form of Protestantism." There is no
new claim in the case ; what the tract
asserts has always been the doctrine
and practice of the church ) she has
always encouraged the use and op-
posed the abuse of the Holy Scrip-
tures. That the preacher should &lh
sire a new reformation can be easily
understood, for the old has well-nigh
run out ; that he will ever be able to
welcome the church to the platform of
Protestantism is, however, not likely ;
for she is not fond of standing on
platforms, and prefers to remaiB
seated on the rock. The reverend
gentleman may be shocked to hear it ;
but it is, nevertheless, a fact, that the
Bible and reason are not special Pro-
testant possessions ; they were ours
ages before Protestantism was borr^
and will be ours- ages after Protest-
antism is dead and forgotten.

2. In his second sermon — ^in a note
to which he corrects his assertion that
it was the Catholic version of Mar-
tini, and states that it was the Pro-
testant version of Diodati, that was
used by the godly family of the Mar
dial — ^the preacher confines his efforts
to questions raised by the tract witk
regard to the worship of images and
pictures, and of the Blessed Virgin
and the saints. The tract asks :

" Is it honest to accuse Catholics 0/ paying
dhnn€ worship to images or pictures as the
heathen do — when any Catholic indignantly
repudiates any idea of the kind, and whea
the Council of Trent distinctly declares the
doctrine of the Catholic Church in regard
to them to be, * that there is no divinity or
virtue in them which should appear to claim,
the tribute of one's veneration ;' but that
all the honor which is paid to them shall be
referred to the originals whom they are d^
signed to represent?' (Sess. 25.)

"The answer to this question," |lie
preacher says, **1i to be foond by asking tw»

others: t. What sort of honors do the
heathen pay to images? 2, What sort of
honors do Roman Catholics pay to them P
When we have got answers toUicsc tw6, we
can compare them, and shall be able to aay
whether they arc the same."

We respectfully submit that neith-
er of these questions need be asked ;
for so far as pertinent, both are an-
swered in the tiact itself. The ac-
cusation against Catholics which the
Iract implies cannot be honestly
made, is that we pay dtvinr worship
to images and pictures, as the heathen
do ; what the tract then denies is
that Catholics pay divine worship to
images and pictures j and what it as-
serts is, that the heathen do pay I hem
divine worship ; but this assertion is
simply illustrative, and should it be
found inexact, it would not affect the
formal denial that the worship Catho-
lics pay them is divine. As to what
sort of worship Catholics do render to
images and pictures, the answer in the
tract is explicit, that it is a** certain tri-
bute of veneration paid them in honor
of their original. The worship is not
divine worship, and the honor paid is
not paid to them for any virtue in
them, but is referred solely to their
originals.** The catechism puts this
dearly enough. ** Q, And is it al-
iinoabie to hotmr relics^ crucifixes^ and
holy pictures t A. Yes ; with an in-
ferior and relative honor, as they re-
late to Christ and his saints, and are
the memorials of them, Q. May
we then pray to relics and imagrs /
A, No ; by no means, for they have
no life or sense to hear or help us/*

The preacher labors to show that
this inferior and relative honor is
precisely what the heathen pay to the
images of their gods ; but this, if
true, would not prove that we do, but
that the heathen do not, pay divine
honors to images. He cites various
authorities, Cliristian and heathen, to
j»rove that it is not the brass and

enid

m c

r sa
,> wh
h ma

ty^

gold and silver, when fashi
a statuci that the heathen
but that through the statue 01
they worship the invisible god
is, ihey worship the image
visible representation of thi
divinit>% Tliis is, no doubl
respects, the actual fact ; n-
tends that they worship pn
material statue, but the mM
god, the prayers, invocations,
tations, and the other ceremd
the consecration of the sta
priests compelled to enter
and take up his abode in it.1
this image, which for them
the god, the heathen offer sa
and other acts of worship wh
due to God alone, which
thediiference in the world,
have no doubt that the t;
perverted, corrupted, and tra
in heathen worship is the C
ty*pe ; as all heathenism is a '
tion, penersion, or travesty
true religion, or as Protestan
a corruption, per\*ersion, or ti
of the Catholic Church,

The heathen images and j:
represent no absent re 1
not memorials of an ;i
like our sacred images and pi^
and the heathen, then, can
only the material substance
supposed indwelling numen
mon. The gods they are sujjp
bring nigh, represent, or renc
ble, are either purely iiiiagin
evil spirits ; hence the Scripll
us that ** all the gods of the 1
are devils.** And finally* to
idols, which are nothing bu
and stone, brass and silver,
which represent, if any things \
or devils, the heathen pay
honors ; while we simply hot
respect images and pictures
Lord and his saints for the
the originals, or the worth tc
they arc related. Here is s

Is it Hatmtt

245

we should suppose even
ant doctor capable of per-
\ recognizing,
.cher forgets that what is
the tract is, that we pay
»rs to sacred images and
id cites ample authority
It we do not pay divine
em or through them. We
10 sacrifices, and we offer
ayers or praises, even as
as memorials of a worth
int. They are never the
jgh which we honor that
we honor them for the
worth to which they are
:he pious son honors the
his mother, the patriot
5 of the father of his
the lover the portrait of
5. The respect we pay
^ from one of the deepest
principles of human na-
m be condemned only by
lold that there is nothing
ure, and condemn as evil
il whatever is natural,
ister thinks that, even
ghtened and intelligent
nderstand the question as
)y the catechism and de-
le Council of Trent, yet
atholics may not; and
he honors paid to images
» actually degenerate into
le asks :

in this respect do the people
ly differ from those of ancient
taly ? Do the practices of the
correspond to the doctrines of
s, or have they, as of old time,
instruction ?' Do they pay no
tion, as if there were some spe-
the image itself, to those ima-
eputed to bleed or sweat, or to
hat wink ? If it was only as
\ thoughts toward the person
that the image or picture
one image would serve as
•r, except that those in which
genius of the artist had most
present in touching and vivid

portraitore the object of the worship, migbt
be preferred above ruder and coarser worki^
But as I have passed from church to churck
in those lands in which the Roman system
has had unlimited opportunity to work itself
out into practice, and have ' behekl the de*
votions' of the people, I have seen certain
statues frequented by a multitude of wor*
shippers, and visited by pilgrims from a&r,
who had come to bow down before them*
and hung with myriads of votive oflerings
— waxen effigies of arms and legs and other
members that had been healed in conse-
quence of prayers to that particular image.
And one fSaict, which I did not then appre-
ciate the bearing o( was constantly observed
by myself and my companion— 4hat these
objects of special worship and veneration
were never works of superior art, but com*
monly rude, and sometimes even grotesques
The inexpressibly beautiful and touching
statue by Bernini, of the Virgin holding
upon her knees the body of the dead Jesusp
is in the crypt of St Peter's, and admiring
critics go down to study it by torchlight
But the image whidi is adertd is a grimy
bronxe idol above it in the nave of St.
Peter's, whidi is so venerated as the statue
of that apostle that the toes of the ex-
tended foot have been actually kissed away
by the adorations of the faithful"

It is very evident that the preach-
er, whatever opportunities he may
have had, knows very little of the
Catholic people in general, or of the
Italian people in particular, and his
guesses would deserve more respect
if made in relation to his own people*
Protestants have no distinctive wor-
ship which can be offered to God
alone, and are therefore very poor
judges of what they may see going
on before their eyes among a Catho-
lic people. The Church is responsi-
ble only for the faith she teaches
and the practices she enjoins, ap*
proves, or permits. If the people
depart from this faith and abuse
these practices in their practical de-
votion, the fault, since she takes
away no one's freedom, is theirs, not
hers. The worship that Catholics
render to God, the honor they pay
to the saints, and the respect they
entertain for safcred imafi:es, differs

246

Is it Hon est f

BOt, as all worship with Protestants
must, simply as more or less, byt in
kind, and not even a Protestant
community can be found so ignorant
as not to be able to distinguish be-
fft'een an image or a picture and the
saint or person intended to be repre-
sented by it. For the many years
we lived as a Protestant we never
met any one of our brethren who
mistook his mother's portrait for his
mother herself, or the statue of a dis-
tinguished statesman for the states-
man himself Who ever mistakes
the equestrian statue of George
Washington in Union Square for
George Wasliington on horseback,
or confounds Andrew Jackson him-
self with Miirs ugly equestrian sta-
tue of him in one of the squares of
Washington? Who could mistake
the bronze horse on which the image
of the old General is placed, and
which you fear ever)* moment is go-
ing to tilt over backward, for a real
horse ? Well, my dear doctor, how-
ever ignorant these Italian people
may be whom you see kneeling be-
fore an image or a picture of the
Madonna, they know more of the
doctrines of the Gospel, more of God,
and of man*s duties and relations to
him, more of his proper worshipi than
the most enlightened non-Catholic
community that exists or ever exist-
ed on the earth. They may not
know as much of error against faith
and piety, of false theories and crude
speculations as non-Catholics; but
they know more of Christianity, more
of what Christianity really is, what
it teaches, and what it exacts of the
faithful, than the wisest and most
learned of your sectarian ministers,
not even excepting yourself

Witli regard to bleeding, sweating,
or winking pictures, if you find peo-
ple believing in them, you will never
Und among Catholics any who be-
lieve that they bleed, sweat, or wink

by any virtue that is in tk
itself; but that the phen<
a miracle, which God wod
saint pictured. You may ft
miracle, but not reason abl
on the ground that the cvi
the case is insufficient.
believes in God believes in
sibility of miracles, and thei
ing more miraculous in a _
the Madonna winking, swe«
bleeding, than there was in fi
ass speaking and rebuking
ter. It is simply a quesli
If the proofs are conclusivi
is to be believed ; if insi
one is bound to believe it

If you find the people
a particular image or picfi
bringing to it their votive
it certainly is not, as the
takes notice, on account of
as a work of art ; for the Id
pk.', with all their love and
taste for art, do not, like \
non-Catholics, confound art
ture with religious culture;
because they hold tliat the|
hidden virtue in that partic
age or picture itself, but bei
saint whose it is, has or b^
to have specially favored tl
have invoked him before id
may or may not be mistab
the fact, but the principle, (
the special devotion to our
a saint before a particular
a correct one ; and there i
practice no special honor U
age or picture for its own
consequently notliing nee
perstitious or idolatrous.

Even if, as there is no
believe, the statue of St. Pet
Peter's at Rome, and w|
preacher calls a " grimy broi
was originally, as he tells us
it was, a statue of Jupiter, t
paid to it by the faithful w<
be paid to Jupiter, while ta|

/j UHantstt

JMT

o St Peter. But the toes
lage have been worn away
:isses of the worshippers;
ot these kisses prove that

adore the image? The
dore their gods by kissing
>f their statues ; and when
kiss the feet of the images
taints, how can it be said
do not worship or adore
3 the heathen do? The
ise incense in tiie worship

Moses prescribes incense,
ews use it in their worship
le God; therefore the Jews
ters I The preacher for-

what the tract declares
onest is the accusation that
pay (Uvine worship, that is,
ip due to God alone, to im-
pictures, as the heathen do.
le feet of the statue of St
>m love and devotion to
himself, the prince of the
3n whom our Lord found-
urch, is not to pay divine
the image, nor even to
iself. Were we so happy
id ourselves at St Pe-
Rome, we are quite sure
lould kneel before the sta-
Peter, and kiss its feet, run-
isk of its having been once
f Jupiter, and we should do
>per method of expressing
jid veneration for the great
[id as simply and innocent-
nother kisses the carefully

portrait of her beloved son
cattle for his faith or his
As to using the forms used
athen to express affection
>n, if proper in themselves,
s little scruple as we have
he language which our an-
ed in the worship of Woden
n our prayers and praises to
ilver-living and True God.

sermon next takes up
accusation that Catholics

pay divine worship to die Blessed
Virgin and the saints. The tract
asks:

''Is IT HONEST to oeeuii CoiMks ^
putUmg tht Blessed Virgin 9r the SahOt
in the piaee cf God or^Lardyesus Ckria
— when the Council of Trent dediuret that
it U simply useful to ask their intercesdoa
in order to obtain favor from God, through
his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who alone
is our Saviour and Redeemer —

'* When ' asking their prayers and infls*
ence with God,* is exactly of the sane
nature as when Christians ask the pious
prayers of one another H^

The preacher says, ^ At the outset
let me remark, that the question
what Roman Catholics do b not con«'
clusively answered by quoting what
the Council of Trent declares.^
This si^>poses that the same rule
must be applied to Catholics, who
have an authoritative church, that
is applicable to non-Catholics, who
have none, or to people among whom
every one beliefs according to his
own private judgment, and does what
is right in his own eyes. But this is
not permissible. Our faith is taught
and defined by authority, and to
know what we as Catholics believe
or do, you must be certain what the
church authoritatively teaches or pre*
scribes. We cannot go contrary to
that and be Catholics. No doubt
Catholics may depart from the faith
of the church, and disobey her pre-
cepts ; but when they obstinately per-
sist in doing so, they cease to be Ca^
tholics in faith and practice, and their
belief or their practice is of no ac-
count in judging what is or is not
Catholic doctrine or practice. They
who believe or do anything con-
trary to what is declared by the
Council of Trent, are pro tanio non*
Catholics. To know what is Catho-
lic faith and Catholic practice, you
have only to consult the standards
of the Catholic Church — ^not every
individual Catholic, as you must

248

it Hmiestf

even^ individual Protestant when you
wish to ascertain what is Protestant
opinion and practice. Our stand-
ards speak for themselves ; and in
determining what Catholicity enjoins
or allows, you must consult them, and
them only.

Mr Bacon and his brethren have
as free access to our standards as we
ourselves have, and they must re-
main under the charge of dishonestly
misrepresenting us, or prove by our
standards that the church offers or au-
thorizes or does not forbid her children
from offering divine worship to the
Blessed Virgin. Their surmises, their
conjectures, their inferences from
what they see among Catholics, but
do not understand, must be thrown
out as inadmissible testimony. There
arc the standards : if they sustain
you, well and good ; if not, you are
convicted, and judgment must go
against you. This is the case pre-
sented by the tract and which Mr.
Bacon and his friends are to meet
fairly and squarely.

Now, the tract shows from the
standards, from the Council of Trent,
which is plenary authority in the
case, that the accusation against Ca-
tholics of "putting the Blessed Vir-
^n or the saints in the place of God
or the Lord Jesus Christ," is an ac-
cusation so manifestly untrue that no
one can honestly make it. Here
also is the catechism, which the
-church teaches all her children. ** Q.
Does this commandment [the first]/^/--
*bid ail honor and vmeratioti of saints
^and angeisf No; we are to honor
them as God's special friends and
•scn'ants, but not with the honor
which belongs to God," The Coun-
cil of Trent declares that " it is good
And useful to ask the saints who
feign together with Christ in heaven,
to pray for us,'* ** or to ask favors far
tis from our Lord Jesus Christ, who
alone is our Redeemer and Saviour/*

We ask the saints in heav
ask our friends on earth, ta^
us. Here is the whole p
the case. The Council
Sess. 22, c. 3, defines tliat^
the church is accustomed to
masses in honor of the s;
she teaches they arc nev
offered to them, but to Goi
Non tamcn ilUs sacrificium o^
sed Deo salt, qui iHos
Now, with Catholics the di;
divine worship, the suprctni
due to God alone, and
would be idolatry to offi
other, is sacrihce, the hig
sible sacrifice, the sacrifi*
Mass, w^hich our priests o^
day on the altar ; the one uii
sacrifice which was offered tj
manner on Calvary. This
to God alone ; all else that :
to God in worship, pray
love, veneration, may, in
least, be offered to men. \
the chief magistrate, whcti
king or emperor, president
ernor ; we honor the prela
the Holy Ghost has plao
in the church; we pray to o|
rulers and men in authorit)-;
the praises of the great
heroic ; we love our coui
family, and friends ; we vei
wise and the good, who, in
to the cause of truth, im
reh'gion, prove themselves
That Protestants, who have"
rifice, no priest, no altar,
should mistake the nature
tus sanctorum^ is not surpi
they have nothing in kind to
that we do not offer to
especially to the queen of sail
Blessed Mother of God. Bui
their fault, not ours ; for it
tliem to know^ — for our stani
them so — that we as Catbo]
the supreme act of w^orshl
sacrifice of the Mass — ^hol

Is it Honest f

249

ooljr God is an adequate ofTering
to God, and that the sacrifice of
l!6e Mass is never offered to the
saints or to any but God alone.
There is a marked difference be-
tireen our cultm sanctorum and that
i»ith which men hke Mr. Bacon, of
Brooklyn, seek to identify it The
lieathen offered sacrifices, the high-
est form of worship they had, to their
Uols, their demigods and heroes;
'wc offer the highest worship which
'^lehave — and we have it only through
CSod's goodness — ^to the one, living,
trae God only. This proves that the
accusation against Catholics of put-
tingthe Blessed Virgin and the saints,
asobjects of worship, in the place of
Cod, is a false accusation, so well
known or so easily known to be
fibe, that no one of ordinary intelli-
gence can honestly make it.

But the preacher supposes that
Catholics, in other respects, put them
in the place of God. This is impos-
sible. Catholics hold that the saints,
>nth the Blessed Virgin at their head,
Bremen and women — creatures whom
^ has made, has redeemed with
lus own blood, and has elevated,
sanctified, and glorified by his grace,
3nd therefore they cannot identify
^fcem with him or substitute them
Arhhn. We hold that Mary is the
Mother of Christ, and that he is her
lord as well as ours, and that it is
^feough his merits alone, applied
^^rehand, that she was conceived
^thout original stain ; and can any-
'^y, so believing, mistake her for
j^ Son, in any respect put her in
^ place, or assign to her his media-
^lial work ? The very fears express-
^ by our Protestant friends that we
^o or are liable to do so, prove that
^en they are able to discriminate
*^tween her and her Son ; why not
^Henwc?
The reverend gentleman continues :

"We are invited to several inquiries.
First : Is it true that the prayers that are
offered by Roman Catholics to departed
saints, and especially to that holy woman
whom we with them in all generations wiite
to call the blessed, are only of such a na*
ture as we might offer to a fellow-Christian
here upon the earth in soliciting his prayers
in our behalf? Secondly : Are these suppli-
cations only for favor and influence, or are
they for the direct gift of blessing and sal-
vation ? Do they put Mary into the place of
Christ, the one Mediator between God and
man ; making of the All-Merciful Saviour
who inviteth all to come unto him, an inac-
cessible object of dread and terror, whom
we dare not approach except through the
mediation of Mary ? Do they ascribe to her
the glory due to Christ, the only name giv^n
under heaven among men whereby we may
be saved? Do they profess faith in her
alone for salvation ? Do they put the saints
in the place of the Holy Ghost, by suppli-
cating from them directly the divine gift of
holiness and the renewal of the sinftd
heart?"

We have answered these questions
by anticipation. It is probable that
Catholics believe somewhat more dis-
tinctly and more firmly in " the one
mediator of God and men, the man
Christ Jesus," than do the sects, and
are less likely to forget it, seeing
that all their practical devotions, pub-
lic and private, the great honors
given to Mary and the saints are
founded on it and tend directly to
keep us from forgetting it. Catho-
lics do not pray to Mary because
they regard the All-merciful Saviour
as inaccessible, or as an object of
dread and terror; nor because she
comes in between them and him, re-
presents him, or enables them to ap-
proach him through her, as is evi-
dent from the fact that we not unfre-
quently directly beseech him to grant
that she and other saints may pray
for us. We honor her as the mother
of God in his human nature. We
pray to her to pray to him for us, not
only because she is our mother as
well as his, but because she is dear

850

Is ii Hotust f

to her Son our Lord, and he delights
to honor her by granting her requests.
For a like reason we invoke the saints,
that is, ask them to pray for us. We
must then be more ignorant and stu-
pid than even our sectarian ministers
believe us, if, in praying to llicm be-
cause as his friends they are dear to
him» we substitute them for him from
lihom what we seek can alone come.
If we believe they themselves give
it, why do we ask them to pray him
. to grant it ? Cannot our acute and
[ingenious doctor see that the invoca-
ttion of saints renders the error he
supposes Catholics fall into utterly
impossible in the case of the most
ignorant Catholic, and th^t it tends
Lto fix the mind and the heart directly
l©n the fact that every good and every
perfect gift is from above and Com-
eth down from the Father of lights ?
Can he not see that the interces-
sion we invoke is a clear confession
of the truth he thinks it obscures or
obliterates? If we think the good
comes from them, why do we ask
them to intercede with Christ to be-
stow it ? Why not ask it of them ?
But is it true* as the tract affirms,
that we ask nothing of Mary and the
saints in heaven that it would be im-
proper to ask of our fellow-Christian ?
This is not precisely what the tract
asserts. It asserts that asking their
prayers and influence is exactly of
the same nature, that is, the same in
principle, with what Christians do
when they ask the pious prayers of
one another. To this the preacher
replies :

'*! hckld here a volume of 800 pages,
almost every one of which contains an an-
swer to these queslionSf so far as I honestly
read it, in the affirinative. It is Tke Gia-
rks of Maryt by St Alphonsus Liguori,
approved by John, Archbishop of New-
York, I scarcely know where to begin
quoting, or to cease,

*• * O Mary, sweet refuge of miserable itn-
Rcrs, assist me with thy mercy. Keep far

from me my inferaal cncmjes^ and t
sclfxo take my soul and prcv/^-nf \x tr>
naJ Judge,* *AI1 the mt I

upon men have come t1 ^

ry is called the gate of ticu
one can enter heaven if he
through Mary, who is the d-
we have access to the eten
through Jesus Christ, so wc L^,^ ^
Jesus Christ only through Mary,*

*♦ ' Mary is the peacemaker betiw
ncrs and God/ ' My ^forhcr M
thy hands I commit the cMu-ic of my
salvation. To thee I coti^tgn myi
was lo5t» but thou must save it.* 'T
the advocalCj the mediatrix of tea
tion, the only hope, and the most sec
fugc of sinners.* *I place in thee
hopes at salvation,* • She w the m
of the world and the true mctli
God and man.* * Blessed \h
with love and confidence t*«
chors of salvation, Jesus ,'ind '
liver me from the burden of hi
the darkness of my mind ; ba*

fcctions from my heart,' 'U L .. |

us from sinners to saints,* **

Tastes differ^ and not evcf]
tholic would employ every c>
sion used by St. Alphonsus i
Giorks of Mary ; but none of
expressions convey to tlie Cal
mind what they do to the Protc
mind ; for Catholics have a k
their meaning in their faith in ll
carnation. The strongest of
is justified by the relation of Ma
that great mystery in which ce
and from which radt.ites the wb
Christianity* From her wast aka
flesh, that human nature, in 1
God redeems and saves us ; an
ing taken from hcr» she has a rd
to God, our Saviour, and conseq
ly to our redemption and salvs
which no other woman, no 1
creature, has or can have, Th
iation explains the passages
Litany of our Lady of Lorel
those passages of St, Alphon
other Catholic writers which a
that al! mercies and graces come
God through her. The
from God in his human

Is it Honest t

2$i

ture was taken from her,
in some sense come
IX. They come through
« they come from God as
r. They also come through
>e God, her divine Son,
hem, loves her as his mo-
elights to honor with the
lor a creature can receive ;
e confers the favors mor-
only through her interces-
as all the special honor
r is done only in conse-
er relation as his mother,
we carry that honor the
, distinct, and energetic
ion of the fact of the in-
nd the more impossible
: for us to put her in
* the Incarnate Word, or
I her for her Son, who is
diator of God and men,
!hrist Jesus. To do so
)i only to rob him of his
o deny her title to that
^ven to her as the mo-
. Catholics are not ca-
lything so illogical and

'o the other expressions
St. Alphonsus is in this
n to the incarnation and
ice of the Saint in the
efficacy of Mary's pray-
cession for us with her
He confides to Mary,
r hands the cause of his
ition, as the client con-
use to his advocate or
Ay soul," he says, " was
Li must save it" — ^by thy
with thy Son, who will
)thing thou dost ask, be-
anst never ask but what
hee to ask, and what is
his will, and he delights
lee before heaven and
nting thy requests. In
Y understand the expres-
advocate," " the media-

trix of reconciliation;" and all the
rest. The term mediatrix is not the
best possible, because it is liable to
mislead not a Catholic, but a non-
Catholic, who believes little in the
incarnation, and refuses to interpret
the language of Catholics by the of-
ficial teaching of their church. The
Catholic always knows in what sense
it is said, and for him the explana-
tions are never necessary ; still less
are they necessary for Him who sees
and knows the thoughts and intents
of the heart before they are even
formed. It is the duty of non-Ca-
tholics to consult the standards of
the church and to explain what
seems to them difficult or inexact in
the warm and energetic expressions
of Catholic love and devotion by
them ; and it is not honest to found
a charge against Catholics on such
expressions without having done. so.
The preacher continues :

" * Is IT HONEST to accuse Catholics of put-
ting the Blessed Virgin or the saints in the
place of God or of the Lord Jesus Christ ?
You have the answer. You know the place
which God claims for himself the * honor
which He will not give to another.* You
have heard from the very words of the Ro-
man Catholics themselves the place to
which they exalt the spirits of departed
men and women."

Yes, you have the answer such as
your minister gives ; and we have
shown that his answer misinterprets
facts which he does not understand ;
that it refuses to interpret them by the
key furnished in the official teach-
ing of the church ; that it contradicts
itself, and proves, if anything, the fal-
sity of the very charge it undertakes
to establish, and therefore clears nei-
ther him nor you, if you accept it,
from the charge of dishonestly bring-
ing false accusations against the
church of Cxod.

" Is rr HONEST to assert that tfu Catholic
Church grants any indulgence or permission
to commit sin — ^when an * indulgence/ accord-
ing to her universally received doctrine, was

2$2

Is if ffotmtt

never dreamed of by Catholics to imply, in
any case whatcvcri any permission to com-
mit the least sin ; and when an indulgence
has tio application whatever to sin until
after sin has been repented of and par-
doned V*

The preacher has the air of con-
ceding that this charge is unfounded,
and says, ** If it is made, it does not
appear to be sustained ; yet he main-
tains that indulgences really remit the
punishment due to sins committed
after the indulgence has been bought
and paid for ^ for they are alleged to
preserve the recipient in grace till
death, in spite of subsequent sins."
And he cites the case of Tetzel, in the
sixteenth century, in proof. He ad-
duces what purports to be a form of
absolution published by Tetzel, and
offered for sale in the market-p!aces
of Germany. The form of absolution
alleged is manifestly a forgery, and a
very stupid forger}^ ; and besides, ab-
solution and indulgences are very
different things, and the indulgence
affects only a certain temporary pun-
ishment that remains to be expiated
after the absolution is given or the
eternal guilt is pardoned, and is rather
a commutation than a remission of
even that temporary punishment,
which, if not commuted or borne here,
must be expiated hereafter in purga-
tory. There is xxo/orm of indulgence ;
tliere are conditwns of gaining an in-
* dulgence ; but there is no cerliiicate
given to the eflect that we have obtain-
ed it. If we have sincerely complied
with the conditions prescribed by the
pope, we gain it ; but whether we
have gained it neither we nor the
church can know in this life without
a special revelation. Ever)' Catholic
knows that to offer money for it would
argue a disposition on his part that
would render it impossible, while he
retained that disposition, to gain an
indulgence. No one can gain an in-
dulgence wliile in a state of sin, at^d
hence indulgences are not at any price

profitable things to purch
Tetzel exaggerated the vii
dulgences was asserted b
and his friends ; but that '
tliem for sale in die mar
was never, we believe, even
until after his death — was
has been proved* Luthei
friends complained that he '
ing a scandal, and procured
and imprisonment in a co
his order, where he died
after, without the matter,
the troubles of the times, evi
going a judicial investigali
for Luther's own testimony,
touching his hatred against
is of no account

** The only sense," continues tb
** tn which the Roman Church ha
licenses for crime, has been in t]
nouncing (not in America, in ihj
a tariff of ca,sh* prices at which
trition) all cri I consequences of d
whether in this world or the wort
would be cancelled. The price-
Germany in the sixteenth ccntu;
as ibiiows; for polygamy, six d
sacrilege and perjury, nine ducatt
der, eight ducats. In Sw]t2erl
same period, the price was for
four francs ; for parricide or frat^
ducat.**

This seems to us quite en
Catholic will perceive that
ed friend is not very well p<
Catholic matters. Heevidei
founds sacramental absolut
indulgences, and indulgent
the dispensations which the
grants in particular cases, i
the law of God, nor the law o
but from her own ecclesiastii
and supposes that the fees
the chancery for the necess4
documents in the various can
come before it, are the fees
the faithful for indulgences
pardon of their sins,* A n

• For A full proof of th* fiwiperr of the
»8C in Iht bocrft called r . " \i Ri

€fT7^ tee Bishof^ En^i » to

WoriE»<tfBiilMp£]i€lai

Is it Honest t

253

of matters of which he knows
I is liable to say some very

things. Nevertheless, the
IX says expressly, and we
not means to concede the
lade by the tract, that indul-
are not licenses to commit

he has labored to make his
ion as little offensive to his
int brethren as possible,
e concedes it " I think,
e," he says, " that the author
tract is right in claiming that
just to assert that the Catho-
rch grants any indulgence or
ion to commit sin." No, she
) such thing, she only " inti-
)eforehand her willingness, if
d such crimes are committed,
I it all right with the male-
>oth in this world and the
come, for penitence — and

He who should offer cash to
absolution would receive for an-
rhy money perish with thee !"

HONEST to repeat aver and over
f Catholics pay the priests to pardon
—such a thing is unheard of any-
the Catholic Church — when any
>n of the kind is stigmatized as a
sin, and ranked along with mur-
ery, blasphemy, etc, in every catc-
i work on Catholic theology ?"

)reacher thinks it is very ho-
cause, if the church prohibits
lishes it as simony, it is very
that it sometimes happens,
tffence had never been com-
the church would never have
asion to legislate on the mat-
was argued that for a long
5 crime of parricide was un-
it Rome, because there was
)rohibiting and punishing it.
his answer, and a proof, we
, of his candor of which he
)f his readiness to die rather
Dwingly repeat a false charge
the church ! The real accu-
yainst the church' which the

tract denies can be honestly, made,
is that Catholics are required to pay,
or that the priest can lawfully exact
pay, for the pardon or absolutioii he
pronounces in the sacrament of pen-
ance. It does not necessarily deny
that the thing may sometimes be done,
but, if so, it is unlawfully, is a sin,
and ranked along with murder, adul<
tery, etc. The sin of simony, in one
form or another, has in the history
of the church often been commit*
ted, and those who committed it
are, in general, favorites with Protes-
tant historians, who seldom fail to
brand as haughty tyrants and spiri-
tual despots the noble and virtuous
popes who struggled energetically
against it, and did their best to cor-
rect or guard against the evil. But
honest men will not hold the church
responsible for the misdeeds of un-
principled men, which she prohi-
bits and exerts all the power of her
discipline to prevent and punish.
The case is too plain to need argu-
ment. Penance, the church teaches,
is a sacrament, of which absolution
is a part, and to sell any sacrament
or part thereof is simony, a grievous
sin ; and though there is no sin that
may not have been committed, yet
the fact of a priest, however deprav-
ed, demanding pay for sacramental
pardon or absolution is not known to
have ever occurred. The church pro-
hibits it, indeed, but only in prohi-
biting simony, and we are not aware
that she has ever passed any special
law against this particular species of
simony ; and therefore the argument
of the preacher falls to the ground,
and for aught he shows, it is true to
the letter that the thing is unheard of.

" Is IT HONEST to persist in saying thai
Catholics beliei*e that their sins are forgiven
merely by the confession of them to the priest^
without a trtte sorrow for them^ or a true pur^
pose to quit them — ^when every child finds the
contrary distinctly and clearly stated in the

Is it HoiHstt

catechismi which he is obliged to Icam be-
fore he can be admitted to the sacraments ?
Any honest man can verify this statement
by exam 11 ling any Catholic catechism.'*

** Nothing/' says the preacher,
** could be more conclusive than this
logic, if we could constantly presume
that the belief and practice of the
people always coincide exactly wilh
the teaching of the catechism/' If
the coincidence were perfect, there
would be no sins to confess, no need
of the sacrament of penance, aed no
question as to the condition of ghost-
ly absolution or pardon could ever
be raised. But as the preacher finds
nothing to object to under this head
in the teaching or official practice of
the church, we must presume that he
finds the logic of the tract, whatever
tnay be the deceptions, if any, prac-
tised upon the priest, ts quite conclu-
sive, and he certainly concedes quite
enough to show that the accusation
against the church which the tract
repels, cannot be honestly repeated.
We would remind the preacher that
no one is forced against his will to go
to confession, and the very fact of
one's going is presumptive proof of
sincere sorrow for his sins, and a
resolution, weaker or stronger, God
helping him, to forsake them. Why
should he seek to deceive the priest,
when he knows that if he seeks to do
so, he would not only receive no be-
ncfit from the absolution, but would
commit the grievous sin of sacrilege
by profaning the sacrament ?

** Is IT HONEST t(f say that Caikolics helieve
ikai man, by his ffwn p{yw€r^ can forgive sin-^'
when the priest is regarded by the Catholic
Church only as the agent of our Lord Jesus
Christ, acting by the power delegated to
him, according to these words, 'Whose
sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven
them, and whose sins you shall retain, they
arc retained ^ St John xx, 33.*'

The preacher has offered no reply,
or, if he has, we have overlooked it^

toa

to this grave accusation ; perhs
has none to make. The jot
however, attempt a reply, the p
of which is, that, though thi
states truly the official leach i
the church, yet Catholics pra
ly believe, as every one knowi
has had intercourse with then
it is the priest, not God, who th
lieve pardons sin. This,
substance tlie reply of Ml
throughout* The tract sla
doctrine of the church corred
all the points made, but then thi
pretended, is not the doctrine c
Catholic people, the practical
trine of Catholics, and gives &
to the practical workings of th
man system — ^a clear con fessfal
they really have nothing to I
to Catholic doctrine and pra
though they have much to obji
in what is no doctrine or teachi
practice of the church. The r
of this, we suppose, b, that thq
no conception of the churck
we think it is ver}^ likely that the
many Catholics who cannot K
very scholastically the distincti<
tween efficient cause and instn
tal or medial cause ; but pu
question to the most ignorant (
lie you can find. ** Do you belie
priest as a man in confession pa
your sins ?" as soon as he gctsh
what you are driving at, he wi
swer : " No j he pardons or abi
them as a priest.** This answer I
tliat the priest does not absolw
virtue in him as a man, but by
of his priestly office, to which
appointed by the Holy Ghost j t!
as the minister, or as the trad
the agentof our Lord Jesus Chri!
Catholics unhappily do not CO
their life to their faith ; but yo
find that the faith of the peo
that of the church, that whic
church officially teaches ; and d
no room for the disttoctJom

Is it HoHUtt

«55

atholic ministers and journals,
their best resort in self-vindica-
) make between Catholicity in
mularies of the church and the
icity that works practically in
th and lives of the Catholic
whether learned or unlearned,
talk about the practical work-
■ the system is moonshine, at
utside of the record, to which
holic is bound to reply. We
luired to believe and defend
lat the church teaches and re-
)f her children?
he tract concludes with the
n,

HON EST to make these and many other
charges against Catholics — when
est and abhor such false doctrines
in those do who make them, and
:m too, without ever having read a
book, or taken any honest means
aining the doctrines which the Ca-
lurch really teaches ? Americans
UR Play."

ipite of all that sectarian
irs and journals can say, the
diced and fair-minded Ameri-

answer, to each question the
Its, No ! it is not honest, but

dishonest; for every one is
to judge Catholics by the
ds of the church, open to all
Id. And these manifestly dis-
lie accusations.

lave attempted no defence in
icle of our holy religion itself,
e only attempted to show our
ant accusers that their efforts
e themselves honest, in their
larges against the church and
tiful children, are unsuccessful.

They have not successfully impeached
the tract in a single instance, nor vin-
dicated themselves from a single one
of its charges ; nor can they do it.
Many things may be said against
the immaculate spouse of Christ;
the daughters of the uncircumcised
may call her black, may rail against
her, and call her all manner of hard
names ; but she stands ever in her
loveliness, all pure, and dear to her
Lord, who loves her, and gave his
life for her, and dear to the heart of
every one of her loving children, and
all the dearer from the foul asper*
sions cast upon her by the ignorant,
the foolish, and the malicious.

We have, not taken much notice of
tlie professions of candor and inde-
pendence of the preacher; for we
have never much esteemed profes-
sions which are contradicted by
deeds ; nor are we easily won by fine
things said of individual Catholics
by one who in the same breath ca-
lumniates the holy Catholic Church.
Few sermons have we read that show
a more decided hostility to our religion
than these of the Rev. Leonard W.
Bacon, of Brooklyn, which are unre-
deemed from their low sectarian cha-
racter by any depth of learning, ex-
tent of historical research, force of
logic, richness of imagination, flow
of eloquence, or sparkle of wit We
have found them very commonplace
and dull ; we have found it a dull
affair to read and reply to them ; and
we fear that our readers will find our
reply itself very dull, for dulness is
contagious.

2S6

Ma^as ; or^ Lang Ago.

MAGAS; OR, LONG AGO.

A TALE OF THE EARLY TIMES,

CHAPTER IX,

«* She is bewitched, my lord/* said
her attendants to Magas, as he stood
the next day by the bedside of
Chione, and she knew him not. ** She
is bewitched. Chloe and two or
three others heard the spell muttered
just before she fclL"

Magas looked incredulously, yet
half-believing what they said. ** Why,
who can have bewitched her ?"

** The Christians, my lord ; there
were many present, and they came on
purpose. They failed the first time,
l)ut they did it the next"

Magas gazed at Chione, as she lay,
for the most part insensible, yet at
intcn^als uttering incoherent ^'ords
which alarmed them all. He said
softly, ** Chione ?*'

She started up and gazed fiercely
at him. ** Begone !'* she said, " you
have lost me my soul for ever ; be-
gone r* And she struck him a violent
blow.

" It is evertlius, my lord," said an
attendant consolingly, ** when people
are thus attacked by the furies ; they
hate those most that they loved the
best,"

" What makes you think the Chris-
tians have bewitched her ?"

** They arc practising magic all
over, and playing all kinds of tricks
throughout the countr)'."

" But why should they attack your
mistress ?*'

" Why, my lord—" And the wo-
man hesitated.

-'Well, what?"

** Well, my lord, they do say she
was once one of them ; and when any

one leaves them, they never
them — ^they torment them for

" Pshaw I what nonsense i:

"I did not make the sH
lord ; more than one sa)*s so

** Let those in this house b<
ever saying it again then, unh
are fond of being scourged
M agas tu m ed a w ay. H e was t
satisfied, however He remc;
the meeting with the bishop, as
afterward discovered him to fc
knew, too, that Lady Damans
counted a Christian, and that
always shrank from naming he
Christians had a great name 1
gic : but Dionysius and the Lj
maris were of the highest U
Magas paced for many hours
cred grove to which he had wai
then suddenly betook him
op's residence.

He was admitted, cou
ceived ; but it was some tiiai
he returned the bishop'S gi
Dionysius waited his pleasi
the courtesy for which he
able.

At length Magas said :
think you have done it,"

" Done what, my son ?"

" Bewitched Chione ;
mad."

" Is Chione ill r

** She is very ill, she is i
insensible by tunis."

" Your )^ords seemed jas
imply I was concerned in

" Her attendants think;!
tell me, noble Dionysius,
that Chione was ever a Chi

*' Why do you ask ?"

" Because it is imporlai

LU WW

itoJ

jrtMl

Magas ; or, Long Ago.

257

ans should know that, if they
ewitched her in revenge for
ing them, they must undo the
t once, or brave my ven-

5 much, at least, I may tell
e Christians have not be-
her."

she fainted at some words
close to her, and that was
id interruption of the even-
son, you must not make me
blc for the interruptions ; I
present at your meeting."
but some Christians were;
been ascertained."
1 so ; each one must answer
elf."

did not send them there ?"
i not !"

, will you tell me, was
*ver a Christian ?" ,
mid rather that she answer

!lf."

is not in a state to answer
:lf, and your answer may pre-
ie suffering ; if she was never
:ian, those slaves shall be
I who affirm she was."
s had hit on the right
as he intended ; the bishop
i at once : ** Spare the poor
ly son. I baptized Chione

ized r

admitted her within the
he church by washing away
by that she became a Chris-

• long ago ?"

Lit fifteen months before she

ing from Corinth."

n did she leave your socie-

)pose when she left Corinth ;
Dt spoken with her since."
;r present illness connected
Christianity?"

can I possibly tell, my son ?

VOL. VII. — 17

I have not seen her; mental agita-
tion may have caused it, and her
leaving her religion may have caused
that ; how can I tell V

" But has magic been used upon
her?"

" Not by Christians, decidedly ; and
I should think, not at all. Her brain is
probably over-worked, and she has
been suffering from over-excitement :
these will frequently cause derange-
ment."

"And you think religion has no-
thing to do with it ?"

" I did not say that, my son ; to
profess one thing and believe another
must occasion uneasiness, until the
conscience is dead. I should say,
from your account, that Chione is
suffering from mental disturbance,
brought on by her unfaithfulness to
her own convictions. Once a Chris-
tian, she must still feel its influence ;
and unwilling to yield to its teachings,
she writhes under its power."

" That is it, that is what her nurses
say ; she is under the power of the
Christians — ^bewitched by them. Now,
that spell must be undone."

" If it is in her own mind, caused by
her own act, no one can undo it, as
long as her will remains perverse."

"What does this mean?" said
Magas.

" It means this, my friend : Chris-
tianity links the soul to the living
God from which it sprang. To be-
come a Christian is not a myth, not
a mere intellectual conviction, not an
adoption of philosophical ten2ts : it
is an act^ a solemn act of surrender;
it is an acknowledgment that the
world has been disturbed by influences
foreign to the true God; it is a
renunciation of those influences, a
solemn reunion of the soul with the
Eternal Soul, the Creator, the Up-
holder, the Redeemer ; it is positive.
A soul so linked by her own free
consent, placed under influences un-

^5«

Magas ; or^ Long Ag&.

known to those outside, must, so long
as conscience speaks at all, suffer
from the conflict she is undergoing,
in breaking loose from a personal
intercourse with her Maker, as also
from a revelation of truth, beauty,
and goodness, to plunge anew into
the darkness of human guesses/'

"You speak in enignvas, my lord 1
I presume one must be initiated to
understand you. Meantime, tell me,
can you do anything for Chione T*

** I am somewhat of a physician,
although no professor of magic. I
will see your patient, if it will give
you comfort."

Magas bethought him : the visit
of a Christian bishop to his house
would be too remarkable. What was
he to do ? Suddenly he said: *' What
could possess Chione to make her-
self a Christian ?"

" I believe it was the love of truth
and beauty. She sought a key to the
mysteries of life, and Christianity of-
fered her one."

"And yet she left it I"

** It is by no means clear that she
has left it, otherwise than by act.
She is an unfaithful member, but
she still belveves, or it would have
no power over her/'

** I wonder is it rdigion that is mak-
ing her so ill ? My Lord Dionysius,
among her former companions, do
you know one whose discretion you
could trust to take care of her for a
day or two, who would be competent
to discover whetlier Christianity is
disturbing her ?"

" I know an amanuensis who might
perhaps be willing to oblige you ;
we will see." They left the house by
a side -door. The bishop led the way
through a narrow path for some dis-
tance, till they came to a villa. Here
he made a signal at the gate ; it was
opened by an old servitor, who bowed
profoundly as he admitted him and
his companion. Dionysius whispered

a w^ord in his ear, and the <di
tottered on before to a side en'
which he left open. They ci
and very shortly another door (
into a small library, A lady
ing there ; they saluted
Magas recognized Lotis.

The bishop quickly ma
the purport of his visit,
willingly offered her service
however, demurred. " Is it pS
said he ; "are you really a Chrii

*'I have that happinessJH
Lot is. ^B

"Why, how can it be? ho^
that lofty minds like your
Chione*s can ally )x>urselves wit
a drivelling set ?"

Lotis smiled as she observe
think, Lord Magas, that the i
ous Dionysius^ who stands besi<
will scarcely feel complimente<

Magas blushed and ap<>l(
" Forgive me,'' he said ; *-* I am
ly confounded to-day, I do no
what I am saying."

Dionysius said smilingly, "1
not know what Christianit
therefore stand excuised
Do you wish Lotis to
you to Chione?"

"The mofe, as I think
scarcely be suspected of — "
hesitated. The bishop filled i
gap for him — ** of belongic
a drivelling set. No j an
even does not know it j
cret will be doubly safe. Ya
confide in Lotis entirely."

CHAPTEH X.

LoTis took her place
side of her friend, but she :
situation almost a sinecure. T
Chione did not recognize S
was very uneasy in her fR
** Take those large black ey«
from me," she would sayj
Lotis found herself reduce

Magas ; or^ Long Ago,

259

e next room, as Magas still
her to stay and direct pro-
; and to beguile the hours,
pied herself in what had be-
lost a business with her, in
ing the gospels and apostol-
i for the use of the different
. Magas often visited her.
Id have shared her watch,
permitted it; but this she
lot hear of; so he was
\o be content with frequent
Inquire after the progress of
and by degrees to study the
ats on which Lotis was en-

led to manifest the interest
he took them to his own
It, and studied first, then se-
>pied the writings with his
i. Weeks went on ; Chione*s
iproved, but her insanity did

away. Lotis proposed she
•e removed to a dwelling in
tiborhood of Lady Damaris'
nd be there tended.

influences are about her
le said, " counteracting each
There all will be in unison."
issented. " I am no longer

Christians," he said ; " but

one once believing what is
:ten," continued he, produc-
yospel he had written out

own hand — " how any one,
ieving, can fall away, is a
I would give all my pos-
to have the faith, the confi-
God, herein described. Faith
> mean the creature's power

derived from God. Could
jel that God is my Father in
i the gospel has it, I would
1 to philosophy for ever, and
t."

1 you are not angry that
5 a Christian ?" said Lotis.
1 angry that she has acted
id imposed upon me," he

" It was love of you that constrain-
ed her. Forgive her, Magas."

" Love of me I Did she not know
I love truth ? I can never believe her
again."

Lotis left the apartment and pro-
ceeded to superintend the removal of
Chione.

Magas went to the bishop, to make
arrangements for Chione's mainte-
nance ; he wished to settle revenues
on her ere he departed.

" Depart ! are you about to leave
Athens, my son ?"

" Yes, father ; it has become hatc-
fial to me, since I no longer love
Chione."

"You do not intend to desert
her?"

" I leave her in good hands ; what
can I do more ?"

" Her whole being is bound up in
you ; through you she sinned."

" That is the worst of it ; I cannot
look at her without feeling that ; but
yet, I knew not she was a Christian,
nor did I know how sublime the
Christian faith is. I cannot forgive
her for abandoning her faith."

" But you are not a Christian, Ma-
gas?"

" No ! I am waiting for the mani-
festation of God. I am going to the
apostle who has heard and seen,
who works miracles in the name of
Jesus ; I am going to ask of this Je-
sus the power of faith."

" What do you mean by the power
of faith, Magas ?"

" The power of becoming a son of
God, of being free, with the freedom
of old Merion, who is more free amid
his chains than the young world-
lings with their power and wealth.
Free from my own passions, which
master me and blind me ; free from
false knowledge, which misleads me;
free from the power of habit, whidi
enslaves me. I want power to endure
that crucifixion which dying to these

Magas ; ar, Lmig Ago.

objects will occasion me* I feel my
own nature rebelling against my as-
piration, and I want power to con-
quer it. The apostle says the gos-
pel is power unto salvation^ and that
power is needed where life must be
one combat, as mine must be for the
time to come."

Dionysius, too modest to arrogate
to himself the gifts which daily ex-
perience proved him to possess, of
working miracles to attest the power
of God, simply said, *' The holy apos-
tle Paul is even now at Corinth ;
you cannot do better Uian seek him
there ; I myself will shortly do the
same."

CHAPTER XI,

Two years have passed ; such years !
Magas has left Athens, has become
a Christian — nay, a Christian preach-
er. His property has been more for
others than himself; for he has re-
nounced wealth, pomp, earthly power,
to follow the footsteps of that won-
drous convert who was brought to
Christ by being struck down to earth
by excess of hght^— blinded by glo
ry — by seeing the heavenly vision
with the unprepared eyes of earth.
By St, Paul confirmed in the faith,
Magas was, through the same apos-
tle, set apart for the ministr)^ through
the laying on of hands, Magas has
so completely changed his nature, his
very^ features seem altered* The
young Athenian noble, proud of a
long line of ancestr\% but seeks to
devote his days to the one Master
who shares his undivided heart.

Yet ht returned to Athens^ and
his voice was heard by Chione.

All night she listened ; in her
short slumbers she dreamed of him ;
in the morning her wandering senses
had returned. Lot is entered her
room with her breakfast; and the
wild light in Chione's eyes had sub-
sided. She looked around ; she in-

quired, "Where am I? \
are you here ?*'

" I am here to tend yoii^
one ; you have been ill."

"Ilir said Chione, pi
hand over her brow; **
had a long, strange dream
Magas ?"

** I Ao not know," said

" He was here last xi\
Chione. " I heard his voice
I watched for him ; why d]
away ?'*

** I cannot tell you,"
Lotis.

** Cannot tell! Is not
house ? is he not at home ?"

" No 1 this is not his ho
Lotis ; ** he has been ai
Athens, and he left you hi
taken care of. Now you mt
more questions^ but take y<
fast. I will send to Magas 1
you are better,*'

Lotis left the room and sail
another aiteutlant, charging h
careful of her speech^ lest th
returned reason should aga
she herself sought the bishoj
him know of the change.

It required some care to b
Cliione the tidings that she
the house of the Lady Damari
for two years she had been a
a most cruel malady rf ^hr
during which time Loti
cver)^ possible care of her , a
Mag<as had been, during tlu
away. Reawakened reason
tottered again on its throne, C
pride was evidently hurt

" Two years ! two yeati
that the end of my triumph
gas ! a mad woman I What \
gas been doing ?'*

♦* He will lell you that be
self; he will be here si
** Two years I two long yes
Magas r*

Magas ; or^ Long Ago.

261

y met ! But is this Magas ?
hione ? The long, lank hair,
lost starting from their sock-
d that form, so shrunken, so

its former beauty, can this
inus Urania ? And Apollo I

recognize him in that wea-
en form, coarsely clad, and
humble, though an intellec-
nliness still sat upon the

lis Magas? the same, and
hanged ? Magas, speak to

are then recovering at last,

ast ! yes ! I knew not of
is till I recovered. Strange
Is mind is, Magas ! I lived

you were absent — I died;
:e brought me back to life."

you were ill before I left
ane. It was a higher voice

to you, to which you turned
ir, that caused your illness."
t mean you ?"

the remorse you felt for
mdoned faith upset your
energies. Venus Urania
ot have been enacted by a
l"

have discovered my secret
mt I am a Christian no

do not say that, Chione; say,
DM will repent, do penance.
you cannot at will cast away
Tie effect those word^ pro-
i you show that you still be-
devils believe and tremble,"
the unfortunate woman ;
> not faith they have."
,'ou are not yet a reprobate —
et beyond recall. Chione, I,
ntreat you, do not lie to your
0X1 cannot deceive him, and
>ower, does not your past
ake you tremble for the fu-

"What means this altered tone,
Magas ?" said Chione bitterly. "Are
you turned against me ? Ah I I see
how it is ! Two years of absence,
two years of illness, have done their
work. Man's constancy is of a sum-
mer day ; the winter comes, he freez-
es with the cold ; for the love within
no longer glows, no longer sends the
blood rushing through the veins with
a warmth that defies exterior cold.'
Some other form fresher than this
frame impaired by sickness hath re-
placed Chione in your heart. You
come to bid me farewell. Farewell,
Magas."

Deceived by her feigned calmness,
Magas rose. " Again, Chione, I en-
treat you to return to the religion
you have abandoned."

" And do penance at the church
door in sackcloth and ashes? Is
that your meaning? Will you be
there to see me beg the prayers of
the faithful as they pass in to the
mysteries from which I am exclud-
ed ?"

This was said with an inconceiv-
able mixture of sarcasm and bitter-
ness.

"Love could sweeten even such
an act as that," said Magas ; " surely,
even that is better than apostasy."

" And who are you that dare to
twit me with apostasy ? False one,
wearied of thy old love, seeking an-
other," (here she seized the arm ot
Magas,) " tell me," she said fiercely,
" what is the name of the fair one
for whom you abandon me ?"

"Why would you know?" asked
Magas.

" That I might tear her limb from
limb !" said the frenzied woman.

" That is beyond your power, Chi-
one. Him I love sits enthroned in
the heavens. I have no earthly love.
Chione, farewell. Remember, Ma-
gas blesses you — ^blesses you as he
leaves you. You will not see him

262

Magas ; or^ Lang Ago.

soon again, for Magas is a Christian
priest/*

He left ben

No, the energies did not depart as
she started to her feet on hearing the
last words — " a Christian priest !'*
" Magas ! Oh ! had I known ^ could I
have guessed ! The love of Magas
without losing my religion ! Can I
regain it ? Yes ; by penance, Chione,
doing penance ! Faugh ! Chione
standing in the cold, clothed in sack-
cloth, exposed to the derision of the
faithful 'Twould be easy to love,
he said. Did he say so ? Love must
be boiling hot indeed to sweeten
such an act as that j and my love,
ah ! ah I love for religion, such a re-
ligion as that, ah ! ah I ah !"

The poor woman raved, but alas !
there was too much method in her
madness. Wilfully she shut out
faith ; wilfully she turned to hate all
that heretofore she had held dear ;
but she acted for a while with an
earthly prudence that deceived those
around her.

She staid with the Lady Damans
until she had recovered healtli and
strength^ until she had made herself
sure of the independence Magas had
settled on her. Then she left, and
opened a school of philosophy, which
was soon filled. Her former reputa-
tion did her much service in that re-
spect, and that she had escaped from
the enchantments of the Christ ians^
w^ho had tried to destroy her, added
to tlie interest she inspired. She
soon recovered her former beauty,
and she studied now, studied deeply,
how to thwart the Christians, how to
demonstrate that whatever was beau-
tiful in their religion they had stolen
from the muses ; that whatever was
mystical came to them from Hindos-
tan, the seat of mysticism; that what-
ever was reasonable and ethical they
had learned from philosophy. It was
a splendid success in Athens, that

philosophical school of i
it flattered the passions while
the grace of eloquence and
ment over them. All beaut;
and melody were made to yie
utmost sweetness there. Hi
pies wxTe of the rich, the gr
noble. They could practise '
gant course of study altematlj
ease that she prescribed : ** T
is the aim of existence, refc
cultivation, a correct system d
makes perfect enjoyment 1
gives interest, lifts one above
gar. Art ennobles and cinly
Athens is still the central]
art, science, and philosoj
said Chione.

CHAPTER XII.

" Indeed, Lotis, you must j
more hope than that ; you
bid mc despair/'

The words were spoken
louder than was intended,
were heard by one who was
by. The speaker was Magi
passer-by was Chione. Mag
lamenting over the account
heard of Chione's continues
tance to grace. Chione apy
the words another meaning ;
cribed them to a passion fdl
tis, and her heart burned Itt
and jealousy. ■

'* Magas was then , rctim
Athens. What was he doing
set spies on his steps. He
ten at the bishop*s house, o
the Christian assembly
ten had interviews with
fact, which might have
explained by the occupation
who supplied copies of bod
kept various accounts for thfl<
was othenvise interpreted b^
led woman, and she resolved
destruction of Lotis, If

)use,
Ationa

Magas ; or^ Long Ago.

263

^*n the love of Magas, at least
)uld not have a rival. She
fluence in the city. Nero's
ition, though but little felt in
onies, could be brought to
Lotis should not live to tri-
•ver her by a Christian mar-
The idea was insupportable.
3 this point, Chione had kept

unfettered from human ties
^fagas had departed. She
ed Magas, and though many
de her offers of marriage, she
lot resolve to accept them,
was alike elegant and pro-

Who was worthy to succeed
Athenian after Athenian paid
) her ; gay, witty, and attrac-
all, Chione accepted none,
is a matter of great wonder
:entious a city as Athens.
L greater wonder still was to

A new Roman praetor arriv-
rude barbarian he seemed to
ionables of Athens : certain-
as not distinguished for re-
t, for learning, or for ele-

but it was soon observed
ione held him enthralled, and,
LS more remarkable, that she
to favor him.

it happened, people could
*ll, but a different spirit seem-
ating Athens. The Christians,
ing despised were becoriiing
and at length hated. When
edict had been first made
it made little impression ; but
y a voice was found, to pro-
lat there were Christians in
practising magic to the detri-

all good citizens.
' poor slaves were seized and

before the praetor ; they
ithlessly condemned on ac-
Iging themselves Christians,
were startled, but poor slaves
^ friends, and the matter blew
Suddenly the praetor grows
ligious, decrees foreign to the

usual spirit of Athenian government
are enacted ; a test is instituted, and
several free citizens of Athens have
to abide the scrutiny; executions fol-
low, and Chione's reputation suffers,
for it is currently reported that it is
she who instigates the inquiry and
persecutes the new sect.

The Roman praetor evidently takes
counsel of her. But there comes one
concerning whom even he hesitates ;
a young lady, daughter of a philoso-
pher, one beloved for her private vir-
tues, is brought before the judge.
" Sacrifice to the genius of the em-
peror." "I cannot." "Why not?"
" I am a Christian." How often have
the words been repeated ; they are
so simple, yet so fraught with con-
sequence ; how many perished under
that simple interrogatory I Lotis un-
dergoes it ; she is remanded ; the
praetor seeks to release her; he is
sick of his office when it hits upon
the young, the innocent, the lovely ;
the outside interests him, he cannot
see the soul. Faith, ever young,has sus-
tained many an aged slave, wrinkled
with age ; has adorned many a worker
embrowned and toil-worn, bearing
marks on his frame that his life has
not been spent in uselessness ; but
these excited only a passing interest,
if any — they were common people
(would that the toiling saints were
more common !) they went to their
doom, by fire or by the headsman,
unmarked by men and unpitied,
though Heaven assumed their souls
with hymns of joy, dressed them in
white garments, crowned them with
brilliants, endowed them with perpe-
tual youth and with beauty that never
will fade. But here comes a lady.
The praetor understands that she has
slaves to wait upon her, every luxury
attends her ; she may lead a life of in-
dolence, if she pleases. These are the
exterior signs, the signs that awaken
commiseration. The praetor hesitates.

264

Magas ; or^ Long Ago,

Chione does not hesitate. The pri-
soner is not only a Christian, she is
a member of a conspiracy just laid
open to Chione's apprehension. She
has lived in the city longer than the
prsetor, she knows its dangers. This
Lotis is a dangerous person, she is a
personal enemy to Chione ; she must
^\^ ; nay, Chione names the manner
of her death ; she is to die by fire.
The pr:Etor» infatuated by his passion
for the guilty woman who prescribes
to him tiie sentence he is to pro-
nounce, submits, gently hinting that
he looks for his reward. ** Reward !"
says Chione to herself, " is not a smile
from me reward enough for a barba-
rian like him T And in her egotism,
she really believes slie is speaking
the simple truth.

The sentence is pronounced ; horror
seizes the city ; to-morrow the flames
are to consume the conspirators, who
are many in number ; and Lotis is
among them ; there is no escape.

The ancient bishop contrives, ho\^-
ever, to visit his condemned flock,
bearing consolation, courage, and,
above all, the blessed sacrament, with
him. To each and all he addressed
himself according to their needs ; if
hcj too, staid a little longer with Lotis
than with the others, it arose out of
a previous conversation, and because
he wished to promote a holy work.

** My daughter, do you know who
has stirred up this accusation against
you ?^'

" I rather guess than know it, fa-
ther. What have I done to draw down
Chione's hatred ?"

" She is jealous of Magas in your
regard. She cannot appreciate the
depth of Christian devotedness ; she
can understand selfish aims alone.'*

" Poor Chione!"

** Do you, from your heart, forgive
her?"

*' I have not thought about forgive-
ness ; 1 pity her too much."

** Do you remember the^

tion wc had years ago ?*'
" About laying down m

her ? Father, I do."
** Are you willing to do j
" If I thought it would

soul, I am more than willii
** Pray for her, then, my d

'Twas a wild shnek
through the streets that
Magas arrived just in tirae
procession set forth, to recfl
tis, to hear Chione's name \
who had procured her cond
** Stop, stop!*' he had cried I
man soldier)^- ; **stop 1 It is^
take ; stop I In a few mina
be rectified. Stop for a shof
the name of all that is holy
Magas donned his patriciw
and scattered largess, as in li
yore, his words would hav
heeded ; a few minutes wouj
been granted. Even now, hil
manner* his authoritative
occasioned a slight pause
weather-stained appcarano
him to be considered as a
and t!ie pause was not long,
rather than ran to Chione?
" Come," said he, " it seem
omnipotent in Athens ; o
prevent a murder," He drag
with him to the pnetor's hoi
the great man was absent, J
flame lit up the sky 1 " Mji
we are too late 1" he cricd^™
carr)'ing Chione in his arms
hurried through the streets^
came to a place set apart ft|
ecu tion. 1 1 was al re ady comr
singing hymns of glory^ to C
soul after another depattfic
ward. Magas paused opp
tis ; she made a sign of
Magas turned to Chione.
a devil," he shrieked, ** that|
dared to do this ?" ** Fo
Magas, as I forgive

Abyssima and King Tkwdon.

365

is. "Farewell, Chionel
e were in youth, and we
meet in heaven." Lotis

1 heaven ! meet in heaven !
eaven ! I and Lotis meet
meet in heaven 1 Magas,
agas, can it be ?"
in of Magas was on fire
ment, and he held a mur-
his arms ; but he was a
priest, and he answered

merciful ; Christ died for
o penance ; it may be yet"

CONCLUSION.

ny years have passed away,
dignity of person is con-
more solemn martyrdom
last we have commemo-
\ take place. The vene-
op and his companions,
ts, some laymen, are to lay
s upon the block — among
LS. A woman veiled, bear-
V remains of beauty or of
also there ; but not a pri-
was there to kneel at the

bishop's feet, to pray for his blessing.
That morning, for the first tune for
long, longyears, had that woman knelt
within a Christian church — ^had re-
ceived the adorable sacrament of the
body and blood of our Lord, after
years of penance heroically, lavingiy
performed at the entrance to the build-
ing. That morning she had been ab-
solved, that morning communicated.
Ere he went to his home in heaven,
the venerable bishop, who had sus-
tained the fainting and often falter-
ing soul through so many years of
expiation, had thought fit to pro-
nounce her purified, to command
that she should again take her place
among the faithful. She came to
thank him ; to accompany him — ^him
and Magas I Consoled, the proces-
sion moved along. Chione — such
was the name of the penitent — ^knelt
as the victims knelt The bishop,
ere he surrendered himself, gave his
blessing to all the assembly. Magas
preceded him to thp block. When
the axe fell, the woman fell also.
Magas and Chione stood together
before the judgment-seat of God.

TKAirSLATID FBOM LI OQMUBPOVDAirr.

ABYSSINIA AND KING THEODORE.

BY ANTOINB d'ABBADIB.

SH bull having accidentally
a railroad, which spoiled
' of his beloved country,
motive. The king of the
ds, fired with anger at the
f his right, and listening
le voice of his courage,
i head and butted with his
customed to victory against
ad invader of his verdant

fields. This battle is an image of
that which is going to take place be-
tween England and Theodore, King
of the Kings of Ethiopia. It b plain
that it is not Theodore who repre-
sents the locomotive.

Before explaining the true motives
of the costly English expedition to
Abyssinia, it may be well to look at
the physical and moral condition of

266

Abyssinia and King Theodore,

the country which is to be the scene
of conflict, and where I passed more
than ten years of my youth.

The whole extent of territory from
Suez and Aquabah to the Strait of
Mandcb, or afflkiion^ along the shores
of the Red Sea, is barren and deso-
late. The small, scattered towns in
this region owe their existence to
commercial travelling j and even in
the most favored portions of the land
it takes a two or three days' journey
from the salt water into the interior,
before meeting cuUivaled fields.

The only deep bay in the south of
the Red Sea is that of Adulis, which
the natives designate by the ''Gulf
of Velvet," perhaps on account of the
smoothness of its waters* sheltered
by the palisades which guard it on the
ea-stern side. Hie English, who are
fond of baptizing territories before
conquering them, have called this
part of the sea, '^^ The bay of An-
nesley." This name is said to be
that of the family of Lord Valentia,
who, little versed in geography, ima-
gined that he had discovered tn 1809
those celebrated districts anciently
frequented by Egyptian merchants
in the time of the Ptolemies* The
island of Desa, formed by a row of
schistous hills, shelters the entrance
to the bay of Adulis» which we call
by this name in memory of that
flourishing city of Adulis, which stood
by its waves up to the sixth century
of our era. The natives still show
the site of that Grecian city, and
infonn the traveller that it was swal-
lowed up by an earthquake. Of its
past greatness^ there remain but a
small number of carved capitals in
the lava of the environs, and some
sculptured marbles which seem to
display the Byzantine style. Near
these ruins is the large village of
ZuUah, which contained, in 1840, two
hundred and fourteen cabins, and a
population of about one thousand

;:htra

souls. It is frora ZuUali
shortest route lies to tlie plaini
highlands of Ethiopia, or, as the
lish call it, Abyssinia.

Except during January
ruary, when the weather is sti
Zullah suffers from the fright
which pervades the whole of
stretch of low land called Sai
which lies along the sea. Wij
to take a bath during the
mer, I could not, by reason
seeming excessive coldness d(
water. But placing a ihermoi
in it, I found the temperatui
degrees, while in the shade Ui<
was at 48 degrees. I found it \
degrees in the between -decks
French steamer ; and when tM
brings a refreshing breexe ■
this burning atmosphere, oirt
tempted to say with a l^Yendi
after having escaped dur
bloody ** reign of terror :'*
done a great deal, for I have i
to live."

Travellers at this season

midnight, and traverse, on thcil
into Ethiopia, a ,plain as
desolation itself. Sometir
encounter the Karif^ an atrac
column of a red brick color, 1
appears on the horizon like a 1
phantom. This column seems
crease in volume as it approa
the air that drives it along
like a whirlwind. Man ar
are obliged to turn their bac
and it covers them with a
cloud, as with a mantle of"
In a few minutes the Karif ^
away ; and men are glad
of its hideous gloom, even
be but to wander again thr
intense but quiet heat whicli
over the Samhar. Sometimes,
the I/ttrttr, which the Arabs caJ
Sitnoom ox pa is on, surprises the
eller. This wind comes withou
previous sign of warning, bcl<

reod

then
tmoi|

of n

Tich^

Abyssinia and King Theodore,

267

ming death like a furnace,
tient camel then puts his head
^ound, rejoiced to find relief
the relative freshness of the
\g earth ; the strongest of the
succumb*; and such is the
and complete prostration of
strength during the simoom,
:he open country I have been
hold up a small thermome-
iam at least the temperature
strange wind, which science
yet failed to explain. This
lasted five minutes. They
men and beasts die if it lasts
:r of an hour.

crossing those desert plains,
slier finds the country gradu-
ime an undulating character,
n is met. Mountains rise up
him, and deep, verdant val-
2nd among them,
in visited those valleys with
hope of seeing a phenome-
y rare in Europe. During
mer season caravans repose
h in perfect safety under a
ky, when suddenly the prac-
r of a native hears a strange
the distance, rapidly increas-
udness. He cries out, " The
" and climbs breathlessly up
rest height. In less than
linute after, the whole valley
irs under a broad and deep
which carries with it trees,
f rock, and even wild beasts.
n an instant, those torrents
n a day, and leave no trace
passage, save ruins of all
id pools of stagnant water
identations of the soil. The
nakedness of the mountains
these strange phenomena,
le bottom of the funnel in
le traveller stands when he is
f those valleys, he cannot see
II clouds which let fall their
•urdens with an abundance
n out of the tropical climates.

There is very little loam, and still
less of roots of trees to absorb this
sudden rain ; so that it rolls from
rock to rock, as on a roof, rushes
through every little valley, and min-
gles in one common river, as fright-
ful as it is transitory. One day, as I
arrived just too late to behold it in
all its grandeur, I found a solitary in-
dividual, who, with a stupefied look,
regarded the still humid earth. "God
save you," said I, " what news have
you ? Where are your arms ? Can
a man like you remain without lance
or buckler?" " May you live long
and well!" he replied. "The tor-
rent has carried away my lance, my
buckler, my ass, my camel, and my
whole substance, my wife and my
children. Woe is me ! Woe is me I"
I then turned to my guide and asked
him: "Does thy brother speak tru-
ly?" "Doubtless," answered he,
" and if the torrent came at this mo-
ment, unless we were warned of its
approach by the small noise of which
I have spoken, it is not the most
swift-footed, but the most lucky, who
would be saved." Then turning to-
ward the son of his tribe — " May God
console thee, my brother !" We all
repeated this pious wish, and contin-
ued our route, without being able to
give anything to this wretched man,
for we had neither victuals nor money ;
and from the summit of the neigh-
boring hills we could hear him repeat-
ing for a long time, "Woe is me !
Woe is me !"

For more than two centuries the
civilization and native wealth of
Ethiopia have been concentrated
around Lake Tana. Just on its
shores stands Quarata, the largest
city of oriental Africa — ^proud of its
sanctuary and its twelve thousand
inhabitants. A little fijrther on is
Aringo, the Versailles of the dusky
kings. Near it is Dabra Tabor, the
capital, or rather the camp of the

268

Abysshiia and King Theodore,

last chiefs, as well as of the actual
sovereign ; and finally, on a spur of
mountain which projects to the south,
appears Gondar — the famous Gondar,
which I have seen, still powerful, al-
though reduced to eight thousand in-
habitants, only a fourth of its former
population. Of all the faults of King
llieodore, that which the Ethiopians
will be least ready to forgive is his
having systematically burned the
city of Gondar. Of seventeen church-
es, only two have escaped this cool
and useless cruelty of the despot.

The Ethiopians are a people of
very mixed origin. Languages, in-
stitutions, usages, and prejudices,
even the shades of color and the for-
mations of the human body, are
placed in strange juxtaposition with
one another. Except the Somal,
who atford instances of tall stature,
the Ktliiupians are of medium height,
have thick lips, white and well- formed
teeth, and are of slender frame. Their
hair is curly; but straight hair,
though rare, is sometimes seen.
The Semites have often the aquiline
nose of the Eurof)eans. As to the
color of the skin* ail degrees, from
tlie copper color of the Neapolitan
to the jet black of the negro, are
found. This latter color is often al-
lied to European features. There
is an unconscious and natural grace
in all the movements and actions of
the Ethiopians. Our sculptors might
study their gestures and draper)^ with
profit.

On the coast, to the north of Zullah,
live the Tigrc, whose language, tra-
ditions, and customs entitle them to
be considered among the descen-
dants of Sem, like the Hebrews and
Arabs. The same must be said of
tlie Tigray, who inhabit the neigh-
boring plateau, and speak a kindred
idiom to that of the Tigre. The Ama-
ras, more lively, more intelligent, and
more civiliited, live in the interior,

and iise a language of Semiti
yet modified by associations '
sons of Cham. This is the lanj
used by most European Iravi
for it is conmionly employed I
merchant, by the learned, ar
diplomacy. The Giiz, or Ethic
closely connected with the Tig
the dead language, the Latin of
distant countries. It is used in
tations, in philosophical and rcli
discussions, and sometimes to
ceal the sense of a conversation
the vulgar. From Tujurrah t<
environs of Zullah, a common
guage, entirely different from '
which wc have mentioned, unit*
the fractious of the Afar natioi
ten called Dan kalis, but improj;
for the Dankalas, the Adali, etc
only tribes of the Afar. I'hc Sa
who are the most numerous an
the inhabitants of Zultah, and ex
along all the slopes of the neigbb(
plain, consider themselves as t
gers to the Afar, and speak a dii
but affiliated dialect. Another ii
nmch more important by the nui
of the nations who use it, has
the same origin as the Afar toi
We mean the Yhnorma used b;
Oromos, whose name in war is C
or Gall a, and who, by reason oL
concjtiests, have extended theH
from the Afar country as far ^
the still unknown regions of int
Africa. Called Gall as by all
Christians of Ethiopia, the On
threaten, by their proximity,
stronghold of Magdaia, where
English prisoners have been II
ing for four years the arrival iM
avenging countrymen. fl

A serious calculation of the ]
latiou of any African nation
never been made. As to the cc
of population, a fatigued and
gusied traveller, looking at them
a distance and but for a moi
might state the census of

S Ol SIK

Abyssima and King Theodore.

269

to be ten thousand souls.
St, on the contrary, might
inn that at least thirty
hould be admitted as the
nber. It is, in fact, almost
to form a proper estimate
lulation of Ethiopia. Con-
ts extent of territory, I
f there are three or four
1 it, though if some other
^rere to maintain that it
X or eight millions I could
his opinion, owing to the
do not know the propor-
len the inhabited and the
ions of the country.

II.

vs were formerly numerous
lia. There are not eighty
)f them left now, and they
.lly disappearing under the
)f the powerful civilization
ara.

gin of the Ethiopian Jews
lates from the time of the
eremias, when commerce
d on between Alexandria
n. At a later period, simi-
rs brought, to Ethiopia the
stian missionaries. This
in the beginning of the
tury, when the inhabitants
- France, were still plunged
kness of paganism. The*
vever, progressed slowly
lia ; for the local Judaism,
)tably separated from that
brews, preserved its politi-
during five or six hundred
ivithstanding the wonderful
native missionaries, whose
martyrdoms are still cele-
the country. Even up to
rentury there were pagans
i there are, very probaby,
e still.

le Mussulman invasion of
th century, Islamism filtered

through Egyptian society. The Chris-
tianity, of the country became cor-
rupt, and we can liken it to nothing
better now than to those lepers who
abound in this part of Africa, whose
bodies are at first attacked in their
extremities, and fall away piecemeal.
In the same way, her Christianity
perished on the frontiers of Ethiopia.
Twenty years before our arrival
among the Tigre, they were Chris-
tians, or rather they lived in the recol-
lection of their faith; but without bap-
tism or sacrifice, and guided in their
prayers by the descendants of their
last priests. They became Mussul-
mans under our eyes, with the excep-
tion of their principal chief, who said,
with a touching and proud respect
for ancient usages, that ^a king
ought to die in the faith of his fa-
thers." One becomes irritated on re-
flecting that two or three fervent
missionaries could have, at the begin-
ning of this century, rolled back the
tide of advancing Mohammedanism,
by evangelizing or rather reviving
that ancient Christianity whose his-
tory goes back as far as St Athana-
sius, and which we have seen expire
after ages of agony.

If we study Christianity in the cen-*
tre of Ethiopia, we find a somewhat
confused schism, but of all schisms
the one least removed from Catholic
orthodoxy. The only dogmatic points
which we regret in this schism are
the <7//^ procession of the Holy Ghost,
which has been condemned among us
only at a late period, and the belief
in only one nature^ in Jesus Christ,
which is publicly professed by the
African schools. But the term in
the Abyssinian vernacular which we
translate by nature, has such a vague
and obscure signification that, if the
word could be destroyed, the schism
would no longer exist It must be
remembered that the Ethiopians do
not understand the art of defining;

270

Ahyssinia and King Theodore,

and when I restricted this ambiguous
term according to our method, they
understood the dogma exactly as
wc, and congratulated themselves
on being, without knowing it, attach-
ed to the same faith as Rome, that
seat of St, Peter which always com-
mands their respect.

What particularly distinguish their
Christianity from ours, are vicious
or irregular practices. Like many
of the Eastern Christians, they al-
low the marriage of the clerg)^ ; but
in the abbeys, where there are pro-
fessors, they allow no priest to say
Mass who is not a celibatarian by
vow. ** Among you," said an Ethio-
pian who had visited Europe, *4he
important practice is to go to church/*
" And among you," I answered, *' the
one thing necessary is to prolong
your fastings." One is tempted to say
that the active people of the West,
and the slow and repose-loving na-
tions of the East, have made the prin-
cipal merit of a Christian to consist
in those pious exercises which cost the
least trouble.

It is impossible to leave this sub-
ject without saying a word about the
Dabtara, or secular clerics. They
were organized by a king who found
himself, like many of his royal breth-
ren in Europe, very much embarrass-
ed by those mixed questions, in
which the spiritual power seems to
invade the domain of the temporah
To keep the balance, between them,
he created an intermediary body,
called the Dabtara. This order is
filled from all classes of society ; and
it possesses the usufmct of all the
churches. It alone takes charge of
the temporal affairs of the church,
and frequently its members act as
parish priests, whicli is a purely tem-
poral office in Abyssinia. The Dab-
tara hire by the month, rebuke or
dismiss the priest who says Mass.
Their essential fuiicUon consists in

singing in choir. This dot
a certain education. In
music of our church hymnsj
changed, the w^ords reroainJH
tered. The contrary is ih
among the Ethiopians. Their
is traditional and sacrament
in every well-ordered chu
rhymed words of every h|
specially composed for eveiyj
The twelve Dabtara of ever
display their piety, wisdom,^
pecially their wit in these p
tions. They use hymns Ic
ambiguous, to criticise the|
to give a lesson to the he
monks, and even political hiu
sovereign. By recalling
some personage of the 014
ment, they find occasion to c
the government of the city, to
some Mace n as who is expe<
be present at the scrvi
even, if necessary, to satisfy
sonal grudge. When a I
advances into the choir to
per into the ear of the pi
chanter the hymn which hj
been written by the Dabtai
which the singer must know b
the other Dabtaras surroui
composer, examine the senrf
rhyme, and no matter whan
the result of their investigatio
always congratulate the happ
^Sometimes it is discovere
hymn has not been made
ber of the order, but by soij
candidate in distress, who, i
sure of meal, often sells to til
the fresh inspirations of hta
After the teacher of pb
the most important professc
who teaches grammar, the r
the sacred language, its dicf
and particulariy the art of j
ing hymns. After the le
pupils spread over the lawn I
church, repeat the precepts]
from their professor, and

Abyssinia and King Tksodore.

271

ymies or compose hymns,
ey afterward recite to him
to obtain the benefit of his
As in our middle ages,
lolars ask alms and live in
iften they are the only ser-
their preceptors. Lively
:some, like our collegians,
many tricks on their fellow-
but never on their teacher,
y love and almost worship,
mce chanced at Gondar to
how my college-fellows in
id eaten the dinner of their
and left a sermon on fast-
atience on his plate, I was
such a torrent of invective,
er ventured on a repetition
mdal.

ssinia, education is essen-
ic and gratuitous. As all
•ns must be made in the
•, which I spoke but poorly
ginning, I was obliged to
irse to a private tutor, and
ished to recompense him
»uble, I was answered that
lould not be sold like any
merchandise, and that the
he teaching body required
i to be transmitted gratui-
»t as it had been acquired,
pian students are generally
ent. If they play truant,
ints bring them into the
liere the school is being
tie their feet together with
ain. Sometimes this dis-
neasure is ordered by the
and pupils are often seen
psting themselves, ask for
ns, which are not consider-
Is of dishonor. They are
n by the higher scholars,
versity course of the Ethi-
:omposed of four branches,
jht be compared to the
ties of our own. A fifth
evoted to astronomy and
ith traditional ideas, has

not been cultivated for some time
past I knew the last professor of
this science, who had only one pupiL
The other classes are occupied with
the study of the New Testament, the
fathers of the church, civil and canon
law, and the Old Testament This
last requires an effort of memory of
which few Europeans are capable;
for I hav^ never heard but of one
man in the West who knew the
whole Bible by heart No one can
be a teacher in Ethiopia without
knowing by heart the text of the
book he is to explain, the variations
of four or five manuscripts, and es-
pecially the ingenious commentary,
sometimes even learned, but always
traditional and purely oral, on the
text. The degree of bachelor is un-
known in that country ; that of doc-
tor is given to the student who is
chosen by his professor as capable of
explaining in the evening to his com-
rades the lessons given in class in
the morning. In the case of a doubt
of his capacity, the teacher is con-
sulted, and his affirmation is consi-
dered a sufficient diploma. Great
attention and much perseverance are
required to make this system of un-
methodical education profitable. An
aged professor informed me that he
had learned to read in three years.
He spent two years afterward in
learning the liturgical chant, and
five years in studying grammar and
in composing hymns. He learned
how to comment on the New Testa-
ment in seven years ; and spent fif-
teen years on the Old Testament,
for the strain on his memory was very
great

I have dwelt somewhat on the
Ethiopian colleges because M. Blanc,
one of the English prisoners of Mag-
dala, says expressly in his narration :
" The Abyssinians have no literature ;
their Christianity is only a name;
their conversational power is very

272

Abyssinia and King Tktadon,

limited.*^ To this testimony, altoge*
ther negative, I oppose the statement
first made, and which I could prove
and extend farther. I will merely
add that in Gojjam, as well as at
Gondar and elsewhere, I have held
disputes with native Christians, on
religious, philosophical, and other
scientific subjects, and found them as
well informed as if they had been
brought up in Paris or at London.

With rare exceptions, the regular
clergy alone has preserv^ed its virtues
and its prestige. The secular priests
have lost a great part of their impor-
tance by the singular institution of
the Dabtara. Vet the Ethiopians,
jealous of their political indepen-
dence, and capable of presenting it
by the natural influence of their tradi-
tional customs, wish to keep religious
authority powerful and undivided.
To avoid schisms, and as several bi-
shops can consecrate others^ they re-
cognize only one, who must be of
white race and a stranger to the
country. He has always been con-
secrated by the schism at ical patri-
arch of Alexandria ; but, since the last
consecration, I was assured that the
Abyssinians would make application
elsewhere for the future. The title
of their bishop is abun. The last
abun or aboona was Salama, who
having only a scmi-canonical appoint-
ment, and besides being addicted to
all kinds of vice, had very little influ-
ence over the inferior clerg>^ or the
people. Suspected by the professors
and hated by the Dabtara, he plant-
ed more thorns than blessings in the
hearts of his subjects, A Copt by
birth, he at tirst frequented the Eng-
lish Protestant school at Cairo, and
carried afterward to the convent
where he made his vows such doc-
trines of disobedience and incredu-
lous opinions, that the Patriarch of
Alexandria thought it would be wise
to exile him to Ethiopia as abun^

though he was under the canonic
age. In fact, the abun was inc
anxious for money than for t^
faith. He received the jd.c;
francs, which are usually given a^
present at the investiture of
Abyssinian bishop; and the p^
arch thus delivered up distant Etljji
pia, too much despised by the Coptt^
to the vices and vague doctrines 0/
Salama. This ornament of the epis-
copacy had no sooner arrived in hk
diocese, than he devoted himself (0
commerce, especially to the traffic m
slaves, which is most profitable. His
vices were such that our pen cannot
describe them. He told me himself
that by mistake he had ordained priest
a boy only ten years old, and laughed
heartily at the trick played on him in
his case. Having learned from Mon-
seigneur de Jacobis the cases which
annul an ordination, I told thcro to
the professors of canon law. They
kept silence in public ; and when I
pushed them with questions, ihcy aH
gave me tliis answer: " Your objec-
tions are true ; only, in the name of
God, do not scatter them among the
Dabtara. Except the Masses said
by old priests ordained by the preced-
ing abun, there are none valid, and
there is no holy sacrifice in Ethiopia;
but the iOTorance and strong faith <rf
the faithful will suffice before God
for their salvation/' Abun Salanui*
busted with intrigues, in which h^
thought himself ver\^ skilful, «**
nevertheless, only the tool of ih*
princes, who attached him to theioifl
order to help their political combiiw*
tions. It was he who consecralfd
King Theodore, who, after frequently
insulting his con sec rat or, finally O^
him into prison, where he lately died.

HI.

No matter what the English p"
soners may say to the conirar)', t*^

Abyssinia a$ul King Tluodon^

273

soldiers are very brave,
iercely if they are well com-

As in Europe during the
;es, the flower of. their army
ed of cavalry. The battle
by the fusiliers, who shoot
their importance had not
:omprehended by the native
ny time. Soon the charge
i, the cavalry rushes to the
he victory is quickly won,
fantry, badly furnished with
res, lances, and bucklers,
es anything but make pri-
Every soldier keeps all the
Jiose he may vanquish, ex-
ms and blood-horses, which
ilong to the general Dur-
itter phase of the victory,
ander-in-chief, deserted by
>oldiers, is left almost unat*
In speaking with Ethio-
2rs, I often mentioned to
always in vain, how impor-
to have a body-guard for
inder. The first victory of
' King Theodore, attracted

this necessity afterward,
say a word here about the

this chief, since she is in-
' one of the remote causes
lish expedition. This good

1 once did me a great ser-
in 1848, notwithstanding

: elevation of her son to
e was still so polite as to
approach. She was then
a power behind the throne,
t time previously, she was
sd mother of Kasa, an ob-
1, living in misery, and re-
3y all. His poor mother,
age, joined a religious or-
>ut on the little white bon-
is its distinctive sign. But
penniless. The convents

robbed, and every one
the mother of a rebel,
finally compelled to turn

koso^ a drug which the
roL. VII. — 18

Ethiopians take six times a year, to
kill the tape-worm, with which most
of the inhabitants are afflicted.

Kasa, the rebel of Quara, grew
more powerful day by day, and the
proud Manan grew angry. Manan
was the mother of Ali, the most
powerful prince of Central Ethiopia,
and the real mayoress of the palace
of thzX fainiant king who ruled at
Gondar, only within the precincts of
his dwelling. Manan, desiring to be
called ytege^ or queen, an exclusive
title in that country, caused the no-
minal king to be dethroned by her
son, and placed her husband, Yohan-
nis, or John, in his stead. This
prince was an estimable man, and
honored me with his friendship.

In 1847, ^^^ ^^ waged against
the rebel Kasa. The soldiers of
Manan insulted their adversary. One
gasconading cavalier exclaimed, at a
review: "Manan, my great queen,
depend on my valor, for I shall lead
before you in chains this fellow j this
son of a vendor of kosoT But Kasa
won the battle, and chained the
boaster in a hut, where, after a fast
of twenty-four hours, he received the
following message from Kasa, de-
livered verbally by a waggish page :
"How hast thou passed the night,
my brother? How hast thou passed
the day? May God deliver thee
from thy chains! May the Lord
grant thee a little patience I Be sad
with me, for yesterday mamma re-
mained at market all day, and could
not sell a single dose of koso. I
have therefore no money to buy
bread for thee or for me. May God
grant thee patience, my brother!
May God break thy chains ! It is
Kasa who sends thee this message.'*
The next day the officer received
the same message. On the third
day the irony of the conqueror was
slightly changed. After the usual
salutations, the page joyfully in-

Abyssinia and King Theod^^™

formed the captive that *' Mamma
had succeeded in selling a dose of
koso, and bought a loaf, which Kasa
sends him."

A few days after, I heard these
details at Gondar. The news-mon-
gers praised the mockery ; but they
only half'Smiled, for the flower of
society had fallen into misfor-
tune. Then they regretted the
good king Yohannis, and suspected
the still undeveloped wickedness of
the character of Kasa, the adventur-
ous rebel of Quara. I saw Kasa, or
Theodore, frequently at Gondar in
1848. He was dressed as a simple
soldier, and had nothing, either in
his features or language, which pre-
saged his high destiny. He loved
to speak of fire-arms. He was about
twenty-eight years old ; his face
rather black than red ; his figure
slim ; and his agility seemed to arise
less from his muscular power than
from that of his will. His forehead
is high and almost convex ; his nose
slightly aquiline, a frequent charac-
teristic of the pure-blooded Araaras,
His beard, hke theirs, is sparse, and
his thin lips betray rather an Ara-
bian than an Ethiopian origin. Kasa
conquered all his competitors, be-
came King of Ethiopia, and was
consecrated by the abun, taking the
name of Theodore, to verify an old
prophecy current among the Jews
and Christians, that a king of this
name should rule over the ancient
empire of \ksum. But the Ethio-
pians, like all people of mountainous
regions, tenacious of their indcpen-
dence^ and accustomed to liberty,
did not yield at once to an upstart
usurper, who owed his success less
to ability and valor than to good
luck.

In the beginning of his reign he
acted with much clemency, owing, it
is said, to ihe happy influence exer-
cised over him by his first wife » When

she died, he caused her
embalmed, according to t
of the Ethiopian princes
of Solomon, Her coffin ^
after Theodore everywhere
ed. A special tent was ere<
camp for her remains, and
queror of Ethiopia was
entering it to meditate
happiness, and ask of God,
said, prudence and wisd*
future. It is at this time tl
real thoughts, though alwi
trie, of a good govemm<
divorce, and the consequi
sion of marriage, are th
spot of Abyssinian soci
uproot the foundations of
and are opposed to all id'
and stability. Without ui
ing that a radical change
cannot be effected by a mi
mation, Theodore decreed
gat ion of regular marriage
abolition of divorce. An a
man would have sought t
gradually, abuses of such l\
ing. Another of his dec
equal honor, and might
ceeded better, for he rcvi
law of the Etliiopians 1
slave-trade.

But the heart of man
Prince Wibe, falling into
of the conqueror, reco
his daughter to the Dal
monks of Darasge, his favoi
where he had his family b
One day the faithful guardi
spot saw a band of soldiei
toward them. They lhou|
Tissu, a recent rebel
diately concealed the sacn
and fur safet}' shut up the
of Wibe in the vault. Th
was great when they foi
Theodore himself, who ws
ing to custom, marching
kingdom in quest of insarg
wanted to see everything ;

Abyssinia and King Theodore.

275

used to open the cavern for
lintaining that a tomb pre-
fer Wibe, who was still a
captive, could have no inter-
lis conqueror, Theodore sus-
some plot, and caused the'
the sepulchre to be removed,
jrise was great when, instead
in, he beheld a beautiful girl,
in tears, and in the attitude
r. Theodore forgot his first
le set Wibe at liberty, and
his daughter. This union
happy. Hhtytegey or queen,
nterceded to save the life of
vhom she had known at the
her father, Theodore refused
her request, and becoming
nally struck her. In order
iate her the more, he made a
camp follower his concubine,
lis moment his decree on
1 marriage became a dead
nd ^the slave-trade was re-
Men must have stronger
lan that of King Theodore,
ir good thoughts may bear

IV.

s here give some account of
ish missions in Ethiopia ; for
e helped to bring about and
the war now pending. M.
Swiss Protestant, went as
>ndar about forty years ago,
uired a knowledge of the
: of the country. After his
D Europe, he published a
juch seeming good faith, that
^d me at first, as it must
eived the English projectors
Issions. Charity obliges me
that M. Gobat, in giving an
of his sermons to the people,
IT described what he desired
and the answers he would
lear, than what he actually
leard. Without citing other
> of this fact, that of an edu-

cated Dabtara will suffice, who was
ignorant of the existence of the Pro-
testant missions. "Samuel Gobat,"
said he, " was a prepossessing person,
who deceived one at first. I, who
followed him, can affirm that he was
really an unbeliever, or that he pre-
tended to be so. He proposed
frightful doubts and objections in
matters affecting the Christian reli-
gion, but under the form of hypothe-
ses. He always began his strange
assertions by an if. Could he ex-
press them boldly ? If he had, you
know that in Gondar, at least, he
would not have been allowed to con-
tinue, and he would have been de-
nied a residence in our city."

The missionary societies in Eng-,
land did not know this condition of
the Ethiopian mind, and influenced
by the specious arguments of M. Go-
bat, they sent him a re-enforcement
of three ministers, whom he left to
return to Europe. They preached
much more honestly and openly than
he in Adwa and Tigray, where they
were established. They were ex-
pelled in 1838, fifteen days before my
arrival in the country. Two of them
then went to Suria, from which they
were also driven. With a persever-
ance worthy of a better cause, they
returned again to Tigray, and again
to Suria. Always exiled, they had
at last the prudence, in 1855, to make
no further attempt at evangelizing
the country.

Seventeen years before this last
date I met at Cairo a young Lazarist
priest, whom I persuaded to accom-
pany me into Ethiopia, to found a
Catholic mission. He preceded me,
went to Adwa about eight days be-
fore the first expulsion of the Protes-
tant missionaries ; and as my project
seemed to him sensible, requiring
only time and patience to realize it,
I brought letters from him to Europe
in 1 838. His holiness, Gregory XVI.,

27$

Abyssinia atid' King Th^adarw*

■

iavored our attempt, and sent two
missionaries to Ethiopia under the
charge of Monseigneiir de Jacobis,
who soon became known all through
that region by the name of Abuna
Ya'igob. In spite of some impru-
dence, inevitable, perhaps, in a coun*
try where there are such strange con-
trasts, he succeeded beyond ray most
sanguine hopes, and when I left the
country in 1849, there were twelve
thousand Catholics in it, and many
of the priests were natives. Last
year an English account gives the
number as sixty thousand ; for the in-
fluence of true doctxines could not
fail to be extended among a people
so intelligent as are the Abyssinians.
Monseigneur de Jacobis helped much
to obtain this result, by his unchange-
^le mildness, and by that personal
Influence which is always exercised
by a priest devoted to incessant
prayer.

The fate of the Protestant missions
was diflerent. The ministers, in-
stead of attributing their want of suc-
cess to themselves, have blamed the
Catholics as the movers of their ex-
pulsion from Ethiopia. Even the
English Consul Plowden in his offi-
cial report says that Theodore, after
perusing the history of the Jesuits in
Abyssinia, decided to allow no Cath-
olic priest to teach in his states.
The English are fond of decrj-ing the
memory of the Jesuits who taught in
Ethiopia up to 1630. It is, however,
very singular that I never heArd of
this history, and that the most learn*
ed a nti- Catholic professors at Gon-
dar never mentioned it to me in our
controversies. On the contrar>% they
spoke of Peter Paez and his co-labor-
ers with admiration mingled with re-
gret, and quoted touching legends
concerning them. A little fUrther
on in his account, Plowden, who
fteems ignorant of the fact that ser-
mons are unknown in Ethiopia, adds

ot^l

that Theodore prohibited all
ing contrary to the Copt Chu ^
We cannot expect that an
soldier, more or less Protc
should comprehend fully rel|
questions; but . although he
mere soldier, he ought to have know
that Theodore was attached to oq
of the three national sects, and hu
forbidden all other creeds, and con
demned Catholics as well as Pio^
tants.

It was in consequence of
cree that Monseigneur de Jacobil
was compelled to leave Gondar in
1855. This pious bishop went to
Musawwa, and there continued 111
govern his mission, which has hues
left almost undisturbed by the n4
tives for almost thirty years* ^
chief proselytes of Gondar
also to the shores of the Red'"
and the Protestant ministers, alwa)
on the watch, imagined they had J
length found a good opportun
teach in the capital They
thither under the guidance
Krapf,' who, in default of other qua
ties, has at least uncommon aclivi
and persistence, but which have bc<
so far sterile of results. At thi
first expulsion in 1858, tlie fo\ii^
testant missionaries left but an
selyU in tlu whok of Ethiopia.
was a quondam pilgrim. Hd
going to Jerusalem with an Ethi^
priest, who, falling short of mooi
sold his companion into bondaj
M, Gob At having ransomed him, h
no diflicuUy in inspiring him with li
tred of the priests, and of all iIm
doctrines. We can only legard tl
single convert as an ap
to desert his faith by re
a spirit of revenge. Another you)
and intelligent Ethiopian, after si
dying for years in the Protests
schools of Europe, when asked, i
swered me frankly that the numerQ
dissensions in religioQ witnessed

LUC 1J«

alwa)
had \
Ljnujd

Abyssinia and King Tluodore.

277

J Protestants, had destroy-
gious belief in his mind.
England always believing,
Toneously, ought to be
the consideration that her
is, real mercenaries as
only succeed in propaga-
and incredulity instead of
the gospel.

at, who was somewhat of a
t, in w riting to King Theo-
lot state his object to be
ition of a Protestant mis-

merely announced that
chanics, desiring to im-
physical condition of the
ished to settle in it. King
who was desirous of ob-
acksmiths, gunners, and
to make cannon and mor-
build bridges and roads,
onsent. M. Gobat hinted
vrorkmen wanted the free
" their religion. Theodore
he matter to the abun,
^ng the tricks of his old
iluntly told Mr. Sterne, one
sionaries, who spoke of his
to convert the Talasa, or
s, as the sole object of his
5 Gondar, "This mission
s is only a pretext to plot
e fiiith of the Christians."
y not to take the hint, Mr.
peated his assertion, anc
consented to receive the
lecharfics, who were to be
ments in the hands of the
»sionaries in "evangeliz-
barbarous Ethiopians,
e testimony of Mr. Sterne
id that of other Protestants,
le was a complete failure,
^e " mechanics," or " pious
became as immoral as any
ves. Besides, in violation
lemn promise made to the

missionaries distributed,
in informs us, "hundreds
and taught the great truths

of salvation to many pagans and
Christians." We extract these facts
from the work of the Rev. Mr. Bad-
ger, considered a most trustworthy
witness in official circles in England.*
After a short stay at Gondar, Mr.
Sterne went to London, was made
bishop, and published a wordy vpl-
ume containing but onefact worth no-
ticing, namely, the intrinsic proof that
the author was ignorant of the most
ordinary customs of Ethiopia. By
an imprudence which has cost him
dear, Mr. Sterne related the story of
the vender of koso in his book. A
former student of the English mis-
sionaries informed Theodore of the
fact, and the Protestants had reason
to feel bitterly that a man's friends
often prove to be his greatest ene-
mies.

The English government was in-
dignant that its agent Plowden, as it
is known, should have been massa-
cred on the highway near Gondar.
Theodore avenged his death, how-
ever, by the barbarous slaughter of
its authors and their associates. But
the party of the " saints" in England
was not satisfied with this reparation.
Theodore was weak, and no match
for England. It was safe, therefore, to
insult him. Had he been as power-
ful as the United States, England
would have been as loath to touch
him as she is afraid to refuse satisfac-
tion to America for the ravages of
the Alabama on the high seas. She,
however, suppressed the consulship
of Gondar, and sent Captain Came-
ron as her consul to Massowah,
under the protection of the Turkish
flag. Captain Cameron was a brave
officer who had served in the Crimea,
but he was no diplomatist We all
know that, as much from lack of this

• Tkt story wf Ike British Cmfiion in AiyttifUm,
186), S864. By the Rev. Geoixe Perqr Batlser.

5/8

Abyssinia and King Theodore,

quality as from the semi-barbarous
habits of King Theodore, who thinks
himself all-powerful because he has
been so successful in conquering
rebels in his own kingdom, Came-
ron and fi\^ other English subjects,
among them M, Rassam— another
unskilful English agent— and \}^q
Germans, were imprisoned at Mag-
dala on the 8th of July, 1866.

Magdala, where the prisoners still
remain, is a stronghold in the Abys-
sinian highlands, 3,000 feet above
the level of the sea, and the climate
there is less warm than in most
parts of the torrid zone. There are
a church, a treasur}% a prison, and
huts in the place, and a population
of about three or four thousand per-
sons, of whom four hundred are pris-
oners of every description ; a garrison
of six hundred sharpshooters and as
many common soldiers armed with
lance and shield. Although ihis for-
tress is considered strong by the na-
tives, one of the prisoners writes that
a single shell would suffice to blow
up a place which the Ethiopians
have looked upon as impregnable for
three centuries.

Besides the European prisoners at
Magdala, Theodore keeps fourteen
others, mostly German mechanics,
near his own quarters. These art-
isans, exported at the expense of a
Protestant missionary society as
^* pious laymen'^ began their evangel-
ical labors as messengers of peace in
fl very extraordinary fashion, by fabri-
cating mortars and other engines of
war. As for the spiritual welfare of
the Christians of Ethiopia, they look-
ed well to It by distilling bad brandy ;
and as for the temporal, they drove
the profitable trade of slave-mongers.
This is what M. Rassam, an Ara-
bian, who turned Protestant to get
einpIo>anent from the English gov*
emment, tells us. He was nine years
at Aden as Ikutmani-gaviGrmr^ and

Is considered one of the ablest
English agents in the East, if we ate
to believe the parliamentary eulogium
passed on him in a recent d'
the House of Commons, i
account heard from tliis unfortunate
ambassador does not warrant the
belief in his ability. The abun,
Salama, having died, M. Rassam ad*
vises the English to choose another
abun in Eg)^pt, and put him at the
head of the invading army as a luftd
of palladium 1 This advice, if put
into execution, would be as aV'^"^'^ ^^
if, on the death of Pius IX., i
Disraeli, imitating the policy 1 i:
and wishing to restore the Maic :i' > •
the Holy See, should send an 1 : iv
against the Sardinians, with .• [-h^;^^
at its head elected at Canterbury Of
elsewhere, Jansenist or Catholic, no
matter which, and should expect iQ
the Italians to respect him as twt-
reign pontiff,

VI.

England has undertaken the
Abyssinian expedition to prcscivt
her presti^ in the East, and she i»
determined to gain her point The
dusky King Theodore, preteodcd
descendant of Solomon, cannot coa-
plain that he has not received dipl'J'
malic notice. When the Gemya
who brought him the British ultima-
tum, told him that If he did not it*
liver up the prisoners h «^^

both the armies of \ i^wl

France against him — ** Let thcia
come," said Theodore, ** and call o^
a woman if I do not give them bl^
tie." We know not iflhere be inorc<<
folly or of intrepid vaJor in thispnjod
answer. In fact, no ting

the narrations of some i ^*'

turally suspected of exaggentio^V
the Ethiopians have no idea of ^
military power of the W^estcni 0**
tions, and their king may beli^
that he is a match for them.

Abyssinia a$ul King Theodore,

279

y of Adulis, usually so si-
low swanning with ships,
re in it, a short time ago,
vessels, without counting
the Arabians and East-
The English have built

> to assist the debarkation

The English have the
n, which they pretend to be
to the Chassepot rifle,
e even forty elephants to
heodore. One of them, an
)f good sense if ever there
behaved himself so badly
arkation of the troops, that
It back to Hindostan.
i is determined to succeed.
* borrowing, she has levied
n millions of dollars. She

at least six times that
ifore the end of the war.
;lish prisoner to be freed
t least ten millions. But

is not merely the freeing
soners, though she asserts

She has to provide water
re thousand men and many
the plains of Zullah, where,

of natural fresh water,

> drink a distillation of

They need every day
red and eighty thousand

drink ; and this quant i-
2n provided at the enor-
of twenty thousand dollars

twenty-four hours. To
be munitions of war, mules
ht and brought to Zullah
pt, Turkey, Spain, and
The English soldiers, not

first how to manage them,

with hay ropes. Many
les ate the ropes, escaped
esert, and were lost. A
s been built, running from
Sanafe, the first border
Ethiopia, a distance of al-
lundred miles.
5 of march has been well
The English could have

crossed the plains of Tigray, which
are level and oppose no obstacle ; and
then crossed through Wasaya without
meeting any noteworthy difficulty ex-
cept the river Takkaze, and Mount
Lamalmo. Farther on, at Dabra
Tabor, where Theodore usually re-
sides, they might have chosen either
the plains of the Lanige, or the cod
and verdant hills of the Waynadaga
territory as the sites of their encamp-
ment. But this route is not the
shortest. Besides, the Wasaya be-
gins to be unhealthy in the month of
May, and there is no forage as far as
Wagara.

The shorter route, which the Eng
lish have taken, is by Agame and
Wag. On those elevated plateaux
they may keep all their energy, and
they will find a territory less ravaged
by civil war, and good pastures. The
distance from Zullah to Magdala is
about the same as from Paris to
Lyons. But artillery is with diffi-
culty transported over many of the
gullies on the route ; and perhaps
for the elephants it will be found im-
practicable. But the leader of the
expedition. Sir Robert Napier, will
not balk at these details. He will
push rapidly on to Delanta before
the rainy season, which begins about
the loth of July. According to the
prisoners, if he should invest Mag-
dala at the beginning of May, the
want of water would soon force the
garrison to surrender. If the first
rains have fallen before his arrival,
the English will occupy Tanta among;
the Wara Haymano, and from that
point open fire on Magdala. Sol-
diers living in huts, without case-
mates or caverns, could not stand a
day against the English guns. In
any case, Magdala, the great Ethio-
pian fortress, will be taken, and it
will remain to.be seen whether the
troops will march to Dabra Tabor to
bum the camp of King Theodore^

38d

Abyssinia and King^ Theodore,

and kill him, or make him prisoner.
Nevertheless, the use of diploTnacy
will not be despised. When Theo-
dore put ^I. Rassam in prison, with
great protestations of friendship, he
promised him his liberty on tlie ar-
rival of certain machines and expert
workers. England sent both to ^fas-
sowah, but required first the libera-
tion of the prisoners without having
used any of those fonns which render
a contract binding in the eyes of the
-Abyssinians. On his sldci Theodore
did not understand the value of a sim-
ple signature. Besides, he had been
deceived by Plowdcn, who denied his
character of consul, and cheated by
the denials of the Protestant mission-
aries fis to their attempts to prosely-
tize the native Christians. He did
not, therefore, believe the protesta-
tions of the English. The want of a
sensible agent caused the failure of
this negotiation, which might have
succeeded if more skilfully conducted.
Moreover, the English army, on en-
tering the Tigray, issued a proclama-
tion, of which the Times published a
literal copy, as ridiculous \wAmarinfia
dialect as in English, Besides, the
language used is almost unknown in
Agama, where tliis document has
been published. The English offi-
cers do not seem to have known
that a proclamation is never pub-
lished in Ethiopia in a written form.
But what will King Theodore, the
pretended descendant of Solomon,
do? It is diflficult to answer this
■question. The natives report that
Theodore is often out of his senses
when he drinks bramly, which the
**//Vwj iaymtn^* of the Protestant
mission zealously manufacture for his
spiritual comfort. From the very
beginning of his reign, Plowden in-
forms us that he manifested svTnp-
toms of insanity. The English pri-
soners tell us more explicitly that
Theodore himself informed them

that his father was insane, and

he believed himself attacked wi
same disorder Several trails
conduct toward the prisoners, ai
massacre of one hundred of hh
soldiers in his camp, on mere \
cion, give gravity to the asser
If this be true, England has <lcc
war against an adv^ersary unw
of her dignity. In case of defea
only refuge for Theodore is t
treat to his native province of Q
on the border of a terrible d
breathing pestilence on all t!)
gion around. Woe to Uic Ej
soldiers if they attempt to liM[
thither \ V

Of all the ancient empire of
the Great, that Ethiopian LouisI
Thuudore has only Quara, ^\%
can call his own. His govemo
the Tigra have been expelled '
bels, or have made themselves
p4?ndent of his authority. C
has proclaimed its independ^
Wag also has risen in arms ;
is free, and gives asylum to all
gees. Yet these are regions b
cently subjected to the conqti
arms of Theodore. T
rules the lower Tigray, W
guayt, Simen, Wazara, and as 1
Dam by a, where Gondar
fore Theodore destroyed itJ

What then is left to thiJ
nate tyrant, resisted at hom^
berless insurgents, and threa
foreign force with destructio .
A warn as, whose rights he ha
spected because they know Ik
defend themselves, but who will
the first opportunity to rebel ; '
sa, Acafar, Alafli, and Mecasti
ing along the Tana, but which h
made solitudes by his systc
I age J and finally
beautiful portion of the I
which obeys him with
ease, a slight cheek, or a
peasant, would ho, sufiadent 11

New Publications.

281

heodore, that royal meteor,
after shining for a few years,
)n be extinguished in the
f oblivion. Considering the
>sof the English preparations,
led to suspect that she has
mtion of holding Northern
I after conquering it. Ap-
es seems to favor this con-
and no matter what the Eng-
mals may say, the idea is not
ich origin. Plowden urged
ization in his official letters
years ago ; Cameron is in
it; and General Coghlan
hints its practicability in his
monograph on Ethiopiian af-
rhe English have been mas-
Vden for the last thirty years,
f wish to make the Red Sea
ish lake. They desire Ethi-
►r from it they could invade
vhere " King Cotton" would
all his glory. They allege
e of Algiers annexed to

France in justification of their pro-
ject But let it be observed that
Charles X., who ransomed at his own
expense, the Greek slaves sold in
the markets of Constantinople and
in Egypt, could not allow the Dey of
Algiers alone to keep French, Span-
ish, and English Christian sin bonds ;
while the English have never done
anything to prevent the slave-trade
in Abyssinia. Many Christian slaves
are annually bought within gunshot
of the British ships on the Red Sea,
to be brutalized in Mussulman ha-
rems. England has neifer made an ef-
fort to stop the traffic there. Can we
blame King Theodore then, who, ac-
cording to his degree of intelligence
and power, wished to put an end to
this inhuman commerce, for saying
with at least as much modesty as her
majesty's government has at com-
mand, "\YJMel^^of us two is the
greater ba

NEW

PUBLICATIONS. ^ -l/f^^

UMBA, Apostle of Cale-
. By the Count de Montalem-
f the French Academy. New
Catholic Publication House,
assau street 1868.

ecclesiastical history is some-
ique in the world, and presents
spirit of Christianity run into
ely new and original mould.
:ic race, whose most perfect and
:ly actualized type exists in the
f Ireland, is a singular specimen
nity, as it used to be in the
! ages just after, and perhaps long
he flood, preserved, continued,
irently incapable of being de-
>r changed, in the midst of other
totally opposite character. The

sudden and entire conversion of this
people to Christianity, and the invincible
tenacity with which it has clung to its
first faith, together with the marked in-
dividuality of the expression which it
has given to the Christian idea, form a
phenomenon in history which cannot be
too much studied or admired. It was a
happy moment for Ireland when that
Chevalier Bayard of Catholic literature,
the Count de Montalembert, felt his
chivalrous soul moved by the story ot
her ancient princely monks and daunt-
less, adventurous apostles, and set him-
self to the task of writing a work which
unites all the romantic, poetic charm ol
the lyric strains of her bards, with the
accuracy and minuteness of her monas-
tic chronicles. His narrative, partiy

New Publkatiom.

owing to the nature of his subject, and
partly to his own genius, is like
the Scottish Chiefs and the Waverley
Novels. The most striking, onginal^
and grand of all the cliaracters depicted
by him in that part of the Monks of
the West which is devoted to Ireland,
is St. Columba or CohimbkilL This
great man, who was by birth heir to the
dignity of Ard-righ, or chief king of Ire-
land, the founder of I ona, and the apostle
of Scotland, is the favorite saint of the
Irish people after St Patrick, He is a
more thoroughly Irish saint than the
great apostle of Ireland, who was the
father and founder of the Irish people as
a Christian nation, but was himself^
probably, by birtli and extraction a Gal-
lo-Roman. A warrior, a poet, a chieftain,
a monk» a statesman, an apostle, and, it
is supposed, a prophet ; the most in-
tensely devoted and patriotic lover of
his native island, perhaps, tliat ever
lived ; and yet sentenced by his stern
old hermit confessor to perpetual
banishment from it ; tlie life of Co-
lumba overflows with all the materials
of the most romantic and heroic in-
terest.

The Life of Columba, whose title is
placed at the head of this notice, is, as
we have implied already, a monograph
extracted from the great work on the
Monks of the West, by Montalemhcrt.
It is a small book of only 170 duo-
decimo pages, and therefore readable
by almost everyb<:>dy who ever reads
anything better than newspapers and
dime novels. It is, above all others, a
book for every one, young or old, who
has Celtic* Catholic blood in his veins.
It is time now to use that English lan-
guage which was forced by the haughty
conqueror upon the Irish people, from
a cruel motive which God has overruled
for their glory and his own, as the
means of diffusing the treasures hidden
hitherto, so to speak, under a cromlech.
Those who put this unwilling people
into a compulsory course of English,
little thought what a keen-edged weapon
they were placing in their hands, and
training them to use. They could not
foresee what use would be made of it by
Curran, O'Connell, Thomas Moore,
Bishop Doyle, and Father Mcchan.

The possession of tae Enj
guage places the Irish peoplj
municaiion with the whole^
world, without deprixnng: thctj
rich patrimony of tt 1

gen d, and song. It i en

who love the faith, and sympathi
the wrongs and hardships, of th
I>eople, to strain even' nerve to ii
the number and diffuse the cirt
of books, in which this rcligio'
patriotic tradition may be perpe
Wherever the Irish people are,
land, England, America, Austial
are deriving their Intellectual futj
more and more from English 1
and thus, in proportion as they I
readers, are coming under the j
of writers who write in thel
language. It is most impor
fore, for those who are charg
responsibility of watching ov
ligtous, moral, and intctlectua
to see to it that their minds 1
flooded with an excess of purely I
literature, which has in it no mIX!
the Catholic tradition. The gi
danger and misfortune of our
generation of Catholics in Awe:
the lack of this tradition in hisf
poetic, and romantic literature,
those who are the descendants
rents and progenitors of the old O
stock, must necessarily lose by d
all vivid sentiment of any other r
ality than the American, and b<
influenced by the genius loci tii
any other genius, whether Cd
Teutonic. The danger to bcgt
against is a peril of becoming so
Americanized as to be reduced to I
mortuum in the process. An Air
citizen, without faith and reTl^rinn
though he may be born an
ton, is involved in the con ; i
original sin as well as others, m
gain to transform a poor,"
believing, fenent Catholic imm
in the second or third general to
an intelligent, well fed, health;
mal, with a comfortable fam
the elective franchise, but wl
more soul than the man with tlic
rake in the Pilgrim- s Frogrtss^ 04
drrty heathen in the suburbs of|~
city of New York, who spend 1

New Publications,

283

needing cabbages. This dele-
:hange must be prevented, not
surely spiritual means, but also
rving and fostering as much as
the natural bonds which con-
youth of Catholic origin with
dons of their ancestry. Hence,
I fisivor of multiplying and cir-
is much as possible those books
late the history of the Catholic
of Ireland, of her saints and

her gallant chieftains and
artyrs, her sufferings and per-
. The English Catholic tra-
id the Scottish, are unfortu-
3ken. A dreary gap of three

intervenes between the pre-
the Catholic past ; but in Ire-
continuity is perfect from the
tury to the present moment
he great artery of life to the
Church of the British empire
:olonies, and it must not be

There is an intense sympathy
:he people of the United States

people of Ireland. This is
sympathy with their oppressed

as a people, and with their
nds for expiation and redress
•ongs they have suffered from
5 of the British government
be prudent for the gentlemen
glish parliament to take note
id to be wise in time, by con-

those rights and privileges at

a good grace, which Ireland
obtain sooner or later, whether
t is willing or unwilling. This
'Htical sympathy will, we trust,
le way for a higher and holier

with the faith, the constancy,
icible fortitude of the Irish

a Catholic nation, the Spar-
sacred Thermopylae, who have
i themselves to save the faith.
e that the American public
im what is the Irish Version
^tory of the Reformation, This
»es a previous knowledge of

planting and cultivation of
ty. When it is seen that the
;ht and died for the very same
hich was planted among them
rst aposdes, it will be easy to
the claims which the religion
eth and Cromwell had upon

their submission. The labors of Mon-
talembert are therefore invaluable, as
bringing to light the hidden treasures
of Irish ecclesiastical history, and in all
his great work there is no chapter to be
found more charming than the bio-
graphy of the great patriarch of looa.
We conclude with the eulogium which
Fintan, a contemporary monk, pro-
nounced upon St Columba in an as-
sembly of wise and learned men, and
which is justified by the history of his
life. " Columba is not to be compared
with philosophers and learned men, but
with patriarchs, prophets, and apostles.
The Holy Spirit reigns in him ; he has
been chosen by God for the good of all ;
he is a sage among all sages, a king
among kings, an anchorite with ancho-
rites, a monk of monks ; and in order
to bring himself to the level even of
laymen, he knows how to be poor of
heart among the poor; thanks to the
apostolic charity which inspires him, he
can rejoice with the jo)rful, and weep
with the unfortunate. And amid all
the gifts which God's generosity has
lavished on him, the true humility ot
Christ is so royally rooted in his soul
that it seems to have been bom with
him."

EccE Homo. By the Right Hon. W.
E. Gladstone. Strahan & Co., Lon-
don. G. Routledge & Sons, 416
Broome street. New York. 1868.

On the day of writing this notice, Mr.
Gladstone is introducing his motion for
overthrowing that monstrous iniquity,
the Irish Establishment We feel, con-
sequently, especially well-disposed to-
ward him. Nevertheless, with all our
respect for his talents and character,
we cannot help being reminded of his
illustrious countryman, that great orna-
ment of the sea-faring profession, Cap-
tain Bunsby. Our English brethren,
when they take up solid topics, appear
to think laborious dulness and tedious
obscurity the evidence of deep learning
and sound judgment Their essays are
like those of collegians, who affect to
write on political or philosophical sub-
jects in an extremely old-mannish, old-

284

New Publications,

cabmet-minister-like style. This is re-
markably the case with the venerabk
university doas who advocate rational-
istic opinions. The style of arguing
adopted by these worthy and digtiified
gentlemen bears a striking resemblance
to the movementij of one who is care-
fully wending his way among eggs. As
an instance, we may cite the Essays
and /C^tf/<r:i*Sj perhaps the dullest book
ever written, unless the Treatues on
Sacnd Anilitfteiic and Afenstiraliim^
by Dr. Colcnso» may be thought worthy
to compete for the prixe. The Ecce
HflPHO is n6t to be placed in precisely
the same category. It is, nevertheless,
in our humble opinion, a very vague,
wearisome* and unsatisfactory^ book.
Wc cannot account for its popularity
in any other way than by ascribing it to
the restless, sceptical, misty state of the
English mind on religious subjects ; the
uneasy desire to find out something
more than it knows about Christianity
and its author. After eighteen centu-
ries have rolled by, the question, Who
is Jesus Christ ? still remains a puzzle
to all those who will not submit to learn
from the teacher commissioned by him-
self. The author of Ecce Homo has
cndcav'ored to throw himself back to
the time and into the period of the dis-
ciples of Christ, to examine with their
eyes his words and actions, and from
these to abstract a mental conception
of his true character. What that con-
ception is, remains as much a puzzle as
the gospels themselves are to a rational-
ist, or the Exodus to Dr. Colenso. The
language of Ecc€ Hamo is certainly
irreconcilable with the detinitions of the
Catholic Church respecting the divine
personality of Christ. Some of its state-
ments respecting the nature of the work
accomplished by him on the earth, and
the evidence thereby furnished of his
divine mission, arc forcible and ^'alua-
ble, and periiaps to rationalists, Uni-
tarians, and doubters, the work may be
useful No one, however, who under-
stands Catholic theolog}', and believes
in the true doctrine of the Incarnation,
can read it without a strong sentiment
of repugnance and dissatisfaction, Mr*
Gladstone, nevertheless, although pro*
Cessing to accept the Catholic doctrine

of ^1^1

of the Incarnation^ undertaken the ^
fence of the book, and ' ^i*^

for its most o^cnsive , Bjr

doing this he shows thai \\^ Xwxmtk
does not grasp the full meaning of the
formulas to which he gives hin aise&l;
and although he is not a mtionnfbt, yrt,
from perpetual contact jjul

the influence of that h ^n^

quent state of mind pro' gli-

canism, he has acquired -. j d

that dark'lantern style of which wc hart
spoken above. There are gleams of
light and passages of beauty here and
there, especially on those pages when
the autlior treats of the Greek ♦\Jjthc3^
ogy as an imperfect effort to realize th*
idea of Deity incarnate in human for&
As a whole, die essay, wluch is a nwjt '
review of another book, was well cnou^
for a magazine article, but not of
cient importance to warrant its
tion in book form. Every pi-r
acknowledges the true divinit'
Christ while rejecting the auLi. ,. , .
the Catholic Churchy stamJs in a poif'
tion logically absurd, anH «= *Tn^r ^ f«»
incapable of adequately
cause of Christ and Chris
the infidelity of the age. ^
Catholic, endowed with gc*au>
imbued with the spirit of Cat
ology, can ever write in a *,<i ^ju^lmj
manner upon the Life of Christ, 50 A*
to meet that demand which *: ' *'*
abortive efforts of unbeliever-
Christians to find such an exten>jvc ui-
culation.

Ox THE HEIfJHTS. A Novcl. Bt B«^
thold Auerbach, Boston: Rolicitl
Brothers. 1868.

«
This volume-, professing to he a \n^
lation frjpm the German, Is most tho*
roughly permeated with German myS'
asm J one can hardly give it the digni-
fied name of theoki*^. It carries otvc
back in its bewildering metaphy^tc? tt»
the days of The Dtaly when
of eighteen belonging to a ceri-i
was devouring Bettina*s correspoi
with Goethe, and listening ^
soul to lectures on " Human Ufe,^
the oracular lips of a £^vorite seer

New Publications.

285

2rly beyond the comprehen-
naiden's papa, but which she
perfectly.

ed to wonder, in our repub-
ince, if people in court life
d act in the stilted, theatri-
in which they are here re-
every person being what in
would be called " highly or-
In this particular, and in the
repetition of court detail, we
ly reminded of the volumi-
of Miss Muhlbach, with this
that On the Heights makes
I claim.

I, however, very many sweet
aature in the book, gems of
id now and then a rare pearl
nsel, near which, in reading,
itarily draws a pencil -line,
ay be found again. Mater-
)eauti fully portrayed, both in
w life, in the queen, and in
lother of the prince,
or evidently knows but little
olic faith, and less of its re-
the life of the religieuse is
referred to (with a slight
*a iife in which nothing

\ this volume with a sensa-
ry sadness ; there seems to
1 its pages " the cry of that
pain, under which, thought-
: languishing," like the dis-
)f an iColian harpt wafted on
reezes. There is a reaching
jse mystic yearnings for the
lie, and the enduring^ which
s gift of faith alone brings to
ind heavy-laden, in submis-
xl^s appointed teacher, the

lanical execution of the work
t, the type clear, and the
imed pages furnish a vast
eading in a small compass.

Change in the Eucha-

rom the French of Jacques

By John W. Hamersley,

Vbbadie was born in Switzer-
i54; "studied at Saumur,"

writes Mr. Hamersley in his prefoce,
** was doctorated at Sedan, and installed
pastor of the French (Huguenot) Church
of Berlin, at the instance of Count d'£s-
pence."

He left his pastorate, became chap-
lain to Marshal ^chomberg, and came
to England with William of Orange in
1688. After Schomberg's death, in the
battle of the Boyne, Abbadie was pre-
sented to the deanery of Killaloo, in
Ireland, where he died in 1727.

His book against transubstantlation
in the Eucharist, is such as might be
expected from the literary leisure, taste,
learning, and piety of one of Schom-
berg's exemplary camp-followers. We
read the book with the hope of finding
some objection in it worth a refutation ;
but we have found nothing but the stale,
oft -refuted arguments of Protestants
against the real presence. Led by the
title of the work. Chemical Change in the
Eucharist^ we expected to meet some
profound chemical discoveries that
should at least seem to contradict
Catholic beliefl But there is not one.
There is not even an allusion which
would show the author to be conver-
sant with chemistry or any of the natural
sciences. Abbadie argues against the
Catholic exegesis of the sixth chapter
of St John, and against the words of
consecration, " This is my body," in the
usual Protestant way. He insists that
Christ's words are to be taken figura-
tively ; while Catholics claim that they
are to be taken literally.

One general answer will do for all
heterodox interpretations of Scripture
on this and on other points. If Pro-
testants urge that private reason is the
supreme judge of Scripture, how can
they deny to Catholics the right to use
it ? And if the private judgment of
Catholics finds that Christ spoke of a
real presence in the Holy Eucharist,
and that his words are to be taken in
their plain, literal signification, why
should Protestants object ? In point
of fact. Catholics do admit private judg-
ment, properly understood, in the inter-
pretation of Scripture. They affirm that
the interpretation of the church or of
the fathers is identical with the rational
exegesis. The interpretation of Protes-

VifW Futfteatims.

tants is not a rational interpretation,
and does not give the true sense of
Scripture. They misinterpret the Scrip-
tures by an abuse of private judj^ment.
They gratuitously assume that Catholic
inierpretalion is contrary to the rational
sense of the Bible ; while Catholics hold
that their interpretation alone is ra-
tional. As a prudent, sensible man,
when he meets with a difficult pasj^a^je
in Homer or Sophocles, consults the best
commentators to aid him in discovering
the true sense ; so, for a much greater
reason, should a Christian seek an au-
thoritative explanation of those hard
passages of Holy Writ ** which the un-
stable and unlearned wrest to their own
destruction." One who denies that
there are difficult texts in Scripture can
never have read it From the first text
of Genesis to the last in the Apoca-
lypse, the Scripture is replete with diffi-
culties, which even the most learned
commentators do not always succeed in
explaining.

All Abbadie's scriptural arguments
against the real presence may be, there-
fore, met with one remark. He ex-
plains certain texts in a figurative sense«
Catholics^ however, interpret them to
mean what they plainly and literally ex-
press. Catholics do not need in this
case to appeal to tl^e authority of the
church or to the fathers, Christ says,
" This is my body ;'* Catholics believe
him, Christ says, **My flesh is meat
indeed ;" Catholics believe his words-
Abbadie and his sect admit that Christ
says, ** This is my body;" that he af-
firms his flesh to be meat indeed ; yet
they will not believe him. Who au-
thoHstes them to contradict the express
words of Christ ? We ask impartiai
reason to judge between Catholic and
Protestant in this controversy.

But where Abbadie shows his com-
plete ignorance of the first elements
of the higher sciences is in "Letter
Fourth " of his book, p. 98. We quote
from Mr, Hamersley's translation. **yl//
0Hr iiUas af faUh rely solely on seme;
and their value to us is measured by
its certainty; and to feith, which is a
conviction of divine truth, there are
four essentials : God exists ; he is truth-
fill; he has revealed himself; each mysi-

IvtB

tery of our faith appears in

la t ion. Sir — it is noteworthy
sen us are the sole ihann^ls (*/
truths^ andilteirso\,W^ vancker,
**Thus the senses are (he mtdu
evidenced* (P. 99^) The mate
d'Holbach, Cabanis, Helvetiu
dillac is identical with thih
the doughty de.m of Killalo
senses ^*^are the sole ehannelii
instead of being tlie mere i
reflection, then the whole 1
ligible ideas, the Ideas of God, I
cause, are illusions. The sens
tell us the sensible or phen0mcn.1L
as the ideas of God, cause, spirit
justice, goodness, substance, et
all supersensible, they can note
the senses. If the senses *U
dia of all e^ndence^'^ the only t
can know are modes or phcnomci
ors, forms, sounds, etc. The sen
us nothing more. We must, tlu
deny the existence of God, of j
goodness, cause, substance,
turn atheists, pantheists, »c
materialists, as all who logic
out Abbadie's or Locke's mel
really become. The philosophy
warlike chaplain of Schmi '
is thus shown to beessen'

Did Nfr. Hamcrsley know thi
he translated the book .* We thI
for he is evidently too innoccu
and loo^^l^gpt of truth to 1
understan^tm^ even the arg
the^uperficial dean of KiUaJq

We shall make good our j
quoting a few of Mr. Hame
references : ** In 1845, the pop
Immaculate Conception a
Roman creed and a condition (
tion." (P. T13.) The gentJemaa
bly wi : of the popc'»|"

1852.

»*A ; ry L inj

Augus uodate th

nies of tlie church to heathen i

*'The Maronites, originaii
th^Htes^ protected by the
He radius, are now incorpor
church of Rome." (P* 126,)

•♦A.D. 1295, Boniface VIII
ex-pope Celestine V; in « ctik
sise o/kii ^adf^ lest he matf {

Ndv Publications.

287

pontificate he has resigned —
m night and day with 6 knights
oldi^rs. Cilestine dies ofcru-
\ 129.)

>ry VII. threatens to anathe-
l France, unless King Philip
simony:^ (P- I3S) This was
egory's crimes in the judgment
amersley.

.nder VI. (Borgia) is elected
» Holiness is forthwith adored
dinalsP (P. 143) Whatidola-

^e — a sacrament by which
ts, committed after baptism^ are

' (P. 146.)

Nestorians were excommuni-
D. 431, for holding, among
jvs, two natures of Christ."

Council of Chalcedon, A.D.
rmed the doctrine of the two
f Christ, which the church had
d." (P. 148.)

ances of schisms in the church,
ed translator cites the follow-
ominicans and Franciscans —
ulate conception." " Thomists
ists — efficacy of grace and im-

conception." " Jesuits and
s — on the doctrine of grace."

17, 1866, the leading Roman-

le Council of Baltimore invite

by letter to visit the United

(P. 157.)

pestilence." (P. 159.) ^^ Plague-
iman Catholic churches and in-
." (P. 160.) This is a good in-
Mr. Hamersley's rhetoric.
Papal Church in the United
is recently adopted the title of
Mtholic^ Evidence : " It ap-
arge iron gilt, letters over the
the asylum in Fifth avenue,
k— Roman Catholic Male Or-
tlumy (P. 160.) This is one
^le-spots /

are but a few of the literary
o be found in Mr. Hamersley's
to Abbadie. A Catholic could
smile at both the original and
lator, if, unfortunately, there
found many persons so credu-
► believe their falsehoods. The
¥ork of Abbadie is tolerable,
ipts to argue ; and we have no

doubt his military logic was satisfectorjr
enough to the square-headed soldiers of
Schomberg^s army. Besides, when Ab-
badie wrote, civilization had not arrived
at such a degree of prt)gress as it has
now attained. But Mr. Hamersley
writes his £dsehoods now. His igno-
rance and &naticism, of which we have
culled but a few of the many instances
in his book, are of our own day. We
cannot understand why he jshould repeat
them, since there is hardly any mode-
rately educated Protestant who does not
know that most of his allegations are
false. If there be any so dull or &na-
tical as to believe them, we feel for them
more of pity than contempt.

In conclusion, we regret that the
translator does not show as much good
sense or taste in choosing the subject
as the publishers manifest in the bind-
ing and printing of the work. We are
sorry to see such fine print wasted on a
bad, worthless book. Mr. Hamersley
could have found nobler themes in for-
eign literature, even though they might
be the productions of Protestants, to
exercise those talents as a translator
which he has failed to show as a lover
of truth, a logician, or a man of good
sense.

Life in the West ; or, Stories of the
Mississippi Valley. By N. C. Meek-
er, Agricultural Editor of the New
York Tribune, New York: Samuel
R. WeUs.

" A long residence in the Mississippi
Valley, frequent journeys through its
whole extent, and years of service as the
Illinois correspondent of the New York
Tribune^ have furnished the materials
for the following stories." Hence, it is
almost unnecessary to state that their
claim to our careful consideration rests
upon something more substantial than
the fact of their being pleasingly told,
varied in incident, and unobjectionable
in tone. Their real worth, and it is not
slight, arises from this, that they are
made the agreeable medium of convey-
ing much valuable information concern-
ing " life in the West ;" no less the
hardships unavoidably to be endured by
the emigrant, the difficulties to be over-

288

New PuilkatioHS,

come* and the dangers to be encoun-
tered, than his almost assured ultimate
triumph.

Of general interest, but designed es-
pecially for those intending to emigrate^
is the appendix, containing a brief de-
scription of the soil, climate, products,
area, and population of each State and
territory lying in die great V*aUey of the
Mississippi ; and also the locations of
the several land-offices where applica-
tion must be made and all needful in-
formation can be obtained.

Mozart ; A Biographical Romance.
From the German of Heril>crt Rau.
By E. K. Sill. New York : Levpoldt
Sl Holt 1863.

A poor translation of a frothy pro-
duction* On the first page, the child^
Mozart, is called a *' tliree-ye^rs-old son.**
Mr. Sill evidently does not know that :i
three-year-old is English for colts and
heifers. Atozart'^s sister is also denomi-
nated a *' seven-years -old." The writer,
if Mr, Sill has translated him correctly,
is exceedingly ignorant, or worse. On
page 54 wc read : ** They sought the
pope's chair/* (that is, the worshippers
crowding to St Peter's for the services
oa Maundy-Thursday,) "partly because
It was the lashion, partly because they
wanted to be on hand to see everybody
else do it, and partly because, to an Ita-
lian, a hundred days^ absoTutioa in ad-
vance is always a pleasant and conve-
nient thing to have.** The recitation
of the Tenebrze, in the evening, is call-
ed, on page 58, ** the performance of
Mass.^' Would it not be well for our
enterprising publishers in this enlight-
ened country, to employ a proof-reader
who has received a passable education ?

Tmi Grf^t Day ; or, Motives and
Means of I^erseverance after First
Communion. Translated from the
French by Mrs. J. Sadlicr. New York-
486S.

A pretty and good little volume, in-
tended for a gift to children, as a me-

mento of the Jiappy ciay
communion. We have oil
cism to make, which is, thg
thought is too foreign,
the accomplished translate
use of the original French i
ter from which to compile
little book under this title, {
she could so admirably pel
ble, in the freshness of iU
the minds of American c
lieu, however, of the w*ish(
book of Mrs. Sadlier''s, w«
commend this present vol
attention of all pastors, |
sufierin ten dents of Sundays-
will find in it, we are sur
very many of them have loB
procure as a worthy meroeq
Great Day."

Tales from the Diary <
OF Mercy. By C M. B
York: Catholic Publicat
186S.

We all remember Fassag
Diary of a Latt PhysiciaHy
ren, and the intense intercJl
felt in these sketches of
scenes with which the pen
profession leads them anioj
the suflVriug, and the dying \
This lxx»k is on a simibr |
composed of graphic ^^s^
what a Sister of Mercy maj|
ed to see and observe in h^
ministrations. The Kght ol
Itc religion thrown in among
ful, tragic scenes, relieves th^
and leaves a more healthful
on the mind ; in short, bcq
pathetic effect Those who
tion stories will find their tAj
in this volume, and, at the ,
may be able to derive from
moral and religious lesi

'0I|^

ticeoj

We regret that a notice
Report of thi Catholic St
L^nwn was crowded oul
of this number, it
next— Ea C. W.

THE

lATHOLIG WORLD.

VOL. VII., Na

EDMUND CAMPION.

the spring of 1580, Elizabeth
then queen of Great Britain,
Ingland being in the midst of
irmoil which accompanied the
stablishment of Protestantism
religion of the realm, two ex-
3ns set out from Rome, to re-
the faith in the British isles,
insisted of two thousand armed
rs, enlisted as a sort of crusa-
and animated by the papal
\g and the promise of indulgen-
ot to speak of the visions of
y glory and profit which even
•s who fight under consecrated
rs are apt to find alluring,
ther was composed of less than
5 of missionaries, Jesuits, secu-
iests, and others, whose most
ig prospect was one of martyr-
The soldiers were to land in
d and help the rebellion of the
lines. The missionaries were
itrate in disguise into England,
ercise the ministry of the pro-
l and persecuted faith in the
r' of private houses and hidden
ers.

icing at the history of those
n the light of subsequent expe-
VOL. VII. — 19

rience, it seems hard to accoam for
the policy which could imperii not
only the lives of the missionaries, but
the cause of the church, by compli-
cating the peacefiil- embassy of the
priests with the mission of war and in-
surrection. For it was no secret that
the troops came from Rome, and that
large subsidies from the Roman trea-
sury were sent with them. Associat-
ed with them, too, went an eminent
ecclesiastic, Dr. Saunders, with the
functions of a legate. We must re-
member, however, that the accession
of Elizabeth had never been popu-
larly acquiesced in. Her legitimacy
had never been generally acknow-
ledged. Her reign thus far had been
a series of rebellions. The party
which opposed her had a fair title
to the character of belligerents, and'
the continental powers which espous-
ed their cause were only doing what,
by the customs of the age, they had:
a perfect right to do. The pope had'
issued a bull, excommunicating the
queen, absolving her subjects from-
their oath of allegiance, and even
forbidding them to obey her ; and
although he had afterward so far mo»

290

EdtNmtd Camphfi.

dified the bull as to permit the Eng-
lish people to recognize her aythori-
t)% reims sic stantibus^ " while things
remained as they were,'* he had nev-
er ceased, in conjunction with other
European powers, to promote attempts
in Ireland and elsewhere to over-
throw her and place the Queen of
Scots upon the throne* At this dis-
tance of time, w ith a line of succes-
sors to ratify Elizabeth's title to the
crown, and the fact of their failure
arguing against the insurgents^ it is
easy to condemn the papal policy ;
but we must remember that affairs
bore a different aspect tlien ; that
Elizabeth's right to the throne w^as
open to question ; and that the Ca-
tholic faith which she was striving to
suppress was sltll the faith of a lai^e
majority of the English people.

We have little to do, however, with
this Irish expedition. It w*as a mi-
serable failure, and its only effect was,
to aggravate the sufferings of the Ca-
tholics and expose the missionaries
to increased danger. Our purpose
in this article is rather to trace the his-
tor}' of the more peaceful and strictly
religious embassy, so far as it bore
upon the life of the illustrious martyr
from whom it derives its chief renown.

Edmund Campion,* the son of a
T>ondon bookseller, was born on the
25th of Januar)% 1539, (O. S,,) the
year which witnessed the commence-
ment of the Enghsh persccmion, of
which he was destined to be a vic-
tim, and the solemn approval of the
Society of Jesus» of which he was to
be the first English martyr At St
John's College, Oxford, where he was
educated and obtained a fellowship,
he was so much admired for his gift
of speech and grace of eloquence,
that young men imitated not only his
phrases but his gait, and revered him

• Edmtmdr - - _ .

Simpson. 8a

as a second Cicero. It
after he obtained his fel
Queen Mary died and E
ceeded to llie throne. Tl
reign allowed but a few
before she manifested hi
for the Protestant docirin
was no attempt at first
heresy upon the universil
her Majesty w isely tnist
sidious iniluences of i\m\
and high example to h\
dents and professors
views. It is no great
haps, that Campion, ini
the incense of adulati-
vated by the worldly coi
position, shut his eyes
ful gulf of heresy inti>
English Church was
seemed hardly to rcalij
sity which was being
him of choosing bet we
the queen. He was not
some years to take any
ance with his fidelity to
So he gave up the study
to which he had hith
himself, and applied hi
cular learning. He wai
and controversy might
priests. When he took
1564, he was induced to
the oath against the
macy, and by the statu
lege he was also JhppelJi
the study of di\^ity
managed to stave off imp
tions and to confine hi:
the old settled dogmas %
direct bearing upon the
the day.

The time c^ime, «t le
theological neutral groui
thorpttghiy explored,
tume^lo^e Fathers*
erable company he sec
more thoughtful and 4
The problem of hisJffe
how he could posff^M,

Edmund Campion.

291

siderat^tns, and shake off religious
responsibility, but how he could re-
condle true principles with false
practice; how he could remain in the
Established Church of England, and
]ret hold to all the old Catholic doc-
trines which the Establishment de-
nied. His position, in fact, was al-
most identical with that of the mo-
dem Tractarians, and his college at
Oxford was the home of a party
vfaich entertained nearly the same
opinions. There was one of the Eli-
zabethan bishops, Cheney of Glou-
cester, who, having retained a good
deal of the orthodox faith, sympa-
thized heartily with Campion^s aspi-
rations and perplexities. He was tJie
actual founder of the scliool repre-
sented in later times by Newman
and Pusey, and he had fixed upon
Campion to continue and perfect the
work after he himself had passed
away. The bishop persuaded our
young scholar to take deacons' or-
ders, so that he might preach and
obtain preferment. But the effect of
this step upcn Campion was such as
Cheney little anticipated. Almost
immediately troubles beset his mind.
He found his new dignity odious and
abominable. The idea of preferment
" became hateful to him. He wished
rather to live as a simple layman,
and in 1569 he resigned his appoint-
ments at the university and went to
Dublin, where it seemed that a more
agreeable career awaited him. A
project was then afoot for restoring
the old Dublin university founded
by Pope John XXL, but for some
years extinct. The principal mover
in the matter was the Recorder of
Dublin and Speaker of the House of
Commons, James Stan i hurst, a zea-
lous Catholic, and the father^of one
oi Campion's pupils. In his house
Campion received a generous wel-
come, and there he remained for a
while, leading a kind of monastic

life, and waiting for the opening of
the new seminary, in which he hoped
to find congenial employment. The
scheme fell through, however, and
the chief cause of its failure was the
secret hostility of the government to
Stanihurst, and the Lord-Deputy, Sir
Henry Sidney, who were most ac-
tively concerned in it, and to Cam-
pion, who was to have the principal
share in its direction. Campion was
not yet reconciled to the church, but
he was already distrusted as a pa-
pist, and only saved from arrest by
the protection of Sidney. Such pro-
tection, however, could not avail him
long. The rebellion of some of the
English Catholic nobles, the publica-
tion of the pope's bull against Eliza-
beth which Felton had posted on the
Bishop of London's gates, and the de-
signs of the king of Spain upon Ire-
land, had roused a persecution, and
Campion was one of those especially
designated to be arrested. The Lord-
Deputy found means to warn him a
few hours before the officers arrived,
and he saved himself by flight. For
two or three months he dodged the
pursuivants about Ireland, lurking in
the houses of his friends, and work-
ing, in the intervals of the pursuit, at
a History of Jrcland^ which he had
begun while lodging with Stanihurst.
At last, seeing that he must soon be
captured if he remained on the is-
land, and fearing to compromise the
friends who gave him shelter, he re-
solved to return to England, and Jic-
cordingly, in the disguise of a lackey,
took ship at the little port of Tredagh,
near Dublin. The officers came on
board to search for him, and ques-
tioned everybody on the vessel ex-
cept the fugitive himself. They seiz-
ed the manuscripts of his history,
and then went away, cursing " the
seditious villain Campion." He
reached England in time to witness
the trial of Dr. Storey, who was ex-

2gz

Edmund Campi^^

ecuted for the faith in June, 1571.

We are told nothing of the progress
of his conversion after he left Ox-
ford, but by this time it was com-
plete^ and he had resolved to repair
rto the English college at Douai, there
\\o fit himself for more effective k-
( bors in the Catholic cause. In mid-
channel the ship in which he had
taken pa-ssage was overhauled by an
English frigate, and Campion, having
no passport, and being, moreover,
suspected and denounced by his fel-
low-passengers as a papist, was la-
ken off and carried back to Dover,
The captain appropriated all his pri-
soner*s money, and then set out to
conduct him to London. It was soon
evident, however, that the officer
cared more for the purse than the
captive ; and without a word being
said on either side, Campion under-
stood that he might run away provid-
ed he said nothing about the money.
This was enough. He escaped in
one direction while his guard pre-
tended to pursue him in another; and
having obtained a fresh supply of
money from some of his friends, suc-
ceeded at last in making his escape
aver to France.

He staid long enough at Douai to
complete his course of scholastic the-
ology and to be ordained sub-deacon.
Afier the lapse of a little more than
a year, he resolved to go to Rome
with the purpose of becoming a
Jesuit His biographers generally
attribute this detennination to the
remorse which he still felt on ac-
count of his Anglican dcaconship;
but Mr. Simpson is inclined to lay
rather more stress upon a disagree-
ment between Campion and Dr. Al-
len, the president of Douai College,
upon political quest ions » The friend-
ly and even affectionate relations of
these two eminent men were never
hiterrupted; but Dr. Allen had many
billions which his disciple could not

share. Campion, devoted
to the church and the Holy
always loyally obedient to
powers of his native couni
when the laws were in cow
his conscience. Allen, who \
many years in exile, was a
servant of Philip of Spain^
thick in the plots for the a
of Elizabeth and the various
for foreign invasion. It is
possible that a divergence
ment on some such point as^
have influenced Campion's
if not wholly, at least in pai
ever it was, the two friends h
other an affectionate fanei
the future martyr, in t]
poor pilgrim, set out afc

In shabby garments, di
footsore, he entered the
in the autumn of 1572, on
days before the death of St
Borgia, third general of thfl
of Jesus. A successor to
was not chosen until Api
and meanwhile Campion hai
He was the first postulant
by the new general. Father
anus, and soon afterward he
to liriinn in Moravia to
novitiate* In a letter which
to his brethren there, after
taken his vows, we find a
picture of the humble and I
which he spent in that rein
dear walls!** he exclaims. **
shut me up in your compan;
sant recreation-room, where
ed so holily ! Glorious kitch(
the best friends — ^John and
the two Stephens, Sallitii,F
George, Tobias and Gsispi
for the saucepans in ho\f
and charity unfeigned ! H(
do I picture to myself one
with his load from the famij
from the market ; one swe:
wartly and merrily under %
rubbish, another uiiddr

Edmund Campion.

293

tofll . . . I have been about a year in
religion, in the world thirty-five; what
a happy change if I could say I had
been a year in the world, in religion
durty-five!" There is something
vtiy touching and instructive in the
record of his first years in the So-
ciety of Jesus ; and the chroniclers
of his order, who reckon it among
tlte chief glories of the brotherhood
in Bohemia that the English martyr
received his religious training among
tJiem, and taught them at the same
time by his illustrious example^ have
set down that record with careful and
a&ctionate minuteness. How the
num whom Oxford had revered as a
^uide was content in a moment to
become the humblest of pupils ; how
be by whom the young nobility of
Xngland had set the fashion of their
thooght, their reading, their elocu-
tion, their very walk and manner,
'^ras happy in the privilege of being
allowed to put on a dirty apron, roll
up his sleeves, and scour saucepans
in the scullery — these are the chief
points in the story of his life at
^nn, and afterward at Prague,
thither he was sent to teach rhetoric.
It b a strange life to read about, yet
it probably differed little from the or-
<iinary life of his brethren in religion,
[ and hundreds of Jesuit houses to-day
exhibit no doubt the same model of
odostry, devotedness, and humility.
For a certain number of hours daily
be was in the class-room ; when his
perils went to play, he went to wash
<iishes in the kitchen. He was call-
ed upon for poems, orations, and
sacred dramas, to celebrate the col-
^ festivals ; for funeral discourses
OQ the death of great persons. He
tao^ catechism to the children ; he
visited the hospitals and prisons ; he
preached ; he heard confessions ; he
spent incredible pains in preparing
the young Jesuits for the work of
disputii^ successfully with heretics

when they should be sent out to
their various fields of duty. His
brethren were amazed that any one
man should have strength to carry
so many burdens. He seems, how-
ever, to have borne up well under
them. "About myself," he writes to
Father Parsons, " I would only have
you know that from the day I arrived
here I have been extremely well —
in a perpetual bloom of health, and
that I was never at any age less up-
set by literary work than now, when
I work hardest. We know the rea-
son. But, indeed, I have no time to
be sick, if any illness wanted to take
me." It was while Campion was
thus occupied at Prague, that Sir
Philip Sidney, who had known him
at Oxford, came over from England
as ambassador. The young noble-
man had many an interview with his
old friend, and seems to have awaken-
ed in Campion a strong hope of his
conversion — a prospect to which his
friends and political associates were
by no means blind ; for they watched
him so closely that the interviews be-
tween the ambassador and the Jesuit
were not managed without a great
deal of difficulty. Campion writes
to one John Bavand, commending
" this young man, so wonderfully be-
loved and admired by his country-
men," to the earnest prayers of all
good Catholics. He saw what an
effect upon the faith in England the
conversion of a nobleman of Sidney's
brilliant parts and distinguished po-
sition must have, and the re-establish-
ment of the faith in his native island
was something which he had espe-
cially at heart. His letters are full
of anxiety on this score. He speaks
of catching and subduing his recreant
countrymen "by the prayers and
tears at which they laugh;" but we
find no political allusions, and it is
plain enough that, in the various
schemes for Catholic insurrections

294

Edmund Campion,

and for foreign invasions, he had
neither share nor heart He had
been between fi\Q and six years al
Prague when he was summoned to
Rome to take part in the mission
about to be sent forth for the con-
version of England. The little band
of heroes comprised Dr. Gold well,
Bishop of St. Asaph, who had long
been residing on the continent, seve-
ral English secular priests, old men
who had been in exile, and young
men fresh from their studies, a few
jtealous laymen, and three Jesuits,
Campion, Parson s» and a lay brother
named Ralph Emerson, To assist
ihcm in their labors, collect alms for
them, and find safe hiding-places^ a
Catholic Association had just been
organized in England by George Gil-
bert, a young man of property, whom
Father Parsons had converted in
Rome the preceding year. The Jc-
!iuits were furnished with a paper of
instructions for their guidance.

Father Parsons Wiis a younger
man than Campion, and had been a
shorter time than he in the Society ;
>-et there were good reasons why he
^Aboiild be appointed the superior in
\ the mbskNi. He was not onty zeal-
ous and dex-out, but he had a good
knowiedgie of mtn and afiaks* he
was weU versed in the ways of cittea;
he was adfoit, v^ersatile, and pnident ;
jmd he was somewhat familiar with
fdw achames of the pope and other
'f CathoBc tM^ wni against the gof^ero^
mentot i. A knowledge oC

theee sevivi uc-sa^tis woiiM have been
^biit a aorry salcfiiftpd bid be iiBeii
fiaio tfie bands of the enifaoritiea of
^ttie crown, and the nwiwinwn eas

dai^er tnonmd bi the
km Pamna bad nil the
(tage of a ma«i^« tboq^ he did net
m Mafftyt % cfonm. Tbe pmf
left KoBMM the i&dicif Api^iftik

on their journey wheis tJie
Secretary, Walsingham received
his spies a full description of
and a list of their names.

Passing through Geneva, they
solved to have an interview m
Theodore Beza ; and the account
it gives a curious picture of the sta;
of society in those times, and of
manner in which tlicological
versy mingled with the ordinary
fairs of life* The travellers made
secret of their religion, though i
disguised their persons and calti.
Campion dressed himself as an 1
servant^ waiting on Mr. John Pi
a lay gentleman of their party,
the only one who failed in Uie finaf
day of trial. Sherwin, one of the
secular priests, used to relate wJtlk
uncontrollable merriment how na*
turally Campign pluyed his part.
Beza, under one pretev her^

got rid of them as p<' ."«'

sible^ and promised to send to
their inn an English sch'^*' '*'
his^ the son of Sir George \
Instead of young Hastings* t'icri:
cainc his governor, Mr. Brown, awl
a young Englishman named PowelL
and we hav^ a strange accoiuit of
the priests disputii^ hotly 10 ibo
streets of Geneva with the two Pi*-
lestants until almost midnight* ami
challenging Beza to a public cuntro^
strsf^ with the p^nviso that \it who
^ns josdy convided tn the opinian
of indlfimnt jud|ges should be bum*
ed ali^ in the market-place ! Powdl
had known Camiaion at Oxford, ^
the im^Mamf servant kept out of ^
sjghip aftd when ifae foniier g<c^
amn cAmd tn accompany tl^e ^'
skmariea n liitle mwf on their rcfd
m&i «Mraiq^ CaaafMOO wa^i iwrni ibr
vaid in advance, Bm meeting ^
tte road a mjaj^er stndyuig his b^*
mmv Iht mmf/OiAmwms> loo su^
far litt galhaiiiidlM, Jesuit* ajsd ^
MlWmatoQce. Ih^^

m^ik

Edmund Campion.

295

irty came up while they were
t, hammer and tongs, and
t:ognized Campion, and sa-
1 with great affection. After
nissionaries made a pilgrim-
^ht or nine miles over diffi-
to St Clodovens in France,
>f penance for their curi-

ve said that Parsons was
3me of the political expedi-
inst England ; but he had
edge of the one which set

the same time that he did,
lews, which he learned on
I at Rheims, filled him with
The queen had issued a
ion which plainly indicated

to proceed against the Ca-
th increased severity, and
)f the undertaking had be-
lter than ever. It does not
lowever, that one of the
faltered. Dr. Goldwell had
jed to turn back and defer
I — ^which, indeed, he never
all ; but others joined the
and among them was a
>uit, Father Thomas Cot-

Rheims, the party broke
i their way across to Eng-
ifferent routes. Campion,
and Brother Ralph Emer-
to go by way of St. Omer,
d Dover. Parsons crossed
lised as a soldier returning
Low Countries, and in his
uniform passed inspection
md was so well treated by
lier at Dover that he be-
t officer's courtesy for his
Sfix, Edmunds, a diamond-
" who was shortly to follow

reached London without
>ut his dress was outland-
>eople were unusually fear-
ispicious, so he was turned
I the inns. He knew of a
gendeman, however, who

in the Marshalsea prison

for his faith, and he applied to see
him. Through him he was brought
into communication with George Gil-
bert and the Catholic Association,
who had apartments in the house of
the chief pursuivant, where up to this
time, thanks in part to the conni-
vance of influential friends, they had
managed to have a daily celebration
of Mass.

Father Parsons had induced the
friendly searcher at Dover to send
over a letter for him to "Mr. Ed-
munds," at St. Omer, bidding him
make haste to London with his dia-
monds, and Campion, as soon as he
received it, set out with Brother Ralph.
But, in the mean time, the English
officers had grown more strict ; the
searcher had been reprimanded for
letting certain persons pass who were
supposed to be priests ; and there was
a report, moreover, that a brother of
Dr. Allen was coming over, and his
description agreed pretty well with
Campion's appearance. The two Je-
suits were accordingly arrested and
taken before the mayor; but they
were dismissed after a short deten-
tion, and the next day were welcomed
by the association in London.

This pious club was such an admi-
rable illustration of the truth that the
salvation of souls is not the exclusive
duty or privilege of the priesthood
that we may spare a moment from
our survey of Campion's life to glance
at its history and character. The
missionary career is open to all.
Members of religious orders, secular
priests, men of the world, soldiers,
lawyers, shop-keepers, doctors, labo-
rers, farmers, the beggars on the
street, the fashionable lady in her
carriage — we can all do something
for the advancement of the great
cause ; and if we only knew how to
systematize our efforts, how to econ-
omize our zeal, the Catholic Associa-
tion of Campion's day is an evidence

296

Edmund Campion,

of the enormous sen^ice we might
render to the church. The founder
of the association, George Gilbert,
had been anxious, immediately after
his conversion, to expend his first
fervor in a pilgrimage to Jerusalem ;
but Father Parsons persuaded him
rather to return to England and spend
his money there in advancing the Ca-
tholic cause. He drew together a
number of young men of his own
rank in life and with somewhat of
Ills own spirit. They hired rooms
together ; they bribed officers whose
vigilance they could not elude ; they
gave shelter to priests ; they furnish-
ed places for the celebration of Mass ;
they kept the Catholics in communi-
cation witli each other ; they supplied
the missionaries w^ith money ; and
they organised the tours which the
priests made through the countr)\
Phe Catholics were beset with spies,
and the government held out strong
inducements to weak brethren to be-
tray their pastors. It was necessary,
therefore, that the priests should be
extremely cautious to whom they
trusted themselves ; and since they
could not carry credentials, it was ne-
cessar)', too, that the gentlemen who
harbored them should be quite sure
whom they were receiving. This
perfect intelligence could only be ob-
tained by a thorough organization of
the Catholic gentry ; and it was not
the least part of the duty of the asso*
ciation to see that, whenever a priest
travelled, some one should be with
him as at once an endorser and a
guide. It was their part, like\vise, to
undertake the preliminary work of
converting heretics. In those fearful
times a doubling Protestant could not
be admitted to see a priest until he
had given some c\'idence of the sin-
ccri^ of his search after tt\ith. The
members of the club took him in
hand first, «m1 bfomglil bim to tlie
prk&t wlien tbey fett it to be safe.

When Campion reathi
lum of their rooms in La
sons had already gone 01
the country, leaving word I
pan ion to await his re tin
was a great desire among
lies who had learned of ih
the missionaries to hear
preacher with whose eloq
ago Oxford had resounde4
no easy matter to find a
he might speak in safety,
arrangements were made
mon in the servants* hall <
house, and there, while tn
men watched all the avei
proach, Campion delivci
course with which all tl:
circles of London were sod
The faithful and the waveria
to him in crowds. The gov
got wind of what was goini
redoubled their exertions
him. Several priests we
and many Catliolics were
prison. The danger of
London soon became too
be disregarded^ So, afk<
had been held, several
discipline settled, and each
cial work assigned, the
went away to different
kingdom.

The pursuit was much
Campion than after any
thren, and it was in tens i
impnjdence of a Catholic la}l
had allowed a document cnti
his care by the missionar\% to
public. This was a p
by Campion on the c\
ration of their little comp;
forth the reasons of Uicir
England, and inviting the
to a public conference,
tended to be used only
should be arreste<i
Potinde^ to whom, for
be had given a copj,
good to be kepi ei

Edmund Campion,

297

thas it soon came to the hands of the
government This, of course, increased
thdr anxiety to capture a man whom,
bj his personal influence, his elo-
quence, and his still brilliant reputa-
tion at Oxford, they felt to be espe-
cially dangerous. Proclamation fol-
loved proclamation ; the pursuivants
were unceasing in activity; spies
were sent into every quarter of the
kiogdom; some of the Catholics
themselves were corrupted ; watchers
were set about the houses of the prin-
dpal Catholic gentlemen. Many a
time was the Mass or the sermon in-
tcmipted by the coming of the offi-
cers and the priest compelled to take
refi^ in the woods. Once, when the
pursuivants came upon him suddenly
at the house of a private gentleman,
a maid-servant, to make them think
he was merely one of the retainers,
affected to be angry with him and
pushed him into a pond. The dis-
guise was effectual, and the good
^ther escaped.

All this while he was engaged in
writing his famous book against the
Protestants, known as the Decern
Ratimes. It was finished about
Easter, 1581, and sent to London for
the approval of Parsons, who had a
private printing-press in a hidden
place, whereat he had already pub-
lished certain writings of his own.
% great efforts a number of copies
were got ready for the commencement
8t Oxford in June ; and when the
audience assembled at the exercises,
they found the benches strewed with
the books, to the reading of which
they gave far more attention than to
the performances of the students.
The tide-page bore the imprint of
Douai, but the government was not
^ in ascertaining by the examina-
tion of experts that the work had been
<^ in England.

Campion had gone to London while
^ book was passing through the

press, to superintend the correction
of the sheets; but the danger was
now so imminent that Parsons or-
dered him away into Norfolk, in com-
pany with Brother Ralph Emerson.
The two fathers rode out of the city
together at daylight on the 12th of
July, and, after an affectionate fare-
well, parted company, the one going
to the north, the other back into the
town.

The Judas who was to betray him,
however, was on the alert. This was
one George Eliot, formerly steward to
Mr. Roper in Kent, and latterly a
servant of the widow of Sir William
Petre. He was a Catholic, but a
man of bad character, and had been
for some time a paid informer to the
Earl of Leicester. How he knew of
Campion's visit to Lyford is not cer-
tain ; but he had been looking for
him at several Catholic houses in
the neighborhood, and on the i6th,
armed with a warrant and attended
by a pursuivant in disguise, he pre-
sented himself at the gate just as
Mass was about to begin, and ap-
plied for admission. One of the ser-
vants knew him for a Catholic, but
little suspected his real character;
so with much ado he got leave to
pass in, having first sent off the pur-
suivant to a magistrate for a posse
comitatus. He heard the Mass, he
heard Campion's sermon ; but he
was afraid to make the arrest until
the magistrate arrived. As soon as
the service was over, he hurried off.
The company — comprising some six-
ty persons besides the members of
the household — were at dinner when
word was brought that the place was
surrounded by armed men. After
a long search. Campion and three
other priests were found concealed
in a closet, and taken prisoners.

The prisoners were carried up to
London and committed to the Tower,
making their entrance into the city

29S

Edmund Campion.

through ihe midst of a hooting mob,
Campion leading the procession with
his elbows tied behind him, his hands
tied in front, his feet fastened under
his horse's belly, and a placard on
bis hat, inscribed " Campion^ the se-
did&us yesttit'^ The governor, Sir
Owen Hopton, at first placed Cam-
pion in the narrow dungeon known
as " Little-ease," in which one could
neither stand nor lie at length. He
remained there until tlie fourth day,
when, with great secrecy, he was con-

i^ducted to Leicester's house, and cour-
eously received by the earl and seve-
ral other persons of mark, and shortly
found himself tn the presence of the
queen. He gave a truthful account
of his motives in coming to England ;
he satisfied Elizabeth, as it would ap-
pear, of his loyalty ; and could he
have accepted the conditions pro-
:>sed to him, he might have been

^dismissed with honors and riches.
As it was, Hopton received orders
to treat him more leniently. It was
now the purpose of the government
to coax him into compliance.

Failing to shake his constancy, the
ne-xt thing was to destroy his reputa-
tion. It was given out that he was
on the point of recanting ; that he
had betrayed his friends ; that he
had divulged the names of the gen*
tlemen who harbored him* To give
color to these charges, a great many
Catholics were arrested, in conse-
quence, it was said, of Campion's
confession. For a while these infa-
mous charges, fortified witli plausible
confirmation, were generally believ-
ed ; but it was soon ascertained that
the betrayal had been wrung from
some of Campion's companions on
tlie rack. To render the mission-
ary contemptible, it was thought ne-
cessary to answer his challenge for
a public disputation in some way or
another, and a large number of the
most eminent Andican divines were

appointed to meet him in
hall and discuss the chief
controversy. They had all
they wanted to prep
to libraries, and evti
Campion was not informed
rangement until two hours
assembly opened. Then,
limbs still smarting from
ment of the rack, he w
in the middle of the room,
books, without even a tabli
upon, with no assistance 1
except the assistance of hcav
dispute continued several cii
was distinguished, as might hi
supposed, by gross unfairnj
bad language on the part of
testants, while Campion ci
all honest-minded listeners,
by the acuteness of his ansi
by his mild and affectionai
Though he had been educa
familiarity witli dialectics, a
in a day when controversy
almost universal passion, he
from being a disputatious n
the odium t/ieoiogicum had I
in his warni and tender hear
all the advantage given to
testant side, it was evident
Catholics were profiting by
ferences, and the government
ly closed them. But it was
Campion's fiime was restor
slanders against him had 1
futed; and the popular ent
broke forth in ballads, of wl
Simpson gives a sample.

Nothing remained now bi
him for treason. It was i\T%t
ed to indict him for ^
tain day in Oxfords i 1

pretended to have power to
her majesty's subjects from til
giance, and endeavored t<
them to the obedience of 1
and the faith of Uie Roman
but this was too plainly a
prosecution* A plot was

Edmund Campion,

299

I, which it was pretended that
ion, Allen, Morton, Parsons,
urteen priests and others then
tody, had concerted at Rome
heims to dethrone the queen
Ise a civil war. On this charge
on, Sherwin, Cottam, and five
were arraigned at Westminster
)n the 14th of November.
Campion was called upon, ac-
l to custom, to hold up his
in pleading, his amis were so
wounded by the rack that he
lot lift them without assistance,
ial took place on the 20th.
incipal witnesses for the crown
jeorge Eliot and three hired
es named Munday, Sledd, and
, who pretended to have ob-
the meetings of the conspira-
Rome ; but their testimony
\ weak, and the answers of
on so admirable, that when
ry retired it was generally
d in court that the verdict
e one of acquittal. Court and
owever, had been bought be-
id. The prisoners were all
guilty, and sentenced to be
I, drawn and quartered. Then
on broke forth in a loud hymn
5e, " 72r Deum laudamus^^ and
n and others took up the song,
le multitude were visibly affect-

r he had been remanded to the
the traitor Eliot came to his
id Campion received him so
', forgiving his offence, and
\ to provide for him an asy-
Ith a Catholic noble in Ger-
whither he might escape from
um and danger which haunted
home, that the keeper, who
«d the interview was induced
become a Catholic. The few
hich intervened between con-
and death were passed by the
an in fasting and other morti-

fications. The execution was ap-
pointed for the 29th of November.
Campion, Sherwin, and Briant were
to suffer together. At the execution
Campion was interrupted by a long dia-
logue respecting his alleged treason,
and subjected to a great deal of ques-
tioning. Somebody asked him to pray
for the queen. While he was doing
so, the cart was drawn away, amid
the tears and groans of the multitude,
and his body left dangling in the air.

So ended the good fight. Sherwin
and Briant met their fate with like
joy and constancy, and many another
good priest and devoted layman trod
afterward in the same awful but glo-
rious path. And as it has been since
the days of St. Stephen, the blood of
the martyrs proved the seed of the
church. Henry Walpole estimated
that no fewer than ten thousand
persons were converted by the spec-
tacle of Champion's death. That is
probably an exaggeration ; but it is
certain that the execution had a
marked effect upon the progress of
the faith in England, and covered
the Anglican clergy with an odium
from which they were long in recover-
ing.

Of the life by Mr. Simpson, upon
which we have so freely drawn for
the materials of this hasty sketch,
we must not close without a word of
praise. Written originally for a month-
ly periodical, and long interrupted
by the failure of that publication, it
lacks the neat finish and compact-
ness which the author would proba-
bly have given it, had it been com-
posed under more favorable circum-
stances. But it has evidently been
prepared with great industry ; it is
written in a good style ; and with a
little judicious pruning and rearrang-
ment, it will make one of the most
interesting of modem religious bio-
graphies.

300

The Cathdlc Sunday- Schoat Unwn,

THE CATHOLIC SUNDAYSCHOOL UNION/

Few of the evidences of the zea-
lous spirit which is stirred up in these
latter days, have given us more un-
feigned pleasure than the information
which this report conveys. The Sun-
day-School Union began as all Ca-
tholic works begin, has prospered thus
far as they prosper, and will share
in their triumph, A few earnest
souls, observing how much more good
could be accomplished in the cate-
chism-classes if the exercises and
methods of teaching were made more
systematic and co-operative, met to-
gether, on the evening of July 9th,
1866, debated the subject, formed re-
solutions, went to work, and now the
catechetical education of the 20,237
children reported from eighteen Sun-
day-schools of this city, (about one
half of the whole number,} is practi-

Ically under the control of this admi-
rable association. The good fruits
of their labors are already noticeable
in the more regular attendance of the
children, the conferences of teachers
for mutual instruction and encou-
ragement, the better regulated pro-
gramme of exercises, and the in-

L creased interest manifested in the

^ schools by all who are in any way
connected with them.

The competent knowledge which
our people, as a mass, have of their
religion, of the dogmas of faith —

I knowledge which they are bound to
have under pain of sin — and that
other " knowledge unto salvation "
which is shown in the faithful perfor-
mance of their Christian duties, de-
pends, as ail know, upon the cateche-
tical instruction they receive in youth.
Priests may preach sermon after

^ Firtt RfMrt ^ Ike Citlk^k Sundaj-SiMa^i
Um^m, of Ibe di^ ni New York. January t, ilfi>&

Stool

upC^

sermon, and each and €i»
discourse may be well calc
enlighten the mind and
heart ; but as a rule, all ser
adays suppose the hearers
ready in possession of Ch
principles, and disciplined^
practices of a Christian \li
and thorough catechetical in
is, tlien, one of the primary^
a pastor of souls. That ea
should assume the whole
bor to himself is simply in
Those of the laity who by 1
racter and education arc fitted
his coadjutors in this paste
must therefore be called up
him in it* The time when it 5
ble to assemble children togetl
religious instruction is on Si
Hence the Sunday-school ,
corps of lay teachers ; both^
sity, as experience has sh
every parish, if the people are
as they ought to have, a
knowledge of their religion-
are to be indoctrinated witi]
rit, and receive its ministra
a devout, conscientious atl
upon its worship, and a dij
cialion of, and worthy pr
for, the holy sacraments.

The first thought which
presents itself in reference to
lay coadjutors of the clergy, i
of their competence and fitu
teach. We do not care to i
children to be educated hyi
every schoolmaster. We
ask, Is he capable ? but
Who is he, and what is
tliese questions may be
perly put concerning a tei
geography and arithmetic, 1
pardoned for asking then

The Catholic Sunday-School Union,

301

professes to teach Christian
and moralit}'. Is he well
1 the truths of faith himself,
ou please, what is his own
aracter ?

unday-school is an excellent
n, a necessary institution in
1 ; but if it is to be of any
ichers, who are in the first
mpetent for the task, and
e second place are practical
s, must be secured. In
ishes, the pastor may possi-
I sufficient number who pos-
the requisite qualifications,
1, so far, our experience has
the contrary,) but in large
ilous parishes, such as are
all our cities, it is plain that
It niunber are not easily ob-
r the purpose, nor will those
n all respects fitted for the
i are ready to answer the
e pastor, be able to control
ice the heterogeneous ele-
a city Sunday-school to any
regular observance of rules
n by the pastor, or devised
slves, without mutual co-ope-
•unsel, and a systematic or-
n. Besides, into a corps of
hers, who are not themselves
to some organized form of
)n, persons wholly incompe-
leficient in moral standing
de, and prove either a hin-

others, or do positive harm,
chance-comers offer their

as teachers in his Sunday-
is difficult if not impossible
)astor to examine them in
test their knowledge before
; them, and it may be equal-
It for him to find out what
their moral worth. Their
s are, as a rule, better known
embers of his congregation

1 are to him. In the ill-re-
'oluntary system which has
been so common amongst

us, many evils have resulted from
this which were unavoidable. Teach-
ers of religion ought to be themselves
good exemplars of it. Children
learn at the Sunday-school a good
deal more than the verbal answer
to as many questions as are print-
ed in the catechism. Those who
occupy the office of teacher exert a
moral influence over the children.
Example is the master-teacher, and
bad example will teach (we are sor-
ry to say) quite as well as good ex-
ample. You cannot gather grapes
from thorns, or figs from thistles.
During the time that a roan or wo-
man is engaged in conversation with
children, much of his or her own
character b infused into the minds of
their youthful companions by words,
gestures, looks, and manner. Shall I
permit my children to be thus placed
one whole hour every week, under
the influence of an ignorant man, a
non-practical Catholic, and possibly
a person of vicious habits and of vul-
gar demeanor — a person whom I could
not allow my children to converse
with at all, in the street or elsewhere,
outside of the Sunday-school room ?
Certainly not I must have some
guarantee that my children shall have
such associations as I can approve
of, as well in the Sunday-school as
in any other place where they may
happen to be.

One who might make such reflec-
tions as the foregoing need occupy no
higher position in society than that
of being a good Christian, watchful
over the souls of his little ones, and
anxious to guard them from conta-
mination with persons ignorant of
the faith in which he wishes them to
be educated, or such as by their per-
sonal want of piety are certain to da-
mage the growth of it in the souls of
the children he presumes to instruct

If we mistake not, these conside-
rations were in part those which ani-

302

The Catkolk Sunday-Sckod Unicn.

mated the zealous and worthy foun-
ders of the Sunday-School Union,
whose first report lies before us.
This appears to us in the pages of
the report, especially under the head
of " objects." We quote :

** The objects of the Sunday-school
Union are of a religious, education-
al, and social character. The funda-
mental object is, of course* the bene-
fit and improvement of the Sunday-
schools ; the secondary end is the
association of the Catholic young
men of the city, in a manner sanc-
tioned by religion, for purposes of
mutual acquaintance and improve*
ment, and the creation of a common
tie of sympathy and interest, such as
should exist between them as mem-
bers of the same, One, Holy, and
Universal Church. By the compari-
sons of systems, and experience^ and
through the increased opportunities
of receiving advice and counsel from
the clergy, improvements have been
introduced in many of the schools,
and the teachers have been led to
take greater interest in their duties."

We need only quote to ourselves
the trite old proverb, that *' Birds of
a feather," etc., to feel assured that
tlie "Union" will remove in great
part the dangers arising from incom-
petence and unfitness on the part of
teachers, to which we have alluded.
The leading spirits of an association
of this kind will impress their own
character upon the whole body, and
we have the utmost confidence that
such persons will be of the right
stamp, young men of solid piety, of
sufficient knowledge, and animated
by the highest and purest motives.
They will draw to them other young
men of like character and dispositions
with themselves. Association will
stimulate exertion, promote harmony,
and be productive of the best and
hippiest results ; not only for the
children, but, what is of no little mo-

ment to us, for tlie youtigp
selves.

Under their inteltigefl
the Sunday-school will
higher standard of rcligii
tion. It has too long ba
sufficient to teach the c^
catechism as one teachi
getting them to repeat a
swer to a given questioi
stopping to consider if tj
have any intelligent appre
the meaning of either quei
swer. We remember beii
in a Sunday-school when
ing instruction was overhei

Sunday-School Teach!
m'e bound to obey the
ments of the church ?"

Boy. *'A^ — a, because — (

it up.)

Teacher, (speaking as
a clerk of the Senate, an
ever^nvhere but at the puj
because Christ has said 1
tors of his church, he thai
hears me, and he that de
despises me.'' (Then wit
look at the child,) *' Now,

Bciv,( whin ing.) "Yes> sip
— ^here's you and here's mi
spises you and he despises

Boy's ears cuffed with
chism.

Yet it must be confc
the recitation of the ansm
teacher was pretty faithful!
by the child, who aimed
ing a certain number of
repealing them, without tl
their meaning.

It is very well that th«
should learn to recite portk
catechism which they havi
by rote ; but this will not
give them an intelligent c
sion of the truths of religi
is hardly a question and r
the catechism which does
some additional txplaoi

Tki Catholic Sunday-School Union.

303

lustration suited to their capacities.
This is no easy task, and one that
m^ht well engage the highest culti-
med minds. Teachers must there-
fore themselves be taught No one
can impart that which he does not
possess. We are glad, therefore, to
sec that one of the objects of our
Sanday-School Union is of an " edu-
cational" character.

The object which is denominated
"religious" is also of primary impor-
tance. The Sunday-school teacher is
a teacher of religion in more senses
than in imparting a mere verbal
knowledge of the doctrines of reli-
gion. It comes properly within his
sphere to edify his pupils by holy
words, good counsel, and good ex-
ample. If he does not so edify them,
he will infallibly do the contrary. Our
experience leads us to assert that there
isno middle term here between edifica-
tion and disedification. He who has
no words of holiness and sweet Chris-
tian counsel in his mouth, is pretty sure
of having words and counsel which
smack of the world and its ungodly
principles. Let no one imagine that
he can assume for the time and oc-
casion the tone, speech, and manner
of a good, pious Christian, if he be
not one in reality. Children have -
the keenest scent for hypocrisy.
They instinctively mark and loathe
a Pecksniff or a Chadband. The
lessons of piety, the words of kindly
Warning or encouragement, the ap-
peals to their Christian sentiment,
falling from the Kps of men who
have no solid piety, and whose or-
^Jinary daily life is little better than
Aat of a respectable heathen, if as
good, will have no other effect than
to excite the sceptical sneers of*
.^"ouths who are not to be deceived
by sham appearances.

Our Sunday-schools, therefore, ur-
^tly demand the aid of " religious"
teachers ; we mean teachers who are

practical Christians themselves, and
carry out in their lives the lessons
they are desirous of teaching others.
They need teachers who are more
than Catholics by profession. In
a Sunday-school which is fortimate
enough to possess teachers of religion
who are men of living faith, devout,
prayerful, scrupulous, and exact in
the performances of their religious
duties, exhibiting in their manner a
deep reverence for holy things, mod-
esty, patience, benignity, earnestness,
and zeal for the glory of God, there
will the children also be found exact
types of their spiritual instructors.

The Sunday-School Union will
form a corps of just such men. It
will find itself composed of members
who are moved by the Holy Spirit of
God to take some part in this import-
ant work, and who will engage in it
as a labor of love, in the spirit of
sacrifice and apostolic zeal. They
will, for the most part, bring hearts
well prepared for it ; but the Union
will itself do much toward sustaining
and advancing the spiritual good of
its members. The most noble spec-
tacle to be presented in this world
of temptation and sin, is a band of
young men, strong in the faith and
loyal to the holy traditions of reli-
gion emulating each other in the
practice of virtue and works of
Christian charity. Such is the spec-
tacle which this association is striv-
ing to present to our eyes, and our
prayers should not be wanting that
God may strengthen them and en-
large the sphere of their holy labors.

The third object spoken of is the
" social" character which the Union
proposes. We think we understand
this, and have already hinted at it
They aim at making the tone of their ,
association high and select. And this
is a point worthy of our reflection.
Children naturally imitate the man-
ners of their elders, particularly of

304

TAe CatJwik Sunday-Sch^Qt Unim.

those with whom they are associated
in the capacity of pupils. Let the
teacher be rough* boonsh, and un-
cuuth in his deportment, negligent in
his personal appearance, unceremo*
nious and irreverent in the church,
unguarded in his language, of an un-
governed temper, tardy in his at-
tendance, and distracted in his in-
structions, you will find that the class
of which he has unfortunately the
charge will very soon be an exact
copy of himself* We commiserate
the Sunday*school where even one
such teacher is to be found. He and
his ill-regulated and worse-behaved
class are a positive hinderance to the
tgood order of the w^hole school, and
^the sooner he is got rid of the better.
The Union, by its power of asso-
ciating like to like, will eliminate
this worthless class of individuals,
and substitute in their stead punc*
tuaJ, earnest, courteous, self-denying,
and reverent-mindt'd teachers, whose
very presence in the Sunday-school
will be an example of deportment be-
^coming the Christian and the gentle-
nan, commanding respect, obedi-
, and attention on the part of all
scholars, and the esteem of his
bllow-lcachers. What affection, loo,
' the children instlitctivdy bestow upon
such I

The love for these \Tiung souls, of
nhich their heart is full, is abundant-
reciprocated, and the iniluence for
which such teachers hacve is be-
nd measure. They mi« regafded
' tbose little ones of Christ in their
^ Kght, as ooadjtttofB of the pastor,
monjiiom are received
ami k»dag obedience.
^O mat' says a little child to Its
it on fcittmin^ Iron Svniiaj^
*ire have the nicest teadier
i the vorkl» » good, and he knoiis

fes \ ehfldiui art q«ick of obseivi^
piickcr i and ^feliett ihej

have found one who presei
qualities which should dis
worthy teacher, they from
ment begin to count the he
will intervene until tlicy s
the happiness of meeting h

If we aim at having tirst
day-schools, which will not
the children their catechism
courage them in the practi
tue, but also elevate and n
manners, and educate them
for which, after all. Catholic;
are remarkable, namely,
politeness, we must secure
who, like the teacher of
child mentioned above, arc
know so much, and are Si
mm I \\e have every ci
that the Sunci ay-School Uni
*' social '* character^ will I
about

We are making no invidi'
tions, and would feci pained
we should be thus adjudg
presume to speak from exi
We know something of
schools, and of their wi
small and large parishes, ia
and in the counir)'. We ha^
feel the many difficulties
pastor has to surmount in
ter. We aim at encoun
bidding God speed to an
which we know is needed, ai
we are certain cannot fail of
ing incalculable good

Among other works which
ton proposes, is that of esq
Sunday-schools for colored
That zealous and apostoUi
the Rev. Father Duranqui
Society of Jesus, did not sh|
adding this to his many olh<
when it pfesented itself
the course of his ministry*
such a power was ncdle<
SuMlay-School Union amc4
these WQclHt^riectod

The Catholic Sunday-School Union.

30s

)lic religion, to care for those
lass who are of her house-
isure a lively, personal, lov-
st being taken in them, and
how that our holy church
urch of all the people, of
I black, of bond and free.
God for this effort of theirs,
near and dear to our own
he world sneers and scoffs
ut there is no caste in the
Church, and they are, as
, souls for whom Christ died,
tholic priest and the Cath-
ay-school teacher can do
hem, we know, than all the
philanthropists from Dan
gba. God forbid that we
n aside from this labor and
e precious souls to perish I
iday-School Union is form-
/ely of men. " The female
says the report, " are invi-
the public lectures and dis-
id to participate in as many
lertakings of the Union as
This is all very proper.
, however, that the ladies
irto taken rather the, shall
n's share in the hardest of
akings to which the young
I Sunday-School Union can
svote their energies, which
rk of teaching. In most
ley have far outnumbered
iachers. We refrain from
y comparison of their effi-
or ourselves, we say we
)w how we could possibly
long without them, nor do
V their aid can be dispens-
1 the future. We are not
the Sunday-School Union
ich intention. The ladies
I by their presence which
stronger, rougher sex may
to accomplish, besides be-
ttest persons to teach the
sses. We are sure that
cheerfully abide by any
»L. VIL — 20

rules and regulations laid down by
the Union, and do their utmost to
carry out any suggestions made to
them for the better conducting of
their classes. We are not afraid of
their resisting the powers that be.
But why may they not also meet to-
gether for mutual encouragement, in-
struction, and edification ? We shall
look for some movement of this kind
before long.

As for the Union itself, we look
upon it not as a simple local expe-
dient to meet a local want. It has
a national interest, and sooner or
later must find imitation in all our
large cities and towns. We hope
soon to hear that such has been the
case in many other places, and then
the influence of such associations
will be increased in the ratio of the
union of their separate and distinct
bodies, at least, such an union as we
trust and pray will soon be exhibited
in all great Catholic works in this
country — ^the assembly of their mem-
bers for mutual acquaintance, co-
operation, and debate, in a National
Catholic Congress. The good that
is done, the power that is elicited
from assemblies of this kind, is well
known to all our readers who have
perused our articles on the Catholic
Congress of Malines, in former num-
bers of The Catholic World. The
Sunday-School Union would do well
to consider this matter in the light of
their own interest. In their union,
they have found strength. Let them
seek to extend their efforts by encou-
raging, in so far as they are able, any
such associations as may be started,,
or are in operation, in other places,,
inviting a correspondence and offer-
ing all their aid, looking forward, at
the same time, to a union with them-
on a larger and general basis, and ta
the discussion of their mutual inte-^
rests in a grand congressional as-
sembly.

3o6

Sonnet on ^*Le Rkit d^une Somrl^

We trust that our remarks will be
received in the spirit in which they
are meant They have been prompt-
ed by the deep, heart-felt interest
which we feel in the subject, and the
entire sympathy \vhich we have for
the noble, holy, Christian work to
which our friends have devoted their
enei^ies. They have not begun too
soon. Every year tliousands of our
children, in this city of New York
alone, leave school to engage in
various occupations, where they are
thrown into the society of youths of
all religions and of no religion. Pro-
testantism has practically no influ-
ence over children, and generally
leaves them to shift for themselves,
and pick up what scraps of religion
they may.

Unfortunately, the mass of them,
being totally ignorant of the blessings
and comfort of the Catholic f.iith,
and not having had any very cheer-
ful experience of religion as it has
been presented to them by the bald,
repulsive, unchikl-like nature of Pro-
testantism, break away from its re-

straints, and nm wildly i
erts of rationalism or infid
children ! our hearts bleei
But, while we pity thern^ Ii
forget that they are to b€,i
associates of our own Ui
flock. How necessary, th
should strive by ever)' efii
pare ours for tlie dangers
they will be exposed by giv
while we may, a thorough k
of their holy faith, and s«
forth guarded by a panopl/.j
accustomed to a regular at
upon the divine offices of th
and to a frequent receptio
Holy Sacraments. Let it bj
to dismiss each and every c
our Sunday-schools a Ioyal|
intelligent Catholic, whose
firm as a rock^ and whosi
bright and pure witb the i|
grace of God. Our blessi
the lover of little childruii,
fail to remember our care ol
whom He said: "Of sua
kingdom of heaven."

SONNET ON "LE RECIT DUNE SCEUR;'
GUSTUS CRAVEN.

BY Ml

Whence is the music ? Minstrel see we none;
Yet, soft as waves that, surge succeeding surge.
Roll forward — now subside — ^anon enxerge —
Upheaved in glory o'er a setting sun,
Those beatific harmonies sweep on:

O'er earth they sweep from utmost verge to verg es

Triumphant Hymeneal, Hymn, and Dirge, j^|

Blending in everlasting unison. ^^

Whence is the music ? Stranger 1 These were ihejl
That, great in love, by love unvanqulshed proved ;
These were true lovers, for in God tJiey loved :
With God these spirits rest in endless day,
Yet still, for love*s behoof, on wings outspread
Float on o*er earth betwixt the angels and the detd

Aubrey de VI

Nmw^^fiif^lUe.

\V4

STTERVILLE ; OR, ONE -OF THE TRjVNSPL ANTED.

PTER VI.

ty from the tower came on
at a rapid rate ; and, peep-
slyfrom behind herhicling-
ie saw that they had alrea-
l the foot of the hill where
X grandfather stood await-
>proach. The lady — even
itance Nellie fancied she
that she was young and
.though dad in the saddest
St of Puritanic attire, any-
I Puritan in her looks and
ode in front, with the mili-
g personage, described al-
Q one side, and a younger
ith the air likewise of a sol-
e otheri while a couple of
wrought up the rear. At
ree foremost of the party
St, but, as the up-hill path
SiTTOW, the Ia<iy pushed her
d so as to lead the way,
* could hear one of her
3 shouting to her to ride
until she had turned the
ler of rock behind which
self was at that moment
The warning came, as
ften do come, too late by a
ed- It could have scarce-
die lady's ears ere she had
ind the corner, and her
and unmanageable enough
unged violently at the on-
pparition of Nellie and her
r on tlie other side. If the
»ot widened considerably
>t, tlie struggle must have
ly, and even as it was* Nel-
i every moment to see both
cUer roll over the edge of
■lo which the heels of the
Rti such fearful proximity.

The lady, however, sat him to perfec-
tion, and after a short, sharp struggle
for the mastery, she succeeded in
forcing him to rush at a wild gallop
straight down the path leading to the
valley, the only safe course of action
she could possibly have adopted.

Her companions had by this time
reached the spot where Nellie had
watched the contest, and the younger
of the two was about to spur his horse
on to tlie rescue, when his older and
wiser companion shouted to him to
forbear.

"Let her be, OrmistonI Let her
bel" he cried. "She knows well
enough what she is about, my Ruth*
And you will but infuriate her horse
by following at his heels,*^

Thus adjured J the young man, ad*
dressed as "Ormiston,*' had no choice
but to remain quiet. He drew in bri-
dle, therefore, beside his chief, and
watched as patiently as he could the
down-hill gallop of the lady. The
result fortunately justified the confi-
dence of the elder horseman. No
sooner had she reached the wide bot-
tom of the glen below, than she check-
ed her horse suddenly, and turning
him almost before he had time to
suspect her intentions, galloped him
up the hill again with such right good-
will that he was glad enough to stop
and breathe of his own accord by the
time she had rejoined her compan-
ions.

Relieved from all anxiety on her
account, the old Cromwellian officer,
for such his scarf and embroidered
shoulder-belt announced him, turned
the vials of his wrath, as even the best
men will upon such occasions, upon
those who, however unwittingly, had
been the cause of the disaster. In

308

Nellie Netterville,

the present case Nellie and her grand-
father were only too evidently the
offenders, and the storm was accord-
ingly sent full upon their heads.
They were still standing in the recess
formed by the shoulder of the retreat-
ing bank, and as Nellie, by an uncon-
scious movement of girlish timidity,
had retired behind Lord Netter\*ille,
be formed for a moment the chief fig-
ure in the group. Thoroughly roused
and wakened up at thus finding him-
self unexpectedly face to face with
his arch enemies, tl)e old man stood
out upon the foreground like a pic-
ture^ his eyes sparkling, his white hair
falling on his shoulders, and a grave
and noble pride in his very attitude
which belied alike the meanness of
his apparent station and the disfigure-
ment of his stained and travel-worn
attire. The latter indeed consistingcn-
tirely of the so-called " Irish weeds/'
the Cromwellian ofllicer naturally
enough concluded him to be a native,
and addressed him, accordingly, in
such terms of contemptuous abuse as
it was ton often the Saxon fashion of
those unhappy times to bestow upon
the Celt

"How now, thou 'Irish dogg*?
How hast thou dared, thou and thy
wench, to cross our path, and so put
the life of the Lord^s elect in danger ?
Give place at once and let us pass, if
thoa wouldst not that I should do
wnto thee as I did at Tredagh, where
my sword, from the rising even to the
setting of the sun, wrought the ven-
geance of the Lord on an idolatrous
and misguided people."

Lord Netterville, during this agree-
able harangue, had stepped right
into the centre of the path, so that
the other could hardly have passed
him without a struggle, and he bare-
ly awaited its conclusion ere, with
eves flashing fire, he violently retort-
ed:

** * Irish dogg !* sayest thou ?

Learn, thou unmannerly
churl^ that my blood is as
perhaps more so than tliiiv
and certainly from a nobk
tain i I am of the English
he continued, drawing himsel
his full height, and gaining ii
ty what he lost in passion,
of no mean standing in it di
Netter\*ille of the old Normi
since the days of the first PI
net/'

" Lord Netterville — father
the young Amazon in a loi«
pushing her horse forward anc
ing the officer^s shoulder w:
riding-whip in order to attract
tention. ** It must be the Lo
ter\ille of whom there was
question, I remember* when y<
in negotiation for these lands.

" Ha, wench I thou also t
phcme r* he cried, turning ft
upon her, "Knowcst thou n
there is but one Lord, and t
pride of them that assitmc hi
stinks in his nostrils like thcl
pitch of Tophet ? And thou^4
cd, addressing himself to iJI
terville, " in vain dost thou b
thy rac« or lineage ; for m:
they once were, they have^ 1
not, been so often renewed
blood of the Irish as to have 1
naught left of English hoiM
honor to bestow upon their j

** Little or much 1" eric
lord furiously, ** if thou, bU
Cromw^ell as thou art, wil]
mount and bid one of thy la
a sword into my hands, I wiJ
thee that, in spite oC my|
years and odd, I have still (
English manhood left to|
impertinence, wherever or '
soever 1 may chance lo find

*» Sir/' cried Nellie, lerrij
turn affairs were taking, ;
herself between the disputants,
is no need for all these

ese It

Nellie Nettetvilk,

309

and bandying of harsh chal-
Iti peace have we come hi-
id we do but seek to possess
n in peace — their honors, the
teioners at Loughrea, having
d to lis our residence amidst
mountains/'

Wencel** cried the officer,
at once into a far more bitter
sonal feelings than the sort of
contempt, which was all tJiat
hitherto deigned to bestow
he strangers. ** Residence
these mountains, dost thou
ffay, then, young maiden, thou
istaken thy mark, and that
idely, since all these lands,
s the eye can see— even this

«tirrisk, which we English
brles/ with its upper and
irony as well — have been
rer to me already, as mine own
bee, the land which the Lord
}tXi (for the laborer is worthy
re) as the frait of long senuce
attlefield.'*

I is my grandfather. Lord
[lle» and we are, as he has
©Id you, of the old English of
^*' said Nellie, making one
Mr in order to present her
^B ** At first, in common
I^Ker inhabitants of Meath,
to have been sent into the
Item baronies of Con naught ;
Qtimbers set down for trans-
Sn to those parts having been
l^eater than could be accom-
l on the land, we were as-
t last our portion in the same
^fMurrisk,"

officer looked at first as if
ined to refuse the paper
pld up for his acceptance ;
changing his intention,
it rudely from her hand,
his eye over the contents.
nph ! ha !*' he continued to
^ he read ; and then turning
\ said in a voice in which.

toned down as it was to an affectation
of cold indifference, her quick ear
detected, nevertheless, a lurking tone
of triumph.

'* This certificate bears a date, as I
see, of some three months earlier in
the year. How, then, is it, mniden,
that it was not presented sooner ?'^

'* It is five months to-day since we
left our home — our pleasant home in
Meath/' said Nellie sadly; "and
much of that time was spent perforce at
Loughrea, At first we were kept there
in sore suspense as to the settlement
of our just claim for land, and after
that we were detained by sickness.
Our servant fell ill and died of the
plague ; my grandfather suffered also
much from the same raalady» and
he has in some measure recovered
from it ; it has» alas ! reduced him
from a haJe and hearty old age, to
the wreck — mind and body — that you
see before you. In this way our
scant)^ stock of money was soon ex-
hausted, and when at last he was fit
to travel, we had to sell our horses
and the best part of our wearing ap-
parel, in order to satisfy the debts in-
curred during his illness ; after which
there was nothing for it but to finish
the journey as best we could on foot."

** How mar\*eHous are the mercies
of the Lord^the mercies which he
has laid up for them that fear him,"
cried the officer, turning triumphant-
ly toward his companions, and yet
shrinking, in spite of himself, beneath
the angry glances shot at htm from
the blue eyes of his daughter. " Sure-
ly his hand and his wisdom are
visible in this matter/' he added, in
a less openly exultant manner ; " for
look ye, maiden, had you and the
man you call Lord Netterville come
hither at the time when, according to
the date of your certificate, you should
have done, you might, peradventure,
have found no one to dispute pos-
session with ye. But behold I in-

3 TO

Nellie Netterville.

stead of that, the Lord hath vexed
and troubled ye \ he hath forced ye
to tarr)% even as he forced his re-
bellious people to tarry in the wilder-
ness ; he hath afflicted ye with sick-
ness ; he hath even visited ye >vith
death, in order that I, his servant
and soldier on the battle-field, might
go up and take peaceable possession
of that land which ye vainly fancied
to be all your own."

" But are not these the very lands
^-a portion of the barony of Mur-
nsk — ^which are set down in our cer-
tificate?" said Nellie, not even yet
comprehehding thoroughly the great-
ness of the impending blow. ** How,
then, noble sir, do you speak of them
as yours ?"

"Yea, and indeed," replied the
officer, "these are of a certainty
those very lands. Nevertheless,
maiden, thou hast yet to learn that» if
thou hast a certificate, I also am pro-
vided with a debenture, signed and
delivered to me two months ago.
Consequently, my order on the estate
being of a later dale, doth override
and make void thine own, which,
moreover, on looking closer, I do
perceive to be merely a de bene esse^ a
poor make-shift for the time being,
until something more permanent
could be assigned thee."

** God help us, then 1" cried Nellie,
utterly overwhelmed by this last an-
nouncement **God help us, then,
and pardon those w^ho have trifled so
cruelly with our fortunes ! Strangers
we are, and without a place whereon
to lay our heads j what then is to be-
come of us in these deserted moun-
Uinsr

** Thou shouldst have looked to all
that ere coming hither,*' he answered
harshly ; ** as matters are at present,
I would counsel thee to return to
Loughrea at thy quickest speed, and
to seek some other grant of land
from their honors the comnnssioncrs,

I whc

ut4

ere all that which is left in theh
has been absolutely disposed

•*We cannot," said Nellii
tone of hopeless sorrow, whic
that of the old fanatic I
touched the hearts of all whc
hen ** Look !" she added,
and with a sudden wave
indicating Lord Netter\^illc
terly exhausted by his UC
ment, was leaning against tfi
in a half state of stupor. " I
that old man, and tell me hoi
to retrace his footsteps? He
deed, aided him on his joume
er, but what hope is left to |d|
courage to go back ?" ^

'*As I have already said
shouldst have looked to all :
undertaking such a jour
swered shortly, and prepar
forward ; for he saw tha
daughter's face which mad^
sure that she would not ren
longer silent "And now |
both hence at once, I counsel 3
my choler is apt to rise in tl
sence of the enemies of
and I may not much longer I
restrain my hand from striki!

** Strike, if you will, but hesi
cried Nellie, springing forwi
suddenly that she had cau^
of his bridle-rein ere he wai
aware of her intention. " If ;
tower is indeed your home, gf
a night^s shelter in it — onlyo»
— ^a single night — that he
from his weary travels."

*' Nay, by the sword of|
not even for an hour l" he
ously, ** Let go, maiden,
I w ill strike thee as if
mad dog in my path."

But Nellie was by this
to desperation, and she wotj
let go. She clung to the brid
crying out, ** Only one nigh
little night God is my witnc
if there was but so much afi

in u

Nellie NettervilU.

311

lut within reach, I would
er than ask such a* favor at
ids."

^ as frantic with passion as
with despair, he forced his
rear again and again, in or-
mpel her to let go ; but find-
st, that he could not shake
e raised his riding-whip, and
have fallen heavily on her
s if, by a similar and almost
eous movement, Ormiston
daughter had not hastily in-

)r Hewitson !" cried the for-
i warning voice — and, " Fa-
i shall not ! you dare not I"
e girl, spurring her horse
forward, and utterly regard-
he fact that its heels were
grazing the edge of the pre-
she tried to wrest his whip
father's grasp,
le tenderness of the man's
s wrapt up in his daughter,
in the midst of that moment
passion he saw her danger,
lout:

e a care, child, have a care I
md your horse will be over
pice ere you know what you

•w away your whip then, or
ck him over it witii my own
ihe cried passionately ; " for
sooner perish at once than
>wn father strike a helpless
myself"

: the Irish beggar hence at
n, will you?" he answered
, flinging away his whip as
J, and, tearing his rein by
ce from Nellie's grasp, he
rapidly down the hill,
d of following him, the girl
er horse further into the re-
rder to make room, and then
IX hand with the gesture of
iss to the others to pass on.

With the exception of Ormiston they
all obeyed, and no sooner had they
got to a little distance than she flung
herself off her horse, and, tossing the
reins to her companion, threw herself
into the arms of the astonished Nel-
lie, exclaiming :

" O my God, my God ! and these
are the deeds that we do in thy name I
When wilt thou arise and come ii^i
judgment ?"

" Nay, grieve not thus, dear lady,"
said Nellie, generously forgetting her
own great wrongs at the sight of such
voluntary humiliation. " You at any
rate have no cause to grieve, for
willingly you have done no wrong."

'' Call me not lady ; I am but a
girl, a woman like yourself ; only "
— she added with a touch of pride so
like humility that it was almost as
beautiful — " only, probably, of mean-
er nature, and certainly of less lofty
lineage. What can I do for you?
Alas 1 alas ! why do I ask, for what
can I do ? Shelter, except in my fa-
ther's house, I have none to offer;
and in that, after what he has said
just now, I could not even ensure
your lives."

Here the young ofl5cer, who had
by this time dismounted and ap-
proached the girl, endeavored to
insinuate his purse into her hands ;
but she shook her head impatiently,
and said, " Money 1 money ! of what
use can money be in such wilds as
these ?"

Nevertheless, on second thoughts,
she took the purse, and would, per-
haps, in a hesitating, shame-faced sort
of way, have offered it to Nellie, it
the latter had not said decidedly :

" As you say, dear lady, it would
be worse tlian useless. Neither are
we beggars. We did but seek what
we thought to be our own. And
now," she added sadly, " we ask still
less— even that which the very beg-

mUie NettervilU.

gars are thought to have a right to
claim---but a shelter for a single
night"

"And even that I cannot give
you," said the girl disconsolately ;
" but at least," she added suddenly,
in a brighter tonCj ** I think I can
tell you where to find that." She
pointed with her whip to a narrow
path branching off a little lower down
the hill, and leading apparently in
the direction of the sea. " Follow
that path- — it is neither long nor diffi-
cult — ^and it will lead you to the wa-
ters of the creek below. At the very
foot of the hil!, where the path ends,
you will find a hut ; if empty» it will
at least give you shelter ; if other-
wise, its owner will, I doubt not,
I make you welcome. He ought at
^kast," she added quickly, **for he
has lost something. Trust me,
are not the only ones w^hom we
have robbed for the achievement of
our own greatness, Farew^ell ! and
if ever you pray for your enemies,
\ put us among the worst and fore-
^ most"

She turned to her horse as she
finished speaking. Her companion
would fain have aided her to mount ;
but putting him pettishly on one side,
^she leaped into the saddle without
assistance, and galloped back by the
road which she had come. The offi-
cer, thus repulsed, bowed respectfully
to Nellie, and then, remounting his
own horse, followed in the same direc-
, tion. She cantered on, however, as if
unconscious of his existence, merely
urging her horse to a quicker speed,
in order to escape him — a manoeuvre
which he took care, by imitating,
to render useless. Finding, at last^
tliat he would not be shaken off, she
1 pulled up suddenly, and said angri-
lf)% and without even deigning to look
\ round :

**Why do you follow me? Why
do you dog my footsteps ? Ride

back to my father, will j^oa
of your own creed and
will better appreciate yoi
that I can."

" Nay, Ruth," he was 1
but she intemipted bin
fiercely —

" Call me by my own n
wish that I should answer
you at least, and to the w
still be Henrietta, thotig
father's hands I am ooi
submit to this mummery of
of name."

**Well, then, Henrietta,'
swered quietly, but ver)*
"believe me, 1 did not mean
ger you» I said * Ruth,'
that name is so often on yom
lips that it has begun to coi
naturally to mine. I would j
ingly anger you at any
least of all, just now, wheH|
of what I must call your unl
wardness toward myself, I
worship you, as I never di
for that nobleness of natu
recoils, at any cost, from alt
vors of injustice.**

** Carry your love and
elsewhere, then, for I will 1
of it," she said, evidently
mollified by his apology.
should I care for your good o|
Do you not feel in your
hearts, or must I tell you,
are divided, as far as the na
from the south, in our most
convictions, and that what \
my father call religion I ca
fanaticisra^r that sometliii
is worse than fanaticism, c
than crime — hypocrisy/*

" You cannot believe whair
saying,'* he answered, now ii
in his turn ; " you know
and truly I have loved you,
cannot believe that I am a b
you cannot — you could
would not so dishonor me

Nellie NcttervilU.

313

tbonghts — ^youwho have promised to
be my wife!"

"I retract that promise, then," she
answered passionately, " wholly and
entirely I retract it Never, so help
ne God, will I become the mother of
a race of fanatics, who will find, for
such deeds as we have seen done to^
day, their pretext in religion."

** Henrietta I" he cried, the blood
rashing to his temples, " you cannot
be in earnest !"

" See if I am not !" she answered
coldly. "Ride back to my father
now, and let me go my ways alone
to the tower."

*I will go to him, Henrietta ; but
it win only be to tell him that I am
sbout to return to my appointment in
Dublin — unless, indeed," he added,
with a lingering hope of reconcilia-
tion — ^"unless, Henrietta, you re-
tract."

*•! never retract," she answered
shortiy.

"Then, farewell !" he said, with a
^alf movement, as if he would have
^ken her hand."

" Farewell !" she answered, affect-
ing not to see his offered hand, and
shaking the reins loose on her horse's
neck.

Ormiston turned his horse's head
*n the opposite direction, and went
forward a few paces ; then he stopped
^nd looked after his late companion.
She was moving on, but slowly, and
like one lost in thought. Stirred by
a sudden honest impulse of regret,
he turned and followed her. Henri-
etta heard him, and instantly checked
her horse, as if determined not to suf-
fer him to ride any longer at her side.
"Henrietta!" he said.
''What would you?" she asked

" Only unsay that one word, * hy-
pocrisy,' and let things be as they
^ere before."

" I never unsay what I have said,"
she answered coldly.

" Neither do I," he retorted, now
angry in earnest; "and I swear to
you that I will see you no more until
under your own hand and seal you
retract, of your own accord, what you
have said to-day, and tell me to re-
turn."

" Farewell, then, for ever," she re-
plied, with rather a bad assumption
of indifference — "for ever, if so it
must be."

" Farewell," he answered, without,
however, as even in that moment
Henrietta noticed, adding the omi-
nous "for ever." "Farewell, and
God forgive you for so trifling with
the honest heart that loves you, and
has loved you from your childhood.
Some day — ^too late, perhaps — ^you
will do me justice."

And so they parted.

CHAPTER VII.

Left to herself, Nellie Netterville
sat down to collect her scattered sen-
ses. The situation in which she
found herself needed, in truth, a
calm sense and courage, not often the
heritage of petted girlhood, in order
to bear up successfully against its
difficulties. Happily for herself, the
brave Irish girl was possessed of
both in no common degree, and the
trials and troubles of the last few
months had ripened these faculties
into almost unnatural maturity. The
tale she had just told to Major Hew-
itson was free of the smallest attempt
at exaggeration, being, in fact, rather
under than over the measure of the
truth. Lord Netterville, in common
with many another unfortunate gen-
tleman of the English Pale, had been
kept dancing attendance on the com-
missioners at Loughrea until both

314

Nellie Nettennlle.

Lliope and money fliiletl him. I'he
"absence of home comforts told heavi-
ly upon a frame already weakened
by age and sorrow \ and just at the
moment when he could least bear up
against it, he was attacked by the
plague^ or some disease analogous to
Ihe plague, which at that very time
was making most impartial havoc
among the native Irish and their foes,
"Thanks to an iron constitution, he
recovered, but he rose from his sick-
bed, if not absolutely a child in mind,
yet as utterly incapable of aiding
LNellie by advice, or of steering his
lown way unassisted through the
troubled waters on which his ill fate
jiad cast him, as if he had been in
[very deed an infant. His ser\^ant
vas already dead, therefore the whole
Jresponsibility df their future move-
ments devolved upon his grand-
daughter* She proved herself, fortu-
nately, not altogether unequal to the
occasion, never losing sight for a
moment of the purpose which had
brought her to Loughrea, and tor-
menting the commissioners until, !ess
[moved by her youth and helplessness
jthan by a desire to rid themselves of
liier troublesome importunities, they
lave her the certificate which she had
liownto Major Hewitson, and which,
las he had instantly perceived, was
endered worse than useless to its
Ipossessor by the fact of its being
liiierely a temporary arrangement.
I Ignorant alike of Latin and law lan-
[giiage, Nellie had, naturally enough,
L supposed it to be a permanent ap-
[pointment; and, selling their horses
[and every article of value in her jx)s-
Isession, in order to pay the debts
[contracted at Loughrea, she had
aade the rest of the journey on foot,
wading, soothing, and encouraging
kthe old man as if he had been a
[child, and buoying up his courage
'^and her own by fanciful descriptions
of that home in Uie far west, where

she trusted his last day?
passed in peace. She had ti
deceive //////; she never atte;
to deceive hemlf as to the n^
their future prospects ; Y^t\
ant as her anticipations ha
they were so much more
than the terrible realities up
she had just stumbled, that
for a few moments, as she sat
alone among the hillst as If tlK
gates of an earthly Paradise
been closed against her. But ;
no moment for the indulgem
such natural regrets. She look
her grandfather, and felt that h
was in her hands* Sheremeinl:
too, her promise to her mother
son as well as daughter to his
and sternly and tearlcssly, for
were too weak an expression for
desolation as she was t'
she set herself to consi^
next move ought to be. I'ooi
shelter for the old man — (and it
ed not another glance at his
face to tell her how much both
needed) food and shelter-
must be her first object. It \
be time enough after they had
secured to decide as to the feasi
of a return journey to
She rose, and drawing he
which, in her struggle
Hewitson, had fallen back ujx>
shoulders, once more over her
she took her grandfather by the
and led him quietly and silently
the path pointed out to her by
rietta. It had originally b«
sheep-path, and proved far Icsi
cult than she had expected, w*i
gradually round the hills ur
reached a sort of creek or e
formed by the inrushing, for a \
of miles, of the waters from^
beyond. It was a lonely, bu
ly spot, and Nellie*s heart 1
calmly as she paused to Ust
soft rocking of the w^atets in I

Loui
hel

Nellie Netterville.

315

J, and to feel the fresh breeze
Key brought from the ocean
on her heated brow. There
visible signs near her of that
habitation of which Major
n*s daughter had so confi-
x>ken ; but at last, after hav-
3hed tiie landscape steadily
-ectiens, she thought she saw
ig like a blue curl of smoke
It of a sort of mound, which,
ght, seemed neither more nor
L a cairn of unusually large
)ns, nearly hidden by clumps
and heather at least six feet
i bushy and luxuriant in pro-
On nearer inspection, how-
proved to be a hut, such a
/^en to this day may be some-
^n in the wild^t parts of the
St, rounded at the gables,
rough stones, rudely yet sol-
together, and with a roof
)f fern and shingle, carefully
from the violence of the
winds by bands of twisted
A hole in this roof stood
►th for window and for chim-
1 the doorway was literally
A sort of grass mat hung
: from the inside, being evi-
>nsidered by the inhabitants
; protection against cold and
only foes which extreme
has got to boast of.
/e seconds, at the very l^ast,
ood gazing on this frail bar-
a feeling as if it would re-
ore than human courage to
e her presence to the human
she knew not whether they
gnds or enemies) who might
d away behind it At last,
baking hand, she drew back
corner of the matting, and,
iaring to look in, saluted the
inmates, as the natives of
itry salute each other to this
Irish, " God save all here !"
^as no answer, and, lifting

the curtain a litde higher, she look-
ed in.

The hut was empty, though a few
embers burning on the floor gave suf-
ficient evidence of its having been re*
cendy inhabited. Of furniture, save
a single wooden setde, Nellie could
discover none; but a gun was stand-
ing upright against the opposite wall,
and near it hung a very Spanish-seem-
ing mantle, looking as much out of
place in that miserable abode as its
owner would probably have done if
he had been there to claim it The
solitude, and the sight of that gun
and mantle, made her feel far more
nervous than she would have felt if
a dozen of the natives of the soil had
been congregated within. It seemed
to imply some mystery, and, to the
helpless, mystery always has a touch
of fear about it. Moreover, it made
her suddenly conscious that she was
an intruder, an idea which would
never have come into her head if her
possible hosts had been of that frank-
hearted race to whom the virtue of
hospitality comes so easily that it
does not even occur to them to call
it " virtue." On the other hand, her
grandfather's pale face and sunken
features seemed to plead with her
against all unseasonable timidity.
Hastily, therefore, and as though she
were about to commit a theft, she
put aside the matting, drew the old
man inside, and then replaced the
screen as carefully as if she hoped in
this manner to hide her audacious
proceedings from the owner of the
hut— or rather, if the truth must be
told, from the owner of the mysteri-
ous mantle. This first step fairly ta-
ken, Nellie suddenly grew brave, and
resolving to make die most of their
impromptu habitation, she drew the
settle nearer to the fire, and made
Lord Netterville sit down upon it.

The sight of the embers seemed to
revive the latter, less perhaps from

it!

Nellie Nettervtllf,

any need he felt of its warmth on that
bright sunny day than from the home-
like associations which it awakened
in his mind. He smiled a wintry
smile, with more of old age than of
gladness in it, and stretched forth his
withered hands to warm them in the
blaze. Then, as if suddenly waking
up for the first time to a perception
of his being foodless, he asked Nellie
if supper would soon be ready, for
that in truth he was well-nigh star\'-
ing. Starving he must have been,
that poor Nellie knew well enough
\ already ; for they had exhausted their
scanty stock of food that ver\^ day,
and he had tasted nothing since the
' early dawn. She soothed him, how-
lever, and besought him to have yet a
[little patience, and then, with a des-
perate resolution to appropriate to
his use whatever of food the hut
might happen to contain, she com-
||nenced a careful examination of
llts hidden nooks. There were, of
3urse, neither shelves nor cupboards,
>r anything, indeed^ which even sug-
'gested the idea of provisions having
been ever kept there ; but at last,
when she had almost begim to give
IJUp the search in despair, she espied
I something like the handle of a bas-
llet peeping out from beneath a bun-
fdle of firewood which lay heaped in
&ne comer of the hut upon the floor.
Pouncing upon this at once, she dis-
Icovered that it contr\ined a couple of
ea- trout, upon which the owner of
plhe mansion had probably intended
laking an early dinner, for they
Jwere already prepared for broiling.
Tith renewed energy Nellie took a
Ihandful of dried brushwood, and
threw it upon the half-extinguished
fire, after which she proceeded, in
"ber new character of cook, to lay, in
ra \^vy leisurely and scientific manner,
the fish upon the embers. So en-
grossed was she in this occupation,
that she never perceived that th mat

curtain over the doorway hac
once more lifted up, and that
one was watching her proce
from the outside. This son
was a man, apparently about t
f^\Q or thirty years of age, w\i\
ure rather above than below tli
die height, and a face which, 1
energy and expression as ii
was by no means regularly
some, though the large, Murilk
ing eyes by which it was light
deceived casual beholders tqfl
viction that it was. V

He was clad in a garb which
have belonged to the native
men of the coast, yet no
have mistaken him for oth«f1
gentleman and soldier, as he
there, holding back the scf«
matting, and gazing, with a la
riously compounded of amusi
and annoyance^ at the scene pfi
ed by the interior of the co
The latter feeling, howe^^er, wa
dently in the ascendant — so nm
indeed, that he had actuaJly m\
half' movement, as if to ret
leave the hut to its uninvio
pants, when something — wi
glimpse of Nellie's dcHcJttc p
as she stooped over the _
bers ? — induced him to •
mind, and stepping quietly ovc
threshold, he dropped the ;
hind him with an energy
will which seemed to indi
instead of his premeditated l
had made up his mind to accep
a good grace, and perhaps ev
enjoy, this unexpected additit
his society. The sound of i
mat warned NcUie of the ad
stranger, and, crimson wit
and fear, she stood up lo
him. He gazed upon her 9l«
the half-feeling of anno}'ai3
visible on his clouded brow, J
gradually to a look of mt
reverent admiration, and

uv ovc

ac«p
ps ev
[dditi<

NeUie Netterville.

317

man's cap from his head,
1 courteously, and said in

save all here, and a hundred
welcomes also, if, as I ap-
you are fugitives like my-
tyranny and injustice."
was an indescribable tact
esy m the way in which he
. this announcement of his
master of the hut with a

I ready welcome to his un-
sitants, which made Nellie
ce that she had to do, not

a man of gentle birth but
nd polished breeding also,
act seemed for the moment

add to her difficulty than
se it, and secretly wishing
ish could be Aiade, by some
)rocess, to disappear from
's upon which it was com-
^roiling, she placed herself
is she could between it and
s;er as she stammered out
gy for intrusion. Did he
ih ? and did he guess at the
*ny she had just committed ?
ncied she saw something
lused look in his eye, which
feel hot and cold by turns
onsciousness of discovered
the rest of his features wore
nothing but an expression
id courteous sympathy as he
terrupted her excuses —
10 more, dear lady, say no
5t me I have not now to
the first time to what dire

sad necessity of these days
lay bring us. And, there-

II who come to this poor
more especially to those
honor and for conscience'
: laid down wealth and pow-
jre, I have but one word —
ing, and that is the old
:, of a hundred thousand

idred thousand welcomes !"

repeated a feeble, quivering voice
close to the stranger's elbow. He
turned and looked for the first time
steadily at Lord Netterville, of whose
presence up to that moment he had
been barely conscious. The old man
had risen from his seat, and stood
smiling and bowing courteously^ evi-
dently thinking he was doing the hon-
ors of a home, of which — however
humble — ^he was yet the undoubted
master.

" Our house is poor, sir," he went
on, " once, indeed, we boasted of a
better ; but let that pass. Such as
it is — such as our enemies have made
it — ^you may reckon assuredly upon
meeting an Irish welcome in it."

" Sir," whbpered Nellie through
her tears, fearing lest the stranger
might break in too rudely on the old
man's dielusion. "He is old — he
has been ill — ^he fancies he has
reached his home ; you must excuse
him."

The unknown turned his eyes upon
the girl with a look so full of rever-
ent sympathy, that it went straight
to her heart, never afterward to be
effaced from thence. She felt that
her grandfather would be safe in
such kindly hands, and was tufhing
quietly away when Lord Netterville,
still enacting his fancied character
of host, threw a handful of dry wood
upon the fire, and the blaze that in-
stantly ensued fell full upon his fea-
tures, which had hitherto been barely
visible in the gloom. The stranger
started violently.

" Good God !" he cried, in a tone
of irrepressible astonishment. "Is
it possible that I see Lord Netter-
ville, and in such a plight?"

" You know my grandfather, then ?"
cried Nellie joyously, feeling as if the
stranger must have been sent by Pro-
vidence espeoially to help her in the
hour of her utmost need. " You
know my grandfather ?"

3t8

Nettie Neticrvitte,

" I ought, at any rate/' he answer*

ed, with a sad smiley as he took Lord
Netter\^ille*s proffered hand, " For
we fought together and were beaten
at Kilrush ; my first battle, and^ as I
suppose, his Jast,*'

** Ha !" cried the old man, " Kil-
nish I Kilrush I who speaks to me of
Kilrush ? Were you there, sir ? Time
must have played sad tricks upon my
memory then, for, truth to say, I do
not recognize you."

"Nay, my good lord,'* said the
stranger soothingly, " it would be
stranger still if you had done so, for
I was but a beardless boy in those
I days. Nevertheless, I remember _><w,
\ Lord NetterviUe, and surely you can-
not have altogether forgotten the
cheer we gave when you, a tried and
veteran soldier, rode up to serve with
us as a volunteer in the regiment of
your gallant son."

**I remember! I remember!" cried

tlie old man eagerly, ** It was a

bright and glorious morning, and

[we charged them gallantly — a bright

and glorious morning, but with a sad

\m\d bloody ending, Alas ' alas!" he

I added, his voice falling suddenly

[from its trumpet-like tone of exulta-

I lion to an old man*s wail of sorrow.

" Alas 1 alas 1 how many of the best

and bravest that we had among us

I lay dead and trampled in the dust,

[as we withdrew from that fatal held,"

He bowed his head upon his

Ibreast, and remained for a little

ll^hile absorbed in thought, and

iNellie took advantage of the pause

jlosay:

'You knew my father, sir? You

[must have known him if you were

I Uear Lord Xetterville at Kilrush ; for

ither and son charged side by side,

were seldom, as I have since

een told, ten minutes out of each

other's sight during the whole of thiit

Woody battle,"

^*Knew your father? Yes, dear*

lady — if your father
pose, Colonel Nettervillc-
him well. He was the bos
of my uncle and namesa
Moore of Leix, who place
his regiment when I joined i
anny,"

"Roger Moore of Lcia
Nellie, a flash of enthusi^snT
ing up her face; *VRoger Mc
the brave — the gifted — *► the
leader in a noble cause, who»
name was a battle-cry, and i
followers rushed into fight, she
for *God — our Lady — and J
Moore V Yes, yes ; he waj
father's friend, I remember
when I was a child how jd
to talk about him. And ymf
added, with a sudden chaD|
voice and manner, and placing
her hands in his, **jv?jw, ihcr
that Roger Moore, the young
whose arms my poor father dia

" At the battle of Benburb/
Moore, in a low voice ; ** a gl<
battle — well fought, and well
and yet for ever to be regrette
the loss of one of Ireland's bi
and most f^iithful soldiers."

"Grand^uher," cried Nellie,
denly withdrawing her bands
Roger, and blushing scarlet
inadvertence of her own acli<3
had placed them in his, "this '
tain Moore, who bore my woi
father out of the press of batU<
to whom we are indebted
last and loving farewell
sent to us in dying."

But instead of replying
eagerness corresponding to h3
Lord NetterviUe gazed vacantJ|
the stranger, evidently wii
slightest recollection of his -
person, and repeated, in a ,
chanical voice, his previouslj
ed welcome.

" He does not retnembc
Roger. "Alas 1 alas 1 for_

lis tfl

woi

batU<

d ^

Nellie NeitervilU.

319

, once cloudless as a sum-
on r

h, hush 1" whispered Nellie,
action is banning to return."
rd Netterville did, in fact,
be making a languid effort
ing up his scattered thoughts,
ooked at Roger, and said

ki:\ew my son, sir? — you
y son? — ^then, indeed, you
welcome. He was a brave
I fought for his king and
-fought and fell— on the
-the field of— the name —

thought never to forget —
St escaped me."
»urb," Roger ventured to in-

>urb ! Ay, that was the very
tenburb I— nny memory does
me, sir; but I have been
ed of late— or we rode too
morning — ^for I feel very

led to draw back from the
\ spoke, but he tottered, and
ive fallen if Roger had not
lim by the arm, and made
own upon the settle,
is faint for want of food,"
lie hastily ; " we have been
ig all day among the hills,
as not broken his fast since

did not answer, but signing
> support Lord Netterville,

straight to some invisible
1 the walls of the hut, and
Qce a bottle of strong cordiaL
a little of this into a broken
made the old man swallow
hen stood beside him, anx-
itching the result Happily
ivorable — in a few minutes
jtterville revived, the color
to his wan cheek, and tum-
ellie, he asked her, in a half-
"if supper would soon be

Shyly, and blushing scar-

let, Nellie nodded an affirmative, and
forgetting all her previous shame in
anxiety for her grandfather, she was
about to resume her office as cook,
when, with a half-smile on his face,
Roger Moore put her quietly aside.

"Nay, Mistress Netterville, re-
member that I am master here, and
that I forbid you to lay hands upon
that fish ? I have always been cook
in my own proper person to the es-
tablishment, and I cannot allow you
to supersede me in the office."

" Forgive me I" said Nellie, tears
starting to her eyes, and half fancy-
ing in her confusion that he was
angry in earnest " I could not help
it, for he was starving."

" Do not misunderstand me, I en-
treat you," said Roger, in a voice of
deep and real feeling ; " I should be
a brute if I objected to anything you
have or could have done; I only
meant that I objected to your con-
tinuing in that office ; for so long as
the daughter of my old colonel is
under my roof, (even though it be
but a poor mud sheeling,) she shall
do no work, with my good-will, unfit
for the hands of a princess." He
busied himself while speaking in
drawing forth, from 'that same re-
cess in which he had found the cor-
dial, some thin oaten cakes, a few
wooden platters, and one or two
knives and spoons of such massive
silver, that Nellie could not help
thinking they were as much out of
keeping with the rest of the furniture
as Roger himself appeared to be with
the hut, of which he was doing the
honors in such simple and yet such
courtly fashion. He would not even
let her hold the platter upon which
he placed the fish as he took it from
the embers, and he himself then
brought it to Lord Netterville, and
pressed him, as tenderly as if he had
been a child, to partake of this im-
promptu supper.

320

NellU NcHcrviUe.

The old man yielded, nothingloath,
and so^ indeed, did his grandchild ;
for, though verj^ fair to look at, no
goddess was poor Nellie, but a young
and growing girl with the healthy
appetite of sixteen. She accepted,
therefore^ Roger's invitation without
the smallest aflfectation of reluctance,
and sitting down on the floor beside
her grandfather, shared the contents
of his platter with innocent and un-
disguised enjoyment With all her
sense and courage, she was as yet in
many things a perfect child, yielding
as easily as a child might do to the
first ray of sunshine that brightened
on her path, and accepting the ha|>
piness of ihc present moment as un-
restrainedly as if never even suspect-
hig the shadows that were lurking in
her future. Now, therefore^ that she
felt her grandfather was in safe and
helpful keeping, she threw off the
sense of responsibility which had
weighed her down for months, and
became almost gay. Color rose to
her wasted cheek, light sparkled in
her eyes, and she responded to Ko-
ger's efforts to make her feel com-
fortable and at honied with such in-
nocent and unbounded faith in his
wish and power to befriend them,
that he vowed an inward vow never
to forsake her, but to guard her, as if
she had been in ver)^ deed his sister,
through the trials and dangers of lier
unprotected exile. When their meal
was over, and while her grandfather
slumbered in the quiet warmth of the
peat-fire, she told Roger Moore her
story, simply and briefly as she might
have told it to a brother, beginning
at her departure from her ancestral
home, and ending with her encounter
with the English strangers among the
mountains.

** It is Major Hewitson," said Ro-
ger, " in whose favor I have been de-
spoiled of my old home. Major Hewit-
son and his pretty daughter ^ Rulh,'

as he chooses to call her,
blot out the fact that hcfl
Henrietta, and that she had<j
queen for her godmotJicr. S
gets it not herself, however," 1
ed, with a smile \ *^* for h^
was of noble race, and Ihejl
she is a true cavalier at hs
pines like a caged bird in f
work of demure fiinaticism wfa
father has twined around her,

'* She has a lovely face a^
anrl honest heart, for certM
Nellie, ** She knows yoti al5|
think of it ; for she it was who
ed me to this hut, with a liitt
should here find a friend," \

" Did she?" said Roger, iii
uine fer\'our. " Nay, then
one good deed I needs mu
her, that she, or her fathe
have robbed me of my in!
And now I think of it,"
with a touch of sly malic
smile, " you also, if you came
to seek land, must have been
on the same errand ; for boti
baronies, * Umhall uaghtni^
* Umhall ioghtragh/ is die coi
the O'Maillys, and, in n^jl
grandmother, my own/* fl

Nellie blushed scarlet* ^
she said, " 1 knew not whifhi
whom they sent us ; but sun
at all events, that we never
have accepted of any honse
expense of its rightful owners

•* Nay," said Roger, "Id
jest. Would indeed that
you I had been compelled 1
In spite of that fact you sh
had, I promise you, a rig
welcome. And now I must
explain. This sheeling, 3^01
know, is not really my he
but a temporary refuge,
have t\*'0 or three along
for I have fought battle
against England's new-fao
vernment to have de&ecved d

at ll

Nellie Netterville.

321

mtlawry at her hands. My
»equently has been none too
any time these six months
i now that yonder gray-hair-
iCy who would ask nothing
lan to seal his title in my
as got possession of these
is of course less secure than
My most permanent home,
Is on an island, facing the
bis side, and washed by the
f the Atlantic on the other.
>r enough, God knows, yet
3f giving better accommoda-
i such a hut as this is. Will
your grandfather be content
it with me V*
rushed into the dark eyes of

dence is good," she answer-
»ly — " Providence is very
d gives us friends when we
ect them."

, then, it is a bargain," cried
ayly; "and now. Mistress
le, come and see the craft
you will have to make the

illed down the "mysterious
as he spoke, and Nellie saw
tead of covering the bare
he had imagined, it merely
d an opening into an inner
ler portion of the hut, built
r the creek, and made to an-

purpose of a boat-house.
» the water rushed, so as to
)asin deep enough for the
of a boat, and one accord-
safe within it, concealed by
hanging roof from observa-
he outside.

not flat-bottomed like the
aft, but had been evidently
[i for strength and speed by
\ understood his business,
hief cargo at this particular
seemed to be a quantity of
: heather,
lis Roger pointed with a

OL. VII. — 21

smile. " If I were a Highlander,"
he said, "you might suspect me of
second-sight ; for I have gathered,
without thinking of it, double the
usual quantity of heather, that which
we outlaws perforce \ise for bedding.
I hope you will not mind roughing it
a little."

" I have roughed it a good deal
within the last few months," said
Nellie, " and I do not think you will
find me difficult to please. Is the
boat quite safe } I have never been
out on the real sea before."

" Safe I" said the young man, with
a little pardonable pride in his dark
eyes. " I built her m)rself, and she
has weathered more than one bad
storm since the first day that I sailed
her. I call her the ' Grana Uaille,'
after the stout old chieftainess whose
island kingdom I inhabit, and which,
with the other lands of which Major
Hewitson has robbed me, I inherit
from my grandmother. But the sun
is getting low. Do you not think we
had better start at once, and get the
voyage over before night-fall ?"

To this Nellie gladly assented,
and between them they conducted
Lord Netterville to the boat. Roger
arranged the heather so as to form a
sort of couch, and, with the mantle
thrown over him to protect him from
the damp, the old man found himself
so comfortable that he settled him-
self quietly for slumber. Then Ro-
ger put up his sail, and with a fresh
and favorable wind they glided down
the creek.

Nellie would not lie down, but she
sat back in the boat with a lazy kind
of gladness in her heart, which, right-
ly interpreted, would probably have
been found to mean perfect rest of
body and mind. Such rest as she
had not felt for months ! The waters
widened as they approached the bay,
and Nellie marked each new feature
in the scene with an interest all th&-

Ndlie NeftcrvUh.

keener and more enjoy able» that
everything she saw was so unlike
an}l:hing she had ever seen before.
Accustomed as she had been to the
tamer cultivation of her native coun-
try, the savage grandeur of that wild,
west, with its poverty in human life,
its wealth in that which was merely
animal, took her completely by sur-
prise, and she gazed with unwearied
interest, now on the undulating ran-
ges of blue mountains which crossed
and recrossed each other like net-
work against the sky, then on the
broad, black tracts of peat and bog
land which covered the country at
their feet like a pall ; listened now
to the bittern and plover as they an-
swered each other from the marshes,
then to the shrill screams of the cur-
lews as they rose before the boat,
darkening the air with their uncount-
ed numbers ; or she watched a heron
sweeping slowly homeward from its
distant fishing-ground — or a grand
old eagle soaring solemnly upward,
as if bent on a visit to the departing
sun ; and her delight and astonish-
ment at last reached their climax in
the apparition of a seal, which, just
as they cleared the creek, popped its
head up above the waves, leaving
her, in spite of Roger's laughing as-
surances to the contrary, well-nigh
persuaded that she had seen a mer-
maid. The wind continuing steady,
Roger shook out his last remaining
reef, and, responding gayly to the
fresh impulse, the boat sprang for-
ward at a racing pace. They were
in Clew Bay at last, and Nellie ut-
tered a cry of joy — never had she
seen anything so beautiful before,
Masses of clouds, with tints just
caught from the presence of the sun,
soft greens and lilacs, and pale prim-
rose and delicate pearly white, so
clear and filmy that the evening
star could be seen glancing through
thenii hung right overhead, shedding

ies. ■
eyrf

a thousand hues, each morel
than the otlier, upon the bay!
until it flowed Uke a liquid opal
its multitude of tribute blcs^
site, right in the verj' mou4
harbor, stood Clare Island, all
and glowing, as if it were ,
deed the pavilion of the se
which, as it sank into the
yond it, wrapped tower, and
and slanting cUff, and windic
line, in such a glory of gold 9&
pie as made the old kingd<
Grana Uaille look for llic
like a palace of the fairies,
was still straining her
glimpse of the Atlantic on th<
side, when the deep bayinf
hound came like sad, sweet
over the waters, and RogeflB
touched her shoulder. Th^
dose to the island ; in anoth
ment he had run his boat cl
into tlic little harbor and lai
alongside the pier* A huge
dog, of the old Irish breeds in?
bounded in, nearly oversetting
in his eagerness to greet his c

Roger laid one restraining
on the dog's massive head* z
moving his cap with the oth^
smiling courteously :

** You must not be afraid i
Mistress Nettervillej she b I
as she is strong, and has ot
to add her voice to her master
to bid you welcome to the
home*"

CHAPTER Vin.

Nellie slept that night 1
ful slumbers of a child ; ba|l_
bits of long weeks of care w
to be so easily shaken olf, ai
first ray of sunshine that foi
way through the narrow wind
her chamber roused her fro
well -earned repose. Her fii
pulse was, as it had ever bi

othei

Nillu NitierviUe.

3^3

ng from her couch with a
»e of hard duty to be ac-
that very day ; her next
k God with all the fervor
md innocent heart for the
afety into which he had

at last. Then she lay

her pillow, and, yield-
delightful consciousness
was now no immediate
ler for exertion either of ,
lind, glanced languidly
dimly-lighted room, and

to make a mental in-
its contents. It was a
nber, forming the second
: old tower in which Ro-
ken up his abode, and
Jl that was yet remaining
tronghold of Grana Uail-
artment had evidently no

its own to boast of, but,
1 used as a sort of lum-
iras abundantly supplied
es brought hither from
red mansions. Nellie
/ed that much of this so-
er was of the costliest de-
nd represented probably
^al of all that had been
the wreck of Roger's for-
e were cabinets of curi-
mship, a table carved in
k as ebony, a few high-
rs of the same material,
in gold and silver, some
'eltic manufacture, others
re delicate workmanship
rks of artistic handling,

to Nellie's unaccustom-
ayed their foreign origin.
\ pictures, too, most of
the dark shadow of a
id upon them, and swords,
capons, and armor of all
and new, defensive and
led up here and there in
confusion in the comers
. Nellie had been amus-
for some minutes scan-

ning all these treasures over and over,
and guessing at their various uses,
when her attention became suddenly
riveted upon a huge confer with bands
and mouldings of curiously-wrought
brass, which stood against the wall
exactly opposite to the foot of her
bed. She was still quite girl enough
to be willing to amuse herself by im-
agining all sorts of impossibilities re-
specting the contents of this mysteri-
ous looking piece of furniture, and
she was watching it as anxiously as
if she half expected it to open of it-
self, when the door of the chamber
was cautiously unclosed, and the old
woman, who represented the office of
cook, valet, and everything else in
Roger's establishment, crept up to
her bedside as quietly as if she fan-
cied her to be sleeping still.

"God's blessing and the light of
heaven be on your sweet smiling
face," she ejaculated, as Nellie turn-
ed her bright, wideK)pen eyes with a
grateful smile upon the old hag. " Lie
still a bit, a-lannah, lie still, and take
a sup of this fresh goat's whey that I
have been making for you. It will
bring the color, may be, into your
pretty cheeks again ; for troth, a-lan-
nah, they are as pale this morning as
mountain roses, and not at all what
they should be in regard to a young
and well-grown slip of a lassie like
yourself."

Nellie took the tempting beverage,
which Nora presented to her in an
old-fashioned silver goblet, readily
enough ; but checking herself just as
she was about to put it to her lips,
she said, gayly :

''Thanks, a thousand times, my
dear old woman, but I do not feel
that I need it much, and this whey
would be the very thing for my poor
old grandfather. He was always ac-
customed to something of the sort in
the dajrs when we were able to in-
dulge ourselves in such luxuries."

Nellie Netterville.

32s

or a kirtle to the back,
indeed ! Why, could not he
imself last night that you had
it robbed and murdered like
rour own by them thieving
and wasn't it for that very
lat, before he went off to his
lis blessed morning, he gave
ey of that big black box, and
ys he, 'Nora, my old wo-
lave been thinking that the
ady up-stairs has been so
the road that may be she'll
nt of a new dress like ; so,

is nothing like decent wo-
Dring to be found in the is-
y be she'll condescend to see
> anything in my poor moth-
that would suit her for the
And troth, my darling,"
I went on, " it's you that are
have the pick and choice of
js ; for she was a grand Span-
, she was, and always went
long us dressed like a prin-

had opened the box at the
g of this speech, and with
esh word she uttered, she
; such treasures of finery on
as fully justified her pane-
the deceased lady's ward-
soon found herself the cen-
leap of thick silks and shiny
nd three-piled velvets and
I stuffs, standing upright by
their own rich material, and
so delicate and fine, that
ced as if she had only to
upon them in order to make
at away upon the air like

is quite too much of a girl
» be able to resist a close
ions examination of such
j nevertheless, her instinct
ness of things was stronger
vanity, and there was an
ty between these courtly

habiliments and her broken fortunes,
which made her feel that it would be
an absolute impossibility to wear
them. Selecting, therefore, a few
articles of linen clothing, she told old
Nora that everything else was far too
fine for daily wear, and began, of her
own accord, to restore them to their
coffer. Not so, however, the good
old Nora. That any thing could be
too fine for the adornment of any
one whom " the master " delighted
to honor, was a simple absurdity in
her mind ; and she became so clam-
orous in her remonstrances, that
Nellie was fain to shift her ground,
and to explain that she was bent at
that moment upon '^ taking a long
ramble by the sea-shore, for which
anything like a dress of silk or satin
(Nora's own good sense must tell
her) would be, to say the least of it,
exceedingly inappropriate."

At these words a new light seemed
to dawn upon the old woman's mind,
and, plunging almost bodily down
into the deep coffer in her eagerness
to gratify her protkgi^ she exclaim-
ed, " So it's for a walk you'd be go-
ing this morning, is it ? and after all
your bother last night I Well, well,
you are young still, and would rather,
I daresay, be skipping about like a
young kid among the rocks than sit-
ting up in silks and satins as grave
and stately as if you were a princess
in earnest Something plain and
strong ? That's what you'll be want-
ing, isn't it, a-lannah? Wait a bit,
will you ? for I mind me now of a
dress the old mistress had made
when she was young, for a frolic, like,
that she might go with me unnoticed
to a * pattern.* And may I never sin
if I haven't got it," she cried, diving
down once more into the coffer, and
bringing up from its shining chaos a
dress which, consisting as it did sim-
ply of a madder-colored petticoat and
short over-skirt of russet brown, was

noi by any means very dissimilar to
the habitual costume of a peasant
girl of the west at the present hour.
Nora was right* It was, as ladies
have it, "the very thing!** Stout
enough and plain enough to meet all
Nellie's ideas of propnet}% and yet
presenting a sharp contrast of color-
ing which {forgive her, my reader,
she was only sixteen) she was by no
means sorry to reflect would be ex-
ceedingly becoming to her clear, pale
complexion, and the blue-black tress-
es of her hain It was with a little
blush of pleasure, therefore, that she
took it from the old woman *s hand,
exclaiming, **OhI thank you, dear
Nora. It IS exactly what I was
wishing for — so strong and pretty.
It will make me feel just as I want to
feel, like a good strong peasant girl,
able and willing to work for her living ;
and, to say the truth, moreover,"
she added, somewhat confidentially,
** I should not at all have liked mak-
ing my appearance in those tine Spa-
nish garments. I should have been
k40 much afraid of the O'More taking
for his mother."
The annunciation of this grave
anxiety set off old Nora in a tit of
laughing, under cov^er of whidi Nel-
lie contrived to complete her loileiie.
Hadder-dyed petticoat, and russet
skirt, and long dark mantle, sJie
domied them all ; but the eHect,
though exceedingly pretty, was by no
means exacdy what she had expect-
ed ; for Nora, turning her round and
round for closer inspection, declared*
with many an Irish expletive* which
we KiilUngly spare our readcrs> **That
dre$$ herself how she mi^t, no ooe
could ever mistake her for anything
but what she really was« naindy, a
bom lady» and peAaips even, moie-
ovcr, a princess in disguise, •* WHh
a smile and a courtesy Nellie accepted
oT the o ompliwc nt, mad Ihoi tripped
down ite wMiw ataicoM of her

turret, took one peep at
ville as he lay in the
the ** calliogh " or nook h
which, screened otT by
ting, had been allotted t
warmest and most com
commodation the tower a
having satisfied herself j
still fast asleep, stepped oj
the open air. She was
door by " Maida," who m
ed her down in her bd
light at beholding her ag|
was playfully defending 1
the too rapturous advaf
four-footed friend when J
his fishing-boat alongsia
and, evidently mistaking
some bare-footed visitor
called out in Irish : j

"Hilloa, ma colleen
back to the tower, will j
Nora to fetch me down a
you shall have a good
fish for your pains, for 1 1
enough to garrison the \
week."

Guessing his mistake
ed at the success of hern
Nellie instandy darted irt
en, seized a fishing-creel
tying near the hearth^ i
down to the pier. Rogj
so busy disentangling thi
the net in which he had cl
that he never even lookfi
until be turned round toj
in her basket Then
time he saw who it was wl
been so uncereraoniou:
about upon bis commi
Nellie been rich and
would probably have
made esDceedii^y
but poor, and almost
his bounty as she was,
scariet to the forehead,
giied with an eager defei
was iMioaly wiy
bm ftrf dmncienatk,

Ndli$ NMeroiUe.

337

enerous-hearted race from
sprung. " But, after all,"
in conclusion, smiling and
finger lightly on the folds
» mantle, "after all, how
ream that, her weeks of
dering only just concluded,
letterville would have been
with the sun, looking as
bright as the morning dew,
uerading like a peasant

am not masquerading at
Nellie, laughing, and yet
quite in earnest ''I am
a peasant girl, and mean
ike one, ay, and to work
K>, so long as I needs must
•nt upon others."
: I am still to be master
Roger, very decidedly, tak-
ling-creel out of her hands,
wandering princess you
to me ; and like a wan-
ncess I intend that you
sated, so long as you con-
> honor me by your pre-
this kingdom of barren

'' But the fish," said the laughing
and blushing Nellie ; " m the mean-
time, what is to be done with the
fish ? Nora will be in pain about it ;
for she told me last night that there
wasn't a blessed fish in the bay that
would be worth a ^ thraneen ' if only
half-an-hour were su&red to elapse
between their exit fix>m the ocean
and their introduction to her kitch-
en."

^* Nora is quite right," said Roger,
responding f^ly to the young girl's
merry laugh ; *' and it has cost me
both time and pains, I do assur^you,
to impress that fact upon her mind.
But Maida has already told her all
about it ; and here she comes," he
added, as he caught a glimpse of the
old woman descending leisurely to-
ward the pier. **So now we may
leave the fish with a safe conscience
to her tender mercies, and, if you are
inclined for a stroll, I will taJce you
up to yonder rocky platform, from
whence you will see the Atlantic, as
unfortunately we but seldom see it
on this wild coast, in all the calm
glories of a summer day."

TO BB COMTUfUBIX

328

MEXICO, BY BARON HUMBOLDTJ

Some old books, like some old
married couples, desen^e a second
celebration. Fifty years are surely
long enough to wait for a rehearsal
of nuptials ; and a married pair who
can for a half-century live at peace
with themselves and the public, re-
spected and esteemed, receive a me-
rited recognition and a pleasing re-
compense. Books that have circu-
lated with an equal longevity and
enjoyed universal appreciation, have
also their rights for a share of the
cakes and ale. If the old people
have only a new coat and a new
gown, they look young again ; if the
old favorite volumes are honored
with a fresh binding, their backbones
seems strengthened. It is charming
to witness an ancient dame clinging
to the side of her equally ancient
husband for time almost out of mind ;
and it has a home look to find two
venerable tomes, called Volume One
and Volume Two, supporting and
comforting each other on the same
shelf in the librar)'. When one of
the aged who have trudged on
through life together drops off, how
soon the second follows after ; and
when one book is lost or destroyed,
its companion pines away in dust,
if not in ashes, till, finally neglected,
it mysteriously disappears.

But Baron Humboldt's two folios
•on New Spain or Mexico indicate
that time, as yet, has written no wrin-
kles on their brow. They are good
for another lease of life of equal
length ; their high stale of preserva-
tion has imparted a healthy appear-
ance ; and perhaps grandchildren
hereafter will be delighted to make
their acquaintance. On the present

Etf^ne. a vols, roL Chet F. SchoelL Paris.
aft] I.

occasion, the compliment
season, and of the editor, f
extended to them. And in
terchange of courtesies, led
what they have to say for th3
It is somewhat surprising
dcrn times that Humboldt'^
Mexico should have retaineij
their pre-eminence. The bare
upon subjects wherein our km
is continually increasing, wh
portant changes are daily m
new discoveries, and where
stant demand is kept up fi
books. His great essay is <
to branches of political and
sciences, which in their nati
progressive sciences, — geogra
pography, economical and -m
cial statistics. But in the^
the baron, an exception is fo
the general law in relation to I
reign, and fall of standard auth
His supremacy in the dep;
Mexico was established in
decade of the present age [
not be destroyed in the lasi
one fact is truly remark abl
essay was published in i8i i ir
in the most imposing and ei|
form, in two volumes in folia
been anxiously expected ;
stantly translated into all
langMages of Europe j it was
with eulogiums and comraendJ
but no second edition was cvi
ed for. This singular fate of
formance so much extolled^
quoted, needs some exp]
and in giving this, the intei
fested abroad in the. si
Mexico must also be explains
in tnith, the popularity of
was, for the most part, due
portance of and attention
upon that rich province of til

bliaj

tvasq
lendl
s cvi
eof

inei

til

339

•n the western shores of the^ ^**

e^\«fatods- then' supplying the commerce
Mexico had been a resplen- ofs^flt^ns with coin. Nothing
in the Spanish crown from was tSMceifof, listened to, or consi-
)f the conquest by Cortez dered, when discussing the condition

t had been the envy of ri-
;, and often the prize which
;d to win from its rightful
England was eager to
narket with African slaves,
> gain access to its ports,
y stimulate the contraband
ance was perpetually on
he Bahamas to capture its
ets, bearing their precious
om Vera Cruz to Cadiz.
L defeated the best of Spa-
rals, and carried off the
lis ; while all three, Eng-
ch, and Dutch cruisers,
iteers, partly public armed
:h their piratical captains
in times of profound peace
ite war on every ship sail-
the flag of Castile. The
that far-off country was
in the last century as one
ders of the modern world,
n Spmc^s Anecdotesy that
gentlemen who had seen
the most splendid courts
ted in the presence of Mr.
poet, that he had never
k so much with anything
lagnificence of the City of
th its seven hundred equi-
liamess of solid silver, and
:ing on the paseo waited
leir black slaves, to hold
is, and shade with umbrel-
r mistresses from the sun.
;w Spain had nothing at-
^ond its wealth j it had no
es, or history ; no litera-
% or romance. With the
3mando Cortez, these had
No one desired more on
cts. But everybody wish-
all that could be learned
fie revenues, and of its
resources in the precious

of that country, except its vast pro-
duction of silver. ** Thank you,"
said Tom Hood, when dining with a
London Amphictyon, who was help-
ing his plate too profusely, "thank
you, alderman ; but if it is all the
same to you, I will take the balance
in money." Interest in Mexico was
taken in nothing else.

It must be remembered that
credit in commerce is of recent
origin, and paper currency of still
more recent creation. Both, com-
paratively speaking, were in their
infancy at the close of the last
century. Precious metals were
then the sole, or at least the great,
medium of commercial exchanges;
and consequently, silver and gold
performed a more important part in
the markets than they do now. They
were more highly appreciated and
sought after. Then it was, that the
Mexicanmines yielded the far greater
portion of the total product ; and, of
course, the control of these mines
was supposed to afford the control of
the commerce of the world. Econo-
mists and statesmen, therefore, turn-
ed their gaze upon that strange land
beyond sea, as the only land in that
direction worthy of their notice. But
the notice bestowed upon it was ab-
sorbing. Napoleon, availing himself
of the imbecility of the king of Spain,
and of the venality of the Prince of
Peace, endeavored to divert the Mexi-
can revenues from the royal House of
Trado at Seville to the imperial trea-
sury of France. Ouvrard, also, the
most daring speculator in the most
gigantic schemes under Napoleon,
the contractor-general for the armies
and navy of the French empire, un-
dertook, on his own responsibility,
to enter into a private partnership

330

f€3P90&*

with ihe Spanish sovereign to mono-
poHze the trade of Mexico, and divide
equally the profits. Napoleon as-
sented to this arrangement ; English
bankers took part in the negotiation ;
and the British government under
William Pitt gave it their sanction
and aid, Yet» strange to relate, all
this transpired while England was at
war with France and Spain, and a
British fleet blockaded the harbor of
Vera Cmz, These hostile nations
were drained of money, and wanted
an immediate supply. France had
anticipated the public revenues to
meet the imperial necessity ; the
Bank of England had stopped specie
payments ; Madrid was threatened
with a famine from a scries of failures
in the crops at home, and no funds
were in the royal coffers to purchase
wheat abroad. Thus all were cla-
morous for coin, which Mexico only
could produce. It was known that
fifty millions of silver dollars were on
deposit in the Consul ado of Vera Cruz,
awaiting shipment to Spain ; and it
was well known, also, that, if ship-
ped, the greater portion of the amount
would soon find its way to Paris and
London. In this state of affairs, the
emergency became so pressing upon
the belligerents, that their war policy
was compelled to succumb ; the block-
ade was raised and the bullion ex-
ported. We shall not soon forget how
a similar exigency in the late w^ar
compelled the Lincoln administration
to permit provisions being furnished
to the Confederates, in order to pro-
cure cotton to strengthen our finan-
ces. Cotton was king of commerce
in 1864. Silver was king in 1S04.

England, at the same time, was
meditating seriously upon the re-
r sources and riches of New Spain,
Aware of the importance attached
by the British cabinet to the subject,
Dumouriez, the distinguished French
tepublican exile, then in London,

addressed Mr. Windham, 1
tary of War and for the
paper advocating its conquest
general called attention ta t
that, once in English occupanc
commerce of the tw^o seas wil
your hands; the metallic ric
Spanish America will pour int
land ; you will deprive Spai
Bonaparte of them ; and this
tar)^ revolution will change the
cal face of Europe.'* It seen
Windham entertained the p
and referred it to Sir Arthur \
ley. In the sixth volume f
IVci/mgttm Suppiemrfttary Dit}
tlie proposition is examined.

While such was the state of
opinion in Europe, finding expl
daily in high quarters, and of
the above are only isolated exa
Humboldt undertook bis sd
expedition to Spanish Amcric
was preparing his great ess
New Spain. He landed in I
in March, iSoj, and remained
country for one year, engagetl
study of the physical strucliu
political condition of the vast
and in the investigation of thei
having the greatest influence 1
progress of its population and
industry. But no printed worii
be found to aid him in his rese
with materials, and therefore
sorted to manuscripts in gres(
bers, already in general circu
He had also free, unintcrrupti
cess to official records ; r
for the first time were [
be examined by a private gentj
Finally, he embodied his topog
cal» geographical, statistical, sum
collections, into a separate w<
New Spain, ** hoping they woi
received with interest at a tillM
the new continent, more than
attracts the attention of Europ
The original sketch was drawn
Spanish for circulation, and fa

Mexico^

331

> thereon, he informs us, he
bled to make many impor-
ctions." The -fijjoy reviews
t and physical aspect of the
the influence of the inequa-
iurface on the climate, on
e, commerce, and defence of
s; the population, and its
into castes j the census and
le intendencias— calculated
naps drawn up by him from
nomical observations; its
e and mines, commerce
factures ; the revenues and
iefences. But Humboldt
lidly confesses, as incident
ji undertaking, that, '' not-
ing the extreme care which
stowed in verifying results,

many serious errors have
mitted." It can be readily

what attention was given
; to the first rude sketch of
Dublished by him in 1804-5.
dity and ambition of mer-
atesmen, and military men
ised by this first authentic

of Mexican revenues and
All nations were anxious
lore ; all classes of people
n wonder to this true ac-
pecting the prodigious pro-
f the precious metals. In
ing excitement, Humboldt
aring his complete Essay^
the public desire. Having
ludon firom the inaccuracies
ut in his first rough publi-

was in no great haste to
L the final result of his la-
Lus, he waited for four or
; and, unfortunately for his
:, he waited too long. The
L Mexico had gone by ; the
lions of its boundless opu-
vanished ; its fascinations,
harmed for years, like some
►ed by magic in a night, re-

with gems of ruby, ame-

jasper, had passed away ;

the spell of enchantment was broken.
For the rebellion burst out in 18 10,
and commerce, revenues, industrj',
all perished in the general ruin it
created. It was now, in common
estimation, one of the poorest colo-
nies of Spain ; and what cared the
public for more Spanish poverty be-
yond the Atlantic, when too much of
it already was visible in the penin-
sula? The great Essay ^ therefore,
when finally published, was not pur-
chased with impatient eagerness ; it
fell flat on the market For Mexico
was now ruined, the public thought ;
and so does the public continue to
think, even unto the present day.
Thenceforth, Mexican antiquities
only were attractive. The Edin-
burgh RevieWy in 181 1, writing on
the essay, commences: "Since the
appearance of our former article on
this valuable and instructive work,
a great and, for the present at least,
lamentable revolution has taken place
in the countries it describes. Colo-
nies which were at that time the
abode of peace and industry have
now become the seat of violence and
desolation. A civil war, attended
with various success, but everywhere
marked with cruelty and desolation,
has divided the colonists, and armed
them for their mutual destruction.
Blood has been shed profusely in the
field and unmercifully on the scaffold.
Flourishing countries, that were ad-
vancing rapidly in wealth and civili-
zation, have suffered alike from the
assertors of their liberties and from
the enemies of their independence."
The Quarterly Review did not notice
the Essay^ making no sign of its ex-
istence.

It is true, some learned gentlemen
gave a look into the work, and scien-
tific men studied it well. But the
learned and scientific were only a
small, select number in the general
mass of readers ; and Humboldt had

Mexico,

not designed his information for, and
waited not the approbation of^ the
select alone, but of all classes alike
that could read. Europe closed the
map of Mexico when the revolution
broke forth, and shut out all further
inquiry into its political and indus-
trial condition. Then it was that,
instead of a cordial greeting with
open arms at every fire side, which
Humboldt reasonably anticipated for
his production, the door was almost
rudely slammed in his face. He nev-
er forgot that treatment of the book ;
he never wrote more upon Mexico ;
never furnished to the learned or un-
learned a new edition, with emenda-
tions and corrections, notes and new
maps. As it went from the hands of
the author then, we receive it now.

At the moment, however^ when
Europe closed the m;ip, America for
the first time seriously opened it ; and
just in proportion with receding time,
as Mexico has faded into insignifi-
cance from European view, in the
same proportion with advancing time
has Mexico loomed up into impor-
tance with us. They refused to
Humboldt then the high considera-
tion his Essay merited ; we bestow
upon him now more respect and ven-
eration than his Essay deserves.
To the European mind, Humboldt's
New Spain was Mexico no more;
to the American, Mexico is the
same New Spain — changed, to be
sure, but still the land for enterprise
and riches. It was not altogether
unknown to us before our revolu*
lion, It had a consideration while
the States were English colonies ; for
Northern merchants sometimes smug-
gled into its ports, and sometimes,
too, our fillibusters buccaneered on
its coasts, like other loyal English
subjects sailing under "the brave
old English flag," When our revo-
lution came, aid was invoked from
Spain as well as from France ; for

the Spanish sovereign had a p

al insult to avenge on ibe B

and Spanish supremacy on th<

to maintain. But Spain, thougl

ing, had, first of all, to conoe

her fleets. One armada was

tending with the Portuguese in

America; another was acting ai

voy for the galleons, with Ci

of silver, proceeding from Mcii

Spain. Treaties with Portugal

hastily patched up, and "ihe

nanza of free trade*' liberated iIh

voy from protecting the ships I

with the silver. The polic

that ordinance Humboldt^ and 1

respectable Mexican writers

him, have much misunderstood

they are greatly mistaken in

estimate of its beneficial efrt?ct

mining prosperity. After the U

States became an independeiti

lion, Spain, in order to be rid o;

Louisiana incumbrance, which

dependent upon the rcvenut

Mexico for support, transferred

territory to France ; and Napo

in turn, sold it to the AmeHcat

vernment. But did its bouod

extend to the Sabine or the

Grande, on the south ? Atid

they extend to the Russian Pi

possessions on the north? T

were uncertain questions, and h

from this purchase originated t

many diplomatic complicatirjnit,

no less numerous domestic co

versies, which have been ilie Cr

source of change in cabinets at

defeats of national parties, witi

downfall of not a few distingui

men. Hence, also, the first s

ments in Texas ; next the A me

colonists, and the qn

ation ; the war wi:

treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo^

the acquisition of California. I

these measures were decided*

ever, Colonel Burr had al

his band of adventurers, i

Mexico.

333

lysterious enterprise in the
Irectiony whose object seems
been as vague as the bound<
be invaded were uncertain,
i, also, had solicited and
the co-operation of leading
its in Northern cities, in his
peculation with the king of
3r the vast Mexican commer-
me. And herein was given
t impulse to amassing those
vate fortunes, by Mr. Gray of
Mr. Oliver of Baltimore, Mr.
>f Philadelphia, and the Pa-
ily. Subsequently came the
L revolution, protracted for
ears, during which period the
:e of that country, previously
»h monopoly, was completely
le control of Americans. At
\ of the Napoleon wars Spain
the monopoly restored, in
transfer it to France. This
nt called forth, in favor of
imerce, the celebrated mes-
ouncingthe Monroe doctrine.
>sage gave umbrage to Rus-
ference to her American pos-
, and fixed their ultimate
It also forced England to
her claim for the first time,
xhibit her title to the Vancou-
itry south of the Russian —
itil then unheard of and un-

American statesmen. The

1 Compromise grew out of
isition of Louisiana, and its
rew out of the acquisition of
ia. As a supplement to the
f Guadalupe Hidalgo, was
id the treaty for the Messil-
iT, which negotiation sprung
listake in Humboldt's maps,
^ copied by Disturnell, in
wrong location, in longitude
ude, to El Paso on the Rio

The invasion of Mexico
:e in 1862, nearly kindled a
ig war between the United
ad the French empire. Un-

foreseen obstacles, however, induced
Louis Napoleon to pause in the con
quest ; for he had, in its inception,
been deceived respecting the condi-
tion of Mexico and the Mexican
people, and misled as to the easy
development by France of the abun-
dant resources of the country. The
moral support, moreover, extended
to the liberal party by the American
government compelled the French
to abandon an expedition which was
properly appreciated in all its impos-
ing magnitude by the emperor, but
which so many to this day do not
comprehend.

No one can fail to be astonish-
ed in contemplating the large space
occupied by Mexico in American
affairs; the immense acquisition of
territory made firom within her an-
cient landmarks; the princely pri-
vate fortunes accumulated from her
commerce; the vast treasures dis-
covered in her fonner mines ; the
rich agricultural crops gathered from
her Louisiana valley, her Texas
loamy soil, and her California plains;
while, upon the margin of the Missis-
sippi river, a city, created by Mexi-
can aid and contributions, has grown
into an opulent mart of commerce,
surpassing all other American cities
in the value of its exports, in the
happy era of our greatest prosperity.
Nor can that prosperity ever return
until New Orleans once more be-
comes the leading emporium for the
outlet of the great staples of this re-
public. It is no less surprising to
recall the fate of so many statesmen,
and others of mark, who have risen
to distinction, or who have been
forced to retire, from questions grow-
ing out of their policy toward Mexi-
co. It is no longer disputed that the
first fatal error of the first Napoleon
was his invasion of Spain, thereby
to control the Mexican revenues;
perhaps it will soon be conceded

334

Mexico,

that the first fatal error of Louis Na-
poleon was, in too closely following
in the footsteps, in the same direc-
tion, of his illustrious uncle. Colonel
Burr, the Vice-President of the United
States, from his ill-starred adventure,
fell into disgrace and sunk into an in-
famous notoriety. General Wilkinson,
once upon the militar)^ staff of Wash-
ington, was both the accomplice and
ruin of Burr, and died in obscurit)^ in
a voluntary exile. The Missouri Com-
promise destroyed the aspirations
of many Northern statesmen who
opposed its adoption, and shattered
the popularity of others who afterward
advocated its repeal. The question
of annexing Texas was the fatal rock
upon which were wrecked ihe hopes
of President Van Buren for renomi-
nation ; it defeated Mr. Clay; it elect-
ed Mr, Polk, In succession to the
presidency were elected General Tay-
lor and General Pierce, from their dis-
tingiu'shed positions in the war with
Mexico. To the like cause, Colonel
Fremont w^as indebted for bis popu-
lar nomination, nearly crowned with
success. Winfield Scott was made
a Brevet Lieutenant-Genera! for his
meritorious services in the Mexican
campaign, and many of the greatest
generals in the recent strife, both
Federal and Confederate, received
their first practical lessons in the art
of war on the same distant field.
To all of these historical celebri-
ties, the crude statistics or the ela-
borate Essay of Humboldt were well
known ; for Humboldt's publica-
tions were the only source of au-
thentic information on Mexico of
much value. Other foreign authors,
who fallowed after, copied extensively
from him, and native writers have
not failed to quote from the same
source. But although foreign authors
have drawn more froln the ^x/a>', they
have been less circumspect in veri-
fying the accuracy of its statements ;

while the Mexican writer
themselves sparingly of
sometimes, at least, favor I
with interesring corrections
lers too often have given \x%\
of Humboldt. Indeed, it Tf\
said, they have fed upon him
have imbibed him with the^
and taken him solid with mSi
ed tortilla. His Essay has beei
ed apart leaf by leaf, to be rqs
page after page in their, fortlw
part^ ephemeral productionaB
boldt in pieces has been (fl
to suit all customers. An
could not be served in more V2
of style. Even foreign embassic
supplied some of these literary
None of them seemed to kn^^^
man, even in Mexico, m'
than Humboldt. I n a f'j
tion, they thought he could 1
proved upon, by reducing
to sublimated extracts.
Samuel Johnson hinted,
that extracts from a work ar€^
specimens of its author as y
the foolish old Greek, who I
a brick from his house as .
of its architecture. Mr. Pn
the contrary, in his cclebratd
of the Conquest, with his osw
criminating judgment, has
availed himself of the Essn}
his readers a vivid and
picture of the natural configtJ
of the country. And to imde
the countr)^ properly, this is d
mary lesson to be attentively st
But it is much to be regretle
Mr. Duport, in his standard 1
work on the production of i
cious metals, was misled by en
isting in the maps accompany!
Essay, In consequence, he ha:
serious mistakes in describing
logical structure, in the ruu
clinations of the strata
rock, in the silver-bearing i
Whoever desires to compii

1 m

Mexico.

335

x)ndition and the industrial
:rcial resources of Mexico,
commence as Humboldt
^d. It is only through a
:stigation of its material in-
tMexico can be understood,
with an examination of its
listory is to begin where
should end. Mexico, for
idred years, was a colony,
other colonies, had no his-
>licy of its own ; no armies,
no wars ; nothing of states-
peculiar to itself; for all
>rbed in the history of the
untry. When emerging from
chrysalis, it did not become
it may be somewhat doubt-
ias even yet reached that
As a republic, its federal
nt has been without a policy,
istrations without stabili^,
s without an exchequer; its
able to conquer abroad, or
with foreign invaders at
has no navy; it is almost
3f all the essential elements
itute a people. True, Mexi-
id great vicissitudes of for-
changes, frequent changes,
le most part violent over-
f the federal rulers. But
mlsions have produced no
suits. The storms passed
out indications of wide-
isaster. Sunshine came
bout any visible improve-
signs of increasing intelli-
symptoms of decay to the
I observer; for these petty
originated in personal mo-
so ended. Having no po-
ict, they are devoid of grave
:ion, of any interest or profit.
1 wars have been of regular
return, but these wars are
)re historical significance
ars of the Saxon Heptarchy.
>r many reasons, must still
nplated, while a sovereign

nation, as she was viewed when a
viceroyalty of Spain. The country
now appears in Christendom as an
enigma full of strange anomalies. In
the erroneous estimation of most men,
it is hastening on to ruin and decay :
calamities that came upon the people
in their revolt from Spain, and which
will cling to them until their race is ex-
tinct. The royal finger of scorn, too, is
pointed at the republic, as a reproach
and warning to all republican govern-
ments of their ultimate failure. It
would be vain to waste time on its
political records, to elucidate Mexi-
can questions. These annals are
dumb. But to the mountains, the
mines, the mills, where the rich mine-
rals are produced and industry is
developed, the inquirer must go to
find out what Mexico really is. In
observing the people in their private
pursuits, he will imperceptibly be led
to comprehend their political institu-
tions. In daily contact with the dis-
tinct classes, divided into castes, he
will in like manner be soon conver
sant with the most noted men. Enig-
mas will vanish upon nearer approach
and on closer inspection; anomalies
will no longer embarrass. Perhaps
previously formed opinions may be
shocked, rudely assailed, and demol-
ished. He may see many lingering
remnants of Astec superstition in one
caste, where they often disobey the
priest; and much affectation of in-
fidelity in another, where they kneel
as suppliants at the confessional to
crave a blessing. He will perceive
marks of seeming decay everywhere,
amid indications of progress. The
federal government will be pro-
nounced not only bad, but bad as
government in a republic can be ; yet
will he find some consolation in
knowing that the viceregal govern-
ment was far worse. In the dregs
of a popular polity, some protection
for the people will be manifest, which

One Fold.

was denied under a king. He will
hear Spain, on all sides, spoken of
with reverence and respect ; he will
soon understand, on all sides, that
Spaniards are detested. He will be
gratified with the cordial welcome
bestowed upon Americans ; and won-
der at the common hatred, in all
classes, to the United States. While
he is aware that millions upon hun-
dreds of millions of dollars, from out-
lying provinces torn from the nation,
have been yielded to their neighbor
on the north, he will also discover
that the heart of the Mexican terri-
tory has not been reached. Nor need
he be surprised when the trutli is re-
vealed, that the Liberal executive will
sooner forget the hostile invasion by
France, than forgive the moral sup-
port extended to the native cause by
that American neighbor.
On the whole, he may conclude

that the Mexicans, after allj
what rational and sensible,]]
ly deficient in refinement 1
ligencc, or in energ}^ anclj
Uut these opinions can otil
ed by pursuing the method
boldt, and bearing his elab
duction in mind. By conflt
parison of his statements f
recent publications from thi
press on the same subject^
greater accuracy in detail
reached, along with later inl
but the advancement in ■
and wealth will be madel
It is thus a just estimate 4
at present with Mexico ofl
can be formed ; and while I
I>erfections in Uie parts of I
will be detected, no one d
admire and appreciate it
excellence.

ONE FOLD.

"Aid there thall be oae fulcl**

DISCIPLE.

" One Fold ! Good Lord, how poor thou art,

To have but one for all !
Methinks the rich with shame will smart

To stand in common stall
With ragged boors and work-grimed men ;
And ladies fair, with those who when

They pray have dirty hands*
Dost think the wise can be devout
When, close beside, an ignorant lout

With mouth wide-gaping stands ?

One Fold. .337

I would thou wert a richer Lord,
And could an hundred folds afford

Where each might find his place.
Look round, good Lord, and thou wilt see
Most men the same have thought with me,
And herd with whom they best agree

In fashion, creed, and race."

MASTER.

" Good child, thou hast a merry thought !
But folds like mine cannot be bought.

Nor made at fancy's will.
If any find my fold too small
'Tis they who like no fold at all.
The same who heed no shepherd's call,

Whom jvolves will find and kill.
My fold alone is close and warm.
Shielding its inmates from all harm —

Its pastures rich and sweet
Hither, with gentle hand, I bring
The peasant and the crownM king

Together at my feet.
Here no man flings a look of scorn
At him who may be baser born.

For all as brothers meet
The wise speak kindly to the rude ;
The lord would not his slave exclude ;

Proud dames their servants greet
My fold doth equally embrace
The men of every clime and race,

And here in peace they rest
Here each forgets his rank and state.
And only he is high and great

Who loveth me the best
The rich, the poor, the bond, the free,
The men of high and low degree,
My fold unites in one with me —
With me, the Shepherd, called The Good,
Who rules a loving brotherhood.
Therefore, in that my fold is one,
Believe me, it is wisely done."

VOL. VII. — 22

338

Science and Faith,

T1tAMSLATB0 FltOM THS FIKNCK 0# M. YllXT*

SCIENCE AND FAITH.

MEDITATIONS ON THE ESSENCE OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIOK
M. GUIZOT.

Some time ago political life seem-
ed to be the prominent occupation in
France. NL Guizot was then cau-
tiously defending his opinions, and
was really wearing out his energy and
his life in this work. At that time, we
have heard it wished more than once,
not that the struggle should cease,
but that death might not surprise
him with his mind occupied solely
with these passing events. He need-
ed, as a last favor and at the end of
an ambitious career, some years of
quiet and retreat to meditate upon
the future, and to revive the faith of
youth by the lessons of riper years.
He required this for himself, for the
interest of his soul Nothing then
foretold that he would soon be en-
gaged in the arena of metaphysical
and religious controversy. The dis-
putes about these questions seemed
almost lulled to sleep. Not that
doubt and incredulity had surrender-
ed their arms ; they followed their
accustomed work, but without noise,
without parade, and without apparent
success. This was a truce which
had allowed Christian convictions to
become reanimated, to increase, and
to gain ground. The proof of this
was seen in those gloomy days, when
the waves of popular opinion, which
threatened to destroy, bent, complete-
ly subdued and submissive and with
an unlooked-for respect, before sacred
truths and the ministers of religion,
^This was the natural result of that

bitter struggle which had last
fifteen years. The aggressors
not undertake two sieges at on<
and so political power becan
target against which all their
were directed.

It is not the same now,
is protected by an armor whic
disheartened its adversaries; ai
more surel}' it is guarded, the
exposed and compromised are
questions, which equal ur eve
ceed it in importance- The spi
audacity and aggression comper
itself for the forced forbearance
politics, imposed ffpon it by the
tical power. It sees that in relj
matters the ground is notfl
protected ; it feels more at eJB
and not nearly so hard pushed,
this fact there arises a series ol
attacks of a new order, which
dalize the belic\ing, and astonis
most indifferent, when they thin
a moment of the preceding calfl
is no longer men or ministi
not a form of government, :
himself whom they attack \
not ask that the goveniraen
place the least restriction tm
rights of free thought, even sfc
it be to the advantage of the U
that we venerate the most
desire to state the fact, and nol
more. It may be that these lU
are not important enough to C
as much anxiety as they have <!
They are passionate, nxi

ste&

]

Science and Faith,

339

ranged ; but they cannot
edifice, and will serve ra-
ngthen it, by summoning
defenders who are more
I, and protectors who are
nt. Still, they are a great
ouble. The restlessness,
, and the vague fears that
n of political afiairs seem-
ipable of producing, now
I heart of the domestic
n the depths of the indi-

from these new discus-
is not personal interests
w risked, but souls that
jer ; and if the crbis is
less violent and intense,
graver and more menac-

one can remain neutral
gle.

M. Guizot wishes to take
has entered the fray. He
lumber who, at certain
ipon certain subjects, do
Dw to be silent In poli-
1 back and he forbore.
I events, but he did not

thought of them. His
tics is now amply paid ;
\ since he owed it to him-
1 as to his cause, to re-
j real sense, the true phy-
' the things he did. He
ain clearly his views, his
his acts ; to interpret
to comment upon them',
lost say, to finish them
iwn life ; to give the true
future historians ; in a
mrite his own memoirs,
s duty, and he has acted
lot delaying it. It was

other ends, and in the
L greater work, that he
wenty years' solitude and
le end of his life. His
leard. The days of calm
have come, not, perhaps,
that he desired, and still
:onditions that he would

have chosen, but for his glory they
are such that he can well think them
fruitful, worthy, valuable, full of vi-
gor and of ardor. Happy autumn 1
when the recollections of the world
and the echoes of political strife are
only the recreation of a soul inces-
santly engaged with more serious
problems. It is in these heights,
in these serene regions, while he is
questioning himself on his destiny
and on his faith, that war has come
to seek him ; not the personal war of
former times, but another kind of
war, less direct and more general,
yet perhaps more provoking. He is
not the man to refuse the contest.
Under the weight of years that he
bears so wdl^ stronger, more resolute,
younger than ever, be has entered
the arena ; he will be militant until
the end.

What will he do? What is his
plan ? What position will he take ?
The volume which is before us is an
answer- to these questions. It is only
a first volume ; but it is complete in
itself, it is a work that one cannot
study too closely, nor diffuse too
widely. The developments, the addi-
tions, and the supplements which the
three remaining volumes will soon
add to the work, will, without doubt,
make it still more comprehensive
and solid ; but as it is now, we con-
sider it, without any commentary
whatsoever, to be a most effective re-
ply to the attacks which have recent-
ly been levelled against Christian
doctrines, or, to speak more correct-
ly, against the essence of all reli-
gion.

Before entering into the work, let
us say something of the manner in
which it is written. We are not
going to speak of the author's style.
We would announce nothing new to
the world by saying that M. Guizot,
when he has time and really tries,
can write as well as he speaks. His

340

Scimce and Faitk,

pen for maiiy years has followed a
law of progress and of increasing
excellence. He has shown in these
Meditations a new skill, perhaps
higher than in his Memoirs even, in
the art of clothing his ideas hi excel-
lent language ; learnedly put together,
yet without effort or stiffness, true in
its coloring, sober in its effects, al-
ways clear and never trivial, always
firm and often forcible. Something
more novel and more characteristic
appears in this book. It is in reality
a controversial work, but a contro*
versy which is absolutely new. It is
more than courteous^ it is an imper-
sonal polemic. The author has, cer-
tainly, always shown himself respect-
ful to his opponents ; he has ever
admitted that they could hold differ-
ent opinions from his in good faith j
and even at the rostrum, in the heat
of contests, his adversaries were not
persons, they were ideas ; but the
people he disputed with were always,
without scruple, called by their
names. Here it is different ; there
is not a single proper name, the war
is anonymous. In changing the at-
mosphere—in passing, if we can be
allowed the expression, from earth to
heaven, or, at least, from the bar to
the pulpit, from politics to the gos-
pel, he changes his method and takes
a long step in advance. He endea-
vors to leave persons entirely out of
consideration, for they only embarrass
and embitter the questions. He for-
gets, or at least he does not tell us,
who his adversaries are \ he refutes
them, but he does not name them.

Is not this discretion at once,
good manners and good taste ? It
is also something more. Without
doubt, by speaking only of ideas and
not of those who maintain them, one
loses a great means of effective ac
tion. In abstract matters, proper
names referred to here and there are
L^avery powerful resource — they arouse

and excite attention^
rest and life to the
what is gained on one hand
quently lost on another. Thi
proper names, though it ma
nothing to provoke irritation,
ways incurs the danger of caui
debate to degenerate into a p
dispute. The questions arej
to the capacity of those wh^
them. Belter take a plaiti'
more decided path, and keep.]
completely out of view.
has done well In no pa
book is tliere reason to reg
vacity and attraction of a
rect polemic ; whilst the
and the omission of name
really changing or diminii
questions, spread a calm]
throughout the work, almos
fume of tolerance, which gai
reader^s confidence and d
him to allow himself to be con
It is true that this kind of p<
can only be maintained whe
ness of thought compensate
lack of passion. It is nee
take wing, mount above que
conquer all and enlighten all.
is the character of these Medk
The comprehensiveness of his
the greatness of his plan, ai
clearness of his style, alike \\
upon it the seal of true origi^

It is not a theology that
has undertaken ; he has no
for doctors; he discusses j
texts nor points of doctrine ;,]
not attempt to solve schola
culties ; still less does he J
mingle in die discussion of inc
events, to descend to the qu
of to-day, and to follow, step t
the crisis which agitates the CI
world at this time. He has gi
with more weighty and mor^
nent questions. He wishesl
clearly the truth of Christian it
essence, in its fundameatal d

Science and Faith.

341

ifher in its simplicity and innate
tness, without commentary, inter-
tion, or human work of any
and consequently before all
ion, schism, or heresy. He
ried to expose the pure idea of
danity, so that he can be more
:o demonstrate its divine cha-

h is his intention. What has
ne to attain it ? The book it-
ust answer this question. But
se few pages how can we speak
How can we analyze a work
one is tempted to quote every
raph? And on the other hand
e many extracts from a book, is
mutilate it and give an incor-
dea of its real value. Let us
try, then, to say enough to in-
cur readers with the more pro-
t desire of studying M. Guizot
If.

E beginning and the foundation
ise Meditations is a well-known
which the author establishes
ibsolute certainty, and which at
me it is useful to keep in mind,
truth is, that the human race,
its first existence and in every
where it has existed, has been
ed in trying to solve certain
ons which are, so to speak, per-
to it These are questions of
ly, of life rather than science,
ons it has invincibly tried to
nine. For example, Why is man
5 world, and why the world it-
Why does it exist ? Whence
jy come, and where do they both
Who has made them ? Have
m intelligent and free Creator?
they merely a product of blind
nts ? If they are created, if we
I Father, why, in giving us life,
\ made it so bitter and painful ?
b there sin? Why suffering

and death? Is not the hope of a
better life only the illusion of the un-
happy ; and prayer, that cry of the
soul in anguish, is it only a sterile
noise, a word thrown to the mocking
wind ?

These questions, together with oth-
ers which develop and complete them,
have excited the deepest interest of
the human race since it first existed
upon the earth, and it alone is inte-
rested in them. They speak only to
it ; among all living creatures, it
alone can comprehend and is affect-
ed by them. This painful yet grand
privilege is the indisputable evidence
of its terrestrial royalty ; it is at once
its glory and its torment.

This series of questions, or rather
mysteries, M. Guizot places at the
beginning of his Meditations^ under
the title of Natural Problems, Man,
indeed, possesses them by his very
nature ; he does not create or invent
them, he merely submits to them.
We do not mean by this that for hu-
manity in general these problems are
not obscure and confused, without a
distinct form or outline, surrounded
with uncertainties and frequently ra-
ther seen than clearly apprehended.
This must be true of the great mass
of mankind, who live from hand to
mouth, who go and come and work,
absorbed in petty pleasures or occu-
pied with dreary toil. Still we think
that there is not a single one, even
among these apparently dull and
heedless men, in whatever way he
may have lived and whatever hard-
ships he has had to sustain, who had
not at least once in his life caught si
glimpse of these formidable questions
and felt an ardent wish to see them
solved. Make as many distinctions
as you please between races, sexes,
ages, and degrees of civilization ; di-
vide the globe and its inhabitants by
zones or climates ; you will no doubt
discover more than one difference, in

342

Scimce and Faith,

the way in which these problems are
presented to the soul ; you will find
them more or less prominent, and
more or less attention paid to them ;
but you will find a trace of thera
everywhere and among all people.
It is a law of instinct, a general law
for all times and places.

If such is our lot, if these ques-
tions necessarily weigh upon minds,
these questions which are **the bur-
den of the soul/' as M, Guizot calls
them, are we not really compelled to
try to solve them ? It is on our part
neither vain curiosity, nor capricious
desire, nor frivolous habit which leads
us to attempt it It is a necessity,
quite as serious and as natural to us
as the problems are themselves ; a
need we feel in some way to have lift-
ed from us the weight which oppresses.
We must have a reply at any cost ;
who can give it to us ?

Faith or Reason ? Religion or Philo-
sophy ? At every moment we see in
what a very limited manner reason,
science, and all purely human re-
sources suffice to satisfy us. It can
be said that, frpm the very infancy of
human society up to the present day,
it has been from the various religions,
thought to be divine and accepted as
such by faith, that humanity has ask-
ed these indispensable responses.

We readily see from this, what a
deep interest is attached to these
natural problems. Who will presume
to tell us that rel igion proceeds from an
artificial and temporar)^ want, which
men have gradually overcome, if the
problems to which it answers are
inherent in the race and can only
perish with it? It is the constant
work and watchword of every ma-
terialistic and pantheistic system to
distort the character of these pro-
blems and make them simply acci-
dental and individual, the result of
temperament or of circumstances.
Farther than this, they had not yet

gone. They did not dart
in the face of universal lest
continued existence of the
themselves. They disgu
significance, they did not
destroy them. Now they
other step. In order to g
vanLige in answering, lliey
suppressing the questions.,
the characteristic feature, tt|
of a system which makes 2l
of noise in the world to-day^'
it only claims to reprodu
which have been already i
once defeated. It has, hoi
kind of novelty, this advajj
its associates which, like it
sued from pantheism, that
vague. It sets forth its'
clearly and without equivoo
by this fact this school of (
has gained tl)e title by w
commonly known. We ne
say that it is to Positivisn
are alluding. This prom
the greatest seriousness, i
only lend it our attentioi
humanity from these untO"
blems which now torment i
Its remedy is extremely i
simply says to the human 1
do you seek to know whence
come and what is your desti
will never find out a word of
then your real duty. Leave
fancies. Live, become lea
the nolutian of things, thai
secondary causes and the!
on this subject science h _
to reveal to you ; but final ca
first causes, our origin and!
ny, the beginning and the A
world, these are all pure!
words completely without I
The perfection of man as ii
society consists in taking i|
of these things. The mini
more enlightened, the mo;
in obscurity your pre ten di
problems. These problei

ScUmce and Faith.

343

sty and the way to cure it is,
nk of them at all.
think of them ! Ingenuous
ml Wonderfiil ignorance
rnal laws of human nature 1
s/' say they, ''inclines to
s : but let us not be disturb-
5." Men will not be per-
' speaking to them in such
ly, any more than Don Juan
rcome Sganarelle by his dis-
Q " two and two are four."
^ not only attempts the im-
}ut it frankly acknowledges
us suppose for a moment
ome miracle it should tri-
at man, in order to please
n, should cease to pay any
to the problems which beset
Id renounce the idea of fa-
liese questions, and should
/ery attempt at a religious
netaphysical solution, every
1 towaid the Infinite. How
any one believe this would
We do not think that the
Qd would consent to be thus
md imprisoned for two days
ion. Were this system far
:inating, the human soul
1 rise above the limit to
sitivism would confine it,
\ say with a great poet :

riafini malgr^ moi me tourmente."

we see, whatever may hap-
ivism is not destined to give
ition of these natural pro-
ifter, as before, its appear-
mystery of our destiny
\ attention of the human

zot describes another at-
m entirely different charac-
I apparently less bold, for
I not to suppress inquiry,
\ to elude any definite so-
hese natural problems. It
properly called a system ;
r a state of the individual

soul, which not unfirequently is found
among cultivated minds ; it is a ten-
dency to substitute what is called re-
ligious sentiment for religion itsel£
They do not deny the great mysteries
of life, but consider them as being
very serious and extremely embar-
rassing. But in the place of precise so-
lutions and categorical replies, which
could be required of a system main-
taining fixed and dearly defined dog-
masy they content themselves^ withfire-
quent reveries and long contempla-
tions. " This is,** say Aey, " the re-
ligion of enlightened intellects ; we
care for no solutions, for they only
serve to agitate and annoy." It of-
fers acom^ete contrast to Positivism.
Tl^at recommends us, as a sort of mo-
ral\hygiene, never to think of invisi-
ble things; but these ''enlightened
minds" would have us reflect much,
if not continually, upon them, but
always with the proviso that we must
come to no conclusion.

The himoan race will not be satis-
fied with these modes of interpreting
its destiny. It requires something
more than the blind negations of the
one, or the vague aspirations of the
other. Man is not merely an intel-
lectual or an emotional being ; he is
both united. He requires real an-
swers, and not beautiful dreams ; he
requires true replies, which satisfy his
intellect as well as his heart, which
point out the way he must take,
which sustain his courage, which ani-
mate his hope and excite ^ his love.
The ideal that he seeks is a system
of facts, of precepts, and of dogmas,
which will correspond to the wants
that he finds within himself. Let us
search for it, for it is the great ques-
tion for lis all. As we have already
said, there are two sources from
which we may hope to learn the truth,
one entirely himian, the other half
divine. Does the first suffice ? Let
us see.

344

bctenie and Faith.

If science can reply to the appeals
of our souls, if by its own power and
light it can reveal to us the end of
this life, can make us see clearly the
beginning and the end, so much the
better ; we wil! cling to science with-
out asking for anything more. We
have this exact and sure guide com-
pletely within our control; why should
we seek adventitious aid and inexpli-
cable revelations ? It is true that eve-
rybody cannot be learned, but every-
body believes in science. However
scanty her proof may be, the most
rebellious yield as soon as she has
pronounced her decision* There
is no schism or heresy wdlh her.
If sometimes the savatts quarrel,
which ihey can do perhaps even
better than other men, tliey are not
long in finding a peacemaker i they
take a retort, a microscope, or a
pair of scales ; they weigh, com-
pare, measure, and analyze, and
the process is terminated: until new
facts are ascertained, the decree is
sovereign, WTiat an admirable per-
spective opens before humanity if
these hidden questions, which now
puzzle and confuse, will in the future
be cleared up and accurately deter-
mined by the aid of science. Time
and the law of progress give us an
easy way of putting an end to our
perplexities* The fruit of divine know-
ledge, the old forbidden fruit, we can
now pluck without fear, and we can
satiate ourselves without danger of a
falll

Unfortunately, all this is only a
dream. In the first place, the autho-
rity of science is not always admitted.
It has more or less weight, according
to the subject it may treat. In the
investigations of natural things, in
physics, and in mathematics, its de-
cisions are law. But when it leaves
the visible world, when it turns to the

soul, interminable con troverste
Its right to be called science
disputed ; for it appears ta b
conjectural, and half the ll
principal efforts consist in tr
demonstrate that it has tlie r
be believed. This is exact
kind of science with which w
to do* The questions whic
man are not the problems <
or chemistry ; they are tlie i
the invisible world. We cani
pect unanswerable solutions aj
doubts, for science, in the {
metaphysics, has none such 1
us.

Can science gratify its £u
these investigations with perfc
ert}^ and without limit? JJ
impassable barrier opposes af
prisons it in the invisible uni
as well as in the breast of pi
and material nature. Alt sc
whatever it may be, has its
mined limit in the extent of
things. Within this limit, ever
is in its powder ; beyond it, ever
escapes it. Could it possib
otherwise ? It b the product
mind, which is finite ; howthea
human science be anything fa
explication of the finite ? ludi
it is true, transports us to the e>
frontier of this material world,
door of the infinite, and the i
of induction are with reason
scientific ; yet what does this wi
ful faculty, this great light of sc
really do ? Nothing else than to
face to face with the unknown I
ries which are completely dosd
It shows them in perspectivevit"
us see enough to persuade u
they really do exist, but not c
to make known any truth prt
exactly, practically, or expertQ
ly — in a word, scientifically. T
\isible finite, that is to say; tl
man soul, the dwelling of the 1
Ego^ science is capable of ex^

Science and Faith.

345

sible infinite, the supreme,
spirit, escapes it completely,
s exactly what must be pene-
id thoroughly known, if we
> resolve the great problems
mcem our destiny in a sci-
lanner. It is then impossi-
more than an illusion — it is
tope for a solution of these
s fh>m human science.
s equivalent to saying that
by is powerless to speak to
^ natural problems ? that it
ling to say to us about our
ur hopes, our destiny ? No,

not It is qualified, it has

to treat of these questions ;
concerning them, not to re-
em. The most daring effort
tual philosophy can never

ab3rss; it can only make the
more distinct. Noble task,
! A sound philosophy, which
from useless , hypotheses,
ves us that which it can give,
the clear proof that an invi-
ier does exist, that realities
ind these mysterious pro-
hat they justly disturb us,
are right in wishing to solve
11 this, certainly, is not worth-
wledge nor a trifling success
uman race. As soon as this
hy flourishes in a place, if it

among a small number of
s spirits, the perfume is spread
and, little by little, one after

the whole people feel its in-

and society is reanimated,
, and purified. And religion,
lot fear to say it frankly, is
[vised and wants prudence, no
n justice, when, in the place
)ting the aid of this system
coming it as a natural auxi-
eing in it a kind of vanguard,

to prepare minds and over-
ejudices, she keeps it at a dis-
most with jealousy, combats
)kes it, places it between two

fires, and loads it with the same blame
and bitter reproaches as the blindest
errors and the most perverse doc-
trines receive. If these unfortunate
attacks had not been made, perhaps
we should not see certain reprisals, an
excess of confidence, and a forgetful-
nessof its proper limits that its friends
do not now always avoid ; for if it
is true that we should be just toward
it, it is no less true that it should be
held in check. M. Guizot, as a real
friend, has frankly rendered* it this
service. Perhaps no one before him
has traced with so sure a hand the
limits of philosophical science. He
claims for it the sincerest respect, and
ably sustains its legitimate authority,
but clearly points out the limit that
must not be passed.

More than one, its adherents will
complain : '' You discourage us. If
you wish us to maintain the invisible
truths against so many adversaries,
do not deprive us of our weapons ;
do not tell us in advance how far we
may go ; let us trust that some day
this gate of the infinite, at which we
have struggled for so many centuries,
will at last be opened."

We could answer : " If you had
only made some progress during these
centuries, we could hope for more in
the future. We would not have the
right to say, * So far shall you go, but
no farther.* But where are the ad-
vances of metaphysics? Who has
seen them ? Possibly there has been
a progress in appearance, that there
is now more clearness and more me-
thod. In this sense, the great minds
of modem times have added some-
thing to the legacy of the philoso-
phers of ancient history; but the
inheritance has ever remained the
same. Who will presume to boast
that he knows more of the infinite
than did Socrates, Aristotle, and
Plato? The natural sciences seem
destined to increase. Feeble at first,

34«

Science and Faith,

they graclimlly go from victory to vic-
tory, iinli] they have created an em-
pire, which is constantly increasing
and always more indisputable. Meta-
physical science, on the contrar)% is
re at at its birth^ but soon becomes
Jstatioiiary • it is evidently unable
lever to reach the end it is ever seek-
[ing. If anything is needed to prove
[this immobility of metaphysics, it
J will be clone by referring to the con-
[slant reappearance of four or fiv^
rgreat systems, which in a measure
'contain all the thousand systems
that the human mind has ever, or
will ever invent. From the very begin-
I niug of philosophy, you see them ; at
[every great epoch, they are born again ;
J always the same under apparent diver-
[sities, always incomplete and partial,
*half true and half false. What do
these repeated returns to the same
attempts, ending in the same result,
teach us, unless the eternal inability
to make a single advance ? Evident-
jly man has received from above,
[once for all and from the earliest
[times, the little that he knows of me-
itaphysics 5 and human work, human
[science, can add nothing to it/*

If, then, you rely on science to
[pierce the mystery of these natural
1 problems, your hope is in vain. You
I see what they can attain — nothing but
[vague notions, fortified, it is true, by
jtbe firm conviction that these pro-
[blems are not illusory% that they rest
[upon a solid foundation^ on serious
realities.

Is this enough? Does this kind
r of satisfaction suffice for your soul ?

:a] I
sffi

WTiat does it signify il a
moulded by philosophy, comp
ing ever)lhing in a superficial
ner, remain in these prelimlt
contented with this half4ight
need no other help to go tbrou^
even in times of the most ;
trial ? We are willing to granl
tliey affirm of themselves, bu
can be concluded from this J
many minds of this character
found? It is the rarest ei
The immense majority of mi
human race, could not live \
such a system ; it is too gii
stranger to the philosophical
it has too limited a perceptic
invisible. All abstraction is 1
for it And even supposing thi
vague responses that come bm
ence were to be presented in Ji
accessible form ; still the esse
facts would be for most men ij
value or efficacy, and a moiB
quate help,

Wliat is the human race goii
do if, on one side, it cannot do wi
precise responses and dogmali
tions conceniing the in\isiblc inJ
and if, on the other, science is
means of attaining this end
aspires to learn truths wlii)
scend experience, and yet tak(
pericnce for its only guide?
short, it will only admit and^
the facts that it observes,
and verifies itself? How
escape from this inextrical
culty?

TQ BS CaintHJJWDL,

111; uiA

is^l
ndB

Gnuper, KebU^ Wordswortk.

347

)WPER, KEBLE, WORDSWORTH ; OR, "QUIETIST"
POETRY, AND ITS INFLUENCE ON SOCIETY.

Ipanish priest, Michael Mo-
spent the last eleven years
fe in the prisons of the In-
» v/as destined to exert con-
influence over many of the
iightfiil and gifted spirits of
It was in 1675, ^^^ ^^ ^^
Rome, that he published a
Guide^ in which he pointed
»us methods calculated to
soul to a state of contem-
nd quietude, in which she
> use of her faculties, is un-
d about all that may hap-
even about the practice of
>rks and her own salva-
osing on the love of God,
ugh his presence, safe, all-
, and entirely blest It can
imagined how acceptable
:ion of ascetic eloquence
ider such doctrine to minds
^ disposed. Multitucfes in
: are ready to run after any
human happiness who is in-
nough to hide his fallacies
show of reason ; and Mo-
this advantage over many
s, that before deceiving
; had completely deceived
He was honest, therefore,
inly a great advance on the
of the 14th century, called
Hesuchasts, who in their
f on Mount Athos passed
^ in a state of immobility,
)lating," as their historians
;ir nose or their navel, and
fthis contemplation finding
ht." Molinos found many
in Italy and in France,
i system was fervently em^
the celebrated poetess and
(adame Guyon, who con-
rself called from above to

quit her home and travel, inculcating
everywhere the gospel of quietism.
Fenelon, whose sweetness and good-
ness flimg a charm around every
opinion he expressed, adopted in
part the theories of Molinos, and
Madame de Maintenon herself is
numbered among Madame Guyon's
converts to the Spaniard's novel and
dreamy creed.

The inmates of Port-Royal, and
the Jansenists in general, had, as
may be conjectured from the example
of Fenelon, strong affinities for quiet-
ism ; and the sympathy entertained
for their sufferings by English Cal-
vinists in the last century, sufficient-
ly accounts for the poet Cowper be-
coming an admirer of Madame Guy-
on's writings, and imitating in the
OIney Hymns many of her fervent
compositions.

Without falling into the errors of
the Quietists, Cowper imbibed much
of their spirit, and transfused it into
his verses very happily. His poetry
is essentially of a quietist descrip-
tion, provided the term be under-
stood in a favorable sense. His
mind was naturally tranquil, and
even during the melancholy of his
later days, his mental aberration
partook of the original placidity of
his character. His rhythm is musi-
cal, his language choice, and the
flow of his thoughts calm and tran-
quillizing. He discards stormy and
passionate themes from instinct ra-
ther than resolve. He delighted in
such subjects as " Truth," " Hope,"
"Charity," "Retirement," "Mutual
Forbearance," and

" Domestic happiness, the only bliss
Of Pnndise that has survived the Fall."

And he has clustered around them

348

Confer^ KebU, Wanlswarth.

all the graces of poetry and charms
of Christian philosophy. In that
work in which his powers are ex-
hibited to most advantage and at
greatest length —The Tusk — he has
touched on every topic that is most
soothing, and in verses, many of
which have become proverbs^ has ex-
pressed, with unrivalled precision and
ease, thoughts and feelings common
to every Christian who is

'♦ Happy \Q Tove aumong po«tic ftowen,
Thoi^h poor i« skill lo rear tliem-"

is ne\^er obscure, his emotions
"S'e never fictitious, his humor is
never forced^ nor his satire pointless.
Hence he became popular in his
generation, and has lost no particle
of the credit he once obtained.
Brighter stars than he have in the
present century come forth and daz-
zled the eyes of beholders, by the in-
tensity of iheir radiance and the
boldness of their career ; but they
have not thrown the gentle Cowper
into the shade. He still shines
above the horizon, "a star among
the stars of mortal night,'* of heaven-
ly lustre, unobtrusive, steadtast, and
serene. He still exerts a wholesome
influence on society, still refreshes
us in the pauses of the battle of life,
still refines the taste, fills the ear
with melody, elevates the soul, and
fosters in many those habits of re-
flection from which alone greatness
and goodness spring. The ** Lines on
the receipt of his Mothers Picture'*
have rarely been surpassed in paUios.
There never was a poet more senten-
tious or a moralist more truly poetic.
" He was," says one of his biograph-
ers, ** an enthusiastic lover of nature,
and some of his descriptions of na*
tural objects are such as Wordsworth
himself might be proud to own/*
His poems, observes Hazlitt, contain
•*a number of pictures of domestic
comfort and social refinement which

can hardly be forgotten but \
language itself." Of all his
asts, none has spoken of hi
more fer\^or than Elizabeth
afterward Mrs. BroiMiing, a
following stanzas from her b
poem called " Cowper*s Grt'
sen^e to be quoted in coonectl
the present subject :

" O poet»» from a maAiac*s t

Wa» poured the d«»tfalc9B ■tiiiciiv I
O Chriitiins, lo your ctcmb of bopt

A bopelesa hand wa* dinfinK I
O men, thi* man in brotherhoaj

Your weary p;«ihs bejEuiJluig^,
CruAn'4 inly rt^htli A# tam^AijMm^

And died while ye were amUbg.**

But has Cowper had no
in the peculiar path he so sn
trod ? \\^as Wordsworth not
sense a Quietist ? Were the s
he selected not as passioni
tliose of his master, and ircati
equal thoughtful n ess and calir
doubt. Yet there was an imj
difference between them. T
etude which Cowper inculcali;
to spring from religion ; whli
which Wordsworth promoted
sources principally in contem
of the beauties of Nature, i
obedience to her powerful inili
Each of these gifted minds ha:
fitted society, but in different
and it is well that, in a pocir}*
age, there should be some d
balance to the morbid exdi
and passionate intensity whi
school of Byron, Moore, and *
rendered so popular* It
minor and gentler strcai
irrigate the ground which
desolated by their torrents
tuous verse. It is well
no less than human love
its laurel-crowned minstrel
principle and conscience s^A
proved no less poetical th
and crime.

It is undoubtedly difficul
who foregoes the passions

:uff

CoTVpeTy Keble, Wordsworth.

349

h eminence* as a poet, since
tit emotions of our nature
idapted to verse, and full of
effect. The bard of Rydal-
is, neverthelesis, attained a
ilebrity, after patiently en-
ars — ^long years— of neglect
ule. He has carefully es-
hose stormy and harrowing
irith which poets of the high-
i had, before his time, gene-
ighted to familiarize our
He leaves such themes as
us bound by Jupiter to a
I a vulture preying perpetu-
is entrails,* Count Ugolino
J the flesh of his own off-
the Tower of Famine,t and
nmoning his fallen peers to
the fiery halls of Pandemo-
such masters as "iEschy-
lunderous," Dante, and Mil-
addresses himself to the
I more homely feelings, and
ilraer reason of men. He
persuaded that a truer and
lurce of poetic inspiration is
nd in the every-day sights
ids of Nature; that the
clouds and falling waters,
•glades, wet with noon-tide
rocky beach, musical with
waves, the sheep-walks on
n hill-side, and the " prim-
le river's brim," supply the
on with its best aliment,
tually tend to calm, elevate,
)w the mind. This is his
constant theme. His longer
J philosophical poems ring
ing changes on it, and may
an Epithalamium on the
of Man and Nature. But
evoting a long life to the
jvelopment of this funda-
lea, we should never* have
literature enriched by the

• Pnfnuthius Vincitu.
t Ulnftmo^ c xxxiii.
X Parodist Losty Book i.

productions of Shelley and Tenny-
son's genius. In poetry, as in all
that concerns the human mind, there
is a law of progress. The poetic
harvest-home of one generation is
the seed-time of that which is to fol-
low. Thus Dante speaks of two
poets (Guinicelli and Danielle) now
forgotten, or known only by name,
in terms of strong admiration, as pre-
decessors to whose writings he was
considerably indebted.* The follow-
ing lines are but a sample of a thou-
sand passages in Wordsworth which
set forth the agency of natural sce-
nery in the work of man's education
and refinement. It is taken from
the PrdudCy a long introduction to
the Excursioriy which lay upon the
author's shelves in manuscript dur-
ing forty-five years :t

" Was it for thia,
That one, the fiurest of all riven, loved
To blend his fHurmurs with my rntrs*** son^.
And from his alder-shades and rocky falls,
And, from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
That flowed along my dreams t For this didst thou,
O Derwent I winding among grassy holms
Where I was looking on, a babe in arms.
Make ceaseless music^ that composed my thoughts ^
To more than infant softness^ giving me,
Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind,
A foretaste, a dim earnest fs/ithe calm
That Nature breathes among the hills and groves f*

Wordsworth's life was an exemplifi-
cation of the doctrine he taught. Cheer-
fulness and peace marked his charac-
ter at each stage of his eighty years'
pilgrimage, and, towards the close of
his career, he had the satisfaction of
perceiving that his works were slowly
effecting the result to which he had
destined them — making a lasting im-
pression on the literature of his age,
and leading many a thoughtful spirit
from artificial to natural enjoyments,
from the imagery of dreamland to
that of daily life, from bombast to
simplicity, from passion to feeling,
and from turmoil to repose.

" O heavenly poet I such thy verse appears,
So sweet, so charming to my ravished ears,

• // Purgatorioy xi. 97 ; xxvi. 1x5, 142, 93, 97.
t 1805 to 1850.

350

Cowper, KehU, Wardswartk

As to the weary Bwam« with cafe* opprest,
tteneath the lilvan thade, rtfrtshtng rtH ;
As to the ftv'rnli tniveller, wheti 6tst
He Ands a ciyslal ttreAm to quench hb thint***

Nor was WorcIsvvorth*s love of na-
ture and her soothing influences dis-
sociated from religious belief. He
was no materialist, maintaining the
eternal existence and self-government
of the universe by fixed and exclu-
sively natural laws. He was no
pantheist, worshipping nature as an
indivisible portion of the divine es-
sence — a body of which God is actu-
ally the souh He believed in other
laws besides those which regulate
the movements of the celestial bodies,
and the gradual formation and de-
struction of the strata that compose
the surface of our globe. The view
'which he took of the material universe
was such as became a Christian » and
is luminously expressed by him in the
foUowing lines :

" I H&ve seen
A carioiu child upplyinf; to h» car
The eonvDlutiont of a »m(Rilh')t|ipe<] »heU,
To which, in Alienee hii^tir^d. hi« very »oul
Lis^lcned intensely, anJ his cmtntonArtcc soon
Brightened *nlh joy ; for mumtuhngs fKxn within
Were Heard—^umiirou* cAdencest whereby,
To his belief^ the tnooitor etpreued
Myiterious union with iu native »ea.
E'en such a «het] the universe itielf
I* to the ear of &ith, and doih impart
Authentk tidingv of i&rtsible tht^^
Of ebb and fl^v, and eiwr-dtirinc power,
And C€ninidpm(9 ntksitimg ai ikt Aeart
O/emdltit mgitatiw,*'

It is impossible to read the Pr^-
hide and the Excursion without per-
ceiving that Wordsworth's passion
for natural scenery was no fictitious
emotioni assumed for the purpose of
appearing brimful of philosophy and
sentiment, and making an effective
parade of moon and stars, flowers
and rivulets, in verse. No, it was a
deep and abiding principle — a feel-
ing of which he could no more have
divested himself than Newton of his
bent toward science, or Beethoven
of his ear for music. This unaflfecled
enthusiasm enabled him to speak

with the authorit>^ of a mast
to instil into the minds of d
the ideas that had taken so j
possession of his own.

From the poetry of inanini
ture, the transition was easy
of simple feelings, particuh
rustic life. In the inntxrent p
children of the cot, and the sp
dews on the cheeks of wild mo
maids, Wordsworth found the?
reflection deep enough to sir
the memory of men. Who has \
the inimitable simplicity of the
in which the child, who often
sunset, took her littJe porring*
ate her supper beside her b«
grave, persisted in saying : **
sir, we are seven^* and in ignoni
power of death to se\ cr or t«
hilate ? Purity marks all whic
chief of the Lake School has
posed; for how could he sooti
spirit if, like Moore and Byre
pandered to vicious inclinai
Hence his successor as Poe
rente congratulates himself vci]
pcrly on wearing

" The laurel sreeaer from the bntwa
Of him that utlemd oolhiiiic base**

A poet's best eulogy i
comes from a poet, \\^
that of Tennyson, the
add that which Shelley
on Wordsworth ;

•* ThotJ weit %% n A*«# f/«r, wbi
On some fraiJ bark iii winter'* ( _
Thou hast like to a rtKk-hmiit >%^Wr^
Above the blind and battlini^i — ***—*-
Jn honored povctty thy voiet <
Sociipi conwcntc to tnttK «ad I

The quietude commend
fidel poets is, at the best,
spair. It is rest without
thetic but not peaceful —
and delusive calm, di^culr.^
for a moment, and certain i
dure,

" Yel now despab iiiclf is inil4
Even aa the winds and ««t«fi |
I cmild He down liJtc t tired f

Omp«r, KebU, Wordswortk.

351

«ep away the life of care
luTe borne and yet mnat bear." •

their language; so writes

nost distinguished of these

of affliction." How diffe-

e feelings of the Christian
»

nrad heart say,
rturingboar,
1^ nnut have their way,
•row moat lower,
e the glorioos Child ia bora,
loold be fixfott or only aeem
n told for joy at mom,
we have waked, and fennd it but a
\

this strain unreal. The
s was the best guarantee
icerity of his sentiments,
sponse he has wakened in
hearts is a seal set on the
5 convictions. He hymned
ippiness of the Christian,
le theme suited an ambi-
in that it is lofty, or an
ne in that it is familiar,
e he was persuaded that
highest glory consists in
e agitated spirit, as David
le played cunningly on the
e presence of Saul; and
it is incumbent on us to
rs happy, our paramount
be happy ourselves ; that
ot so, the fault is our own ;
lere are in the religion we
every crisis and condition,
dsions for that happiness
11 aspire.

ouch of Cod made man 1
ve no lack ithou art there :
« oar inCatr joys began,
e oar wearier age we bear.'*$

he key-note of his thought-
reputation as a poet was

I long before the leading
of the land called atten-

\ beauty of his composi-

t CJkrisiitm Yettr. Third Sonday after

tions. Their publication in the first
instance is said to have been owing
to his seeing several of them in print
without being able to conjecture by
what means they had found their way
to public light. Hesoon learned, how-
ever, that some of his manuscripts,
which he had lent to a lady, had
been dropped in the street and lost
He therefore resolved on completing
and publishing The Christian Year.
It was not till nearly twenty years
after its first appearance that it receiv-
ed in the Quarterly Review that meed
of applause to which it was jusdy en-
titled. . The article which there call-
ed attention to its extraordinary
merits was written, we believe, by
Mr. Gladstone, whom neither the
bustle of parliamentary life, nor the
aridity of financial study, renders in-
sensible to the charms of those muses
who are generally supposed to haunt
woods and caves, and to smile only
on the recluse.

To us Catholics the name of Keble
will always be remembered with in-
terest, because he shared with Drs.
Newman and Pusey the leadership
of that great party in the Anglican
Church which has given so many
children to the true church, and has
spread through England and through
the world many Catholic doctrines
and practices long dormant or for-
gotten. We think of him with affec-
tion, because he carried on to the end
the work of soothing the troubled
spirit by means of religious verse; be-
cause he was through life the friend
of that distinguished convert to whose
genius and writings we owe so much;
and because he has, both in prose and
verse, laid down, more clearly and
explicidy than any other Protestant
writer, the grounds of our veneration
of the blessed Mother of God Incar-
nate.* He did not, indeed, follow

•See Lym InM»unUmmt^ "Chordi Rites;" and
Tlu MmUH, May, 1866^ "John Keble."

352

Cowper^ K^le, Wardstvortk

out his convictions to their legitimate
results ; he fancied that he respond-
ed to them sufficiently by remaining
where he was. But his poems will
ever remain a witness against the
church in which they were composed^
because it can never reduce to prac-
tice the doctrines he taught in refer-
ence to the holy eucharist, the con-
fessional, and the communion of
saints. Meanwhile they are silently
imbuing the minds of Anglican read-
ers with feelings and arguments favor-
able to the divine system of the Catho-
lic Church. Though his Christian
Year is adapted to the services of
the Church of England, and though
its chief purpose, as stated in the
preface, is " to exhibit the soothing
tendency of the Prayer- Book," the
author's sympathies are with the Book
of Common Prayer in its Catholic,
and not in its Protestant aspects.
During more than forty years it has
been chiselling the Anglican mind
into a more orthodox shape. It
moulds the chaotic elements of faith
into substance, form, and life. It sup-
plies the lost sense of Scriptures, and
lays the foundation of towers and bul-
warks it cannot buikL It opens bright
vistas of realized truth, and points to
glorious summits from the foot of tlie
hill It is not inspired with genius of
the highest order ; the range it takes
is more circumscribed in some re-
spects than that of Cowper ; it seldom
reaches the sublime, and is always
pleasing rather than original. But in
spite of these drawbacks, it has wound
itself more and more into public es-
teem. No poetry is read more habit-
ually by members of the Established
Church. The number of those is very
large who take down The Chris-
tian Year from their bookshelves
every Sunday and festival. It rings
ever}^ change on the theme Resigna-
tion, and presents it in all its truest
and most beautiful lights. It has ex-

tracted from tlie sacr
ver)^ marrow of the text^l
ed in a thousand ways the typi
mystic import of Scripture hi
expressed from them abundaa
wine and oil of consolation, a
veyed it to us in poetic
mean kind.

*' A« far some dear &n)Qt«r i
Untirc^d ki^ a&k, and ft»k i
Ever, in it» melodiou* »torc»
Finding a tpell unheard bcfbfc j!

so, many Anglicans of the «
sort recur to Keble*s poems )
ter year, and end the perusa
with death. Other poets chaj
instruct the mind, he forms tl
w^hile others are but read^
leamt. Even the conviction
he cherished of the heavenly r
of the church of Queen Elia
though misplaced, added t
sweetness and soothing chara<
his verses. But it is deservi
note that his latter volume^ /;
nacentium^ which contains mi
mentation tlian he uttered
over tlie shortcomings of hi
communion* and more intense
rations after Catlioltc dogm;
practice, evinces at the saiiM
less inw^ard quietude in the
and imparts less of it to the i
One poem, indeed, called ** I
out of Sight," on the absence
holy Mother of God from lh«
lish mind, invoking her, as iti
a strain of glorious verse, wai
ted, lest it should perplex m
quiet those who were unused l
invocations, and believed llien
forbidden by the Anglican Ch
To cite passages from K
poems illustrative of theiri
tendency, would be to co
all he wrote. They fell like i
of Hermon, and were a
s}inbol of the man bimselj
bright, fresh, jo>^us, and

eir|i

likett

Cawper, Kdfle, Wordsworth.

353

says one who knew him
as an ever-flowing spring, al-
>lay, always shedding a gen-
^ceptibU^ and recreating dew
e who came within its reach,
as a Christian poetry cU^aut
latural gift, elevated and
led by his consistent piety
ous earnestness, which gild-
oinmonest things and the
inary actions, and cast the

of an unearthly sunshine
d him."* What wonder that
rious author of the Apologia
ook at him with awe when
in the High Street at Ox-
Vhat wonder that, when

Fellow of Oriel, and for
Lime taken by the hand by
>st and all the Fellows, he
1 Keble took his hand, and
e said, " felt so abashed and

of the honor done him,
seemed desirous of quite
ito the ground" ? f Yet the
as blessed of the less. For
I subtlety of reasoning, for
d pathos in prose composi-
Newman has surpassed be-
measure everything which
1 or could accomplish. In
he world in general has
:he palm to Keble, and the
i believe, is right. In the
ast, of calming the ruffled

poet of The Christian Year
)ne his beloved rival and

y*ra Apostolica brought Ke-
^Jewman together as ath-
the arena of poetry ; and
s of poems affords a good
ty of comparing their seve-
, to those who have the key
ters' names. They appear-
: British Magazine^ signed
I Greek characters repre-
le following writers :

r Monik^ voL iv. p. 143.

H. Newman's AjMo£iat p. 76.

vou VII. — 23

J. W. BowdexL
R. H. Froude.
John Keble.
J. H. Newman.
R. J. Wilberforce;
Isaac Williams.

By far the greater number of the
pieces were written by Keble and
Newman, and almost all by the lat-
ter have reappeared this year in a
series, which supplies a poetic com-
mentary on the author's life. These
Verses on Various Occasions range
over a period of forty-six years, and
having each of them the date and the
place where composed attached to it,
the interest of the whole is there-
by greatly increased. Among the
poems is that remarkable one, " The
Dream of Gerontius," which was
published in The Catholic World
in 1865. But neither Dr. Newman's
verses thus collected, nor the series
entitled Lyra Apostolica in general,
are marked by that repose which is
the prevailing feature of The Chris-
tian Year, The motto chosen by
Froude for the Lyra was truly com-
bative, and shows the feeling both of
Newman and himself, then together
at Rome. It was taken from the
prayer of Achilles on returning to
the battle, and it implores Heaven to
make his enemies know the differ-
ence, now that his respite from fight-
ing is over.

Tvoiev (T, wf <J^ di/pdv kyCi voXifioio iziwav^
fiat.*

The scars of warfare are visible
even in Newman's hymns. He has
evidently passed through many an
inward conflict, and fought with
many an external foe. He has va-
cated ground he once occupied, and
he defends principles which he once
assailed. He pierces many heights,
and depths, and has to be always om
his guard against his lively imagina
tion. He is lucid as any star, butr

• Iliad, 2' 115. Ap^hfia, p. 98.

os«

Caivper, Kcbh\ Wardsworth.

not always as serene. He flashes
now and then like a meteor ; he hints
and suggests in nebulous light. He
is a pioneer of thought ; he shoots
beyond his comrades ; he walks
" with Death and Morning on the
Silver Horns.** He sees, where others
grope ; he is at home, where others
feel confused and out of place. He
is, like Ballanche, ** more satisfied of
the truth of the unseen than of the
visihle world. Mysteries are his
solemn pastime. He strikes his
harp in Limbo, as Spaniards weave
a dance in church before the Holy
Sacrament, His dreams are Dan-
tesque ; he is half a seer. The veil
of death is rent before him, and his
soul, by anticipation, launches into
the abyss. The chains of the body
are dropped, and angels and demons
come round him to console and to
harass his solitary spirit in its transi-
tion state. His condition there, like
his poetry, and like himself on earth
and in the body, is one of mingled
quietude and disturbance ;

*' And Ihe de*p rt*t, *a scjoclung and so «%*e«t,
Had iiomelhing, Uw, uf ttenuMiM uid ofpaiR'^t

The happy, sufTering soul (** for it
is safe, consumed, yet quickened, by
the glance of God,*'} sings in Purga-
tory in a strain identical with that
to which it was used in this mortal
life:

" Take m«r away, and in the lowest deep

Th*r* lei me be»
And there in hope the Jcoe nighi-watcbei keep,

Told out for me.
Tlicre m<»tionle«» and happr in my '^^^

Lone not tbirloni —
ITiere will I ling my sad perpetual strata

UntU (tie mom ;
Tltere wiU I sinjt and soothe my ntncken breaat,

Which ne'er cau cease
To fbr(it> and pine and tanfUHb, liU posa«st

Of itt »ule pcacc/'t

There is, indeed, one of Dn New-
man's poems, and that one the most
popular and beautiful he has ever

• TyuNin RrpifUf^ JJy. i»65t p, lo^ "Madame
t • i)rtam of Genwliu^** f a.

composed, which is si
tic and peaceful. Yet
darker shades are not wai
angel faces are 'Most a
the "pride'* and self will
years recur to the memor
tres. It was in June, 183;
calmed in the Straits of
an orange-boat * that IH
wrote **Lead, Kindly L^
Pall Mall Gasette—M m
has said of it recenlly,t **
to us one of the most pef
of the kind in the languaj

' Lead, kindly Light, amid tV
L«-ad thtiu me on I
Thcoic* ' ' ; il iTOfihr

I .,«}

Keep ft
The diitoTit &tai4^—

" I was not ever thu», nor [

Would' St Icjid me on.
I lov<d 10 chi-.n** .>nd *ee my I

V, and.

1 lovrJ
Pride I.

** So long thy pow«f hath blctf
Will lead mc on
O'er moor and ten, rt*eT crag and

Ttte night i* ;^*te ;
And with ihe mnm tho*c angel
Which f have loved tong since.

Fond as Dn Newman

poetry» he has not imitate
style IS origin al^ — a rare ^
strength, sincerity, and
moulded rather after the \
Greek dramas^ than the
lions of KeatSt Shelley,
and Longfellow. Hence'
bear a nearer resemblanc
ton*s Sam^:/n AgtmisUs tlu
other English production,
cal pieces, again, often ^
of George Herbert, and of
Waller, and Cowley. Tl
clearness of expression
fluenc}', which makes. \i
writer even when you cai
admire his verse. One
specimens of his poetic fa
Verses on Varhus Oaasm

• A^m^m, p. 99.

CcwpiT, KAUy WMbwwth.

355

" Consolations in Bereave-
ivritten in 1828. It turns on
la — the rapidity of death's
. the case of the dear sister
e mourns. He solaces him-
i the reflection that the deed
ickly done, and thus derives
from a thought which is in
ises afflictive. Perhaps By-
Qes were imconsciously run-
his head:

MW Botif Icowd 1miv# banc
) we tb J beauties fiide :

day withoot a doud hath paet,
thoa vert lovoljlo the last ;

tan that shoot along the skj

e brigbteal as they fiiU fifom high.**

Fewman's poetry did not pro-
11 within the scope of this
but we have be^ led to
f it because he was Keble's
e in the Zyra ApostolkOy and

the verses of the surviving
'e just appeared in England
nr form, and have attracted

attention and been made
ect of admiring and affec-
titicism not merely by Catho-
dicals, but by non-Catholic
and newspapers of every po-*
id religious shade. Indeed,
;e bestowed on them by such
ts has exceeded that of our
ics, because it has, generally
\y been more discriminating
red by higher authorities in
iry worid.

s then rejoice that English
s includes three poets at
owper, KeblCi and Words-
»ho are in a good sense
, and the tenor of whose

from first to last, is tranquil-
They may not, perhaps, be
ors who will afford us most

in the tumultuous season of

enjoyment ; but as years
, and the trials of life present

themselves, one by one, in all their
painful reality; as reason matures
and reflection ripens \ as the proba-
tionary character of our mortal exis-
tence becomes more and more clear
to our apprehension ; as the discovery
of much that is formal and hollow in
society enamors us of rural retreats
and sylvan solitudes ; as the inexhaus-
tible treasures of beauty and magni-
ficence in the material universe unfold
before our gaze; as the things unseen
triumph over visible objects in our
thoughts and a£GectionSy we shall find
in such poetry as we have attempted
to describe, more that is congenial
and charming, and shall cherish with
fonder remembrance the names of
Cowper, the mellifluous exponent of
Christian ethics and delights ; of Ke-
ble, the bard of Biblical lore ; and of
Wordsworth, the child and poet of
nature. Like skilful tuners of rough-
ly-used instruments, they will reduce
to sweetness our spirits' harsher and
discordant tones, and flt us to take
our part in the everlasting har-
monies of the boundless universe.
They will each make poetry, in our
view, the 'handmaid of science and
revelation, accepting with rapture
the vast, amazing discoveries of
the one, and ever seeking to har-
monize them with the momentous
and soul-subduing disclosures of the
other. They will impart to mute
matter the voice and power of a mo-
ral teacher, imbue inanimate things
(to our imagination) with life and
feeling, inspire us with " a glorious
sympathy with suns that set" and rise,
with '* flowers that bloom and stars
that glow,'' with the birdling warbling
on her bough, and the ocean bellow-
ing in his caves ; and will lead us by
nature's golden steps to the footstool
of the Creator's throne ; for, in the
eyes of such poets, earth is "crammed
with heaven," and every common
bush on Are with God.

356

The Early Irish Church.

THE EARLY IRISH CHURCH.*

The early Irish Church is now the
subject of a close scrutiny and deep
study, that bids fair to shed upon it
all the light that can be poured upon
the subject by such written matertal
as war, oppression, persecution, and
penal laws have been insufficient to
destroy. There are two schools, and
their emulating labors will allow little
to escape, both being well versed in
ecclesiastical history, the Irish lan-
guage, annals, and literature.

It is needless to say that there are
a Catholic and a Protestant school
— the latter of comparatively recent
origin. The Anglican Church in Ire-
land, studying what it had long des-
pised, now seeks to hold forth to the
vvorid that it is the real successor and
representative of the cariy Irish
Church ; while the Catholic Church
in Ireland is simply a papal coniiV
ualion of the foreign church, forced
on Ireland by Henr\^ II, and Pope
Adrian IV., and their respective suc-
cessors. Unfortunately, however, the
memory of man records ncrt the fact
that, in the sixteenth century and
later, the Thirty nine Articles and
Book of Common Prayer were pre-
sented to the Irish as being the
creed and liturg}' of its early saints.
Those who burnt the crosier of Pat-
rick brokewilh the eariy Irish Church
as effectually as they did with the ro-
mani/ed Irish Church of later days.

At the beginning of lliis century,
Ledwich, following in the wake of the
wild theories of Conyers Middleton,

rffk4 Kftriy irnk Chnr^k. By the R - ' ' * * - n.

Vice Kertor of fhe thih Colknc, Rom. ^

Pjk, vii, ii;. Kor ttk t»f Uie CaI^m. n
Soci«fr. New Yorlu

denied entirely the existence of S^
Patrick, and his theory met with rxi
little favor among those opposed V
the church. Now his existence W
admitted, his life studied ar '
and efiforts made, with no
industry-, and learning, to show tiyl
the Roman Catholic Church has na
claim to St* Patrick or the churdi
which he founded ; a church so full
of life, that its missionaries spread to
other lands, and went forth with pipal
sanction to plant calholicit)* or rtvht
fervor on the conthient, It is tothii
curious phase of controversy that we
are indebted for the volume of Essays
which are here contributed by Doctor
Moran, and which evince his leariJ'
ing and research, us well as his fit-
ness for close historical argument

That there should be much mit^
rial for a discussion as to so early %
period as the fifth century may sur-
prise many, especially those who have
always been taught to clear wilb^i
bound some ten or more centuries
prior to the sixteenth. And it must
be admitted that it is indeed surpns*
ing, when we consider the wholesale
destruction of Irish manuscripts by
the English in Ireland from the time
of Henry down to the prt^scnt ccntu-
T\\ I'Vom the period of the invasion
to the ReIbnnalion» though invatlers
and invaded were alike Catholic, tte
English treated the Irish with ltid>
contempt that only five families fit
bloods were t hurnm

and even mon closed to

men of Irish race i he liteniliirtQl
the proscribed was of course slig{htBi
and despised.

From the Reformation the litcnuy

^oi^

The Early Irish Church,

fearlier days were proscrib-
cslroyed, not only as Irish
pish.

almost universal destruc-
cclesiastical books, missals,
aries, breviaries, pen i ten-
canons of councils, doctri-
> many historical and bio-
treatises perished. The
Ic and their church hold by
to their predecessors, and
>c direct successors of the
:d converts of St. Patrick,
the Anglican party which
so much of Irish literature
iny argument on the silence
Tipt authority or draw any
in their favor from the ab-
iroofs, for whose disappear-
themselves account-

IBlerr

lerrupted adherence of
ation to the Roman Church
£ force of prescription, and
3 good against all but the
t and positive evidence,
iferences can invalidate

Senls regarding the early
rch begin with the confes-
int Patrick and his letter
IS, a piratical British chiefs
by Ware in 1656, from four
te, and by the Bollandists
mtiscript in tlie Abbey of

kons ascribed to the saint
shed by the same, as well
man and Usher,
ives of the saint, the least
f all is that by Jocelin, an
onk, who wrote soon after
sst This is given in the
J and in Messingham"*s Flo-
Earlier and bettor lives,
mber, were collected and
by Colgan in his Acta Tri-
natu!^, a work of which
lie existence of a copy on
be Atlantic,

Among these earlier lives, one by
Probus is of much value. It was
printed, strangely enough, among the
works of Venerable Bede» in the Ba-
sil edition of that fiither issued in
1565; and, apparently, the whole work
was taken from manuscripts preserved
at the Irish convent at Jiobbio.

These are the more important ma-
terial for the life of the apostle of Ire-
land, together with unpublished mat-
ter in some very ancient Irish manu-
scripts, codices known for centuries,
such as the Book of Armagh, a man-
uscript of ihe eighth or ninth century,
which contains a life of Saint Patrick
by Muirchu-Maccu-Maciheni ; the
Leabhar Breac, considered the most
valuable Irish manuscript on eccle-
siastical matters ; the Tripartite Life
in the British Museum, the early na-
tional annals, etc.

As to the antiquity and value of
these ancient codices West wood in his
I^ildeogf'aphia Sacra Pktorm (Lon-
don, 1843-5) ^^^y ^^^ consulted.

For the liturgy of the early Irish
Church, we have a missal preser\ed
at Stowe, in England, and ascribed to
the sixth century, but which unfortu-
nately has never been fully and com-
pletely published ; a missal preser\'ed
in the monastery founded by Saint
Columbanus at Bobbto, and printed
by Mabillon in his Iter Itaiicum ;
the Antiphonarium Benchorense ; the
Exposhion of the Ceremonies of
the Mass preserved in the Leabhar
Breac and a treatise on the Mass
Vestments in the same volume, as
well as the Liber Hymnorum, and
rarious separate hmns.

The lives of the Irish saints, many
of which have been published by Col-
gan, Messingham, the Bollandists, as
well as the meagre Irish secular an-
nals, throw much light on the social
and religious life of the ancient Irish.

Such is, in brief, the documentary
array to be appealed to in the con-

358

Tlu Early Irish Church,

troveray, as to the origin and charac-
ter of the Irish Church.

And surely what has come down
iti fragments shows a church which
the Anglican Church could not but
condemn. The warmest advocate of
the identity of the Anglican Church in
Ireland with the early Irish ChuTch,
would find the old Irish mass, as
preserved in the Stowe or the Bob-
bio missal, a very objectionable wor-
ship ; the monks and nuns unsuited
to our age ; and the prayers, peniten-
tiary, and belief in miraculous pow-
ers in the church utterly inconsistent
with Protestant ideas ; while the
Catholic Irish would find the mass,
if said in one of their churches, so
like that they daily hear, that it would
excite scarce a word of comment ;
monks and nuns would certainly ex-
cite less; and the prayers of that ear-
ly day still circulate with the com-
mendation of the actual head of the
Catholic Church, tl^e successor of
jCelestine.

The position having been abandon-
ed that St. Patrick never existed,
national pride, which from the days
of Jocelin has bent its energies to
prove that he was a Briton of the
island of Great Britain and born in
Scotland, now would prove that he
was a genuine Englishman in his
total renunciation of papal author-
ity.

In the recent life of St. Patrick by
Dr, Todd, this, though treated lightly
as a matter of slight import, is really
the marrow of the book,

The mission of St, Patrick has
been uniformly attributed to Pope
St, Celestine, who held the chair of
Peter from 422 10452 ; and is inti-
mately connected with a previous one
of the deacon of Celestine, St. Palla-
dius, who made an unsuccessful at-
tempt to christianize Ireland ; and
the mission of St. Palladius grew out,
It would seem, of a deputation of

Gallic bishops to Britatn to
the progress of Pelagii

Todd endeavors ini^niOi
break up these connected facti
seeks to show that Pal' '
deacon not of St, r<!l.
St. Germain, F ^r*

the history of i 1 J

have been confounded ; and ll
trick was not sent to Ireland ti
and consequently could no!
been sent by St Celestine,
would, to some extent, delin
early Irish Church from the
responsibility of having reed*
origin from Rome.

Dn Moran*s work is
three essays : " On the
Irish Church and if
Rome;" '* On the
Irish Church concemin
Eucharist y* and, on "
the Blessed Virgin in the A
Church of Ireland;*'

In the first of these
meets the arg;iment
low of Trinity by a
examination, sho\iing itiat bod
ladius and Patrick owed
sion to Rome and to Sc
and settles coi '
St. Patrick's la

He discusses at kngih the uj
of Palladius ; sketches the life
Patrick, and his connection
St, Germain ; and states
proofs of his Roman mi;
then refutes the array
theories in regard to the
tie from I^dwich to Todd^ ai^
mutates evidence to show^^
early Irish Church regarde<|fl
see. ^

Tlie period when Saint Pa]
and Saint Pat'
ceeded to Irci

obscurity. The church was ;
vitality, and met Nestorii
east, Pelagius in tJjc west,
nichees in Africa, with tiie

essA

The Early Irish Church.

359

of a divine institution. It was
jr of St Augustine, St. Germain,
icent of Lerins, of Cassian,
>stom, St Gregory of Nyssa,
ome. St Basil, St Ambrose,
iianasius, even, and St Antho-
*€ still fresh in the memory of
who had heard the words of
im their lips, or gazed on them
rence. The Council of Ephe-
s actually in session defining
nor due to the Mother of God.
anon of Holy Scripture had
iettled thirty-five years before,

Council of Carthage, and St
s's version was gradually sup-
ig the Vetus Itala in the hands
faithful.

monastic life, a vigorous tree
1 at Rome by Athanasius, had
|r spread over the Latin Church,

multiform activity and zeal,
w under the mighty hand of
tine, was nurtured by that St
I of Tours, whose reputation
) widespread. It gave a Le-
ith its school of bishops, wri-
nd saints ; the abbey of St

at Marseilles, where Cassian

and wrote.

if this was a great age of the
, the Roman empire showed
h signs of vitality. It was
ig to its fall. Along its whole
1 territory, stretching from Ita-
aledonia, the pagan barbarians
aany were pressing with relent-
iver, threatening destruction to
I, romanized Briton, and roma-
Jaul — for all of whom the Ger-
id but one name, still preserv-

the race, the Anglo-Saxon
r the descendants of the Bri-
ekh, as the Fleming does the
. or the south of Germany the
A little later this German
ist in Europe to embrace the
id first to revolt from it, over-
itain, establishing the Saxon
:hy, making Gaul the land of

Franks, and giving Spain and Italy
Gothic sovereigns.

Before this torrent burst, the church
in Italy, Britain, and Gaul was close-
ly united. Heresies appeared and
gained ground in Britain. To meet
this Pelagian enemy, the insular
bishops appealed for aid to Gaul.
The bishops of that country in coun-
cil, selected St Germain and St
Lupus to go to Britain ; and Prosper,
in his chronicle, assures us that,
through the instrumentality of Palla-
dius the deacon, Pope Celestine in
426 sent Germain in his own stead
to root out heresy there, and direct
the Britons to theCatholic faith.

But this was not the only work.
To recover what was straying was
well ; but a new island was yet to be
conquered to the faith, one in which
the Roman eagle had never flashed,
but which seems to the eye of faith
a field white for the reaper.

Attached to Germain by ties of
which there is no doubt, was a man
of Roman-British race, whose whole
associations were with the church of
Gaul, who had been a slave for sev-
eral years in Ireland, and yearned to
return to it as a herald of the Gospel.
He is stated, in the earliest lives,
to have been recommended by Saint
Germain to Pope Celestine, as one
fitted for such a work. The pope,
however, either to give greater digni-
ty to the new mission, or to leave no
doubt of tlie Roman character of the
work, chose in 431 Palladius, deacon
of the Roman Church, already men-
tioned, to be the first apostle to the
Scots, as the Irish were then termed.

Saint Germain and Saint Lupus
went to Britain in 429, and labored
with zeal and success there during
that year and the next The ancient
Irish writer, who wrote a commenta
ry on a hymn in honor of Saint Pa-
trick by St Fiacc, and who is cited
by Irish scholars as scholiast 01^

36o

The Early Irish Church,

Saint Fiacc's hymn, states that Samt
Patrick accompanied the Gallic bi-
shops to Britain, In itself it would
be probable. The intimate relations
between the Bishop of Auxerre and
the British priest, would naturally
lead thai prelate to choose him as a
companion. That Palladius, who had
been the pope's agent in the matter,
accompanied them, also, would seem
natural. His selection for the Irish
mission after Saint Germain's return
in 430, would follow as naturally^

He was made bishop, and sent to
the Scots (Irish) in 431; and that Saint
Patrick was in some manner appoint-
ed by the pope to the same work, or
connected with the mission with a
degree of authority, is e\'ident from
the fact that, when Saint Palladius*
after an ineflfectual attempt to estab-
lish a mission in Wicklow, was dri-
ven from the country, and died, as
some say, in Scotland, his Roman
companions at once hastened to Saint
Patrick, to notify him as one who pos-
sessed some jurisdiction in the mat-
ter ; and all accounts agree that on
this intelligence, Saint Patrick at once
proceeded to obtain the episcopal con-
secration, and sailed to Ireland,

Looking at the whole action of the
pope in regard to the checking of
Pelagianism in Britain, and the con-
version of Ireland, this theor\% first
suggested by Dn Lanigan, answers
z\^Ty requirement. It contravenes
no fact given by any early author,
and is in perfect harmony w ith every
part. The Rome -appointed subor-
dinates of Palladius reported to Pa-
trick as a recognized superior, and
it is utterly impossible that between
him, the disciple of Germain and Pal-
ladius, the Roman delegate to Ger-
main, there could have been diversity
of faith or ecclesiastical discipline.
'The appointment of Patrick to the
Irish mission was simultaneous with
that of Palladius, to whom the prior-

ity was given. On the dca
ladius he succeeded^ and requil
the episcopal consecration to
his labors as a bishop Ln IreU

This would make the Roinan
of the Irish Church too clear I
Todd to accept it without a sti
With what might almost be \
unfainiess, he ignores the stai
of a perfect catena of Irish wri
to the character of Palladius,
der to make him a deacon,
pope, but of Saint Germain

Later lives of Saint Patricl
ten long after the death of the
by introducing vague traditions
doubtless embarr;issed the qy
That some took his appointm
Celestine to have required \k
ing Rome after the death C
ladius, w*as natural ; but he
really have been appointed by
tine, even though consecrated ii
after the death of that pope, i
was done in pursuance of pr
orders of the holy see. It
not be strange to Catholic idea
Saint Patrick had what would fa
termed his bulls unacted upon^
from humility^ or some other m
and the history of the churcl
tains many examples where
have been so held, to be act
ultimately only when the nei
of the church made the cam
feel it a duty to assume tha,
from which he shrank

Dr. Moran proves that
drew his mission from KonK
solid array of authorities, wllfc
brace some of the most ancieoi
manuscripts extant The Be
Armagh contains two tri ^
Dkia Samti Pairicii^ e\
wish that his disciple should b
Christiani ita et R^mani :' tlu
the annals of Tirechan, writlfl
the middle of the seventh^
stating absolutely that m th^
teenth year of the Emperoc

»erocfl|

The Early Irish Church,

36«

ishop Patrick was sent by
bishop and pope of Rome,
the Irish.

ibhar Breac, styled by Pe-
•Idest and best Irish manu-
ing to church history now
" furnishes us evidence no
ind decisive. 1 he second
aint Patrick, ascribed to
an, (ob. 664 ;) the scholi-
nt Fiacc, the Life by Pro-
l equally explicit, showing
been a recognized fact in
hin two centuries after the
►wn day.

•an, besides these, accumu-
authority of a later period,
jrto uncited, and due to
:hes of German scholars
manuscripts still extant,
hands of the early Irish
' their land.

:ument of Dr. Todd was
le silence of Muirchu Mac-
ni in the Book of Armajg^h ;
loran answers this fully
I that part of that early
rk is missing ; and that, as
Saint Probus follows, word
the parts extant, we may
at Saint Probus followed
er parts ; and in regard to
-ick's mission. Saint Pro-
r and plain.

irch in Ireland, 'then, was
il child of Rome and Gaul,
missionary, a Breton, came
K:hools of Gaul, with au-
m Rome, and the church
founded was in harmony
lurch in Britain, Gaul, and
lat the faith of the church
>untries was, admits of no
id were there no monu
nt to give explicit evidence
I of the Irish Church, this
us implicit evidence suffi-
e absence of any contradic-
ity, to decide what its faith,*
and liturgy were.

The vice-rector of the Irish Col-
lege marshals his authorities again
and shows that the church founded
by an envoy from Rome retained its
connection with the. holy see and
its reverence for the See of Peter.
He adduces hymns of the Irish
Church, various writings of successive
ages, express canonical enactments
regarding Rome, and finally the pil-
grimages to the holy city, in itself
an irrefragable proof of the venera-
tion entertained for Rome ; but he
crowns all this by adducing the many
extant cases in which Irish bishops
and clergy appealed to Rome.
^ But it may be thought that the
terrible changes caused by the inva-
sion of the barbarians which in a
manner isolated Ireland may have
led insensibly to differences of faith
or practice in that island, cut off from
the centre of unity by the pagan
England that had succeeded Chris-
tian Britain, and the pagan France
that replaced Christian Gaul.

Have we aught to prove what the
Irish Church believed and taught ; at
what worship the faithful knelt ; how
they were received into the body of
believers ; what rites consoled them
in death ? Fortunately there is much
to console us here, as well as to con
vince us. One of the most impor-
tant parts of the work we are dis
cussing is the clear and distinct man-
ner in which he proves the Irish
character of the missal found at Bob-
bio, and reproduced by Mabillon
in his Iter Italicum. Having, by
what light we possessed, come to the
conclusion that it was in no sense
Irish, we examined this portion with
interest, and must admit that the
proof is clear. Bobbio was a monas-
tery founded by St. Columbanus, and
its rich library gave much to the early
printers, and yet much still remains
in the Ambrosian library at Milan.
This missal has no distinctive Irish

362

The Early Irish Church.

offices, and its containing an office of
St Sigeben, King of Burgundy, seem-
ed to refute any idea of its being
IrisK Yet we know that St. Colum-
banus founded a nnonaster)' at Luxeu
before proceeding to Bob bio, and in
both places retained his Irish ofBce,
The adding of a local Mass would not
be strange. In itself this missal corre-
sponds with that Irish missal preserv-
ed at Stowe in many essential points,
and with no other known missal ;
the orthography and writing are un*
doubtedly Irish ; the liturgy in itself
is not that of Gaul ; it resembles it in
many res[>ects, but the canon is that
of Rome, This striking feature aj^
pears in the Stowe missal. Mabillon,
from its antiquity, himself infers that
Saint Columbanus brought it from
Luxeu, and it is as probable that he
brought it from Ireland.

It gives us the Mass of the ancient
Irish Church, and Curry gives in his
lectures a translation of an " Expo-
sition of the Ceremonies of the Mass"
from the Irish in theLeabhar Breac.
The Mass and the exposition place
beyond a doubt the belief of the Irish
Church in the Real Presence. The
exposition is as distinct as if written
to meet any opposition, "Another
division of that pledge, which has
been left with the church to comftjrt
hefi is the body of Christ and his
blood, which are offered upon the
altars of the Christians ; the body
even which was born of Mary the
Immaculate Virgin, without destruc-
tion of her virginity, without opening
of the womb, without the presence of
roan ; and which was crucified by
the unbelieving Jews out of spite and
envy ; and which arose after three
days from death, and sits upon the
right hand of God the Father in
heaven." {Curry's Ltcttires^ p. 307,)

The words of the Mass are no less
explicit, and the Bobbio missal con-
tains these wx>rds : " Cujus came a te

ipso sanctificata, dum pa|
boramur, et sanguine dani
abluimur." The w^holc ei
ture, the lives of the sainta
monuments teem with ^
the sacrifice of Christ's |
blood, and the saying of M
unfrequentiy expressed bj
"conficere Corpus DoniiaJl

The proofs adduced by 1
on this point extend to si
showing the most exact rca
learning, and accumulating
on evidence, meeting ai^
objections of ever)* kind. >

The sacrament of penaf
use is no less apparent; I
devotion to the blessed li
the saints a point on whicls^
est doubt is left. i

Dr. Moran's work is cert|
the appearance of Laniganh
tkal Hhtory\ (4 vols. Du bj
the most vahiable trcatif
early Irish Church, and \
sets at rest the theories %
W. G. Todd, in A HtsH
Ancient Church in Ireland^
1845 ; and with great lea
skill by James H. Todd, ii
Patrick, Apostif of Irc/und
moir of his Life and Afissiai
1864,

We need now a popul^
embracing the result of hj^
a small volume, like the ^
G. Todd, and a volume f
the Bobbio missal, (Uial a|
probably sealed,) with the |
the Mass and vestments 1
Leabhar Breac* and a sel
the prayers and hymns o|
church that have come d4
With these common in th4
the clergy, to familiarize t|
what remains of the chur^
fathers, we may hope to %
Irish Mass, the *' Cursus S|
Or Mass of the early Iriflj
chanted by the caidkial i

My AngeL

3<53

of Dublin on the great patronal feast,
as the Mozarabic liturgy is in Spain,
orthe Ambrosian at Milan. It would
be a living proof that, if the Irish and

other churches laid aside their pecu- poned.

liar liturgies to adopt exclusively
that of Rome, it was not that the
former were objectionable; but that
unity was too desirable to be post-

MY ANGEL.

**He hath shren hit angels charge over thee.**

There's an angel stands beside my heart,

And keepeth guard.
How I wish sometimes that he would depart.
And its strong desires would cease to thwart

With his stern regard 1

But he never moves as he standeth there

With unwinking eyes ;
And at every pitfall and every snare
His silent lips form the word, " Forbear 1"

Till the danger flies.

His look doth oft my purpose check

And aim defeat.
And I change my course at his slightest beck.
'Tis well, or J soon would be a wreck

For the waves to beat.

3<S4

Ah Italian Girl of aur Day.

TRANSI.ATXO PBOU THS PRKXaf.

AN ITALIAN GIRL OF OUR DAY.*

[The first It:ilian edition of the
Letters of Rosa Farucii appeared at
Florence in 1857, a rcquesl for their
publication having been made to her
mother by his Eminence Cardinal
Corsi, Archbishop of Pisa. The pi-
ous prelate was not less desirous of
seeing^ the account nf so edifying a
death published, when he had learn-
ed the circumstances from the Prior
of San Sisto, who hail attended Sig-
norina Ferrucci in her last moments*

A secontl edition appeared in 1858,
enriched with numerous details, at the
express request of Monsignor Char-
vaz, Archbishop of Genoa.

During a brief stay which I made
at Pisa, Monsignor del la Fanteria,
vicar-general of the diocese, spoke
to nie of the profound impression
which the death of Signorina Fer-
rucci had left on all memories, and
of the edification which he hoped from
he r Letters, H e e x pres sc d a w i s h t h a t
they should be made known in France,
and even urged me to undertake their
translation mysel f.

Authorities such as these, and the
testimony of persons of undoubted
judgment as to the good this little
work has already done, have deter-
mined me to publish it for the
second time. May it etiify yet again
some young souls, by showing them
in Christianity an ideal too often
sought elsewhere,

Deeember^ 1858,]

The following are the circum-
stances which led to the publication
of the Letters here presented to the
reader.

' Br the Abbi H. PerrvrvtL

Toward the end of Aj
year, (1S57,) as I was return
Rome, I stopped at Pisa.
of God conducted mc then
midst of a family, of whose
ed happiness I had been thi
only a few nionlhs before, h
had now, alas ! been visited
It was one of those sudde
rending bereavements whi<
one filter on the desolated (
of his friend, and which chill
lips the tenderc^t words of
lion.

What would you say to tl
and mother who Uise an oxil
ter — ^their joy, their life,
over, the pride and the edift
a w^hole town? Better be s
ask God to speak.

Happily, in this case,
speak ; and the noble sou
sorrows are to be recounl
were of the number of th
knnw his voice.

After the first tears and
outpouring of a grief which
dered only the more poigi
poor mother asked me to
her to the house where her
had died, and which she hei
quitted from that day. }
belonging to one of the ne
houses had the keys of this
dwelling, and he opened
for us. We exi>ected to
the presence of death and
remembrance of the sorrow
terday in the silence of thaj
ed chaml>ers ; but Christiai
had watched over the spot,
our first steps a delicate p^
roses betrayed its loving ai
Indeed, we found the chami]

rl strewn with llovvers. They
tsh, some faithful h.-ind hav-
swed them that very mom ing.
looked-for spectacle awaken -
ir minds the thought that the
n's death is not so much a
s a trans form a lion of life*
•e it was that, when, kneel-

the poor sobbing mother, I
?r if she wished me to recite
Pr^fundis^ she answered in a
'e and almost smiling, ** No,
cite the Te Datm:"
lymn concluded, I led the
»man from that room where
>w seemed changed into ex-

and 1 said to her on the
?rom all that I know, from
\ can learn of your daughter,
a saint. The delicate piety
leighbors attests how power-
1 the recollection of her : the

of her life, and the details
oly death, must not be lost,
t preserve them for the edi-
jf her companions ; for the
in of the town which has
er, loved her, venerated her;
dilication of ourselves also,
t one day die, and whom the
\ of all holy deaths encou-
1 support" I was not the
express this desire ; many
ud anticipated me in beg-
1 bistory which they believ-
calculated to reflect honor
:)ly religion.

I left Pisa, I had obtained
ed promise, pledging myself,
me time, to make known in
to some Christian readers,
ify, wrung from the anguish
her by the single desire of
the glory of God. Some
r, the book appeared at
ith the following title,
l', and some of her Wrii-
hi under tfie supennskm
\thfr. It remains, then, for

me to fuUil, on my part, the pious
obligation I have contracted,

Rosa Ferrucci was the daughter of
the celebrated Professor Ferrucci, of
the University of Pisa, and of the
Signora Caterina Ferrucci^ a lady
well known in Italy for her poetrj*,
and for some excellent works on ed-
ucation. It is little more than a year
since this young girl was, by her
brilliant intellectual gifts and the holi-
ness of her life, the honor of the city
of Pisa. The grave habits of a Chris-
tian family, all the veils, all the prt**
cautions, all the fears of modesty, had
not been able to shield her from a
sort of religious admiration which
she inspired in all who saw her.
How prevent mothers from point-
ing out the holy child to their
daughters, or the poor from bless-
ing her as she passed ? Rosa pos-
sessed natural talents of a high
order, and her education was sin-
gularly favorctble to the full devel-
opment of every gift of mind and
heart. At six years of age she read
Italian^ French, and German. At a
later period she knew by heart the
whole of the Divine Comfdy\ She
read in the original, under the direc-
tion of her mother, Virgil, Cicero,
Tacitus ; and, among modern au-
thors, Bossuet, Bourdaloue, F'ene-
lon, Fleury, Milton, Schiller, Klo|>-
stock. I mention at random the au-
thors quoted by her in her letters to
her friends, passing by wrkers of our
own day. She has left a correspon*
deuce in three languages — French,
German, and Italian. The greater
number of the Italian letters iire ad-
dressed to a young gentleman of
I^egborn, Signor Gaetano Orsini, a
distinguished lawyer and perfect
Christian, to whom Rosa was l>e*
trothed, and whose hopes have been
shattered by her death, Flach part
of her correspondence is remarkablei

366

Ah Italian Girl of our Day.

but it is of the Jast-mentionecl letters
that I propose particularly to speak.
Independently of her correspondence,
Signorina Ferrucci wrote many short
treatises on religion and Christian
morality, several of which have been
published since her death,

Here» then, we find in a young
girl a degree of mental cultivation —
a depth of learning, I might say —
which would be remarkable in a man
even of distinguished education. To
dwell long on gifts so rare would in-
terfere with the object I proposed to
myself in writing this Hltlc history.
I will, then, remark here^ once for
all, that, having for several weeks
lived on terms of intimacy with this
excellent family, I have witnessed in
I this extraordinary' girl only a child-
.like modesty, which made her always
i skilful in self-concealment.

I omit, then, all that relates to this

intellectual culture, and to this taste

for classical learning — a taste which

was so pure, so exalted, in this young

^Christian maiden. Understood and

accepted in Italy, this literar}- turn of

mtnd would seem strange in France,

where there exists an extravagant fear

of raising woman above a certain in-

Itellectual level, I prefer, therefore^

shaving said on this point merely what

was necessary, to speak henceforth

only of the virtues of the saintly

girl.

Even of these I shall specify but
one. I leave it to pious imagina-
tions to guess what there must have
been of meekness, of purity, of obe-
dience, of modesty, of angelic devo-
tion, in such a soul. I shall speak
only of her charity. Love for the
poor was with her a passion, and
that from her tendcTCst years, Cer-
lain souls seem to come into this
world commissioned by God to do
honor to a particular virtue ; every-
thing in them converges to that as to
a divine centre. The voice of a mo-

t of"

ther and the voice of
have but to quicken tJic gi
holiness committed to &uchj
fore their terrestrial joume
soon as the development
allows them to act, they teiid
naturally to the end which the
of God had pointed out to
from above. Rosa Ferrucxri h\
with her a tender and nnho
love for the poor. From vht
birds which, while yet an iofai
used to feed in winter- time, 1
poor beggars of Pisa, whom sl
lieved by denying herself la
and amusements, and the negl
graves to which she carried flc
** because," she used to say, "
a pity for neglected ;
poverty touched her 1;
mother relates some affecting
dents of her great charity. D
a severe winter her parents rem;
that she no longer ate bread a
meals, although she nt:ver fail
pick out the largest piece for h%
They affected not to know hci
live, which she explained, blusl
** Have I done wrong?* Inde
did not know it was wrong ; but I
is so dear this year, and this
would be sufficient for one
son."

If she met in her w^alks '
woman tottering under the wei|
a load of wood, her 6rst im
would be to run to help her, a
was difficult to restrain this ch
ble eagerness. She would then
plain, declaring that she could ,
get accustomed to seeing poorj
toiling so hard.

On her birthday she rati
mother and said to her : •* Gi
indeed all that I couM wis
have just formed a projc
makes me quite happy,
promised that on our bir
saints* days, instead of
other presents, which arc

An Italian Girl of our Day.

367

will give a large alms to
3r family."

ras a good musician, and
N to interpret truly the sen-
' the masters. One day she
Florence, accompanied by
ler, to purchase some pieces
But just as she was enter-
)wn, she met a poor family,
led to be in the last extreme
iiedness. Their rent must
he next day, or these poor
rould be homeless. Fare-
he pieces of music 1 And
urn home, when her friends,
lI their real joy and admira-
:ted to chide her, she an-
" What would you have had
I could not help it Tell
slves how I could have done
than I did? Now, you
that it was impossible 1"
^possibilities ! which embar-
those who can never be re-
the sufferings of others,
irable are the incidents of
which might be related of
r charity is never weary, the
d it has done, the more it
► do ; but I leave this sub-
ctantly, indeed — to dwell at
jth on the two episodes of
>tian life, in which I think
•und the most solid edifica-
the best encouragement for
jpeak of a love and a death,
ifigured by the cro.>s.
nsfiguration of the life and
nan in chastity, in hope, in
s a palpable glory of Chris-
d one of the surest marks
inity. Jesus Christ, when
to sanctify the world, did
y the natural conditions of
'e. Since, as before, the
Df his blood, man is born in
he weeps, combats, loves.
And yet, if he is a Chris-
; changed for him. From
to his grave he walks in a

marvellous light, which transfigures
all things in his eyes and thoroughly
changes the meaning of life. He
suffers, but each day he adores suffer-
ing on the cross ; he weeps, but he
has heard that, Blessed are tiiey who
weep I he combats, but with his eyes
fixed on heaven ; he loves, but in all
that he loves, he loves God ; he dies,
but then only does he b^n to live.
Nay, even the entrance into beatitude
is for the Christian not the last trans-
figuration ; for a blissful eternity is
but a continuous transfiguration in a
glory ever increasing, and, as it were,
the eternal flight of created love to-
ward Infinite Love. This divine
flight finds in heaven its region 01
glory ; but it must not be forgotten
that its starting-point is earth — ^that
before finally gaining the eternal
heights, it must first cross " the fields
of mourning, lugentes camfiJ^

Hence it is, that for the saints
there is no interruption between hea-
ven and earth ; the same path that
conducted them yesterday from vir-
tue to virtue, will lead them to-mor-
row from glory to glory, and their
death is but an episode of their love.
Hence, also, perhaps that mysterious
fraternity of love and death which is
the soul of all true poetry ; men catch
a glimpse of it and chant it in their
own tongue :

*' The tw-in brothers, love and death,
At the same time, gave birth to fitte.*'t

But only the saints know its true
secret : " Having a desire to be dis-
solved and to be with Christ.'*}

When the young soul of whom we
now speak had reached a certain
elevation in her flight toward God,
she, too, met the sweet and austere
company of those two strong-
winged angels — Christian love and
death. She loved: almost as soon
she presaged death, and she died.

* Virg. iEn. L 4. t liopafdL % PhiL 1. «).

368

An Italian Girl of our Day.

But she loved as a child of God
loves, and she died as a saint.

I have, ihen, little more to do than
to translate her JMtcrs^ in which shines
gloriously the beauty of Christian
love, and to give an account of that
death worthy of the church's bright-
est days. As I have already remark*
ed, these Ltiters aie addressed to a
young gentleman of Leghorn^ to whom
Rosa had been betrothed for two
years before her death ; a truly noble
character whom heaven seemed to
have made worthy of her, A pro-
found and tender love united these
two kindred souls. The simple and
sweet manners of good Italian socie-
ty allowed their seeing each other
often, and did not forbid their almost
daily correspondence. An entire
conformity of faith, of pietyi of holy
desires, blended into a still closer
union those hearts already so strong-
ly bound to each other ; but a more
celestial ray was continually passing
from the soul of Rosa into that of
G acta no. Through her joys, her
hopes, the festive preparations for
her wedding, and the dreams of the
future, this pious young girl always
saw God, One idea, immense and
hisatiable, was dominant over all her
desires, the idea of perfection. She
gazed through the veil of her joyous
dawnings on the divine sun of eter-
nal beauty. Her happiness embel-
lished earth to her, but the earth thus
embellished immediately reminded
her of heaven ; earthly love put a
song on her lips, but the song soon
became a h3'mn, and always ended
with God. It is this insensible and
almost involuntary transition, of which
she herself seems unconscious, from
an earthly affection to ardent long-
ings after divine love and perfection,
which constitutes all the beauty of
her Letters, The reader must not
forget that they were written by one
who was little more than a child, and

that whatever there was q

in her young soul was dei
that sun of Christian fai
warm rays ripen the intelU
continued childhood of tJie

I would fain believe that
Christian's sisters in the
find in her Letters some 1 1
than a subject of poetical
In truth, no life is so rcall;
as that of a saint ; and, ll
veil of beautiful language,
discover in the letters of M
rucci many duties faithful 1]
ed by her, many lessons of i
fully to be ]>erformcd by
I would then beg of those j
sons to read the following |
recollection, and, in ordef
trate their true meaning, tl
much as possihle into tl
girl's ardent desire of perfed

I have spoken of the etq
log of souls toward God. 1
ever, in the beginning of
watched those Hights of bil
lengthening out in a long
low, to the very last, the s^
osiiies ? *Tis said that the
flying in advance, cleavca
and tliat the weaker, cotn
enter with ease the acri
Ah ! loo feeble that we
teiDpt alone the road to )\
us at least learn to enter tt
of the saints. Their stron^
tain wing will draw us <
their track ; and when we
them so lovely because th^
loving, we shall advance
fear toward Him whowasthi
object of their love,

ROSA TO GAETAN^

I can never thank God c
giving me in you, Gaetano,
pie and a guide for my
1 cannot refrain from often

Am Italian Girl of our Day.

369

r, and I say it because it
eart. Spite of all the
nperfections which have
les prevented me from
ithful to the good resolu-
; constantly make before
so high an idea of the
a Christian wife, and of
shall soon have to fulfil,
I indeed be terrified if I
le in the goodness of God,
ill, and who will aid me
nothing. I often speak
er of the holy respect
he sacrament we are go-
v'e inspires me ; and I
\ of you to ask our Lord
s which are necessary to
at I ought to be. I pro-
ise all my efforts for this
m\\ dedicate the prayers
of May to this intention,
eat confidence that the
jin will obtain for me
ack. I believe that we
nade great progress to-
on when we come to de-
y all those little daily
seem trifles to us, but
)e so very displeasing to
irfection of God. In all
that I will receive your
I admonitions as they
eceived from him who,
God, takes the place of
other

April 17.

rsuaded that the true
sparing ourselves to re-
.crament by which we
id for time and eternity
our efforts to attain that
itian perfection to which
; and I am also sure
inot arrive absolutely at
3f perfection which we
re, we can at least kin-
iarts the flames of that
rhich is itself the whole
. VII. — 24

law. In this you will be my guide
and my example, Gaetano ; we two
shall have but one will, one love also,
loving each other in God, in whom all
affections become holy. Our affec-
tion did not spring from outward
accomplishments, nor from fleeting
beauty, that flower of a day. It was
a stronger tie that bound our souls
together. We love each other be-
cause we love God. In him does
our union consist, because in him is
all the strength, all the purity of our
love ; because in him also is our su-
preme end. Hence come those al-
ternations of joy and sadness, accord-
ing as we approach, or seem to be
receding from, that ideal type of per-
fection which is the object of our de-
sires. Ah I how good God is ; and
how often I bless him for having put
such desires and such hopes into our
hearts. For me, I now see in God not
only the eternal power which created
heaven and earth, or the eternal love
which redeemed us, but also that
sweet mercy which has given me in
you, as it were, his crowning blessing.

April 25.

Forgive me, Gaetano, my eternat
repetitions ; but what can I do 1 For
some time I have been able only to-
say the same things over and over
again. This very day reminds me of
another day, a dear and solemn pne
to me. I recollect with unspeakable-
pleasure the solitary walk I took
with my mother to speak of you..
The stillness of the country, the fresh:
aspect of all nature, the distant voices,
of the peasants, which alone from-
time to time broke the profound tran-
quillity of the scene — all seemed new
to me, all spoke to my heart. I
shall never forget the humble little
church in which, for the first time, I
ventured to pray to God to bless these
new thoughts — thoughts which held
me suspended, as it were, between

370

An /Saltan CM of cur Day,

doubt and hope, but which found
my heart firmly resolved to do the di-
vine will in all things. From that
day I have implored, and still un-
ceasingly implore, the graces which
we need in order to lead together a
truly Christian life. Do you do the
same, Gaetano ; and let me assure
you that I cannot now pray to God
for myself, without at once finding
your name mingled in my supplica-
tions.

April yx

He only is w^orthy of a reward who
has merited it. Do you not know that
combat — and what is life but a contin-
ual combat ? — must precede victory?
No, Gaetano, we will not be like cow-
ardly soldiers who would fain have
the honors of a triumph without hav-
ing seen the face of the foe. Let us ra-
ther strive to lay hold on eternal fe-
Iicity» which alone can satisfy our de-
sires, by faithfully performing all our
duties ; by supporting, for the love of
God, all the trials of life, heavy or
light ; by devoting ourselves as much
as possible to good works ; then the
desire of heaven will not be for us
a dreamy ideal or subject of vague
speculation, but it will enter into our
daily life to sanctify it. May your
life be prolonged to scne the cause
of God by strong and constant vir-
luesl

I believe that^ without proposing to
ourselves a too ideal and, as it were,
an unattainable type of perfection,
we can effect much by earnestly stri-
ving to strengthen our will. Let us
keep a watch over it, and never allow
it to incline toward what is evil, even
in the smallest things. Let us always
bear in mind those beautiful words
-of the Foliotving of Christ : ** If each
year we corrected one fault, how soon
we should become belter I** Yes,
strength of will is always necessary,
and not less in small trials than in

great ones. In this, it
Christian perfection realtjj
for what can be more
God than to see our will

formed to his ? •

No affection which
source in the loi^e of Gc
make us happy. Let us
vinced of this, and let
our whole life to Him whd
all for us. As for mc, I bcli
just as the external pomp {
is valueless in the sight of \
separated from interior
works can do nothing to i
unless they are inwardly!
by a pure intention and the (
pleasing God alone. We mu
alwa)^ pass from what is wi
what is within» and it is
mean when I tell you tb
seek in visible things a lev
me toward the invisible
in all that meets my eyes hS
an image of that Eternal Beay
unveils itself only to the i
and to the heart Thii
remains mute lo me.
things the mountains tellj

•Thcdesirt of (.'hrrt'an i>f
RctM Ferrutci wit It

innocent life. Am<
ttc *rlection. wiricli
" To ^n Gt^ in
God I
a tend
luy an

Lt) roy htart ilic drstre erf ticavcn. To \
faittt and the cnniitaficy of U)C m*r\y
unwavennf confidence tn the e#U3cy f
succor the pour for iKe love of God
pray. To do pMid to all. To {
mother. To ht %trKX^«i «nd *
To be iilcnt as »oon 3A I ptu
firai motions of am^^t, Nevi
book. To have A 9CTiipttl«ii« f
to «p«ak ill tif aivw one. Tn vi«

quctit.y lo r.iiic stn
iX\ timc^ and in all i

the perlormaricr of i.

H fi»y duty* 3ihd for the re»i iru»t to^
God. To ifipsr *m n>orr th*n d»tH,
aacran.- ■ ' ■■^ of a ■

•peali: r 4nd l*W

unite III |>i

An Italian Girl of our Day,

371

5, and the sea, and the trees,
birds! — things which I should
c known if this mighty voice
e had not taught them to me.
w admirable is the goodness
who thus by a thousand ways
ick our souls to the thoughts
holy affections for which they
lated.

t been reading in the Revue
X MondeSy this beautiful idea

Paul Richter : " When that

holy in the soul of the mo-
K)nds to that which is holy in

of the son, their souls then
md each other." This thought
e a great impression on me \
ems to me to contain a grand
)r all mothers engaged in the
. education of their sons. It
, moreover, the nature of those
s which unite us to our rela-
J our friends. And, indeed,
k'e love one another with such
tid constant love ? Because
sacred to your soul is sacred
nine. Why am I so deeply
vhen I hear of some noble

when I contemplate the
s of this world's heroes, and,
1, the greatness of the saints
tyrs? Why do I weep as
of the sacrifices they made
:h self-devotion and forti-

Because what they held

1 also hold sacred. Could

2 said in so few words t
ry man ought to keep alive
stial fire which God has kin-
lis heart. Unhappy he who
anguish and die out ! He

for himself, and is himself
his brethren, since he has
he bond of love which would
ited him to them for ever,
lame ascends on high,

lidi by its form upwrard aspires,'*

iture our souls tend to rise
rod, and if they return again
earth, there can be no lon-

ger for them either hope of peace or
hope of happiness.

July zo.

Let us not be discouraged, Gaeta-
no, let us always hope ; our good God
will help us to become better ; for, if
we lack strength, at least we are not
wanting in good desires. They are
a gratuitous gift of him who wills
our good ; of him who has given us
the most living example of humility ;
of him who knows, and will pardon^
the weakness of our poor natiure, if
only we will combat with that perse-
verance which alone has the promise
of victory. Ah! if we truly loved
the Lord, we should think of him
alone — of him who is holy and per-
fect, instead of always thinking of
ourselves, weak and miserable crea-
tures ; and we should end by forget-
ting ourselves, by losing ourselves, to
live only in him so worthy of our
love j and then we should indeed be-
gin to know that we are nothing, and
that he is all.

Jesus wishes us to be gentle with
ourselves, and would not have us fall
into dejection when, through the
frailty of our nature, we fail in our
good resolutions. At times when we
are too much dejected at the sight
of our miseries, Jesus Christ seems
to say to us, as to the disciples going
to Emmaus : " What are these dis-
courses that you hold one with an-
other as you walk, and are sad.^"
He who is called the Prince of Peace
would have us pacific toward our-
selves, and full of compassion for
our own infirmity. When, therefore,
we are seized with sadness at sight
of our poverty and of the dryness
of our souls, let us say simply and
humbly this little prayer of St. Ca-
tharine of Genoa : " Alas ! my Lord,
these are the fruits of my garden!
Yet I love thee, my Jesus, and I will
strive to do better in future."

37^

ke Epzseafalian CoHfttsio

July t^, (Feast of St Vincent dc Pad.)

Do you know what we ought to
desire ? Neither honors, nor riches,
nor any such earthly vanities, which
could add nothing to our peace. Do
you know to what end our will,
strengthened by love, ought to turn ?
Yes, you know it well, and often
have you taught it me ; we ought
both to aim at realizing in our life
something of that perfection which,
after all, can be but partially ob-
tained on earth. We ought to look
at the things that are immortal and
eternal, rather than at those that arc
temporal and subject to chaiige, liv-
ing in such a manner that a true love
of God may actuate our hearts and
our thoughts, develop our senti-
ments toward what is good, and di-
rect all our actions to a ho!y end.
How many touching examples of vir-

tues are recalled to our
this day and the fcstiva
brings 1 What indefatigab
versal charity in St. Vinccn
Wliat lively and ardent pielj
unbounded compassion fq
errors, all the faults, all
tunes, all the sulfering
and morale of men ! \\li|
less patience I And who i
will dare to say that be ciS
produce in himself some sh
those beautiful virtues ? If
not, like this illustrious saint
the sufferings of a great nil
our fellow-beings, at least \
humble, patient, and an3
that true religion which ii
giving, ever loving, becau
Him who is all mercy aii4j

TO t^ coirriMPEfi.

THE EPISCOPALIAN CONFESSIONAL.

It is with great satii^faction that
Catholics behold the adoption by
any class of Protestants of their pe-
culiar rites or ceremonies. It is an
indication of an approach to the doc-
trines so vehemently renounced at
the Reformation, and ought, by strict
logic, to result in the return of many
to the old faith. And though, unfor-
tunately, there are men who play with
religious doctrines as if they were of
no practical consequence* there are
always some who are in earnest, and
are found ready to make sacrifices for
the sake of trutli. From the use of
Catholic ceremonies, which are really
all founded on vital doctrine, some
conversions must certainly flow ; and
the Protestant Church, which moves
in such a direction, is drifting from

its old moorings, and ^oatl
the safe waters where \l
St. Peter rides out every :

If there be any of
which are essentially a
religious system, surely ih
fession is one which is abs
ctiiiar to the Catholic
cannot lawfully exist wit^
faith which wc hold* and
it drags along wnth it^ ir
whole moral system. It
see how any one can confd
to a priest, without
sacerdotal and sacrament
which can have no life oa
Catliolic communion-
practical influence of su
sions leads directly to the
devotion which have no I

M^iiM

The Episcopalian Confessional,

373

$m. In the few remarks we
ir to make, we do not intend

sight of these convictions,
: is our object to consider
the adoption of the confes-
n the Protestant Episcopal
the logical consequences
low from it, and even the

which attend it Surely the
is one of great moment. If
any importance at all, it is of
x)rtance. It is either neces-
:he soul, or it is an assump-
30wers prejudicial to the in-
of true religion. It cannot
ed upon as an indifferent
which may be used or ne-
according to the taste of the
al. To a few reflections,
5, upon it, we earnestly in-
attention of the honest rea-

ere is no doubt that there is
arty in the Episcopal Church
pholds the practice of auri-
ifession, and seeks to extend
re are ministers of that com-
^'ho are anxious to set up the
)nal, and disposed to teach
isity. In the city of New
is well known that the clergy
Ibans' are solicitous to hear
ms and love to be styled Fa-
account of their spiritual rela-
leir penitents. The Rev. Dr.
resi>ected rector of Trinity
the oldest and most influen-
Dration of his denomination,
o have quite a number of
;, and to be the most popu-
issor, especially among the
ass. We presume he makes
t of his practice, while his
as the spiritual director of
ters of St. Mary" is notori-
3W general is the custom of
n in Trinity parish we have
is of knowing, nor do we
V many of the assistant min-
llow in the wake of their

rector. We have heard of one or
two others who are disposed to be
confessors, and there are probably
many such ministers whose names
are not brought before the pub-
lic. We cannot suppose that any
high-minded clergyman would be
willing to hear confessions in an un-
der-hand or secret manner, and we
must believe that they who do so
are not ashamed of it, nor unwilling
to have their practice made public.
No offence is therefore intended by
the mention of names, and we will
rest satisfied that none is given.
How many of the bishops favor au-
ricular confession does not appear. So
far as we have heard, no one has
openly recommended it ; but the
Right Reverend Dr. Potter, of New
York, has allowed a manual to be de-
dicated to him, in which the practice
is strongly urged, and devotions for
its use are extracted from Catholic
prayer-books. While he has rebuked
the Rev. Mr. Tyng for preaching in
a Methodist church, he goes openly
to St. Alban's, and, to say the least,
gives sanction to Ritualistic perfor-
mances. We have a right, then, to
conclude that he favors the confes-
sional, and is willing to see it set up
in the churches which he superin-
tends. It will be observed that this
confession in the Episcopal Church
is not simply consulting a clergyman
in a private conversation about spiri-
tual matters, but the humble ackjiow-
ledgment of sins in detail, in order
to receive absolution from one who
thinks himself authorized by Al-
mighty God to give it. It^is certainly
a sacrament in the true 'definition of
the term, an outward ^sign of an in-
ward grace, administered by one pre-
tending, at least, Jto bear a commis-
sion from Christ/ Those who go to
the Episcopalian ministers to confess
their sins, surely go under this be-
lief, and no Argument is necessary to

The Epiicopaiian Cotffesst&nA

show that they would not go, unless
under the conviction that their of-
fences against God could be forgiven
in no other way. The Ritualists
have made of this a most important
matter in their devotional books,
where can be found questions for ex-
amination of conscience, tables of
sins, and prayers to excite contrition
and improve the great gift of abso-
lution. When, then, we speak of
the confessional in the Protestant
Episcopal communion, we are not
drawing upon fancy, but touching
upon a fact which must have an im-
portant effect upon the body which
it especially interests.

2. The first remark we have to
make upon this acknowledged fact
is almost a truism. It is, that aun*
cular confession is not a Protestant
practice, but quite the contrary ; and
that they who adopt it cut them-
selves off from all sympathy with the
doctrines of the reformation. We
I hardly need to prov*c that there is
not one Protestant church which ap-
proves of the custom of which we
speak, or believes that its ministers
have the power to remit and retain
sin. If the Church of England be
adduced against us, we have only to
point to the incontrovertible fact,
that she declares that penance is not
a sacrament, and therefore conveys
no inward grace. The absolutions left
in her daily services are only declara-
tory of God^s willingness to forgive
the repentant sinner, and could be as
well used by a layman as by a minis-
ter. For who cannot say that " God
pardoneth and absolveth all who are
truly penitent" ? And as for the ab-
solution in the office of the visitation
of the sick, we have only to say that
k is a relic of by-gone days which is
seldom used, and that whatever be
its meaning, it cannot, contrary to
the article, be presumed to confer
grace. The English Church certain-

ly did never consider it i
any necessity, otherwise

have said so. The Epi
the United States have no
to refer to ; for the compili
liturg>^ have expunged it
at the same time tliat th
the Athanasian creed. ]
of tlie ordination of priest
tute was also provided f<
words, "Receive the Ho!
whose sins you shall rem
remitted unto them/* Th<
this substitution we leave
reader to imagine. We
that very few of the bishop
ing to use the old form, an
copal minister of Puseyi
once told us that he was V€
to have the bishop who oi
use it, but was restrained
ing this favor by the ass
one of the prelate's intim
that, if he said anything :
would get a flat refusal, tc^
a good scolding. While tl
ticles of faith in the Ep
body deny the power of
the practice of that denotni
Christians is entirely agaii
ministers who hear confi
the people who make
** dreamland," about
read a very pretty piece
This " dreamland" is not
sive or tangible here, and i
if now there are any somi
in or about Buffalo. We
right to every man to
pleases, and call himself
likes, only we object to
two contradictory characl
same lime. It is not quii
able ; and we say, with
common sense of mank
dear friend, choose for y<
please be cither one thtl
other."

But we go further, and
the practice of confcs^ioa

The Episcopalian Confessional.

37S

tion of a sacerdotal power which
!ic very first point attacked by
formation, and which is really
:ntral point of the Catholic sys-
Once admit the great power of
ition, and you receive at the
time logically the doctrine of
lood as it is held by the Church,
doctrine does not and cannot
alone; it brings with it the
\ in her unity, and the neces-
safeguards which divine wis-
las thrown around the exercise
;reat a gift. Who has the power
give sins? Not every man,
r'ery one who may choose to
mself a priest There must be
external call to so high an office;
i it is Christ's priesthood which
rcised, there must be some way
henticating the power delegat-
id articulating it to the great
of Christianity. The Catholic
h alone maintains the practice
ifession, and if she is good for
he is good for everything. Ec-
sra may be advisable in mat-
* science, but in divine revela-
t is both absurd and impos-
The foundation of faith is in
>rd of God. The church is no
r if she be not guided by su-
ural light ; and if she be thus
I, her authority is universal.
)palians may believe that their
ers can forgive their sins, but
ave no reason for such a belief.
own church surely does not
, while the Catholic voice ex-
1 denies it. It will be hard to
w they can prove it from Scrip-
s applied to their particular
inion. Not only is the unity
; church connected logically
le idea of priesthood, but also
' sacrifice, and of sacramental
And these doctrines bring
lem the Tridentine system of
ation, which is diametrically
xi to the Lutheran theory which

underlies all consistent Protestantism.
We do not believe that any one can
go to confession for any length of
time, and not feel the truth of these
remarks. He will be irresistibly
borne to the gates of the Catholic
Church with whose faith his religious
life will be in sympathy, and he will,
day by day, lose his love and respect
for his own communion.

3. So far, therefore, we have rea-
son to rejoice in the adoption of the
confessional by the Episcopalians,
and to renew our prayers for their
conversion to that truth which at a
distance proves so attractive to them.
Yet there are dangers in regard to
which the sincere ought to be fore-
warned, and serious evils to many
souls may result from the incapacity
of confessors who have never been
trained for this most delicate and
difficult work. It is in the spirit of
Christian charity that we revert to
these dangers.

In the first place, we hardly need
say that no one but a duly authoriz-
ed priest of the Catholic Church has
the power to give absolution. As we
are addressing chiefly those who be-
lieve in some ecclesiastical system,
we have only to advert to the fact,
that to such a power both orders and
jurisdiction are necessary. The Epis-
copal Church does not admit the ex-
istence of this power, and the whole
Christian world which does accept it,
unites in the opinion that the Episco-
palian clergy have no orders what-
ever, any more than the Methodists
or Presbyterians. Any layman is as
good a priest as the most distinguish-
ed Anglican minister. Such is the
decision of the Catholic Church, and
of every sect which has retained the
apostolical succession. Is this de-
cision of no consequence to the Ri-
tualists who pretend to believe in
authority and antiquity? But or-
ders are not sufficient for the exer-

376

The Episcopalian ConftssioHat

cise of the power of absolution. Ju-
risdiction is also required, because
they who believe in the priesthood
must also believe that Christ has left
this great office in order, and not in
confusion. The bishop is the su-
preme pastor of his diocese, and no
priest, without his permission, can
validly either hear confessions or
give absolution. This principle of
jurisdiction is one which does not
seem to penetrate the heads of High-
Church Episcopalians ; but if they
will reflect for a moment, they will
see its absolute necessity to the
existence of the church. Suppose
that valid orders are alone requir-
ed to the exercise of the priesthood,
and the communion of the faithful,
and what is to prevent any priest
from going off at any time, and car-
Ty\x\g with him all the essentials of
the church? Then there would be
as many churches as there are dis*
senting priests.

No intelligent man would form a
society on such principles, and surely
our Lord Jesus Christ did not do so
foolish a thing as found a church con-
taining in itself the very seeds of self-
destruction. We have heard that an
excommunicated priest, who bears, to
his sorrow, the ineffaceable character
of priesthood, is willing to hear con-
fessions since his apostasy. But
though he has valid orders, he is no
more able to give absolution than
his associate ministers who have
never been ordained, because he has
no jurisdiction from Christ. What
do these " Fathers " among the Epis-
copalians pretend ? Do they ask ju-
risdiction from their own bfshops,
who, having none, have none to
give ? Or do they profess to have
the whole Catholic Church in their
own persons ? If so, histor}^ has seen
■nothing so strange in all its curious
record of ecclesiastical devices.

It is then a sad thing for a man to

confess his sins and go ih:
humiliation of opening his
to another ; and then receii
don for the sins be so anxii
fesses. We beg the attenlio
earnest hearts to this point,
to them, **lf you really w
fess^ why not go at once wh
is no doubt that Christ ha|
power of forgiveness?"

Secondly, there is dang«
way and manner in which \i
that the Episcopalian mini:!
confessions. They ought,
own sake» and for the saki
penitents, to adopt the r
safeguards which the expei
the church has thrown arou
portant a work. It is not p
hear the confessions of lad
minister's private room^
sence of a plain cross, or
does not remove the obj
is too much of a burden to
lady to go through with al!
necessary trial, especially
has the additional convid
she is doing something w
would not wish the world
or which sh3 would not be
tell her husband or friend
Catholic Church has wisely
that the priest shall sit whe
neither see nor distinguish
tent, and this is a safe rule t
tated. The same objection
the method, said to be in
St. Alban\ where the min
in the chancel, and the
kneels at his back. If
others in the church, thej
much exposure* and if tlic
locked, there is too much
The Episcopalian cl
confessors ought to ^
als in their churches, and
at given hours publicly an

We understand, also, tlial
cases, at least, the penitent
to write out his confesst<}

The Episcopalian Confessional,

377

insider this a dangerous

painful practice. We
informed that Dr. Pusey
general confessions which

be written out carefully
ith him for his private
! days before the confes-
le. We are certain that
rse has been sometimes
this country, much to the

ladies, who have even
is of it. A sinner will do
loubt, in the fervor of
)ut no such thing as this

done. It is against the
the Catholic Church, and

1 of instinctive delicacy
ty. No one is obliged to
iself, even to obtain the
iin.

t is unfortunate for the
clergy that they hear con-
' by reason of \}ci€\x person-

over their penitents ; that
: understand the nature of
r secrecy; and that they
xed system by which to
r penitents. The same
3w, as if a doctor should

a lawyer, or a blacksmith

influence is, no doubt, an
of much good ; but when
• principally governs the
f confessor and penitent,
igers may be imminent,
ose who go to confession
>copal Church are led to
)y reason of their confi-
the individual to whom
id through the attraction
ty or zeal. They would
o any one else, and if he
or be removed, they would
lOut a director. It is not
kC priest to whom they un-
eir conscience, as the fa-
cher whose good qualities

strong impressions upon
lis is not a healthy state of

things, and leads to sentimentality,
which is often mistaken for piety.
In the Catholic Church, the habit of
confession is as universal as prayer,
and the priestly character oversha-
dows the individual. Among Pro-
testants the contrary is notoriously
true, and this difficulty in the way of
the Protestant confessor can hardly
be removed until he shall have
brought about in his communion the
state of feeling which is second na-
ture to Catholics. This he can never
do. He may lead individuals to the
church ; he cannot convert the whole
body with which he is identified.

With the best intentions in the
world, he does not and cannot under-
stand the seal of secrecy which for
ever closes the lips of the priest.
He is disposed as a man of honor
not to betray confidence, but expe-
rience teaches us that very few hu-
man secrets have been kept. He
has not been taught the sacred na-
ture of his obligation, nor the various
ways by which he may expose his
penitent, and as he has assumed an
office to which his church did not call
him, he stands or falls in human
strength. No motive higher than
that of honor binds him, and com-
plicated as he is with the world,
and generally with matrimonial rela-
tions, he really does not know how
to act. The Catholic priest not only
is bound by the fear of terrible sin,
but is also aided by the system which
surrounds him, in which he is trained
and by that supernatural power which
we know upholds the seven sacra-
ments. He is not an individual rest-
ing upon his unaided powers, but the
creature of his church, the agent and
representative of a vast power which
girdles the Christian world. Years
of study and discipline have taught
him the nature of his obligations,
while he himself is as much bound to
confess his sins as to hear the bur-

378

The Episcopalian Confessl

den of other consciences. What au
anomaly, for a man who never con-
fesses his own faults, to undertake
to listen to the accusations of others 1
If they n^^A the confessional, much
more does he need it Is it not
Pharisaical to bind burdens upon
others, which we touch not with one
of our fingers ?

Let men say what they will, we be-
lieve, and from experience we know,
that God upholds the confessor in
his difficult task \ that he gives him
superhuman wisdom ; that within the
tribunal of penance a divine shield is
over him to protect him against the
weakness of humanity, that he may
walk unharmed where otherwise an-
gels would fear to tread. Here we
.pity the poor and isolated Ritualist,
' going forth upon a dangerous sea, in
a frail bark, with no trust but the
strength of his own arm. Cast out
by his own church, and refusing com-
munion with the great Catholic heart,
how long will he stand the fury of the
storm ?

Finally, how shall he direct his
penitents, and by what system form
their spiritual character? Moral
theology is an extensive and sub-
tle science. The infallible church
has given clear decisions upon
all essential points of fact and mo-
rals, and her doctors, by years of
patient labor and centuries of ex-
perience, have matured the colossal
system which has such mighty intlu-
'ence over the religious heart. But
what is all this to the Protestant con-
fessor ? He cannot avail himself of
tills without confessing the authority
of the church ; and if he begins with
such a confession, where must he
conscientiously guide his penitents ?
If he deny this authority, and by his
oi^Ti fallible wisdom choose the prin-
ciples of his morality, in what respect
is his opinion worth more than that
of the humblest layman ? Can there

be a more pitiable sped
that of a Protestant minister
Liguori as his guide in Ic
souls of others ? Hisspiri
surely made up of contil
which must vex and perplex
science if he be an hor^
And will he not unavoidah
grievous mistakes, in the usi
without experience, in the
a work for which he has ha(
paration ?

Moreover, there are often
which have to be made, anc
he must either be a despc
must make equivocal answ
Catholic accuses himself of
or doubt, the reply is easy ;
revelation is, according to
in and through an unerri
If the Protestant falls into a
ger, how shall he ftnd dircctioii
for him there is no infallible
Must he not go on his weaf
investigation, and is nott by
ciples, doubt his normal sta
Catholic doubts the truth of
cision of his church, he co
sin against his own creed ;
the Episcopal communion
disclaims infallibility, how
Episcopalian confessor tclJ
tent not to doubt his churl
herself tells him he ought
her ? Then it comes to this^
will either make him no
rule him with a rod of iron,
him by his inflexible ipstdu
has been the result, in m<
than one, of this arbitrary c
in the handii of individuals
ther by their own church, no
other, have the right to dire<
Loss of the moral sense,
discern the first inspirations
and, sometimes, insanity.
from tlie testimony of i<x<:\
bad enough to be under a
pot, but it is worse to be u
ligious autocrat* Then in i

The Episcopalian Confessional.

379

3 we have heard of most
stakes, where the good of
: was in no way consulted,
lication of the absolutism
'essor. Think of a pen-
)od for one lie, or for the

of attending Mass in a
hurch. Think of penan-
:over months and burden
the chains of obligatory
1 exercises. But all this
Dthing compared to the
1 unhealthy religious life

engender, in which slav-
jod is the principal ingre-
e sighs and solemn faces,
cheerfulness and natural
are the exhibitions of their
us, (and we have had oc-
now the interior of more
hey seem to be perpetual-
p a steep ascent under the
leavy burdens from which
t wrong to expect relief.
:onfess their sins as if do-
ealthy action, they kill in
the bright light and elas-
irit which the great Crea-
im. God is not a tyrant,
ful and beneficent father,
2S of love are ever around
1, and his priesthood are
lie work of love to bring
he erring heart the sun-
father's truth and mercy,
sor is no minister of jus-
ke his Master, the good
to bind up the wounds of

heart, to preach deliver-
e captive, and joy to the

In what we have said, we make no
accusations against the good inten-
tions of these Protestant confessors,
for whom we especially pray. We
believe that they mean well, and that
they hope to sanctify their people by
borrowing fruit from the garden of
the church, and transplanting it
where it cannot and will not grow.
And as their only friends — ^for in
their own communion they have few
friends — we warn them of the risk
they run, and of the dangers to
which they expose their penitents.
It is a feaiful responsibility for them,
for which they must answer alone,
and in which no church will shield
them. Some will, through their inca-
pacity, lose their hold upon all reli-
gion, and either live without hope
or die without consolation. Others
\vill shut their eyes to the plainest
deductions of reason, and having
eyes, will see not, having ears, will
hear not. Many through divine
grace, and the honest heart which
pursues principles to their legitimate
results, will find their way to that one
faith where all things are in harmo-
ny, where the aspirations of the soul
are met with a full answer, and the
needs of the heart are filled from
God*s own fulness. O children of
men ! how foolish it is to enter upon
the province of God, and by human
hands to make a religion, when the
all-merciful Father, who alone know-
eth our frame, has made one for us,
which in its completeness answereth
to every want of our being.

Mcfa^

fffffft

^a$tl

SKETCHES DRAWN FROM THE LIFE OF ST. PAUl
THE ABBE LAGRANGE, VICARGENERAL OF 01

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

**If all the members of my body
should be changed into as many
tongHCS, and should assume as many
voices, I should still be unable to
say enough of the virtues of the
saintly and venerable Paula/'

It is in these words of pious en-
thusiasm that St* Jerome, himself so
holy a man, and accustomed lo the
guidance of so many noble souls» be-
gins his biography of Paula^ when, at
the instance of her daughter, Eusto-
chium, and to drj^ her tears, he un-
dertook to record her motlier*s vir-
tues.

Placing himself with awe in the
presence of God and his angels, St.
Jerome says : ** I call to witness our
Lord Jesus Christ and his saints, and
the guardian angel of this incompa-
rable woman, that what I say is sim-
ple truth, and that my words are un-
worthy of those virtues celebrated
throughout the world, which have
ecn the admiration of the church,
nd which the poor yet weep for*
Joble by birth, more noble still by
her holiness ; powerful in her opu-
lence, but more illustrious afterward
in the poverty of Christ ; of the race
of the Scipios and of the Gracchi ;
heiress of Paulus Emilius, from whom
she takes her name of Paula ; direct
descendant of tliat famous Martia
Papyri a, who was wife to the con-
queror of Perseus, and mother of the
second Scipio Africanus ; she pre-
ferred Bethlehem to Rome, and the
humble roof of a poor dwelling to
the gilded palaces of her ancestors/'

Paula was bom in Rome
the middle of the fourth cent
5 th of May, of the year 34 j
reign of Constantius, and
stans, the sons of Constantin<
years after the death of th
prince, Julius was then
Rome. Paula belonged,
her mother, Blesilla, to one
most ancient and illustrious far
of Rome ; and it seemed as if J
dence wished to unite all ea
tinctions In this child, for ihfl
blood of Greece mingled in 1
with the noblest blood of Ror
this time nothing was more con
than alliances between the Ri
and Greek families, as is prove
the Greek names which we fir
the Roman genealogies. Tb
of Paula, Rogatus, was a Grc
claimed royal descent from th
of Myca^nas ; and Agamemn
self is said to have been hit
ancestor

St. Jerome gives no furthc
of the family of Paula, exceptli
he mentions casually that theii
sessions were vast, includii
important estates in Greec
Aclium, besides their don
Italy. **If," says St. Jcro
take note of her opulence and
it is not that I attach impor
these temporal advantages,
order to show that the glory i
in my eyes was not in havjj
sessed them, but in having b
at the feet of Jesus Christ,"

A more real advantage
birth was, that her noble fan
Christians, although a

■lb

ketches drawn from

lained pagans. This
of creeds must not
or the resistance to
5 great, and through-
century it was a com-
2e worshippers of the
of Jupiter under the

ith, presented then a
Christian Rome and
tood face to face, and
as yet untouched by
11 wore an imposing
ITapitol still stood in
with the statues and
heathen gods. Oppo-
ilatine, stood the an-
3f the Cnesars, with its
es ; and at the foot of
the old Forum sur-
pagan temples. Fur-
separated from the
Sacred Way and the
of Flavins, rose the
seum ; and at the oth-
he great circus and
of Nero. On the
Tiber was the mole of
.usoleum of Augustus,
theatres, baths, porti-
every side j indeed,
nt of luxury and su-
ing how deeply rooted
was in the capital of

;, by more than one
y to recognize that all
ndeur was fast fading
lother power ; and if
I found strong support
is and customs, insti-
onuments, it was the
3 past, which was less-
'. The future belonged
and Christianity was
he upper hand. The
which were still stand-
y, the crowd now dis-
hes. Silence and soli-
round the gods, while

^la.

38r

\h^Sft^^^44^ni^jg)re%tin^ out its mag-
niHJ^iie^ inr^rail^<^lI(|Kr, covered
Rom^ ^^if superb b^iliSis. At the
same time, RdifWjde^'rted»by the
emperors for poMtteafreasons, which
ser\'ed the divine purpose, seemed
given up to the majesty of pontifical
rule ; and the popes, brought out from
the Catacombs and placed by Con-
stantine in the imperial palace, al-
ready gave a foreshadowing to the
world of the glory which should
henceforth invest the Holy See.

At this time there sprang from the
bosom of the church a soul who was
destined to exercise a vast influence
upon the religious orders throughout
the universe.

The blood of the martyrs and early
Christians had not been shed in vain.
It was just at this epoch in the history
of Christianity that Providence gave
being to a child destined by her holi-
ness to be one of the marvels of the
age.

We have sufficient data to know
what her education was and under
what influences she grew up to wo-
manhood. The old Roman spirit
and the Christian spirit were both
fitted to form a character of the high-
est order. Austere honor, severe self-
respect, noble traditions of ancient
customs, were early inculcated in the
mind of Paula. She came of a race
of whom St. Jerome said : " Remem-
ber that in your family a woman very
rarely, if ever, contracts a second
marriage." Besides the holy books
which were her first studies, her read-
ing was vast and extended, embrac-
ing both the literature of Greece
and Rome. We shall see how in
after-life this early culture developed
in her the rich gifts of nature, estab-
lishing equilibrium between her in-
tellect and her character.

Paula was brought up by her
mother with that ardent love for the
practice of her religion, which in all

3to

Sketches drawn from the Life of St, Paula,

its perfection belonged especially to
the days when persccuiJon made
these observances most precious to
the early Christians. She followed
Bicsilla to the basilicas and to all
feasts of the church, and also to visit
the tombs of the martyrs and to the
Catacombs. This last devotion was
peculiarly dear to the Christians of
the fourth century. They sought
to glorify those victorious soldiers.
"See/* cried St. Chr}^sostom, "the
tomb of the martyrs! The em-
peror himself lays down his crown
there, and bends the knee."

There was not, perhaps, a family
of Christians in Rome, which did not
have some loved member among the
glorious dead lying in the long galle-
ries of the Catacombs. Saint Jerome
speaks of the pious attraction of these
sanctified asylums in the great city
of the martyrs.

In this atmosphere of love for the
church, and of faith in Christ and
in the divine origin of Christianity,
young Paula grew up. It was in
those days the custom for the daugh-
ters of noble houses in Rome to mar*
ry young; and when Paula was fifteen
years of age, her parents gave her in
marriage to a young Greek whose
name was Toxotius.

He belonged, on his mother's side,
to the ancient family of the Julians,
which boasted, as we know, of going
back to the time of iEneas :

** Juliui, i matcnQ dtintuiiin oomeu TqId/*

Toxotius did not have the faith
of his bride. These mbted marriages
were not rare in those days \ witness
Monica and Patricius, (he parents of
St, Augustine.

Christianity had tolerated such
marriages from the beginning, in the
hope that the infidel husband might
be won by the wife to her belief
When, robed in a white tunic of the

of fct
fill^

anal

finest wool, according to cus
brow covered with the jia^
Paula laid her trembling
that of Toxotius, who can
what holy emotion, what
of thought, what purity of fct
and of hope, her soul was lill
the other hand, Toxotius
seem to have been unworth^
Christian bride, and the unc
a flection Paula bore him c\*er
ward, her inconsolable grief,
loss, all proves that ihetr
was among those which thi
calls happy. God blessed tliil
Four daughters were sue
bom to them.

The eldest, called Blesiiln
her grandmother, seemed gifti
a vivacious and most interestij
acter ; her health was delicatcj
full, rich nature gave early
of that rare beauty of mind an?
which developed perfectly in a
years to the joy of Paula.

Paulina, the second, had ai
fine nature, hut the very opposit
B!esilla*s, Her light was not
her si sterns, a shining flame ; but
less brilliancy of wit, and less i
city of character, she possesse
good sense and solid judgn
ing promise of being as
character as her sister was brilli

As for the third of these yti
girls, called by the graccful_
of Eustochium, borrowed
Greek, and meaning rectituA
she was a gentle child, mode§t|
served, timid. One wo^ild
was like a flower hiding will
self her owti perfume ; but
fume was sweet, and on a nc
one could not avoid seeinj;
young soul all the treas
would one day flower and
It is difficult to picture to
Rufina. She appears but oii
history of her mother, ai ibc I
of the departure of FauU

;ss^^

snffll

5 brilli
ese yti
eful_a

be MM

Sketclies drawn from the Life of St Paula.

383

east, sad, bathed in tears, and yet
»1ent and resigned; stamped, even
D childhood, with that painful charm
vhich belongs particularly to those
leings not destined by providence
3 mature, but to fall away and die
oung.

Paula's married life was passed in
ic midst of all the magnificence
liich marked the decline and fall
r the empire. She passed through
nc streets of Rome^ as did the other
st^cian ladies, in a gilded litter,
•.tried by slaves. She would have
rared to put her dainty feet on
fc^ earth, or to touch the mud of
fcc streets. The weight of a silk
r"<ss was almost too much for one
> sensitive to carry ; and had a ray
F sunshine intruded into her litter,
'- would have seemed to her ^fire,

** £t K^ calor mcendium" etc, etc

EpUt. ad Pammackium.

In those days she used rouge and
-ereum, like other women of her rank;
*he passed much of her time at the
^ath, which consumed so great a part
^f life in Rome; she spent the winter,
^cording to usual custom, at Rome,
^d the summer in some villa in the
^untry, passing her time most agree-
^% between her books and a chosen
^le of friends.

In the midst of all this luxury,
■^ing a life far removed from the
^itues which she practised later,
^aula was yet known and respected
^ a woman of great dignity of cha-
'^ter and irreproachable conduct,
•^od if, during these happy years,
^ young wife of Toxotius did not
**^ys sufficiently bear in mind the
'^*xim of the apostle, which teaches
''^ to use the things of this world,
**ftout giving them our affections in-
^''dinately ; if she tasted too freely of
^ pleasures and dangerous vanities,
"^ the trials which she was soon to
•^Counter, there was compensation
^ be made for this self-indulgence.

and, in her austere penance, a super-
abundant expiation. Saint Jerome
tells us that Paula had none of the
barbaric arrogance common to the
Roman women — that which made
them purse-proud, cruel to their
slaves, passionate, and impatient,
which Juvenal describes so admira-
bly in his imperishable satires. In
Paula all these bad passions gave
place to gentleness, softness, good-
ness. "This wealthy daughter of
the Scipios," says St. Jerome, " was
the gentlest and the most benevolent
of women — ^to little children, to ple-
beians, and with her own slaves. She
possessed that excelling goodness,
without which noble birth and beauty
are worthless, and which is especially
characteristic of a lofty nature. This
sweetness of mind, combined with
her austere sense of honor, were the
two features of her soul which, by
their contrast, made her countenance
most charming.

It is easy to conceive how such a
woman performed the delicate social
duties that devolved upon her. Her
associations were of two kinds. She
was intimate with all the celebrated
women in the church, such as Ma-
nilla and Titiana ; at the same time
the pagan relations of Toxotius all
loved her, and she received them fre-
quently at her house, bearing in mind
the duty of the Christian woman to
let them see her religion in such a
light as would lead them to respect
and honor it. And so it was that, by
her fireside, Paula was the happiest
of wives and of mothers. Her young
family grew up joyously around her,
filling her with bright hopes for the
future.

She had long wished to give her
husband a son and heir. Her prayer
was answered ; and she gave birth to
a son, her last child, who received
the name of Toxotius, after his fa-
ther.

\eifkes drawn

the

^aul

This IS all that history tells us of
the first phase in the Jife of Paula.
We see her thus with ever\' happiness
at once, " the pride," says St. Jerome,
" of her husband, of her family, and
of all Rome.*'

We know no more of her life up
to the age of thirty. The Paula of
history, the saint whom God was to
give as an example to souls, is not
the woman of the world, nor the
happy woman ; she is the woman
struck as if by lightning, blasted in
her happiness ; and from this trial
rising up generously, and by a great
flight soaring far above common vir-
tues and the ordinary condition of
pious souls, up to tho<ie heroic acts
which only emanate from great sor-
rows. It would seem as if God had
been pleased to accumulate upon her,
for thirty years, all the felicity of
earth — to adom» as it were, this vic-
tim of his love, and to make us com-
prehend the better by the subsequent
destruction of this, how vain is earth-
ly happiness.

It is here that the* historian takes
hold of Paula, and that the veil is
lifted from her. Now begins her true
history, the histor}'^ of her soul,

Paula was only thirty-one years of
age when Toxotius died and she be-
came a widow. The blow to her was
terrible. In the first moments of her
grief she was completely stunned and
powerless. It was feared by her
friends that she would not long sur-
vive the shock. Nothing could slop
her tears. She could not be com-
forted. From day to day the void
was growing deeper and deeper into
her heart.

There is a decisive turning-point
in the life of every one, on which the
future depends. This moment had
now come for Paula. Two ways lay
open before her — the world on one
side, God on the other, She deter-
mined, in her sorrow, to give up tlie

world, to lead for ever afte
life of a Christian widow, and
for consolation in this resolti

After the first outburst
when she came to herself^
sion was irrevocably made*
things were never more to regair
hold they had had over her up till i
She understood what God w*j
her ; namely, " to accept thc^
and change her whole life.*'
St. Francis de Sales tells
heart of a widow who could
herself all to God during
time of her husband, flies in \
celestial perfumes, when he i
taken from her."

Paula was surrounded wit]
noble examples. Marcella
her palace on Mount Aveniine,w8
she had gathered together a band
widows and virgins from amongst 1
noblest families of Rome, who gB
great edification by their virtue i
charity. How and for w!
had Providence permittea
munity to be formed, which ga
such an impetus to the religious lil
It is necessary that we shouM I
swer in some detail, for thisi
key to the whole life of Pauli
The church, resting from th
cr persecutions, which inflan
and devotion, wa.*j now in gre
from the growing influence
rity and wealth, in spreading j
and Roman love of indolcn*^^
indifference. The empire was
dining, and its moral fall was I
tened by political troubles. The
generate Romans consoled ih
selves for their abasement*
melancholy enjoyments nf ht5(
vice, Luxurv* and d
already creeping int(
lines, thus attacking the fno*t \
parts of the church* False wid
and virgins do longer scrupled
show light conduct beneath tbe ^
There must be a remedy Ibu

:d Ih

Shgtches dmwH frotn the Life of St. Paula.

38S

il. God failed not to bring
) his church, and the spirit
is became all the more man-
er faithful children, in pro-
i the peril was great,
taction commenced in the
. the great monastic foun-
which rose up in opposi-
he world, performing pro-
i the way of austerities
1 improvement At Rome,
o say, the reform began

was least to have been ex-
amely, in the midst of the
i. The signal was given by
rhey threw themselves with
3 the heroic path, and soon
)ands followed them. This
ion was one of the most
!e in history, as well as in
J of the church. It was start-

Athanasius, who brought
m from the east Thrice
f Arian persecution, the
riarch three times sought

Rome. He had brought
the revelation of the won-
ized by the fathers in the

Egypt and on the banks
Je. His biography of the
liony took hold of every ima-
md gave new zeal to monas-
Athanasius had passed se-
in the Theban deserts ; he
Ti Anthony, Ricomius, and
and told of the astounding
their supernatural life,
of these journeys of Atha-

Rome, a noble Christian
med Albina, had the honor
ng him as her guest Al-

a daughter, Marcella, on
)le soul the conversation of
bishop made an extraordi-
ession. Seated at his feet,
ig girl drank in every

fell from his lips. Some
ter, out of deference to her
vishes, Marcella consented
; but when, at the end of

^rOL, VII — 2^

seven months, she became a widow
and was free, she made up her mind
never to contract a second marriage,
but to devote herself in Rome to the
humble imitation of those virtues
which Athanasius had taught her to
venerate and admire. Nevertheless,
her youth, her wit and great beauty
drew around her many admirers.
Amongsto thers was Cerealio, of high
birth and large fortune. " I will be
more her father than her husband,"
said he to Albina, who greatly desired
the marriage, '' I will leave her all
my wealth, being already advanced
in years." But Marcella was inflexi-
ble. " If I wished to marry again,"
said she to her mother, ^*I would
marry a husband, and not an inheri-
tance."

Cerealio was refused, and this dis-
couraged all other suitors.

Marcella now gave up the world
and made a desert of her magnifi-
cent palace. There she lived aus-
terely, doing good works. She bid
farewell to jewels, and even laid aside
the seal ring always worn by the
patrician women ; and rising above
their prejudice against the religious
state, and particularly the coarse garb
of the monks, she was the first who
dared to assume the abased dress,
and publicly imitated what St Atha-
nasius had taught her to believe
good in the sight of God. The ex-
ample soon became contagious, giv-
ing her many followers, who astonish-
ed Rome by their austerities and
penances.

There was also at Rome, at this
time, a young patrician lady whose
name was Melanie. Suddenly, when
only twenty-two, she lost her hus-
band and two children, and laid
them in one tomb on the same day.
Accepting this dispensation of the
divine will, Melanie resolved to de-
vote her whole life to the shining vir-
tues of which Marcella was so bright;

386

Sketches drawn front the Life of St, Paula,

an example. To increase her faith fur*
ther, she started on a pious pilgrira-
age to the east, where Athanasius
still lived. She saw him at Alexan-
dria shortly before his death. After
having visited the monasteries of
Egypt and the Holy Land, Melanie
was unwilling to return to Rome and
its corruptions. She therefore found-
ed for herself a monastery on the
Mount of Olives, w^here she lived an
austere and good life.

This example still further inflamed
the souls of the Roman women, and
numberless were those now in search
of perfection ; some remaining at
home in their own houses, like the
virgins and widows of the first centu-
ries ; others preferring to congregate
together, and, without any fixed rule,
make the trial of community life.
The centre of all this movement was
Marcel la, who possessed in an extra-
ordinary degree the power of attract-
ing others to her. She was truly the
standard-bearer of this noble band,
of whose hearts grace had taken
possession. The venerable Albina
was like the revered ancestress of the
little community formed on Mount
Aventine. The most prominent of
those who joined Marc ell a were So-

iphronia, Felicitas, and Marccllina.

I The latter was daughter of an ancient
governor of the Gauls. Outside of
Marcella's house, the names best
known among those who had devoted
themselves to a life of austerity and
virtue, were Lea, a holy widow whom
the church has canonized ; the ad-
mirable Asella, and Fabiola, who
was of the ancient family of Fabius,
All this movement toward religious
life was greatly encouraged by the
pious pontiiTw^ho then filled St, Pe-
ter's chair. At the time Paula be-
came a widow. Pope Damasus was
nearly seventy-five years of age. He
was one of the noblest of the early
popes, and one of those who did

most for Chris' A for the de-

velopment of \ u piety. He

had a sister named Irene, who, con-
secrating herself to God, died at the
age of twenty^ in honor of whom he
composed a most toudiing epitaph

Such was the ^roup of souls .in
the array of w liai

around her, am , tier,

when she became a wido^i to seek a
more perfect life.

In the words of St Jerome, Mar*
cella, like an incendiar)% blew u]
these lighted cinders and sci them
a blaze. She found words to bi
those eyes, so dimmed by tears, ta.
turn to heaven ; and she urged that |
bruised spirit to rise up and seek |
God. Ail this Marcella did with
sistefs tenderness. Her solicitude
extended to the children of
friend, and she begged that EustQ
chium, who already showed a pred:
lection for the religious life, might t»«
confided to hex care* Paul ^ 1-j
ed to this wish with joy» keej > h\

her Blesilla, Paulina, Ruhna* axj<
Toxotius. Then she began with slt* \
dor and faith the new life she h;ad
marked out for herself, and she soon
outshone all others in virtue, Thei8
was a sudden and admirable cxpafl"
sion of greatness in her soul WitiJ
her this rupture with the world was
but a higher flight toward God*

Her first step in advance wai *
new and great love of prayer ; for K>
it is, that the more the heart is doses
to earth, the more it opens to hcavto*^
Her love of God and of celestial ihiog*
grew stronger each day. She Uv«^
most austerely, practising evety Chrf^
tian mortification- All the habits ^
luxury of other days were tbro^^^
aside, and the very comforts of li- -
diminished. She slept >
floor, and rivalled in ab-
fiist-the ascetics of the descxC
often wept over the thou^it of
self indulgence of her former worlt

Sketches dtawn from the Life of St Paula.

387

lese tears, together with those
e shed for her husband, Toxo-
wed so constantly and so
itly, that her eyes were injur-
her sight endangered. Pau-
[le pale one, pale with fasting
ost blinded by tears,
's heart was inflamed with
She found in the poor an-
tlet of love for an ardent na-
id as she surpassed Marcella
others in austerities, so she
)assed them in charities. All
•me was given in alms, and
' says St. Jerome, "did a
:ome away from her empty-

J now two years since Paula
;d in this holy way, when
ws reached the little commu-
Vventine. In 382, Pope Da-
alled to Rome the Catholic
in council, and many venera-
ops were expected there from
The object of the council
decide several questions of
well as to put an end to the
iding schism of Antioch. A
ops only answered the call of
lan pontiff, the greater part
\ themselves in a letter which
ated in ecclesiastical history,
those who came were Pan-
ic of the bishops of Antioch,
Epiphanius, Bishop of Sala-
the island of Cyprus,
easy to imagine the emotion
d among these recluses by
-^al in Rome of such person-
these holy bishops, who came
5 mysterious east where the
: faith had been cradled,
id seen Jerusalem and the
and ; they knew the fathers
lesert, whose fame filled the
^at lessons of wisdom would
: be able to gather from such
!

obtained from Pope Dama-
honor of having St Epipha-

nius as her guest, and it was in her
daily interviews with him, as well as
with Paulinus, that the desire to see
the east, which she was one day to
realize, first sprung up in her mind.

History has preserved few details
of this council of the year 382. The
great work to be brought about by
these eastern bishops at Rome was
the new impetus which their pre-
sence was to give to religion among
the Christians of Rome already in
the way of life and truth. There
came from the east, in company with
the holy bishops, a man destined to
exercise great influence over the
future life of Paula and her friends.
This man was St, Jerome. We must
pause a moment and not pass by one
who is perhaps the most striking,
the most original, and the grandest
figure of the fourth century. He
stands alone in his strength— -differ-
ent from St. Hilarius of Poitiers, the
profound theologian ; from Ambrose,
the sweet orator ; from Augustine, the
great philosopher, or Paulinus, the
Christian poet His features are
marked and stem, his character is
austere and ardent ; the burning re-
flection from an eastern sky rests
upon him ; he is laden with the learn-
ing of the Christian and the pagan
world; the indefatigable athlete of
the church, he whose powerful voice
moved the old world when they lis-
tened to his pathetic lament over the
fall of .Rome, and which moves us
still when we read it now after the
lapse of centuries I

Such was Jerome ; yet is this pic-
ture incomplete, for we have not
mentioned his special gift for the di-
rection of souls. He was their guide,
their father. He it was who began
this divine guidance, entrusted after-
ward to St Bernard, and by him to
St Francis de Sales, from St Fran-
cis de Sales to Bossuet and F^ndon,
and so on down to our own times.

Sketches dn

fJie Life of St Pan

It is this special gift which gives him
so prominent a part in the histor)* of
Paula.

Pope Damasus wished to detain
him in Rome after the departure of
the bishops for the cast, in order that
Jerome should expound the holy
Scriptures and give answers to those
\fh.Q came to Rome from all parts of
the globe for explanations of the
dogmas and discipline of the church.
A great friendship had sprung up
l>etween the sovereign pontiff and St
Jerome- The study of the holy
Scriptures bound their affections to-
gether, " I know of nothing better,"
MTote the holy father to him in one
of his letters, " than our conversations
about Scripture ; that is to say, when I
ask questions, and you answer ; and
I say like the prophet, that your voice
IS sweeter to my heart than honey to
my lips/*

After the departure of Epiphanius
and Paulinus, Marcella and Paula
sought for Jerome and entreated him
to explain the Scriptures to them at
Mount Avenlinc. The austere monk
resisted them long, but at last >ielded,
and crowds came to hear him. He
would read the text, and then make
his comments. The listeners were
captivated by his eloquence, and his
language was peculiarly strong, clear,
and forcible. His monk's attire,
his cheeks, sunken by penance and
browned by the eastern sun, and his
deep voice, all combined to throw a
strange spell over his hearers.

He, too, soon discovered that he
spoke to noble souls, and thus was
his abiding interest awakened by his
own delight in opening such trea-
sures to those so capable of appre-
ciating them.

Such was the ardor of Paula and
her friends in studying the Scriptures,
that Jerome was in admiration at
their labor and perseverance ; and it
excited him to further efforts, and

made him feel the ne
dertaking a complete tr
the entire Bible, which,
the work of his life fro
afterward, without remisi
begun on Mount Ave n tin
favorite disciples, and oi
many years later, with hii
rome now undertook
direction of Paula, Maro
and their friends. Many,
ters to them have been p
monument of this wond^
tion. He wrote to the
ingly, and what remains tc
vast correspondence suiho
the noble light in w^hioh
Christian duty. Their m^
tion is mar\^ellous, and t
theory he came to pracUd
ed to trample under foot
weakness and to expect \
high-born and gently nu
tricians the abstinence a«^
the Anchorites of the 1
serts.

This direction of S(
wrought wonders in i\u
Paula. She daily grew,
and became a still more
ample of austerity, of
abundant charities, and g<
and of tiie fruitful study a
tures.

*' What shall I say of <
goods of this noble lady,
tircly spent on the poor?!
St. Jerome, ** What shall |
universal charit}', which mai
and succor beings she 1
even seen * What sick f
not nursed by her ? She
afflicted throughout the
and ever thought she ha<
a loss if the sick of I
had already found assistai
hers."

This is what the love
brought about in imperij|
rupt Rome when, for the

Bound with Paul.

389

ristian heroism burst f6rth
I midst of the patricians,
mirable and pious daugh-

ter shedding new lustre upon those
glorious old pagan families.

TQ BB OOMTlMUBOw

BOUND WITH PAUL.

warden's wife followed her
down the steps leading to
)n. ** ' O caro Duca miOy is
inscription over the door ?"
i ; " for I have brought hope
and will not let it go."
aving anything to say, the
:ept silent. He was used to
i fanciful ways of speaking,

I to hear her pleasant voice,
ler meaning might escape
*r education had emphasized
ence which nature had pro-
between these two — a dif-
rhich William Blake has de-
. word : the man looked with

the woman looked through

5, the warden's attention was
>ment fully occupied. The

II had rung the second time,
convicts had finished their
rk. Mr. and Mrs. Raynor
it within the great entrance
ison, and watched the slug-
ras of crime that oozed from
of the different shops, join-

e yard, and crept toward
I Acheron, in which human
sently became visible; but
cached, unwholesome, and
nless. Perhaps their souls
scorched up in the baleful
lat had wafted these men

• mesmerized in the leaden

• of their lives. Or, more
ired to some secret recess
in, their restless wits might
ig out new designs of evil.

An occasional spark in some side-
long eye favored the latter guess.

" Now for explanation," the war-
den said, keeping a strict eye on the
advancing line, yet aware of a hand
stealing toward his arm. '^ Be care-
ful, dear I my revolver is on that side.
Your man will go into the furthest
cell in the first ward. His name is
Dougherty; his nationality, of course,
a mystery. He was sentenced ten
years for assault and highway robbery,
and has now but two months to stay.
Excepting this one affair, he has al-
ways borne a good name, and there
couldn't be a better prisoner. He
might have been pardoned out long
ago if he had tried, but he never
asks favors. When he came here,
his only brother, a decent fellow,
went to California. He couldn't
stand the disgrace. But he writes
once a month, a very good letter,
too ; and when the ten years shall be
up, will come or send for his brother.
They say that Dougherty behaved
very well by him when he went away,
and gave him all his, Dougherty's,
money. I shouldn't wonder. The
fellow has the strongest sense of duty
I ever knew in a man. That's what
is the matter with him now. He told
the deputy yesterday that he should
never go to chapel again. He had
before been in doubt about it, he
said ; but when the chaplain praised
Martin Luther, and called the church
some ugly name or other, then he
knew that it was a sin for him to lis-

ten, I don*t want to punish the man ;
but, of course, he must go to chapeL
I can't make exceptions ; and half a
dozen of the worst rascals here have
some way got wind of the aflfair, and
have all at once experienced tlie-
ology. That tall, heavy fellow, who
murdered his mother and his brother,
and then set fire to the house and
burnt their bodies up, had his feel-
ings badly hurt when the chaplain
said something sarcastic of the pope*s
great toe. But Dougherty is honest,
and if he will submit, I can easily
bring the others down. If he should
hold out, there will be trouble ; for
they will do for deviltry what he will
do for conscience' sake. If you can
talk him over, I shall be glad ; but I'
haven't much hope of it. He is not
a man likely to be influenced by a
woman's soft words. He is granite."

The wife smiled saucily. *" I have
seen a silly little pink cloud make a
granite boulder blush as though it
had blood in it,*' she said.

At this moment the file of convicts
reached the portal, and came winding
through in the slow lock -step, sepa-
rated noiselessly into detachments, a
part moving toward the lower cells,
the rest climbing the narrow flight of
stairs leading to the upper tiers. The
faces of the men caught an addition-
al pallor from the cold, whitewashed
stone of the prison, and a darker
shade as, one by one, they disappear-
ed into the cells, the doors clapping
to in rapid succession behind them,
like the leaves of a book run over in
the fingers. In a few minutes the
whole line had crumbled away, and
there were visible but the three tiers
of iron doors, each door with a hand
thrust through the bars, and a dim
face behind them. Mrs. Ray nor
glanced up the block to the last cell.
The hand she saw there had a cha-
racter of its own. The fingers were
not half closed, listlessly waiting to

be seen, but firm and
the thumb was clasped i}^
the bar against which ]
dogged hand, ** You IS
dungeon would have no
asked.

The warden repeatqi
** dungeon " with a circa
lated to give the impress
apartment in question \
" I doitet if even the
break him,*' he said. ^
Catholic Irishman born
and you can't hammer Q
into anything but a Cai
may lie as fast as a dog i
steal your eye-teeth from
eyes; but if }t>u cut hj
pieces, as long as he I
and finger left, he will U
of the cross with theiQ
losing courage, little vol

" No I*'

** W'ell, good luck to Jl
ing oif,"

The lady walked iq
nodding to the convicts i
eagerly for recognition^
speak to those who had
make, and, pausing at a I
from the upper cell, look
ly at its occupant, hersd
him. 1

The warden had wej
this man to granite. I
thick -set, as straight as
the broad, combative
crowned with a luxuriai
brown hair, and squai
promised a tenacious g
ever he might set his mil
But the face was honestti
and the straight mouth i
as though giving to lyinj
my, but had something 1
closing. The wcH-shajJ
as notable for spirit as i
firmness, and the blue-g
steady, not bright, and
Altogether, a man «

man of w^

Bound with Paul.

391

say that, if he was not so good, he
would DOt have been so bad.

This convict sat on a bench in the
middle of his little whitewashed cell,
and appeared to be lost in thought.
But in his attitude there was none of
diat easy drooping which usually ac-
companies-such abstraction. He sat
perfectly upright and rigid, the only
perceptible motion a quick one of the
eyelids, the eyes fixed — blocked, rather
than lost in thought

He rose immediately on seeing
who his visitor was, bowed with a
soUierly stiffness that was not with-
out state, and waited for her to
q>eak.

After a few pleasant inquiries,
civilly answered, she told her er-
rand. It was not so easy as she had
expected ; but she spoke kindly and
earnestly, urging the necessity for
ciiscipline in such a place, and the
Unwillingness of the warden to inflict
^ny punishment on him. '' I have no
doubt of your sincerity," she conclud-
ed, "though the others mean only
Duschiefl But the decision must be
the same in both cases."

He listened attentively to every
word she said, then replied with quiet
firmness, " I am sorry, ma'am, that
there is going to be any trouble about
it But it would be a sin for me to
go and hear Protestantism called the
chwrh of God, when it is no more a
cfaorch than a barnacle is a ship."

"That is not the question," she

persisted. " Admitting that what the

chaplain says may be false, I still

say that you ought to go. You are

Win a state of servitude ; you have

^ will of your own ; your duty is

obedience to the rules of the place ;

^A the more difficult that duty, the

'^iore your merit If you should listen

^th pleasure, or even with toleration,

^hile .your faith is attacked, that

^ight be sin ; but the listening un-

MlUngly and with pain you can offer

to God as a penance in expiation of
the crime which obliges you to per-
form it I am speaking now as a
Catholic would. I believe that your
priest would say the same."

She paused to note the effect of
her words; but his face was un-
moved.

" I have a dear friend who is a
Catholic," she added. " For her sake
I should be sorry to have you pun-
ished for such a cause."

This plea made no impression
whatever. Plainly, the man was not
soft-hearted, nor susceptible to flat-
tery. He merely listened, and ap-
peared to be gravely considering the
subject

" To yield would be humility ; to
refuse would be pride," she said.
"You need not listen while in the
chapel ; you can think your own
thoughts and say your own prayers."

As he still pondered, she again
went over her argument, enlarging
and dwelling on it till it reached
his comprehension. He listened as
before, but made no sign of approval
nor dissent Either from nature or
habit, it seemed hard for the man to
get his mouth open. But at length
he spoke.

" You were right, ma'am, in telling
me that my duty here is obedience,"
he said ; " but you lefl out one con-
dition— -obedience in all that is not
sin. If the warden should tell me to
kill a man, it would not be my duty
to obey. I do obey in all that is not
sin. It would be a sin for me to go
to chapel."

He spoke respectfully, but with de-
cision ; and the lady perceived that
their argument had reached a knot
which only the hand of authority
could cut She sighed, and aban-
doned her attempt

Could she abandon it ? Remem-
bering the dungeon and the strings,
her heart strengthened itself for one

392

Sound with Pant

more effort. She had begun by
marcbing straight up to the subject,
challenging opposition ; it might be
better to approach circuitously. " Let
me undermine him/* she thought ;
and, turning away, as though leaving
the captive to silence and loneliness
again, let the sense of returning de-
solation catch him for an instant,
then hesitated, and glanced back-
ward* It was a good beginning ; he
was looking after her. The sight of
a friendly face, the sound of a friendly
voice, and liberty to speak, were un-
frequent boons in that place, and too
precious to be willingly relinquished.

** The days must seem long to you/'
she said.

She came nearer, and leaned
against the door. '* Yes* they are
long ; but I thank God for every one
of them* My coming here was the
best tiling that ever happened to me.
I was getting to be drunkard, and
this put a stop to it/'

As he spoke, he lifted his face and
looked out at the strip of sky visi-
ble through the window across the
corridor, and his eyes began to
.kindle.

"Have you a family?" the lady
asked.

He waited a moment before an-
swering, seemed to break some link
of thought that had a bright fracture,
and his expression underwent a slight
.but decided change. A light in it
that had been lofty softened to a
lightthat was tender, as at her qucs
tion he looked down again. ** There's
Larry,'* he said,

** And who is Larry ?"

The convict stared with astonish-
ment at her ignorance. And, indeed,
Mrs. Raynor was the only person
about the prison who had not heard
the name of this Larry. " He is my
step-brother, ma'am," he replied,
'* Wc had but the one father ; but he
Jaad bis own mother. When she died.

there were two of us left, a
the lad and brought him to
try. He was ftve years old
I was twenty. I was a sta
and tliought to do better
faith, one way I have, aii
way I haven't. Shame m
ed one of us at home/'

** Who took care of li
Mrs. Raynor asked.

** Myself, ma'am. He ate
witli mc, and I took him oi
as often as I put my hat on
his little chair on the tab
shop, or he plaj-ed about
of a long string. For lli
venturesome, and I never t
but with a tether."

'' He must have been a gti
she said.

** Have )'0U any children^
the convict asked.

" No.''

** I thought that/' he
then smiled. " Larr\' was
ture. He had red checks
eyes, and hia hair was like {
shadow on it. It used to taj
an hour every morning to
curls, and they reached to \
Everybody noticed the
they'd turn to look after h
street. One of the richesi
the city wanted to take hii
own, and me to promise n«
him again ; and when she
she would do for him, I thoi^
perhaps I ought to let him gg
lady coaxed him, and guvaj
tnre-books and candy, and til
him if he'd go and live wi
and faith, ma'am, my heart di
such a scalding when Mar
her promise back, and said s
Larry best, as it did when Ui
went to the lady's knee
would go and live with her,
give me, but I hated her
Well, I told her that I w
about ity and let her kno'

Bouftd witi Paul.

393

day. That night I dreamed that she

had him, and that I saw him far off

at play, dressed in jewels, and his

little frock like a fall of snow. I

dreamed that I couldn't speak to

him, and that set me crying ; and I

cried so that I waked myself up. I

put my hand out for the child, but I

couldn't find him. He was a restless

/ittle fellow, and had crawled down

to the foot of the bed. For a minute

L thought that the dream was true ;

ajid then I knew that I couldn't let

liim go. I waked him up, and asked

ixim if he'd stay and live for ever with

liis brother John ; and I was a happy

Tnan when he put his little arms

round my neck and said yes, he

'Mroold. And I made a promise to

'ttit child that night, while he was

si^leep in my arms, that, since I kept

bim back from being a rich man,

^^nrhatever he might ask of me in all

liis life, if it was my heart's blood, he

slKMild have it ! And, ma'am, I've

Icept my promise."

The tenderness with which he
spoke of his brother invested the
Omvict's manner with the softening
grace which it so much needed, and
^v upon his rough nature like a
S^tian upon its rock.

"This brother is in California?"
^n. Raynor asked.

The convict dropped his eyes.
**He and Mary went there when I
^2«ae here," he said.
''Who is Mary?"

**Mary is Lanys wife," was the
tricf reply.

" You hear from them ?"

^"Oh! yes," he said eagerly.

They write to me every month.

*^ his last letter Larry said that he

^^ coming after me at the end of

5^y term ; but I sent him word not

^« I can go alone, and he will send

•^^ the money."

The man seemed to have a jealous
^^pidon of her thought that he had

been cruelly deserted. " I told them
to go," he said with a touch of pride ;
" and I shall go and live with them
when I get out of this. They wouldn't
hear to my going anywhere else."

He broke off, glanced through the
window, and said, as if involuntarily,
" There's the west wind I" then drew
back, rather ashamed when the lady
looked to find what he meant " You
see, ma'am, we don't have much to
think of here, and there's only the
sight of stone and iron, and that bit
of sky. Three years ago there wasn't
a glimpse of green ; but two years ago
I began to catch a flit of leaves when
the west wind blew. Last summer
I could see a green tip of a bough
all the time, and now in the high
March wind I can see a bit of a
twig."

'* It is an elm-tree," the warden's
wifb said ; " and the branches are
longest on this side. I think they
stretch out for you to see. You miss
many a pleasant sight here, Dough-
erty."

" What I miss is nothing to what I
have seen," he said quickly, his eyes
beginning again to kindle.

" What do you mean ?"

He gazed at her searchingly for a
moment, as if to read whether she
were worthy to hear ; then he looked
up at the sky.

Mrs. Raynor tried not to be im-
pressed. " He is a thief, serving out
his sentence in the State prison,''
she repeated mentally. " He is a
poor, ignorant Irishman, who can
scarcely spell his own name, and who
reverences a polysyllable next to the
priest."

" I will tell you," he said after a
moment, his voice trembling slightly,
not with weakness, but with fervor.
" When I first came here, I had to
pray all the time to keep myself from
going crazy; but by and by I got
reconciled. You know we never

394

3aunawm

^aul

have a priest here» and must find
things out as well as we can for our-
selves. All I wanted to know was
whether God was angry with me.
Sometimes I thought he was ; but
that might be a temptation of the
devil What I am going to tell you
happened about six months ago, at
nine o'clock in the ei^ening. The
night-watch was in^ and had just
gone round. He spoke to me, and
I answered him. I was in bed, and
T shut my eyes as soon as he went
back to his place. Something made
mc open them again, and I saw on
the wall of my cell here a little spot
like moonlight. It grew larger while
I looked, and the whole cell w^as full
of the light of it ; and it trembled like
the flame of a candle in the wind.
There didn't seem to be any wall
here ; it was all opened out. I pull-
ed the blanket about me and went
down to my knees on the stone floor.
I don't know how long it was before
two faces began to show in the midst
of the light; and when they came, it
was still. At first they were faint ;
but they grew brighter till they were
as bright as I could bear. I couldn't
tell whether it was the brightness in
their faces or the thought in my
heart, that brought the tears into my
eyes. There was the Blessed Virgin
with the Infant Jesus in her arms,
and they both looking at me and
smiling. And while they smiled,
they faded away !"

" How probable that would sound
if It were related as having happened
in the year of our Lord 62, instead of
1862 1" the lady thought, restraining
a smile» awed by the perfect convic-
tion of the speaker.

"Dougherty," she said, "a man
like you ought not to be caught at
highway robber)^ How did it hap-
pen?"

Some swift emotion passed over
his face ; but whether of fear or an-

nly. 4
^ mM
awyeisl
bolet
they

It ott

)layei

; am

at I4

ger she could not tell. Tl
moment he smiled grimly.
just how it happened,
said ; " for didn't the lav
Oh I but they told the whole I
plain you'd have thought they
deed themselves; andfatt)i,|
me almost believe I did
very convincing way that 1
have about them. They
that Mike Murray was at o&
one night, and we all playei
and got drunk together; am
we were pretty high, that
I went out with Mike
home; and that I sent
he being too drunk to ga (X
that I waited upon Mike
piece of woods, and there I ^
him down and robbed him ;ll
he was picked up half-dead m
morning, and I was caught th
the money away. They prov
I only did it because I was
and that I never did a di
before ; and so they sei m
ten years. And the pity it
poor Mike Murray! It woul
brought tears to your e)'es 1
that lawyer go on about hin
Mike was his own father's sof]
saint to the bargain, instead of
drunken blackguard that Mi
mad to see in the house, ai
beat his own wife with a slo
kicked her down stairs ever}
ing ; and that's the way she 1
get down. She told our M;
she was never without a so^
her head, and that whcQ all
the top of a flight of stairs, ij
in the church itself, she'd k
for the kick that Mike alwa
hen Indeed, ma*am, whili
yer was talking, I didn*l
mean^ the Mike Mur
all, but a sweet, gentled
the same name, and that 1
a sup of anything but mil
that's the story of my coa

Bound with Paul.

395

ma'am," the convict concluded, giv-
ing a short laugh.

"You have had troubles enough,"
Mrs. Raynor said gently ; " but now
they are nearly over. Only two
mondis longer, and you will be free.
It won't hurt you to go to chapel for
that short time."
"I shall not go," he replied.
She turned away at that, went into
the deserted prison-yard, and stood
there a moment recollecting a ser-
mon she had heard not long before.
**Why should we not now have a
saiDt after the grand old way V* the
speaker had asked.

"ITiere is every reason why we
should not!" she exclaimed impa-
tiently. "Those hizarre, uncompro-
nu'sing virtues of the antique time
Would now scandalize the very elect
We must not offend against Its bien-
^ancesj though all the saints should
<^lap their hands. This poor Irishman
is unquestionably a little wrong in
his head, and will have to go to the
dungeon. For you, Madge Raynor,
you had best return to your moutons^
and cease pulling at the skirts of the
millennium. What a quixotic little
body you are, to be sure !"

To the dungeon, accordingly,
Dougherty was sent the next Sun-
day ; and after a few hours, the war-
den's wife went to see him.

A door of solid iron opened in the
1>asement wall of the prison, and let
the light into a stone vestibule that
was otherwise perfectly dark. Oppo-
site this entrance was what looked
like an oven or furnace-door, about
two feet square, and also of solid
iron. Removing a padlock from the
inner door, the guard opened it, and
called Dougherty.

Mrs. Raynor started back as the
foul air from the dungeon struck her
lace ; for, though there was an aper-
ture artftilly contrived so as to admit
a little air and exclude all light, it

was not large enough to do more
than keep the prisoner from actual
suffocation.

" You are acting like a simpleton!"
the lady exclaimed when the convict's
'pale face appeared at the opening.
" Go to chapel next Sunday, and say
your prayers under the parson's nose.
I will give you beads that shall rattle
like hail-stones."

" I thank you, ma'am T' the man
replied in his provokingly quiet way ;
" but I can't go to chapel."

" You expect to enjoy staying here
three days, with bread and water
once a day, sitting and sleeping on
bare stones, and breathing air that
would sicken a dog?" she demanded
angrily.

" That is nothing to what my Lord
suffered for me," was the reply.

" You fancy yourself a martyr, and
that the officers of the prison are
children of the devil I" she said.

" I don't blame them," he answer-
ed. "They do what they think is
right."

"Shut him up!" she exclaimed,
turning away. " It's a pity we have
n't a rack for the blockhead. He
is pining for it."

Dougherty did not complain nor
yield ; but he was put to work again
after three days, that being the long-
est time the rules allowed a man to
be kept in the dungeon.

Mrs. Raynor was annoyed with
herself for taking such an interest in
this contumacious thief. Every day
she protested that she would not
worry about him, and every day she
worried more and more. When Sun-
day came again, " I will not go near
him," she said. "I will leave him
to his fate. * What's Hecuba to him,
or he to Hecuba ?' " and even while
speaking, counted anxiously the last
strokes of the prison-bell ringing for
service. At that moment the con-
victs were entering the chapel, all

396

Sound with Paul,

but the sick, and tliat troublesome
^rotlge of hers. "I won't go near
hitn," she said in a very determined
manner, and^ f{\t minutes after, was
on her way up the prison -stairs.

Letting herself into the guard-
^ room with a pass-key, she found but
one man on guard ; but the voices
of others came through the open door
of the hospital, and with them a long,
agonized moan. Hurrying into the
cell where the punishment called
" the strings " was inflicted, Mrs, Ray-
nor saw Dougherty hanging by his
wrists to a chain run through a ring
in the cci!ing. His toes touched the
( floor and slightly relieved the other-
l^ise intolerable strain on his shoul-
^ders and breast. One of the guards
kept the chain np, while the deput)^-
warden stood by the convnct and
watched for the first sign of submis-
sion or of fill n ting.

The man groaned with pain, and
lilrops of perspiration rolled down his
iface.

" Will you give up and go to cha-
pel next Sunday?" asked the dep-
uty*

"O God! strengthen me/* cried
the convict, **No, I will not go!"

Mrs, Raynor's pale face flushed as
she heard this reply.

The moans became fainter.

**Now, give up like a man," the
deputy said, "Vou've shown your
grit, and that is enough,"

" Lord, help me 1" came in a bro-
ken cry.

" He's going ; let hini down," tlie
deputy said.

** Dead ?" cried the warden's wife,
starting forward,

'* No, madam ; he has fainted,"

They applied restoratives, and
when his senses had returned, led
him, reeling, out into the guard-
room, and placed him in a chair by
the open window.

" Did you ever read a history of

the Spanish Inquisition^ Mr. Do^
puty ?" asked the warden*s wife.

" Yes'm I" was the immediate re-
ply. "This is just like it, isn'lr
it?"

** Well, Dougherty, you will be con-
tent now, and go to chapel next Sun-
day, will you not?" asked the Udy,
touching the convict^s sleeve.

He lifted his heavy eyes. He
was still catching his breath like one
who sobs. ** I will die before I will
go to hear the name of God and of
his truth blasphemed I" he answered^
speaking with difficulty.

** But if you should be again ptit
up in the strings?"

He shivered, but replied wiiljout
hesitation, ^* He that died upon the
cross will strengthen me."

" The fellow is a fool !" muttei
one of the guard.

"May God multiply such fools T'
cried Mrs. Raynor, turning upon
speaker. Then to the convict,
will urge you no more. I am no
capable of judging for you, and y
do not need help nor advice from m
Go your own way."

Doughcrty*s own way was to pei
sist in his refusal to attend chapeS
and since the officers had no
but to punish him for his d
ence, it chanced that for the
four weeks he was put up in tfai
strings every Sunday morn big.

'* It shall not be done again,
warden said then* ** He has hot
fortnight longer to stay ; and, nii
or no rulCt he shall do as he likes,

" Only a fortnight," he said lo
convict, "then you will be a fi
man."

Dougherty*s face brightened. '*Yi
sir ! And I long to set my feet on
turf again. A man doesn't km
what green grass is, till he gets
up in a place like this,"

** Don't come here again," the
fleer said kindly. **Lct what

Bound with Paul.

397

have suffered teach you to resist
temptation."

The convict looked at Mr. Ray-
nor with a singular expression of ^
surprise, not unmingled with a mo-
mentary indignation, and seeroed
about to speak^ but checked him-
sell

"It is only to keep from drink,"
the warden went on. " I don't be-
lieve you would be dishonest when
sober."

The convict dropped his eyes.
"God knows all hearts," he said.

The next day Dougherty had a
cold and a headache; the second
day he was unable to go to work; the
third day he had a settled fever. He
^^as removed to the hospital, where
the cells were larger, and, being next
the outside wall, had light and air ;
a convict whose term had nearly ex-
pired was set to take care of him,
and Mrs. Raynor visited him twice a
day.

But the fever had got well fixed

^fore the man gave up, and it found

^im good fuel. He burned like a

Solid beech log, with a slow, intense,

Unquenchable heat. His pale and

fallow face became a dull crimson;

nis strong, full pulses beat fiercely

^n neck, wrists, and temples ; and his

'^tless eyes glowed with a brilliant

*Ustre. Mrs. Raynor was sometimes

f tartled, as she sat fanning and bath-

^ his face, fancying that she had

Soothed him to sleep, to see those

^yes open suddenly, and fix them-

^ves on her with a searching gaze,

^^ wander wildly about the cell.

^t he lay almost as motionless as

^ burning log would, locked in

^^i fierce and silent struggle with

disease. Nearly a fortnight passed,

J^d there were but two days left of

i^^^^herty's term of imprisonment;

^t there was no longer a hope that

•^y freedom of man's giving would

*^''ofit him. There was scarcely more

than the embers of a man left of him;
not enough, indeed, for a fever to
prey upon. The flushes had be-
. come intermittent, like the last fiick-
erings of a fire, and the parched and
blackened mouth showed how he had
been consumed inwardly.

It was May, and the sweet air
and sunshine came in through two
narrow windows and lightened and
freshened the cell where the convict
lay. Everything was clean and in
order. The stone walls and floor
were whitewashed; a prayer-book,
crucifix, medicine, and glasses were
carefully arranged on a little table
between the windows; and there was
a spotless cover on the narrow pallet
that stood opposite. The door was
wide open for a draught, and now
and then one of the guard, approach-
ing laboriously on tiptoe, would put
his head into the cell, raise his eye-
brows inquiringly at the convict-
nurse who sat at the head of the
bed, receive a nod in return, and re-
tire with the same painful feint of
making no noise. Neither of the
two men was quite clear in his mind
as to what he meant by this panto-
mime ; but the result with both was
a conviction that all was right Pre-
sently, as the afternoon waned, there
was the soft rustle of a woman's gar-
ments in the corridor, and a woman's
unmistakable velvet footfall. At
that sound the convict-nurse went
lightly out ; and Mrs. Raynor came
in, and seated herself on the stool
where he had sat, and slipped a bit
of ice between the lips of the patient
He had been lying motionless and
apparently asleep during the last
hour; but as she touched him, he
opened his eyes and fixed them upon
her. "What does the doctor say,
ma'am ?" he asked in a tone so firm
that one forgot it was but a whisper.

" I think that you will want to see
the priest," she said gently. "I have

Bound with Paul,

sent for one, and he will come to-
morrow."

A slight spasm passed over the
sick man's face, his eyelids quivered,
and his mouth contracted for an in-
stant

" It must come to us all sooner or
p later/* she continued ; " and it is well
for us that He who knows best and
does best is the one to choose."

He said not a word, but closed
his eyes again ; and she kept silence
while he went through with his strug-
gle, her own tears starting as she
saw how the tears swelled under his
eyelids, and the stem mouth quiver-
ed, and knew that he \vas tearing up
the few simple hopes that had taken
root in his heart : the setting his feet
on the green grass again, the meeting
his brother, the dream of a cheerful
fireside where he should be welcome,
the honest gains and generous gifts,
the happy laughter, kind looks, and
.sorrows from which love and faith
Ishould draw the sting. Simple
[hopes ; but they had struck deep,
^Und everj' fibre of the man's heart
quivered and b!ed at theimprooting.
Presently the watcher spoke softly:
" Like as a father pitieth his children,
^so the Lord hath mercy on them that
rfear him !"

**May his will be done !" said the
convict. " But, poor Larry 1'*

** You want me to write to him ?"
"Yes ma'am !" he answered eager-
[ly. "Tell him that I was comfort-
I able here, and that I was willing to
f die ; and be sure to tell him that
Dming here was the best thing that
|c%*er happened to me. Don't let
I Aim know anj^hing about the pun-
[tshment. Larry'd feel bad about
[ that. Don't forget !" he urged, look-
[ lug anxiously in the lady's face,
** I won't forget/* she said.
He stopped a moment for breath ;
then resumed, -*Tell him that my
[last words were, that he should re*

member his promises to me
never taste liquor again. An
him to be kind to Mary for my
You see, ma'am, I was fond oU
but of course she liked LarH

The lady blushed feintly, a»
her cool white hand on his fe
one. " Dougherty," she said,
body but God thanks us foi
love. In this world a light
meets with most gratitude,"

"Sometimes I've tliought
same,*' the man said gravely. "
are made to give, and some are
to take ; but the Lord gives K

The next day a priest cmim
spent some time with the sick
Mrs. Ray nor went up for her
noon visit, and found him still I
ing there, looking gravely an
tently at his penitent, who lay
an expression of perfect pemi
his countenance.

" Poor man !" she sighed, gk|
toward the bed. M

The father looked up witM|
flashing into his thoughtful
"Poor man, madam?** he rcp«
" Not so : that man is rich 1 It
him to pity us."

She followed the priest out
spoke to him in the cor
** Dougherty's brother has
from California,** she said;!
reached here this morntr
seems hard to keep him out,
hate to disturb a man who i
ing."

The priest frowned.
fellow out for to-day, I
given this man the \iatic
want him to be undistur
confession has exhausted him
he mustn't be made to tall
more. How docs his bra
pear ?'*

"Oh I he is frantic. H<
when I first told htm, and^
hear him crying out in
when I got up into the

itnp
>ut,

ho i

,"1

uioM

Bound with PauL

399

him that he couldn't come in
should have become quiet."
hat sort of fellow is he ?*' ask-

priest coldly.

lady hesitated. In spite of
ty, she did not fancy Larry;
r did she like the coldness the
showed toward him. " He is a
andsome young man/' she said
tly, "and very well dressed."

father shrugged his shoulders.

then he should be admitted
It delay."

must, of course, free herself
such an imputation. "He
weak and faithless," she said ;
his grief is genuine ; and his
\ come so far shows that he
lis brother."
3U might tell Dougherty to-

and let Larry in to-morrow
ig if he behaves himself."
1. Raynor sat by her patient
it speaking, till presently he
I at her and smiled faintly,
the Lord reward you, ma'am I"
d fervently. "You've been a
Viend to me."

ere is a note from your bro-
she said. " Shall I read it to

glanced eagerly at the folded
in her hand — a note which, in
dst of his lamentations, Larry
ritten and entreated her to take
his brother.

»ad it!" the sick man said,
g an effort to turn toward her.
ould you like very much to see
•rother?" she aked.
igherty's face began to work,
la'am! has Larry come?" he
tremulously.

es; and presently he is to come
see you. Of course, he feels
auch grieved, you know. That
be. But when he shall see how
ed and happy you are, he will
romfort"
ng that he eagerly watched the

paper in her hand, the lady unfolded
and glanced over it. As she did so,
her face underwent a change. "It
cannot be!" she cried out; and,
crushing the note, looked at the
man who lay there dying before her.

He did not understand, was too
weak and dull to think of anything
but the letter. " Read it !" he said
faintly.

She began breathlessly to read the
blotted page : " My dear brother
John, for God's sake don't die ! I
have come to take you back to Cali-
fornia with me, and Mary and I will
spend our lives in taking care of you.
We will make up to you what you
have suffered for me, going to prison
for my crime.'*

The sick man started up with sud-
den energy and snatched the paper
from the reader's hand. " The lad
is wild 1" he gasped. " He didn't
know what he was writing !"

She tried to soothe him, to coax
him to lie down ; but he sat rigid
with that terrible suspense, his hag-
gard eyes fixed on hers, a deathly
pallor in his face.

"You won't tell anybody what the
foolish boy wrote !" he pleaded.

"It was your brother, then, who
robbed the man ?" she said.

He sank back, moaning, upon his
pillow. " All for nothing !" he said
despairingly. " I've given my heart's
blood for nothing ! O ma'am ! have
you the heart to spoil all I've been
trying to do, and have just about
finished?"

It was a hard promise to give, but
she gave it. Without his permission,
what she had learned should never be
revealed.

" The poor lad wasn't to blame,"
the sick man said. "It was drink
did it. Drink always made Larry
crazy. When he got home that night,
he didn't know what he'd been doing ;
but in the morning Mary found the

Bound with Paul.

money on him, and the stain of
blood on his haiuU I tried to throw
the money away, and they saw me."

He paused, gasping for breath.
He was making an dTort beyond his
strength.

" I'ell me the rest to-morrow,*'
Mrs. Ray nor said, giving him a
spoonful of cordial.

But he went on excitedly, clutch-
ing at the bed-clothes as he spoke.
** It would have been tlie ruin of
Larry if he had come here. He
would never again have looked any-
ibody in the face. Besides, Mary's
heart was broke entirely. So when
1 was caught, I just bid Larry hold
his peace. But I didn't tell any lie,
ma'am. When they asked me in
court if I was guilty or not guilty, I
said ' not guilty ;* and it was true."

She gave him the cordial again,
wiped his forehead, and, noticing that
his hands were cold, first lifted the
blanket to cover them, then hesitated,
looked at him more closely, finally
laid it back.

He lay for a while silent and ex-
hausted, then spoke again. "You
promise ?"

" I promise, Dougherty, Set your
heart at rest You are dying ; did
you know it ?**

" Yes, ma'am !"

After a while he said faintly, " My
time will be up to-raorrow morning."

**Yesr

Twilight faded into night Mrs.
Raynor went into the house for a
while, then returned to sit by her pa-
tient, sending the nurse out One
and another came to the cell -door,
looked in, spoke a word, then went
away. The heavy doors clanged,
there was a sound of rattling bars as
the prison was closed for the night,
then silence settled all over. The
dying man lay perfectly quiets breath-
ing slowly, and responding now and
then to the prayers read by hts at-

»'as«l

lendant He felt no pain^ ar
mind was clear and calm. H
no complicated inteUectual mi
ism to confuse his ideas of rigJ
wrong ; there was no labyrinth
phistry to entangle his faith, Q(
ter of imagination to start a
fear. He had done what he c
and he held on to the promisa
an iron grasp.

That lonely watcher almost j
for him. Might he not be pr
ingon an act of devotion which
all, rose from a love that was [
human?

** My friend," she said,
angels are not pure befd
Perhaps you loved your br
well"

" If I had loved him less, hc^
have been lost,*' was the calm
" I haven*t loved him well enoi
sin for him."

'* Do not be too sure," she si

** I'm a poor, ignorant man
I've done as well as I knew
and he has promised. 1 never
a promise to man nor woman
do you think that the Almighty
do the thing that I would
dor

** Are you not afraid of
tion ?"

** It would be presumption to
the word of Cod.''

** T>Q not rely on your
strength," slie urged.

** I have no strength but i
gives me," said the dying i

While they talked, or p«
were silent, the stars wore sb
bi-ightly past the open windc
cell, dropping down the west lit
den sandsin an hour-glas- -^ *
ing out the minutes of tlu
Then the dim aiid hun^id cr<
of the waning moon stole by
early morning twilight ; then I
grew alive with the golden,
of the dawn. As the sun

;iiiy ^

Tlu Children s Graves in the Catacombs.

401

man called Dougherty, a convict no
kxiger, lay dead on his prison pallet,
bis face white and calm, the dull eyes
Ulf open, as though the deserted
body followed with a solemn gaze

the flight of its emancipated ten-
ant.

" Would you rather have been the an-
gel loosing Peter, or Peter in chains ?
I would rather have been Peter l"

TKANSLATBD FKOK LB CONSSILLBR DBS FAMILLBS.

THE CHILDREN'S GRAVES IN THE CATACOMBS.

Childhood and the gravel Should
'^^ese two words be placed together ?
Must flowers fall before bearing fruit,
^^ children also die ? This is what
**^thers think, and the church thinks
^^ they do, because the church is a
'Mother. In her view children do not
^fc; they are born again, they are
^nsfigured ; and the grave in which
^old death places them resembles the
^Wle bed, whereon, perhaps the day
*^fore. you saw them open their eyes
^ the sunlight. Do you recollect the
^e in which a poet, at the time
^ttUnent, celebrated in beautiful verses
^ entrance of Louis XVII. into the
*^cavenly palace to which his father
*^^ gone by the rough road of mar-
^dom ? According to Catholic be-
"ef, all those little beings who die
"^fore making a name or obtaining a
place in this world, are also young
princes, heirs - apparent of a king-
dom more beautiful than that of
France, and who, like Louis XVII.,
^1 asleep in a prison to awake upon
* throne.

This is why the church has no
Players of grief at their burial. As-
**^ of their happiness, she laments
**pt, but gives praise. By the grace
ffven lat baptism, they are received
>nto glory. She covers their remains
'^th white drapery, which calls to
VOL. VII. — 36

mind the vestment which she put
over them at the baptismal font. In-
stead of mourning, she invites the
children of heaven to unite in praises,
Laudate, pueri I The Virgin, who was
herself a mother, receives them at
her altar, where the triumphant pro-
cession congratulates the Queen of
angels that her empire is enriched
by one more subject — Ave^ Regitui
cceiorum ! Ave^ Domina angdorum !
The funeral mass for little children
is only a thanksgiving to God, who
has reser\'ed a favored space for
those blessed beings, Venite, benedicti
Patris. Having read the gospel of
our Lord, who blessed and caressed
those to whom he promised the
kingdom of heaven, the last prayer
of the church which throws a little
earth upon the body that is to rise
again, is that we, adult sinners, may
one day rejoice with them in the
same kingdom. Read again this-
funeral service, and if you have a
mourning mother among your friends-
and relatives, (who does not know
one ?) give her these consolations.
She will believe that she hears the-
voice of God, who stopped the coffin,
of the widow's only son and restored
him to her.

But these are, if I may speak thus,,
only the first caresses of religion of

402

The Children's Gntves if^n^^tncmnfs!

the remains of children ; the honor
which she accords to them is perpetu-
ated in the worship with which she
surrounds their graves.

Paganism took little care of the
tombs of those w^ho had not furnish-
ed to their countr)^ a citizen or a sol-
dier. We know that they considered
a chi I d *s 1 i fe very u n i m portan t. V i r-
gil alone, among the poets, uttered a
cry for the souls of young infants,
whom he represents as being cut
down before the eyes of their mo-
thers. In those family sepulchres,
called by the Romans columbaria^
I found several little busts in mar-
ble* representing children, by the side
of which weJ^e funeral urns, contain-
ing at the bottom sev^eral pinches of
ashes. This was all that remained.
Among the innumerable inscriptions
which cover the walls of the immense
gallery of the Vatican, I saw several
epitaphs coUlly stating that Junius
Scverianus had lived X\\o years ; that
Octavius Liberalis died when he was
five years four months and four days
old ; that Steteria Superba had de-
parted life at the age of eighteen
months. But there was no wish or
hope of meeting them again, and no
religious emblem to console the
mourners.

Elysium did not exist for those
shades without a name, as they were
called, unenomtfu mancs^ and their se-
pulchre closed without hope and with-
out glory. The position of children
in heathen times w^as revealed to me
by an epitaph which I found at An-
tibes, the ancient Antipolis, to which
the fashionable Romans came to en-
joy the fine coast and a sunny sky.
A stone detached from the ruins of a
theatre, now almost entirely destroy*
ed by the action of the weather and
the sea, had the following inscrip-
tion : "To the divine shades of
Septentrion, a child of twelve years,
who danced two days in the theatre

yrai

and pleased the people*''
made the poor slave-boy J
for two days to their delight ;
was overcome, and they appls
saitmit et phu'uit See, then, i
ciety made of this child — ^a pi
and a Anctim ! Meditating ]
I recalled to mind the
another infant of twelve y<
glorified God in the temple at
lem, and also when the Savic
the hand of the dying girl ^
mg unto her, "Arise !" resto
to her father. I was obliged \
these cursed ruins and ent<
moment into the temple of j
who, to save these little
upon himself the form of 1
Cusiodi€ns pari ' 14 las DotnsH

ir.

Jesus Christ was born,i
fant ; and since that lime a l
in favor of children b«
perceptible in the epit;i ,
graves. The child becoii
almost a god. it is at le
called to heaven and expect
and what new regards sum
for the future in that lapidai
which says so much in so fei^

I was at Avignon, and viii
museum of that city, my ail
was attracted to a grave sion^
of the first Christian centuri
contained the following wo^|
rcfUiola^ pax (tcum r ** W^
peace be with thee 1'* By 1
was the monogram of Cj
rounded with glor)^ Wh
little Florentiola ? The I
nuiive proved plainly tha
an infant, and a beloved i
wish expressed and the <*ign<J
the Redeemer
was also a *
name brought to mind

dccini, qiu biduo MlUvil b tlmftof

The Childretis Graves in the Catacombs.

403

scription which I found somewhere in
one of our cemeteries, upon the se-
pulchre of a young woman : *' She
bloomed, blossomed, and died." Of
these three periods of life, Floren-
tiola had passed through only the
first; but the last words expressed
the hope that, as she had given to
this world the blossom, she would
yield the fruit in another : " Fax te-
cum P'

But one must go to the catacombs
in Rome, and read, in that great
Christian city of deatii, the delicacies
of the affections of earth, and the
hopes of a resurrection, which are
radiant upon the graves of little
children. In the cemetery of St.
Priscilla, I observed two epitaphs
distinguished above all others by
their brevity. One of them consists
only of a single melancholy word,
" libera^^ that is to say, free. A dove
^y ng away, carrying an olive-branch,
plains the meaning, which to me
Speared sublime.

This captive soul which had passed
trough the prison of earth was free
^ last I The church conveys a simi
'ar idea at the funeral obsequies of
kittle children : " Anima nostra^ sicut
f^^^ser^ erepta est de laqueo venantiutn,
^^^^Mius cmtritus est^ et nos liber at i su-
**«*-." (Psalm cxxiii.) "Our soul is
^*^aped as a bird out of the snare of
^^ fowlers. The snare is broken,
*^^ we are delivered."

The other one, which I remarked

^^ the same place, containing only

^ Word, was quite as beautiful and

'^^Ore Christian — '^ Redempta,'' re-

i^emed. This was also expressive of

Kherty, but it was a freedom which

bad been acquired as the price of a

nmsom which was the blood of God :

kedempta!

This last expression alludes to the
grace given by baptism, which libe-
rates the soul held in bondage by
the demon. The children 's epitaphs

have it often, and prove that the
church had conferred the sacraments
upon them at the most tender age.
You can find for instance, in the mu-
seum of the Lateran : " Paulina, neo-
phyte of eight years ; Candida, neo-
phyte, twenty-one months old; !Zo-
zima, neophyte, five years, eight
months, and thirteen days \ Matro-
nata Matrona, neophyte, one year,
fifty-two days."

Upon a grave in the catacomb of
Saint Calista, a Grecian inscription
was found by the Canon Profili, con-
sisting of the following words :

" Dionysius, newly illuminated, one
year and four months." This title of
enlightened was given only to those
who came into possession of it by
baptism. Saint Chrysostom men-
tions the enlightened in no other
way.

This one, collected in the cemetery
of the new road Salaria, and preserv-
ed at the Lateran, is more explicit :

" Florentius dedicates this inscrip-
tion to his well-beloved son, Apronia-
nus, who lived one year, nine months,
^\^ days. He was loved by his grand-
mother, and seeing that he was nigh
unto death, she asked the church to
make him a Christian before he
should leave the world."*

Baptism, which was conferred upon
the newly-born, was a great consola-
tion to those who witnessed their de-
parture from this world. " O Magus,
innocent child!" said an inscription at
the museum of the Lateran, " thou
hast gone to live among the guiltless.
How much more endurable is life !
With what joy the chureh, thy other
mother, received thee, when thou
didst leave the world for her. We
will suppress the murmurings of our

* " Florentius filio suo Aproniano fecit titulum bene-
merenti qui vixit annum et menses novem, dies quinque.
Cum amatus fuisset k majore sui et vidit hunc morti
constitutum esse, petivit de ecdesil ut fidelis de se-
culo recessisset."

404

The Children s Graves in the CaUuo

hearts and restrain the tears from our
eyes/'*

Expressions of the most ingenious
tendei^ness are shoivn in the last fare-
well to creatures of whom only smiles
are known*

" Cyricus, dear soul, peace be with
thee ! He lived a year and sixty-two
days !"t

"Here reposes our dear soul,
named Quiriace» an innocent child,
beautiful and good, who lived three
years, three months, eight days/'t

The word soui, in the Latin lan-
guage, is a terra of great tenderness*
it signifies life as it is visible. But
in tlie Christian language it has a
more spiritual signification. As the
poet sa}*s ;

** TKmi calle^Ht mc thy life ; call me ihy »tHit !
I wiiib a nunc more luting than a cbf .
Life is of little iralve» a breath extinguishes iHe fljmie \
But the Mul U uamortil aii our love/'

Maternal aflfection creates, in
Christianity, a name for children
whicJi becomes as the family name
for those beings who pass from
earth* having only glanced at its
sorrows, The mother remembers
that the Lord said, the angels of
these little ones behold the face of
the Father who is in heaven. This
was enough to make so many angels
of those innocent babes by an inten-
tional confusion. This is hereai\er
to be their title: and where is now
the afflicted mother who, at the
deathbed of her son, has not seen,
like the poet, the radiant face of the
angel bending over and calling the
child who resembles him ? I'rimi-
tive epigraphy goes to show the cause

* *' Magut puer inaocetts, e«»e }un inter itinocetitea
eoepiali QuJim stavilcs (stabHU) livi (tibi) h<YC viU
est t Quikiii tc laetuin cxdpet (excejiit) mater ecde-
lia edeoc (de hoc) in undo rcv^rlentein. Campniniltui'
t«ectonim gcmituB* sinutur (destruaiur) Hetua oculo-
fum.'*

t CrricBs, anifsi dulds tn pace^ rudt ataaum i, diet
Ijtii.

t Hie pa«ita ett jininia duldt. innoca npiee« et
pulcra, tiontitie Quiriace, qu* vixit acmoa ul roen-
aes iii. dte» yi»L

of this synonymy upon
of children.

^^ Angeika^ bene in /dr/,"
lica, child, be happy in p<
one inscription of the Cat;

Upon another was writt

"Laurentius to his be
Severus^ who lived four yi
months, and fi\Q day's, an*
ed by the angels on the 7I
uary."*

One is pleased to re<
these funereal places, thi
brances of school days,
only ones that the departi
have left in life. In seir
combs, near the Cubicula^
faithful ones assembled ft
large halls can be seen> w
neither altar nor picture
other embellishment th;
made in the turf, mostly 1
by one or t^vo elevated se;
presumed that the antiqi
sembled children in sch
structed them in the
Near one of these halls c;
the following epitaph in
comb of Saint Priscilla :

*' Obrimbs to Palladios,
ed cousin and school mat
membra nee/'

In the catacomb of thi
Salaria the schoolteachi
with the mother to write
upon his pupil, whom he 1|
ed in 'his heart.

**With a holy and pure
grave has been made to \
a child of thirteen years, fa
his teacher, who loved him
a son, and by Cord a, his 1

The glass paintings foi
same place are a finished
tation of the education

•** Severo S&o dytriiaimo LdUtfoli

reoti qui vixit anno* tv. incitMa vliL i
ftb ansell*» *S* idtia Jaiutanl**

t ** Id «funtu uneio booOt Ita
xiiL CoritiJi mjj|L»ter qui pitta i
Etiunif et Cotdeus mater 6lio }

The Childre$is Graves in the Catacombs.

APS

in those days. On a cha-

of glass there is a child,

; father and mother are

read the Scriptures. An-
represents two little chil-

npeianus and Theodora,

parents, uiider the trees.

[lolding a copy of the Gos-

Pompeianus points to the

1 of Christ which is erected
St of this Christian family,
ler is discoursing and ex-
> them the precepts of their

:e torn from the bosom of
ly, who received children
k'orld of souls, which they
stonished? The epitaphs
d them to the saints in
attend them on their en-

paradise. The mother
[s Gemellus, who died at

eight years, added to the

1 engraved upon his tomb-
following: "O Saint Ba-
recommend to you the in-
f Gemellus I"* In former

was to be found in the
of Saint Basilla, now of
mes.

ir prayer was addressed to
in the same catacomb, but
ir child : " O Saint Basil-
amend to thy care Crescen-

our daughter Crescentia,
ten months."t
^quently it was to God they
le loved soul. " Lord Jesus,
our child," said a Grecian
I report-ed by Northcote.

not a remembrance of the
\g of a child in prayer, in
pronunciation, and in the
ly of the last word of the
1 a little girl ?
, bibas (vivas) in Domino

ido Basilla, innocentiam Gemell*.
asilla, commendaraus tibt Crescentinam
im . . . qiue vixit menses x." .

ZezuP^ "Regina, live in the Lord
Jesus !"

If life is only a pilgrimage for us,
is not this particularly true of those
who have only passed a few days ia
this world ? This idea has been ren-
dered in the epitaph of a young Chris-
tian ; and few have made so great an
impression upon me as the following,
simple and short as it is :

^^Peregrina^ vixit annos viii,, men-
ses viii,f dies X. Decessit de corpore^^
"Peregrina lived eight years, eight
months, ten days, then departed from
the body."

Did this name of Peregrina, pil-
grim, passenger, allude to her rapid
voyage upon the earth, which she
hastened to leave ? I incline to this
beautiful idea, which a similar inscrip-
tion authorizes, not far from there,
carved upon the tomb of a Christian :
''Viator!''

Upon the grave-stones of children
of the first centuries, it is not uncom-
mon to see a white dove, carved upon
an antique cup, drinking from the
border. Those who repose beneath
that stone had drunk of the cup of
life, and taking a taste, not wishing
more, had spread their wings and re-
turned to heaven.

In that better land they become
intercessors for their kindred on the
earth. What family has not theirs ?
And who has not prayed to those
young elect, yesterday our brothers
and sons, to-day our defenders in
that place from which they behold
us and will prove their love for us ?
The following can be read in the
Lateran Museum :

" Matronata matrona, intercede for
thy parents I She lived one year,
fifty-two days."*

And upon another stone :

" Anatolius has made this grave for

"• "Pete proparentes tuos, MatronaU Matrona, qua
vixit an. L di liL'*

The Children s Graves in the Catacombs.

his dear son, who lived seven years,
se V e n m on ths^ l wen iy- two d ays, M ay
the soul repose in happiness with God.
Pray for thy sister T**

iir.

I MUST confess that we have pre-
served little of the architectural sim-
plicity in the inscriptions upon tombs.
It is just to say that ihey are of a
poor style, laden with lengthy com-
mon epitaphs, emphatic declamations,
and warm protestations, contradicted
by the neglected and solitar)^ aspect
of those almost forgotten places* I
make an exception of the sepulchres
of children. If you find in a ceme-
tery a grave which is preserved with
love, invested with crowns, and dress-
ed with fresh flowers, you can recog-
nize the place of a child. In all
countries of the world, a delicate
worship is devoted to the mortal re-
mains of innocence. The Indian
graves have become celebrated, since
Chateaubriand described them so
charmingly. Now that Christianity
has been established in those parts
of the globe, mothers no longer sus-
pend the cradles of their sons upon
branches of trees, but their funerals
have retained much of the simple
grace of the time of Chactas.

A missionary has written : ** I had
to attend the burial of a little child
five or six months old. They brought
it to the church, laying it upon a mat,
with garlands of flowers for a wind-
ing-sheet We should have thought
that it was sleeping sweetly, and not-
withstanding its color, I admired its
angelic beauty. After the prayers,
which the church addresses to tlie
good God, they dropped it gently
into the grave, as if it had been its

* " AfutoUtti fiUo benemenati ISedt, qui v'nil mnait
vii. mBMi* viiL daclmt nii. SpintiM nmi teoe re<
I qiiieacat in Deo. Pstw pro aorare toi.**

cradle, without covering
face. Flowers were givei
place of earth, to llirow upe
body. All the assistants die
wise, and some commenced to
It was sad to see the earth
over this little body so swee
ed, and cover that young
appeared to smile upon us.'
to become food for worms ^
beautiful soul was already
with the angels. I then u
the heavenly spirits to srug"^
to God at the happiness of
creature, I hope that this
not forget the young missio'
celebrated its deliverance fro
world of misery/**

This scene recalls to roe
one which I witnessed in
of Beauvoisis. I met in
the funeral procession of a Ut
who was being carried to live
tery. In advance of the cc
child of ten years, concealed i
floating draperj% was carryij
ket of w hite flowers. Thos
ed, gathering and smUi
with her part, until their
the sepulchre ; then throw i
ket into the grave, she di
among the trees, delighted at
prepared this flowery be
playmate, who was to slec]
long night of death,

Menander said in a
verse, " He whom the gods Tc
young," And Sophocles sai<
him, ** It is good not to be bc«
if once bom, the second dc;
happiness is to die young.
cients considered it fortune tc
livered from mortal misery,
would they have said if t!u3
left them had appeared tq
bosom of God in a beatfttii
glory without end ? Sene in

• Viftde1i.rAbbdChc|Mnp>i

d at

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople.

407

HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE*

This volume has run through seve-
ral editions in England within the
last three years. It is destined from
its popularity to run through as ma-
ny more ; but as yet, it has found no
publisher on this side of the Atlan-
tic, although its merits are well-es-
tablished in British literature. Ob-
serving a new edition announced by
J3«ndey, it reminds us that the neat,
msnpretending little work has not re-
ceived any recognition from our re-
public, nor has any attention been
<^led to it In truth, the American
piiblic, deeply interested in travellers
*»id travelling in the east, or in what-
ever comes from the press illustrat-
^'^ scriptural scenes and events,
*^3ve strangely overlooked this pro-
^^^ction, which furnishes a better in-
^*ght into oriental domestic life than
^ny account published for many
years.

£lgypt is now what it was in the
^*ys oif the crucifixion and of Julius
^^aesar; it is unchanged, it is un-
changeable, in its social structure, as
*he pyramids in their architecture,
®>* the sands of the desert in their
external aspect To understand the
^luiitioa of the people now, is to
^derstand their condition when the
^>*aelites under the direction of Mo-
•es went out from among them. To
^*^tcr the family circle in the valley
?^ the Nile for the purpose of leam-
^'^S their present mode of life, is at
^*^Cc an introduction to all their pro-
^"^•^tors who ever dwelt in the same
^Sion in the reign of the ancient
^araohs. In order to see what a Ro-
^^ji city was in the first century, it

^^ Hmrtm Lif€ in Egy^ and Constantinople. By

^k*^«liiit LotL 4th edition. i2mo,pp. 312. Richard

^**"'— New Bariii«Um Street, Loadon. 1867.

is requisite to put aside the ashes
from a submerged Pompeii, or to re-
move the superincumbent earth from
a buried Herculaneum. But in Egypt,
to comprehend what was the moral,
social, intellectual, religious appear-
ance of the country when Cleopatra
sailed upon the river, all that need be
done is to push aside the mat which
serves for a door to the first mud
hovel met with, or pass within the
first portal where heavy hinges grate
upon the ear an uncordial reception.

The same Egypt can be seen
which Alexander of Macedon, Sesos-
tris, and the shepherd-kings beheld.
Egyptian institutions were never bu-
ried \ or, if buried, their sepulchre is
above ground. A living death is vi-
sible on all sides ; it is a palsy that
struck the land long before the dawn
of history, and may remain as it now
is, when the history of the present
century has passed into oblivion. Al-
though the Egyptian mind and mo-
rals will not die in their body, still
no motion is in its limbs, no quicken-
ing vitality in its joints, no trembling
in its nerves ; the blood is stagnant ;
a black pool as destitute of national
animation as the waters of the Dead
Sea. Progress is a term never heard
of near the habitation of the Sphinx \
and the period of ruins has gone by.
Everything seems running rapidly to
demolition ; but nothing is demo-
lished ; decay has in that mysterious
soil a perennial existence, a species
of recuperation, that renews itself
like the integuments of neighboring
snakes, lizards, and toads, which
bury themselves in the same rich
slime.

A book, therefore, on modem ha-
rem life in Egypt, is in one sense a

^o8

Harem Life in Egypt and Comfantinopti,

hand-book for historians in their ex-
plorations after the vanities and
household troubles of good King
Solomon, when his domestic peace
and quiet, his comfort and felicity,
were invaded by many more spin-
sters than the Levitical law allowed
to any one wise man. This dame
Emeline is the very w^oman to aid
them in their archceological research-
es. Her volume furnishes impor-
tant hints and information ; and if
on the title-page nine centuries be-
fore the Christian era were substi-
tuted for the date of publication, in-
stead of nineteen centuries after it,
the change would be so unimportant
in a chronological point of view, that
no annalist would be aware of the
anachronism. It would look like a
second edition of Herodotus, revised
and improved, for the benefit of the
ladies, and far surpassing in truth
the first impression of that ancient
Haltcarnassian, full of his old galli-
naceous and bovine stories.

Mrs. Lott, an English school-teach-
€r,was engaged in London to proceed
to Egj'pt in 1S62-3, to take charge of
the education of his highness the
Grand Pasha Ibraim, five or six
years old, the son of Ismail Pasha,
the viceroy, and the grandson of
the renowned and illustrious Ibraim,
The lady in due time arrived at
the port of Alexandria, consigned to
the delicate consideration and ten-
der mercies of the viceroy's agent,
like any other bale of valuable and
perishable drj^goods. Her first
glimpse of the land in the culinary
and creature<om fort able line of de-
velopment was not favorable. She
*next proceeded to the city of Cairo by
rail, and was invited to the house of
the vice-regal commercial partner, a
I ^German in lineage and language, but
^•with principles and refinement some-
what neglected from want of pro-
per planting and propagation in his

tona

youthful European culture.
residence of this gentlemanjk
perpetually ser%*ed with tfll
dishes at breakfast, noon, ^r\
ner — boiled and roast muttony
and dr)^ vermicelli soup»
stuffed with rice, chicory, '
and " the whole of the dia
swimming in fat;" or
followed after. Co: ^ tJ5

thermometer was ra^uig .tbove
Fahrenheit, this oriental feed
ther oleaginous, and the lad
for the wHngs of a dove to
her provender elsewhere*
had learned one important
and thus paints it. She saysj

" T can endorse the veradty <
mcnt made by a contributor to i
who most n lively and truthfully \^
* the land of Egypt ia ruled over
princes : one of whom 15 the vie
teen of the others are known
general of European nations ;
tieth is the most powerful of all^
name is Baksheesh, (gift, present, bril

To the high and mighl
Baksheesh, in duty bound
all due homage ; we bow
salaam, and are pleased
his acquaintance. He is
unknown to fame in this hemis
for a popular superstition pn
the rural districts that hi5.^
has many loyal subjects an"
ers in our own dearly belo\*i3
dearly governed model
Prince Baksheesh is a po^
institutions^ and a party to
our legislation. The mjsfc
the unprotected female w;
did not propitiate the potei
superabundant fat would
speedily withdrawn from the'
fare.

At last thp day arrived
remove to the harem o(
roy on the other side of
and she was destined to
hands of the agent m ti

Harem Life in Egypt and ConstafUinople.

409

of consignment in which she had
come into them, that is, amid bales,
barrels, and boxes of merchandise.
The dame, therefore, had no oppor-
tunity to take a look into the royal
market-basket, to ascertain how Is-
mail Pasha provided for his little
private family of three hundred fe-
males of different colors, ages, sizes,
. — and sexes of the feminine and
neuter gender. Although the Eng-
lish governess has an eye for the or-
namental and beautiful, it is never-
theless only one eye ; the other
throws its dark splendor upon the
useful and substantial. Sometimes
she endeavored to close both against
sights which were neither the one
»>or the other. The truth of history,
however, compels her to supply her
"Naders with specimens of all these.
^he observes :

** The vice-regal standard, the everlasting

^^•cent, floated at the stem and stem. On

r^^y rowed most vigorously, and in less than

^*^ ininutes I was landed at the stairs of the

*^*^cin. The building is a very plain struc-

^^**"*, the interior of which is painted like

r^^ trunks of the trees of the Dutch model

^**J*ge of Broeck. In appearance it resem-

^^ the letter E, and is a large pile, com-

J*^**ed of five blocks of buildings. Proceed-

**^K to the one which faced the Nile, I en-

^'^dtheAir/wr, ('sacred,') passed through a

?^*all door — ^the grating sound of whose huge

^'^es still seems to creak in my ears like

^** grinding of the barrel-organ of an itine-

*'^t Italian or Savoyard — which led into a

^***Ut-yard, at that time lined, not with a

^^J^«Ti8 of Ae Egyptian infantry, with their

•«^11 brass bands playing opera airs, but with

*Jgroup of hard-working Fellahs and Arabs,

*?^ing away like laboters in the London

^Oclca, and rolling into the immense space

^^<lrcds ol bales of soft Geneva velvets,

jj*^ costliest Lyons silks, rich French satins,

^^^^ elegant designed muslins, fast gaudy-

2^^0fed Manchester prints, stout Irish pop-

jj**^ the finest Irish linens, Brussels, Mech-

I '^ Valenciennes, Honiton, and imitation

j^^^ Nottingham hose, French silk stock-

^r^«i French and Coventry ribbons, cases of

J*^^ purest Schiedam, pipes of spirits of wine,

^^^^ cases of £uhionable Parisian boots,

^^>C8, and slippers, immense chests of bon

in magnificent fimcy- worked cases, boxes

and baskets, bales of iombeki^ and the bright,
golden-leaved tobacco of Istambol, (Constan-
tinople;) Cashmere, Indian, French, and
Paisley shawls of the most exquisite designs ;
baskets of pipe-bowls, cases of amber mouth-
pieces, cigarette papers, and a whole host of
miscellaneous packages too various to enu-
merate, of other commodities destined for
the use of the inmates of that vast conser-
vatory of beauty, all supplied by his high-
ness's partners. For, be it known to you,
gentle reader, that the Viceroy of Egypt
may most appropriately be styled par eX'
celUnce the Sinbad of the age, the merchant-
prince of the terrestrial globe.

"Here I was received by two eunuchs, one
of whom was attired in a light drab uni-
form. ... I was then ushered through
another door, the portals of which were
guarded by a group of eunuchs, similarly
attired, but whose uniforms were most cost-
ly embroidered. Their features were hideous
and ferocious, their figures corpulent, and
carriage haughty.

" They also salaamed me in the most orien-
tal style. Thence, passing along a marble
passage, I entered a large stone hall, which
was supported by huge granite pillars which
led me to the grand staircase, where I was
received by the chief eunuch, who is called
kislar a^iciy * the captain of the girls.'

" This giant spectre of a man . . ad-
vanced toward me, ma^p his salaam, and
ushered me, the hated^ despised Giaour, into
the noble marble hall of the harem, which
was then for the first time polluted by the
footsteps of the unbeliever. The scene
around me was so singular and strange
that I paused to contemplate it The hall
was of vast dimensions, supported by beau-
tiful porphyry pillars, and the marble floor
was covered with fine matting. I was now
handed over to the lady superintendent of
the slaves, a very wealthy woman, about
twenty-four years of age, with fine dark-
blue eyes, aquiline nose, large mouth, and of
middle stature.

" She was attired in a colored muslin dress
and trousers, over which she wore a quilted
lavender-colored satin paletot. Her head
was covered with a small blue gauze hand-
kerchief tied round it, and in the centre
of the forehead, tucked up under it, a lovely
natural dark-red rose. She wore a beauti-
ful large spray of diamonds arranged in the
form of the flower * forget-me-not,' which
hung down like three tendrils below her ear
on the left side. Large diamond drops were
suspended from her ears, and her fingers
were covered with numerous rings, the most
brilliant of which were a large rose-pink

4to

Harem Life in Egypt and Catuiam

diamond and a beautiful sapphire. Her
feet were encased in white cotton stockings,
and patent-leather Parisian shoes. Her
name was Anina : she had been formerly
an Ikbal * favorite.* . . . The lady
superintendent now took me by the hand,
led me up two flights of stairs covered with
thick, rich Brussels carpet of a most costly
description, and as soft and brilliant in col-
ors as the dewy moss of Virginia Water
The waiis were plain. Then we passed
through a suite o( several rooms, elegantly
carpeted, tn all of which stood long divans ;
tome of which were covered with white, and
others with yellow and crimson satin. Over
the doorways hung white sadn damask
curtains, looped up with silk cords and las-
6cls to correspond, with richly gilded tor*
tiices over each. . . Against the walls
were fixed numerous silver chandeliers,
each containing six wax candles, with frost-
ed colored glass shades made in the form
of tulips over them. On each side of the
loom large mirrors were fixed in the wall,
each of which rested on a marble-topped
console table supported by g:ildcd legs.
The only other articles of furniture that
were scattered about the apartments were a
dozen common English cane-bottom A'ursi-
chairs."

She is next conducted further on
to some dormitories, where bedsteads
are waiUi ng, being an article of furni-
ture unused by the Gypsies. Against
the walls were piled up beds in heaps,
covered over with a red silk coverlet.
On the divan was placed a silver tray
— both toilet- tables and w^ish- hand-
stands being unheard-of comforts —
containing the princesses' toilet re-
quisites. In her general inspection
the governess is led to the apart-
ments of the Princess Epouse, the
mother of the little boy for whom
Mrs. Lott is engaged. This princess
is dressed — ^but let dame Emeline de-
scribe the scene, as only a lady can
do it:

"The Princess Eponse, altired in a dirty,
cntmpled, light-colored muslin dress and
trousers, sat A ia Turque^ doubted up like a
clasp-knife, without shoes or stockings, smo-
king a cigarette < , . Her feet were encased
in hitbomhex^ * slippers without heels.* . ♦ .
In front of the divan, behind and on each

•R-"

side of me, stood « bevy of the 1
harem, assuredly not the
Moore's 'Peris of the East,^
in such glowing colors in his far-Cu
la Rmkh^ for I ^led to discover th
est trace of loveliness in any of ihi
the contrary, moat of their cou
pale as ashes, exceedingly db
and globular in hgure ; in shori^l
that they gave me the idea
moons ; nearly all were passt,
tpgraphs were as hideous and hai^-li
witches in the opening scene io
which is not to be wondered at^ \
them had been the fevorites
Pasha. . . , Some wore white linei
and trousers. Their hair and fit^
were dyed with htnna^ * * , >

some gold watches , . . susp< .

necks by thick, massive gcd<f
fingers were covered with a \
mond, emerald, and ruby ringJTI
were ear -rings of various preciou
set in the old antique style of \
Behind stood hal^a^dozcn uf whit
chiefly Circassians,*' ™

The mother leaves a fav J|
pression on the mind of the
ness, who, being finally
from the interviewp pursues 1
rations and makes a great
neither complimentaiy to tl:
nor cleanly, where water is \
but where ablutions seem
normal \ for it is written ii
nal that

** Thence we passed along ft
which leads to her highness't
The marble bath is both long
taps for hot and cold water. T!
twally lx>ils into which their bighi
This only occurs when they have iH
viceroy, and not daily, or even at i
time. The bath of the poets is

!a?

The governess at last re;
own chamber, where she is cj
to sleep and seclude b
leisure hours. The pi
is not inviting, nor docs
view afford more encouraj
evident sense of disappoj
not of dismay, is
thus she pours forth hi

** On the right-hand side of |

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople.

411

%as the small bed-room which was assigned
to me as mj apartment It was carpeted,
having a divan covered with green and red
striped worsted damask, which stood under-
neath the window, which commanded a fine
tm^tTttil of the gardens attached to the pa-
lace of the viceroy's pavilion. The hangings
of the double doors and windows were of
the same materiaL The furniture consisted
of a plain green painted iron bedstead, the
bars of which had never been fastened, and
pieces of wood, like the handles of brooms,
aSKl an iron bar, were placed across to sup-
port the two thin cotton mattresses laid upon
it. There were neither pillows, bolsters, nor
bed linen, but as substitutes were placed
tluee thin flat cushions ; not a blanket, but
t^vo old worn-out wadded coverlets lay upon
tlie bed. Not the sign of a dressing-table or
ai chair of any description, and a total absence
o^tU the appendages necessary for a lady's
^^ed-room ; not even — "

Well, well, Mrs. Lott, the "nc^
«ven " was, in your civilized opinion,
^^^itainly very odd to be sure. But
^on't mind trifles ; let it be forgotten ;
*^t us ramble elsewhere. You were
?^ying just now something about four
*^*'Oad steps ; go on ; that's right.

_ ** Four broad steps led down into the gar-

^^ close to a plain white marble-columned

^^^c» on the top of which stood out in bold

^^^ef the statues of two huge life-sized lions.

• • • Here and there were scattered rose-

r^^«s, the brilliancy of whose variegated co-

~?*^ and the perfumes of their flowers were

'l^lightfiiUy refreshing; geraniums of almost

^'^'^17 hue ; jessamines* whose large white and

^Uow blossoms were thrice the size of those

^f Hngland, and a variety of indigenous and

^^•tem plants, shrubs, and flowers, which

J^re so thickly studded about that they ren-

^*«^d the view extremely picturesque, and

P^*itimed the air, grateful to the senses. Ver-

^t^ trees, as large as ordinary fruit-trees ;

^J*>«r plants bearing large yellow flowers, as

'^^S as tea-cups, with most curious leaves ;

^^Ctuses, and a complete galaxy of botanical

^'^'iosities, whose names the genius of a Pax-

^^ would be perhaps puzzled to disclose,

^^^'^^amentcd those Elysian grounds."

This is only one sketch of only one
^fH)t in the many gorgeous and luxu-
r^^ius localities. Space forbids copy-
^^g more ; but the book states :

^Leaving these neglected scenes of amuse-

ment, we proceed along a path to the right,
through a superb marble-paved hall, the ceil-
ing of which is in fresco and gold. It is
supported by twenty-eight plain pink-colored
marble columns, surmounted by richly-gilded
Indian wheat, the leaves of which hang down
most gracefully, on each side of which, and
also above . . . are some very handsome
lofty rooms, the ceilings of which are also in
fresco, with superb gilded panels. . . .

" The grounds of Frogmore, the Crystal
Palace, St Cloud, Versailles, the Duke of
Devonshire's far-famed Chatsworth, and our
national pride, Kensington Gardens and
Windsor Home Park, exquisite, beautiful,
and rural as they are ... all lack the bril-
liant display of exotics which thrive here in
such luxuriance. The groves of orange-trees,
the myrtle hedges, the beautiful sheets of
water, the spotless marble kiosks, the artis-
tic statuary, are all so masterly blended to-
gether with such exquisite taste, that these
gardens . . completely outvie them."

The princesses were sometimes as
highly adorned as the halls of mar-
bles and frescoes, and as ornamental
as the gardens of blooming exotics.
On the festival of the Great Bairam,
or on state occasions, when lady Ai-
sitors made formal calls to compare
complexions and cashmeres, their
highnesses are spoken of with the
highest delight :

** They wore the most costly silks, richest
satins, and softest velvets; adorned them-
selves with the treasures of their jewel cas-
kets, so that their persons were one blaze of
precious stones. That crescent of females
(for they always ranged themselves in the
form of the Turkish sjTnlx)!) was then a
parterre of diamonds, amethysts, topazes,
turquoises, chrysoberyls, sapphires, jaspers,
opals, agates, emeralds, corals, rich carbun-
cles, and rubies. In short, the profusion of
diamonds with which the latter adorned their
persons from day to day became so sickening
to me that my eyes were weary at the sight
of those magnificent baubles, to which all
women are so passionately attached."

But weary as were her British eyes,
still she gazed in rapture when the
darling gems were on exhibition ;
moreover, in the journal the impres-
sions were faithfully recorded. On
another occasion, when some princes-
ses were coming,

4X2

HiJtrtm Lift in Egyft and CmstAnffft&fife.

"The Princess Epouse, the mother of my
prince, was attired in a rich, blue-figured
silk robe» trimmed with white lace and sil-
ver thread, with a long train ; full trouscni
of the same material, high-heeled embroi-
dered satin shoes to match the drcsa, Un
her head she had a small white crape hand-
kerchief, elegantly embroidered with blue
silk and silver, and round it placed a tiara
of May blossoms in diamonds. She wore a
necklace to correspond, having large sap-
phire drops hanging down the neck. Her

» arms were ornamented with three bracelets,
Dtnposed of diamonds and sapphires, and

^■11 amulet entirely of sapphires of almost
priceless value. . . , At times my eyes, when
looking at the Peris arrayed in all their
gcm«», have become as dim as if I had been
tilling them on the noonday sun."

What young lady of an enterpris*
ing turn of mind would not be will-
ing, after reading these glowing de-
scriptions, to pack up her Saratoga
trunks, to engage the Adams Express
Company, and to charter the Cunard
line of steamers, to aid her on to a
glorious future near the base of the
.pyramids ? Certainly not one of the
^ambitious and strong-minded. But
they need not ask the English gover-
ness to go with them. She has been
there; she will respectfully decline
.going again— not she, as Shake-
i^spearc's other old lady in Hen r)' the
VI I L exclaims, **not for all the mud
in Egypt/* For another part of the
story remains to be told j another
side of the picture to be presented ^
and danje Emeline telb it truthfully,
she paints it life like ; the rose is
beautiful, but beware the serpent un-
der it.

Mrs. Lott is apparently a gentle-
woman, refined^ accomplished, intel-
lectual, with an appreciation of the
difference between civilized society
and barbarism. But in the vice-regal
harem, education was not to be found;
ignorance was universal, superstition
reigned supreme. None could read,
or write, or sketch, or converse on a
rational subject. No one could sing
or perform on a musical instrument;

none cared for to-morrow or
hereafter. Their daily routin(
all the monotony of the descn
its burning sands, destitute of v
in incident or shade of chan^
was equally unproductive and l^
worthless. They had nothing
pcct with pleasing anticipation
had nothing to remember wi(
light. Physically, morally, me
they were unclean and dd
Their passions, when arousfl
ungovernable ; their greatest ye
revenge upon a rival ; and lh<
venge was deadly, by suffocat
submersion, poison or the bow-j
Their amusements were all set
their weary hours of listless id
were passed in indulgence of
enervating vice alike ddeteric
health, comfort, and color.

The sen^ants wene steeped fa
a lower depth of dirt and dcp'
The princesses had the power
and death over them, and it
power often exercised ; they
put them to the torture for a
fault, the breaking of a plate
falling of a cup ; and cheek
arms seamed with parallel
the red-hot iron, attested
and how unmercifully cruel
their punishment. The d
menials was not prepared
nor given to them ; but they
ed by stealth from the dish-
way to the princesses* apa
and after their repast was crnJU
refuse of chicken and plgeo^
of mutton, of soup, of rice, m
tables, and the rinds of fhij!
tossed into a basket in one Jg
mess, mixed up, around vsfl
ser\^ants flocked like carrion
and, squatting on the floor, in
ravenously their reeking hai
pick out disgusting mo:
their dripping, unwashed fii

The huindry did not rcq^
water : for the volume infoi

Haretn Life in Egypt and Constantittople.

413

" Those who performed the duties of wash-
erwomen were occupied daily in their avoca-
tioii, except on the Sabbath, (Fridays.) But
that was not very laborious work, since
neither bed, table, nor chamber linen are
used. Thus they were engaged until twelve,
when their highnesses partook of their break-
fast separately. It was served up on a large
green-lackered tny, minus Uble-cloth, knives
and forks, but with a large ivory table-
spoon, having a handsome coral handle, the
erident emblem of their rank as princesses.
It was placed upon the soo/ra, a low kind of
stool, covered with a handsome silk doth.
The repast occupied about twenty minutes.
Then pipes, in which are placed small pills
of opium, or more often cigarettes and coffee,
were handed to them, and each princess re-
tired to her own apartment Thus they be-
came confirmed opium-smokers, which pro-
duced a kind of intoxication.*' . .

Their common indulgence in opi-
um, with a profuse supply of Euro-
pean wines and Schiedam gin, pro-
duced its natural results, and is thus
•depicted :

. *' Oftentimes after the princesses had been
indulging too freely in that habit to which
tKcy Ijj^jJ became slaves, their countenances
^''^Uld assume most hideous aspects; their
^V'es glared, their eyebrows were knit close-
ts t^^jether; no one dared to approach them.

"^ ^ct, they had all the appearance of mad
'^^a.turcs, while at other times they were gay
^*^^ cheerful.

^ ** They only combed their hair (which was
^^ of vermin) once a week, on Thursdays,
J^^ eve of their Sabbath, (Friday, Djouma ;)
^*^cn it was well combed with a large small-
,^^^li comb ; and pardon me, but * murder
^yi out,' the members of the vermin family
^^ch were removed from it were legion.
W^^ ^Tas afterward well brushed with a hard
^*^-brush, well damped with strong per-
^*'**ed water. Their highnesses never wore
^^kingps in the morning, nor did they

■^^nge any of their attire till afternoon."

\Vhen the summer heats set in,
^'^^ harem was transferred to the
^^^st at Alexandria, to inhale the
^'^sh breezes from the sea. The
*^^^paration for flight was attended
^"^th some rich scenes and ludicrous
^^lubitions. But their transit on
^^e railroad, boxed up like pigs or
*^^^ultry on a cattle-train, is indescrib-

able in a decent print. The prelude
to the trip will bear repeating ; it is
an amusing contrast with the festal
robes on the day of the Great Bairam;
the cutaneous sensation it excites is
the penalty to pay for the knowledge
imparted ; the company is right
regal.

'* As soon as orders had been given to the
grand eunuch to hasten the departure of the
vice-regal family to Alexandria, . . there
was bustle all day long. One morning when
I returned from the gardens, . . I enter-
ed the grand pasha*s reception-room ; . .
there were their highnesses, the princesses,
squatted on the carpet amidst a whole pile
of trunks. They were all attired in filthy,
dirty, crumpled muslins, shoeless and stock-
ingless; their trousers were tucked up above
their knees, the sleeves of their paletots
pinned up above their elbows, their hair
hanging loose above their shoulders, as
rough as a badger^s back, totally uncomb-
ed, without nets or handkerchiefs, but, par-
don me, literally swarming with vermin ! No
Russian peasants could possibly have been
more infested with live animals. In short,
their fottf 6ftsemhle was even more untidy
than that of washerwomen at their tubs ;
nay, almost akin to Billingsgate fishcrwo-
vaiCTi at hotne ; for their conversation in their
OMvni vernacular was equally as low. They
all swore in Arabic at the slaves most lustily,
banged them about right and left with any
missile, whether light or heavy, which came
within their rcacli."

At last the governess lost her
health. The food was too unsuit-
able for a Christian woman, and the
atmosphere, redolent of the over-
powering rich perfumes of the gardens
mingled with sickening, stupefying
opium smell and smoke, along with
other odors, almost intolerable. Af-
ter visiting Constantinople with the
harem, she threw up her engagement
and returned to England.

This abasement of woman is not
to be wondered at ; for wherever the
Christian idea of marriage is lost or
subverted, woman becomes the mere
object of passion, and degradation is
sure to follow.

414

The Flight of Spidm:"

TRANSLATKp FROM rrUIkt& RHtlCIStFSmS, BTC^ FAR DBS PSRlS XA t,A C9(lirA<QmB

THE FLIGHT OF SPIDERS.

A PAPER READ BEFORE THE FRENCH ACADEMY OF SCIEKCE, MARl

About fifteen years ago, I was
sitting in an arbor of my garden,
reading, when a little spicier fdl on
my book, whence I could not tell,
and commenced to nm over the very
line I w^s reading. I blew hard to
chase him away, but he would not
go. He lifted himself strangely up,
and I cannot explain how, but he
lodged on a sprig of verdure just
above my head, " Well," said I, ** for
a little animal like that, this is a won*
derful ftrat I How has he accom-
plished it ?" To satisfy myself, I took
him up again, balanced him on my
book, and, after assuring myself that
he had no invisible thread to aid
him, I blew again, and again the lit-
tle fellow did the very same thing.
With redoubled curiosit)% I tried him
once more, and, to see better, I sat
down in the bright sunlight. Again
I balanced him on the book, looked
at him as closely as possible, and,
i«rhen I felt assured no precaution
could have escaped me, I blew
once more. ♦ * , Resuming the
same inclined position, the spider as
quick as lightning darted the finest
possible thread out of him, raised
himself in the air, and disappeared.

I confess I was stupefied. Never
hnd I imagined these little animals
could fly without wings \ so I consult-
ed several works on zoolog)% but I
was astonished to find there was no
mention made of the flight of spiders,
nor of the ejaculator)* movement of
which I had witnessed so curious an
example * So there was a new ques-

* t n M £<i^e Simon's Nahtrtd History ^SpuUrt^
Uie moit neccnt imurk of the kiDd* he mjs, ipcalcii^ of

tion presented to me, and
lion to study the habits of these
animals — which hitherto had
me no concern— decided ibr «
immediately lost all repugii^
distaste, and threw away aJiV
just precautions of which the \
is too often the object, and of w
was as culpable as any one else,
from that lime I welcomed its a]
ance ; was most happy to mee
it, looked for it, indeed, and st
its habits almost with funrr^ ^
can say tliat, thanks to tlits 1
preoccupation, which never left
found every opportunit)' to folic
inclination, and knew where t(
spiders in all sorts of
places.

Such are the singular
curiosity once excited, and<
other proof that, in order to"
nature well, we need only a I
rious glimpse of Uie unknown
double all our energies
it thoroughly.

And as in this study, tr
may appear, I seem to have itm
facts not known hitherto,
deserve to be understood,
same the principal ones :
treat of the flying of spider
habitation of some species xi
and of the gossamer or air I

Uie roanner in whic^ ^

web \ ** Several z%nh

ilA thread )^ke an an

upwatxJ '

thcr of I

Iheyarr,

ii>jlhi»ciwn ob

fast itsK^reattin

lontal position, -imu ri>«-i

Simcw'ft work giw*

lere t(

indfl
er ^
ly a I
;tiown

trtsHI

po«e he Km obtervcd Hvt woodoi

The Flight of Spiders.

41S

a singular phenomenon, for a long
time discussed in vain, but which I
believe I have definitively solved. I
only ask the naturalists to judge one
fairly, not by theory, but by facts.
And I am persuaded, if they will take
the pains to verify what I advance,
they will find me exact ; and, if they
be^ doubtingly, I hope, after they
liave read my observations, they will
conclude as others to whom I have
communicated them. Mocking and
incredulous at first, they have ended
by believing their own eyes, and tes-
tifying to the evidence presented to
them. May my labor prove useful,
and, above all^ contribute to the glo-
57 of the great God, whose just title
'^ Magnus in magnis^ maximus in
^^inimis,

I.
Threads thrown out by spiders.

The first thing that I perceived,
^^cl that put me on the track of the
^^st, was, as I have just said, that the
S^^ater part of arankides, especially
^^rtain varieties of thomises lycoses,
^^C, besides the thread that they al-
^^ys draw with them, have the power
^f darting one or more of extraordi-
nary length, and of which they make
^se to accomplish distances, to fasten
^^irwebs from one point to another,
^nd even, as we shall see further on,
^o raise themselves in the air and
^^ere to seek their prey. The spider
^^rays points his abdomen to the
**4e where he wishes to go. The
^rcad shoots like an arrow, fastens
*^self by the end to the place destin-
^> and the spider passes as under a
^^spcnded bridge. If this thread is
^t, it is immediately replaced by
^^other ; and the ejaculation is so
I^tMnpt, so rapid, the thread so
?trai^t, so tenuous, so brilliant, that
^^ might be taken, if I may so express
^yselfi for the jet of an impercepti-
ble ray of light To perceive this

clearly, the spider must be held on a
level with the eyes, which should be
shaded, and examined with one's
back to the sun.

The best time for such an observa-
tion is in the morning or evening,
when the sun is low in the horizon
and the temperature is mild; for
without this latter condition the tor-
pid spider is more inclined to creep
along the earth than to throw out
new threads.

Sometimes, to excite them, they
may be held by their ordinary thread
and gently shaken or blown upon —
just a few puffs of breath — ^which they
detest

I have thus been able to scan
closely, while watching their develop-
ment, this instantaneous jet of thread,
which could not be less than five or
six yards long, that is, fifteen hundred
or two thousand times the length of
the spider. What a tremendous ap-
paratus must be necessary to these
little animals for so rapid an ejacula-
tion, and one so disproportioned to
their size ! And especially if we con-
sider that this thread, inasmuch as it
adheres to the animal, has not the
appearance of an independent organ,
but seems solely to obey its will.
Thus I have seen spiders, who seem-
ed to miss the end desired with the
first stroke, continue to hold the
thread in the same direction, and
actually palpitate^ if I may so say,
while striving to make it adhere.

But a truly interesting sight, and
one obtained at a very trifling ex-
pense, is that which the thomises
hufo offer, described by Walckenaer,
in the first volume of his History of
Insects^ page 506. In truth, these
araneides do not only throw out one
thread, but an entire bundle of them,
and are seemingly guided by the
smaller threads, just as a peacock
unfolds by degrees his splendid plu-
mage.

And even in one's own room ibis
sight may be enjoyed. It is only ne-
cessary to collect these ihomhes and
keep them in separate boxes, and
nourish them in winter with one fly
or so a month. Then take the boxes
out, put them on a table in a very
warm room, and sit a little in the
shade and watch them. Very soon
from each box will appear a multi-
tude of threads, of extreme freshness
and fineness, which the spider throws
into the air with inexhaustible profu-
sion. At certain seasons of the year
we can enjoy this spectacle again,
and at even less expense.

FLIGJrr OF SPIDERS.

Another propertjmot less remark-
able that these araneides possess
{thomiscs bufo^ lycoces voraces^ etc.)
is that of flying ; that is to say, of
elevating themselves in the air, there
sustaining themselves, and travelling
about horizontally and vertically, with
or without a thread j in a word, act-
ing exactly as if in their own element.
This fact I have witnessed a tliou-
sand times, and it has been certified
to by a great number of people, who,
at first incredulous, and alarmed for
the laws of gravitation, were compel-
led to confess the reiterated testi-
mony of their own eyes.
' I had some pupils under my charge,
and to them this study became a con-
tinued source of amusement. Dur-
ing their recreation, they found suit a*
ble spiders for me, and, when they
brought them to me, I rested them
on my fingers and made them mount
upward in the air; and invariably,
after having watched tliem for some
moments, they were entirely lost to
sight. But when I made the dis-
cover)' — of which I will speak later
— of the general migration which
SQme species make yearly toward

certain regions of the at
had no longer any trouhi
this performance to my 1
tent.

The flight of spide
very rapid, particularly!
start. They often escapti
hands while they are cafe|
ed. This happened to t
with a voracious lycosi ti]|
a long time importuned 1
cess. Just as I was gq
him up as entirely stupefi
denly escaped from me I
movement, so rapid tliat!
ment I lost sight of him j
I found him a moment a^
was suspended quietly in
also remarked that he s€
out throwing any thread
was not the only time I
same observation. I v
menting one day with som
in the interior court of 1
where I live, and, having
lycosCy we saw him occupy
first with the neighborinj
running up and dowTi for %
ty yards, about a tenth of ^
the arch, against wt
himself from time
groped about to look
not finding one, he thre
back into the court, raiiM
dicularly, and disappear!
the clouds. His thread,
one, could not have been I
a tcnlli of a yard, Ordin
ever, before they ascend, |
out a thread which they j
short time ; then, arriving j
height, they break it, in o]
vigate more easily. If an]|
fore them, they wind U l^
their feet, throw it asid^
those pretty little crownj
silk in form oi cracknels^ thl
see fiying in the air iti tim^
mers. Again, they
selves quietly with t

vhld^
»ok^1

The Flight of Spiders.

417

rises perpendicularly above them,
and gives them the appearance of
floating.

But a peculiarity still more remark-
able in the flight of spiders b the at-
titude that they take in flying. They
generally swim backward^ that is to
s^, the back turned from the earth,
the feet folded on the corselet, and
perfectly immovable. How can such
a flight be explained, for they are al-
ready heavier than the air ? Plunged
iato alcohol, they sink quickly ; but in
the air they seem to possess an ease,
a liberty, a facility of transport, so
admirable that I have never been
al>le to see in them the slightest mo-
^0x1, nor even an apparent increase
0^ "height Does not this fact present
**^ interesting question for the skilful
^^ contemplate ?

III.

'^^^'V LONG THEY CAN REMAIN IN THE AT-
MOSPHERE.

-At this portion of my history I
*^^^'ve to relate facts the most
^^^lious and unexpected; and, un-
"^^tunately for me, more true than
l^^obable. I acknowledge I was
'^^^th to publish them, or assume
Concerning them any responsibility.
^Ut I was firmly convinced, and
^crefore hoped to be believed, es-
pecially by^his generation of fearless
"Naturalists, who are astonished at
"nothing in nature, and who, having
^^ftcn been surprised in the relation
^f almost incredible marvels, must
^Uainly make allowances for a few
***ore in another quarter.

let us look at, for instance, the
^'Onderful things related of the argy-
''^^ or aquatic spider.* I could not

^> *^ mrgyromtt b a t^ider that lives in the water
P^^ «be constructs a charming little edifice that ap-
J^J^turronndcd with a silky mortar. The down that
^^^ber contains a certain quantity ofairforrespira-
^^^^ MThis gives her in swimming the appearance of
^*l of quidcsilver, fix>m which we have her name.

VOL. Vlf. — 27

tell anything more unlikely, so I will
only exact for the atmosphere a com-
panion to what the Pbre de Lignac
discovered in the last century for the
water. Yes, I pretend there are
spiders that live in tlie air as well as
those living in water, and that every
year, from the earliest days of spring,
there is, unknown to us, a general
migration of spiders toward the
atmosphere, where they pass their
best season, form their nets, chase
their prey, and only return to earth
in the first fogs of autumn to find
their quarters for the winter. I add,
also, that this ascent and descent
give rise to the curious phenomenon,
still so badly explained, of the gos-
samer. And as it was to the study
of this phenomenon that I owe my
knowledge of the rest, may I be per-
mitted here, by way of demonstra-
tion, to relate briefly the path I have
followed and the proofs which have
led to the conviction I express ?

Attracted, as I was, by all that
concerns spiders, I could not remain
indiflerent to a fact so important and
interesting as the periodical appari-
tion of those threads which in spring
and autumn we see flying about in
long white skeins, clinging to trees,
to hedges, and to the vestments of the
passers-by, carpeting the country in
a few hours with more silk, and finer
and whiter, than could be spun in a
year by all the reels in the world.
Admirable netting, glistening in the
light of the setting sun, and reflecting
the sweetest, softest tints of gold,
vermilion, and emerald, and receiving
the pretty and poetical name of "y^Zr
de la Viergey Was there not between
this phenomenon and my preceding
observations a secret tie, some mys-
terious relation ? I seemed to foresee
it, and, setting to work immediately,
rejected from the very beginning the
usual explanation of this phenome-
non.

^tS

Thi FUgItt of Spiittrf.

How, indeed, can we admit these
floating gossamers as merely the
refuge webs of spiders, torn by the
violence of the wind from the trees
and forests and carried capriciously
through the air? Will not the
slightest observation convince us
that they never appear but in the
calmest moments, on days foggy in
the morning, but afterward beautiful,
and not preceding a storm ; never in
summer, often in the spring and
autumn, and sometimes even in win-
ter? If the winds carry them, why
do they not appear in summer? Are
violent winds and spider-webs both
wanting? And who has ever seen
one of these webs carried by a hur-
ricane, especially ia quantity suffi-
cient to produce such a phenome-
non? For the fall of gossamers
sometimes lasts for almost entire
days, and in certain countries during
the middle of the day the fields are
covered with them. Add, too, that
violent winds are generally local,
while this phenomenon is universal,
and so periodical that in the same
climates it appears at the same
epochs, and, when one knows what
produces it, it is easy to predict the
time and day of the apparition.

Discontented, then, on this point
with books and tlieir explanations, I
turn completely to the side of nature,
and present all I obs€r\ed.

From the first appearance of these
threads in autumn, I was struck with
the immense multitudes of new spi-
ders met with everywhere, and which
I had not seen during the summer.
Little brown iycosfs filled the air, so
that it seemed as if it had rained
them. If one w*alked in the fields,
the meadow^s, the gardens, on the
borders of the woods, among heaps
of dried leaves, scattered all through
the forest everywhere, could be seen
myriads of these little brown spiders,

jumping up and flying before me fa]
every direction, and exactJy such j
I had already recognised »« sn
excellent swimmers*
passed the winter in the
holes of worms that they complete
with a little silk, they rea|>pear
after the cold In great ntimbcr?*,
disappear again entirely in tlie i
bright days of spring, and as if 1
enchantment If one is seen
during the summer, we may be J
it is some female retarded h)* laying"
her eggs, and dragging laboriously'
her cocoon after her. Now, what has
become of the others ?

For several months I cotild not!
satisfy myself on this point, when, on
the 2ist of October, 1856^ in ibel
enclosure of the little seminary of j
Iseure, near Moulins, I came to if |
positive decision. I was observing |
the fall of a large quantity oT
mcrs, w hich were falling on : i
in large white flakes, when i per-
ceived close to me in the air one of!
tliose little black spiders descending
gradually, and as if she w^ere jmnf
ing. She held by an invisible ihf
to a large flake, which
slowly about seven or
above her ; but, keeping outside i4
it, she hung by the end of the lotig,
thread, like an aeronaut undcmeathj
his balloon* My attention one
tracted, I noticed so great a au
that I was astonished I had
taken care sooner ; for there
scarcely a fiake underneath wfildil
there were not one or two, smd \WM
sometimes even before the flake IM
self was visible.^ Each one

We read m DitrHfim*t Jtrnft^ fHise ijg i ** Mt. Cif^
win SAW jt Ui^ mitnber of f oinmen «<} ;W litao
Beajtie, when ihe was abqut f^ aiilea Ihan Ubt aiou
of the Rio de }a Plata. It wu il^e fint el

wad tlicM gosMixicav were caxnctl by a v«7 U«
breeze, and on eaicli were fettnd an immwa^ wmmm
or little tptdcrs. itmilAr a sfiparaae^ ■bwnt Ifti
twieJfth of an inch ia tenitliv and in color a Jic^ kfiVft
lli« amalkst ««rc « d««pcr ilad« dii» li* flttflk

Tlu Flight of Spiders.

419

ited by a slender thread, and
ed the motion of its balloon,
y met a tree or a bush, they

I upon it ; if not, coming close
e earth, they ran along and
lost in the verdure. If I ap-
bed them too quickly or made
je, they remounted rapidly by
iireads and went to disembark
vhere else.

so examined some of the flakes,
were all shining white mats^
ring as if they had been wash-
Several contained wings and
)f flies, fragments of the case
tie coleoptera, and other rem-
of their aerial festivities.
is encounter was for me a reve-
I knew where the spiders,

I I had seen disappear so brus-
, took refuge, and, however rash
dgment may appear, I felt as-

I had solved an interesting
sm.

t to establish seriously and give
ience an opinion so new and
lal as that the atmosphere may
opled with spiders, I soon felt
nore proof was necessary in or-
) sit down calmly under my per-

conviction. So I concluded I
d not be doing too much if I
1 to the verification of their de-

that of their ascension, and
I surprise them in this new mi-
m. I waited, therefore, impa-
y for the spring.

t that spring, and for five or six
bllowed it, great was my disap-
ment ; for, though I perceived
al isolated ascensions, yet no-

in the proportion I had ima-

or that could justify my hypo-
;. I began then to doubt se-
y my success, when an incident
red that relieved my embarrass-
, and proved how trifling some-

vre feond on the white tufts, but all on threads.'
1/ •fKtS4*rck4t mU tJU NtUural History tmd
fifiht ComniruM m'siUd during Uu Vcyagt
)imjtttft SAi/, tkg BtagU, 1845.

times are the causes which lift the veil
from nature. I was looking straight
upward, but sitting close to the earth,
and so as to be able as much as
possible to exclude the sun from
my eyes. And here, by the way, a
fact is made palpable, by no means
microscopic, but which has escaped
so long not merely the observation
of the crowd of vulgar observers,
but of those even who are wide
awake and study carefiilly ; namely,
that it is not necessary to carry one's
nose always in the air, if I may so
express myself, to examine closely,
to investigate, or to render a faith-
ful account of phenomena.

On looking upward — as an ascen-
sion only takes place on very beauti-
ful days, succeeding generally to bad
weather — spiders cannot be distin-
guished from the multitude of other
insects which fill the air. But if, on
a beautiful day, mild, calm, and bril-
liant in sunlight, succeeding as nearly
as ]X)ssible to a rain warm with the
south wind, at about nine or ten
o'clock in the morning, a post is cho-
sen on an eminence of a meadow or
an avenue, and there, as near the
ground as may be, and crouching low,
the observer will look horizontally,
he will perceive a series of fire-works,
formed of innumerable threads launch-
ed from every direction and inclined
toward the sky. This is the prelude.
Soon the spiders detach themselves
and mount slowly by their threads.
The most conspicuous are the tho-
mises bufoy because they are the larg-
est, and because they only ascend
with an entire bundle of threads,
which gives them the appearance of
small comets.

Thus have I decided :

I St. That there is not only one as-
cension every year, but several, at least
partial ones ; that they do not always
take place in spring, but often in the
autumn^ and sometimes even in the

The Flight of Spidm.

\\ ; and in general, from the de-
It which has taken place in the
Inning of autumn until the defini-
' .li^ccnsion in the spring, there are
few favorable days of which the
Iders do not profit to make an iierial
Vney, or at least to throw out a
;e number of threads. Thus, in
le Beaujolais, where I have lived for
everal years, there were partial as-
lensions on the ist, the 19th, and the
tSth of November, 1S64 ; the 2JSt,
Ithe 23d, and especially the 25th of
[October, the 9lh of November, and
[the 6th of December, 1865. In 1866,
the 18th and the 30th of Januar)% the
3d of FebiTiary, the 3d, 14th, and 31st
of October, and the 17 th of Decem-
ber. In 1867, the loth of Fcbruar\%
. , . the last, however, less considera-
ble than might have been predicted
by the beaut)' of the day. The day
previous was so mild, though cloudy,
that many of the spiders may have
embarked incognito. Many, also, may
not have judged it apropos to fly away,
for a great number still remained on
the ground. I forgot to observe the
temperature of all the days I have
noted. The director of the Normal
School of Villcfranchc having had the
kindness to show me the meteorolo-
gical register which he had kept with
great care, I was able to prove that
in calm weather only ten or twelve
degrees of heat were necessar)' to in-
duce them to mount upward. The
least exposed begin ; then immediate-
ly the others, so soon as the heat
reaches them ; but after three or four
o'clock in the afternoon no more as*
ccnsions are perceived, unless they
arc provoked \ and this does not al-
ways succeed.

2d. Before taking their flight, they
generally cling to some elevated ob*
ject that they meet widi easily, such as
shrubs, bushes, props of vines, or
blades of grass escaped from the
sc)^e* To these they affix their

threads and warm themseh'es wdl i
dtc sun before commencing their 1
cursion. This is tlic happy momc
for amateurs to make their obscr
tions, for there is scarcely a blade
grass that does not contain one •
more ; and, if the branches of you
trees are suddenly struck wiUi
slight blow, a great number are dc
lached, suspended at the end of tl
threads ; and very often rare sf
mens are thus found not discoid
able elsewhere.

TO WHAT HEIGHT DO TkWi
SELVES IN THK

On this point I have not been
to make any direct observation.
haps I have dreamed of offering
jections to the concourse of int
human navigators who undcrti
such perilous excursions in the
and for my interest in the stu«
have found two excellent re;
The first, that it would be well
them to know that, if ihcy have not
had rivals, they have had : ^s,

who, for 6000 years, ha^ d

silently and noiselessly what tlieyl
have claimed for themselves by c^^ei
effort of puffs and publicity. The
cond, and a still more serious nh]
tion, and that I believe will truly i
terest the future in this young
try, is that if the argyronetc a
bell has given to science the insi
ment with which the divers explj
the depths of the sea, why may
the study of aerial spiders fomi
aeronauts — these divers in air
complete apparatus which th«
quire to raise them^^elves i*
height, direct their movement
maintain themselves at win >
not these little animals re
problem for centuries ? \ ^ :
sent state of aerostation d^ r-
ford ground sufficient for en

We are, therefore, redu

The Flight of Spiders.

421

jecture ; and, if I may be permitted to
express mine, this is what I think :

I believe that spiders rise to the
same height where on the fine days
of summer one can see the swallows
and martins hover, almost lost to
aght, in pursuit of gnats that people
these regions of the atmosphere. I
found this belief on the webs of spi-
ders seen falling in autumn, that seem
to come at least from nearly such
heights. They begin to be seen at a
hundred or a hundred and fifty yards,
and there is no great temerity in af-
finning that they have already tra-
versed a good part of their course.
An observation made in 1864, if con-
clusive, would tend to make remoter
still the habitation of spiders ; for the
&g that determined the fall that year
was a }Ugh fog, that is to say, one of
those uniform mists that hide the sky
fcf several days together, and seem
to extend to a great height. But, I
I'^atjthisisall conjecture. Onegood
oteen^ation would have been worth
fermore.

QWjlCnTRES ON THE MODE OF BUILDING
OF SPIDERS IN THE AIR.

PERHAPS here I should stop, and,
^^ stated facts, leave to others
*^ explanation. How do spiders
**>stain tfiemselves in the air ? How
^ they so long brave the winds, the
f*wis,the storms ; arrange their webs
^ emptiness and without apparent
"^€ans of support ? Prudence coun-
•^ me to avoid these questions, but
"^y fhk of simple observer permits
^^^^ However, in waiting for bet-
^ things, I decide still to hazard
**^ conjectures, were it only to
l^e that a fact once admitted, it
^^d not be absolutely impossible
^ the wisest to explain it.

The first idea that came to me
^ that these spider-webs raise

themselves in the air as the kites
of children, and, made fast to the
tops of trees and edifices by long
threads, they are sustained by their
own lightness. This idea was sug-
gested to me by a sight I was witness
to one day at the Seminary of Vals,
near Le Puy. From a comer where
I was in shadow, I perceived distinctly
on each high ridge of the roof, light-
ened by the rays of the sun, long
threads which rose perpendicularly
in the air, like large cords, balancing
themselves slowly right and left, with-
out ever going out of a certain field
of oscillation. But I soon gave up
this idea. How admit, in truth, that
on two or three threads, and without
any other means of support, spiders
could weave their true webs ? Would
not some of these aerial constructions
tumble down every day, ruined by
their own weight ? while it is acknow-
ledged they only fall in autumn, and
always together.

I therefore rather incline to be-
lieve that the spiders are sustained
in the air by the distention of an in-
terior vesicle, analogous to that of
fish, and that they ejaculate by their
threads, which are numerous, and
pierced with an infinity of little tubes,
large bundles of threads, by which
are taken the insects that serve for
their prey ; that they resist the winds
as fish do the tossing of the sea, and
their threads, being glutinous, are not
dampened by the rain ; and also be-
ing excellent conductors of caloric, as
is proved by the abundant drops of
dew which they pearl near the earth,
on the hedges, etc. ; and if after a calm
night they are touched by an autumn
fog, these heavy and moistened
threads weaken and fall one over
the other, and form the silky flakes
that are seen from ten to eleven
o'clock in the morning, fl3dng about
in cloudy days with the spiders who
inhabited them during the summer.

422

ydhn Taukr.

This, hoping for better, is the ex-
planation I hazard, and I submit it
with the rest to the appreciation of
competent men. If only these pages
attract atteatioE to a merited subject,

and provt>ke numerous ol
which alone can ever ivlly
it, the author will be mor
paid for tlie few researches
presented in this article.

TKAHSLATSO FROM TKK ** KKVITB di MOMDB CATKOLIQVI,*'

JOHN TAULER.

BY ERNEST HELLO*

HiSTOKY has an astonishing me-
mory. She records the day and
hour of battles with exact fidelity.
She knows a thousand things. She
has recently discovered, if I do not
mistake, the name of Julian the
Apostate's cook. She remembers
everything of little importance. The
names of celebrated mistresses who
have amused or poisoned renowned
personages, are transmitted from age
to age. Erudition has been making
strides during the last hundred years,
as if she had seven-leagued boots.
To deserve the admiration and grati-
tude of mankind, however, she should
not have degraded herself, but taken
a higher sphere in her progress. Her
memory indicates greatness of ge-
nius ; but she is like calumny, she
increases in size as she advances
through the centuries. In her labors,
researches, and exploits, she has
been mostly busied with soldiers,
and frequently forgotten God and
man. She could not think of eve-

' "ry thing at once ; the hidden histo-
ry of humanity is yet to be written ;
the greatest events of the world are
secret to this very day ; and those
•who reflect on them are men of a

'''special caste.

If there were question of the battle
of Marathon, or of Antony and Cleo-

patra, our contemporaries '
found well instructed ; bo||
know John I'aulcr, the
I'auler, of the Dominican or j
ing order ? M

Master Tauler was agreA^p
— powerful and popular. Oi
he gave a learned discourse, in
he taught the way of perfectioi
all his characteristic assurance
become perfect, he en urn
twenty-four conditions, which
veloped before an attentive i
liant audience. After the j
lajman, one of the poorest
ignorant of his hearers, <
History, by one of those d»
so usual for her to have,
is question of God, has for;
name of this individual Tl
layman said to Tauler :

** Master, the letter kilisj'
spirit gives life i but you
Pharisee."

Doctor Tauler : "My i
now old, and no one has i
to me in this manner.*

The Layman : ** You ihin
too bluntly to you; but
own fault ; and I can
what I say to you is true**

DocTuR TAirLKR : *' Yoa 1
a favor, for I have nei'cr
Pharisees/'

"^ohn TauUr.

423

Then the layman, probing into the
doctor's mental condition, showed
him that he was held captive by the
mere letter of the evangelical law,
and devoid of its spirit

" You are a Pharisee," proceeded
the layman, " but not a hypocritical
Pharisee. You are not on the road
to hell, but on that which leads to
purgatory."

Ik)ctor Tauler embraced the man,
and said to him : ** I feel at this mo-
Bsent as the Samaritan woman must
fcave felt at the well ; you have re-
vealed to me all my faults, my son ;
jou have told all that was most
•ecret in my soul. Who, then, has
told you ? It is God ; I am con-
Wnced it must be so. I entreat you,
*tty son, by the death of our Lord,
to be my spiritual father, and I, a
poor sinner, will become your son."

The Layman : " Dear master, if
y^U speak thus contrary to order and
"^^son, I shall not remain with you
^'^y longer, but straightway return
to niy own house."

II>ocTOR Tauler : " Oh ! no. I beg
y^^U, in the name of God, to stay with
"*^» and I promise not to speak thus
«Sain."

The docility of Tauler is sublime
•"^d touching. His great good will,
^Hich broke the pride of science, led
'^^'n into the paths of spiritual con-
toinplation.

*'TelI me, I conjure you, in the
*>^nie of God," said Tauler, " how
y^^ have succeeded in arriving at
'^e contemplative state ?"

1*HE Layman : " You ask me a very

?^d question. I confess to you

""^^kly that, if I should recount or

^*ite all the wonderful things which

^*^ has been doing to me, a poor sin-

"l^r, for twelve years, there would be no

"^K>k large enough to contain them."

The layman then recounted how

n« had been deceived in his spiritual

^ ^; how, influenced by Satan, he

had practised imprudent austerities,
which would have injured both his
body and soul ; and how, warned by
God, he had returned to the paths of
wisdom.

Both Tauler and the layman were
then lifted up to the regions of con-
templation. The unknown monitor
then said : " If the God whom we
worship could be comprehended by
reason, he would not be worthy of
our service."

But before his great illumination,
Tauler suffered during two years
frightful temptations. Abandoned,
poor, suffering, that man of iron was
shaken like a reed. The layman
comes to his assistance, and sustains
in his time of misery him whom he
had crushed in *his period of pride.

" For the first time," said the lay-
man, " God has touched your superior
faculties."

At the end of two years, the doc-
tor again ascended the pulpit. The
crowd which came to hear him was
large. Tauler cast his eyes over the
expectant multitude, then drew his
cowl over his eyes and prayed.

The crowd awaited him ; but he
spoke not a word. Tears filled his
eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
Tauler wept bitterly.

What a scene ! The audience be-
come impatient Some one asks
Tauler if he will preach. Tauler
continues weeping. He wept and
wept j and the multitude, anxious to
hear his inferior oratory, and incapa-
ble of appreciating the higher elo-
quence of tears, could not conipre-
hend the doctor's conduct. At last
Tauler dismissed the assembly; for
his sobs choked his utterance. He
asked pardon of the people for hav-
ing kept them uselessly waiting ; and
they went home. " Now," said some
of them, " we see that he has become
a fool."

But after five days' silence, Tauler

1424

ydm Tauter.

I preached before the friaisof ihecon-
fvent, and he was sublinic* One of
the friars went to the pulpit and ad-
dressed the congregation as follows:
" I am requested to make known to
you that Doctor Tauler will preach
here to-morrow ; but if he acts as he
did last time, remember not to blame
me.'* ** How will he succeed?'^ said
one to another. " I do not know,**
was the answer; **God knows/*

This time Tauler could control his
voice, and silauevi:is his theme. He
had built his eyrie in silence, as an
eagle on the summit of a cliff. His
language, worked out in silence, seem-
ed to long after it ; to return to its
home» and die away in the high som-
bre clouds of complete solitude. Si*
lence is the doctrine of Tauler ; his
secret, his food, his substance and
his slumber. Absolutely free from
all oratorical finery\ his sermons go
right to the mark, without respect for
conventionality or the cant of ordi-
nal discourses. He utters what he
wishes to express ; praises solitude,
and returns into it. This is the rea-
son why his external word takes no*
thing away from his interior recollec-
tion. His words do not betray his
§oul« Silence is the guardian angel
of strength.

It was doubtless this profound
doctrine of silence which gave to the
eloquence of Tauler an extraordinary
virtue. This man, who seemed to
come out of a tomb, appeared with a
thunderbolt in his hand. Fifty men,
after the sermon, remained in the

•church as if transfixed by an invisible
hand. Thirty-eight of them were able
to move during the half-hour which
followed ; but the twelve others could
not s^f. Tauler said to the unknown
layman, his adviser : ** What shall we
do with these people, my son ?'* The
layman v tr one lo the other

[and ton* i, but they wcm as

MiiKrvabic as rocks.

Tauler was frightened at the
lysis which he had caused ** A
they dead or alive ?** said he to
friend. *^\Vhatdo you think.^''
they are dead,^' replied the layma
**it is your fault, and thai of tb
Spouse of souls,"

This fact, which b historical^
like a legend.

This picture would b'
if an artist should sk* Th

place where Tauler had just prcadi
ed was a cemetery, and the twelw
men who were IvHng on the ground |
ecstasy resembled those who
bercd in death beneath- The
walking with his friend thn
audience, who had become
his victims ; feeling the pulsd
the face of his hearers, lo detect
them after the sermon, as after a bal
tie, some sign of lift Fi

the ranks of the vai
ing the wounded, must hu%c »i
something superhuman. At I
friend of Tauler found that
thunderstruck hearers breathed stil'
"Master,** said he, "those men stil
live. Request the nuns of tlic
vent to take them away from hcft]
for this cold floor will injure
One of the nuns, who was a futteoi
to the fearful discourse, had to
carried to her bed, where she
motionless.

The biography '

which serves as pn
mons, says nothing ol his exi
life ; but dwells specially on h'
historical and legendary *:-
Those who \^r
not deigned e\
century he live
has dispensed i
nary inquiries, as if etern
the sole tbealre of his ttij i ^
istence.

His friends are as strange
self. The astonishiiig laym
tdls his name to nobody.

yhAn TauUr.

42$

us no means of discovering it^ was
not the doctor's only teacher. An-
other of his instructors was a beggar,
just as extraordinary.

Tauler, according to Surius, peti-
tioned God during eight years for a
master capable of teaching him the
tmth. One day when his desire was
more than usuaJly strong, he heard a
vcnce saying to him, "Go to the
door of the church. Thou wilt find
there the man whom thou seekest."
Re obeyed, and met at the ap-
pointed spot a beggar, whose feet
*ere soiled with mud, and whose
'Sgs were not worth three half-pence.
They began a dialogue, of which
fl^e following is a portion :

I^ocTOR Tauler. " Good day, my
Wend.''

The Beggar. " I do not remem-
'^r ever to have had a badAz^j in my
iife."

TTauler. "May God grant thee
P«"Osperity."

The Beggar. " I know not what
^^v-ersity is."

Tauler. "Well, may God make
*^^€ happy !"

The Beggar. " I have never been
^^liappy."

^ XJrged for an explanation, die men-

^crant aflSrms that, " by means of si-

*^Jtice, he had arrived at perfect union

^th God ; never being able to find

pleasure in anything less than God."

Tauler. " Whence comest thou ?"

The Beggar. " From God."

Tauler. " Wlicre hast thou found

God?*

The Beggar. " Where I have left
*ll creatures."

Tauler. " Where is God ?"
The Beggar. " In men of good
Mil."

Tauler. " Who art thou ?"
The Beggar. " I am a king."
Tauler. "Where is thy king-
dom ?"

The Beggar. " In my soul."

We need often recall to our minds,
in reading Tauler's life, that he was
really a man of flesh and bone, an
historical personage. Surius, Fa-
thers Echard and Touron, have writ-
ten his real life circumstantially. He
was bom in 1294. He was an Alsa-
tian. He lived at Cologne, and died
probably at Strasburg. We cannot
^m the date of his death. It hap-
pened May 17th, 1361, says Father
Alexander. Father Echard places
it in the year 1379. Another histo-
rian, M. Sponde, puts it in 1355.

Let us now speak of his doctrine.

The doctrine of Doctor Tauler is
the practice of divine union. This
union, transcending human thoughts
and hopes, is tlie secret of his life and
the leading principle of his work.
His sermons are full of instruction
regarding this union.

His Institutions also teach it
Some writers hostile to Tauler pre-
tend to have found in his writings
the foreshadowing of quietism. This
mistake can be refuted in three ways :
by the works of Tauler, which always
affirm human activity to the most
contemplative soul, thus clearly se-
parating the doctrine of the quietists
from that of the German thinker.
Secondly, Bossuet, whom no one will
suspect of any leaning toward quiet-
ism, says of Tauler : " He is one 01
the most solid and exact of the mysti-
cal theologians." Thirdly, Tauler him-
self predicted quietism in a remark-
able monograph, blaming strongly
all that Molinos, Madame de Guyon,
and Fenelon afterward asserted.

A close study of the Alsatian
doctor shows that he always gives to
both internal and external activity
all the reality and all the rights
which they possess.

" If any one," says he, " ascends

to such a Iieight of contemplation as
Saints Peter and Paul reached ; and
he perceives that a sick beggarneeds
his help to warm his soup, or for any
other service, it would be much bet-
ter for him to leave the repose of
contemplation, and aid the poor
man, instead of remaining in the
sweetness of contemplative life." (/«-
sHiuiiom, p. 195.)

H^re is the plain truth and no
illusion. And elsewhe.j he writes:
•*Men should not pay so much at-
tention to what they do, as to what
they are in themselves ; for if the
core of their heart be good, their acts
will be so also without difficulty ;
and if their conscience be just and
right, their works cannot be other-
wise. Many make sanctity consist
in action ; but action is not the chief
element in it. Holiness must be
judged in its principle as well as
in its acts. In other words, we must
be interiorly saints before w^e can
perform exterior holy actions. No
matter how good may be our works,
they do not sanctify us as works.
It is we, on the contrary, who make
them meritorious, in virtue of inner
sanctity which is their producing
principle. It is in the bottom of the
soul that we find the essence of a
just mui/' {Jmtituiions^ p. 156.)

Here is the truth again. Collate
those two passages, after having
studied them separately, and you
wiJl find that they throw complete
light on the nature and value of
human acts.

The almost continual ecstatic slate
in which Taulcr lived, never made
him forget his smallest duties.

It has been often remarked that
grace adapts itself to the natural
qualities of the individual whom it
sanctifies. This is as true of nations
as of individuals. In Italy, asceti-
cism has the color of the sun. Ita-
Uaa ascetics shout, burn with ardor.

and seem full of
ports to the narions of
The landscape of Itali
presents you a burnings!
of fire, and a scorching 19
ness is generally wanting,
the hue is more sombre. |
ardor is there; but ardq
with jealousy. There is j
quietude in Spanish my^
even adoration in it exi
as if suspicious of its Irur
many, profound gravitj^ai
tcrity lead the soul in
place. In Italy, images
ing together, and divine
of rejecting them, embi
The soul of the Italian
garlands of flowers in
fering them joyously to
sacrament. Familiarity i
tion unite, like the two^
electricity before the tfi
Familiarity, wedded toaq
pcared in St. Francis of ^
greatness of that strange
saw brothers and sisteri
thing, and conversed with
the birds, and his monksJ
tone and spirit, is not a
manifest to superficial mq
good nature veils his won
racter. In Germany^ th
which poetr)' presents to ]
cepled with great precatj
ration is sober in thou^
pression \ and aspires to
sublime, whose form an<j
intangible. German ac
philosophical, meditati
comprehensive, austere,
ped up in herself, a^
She borrow^s only w
cessary from pers"
The world is a se
employs only with n
aloof from all crea)
words sound like coiv
says to no one, **My
" My sister." If she h

John Tauter.

427

he would be silence. Her sister
would be the mist which surrounds
. God.

Tauler is one of the most majes-
fc representatives of Teutonic asce-
ticism.

A disciple of St Dionysius the
Areopagite and of that layman of
whom we have written, in the wake
(^ those two great characters he fol-
lows, with eye and wing of eagle, into
the region of translucent darkness.
He does not flutter there, he soars ;
or, if he flies, his motion is so high
and rapid, that it seems like the ac-
tive repose of a sublime and fruitful
immobility.

Tauler seems to desire obscurity.
Tlie remarkable effects of his preach-
iz^g on his audience are less like
thunder pealing in his language,
tban like the awful presence of the
ssLcred cloud where the thunder is
reposing.

Every man is a universe in him-
self Unity and variety are the two
t^xms of the antinomy, without which
tlicre is no life. But perfection con-
sists in equilibrium between those
terms. Such perfection is very rare.
Xn general tlie antinomy of life is re-
placed by the contradictory, which
** death. Man is divided between
Sood and evil, always attempting
*>! impossible reconciliation between
^em. Contradiction is a dead force
^hich tries to serve two masters. An
^'itinomy is a living force which, hav-
I'^g chosen a master, and obeying but
****>!, desires to serve him in a thou-
?*M different ways always useful.
Nothing better displays the unity of
* '^dscape than the variety of colors
^^ch it presents to the eye at the
*^>Jie time. The lights and shades,
^*^e undulations of the soil, and the
^^^idents of sun, clouds, villages, for-
?^^, and spires, all are harmonized
5^ the eye of the spectator ; and the
^^Ore numerous, varied, and unex-
*^^cted are the details, the more does

he experience delight and a certain
dilation of mind and heart in the
contemplation of their unity. If he
takes away some of the circum-
stances, he mars the effect of the
whole; for he cannot even destroy
a shadow without diminishing the
sunshine. WTiat is true of a land-
scape is also true of a book or a man.
But Tauler lost the balance between
unity and variety, for he gave all to
one and nothing to the other. Few
individuals, even among the greatest
saints, have been so ardent in the
sentiment, love, pursuit, and con-
quest of unity. He seeks after it
incessantly, and it haunts him. He
never seems to look at the road he is
travelling. He fixes his eyes solely
on the goal ever present to his soul.
He turns neither to the right nor the
lefl. He knows not whether there
be flowers or thorns on the borders
of his pathway. Do not ask him
to imitate St. Antony of Padua, and
preach to the fishes of the streams.
He minds neither fishes nor birds.
He seems to regard creation as a
stranger, of whom he had heard tell
long ago, but whose remembrance is
now but faintly glimmering in his
mind.

His love of unity, his call to unity,
his transports for it, always take the
same shape, the same key and ac-
cent ; and produce in the end a cer-
tain monotony, which is not a ques-
tion of doctrine, but an affair of na-
ture and temperament.

Tauler somewhere relates the his-
tory of a hermit, from whom a trou-
blesome visitor begged something
that was lying in the cell. The her-
mit went in to find the required ob-
ject, but forgot at the threshold what
was wanted, for the image of exter-
nal things could not remain in his
head. He went out, therefore, and
asked the visitor what he sought
The visitor repeated his petition.
The hermit re-entered his cell, but

428

yohn Tauter.

again forgot the request; and was
at last obliged to say to his giiest :
** Enter and find yourself what you
seek, for I cannot keep the image
of what you ask for sufficiently long
stamped on my brain to do what you
desire."

Tauler, in narrating this storj", un-
intentionally describes his owti cha-
racter. In every one of his sermons,
he chooses a text and a subject This
was required by circumstances and
by his audience. But the moment
^ he enters the cell of his contempla-
tion, he forgets text and everything
else, and mounts into the realms of
sublimity where he loses himself in
that supreme unit}^ after ^vhich his
heart is always aspiring. The mo-
ment he begins to flyj he forgets
the course he must take. With one
stroke of her wings, his intellect
finds her love, and then soars in
her natural element, with plumes un-
ruftled. Far above modes and forms
of earth, she stretches out her broad
wings in the cerulean vault of her
beloved repose. If any should then
ask him about some ordinary detail,
he would certainly answer like the
recluse above mentioned : ** Enter
yourself, and find what you are in-
quiring after. I cannot keep the
image of material or minor things
long enough in my mind to fulfil
your request"

Tauler is continually citing Saint
Dionysius the Areopagite. In fact,
these two great men are at home in
the same latitudes. The sermons
of Tauler are to the works of the
Areopagite what a treatise of ap-
plied mathematics is to one on the-
oretical mathematics. Tauler, like St
Dionysius, dwells in the interior of
the soul, that secret and deep abode,
the name of which he is ever seeking
without finding, and which he ends
by calling inefltible as God himself

"It is in this recess of the soul,'^
he preaches, " that the divine word

speaks. This is why tt is written,

'In the midst of silence, a secret
word was spoken to mc/ Concen-
trate then, if Uiou canst, all thy pow-
ers; forget all those images with
which thou hast filled thy souL The
more thou forgettest creatures, the
more thou wilt become fit and ready
to receive that mysterious woixL
Oh ! if thou couldst of a sudden be-
come ignorant of all thiDg;s, even of
thy own life, like Sl Paul, when he
said, * Was I in the body or out of
the body ? I know not, God knows
it.' " , , , " Natural animation was
suspended in him, and for this reasoci
his body lost none of its powers dur*
ing the three days which he passed
without eating or drinking. The
same happened to Moses when be
fasted forty days on the mountain^
without suftering from such long ab-
stinence, finding himself as !«tro(ngat
the end as at the beginning."

The desire of Tauler that his hear-
ers should become Chrittian ihiidrwii^
ignorant or forgetful of everythillg in
sublime ecstasy, shows plainly the
nature of his chari ty. H e wi «ih*^ for
them absolute perfc la-

tive and active, trans ^ tos-

port, exactness, total accomplishment
of truth, and the plenitude of atH
heavenly things. The atmosphere
in which he lived favored his hopes
and helped the efficacy of his teach-
ing. He declares that in the monas*
tery when a soul is suddenly called ta
some interior consideration, it csft
leave the choir in the midst of the ex-
ercises, and plunge itself unseen info
the abyss of meditation t-
God draws it He also aifij
when friars pass several days In ec-
stasy, they have no reasois lo be
disturbed at any irregularity of thciri
w^hich may result from such an acci-
dent, pro\nded they obey the nde
again, when they become mastiefs ol
themselves. Thus the prodigioiis
transports of true asccdctsm are

eveffl

yohn Tauler.

429

strengthening ; while those of false
mysticism enervate the soul. Hence
it is that Tauler, though he is always
speaking of ravishments, never loses
the character of force, and of that
austerity which is the sign of God
and the test of true contemplation.

"Where then does God act \vith-
oot a medium ? In the depths, in the
essence of the soul ? I cannot ex-
plain; for the faculties cannot ap-
prehend a being without an image.
They cannot, for instance, conceive a
hoi% under the species of a man.
It is precisely because all images
come from without to the soul, that
fl« mystery is hidden from it ; and
this is a great blessing. Ignorance
/Am^ the soul into admiration. She
seeb to comprehend what is taking
phce in her \ she feels that there is
something ; but she knows not what
it is. The moment we know the
cause of anything, it has no longer
any charm for us. We leave it to
'on after some other object ; always
tWisting for knowledge, and never
finding the rest which we seek,
"fins knowledge, full of ignorance and
*scurity, fixes our attention on the
^vine operations within us. * The
**^ysterious and hidden word' of
^Uch Solomon writes, is working in
^Hff minds." (Sermons.)

Many .men of genius, from the be-
diming of the world, have studied
^*^ human soul, and many are illus-
^^us for the profundity of their
^^^Jfchological researches. Yet com-
l^Wdto the great mystical writers,
^*>ose philosophers are mere chil-
^^en. Merely human psychology
^Idms over the surface of the soul,
^^^ly analyzing its relations to the in-
^^rior world. They are ignorant of
^*^ phenomena which take place in
^*5c secret recesses of the mind. The
^^reat light, the incarnate Word, alone
^^n throw its rays into those abysses,
^t is remarkable that those who
^fndy the soul for curiosity, merely

to find out, and consecrate their
life to such investigations, discover
very little. While those who care
nothing for simple science, but who
act virtuously, obey and glorify the
Lord, see all things properly. In-
stead of aiding vision to peer into the
soul's pefietralia^ curiosity dims the
light. Simplicity is the best torch
in those catacombs. Simplicity^ com-
missioned by God, penetrates into
the abysses of the soul, with the au-
dacity of a child sent by its father.

The interior and extraordinary ef-
forts by which Tauler rose to the
height of contemplation, gave him,
though he knew it not, an astound-
ing knowledge of the resistance
which man makes to man and to
God ; of our combats, defeats, and
victories ; and of those artifices by
which we veil from ourselves our
true situation during the battle. The
rounds by which the soul ascends are
counted, and yet the ladder of per-
fection has no summit.

The gospel, so merciful to sinners,
vents all its wrath on the Scribes and
Pharisees. All its charity is for ex-
ternal enemies; all its severity for
interior enemies. Jesus Christ used
the whip once in his life to show men
in what direction his indignation was
turned. We have Magdalen and the
woman taken in adultery on the one
hand ; the money-changers of the
Temple, the Scribes and Pharisees
on the other. There is a line of fire
separating sinners from the accursed.
All Catholic doctrine, all ascetical
tradition, is but the echo of Christ's
mercy and Christ's anger. Tauler
teaches like all the great doctors,
in this respect.

He reprobates exterior practices
which are devoid of charity, as the
works of hell, most hateful to the Holy
Spirit. The fixedness of his ideas
gives a singular solemnity to his re-
petitions. On every page his hatred
of works done without interior life

43d

Nt^w Puhlkatiotts,

shows itself. Such works are his
abomination. In all his meditations,
prayers, experiences, and contempla-
tions, he condemns them, **This
doctrine/' says he, "ought to be at-
tentiveJy meditated by those who tor-
ment and mortify their poor flesh,
plucking out the bad roots which lie
I hidden around the core of man's
iTieart. My brother, what has thy
body done that thou shouldst scourge
it in that fashion ? Those men are
fools who act as if they wanted to
beat their heads against the wall
Extirpate thy vices and thy bad ha-
bits, instead of tormenting thyself as
thou dost," , . , ** There are men in
the cloister and in soh'tude whose
soul and heart are always distracted
by a multiplicity of external things.
There are men, on the contrar}^ who
\x\ public places, in the midst of a
market, and surrounded by countless
distractions, know so well how to
keep their heart and senses recollect-
ed, that nothing can trouble their
interior peace or injure their soul.
These deserve the name of religious
far more than the former." {Sermons,^
Tauler goes farther. When those
men who place God in external acts
remain apparently virtuous, ** the
Lord/* saj'S he, "turns away from
them. But when, in his mercy, he
allows them to fall into grievous ex-
terior faults, then he returns to them
and offers them forgiveness/* Tauler

is always in the sky. He nf^f^t itisyt

long on earth. "God/' ^
unite himself to the soui
mediately, and unthoul image,
acts in the soul by an immediate 0|
ration ; he operates in the depths
the mind where no imac
trates, and which are ac
to him. But no creature can do
God, the Father, begets his S-
the soul, not by means of an tmagei
but by a process similar to the cl"
nal generation. Do you want li
know how divine generation tal
place ? God the Father knows hii
self, and comprehends himself
fectly. He sees down to the v
source of his being ; and conteiB*
plates himself, not by aid of **-
but in his own essence. Tin
genders his Son in the unity ot
nature. In this manner also ihi
ther produces him in the essence 6(
the soul, and unites himself f" Tiz-r/*
{Sermons,)

All the discourses of Ta^
by a refrain. The choni§ of
is ever divine unity. T
ly a man ; he is a voice
the wilderness, calling men lo de-
scend into the depths of their sou1§.
All his doctrine may be resumed
this word, to which we must
etymological signification : Ai

* Tlie prrtDt «f th««« wtMiia b murwrnlaciM^
»vn*« is «ifi#w lo creinirei : mud tiitni to Ga< k i

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

History of Chtlization in the
Fifth Century. Translated, by
permission, from the French of A.
Frederick Oonam, late Professor of
Foreign Literature to the Faculty of
Letters at Paris, By Ashley C. Glyn,
B*A^ of the Inner Temple, Barrister-

at-Law. London: VV
Cn, For sale by The C
cation House, 1 26 N
New York*

A work like this fiiYaislits tiic 1
antidote to the potsoa amlaised io I

New Publications.

431

writings of such sophists and falsifiers
of history as Buckle and Draper. It
substitutes genuine philosophy and
history for the base metal of counter-
feiters. It exhibits truthfully what
Christianity — that is, the Catholic
ChuFch, which is concrete, real Christi-
anity — ^has done in creating the civiliza-
tion whose benefits we are now enjoy-
ing. The translator's preface furnishes
so interesting a sketch of M. Ozanam's
Hfc and literary career, that we are sure
of giving a great gratification to our
readers by transferring the greater por-
tion of it to our pages.

" A few words may be said as to the career
ofthc author, Frederic Ozanam, whose name
Has not yet become widely known in this coun-
try. . He was born August 23d, 1813, at Mi-
lUi where his father, who had fallen into
porerty, was residing and studying medicine.
% mother, whose maiden name had been
Kirie Nantas, was daughter to a rich Lyon-
*^ merchant, and it was to that city that
^ parents returned in 1816. The father
^^^'tained there a considerable reputation as a
*^, and died from the effects of an acci-
'wnt in 1837. His son pursued his studies
J| ^^ with great success, and was destined
^ the bar. He took a prominent place in
«e thoughtful and religious party among
^students, and his published letters show
"^ he became identified with the movc-
!J^' set on foot by Lacordaire and others.
^ *as especially distinguished, however,
Jj^ foundation of an association of bene-
^^Ure, called the Society of St Vincent of
i*^i which from its small beginnings in
^"* spread over France, and has at the
P*^t time its conferences, composed of
y^en, in all the larger towns of Europe,
y* 0«anam showed, even during his stu-
7^^ life, a leaning toward literary pursuits,
^ * distaste for the profession of the bar,
i^hich he was destined ; but he joined the
^T^f Lyons, obtained some success as an
^r^^^cate, and was chosen in 1839 as the first
jJr^Pant of the professional chair of Com-
in^^^ Law, which had just been established
jj^^^t city. The courses of lectures given
l2^ *^m were well attended, the lectures
j^ **^*elvcs were eloquent and learned, and
^' ^«anam seems to have preferred incul-
U r**^ the science of jurisprudence to prac-
H^ '^^ in the courts. But in the course of
p^. following year, 1840, he obtained an ap-
1^ 'J^^tment which was still more suitable
|. '^U talent, the Professorship of Foreign
|w^^(^ture at Paris, and which gave him a
^^^^ opportunity for the cultivation of his

favorite pursuit, the philosophy of history.
Shortly after his appointment, M. Ozanam
married, and the remaining years of his life
were spent in the duties of his calling ; in
travelling, partly for the sake of health and
pleasure, partly to gain information which
might be woven into his lectures ; and in
vbits to his many friends, chiefly those who
had taken an active part with him in up-
holding the interests of religion in France.
He never entered upon active political life,
though he offered himself upon a re-
quisition of his fellow-townsmen as repre-
sentative of Lyons in the National As-
sembly of 1848. In politics M. Ozanam was
a decided liberal, in religion a fervent
Catholic, tlis letters show a great dislike
of any alliance between the church and
absolutism, and a conviction that religion
and an enlightened democracy might flourish
together. He wrote in the Correspondant^
which embodied the newer ideas, and
was frequently animadverted upon by the
Univers^ which represented the more con-
servative party in church and state. His
more important works were developed from
lectures delivered at the Sorbonne ; and his
scheme was to embrace the history of civili-
zation from the fall of the Roman Empire to
the time of Dante. But failing health, al-
though much was completed, did not allow
him entirely to achieve the great object
which he had originally conceived when a
mere boy ; and the touching words in which
he expressed his resignation to an early
death, when his already brilliant life prom-
ised an increase of success, and his cup of
domestic happiness was entirely full, may
be found among his published writings.
M. Ozanam seems to have continued his lit-
erary labors as long as rapidly increasing
weakness would permit, but aflcr a stay in
Italy, which did not avail to restore his broken
health, he reached his native country only
to die, September 8th, 1853, in the fortieth
year of his age, and the heyday of a bright
and useful cireer. He was lamented by
troops of friends, old and young, rich and
poor — the latter indeed being under especial
obligations to his memory. His friend, M.
Ampere, became his literary executor, and
undertook the task of giving his complete
works to the public, for which end a sub-
scription was quickly raised among those who
had known and respected him at Lyons and
elsewhere. From the lectures which he had
completed and revised, from reports of
others, and his own manuscript notes, an
edition of his complete works was formed in
nine volumes, comprising Iji Chfilisation an
Cinquiime SiicUy Etudes Germaniques^ Les
Poi'Us Francitcains^ DanU et la PhilosopkU

THE

:atholic world.

,<^.>\V)j.';r7 ;-,

VOL. VII., No. 40.

A PLEA FOR LIBERTY OF CONSCIENCE.

Foreseeing that we shall be oblig-
H in this present article, to present
**^ very unpalatable truths to a
IWion of our readers, we assure
*«n in the outset that we do not
^ unnecessarily to revive unplea-
**»t recollections.

Facts are facts, however, history is

"^ry, and truth is truth; and so

•^ as we do not cherish a malevo-

*^t spirit, or seek to embitter and en-

^^'Kmi the minds of our fellow-men

Sl*inst each other, there is no rea-

*^ why we should not have liberty

^ speak plainly, even about very

^jr and very discreditable things.

^ file present occasion, we use this

7^^ in defence of the weak and

^'^fenceless against tyranny and op-

P*^ion, in defence of the rights of

^Jl^^science and religious freedom in

^ case of a considerable number of

'^^'Sons grossly disregarded and vio-

^ted. The right which we under-

l^ke to defend is the right to em-

^t^ce, profess, and practise the Catho-

^^ religion ; and the wrong which we

^ish to contend against is the system

,^^ domestic and social tyranny by

^lich this right is impeded. It may

VOL. VII. — 28

appear to some a very curious state-
ment, yet we venture to make it boldly,
that in every part of the world where
the English race is dominant, Catho-
lics have been engaged, ever since
the era of Protestant ascendency, in
a struggle for liberty of conscience
against spiritual tyranny, either poli-
tical, social, or both combined. We
do not propose to go back to the
period of penal laws, civil disabili-
ties, and legal persecution in Great
Britain and America, just at present.
This is a chapter in history already
tolerably well elucidated and likely
to be still further commented upon in
the future. We will let it pass, how-
ever, for the present, and confine our
view to a more recent period, during
which, theoretically speaking, in
England Catholics have enjoyed full
toleration, and in the United States
equal liberty with other citizens.

Notwithstanding this theoretical
liberty. Catholics have been exposed,
as every one knows, to outbreaks of
popular violence, in which their
blood has been shed, their churches
and other property burned and de-
stroyed, and their religion made the

434

A Plea for Liberty ojtonsneme.

object of denunciation, vituperation,
and ridicule in a wholesale manner.
The primary cause of this state of
tilings is to be found in the repre-
sentation which Protestant preachers
and writers have made of the Catho-
lic religion. On this head we will
content ourselves with quoting the
language of a Protestant clergyman^
the Rev. Leonard W. Bacon, of
Williamsburg, L. I,, which we have
just seen in a report of one of his
sermons published in the Brooklyn
Times for March lytli, 1868 :

**Thc duty of considering the
question now submitted to us has
required me to stand before shelves
filled with volumes of antipapal
literature, and to glance from page to
page of its contents. The character
of much of that literature is a shame
and a scandal to the cause in which
it is uttered. It is full of evil and
uncharitable talk against Romanists
and their clergy, and deformed with
bad temper and bad logic and reck-
less assertion." A few sentences
further on he designates a certain
class of writers against the Catholic
religion as the ** scurrilous crew of
antipopery-mongers, who make a
trade of the prejudices and passions
of the American public, feeding them
with vituperation and invective."

This description applies to a class
of writers in England and Ireland
equally as well as to the class designat-
ed among ourselves. We pass over
all that the general body of the Ca-
tholic clergy and people have had
to suffer from the general prejudice
against them created and excited by
the calumnies and invectives of these
writers and declaimers against their
rehgion. We fix our attention upon
one point only, what those persons
have had and still have to suffer
from this prejudice who have become
Catholics from conviction and choice,
or who have wished to do so, and

eny
cdil
reafll

would have done so, had t&
been deterred by the violei
tion they have encoimtcrc*
In England, a little stre;
conversion began to set back
ancient church during the cm
despotic reign of Elizabeth,
continued to run during severj
ceeding reigns, but at last wa
cr totally or almost dried u]
source received a new supply tl
the influence of the French
who were refugees in Englan
at length the current began 1
more fully and strongly thai
Within the last twenty-five yc3
movement of return to C
unity has been steadily progri
until it has become so consic
as to attract universal attenttc
awaken general anxiety
its probable results. In tl
States, a few rare and i
stances of conversion occurred
time to time during the early j
the present century, which hi
come much more numerouja
the past twenty-five years, 1^
rious causes which we Dce
specify. At present, there ar
bably fifty thousand converts
the fold of the Catholic Chu
this Republic, a great many mc
would gladly become Catho
there were no sacrifices to
in order to do so, and an
number of persons who arc
less favorably predisposed t<
Catholic religion or partial!;
vinced of its truth. From
day on which these stra;
of die holy Mother Ch'
retrace their steps to her bl(
to the present moment*
been essentially the sam
tell of the disregard and vii
that liberty of conscience
of religious freedom whi
tants have been so loudly
ing ever since they have

tho

ey have bi

A Plea for Liberty of Conscience.

43S

fence. In the earlier period of this
disastrous epoch, some have suffered
a literal martyrdom, and all along,
down to the present time, many
others have endured a moral martyr-
dom which is perhaps harder to bear
SIS well as more lingering in its
^igony. Very many have needed a
-wrtue and constancy truly heroic or
iDordering on the heroic, in order to
^lerve themselves to the sacrifices and
-co push through the opposition which
-rliey have been forced to encounter as
-riie condition of becoming members
of the Catholic Church and following
tJhe voice of their reason and con-
science.

Those whose memory goes back
over the last twenty or twenty-five
years, can recall the storm of indig-
nation and obloquy evoked by the
first remarkable conversions which
^ook place as the sequel of the Ca-
^olicizing movement originating at
^*^rd. As a general rule, the con-
^^rts in England, even though be-
^^"^^ng to the highest classes in so-
^^ty, including the nobility, and well
^O'vm for their exemplary moral
cha^^cter, found themselves ostra-
^^^d fi-om the circles in which they
'^^ been wont to move, shunned
"3^ their most intimate friends, in
™^*iy instances excluded from in-
^'^ourse wholly or in great mea-
^'^'^ with the members of their own
^^>^ilies. Some persons of high
''^^^ were obliged to go abroad, in
^^er to find the society of persons
^ their own class which they need-
^ lor themselves and their families.
I^ Was the same in our own country. A
fS^nvert to the Catholic Church found
P^'f^Uelf treated as an individual who
"^^ abjured Christianity, engaged in
^^^nspiracy against his country and
^^ human race, or as if he had been
^tected in perjury or forging notes.
^very one was speculating upon the
Motives and cause of his strange

conduct, as they have been recently
in England upon the Rev. Mr.
Speke's sudden disappearance and
mysterious rambles. Insanity was
the most frequent and the most
charitable reason assigned for an
act generally considered as utter-
ly unreasonable and disreputable.
Some were excluded from the
bosoms of their own families ; some
were disinherited by those whose
heirs of blood they would have been ;
and others, who were helpless, de-
pendent persons, were thrown upon
the world by near and rich relations,
who had hitherto supported them,
and would gladly have continued to
do so had they consented to smo-
ther their consciences. Some have
been thrown out of business and
employment, reduced to straits in
order to gain a living, or even to ex-
treme poverty and suffering. We
do not allude now to those Protes-
tant clergymen with families who
have resigned their benefices in the
Church of England, or given up their
salaried offices in the Protestant
Churches of the United States. The
sacrifices made by these individuals,
although very great, were unavoidably
necessary, and cannot be attributed
to any injustice or illiberality in the
Protestant community. But we refer
to those cases where persons have been
deserted and abandoned by those
on whose previous good-will, patron-
age, or custom they had been depen-
dent for the means of gaining their
living, for no other reason than the
simple fact of their becoming Catho-
lics. We may add to these more
serious matters the infinitude of
petty grievances and annoyances to
which many persons are subjected
by Iheir relatives and friends. Their
religion is attacked and ridiculed,
without regard to the proprieties of
polite intercourse, as if a Catholic
were out of the category of persons

436

A Plea for Lihrfy if Cmucienee,

whose convictions and senliments
are entiUed to respect. Obstacles
arc placed in the way of their fulfill-
ing the duties of their religion. Their
children are enticed to ent meat on
days of abstinence, to attend Protes-
tant churches, to read anticathoHc
books, to shun the society of Catho*
lics^ without regard to the conscience
of the child or the authority of the
parent. Every possible influence is
brought to bear upon them to make
them feel that their religion places
them at a social disadvantage, and
that Protestantism is more genteel
and respectable. In short, if we try
to imagine the state of things which
converts to Christianity had to strug-
gle with in Rome and the gentile
world after the laws had ceased to
persecute, but before the Christiaii
religion had ceased to be a despised
and unpopular religion, we shall have
a very good counterpart of the pre-
sent condition of Catholic converts
in England and the United States.

The trials and difficulties of those
who are on the way to the Catliolic
[Church are even greater than those
iwhich have to be encountered after-
ward. Not to speak of the interior
[trials which are necessarily involved
in the process of conversion, even for
those who are perfectly free and in-
dependent, or even placed under in-
Ifluences which facilitate the transi-
jiion to Catholicity^ there are exterior
|difl[iculties in the case of most per-
5ns of the gravest and most distress-
ng nature. Besides the opposition
»f relatives and friends, in the shape
^f argument, entreaty, expostulation,
fsorrowful disapprobation, which is
the more painful and the harder to
be overcome the more kind and af-
fectionate it is in manner and spirit,
the dread of wounding and grieving
those who are dearest and most re-
spected, disappointing their hopes
and incurring their displeasure,

there is often to be encountere
might of spiritual tyranny, th
lence of a parent's or husband'
potic will, and, in shorty a/^-r*
worse to be borne than would
summary trial and executio
happily, these trials are
great for the courage of thos<
have received the inward vocat
the Catholic faith, and who a
quired to undergo so much if
would follow it. Some are a&i
losing caste, some of beinj
out of dooTS, some of losii
livelihood; others are afraid
countering the anger and rej
of their friends, or tlie scorn an
umny of the world, or the lo
popularity. There are tho^e wl
deterred by their dainty and fi
ous dislike of mingling with the
and who cannot bring themsel
go to a church which is htiml;
mean in its appearance, to n
the sacraments from a priest c
polished exterior. But the
have themselves only to
though we may com miser
weakness, and lay the chief blay
it on the false maxims prcv
the community at large.

It would be easy to cite num
instances in illustration of all th
have just said upon this subject,
personal knowledge or the testi
of others ; and if it were possib
the complete history of the cc
sions to the Catholic Church \
have occurred during the last qt
of a century to be written an
lished, it would be, for the m^
only an extensive comments
the statements we have made
then the saddest part of tt
must remain untold, unless
who have been deterred fire
ing the voice of conscience '
induced to publish their con
to the world, and tliose wfc
died in perplexity and di^C

'11

fblaj

A Plea for Liberty of Conscience.

437

the want of those sacraments which
their own cowardice or the refusal of
their friends prevented them from
receiving, could come back from the
grave to add their testimony to that
of the living.

The writer of these pages was ac-
quainted with a gentleman of emi-
nent position in the world, who was
for a long time a Catholic at heart,
and who on his death-bed desired to
see a priest with whom he was inti-
mately acquainted, that he might re-
ceive the last sacraments from his
hands. This priest, who was a man
of the greatest dignity of character
and universally venerated in the com-
niunity, called at the house several
^mes, was politely received, but never
permitted to see the dying man. When
^e poor old man perceived his last
^oiir drawing near, he called his faith-
^1 Irish nurse to his bedside, as the
or\ly true friend to whom he could
OF>^n his grief, and confided to her
f^^ sorrow that was darkening his dy-
'"S moments. He told her that he
^^^ired to see a priest, to make his
^*^»^fession and to receive the last
^^^^xaments, but that his request was
^^i>ied, so that he had given up all
?I^ of his salvation, and believed
"**^iself doomed to die in despair.
T^txc good girl comforted and soothed
"^*^ assured him that he need not
^^^trust the mercy of God, and ex-
• P*^ined to him that in his case a per-
*^^t contrition for his sins would suf-
"^^ for their full remission. He
*^^^ed of her to teach him how to
"^^.ke the acts of faith, hope, charity,
^^d contrition, to recite prayers by
^*^ side, and to help him to prepare
r^^ death. She did so, and through
^^T holy ministrations his soul was
^^^nquillized, so that he died in peace.
The writer was once sent for by a
^*^an of unusual intelligence and plain,
^spectable standing, who was in re-
^^d circumstances, and dying of a

slow consumption. He learned from
the lips of this man that he had been
for some time perfectly convinced of
the truth of the Catholic religion, and
was satisfied that it was his duty to
be received into the church. Never-
theless, it was impossible to persuade
him to act on his convictions, be-
cause he was sure that the assistance
of certain societies, upon which his
family depended, would be withdrawn.
He hoped to recover, and promised
that, if he did, he would profess his
faith openly ; but we never heard any-
thing more from him, and have never
heard the conclusion of his sad his-
tory.

It is but a few months since a young
widow lady, a convert, was turned out
of house and home, not very far from
our own city, after the decease of her
father, with whom she had been resi-
ding, by her own brother, for the sole
reason that he did not wish to live in
the same house with a papist. We
will not multiply instances ; but they
will rise up in abundance before the
memories of many who will read these
pages ; and if a recording angel could
take down what will be remembered,
thought, and felt by all whose eyes
will peruse these lines, they would be
transformed from a brief and tame
summary into a whole volume of liv-
ing and pathetic interest far surpass-
ing the most thrilling tales of fiction:
Tears will be shed, sad memories will
throng upon many minds, many hearts
will ache, we are assured, over the
words we are writing in perfect calm-
ness and composure, and without any
direct intention of awakening emo-
tion. Some will think of trials past,
some of trials present, and others will
recall to mind their own weakness
and timidity in the hour when they
were tried and found wanting. There
are many others, however, and will
be many more hereafter, to whom this
plea for the liberty of conscience will

A Plea for Umny of Comcimce,

be, as wc cordially trust, not merely
a subject of personal interest, but also
a practical help in surmounting ihelr
difficulties. We allude to those who
are now turning or who will hereafter
turn their faces wistfully toward the
Catholic Churchy but have first to
overcome the obstacles we have de-
scribed above before they can enter
its portal. For this class of persons
we have the most profound sentiment
o f pi ty a n d sy m pa thy, Th e ri c h a n d
. independent^ the able-minded and
rable-bodied, who can take care of
tliemselves, men who can assert their
own rights, and those generous youths
to whom a glorious career is open in
the priesthood, do not claim our sym-
l.pathy, for they do not need it. But
["We pity the helpless and dependent ;
[those who struggle with poverty and
[live on the bounty of others, delicate,
Igentle women, and all the weak^ fee-
Ible children of God who would fain
follow their conscience if they were
|let alone and not interfered with, but
who shrink back appalled when it is
a question of ner\'ing themselves to
iiieet opposition and push their way
tlirough trials. It seems to us that
there is something hard and cruel be-
yond all other forms of tyranny in
[that usurped, unjust despotism which
exercised over these tender con-
llciences. What can be a more odious
[or flagrant violation of all right and
justice than to attempt to crush a con*
science by force, to quell it by threats,
& wear it out by opposition, to stifle
it by fear, or to lure it by selfish, tem-
poral interests? All will answer this
question alike^ and admit, at least in
theor}', the wrong that lies in the at-
tempt of any person to violate the
rights of any other person's con-
science. The only point really open
to discussion is, What constitutes a
violation of just and rightful liberty
of conscience ? The question respect-
ing the right or expediency of en*

jppQH
he m

ana™

forcing obedience to tl
conscience and the full
tain moral obligations is quite
ferent one, though closely rdi
the antecedent question, \V(9
in arguing with no n -Catholics or
points, assume the truth of C;
principles, or urge any conside
which necessarily presu
Catholic religion lo \yt Uie
Of course, in the last anal
must come back upon the fund
tal principle that tl>e law of (
supreme and must be obeyed
hazards, let come what wilL N
ter what human laws, what priv
terests, what dreadful penalties
stand in the way, God must be
ed, conscience must be folio wet!
must be done. The autliority
state must be braved, human
tions must be disregarded, life
l>e sacrificed, when loyalty
truth and to the will of God
it Those who reject the ai
of the Catholic Church, howev
not admit that the Catholic
the law of God ; and we must
fore either make our sole issu
them on this precise point of thi
of the Catholic doctrine, which
same thing as a declaration of
tual war» or we must find som^
die term common to both, upon
tlie peace of social relatioi
settled and the mutual rigl:
her ties of conscience be scctii
are obliged, therefore, to wai
claim of right and hberty to pi
the Catholic religion, which i^
on its positive truth, so fai
argument is concerned, an
sent only such claims as a fai
person, whether Protestant,
infidel, may admit as just ani
son able, without changing in fl
his own particular opinionsS
not to be expected thai all our
ments will be equally appUcai
every class of persons, whatcva

>ns^

cuffi

wai

to pi

b i^

A Plea for Liberty of Conscience.

439

veligious opinions may be ; but we will
endeavor to furnish at least one or
"two for each of the principal classes
into which the non-Catholic commu-
-nity is divided. If some of our Ca-
-tholic readers are offended by our
seeming to take a tone too apologetic
and defensive, we beg them to re-
member that the early Christian apo-
logists were not ashamed to do the
like* They vindicated the Christians
of their own time from such accusa-
tions as worshipping an ass's head and
<3rinking the blood of infants. It is
painful and humiliating to be obliged
to vindicate ourselves from gross cal-
nmnies ; but it is an act of charity to-
ward those who are deceived by these
calumnies, and still more toward
Aese helpless and defenceless per-
sons who must suffer from them.

We begin on the lowest possible
ground by affirming that a person in
becoming a Catholic commits no of-
fence against the laws of morality or
against the civil and social laws
coiumonly recognized among non-
Catholics. There is no treason
against society, no offence against
domestic rights, no repudiation of
^ny moral duties or obligations, noth-
ing to make a person a bad citizen, a
^^d neighbor, a bad husband, wife,
0*" child. There is no disobedience
against any lawful external authority
which has any right to inflict any
Penalties affecting a person's social
^^ civil rights. There is no reason,
"^crefore, why a person who em-
^^aces the Catholic religion should
"^ treated by his acquaintances or
^^^ety in general as a criminal, and
°*^de to suffer in his social and do-
."^^^tic relations. In our heteroge-
'^^us society, everything is tolerated
?*^ch is not contra bonos mores,
^ nat which strikes at the order and
?^^e of the natural relations bind-
^^ us together in society cannot be
^lerated even on the pretext of

liberty of conscience or opinion
Therefore, Mormonism has no rights
under our laws, and ought not to be to-
lerated, and Mohammedanism could
not be tolerated. If the Catholic
Church were really what it has been
represented to be by many, it could
not claim libert}' or even toleration in
non-Catholic states. But it is not
what its enemies have represented it
to be. A person who becomes a
consistent Catholic will be a good
citizen and respect the laws. He
will be faithful to his social and do-
mestic duties, and strictly observant
of all moral obligations. It is not
the spirit of the Catholic religion to
introduce discord or trouble into
families or societies, or to interfere
with any just ^d lawful rights. The
only annoyance which can arise will
be the annoyance which persons
wishing to violate the natural laws
will meet with from the conscientious
observance of morality by the Catho-
lic party. Suppose a Catholic lady
wishes to go to Mass, to confession,
to devote a part of her time to medi-
tation or charitable works .^ Does
that necessarily interfere with the
perfect fulfilment of all her duties to-
ward her family and society ? Is it
any greater liberty than that which
women generally expect to be con-
ceded to them, and which they take
at any rate, whether it is granted
with a good or a bad grace? Let
the question be decided by the actual
conduct of those who have become
Catholics in their relations with others
who are not of their faith, and we
are not afraid of the judgment which
candid and fair judges will render.
Certainly, then, they ought to enjoy
the same liberty which is conceded
to those who profess any other form
of religion not contrary to the re-
ceived standard of good morals, and
to those who profess none at all.
Those who profess the latitudinarian

440

A Plea for Li§triy of trntsciettce.

opinion that all religions arc alike^
and who claim unbounded liberty of
opinion for all, ought to be the first
to give to Catholics the full benefit of
this privilege.

With those who are more strongly
attached to their own form of religion
and hold it to be the only true one,
tlie case is somewhat more diflicult.
Such persons may say that a person
brought up in what they call the
\ true, Evangelical, reformed faith, or
fin the pure, apostolical, Protestant
Episcopal Church, especially if he
has been a communicant, and most
of all if he has been a minister, is an
apostate from his faith as a Chris-
tian, a renoiinccr of his baptism, and
' therefore a criminal before God and
the church, if he, to use their Ian*
guage, becomes a Romanist. Let it
be so. When argument and persua-
sion have been tried and have failed,
let the church pronounce her spiritual
censures on the disobedient member.
Wc cannot complain of that. Let
him be canon ically deposed if he
is a minister. We cannot complain
of that, either. But is there any rea-
son why our Evangelical or High-
Church friends should think it neces-
I sary or expedient to proceed any
'■farther? Suppose they do regard
the person in question as a delin-
quent and as an unfortunate dupe of
error and delusion. Will our Evan-
gelical friends affirm the principle
i that none but the elect are entitled
to the rights and privileges arising
out of natural and social relations ?
Will our High-Church friends affirm
the same, substituting for the elect,
consistent members of their own com-
munion ? If not, we cannot see why
they may not allow Catholics the
same indulgence which they concede
to sinners, heretics, and infidels. We
put them the plain question, whether
they have any right to interfere with
the conscience and the religion of an-

other, or to use any kind o|
or persecution against any «
ever may be the relation in '
stands toward them. Son
may perhaps deny that
structed member of that w|
deem to be the true churc
come a Catholic conscientio
sincerely. But suppose
Where is the authority to <
to ful5l his conscientious olj
of a purely spiritual nature ? ^
not now speaking of young d
who have not attained to ye
full discretion, over whotmj
certainly have an author!^
must be respected. But, af
this exception, what authortlj
claimed for enforcing any
obligation by any other mc
an appeal to the conscicnc
If there are any who re
there is a right of excommt
in their church which extends
as to exclude a person from 1
vi leges as a member of socict
to reduce him to the state of tM
is intandiis, or an outcast to bl
ned by all» we only desire ihj
will act out their doctrine impj
and universally. Is it not, al
inexpedUnt to appeal to it in tl
sent state of society, while
of disability is contracted
who profess the principles
Cokmso or Herbert Spencer
The case may be supposed
sons, influenced by no ill fee
all, who would desire to wii
from all intimacy with re
acquaintances who have jc
Catholic Church, on the
their conversation and inflt
be dangerous to y
the family* Such .<
we can respect, for we can anc
respect fidelity to conscicc
w^hen it is an erroneous
which is followed. Moreov<
is bound to keep up any ioti

in tl

se<r

A Plea for Liberty of Cotiscience,

441

lations which transcend the bounds
of ordinary courtesy with any per-
sons outside the immediate family cir-
cle, unless it is agreeable to himself
to do so. But what is to be said of
those who, on a plea of conscience,
sunder the closest bonds of nature,
or threaten to do so ? We can easily
understand that a Jew, a Puritan, an
old-fashioned Lutheran, a Presbyte-
rian, or an English Churchman might
"be so thoroughly absorbed in his re-
ligion, and so intense in his attach-
ment to it, that the conversion of a
wife or child to the Catholic Church
would be a far worse blow to his af-
fections, and a more blighting disap-
pointment to his hopes, than would
be the sudden death of either one,
however tenderly loved. An intelli-
gfent Jewish gentleman once told the
^*Htcr of this article that he was de-
terred from receiving Christian bap-
tism by the fear of causing the death
0^ His aged father ; and this is not an
unusual instance eitlier among the
descendants of the ancient Phari-
sees or the adherents of the " strait-
^^t sects " of Protestant Christians.
I^ such cases, where no softening of
^^ temper and no modification of
^^ mental condition takes place,
there is no room for argument. The
^ord of our Lord must be fulfilled —
tl^at he came not to bring peace, but
a sword. One who has to choose
between submission to the will of an-
other and the disruption of the most
sacred human ties, must choose the
latter when the former involves the
violation of a certain and known law
of God. There is, therefore, no other
course open to a Catholic in such a
case except the one of professing and
practising the Catholic religion open-
ly, without regard to consequences.
If they are excluded from their homes
and abandoned by their friends,
they must try to bear it patiently.
We would scorn to appeal to the

mere sentiment of human pity or to
the maxims of indifferentism, in argu-
ing with any man who should say
that his religious principles require
him to banish a wife, a son, or a
daughter out of his house. It is our
opinion, however, that in most in-
stances, after persons have had time
for cool reflection, they will not de-
liberately affirm that their religious
principles do require these harsh
measures. No one will pretend that
they require or authorize any kind of
tyrannical or vexatious persecution,
or an abandonment of those who
have a natural claim to protection to
poverty and suffering. We are dis-
posed to think that prejudice, passion,
wounded pride, and similar causes
have a great deal to do with the line
of conduct alluded to. And one
good reason for thinking so is the fact
that so many firm and consistent
Protestants, and even bishops or
other clergymen of standing, have
acted differently, and have treated
Catholic converts even of their own
families with kindness and courtesy.
We have supposed hitherto that
we were arguing with a person who
would not admit that a convert from
the religion he himself professes can
be sincere and conscientious. It is
impossible, however, to sustain such
a position on any ground which the
majority of intelligent non-Catholics
will admit to be reasonable ; for it
can be sustained only by one of three
arguments. First, that the illumina-
tion of the Holy Spirit gives to the
individual reason an infallible cer-
tainty of the truth of some one form
of anticatholic belief. Or, second,
that some such form is at least made
morally certain by rational evidence
of such a kind as to exclude all pro-
bability that the Catholic religion may
be true. Or, third, that some certain
and unerring authority, to which one
is bound to submit his private judg-

442

A Pica for Libetiy of Conscience,

men t, exists in one of the several com-
munioiis calling itself the true church
of Ood, The first argument cannot
be brought into the forum of discus-
sion, because there is no certain, ex-
ternal test by whicli it can be proved
that such an illumination exists, or
by whoni among various claimants it
is possessed. The second is refuted
by the simple fact that so many intel-
ligent and learned persons are con-
vinced by the Catholic arguments.
The third is refuted by the fact that
no one of the churches claims infal-
libility, High-Churchmen claim a
teaching aulhorily for their commu-
nion, but it is not claimed by iheir
church itself in any such sense as to
exclude the right and duty of testing
its claims and doctrines by private
judgment on the Scriptures. Those
who iijiake the claim of authority hi
behalf of this church do not pretend
that it is more than a portion of the
universal church, and therefore, by the
very claim they put forth, directly
suggest and provoke an examination
of the question what the universal
church really teaches. I'he most
learned and eminent theologians
among them distinctly assert that the
doctrines of the Church of England
must be interpreted in conformity
with the teaching of the Catholic
Church, Will any reasonable person,
then, pretend that one may not exa-
mine all the evidence that can be ad-
duced to prove what that teaching
is ; or that he may not conscientiously
and sincerely, adopt the conclusion
that this teaching is really identical
with the doctrine of the Roman
Church ? We may cite here the judg
ment of Dr. Johnson, who was a
staunch Episcopalian, upon this point,
lioswell relates it in these words r
** Sir William Scott infonns me that he
heard Johnson say, *Aman w ho is con-
verted from Protestantism to popery
may be sincere. He parts with no-

b™

r one

nself

onsil

I /or hi

iffirsM

thing : he is only supcraddir
he already had. But a conn
popery to Protestantism givd
much of what he has held
as anything he retains : the
much iaeeration of mind in su
version that it can hardly 1
and lasting,' "♦ In tnilh, ev
of dogmatic and positive Pr
ism presents its lines of frac
the great mass of Christcndoi
conspicuously to the eye, thatj
surd to pretend that its rel
that mass is not a thing to b^
ned and judged of by every one
is capable of judging for himself
is, by everj^one who is responsil
his conscience and to God for hi
lief upon those doctrines aflir
the Catholic Church and de
his ow*n detached body.

fashioned, strict Israelite

a far more plausible claim for ai
rity over the conscience in
the synagogue, than any Pr
can make for his church.
ish hierarchy had once aulhot
God, and has only been supe"
by the sovereign authority of
Christ. We cannot argue wi^
therefore, that a Jew who re^
Judaism violates no oblig
conscience toward a lawful ail
except by adducing the evidelj
Jesus is the Messias foretold
prophets. Upon his own pret
must regard such a person as ;
tate and a rebel. The onl)
which could have any wcig
him, why he should continue j
the same kindness to a mci
his family who had been bapttS
before, would be, that it is bet
leave such a case to the jiwig
God» and refrain from an exe
severity which could do no gc
rather aggravate the difficuUj
majority of Jews at present

^ b«j

A Plea for Liberty of Conscience.

443

ever, rationalists. They place the
essence of religion in mere Theism
and natural morality, regarding the
peculiarities of Judaism as acciden-
tals. On their own ground, there-
fore, they can have no excuse for ob-
trading any claim of Judaism over
the reason, conscience, or private
judgment of any of their number.
Take away a divinely appointed, in-
fallible authority, and in all matters
of purely religious belief and prac-
tice each individual is in possession
of full liberty, for the right use of
which he is responsible only to God.
Moreover, in matters of positive, dog-
matic doctrine, the majority of non-
Catholics acknowledge. that only pro-
bability is attainable. Logic and good
sense have brought them to this con-
c^Iusion as contained in the premises
•J^ith which they started. But in ques-
*^ons of probability and matters of
opinion, persons of equal sincerity
^»^d conscientiousness may differ.
^^c are certain that this will be ad-
'^itted as an axiom by our non-Ca
^H^lic readers. But if this be so,
^^ose who profess to be convinced of
^^c truth of Catholic doctrines ought
^^^ be regarded as sincere and con-
^^^ientious, which we think most of our
*^^>n-Catholic friends will also admit.
Every one must see, then, how con-
^«~^ to every right and honorable
^*"inciple it is to attempt to act on
^l^c minds of those who desire to be-
^^^>me Catholics by any other means
^^ an argument and persuasion. How
5^^ngerous, how unjust, how mean it
*^ to strive to terrify or wheedle them
*^to a forced acquiescence in the will
^^^others through human and worldly
^^otives I It would be almost an in-
^^^t to our readers to argue this point
^^avely. Those who follow the prin-
^*Ples of Demas in the Pilgrim's Fro-
^^^^s^ and are in favor of religion
^^ly when she walks in silver slip-
*^fs, will not publicly avow and de-

fend any such base maxims, or main-
tain seriously that their great objec-
tion to the Catholic religion is, that
it is not sufficiently genteel. Even
the New York Herald flouts scorn-
fully the religion of velvet cushions,
which makes the elect to consist solely
of the ilile of society.

But at last we come at what is the
Tea] gravamen of the complaint against
Catholics on the part of those who
are disposed to be fair and kindly.
It is not that we hold certain doc-
trines as opinions, or adopt certain
modes of worship as suited to our
taste. This could be allowed with-
out difficulty as our undoubted right,
provided we would admit that the
Catholic Church is only the best
and most perfect among several
forms of religion. But we maintain
its exclusive truth and legitimacy,
and proclaim it to be the only way
of salvation. It is unpleasant for
one to have his wife, or children, or
near friends, look upon him as a
person excluded from communion
with them in spiritual things and
out of the way of salvation. Very
true ! But what does this prove ?
It proves that the ideal of society is
only actualized in religious unity.
It makes no difference what your
ideal is, whether it is something
purely natural, or, under some form,
supernatural. There must be unity
either in some negative or some po-
sitive form. That is, there must be
something to give those who are
closely connected on the earth the
same idea of the tendency and end
of this earthly life, and of the future
life which is to succeed it. Yet we
find that society^ is not in this ideal
state among us. It is impossible
for Catholics to sacrifice their con-
victions and violate the dictates of
their conscience, for the sake of a
unity which they believe to be chime-
rical. We believe that it is only the

444

fmediettan.

Catholic religion which can bring
society to its ideal perfection, and
therefore we shall, for this reason, as
well as for higher ones, do all in our
power to make it universal Proba-
bly our Evangelical friends await the
millennium, and other classes of the
religious community await the uni-
versal triumph of some kind of church
of the future, while the sceptics look
for a millennium of science and com-
mon sense. Meanwhile^ it is proba-
ble that some time must elapse be-
fore any such epocli sliall arrive, and
' wc must live together in all manner of
political and social relations. It is
only by a jealous regard for the per-
sonal religious liberty of every indi-
vidual that we can live together in
peace and harmony. Is it not, then,
better that, if we cannot immediately
heal all the wounds of society, we
should at least alleviate them as
much as possible^ awaiting a more
radical cure at a future time ?

We have already, in a former arti-
cle, expressed our views upon this

point sufficiently, so ihat
not dwell upon it any long€
sent. Happily, these are the
which are practically carried
a great number of cases, ai
gaining ground more and more
state of things we have dcscri
becoming ameliorated even i\
land, but much more in ou
coun tr}% I f the j u st, honorab
rational temper of the best c
non-Catholic Americans towa
Catholic religion and its m^
were universal, and all per
posed to become Caiholj
treated with ihc same dc
spect for their liberty of
which some have «
would be no occasi
mation in behalf of that
Those of our readers who
themselves under tliis cate^
understand, therefore, that will
we have no controversy; but ai
bating an enemy as hostile li
own domestic and social
well-being as to our owii»

BENEDICTION.

* Wr %r* so &r, and with no much traubt«, to obtain ilic blessings of certain holy p«n
Lfrrtker ihe tx>pe ; yet here i& the Lord of Mint^ *»id the G«m1 of wham Piu» IX. m only Utt vicfffffll
[ GXDUOl iotcnnit our actclalities or forego our ease to receive his ble^ning I'* 1

THE INVITATION.

The balmy May is breathing on the air,

The rich, red sun sinks slowly down the west.

Come forth, dear soul, and be an honored guest :

One doth invite thee to his house all dm ;

One great and good, this eve, doth wail thee there.

Nay, nay, not that dear friend whose hand halb pr

So oft ihy own ; not any ruler blest*

Of happiest clime : a nobler friendship share.

Ah I no ; no poet doth such kindness move ;

No wise, nor good, nor grand, nor holy, whom

The race reveres : a better friend would prove

His love ; a greater asks thee to his home.

Within the tabernacle of his love,

The Lord of heaven awaits thee : wilt thou come ?

Nellie Netterville.

445

NELLIE NETTERVILLE ; OR, ONE OF THE TRANSPLANTED.

CHAPTER IX.

To this proposition Nellie joyfully
assented, and he led the way accord-
ingly up a rocky path winding west-
ward toward the clif&. Once or
twice he turned as if to give her aid,
but Nellie skipped like a young kid
from rock to rock, exulting in her
independence ; and, finding that she
declined assistance, he went on in
silence until they reached a point
among the cliffs, high enough to give
them a full sea view toward the west.
The Atlantic lay beneath them,
rolling in its mighty volume of deep
waters, and dashing them against the
cliffs below with the strength and
<^^mness of a sleepy giant. Nellie
had often seen the sea^ that narrow
s^'p of water, namely, which separat-
^^ her own birth-home from the birth-
place of her kindred ; but of the
'^^^ghty ocean, with its thousand
Voices coming up from the deep
Caves below, its murmurings and
^liisperings, its infinite variety of
^'its and aspects, its lights and sha-
^^Ws, its clear green depths and crys-
^ purity, such as no smaller sheet
^^ Mrater can ever boast of, she had
^^Ver even dreamed before ; and as
'^^r eye roamed over the smooth ex-
panse until it reached that uttermost
P^int where sea and sky seem to
"l^nd together, a sense of vastness
^^d power fell upon her soul which
^l^ost oppressed her. For a few
Minutes Roger watched her as she
^^Ood there in hushed and breathless
^^niiralion, but just as the silence
^^ beginning to be oppressive he
'^ke in by saying, softly, " Yes,
^^s ! it is all bright, and smooth, and
^*^iiing now ; but I have stood here

on an autumn evening, and watched
it when it was black and swollen,
brimful beneath the coming storm —
when the wind seemed almost a liv-
ing power — a thing to be seen as
well as felt — as it swept over that
mighty mass of waters, mingling its
hoarse voice with theirs, and forcing
on their waves, as a general forces
on his troops, until it dashed them
in a very frenzy of fruitless valor
against the beetling cliffs beneath us.
And, in truth, I almost prefer it in
those moods," he added, like one
thinking his own thoughts aloud ;
" for then it looks simply like what
it is, a huge monster ever greedy for
its prey, whereas, now, in this lazy
sunshine, it seems to me nothing
more or less than a great smiling
treachery, wooing its victims toward
it, only that it may afterward the
more thoroughly engulf them."

" It is a great, beautiful terror,
even as it is to-day," said Nellie
breathlessly. "What a height we
are above it ! It makes me giddy
only to look down ?"

" Do not look, then," said Roger
anxiously, "but rather turn inward
toward yonder isle, which is only se-
parated from the mainland by a nar-
row strip of* water. There are cliffs
upon that island which look westward
over the ocean and rise eighteen
hundred feet above it, and the inha-
bitants will tell you that, when the
weather is calm enough, you can see
from thence, at the setting of the sun,
the * Hy Brysail ' — the enchanted
isle, the * Tir-na-n'oge,' or land of
eternal youth and beauty, to which
death and sorrow never come, and
where (so the old legend tells us) a
hundred years of this mortal life pass

Nellie NettervUfe:

swiftly as a single day. Few, as you
may well suppose, are the favored
mortals who have ever reached it,
and fewer still, if any, who have ever
come back to tell the tale of their
adventures.**

** It is a pretty legend," said Nel-
lie, straining her eyes over the ocean
as earnestly as though she seriously
expected to discover the fair)' island
of which he spoke floating on its bo-
som, " Have you ever really seen any-
thing like land in that direction?''

** If you choose, we can go some of
these days on a voyage of discovery,"
said Roger, smiling at her serious-
\ ness ; ^* only, if we do find * Hy-Br)*-
sail/ I warn you that we shall have
to stay there. Such is the law by
which adventurers to its shores are
bound. It docs not seem a hard
law either, does it? Would you ob-
ject to it, Mistress Netterville? to
be young and beautiful for ever !
Sorrow forgotten as if it had never
been, beneath the spells of that magic
land !"

Nellie drew a long breath, and her
blue eyes grew well-nigh black with
suppressed feeling as she looked
westward toward the ocean. But
she did not answer.

"Well," he said, finding she would
not speak, **will you ixy the adven-
ture with me, or do you stil! prefer
earth and its passing showers to this
land of eternal sunshine?'*

Nellie sighed — it almost seemed
as if she were making a real choice ;
and when he playfully repeated,
" Have you decided? which shall it
be — this old kingdom of GranaUaille
or Tir na-n'oge?"she quite seriously
replied :

** Not Tir- na - n'oge, certainly ;
though a year ago, perhaps, I might
have chosen otherwise. But youth
and its sunsiiine is not real happi-
ness, after all, although sometimes it
looks very like it; and even if it

were, there is something to'
life of happiness, simple
loyed, less noble, and less
choice of a soul predestinei
nity, than in one of sorrow
borne.**

"Sorrow has done its
for you, at all events," saii
moved to a higher feeling
rencc than, two minutes
would have thought it po
have entertained for a en
young and still so childish/

"Woe to the soul upon
does it not, once that soul
delivered to its guidance:," 1
swered softly, and almost a
beneath her breath.

Roger gazed upon her sUc
seemed as if she were chsi
neaih his very eyes from
impulsive child into a woma
and earnest feeling — a m
every fibre of her fine, stioi
— and yet still in the unlri
ness of her sixteen years as
and confiding as a child.

** Then you prefer a 1
which would bring witli it tl
contrast?" he addedi as if«
her further.

" 1 would prefer, at all
happiness founded upon di
answered gravely ; and
half ashamed of her own
she asked him lightly :

"Is it not strange to
floating traditions of a pal
peace and plenty among a
completely bereft of both
poor creatures, by their
tion as a conquered race, mi
sarily be ?"

" For that very reason 1"
swered quickly; "for that
son 1 Men despised as sa
treated as wild beasts, v
brood over schemes of
geance or soothe themse
dreams of unreal bliss.

Nellie Netterville,

447

derful, therefore, that these poor peo-
ple, with their dreamy and imagina-
tive natures, should sometimes look
-wistfully over the broad ocean, and
fancy they see a land where (if once
only it could be reached) flowers, and
joy, and eternal sunshine, would con-
sole them for the misery endured
^mong these barren rocks, in which
Ihey have been forced by their ene-
mies to seek — I was going to say, a
liome — it would have been far more
correct to have said — a prison ?"

"Nay, but now it is you that are

unjust," said Nellie, smiling — "unjust

to this fair land you live in. The

Icingdom of Grana Uaille can in no

sense of the word be called a prison;

and even were it ten times less beauti-

^l than it is, to me it would still re-

'^^ain the one bright memory left me

to look back to in this great year of

sorrow."

Roger turned quickly round, but
Nellie met his eye with such a look
^^ frank candor and unconsciousness
^^ to the possibility of any hidden
'^^aning being attachable to her
^ords, that he felt tacitly rebuked
■^neath it, and merely said :

** Ay ; but, Mistress Netterville, I
^^as talking of a home."
^^ **Home!" said Nellie softly-
home, after all, is but the place
^here the heart garners up its trea-
^^res. These were almost the last
^'Ords my dear mother said to me,
^•^d now I feel their truth ; for if she
^re but once more at my side, the
J^iTrenest island in Clew Bay would
l^^come to me, I think, at once as
horjie-like almost and dear as Netter-
^Ue itself."

Again Roger seemed on the point
^f saying somethings but again he
checked himself and was silent.

Nellie saw the flush upon his brow,
^d interpreted it her own way.

**You are not angry, Colonel
^'More," she said, with the simpli-

city of a child ; " surely you do not
fancy, because I spoke of Netterville,
that I am ungrateful for the kindness
which has made this island like a
second home to me."

" No, indeed," he answered, with
a smile so bright that it must have
reassured her even if he had not said
a word in answer. " No, indeed. I
was, or at all events I am^ only
thinking how I can best persuade
you and Lord Netterville to consider
this island as your home, even in the
absence of its lawful owner."

"Absence," said Nellie; "are you
going then, and wherefore ?"

" Wherefore ?" said 0*More quick-
ly. " I marvel that you cannot guess.
Because, Mistress Netterville, though
I live upon this island, and though
its inhabitants acknowledge me as
their chieftain, it is yet a sorry fact
that I am poor, poorer in proportion
than the poorest of the number;
an outlaw besides, with every man's
hand and sword against me, and
nothing but the traditions of past
greatness to soothe, or, which much
oftener is the case, to add bitterness
to the meanness of my present sta-
tion."

"Why call it meanness?" said
Nellie, flashing up. "You have
fought and lost for your king and
country, as we all have fought and
lost; and your enemies may take
your lands indeed, but they cannot
rob you of the glory of the cause for
which you have contended, nor can
they make you other than you are, a
descendant of brave old Grana Uaille
and the inheritor of her kingdom."

"Kingdom!" said Roger, with a
little bitter laugh. "Turn your eyes
inland, Mistress Netterville, and look
from the northern point of Clew Bay
southward toward the spot where
Croagh Patrick casts its shade upon
the bright waters. That was the old
kingdom of Grana Uaille, and my

448

Nellie NettervilU.

inheriunce upon the day that I was
bom. My earliest recollections there-
fore are connected witli this wild land,
and every rock and cave in its fair
winding coastline w*as as familiar to
me in my childish days as the toys
in their nursery arc to more tenderly
nurtured children* But they sent
me at last to Spain for that educa-
tion which would have been denied
me here, and I only came back
(while still a mere raw boy) to fight
under the banner of my kinsman, I
will not trouble you with a history of
that war ; you know it, alas, too well
already ! But when Preston took re-
fuge in Gal way, and the other chiefs
of the confederation dispersed in
diflerent directions, I made the best
of my way hither, hoping, amid the
wilds and fastnesses of my own
country, to be permitted to remain
al peace. Rumors reached me on
the way of the great scheme of the
transplantation, and of the numbers
flocking from the eastern counties to
usurp, against their will, the posses-
sions of their poorer brethren in the
west. Soon after that, came tidings
that the enemy had reserved the
coast-line for themselves, then that
they had swarmed over into some of
the Clew Bay islands, and then, at
last, that they had taken possession
of and fortified Carrig-a-hooly, the
old castle of Gran a and the spot
where I was bom. Still I pressed
unhesitatingly forward ; for I remenv
bered the * Rath,' and knowing that
it was, or used to be, almost a ruin,
I hoped it would have escaped them,
and that I might find there a refuge
and concealment for the moment.
Mistress Netterville, you can guess
at the result. I went as you went,
and found as you found, that it was
occupied already. Major Hcwit-
son — ''

**Wiat of Major Hewitson?" a
voice asked impatiently at his elbow.

Roger turned, and found ' ' ice

to face with Henrietta, ^u glid-
ed so quietly up the mountain path
that neither he nor Nellie had an idea
of her presence until she aDQOunced
it by this question.

Remembering her kindness of the
day before, Nellie's first impulse bad
been to greet her eagerly ; bcr ncxi
was to retreat a step behind 0*Morc,
with an uncomfortable though only
half acknowledged consciousness thai
she herself would be considered by
Henrietta as one too many in tlie
coming conversation* There was» In
tmth, a flush on the }*oung lady's
brow and a sparkle in her eye, by no
means inviting to familiarity, jiikI
without seeming conscious even of
Nellie*s presence, she repeated the
question angrily to 0*More :

" What of Major Hewitson? What
of the owner of yonder castle ?"

Roger looked at her steadily, then
removing his cap, and s in

his most courtly tones, li. red

quietly:

" Nothing, Mistress Hewitsoiit no-
thing at least, unfit to be said in the
presence of his daughter.'*

** That won't do t" cried Henrietta
passionately, " that won't do. I heard
his name as I came up, and I wiii
know what you were saying of him."

Roger laughed a bright, merry
laugh, which Nellie thought no ill-
humor could have resisted, and be
answered frankly :

"Nay, for that matter, ^lislress
Hewitson, if you insist upon it, you
are quite welcome to hear not Ofily
all that I did say, but all likevise
that I was about to say on the sub-
ject of your father. I had just ob-
ser\ed to Mistress Netterville (whose
person you seem somehow lo have
forgotten since yesterday) that I
found Major Hewitson in posscssioci
of my last refuge on the " nd,

and I was going to add : he

Nellie Netterville.

449

had thus made his fortune at my ex-
pense, I trusted he would not en-
deavor to prevent me seeking mine,
where in these days Irishmen most
often find them, under the golden
flag of Spain."

Spain! Nellie's heart leaped up
suddenly, and then grew very still.
This, then, was the meaning of that
word "absence" which had already
startled and, even against her will,
disturbed her. This was his mean-
ing. He was about to leave Ireland
for ever, and make a home for him-
self in his mother's land. Nellie's
heart leaped up, and then grew very
still!

When she returned to a conscious-
ness of the outward world around
her, Henrietta was saying eagerly :

"Do not wait to know what he
may think upon the subject ; but go
at once. Remember you are an out-
law, and that an outlaw is one whom
the law permits to be hunted like a
wild beast, and slain whenever or
however he may be taken."

"And this, then, is the fate which
your worthy father is preparing for
me?" Roger asked in a tone of ban-
tering politeness, which, considering
^^ circumstances and Henrietta's
evident exitement, Nellie could not
help thinking almost unkind. " It
Js thus, like a wild beast, as you
ngHtly term it, that he is about to
set upon me and slay me unawares."
"I do not say it 1 I do not know
Jt !" said Henrietta, almost sobbing.
"I only say— -only know that there
^e fresh troops of soldiers coming
in to^lay; that there have been for at
least a week past prayer-meetings
and preachings and waitings on the
Lord, things which all portend a
coming danger, and one that pro-
bably will point toward you. Colo-
nel O'More, be merciful; take my
warning for what it may be worth,
and ask no further questions. Re-
VOL. VII. — 29

member, that if I think not with my
father in these matters, I am still,
at all events, his daughter. And
now I must begone, for with all my
skill at the oar, and little Paudeen's
to boot, I shall have hard work to
get back in time for the mid-day
meal, and the long and weary homily
by which it is seasoned and made
pleasant to unbelievers like myself."

Henrietta turned as if to depart,
but yet she did not. She seemed to
be struggling hard with some hidden
feeling, and at last, with an effort so
violent that it was visible, at least to
Roger's eyes, she flung her arms
round Nellie's neck.

"I know nothing of you but your
name, young mistress," she said in a
smothered voice; "but I know, at
least, that I and mine have wrought
you a great injustice. That injustice
unhappily I have no power to repair;
but yet, if ever you have need of any
help that I can give, and will come
and ask me for it, believe me, instead
of heaping coals of fire on my head,
you will be giving me the only real
happiness I can feel, so long as I
know that, by my residence in these
lands, I am usurping the rights of
others."

Henrietta almost flung Nellie from
her as she finished speaking, and
then, without another word, either
to her or Roger, she took the down
path of the cliff, and was out of
sight in a moment.

The two whom she left behind her
continued silent, until they saw the
"corragh," or small boat, in which
she had come, and which had been
waiting for her beneath the cliffe,
gliding once more out into the open
bay ; then they also turned their steps
homeward, and Roger, with no small
dash of enthusiasm in his manner,,
exclaimed :

" Brave girl. I would you believe it,
this is the searfnd time she has givea

450

Nellie

me notice of a snnre ? only the first
^XnxMy he added» with perhaps some
intuitive guess at the sort of ques-
tioning that might be going on in
Nellie*s mind, **only the first time it
was by Paudeen, who sails her boat»
and who, she well knows, may be
trusted in all that regards the safety
of his chieftain. But what is the old
white haired gospeller up to now, I
wonder? I own I am fairly puz-
zled!^*

** We are not, I trust, the cause of
this fresh trouble to you ?'* said Nel-
lie timidly.

" Oh I no. I think not ; for your
sake I trust not,** he answered
thoughtfully. ** It seemed to me to
be aliogether personal lo myself; for
if it had been about the priest, I
tliink she would have said so,"

** The priest ! 'where is he ?'* Nel-
h'e asked, " I did not even know
that there was one upon tJie island,**

" Not upon this island, but on an-
other, as you shall see to-morrow if
you choose to make one of his Sun-
day congregation. But yonder is your
grandfather watching for you: had
we not better go and join him T

Nellie assented, and quickening
her pace almost to a run, she was in
her grand fa therms arms ere Roger,
who came on more leisurely, had
time to join ibem.

Lord Nettenille gazed lovingly
into Nellie's face, and smiled as he
saw tJie bright color which exercise
'liad called into her pale cheeks.
Then he turned courteously toward
his host. Perhaps he had some vague
idea in his old head that the fate of
iiis grandchild was to be henceforth,
in some way or other, connected with
that of Roger ; perhaps he was not
himself aware of the significance of
his action ; but this at all events is
certain, that, instead of relinquish-
ing Ncilie's hand, he kept it tightly in
fais own, and when the young chief-

tain approached to greet hiiDt laid I
silently in that of Roger.

There was enough tn the actloQ
itseK, and still more tn the way lit
which it was done, lo send the blood
scarlet to Nellie's brow, and she
struggled to release her hand» For |
one moment, however, Roger held itp j
gently but firmly, he even made a
movement as if be were about to
raise it to his lips ; instead ^ '
so, however, he dropped it
and said in a low voice :

** Not now, not yet ; but when yoaj
are once more at your molhet's Jtidc, J
will you permit mc lo remind yo« of
this moment, and to a^k for the trea-
sure which I now t
hands of her w ho i,s ^
guardian ?"

CHAPTER X.

Early the next morning, Kc1
found herself gliding over the waters
of Clew Bay in one of the native
corraghs of the country, under the
protection of her host. He was cap-
tain and crew all in one, and she wis
his only passenger ; for it had bcca
decided on the previous evening tlul
Lord Netterville was not in a tit »tat£
to endure the fatigue of sucb a %'oy-
age, and with old Nora to look after
his creature comforts* and Maida \x*
guard him in his lor > " Ro*

ger assured his grai hat

she need have no scruple in Icavir^
him during the I wo or three hours
required for their enterprise* And
Nellie had readily obeyed ; for^ if tlie
truth must be told, she had begUD
to rely implicitly upon bis judgment,
and to submit to it as unqucstiocuqg*
ly as if she had been a diild. The
little shyness produced by Lord Net-
terville's tJioughtlcss action of IIm
day before had entirely wom a((
partly because slie hcTKlf lltditliiES

I
\

Nellie Netterville.

451

womanfully against the feeling, but
chiefly because Roger, thoroughly
comprehending how needful it was
to her comfort that, during her resi-
dence in his lonely kingdom, she
should be entirely at her ease in his
society, had adopted, as if by instinct,
precisely the affectionate, brother-
ly sort of manner which was of all
others the best calculated to produce
this result Nellie therefore gave
herself up without a thought to the
pleasant novelty of a brotherly sort
of petting and protection which
seemed to call for nothing more
than quiet acceptance on her part,
and she listened to Roger with the
keen and unsated interest of a child
as he told her the names, one after
another, of many of the clustered
islands and rugged rocklets, glitter-
ing like jewels in the deep bosom of
the bay, almost always contriving to
add some little legend or stray scrap
of history, which gave each for the
nioment an especial, and (if the ex-
pression may be allowed toward in-
animate objects) an almost personal
interest in her eyes. At last he
turned her attention toward the
tuainland, pointing out the graceful
\irindings of Clew's varied shore, its
>Fave-wom caverns and rocky arches,
its cliflfe with their mantles of many-
CK>lored lichens which made them
look at that distance as if nature had
stained them into an imitation of
most curiously-colored marble ; and
l>eyond these again, its broad tracts
of uncultivated bog-land, purple with
heath in autumn, but now yellow with
gorse or dark with waving fern, its
hills rising one above another in
lonely, savage grandeur, witli Cfbagh
Patrick, the monarch of them all,
standing up on the south side of the
bay, and looking down in haughty,
cold indifference upon its waters as
they flowed beneath him. Nellie fol-
lowed his eye and finger eagerly as

he pointed out each individual fea-
ture in the scene before her ; but ob-
serving that he lingered for a moment
on Croagh Patrick, she turned to-
ward him for explanation.

"It is Croagh Patrick," he said.;
then perceiving that she was not
much the wiser for the information^
he added in some surprise, " Do yon
not know the legend, that it was
from the cone of yonder hill St. Pa-
trick pronounced the curse which
banished all venomous hurtful things
from Ireland ? Had the saint lived
in these days," Roger added, in that
undertone which Nellie had by this
time discovered to be natural to him
in moments of deep feeling, "it is
not, I think, against toads and
snakes that he would have direct-
ed his miracle-working powers, biA
against the men who, coming to a
land which is not their own, make
war in God's name against God's
creatures, hunting them down with
horn and hound, and snaring and
slaying them with as little compunc-
tion as they would have snared or
slain a wolf."

" Would he then have expelled me
also ?" asked Nellie, with a wicked •
smile. " You know that I, too, (and
more's the pity !) have blood of the
hated Saxon in my veins."

"Certainly not," said Roger
promptly, " with your blue-black eyes
and blue-black hair, he would with-
out a doubt (saint and prophflit
though he was) have been deluded
into believing you a Celt."

" And so I am almost," said Nel-
lie, with childish eagerness; "only
consider. Colonel O'More, we have
been in the country almost three
hundred years, and in all that time,
until my dear father's marriage with
my mother, (who is unfortunately att
Englishwoman,) it has been the boast
and tradition of our race that its
sons and daughters have never wed-

4S^

Nellie Kettervme,

ded save with the sons and daughters
of their adopted land.**

** Remember, then, that it will be
for you to renew the tradition," said
Rojer suddenly, and without reflec-
tion. He repented himself bitterly
a moment afterward, as he caught
a glimpse of the flush upon Nehie's
half-averted face, and in order to un-
do the evil which he had done he
-addfd hastily, "Yonder is our desti-
' nation^ that bare, black rock jiildng
out from the mainland far into the
deep waters."

" It is not then an island ?'* said
Nellie a little disappointed. ** I
fancied you said yesterday that it
was one."

** Perhaps I did, for it juts out so
far and so boldly into deep water
that, from many parts of the bay, it
looks almost like an island. You
cannot see the hermitage from this,
but yonder is the church, perched
right upon the cliffs above."

** Perched 1" repeated Nellie, with
a sort of shudder. " I should hard-
ly say even that it ivas penhi-tf, for to
me it looks as if it were actually
to|>plingover."

** And so it is," said Roger ; ** the
tower is out of the perpendicular
already, and I never hear a winter
storm without picturing it to myself
as going (as go most certainly it will
some day) crash over the clifiT. It^s
|fafe enough, however, in tills calm
I weather," he added, for he saw that
Wellie was beginning to look ner-
vous, " or I never should have
thought of it as a refuge for its pre-
sent occupant, though, for that mat-
ter, it was but a choice of evils, his
life being in jeopardy whichever
way he turned."

*' Is he then especially obno^dous?"
Nellie asked ; " or is it only that,
like all our other priests, he is forced
to do his mission secretly ?"

** Especially obnoxious ? I should

think, indeed he was,** said Roger
** for he was chn plain to the brave
old bishop whom ihey hanged at the
siege of Clonmel, and was present at
his dt!alh. How he managed to
escape himself, has always been a
marvel to me \ but escape he didt
and came btther for a refuge, i^
stowed him away in the ruined her-
mitage overhead, with a few other
poor fellows who are outlawed like
myself, and in greater danger, and
his presence has never been even
suspected by the enemy ; so that he
might, if he had been so niinded^
have escaped long ago by sea. But
when he found us here, wilhooit sa-
craments or sacrifice, (for our priests
have been long since driven into
banishment,) he elected to remain^
and now, at the peril of his life, be
does duty as a parish priest among a^**

"Brave priest 1 brave priest l"
cried Nellie, clapping her hands.
** He must feel very near to hcavcQ,
I tliink, engaged in such a mis&ioOt
and living like a real hermit up there
on that barren rock."

"And so in fact he is; or at least
he lives in a real hermit's cell," said
Roger* **It was built in the time
of Grana Uaille by a holy m^k^ in
whose memory the ruck is sometime
called 'the hermit/ though more
generally known as 'the chieitajo's
rock/"

" But why the change of names?**
asked NelUc.

" Because," he answered, with the
least possible shade of bitterness ia
his manner, " because, as often hap-
pens in this wicked world, persons
who have been made b«*roes to the
eyes^f men arc 1 count of

than those who ,' ly In llie

sight of GocL 1 his hermit had tiftd
here for many years in peace and
quiet, when the chief of a tribe of
Creaghts, at enmity with Grana
Uaille, having been beaten by ber

Nellie Netterville.

4S3r

in a battle, took refuge with him
among these rocks. The hermit hid
him in the church, which, being an
acknowledged sanctuary, even Gran a
Uaille, stout and unscrupulous as
she was in most things, did not dare
invade in order to drag him from its
shelter. But she swore— our good
old Grana could swear upon occa-
sion as lustily as her rival sovereign
your own Queen Bess — Grana swore
that neither the sanctity of his her-
mit friend or of his place of refuge
should avail him aught, and that,
sooner or later, she would starve him
into submission. She landed ac-
cordingly with her men, and sur-
rounded church and hermitage upon
the land side, that toward the sea
^ing left unguarded and unwatched
^>ecause, owing to the height and
steepness of the cliff itself, and the
position of the church tower, built
almost immediately upon its edge,
there seemed no human possibility
of evasion that way. The chief,
however, and his hermit proved too
"^^'^y for her after all ; for by dint of
working day and night, they succeed-
^» before their store of provisions
^s entirely exhausted, in cutting
through the floor and outer wall of
^^ ^hurch, and so making a passage
^"»cH gave them instant access to
^ cliffs outside. This was by no
"?^^ns so difficult a task as at first
f^ht it seems ; for the floor of the
.^*^4ing is only hardened earth, and
'^^alls a mere mixture of mud and
*^ble, the very tower itself being
J?^y partially built of stone. I have
^^n, when a boy, crept through the
^^^ture, but it is nearly filled up
.^^h rubbish now, and almost, or I
^^k quite forgotten among the
^^ple, who have been using the
^^Urch for the last twenty years as
^ Morehouse for peat and driftwood
^^T their winter firing. Usefijl
Enough, however, the poor chieftain

found it; for one fine moonlight night
he walked quietly through it into the
open air, swung himself down the
cliffs as unconcernedly as if he had
been merely searching for puffins'
nests, and finally escaped in a boat
left there by his friends for that very
purpose. Next day, the hermit threw
the church gates open, and sent word
to Queen Grana that her intended
victim had escaped her. You may
imagine what a rage the virago chief-
tainess was in at finding herself thus
outwitted; but I have not time to
tell you now, for here we are close
into shore, and it is time to think of
landing."

Roger had lowered the sail while
speaking, and he now began sculling
the boat round a low sandy point
which hid the harbor from their view.
While he was occupied in this man-
ner, Nellie, chancing to turn her
head in the direction of Clare Island,
perceived another corragh fast fol-
lowing in their track, and rowed by
a boy, who was evidently working
might and main in order to overtake
them. She mentioned the matter to
Roger, who instantly ceased his toil,
and turned round to reconnoitre.

" It is Paudeen," he said at once.
What, in Heaven's name, has sent
him to us here ?"

The boy saw that he was observ-
ed, and without stopping a moment
in his onward course, made signs to
them to await his coming.

Roger did as he was desired; and
in a few minutes more the two cor-
raghs were lying together side by
side, and so close that their re-
spective occupants could have con-
versed easily in a whisper.

"What is it, Paudeen .>" asked
0*More ; " have you any message
for me, or is there anything the mat-
ter that you have followed us so far?"

"It's Mistress Hewitson who is
wanting to see you," said the boy.

454

Nellie Nettermiif^

•• She was pre%'ente^ Jeaving as soon
as she intended, and she sent me on
before to ask you not to quit the is-
land until she bad spoken to you.
You were gone, however, before I
could get there ; so, guessing well
enough where you would most Hkely
be upon Sunday morning, I followed
you down here."

"But if you came straight from
the mainland » how is it that I did
not meet you in the way ?'* asked
O'More suddenly, a strange suspicion
of even Paudeen*s simple faith pass-
ing rapidly through his mind.

** Because I didn't come from it at
all, at all,*' the boy answered curtly.
" It is yonder they Ve staying now,'*
he added, pointing to Achill Island ;
**and they do say in the house that
Clare Isle will be the next to follow."

"And is it to tell me this that
Mistress Hewitson is about to honor
me with a visit?'* Roger answered
bitterly, ** The fonnality, mcihinks,
was hardly needed, considering all
that her father has robbed me of al-
ready/'

'* Sorrow know, I know what she
will be wanting ; but this at all events
I know for certain, that it is for no-
thing but what is good and kind/*
said Paudeen ; adding immediately
afterward in a musing tone, ** though
how she can be what she /x, consider-
ing the black blood that is running in
her veins, it needs greater wits than
I can boast of to be able to discover."

" Well, well," said Roger, " I be-
lieve you are about right there, Pau-
deen. So now^ go back at once, and
say to Mistress Hewitson that she
shall be obeyed, and that I will re-
turn to Clare Island in lime to re-
ceive her at the landing-place/'

** Let me go back also," said Nel-
lie, in a smothered voice. " W^ I and
my grandfather have brought this
danger to your door, it is only just
that we should share it with you/'

" Share it, Mistress
Nay, but you would
cried O'More vehemently J
face of anything like re
danger, 1 should infallibi
life in anxiety for yours,
fact, however, he added, i
she still looked distress
ious ; in point of fact, Ik
(whatever it is) cannot!
diate, since it is evident
tress Hewitson expects ||
tended visit to give me I
mation as may enable mi
it Possibly she has hc«
details concerning those n
old man, her father, at wll
day she obscurely hintcdij
even be, as Paudeen secnE||
that they intend to put 9
garrison on the island, and
hope to soften matters fori
ing me this previous no|;
way, I entreat you not ^
anxious; for though I a4
that we live in perilous |
places, yet still, and if onl
very reason, it behoves if
our common sense intact, |
allow it to be scared by is!
ing cloud that seems to c|
with storm/* |

After such words as ttl|
felt there was nothing fo|
land the moment the be
shore, and Roger helf
with a sort of graceful
which seemed intended
ask forgiveness for the cod
had been compelled to py
inclinations.

Then he pointed to a i
cernible path among the li
and said hastily : {

" That path will take y^
to the church. If any od
any questions, the watfl
* God, our Lady, and Rog
Farewell ! Get as near
you can ; tell them not
1

Nellie Netiermlle.

455

me, but I will be back in time to
fetch you."

He waited one moment, to make
sure that she understood him, then
pushed the boat out into deep water,
and without even venturing to look
^k, pursued his way diligently
temeward.

The breeze had died away, so that
He would, he knew, be infinitely long-
er in returning to Clare Island than
he had been in coming from it. As
He passed Paudeen, he had half a
wind to hail him, but reflecting that
He would probably lose more time by
the stoppage than he could gain by
^e boy's assistance, he changed his
^ind and went on his way alone. It
^"^ hot and weary work, but he put
all his strength and will to it, and did
It in a shorter time than he had ex-
P^ted. Not, however, before his pre-
sence was apparently sorely needed ;
^^^ just as he neared the harbor, the
°^€p, angry bay of the wolf-dog Maida
'"bached his ear. This was followed
"y a woman's voice, endeavoring pro-
bably to soothe the dog, and this again
J^y a long, shrill whistle which came
hke a cry for aid across the waters.
'f hus urged, O'More pulled with re-
"^Ubled energy, and next moment
J^^ in the harbor. A corragh, owner-
^ and empty, was lying loose be-
^^^ the pier, and a few yards from
r^^ landing-place he saw a girl stand-
^^^ motionless as a statue, one hand
r^^sed in an attitude of defence, con-
^^^'iting Maida, who, with head erect
^^ bristling hair, seemed to bid her
*^^ance further at her peril. Had
^^ attempted to retreat, had she
^^Wn even a shadow of timidity or
?; yielding, the dog would undoubted-
^. have torn her into pieces ; but,
^^h wonderful nerve and courage,
**^^ had so far stood her ground, and,
^^^uked by her stillness and unyield-
^^g attitude, Maida, up to that mo-
^ut, had fortunately contented her

sense of duty by keeping-a close watch
upon her proceedings. Horrified at
the sight, and dreading lest Maida
might mistake even the sound of his
voice for a signal of attack, Roger
hastily leaped on shore. Henrietta
heard him, and without even daring
to turn her head in his direction,
whispered softly :

" Call off your dog — for God's dear
sake, call her off at once !"

Roger made no reply, (for, in fact,
he did not dare to speak,) but he
made one bound forward and placed
himselfbetweenherandherfoe. Mai-
da instantly abandoned her threaten-
ing look to greet her master, and for
one half-moment he employed him-
self in caressing and calming down
her fury. Then he turned eagerly to
Henrietta :

" How is this, Mistress Hewitson I
For God's sake, speak! The dog
has not injured you, I trust?"

Henrietta did not at first reply.
She was as white as ashes, and her
eyes glittered with a strange mingling
of courage and of desperate fear.
"^Send away the dog," she cried at
last ; "send away the dog. I cannot
bear to see her," and then burst into
tears.

Roger said one word, and Maida
instantly flew toward the castle. He
was about to follow in the same di-
rection in order to procure some wa-
ter, but the girl caught him by the
arm, and held him so that he could
not move.

" Calm yourself, I entreat you," he-
said, fancying she was still under the
influence of terror. " No wonder that
even your high courage has given
way. Let me call Nora. She will
help you to compose yourself."

" Call no one," Henrietta gasped.

" Call no one ; but tell me, is there-

not a priest and some other outlaws.

in hiding on the chieftain's rock V*

"What then ?" he asked, the blood

S5*

mme NttterviHe.

suddenly mshing to his heart as he
thought of Nellie.

♦*What then?" she repeated fierce-
hty; "because, (oh I that I had known it
ptut an hour ago.) because death is
there, and treachery and woe ! But
whither are you going ?" she cried, fol-
lowing him as he broke suddenly from
her grasp, and began to retrace his
way toward the pier.

** Whither? whither?'* he answered,
like one speaking in his sleep, "There,
of course* \Vhere else? My God,
that I should have left Nellie there T^

**The girl !** cried Henrietta \ ♦'and
you have been there already, and
have had time to row all this way
back ? My God, then it will be too
late to save her. The church must
be in ilames ere now.*'

O'More made no reply, but leaped
at once into the boat. *' What do you
want ?" he asked, almost savagely, as
Henrietta followed him. "What do
you want here — you, the child of her
assassin ?'*

**I want to save her, and, still
more, to save my father, if I can, from
this most fearful guilt," she answered
promptly. Roger made no further
' opposition. Once fairly out of har-
bor, he rowed with all the energy of
•despair, and Henrietta helped him
nobly. They w^ere obliged to trust
entirely to their oars, and the delay
was maddening. Roger never cast a
L single glance toward the spot where
mil his soul was centred, but Henri-
rietta could not resist a look once or
twice in that direction.

Suddenly she cried out

** What is it?" he asked nervously;
•" what is it ?"

** They have fired the church," she
-said, in smothered tones. ** There is
a cloud of smoke ; and now — my
Ood I — a jet of flame going through
it to the sky I"

He made no reply, but he bent to
the oar until the bead-drops of min-

gled agony and toil stood
his brow.

** God help them \ They 1
trying to escape," she mutt€
again, as something like a shot
of musketry reached her ea|3

Faster he rowed, and fastM
boat leaped !ike a living thing
the waters. They were clc
cliff at last. Overhead, th^
hidden by a canopy of heA¥
with here and there a strcl
flashing like forked lightnrr
it. Underneath, the water '
as ink, in the rcflectioti of the c
heavens, as the boat rushcd^jj
it. One more eflbrt, and tfl
in the cove — another, and the
flung Iiigh and dry upon the
Roger jumped out without a
Was he in time ? or was he
whole soul was engrossed in
fui question.

" What are you going to di
Henrietta, uncertain as to wl
own share in the enierjirise was
He had been searching in the I
of the boat for something ; but h
ed up then with a kindling e)
said : ■

"Will you be true to the 4

" So help me God, I will r s
swered in that quiet tone wl
all the more of steady coun
has no touch of bluster in it.
found what he wanted now-
and a coil of rope — and «uisi
pidly :

"Take the boat out of this
and wait beneath the cliffs. W
I come, or until yonder tower i\
fall it must, and soon,
you may go home In pe;
peace ! For happen what
soul, at any rate, will be
this day's murder"

He shoved the boat back
water as he finished spe
then, without even looking
see if Henrietta followed

Nellie NettervilU.

4S7

rections, strode rapidly up the
cliffs.

CHAPTER Xr.

Happily unconscious of the peril
by which her own life was so speedily
to be placed in jeopardy, Nellie stood
for a few minutes after Roger left
her. watching his progress through
the water, and speculating anxiously
enough upon the nature of the sum-
nions which had been delivered to
him by Paudeen. In spite of his ap-
parent coolness, there had been some-
thing in the way in which he had al-
most forced her to leave him — some-
thing in the haste with which he had
given her his last directions — some-
tliing (if it must be confessed) in the
^^ry fact of his having rushed off
^'^thout even a parting word or look,
'^^hich made her suspect the danger
to be more real and immediate than
^^ wished her to suppose it. And
'^O'W, as she watched him bending to
tHe oar as if his very life depended
^*> his speed, suspicion seemed all at
^^ce to grow up into certainty, and
^He bitterly regretted the shyness
^'^hich had prevented her insisting on
Returning with him to the island. Re-
S*"^ts, however, were now in vain, and
^^tierabering that, if she delayed much
J<>iiger, she would in all probability
*^ too late for Mass, and so lose the
only object for which she had remain-
^ behind, she turned her face reso-
^^^ly toward the path pointed out by
*^^^^5er. It was less a path indeed
^^n a mere narrow space left by the
f^^t^iral receding of the rocks and
\^^ boulders, which lay scattered
^'^ut in all directions. Such as it
^^, it led Nellie in a zigzag fashion
upward toward the cliffs, turning and
listing so suddenly and so often,
^at she could hardly ever see more
ftan a yard or two before her, while
the boulders on either side, being ge-

nerally higher than her head, and the
intervals between them filled up with
tall heather and scrubby brushwood,
she might as well, for all that she
could have seen beyond, have been
walking between a couple of stone
walls. The congregation had in
all probability already reached the
church, or else they were coming to
it by another path ; for not the sound
of a voice or of a footstep either be-
fore or behind her could she hear,
though she paused occasionally to lis-
ten. Once indeed, but only once, at
a sudden opening among the boul-
ders, she fancied she saw something
like the glistening of a spear in the
brushwood underneath, and a minute
or two afterward the air seemed tre-
mulous with a low sighing sound, as
if some one were whispering within a
few yards of her ear. Nevertheless,
when she paused again in some tre-
pidation to reconnoitre, everything
seemed so lonely and so still around
her, that she was obliged to confess
that her imagination must have been
playing her sad tricks. The light
which she had seen was, in all proba-
bility, a mere effect of sunshine on
some of the more polished rocks,
while the sough and sigh of the wa-
ters, as they lapped quietly on the
beach below, might easily have as-
sumed, in that distance and in the
calm summer air, the semblance of a
human whisper. Once she had satis-
fied herself upon this point, she re-
solved not to be frightened from her
purpose by any nervous fancies ; and
stimulating her courage by the reflec-
tion that, if an enemy really were lurk-
ing near, her best chance of safety
would be the church, in which her
countrymen and women were already
gathered, she toiled steadily upward
until she reached the platform upon
which it was erected. A sudden turn
in the path brought her face to face
with it almost before she fancied that

4S3

Ntllie Netteruille.

she was near, and she only compre-
hended how heartily she had been
frightened on the way, by the sense
of relief which this discover)^ impart-
ed. It was a low, mean-looking edi*
fice enough, with the hermit's eel!
built aslant against the wall, and form-
ing in fact a kind of porch, through
which alone it could be entered.
From the moment it first came in
sight, the path had narrowed gradu-
ally until there was barely room at
last for the passing of a single per-
son, and while it appeared to Nellie
to descend, the rocks on either side
rose higher, slanting even somewhat
over, so as partially to impede the
light. From this circumstance she
was led 10 fancy that both cell and
church had been built originally be-
low what was now the present sur-
face of the land, a fact which, joined
to its desolate, ruinous condition,
might easily have pointed it out to
Roger as a fitting place for the con-
cealment of his friends. The low door
of the porch was closed and fastened
upon the inside, so that she was
obliged, ver}' reluctantly, to knock on
it for admittance, A moment after-
ward she heard the sound of foot-
steps, the door was drawn back an
inch or two, and some one from be-
hind it whispered in Irish, " Who are
you, and for whom ?"

" For God, our Lady* and Roger
O'More," Nellie promptly answered.

** Enter, then, in the name of God,"
the voice replied ; and a strong hand
being put forth, she was drawn within
the building as easily and unresist-
ingly as if she had been a child, and
the door was again closed behind her.
The cell into which she had been
thus unceremoniously introduced was
very dark, and she could only just
perceive that the person who bad
played the part of porter was a tall,
soldierly-looking fellow, and therefore,
she concluded, one of the outlaws^ of

iBinaiiPDi

whose residence in the buildii
ger had informed hen

"You have been long a-comfn]
said the man. ** Why is not the chi
tain with you?"' ,

** How do you know that he broug
me hither?** asked Nellie, startled |
the knowledge he seemed to liAvej
her proceedings. \

"We keep a 4

ward upon Sunda^, .
s we red significantly.
go back ?"

" A message — 3
island," said Nell
ing how much or
be prudent to conr
nothing of any con
and he said you
He will probably
is over."

*' Good," said th
me." He w^ent c
lie stumbling as w
him in the dark
ed the thick ma»
which separated i
porch outside. 1
came so sudden tl
tablyhave been pt
most into the mid
tion, if her conduc
her by the arm in \
catastrophe, and 1:
the other side. 1
building, as Nellie
light, had a mudi n
to a ruinous bam \
Christian worship,
already told her, it
dismantled and for^
that the people ha
upon it simply as
their winter firinL'
tested by the pil*
wood which rose in an
blocking up the narrow wi
forming a gigantic stack
wall behind the altar. 1
was of stone, facing the

Nellie Netterville,

459

>he had just entered, and so
that there was a considerable
t between it and the wall be-

lis desolate-looking building
wenty or thirty people were
led, most of them women and
jirls, with a sprinkling of old
d half-a-dozen younger ones,
m Nellie fancied she recog-
he outlawed soldiers of the
rmy. Two or three of these
le a curious glance upon her,
moved onward toward the
mt the greater part of the con-
ya were so absorbed in ear-
id loudly-uttered prayer, that
emed absolutely unconscious
intrance of a stranger. Pass-
stly, so as not to disturb them
r devotions, Nellie made her
a spot from whence she had
lew of the priest as he sat, a
ti one side, engaged in hear-
5 confessions of those who
ed themselves for that pur-
He was in truth a hero in
\ eyes — the best of all heroes
fistian hero. He had stood
t brave old bishop who had
death for an act of patriot-
ch, in the old heroic days of
vould have set him as a demi-
m pagan altars. Quiet and
essed, he had knelt, amid
ders of the battle-field, to
confessions of the wounded
He had plunged into the
spheres of plague aiid fever,
eath in its worst and most
; forms in the exercise of
terial functions. He had
2 dead — he had consoled
' and orphan, made such
kless cruelty of man ; and
hen he had exhausted all the
eroic forms of service to his
le had come hither, like that
timself — like the good Shep-
* the Gospel — to gather up the

young lambs into his arms, and to
comfort a conquered and stricken
people ; to pour the consolations of
religion upon hearts wrung and dis-
consolate in human sorrow ; to preach
of heaven to men forsaken of the
earth, and to teach them, houseless
and hapless as they were, to lift up
those eyes and hands, which had
been lifted in vain to their brother
man for mercy, higher and higher
still, even to that Almighty Father
to whose paternal heart the life of
the very least of his little ones was
of such unspeakable and unthought-
of value that not a hair might fall
from one of their heads without his
express permission. Thoughts like
these passed rapidly through Nellie's
mind as she watched the old man
bending reverently and compassion-
ately to receive, in the exercise of
his ministerial functions, each new
tale of sin or sorrow which, one after
another, the poor people round him
came to pour into his sympathizing
ear.

We have called him " old," for his
hair was white and his face was
ploughed into many wrinkles ; yet
Nellie could not help suspecting that
the look of wearied, patient age upon
his features was less the effect of
years, than of the toil and suffering
by which those years had been uti-
lized and made fruitful in the service
of his Master. Altogether she felt
drawn toward him by a feeling of
reverent admiration, which would
probably have found vent in words,
if he had not been so completely oc-
cupied in his ministerial duties as to
make it simply impossible to inter-
rupt him. For in a congregation
deprived, as this had been, of a pas-
tor for many months, there was of
course much to be done ere the
commencement of the Sunday ser-
vice. There were confessions to be
heard, and infants to be baptized.

Vettefviile.

and more than one young couple —
who had patiently awaited the com*
ing of a lawful minister for the recep-
tion of that sacrament — lo be united
in holy wedlock. At last, however,
all this was over, and Nellie hud just
made up her mind to go and speak
to him in her turn, when, to her in-
finite annoyance, he rose from his
place and commenced robing him-
self at the altar. Kneeling down
again, therefore, she endeavored to
withdraw her thoughts from all out-
ward things, in order to fix them en-
tirely upon the coming service. In
spite, however, of her most earnest
efforts, she felt nervous and unhappy
at the prolonged absence of O'More,
and she could not help envying the
people round her, as with all the na-
tural fervor of the Celtic tempera-
ment, they abandoned themselves to
prayer ; prostrating, groaning, beat*
ing their breasts, and praying up
aloud wnth as much naive indiffer-
ence to the vicinity of their neigh-
bor, as if each individual in presence
there imagined that he and his God
were the sole occupants of the church.
Poor Nellie could obtain no such
*blcst absorption from her cares. Her
eyes would glance toward the door
for the coming of Roger, and her
ears would listen for his footsteps ;
once or twice, indeed, she felt quite
certain that she heard him moving
quietly behind the screen of matting,
which shut in the church from the
porch outside, and became, in conse-
quence, nervously anxious to see him
lift it and take his promised place
eside her. He never came, how-
irer, yet the sounds continued, ac-
companied at times by a slight wav-
ing of the screen, as if a hand had
accidentally touched it ; and this oc-
curred so often that Nellie began at
last to be seriously alarmed. She
thought of Paudeen*s mysterious
message to his chieftain, and her

y w
hcj

ere i

own hairexlinguished fancy 6f
ing seen a spear among ihCj
wood recurred vividly to b«
What if slie had seen rightt]
all? What if an enemy were i
lurking in the nen 4;

worse still, crouch i
terrible screen, ready to
the congregation as they
through it to the open air aftci
vice ? The thought was too tei
for solitary endurance, and she
just about to lessen the burdc
imparling it lo her nearest ncig
when she found herself forest
by a heavy, stifling cloud of sti
which rolled suddenly througl
church and roused every ere
present to a sense of coming da
There was a rustle and a stir
then they all stood up, men aiu
men and little children, gaining
wild eyes and whitened fai
each other, uncertain of
or from whence " of the
peril.

The priest alone seemed lo p:
attention to the circumstance ; n
iheless he felt and comprehend*
better than they did the nature *:
fate awaiting them, and hurrk
to the conclusion of the Mas$
was by this time, fortunate
nigh over.

He had hardly finished
munion prayer before the heal
suffocation had become unbcai
In an agony of terror, the peojp
a rush to the gates, and tc
the screen of matting which
ed the church from the porch be;

Then arose a wild cry of dei
filling the church from floor tc
ing^*the crj' of human beings c;
in a snare from whence, exc
cruel death, there was no
The porch was already a^
furnace, filled almost to
with fagots burning in all
that pitch and tar, and

i fajB

' th A

UuM

I top:
ce; n
icnd«
turc t
lurri*

heal

nbcai
!opi|j

:ha|

Nellie NettervUU.

461

ustibles flung liberally among them,
ere calculated to produce. These,
len, were the sounds which had dis-
irbed Nellie during Mass. The
lemy had profited by the rapt de-
:>tion of these poor people to build
p, unheard and unsuspected, their
sath-pile in the porch, after which
Dughty deed they had retired, clos-
g the gates behind them, and trust-
g the rest to the terrible nature of
e ally they had so recklessly in-
»lced.

To attempt a passage through that
a of fire in its first wild fury would
:^'e been instant death; and amid
^ cries of women and children,
any of whom were well-nigh tramp-
i to death beneath the feet of their
low-victims, the crowd swayed
^:kward.

^hen came another horror. An
tiiappy girl, one of the foremost of
^ throng, in her eagerness to es-
p^e, had rushed so far into the
»x-ch that her garments caught fire,
<d, mad with pain and fear, she
1 «ig herself face downward upon a
-^p of driftwood near her. It was
!> that was needed to complete the
>ik of destruction. The wood, dry
^d combustible as tinder, ignited
stantly, and in two minutes more
3-s a mass of fiame. In vain some
the men, with the priest at their
-^d, leaped on it in a wild effort to
^inple it out before it could spread
^>^er. As fast as it was stifled in
^e place it broke out in another,
'^ subtle element gliding along the
^lls and seizing upon stack after
^ck of wood with an ease and speed
^at mocked at all their efforts to ex-
^guish it. No words can paint the
^^Trors of the scene that followed !
fteavy volumes of black smoke, ever
^d anon rolling upward from some
^ew spot upon which the fire had
t^tened, at times shut out the light
of day, and made the darkness al-

most palpable to the senses. Fire,
bright and angry, flashing at first
here and there at intervals, like fork-
ed lightning, through the gloom ;
then coming thicker and quicker, as
it grew with what it fed on, hurrying
and leaping in its exultant fury, lick-
ing up and devouring with hungry
tongues all that opposed its progress
— now spreading itself in sheets of
molten flame, now contracting into
red, hissing streams, bearing a ter-
rible resemblance to fiery serpents,
but never for a moment slackening
in its work of woe, winding hither
and thither, and in and out, and
fastening with all the malice and
tenacity of a conscious creature
upon everything combustible within
its reach, until the very rafters over-
head were wreathed in flame — and
underneath that awful canopy the
panting, shrieking crowd, struggling
in that sulphurous atmosphere of
smoke and fire, rushing backward
and forward, they knew not whither,
in search of a safety they knew too
well they could never find ; for even
while obeying the animal instinct to
fly from danger, there was not a
creature there who did not feel to
the very inmost marrow of his being,
that unless a miracle were interpos-
ed to save him, he was doomed then
and there to die.

Nellie was the only person in the
church, perhaps, with the sole excep-
tion of the pastor, who made no vain
effort at escaping. Driven by the
swaying of the others, after their first
rush to the door, backward toward
the altar, -she had remained there
quietly ever since, praying, or trying
to pray, and shutting eyes and ears
as much as might be to the terrible
sights and sounds around her. Ac-
cident had, in fact, brought her to
the only spot in the building where
safety was for the moment feasible,
e altar was built, as we have al-

•Vi*

> \

(ready satd, 6l stone, and being pho
[ed at some distance from any of the
walls, the space in front, though sti-
fling from heat and smoke, was clear
of fire, and consequently of imme-
diate danger.

Hither» therefore, the priest, who,
having done al! that man could do
toward the stifling of the flames, now
felt that another and a higher duty
— the duty of his priestly office —
must needs be exercised, endeavored
to collect his flock, and hither, at his
bidding, one by one they came, every
hope of rescue extinguished in their
bosoms, and scorched, and bruised,
and half-suffocated as they were, lay
down at his feet to die. There was
no loud shrieking now — the silence
of utter exhaustion had fallen upon
ihem all, and only a low wail of pain
broke now and then from the white,
parched lips of some poor dying
creature, as if in human expostula-
tion with the sputtering and hissing
of the flames that scorched him.
Once, and only once, a less fitting
sound was heard — a curse, deep but
loud, on the foe that had so ruthless*
ly contrived their ruin.

It reached the ear of the priest as
he stood before the altar, sometimes
praying up aloud, sometimes with
look and voice endeavoring to calm
his people, waiting and watching
with wise, heroic patience for the
precise moment when, all hopes of
human life abandoned, he might lead
them to thoughts of that which is
eternal.

But that muttered curse seemed to
rouse another and a diflfercnt spirit
in his bosom, and filled with holy
and apostolic anger, he turned at
once upon the man who spoke it

" Sinner r he cried, ** be silent 1
Dare you to go to God with a curse
upon your Hps? What if he curse
you in return ? What if he plunge
vou, for that very word, from this fire.

which will pass with t&iie»*&ito thai
which is eternal and endures forever?
O my children, my children V cried
the good old man, opening wide his
arms, as if he would fain ha\n; em-
braced his weeping flock and shel-
tered them all from pain and sorrow
on his paternal bosom, "see you not,
indeed, that you must di^ ! — with foes
outside, with devouring flames within,
all hope of life is simple folly. Die
you must. So man decrees ; but God,
more merciful, still leaves a choice —
not as to death, but as to the spirit
in which you meet it. You may die
angr)^ and reviling, as the bbi^phe-
ming thief, or you may die (O bless-
ed thought !) as Jesus died — peace m
your hearts and a prayer for )^ur very
foes upon your lips. Hav, i

yourselves, my children ; h : n

me, who, as your pastor, will h.ivc to
answer for your souls, as for my own,
to God — and choose with Jesus. I*ui
aside all rancor from your hearti*
Remember that what our foes have
done to us, we, each in our mca.-suTe,
have done by our sins to Jesus. Pray
for them as he did. Weep, as he did
for j'our sins (not Ars) upon the cro^
and kneel at once, that while thcte
yet is time I may give j-ou, tn hi§
name and by his power, that pardon
which will send you safe and hopcfol
to the judgment-scat of God. ^

Clear, calm, and quiet, amid the
confusion round him, rose the voice
of that good shepheni, sent httbet. as
it seemed, for no other pun :^

to perish with his flock ; u
message of mercy from tin Ii ^i i •
words fell upon their failing li >
They obeyed him to the leil*^r. I i :
ed was every munnur,. stifled t
cry of pain, and, prostrate on :
faces, they waited with solemn sik^r*:
the word which they knew would fol-
low. And it was said at last Wath I
streaming eyes, and hands uplifted]
toward that heaven to whicli be

Nellie NettervilU.

463

his poor children all were speeding,
the priest pronounced that Ego te alh
soivo^ which speaking to each indivi-
dual soul as if meant for it alone, yet
brought pardon, peace, and healing
to them all. Something like a low
"Amen," something like a thrill of
relief from overladen bosoms, follow-
ed ; and then, almost at the same in-
stant, came a loud cry from the out-
side of the church — a crashing of
doors — a rush — a struggle — a scatter-
ing of brands from the half-burned-
out fagots in the porch — and, black-
ened with smoke and scorched with
fire, O'More leaped like an apparition
into the midst of the people. A shout
almost of triumph greeted his appear-
ance, for they felt as if he must have
brought safety with him. It seemed,
in fact, as if only by a miracle he
Could have been there at all. Un-
armed as he w^, he had rushed
trough the English soldiers, and
they, having all along imagined him
to be in the church with their less no-
t>le victims, were taken so completely
l^y surprise that they suffered him to
I^ass at first almost without a blow.
^^y the time they had recovered them-
selves, their leaders had staid their
Hands. It was better for all their
X>urp>oses that he should rush to death
of his own accord than that they
should have any ostensible share in
the business. No further opposition,
tlierefore, being offered to his pro-
^;ress, he easily undid the gates, which
\ivere only slightly barricaded on the
outside, and having cleared the porch
^t the risk of instant suffocation to
liimself, he now stood calling upon
l>Jellie, and vainly endeavoring to dis-
cx)ver her in the blinding atmosphere
of smoke around him. She was still
vrhere she had been from the begin-
ning — at the foot of the altar, faint
and half-dead with heat and fear. But
the sound of his voice seemed to call
her back to life, and, with a cry like

a frightened child, she half-rose from
her recumbent posture. Faint as was
that cry, he heard it, and catching a
glimpse of her white face, rushed to-
ward her. In another moment he had
her in his arms, wrapped carefully in
his heavy cloak, and shouting to all
to follow and keep close, he rushed
behind the altar.

Half an hour before this had been
the hottest and most dangerous posi-
tion in the church, but O'More had
well calculated his chances. The real
danger now was from the roof, which,
having been burning for some time,
might fall at any moment. Below, the
fire, having rapidly exhausted the light
material upon which it had fed its
fury, was gradually dying out, and
boldly scattering the fagots upon
either side as he moved on, Roger
made his way good to the only spot
in the building from whence escape
was possible. Here the floor sank
considerably below the general sur-
face, and dashing down a heap of
brushwood which still lay smouldering
near, he lay bare an aperture effected
in the wall itself, and going right
through it to the cliffs beyond.

Through this he passed at once,
carrying Nellie as easily as if she had
been a baby, and landing her safely
on the other side. The people saw,
and with a wild cry of hope rushed
forward. Even as they did so the
roof began to totter. They knew it,
and maddened by the near approach
of death, pressed one upon another,
blocking up the way and destroying
every chance of safety by their wild
efforts to attain it.

In the midst of this confusion, a
shower as of red-hot fire poured
down from the yielding rafters. Then
came another cry (oh ! so different
from the last) — a cry of grief and
terror mingled — then a crashing
sound and a heavy fall — and then a
silence more terrible even than that

Scimc^ and Faiik

tetior— a ghastly, deatb-like
ocdj bioken by tbe hissiiig
ood crackliog of the flames above^

and the deep sougn
low — aiid all was over.

TU ftK OlimKVCOk.

TItAfeSUlTWO ntOM THt r>Z.VCM OF 11. vmcT,

SCIENCE AND FAITH,

MEDITATIOKS ON THE ESSENCE OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION, BY M. OUIZOT

OOXCLU5IOK.

in*

Thk way is found. Man has the
gift of bclirving not only the things
he sees and kisows by his own intel-
lect, but also those he does not see
and which he learns through tradi-
tion. He ad tnits» he affi rms with con-
fidence the facts which are asserted
by others, when the witnesses seem
competent and reliable, even in cases
twhcre he cannot verify their truth or
1 submit them to a rigid criticism. Thus
in the authority of witnesses we have
that which constitutes faith ; faith pro-
perly so called, which is the belief in
the divine trnths, as well as purely
human faith, which is confidence in
the knowledge of another. Both re-
quire the same act of intelligence;
but, if it concerns the affairs of this
• urorld, the authority of the witness is
^easily established, for he has only to
prove his competence and his veraci-
ty ; while for superhuman things it is
necessary that he himself should be
superhuman, that he should prove it
to us, that we should feel by the way
speaks that he knows and has
Ji in the heaven of which he is
king, and that he has descended
it. If he is only a man, he is
without a claim upon us, Manifest
I signs of his mission and authority are
ivy I such signs must be unusual

and incomprehensible; they must com-^
mand respect and force conviction; 4
they must be miraculous facts entirely
beyond mere human power.

Such is the supreme and n
condition for evciy solution
natural problems, or, what amounts tc»
the same, for any jg*eat and tnic re*
ligion. The appearance of a being"
eminently divine is necessary', who
will show the character of hi^ misstoft4
and his right to claim < by

miracles. Miracles and ^ 1
then, two correlative terras, two
parable expressions. Do not try tak
preserve one and get rid of the oilier
the attempt will fail. If you oookS
effect this divorce, both vrould d
pear. Religion without miracli
only a human doctrine ; it is $11
philosophy, which has no right lo
etrate the mysteries of the inl
and which can only speak io hy
tfieses, without force and without
thority.

There is no way, then, to
miracles must be admitted, i...
die great stumbUng-block. .

It is said : **That \ ' ' '
when the world was .

man himself, ignorant anil a
had not demonstrated for so
centuries the stability of natu r
Then he could suppose tliat ti**^
some hidden power^ which at

Science and Faith.

46s

and for certain ends played
lese laws and suspended them

; but to-day, in this advanced
ise as we are, how can we be
:ed to bend our enlightened rea-

these uncertainties ? how can
e science these injurious con-
:ions ?"

, you believe yourselves to be
lely learned. You think that
loroughly understand the laws
are, because from time to time
ive wrested some of her secrets
ler; and these being always
or less marvellous, you imme-
r conclude that she has spoken
5t word ! Strange assumption !
behind, and you are right, you
iccomplished an immense dis-
Look ahead, and the end is
as in the days of your fathers,
>tance to be overcome remains
» the same, you have not ad-
1 a single step. Far from add-
your presumption, the progress
r knowledge should rather make
el more keenly your ignorance,
nore conquests you make, the
'our radical impotence is shown.
)u presume to say that the laws
J world allow or do not allow
• that, as if you completely un-
od them, while at every mo-
lewand unexpected facts, which
inted by yourselves, defeat your
itions, mock your predictions,
erogate from laws which you
im absolute and eternal I
one doubts that a general and
nent order reigns in this world ;
at this order is inexorably de-
ed in its trifling details, that
g can alter it, that it will re-
the same for ever, you cannot
y more than can we ; or rather,
i well as we, are living witnesses
n unbending mechanism does
vern all things here below.
2ed, what do you do, you, a fee-
)m, an imperceptible creature,
VOL. VII. — 30

when you forbid the Sovereign Master
the great ordainer of things, the least
deviation, the slightest infraction, of
the laws he has made ? Do you not
violate these laws so far as you are
able every day, every hour, and in
every way ? The plant that the natu-
ral order would cause to bloom in
summer, you cover with flowers in
winter ; you change the flavor and the
form of the fruit, and the color of the
flowers; you bend the twigs and
branches, and make them grow against
their nature. And it is not only over
vegetation and inanimate objects that
you exercise your caprices. How
many living beings have you trans-
formed, and completely altered their
natural mode of life ! What unex-
pected missions and what strange
destinies has your fancy made them
undergo !

It may be said that these are only
little miracles ; but after all, how do
the greatest ones differ from them?
They are both infractions upon the
apparent order of nature. Is the real
order subverted by this ? Is the rela-
tion of cause and effect broken be-
cause our gardeners derive and pro-
pagate from a graft new and innu-
merable varieties? No; and since
this is true, there can be no good rea-
son for refusing to admit a series of
deviations above these of every-day
experience. The miraculous cures, the
wonderful transitions from extreme
feebleness to health, and the intuitive
power of a saint, which enables him
to read the very thoughts of men, can
all be effected without compromising
or menacing the universal order. Eve-
rything depends upon the degree of
power you grant the Author of these
acts, to him who, holding all things
in his hand, can make the exception
as easily as the rule.

There is but one way to deny abso-
lutely the possibility of miracles, which
has been in all times by mstinct and

466

"ieienee ana

by nature affirmed by the human race,
and that is to suppress God and pro-
fess atheism, either atheism simply in
its gross crudity, or that more deli-
cate and better disguised form which
finds favor in our times, and which
honors God by pronouncing his name,
but gives htm no other care than the
servdle protection and the dull super-
vision of the worlds he has created,
but which he does not govern. If
this is the way in which God must be
considered, if fatalism is the law of
the world, let us speak no more of mi-
racles or of the supernatural ; for this
is already decided, and there can be no
discussion about it. If, on the contrary,
entering into yourselves, you feel that
you arc intelligent and free, ask your-
self, Where did I get these wonder-
ful gifts, liberty and intelligence ? Do
you get them from yourself? Are
t!iey born in you and only for you ?
Do you possess tliem completely? Do
they not emanate from a higher, more
perfect* and more abundant source,
in award, from God himself? Then,
if God, if the Omnipotent, is also the
sovereign intelligence and the sove-
reign freedom, how do you dare to
forbid him to mingle with affairs here
below, to follow with attention the
beings lie has created, to watch over
their destiny, and to declare his wish-
es to them by striking manifestations
of his power? He can most certainly
do this, for he is free and all-power-
ful With the idea of God thus pre-
sented to the mind, a complete and
living God, the question is completely
transformed. And it must be acknow-
ledged that w^e have no longer to de-
monstrate the possibility of miracles :
it is for our opponents to prove their
impossibility.

But tlie great critics of to-day, at
least those who have the most ability,
have carefully refrained from attempt-
ing this task. They attack superna-
tural facts in a different way, not as

being impossible in themselves, but
as lacking proof: in the place of open-
ly denying them, they try to weaken
the authorit}^ of those who attest them.
What testimony would then be de-
stroyed by them ? t.et it be noted
that in the historical statement of
natural facts, even those which are
extraordinary and more or less uncer-
tain, the testimony of men, sustained
and strengthened by constant tradi-
tion, is allowed to be sufiicicnl ; and,
indeed, to what, in most cases, would
our historical knowledge amount^ if
this sort of proof were not admissi-
ble ? But for supernatural facts they
are far less accommodating. Many
other guarantees are demanded. They
require ocular proof, which must be
made in a proper way and duly an-
nounced by them to be certain. This
is the condition upon which they oifcr
to yield; without it, there is to be no
belief Whence it would fallow, that,
whenever the Divinity proposed to do
anything beyond the ordinar}^ laws of
nature, it would be bound to give these
Opponents notice, so that they could
produce their witnesses. The work
would then proceed in iht!j t%

and, when the miracle was, f Iv

ed, tliey would immediately begin
their statement. Perhaps our read-
ers may think that we are trylj^ to
excite a laugh at their expense, or, ai
least, that we are exaggerating. Such
is not the case ; we are only echtung
their ow[\ w^ords, and we could quoie
from the very page where this s>^tciii
is set forth as the sole method of es-
tablishing the truth of miracles. How-
ever, it is useless to dwell upon this
way of asking for impossible proo&
and proclaiming a readiness to be-
lieve, but placing one s belief upon
unheard-of conditions. This is only
a subterfuge, an attempt to evade
what they dare not solve, and an ef-
fort to destroy in practice that whkh
they seem theoretically to concede.

Science and Faith.

A67

There are others more frank, less
diplomatic, and perhaps also less
learned, who call things by their
right name, and who loudly declare
a new dogma as the great principle
of reformed criticism, and this is the
complete denial of supernatural facts.
The manner, the air, and the lofty
disdain with which they look down
upon those simple souls, who are cre-
dulous enough to believe that the
Almighty is also intelligent and free,
should be seen. They announce
that all intercourse between them
and us is broken, that we have noth-
ing, to do with their books ; they do
not care for our praise or for our cen-
sure, since they do not write for us.
One is almost tempted to repay their
disdain with interest ; but there is
something better to be done. We
have just shown that man, with his
limited power and liberty, can modi-
fy the laws of nature. Let us see, now,
if God in his infinite sphere has not
the same power, and if there is not
some well-known and striking exam-
ple of it.

There is one instance which both
in time and by its evidence is the
most convincing of all. It is not one
of those facts which we have learned
by narration or by testimony, whether
written or traditional. All narratives
can be contested and every witness
can be suspected ; but here the fact
is its own witness, it is clear and ir-
refutable. It is the history of our
first parents, of the commencement
of the human race ; for our race
has had a commencement, of tliis
there can be no question. No so-
phist would dare to say of man, as
they have said of the universe, that
he has existed from all eternity. On
this point science confirms tradition,
and determines by certain signs the
kpoque when this earth became ha-
bitable. Upon a certain day, then,
man was bom ; and he was bom, as

it is hardly necessary for us to say,
in an entirely different manner from
that in which one is born to-day. He
was the first of his kind : he was
without father or mother. The laws
of nature, on this occasion at least, did
not have their effect. A superior
power, working in his own way,
has accomplished something beyond
these laws, and in 'a more simple and
prompt manner, and the world has
seen an event take place which is
evidently supernatural.

This is the reason why some sa-
vants have taken so much pains to
find a plausible way to explain scien-
tifically, as a natural fact, this birth
of the first man. Some would per-
suade us that this enigma is explain-
ed by the transformation of species —
a singular way of avoiding a miracle,
only to fall into a chimera. Indeed,
if anything is proved at all and be-
comes more certain as the world
grows older, it is that the pre^er\'ation
of species is an essential principle of
all living beings. You may try, but
you cannot succeed in infringing
upon this law. The crossings be-
tween closely allied species, and the
varieties produced by them, are
smitten after a certain time with
sterility. Are not these impotent at-
tempts, these phantoms of quickly
disappearing creations, the manifest
sign that the creation of a really new
species is forbidden to man? Yet
would they try to convince us that in
the earliest ages, in times of igno-
rance, these kinds of transformations
were accomplished without any ef-
fort; while to-day, notwithstanding
the perfection of instruments and of
methods, notwithstanding the aid of
every sort that we draw from science,
they are radically impossible I Try,
then, to make a man. But, we are .
answered, this is a matter of dme.
It may be so. But only begin, let
us see you at work, and you can have

Science and Faiih,

as much time as you please. Take

thousands of centuries, and yet you
can never transfornt the most intelli-
gent baboon into a man, even of the
most ignorant and degraded type.

This dream having disappeared,
another is invented. The absurdity
of the transformation of species is
^admitted, and another theory is
adopted, that of spontaneous genera-
tion. The intention is to establish
that man can be born either with or
without parents ; that nature is in-
duccd by \^arious circumstances to
choose one of these two ways, and
that one is not miraculous more than
the othen It is well known what vi-
gorous demonstrations and what ir-
refutable evidence science brings
against this theory ; yet, in spite of
its absurdity, it has been often repro-
duced and considered worthy of refu-
tation. But supposing that doubt
was yet possible, and that we could
believe in the birth of little beings,
(Without a germ, w^ithout a Creator ;
now could this mode of production
aid us in solving the question of the
birth of the first man ? What is the
highest pretension of the defenders
of spontaneous generation? In what
state would they put man in the
^ world ? As an embrj^o, a fcetus, or
fas one newly bom ? For no one is
L*rm»tted to believe in the sudden
birth of an adult, in possession of a
body, of physical power, and of men-
tal faculties. Yet this is exactly the
way in which the new inhabitant of
the earth must have been created.
He must have been born a man, or
ilse he could not have protected
himself, he could not have found
food to prolong his life, and he could
not have perpetuated his race as the
father of the human family. If he
had been bom in the state of infancy,
without a mother to protect and nou-
rish him, he would have perished in
a single day of cold or hunger. If

this theory, then, had been able
answer the tests to %vhich it has s\
cumbed, it would yet be of no serv
in clearing up the question w*c ai
discussing. The only way to sol
it satisfactorily is to admit frankl
that it must have been something sa-
perior and unknown to the laws of
nature. In order to explain the ap-
pearance of the first roan upOD this
earth, the man of Genesis is necessa-
ry, made by the hand of the Creator*

This is not a jeu d esprit^ an ar-]
tifice, or a paradox. It is the un*,
deniable truth. It must Ijc admit
ted by every one who will reflect.
Every sound mind, which is in good
faith and which carefully considers
this question, is invincibly compelled
to solve it in the way that it is solve
in the book of Genesis, There ina^
be doubts about the complete exact
ncss of certain words and details ,
but the principal fact, the supematu
ral fact, the intervention of a Crca-j
tor, reason must accept as the best
and most sensible explanation^ orra^
ther as the only possible ex] •'
of that other necessary fact, \
of an adolescent or an adult roan.

Here, then, we have a miracle well
and duly proved. If this were the
only one, it would be sutTicient to
justify belief in the supernatural, t0
destroy every system of absolute fata^
lism, to demonstrate Uic freedom ol
the Divinity, and to assert his mie
position. But it may be well for us
to say, if since the existence of the
human race it had received no proof
of the care of its Creator other thafl
this miraculous act in which it was
created, if no intelligence, no bcljv
or no light had come from ab(yre»
what would it know now of ihc mpr
teries of its destiny, of all these great
problems which beset it and occupy
its attention ? The creation of maA
does not gii'e us the reason whf be
was created. This is not one of

\ of J

Science and Faith,

469

those miracles from which the light
bursts forth to flood the world. It is
a manifestation of divine power : it
does not teach us the divine will.
We shall see another fact, on the con-
trary, which, though not less myste-
rious, will speak far more clearly.
This did not happen amid the fleeting
shadows of chaos upon the scarcely
hardened earth ; but in a completely
civilized world, and at a historical
period which can be fully investigat-
ed, this new miracle took place. The
clouds will disappear, and the broad
day will gladden all hearts. Blessed
Light ! Long promised and awaited,
the complement of man's creation,
or, rather, a true and new creation,
bringing to humanity, with love and
heavenly pardon, the solution of ev-
ery question, the answer to every
doubt i

During the long series of centuries
which separates these two great myste-
ries,these two great supernatural facts,
the creation and the redemption of
man, the human race, guided by its
own light, has not for a moment
ceased to search after divine truths
and the secret of its destiny. But it
has sought ignorantly, it has groped
in the dark, and it has wandered
astray. In every part of the world
the people solved the enigma in their
own fashion, each making its own idol.
It is a sad, an incoherent spectacle ;
and of all these curious and imperfect
forms of worship, which sometimes
become impure and disgusting, there
is not one which gives a complete and
satisfactory answer to the moral pro-
blems with which one is harassed.
Their pretended answers really an-
swer nothing, and are but a collection
of errors and contradictions.

Has man been created for such
ends as these ? Has not his Creator,
in forming him with his hands, in
teaching him by an intimate commu-
nicatioii the use of his faculties, made

Mm to see, to love, and to follow the
truth .^ Yes; and this explains the
instinctive gleams of truth that are
found in every portion of the race ;
but man has received liberty at the
same time that he received intelli-
gence, and it is this supreme gift
which assimilates him to his Author,
and imposes, together with the honor
of personality, the burden of respon-
sibility. He was tried, he had the
power to choose, and he chose the
bad ; he has failed, he has fallen.
Clearly the fault was followed by the
greatest disorder and distress, and the
offended Father withdrew his grace
from the disobedient son. They are
separated : the erring one, because he
fears his Judge ; the Judge, from his
horror of the sin ; but the father lies
hid beneath the judge. Will the exile,
then, be eternal ? No ; for the pro-
mise is made to the very ones whose
fault is punished, and the time of
mercy is announced in advance, even
at the moment of chastisement.

Every tie is not yet broken be-
tween tJie Creator and this unfaithful
race. A single bond is maintained, a
handful of worthy servants preserve
the benefit of his paternal intercourse.
Who can doubt this? For several
thousand years the entire human race,
in all places and in every zone, bows
before the works of nature, deifies
them, and adores them. How, then,
can it be explained that one little
group of men, and only one, remained
faithful to the idea of a single God ?
It may be answered that this is some-
thing peculiar to one race ; that it em-
braces more people than is generally
supposed ; that it is true of all the Se-
mitic tribes as well as of the Hebrews.
A truly impartial and exceedingly
learned philology, recently published,
affirms the contrary. It is demonstra-
ted that the Jews alone were mo-
notheists. Reason certainly cannot
forbid us to believe that this unique

4;^

saence anc

and isolated fact was providentUl,
since it was at least most extraordi-
nary and marvellous* Thus, while the
ancient aUiance between man and his
Creator continued in a single part of
the globe, a part scarcely perceptible
in the immense human family, while
the divine truth, as yet veiled and in-
complete, though without any impure
mixture, is revealed as in confidence,
and| so to speak, //vz'^/e/y to the mo-
dest settlement chosen for the de-
signs of God, all the rest of the world
is abandoned to chance and wanders
at random in religious matters.

Why, then, only in religious matters ?
Because it was in this that the fault
took place. Man has foolishly wished
to make himself equal to God in the
knowledge of the divine, of the infi-
nite, of those mysteries which no mind
can fathom without God's assistance.
It is another thing in regard to the
knowledge of the finite, to purely hu-
man science. God is not jealous of
this. What docs he say in exiling and
chastising the rebel ? Work, that is
to say, use not only your arms, but
your mind ; become skilful, powerful,
ingenious ; make masterpieces ; be-
come Homer, Pindar, ^schylus, or
Phidias, Ictinus, or Plato. I allow
you to do all, save attaining to divine
things without my aid. There thou
wilt stumble, until I send thee the
help I have promised to show thee
the way. Thy reason, thy science,
and even thy good sense will not pre-
vent thee from becoming an idolater.

Indeed, is it not remarkable that
religion in the world of antiquity
should be so inferior to the other
branches of human understanding?
Think of the arts, literature, philoso-
phy; humanity cannot excel them.
They were at the summit of civiliza-
tion. All that youth and experience
combined could bring forth of the
perfect and the beautiful, you see
here* These first attempts are the

works of a master, an ' to the

latest ages, always it j, Bui

return for a momcnt» consider the va-
rious religions, question the priests.
What an astonishing disparity 1 Vou
would believe yourself to be among
uncultivated people. Never were such
dissimilar productions seen to spring
from the same cvij at the same time
and in the same society. On one sidc^
reason, prudence, justice, n t ; ' : V ' . vc
of truth ; on the other, a ig

excess of falsehood and credulity. It
is true that, here and there, under
these puerile fables, great truths shine
forth ; these are the remnants of the
primitive alliance between God an4
his creature ; but they are only scat-
tered, and are lost in a torrent of er-
rors. The great fault, the infirmity of
these ancient religions, was not the
symbolism which surrounded them,
but their essential obsciu-ity and steri-
lity. The^e were not capable of say*
ing a single clear and definite word
in regard to the problems of our des-
tiny. Far from making them dear to
the great mass of men, they seemed
rather to try to conceal them under a
thick cloud of enigmas and supersti-
tions.

This was, however, the only moral
culture that the human race, evident*
ly punished and separated from.God,
received for thousands of years. Ill
tlie place of his priests it had philoso*
phical sects, schools, and books to tell
man his duty. But how many pro-
fited by this help ? WTio understood
tlic best, the purest, and tl^^ ^^^-^
philosophers ? How far r
w am i ng s reach .* Out '
of Athens, the words u.
self could not penetrate i
soul, to break a chain, or :
virtue lake root* Do we say
words ? Wily, even his death* a
derful death* the death of a just man,
remained unfruitful at " ^ 1 !

The time became < pagan

'-St

hit

I
I

Science and Faith,

471

society was entering upon its last
phase and made its last effort ; the
empire was just bom, and, although
it may be said that it could boast, du-
ring its long career, of many days of
repose and even of greatness, it was
not without its revolting scenes ; and
one can say, without any exaggeration
or partisan feeling, that from the reign
of Tiberius it was shown by experi-
ence that all purely human means to
elevate the race were visibly at an
end. Then it was that, not far from
the region where primitive traditions
located the creation of man, under
this sky of the Orient which witnessed
the first miracle, a second was to be
accomplished. A sweet, humble, mo-
dest, and at the same time sovereign
voice speaks to the people of Judea
in language before unknown ; speaks
words of peace, of love, of sacrifice,
and of merciful pardon. Whence
does this voice come ? Who is this
man who says to the unhappy, " Come
to me, I will relieve you, I will carry
your burdens with you" ? He touches
the sick with his hand, and they are
cured ; he gives speech to the mute ;
he makes the blind see and the deaf
hear. As yet there is nothing except-
ing these things ; but this man knows
the enigma of this world completely ;
he knows the real end of life and the
true means of attaining it. All these
natural problems, the vexation of hu-
man reason, he resolves, he explains
without an effort and without hesita-
tion. He tells us of the invisible
world ; he has not imagined it, his
eyes have seen it, and he speaks of it
as a witness who had but lately left
,it. What he tells us is unassuming,
intelligible to every one, to women, to
children, as well as to the learned.
How does he come by this marvel-
lous knowledge ? Who were his mas-
ters and what were his lessons ? In
his early childhood, before lessons
and masters, he knew already more

than the synagogue. Studies he never
made. He worked with his hands,
gaining his daily bread. Do not seek
for his master upon this earth: his
Master is in the highest of the hea-
vens.

Is not this the witness of whom we
have spoken above, the superhuman,
the necessary witness for the solu-
tion of natural problems and the
establishment of true religious dog-
mas? To say that such a man is
more than a man, that he is a being
apart from and superior to humanity,
is not saying enough. We must learn
what he really is. Let us open the
candid narratives which preserve the
story of his public mission, of his
preaching though Judea; open the
gospels, where the least incident of
his acts, his words, his works, his'
sufferings, and his bitter agony are
written. Let us see what he says of
himself Does he declare himself
simply a prophet ? Does he believe
himself to be only inspired ? No ; he
calls himself the Son of God, not as
every other man, remembering Adam,
could have been able to say it. No ;
he meant the Son of God in the ex-
act and literal interpretation of the
word, son bom directly of the father,
the son begotten of the same sub-
stance.

Try to force the meaning and
distort the texts to make them say
less than this, but you cannot suc-
ceed. The texts are plain, they are
numerous, and without ambiguity.
There are only tvvo ways in which
the divinity of this man can be de-
nied : either his own testimony must
be attacked, if the gospels are ad-
mitted to be true ; or the gospels
themselves must be rejected.

In order to attack his own evi-
dence, it must be supposed that, by
a lack of sagacity, he in good faith
formed a wrong judgment about his
own origin, or perhaps better, by a

A72

Scieme and Faith,

deceitful intention, he knowingly at-
ributcd to himself a false, character.
This being, whose incomparable in-
telligence forces you to place him
above hiimanit}% this is he who is
not capable of discerning his father.
And on the other side, this inimitable
moralist, this chaste and beautiful
model of all virtues, this is he whom
you suspect of a disgraceful artilice.
There is no middle course: either
this mortal must be the Son of God,
as he has declared, or you must put
him in the last rank of humanity,
among the innocent dupes or the
cunning charlatanst

Or, on tlie contrar)% do you wish to
attack the gospels ? Notliing is less
difficult, if you remain at the surface.
Arm yourself witli irony, provoke the
smile, treat even^thing in a super-
ficial manner, and you will certainly
gain the sympathy of the scoffers.
But if you wish to investigate the
things, and to take, in the name of
science, an impartial view, you will
be compelled to acknowledge that
most of the facts in the gospels are
historically established \ that they
are neither myths nor legends ; that
the place, the time^ and the persons
are absolutely put beyond all doubt
What right, then, has any one to re-
fuse credence to this series of facts,
where another series, which is ad-
mitted, is sustained by no better wit-
nesses, nor more direct proofs, nor any
other superiority, except a pretended
probability which is determined by
each f*jr himself? Nothing can be
more arbitrary and less scientific
than this way of making a choice,
deciding that this evangelist should
be implicitly believed when he is
mentioning such a speech, but that,
when he tells us what he saw him-
self, he is no longer trustworthy ; and
that this one, on the contrary, falsi-
fies the discourses that he reports,
but that he announces certain facts

with the certitude of an ocular wit —
ness. All this is only pure -
But it is certain that the ^
however closely they may be cxamm-
ed, bear the criticism successfully,
and ever remain imperishable. >VTiat
book of Herodotus or of Titus Liviu$
carries such an intrinsic evidence of
good fiiith and veracity as the reci-
tals of St, Matthew or of St. John?
Are you not charmed with these two
apostles, who frankly tell us wbal
they have seen with their eyes and
heard ^ith their ears? If you, who
were not there and who saw nothing
of these things, believe that you can
give them a lesson, and tell them, in
virtue of your scientific laws, how all
these tilings happened wilhoul ihcir
understanding them, and by wiiat
subterfuges their adorable Master
deceived them, it will not be only
the orthodox and faithful who will re*
sent and controvert your boldness —
voices that you dread more, from the
midst of your own ranks, will openly
proclaim your falsehoodv*

After all, suppose they were deceiv-
ed, that the hero of this great drama
was only a skilful impostor, what do
you really gain by it ? The miracles
cannot be thrown aside. On the
contrary, you have one miracle more^
and one which is more difficult than
all the others to explain. It is neces*
sary to account for this most wonder*
ful fact, that cannot be suppressed
by any critic, the establisfaniefit of

* " The hiun%Q soul, «» tfNtw one his «ikt it

cDoiigh to etidr^e evwry twnttntL There i«
ii for« Mohimmcil of t CrJtttwvIl. fSpr fmm,
£cth«T *vilh dupliciry, for ^uGtrAymxA^tgfifma^.
rrnuins far ua to ajkceruita if ihi« Atuilogr
extended to the Foamier of Chmtkalty, i
iiiAtt ta dfHjf itr liw chancter, »lwi ii
con&idered, opi^oaes erery MtiifKWUoii «f llii«
There ii in the aimTJk-itjr of ifvas in lbi« ft
it) hu Cixrvdnr. in Uic reltgiou* l««ttfl^ «tiidb
him BO completely, m ^ht 4hi%ea<« d ^ *ot
80o«l dcdpu. of ' ic ca4 «od of •!

niti]£ ; in * M^ord, il tAt w« kfnom

hmi *i>»Tiirt^ftnj •• ■■ nrt-U iIm

eorri'
Ui I

I
I

Science and Faiths

473

Christianity in the Roman Empire.
Take every sentence of the gospels,
accept these supernatural facts with-
out reservation, the cures, the exor-
cisms, the elements stilled, the laws
of nature violated or suspended : all
these things are not too much, rather
they had hardly enough to make us
understand the triumphant progress
of such a doctrine, in such a time,
and among suCh a people. Nothing
less than miracles could transform
the world in this manner, changing
all the opinions commonly received,
completely altering the moral and
social state of the people, and not
only giving them purer and more en-
lightened views, but truths which
were entirely unknown to them. If,
then, you tell the truth, if this stu-
pendous revolution rests upon a co-
medy, if we must consider the partial
miracles false which surround and
explain the principal miracle, which
precede and seem to prepare and
open the way for the great miracle,
what will be the result ? You have
not destroyed, and cannot destroy, the
principal miracle : it has become still
more miraculous.

IV.

Let us not lose sight of our argu-
ment We were seeking a practical
and popular way to solve the great
problems of our destiny, and we have
proven that human science alone is
unequal to this task. We have seen
that there is only one way for man
to attain this end, that satisfactory
solutions can only be derived from
faith, that wonderful gift which under
the authority of a superhuman wit-
ness makes us believe with certitude
things which neither the eyes of the
body nor the eyes of the mind could
immediately comprehend. Has the
witness which lies at the foundation
of Christian convictions the wished-

for authority ? In other words, is it
truly divine? We believe that we
have established it, and the most
hasty reading of a single page of the
Bible will demonstrate it far more
clearly than we have done. See also
the admirable harmony of the Chris-
tian system, and the responses, as
clear as they are sublime, it gives to
questions so long unanswerable. It
is by its capacity to penetrate mys-
teries, to read tiie invisible, to ex-
plain the obscure, not less than by
its miraculous victory, that Christi-
anity demonstrates both the true
character of its origin and the sin-
cerity of its divine Founder.

We remember on this subject spme
moving sentences that we will be
permitted to quote. They are from
an author who recently received an
eloquent tribute of regrets and
praises, and who, for the past twenty
years, has been remembered with
grief by all the friends of sound phi-
losophy. In a well-known lecture,
when considering these same pro-
blems of human destiny, M. Jouf-
froy spoke thus: "There is a little
book that is taught to children, and
upon which they are questioned in
the church. Read this little book,
which is the catechism. You will find
in it a solution of all the questions I
have asked — of all, without an excep-
tion. Ask a Christian the origin of
the human race, what is its destiny,
and how it can attain it, and he can
answer you. Ask that poor child,
who has scarcely thought of life and
its duties, why he is here below, what
will become of him after death, and
he will make a sublime answer which
he may not fully comprehend, but
which is not the less admirable. Ask
him how the world was created and
for what end ; why God has put ani-
mals and plants upon it; how the
world was peopled, if by one family
or by several; why men speak dif-

474

Seietice and Faith.

ferent languages, why they suffer^ why
they combat, and how all these things
will end ; and he knows it all. Ori-
gin of the world, origin of man, ques-
tions about the dififerent races, dcs-
tiny of man in this life and in the
other, relation of man to God, duties
of man toward his fet low-men, rights
of man over creation, he is ignorant
of none of these things ; and as he
becomes matured, he will not hesi*
tate to take advantage of his natural
and political rights, for he knows the
ghts of the people, for these come,
r, as it were, tlow of themselves, from
'Christianity. This is what I call a
great religion. I recognize by this
sign that it leaves none of the ques-
tions which interest humanity with-
out an answer.^'*

We love to read again these words
of a master and a friend, who in his
youth was nourished with Christian
truths, and who, perhaps, would have
tasted them again if the trials of life
had been prolonged for hinu With-
out doubt, it is necessary to avoid
indorsing opinions which are no lon-
ger our own sentiments ; but certain-
ly it can be permitted to preser\*e a
faithful and complete remembrance
of their spirit. Even at the time
when M. Jouffroy doubted, when he
left his pen and told us with assurance
how Christian dogmas would die,
tlicre would have been but ver)^ little
necessary to teach him to his cost
how they perpetuate themselves !
Faith has its evil days; its ranks
seem decimated and its army dis-
solved, but it can never perish. In
order to replace deserters, to recruit
its strength unceasingly, has it not
the sorrows and miseries of this
world, the need of prayer, and the
thirst of hope?

Let us leave this sweet and pro-
found thinker whose brilliant career

we love to trace ; let us return to
that great and firm soul who nam
engages our attention, and to whom
we are attached by so many friendly
ties and remembrances. Without
having followed him step by stcp>
we have not lost sight of him. \Vc
have taken a hasty glance at bb
work in trying to express its spirit.
We must now return to each of the^e
meditations in detail. What things
have escaped us I Wlaat brilliant
passages, what keen observations,
what profound thoughts I At most*
we have only taken account of ibat
part of the book where the limits of
science, the belief in the supcrnatur-
ai, and especially the m ar\'cl I ous har-
mony between Christian dogmas and
religious problems, that are innate to
man, are treated with so much wis-
dom and authority. That which M.
Jouffroy, in the remarks wc have
quoted, indicates in a single glance,
M, Guizot establishes with convinc-
ing arguments by comparing each
dogma with the natural problem to
which it corresponds. No one ha^
yet so accurately explained the har-
monious relation of these quci&tioos
and these answers. There are two
morccatix which demand particular
attention : they are the tw^o m^Jiiaimm
on the revelation and inspiratton of
the holy books. There arc here ideas
and distinctions of rare ftas^acily
which point out whni -js

to human ignorance, u ng

the reality of inspiration of liie Bible
to suffer the slightest susptdoo.
But the chief triumph of this work,
that which gives it at once its most
charming color and its sweetest per-
fume, are the last two meditations,
Goti according to (he Bibte^ yams
Christ according to tht GosfieU,

These two pictures are in as dlflbr*
ent styles as the subjects they con-
trast. Nothing could be boldeti
more striking, more truly Btbllcalt

Scimce and Faith.

475

than the portrait of the God of the
Hebrews ; of that God " who has no
biography, no personal events," to
whom nothing happens, with whom
nothing changes, always and invaria-
bly the same, immutable in the midst
of diversity and of universal move-
ment. " I am he who is." He has
nothing else to say of himself; it is
his definition, his history. No one can
know more of him, even as no one
can see him. And if he were visible,
what a misfortune! His glance is
death. Between him and man what
an abyss 1

It is a long distance to traverse be-
tween such a God and the God of
the New Testament — from Jehovah
to Jesus Christ. What novelty, what
a transformation ! The solitary God
goes out from his unity ; he com-
pletes everything, yet remains him-
self; the provoked God lays aside
his anger, he is affected, he is paci-
fied, he becomes gentle, he gives
man his love, he loves him enough to
redeem his fault with his Son's blood,
that is, with his own blood. It is
this victim, this Son, obedient even
unto death, that M. Guizot endea-
vors to paint for us. Sublime por-
trait, attempted many times, but al-
ways in vain I Shall we say that he
has succeeded in this impossible
task ? No ; but he has made a most
happy effort. He makes us pass
successively before his divine model,
by showing the attitudes, if we may
be allowed the expression, which
enable us to see the most touch-
ing aspects of this incomparable
figure. Sometimes he places him
amid his disciples only, that chosen
and well-loved flock; sometimes in
the Jewish crowd in the Temple, at
the foot of the mountain, or on the
border of the lake ; sometimes among
the fishermen or iJie sedate matrons ;
sometimes with artless children. In
each of these pictures, he gathers,

he brings together, he animates by
reuniting them, the scattered charac-
ter! sties of Jesus Christ. His sober
and guarded style, powerful in its
reasoning, brilliant in its contests,
seems to be enriched with new chords
by the contact with so much sympa-
thy and tender love. It is not only
the impassioned eloquence, but it is
a kind of emotion, more sweet and
more penetrating, that you feel while
reading his thoroughly Christian
pages.

We understand the happy effect
that this book has already produced
upon certain souls. Its influence,
however, cannot descend to the mass-
es. Its tone, its style, its thoughts,
have not aspired to popular success ;
but from the middling classes and
the higher circles of society, how ma-
ny drifting souls there are to whom
this unexpected guide will lend a
timely aid ! Such a Christian as he
is must work this kind of cure. He
is not the man of the workmen ; he
has neither gown nor cassock. It is.
a spontaneous tribute to the faith,
and more than this, for it declares
that he too has known and vanquish-
ed the anxieties of doubt. Every one,
then, can do as he has done. No one
fears to follow the steps of a man
who occupies such a position in the
empire of thought, who has given
such proofs of liberty of spirit and of
deep wisdom. It is not a slight re-
buke to certain intelligent but care-
less Catholics to see such an exam-
ple of submission and faith come
from a Protestant.

There is yet a greater and more
general service that these Meditations
seem to have fulfilled. During the
eight or ten months since they were
published, the tone of antichristian
polemics has been much depressed.
One would have expected a manifes-
tation of rage, but there has been
nothing of the kind. The most ve-

476

Saint Maty 3fagdalen.

hement critics arc reserved, and their
attacks have principally consisted in
silence. Hence a sort of momenta-
ry lull Many causes, without doubt,
contributed in advance to this result,
if it were only the excess of the at-

yack and the impertinence of certain
ssailants ; but the book, or to speak

"more properly, the action of M. Gui-
zot, has, in our opinion, its own good
part in this work. So clear and vigo-
rous a profession of faith could not
be lightly attacked. In order to an^
swer a man who frankly calls him-
self a Christian, it would be neces-
sary to have resolved and to declare
Openly that one is antichrisiian ;

but those who are, no longer care
to acknowledge it. Ilisw^elt known
that our day is pleased with half-
tints ; it has a taste for shadows, and
is always ready to strike its flag when
it sees an opponent's colors. Chris*
tianity itself gathers some profit from
the little noise that is made about
these Meditatiam, It is r- ist

reward of their autJior. ? 'O- ,

tiniie in the same tone, compeiting
his adversaries to persevere in iheir
silence. He will embarrass them more
and more, while he will always add
fresh courage and power to those
who are sustaining the good cause.

SAINT MARY MAGDALEN.

FROM THE LATIN OF PETRARCH.

The fullowin^ liaei were written by iHe great lulun poet, Pctmrch, on the o<xa*iQ<i of x vicil
Botumc, n«Ar M^trseities where tradition jx^intii out the tomb of Saint Mary M4c4*J'eA- H<
on the grotto, in whidi &be i« »^d to luive pas««d ibft Iwt thirty yean ufliet life.

DuLCis arnica Dei, lacrj-mis inflectere nostris,

Atque meas attende preces, nostraique saluti

Consule : namque potes. Neque enim tibi tangcre frustra

Permissum, gemituque pedes pcrfundere sacros,

Et nitidis siccare comis, ferre oscula plantis,

Inque caput Domini pretiosos spargere odores.

Nee tibi congress us primos a morte resurgens

Et voces audire suas et membra \idere,

Immortale decus lumenque habitura per aDvum,

Nequicquam dedit a?therei rex Christus Olympi.

Viderat ilk cnici hierentem, nee dira paventem

Judaicae tormenta manus, turbzeque furentis

Jui^ia et insultus, xquantes verbera linguas ;

Sed raxstam intrepidamque simul, digiltsque cruentos

Tractantem clavos, implentem vulnera fletti,

Pectora tundentem violentis Candida pugnis,

Vellentem flavos manlbus sine more capillos,

Viderat haec, inquam^ dum pectora fid a suorura

Difiugerenl pellente metu. Memor ergo revisit

Saint Mary Magdalen. 477

Te primam ante alios ; tibi se priUs obtulit uni.
Te quoque, digressus terns ad astra reversus,
Bis tria lustra, cibi nunqu^ mortalis egentem
Rupe sub Mc aluit, tarn longo tempore solis
Divinis contenta epulis et rore salubri
Haec domus antra tibi stillantibus humida saxis,
Horrifico tenebrosa situ, tecta aurea regum,
Delicias omnes ac ditia vicerat arva.
Hk inclusa libens, longis vestita capillis,
Veste carens alii, ter denos passa decembres
Diceris, hk non fracta gelu nee victa pavore.
Namque famem, frigus, durum quoque saxa cubile
Dulcia fecit amor spesque alto pectore fixa,
Hk hominum non visa oculis, stipata catervis
Angelicis, septemque die subvecta per horas,
Ccelestes audire choros alterna canentes
Carmina, corporeo de carcere digna fuisti.

TRANSLATION.

Sweet friend of God ! my tears attend,
Hark to me suppliant and defend —
O thou, all-potent to befriend !

Not vain that care thou didst accord —
Thy hands, uplifted o*er thy Lord,
Upon his head sweet odors poured.

And touched his feet with unguents rare —
The kiss of love imprinted there—
And wiped them with thy beauteous hair.

Not vain, when he in majesty

Rose up from death, 'twas given to thee

The first to meet, to hear, to see.

This glory did the Lord divine.
The Christ august, to thee assign.
Made this imending splendor thine.

Unto his cross he saw thee cling,
Unawed by threat and buffeting —
The taunts the furious rabble fling ;

For him he saw thee lashed with scorn.

Vet clasping, faithful and forlorn,

Those feet with nails now pierced and torn.

478 Saint Maty Magdalen.

He watched thy teaf-drenched face below —
Thy bosom stricken in thy woe —
Thy long fair hair's dishevelled flow.

All this he saw, while from his side
His other loved ones scattered wide,
And left alone their Crucified.

*Twas therefore, mindful of those sighs,
He, deigning from the tomb to rise,
Sought his first welcome fi-om thine eyes.

And heavenward when from earth he sped.
Through thrice ten years for thee here spread
A feast by angels ministered.

This rugged cave obscure and lone.
Black rock-dews dripping down the stone,
For thee a regal palace shone.

No fields with harvest wealth besprent
Accord such manna as was sent ;
Thy needs did heavenly gifts content

Here through December's frost and sleet,
Thy long hair, falling to thy feet.
Enrobed thee in a robe complete.

No fear appalled ; love made thee bold ;
Love sweetened sufferings manifold,
The rock, the hunger, and the cold.

Here, hid from mortal eyes, to be
Cheered with celestial company.
Angelic bands encompassed t^ee.

And still a dweller in our sphere.

Seven hours each day rapt hence, thine ear

The alternate choirs of heaven could hear.

C. KR

Glimpses of Tuscany.

479

GLIMPSES OF TUSCANY.

SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE — ^THE DUOMO.

We are approaching Florence by
rail from Pisa, a dismal, dripping
February morning. It is twelve
years since I first saw that famous
Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore.
I came suddenly upon it, as I was
trying to find my way alone to the
opera at the Pergola, the first night
I got to Florence. I shall never
forget the impression it made on me
— an honest, original impression, for I
had never read or heard of the Piaz-
za and its wonders. I only knew
Giotto by his "O." Orgagna, Ar-
nolfo, Brunelleschi, were names ut-
terly unknown. But the beauty and
immensity of that mighty square,
asleep in the starlight, overwhelmed
me. It was like a step, unawares,
from time into eternity. No Pergola
that night for me. I crept back to
the hotel, bewildered and awed into
something like earnestness ; for the
Lord seemed enthroned in that con-
secrated place, and I was afraid of
him as he sat there, stem, conscious,
omnipotent.

But I was younger then ; disposed
to go into raptures over everything
artistic, especially Italian art. The
decade between thirty and forty di-
minishes one's enthusiasm dreadful-
ly. I am almost afraid to meet my
old favorite now, lest the spell of
a fine remembrance should be bro-
ken for ever. But the train is rush-
ing on, the road curves, and there's
the same Duomo, looking as if Our
Lady of Flowers herself had settled
down on the city, with Giotto's cam-
panilcy like an archangel, standing

guard beside her. There she sits in
her gray mantle, grayer through the
mist and snow, queen of all the
landscape — ^grander, lighter, lovelier
than ever.

Here we are at the station, and
now driving past the baptistery ; but,
far or near, that cupola ever full
in view like a guardian presence.
You do not wonder here, as before
Saint Peter's, what has become of
the cupola; you are not obliged to
fall back a league to see what is
nearly overhead. Nave, transept,
and tribune go swelling up, with but-
tress and demi-cupola diminishing
as they ascend, and all converging
into one enormous drum from which
springs the central dome. Dante
could see it from his chair in its very
shadow. Arnolfo and Brunelleschi
may see it from their seats of marble
scarce twenty yards from the foun-
dation-stone. Angelo may see it
from his home in Santa Croce. The
masons of Fiesole can see it from
their hills, the peasants of San Cas-
ciano from their vineyards ; and,
far down the Arno, the boatmen
from Pisa look up to it as they plod
wearily along.

I am domesticated in Florence ;
the slow Tuscan spring is passing
into summer ; and, from being sim-
ply a joy, this great cathedral has
become a study. Arnolfo, son of La-
po, or Cambio, was the great stone-
poet who traced that ground-plan,
itself an epic. He was commission-
ed by those wonderful republicans to
construct a church, as worthy as man
could make it of the glory of God
and the dignity of the city of Flo-

iimpsrs cf Tttsamy,

rence. The inclination of Arnolfo^s
genius was toward the Gothic ; but
he was a many-sided and myriad-
minded man. His walls of Florence
suggest tlie Egyptian, his court of
the Bargello the Saracenic, his Palaz-
zo Vecchio a perfectly new idea^
He has all the versatility of Shake-
speare. Arnolfo's first conception of
Santa Maria del Fiore may still be
seen in fresco, copied from the last
w^ooden model* in the Spanish Clois-
ter of Santa Maria Novella. Up to
the first cornice, the cathedral, as it
now stands, is almost as purely
Gothic as the campanile ; and, by
reference to the fresco, you will per-
ceive that Amolfo^s original idea
was to carry this Gothic treatment
up to tlie very cross that crowns the
lantern. For instance, the lantern
in the fresco is without either ball
or scroll, the clerestory buttressed,
and with pointed instead of circular
lights, the windows of the cupola
pomted. Yet, as it is certain that
Arnolfo lived to finish the clerestory,
and to unite (serrare) the smaller
cupolas and tribunes, it is clear these
variations in his plan, these depar-
tures from tfie pointed, these approxi-
mations to the round, were delibe-
rately made by Arnolfo himself, or
by his direction. As the work ad-
vanced, he felt that something more
must be conceded to the coming cu-
pola. It was not enough lo have it
octagonal instead of spherical, and
enrich its eight marble ribs with
Gothic tracery ; the antagonism be-
tween the two styles must be met and
softened from the start. See how
gradually this is done, and at what
an eariy stage these concessions be-
gin. In the fresco, tlie blind arches,
both over the lower tribunal win-
dows and just under the lower tribu-
nal coniice, are slightly pointed ; in
the building itself they are round ;
tlie niches above the cornice, also.

are pointed in the picture and round*
topped in the stone. It is more
than probable that these conces-
sions were dictated by the greater
prominence which the cupoU was
assuming in Aniolfo's new vision of
his temple. Now b it impossible,
that he might have nearly anticipat-
ed the exact plan of the heir of his
inspiration and partner of his glory \
The tendency is that way. But^ with
the completion of the clerestor)* y^jyl
the unification of tlie smaller cupo-
las, Arnolfo departs, and, after an
inter\'al of a century and a quoiter,
Bninelleschi enters.

There they are, seated side by
side in marble, close to the stotie
that marks where Dante, loo, sat gat-
ing at their Duomo. Arnolfo [oaks
more like a dreamer than a doer, al-
though he was both ; in Ser Bnmcl-
leschi's face there is more of llie
mathematician tlian the poet* He
could never have traced that ground*
plan, never have dr\:;uncd that shm-
ing archangel called the campanile \
but he did what neither tlie puptl of
Cimabue nor the son of Cambio
could perhaps have managed as well,
he built that matchless cupola, Bni-
nelleschi had his one great dreanHf tlie
solution of a vast and novel architec-
tural difficulty. What Arnolfo had
hinted became his gnmd ideal. He
nursed his dream for years at Ronie^
communing with the spirit of clas&lc
art ; at last he told hisdre:v«» h. Pf.^.
rence, and with infmitc di; \

leave to act it out, S
carte blanche to Arnol I
declined ; she was no iu-
the proud standard of t: . .
day. The superintendents are slip-
pery and slow in engaging Filippo ;
and Pllippo himself ntttst Jimste
more than a hide to secure the en*
gagement. There is this dBlereiioe^
to be sure, that the Duomo was the
culmination of Amolfo's profciiskinai

Glimpses of Tuscany,

481

career and but the beginning of his
successor's ; that the latter, like all
gallant adventurers, had to win his
spurs before he could be fully trusted.
Still, the two inseparable elements of
self and gain are more conspicuous
here than in the purer Christian ages,
whose architects disdained or forbore
to register their names \ whose works
preserve no personal memorial of
their masters \ " so that," says Vasa-
ri, " I cannot but marvel at the sim-
plicity and indifference to glory exhi-
bited by the men of that period."
There is, unfortunately, no such sim-
plicity to marvel at now.

As early as 1407, Filippo submitted
an opinion to the superintendents of
.the works of Santa Maria del Fiore,
and to the syndics of the guild of wool-
workers, (powerful gentlemen in those
days,) that the edifice above the roof
must be constructed, not after the de-
sign of Amolfo ; but that a frieze, thir-
ty feet high, must be erected with a
large window in each of its sides.
This suggestion, together with the ad-
ditional thirty feet for the gallery, com-
prised the single, sublime conception
to which the Duomo .owes its crown-
ing beauty; the rest of the task is
chiefly mechanical. But such im-
mense mechanics require immense
genius. Filippo had supplied the idea,
but there was no one found wise
enough to execute it The wardens
and syndics were much perplexed ;
and Filippo, after laughing at them in
his sleeve, returned to Rome. He had
hardly gone before they wrote him to
return. He came ; and after patiently
listening to the long array of difficul-
ties which mediocrity always opposes
to the inspiration of genius, admitted
that the most enormous dome of an-
cient or modem times must present
certain difficulties in its erection, like
other great enterprises ; that he was
confounded no less by the breadth

VOL. VII. — ^31

than by the height of the edifice ; that
if the tribune could be vaulted in a
circular form, one might pursue the
method adopted by the Romans in
erecting the Pantheon ; but that fol-
lowing up the eight sides of the build-
ing to a convergence, thus dove-tail-
ing, and, so to speak, enchaining the
stones, would be a most difficult and
novel undertaking. " Yet " — ^and this
touch is worthy of Amolfo's age or
any other — "yet, remembering that
this is a temple consecrated to God
and the Virgin, I confidently trust
that, for a work executed in their hon-
or, they will not fail to infuse know-
ledge where it is now wanting, and
bestow strength, wisdom, and genius
on him who shall be the author of
such a project." Nothing can shake
Filippo*s joyous trust in himself; he
acts as if he carries a divine commis-
sion in his pocket to finish what Ar-
nolfo began, and can therefore afford
to laugh at all human appointments
or interference. With amazing confi-
dence and magnanimity, he concludes
his interview with their worships by
exhorting them to assemble, on a fixed
day witliin a year, as many architects
as they can get together ; not Tus-
cans and Italians only, but Germans,
French, and all other nations, " to the
end that the work may be commenced
and intrusted to him who shall give the
best evidence of capacity." The syn-
dics and wardens liked Filippo*s ad-
vice, and would also have liked him
to prepare a model for their edifica-
tion. But with all his piety and self-
reliance, Ser Brunelleschi was a Flo-
rentine like their worships, and there-
fore keen enough to keep his model
to himself. It then suddenly occurred
to these grave gentlemen that money
might be an object to Filippo, as it
occasionally is to other men ; and so
they voted him a sum, not stated by
Vasari, but not large enough to justify

482

Glimpses of Tuscan f.

bis remaining in Florence. So back
to Rome once more marches the Ser
Bmnelleschi-

Meanwhile that noble city of Flo-
rence has ordered her merchants re-
sident abroad to send her at any
' cost the best foreign masters. In the
year 1420, these best foreign masters,
and best Italian masters besides, and
the syndics and superintendents, and
a select number of distinguished citi-
Itens, and little Filippo himself, just
ffcturned from Rome, are all assem-
'bled in the hall of the wardens of
Santa Maria del Fiore. After listen-
ing to a hundred absurd plans, Bru*
[ nelleschi unfolds his own at full length.
[Whereupon the assembled syndics,
Superintendents, and citizens, instead
of bt:ing at all edified by his remarks,
proceeded to call him a simpleton, an
ass, a madman, and bade him dis-
course of something else. Which he,
instead of doing, stuck to his point,
-and finally lost his temper and flew
Ijn their faces. Whereupon they called
|llim a fool and a babbler ; and con-
lidering him absolutely mad, arose
linst him as one man, and inconti-
^ nently turned him out of doors by the
head and heels. Imagine the rage of
Amolfo the Goth, after such treat-
ment ; or Angelo the mighty, stalking
down the Via Romana ; or Dante, wan-
dering ghost* like into eternal exile 1
The indomitable, practical Filippo did
none of these things, but prudently
shut himself up at home lest people
in the streets should call out, " See
whete goes that fool !** ** It was not
the fliult of these men," says the sym-
pathetic Vasari, " that Filippo did not
break in pieces the models, set fire to
the designs^ and in one half-hour de-
stroy all the labors so long endured,
and ruin the hopes of so many years,*'
But Filippo was less a poet, enamour-
ed of an inward vision of beauty,
than an architect determined to solve
•an architectural problem. Plainly

enough, since Amolfo had set the ex-
ample in the clerestory, tlie windows
of the cupola wore also to be circular
instead of pointed. His inventive fa-
culties were therefore reslTicted to tlie
organization of that vast drcam^ to
the determination uf the ascending
curves and the conception of the Ian*
tern. It was not the offspring of his
sou!, but of his mind, that Filippo had
offered the syndics and superintend-
ents ; and the inventor of new combi-
nations and possibilities of matter is
apt to possess a more elastic tempera-
ment than the creator of new forms
of beauty. Instead of fretting hlni'
self to death or cultivating the prince-
ly revenge of silence, Filippo, strong
\xi his mission and calculating on tbc
proverbial caprice of bis native Flo-
rence, began to experiment on indi-
viduals instead of assemblies ; so sue*
cessfully,too,thatan 1*' - was

soon conv^ened. Pr ^in*

iiture, Filippo mod csl

He salutes the su] as

^^ ma^i^ijkeni sig^ors and wardens,^
and condescends to be more ocplidt
about his still hidden model He
even goes so far as to pro ve-the done-
wiUnnadomc, which had ^o enrag;^
their excellencies, n v. He

spoke with such eni] idcoofi*

dence, that '' he had all the apfiear*
ance of having vaulted ten such cu*
polas.'^ In a word, they surrcn4cfe4
at discretion; and, rather in despair
than hope, made him principal mas-
ter of the works. The. man of talents
was victorious where a mere man of
genius would have been badly beateiL
But — in these artistic complka*
tions there is always a but — Lcmmio
Ghiberti, just famous for his doocs
of Paradise, was a favorite in Flo-
rence ; so Florence resolved to as-
sociate Lorenzo with Filippa This
was a bitter pill to Ser Bruneltcsciiii
but he swallowed I ' for two

years they worked i at the

m^n

Glimpses of Tuscany.

483

e braccia to which their labors
limited by the wardens. But —
was also a *but' on the right
-when the closing in of the cu-
toward the top commenced, and
lasons and other masters were
ig in expectation of directions
the manner in which the chains
to be applied and the scaffold-
erected, it chanced on one fine
ing that Filippo did not ap-
at the works. On inquiry, it
d out that he had tied up his
called for hot plates and towels,
one to bed complaining bitterly,
ttack of pleurisy. Most inop-
nely; for at this most critical
int in the enterprise the whole
en fell on Lorenzo. Lorenzo
esieged by practical questions ;
izo was persecuted with a thou-
interrogatories ; Lorenzo waded
letely out of his depth into a
»f troubles ; the masons and
cutters came to a stand, and
^ the work stood still. At this
ire, the syndics and wardens
ed to pay the sick man a visit,
condoled with him in his rllness
[so lamented the disorder which
ttacked the building. " Is not
izo there?" asked the sufferer,
will not do anything without
replied the wardens. " But I
do well enough without him^'*
ured the invalid. The wardens
rew, and sent Filippo a pre-
ion in the shape of an an-
ement of their intention to re-
Lorenzo. Filippo instantly re-
id, but only to find his rival
n place and power. Where-
he made one more prayer to
vorships, namely, to divide the
as they divided the salary, and
tach his own separate sphere
ion. This was granted: the
work assigned to Lorenzo, the
ding to Filippo. The scaf-
l proved a miracle of success,

the chain-work a monument of failure.
The wardens, and syndics, and super-
intendents, and influential citizens,
fairly driven to the wall, made Filip-
po chief superintendent of the whole
fabric for life^ commanding that no-
thing should be done in the work
save by his direction. How much
richer the world would now be in
every department of art, had half its
men of genius but possessed a tithe
of Brunelleschi's elasticity and de-
termination.

Left to himself, Filippo worked
with so much zeal and minute atten-
tion, that not a stone was placed in
the building which he had not exam-
ined. The very bricks, fresh from the
oven, are said to have been set apart
with his own hands. So conscien-
tious were the builders of those days
when art was supreme and religion
a practical inspiration. The energy
and resources of this model architect
are inexhaustible. Nothing escapes
him. Outlets and apertures are pro-
vided, both in security against the
force of the winds, and against the
vapors and vibrations of the earth.
Wine-shops and eating-houses are
opened in the cupola. High over
Florence, Filippo is undisputed lord
and master of a small town of his
own.

And. so, for twenty-six years, they
wrought under his eyes at this archi-
tectural miracle. He lived to see the
lantern carried to the height of seve-
ral braccia: it was not finished till
fifteen years after his death. He left
plans for the gallery, which were either
lost, stolen, or destroyed. That great,
broad belt of dingy brick and mortar
clamoring to earth and heaven for
completion, ruins the effect of the
dome and gives the whole edifice a
shabby appearance. Only one of
the eight sides is finished. This was
done in Carrara marble by 'Baccio
d'Agnolo, and would have been car-

tmfisn

tttciXffj^*

lilt dome but for the
' Itidiael Angelo, then
^tiinl in luUyi who denounced

wliui Jitj viif^hi tu ' ol<i *irl-

ilii.Ulof ni;ulc a m > eirclingly,

whlclt, after long debate, wa* reject-
cjil. 8(1 our LiiiJy of Flowers still
Uckt her glrdte. It b much to be
UtgteKrd* HI nee Mich.icl could sug-
I^M nolliinj^ better, tJial he did not
liuUI h\% fjrace. The p re.se nt moclel
imty not be faultlesn^ but it U inlV
nitoly better than nothing; and no
^ne eliC hoi suggCJitcd anytJiing ;is
^ good* It wiisi condenmed, not ivs de-
mlivt* in it.trN; but unequal Xo the
mii|cnitk*encQ of the buildini^ ; and,
ftUoi bccAuae it seemed to vioUte
tame &eciet purpose of Hrunelleschi^s
In cuttiuj^ oil, Aft it did^ the lii^e of
fttoncn which 1 il projecting*

Ik this 9i% it r {»po*s purpose

^^llM ne^r been divined and nc\*er
mxK be; aU tbe plam of the great
mjuntefit mK Imt ; ami there seems to
bt amall tt»e in coniinttinc tbe inter^
dtelof a mwcii wer^sUBMUcd waOBa^
riRy iM Ammd^r* TImi cestus of
nUmaiili IinmI a«d pirlaiMl jmt tm-

kl b ilMtmIt 10 ate bov the

liiiii

other man to repel tbe Godiic infill-
cnces, whichy under Arnolfo and
otJicrs, were penetrating Tuscany ; he
ln:»ured the triumph of the round arch
over the pointed, and paved the way
to the Uionstrgsities of ' is-

sance* But his cupola of b 'U

del Ftore is the supreme miracle of
architecture. It exceeds the cupola
of Uie Vatican^ both in height and
circumference, by eight feet ] and al-
though supported by eight ribs only,
which renders it lighter tJian that of
Saint Peter'SjWinch has sixteeaflank-
ed buttresses, is nevertiieless more
solid and firm* Unlike the RoQtafi
dome, it has stood uuassislcd MS^ii
unstrengthened from the first; so
firmly grounded by tbe forethoy^ of
Arnolfo, so closely knit by tbe eoer-
gies of Filippo» that it has ool saiak
or swen^ed an inch in U»a ceoliifieSb
The Qofakst speedi that finocianiffti
ever madewas, that be vottld not oofiy*
but could not surpass it ; the fiaoa
compliment eiper paid hf ooe mm of
^fiius to anolbo^ was hi& diiog ^dh
to be buried where he i
not in si|:ht oC his m
the air^bwl iwMI YKwcTthri
iribuae of SoU Xsa 4el Fa

Another I
ledwiihtheriM^oC!

Glimpses of Tuscany,

48s

the startling splendor of this divine
campanile ? I have seen something
of Giotto, far from all, but enough to
know that, save as undeveloped germs
and hints, his pictures are little more
than crudities belonging to the infancy
of art, amazing at his time, but not
more than curious at ours. But this
campanile, into which he suddenly as-
cended without an effort, is the trans-
figuration of architecture — the pro-
duct of an art at its best and highest.
Architecture never had advanced, ne-
ver has advanced a step beyond it.
It might be added, never can advance ;
for beyond a certain recognized point
in the realization of beauty, human
genius is not permitted to push its
way. Vasari devotes thirty pages to
the consideration of Giotto's pictures,
and but one to the campanile. Yet
these pictures are mouldering in con-
vents, or shrouded in chapels, or bu-
ried in dim galleries, scattered far and
wide over the world ; and, save over
some ambitious student or patient
virtuoso, they no longer exist as a
spell or a power. But this lofty cam-
panile is a perpetual influence ; an in-
fluence as indestructible as the Iliad
— a joy as unceasing as the joy of
sunrise — the joy of a work that is
perfection of its kind. So fair, so
frail, and yet so firm ! It does not
need the glass case suggested by im-
perial condescension. It knows how
to take the lightning and the storm.
It knows how to bear the weight and
thunder of its mellow bells. Its beau-
tiful head is at home in the skies, and
seems to belong to heaven as much
as the flowers belong to earth.

Giotto's plan would have crowned
it with a spire of a hundred feet ; but,
whether for true artistic considera-
tions, or because it was Gothic, or
because it was too expensive, suc-
ceeding architects have always ad-
vised its omission.

Besides its own independent love-

liness, this bell-tower exercises an im-
portant influence over the group to
which it belongs, not only by the de-
velopment of form, but also by the
subtler qualification of style. But
for the pure Gothic of Giotto, the
predominance of the round in the tri-
bunes and cupola would overwhelm
Arnolfo's pointed witchery beneath
the clerestory. As it is, the supre-
macy of the classic at one end of the
stately pile is balanced by the ascen-
dency of the Gothic at the other.
High up in air the pious rivalry- be-
tween the two great styles is conti-
nued, each lifting its choicest offering
to the very footstool of the Padre
Eterno, each doing its best in honor
of our Lady of Flowers.

The fagade of Santa Maria is want-
ing, like her girdle. Giotto is said to
have finished two thirds of it, subse-
quently torn down to he restored in a
more modem style! The fresco in the
cloister of San Marco gives only part
of it, and I could make but little of
that. As I remember the fresco of
Arnolfo's facade, it was meant to be
composed of statues, niches, and pil-
lars — something as deep and rich as
the fagade at Pisa. Whoever may
finish it, let us trust that the shallow
mosaic of Santa Croce will be avoid-
ed. The baptistery completes this
memorable group ; faded, unattrac-
tive without, sombre and majestic
within.

The interior of Santa Maria is a
disappointment. Glorious stained
glass, splendid arches, but none of
the light, the joy, the shining para-
dise of Saint Peter's. If we may be-
lieve Vasari, the interior, like the ex-
terior, was to have been crusted with
Florentine mosaic, even to the minu-
test comers of the edifice. But the
days are dead when such a deed was
practicable. Instead of colored mar-
bles, we have a pale olive overspread-
ing all the edifice ; instead of the mo-

ganAf mom iham hta wBt I
hot. Le^tofal2,bxs;
laqr iHMiiit i i » a GocIbc
For tuf own port I
the pyiaarid of Cheo|» JM^ft ■ irti pk'

tie D«»OL la a
^joavaotalltiie

Aofeb and dfa^ooi and cities are
moie in kttpii^ there ihaa tbc best
staiott; those c^ostijgRn|» and £k>
cet in the old slatoed i^ass look bet*
tm thjLQ If thejr were a tboasapd times
more nataraL The old mosaics har-
moctize becaitse Ihejr are oot o<&] j ^•
pkalf but impcrbltable as the stnic-

',ture itselC The decisife obfectkui
to a picture in a church is tts appa*

, rent fragility.

The outer robes of our Lady of
Flowers are dull with the dust ai*d
wear of five centuries. Sec how those
Dew bits of marble which the work-
tneu are mserting, green, white, and

I red, flash and sparkle in the sun I
What a celestial vision it must have
been when all that world of mosaic

iU»l

Sillily,
oTthe
It ftawBsbcwce _
of her i

ap»-f

biadfr her &st to ber senowiv facr ]|»>
mm^Mnd her UA; it b the
nabkt bond becween tier and
The DoamMa hdoag& doc ocdy
leaoer bat to all the hOb and
aPQBDd, to the villas oi
the doistcfs of Fiesole, to the fits
cm the Apeniiiiics. Erery peasist
withio si^^t of its cupola, vi thin sound
of Its ca rop a ntle , has a share tn lu
daily beoedktioci. For lour oe&tih
lieS) the genermtioiis that people diat
£ur amphitheatre have found tt the
most unchangii^ featme io thetf laad*
scape. It is as miocfa the ponioo
of their hres as the star% their ritte,
or their own vin^-ards^ In the ^
blush of every mornings it rise» beto
the sun ; and whoi the stars £>cl
moon are shtntngi the laniem of Sin
ta Maria del Fiore takes its pbce
amongst them as part afiht: pageic
try of the skies*

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 487

THE CONDITION AND PROSPECTS OF CATHOLICS IN

ENGLAND.

BY AN ENGLISH CATHOLIC.

Surrounded as we are on all
sides by apostles of progress, ever
ready to taunt and ridicule those
who linger in the shadows of the
past, it would be distressing indeed
to Catholics in general, and espe-
cially to English Catholics, if they
could with justice be reproached as
stationary or retrograde. Happily
they are of all men least open to the
charge. They advance on a double
line. They share in the common
march of society; they adopt every
latest improvement; they fully ac-
cept and reciprocate the blessings of
civilization; but their religion also,
which is in itself progress, increases
and multiplies throughout the globe,
and particularly in the British em-
pire. It has derived strength from
the world's social and political
changes; it is inspired more than
ever with the breath of freedom;
and the very means which accelerate
science and commerce supply it with
wings and coat it with mail. It not
only advances on a double line, but it
has likewise a twofold nature and a
duplex power. This wonderful reli-
gion is both old and new ; it unites
the weight and authority of age with
the freshness and vigor of youth. To
the English it is both ancient and
modem. It was tlje venerable faith
of their ancestors, and it tr, by a
gracious revolution in the moral
world, the old religion revived, with
all the charms of novelty — a second
spring revisiting the long desolate
and wintry land. It comes back to
us with all its time-honored appli-
ances; with its sacred symbols and

solemn rites; its orders, congrega-
tions, and retreats; its colleges, in-
stitutions, poor schools, homes, or-
phanages, almshouses, hospitals, and
libraries — ^but it comes, moreover,
with means and advantages propor-
tioned to its difficulties, and such as
in old times it could not boast. It
has now in its hands the mighty ma-
chinery of the press, with the Scrip-
tures, the Missal and Church Offices
in the vulgar tongue. It flourishes
amid liberal institutions, and ac-
quires no little vigor from free dis-
cussion, persuading where once it
ruled. It affiliates to itself all
physical truths, all discoveries in
science, as affording fresh evidence
of the power and wisdom of God.
It engages in historical research with
impartiality formerly unknown, rely-
ing on documentary proofs, and scru-
tinizing all that is legendary. It joy-
fully accepts and utilizes the steam-
ship, the railroad, and the telegraph.
It finds in them fresh instruments of
good, new links to knit nations to-
gether in a common faith, swift con-
voys of Christian missions, and elec-
tric tongues of flame to spread the
gospel of Christ.

During the last forty years the
Catholic renaissance in England has.
been rapid beyond all that could,
have been expected or was even,
hoped. It is not to the emancipa-
tion act of 1829, to the increase of
the episcopate in 1840, nor to the
creation of the hierarchy in 1850^
that this surprising growth is mainly
to be ascribed. The removal of po-
litical disabilities gave Catholics in:

488 The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England.

England, no doubt, a respectability
and courage which they had not be-
fore J but they would still have con-
' tinued, on tlie whole, a despised and
|ftcattered remnant — mere ** pebbles
ind detritus^' as Newman says,* " of

tie great deluge " — if there had not
drisen in the very heart of the Es-
'^tablished Church a little band of
learned and pious men, who, strong
in genius and in prayer, valiantly
defended many distinctively Catho-
lic doctrines, and ended by profess-
ing openly or virtually their adhe-
sion to our entire system of faith
and morals. This it was which
caused English Catliolics, when they
emerged, as it were, from the cata-
combs,! to lift up their heads, to
challenge a new investigation of I he
grounds of their belief, and to sub-
mit them confidently to every test
that history^ Scripture, reason, and
experience could apply. The Trac-
tarian movement infused fresh blood
into the church's veins, and it has,
during a period of thirty years,
swollen our waters with a confluent
stream.

The tide thus set in a right direc-
tion does not cease to flow, and it is
^^A by sources external to ourselves.
Scarcely a week passes but some
persons knock at the gates of the
church for admittance, who have
learned the elements of Catholicism
from alien teachers. Several high-
church periodicals, widely circulated,
such as the Unhn Ra^ietv and the
Church Nitzt*s^ lay down» with extraor-
dinary boldness and precision, doc-
trines which the so-called reformers
labored to explode. Rumors are ever
afloat of important conversions about
to take place, and thus Catholics in
England are constantly encouraged,
Avhile Anglicans are proportionally

t Card. W'ueiiMD*! Addtntu U tk§ C^nfftH ^

unsettled and alarmed. The E$-
tablishment is dying by the hands of
its own pastors. Three hundred of
them have quitted its pale, forfeited
their position in society, forsaken a
thousand comforts, prospects, and
endearments, to follow the church in
the wilderness and the pillar of fife.
The largest-minded and the lirgcst-
heartcd man Anglicanism ever pro-
duced, has long since taken his sesil
among the doctors in the true tem*
pie, and one whom A ngUc4Ui» esteem-
ed for his piety from baybood up-
ward, is now the primate of the En{^
Ush Catholic Church, and regafxM
among its bishops as Jadle prttm^
for learning and ability, both as %
speaker and writer. The talents
which were employed in promoting
schism are thus turned into ^ heal tbicf
channel ; and a multitude of able and
ingenious converts in every literary
guise operate beneficially on the pub-
lic mind. The loud demand fof
unity of doctrine, a fixed standard
of belief and morals* autliority in
matters of faith, primitive antiqui^.
asceticism, symbols, sacrament^, axni
sesthctics, is bemg supplied. Catho
lie missionaries arc covering ibc Cacc
of the land, and they are welcomed
wherever tliey pitch their teat
Thirsting souls, weary of broken
cisterns, gather round them* and ask
eagerly for living water from deeper
wells. Abbeys are raised on ancieot
sites; conventwalls crown the hills;
church-bells tinkle in secluded v^les ;
and in the towns and cities, fanes
richly adorned and well served \xt
vite with open doors the docile to
be taught and the penitent to be
shriven. The genius of the two Pti-
gins, the father and the son, has re*
vived the love of medieval architfo
ture ; and the new churches vie with
each other in majestic structtire and
ornate detail. The winter is now
past, the rain is over and gone. The

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 489

flowers have appeared in our land ; ratio, but the spread of Catholicism

the voice of the turtle is heard. The does far more than keep pace with

fig-tree hath put forth her green figs ; this advance. It outstrips it in a

the vines in flower yield their sweet striking degree, and gives continual

smell.* promise of further increase. The dis-

What a contrast within forty years 1 tance between churches lessens ; the

then the heavenly dove flying over means of grace are more copiously

England scarcely found where her supplied ; the discipline of the church

foot might rest. The waters were is more fully carried out ; the prejudi-

abroad on the whole land, and she ces of our foes are partly dispelled ;

returned into the aric. In 1830 only their attacks become less violent ;

434 priests ministered through the en- the press is more civil ; the state

tire country; and these were attached, more conciliating. In many locali-
for the most part, to obscure chapels • ties, such as Bayswater, Notting-

in low quarters of the town, or to Hill, Kensington, Brompton, and

gloomy, old-fashioned houses in the Hammersmith, in the West of Lon-

country. Four hundred and ten un- don, the number of Catholic churches,

sightly buildings were then called convents, and charitable institutions

churches ; and England (which in is greater than would be found over

the olden time, before the Refor- an equal area in many countries

mation, owned 56 convents of the where the church is supreme. The

Dominican order alonef) could not number of persons attached to the

at that date claim a single religious congregation ofthe Oratory in Bromp-

house consisting of men. Sixteen ton exceeds 8000, and upwards of

scanty communities of nuns there 13,000 attend the services of St.

were, who sighed and prayed in se- George's Cathedral in Southwark.

cret, being but the skirts of the gar- The English " Reformation," happi-

ment of the Lamb's Bride. A change ly, did only half its work, and the

has come over the scene; and how tap-roots of Catholicism have never

great that change is, the following been thoroughly eradicated from the

table will in some degree show : popular mind. New suckers are ever

In 1854. ,864. ,867. springing up, and persistent culture

Catholic dcTBT in EngiaiiA 92a 1267 1438' soon obtains its reward.

« u "Scotland..... X34 178 aoi The vast mctropoHs is not all in-

CnitfchMi oiApela, and statiOD. . rr«i

in En^ud 678 907 loSj cluded in One diocese. The Arch-

*^fa&Su^.':'*:.'!°*.*!*^.34 .,. ». bishopofWestminster and the Bishop

ComnmmticsormaiinEagiand 17 5« 67 of Southwark both reside in London,

*^r^?^J^ :;;•• ::; *J '» »|°j and divide the pastoral care of the

-. , ^. «.r . ■ great city between them. One hun-

Inthe Diocese ofWcstminster alone j^gj ^^^ jj^ty priests, secular, regu-

there are more than twice as many j ^^^ unattached, minister under

religious communities of women as ^r. Grant, while 221, including Orato-

there were in the whole kingdom rfans and Oblates of St. Charles Borro-

areland excluded) forty years ago. ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^j. the primate. The

The population, it is true, multiplies ^^ attendance of children at the

rapidly and in an ever increasing poor schools of the Diocese of West-

.„ .. .. minster was, in the year 1857-8,

tFr. Palmer's LiT^afCardimU f/cward. introd. 8648; and umc ycars later, m

4«-5j . 1866-7, it amounted to 12,056. This

lie Dnrcury, p. J67. -^ '^^ »^ ^ mcrcasc Sufficiently proves that great

The Condition and Prospects of Catkolas in EngUnd,

eflTorts are made to instruct the Ca-
tholic poor children in London* Ma-
ny of them, especially those of Irish
extraction, pass their days in rags,
filth, and beggar}^ living like lit-
Je "Arabs/' as they are familiarly
ailed. In 1866 it was estimated
that from 7000 to i2»ooo Catho-
lic children were thus wandering
through the streets of the capital ;
but the exertions of Cardinal Wise-
man and Archbishop Manning have
produced the happiest results, and
diminished the evils which want of
funds and the difficulties of the case
leave for the present witliout ade-
quate remedy. It is certain that the
poor children of Catholics have in
the English bishops most able and
tenderhearted advocates, and that
numerous monastic bodies of men
and women are ready to second their
efforts with devotion truly heroic. It
is on the lambs of the flock that the
hopes of Catholic England depend,
and just in proportion as they are
educated or uneducated, will they be
ornaments or disgraces to the reli-
gion they profess. Nothing but su*
pcrstition and vice can be built on
ignorance \ and the clcrg)' in Eng-
land are cverj^where earnest in pro-
moting the culture of the mind. It
is almost as vain to teach religion
without secular knowledge, as it
would be presumptuous and profane
to impart secular knowledge without
religion. Nature and grace alike or-
dain that they should go together,
and on this principle the Poor School
Committee, or Council of Catholic
Education, invariably acts,

TIjere is in England, at the present*
moment, a strong tendency to compul-
sory education. The leading thitik-
ers of the day incline to this plan,
and press on the legislature the expe-
diency of providing a state system of
education, of which all the poor, Ca-
tholics as well as Protestants, should

avail tliemselves. The secular
struction would, in this case, be
mon to ali the children, while the re-
ligious instruction would be in the
hands of the ministers of tlie seveiml
religions which tlie parent ' jro-

fess. The Catholic bish er-

gy look with fear and s on

such a project, believing ii . ^ ble
safely to separate secular and reli-
gious instruction. They are of opin*
ion that the system would work badly,
and prove a failure ; that non-CalhoUc
teachers would insensibly instil filsc
doctrine and wrong views into the
pupils' minds, and that the dcnomi-
national system, which provides je-
parate schools for each sectioQ of
professing Christians, is the best, and,
indeed, the only good one for CAlho-
lie interests. They point to IreUnd,
where the "national" education if
regarded as a national gric%*aocc.
They bid you remark how, in that val-
ley of tears, both Calholi ' Pro-

testants sep.irate their If

they can. They prove t
in national schools with I . , j 1
masters, thousands of CatlioUc chil-
dren are taught the Protestant rcji-
gion from the lips of Protestant teach*
ers.* 7*hey complain X\s the

English receive from the v>r*

tant help toward denominational edu-
cation, to the Irish all such help is
persistently refused.

It remains to be seen how far their
remonstrances will be attended to,
and how far the national cducatioii
in Great Britain can be made 10 har-
monize with Catholic, Happily, there
is no disposition on the part of the
state to force on any portion of the
people a measure obt ' m\

and the scheme of n i -ao

introduced into Ireland uuditt' the
auspices of the Catholic and Protec-
tant Archbishops of Dubliiii (DfS.

Tkg Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 491

Murray and Whately,) having proved
abortive, it is the less likely that Ca-
tholics in England will be obliged to
accept any conditions to which they
may be decidedly adverse.

There is, however, great difficulty
in adjusting state concessions to Ca-
tholic wants and demands. It is al-
most impossible for Protestant rulers
to understand our feelings, and they
often run counter to them, even when
they are trying to satisfy them with
the best intentions. Thus, for in-
stance, though the government has
thrown open the Universities of Ox-
ford and Cambridge to Catholics, al-
lowing them to matriculate and pro-
ceed to the degree of Bachelor of
Arts, difficulties have recently been
raised by ecclesiastical authority re-
specting their availing themselves of
this opening. The Catholic bishops,
in fact, have recommended parents
and guardians not to send their sons
and wards to Oxford and Cambridge ;
and though their advice does not
amount to a prohibition, it has, never-
theless, a deterrent effect. Catholic
noblemen and gentlemen of large pro-
perty have, at present, no other means
of giving their sons an education suit-
ed to their rank, and such as will
form their minds and manners for
parliamentary and diplomatic: service,
except by sending them to these uni-
versities, where science is, so far as
they are concerned, entirely divorced
from religion, and their personal faith
is in great danger of being compro-
mised. The Catholic colleges at Os-
cott, Ushaw, Stonyhurst, and the like,
though admirable for ordinary pur-
poses, do not meet these exceptional
cases. They have not, they do not,
and they cannot produce men equal
to the times — ^men who carefully get
up subjects, read much and study
deeply, write and speak in public with
authority, and leave deep "footprints

on the sands of time."* Such labo-
rious and efficient servants of their
country are not likely to be formed
by any rigime less strict and com-
prehensive than that of our universi-
ties j and the consequence is that, at
this moment, there are about a dozen
Catholic young men studying at Ox-
ford (not to mention Cambridge) in
spite of episcopal discouragement

The principle of mixed education
being absolutely condemned by the
church, the want of a Catholic uni-
versity in England is felt more and
more. But it can only be the result
of time, since the cost of endowments
and professorships, not to speak of
buildings, would, as yet, be out of
proportion to the number of Catho-
lics in England and the means they
possess. The matter, however, is now
under consideration at Rome, and it
is expected that means will be devised
shortly to meet the existing want. Be-
fore the Reformation, sixty-six univer-
sities covered Europe, and most of
them sprang from small beginnings,
and were built amid difficulties quite
as great as any we shall have to en-
counter.f

In the mean time, the government
of Mr. D'Israeli favors, to a certain
extent, the denominational system,
and proposes! to charter the Dublin
Catholic University, to endow it from
the public treasury, and to grant it
the right of conferring degrees. This
plan, if carried into effect, will mate-
rially aid the Irish portion of the
church, but will not supply the want
of university education which is felt
in England. Already the benefits re-
sulting from the state endowment
of Maynooth College for priests are
clearly manifest, and the present race
of ecclesiastics in Ireland differs en-

* Dublin Rtvirvu^ October, 1867, p. 398.
t See Christian Schools and Scholars^ voL iL cbap.
i. and iL
X March, z868.

49^ The Cmdition and Prospects cf Cath&fics in EnglmmL

tirely, in sev^eral important particu-
lars, from that of the past generation.
They are less Gallican than they were
when educated in France, less dis-
posed to accept of state pensions,
improved in manners and appearance,
more priestly, and perhaps more firm-
ly attached to the Holy See. The
old-fashioned ** hedge-priest " has dis-
appeared, and if one of our bishops
now dines at the Castle in Dublin, he
has not, as was sometimes the case
in days of yore, to borrow a pair of
episcopal small-clothes for the occa-
sion.

The systenn of mixed eclucadon
has not taken root in Ireland, thoug:h
backed by all the influence of the
state. The following table will prove
that neither Catholics nor Protestants
there approve it, and that, though
they sometimes submit to it as a kind
of necessity, they avail themselves of
it as little as possible. The table ex-
hibits the entire number of schools
in Ireland under the control of the
National Board, and it ought to be
remembered that in these it is not al-
lowable to teach the Catholic religion,
to use Catholic emblems, to talk of
the holy father, use the sign of the
cross, or set up a crucifix or an image
of Our Lady.* The schools are, in
fact, secular, so far as Catholic chil-
dren are concerned, and their religi-
ous instruction is left to the zeal and
labor of their own pastors.

Calling ic
SchooTa, Cliildreiv

3,454 '•"'t*' C;ithc»ltc (teaehen.. .371,75*
s,49j With Catholic teAch«m,..}»i,64t
1,106 w\%\\ ProtcsUnt teachers

OT»l¥- **>.7>*

i44 vlth Protoum leidkin

only . , *,.... n♦w<^.

tjt with miRvd l^heheru . . , . 13^690

Childrco.

In England, grants are made from
time to time by the Privy Council oi

•Speech afOlrtiCullen.

^ Mt4Um£ ^Ciffigy ^ J>mtUm, lUh Dec

the Queen toward defraying the ex-
penses of Catholic poor-schools, for
it is only in a hobbling way that pub-
lic opinion in this country moves to-
ward reh'gious and political equality*
The oppression of minorities by ma-
jorities has been in vogue so many
centuries, that the Houses of Parha-
ment can with difficulty be induced
to administer even-handed iustice to
all. The Poor-School r re,

composed entirely of Cat le-

men and gentlemen, coni i tif-

fairs of Catholic poors l v.ith

tlie concurrence of the bishops aad
clergy. The schools which are
sidized by government arc sub
also to government i i.

this causes no inconvr. m

the inspectors are Cathnli. cd

by the bishops, and com :.>.,.,.,,, sap
laried by the state.

The reformatory schor* f^st

useful and interesting n»,

They date from 1854, wh< vas

pasj^ed to the elTect thai j of

fenders should, after a few weeks of
imprisonment, complete their term
of punishment in a reformatory ap
proved by the secretary of stale for
the Home Department. By the ex-
ertions of Cardinal Wiseman and
others, reformatories were estibttsh*
ed for Catholic child reo, in order
that they might be kept separate
from those of other reUfirioos* and be
duly instructed by IV ' / ry^

or other pious and tf-

sons, under the direction of a finest.
Reformatory schools have been fol-
lowed by schools of tndustn% to
which magistrates send vagrant chil-
dren, found by the police in thf j
streets without shelter or he
These schools also arc recognJ
by the secretary of state, and the
members of the Conferences of St-
Vincent of Paul watch over the chil-
dren's interests ant J 'as te
as may be, for their

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 493

Allied to these are such schools
as St Vincent's Home for destitute
boys, at Hammersmith,* where eighty
poor boys are boarded, clothed, and
educated for four shillings a week
each, with thirty shillings on entrance
for outfit, etc. The Catholics of
England do not wait till they be-
come a rich and powerful body be-
fore they engage in extensive works
of charity. On the contrary, the
number of their charitable institu-
tions is immense, considered in pro-
portion to their means.

During the Crimean war the want
of Catholic chaplains in the army
was felt painfully. Soldiers and
sailors are, of all men, most careless
about their souls, and Catholic sol-
diers were doubly abandoned in the
hour of sickness and death, having
no minister but a Protestant one to
attend them, while in his ministra-
tions they had no faith. A few vol-
unteer chaplains were therefore al-
lowed to accompany the troops, and
this has led to their being regularly
appointed, and to such chaplains be-
ing placed on an equality with the
Protestant in rank, salary, and re-
tiring pensions. Vessels, also, are
moored in the great harbors and pre-
pared for Catholic worship. A chap-
lain is specially appointed to the ser-
vice of such ships, and to provide
for the Catholic sailors' spiritual
wants. The spirit of the Irish tar
is no longer vexed with the thought
that he must live, fight, and perhaps
die for a government which abhors
his religion, and deprives him of its
consolations. The captains of men
of war in the neighborhood of the
floating churches just spoken of, are
obliged to see that the Catholic sea-
men attend Mass, and are not now,
as formerly, compelled to assist at
the Church of England prayers. The
field of labor of Catholic army chap-

* Mow nsBMyred to Fulham.

lains gradually extends ; besides be-
ing attached to many home sta-
tions, such as Aldershot, Chatham,
Portsea, Woolwich, etc., they are
found in foreign stations also, such
as Bermuda, Halifax, Mauritius,
New-Zealand, St. Helena, and Mal-
ta. The Catholic chaplains, it may
be added, live on the best terms
with the officers and with the Pro-
testant clergymen in the same bar-
racks. "We never interfere with
each other," said one of the former
a few days since to the writer ; " in-
deed, for my part, I would not
think of trying to convert the Pro-
testants; I would rather spend all
my time in striving to convert the
Catholics. I am sure that, out of
every hundred of our own men,
there are eighty that need to be con-
verted."

The prisons and union work-
houses also, which used to be the
scenes of so much injustice toward
Catholic prisoners, paupers, and chil-
dren,* have now assumed a more libe-
ral and Christian aspect. Chaplains
are appointed to the larger houses
of correction to minister to Catholic
inmates, and Catholic children in
the workhouses enjoy the benefits of
instruction in the religion of their
parents. There is in the Catholic
Directory^ which appears annually, a
list of the charitable institutions in
each diocese, and nothing can be
more cheering and hopeful than the
view it presents. Thus, in the Direc-
tory for 1866, we find in the Diocese
of Westminster alone 3 Almhouses ;
I Asylum for Aged Poor; i Home
for Aged Females ; i Hospital serv-
ed by Sisters of Mercy ; i House of
Mercy for Servants out of Place ; i
Night Refuge ; i St. Vincent of
Paul's Shoe-Black Brigade ; 2 Re-
fuges for Penitents ; i Reformatory
School for Boys ; 7 Industrial Schools

* Th4 Workhouse Qutstion, Lamp^ Aug. 19, 186^

494

^e Cmiditton and Prospects cf Catholics m Enghmd.

for BoySj and 1 1 for Girls, The im-
pression made on society by these
admirable institutions is ^^eiy great.
They receive much countenance and
support from no n- Catholics ; they in-
stnict and console the ignorant and
afflicted members of our own body ;
they call forth an abundance of self-
denying labor and charity on the
part of our own people, and tend
more powerfully than any arguments
to propagate the ancient faith. They
prove that our religion emanates
from a God of love, that we are not
mere political schemers nor supersti-
tious devotees, but sober-minded,
practical Christians, battling with sin,
and relieving misery in every shape.
The English public is pecoliarly
alive to the services of Sisters de*
voted to works of Charity, You
cannot walk through the streets
now, or travel by railway, without
meeting them, and ever}' where they
are respected. Their costume pro-
voices no ridicule, their youth and
good looks (if such they have) are
secure from insult. Their crucifix
and beads arc badges of which all
know the import, and involuntary
blessings attend their steps. They
are, in their way, the apostles of Eng-
land. Their devotion to the sick
and wounded in the Crimea won for
them the favor even of their foes.
Few will refuse them alms when
they ask it for the poor. They are
types of self sacrifice, daughters of
con sol at ion J angel visitants. They
impersonate the Gospel Many of
them come from abroad, from
France, Italy, and Belgium, impel-
led by an invincible desire for the
conversion of England. Their looks
bespeak Uieir mission no less than
their garb. They are calm, collect-
ed, gentle. Children yearn toward
them with instinctive fondness, and
jVice itself is shamed by their silent
tirity. The names of their several

orders tell plainly on what their
hearts are fixed. They belong to
the " Good Shepherd f they arc the
** Faithful Companions of Jesus;*'
they are handmaids of the '* Holy
Child Jesus," of ** Notre Dame dc
Sion," of "Jesus in the Temple,"
of ** Marie Rep ara trice." They arc
" Sisters of Mercy,'' of " Providence,"
of ** the Poor," of " Nazareth,*' of
** Penance," of the " Holy Funnily/*
of "St. Joseph," of "St. Paul,'* of
"the Cross." They address them-
selves to the heart rather than to
the understanding, but they are not
on that account less powerful instra*
mcnts in the work of social improve-
ment. They have broken ctofm
many of the barriers which prejudice
had raised against the Catholic idi-
gton, and helped more than any lo-
gical triumph to subdue the hostility
and soften the languagte of the pre-vL
That mighty engine is, on the
whole, an auxiliary to the Catholic
cause in England. If it promulgates
many falsehoods respecting us, it is
almost always ready to publish their
confutation also. It reproduces our
primate's pastorals and all other dcK
cuments of public interest that em**
nate from our bishops. It helps as» in
the main, in the battle we a.rc fight*
ing for the attainment of equal politi*
cal privileges, and employs the pcm
of many Catholic writers. No re-
spectable periodical t -contri-
butor because he is i c, nor
excludes him from hs start if his
writing be up to the required mack,
and his conduct in reference to coo-
troversial matters be discreet. Many
non-Catholic journals are edited or
sub edited by Ca nd ihia ac^
counts in part for ted tone of
the press toward us of late.

Our o\vTt literature has recently
been marked by fewer contnnrerstiJ
books and pamphlets than it
some twenty years ago. T]ie% tx\

Tki Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England. 495

convert of distinction, when admitted
into the church, thought it incumbent
on him to publish those reasons which
had influenced him most powerfully in
so momentous a change. The library
tables in Catholic families were cover-
ed by the writings of Wiseman, New-
man, Faber, Renouf, Lewis, Dods-
worth, Northcote, Allies, Ward, and
Thompson. Each presented his plea
for Catholicism firom a different point
of view, and each added something
to the aggregate of arguments derived
from Scripture and antiquity. The con-
troversy is now taking another turn.
The church's historical ground is less
violently contested, and she is draw-
ing from her inexhaustible armory
weapons to meet subtler foes. She
faces the sceptic; she probes liberal-
ism with Ithuriers spear ; she estab-
lishes from the very nature of things
the necessity of an infallible standard
of faith and morals. She draws up
her line of arguments with a more
compact front and extended wings.
She appears at the same time more
unbending and more liberal. She
recognizes more freely and joyfully
than ever the workings of the Holy
Spirit in communions external to her
pale, while she insists with extraordi-
nary earnestness on her exclusive pos-
session of the entire and incorrupt
deposit of the faith. Such was the
purport of a remarkable letter ad-
dressed to the Rev. Dr. Pusey by Dr.
Manning, now Archbishop of West-
minster, in 1864. Never were ortho-
doxy and liberality more happily uni-
ted than in this pamphlet. Never did
a Catholic prelate and divine make
larger admissions without sacrificing
a particle of Catholic theology. It is
marked by the charity of an apostle
and the accuracy of a logician. The
same remarks apply to the arch-
bishop's work on England ana
Christendom. "We will venture to
say that there is no one Roman

Catholic writer of eminence in the
world who has spoken more emphati-
cally than he — we doubt if there is
one who has spoken with equal em-
phasis — on the piety and salvability
of persons external to the visible
church." *

The life of Catholicism in Eng-
land is evinced by its numerous
associations. In every place where
it has taken root, Catholics enrol
themselves in societies, confrater-
nities, or institutes for social, intellec-
tual, and religious purposes. In no
diocese do these flourish more than
in that of Westminster. The Arch-
bishop personally promotes social
intercourse by throwing open his
drawing-rooms every Tuesday even-
ing, during the London season, to
such gentlemen as may think proper
to attend his receptions. There,
may be met, from time to time, pre-
lates from distant countries, ambas-
sadors, members of parliament,
noblemen, heads of colleges, artists,
men of science, converts, and old
Catholics, with now and then a non-
Catholic guest, whom curiosity, re-
spect for the primate, or yearn-
ing toward a calumniated church,
draws into company to which he is
little used. The Stafford Club is
another centre of union, comprising
about 300 members, and including
among them a large part of the titled
and moneyed Catholics of England,
Wales, and Scotland. The arch-
bishops and bishops of England and
Ireland are ex-officio honorary mem-
bers, and they frequently avail them-
selves of the privilege. A middle
class club has lately been opened in
the city under the primate's patron-
age, and at this lectures are de-
livered, to which, as well as to all
other advantages, non-Catholic mem-
bers are admissible. The only con-

• DubliH Revitw, July, 1867, p. xia

496 The Cmmue^^m^Prmpects of Catlwlks in Englaud^

flitlon required of such members is,
that they shall observ^e the rules of
courtesy^ and abstain (logetlier with
Catholic members) from uiibecom-
ag controversy on religious and po-
litical questions. Lecturing Is not
so popular a form of instruction in
England as in the United States, yet
it is much more generally in vogue
than it was, and it is destined, we
believe, to exert a wide influence
*'liereafler in propagating anew the
Catholic faith through the British
empire.

What we need and hope for is the
reaction of CaUiolic Ireland on
Catholic England. Centuries of cruel
misgovern men t have retarded the
civilization of that unhappy country,
and the loss which it sustains is not
its only, but also ours. In know-
ledge, education, manners, com-
merce, industry, liberty, in all that
constitutes national maturity, it is
behind England, Reading, lectur-
ing, mental activity, in Ireland are
all in the back ground ; and con-
sequently the church, which there
keeps alive the faith in the heart of a
peasant and small farmer population,
does not act indirectly on English
Catholic society with that force
which would belong to it under more
favorable circumstances. ** The cen-
turies which have ripened England
and Scotland with flower and fruit,
,have swept over Ireland in withering
•and desolation ;"* she h.is therefore
little to give us, much to receive
from us. If England had been boun-
tiful to her, she would, in return, have
been bountiful to England. If we
had shared with Ireland our material
prosperity, she would now be impart-
ing to us more spiritual blessings,
communication between the two
churches would be more brisk, and
their relations would be marked by

* Archbtnliop M«nuirs'> I^cttcr to E^rl Grey. p.

more complete unity of fctjling oni
purpose.

The time is probably drawing oear
when this healthy an,' ' ac-

tion of the Irish and ] hc

Church will be fuUy iciiortid. If
England is to retain Irchmd at all as
a part of the empire, it must be by
establishing equal laws, repealing all
penal enactments against Catholics
and their religion, r« the na-

tional system of edvi tn de-

nominational schools, dji ng

and disendowing the : uot

Church, and placmg on Irish land-
lords such restrictions in the tenure
of land as will secure the tenant from
misery and hop' -^he

must stanch the i - of

emigration, and wipe away the tears
of ages. Then, and then Only, cfla
we hope to see Ireland a prosperoist
nation, her people Uirifty and hapfiv,
her civilization raised to a l^.'vtd witk
other Christian com.* r>cv

and her church putii ^ iti

native might to console and instruct
its owTi congregation ^\ ^^^ *r» aid ta
the work of rccoveri n 1 to ihc

faith of the Apostles, ruliLical and
social degradation, such as ihit wliich
afflicts Ireland, is income .tb

a free and flourishing chu.^.., .Ja a
high moral tone, religious zeal, and
exemplary lives on the part o^ its vie*
tims. Cottiers, and ** tenants at will**
of absentee landkmls, having no se-
curit}' that tlieir outlay \% tlieir own,
and that they will ever reap ibc ad-
vantage of it ; barely earning thdr po-
tatoes and buttermilk by the sweat
of their brow, and looking wistfully
across the Atlantic to thf? rr^mpura*
tive wealth and lu\ hj

five millions ot their rry.

men in America ; liable at any mo-
ment to be evicted for p^-^^^" -^ ttmv
tives, or that their rent m \\ ;

galled and madden*^'
brance of 50,000 <

Tk$ Condition and Prospects of Catholics

year ;* such persons, we say, de-
prived of the protection of the law,
must be more than human if they do
not in many instances prove them-
selves lawless. But the day of re-
dress is at hand, we trust. May the
day of retribution be averted I

It is, perhaps, matter for regret
that English Catholics have now no
political leader. Since the voice of
Daniel O'Connell was hushed by
death, no representative of their in-
terests in parliament has appeared
gifted with genius and eloquence of
a commanding order. Mr. Pope
Hennessy has been excluded from
the House of Commons by his Irish
constituents in consequence of his
conservative principles, which are
not popular among them, and has
accepted the governorship of La-
buan. His talents are thus almost
lost to the Catholic cause; and
though there are more than thirty
Catholic members in the Commons,
their influence is not what it should
be. It is neutralized by the many
Irish Protestant members who repre-
sent landed interests ; and valuable
as are the services of Mr. Maguire,
Mr. Monsell, Mr. Blake, and Major
O'Reilly, it is to Protestant rather
than to Catholic champions that we
look now for advocacy of Irish
tenant claims, and the redress of
Irish wrongs. In the House of Lords
we are most feebly represented. Out
of twenty-six Catholic peers, seven-
teen only have seats, and none of
these are distinguished as debaters. t
In the time of Charles II. the Catho-
lic peerage was more numerous than
it is now in proportion to the com-
moners. Long after that period, also,
the lords and gentry held a higher
position than was in harmony with
the scanty number of their poorer

* it49. BmtCt Land T^mtrt m Irtland^ p. 34.
t See L«rdMah^t Hist 0/ England^ vol. i. p.
s6l

Indeed, ^.:|fav«no^
le blow >hiclij|^^

co-religionists,
yet recovered the

inflicted on us by the expulsion of
the peers * under the rule of a sove-
reign who was even then a Catholic
by conviction, and avowed himself
such on the bed of death. But
though the heads of old Catholic
families in England do not, as a rule,
shine as public characters, they have
a title to respect which none others
can claim. They represent those
who suffered a long period of banish-
ment for conscience' sake, treasuring
in their hearts a faith more precious
than courtly splendor. For this they
were outcasts and pariahs, bowed
beneath invidious disabilities and
penal laws, deprived of all the ma-
terial advantages which spring from
good education, brilliant careers,
and fine prospects. Despair of this
world had become a part of their in-
heritance, and it is no wonder that
their successors to this day are some-
what rustic and unskilled in the ways
of cabinets and courts.

The Catholic revival, in short, in
England — a revival of whose reality
and strength we daily see the proofs
— is not to be ascribed to external
causes. No zealous autocrat, no
lordly oligarchy, no foreign invasion,
no laws, no concordats, have brought
it about. Everything was against it,
and everything seems now to favor
it. Penal statutes, as decided and
almost as deadly as those of the Cae-
sars, forbade it ; the Revolution of
1688 excluded from the throne any
sovereign professing it ; George III.
fought against it as stoutly and more
successfully than he did against the
American Colonies ; Pitt succumbed
in his efforts to obtain for it some
measure of justice ; Fox abandoned
its cause politically as hopeless ;f

• Flanagan's English and Irish History, p. 665.
t Pellew. Li/t 0/ Lord Sidmouth^ ii. 433. Tlr*-
u's Goorgt III, iiL 476.

VOL. VII.— 32

The Condition and Pwspeets of C'at^eda

and the Grenvllle cabinet, with all
the talents, was dismissed, because it
planned a trifling concession to Ca-
tholic officers in the .irmy and navy.
George IV., like his father^ frowned
on Catholic emancipation, and yield-
ed to it only under the pressure of a
threatened rebellion. But though
political privileges w^ere granted to
Catholics, it was deemed impossible
that their dark, decrepit superstition
should ever regain its footing in
England, The book of common
prayer witnessed against it ; the pre-
face to the Protestant Scriptures
called its head antichrist; a thou-
sand and ten thousand pulpits thua-
■ dered against it Sunday after Sun-
I day ; dissenters scorned and tram-
[pled on it as the worn-out garments
. of the Babylonish harlot ; millions
of tracts and volumes pointed out its
supposed errors, and cart-loads and
ship-loads of Bibles were dispersed
through the land as antidotes to its
poison. Yet it spread. It triumph-
ed over obloquy. It appealed in its
defence to that very Bible which was
believed to condemn it. It, courted
inquiry. It asserted its own divini-
t)\ It baffled the law% bent the wnll
of kings and parliaments, scattered
the arguments of its enemies like
chaff, and advanced steadily as the
tide, sapping ever)^ dam, and level-
ling every breakwater that opposed
its flow. In the bosom of the adverse
church it found advocates, and in al-
tnost ever}^ family it made converts.
New concessions are made to it in
every session of parliament ; higher
and higher offices in the state and in
ihe magistracy are entrusted to its
.members ; the paltry restrictions
I which yet remain in force will soon
I Jbe swept away, and having once ob-
tained social and political equality,
we have not the remotest doubt that
L4t will obtain, also, superiority ap-
proaching as near to supremacy as

will be consistent with the liberty
every other portion of society.

There is an increasing dispositioQ
among sectarians in England to make
common cause with Catholics on a
variety of grounds. One of these
grounds has already been mcntionecL
They would willingly see national
education everywhere made purely
denominational, and many of those
among them who are strongly attach-
ed to their own particular form of
belief would concur with the Catho-
lic primate in asking that ilie sc1kx>1&
endowed by the state may, in cadi
place, be given o%'er to the majority,
whether Catholic, Anglican, Presby-
terian, or Dissenting, and that schools
required by the minority may be
supported on the voluntary system.*
There is, however, a difficulty in this
proposal which would give rise to
endless jangling. In some places
there is no majority, religious persua*
sions are equally divided. In others
the majority is small and flucttiating.
What is tlie majority this month m*y
be the minority in the next How
could their rival claims to endow*
ment be adjusted in such cases ?

But again, there is a growitig dt»-
position among religious men o€ all
denominations to make cocamoii
cause with the Catholic Churcfi tn
her warfare against infidelity and so*
cial crime, particularly drunkcnii^ts.
Their ministers now are constantly
coming in contact with our priests,
sitting with them on committees, ajxl
speaking side by side with ibem on
platforms on subjects affcctSni^ t!»e
general weal. They arc bcgiofiiiig tH]
recognize the great fact that oor
with infidelity is not of yesli
that we have from age to age
tained the fundamental truths of 1^
velation in the face of a world of
scoiTers, and that if the banner of the
cross could fall from our hAodSv it

* Letter to E«a Okj, p. j»

Tke Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England. 499

YTOuld lie in the dust. Ritualists
imitate our solemn rites; sedate
churchmen have a friendly feeling to-
ward us because we hold the aposto-
lic succession; Biblical scholars in
all sects defer to us as the mediaeval
guardians and copyists of the Bible ;
Low-Churchmen endorse our doc-
trines of grace ; Dissenters hold out
to us " the right hand of fellowship,"
because we also are non-conformists
as regards the Established Church ;
and even Quakers* see in us some
hopeful features when they hear us
declare that we are affiliated in spirit
to all who desire to know and obey
the truth, and who err only through
invincible ignorance. As time goes
on, they will give us more credit for
spiritual acumen. They will see how
justly we have estimated the claims
of each successive pretender to reli-
gious inspiration and knowledge of
divine mysteries. They will ratify
our decision on the isms of this as of
former centuries. They will admit,
for example, that we have divined
the true nature of animal magnetism,
with all those extraordinary pheno-
mena which perplex so many minds
in England and elsewhere. To some
persons these manifestations appear
wholly impostures, to others they
seem real and useful, and to others
again, indifferent, absurd, and unwor-
thy of attention. The church, on
the contrary, after sifting the evi-
dence adduced concerning them,
pronounces them real in many in-
stances, useless, unlawful, and Satan-
ic. Theologians like Perrone and
Ballerini have devoted long attention
to them, and laid bare their wicked-
ness in its most deadly aspects. Un-
der a mask of mingled absurdity and
terror, they reveal just so much of
the invbible world as may deceive
and ruin souls. They are horrible
mimicries of the angelic and spiri-

• Sm ipccch of Mr. Bright in thA House of Com-
mona, Uatdk ijA, x868.

tual economy of the church. In all
these phases of mesmerism, somnam-
bulism, clairvoyance, table-turning,
table-rapping, and evocation of spi-
rits, they testify to the truth of divine
revelation in respect to the spiritual
world. So far they are of some ad-
vantage, for the evil one is always
rendering involuntary homage to the
Gospel which he seeks to pervert.
But in exchange for this, they draw
deluded multitudes away from the
true and lawful way of holding com-
munion with the dead, piercing the
mysteries of the world unseen, ob-
taining divine guidance, mental illu-
mination, cure of bodily infirmities,
signal answers to prayer, visions, ec-
stasies, and knowledge of future
events. From none of these things
are the faithful debarred in the
church, but in spiritism, or demon-
worship, they are attracted to them
in ways which are generally fatal to
their morals and their faith. We
have heard from an intimate ally of
Mr. Home, now a convert to the
Catholic Church, that in ninety-nine
cases out of a hundred those who put
themselves in communication with
spirits by means of table-speaking,
lose their belief in the Christian re-
ligion and adopt a loose mode of life.
The political grievances of which
English and Irish Catholics have
still to complain, are of old not of
recent origin. They belong to a
system now virtually exploded, and
if our statute-book were a tabula
rasa they could not be written in it
again. There is full proof of this in
the fact that Great Britain legislates
for her colonies more justly than for
Ireland, or even for England. In
Sydney and Melbourne, in Austra-
lia, there are Catholic colleges en-
dowed by the government, and in
Canada there is an endowed Catho-
lic University. Yet Ireland, with
4,500,000 Catholics, has hitherto
asked in vain for the like favors.

SCX3 The Cmdiiion and Prospects af Catholics in England

The colonies, moreover, are not bur-^
dciied with a Protestant establish-
ment^ but lie open to the exertions
of Catholic and Protestant mission-
aries alike, who receive from the state
equal encouragement and occasional
subsidies. The consequence is, that
in almost every colonial dependency
of Great Britain the true church is
in full activity, and gives ample proof
of her divine mission. The follow-
ing table of our episcopate will show
how wide is the field of action afford-
ed to it by the tolerant system which
England has pursued of late years.
If she had not at the Reformation
fallen from the faith, there w^ould not
perhaps at this moment be an idol
temple in tlie world. If she should
ever return as a nation to the fold
of Christ, her mighty influence may,
with the help of other Christian peo-
ple, suffice to break in pieces every
fetish and exorcise the races possess-
by demons. The figures here
[given are of the year 1867 ; and it
may be observed that in all the twen-
ty vicariates of India, Burma, and
Siam there was an increase of the
Catholic population over the preced-
ing year, with the exception only of
those wliich are under the Portuguese
Archbishop of Goa. In his province
there was a small decrease ♦

EntlAod,
Ir«Uad.

R11M4A

Britnh Colmnbui
HArhorGTtKc
St, Jwhtj**, Ncw-
fhorKltiknd

<r«cai . . . , .

g- .m4 Sivu I *
'ilti«Tra(ui

Arch'

DiabopL

»7

I ,

Vican

ApOstaUc

• C9tk»Hc Dif^tctary »S68, p- «5 to j6.

From this it appears that dicrci
now 1 10 Catliolics in the British 1
pire invested with the episcopal office
The number is little short of that oi
the Anglican Bishops, w*ith all tJie
power and influence of the state^
a vast Protestant population lx> \
effect to their exertions. Yet, poor
and comparatively unaided as oar
bishops are, the results of ihcif la-
bors in the colonies and among Ibe
heathen far exceed anything whicb
rival missionaries can boasL As to
the Russian clergy, their torpor b
regard to idolatrous nations has oftea
been commented on, and they are
strictly forbidden by imperial edicts
to endeavor to make converts ;
them.* It is therefore with
tant missionaries only that wc havt!
to vie, and these, thro\igh their div
union, lose, in great measure, the
fruits of their real. The two millii
sterling fcr annnm^ w^hich tlieir
cieties in the British isles alone ex-
pend,! do not enable them to make
head against the rapid extcnsioil of
the Catholic faith. In China, Indti,
CeyloUj the Antipodes, Oc^^nicai,
Africa, the Levant, ^ ia,

and America, they h.v ^ til-

ed in converting the heathen, and in
rivalling the happy results of Catho-
lic missions.* Every^ Catholic nation
is a vast missionary society, and if
England had been such to this day,
her Indian possessions would be
basking in tlie full light of the goi-
pel. But, alas ! how awfully has she
betrayed her trust The speeches U
Burke, the lives of Clive and Has-
tings, bear witness against her. Ra-
pine and CT\relty marked the earlier
stages of her Indian go%'eminent.
During long years she left the In-
dians to their idols, and then re-
cruited her treasury by a tax laid

I Mu»U

'•'-r*«. vol. iL w^

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England, 501

upon them, and commanded her
troops to pay homage to the de-
mons of the land. Her efforts for
their conversion, if they can be call-
ed hers, are feeble and unsystematic,
while Catholic missions in every part
of British India are steadily conduct-
ed on a uniform plan. Eleven years
ago there were about a million Catho-
lics in the wide territory, and the spi-
rit which guided S. Fran9ois Xavier,
Robert de* Nobili, John de Bretto,
and Laynez, prospered the work of
their hands. Since that time the
Madras Catholic Directories show
that constant progress has been
made. In some dioceses from 500
to 1000 souls are reclaimed annu-
ally from Hindooism, Mohammedan-
ism, and Armenian sects. The lives
of the converts are often most edify-
ing, and though much ignorance and
superstition has to be weeded out of
them, they show forth on the whole
the glory of Him who has called them
out of darkness into marvellous light.
Registries of adult baptisms being
kept at each of the stations, it is
easy to ascertain the progress made.
In 1859, 2614 adults in the pro-
vince of Madura were received into
the chm-ch, and the native college
of Negapatam, frequented by young
men of high caste only, had pro-
duced seven priests, eight theologi-
cal students, a large number of
catechists and school-masters, with
several government officers. The
Jesuit fathers had founded five or-
phanages and three hospitals, beside
convents of Carmelite and Francis-
can nuns, where Hindoo women, un-
der the constraining influence of di-
vine grace, led devout and austere
lives.* It has hitherto been the
policy of our rulers to avoid inter-
fering with the religion of the na-

• Mmi&H dt Maduri^ par L. Saint Cyr, S. J.
(««S9.)

tives,* but the time, we may hope,
is at hand when more righteous and
merciful principles will prevail in the
councils of state. By promoting
schism, England delays the conver-
sion of the heathen. Friends and
foes alike testify to the inefficacy of
English Protestant missions. They
can destroy faith, but never inspire
it ; and those who desire to read the
true records of the triumph of the
cross in heathen lands, and especial-
ly in the dominions of Great Britain,
must seek them, not in the publica-
tions of London Missionary Societies,
but in the Annals of the Propagation
of the Faith, and the writings of Mr.
Marshall and Father Strickland, f

The present Earl Grey, though an
Anglican, once said to a gentleman
from whom we heard it, that he wish-
ed, for his part, that Catholic bishops
only were supported in the colonies
by the English government ; for that
they alone, in his opinion, were ac-
tuated by pure motives and self-sac-
rificing zeal. Earl Grey does not
stand alone in his truly liberal senti-
ments. Indeed, it is wonderful how
generous and enlightened many of
our statesmen have become sudden-
ly, since the 'Fenians have threatened
their English homes. Impossible as
it is for us to defend their conspiracy,
it seems to bear out the assertion
that no people ever obtained their
rights by mere remonstrance and pe-
tition. The injustice of maintaining
a Protestant establishment in Catho-
lic Ireland now flashes upon our
rulers like light from heaven, though
they have been told of it before a
thousand times. Now they are as
eager for its destruction as they were
for its support. Now they see the
matter as all Europe, all the civilized
world except themselves, saw it long
ago. Now they quote with approval

• Marshall's Christian Misstons^ vol. L 41^419*
t Catholic Missions in Southern I ttdia to 1865.

502 TJu Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England,

the question proposed by Sir Robert
Peel: "This missionary church of
yours» with all that wealth and power
could do for her, can she in two hun-
dred years show a balance of two
hundred converts?" Now they en-
dorse the opinion of Goldwin Smith,
that "No Roman Catholic mission
has ever done so much for Roman
Catholicism in any nation as the
Protestant establishment has done
for it in Ireland."* It has, to use
Mn Bright's words, ** made Roman
Catholicism in Ireland not only a
faith, but absolutely a patriotism,*'
It has made the Irish " more intense-
ly Roman than the members of their
church are found to be in almost any
other kingdom in Europe."t " Don't
talk to mc of its being a church 1"
exclaimed Burke. " It is a wholesale
robbery/' " It is an anomaly of so
gross a kind/* said Lord Brougham,
just thirty years ago, "that it out-
rages every principle of common
sense, ... It cannot be upheld un-
less the tide of knowledge should
turn back/* ** Irish Toryism," wrote
John Sterlings in 1842, ** is the down-
■ight proclamation of brutal injustice,
Panii that in the name of God and
the Bible T* All this English states-
men, who long obstinately resisted
truth and justice, now see and ac-
knowledge from a conviction too
prompt to have been inspired by any-
bthing but fear. Terror has been
nown to turn the hair gray in a
night, and to fill the mind with wis-
^dom in a day. In sajnng this, how-
cr, we do not mean to express any
approval of Fenianism, knowing it,
we do, to be a detestable conspi-
racy, secret, unlawful, and condemn-
ed by the church.

The disestablishment of the Irish

yProtestant Church will directly affect

the condition of the Catholics in Eng-

• letter in M»rmmf Simr^ March yi. tSfiS.
t Speech m Uic House of Commoiu, March jt.

land. It w41J place their Irish lirdh-
re n on a social level with Protestants,
and thus add to the respectabililv of
the entire body of < he

three kingdoms. It v iic

number and influence of those Irish
Protestant clergymen who cross the
channel year by year to declaim oo
the platforms of our halls and assem-
blies against the supposed comjptioQ
of the Church of Rome, It wiU re*
move ten thousand heart-bumtngs
from the people of Ireland, and cnai*
ble them, though differing in nrligiod
in some districts, to live together la
peace and harmony. It will increase
selfrespect in both sections of ihc
community — in the Protestant, be-
cause they will no longer be grasping
oppressors ; in the Catholic, because
they will no longer be fleeced and
oppressed. The relative merits of
their creeds will theti have to be dis*
cussed on even ground, and no wea-
pons but those of the sanctuary will
avail in the fight. The voluntary sys-
tem by which their ministers will be
supported will throw them cntifcly
upon their moral resources, and ercty
adscititious aid in pr -vg their

belief will be happily I L The

seltlement of the Irish Church ques^
tion will soon be followed by legal
improvement in the condition of ten*
ants as regards their landlords ; and
thus the two cr>*ing evils of our Irish
administration being redressed, ^pec*
ulation will be encouraged, com-
merce will thrive, fortunes will be
made, emigration will be arretted,
and emijn"ants recalled. The church
of Catholics will share in the genera!
prosperity, and chapels now little
better than mud hovels will be raxed
to the ground to make room for
buildings stately and fair as the col-
legiate churches of Wind ^ "* Mle-
ham, and Brecon, in the nCt

or as the Priory of Stone, lli« Or-
phanage of Norwood, and the

{
{

y
1

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England. 503

lege of St. Cuthbert, near Durham,
at the present day.

There is at this moment a con-
currence of events favorable to the
Catholic religion in the British em-
pire, such as never was seen before
since the Reformation. No fires of
Smithfield, no renegade queen like
Elizabeth, no Spanish Armada, no
Gunpowder Plot, no Puritan ascen-
dency, no despotic house of Stuart,
no Pretender, no Titus Oates, no
French or other foreign invasion, no
Lord George Gordon, no rebellion
like that of Robert Emmett and Lord
Edward Fitzgerald, is looming in the
distance, marring the prospect, and
nearing us to turn hope into despair.
Even Fenian outbreaks are, we be-
lieve, anticipated and virtually un-
done. Every sun that shines is
ripening the harvest, and were it
not that the enemy is more busy than
ever in sowing tares, we might ex-
pect that within a century the whole,
or at least the larger part, of the popu-
lation of the three kingdoms would
be included in the domain of the
church.

What we have most to dread is
the spread of unbelief in its sub-
tlest and most engaging form. It
comes among us with stealthy
tread, and with the smile of hypo-
crisy on its face. It professes re-
spect for the Christian religion, but
with homage on its lips carries con-
tempt in its heart. It regards all re-
ligions as superstitious, and the Chris-
tian as the best among bad ones. It
pervades every branch of our non-
Catholic literature, and offers fruit
slightly poisoned to every lip. It
combats dogma and the supernatural
in every shape, appeals in all things
to the senses, sets up humanity as its
idol, and studiously confounds the
distinction between right and wrong.
It maintains the authority of Scrip-
ture, provided all that is supernatural

and miraculous be eliminated. It re-
veres Jesus Christ when placed by the
side of " the mild and honest Aurelius,
Cakya Mouni,* and the sweet and
humble Spinoza." t It cites as ex-
amples of men "most filled with the
spirit of God," Moses, Christ, Moham-
med, Vincent of Paul, and VoltaireX
It inscribes the name of Christ on
volutes in tapestried drawing-rooms,§
together with those of Socrates, Co-
lumbus, Luther, and Washington. It
affirms that " we can never be sure that
the opinion we are endeavoring to stifle
is a false opinion^^\ and that "no one
can be a great thinker who does not
recognize that, as a thinker, it is his
first duty to follow his intellect to what-
ever conclusions it may lead^l It ap-
proves of " hearty good-will evinced
toward all persistence of endeavor,
whether the object of that persistence
be good or evil according to moral or
religious standards," and it is drawn
strongly into sympathy with such
poets as Robert Browning in their
" keen love for humanity as such, a
love which is displayed toward weak-
ness and evil as much as toward
strength and goodness, provided only
the attribute be human. "T Such sym-
pathy with all that is human it ac-
counts "divine." It worships, in short,
the creature more than the Creator ;
it feels no need of grace, and still less
of atonement. It relapses, consciously
or unconsciously, into the frozen zone
where Comte reigns supreme master
of a system of icy negatives called
philosophy — negatives the more spe-
cious because veiled under the term
positivism — where all but facts attest-
ed by the senses must be renounced,

• The fourth Buddha.

t Renan. Vi* de Jesus

X A uiobiography of Garibaldi. Edited by Alexan-
dre Dumas.

S In Victor Hugo's House in Guernsey. See hi*
Waiiam Shakespeare, p. 568.

I John Stuart Mill on Liberty, p. 19.

\ John T. Nettlcship'i Essays on Robert Broum
ing. Preface.

504 The Conditimi and Prospects of Catholks in Engkind,

and all final causes, all supernatural
intervention, scattered to the wind.*
Toward this the Protestant mind in
England is daily tending with increas-
ing proneness, that portion only ex-
cepted which looks upward toward
Catholic ritual and dogma. Its pre-
sence is more and more apparent
among educated men, in Parliament,
the universities, the learned profes-
sions, the reviews and journals of the
day. It is an enemy that meets us in
evei^"^ walk, and is more difficult to
grapple with than any definite form
of error. It objects not merely to this
or that part of our Creed, as Luther-
ans and Caivinists did on their first
appearing, but it meets us /// ihnine
with doubts which pagans would have
been ashamed to profess. Even wri-
ters on the whole Christian, like Sa-
muel Taylor Coleridge, have aided
in forming it ; but Neolog)', Strauss,
Comte, Mill, Carlyle, Sterling, Hugo,
have brought it in like a flood. Maz-
asini propounds it openly in Maanii-
ian's Afagazine^ while the Saturday
^Mevieu* and the Pail Mall Gazette
adapt it weekly and daily to the pa-
llate of the million. Not that the free-
-thinkers are agreed together ; they
loften jeer at each other. ** Singular
■what gos{iels men will believe," cries
Carlyle,t " even gospels according to
Jean Jacques/' But this is the lan-
^guage of each, *' Adieu, O church ;
thy road is that way, mine is this.

. What we are going to

is abundantly obscure ; but what all
men are going from is very plain/'t
These, then, are the two great an-
tagonists, the Catholic Church and In-
fidelity in its last and most popular
shape of Positivism, People in Eng*
land are choosing their sides, and
drawing nearer and nearer to one or

} \^'j ,^ - ^,j, ^/ Stfrittig-, p. «ftAb

the other of these champions. Minor
differences are merging into the braad
features which distinguish the two.
To the positivism of Comtc there
stands opposed the positivism of die
Church. She alone speaks positively,
authoritatively, uniformly, and perma-
nently, respecting the invisible world,
the First Cause, the revelation of God
in Christ, in the Gospel, the Scrip-
tures, and the Church. She bears wit-
ness at the same time of God and of
herself, and even those who cannot
accept her testimony admit that of
all the enemies of infidelity her pre-
sence is the most impo ' ^ her
language the most un\s ^ad
distinct. None can accuse her of
hostility to science, for the Holy See
in this, as in all past ages, has repeat*
edly declared with what favor it looks
on really scientific labors, **It hi
putlmtly bruited abroad," wrote Pios I
IX. to M* Malion de Managban^*
*'that the Catholic religion and the
Roman pontificate are ad%'ersc to civi-
lization and progress, and therefore
to the happiness which may ihence
be expecteil," " Rome,*' says the Dub- 1
lin RrAao^ " does not aim directly
at materi.TJ well-being ; she does not
teach astronomy or dynamics \ sh^
propounds no system of inductij
she invents neither printing-{9
steam-engines, nor telegraphs ;
she so raises man above the brutc-^
curbs liis passions, ; his un-
derstanding, instils ] I! princi-
ples of duty and a sense of respoiisi-<
hilit>% so hallows his ambition ancf
kindles his desire for the good of hia
kind and the progress of hum^
that, under her influence, he ^c
insensibly an aptitu* ^i*cc

ful pursuit even of \.,:\ sdence,^

such as no other teacher could impait J

It is manifest to ali vb

tlioughts reach below the surface

* See K(imk4 *i U Cintumiim, Jhakk «^
t April, ittA, pp. aw» jftt.

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England. 505

lies at the root of all sciences, and it
alone makes progress possible.

Such are the views of the wisest
and best of those English Catholics
who work in the literary hive. They
heartily adopt the words of M. Co-
chin, in his speech at Malines. " Chris-
tianity is the father of all progress, of
all discoveries." " Every science is
one of God's arguments, and every
progress one of God's instruments."
Modem science is but an offshoot of
the Gospel, a result of the Incarna-
tion. It redeems our bodies from
a thousand disabilities and discom-
forts, as the Cross has redeemed our
souls. The discovery of America,
the art of printing, the telescope, the
microscope, the clock, the mariner's
needle, the steam-engine, superseding
the slaves who were once the machi-
nery of the world, gas, telegraph-
ic wires, what are they but minor
gospels and temporary redemptions
for the toiling and weary sons of men ?
The Church views such improvements
with delight, and sees in them the
means, when rightly employed, of re-
storing the broken alliance between
earthly and heavenly blessings. Is
this what you call material progress ?
No, no ; it is all moral improvement.
You might as well call the press a
material improvement as the railroad
and the telegraph. As the one brings
thought into immortal life, so the
others redeem man from the sorrows
of intervening distance. The Church
affiliates them gladly to herself, and
traces a moral advance in every ma-
terial gain, a development of redemp-
tion by Christ in the progress of agri-
culture, improved machinery, in chlo-
roform, in short-hand, lithography,
photography, the respirator, and eve-
ry implement and utensil which makes
labor less irksome and pain less poig-
nant.

In the science of political economy
especially, English Catholics are anx-

s, that the services which Lord
1 rendered to philosophy, and
on to science, were indirectly
the Catholic Church."
the Cathohc Church is ever to
built among us in anything like
ncient power and splendor, it

be raised on a broad basis,
lo not mean that its real foun-
ns admit of change or exten-

They are the same from age
je. But they must, to meet
/ants of the age, be made to
ir as comprehensive as they real-
e. Happily, tolerant maxims
prevail in religion, and liberal

in politics. The divine right
ereditary kings is exploded,
persecution is no longer held
5 a sacred duty. The Catho-
lurch, rightly understood, is the

liberal of all institutions. It

source and security of true free-
and it is only when perverted
t can serve the cause of despot-
It has everything to gain from
y, and everything to lose by
:ing tyrannical principles. Its
nends in England are those who

to develop and exhibit its alli-
with all that is true in science
yood in mankind, and who rely

upon its heavenly powers of
asion than on any excommuni-
is and anathemas, \yho conci-

to the utmost without com-
ise, and relax rules without

breaking or warping them,
catholic writers have labored

to prove that our religion is
snemy of progress, and it is
fore our duty and interest to show
ord and deed how utterly false
assertions on this subject are. It
)e a greater triumph for the church
ave demonstrated her superior
•sophy after fair discussion, than
uld have been to suppress that
ission or to shirk it. We have
yr nothing to fear. Catholicism

5o6 The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England,

ious to rectify prevalent mistakes, and
place that delightful study on its pro-
per basis. The writings of Ricardo
and Adam Smith, of McCulloch, Se-
nior, and Mill, have familiarized per-
sons* minds with the subject, but they
have failed to show how every princi-
ple and statement of sound polilical
economy rests on some maxim of the
Gospel or of the church.

The Utilitarian doctrines of Jere-
my Benlham were as bald and selfish
as those of Malthus on Population
were immoral and absurd. Self-re-
straint and self renunciation are the
soul of thrift, the source of wealth,
the element of labor, the main spring
of exertion, the corner-stone of the
social edifice, the health of the com-
munity, the rectifying principle which
keeps the whole machinerj^ of society
in active and harmonious operation.
It would make the rich poor in spirit,
and the poor comparatively rich. It
would place a happy limit to the ex-
tremes of wealth and indigence. It is,
or should be, the fundamental princi-
ple of the production and distribution
of wealth. If duly carried out, it
would promote solidarity in all its
branches to a wonderful extent, and
secure liberty as the condition requi-
site for the very existence of property
and the only possible sphere of mu-
tual exertion. M» Perin* has shown
with admirable force and precision
how Catholicism establishes self-re-
nunciation as '^the corner-stone of all
social relations," and guarantees ** the
greatest freedom to man, and the
greatest security to property." The
Dubiin Reniciv\ also has done good
service in popularizing M. Perin^s ar-
guments and supplying an antidote
to the defective teaching of John
Stuart Mill, and other non-Catholic
political economists.

The Academia of the Catholic Re-

t Aptil, l866t. Ckrtstiam Ffilitkat Eftmmy.

ligion, founded by Cardinal Wise-
man in i86r, continues to be pro-
ductive of happy results. Its maio
design was to exhibit, in the lectttrei
delivered at its meetings and pub-
lished afterward, the alliance be-
tween sacred and secular sdence.
It is afftliated to the Academia in
Rome, and two volumes of essa)^
read before it have already appear-
ed in print* The rich and varied
learning of Cardinal Wiseman, the
clear, incisive style of T>x. Manniog,
the minute mediaeval lore of X>i.
Rock, tlie calm and affeclionate
tone of Mr Oakeley, the acumen
and exhaustive faculties of Dr. Ward,
render these publications very al-
tractive to Catholics who are fond of
argumentative writing. They keep
up active thought and speculation tft
a highly influential circle, and are
valuable landmarks in the history of
the Catholic revival in England
The meetings of the Academia aie
held at the Archbishop's residence
in York Place, London.

It is a remarkable fact " this

moment! there are two | dir-

ties in the state, each of which is
bent on advancing Catholic interests*
tliough in different wa)^. Mr. Dis-
raeli and Mr. Gladstone, the heads
respectively of the Conservative and
Liberal parties, are seeking to re-
dress one of the great evils of Ire-
land, the former by levelling up and
the latter by levelling dewn. The
government would, if it were able,
raise the Catholic church in Ireland
to a footing with the Establishment
by endowing a Catholic University
and the Catholic priesthood, whpc
the opposition proposes simply the
disestablishment and disendowmcnt
of the Irish Protestant church. In
both cases the result would be rcli*

• Fint S«riM. 1865. Second Scfiti^ t36& LfliT

t April, l»M.

The Condition and Prospects of Catholics in England 507

equality in Ireland, though
:an be no doubt that the plan
»ted by the Liberals is the
rational and feasible one. It
one, moreover, which is sanc-

by the Cardinal Archbishop
Dlin and by the Archbishop of
linster. On Sunday, the 12th
)ril, the faithful in London

a petition in favor of Mr.
one's resolutions by the Arch-
's express recommendation. It
Lsant to see the Catholic Pri-
md the future Prime Minister
jland thus cooperating in the
ts of the Catholic religion, es-
y when we remember that they
1 friends and were at college
ir.

Easter of 1868 has been
i by great increase of spirit-
ivity in the churches of large
Numbers of Catholics who
iglected the sacraments have
estored to the use of them,
rotestants come Sunday after
J to hear the sermons deliver-
our churches.* The public
5 stirred on the subject of our
1, and curiosity in very nume-
1 stances ends in conversion,
nt clerical convert has placed

in the hands of a prelate for
)d of his diocese, and a whole

Weekly Register^ April xi, x868.

community of Anglican Sisters of
Mercy have yielded to the direction
of clergymen who are priests indeed.
The Ritualist parsons are busy fray-
ing the way for Roman missionaries.
Their altars are draped in colors ac-
cording to the season, acolytes bend
before them and ser\'e, water is
mingled with their sacramental wine,
lights are burning at their commu-
nions, the host is elevated, their
robes are gorgeously embroidered,
and dense clouds of incense mount
before their shrines, as if they were
dedicated to the God of unity under
the patronage of Catholic saints.
Many of their flock are deluded by
this empty pomp, but many also are
led by it to the true springs of faith
and the observance of a better cere-
monial. During the first half of the
present century 260 religious houses
and colleges have been raised in
England to repair the loss of 68 1
monasteries of men and women up-
rooted at the time of the Reforma-
tion. If we continue and end the
century with equal exertions — and it
is probable we shall exceed rather
than fall short of them — we shall by
that time have nearly as many reli-
gious institutions as our forefathers
could boast after the sway of the
church in England had lasted 800
years under royal protection.

So8

ietches drawn from th

SKETCHES DRAWN

FROM THE ABBE
OF ST. PAULA.

IN THREE CHAPTERS,

LAGRANGES UFE

CHAPTER II.

God had given great compensa-
tion to Paula m the rare natures of
her children. The eldest, and per-
haps the most gifted, Blesilla, com*
bined with delicate health an ardent
soul, quick wit, and a charming mind.
Her penetration astonished even St.
Jerome. She was full of those cha-
racteristics that make one hope every-
thing and fear ever)lhing. She was
but fifteen when she lost her father,
and seventeen when St. Jerome first
knew her, in the first bloom of her
youth and beauty. She spoke Greek
and Latin with perfect piwity, and
the elegance of her langu;ige was re-
markable, as well as the quickness
of her intellect.

Paula, full of anxiety for such a
nature, sought to give her the coun-
terpoise of solid piety. But Blesilla,
though capable of exalted virtues,
was intoxicated by the splendors of
the sphere in which she was born
and educated. Like all young girls
I of her rank, she loved dress, luxury,
and entertainments, and neither the
death of her father nor her mother's
example had detached her heart
from the world, neither did her early
widowhood; for Paula had given her
in marriage to a young and rich pa-
trician of the race of Camillus, who
died in a short time after, leaving
Blesilla a widow and witliout chil-
dren. But even this blow did not
suffice, and, after the usual time given
to mourn ing» the worldly and frivo-
lous tastes of the young widow again

rose to the surface. She passed
hours before her glass, V- TofiP

ing herself, surrounded i UftI

occupied in dressing her hair and
waiting on her, and entertjuameots
of all sorts were her delight

Paulina, the second daughter of
Paula, was, as we have already ^xt^
a great contrast to her sLstcr. Lett
brilliant, but not less agreeable, great
good sense was her chief attrtbatr,
with sweetness of disposition. Less
captivated by the world th^n Blesilla,
she was more inclined to be pioufc
The equilibrium in her nature na*
excellent. But there ivas nothing rn
any way uncommon about her. Sk
seemed bom for the ordinary clestiajr
of woman. She was now sixleeti,
and Paula, with an instinct truly iDa-
lernal, felt that what she had to dd
for her child was to give her a pro-
tector worthy of her, in a husband
of sound character and ambbic di^
position »

But the pearl of Paula's childrrn
was her third daughter, Eustochium,
w ho was sweetness and candor itsclfi
and all innocence and piety. Her
distinguishing feature was her love]
for her mother, whom she never
a moment quitted. Marcella kej
her w^ith her for some timc» and wbeti
the child returned to PauLi^ she cluog
more than ever to her mother, like a
young vine. Her only wish was to
follow in the footsteps of Paula and
to be like her, and loconsecr
self also to the service of (
her young virginal heart. Sou aiiil
silent, but hiding under this veil of

(

Sketches drawn from the Life of St. Paula.

509

ty a remarkable mind, Eusto-
was formed for high purposes,
as not fourteen when St. Je-
:ame to^ome.

ina was then only eleven or
years of age, and the time had
it come for anxiety about her.
, however, different with Toxo-
ho was younger still, but had
sceived baptism, his father's
having assumed his guardian-
and they were pagans, which
d Paula, who hoped to make
n a fervent Christian,
h was the family of Paula,
nany duties to them had ex-
the interest of the austere
who, together with Marcella,
1 to do everything possible to
aula in her cares. Blesilla at
illed the mind of St. Jerome
le ardent wish to save her from
ireer of worldliness on which
emed bent ; but in vain did he
bring her to grave thoughts,
la was easier to guide, for Pro-
:e aided the pious efforts of
[ends in the husband chosen
r by her mother, who was Pam-
us, of whom St. Jerome has
lat he was " the most Christian
noble Romans, and the most
of the Christians." He was
le old and tried friend of St.
e, to whom this marriage gave
happiness, as well as to Paula
[arcella.

for Eustochium, she continued
and and bloom under the in-
e of her mother. In vain were
ch dresses of her sisters and
hining jewels spread out before
Her taste for religious life was
ling more and more decided
day. Notwithstanding her
youth, none of the maidens
; Aventine surpassed her in
•, or in following St. Jerome in
borious studies of the Scrip-
^ She had learnt Hebrew, and.

like her mother, had inspired St. Je-
rome with singular devotion and in-
terest. The increasing vocation of
Eustochium aroused opposition in
her father's family; for it was not
possible that the progress of monas-
tic tendencies among the patrician
women should be allowed to take
root without resistance in Rome,
where opposition was made by law
to anything like celibacy for men,
with open advocacy of matrimony
and the honors of maternity for
women.

St. Jerome undertook to modify
these ideas with his powerful pen,
and, in his answer to the attack of one
named Helvidius, came off the field
completely vicforious.

It was about this time, 384 a.d.,
that Blesilla fell ill of a pernicious
fever, which for a month threatened
her life. This illness brought her
wisdom. The following is the story
of her conversion, from St. Jerome :
" During thirty days," he says, " we
saw our Blesilla burning with a de-
vouring fever. She lay almost be-
reft of life, panting under the struggle
with death, and trembling at the
thought of the judgments of God.
Where then was the help of those
who gave her worldly counsels ? of
those who prevented her from living
for Christ? Could they save her
from death? No. But our Lord
himself, seeing that she was only
carried away by the intoxication of
youth and the errors of her century,
came to her, touched her hand, and
cried out to her, as to Lazarus,
* Arise, come forth and walk !' She
understood this call, and she arose
and knew that she owed the boon of
life to him who had given it back to
her." She was then but twenty
years of age, when she shone in
her new-born beauty of holiness.
She, who formerly passed long hours
at her toilet, now sought only to find

5 to

Sketches amwf^mm the Life of St

God ; and, instead of the ornaments
in which she had liked to appear, she
now covered her fair head with the
veil niost becoming for a Christian
woman* All the money that had
been spent for adorning herself now
went to the poor. And this ardent
soul, once consecrated to God, gave
itself up entirely, and, passing with a
great llight beyond ordinary natures,
at once reached the summit of human
ivirtue and perfection.

Eustochium and Paula had not
more ardor. Jerome was admirable
in his manner of seconding this gene-
rous enthusiasm. He now instructed
her in the Scriptures, and she studied
first Ecclesiastes, then the gospels,
and Isaiah. She learned Hebrew to
read the Psalms. Her encrg)' was
wonderful, for her steps still tottered
from illness, and her delicate neck
drooped under the weight of her
young head. But the divine book
was never out of her hands.

How shall w^e paint the joy of
Paula at this change in her beloved
child ! Her dearest wishes had been
granted. This, too, was a fruitful
conversion j others imitated such an
example ; and Paula's house soon
became a sort of monastery, which
Jerome would call \\\^ fireside church.
He gives a most beautiful description
of Paula and her children at this
period, when the blessing of God
was so visibly on her household.
Her fen'or increased. She deter-
mined on a complete sacrifice of
her worldly goods, and, in the words
of St. Jerome, " being already dead
to the world, though still living, she
distributed all her fortune among her
chiUlren," thereby entirely initiating
herself into the holy poverty of Christ,
Notwithstanding all the consolations
God had sent her, she was still un-
easy and dissatisfied ; her life was
not yet all that she sighed for. A
great disgust toward Rome filled

her mind^ and the descriptions Ept
phanius had given her of the Exit
rose up for ever in her, making bet
soul long for the monastic life of the
desert. The example of Melatiic
was then to increase this longi ng, for
Melanie had now been for some years
realizing her dreams in her convent
on the Mount of Olives.

There was now nothing to prevail
Paula from going. BlesUla, as «mU j
Eustochium, wished to follow lUtir \
mother in her pilgrimage, and manjf
of their friends desired to join tlieili.
St. Jerome, the veteran pilgrim^ was
to be their pilot to holy pUces, He
had strengthened tliem all in the
love of God and nourished ifaem with
the Holy Scriptures. Hb letters to
Eustochium at this time were cxqui*
site. What could be more totiching ■,
than the friendship uniting the mosr f
lere old monk and this sweet young
maiden ? " my Eustochium \ O n^'
daughter 1 O my sister !'* he
to her, "since my age and cha
alike permit me to give you these
names, if you are by birth the no-
blest of Roman virgins, I beseech fOU
guard zealously your own heart and
keep it from evil Imitate our Lord
Jesus Christ, be obedient to your pa-
rents, go out rarely, and honor the
martyrs in the solitude of your chacn-
ber. Read often and you will learn ■
much. Let sleep surprise you whh tlie I
holy book in your hands, and, if your i
head drop down with fatigue, let it
be on the sacred pages,"

Eustochium was grateftil to kiBi
for his wise counsels, and» wishing
to express her appreciation of his J
letters to her, she gathered couni§e^
to send him a little offering of a bas-
ket of cherries, with several of those
bracelets called armUin and scmte
doves. The whole was accompanied
by a sweet, giriish letter, full of aflfec-
tJon» The cherries, she said^ were a
symbol of purity, to remind him of

Sketches drawn from the Life of St. Paula,

Sii

his letters j the bracelets were such
as were given to reward brilliant
deeds, and were to put him in mind
of his own victories in controversy j
and, lastly, the doves were emblema-
tic of his tenderness to her from her
childhood.

St Jerome received with great
kindness the little offerings of his
spiritual daughter, and thanked her
for them in a letter full of affection,
mingled with the grave counsels
which ever flowed from his pen.

The time was approaching for the
departure of Paula for the East. It
was in the autumn of 384 a.d., when
Blesilla suddenly fell ill of the same
fever which had once before laid her
so low. The news of her illness fill-
ed her friends with consternation, for
Blesilla was tenderly loved by them.
She sank so rapidly that there was
soon no hope left of her recovery.
This was but four months after her
conversion, and God already judged
her ready for a better life, and called
her to himself.

She was but twenty, and was going
to die. Her mother, her sisters, her
relations, her friends, Marcella and
St. Jerome, all gathered around her
death-bed in tears. Blesilla alone did
not weep. Though the fever was
consuming her, a ray of celestial
light illuminated her countenance
with a beauty not of earth, and trans-
figured her. Her only regret was,
that her repentance had been so
short She turned to those who were
around her : " Oh ! pray for me," she
cried, " to our Lord Jesus Christ, to
have mercy on my soul, since I die
before I have been able to accom-
plish what I had in my heart to do
for him." These were her last words ;
every one present was moved to tears
by them. Jerome eagerly offered
consolation. "Trust in the Lord,
dear Blesilla," said he ; " your soul is
as pure as the white robes you have

worn since your consecration to God,
which though but recent was so gene-
rous and complete that it came not
too late." These words filled her soul
with peace. And shortly afterward, to
use the words of St Jerome, " freeing
herself from the pains of the body,
this white dove flew off to heaven !"

Her obsequies were magnificent,
followed by all the Roman nobles.
Such was the custom of the patri-
cians. A peculiar interest and sym-
pathy were felt in the fate of this
brilliant young woman, as well as
universal compassion for the sorrow
of her venerable mother. The long
procession walked through the
streets, followed by the coffin cover-
ed with a veil of gold. St Jerome,
though not approving of this display,
dared not interfere to prevent it, as
it seemed a sad consolation to Paula
to see the honors paid to the child so
tenderly loved. She undertook to
accompany Blesilla to her last rest-
ing-place ; but her strength failed,
and, having taken but a few steps, she
fainted away and was brought back
to her house insensible.

The days that followed the funeral
only increased her grief. She was
crushed by it In vain did she try
to submit to the divine will, her heart
failed her, and Jerome felt that he
must make an effort to give her
strength, or else she would succumb
to the pressure. The effort was
great on his part, for Blesilla was his
beloved pupil, and this death annihi-
lated all his own cherished hopes of
her. He never found the courage to
conclude a commentary, begun ex-
pressly for her, on Ecclesiastes. But
feeling it a duty to help Paula, he
wrote to her a letter filled with true
delicacy of feeling anrf Christian
faith. He commenced by weeping
with her over the lost Blesilla, for he
said : " While wishing to dry her mo-
ther's tears, am I not weeping my-

?f2

'p of Sl Pm

self r He condmied this noble let*
ter in these words, alike lepfoaciifal
add sympaibiztRg : •* Wbeo I reflect
that yoo are a mother, I do not blame
you for n^eptog;^ but when I reflect
also that jrou are a Christian, then,
O Paula ! I wish that the Christian
oald console the mother a little."

He reminded her of the children
she had left, ar.d with all the autho-
rity of his holy office bid her take
care lest, **in loving her children so
much, she did not love God enough,*'
" Listen/' he says, " to Jesus, and
trust in him : * Your daughter is not
dead, but sleepeth/ *'

Then Jerome would picture to
Paula her daughter in all her celes-
tial glo^\^ He would suppose Ble-
silla calling upon her mother in these
words ; " If you have ever loved me,
O my mother 1 if you have ever nour-
ished me from your bosom, and train-
ed my soul with your words of wis-
dom and virtue, oh ! I conjure you,
do not lament that I have such glory
and happiness as is mine here 1
What prayers does Blesilla not now
offer up for you to God T* And St.
Jerome adds, ** She is praying for me
also, for you know, O Paula ! how de-
voted I was to her soul, and what I
did not fear to brave^ that she might
be saved."

St. Jerome's letter awoke new
Christian strength and resignation in
the broken spirit of Paula. The
tears ceased to flow, but the wound
bled inwardly and never healed*
The void left by Blesilla in her mo-
ther's lieart must ever make it deso-
late, Rome became insupportable
to her, and the pilgrimage to the
East, so long thought of, seemed
nosv the only thing that could interest
her. About this time Pope Damasus
died. He was a great loss to St Jc-
rome, for hb successor had not the
same moral couraige, and dared not
iostaiu the old monk in advocating

nKMsastic lilby vfaidi so ecmged die
paindaos.

Finally, worn oat by persecQtioo,
and perhaps loDging to rcfifm to thai
solitude be had tkextx ceased to re-
gret, Jerome derennined to Ica^'C
Kome. This was in the year 3S5
A.D. His friends were only watting
for his signal to accompany him in
numbers, and many were the letn
shed by his gentle pupils in Rome at
his departure. His fire well letter to
them all was addressed to the vene-
rable A sell a, through whom he sent
his last greetings to Paula, Etisto*
chium, Albina, Marceila, MarcelHna,
and Felicity, " his sisters ivi Jesus
Christ." Many of these he was dei^tin-
ed to see no more. But the decision
of Paula Wiis irrevocable. She had
no longer any earthly tic to detain
her. Her son, moved by tlie exam-
ple of his mother and sisters, had re-
ceived Christian baptism, and wai
soon to marr>* a young Christian
maiden, the cousin of Marceila,
Rufina was to remain during her mo-
ther's absence with her sister Paulina
and Pammachius, and also with
Marceila, her second mother.

Eustochium was to accompany h*r
mother, as well as a large number of
the pious community of the Avenlinc.
They left Rome in the autumn ol
385 A.D. Paula courageously bid
farewell to her children, and tlic
friends who had followed in troops
to see her embark. Leaning on the
arm of £ustochium» she was seen on
the deck of the vessel, her eyes invert-
ed, that her strength might not Gill
her as she witnessed the sorrow of
her loved ones whom she was leaving.
For St Jerome tells us^ " Paula Xo/neA.
her children more thao wckf other
w*oman/*

The yoyik^ was furomble, the
trssct touching tx many pUm of
classic interest. When they finally
reached Salamuies in tht Ists^ of

Sketcfies drawn from t/ie Life of St. Paula.

S13

us, what was her joy on finding
enerable friend, St. Epiphanius,
ng on the shore to receive her,
y in being able to return the
itality he had enjoyed under her
in Rome three years before,
le Island of Cyprus was fill-
vith monasteries and convents
ied and protected by Epiphanius,
h were a great attraction to Paula.
' hymns were sung where Venus
ately had reigned supreme ; and
^ave of the holy patriarch Hi-
n stood near the ruins of tiie an-
: temple of the heathen goddess,
"ter leaving Cyprus, Paula went
ntioch. There Jerome and the
ts and monks who had accom-
gd him from Rome were await-
her with Paulinus, the bishop.
f wished to Retain her ; but since
eet had touched land her ardor
ach Jerusalem had so increased
nothing could stop her. To
w the footsteps of Christ, to
where his precious blood was
, then to visit the anachorites of
iesert, such was Paula's thought,
ochium and her companions
sd this desire. No time was lost,
ravan was organized, Jerome and
-iends on dromedaries, Paula and
suite on asses, and they began
journey together. The road
Antioch to Jerusalem was long
fatiguing for women so delicate-
ed. A journey in those days was
)f perils of which we now have no
But Paula was indefatigable,
rred by no dangers and com-
ling of no inconveniences, as she
>ed the icy plains at this most
g season of the year. St. Jerome
of the cities that she saw, and of
amotions that she felt as her
vledge of Scripture and of holy.
:s brought up recollections and
ziations either of Jewish or of
stian history wherever she went,
des, Jerome was there, with his
VOL. VII — ^33

prodigious memory and knowledge,
to throw light on every step.

As Paula approached Jerusalem,
her soul was more deeply moved
than it had yet been. The view of
the landscape around the city was
desolate, even as early as the fourth
century. She entered by the Gate of
Jaffa, also called the Gate of David
and the Gate of the Pilgrims. The
proconsul of Palestine had sent an
escort to meet her, to receive her
with honor ; but with that sentiment
which later made Godefroi de Bou-
illon refuse to wear a golden crown
where God had worn one of thorns,
Paula refused to lodge in the palace
offered for her convenience, and she
and her whole §uite staid at a mo-
dest dwelling not far from Calvary ;
then she started at once to visit the
Holy Places. Who can describe her
feelings as she entered the church of
the Holy Sepulchre } In the fourth
century, the stone which closed the
entrance to the tomb of our Lord
was still to be seen by the faithful
pilgrims. To-day it is covered by a
monument of marble. As soon as
Paula saw it, with great emotion she
embraced it ; but when she entered
into the sepulchre itself, and went up
to the rock on which had laid the
body of our Lord, she could no long-
er restrain her tears, and, falling on
her knees, sobbed and wept abun-
dantly. All Jerusalem saw these
tears, and were edified at the great
piety of this noble Roman lady, the
daughter of the Scipios.

St Jerome tells us that, while she
was in Jerusalem, " she would see
everything," and that " she was only
dragged away from one holy place
that she might be taken to ahother."

After having visited Jerusalem, the
pilgrims travelled all over the Holy
Land, commencing with Bethlehem
and Judea, then visiting Jericho and
the Jordan, Samaria and Galilee as

Sketches dmwH frcnn the Life of St, Paula,

far as Nazareth, and finally, reorga-
nizing the caravan, they set out for
Eg>'pt ; nott however, before paying
a visit to Melanie, in her convent on
the Mount of Olives, whence they re-
turned to Jerusalem.

Paula would now have fixed her-
self at Bethlehem but for this longing
to visit the fathers of the desert.
They started on this, the longest and
most fatiguing part of their journey,
and were sixteen days in going from
Jerusalem to Alexandria. This city
was the Athens of the East. In such
an atmosphere of learning, there had
I been great intellectual development
among the Christians, and the school
of Christian philosophers of Alexan-
dria was renowned throughout the
world. This was what detained Paula
and Eustochium, and particularly Je-
rome, some time at Alexandria, where
they were received with great hospi-
tality by the bishop, TheophilusL But
even the most interesting studies
could not make Paula forget the prin*
Lcipal object of Iter voyage to Egypt,
and her desire to see and to know the
ascetics, that wonderful class of men,
who voluntarily exiled themselves
from the world and from all human
jlies, and astonished mankind by in-
1 credible austerities, and byconsecra-
I ting their lives entirely to spiritual
things and to a future existence. At
this time the number of these ana-
chorites had so multiplied, that it was
said that in Eg)^pt the deserts had as
many inhabitants as the cities. Mo-
nastic life was then in all its glory.
The great anachorites, Paul, Antony,
Hihirion, and Pacomfus, were dead ;
but their disciples lived, as celebra-
ted as themselves. A great work of
^organiijation had been accomplished
wnong them. The first men who
came to the desert lived alone in caves
K cells, each following his individual
inspiration. Paul had lived forty years
in a grotto, at the entrance of which

was a spring and a palm-tree, diink
ing the water of the spring
ing the fruit of the tree, bein^ ^

nourishment Antony's life haii
more extraordinary stilL But
the number of the hermits increasedi.
they felt the necessity of commiinlty
life being established, and the CCQO-,
bites began to take the place
anachorites, though there rci
many of the latter, dividing, as it were,
the hermits into two kinds^ the Aiia<
chorites and the Ccnobites, Laige
convents spread out along i)
of the Nile to the furthest c
of Egypt,

It was not easy to visit these es-
tablishments. In going therc^ many
years before, Melanie and her com*
panions had been lost for five days,
and their provisions being e\'
they had nearly died of hur> _
thirst in the desert. Crocodiles, bask
ing in the sun, had awaited with npett
J.1WS to dev^our them, and numberless
other dangers had beset them.

But this did not discourage PaulAt
and her route being happily cliosciv
she accomplished her journey safely
to the mountain of Nitria, where five
thousand cenobites lived in 6fty dif
ferent convents, under the rule of ooc
abbot The news of her coming had
preceded her, and the Bishop of He*
liopolis had come to welcome tlie no-
ble lady. He was surrounded by i
great crowd of cenobites and ana-
chorites. As soon as they perc^?ed
the caravan, they came forward
ing hymns. P.iida was soon suf*
rounded She declared herself most
unworthy of the honors accorded her,
and fit the same time glorified God,
who worked such marvels in ihe de-
sert The bishop first conducted the
pious band to the church situated oa
the summit of the mountain, and
there, with that hospitality for wbidl
the monks of the E.ist were ever
m,irkablc, the travellers were given

Sketches drawn from the Life of St, Paula,

SIS

the best rooms attached to the con-
vent and intended for the use and
convenience of strangers. Fresh wa-
ter was brought to them to wash their
feet, and linen to dry them, and the
fruits of the desert to refresh their pa-
lates ; after which they were allowed
to visit the convents and the hermits,
whose life was very simple and very
free, at the same time holy and aus-
tere. Ambitious of reducing the body
to servitude, and to penetrate the se-
crets of things divine, they united ac-
tion with contemplation. Their days
were passed between work and pray-
er. Some were to be seen digging
the earth, cutting trees, fishing in the
Nile, or perhaps plaiting the mats on
which they were to die. Others were
absorbed by the reading of, or medi-
tation on, the Holy Scriptures. The
monasteries swarmed like bee-hives.

After having witnessed the ceno-
bitical life, Paula went to the desert
of cells to see the anachorite life,
which there was carried out in all its
austerity and all its poetry. These
monks had no walls built by man, but
had retired to the mountains as to the
most inaccessible asylums. Caverns
and rocks were their dwellings, the
earth their table, their food roots
and wild plants, and water from the
springs their refreshment. Their pray-
ers were continual, and all the moun-
tain hollows rang with God's praises.
These grottoes did not communicate
with each other, and the isolation of
the anachorites was complete. Once
a week, on Sunday only, they left
their cells, and, dressed in robes made
of palm-leaves or of sheepskin, they
went to the church of Nitria, where
they saw one another, and also met
the cenobites. Paula wished to know
and listen to these pious men. She
therefore visited all the grottoes, one
by one, talking always of the things
of God to their inmates.

Paula's next visit was through a

still more savage country to see those
called by St Jerome "the columns
of the desert." She cared not for
dangers nor fatigue, so that she could
contemplate such men as Macarius
— the disciple of Antony and Paco-
mius — a man so austere that he had
astonished Pacomius himself, who
had watched him during the whole of
one Lent plaiting mats in his cell,
without speaking to any one, all ab-
sorbed in God, and only eating once
a week, on Sunday, a few raw vege-
tables. None could surpass this great
ascetic. He permitted the pilgrims
to penetrate into his grotto, and de-
lighted Paula with his holy conversa-
tion and instruction.

Jerome admired likewise the pro-
digies of this pure and austere life ;
but more occupied than Paula with
the doctrines he heard discussed, he
had perceived that some of the monks
were less enlightened than others. It
seems, as it afterward was proved, that
the theories of Origen were already
beginning to trouble the inhabitants
of the desert.

There remained now, to complete
Paula's insight into the life of the
hermits, but to visit the convents
founded by Pacomius, which she he-
sitated not to do. There were six
thousand monks living in them, go-
verned by the venerable Serapion.
Their rule divided each monastery
into a certain number of families.
Their frugal lives enabled them to
extend their charities far and wide.
Their fasting and abstinence lasted
all the year round, becoming only
more strict in Lent. Paula enjoy-
ed their hospitality greatly, learning
much from Serapion that delighted
her about this well-organized monas-
tic life which realized her ideal.

She thought for a moment of esta-
blishing herself in the desert, and of re-
questing Serapiop to admit her colo-
ny under the rule of Pacomius ; but the

$i6

To the Count de Montalcnibert,

Jove of the Holy Places prevented her
from carrying out this plan. She said
"her resting-place was not in these
deserts, it was in Bethlehem.'* Alrea-
dy had she lingered too long ! She
had now learned all that she wished
to learn, enough for her own guidance.
She therefore embarked with her en-
tire caravan for Maioma, a sea-port
of Gaza; and from there, without
stopping on her way, she returned to
Jerusalem, and thence to Bethlehem,
with as much rapidity, says St, Je-
rome, as \i she had had wings.

Here the news awaited her of the
k death of her daughter Rufina. The
'Wow was terrible to Paula, but her

mind was strengthened by all she ba(|
seen, and the voice of God reached her
heart and comforted her, and gave her
stronger hope than she had ever bai|
in reunion hereafter with her beloved
children. She sought to nial;e bcr-^
self worthy of immortality, and her
faith and her good works brought her
consolation and peace. She resolved
to found two nionastcnes : o»e for her-
self, Eustochium, and her friends from
the Avenline ; the other for Jerome
and his followers. This was dooc
without delay, and Ujey at once be-
gan the life which llicy longed for— 4
life of labor, of study, and of prayci;

c ojxTmumoi

TO THE COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT, WITH A COPY OF

^MNISFAIL/*

Your spirit walks in halls of light :

On earth you breathe its sunnier climes :

How can an Irish muse incite

Your fancy thus to sorrowing rliymcs ?

But you have fought the church s fight \
My country's cause and hers are one :

And ever)' cause tliat rests on Right
Invokes Religion's bravest son.

* froiQ % iGftboocniaK volume of Poems, fay Aubksy d« Vsiia. now ia iM«a» by the CkHMiic \
Society.

The Legmd of Glastonbury.

517

THE LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.— A.D. 62.

in the pleasant west of Eng-
ver — the copious Brue — ^fol-
course to Bridgewater Bay,
the Sedgemoors and other
>unds. Somersetshire farm-
rive their ploughs and graze
le where I am going to de-
ter: thanks to those Bene-
lonks whom they have so
gotten. But at Christmas-

2 sixty years after the first

3 the world ever saw, there
monks at Glastonbury ; for
le reason, there were no
3 there. No one had banked
Iters of the Bristol Channel,
verted a brackish and un-
le swamp into fine arable or
nd. The Brue had it all its
to make islands, pools, and
js bogs with its unrestrain-
; until it had got so far west
jgle with the advancing tide
J.

ibury has the holiest memo-
' place in England ; and they
the first moment when the
planted there. The sacred
ur Lord was brought to this
i strict in a far-off heathen
one of his own disciples,
jph of Arimathea.
LS not heard of the Glaston-
1 ? A history of Somerset
incomplete which did not
:s blossoming every Christ-
comes round. It was fair
int for fifteen hundred win-
all around was sapless and
iople try to account for this
niracle by something pecu-
soil, as they would explain
freedom of Ireland from
d toads, or the healing vir-
L Winifired's Well. There

were probably Sadducees in Jerusa-
lem who thought the Pool of Bethesda
was all nonsense, or a mere chalybeate.
Anything you like about the powers
of nature, but nothing of the marvels
of grace. Chemistry to any extent,
but of miracle not one jot Thorns
blooming at Christmas ? It is all a
question of earth, soil, stratum, and
the lay of the ground, with those
who are "of the earth, earthy."

But we are now on our way to Glas-
tonbury as Christian pilgrims, staff
in hand. And it is very fit that we
should regard the old thorn (or such
suckers and cuttings of it as may
be found) with reverence. For that
thorn is a Christian tree, planted by
Christian hands. More than this : it
was planted by the hands whose un-
utterable privilege it was to unfasten
and take down from the cross, and
bear with adoring reverence to the
tomb, the body of God, separated
from his soul, united ever with his
divinity.

We are accustomed, in our medita-
tions on the passion, to contemplate
the emaciated, agonized form of our
Lord stretched and racked up>on the
cross ; or, after the Consummatum est,
when eventide was come, laid stark
and bloodless in the arms of the
Queen of martyrs, his most desolate
Mother. Naturally we lose out of
sight, by comparison, other agents
and events in what followed his ex-
piring cry. Yet look again. In the
growing dusk of that first Good Fri-
day, at the foot of the cross, and ill
the group of five or six persojis to
whom the eternal Father seems to
commit the lifeless body of his Son,
there is the saint of Glastonbury.
With the dolorous Mother, and the

518

The Legaid of Glast&fthury.

beloved disciple, and Ihe saintly, peni-
tent Magdalene, and the other holy
women, and Nicodemus, St, Joseph
of Arimathea also bears his part.

To come back to Glastonbury ; we
must pass over some thjrt)* years from
that sacred paschal eve* Pentecost
soon followed it, with its fiery tongties
on the apostles' brows. They were il-
luminated and strengthened to preach
tiie faith over the earth lying in dark*
ness. So they separated on this world-
wide mission, each on the path where-
on the guidance of God's Spirit led
him* "Their sound went over all
the earth, and their words unto the
ends of the whole world.'* St Philip
went into Phrygia, and, by some ac-
counts, was martyred there. Others
make him to have preached tlie gos*
pel in what is now France, and that
St. Joseph was one of his companions,
A better supported tradition has it
that St Joseph, with St Lazarus and
his two holy sisters, Martha and
Mary, landed at Marseilles from Ju-
dea. Anyhow, here comes St Joseph
of Arimathea to Britain, with a faith-
ful band of eleven disciples. He has
reached the distant region of tin-mines
which the old Phoenicians had discov-
ered and worked in Cornwall, Scilly,
and, perhaps^ the Mendip Hills, He
is come not for precious metals, but
to bring the priceless word of life.

So, rather more than sixt}' years
after the Incarnation, and while Saints
Peter and Paul are still alive in
Rome, though the day of their mar-
tyrdom draws near, we find ourselves
on the brow of Wear)*- All Hill, a mile
or so south-west of the spot where
♦ Glastonbury Abbey will be built

Weary-All Hill! the name it has
been known by for generations
back. But not a likely name to be
given it by St Joseph and his eleven
companions, as they stood on it for
the first time, eighteen centuries ago ;
«s they looked on the marshy plain,

{

dotted with islands, in atid out of
which the glassy stream is winding*
Weariness, at least lassitude of sqii-
rit, was unknown to those ^po«toHcfl
men. Had they not come all this
way to bring the everlasting ^pel ?
Had not their feet been ''beatltiCill^
U|>on the mountains " as they CT06f"1
cd them, bearing this message af
heavenly love ? — mountains deep k
snow, yawning with frightful clefts
and precipices, gloomy with ifupene-
trablc forests, to which this Weary Att'
is scarcely a mole-hill ?

** At length, then," said St Joseph,
when the twelve had paused on the
brow of it to recover breath ; for
few of them were young, and it
rather a pull for a Somersetshire
hill — " at length we have readied the
end of our pilgrimage/'

As he spoke, he pointed with !iii,
long stafi* to the little group of blandsj
already noticed. A cheery I>cccm'
ber sun lingered on the scene, and,
though it was evening, still cast
gleam upon the wide -spread m^ts*
The Brue was winding along, Doiif
less and limpid* sprinkled ¥rith t
dark islets, as the shining coits of
snake arc variegated with the spots
upon its skin. There was no ice yet,
though it was already the ChnsimM
season. Perhaps the sea-water that
mingled with the marsh from the
Bristol Channel prevented its forroi
tion. The leafless thickets that frin-
ged the slopes of West Scdgcmoot
and clothed both islands and marab-
land in irregular clumjys, allowed a
more distinct view of the mirror o(
waters than when shaded with sum-
mer foli.ige. There was a kind ol
grave and sober animation ofvcf tlie
whole scene.

A short distance further oC to the
east, rose a solitaty* peaked hill, per*
haps even then called the Tor, It
has several scarped Iine«i, or passeSt
drawn around it, denoting iW the

The Legend of Glastonbury.

S19

ans had fortified it as a strong-
, which tliey occupied from time
ne. Years after, a little chapel
nor of St Michael the archangel
be built on its summit. Years
, again, that little chapel will be
ged into a stately church, the
r of which still remains. And
y fifteen centuries after St. Jo-
first stood on Weary- All, the last
t of the stately Benedictine mo-
jry, as Glastonbury had become,
martyred there with two of his
ws. His crime was, that he
ired to Caesar only those things
were Caesar's, and refused to ac-
ledge the tyrant Henry VIH.
tad of God's church in England.
>rthward of where we stand, fit
istance of five miles and more,
brupt range of the Mendip Hills
it at that moment almost the
)eams of the declining sun, as it
, fiery red, toward the western
1.

The end of our pilgrimage," said
oseph again, slowly, and gazed
on the peaceful spot. " These
le islands of which the heathen
spoke : — how are we to name

^rviragus," answered one of his
ranions, nay, it was the saint's
nephew, called Helaius.
Permitting us to set up there a
itian altar, and to proclaim the
:s and the praises of Jesus and

►lay the kindness be returned a
red-fold into his own bosom,"
lated Theotimus.
Vmen," answered St. Joseph fer-
y. And Joseph his son, and Si-
i, and Avitus, and the rest, re-
ied.

en all knelt there on the brow
e hill ; all but Hoel, their poor
1 guide to the spot. And with
itian psalms, and the Gloria Pa-
nd invocations to the court of

heaven to assist them in their praises,
they poured out thanksgivings to him
who had permitted their long wander-
ings to cease, and their missionary
life in this heathen land to begin.

Hoel stood near, leaning on his
shepherd's crook. He guessed in
general what it was about ; but he
understood neither Hebrew nor
Greek.

He is a true Briton of that date, is
Hoel ; and he might literally be call-
ed "true blue," for he is painted
all over in blue patterns with the
juice of the woad, like his northern
cousins, the Picts. His scanty gar-
ments are dyed the same hue with
the same plant, which yields its juice
plentifully in this part of Britain.

He looks at the saint, and thinks
he is inquiring the name of that
principal island in the group to
which his staff points.

" Iniswytryn," cries Hoel, in expla-
nation. "You're Latin scholars,
gentlemen ; so I suppose you know
what that means — Glassy Island y*

Glass, in those days, imported by
the Romans into Britain, sorry stuff
as the best of it would now be reck-
oned in the Birmingham or St. He-
len's foundries, was thought a won-
der of rarity and beauty. So Glassy
Island was a name equivalent to our
calling another island that we love
very dearly the

" First flower of the earth, and first g^m of the sea."

Hoel now spoke again in the same
strange jargon as before, composed
of British, or what we should call
Welsh, and a little Latin. It was

* Insula Vitrea^ the Roman and therefore the
British name (by a slight corruption) of what was af-
terward called Glastonbury. GUu is the Celtic word
for grayish blue, (yA^VKdf ,) and enters into nume-
rous local names in Ireland, Wales, and the High-
lands. Its affinity with our word gUut is probably
more than a coincidence of sound, the ancient glass
being mostly of the same neutral tint. Others derive
the name of the place firom the woad-plant, giaun,
which grows abundantly in thisiHfatered district

$20

Thi Legend of Glastonbury,

the dialect of those parts of Britain

I where the Romans had established
their colonies and introduced their
tongue. Be it noted, we are at this
moment near the Roman colonies of
Uxella, or Bridge water, Ad Aquas,
or Wells, and Ischalis, or Ilchester.

** So you are going to settle down
there/' remarked Hoel " Won*t you
offer some sacrifice on first sighting
the place ?"

**We have no means of sacrificing
this evening, friend," answered St.

I Joseph calmly, ** nor to-morrow

[morning, I fear, unless w^e obtain ma-
terials, which at present we lack,"

*■ Means I — materials 1 " said Hoel,
rousing with himself "Weil, every
nation, 1 take it, has its own cus-
toms. But I know those who would
not be long without providing the
materials.'*

St Joseph wished to ascertain what
was passing in the man's mind. The
zeal which urged St. Paul to become
all things to all men, that he might

^ave all, burned in the holy mission-
ary's bosom. It made him seek out
all that might sen^e the purpose of
his coming. He had everything to
learn : language, habits of thought,

I customs of social life, and the very
observances of British heathenism.
*' And how*," he asked, ** would you

[ oflTer a sacrifice, good friend, when
you had nothing to offer it with ?**
"I? Nay. / could not. What

[good would a sacrifice be from a

} peasant like me .'*'

" 1 o pray is to make an offering,
is it not ?"

" Yes ; but I don't mean that. You
know I mean something more j why,
something really sacrificed — con-
sumed, to make the gods favorable.
Have you no such sacrifice in your

I religion ? Then it can't be the true

[one, Pm sure I"

•* Certainly," said St. Joseph, " we

lys, whcft
^witli^

have the one true and adorable

rifice, of which all others are mere
shadows, and some of them very
dark, distorted shadows. Every
morning we offer to the. tnje aad
living God tliat spotless Lamb vlio
alone can take away sin, or be a
worthy thank*offering to his majesty
and his mercy.*'

**A lamb?" said HocI, still ant-
ing ; " why, that*s not to be had at
this season. But would nothing ebc
do instead ? For example, now, Tvc
a nice — "

" Do not concern yourselC' «»•
swered St. Joseph, and smiled again,
kindly. "We shall be able lo pro-
vide ourselves in a few tlays, whea
we have made acquaintance
neighborhood. 1 supfXJse they
wine in these parts?''

**Wine?'* repeated the
opening his eyes. ** Oh 1 yes, to be^
sure." Then, after a pause ; " Voo>^
fond of wnne, then, after all, like
own Druids ? Well, I should hanlly*
have thought — '*

Helaius could hardly repress
smile at his mistake,

Hoel looked at him ; then, as if^
he had hit on the cause of his amuse-
ment, laughed his loud clownish
laugh, too.

" Wine ? Ah I the very best, if yoo
can buy it of those gray-bcaidod
gentlemen; and old mead, and me*
theglin ; or cider from our apples hdc-
about. We grew a mortal sight ^
'em."*

Then he broke out into singiAgt
and a kind of war-dance^ to piease
his companions, as he deemed :

** All under yon oaluv sod the miadciQc nnaulk ^
Wlifcn rictinu bum Ued in the va^ «tf Moon^
We drink down ths *un»ec with Mnitt^yUf «■!
stidotMis,
And lie Uut f«teei» ime*tl fiddl* Im %aM»:

And be thai j^aaaa^ veil Ruldk hit b«Hi T

* Qutoabofy «•• tUcfiwd «itl«d bf dbc
vl •mAm^ or the litaad #r Ap»lii.

The Legend of Gkistonbury.

$21

: was difficult not to smile at his
avagant tones and gestures.
Gently, gently," said St. Joseph
is companions, " or we shall be
eading him, and doing harm."
Oh ! never mind, ancient sir," re-
ked Hoel encouragingly, though
had not understood what was
. " All quite right — ^why shouldn't
? Only, it strikes me, youVe no
e to lay in a stock of it at pre-
. Now, our Druids burrow out
is, 'tis thought, somewhere under
r cromlechs — "

Listen !" interrupted St Joseph,
ng his hand on the other^s arm.

looked into HoeFs face, and
led his 'attention in a moment
sten, while I say a thing to ^'ou.
id and wine, the ordinary food
an in our native land, have been
MHted by him whom we serve, as
materials of that true sacrifice
li he will accept He requires,

will admit, no other. Animals
sacrificed to him of old, before
appointed this new and better
:; but now — "

^ow spoke of a lamb," intemipt-
:ie peasant, growing rather sulky,
I just took the liberty of inform-
you as we'd none at your ser-

was not the moment to pursue
high and mysterious truths with
any fiirther. But Hoel himself
id not be let off, nor would he
»ff St. Joseph. Something seemed
5 working in his mind.
A lamb is a lamb," persisted he
jedly, though he seemed to mean
isrespect ; " and a sacrifice is a
ifice; and bread is bread, I
» ; and wine, I*m sure, is wine."
A.11 things are what they have
I created by God," answered St
ph very gently, "until it is his
will and pleasure to change
1 in any way, or even to change
I into other things."

Hoel looked at him, but said no-
thing. His look, though, meant in-
quiry, and this St. Joseph perceived.

" Is not a tree changed into some-
thing very different from what it was
before," he went on, "when the
warm air of spring breathes upon it,
and the sap rises into it, and it puts
forth green buds, and they swell, and
burst, and afterward come leaves
and fruit ?"

"True," answered he; and then
was silent, thinking.

" Did you ever see one of the trees
down yonder blossom at this sea-
son ?"

For all answer, Hoel laughed,
and pointed to the leafless boughs
on the island, and the shores around
them.

" Could the gods whom you wor-
ship cause them to do so ?"

" Not one of 'em all," answered
he, with a somewhat scornful ges-
ture.

"Then, who makes winter pass
and spring return ; the bud burst
forth, and the fruit ripen ?"

A pause. The poor pagan was
not prepared to answer.

" Now," continued St Joseph, " my
God, the one living and true, not
only has appointed the laws by
which seasons come round with
their produce, and the sun rises
and sets. He sometimes, moreover,
changes these things, according to
his own all-perfect will, so that the
sun stays motionless in the heavens
above, and the tree blooms in mid-
winter on the earth below."

Hoel mused, and mused again,
while his eyes wandered from the
speaker to the rest, in whose looks
he read confirmation of the words.
Then he turned to take a sweep
over the wintry scene that lay be-
neath and around. Woods and
thickets skirting the slopes of Sedge-
moor, the osiers lining the banks of

S2a

The Legend of Glastonbury.

the Bnie, the few apple-trees that
were even then on Iniswytr)'n — all
without sign of a leaf.

He bent his eyes to the ground,
knit his brows» seemed determined
to hear no more, and to believe no-
thing of what he had heard.

Still the gentle^ persuasive voice
of the saint sounded in his ears:

** What is that, friend, you have in
your hand ?"

**My shepherd's crook," was the
brief and surly answer

"And see, my pilgrim-staff, that
has aided my steps so far. Yours
was cut from a British sapling, out
of your moist soil, I dare say, no
longer ago than last autumn. Mine,
under a burning sky, long years since,
in Judea, a land you never heard of.
It came from a ihom-brake that had
furnished thorns for a crown of which
you know nothing: W^liich of these
two staves would bud the quickest,
if they were planted side by side?''

Hoel looked up, pleased to find
something he understood. *^Mine
would, of course," he grinned out.
" 'Tis a right slip of mountain ash,
and would have leaves next spring,
if 1 struck it into the ground."

" And what if mine now budded
'.before you could count ten ?"

**You jest with me where I see
no jest," exclaimed the countr^'man,
disposed now to be angry, "or you
speak as one of the unwise."

"There is no jest here,*' answer-
ed St* Joseph with unruftled look.
" You say truly. By no power of
mine could the seasons alter, or the
cts of them. My Master has
"said: *AU the days of the earth,
seed-time and har\^est, cold and heat,
summer and winter, night and day,
shall not cease !* But what if his
power and his will unite to make
some wonderful change in all tJiis?"

" His power is great in the sum-
mer/' answered Hoel, casting a look

at the declining sun ; ^ but ta the
winter time he seems further o^ or
feebler. He cannot melt the icc,tiar
draw up the dew, nor wann Wf
fingers while I stand watcbiof mg
sheep."

It was plain he was spemUof of
his deity, then sinking in the mtax^
lower ever)* moment*

** Ah V said Avitus, « b it cwn
such darkness as this into whidl tile'
land is plunged ? Would we hftd
pushed on sooner from Gaul I''

" Courage, brother,*' whispered
Simeon in answer. " There has been
no time losL Man can do but little^
except pray and obey. If he docf
these well, he docs gocKl all around
him. What says the holy texx?
* Well done, good and faithAil ser-
vant ; because thou hast hc^n/mii^
in a iitiif,'' "

Meanwhile St Joseph had bctc
in silent prayer. By some ins|>tr^oo
he felt moved to ask for power to
work the first miracle ever wrought
in Britain. Our Lord had promised :
** These signs shall folliiw them thai
believe. In my name they shall C33t
out devils, they shall speak with new
tongues, they shall take up scfpems,
and if tliey shall drink any deadly
thing, it shall not hurt tlieni : tb«f
shall lay hands on the sick, andtbey
shall recover." ** Amen, amcOf I
say to you, he that bcUeveth in mt^
the works that I do, he shall do also ;
and greater than these shall he do,
because I go to the Father, And
whatsoever you shall ask the Father
m my name, that will 1 do ; that the
Father may be glorified in the Soa**

And even while St Joseph prayed,
it seemed as if witnesses of the mi*
racle, and disciples of the truth, were
being given him ; for, stealing up tbe
ascent from various directions^ knoll
of tlie wild Batons, in threes woA
fours, converged on the summit erf
Wear)** All HiiL I do not ff*«fl|*t^

(

rfM

The Legend of Glastonbury.

523

Hoel of treachery, or that he had
meant to lead the foreigners into a
snare. It is likely the rude inhabi-
tants had perceived them from afar
as they stood there, their forms
traced on the hill-top against the red
sunset sky. But these new-comers
seemed to have no friendly intention.
Most of them held in their hands the
rude weapons of ancient British war-
fare. The bare arms of some were
stained blue with the juice of the
woad ; others were tattooed ; they
hid the wild and savage look we
have seen in prints of the Sandwich
Islanders. So, with threatening as-
pect and gestures, on they came,
brandishing their lances and celts, or
bronze hatchets, and beginning a
sort of war-cry.

Yes ; the moment was come, and
the sovereignty of the true Lord both
over nature and grace was to be
manifested in one and the same mo-
ment.

St Joseph told his companions how
strongly the thought had come into
his mind. It had, indeed, guided
much that he had already said to
Hoel. As by one impulse, they all
knelt again, and besought our Lord
to remember now his promise ; so
that the soul that had remained im-
pervious to his word might see his
work.

St. Joseph then approached the
peasant, who by this time was sur-
rounded by his countrymen. In a
mild voice, yet with an authority not
to be resisted, he said :

" Plant your staff here, upright in
the ground."

Hoel was startled, looked at him,
then slowly obeyed.

The multitude still gathered, their
gestures more threatening every mo-
ment

" Call now, if you will, on your
gods, that the staff may bud and
blossom.^'

The peasant turned by a kind of
instinct to the setting sun ; clouds
were mantling round it ; its form was
veiled ; nothing seen but a dull and
rusty stain of sunset fast paling into
twilight Hoel shook his head.

" You will not call on it to hear, to
help you ?"

He was answered by a gesture
which implied that the power of Ho-
el's god was set for that night

Then St Joseph, with another eja-
culation of prayer, struck his thorny
staff into the ground beside the
other. He made over it the sign of
the cross, saying :

** By the grace of him who for us
men hung on the tree on Calvary,
wearing the thorny crown, I bid thee
be as thou wert wont to be in the
bloom of spring !"

There was still light enough to see
how, here and there on the length of
the staff, the shrivelled rind began to
swell and to break, how the green
buds shot forth and lengthened into
twigs ; how these ramified out again,
branch from branch, sucker after
sucker ; how the old staff expanded
into a shapely trunk of thorn-tree,
crowned with a pollard head of rus-
tling leaves.

And then through the keen wintry
air was wafted such a fragrance as
had never saluted the senses of shep-
herd, or of dreaming bard, wandering
through the brakes and thickets of
leafy May. The seasons had been
reversed at the strong prayer of the
just He who enabled Josue to
command the greater and lesser
light in the firmament, " Move not,
O sun, toward Gabaon, nor thou, O
moon, toward the valley of Ajalon,"
now honored the name of the true
Josue, the Captain of salvation, by
the "things that spring up in the
earth,"* which obey their Lord as

* BtnedkiU omnia gtrminatUia in tcrrA Dotmkno.
—Dan. iii. 76.

$24

The Sun,

perfectly as sun, and moon, and
stars.

What cries of astonishment broke
from the rude men who crowded
round! How they came trembling
to the feet of St Joseph ; how they

|kissed the hem of his robe, and

•adored him as a god! They thought
he was Baal himself ; they shrieked
out that the sun had set in clouds
because Baal had come in person to
take the place of his representative.
And though St. Joseph and his com-

ipanions testified by signs of abhor-
rence and earnest words how much
the rude impiety disturbed them, yet,
** Speaking these things, they scarce
restrained the people from sacrific-
ing to them/**

But this reverence, misguided and

|idolatrous at first, soon found its true
channel, and was directed to the
Giver of every best gift. And so the
gospel was preached in Glastonbu-
ry, and grew, and flourisht?d, and

^breathed out its fragrance like the
born itself,

* Acts dv. 17.

Then, after nearly fifteen hundred
years, came a winter more kil
than any Christmas during whldl^
the thorn had bloomed ; and *• %
famine, not of bread, nor a tliimt of
water, but of hearing the word of the
Lord/' The decree f»r rj^n

went forth ; the royal coi crs,

with a warrant from Henry VI I L,
thundered at the gates. The choir
of Glastonbuf)', as of numettms other
shrines in England, was, desecrated;
treasures of literature in the library
and scriptorium were torn in shreds
and scattered to the winds, with the
relics of innumerable saints. The
abbot, and two of his brethren, urerc
drawn on a hurdle to the Tor, and
martyred on its summit ; the com*
munity dispersed, and the ruins,
covering many acres, were given
over to strangers, as a stable for t^ielr
cattle.

But this was long after ^\. r^-
seph and his companions had beci^
gathered to the saints^

THE SUN.*

Gentlemen : From the beginning
of my stay in Paris, I was invited by

* Thfti lecture ma delivered by M> Seccht to ttus
•choUr« of the school of Saint Genevieve, on the »8th
Df July last, at a sdenlific Moinh, presided ov«r by
Mff. ChigL It occupied two hours in the deliveii'*
duHoK the whole of which time the lecturer held cap-
live ihe aftenticm nf hi- liUtini^ubhed audience, who
testified the tr • 1 oHts sciemific «uid liieniry

merit* by wai The lecture will speak for

itself lltit Til , .- ^ \u there is one ihtng which

Cacmotbe tepiroduced ; tluit ia, the deep intercut whicJt

T>ec^«j*3in1y attaches to the hearing 4 learned man

7 ' nn his expeiimenu and his ditccryeriea.

: fipuree were necessaiy fur the illu*"

Mtn parts of the lecture ; a«d thew, pre-

mi^ ii'<-vii M. Sccchi't detifns by M. Dtibosoq,

Hitcian, were projected oa a •creen. by the aid of
electric light, ihos enabling the spectators u>
follow the learned astronomer with greater ease.
Of these dcAigBK, etc, only the most caacDtia] have
been givep in ihe pobluthcd tecture.

l^ersons to whom I owe great defer-
ence to lecture to you on some of the
subjects which are studied at the
Obserx^atorv of the Roman Collie.
This invitation I felt to be in the
nature of a command, which I wooU
readily have obeyed long before, h^A\
I not been prevented by ntifne
and incessant cares. I cannot,
ever, leave France %vithout diaduug*
ing the debt \ and it ts for this pur-
pose that we have met together^ <n
the present occasion* I propose to \
speak to you of the sun, and to :
you what science teadies us of its '
physical constitution* Fur d^faMOi I

The Sun,

S2S

[ have studied the sun, and ob-
all that passes over its surface.
!, also, to interest you in ac-
ing you not only with the fruit
own labors, but also with the
sries of my learned contempo-

Lt is the sun? Such is the
)n which has been frequently
me. I confess it has always
ced me to reply to it. I should
pardoned, perhaps, if I should
know nothing of the matter;
leless, it is impossible for me
I a complete anci satisfactory
. You yourselves have ad-

I this question to me with an
ess which I appreciate as a
lar honor ; and, in responding
r desire, I am going to place
you the very interesting results
we have obtained in the study
luminary, .to which, after God,
ator, we owe all the physical
gs we enjoy here below.

deal with this vast subject
lething like an orderly form,
speak first of the new means
ervation with which modern
\ has furnished us ; after which

II see what advantage we have
1 from them, and in what way
ave served to make us better
ited with the sun.
onomers, gentlemen, are not
;ed beings. Like simple mor-
ley are dazzled by the sun.
om sharing the penetrating
hich poets accord to the eagle,
annot fix their gaze on the
orb of day without exposing
yes to the greatest danger;
is danger becomes more seri-
they employ their instruments
i purpose without taking pro-
:cautions. Until recently, two

have been employed to pro-
e eyes of the observer : first,
luction of the objective aper-

the glasses ; and second, pro-

viding strongly-colored glasses. These
two expedients present the most se-
rious inconveniences. The first de-
prives the observer of the advantages
which he would gain from the large
apertures, and the confusion of the
image is greatly augmented by the
diffraction which the small dia-
phragms cause the light to undergo ;
while the second will not permit of
our distinguishing the different co-
lors which may meet in the sun ; and
on this account the observer is liable
to fall into very grievous errors. The
means now in use effectually obvi-
ate this double inconvenience, inas-'
much as they allow pf the use of the
entire aperture of the glasses, and
leave to the different parts of the
sun their natural color. The first
means consists of the employment of
the reflective glass. A rectangular
prism of crystal is disposed in such
a manner as that its hypothenuse
has an inclination of 45 degrees on
the axis of the glass. The light, on
reaching the surface, divides itself
into two very unequal parts. The re-
flected rays are rather feeble, but of
sufficient brightness to make them
pass through a glass faintly colored,
falling perpendicularly on one of the
faces of the prism, without reaching
the eye of the observer. The color-
ed glass, not having to sustain so
high a temperature, is not so liable
to break, as often happened in the
old method.

If the colored glass is completely
done away with, we shall succeed by
adopting a method which rests on the
properties of polarized light. When
the light is reflected by a glass mir-
ror under an angle of 35 degrees 25
minutes, it undergoes a modification
which is called polarization. If the
rays thus polarized are received on
a second glass mirror under the same
inclination of 35 degrees 25 minutes,
they will divide into two parts, one

526

The Sm.

part of which mil traverse the glass,
and the other will undergo a second
reflection. • The quantity of light re-
flected by the second mirror will
depend on the relative position of
the two surfaces of reflection. It will
be at the maximum if these surfaces
are parallel, but othenvise if they are
perpendicular; so that, by varying
the relative position of the two mir-
rors to each other, we may either
augment or diminish gradually the
f intensity of the reflected rays. Such
is the property of the polarized light,
which is utilized for making observa-
tions of the sun. To the eye-glass
of the instrument are fixed two smooth
Ipiirrors, so adjusted as to make to the
[direction which the light follows an
^ angle equal to the angle of polariza-
tion. One of these mirrors can turn
round to the rejected rays. Then,
by putting the surface of the second
almost perpendicular to that of the
firsts we can obscrv^e the sun as easily
as we can the moon, seeing it in its
natural color, and w^e can regulate at
will the intensity of the light. It is
to tins new arrangement of the eye-
[■glasses that we owe the greater part
[of the discoveries of which I am
labout to speak to you. I ought (o
[add, however, that in the astronomi-
cal glasses we employ not only two,
but ihree and even four, of these re-
flections.

But to come to the consideration
Lof the sun. Everybody knows that it
bas spots ; that these spots, relatively
very' small, are of a black color, and
also, that they adhere to the body of
the sun. They move in a manner
leading us to the conclusion that this
Juminar)^ turns on its own axis in the
space of twenty -five and a quarter
days, and that its equator has an in-
clination of seven degrees and a half
on the ecliptic. These spots are far
from being constiint. They undei^o,
on the contrary, the greatest changes

both of form and size. Tlief slicnr
themselves particularly in some loocs,
and appear and disappear at i"cry ir-
regular periods. The maxiniuoi ai»d
the minimum are reproduced at mler-
vals of about eleven year^. Ooe of
the most curious <i ' our

times is, that this ] the

solar spots has some co -oo^

with terrestrial magnet ib.**. i ^ i- im-
possible to discover the point at which
the two classes of I ' uile^

but the existence oi .on-^

testable. Thus, we have jubi sctfti tlic
spots pass through the minimum.
From September, 1866, to starch,
1867, there were scarcely any
them ; -awA durini:^ the same period
the magnetic pi
very feeble- A

of these spots had been luiiy ascer-
tained, the questions naturaljy arose,
What is the cause of them, and whic
their nature? On tl * :uts there

have been numeroui js, all as

diverse as possible. Thii» is not
be wondered at ; for hitherto there.
has been no correct obsenration 6\>i
which could be learned the chanci
and the particulars of the phci
we desire to explain. Soi» frithout
stopping to discuss ancient theoiia,
I am about to bring before you the
latest observations, and the condih
sions at which we ha\^ arrived^ The
drawings of the first obecrvcrs repre-
sent the spots as formed with a blaclt
centre surrounded by a ;: if a

un ifonn figure, which is t i um-

bra, it is not surprising that, wtA
such imperfect means of observatioOf
the tlteory of the spots should remain
so long uncertain, and tiiat these [ilw-
nomena should have been taken kK
simple clouds rloattng in the solar at*
mosphcre. This theory* which «aa
put forth by Oalileo, has been te*
vived in our day. The solar spou
have an aspect completely diflfefetit
from that wbidi we see iti the andctil

(

rch,

xiceS
ter-
jse,
hit
crc

erel

{

The Sun.

527

^Ciits. I ain going to show the draw-
\mg of several of them as observed at
tihe Roman CoHege, I designed them
lyself, by a very rapid process, such
L process being very important for ob-
rts essentially variable, and which
bange their form with great rapidity,
in a short space of time. Here
is, first, one of the most common
forms* (Figure i.) It is a round spot.

The penumbra is not always com-
posed exclusively of threads Hke those
you see. The centre is often sur-
rounded by a uniform pale color,
over which the currents are dissemi-
nated. These currents are not al-
ways continuous, and their different
parts present an appearance which
may be compared to elongated grains.

In spite of the increased power of

Fig.

insisting of a black centre, around
lich is a penumbra all ragged. The
st thing you will obscn^e is, that the
; of the penumbra is far from be-
_ uniform. It is composed of fila-
ments, very long and ver)*thin, which
converge toward the centre. These
%vt been called wisps of straw, wil-
v4eaves, etc. I prefer to call them
ents^ being aware, at tlie same
ne, that it is impossible to compare
to any known thing. They are
f scattered near the outline of tlie
nbra, and diey become cond ens-
near the centre, where the light is
anger and brighter. These lumi-
ns threads start from the outline of
he spot, traverse the penumbra, and
en run into the black space that
rms tlie centre, where we see them
[>;illng singly, gradually becoming
[laJIer, and disappearing after a

the instruments we employ to observe
the sun, the detached parts of the spots
often appear to us as microscopic ob-
jects. In order to fonii an exact idea
of their real dimensions, we must al-
w^ays remember that, at this distance,
four fifths of a second is equal to 140
kilometres, and consequently these ap-
parent threads, whose seeming width
is at most not more than one or two
seconds, are in reality immense cur-
rents, being, about the middle, of 600
or 700 kilometres in width, while
their length is at least equal to the
diameter of the terrestrial globe.

The drawings which you have just
seen represent some of these spots in
their complete form and exactly de-
fined. But they present themselves
oftcner under fantastic and irregular
forms. They are sometimes accom-
panied by a kind of tail, itself formed
of black spots, and which seems to

528

The Sun.

follow the centre in its tnotioo. We
have here a curious example. The
centre is not quite black; we meet
with shadows there — some gra\% and
others red ; the filaments on all sides
fall toward the centre, and their
edges are turned back and bent, as
if they had experienced some resist-
ance, or as if they had encountered
a whirlwind. Here b a spot of this
kind, (Figure »,) the details of which

minous bc«L These link cavities
multiply themselves; one «{ dicn
develops itself, absotbiiig the odi-
ers^ and the process cods ift the fer*
mation of a Uack spot m the centre.
In tliis first phase the movansHs cf
the spots are very iTR^alar. and theif
advance is always to the front, \ff
reason of the sobr rotation.

The drawing which is now bdbie
you represents the first appearance el

are most instructive, and most impor-
tant in a theoretical point of view. We
find the centre divided in several parts
by the 1 uminous threads. This appear-
ance was remarked by the ancient as-
tronomers, who explained it by sup-
posing that on the surface of the sun
solid crusts were formed, which broke
into shivers like glass under a blow
from a stone. Modern obsen'ations,
however, do not admit of this expla-
nation. They show us clearly that

I these divisions are produced by cur-
tents whichi leaving opposite edges,

- meet in the middle of the centre, and
thus divide the spot into several
parts.
The formation of a spot is never

.instantrineous. It is ordinarily an-
nounced by the appearance of seve-
ral black points, and by a kind ofdi*
minution in the thickness of the lu-

a great spot which was fanned al*,
most suddenly on the jolh of JnWf
1865. The day preceding that of iti
appearance, in observing the sun
usual, we had remarked only thfte'
little cavities, of which we noted the
position. On the 30th of July, at miil*
day, we found in the place of these
cavities an enormous spot, the sar^
face of which was equal to at least
ten times the size of our globe. U
was so mobile, and its form changed
so constantly, that wc could scafcely
draw it We could discover in it four
principal centres, where the movanent
of the matter was visible in the ibrm
of a whirlwind. In an interral td 14
hours it had undergone somr conside-
rable changes. On 1 1 the
four centres were C" ^ :.nct,
and tlie matter which separated them
seemed as if it were stretched out

inn.

ing the days which followed, this
I form became more and more marked.
ISoon there were four spots clearly
iefined, which ultimately assumed
be form of four independent craters
Dr cavities. In the interior of these
raters we perceived some light sha-
dows, whose form reminded us of that
.of the clouds we call cimis. Their
[ilor was different from that of the
^Otlier part of the sun which presented
itself to view. As the polariscopic eye-
glass does not change the color of
^objects, we are enabled to see that
bese clouds are often of a very de-
aded red; and, as this tint is clear

it precipitate itself in the obscure
space, and there dissolve in much the
same way as we see the vapor which
forms the mist dissolve into thin air.
All that we are required to believe
is, that these apparently black masses
are but rents made in the luminous
veil which covers the solar body,
and to which we give the name of
photosphere. It is this bed which
transmits light and heat to us. It is
suspended in the solar atmosphere,
just as clouds in the terrestrial atmo-
sphere. What appear to us as spots
in the sun is simply the effect of the
rents which take place in it We are

Fig.

id well marked, it is impossible to
anfound it with the effects due to the
'iichromatism of the instruments. You
see here a great number of spots pre-
iting this appearance, and espe-
Jly in Figure 2, where the red sha-
dows seem intertwined with the white
shadows. I have more than once
en these luminous tongues, so to
(sak, transform themselves into red
reils.

This hasty view is, however, so
complete as to convince us that the
spots cannot be compared to clouds,
jtheir aspect not warranting such a
L)niparison. If any part of them
be compared to clouds, it is
arc the luminous matter; for we see

VOL. VH.— 34

confirmed in this view by the well-as-
certained fact that the spots are de-
pressions in the solar body, and that
they have the form of a funnel.
This form becomes very perceptible
when the spots are drawn by the
rotary movement toward the solar
disk. When we examine a spot situ-
ated toward the centre of the sun, we-
find that the shape of the penumbra
is more regular. But when the spot
moves toward the edge, we see
the penumbra diminish on the side*
of the centre, and increase on the
opposite side, in which case it pre-
sents the appearance of a cavity in
the form of a funnel looked at oblique-
ly. This effect is very clearly indica-

530

led in the drawing (Figure 3) which
you have now before you, and for
which we are indebted toM.Tacchini,
the astronomer, of Palermo. We have
obsen^ed this same spot at Rome, and
we have made a drawing of it similar
to that you now see ; but I would ra-
ther exhibit tiiat of M. Tacchini, be-
cause it cannot be objected that it
was made under the inrtuence of a
preconceived idea. You see that in
this spot the edge of the aperture is
raised much in the same way as in
the craters of the moon, and around
these apertures arc elevations, clearer
and more luminous, which w^e call
faculiE.

The conclusions which I have just
presented to you are also those to
which M, Faye arrived, in studying
the apparent perturbations in the
movements of the spots. In shorti
w*hat settles the question definitively
is the study of the spots of excep-
tional grandeur when they reach the
e<\gG of the solar disk* It is then
very easy to prove that the centre is
lower than that part of the outline from
which radiates the facule. Both M.
Tacchini and I proved this at Rome,
in studying the grand spot of July,
1S65, at the moment in which it dis-
appeared behind the disk of the sun.

The spots, then, are apertures,
rents made in the photosphere. But
how is it that these spaces do not fill
up immediately? This is a serious
difficulty, and it leads us to study the
structure of the photosphere. If the
photosphere was solid, all the move-
ments which take place in it would
be impossible. It is, then, fluid. But,
■on the other hand, a fluid would na-
turally spread itself until all points of
the surface were on the same level,
and it would require ver\' little time
to fill a gap having the dimensions
of even the largest of the spots. The
celebrated Will in m Herschel saw
this difficulty, and he met it by a so-

lution which wc still adopl^
it has been confinncd by
tions and discoveries ; so \hu what
to Herschel was but n cottjcctiirt
has become to us a detnoostratod
truth. The | r v.

like our cloud-
parent as ours. VV e oUen 5*
the clouds differences of kw. .-.:.
ruptions which enable us lo percdit
the blue of the sky in the spacr
which separates them. The sane
thing happens in the sun ; and
this hypothesis, which is so useful ia
explaining the phenomena 1 hin
just set before you, accords pcffedf
with all the particulars observed

Wc have seen, in eff
nous matter remain sn
floating in tiiemid>t of the centre,
the photospheric currents melt in <^
scure parts,] ust as ourclouds di^w;
apparently dispersir: *' ^ ^5 is
aspacc complcieK [»:«.

when tJ)C IcmperalLire ilf

elevated. The little v 1 10

Figtire i is a cloud about to be dis-
solved. Without thisdissolvin^ftJitt,
the matter which radiates from ik
circumference to the centre would
not be long in filling up this gsp^
As I told you just now. we hive
been able to scijse the fact of chi*
dissolution of the solar lit niospbcnc
matter, and to sec these clood-lik*
forms change into red veils occupying
a large surface in the centre

One thing alone remains to bft
proved — the existence of a transpa
rent atmosphere. We have for 1
lotig time presumed its presence
its action to explain a >v ' *
ed flict, namely, that th^
sun impart to us less of huS
light th.m the centre. This fa<
explicable by any known laws of
dial ton, is easily explained by tl
action of an absorbing atmosphere
for the rays part af ' *-e licl
passing through a 1

The Sun.

■53t

ratum, proving necessarily an
ption more considerable than
rhich flows to the centre. The
nee of a solar atmosphere,
I was formerly regarded as pro-
, has been reduced to certainty
; observation of eclipses, and it
ien shown that veritable clouds
n this gauze-like bed.
ir}^body has heard of the mag-
nt aureola which surrounds the
during the total eclipse of the
It is a truly solemn moment
the last rays having just dis-
red, we see the shadow of the
projected on a sky of leaden
vilh a perfectly black disk sur-
led by a magnificent luminous
like that which we see repre-
1 around the heads of the saints,
aureola, at least the part near-
le disk, is owing to the atmo-
e of the sun. This spectacle is
ificent, but it becomes much
instructive when we examine it
gh a good telescope. We then
ive around the disk of the moon
tic flames, of a lively red, the
t of which is incomparably
sr than the diameter of the
Some are suspended without
upport, and others take a hori-
1 direction, like the smoke that
5 out of our chimneys. These
s were designated protuberan-
but we knew not how to explain
It was even doubted whether
were real ; and we were quite
sed to attribute them to an op-
illusion. These doubts have
peared since the observations
ade in Spain during the eclipse
So. On that occasion we were
ned at Desertio de las Palmas,
e coast of the Mediterranean,
M. De la Rue took up his post
/a Bellosa, at a short distance
the ocean. We succeeded at
these stations in photographing
un at the period of the total

eclipse, and a comparison of the two
photographs has proved that the
protuberances have a real existence,
that they have a form so fixed as to
give identical images at two points
distant from each other by several
hundreds of kilometres. The perfect
resemblance of the two photographs
is the more remarkable, from their
not having been executed at the
same moment. Between the two
operations an interval of ten minutes
elapsed. These protuberances, con-
sidering their distance and their
bent forms, can be nothing but clouds
suspended in the solar atmosphere,
and it is these which form the red
veils that we have seen in the centre.
The observation of eclipses proves to
us conclusively that the sun is real-
ly surrounded by a stratum of this
red matter, which we ordinarily see
only on the most elevated sum-
mits.

In the photograph taken at Deser-
tio de las Palmas during the total
eclipse, the exterior form of the at-
mosphere is perfectly visible. We
see that it is more extended at the
equator than at the polar regions,
which is a natural effJect arising from
the movement of rotation which the
sun possesses. We see, in short,
that this atmosphere is livelier in its
action in the two zones on each side
of the equator, in which the spots
ordinarily show themselves. The
existence of a solar atmosphere be-
ing perfectly in accordance with all
known principles and with all ascer-
tained facts, there is no longer any
room for calling it in question. We
describe the sun, then, as surround-
ed by a dense atmosphere in which
floats the photospheric matter. The
surface of the photosphere is far
from being uniform and regular. It
is, on the contrary, wrinkled all over,
and again covered with granulations.
These granulations, first perceived

532

by Herschel, have been carefully
studied in later times.

When our atmosphere is calm and
the observation ver}' precise, the
whole bottom of the solar disk ap-
pears covered with small luminous
grains, separated by a ver}' fine and
very dark net-work, resembling in
appearance partially desiccated milk,
eJtamined through a microscope.
These points, or white ^ains, are
of different sizes. Where there are
openings, we see around each of
them some lines of grains in the
form of leaves, more or less oval.
Their mean dimension is about the
third of a second. These grains are
only tlie upper part of the flame
which inclines toward the openings^
thus proving that there is a very sen-
sible power of attraction in the aper-
tures. We may even say that these
granulations resemble the appear-
ance which the clouds known as
cumuli present when, from the sum-
mit of a mountain, their upper part is
examined. The largest spots would
be, then, but an exaggeration of this
net-work, ordinarily so fine, produced
by the force which caused tlie flame,
or radier, the stratum of the cumulus.

But w^hat is it that produces these
spots in the sun? Here the dith-
culty is singularly complicated* To
reply satisfactorily to this question,
it would be necessary to become ac-
quainted with what passes in the in-
terior of the solar globe. But let us,
without hesitation, and without at-
tempting to delude ourselves, con-
fess that our study of the sun is con-
fined to its external stratum, and to
the most striking phcnumena of
which it is the seat; whereas, with
regard to the interior mass, it is only
by the process of induction that we
are enabled to arrive at any know-
ledge.

Observations which we have just
nude lead us to the conclusion Uiat

ma*

bowl

the spots are owing to emana
issuing from the solar body, all
similar to the way in whidi maH
ter is ejected by our volcanoes^ Zhk
is proved both by the form of
craters, which you have jus! seen*
and by the columns of clouds, ana*
logons to tliose arising out of volcai^;
noes, or out of chimneys, obs€r\t
during eclipses. Here, then, is howl
we explain the consUt / f the

photosphere and the i l of

the spots. Ihe exterior auatum
cools itself constantly by radtadoQt i
passes into the gauze-like statCi ccfl
state of vapor, and ends by pr€ci|MF™
tating itself in tl\e liquid state. Of
even in Uie solid, remaining, hofwcv*
suspended in the solar atnao^pbci
as clouds do in ours. It is tins coc
dcnsed matter that forms the phoCf
sphere, and it is from that princij
ly we receive light and heat. Yn
some cause or other, a naov
from below takes place i ^ ute-

like mass which is sit idcf-

neath. By this movement tiie pbo*
tospheric stratum, raised at first,
spreads itself on all sides, fanning a
sort of cusliion, and ent i ' irn-

ing itself, leaving a will- i^ ift

the form of a crater. Wlulc th
canic emission lasts, the spot n
open, and it disappears only at tbe
moment when the equUibrium is
established, by the luminous mal
filling up the void which was fonmi

If this theor)' is correct, tlic
cumfercnce of the spots ought to
form the mountains above the ex-
terior siurface. Now, we have /ust
seen that the outline of tlie spots «
always surrounded by (acukc, wlikk
constitute prominent ele\atioai»
Supposing it is Inie that the in-
terior mass is the scat of violent tc-
lion, this conclusion has nodiMl
surprising in it, and we are led to it
by a certain number of other pbc-
nomena equally remarkable. ThaV

TIte Sun.

533

every time that a spot is produced,
we remark that it is visibly projected
with a quickness greater than that of
the solar rotation. The projecting
mass is then animated with a quick-
ness greater than the surface of the
photosphere; and, in order to ex-
plain this fact, we must admit that
the matter of the interior stratum
possesses a quickness greater than
the superficial part

This novel conclusion is supported
by another fact. We know now that
the rotation of the spots has not the
same angular quickness under all the
parallels. The quickness is sensibly
greater in the equatorial zone than
in the higher latitudes. This cir-
cumstance forces us to the conclu-
sion that the sun is not a solid globe,
but that its structure admits of the
different strata of which it is formed
having a movement of rotation inde-
pendent of each other as regards ve-
locity. In fact, the only explana-
tion we can give of this difference of
quickness is, that the interior mass
is fluid, and that it is moved by a
rotary process, more rapid than that
of the external surface. We cannot,
however, undertake the formal de-
monstration of this point on the pre-
sent occasion.

This fluidity of the sun is calcu-
lated to surprise you ; but you will
cease to regard it as incredible when
I remind you of certain ascertained
facts about this luminary. The
gravity of its surface is twent>'-
eight times greater than that of
the surface of our globe, from which
results an enormous pressure capa-
ble of condensing a large number of
substances, or, at least, of singularly
diminishing their volume. Looking
simply at this fact, the mean density
of the sun ought to be much greater
than that of the earth. It is nothing
of the kind, however, but just the
contrary ; for the specific gravity of

the terrestrial globe is four times
greater than that of the solar mass.
We must admit the existence of a
repulsive force capable of overcom-
ing the molecular attraction, and of
rarefying the substances which the
weight tends to condense. This re-
pulsive force is probably owing to
tlie heat, and, in fact, the tempera-
ture of the sun is estimated at not
less than five millions of degrees.
At this temperature no matter could
remain solid, even in spite of the
enormous pressure of which we have
already spoken. It is, then, impos-
sible for us to admit the existence of
a solid mass, and much more that of
a cold centre in the interior of the
sun.

And here an objection presents
itself to which I ought to reply. If
the interior mass of the sun is at a
temperature so very elevated, how is
it that, when the photosphere opens, a
black spot is presented to our eyes ?
In examining this opening, we per-
ceive a substance of which the tempe-
rature is extremely elevated, and which
ought, consequently, to be very lu-
minous. How is it, then, that, on
the contrary, it presents to us the
appearance of a very deep black?
My reply is, that the black color of
the spots is a purely relative matter ;
that it is owing to the contrast of the
brilliant light which comes to us from
the photosphere. If we could see
those apparently dark parts away
from the glittering mass of the sun,
they would appear not only luminous^
but dazzling with light.

But you will say to me, it still re-
mains true that the interior mass of
the sun is less luminous than the
photosphere ; but since the superfi-
cial part constantly cools by radia-
tion, it follows that there ought to
be less heat, and, consequently, less
brilliancy in the photosphere than
in the interior mass. With your per-

The Sun,

mission, I \nll make a reply to this
which mightj at the first blush, appear
paradoxical, but which is, neverthe-
less, the expression of truth. It is
precisely because it is of so very
high a temperature that the interior
mass of the sun sends us a less de*
k gree of light and heat ; it is precise-
ly because it is cooled at the point of
condensation, to precipitate itself in
the liquid or solid state, that the
photospheric matter becomes hotter
and more luminous. To make this
plain, we have only to recall certain
well-known principles of physics.
Two bodies equally hot may not
emit the same quantity of heat One
of them may cool itself rapidly in
heating tlie bodies which surround
it ; while the other may let its heat
escape only very slowly, and heat
but feebly the neighboring bodies.
In this case, we say that the first has
a more considerable radiating power.
Now, philosophers know that gas
has a very feeble radiating power,
and that it may be consequently at a
very high temperature without emit-
ing around it a great quantity of
light and heat. You have an illus-
tration now before your eyes. This
lamp, fed by lighted gas, gives a very
brilliant flame, because tlie carbon
remains there some time in suspen-
sion before burning. Let us tlirow
into the flame a little oxygen ; im-
mediately the flame pales, becomes
bluish, and ceases to be luminous.
Its temperature, notwilhstanding, has
greatly increased, and it is now the
celebrated gas by the aid of which
M* Sainte-Claire Deville melts his
platina so rapidly. The change re-
sults from the very rapid combustion
of the carbon by the oxygen. As
soon as this takes place, the flame,
no longer containing any solid body,
loses almost all power of emission,
and ceases, in spite of its high tem-
perature, to have the brilliancy which

it possessed at a lower temperatxnt.
To convince you perfectly, let us put
a solid body in this flame, now m
pale, and you will see it bccocni:
more brilliant than ever. Wc iatro*
duce, for example, a piece of itmc,
and die apartment is at cwice illu-
minated by the Drummond lig^
one of the most briUiant of uiifT
ficial lights.

But, leaving the eartli, let us
return to tiie sun. The interior
is undoubtedly at a \ery higb
perature — so high, indeed, thai all
the substances composing it must hm
in the state of gas, possessing only
a feeble radiating power ; wliiJe the
photosphere is composed of matter
precipitated in a liquid or solid statt,
of which the radiating power must be
considerable. Here is tlie explaojr
tion of what seemed paradoxical
my answer. The hottest part of
sun is not tlie part which warm*
lights us most, because, being ia tlic'
state of gas, it produces only a fcebk^
radiation.

7' wo questions now present
selres. How is it that the &ud
serves indelinitely socK
perature in spite of ll
amount of heat which it
Of what kind of matter i

nary composed ? And wliat the ha-
ture of the radiation which sends to
us daily the %ht and heat whicli wc
need? It is undoubtedly impossible
to give a complete and satis foctOfT
answer to these questions. Wc may
yet be able, however, to do so ;
we are persuaded that science in
progress will only confirm and devc*^
lop the explan*itions whicli we girc^
to-day of first principles^ In
first place, it is impossible to »di
that the sun is simply a lismiiMitti
gbbe, not possessing any tneans oC
renewing the heat which il lases
every moment ; for, in tliat esse,
ilic end of a few years its temj

The Sun,

535

ture would be lowered In a very ap-
preciable manner ; and it would not
require an age to effect a complete
change in the phenomena which are
dependent on it. There must be,
then, a source of heat in the sun.

We are in the habit of comparing
things we do not know with those
with which we are familiar. Thus
we have been led to think of the
solar globe as the seat of a combus-
tion similar to that we witness on
our hearths. This idea is deceptive.

We know the quantity of heat
which each substance throws off in a
state of combustion ; we know, too,
what a vast body the sun is ; and we
are able to calculate with a rough
but sufficient approximation the
quantity of heat which the body of
the sun would produce in burning.
The result of this calculation is, that,
at the elevated temperature which the
sun possesses, the combustion of the
solar mass could not be kept up dur-
ing many ages. Since the historic
period this temperature would have
been so lowered as to produce a
change in the seasons that has not
taken place. We are compelled, then,
to abandon the idea of a mass in
combustion, as well as that of a lumi-
nous globe, and to acknowledge that
there is a secret which has escaped us.

This secret, gentlemen, chemistry
is charged to unveil to us. Astro-
nomers profit eagerly by all the dis-
coveries which physical science
makes, and it is by this means alone
that they arrive first at conjecture,
and afterward at a knowledge of
what is taking place at prodigious
distances. It is thus that the phe-
nomenon of dissociation recently
discovered by M. Sainte-Claire De-
ville, puts us in the way of explaining
the permanence of the solar temper-
ature. We know that no combination
can resist heat. Whatever may be
the stability of the combination,

whatever energy the affinitive force
may possess, if the temperature is
raised to the proper degree, the ele-
ments separate, and remain togethei
simply in a mixed state, wanting to
combine anew when the temperature
is lowered. This is what we call
dissociation ; and this is just the state,
for example, in which we find oxygen
and hydrogen gas, exposed to a tem-
perature of 2500 degrees. At such
a temperature they remain in a
mixed state, without being able
to form water, which ought to
result from the combination of
these two elements. But the phe-
nomenon of dissociation cannot
take place without the interven-
tion of an enormous amount of heat.
To illustrate this, let us suppose a
kilogram of ice at zero. In liquefy-
ing it would absorb 79 degrees of
heat ; to make it warm, 100 degrees
would be required ; in evaporation it
would absorb 640 ; and to dissociate
i^> 395S> or nearly 4000 degrees
would be necessary. What we say
of water is equally true of all the
combinations ; all that is required
being to change the numerical de-
grees of the latent heat, for fusion,
for volatilization, and for dissociation.
This being so, we arrive at the con-
clusion that even the least consider-
able quantity of matter in a state of
dissociation may be regarded as a
magazine of latent heat continually
tending toward sensible develop-
ment.

The temperature of dissociation
of water is almost 2500 degrees.
The temperature of the sun being at
least five millions of degrees, the
whole mass of which it is composed
ought to be in a state of dissociation,
and to contain consequently an enor-
mous quantity of latent heat inde-
pendent of the sensible heat; to
which is owing this prodigiously elci
vated temperature. What, then, is

The Smu

the effect which the solar matter
ought to produce on tberatUation of
which it is the seat? Almost the
same eflfect that radiation produces
on a liquid body which has reached
a temperature of solidification. The
heat necessar)^ to keep up the radia-
tion is borrowed from that part of
the liquid which solidilies, so that
the temperature, instead of decreas-
ing, remains constantly at the point
at which solidillcalioii ceases. This
is really what passes on the surface
of the sun* This brilliant mass,
raised to a temperature of five mil-
lions of degrees, has a tendency to
cool itself rapidly. The' radiation
^ produces, in fact, a coolness in the
' superficial stratum. By reason of
this coolness, part of the gas which
composes the atmosphere is lowered
below the temperature of dissociation ;
it yields then an enormous quantity
of heat, which from latent becomes
sensiblct and prevents also an ulte-
rior lowering of temperature. It is
sufficient to repair the continual loss
of heat that a mass of several kilo-
grams passes daily from a state of
dissociation to one of combination ;
and it is evident, considering the
enormous size of the solar globe, that
things may remain in this state dur-
ing millions of ages without the tem-
perature of the sun changing in a
manner which may be felt by us.
I say, by us. for our knowledge of this
temperature is obtained at no less
a distance than several hundred
thousands of degrees.

It appears, then, from the very na-
ture of the sun, that it does not pos-
sess an inexhaustible quantity of
.latent heat. A day will come when
Nt will no more be able to lose heat
without being cooled in a sensible
manner, but that cooling wnll not
take place before a very distant
lyeriod, and long after we have dis-
appeared from this world.

By way of recapitulation
veral views we have set foi
endeavor to give you a precise idea of
the sun, as regards both it5 tnienor
and its surface. The reastviing^wiiiclt
we h ave j ust ad vai i led |»art-

ly on astronomical oos aod

partly on known principles of sckoct,
lead us to regard the sun as oomposed
of a fluid or gau/e-Uke mass* sm^
rounded with a pho[ sCliliia,

the matter of which 1. ltlui»i|^

the first stage of c* m. Ac-

cording to the views i J^aoe,

the sun proceeded from the batub uf
its creator in a nebulous state* Wt
are led to believe that the in
mass is still in this stale. A ch.
has taken place only on the surf:
because there only could the loss
heat owing to radiation pnoduce
partial cooling. The result of
cooling is the condensation of a ml]
lively small quantity of matter,
possessing a very considerable power
of emission, forms the photo^pheit;
It is in the presence of tlm phnio-
sphere that the only difference exiso
between the sun and a nebula, between
the myriads of stars which people die
heavens, and the nebula; with wboss
existence the telescope makes
quainted.

We come, at length, to the last with
which we proposed to deal : Whai
the constituent matter of the stm?
What are the < h enter

into the compost cisphere

and of the photospheric bed ? Some
}'ears ago, to put a quest u^n like this
would have been regarded 9$ rash
ness ; to attempt to answer it^ the
height of folly. We only knew* from
the analysis of meteoric stones, thai
cosmiciU matter did not contain
other elements besides those of
our globe is composed. Bat li
we can go further, thanks to the dis-
coveries of the Gcr » - " ItoA

We ail know the sl tiJQiyWd

ridlB

in Ig^^

The Sun.

S37

the brilliant colors which result from
the decomposition of the white light.
This phantom seems continuous if we
make the observations in a rough
manner ; but if we employ delicate
means, we see that it is formed of a
multitude of black streaks and of bril-
liant rays perfectly distinct from each
other. It is impossible to imitate this
api>earance artificially. All that we
are able to do is to project on a screen
the figure of a solar appearance taken
from a drawing. You see that it is
furrowed over with a considerable
number of black streaks, of which
the principal ones are, according to
Fraunhofer, who discovered them, in-
dicated by the letters of the alphabet,
A, B, C, etc. These streaks are ex-
tremely numerous : we have counted
no fewer than 45,000 of them.

I have said that it is impossible for
us to imitate this appearance with
our artificial lights, and it is precisely
here that we are able to discern the
nature of the different sources of light.
In fact, each source has an appearance
peculiar to itself, and by which it is
characterized. The brilliant line of
the Drummond light gives a conti-
nuous appearance, and it is the same
with all the simple incandescents.
But when we analyze the light of a
body in combustion, we arrive at an
entirely different result. The appear-
ance obtained in this case is crossed
by rays which, instead of being black,
are, on the contrary, more brilliant
than the colors in the midst of which
they are formed. The same thing
happens when we make the rays ema-
nating from the electric light pass
through a prism, because in this case
there is combustion, that is to say, a
combination of the oxygen in char-
coals, mixed with foreign matter, from
which is produced the voltaic bow.
If we are content to restore these
burning coals, they will give a conti-
nuous appearance just as lime.

The brilliant spectral rays are not
always the same. They depend on the
nature of the metal which is found
in the flame, and which takes part in
the combustion. You see at this mo-
ment the appearance which silver pre-
sents : it is characterized by a magni-
ficent green ray. Here is now the ap-
pearance of copper, which, we know,
has a yellow ray, accompanied by a
fine group of green rays, different from
those which silver produces. We now
burn some zinc, which gives a magni-
ficent group of blue rays, a fine red
ray, and another of violet. Finally,
we shall close these experiments with
burning brass, which is, as you are
aware, a mixture of copper and zinc.
You will recognize in the appearance
which is produced the characteristic
rays of those metals, each of them
producing its proper effect, as if it
were alone.

We learn but little, however, from
these experiments, of the nature of
the substances of which the sun is
composed ; for the rays which we have
produced are all brilliant, while those
of the solar appearance are black.
Let us see, then, in pursuing this sub-
ject, if it would not be possible for us
to obtain these black lines with our
artificial lights. Let us produce, in
analyzing the Drummond light, a per-
fectly continuous appearance. Now,
let us make this appearance, before
reaching the screen, pass through a
deep layer of hypoazotic acid. Imme-
diately you see it discontinued. It is^
like the solar appearance, crossed
over by a multitude of black lines.
The hypoazotic acid is not the only
gas that produces this result. The
vapor from brome, that of iodine,
will give equally the black lines in the
same circumstances, only these lines
are different from those we have just
seen in the experiment made with
the hypoazotic acid. Thus, the gases,
the vapors, possessing the property of

538

The Smm.

:! \in lumJnous rays» cer*

I , sa rays, found no lon-

er in ihe appearance, are necessarily
Spliced by the black lines we have
ju!>t observed. All the gases, all the
vafKjrs, could not, I am convinced,
produce this result ; for it is clear that
ihcir power of absorption, being less
, considerable, could not make itself
IbUi unless by means of a stratum the
'"thickness of which should be greater
lh;jn that which we are able to use in
our experiments. We find a proof of
this in what passes in tiie almosphe-
ric air Under a feeble thickness no
sensible absorption is produced ; but
it is certain that the atmospheric
mass absorbs a great number of rays,
and consequently gives birth to many
black lines ; for in the solar appear-
ance we obsen^e new and ver)' marked
lines, when the sun being near the
luirizon, his rays pass through a
bed of air of very considerable thick-
^jiess. *rhcse rays are principally ow-
,iig to ihc vapor of water. We can
equally affirm the absorbent power of
tht* iiimrisphere which surrounds the
j.tinrts S.iliirn, Jupiter, and Mars.
|1u ir api)earanccs contain lines very
dirtorcni frtMU the solar appearance.
Yet, a* the light which they transmit
[i\ ui comc% to them from the sun,
wi* nrc forced to conclude that that
lljiht undergoes some modification in
t( ^villing over its transparent path, It
\n i!»c atmosphere of the planets which
pt 00111 en this result,

l*he sun also possesses an atmo

uplHTLV as we have seen, and this atmo-

1^ IX* ought necessarily to exercise

I iiuluence on the rays which tra-

<* it. Such is, in fact, the origin of

i,\ys which we notice in the solar

irance. They arc owing to the

fie absorption, and the bed

Arcnt but absorbent vapor

, l\ surrounds the atmosphere, and

!' tlu- ray?$ piwH through before

id themselves in space.

Bat bow arc we to ascertain :hc
nature of the vapors whUh prjiiji:
the black Vme^ we observe? Hci':
physical science comes a_'j*ti ^j <> '
aid, and the qisestkta v^
put finds its answer in a re*, t tu tai*;i>
very. We ha%*e seen that a c«rt«o
substance i liiitli to

certain luni : ehanc*

terizc it We have aiso seen tJtttths
same substance, m a state of mpoc,
absorbs, on the contniiy, oertam laja^
and produces ia consequence coxm
black lines whicb are eqoaUjr diiCio>
teristic. Now, by a stngular ooiixi*
deuce, these two powers, embsi^neui
absorbent, are tclentJcaUf tbe smifc
Each substance, in a staieof' *:*"
absorbs precisely the rays wn
capable of i ' l: in combuiUon,
so that the iks prodoc^la

the first case !it

same place as ;i b-

sensed in the seconcL We mxs de-
monstrate this interesting theory by
the following experiment, due to Bt
Toucault. We know r^ ro-

duces in burning a *

light. Well, let us bum some sodium
in the coals, and between thci^e t*o '
substances the electric light is
duced. The metal while it b hvs^
ing volatilises largely ; the rt[
which are | rix^sfi^

the rays vvlu vecmt^'

ted in their combustion ; and yoQ ^
that In the yellow, instead of a bri^^
liant line, we have a very dark \m
What wc Jiave just seen tak
with the sodium has been
proved by experiments on a
number of metals, and-, by induci
we may extend the application to all
t])ose on which it has been iuipo^isible
to make experiments.

Let us apply tliis [ * * * to what
concerns the light (I ^\u The

photosphere ts composed oi cocidcnfied
substances, precipitated in a solid or
a liquid state^ floating iii a transparent

ICtflB

The Sun.

539

orbent atmosphere. This
being simply incandescent,
present to us a continuous
ice, and this continuity can
rbed only by the absorption
)lar atmosphere. From this
s, that to ascertain the che-
ture of the substances which
: this atmosphere, it will be
t to compare the black lines
un with the bright lines of
icial lights. This has been
M. Kirchoff first discovered
sun contains sodium ; for the
)f Fraunhofer coincides per-
th the brilliant lines of this
It is equally well known that
)per, and twenty other sub-
which exist upon the earth
d state, would, at a tempera-
five millions of degrees, be
ily in a state of vapor,
having thus made a chemi-
ysis of the sun, astronomers
go further ; they have sought
equally the composition of
;. We have been led by this
very remarkable consequen-
i have been able to make a
classification of these stars,
etermine the group to which
belongs. It remains, then,
)\v to apply the spectral ana-
the myriads of stars which
heavens, to those far distant
i greater part of which, per-
urpass in grandeur and
ss that which is the centre of
etary system. It remains for
ierrogate these scarcely per-
bodies, sparkling at such an
ible distance, and to demand
w from them the secret of
emical composition. This
;e is daring, but it is not
'he difficulties are alarming ;
led men are not discouraged,
are accustomed to see diffi-
disappear before strenuous
ievering labor.

We commenced our study of the
stars with the complicated instru-
ments which we employ for the sun ;
but we soon found out that this com-
plication was useless. We have
been able to reduce our instruments
to the number of two, a cylindrical
glass and a prism. And M. Wolff,
of the Paris Observatory, has suc-
ceeded recently in suppressing the
cylinder, keeping only the essential
element, that is, the prism intended
to produce the appearance.

We have examined a great number
of stars, and I am going to submit to
you some of the results at which we
have arrived. You see at this mo-
ment the appearance which the star
Orion presents. This star is of a
yellow color ; the appearance which
it produces is deeply streaked ; and
it is one of the most beautiful in the
heavens. You will find there the
line D of sodium, and the line b of
magnesium. These are two funda-
mental lines which have served as
marked points to compare this ap-
pearance with that of the sun. Be-
sides sodium and magnesium, a of
Orion contains iron, copper, and
several other known metals ; but it is
singular that hydrogen is not found
there in the free state, as in the sun.
There is, then, some essential differ-
ence between the stars, of which you
will be more convinced as we go fur-
ther into the subject. Here is the
appearance of Sirius. You see it
is not nearly so fine. You will find
two large bands in blue, in the place
of the streak F of the sun ; two
others in violet ; and one, very faint,
in yellow. The two first are attribu-
table to hydrogen, and the last to
sodium ; but we know not to what
substance the violet is owing. In
the green there are also some very
fine lines, but very difficult to seize.

What is most remarkable is, that
all the white stars present the same

540

The SufL

appearances, and half the stars that
are visible belong to this type. Thus
the fine stars of the Lyre, of the Ea-
gle, of the Bear. Castor, etc., ought
to be ranged by the side of Sirius.
There is, however, an exception
in i of the Bear, which is a yellow
star. The magnificent stars of Arc-
turus, of the Goat, ofProcyon, belong,
on thecontrar\% to the class of which
our sun is a type, except that the
iron line E is much more marked.
Their color, of light yellow, led to the
inference that they were analogous
to the sun, and the supposition has
been confirmed by spectral analysis.
All know substances have an
appearance which is peculiar to
them, and which characterizes them.
Can we say as much of the stars ?
Do they also present marked differ-
ences in their appearance ? This
has been the subject of very interest-
ing researches. The task has been
undertaken at the observatory of the
Roman College, and it has led to a
result altogether un foreseen » namely,
that the stellar appearances appertain
to only a very limited number of
t}'pes. We may classify them in
three groups. The first group is
that of the white stars like Sirius ;
the second that of the yt-llow stars, of
which Arcturus and the second are
members ; and Orion may be regard-
ed as a type of the third, in which we
ought to place a of Hercules, and /3
of Pegasus. These two last-named
stars have very remarkable appear-
ances. They seem formed of a mul-
titude of channels, which are divided
by large black bands. This form of
appearance shows us that the stars
which belong to this type are sur-
rounded with atmospheres heavily
charged with vapor. In this group
enters al! the red stars, and in parti-
cular Omkron of the Whale, that
celebrated star wh^ch has been called
The IVonderfuL Several small stars

of a blood-red color fi:irc ^ppea r tn-
ces resembling each other. It b ^^
markable that in all the appeaiuncef
belonging to stars of tliis type,
black lines occupy the same place^
which proves that in general ihcy
all made alike.

I have obser\*ed fur

tain tj-pes abound in tc. , .:a

the heavens, and that the sUrsoflfct
same kind arc generally grouped to-
gether. Thus the while stars ate
found in the PIci.ides» the Beifttk
Lyre, etc.; the yellow in the \VliaJ<v
Eridan, etc. The constclbtioo <rf
Orion deserv^es particular altcntion;
it abounds in stars of a green color,
reminding us of the nebula whici is
found in the same region of »!>•• ♦kf.
This small number of t ' tie

grouping of which \ \ , '.eSi

constitute an unforeseen fact, the im-
portance of which is considerable
from a cosmological point of riar.
We should not, however, be hasty i»
drawing conclusions from rt.

A curious fact has been (
ed with regard to one of l!
stars in Cassiopeia. Its appearatKC^'
is directly the opposite of that wHldfc
is presented by stars of the saffl^
color, for, in place of black lineSi^
shows some brilliant lines.
phenomenon has appeared to me
extraordinar}', that I am anxii
whether it is an isolated fact. I h«^
observed more than five htii
stars, selecting some of the I
and I have found only one,
Lyre, which possesses the same
liarity. M, Wolff saj's that
the small stars of the Swan he
found some examples of the sami
kind. A most remark
that these brilliant lin<
in a transient star whirl
a time in the Crown in ^ .. , d

These observations upset the the-
ories which had been prcinAtardy
built upon facts fonncdy knomu

The Sun.

54«

here is nothing inexplicable
You have seen that sodium
^ gives a line of a very lively
while the line becomes black
Dclium is increased to a consi-

quantity. Might not the
liing happen with the hydro-
ich produces the brilliant lines
:h I have spoken to you?
not a small quantity act by
)n, while the action would be
absorption should the mass
ter ?

• having examined the stars, it
possible to resist the tempta-
observing the nebulae. You
lat we designate by this name
d of white clouds which are
ipread in the heavens, and of
the nature is not perfectly

Herschel has assured us
my of them, by means of the
pe, may be resolved into a mul-
>f small stars approaching very
to each other. We infer from
It the greater part are compos-
le same manner, and that the
ess of our instruments is the
ing that prevents us from proY-
It is, however, admitted that
f these nebulae are formed of
i\ matter in a state of vapor
idensed. Everybody knows
ulae which compose the Milky
But besides those which are
to the naked eye, there is a
amber whose existence the
pe has revealed to us. One
most celebrated is that which
1 in the magnificent constella-

Orion : we have carefully
it at the Roman College, and
i at this moment a sketch of
le screen. The nebulae pos-
txry feeble light, and we had
ibts of success in seeking to
he spectral analysis to them,
e, however, succeeded beyond
pes. The appearances ob-
in these observations are very

singular. They reduce themselves
constantly to luminous streaks, all
the other colors failing ; it is, in an- •
other way, that which happens when
we bum an alcoholic solution with
marine salt ; the flame, analyzed by
the spectroscope, gives simply a yel-
low streak. In the nebulae we find
two green lines and a blue one.
Such is the result which we obtained
in examining the large nebulae of
Orion, and that of the Milky Way
in Sagittarius. Such is that, also,
which furnishes the little nebulae
called plane taries, on account of
their form, which resembles that of
the planets. These facts have been
established for the first time by M.
Huggins.

As I have just told you, the nebulae
present generally but three lines ; one
belongs to azote, another to hydrogen,
and the third is unknown. This re-
sult, which was not known before, is
of the highest importance ; for it teach-
es us that the nebulae are composed of
gas and of vapors far removed from
their point of saturation and conden-
sation. These appearances, with lu-
minous lines, distinctly isolated and
separated from one another, apper-
tain essentially to gasf and, we ought
to add, to gas raised to a very high
temperature. Thus we have made a
discovery by the aid of the prism, for
which the most powerful glasses had
failed us.

The nebulae, notwithstanding their
shining points, are not in general a
collection of stars, but masses of cos-
mical matter in a state of dissocia-
tion under the action of an extremely
elevated temperature. The collections
of stars are perfectly distinguishable
by the continuity of their appearances,
as we see in the nebulae of Andro-
meda, and in some others which are
well known. The discovery opens a
vast field of investigation, and will be
an epoch in science.

542

The Sun.

We have wandered far into the
depths of space, very far from the
point from which we started. This is
of rjo consequence, however, for be-
tween the sun, the stars, and the ne-
bulae there is a close relation. The
sun is simply a star approaching near-
er to us than others. According to
a bold hypothesis^ its entire mass was
at one period in a state of dissocia-
tion, which a great part of it still ac-
tually preserves. The only thing that
makes it differ from the nebulae, and
causes us to rank it among the stars^
is its superficial stratum of inconsi-
derable thickness.

What mysteries do we not discover
in nature, when we investigate it by
the aid of those principles and instru-
ments with which modern science has
furnished us ! And in the presence
of the wonders, what an exalted idea
ought we to form of the splendors of
the universe and the power of its
Creator !

Permit me, gentlemen, in closing
this lecture, to quote an admirable
thought of Sain t Gregorj- of Nazianzus.
The sun, says that father, is the most
perfect image of the Deity. You see
the effects which it produces ; you
enjoy its benefits ; but you cannot
contemplate it directly, nor sound its
depths. The loss of life, the greatest
of the earthly blessings we enjoy,
would be the punishment of the mad-
man who would dare to invade its
mysteries. It is the same with Uie
Deity ; it is impossible for us to see
In himself; and we ought to content
ourselves with admiring here below
those traces of his infinite perfections
which shine in his works.

We have succeeded, by the meani
with which science has *' ^ \ us,,
in examining this daz7! and

in doing so wc have sc<:n some oa*
expected wonders; but how many
other wonders have escaped us, which
will doubtless be discovered at some
future time !

If we can thus speak of the
rial sun and its splendors, what
we not say of its prototj-pe,
freed from this material coveHl
sense, and reduced to a stale of pert
intelligence, we contemplate him wtJs
the eyes of our soul I Sctcnce awl
Faith are two rays issr" ; tfte

same focus, Ujc one dir. ihtf

reflected. As long as wc arc i^Ofl
this earth we should be content with
the second, our vision not being strong
enough to support the V--'* -cof
the first. But a day wi hen

we shall sec the Divinit;, cc;

and, in the meantime, i '^bo

denies his unfathomabl i nc^
under the pretence that ou: Icchk
powers are not equal to thctr OMI'
prehension, is as foolish as the nA
peasant who should deny ibc
dcrs with which I have cntc
you, under the pretext that \m
are dazzled by the light of the su«.
A day will come when the direct la/J
of the Science of Divinity will'W
longer dazzle our intelligcnrc: t!it
high destinies which nw^it^t hnm;ii>iff
will permit of our •
unclouded essence *
reward of the persevering but
blind fidelity ^vith which w>e shall
here below, without pride as wit
baseness, believed in his
and admired his greatness.

An Italian Girl of Our Day.

543

TRANSLATED FSOM THE FRENCH.

AN ITALIAN GIRL OF OUR DAY*

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 37a.

I HERE interrupt, for a moment, the

order of these Letters, to introduce a

fragment from one of the writings of

Signorina Ferrucci, in which is found,

eloquently developed, the idea with

which the last letter closes. Need

we wonder that, to so a pure a soul,

Christianity was all mercy and all

love ? Certainly not. The passions

of men have so often disfigured the

sweet countenance of the gospel that

those outside the household of faith

form a false idea of it, and, in their

\ inability to distinguish what is divine

^m what is human, they reject all.

•^t, if they would only learn to leave

^en and draw near to God, to flee

^irx disputes and go to the centre

Hrhere all is calm, they would soon

y^ty^i that the genius of Christianity

'^ irideed love. Pure souls, whom

^^S^r and dispute have not marred,

kno^ this well. The young author

y^Om I am about to cite understood

'^ «^iid it is with a feeling of respect

"^^t I transcribe these beautiful

P^S^ which breathe so strong a

P^^'tVune of the gospel :

^Tie love of God, which inflames

^^ heart of man and infuses into it

^ '^^ly zeal, has assuredly nothing in

^^^mon with that implacable fanati-

^^^ with which infidelity so unjustly

^^^ges the religion of Jesus Christ.

An^ yet it is but too true that the*

^^5 of one Heavenly Father, the in-

"^^itants of a world watered by the

^^deemer's blood, have more than

^^ce, while waging cruel war upon

^^h other, ranged themselves under

^e standard of the cross. But be-

*R»m Fermeei: ktr Lift, ktr L4tUr$, ami her
I>tttk. BytheAbMILPerreyve.

cause such horrors darken the page
of history, are we to conclude that
the love of God banishes all tolera-
tion from the human heart, or can
we deny that the Catholic religion is
all love? And shall the blind fury
of men make the world forget the
numberless benefits which, for nine-
teen centuries, the gospel has be-
stowed upon all nations and upon its
most cruel enemies ?

O church of the Redeemer4 who
dost pray for thine enemies, and
dost show thyself ever ready to suc-
cor them, even as our Heavenly Fa-
ther maketh his sun to shine upon
the most ungrateful of mankind, who
was it that filled thy heart with that
holy and ever active love of all the
virtues ? Who gave thee the strength
to oppose at all times a tranquil front
to the masters of the world ? Whence
have thy martyrs derived that cou-
rage which made them joyfully bend
their heads under the axe of the exe-
cutioner ? Who taught thee to con-
found the subtle contradictions of
the philosophers, and, with the same
hands, to break the chains of the
slave ? How is it that, ever firm and
immovable, thou alone hast survived
the vicissitudes of all things and the
overthrow of so many thrones ? Who
has given thee such power of per-
suasion that by its prodigies " from
the very stones are raised up children
to Abraham " ? In fine, whence hast
thou received that inviolable autho-
rity which resolves all doubts, dissi-
pates our errors, humbles the mighty,
sustains the weak, enlightens the
world, pardons all faults, and con-
soles in every affliction and in every
distress?

An Italian Girl ^f Our D^.

Ahl who does not see that so
many miracles have been wrought
by the sole power of that divine
love kindled in thee by Jesus Christ?
For just as thou lovest Jesus in fa-
tigue and in repose, in tears and in
jov, in persecution and in peace, in
combat and in victor>% so also thou
lovest in him and for him the hum-
ble and the great, the faitlifu! and the
unbelieving, the poor and the rich.
There is not on this earth a human
being for whom tliou dost not pray^
and whom thou wouldst not, at any
prti e, bring back to the bosom of
him who suffered for all men be-
cause he loved all. Oh ! may thy
desires soon be fulfilled, holy church
of the'living God !

How, then» can that man call him-
self the friend of God and the true
son of the church of Jesus Christ,
^ who would oppose arms to anns, vio-
ence to violence, forgetting these
irords qI Christ, "Love your enc-
"Father, forgive them, for
'they know not what they do"? The
blind aposUes of intolerance show
well th:ti they have never penetrated
in its true sense the life of the Re-
deemer, who, suffering every injury,
and even the death of the cross,
dncw the whole world to himself by
\t irresistible power of pardon and
lo>^ He who would be willing
» fofget his pirejudices, and, retiring
Qto the solitude of his own heart,
uld plant there the sweet image of
Icsus Christ, such a one w> * ^
fart* h^^w frir the power of

; of ike

icf at the

ttuMight

dre and

pled th^

,M^ vu>ss alone

|my vai

vhl tf Jesus croci-

■f '

into our hearts.

Ht^

^> w^uld he not

mJike ibesn vd

«kr-

Again, I fodi, in the
this besttti^ fleotiaiefit;

X believe thai
solely in cocnf
ings of the poor and
Its character b more \
be the soul of ill otur j
my pirt, I see ehari^ i

t" . -: . ce,]
fortitude, m contempt of I
the desire of heavet^
deed, the light of God,
himself Wliocrer has;
his heart a ray of thk y
bound, if i may so \
nicate its wamtth to tbel

We return lo the tetters.

Sweet were the inj
tano, which oor walk
that beautiful gardes lei
mind. Is it not true thai
ers, the trees, the blue
soft air, the song of
hum of the insects — atl
speak to our hearts of God
too, that all these beaati
seemed more jofotis to me
you were ihete, loit v^ ms.
seemed to refieci the feelliq^
heart. Then those beatuiiil
of my mother's which Unck

read to us alfe<*ted mr rw.yrr

Earth and hea\

all borrowed a wen

harmony of those beautiful »U]

I do not know the places ytiQ
of. unless )t>u mean Ronuto ait
tignano, I went as £u as La
on foot« one beautiful Auj^ust
tog, without sat&ns^ much fn
heat, whicli
breeie. ,\
long» siee|> toiid, «
every step note v
fSnQfmkf ^nil in beswvcn the lis]

An Italian Girl of Our Day,

545

I went up to the top of the
-tress, and thence for a long
razed on the neighboring isl-
d the vast horizon where sea

seemed to unite, and I even
;d some of the lands of the
na. Another time, with the
the Gabrini, and other friends,
: as far as Romito. The sun
;ady sunk below the horizon,
loment the last glimmering of

was becoming more faint,
n the moon rose behind the
H[er pale rays were reflected
>ea, where nothing was seen
olitary fishing-boat ; and the
nurmur of the waves, as they
Dwly to die on the rocky shore,
: only sound that broke the
; of the night. We crossed
le to time the dry bed of one
; torrents which fall from the
ins into the sea ; and thus, now
now silent, gazing, admiring,
;ed the two little towers, and,
at the limits of the two com-
we stopped and turned back,

had reached the Columns of
is. There is a comparison that
)lease my good friend Louisa
Would you believe it, in her
ter she gravely compares me
/igator steering toward a new

" Yet no," she says, " love is '

as old as the earth." That
, my good Louisa ; but to me
V, all new, Gaetano, and I be-
^en, that it will never grow old,
^ry thing that comes directly
)d, who is endless duration in
youth ! On this is grounded

hope that, after having united
on earth, he will unite us again
ife to come ; and this thought
lises me from earth to heaven !

was not the first time that

ad visited Antignano. That

id lovely shore had witnessed

•rts of her childhood. Three

VOL. vn — 35

or four years before the date of the
last letter we have given, she wrote
from that place to one of her young
friends the following pretty letter :

Antignano, July, 1853.

In spite of our joy at being here,
believe me, my dear Maria, we feel
your absence sadly. It turns to me-
lancholy the joyous memories of last
year. This is from my heart, Maria ;
how happy I should be to have you
at this moment by my side 1 Come
back to us then, dear friend, come
back! The little wood where we
spent so many happy hours, the great
shady trees, the smiling country, and
the sea — all call you back. Why, it
is but two days since I heard a wave
which came bounding over the sea
say to you, " Come down, young girl,
from the flowery bank into this calm
sea, and yield to the invitation of the
sun, who with his brilliant rays is
brightening air and earth and water."
But this pretty song of the naiad was
suddenly interrupted, for my poor
wave broke and expired on a rock.
All its sister wavelets murmured the
same prayer to you, but all, like the
first, soon broke upon the shore ; and
I grew pensive at the sight, for those,
poor waves, vanishing so quickly,
seemed to me a true image of our
shattered hopes, which cause us so
many tears. Meanwhile a little in-
terior voice remained with me, and
murmured sweetly in my ear, " Cou-
rage, courage ! Why are you sad ?
Cannot Maria come back ? I am your
good friend Hope, listen to me and
believe me : I promise you that next
year Maria shall be here." This con-
soled me a little, for I always believe
what my good friend Hope tells me.
Courage, then, and patience, and I am
sure of having you yet at Antignano.
Dear Maria, pardon this letter, which
is as long as it is foolish, and, if you
do not understand it, seek in it only

halian Girl of Our Day.

a new proof of my tender affection Cor
you. Meanwhile, let us leave the
world of dreams and enter that of
news. . . *

TO GAETANO.

This day brings to us a mournful
anniversary. Poor Charles Albert!
on this day, and at the very hour in
which I write, he yielded up to God
his soul, oppressed with grief, but
still full of an unshaken confidence
in the justice of his cause and the
imprescriptibility of his rights. Doubt-
less the saints have welcomed into
heaven him who on earth loved God
and suffered for justice' sake. It is
with feelings of compassion that I
think of the king, his son, surviving
all his family, who have, one after
,tbe other, gone before him to the
grave.

This enthusiastic remembrance of
the house of Savoy is not the only
one to be found in the letters of Rosa
Ferrucci. The misfortunes of the king,
Charles Albert; thedeathofthe Duke
of Genoa, his son ; the ruin of so
many hopes, for a moment triumph-
ant — all these often call forth in her
correspondence plaints and regrets.
I like to see this love of national in-
dependence in so pure a soul She
says somewhere : " In considering the
history of nations, we discover at eve-
ry step new and infallible proofs of the
Tvisdom and omnipotence of him who
directs the affairs of the world ; of
thai mysterious justice which surpass-
es all human understanding as the
[heavens surpass the earth. Hope,
then, in the Lord, ye victims of op-
pression I Acknowledge the hand
'which alone can give you deliverance I
And you, usurpers of the rights of
tlic vanquished, triumph not without
trembling at the tears which you have
caused to flow. He lives, he will hve

for ever, who will nev^ deaf to

the lamentations of h i; fsnel

If he defers his justice, arc yog to
cease to believe in him ? Becat»ehe
can wait, will your presumption know
no bounds ? Do you forget tint God
is patient because he is ciemii?^

Patriotism was, hovrever, a family
tradition with Rosa FcrruccL Attiic
time of the memorahle events whid^
in 1848, threatened the speedy ovc^
throw of Austrian rule in Italy, Sig^
nor Femicci, with his coUcaguci is
the University of Pisa, quitted his
chair, and, at the head of tlic atih
dents, who had formed thef»»*^'"T^«
into a body, set out for the ai
companied by his young son. 1 fifv
took part in all the battles of th«t un-
fortunate campaign — at first in
tones, then in its reverses — .:
turned to Pisa only after the ruin 0^
the last hope. These arc facts too
little known in thecontemporaryhis'
tory of that unhappy Italy whose
faults are the theme of every too|Ot,
while few know how many Dobk
hearts she can still produce*
We resume the correspondence:

May I tell you, Gaetano,
have been thinking about our futuw
life ? We must first, as we have so
often said, have continuallv present
to our minds the will of ( a-

vor to accomplish it in at) ^ , >'^i
be ever submissive to it from our in-
most hearts. Then we must hiVC
but one heart and one soul in serving
God, and I hope that we shall hnt
but one heart also in loving our dear
parents. What ingratitude would te
ours if tn our happiness we IbflgElt
them to whom we owe so miich^ lid
who loved us before we knew whst
love was !t Let us endeavor so to re-
gulate the affections of our beAfts

• Delia CintA CnitiAiii
f *' PiriniA cks wk

w^mm

An Italian Girt of Our Day.

547

)ne shall not be stifled by the
but that ail, forming a sweet
)ny, may rise toward him who
;d us, and for whom alone we
live. May he alone be the end of
r actions and of all our thoughts I
fatigue will never overcome our
ge, our duties will never seem
iavy, our life will be calm, our in-
ns pure, and we shall taste even
Delow that interior peace,

liich no ooe knows bat he who feels it/*

is the plan of our life. I have
jhtly sketched it, fearing that I
seem to be giving counsels and
•ibing rules to you. All this is
)le only by the grace of God.
s beg it through the intercession
Blessed Virgin at the approach-
istival of the Assumption ; we
50 great need of her protection
uidance.

" We pray for grace and it obtain
From her who is its mother."

September 15.

^ay I am as sad as I was joy-
esterday. Your departure, the
ht of an inevitable separation
my father and mother, a thou-
conflicting feelings in my heart,
inable to myself, have made me
Alas for us women I we are
ir than the leaves which are
ed from the trees and scattered
e first wind of autumn ; and,
lood scarce passed, our hearts,
le only of loving and suffering,
m by a thousand contrary emo-
of joy and sadness. Pardon me
murmurs, O my God! No, I
not to weep, but ought rather
ir out my soul in thanksgiving.
)en my whole heart to you, Gae-
because it is you who are to be
ipport of my life ; to share all
oughts, dispel my fears, and be
tunsellor and guide. Singular
I my new hopes have made all

my feelings more keen and ardent
Hence those alternations of joy and
sadness, to whose deepest emotions
I was till lately a stranger. As it is,
I do not know how I am to tear my-
self from the arms of those who watch-
ed over my childhood and who love
me so much. But let us forget all
this to-day. I can no longer speak
of my mother without ;ny eyes filling
with tears. It is drawing near that
dear October. If I cannot enjoy your
ruralizing, I can, at least, be happy in
thinking of the pleasure you will find
in it You are going to see your
mountains again, and those pine-
groves, which from my childhood I
have ever loved and admired. In the
midst of the flowers, the plants, the
trees, you will think often of him who
created us with souls capable of lov-
ing the beautiful and good ; of him
who this year has opened to you the
horizon of a new life, in which I hope
you will never find either regrets or
thorns. Oh ! how easy, as it seems to
me, does the beauty of the country
make the love of God. How sweet
it is to think that the same God who
gives the dews and the fertilizing rains
to the earth, foliage to the trees, flow-
ers and harvests to the fields, is also
that loving Father who supports us in
all our trials and so sweetly invites
our souls to repose in himself I Let
me speak to you of the good God,
Gaetano ; I love so much to think of
him.

September »$,

I cannot express the pleasure it is
to me to gaze into the deep azure of
the beautiful mornings of which

" The air is sweet and changeless,**

and of the lovely evenings when the
stars seem to speak, and tell in a sa-
cred language the wisdom of God.
The country does good to our souls.
In admiring its beauties and its trea-
sures ever new, we are led more easily

548

An Ftalian Girt of Our Day,

to think that, if earth was made for
man, man was created to love God.
I often say to myself, Wliat, then» will
heaven be, if there is so much of beau-
ty on this poor earth, where we are
not so much dwellers as pilgrims?
, , * On the eve of St John's day,
all Florence was illuminated. There
was nothing to be heard but games
and noisy laughter among the people.
Every one was gazing eagerly at the
fireworks and the illuminations ; but
no one thought of admiring the most
beautiful ornament of the feast — I
mean the moon, whose tremulous rays
were reflected in the Arno, lengthen-
ing the shadows of the trees.

September >1

Next year we will go to the coun-
try together. If you knew how I
lov^e your mount ains^ with their tall
pines, their flowers^ their streams,
and their green summits, I still re-
member the moment I left them. It
was a November morning. The
faint rays of a cloud-veiled sun shed
a pale light on the horizon, the leaves
were falling from the trees, and the
snow of the day before still covered
the summits. All nature was soli-
tary and sad. Who could have told
me then, that to this melancholy spot
which I was leaving as a child, I
should return with you a happy
bride?

Oct9T>ef ?3*

Enjoy well your ruralizing j its
pleasures are a thousand times
sweeter than those of our towns.
How pleasant it is of an evening to
climb the heights, and thence be-
hold the vast expanse of heaven still
purpled by the sun^s last rays; to
sec at one's feet the fields, the pine
groves, the pale olives, the elms,
yellow-tinted by autumn, the little,
scattered cottages of the peasants,
with I he smoke of the evening fire
rising from the roof, and the village

church, which seems by the
of its bell **to mottrn tbedyingjj

" n fioTQO piai^^er At li aiaitfi IT* '

I am far from aiU this now, hot I
often think of it. Again I see cir
happy day at Cuccigltana^ our bwiik
tain walk, and that beautiful bonioo,
with its luminous depths, whidi pTt>
mised me a joyous future. Hov ma
ny things nature can say I Ho^r'slie
can speak to the heart ! How, abore
all, she can speak to it of God!
Flowers, hills, forests, earth, and sky
— all are more beautiful wheti «t
have learned to discern in them tbe
beauty of God. How many tinm
already, Gaetano, have I gone ova
again our walk on tlic Serchio^ where
the rustling of the leaves was tbcoe^
ly accompaniment to our long coa-
versations I Ah 1 may God bless
thee, may he render liiee happy, lod
all my desires will be satisftetL

Ere of AU Sainia' Di^

Oh! if the feast of to^inofTOt
should one day be our fe-ist! Do
not suppose* however, that I am prt»
sumptuous enough to hope that nt
shall ever be like the saints td K/m
altars. No ; but I believe lh*t not
only those great saints, but also all
the souls of the just who are adaitl-
ted to the beatific vision of God, are
invoked on this great day by iht
church. This it is that embotdcas
my desires. . . .

If you are sad, recollect that It has ,
pleased God thus to alternate in \
world our joys and sorrows, in i
to implant more deeply in our
the desire of that life in which llrq^"
ing shall be no more. Then shall
we be united I hope, in the love aixl
blissful contemplation of that God
whom we now adore under the fcS
of faith.

Meanwhile it is sweet to say
one's self: Cod Iov*es mc infimtelf
more than I can love mvst^^lf

It has J

ordeifl
souMI

An Italian Girl of Our Day.

549

thinks of me and watches over me
^th a tenderness surpassing all the
tenderness of a mother. What, then,
should I fear ? And besides, how be
Christians and not be willing to suf-
fer for love of a God who has suffer-
ed so much for us ? I would share
these thoughts with you, Gaetano,
because I find in them my strength
and consolation every day. Trea-
sure them in your heart, call them
often to mind, and your sadness will
disappear as

" La nere al aol si disigiUa."*

I do not think we shall lose by
the exchange when, having finished
Milton, we read Virgil together.
That great man seems to me indeed

" The light and hooor of the other poets,"

as our Dante says. We shall reap
from this reading the great advan-
tage of being able to compare the
principal episodes of the ^neid
with the best passages of other po-
ems. I assure you I do not regret
the time I give to my little studies ;
if I had to commence them again, I
should apply myself only with more
diligence and attention. I owe to
them the best pleasures that I have
known; above all, I owe to them
community of intellectual life with

you.t

Now that I do not take lessons,
and that, consequently, I have no
more leisure, I know no more lively
pleasure than to shut myself up in
my little room with my books and
my pen ; and even during those
hours which I ought and which I am
determined to devote to needlework,
I love still to think of what I have
read and to beguile the time by
these pleasant memories. Having

* ** The snow diasolves before the sun.'*
1 1 would for a moment call the reader's attention
to thb aentiment. Such should, indeed, be the chief
end of the studies of every Christian woman— com-
munity of intellectual life mth her husband, com-
r of iBtoUectml life with her sons.

had some time for study to-day, I
resumed the reading of Muratori,
taking the history of the wars of
Odoacer and Theodoric. The sub-
ject is a familiar one, but I return to
it always willingly^ because I think
the history of the middle ages even
more important for us to know than
ancien t history. And then what joy
of soul to see the church, in all
places and in the most barbarous
ages, the mother and guardian of
civilization, the friend and consoler
of the vanquished, the last bulwark
of the oppressed against the unbri-
dled pretensions of power I

Poor Italy ! how she has suffered !
What carnage ! How much blood
shed in vain 1 How many tears I

January i, 1857.

Let us pray God, let us pray him
with our whole heari to-day, Gaetano,
to bless our union, our souls, our ac-
tions, our thoughts, our life. May he
deign to preserve long those who are
dear to us, to shield us from great
misfortunes, and, above all, never to
withdraw his grace from us ! Such
are the prayers that we will offer to-
gether, united in heart, though sepa-
rated by distance. God will see the
sincerity of our desires, and he will
grant them.

The serenity of the heavens glad-
dens all nature, and rejoices also our
souls, which in the light of the sun
seem, as it were, a reflection of the In-
created Light. I do not think I am
superstitious, Gaetano ; and if the
new year had commenced in the
midst of lightning, thunder, and dis-
mal rains, I should certainly not, on
that account, have augured ill for our
future. But now, contemplating the
calmness and pureness of the sky
and of the whole horizon, I ask of
God to give us a life like to this beau-
tiful day, that is to say, such a life
that nothing may ever be able to dis-

An Italian Girl of Our Day,

turb in our souls that peace whose
source is in God, its eternal fount.

After some cold days, the weather
has again become, very mild, and the
air is baJmy as with the first perfumes
of spring. How brightly the sun
shines to-day I Its warm beams inun-
date my little room. Scaled at my
table, at some distance from the win-
dow, my eye wanders involuntarily
to what I can see of the sky. I
fancy I see a great blue eye looking
down lovingly on me. Ah Gaetano 1
how good is God I

I have just learned the death of a
very dear friend. Youngs beautiful,
brought up in opulence, the only
daughter of a mother who idolized
her, she wished to become a Sister of
Charity in order to sen*e God in his
poor. For ten years she has been
a tender mother to the orphan, and
she has just died in the bloom of her
Ldays. Dear and good Sister Maria !
[how happy I should have been to see
ther again I I do not cease thinking
of her \ Schiller would say here :
** Cease to weep ! tears do not re-
suscitate the dead/' Ah ! with what
a far different power do the words
addressed by the Redeemer to the
afflicted come home to our hearts :
I ** Blessed are they that weep, for they
shall be comforted !" The more I
meditate on these words, and then
look on earth in its renewal, the pure
iKght and deep azure of the sky, the
I more I am impressed, death notwith-
standing, with the infinite goodness
of God and the ine^able bliss of a
I future life. I hear sometimes of the
[good being oppressed by the wicked ;
jl often see virtuous persons in mis-
■ fortune ; will not, then, the just also
have their day and their recompense ?
Ah \ often, when at night I raise my
eyes toward the twinkling stars, I

think of those happy souls lAo ;
there on high, higher than tht Slar^
in the eternal enjoyment of the bea-
tific vision, of adoration and lofc
without end. If man would only fix
his soul on such thoughts^ «ttit is
there on earth that couM dkcouragt
him?

I received your dear letter (Mf
morning, Gaetano, and lest ^
should suppose I thought it too ^oo-
my, I must tell you that I, too, bait
been thinking of death the wbok
day, and that I even offered a spedai
prayer to our Lord to be merciful t»
me when the hour shall have come
for me to pass from time to etcmily,
and, as I hope, ** from the human Xo
the divine.*' We have need " '
doning ourselves with a i
confidence into the arms of GoJ» ii
we wish to keep alive in our hciiti
the hope of seeing in heaven \m
whom we adore on earth. For my pan,
if, instead of thinking of hira aJoiw,
I turned to think of myself, I really
know not whiUier my rcHcciion*
might lead me. But hope, which i*
a Christian virtue, is a firm cxpccta*
lion of future glory, I will, then,
forget my fears and believe that, de-
spite our imperfections, we may 00c
day taste in the bosom of God a hap-
piness even of the shadow of which
we cannot catch a glimpse on thb
earth. We shall then know in what \
overflowing measure the Lord re-1
wards even the feeblest efforts of hiil
friends. We shall knnw how cveqf-J
thing here below w.i^ ' ^!y |

ing away with our taw

earthly life vanished more h*ghily1
than a dream, and that there remains
nothing to man aflcr death but love,
that ethereal part of the soul which
God claims all for himself. VciJ
more : I believe that the love
shall unite and commingle our
on high will not be absorbed in tbol

Ah Italian Girl of Onr Day.

5St

contemplation of the divine essence
in such a manner that the sweetness
of loving each other still shall escape
our perception. I believe, on the
contrary, that it will be the triumph
of love to exist and to endure in God,
and to unite in one canticle of praise
the souls which God made to love
one another.

More sorrow — Matilda is dead !♦
Oh I how we loved her. She was an
angel I It is we only who suffer, for
to her it is pure happiness to have
quitted earth. Not a murmur was
ever heard from her lips. She found
all peace and all strength in the love
of God. Her soul so easily opened
itself to joy. The day before her
death, seeing some flowers, "What
beautiful things our God has made !"
she exclaimed. Her friends wished
to inform her father of her imminent
danger. This she constantly oppos-
ed, wishing to spare that poor father
the agony of a last farewell. Here
are examples.

I do not know the introduction you
speak of ; but my mother has read
to me the admirable verses of Man-
zoni which are prefixed to it. How
many things these verses recall to
me. They have affected me powerful-
ly. Returning in memory to the
times that are past, I fancied as I
listened to them that I heard the
sweet voice of my poor Matilda, who,
in reciting this beautiful poetry, evinc-
ed so tender an admiration for her
father's genius. We were at Viareg-
gio. It was a beautiful summer
evening, and the peace of a starlit
sky penetrated deep into our souls.
Matilda said to me : " Rosa, if you
could only tell me the first verse of
those stanzas, I am sure I could re-
cite the whole." For some time I

^ Matilda Mansoni, daughter of the celebrated
aatbor of / Ptvtmui S/m.

ransacked my poor memory in vain.
Suddenly came the word, "Pause
awhile." That word was enough.
Matilda recited without failing in a
word — and oh ! with what feeling —
the whole piece of poetry. Dear
friend ! she is with us no longer, and
we shall see her no more on earth.
When I parted with her last, I said
to her: "Farewell till we meet
again." I ought to have said:
" Farewell till we meet in heaven."

When the storm came upon us,*
two terrific peals of thunder were
heard at once. I confess, Gaetano,
I did not expect to reach Pisa. And
oh! how terrible is the thought of
death, when all around reminds one
of the almighty power of God. I
trembled as I thought of eternity.
I saw my own nothingness, and that
my only refuge was in the bosom of
God. There did I cast myself with
all the confidence of my soul. Un-
perceived by any one, I drew from
my bosom my crucifix, and, conceal-
ing it in my hand, I pressed it to my
lips. I felt then what help religion
will give us in our last moments, for
I immediately regained courage, and
all my fears vanished.

TO SIGNORINA LOUISA B .

I received your sad and tender
letter yesterday, my dear Louisa,
and I answer it without delay, to
prove to you that your sorrows are
mine. Poor Antonietta I Yet, why
weep for her ? Her soul has winged
its flight to the celestial regions,
where, as she said in her delirium,
all was ready to receive her. It is
not to her, then — it is to you, to your
family, to ourselves, that our tears
belong. As soon as I heard the sad
tidings, I raised my heart to God,

* Signorina Ferrucd was, with her parents, return^
ing from Leghorn to Pisa, when they were surprised
by a violent storm, which is the subject of this letter

An Italian Girl of Our Day,

and offered him a fervent prayer
for your modier and yourself. As to
Antonietta, I could not pray for her,
because I saw her truly in the midst
of the angelic choirs.

Dear friend, would that I could
console you ; but I feel with sadness
my utter inabilit}^ It is God alone
who has the secret of true consola-
tion. Is not he our good Father?
Does not he await us in that blessed
abode where there are neither sor-
rows nor tearSj but where reign eter-
r nal peace and happiness ? And then,
my poor Louisa, if life seemed to
promise your dear sister happiness
and joy, has not death put her in
possession of joys more pure, happi-
ness more profound, than she could
I ever have desired? Oh I how en-
[ viable is her lot She will never
[know the troubles, the disappoint-
' ments, the disenchantments of this
life. She will be spared all the suf-
fering which is inseparable from a
long existence. Death has been to
her a beautiful angel, come from
heaven to crown her with flowers.
Dry your tears, Louisa ; your sister
is happier than we.

TO CAETANO.

Each day is bringing }xra nearer
the mournful anniversary you spoke
of in your last letter. I beg, I con-
jure you, Gaetano, to allow* to )x>ur
heart no sentLracnt but that of resig-
. nation. Remember that we shall
liee in heaven those who are taken
|from us on earth ; and that the suf-
rings of this life are the means by
[which we are to attam endless bcaii-
tude« I speak thus, not to preach

patience to you, which it woold
become me to do, but to give yt«i a
word of consolation ; for I know all
that you have suffered, all thai
still suffer in secret. The
business and the moltipticity
terior duties will not prcvcill
ful memories from taking
of your soul You can, theiit
offer your sufferings as a sacniice, be-
lieving that they will render t& skxs
worthy of the divine love. If I al-
ready shared your ILfe^ I would do
e%erytliing in my power to console
and encourage you on iha>e saii
days. Meanwhile let us both som
each day to lessen our impcrfectkos*
and to lot the love of God ha%ie6iikr
scope in our hearts. Thus shall m^ \
if not without fear, at least witlioal
remorse, reach tliat solemn momeot
of our life, the one that will end ^
May God, who, we hope, will one dapr"
unite us on earth by holy ties, dq
to unite us also in hea\reii I

JuHorf ti
(.TYirce days brfure lh« comnCBcaBat of 1

Truly we must be always ready to
die when and as God ^'ilts, and ta
love him infinitely more than all the
things of this world which are pasS|_
ing away with our frail lives.
immortal soul is not made for
world, where all is fleeting, dissolv*
ing, changing. By the ver>' nature of
its being, it yearns for heaven- For
me, lining or dead, in this worki or
the next, I will be ever thtnc, my
G acta no, in the love that God \
and blesses.

This letter is the last that
Femicci wrote.

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City. 553

SANITARY AND MORAL CONDITION OF NEW YORK
CITY.

ANCE at New York City, em-
the entire of Manhattan Isl-
11 show that its geographical
I, its advantages for sewerage
linage, in fact for everything
uld make it salubrious and
, cannot be surpassed by any
liis or any other country. And
Ji its bountiful supply of na-
loicest gifts, many of our rea-
11 be surprised to hear that
th-rate is higher than that of
on this continent, or any of
er cities of Europe. We ap-
able showing the relative per
mortality in various cities :

''ork.

Death. Population.

»agen

insund, (Norway.).

Dol

;Jphia

c, N.J.

;nce

•d

ler

35
45
40
36
40
44
48
4«
44
45
54

s first examine the conditions
avor and cause this exces-
igh death-rate, and then ap-
te as nearly as possible what
entage of mortality should be,
ood hygienic regulations.
Drimary cause of the present
n is, evidently, in the packing
)f the tenant-houses ; and how
ortunates exist in the fetid
dirt of these dens, it is im-
to imagine. The name ten-
je is applied to all buildings
ng three or more families,
ire at present in our city
>f these residences. In these

country and CitUu W. F. Thorns, M.D.

live over a half-million of people, or
more than half of our entire popu-
lation. These houses vary in con-
dition, from the apartments over stores
on our prominent thoroughfares, which
often contain all the comforts and
conveniences of more aristocratic and
imposing structures, through many
gradations to the cellar, garrets, and
model tenant-houses, occupied by the
most miserable of our inhabitants.
Such an economy of space was never
known to be displayed in sheltering
cattle as is here shown in the houses,
if they can be so called, of the labor-
ing classes. We give a description
of one of these establishments, for the
benefit of those who have never ex-
amined a "model tenant-house." On
a lot 25 by 100 feet two buildings are
erected, one in the front, the second
in the rear. Between the houses is a
yard or open space, in which are loca-
ted rows of stalls to be used as water-
closets. The buildings are frequently
seven and eight stories high, inclu-
ding basement. Through the middle
of each house runs a hall three to
four feet wide. On each side of the
hall are the apartments, as they are
termed, more properly coops or dens.
There are sometimes three or four
sets of these coops to each half, mak-
ing six or eight families to the floor ;
and so they are packed, from the cel-
lar to the roof of the establishment
As the tenn " suites of apartments " is
rather deceptive to the uninitiated,
we will state this means simply two —
one, the common room, where all the
cooking, washing, and other family
work is performed, and in some in-
stances used additionally for manu-
facturing purposes, as shoe-making.

554 ^^'^ Sanitary and Moral CondiHtm of New York City.

tailoring, etc, ; the other is the sleep-
iug-room. The first is generally S
feet by lo, and the second 7 by 8,
with an average height of 7 feet
" Not uiifrequently two families — yea,
four families — live in one of these small
sets of dens ; and in this manner as
many as 1 26 families, numbering o%'er
800 souls, have been packed into one
such building, and some of the fami-
lies taking boarders and lodgers at
that. And worse yet, all around such
tenements, or in close proximity to
them, stand slaughter-houses, stables,
tanneries^ soap factories, and bone-
boiling establishments, emitting life-
destroying exhalations/^*

Imagine rows of such houses, so
close to each other as lo shut out the
air and sunlight from their inmates,
and you have a picture of the condition
of some portions of the lower wards
of New York City. Of the 18,582
tenant-houses, Dr. E. B* TJalton, the
Sanitary Superintendent, reports '*52
per cent in bad sanitary condition,
that is, in a condition detrimental to
the health and dangerous to the lives

the occupants, and sources of in-
fection to the neighborhood generally ;
32 per cent are in this condition
purely from overcrowding, accumula-
tions of fillli, want of water-supply,
and other results of neglect." Dr. E.
Harris, the efficient Register of Vital
Statistics for the Board of Health, in-
forms us that, although the Fourth
ward has given up nearly one half its
space for mercantile purposes, it still
retains the population it had in 1864.
This is eflfected by driving the poor
tenants into smaller space and more
miserable dens, which they a re obliged
to accommodate themselves to, as
there is no rapid transportation at
I heir command by which they could
reach homes in more salubrious dis-
tricts^ and still retain their employ-

• Mr, Dyer*# Report on ihe C\wdhioti pttbt Doll'
tato md Outcut Childru of this ciey.

ment in this section. The result \%
that in some locations the people are
packed at the rate of nearly 300,000
to the square mile. Here arc con*
gregated the vilest brothels^ the lon^
est dancC'houses, and other dens of
infamy. It is doubtful if throughout
Europe, and certainly in no other part
of America, in the same amount of
space, so much vice, immorality* path
perism» disease, and fearful depra\ity
could be found, as some of the wont
of these locations present daily for
our consideration. Our readers must
not suppose, from our frequent refer*
ences to the Fourth ward, that it coo-
tains all of this character of troubU
existing in New York. This is uoi the
case. In portions of all the wards in
the lower part of the island^ as mtft
as uptown by cither river-side as bi^
as Fiftieth street, will the same con-
dition be found, but not in so con-
centrated a form as in the Fotirlli
Ward and its immediate surroundings,
which has for a long lime held the
unenviable reputation of being the
worst locality on the island.

Practical hygicnists give looo
cubic feet^ as the standard amotntt
of airspace for each individual, Dr.
W. F. l*homs, in his pamphlet on
Toiant' Houses^ tli inking that quan-
tity impraciicable in this charac-
ter of building, gives 700 cubic feet
as the minimum in which a pcrsoo
can live and not be injured by the
carbonic acid he constantly expires.
With many of the * fcver-ncsts^ ftol
more than 300 to 400 feet to the
individual are given \ and Captain
Lord's report shows that in sSy
houses the quantity allowed each
inmate is only between too and
300 cubic feet.

The zymotic or foul-air diseases,
as they are termed by some, formed
29,36 per cent of our total mortaUiy
during last year.* Belonging to this

Tke Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City, 555

class are the diarrhoeal maladies,
Asiatic cholera, cholera-morbus, ty-
phoid and t>Tphus fevers, small-pox,
measles, scarlet fever, and others of
this kind ; also the dietetic disorders,
inanition, scurvy, etc. It will be
readily seen that, in such locations
as are above described, a very large
proportion of the mortality from this
class must arise. Consumption also,
which might properly be termed
the constant scourge of the human
family, assists largely in running up
our death -table. The late Arch-
bishop Hughes, in speaking of this
disease, said "it was the natural
death of the Irish emigrant in this
country." This remark is equally true
of persons coming from all other
countries, partially on account of
foreigners not being acclimated to
the vicissitudes of our climate, but
more particularly because so many
of them dwell in damp, leaky shan-
ties, or in cellars which are frequent-
ly below the level of high water.
Here the seeds of the disease are
planted by which the miserable vic-
tims of hectic fever, night - sweats,
and other attendant evils are hur-
ried to their untimely graves. In
the fifteen months ending December
31st, 1867, 4123 persons died in our
city of this disease. The largest
number of these were between the
ages of 25 and 40. One thousand
seven hundred and sixty-five were
natives of Ireland, 1430 were Ame-
ricans, 600 Germans, and 328 from
other foreign countries.

Upon the infants, however, of these
polluted districts death fastens his
relentless grasp, and from their ranks
under the age of five years he claim-
ed last year over one half the entire
mortality of the city. The blood of
these innocents is poisoned from
birth by the noxious influences of
bad air and adulterated food ; con-
sequently theirnutrition is defective,

and the majority of them are found
frail, puny, and miserable. In this
condition they are little able to stand
the irritation attendant upon the pro-
cess of dentition, and during this
period a large number of them rapid-
ly sink from diarrhoea, marasmus, or
some kindred disorder.

Seven thousand four hundred and
ninety-four of these little ones died
last year under twelve months of age.
This is supposed to be little less than
one fourth of all the infants bom
alive during the same period. Is it
not enough to send a thrill of horror
to the breast of every mother, to
think that one out of every four in-
fants born, must perish before it
reaches its first birthday ?

" This is well known to be twice
too high a death-rate for the first
year of infant life, and experience
demonstrates, that the infant death-
rate is a safe index of the general
rate of mortality, both in the total
population and in the adults of any
city or district. That is, if in the
Sixth ward we find a high death-rate
in children, and if it is vastly higher
than that in the children of the Fif-
teenth ward, then we shall find (as
we actually have found) that the
death-rate is excessively high in the
total number of adult inhabitants of
the Sixth, while there is a very low
death-rate in the Fifteenth that bu-
ries the smallest percentage of its in-
fants."* An easy solution to this is
found in the greater susceptibility of
early infancy from extreme delicacy
of formation. Just as the accurate
thermometer indicates immediately
every change in the temperature, so
these frail organizations blight first
under detrimental influences, before
the more matured portion of the
population are perceptibly aflected
by the same causes. The following
will strikingly elucidate the greater

^ Dr. Haras's Report

<$6 The Sanitary and Moral Conditicn ef New Y^rk City.

expectation for human life to persons
living in even comparatively salu-
brious districts. The death-rate in
the Fourth ward, in 1S63, was about
I in 25 of the population ; in the
Lf ifteenth, in the same year, it was
P« in 60.

Why should this wide difference
in the mortality exist in two sections
of the same city adjacent to each
other? The reason is obvious : there
are but few of the densely over-
crowded tenant-houses in the Fif-
teenth or healthy ward, while the
Fourth presents a population of
nearly 20,000 souls packed in
these buildings. Thus it is shown
that persons living in the Fifteenth
ward, have two and a half times more
chances for life than those residing
in the Fourth.

The all-important question to the
social economist now recurs : What
is the necessary or inevitable mor*
tality of the total population of this
city ? We cannot do better than re-
fer to the mortality above given for
the Fifteenth ward, which is i in 60.
Why is it not practicable to bring
our sanitar)' regulations to such per-
ieclion as to reduce the mortality
of the entire city to near this stand*
ard ? Thus wc would save many
■lives, now sacrificed by diseases
Iwhich we have the power in a great
|flKieasure to control ; and we would
lessen the general dealh-rate of the
city to between 16^000 and 17,000 to
the 1,000,000, instead of ranging, as
it now does, from 23,000 to 26,000 to
the same amount of population.

To look at this fearful drain of hu-
man life is painful enough; but the
moral aspect of the subject will be
found even more deplorable. The
constant inhalation of vitiated air
lowers the vitality and poisons the
entire organism, and, as a natural con-
sequence, predisposes these unfortu-
nates to a continual desire for stimu-

lation. This, in fact, is a n
of nature, which, by a ^ i-
tion of Providence^ when depressed
or disordered from any cause, has a.
constant tendency toward beiJtk.
They, however, do not apprcf ' '
pure air, cleanliness, and sii'
food would quench liiis r
ing -y but they seek that v,
gratifying to their depraved appetites;
as for the time being it steals thdr
reason and blunts their sensibility tp
present misery. These facts acocont
to a great extent for the large number
of rumholes found in the neigbbcf*
hood of these tenant rookeries, whici
is reported in certain localities lo b(
one for less than every two hoioei
Many of these low groggeries are so
disgustingly filthy, and \^ ^^a-

ous compounds so corrup; cry

moral feeling, that they can proper-
ly be placed on an equality with the-
despicable Chinese opium-dens foui
in the neighborhood of \* ^ '
in London. The followii..
monslrate the immense d
taries who frequent drink
in this city, and the vast sums ol
ney squandered annually in tlicsc de-
grading haunts : *' There arc at ptc*-
sent 5203 licensed rumshops in New*
York ; 697,202 persons visit these dai-
ly, 4,183,212 in a week, and 218,214,-
226 in a year. The total amount o(
money paid out for drinks across the
bar and at the drinking-tables of tk
liquor-shops of New York is $736,-
280.59 a week, or $38,286,59o.<i8 &
year/** This is the account of the &
censed bar-rooms : how many nnli*
censed ones exist it is impossible lo
know. When we consider thit the
highest estimate made of our popoUr
lion gives us only 1,000,000 of inltafaf
tants, the foregoing figures e
are astounding, and deserve Ji J
nest consideration. In conneditm
with this subject, it will be intcfcst*

*P7<r'ft Report.

undl

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New Yofk City, 557

o examine the annals of crime
le past year. There were 80,532*
ts made during the twelve months
\g October 31st, 1867. These
ace offences of every grade, from

larceny to murder. The num-
>f the latter is 59, or an average
Dre than one a week. This total
Der of criminals amounts to near-
le twelfth of our entire popula-
and certainly shows a very low
t of morals in our community.
)uld be most interesting to know

proportion of these criminals
the commencement of their ca-
in crime, from the time they be-
to drink intoxicating liquors,
le of the saddest features in our
s the condition of the homeless
Iren. " The number of these be-
n the ages of five and fifteen
5 is stated to be 200,900, of
h not more than 75,000 attend
lay-school, leaving the vast num-
of 125,000 of our children un-
led and uncared for, of which it
)een estimated that nearly 40,000
^agrant children."! "Hundreds
2se children are confirmed drunk-

and thousands of them are ac-
)med to strong drink. Children
the age of fourteen years down to
ts of four are daily met in a state
toxication. They come drunk to
lission-schools. The little crea-

have many a time lain stretched

the benches of this institution,
irard Mission,) sleeping off their
iich. Hundreds of them have be-
: veteran thieves, and thousands

are in training for the same end.

hundred and sixty girls and
► boys, between the ages of ten
fifteen years — making a total of
— ^were arrested during the year
ig October 31st, 1867, for drunk-
5s and petty crimes."t

x>rt Metropolitan Police.

G. Pardee, Esq., commuiucation to New Vcrk

tr,

ers Report.

The arrests for the same period be-
tween the ages often and twenty years
amounts to the fearful number of 13,-
660. Is it not melancholy to contem-
plate these little creatures, " made to
the image and likeness of God," al-
lowed to develop in such haunts of
crime, every faculty as soon as
awakened blunted by the atmosphere
of sin surrounding them ? If not res-
cued from their fate at an early age,
we know they are the embryo crimi-
nals who will in the future fill our
prisons and grace our scaffolds. How
can it be otherwise ? Nurtured in a
hot-bed of crime from infancy, educa-
ted in pilfering and beggary in child-
hood, it is but human that they should
develop these accomplishments in
rank luxuriance as they grow to man-
hood. It seems strange that Mr.
Bergh's attention has neverbeendrawn
to the condition of the miserable ten-
ants and the homeless children. He
and the rest of his society take every
means to remedy the complaints of
ill-used quadrupeds ; but unfortunate
biped humanity may be stalled in
filthy dens with imperfect drainage
and no ventilation, or, the little ones
starve and die on our thoroughfares,
without finding a humanitarian to
raise a voice in their behalf. It is
true, our cattle should be cared for,
but a just God will demand at our
hands some protection for his poor.

" He has sjud— his truths are all eternal—
What be said both has been and shall be—
What ye have not done to these my poor ones,
Lol ye have not done it unto me."*

The radical relief for the evils grow-
ing out of the tenant-house system
can only be reached by, first, condemn-
ing and tearing down the worst class
of these buildings ; and, secondly, re-
modelling those which, by their con-
struction, are susceptible of such im-
provement as will insure the inmates

•Procfor.

558 '^Tke Sanitary and Moral i^natmf^j

at least the blessings of sunshine and
pure air

These stringent measures are un-
fortunately, for the present, impracti-
cable, as, should they be carried into

ffect, two thirds of the inhabitants of

liese dens would be thrown upon the
streets without shelter. Space must
be found adjacent to the city where
neat and comfortable cottages can
built for the laboring classes, and

ransportation of such character pro-
vided as will enable them to reach

bese abodes in as little time and at
small an expense as it now con-
sumes to get to their tenant dwellings.
The beautiful shores on the opposite
sides of the Hudson and East rivers
must eventually be dotted by the vil-
lages of these working people. It has
been reported that a very wealthy
gentleman of our community propo-
ses building a number of such houses
somewhere in the vicinity of New
York. To be the projector of such a
philanthropic enterprise would enti-
tle him to the love and admiration of
the people now, w^hile in after-years
it would be pointed out as a monu-
ment of his generosit}' to the strug-
gling poor. The proposed " Hudson
Highland Bridge," the '' East River
Bridge," and the tunnel under the

ust River, all of which, we hope, will
"%c pressed rapidly to completion, will
form the first of the links which are
to bind our Island City to the sur
rounding rural districts. The loca-
tion where the first will span the Hud-
son is near Fort Montgomery, in
the Highlands; the second is in-
tended to connect the lower part of
the city with Brooklyn ; and the iron
tubular tunnel is, as its name indi-
cates, a wTought-iron tunnel, to be
laid at the bottom of the East River ;
it also is to connect Brooklyn with
New York. In a sanitary point of
view, we think these proposed means
for rapid communication between our

island and the neighboring country
vie in importance with the gigantic
enterprise which gives us the water
of the Croton river for our daily con*
sumption, and the Central Park for
the recreation and amusement of oor
pent-up population. Over the East
River Bridge it is intended to run can
by an endless wire rope, w^orked by
an engine under the flooring on tli
Brooklyn side. The miniraura rile
of speed is put down as twenty mila
an hour. It is such travelling
ties as these structures will
which are necessary to enable tKc
workingmen to reach healthful and
salubrious homes outside of the mc-
tropolis. We would thus be able to
disgorge the immense surplus of po^
pulation which it is impossible for us
to accommodate in our midst.

But while we keep this in our
minds as the great ultimatum which
will eventually relie\^us> we must in
the mean time use every effort in oar
power *to ameliorate as much as pos-
sible the misery surrounding us.

Since the establishment of thfi
Board of Health, in March, 1866,
strenuous efforts have been made bf
that body to remedy the most glirisg
defects in the tenant-houses. Noth*
ing could bear better evidence of
the good results effected by the wiie
sanitar)* measures they have adopted
than the saving in our mortality riUf
during the last year. It lias been
asserted that ** our present code of
health laws are better than those of
any other city on this planet ;'* and
had the commissioners, in the execu-
tion of these laws, been sustained in
their laudable efforts for the |niblk
good by the courts of justice, no
doubt much more would have beea
effected, The Sanitary- ' .:n-

dant. Dr. E. B. Dallon, : , . 35,.
045 inspections made during the Usi
year ; 11,414 of these were in tcoc-
ment-houses^ 1 iA*IZ ^ J^'^^^r cdlutt

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City. 559

pipes, etc.; the remainder, to
e dwellings, slaughter-houses,
ishments for fat-melting and
t)oiling, stables, piggeries, etc.
imount of visitations by the sani-

1 spec tors shows great activity in
department, and entitles them
ich credit. The evils, however,
ling the entire of the present
ns are so numerous that, with-
good deal of active legislation,

be feared the root of the trou-
annot be reached. In the first
, no person should be allowed,

2 future, to build a house to be
)ied by more than three or four
es, without its plan of construc-
5eing first officially approved of
n appointed superintendent,
would confine the sanitary evils,
r as the internal arrangement of
lents are concerned, to those
ow have ; and, in the second
, as Dr. Dalton suggests, the
ion of a front and rear tenement
ie same lot should be strictly
bited. The importance of these
s cannot be overestimated. In
ion, many changes apparently
: in themselves can be effiect-
n the existing houses, which

1 materially add to the comfort
:hances of life of the inmates.
F. Nightingale says : " It is a
iemonstrated by statistics, that
e improved dwellings the mor-

has fallen in certain cases
23 to 14 per 1000 ; and that
le common * lodging-houses,'
I have been hot-beds of epide-
such diseases have almost dis-
ired through the adoption of
iry measures." One condition
ibly more pregnant with disease
\ tenants than almost any other
It so large a percentage of the
-closets in the tenant buildings
ot connected with the regular
•s. The consequence is, these
s become choked up with accu-

mulations of filth, and give forth noi-
some and ofiensive odors, most detri-
mental to health. This alone is
sufficient to cause a large amount of
the diarrhceal diseases which pervade
our community during the hot season
with such fatal results. The inspec-
tor of the Fourth Sanitary District, for
the Citizens* Association, in 1864,
reported " less than 30 per cent of
the privies in his district as being
connected with drains or sewers."
He also says : " There is a section of
my district, embracing at least nine
blocks, in every part of which the
peculiar odor arising from privies
is always distinctly perceptible dur-
ing the summer months. From this
region fever is never absent. I re-
fer to typhus and typhoid, for inter-
mittent and remittent fever do not
prevail in this neighborhood, even in
the low tract adjoining the river.
Such a gentle fiend as paludal mias-
ma flies aff'righted from the terrific
phantoms of disease that reign su-
preme in this domain of pestilence."
The landlords who grind the last
cent of rent possible from their ten-
ants should be obliged, at least, to
do all in their power to preserve
them from palpable occasions of dis-
ease. At a small expense in com-
parison to the income this class of
property yields, the proper connec-
tions with the sewers could be made,
and thus much suffering avoided.

One great trouble the sanitarian
encounters is, the disinclination of a
large portion of this class to adopt
habits of cleanliness. They seem
actually to riot in and be proud of
their filthy surroundings. And their
example is unfortunately contagious,
as it is known frequently to be the case
that where neat, clean, and respec-
table families are thrown in contact
with them, they, too, soon degenerate
info the same condition. " It would
be true of many thousands that, if

560 The Sanitary and Morai Condifitm

rSrtf

left to the uncontrolled indulgence of
their reckless and filthy habits, they
would convert a palace into a pig-st)%
and create * fever-nests ' and hot-
beds of vice and corruption under
circumstances most favorable to
healthy comfort, and social eleva-
tion,*** This fact, although discour-
aging, should be but a greater incen-
tive to keep constantly over them a
vigilant sanitary inspection, to show
them the baneful eflfects of their ha-
bits of living, and to cause a spirit
of emulation to assist themselves in
purifying their homes and surround-
ings. This can be done. Their
** reckless and filthy habits*' are, in
many instances, but the indication of
a lowered mora! and physical status,
the result of the poverty, starvation,
and misery they have endured. A
little encouragement, and a constant
stimulalfon as to the right means to
be adopted, would soon cause many
of them to overcome their vitiated
and deprived tastes.

These combined facts, we think,
necessitate a thorough house to house
examination of all this character of
property in the city, by competent
sanitary persons, so that the Sanita-
ry Superintendent may know the
exact condition of each tenement.
With such knowledge many advan-
tageous improvements could be made
and many nuisances abated, without
waiting for a report from either the
occupants or siinitaty police, as is
now done. Tliis action is at present
rendered more essential as the sum-
mer is coming on, and under the in-
fluence of its long, hot days the ani-
mal and vegetable decomposition
will make the air putrid with its
** life-destroying exhalations." Our
death-rate from the diarrhceal, and
other miasmatic diseases, will, as
usual, run up to the highest mark ;

^ Report of A»socUuon for Improviog (]i« Cotidi-
licm oTtbe Foot ia N«w Yorit. i»&i.

and should cholera
the cit)', it is questio:
be controlled by the H
missioners as readily
summer of 1866.

The question, how to
with the abuse of alco!
lants, has been eamesti
and considered by the pi
nicipal and legislative
t^e pulpit, and aJso b;
temperance association;
re^iching a solution of thi
blem. Philanthropic
stantly made to st
self-destruction with
the originators of such
seem all to arriv^c at the
that it is impossible to
restrain the appetite for st
by any character of laws
be enacted » The only
remains is to throw aroun^
such restrictions as will cq
its narrowest limits, Thi^
effected not alone by
enactments, but also by a
religious influence. Fubl
has great weight, and €f
who loves the well-being o
should frown down this SCM
the utmost of his power*
of the gospel should p
teach the enormity of tbc
ing, as they alone fully k
this cause.

A great many | '

present law;* have 1 *

straining drunkenness^ ail
much liquor is consumed d
merly. As a pnxif of tha
we will give here a portiai
ble, taken from the repa
Excise Commissioners for
comparing the number of
offences acttialty resuttinj
excessive indulgence
drinks on Sundays,
sellers were obliged
glittering shops clos^

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City. 561

d Tuesdays, when the prohi-
Lpplied only to before sunrise.

Year.

Days.

Arrests.

1867

5 Sundays,

210

4 Tuesdays, ,

471

4 Sundays.

>9S

S Tuesdays,

480

«i

4 Sundays,

4 Tuesdays,

380

s well known that before the
n of these laws the arrests on
' far exceeded those of any
lay in the week, this should
:e the most sceptical of the
f the Sunday prohibition,
estimated nymber of vagrant
1 in this city is nearly 40,000.
thousand immortal beings
;, day by day, toward physi-

I moral destruction I Throw

II the dictates of Christianity,
Dk upon these children in the

According to our free insti-

they will have the same
: of control over the destinies
nation as our own offspring,
h the latter may be thorough-
ated to make good and intel-
itizens. Here we are allow-
le nurtured the element which,
iots of 1863, threatened to de-
e length and breadth of the
vith tumult, conflagration, and
led. Every year, with the
itly increasing tide of emigra-
ew material is added to de-
liis character at a more rapid
Such being the case, self-pro-
demands that something be
) give these children homes
aw them from the pollution
ding them. In the lower

of the city, there are some
ions intended particularly to
re of these little vagrants, and
•rm the only breakwater to

VOL. VII. — 36

this torrent of infantile depravity.
The first of these is the Five Points
Mission. Tlys was established un-
der " An Act," passed in March, 1836,
by the Senate and Assembly of the
State of New York, " to incorporate
the Ladies' Home Missionary Society
of the Methodist Episcopal Church."
The intentions of the ladies forming
this association are shown in the
second paragraph of the above-
named act, and reads: "The ob-
jects of said society are, to support
one or more missionaries, to labor
among the poor of the city of New
York, especially in the locality known
as the * Five Points ;* to provide food,
clothing, and other necessaries for
such poor ; to educate poor children
and provide for their comfort and
welfare ; and, for that purpose, to
maintain a school at the Five Points,
in said city, and to perform kindred
acts of charity and benevolence."
The " Old Brewery," a most notori-
ous den of infamy, just at the Five
Points, was selected by the associa-
tion as headquarters for their mis-
sionary labors ; and to gather round
them here the little ones of this worst
location of the city, to be fed, clothed,
and instructed in the rudimentary
English branches, as well as the
Methodist Episcopal faith, became
a labor of love. This enterprise
prospered, and now, in place of the
"Old Brewery," stands a large, com-
modious mission-building. A pe-
culiar feature in the management
is, that entire families are taken in,
and given work of some kind to do>
so that it forms a character of tenant-
house. The institution contains some
18 families, including between 60 and
70 children. One thousand and nine-
teen children have been taught dur-
ing the year in the day-school. Im-
mediately opposite and facing this
is the second of these institutions,
the "Five Points House of Indus-

562 The Sanitary and Moral Condition of Nrw Ytfri C

try." This was established under
the supemsion of the same gentle-
man who at first had pontrol of the
Five Points Mission, the Rev. L. M-
Pease. Through some misunder-
standing, he withdrew from the mis-
sion and founded the House of In-
dustr)^ His beginning was very
small, and consisted of an effort to
obtain work for a number of un-
happy females who desired to es-
cape from their criminal way of liv-
ing. His next step was the estab-
lishment of a day-school ; soon after-
ward men and women w^re employ-
ed in making shoes, baskets, etc.
The success of the enterprise was
quickly assured, and it rapidly en-
larged its sphere of usefulness. Some
time since, the manufacturing of bas-
kets, shoes, etc., was given up, and it
is now^ simply a house of refuge, where
homeless children are educated, fed,
and clothed. During the winter, a
meal w^as given, in the middle of the
day, to destitute adults. One of ilie
gentlemen informed us that 325 men
and women partook of this meal daily
during the cold weather. The ave-
rage number of children given three
tneals was also 325, making 1300
meals given by tliis institution daily.
The whole number of chiklren taught
here during the last year was 12S9.
An interesting feature connected wiUi
this enterprise is the boarding-house
which has recently been established
forworking'girls. A large tenement*
house w^as bought, and fitted up in
the most compleie manner ; and here
homeless working- girls can get good,
substantial board for three dollars
and a quarter a week. This is of great
advantage to these poor young wo-
men, who are overworked at meagre
pay, and enables them to live for
about one half the price they would
be obliged to pay for tioard in a re-
spectable lodging-house. In the in-
ternal arrangements, everything is

done to add to the
as the mental improve
inmates. In the public
are an organ and a piano,
sewing-machines. Thes^
disposal of any one in ih
all times. Two ei^enings
they have night-schoot
mans teach their langui
change for English,
states: "Through the k
some publishers, we ha^
papers, 12 weeklies, and
lies. Three daily Germ
are sent us ; also a Gem
zine, published at Lei
many-" Some six year
third of the houses for
work was established at
Bowery, by the Re\% W. i
ter. The Howard Missi(
establishment is called) i
the House of Industry in
appearance. The lattcf
massive bare walls and
ings resembles more a
culprits than a home for
The former, to the con Irs
with a desire to surroum
dren with everything tlial
and attract them. Tb<
superintendent remarke
that ** their wish had lied
their mission home
and enticing than any sa
be." The two large halls
finished and artistically ad
tlie lower one, through tJ
lence of a gentleman* a 1
constantly playing, seveii
baskets of moss and
swing from the ceiling, \
base of tlic fountab is a
serv^oir containing gold-<
institution has received^ ii
7581 children ; and the M
ber of the 7
published b\
"for this month ^i*ebniar
dren have been fed at

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City, 563

from its wardrobes, and
Q its schools." These houses
i their regular religious ser-
loming, noon, and night, with
•schools, singing, and prayer-
s. On Sunday mornings, the
*s from some of the station-
under arrest for disorder and
mess the night previous, are
the Howard Mission, and
:d with coffee and bread, and
tfore leaving, they have a re-
discourse preached to them,
tion, these houses have regu-
3rs, who call at the homes of
laking complaints, to assist
mfort the sick, and, at the
me, to find out if the state-
liven by them are correct. In
at those not familiar with the
:s of such institutions may see
ritable work these ladies ef-

extract the first two items
le visitors' diary in the April
of the Monthly Record of the
ints House of Industry^ 1866 :

[ed on Mrs. L , Irish

: ; is a widow, with two small
tells me she cannot get
work to support the family ;
)e willing to sew, wash, pick
• any of the various female
Tients, if she could get it.
Ted to feed and clothe her
she would send them to our
which she readily promised.

ited Mrs. G , 31 M

rish Catholic. She lives in a
ttic room, rear building ; is a
with one child ; has been but
lys out of the hospital ; found
e girl sick with fever; pro-
3 send a doctor and give her
ry assistance."

ugh these institutions are do-
ething by their work to alle-
le condition of a portion of
t army of 40,000 stray waifs,
s most evident that they are
tiadequate to provide for more

than a small fraction of this number.
It is well known that nearly one half
the population of this city profess to
be members of the Roman Catholic
religion ; and, to show the great ex-
cess of persons belonging to this
church among the lower classes in
our city, we extract the following ana-
lysis of a block of buildings from the
Little Wanderers^ Friend for March,
1868 : " Fifty-nine old buildings occu-
pied by 382 families, in which are 2
Welsh, 7 Portuguese, 9 English, 10
Americans, 12 French, 39 negroes,
186 Italians, 189 Polanders, 218 Ger-
mans, and 812 Irish. Of these, 113
are Protestants, 287 Jews, and 1062
Roman Catholics J^

The Catholic Reformatory in West-
chester county, established by the late
Dr. Ives, is doing everything possible
for the children under its control ; but
the little vagrants, unless arrested for
some petty crime and thus commit-
ted to that institution, are not within
reach of its benefits.

The Rev. F. H. Farrelly, the pas-
tor of St. James's church, has labored
most zealously during the last three
years in the cause of the Catholic
children in his immediate vicinity.
He has established a poor-school in
the basement of his church, under the
charge of the Sisters of Charity. The
average daily attendance here is 200,
and these are furnished with a meal
at noon, in order to facilitate their re-
maining in the institution the entire
day. During the year, two suits of
clothing are furnished to as many as
the good father's means will permit.
This school will be removed to the
very elegant five-story mission-house,
now nearly completed, on the corner
of James street and New Bowery.
This structure is of brick with free-
stone trimmings, and has a front of
III feet on New Bowery, and 83 feet
on James street. It will be divided
into 21 class-rooms. This enterprise

564 Tlie Sanitary and Moral Conditicn of New York Ciiy,

will take more means for its support
than St. James's parish can possibly
furnish, and it deserves and should
have the sy-mpathy and pecuniary as-
sistance of all Catholics.

It is impossible to calculate the
amount of good to be effected by the
establishment of a large home, under
the supervision of the Sisters of Cha-
rity or Mercy in this location. These
good ladies are peculiarly adapted to
care for the wants of the poor, the
sick, and the afflicted, as they devote
all their energies, according to the in*
tention of their institution, to these
classes of society. And why? Be-
cause simply in so doing they fulfil the
wishes of ** The Master." Thus their
mission is one of love, and to strictly
attend to duty the greatest pleasure
of their lives. This is the solution of
their great success in the manage-
ment of hospitals, schools, and chari-
table institutions ; and the large num-
ber of their magnificent edifices devo-
ted to these purposes, found through-
out almost every portion of the known
world, attest the success with which
God blesses their labors. To these
good sisters the poor emigrants could
appeal, without even apparently deny-
ing their religion, for a little suste*
nance to keep their miserable bodies
from perishing ; the sorrow-burdened
could communicate their troubles,
confident of a ready sympathy ; and
to these the homeless little vagrant
could come, knowi ng a mother's lender
love and gentle forbearance awaited
him. In the home a room should be
devoted to the use of mothers — ^a place
where they could leave their babes to
be fed and taken care of for the day*
This would enable poor widows to do
washing and other kinds of work, and
thus many could support theirfamilies
who are now entirely dependent upon
public charity. In addition to the
home, a large farm should be pro-
cured near the city, where the chil-

dren taken permanently under the
care of the institution cotald be rai-t i
and educated. This is advisable, U-
cause, in tlie first place, it would be
more economical, and secondly, rx
perience demonstrates that a In-
body of children do not " 1] m .

such establishments wli A laj

cities. We feel confident ibctciro
be no trouble in supporting ihis 1
as the great Catholic heart aJwsi
responds liberally to appeals mad
for the poor, and in this iastimtioa 1
the weight of the burden ^'
equally borne by all the Ca
the city. In addition to all this, to
take care of these little wanderers is,
a matter of great import in the lij
of political economy. They fom dbe '
fountain-head from which 9 hu]ge jWfr
portion of our crimlDats are de%^
loped. If they could be made isieM
members of society^ it would reikis
the city of a large proportion of ti«&
taxation which is now necessary l^^
support our various prisons j and I
energy now shown in the comii
of crime would become a source <
material wealth to the country.
There is one other subjecl *«
to mention before concluding
paper: it is» the condition of iljc 1
lodgers at the station-houses. Fr
the report of the Board of Metro
litan Police, we find that 105,460 |
sons were accommodated with loc^^
ings at the various precincts during liw^
last twelve months, Mr S. C. U«^^
ley, the very accommodating chierf^
clerk of this department, tnfor
that the number this year
much greater. Over too^ooo \
refuge in the station-houses^ j
obtain the bare door to rest
weary limbs } but how many
our streets nightly, povertystrkken
and despairing, bii: ^etk

a shelter in these ^imX

It is a stigma on the fair tunc of
tilts great city that, throughout

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City. 565

length and breadth, there is not one
refuge, established by religious or
philanthropic efforts, where the home-
less can find shelter from the wintry
night blasts.

" Our beasts and oar thieves and our chattels

Have weight for good or for ill ;
But the poor are only his image.

His presence, his word, his will ;
And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep,

And Dives neglects him still."*

In Montreal, Canada, refuges are
connected with the church property,
and are superintended by the female
religious orders, we think more par-
ticularly by the Gray Nuns. In i860,
the Providence Row Night Refuge
was established in London, under the
care of the Sisters of Mercy. There
is no distinction made as regards re-
ligious creed, and the only requisites
necessary for admission are, to be
homeless and of good character.
Before retiring, a half-pound of bread
and a basin of gruel are given to each
lodger, and the same in the morning,
Wore they are allowed to commence
another day's efforts to obtain work,
^hat charity could so directly appeal
to our hearts as this } Think how
roany men and women arrive daily
w this metropolis, in search of em-
ployment! For days they eagerly
seek it without success, hoarding their
scanty means to the uttermost. Fi-
nally the time comes when the last
dime is spent for bread, and they
wander along, their hearts filled with
dread, as night covers the earth with
"^r sable mantle, knowing not whi-
™enhey shall turn their weary steps,
^nk of the poor woman wending
"^f Way through the pelting storm ;
fiinnents soaked and clinging to the
^^^illed form ; heart filled with de-
spair, and crying to Heaven for shel-
^y^ head aching, temples throb-
"*ng, brain nearly crazed with terror ;
finally, crouching down under some

old steps to wait the first gleam of
day to relieve her from her agony.
If one in such condition should
reach the river-side, what a fearful
temptation it must be to take that
final leap which ends for ever earth's
cares and sufferings, or, still worse
for the poor female, the temptation
to seek in sin the refuge denied her
in every other way !

" There the weary come, who through the daylight
Pace the town and crave for work in vain :
There they crouch in cold and rain and hunger,
Waiting for another day of pain.

*' In slow darkness creeps the dismal river;
From its depths looks up a sinful rest.
Many a weary, baffled, hopeless wanderer
Has it drawn into its treacherous breast I

" There is near another river flowing.

Black with guilt and deep as hell and sin :
On its brink even sinners stand and shudder-
Cold and hunger goad the homeless in."*

What a mute appeal for such in-
stitutions is the case of the little
Italian boy found dead on the steps
of one of our Fifth avenue palaces
last winter I Think of this little fel-
low as he slowly perished that bitter
night, at the very feet of princely
wealth. How his thoughts must
have reverted to his dark-browed
mother in her far-off sunny home !
And think of that mother's anguish,
her wailing

**For a birdling lost that she'll never find,"

when she heard of her boy's death,
from cold and starvation, in the prin-
cipal avenue of all free America!
We consider we are safe in saying
that in no other work of charity could
a small amount of money be made to
benefit so many as in the founding of
these refuges. In the police report it
is recommended that "several of these
be established in different parts of
the city, to be under the supervision
of the police." This is a great mis-
take. These people always associate
station-houses and the police with

* ^Pkoctoc

♦ Proctor.

$66

Wild Flowers,

crime ; consequently it is bad policy
for them to come constantly in con-
tact with either. This is the objection
to the lodging-rooms used in the
various precincts. Official charity,
as a rule, hardens those who dole it
out, and degrades its recipients.

There are thousands of noble-
hearted women attached to our dif-
ferent churches, who, if they once
thoroughly understood this subject,
would not cease their efforts until
societies were established and refu-
ges opened. How could it be other-
wise ! How could they nestle their
little ones down to sleep in warm,
comfortable beds, and think of God's
little ones freezing under their win-
dows ? How could they go to sleep
themselves* and feel that some poor
woman was probably wandering past
their doorways, dying from want and
exposure? We hope, before the
chilling winds of next November
remind us of the immensity of suf-
fering the winter entails upon the
poor, some philanthropic persons
will have perfected this design, and

leffll
um."
e adq

have the refuges in worli
If such should be the case, ihel
ers will find an ample rcwii
words of Holy Writ, ** He
mercy on the poor, lendeti
Lord : and he will repay him J

If we could thus, by the ado|
of every possible sanitar}* pr
deprive our death-tables of <
able mortality; and by si
ligious influence elevate the ii
character of the people, we sIm
in the first place, save thousaiui
lives, now necessary to develop
vast resources ; and, secondljr^
vance toward perfection in
ness and public virtues
hand in hand with the
strides being made in the ad
of our beautiful island. Ov
w^ould no longer seek other plaa
quest of health, as none more s
brious than New York could be hVi
and strangers, instead rf
is said of that most 1
Italy's fair cities, " Sec X^jj
die I" would exclaim, ** Go_
York, and Uve V

WILD FLOWERS.

The child, Mercedes, youngest of the three
Whom God has sent me for a mother's crown.

Brought me wild flowers, and with childish glee
Thus prattled on, as at my feel she cast them down :

**See, mammal here are saucy flowers I found
Hiding behind the hedge, like bo>*s at play.
Just peeping up their heads above the ground,

To watch if any one should chance to pass that way,

"•Aha I* said I, * whose little flowers be you,
And from whose garden have you nm away ?
Your leaves are dripping with the morning dew*

Fie, naughty things ! What, think you, will th© gardei

Faith and Patry of the Bretons.

*** Come, let me take you to my mamma's home ;
And she will put you in a golden vase,
Where you shall stand, and look around the room,
And see your pretty, rosy faces in the glass.*

" I took them softly up, and here they are.

And now, my mamma, I should like to know
Whose garden they have wandered from so far.

And why they did not stay at their own home to grow?"

I said : " My child, these flowers have never strayed

From any other home. Their place to grow
Is just behind the hedge, down in the glade.

Though no one may their beauty see or sweetness know."

Then she : " Why, mamma dear, how can that be ?

What use for them to grow there all alone ?
Why look so pretty if there's none to see ?

Or why need they smell any sweeter than a stone ?"

"No one on earth may see," I then replied —

" No one may know that flowers are blooming there
But God." Mercedes clapped her hands, and cried,
" God's flowers I Oh I keep them, mamma, in your book of prayer."

Methinks the child did choose a fitting place

To put those unnursed blossoms of the field :
Like them, our humble prayers with beauty grace

The heart's rough soil, and unto Grod their perfume yield.

TRANSLATBD FROM THB FRKNCH.

FAITH AND POETRY OF THE BRETONS.

ay of St. Malo is strewn here granite for a pathway for the travel-

with rocks, upon which forts lers.

I erected to protect the town After having ascended a rough and

TOSS fires. One of these, steep declivity, a naked and desert

\ B^, was formerly armed plateau is attained, where a few sheep

^n : but the fort is now find with difficulty a herb to browse

. and only recognizable upon ; then a turn through a defile

ins by the cross at the ex- of rocks, and on the steepest point a

he beach, resting appa- stone and cross of granite. This is

\e blue sky above. To the tomb of Chateaubriand.

1 eyes are attracted, to No longer a poetical tomb ; lean-

5 turn, so soon as the ing against the Old World, it contem-

e a shore of sand and plates the New; under it, the immense

Faith and Po€try of the Brfiom.

sea, and the vessels passing at its
feet ; no flowers, no verdure around
it, no other noise than the incessantly
moving sea, covering in its tempests
this naked stone with the froth of its
waves. Here he chose his last resting-
place ; and we wonder what thought
inspired the wish that not even his
name should be inscribed upon his
tomb. Was it pride, or humility that
actuated him ? To me it appears that
this hum ihty and this pride were from
the same source — a perfect disen-
chantment with the world- This man,
who had proved so many projects
abortive, so many ambitions mis-
placed ; this traveller who had over-
run the universe, visited the East, the
cradle of the Old World, and the de-
serts of America, where was born the
New ; the poet who could count the
cycles of his life by its revdutions,
was overwhelmed at the end of it by
a sadness that knew no repose. He,
whose youth was preluded by Consi-
derations on Raolutions^ so compre*
hended life in his latter years as to
WTitc The Biography of the Reformer of
La Trappe. The silence and solitude
of die cloister were in harmony with
the sadness of his soul. Having been
charged with the most important mis-
sions, having accomplished the high-
est employments, and set to work the
most skilful and powerful men, he re-
tired from the whirling circle of the
w^orlcl, penetrated with the overpower-
ing truth, how Utile man is wonh,
how little he knows, and how seldom
he succeeds in what he undertakes.
The usual source of joy — pride^ the
intoxication of the world — only pro-
voked in him a smile ; for all men he
had the same contempt — did not even
except himself — and knew well, ac-
cording to the ancient proverb, that
there is very little difference between
one man and another*
Through humility, then, he cared

• l-hucydktei.

not for any inscriptioii oo his tonb,
not even a name. What nuttcred it
who read it ! Men were tM>thixig, and
he was one of them I But thruugh pride
also, he chose this r, V ' ric. Tni-
vellers would come pans of

the world, they would coutt» : -
and say, Chateaubriand ! Mv, a: :
would be echoed by the wavts thil
came from, and those tltat poited
for» distant shores ; and men were
obliged to know where 1

Thus — ever-recurring
the human soul l^ — in him wcr
the most contrary sentimentsr— 1 1 . w U ^
enchantment of glory, and the bdicf
in the immortality of a name ; the
disdain of scepticism, and the ihtm
for applause ; the impression of the
Christianas humility, and an instioct
of sovereign pride.

Here, however, we find tnith : this
cross, tlte sign of eternity on tim
stone marked by death, is th« tminii-
table testimony of the empliiHr** nf
human pride, Chaleaub -
only a cross on his torn
mennais, his compatriot, rejected it
both obedient to the same prcocc**
pation, in negation as in faith.
cross, dominating the tomb where
Breton poet reposes^ is the symbol
the genius of his country^ of Catholic
Brittany.

Faith, in Brittany, has a particubr
character, allied to a poetry peoiltar to
Breton genius. In this country male'
rial objects speak ; ihe\ «
animated, and the tic)
voice to reveal the soul of man coofver
sing with his God. This b not ma^
nation ; no one can be deceived in tL
So soon as one enters Brittany, lh<
physiognomy of the country duui|^
and the sign of this change is the
cross. On all the roads, at atl the
public places, is raised the cn»s; vJi
ever>^ epoch from the twelfth W) the
nineteenth century we find theiii,a»d
of every form. There, sample

iitt

tUttM

Dlcfl

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons,

569

of granite raised on a few steps ; here,
crosses bearing on each side the
unage of Christ and the Virgin, rude
sculptures in themselves, but always
impressed with a sincere sentiment.
The Bretons not only understand the
tenderness of the Blessed Virgin, but
they feel her grief; they share it with
her, and express it with an energetic
truth. Look at the picture of the
Virgin holding her dead son on her
knees, in the church of St. Michael at
Quimperl^. It is a primitive painting
by an unskilled hand, and one totally
ignorant of the resources of art ; the
design of it is incorrect ; yet what an
expression of grief! The painter
wished to portray the living suffering
of the mother ; the mouth is distort-
ed, the eyes are fixed, the pupil seems
alone indicated : yet this fixedness of
look seizes upon you ; you stop, you
remain to examine it, you forget that
it is a representation, and see the
Virgin herself, immovable in her
grief, with no power to express her
sorrow ; petrified, yet living.

At one side, leaning against the
wall, is a statue of the Virgin, con-
ceived with as contrary a sentiment
as possible. She is all tenderness
and delicacy, and has a leaning atti-
tude, the head inclined, with the gen-
tle look of the Mother who calls the
sinner to her side. Her robe falls in
numberless plaits, her mantle enve-
lops her with a harmonious grace ;
for she is no longer the Mother of
sorrow, but the sweet consoler of hu-
man kind, holding her Son in her arms,
whom she presents to bless the earth,
Notre Dame de Bat Scao, The Virgin
of Good News.

The faith of sailors in the Blessed
Virgin is well known, that of the Bre-
ton sailors particularly. At Brest, we
look in vain for a museum of pictures.
Brest is not a city of art ; it breathes
of war; the port, filled with large
ships, the arsenal and its cannon, its

shells, its gigantic anchors, the forts
built on the rocks, the animated
movement of the streets, where sol-
diers of all kinds go and come, and
sailors constantly arriving from all
parts of the world, give to it an air of
intense reality — a character at once
powerful and precise. Man has built
on the rock his granite home, and
we may believe it is immovably esta-
blished.

But ascend the steps that lead from
the lower to the upper town, and un-
der a vault you will find four pictures
appended to the wall. Here is the mu-
seum of Brest. Sea pictures dedica-
ted to the Blessed Virgin, the depar-
ture of the vessel, women and chil-
dren on the beach on their knees du-
ring a tempest, the vessel tossed by
the waves, and the arms of the sail-
ors extended to heaven ; and on their
return, the rescued sailors, bending
their steps, with tapers in their hands,
toward the chapel of Notre Dame;
and underneath, touching legends,
cries of the soul that implores, hum-
bles itself, or renders thanks. Holy
Virgin, save us / Holy Virgin, protect
those who are now at sea / Man we
see in his weakness, his aspirations,
and his hopes — the true man ; the rest
was but the mask.

They seize every opportunity and
use every pretext to testify their
faith. At Saint Aubin d*Aubign^,
between Rennes and Saint Malo,
you go along a tufted hedge; you
see a cross cut of thorn — a cross
which grows green in the spring,
among the eglantines and roses.*
You return to visit the land of Car-
nac — a land so pale and desolate,
where the standing stones are squar-
ed by thousands, gigantic and silent
sphinxes that for twenty centuries
have kept their impenetrable secret —
what is that cross that rises on an

* At St Vincent les Redon, a tree is cut in the form
oftheqross.

570

Faith and Poetry of t/ie Bretons.

■ cfiit

eminence? One that they have
ilantcd on an isolated ruin in the

nd — a cross on a Druid ical altar,
and before the army of stones which
mark, perhaps, a cemetery of a great
people.

Elsewhere, at the cross-way of a
road near Beauport, a spring gushes
out and flows amonc^ the rocks, form-
ing both basin and fountain on the
heaped-up stones ; in an arched niche
is enclosed a Virgin crowned with
flowers ; all around, the field mom-
irjcr-glor)", the periwinkle, and the
egLmiine have peeped through the
moss and herbs» and enlaced the
rustic chapel witli their flowery fes-
toons, and fallen again on the infant
Jesus. Opposite lie fields of green
thom*broom, and above dieir long,
slender stalks appear the half-tie-
stroycd w^alls of an ancient abbey,
roofless, opened to heaven, and si-
lent Through the blackened arches
appears the blue sea, whose prolong-
cd and incessant roaring fills the
air.

In this Catholic countr)* parexftl-
iemt^ all the churches are remarkable.
is no village, however small,
%f which the church does not form
an interesting part; and here and
lliere» as at Gu<frande and Vitr^, we
find the beautifully carved pulpits
•BdDScd in the wa11« from which the
nbskmary fathers, on certain extra-
Ofdiaary occasions, speak to the peo-
|4e assembled in the square. At
Caniac and Rennescledcn we have
the arched roofs so exquisitely paint-
ed ; at Koscoflf, Crojcon, and elsc-
wbere, medallions of stone and wood
frimti^ the altar with quaint gilded
«c«l|)tiircs; tlten, i^n, we meet
with a tabernacle formed for an ar-
cfiitectural monument, a sort of pal-
;tcis ill miniaUins, with its wings, pa-
itoits, oAhimns, domes, galleries,
>' »rden;) then

ail i grvcts us b

a little chapel near Cbateaolin* \
a canopy sculptured in wood or <
cr}'stai, at Landivisiau. An odd or*
nament, which Is found in only ooe
church — that of Notre Danie de
Comfort, on the way to the Bcc do
Raz — is called the wheel of gfoi ^
tune, and is composed of a
wheel suspended from the roofj|
the church, and entirely sur
by bells. On da>'s of solenm fisaiia,
for baptisms and weddings^ tlie
wheel is turned, and, agitating lO
the bells at once, forms a ooc^
chime, which times the tnardi oC
the procession, and adds a jojfOQS
and silvertoned accompaniment;
the voices of the young gtris <
ing the canticles to the Blessed '
gin. Finally, we meet with ooe rf
those trunks of trees» large sqoaied
pillars of oak, encircled with
bands of iron* and placed in
middle of the churchy by the sidei
a catafalque of blackened wood,
but sowed with whit ' ' irs; tlie
trunk and the coffin, . of iJk

fragility of life, and tiic Chrisdaii
principle above all others, chari^.

The churches in the towns aie
truly che/s-d'eeuvres^ the clotsiers of
Tr^guier and Pont TAbbtf, for ei*
ample, where the arcades are so
light and so finely carved ; or tlie
ba^-reliefs inside the portal of Saiale
Croix, at Quimperl<f» a vast page of
sculptured stone, finished witli Ube
delicacy and richness of invcDtJOO*
the charming qualities of youth and
of the Kenaissafut. Then, tn all
these churches, near the altar^ yott
perceive immediateJy the
statue of the parish saints
the Breton saints, not found else*
where — Saint Comply. Saint Go^
nol<f, Saint Thromcur, Saint Yves
especially. Saint V\ ihe prt-

vilc;ge of being rep in at

most all the churcbe:^ cvcu in thoic
of which he is not paUon; thct^

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons.

membrance of this great, good man,
this wise priest, this incorruptible
fudge, is indelibly impressed on the
heart of every Breton. Sometimes
he is seen in his judge's robe, his
cap on his head, and listening to
two litigants, one in red velvet, em-
broidered in gold, with his grand
wig, his silken stockings, and sword ;
the other, the poor peasant, all in
rags, holes on his knees and his el-
bows, and naked feet in his wooden
shoes. The great lord, with his cap
on his head, and an air of pride, pre-
sents the saint a purse of gold ; the
peasant, with timid look and attitude,
his head bent down, his cap in his
hand, humbly awaits his sentence.
He has nothing to give, but justice
will not fail him. Saint Yves turns
toward him with a gracious smile,
and, handing him the judgment
written on parchment, lets him know
it is his. And thus the history of
the middle ages : the church protect-
ing the peasant, the weak against
the powerful and the strong.

As to monuments, properly called,
nowhere can we find more of these
beautiful churches of the middle
ages, testimonies of the piety, the
science, and the taste of so glorious
an epoch. Here, the Cathedral of
Dol, of the best day of Gothic art —
the thirteenth century — imposing by
its massiveness, its grandeur, and the
noble simplicity of its ornaments and
the harmony of its proportions, the
granite of whose towers, in the lapse of
ages, is permeated with the air of the
sea, has a color of rust, we might say
built with iron \ there, Tr6guier and
its exquisite wainscoting, benches,
altars, stalls, pulpit in brilliant black
oak, carved in such fine and delicate
designs, with inexhaustible variety ;
not a baluster alike, enough models
to furnish the entire sculpture of our
time ; and further on, Saint Pol de
Leon and its spire of granite ; daring

and easy, a prodigy of equilibrium,
immovable, girded with open galle-
ries like graceful crowns, flinging to
heaven its tiny sharpened bells ; so
beautifully carved, so aerial, the joy
of Brittany, as well it may be, its
legitimate pride ; then Folgoat, a lit-
tle unknown village north of Brest,
lost at the extremity of the isle, and
necessary to leave one's route to see
it ; but even here, two Breton prin-
ces, the Duke Jean III. and the
Duchess Anne, have constructed a
royal church accumulating all that
Gothic art in its richest ornamenta-
tion, united to the most ingenious
caprices of the Renaissance^ could have
imagined of delicacy and brightness ;
portraits sculptured, statues of the
finest style reflecting their antiquity,
a richly Gothic and carved choir, and
a gallery — one of those graceful and
original monuments of Catholicism
so seldom met with — of lace-work,
where trefoils, roses, and foliage are
carved in indestructible blue granite.
The hammer of the Revolution has
only knocked off*small pieces of these
beautifully carved stones. They re-
sisted the passions of men, as they
have defied the action of time.

With the bells, of such varied forms,
and the vessels for holy water, we
will conclude.

These bells are of every style — of
the Renaissance^ the Roche -Maurice-
les-Landemeau, of Landivisiau, of
Ploar^, of Pontcroix, and of Roscoff.
Many are hung with smaller and
lighter bells and ornamented with
two-story balustrades, like the mina-
rets of the East ; then the coverings,
spires as they are called, are like that
of Tr^guier, open, that the winds of
the sea may pass through them, and
adorned with crosses, roses, little
windows, cross-bars, and stars like
the cap of a magician.

The vessels for holy water also
express the character of the age. At

37^

Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert,

Dinan, in a church of the twelfth
tcentur)% an enormous massive tub is
supported by the large iron gauntlets
of four chevaliers ; the old crusader
dress, armed cap-a-pie in the service
of Christ. In a church of the fifteenth
centur)% at Quimper, is one of an en-
tirely opposite character — a small
column, around which a vine is en-
twined, and above an angel, who, with
wings extended, appears as if it had
descended from heaven to alight upon
the consecrated cup. Again, and as
if inspired by a stili more Christian
sentiment, we find the exterior ves-
sels for holy water, so common every-
, where in Brittany, of which the most
emarkable are at Landivisiau, at
lorlaix, and Quimpcrlt^. The inte-
ior ones seem only accessories ; the
exterior, isolated before the door,
have a more precise signiftcation :

they solicit the first impulse nf the
soul ; the Christian, in 5' -JUt

his hand toward the bi j.se,

pauses, and prepares his heart for
the coming devotion.

How well these Breton architects
have understood religinn ! These Ci-
teriorvases are living monuments, Kt-
tle pulpits, with their emblems, sjm-
bols, and heads of angels enveloped
in their wings. Their canopies, pro-
minent, sculptured, and under tluooii
standing and alwa>^ smiling, OUT
blessed Mother, who seems to invite
the faithful to enter the house of
prayer. And prayer, as some one
has said, is the fortress of lUe. Tlie
Breton people believe and pray: a
hidden power is theirs — religion ; lis
effectiveness attesting not only its
existence^ but its life.

SAYINGS OF THE FATHERS OF THE DESERT.

Abbot Pastor said : He who
eacheth something and doth it not
himself, is like unto a well which
fllleth and cleanseth all who come to
it, but is unable to cleanse itself of
filth and impurities*

A brother asked Abbot Pastor the
meaning of the words: He who is
angry with his brother without cause.
He answered : If in all cases w^here
thy brother wisheth to put thee down
thou art angrj^ with him, even though
thou pluck out thy right eye and cast
it from thee, thy anger is without
cause, If however, any one desireth
to separate thee from God, then
mayest thou be angry.

Abbot Pastor said : Malice never

driveth away mahce ; but, if any
shall have done thee an injury*
benefits upon him, so that by thy
good works thou destroy his malice.

A brother came to Abbot PaslOTt
and said : Many thoughts enter my
mind, and I am in great danger
from them. Then the old man sent
him out into the open air, and said:
Spread out thy garment and catch
the wind. But he answered that he
could not. If thou canst not do \\C\%
replied the old man* neither canst
thou put a stop to '
but it is thy duty to f

lights ;

Abbot Pastor said : Expcriincnts
are useful, for by ihcra men become
more perfect

New Publications.

573

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Discussions in Theology. By Tho-
mas H. Skinner, Professor in the
Union Theological Seminary. New
York: Anson D. F. Randolph, 770
Broadway.

Hints on the Formation of Reli-
gious Opinions. Addressed espe-
cially to young men and women of
Christian education. By Rev. Ray
Palmer, D.D., Pastor of the First Con-
gregational church, Albany. Same
publisher.

These two volumes are very much
alike in their general scope and charac-
ter. Both are written in a calm, philo-
sophical style, and with the praisewor-
thy view of presenting the claims of the
Christian religion on the reason and con-
science of men, combating scepticism,
and removing difficulties and objections
derived from the infidel literature of the
day. Professor Skinner begins with a
very good essay on miracles as the basis
of a reasonable, historical belief in the
teaching which they authenticate, and
then proceeds to develop his own views
respecting certain special topics which
he can assume will be admitted by his
particular audience to be contained in
that teaching. These relate chiefly to
the mode by which ^en man may ob-
tain restoration to the divine favor
through the Redeemer of our race. The
author's object is to show that this mode,
as explained by himself, exhibits the at-
tributes of God in a manner consonant
to the dictates of reason and the truths
of natural theology, and is one by which
any sincere, well-intentioned person can
make sure of obtaining grace from God,
pardon and eternal life. The author's
view is that of the new school of Calvin-
ists, which is a great improvement on
that of the old school in a moral, though
not in a logical, sense. Such preaching
and writing as that of Professor Skinner
must have a good influence on those

who still believe in Christianity and know
no other form of it than the Presbyte-
rian. It puts forward the goodness and
mercy of God, and encourages the sin-
ner to hope for grace and pardon, if he
will be diligent in prayer, meditation, and
other pious exercises, and this appears
to have been the practical end proposed
to himself by the author in this volume.
Dr. Palmer's essays are more elabor-
ate and consecutive in their character, and
aim more immediately at satisfying the
intelligence. He first portrays in a clear
and impressive manner the evils of scep-
ticism, and then proceeds to exhibit the
evidence of the truths of natural theolo-
gy and of the fact of a divine revelation,
which is also accomplished with a con-
siderable degree of ability and force. The
result at which he aims is to convince
his readers that they are morally bound
to recognize Christianity as true, and to
form some definite opinions as to its
real meaning, which may serve them as
a practical rule and guide for attaining
their eternal destiny. The capital defect
in his argument is. that he reduces the
evidence of the being of God to mere
probability, thus leaving the mind where
Kant left it, in a state of scientific scep-
ticism, with no better basis of certainty
than the practical reason. Of course,
then, he has nothing more to propose
under the name of Christian doctrines
than probable opinions. No doubt, it is
obligatory on all to act upon opinions
which are solidly probable in regard to the
momentous interests of the soul, where
there are no otherequal probabilities to
balance them, and no greater certainty
is attainable. We deny, however, empha-
tically that man is left in this state by
the Christian revelation. The being of
God is a metaphysical certainty. The
fact of revelation is a moral certainty, re-
ducible in the last analysis to a certainty
which is metaphysical and sufficient to
produce an absolute assent of the mind
without any fear of the contrary. The

S74

New PubUcattons,

articles of fsuth proposed by the revela-
tion of God ought to have the same cer-
tainty, since it is necessary to beheve
them without doubting. Our respected
authors cannot propose a reasonable mo-
tive for believing all the doctrines of
dieir sect or school without any doubt,
but can only propose opinions more or
less probable, or even directly contrary to
reason. We do not think, therefore, that
they will be able to satisfy the reason of
uny person who thinks lo|jically that their
theories of Christianity are true and com-
plete. The most they can do is to breed
an anxious desire to find out with cer-
tainty what Christianity is and to attain
to a rational faith*

Celebrated Saxctuaries of the
Madonna. By Rev, J. Spencer
Northcote, D.D., President of St
Mary*s CoHege, Oscott For sale by
the Catholic Pubhcation Society,
New York*

This is a valuable contribution to
Catholic Hterature, and presents a sub-
ject of interest not only to Catholics,
but to the public at large ; for great
public facts are always of interest, what-
ever may be our opinion in regard to
their significance, A clear and full ac-
count is given in this l>ook of the prin-
cipal facts connected with the origin of
some of the sanctuaries of the Madonna
in Europe, particularly of the Holy
House of Lorcto and the recently es-
tablished pilgrimage of l-i Salcttc in
France. We do not sec how any one
can read it and resist tlie conviction
that God has, by his own finger, estab-
lished and maintained the devotion of
the faithful at these holy places. It is
easy enough to cry superstition, and to
call everything supernatural supersti-
tious. But the evidence of facts speaks
for itself, and we commend this book to
the candid reader, confident of his fovor-
able judgment in spite of all preconceiv-
ed opinions* as able to speak for itself.
We have, moreover, ftmnd it most at-
tractive, and have read it from beginning
to end with unflajjging interest It is
calculated to quicken the faith of the
dumb Christian, open his eyes to the

unseen world, and fill his heart with de-
sire for virtue and llie love cif God, aad,
as well, to produce tti the miDft of the
careless a deeper convfctioQ oltlie tnuh
of spiritual things, whidi may nuke blQi
set less value on llie present, and prine
more highly tlie world to ct>me. We
ho[)e this book may attract ilteQCiofi
and be widely circulated.

Notes ok the Rubrics or tint iUh
MAN Ritual i Reg^trdtng llie Sacn-
ments in general^ Baptism, the £»•
charist, and Extrcfn<; t'n<:tJon- 0f
Rev. James O* Kant •ean.St

Patrick's College^ \ r, Stm

York: The Catholic PutificalkNi
House. I vol. crowti Svo, \nx (?*
1868.

This is one o( the most cxceMeiit coo-
mentarics upon the Ritual t>* ^^ » •- "^^t
under our notice. The re = r

has for several years dclivtiLii <- • ''♦
upon the Rubrics to the senior ch^** oi
theological students in M.v '^ :-tl
the substance of these lect ^:

found in the present volume nuti*
is eminently quahfied for such adiilc«J^
task, is apparent from the IhoroufiliJr
practical as well as theoncticaJ ktkQWfUsif^
he displays in treating of the i
tion of the sacraments*

Priests on the mission will Jiod
Ixiok one of the most «*tefw1 workfrj
reference on the subjc< 1 <A%

can be found in the V.u.

It has been examined by th^
Congregation of Rites, and r^t?trH'f
api>robation, and can. theri
suited and followed with t
good authority.

Arn:FTOK's Annual CV<xorj
Roit 1867.

This valuable work appeant to rccti^t
moje care and attention each year* Tl»
present volume isof unujtual (mpoftUHi
on account of the political evcrics in our
own country* and elsewhere, bcariokg on
the ultimate destiny of the
world, which are recorded In tts
It contains^ also, a very fiur 1

New Publicatiom.

575

ory and present condition of the
temporal dominion, and of the
J events in the history of the
: Church during the year. In the
n the " Roman Catholic Church,"
:orrectly stated that the Council
:nce is by some regarded as oecu-
It is universally regarded as
lical, and was one of the most im-
councils ever held in the church,
itriarch of Constantinople, the
Emperor, the representatives of
:r Eastern patriarchs and of the
1 Church, and a number of other

prelates were present, and dis-
dl their causes of difference with
>man Church during thirteen

after which they signed the Act
n, and united in a solemn deflni-
he supremacy of the Pope.
Council of Basle is enumerated
he certain oecumenical councils,
\ all its acts from the twenty-
sion have been condemned, and

those of the prior sessions ap-
by the Holy See. Although a
llican writers have maintained
; council was oecumenical during
\x sessions, their opinion is gene-
ected and is of no weight

ROSS ; or, Young America in
.nd and Wales. By Oliver Op-
Boston : Lee & Shepard.

volume, the third of the series
id under the title of Young
I Abroad^ continues and con-
Ke travels and adventures of the
dets on British soil and in Bri-
ers. London, Liverpool, Man-
the Isle of Wight, the Lake
Snowdon, the Menai Straits,
visited, affording an opportu-
the introduction of a great deal
rllaneous information regarding
sical geography and history of
teresting localities. So far the
unexceptionable. The adven-
the students, however, are, in
)ptic's usual style, exaggerated
rery verge of credibility ; and
they will doubtless be relished
lass for which they are written,
ss decidedly think that, as men-

tal food for youth, the selection is not
the most judicious, and that the author
could very easily, with equal credit to
himself and greater benefit to his juve-
nile readers, serve up something else
more nutritious, if less palatable, or not
so highly seasoned. As regards the stu-
dents themselves, it seems to us, also,
that the author has not yet hit upon the
golden mean : the good boys are almost
too good, the bad equally untrue to na-
ture. Our experience with boys — and
it is by no means slight or superficial —
tends to prove that with those who, from
an indisposition to submit to an " iron
rule," are commonly known as " wild,"
such impatience of restraint generally
springs from exuberant animal spirits,
and is seldom, if ever, met with in con-
nection with meanness, much less vice.
Per contra^ the greatest sycophanta^are,
as a rule, the meanest and most de-
praved.

Chaudron's New Fourth Reader.
On an Original Plan. By A. De V.
Chaudron. Mobile : W. G. Clark &
Co. Pp. 328. 1867.

Exteriorly, this book presents a by
no means pleasing appearance ; hence,
the greater our surprise, and, we may
add, our pleasure, at the variety and ex-
cellence of its contents, in which re-
spect it is nowise inferior to any of
those in use in our public schools.
While we cannot expect for Mrs. Chau-
dron's Series of Readers an extended
circulation in this city, in view of so
many and generally deserving rivals
already firmly established amongst usj
we do with confidence recommend them,
if in their general features they resem-
ble this, the only one of the series sub-
mitted to us.

Imitation of Christ — Spiritual
Combat — Treatise on Prayer.
Boston : P. Donahoe. Pp. 816. 1868.

Decidedly opposed to small type in
books of a religious or educational
character, we can cheerfully overlook its
use in this instance, giving us, as it does,

V>- N.

rHOLIC

VOL. VII., No. 41.— AUGUST, 1868.

\ NEW FACE ON AN OLD QUESTION.

)nths ago I described a
[ had recently paid to a
ne in the country, and
ittle of the conversation

together upon subjects
teresting to Catholics.*

pleased with what I saw
I that occasion that I re-
:nd a few more days with
5t month, as soon as the
r set in, I presented my-
ngat his hospitable door,
nd, and was soon com-
alled as a guest. If I
)use an embodiment of
nfort during the winter,
lore delightful, now that

meadows wore the bril-
f early summer, and the

climbing over the great,
1, shook down perfume
en windows, and drew
)lace the ceaseless song

the whir of the restless
ling-bird. The library
charmed me so much
izing wood -fire shed a
f comfort over the book-

HOLic World, March, 1868 ; arti-
.tlc»."

- vii.— 37

shelves and the big writing-table, and
the tempting arm-chairs, was a thou-
sand times more attractive, now that
green branches and bunches of roses
filled the old-fashioned fireplace, and
windows, open to the floor, let in the
breath of new-mown hay, while creep-
ers and honeysuckles kept off the
glare of the sun, and waved gently in
and out with the south-west breeze.
Here we used to sit and chat on
warm afternoons, and our conversa-
tion generally turned upon the re-
ligious topics in which we were both
so much interested. One day we
were talking about the great im-
provement of late in the style of
discussion on the Catholic question.
"We don't hear so much of the
old slanders," said my frierfd, " but
there is rather an inquiry into the
reasons of our success and the best
methods to meet us. Whenever that
inquiry is conducted honestly and
thoroughly, it is found that the only
way to meet us is, to come over boldly
to our side and fight under our ban-
ner. As an illustration of what I
have said," continued he, picking
up a pamphlet from the table, "take

578

A New Fare on an Old QutsiiofK

this sermon on * Christ and the
Common People,' by the Rev. Mr.
' Hinsdale, a Protestant clerg\^man,
of Detroit, He states the subject
of his discourse boldly enough : ' We
start.' he says, 'with the confessed
failure of Frotesfantisfh to control
spiritually the lives, and to mould re-
ligiously the characters, of the mil-
lions. What are the reasons ?' He
declares that Protestantism has
scarcely won a foot of ground from
Romanism in more than two hundred
years. * Geographically, it is where it
was at the close of the century in
which Luther died. Neither is Pro-
restantism stronger religiously or po-
htically than it was in the seventeenth
century ; some deny that it is as
strong. Nor can it be claimed that
it is now making any material gains
in any of these directions/ Again :
*In the Protestant countries, no
ground has been wrested from false
religion or irreligion within a hundred
years;* and tn dte principal Ameri*
can cities the Protestant denomi-
nations are unquestionably losing
ground. There is good authority for
stating that in Cincinnati, for in-
stance, the communicants in tJie Pro-
testant churches are fewer by two
thousand than they were twenty years
ago ; yet the population of the city
has increased during the intent! by
something like a hundred thousand.
Well, Mr. Hinsdale being, as I should
judge, a gentleman of common sense
and honesty, does not tr)' to relieve
his mind from the pressure of these
disagreeable facts by cursing the
Catholics, but sets himself to work to
find out the reasons for the greater
prosperity of our church. 1 need
not read them to you ; for of course
the great reason of all — the assis-
tance of Heaven — he does not per-
ceive ; but he makes some significant
admis!iiio{is. He tells his people that
Cathnlicism is the especial religion of

the poor, and that Frotcsiaatxix:
restricting its<_!r' ' i'jfe;iodtDort
closely to the j .he qpote& i

saying of Theodore Parket's ; ^ fftk
poor forsake a ehurfk^ H is httauM th
church forsook Gcfd iartf ^ef!sfr,* * 1
am a Protestant of the ProtdUoby*
Mr. Hinsdale adds, *htit haf« bo
hesitation in :v ■*. in ume

particulars wc 1 n^bokcd

before Romanists this hour; isonctB
declaring that in some respects the
Romish priest understands the me-
thods of Christ better than ihc
gelical preacher/ Now, when
alarm of Protestants at the tncftaiC:
of our churches takes such a foi»
this, I believe tlmt good results mm
flow from it."

" No doubt you are right, *• said I
" but I am afraid fcnv of the anti
preachers are like this gentkraas
Detroit Here, for example^ t*
address, delivered at the l«^* r
versary of the American ani
Christian Union^ by the hr> *
Talmadge» of Philadelphia, He
gins with then- :lic

ofpoper)Msslii , ^

in the attempt to destroy n there
been expended enough ink. e
voice, enough genius, enoti^
enough ecclesiastical thunder, to
torn off all the cassocks, and to
extinguished all Uie w;i*
to have poured out all li
and to have rent open all the ctm-
vents, and to have turned the Viti
can into a Reformed Dutch c!
and the convo " 's

an old-fashior.

to have immersed the pope, and
him forth as a colportcor of
American and Foreign Christiaa
Union, But somehow there ha*
been a great waste of cflbrt. The
plain fact is/ he er>'
Romanism has to-day.
States, tenfold more i
when we first began to b'^r-ii,a

A New Face on an Old Question.

579

And the moral he draws from this
sur\'ey of the situation is, that the
Protestants had better * change their
style of warfare,' and introduce into
the fight the principle of holy love,
and the example of charity and de-
votion. Nothing could be more sen-
sible than this remark of his : * Bitter
denunciation on the part of good but
mistaken men never pulled down one
Roman Catholic church, but has built
five hundred. There is only one way
to make a man give up his religion,
and that is by showing him a better.'
Brave words, you say, and so they
are. Yet this very sermon is full of
just the sort of bitter denunciation
which the preacher denounces. The
whole address is a condemnation
of the speaker himself — one of
the finest pieces of unconscious sa-
tire I ever read. I don't believe The
Observer itself could do the raw-head
and bloody-bones business better
than Dr. Talmadge does it."

" Never mind. Get these people
to admit the principle of honest and
gentlemanly dealing in religious con-
troversy, and you may leave their
practice to reform itself For one
man who was impressed by Dr. Tal-
madge's swelling invectives, I make
little doubt that there were five who
carried away in their hearts his ad-
vice to be charitable, courteous, and
just. The English Nonconformist
preacher, Newman Hall, who tra-
velled through the United States re-
cently, told his congregation on his
return home that one of the greatest
dangers of Protestantism nowadays
was injustice toward Roman Catho-
lics. I am afraid that his advice
was not much relished in England,
for you know injustice to Catholics
is one of the pet foibles of English-
men ; but it is not so bad here. The
American people are naturally fond
of fair play. You have only to con-
vince them that a certain course of

conduct is unjust, and they will change
it of their own accord."

" Do you mean to say, then, that
you believe reason and logic are
henceforth to supersede violence and
slander in the discussion of the Ca-
tholic problem ?"

" Not entirely, of course. But I
believe that falsehoods are rapidly
losing their efficacy in polemics, and
that Protestants recognize this fact
and are preparing to adapt them-
selves to the altered conditions of
the conflict. And I do not mean to
insinuate that as a class they do this
merely from policy. Most of them
probably used to believe the old
standard lies ; at least, they did not
dishtWove them. They repeated
them by rote, because they had been
brought up to do so, and they never
thought of stopping to inquire into
their authority. Now that the slan-
ders have ceased to serve a purpose,
it is naturally easier to convince
those who used to profit by them
that they are slanders. What I
mean to say is, that the tendency of
our time is toward fairness and good
sense in religious disputes. You
and I, for example, are quite young
enough to remember when * Roman-
ism' was popularly regarded as an
unknown horror, no more to be tol-
erated than the plague or the yellow
fever. It was not thought to be a
question open for debate. A Pro-
testant would no more have dreamed
of examining the merits of popery
than the merits of hydrophobia.
But now it is a very common thing
for our adversaries to admit that we
have done wonderful service to hu-
manity in our day ; that in some par-
ticulars we have done and are still
doing more than any other denomi-
nation ; only we belong to a past age
and ought now to give way to fresher
organizations. I remember a rather
striking sermon which I read in a

A New Face on aft Old Question.

581

against the growth of an unwelcome,
dimly foreseen conviction, as an en-
couragement to their tottering unbe-
lief, just as boys whistle to keep up
their courage. Have you ever seen
a dying sinner try to fight off death ?
It is in some such hopeless effort as
his that The Liberal Christian and
a few other journals are now en-
gaged. I do not say that they
understand this themselves. I do
not charge them with absolutely re-
sisting the progress of conviction,
or, to speak more exactly, the resis-
tance is instinctive rather than volun-
tary ; but they feel or suspect, per-
haps without fully comprehending,
that, if they keep on as they are going,
they must come pretty soon to the
Catholic Church, and that provokes
them. T7u Liberal Christian^ you
know, is edited by Dr. Bellows, an
accomplished gentleman, who was
thought some years ago to exhibit a
decided leaning toward the church.
^ am not prepared to say whether
this supposition was correct or not ;
"^^ it is certain that he saw more
clearly and exposed mor eboldly the
ii^herent defects and logical tenden-
cies of Protestantism than any other
^^testant I can remember, and in
one of his published sermons he de-
clared that Unitarians (his own sect)
K ^ ^ore sympathy with Catholicism
^3.n ^jth any other form of religion.
inight seem strange to find him
^"^^Hg the foremost revilers of that
^?^ Catholicism ; but my theory ex-
P^^ins it The hostility which glis-
^^5 in his letters and runs mad,
sometimes, in the miscellaneous co-
'J^^ns of his paper, is the revolt of
^ l^rotestantism against the pro-
S^^ss of unwelcome ideas — an effort of
"^ Unregenerate nature, so to speak,
*^ throw off something which does
W agree with it. Ah ! how many
jtten have trod in the same path he
IS now following, and have been led

by it to the bitter waters of disap-
pointment ! He saw the fatal gulf
into which the Protestant bodies
were plunging. He felt that hunger
of the spirit which nothing but the
church of God ever satisfies. He
raised a cry for help, and when he
found that there was no help except
from the Holy Catholic Church, he
turned his back upon her, and bound
himself down once more with the
narrow bonds of what is called Uni-
tarian 'liberalism.' And now, of
course, he misses no opportunity of
declaring his detestation of the suc-
cor which he has refused. He
has failed in his aspirations afler a
mock church, and naturally he vents
his disappointment on the real one.
He fancies that he is moved by prin-
ciple, when he is really instigated by
pique. He imagines that he is an
earnest, honest seeker after an an-
swer to what he well terms 'the
dumb wants of the religious times,'
when he is — but I h^ive no business
to judge his motives. That is God's
affair. We must presume that he is
courageous and sincere, and that
whenever he finds the right road
he will boldly walk in it. Nine
years ago, Dr. Bellows delivered an
address before the alumni of
the Harvard Divinity School,
on * The Suspense of Faith,' which
was generally supposed to indicate
his wish to engraft a ritual and a
priesthood upon the Unitarian de-
nomination, bringing it perhaps near-
er to Episcopalianism than to any
other system of worship. There was
no such thought in his mind, I am
sure; though his sentiments, had
they been acted upon, might have
led many men through Episcopalian-
ism into the Catholic Church. I
will not weary you with the whole of
it ; but let me read a few lines which
have a special application to what
we have been saying. He is trying

$82

v€W race (m an

hirsttofr

to account for the fact that Unita-
rianisra is in a posture of pause and
^elf-distrast ; and he says : ' If, with
logical desperation, we ultimate the
tendencies of Protestantism, and al-
low even the malice of its enemies to
flash light upon their direction, we
may see that f/ti sufficiency of the
Scriptures turns out to he the self-suffi*
dency of man ^ and the right of private
judgment an absolute independence
of Bible or church. No creed but
the Scriptures, practically abolishes
all Scriptures but those on the hu-
man heart ; nothing between a man's
conscience and his God, vacates the
church ; and with the church, the
Holy Ghost, whose function is usurp-
ed by private reason : the church
lapses into what are called religious
institutions, these into Congregation-
alism, and Congregationalism into in-
dividualism — ^and the logical end is
the abandonment of the church as an
independent institution, the d^ia! of
Christianity as a supernatural reixla-^
tion, and the extinction of worship as
a separate interest There is no pre-
tence that Protestantism, as a body,
has reached this, or intends this, or
would not honestly and earnestly re-
pudiate it ; but that its most logical
product is at this point, it is not easy
to deny. Nay, that these are the
tendencies of Protestantism is very
apparent* When he comes to speak of
Unitarianism as the representative
and most logical exponent of Protes-
tantism, he expresses himself in a
still more remarkable way. Reli-
gion, he thinks, like everything else
in the world, has been constantly mak-
ing progress, and ITnitarianism has
always been in the van. Now this
progress seemed to have reached its
limit ; there is a pause, a partial re-
coil, in some cases a turning back to
the formalism and ritual worship of
Rome, in others a headlong rush into
the abyss of pure rationaiistiL In

fact, Dr* Bellows believes that to
create an equilibrium in the relations
between God and man, two opposing
forces arc in operation — a centrifugal
force, which drives man away from
submission to divineauthorit>% that he
may develop his own liberty and
functions of the will, and a centripe-
tal force, which leads him to worship
and obedience. These are repre-
sented respecUvely by Protestantism
and Cadioiicism, and he seems to
think them destined to alternate —
perhaps for all time, though about
this his meaning is not very dear.
* Is it not plain,' he says, * that, as
Protestants of the Protestants, wc
are at the four orbit; that

in us the C". epoch of huma-

nity has, for this swing of the peodo-
lum at least, reached its bound?
For one cycle we have come, I think,
nearly to the end of our self ' - --
ing, self-asserting, sclf'de\r
self-culturing faculties; toOu
our honest interest in this lut . ^^ ; ,
alternate movement' *'

"Tliat means, if it means ani
thing, that Protestantism has do(
its work, at least lox the present age
that it has accomplished all it can
and there is nothing left for man
a return to the centripetal force,
to tlie Catholic Church/'

" Exactly : that would be the l«
cal complement of the position
assumed in the curious di^
from which I have been quoli
but the misery is that he had
the courage to be logical. Ah I
well I remember the impression
duced at the lime by that sad,
cry of weariness and disappoinii
which went up from his
he perceived that the t-
culation, and uneasiness of ycar^
brought him to no goal ; that be ha*^
developed man's faculties witboat
finding a use for them ; *' " ' ^^
achieved aa iutcUcctu, M

A New Face on an Old Question,

583

without knowing what to do with it ;
that, as he well expressed it himself,
* t/tere was no more road in the di-
rection he had been going/ Many,
as we have seen, when they reached
that point on their journey whence
this whole dismal prospect was visi-
ble, turned back to the church which
their fathers had forsaken, and there
found peace; and Dr. Bellows had
stated so boldly the miseries of
his own situation that it was no
wonder people thought he too
would follow that course. But he
set himself about finding a new
Toad, imagining a new church
^vhich was to arise at no distant day,
and combine the most conservative
of liturgies with the most radical of
creeds. It was to be constituted on
strictly centripetal principles. Spe-
culation having proved empty, wor-
ship was to be essayed as a change,
^oubt being but sorry fare for a
hungry soul, there was to be a good
deal of faith, and preaching not be-
'"g a gift of all men, place was to be
"^ade for prayer. What that church
^*^s to be, how it was to arise, and
^^'ben it was to make its appearance,
^^ did not pretend to say. But it
l^^t come soon, because * the yearn-
"^S for a settled and externalized
f^ith * was too strong to be left unsa-
tisfied. It was to be, I must sup-
P^^e, a mingling of the revelations
y Our Saviour with the dreams of
J-'^ther, Calvin, Fox, and Sweden-
7^^ ; because, as Dr. Bellows says
^'^ One of his lectures, * the religious
^^ who has no vacillations in his
^^ws, who is not sometimes inclined
^ Calvinism, sometimes to Rational-
^in, sometimes to Catholicism, some-
times to Quakerism, has an imper-
f^t activity, a dull imagination, and
a timid love of truth ; for all these
faiths have embodied great and in-
teresting spiritual facts which the
free and earnest explorer will en-

counter in his own experience, and
find more vividly portrayed in the
history of these sects than in him-
self.' It was to possess a fixed
creed, but nobody was expected to
believe in it, for * inconsistencies of
opinion * are to be expected of every-
body, and doubt, fear, and scepticism *
are actually desirable, provided they
are 'the work of one's own mental
and spiritual activity, and not of
mere passive acquiescence in the
forces that one encounters from with-
out.' It was to be a trt^e church, of
course, yet a false church also ; be-
cause Dr. Bellows declares that
* truth is too large to be surrounded
by any one man or any one party,'
and there are always two great par-
ties in religion as there are in poli-
tics, * and each has part of the truth
in its keeping;' so that, of course,
neither can be wholly right. He
wanted his church to be a historical
church, for Christianity is a histori-
cal religion, and * a faith stripped of
historic reality, disunited from its
original facts and persons, does not
promise to live and work in the
human heart and life.* He seamed
to have forgotten that history is the
growth of time, and cannot be con-
ferred upon a new-born infant. The
future church must have rites and
ceremonies, for without them reli-
gion hardly 'touches our daily ha-
bits and ordinary career,' and is, like
Unitarianism, 'an unhoused, unna-
tural, and disembodied faith.' It
must be a visible church, yet without
a priesthood ; a divinely instituted
church, yet without authority; re-
ceiving its doctrines by divine reve-
lations, yet only true in part ; eternal,
yet changeable. I am not surprised
that Dr. Bellows has not yet found
it."

" Surely he never uttered any such
extraordinary farrago as you have
been putting into his mouth?"

S84

A New Face on an Old Questum,

*^Not in those words, of course,
nor with that collocation of thoughts ;
but all that I have said you will find
either in his Suspense of Faith ^ or in
the volume of sermons published un-
der th<j title of jRe-Stafefnertis of Chris-
tian Doctrine^ (New York, i860,) I
have represented, as fairly as |X>5si*
ble, the vagueness of his aspirations
and the inconsistency of his princi-
ples. It is only clear that he wanted
I to be a Protestant and a Catholic at
the same time. He was shocked at
the results of his own centripetalism,
and lie longed for a visible church,
with a tangible creed and a set form
of %vorship ; only he wanted to make
the church himself; not to be the
founder of a new sect — he disclaim-
ed that, and was unwilling even to
change Uie form of ser\nce in his
own congregation — but to dream
about it, to speculate upon what it
ought to be, to mould and influence
opinion, until, by a seemingly sponta-
neous movement, the new church
should arise from the midst of the
people. Poor man! He sees, by
this time, that nobody feels the want
of this new church, and nobody be-
lieves in it J and he hates the true
church, partly because it is a con-
tinual reproach to him, bringing to
mind a duty unfullilled and a happi-
ness unappreciated, and partly be-
cause it continually revives his dis-
appointment."

**J have serious doubts, however,
whether Dr. Bellows ever compre-
hended the beauty of the Catholic
religion half so well as many people
supposed that he did. Read his
books a with little care, and you will
sec that he never took but the most
superficial view of religion : he never
got at the core of it Religion to
him — as to how many others ! — was
a thin philosophy which amused his
intellect, a sentimental poetry which
tickled his scsthetic instincts ; it was

not a life. Of that vital
anity which comprehends t
relationship between God
which is both a creed, a
and the very essence oi
life, his heart seems to \\\
void."

"Yes, he says sometbtni
equivalent to this in his

* Spiritual Discernment**
umphs of Protestantism,' he

* the universal improv^emen
vate and public moral ity>
education, respect for the ii
have grown out of the incre;
to keep the church and 1
apart — religion and other
distinct subjects of though
tention/ And the word *
he does not use in its bad
merely as synonv-mous witi
affairs. Again he says,
Catholic Church succeeded
Hilly in blending life and n
gethcr, faith and daily usa|
sure and worship, philosopjr
Gospel ;* and this, he ihinki
great fault, while the great
Protestantism was, that it
separated what the churcb
carefully melted together,
gives you the real old Puri
of piety — a something to b
at stated times, and then
again, like the long faces w
fashioned Protestants pull
day wear ; to have no jntii
nection with daily life, but tt
carefully apart, like the
which our ancestors used to
lavender leaves, to be woni
of ceremony. WTiat is the
religion which does not bl
worka-day life ? of a faith
not felt in daily usage ? of \
which must be kept apart
pleasures, from our busin
any of our honest pursiuti

A New Face on an Old Question.

58s

lUty of religion is, that it
man's heart at all times
)laces. If it cannot ac-
> everywhere, if it can
the artificial atmosphere
meetings, it is not worth
le danger against which
)st to guard is not, Dr.
iks, that of forgetting our

that of growing too fa-
t. His God is an awful

a loving God, and our
him is not that we go so
Ti him, but that we bring
to us. In effect he tells
ut our piety once a week
ted occasions, but not to
2re with our daily walk
lation, for that would be

shows, as you say, that
omprehension as yet of
ire of religion ; and shall
rhy he is so slow to ac-
I believe that he is not
ipathy with Christianity."
) you mean ?"
is nominally a Christian,
He would be horrified if
Ti he was not. But he
)athy with the religion of
r Saviour, in his opinion,
i expounder of a system
id, to tell the truth, it is
me wherein the Christ of
n is essentially superior

or Benjamin Franklin.
• of our Lord Dr. Bellows
denounces as rank * idol-
may only reverence him
re specially favored by
ty, and a teacher to

we owe the most pro-
:t. Take away from your
item the idea of God in
f his divine Son perpetu-
: with the faithful, and
n to bear the burdens of
lich he himself has borne,
it a cold, cheerless, falla-
which is left you. It is

no longer religion ; it is only a false
philosophy. Devotion vanishes ;
faith, hope, and love are exchang-
ed for a code of rules of behavior ;
and God withdraws from the world
into the impenetrable mystery of the
heavens, where the voice of prayer
indeed may reach him, but his pre-
sence is never felt by man^ and his
love never fills the heart. He is no
longer the dear Lord of the Christian
saints, but the Allah of the Mos-
lems."

"You have hit it exactly; and
now let me tell you that ever since
Dr. Bellows set out on the foreign
tour in which he is still occupied, I
have watched for the record of his
impressions of Oriental life, feeling
certain, from what I knew of him,
that he would find an attraction in
Mohammedanism which he never
saw in Christianity. I was not mis-
taken. He is not a polygamist \
he has no taste for a sensual hea-
ven ; I don't suppose he prefers the
Koran to the Bible; and I never
heard of his keeping the inordinate
fasts of Ramadan \ still, the creed of
Islam seems, in its main features, to
have caught his fancy, and he loads it
with indirect praises, which he never
thought of bestowing upon any form
of Christianity, Let me read you an
extract from one of his recent letters
to The Liberal Christian:

"* These people,' he says, referring to the
Egyptians, *know nothing of Christianity
which ought to give it any superiority in their
eyes over Mohammedanism. When the Ara-
bian prophet commenced his marvellous
work, there is little doubt that he was ani-
mated by the sincere enthusiasm of a reli-
gious reformer. Mohammed recognized both
dispensations, the Mosaic and the Christian ;
and his intelligent followers to this day speak
reverently of the Christ They evade the
authority and use of our Scriptures, by as-
serting that they have been thoroughly cor-
rupted in their text A learned Mohammedan
in India, however, has just written the intro-
duction to a new Commentary on our Bible,
in which he ably refutes the Mussulman

S86

A New Fa4:e on an Old Questwn,

charge of general cotriiptncRs, and adduces
all the passages quoted out of the Old and
New Testaments in the Koran. But what
have Mussulmans seen of Christianity to com-
mend it greatly above their own faiih ? Is
it alleged that Mohammedanism has owed its
triumphs and progress to the sword ? Is it
the fault of Christians if the Cross has not
advanced by the same weapon ? What infi-
del rage of the Crescent has ever exceeded
the fanatical soldiering of the Crusades, and
what has Coeur de Don to boast over Sala-
din in enlightenment or appreciation of the
Christian spirit? And if we come to bow-
ings and fasting, and washing, and external
forms, / confess that iki digrading pr&stra-
ti0f$s^ and crmsm^s^ and mummeries 0/ the
Grtek a fid Caihoik ckunhes^ with thi ^auJy
trappings cf robes and jnvels^ the umship af
saints and ima^s^ and thi deificaii^n of a
humble Jeunsh w&maft, appear Is me to hm^
nothit^ in the pretence of whiek Mussutmam
€0uld feel the lesser reasotmbleness^ purity^ or
dignity ^ or the lesser credibility of their otim
unadorned and simpler stiperstiliott. Com-
pared with Catholic and Greek legends, the
Koran is a model of purity and elegance of
style, and /// worst superstitions do not much
txteed in grossness the popular interpretation
given to monkish fables. As it respects ecclt-
siastical interference and tyranny, Moham-
medanism is a whole world in advance of
Romanism or the Greek Church. It is essen-
tially without prie*»t'or ritual, in any Catho*
He sense. The Muasulman is his own priest.
He finds Allah everywhere, and he has only
to tunr toward Mecca, and bow in prayer,
and his field, his boat, the desert, is as good
an altar as the mosque. It ts truly affecting
to see the fidelity of the common people to
their faith, the apparent heedlessness of ob-
ser^'ation, the absorption in their prayers,
the careful mcmor)' of thei r hours of devo*
tion/

"And, speaking of the absence of
s^Tiihols and rites in the mosques,
he adds: * Surely there is something
grand in this simplicity^ and somethttig
vital in a fait Pi %i*hich^ aided by so iittU
ackntai appiiatwe, has sunived m/uh
xngor hvche hundred years,^ "

*' Why don*t he admire the vitality
of the devil ? Satan lias survived in
full vigor a good deal more Uiaii
twelve hundred years."

** That would be about as logical
But is it not melancholy to see how
far a man whom we would like to re-
spect can be carried by his uncoo-

Hsyji

trolled vagaries !
* historical church:
in Christendom, and that
have ; and now it alu
he felt an occasions
search for one ouisk
dom. Protestantisfi
run its course. Gat]
have nothing to
then, is left him, if he wi
gious man at all ? Thi
be the question which pe
and the small but intelli
of thinkers of whom he i
sentative. As the Jci
waiting for the Christ
eighteen hundred ye
Bellows school arc
coming of that Christie
they have already reje<
both, it seems to me, arc s
with hope long deferred.*'
" Yes J we hear little
confident prophetic tan<
Dr. Bellows some
coursed of the glor
religion of humani
ed a resettlement^
creeds and a reviva
faith. He writes nc
desolation of the presei
brightness which he disc
future. And ihts brings
the point from which \
While Protestant theologii
ral are discarding vitupcr
arc certain oi our opp<
show us a bitterness to
were not formerly aocuj
cause they have been 4
in their own religiQ
and have a vague, hal|
wholly unwelcome ill
the Catholic Church ;
of satisfying them. Dr. ]
instance, travt-ls throw
finds that Protcstati
where lifeless. He
to say so ; but he tah
in the next breath by
that the Catholic

sen 4

A New Face on an Old Question,

587

He is powerless to arrest the

which is destroying his own
zation, but he seems to find a
choly compensation in attack-
atholicism. He reminds me
at the boy said when he was
led by a school-fellow : * If I
whip you, I can make faces at
sister.' He visits Paris, and
•ses that * Protestantism makes
lO no headway ' in France, and
1 by internal dissensions. He
o the heart of Protestant Ger-

and finds the general aspect
of painful decay in the faith
pirituality of the people.' All
:he continent, he observes that
the Catholic faith has died out,
ing vigorous has shot up in its
' and the masses of the popu-

are 'without aspiration, de-
ess, or faith in the invisible.'
estantism, as it appears here, is
ed, repulsive, ungrowing thing,
ng very little into the national
: social and domestic life, and
intly not destined in any of its
It forms to animate the pas-
or win and shape the hearts
ves of the middle classes. . . .
^ the present elemefits 0/ faith and
\p in Germany I see no prospects
healthy and contagious religious
rising? Nay, what is worse
.11, the peculiar form of Protes-
n upon which, if upon any, Dr.
rs would rely for the regenera-
f Europe, is in no better way
he others. * It does not ap-
he says, * that the liberal ele-
n the Protestantism of Germa-
lean that branch of its Protes-
fi which we should consider
n sympathy with Unitarianism,

earnest or creative. It seems
ither a negation of orthodoxy
n affirmation of the positive
of Christianity. . . . Forced
\ positive ground, I fear that a
part of this extensive body
be compelled to abandon Chris-

tian territory altogether.^ From Ber-
lin he writes that * the whole life
of the national church is sick-
ly and discouraging;' from Stras-
burg, that Protestantism * must learn
some new ways before it will be-
come the religion of the people of
France, Italy, or even Germany ;'
from Vienna, that the Protestantism
of Austria is * essentially torpid and
unprogressive, presenting nothing at-
tractive or promising.' These pas-
sages, and many more of similar pur-
port, we may take as equivalent to
the little boy's confession that he
could not whip his antagonist. When
it comes to the other part, the mak-
ing faces at his sister, I am bound to
say that Dr. Bellows shows more
temper than strength. In Vienna,
he deplored the lukewarmness of the
Catholic people all through Germany,
yet, in several previous letters, he
had contrasted their zeal in church-
going with the indifference of the
Protestants. He accuses the clergy
of avarice, though in Rome he com-
pliments the priests for their personal
merits, their * seriousness, decorum,
and fair intelligence.' He declares
that * the Catholic Church is an artful
substitute for anything that a human
soul ought to desire ;' that she is

* the chief hinderance to progress ;'
that she has 'glorified the blessed
Mother into the Almighty ;' that she

* mutters spells and practises necro-
mancy at her altars,' and all that
kind of thing, which I need not re-
peat, because we have heard it in
almost the very same words scores of
times before. But the most curious
of all his angry attacks was made —
where, think you t Why, on a steam-
er in the Levant, where there was
nothing whatever to provoke him ;
where the onslaught was so perfectly
gratuitous that it burst upon the calm
flow of his letter like a thunderbolt
rending the summer sky. Here it is :

'''Roman Catholicism, weak in every

A New Face en an Old Qa^stl

member, is prodigious in its toUl efleciivc-
ness, because it is a unit. It is qaietly seiz-
ing America, piece by piccCi state by state,
city by dtj', In a new state like Wisconsin,
for instance, it has the oldest college, the
largest theological school, the best hospitals
and charities, the finest churches ; and what
is true of Wisconsin is equally true of many
other Western states. Protestantism, with
a hundred times the wealth, intelligence,
public spirit, and administrative ability, by
I reason of lU sectarian jealousies and divi-
sions can have no parallel successes, and is
losing rapidly its place in legislative grant*
and in public policy. The Irish Catholics
spot the members of state legislatures who
vote against the appropriations they call for,
and are able in our close elections to defeat
their return. Representatives become ser-
vile and pliable, and Romanism flourishes.
A Quaker gentleman of wealth, in the West,
(the story is exactly true,) married a Ver-
mont girl who had become a Catholic in a
nunnery where she was sent for her educa-
tion. It was agreed that, if children were
given them, the boys should be reared in
the faith of their father, the girls in that of
their mother. 77ie I'i^rmont mcther przY her
kushami ten girls^ hut nfver a son ! Eight of
them grew up Catholics, married influential
men, and brought up their children Catho-
lics, and in some cases brckught over their
Vusbands, and so the Roman Church was
ecruited with Protestant wealth and Quaker
blood to a vast extent. So much for send*
lug Protestant girls to Roman Catholic sem-
inaries, and then complaining that so many
IVotestants arc lost to the superstitions of
Romanism 1 There is an apathy about the
Roman Catholic advances in the United
.States among American Protestants, which
will finally receive a terrible shock. There
is no influence at work in America so hostile
to our future peace as the Roman Catholic
Church* The next American war will, I
fear, be a religious war^ — of all kinds the
worst If we wish to avert it, 7t^ must taJte
immtdiaU iteps to orgattiu Prot^itiinttsm mare
fffickfUlxt and on less sectarian ground,*

"Well, upon my word, ihc conduct
of that Yennont girl was abominable,
I suppose Dr. Bellows thinks she
never would have been artful enough
to swindle her husband out of all his
expected boys if she had not been
brought up in a convent. * So much
for sending Protestant girls to Roman
Catholic seminaries 1* I should think
so, indeed 1'*

'* The story is very ridicofi
the moral Dr. Bellows draw»j
is worse than ridiculous. 1 1
to avert a religious war, be \
must take immediate steps i
ize Protestantism more
and on less sectarian ground.^
means that Protcstantiiim must
tain an overwhelming pre poi^
in this country by fair meana
If it cannot convert the papil
the Bible, it ought to knock th
the head with a bludgeon. A
same atrocious sentiment isstiJ
plainly cjtpressed by an Iris
in The Liberal Christian of J
who says, * Popery and F^
are Siamese curses, wither
noble and humane feeling
they exist. . . . 77/
athn ; they sheuld r
There's a * liberar Christijiii^
with a vengeance !**

'*Well, we can afford to J
such fears and threats ; but i
sad. Here, where nearly
people seem to have made 1
minds to reform their bad \i
and be as polite in discussii
questions as in talking ovcfl
affairs, a sect which profej^ses t
tion and fairness beyond
goes back to the old style \
cal blackguardism. I ca
the unfortunate position <
al Christians, when, havingl
ahead so far, they find tiiat i
* no more road' in that di
can understand that only on
courses may seem open
cither to berate tlje Catholi^
join them ; but the ins
which the barrister received I
attorney when tlic law and
were both against him, * Al
other side/ does not apply
religion as to jury trials,
have a different style of ir
anybody is to be conver
proved by the discussion.

Nellie Netterville,

589

NELLIE NETTERVILLE.

CHAPTER XII.

irst O'More unfolded the
hich he had brought Nel-
[1 rough the flames, she lay
id still that, for one brief,
Dment, he almost fancied
iad. The fresh air, how-
revived her, and, opening
illed with a look of terror
rward haunted them for
e fixed them upon Roger,
ired nervously :

are the rest — the priest
^Vhere are they ?"
ire with their God, I trust,"
:d solemnly. At that aw-
t he felt that he could say
it the truth, terrible as he

truth must sound in the
pale girl beside him. His
ict, seemed to cut through

knife, and she fell upon

exclaiming : " I only sav-
y saved ! O my God,
lave mercy on their souls !"
denly remembering that,
I safe, she owed it entirely
>he added earnestly, " You
1 your life for mine. How
tik you ?"

ping me once more to save
wered curtly. " Nellie,"
1 rapidly, for he knew too
/ery moment they lingered
fraught with peril — *' Nel-
e saved, and yet not safe
r life, however, is in your
5 now, and with courage
trust in Providence, I
t we shall pull safely

leemed to gather up her
a great effort, and said

" Only say what I must do, and I
will do it."

"The case is this," said Roger
shortly: "Yonder tower," and he
pointed to the burning pile over-
head — " yonder tower must fall soon,
and, if we linger here, will crush us
in its ruins. On the other hand,
even if we could creep round to the
opposite side of the church, a thing
in itself almost impossible, the fana-
tical demons who guard the gates
will probably shoot us down like
dogs. The cliff, therefore, is our
best — almost our only chance. Ne-
vertheless I leave the choice in your
own hands. Only remember you
must decide at once."

"The cliff, then, be it!" said Nel-
lie, with white lips but flashing eyes.
"God is more merciful than man.
He will save us, perhaps ; if not, his
will be done — not mine. I will trust
entirely to him — entirely to him and
you."

Almost ere she had finished speak-
ing, Roger had undone the rope
which he carried round his waist,
and was looking eagerly about him
for some means of securing it in such
a way as to make it useful to Nellie
in her descent. Fortunately for his
purpose, a thorny tree had planted it-
self, some hundreds of years before,
in a fissure of the rocks so close to
the walls of the tower that, old, and
gray, and stunted, as it now was, its
roots had in all probability penetrat-
ed beneath their broad foundation,
and were quite as firmly settled in
the ground. Upon this Roger pounc-
ed at once, and having tried it suffi-
ciently to make tolerably sure of its
powers of endurance, he passed one
end of his rope round the thickest

590

NtlHe NeUcrvitU.

and lowest portions of the stem, and
made it fast with a sailor's knot. The
other end he threw otct the cliff, and
then watched its fall with a terrible,
silent fear at his heart lest it should
prove shorter than his need required.
Down it went and down, and he stoop-
ed over to mark its progress until
Nellie felt sick with fear, and turned
away to avoid the giddiness which
she knew would be fatal to ihem
both.

At last she heard him say, ** Thank
God, it has reached the platform I"
Then he turned round and anxiously
scanned her features,

" Nellie/' he said, '*this thing is
difficult, but not impossible. I have
seen you bound like a deer down
cliffs almost as steep^ if not so high.
The great, the only real peril, is in
the eyesight Lot's wnfe perished by
a look. You must promise me nei-
ther to glance up nor down, but to
keep your eyes fijced on the rocks be-
fore you. Hold well by the rope;
take it hand over hand like a sailor,
(I remember that you know the trick ;)
and leave the rest to me. There is
really a path, though you can hardly
see it from this spot ; and there are
chinks and crevices besides, in which
you will easily find footing. You
must feel for them as you descend ^
and when \'x>u are at a loss, I shall be
below to help you. Neither will you
be quite alone, for I am going to fas-
ten you by this cord, so that» if you
should happen to let go, I may per-
haps be able to support you."

*' My God ! ** said Nellie, white with
terror, as he passed a strong, light
cord, first round her waist and then
his own, in*such a way that there was
length sufficient to enable them to act
independently of each other, while, at
the same time, neither could have
fallen without almost to a certainty
insuring the destruction of both.
** My God, I cannot consent to this.

Go by yourself; my (all

you."

*• But you will not fall-
not f^ill,*' he pleaded anxjousl
only you will abide by my dij

" Go alone, I do bese^
she answered, with a shiv
cannot save me, and I shi
sure your destruction with

** Nay, then, I give it uu
s we red, almost sullenly,
stay here and die togethefi^
shall it be said of an O^Mofeil
seeking safety for himself
woman thus to perish."

" Then, in God's name, 1
said Nellie ; "only tell me ^
and I will do it — if I can.^

"Hold fast the rope,
Never let one hand go unt
has grasped it firmly, and
rest to nie. I will help to ]
feet in safe resting-places ;
down. Only trust me, an
yet be well/'

'* I will trust to you anH
and our Lady," said Nelll
sciously relocating tlic p.i
the morning. Her color \
fast, and her eyes had beg
kle with excite men L O'Md
the propitious moment, andj a
before Nellie knew it, i
her perilous descent.

" Are you steady nc
dy ?" he asked, in as
if he feared to startle the
tion by speaking louder.
the natural instinct of a mo"
climber Nellie had already fo
rough indented spot in wbic
foot was firmly planted, and |
scended a step lower. 'IT
inch they went, Nellie c%)
to the rope, and 0*Morc ^
descent with a success he I
looked for, and which he j
almost miraculous. His 1
beat high with hope ; fof
the distance which they I

Nellie Netterville.

591

t they must be nearing a sort
f or platform formed by a sud-
ilging out of the lower strata of
flfs, and he knew that they were
' they could only reach that
he rest of the path being so
larked that, even without his
ellie could easily have found
y from thence to the sands be-

the surge of the sea boomed
and louder as she approached
at last, fairly forgetting Roger's
1, she turned her head a little,
lanced downward. Then, for
St time, she became fully con-
of the terrible position she oc-
, suspended as it seemed by a
iread between earth and sky,
th the great,' deep, awful ocean
hundreds of feet below her.
ead swam, her eyesight failed
le had just enough presence of
eft to grasp the rope firmly by
lands, when, feeling as if her
were utterly deserting her, she
)ut:

my God, I am going! Save
oger, I am going 1"
3, no !" he cried, in agony, for
2w only too well the danger of
ought. " Hold fast — hold on ;
rist*s dear sake, hold on ! One
•two steps more, and you are
There !" he cried, in a voice
: with emotion, as he felt his
bot touch the platform ; and
I Nellie by the waist, he drew
irdly conscious of what he was
by main strength to his side,
e, oh ! thank God — thank God,
e safe at last 1"

was just in time. Nellie had
ery moment let go the rope,
he had not caught her, would
.bly have been dashed to pieces
\ rocks below. As it was, he
\ her safely and gently on the
vhere he himself was standing,
ithout venturing to loose her

entirely from his grasp, laid her down,
that she might recover from her ner-
vous panic.

" You are safe," he kept repeating,
as if it required the assurance of his
own voice to make certain of the fact.
" You are safe I" and then with an in
stinctive yet entirely unacknowledged
consciousness on his part, that his
own safety might perhaps be at least
a portion of her care, he added — " we
are safe now. You can stay here un-
til you are quite yourself again \ only
do not look up or down — at least not
just yet, not until the giddiness is
gone. You forgot Lot's wife, or this
never would have happened."

Nellie was not insensible, though
she looked so. She only felt as if
she were in a dream. She under-
stood perfectly all that Roger said ;
the shadow even of a smile seemed
to pass over her white lips as he allu-
ded to Lot's wife ; but his voice fell
with a muffled sound, as if it came
from a great distance, on her ear;
and earth, and sky, and cliff, and
ocean, all seemed blending and float-
ing in a wild fantasy through her
brain. By degrees, however, a sort
of awakening seemed to creep over
her, but she did not use it at first
either to look up or speak. Possibly
she felt that words would be power-
less to express her thoughts, and was
glad of any excuse for silence. Roger
did not like to hurry her, and he there-
fore employed the next few minutes
in scanning the sea in search of
Henrietta. She was there, exactly in
the place in which he had bidden her
to wait for him ; but she was watch-
ing the burning tower overhead, and
had evidently very little notion that
any of its victims had escaped. From
the spot where he was standing, he
could easily have made her hear him ;
but fearing that his voice might rouse
up some hidden foe, he turned to Nel-
lie for assistance.

Nellie NettervilU.

S93

ill be heavy enough for such

IS this 1"

se me not— curse not 1" cried

;ta, with anguish in her voice.

loom, God knows, is heavy

already."

36 you r said the astonished

^^ you^ to whom I owe more

y own life a thousand times.

istress Henrietta, what mad-

s made you fear it ?"

lar ! I fear 1 Why should I

Dbbed Henrietta. "The sin

parents shall be visited on the

1, and he is my father, after

ir father ! your father !" Ro-
ttered, trying to keep down
TO of passion that was chok-
i. " Well, well, he is, as you
ir father, and so I must per-
i silent."

isl alas!" Henrietta pleaded,
I did but know the complete-
f (lis religious mania, you
dso comprehend how easily a
erciful in all things else, can
one thing be merciless."
yr," said Roger bitterly; "it
I think, no great stretch of
t to understand it thoroughly.
, fresh from the siege of Tre-
vhere children were dashed
e battlements, lest, ' like nits,
lould become troublesome if
i to increase,' will, doubtless,
consider the holocaust of
life which lies buried beneath
ruins as a whole bumt-offer-
elling sweet in the nostrils of
:d, which he, as his high-priest,
m deputed to offer up."
)roke off suddenly, for a hand
d upon his arm, and a white
:ed pleadingly to his. " Speak
IS of her father," whispered
" Speak not thus \ see how
keeping I"

r tears are his best plea for
then," said he in a gentler
VOL. VII. — ^38

tone, and seizing the oars, he began
to row as vigorously as if he hoped
to quiet his boiling spirit by the mere
fact of bodily exhaustion. Nellie
made no answer, and silence fell
upon them all.

The deed just done was not of a
nature lightly to be forgotten, and
they went quietly on their way, as
people will, upon whom the shadow
of a great terror still hangs heavily.
Just, however, as they entered the
harbor of Clare Island, Nellie caught
sight of a well-known figure, and
uttered a cry of joy. It was Hamish,
and, in her impatience, she scarcely
waited until the boat was fastened
ere she was at his side. But there
was no gladness in his eye as he
turned to greet her. He was deadly
pale, and his left arm hung powerless
at his side. Nellie saw nothing of
this at first, however, she was think-
ing so entirely of her mother.

" Is she come, dear Hamish ?" she
cried. " Where is she ?"

" In Dublin," he answered curtly.

" In Dublin — and you here ?" cried
Nellie in dismay.

"Because she sent me," he re-
plied.

"What is it, Hamish? What is
it ?" faltered Nellie, struggling with a
sense of some new and terrible mis-
fortune impending over her.

" She is sore sick — sick even unto
death," Hamish reluctantiy replied.
He could not bring himself to utter
the terrible truth as yet.

Nellie stood for a moment mute
with terror. She read upon her
foster-brother's face that worse news
than even this was about to follow ;
but when she would have asked what
it was, courage and voice cbmpletely
failed her. She knew it, however,
soon enough. From his seat by the
door of the tower. Lord Netterville
had caught a glimpse of Hamish, and
came down at once to greet him.

Nellie NetiervilU.

Excitement seemed for one brief
moment lo have restored all his
faculties, and he cried out e^er-
ly:

" You here, good Hamish 1 I am
heartily glad lo see you ! And what
news bring you from Netterville ?
How goes my lady daughter? Ill, do
you say — sore stricken ? Nay, man,
remember that she is still but young.
It cannot surely be an illness unto
death ?*'

"Yea, but it is, my lord," said
Hamish, speaking almost roughly in
his agony. "Death, and nothing
short of death, as surely as that I
am here to say it."
% "Art thou a prophet V^ asked
Roger, bending his dark brows upon
him, and half tempted to suspect a
snare. "Art thou a prophet, that
thou darest to speak thus confident-
ly of the future ?'*

" Sir," said Hamish, driven at last
beyond his patience, and hardly
knowing how to break his news
more gently, " it needs not to be a
prophet to foresee that the widow of
a royalist and a Catholic to boot,
shut u^ in prison and condemned on
a false charge of murder, is in dan-
ger^ — nay, said I danger? — and is as
certain of her doom as if she were
already in her coffin."

Nellie uttered a wild cry, the first
and last that escaped her lips that
day, and Lord Netterville repeated
faintly, " Murder I"

" Ay, murder ; and in another
week she dies," Hamish answered,
now desperate as to the consequen-
ces of his revelation.

Nellie turned short round toward
Roger :

** I must go 1" she said. " I must
go at once,'*

" Of course you must," he answer-
ed, in tliat helpful tone which had so
often that morning already reassured
her.

" She has sent mc
duct you/' Hamish — ^withi
jealousy of the interfercnc
ger — was beginning, wl
any longer to conceal th^
guish he was enduring, hi
moan of pain, and U
against the low wall of th

Then for the first time \
ed into his face, and saw
as white as ashes.

"My God! my God r
in her perplexity. "Wlj
come of u^ ? He is dyir^

" No, no," Hamish n
failing strength to ans«
nothing. They shot at ii
boat from the beach, ani
the arm ; but it is not h%i
only I could stop the 1
should be well enough i
once."

But he grew paler and
spoke, and the blood gus
rents from his arm, as he*
it for their inspection. R
ed to Norah to bring doii
from the tower, and he li
Nellie and Henrietta m\
vous and not very effid
vors to check the bleedinj
kerchiefs, Hamish was I
wel!*nigh insensible, but
wine revived him, and lot
tained that he was mete
from a flesh-wound, Kogfi
Norah to rummage out
dages which he rememl
among his soldier stores* <
he stanched the blood, AXi
bound up the wounded an
Nellie at the same ixmi
faithful follower was mensi
from loss of bIood« aod tJ|
days he would be 3S ire
ever. Nellie must be fei
that moment she. had no
cepting for her mother*

" A few days," she
ingly ; ** then 1 must go

Nellie Nettetvillc.

595

mother will be dead by that

lish did not hear her. He
ningback in that half-dreamy
hich often follows upon loss
d ; but Roger answered in-

u shall go at once ; but cer-
lot alone." He turned round
: for Lord Netterville ; the
Id man had sunk upon the
, and in his helplessness and
ity was weeping like a child,
rd Netterville 1" said Roger

ly-

Netterville dashed the tears
s eyes, and looked up anxious-
e young man's face,
d Netterville," Roger repeat-
ng him his hand and helping

stand up, " you see how the
lands; your granddaughter

to her mother, and go at
Any delay were fatal. This
How is totally unable to ac-
ly her. Will you trust her to
e? I swear to you that she
e as dear and precious to me
ter, and that I will watch over

1 wait upon her as if I were in
ed her brother."

a look of relief and confi-
:hat was touching to behold,

man wrung the hand which
gave him, and then silently
toward Nellie. Roger did
: ask her if she would accept
an escort ; he felt that after
nts of the morning she would
protestations of loyalty at
d, and merely said :
two hours we can start ; but I
Lve to go first to the mainland
for horses."

yr, that shall be my business,"
enrietta suddenly. " In two
ence, at the foot of the round
you will find them waiting;
rill bring you at the same time
to a friend, who may, I think,

prove useful to you in Dublin. Fol-
low me not now," she added in a
tone that admitted of no reply, as
Roger made a movement as if he
would have gone with her to the
boat, "follow me not now ; I can best
arrange matters if I go alone ; but
in two hours hence I shall expect
you."

CHAPTER XIII.

Henrietta was as good as her
word, and, thanks to her energy and
kindness, Nellie, with Roger for an
escort, was enabled to commence her
journey that very afternoon, both she
and her companion being mounted
upon good swift steeds, which the
young English girl had made no .scru-
ple of abstracting for the purpose
from her father's stable. She had
done even more than this ; for she
had conquered her pride and petu-
lance sufficiently to write a letter to
Major Ormiston, in which she en-
treated him, by the love he once pro-
fessed to bear her, to do all he could
for Nellie, and to procure her every
facility for access to her mother.
This she had given to Roger, hinting
to him at the same time that her cor-
respondent was high in favor of the
Lord Deputy, and might possibly be
able to induce the latter to commute
the sentence of death hanging over
Mrs. Netterville into one of fine or
imprisonment, even if he could not
or would not grant her a full pardon.
Of this hope, however, Roger said
not a syllable to Nellie, fearful, if it
should come to naught, of adding the
bitterness of disappointment to the
terrible measure of misery which in
that case would be her portion.

The journey to Dublin was a diffi-
cult and a long one, and if Nellie
had been allowed to act according to
her own wishes, she would probably
have used up both herself and her

Nellie NeitefviUc.

horse long before slie had reached
its end. Fortunately, however, for
the accomplishment of her real ob-
ject, Roger took a more exact mea-
sure of the strength of both than^
under the cLrcumstanceSj she was
capable of doing for herself, and he
insisted every night upon her seek-
ing a few^ hours' repose in any habi-
tation, however poor, which presented
itself for the purpose-

With this precaution, and support-
ed also in some measure by the very
excitement of her misery, Nellie bore
up bravely against the inevitable fa-
tigues and discomforts of the journey.
The horses, however, proved less un-
tiring. In spite of Roger's best care
and grooming, both at last began to
show S3miptoms of distress, and they
were a long day's journey yet from
Dublin when it became evident to
him that his o\vn in particular was
failing rapidly, Henrietta had cho-
sen it chiefly for its quality of speed ;
but it was too light for a tall and
powerfully-built man like Roger ;and
more than once that day he had been
compelled to dismount, and proceed
at a walking pace, in order to allow
it to recover itself. Night was ra-
pidly closing in, and NelliCi who,
preoccupied by her own anxieties,
had not as yet remarked the state of
the poor animal, ventured to remon-
strate with Roger upon the slowness
of their proceedings. Then for the
lirst time he pointed out to her the
exhaustion of their steeds, acknow-
ledging his conviction that his own
in particular was in a dying state,
and that two hours more, if he sur-
vived so long, would be the utmost
measure of the work that he could
expect him to accomplish. Nellie
was for a moment in despair, and
then a bold thought struck her —
w^hy not ride straight for Netter-
ville? They had been for some
hours in the country of the Pale, and

they could not be very &i
old home now. Every fcal
landscape was becoming
more familiar to her eye:
was certain that, in less ih
hours which Roger had
the utmost limit of his ste<
ranee, they would have
native valley. Once tl
would not only be in the
to Dublin, but they would
a better chance of finding b
they could have in a place
were entirely unknown,
it w*as true, was now wholl
tirely, with its fields and
the hands of the ParUam^
but she was certain of the
the poor people there,
tain as she was of her own
not only that they would
her, but that they would
they could to help and sp<
her way. The plan seemei
at all events, no other presi
at the moment to Roger*s
accordingly, after having d
could to relieve his hors€j
pare him for a fresh a
struck right across ibi
eastward toward the sc
proved right in her conjed
even less than two hours
moment in which they st9
reached the valley q{ Nd
reached it, in fact, just \xt
Roger had barely leaped
horse's back ere the poor
rolling on the turf in the
death, Nellie then prop
they should walk to the
old Grannie, and dismouni
turn. Her horse was not
ed as lliat of Roger, ncvci
was even then unfit for
would in all probability be
so on the morrow. Roger
thought it better to Icav
fate than to run the risk
ing notice by brmgtog it

Nellie Netterville.

597

annie's habitation. He hoped,
:llie did, that they would have a
chance of finding fresh steeds at
rville next morning j and after
illy hiding the two saddles in a
I of gorse, they set out on their
Dn foot. The old woman re-
l Nellie with a cry of joy. No
r, however, did the latter men-
le business which had brought
ere, than the faithful creature

all her gladness at this unex-
l meeting with her foster-child,
imed to weep in good and sor-
. earnest over the woe and
I impending upon the house of
rville, in the person of its un-

mistress. While Nellie ate, or
to eat, the simple fare set be-
er by her hostess, Roger told
tter of the fate which had be-
their horses, and inquired as

possibility of replacing them
ish ones. Grannie shook her
despondingly. Royalists and
mentarians alternately, she
lad seized upon every available
they could find in the country,
as far as she knew, there was
"garran" fit for a two hours'
y within ten miles of Netter-

As to Netterville itself, if

were any horses left in its
5, (which she doubted,) they
)f necessity belong to the Eng-
ildier to whose lot, in the draw-
the debentures, the castle and
mnds had fallen j much, the
»man added with a chuckle, to
sgust of the officer who com-
id them at the time of the re-
lurder, and who, having covet-

place exceedingly for himself,
apposed to have pressed the
• heavily against Mrs. Netter-
or the facilitating of his own

wish.

;er listened to all this in si-
privately resolving to risk his
letention, if discovered, as an

outlaw, and to visit the stable of
Netterville next morning, in hopes of
procuring a fresh mount. As nothing,
however, could be done till then, he
entreated Nellie to lie down and rest,
after which he left the hut, there not
being a second chamber in it, and
throwing himself on a bank of
heather on the outside, was soon fast
asleep. It was long before Nellie
could follow his example, but at last
she fell into that state of dreamless
stupor which often, in cases of ex-
treme exhaustion, takes the place of
healthy slumber. Such as it was, at
all events, it was rest — rest of body
and rest of mind — a truce to the
aching of weary limbs, and to the yet
more intolerable weariness of a mind
wincing and shivering beneath a
coming woe. The first gleam of day-
light roused her from it. There was
never any pleasant twilight now, be-
tween sleeping and waking, in Nel-
lie's mind ! With the first gleam of
consciousness came ever the pale
image of her mother, and there was
neither rest nor sleep for her after
that. In the present instance, anx-
iety as to the chance of being able to
prosecute her journey at all, was
added to her other troubles ; and,
unable to endure suspense upon such
a vital point even for a moment, she
opened the door quietly, so as not to
disturb old Granny, and looked out
for Roger. He was nowhere to be
seen, and she guessed at once that
he had gone up to the castle. Then
a longing seized her to look once
more upon the old place where she
had been so happy formerly ; and,
without giving herself time to waver,
she walked hurriedly up the valley.
She did not, however, venture to the
front of the house, but resolved in-
stead to take a path which, skirting
round it, would lead her to the offices
behind. It was, by one of those
strange accidents which we call

598

NiUh Netiervilfe.

chance, but for which the angels per-
haps have quite another name, the
very path which her mother had al-
ways taken when visiting the sick
soldier. The door of the room which
he had occupied was slightly ajar as
Nellie passed it ; and, moved by an
impulse for which she could never
afterward thoroughly account, she
pushed it open without noise, and
entered* The room was not unin-
habited, as she had at first supposed.
A woman, evidently in the last stage
of some mortal malady, lay stretched
upon the bed, and a soldier of the
CromwelUan type was seated with an
Open Bible in his hand beside her.
He had probably been employed
cither in reading or exhorting, but
at the moment when Nellie entered,
it was the woman who was speaking.

*-* I tell you, soldier I** Nellie heard
her querulously murmur — ** I tell
you, soldier, it is mene waste of
breath, your preaching. So long as
that woman *s death lies heavy on my
soul, so long I can look for nothing
better in the next world than hell.*'

At that vi^ry moment Nellie noise-
\ts^> L*d, and stood in silence

at I J ' the bed.

The woman recognized her at
once, and with a wild shriek flung
[kerself out of the bed at her feet.
The girl recoiled in horror and dis-
iiiay« She had learned the whole
^ tlory of her mother's condemnation
fbom HamUh ere she left Qare
Island.

** Murderess of my mother I" she
eried^ io a voice hoarse with anguish*
** Dare not to lay hands upmi hex
dani-titer/*

'* Mercy! mcfcyf* cried the wo-
rn in Tt^^v>eUii% o» the ground, and
with her wtute &hninkeQ
tiu-cr^ lo lay bold of ibe beta of
KcUk*gamiettt * Mcicy 1 mcicy !"

^ iJVlMfe shall I find f»efty for my

ilier r Nettie asked, as vhite as

ashes, and shaking from ]k
in the agony of her sirugg
conscience and resentmcnl
urging her to forgi^-e hei
other to leave her to
** Where shaU I find mei
mother ?''

**You see, soldier — ;
moaned the poor wretch
floor, " the daughter canB
me J why then should Go<

" What would you hav
Nellie, almost maddene<
mental conflict ** Wimt i
have ? I cannot cure yq
can I do?"

"You can forgive,** til
answered feebly ; ** thca
God will pardon also/*

"O my God I my God ^
strength and grace su^ci<9
Nellie ; and then, by an
almost superhuman cha
stooped, put her arms rout
ing creature's neck, and kisi

The woman uttered a €!
and fell back heavily out {
arms, A long silence folic

Nellie looked at the d(
face, hnng quietly on the ft
her, and felt as if she were c
so utterly did her senses sa
her, and so dead and nutu
all her faculties in the hel
that had been put upon I
hand was laid at la^t upon 1
dcr, Nellie started viotcni
had totally forgotten cvira
ence of the sot<iier»

"Nay, fear not, maideii
grieve inordinately,^ he a
voice of mingled p:ty an<
tion. ** Thou hast acted i
bosioess (I aiQ bound to b
mooy to the truth) ta a «i
of thy mother*s daogbter.'* .
"Tbatik God, at least, tl
gave ber,** Ndlie mm m u f e <
her breath, scatcc
he wassayisi^

Nellie Netterville.

599

" Nay, and in very deed," he an-
swered, " thy presence here has been
a crowning and a saving mercy for
the poor wretch whom we have seen
expire. Ever since I found her here
last night, dying alone and in de-
spair, I have been striving for her
with the Lord, and praying and ex-
horting, but, as it seemed to me, all
in vain, until thy kiss of peace fell
like a balm more precious even than
that of Gilead on her soul, and re-
stored it, I cannot doubt, (for I saw
a light as of exceeding gladness
settle upon her dying features,) re-
stored it to long banished peace."

"Thank God that he gave me
grace to do it !" Nellie once more
whispered. It seemed as if she were
powerless to think of aught besides.

" They who do mercy shall in due
time find it !" rejoined the soldier,
putting a small scrap of written paper
into her hand. " In this very room
thy mother tended me, when my own
comrades had deserted me, fearing
the infection ; in this very room
yonder woman, having been expelled
the other portions of the mansion,
since order has been taken for the
separation of God's elect from the
sinful daughters of the land,' took up
^ abode some three days since ;
*Ddin this very room I last night
found her, dying of the malady of
^ch, but for thy mother's care, I
"*tist have also perished, and so
°^ed by the prospect of eternal re-
W)ution which lay before her, that
^ of her own accord did dictate,
*^d did suffer me to write down on
"*^ spot, a full confession of her own
P^lt in the matter of the murdered
*^ins. She told me then — and
*^y times afterward in the course
^^ the long night she did continue to
aver it— that she herself it was who
^ the deed for which Mrs. Netter-
y^fe stands condemned to die ; she
***^ng, in a drunken squabble.

seized the man's pistol and shot him
dead upon the spot And she fur-
thermore avowed, with unspeakable
groanings and many tears, that, ter-
rified at the consequences of her own
act, and moved besides by a fiend-
ish desire of vengeance against thy
mother, who had in some way un-
wittingly, in times past, offended her,
she not only accused her of the mur-
der, but maintained that accusation
afterward upon oath when examined
before the High Court of Com-
missioners in Dublin. Now then,
maiden, rise up and speed. Thy
mother's life is in thy hands; for
with that paper, writ and witnessed
by one who, however humble, is not
altogether unknown as a zealous
soldier in the camp of Israel — ^with
that paper, I say, to attest her inno-
cence, they must of a certainty ac-
knowledge it, and let her go."

" How shall I thank thee, O my
God !" cried Nellie, scarcely able to
believe her ears that she had heard
the soldier rightly.

" It is good to praise God always,"
he replied sententiously, " but at this
moment briefly. Thy present care
must be to get to Dublin with what
speed thou mayest."

" Alas 1" said Nellie, " how shall I
get there ? I have ridden day and
night ever since I heard this un-
happy news, and only yesterday even-
ing our horses were so knocked up,
that I and my companion had to find
our way hither as best we could on
foot."

" There are but two horses in these
stables, and neither of them are mine
to offer," said the soldier, evidently
distressed and anxious at the dilem-
ma in which his protegke was placed.
" Nevertheless, and the Lord aiding
me in my endeavors, I will do what
I can. Come with me to the court-
yard — I doubt not but thou knowest
the way well enough already."

6oo

milit mitennlli.

Yes, indeed 1 poor Nellie knew it
well enough, and at any other time
she might have wept at revisiting on
so sad an errand a spot hitlierto plea-
santly associated in her mind wuth
many a childish froHc, and many a
petted animal, the favorites of the
days gone by. Just now, however,
she had no inclination to dwell on the
memories of the past. Joy at the
proved innocence of her mother* and
a wild fear lest she herself should
arrive too late in Dublin to allow of
her profiting by the disclosure, filled
her whole soul, and left no room
there for sentimental sorrows. She
found Roger already in the yard, en-
gaged in hot discussion with an offi*
cer of the English army, a coal-black
charger, which the latter was holding
carelessly by the bridle, being the
apparent object of the dispute.

*' Ay," muttered her conductor, as
he glanced toward the group \ " it is,
I see, even as 1 suspected, and I shall
have to pay dearly for Black Crom-
well," Then leaving Nellie a little
in the background, he went up to the
English officer and said :

" Here is an unhappy maiden.
Captain Rip pel, bound upon an er-
rand of life and death, and sorely in
need of a good steed to bear her.
The fate of a grave, God-fearing
woman, even of Mistress Netterville
herself, the late ovmtx of this man*
sion, is dependent on her speed, and,
had I twenty horses in the stable, as
I have not one, I declare unto ihec
as God liveth and seeth, that she
should have her choice among them
aU/'

" Yea, and undoubtedly," the other
answered with a sneer. ** Neverthe-
less, since it is even as ihou sayest,
and that thou hast them not, 1 fear
me, good master sergeant, that this
young daughter of Moab, who has
been lucky enough to find favor in

your eyes, will be none
your good intentions/*

'* Sir, if you be a man^
man — you cannot, you
fuse r* cried the indi
*' Consider, this youn
suppliant where once
honored mistress of the
you cannot of a surety say
member it is no gift we crat
purse contains double Xhi
your steed, strong and of'
breeding as undoubtedly h

He held up a purse as-
the parting gift of Henri
whom, however, he had 5
merely as a loan, to be aft^
paid in some of the most \
the articles yet left him in
It was well filled and hi
with a little smile of scorn
waved it quietly on one std

" And how am I to be
pray >^u, that this young
who seems to have cast wi
you both — is in reality Mia
terville, or any other ind
base impostor ?"* he asta
most offensive leer. •* S
days have as yet elapi
hither, sent by the Loi
himself, to put ottlerin ih!
and to separate the elect c
the sinful daughters of
and—"

" Sir, do you dare \
suddenly cun
and, raising hi ^

struck him to the ground
dier had not placed himi
between them, saying in i
lone to Roger :

"If thou wouldst not i
young maiden^s hopes altq
leave this afiair to rae
look or word of thine, am
terly miscarry/*

Roger felt the man
was not by violence or

Nellie Netterville.

6oi

: could best serve Nellie. He
d himself at once, therefore,
1 back, while the soldier said
to his superior officer :
ou hast not, peradventure,
I, forgotten the offer which
idst make to me some three
iince, when first the way in
the Lord had disposed of our
s made known to us at Net-

rgotten — ^no, in sooth — not
le other answered roughly,
have I forgotten either with
lanifest folly and ingratitude
dst reject it ; better though it
J a hundred pieces of good
than that which one of thy
ies didst thankfully accept
iajor Pepper."

row Black Cromwell and the
aare Daylight into the bargain,
accept," the soldier answered

hat, part with Black Crom-
Black Cromwell, who hath
I me unhurt through more bat-
an David himself ever fought
t the Philistines ?" the officer
ded with well-affected astonish-
" Verily and indeed, master
nt, thou art, as I do perceive,
fistanding thy good odor for
Dunctilious sanctity — thou art,
but an extortioner after all.
t been the mare alone, now,
I she also is a very marvel for
th and speed — I had never
lee nay ; but to talk to me of
\ with Black Cromwell is to
ne, so to speak, upon the very
of the eye."

ivertheless I have a fancy for
nd if I cannot get him, I will
old fast to Netterville, the in-
ice which the Lord himself
f late assigned me in this new
>f promise," the other steadily
L
lere is the good horse, Battle

of Worcester, he is stronger than
Black Cromwell, and would altoge-
ther suit the maiden better," his su-
perior rejoined in a coaxing tone.

" Yea, but he hath an ugly trick of
going lame ere the first mile is over,"
Sergeant Jackson responded with a
knowing smile, and then he added in
a tone which was evidently intended
to bring the discussion to an end,
" It will be all in vain to dispute this
matter any further. Captain Rippel.
If you have in truth, as you seem to
say, made up your mind to keep
Black Cromwell for your own riding,
I, on the other hand, am equally re-
solved not to part with this house of
Netterville, which will serve me well
enough, I doubt not, as a residence,
once I have brought my old mother
hither to help me in its keeping."

" Nay, then, usurer, take the horse
and thy money with it I" cried the of-
ficer, in a tone far less expressive of
vexation than of triumph at the result
of the discussion. " Take thy money
and hand me over that debenture
which, with the loss of such a char-
ger as Black Cromwell, is, I fear me,
but too dearly purchased."

Without deigning to utter a single
syllable in return, Sergeant Jackson
took the purse which the other in his
affected indignation almost flung at
his head, with one hand, while with
the other he drew forth from the
breast-pocket of his coat a paper,
being the identical debenture in
question, and presented it to his offi-
cer. Captain "Rippel snatched it
hastily from him, ran his eye over it
to make sure that it was the right one,
and then, turning on his heel, saun-
tered out of the courtyard, without
even condescending to glance toward
the spot where Nellie stood anxious-
ly awaiting the result.

Sergeant Jackson instantly dived
into one of the stables, and seizing
a side-saddle, (Nellie's own saddle

602

NellU MlfifVi'tU.

of the olden times,) he led forth a
strong, handsome mare, as white as
milk, and bej^an to saddle it in hot
haste ; w hile Roger, taking tlie hint,
did the same for Cromwell.

** I am afraid I have cost you very
dear," Nellie said in a low, grateful
tone, as she stood beside the ser-
geant, " Believe me, for nothing
less than a mother's life would I
have suffered you to make such a
sacrifice.**

" Nay, maiden, call it not a sacri-
fice," he answered without looking
round, and giving a pull to the girths
to make sure that they were tight
*'Or if thou needs must think it one,
remember that, had not thy good
mother saved my life, I should not
have been here to make it/'

Nellie's heart was too full to speak,
and she suffered him to lift her in
silence to her saddle. He settled
her in it as carefully and tenderly as
if, instead of a simple soldier, he had
been one of the old courtly race of
cavaliers, from which she was herself
descended, and then, with one last
whispered word of gratitude for him-
self, and one last loving message for
old Grannie, which he promised to
deliver to her in person, Nellie rode
forth from Netten'iJle, and, mihout
even giving it a farewell glance,
turned her horse's bead toward Dub-
lin,

CHAPTER XIV.

The city of Dublin, as it stood
within its walls in the days of the
Protectorate, barely covered ground
to the extent of an Irish mile, and
was built entirely on the south side
of the Liffey. That side, therefore,
only of the river was embanked by
quays, and not even fAaf in its en-
tirety ; the space now occupied by
tlie new custom-house and other
buildings, to the extent of several

thousand feet, being then
and swamp, kept thus b;
tinned overflowing of the

To the north of the
ever, there was a suburl
time went on and the exi,
everincreasing populatioi
outside tlie wdls of the foi
It was called ''Ostmanl
** Oxmantown,' * and
insignificant space
Abbey and Church
Batter, Grange Gorman,
manoguc, being meidy vi
tered here and there in
country to a con-'
northward. A brii
dale, the bridge of ** Di
also at a later period styled
Bridge," forroed the sole
communication (except hy
tween the city and its no
urb. Built upon four
closed in on the Dublin
strong gate house with ti
portcullis, the Old Brid
others of similar antiquity,
enough and strong enough
sort of street within itself j
ing erected upon either
trai!ic as busy and as eogci
in the more legitimate
of the city*

From Old Bridge men
once into Bridge street, (
tis formerly,) a lung, narrow
fare, hemmed in on one si
city walls, and on tiae ol
tolerably handsome row c
These houses were almost
in the cage-work fashion of
of Queen Elizabeth, and
with tiles and shingles.
them also possessed
which, cut deep into the
llie doonn'ay, stated th<e i
calling of the o%T)er, with
tion frequently of some |>iou
roent or appr
Scripture. Hi

^^^

Nellie Netterville.

603

)een a favorite one in Dublin,
the more antique portions of
yr there existed houses, even to
recent period of its history,
^hich might still be read the
and occupations of the men
lore than two hundred years
had resided within their walls,
he day on which we are about
educe Dublin to our readers,
had been a considerable
t of stir and bustle going on
its inhabitants, and more es-
^ among those of Bridge street,
s had, in fact^ been rife since
awn of an expected rising of
Dels (as the king's partisans
len styled by their opponents)
north ; and men speculated in
nd fear, as their secret wishes
them, on the probability of
port. It received something
)nfirmation in the afternoon,
two regiments of recently ar-
inglish soldiers, armed from

heel, and evidently ready to
action at a moment's notice,
been marched out of the city
tnt northward. Later on in
^ moreover, it became known
e Lord-Deputy himself, Henry
ell, the best of Ireland's re-
lers, accompanied by a strong
was proceeding in the same
m, and might be looked for

moment at the "Ormond
which shut out Bridge street

city side, just as the " Gate-
' closed it on that of the Old

if people stood at their doors
idows to do honor to the com-
their king-deputy, there yet

1 to be another and still strong-
iction for them at the end of
iet opposite that by which he
pected to appear. Eyes were
lite as often, though more fur-
in the direction of the Old

as in that of the Ormond

Gate j for, in the midst of other ru-
mors, there had come a whisper, no
one knew how or by whom it had
been first set agoing, that a person
suspected of belonging to the rebel
party had just been arrested on the
river, having attempted, by means of
a boat, to elude the passage of the
Old Bridge, and so penetrate unchal-
lenged into the heart of the city.

There followed, as a matter of
course, much secret and some anx-
ious speculation as to the rank and
real object of the arrested person,
but no one ventured to make open
inquiry into the matter. Cromwell's
brief reign of blood had stricken men
dumb with fear. To have shown
the smallest interest in persons sus-
pected of belonging to the rebel par-
ty, would have been but to have
drawn down suspicion on themselves j
and suspicion, in those hard times,
was too nearly akin to condemnation
to be heedlessly incurred. Instead,
therefore, of going at once to the
Gate-house and ascertaining the real
facts of the case from its guardians,
people were content, while awaiting
the appearance of the military caval-
cade from the castle, to question and
conjecture among themselves as to
the rank and real business of the
arrested man. A flourish of trum-
pets before Ormond Gate put a stop
at last to their gossipings. Heads
and eyes, if not hearts and good
wishes, were instantly turned in that
direction ; the gate was flung open,
and Henry Cromwell, surrounded by
a goodly company of officers and
private gentlemen, rode at a brisk
pace through it. A moment after-
ward, and he had swept past all the
gazers, and pulled up opposite the
Old Bridge. The guard at the Gate-
house instantly turned out to receive
him, the portcullis was drawn up,
and he was actually spurring his
horse forward to the bridge, when a

6o4

Nettie NeticrvUle,

girl, in the habit of a western pea-
sant, dnried through the soldiers and
flung herself on her knees before
him. The movement was so rapid
and unexpected that, if the Lord-
Deputy had not reined up his steed
until he nearly threw it on its
haunches, he must inevitably have
ridden over her. A moment of si-
lent astonishment ensued. The girl
herself uttered no cr)\ and said not
a syllable as to the nature of her pe-
tition ; but as she lifted up her head
toward the Lord Henry, her hood,
falling back upon her shoulders, re-
vealed a face of ashy whiteness, and
there was a pleading, agonized ex-
pression in the dark eyes she raised
to his, which told more than many
words, of the inarticulate anguish of
the soul within.

Henr)' Cromwell was not of a na-
ture to be harsh to any one, much
less to a woman ; but there had been
information enough sent in to him
that morning to make him suspect a
snare, and he turned sternly for ex-
planation to the chief officer of the
guard.

*' A\Tiat means this unseemly inter-
niption, corporal ?" he asked, as the
latter was vainly endeavoring to in-
duce Nellie to rise from her knees.
** Is tills maiden a prisoner ? or if not
a prisoner, is she distraught, that she
thus ventures, bare-headed and dress-
ed in such ungodly play-acting
fashion, to rush into our very pre-
sence >''

"A prisoner of only hal fan-hour's
standing is she, may it please your
cxcellenc\%" the soldier answered
promptly, " she and her companion !
They were seen attempting to cross
the ri%"er in a boat borrowed from
some of the Raiiv*e5 on the other
8kle» and as it seemed to me that
tMr purpose must needs be seditious
to deflDAiid sudi aecfror* I caused
both Co he a|vprdiC!Bded, and hav^

kept ihem here to waft yo
further directions in the

** Ormiston," said the 1
turning to one of the }'ou8
group of officers behind
main you here^ and examii
Corporal Holdfast, into I
If there be aught which
portant hid beneath this
'ing folly, follow me at one
manogue, where I shall haf
to detain me for a couple^
but if it be only, as I do
silly freak of a love-sick
that case I shall not look I
fore to-morrow morning,
will bring me, as I have
already, the last despatch
may have come from Engb

Having thus somewhat i
despatched poor Nellie's |
but little dreaming of tJjej
vice he had done her in
young Orniiston her guar
Cromwell dashed over
and, followned instantly byj
galloped northward. Th
Nellie saw that her effor
speech with the Lord*
self would prove in vain
risen of her own ac
hood once more dran
her head and face, ha
to let him pass, with
dignity in her look and
had its due eflfect tipMj
soldier who had mad
He did not again att€
or even to address her^ 1
near her silently and
seemed to wait until
cord she should
the Gate-botisc
Nellie forgot his existence i
and equally heedless of
which, having gathered li
of the Lord-Dcpwy^ '
curiously and
her, slie stood
next iBOve sboiild bc^ 1

Nellie Nettervillc.

xx^^y

\ his orders, Harry Ormiston
:hed her.

e took Corporal Holdfast's
)eside her, Nellie lifted her

his face, and recognized him
y as the young officer who
en riding with Henrietta on
r of their first meeting in the
ess. A soft cry of joy escap-

lips, and Harry Ormiston
town in his half-uttered greet-
fe also remembered her face

we not already toM our
that it was by no means one

be forgotten ? — ^but of the
r the where that he had seen
ad no such distinct a recol-

Silently, and with a look of
lope stealing over that fair
ellie drew Henrietta's missive
:r bosom and placed it in his

ston glanced at the super-
n, and with a flush of honest
ntling on his features, eagerly
)pen. Scarcely, however, had
d three lines ere the scene
the mountains, which had
in his quarrel with his be-
, rose before him like a vision,
tantly remembering Nellie as
• girl who had been in some
e, albeit unwittingly, its cause,
led sharply upon Corporal

St.

w is this, corporal? I fear

have made some grave mis-

This young maiden whom

d a prisoner is the bearer to

1 token from one whose zeal
thfulness in the good cause
be suspected — even from a
r of the household of that
nd God-fearing Major Hewit-
o has set up his camp on the
ge of the wilderness, and thus
)f his small garrison a very
f strength against the incur-
■ the enemy."

^, and if your honor says it,

^■4.7

it must needs be'^tfjV.*^^*
a bluff old soldier, with iittle^pVeten
sions to sanctity in his composition
— answered with suppressed impa-
tience; "and therefore I can only
marvel that a maiden, known and
esteemed by the family of worthy
Major Hewitson, should not only
have sought to cheat our vigilance
by crossing the river privately in a
boat, but should have done so in the
company of a man whom I myself
can testify to having been a chief of
some repute in the army of the Irish
enemy, having crossed swords with
him at the battle of 'Knockna-
clashy,' as I think they call it in their
barbarous language, where he fought
(I needs must own it) with a valor
worthy of a better cause."

Major Ormiston turned, gravely
but kindly, to Nellie.

"I fear me much," he said, "that
you have been but ill-advised in all
this business. Why not have pre-
sented yourself openly at the bridge
if the matter which has brought you
hither will bear investigation? and
why, more than all the rest, have you
come attended by a person whose
very company must needs render
you suspect yourself ?"

"O sir!" said Nellie, weeping
sadly, as she began to fear that even
Henrietta's recommendation to mercy
might perhaps avail her little ; " we
had not the password, without which
we never should have been permit-
ted to enter Dublin by the bridge ;
and our errand is, alas I of such a
nature, that every moment lost is of
deep and sad importance."

" Our errand," Ormiston thought-
fully repeated. " This errand, then,
is not entirely your own, but is in
some way or other interesting also
to the man by whom Master Hold-
fast tells me you are accompanied."

" He should have said * a gentle-
tnan^ " Nellie answered, with a slight

Nellie Nettenfiiie.

rebuking emphasis on the latter
word — •" a gentleman who, at h;s own
great trouble, and, I fear me, risk,
has enabled me to accomplish this
journey ^ in which, however, he has
no other interest than such as any
kind and noble heart might feel in
the sorrows and perils of an unpro-
tected girl"

** Where is he — ^this other pris-
oner?" Ormiston asked, turning for
information to the corporal.

" In the gate-house, sir, where we
have him safe under lock and key ;
for he was no prisoner to be left at
large like this silly maiden, who beg-
ged so hard to be allowed to see the
Lord-Deputy go by, that I found it
not in my heart to deny her so small
a favor ; for the doing of which, I
trust I have not incurred the dis-
pleasure either of your honor or of
his highness the Lord Henry."

"Certainly not, honest Holdfast;
you have acted both well and merci-
fully in all this business. And now
lead the way to the gate-house, and
trouble not your wits about this
young maiden, I myself will be her
surety that she attempt not to es-
cape."

He offered his hand VQxy respect-
fully to Nellie as he finished speak-
ing, and she suffered him to lead
her in silence toward the bridge.
As tliey entered the gate-house, how-
ever, she quietly withdrew her hand
and glided from his side to that of
Roger.

Ormiston instantly recognized the
latter as the dispossessed owner of the
"Rath,'* and an officer, beside, of
some standing in the recently dis^
banded army of the Irish. Courteous-
ly saluting him, therefore, he inform*
ed him that he had been deputed by
the Lord* Dc put)' to inquire into the
nature of the business which had
brought him to Dublin, adding an
earnest hope on his own part tliat it

might prove to be in no
ed with political aiTairs,

"That, most assuredl;^
said Roger, pleased audi
the young ofllicer's m;
tisfied by Henrietta's I
Ormiston still held open |
that he was addressing li|
whom it had been inteui
business is one which sol^
this young gentlewomai
cerns her, in fact, so nei
you cart not aid her, as Mi
itson half hinted that yi
trust, at all events, you n
as much of my hberty for I
as may enable me to d^
I too am a soldier and
Major Ormiston, and yoi
me that I will not abuse )

"Sir," said Nellie
** you have not read the I
would but read the letter
Hewitson half promisee
would help me 1"

Thus called upon, Ormi
eyes over Henrietta's Id
concluding it to be on mi
ly personal to himself, h4
resenting for more pri\Tit«
fore more satisfactory pep

Nellie watched him anx
read on, and with a spasm
at her heart she saw th^
dually took in the nature
tents, his first look of ca,
appeared, and was succeo
of deep and tender pily
made itself felt in the verj
his voice, as he exclaimed

•* Young Mistress Nettcn
God I And I nev^r cvd
of tlie relationship I Ala
should have come
sorrow and disap;
end."

" Oh : not dead ! m
Nellie, terrified by his
looks. ** Say, not de
I do entreat you 1"

Nellie NettervilU.

607

), no 1 — not dead— ^'^Z," he an-
l nervously. He could not
himself to say that she was to
3n the morrow.

ly, Major Ormiston," Roger
iterposed, for Nellie was sob-

I speechless anguish, "if not

II is well — or may at all events
: well — for this most injured
I have hope still — ^hope in the
and justice even of our enemy,
is paper I It was writ by the

who hath lately received as his
n the Irish spoil the house and
)f Netterville, and who is ready
r on oath that he took it down
for word from the lips of the
roman who did that deed for
Mrs. Netterville stands con-
id to die."

liston glanced rapidly over the
which Roger had drawn from
som and given to him.
js, yes 1" he cried joyfully, " I
it not in the least. Sergeant
)n is well known as a man of
beyond suspicion, and these
noreover, do but repeat the de-
«rhich the unhappy lady urged
nd over again upon her trial,
ig that the accusation against
5 an act of private vengeance.
1 this can be discussed here-
Time presses j and whatever
DC done to save her, must be
it once."

le Lords Chief-Justices," sug-
Roger; but Ormiston shook
ad with a little smile of scorn.
ttle likely they to reverse a
ce pronounced in their own
!" he said. " No, no ! it is to
rd-Deputy we must appeal. I
ie after him at once, and in a
of hours at the furthest you
ok for me with the result. I
a God that it may be a good

left the room without waiting
answer, and in another minute

they heard him gallop across the
bridge. The next two hours were
passed by Nellie in an agony of ex-
pectation which was painful to be-
hold. She could not stay still a mo-
ment. Sometimes she paced the nar-
row guard-room with rapid and im-
patient footsteps — sometimes, regard-
less of the presence of the English
soldiery, she flung herself on her
knees, weeping and praying almost
aloud in her agony. Every stir upon
the bridge — every sound from the
street beyond, seemed to announce
the return of her messenger, and at
these moments she would stand up,
shivering from head to foot in such a
fever of hope and fear, that Roger at
last became seriously alarmed, and
remonstrated firmly and affectionately
with her on her want of self-command.
At last, to his inexpressible relief, a
bustle at the doorway announced Or-
miston's return, and a moment after-
ward the latter entered the guard-
room. Nellie stood up, as white as
ashes, and utterly incapable of either
speaking or moving toward him.
Shocked at the mute anguish of her
face, Ormiston took her hand in his ;
but when she looked at him, expect-
ing him to address her, he hesitated,
like one doubtful of the effect of the
tidings he was bringing.

" For God's sake, speak at once 1"
cried Roger. "Anything is better for
her than this suspense! Say, is it
life or death ?"

" Not death, certainly — at least I
hope not," said Ormiston, vainly seek-
ing in his own mind for some fitter
words by which to convey his mean-
ing.

The blood rushed to Nellie's tem-
ples, and the pupils of her eyes dila-
ted, but still she could not answer.

" You hope /" Roger repeated sad-
ly. He saw, though Nellie did not,
that there still existed some uncer-
tainty in the matter.

NiUi4 N€ti€fvill€.

^* There is a repneve at all events/'
he said, in the same joyless tones in
I Kirhich he had before replied.

The color faded from NeUie*s cheek,
and the gladness from her eye. *'Only
a reprieve — only Mtf//' she muttered,
in tones so hoarse and changed that
the young men could hardly believe
it to be hers — ** only that 1"

" But the rest will follow," said Or-
miston, trying to reassure her. ''The
Lord-Deputy will himself inquire in-
to the business, and — "

"Nay, then, she is safe indeed P*
Nellie interrupted him to say. "With
that confession, furnished by her chief
accuser, her innocence must be clear
as daylight. O sir! she is safe —
surely she is safe !" she added, try-
ing to reassure herself by Uie rcpcti-
tion of the word, and yet sorely puz-
zlcd by a something in Grmiston's
eyes which looked more like pity than
sympathy in her joy.

**Safe? I trust so — with all my
heart and soul I trust so,** he answer-
ed gravely, *' Nevertheless, my dear
' young lady, I would counsel >*ou, as
a friend, not to suffer your hopes to
soar too high, lest any ailer disap-
pointment should be too terrible for
endurance,"

** If she is reprieved, she will be
pardoned ; and if she is pardoned,
she will live," Nellie repeated slowly,
like one trying yet dreading to disco-
ver the hidden meaning of his words.

** She will live/* he amended gent-
ly ; " yes, certainly, if Gotl hath de-
creed it as well as man.*'

"Nay, if she is in God's bands

only, I am content "
a sudden return to ^
somewhat astonished Urmtfl
also have been in God's ha
added, with an appealing tc
Roger, ** and can tell how i
merciful they are than ■
conclude from what you
is ailing ; may I not go
once ?"

** If you are strong enc
beginning, but she intcrr^ipc
with a burst of ^ :

" How ? not
have come all this way to-i
O mother, mother 1*' she
vulsively, " little you dream ]
is near, bringing peace and]
your prison f

Roger saw that Omaia
more than he liked to teH
in a low voice :

" The poor lady, thefQ^

" Djring r* the otlicr answcn

'* Will her datighlcr be
see her, think you ?"

** In time ] but that is :
burst a blood-vessel, as
now learned, and this rcpr
little better than a mocker
one dreams th fii

vived for the i _

** Then let Neilic go at i
Roger promptly, **She hi
night and day to see her motli
sad as the meeting may be, il
be sadder still if they met dcj
Let her go at once,*' ~

And so it was decide

Newmafis Poems.

609

NEWMAN'S POEMS.

BY H. W. WILBERFORCE.

e volume of poems pub-
ymously under this hum-
oduced an impression im-
n its publication, not only
lolics but among English
general, which could hard-
n caused by a volume of
1 any other writer of the
he exception, perhaps, of
e. The explanation is to
1 the initials J. H. N. at
the preface — a signature
world-wide celebrity,
ly be those who feel sur-
find that a man chiefly
laving been, under God's
and grace, the main au-
)xford movement of 1833,
found to have possess-
•cised extraordinary poet-
It may perhaps be part-
feeling of envy, partly a
)tion how rarely any one
les numerous unconnect-
which makes the world
luctant to admit that any
reatly distinguished him-
le far removed from that
s own. But that feeling,
1 what it may, does not in
ly to the case before us,
vould seem that the gifts
ially qualify a man to pro-
jp effect upon the hearts
inces of his fellows, to be
r and leader of any great
lought, social, moral, poli-
igious, are very much the
se required for the making
)oet.

^arums Occasions, London : Burns,
68. For sale at the Catholic Publi-
16 Nassau street, New York.

OL. VII. — 39

This is at first sight so obvious, that
we incline to think the only real argu-
ment against it would be, an appeal
to experience. It will be said, there
is a small class of men who have won
among their fellows (as if it were a
title of honor formally secured to
them) the name of " the poet," and
no one of them has been, except in
his own special art of .poetical com-
position, among the great leaders of
human thought. But this is easily
accounted for. A man immersed for
years in public affairs of any kind,
however richly his mind may have
been stored with poetical images, and
however natural it may have been to
him to have sought for them a poeti-
cal expression, can rarely have had
leisure to cultivate the merely artis-
tic part of poetical composition to the
degree necessary for success as a
poet It is hardly likely that in his
case there should combine the many
accidental circumstances necessary
(over and above the possession of
great poetical endowments) for the
composition, publication, and general
diffusion of any considerable poetical
work. And even if all these should
happen to meet, the mere fact of being
very greatly distinguished in any other
line is of itself, we strongly suspect,
enough to prevent any man from being
chiefly remembered as a great poet.
The name of " the poet Cowper " is
a household word in every English
family. But if "William Cowper,
Esq., of the Inner Temple" (as his
name stands on the title-page) had
risen to the woolsack, we believe that,
even though he might have written
the same poems, he would never have

NlFwmafi

^&ffSs^

gained the title. If indeed mediocrity
in everything else had sufficed to gain
a high and permanent reputation for
a man of equal mediocrity in poetical
talents^ we should now have talked of
Cowper's friend as " the poet Hayley.*'
But that the highest poetical genius
does not obtain the title for a man
otherwise conspicuous, is proved by
the example of Shakespeare. Merely
because he has left behind him dra-
matic works to which the world af-
fords no rivalj not even the preemi-
nent poetical genius shown in his
poems has caused the world at large
to speak and think of him as ** the
poet Shakespeare/' Nor would Dry-
den, despite of his matchless lyric
poems, have attained the title, if
among his numerous plays he had
written Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lean

It seems to us that these consider-
ations are enough to answer the ob-
jection from experience^ which might
perhaps be urged against our opinion,
that the qualities which qualify a man
to exercise a deep influence on liis
fellows and make him a leader of the
souls of men, are in fact the same as
those which qualify him for success
as a poet.

We think this volume will convince
most of those who read it that we
are right. The weight)^ and touching
thoughts of these poems bear the
stamp of the same mint from which
issued those volumes of sermons,
which, far more than any other work,
have impressed a permanent stamp
upon the generation of English rea-
ders which is now tending, as Dr.
Newman says of himself, ** toward
the decline of life/' It is impossible
to read them without feeling that, if
his life had been one of mere literary
leisure, his chosen employment would
probably have been poetry. As it is,
he has evidently resorted to it, not
when he was thinking of others, but
when he sought to relieve the fulness

of his own souK In this i
written in prose j his po
the record of his inner sir
emotions, and has been
himself and his God,

As long as any memory
English nation and the
guage remains among mer
man, we doubt not, will
bered and reverenced ; tic
one of the few whom poelTvl
great, but as one of tbe grc:
w*ho have written poetry. Anc
from deeming it strange tltt
should be tiie case with^f
author of the movement of^
for our part, should have tht>
strange if, in a man of the I
literary culture, the intrn^ f<
in which that mov
had not relieved tii
ical expression. We brieve, i
that few if any great mo
ments have taken place :
something more or less of
kind has not been found.
tlic most remarkable excep
the change of religion in
the sixteenth century ; the 1
which not only produced J
poetical work, but did not]
hind them so much as a hv
was a striking contrast^
the contemporary movement
many, and to that of the
in the eighteenth centur
to that of the earlier Lolh
explanation, however, in
seek- Lord M
was perhaps U
any important share in the
Reformation, who did not o
It as a mere political joK** H
tractive as jobbing is to mai
clever men, it is hardbr i
inspire any poetical afHatH
mer was too busy getting
could for himself, to be musn
poetical images^ Besides, the
matlott in England appealed

atd

Newmofis Poems.

6ii

I men's deeper feelings, as to
tural and reasonable dislike
I their property confiscated
mselves imprisoned, hanged,
up alive ; and this last kind
il neither needed nor encou-
3etical powers,
turn to the volume before us,
ns were so evidently written
the author himself that it is
lal good fortune that they
^er been published. The
part of them first appeared
as called the Lyra Apostalka^
r successive numbers of the
Magazine^ edited by the late
ames Rose, in which several
Newman's earliest prose writ-
re originally published. It
rrward issued in the form of
volume, the first edition of
speared in 1836. By far the
part of it was supplied by
vman ; the other poems, by
his intimate friends.* To

were John Bowden, " with whom ** (Dr.
ites in the A^0gia) ** I spent almost ex-
y underjijaduate years." He died just
Newman became a Catholic Hit two
r fathers in the London Oratory. — Hurrell
ose noble character and high g^ Dr.
u sketched with admirable force, truth,
in three pages of the A^olagia^ which he
Mjing: "It is difficult to enumerate the
tions to my theological creed which I de-
a friend to whom I owe so much. He
ok with admiration toward the Church of
in the same degree dislike the Reforma-
ixed on me the idea of devotion to the
gin, and he led me gradually to believe in
rescnce.*' He died February 39th, 1836,
tly," says Dr. Newman, " and in the con-
insition-state of opinion. His religious
reached their ultimate conclusion, by the
of their multitude and thev depth." — John
author of Tht Christian Vsmr^ of whom
A writes (Apolag^ia^ edition L p. 75) words
leep feelings shared by many who are now,
see, nienbersofthe Catholic Church. He
5. and at this moment, 00 his birthday,
the first stone of a new college at Oxford,
testimonial to him, and bearing his name,
I by the Archbishop of Canterbury.— Ro*
iVilberibrce, second son of William Wil-
*rom h» earliest years his char^icter seem-
of truth, purity, unselfishness, tenderness
and indefiuigable diligence. As his great
eloped, they showc;fl themselves perhaps
imarkable firom their combination with a
umility so extraordinary at to be his chief
ic AAkx a university career of unusual
he was elected CbUow of Oriel CoDege, 00

these are added, in die present vol-
ume, a few of eariier and a good
many of later date. All of them
seem equally to have been compos-
ed without any view to publication,
and considering that their illustrious
author has always been remarkable
for a dislike to put himself forward,
and for an almost extreme suscepti-
bility of feeling, some persons may
wonder that he has ever been able to
persuade himself to give them to the
worid. We do not share their won-
der; for we long ago came to the
conclusion that it is by men of the
greatest natural reserve that the full-
est confidences of their inner feelings
are not unfrequently made. In the
common intercourse of society such
men display least of their real feel-
ing. But being distinguished from
others by the depth and strength of
their thoughts and affections, more
lasting convictions and emotions, and
greater self-knowledge, they can, up-
on any call of duty, speak out most
unreservedly and sincerely ; and the
pain it gives them to make any reve-

the same day with Hurrell Fronde, with whom he b
classed by Dr. Newman, in the A^gia, as one with
whom he was, "in particular, intimate and affection-
ate." He became a country clergyman, and afterward
archdeacon ; and in 1838 published (in combination
with the present Bishop of Oxford) the Li^t 0/ IV^il-
liam lyUberforce. His theological works were all ci
bter date. It is characteristic that he always declared
he would never have undertaken any of them if Mr.
Newman had not left the field unoccupied In the
opinion of most peraotis, except himself, his equal in
learning and ability was not then left in the Church 01
England In 1854, he became a member of the Catho-
lic Church, and died in 1857, while studying at Rome
for the priesthood — Isaac Williams was fellow of
Trinity College, Oxford He remained much longer
in Oxford, sharing Mr. Newman's intercourse and
counsels. In 1840, Mr. Newman dedicated the beau-
tiful volume on Tht Church cf tk* Fathers " to my
dear and much admired Isaac Williams, the sight of
whom carries back his firienda to ancient, holy, and
happy times." He is, perhaps, best known by his
published poems ; bat he has abo published a series
of devotional commentaries on the gospels, of great
beauty and to which many are deeply indebted He
died in 1865. Dr. Newman went to visit him in hb
country retirement only a few days before. Our read-
ers, we think, will feel an interest in thb brief memorial
of a group of men so closely connected with the col-
lection in which many of these poems originally ap-

vemnan's Paems.

lation of their inner selves is such
that, to do it completely* costs them
little, if anything, more than to speak
of themselves at all. This, all the
world sees, has been exemplified in
tlie Apoiogiay and in its measure it
has been the same with the Lyra
Apostolkay and with the present vol-
ume. The poems in the Lyra were,
nearly all of them, the expression of
the thoughts which crowded into the
mind of Dn NewTnan during a tour
in the Mediterranean, between De-
cember, 1832, and July, 1833. The
present volume adds very greatly to
their interest by giving the place and
day of their composition. Thus, the
poem headed ** Angelic Guidance "
was \^Titten on the day on which he
left Oxford. In our days, in which a
very few hours upon the Great West-
em takes Oxford men to Falmouth
without trouble or fatigue, the date,
'* Whitchurch, December 3d, 1832," is
interesting. Whitchurch is a some-
•^hat dreary and secluded village, at
which the direct road from Oxford to
Southampton intersected the mail
road from London to Exeter and
Falmouth, There was in those days
a coach to Southampton, to the top
of which Mr. Newman mounted, (the
present writer and other Oriel friends
standing in the street, in front of the
Angel Inn, to see the last of him.)
Before midday he reached Wliit-
church, and there had to wait till
night for the Falmouth mail W*c
should be curious to know what has
become of the large inn at Whit-
church which was maintained by this
sort of traffic. It must long ago
have been shut up. Mr, Newman's
life had hitherto been almost entirely
confined to one or two places, and
now he was starting alone for distant
lands, and began by waiting many
hours at a lonely and {crede exfa^to)
sufficiently drear)* inn. His thoughts
turned to the guardian angel who, as

he already believeti
pany. The Apoiagm
early in life his thought!
angels and their mintstr
says of these lines : **T
* the vision * that hau
vision is more or less
the whole series of the
tions." We need hardP
much these circumslan
the interest of the poera;
peared in the Lyra with
planation of the circumstii
which it was composed.
It is impossible to
poems without feeling h
man takes with him froa
the thoughts which are
even by the most striking
orable scene. The cvcnl
in England — the evidents
what be still believed to 1
formed church" — fornied
ing medium through which
at all he saw. Thus, at
he left Gibraltar, he w
headed '* England :•*

" Tyre of ibe Wert, am! i

More th.in in Farth*.; pure \
O In ^1

To lock or ioQie ita w«icn^ J

** Dread tkinc qwq jpoma I
prifMiT
Hi|!h ti'Wci* b,ive l*etci hi
Sim

Thy lJi-»i <-• m liic CJ.*;^ > »«

Mad cottiufl ill it» hutor, or tnlnii^^

** Ht who aonnM Sodom fer

SdU spuTci Uiee fur ihy lttlli|

But, f honld Vftin lunKii«« ihc

He i»ilJ iioi p«M the« by ;

For, u eAfth'a kmes w^iconm

3q gives he Utem by tura» to n

The.^;' ■
lines, " Li

posed when the "or
which the author saile
mo to Marseities was 1
straits of Bonifacio,
tioned, we thliik> that

Newmaris Poems.

613

ss of the night. They are here
1, " The PiUar of the Cloud:'

Kindly Light, tmid the endrding gloom.
Lead Thoa me on 1

ight is dark, and I am fiu* from home-
Lead Thou me on I

Thou my feet : I do not ask to see

istant scene,— one step enough for me.

not erer thus, nor prayed that Thou

Shonld'st lead me on.
d to choose and see my path ; but now

Lead Thou me on I
d the garish day, and, spite of fears,
ruled my will : remember not past years.

ig Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

Will lead me on,
noor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone ;
vith the mom those angel faces smile
1 1 have loTed long since, and lost awhile."

f Algiers," in sight of the grave
: great African church which
ed St. Augustine, St. Cyprian,
ertullian, is the date of '* The
t Church," in which, in spite
appearances to the contrary,
iter, relying on the promise of
, looked forward to the ulti-
ictory of the church, and which

" Ride thou thy time I

with meek eyes the race of pride and crime ;
he gate and be the heathen's jest.

Smiling and self-possest
, to whom is pledged a victor's sway,

Bide thou the victor's day 1"

December 28th, 1832, Mr. New-
aught his first sight of a Greek
It is highly characteristic that
5t thought which it inspired to
)st finished classical scholar of
y in Oxford, was not of Thu-
s, not even of Homer, but of
Jreek fathers :"

heathens sing thy heathen praise,
I'n Greece I the thought of holier days

In my sad heart alndes ;
sons of thine in truth's first hour,
re tongues and weapons of his power,
n of the Sptrit*s fiery shower,

Our fathers and our guides.

thtne is Clement's varied page ;
I Dionyuus, mler sage.

In days of doubt and pam ;
1 Origen with eagle eye ;
I saintly Basil's purpose high
naite imperial heresy,

\ the altar's staio.

'* From thee the glorious Preacher came.
With soul of seal and lipe of flame,

A court's stem martyr-guest ;
And thine, O inexhaustive race I
Was Nazianzen's heaven-taught grace ;
And royal-hearted Athanase,

With Paul's own mantle blest"

At Corfu, the narrative of Thucydi-
des brought to his mind the thought
which he worked out in the sermon
on "The Individuality of the Soul,"
published six years later; and in
which he says : " All who have ever
gained a name in the world, all the
mighty ipen of war that ever were,
all the great statesmen, all the crafty
counsellors, all the scheming aspi-
rants, all the reckless adventurers, all
the covetous traders, all the proud
voluptuaries, are still in being, though
helpless and unprofitable. JBalaam,
Saul, Joab, Ahitophel, good and bad,
wise and ignorant, rich and poor, each
has his separate place, each dwells
by himself in that sphere of light '
or darkness which he has provided
for himself here. What a view this
sheds upon history 1 We are accus-
tomed to read it as a tale or a fiction,
and we forget that it concerns immor-
tal beings who cannot be swept away,
who are what they were, however this
earth may change." The germ of
that sermon is contained in the lines
headed " Corcyra," January 7th, 1833.

The Lyra contains some beautiful
and well-known lines :

" Did we but see.
When life first open'd, how our journey lay
Between its earliest and its closing day.

Or view ourselves as we one day shall be.
Who strive (or the high prize, such sight would break
The youthful spirit, though bold for Jesus' sake.

** But thou, dear Lord I
While I traced out bright scenes which were to come,
Isaac's pure blessings, and a verdant home.

Didst spare me, and withhold thy fiearfid word ;
Willing me year by year, till I am found
A pilgrim pale, with Paul's sad girdle bound."

They are headed, "Our Future.
What I do, thou knowest not now ;
but thou shalt know hereafter." It
gives them a new interest to find that
they were composed at Tre Fontane,
the spot of the martyrdom of St. PauL

N^wmatis Poems.

615

ificent August, September aerene,
together no match iat my glorious Queen.

»Tj I all months and all days are thine own,

bee lasts their joyousness, when they ar«

gone;

we give to thee May. not because it is best,

because it comes first, and is pledge of the

resL"

irt from the freedom of thought
the author has gained from the
h, (** Ye shall know the truth,
le truth shall make you free,")
seems to us an ease and flow
the very language and me-
these Catholic h3rmns which
not find equalled in the author's
poems, sublime as are their
ptions. But it is remarkable
le poem which unites both these
ies in the highest measure, is
^ich was composed last, '' The
I of Gerontius." Like the others
is to have been written for the au-
!one, and to have been published
jT as an act of friendship to the
of The MoHth, Is it too much
le that the high sense of its ex-
ig depth and beauty which has
shown by the whole English
may not only encourage the
', as he tells us it did, to publish
Uected poems in the volume
us, but to compose more? For
)lain that as yet at least his
are not dimmed or his force
L

le Dream of Gerontius** begins
he thoughts of one who feels
If at the gate of death and the
*s of the assistants by his bed-
Then Gerontius says :

ima hora est ; and I fiun weuld sleep,
iin has wearied me. . . . LaM thy hands,
d, into thy handa. . . .**

i the priest says the commen-
I. Then follows :

tOVL or GBROimDt.

L to sleep: and now I am refireshed—
nyt refreAment : for I feel in me
spressive lighmess, and a sense
ediom, as I w«re at length myself
e'er had been before. How still it ia S
' no more the busy beat of time,

No, Dor my flutteriag breath, nor strugg^ixq^ polee •
Nor does one moment difiar from the next
I had a dream ; yes, tome one softly said,
' He's gone ;' and then a sigh went round the room.
And then I smxly heard a priestly Toice
Say, * Subvenite ;' and they knelt in prayer.
I seem to hear him still; but thin and low."

He does not yet know whether he
is living or dead. Then he finds
himself held,

** Not by a grasp
Such as they use on earth, but all aroond
Over the sur&ce of my subtle being,
As though I were a sphere, and capable
To be accosted thne, a anifona
And gentle pressure tells me I am not
Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.
And hark I I hoar a singing ; yet in sooth
I cannot of that music rightly say.
Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones.
Oh I what a heart-eabduiag melody."

Then follow the songs of the
guardian angel over the soul which
he was set to tend. After a long
while Gerontius takes courage and
says:

' I ^1 address him. Mighty one, my Lord,
My guardian spirit, all hail I

**Allhail,mychiUII
My chiM and brother, hail J what wouldest thoa?

" I ever had believed
That on the moment when the struggling soul
Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell
Under the aw^ presence of its God,
There to be judged and lent to its own place.
What lets me now from fusing to my Lord?

" Thou art not let; but with extremest speed
Art hurrying to the jnst and holy Judge ;
For scarcely art thou disembodied yet.
Divide a okoment, as men measure time.
Into its millioa-miUion-millionth part,
Yet even less than that the interval
Since thou didst leave the body : and the priest
Cried ' Subvenite,' and they fell to prayer ;
Nor scarcely yet have they begun to pray."

We must not linger on the con-
verse between the soul and its guar-
dian angel, nor at the marvellous
description of the demons in "the
middle region," their impotent rage-
impotent against one who has now

6i6

Ncwmafts PaetHS,

no traitor within. Then he comes
within the reach of the heavenly
choirs. We have the hymns of the
successive choirs. At length, as they
approach ** the veiled presence " of
God, the soul hears again the voices
it left on earth, for in that presence
the voices of prayer are heard :

SOUL.

*' I go bdbn my Jiulge. Ahl . . , .

....'* Pr^iie to hi* Mme 1
The eAger sprnt haa d«ftecl from my bold,
Anii, with the iDtenipertte eiwrfy Oif loye^
Flic» to the de*r feet of EmmmMl ;
B«i, ere it ftii* ' ' ' ' ',

Which with it- li«*

And cixclcs f" . ..d,

And fcccirch'ti* iud slaivcU'd ii ; au..l i^vw it Uc4
P,Ts«»vc Aud still before ikt awful thruiuc
O hapi>y, iufferitjj!; soul I for hit *»rc»
Consumed, 7e( qaicketied hy the glftncs of God«

** Tjkke tilt away, and in ih« lowtft dc«f>

There 1*1 mc be,
And there in hope the lono night-wAtcbes keep^

TpIVi tKii fur »uc.
Tliere, motionless and h:ippy in nty |Miin,

LoBC, not inrlon*.
There will I ting my »kd, perpctiMl •ttmin.

Until ihci monu
There will I sing, juid »oothe my ttricken breast.

Which ne'er crtn cc^w
*tp thraib, and pine, and iftnicui>h» till pCi«M«t

Of it* sole peace.
There witl I ung my ab»eDt L4»rd and iov« ; —

Take me a*^y,
That Booner 1 may ri»e, and go abnve,
And Me him in the iniih of everlMting day,"

Then follow the words of the an-
gel, and those of the souls in purga-
tory. At length the angel concludes :

** A^peK to wham the willing tjtak ta jpv*n.

Shall lend, and nurse, and luH thee, ai lliott Ifeil;
And maaaesa on ihe eanh. and pf»ycr« in Ueavea,

Shall aid thee mt the llirone o^f the Mott H^bevt*

" Farewell but not for ever I Imjther dear.

Be brave and paUent on thy bed of scnrow ;
Sw%h\y shall pas* thy nishi of trial here.

And 1 wUl conie and wake thet on the morrow.*'

Any one who has read this wonder-
ful poem will complain that we have
omitted this, and this, and this,
which especially deserved to be quot-
ed. It is most true It would be
impossible to give any idea of Us
matchless weight and beauty, except
by transcribing the whole of it ; and

we have wished only ta gire a S;
which may direct to it the ati
of any reader la whom it may
unknown*

The prefiice contains a ddKi
of the volume of Mr, Badcle)V
ofDnNewm:!'* ^ ' icn*

followers, who i le

far more of that world of spirits^
even the gifted eye of the
illustrious seer has ever pierctd;
for he had hardly received this i^
dtcation when he received his suiB'
mons to it. He was the son oft
Protestant physician at Colchester,
who, many years ago, was the mctli-
cal adviser of a convent in tint
neighborhood, and created a p)oi
deal of suspicion . i ' ' Hot

religionists, by bca: v lo

the supernatural nature ui a tuie of
one of the nuns who was hii> palicot^
Mr. Badeley himself graduated wit"
high honors at Oxford in 1S33, wi
afterward studied tlie Uw, in whic
he attained a high uy
great success. He dire
cial attention to ecclesiasiioii
tions, and hardly any case com
with them came before the
which he was not retained. In
preface Dr. Newman bear% tei
mony to the fidelity with v
followed the religious roovi
which the volume originated froi
first to last. He was counsf^^ f- iW
Bishop of Exeter in the a
Gorbam case, and his argument xipz^
it was published in a pamphlet
attracted much notice. He
published a book against the alti
tion of the law of marriage. At i
a new light shone upon his path ;
followed it faitlifuliy, and it led bir*
into the Catholic Church. He wa^
perhaps, the only lawyer from whoi^^
w as actually accepted, on his convcr^
sion to the church, a sacrifice of hi:^
worldly interests, nearly eq«ial 1^
that made by many Protestant dctfj*^

Sonnet

617

n. The loss of practice has no
ibt been risked by all who have
ome Catholics ; by him, owing to

nature of his principal business,
iras in a great measure incurred,

did he ever recover what he had
L But the time is short It is

a few weeks since he was cheer-
by Dr. Newman's words, " We are

now both of us in the decline of life ;
may that warm attachment which
has lasted between us inviolate for
so many years, be continued, by the
mercy of God, to the end of our
earthly course, and beyond it ;" — and
his earthly course is already over ; the
sacrifice is gone by. He is now able
to estimate its real value.

SONNET.

Sharp lightnings flash, tempestuous thunders roll :

I shudder — and yet wherefore ? For the dead

Sleep undisturbed in consecrated bed.

And thou, who didst yield up thy sweet, young soul

So mildly to thy Maker, and console,

By dying acts, the hearts which love thee best.

Must, even on this first night, sublimely rest

In thy still sepulchre, by yon green knoll.

Yet one, I know, will tremble as she hears

The storm above her darling ; and each dart

Of the forked lightning will to anguish start

A legion of dread shapes and tender fears ;

For who can sound the fountains of her tears,

Choice instincts, lodged in her maternal heart ^

The Second PUnaty Comtcit of Baltim

THE SECOND PLENARY COUNCIL OF BALI

The good city of Baltimore wit-
nessed, in October, 1866, the most
numerous and imposing ecclesiasti-
cal assemblage ever gathered in the
United States. Forty-seven archbi-
shops and bishops, with two mitred
abbots, convened in Plenary Coun-
cil, under the presidency of the
Most Rev, Archbishop of Baltimore,
delegate of the Apostolic See* For
tsvo weeks they met daily in consul-
tation, tlieir labors being interrupted
only by the solemn sessions pre-
scribed by the Pontifical. After a
free but harmonious interchange of
ideas, they adopted practical resolu-
tions, which they embodied partly in
decrees, partly in petitions to the
Holy See. Their work done, it was
not published to the world, but sent
to the mother and mistress of all
churches for revision, correction if
necessary, and final recognition or
approval And now, almost two
years after the celebration of the
Council, the acts and decrees, as re-
vised and approved by the Holy See,
are published under the authority of
the same most reverend prelate that
as delegate apostolic had presided
over the deliberations of the council.
The work is thus complete : the new
legislation takes its appropriate place
in our canon law ; an epoch is mark-
ed in the history of the American
church.

From the beginning of the church,
the celebration of councils has been
looked on as a most efficient means,
under God, of preserving discipline,
arriving at proper conclusions on
practical matters, and promoting the
common good. The very first ques-

• C^miiii Pttm^i Sfcimdi Baliimtfi^mm^ Act*
H Dttneia, B^timMv : John Marpbr & Co^

tion that arose in the i
tian community was dec:
Council of Jerusalem,
apostles and the :
toge t he r. Ever)' ^ xl

councils meet to decide d
cal questions. Indeed* ihJ
the church may be said laj
ry of councils. Graduall
siastical discipline assume
outlines, and was settled
to tixed rules, proj^er am
were made for the regular
prelates for consultation
consolation and cnlightci
would be foreign to tlic p
this paper to dwell on 1
discipline in this regard ;
exposition of tlie actu,il la'
tice of the church will
reader properly to a|>pn
importance of the work
Plenary Council,

The Council of Trent (
De Reform, c, a) decree
ancient practice of hoi
cils should be renewed, ^
regular period for their 1
Each archbishop was 1
sufiragans together ever)* 1
and these were strictly
obey the summons. Th€
these meetings was " to
rals, correct excesses, set
versies, and do all other i
niittcd by the sacred can
Charles Borromeo celebr^
such councils, which wett
productive of immense g
church of Milan, but hav
as a pattern on which th
ings of all subsequent coi
been modelled. But coun
shops were not in favor wi
rulersi whose aim it

The Second PUnaty Council of Baltimore.

619

and, if possible, to enslave the church.
They prevented the execution of the
salutary decree of Trent, which, with
a few exceptions, remained almost a
dead letter from the time of St.
Charles to the present century. To
the church of the United States be-
longs the credit of having revived
the custom of holding councils. Not
long after the establishment of the
hierarchy, the first Provincial Coun-
cil of Baltimore was convened, and
was followed in r^ular succession by
others, held every three years, ac-
cording to the prescriptions of the
fetthers of Trent When new archi-
episcopal sees were erected, Rome,
anxious that the American church
should retain as far as possible a
uniform discipline, suggested the
- '■ k)Iding every ten years of a plenary
- Council, to be composed of all the
r c^ishops of the various ecclesiastical
f Provinces of the country, under the
P'Osidency of a delegate to be nomi-
'^ted by the Holy See. Accordingly,
7^ Most Rev. Francis Patrick Ken-
1^5^ » of illustrious memory, then Arch-
"'^l^op of Baltimore, was appointed
^^^gate apostolic, and convened the
^"^t. plenary council in his metropo-
^^^^ church, in May, 1852. The
*^^Ond should have been held in
'^^3, but the civil war then raging
®^cJe it necessary to defer it As
'^^n aspeace was restored, measures
^^*^ taken to convene the prelates,
"^^3 as we have seen, the council was
actually held in 1866.

*I'he title "plenary" sounds odd
J^ ^ome ears, and has, if we remem-
"^'^ aright, provoked some little dis-
^'•^swn in the public prints. The
^^■^H national is frequently given to
^^ coancil in common parlance, and
^T*^Vild probably have been its official
r^*^ also but for the caution of the
.^^y See. Rome, enlightened by
^"^^om fi-om above and rich with the
^'^perience of ages, looks on a tenden-

cy to nationalism in the church as one
of the greatest dangers that can arise,
almost, indeed, as the forerunner of
schism. When she was about to pro-
pose to the American prelates the
decennial convening of a council of
all the bishops of the various provin-
ces of the country, the question of
the official title at once arose. Nor
iional was not liked, general was too
2mi^\t, provincial too restricted. A
learned ecclesiastical historian sug-
gested plenary^ the title given to
the general councils of the African
church in the fifth century — councils
rendered famous by the genius of St.
Augustine, and their explicit condem-
nation of Pelagianism. The tide was
adopted. It avoids the narrowness
of nationalism, while it fully ex-
presses the idea of a full council of
all the prelates of the American
church.

The object of a plenary council is
plainly indicated by the Holy See.
Strictly speaking, provincial councils
could provide all the necessary legis-
lation. But there would be danger
of a loss of uniformity. Even among
the best persons, the old adage, that
where there are many men there are
many minds, is verified. To prevent
this divergence of views from mani-
festing itself too much in practice, it
has been deemed advisable to call
occasionally all the bishops together,
that their united counsels may adopt
such measures as will keep the Ame-
rican church one not only in faith
and in the essential points of disci-
pline, but even in the principal among
the secondary matters of the latter
branch. It is not necessary to des-
cant on the advantages of such uni-
formity. The faithful, if they do not
expect it, are at least edified and con-
soled by it ; and, for the great pur-
poses which the church is called on
to carry out in this country, it brings
into practical efiect, as far as is possi-

620

The Second Plenary Council of BaUi$nor€.

ble, the great motto, Viribus unitis.
To gain it were well worth the sacri-
fice even of fond predilections and
of cherished usages.

The plenary council, then, is to
look to the wants of the whole Ame-
rican church, and to do for it what a
provincial council does for an eccle-
siastical province. Canon law is ne-
cessarily couched in general terms,
and cannot be applied in the same
way everywhere. A great portion of
it, in fact, consists of decisions given
for particular localities under pecu-
liar circumstances, of which the prin-
ciple only is or can be of general
application. It thus happens not in-
frequently that the general regula*
tions have to be modified to meet
other wants, other times, other cir-
cumstances. This is one of the first
duties of local councils. They pro-
^pose^ and, with the approval of the
'supreme pastor, enact those regula-
tions to which their wisdom and ex-
perience may point as necessary to
carry out the real spirit of the genc-
iral law. In these they do not con-
Itradict, much less abrogate; on the
^contrary, they enforce the observance
• of the canons. We know there is an
impression abroad that " canon law
does not oblige in this country ;" but
a more erroneous or more mischie-
jvous idea could scarcely have been
[propagated. If it be said that all
[the circumstances contemplated by
the canons do not exist here, and
that such laws as presuppose these
circumstances are not, on that ac*
count, applicable here, the proposi-
■ lion is correct ; but, if it be said that
*the law itself does not oblige, the pro-
position is simply monstrous. We
do not know whom it would aflfect
worse, the higher or the tower orders
of the clerg)^, the religious or the sc*
culars. All would be very much in
the same position ; all would soon be

"canon law doe9 not oblige in
countr)',*" what becomes of the
diments of matrimony ? Wliere
religious orders find the chajler
their privileges? On what does aJL
aggrieved clergymaB rely for the ri^
of appeal ? Where is tlie p(roof that
every Christian of cither sex* that has
come to the years of r , b

obliged to approach WOE .jst

once a year at Easier, ihc iioiy sa-
crament of the blessed exicliaiisi?
The origin of the erraooous idea ap^
pears to be, that, the r ' ,ition of
the church in this : vfKiBfWt

try not being yet coi i 1, certain

privileges, generally gtarutd by ibe
Holy Sec, have been withheld ; and,
as one case may easily occur to the
clerical reader, we shall take the ft-
berty of using it to cjcemplify oaf
meaning. The nomination, tiutilsir^
tion, and consecration of bishi
inherently and radically the
right of the Holy Sec. No mi
whom it may have been cxei
any time, if it was not in virtue oC
permission expressly or tacitly
ed by the successor of St* Peter,
exercise was a schtsmatical act.
no Catholic can deny. By canon hi
the right of prescntatioa cif
names to the pope has been graoti
not to all the clergy of the d
but to the cathedral a bod

in the composition <. tJic

cesan clergy, by the same law,
cised but little tntluence. In
countr>* there are no cathedral
ters ; in fact, it i Iblc thi

to erect them .1 ,10 the

ons. The right oi iifc>entation of
three names has been accorded
Rome to the bishops of the pro'
instead. This is an instance in
a privilege granted by the cam
a body which hv
us has been ti. sii^

preme authority to another i^xiy

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore.

621

blaming or praising the ar-
nent; that would be beyond
ovince. We are merely stating
the law is, and endeavoring to
5 dispel an error which may be,
IS not been, productive of evil,
canon law, then, does oblige in
untry, numerous questions must
;arily arise in the application of
finances to our circumstances
ants. The whole social fabric
s very different from that of
e when the decretals were is-

It thus becomes necessary to
such measures as may save the
pie of the law, and, at the same
avoid the inconvenience of a
teral understanding. This is
r the first and most important
of a council. It involves a pa-
md careful study of the law ; a
igh knowledge of the circum-
s of the country ; a prudent fore-
which may be able to discern
measure is most likely to be
:ally successful. We may in-
: the question of the tenure of

1 property. If there were in
:e real religious freedom among
he church were allowed to hold
roperty according to her own
there would be no difficulty,
ctual canon law would provide

2 security of the tenure, for the
ase of any revenues that might
;, and for any rights or legiti-
influence the donors might rea-
ly expect to be allowed. But,
5t in most of the states, the
m of the legislature has inter-
simply to prevent the Catholic
:h from executing her own long-
satisfactory laws on the subject,
ve the vital principle, the secu-
id the independence of church
rty, it has been necessary to

various expedients, which may
e do not doubt are, the best
ou\d be devised under the cir-
ances, butj.considered in them-

selves, are far from satisfactory. They,
of course, are only temporary ; and
it is ardently to be desired that the
time will soon come when wiser civil
legislation will permit the execution
of the mild and equitable provisions
of the canons.

It is easy to see that a wide field is
thus opened for the wisdom and in-
dustry of the fathers of a plenary
council. But "the correction of
abuses " is also expressly assigned by
the decree of Trent as one of the ob-
jects of their labors. To err is hu-
man, and it is only too easy to fall
away from the strict observance of
the canons. Such has ever been the
experience of the church. In this
country, thank God, positive abuses
are rare, if they exist at all. There
is a general desire to become ac-
quainted with the law of the church
and to obser\'e it as closely as cir-
cumstances will allow. But necessity
has, in the past, introduced many
customs which no longer have its
sanction or excuse. Yet it is found
hard sometimes to leave the old paths
and take the broad highways of the
canons or the rubrics. Sometimes
doubts arise as to whether the excep-
tions formerly allowed are still per-
mitted. Thus, there is ample matter
for wise and cautious legislation, nei-
ther so lax as to allow abuses to grow
up, nor so strict as, by substituting
the letter for the spirit, to make the
law kill rather than give life.

There must of necessity arise in
the course of time many most impor-
tant practical questions^ which can
be nowhere better decided than in
council. Mutual advice, comparing
of ideas, and discussion naturally
lead to wise conclusions. In a coun-
try like ours, where so many cases
arise which are without precedent,
the necessity of frequent counsel
among the prelates is obvious. And
doubtless the regular celebration of

>22

The Second Plenary Council of Baliim&n,

councils has contributed greatly to
that success which has especially
marked the external government of
the church in America. Fewer mis-
^ takes have been made here, perhaps,
\ than anywhere else in the same time,
[ while the successes have been great,
I tiay, brilliant* The wisdom of the old
lias been handed down to the young ;
the experience of one generation has
been used for the benefit of that suc-
tceeding; and there has been an un*
[interrupted unity of practical views
jfrom the days of Carroll to the pre-
sent. Thus, England, Dubois, Bnit^,
T»*Kenrick, Hughes, though dcnd, still
live. Not merely their works remain
[ behind them, but their spirit still
' speaks in the halls of the archiepis-
copal residence, and in the sanctu-
ary of the metropolitan church of
Baltimore,

Another special duty has been as-
signed by the Holy Sec to our Ame*
, rican councils — that of proposing the
t^rection of new episcopal sees, and
lie names of candidates to fill either
hem or the older ones that may be
canonical ly vacant. The erection of
new sees is a special feature of the
church in new countries. Every
j^council of Baltimore has proposed
lie creation of new bishoprics, and,
in most cases, the propositions have
^een favorably considered by the
loly See. The growth of the church
can thus be traced through the acts
[of the various councils, and the steps
Dan be counted, one by one, by which,
'^f^om one bishop at Baltimore, the
American hierarchy has progressed
to its present development Its
growth has been more rapid than
[Jevcn the material progress of the
''countn,' ; and as we look at the far
i^West, sure to become the happy
^ home of millions of Catholics, ima-
l^gination is scarcely bold enough to
rcall up the numbers by which the
tiops will be counted in future

councils. We have alreadjrV
to the duty of selecting candSibtei
to fill episcopal sees. It is aa tin-
portant and a difficult task, rcqidr-
ing the exercise of some of the high-
est qualities that should be possess
ed by those who are, in the hifheit
sense, " rulers of men/* The Holy
See has been so impressed ii^lli tts
importance and di faculty that it has
earnestly urged that tiic bishops ol
the province should meet cvcfv tane
that there is a see to be filled
When, however, the vacancy occttn
about the time of a council, or when
the fathers ask for the erection erf
new sees, the question of candidate!
to be recommended must be consider
ed in its sessions.

From this cursory gl ihe

work of a plenary couhl, , : bi
seen that the two weeks gi\'Cii to tit
celebration of the one lately hdA
could have been by no means x ttiD'^
of rest. On the contrary, the cot^'
scienlious performance of this
required the employment of r?ery
available moment. Every pceced^
ing council of Baltimore !ud de
itself to the .ittainment of the
ent objects which we h^-^ve indi
TTie measures ado[^ ^ t

and wise, and the » .
the groundwork of our pai
church law. Nor will we won^
the success attained when we fJiii
of the great names that Jid>
those councils, of the tUustrii
prelates whose learning, prudeno^^
foresight, zeal, and piety inM
and edified the past generaticia
laid the broad and solid foundai
on which the grand stnictnpc
American church is rising,
honor to these great men I
were " men of great power, and
dued with their wisdom, ,
ruling over the present people,
by the strength of wisdotn
ing the people m looax. hsi?§

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore.

623

he people show forth their wis-
and the church declare their
:." But the American church
p-o^Ti out of its infancy, and it
me to commence to build on the
ations so deeply and so skilful-
i. It would have been impos-
even had any one desired it,
y to re-enact in the second ple-
:ouncil what had been done be-
-merely to pass a few general
2S, recommend the erection of
•ees, provide for the filling of
and of those already existing
vacant by apostolic authority,
len separate. Had the council
led itself to this, it would have
of performing its allotted work.
; considerations had their due
it with the most reverend prelate,
most fitly was chosen for the
and important office of delegate
olic. He determined upon a
rehensive plan, the execution of
1 by the council should, by meet-
•ne of the chief present wants,
5SS its celebration and its work
lelible characters on the history
e American church. As early
5ril, 1866, this plan had been
:>uted to the archbishops and
3s, the heads of religious orders,
1 others who of right were to be
It at the council. He next con-
a body of theologians to ini-
tlie preparatory studies. They
aken from the religious orders
1 as from the secular clergy;
of them were or had been pro-
s of theology or canon law;
Vrere favorably known for high
• they had already held or for
eserved reputation for learning.
^tus met daily as long as the
•T part of its members could re-
in Baltimore, and in that time
ain points were gone over care-
^nd thoroughly, and the recom-
ations of the theologians there-
^bmitted to the most reverend

archbishop. Some divines who could
not be present sent their contribu-
tions in writing, so that we do not
say too much when we assert that
the best talent of the country was
employed in these initial steps. The
many occupations, however, in whi«h
the greater part of the coetus were en-
gaged at home rendered a protracted
stay of all impossible, and the re-
mainder of the work was necessarily
confided to a fewer number. The
most reverend delegate apostolic,
himself a most indefatigable worker,
watched over all the proceedings.
Every paper was submitted to his
final revision before it went to the
printer. Indeed, as he was the pro-
moter, so he was in reality the prin-
cipal of the laborers in the great work,
to which he brought learning, im-
proved by conference ; judgment, ma-
tured not only by age, but by long
practice in every branch of the min-
istry ; a ready pen, whose labors, in
other departments, for the cause of
our holy religion, had already pro-
cured for him a high and well-de-
served reputation. And we are sure
his colleagues will not blame us if we
say that, under and after the arch-
bishop. Very Rev. James A. Corcoran,
D.D., of the diocese of Charleston,
deserves to be especially remembered
for his industry, his erudition, his
talents. The graceful style in which
so many of the decrees are couched
is so peculiarly his own that it can
never be mistaken ; and it will make
the second plenary council remarka-
ble for what, perhaps, would scarcely
be expected in this remote country — a
Latin ity that would grace even the
most finished documents that come
from Rome herself The work thus
went on until the drafts of the de-
crees formed a large volume, which,
for greater convenience, was printed.
The inspection and the exammation
of it by the fathers and the theolo-

624

The Second Plmary Councit of BaitifMre.

gians of the council were thus ren-
dered more easy ; indeed, it would
be difficult to conceive how, without
this preparation, the work could have
been done at all.

As each bishop was entitled to bring
two theologians, there was a very large
attendance of the clergy of the second
order. To these niust be added many
vicars-general, the heads of religious
orders, and the superiors of the grea-
ter seminaries. All these clergymen
were divided into congregations, after
the pattern of the Milan councils of
SL Charles Borromeo. Each con-
gregation was presided over by a
bishop, with a vice-president and a
notary. This last officer kept a mi-
nute of the proceedings of the con-
gregation, and drew up its final re-
port. The whole matter of the pro-
posed decrees was distributed among
Uiese congregations, and thus the
preparatory work was subjected to a
searching, minute investigation. It
may be here interesting to the gene-
ral reader to give a short account of
the mode in which the business of a
council is managed* We learn from
the acts that there were four differ-
ent meetings at the Second Plenary
Council; i. Private congregations.
a. Public congregations. 3. Private
sessions, 4. Public sessions. The
** private congregations" were the
meetings of the committees or con-
gregations of theologians, each in a
separate room. The "public con-
gregations '* were held in the cathe-
dral, and there assisted at them all
the '^ synoiiaUs^'' that is, all who had a
right to be present at the synod, from
the Most Reverend President to the
youngest theologian. At these con-
gregations the theologians " had the
floor,'* tlie bishops confining them*
selves to asking questions, or propos-
ing difficulties. The "private ses-
sions ** were meetings of the prelates
alone. The oflScers of tlie council

w^re also present^ but
cord the acts* The
council was really done !i|
vate sessions. In Uicm t
were passed, and the acts
there were a close scrutiny
rough investigation of tin
proposed. The ** public
were solemn ceremonies ii^
dral. After pontiBcal higJsj
decrees already passed wcx
read and promulgated*
became a law as far as ihi
the council could make 1
All that they needed was
val of the Holy See-
In this manner the dca
Second Plenary Council of
were prepared, examined,
matured, until now they are
as the law of tlic Ameria
In looking over them one
ed at the variety of mattei
they treat Faith, and
opposed to it now so prei
church and her governraci
macy of the Koraan pc
powers, rights, and duties
shops and bishops^ tlie
duties of the clergy, churdi
the sacraments, the sacrif
Mass, and all the proper
of divine worship, uniform
celebration of festivals,
points of discipline, the x/<
gious, the education of y
books, the Catholic press,
the salvation of souls, thQ
welfare of the bl.^ '
ties — these are sou
which, as even a cursor)* cx4
shows us, are treated in thi
These are, indeed, what U|
plan intended them to b|
give a clear and lucid txf
canon law as adapted by ai
the circumstajices of thm
They supply a want long,
they will remain for all tim(
the guide and the ride of ai

TJu Second Plenary Council of Baltimore.

635

;tics, from the hoary mission-
id down with age and labors
ung priest whose elastic step
n joyously from the seminary

his first appointment, from
2d prelate to the humblest of
t army of missionaries that
ging to our countrymen the
lings of peace. They are
i comprehensive ; they were
' prepared, every quotation,
)ugh it were of a few words,
fied ; and they are in every
thoritative. Prescinding al-

from their binding force,
re carefully prepared origi-
ext, they were literally sifted
:heologians of the council ;
d they were discussed, and
es modified by the fathers ;
hey were subjected to the

of Roman theologians, and
ally approved with very few
ions. They have thus under-
: trial of a threefold criticism,
erve proportionate attention
pect. But, what is far more
at, they are binding as laws^

S. Congregation de Propa-
ndc has expressed its wish
y be faithfully observed by
m it may concern. They
en, moreover, made by autho-

text of a course of canon
lur ecclesiastical seminaries,
ire clergy of the country are
DC formed on them. To the
that contains them they are af-
to look for enlightenment and
on in the performance of the
of the ministry. Nothing
eed be, indeed little more
e, said in their praise.
\cts and Decrees have been
:d in a goodly volume, in im-
tavo, by the well-known firm of
iirphy & Co., Baltimore. We
►t say that the material part
>ok is highly creditable to the
;rs. The good quality of the
VOL. VII. — ^40

paper, letter-press, and binding is
commensurate with the importance
of the work and the magnitude of
the occasion which brought it forth.
The volume contains all the official
documents, from the first letter of
Rome appointing Archbishop Spal-
ding delegate apostolic, to the last
communication of the Cardinal Prefect
of Propaganda in regard to the deci-
sions of the Holy See. A copious
and well-arranged index gives access
to the mass of matter scattered
through the work, thus rendering as
easy as possible a reference to any
given point. We congratulate Mr.
Murphy on the honor done him by
the privilege of placing his imprint
on the title-page of so great and im-
portant a publication. It is a fitting
reward for many services rendered to
Catholic literature through a long
and useful business career.

We hail this volume as the begin-
ning of a new period in our Ameri-
can church, the period — detur venia
verba — of the reign of law. It marks
an improvement, a step in advance, a
progress. But the progress is legiti-
mate, because it commenced where
all such movements must commence,
if they be Catholic, with the proper
authority. A work begun, carried
on, and brought to completion as thb
has been, is — we need not say — a
safe guide ; and one for which, we
may be permitted to add, every lover
of our holy religion should feel deeply
grateful to those through whose zeal
and labors it has been accomplished.
By it this young church now takes
her place with the most ancient and
best regulated churches of the Old
World : a light is given to our feet,
lest inadvertently we stumble in the
darkness : a sure guide is afforded,
alike to young and old, to prelate and
subject, to cowled monk and sur-
pliced priest.

«d6

in itah^m

TKAKSl-ATCO WKOH THS FUCflOI.

AN ITALIAN GIRL OF OUR DAY.

CD»lCtl'0«O.

To any one who has read this

sweet and pious correspondence I

need not point out how strongly to*

ward the end it inclines to heaven.

Was it a presentiment of death ? It

may have been. We cannot deny

to certain souls the grace of having

heard from afar the call of God* For

me, I think I see in this case the

natural movement of a very pure

love in a lofty souL There are

souls that see God everywhere. She

of whom I speak was one of these,

and, from her infancy, all that was

beautiful on earth had been for her

but a veil designed to temper the

I brightness of the Eternal Beauty.

[Thus in the new and unknown re-

[gions of earthly love, through the

first wonder and the first dreams,

she soon found again the divine

countenance; but this time more ra-

[tliant than e\^er, more vivid, more

[Irresistible ; and that chaste flight

vhich had carried her to the hopes

E)f earth passed beyond and bore her

away to heaven.

That a person has not had the

' tiappiness to feel this heavenly at-

llraction, is no reason that he should

leither wonder at it or attempt to

Jeny it. It is in the logic of our

heart, and I believe there ara few

[souls that in various degrees have

pot felt its power. It was known to

ancient philosophy, whose greatest

flor)* it is to have expressed by the

^tnouth of Plato, its king, the progres-

si on of love from bodies and from

souls to ideas and to God ; and St.

Augustine, who bore in his heart the

gospel of Jesus Christ, has not re-

jected this part of the anc
tage. Who has not read
versation at Ostia, in which
souls, beginning with the I05
united them on earthy cami
to touch heaven ? ** We were J
sweetly together, . . . vaA '
converse and look up to
reach it with the whole
cur heart."* It is this soa
upward flight that 1 spe
it is, I believe, which carrie
of the saintly young bride "
sire of that eternal region
desires are satisfied.

The heavenly instinct ht
ceivcd her. Two days aft(
which she wrote the last
have given, a death-bearing I
breathed upon her, and
seized with a slight fever '
first gave no uneasiness
the ever-anxious hcirt of
Yet on the very first day
said to her, "Take ray lit!
and keep it in memory
These words were ^*
from a person so cle
illness suddenly assum^
ing character, and the
cogni?,<»d it as the miliuy
terrible epidemic which
desolating Tuscany^ and which U
ed to pick out only
The young patient bad
danger ; she at once \
sacraments, and receive
ble and lender love the la*!'
of that Saviour whose blood n
fails us, from our cradle, whid

• St. A^pntiM*! Cs9^*ttttm.

uid which ai

choice jijd

lad divjH

ivedSHV

*tmm.^\

An Italian Girl of Our Day.

627

IS, to our death-bed, where it
lens and consoles us.
)atient now felt herself better,
and happy day I" she said ;
m restored to health, never
forget it What strength
in the holy viaticum 1 My
•ther, how sweet and consol-
ir religion ! Ah 1 believe me,
le feared death, he could do
Dnger after having received
sed Eucharist." Then she
;r betrothed. " Gaetano," she
f it is the good pleasure of
unite us on earth, he will re-
j ; but if he has other designs
jgard, then, my Gaetano, we
resigned and adore his holy
5t we not?" The young man
)t answer.

:ontinued: "In my English
ook there is an act of thanks-
Qr the reception of the holy
I : take the book and read it
And a voice, tremulous with
began to read the following
le prayer :

ry and thanksgiving be to
Lord ! who in thy sweetness
in pleased to visit my poor
Jow let thy servant depart in
xording to thy word.
f thou art come to me, I will
:hee go ; I willingly bid fare-
the world, and with joy I go
my God.

hing more, O dear Jesus ! no-
ore shall separate me from
I thee I will live, in thee I
and in thee I hope to abide

sire to be dissolved and to be
rist ; for Christ is my life, and
ill be my gain.

IT I will fear no evils, though
in the shadow of death, be-
ou art with me, O Lord ! As
: pants after the fountains of
►0 does my soul after thee:
thirsts after the fountain of

living water. Oh 1 when shall I come
and appear before the face of my God ?

" Give me thy blessing, O divine
Jesus I and establish my soul in ever-
lasting peace; such peace as only
thou canst give; such peace as it
may not be in the power of my enemy
to destroy.

" Oh ! that my soul were at rest in
thy happiness, and in the enjoyment
of thee, my God, for ever 1

" What more have I to do with the
world? And in heaven what have I
to desire but thee, my God ?

"Into thy hands I commend my
spirit. Receive me, sweet Jesus 1 In
thee may I rest ; and in thy happi-
ness rejoice without end. Amen."

When the reader's voice had ceased,
the young patient wished to take some
repose. But she still seemed col-
lected, and continued to pray.

Her brother was expected to ar-
rive from Florence. "Settle the
room," she said to her mother, " and
put back upon my table the things
that were taken off it when it was
prepared for an altar. I do not wish
that poor Antonio should perceive, on
entering, that I have received the last
sacraments ; but remember, dear mo-
ther, always look upon that little ta-
ble as a sacred thing, for it has borne
the body of Jesus Christ." All that
day she held her mother's hand, and
spoke of nothing but the happiness of
having received the holy communion.
Toward evening she remembered that
she was to have visited such and such
poor persons that day. This thought
troubled her, and she could be calmed
only by the assurance that before
night some one should carry to those
poor persons their accustomed suc-
cor. From this time she began to
converse with Jesus Christ, speaking
to him with an ardor which the vio-
lence of her sufferings rendered more
intense. " O Jesus I this bed seems
to me of fire — ^but no, I will not com-

628

An Italmi Girl of Onr 2?^.

plain. Thou wiliest that I should
serve thee in suffering, ^nd in suffer*
ing I will serve thee. Thou knowest
that I should not grieve to die if my
death did not cause such great afflic-
tion to those who love me. If thou
seest that I should make a good
Christian wife, I would say, * O Lord I
heal me!' But what is it that I am
asking ? No, not my will, but thine
be done !'* In the middle of the
night, seeing her mother's shadow
still bending over her pillow, she ex-
claimed, "O the heroic love of mo-
thers !** She thought so much of the
least things that were done for her.
** My poor father,** she said, " how
good he is ; what care he takes of
me ; for my sake he deprives himself
entirely of sleep. He has called in
three physicians, and he wishes one
of them to remain night and day near
my room. It is too much, my God !
Mother^ what say you of my Gaetano ?
Ah ! now indeed I feel how^ happy I
should have been with him ; for the
more I know him, the more I feel
that he loves me, as you love me,"
She asked to have prayers recited by
her bedside, and began herself in a
low tone the prayers for the agoni*
zing. Her mother interrupted her.
** Rosa, my child, why these sorrowful
prayers ? You will recover, my child ;
do not always be thinking of death/*
She answered, "Ah ! but if all day I
have not been able to think of any-
thing but death ; if Jesus wishes to
take me, must I not be ready?" She
suffered terribly \ one moment nature
prevailed, and she uttered a com-
plaint. Her betrothed said to her,
*^ Rosa, think of what our Lqrd suffer-
cd/' " Thanks, Gaetano ; ah I how
that thought consoles me I"

The dawn of the following morn-
ing only brought an accession of the
malady. Three skilful physicians
saw all their efforts powerless against
its violence. One of them, who loved

i imagea^ j
[o see U^H
^xclaint^H

jh to gOOT

I go fonJl

Rosa as his own
patient became dcB
go I let us goT*
mother, adieu I my \
my home is above 1
us go ! adieu !" She
words, sometimes in
times in Italian. She
ther, when he was absei^
him as if she saw him I
when he was present, loq
and calling him still. SI
the misfortunes of a pood
in her dreams she saw li
the next moment it wal
phan that she c i

and that drew i
Nothing could calij
which was still full ofl
memories and images,
she seemed to
cob» and she exclair
I pure enough
angels? may I go
join their choirs, 1 who \
for earthly espousalsi
covered her conscioti
for a chapter of thej
Francis on holy
ring the reading of wlw^
out suddenly, as if ;
ror, " O the evil spir
rits !^* Her mother ]
threw her arms rmind
ed her to her heartf
to your mother, Rosa, m|
Why these cries ? why \H
You need not fear tli
child; and they are^
surround your bed, 1
heaven. Have you
God ? have you not
have you not been ft^
dient child V But her
grew stern. "Hush," she I
me not to pride.*
overspread \^
found and air

Her delirium
with a violence

Afi Italian Girl of Our Day.

629

medies could calm. As a last
ce, her mother said to her,
I, my child, I am quite exhaust-
f you could calm yourself a lit-
might lean my head on your
and sleep. Calm yourself, my
for my sake." And saying this,
'ected to fall asleep. From that
it the poor child was silent;
as stronger than delirium.
)ng stupor followed; an ivory
ss overspread her features ; the
f death was upon her brow,
ctim was ready. But there is
tim without sacrifice, and no
:e without pain. Jesus trem-
ind wept, and was sorrowful
into death in the Garden of
imane. The hour of cruel sa-
was come for this young Chris-
She felt the cold iron of the
, but again divine love remain-
torious. Suddenly she wakes,
her large, terrified eyes, while
Dod rushing from her heart in
jetuous tide, crimsons her face
ghts up her eye. She seems to
)ut of a dream, and now for the
ime to understand all. "It
be, then 1" she cried, " it must
must die 1 I must leave my fa-
house ! I must leave my be-
1 ! No, no 1 I am to live with
am to make him happy I" A
of tears bathed her counte-
; a cry of anguish burst from
ul. "Adieu, Gaetano, adieu!
.11 see each other no more !" It
terrible struggle in that poor
The joyous preparations for
Iding had suddenly given place
dismal preparations for the
The bride seemed to entwine
^ng fingers in her nuptial
and to clasp it convulsively
if it be God's will ?
mother put to her lips a pic-
* our Lady of Good Counsel,
the young girl had near her
Instantly she became calm.

joined her hands, bowed her head,
and remained perfectly silent. What
was passing at that moment in the
superior part of that beautiful soul ?
The eye of God alone, infinitely holy,
can read such secrets. What we know
is that, after this long silence, the dy-
ing girl pronounced in a clear, firm
voice, the words, " Thy will be done."
And from that moment the name of
Gaetano was never upon her lips.

She recited the Litany of the Bless-
ed Virgin. At the invocation, "Gate
of heaven, pray for us," she pressed
her mother's Tiand and smiled. Did
she then see the eternal gates open-
ing?

The Prior of San Sisto, her con-
fessor, was by her bedside. She asked
for extreme unction, and answered
distinctly to all the prayers. An ex-
traordinary grace of peace and resig-
nation seemed from that moment to
have entered her soul. She needed
consolation no longer; it was she
who now consoled and encouraged all
around her. Her poor mother, wild
with grief, threw herself upon her bo-
som. "I still hope," she said, sob-
bing*, "yes, my Rosa, I still hope
that you will recover ; but if this be
not God's will, oh I pray to him, sup-
plicate him to call me also to him-
self. I will not, I cannot live without
you !" But Rosa said, " No, mother,
you must not wish for death. You
have too many duties to accomplish
upon earth ; remember the mother of
the Machabees." Then stretching
out her hand and la)dng it on the
head of the sorrow-stricken woman,
she said, "I bless her who has so
often blessed me 1 O Blessed Virgin !
change the sorrow of this poor mother
into the consolation of the poor, the
afflicted, and the sick ; and do thou,
O my God! grant that we may all
adore unto the end thy holy decrees."
She drew from her finger a little ring,
and said to her mother, " Keep that

An Tialian Ctrl iff Oar Day.

in remembrance of me ;" and placing
in her hands the ring of her betrothal,
she said, "Give that to — you know
whom — it is a noble soul." But she
spoke not his name.

The end drew near ; her family and
friends surrounded her bed ; every
one was weeping. She said smiling,
** Vou are all around me, I am very
happy; thanks.'* Then suddenly,
•* Who wishes to have my hair ?** No
one ventured to answer. A long, half-
reproacliful look was cast on the
weeping faces around. A voice cried,
"/do." Rosa recognized it and said,
" My mother shall have it,'*

She motioned to the Prior of San
Sisto to come to her, and said to him
in a whisper, ** I beg of you to return
this evening to my poor mother and
do all you can to console her." From
this time she seemed to retire to the
feet of God, henceforth to speak to
him alone. She said^ ** I suffer, my
Jesus, but all for thy love I I do not
fear hell, because I love thee too
much, I am on fire, I am in flames I
O Jesus I burn me, consume me in the
flames of thy love 1" It was now with
difficulty that these holy ejaculations
came from her oppressed bosom.
Again, however, and for the last time,
she rallied. Death had a hard strug-
gle with her \ngorous and innocent
youth. This time the dying girl spoke
the very language of the saints, and
her farewell to earth was worthy of a
St. Catharine of Sienna. " O Lord I*'
she said, "bless all men] bless this
city of Pisa I bless her people I bless
her bishop and her pastors I bless the
Catholic Church I bless her sovereign
Pontiff ! bless her ministers and her
children ! Have pity on poor sinners ;
enlighten heretics ; be merciful to-
ward those who believe in thee, mer-
ciful also to those who believe not
Pardon all ; be a loving Father to the
good and to the wicked. Have plt)^
on my soul, O Immaculate Virgin 1

Give to all thy peace, O X
peace — " She was *ilcfl
gathered over her eyes ;
longer the things of eartl%
ter light began to dawn
•*Yes, yes," she mumittn
now ; I begin to sec
venly Jerusalem! O U
oh ! how many angels 1
tiful \ Yes, certainly, wi
God ! Where am 1 .* whi
where then ? Let us go I
my God I Let us go forwa
pia I andmmo / otjohH/ — "
died on her lips ; she mai
of the cross, 1 '
while mortals
earth, she was folluwi
the eternal choirs of tl

Such is this beautiful
detail of which we have
her who, after having
sacrifice, did not die, but,
had to come down livings
vary.

Will I be pardoned if 1 1
reflections on tJiesc letters
narration ? I said when coir
them that, as it seemed to
l' ' ' Christianity in
I ..;ilion of love sini

It iicems to me yet clearcrj
I have finished ihcm, i
indeed their charactenstic t
merit

Yes, it is llic glory of Ch
to have rendered possible^
quent, this sanctity of ^o^
ancient philosophy pursue
dreamg, but which it had nci
contemplated or excmplifie
the glory of Christianity to
well schooled, so well rcgi*
heart of man, to have m
heart at once so vir]ginal
strong, as to be cap, J
more, and better than l,^;
is lovable on earth, and at \
time capable of always lovii
than God» It is the glory i

Ito

An Italian Girl of Our Day.

631

tianity to have made a young girl —
not a philosopher, not a poet, but a
simple and pious girl — to realize un-
consciously in her* heart that sub-
limest conception of human wisdom ;
the continual, incessant passage of
love from the shadows of being and
of beauty, to the infinite being and
the infinite beauty, from "divine
phantoms," to use the expression of
Plato, to the eternal reality. It is
the glory of Christianity to have in
all things opened to man a road to-
ward God ; to have taught him to
make all his affections serve as so
many steps whereby he may ascend
to the absolute love : " In his heart
he hath disposed to ascend by
steps."* In fine, it is the glory of
Christianity to have worked this pro-
digy, that a holiness so extraordi-
nary, a perfection so superhuman,
neither destroys nor fetters the pure
affections of earth ; so that the saints
did not attain to the loving God
alone by stifling in their hearts all
love for their fellow-beings ; but, on
the contrary, they learned to love all
mankind more than themselves, by
fint loving God above all.

Whoever, after seeing this, will
meditate on the nature of the human
1*^^ and on its history when aban-
doned to itself, will be forced to ad-
™it that here is indeed a transfigura-
tion.

And as regards death, I find this
t'^figuration to be, if possible, more
^^mg still. Death learned upon
^ cross that its highest office is to
j* the auxiliary of love. There an
indissoluble fraternity was established
*^^een these two great forces ; and
*^ love received its mission to
IJ^Onn death into sacrifice. The
***! statue of the dying Christian is
?^^ then the ancient gladiator, fall-
^ resigned but passive, his head
°*^^ his dim eye-fixed on the earth
^^ is fast escaping from him, im-

^ Fnlmfaaadu. 6.

patient for the approach of nothing-
ness, plunging willingly into eternal
night. Nc ; his ideal is the Crucified,
dying erect, above the earth, " exal-
tatus a terra" in the attitude of the
priest at the altar, pardoning all men,
loving them to his latest breath, ac-
quiescing in his death, nay, willing
it, making himself the solemn depo-
sit of his soul into the hands of his
Father, at once the subject and the
king of defith, at once priest and vic-
tim.

Such is the Christian fraternity of
Love and Death.

Hence it is, that through the differ-
ences of ages, of conditions, of minds,
all holy deaths resemble one ano-
ther ; it is still love ruling death and
transforming it into sacrifice. We
have just portrayed the last hours of
a betrothed bride who died in sacri-
ficing to Jesus Christ her nuptial
crovwn ; erewhile we followed through
tears of admiration the account of
another death, grander, more cele-
brated, more striking.* Now, what
similitude could we expect to find
between the last hours of a holy re-
ligious, an illustrious orator, a great
and heroic soul, and those of a sim-
ple young girl, strong only in her in-
nocence ? And yet I venture to
compare these two deaths, and the
longer I consider them the more do
I find that they resemble each other,
that they are blended together in one
ruling sentiment ; they are both a sa-
crifice, and a sacrifice conducted by
love. Sacrifices very different, vic-
tims very unequal, I admit. What
peace in the death of the holy Father
de Ravignan ; or rather, what tri-
umph of the Christian will over
death ! How he rules it ! He
speaks of " this last affair which is
to be conducted, like all others, with

* These lines were written a few days zSitx the
death of the Rev. Father de Ravignan. We give
them to-day just as the first emotion dictated them,
persuaded that time cannot take finom the virtaet of
the saints their eteryd actuality.

An Italian Girt cf Our Day.

decision and energy ;*' he gives the
directions for the sacrifice ; he offers
it himself I When did he more truly
live than on that bed of death ? when
was he more wakeful than in that
seenaing sleep ! Then was he so
strong and vigorous that he seemed
to dominate death itself; in this re-
sembling^ as far as is possible to
man, Christ upon the cross, whom,
say tlie doctors, death could not ap-
proach except by his express order.
What love, in fine, in liis every word
and in those desires of heaven, for
the impatience and the ardor of which
he reproaches himself ! For my part,
I fancy I see him welcoming death,
for which he had been preparing
himself for more than thirty years,
with that grave, sweet smile whose
charm was so extraordinary.

The >^ung bride of Pisa Is far
from this severe grandeur. There
are tears, tliere are regrets in her last
farewell. There is one eartlily name
that lingers on her lips even to the
confines of heaven. She does not
command death — she obeys it ; and
yet here, too, I see an altar, a victim
a sacrifice. Here, too, I see the will,
more tremulous, more surprised, in-
deed, than in the great religious, but
still armed by love, ending by cm-
duding itself the last affair y and by
absorbing deadi in its victory. Once
again, what becomes of death in such
deaths? where is it? It seems to
disappear : " Death, where is thy
victory^ ? Where is thy sting ? It is
swallowed up I"

Let our souls became inebriated
with hope at tlie recital of holy
deaths ; let us yield ourselves with-
out fear to the attraction which they
give us for the life to come. Un-
doubtedly, the true secret of dying
well is to live well ; and our imper-
fection does not allow us to treat
death as may the saints. But surely
the love which transfigured their

death, is at least begnii i
it may increase, and, the
may transform for us a
preme defiles bto regia
and peace.

Among the paintings
been found in the cai
Rome, there is one that
struck me as having
meaning : it is a jewelled
all sides of which sprir^
roses, which bloom aroi
cover its severe nudit)\*
rarely that the cross is fi
catacombs. Perhaps for
faith of the neophytes It «
— the sight of that insiruil
ture which was yet odi
whole world, and was drt
through the streets for t
ment of slaves. It was^
to assist the transition fro
love that the Christian i:
covered that cross wit
stones and blooming rose
with a blood shed by Div
the salvation of mankind
as it may, this symbol S4j
to express gloriously the I
tion of death by ChristiaJ
neophytes that we are, ni
death and a life to come,
gard the dying momem

• T*o of '
flowcra, hav

the cemettry ^ .

have beea AnTcn4>r tu the
ftannounted aa alur ; U-i
bfliiiciatcfy, U turn td tli«jW4J«i
Guiilkn udUNtloiDr.
And on both ;ifjTii, ii h cQvered
richly ftpireiJ
unu auppnr :

vslt

♦ l.t linn* iptin^ <n holh ^
with

msa the baptiatiul tuut. fbrnknl
watery ever
the Upie <kf
tioo ci/ihe latr^ftiiH
The di«cover;f In ■ "bapiaiert d
■ad km^

itdop^d is tplcudar, ^jht,

Ct)«lj<CtUf«« M to tlM

nthunn to iht tUQ^ftti^
authLi)f f«pf«4«ictd in tl«
on the KooMu caiAoomlA

Memoirs of Count Segur.

633

which Jesus and his saints have
covered for us with encouragement
and hope. When the children of the
first Christians wondered to see a
gibbet on the altar, their fathers
pointed to the jewels and roses, and
told them of the Redeemer's love. If
death terrifies us in its austere naked-
ness, let us look at the love which
can trtinsfigure it, and can make our
last hour the happiest, and above all,
the most precious in our life.

Rosa Ferrucci was mourned. The
whole public press of Tuscany told
of her death ; poets chanted it \ in-
scriptions were composed in her
honor, — the Italian scholars excel
in this art so little cultivated among
us ;— I transcribe one which I think

CBASTB YOUTHS, TKNDBX VIRGINS,
DBCOKATB WITH TKARS

IHB TOMB or ROSA FERRUGGI,

SWEETEST GIKL,
nC THE POLITE ARTS
VnSID BEYOND THE CUSTOM OP WOMEN ;
WHOk

on THE ynatn eve op marriage,

*IIUT UEACCOSTOMBO JOYS PILLED HER SILENT
BREAST,

HEX YOUTHPUL LIPE
SECURE.

Secura ! beautiful word — word full
of peace ! and yet less eloquent than
one single word which I once read
on a fragment of marble taken from
the Roman catacombs,* and which I
now bring to the tomb of her who
has passed from earthly espousals to
the nuptials of the Lamb. The case
here also was that of a young Chris-
tian maiden. Was she affianced like
Rosa Ferrucci ? Was it the hand of
a betrothed spouse that closed her
tomb ? The word we speak of, does
it indicate her virginal glory, or was
it her name ? The little stone saith
not. All that we know is, that the
hand which carried into the conse-
crated galleries the mortal remains
of the young Christian, after having
marked the place of her repose, took
a fragment of marble, laid it against
the opening, fastened it by a little
clay, and choosing a word among
those which the Gospel had just
given or explained to the world, en-
graved these six letters :

" Chaste."

MEMOIRS OF COUNT SEGUR.

To record the actions and opinions
rf one who labored efficiently in the
*^nment of American indepen-
fe»ce is an agreeable task. The
^^of soldiers are always inte-
Ipsting to the historian and attrac-
°^ to the reader. The^hilosophical
P^JDciples that led gay young men
^ the brilliant capital of France
|o the distant regions of a new world,
^ order to practically assist in the
f'ertion of human liberty, cannot be
^^^H^red, much less neglected, in our
^^-investigating age. Count Segur

participated in the stirring scenes
over which the genius of Washington
presided, and he has transmitted to
us the treasure of his experience in
the first volume of his memoirs. As
he lived*in the times preceding the
great Revolution which overthrew so
many old forms of power and honor
throughout Christendom, and as his
facilities for obtaining a correct know-
ledge of the state of society and of

♦ This fh^ment is now preserved among the mo'
nununia vttera Christiattorum in the Belvedere
gallery of the Vatican.

MefHoirs of Count Segur.

63s

ly, and yet authority lost its
ce; public opinion escaped
ism by railing at it; we did
»sess liberty, but license." (P.
The lethargy of one weak mind
€d all this confusion. The par-
t, clergy, philosophers, and
rs, all joined for different pur-

in the same common cry
t the shameful indolence of
>urt The revolution which
lently moving through public
a was scarcely dreamed of by
iy. Rash measures of resent-
always the resort of weak and
ic minds, only served to irri:
hat had been provoked, and
lly of the king was shown in
acts of petty tyranny. But
came to remove him and his
ide from the French throne.

narrates it: "In the month
ril, 1774, as Louis XV. was
to hunt, he met a funeral, and,
fond of asking questions, he ap-
led the coffin and inquired who
they were going to bury? He
Id it was a young girl who had
f the small-pox. Seized with a
1 fear, he returned to his pal-
id was two days afterward at-
l with that cruel malady, the
lame of which had alarmed
The hand of death was upon
his flesh became corrupted ;
ication ensued, and carried
»fF. His corpse was covered
lime, and conveyed to St.

without any kind of cere-

" (P. 32.)

proceeds to philosophize upon
sertion of the royal fallen sha-
y his most subservient flatter-
id observes that in proportion
/ had been slavish to his whims
heir own interests during his
) did they evince their indiffer-
to him when departed. They
I immediately to the rising sun,
fifered him their adulatory wor-

ship. Still, the principles which had
been set to work in former years con-
tinued to advance even under the be-
nignant reign of Louis XVI., who
finally atoned for the faults of his
predecessors.

The author sums up succinctly the
condition of the tottering society, dai-
ly becoming weaker : " The object
of every 'one was to repair the old
edifice; and, in this simultaneous
attempt of all, it was levelled with
the ground. Too much light was
brought to the work by many, and a
conflagration ensued. The conse-
quence of this has been, that, for the
last fifty years, our harassed lives have
been to each of us a dream, alternate-
ly monarchical, republican, warlike,
and philosophical." (P. 63.) The
misfortune is, that this dreaming
has not yet ended in France, or,
indeed, in any part of Europe ex-
cept Switzerland.

But we must hasten to the events
which drew him into connection with
the American war. He became a sol-
dier, and, after fighting several duels,
found himself carried away by the en-
thusiasm which filled his countrymen
at the sound of the first cannon-shot
fired in defence of the standard of
liberty. " I recollect," he says, " that
the Americans were then styled in-
surgents and Bostonians ; their dar-
ing courage electrified every mind,
and excited universal admiration,
more particularly among young peo-
ple. The American insurrection
was everywhere applauded, and be-
came, as it were, a fashion ; and I
was very far from being the only one
whose heart beat at the sound of
liberty just waking from its slumbers,
and struggling to throw off the yoke
of arbitrary power. On my arrival
at Paris, I found the same agitation
prevailing also there in the public
mind. Nobody seemed favorable to
the cause of England ; all openly ex-

636

Mttnoirs of Count Segur,

pressed their wishes for the success
of the Bostonians/'

Eager as were these young enthu-
siasts to fight in America for the
cause of liberty, many obstacles in-
terposed to prevent or defer the car-
rying out of their Intentions, The
French gov^ernment was not in a very
prosperous financial state at the time,
as the count r)^ had scarcely recovered
from the mad speculations of the
Scotchman Law during the preced*
ing reign. Besides, England was
then powerful: her fleets sw^ept the
sea, and she had just conveyed across
the Atlantic 40,000 mercenaries, to
cut the throats of American freemen
and stifle the rising spirit of liberty.
Private aid was, indeed, freely aff<jrd-
ed to the colonists ; arms and amu*
nition were conveyed across the
ocean in spite of embarrassing neu-
trality laws, and many enterprising
officers were allowed to resign their
positions in the French service and
serve under W^ashington, When the
American deputies, Silas Deane,
Arthur Lee, and Benjamin Franlvlin,
arrived in Paris, and were received
with such cordiality at the French
court, a new stimulus was given to
the general desire of assisting the
revolutionists. The appearance of
those republican delegates produced
a sensation in that brilliant capital,
"Nothing could be more striking
than the contrast between the luxury
of our capitol, the elegance of our
fashions, the maginficence of Ver-
sailles, the still brilliant remains of
the monarchical pride of Louis XIV.,
and the polished and superb dignity
of our nobility, on the one hand ; and,
on the other hand, the almost rustic
apparel, the plain but firm demeanor,
the free and direct language of the
envoys, whose antique simplicity of
dress and appearance seemed to
have produced within our wallst in
the midst of the effeminate and ser-

vile refinement of the eigl
tur\', some si (Lifi

Plato, or rcj of

Cato and Fabius/' (P. *

No less impressi\*e thj
pretending exterior, the H
artless sincerity of the
deputies gained the hc4
French people, and enlisB
cause the generous enthua
warlike portion of the Vi%
merous offers of service \
and among the most dii
were Lafayette, then a y
the Count de Noaillcs, an^
gun The two latter
their parents to dcs
terprise, which they h?
ranged to carry out by i
ocean ; but Lafayette s
purchasing a vesscU wht<
and manned at his own
taking with him some
officers, sailed from a poi
and reached America, wh
with a reception due to
and noble purpose, A
experienced soldier, M,
afterward chief instnsctof
Icon Buonaparte, accom
Marquis and rendered
vice during his stay
World.

Some time was now spd
Segur in attending to
which Voltaire and his
were bringing about in til
literature. He was a vii
family residence of Segur,
iher w as a woman of note
tropolis. The count hi
rates several inr ' A
respecting the arc i , i

he appears to have been
terms. With regard to
there is one thing wortli
Immediately after his triui
into Paris, death came
Segur says that he
mer errors. *^ The

Memoirs of Count SeguK

637

ing to oppose him, now hoped
vert him. At first Voltaire
i ; he received the AbW Gau-
:onfessed himself, and wrofe a
lion of faith, which, without
atisfying the priests, greatly
Lsed the philosophers. After
ig the danger, he forgot his
nd his prudence. A few weeks
upon being taken extremely
refused to see a priest, and
ited, with apparent indiffer-
. long life." There is a differ-
rsion of the latter half of the
It is related that he cried
>iteously for a priest ; but his
iphical friends refused to ac-
im his request, and he died
iprecations most horrible upon
leads for denying his dying

:ical changes at length ena-
le count to embark for Ameri-
l become an actor in the great
of freedom, of which he had
ong an earnest spectator at a
:e. War was declared between
J and England. The French,

Arthur Dillon and Count
is, directed by D'Estaing, cap-
the town of Grenada ; after
the latter sailed for Savannah,
ing to seize that important po-

Notwithstanding the valor of
rench and Americans in the
sive assaults upon the works,
^ere obliged to retire with loss,
ed still more lamentable by the
the brave Pulaski, who fought
erica for the liberty which had
::rushed in his own land. A
e and accurate narrative of the
)al events that preceded the
der of Comwallis to the united
'f America and France, occupies
iderable space in the memoirs
us. The bravery of the French,
laturally, obtains a prominent
until liie moment of capitula-
rrives. "The English troops

then defiled between the two allied
armies, drums beating, and carrying
their arms, which they afterward de-
posited with their flags. As Lord
Cornwallis was ill, General O'Hara
defiled at the head of the English
troops, and presented his sword to
the Count de Rochambeau ; but the
French general, pointing to Washing-
ton at the head of the American ar-
my, told him that, the French being
only auxiliaries, it was for the Ame-
rican general to receive his sword
and give him his orders." (P. 237.)

Strange incidents happen in all
wars. About this time, the French
general, De Bouilld, made an attack
on the Dutch islands of the West In-
dies, lately captured by the British.
" Having during the night landed his
troops in the island of St. Eustatia,
he advanced at break of day to at-
tack the principal fortress of the
island, whose garrison was then en-
gaged in manoeuvring on the plain.
The vanguard of M. de Bouilld was
composed of an Irish regiment in the
service of France : deceived by the
sight of their red coats, the English
thought they saw a part of their own
countrymen, and suffered themselves
to be approached without suspicion.
Undeceived too late, they vainly
fought with courage ; they were rout-
ed on all sides, and pursued with so
much ardor that French and English
entered pell-mell into the fortress,
which remained in our possession."
How many foreign battle-fields have
found the Irish in the vanguard of
armies, yet what avails their valor to
their own country I

In 1782, Count Segur got permis-
sion to set out for America, and a
frigate, La Gloire, of thirty-two guns,
was placed at his disposal to carry
important despatches to Count Ro-
chambeau from his government. He
had as fellow-passengers the Duke
de Lauzun, the Prince de Broglie, the

Memoirs of dfuni S^gnr,

Baron Montesquieu, Count de Lom^-
nie, an Irish officer named Sheldon,
Polawski, a Polish gentleman, and
others eager to assist the inhabitants
of a new world fighting for liberty,
of which men were allowed to dream
in the Old World, Enthusiastic as
he had previously felt upon the sub-
ject, he could hardly restrain himself,
MOW that he was on his way to accom-
plish his most cherished hopes.

A letter dated from " Brest Roads,
onboarxl LaGloire, May 19th, 1782,"
contains some remarkably philoso*
phical passages; and when writing
his memoirs, forty-tvi^o years after-
ward, he could find no fitter language
to convey the sentiments which then
agitated his mind. ** In the midst of
an absolute government, ever}'thing
is sacrificed to vanity, to the love of
fame, or what is called glory, but
which hardly desen^es the name of
patriotism in a country where a select
number of persons, raised to the first
employments of the state by the will
of a master, and on the precarious
tenure of that will, engross the whole
'legislative and executive power ; in
country where public rights are
mly considered as private property,
here the court is all in all, and the
iiation nothing. A love of true glo*
ry cannot exist without philosophy
and public manners. With us, the
desire of cclcbrit)% which may be di-
rected to good or evil, is the prevail-
ing motive, while promotion depends
not upon talents, but upon favor."
A most pernicious course, and cer-
tain to produce disastrous consequen-
ces in any organization ! He pro-
ceeds to expose the facility with
which men adapt themselves to any
absolute system in which the ambi-
^H tious and selfish portion of the com-
^^ m unity find adulation and sycophan*
I cy the readiest ladders to power and

I eminence, while the truly meritorious

I find tlieir virtue an obstacle to favor,

if not ati occastG
fear IftheFrenc
without change ur
government such
presents that of his d;
more difficult to accou
nomenon than the
destroyed it

The intelligent
right and freedom tha
Frenchmen to dare ih
ocean preparatory to ih
dangers of the battle-&
of libert)*, we should '
forget in the present a
whimsical adventure 1
over the waves to etigi
suit of chimerical grati
separating at this tiit
hold dear, I do not nu
a sacrifice to prejudic
. . . Being a soldi'
family, my native plac
charms of life, in order
fil the duties of a profc
the noblest of any, wh<
a just cause."

An interesting nami
age, in company witl
L*Aigle, of forty gims,
treasure of two milUo
livres for the aid of d
is given in a few pagu
moirs. They fell in vi
frigate of seven* ''^-:-
memorable enga.,
vessel was the Htjciu
Frenchman, taken by t
the defeat of De Grasse
of the engagement, V
French commander, cii
English captain to strE
•* Yes, yes,- * said the lat
" I am going to do it ;*' a
his answer by a ternb
So near were the ^-esseh
used pistols ; and even
of the guns were wielc
For three quaiters
Gloire bore the hi

Memoirs of Couftt Segttr,

639

conflict; but, at length, aided by
L'Aigle, they so disabled the English
vessel that they expected soon to cap-
ture her. Next day, however, other
sails appearing in sight, they aban-
doned the Hector, which afterward
sank, and the crew was rescued by an
American ship. An incident of the
battle may be related, as showing the
coolness and gayety of the French
character, even amidst the most ap-
palling scenes :

"The Baron de Montesquieu was
standing near us, (on the deck ;) we
had of late been amusing ourselves
with rallying him in regard to the
W)rds liaisons dangereuses^ which he
had heard us pronounce, and, in spite
of all his inquiries, we had still eva-
ded explaining to him that such was
the title of a new novel, then much
read in France. While we were thus
conversing together, our ship received
tiiefireof the Hector, and a bar-shot
"-a murderous junction of two balls
united by an iron bar — struck a part
of the quarter-deck, from which we
had just before descended. The
Count de Lomdnie, standing at the
Mde of Montesquieu, and pointing to
^ shot, said very coolly, * You were
^hing to know what those liaisons
^oiiiereusrs were ? There, look, you
kavethem.'"

Soon after this event they approach-
^ Delaware Bay, where they cap-
1^^ an English corvette. Being
?^rant of the channel, however,
^ were necessarily delayed, and
^were placed in a most critical
P<>5ition by the appearance of an
^glish fleet, whose superior force
'^nied to leave them no chance of
^*^pe. This they effected, never-
^ess, with the greatest difficulty,
^^^ng with them the gold which
"^ had been obliged to throw into
Jhe river when pursued by the Eng-
"*» but which they afterward fished
^P and secured. They then proceed-

ed on the way to Philadelphia, and
the Count gives amusing incidents
that occurred on the route. Some-
times well treated by the inhabitants
favorable to the cause of freedom,
they were also subjected to much an-
noyance by the tories and the timid
or vacillating between both sides. A
certain Mr. Pedikies is particularly
mentioned as having received them
coolly and suspiciously, while pro-
mises, bribes, and threats were ne-
cessary to oblige him to afford them
any aid. The contrast evident be-
tween the Americans and his own
countrymen, is noticed by the writer
in an aspect very favorable to the
former. What especially attracted
his attention was, the absence of dif-
ferent classes in society and of all
poverty. "All the Americans whom
we met were dressed in well-made
clothes, of excellent stuff, with boots
well cleaned ; their deportment was
free, frank, and kind, equally removed
from rudeness of manner and from
studied politeness ; exhibiting an in-
dependent character, subject only to
the laws, proud of its own rights, and
respecting those of others. Their
aspect seemed to declare that we were
in a land of reason, of order, and of
liberty." (P. 320.) He describes the
face of the country, its boundless re-
sources of agricultural wealth, and
stores of future happiness and power.
Philadelphia, then the capital of
the country, attracted his admiration,
and he enters upon a disquisition
concerning the Quakers, who inspired
him with a very high esteem for their
principles of peace and rectitude. He
says that " most of them were tories,"
and cannot blame them, because their
religion forbade its members to en-
gage in war. " Friend," said one of
them to General Rochambeau, " thou
dost practise a vile trade ; but we are
told that thou dost conduct thyself
with all the humanity and justice it

540

Memoirs of Count S^gur.

will admit of. I am very glad of this ;
I feel indebted to thee for it ; and I
am come hither to see thee, and to
assure thee of my esteem." Another
discovered a very ingenious mode of
avoiding participation in the deeds
of war, even by paying taxes to sup-
port it, and at the same time of com-
plying with the law of Congress im-
posing taxation. The day upon which
the collectors called, he placed a cer-
tain sum of money apart where they
might find it, and thus he would not
ghjf, but allowed it ta be takm. At
Newport, he became acquainted with
a venerable member of the same sect ;
and the Frenchman became an ardent
admirer of Polly Leiton, the beauti-
ful and modest daughter of his host.
She made no pretence to conceal her
abhorrence of war, and candidly ad-
dressed the Count in terms not at all
complimentary to his military notions.
**Thou hast, then," she said, "nei-
ther wife nor children in Europe,
since thou leavest thy country, and
comest so far lo engage in that cruel
occupation, war ?" ** But it is for your
welfare/' he replied, ** that I quit all
I hold dear, and it is to defend your
liberty that I come to fight the Eng-
lish," " The English," she rejoined,
** have done thee no hann, and where-
fore shouldst thou care about our li-
berty ? We ought never to interfere in
other people's business, unless it be
to reconcile them together and pre-
vent the effusion of blood.*' *'But
my king has ordered me to come here
and engage his enemies and your
own,-' said Segur. To this she re-
plied that no king has a right to or-
der what is unjust and contrary to
what God orderetli.

Having transacted important busi-
ness with M. de Luzerne, at Philadel-
phia, and fully acquainted himself witJi
the state of affairs and eminent men
of the times, he set out for the camp
of Washington and Rochambeau, on

the banks of the Hudson-
rativc of his journey thith
himself a keen observcrt
appreciates the dmract
habitants, as well as the
aspect of the country thi
he passed. Schools, z\
universities met hira at
while kindness, comfbn;i
were everywhere di»p]4
modest tranquillity of i
men, knowing no power
but the influence of law,
the expression of their o
vanity, servility, and pt
European society unknoi
eral spirit of industry ai
rable occupation of labor
all ; such phases of life,
to the traveller, attractt'tl
attention.

The inns at which he
his way were generally h
tains, majors, colonels, g(
conversed with equal iz
military tactics and agric
jects, and were no la*s i
in their stories of campai
the English than in ibcij
clearing forests and raisii
the sites of Indian wigw
ver}* naturally surprised
live Frenchman \ but, w
sentcd lo him a new ph.
society, it approved itself
to his judgment. Two I
ever, he found toe '
himself says, shoe
he could express. Ooe
custom, the moment a
given, of circulating ai
bowl of punch round tli^
of which each guest was
compelled to drink; and
was, that, after being in
not unusual to see a fna
walk into your room, a
ceremony stretch htmsel
side, and appropriate % f
couch*"

Memoirs of Cotmt Segur.

641

)n and Princeton recalled
:he memory of brilliant ex-
rfonned in the cause of lib-
Washington and Lafayette;
ompton he would have fallen
hands of the Britishers, had
een warned of his danger by
Oman sitting at her door, en-
r a spinning-wheel. Having

1 crossed the majestic Hud-
zh he eloquently describes,
:heered by the sight of the
n tents, and soon reached
quarters of Rochambeau, at
1. He took command of a

regiment of Soissonnais,
id been awaiting him, and
received with the greatest
;m. It had been formerly
Jegur, from his father, who
imanded it at the famous
f Lawfeld and Rocoux. In
se battles the old warrior
ided at the head of his regi-
ce by a musket-ball through
t, and again by another shot
ttered his arm. Although
mnoyed at the absence of
Derations in the field, still

amusement enough among
rous countrymen, with whom
ow associated. One young
artillery particularly attract-
tention. This was Duples-
uit, who had most signally
shed himself in several en-
ts, and who carried his at-
: to liberty and equality so
be highly displeased if any
:d him Sir or Mister. He

called simply Thomas Du-
!auduit.

Dpreciation of the character
ngton is in accordance with
lation in which that great

and is held by all. " Too

2 says, " reality disappoints
ectations our imagination
2d, and admiration dimin-
ai too close view of the ob-

VOL. VII. — 41

ject upon which it had been bestow-
ed ; but, on seeing General Washing-
ton, I found a perfect similarity be-
tween the impression produced upon
me by his aspect and the idea I had
formed of him. His exterior dis-
closed, as it were, the history of his
life; simplicity, grandeur, dignity,
calmness, goodness, firmness, the
attributes of his character, were also
stamped upon his features and in
all his person. His stature was no-
ble and elevated ; the expression of
his features mild and benevolent; his
smile graceful and pleasing; his
manners simple, without familiarity.
He did not display the luxury of a
monarchical general ; everything an-
nounced in him the hero of a re-
public."

Expecting to find an army without
organization, and oflficers without
suitable military knowledge, he was
surprised to find well-drilled batta-
lions, and officers fully competent in
all departments of their service. He
dined frequently with Washington,
and gives instructive descriptions of
the habits of those Revolutionary
heroes. The toasts most frequently
given after dinner at headquarters
were, "The Independence of the
United States;" "The King and
Queen of France;" "Success to
the allied armies." The generous
spirit of brotherhood that united the
two nations in those days seems to
have become unknown in our times ;
while she that was then the cruel
enemy has now become the flattered
friend. Who will deny that nations
sometimes act the life of individuals?
Washington's opinions on this point
are worth recording : " He spoke to
me of the gratitude which his country
would ever retain for the King of
France, and for his generous assist-
ance; highly extolled the wisdom
and skill of General de Rocham-
beau, expressing himself honored by

542

femhirs cf Count

having observed and obtained his
friendship ; warmly commended the
discipline and bravery of our army ;
and concluded by speaking to me, in
very handsome terms, of my father,
whose long services and numerous
wounds were becoming ornaments, he
said, to a minister of war.** (P» 253O

The Americans and French were
closely besieging the British at this
time in New York, and although the
prudence of the generals restrained
the impetuosity of the allies, who
eagerly sought to attack the enemy
in their defences, it was not possible
to prevent the execution of some
daring exploits. But ibe armies soon
separated, the French marching to-
ward NewpcMt and Providence,
thence to Boston. They were or-
dered to the West Indies, where the
decisive blow was to be stnick at the
English, and, as it eventually turned
out, the independence of the States
soon after follow^ed.

We cannot but admire the wisdom
•displayed in this book of memoirs,
written eight}^-tive years ago, amidst
«oenes and times that could afford
material from which the future great-
ness of the country could be predicted
only by a very sagacious mind. He
clearly foresaw, in the rising colonies
then about to emerge into a powerful
nationality, all the resources which»
by judicious and liberal legislation,
led to the wonderful prosperity with
which, our country is blessed. The
religious toleration and equality
which reigned ever^'where he highly
eulogized, and accounts very philoso-
phically for the necessity of such a
state of things. It must be borne in
mind that Count Segur was a fol-
lower of Voltaire, although of a Pro-
testant family. For this reason the
ingenuousness with which he testifies
to the origin of this religious tolera-
tion is more deserting of notice.
At page 3 7 T, he says ; ** The mullipli-

city of religions rend^rrd
indispensable among thi
willj perhaps, appear si
ample of this toltratwm
Cathaiia, No churc
privileged or con ^ t

lished church ; the
religion w^ere p:ud by tho:
fessed it, and tliere exists
them not a fatal spirit q
a source of discord, but
emulation of charily, be
and virtue." It is pleasiuj
this generous tribute of res
liberal spirit which influcni
ligious denominations of th
lutionary times. It is irud
religious sects there are s
bcrs who are ever ready to
persecution, and eager to ai
ble measures to compel th
ing neighbors to believe ao
their own special measure
And it is difficult, perhaps
blc, to name one religious
has not, when sufficiently
do so, been led into the
of acts which succeeding gK
would willingly have e^
the record of their prw
For instance, what intelltga
byterian of the present
not willingly blot from tho
her history die dttds that
Scotch Church in the days
fluence } Buckle, one oft!
non-Catholic writers of th
age, says that her real chal
" one of the most detcstal
nies ever seen on the earth,
the Scotch Kirk was at the!
its power, we may search
vain for any institution
compete with it* except xhm
inquisition. Between these
is a close and intimate
Both were intolerant, both 1
both made war upon the fi
of human nature, and both
every vestige of religious

Memoirs rf Count Segur,

643

ii. p. 322.) It is more truthful
mit the opinion of Mr. Buckle
to attempt to controvert his
)f proof by which he establishes
•sition. We only advert to this
icidating the principle that, al-
h there may be individual Pres-
ans and individual Catholics
sel a disposition to recur to the
istian acts of some of their
lessors, yet it cannot be denied
ley are exceptional. The gene-
irit of toleration which Count

so justly appreciates, is too
J implanted in the institutions
Republic to be blown away by
lul blast of weak bigotry.
Dther subject upon which he
' commented is equally impor-
to show his great foresight.

aptly describing the reasons
which he presaged the future
less of the nation, he observes
*the only danger to be appre-
id hereafter for this happy
blic, (which then consisted of

millions of inhabitants,) is
:ate of excessive opulence of
I its exclusive commerce seems
•Id out the promise, and which
bring luxury and corruption in
lin." (P. 374.) Has not this al-
■ come to pass ? Again he asks :
not that difference which is ob-
ble between the manners and
ion of the North and South
lated, in fact, to create an ap-
insion for the future of a politi-
eparation, which would weaken
perhaps even dissolve this hap-
tiion, which can only retain its
gth while it remains firm and
ate ?" The past few years have
in the justness of his views.
* cannot better conclude than
inscribing his relation of an in-

cident which evinced the bravery of
his friend Lynch, an ofBcer of the
staff of Count d'Estaing, at the
storming of Savannah : " M. d*Es-
taing, at the most critical moment of
that sanguinary affair, being at the
head of the right column, directed
Lynch to carry an urgent order to
the third column, which was on the
left. These columns were then with-
in grape-shot of the enemy's entrench-
ments j and on both sides a tremen-
dous firing was kept up. Lynch, in-
stead of passing through the centre
or in the rear of the columns, proceed-
ed coolly through the shower of balls
and grape-shot, which the French and
English were discharging at each
other. It was in vain that M. d'Es-
taing, and those who surrounded
him, cried to Lynch to take another
direction ; he went on, executed his
order, and returned by the same way ;
that is to say, under a vault of flying
shot, and where every one expected
to witness his instant destruction.
* What !* cried the general, on seeing
him return unhurt * The devil must
be in you, surely. Why did you choose
such a road as that, in which you
might have perished a thousand times
over ?' * Because it was the short-
est,' answered Lynch. Having ut-
tered these words, he went with
^qual coolness and joined the party
that most ardently engaged in storm-
ing the place."

It has been a pleasure, as well as
an instruction, to accompany in his
thoughts and actions one of those
many noble and brave foreigners
who aided, by their services, in the
establishment of our independence,
and forced a powerful foe to relin-
quish her grasp upon a nation strug-
gling for liberty.

VQtre

nson.

NOTRE DAME DE GARAISON.

In the province of Aquitaine, a
short distance from the village of
Monition, among the hills of La
HauUs FyrhiUs^ is a valley bearing
the name of Garaison, where stands
a votive chapel in honor of the Bless-
ed Virgin. It is a favorite place of
pilgrimage for all the country around,
which has been approved of by Popes
Urban VIII, and Gregory XVL, who
have enriched it with indulgences. It
was erected in consequence of the ap-
parition of our Blessed Lady on the
spot, about the year 1500, to a young
shepherdess who was guarding her
flock in the val ley. The legend is as fol-
lows, somewhat abridged. It is sup-
ported by most unobjectionable wit-
nesses at the time of the event, by tradi-
tion, and the unanimous voice of the
countr}^ around ; by public documents,
and by the effects which followed and
which still exist As for me, how-
ever, this is of little moment, these
legends not being matters of faith.
It is sufficient for me to know that
the spot in question is one dear to
Mar}" and peculiarly favored by
Heaven. It has been sanctified by
the sighs of contrition, by the pure
confessions, the fervent communions,
and the sudden and miraculous con-
versions of tliose who have gone
thither in honor of the Mother of our
Lord. — But the legend :

A young girl of twelve years of
agei Angl^se de Sagazan, was guard-
ing her flock near a large hawthorn
which shaded a fountain of living wa-
ter. The deep shade and the soft
murmur of the fountain invited repose,
and, opening her basket of provisions,
the young shepherdess seated herself
by the spring to dip her dr)^ brown

whiti
stoJl

beJI

bread in the clear, cold \
denly a lady of majestic mic^
serene countenance and graci
gard, clothed in a long, whit<
which fell in graceful folds 1
stood before the ;utonisl}e
who, daziled by her appe^
mained immovable and
Then our gracious Lady, who*
tlie poor and the humbki de
her that she had chosen tl;
a place of benediction,
wished a shrine erected in \
around which her child
gather with more than or
surance. This apparition
three days in succession,
related to her father wliat \
pened- He, in turn, rejxirte
currence among his neighbor
were quite incredulous, b«
through curiosity or inspire
God, flocked to the fountain,
was still to be heard the voice
Virgin, though no one saw fa
the pure eyes of the shcpbi
The people went to seek thi
and returned to the fountaii
banners, chanting hymns \xk
of Mary. They erected a larg
on the spot. After liiat the w;
the fountain seemed miraci
changed, and the sick went
to be healed. The sudden ,
tion of many to health
celebrated in a short lij
number of miracles incre
present ele-gant vaulted
erected by the voluntary 1
grateful pilgrims, and there (
diction of Heaven descend
the votaries oi Mary.
wonderful are the pr
on soul and body at th<

Notre Dame de Garaison.

64s

Df Garaison. Ages ago God
many who, at the troubling
craters, descended to the angel-,
d Pool of Siloam. His ways
: as our ways. . . .
de a pilgrimage to Notre Dame
aison in June, 18 — . The eve-
efore, I went to shrift, by way
)aration, and the next morning
an early hour with a party of
, who completely filled our
; diligence. There were five
and two servants, besides the
and his more efficient wife. I
call her the driver and him the
)n. Quite a procession we
have made in honor of our
of Garaison! We ought to
;one plodding along the high-
sandal shoon and penitential
vith pilgrim staff and scallop-
knocking our breasts as we
IS did the votaries of the mid-
es. But in these days, when
3ld Christian flies along the
al railroad with his burden of
efully stowed away in the bag-
ar, I, a feeble pilgrim, may be
d for seeking as comfortable a
; could be found in our rickety
igence. As I got in, I caught
factory glimpse of a large bas-
which were light, crispy /w/^t-
aps of deep-red cherries, flasks
;r, and bottles of mild vin rougCy
our servant had thoughtfully
ed for our outer man. And
ere not disdained in our drive
ty miles. Such due attention
been paid to our bodily wants,
•e quite at leisure to abandon
res to our spiritual musings or
ivotions ! Who could wish to
[lis soul constantly disturbed
istered by a jaded and craving
It is quite contrary to the re-
as well as philosophic spirit
3 enlightened nineteenth cen-
and though I was somewhat
c, and rather inclined to the

sterner rules of mediaeval times, the
thought almost reconciled me to
my comer, where I braced my weary
back, and to the aforesaid basket,
whence I fortified my body.

"CVif//** I exclaimed, as I found
myself en diligence and the stone
cross of St. Oren's Priory fast disap-
pearing, "have I returned to the
middle ages, or am I dreaming ?" I
could not help rubbing my eyes, and
wondering what some of my more
enlightened American friends would
think, if they could see me seriously,
deliberately setting off on a pilgrim-
age (even in a carriage!) of thirty
miles, to pay my devotions at a shrine
of the Virgin Mary I But yes — my
head was quite sound, though filled
with the vows I wished to offer in a
spot peculiarly dear to our Lady.
This was the first visit I ever made
to one of these places of popular de-
votion, and so, apart from my religi-
ous motives, I felt some curiosity to
see this mountain chapel, away almost
upon the confines of Spain.

The roads are fine in that part of
France, and bordered by magnificent
shade-trees. Owing to recent rains,
we had no dust. We passed waving
wheat-fields, luxuriant vineyards hedg-
ed with hawthorn, and away on the
neighboring hills was many an old
chiteau with its venerable towers,
and hard by an antique church. I
found everything novel, and conse-
quently interesting. Going and re-
turning we stopped at most of the
villages. In every one we found an
old vaulted stone church, with thick
walls and doors, ever open to the
passer-by. In each were several cha-
pels, adorned with oil paintings, bas-
reliefs, and statues of the saints,
and in every church were the stations
of Via Crucis well painted, and the
litde undying lamp of olive oil burn-
ing near the gilded tabernacle — an-
nouncing the presence of the Divinity

646

Notre Dame de Caraisan.

— the Shekinah of the new Israel —
and recalling the beautiful lines of
Lamartine :

** Pile Umpe du tADCtuatre,
_ Poarquoi dan* Tonibrc du taint lieu,

I tia perdue ct soliiUire,
I'e consumes^ tu devoat Dtea?

** Ce n'cst pu pour dinger I'aile
D« la pri4f< ou de I'arnouf,
Pour^dairer, £iible frtinceUe,
L'ceil ds calui qui lit le jour.

** Mon aril aime i se Attspendre
A te fctyer a^en ;
£t je leur di«, «in» ks comprevdre,
Flambeaux pieiuc, vougi jkites bieiu

** Ptut^tre, brilliuilcs parceUes
De ritnmense cr^alion,
DevAttt »oti tr6ne tmiient-ellct
L^ctemeUe adcxmtioti.

** C'ctt ainsi dii-je ^ foon Hme,
Que de roinbre do cc bos lieu
l*u brdlcs invisible flAtnrne,
En )a pn^sence de ton Dieti.

" El jamab tu ij*oubHcs
De dmger vert lui mon ctsar«
Pa* ptit* que ces lampes remplioa
De Aotter de\'aut le Seigneur/'*

In these churches there was always
an altar to the Virgin, too, adorned
with lace and flowers, and streaming
with gay ribbons and pennons, after
the taste of the country. In one we
found a wedding party, and were in
season to hear the Eg(^ wnjunga roi
of the curtJ over a very modest and
subdued -loo king pair.

We often passed huge crosses of
wood or stone erected by the way-

• Tn the absence cS?. - - --i^'- ----^r < thq

above, we subjoiit — for Mijl

Ouniliar wiib the langu.i iw

Lag prcoe tran&latba otu, Hom JJi,^b> s A^'<ri *-/Fiiitk :

*" Pale !»mp of tbe Sanctuary, why, in the obscurity
off"*' ' ' i.e, unperceived aci' .liu-

mc before God? Ui>. ^rkf

tOK^ tlic eye of him who hy:

it it Out lu ii»»pel darktieas 6t>u) the stcpi oi \n% ado'
rers. Th« vast nave ii only moro ohscute liefore thy
distant glimmering. And yet^ ftyinV ' V i!ioa

{irardeM ihjr imnuirtal fire, thnu d ,re

every altar, at)d tniiio eyeiKweiot' ."ii

thit aerial hearth. I &ay to them, I a ;

jre piout llsimca, ye do well. Perl -Kt

particle* of the imnienw; creation '\p.'.,:.,,^ ..^...^ lu*
throne the eternal adoration t It U iHiu, say I to my
•Ortil, that, in ihe »hade of thi« lower plsrf, tIioh biirn-
eit, a flame invitible, a fire which r^ Kiln-

Ituisbcd, uoc'Mt turned, by which tncci til

time* rckindied to ascend in fragraiic-t

side, to which were atUt
strum en ts of the Passion^
among the passers-by tho;
made the sign of the en
men raised their hats,
find the villages very agn
houses were of stone, wit!
and had a cold, forbiddiiij
paved streets were nam
sidewalks, and anything
1 thought of our fresh N(
villages, their white cxi
green blinds, and front
with flowers and shrub
those of France were in
and more picturesque — ^i
Flocks of sheep dotted t
each guarded by a shepti
wore a bright scarlet capi
covers the head and falh
waist It is picturesque, i
ful, and at a distance the m
like one of her native but
coqucHcoU. They were
spinning, after the mani
counliy, with the distaflf ,
arm and twirling the spil
hand, thus la}nng their hi
spindle and their hands I
distaff after the manner o|
tament times* How they
spin with these two
past my comprehcnsl
succeed admirably.

Every now and then
key groaning under the wi
ears and of a huge ca^, oj
large as himself on each j
with live poultry or fmil J
bles. Perched on the tq
these queer saddle-bags Wj
eyed, sunburnt payutnnti
tiently thwacking Old Di
kctward. The oxen looko
fared better ; they wiere ,
clean, that is, what 1 coj
ihcm, for they were almd
encased in great covcringi
were elephants. 1 * A

a blouse of blue c

incr of

t^cy j

3 insd

;iq[^l

Notre Dafne de Garaisan,

647

shoes with most impertinently turned-
up toes. They are worn (the shoes)
both by men and women. They
make a terrible clatter; you would
think the Philistines upon you; but
they are very durable.

The country reminded me of the
interior of New England. The hills
were finely wooded, more so than I
had expected in that old country.
On leaving Monldon, we entered a
valley, narrow at first, but which gra-
dually opened, forming a basin of
considerable extent, with green mea-
dows and shady thickets. It is bound-
ed and crowned by hills, and a few
hours distant are the Pyrenees. This
valley is solitary — secluded, but not
wild or uncultivated. Perhaps there
is a score of houses in it. From
about the centre rise the turrets of
Notre Dame de Garaison. The whole
country was once covered with mag-
nificent oaks which had been planted
by the old chaplains, but the vandals
of a later day had cut away whole
. forests.

The rain poured down in torrents
when we entered the valley of Garai-
son, but that did not prevent us from
admiring the locality so favorable to
devotion. Far from any city, free
from noise, the chapel is buried
Miong the hills and forests of Aqui-
^ne, a spot chosen by God in which
to Teveal his presence and power I
Wjat a delicious solitude 1 We drove
to a little au^g^— Hotel de la Paix !
""greeted for the accommodation of
I pBgrims. In the olden time they
^^^ sheltered in a monastery, which
^asdevastated during the Revolution,
^d now, when great festivals draw
^^ds of people, the women often
f^n^ain in the house all night. Leav-
*^ our carriage at the hotel, we im-
"^iately went to the church in spite
^ the rain, passing through a long
*^enue of majestic oaks.
The principal entrance to this sa-

cred retreat is quite imposing. The
front is decorated with a statue
of the Virgin, holding the dead Christ
in her arms — the bodies of natural
size, and the work of a skilful hand.

The buildings form a vast enclo-
sure, in the centre of which is the
chapel, having on the north and
south two courts which separate it
from the rest of the edifice. I was
surprised to find so fine an establish-
ment so far away from any city. We
passed through a cloister shaded by
cypresses to the chapel. Over the
door and at the sides are niches, in
which are statues. The vestibule, as
in all these old churches, is very low.
Here my attention was attracted by
a great number of small paintings
which covei^the walls and vault, form-
ing a complete mosaic. These ex-voto
are not remarkable as works of art,
but precious on account of the mira-
culous events which they retrace.
They represent the persons who have
been cured of their infirmities by the
intercession of Mary ; to each is at-
tached a label bearing the name of
the person and the date of the cure.
These paintings were left untouched
at the Revolution, though the vener-
able guardians of this sanctuary were
driven from their cherished solitude ;
and the sacred vestments, the holy
vessels, the silver lamps, the jewels,
and other ex-voto of all kinds, which
had been offered the Virgin in grati-
tude for grace received, were carried
away ; the fine statues of the twelve
Apostles were destined to the flames,
but were rescued by the people of
MonMon, whose church they now
adorn.

From the vestibule we passed into
the nave. One feels an inexpressible
emotion of piety and devotion on
entering this beautiful church. I
went immediately to the grand altar
to pay my devotions to our Lady of
Garaison, while the servant took my

648

N^tre Dame de Gatahon

letter of introduction to M. le Su-
p^rieur, who was fortunately at lib-
erty. I found him a tall, fine-looking
gentleman, instead of a hoary old her-
mit, and as polite as a Parisian. He
wore a flowing soutane^ confined at
the waist by a fringed girdle, and on
his head was a sort of skull-cap,
such as the priests wear in that coun-
try — I imagine, to protect their ton-
sured heads from the cold» He con-
ducted me over the whole establish-
ment In his room I saw the skull of
the shepherdess to whom the Virgin
appeared. She died a nun, and more
than a century old. After her death,
her body was given to the chapel,
which had been erected during her
life, and to which she had been per-
mitted to resort from time to time.
The fountain is under the grand al-
tar ; but the water is conducted into
a basin in a vault to the east of the
chapel. Every one says the waters
still perform wonderful cures. The
superior said it was not owing to any
mineral qualities ; and as I was not
able to analyze them, I contented my-
self with drinking quite freely of
them, bathing therein my forehead,
and inwardly praying God to heal
ever>^ infirmity of body and soul. On
the basin is a bas-relief representing
the Virgin's appearing to the shep-
herdess.

The arches and walls of the sac-
risty are covered with the frescoes of
a by-gone age, but which have not
lost their brilliancy of color. They
represent the descent of the Holy
Ghost upon the Apostles ; angels
bearing to our Saviour the instru-
ments of the Passion, etc.

Over the grand altar of the church,
in a niche, is a statue of Notre Dame
de Garaison, the mother of sorrows,
holding in her arms the inanimate
body of her divine Son. There are
four small chapels^ two on each side,

separated by walls which
the principal nave, and an
verted into pilasters to i
vault In them are somi
ings, two of which are \t
angel guardian and a Mac
niches, which were robbc
have been newly furnished'
statues of the tw*elve Apa
as life, and bearing the |
of their martyrdom ; and
Saviour in the midst Oj
are painted the patriardi
phets of the old law. 'W
statues and altars give a
liant appearance to the ligll
Gothic chapal.

In the south court is |
Mar}' stands with her divii
her arms, sculptured in wh
The water spouts out aj
through four small masks^
into a basin of pure wbi
whence it flows into an
larger The sutue has bi
injured by exposure to thi
but still it reminds one th
the channel through whtd^
of God comes to us — Uii
her flow the waters of b
and of grace upon man J

The re fee tor)' is vaulted I
In it is a whispering galler
in the monasteries of the m
so one could communicate
comer to the other op]
lowest tone. I am si
of thecouchant leopa
surprised or awed by ihi
procession he witnessed in]
chapel of Engaddi, than
late hour in the evening,
I was still rapt in prayer,
unconscious of what was
around me \n this still
chapel, I found the altar su
luniinated, and a door op4
long procession of white-roh
and about a bttadred yoi

Notre Dame de Garaison.

649

aper and Host and Book they bare,
nd holy banner flourished £ur
^ith the Redeemer's name.

passed around the chapel,
ig Tantum ErgOy and then re-
to the altar to give the bene-
of the Blessed Sacrament.
:hly gilded chapel was radiant
iflected light, and the strains
salutaris Hostia ! seemed to
pvvard in celestial tones, as
iued from lips purified by soli-
id prayer. I never felt more
n at this solemn rite than
n the shadow of the Pyrenees.
t my fatigue, and yielded to
t emotion. Exiled from my
land, to which I might never
and among those who were
entire strangers to me, I felt
folded to the bosom of divine
ince, and that the All-Father
have me consider every part
world as my home, and all
ouls, which he has breathed
iman forms, as my brethren
ters.

as a late hour when I fell
Dn my hard bed at the Hotel
Paix. Coldly looking down
le from a rude frame was, for
rdian saint, a picture of Na-
k Grand; but, though he had
many a formidable host, he
t put to flight a single sweet
r holy thought that thronged
ins, waking or sleeping,
n early hour I was again be-

fore the altar of Our Lady. Priests
were celebrating the holy mysteries
at every altar when I entered the
chapel. At seven o'clock, M. le Su-
p^rieur offered the Holy Sacrifice
for my intentions, at which I com-
municated. . . .

My devotions ended, I rambled
around the garden and through the
cloisters, drank again from the foun-
tain, and then prepared for my de-
parture. I had gone to Garaison
with a deeper intent, more serious
purpose, than is my intention to un-
veil here. I bore in my heart a bur-
den — a burden common to human-
ity — which I laid down at the feet
of Mary, thinking, as I did so :

" Oh ! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow f
Couldst thoo but speak of all the tears,
The conflicts, and the pangs of years,
Which at thy secret shrine revealed
Have gushed from human hearts unsealed !"

I left that chapel in the strong
embrace of the everlasting hills, and
with sunlight flooding its walls like a
glory. Turning to give it a last look,
at the last turn in the valley, it
seemed like a lily rising up in the
green meadows — ^fit type of her to
whom it is dedicated.

Since that time I have visited
many a shrine of la belle France^ but
I turn to none witJi a more grateful
heart than Notre Dame de Garai-
son.

Cmmt Ladislas ZamayskL

COUNT LADISLAS ZAMOYSKI,

TKAKSLATBO PSOM TllS PltBNCH OF CH, DB MOXTALBJfBSST.

Thk nineteenth century, which is
already drawing to a close, will in the
course of its histor)^ present nothing
more grand, more touching, more
deeply impressed witli the stamp of
moral beaut>% than Poland — ^van-
quished, proscribed, abandoned by
ihe world.

This nation in mourning and in
blood, which yet will not die — this
race of indomitable men and women,
which survives all tortures, all trea-
sons, and all catastrophes, what a
spectacle and a lesson does it pre-
sent I Its existence is at once a de-
fiance and an appeal : a defiance to
adverse fortune, and an appeal to
what seems the too tardy justice of
an avenging God. Abandoned and
calumniated by successful iniquity»
by selfish opulence, by the ever-ready
worshippers of success, a sight intole-
rable to their conquerors, and a re-
proach to die powerful of the world
— there they abide, like Mardochai
before Aman, firmly resolved to for-
get not, to despair not, nor to capitu-
late ; incomparabk types of suffering,
of sacrifice, of unwear)^i ng patience,
of lofty patriotism ; invincible mar-
tyrs and confessors, not only of faith,
but of right, of country, and of liberty !

In the centre of this group of pro-
scribed and oppressed, like some
great oak struck by lightning in the
midst of a burning forest, stands out
in bold relief the noble figune of Count
Ladislas Zamoyski.

Ere yet the waves of forget fulness
and indiflference have eflfaced his noble
memory, let us endeavor to recall and
rescue from oblivion some traits of
an existence which, by every title,

belonged to ourselves ; foi
he was bom, {during a j
parents there,) and in Frani
having passed here the g]
of the thirty-seven years
spent in exile, without ha^
time returned to his true t

Here it would seenn apj
speak of Uie ancestors oi
trious dead. But how
portray to this gm
dor and power of tl J i

of Poland and Lithuania,
mense possessions, coun^
rents, and extent of influent
parallel in our own counti
the most aristocratic perii
history? It was a ZamC
headed the embassy whicl
offer the crown of Polan
ther of Charles IX, ;t aiid
of this race is ever to be f<S
nant in their countr)^'s am
may have had equals, but I
in their native land none
to be their superiors.

Nothing is more afrvfios,
mediate subject than the
their device and bearings.
of Poland, whose people
cause for discontent, bcin|
in a conflict with the Teuta
liers, saw on the field of hi
moyski dying, his breast pi<
three lances. The king a|
to aid and comfort him.
toNP' exclaimed the dyin$
is twt that whkk fuxins
other words, ** A uufunJ
than a (hiJ frince or a kad

* January iitlt, t86&.

t For axk acooaiit of Xhvk «nla«ig^ m
wtirk of the Msr^iiii d» K«a2la^ iff
0t ia fait^m ^ 157J.

Count Ladislas Zamoyski,

651

three words and three lances
:ver since been the armorial
js of the Zamoyski family. Re-
l upon them, we find in them a
ir appropriateness to that one
ine whom we have best known ;
lustrious and wounded hero
we have had so long before our
^ith the deadly steel in his
and on his lips a word of proud
ition or intrepid disdain,
unate are those great races
jfore they are submerged by the
ide of equality and modem uni-
r,can give forth one last flash of
and furnish to the historian
;reat heart enthusiastic for a
ause and a noble faith \ some
is lover of right and duty,capa-
signalizing himself by a gene-
eath, like our own Duke de
5, or by an entire life of devo-
d sacrifice, like Count Ladislas
ski. For reason as we will, so
s men are men, they will be

and everywhere moved by a
ling — I know not what — a kind
ization of completeness, which
y of birth imparts to great vir-
• great misfortunes,
islas Zamoyski, in his 28th year,
1 officer of the lancers in the
army, and aide-de-camp to the

Duke Constantine ; he was
Js above all things to serve his
y as a soldier and a citizen,
he military insurrection of War-
oke out, at the end of Novem-

as, as has often been repeated,
Ivance-guard of the Russian
directed against the France of
^hich turned back against the .
)ody. Although the count had
no part in the insurrection, the
ink of his family and the preco-
laturity of his mind enabled him
fit by the particular position
he held near the prince, whose
ry and unwise acts had contri-

buted more than anything else to pro-
voke the revolt. He obtained from
the brother of the emperor the order
which separated the Polish troops
from the Russian, and gave a sort of
method to the military movement,
which soon expanded into a national
revolution. Believing himself freed
now from all allegiance to the grand
duke, the young count took part in
all the exploits of the campaign of
183 1 — a campaign which has left
imperishable recollections in the
minds of all who were living at that
time.

For ten months all Europe stood
breathless, gazing with deep and va-
ried emotions on those fearful turns of
fortune. Every incident produced
vehement agitations at the French
tribune, in the streets of Paris, and
even in the reviews held by the French
king. There was something both of
heroic and legendary interest in this
conflict, so disproportioned yet so pro-
longed, between a handful of brave
men on the one side, and the colossal
resources of Russia on the other — a
conflict where the veteran comrades
of Dombrowski and Poniatowski were
led on by youths inflamed with holy
zeal for their country's liberty, where
the first place was so long held by
the Generalissimo Skrzynecki, true
paladin of the middle ages, who always
put in the orders of the day for his
army prayers to the Holy Virgin as
Queen of Poland, and who, brave in
the field and devout at the altar, was
so pre-eminently hero. Christian, and
Catholic. I know not how upon this
point the young Poles of our own
day stand ; but I know they would be
faithless to the most noble examples
of the heroes of 183 1 if they should
suffer themselves to be enervated by
religious indifference, or, sadder still,
should they ever trail through the
depths of atheism and modern mate-
rialism that banner which their an-

6$2

Couni Caatsl

^nfftcytSM

cestors never separated from the cross
of Jesus Christ

When, finally, the countless mass-
es which Russia threw upon Poland
had dislodged the insurgents from all
their positions ; when the attempts
at intervention made by the French
government were rendered nugatory
by the icy and cynical indifference
of Lord Palmerston ;• when Europe
resigned herself to be a tranquil spec-
tator at the sacrifice of a natioDj La-
dislas Zamoyski, firm to the end, in
the front rank of combatants, hold-
ing then the grade of colonel, laid
down his arms with the last division
of the Polish army, that of Ramorino,
defeated in Gallicia, He crossed
then the frontiers of that country
which he was destined never more
to see, and came, wounded and suf-
fering, but not less resolute than in
the first days of his manhood, to put
himself at the disposal of his uncle,
Prince Adam Czartoryski, the vene-
rable chief of the Polish emigration,
as he had been president of their na-
tional government

It was then that we saw him for
the first time among us. Young,
tall, commanding, active, and untir-
ing, he carried in his deportment and
in those glorious wounds the creden-
tials of his mission. Always occu-
pied with the cause of his countr>%
but with a serenity and stability far
beyond his years, he attracted to
himself all attention. A solitary and
embarrassed wanderer in a world
which was so soon to grow heart-
lessly indifferent to Poland, he en-
tered calmly and resolutely upon
that obscure, laborious, and uncon*
genial path which honor and duty
had traced for him.

I must be permitted here a just
homage to that first Polish emigra-

• S^e ihc cnrrcspondencc beiwftn Pn nc- T.^lJeyraud
iHilmor»lon on -►. July*

I icuments *i . . Ii jxjir-

i, ^, ..Oef ofthcQ.Kv i.

gOOfl

iipre

tlon of 1831, whici
members of the na
by the Count PU
Kniacewicz, and <
Prince Czartory^sl
Dembinski, Dwemli
and the former
chowski and Mora
us, for nearly forty j
examples of fortiluA
ness, of modest dign
nimous resignation,
these yet remain to
dress this last testii
ration which I shi
among the most
lasting emotions
to them a great go
know and to compr
deur and beauty
cause I

Forced by circun
late everything in'
their assassinated e^
hesitated before tijl
lion. Rich and poUj
citizens and soldiers,
on for sacrifices paii
pec ted, and none shi
deed, to many the \
were obliged to
strange contrast
habits of prodig
oriental luxury,
was conspicuous
new to himself ail
The subsidies whicfc
him to accept w^erel
ed for some general]
among his less for
saying: ^*/Iiami
out something,** Oii€
he guard carefully— Iw
as, with juvenile /f^slH
tomed to call it, Im
and belief that it mig
country.

The French
Edict of Nantes
homes, represent

Count Ladislas Zamoyski.

6S3

iiously persecuted, and by
hey won the active sympa-
.11 the Protestant nations,
emigrants, who, about the
:, were the victims of an in-
as bitter and inconsistent
tant England, found in
nd Spain places freely
) them, and which they
filled. The French emi-
f 1792 represented not
ty to a monarchy, but an
;ial order, whose end no
ived so near — an order
I reigned in nearly the
•Europe ; to this they owed,
luring the first years of
i, the aid and support of
owers affected or threat-
the Revolution. It was
rwise with the Polish emi-
183 1, which, nevertheless,
1, at one and the same
rty both political and re-
id, more than all, a grand
rased, by injustice, by a
hout a parallel, from the
ons, and unanimous in pro-
;ainst that decree. They
rom perplexed and divided
t one of those consolations
uragements which it was
: to expect.

and England had generous
lace needs purely material,
g more. Ruled by a double
of the Muscovite prepon-
rom without, and that of
rom demagogues within —
nan, even the most liberal,
or willing to espouse the
ise. It was a sadder thing
L misapprehension prevent-
eceiving a sympathy which
would have been first offer-
id the little circle of liberal,
;d Catholics — a circle then
d — the Polish refugees, vic-
5 most bitter persecutor of
I in the nineteenth century.

met no response from the religious
world. It was a time when Catholic
Europe, monarchical and aristocratic,
was miserably prostrate before the
Austria of Prince Metternich and
the Russia of the Emperor Nicholas.
Consequently, at Paris, and, above
all, at Rome, there was to be caught
not one glimpse of salvation. There
existed among the defenders of the
throne and the altar an animosity to
the Poles truly revolting, unjustifiable
traces of which even yet remain. It
was the heaviest cross, for a multi-
tude of Christian souls, which the
Polish emigration hid in its bosom.
I have the right to speak of it, for no
one, perhaps, on this subject, has re-
ceived more mournful confidences,
and no one, I venture to believe, has
done more to induce among Catho-
lics a happy change — a change com-
mencing with the good and fatherly
Pope Gregory XVI., and precisely
on occasion of Count Ladislas Za-
moyski, whom he was pleased, at my
request, to encourage to visit him in
Rome.*

But how time and efforts must fail
in making reparation for this strange
misunderstanding I and how much
it must have aggravated the sorrows
inseparable from prolonged exile —
those sorrows which every noble
heart must comprehend, even without
having experienced them, and which
inspired, in a sad, gifted soul, the
last ray of its genius I

" He passed, a wanderer on earth.
May God guide the poor exile I I
move among the crowd ; they gaze at
me, and I at them, yet each to each
is unknown. The exile is alone

everywhere."!

Count Zamoyski, always sincerely
attached to the faith of his fathers,

* Untn 1837, no Pole was allowed to enter Rome,
without a passport visi by Austria, Prussia, or Russia :
consequently, this excluded the exiles of 1830.

t Paroles d*uH CroyanU, 1833.

6S4

Count Ladisfas Zamoyski^

even before the death of a beloved
mother had developed in him a fer-
vent piety, lived long enough to wit-
ness this happy change in Catholic
opinion. He had the consolation of
seeing tlie entire church moved, at
the voice of its chief, by the incom-
parable sufferings of Poland. In
France, at least, every Catholic worthy
the name addressed prayers without
ceasing to the divine mercy, that the
country of St. Hcdwige and Sobieski
might one day resume her place, free
among the nations. This harmony
between the irrepressible aspirations
of his patriotism and the daily in-
creasing fervor of his religious senti-
ments threw over the last years of
his life a warm and consoling light.

But before arriving in port, how
Stormy the voyage ! Bound by soul
yet more than by the ties of blood to
his uncle, Prince Adam Czartorj^ski,
he had been twenty-five years his
lieutenant, his coadjutor, and the
sharer of his fortunes ; like him, too,
encountering continually repulse, de-
ception, and injustice, without being
embittered or discouraged.

Belgium, always hospitable, took
full possession of her nationality in
the same year, 1831, when Poland
seemed to have lost hers. She im-
mediately opened the ranks of her
army to Count Ladislas, with the
grade of colonel, a position he had
won on the bloody banks of the Vis-
tula.

For fifteen years* he watched in
vain for an opportunity to once more
draw his sword in behalf of his own
land, or for some cause which might
even indirectly serve her interests.
He was obliged to content himself
with employing his intercourse with
the political men of the two great
constitutional countries, to secure to
the Polish question, in the order of
the day, some parliamentary discus-

♦ from iljj to tl«7.

sion or some diplomatic I
obtain from the French <
the English parliament
odical demonstra
to him so many \
against the most ckIious
crimes ; so many guar
a proscription which the \
of men too often drew<
to the profit and eneoiuc
injustice.

At length, in 1846, h<
saw the dawn of better 1
short counterfeit alliar
Pius IX. and Italian Itba
tened, with sixty other Pol
to offer their devoted nes
tary experience to the nen
whom all believed menaced
tria even more than by the
tion. From thence he
volunteer into the army^
Albert, and shared^ by
that noble and unfortunat
in all the vicissitudes of 1
between Piedmont and An
tria, we must remember^ it
we speak of, was not the Ubc
tria of the present day ; aad
could look on this emplm a
save the author and ac
the calamities of his cou
mont being defeated and J
to its ancient limits, it
gary that Count Zamo
turned his steps* Hungaiy |
in a state of insurrectiidi
Austria, but was also a view
to an insurrection of her Sclav
lation, unwisely irritated*
from Hungary a.recogniti
rights of these people — ^rig
understood or ignored by llii
Europe — was the missioni
Zamoyski, and for which 1
ing to confront new perils
sians, however^ soon
combining their armies wilk {
Austria and with tlie 1
Hungary was soon

bclav

yllM

ril9^
arrM

Count Ladislas Zamoysku

655

:isive defeat of Teneswar, the
Its of the Polish legion passed
ervia, and from thence to

two years he occupied himself
\ disciplining those indomita-
irits for future contests ; for
honor of the Ottoman Porte
icorded that it refused the de-
of the Russian and Austrian
ments for the extradition of
lish and Hungarian refugees,
ng a short revisit which he
3 France, the Eastern question
and he immediately returned
key. He took part, with the
• general, in the campaign on
ks of the Danube, and through
ire Crimean war devoted his
h, his rare intelligence, his
J experience, to forming regi-
3f Polish Cossacks, ostensibly
service of the sultan, but in-
; in the hope of seeing them
ely admitted to the ranks of
es.

anuary, 1856, the prelimin-
" the Peace of Paris came to
side once more his patriotic
tarns, and to destroy every
of resuscitation which had
offered to Poland in this rup-

pompous but so fruitless,

1 France and England and

adequate reason has yet been
or that blind delusion which
;ed the powerful allies, in
ir Napoleon I., in 181 2, from
gainst Russia the only power
ihe could not control, to recall
to that national existence
was her sacred right ; and
at the same time, was the
icient guarantee for the inde-
ce and security of Europe.
; desperate by this thwarted
tion, Poland suffered herself,
;, to be drawn into that stre-
but unfortunate effort whose

miserable consequences are in the
memories of all. Count Zamoyski,
now suffering with age and infirmities,
made one last attempt to prevail on
England to unite in some kind of ao
tion with France, and not to stand
by in silence at those massacres and
outrages which Russia perpetrated
with such impunity, a mockery to the
civilization of the nineteenth cen-
tury. He failed, and this was his
last attempt.

He died, leaving Europe more than
ever exposed to perils he had warned
her against, more than ever reckless-
ly serving the Muscovite power.

He died, seeing Russia supremely
powerful in the East, and free to put
the seal on all the bloody hypocri-
sies of her history : fure^ making the
world resound with her solicitude for
the civil and religious liberty of the
Cretans, while she crushed out with
her unholy foot the last palpitations
of Polish freedom, and extirpated,
with infernal perfidy, the last ves-
tiges of Polish Catholic faith : there^
instigating against regenerated Aus-
tria a formidable conspiracy of her
Sclavic subjects, while the highways
and mines of Siberia are strewn with
the skeletons of heroic Poles, whose
only crime was to spurn the yoke of
those Russians who are a hundred-
fold less truly Sclavic than their vic-
tims.

The history of Count Ladislas
Zamoyski is, then, a sad one ; it is the
story of a life-long shipwreck.

All his designs were frustrated, all
his hopes deceived. Always hasten-
ing from disappointment to disap-
pointment, from defeat to defeat, he
wearied never, paused never, was
successful never.

Deeming no sacrifice too great,
and no detail too minute for the ser-
vice of his country, he was prompt to
avail himself of any circumstance or
encounter any new risk which might

656

U&unt Ladhlas Zamtfysku

gain for her a friend, remove an error,
or stimulate in her behalf the indif-
ferent Self-armed against disasters,
he raised himself from each defeat
with the tenacity of an old Roman
on the battle-field, where he had
been once overthrown, to fall again,
wounded and crushed down by an
implacable adversity.

It would seem as if so many trials,
mental and material, public and pri-
vate, might suffice to fill that measure
of suffering which is the lot of all
below. But no I he had still to en-
dure those which would appear more
fittingly the portion of the idle and
prosperous*

Crippled with wounds and infirmi-
ties, the last ten years of his life were
passed in physical sufierings which
made them one prolonged torture.
He endured, during all this time, the
prolonged weariness, the distastes,
the feebleness of failing health ; and
he supported them with the same im-
perturbable patience, the same tran-
quil and unconquerable courage,
which had sustained him through the
sad vicissitudes of his public life.

How great the virtue, crowned by
those great suiTcrings 1 There is in
it a grand and mysterious lesson, and
one, above all, which God seems to
have designed for our instruction and
edification ; for his character more
than his career at all times raised him
far above the mass of human kind.
No one could approach him without
feehng a profound respect before a
strength of mind so determined, a
patience which never failed ; before
that singular union of bravery and
gendeness, that generous sense of
honor, that equanimity, that integ-
rity. Rich in the domestic happi-
ness which Providence accorded to
his declining years, he was content
to live, content to suffer ; yet appre-
ciating any relief, and humbly thank-
ful for those rare moments of respite

which were permitted Jo
rous infirmities. Without
ing the aspirations of his \
had purified and trans for
in the crucible of self-d«
sacrifice. What remained tfl
generous pride was so temp
the most exacting could itc
proached him* His Christ!
brightened as the chills
circled him ; and the desltn
well-being of the church i
him no less than those of
try.

He ga^^ a proof of tlua
in the past summer, (1867,)^
broken in health, he went id ^
to lay at the feet *
homage. In the ni ^li

of the Centenar)' of Sl Pec
were gathered the bishops I
faithful of the entire worM
those bound fast and ga
Muscovite autocrat, LadisUft)
ski appeared, like the Uvin|
of absent, enchained Polati

Nor was It only faith : it^
more— charity — which aniu
soul, so Christian and
How can we depict that \
and generosity, so imep
ward his destitute compel
how sufficiently admire thi
of forgiveness to his coefl
pitiless enemies of his nat
ver one word of bitter ne
his lips.

'*What is to be tho^gt
Russians ?*' said a friend to hit!
day, *^and how far arc 111
cated with the emperor ?"

*' I never judge them,** h£
" I pray for them."

For us, who are not botitid
ercise such sup^rhtinuui model
who arc witnesses and not v
of tliese atrocities, we raise I
the tomb of this just num a \
grief and indignant surprise.

'''' Usqiuquoy Diamine

M^m^lM(\

The Caiholic Church and tlie Bible,

6S7

I judicas et non vindicaSy son-
nostrum de its qui habitant in

long, O Lord ! shall crime
sehood triumph ? How long
lou leave unpunished this
iom of a Christian nation,
rill soon have lasted an entire

ill rebellious thoughts against
diness of divine justice are
i, all the poignancy of sorrow
led, by the remembrance alone
departed dead. He is gone !
ig and cruel trials are over I
entered into light and peace 1
IS in the bosom of his God,
s memory will be for ever
ed among men, with the an-
his illustrious house and of
Drtunate country. He leaves

behind a name which will be a crown
of glory to his children, bom in the
land of exile where he died, and
rocked in their frail cradle on a
stormy sea. He leaves a sacred
grief, which is a treasure to her
alone, to the youthful and admirable
woman who gave herself to him in
his darkest hour ; the intrepid sharer
in his vicissitudes and perils, the
loving and faithful consoler of his
sufferings and decline, and who en-
joyed a happiness with him in this
world which is to be interrupted only
for a few brief days.

Finally, he leaves a great and pro-
fitable example to all who have known
and loved him ; above all, to those
who, subjected to slighter trials, sub-
mit to them with less patience and
less courage.

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH AND THE BIBLE.

the Catholic Church condemn
le and forbid her people to cir-
nd read it i

nswer : NO ! On the contrary,
itholic Church believes the
be the inspired word of God
f, and constantly incites her

to its diligent perusal. In
>ny of which, we offer : first,
cial declarations ; and second,
k^arying practice.
; her official declarations,
holy Council of Trent, which

its sessions in the year 1564,
lose canons and decrees are
ice of the universal church,
5 upon every Catholic under
' sin, distinctly says :
e Holy GScumenicai and Ge-
I!ouncil of Trent, . . . fol-

the example of the orthodox
VOL. VIL — ^42

fathers, does with due veneration
and piety receive all the books of
the Old and the New Testament,
of both which God himself is the
immediate author. . . . And, lest
any doubt should exist as to what
books this council has thus received,
a catalogue of the same is annexed
to this decree. (Here follows a list
of the sacred books, as found in
English Catholic Bibles.) Now, if
any one shall refuse to receive these
books entire, with all their parts,
according as they are accustomed to
be read in the Catholic Church and
are contained in the ancient Latin
Vulgate edition, as sacred and can-
onical, ... let him be anathema."*
Again, the Pope, who, as the head
and mouth -piece of the Catholic

* Can, 0i De^ C^m. TritL Sets. ir.

6S8

ttifTA

ntfr

Church, administers its discipline
and issues orders to which every
Catholic, under pain of sin, must
yield obedience, has positively de-
clared, "that the fliithful should be
excited to the reading of the Holy
Scriptures : for these are the most
abundant sources which ought to be
left open to every one, to draw from
them purity of morals and of doc-
trine f which declaration may be
found in the preface to the English
Catholic Bibles now in use.

Second, her unvarj^ing practice.

The Catholic Church, from the
beginning, has provided effectual
means, not only for the distribution
of the Bible among her people, but
also for their knowledge of the truths
which it contains. One of her holy
orders is that of Reader^ "whose
duty/* as her catechism says, "is to
read the Sacred Scriptures to tlie
people in a clear and distinct voice,
and to instruct them in the rudi-
ments of faith/'*

Again, from the beginning, it has
been made the daily duty of her
priests and religious persons to re-
cite **the divine office," which con-
sists of psalms, of readings from the
Bible, and of prayers. The new re-
vision of this office made by Gregory
VIL, in which its different parts
were first collected into one volume,
became known as the "Breviary,*'
and is still so called. From this was
translated and compiled, in great
part, the ** Daily Morning and Even-
ing Prayer '* of the Protestant Epis-
copal Church, the epistles, gospels,
lessons, and psalms of w^hich, thus
borrowed, present, as is well known,
so large a portion of the Holy Scrip-
tures. Indeed, the Breviary is but
the Bible, in a form adapted to de-
votional uses, and illustrated with
pious meditations and devout pray-
ers. Before us lies a copy, pub-

• C*»9thi»m. Cmte. T^id. ptn^ ti De Ordia.

lished in the }*caT r65t^
Huguenotic wars and
It bears the official
great Richelieu ; and, as 1
its leaves, we find that a I
the whole Bible b cmt
its pages, and we peroei^'ej
as this book can be
hands of all her clergyi^
cessible to ts^tY one w|
so long, within the bor
Catholic Church At Icaa
Scriptures will be widely t
and intimately known^

Again, in every age, tli
nent and pious of the
scholars of the Catholic <
devoted their lives
explanation of the
mons of the first eight cej
principally oral comment
sacred text. The great
valuable Christian works,!
come down to us from
church, are made up
directly based on Holy]
Their writers arc well knc
of great intellect, of un¥
of deep and humble pietyJ
this list of some of them :
cond century, Pantnrnus^ Q4
Alexandria, and Origen ;
century, Picrius, Pamj:
chius, and Eusebius ^
century, Hilar)-, Aii
August! n, Chrysostc
in the fifth century, <
and Isidore of Pcli
sixth century, Gregoty
Cassiodorus, Procopius,
sms; in the seventh ccni
mus, Isidore of Seville, i
Toledo, and Jr>hn Da
the eighth cc
Alcuin, and i
the ninth century, Chris
mar, WaJafridus Strsbot^
of Auxerrc, and Seduliti
tenth century, CEctuiK
piodorus ; in the

The Catholic Church and the Bible,

659

Lanfranc, and Theophy-
the t5\'elfth century, Euthy-
iselm, and Rupert; in the
li century, the great Thomas
and Hugo de Sancto Caro ;
mrteenth century, Nicholas

Paul of Burgos, and Ger-
the fifteenth century, Lau-
Talla, Tostatus, Denis the
in, Marsilius, and Le Ffevre ;
cteenth century, Cornelius k
Vialdonatus, and Jansen of
in the seventeenth century,
Alexander and John Bap-
Hamel ; in the eighteenth

the learned Calmet, of
ork the famous Dr. Adam
as written : " This is, with-
ption, the best comment on
2d writings ever published,

Catholics or Protestants."*
', no age, illuminated with
its as these, deserves to be
lark;^^ no people, taught by
:hers, could ever have been
And when we remember
an eminent Protestant cler-
is said, " the writings of the
;s are made of the Scrip-
lot merely, " that the writers
y quoted the Scriptures, and

to them as authority on all
5, but that they thought and
id wrote the thoughts and
d phrases of the Bible, and
r did this constantly as the
mode of expressing them-
( Uu Dark Ages. By Rev.
\faitland, D.D. London,
md remember, further, that
1 not be so, unless the peo-
wrote and those who read
i free access to Holy Scrip-
1 possessing the books and
rmitted to circulate and use
\ shall be far enough from
: that in the Catholic Church
; has ever been " a hidden

Itarodmctwn, VoL u. put. iii. chap.
|. An. ed. 1836^

booky* or that the doors of its rich
treasure-house were ever closed to
men.

Again, the efforts of the Catholic
Church to preserve and perpetuate the
Bible have been unceasing. As early
as the fourth century, by the direc-
tion of Pope Damasus, St Jerome en-
tered on the work of preparing a full
and perfect copy of the Scriptures.
He devoted twelve years to the study
of the Hebrew, Syriac, and other
oriental languages. He collected at
Jerusalem and in the East all the
most accurate versions, both of the
Old and New Testaments, From
these, revised, compared, and correct-
ed with each other, he prepared that
Latin version which is commonly
called the " Vulgate," and which, as
all biblical critics allow, is the most
perfect and complete copy of the Bi-
ble which now exists. During the
period between the fourth and six-
teenth centuries, every great monas-
tery (and Europe was full of them)
had its "scriptorium," or writing,
chamber, in which copies of the Scrip-
tures were constantly produced. Of
the 1400 manuscripts of the New
Testament which are now extant, not
one was written earlier than the fourth
century, or by other than Catholic
hands; and Protestants themselves
have no higher origin for their Scrip-
tures than these Catholic copies, and
no surer ground of reliance on their
accuracy than the fidelity and learning
of Catholic scholars. How easy, if
the Catholic Church condemned the
Bible, would it have been to neglect
this multiplication of the sacred books,
and to silently destroy existing copies I
Yet those who depend altogether on
her labors for their boasted Scripture,
have said, and still will say, that she
fears the Bible and would gladly ban-
ish it from men. But when the age
of printing came, her efforts were re-
doubled. According to the popular

The Catholic Cliurch and the Bible.

661

n of the Holy Office at
nother translation appeared
which passed through Un
vithm twenty years. Ano-
vas published in 1538, 1546,
, and more recently there
1 several others ; the princi-
ich is that of Antony Mar-
h in 1778 received the writ-
rsement and recommenda-
'ope Pius VI. Thirty-nine
editions of the French trans-
Le F^vre, as revised by the
tf Louvain, were published
1550 and the year 1700,
ich latter date many new
and many reprints of former
have appeared in France;
which the great Bossuet is
ave distributed fifty thou-
2S with his own hands. In
ewise, the Bible, and espe-

New Testament, has been
r reprinted. The most fa-
nish edition is the renowned
Bible of Cardinal Ximenes,
volumes, published at Al-
115. In the year 1582, the
ament in English was issued
tims, and in 1609, the Old
t, in the same language, was
t Douay, the two together
he Douay Bible, an edition

not the most elegant in
gy, is still generally admit-
[ critics to be more faithful
ct than any other version in
-Saxon tongue. This latter
is appeared in almost every
n the largest and most or-
e smallest and least expen-

may be found in almost
holic family which possesses
y to read it. Nearly the
^ be said of all other ver-
the common languages of
It age. They were in tend-
er the learned, but for the
The encouragement which
ived came from the people,

not in opposition to, but in conse-
quence o^ the permission and recom-
mendation of the pastors of the
church: and it is simply incredible
that all the^e different translations
should have been made, and these
numerous editions printed, unless the
Bible had been freely read and freely
circulated among the Catholic masses
both of Europe and America.

So far, therefore, from ever hiding
the Holy Scriptures, or even keeping
them in the background, history
proves, beyond the possibility of
doubt or denial, that the Catholic
Church has always occupied the fore-
most position in the preservation and
diffusion of the written word of God ;
and that to her efforts, and to her
efforts alone, is due not only the
continued existence of the Bible itself,
but also of thosevast treasures of re-
search and investigation which tend
to throw light upon its meaning, and
enforce its teachings on the hearts of
those who read it ; nay more, tiiat
Protestants themselves possess a
Bible, only so far as the same church
has bestowed it on them ; and that
their commentaries and expositions
are but mere digests and abridg-
ments of the laborious and extensive
works of Catholic philosophers and
theologians.

How, then, when the Council of
Trent — which is the unerring voice
of the universal church — ^when the
Pope, who is the head and ruler of
the faithful — when the unvarying prac-
tice of all ages of Catholics through-
out the world — proclaims that the
Catholic Church believes the Bible
to be the inspired word of God, and
one of the great means for the en-
lightenment and instruction of man-
kind — how, then, can Protestants ask
whether the Catholic Church con-
demns the Bible, and forbids its
members to circulate and read it?
Does not all history answer them?

662

The CathoHe Cfntrch and the

Do not thousands of scnnons, homi-
lies, and commentaries answer them ?
Do not hundreds of translations,
scattered over all ages and all lands*
answer them ? Does not their own
possession of the Bible at the present
day, which they profess to prize so
highly, and for which they are indebt-
ed to that same church, answer them ?
How, then, can they believe those
slanders which have, for so many
years, been uttered against the
church of God in reference to the
Scriptures ? Above all, how can they
repeat them, after the often made and
complete demonstration of tlieir false-
hood?

Still it is asked, What, then, about
these Bible burnings , this actual hin-
dcrance^ in particular instances^ to the
use of the Bible / And why doej not
the Catholic Church join with the great
Bible societies of tfie age in the diffusion
^f theBibie^ or at least form societies of
her own for the same purpose 1

These are important questions,
and questions, too, which must be
answered, if the preceding demon-
stration would have its full effect
upon the mind ; and for this reason
we will now consider them.

What is the Bible ? Very few Pro-
testants ever seem to know, or at
least to remember, what the Bible
really is. Most of those whom we
have met appear to regard it as a
book, delivered in its present form
directly by God to man. But this is
not so. On the contrary, the Bible
is a collection of different books, writ-
ten at various periods during tiie space
of more than fifteen hundred years.
Some of them were originally in He-
brew, some in Chaldaic, some in
Greek, They had no less than thirty-
six different authors, most of whom
were widely separated from each other
citlier in place or time ; and they
were neither collected into one
volume nor arranged in the shape of

the present Bible, until
after the establishm^-nl
tian church.

Now, it is evident
say, »* The Bible is ii
Bible is the word
mean just this^ and nM
namely, that the original
which any one of these ai
with his own hand, exai
tated to him by the Holy
inspired, and contained
tion of God. Wlicn a c
ori^nal manuscript was
copy was not inspired. If
corresponded with its
would give a perfectly coi
that original ; if it diffc
would, so far, fail to give
and would, to that erten
a sure guide to the knowl
written word of God.
translation ; if it reodere
contained in tlie original
into another lan^
that a rcaderof the t
receive precisely the s
sions that were intended
veyed by tiie originai
them to be rightly un(
— then would the
turn, make known
God. But if there
smallest deviation, and tb
parted by it were not pr<^
imparted by the origi
would not convey the
And since not one of
manuscripts is now pre:
comes evident that tiji
inspired book in existei
the best, only copies and
of books that were inspir
long ago been lost or

But even these copii
now possess are Xi^Xfirsii
directly from the origiodl
themselves. Moscd
books of the Old Testam
of three thousand ycaim

The Catholic Church Of id the Bible:

663

existing copy of them was
within the past nine hundred
How many successive gener-
of copies, so to speak, filled up
ermediate two thousand years,
can tell. The same is true,
ir degree, of the remaining
; copy of these also being
Vom copy, and so on, until the
printing was discovered. All
e copies, both of the Old and
iw Testament, were made by
in rude characters, and with
implements, while languages
instantly changing, and differ-
2as were being conveyed to
It generations by the same
and phrases. From these
all of the modem translations
>een made, and these transla-
ire the " Bible," as commonly
id circulated among men.
', we ask in all candor, what
ty there is, on Protestant
Is, that any of these modern
tions is the real word of God ?
such, the translation must be
llible rendering from the copy ;
)y must have been exactly like
iceding copy, and that, again,
' like its predecessor, and so
ck to the original inspired
cript itself. And are Protes-
certain of this, that they have
;ht to feel sure that, when they
heir Bible, the ideas which they
i are precisely those which God
ed that the words of Moses,
:1, Daniel, or the Evangelists
i convey? And yet, unless
ire sure of it, how can they
believe what they read in it,
ake the salvation of their souls
e correctness and fidelity of
i and translations, about which
an never, by any possible evi-
short of a new revelation, be-
satisfied ?

r object is not, however, to de-
&ith m the Bible as the word

of God, (a truth which, on Catholic
grounds, is thoroughly demonstrable,)
although it is worth while to reflect
on the difficulties which surround the
attempt to make it the sole teacher
of divine revelation ; but to call to
mind how important, how absolutely
necessary, it is, that the Bible which we
read should be a true translation from
a correct copy of the original inspired
book. And we think the reader will
agree with us when we say, that the
greatest care to secure correctness is
none too great, and the most rigid ex-
clusion of all errqneous, or even sus-
picious, copies and translations can-
not be too rigid; but that, on the
contrary, it is the duty of every Chris-
tian to obtain, and of the Christian
church to provide, the very best and
most perfect Bibles possible ; and
then to abandon and condemn all
others.

And this is exactly what the Catho-
lic Church has always done and is do-
ing at this day. We have already men-
tioned the labors of St. Jerome. This
holy man lived at an age when most
of the old manuscripts were still ex-
isting, when those copies of the Old
Testament which had been in use
during the life of Christ had not all
perished, and when the originals of
the New Testament, or, at least, co-
pies of them which had been made
under apostolic supervision, were still
attainable. All these, and many
others — Hebrew, Syro - Chaldaic,
Greek, Latin, and Syriac — ^he col-
lected, and, having thoroughly com-
pared them with each other, and re-
stored the original text to its highest
possible purity, he translated it into
the Latin tongue, which was then,
and probably always will be, the
most definite and expressive of hu-
man languages. This translation is
called the "Vulgate." It is the
most complete and accurate version
of the Bible in existence, and the

664

The Catholic Church and the BihU.

only one which was made from the
originals, or first copies, of the New
Testament, and from authoritative
copies of the Old, Protestant critics
have said of it : " The Vulgate may
be reasonably pronounced, upon the
whole, a good and faithful version."^
*' It is allowed to be, in general, a
faithful translation, and sometimes
exhibits the sense of Scripture with
greater accuracy than the more mod-
em versions,"t " The Latin Vulgate
preserves many true readings where
the modem Hebrew copies are cor-
rupted, '*t **It is in general skilful
and faithful, and often gives the
sense of Scripture better than modern
versions, '*§

This most excellent Vulgate edition
is the very one which the Catholic
Church has sanctioned as the autho-
rized text of Scripture. The Council
of Trent decreed, ** that the ancient
and Vulgate edition , , , should
be deemed authentic in public read-
ings, disputes, sermons, and exposi-
tions, and that no one should dare
or presume, on any pretext, to reject
it."l

Moreover, as the original manu-
script of St* Jerome was no more im-
perishable than others which had
gone before it, and as it could be
peq>etuated only in copies, the
church has put forth every effort
to secure these in abundance and
perfection. They were all written
in her own monasteries, under the
very eyes of her priests and bishops.
They have been subject to constant
and thorough revision. \\^en print-
ing was invented, and Bibles began
to multiply on every side, (some of
them filled with dangerous errors

" Campbetl'* Dimtriaiwmt m tkg Gmj^, IhUk,
E. part til. § to.

t Home's /Mf, Vol L fk. I ch. ul ) iii. p. ajj. Am.
td. tSj^

t JhJ.

I Gcnri% frntUMM, Chap. W. see. i, o. ai, Ara.

I Sen. tv.

and perversions,) she
evil by stringent )egi&bi
the same coundl says
to impose some limit
in this matter, who, . . '
licenses from their ecclci
periors, do print thes^ bo
Scripture, • . • this \
decrees and declares, tfal
the Holy Scriptures, ani
the ancient and Vulgate a
be printed with the irtl
ness ; and that it shall b
no one to print, or to hi
any books concerning s^d
. . . unless they shall
examined and apprm^ed Uj
nary, . . . ! 4

be given in writin- . _ _ii
either written or printed, i
ly in the front of the bock
the approval and the ei
shall be made gratis, to tl
good things may be coi
and evil things condcmne
In this manner has tl
Church secured the pnes
the pure text of Scripture
at an age when it was pd
ever was, to obtain an ci
of the word of God, she, b
of St, Jerome, prepared
has stood the test of the ii
criticism. Exercising ovi
constant vigilance, she '
down to the age of printifl
rigidly excluding all cdli
could not undergo the m
ing scrutiny, she openly a
those which are genuine aj
so that the Catholic read€
seeing in his Latin Bih
proval of his bishop, aoi
that no bishop could sal
false version w^ithout b<i
diately discovered and
knows also that what he
studies is the Holy Se
Moses and the prophelj

Tlu Catholic Church and ih$ BtbU.

66$

rist and his apostles used it,
> the church of all ages has re-
it.

^ancing one step further, the
f the church next manifests it-
1 the Bibles for the people,
are, of necessity, translations
le vulgar tongues. They are
ide from the Vulgate by per-
uly authorized for the purpose,
ust also be certified as correct
:clesiastical authority, before
an be printed, sold, or read,
for instance, the English trans-
commonly called the Douay
This version was prepared
le of the most eminent Eng-
:holars on the continent of
e, who possessed a wide ac-
ance with the Greek and He-
LS well as with the Latin and
nodern tongues. This version
litted by all critics to be exact
teral, and to exhibit, as far as
slation can do so, the precise
)f the original text of Scripture,
received the approbation of
)ly See and of innumerable bi-
; and every new edition bears
ficial recommendation of the
astical superior, who vouches
completeness and its purity,
bardly possible that, with all
precautions, the Douay Bible
fail to be, in fidelity of render-
le most perfect copy of the
ires that exists in the English

the Catholic Church has not
d even here. No one denies

the Bible there are many pas-
difBcult to understand, and

is impossible for those who
access to the original manu-
, and no opportunities for cri-
esearch, to ascertain the true
fig of these passages without
al aid. The object of com-
ries and expositions is to sup-
lis aid; but these have long

ago grown so voluminous and costiy
as to be beyond the reach of ordinary
men. And so, to meet this final
difficulty, the church accompanies
every translation into a vulgar tongue
with proper notes and comments,
prepared by competent and pious
persons, for the illustration of the
sacred text.

From this brief sketch of what the
Catholic Church has done concerning
the Bible, it will be perceived : i.
That the church possesses, in the
Latin Vulgate, the earliest, purest,
and most exact version of the Holy
Scriptures which exists in the whole
world ; 2. That her translations of
the Vulgate into the languages of the
people present them with the purest
and most exact version of the Bible
which they can possibly obtain ; 3.
That by her notes and comments she
affords to them freedom from serious
error and mistake in their perusal of
the sacred text.

Now, for a moment, let us turn to
the Bibles which Protestantism offers,
and inquire as to their reliability.
The ordinary translations of Protes-
tants are made from Greek and He-
brew manuscripts. These manu-
scripts, as we have seen, are copies,
not originals, and, of course, are not
inspired. They are, therefore, relia-
ble so far as they present the exact
ideas presented by their originals,
and no further ; and the fidelity with
which they do this depends, in a
great measure, upon their own anti-
quity and their nearness to the on- .
ginals themselves. But not a manu-
script of the Old Testament in He-
brew now exists which dates back
further than the eleventh century.
The oldest extant Greek manuscripts
of the New Testament are not older
than the fourth century; and these
are confessedly imperfect, and, in
some places, entirely wanling. Out
of these manuscripts and later ones.

666

The CathoUc ChMfxh attd the Bibh,

however^ Protestant translators are
first compelled to select a text which
shall represent, as near as they can
make it do so, the original Greek
and Hebrew, and then, from this text
make their translation.

To the first translators this work
presented no small difficulties. They
were unskilled in the languages in
which these manuscripts were writ-
ten. The manuscripts disagreed ex-
tensively among themselves, and
many of them were without lines or
punctuation marks, and in characters
long fallen into disuse. It is not
surprising, therefore, that the first
Protestant versions were, both in the
text and the translation, exceedingly
erroneous, and, in some portions,
utterly unreliable. Most of these
difficulties have vanished with ad-
vancing years. Protestant scholars
have become versed in Greek and
Hebrew. They have learned to
read with accuracy the ancient cha*
racters in which the manuscripts were
wTitten, and their extensive research
among the various versions has done
much to clear their text from ambi-
guity. But the fact siill remains,
that the best Greek or Hebrew text,
which they can reach, is later by
many centuries, and more fallible by
numerous successive copyings, than
those from which the Latin Vulgate
was prepared ; and, consequently, can
bear no comparison in purity and ge-
nuineness with that which St. Jerome
produced from the first copies, if not
from the originals themselves, of the
New Testament, and from versions
of the Old, which Chrbt had sanc-
tioned by his personal use. And
it is this difference, between the
sources of the text of Catholic and
Protestant Bibles, which gi\^s the
Catholic version its deserved preemi-
nence, and has won for it the enco-
miums to which we have referred.
Extending our view to the transla-

tions made and used by
we perceive this difiereq
sisting. Most of these
suit of private et ' -,

have received th 14

ecclesiastical authoritj.
ordinary English, or ** K
version, (which is the on^
circulation in this coun
private venture of the
name it bears ; and thou
by him as the head 01
church of England, it \^
ceived the approval of ai
which can strictly be cal
astical. The people whi
have no other guarantee
ness tlian tlie fact that t
used it before them. T
vain for any mark upo(
which shall assure them,
rity they know to be 1
what they read is the tl
God. On the contrary,
mine their own writers, l!
sentiment prevailing that
version ** is i»<>/ the word
is accused of being ** wll
ty," " ambiguous and inci
in matters of tlic higli
tance ;'*♦ and a well-know
tator has even said, '* Ti
so just a representation
spired originals, as merit
plicitly relied on for deiq
controverted articles of til
faith.'t '

l^hese general statemc
plicable to other Prolw
lations as well as io
None of them are perfect,.
claimed to be so. Each
vilified and condemned
thors of the others ; and
them has yet recet\xd t
of such an authority u

Am e<L i«j&

The Catholic Church and the BibU.

667

der that he will find upon its
the revelations of God.*
e, then, the matter comes to a
t issue between the Catholic
Dtestant Churches. The Catho-
irch has a reliable and accu-
ixt from which to translate ;
petent and literal translation,
ling all sufficient notes and ex-
ions ; and never publishes a
f even this without the express
)n of one' whom her people
:o be able to judge and impar-
► decide on its fidelity and
The Protestant churches, on
tier hand, have a text confes-
:orrupt and unreliable ; innu-
le contradictory translations,
)f which is admitted to be, in
respects, erroneous, and none
ich enjoys the sanction of any
:al authority. How could the
lie Church do less than to
and those of her children who
lo read the Bible, to read the
v'hich she has provided for
• How could she do less than
2 to them the faults and er-

833, the Rev. T. Curti<, an English Protet-
i^rman, published a work On tk« Errors and
'tms in Modem ProUstant Bibles. The
itains " Four Letters to the Hon. and Rt

Lord Bishop of London, with specimens of
itional and other departures from the autho-
ndard, to which is added a postscript, con-
he complaints of a London committee of mi-
n the subject ; the reply of the universities,
eport on the importance o4 th; alterations

In the course of his work, Mr. Curtis gives
instances of "the largest church Bibles"
very erroneous." On one occasion " an im-
part of a text he had taken in the lesson of

to his great astonishment was not in the
Vible when he came to read the lesson. In a

the same page, Mr. Curtis says: "The
}ible still in use in the parish church of St.
Islington, is a remarkably erroneous one. A
in, who some years ago officiated in this pa-
ared me he was occasionally at a loss to pro-
-eading the lessons from it One passage (i
has, I have reason to believe, been read er-
y m this church four times a year for many
Mr. Curtis says, (page 80,) " The British and

Bible Society have ngver circulated a sin-
fof the Scriptures that has not contained
J«i>s of intentional departures from the autho-
»too r* Who can now say with truth that
e word of God is read or heard in Protestant
isorfiunilies?

rors of the Protestant translations,
and forbid their use by the faithful ?
What right would this church, what
right would any church, have to be
called a spiritual guide, if, having the
pure wheat herself/ she permitted
those who follow her to feed on coarse
grain, gathered from the store-house
of her enemies ? In reference to such
a matter, reason and common-sense
dictate a ligidly exclusive policy;
and that is just Uie policy which has
been, and is now, pursued by the
Catholic Church. Her rules are few
and simple, but sufficient They are
these:

1. That those who would read the
Scriptures in a vulgar tongue must
read a Catholic version.

2. That not only must this version
be a Catholic one, but it must also
have been approved by the proper
spiritual authority.

3. That the version must not only
be Catholic and properly approved,
but must be accompanied by ap-
proved notes and explanations.

4. That those who in the judgment
of their pastors would derive more
hurt than good from the perusal of
the Scriptures, may be forbidden to
read them altogether.

Strict as these rules may seem, we
believe that any one who reviews the
reasons for them will now say, that
at least the first three of them are
eminently just, and that the Catholic
Church, in prescribing and enforcing
them, has acted wisely and for the
best interests of men. And when we
further state that she has never pre-
vented the circulation of any Bible,
or taken any Bible from her people,
or burned any Bible, except those
false, imperfect translations which, so
far as they are imperfect, are not the
word of God, we believe that it will
be admitted that in this also she has
done nothing but her duty toward
the people committed to her care.

Tlie Catholic Church and the Bible.

669

eceived she has obeyed. The
ies, the money, which Protest-
I'ould have expended in printing
:irculating translations of the
^res, she has expended in found-
lurches, hospitals, convents, and
aries, and in providing the whole

with missionaries, by whose
;, nations, to whom the Bible
have no access, have been sub-
id to the faith. She recognizes
le means for the conversion of
ind, and that is, the voice of the

teacher; and never can she
tute another in its stead,
reover, God gave ' the sacred
, of the Old Testament to hiS
Israel, not to heathens. Our
through his apostles, bestowed
iristians, not on pagans, the in-
able treasures of the New. The
is for those who believe already,
e " man of God," " that he may
)roughly furnished unto all good
;," not for the infidel and hea-
who perhaps read it, but are in-
and heathens still. Such is the
f God, as the Catholic Church
iceived the same, and the facts
tory prove that she is right. For

Protestantism arose, its great
i^as to spread the Bible. Its his-
las been the history of Bible-
ation, and in the Bible Society
culminated the Reformation,
i societies have labored bravely,
id that previous to the year 1834,
jle society in Germany had dis-
ed nearly 3,000,000 copies of
Uire Bible, and 2,000,000 more
e New Testament. That by
er society in Great Britain, Over
3,ooo copies of the Bible, or New
ment, had been put into circu-
before 1859 ; and that another
w York publishes every year
than 250,000 Bibles, and twice
amber of New Testaments, and
3f Scripture. But what are the
\ ? Where are the nations which

have been added to the Christian
fold.? Where are the signs of well-
developed and intelligent piety in
the great Protestant empires of the
age? Have not their own writers
told us that the boundaries of Pro-
testantism are the same to-day that
they were when Luther left it — ^that
no new nations have been added to
its numbers, and, with the exception
of the Anglo-Saxon portion of this
continent, that no new territory has
been subjected to its sway ; that for
the heathen it has done comparatively
nothing, and for the irreligious of its
own lands but little more ? Look at
the United States, for instance, all of
whose people come of good Christian
stock. The census of i860 fixes the
population at over 30,000,000, while
acensus of professing Christians, of all
Protestant denominations, estimates
their number at less than 6,000,000.
Is the proportion greater in Germany
or in England? And what a com-
ment is this upon the boast of these
societies, that they evangelize the
world, and that the work they are
performing is the work of God I

And has the Catholic Church by
preaching done no better? While
men yet lived who heard the voice of
Luther, the Catholic preachers of
Europe had won back to the church
more than one half of what she lost
by the Reformation. In a few years
longer the continent of South Ame-
rica, the Canadas, and thousands of
the inhabitants of India, China, and
Japan, were sheltered in her bosom.
Another century, and again the Ca-
tholic faith was blossoming in Eng-
land, and springing green and vigor-
ous from the soil of our own land.
To-day where is the country in which
she is not strong and valorous, strong
in the blood of her martyrs, valorous
in the surety of her victory ?

Does history leave a doubt upon
the mind as to the true means of

Sketches

the Life of SL Pamku

Christian labor ^ Or who can won-
der that the Catholic Church refuses
to substitute the human means for
the divine, or even to waste her
energies and money on what experi-
ence has shown to be so fruitless?
She has the Bible for her children.
She places it within the reach of all
Those who are able, can buy it for
themselves. To those who are una-
ble to buy, she gives it when they ask.
But never has she taken pains to
strew the pure pearls of written reve-
lation underneath the feet of infidels
and heathen — mindful that, as the
Lord warned her, "they will turn
again and rend you.**

In conclusion, let us ask of every
Christian reader a single favor more.
It is, that he will candidly examine

• Mac&uljiy** Mi»t, art. Rankest Hkt»ry qf ikt

the best authorities u[
tant subject ; that he \\
fleet upon the reasons we have offc
and decide for himself the great qui
tions which we have tried to answ"
And when he finds, as he sun
that the Catholic Church d-
condemn the Bible» or forbid
pie to circulate and read it-
she has never prohibited orbunied
Bible which she did not know to b
erroneous and liable to lead her chil-
dren into error — that -^
cast her lot in with the
simply because she follows tlm cara-
mand of Christ — ^let him undo Jk
evil he, perhaps, has done, in jitaDi^
that concerning her which be no*
knows is false, and manfully assert
the truth he now has fius

doing justice to the d:iu i-

SKETCHES DRAWN

FROM THE ABBE LAGRANGE'S
OF ST. PAULA,

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CO]9CLUDBa

CHAPTER III.

The government of Paula in her
newly founded monastery was admi-
rable, and she herself was the exam*
pie of all virtues, as was also Eusto-
chium. The fame of her rule spread
throughout the East, and went back
to Rome, where Mancella still lived
and gloried in her friend.

The chief happiness of the recluses

was to study the Scriptures, which

they now read from beginning to end.

I Jerome read with them, explaining

|«ver>'thtng. His grotto was not far

joflf, and he passed his nights there,

|by the light of a lamp, surrounded

%ith manuscripts and assisted by

others copying for him ; for he was

now growing old^ and his
eyesight no longer allowed of
enduring the fatigue of wntlug. Ht
resumed the study of the castas
dialects in order the better to 0»
prehend the original of the

works, and, encouraged by Paitlai

Eustochium, resumed his work 4
translation, which was continued fe
neariy twenty years under their sain^y
influence.

At the end of three ycaK PsuliSl
monasteries^ church, and bo^iti'
were all flnished, with their sunotini
tng walls, which in those times wete
so necessary a protection from the
raids of the neigbbaring Arabs*

Sketches drawn from the Life of St. Paula.

6/1

umber of the recluses had
i, and Paula now divided
;o three communities, each
ng an abbess or mother at
, after the plan of St. Pa-

l the week their vows of
; prevented all intercourse
outer world. They all went
ay to the church at Bethle-

• the holy sacrifice of the
5 not offered up at their own
St. Jerome never having
limself worthy to mount the
the altar, such was his pro-
mility ; and Vincentius, the
st they had beside, did not
to officiate where Jerome
t.

«ras the soul of her commu-
ler austerities were as great
:harities, and these were
lumber. St. Jerome repre-

• like a devoted mother to
all of her spiritual daugh-

ng them all and studying
acters equally, in order to
:h one according to her
I nature and for the best,
al activity was greatly en-

among them by her, and
care to furnish them with
i food for the mind. In
ne was of great assistance
His convent was the dwell-
ence and letters as well aS
ism. He had around him
n of vast erudition, who in
re of their souls did not
the paths of learning, and
le pursued their studies.

wrote books which were
great avidity by Paula and
us family. Jerome himself,
n to his great works, com-
ny pious biographies, and
lers the life of St. Epipha-
±e particular request of
"he latter had now taught
Iters to copy the Psalms,

which Jerome had translated at Rome
by the order of Pope Damasus.
This was a work of importance, as
exactness was necessary in order to
repair the harm done to the work by
neglect of the original manuscripts.
Copying thus became universal in all
monasteries, owing to the impetus
given to it by Paula, and to it we are
indebted for the preservation of much
that is of inestimable value to Chris-
tianity.

Paula now urged Jerome to revise
all his various translations of the
Holy Scriptures, and this prodigious
work was concluded by him as early
as the year 390. The book was
dedicated to Paula and Eustochium.
To Paula particularly, palmam ferat
qui meruUy great praise is due for the
holy influence she exercised for so
many years over St. Jerome, to such
a noble purpose, and which produced
such fruits in the translation of the
Bible called the Vulgate, still used
in the church af^er the lapse of so
many centuries.

All these pious labors gave great
renown to Paula's monasteries, and
she who had thought to hide herself
from the world, saw the curious world
appear at her gates, attracted by the
beacon light of Bethlehem. Her
buildings could scarcely contain the
visitors who flocked to see her. St.
Augustine himself had sent his be-
loved friend, Alypius, across the seas
to witness these wonders and to see
Jerome and Paula. Augustine after-
ward wrote to Jerome, thus beginning
a friendship between these two great
men, one of whom was just risen
above the horizon of the church,
while the other great luminary was on
the decline, though spreading out his
rays in all the splendor of the setting
sun.

But that which most astonished
the pilgrims to Bethlehem was not
Jerome nor any other inhabitant of

Sketches''

if ram the Life of Si. Paula,

this holy place, but Paula in the
midst of her virgins. "What coun-
try/* says St. Jerome, ** does not
send hither its pilgrims to see Paula,
who eclipses us all in humility ? She
has attained that earthly glor)^ from
which she fled ; for in flying from it
she found it, because glory follows
virtue as shadows follow the light,'*

Among all the visits paid to the
recluses, none filled them with so
much joy as that of the venerable
Epiphanius, whose early lessons had
had so much to do with the religious
training of Paula. He, too, was de-
lighted ; he had seen nothing more
perfect in the desert. The order,
the prayerful and ferv^ent nuns, the
austere and laborious monks, the won-
derful intellectual activity, amazed
him. He remained some time with
his friends at Bethlehem, praising
God for what he saw%

About this time the discussions
on Origenism began to trouble the
church of Alexandria, and hnally
penetrated to Jerusalem and to Beth-
lehem, Jerome was estranged from
Kufinus and Mclanie, and others of
his early friends, by differing with
them on the subject of this celebrated
heresy. Paula was afllicted at this,
and foresaw clouds in the future
which did not fail to burst on her
own monasteries. The great doctri*
nal combats of the fourth century, in
which the church was destined to
come off victorious, Paula would
gladly have avoided entirely, but in
spite of herself she became involved
in them. Her sorrow was great
when she saw her monasteries as well
as St Jerome and herself excluded
from the Holy Sepulchre because of
their clinging to their old fhend St
Epiphanius, who was the champion
of orthodoxy and the great antago-
nist of Origenism, The ordination
of a priest for the monasteries was
the ostensible cause of their being

put under the ban. Ttiis
PauUnianus, the brolJier
and the validity of his ord
Epiphanius was qucstioDo
the Bishop of Jenisalci
ground of the youth of V
but in reality because John,
by Rufinus, was pr
against Jerome atu . ^ ^ »;
account of his own leanin;
the doctrine of Origen. I
the entrance of the chui
Nativity or of the Holy
to all who considered the oirc
of PauUnianus canonicaL
course, included the recluse
lehem. Their dismay was

Epiphanius did not cons
rogator)' to his dignity for hi
his white head before \h\
bishop and sue for cleti
others. He explained tlie|
of a priest at the raonas
the motives for the ordii
Paulinianus, and he begg^
die sake of charity, to c
persecution ; and then the
patriarch, on his knees, con
to abjure the false doctrines
divided them.

But John would not
talked only of the offence
canonical ordination. \V1
Epiphanius thought it hi:
expose him, and demand
recluses that they should sc
communion with the bishop
salem until the latter should
his errors.

Notwithstanding this m
tlie rancor of John burst
All ecclesiastical functions
bidden Jerome and V;
Paula*s catechumens wer«
baptism, and bis wxath ikxxt^
to deny religious burial to
as if they were excomin
Paula suffered inwardly &oi
warfare, so different from tbi
and repose she longed for, 1

Sketches drawn from

by the arguments of the
le became an object of
: the voice of calumny
isturb the serenity of her
by no word or sign did
low impatience or anger,
ored also to console SL

the wounds he had re-
»e loved to quote Scrip-
. to soothe his mind. It

Bible that she always
gth to endure every evil.
3ishop John, carrying his
rome to its climax, passed
banishment against him.
)m out by^ contention,
lepatt at once, but Paula
1 these touching words:
: us and would crush us,
iturn patience for hatred,
r arrogance. Does not
1 us return good for evil ?

our conscience tells us
ifferings do not proceed
5 are very certain that the
f this world are only the
)f eternal reward. Bear,
he trials that assail you
: quit our beloved Beth-
ray Paula sustained and
old monk by the delicacy
yr of her own noble soul,

so high up in the love of
he storms of this world
eaving her unharmed,
while Jerome was freed
phase of persecution by
olitan of Palestine, Cesa-
vas a prudent and wise
2se perils ended, Paula

him to recommence his
> on the Bible, and also to
correspondence with his
I to think no more of this
sode, but to suffer the
hout to rage and no longer

urn away from these dis-
: which we have glanced
3L. VII. — ^43

5/. ftifitv 673

y, yidiQ^h Ji^av(5id4bly, to
*itk tliii-CDOtec^lation

Jerome nO^ wrtte.*. more of his
most admirable lettersr And Paula
continued the even tenor and pious
practices of her life. She received a
visit from Fabiola, who came from
Rome in search of that peace and
solitude which she believed could be
best found in Bethlehem. This visit
gave great joy to the recluses ; for
Fabiola could tell them of all their
friends in Rome, of Paulina and
PammachiuSy of Toxotius and his
wife Laeta, and of the young Paula,
called after her venerable grand-
mother. She brought them messages
from Marcella and the Aventine.
While Fabiola was with them, they
resumed the habits of former years,
and read the Holy Scriptures together,
Jerome explaining it to them. The
ardor of Fabiola was wonderful.
After she had ended her visit and
left Bethlehem, much was done by
Rufinus and Melanie to estrange her
from her old friends. But she could
not be moved and had determined to
settle near them.

At this time, however, dark rumors
of invasion threw consternation
among the quiet inhabitants of the
monasteries. It was rumored that the
Huns threatened Jerusalem. Other
cities had already been besieged, and
they were now before Antioch. Ara-
bia, Phoenicia, Palestine, and Egypt
were filled with terror. On all side*
preparations for defence were being
made, and the walls of Jerusalem,
too long neglected, were now under
repair.

To save her monasteries from in-
sult, Paula meditated flight, and con-
ducted her whole community to the
sea-shore, ready to embark if the
barbarians made their appearance.
But the Huns having suddenly di-
verged in another direction^ Paula

674

Sketches itwwn from the

brought back her followers to their
beloved monasteries, and with a joy-
ful heart once more took possession
of them.

These events decided Fabiola to
return to Rome. When all the trou-
bles had ceased, Jerome wrote to her :
" You would not remain with us ; you
feared new alarms. So be it You are
now tranquil J but, notwithslandmg
your tranquillity, I venture to say that
Babylon will often make you sigh for
tlie fields of Bethlehem. We are
now at peace, and from this manger,
which has been restored to us, we
once more hear the wail of the infiint
Christ, die echoes of which I send
you across the seas."

Unfortunately, however, the peace
and quiet did not last long. After
three years the dispute with the
Bishop of Jerusalem was renewed
with great violence. But the bishop,
Theophilus, having only declared
himself against Origenism, John was
finally brought to reason by him, and
Jerome and Rufinus were reconciled
in his presence, before the altar in
the church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Peace now reigned in the monasteries
on what appeared to be a surer foun-
dation.

But other sorrows came pouring in.
News arrived from Rome of the deatli
of Paulina, when she was but thirty,
and Pammachius was left a widower
and without posterity.

His loss in the daughter of Paula
was great, for theirs was an admirable
and holy union ; for Paulina loved her
husband and would have endeavored
not only to make him happy, but
virtuous. The grief of Pammachius
was ovenvhclming. He had now but
one wish on earth, which was to do
something for the good of Paulina's
souh

It was an ancient custom in Rome
at the obsequies of persons of dis-
linction to give ahns in honor of the

dead, and to perpetuate
This was called the ft
On the day fixed for that
the streets of Rome were
Troops of the poor, the laiiM
maimed wended thctr wa
church in answer to the ii
Pammachius. The gildi
the great basilica was
them, and Pammachius
there distributing on all
dant alms in the name of

Who can describe the ^i:^{
when the news reached Be
the death oi Paulina ? i
for days afterward, aiid
feared for her life. Jeroi
Pammachius on the sor
" Who can see," cried hi
grief, this beauteous
before her time and
Our precious pearl, our
broken."

Paula*s only consolation
admirable conduct of I
"This death was proline
Jerome, **for it gave a 1
Pammachius." He had i
a good Christian, he non
heroic one* He thou;;ht
where his faith made him
loved Paulina ; the examf
and Eustochium, and a
friend Jerome, all combini
him from the things of eai
inspired with the noble ft
consecrate to Go^l
of his life. He a>
a monk and passed his ti
ties and prayer. The je
lina were converted into
given to the poor, and al
and the house of the
was thrown open to aU
want Fabiola generoasl
him in founding hospit
combined resources ena
accomplish great chariti

"Ord
rome, 'S;

Sketches drawn from the Life of St. Paula.

67s

ttering roses and lilies and vie-
wer a grave. Our Pammachius
►vered the tomb of his departed
ath holy ashes, and with the
le of charity. These are the
tics with which he has embalm-
ilina." Such fruits were a great
to Paula. When she heard that
d given away Paulina's dower
poor, she exclaimed, " These
ieed the heirs that I would see
ughter have ! Pammachius has
^en me time even to express my
he has been beforehand with

the midst of her^ef a ray of
me from Rome, in the proposi-
om Toxotius and Laeta to send
Paula to her grandmother.
[iad determined that, in order to
\ such holy training for their
she should leave Rome and go
East, where Paula and Eusto-
; would bring her up in the way
th. Eustochium begged her of
and young Paula did eventu-
ome to Bethlehem to join her
but her venerable grandmother
longer there to receive her.
5 burden of years was now be-
ig to be felt by Paula. Sorrow
idness pressed upon her, yet the
ble beauty of her soul was great-
m ever. St Francis de Sales
)f her that " she was like a beau-
md sweet violet, so sweet to see
5 garden of the church." It is
xquisite and rare perfume which
lUst enjoy more in speaking of
i the years just before her death,
God seemed to touch her soul
a singularly soft and mellow
like the evening of a fair day.
lad been much disturbed by the
^ofthe dissensions between St.
\e and the Origenists. We have
ly said how she had grieved
the first encounter, seeing bi-
against bishops, friends against
Is, hermits against hermits. But

the new struggles were still more pain-
ful to her : they had become perso-
nal, and, notwithstanding the recon-
ciliation with Rufinus, he had at-
tacked St Jerome's character and
writings, and the latter was obliged
to defend himself. Paula had also
witnessed another painful sight After
the council condemning Origen, the
monks accused of sharing his erro-
neous opinions were driven away
from the desert, and among them
were many whom Paula had formerly
known and venerated, and who were
now homeless wanderers. The se-
verity of the Patriarch of Alexandria
against them grieved her deeply ; and,
the most bitter of all, her tears were
those she shed for the throes of the
church and for the evil passions of
men. New sorrows came upon her
also. She heard of the death of Fa-
biola, her old and dear friend. Then
came the death of St Epiphanius,
who had been to Paula like a be-
loved father.

Toxotius, her only son, was now
taken away. All her children but
Eustochium were dead. What was
left for Paula but suffering ? Physi-
cal infirmities accumulated upon her
the result of her austerities. Of these
she would merely say, " When I am
weak, then it is that I am strong ;"
and again, " We must resign ourselves
to carrying our treasure in brittle
vases, until the day comes when this
miserable body shall be robed in im-
mortality." She also loved to repeat
these words : " If the sufferings of
Christ abound in us, his consolations
abound also. Sharers of his bodily
agony, we will also be partakers of
his glory."

The things of earth could no longer
touch her, for she had seen how pass-
ing they are and knew that they
could not last The longing for the
heavenly country grew in proportion.
She would say with the patriarchs of

676

Sketches drawn from tJu Lift of SL Pauta,

the desert, '* We are but travellers on
the earth/' And when her sufferings
increased, she murmured gently/* Oh I
who will give me the wings of a dove,
that I may fly to everlasting rest ?"

She no longer belonged to the earth,
fihe was almost in heaven. Her soul
had reached such extraordinary per-
fection that she seemed already to
see tlie glory aud to hear the harmo-
nies of heaven. Peace and joy were
suffused throughout her being, rising
above her sufferings. Her love of
God g^ew greater, and death seemed
to her not a separation from those she
loved on earth, but an indissoluble
union with God, in whom all joys are
found again, ** Who,'' says St Jerome,
^* can tell without tears how Paula
died?** He himself wrote immortal
pages on the subject, which have con-
soled many a dying soul since.

When Sainte Chantal was on her
death*bed, she asked to have read to
her once more St. Jerome's account
of the death of Paula, to which she
listened with wonderful attention, re-
peating several times these words:
*' What are we ? Nothing but atoms
alongside of these grand nuns.*'

It was in tlie year a,d. 403 that
Paula fell ill. When it became known
that her life was in imminent danger,
the whole monastery was in conster-
nation.

Eustochium could not be comfort-
ed ; she who had never quit her mo-
ther from childhood could not bear
the thought of separation. Her love
for her mother, which had always
been so touching, shone now in all
iJie ardor and strength of her nature.
Slie would yield her place by the bed-
side to no one by day or by night
Every remedy was administered by
her hands, and she would throw her-
self on her knees by the bed, and im-
plore God to suffer them to die toge-
, ther and be laid in one tomb. But
Uheic tears and these prayers cx)uld

not postpone the hour m:arld
for the end* Her time had
Paula had suffered cnougll|
enough. She should noi|
and put on the robes of
became e\'ident that her s
failing, and that slie liad
days left to live. She
ferings with admirable
heavenly serenity. She
for the care bestowed <m
stochium and the devoted 1
of the house, but her whold
given up to the thought dj
Paradise. Her lips werej
murmur her favorite vai
Scripture, |

The Bishop of Jerusalal
the bishops of Palestine, txm
a great number of religion
to her bedside to witness dj{
death. The monastery was \
them. But Paula, absorbij
saw them not^ heard them I
veral asked her questions^ bj
not answer. Jerome tlien a]
and wished to know if she
bled and why she did not
answered in Greek, ** Oh I
neither trouble nor regret ;|
tlie contrary, great inward ;

After these words she
more, but her lingers
make the sign of the ctoss4
however, she opened her
joy, as if she saw a celesi
and as if hearing the divbii
the canticle, *' Rise up,
O my dove, my beloved, foi
past and the rain has dba
She spoke as if m answe
continued^ in low but)oyfid-
words of the sacred song
have appeared on the eaitl
for gathering them has
Then she added, " I think
good things of Uie Lord in
of the living." Willi thee
her lips Paula expired,
lived 10 the age of fifty

sUyi

'am the Life of St. Paula.

677

rmarvel
iy to the
the church
Jill, which
lay for three
!ice, for the visi-
. of the faithful
all parts to do
iishops sought to
funeral ceremonies
Ipect to the lamented
aong the hermits of
almost esteemed a
stay away. John of Je-
iself officiated. But the
ng part of the spectacle
g array of the poor, fol-
e procession, and weep-
mother. Death had not
noble countenance of
5 was only pale, and
f sleeping. The people
ar themselves away from
V of her beloved features,
lally interred under this
1, in a grotto, where her
till be seen up to the pre-
During the week foUow-
ial, the crowd continued
30ut her tomb, singing
[ebrew, in Greek, and in
Syriac.

time, the sorrow of Eu-
d been terrible to behold,
eing was rent in twain,
ot be torn away from her
)dy up to the last, but
in by her, tenderly kiss-
es, throwing her arms
, and beseeching to be
e tomb with her. This
ntil the grave shut out
Paula from her for ever,
ied to console her, though
ed down by grief. Of all
had directed, none were

so lofty nor so intimately connected
with his own as that of Paula. So
crushed was he by this loss, that it
was long before the world again
heard his mighty voice.

He found some solace in compos-
ing two epitaphs in her honor, to be
engraved, one at the entrance of the
grotto where the grave lay, the other
on the grave itself. The following is
the translation of the inscription on
the sepulchre of Paula :

" The daughter of the Scipios, of
the Gracchi, the illustrious blood of
Agamemnon, rests in this place. She
bore the name W Paula. She was
the mother of Eustochium. First in
the senate of Roman matrons, she
preferred the poverty of Christ and
the himible fields of Bethlehem^ to all
the splendor of Rome."

In this epitaph, Paula's whole
history is told. The other epitaph of
St. Jerome, engraved on the entrance
of the grotto, reproduces, in other
terms, the same record of virtue, and,
what is more, shows its sublime ori-
gin. It is in the following words :

" Seest thou that grotto cut in the
rock ? It is the tomb of Paula, now
an inhabitant of the heavenly king-
dom. She gave up her brother, her
relations, Rome, her country, her
wealth, her children, for the grotto of
Bethlehem, where she is buried. It
was there, O Christ 1 that your cradle
was. It was there that the Magi came
to make you their mystical offerings,
O man God 1"

Eustochium desired St Jerome,
besides these two epitaphs, to write
a funeral eulogium on her mother.
With a hand trembling with age and
emotion, he performed this pious
duty. We should here mention that
most of the details we have endea-
vored to give in this short narrative,
are taken from what is, perhaps,
considered the most eloquent and
touching of all bis writings. At the

6/8

Sketches drawn from the Life of St Paulk

conclusion, he thus apostrophizes
her:

" Farewell, O Paula ? Sustain, by
your prayers, the declining years of
him who so revered you. United now
by faith and good works with Christ,
3'ou will be more powerful above
than you were here below. I have
engraved your praise, O Paula ! on
the rock of your sepulchre, and to it
I add these pages ; for I wish to raise
to you a monument more lasting than
adamant, tliat all may learn that
5^our memory was honored in Bethle-
hem, where your ashes repose."

Paula's good works died not with
her. Her monasteries were continued
piously and courageously by Eusto-
chium, the worthy daughter of such
a mother. With time, heresies arose
to disturb the atmosphere anew ; and
the controversy of Pelagius aroused
the latent powers of Jerome, and for
some time absorbed him, to the de-
triment of his studies. But at the
prayer of Eustochium, and in memory
of Paula, he finally resumed his labors,
and in the year 403 concludecl his
great work in the translation of the
fSible, which is called the Vulgate,
wkd was adopted by the church in
the last universal council.

The Pelagians having set fire to
the monasteries of Bethlehem, all tlie
buildings erected by the pious care
of Paula were burned to the ground.
This act was odious to the whole
world. It was admirable to see the
serenity of Eustochium under this
trial. She went to work, and, using
for that purpose the noble dower
brought to her by her niece Paula,
who had come to her at Bethlehem,
the monasteries were soon built up
again, and filled with their former in-
habitants. About this time, Alaric,
King of the Huns, overran Rome
with his barbarian hordes, and num-
berless Christian refugees from them
Icjime to the East in search of an

asylum. Pammachius an*
were dead, but many of ti
were numbered amoQj
Eustochium and Jeroi
who came with wide
the hospitality of Paula si
her successors.

Eustochium sur>'ived
only sixteen years. Sh
without a struggle, like
asleep. No further details,
of her last moments. Th
the 28th day of Septeni
418. Her remains were
those of her mother, accorc
wish* St. Jerome did not
vive her. Her death waj
great sorrow ; and he di«
following year. He was to
to resist the final dispersia
he had called his ifomtsi
Marcella, Asclla, Paula,
Pammachius, Eustochium^
ceased to live. Rome itself
for, to a Roman heart like th
rome*s, her captivity was I;

He fell into a state of
lancholy, his voice having
weak and feeble that it «*aa
ctilty he could be heard at
was soon impossible for
raised from his miserable
by means of a cord suspe
the roof of his grotto ; ai
position he would r
or give his instruct)
for the management of the
He died at the age of
years, after living thirty-four )
Bethlehem. His eyes reslctl
he was dying, on yputa g Paul
was beside him. She
his spiritual child fri
now performed the last
for him. We have no dct
obsequies. According to
she placed his remains tn
not far from the veneraJ
her grandmother* and E
United in life, they were

Glimpses of Tuscany.

679

I. Jerome's principal disciple,
3ius of Cremona, now assumed
ead of his convents, while young
L continued to rule those of her
[mother's. We know nothing

more. With the correspondence of
Jerome died all traces of these com-
munities, and night fell upon the
East

GLIMPSES OP TUSCANY.

II.

THE BOBOLI GARDENS.

IE high wall of our raised garden
5 on the southern entrance to the
>Ii : our white spirae droops down
it like a willow, so large and in
perfect bloom that strangers
to sketch it as they pass. The
grand duke has gone since I
'as here ; the Sardinian bayonet
taming exactly where the Aus-
sentinel stood. The Boboli has
jed- masters — not for the first
—and accepts the situation with
irenity of a veteran,
is a bright Sunday morning.
^ is still time for a walk there
e the Military Mass at Santo
to. Twelve years have not dis-
d the placid sameness of this
ure of the hill-side : the laurels
:lipped just as evenly, the old
and statues look at you, or at
other, just as archly or just as
lly. It is all thoroughly man-
— intensely artificial. Every
Ise of nature has been stifled
e and shrub, until they no more
to lean out of line than soldiers
.rade. The very crocuses steal
ly through the grass, as if they
afraid of doing wrong.

e nods to grove, each alley has its brother ;
half the 9uden reprewnCt the other."

It looks human, every inch ; the Lord
is completely banished; his Spirit
could not possibly walk in such a
garden. And yet this creature of
man seems clothed with imperishable
bloom : this death of all nature seems
able to outlive all other life. You
cannot despise it, for it possesses
the semblance of indestructibility —
unchangefulness in the midst of
change. In the forests, dissolution
and reproduction are palpably waging
their unending warfare ; even on the
eternal Apennines, the snow comes
and goes, the lights and shadows of
the clouds are endlessly shifting.
But in this miniature world mono-
tony counterfeits the terrible fixity
and relentlessness of fate. Nature
is deprived of all free-will, and moves
obedient to a fixed design.

It is difficult to say how far civil-
ization, apart from religion, may go
with advantage in remodelling the
natural man. It is equally difficult
to say how far art may safely en-
croach upon nature in reconstructing
a landscape. Some of the grand
elemental presentations disdain our
interference. We have no control
over the clouds, or the curves of the
ocean, or the nocturnal radiance of

GSdr

limpses of Tnfcany'

the skies. But the surface of the
earth is an unfinished sketch, which

lithe Creator has left us to humanize,
in some small degree, after our fancy.
We do not make even the smallest
impression upon its planetary as-
pect ; but, after centuries of toil, we
succeed in partially changing its
more immediate expression. We
take the groundwork ready made,

L accept the laws as we find them, and

'then, inspired by the supreme long-
ing after unrevealed beauty, which,
in some shape or other, haunts every
human soul, proceed to establish a
little paradise of our own.

But above and beyond that last

|> temporal Eden, there is still another

■ — ^the one beyond the grave, I, who
am an immortal spirit capable of
sharing the celestial joy of angels,
predestined for the beatific \nsion ; I,

^whose hereafter should be passed
lid perpetual light, and peace,
und beauty ; may I not have imagin-

Mngs of better forms^ of sweeter faces,
of fairer prospects, of deeper skies,

r and ei''en of diviner stars than those
Bvealed to the senses ? Did Raphael
ever see a face that equalled hers of
the San Sisto ? Was there ever in
Ne flesh a form to rival the Apollo
the Vatican? Is there any pat-
em in nature for Giotto's Campa-
aile ? Is there any voice in the woods
&f seas to suggest the melodies of
Lreutzer or the harmonies of Bee-

Jthoven ? And may w^e not, then, po-
etize our landscapes too, and throw

'Into the face of nature the expression
of a human soul ? But here is pre-
cisely the difficulty: the landscape
has a soul of its own, which must not
be murdered, even to make way for
ours. The Grand Master has been
at work before us; his works have
wandered, of their own sweet will,
into shapes and combinations that
exhibit the grace beyond the reach
of art The mountains, the streams^

the valleys, are full of t
surprises. The true artisi
little more than r€pro<!u
squared and framed, for
templation: the true
do little more than display^
the best advantage.

It is more than likely, t
when the Boboli Gardens
out by the Medici, the ai
ployed had only to deal wi
mented slopes of ohve oi
arable land. The Ian
to be remodelled than
surface under treatment
cally as blank as uncolored
as meaningless as quarried
With this difference, howc
while the groundwork of
fades and wrinkles, while
stains and shatters, whUe
sculptured arches of great
crumble into dust, the
on which the landscape
works is not only im ~
so charged with vitality
instead of losing by durai
should a touch of decay at
pear, it is but in transitioQl
phases of beaut}% One ¥
that, where human fancy
conceive a garden of deligh^
man means sufficient to ran
ages and spoil the climes fc
bell ishment,' the result
cape being a public and
attraction. I take this Bd
den as a sample of most
dens or parks. Arc they |
or even selectly, attractiv
they ever thronged, except
hours, when people chiefly
gate to exhibit Uieroselves
cise each other > Was an
any miracle, ever caught th
than once, save in the ca^
casual saunterer? Are
startlingly unfrequented, in
their superb richness and
However conducive thesis

whde «
^t<^

e livinM
c ape J

ityfll

Glimpses of Tuscany.

68i

ripal health, have not the park
n almost exclusive monopoly
xesh air and gravel? Do
ignets draw by dint of their

beauty ? It may safely be
ed. And may not this failure
buted to our vague, unpro-

repugnance to having nature
armony with itself and our-

Notwithstanding all the gilt
nine of the new emblazonry,
) asking the gay palimpsest
e the lost features of our first

urse that fell on Adam also
:he earth from which he was
The heart of fallen man is
jarning ; the face of nature is
sympathetic sadness ; her

nearer a sigh than a song,
an half the year is clouded,
an half the hours belong to
id over more than half the
)es the wail of the unresting
"he vast distances are every-
Dftened or shaded into pen-

; the very sunshine turns to
1 purple on the hills ; it is
small «<f«r which presumes to
with the flash of a rivulet, the
birds, or the glance of flow-
id, in these minor poems too,
apt to lurk some sly sugges-
he unattained. Even where
rerse is transfigured by the
mom, and the world thrills
I joyous cry of reawakened
! momentary exultation, the
delight of existence, are soon

by toil, or care, or thought ;
yht as the coming day may
fie impression left on human
s that of promise unfulfilled,
orest part of sunrise is the
If j the horns on the Rigi are
i soon as the orb is fairly up.
yr not be overbold to aflirm that

these grander parks, such as

de Boulogne, bear no mean
ance to the first paradise it-

self. But our lot is changed since
then ; the primitive tradition of Dei-
ty incarnate has been fulfilled. Eden
could no longer content us ; we would
not care to pass those Cherubim with
the flaming sword, even if we dared.
Between us and any possible paradise
lies the grave. It is worse than
mockery to expect the sorely laden
Christian heart to find more than
casual enjoyment in arbitrary walks,
and endless beds of roses, and arti-
ficial fountains, and manufactured
grottoes. Sorrow, passion, deaths
were encountered by God in descend-
ing to man ; sorrow, passion, death,
must be encountered by man in as-
cending to God. Spiritual felicity is
less to be extracted from violets and
roses than from sackcloth and ashes.
Temporal happiness is not to be
compassed by meandering through
shaded avenues and even lawns, but
by the sweat of the brow and the work
of the hands ; and in our respites from
toil we like the wild, suggestive irre-
gularities of nature better than a too
glaring array of brightnesses with
which we are seldom in complete
accord.^ The post-Adamic garden
needs depth and gloom and mystery
as well as sunshine and flowers.

I do not mean to say that the Bo-
boli is wholly glad ; much of it is
sad or saddening enough. That
long, grim avenue of cypress would
suit the valley of the shadow of
death. Amolfo's dark, mighty wall
goes striding down the hill-side like
a phantom. The Boboli was only
tneant to be wholly glad. Though
probably not designed by a Greek, it
is nevertheless Grecian, or rather
Athenian; for, in art, Athens is
Greece. By an exceptional felicity
and refinement of mental, moral, and
physical organization, the Athenian
realized in himself the most perfect
development of natural civilization.
The dark, religious mysteries whidi

682

Glimf*ses of Tuscany .

tinge and sadden Hindu, Egyptian,
and most Gentile life had little hold
upon the Greek. Athens, in her
prime, succeeded in escaping the
pressure and responsibility of the
hereafter. She aimed at making
time a success independent of eterni-
ty. The real heaven of the Athe-
nian and hts disciples, in both class-
ic peninsulas, was this world, not
the next. Eternity was but the
ghost of time» a vague prolongation
of the present for better or worse in
Elysium or Hades, the shadow pro-
jected by a vast material world as it
moved through endless space. The
poets of Greece dictated her popular
theolog)* ; her sculptors carried beau-
ty to the very. borders of the beati-
tude, giving such glory to form that
the inspired likeness is mistaken for
the divine original. It is impossible
to tell where the hero ends and the
god begins. We have the deifica-
tion of man in marble or fable, in-
stead of tlie humanization of God in
the flesh ; or, in other words, the
identity of religion and art. This
pleasant way of being one with Cod,
this graceful fulfilment of destiny,
imparted a complacency to Athenian
life whicll we cannot imitate.

** to every djtrlt and awful pTace,
Kude hill and hjiunted «T»d,
Tlii> buutifiU, bnght p«opie l«fl
A name of rtmen £ci<KL

" UnUk« the children of r

Knmi out whoM spirit deep
The togcU of gtooni hziU puoed on glen»

And mountain, Uke, and itcep;
On DeviVft Phd^e and Raven** Tow«r»

And Welon} Malden^tt Leap."

Grecian life, in its highest aspect*
was an attempt to reproduce the per-
fections of a lost Eden ; Christian
life, in its highest aspect, is purifica-
tion, self-denial, self-immolation, for a
paradise which can never be reached
in this world, and only in the next
after life-long fear and trembling.
And although we strive more or less
successfully to substitute the jop of

spiw

the spirit for the
*'Even we ourself
first-fruits of the
ourselves, waiting I
the sons of God, i
our body.*' {Sl
knowledge of good lu
dise must have nc
expanse of which <
chance to be the <
the horizon and v£
the whole visible
fitful light and
blight and bloom,
and song, whethe
or wild as on th
first Sabbath — this i«
verse is the only gai
with the vast aspiri
less yearning of
opened eyes woM
walled Eden, as
the Happy Valley.'*

It is a pure and ps
grapple with the njj
bend it to your wiiy
the forest to your |
a bare expanse intt
mortal joys perha
most enduring.
done ? —

Take your stand
Palace almost an>
hill, on the observatc
choose. All the wid
Arno, with its circuQ
tered hills and wood!
is before you. Foi
years industrious
been at work on
Yellow villas are^
heights ; olive-tree
the slopes in pall
vines are trailing <
less procession ov
berries ; the long

* Ffir tli« MiiatettuNi of {
writer ii indebted to a notln
W4t/ of Faibcf Ry;in'» tie

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas L

683

parcelling out the small Tus-
rms. All Florence is beneath
ith its domes and towers and

its streets and bridges, its me-
s and suggestions. The atmo-
^ is so transparent, the cultiva-
o perfect, that the area describ-

half the radius of vision seems
"lose only a vast kitchen-garden,
urther on, the mist and haze are
ng \ the enchantment of distance
ling j Vallambrosa, gleaming on
ountain's breast, turns into some
erious opal ; the records traced
lan through all those centuries
gradually erased by the quiet
imy of nature, and the same
lal story reappears as vividly as
e superscription were but the
ow of a dream.

Turn to the Boboli at your feet.
Do you wonder it is a failure — that
Florence never goes there? They
love their own little gardens dearly
and the flowers in their windows;
for these are but sweet thefts from
nature to embellish home. But for
these attempts to compress univer-
sal beauty into a given space, for
this overprizing, overadoming of the
tuar^ only to be lost, or merged, or
overlooked in the glory of the /ar^
the Christian heart can have but lit-
tle relish.

The bells of Santo Spirito are
ringing ; and I wonder, on my way
there, if that cold white hand of
Athens will ever quite relax its hold
on Christian life.

TRANSLATBO FROM LB COBRSSFONDANT.

JCDOTICAL MEMOIRS BY A FORMER PAGE OF THE
EMPEROR NICHOLAS.

TE day, some months after my
ssion among the pages, as the
is were being dismissed, I heard
It noise. People were running
1 fro, agitated and hurried ; offi-
»f the service, pages of the bed-
inspectors, all seemed to be in
e of extraordinary excitement,
entlemen, look out ! look out !
mperor!" cried in an authori-
tone the head of our company,
his deep, sonorous voice re-
d throughout the dormitory,
, according to custom, we were
jembled before dinner,
this name I was deeply moved,
other and my companions had
very often spoken to me of the

emperor in recitals .where legend
mingled with reality, but I had not
yet seen him face to face. The offi-
cer on duty arranged us in military
order, each one standing near his own
bed, and so we waited for him.

Soon the captain of the guard an-
nounced that the czar was coming
up the great stairway. The dormi-
tory, ordinarily so noisy, became per-
fectly still. There was a moment of
solemn silence, religious in its per-
fect stillnfess. We hardly dared to
breathe. The officer, with his hel-
met on, placed himself at the thresh-
old. Suddenly, in the opening of the
large doorway, appeared' a man of
tall stature, in the uniform of a gene-

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas L

685

iiscovered among the books
lis education while he was
ild, a volume of the History
, by Karamsin, and on the
which are written in his own
ie remarkable words, " The
IV., the Terrible, was a se-
. just man, as one ought to
irn a nation."
;ntiments loudly expressed
as could not fail to alarm a
id court who still remem-
reign of his father, Paul I.,
twenty-three years. The
his crowned fool had, not-
ing its short duration, tired
Russia itself — Russia, too,
) corrupted by the habit of
; and a revolution in the
1 at last put an end to the
this barbarian, this second
dus.

the reign of Alexander I.,
and town spoke freely of
t Paul. Nicholas, who nei-
nor dared reinstate the me-
tis father, and who consi-
Tipolitic to permit a people
themselves irreverently of
bade throughout his whole
eh the mention of a name
ed. The legend of his
especially interdicted^ and
:he reign of Nicholas lasted,
ry of Paul I. remained in
d obscurity.

[lis brother Alexander I.
the empire, Nicholas, who,
e said, believing it impos-
lould ever reign, kept him-
iparative obscurity, concen-
iis attention on the troops,
massing them in review, and
himself only with the lot
dier and the amelioration
idition. The marriage of
I Duke Constantine with
ss of Lowicz brought him
lly nearer the throne. At
of the Emperor Alexander,

and notwithstanding the unequal
marriage of his brother, he was still
uncertain of his approaching advance-
ment. But when he learned, first by
the will. of Alexander, then by the let-
ter of Constantine intrusted to the
Seriate, and finally from Constantine
himselfj his renunciation of the em-
pire, he accepted the crown, and
from the day he did so, faithful to
his character, he understood how to
reign fully and absolutely.

Firmly convinced that he repre-
sented celestial power on earth, sin-
cerely persuaded that to his own
people he was the mandatary of God,
and held within himself divine pre-
rogatives, he watched with an over-
shadowing jealousy the sacred de-
posit with which he believed himself
charged, and any attempt against his
authority appeared to him a sacrilege
and proved him inexorable. The
conviction that he never pardoned
even the simple appearance of such
a crime isolated him in the midst of
his court and people, enveloped him
in an atmosphere of gloom and terror,
and placed him at a distance that
added to his prestige and the respect-
ful fear he inspired.

It is said that one evening, about
two years afler his death, one of his
aides-de-camp, (in the midst of an
animated conversation,) recognizing
the portrait of the emperor in the
drawing-room, suddenly lefl his place,
and quickly turned its face to the
wall. "During the life of the
czar, I had such a terror of him,"
said he, " that I fear the copy, with its
terrible eyes fixed upon me, may dis-
concert and embarrass me as greatly
as did the model."

This very intentness of look was
in truth the power of intimidation
which the emperor possessed. In-
tending to win a confidence from any
one or force a confession, he fastened
on his victim his cold and immovable

Anecdotkal Mentoirs of Emptrar Nickahs l.

eyes. The unfortunate was literally
fascinated. He knew that a word or
a gesture from the autocrat sufficed
to annihilate him, and the least con-
traction of his brow froze the blood
in his veins. Terror is the neces*
sary auxiliary of every despotism,
democratic or aristocratic, monarch-
ical or republican*

Yet these jealous instincts, and
this implacable firmness in punish-
ment, were not solely due to the
character of the Emperor Nicholas,
but also to the sad experiences which
signalized the commencement of his
reign. Conspiracies against the new
czar, revolts occasioned by the ap-
pearance of cholera, indeed all sorts
of disorders, Nicholas had to sup-
press on his accession to the throne.
From the very first he learned these
bloody retaliations, and never par-
doned.

The first conspirators of his reign,
Pestel, Mouravieff-Apostol, and the
poet Relieff, were condemned to be
hung. The emperor signed the de-
cree after the Russian formula, ** Byt
po skmau^^ (So be it.) They were then
conducted to the place of execution.
Relieflf, a poet of the highest order,
was the first one led to the scaffold.
Just at the moment when the execu-
tioner, having passed the slip-knot
over his head, had raised him on his
shoulders to launch him into eternity,
the too weak cord broke, and he fell
forward bruised and bleeding.

" They know not how to do any-
thing in Russia,** said he, raismg
himself without even turning pale,
** not even to twist a rope/*

As accidents of this kind — ^besides
being ver>' rare, were always con-
sidered occasions of pardon, they
sent, therefore, to the Winter Palace
to know the will of the emperor.

" Ah \ the cord has broken ?" said
Nicholas*

*Yes, sire/'

*' Then he was almost dead ? H^at
impression has such close eonUct
with eternity produced on tlie mini
of the rebel ?'*

** He is a brave man, sire."

The czar frowned.

** What did he say ?^* asked he ^^
verely.

" Sire, he said, ' They know not
how even to twist a rope in Russia.' *

**Well," replied NichoUs, -kt
them prove to hira ilie cotunfj.*
And he went out*

A wealthy Polish !ord, the Fnixt
Roman Sangus^ko* had bcea t»
demned, as a conspirator, to scfff tk
rest of his life as a simple soMio;
and to immediately join a rc^tmeflt
fighting in Caucasia. On the outf-
gin of the sentence, the empcfOi
wrote in his own hand, **On footT

Such severity was in him % ^
tern. He sincerely be' fffli

a necessity, and a pan
tity of absolute power. In Rui
especially, his knowlcd;^'" -* ^'^"
racter of his people f
his belief, and he let no oppariujutj
escape to declare his despotiim.

Of al) the heterogeneous ekmcnt^
that compose the immense enpirf rf
Russia, there is not one that rnc*'
seems likely to detxtop in the si
est degree the idea of liberalif ill \
a single nationality tn wfUch
is not innate, and to which the
themselves are not as much at
as the nations of the East lo li
Hence it is that among (He Ri
properly so<alled, and wha
tute the main portir>n of the
tion, we find the x\

with an inveterate i.t of «'

vile obsequiousness, atid the p«09^
predisposed by temperament, is^
moulded by past expedMce, to lS«
most abject submission,
have the same character as the
princes of Kieff, who, n
the yoke of the Tartars, nienl to

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas /.

687

le investiture of the Khan of
)rde d'Or \ and who, after

held his stirrup and offered
lass of koumys* were obliged
Tom the neck of his horse the
lat dropped from his mous-

Do we need greater evidence
ervility of the Russian people
e reign of the crowned tiger,
^ the Terrible, a despot with-
illel in history, whose subjects,
Ltient than the Romans under
I and Nero, not only were
sd to bear with his follies and
but actually supplicated him
le the throne, after his volun-
dication through disgust of
nd himself? The reign, too,
r the Great, whose savage
ir could not absolve him from

and even the possibility in
iteenth century of such a des-

Nicholas I., what greater
lo we require ?

) the half-savage nations of
them limits of Russia and

with populations perhaps
jterday awakened to anything
ial life, their need is still, as
ildren, the master and the

easy to understand, then, how
armed like Nicholas with an
I and immense authority, and
lending perfectly the charac-
lis people, should have con-
this superhuman idea of his
ver. Never thwarted by the
sistance, only now and then
ccasional murmuring, we can
• better explanation of his ap-
r exaggerated despotism, of
terate faith in the sanctity of
lination, his conviction that
2lf centred his whole empire,
faculty, in fine, which he pos-
in so great a degree, of en-
noring mankind,
lay, a short time before the

• Camtl't milk fomented.

Crimean war, at a grand military re-
view at Krasnoe-Selo, the emperor,
on horseback, presented his troops to
the empress seated in her carriage.
Suddenly appeared on the drill
ground a cariole drawn by one horse,
and out of which stepped 2^feldjaguer^
(courier of the palace,) charged with
two autographic letters from the King
of Prussia to the emperor and em-
press. As the empress was the more
easily approached, he handed her the
first letter, and ran toward the em-
peror to present the second. But
some steps from him he pauses, turns
pale, and bursts into tears. The
letter is lost.

Trembling from head to foot, he
retraces his steps to try and find it,
but the soldiers, the aides-de-camp,
the horses, have already trodden it in
the dust, and the precious envelope
cannot be found.

"What ails that animal?" asked
the emperor of one of his aides-de-
camp.

" I do not know, sire."

" Well, go and ask him, and bring
me his reply."

The aide-de-camp spurred his horse,
and from the lips of the poor feld
jaguer he learned that an autograph
letter from the King of Prussia to the
Emperor of Russia had been lost.
He brought the czar the information.

The face of Nicholas clouded in-
stantly; his expression was gloomy
and severe.

" Take charge of this man yourself
and without allowing him to commu-
nicate with any one, conduct him im-
mediately to Siberia. Let him not
be harshly treated, but let him never
again appear in Europe."

The aide-de-camp, as well as the
unhappy feld jaguer, were both to set
out, without even cnanging their boots,
for this journey of 2000 leagues. The
aide-de-camp returned eight months
afterward, and was recompensed by

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas /.

689

weeks after the inauguration
lilroad an ambassador arriv-

Petersburg. According to
and to pay him attention,
ig was shown him in detail,
)jects of interest in the city,
issed no surprise or admira-
> oriental gravity was proof
lither.

it could we show him that
tonish him ?" asked the em-
Menschikoff.

V him the accounts of Klein-
)r the Nicholas railroad," re-
i prince, laughing.

days later, General Klein-
n presence of the emperor,
issing with Menschikoff some

upon which they could not
The general proposed to the
wager.

I pleasure," replied the lat-
1 this shall be the stake, if
silence permits it. He who
all be obliged — at the ex-
' the winner — to go to Mos-

retum by the railroad your
:e has just finished."
t joke is this?" asked the

ry simple one, sire. The
so constructed that one is
e to break his neck on it;
;ee, we are playing for our

mperor laughed heartily at

but Kleinmichel took care
:cept the bet.

two instances prove that
, knew how, now and then,

to a truth well said. He
:ertain that none of his sub-
ed fail him in the respect he
, so he could afford to listen

who were bold and witty
to approach him with the
Menschikoff, the same who
ied at Sebastopol, was one
; better than any other, he
naintained before the czar

VOL. VII. — 44

his frank speech, and Nicholas, little
accustomed to such frankness, loved
him dearly, and frequently amused
himself with his sallies.

General Kleinmichel was the aver-
sion of Menschikoff One day the
latter entered the cabinet of Nicho-
las at the moment when the emperor
was playing with one of his grand-
children, the Grand Duke Michel,
still quite an infant

Astraddle on the shoulders of his
grandfather, the little prince made
the czar serve for his horse.

" See," cried Nicholas gayly, " see
how this little imp treats me. I am
growing thin under it. The little
monkey is so heavy, I shall fall with
fatigue."

"Zounds I" quickly replied Men-
schikoff, "little Michel (in German
KUin-michel) ought not to be a very
light load, if he carries about hint
all he has stolen."

Notwithstanding his jokes, which
spared no one, Menschikoff delighted
Nicholas, who could readily enough
withdraw him from the chief com-
mand at Sebastopol, but would not
deprive him of his friendship. This
was of more ancient date, and found-
ed on the two good qualities of cou-
rage and sincerity. Sometimes, but
rarely, others approached the empe-
ror as familiarly. The celebrated
poet, Pouchkine, for example, dared
to express himself in his presence
with a frankness which, even in occi-
dental Europe, and in a constitu-
tional state, would pass for auda-
city.

In the palace of the Hermitage,
where they were walking together,
the emperor had led the poet into a
gallery of pictures that contained the
portraits of all the Romanoffs, from
Michel Fedorovitch to the last reign-
ing sovereign, and had ordered him
to improvise some verses on each.

Pouchkine obeyed; but coming to.

6$>

Anecdoficat Memoirs nf Empncr Nkki^tas T,

the portrait of Nicholas, lie was si-
lent.

"Well, Pouchkine/' said the em-
peror, **what have you to say of me?"

"Sirel^'

** Some flattery, of course ? I don't
wish to hear it ; so tell the truth,"

" Your majesty permits me ?*'
• " I order you. Believe in my im*
perial word, you shall not suffer.**

" So be it, sire,"

And he wTote the famous distich :

*^ Dea ptedft i k t#te k toUe ett admirable :
De U tete mx pied« le tw «>t d^taufale.***

The emperor made no reply, but
he asked Pouchkine for no more
verses.

Notwithstanding his despotism,
and the arbitrary acts that signal-
ized his reign ; notwithstanding the
innumerable banishments into Siberia
and Caucasia, it is seen the empe-
ror could sometimes bear to hear the
truth. The instinct of justice was
born in him ; despotism had smother-
ed it, unfortunately, but his better
nature frequently triumphed. Often
the hereditary grand duke had, in
this respect, to submit to severe re-
primands. One day, in 1832, a year
after the revolt of the Poles, whom
Nicholas had handled with implaca-
ble rigor, the grand duke, in the pre-
sence of his father* had called them
accursfd. Rebuking publicly his son :

** Imperial Highness," said Nicho-
las, ** your expressions are unseemly.
If I chastise the Poles, it is because
they have revolted against my au-
thority; but to you they have don'e
no harm, and you are destined to
reign over tliem. You have no right
to make any difference in your future
subjects. JBe assured, such senti-
ments make bad sovereigns,**

The sentiment of gratitude was no
more a stranger to the Emperor Ni-

• •• Pretn UiH to hesMl ti»e f>iCTurt it aamirable :
Fnmi iMad Id lect the oar to adnlftbk. *

cholas than the spirit
True, he guarded as fti
remembrance of injuries ^
vices, and if he never
who had served or
neither did he ever forgit
had made the least attc
his power. Wliile Uie Tp
the Mouravieffs, the Tc
worked in the mines of
there could be seen, at thi
reign, several generals
qualiiied, yet provided
tageous employmcots,
great power, it is true, b€i|
ed, well fed, honored^ an

If they committed any abi

this frequently happcoed, he c
their pUces according ta \
sometimes secretly dir
the exercise of their func
failing in his goodness tgi^
These men, ir
1826, had oft* T|

si St his growing puwcr.

Strange character \ Cu
ture of faults and good
littleness and grandeur ;
chivalrous, courageous ev
rity, and < n to|

ery; equi laoi!

rous and cruel t at once the tm
ostentation and of simplic
palace was magiuttoent,
splendid, the luxuriousoe
courtiers dazzling. while>
person, his hi
fected an im^
working cabinet was i
slept always on a ca
oUness of his uniform,
military cloaks^ was prove
Petersburg, Worn out,
different places, they
their shining neatness,
they were preserved,
pasts even, he draak no
never smoked, and the odor
bacco was so disagreeable t
that it was forbiddeiii 1

ihc mi

MiO^

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas I.

691

alace, but in the streets of
rsburg. Even the Grand
sxander, the czar truly, and
rate smoker, was obliged to
the mantel-piece, to enjoy
y of a cigar in the imperisd

beyond everything military
, and rigorous in his formu-
olas, who for thirty years
tomed to this refrain, " Mas-
ave is here to obey thee " —
could only comprehend or-
uniformity. Reviews were
:e passion ; during his reign,
>rmed his empire into a bar-
e passed his life in manceu-
cises, and miniature wars,
ers adored him, although he
eclipsed in the severity of
ule by the Grand Duke Mi-
is true, the latter pushed
ip of discipline to such an
It the emperor himself was
ised at the expense of his
brother. One day he met
with his clothes torn and
i^ith mud, and without hel-
«rord. The officer, finding
iscovered, and knowing he
ime, was terribly frightened,
y fell backward in making
ry salute. Nicholas fixed a
ik upon the poor devil, which
m totter. But, suddenly
his tone and countenance,
ayly:

ress yourself ; but take good
don't meet my brother 1"
with the dawn, and at work
earliest hour of the day,
Lt his palace in winter or in
ti summer, he hardened him-
ell as others, to both cold
ue. An excellent rider, his
;re magnificent and marvel-
ed for ; he always mounted
)s^ that were reserved for
out of two or three hundred
y year to his stables for his

own use, he could scarcely find a do-
zen to suit him. In manoeuvres I
have seen him twenty times, at the
moment of the loudest cannonade and
in the most frightfiil noise, jerk, in
his impatience, his horse's bit until
the jagged lips of the poor beast
were streaming with blood. Some-
times this torture lasted several mi-
nutes ; the sides of the beautiful ani-
mal whitened with foam; he trem-
bled in agony, and yet never lost for
a moment his statue-like immobility.

Such methods of proceeding, ap-
plied by Nicholas equally to every-
thing that surrounded him, gene-
rals, servants, horses, and courtiers,
were fortunately tempered in him by
the sense of justice, of which I have
already spoken, and especially by the
fear of public opinion, not only in
Russia, but in all Europe. He seemed
ashamed of the despotism he prac-
tised, and strove to conceal it from
the governments and people of the
West. In proportion as he affected
to despise their arms, so much the
more did he respect their ideas.

We know that it is customary
at the court of St Petersburg to
be presented to the emperor in full
uniform. And even more, that there
is no condition in life, however tri-
fling, which has not its distinctive
costume. It is related that one

morning Lord ^ ambassador

from England, arrived in his carriage
at the gate of the Winter Palace, was
recognized, and went up to the apart-
ments of the emperor. He was in
his great-coat Seeing it, the cham-
berlain-in-waiting, who did not dare
remark this infringement of the laws
of etiquette in such an important per-
son, immediately sent word to the
chancellor of the empire. Count Nes-
selrode, and meanwhile retained the
ambassador under various pretexts.
The count arrived in haste, and the
morning toilet seemed to have the

Anecdotkal Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas I.

693

, and prolong your stay in
as long as you please. You

that you have judged our
correctly."

ithstanding all his efforts to
:e European opinion, the Em-
icholas was not rewarded in
els by any praise whatever,
ut of his own country, he
discovered he had deceived

and his despotism was in
the object of universal un-

ty.

the Holy Father he received

lesson : a lesson, however,
en and received with dignity.
5 well known that he had

hundreds of Catholic into
hurches, in all the western
s of Russia and Poland,
js to visit Rome, he asked
on of Gregory XVI. to enter

city. The pope asked, in
y what ceremonial he wished
:eived.

a Catholic sovereign," re-
; emperor.

d at the Quirinal, he went
day in Eastern style with a
' Cossacks to visit the holy
ho received him standing at

of the staircase of the Vati-
icholas knelt to receive the
ion of the venerable pontiff,
jr having given it to him,
being at all impressed with
i-like costume, said to him
renity almost angelic :

son, you persecute my

cried Nicholas in a discon-
ne.

you, my son. You are pow-
'o not use your strength to
he weak."
father, I have been slan-

•nversation continued some
he cabinet of the pope, and
iror reinained, during his

stay in Rome, on terms of the most
affectionate respect with Gregory
XVI. He afterward sent him a
magnificent altar of malachite, that
may be admired at the church of St
Paul, outside the walls. An inscrip-
tion, dictated by Nicholas to St.
Peter at Rome, recalls his visit to
the Capital of Christianity : — " Nicho-
las came here to pray to God for his
mother, Russia."

In London, as is well known, he
was received with great popular de-
monstrations. We need not relate
here the timiultuous scenes to which
he had to submit, and how his car-
riage was more than once covered
with mud.

With a brutality unworthy a sove-
reign, and at times a delicacy asto-
nishing in a man of such a charac-
ter, the most contrary qualities and
defects reproduced themselves in a
hundred acts of his life. For in-
stance, one night I saw him fisticuff
a poor Jew in the face, and accompa-
ny the act with the most sonorous
oaths, because in giving light to the
postilions of the Berlin imperial, he
had awakened him with a start, by
throwing the light of his lantern into
his face. Again, at Warsaw, where
he went to receive the King of Prus-
sia and the Emperor of Austria, he
took Francis Joseph into his arms to
force him to occupy the seat of honor
in his carriage, which the young em-
peror was unwilling to accept : a
courtesy, according to the Cossack,
that would have exactly suited him.

Yet this man, so rude and so haugh-
ty, evidenced occasionally great deli-
cacy of sentiment. One very cold
day, returning from a review, where
he had been almost frozen, he stop-
ped at the house of a lady, whom he
knew to be in ill health, and met the
doctor in the waiting-room.

" How is Madame ?" said he

to the latter.

AfucdotittU Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas I.

695

iquillity ; the affront is wash-

g the war of the Crimea, and
y in the first part of it, Ni-
irery restless, waited every
lews from the south. Each
I his best to conceal the bad
irs had taken ; but after the

the Alma, the truth had to
sssed. A courier. Colonel
despatched to him in great
He received orders to repair
tely to the czar.
I ! what news ?'' said the

to him brusquely, giving him

time to enter or fulfil the
led formalities of etiquette,
battle has been fought, sire."
>h !" said the emperor, with
ion that caused his usually
e to tremble.

!— "

say—?"

Line has failed us."

ire—?"

u-e beaten, sire."

nperor arose from his seat

impossible," said he in a
inner.

Russian army has taken

lie I" cried Nicholas with a
explosion of anger.

lie. My soldiers never fly."
I have told you the trutL"
lie, I say, you lie."
lis eye beaming with anger,
contracted, his hand raised,
himself on the military cou-
tore off his epaulettes.
You are now only a sol-

mhappy colonel, pale with
mothering his rage and the
t rose to his eyes, went out,
in despair. But hardly had
led the staircase, when he
e voice of the emperor beg-
retum. He retraced his

steps, and Nicholas, running to meet
him, embraced him ardently, begged
pardon for his brutality, and offered
for his acceptance the post of aide-
de-camp.

"May your majesty hold me ex-
cused," replied the poor officer ; " for,
in taking off my epaulettes, you have
deprived me of my honor. I leave
them in your hands with my dismis-
sal."

"You are right," replied Nicholas.
"It is not in my power to repair the
offence of my hasty action. Ah ! we
are both unhappy, and I am van-
quished. Yes, completely vanquish-
ed!"

And, walking up and down with
an agitated step, the subdued lion in
his cage, his heart bleeding with the
wound given his pride :

"Go, leave my empire," continued

he, turning to Colonel A , " and

pardon me. We must not meet again.
Both of us would suffer too much in
each other's presence."

The mortification attending the
first reverses of his army before Se-
bastopol was a mortal blow to his
health; yet, had not his stubborn
pride brought about these reverses ?
Self-deceived thoroughly as to the
real condition of his empire, the dis-
astrous news of the Alma came upon
him like a thunder-bolt. Some hon-
est men, sent to the different stations,
signalized the imperfect state of the
fortifications of Sebastopol, the dis-
organization of the army, the deplora-
ble condition of the roads. They in-
formed the emperor that the soldiers,
in their march toward the south, were
dying by thousands for want of suffici-
ent nourishment and necessary cloth-
ing. Thanks to the bad quality of
the grass and hay, whole regiments
were in a few days entirely dismount-
ed. And now the alarming news
spread with rapidity. Each day
brought fresh tidings of new embar-

Aiucdotieal Mefnmn of Emffmr Niefyfas L

mssments, new checks, and new mis-
, fortunes. Nicholas at last opened
^lus eyes. He saw the colossus, with
its feet of clay, tremble to its base ;
he felt his power crumble in his
hands, his prestige fade and disap-
pear. From the windows of Peter*
hofT, his loved summer residence, he
' could follow with his telescope the
evolutions of the allied fleet. Tur-
key itself, hitherto so despicable in his
eyes, was transformed into a redoubta-
ble enemy. Now he began to think
of the ravages that continued theft
had made in his empire, the disor-
ders in the finances, the corruption
of public morals, and every one was
doomed to punishments. By his or-
der, judgments, condemnations, ban-
ishment to Caucasia and Siberia,
were daily multiplied. It was too
late ; the gangrene had reached the
wound.

Tears of grief and rage flowed with
the consciousness of his impotence.
He opened bis eyes to the fall of
Russia with each victorious flash of
the allied cannons ; and the edifice of
terror that had taken him twenty
years to build, he saw crumbling,
stone by stone* and felt that the mili-
tary quackery with which he had in-
timidated Europe had frightened no
one. With the mocking pride of Ti-
tan, he bled at every pore. Repeat-
ed blows of this kind ended by un-
dermining his constitution, till now
so vigorous. Little by little he sank,
bent his haughty head, and tottered,
with slow and saddened step, to the
grave.

It was February ♦ Under a gray
and cold sky, a penetrating, driving
snow enveloped St. Petersburg in a
whitened dust. The streets, the
houses, the beards and furred great-
coats of the passersby, all were
white. The great city resembled a
giant asleep under the snow. \x\
inexpressible sadness took posses-

sion of you^ weighed down f

being, and froze your

You seemed to be at the polo it^

On this day the emperor, an q
riser as usual, came out of bis I
room and entered his c^bioct, wl
were already assembled his gen
aide-de-camp, his other aides,
chamberlain, and gentlemen of;
bed-chamber Perceiving his ^
ral aide-de-camp, he called to %
and said :

-' I am suffering. Send for

" I will go mysclli sire/*

**yes. I have a grand
the end of the week* aod
there/^

Mandt, his attendant ph;
Prussian by birth, a man of
and an excellent practitioncri
ed to the emperor, who,
given his orders, had rei
apartments.

''It will be nothing, g^i
said the doctor to ds on h
imperial chamber; "only
ror should abstain from goi
the least imprudence may
a malady which at present poftci
nothing serious.^'

Tlie emperor remained
his room, and there was a
provemcnt in his condition,
wasted figure, his dull eyes, aad
color betrayed the existence
hidden malady. The tliird
courier from the south bi
news — sad news, certainly,
been a long time since His
had anything happy t'^ * ^ ^ '-
next day was terribly
impregnated with the b
this was the day of tlii?
which the cz^ar wished to assist

He threw a small nailiiaiy d^
over his uniform, and at the appoj
ed hour left his cabinet^ to mootttj
horse. |

Mandt was waiting for hin la I
antechamber.

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas L

697

" said the doctor to him in
ating voice, and trying to re-
it is you, doctor. I am bet-
k you."
*sire, better, but not well

indisposed merely."

sire, a serious malady. I

beg your majesty not to go

>ssible 1"

for pity's sake — "
are crazy, Mandt."
you had better be resigned."
believe there is danger?"
my duty to warn you of it."
, Mandt, if you have done
y in warning me, I will do
going out."

le emperor, without listening
;r word, pursued his way.
, stupefied for a moment,
him, and rejoined him in
t-yard, at the moment he
his horse.

' cried he, resuming his sup-
5, "deign to listen to me — "
/e said it, Mandt I thank
to insist would be useless."
in this condition 1"
?"

your death, sire."
then?"
suicide."

who has permitted you,

to scrutinize my thoughts?

insist no longer. I order

the review, he returned to
:e, pale, trembling, icy cold.

I threatened with my mala-
he to his aide-de-camp.

II send for Mandt?"

ess ; he has already warned

iramed your majesty ?"
; that I would kill myself."
de-de-camp turned pale,
ire! what do I hear?"

" To die, is it not the best thing I
can do? Farewell, my old friend,
I have need of rest. Let no one
disturb me."

All night the imperial family, who
had been apprised of his condition,
the doctors, Mandt and Rasel, uni-
ted in the anteroom, waited with
anxiety — ^not daring to knock at the
door of the emperor — ^for the moment
he might call to them. Obedience,
in this court, was so blindly servile
that it imposed silence on the most
natural and imperious sentiments.
Toward two o'clock something was
heard between a groan and a sigh.
Mandt thought he might knock gently
at the door of the imperial chamber.

" I have forbidden any one to dis-
turb me," murmured the emperor, in
a voice still feeble, but which retained
an accent of authority.

That night was spent ii\ mortal in-
quietude, in inexpressible anguish,
and not until the next morning was
the doctor informed by the valet de
chambre that his august patient would
like to see him.

" Well, Mandt, you were right. I
believe I am a dead man."

These were the first words of Ni-
cholas.

" O sire I I spoke as I did to dis-
suade your majesty from so great an
imprudence."

" Let us see : look me in the face
and tell me if there is yet hope."

" I believe so, sire."

" I tell you I am a dead man. I
feel it. Go on, make use of your
trade. Sound my lungs ; I know that
science will confirm my conviction."

Mandt, having accomplished the
orders of the emperor, shook his head.

"Well?"

"Sire—"

" You are troubled, Mandt ; your
hand trembles. See, I have more
courage than you. Come, let us have
the sentence, and quickly, for I have

698

Anecdotical Memmrs of Emfewr Nicholas

to settle my affairs in this world, and
I have a great many of them."

**Your majesty troubles yourself
unnecessarily. No case is ever des-
perate, and with the grace of God—"

Nicholas gazed at his doctor fix-
edly in the eyes.

The latter looked down confusedly,

"You know, Mandt, I cannot be
deceived easily. Let us have the
truth now, and only the truth. Do
you think that Nicholas does not
know how to die?"

" Sire—"

"Well?"

"In forty-eight hours you will be
dead or saved."

" Thank you, Mandt,'' said Nicho-
las in a voice of deep emotion. " Now
good-by, and send me my family.'*

The doctor prepared to leave the
room.

" Mandt i" called Nicholas, on see-
ing him direct his steps toward the
doon

**Sire."

** Let us embrace each other, my
good old friend. We will perhaps
never meet again on earth. You have
been an honest and faithful servant,
I will recommend you to my son."

"What do you say, sire? Never
see you again I I sincerely hope the
contrary^ and that my attentions — "

" Your attentions will be superflu-
ous. There will be time for me only to
see ray ministers and my priest, and
make my peace with God, Human
science can do no more for me, and,
indeed, I do not wish to try it"

" And now at the close, sire, I re-
volt," cried the doctor. " I have no
right, and my duty forbids my tlius
abandoning you."

" Mandt, do you answer for my
cure ?*'

The doctor hung his head, and
could not reply.

"Farewell, then, my friend."

" Sire, if not, then, as your physi-

cian, permit me as a dcvol
to see you again. Who can
is great \ and for the d
Russia which he protect^
a miracle."

"And because I knoii^
protects Russia, so neithe
nor hope for my restoratioi
Mandt, let my family con
assure you the time will soa

Mandt wept, V
eyes, he went out
courtiers his conversation
emperor. Strange contradi
man, whom I have tried I
so severe and haughty, f
by all who approached lij
tiers, soldiers, servants,
tears. Lost in the crowd
I mingled my complaints a

Then, after the empred
grand hereditary duke, li
family, all in tears, entered
ment of the emperor. The
upon Uiem, and all that pa
all that was said in thi
grief, only God knew. Mi
ever, with a voice choked
tion, continued his rcciti
listened to him with the 1
tention. How and by ^
ere tion the news he had jw
was spread in the city, I c
but already, before the
C2ar» it was believed at
burg that Mandt had hel]
son him. From this to the
act itself there was but oi
ward belief, and this was
come; so the exasperatic
false, against the honest do
no bounds, and they woul
him to pieces in the strf
name of Nicholas stilt
terror that every one
give some public demom
grief as a claim on his bl
in the event of his returq

Yet ^Xcx '
tions clu.

h these

vir

Anecdotical Memoirs of Emperor Nicholas L

699

ntrast between such marks of
on and the epithets with which
oaded his memory when they
ertain he really ceased to exist,
lesson for kings to contemplate,
e time, though, the anger of the
; against the poor doctor was so
jr furious, that it is related of a
seized by the collar by a passer-
)m whom he had tried to steal
Itch, that in order to escape,
sed the cry, " Hist I hist 1 it's
t, comrades, it's Mandt T'
5 interview between the empe-
d his family lasted three hours,
long hours, during which ex-
ion for us was changed into
inguish. By degrees retired,
y one, the children, the grand-
en, and his brothers. The grand
itary duke came out last, ba-
in tears. An hour flew by, and
sound was heard from the im-
chamber ; no one dared enter,
t listened attentively, holding
eath. Suddenly a loud noise
;ard in the corridors ; a courier
Sebastopol arrived. As the
court knew the impatience with
the emperor awaited the news
the Crimea, the aide-de-camp
al on duty, thinking to please
nperor, knocked at his door,
►o they still want me ?" murmur-
e emperor; "tell them to let

2St."

" Sire, a courier from Sebastopol."

"Let him address himself to my
son ; this concerns me no longer."

Soon the primate, followed by the
clergy, arrived to offer the last conso-
lations of the church. Then the mi-
nisters were presented, the Count
Orlof at their head. This lasted du-
ring the night At ten o'clock, the
emperor asked for the officers of his
household. His face already bore
the impress of death ; a cadaverous
paleness betrayed the progress of the
decomposition that preceded the fatal
moment ; lying on his camp-bed, he
addressed us some farewell words,
which the first strokes of death-rattle
interrupted, and took leave of us with
a waive of his hand. None of us
slept that night in the Winter Palace,
none of us afler that hour ever saw
the emperor alive.

The next day, the i8th of February,
at mid-day, the grand chamberlain of
the palace was sent for by the physi-
cians to the imperial bed. At half-
past twelve o'clock, returning among
us, " Nicholas Paulowitch is dead,"
said he.

We went out silent and sad.

The next day, on the walls of St.
Petersburg could be read this in-
scription: "Russia, grateful to the
Emperor Nicholas I. for the i8th of
February, 1855."

700

Househctd Duties,

TKAItSt*ATSO fHOM TK8 FMirCM Or mm mtS LANOSIOT— AODX«SR& T» 1

HOUSEHOLD DUTIES.

* Shb giveth m^t to her liOfweboH And > poftum to lier

We finished the question, vulgar
perhaps in one sense, yet so impor-
tant in many others^ of sleep ;• a
benefit of divine Providence ac-
corded us each day to repair our
strength, renew our life, and provide
for the weakness and precipitation of
man; a time for repose and sage
counsel. Sleep is a precious dictate,
a solitary bath for body and soul,
and a prudent counsellor and daily
preacher to remind us of our ap-
proaching and last departure. But
like all good things, sleep is subject
to abuse, and then it produces effects
entirely contrary to the will of the
Creator : weakening, stupefying, and
dulling the faculties, it becomes for
humanity a living sepulchre. If the
abuse of sleep coincides with the
quality, that is to say, if the hours by
nature destined to it are considerably
changed — night turned into day, and
day into night — the constitution is
assuredly ruined, and an infirm
old age prepared, a never-ceasing
convalescence. Parties and mid*
night revels have killed more women
than the most exaggerated mortifica-
tions ; and if religion commanded
the sacrifice the world requires of its
■ votaries, the recriminations against
it would be unending. In a hygienic
light, physical as well as moral, it is
better to retire and rise early. Ever)*-
Ihing gains by it— health, business,
and the facility and excellence of
prayer. But we must not dissimulate ;
and the struggle with the pillow is,
in its very sweetness, one of the most
violent that can exercise man s cou*

• See ** Eariy Ruing*' m Tii« Catmos-IC Wor1|>
for September, 1367.

:hedi£

, aiifl

)Uni«f

rage ; and to break
btd, it is necessary
almost superhuman
enemy is deceitful^ d^
caresses, and gener
suading us; we thic
and, after all, it is a
tyrize ourselves, I hai«
ladies, to conceal the (|i|
I have pleaded my
also yours. To )x>u
reason I submit it, ;
ceed at such a tribunai
to appeal, and present I
fore the tribunal of Idlen
to its numerous lawyers
I may tell you the fir
be suspended. Well,^
to lose, but on one
you will insert this o
judgment : that the
before Judge Reasoti
the supreme court of ]
ness, surrounded by
voked the decision.
Now for the end of
" Th^ strong womafi
her household^ and a '
ma i dens, ^^

Formerly, ladies,
and societies were
the domestics, accor
mology of the word,^
part of tlie house ; for <
from the Latin word
signifies house. In
family formed a body |
mother were head, an
themselves had their ]
ganiaration of the fan
only subordinate roea
were a4)art of the 1
they always lived in tli

Household Duties,

701

ives there ; and when they
10 longer able to work, they
:ared for with paternal and
ffection ; and when the hour of
came to them by length of
hey had fallen into decay as a
I dying on its trunk. The re-
of benevolence and Christian
' united masters to servants ;
hile the latter accepted the
of inferiority, they felt them-
loved, and loving in return, a
{ formed stronger than massive
the tie of love. Saint Augus-
eaks to us with much feeling of
rse who cared for his mother's
jy and who had even carried
back the father of St. Monica,
ng girls then carried little chil-
" Sicut dorso grandiuscularum
mm parvuli poriari sclent y*
remembrance," continued St
tine, " her old age, the excel-
3f her manners, assured her in
stian house the veneration of
asters, who had committed to
e carQ of their daughters ; her
isponded to their confidence ;
rUle she exercised a saintly
ss to correct them— to instruct,
IS always guided by an admir-
rudence."

wadays, ladies, things have
ed. Such examples are rare ;
ithout doubt, there are still
ible exceptions — servants who
heir masters, and who make
f the family as true children of
3use, serving with ease and
ness, because they are guided
pally by affection, and bearing
lilts of their masters, who, in
, are patient with them, until
tiold affairs glide on with a
hness which, though sometimes
mperfect, is, after all, a small
Yes, we do still find Christian
ss where domesticity is thus
stood ; but alas 1 they become

• C^^ffuwms, u 9, & 8.

rarer every day 1 In our time, owing
to a spirit of pride, independence
and irreligion are spreading every-
where ; good servants are hard to
find, and perhaps also good masters ;
and as two fireplaces placed opposite
each other are mutually overheated,
so the bad qualities of the domestics
increase those of the masters, and
vice versA, Servants have exaggera-
ted pretensions ; they will not bear
the least reproof; everything wounds
them ; and on the other side, masters
do not command in a Christian spirit.
Thus, everywhere is heard a general
concert of complaint and recrimina-
tion ; masters accuse their servants,
servants do as little as possible for
their masters; and certain houses
become like omnibuses, where the
servants enter only to get out again
at their convenience.

I have told you, ladies, that, if I
had to preach to your husbands, I
could add a kind of counterpart, not
adverse to your interests, but to com-
plete my instructions ; but, address-
ing myself to you, my words must be
limited to your duties. I would add
here, also, that, if I had to preach to
your servants, I would be obliged to
give them advice very useful for your
household organization ; but they are
absent ; my instruction is to you ; so
I must leave in shadow all their
shortcomings.

It appears to me your duties to
them will be well accomplished if
you enter into the spirit of this text :
" She riseth while it is yet night, and
giveth meat to her household, and a
portion to her maidens." Look at
the sun ; it rises on the horizon, and,
in shedding its beams, seems to dis-
tribute work to every creature, and,
by way of recompense, prepares their
nourishment in advance. Is it not
he who, while lighting the world, in-
vites the artisan to his shop, the la-
borer to his field, and the pilot to

702

fmtseftaii

>tttes.

leave his port? Is it not he who
prepares the germs in the bosom of
the earth — who warms them, and
conducts tliem to that point of ma-
turity that the statesman waits for as
impatiently as the laborer? "Wo-
man," says the Scripture, "should be
the sun of her household." She should
lighten and warm like the planet of
the day. Her rays are emitted in
indicating to each one his duties, in
distributing the work in wise and
suitable proportions, and, when all is
justly ordered, superintending its exe-
cution. Then ever)thmg goes on
admirably, because brightened by
the spirit of regularity that guides
the mistress of the house. Her
glance, given to all around her, pro-
jects the light ; and this light is
the strongest and most insinuating of
counsellors, as well as a gracious but
severe monitor. A woman who pre-
sides well over her household need
talk but little ; her presence speaks
for her, and the simple conviction
that she has her eyes everywhere,
and that tlie least detail is not un-
known to her, prevents any irregula-
rity. But see, on the contrary, a
house where the mistress rises late,
and sleeps morally the rest of the
day. Everything is left to chance \
disorder introduces itself everj^w he re^
in heads as in business ; a general
pell-mell of ideas and objects — a con-
fusion which recalls the primitive
chaos. Madam sleeps late, the ser-
vants rise only a little earlier ; dur-
ing the day, madam dreams, occupies
herself with her toilet, in matinees,
and visits, and the house, given up
to itself, becomes what it may. The
children are almost abandoned, and
work accumulates in the most de-
lightful disorder.

Woman, the sun of her house,
should not be satisfied to illuminate
it ; she should warm it also, and with
her heart.

You ought, ladies, to
Servants, demand an ;
proceedings tn-doors indij
over them particularl|
nection with your cl
often the heart and iniii
servants, and, were it
reveal all the huntan
us in this respect, you j
ously alarmed

About twenty year
charge of a seminary.
received a visit from a vcr
father, who told roc witii
that his child had been otjrr
our cstablislimcnt I kn
contrary ; but I had no
offer, so in silence I
merited reproach, Sooic
ward I had permission to 3
I was able to prove to
was in his own house thai j
was lost, by keeping ami|
servant.

Watch, then, your child
by watching )*our scrranl
their going out and coniiii
bearing and their comi;
their words and actions.
of you, wajch with kindu
light of your supervisioiiJ
warm with Christian .
your servants, and alv
that they are human — the 11
God, and that they have bcei
by tlie blood of Jesus Chri
much as possible, speak to lli
kindness, and, if an occasioti
tiencc escapes you, endea
pair it by sincere bcnevok
your watchfulness may iio||
suspicion and reatlessnca
appear a spy on their actl
often make people good by"!
tliem so, and bad by acci^
of qualities ihey do not
at least, we freeze their
permanently harden
everything whidi appear^t
mor, meanness, or caprM

Household Duties,

703

I is in a good humor, and all
rell ; the servants may be as
and make as many mistakes
please ; nobody notices them,
rrow the moon reddens in its
larter : woe to the inhabitants
house ! woe to the servants 1
n's coffee is cold, yet it bears
inary temperature; the soup
salty, yet the usual quantity
It into it The room is full of
, it was the servant's fault, and
I poor creature made neither
id nor the chimney. A racket

kitchen; madam's voice is
from the cellar to the garret —
le court-yard to the neighbor-
uses. Nothing renders autho-
3re ridiculous than such con-
The servants are tired out;
se every sentiment of affection
)nfidence, because they see no
is shown them ; that they are
ered inferior beings, entitled

respect; and that, even on
vhen caprice is not predomi-
hey only encounter airs of sl-
ide and haughtiness,
iiout doubt, ladies, there is a
*dium to be preserved. Many
ts are unreasonable, and take
;age of favors accorded them ;
icting and indiscreet; they re-
nasters without faults, and are
itely blindedi to their own.
t them as friends," said an
t philosopher, " and they lack
ision ; keep them at a distance,
ley resent your conduct and
Du.*** The middle course of
n is therefore hard to find ; but
> in all worldly affairs, yet it is
ary to resolve it The heart
Christian woman appears to me
dapted for this work of conci-
; she can preserve her autho-
jr demonstrating a wise firm-
ecalling the words of Fenelon :
less reason you find in men,

* CoDfoGiii% BtUr, PhilM. & 17.

the more fear requisite to restrain
them."* The strong woman must
be able to cope with such difficult
minds, often so pretentious and ridi-
culous in their exactions, and put
them in their place when wisdom
and occasion demand it. But, in
her ordinary conduct, let her re-
member that she commands her
brethren, for whom our Lord died;
that love and gentleness are the
best, the most Christian roads to
persuasion, and that severity should
always be reserved for circumstances
where reason and charity fail.

Fenelon says again that, in certain
houses, '* servants are considered no
better than horses — of natures like
theirs — ^human beasts of burden for
their masters."! Nothing can be
more opposed to sentiments of faith
and reason ; servants are brothers,
to be loved and treated as such;
they owe you their service and fideli-
ty, and if they fail, recall them to
duty prudently, with a charitable
compassion and firmness that does
not exclude affection. A single
word will oflen dispel a cloud and
dissipate increasing shadows, and
give you, in return, the deep and
solid friendship of your servants. Is
this not far better than forced rela-
tions, coldness and constraint that
freeze the heart and poison innumer-
able lives ? The fable itself teaches
us a lesson in telling us that the
friendship of the ant is not to be
despised.

"The strong woman giveth meat
to her household, and a portion to
her maidens." The spirit of God
neglects no detail, because in life
everything is important. Let your
servants work ; nothing is better for
them ; but do not traffic with either
their food or duties. Treat them a
little like the children of the house ;

* D* VEdmcatUn de» PUUty c. za.
MhitL

704

fmtseml

you will not only interest your chari-
ty, but your service will gain by it
Do not calculate with an avaricious
hand what may do them good and
alleviate their lot. You will gain on
one side what you lose on the other j
and besides, is not the true affection
of a devoted heart worth more than a
piece of gold ? It is not only food
and material comforts you must as-
sure your Servian ts* How I love to
see the Christian woman enlarge her
maternal heart and reser\^e in it not
only a place for her children, but for
all the people of her household I
Yes, she must have a mother's affec-
tion for all, and let the least one un-
derstand that he has part in the
warmth of her soul and the fireside
of her heart. Thus she realizes the
comparison that I always love to re-
peat, because she is truly great in
her splendor and simplicity, and, in
proportion as she is examined, new
aspects are discovered ; then the
strong woman is the sun of her house-
hold r sictit so! arUns,

The planet of day sheds its light
on tlie clouds, the high mountains,
and the gilded palaces, but he never
omits the little valley flower or the
blade of grass that claims his
warmth. He does not give at so
abundantly as to the oaks of the
mountain, but it is always the same
light, and suffices for their life and
happiness. Thus the strong woman
pours her intimate affections on her
family and her true friends, but her
soul has still a reserve for her ser-
vants. She gives them less than her
husband and children, but it is all
from the same source, and bears with
it for them the same unction.

After such a distribution of work,
of care and affection, do not expect
to find no faults in your ser\'ants.
To these servants, I would say:
liear with the faults of your master?
and mistresses \ t\\e \>es»Xol \h^m^^

impcrfcct,and for
to modify their dcfi
only by patience and aa
docility ; sweetness and
much more than anger
recrimination, as various
stances are, we know, am
agents to arrest the impe
ment of the cannon-ball,
dies, I say : Bear with
your servants, as 1 1:
ing. With two ^
the certainty of patience (
of the servants, and io
that of the masters, you ^
to pacifically organise the
your households* If the
patience is short at one en
stretch it at the other ; j
the admirable teaching of
ty, wherever the relado
kind exist, it establishes
duties on so firm and solii
tion that, if one is lacking
becomes more strong t<
Thus it preaches to the ha
and respect ; to the wife, \o\
and submission ; to mastei
lence ; to servants, defc
patience ; but in such a w
the first are faithless to ll
the fidelity of the second
than repair the defect. 1
dently holds another V
our neighbor fails in his 6
we believe ourselves freed
and this spirit of free
in point of bad proceedii
perhaps, one of the least
our perturbations in the f
society,

"There are some feu
Fenelon^ ** that enter into tl!
of tlie bones/* " Then,**
Archbishop of Cambrai, ** f
to correct such in your
not wrong to resist comii
you are foolish to undeft

Household Duties.

70s

ve a horse that is one-eyed,
lid wish him to see clearly
th eyes ; it is you who are
blind. Alas ladies ! in this
^e are all slightly one-eyed,
e we must bear with each

lave a servant who does not
display the judgment you re-
' him ; tell me, why do you
him in any delicate busi-
Ele has made a blunder, but
u not the first cause of it?
i^e another who never sees
an a few steps before him ;
not expect better of him, he
sighted. You are angry be-
i cannot see leagues off; you
jnreasonable one. Another
me, and him you would have
aight I do you not see that
:t the impossible ? I tell you,
lat poor human nature is full
lesses, and having once per-
certain infirmities in your
r, keep them in remembrance,
I't demand a reform in what
)e corrected. " Bear ye one
5 burdens," said Saint Paul ;
rule of true wisdom, of peace
lestic happiness: ^^ Alter al-
era port ate, ^^*

ou say, he is thick-headed, I
ut up with him. Alas ! thick
re meet with everywhere,
►u not yourselves sometimes
\ complaint ? Besides, don't
rd to please in servants j you

by finding none at all. You
2 who pouts, another who is
you may have one imperti-
lother pettish j choose be-
lem. The best course, be-
, is to put up with the evil,

it is bearable. This world
t contains is only one grand

accept your share of it;
ng and changing those who
I you will do no good.

•GalatYi.a.
VOL. VII.'-'4S

Well and good, I hear you say.
You have just spoken of those who
keep many servants ; I am more
modest ; a nurse, or at most a cook,
constitutes my household. In this
case, if you will permit me, I will find
you an establishment where the re-
tainers are numerous and very diffi-
cult to govern. The fathers of the
church teach us that the human soul,
in its organization, is a house com-
plete in itself. We find in it intelli-
gence, the soul properly called, the
imagination, and the senses. Intel-
ligence is the husband, the soul the
wife ; and imagination, with its nu-
merous caprices, represents an estab-
lishment of troublesome servants ;
while the five senses may portray five
grooms at the carriage-ways opening
into the street. To listen to such a
world as this, and make it agree, is
no easy matter. Intelligence wishes
one thing, the soul another ; the hus-
band and wife are just ready to quar-
rel. Then imagination comes in with
its thousand phantoms, its fantastical
noises, its clatter by night and by^
day : can you not believe your house-
hold in good condition to exercise-
your patience ? Then the porters of
this castle, the eyes, the ears, without
considering the nerves — a sort of
busy battalion which makes more
noise than all the rest. What an in-
terior ! what confusion ! what a tower
of Babel 1 Ladies, I will repeat here
the words of Scripture : " Rise early^
to give work and a portion" to this
establishment of servants ; put them
in order from the first dawn of day.
Clear up your imagination ; it needs
more time and care than a disordered
head of hair. See how your ideas
fly hither and thither ; how the mad
one of this dwelling sings and grows
impertinent; how she reasons, how
she scolds, and how absurd she
is. Intelligence would restore her
reason ; useless to \x^\ ^tcvfc V«x\

7o6

Household Duties.

She cries louder, and becomes longer
and more violently nonsensical. She
oiakes so much noise that it could
be called, according to Saint Gregory,
the multiplied voices of several ser-
vants, whose tongues are perfectly
sharpened : " Cogitatianum se clamor^
velut garrula emdliarum iurba^ mui-
fiplicat:'^

Here is a beautiful household to
organize every morning. You com-
plain of having no work for it* I
have just found you some. Bring
peace into the midst of this distrac-
tion ; substitute harmony for con-
fusion, and so adjust this harmony
that it shall last undisturbed until
evening, and I will give you a brevet,
a certificate, as an excellent mistress
of a house. Formerly, the poor hu-
man head was not subject to such
distraction; and why? Because it
was- subject to God ; and from thence
all the powers of man, mind, heart,
will, imagination, senses, all were
submitted to the head of the house,
because this head himself was obe-
dient to God. Since the primitive
revolt, all has been upset in man ;
and our poor nature has become like
a house where all dispute, husband,
wife* and servants, that is, mind, heart,

imagination. There is a simp
to re-establish peace, Til* *j
plete, but at least tol
would bring back God \i\y
house: let God be head,,th4
mander of all ; let the lliought i
preside everywhere, and sooai
will be entirely restored. 1
morning especially, I know n
that can pacify us mtcrioflj
calm all around us better liuii]
toward heaven, a thought of ij
rected on high, and bringingj
turn, the peace of God,
ing, if the head aches, re^
foot of the cross ; if the he
place it on the heart of oia
the imagination is fevcrts
with a drop of the bk
Christ J and if the whole 1
ebullition, ask God to i
ment in the dew of h«
faithful to these rccommc
ladies, and you may repose UtftI
of the day under your vine
fig-tree; that is, yoa willj
intimate happiness that '
mised his friends, and wh
of the sweetest rccompcn
tue : ** Mi S€iiU UHusq

terreretJ''^

A Sistfi/s Story.

707

A SISTER'S STORY*

► not usually go to France
res of domestic life ; yet,
do find a cultivated French
netraled with the home in-
lich are so much more com-
le opposite side of the chan-
avishing upon the members
3wn household an affection
and sanctified by true piety,

a charm about the scene
ipt to be wanting in our own
monplace experience. The

be sure, often asserts itself
r j for the Frenchman has a
h for sentiment, and in nine
t of ten the rapture with
e fills his heart is only half
)ired by the object of his
*'hile the other half is an
•us admiration of the deli-
s own feelings. He makes
5 out of love for his father
er, and his affection for his
t is an extravagant poem.
5s you analyze it too closely,
re is no need of your doing
e poem is almost always
md delicate, and sometimes

the true poetical aroma.

Story is a romance of love,
)iness, and death. Nobody
ich woman could have writ-
t the sentiment is not what
nly called "Frenchy," be-

etherealized by a genuine

refinement, and because,

it is a true history,
unt de la Ferronnays, who
h ambassador at St. Peters-
19, and afterward at Rome,
e family of children, one of

r Stcry. By Mrm. Augustus Craren.
m the French by Emily Bowles. Svo,
r York : The Catholic Publication So-

whom, Pauline, married an English
gentleman, and is the' author of this
book. Another, Albert, is the hero.
They all loved one another with a
rare and touching tenderness, and
loved God, too, with a simple and un-
affected devotion. The revolution of
1830 deprived the Count of his diplo-
matic appointment, despoiled him of
most of his fortune, and, as he was a
stanch adherent pf the Bourbons,
left him without hope of a future ca-
reer in the service of the state. The
family seem, however, to have accept-
ed their reverses cheerfully, and to
have made little change in their way
of life, except by practising a stricter
economy than they had been used to.
They passed most of their time in
Italy, mingling with people of rank
and distinction, or travelling in search
of health, as one or another of them
showed symptoms of approaching dis-
ease. Albert was a young man of
handsome appearance, and, we should
judge, of no mean accomplishments.
He was warm-hearted, remarkably
sensitive, somewhat of a dreamer, ro-
mantic, poetical, and pure in heart.
The life of a man of society he sanc-
tified with the piety of a recluse. The
revolution which cut short his father's
public career destroyed also the
young man's prospects in life, and
left him, just entering manhood, with-
out fixed occupation, and without
much hope of obtaining employment
suitable to his rank and tastes. This
enforced idleness, coupled with thcr
delicacy of his constitution, already
perhaps undermined by the pulmo-
nary disease which was so soon to
carry him off, predisposed him to
a melancholy reflectiveness which^
though coTtecteA \>^ Vi\& A<e^cwX -wk^v

7o8

A Sisters Story,

ration S| was nevertheless morbid. The
feminine delicacy of his nature was
developed by close intimacy with his
sisters, and his religious elevation
was doubtless heightened by his fre-
quent intercourse with Monlalembert,
whose sentiments he fully shared,
though he was unable to join in his
labors, with M. Rio, whom he ac-
companied to various parts of Italy,
with the Abb^ Gerbet, and with other
distinguished Catholics of that bril-
liant day.

Among the acquaintances of the
Count's family in Koime was the
Countess d'Alopeus, widow of the ce-
lebrated Russian plenipotentiary at
Berlin, and afterward wife of Prince
Lapoukhyn. She had a daughter,
Alexandrine, a beautiful and amiable
girl, apparently, like Albert, of a pen-
sive turn of mind, and, though a Lu-
theran, (her mother being a German,)
of a strongly religious disposition.
Albert fell in love with her the first
time they met, and from that time
love and religion filled up all the rost
of his short life. It was but a little
while before Alexandrine learned to
return the tender sentiment. The
intimacy ripened fast j but there were
many difficulties in the way of mar-
riage, and it was only after two years,
marked by severe trials, that they
were at last united in 1834. Ten
days afterward Albert burst a blood-
vessel, and from that time until his
death, in 1836, their happiness w^as
clouded by the gradual approach of
the untimely fate which they could
hardly help foreseeing. The picture
which Mrs. Craven, with the help of
the journals and letters of this dear
young couple, has drawn of their
courtship, their love, their few hours
of happiness, and their admirable
married life, with all its consolations
and all its sufferings, is full of the
most delicious beauty. It could not
have been so ixalutiVjYvakd vvwoX\i^e.ti

drawn from the life ;
have been so exquisite, 1
artist been herself a poet.

By the side of her hu^banc
bed, Alexandrine was rec
the Catholic Church. Sb4
have possessed a strongei
a more lovely character 1
and in her widowhood
cence was fully dcvelope
the twelve years she si]
husband, she learned to
great lessons of self-abt
mility, and detachment |
worldly things. Even in
of her sorrow, God rcwar
a strength which surpria
knew her; and this was]
after a while by a compi
resignation and a spiritual J
were no less than saint-l
shall see," writes Mrs. Cr
ginning the narrative of tin
years, " by what efforts of \
by what self-surrender^ si
peace, and entered upoa ]
period of her life which
of in her story, and of
once said, * Even before oW
death, faitli gave me rest I*|
which went beyond resi|
beyond peace, which Aleaci
soon recovered; a rest
ed llie latter part of her
ousness unknown to her
she did not attain till
through many fresh sorrc
God's will that she she
most of those who had
firmest friends and most tcni
forters in her widowhood, A
one time she lost her 01^
my father^ Eugenie, and y||
belt's sisters, to whom she wa
attached.) **It may be
allowed that, when after sui^
blows she was still able
%vas happy, no one might
source wheoce thathapf>ti
^\vt ^\e herself up to

f tin

A Sistet^s Story.

709

the poor and suffering, and in order
to make herself more like the objects
of her charity, whom she loved so
tenderly, she used to deprive herself
of all the little every-day luxuries and
conveniences which belonged to her
station, and in which naturally she
took a particular delight. She made
trial of a conventual life, but that
was clearly not the path in which
God wished her to walk, and her di-
rector bade her leave it During the
latter part of her life she resided
principally with Albert's mother, in
Paris. Here is a picture of her oc-
cupations at that time :

** To meet the deficiency in her resources,
she gradually restricted her own expendi-
ture to the narrowest compass, and depriv-
ed hersel of everything short of absolute
necessaries. One day I happened to look
into her wardrobe, and was dismayed at its
scantiness. When we, any of us, made this
kind of discovery, she blushed and smiled,
made the best excuses she could find in return
for our scoldings, and then went on just the
same, giving away all she possessed, and
finding every day new occasions for these
acts of self-spoliation. She had, of course,
long ago sold or given away all her jewels
and trinkets, but, if she ever happened to
find among her things an article of the small-
est value, it was immediately disposed of for
the benefit of the poor. For instance, one
day she took out of its frame a beautiful mi-
niature of Princess Lapoukhyn at the age
of twenty, and sold the gold and enamel
fi^une, defending herself by saying that it
was the only thing of value she still possess-
ed, and did not in the least enhance the va-
Ine of her mother's charming likeness. Two
black gowns, and a barely sufficient amount
of linen, constituted her whole wardrobe, so
that she had reduced herself, as far as was
possible in her position of life, to a state of
actnal poverty. Her long errands were al-
ouwt always performed on foot, and at din-
ner-time she came home often covered with
dirt and wet to the skin. One day, when she
was visiting some Sisters of Charity in a dis-
tant part of Paris, one of them looked at
ber from head to foot, and then begged an
alms for a poor woman much in need of a
pair of shoes. Alexandrine instantly pro-
duced her purse and gave the required
amount, with which the sister went away,
and fai a quarter of an hour returned, laugh-

ing^ and bringing with her a pair of shoes,
which she insisted on Madame Albert's
putting on instead of those she was wear-
ing, which were certainly in the worst
possible condition. On her return from
these distant excursions, she usually. put
on her evening dress and came Aovm
to Madame de Mun's drawing-room,
where she found my mother, who also had
often been engaged in similar charitable du-
ties. During that winter I often joined this
little circle, now so thinned by death, and so
soon to break up altogether. For one brief
moment I would fain pause and look back
in thought to that well-remembered room
and its long table, at which my mother and
Madame de Mun were wont to sit, with Eu-
genie's children playing at their feet ; and
at the place near the lamp, where Alexan-
drine was to be seen every evening, with
her head bending over her work ; her brown
hair divided into two long plaits, a way of
wearing it which particularly became her,
though it was certainly not chosen on that
account. She did not, however, profess to
be free from all thought about her appear-
ance ; on the contrary, she was always accus-
ing herself of still caring for admiration ;
and when once she heard that somebody who
had accidenaltly spoken to her had said
she was pretty, she exclaimed with half-jest-
ing indignation : * I really believe that, if I
were in my last agony, that would please me
still !* Very pretty certainly she looked on
those evenings, in her simple black dress ;
always calm and serene, and brightening up
whenever the great interests and objects
of life were the subjects of conversation.
Otherwise she remained silent, occupying
herself with her embroidery, or else, taking
her little book of extracts, so full of beauti-
ful thoughts, from her pocket, she read them
over and added new ones from her favorite
books.

"Time never hung heavy on Alexan-
drine's hands. After such trials and suffer-
ings, she could say as Madame Swetchine
did : * that life was lovely and happy ; and
ever, as it went on, fairer, happier, and more
interesting.' The melancholy which was
natural to her character in youth, and which
the radiant happiness that for a moment
filled up her life had not been able to over-
come — that melancholy which was the sign
perhaps of some kind of softness of soul, and
which so many deaths and such floods of
tears could naturally have increased— had
been completely put down and overcome by
the love of God and the poor. One day as
I saw her moving abo^xt Vv« xQoto.'^ftiLOB.^^

7IO

irtian

had made so bare* with an air of \hc great*
est gayety^ we both of us suddenly recalled
the terrible days of the past, when her grief
had been full of gloom, and then she said,
what was very striking to anyone who knew
hgw deep was her unutterable love to the
very last, * Yes, that is all true ; those
were cruet and dreadful days ; but now, by
God's grace, / mmtrn for my Albert gayly^ * '*

Subsequently she was admitted| as
a lodger, to the convent of St, Tho-
mas of Villanova, in Paris* and there
she died with the peaceful ness and
holy joy which she had merited by
her life. By what austerities she had
prepared for and probably hastened
her end, we may judge from this in-
cident :

**One morning at MaJis
chapel, a lady happened to
and noticing her pale looks
relt she went to one of the
her that there was a lady in
was probably too poor to
with necessaries, and that

in the convent
hear her cough,
and poor appa-
sistcrs, and told
the church who
provide herself
she should be

very happy to supply he
she had not the means tof
kind soul was quite :
told her tJie poor lady y
de la Ferronnays ; but a
aniuscd, laughed exceedifiglf I
and did not treat herself bctU

One ]oving hand whic
ed this beautiful story wh
we have thus roughly
has illustrated it with ma
reminiscences of the otheri
of the charming family _c
which Albert and Aicxj
the central figures. The
quisite pathos in every j

" The tender ^%m of « diy i

is delineated with an i
delicacy which must
heart. Miss Bowles, we i
has proved herself an
translator, so good a oq
version reads like an or

T1LAKSC.ATB9 mOM TMS rtSMCH.

BRETON LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHEILI

As every one knows, St. Christo*
pher had ver)^ broad shoulders ; so
in former times he was ferr^'man for
the river of ScorfF. One bright day,
our Lord arrived at the bank of
the river with his twelve aposdes.
Christopher made haste to take them
in his arms, and was delighted to pay
them every possible respect

** Well/' said our Lord, " what are
your wages ?"

"Ask for Paradise," whispered
St. Peter.

"Let me alone^ I have my own
ideas. If, my Lord, you desire to
bestow a favor on me, ptotcv\se \hak.t

every object I wish fo
obliged to enter my sack,*]

** I will do it/* said our ,
on condition that you m
money, and only for those 1
which you have need.*'

So« for a long time^ thin
well ; the sack filled only i
fruits, beans, and other '
and often it was empcii
benefit of the poor. Biit 1
can say they may not
temptation ? One mor
topher was passing tli
street of a rn
he stopped

Breton Legend tf St. Ckristophef.

r-changer. He did wrong, for
«e heaps oi money excited his
ity and gave him very bad
Its.

«/^ said the wicked broker to
what you can do with all this
'! You can rebuild the huts
poor, and make life for them
)py and desirable. Don't you
: was all yours ?*
istopher had a moment of weak-
md the money jumped into his
But don't be severe : Christo-
^as not yet the saint he after-
became, only a mere mortal

So this first failing led to
, and while it must be confessed
i very generous to the poor, he
his own good cheer and did
sitate to enjoy it So one day,
?as reposing on the grass after
jsually good dinner, the devil
I that way, and began to bully
id crack some of his disagree-
►kes. Christopher was not re-
bly patient, his fists were itch-
r a fight, so in a moment he
I his feet and pitched into the
right royally. As the forces
)retty equal, the battle lasted
ys, and the end could not be
in. The thick grass disappear-
in under their feet, and from
e noise of the blows resounded
'o hammers falling and refall-
e upon the other. They would
)een at it yet if Christopher
►t happily thought of his sack.
:ursed devil I by the virtue of
>rd thou shalt enter my sack."
he popped, and Christopher
t slow to draw the cords tight
ving him over his shoulders,
le wondered at the same time
the world he would ever get
him. A forge appeared as he
1, and two brawny men were
; the red fire with tremendous

This gave him an idea ; so
ressed himself to the smiths,

and said : ^ I have got a wicked ant-^
mal in my bag ; I could not pretend
to tell you all the villanous tricks he
has played in his life ; so, if you will
forge him until he is about as thick
as a sixpenny piece, I will give you
a crown.'* They consented ; and,
notwithstanding the cries and somer-
saults of the devil, they hammered
and beat him the whole night long.
When the day dawned, a weak voice
cried out, "Christopher, Christo-
pher, I give up ; what shall I do to
get out of this ?"

" Swear obedience to me for ever,
and never trouble me again."

" I swear it."

" Very well ; get out with you, and
I will not say Au revoir^

From this moment, Christopher
entirely changed his life, only occu4
pied himself in good works, and,
when he grew too feeble to be ferry-
man for the river Scodf, he retired into
the little hermitage, upon the ruins of
which is built the chapel still to be
seen. There he lived in prayer and
penitence, and was visited by many
pilgrims, who were attracted by his
great reputation of sanctity. How-
ever, when after his death he present-
ed himself to St Peter, who, we
know, holds the keys of Paradise, he
was refused admittance, because the
latter said he had formerly rejected
his advice, and he feared to let him in.

The poor Christopher, very sad,
and looking rather snubbed, wander-
ed about, and in his distraction took
the stairs that led to hell. He de-
scended an unheard-of number of
steps, and finally arrived at a door,
where was a very good-looking young
man, who courteously invited him to
enter ; but Satan happened to pass
by, and, seeing him, cried out ner-
vously: "No, no! not in here; 1
know him well. Send him away, he
is entirely too cunning for me I"

So Chnstoickiex cjo^<\ ^o Xk^'Qckfi^

711 T^ Sanitary and Meral Cmditicn of Niw Kv* Cify.

but remount to the entrance of Para-
dise, where he could at least listen
outside to the delicious strains of
heavenly harmony issuing from with-
in, and he feit more and more de-
sirous to be admitted. He paused
and thought; then, putting his ear
as close as possible, ** My Lord St
Peter/* said he, " what admirable
harmony you have in there ! If you
would only set the door ajar, I might
at least hear and enjoy it"

St Peter was kiiuMicaitcdp so
he did as he was as* ' 1 iih
stantly St Chrislopht 4 his

sack, and sprang in aJWr it "^At
home, at la^it," said be, •*Ai*d you
can't turn mc out" St- Peter coo-
ceded he was right, so lie has \ktct
remained in heaven, and we must j
knowledge he well deserved so coni^
fortable an abode*

^tSspplement to the anide cm ** llic Sudtary and Monl CoMittoB ol New Yoilc Ckf* m «« J^a^mi

THE SANITARY AND MORAL CONDITION OF
NEW YORK CITY.

The letter which is published be-
low is an evidence that our July cor-
respondent's observations on the ne-
glected condition of a great number
of children in New York struck a
telling blow in the right direction,
and has called forth one response of
the right kind, which, we trust, will
not be the only one. A number
of our good friends have shown
themselves to be somewhat hurt by
the remarks made in the article al-
luded to, on the efforts of certain Pro-
testant institutions among the va-
grant children of this city. The ar-
ticle was not written for the purpose
of showing what the small number of
i:ealous Catholics — who are alive to
the duty and necessity of rescuing
this unfortunate class of our own chil-
dren — are doing, but of working up
tlie whole Cadiolic community to an
active co-operation with these pio*
neers of chanty ^ \n undertaking that
which they ate not dom^, 3Li\d c^wwis^x.

do, while they are so feebly susturi- >
One principal moiivc for doi!>g ti ♦
is, the fact tlr i in phiUnthi^

pisLs are fore ^, i» in the «w^

we ought to have attendcil to kiC
ago, and drawing away from the iM
of the church the lambs we hawii*
glected lo take care oC Every Oil
knows, none Ixltcr than the leatkn
of every Protestant sect Ihcnwaiw^
that they have no more detenatte^
adversaries than we sltc tn their if
gressions on the Catholic reli|iai»
At Uie same lime, we do not W
called upon to deny them all hui
and philanthropic motiv^^. or Id
nounce them as actn Jtic»

hatred against the Cat: ;iofr

They do an irreparable miasdiicft^
the unfortunate children wham tbcf
draw away from the fold of 8b<
church ; yet, we ar
they do it ignoraii;
tention of doing them good.
^& vWvt eBiorts among the yoi

The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New York City. 713

:d heathen of New York are
led, they can undoubtedly
something in reclaiming thera
le wretched condition in which
e. We desire to confine them
sphere, and wish them a fair
) compete with us in, and to
vhat they are able to accom-
We hope, as the result of all
hropic efforts for the relief of
!graded classes made by all
of institutions, and by indi-
5 of all kinds of theoretical
IS, that the superiority of the
ic Church, and its necessity to
iral and social well-being, will
lonstrated. We must demon-
it, however, by action, and not
re argument. We must show
ally that we are able to master
bdue the elements of vice and
that rage over tlie turbulent
this vast population. In a
volume of our magazine, we
I justice to the work which the
ic Church has accomplished,
still carrying on among our
ople in this city, in an article
I " Religion in New York."
tide in our last number may
to have too much overlooked
tistics there given respecting
e of Catholic children. The
snt of the whole number of
ti in the city was inadvertently
rom Dr. Harris as being the
r of vagrants, although the
number (40,000) was given in
other places. Another quo-
from a Protestant source,
was cited for the purpose of
g the small proportion of chil-
n Protestant Sunday-schools,
IS a statement that 125,000
n are without instruction, which
ladvertently passed uncorrect-
'he 60,000 children in Catho-
day-schools, and, we suppose,
le Jewish children, as well as
who are privately taught at

home, ought to have been deducted.
There are said to be 95,000 children
in Protestant Sunday-schools. The
whole number of children is esti-
mated at 200,000. There is, then, a
vague neutral ground between va-
grancy and the Sunday-school do-
main, occupied by some thousands,
more or less — ^how many, we cannot
correctly estimate. We are imme-
diately concerned only with Catholic
children. It is not possible to figure
up precisely the numbers, every day
increasing, of these children, in every
stage of neglected moral and religious
education down to the most complete
vagrancy. We know, however, that
they are to be counted by thousands,
and would be suflScient by themselves
to people a respectable Southern or
Western diocese. We know that
comparatively nothing is doing to re-
claim them ; and as for any further
practical remarks as to what ought
to be done, we give place for the pre-
sent to the writer of the letter which
follows, who is sorry for these poor
children one thousand dollars. We
trust that her good example will be
followed by others, and shall be
happy to receive in trust whatever
may be contributed toward the estab-
lishment of an institution such as she
recommends,, and of which the Sis-
ters of Charity are ready to assume
the charge whenever the requisite
funds are provided. — Ed. C. W.

" Rev. and Dear Father Hecker:
"The article in The Catholic
World, for July, on * The Sanitary
and Moral Condition of New York
City,' has excited in my mind the
greatest interest, and, I may add,
self-condemnation.

" It is true I knew the facts men-
tioned there before, but never were
they so fully brought home to me«as
in reading that article. I could say
nothing but ' Mta odpa^ mea cul^«

714 ^^ Sanitafy and Maral CandUk

Yes, through my fault, and the fault for, a

of every Catholic, these many thou- finds

sands of little children are left uncar- the cl

ed for ; except, indeed, by those who be co

have been more zealous to spread ''I

error, uncertainty, and darkness than work«

we to give them the true bread of to th

life. Are we indeed the children of Dr. ]

the church? Have we ever listened good

to these words of our Saviour, *• In* to do

asmuch as ye have not done it unto to sp

these my little ones, ye have not done we wl

it unto me ' ? God forgive us, and cann(

grant that every Catholic, in reading who,

that article, may be moved to a true were,

contrition. of po

" Why cannot the several hundred repar

thousand Catholics in our great city gleet,

establish a Central Mission House for or

for these little neglected ones of the a beg

^pck ? For, of these forty thousand Sistei

vagrant and uncared-for children, we ly be

cannot doubt that fiar more than one house

half have inherited the Catholic faith, a wor

The burden of supporting this great " I

work of charity should not be borne publii

by one parish or section of the city, do no

and that the least able to bear it; other

but every parish should feel as if this ginnii

house demanded its own especial a grai

care. And not only every parish in a gres
New York City, but throughout the
arch-diocese and the whole country ;

Niw Publications.

715

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE Age: With Stu-
LUgustine on Kindred
the Rev. Augustine F.
: Congregation of St
ork : Catholic Publica-
[868.

eing chiefly a republica-
)ur own articles, cannot,
from us an independent
iticism. We can only
Ld design, leaving it to
idge of its merits. The
discusses relate to the
the natural and super-
niversal order of truth
s intended to meet the
ilties of those who can-
Jectic unity, and who,
lend a contradiction be-
1 and the supernatural,
lasm between the two,
impossible to explain
each other on rational
tiore especially adapted
>ersons who are rather
apparent contradiction
ind faith, than to those
)sitive infidels or posi-
rhere are many such
>sed to admit a spiritual
le truth of Christianity,
te of doubt respecting
al and revealed truths,
lis is, because the cur-

of Protestantism is
mistical, and the current
stantism irrational It
lerefore, to present a
y as a cure for intel-
n, and a sound rational
re for religious doubt
*.he Age is a contribution

is neither a system of
f theology, but rather a
he one and the other. It
man bewildered in the
ticism a path which will
> the open day of certi-
it to him to tiy the path

ascertain by his own

examination whether it be the right
one. Protestantism first destroyed theo*
logy, and then philosophy. Rationalism
has tried to reconstruct both ; but having
only the d^fris to use as a material, and
no formula to work by, has fidled sig-
nally. The author of the volume be-
fore us has endeavored to derive a
formula from the works of the best
Catholic philosophers and theologians
which gives die principles of construc-
tion, to present an outlhie of the plan
according to which all true builders
always have been working, and always
must work, in the rearing oif that temple
whose porch is science and whose sanc-
tuary is fiuth. The first principles of
reason and the first principles of fidth
are presupposed as given. The exist-
ence and the attributes of God are
briefly demonstrated fit>m the first prin-
ciples of reason, as the basis of fiiith
in revealed truths. The connection be-
tween rational knowledge and superna-
tural fiuth is exhibited, and the point of
transition fix>m one to the other desig-
nated. The principal mysteries of re-
velation are then taken up, and their
dialectic relation to the great truths of
natural theology, respecting God as the
first and final causer of the creation, is
pointed out As the perversions of
Calvinism represent some of these mys-
terious doctrines in such a way that they
are irreconcilable with natural theology,
a considerable space is devoted to tiie
clearing away of tiiese misconceptions.
The principal philosophical difficulties
in the way of apprehending certain doc-
trines are also noticed, and a solution
given. The topics most thoroughly
treated are those which relate to the
supernatural destiny of man, his primi-
tive condition, the fell, original sin, and
the final consummation of all things, in-
cluding the redemption of the human
race through the Incarnation.

The Studies in St. Augustine is a sub-
sidiary essay intended to refiite the al-
legation that the Calvinistic doctrines
have been justiy deduced firom his writ-

71^

ings and the authoritative teaching of
the church in his time. In doing this,
ihe evidence is clearly presented of the
fact that several of the chief distinctive
doctrines of the Catholic Church were
held by the whole church at the lime
when the great doctor flourished It is
also shown that modem Catholic tlieo-
logy, although for more precise and deft-
nite in many points than tlie ancient theo-
logy could be, is the only true and legiti-
mate offspring and development of its
principles. The drift of the whole book in
both its parts is to present a clear con-
ception of what the Caiholic doctrine
is» and to show that this conception is
in harmony with the rational principles
on which a spiritual and tlieistic philoso-
phy must base itself. It is adapted,
therefore, to stimulate thought and
awaken an appetite for truth, much more
than to satisfy the mind. Those who
are influenced by its arguments must
desire a more thorough exposition botk
of the principles of reason and of those
of £wtb, in order to perceive more clearly
the objective truth, both of philosophy
and of rcvnelation, unleas they are already
well-informed on both points. The first
branch of science has been handled in
the most satisfactor>' and thorough man-
ner in the philosophical articles of Dn
Brownson's Review. There are also
some able articles on the same topics to
l>e found in The Catholic WoRLXi. It
IS much to be regretted that these articles
are not to be had in a separate volume, so
as to be easily accessible, and that there
is no complete treatise on philosophy,
which Ls sufficient to meet the wants of
our day, written in the English language.
The second branch of science, which
embraces the evidence of the positive
truth of revelation, has been more ex-
tensively cultivated. The shortest and
most satisfactory way to a conclusion on
that p>int is, to take up at once the
proof of the divine institution and au-
thority of the Catholic Church* Two
things only are necessary to be proved :
First, there is a God ; second, Ctod re-
veals his truth and law through tlie
Catholic Church. It ought not to re-
quire a very long time, or a very
difficult process, to establish these
two truths ia aiiy mmd ivdV ptcyQ»^<

sessed by error and
who are unfortiinalclj
have no other choice \m
way out the best way they €
one who lends them a lic^
a great ser^ ice to bis

Parochtai. anb Plaih \
John Henry Newman,
ly Vicar of St Mary's
eight volumes. VoL i.
Rivingtons, London^
Cambridge, For sale at "*
Publication House, New Y

Truly Anglicanism is
nomcnon, or, rather, coog
mena, and of its phases ^
Its newspapers in this
ther remarkable for
to the Catholic Church, I
language about Catholic |
things. Only the other
ford ChurchmaH^ which i
decent, gave currcBC^J
report that the late an
d*Andrea was poisoned,
used about Dr Newman
qucntly vituperative and
the extreme. The English. I
men arc usually far ino
ly than their Americ
their tone and lang
more decorous when
tholic aflairs. Even in
ever, as well as in this cou
tering of Catholicism
produces an increase of
bitterness against the Ca
The more nearly somt^
more they become i
approaching the sun, \
is suddenly turned into
force, which drives them
dreariness of space, Tti
however, in Enj'
who cling to tht
whose spirit is kind :
those whom tlicy
as their fcUow-Catho
these are converts from <
remarkable proof that
these is considerable is .
fact that a new edition of j
Sermatts is &i

N«m PublieatioHS.

717

that the first volume has al-
ed from the press, with a prc-
e Rev. W. J. Copeland, rector
m. The typographical execu-
volume is extremely beautifuL
ce is sad and tender, like the
I captive Israelite in Babylon,
lan has, we believe, consented
ublication. We remember well
t and instruction we received
: Sermons when they were first
d in this country, and the
Are experienced in visiting, a
lis ago, the church of St
Virgin, at Oxford, where they
:hed. We are not able to say
ley contain anything un-Cath-
; if so, it cannot be sufficient
Jiy way dangerous, or to de-
their generally Catliolic doc-
spirit. The editor says that
>r is not to be considered as
I all their sentiments, and that
jndoubtedly wish some parts
tered or omitted. They are

the most perfect English
, as such, of great value to
treachers. Their circulation'
>testants to as great an extent
; is something most devoutly
ed, and likely to do an extra-
mount of good. No doubt the

clergy here, whatever may
! in England, will discourage
: read ; yet the younger cler-
inominations will undoubted-
im themselves, and will not
hinder great numbers of the
vated among the laity from
same. They are wonderful
ns, the like of which our lan-
> not contain ; and those who
•eady familiar with them will
tmselves of a very great plea-
y do not avail themselves of
unity of becoming so. We
tiely obliged to the editor
ihers for sending out this
beautiful edition, and we
nfiuence may be to draw

of our Protestant friends
*n nearer to us. We are ex-
xious that the violent and
troversy between us should
that we might have the op-
f discussing with them, in a

calm and quiet way, the points of differ-
ence which separate them from our-
selves. While their tone and manner
are so discourteous and unfair, this is
impossible ; and we hope they may learn
a lesson from Mr. Copeland, and others
among themselves who are of like spirit
with him, ^ well as hom the ci-dtvant
Vicar of St Mary's, who is revived
once more in his surplice and hood,
to preach again among his former peo-
ple, as the prophet of the ten lost tribes.

Appleton's Short Trip to Europe.
(1868.) Principally devoted to Eng-
land, Scotland, Ireland, Switzerland,
France, Germany, and Italy; with
Glimpses of Spain, Short Routes in
the East, etc; and a Collection of
Travellers' Phrases in French and
German, By Henry Morford, Author
of « Over Sea," " Paris in '67," etc.,
etc. New York : Appletons.

This is a very pretty, convenient, and
useful hand-book for travellers, full of
useful advice and valuable directions,
which we can cordially recommend to
every person about to make a tour to
Europe for the first time, as the best
book of the kind we are acquainted
with. There are some allusions and re-
marks scattered through the book which
seem intended to enliven it and give it
a flavor of humor, and which will doubt-
less please a certain number of its read-
ers. Others, however, may perhaps
think they detract from the general
good taste evinced by the author, when
he confines himself to a more quiet and
simple style of giving information.

Sidney Smith's coarse pun on the
name of St Peter, and the author's own
very dull attempt at wit in regard to the
relics of the martyrs in the church of
St. Ursula, at Cologne, will not render
the book any the more agreeable to
Catholic tourists, and we should think
not to any persons of refined taste. The
allusions made occasionally to the sup-
posed vicious propensities of a certain
class of tourists are still more objec-
tionable. They are like whispering be-
hind the hand, or exchau^ii^ tkS/^ "UDi^

7tt

ViW

^tt^ttt,

winks^ in good compjany. The gtiide-
books of Paris are models of the most
perfect taste and elegance in st>'le, and
so arc those of Baedeker, for the conti-
nent, with the exception of an occasion-
al ftilsehood or sneer about something
Catholic, In our judgment, these are
the proper models to imitate.

We cannot omit remarking, while
we are on the subject of guide-books,
that it would be a work of great service
to Catholic tourists, if some competent
person would prepare a guide-book for
their use, with reference to all the places
and objects specially interesting to
them as connected with their religion
and its history.

Rhymes or the Poets. By Fdix
Ago. Philadelphia : E, H. Dutler &
Co. ig68.

A very amusing satirical essay upon
•* allowable rhmes," selected from the
verses of a large number of poets.

Lake Gkorge: Its Scenes and Charac-
teristics, with Glimpses of the Olden
Times ; to which is added some ac-
count of Ticonderoga; with a de-
scription of the route to Schroon Lake
and the Adirondacks. With Illustra-
tions, By B. F, De Costa, i vol
1 2mo, pp. 196. New York : A. D, F,
Randolph. 1968.

This is an excellent little book for
tourists to Lake George and the sur*
rounding country. The first white man
who saw Lake George was the Jesuit
miss ion ary» Father Jogues, who, having
arrived at that beautiful lake on the eve
of the festival of Corpus Christi, called
it "The Lake of the Blessed Sacrament,"
a name tt retained until changed by the
English to its present one. The author
takes pains to correct the many mis-
sCAtemeots o{ other writers with regard
to historical events which occurred in
the vicinity of the lake. The account
of the defeat of the English by Mont-
caJsif 1757^ U given ; vcA Uvit x^v^cted

connivance of that [^
5 acre of the English
surrender is disposed of \
*^ wild exaggerations of the \
it is only a few years ago 1
guished general, while OB
Jake, reiterated, in a
admirers, the terrible
French in allowing the
massacred in cold blood,
that it was one of the cos!
barbarous age, and the
prevented by Montcaim^
says, with reference to ih
massacre : *^ That class of *
furnish what may be called''
of history, have delighted in wi
gerations of this event.
material from the crudest
counts of tlie day. they hav
ed to record as ^ts the 1
bic ^ncies. It b to be rt%
these accounts have crept iAta^
of our popular school

of which, now extensive

informed that, when M«
awavt he left the dead
hundred women she
and weltering in their 1
count is based upon a
of Putnam's tliat was ne
is of the same authority as
but now exploded story of J
boy, which relates Putna
into the wolfs d^n:' He ali
that ■* national enmity has
do with these minreprcs
Montcalm, who was every -
and humane man, as well
general of Itis day in all Nc
ca,** Religious animosity 1
in it, too, and no small share J
French were Catholics
Protestants ; and it was qdIj
keeping with the Engli
the day to paint everyi
French Catholics in the
possible. But this calun
stand the tests of the critic
and we are glad to see a Utile
like this, which must
with the tourist of the Nc
sUmp the fictions which :
history as they deserve,
readers the truth.
The work is priitted oo.

Niw Publications.

719

and ilhistrated with wood-cats of the
most noted {daces referred to in its
pages.

Democracy in the United States :
What it has Done, What it is Doing,
and What it will Do. By Ransom H.
Gillett, formerly Member of Congress
from St Lawrence County, N.Y. ;
more recently Registrar and Solicitor
of the United States Treasury De-
partment, and Solicitor for the United
States in the Court of Claims, etc.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1868.

This is what, we suppose, will be
termed, in the language of the market,
a sgasonabie book, it being brought out
just in time for, and adapted to, the
political campaign upon which the coun-
try has now fully entered. It aims
to give a succinct but complete history
of die Democratic party, of its mea-
sures and its leading men, from its be-
guming down to the present time. We
ate not ourselves politicians enough to
judge how fidthfuUy or reliably this has
been done. The volume — a compact
one of some four hundred pages — is
brought out in the Messrs. Appleton's
excellent style of book publishing, and
viUy of course, have an extensive sale.

HiSTOiRE DE France. Par V. Duruy.
Nouvelle Edition, illustrte d'un grand
nombre de gravures et de cartes geo-
graphiques. Paris : Hachette. (New
York : Christem. 2 vols. i2mo.)

This is a part of a course of compen-
dious universal history prepared by a
number of learned writers, under the
direction of M. Duruy. It is a clear
and succinct history of France from the
earliest epoch to the year 181 5, with
an appendix containing a summary of
events from 18 15 to 1866. The history
of France is of the greatest interest and
importance, and but little known among
us, especially in its Catholic aspects.
This book is, therefore, one of the most
useful text-books for the instruction of

classes studying the French language,
which can be studied ; and most invalu-
able abo for others, who are able to read
French, and who desire to have a brief
but complete exposition of French His-
tory.

Besides its numerous and valuable
maps, it contains more than 300 remark-
ably well-executed and artistic wood-
cuts, which add very much to its value
and interest The study of the French
language and literature has been too
much neglected in our American col-
leges and higher schools. Every person
of liberal education ought to read and
speak the French language. We re-
commend this book to the attention of
teachers, parents, and all persons occu-
pied with the study of French, and also
to intelligent tourist, to whom it will
prove an invaluable companion on a visit
to La BilU France,

O'Shea's Popular Juvenile Libra-
ry. First series. 12 vols. Beau-
tifully illustrated. New York : P.
O'Shea. 1868.

The titles of the volumes in this se-
ries are as follows : The Inquisitive
Boy and the Little Ragman ; The Pic-
ture and the Country Cousins ; Augusta
and Christmas Eve ; The Young Guests,
and other stories ; The Page, and other
stories ; The Young Artist ; The Gray
Woman of Scharfenstein, and other sto-
ries ; The Young Painter ; Tailor and
Fiddler ; Sobieski's Achievements ;.
Hedwig of Poland ; The Young Coun-
tess. These tales are taken principally
from the German and French, and are
unexceptional in matter.

The Catholic Crusoe. Adventures
of Owen Evans, Esq., Surgeon's
Mate, set ashore with five companions
on a desolate island in the Caribbean
Sea, 1739. Given from the Original
MSS., by Rev. W. H. Anderdon,
M.A. New York : D. & J. Sadliey
& Co. i2mo, pp. 519.

A notice of Dr. And^tdotC^N^rj ^tjNrx-

720

vew

taining story appeared in Tkb Catho-
lic World for December, 1867. The
reprint before us is very well got up,
but lacks an interesting feature of the
original edition^ namely, its maps and
illustrations.

The Queen's Daughter; or* The
Orphan of La Cranja, By the author
of Grace Morion^ etc. Philadelphia :
Peter F* Cunningham, Pp. 108,

A pleasant tale for young folk^ neatly
bound, and, in general typographical
execution, a very decided improvement
on Its predecessor, Elinor Johnstomt*

The Complete I%etical Works of
Thomas Campbell, with a Memoir
of his Life, New York : D. Appleton
&Co, 1868,

So far as the paper and binding arc
concerned, this edition of Campbell is
beautifully got up ; but we cannot say
as much ibr the type, which is the very
reverse of beautiful.

A Popular Treatise on the Art
OF House Paiktjko, Plain and De*
corati ve. By J oh n W. M asu rv . New
York : D. Appleton & Co,

A very useful book, on an important
subject, for those who would preser\"c
their houses, and have them tastefully
and, at the same time, economically
painted. The mechanical portion of
the work is executed in the Messrs.
Appleton's best style.

Celehrateu SanC
Madonna, By
Northcoie, D.D.
CunninghaoL i£

This is an Americ
Northcote^s work, the 1
of which we noticed in oj
It is brought out in ve
and reilects credit on|
publisher.

Announcements--

Publication Society" 1
preparation, the folio
I. Symbolism. By Ad
will be ready about A^
cond Series of lllustj
Library. Ready abod
twelve vols., for titles^
vertisement on seco
3. Memorials of thos
the Catholic Faith in''
Sixteenth, Seventeenth^ ;
Centuries. Collected ^
original authorities,
B.A., LUD. This
most important books|
ever published in this
be ready about Septen
Lands— Egypt, Palest
led. By Lady Herlj
vember 15, 5. Love |
By Lady Herbert,
Ravigan, S.J. 7. Thil
iraled Sunday-School ]

Prom P. DoHAHoc. BoAtoa.

Segur. I vok jjmo^ fpw 9
Frura J. B. LitMHCOTT & <

Khania : or. Pni»M of An
topher LaoaMdon Fiodar.,

THE

f ',

VOL. VII., No. 42.— SEPTEMBER, 1868.

VENERATION OF SAINTS AND HOLY IMAGES.

meration paid to saints by
with the formal approbation
ianction of the supreme au-
the church is, together with
made of their images and
Ihrist in religious worship,
same sanction, the one fea-
e Catholic system most ob-
) Protestants. They do not
ordinarily to qualify it as
that is, as a rendering of
ip due to God alone to crea-
1 living and inanimate, simi-
t which the heathen system
eism ascribes to its nume-
lities and their images,
pose to discuss this matter
»t with the intention of prov-
the Catholic doctrine and
re truly a genuine outgrowth
ristian religion by extrinsic
but of showing their intrin-
ny with Christian first prin-
id refuting the objections
rom these first principles
lem. As the subject natu-
les itself into two distinct
ady clearly indicated in our
paragraph, we shall confine
rks at present to the first
VOL. VII. — 46

part of it, or that relating to the ve-
neration of saints.

The preliminary charge of idola-
try, or a direct contradiction to the
monotheistic doctrine of natural and.
revealed theology, is perfectly ground-
less, and« however it may be modified
and diminished, there is not an atom,
of truth in it upon which any objec-
tion to the Catholic doctrine can be
based.

Idolatry, or the worship of the
creature instead of the creator, ori-
ginates in ignorance or denial of the
true conception of the one living and
true God. God is not worshipped,
because he is not known or believed
in. By necessary consequence, some-
thing which is not God is conceived
as highest, best, most excellent, most
powerful, without reference or relation.
to God as the author and sovereign
of all that has any existence. The
pantheist is an idolater of all nature,
but especially of himself. Even So-
crates, Plato, and Aristotle were not
free from idolatrous principles, al-»
though probably free from all sin in
the matter, since they ascribed to the
universe a certain amount oC b^Sxw'^

722

The Veneration of Saints and Hcty h

not caused by the intelligence and
will of God as creatoV Neither are
our modern rationalists free from the
same error, since they withhold from
God the homage of their reason, and
give it to themselves as to persons
possessing intelligence which is inde-
pendent of God. Wilful and obsti-
nate heretics are all likewise in the
same categorj' ; for, by rejecting a
part of what God has revealed, they,
by implication, profess to be superior
to God in intelligence, and substitute
an idol of their own vain imagination
In lieu of that eternal truth which b
identical with the essence of God.
Idolaters, in the strict sense of the
word, or poljlheists, such as the an-
cient Greeks and Romans were, paid
a formal worship to their gods, as su-
perior beings having a supreme and
irresponsible control over nature and
over men. It was a worship which
was a substitute for that originally
gf\'en to the true God^ totally contra-
ry to it, and an insuperable barrier to
the spread of monotheism as a reli-
gion. These false divinities' were,
llierefore, the rivals of the true God,
and filled the place in the religious
worship of the heathen which was
filled by him in the worship estab-
lished by divine revelation from the
creation of mankind. It is evident,
from the very statement of what idol-
%\Ty is in itself, that a veneration
paid to any creature, which is propor-
tionate to the degree of excellence
which it has received from the crea-
tor, is not idolatrous, and cannot de-
tract from tlie supreme veneration
which is due to God as the sovereign
lord of the universe. Those who
condemn the religious honor paid
lo created natures by the Catholic
Church cannot therefore lay down an
a priori principle from which to de-
monstrate in advance that this honor
is necessarily idolatrous, unless they
pte\io\i5\] AOTiousti^ve Vltv^i ^Vv^i t^-

imi
he P

cellencc ascribed
such that God ca
it to a creature,
to the sacred hua
Jesus Christ i& tl
rently the most
charge of idolatf
cies of relative l
church has decree
created nature. Oi
is, therefore, with
dans, Unitarians^
claim to be pure
deny the incamal
firm against ihes
not demonstrate 1
the incarnation,
monstrate the imi
postatic union
nature and the di|
tuc of which the
human nature is divl
man nature is the na
thus worthy of relj
Therefore* they cai
divinity of Jesus *
revealed, and thai
not due to him
because God can
doctrine or comm^
without con trad ic
truth of his nati]
evidence is gi%'en'^
to authenticate the i
mystery of the inc*
once it becomes evi
worship is due to \
incarnate, precis
is due to God.
only debatable od
this revelation ha
If it could be pro
and that Jesus Ch
finite person^ \t\
worship paid to I
Christians Is idola
idolatrous to wor
should pretend Xn
when he is not^ oj
tcineoiisly believe

Thi Veneration of Saints and Holy Images.

723

ne person, without any re-
) the question whether any
irnation can be or has been
)y the wisdom of God. We
ttempting to prove the truth
ctrine of the divinity of Je-
t, or to prove directly that
ip we pay to him is not idol-
Everything, we admit, de-
proving it If it cannot be
Christianity is a superstition,
: be classed with Brahman-
dhism, and Mohammedan-
• the proof of the truth and
the incarnation, we must
reader elsewhere. We are
showing that no elevation
I nature which is possible is
.y incompatible with the su-
;nity and sovereignty of God,
equently, no honor due to
levated nature iacompatible
jupreme worship due to the
ajesty. We are also intent
ng that it is principally the
e incarnation on which the
jstion hinges, and the wor-
to Christ against which the
5 of so-called theists to
ship are levelled. The in-
is the principle of saint-
All orthodox Protestants
ed of idolatrous saint-wor-
nitarians, Jews, Mohamme-
all pure theists. It is true
orthodox do not regard Je-
t as a mere saint, but all
gard him as being, at the
nly the greatest among the
Ul Protestants who are or-
1 the incarnation, and con-
i belief to the doctrine of
confessions and great di-
eve that the holy humanity
Christ is entitled to divine
They are obliged to wor-
only the divine nature of
ist, but also his human na-
soul and body. Yet, the
iture of Christ is a created

and finite substance, not possessing
a single divine attribute. How, then,
can it receive the worship due to God
alone ? Evidently it cannot receive
such a worship as terminating in it-
self, or as absolute. It is impossible
for the intellect to make the judgment
that the substance of the body and
of the soul of Jesus Christ is the in-
finite, self existing being whom we
call God, and from whom all things
derive existence. Why, then, is the
humanity of Jesus Christ to be wor-
shipped ? Because of the divine per-
son to whom it belongs. The soul
and the body of Jesus Christ are the
soul and body of the Son of God.
The same person who is God is also
man, and his humanity is inseparable
from his person. It is, therefore, on
account of and in relation to his di-
vine person that his human nature is
adored with the worship of latria.
If our Lord should condescend to
come upon the earth again, we are
persuaded that every sincere Protes-
tant who believes in his divinity would
gladly prostrate himself at his feet to
pay him supreme adoration, and, if he
were able to look upon his face, would
feel that he was gazing upon the very
countenance of God, and that the
eyes of the Lord of heaven and earth
were fixed upon him. If there are
any whose mind or feelings revolt
from the worship of the Son of God
in his human body and through the
medium of his visible form, let them
admit at once that they are no belie-
vers in the incarnation, that they have
abandoned the doctrine of the an-
cient Protestant confessions and are
really Unitarians. Those who fully
admit the Catholic doctrine that the
sacred humanity of Jesus Christ is to
be adored must range themselves at
once on our side and prepare to de-
fend our common cause. They must
defend themselves and us against the
charge of idolatry. They cannot do

724

The Vmtration of Saints and H&ly Im

it without laying down the principle
thati when a created nature is eleva-
ted to a S{>ecial union with the di-
vine nature, and made to participate
with it in dignity, it is worthy of a
proportionate religious veneralioa.
The more orthodox Unitarians can*
not deny this principle without con-
demning themselves. They give a
\*eneration at least equal to that
which Catholics call the worship of
hyperdulia to Jesus Christ; and as
they do not acknowledge in him any
dignity differing in kind, but only
one differing in degree, from that of
angels, prophets, martyrs, confessors,
and oiher saints, they cannot con-
sistently deny the propriety of giv:
ing a lesser veneration, or worship of
dull a, to the saints. Episcopalians
and other Protestants dedicate days
and churches in honor of the Blessed
Virgin and the saints, which are acts
of very high religious veneration.
Only those who refuse alt religious
veneration either to Jesus Christ or
to any created nature, because they
deny any supernatural elevation of
created nature into a mysterious
union with the divine nature, have
any pretext or appearance of con-
sistency in their charge of idolatry
against Catholic saint-worship. Yet
jt is precisely the trinitarian Protest-
ants who are loudest and most vio-
lent in repeating this charge, So far
as rationalists and Unitarians are
concerned, it is not of much utility to
discuss the question of the venera-
tion of the Virgin and of the saints
directly. The preliminar)' question
of the incarnation has first to be
settled. It is the divine worship we
pay to Jesus Christ which is their
great stone of stumbling and rock of
offence. We leave them aside, there-
fore, to pursue the one direct line
of argument on wliich we started,
namely, that the veneration of saints
flows logkaWy out ol \Ue vforship of

the sacred hiunan
rooted in the dc
nation.

Orthodox Protests
to pay divine worshifi
tion of lalria, to the
Jesus Christ ; a worst
be idolatry if the human
were not united to the <
in one personal ity» so t
ship of Christ as mz
referred to his di\id
terminates upon it.
reason, they are bounJ
ferior veneration, or ^
to the saints, becaus
united to tlie divine
the incarnation and
co-heirs and brclhrenj
tors of his glory,
united with the divine
personality, therefor
receive divine worsl
are in a lesser mode
ers of the divine n|
Scripture explicitly
therefore, deserve a vent
mensurate with their de
which is ultimately \
who is ** worshipped
To compare the ven^
saints of God with
theism is simply absuij
nected with and sprii
doctrine of pure ma
the worship paid to \
God. It docs not, in^
degree, supplant this doci
ship, confuse the idea af
terfere with the recogn
sole and absolute sover
presents necessarily,
essence, the saints as ]
the servants, the cour
and favored friends of
sors and advocates for
his throne. It preset
necessarily, God i
sovereign, and as
fountain of all their \

sover
asH

oil

The Veneration of Saints and Holy Images.

72s

I glory, the author and giver
\ blessings asked for through
:ercession. The perpetual
of the true idea of God pre-
le idea of the hierarchy of
) from all corruption or per-
ind keeps continually before

1 their relation and subordi- '
» the supreme and absolute
the universe.

: same way, the presence of
idea of the incarnation pre-

2 idea of the mediation of
ts between God and man
ng corrupted. It is impos-

the Blessed Virgin or any
nt to take the place in the

idea which belongs to Jesus

the Redeemer and Saviour
nd, the Mediator between

man. It is clearly under-
d vividly realized that Jesus

the medium of union be-
od and man through the
c union of human nature
divine nature in his person,
ation of sin derives its infi-
le from the divinity of his

His merits derive their in-
lue also from his divinity,
le source and fountain of
d mercy, because he is God
esses life in himself. He is
fice perpetually offered in
le eucharist, the perennial
' life from which the soul is
he holy communion. The
1 of the saints is derived
1, subordinate to and de-

on his mediation. The
Virgin and the saints are

on account of their rela-
lim, and are invoked as his
nd ministers in dispensing
[t is impossible, therefore,
ute to them any separate
independent power ; and, so
the devotion to Our Lady or
ts impeding the view of

only brings him into bolder

relief, and by contrast and compari-
son enhances the conception of his
infinite elevation, as their and our
creator and sovereign, above all crea-
tures even the most exalted. Dr.
Johnson with his usual strong good
sense, saw this, and with his usual
manly honesty avowed it, as every
one knows who has read his Life
by Boswell. Intelligent Protestants
ought to be ashamed of themselves
for perpetually reiterating the stupid
charge against the Catholic Church,
that she substitutes the Virgin and
the saints as objects of worship in
the place of God, or as objects of
confidence in the place of our Sa-
viour Christ The only excuse for
those who make this assertion is in-
vincible ignorance, an excuse not
very creditable to men who profess to
be theologians. It may avail for those
who have grown too old to make any
new studies or receive any new
ideas, and for those whose intelli-
gence and learning are so circum-
scribed that they cannot become ac-
quainted with or understand the
arguments of Catholic theologians.
But for those who have the obliga-
tion and the opportunity to study and
understand these grave questions,
but yet persist, either through cul-
pable ignorance or wilful dishones-
ty, in misrepresenting Catholic doc-
trine, there can be no excuse. In
spite of our desire to stretch charity
to its utmost limits, we cannot help
thinking that they are afraid to meet
the question openly and fairly, afraid
to investigate, and afraid to discuss
the issue between us on its real
merits. They apprehend, more or
less vaguely or distinctly, that they
cannot maintain their ground if they
state the Catholic doctrines fairly and
argue against them as they really are.
Their instinct of self-preservation
teaches them that their only safety
consists in the smok^ ^Yiv&Vil \!c^^

726

TJte Vmeraiion of Saints and Uofy

create by iheir incessant fusillade of
misrepresentation, and which hides
the true aspect of the field from their
deluded followers*

We leave this part of our subject
with a reiteration of what we have
already affirmed and proved. The
attempt to prove a priori from the
idea of God, or from the idea of the
incarnation and mediation of the
Word made man, that the religious
veneration of the saints is incom-
patible with the supreme worship due
to God, and the supreme confidence
we are bound to repose in the merits
and grace of the sacred humanity of
Jesus Christ, is perfectly futile. The
only real question is one of evidence :
whether the Catholic Church can fur-
nish evidence of her divine authority
to teach that the Blessed Virgin and
the saints have received a subordi-
nate office of mediation, and are to be
honored and invoked by a special
and formal cult us. If the evidence
which is proposed can be refuted, the
worship of the saints may be qualified
as a vain observance, a superstition,
a useless addition to Christianity.
But it can never, with any reason, be
denominated idolatry ; because it
distinctly limits itself to that venera-
tion which is simply commensurate
with a merely created and derived
dignity, leaving intact and perfect the
supreme worship of God. It can
never be denominated a substitution
of many saviours and mediators in
place of the one Saviour and Media-
tor Jesus Christ ; because it leaves
the doctrine of his mediation intact
and perfect. That this evidence can
be demolished by sound historical
learning, scientific exegesis of the
Scriptures, or solid theological ar-
guments, we have no fear. We do
not think our antagonists have much
hope of doing it. They have already
said all that can be said on their side,
and only damaged tlieir own cause

by iL They
universal testimi
countries to the
without resorting
subvert their own
leave them to si
that has swall
Col en so. These t
exhaustively hai
and able Cathol
we refer those
investigate thetn
the second part i
iclates to the he
cred images of C
Anticatholic i
cat, careless, an/
arguments again!
and practices, ai
toric, directed n
vulgus^ especiallj
this, which is o
themes, that it
follow and refn
and methodical
very much in
rative expression
tions, ridicule, a
wit, in unmeai
themselves as tk
and spiritual
and wholesale de
lies, especially i\
peasantry and i
Catholic countri(
the substance (
against the venei
traded and redi
precise statemef
thing like this s
images in religii
tholics is idolatro
is actually an ado^
gods in place of<
not, leads to an<
worship, and
pcarance of be
It is, therefore,
intrinsically da
therefore prohil

Th4 Veneration of Saints' and Hofy Images,

727

law, sLTid as in many cases among
the u. ^K-a. educated grossly superstitious
and h». ^athenish. It is, therefore, on a
par ^vith the idolatry of the Greeks
and lE^omans, and other pagan na-
tionSy ^which is so severely denounced
in tlk^ Holy Scriptures, and so un-
inercx^\illy ridiculed by the early
Christian writers ; although enlight-
ened Catholics, like enlightened pa-
^nSy nay be free from the grossness
of th.c^ vulgar superstition.

A £ull discussion of the subject
vould require us to go into the ques-
tion of the nature of image-worship
among the heathen nations. This
has Ibxen done already by Bishop
Engl a.iid, who has handled the whole
matter with great learning and abil-
ity in his " Letters to the Gospel
Mess^^ga^y It has also been briefly
but sa.tisfactorily treated in an article
on ** Is it Honest?" in a former num-
ber of this magazine. We may assert
it as a certain and established fact,
that the heathen priests and other
intelligent advocates of polytheism
held tJie opinion, so far as they were
sincere believers in their own system,
that the divinities whom they wor-
shipped were in some way bound to
their images, and acted through them
as the soul acts through the body.
They did not, of course, worship the
ineta.1 or wood of which the images
were composed ; but they did wor-
ship the images themselves, as being
animated statues informed by a di-
vine virtue, and really containing the
l^rsons they represented. Philoso-
H*^ Hke Socrates, Plato, and others,
^ persons who were imbued with
^ PHriciples of the more sound and
monotheistic philosophy, were not
rj,. ^^^rs in the strict and gross sense.
^^ regarded the divinities of the
*^'^-^*'^r mythology as only a sort of
? ^*» and probably considered their
^S^S as only representations in-
ten^^^ to impress the senses and

keep alive the belief and devotion of
the people. But the doctrine of
polytheism was not the doctrine of
the sounder and higher philosophy.
The system was idolatrous, both in
its substitution of imaginary beings
for the one, true God, and also in its
offering of the worship due to God
to images as containing their ima-
ginary divinities. It is necessary to
take into account, in estimating the
idolatrous character of this heathen
worship, not only that it terminated
upon objects which were not divine
as the ultimate end of the homa^
given, without reference to the su-
preme creator and lord, but also
that these objects were unreal and
imaginary beings. It was not, there-
fore, merely an undue exaltation of
the creature, but a substitution of
mere creations of the imagination in
lieu of the true God. It was, there-
fore, not only polytheism, or a denial
of the unity of God, and a division of
the deity among many beings pos-
sessing divine attributes, but /^/-wor-
ship, that is, the worship of nonen-
tities in place of the real, infinite
Being. The image represented no-
thing real. It was worshipped as
related to an imaginary divinity, sup-
posed to reside in it and to com-
municate to it a certain divine quality.
There being no such person really
existing, the image was a mere idol ;
and the worship had no real object
to terminate upon except the material
of which it was composed. A man
who cherishes and honors the picture
of his wife has a real and legitimate
object upon which the affections and
emotions awakened by the picture
may terminate ; but an artist who
falls in love with a picture painted
after an imaginary ideal in his own
mind loves a mere painted form, an
idol, and is, therefore, guilty of an ab-
surd form of picture-worship. If
this love takes the place of the love

728

Tlig Veneration of Saints and Hafy Imagts}

of God in his soul and leads him to
place his supreme good in this im-
aginary being, he is an idolater. The
heathen had nothing in their idols
but lumps of wood} stone, or metal^
fashioned to represent some imagi-
nary being. They were therefore
open to all the ridicule and scorn of
the prophets and other servants of
the true God, for shaping to them-
selves gods which were the mere cre-
ations of their own art and skill. The
condemnation of idols in the Holy
Scripture falls, therefore, not chiefly
upon the mere use of images as rep-
resenting the object of worship, but
upon the making and honoring of
images representing beings who, if
they existed, would not be entitled
to the worship they received, and
who, in point of fact, had no real ex-
istence. Idolatry is also called in
the Scripture d'^mon-worship, be-
cause, as wc understand it, the de-
mons by means of it seduced men
away from the worship of God, and
also because, by possessing the
images of the false gods, speaking
through the oracles, and inciting to
the commission of a multitude of
crimes in connection with idolatr)%
they reduced the heathen into servi-
tude to themselves.

The prohibition of images to be
used in the worship sanctioned by
the divine law was a precept of dis-
cipline enacted for a special reason.
The reason was the same which lay
at the foundation of that economy by
which the trinity of persons in the
Godhead, the incarnation of the Son
in human form, the hierarchy of an-
gels, the glory of the Mother of God,
the exaltation of the saints to a deiftc
union, were at ^rst obscurely reveal-
ed, and only gradually disclosed to
the clear knowledge and belief of the
generality of the faithful It was
necessary to establish first the doc-
trine of the divine unity and spiritu-

ality, then the Trinity and
tion, so firmly in the faith (
pie of God, that it could i
turbed by anything sim|l
corrupt worshipping of cfl
before it was safe to al^f
cation of all creation a^|
which is the consequence
carnation, to be fully n
The Trinity and Incania
but dimly revealed, an^
cilly known by the M'/#fl
ful, in order that the attlH
childish, imperfect mindl
who lived in those early
rounded by a brilliant and
polytheism, might be fixed
ly on the unity and spirittia
divine nature. It was ti
mission of the patriarchal^
dispensations to preserfl
down the doctrine of the
God. There would hav^
ger in distinctly revealic^fl
before the time, that tI
would have been corruptee
verted by a fiilse c<
plurality of persons i
ing, as of a plurality of beii
Incarnation would hav
verted also into anlhro
or the conception of
ture as identical with^
ture. Too distinct a h
the angelic hierarcny
dazzled the minds of a p
disposed and continually t\
idolatry', and WQuld have ^
them from the contcmpl;
worship of God. Sculp
painting would have aflb
senses and imagination
ly, and would have fasl(^
position to conceive of 1
ture as divided among
and resembling >
jects. It was ^
should come and mamfc
men in his true charac
be should establish an

The Veneration of Saints and Holy Images.

729

, competent to teach and define
inity and Incarnation in their
1 to the divine unity, to con-
all errors, and to direct the de-
lent of theology with unerring
Je, before the grand and ab-
nysteries of faith could be safely
d to the gaze of the multitude,
ord himself proceeded with
:aution in these matters, and
the apostles and their succes-
The trinity in unity and the

of Christ had first to be
sd and to be sunk indelibly
le mind of the church, be-
le Blessed Virgin and the
:ould be brought prominently
I ; and religion had first to be

with spirituality and pure,
morality, before the splendor
hip and the riches of the fine
id all the subsidiary means of
►ing the senses and the imagi-
could receive their due develop-
Nevertheless, that the unity
lation might be manifest and
ntinuity of development be
broken, everything which was
i to bloom forth in its season

splendor upon this grand
: God whose branches are des-

overshadow the world, ex-

1 germ and bud from the very
ng. It would lead us too far
V up this thought. Orthodox
mts will admit it in regard to
icipal mysteries of Catholic
The text of Scripture shows
that ceremonial, architecture,
sic, in a word, all that was not
lose its symbolic character
ily in the minds of the peo-
e profusely employed in the

of the old law. Philosophy,
science, and literature were
abeyance to a great extent,
given sufficiently for intellec-
ture in the inspired writings.
>twithstanding the restriction
in sculpture and painting, yet

images were to a certain extent made
use of, by the divine commandment,
for symbolic purposes in the sanctua-
ry and in the temple. This is their
true and legitimate use, and they are
to be classed with other symbols,
emblems, or exterior signs and re-
presentations to the senses of persons
and things in the supersensible and
celestial world. Sacraments, holy
places, holy things, temples, altars,
vestments, ceremonies, images, all
belong to the same order, and find
their reason and principle in the In-
carnation. The Incarnation is the
highest consecration and elevation of
material substance and form. The
body of Christ is hypostatically uni-
ted to the divine nature and made
the true, living image of the Godhead,
as the Second Council of Nice teach-
es, the medium by which God is mani-
fested in the sensible and visible or-
der. Through Christ the whole ma-
terial universe is sanctified and uni-
ted with God as its final cause. The
fanciful theosophies and mythologies
of the heathen world were only abor-
tive efforts to express this truth.
Mr. Gladstone has recently given ut-
terance to this idea in very beautiful
language, so far as Greek polytheism
is concerned, in his review of Ecce
Homo, Heathen art was similarly a
perverted foreshadowing of Catholic
art, copied after the ideal, not of re-
deemed and glorified but of fallen
nature, not of heaven but of hell,
which is but a dark counterpart of
heaven.

Modem Protestants will generally
admit the lawfulness and utility of
sculpture and painting, considered as
the outward expression of the Chris-
tian ideal of beauty, the representa-
tion of persons, scenes, places worthy
of respect, means of improving the
senses and imagination with religious
ideas. They are not like their an-
cestors, who defaced sanctuaries, ri-

The Vmeration of Saints and Holy Images.

731

find themselves compelled to
fer to their conception of the
e intelligence and volition the
>gy of their own manner of
yht, of their sentiments and
tions. In the same manner,
I a person thinks of Jesus Christ,
tates on his life, death, and glo-
l state in heaven, he will form to
elf images which represent his

conception, images so much
(lore distinct as they reflect the
inity of Christ with which we
ir more immediately united than
re with the divine nature, and
i we are therefore able to repre-
more exactly and vividly to our
ination. Are we to say, then,
5very person worships the image
od or of Jesus Christ which his
ect has formed, and becomes
by an idolater ? Certainly not.
reason and faith assure him of
jxistence of God and Christ as
:tively real, distinct from his
mental conception, and surpass-
ill his apprehensions. His in-
3n in worship is directed to God
I really is, and is true worship,
ugh the intellectual media which
oul is obliged to make use of
uperfect and inadequate.
le case is no way altered if the
tured or painted image of Christ
ade use of, instead of or to-
tr with the intellectual image,
crucifix is only a permanent
e affecting the exterior senses,
le intellectual representation is
nsient image affecting the inte-
senses. Coleridge says that a
re is "an intermediate some-
between a thought and a thing."
same may be said of a statue,
jh a statue is more of a thing

a painting is. The material
ance employed by the artist is
ly the substratum of the form,
[1 is something ideal, as langu-
3 merely the medium of thought.

In painting or sculpture of real merit,
the higher and more perfect concep-
tions of men who possess the artistic
gift are transferred to the Tninds of
those whose ideal conceptions are of
an inferior order, or who, at least,
are not able to give their conceptions
an outward and permanent expres-
sion. The artist who makes a statue
or painting of our Lord intends to
represent him according to the ideal
which he has in his own mind. His
object is to bring the ideal concep-
tion of Christ vividly and distinctly
before the imagination of the behold-
er. The more completely he suc-
ceeds in producing the desired ef-
fect, the more perfect will be the
identification of the image with the
object it represents in the imagina-
tion of the beholder ; that is, the
image, the more completely it is an
image, the less does it attract atten-
tion to its own separate reality, and
the more does it fix the attention of
the mind on the object it represents.
A person whose mind is susceptible
to the influence of art, looking at a
masterpiece of painting or sculp-
ture, forgets that it is only a repre-
sentation, and seems to himself to be
looking at the reality. His imagi-
nation transports him to the scene
of crucifixion, and he is spell-bound
as he gazes on the face of the dying
Christ. The same emotions arise in
his mind that would arise if he were
actually gazing upon the crucifixion
itself. If he is a Christian, he will
spontaneously elicit acts of worship
toward the Son of God dying on the
cross. These interior acts will man-
ifest themselves by exterior signs,
by the respectful posture, the silence,
the reverential expression of counte-
nance, the moistened eye, which betray
the workings of the soul within to
any attentive observer. Suppose that
he kneels down and offers a prayer,
that he kisses the feet of the image

of Christ, that he exclaims aloud,
" My Lord and my God I" is that
idolatry ? Is he worshipping a picture
or a statue ? If he is, then all the
merely interior and mental acts of a
person who is affected by a statue or
picture of Christ are equally idola-
trous. If the sculptured or painted
image of Christ is really substituted
for Christ himself, and receives as a
reality, distinct in itself, any homage
or affection which it terminates as
an ultimate.object, then all admirers
of works of art are guilty of the
same species of absurdity, commit
the same unreasonable act, in a less-
er deg^ree, which culminates, in the
case supposed, in the supreme folly
of adoring marble, ivory, canvas,
and paint. That class of persons
who go into raptures over works of
art, therefore, have noticing to say
against the Catholic use of the cru-
cifix wliich is not contradicted by
their own practice and avowed
sentiments. If the devout senti-
ments awakened by a crucifix or
a painting of the crucifixion are le-
gitimate for once and for the space
of half an hour, they are legitimate
at all times. If it is lawful to go to
a picture-gallery in order to see a
masterpiece, it is lawful to buy it, to
hang it in an orator>% to visit it every
day, and to make a regular and con-
stant use of it, as a means of excit-
ing devotion. If the inward senti-
ments it awakens are lawful, so is
their outward expression ; and if
this outward expression is in itself
lawful, it may be prescribed as a law
by the ritual of the church. The
same principle that justifies the mak-
ing of a crucifix, and the looking
upon it with emotion, justifies the
church in placing it above the altar,
bowing or genuflecting before it, in-
censing it, exposing it on Good Fri-
day to veneration, and chanting the

words : " Ecce
adoremusy

The crucifix,
terial object, is merl
the same respect whic
Bible, an altar<loth, a
other object devoted !
As a representation,
guished from the >
presents, and the
exterior veneration
upon it are merely r^
referred altogether "
They arc like the
imprints upon his
the uncovering of
procession passes
Washington, The
question, therefore, 1
veneration given to 1
that is, Does the ot
presented, that is,
Christ, deserve the '
tria, or divine worsli
pay to him, and whl
by these exterior ma:
toward his image ?
case with the image
Virgin and the saini
tion paid to them hi
the material of whic
posed, but passes to th(
that is, the person
The only question,
these prototypes de
we intend to pay the
it is right to signifj(
marks of respect toj
as bowing, ofl
ing lights, decofi
which they are pU
and kneeling befor
prayers.

We have already i
who have the mere i
and imagination ton
pictures act in a
analogous, and pa
same mental pr

ma:

mtfl

rttfta

The Veneration of Saints and Holy Images.

733

3y the Catholic in the respect
he pays to the sacred images
rist and the saints. The only
nee is, that the latter makes

his imagination in the service
real and practical faith and

His devotion is not a mere
ctual or sentimental devotion,
spiritual exercise. It is, there-
ess dependent on the artistic
md excellence of the represen-

than the merely sentimental
ment of the votary of art. A
:rucifix or a simple image of
lessed Virgin is sufficient for
ly purpose for which the devout
lie makes use of them, as a
) fix the senses and attention, a
* step-ladder by which he may
lis mind to the contemplation
irist and his blessed mother,
other circumstances give value
red objects besides their in-
worth. Their history, their
ity, the associations connected
lem, the traditions of past ages
cluster about them, often give
a sacredness far beyond the

of symmetry and beauty.
: two, we should much prefer
e Bernini's exquisite statue,
hich the Rev. Mr. Bacon goes
ptures which betray his refin-
i of art, destroyed, ratlier than
nerable statue of St Peter,

with manners the reverse of
ite and refined, he calls "a
idol." Even persons of the
exquisite taste often love an
use, old portraits, old articles
niture, and many other old

intrinsically ugly and value-
ir more than any similar ob-
irhich are new, costly, and fa-
d in the highest style of art.
e same reason, certain objects
otion, which are devoid of all
: excellence, may be very dear
^nerable to Catholics of the
:ultivated taste. Much more,

then, it is natural that rude and un-
sightly statues or pictures should be
objects of devotion to Catholics of
uncultivated taste. Protestants make
a great mistake in judging of the sen-
timents of the common people in
Catholic countries. They attribute
to superstition what is really to be
ascribed only to uncultivated taste.
The sentiments which are awakened
by masterpieces of art they can un-
derstand ; but they cannot under-
stand that ordinary and even gro-
tesque images are masterpieces of
art and models of beauty to the rude
and childish mind of the multitude.
To their prejudiced and distorted
fancy, these images appear like idols,
and the devotion of the people to-
ward them like a stupid idol-worship.
They do not appreciate the fact that
they are to these simple people what
chefs'd^ceuvre of religious art are to
them — a vivid representation, in out-
ward form, of their own highest ideal.
The susceptibility of these untutored
minds to those emotions which are
awakened through the senses is far
greater than that of the more edu-
cated, though it is not so chastened.
This is especially the case with the
southern races. Poetry, music, paint-
ing, everj'thing which appeals to the
imagination, finds a ready response
in their ardent temperament. It is,
therefore, a proof of the highest wis-
dom in the church that she has tak-
en advantage of all these means of
impressing religious ideas upon the
minds of all classes of men in every
stage of intellectual development
There are some whose devotion takes
a more purely intellectual form, and
who elevate their minds to God
and heaven more easily by interior
recollection and meditation than by
any exercise of the imagination or
any outward aids. A few prefer the
solitude of a cell or a cave to Co-
logne Cathedral, and an hour's ab-

The Veneration of Saints and Hefy

stracted contemplation to all the
pageantry of St. Peter's, Such are
permitted and encouraged to follow
the bent of their own inclination and
the leading of the divine Spirit. The
mass of men^ however, even of the
educated and cuhiv^ated, need the
help of the exterior world to give
them the images and emblems of
divine and spiritual things with-
out which they cannot fix their atten-
tion or awaken their emotions. The
quality and quantity of the helps and
instruments with which they worship
God vary indefinitely. The devotion
of those whose state is a kind of in-
tellectual childhood, or in whose tern-
peramcnt imagination and passion
predominate, will necessarily be more
sensuous than that of more cultivated
minds or races of a more cool and
sedate temperament It is the same
principle, however, which pervades
and regulates all ; the spirit is one,
though the form varies. The true
mystic, who is absorbed in the con-
templation of the divine nature, does
not deny to the sacred humanity of
Christ, to the Blessed Virgin, the
saints, or to any holy things, their
worth and excellence, although he
does not fix his attention upon them
so frequently and so directly as
others. The great saints and theo-
logians of the church never despise
the devotions of the people or accuse
them of superstition. The distinc-
tion between the intelligent few and
the superstitious many in the Catho-
lic Church, is one which the most
highly educated and spiritually min-
ded Catholics disdain and repudiate
as a dishonor to themselves. It is
made by sciolists, who are unable to
answer the arguments of our theo-
logians or to deny the sanctity of
our saints, and who seek to evade in
this way the overwhelming force of
the evidence for the truth of our re-
ligion. The veneration of saints and

nura

the use of imag
ship, they say,
prevent the iliU
offering a supren
to God and k
Christ as their
the multitude to
idolatry* We an
the fact than the
ne.xtto nothing o^
ing of our relig
and state of mind
know these thing
as much abhor
they have, and aa
enlightenment an
of the multitudi
there is no tainf
idolatry in the d elf
The Catholic Churd
of God and Chria
minds of her qI
them in a mam
who are out of
conception, Tlic a<
drawing from Godj
which is due to
scatter it among
comes with a vce
Protestants. Wli
to reclaim mankii
and to spread th<l
God? TbeyhaV
cept to cripple
Catholic priesthc
scnsion in Christen
the scandal of disu
They have bred
sies against the
vinity of Christ
extinct, together ^
strous error of pa5
Catholic priesthood,
the ancient heatheni
ever^^where ChrLsfi
lished on an Imii
the doctrine of
Christ, together wit
his adorable nam^
We are nowj

dtsu

paiil

ood,

.heni

fxsxm

The Veneration of Saints and Holy Images.

735

of converting the heathen, and of
defending theism and Christianity
against the hosts of enemies raised
up against them by the revolt of the
sixteenth century. If Christianity is
to gain in the future new and more
glorious triumphs over the false re-
ligions of the world, it wilNje through
our labors and our blood that she
will win her victories. Not only
do the defence and advancement
of the supernatural order rest on us ;
we are obliged also to defend nature,
leason, the arts, the poetry and ro-
mance of life, from a gloomy Puri-
Unism, a hopeless scepticism, a de-
solating materialism, which would
fiveep away all spiritual philosophy,
an sound science, all gayety and
diann in life, all joyousness in reli-
gion, all ideality and heroism in the
^ifaere of human existence. It is
against a universal iconoclasm we
have to contend — an iconoclasm
^ch seeks to throw down and de-
&ce the image of celestial truth and
beauty, to break the painted windows
trough which the light of heaven
streams in upon this earthly temple,
to efface those angelic and saintly
fenw with the Madonna who is the
Qoecn of the whole bright multitude,
to overthrow the cross, and finally to
^ down the sacred humanity of
Christ, together with the deity that
^wellsinit and is worshipped through
^leaving mankind without a temple,

an altar, a Saviour, or a God. We
have learned the nature of the war-
fare we are engaged in too well from
the conflicts of eighteen centuries, to
be deceived or misled. We know that
an attack on the smallest portion of
the edifice of the Catholic Church
means its total subversion, and that,
consequently, it is just as necessary
to resist it as if it were avowedly
aimed at the foundation. We know
that we cannot and must not yield
up the smallest fragment of Catholic
truth for any plausible end whatever.
Although, therefore, the veneration
of saints and holy images is not
among the most necessary and fun-
damental parts of the Catholic reli-
gion, yet, as the principle from which
it proceeds is an integral portion of
Catholic doctrine, we shall always
maintain it with the same fidelity as
we do the primary truths of the
Creed, the Unity and Trinity of the
Godhead, the Incarnation, Passion,
and Resurrection of Jesus Christ.
The images of Christ, of the Blessed
Virgin, and of the saints, will always
remain above our altars and on the
walls of our churches ; the Salve Re-
gina and Litanies of the Saints will
never cease to be chanted in our
solemn services ; and we shall conti-
nue to adore the Incarnate Word in
his sacred humanity with the wor-
ship of latria until the end of the
world.

73C

Nellu NettervilU.

NELLIE NETTERVILLE; OR, ONE OF THI

CHAPTER XV.

Before leaving the guard-room^
Ormiston poured out a large goblet
of wine from a flask vs^hich he had
sent one of the soldiers to procure at
a wine-tavern hard by, and insisted
upon Nellie drinking it to the last
drop.

The remainder of the flask he gave
to Roger, who, truth to say, was al-
most as much in need of it as Nellie ;
and they then all went forth together,
O'More having previously pledged
his word, both to Ormiston and Hold-
fast, to consider himself merely as
a prisoner at large, until they them-
selves should release him from his
parole.

Their way led them from the gate-
house into Bridge street, and from
thence to Ormond Gate, Earl's Gate,
''Geatana-Eorlagh," as it was thca
sometimes called. With Major Or-
miston in their company, this w^as
opened to them without a question,
and they afterward proceeded, as fast
as Nellie's strength permitted, up the
steep hill street, debouching into the
Com Market. Entering the latter,
they found themselves face to face
with Newgate, the great criminal pri-
son of the city. There it stood, dark,
strong, and terrible — too strong, Ro-
ger could not help thinking, to be a
fitting prison for the frail, dying wth
man it was guarding for the hang-
man. It seemed, indeed, almost like
an abuse of power to have cast her
there, so helpless as she was, and pow-
erless, in the strong grasp of the law*

Newgate had originally formed a
square, having at each of its four an-
gles a towcri three stories high, and

turreted at the
however, those
city, had been re
and when NetlieJ
the first time, it
the gate house, with
iron gates, and a
either end. Neg
the gibbet, metap
really ; for few,
days, were the
shut up wtthm
ever left them fo
nation than the
position in which
hardly avoid seel
onward toward
the faint hope
poor Nellie*s ey«
rition, Ormiston
advance of hb |
placed himself
Roger, however, !
leaned, knew, by
which shook her Ui
der caution had
lie, in fact, hadj
guessed at the
office there ; andj
reluctantly — ^and
in spite of hers
felt as if she had
roughly realized the
which her mother 4
der that she gref
the thought for
naked realit}', on!
mother — h^r moi^
and personificatij
delicate woman h
hour be dragged^
and ashamed, benea
man*s grasp > Ulia
very feet failed to di

NMU NettervilU.

717

oger was compelled rather to
han to lead her past the spot,
pausing or suffering her to
until they stood before the
)f Newgate ?

e, as at the city gate, the name
ithority of Ormiston procured
ready admission, the jailer re-
l them with courtesy, and show-
sm at once into a low, vaulted
Dn the ground-floor of the pri-
Notwithstanding this, however,
ton had no sooner announced
ime of the prisoner they had
to visit, than the man showed
oms of great and irrepressible
rassment

be prisoner had been very ill,"
ittered ; " had burst a blood-
in the morning, and the bleed-
d returned within the hour, A
' had been sent for, and was at
loment with her ; but if Major
ton could condescend to wait,
uld call his wife, who was also
endance on the poor lady, and
tell her to announce the arri-
f a visitor. It must be done
," he repeated over and over
" very gently ; for the doctor
(ready told him that any sudden
would of necessit}' prove fatal"
aiston eyed the man curiously
blundered through this state-
He knew enough of Newgate,
was then conducted, to doubt
if the visit of a doctor was a
' often vouchsafed to its inha-
s ; and feeling in consequence
5me mystery was concealed be-
the mention of such an official,
s almost tempted to fancy that
Netterville was already dead,
lat, on account of the presence
daughter, the man hesitated to
. The next moment, however,
d leaped to another and more
:t conclusion, though for Nel-
•ake, and because intolerance
d no part of his character, he
VOL. vij.— 47

made neither question nor comment,
as the jailer evidently expected that
he would, on the matter. Greatly re-
lieved by this apparent absence of
suspicion on the part of the English
officer, the man brought in a stool for
Nellie to sit upon, and then once
more announced his intention of go-
ing in quest of his wife. Just as he
opened the door for this purpose,
Ormiston caught a glimpse of a tall,
gray-haired man, who passed down
the passage quickly in company of a
woman. The jailer saw him also,
and with a sudden look of dismay
upon his features, closed the half-
opened door, and turned again to
Ormiston.

" It was the doctor," he said with
emphasis — "the doctor who had just
taken his departure ; and as there was
nothing now to prevent their see-
ing the sick lady; he would send his
wife at once to conduct them to her
cell."

A long ten minutes followed, dur-
ing which time Nellie sat quite still,
her face hidden by her hands, and
shivering from head to foot in fear
and expectation. The door opened
again^ and she sprang up. This
time it was the jailer's wife who en-
tered.

" The poor lady had been inform-
ed," she said, " of the arrival of her
daughter, and was longing to embrace
her. Would the young lady follow
her to the cell ?"

Nellie was only too eager to do so,
and they left the room together.
Ormiston hesitated a moment as to'
what he would do himself; but not
liking to leave Nellie entirely in the
hands of such people as jailers and
their wives were in those days, he at
last proposed to Roger to follow and
wait somewhere near the cell during
her approaching interview with her
mother. To this Roger readily as-
sented, and they reached the open

738

Nillie NeU^rvilU,

door just as Nellie entered and knelt
down by her mother's side.

More than a hundred years tater
than the period of which there is
question in this tale, the treatment of
prisoners in the Dublin Newgate was
so horrible and revolting to the com-
monest sense of decency and huma*
nity as to demand a positive inter-
ference on the part of government.
There is nothing, therefore, very as-
tonishing in the fact^ that the state
in which Nellie found her mother
filled her brimful with sorrow and
dismay. The cell in which she was
confined was low, and damp, and
dark, and this she might have ex-
pected, and was in some degree pre-
pared for; but she had not counted
on the utter misery of its appoint-
ments ; and the sight of her pale mo-
ther — death already haunting her
dark eyes, and written unmistakably
on her ghastly features — stretched
upon ihe clammy pavement, a heap
of dirty straw her only bed, and a
tattered blanket her only covering,
was such a shock and surprise to
Nellie that, instead of joyfully an-
nouncing the fact of her reprieve to
the poor captive, as she had intended,
she fell upon her knees beside her,
and wept over her like a child.

" Mother ! mother T* was all that
she could say for sobbing, as she
took her mother's hand in hers and
covered it with tears and kisses. Mrs.
Netterville appeared for a moment loo
much overcome to speak, or even
move, but gradually a faint flush pass-
ed ovxr her wan face^ and her eyes
at last grew brighter and more life-
like, when Nellie, making a strong and
desperate effort to command her feel-
ings, suddenly wiped away her tears
and bent over the bed to kiss her,

*• O mother 1 mother I** the poor
girl could not refrain from once more
sobbing, **is it thus that I see you
after all ?"

lid, o

{

onH

" Nay, child/*
with diflficuliy, **j
thank God for it i
you not it is an ea
I had not burst a 1
to-morrow — yt%^ \
shudder ran tbr
frame, and she broil

'* But I have brc
prieve,** sobbed Nell
ing what she said, o
saying it at thati
prieve which is
Only a few days
have been free, w|
— tears choked
hiding her face on!
ty coverlet, she sol
heart w^ere brcaktM
ville half raised hdl
bed. For one bn«
struggled with tha
which lurks in en
and which Nellie*!
called forth afresl
brief moment tha
and liberty, lost
been found again-
had become more
in her eyes — that
what was to be he
it might have beeu
with a bitterness
than that of death
body shook and
aspen leaf beneatll
misery thus laid i
unguarded word i
fact, changed, as i
thoughts and feelir
Death and life, an
ness, freedom and
put on a new and
in her eyes, and tha
only a minute
seemed to her
real consolation, 1
the guise of a gr
was as if God hii
her with feigned

llB

NellU NeitervilU.

739

light so have said, and sunk
:h the burden ! But with that
and well-tried spirit the strug-
ded otherwise.

sping her wasted hands toge-
ind lifting up her eyes to hea-
lie dying woman exclaimed, in
:e which none could hear and
L of the truth of the sentiments
ered, " My God ! my God 1 Thy
lot mine, be done !" Then she
Jack quietly on her pillow, ex-
ed indeed with the effort she
lade, but calm and smiling and
led, as if that sudden glimpse of
ed happiness and life had ne-
nirage-like, risen to mock her
ts beauty.

I first use Mrs. Netterville made
victory over nature was to com-
ellie.

eep not, dear child," she whis-
tenderly ; " weep not so sadly,
ither thank God with me for the
lation which he has given us in
neeting. Where is Hamish?"
ided, turning her dim eyes to-
the open door, where Ormiston
)*More were lingering still, and
fitly fancying that one or other
sm was her absent servant —
re is Hamish? He has done
idding bravely ; why comes he
forward, that I may thank

!amish is not here, mother; I
m with my grandfather."
od help you, child!" moaned
^fetterville, a sudden spasm at
eart at the thought of her un-
ited child, " God help you I have
>me hither all this way alone ?"
other," said Nellie in a smo-
l voice, '* I am not alone. Ro-
[ore came with me. Without
would have been impossible."
oger More — Roger More," re-
i Mrs. Netterville, trying to ga-
together her memories of the
;one by. '' It was in the arms

of a Roger More that your father
breathed his last

" In mine, dear lady I" cried Roger,
unable any longer to resist the temp-
tation of presenting himself to Nellie's
mother — ^'^ in mine I And knowing that
the father did me the honor to call
me friend, Lord Netterville has had
the great kindness to entrust me with
the daughter in this long journey,
which the love she bears you con*-
pelled her to undertake."

Something in the tones of Roger's
voice, rather than in the words he ut-
tered, seemed to strike on the mo-
ther's ear. She smiled a grateful
smile of recognition, and then turned
a questioning glance, first upon his
face and afterward on Nellie's. Per-
haps Roger interpreted that glance
aright At all events, he took Nel-
lie's hand, and, as if moved by a sud-
den inspiration, laid it on her mo-
ther's, saying :

" Only the day after that on which
I saw her first, I told her that I would
never ask for this dear hand until her
mother was by to give it"

"Her mother gives it," said
Mrs. Netterville solemnly. " Yes !
for I guess by Nellie's silence
that her heart is not far from you
already."

"Mother, mother I" cried Nellie,
resisting Mrs. Netterville's feeble ef-
forts to place her hand in Roger's —
"not here — not now — not when you
are dying."

" For that very reason," gasped the
mother. " My son," she added, fix-
ing her eyes full on Roger, ^^you can
understand. I would see my Nellie
in safe hands before I go."

" It would be the fulfilment of my
dearest wish," said Roger earnestly,
" if only it be possible."

" 1 1 tf possible," she was beginning ;
but pausing at the sight of Ormiston,
who had by this time joined himself
to the group around her bed, she

Nellie Netterville.

741

ut repining — nay, 'repining' is
he word," she said, correcting
If — " I go in great joy and ju-
3n to the presence of my God."
• mother I" sobbed Nellie, cut
2 soul by this allusion to her
age, " that is the worst of all.
)t insist upon it, I entreat you."
ilence, Nellie!" Mrs. Netter-
answered, almost sternly,
ik you I could die happy if I
)u — a child — a girl — ^unprotect-
this wild city ?"

[other, be not angry, I beseech
Nellie pleaded, " if I remind
lat I came hither safe !"
y, but you were coming to your
^ and the world itself could say
il of one bent on such a mis-
To-morrow, Nellie, you will be
:rless, and I will not have it
f you hereafter, that you went
iring through the country pro-
. by a man who had no hus-
5 right to do it. Child, child !"
Netterville added, in a tone of
t agonized supplication, " if you
have me die in peace, if you
not that your presence here
ad of joy) should cast gall and
ir into the cup of death, you
ield your will to mine, and go
to your grandfather a wedded
n."

!otherl" cried Nellie, terrified
e vehemence with which her
r spoke, " dear mother, say no
It shall be even as you wish,
nise. Alas! alas! this weary
ng has commenced again —
ihall I do to aid you ?"
;. Netterville could not speak,
K)d was gushing violently from
)Sy but she pointed to a jug of
on the floor. Nellie took the
t once, and dipped a handker-
into the water ; with this she
i her mother's brow, and
d her lips, until by degrees the
Thage subsided, and the dying

woman lay back once more pale and
quiet on her pillow.

Just then, to Nellie's great relief,
the jailer entered, bearing a lighted
torch ; for the sun was going down,
and the cell was almost dark already.

After him came Ormiston and
O'More, accompanied by the gray-
haired man who had been with Mrs.
Netterville at the moment of their
own arrival in the prison. Ormiston
took the torch from the jailer's hand,
and placing a gold piece there in-
stead, dismissed him, with orders to
close the door behind him, and to
give them due notice before shutting
up the prison for the night. As he
set the torch in the sconce placed for
it against the wall, the light fell full
upon Mrs. Netterville's face, which
looked so pale and drawh that for a
moment he thought that she was
dead, and whispered his suspicion to
the stranger.

The latter drew a small vial from
his bosom, and poured a few drops
upon her lips. They revived her al-
most immediately; she opened her
eyes, and a smile passed over her
white face as they fell upon her visi-
tant. " You here again, my father .1"
she murmured beneath her breath.
" I thank God that you have had the
courage. You know the purpose for
which I need you ?"

"I know it — and, under the cir-
cumstances, approve it," the stranger
answered quietly. " The sooner,
therefore, that it is done the better it
will be for all."

" Poor child — poor Nellie !" mur-
mured Mrs. Netterville, as she
caught the sound of the low sobbing
which, spite of all her efforts at self-
control, burst ever and anon from
Nellie's lips. " Poor little Nellie !
no wonder that she weeps. It is a
sad, strange place for a wedding, is
this prison-cell !"

''These are strange times," said

NellU NttOrvUU.

the priest kindly, "and they leave
us, alas I but little choice of place in
the fulfilment of our duties. Never-
theless, sad as all this must seem
at present, I am certain that your
daughter will, some day or other,
look back upon her wedding in this
pnson<ell wiih a sense of gladness
no earthly pomp could have con-
ferred on marriage ; for she then will
understand, even better than she
does now, bow, by this concession to
a mother's wishtfs, she has secured
peace and happiness to that mother's
death-bed. That is*" he added,
turning and pointedly addressing
himself to Nellie, "if sorrow for her
mother^s state is the sole cause for
all this ui'eeping V

NcUic fell that he had asked in-
directly a serious question^ and she
was too truthful not to answer it at
once. She did not speak» however
^-Kshe could not ; hut she gave her
hand to Roger^ and made one step
iQirwaru*

*'Come nearer," whispered her
nK>ther, "ctime nearer, that I may
see and bearJ*

Rqger df^w Nellie nearer, until
tlwy both were standing close to the
»)ek wofBaa's pdlbw.

*• Rabe me up^** the latter whis-
pered ^inily.

He Ufked her tn bis strong arms,
fcr slM was as helpless as a child,
and ptaced her in a sitting posture,
witb lier back supported by the wall
mmr wflMi ber bed was placed.

As sooQ as she bad recovered a
Iktie front the fiMotiiess consequent
«i titlieieertioa, she wared her band
10 Roger as a signal that the cere-
»«iy stnakt begin. Tbe priest
lartied at ooct to ibe yow^ couple,
»d eomnenced Ms office, making it
Asbrieraspossiblo. Bnet; however,
» it w»s, and btiie of outwiid cetw>
nonial, Ormiston, as he stood a little
tt» ti>« backgrMnd, cook] not help

feeling that he
looked on, might
such a strangely (
wasted features (
for whom death \
until her anxiety
child had been \
the fair face of
grief and watchi
budding rose
brighter beauty
of sunshine ;
look of grave yet
in his eyes as b«
nature of the sc<
a foremost actor
the risk of his i
was fulfilling on€
offices of his %
vaulted roof al
damp as the Hgl
the bare, bleak
the names of ma
inscribed upon 1
row, hope and
forward, on the
brightest hours, an*
on the other, inlo,
tomb— all
in that prison-o
form a picture
needed the pencif"?
to render in its full ,

It was done
said the word
wedded wife, ai
folded her in h
pered, ** Thank
you ; for I kn
have cost you I
her hand in R<
her, my son — lal
witness that I gi
out a fear for hci
To you in who:
died I Biav well
terr

•• You shall n.
— neiwl'* said
calm, determt:

, iniQjj
were fl
>n-ceH
ture fl

Nellie Netterville.

743

than many words, brings
nee to the soul, of truth. " I
her from the first day I saw
>t so much for her brightness
sr human beauty, as for that
beauty which I thought I dis*
:d in her soul, and which she
avely proved since then. Over
f such as that time has no
; the love, therefore, that
:s from it must last for ever."
is well, my son," replied Mrs.
•ville, " I thank you, and be-
'ou. And now, be not angry
:1 you go I For this one day
must be all my own — to-mor-
lere will be no one to dispute
th you."

spoke the last words hurriedly,
jailer entered at that moment
)nn Ormiston that the prison
>out to be shut up for the night,
lat it was his duty to see that
mgers left it.

It not Nellie — not my child ?"
[rs. Netterville, with an appeal-
ik, first to the jailer and then
niston. " Surely you will leave
with me ?"

liey must I" cried Nellie pas-
ely, "for by force alone can
rag me from you,"
r," said the dying woman, ad-
ig herself this time to Ormis-
lone, "add this one favor, I
h you, to all the others you
one me, and let my child close
ing eyes ?"

:annot refuse you, madam," he
I, much moved. " But is your
;er equal to the effort ? Would
be better to have the jailer's
i well ?"

)— no!" cried Nellie, answer-
fore her mother, who looked
clined to assent to this pro-
n, could reply. " I am equal,
ne than equal. I would not
. stranger with us to-night for
rid."

" Come for her, then, at the first
dawn of day," said Mrs. Netterville,
with a glance, the meaning of which
they understood too well. She gave
her hand in turn to each of the
young men, and then signed to them
to withdraw. Ormiston did so at
once ; but Roger turned first to Nel-
lie, and taking her passive hand,
lifted it silently to his lips. Not to
save his life or hers could he have
done more than that in the solemn
presence of her dying mother.

He then followed Ormiston. The
priest lingered a moment longer to
speak a word of cheer to his poor
penitent ; but the jailer calling him
impatiently, he also disappeared, and
the cell-door was closed behind him»

CHAPTER XVI.

The rattling of the key in the lock
as the jailer shut them up for the
night came like a death-knell on
poor Nellie's ear. So long as Or-
miston and Roger had been there
beside her, she had, quite uncon-
sciously to herself, entertained a sort
of hope that something (she knew
not what) might yet be devised for
the solace of her mother ; and now
that they were gone indeed, she felt
as people feel when the physician
takes his leave of his dying patient,
thus tacitly confessing that all hope
is over. The lamp, which, in obe-
dience to a word from Ormiston, ihe
jailer had brought in trimmed and
lighted for the night, revealed the
cell to her in all its bleak reality, and
as she glanced from the straw pallet,
which at Netterville they would have
hesitated to place beneath a beggar,
to the pitcher of cold water, which
was the only refreshment provided
for the dying woman, Nellie felt
anew such a sense of her mother's
misery and of her own inability to
procure her comfort, that, unable to

Nellie NtttePvUle.

mter a single s'yUaiMe, she sat for n
few moments by her side weeping
hopelessly and helplessly as a child.
Mrs, Netterville heard her sobbing,
and, after waiting a few minutes in
hopes the paroxysm would subside,
said gently;

*< Nellie — my little one — ^weep not
so bitterly, I entreat you ; you know
not how it pains me."

"How can I help it, mother?"
sobbed the girl, unable to conceal
the thought uppermost in her own
mind. " You suffer, and the lowest
scullion in the kitchen of Netten'ille
would have deemed herself ill-used
in such poverty as this 1"

" Is that all, my child ?" said her
mother, with a faint smile. " Nay,
dear Nellie* you may believe me,
'hat, to a soul which feels itself within
an hour of eternity, it is of liule mo-
ment whether straw or satin support
the body it is leaving. Eternity!
yes, eternity!" she murmured to her-
self. " Alas \ alas ! how little do we
realize in the short days of time the
awful significance of that word, for
ever!

** Mother, you are not afraid !**
burst from Nellie's lips, a new and
hitherto u n though t-of anxiety rushing
to her mind.

" Afraid f Mrs. Netterville echoed
the expression with a smile. " No,
my daughter, by the grace of God
and goodness of Our Lady I am not
afraid. Nevertheless eternity, with
its ministering angel Death, are
awful things to look on, Nellie, and
if I could smile at aught which
m.akes you weep, it would be to think
that such a silly grievance as a straw
pallet could add to their awfulness
ill your e)*es.**

•* Not to their awfulness, mother,"
Nellie sobbed, ** but to their sorrow;
it is such a pain to see you comfort-^
less,''

** And has no one else been com*

fortless in death V M^
whispered almost
"Only consider, Nclli
bed which you lament I
very couch of down co«
when he laid him dc
hard wood of the cros

** Mother, forgive
thought of that," &aicl \
" I only thought of yo

** Think of nothing
lie, but this one word (
' Blessed are the dead
Lord ;* and hope tod^
may be so with me tc
dry your eyes and list«
much to say, and but
wherein to say it.
for I cannot bear to se^
thus. Your tears haH
power to make me repil

The last hint was suflRe
lie resolutely checked
laid her head down on |
pillow, in order that t>
speak to her with less 1
tiguc.

Then, in a few car
words, Mrs. Netterville j
daughter the duties of I
of life, and gave advic
cious as it would have j
time, was doubly precia
ing as it did from the \H
mother ; after which,
ever uppermost in th<
and %vhich she had
adopted her husband*!
to feel as keenly upon afl
could have done himself
ed to her own place of M

" It cannot be at IW
know,*' she said. "^ I may
as I had ever hoped, by t
my brav^ husband t Bui i
western home, (
new western homCi^
ches, I believe, arc yet 1
— there, if it be pos
gladly take nciy rest-

Nellie Netterville.

74S

n come sometimes to pray for
oor mother, and where, when
sband's father follows me, as
jbt he must full soon, he can
I quietly to sleep beside me."

paused, and Nellie muttered
ling, she hardly knew what,
she hoped would sound like an
in her mother's ears. Not for

would she have saddened her
1 a moment by allowing her to
2r that Roger, like themselves,
:en robbed of his inheritance,
It, instead of that quiet western
of which she spoke so conti-
, her wedded life with him
)e spent of necessity in a for-
nd.

itever she did or did not say,
>ther evidently fancied it was a
►e in conformity with her wish-
i went on in that low, rambling
sculiar to the dying :
was not thus — not thus that I
lought to visit diat wild land.
Lined of a resting-place and a
ne — a meeting of mingled joy
idness — and then a homely life,
t its close a peaceful ending,
is better as it is — much better.
ext meeting will be all of joy —
that eternal home where God
s together his beloved ones,
ids them smile in the sunshine
presence. Yes, yes 1 it is bet-
it is !"

s God wills. He knows best
mows," and then Nellie stop-
owerless to complete the sen-

smember me to my father, Nel-
Mrs. Netterville continued
— ^** for father I may truly call
'ho has been in very deed a
: to me ever since I was wed-
» his son. And poor Hamish
let him not think himself for-
, and tell him especially of the
ide I feel for this great conso-
procured me by his faithful ser-

vice — my Nellie's heart to rest on in
dying — my Nellie's hands to close
my eyes in death."

The last words were barely audible,
and after they were uttered Mrs.
Netterville lay for a long time so
mute and still that, fancying she was
asleep, Nellie hardly dared to move,
or even almost to breathe, lest she
should disturb her. At last she felt
her mother's hand steal gently in
search of hers.

" Your hand, dear Nellie," she
whispered softly. "Nay, do not
speak, my daughter, but take my
hand in yours, that I may feel, when
I cannot see, the comfort of your
presence."

Nellie took her mother's hand in
hers. It was as cold as ice, and she
gently tried to chafe it But the
movement disturbed the dying wo-
man.

" It prevents me thinking, Nellie,"
she whispered faintly, "and my
thoughts are very sweet."

The words sent a gush of tender-
ness and joy to Nellie's heart, telling
her, as they did, that her mother's
was at peace. But the ph3rsical con-
dition of that poor mother still
weighed heavily on her soul, and tak-
ing the mantle from her own shoul-
ders, she laid it on the bed, hoping
thus gradually and imperceptibly to
restore warmth to the failing system.
Mrs. Netterville perceived what she
had done, and, true to that forgetful-
ness of self which had been the chief
characteristic of her life, she would
not have it so. " Nay, nay, child,"
she murmured as well as she could^
for she was by this time well-nigh
speechless, " put it on again, for you
need it, and I do not. This death-
chill is not pain."

She tried to push it from her as
she spoke, and became so uneasy
that Nellie, in order to calm her, was
forced to resume the garment Sat-

746

NellU NtHervilU^

isfied on this pointy her mother clos-
ed her eyes like a weary chtld^ and
fell into a dozing slutnben It was
the stupor preceding death, but Nel*
lie, never suspecting this, felt ihiink-
ful that her mother's hacking cough
had ceased, and that her breathing
had become less painful For more
than an hour she sat thus» her mo-
ther's hand in hers^ — praying, watdi-
ing, weeping — weeping silent, sound-
less tears^not sobbing, lest it should
disturb the sleeper.

The night passed onward in its
course^ but day was yet far off when
the lamp began to waver. Some-
times it flickered and sputtered as if
just going to be extinguished, and
then again it would flare up suddenly,
casting strange shadows through the
gloomy space, and deepening the pal*
lor on the sleeper's brow, until it al-
most seemed as if she were dead
already. Lower still, and lower, after
each of these fresh spurts, it sank,
while Nellie watched it nervously ;
but just as she fancied that it had ac-
tually died out, it flashed up high and
bright again, full upon her mother's
face. Nellie turned eagerly to gaze
once more upon those dear features.
Even as she did so, a rush of dark-
ness seemed to till the cell — darkness
that could be almost felt — and a pang
seized upon the poor girFs heart, for
she knew at once by intuition that
the lamp was now gone indeed, and
that she had looked for the last time
on the face of her living mother.

The sudden change from light to
darkness seemed somehow to disturb
the invalid. She opened her eyes
wearily, and something like a shud-
der passed over her ; but when she
felt her daughter's hand still clasping
hers, a heavenly smile (pity that Nel-
lie could not see it then — she saw its
shadow on the dead face next ^^j^
however) settled on her features, and
sh<» whispered :

" You here sti!
Thank God — ihank

** Mother, what would
lie asked, amid her tears*

*' It ts coming, Nellie j \
frightened, dearest. It
like a gentle sleep, f
dear one ; pray loud, litjU
you."

What prayer cotild Ni
such a moment ? An o«
by the loss of her father, si
about to be doubly orphaficd
mother's death, and ber ti:
turned naturally and spootai
toward that other Farem
home is heaven, and wbo, Fj
he is to each of us, hi
himself to be so in a
pecial and \\m
fatherless of i

The words of the " i-
seemed to rise uubiddcti

** Our Father who art i

** Who art in he
repeated after her ,
pause of sweet and ^okma ^
tion.

" Thy kingdom come,"
more found voice to say,
terville had ever kept tlie
that 1 I in her heart

Surd now calling

joy it in eternity I So Nel
and the thought gav«
and courage to go on.

**Thy will be doneJ'^'
which was calling her
from her side. Nellie
as she uttered the words,
Nettervitle took them up, aai
voice ofjneflfabte Jove and swe
kept repeating over and over
as if she never could weauy
sentiment,

** Thy will be done ; iky
thy will— thy will, cwr m
and to be adored— *Mi' will, m)
my Father, and roy Red-
will^ not mine, be done t

Nellie Netterville.

7A7

Nellie listened until she almost felt
as if she herself were standing with
her mother on the threshold of eter-
nity. A sweet and awful calmness
settled on her soul. She knew in-
tuitively that her mother was in the
very act of dying, but she no longer
felt fear or sorrow. It was as if the
Judge of the living and the dead, not
stem and exacting, but tender and
approving, was descending in person
to that bed of death to speak the
sentence of his faithful servant It
vas as if saints and angels were
ciowding after him, bowed down,
indeed, beneath his awful presence,
bot yet glad and jubilant over the
crowning of a sister spirit, and bring-
ing the songs and sweetness of hea-
ven itself on the rustling of their
snowy wings. And in the midst of
'och thoughts as these, Nellie still
5^Id hear her mother's voice repeat-
l^^ " Thy will, my God, not mine,
"^ done."

•Painter still and fainter grew that
^'ce, as the soul which spoke by it
'^^cecled toward eternity ; then all at
<jnce it died away, and Nellie felt that
™e l3^t word had been said in hea-
ven.

'^ ^?as very dark now, and very

cold the cold that precedes the

dawn — cold in Nellie's heart within,
and oold in the outside world around
"^■*- She shivered, and was scarcely
conscious that she did so. Was her
mother really dead? She knew it,
ana y^^ could scarce believe it. For
* V^^*« while she knelt there still,
waittt)^ and holding in her breath in
5?? ^^KUe, faint hope that once more,
* ^^'^re even for the last time, once
more that sweet, plaintive voice might
^^^^ Her longing ear. But it never
^"^^ ^gain. At last, by a great ef-

d **^^ P"^ ^^^ ^^' trembling hand

*" touched her mother's face. It

already growing cold, with that

^S^, hard coldness which makes

the face of the dead like a marble
mask to the living hands that touch
it. She shuddered ; nevertheless,
with an instinctive feeling of what
was right and proper by the dead,
she did not withdraw it until she had
pressed it gently on the eyelids, and
so closed them without almost an
effort.

That done, she knelt down once
more, and, hiding her face in the
scanty bedclothes, tried to pray.

Day began to dawn at last, and a
few sad rays forced their way into
that gloomy cell ; but Nellie never
saw them. Sounds began to come
in from the newly-awakened city, but
Nellie never heard them. The pri-
son itself shook off its slumbers, and
there was a slamming of distant doors
and an occasional hurried step along
the passages ; and still she took no
heed. She knew, in a vague, care-
less way, that at one time or another
some one would be sent to her assist-
ance, tind that was all she thought or
cared about it. In the mean time she
prayed, or tried to pray ; but when
at last they did come, they found her
stretched upon the floor, as cold al-
most and quite as unconscious as
her dead mother.

CHAPTER XVII.

"To the memory of Francis,
Twelfth Baron of Netterville, one of
the Transplanted, and of Mary, the
widow of his only son."

Nellie stooped to decipher the in-
scription, but it may be doubted if
she saw aught save the stone upon
which Hamish, in obedience to his
master's dying orders, had engraved
it, for her eyes were full of tears.
A hurried journey to the west, ano-
ther death-bed, and a few weeks more
of tears and renewed sense of deso-
lation had followed the events record-

748

AW/iV Netierviile,

ed in our last chapter, and then at
last a holy calmness settled upon
Nellie's soul — a calmness and a hap-
piness which was all the more likely
to endure that it was founded upon
past sorrows bravely met and meekly
borne, in a spirit of true and loving
resignation to the will of Him who
had In id them on her shoulders.
From the day of her departure from
Clare Island, the old lord had droop-
ed like a plant deprived of sunshine,
and he died on the very evening of
her return » his hand in hers, smiling
upon her and her brave husband, and
leaving for only vengeance on his foes
the inscription which heads this chap-
ter, to be engraved upon his tomb-
stone.

Nellie laid him to rest beside her
mother ; for through the kindness of
Ormiston she had been enabled to
carry out Mrs. Netterville's dying
wishes, and to bear her remains to
that western shore which she had so
fondly and so vainly fancied was to
be her daughter's future home. Or-
miston had done yet more. He had
obtained a reversal of the sentence
of outlawry against Roger, coupled
with the usual permission to "beat
his drum,'* as it was called^ for re-
cruits to follow his banner into for-
eign lands, to fight in the armies of
foreign kings. It was the evil policy
of those evil times.

To rid Ireland of the Irish was the
grand panacea for the woes of Ire-
land, the only one her rulers ever re-
cognized, and of which, therefore,
they availed themselves most largely,
careless or unconscious of the fatal
element of strength they were thus
flinging to their foes. As a native
chieftain and a well-tried soldier,
Roger had a double claim upon his
people, and short as had been the
time allotted to him for the purpose,
fifty men, of the same breed and met-
tle OS the soldiers who fought at a

later period against an Er»g
until he cursed, in the bliie^
his heart, the laws which had
ed him of such subjects, had
obeyed his summons. ITic
bled under the temporary i
of Hamish, near the tower,,
the moment for emba
the ship that was to con^
their destination w*as riding i
anchor in the bay on that vc
ing when Nellie and her
knelt for the last lime be
mother's grave. It was til
cond parting with ih
with Roger at her si r
feel altogether friendless or \
and they prayed for a litt^
silence, with a calm sense off
which had something of h«
sweetness in iL At lost it wa$
to go, and Roger laid a war
ger upon his young wife*s ;
She did not say a word, but !
down once more and kis
mother's name upon the ston
she gave her hand to Rog
they left the churchyaw^
While she had been ling
Henrietta had landed wi
at the pier to bid her a U
The quick c)'e of the En|
instantly perceived the
pany of recruits jd 1

tower, and with ^ mi]

licious triumph she pointed i
to her companion, Ormistc
his head reprovingly. He
thoroughly a soldier not ti>
the policy which drafted larg
of men into foreign armies,^
was full at tliat moment of
concerns, and had Utile inc
to waste time in discussing
dom of his leaders. The tr
Henrietta's ' i of hii

arrival from he iu|

had disappointed hinu
come in obedience to her
ten orders, as conveyed lo

Nellie NettervilU.

749

e, and instead of the frank, lov-
leeting which his own frank and
g nature had anticipated, he had
1 her shy, cold, and, he was
d to confess to himself, almost
id. At first he consoled him>
by attributing this in a great
ure to the presence of her fa-
before whom she always seemed
ally to assume the bearing of a
td and unruly child ; but when
r own invitation he had rowed
hat morning to Clare Island,
ler manner, instead of softening,
» had hoped, grew even colder
more constrained than it had

before, he became seriously
:ssed, and unable to endure the
:nse any longer, they had hardly
:d from the boat ere he turned

round upon her, and said :
lenrietta, before you move one
further, you must answer me
uestion — are we in future to be
Is or foes ?"

Tot foes ! Oh I certainly, not
" Henrietta stammered, taken

aback by the suddenness of
[uestion. "Oh! certainly, not

tecause I cannot endure this un-
nty much longer," he went on
le had not heard her. " I must
an answer, and that soon. I
, indeed, insist upon your own
but I will not It was written
a sudden impulse, and the
that gives you to me for a wife
be said with a calm conscious-
>f its import What shall that
be, Henrietta — yes or no ?"
es, if you will have me," she
n a low voice, halftuming away
!ad as she did so.
I So long and so faithfully as
e loved you, and do you still
f t/?'* he answered, almost re-
lifully.

here is an * if,' however," said
letta; "and when you have

heard me out, you will have to de-
cide the question for yourself."

" Nay, the only *if' for me is the
*if' that you really love me," he re-
plied wistfully, and in a way which
showed he felt by no means certain
upon that score.

" That is the very thing," she an-
swered, flushing scarlet "Harry,
dear Harry, remember that I have
never had a mother's care, and pro-
mise to be still my friend, even if
what I have got to tell you should
alter all your other wishes in my re-
gard."

" What can you have to say that
could do that ?" he asked impatient-
ly. "For God's sake, Henrietta,
say it out at once, whatever it may
be!"

" It is not so very easy, perhaps,"
she said in a low voice. And then she
added quickly: "They call me a
woman grown, Harry, and yet in
some few things I think that I am
still almost a child."

" In a great many things rather, I
should say," he could not resist say-
ing, with a smile.

That smile reassured her, and she
went on quickly : " You know that it
has never been a new thing to me to
consider myself your wife, Harry.
My father has treated me from child-
hood as your affianced bride, and we
have played at being wedded in the
nurser}'. You cannot be surprised,
therefore, if in my feelings toward
you there has been something of un-
questioning security, which does not
enter usually, I think, into the rela-
tions in which we stood toward each
other. This kind of sisterly feeling
— oh ! do not look so cross, Harry,"
she cried, suddenly stopping short,
"or I shall never be able to go on."

" Do not talk of sisterly feeling,
then," he answered moodily, "for
t/tat I cannot bear."

"I need not, for I do not feel in

7$5

miUe Net

the least like a sister to you now."
she answered, with a pretty naiv€tk^
that made him almost depart from
the attitude of cold seriousness in
which he had elected to receive the
confessions of his betrothed. He
checked the impulse, however, and
signed to her quietly to proceed.

" You know, for you were with us
at the time/* she accordingly went
on, " how much I was charmed with
this wild western land when my fa-
ther first brought me hither. Yow
know, too, of my indignation when I
found that the real owner had been
depriv^ed of it in order to our posses-
sion. True, I had heard before of
the law of transplantation enacted
for the benefit of our army, but not
until it stared me in the face as an
act of private injustice, done for the
enrichment of myself, did I thorough-
ly appreciate its iniquity. From that
moment the very abomination of de-
solation seemed to me to rest upon
this land, which I had once felt to
be so beautiful. 1 grew angry and
indignant with all the world — with
my father chiefly, but with you also,
Harry, because, though I acquitted
you of all active share in the robbery,
I yet felt that it was your character
as a good officer, capable of holding
it against the enemy, which had en-
couraged him to commit it. From
dwelling upon the injustice, I went
on almost unconsciously to question
of its victim. At first, however, I
only thought of him with a sort of
contemptuous pity, as of a half-tamed
savage wandering sadly among the
hills which had once been his own.
But one day I met him* You re-
member that evening when I return-
ed home so late, that you and my
father became alarmed and went out
to seek me ? I told you then that
I had lost my way, but I did not tell
you that it was the O'More who had
helped me to regain it, and who,

OW]

bra

eve
whi

bee
roo

NellU NcttetvUU.

751

rt of my own will could I have
rred it to another."

on," said Harry, now smiling
turn, for she had paused in a
laidenly confusion at this full
ink avowal of her sentiments

regard — ^**go on, for I can
to you with patience now,

ever dreamed again, Harry, of
ler than yourself," she answer-
ly ; " and when, the day after
eparture, I went to Clare Is-
) warn him of a coming dan-
it not, I do assure you, with
ler motive,) I saw at once that
er cared for any woman in the
it was, or soon would be, Nel-
terville. It did not grieve me
was so, but I confess it wound-
woman's vanity a little, and
noment I felt inclined to be
vith her. But X was ashamed
Ditiful feeling, and for the first
I my life, perhaps, I tried to
r my evil passions. In this
reet, quiet frankness greatly
me, and her forgetfulness or
ness of the great injury I, or
vents, my father, had inflicted
, made me blush for my own
ness. If ever you take me
nfe, Harry, and that you find
more manageable one than I
iven you reason to expect, re-
ir that you will owe it entirely
ixample."

ly, nay ! not entirely 1" here
ised Harry, " for the sun shines
upon a barren soil."
id now," continued Henrietta,
less of the compliment, " can
Dfgive me, Harry? Believe
u know all. I have told you
ith, and the whole truth. I
not deceive you in such a mat-
the world."

y love, I believe you, and I am
han satisfied," he answered in
: of trustful tenderness which

left no room for doubting in Henri-
etta's mind.

** And, Harry," she added plead-
ingly, " our home that we have left in
England is as pleasant, if not so suB-
lime, as this, and we can call it, at all
events, honestly our own !"

'' Some day, dear Ettie, we will go
there ; and should your father's
death ever place these lands at our
disposal, we will leave them to their
rightful owner."

" O Harry I how could I doubt
you .>" she said remorsefully. " Can
you ever forgive me for it ?"

"Yes, if you will never doubt
again," he answered with a bright
smile. " But, hark I the bugle sounds,
and yonder is Roger and his wife
talking to old Norah at the tower-
gate."

Henrietta looked in that direction,
and she saw that Nellie was taking
leave of the old woman, who had
flung herself at her feet, and was sob-
bing bitterly. This much she could
guess from the attitude and action
of both parties ; but she could not
guess the infinite delicacy and feeling
which Nellie contrived to put into
that last farewell, nor yet the rever-
ent admiration with which Roger
watched his young wife, as, silenc-
ing her own deeper sorrows, she
soothed the old woman's clamorous
grief over the departure of her here-
ditary chieftain and his bride, " her
beautiful, darling, young honey of a
new mistress 1"

Nellie was still occupied in this
manner when the bugle once more
sounded. The soldiers, who at the
first summons had mustered together
under the command of Hamish, in-
stantly put themselves into motion,
and, with flags flying and pipers
playing, marched past the tower, sa-
luting Roger as they did so, and
coming down to the place of em-
barkation amid. the wails of music

The Holy ShipJurdiss of Pibrac.

753

THE HOLY SHEPHERDESS OF

CANONIZED BY POPE PIUS IX. IN 1867^

latter part of the sixteenth
eneath the walls of Tou-
omed, almost unseen and
a little flower of the fields,
cate chalice emitted a pcr-
:ely perceptible to mortal
passed away, and seemed
but its odor still lingered
lad blossomed ; and after
rs had gone, its dust was
nto the sanctuary, that the
: might be filled witli the
agrance.

le Cousin was born at Pi-
lage of nearly two hundred
the environs of Toulouse,
year 1579. The parish
s dependent on the great
the Knights of Malta in
The chiteau belonged to
ur, Lords of Pibrac. The
prietor was Guy, famous at
I orator, a poet, and a suc-
irtier. Once the proudest
ice of the place was the
tharine de Medicis and her
Margaret of Navarre, who
;nificently entertained by
of Pibrac. But now the
; two queens, and the fame
nee of the great orator, are
gotten ; while the memory
f shepherdess has lived for
ee centuries in the hearts
inhabitants of Pibrac. The
a forsaken ruin ; but the
5 become a place of pil-
jecause Germaine prayed
> arches, and there found a

her was a poor husband-
»v'hom tradition gives the
Lawrence. Her mother's
roL. VII. — ^48

Yiji'&y-

name was Marie Laroche.
first moment of her existence, she
seemed destined to suffering and afflic-
tion. She was infirm firom her birth^
being unable to use her right hand,
and afflicted with scrofula. While yet
a child, she became motherless ; and,
as if these were not trials enough to
accumulate at once upon the head of
one so frail, her father did not long,
delay to fill the vacant place on his
hearth. Absorbed in her own chil-
dren, this second wife, instead of
pitying the hapless orphan whom
Providence had confided to her care,,
conceived an aversion for her. But
the trials to which Germaine was
subjected were proofs of the divine
favor. To them she was indebtedi
for the brilliancy of her virtues, ^-
pecially humility and patience.

As soon as she was old enough,
her step-mother, who could not en-
dure her presence at home, sent her
forth to guard the flocks. This was
her occupation the remainder of her
life. But even in the depths of her
lonely life, our shepherdess created
for herself a more profound solitude-
She was never seen in the company,
of the young shepherds ; their sports
never attracted her ; their jeers never
disturbed her thoughtful serenity;
she only spoke sometimes to girls of
her own age, sweetly exhorting them,
to be mindful of God 1

We know not from whom Ger-
maine received her first religious in-
structions — what hand, friendly to-
misfortune, revealed to her the great
truths of salvation. Doubtless, it
was the curd of the parish ; for holy,
church despises not the meanest oZ

The Italy Sbepkiriiss of Piirac,

her children ; and her sagacious eye
is quick to discover the chosen of
God. But, whoever it was, he did
but liule, aud there was little to be
done. God himself perfected the re-
ligious training of his handmaiderL
She early learned what must for ever
remain unknown to those who do not
recognize in him the fountain of all
wisdom. Living amid the wonders
of creation, she contemplated them
with the intelligent eye of innocence.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for
they shall see God — sec him in the
briUiant stars, the burning sun,
the unfathomable heavens, and the
changing clouds — see him in the
flowers and plants that cover the
surface of the earth ! Germaine
learned from the open book of nature
a wondrous lore \ and her attuned
ear caught and comprehended that
mx'Slcrious anthem of praise, which,
floating through creation, is unheard
by more sinful man. Her pure soul
united in the eternal song : Bcmdidte
omnia opa^a Domini Doming : taudate
it supcrexaltate aim in Sitcula /

Although Germaine was a poor
infirm orphan, subjected to the heavy
yoke of a severe stepmother, and
exposed by her occupation to the in-
clemency of the w^eather, she bore alt
her trials with cheerfulness, never
brooding over her sorrows. One
of the characteristics of the saints
which particularly distinguishes them
from ordinary Christians, is, t/ie uu
made o/tAi common occurrences of Hfe.
They share in common with other
men, and often in a greater degree,
the trials common to humanity ; but
ihcy are chastened, purified by them,
and I hey look upon the afflictions of
this life as a means of assimilating
them to Htm who was a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief.
Even in the manifest ill treatment
iiftd injustice of the malignant and

thefl

but accept the su
of perfection.

The extent to
pie is carried* Is
and, in reading the I
we cannot but be stnii
never struggled agnil
and therefore wore k
them ; for the grcatc
wretchedness procec*
gling agninst the
This is the key to tlij
loo! Abn-rttistanci
every ilL

The paternal re
maine, as for inoftti

wretched — a ref

repose. And yet nefl
ty, nor sorrows, nor \
have rendered her i
which surpasses aJ
sures of life — the ha
loved. By a di\nn«
has placed in the
by the side of that i
their offspring, a
tenderness for the unf
the black lamb of l|i
peculiar love Gcrmafl
had not even the leg??
her fathcr*s heart,
a place at the fir
hardly allowed sheli
Her step mother, ill
perious, wovild send I
obscure comer. Si
milted to approach
dren — those broil
whom she loved 4a
whom she w*as alwa
without manifesting I
count of tl»e jjTcfe
they were the objc
victim. The inflexill
her step-mother 0I3
girl to seek a place ^
stable, or upon a hca
es in an out-house.
But GermAine kc

wicked, they disregard the channel, value of sufltrings

Thg Holy Shepherdess of Pibrac.

75»

z humiliations and this in*
And, as if her cross were
ight, she imposed upon hef-
itional austerities. During
ter part of her life, shq de-
rself all nourishment but
d water.

at a conformity to her poor,
, and persecuted Saviour,
n the heart of Germaine an
3ve for his adorable hu-
Notwithstanding her feeble-
other obstacles, she assist-
day at the Holy Sacrifice
[ass. Even the obligations
ailing could not keep her
rch at that hour. Confiding
»he left her flock in the pas-
hastened to the foot of the
: is a misguided piety which
us to neglect the duties of
of life in order to satisfy
tion ; but with Germaine
the result of prompt obe-
a special inspiration. She
o would guard her sheep ;
e, poor lamb of Christ's
ent to refresh herself at the
of living water,
irhen her sheep were feed-
by the wood of Boucone,
irted the fields of Pibrac,
mded with wolves, at the
the church bell she would
crook or her distaff in the
nd hasten to the feet of the
hepherd. At her return,
ys found her sheep un-
Not one was ever devoured
Ives, nor did they ever stray
eighboring fields,
ifter St. Germaine's death,
ints of the hamlet remem-
unearthly brightness of her
week after week, she ap-
the holy sacraments.

mghtnesc, a mtm ethertal beauty,

er face and encircled her form when.

In the Holy Eucharist she found
a compensation for every grief.
That divine Spouse to whom she was
pledged placed himself as a seal
upon her heart, thereby strengthen-
ing it to endure the trials of life, and
enriching it with such abundant
grace that, while dwelling at large in
the great temple of nature, her life
gleamed before him, brightly, and
purely, and constantly, like the un-
dying lamp of the sanctuary !

Like all the saints, Germaine had
a singular devotion to Mary — that
devotion so dear to the Catholic
heart, and which is considered by the
fathers as a mark of predestination.
The world does not realize how much
it has owed to Mary during these
eighteen hundred years ; yet some,
some of us know how dark and al-
most unbearable it would be with its
sorrows, and cares, and privations, if
over all were not diffused the beauty
and softness, the sweet charm of
virginity and love, from the divine
face of Mary !

To Germaine, the Ave Maria was
another salutation of the angel pre-
luding the overshadowing of the
Holy Ghost ; and she murmured the
sacred words with infinite tenderness,
above all, at the hour when they are
on every lip. As soon as she heard
the Angelus bell, which has three
times a day, for six centuries, in-
toned the Ave Maria between heaven
and earth, it was remarked that,
wherever she might be, she imme-
diately fell upon her knees as if in-
sensible to the incommodiousness of
the place.

The Rosary was her only book ;
and to her this devotion was no vain
repetition. " Love," says Lacor-
daire, " has but one word, and, in
saying that for ever, it is never re-
peated,"

■erenely she walked with God*i beoe-
opoober."

" Ever tranafijnned to meet o
Oft at DemdoD couaU her bMfd%

«6

The FMy SkipM^rdas 0f Pihrac,

Am if those l»ead« had ciiif ht the tight

In Her cete»lial gtrdle ^mv^U

But each with ii liicht,

Thii», wbenioc ' r ia beanl*

FresK lboru|^t4 ' ^^leintt wi»nlt

An orb nf lif^ht come* hoitt lite aktes

*ro kindle h<»1y tittirf ic* ;

It gat Ken and sivea back ttieir rar*t

Now iumed lo prayer, and oow to prau«.'

The love of God insensibly leads
to the love of one's neighbor. Cer-
maine, when she could, used to draw
around her the little children of the
village, and endeavor lo explain to
them the truths of religion, and
sweetly persuade them to love Jesus
and Mary. This little school, held
in the shade of a thicket of the lone
fields, was a spectacle worthy of the
admiration of angels, and is a proof
of the unselfishness of real piety,
even in the most lowly.

Although the piety of Germaine
produced a profound impression in
the vMLige, yet the world rs the same
everywhere, and always conceives a
secret aversion to piety. It cannot
avoid censuring it in some way. how-
ever unobtrusive a piety it may be.
Religion imposes esteem upon the
world, and the world avenges itself
by railler)\ So the wits of Pibrac
persecuted Germaine with mockery ;
they laughed at her simplicity, and
called her a bigot.

But if God permits, for the perfec-
tion of the saints, that their virtue be
turned into ridicule, he knows, M*hen
it pleaseth him, how to render them
glorious in the eyes of the world.

In order to reach the village
church, Germaine was obliged to pass
the Courbet, a stream she generally
crossed without difBculty in ordina-
ry weather ; but after heavy rains, it
was too wide and deep lo be passed
on foot One morning, as she was
going to church, according to her
custom, some peasants who saw her
afar off stopped at a distance, and
asked one another in a lone of
mockery how she would pass the

Stream, now %^ si
that the most vi
hardly have stc
Dreaming of no
haps not seeing ai!
proached as if none i
wonder of divine
ness \ As of old tL
Red Sea opened for
the children of Is^rad
the Courbet dividi
humble daughter of]
sin« and she passed
wetting even the e«_
ments. At the sight al
afterward often repeal
sants looked at one
fear; and from that tj
est begati lo resf
maiden whom tlic
scoffed aL

After having iJms
faith off bydi

matcnai stotbf

of her duty, God wisJie
rify her charity to tl

If any one couM
exempted h
charity and
tainly our shepherd*
supcrfiuittes ; she I|
necessaries of life-
then, to retrench^ \xk\
treme privation and
How ec
labor, wl I
bread and water ?
genious ; and, seeing
ing Lord in the peri
Germaine oft
part of the I
for her nourisijmcm,
give it to the hungry^
the treasure of her pn
arc the deeds of the
one day reproach
power! VVh > " Hi
when he bcIi
front his hartincss of J
of Lazarus I

Th$ Hbfy Sk^herdas 4f Pibtdf^

7S7

pious liberality of Gennaine
ler an object of suspicion to
p-mother, who, not divining
ources, accused her of steal-
ad from the house. One day
med that Germaine, who had
le with the flock, carried in
ron some pieces of bread.
I, and armed with a cudgel,
nediately ran after her. Some
other inhabitants of Pibrac
ed to be Qn their way at this
oment to the house of Law-
!^ousin. Seeing this woman
beside herself with passion,
aned her intentions, and has-
3 protect Gennaine from the
tment with which she was
d. Overtaking the step-
they learned the cause of
^er. Finding Germaine, she
her apron, and instead of
it was filled with bouquets of
Ithough it was a season when
lowers were not in bloom,
od confounded the malice of
lacable enemy by renewing a
p likewise wrought in favor of
Elizabeth of Hungary and
dnts.

I this time, Germaine was re-
sts a saint. Lawrence Cousin,
ing more tender sentiments
this pious child whom he
> little known, forbade his
mnoying her any more, and
to give her a place in his
rith the other children. But
ne, accustomed to suffering
ing privation, besought him
t her in the obscure place
ler step-mother had assigned

% now that Germaine attained
ved the perfection of her hu-
We must not consider it a
honor to have been esteemed
acj nor a small reward to
id a place at the fireside of
ce Cousin. Human nature

is the saihe everywhere. There is no
theatre too small for ambition. We
know there are as many cabals for
the first place in a village as for the
chief place in an empire.

Perhaps it may not be entirely
useless to speak of the exterior of
the blessed Germaine. The man-
ners and customs of the remote pro-
vinces of France retain so much of
primitive simplicity, they change so
little year after year, and the people
b these localities have such a marked
appearance, that we may form a
reasonable idea of her person and
habits.

She is represented in paintii^ and
engravings as we see scores of shep-
herdesses in the south of France at
this day — seated on a hillock in the
fields, and surrounded by her flock.
With a spindle in her hand, and
under her arm the distaff laden with
flax, she is spinning, after the primi-
tive manner of that country. She is
rather below the medium size, and is
slight in form. She has the long
head of the Toulousains, and their
dark, Spanish complexion and eyes.
The face, half hidden by the pictur-
esque scarlet capuchon, is expressive
of silence, interior silence ; and for-
cibly speaks of the deep, deep calm
within. A pleasing sadness, or rather
a subdued joy, veils her face. There
is an introspective look about the
eyes which shows that her spirit has
passed the bounds of sense, and
is concentrated in one mysterious
thought — some dream of a heavenly
world. Sitting alone, away from her
kind, her thoughts were pure and
holy and bright, like the fragrant
flowers of her own green meadows.
She must have seemed to the other
peasants like some phantom of un-
earthly love, as she sat there enve-
loped in a divine ethereal atmosphere.
In the distance rise the towers of the
church, and the antique ch&teav of

75*

s&rx ef'i

the Lords of Pibrac, and betweea
murmurs the Courbet. Over all, is
the sunlight of her o\^^l bright cUmc.
Perhaps the miracle of the roses
is the most popular representation of
Saint Germaine^ as something not
quite so unearthly. There is no mys-
tery «ibout the look of the fierce step-
mother, as with one hand she raises
the cudgel over the head of the ne-
signcd-lookinggirl, and with the other
grasps the apron from which tumble
out the bright and fragrant flowers.
The face of Germaine is somewhat
sad, and her eyes are cast down in
fear to the earth. Tremulous and
mute she stands before her step-mo-
ther, for she is humble and sore afraid.
There is a reflective charm about her
of which she is wholly unconscious,
for it emanates from that spiritual
beauty visible only to the intelligences
and bright ardors around the throne.
Saint Germaine died soon after the
miracle of the roses. Almighty God,
having sanctified her by humiliations
and suflfe rings, withdrew her from
this world when men, becoming more
just, began to render her the honor
her virtue merited. She terminated
her obscure and hidden life by a si-
milar death, but according to appear-
ance this terrible moment, which con-
founds human arrogance, gave her
no terror or pain.

One morning, Lawrence Cousin,
not seeing her come out as usuajf
went to call her where she slept-^
under the stairs. She made no reply.
He entered and found her upon her
bed of vine-branches. She had fallen
asleep while at prayer, God had
called her to enjoy the reward of
eternal life. She had ceased tosufiTer.
It was about the commencement
of the summer of the year 1601 that
Saint Germaine entered into the joy of
her Lord. She was twenty-two years
of age.
That same night two paous men

were overtakeo near FD
darkness of night« and
await the return of day mi
ing forest. Alt at ones, j
die of the night, the woodi
ed with a light more brilJinit^
dawn, and a company
clothed in white garment
rounded by a dazxling
by on the darkness toward
of Lawrence Cousin,
returned, but there
their midst — more radiant]
had on her head 4 chapl^
flowers* . . *

People came in crowds^
neral, wishing to honor her^
had too long despised,
late they bad known. Tli
first testimony of public
Her body was buried in
in front of the pulpit
years after, it was found
preserved Ut>m corniptiofl
been emb
rity. In 1

a garland of pinks and hea
The flowers had scarcely fajj
gr^n was fre^ as at the
vest

The holy body was ren
finally placed in the sacrii
people of all ranks, tndt^
wonders wrought at her 1
to offer their homage*

In i$43» more than foil
legally attested m
wrought at her shr . 1
the faith of the people tn
before God» that the Arcl
Toulousc» and nearly all
prelate4i of France, petit
Holy See for her !>eatific
had been desired befo
Revolution, but it was
till the time of Gregory XVt7

When the commissioners w
examine the condition of tlic it
of the venerable Germaine, t
extraordinary' scene took j

<>k^g

Tkt ffafy Sk^herdas of POric.

759

ibitants of Pibrac, thinking that
beatification of their shepherdess
It terminate in the loss of their

treasure, came in a body to the
• of the church. They received
commissioners with threats and
I with stones, so it was only with
rulty an entrance could be effect-
ito the chmx^ The furious mul*
le followed, and the examination
made in the midst of a frightful
ih. ** No ! no 1" was heard on
sides. *<No beatification. St
naine cures us when we are sick ;

is enough. She belongs to us.
wrish to keep her."
l\e brief for the beatification of
naine Cousin was issued by the
r of his holiness Pius IX., on
istof July, 1853.
he Triduo which was held at Pi-
, in 1854, in honor of this event,
ifested the joy and the faith of
»eopIe. Altars, lighted up by the
>t sun of France, were erected in
lelds once trod by the feet of
laine, so thathundreds of Masses

be offered at once. The whole
ry around poured in. Toulouse
id vacated. There were eighty
^nd persons assembled around
»hrine. On the first day there

fourteen thousand communi-
In the procession were eigh-
xundred young ladies robed in
. They all held white lilies in
and, and wax tapers in the other,
is they entered the church and
d the altar, they deposited their
s on one side and their lilies on
ther. Conspicuous in the pro-
>n were those who had been
d by the intervention of the holy
lerdess. Lights were in their
s, and they made an offering of
ude at the altar,
e house in which the blessed
laine had lived was endangered
g those days of religious tri-
u It was in a tolerable state of

preservation, but ev^ry one seemed
anxious to secure a portion of the
walls that once sheltered her, and es-
pecially of the spot sanctified by the
angel of death.

A resident in the south of France
atthetime of the beatification of Saint
Grennaine, as she was even then, with
one accord, called in that country,
I was forcibly impressed with the en-
thusiastic veneration and confidence
with which she was regarded by all
classes. Every week I heard of some
new miracle at her tomb ; so they
soon ceased to excite wonder, and
seemed to. belong to the established
order of events. There was scarcely
an individual in my circle of acquaint-
ance who had not been, at least once»
to prostrate himself at her shrine,
and there was a lively faith in her
protection, which proved to me how
strongly the spirit of the middle ages
still animates the hearts of the faith-
ful.

So popular a devotion was a novel**
ty to me — a ^natwe Americdn*'* — but
I could not long remain insensible to
its influence. One misty October
day found me likewise an humble pil-
grim at the shrine of the holy shep-
herdess of Pibrac.

The very air of that antique cha-
pel inspires devotion.. A supernatu-
ral influence seemed to impregnate
everything around me. I saw, too,
that I was not the only one who felt
this subtle influence penetrating to
the very heart ; for the faces of all
the pilgrims, priests, religious, and
laymen of every rank who are con-
stantly arriving and departing, were
indicative of a holy awe. Though I
got there at a late hour, and it was
raining, Masses were still being cele-
brated, and the church was full. It
was no festival. It was so every day.
Masses were said at every altar from
early dawn till the latest canonical
hour. Prostrate groups from different

Tke 'Holy Shepherd

parishes were always there, clustered tli

in the nave, or gathered about the ih

shrine ; and here and there were lone sa

pi1|^ms whO| like me, had been b<

brought from the ends of the earth, fa

And around and over all were con- to

stellations of brightly burning tapers, h\

emblematic of the prayer of faith^ ul

left there by the pilgrim as loth he re

slowly left the hallowed sanctuary. 01

The tomb of Saint Germaine is in a ol

side chapel, protected by a grate* ot

Her relics are covered with gold and h.

silver and precious stones, €x voias^ in
which gleam in the light of the votive

eandles around. Involuntarily there si

comes to the heart in this fitting place, w

and to the lips, the strain, Exaliavit tl

kumiks ! m

" Lord, behold, he whom thou lov* C
est is sick !*' is the cry of every wea-
ry, sin-laden heart ; above all here, vi
where thou dost love to display thy r€
goodness and thy powcn The sacred in
heart of thy humanity, ever touched m
with feeling for our infirmities, is not ai
hardened. It is still as tender and M
as compassionate as when thou didst si
weep over the grave at Bethany, and tt

An Btwgy. jti^

FBOM T«S LATIN OP PKUDBNTtOS.

AN ELEGY.

DRX1.I9S Pkudkntids CLSMKMSy the glorf of ihe eailf Cfaratba pottt, vat born in Spain in the year 348.
studied elocpaenoe in hb youth under a celebrated master. He was twice made governor of provinces and
s, nuaed to the higheat rank, and placed at the court by the Emperor Theodoaiua I., next in dicnitj to

at in the visor of his afe, he quitted worldly honms and employments, made a pilgrimage to Rome^ and
loe returning to Spain, led a secluded lilb, consecrating his leisure to the com p osition of sacred poems. He
i teem r d the most learned of the Ghristiaa potflH and, for the sweetness ax»d elqcance of his Terses, has beea
iptamd to Hocacsb

Venient cit6 saecula, quum jam
Socius calor ossa revisat,
Animataque sanguine vivo
Habitacula pristina gestet

Quae pigra cadavera pridem
Tumulis putrefacta jacebant,
Volucres rapientur in auras,
Aninias comitata priores.

Quid turba superstes inepta
Plangens ululamina miscet ?
Cur tarn bene condita jura,
Luctu dolor arguit amens ?

Jam m(£sta quiesce querela,
Lacrymas suspendite matres,
NuUus sua pignora plangat :
Mors haec reparatio vitse est

Sic semina sicca virescunt
Jam mortua, jamque sepulta.
Quae reddita cespite ab imo
Veteres meditantur aristas.

Nunc suscipe, terra, fovendum,
Gremioque hunc concipe molli ;
Hominis tibi membra sequestro^
Generosa et fragmtna credo*

762

Ah Efifgy.

Animse fuit bsec domus oUra
Factoris ab ore create ;
Fervens habitavit m islis
Sapientia, principe Christo.

Tu depositum tege corpus ;
Non iinmemor ille requiret
Sua munera fictor ct auctor,
Propriique aenigmata vult0s.

Veniant raodb tempora justa,
Quum spem Deus implcat omnemi
Reddas patefdcta necesse est,
Qualem tibi trado figuram.

Non si cariosa vetustas
Dissolve rit ossa faviilis^
Fueritque cinisculus arens.
Minimi meusura pugilU ;

Nee si vaga ilamina, et aurse
Vacuuni per inane vol antes
Tulerlnt cum pulvere nen'os,
Hominem pcriisse licebit.

■nUNSLATtOW.

The hour is speeding on amain
When back into its olden form.
Once more with mddv lifebtood warm.

The spirit shall return ag:^n.

The freed soul soars aloft through space :
So, dust with dust, aloft through air,
This heavy clay swift gales shall bear

From its sepulchral resting-place.

^^^y doth the crowd stirviving till
The air with a lamenting vain ?
Wliy with such idle grxth arraign

The justice of the Eternal will?

An Eltjgy. f 63

Oh ! end these pangs with murmurs rife,
O mothers I cease your tears, your woe ;
Weep not for your dead children so,

Death the renewal is of life.

The dead, dry seed lies hid from view,
To burst forth to new glorious bloom ;
The former beauty to resume,

The ancient harvest to renew.

O earth I in thy soft bosom keep,
And quicken with new warmth this clay,
This sacred frame to rest we lay^

It smiles in thy embrace to sleep.

'Twas once the immortal spirit's cell,
That breath breathed from the lips divine \
Here was the living wisdom's shrine, ^

Here deigned the Christ supreme to dwell.

Guard it beneath thy faithful sod,
For He, one day, will re-demand
From thee this labor of his hiand,

This breathing likeness of its God.

Oh ! for the appointed hour to rend
The grave I the hope God gives is sure :
Safe, beauteous, through these gates obscure

What now descendeth shall ascend.

Yes, though this frame divinely planned
Be wasted by decay and rust.
And naught left save a Uttle dust,

The filling of the smallest hand:

Though these strong sinews ashes be

On wandering breezes wafted wide,

Inviolate ever shall abide
The mortal's immortality.

d* £• S»

764

The Aniiiki Irish Church.

tllAtlil^ATSO PlOU DKE KATUOLJIC

THE ANCIENT IRISH CHURCffT

The history of the ancient Irish
church, for many reasons, claims our
respectful attention* In the ti^ie of
the migration of the European races,
this church had a ^eat mission to
accomplish among tJie Germanic
tribes. When the Goths had over-
run Spain, the Franks and Burgun-
dians conquered Gaul, the Anglo-
Saxons invaded Britain, the Vandals
spoiled Africa, and the Lombards
gained strongholds in Italy \ when
the Alemanni and Sueves had pene-
trated into the valleys and claimed
the mountains of ancient Helvetia ;
who was it in those stormy times
that elevated the moral condition of
those peoples, drew them out of the
darkness of German paganism, or
converted them from Arianism ; re-
generated them internally, civilized
and incorporated them into the king-
dom of God, after they had devas-
tated the provinces of the Western
empire, leaving ruins, deserts, confu-
sion, and desolation behind them in
their plundering march ? It was the
missionaries of the ancient Irish
church that rescued Europe from
the barbarism of that period. Evi-
dently sent by God, those Irish mis-
sionaries founded new Christian
colonies in different lands, hewed
down the forests, civilized the deseru,
founded churches, schools, and mo-
nasteries. As the Roman empire
without the barbarians was nothing
but an abyss of slavery and rotten-
ness, so would the barbarians have
been a wild chaos without the monks.
The monks and barbarians combined
produced a new world which wc call
Christendom,

Germany also owes
missionaries of the
church. In the oldl
was called the " island
sages;" as her peopla
receive from us thei
of *' martyr-nation
for their inflexible
faith during three ceii(|
less and brutal pcrs
one but God in hea
number of the saint
mingled wiih Irish soil/*
the oldest Irish writers
phcr of St. Ailbe of Eml^
not by hundreds, but h
the holy Irish bishops, al
monks, and virgins. ]
days of St. Patrick,
after his successful
land was not only a]
school for foreign missis
second Thcbais, in wbi
cises of the spiritual U
roughly practised, and
dents could dc\ ote the
htude to the study o({
holy writ under the
sors. Pious men went 1
from the European coi
France, and even fronij
classic and holy ** is
to [earn the doclr
perfection, literature,!
in the renowned moH
land of Cotumba and

Even to this
ally favi>red by i
snakes in it or olhc
tiles. The very dang
the animal kingdom j
eluded from its sacrcc
all attempts to nati

wbi

J u

and
he|

The Aficiatt Irish Church.

765

ures there have been unsuccess-
The old Irish rhyme reads :

St. Patrick was a holy man,

He was a saint so clever,
%e gave the snakes and toads his ban.

And drove them out for ever.**

hroughout Ireland there are
t: fields of wheat and grain of
y -description, and many lakes.

climate is mild, and snow so

that cattle can graze in the
s all the year round. Rain
vers are frequent, and give such
lity and verdure to the soil as no
r land in Europe possesses, so

the island is known as '' Green
I," or the " Emerald isle." The
its, flowers, and trees of Ireland,
leir shape, color, and material, re-
ri one somewhat of Normandy in
nee, or of Asturia in northern
In.

he History of the Andent Irish
rch has been just presented to
public by an author who is in a
cr condition than most of his
temporaries to write such a work,
wh charms us more and more the
€ frequently we read it. We
ik of the recent work of the
lop of St. Gall, Dr. Charles John
iith, in which we recognize one of
greatest efforts of German histo-
d literature. We cannot, there-
?, refrain from imparting to our
ders an epitome of the contents of
5 remarkable and highly interest-
production. The right reverend
hor considers his work of four
idred and sixty-two pages as an
itroduction to the history of the
iiopric of St. Gall." He published
book on the commemofation and
tenary of the consecration of the
le^ral of St. Gall, August 17th

i8th, 1867, and dedicated his
rary effort to the chapter and
clergy of his diocese. From ear-
outh the distinguished author has
Q familiar with the legends and

history of St. Gall, and studied them
with love and veneration. Love for
that great Irish missionary saint,
whose worthy successor Dr. Greith
is, inspired the work whose continua-
tion we desire most earnestly. " St
Gall has left behind him a world-
wide reputation as the aposde of the
Swiss Alps. Centuries have not di-
minished his fame, which the grati-
tude of Christians sanctions."

Veneration for St Gall has been
spread far beyond the boundaries of
Switzerland \ from the foot of the
Alps to Upper Burgundy and AlsacCi
even to the limits of the Vosges;
then into Brisgau and the Black Fo-
rest, to the Suabian Alps, and thenoe
into Nibelgau, and Algau. In all
these regions, the monks of St Gall
imparted the blessings of religion
and education. Full of admiration
for the Christian zeal of St Gall and
his disciples, our author recalls the
words spoken by Ermenreich of
Reichenau, to Abbot Grimald of St
Gall, over a thousand years ago:
" How could we ever forget the island
of Ireland, from which the rays of
Christian light and the sun of Chris-
tian faith have shone upon us I"
Taking this expression for his motto,
the right reverend writer gives us his
magnificent History of tfu Ancient
Irish Church and its Connection with
RomCy Gauly and Germany,

Divided into six books, the work
describes in the two first the migra-
tions of the barbarians and the fall
of the Roman empire ; then the
heresies which swarmed in the church
of the period ; then the school of the
island of Lerins, where St Patrick,
the apostle of Ireland, was instructed.
The four last books are consecrated
to St Patrick and his apostleship in
Ireland ; to St Columba, the apostle
of Scotland; to St Colombanus and
his deeds in France, Flanders, and
the north of Italy ; and to St Gall,

766

The Aneuftt Irish Chmtk

the apostle of Germany, The sixth
and last book treats of Christianity
and its customs in the Irish churclu

The illustrious author made use of
manuscripts as well as printed works
in the compilations of his history.
Many manuscripts were at his dispo-
sal in St. Gall itself. The original
sources of ancient Irish history con-
sist of different materials; genealo-
gies which trace the origin of kings or
saints and their relatives ; annals
which give the year of the death of
saints, or of other distinguished cha-
racters ; church calendars which
give the day of the month on which
the death of a saint occurred ; and
finally, the lives of the saints them-
selves. These biographies are co-
piously tised. We cannot restrain our
desire to quote what the author thinks
of those sources of history. " Eru-
dition is not sufficient for us to judge
the biograpliies of the ancient saints ;
we must have sympathy with them
in their zealous labor ; and a spiri-
tual relationship in their faith. Every
age must be judged according to the
ideas and customs which prevail in
it ; and every saint according to the
circumstances in which he lives.**
The poetic as well as the historical
element, the legendary as well as
the autlientic, must be combined in
forming a correct estimate of a saint's
character.

Even in the early part of the mid-
dle ages, every cathedral church,
large nionastery, or distinguished
hennitage, possessed its hagiogra-
phcrs, who wrote the lives of the
saints of the place^ either from au-
thentic written documents, traditions,
or from knowledge acquired as eye-
witnesses. Since John Moschus pub-
lished his collection of legends^ ex-
traordinary diligence in the criticism
and sifting of the ancient biographies
of the saints has been manifested in
Ihe church. The collection and cri-

tical works of the Bol
rius, Mabilion, d' Ach
keep their reputalioii
to the present day.
display such a thoroti
researches! that the i
ists have been unabli
of any consequence
The truthful htstorJafl
those apostles of rel^]
zation among the Ge
they were, children
representatives of ird
and manners. Follov
he will not cast doub
of their motives, o|
their merit in drawing
of barbarians out of
paganism and immc
light of Christ i.tnity an
blind party spirit of
nizcs no justice, and i
ism is only
throw ever)'t!
holy out of history.
gans tear with scorn
tures into shreds be
and subject to a lawk
ablest records of cccM
ryi while they try to
monument that mil
weary pilgrims of ^
to heaven.

The roost tnistwoff
regarding the first tr
tianity in Ireland, infd
to the time of Pop
(a,o. 422-432,) that I
been converted. Up to
our Lord 4^2^ noChr
r)* had trodden the soS
or caused the light of I
over the hills and thr
of green Erin. Palbdj
were the first apostles, \
is true, several High

The Ancient Irish Church.

767

> St Patrick ; but this theory
ipported by any authentic do-
ts. Besides, the attempt of
BTiiters was prompted by the
n desire of proving an origi-
paration in belief between
1 and Rome. Nevertheless,
t improbable that many non-
ssioned Christians may have
om Britain and Gaul into Ire-
jfore the year 430, and form-
til communities, or lived scat-
among the heathens. "On
ngs of every day commerce,
wer-seeds of Christian faith
ave been borne to Erin from
and Gaul ; as from the ear-
nes direct business relations
ept up between Nantes, other
s of Armoric Gaul, and Ire-
To the north-west of Gaul
me the Irish rovers, under the
ce of some distinguished chief-
1 quest of plunder, and fre-
r carried off Christians into
ty. In this way St Patrick,
a youth of sixteen years of
as taken from the coast of
lea by the pirates of King Niall,
th many thousand others de*
in bondage, as he informs us
'in his writings," (p. 86.)
ies the fact that there was no
rhurch prior to St Patrick,
there may have been indivi-
!hristians in the country, we
•rove that the Christianity im-
into Ireland was Roman, and
jr apostles received their rais-
>m the pope. Pope Celestine,
irear 431, sent Pajladius, dea-
arch-deacon of the Roman
, as the first missionary. This
io man, who had long been
his eyes toward Britain and the
estem islands of Europe, had a
and very important task to exe-
Ireland, namely, to strength-
dispersed Catholics in the
nd to evangelize the heathens.

He landed in Hay-Garrchon, pene-
trated into the interior of the coun*
try, baptized many, built three church*
es in the province of Leinster ; bat;
taken ^together, his mission was un-
successful, and he met with much op-
position. " But when Palladius un-
derstood that he could not do much
good in Ireland, he wanted to return
to Rome, and died on the voyage, in
the territory of the Picts. Others
say that he received the crown of
martyrdom in Ireland."

What Palladius begun — ^but which
God's providence willed to remain in-
complete — Patrick accomplished in
sixty >'ears of apostolic labor. Him
God chose as the instrument, and
fitted him for this holy work. That
he received his commission from
Rome from the hands of Pope Celes-
tine, A.D. 432, cannot be doubted;
for the fact is confirmed by a crowd
of witnesses, both Roman and Irish.
We must, therefore, consider and re-
verence Patrick as the apostle of the
Irish people.

All the early Irish annalists unani-
mously agree that his mission began
in the year 432, and that he died in
493 — ^^ apostleship of sixty years 1
How great and glorious for him and
for Jiis people!

Patrick was bom a.d. 387, in Bou-
logne-sur-Mer, in modern Picardy,
and was of noble Roman origin. In
his sixteenth year, in a marauding ex-
pedition of an Irish clan called Niall,
he was carried prisoner to Armoric
Gaul j thence to Ireland, and there
sold to a pagan officer named Mil-
cho, whose swine he herded for six
years. After this, he escaped, and
returned to his native land. Hav-
ing fully determined to consecrate
himself to the service of God, he
went to Marmontiers, the monastery
of St Martin of Tours, to study
there the principles of Christian
science and perfection. A few years

The Ancitni Irish Chut

after, he visited the happy island of
Lerins, near Marseilles, at that time
one of the most famous schools in
Christendom, and met there, as fel-
low-students, the holy monks Jlono-
ratus, Hilary, Eucherius, Lupus, and
others. An interior voice there told
him that he should return to Ireland
to preach the Gospel in that country;
and he therefore travelled from Le-
rins to Rome, in order to represent to
the holy sec the darkness of heathen-
ism which brooded over Ireland.
But, as the apostolic see was not
then in a condition to provide for
the Irish mission, Patrick went back
to Gaul» and remained with St, Ger-
main of Auxerre, under whose guid-
ance he made further progress in
holiness and learning. Such was
his life up to the year 429.

In this year he accompanied Bi-
shop Germ anus and Lupus to Bri-
tain, who were sent by the pope to
root out Pelagianism in that country*
Thus was Patrick prepared for his
apostleship.

It was then he heard of the mis-
sion of Palladius, and its failure.
(a.d. 431,) The holy Bishop Gcr-
manus cast his eyes on Patrick, who
knew the Irish language, people, and
country from personal observations.
Did he not seem peculiarly fitted —
sent, in fact, from heaven, to under-
take the conversion of the Irish na-
tion ?

Patrick, therefore, with the priest
I^egelius as his companion, went to
Rome, and received from Pope Ce-
lestine his blessing and the neces-
sary authority to undertake the task
of converting Ireland, It is hard to
tell now whether he was consecrated
bishop by Celestine before his de-
parture, or by Bishop Amatorex, of
Eboria, a city in north- western Gaul.
He reached Ireland in the first year
of Celestine IIL A life of continual
triumphs began for him* He was

nbertJI

repulsed from the coast of
no matter ; he sailed for Ubtet, ;
landed at Strangford. He cOat«
the chieftain Dicho and
house, and celebrates bis \
in Ireland in a neighl
At the royal city ot Tan, 1
King Lcoghaire, with all his cU
defends and explains Chrislia
their presence, and gains a vie
over the Druids. P
and poet, is coiivcrtL
the future, only hymn^ iu tii
of the true God. The dau
the king, Ethana and Fethlimia,!
bow to the yoke of the Gospel, j
consecrate their virginity to God^d
many other holy women foUow I
example. Thus, a happy i
was made in the inland.

Soon the converts number
sands. Everything succ«c<ls; tk
conversion of the Irtsli people la
effected without pcrsecutkm oc mo-
tyrs. Patrick frequented the oaw^
al assemblies, and used the
to preach to the multitudes.
destroyed idolatry and idoUtn
practices throughout the whole bi^
and built churches to the living £
on places that had htthcrto
dedicated to the worship of
Wherever he went, he
crowds of men, provided the
Christian communities with
es, made the most virtnotis
disciples priests and bishops,!
pointed them to govern the 1
and extend the reign of the 1

Thus did he labor v^
going about preachin^
blessing, in Lcinster, Ll3lcr>'^
ster, and Con n aught ; and
where his astonishing activity
self sacrifice effected woiwierflll «»•
sults^ Ever^'where the peo|)le *^
ready and docile for the roceptioi^
Christianity. Divine Providcacei^
derfutly protected litin from all ^
ger.

The AncifHi Irish Churck.

769

when the whole island was
ted to Christ, congregations
\y and churches erected in all
of the country, St. Patrick
t of building a metropolitan
ral for the primate of Ireland.
>se for this purpose the heights
narcha, or Armagh, near which
:he old royal fortress of £ma-
\fter the building of his cathe-
id the conversion of the Irish,
itrick passed the remaining
of his life pardy at Armagh,
at his favorite spot at Sabhul,
he began his missionary ca*
He assembled a few synods,
his Confession^ as it is called,
! approach of death, and was
sd by his last illness at Sabhul.
he felt his end approaching,
lected his remaining strength,
ndeavored to go to Armagh,
he had chosen as the place of
irial; but, warned by a voice
leaven, he returned to Sabhul,
led there eight days after, on
th of March, 493.

HI.

: us now glance at the disciples
llowers of this great man. They
ed up his work with such zeal
idefatigable activity that, at the

• the sixth century, Christianity
pread over all Ireland. We
juish, in the Irish church, " Fa-
)f the First Order," and " Fa-
of the Second Order." The
aen from Rome, Italy, Gaul,
jpecially from Wales or Cam-
vho followed St Patrick as
eader, and aided him in his
, are the " Fathers of the First
" Patrick brought with him
Rome, in the year 432, nine
Jits ; in the year 439, Secun-
Auxilius, and Iseminus, were
him from Rome. The two

• of these, together with Be-

VOL. VII. — ^49

nignus, were present as bishops at
the first synod of Armagh, in the
year 456. Bishop Trianius, a Ro-
man, another disciple of St Patrick,
imitated so exactly the life of the
great aposUe, that his food was nor-
thing but the milk of one cow, which
he took care of himself. The first
mitred abbot of Sabhul was Dunnius ;
and the first bishop of Antrim was
Leoman, Patrick's nephew. The
oldest Irish bishops appointed by
Patrick, were Patrick of Armagh,
Fiech of Sletty, Mochua of Aendrun,
Carbreus of Cubratham, and Maccar-
then, of Aurghialla. Seven nephews
of St Patrick, who followed him
from Cambria, are invoked in the
Irish litanies as bishops. They are
the sons of Tigriada, Brochad, Bro-
chan, Mogenoch, Luman; and the
sons of Darercha, Mel, Rioch, and
Muna. When the heathen Anglo*
Saxons conquered Britain in the
year 450, and sought to destroy the
old British church, many learned and
pious men fled to Ireland, and joined
Patrick. Thirty of them were made
bishops, and devoted themselves to
the special task of converting the
neighboring islands. The most re-
nowned of tliese Welsh missionaries
are Carantoc, Mochta of Lugmagh,
and Modonnoc, who introduced the
rearing of bees into Ireland, where
they had never been seen before.
Three companions of St Patrick —
Essa, Bitmus, and Tesach — were ex-
pert bell-founders, and makers of
church-vessels. The fact that Pat-
rick was sent from Rome, that his
first assistants were Romans, and that
his co-laborers from Gaul and Britain
were sons of the Roman church, com-
pletely destroys the Anglican hypo-
thesis of an Irish church independent
of Rome. £ven Albeus, who, on ac-
count of his services, was called the
second Patrick, Declau, and Ihac,
the i^postles of the Mumons ; Enna,

770

Tfie Aficteni Irish Church.

or Enda, the founder of the pjreat mo-
nastery of Aran ; Condi and, Bishop
of Kildare, all disciples of St. Pat-
rlck^ were educated and consecrated
bishops in Rome. There also were
Lugach, Colman, Meldan, Lugaidh»
Cassan, and Ciaran» consecrated and
afterward numbered among the ear-
liest bishops and fathers of the Irish
church.

From the time of St Patrick, con-
tinual communication was kept up
between Rome and Ireland by count-
less pilgrims, as many documents at-
test, (Greith, p. 142-156.) Patrick
left his love and reverence for the
Apostolic See of Peter as a precious
legacy to his immediate disciples ;
and they, in turn, to their successors
up to the present day* The frequent
pilgrtmages of Irish bishops, abbots,
and monks, are facts so well proven,
that the Anglican theory of a sepa-
rate Irish church is shown to be a
pure invention, no longer contended
for as truth by any respectable histo-
rian.

Let us now pass to the fathers of
the second order in the Irish church,
and their illustrious foundations. The
founders of those numerous Irish mo-
nasteries, which counted their inmates
by hundreds and thousands, those
men who were mostly brought up by
the immediate successors of St. Pat-
rick, belong to the ^* Second Order of
Irish Fathers." Twelve of them, in-
structed by the renowTied Abbot Fin-
nian, at Clonard, are called the
twelve apostles of Ireland. At their
head stands Columba, the apostle
of the Picts, shining among them like
the sun among the stars. Their names
are, Columba, of lona, Comgall, of
Bangor, Cormac, of Deormagh, Cat*
nech,of Achedbo, Ciaran, ofClonmac-
noise, Mobhi, of Clareinech, Brendan,
of Clonfert, Brendan, of Birr, Fintan^
Columba, of Tirgelass, Molua Fillan
and Molasch, of Damhs-I nis. These

holy men erected all ov

in the adjacent isles chufC
vents, which became cej
learning, and sanctity.
tery of Clonard, founded
Abbot Finnian, containi
lifetime three thousand
Clonmacnoise, a monas^
by St. Ciaran, in the midc
agriculture was made a s|
and Monastereven on
Monasterboyce in the
Bo>Tie, Dearmach, etc., '
ed institutions. These
est Irish monasteries wci
regulariy-built houses,
of numbers of separate \
made of wicker-work, stall
es. The church or orato
the midst of the huts, an
of the same material,
later period that the
tecture was introduced ril
and then stone edifices tcj
of the primitive structur
mention is always mi
annals of the erec
church, for the people ]
en buildings, and ihci|
show^s itself up to the In
The stone churches weref
as the fruit of foreign
St. Bernard informs us
St Malachy. The Re
gradually introduced inloTr
fine arts and a higher ord
tecture, as she had done ;
date in Gaul and Brit
singing became usuaL
hj-mns took the place of ^
rhapsodies ; and the i
forgot to sing of heroes* I
to tune their harps to sii
of Christ and his saints.

The Irish missiotia
barren lands and nuule |
ameliorated the cooditi
ture, spread commence, \
ed new islands tJi the \
the Irish saints, at the ]

The Ancient Irish Church,

771

e writings were great naviga-

Greith paints in glowing colors
e of St Columba and his labors
land, the Hebrides, and Scot-
as well as the discipline and
^f the Abbey of Hy, which was
ed by him. We cannot enter
letails, but refer the reader to
}reith's book. Columba was
on the 7th of December, 521.
e first half of his life, Ireland
le scene of his zeal ; the second
'as spent among the Scots and
In Ireland he founded Dur-
Deny, and Kells. He went
welve disciples to Caledonia in
ear 563. Christianity among
:ots had degenerated ; and the
were still pagans. The king of
?icts, Brudrius, gave him the
i of lona or Hy, where his
s began which God crowned with
erful success. He soon became
>eacon light for all the faithful
's and laity of Ireland and Gale-
. He visited Ireland to coun-
is noble relatives, settle their
tes, or oversee the churches and
iteries which he had established,
avelled among the Picts preach-

- Gospel, founding monasteries,
ecting churches which should
^r lona as their mother. He
liirty-two churches, to most of

monasteries were attached, in
Md ; and eighteen among the
^ the space of thirty-three years,
1 97.) Even during his lifetime
^ so celebrated that, from all
:^rinces, nobles, bishops, priests,
L, and the faithful of all classes

him for counsel in their difl&-
s consolation in their distress,
t^lp in their necessities. Co-

- fought against the superstition
Picts, the cunning of their ma-

s, and the wickedness of law-
Hen. Princes' sons, whose fa-
had lost their lives and crowns

in battle, went to lona to lay their
grievances before Columba, and to
each one according to his need, the
saint gave consolation and hope. The
common people brought their children
to him, to ask him to decide their vo-
cation. It was not an unusual spec-
tacle to see kings and nobles lay
aside the insignia of their greatness
at lona, and break their swords before
its altars. Columba's prayers were
very powerful. His blessing con-
trolled the elements and the forces of
nature. He seemed to rule nature as
a lord. He had also the gift of pro-
phecy. He died June 9th, a.d. 597.
His departure from life was made
known to many holy men in different
parts of Ireland and Scotland at the
same time, who declaied that *' Co-
lumba, the pillar of so many churches,
had gone to-night to the bosom of
his Redeemer." The isle of lona
was illuminated by a heavenly light,
emanating from the countless angels
who came down to take up the happy
soul of the saint to the bosom of his
God.

The Irish monasteries increased
wonderfully during the sixth century.
Finnian's monastery at Clonard, as
already mentioned, contained 3000
monks ; and that of Bangor and Birr
had the same number ; St. Molaissi
had 1500 monks around him ; Co-
lombanus and Fechin had each 300 ;
Carthach, 867 ; Gobban, 1000; Mai-
doc, Manchan, Natalis, and Ruadhan,
each 150 ; Revin and Molua were
each the head of several thousand.
There was no common rule for all
those convents, like that which St.
Benedict wrote for the religious of
his order, (a.d. 529.) Each monas-
tery had its own laws. Columba had
made no special rule for Hy or for
his other monasteries. St. Colomba-
nus was the first who collected and
methodized the customs and tradi-
tions of Irish monastic life.

European Prison Discipline.

77Z

I are the apartments where the
lers receive their friends, sepa-
from them by two gratings sev-
eet apart. It will remind you
le picture in Old Curiosity
where Mrs. Nubbles and
ira^s mother go to see Kit in
1. A prisoner can receive a
)nce in three months, write one
, and receive one ; but they are
n here so long. Newgate is
a house of detention before
except for those condemned to
— a mere jail. Here we are in
)f the great oblong halls with
of cells opening on to galleries,
lis iron staircase in the middle
e hall and across this little
e, and we stand outside a cell
In the American prisons you
seen, you say that the cells open
:orridor, with a grated door, and
:imes a grated window. Not
ire. The door is solid, with
y a small hole for purposes of
iilance, and a trap below it
^h which food, etc., may be pas-

If the prisoner wants anything,
igs a bell, the action of which
ious. Fix your eye on the bell-
l outside. I pull the bell in-
md a tin flap flies back, showing
umber of the cell. Thus the
• knows what bell has rung,
he prisoner, having no power

the flap when it has once
g back, cannot avoid discovery

has ning merely in order to
rouble. The cell is sufficiently

you see, and is lighted from
ourt-yard through that arched
w near the ceiling. A nice
x>om enough, with the bedding
i away on one of those shelves
comer. On the shelf below is
risoner's bowl with the spoon
on it Everything must be in
ice. If the spoon were on the
it would be out of place; it
ie on the reversed bowl. Rest-

ing against the wall is his plate, and
on the lowest shelf are his books.
Oh 1 yes, you may examine them — ^the
same in all the cells, Bible, Prayer-
Book, hymns, and psalms.* The
other volume comes from our library,
and is changed every day, if necessa-
ry. At this little turn-up shelf the
prisoner takes his meals, or reads by
the small shade-lamp above it In
the comer is a nice copper basin with
plenty of water. There are two aper-
tures, one to admit warm air, the
other for ventilation ; every comfort
provided for him, you see. Yes, we
keep the prisoners entirely apart
from each other, never two together,
unless some one comes here for
drankenness, and has delirium tre-
mens, and then we put two others
with him for safety's sake. Now
we'll go up to the next corridor ; in
the one below are the doctors' cells,
where fresh prisoners are kept until
they have passed through a sanitary
examination.

Step into this cell, occupied, as
you see, by a mere boy. There's his
pile of oakum on the floor. Go on
with your dinner, my man ; no need
to stop for us. As we go up higher,
more light comes in from the court-
yard ; the upper cells are reserved
for prisoners who are likely to be
here some time. The next ceil oc-
cupied too, you see, though we've
not many prisoners here now, the
trials being just over. Yes, sir, this
man is trying to educate himself a
little ; has a dictionary on the shelf
beside the library-book — a volume of
travels this time. Now that we are
in the corridor again, let me tell you
that this same shock-headed young
man is condemned to ten years of
penal servitude and twenty lashes,
for highway robbery with violence.

^ PriMoeri yA» do ttot Moaf to the Eatablislwd
Chnrchcui iMviMled bya p riail er by a diMeiitiiig

774

tfifvpeim Frisim Dtscipiine,

The lashes are to be received before
iie leaves Newgate, but more on tliat
subject presently.

Here we are in the old part of
Newgate. In your reading, no
doubt youVe come across the name
of Mrs. Elizabeth Fry. It was in
this same long, dark room that she
used to assemble the prisoners, and
read and pray with them. No, I
have no means of judging of the
durability of her conversions. It is
easy to talk of converting criminals ;
but perhaps her chief merit lay in
setting the example in England of a
friendly and trusting intercourse with
these poor wretches* Yes^ it is strange
to see the whip ping- block in this
room, but indeed, sir, corporal pun-
ishment has become an absolute
necessity* It is never used to force
prison discipline, but is administer-
ed in execution of a sentence, im-
posed by a magistrate for wanton
violence. It is a curious fact that
these brutes, who go about garrot-
ing inoffensive travellers, breaking
jaws and skulls w^ith their brass
knuckles or dusters, as they call
them, are the veriest cowards on
earth when physical pain comes to
themselves. In this very room they
will cry like children, and beg to be
forgiven, I don't feel half ihe pity
for them that I do for the poor crea-
tures going to be hanged/* This iron
door suR'ived the fire in the Gordon
riots, you see. Come through here,

* We lire sol fallf ctmirincfrd of tlie wiidoia of io-
Iroductns the whipprtng-block once »er« into lh«
hoDorahle company of penal titSictioQi m Eiifl«iML
One of the roost atial^ctory au«t ot rafornuilioB «f«
bttve known among pcnona iruUf/ of grave crime*, wm
ih»t ai « "cjuToter.** It is our sliooK imp««»ioii
tlut corporal pumAhiDeot would have ckgraded him
beyood alt human hope of redemption. At Itaat,
gfcAt care should be taken to keep the use of thii in-
MnimMH of torture within the houiub of abaolule ne*
ces«ily. Impriiumment may aoJIaa the heart; per*
haps many perwtii hate died well on the icaSbld, who
would have died impenitent midcr other circura-
atsDccs '. but however great may have been the oum-
ber of «|wnt» eruahod by Aocging m priaona, w« vew
tare to doubi whether there ia a «ui||k iaalaiioa oa
ivcord of iu having prodaced or aided rdbrmalieo.

if you please, sir. This is ]
of the large rooms iti old
where prisoners were ke
the solitary system came inl
The change is a most for
for all concerned, Vm

IVe no question tliat j
was hatched here amoiig
herded together in these ccl^
can see for yourself what
talk there would be ain«
Perhaps some footman
here for stealing his master
What a chance for an old
get a littie useful informati
friendly way: "Your master
easy, comfortable kind of
was he ? Well, them well to
men mostly is easy-tern pcre
partickerierly welt-to^o, ant^
Old family he belongs to^ ehj
lots o' plate some o'
noblemen do have t Wo«m)c
that they don't sell it and
good out on it, *stead of
away at the banker's } Dod
it at the bankers ! Pity
cuss as cleans it, then I Co
ton or Bath, of course, when I
son's over ; I thought as
takes poor folks to travel/* >
And then, the fit%i step afteff
out of Newgale would be to i
to the maid servant when ihi
was out of town. Very dc
be, until some evening he'd
** such a pity there were no (
in the house, or sometliing \
cool your mouth with ; th<
such a nice, respectable pU
the corner ; wouldn*t she ji|
round there and choose
for herself?*' And iheo^
the poor girl was gone, the afi
ces^ well instructed as to the
abouts of the plate, would
the safe at their leisure. Xi
depend upon it, sir, it was
thing for society when the
discipline was adopted.

European Prison Discipline.

77S

le little court-yard we are cross-
now is one of those where the
ners take their exercise. Oh !
sir ; they all have regular times
Kercise, and in these yards with-
e building there is no possibility
leir making their escape. I am
I to show one of our cells for
iry confinement Let me turn
le gas in this small room. You
this door which I open, and
1 an inner door, which I open

Step in, sir. Now, turn so
your eye may catch the gaslight
de. Here is a bedstead; you
feel it, if you don't see it. In
cell, pitch-dark and cut off from
rest of the prison so completely
no shouts or screams would be
J, unruly prisoners are confined
ny period between one hour and

days, with only bread and wa-
or food. There is ventilation
warmth here, as in the other

The doctor comes each morn-
o see that mind and body are
i. Only by sentence of a ma-
ite can the confinement be pro-
id beyond three days. Yes, sir,
\xi awful place ; and then, too,
nen look upon it as sheer lost
We have soldiers in here
times, and they say that they
aake up for three days on bread
water in the guard-house, by
iing their whole pay in eating
irinking when they come out ;
ere it's just loss of rations, and
ng else. You'll hardly ever

an old thief in here. "Oh!

stop my grub, whatever you
he'll say, and so he takes care
have well enough to keep out of
tary." The prisoners who mind
St are little ragamuffins, accus-
d to creep into any dark hole, to
:hemselves up and go to sleep.

are never afraid of anything,
nt boys, in prison on suspicion
rgery or whatever, are dreadfully

scared. But you'll be glad to get
out into the daylight again, I am
thinking, sir.

I'll show you our chapel now. In
that screened gallery the women sit,
where they can see everything with-
out being seen. There is divine ser-
vice here every morning, as well as on
Sundays. No, sir; I've no authority
to show you the female side of the
prison, which is quite distinct from
ours, and has female warders, and a
committee of lady visitors. The sys-
tem of female keepers works perfect-
ly well ; but it would have been im-
practicable before we adopted sepa-
rate cells, because the talk among
the prisoners was such as no decent
woman should hear. A wicked wo-
man is a thousand times worse than
a bad man, and less intelligent, too.
You see, sir, a woman falls because
she is either pretty, or silly, or un-
protected. Now, bad men and boys
are often the most intelligent of their
class, and are selected as tools for
that very reason, by older rogues
than themselves. It is one of the
terrible features of the case, that the
country loses valuable servants in
these quick-witted outlaws.

Here we come out upon the slop-
ing passage, leading to the criminal
courts— Birdcage-walk, the old thieves
call it Over-head we get the light
through the open iron- work, you see.
Under the flags are buried all those
who have been hanged, and the ini-
tial letter of the name is scratched
on the wall above the grave. That
iron door at the end leads to the
court-rooms. Yes, indeed, sir, some
of the prisoners one learns to like
best are those awaiting execution
here, educated men sometimes. Oh 1
yes ; I know the names that all these
letters stand for. Muller lies there.
No, he was not much of a man, any
way. Here's Courvoisier, who mur-
dered Lord Russell ; he was my lord's

jtc

valet Those five letters stand for
five pirates. This one was a coach-
man, who murdered a female in the
city, and burned the remains in his
stable. Here's a man who killed
his wife. Why, yes, sir ; there arc a
good many in here for wife-murder ;
aggravating, I suppose, at times. That
was an Italian* who killed another
female in the city. This man hung
his own child in the cellar. Oh ! no,
he was not insane; jealous of his
wife, or something of the sort, I be-
lieve. There are a good many more
here, but their cases were not so w*ell
known. Another court-yard to be
crossed, sir, and here we are in one of
the condemned cells. A good deal
larger it is than the common cells,
you see, with a bedstead, a good-
sized table, and a long bench. From
the time of his condemnation, the
poor fellow is never left alone, night
or day; two officers take turn and
turn about in staying with him. Oh \
certainly, sir, they talk with him ;
not about his case, of course, but of
any book they have been reading, or
of things outside the prison, and so
on. The idea is not to let his mind
dwell much on what is before him,
and so spare him all the suffering we
can.

You are right, sir; it would be ab-
solutely impossible to dispense with
capital punishment in this country.
Murder is common enough now, but
I am confident it would be much
more frequent if the fear of death
were withdrawn. Vour professional
thief /z/rvr commits murder. All
rogues have an especial line of busi-
ness. A house-breaker is never guil-
ty of highway robbery ; a highway-
man never picks pockets ; and they
none of them commit murder. Now,
sir, there is a deal of talk about the
horrors of a public execution, and
the bad effect such a sight must have
on the people. "WeW, s\t, I a.m of a.

t!m

thii

WW
WOI

European Prison Discipline.

777

r its influence, should be judged
severely. And yet, sir, since the
Ity of death is less designed as
lishment of criminals than as a
ice of the public, even this dis«
on is very hard to make. We
mly hope that our children will
I the matter more wisely than

lis room, sir, inclosed in glass,
e apartment where a prisoner
s his solicitor. The door is
d upon client and counsel, and
fficer in attendance cannot hear

talk, or learn what points are

used in the defence.

^re we are in the room where

)risoner is prepared for execu-

I'll get the key, and unlock

loset where our irons are kept

is the old style, sir, very cum-
J, as you see. Here are the
ical irons Jack Sheppard wore.
' would be so much too large
le, that I <:ould slip my foot out
ice ; but in those days they wore

around the ankle, so that the
fitted close. When you read of
's breaking loose from his irons,
ands very grand ; but all he did
to unwind the pad from his an-
md draw his foot out. These
the irons. we use in travelling

convicts ; here are common
cuffs, as you see; and here is
art of harness worn by prisoners
t to be executed. It pinions
rms firmly, and, at the last mo-
fastens the legs together. Why,
ir; I can't say that educated
>ear it any better than ignorant
I've seen educated men most
y frightened. I think it was

they feared, sir, not shame,
they are ready, they pass
:h this passage, and out through
on door I showed you in the
n, on to the square. Step into
Lbinet a moment, sir. On those
^9 are casts taken after death

from those who have been executedi
There is Muller, there is Courvoisier,
there is Marchand. The young fel-
low with negro features was only
nineteen. He murdered his fellow-
servant. Yes, the one next him
looks like a negro too ; you are pro^
bably right, sir. The one with the
well^formed, dimpled chin little
thought how his pleasure-loving
youth would end. Surprisingly lifer
like they all are. Yes, these are the
men who lie under the flags in the
Birdcage-walk. This way, sir, for
your hat and cane. Good day, sir.
Astonishingly fine weather for the

season.

II. — SAINT LAZARE.

The ancient convent of Sattit La*
zare, in Paris, once the home of St
Vincent de Paul, is now a prison for
women taken from the lowest depths
of Parisian life. Their name is le-
gion ; their sufferings from sickness
and neglect before arrest are unut-
terable. France has no law for such
as they beyond the will of the pre-
fect of police. What alleviation, you
ask, has been found for this corro-
sive social evil.^ A more effective
one than disbelievers in French vir-
tue would anticipate. All females
who come under the notice of the
police for sanitary reasons or crimi-
nal matters, are sent to Saint Lazare,
where, instead of jailers, there are
fifty-five Sisters of Charity.*

How many of the miserable crea-
tures are converted by intercourse
with these noble and refined women,
God only knows. The day of jud^
ment will reveal the difference be-
tween real and apparent success.
But a woman who has been first the
plaything and then the scorn of so-
ciety, must think more tenderly of

^ Or, more ttrictly qpealcinf, fifty-five Sisters cf
Marie Joseph, the sisterhood devoted to prison disci*
pliM ia France.

European Prison Discipline

God in Saint Lazare» than in any
ordinary prison or workhouse*

Two objections which may be made
to the system of treatment adopted
at Saint Lazare, I will try to answer
before enumerating the very details
which would probably suggest them.

In the first place, it may be urged
that the prisoners are made so com-
fortable that imprisonment becomes
g reward rather than a punishment,
a bribe rather than a threat. Second-
ly, it may be with truth asserted that
the wicked poor receive better care
in such an establishment, than socie-
ty gives to the virtuous poor who
have never seen the inside of a jaiL

To the first objection I answer,
that imprisonment is never easy for
such women to bear, because the
passions which bring them so low,
love of excitement and vanity, find
no food in a well-ordered prison ;
that the opposite system has been test-
eci e\*cr since the world was, and still
the world overflows with impenitent
sinners ; that at least half the priso-
ners of Saint Lazare are wicked for
want of precisely what they find
ihcre^udicious training; a decent
dwTlling pUce, good example ; and,
last and best reason of all, that this
system is the one most in accordance
with tlie teaching and example of
Christ.

And my answer to the second ob-
jection is this. Let us seek out the
honest poor, provide them with de-
cent lodging-houses at low prices, with
practical educatinn» useful and enter-
taining reading, innocent amusement,
and, above all, wilh religious and mo-
ral instruct ion ; but do not let us re-
lax our efforts to reform sinners
merely because we have shamefully
neglected our duties toward saints.
We may say truly that the respectable
|HHir are hard to find, because their
litry virtues conceal them from the
|MUk eye, NVe l\aLV^ t\o such excuse

where sinners are cotic
they are festering in cv«
tentiary, and almshouse
throughout the world, }%
charity, demands that sockt}
provide decent asylums wficrti
tims may hide their wretcbed

But let us examine thedbc
Saint La2are in detail, tb
der may judge for hims
these objections have beei]
rily disposed oC

The inmates are divide
classes : ist. Women whal
tried for crimes and condi
ad. J*il/es puhlifues^ con
St. Lazare by the police ijl
or other reasons ; 3d. Y|
and children sent thtthe^
parents {corr^cthn pata
keeping* or brought thcf^ ]
lice as vagrants.

The uniform is neat ar
cuous, dark blue for one
fenders, and maroon fa
think the children wei
The clothes-rooms arc at
metliodically, under-clotll
dresses being laid on shet^
derly piles which would
most fastidious Yankee hou5c
The common prison gar
comfortable and well madej
is a higher grade of cloti
who can aflbrd to pay i
there on *' pistole," as ihel
term is, taken from an oW
coin. The same is to be s
food and lodging ; coinfona^
commodations being provided
while small luxuries can
ed at a small expense,
posted all over the prtsoci
inmates may know the
of various articles, and notf
ed to dishonesty on tti
officials. The pr
endured the terrible or
on all consctcntiuus vtsili
ing cveryiliing the

Eurofean Prison Discipline.

779

red, can answer for the excel-
uality of soup, coffee, bread,
tc. Having been allowed to
t himself with visual proof in
y through the well-ordered
acies, he can only vouch for
leatness and apparent conve-

work-rooms are generally fur-
with tiers of benches gradua-
arly to the ceiling, so that one
:an superintend a roomful of
^omen. The gentleman who
panied me in my first visit
d me with some pride the com-
e straw seats. ** The empress
here one day," he said, and
the prisoners if they were in
3f anything. They told her
oden benches were uncomfor-
and her majesty ordered these

be made, where they can sit
w all day without great fatigue.
ur empress is a good and cha-

soul."

ly institutions send work to be
t Saint Lazare, and each pri-
receives a certain proportion
proceeds of her labor, that she
ave the wherewithal to begin
Jest life when her term is out.
lay's earnings she writes down
own little account-book, a din-
3rd of hopes, as it must be to
of them. The court-yards,
there is an hour's recreation
a day, are large and cheerful,
centre are large tanks where
men are allowed to wash small
3 of clothing ; an inestimable
^, as any one knows who has
risoners trying to extemporize
idry in their cells with a tin
asin. These courts are the

1 haunts of sparrows who twit*
:heerfully within the old prison
as under the eaves of good

dwellings. A magpie was
ig about in the cloister with
' of an hdbituk^ looking amaz-

ingly as if he were there on sen-
tence.

There are a number of infirmaries,
all tended by Sisters of Charity, and
well supplied from a kitchen devoted
to hospital diet The patients are of
the lowest class, their maladies the
saddest that flesh is heir to. That
such a hospital should have any at-
traction to the visitor is impossible ;
but remembering the hosts of such
forlorn creatures who throng our
jails and almshouses in America, I
longed to transport wards and warders
to the other side of the Atlantic and
inaugurate a change in prison disci-
pline for women.^

I had the good fortune to be accom-
panied by a gentleman associated
for many years with prison reforms,
and charged with high authority in
the matter of prison discipline in
Paris. He makes it his rule to visit
the prisoners at all times and sea-
sons, that he may detect any breach
of discipline or lack of fidelity on
the part of the superintendents. He
is a man who under the wretched dis-
guise of vice recognizes humanity, no
matter how defiled ; who looks rather
to remove the causes of sin than to
procure its punishment, and sees in
every culprit a good man spoiled.
Let no one suppose that I mean to
advocate a feeble administration of
justice. No ; in a prison, over-in-
dulgence means chaos; present
weakness means future severity. At
Saint Lazare steady, unswerving vigi-
lance is observed, and silence enforc-
ed among the prisoners. Discipline
being maintained evenly, not spas-
modically, the prisoners can be allow-
ed privileges very important to them.
Visitors are admitted twice a week to
converse with the women through

• In the February mnnber of The Catholic
WcMLD appeared aa article entitled Pari* Impious,
and Religwm* Parity giving some interesting details
conoeniiiig Sadat laaare.

790

Euraptmt Pru0n Drst^l

two gratings, as at Newgate, a sister
standing in the narrow passage be-
tween. Recreation in the yards is
taken in common, instead of sepa-
rately* It is surprising to find how
a prisoner clings to the privilege
of seeing his fellow-creatures, even
when there is no chance of communi-
cation. The peculiar pangs inflicted
by the solitary system, when endured
for a long time, can only be appreciat-
ed by those who have had confiden-
tial intercourse with prisoners.

The prisoners' chapel is ver}' cheer-
ful, and has a pretty sanctuary with
stained-glass windows, and an altar
beautifully cared for. One of the
points most worthy of approval in
Saint Lazare, is the attractive form
under which relig^*on is everywhere
presented. In each dormitory, infir-
mary, and work room, is an oratory ;
or, at least, some image or picture
suited to impress the souls of the
prisoners.

One part of the establishment is
full of tender associations to every
Christian soul^ — the sisters* private
chapel, whose sancttiary was once the
cell of Saint Vincent de Paul The
stone floor in the recessed window
where he used to pray is worn hol-
low with the pressure of his knees.
Saint Lazare was frequented in those
days by many pilgrims, and in his
cell the saint sought refuge from dis-
traction and dissipation of spirit. It
is from kneeling<iishions such as
his^ that the prayers go up to heaven
which work true reforms, which
achieve immortal victories whose lau-
rels are fresh centuries after the con-
queror's soul glories in the presence
of God. I have never stooti in any
cathedral with a soul more filled with
veneration than in this little chapel of
Saint Lazare, w here Saint Vincent de
Paul prayed ; and where his children
pray sliU, devoted to the work most

tending beings who
we should all be btitj
God

One infirmary is
tal The mothers
young children at
or send them away
In this infirmary
kindly spirit of my
alwap touches me," he
am a f^re de JamiUtx
from baby to baby
and womanly swe ^
wart of frame as
it touched me, too^ i
pkre de familk^ to
little cribs, and the ]
thers tending their
straj's.

There is one seriou
construction of Saint ]
it tn that respect UH
prison* There is but^
mitory for the adult
are in good healtli.
sleep, two, three, or cvc
large cell, and with QO a
for surveilliince bey on C
ture in the door* cove
I remarked upon the
this arrangement^ and]
the danger was fully :
deeply regretted. TJl
emment is too generfl
ment of public instit
this evil long unremcd
dent.

Another defect in
surprised me. Thei
Mass in the public
Lai^are, the pri^ionersj
on Sunday only. 1 i
nity of asking the
omission, and will til
from making farther
it. The third depar
Laxare is the most in!
the portion de\*oted
and homeless childr
v& ^r six months os

Hili

A Heroine of Cdnjugal Lovi.

781

d if found expedient. My
ailed to him child after child,
Iked with them as he might
th his own children at home,
tie thing cried bitterly. Her
had turned her into the streets
: for herself, and the police^
her wandermg about the city,
rought her to Saint Lazare.
id her little hand in his and
it sofdy as he said all the com-
things he could think of;
"as not much to be said, one
onfess. I asked where she
be sent when the six months
ut ''To some industrial es-
ment under the charge of Sis-
Charity," was the answer;
empress sees to all such

young people are kept entirely
te from the prisoners, in the
art of Saint Lazare. They
everal hours' schooling, and
heir working hours, in which
irn money for themselves and
! establishment, as the women

do. Each child has an exquisitely
neat cell to herself for the night,
opening with a grating on to a corri-
dor, so that the watching sister can
exercise a strict surveillance.

Whenever I see the right thing
done in the right way for public
offenders, I think of the man who
first turned my attention to the sub-
ject of prison discipline — Governor
Andrew, as he will be to us all in
Massachusetts, no matter who holds
the state reins. Surely the sun has
not often shone on any spirit more
steadfast or more tender than his ;
surely, the days of chivalry produced
no knightly courage more unblench-
ing than his ; surely, whatever bless-
ings come to Massachusetts in her fu-
ture career, her children will never
forget how valianUy that brave man
fought for judicious legislation, for a
humane execution of the laws, and for
the equal rights of Catholics and
Protestants — ^will never forget John
Albion Andrew 1

TIkAMSLATBD FROM LB COIUtBSfONDANT.

A HEROINE OF CONJUGAL LOVE.

MARQUISE DE LA FAYETTE.

w, at the end of the year 1864,
ildren of Madame de Monta-
ing overcome the natiiral scru-
r filial modesty, consented to
t> the public the treasure of
ixamples and Christian virtues
d in the remembrances of
mother, Le Correspondant was
t among the public organs to
ce the lively interest felt in
ital. The success more than

justified our predictions. There is
no one who would not be edified by
the perusal of the life of Madame
de Montagu, and the book has al-
ready taken its place in our libra-
ries.

Since that publication, the Duchess
of Ayen, around whom are grouped
five daughters widely differing from
each other, and each with a strongly
marked individuality, has became

782

A HiroUu of Canjugat Lovt

in some sort the type of the Chris-
tian mother in modem society.

Indeed, maternal love was in
truth the terrestrial passion of her
heart, and would entirely have occu-
pied it, had not the care of this
dear flock borne with it higher du-
ties, and rendered greater her ac-
countability. The mar\'ellous gift
had been given her to form souls ;
to develop the budding good within
them, and, while respecting the origi-
nality peculiar to each, to arm them
with incomparable strength.

We need not return to what, four
years ago, we have already published
of the Christian discipline, the sim-
ple and retired life to which the
Duchess of Ayen had accustomed her
daughters, realizing in them her type
of true womanhood, making the heart
superior to destiny, neither dazzled by
fortune or success, nor cast down by
the ills of h'fe. When the life of Ma-
dame de Montagu was first pubUshed,
only in episode we recognized those
of the noble daughters of the Duchess
d*Ayen, reserved by Providence for
the rudest trials, or destined for a
bloody immolation. We speak of
the Viscountess de Noailles, who
with her mother and grandmother,
the old Marchioness of Noailles,
perished on the scaffold, and Ma-
dame de La Fayette, the voluntary pri-
soner of Olmutz, in truth one of the
most touching heroines of conjugal
love. In the life of their sister they
are but secondary figures ; but as it is
permitted even among the saints of
paradise to have a preference, we
must confess that, in this beautiful
group of heroic figures, our predilec-
tion has always been for the two
eldest It will be readily understood,
then, with what respect and emotion
we have opened the book, in which
wc would not only find the abridged
recital of the actions of Madame de
LaFayeite,Viuxcou\dsiLt\ve^^ :!kCX^\v^^.I

adai

cdl

V couh
>lic, J
ed M

eveH
»tjuj|

her speak her
mother, listen
cents of her \*oiC
feel the ver)*

This volumcpl

with great

tains the life of i

written by Madai

in the fortress <

gin of a Buffon,

and a tooth-pit

hateful inspect

jailers. We couh

touching relic,

distinguished

should this

would it not [

vaganccs ? And

life of Madame de

ed by a daughter •

damede Lastey

sentative of the

a race of whicli

pression applie

family, all the \

and the sons vs

two recitals

ment, that we hA

to publish in Aprils

good Abb^ Carrie

tic full of zeal, bu

ter, and who only 1

holy ministry cc

ty, relates, in tli

faith, the anguii

to his lot it fell I

condemned one

sol a ti on of last ]

may be astonish

generation of

many and sudi i

may rest assured

gin at ion has ad

edifying recital

lives. The orig

we give to-day ia4

ness« bear an acce

roism and holy

strengthens the T

'\\^\\iv ihe love *

ed a

A Heroine of Conjugal Love.

783

^ rst publication. In the rapid
^ we will try to make from
^^cuments, we will present the
^riking traits of the character
^^ of Madame de La Fayette.
[^T\e de Noailles, second daugh-
^ the Duchess of Ayen, was of
Tdent temperament, of deep
ibility, with a lively imagination
a mind well informed. She ever
ted to adopt any idea imposed
1 her, that could not be subject
free discussion. She seized dif*
ties and penetrated to their
fas. While still a child, she was
bled by doubts of her religion,
I when, at the age of twelve, she
prepared for her first commu-
. She does not give us the na-
of these doubts, but it is clearly

they never interfered with the
tice of piety ; on the contrary,
Airst for truth increased her fer-
Her pious mother was not
led at this state of her soul ;
Jivined the source, and wait-
ith confidence for grace to
ate the clouds. Only, she
eci it best to defer the first
Uiiion of her daughter until,
^^d reassured, she could enjoy
^preme happiness in all its
^de. And she did not presume
'Mch on the integrity of her
t^r; never was more solid
^T firmer faith implanted in a
^f deeper conviction.
^« were to study anew the per-
^odel of a mother which the
*3s of Ayen presents in the
it drawn of her by Madame de
^yette, a portrait depicted, too,
^ sincerity that does not fear to

penetrate the shadows, and so
its reality, we should dwell

the profoundly Christian spirit
Urected her in the choice of her
^ti-law. We there see her rising
^ all worldly considerations,
tig above all things in them the

moral qualities which may assure the
happiness of her daughters ; for she
did not look upon marriage, as is too
often done, as a simple affair of inte?
Test, of fortune, or of vanity, but it
was, in her eyes, the sacred tie in
which love should bear the greater
part. God, who united man and
woman, and who said, '' Man shall
leave father and mother, and cleave
to his wife, and they two shall be one
flesh," has he not made love the duty
of Christian marriage ? Under the
old rigime and among the nobility,
marriages were contracted early, and
Mesdemoiselles de Noailles were
scarcely twelve or thirteen years old
when the first proposition for their
hands were made for them to their
mother. One of these candidates,
the Marquis de La Fayette, was him-
self only fourteen years old. '' His
extreme youth, his isolated position,
having lost all his near relations, an
immense fortune suddenly acquired,
which the Duchesse d'Ayen looked
upon only as a temptation," all these
considerations, which in a purely
worldly view would have seduced
many a mother, decided her at first
to refuse him, notwithstanding the
good opinion she entertained of his
character. The Duke d'Ayen strong-
ly insisted on an alliance which
combined every advantage of rank
and wealth, but the duchess for seve-
ral months none the less persisted in
her refusal ; and it was only after a
more attentive examination of the
character of M. de Lafayette had
reassured her of the future of her
daughter, that, demanding a delay of
two years, she finally gave her con-
sent The idea of the moment when
she must resign her daughters into
the keeping of another, filled her
with apprehension ; evidently, she
desired for them a felicity that she
had not enjoyed herself, that of entire
conformity of tastes, thoughts^ aod

7*4

A Heroine of Conjugal Lave.

character In the corapanions of their
lives ; and when the inarriages were
resolved upon, it is delightful to read
in the recital of Madame de La Fay-
ette the detail of touching cares with
which this tender mother charged
herself, to prepare these eldest
daughters for their new stations —
one to espouse the Viscount dc
Noailles, a cousin whom she had
loved since her infancy, and the
other to be united to M. de La Fayette.

*♦ • My heart attracted mc to M. de La Fay-
ette/ says with much simpUcity the nunU'
script of tlic pris<>ncr of Olnmtx, *and with s
sentiment so profound, that our union has
always been one of firmness and tenderness
through all the vicissitudes of this lite —
through all the gowl and evU that have been
our lot for twenty-four years.

** * With what pleasure I discovered that,
for more than a year, my mother had looked
Q|>oii and loved him a^ her son \ She detailed
to mc all the good she had known of him —
what she thought of him herstrlC and I soon
saw he possessed for her tJie filial charm that
made the happiness of my life. She occu-
pied herself in aiding my poor head, espccf*
ally about this tfme so empty and so weak,
to keep from going astray during such at)
important evenL She taught me to ask,
and she asked for mc, the blessings of hea-
ven on the state I waa about to embrace.

♦' * I was then only fourteen and a half years
old* and, having new duties to perform, my
mother believed it her duty to reapply her-
self to the care of forming my sister and my-
self for our future destinies. The confidence
with which we alwajrs conversed with her,
gave her abundant opportunity. It was not
the kind of conhdcnce to which, I believe,
mothers often er pretend than obtain from
their children— that inspired by a companion
of one's own age — but the perfect and inti-
mate trust which needs the direction and ap-
proval oi a parent, and causes a pang of
fear in any step, visit, or convcrsalionf of
which she may not approve. A confidence,
in fine, which always returns to its support
— <o Its guide, in whose light it would repose
as well as in its tenderness ; a guide who, if
even one could not always approve its deci*
iioiis, and might encounter its reproaches^
would still be considered necessary, and to
whom the idea of dissimulation would be in^
tupporiable.

" * Such VU Hvy fc«S\TV% \Qntas4 vcpj xwi-

ther, who often penoiited J
her/ **

The ceremony of 1
complished, the husk
years set out for hisi
the young bride testis
at this separation al
she experienced for
turned: the religioui
Madame de La Fayetij
ed, she made her
with an ti t^

humble di ei|

on the 15th of Uecen
became a mother for

The faculty of
bounds in this \ ' ^
tified in all M-
sentimentSi and mler«j
had given her the rigl]
sincerity^ " I love y<
worldly, passionattly^l
the political faith ^ofi
and, without any
thought, without we
tation, from her ipc
valiantly accepted all]
and all the perils of ih
a man whose political ]
governed him exclusiv
the best part of her
movable in her relig
dame de La Fayette nevi
a principle nor a pr
to her conjugal idoh
mark able, also, that
passion for her bust
ened the ^
for her mi-

oldest sister, who, fro
had been her dearest

Inasmuch as she ^
every dut>% so her sotilj
in all its aflfectioos.
broke out about this {
England and her ,
opened to the Maxqu
the brilliant «feiia
itnmortality to bis tia

A Heroine of Conjugal Love.

78s

companion began an existence
the same time, of anguish and
us joy, of grief and devotion,
imily of Noailles had strongly
id philosophical ideas, and will-
ollowed the liberal views of the
snth century. The generous en-
sm, however, which led M. de
rette to devote himself to the ser-
■ the American people vindicat-
*ir independence, was at first
ly disapproved of and consider-
dness by the Duke d'Ayen and
arshal de Noailles. The mar-
vas nineteen; he had been
d three years, was already a
, and soon expected a second

Madame de La Fayette and
)uchess d*Ayen alone under-
the motives that determined
parture of M. de La Fayette ;
•rmer studied in every way to
al the torture of her heart, pre-
l to be considered insensible,
much of a child, to giving the
ranee, by showing her grief, of
to the object of her worship,
anwhile, the great struggle, of
the new world was the theatre,
a which aristocratic England
herself at war with the princi-
emocracy of modern society,
ill Europe in suspense. The
st interest was felt in France
e success of the Americans.

the French government,
I understanding how matters
besitated, nevertheless, to^ake
an part in the quarrel, public
n declared itself still more fa-
y for the United States ; the
5 incidents of the war were
^y sought after, each success
insurgents excited enthusiasm,
^oti all hearts beat in unison
^t of Madame de La Fayette,
• success of the young hero
^4 so actively contributed to
^rious results.

»^ust transport ourselves to
VOL. VII.— 50

this time, recall its events, watch the
fever of public opiniqn, to understand
what must have been, after two years*
absence, the first return of M. de La
Fayette, and the intoxication of joy
his wife experienced. He was not
long in setting out again for the new
world, and did not return from there
finally until 1782, after the brilliant
campaign of which his valor assured
the success, and which terminated by
the surrender of Lord Cornwallis.
His return was unexpected, a sur-
prise for the court as well as the city :
the memoirs and memories of the
Count de Segur furnished curious
testimony to support what we have
said. We read :

"All who lived in that day will still re-
member the enthusiasm occasioned by the
return of M. de La Fayette, an enthusiasm of
which the queen herself partook. They
were celebrating, at the Hotel de Ville, a
brilliant fiU on the occasion of the birth of
an heir to the throne. The news came of
the arrival of the conqueror of Cornwallis.
Madame de La Fayette, who assisted at the
fktt received a special mark of favor ; the
queen placed her in her own carriage, and
drove to the Hotel de Noailles, where the
marquis, her husband, had just alighted."*

The excess of sentiment of Ma-
dame de La Fayette for her husband
at this time, was such that she suffer-
ed intensely in his presence. She
endeavored to concf al her passion
for him, and trembled lest she might
seem importunate, and weary him.
Some years after, she confessed to
M. de La Fayette this passionate at-
traction for him which she had so re-
sisted; "but," she added gently,
"you need not be dissatisfied with
what is left"

We, who have only known M. de
La Fayette soured and old, and do
not feel well disposed toward him,
because, under the restoration, he
shadowed his glory as liberator of

•TcflMi.iki8<».

786

A Hirainc of Conjugal Lcvt.

two worlds by intrigues with secret
' societies ; we find k difficult to ima-
gine him so charming, **can}nng
away every heart/' But it was even
so ; and, at the same time that popu-
lar favor rendered him so powerful
among the multitude, the most beau-
tiful, the proudest, the most brilliant
ladies of the court, were madly in
love with him.

But we are not writing a biogra-
phy of M. de La Fayette, and it will
be understood that, in an article on
the saintly companion of his life, we
would not wish any controversy on
so illustrious a person, and for whom,
with some reservation, we profess
great and sincere respect We will
not speak, then, of the events of the
revolution, in which he played so
prominent a part, only inasmuch as
our heroine was mingled with and
took part in them.

The abolition of the slave-trade
was one of the philanthropic preoc-
cupations of M. de La Fayette. He
bought a plantation at Cayenne, la
hciie GabricUe^ in order to give an
example of a gradual enfranchise-
ment of the slaves, and referred to
the active charity of his wife the de-
tails of his enterprise. With this
view, she kept up a correspondence
with the priests of the seminary du
Saint Esprit^ who had a house at
Cayenne. If circumstances did not
permit the realization of her hopes,
at least she had the consolation of
knowing that, thanks to the religious
instruction given to the blacks on this
plantation, they were guilt>' of less
horrors than at any other point in
the colonics.

We must recognize here, too, and
to its eternal honor, that America
has always been the portion of the
globe where liberty of conscience,
loudly proclaimed, has never ceased
to be practised. It was not so in
old Europe and in France before

1789, so the coQtrast
Uus free stale of thin
numerous vexatious to
different religions were
us, could not but forcibly !
de La Fayette on his retu
a journey to Nimes, wbe
died more closely tbe ,
the Protestants, he was i
sent, with fuH knowledge of iIm
a proposition to the * -
Notables in 17S7, i
restoration to the civil
which they had been dcsf

I love to remember lhat{
nent Catholic clergyman,
zemei Bishop of Langres» \
Cardinal, warmly supported 1
position for this act of ju
dame de La Fayette sha
Itments, and received
tcrest the Protestant mintsti
the result of the alTair
around her husband. /
child of the r * * "
detested the p^
only alienate her child re
appeared to her so on
spirit of Christianity*

After 1 7S3, M. de La Fay
family had increased coo
and whose political iin|
reached its height, left ;
Noailles, to establish
own house, rui de Ba^
rue d€ Lilk, And there
creasing wave of the revc
movement, that was never
overcome the virtue and
of a king, the most estii
man of any who ever wore j
found our heroine* The
tion of M, de La Fayette,
the nobility, member of the \
tional Assembly, and cotDj!
chief of the Parisian National 1
imposed obligations on him ,
his wife never repudiated
She was seen to accept th^
sive demands of each of th^ li

A Heroine of Cofijugal Love.

7B7

•is, to the number of sixty ; to
e at the blessing of flags and
patriotic demonstrations. The
I kept open house, and did its
I in a manner to charm his
ous guests.

It, says ber daughter, Madame de
ie, initiated into her most secret
s, 'what she suffered in the depths
>wn heart, only those who heard her
sm telL She saw my father at the
a revolution of which it was impos-
foretell the end. Every evil, every
r, was judged by her with a complete
illusion in her own cause ; yet she
sustained by the principles of her
1, and so convinced of the good he
0, and the evil he might avert, that
e with incredible strength the con-
Ungers to which she was exposed,
said she to us, did I see him go out
this time, without thinking that I
lis last adieu. No one was more
I than she by the dangers of those
ed; but in these times, she rose
lerself, and in her devotion to my
loped he could prevent the increas-
ie.*»

may infer from these words
rpetual anguish of Madame de
^ette during the three first years
revolution. In the Duchesse
1 she found a support full
etness and tenderness ; who,
I sharing none of the opinions
son-in-law, believed firmly in
titude of his intentions. Her
: sister, the Viscountess de
;s, felt exactly as she did, loved
^ a husband, young, handsome,
and charming, associated in
>st advanced ideas of M. de
ette, and, like him, a member of
jembly. The eldest daughter,
Madame de La Fayette, began
time to be of much comfort
; she had her make her first
nion in 1790. It was, in the
)f the great political events of
K)ch, the first concern of her
al heart,
civil constitution of the clergy

was to be one of the most sensible tri-
bulations of Madame de La Fayette.
She considered she should, more par-
ticularly on account of 'her personal
situation, declare her attachment for
the Catholic Church ; consequently
she was present at the refusal of the
oath which the currf of Saint Sulpice
made from the pulpit, of whom she
was a parishioner; she was con-
stantly meeting there with persons
most known by their opposition to
the new principles, and with those
then called the arisiocratie. She
took part assiduously in the offices,
at first in the churches and after-
ward in the oratories where the per-
secuted clergy took refuge.

She continually received the nuns
who fled to her for protection ; or
priests not under oath, whom she
encouraged in the exercise of their
functions, and the preservation of
their religious liberty. She well
knew that such conduct was hurtful
to the popularity of her husband, of
great importance to her to preserve,
but no consideration could stop her
in what she considered a duty.

M. de La Fayette never interfered
with the conduct of his wife ; he held
as nobly to his principles of liberty
of conscience in this respect as in
all others. Aloud he disapproved of
the oath extorted from the Catholic
priests, opposed it wherever he could,
and was at least successful in pre-
venting the articles relative to this
civil constitution of the clergy from
being constitutional ; on the contrary,
they were even rejected from the
class of ordinary laws that any new
legislature might revise. For Ge-
neral La Fayette deluded himself
that the constitution of 1791 was
destined to last But whatever his
sentiments, that which made him re-
spect the religious convictions of his
wife, and oppose all his power to the
persecution of the clergy, does great

788

honor to his character. As the priests
under oath were habitually received
by the commander of the National
Guard at Paris, Madame de La Fay-
ette never dissimulated before them
her attachment to the ancient bi-
shops ; but she mingled in her ex-
pressions so much adroitness with
her sincerity that she never wounded
them. Only once she deviated from
the rule of tolerance that she im-
posed on herself on her husband's
account, and that was when the
newly elected constitutional Bishop
of Paris, came to dine officially with
the general. She would not recog-
nize by her presence the quality of
his diocese, and dined out, although
she knew by doing so it could not
fail to be made a subject of remark.

Meanwhile, the ever-increasing re-
volutionary delirium multiplied dis-
orders, paralyzed the efforts of the
consiituiional part}', and rendered
the part of M. de La Fayette more
and more difficult. He was sus-
pected on both sides, by the court
and by the Jacobins, and was rapidly
wearing out the remains of an expir-
ing popularity in an already useless
struggle.

The king, to escape the odious t)^-
ranny of which he was the victim,
attempted to fiy from Paris ; we
know the rest. Arrested at Varen-
nes, brought back to the Tuileries, he
and his family were placed in the
closest confinement. The unhappy
prince at last resigned himself to ac-
cept the constitution, the Constituent
Assembly terminated its sittings, and
was replaced by the Legislative As-
sembly, and General La Fayette, sin-
cere in the illusion that the revolu-
tion was finished and the future se-
cured, gave in his resignation as
commander of the National Guard,
and set out for Auvergne with his
wife and children. Now in the des-
tiny of Madame de La Fayette there

A Heroim of Conjugai Lave,

came a short mice of haf3
journey from Paris to
was a series of ovations
enthusiasm spread, for the I
before her idol. The
en and the Viscountess de H<
came a little while to shaicj
parent and transitory calm \
Duke d'Ayen had emigrate
zerland, and Madame dc
had taken refuge io Engt
formation of three grand
had been decreed, in imnut
ger of a foreign war ; the <
the centre was confided to 4
La Fayette, who rcpamd to 1
in 1791*

The year 1792 ww the]
journey of the 20th of Jti
after followed by tlie »cc
lamentable still, of the xc
gust

At the news of the wtcke
of the 20lh of June, the '
La Fayette did not fear to 1
the assembly, from Maub
were then his head-quaiterv *
in which he declaimed withj
tjon and vehemence
Jacobins; and finally, qoK
camp, he hastened lo Pa
pearcd at the bar of th
there to brand energetic
lences committed at the
and demand the punishme^
guilty. Was not this act
alone sufficient honor :
But finally, seeing he
hope from the Assembly^ he^
ed to organize a resistance i
in order to save Louts XI
triumphant Jacobins replied
loth of August, by a decree c
scription to the refusal wludii
La Fayette made to reci^goaxe i
of the king ; a price was pttt
his head, and, constrainod
to seek a refuge in a for
the patriot of 1 7% fell on 1
into an Austrian po^tp wasj

A Heroine of Conjugal Love,

789

his aides-de-camp, conducted
> Namur, then to Wesel, and
ered by the allied powers ds an
of universal peace^ whose liberty
icompatible with the surety of
ean governments.

arbitrary detention of MM. de
lyette, Latour Maubourg, and
IX de Pusy, remains one of the
ces of the government of the
or Francis II., and he cannot
med enough for it ; but in the
ion of parties and in view of
lown of M. de La Fayette, had
or him some great advantages ?
r eyes, the five years of carcere
nflicted upon the hero of Ame-
liberty, completed his glory,
vere the sentiments of Madame
el when she wrote to congratu-
m on his release : " Your mis-
2 has preserved your glory, and
r health can be restored, you
)me out perfect from the tomb
your name has acquired a new
" But dating from this epoch,
iras not the ineffable anguish
lame de La Fayette t Informed
arrest of her husband, she had
le thought — to release him or
lis captivity. But she had two
luties to fulfil ; to get her son
France, and, if possible, to con-
m to the friendship of General
igton, and to protect the inte-
f the creditors of General La
2 by giving them the seques-

estates for security, and in
lie experienced great difficulty.
*d at Chavaniac, where she
sting with her son, aged thir-
[ler two daughters, and the
unt who had brought up M. de
ette, she obtained from Roland,
inister of the interior, permis-
)t to be taken to Paris, but to

at Chavaniac on parole. En-
ed by this testimony of huma-
id hoping to be delivered from
agement that weighed so hea-

vily on her, she smothered her natu-
ral pride and again addressed herself
to Roland :

" * I can only attribute t© a sentiment of
kindness,' she wrote him, * the change you
have brought about in my situation. You
spare me the dangers of too perilous a jour-
ney, and consent to give me my retreat for
my prison. But any prison, be it what it
may, is insupportable to me, since I have
learned this morning from the gazette of M.
Brissot, that my husbaqd has been transferred
from town to town by the enemies of France,
and is being conducted to Spandau. What-
ever repugnance I may feel to owe a service
to those who have shown themselves the
enemies and accusers of him whom I revere
and love as he only is worthy of being lov-
ed, yet it is in all the sincerity of my heart
that I TOW eternal gratitude to him who,
while relieving the administration from re-
sponsibility and giving me my freedom, will
aiSford me the opportunity to rejoin my hus-
band, if France is sufficiently free to allow
me to travel without risk.

" On my knees, if necessary, I ask you this
£[ivor. Judge of my present state of mind.
NoAiLLES La Fayette."

A faithful friend bore this letter to
Roland. He appeared deeply moved,
and replied immediately :

" I have placed your touching appeal, my
dear madam, before the committee. I
must observe, however, that it would not
appear to me prudent for a person of your
name to travel in France, on account of the
unfortunate impressions just now attached
to it But circumstances may change. Be
assured if they do, I shall be the first to
seize upon them for your advantage."

For three months the poor woman
was without any news of the general,
though she redoubled every effort to
obtain it ; she wrote to the Princess
of Orange, to the Duke of Bruns-
wick, to Klopstock, but all in vain.
Toward the middle of June, there
came to her, through the interposi-
tion of the United States minister,
two letters from M. de La Fayette ;
they were dated from the dungeon of
Magdebourg, and the inquietude
they gave her concerning the health

A Heroine of

ere rushing to massacre all in
; it was the announcement of
ath of Robespierre.

representatives, Bourdon de
and Legendre came soon after
it the prison and assign the
" each. All were set at liberty
Madame de La Fayette, on
they were not willing to pro-
i sentence until they sent for
cision of the committee. The
py woman was but little con-
[ at the prolongation of her
ty ; for she had just learned
er mother, her grandmother,
IX sister had perished on the
ermidor. Her grief was over-
ing, but she never revolted, her
5 preserved her. " Now," she

her children, " I find the sen-
5 of those I mourn, those, too,
desire, and those that I pray
3 put in my heart, and some-

1 obtain all at once." Not-
mding the active solicitations
Monroe, the new minister from
lited States, Madame de La
i was not liberated ; Le Ples-
i used for other purposes, so
LS transferred to the Maison
5, rue Notre Dame des
s; she remained there four
1, and met there with the
:st people, for it was now the
ns of the reign of terror who
1 the prisons; but there, as
here, she gained the respect

Her physical sufferings were
luring the rigorous winter of
■^^ ^795- Everything froze in
om, and she was peculiarly
^e to cold. God granted her
distress a precious consolation
visits of the Abb^ Carrichon.
e her all the details she hun-
fter of the death of the three
•rsons that he had accompa-
the scaffold, and with him she

complete examination of all
Its of her life. On the 23d

Conjugal io^t'^^' l'^-'^2':79i

of Januarf^i^J; iAfc'dtl|verancMK>i
long retarded ^Maxhmie cN^lia F^y- )
ette was finally sigifed^ f^^^ffi^l^
set at liberty. ^^.---

Her first care on leaving prison
was to hasten to Mr. Monroe and
thank him for all he had done for
her, and begged him to finish the
good work by obtaining passports for
herself and family. She had but one
aim, to rejoin her husband in Ger-
many with her daughters, and place
her son in safety in America. The
letter she wrote General Washington,
in which she portrays with simplicity,
firmness, and dignity the obligations
she was under to M. Frestel for his
devotion to her and her family, and
begs for him the regard he deserves,
is truly remarkable. As to her son,
she expresses herself thus : " My
wish is, that my son may lead a very
retired life in America, and continue
the studies that three years of mis-
fortune have interrupted ; and that
being far away from scenes which
might abase or too strongly irritate
him, he may work to become an
efficient citizen of the United States,
of which the principles and senti-
ments are entirely in accordance with
those of French citizens."

When the time came to part with
her only son, the separation seemed
cruel to her mother's heart ; but she
was firmly convinced she acted in
this matter as her husband would
have dictated. She found her strength
in this thought As we read of so
many sacrifices, sufferings, and sor-
rows so valiantly supported, we find
ourselves so associated in the senti-
ments of this incomparable person,
that we wait with feverish anxiety the
moment when she should rejoin her
husband. The memoirs of Madame
de Montagu give us the details of the
touching reunion of Madame de La
Fayette at Altona with her two sisters
and her Aunt de Tesstf ; they will be

792

A iTeraine of Conjugal Love.

found in the account of Madame de
Lasteyrie* The conversation with
the Emperor of Austria is also there
given. He granted her permission
to shut herself up at Olmutz, and
by opening heaven to her, he could
scarcely have made her happier.

** ♦ We arrived »' wrote Madame de I^astey-
ric, • at Olmutz. the ist of October^ 1795, at
eleven o'clock in the morning, in one of the
covered carriages found at all the posts, our
own having been broken on the way. I
never shall forget the moment when the pos-
tillion showed us from afar the steeples of
the town* The vivid emotion of my mother
is ever present with me. She was almost
suffocated by her tears ; and when she had
sufficiently recovered herself to speak, she
blessed God in the words of the canticle of
Tobias : ** Thou art great, O Lord, for ever,
and thy kingdom is unto all ages, for thou
scourgcst and thou savcst," etc, etc* My
father was not infonncd of our arrival ; he
had never received a letter from my mother.
Three years of captivity, the last passed in
complete solitude, inquietude concerning all
the objects of his affection, and suflcrings of
every kind, had deeply undermined his
health ; the change in his countenance was
frighrfuL My mother was struck by it ; but
nothing could diminish the intoxication of
her joy, but the bitterness of her irreparable
losses. My father, after the first moment
of happiness in this sudden reunion, dared
not ask her a question. He knew there
had been a reign of terror in France, but he
was ignorant of the victims. The day passed
without his venturing to examine into her
fears, and without my mother having the
strength to explain herself. Only at night,
when my sister and I were shut into the
next room assigned to us, could she inform
my father that she had lost on the scaffold
her grandmother, her mother, and her
sister.' *'

Madame de La Fayette shared her
husband's captivity twenty -seven
months. She paid with her health
— we may say with her life — the
privilege of being reunited to him she
loved, and proving to him her tender-
ness ; but it was such great happi-
ness to her that, whatever theseveiity
that accompanied it, it seems not
even at such a price to have been
too dearly bought.

At last the success
arms opened the dirng
The French p1eni|
signing the treaty
exacted that the ^
immediately set at libe
of the fortress were the
to them, and the 16th of
1797, they set out for
was just five years an<i
tlieir arrest.

Happy to owe his lit
the triumph of the Fr
de La Fayette address^
Bonaparte the exprc$si<
tude and that of his
armSj in these term:* :

*' HAMHtrtc
"Citizen General:
Olmutz, happy to owe tb
your irresistible arms, havel
captivity the thought that
life were attached to the trid
public and to your persrjnal]

they enjoy th ^ ih<?

render to tht

have been gr.4.M,<>LL:^ i,, ^J^ (
to have oiiered in person tBf
these sentiments, and to h^
the theatre of so many vie
that won them, ar. ! \\\r.
placed our resurr-
of his miracles, i
to Hamburg has not been icft t
It is from the place where we fai
by to our jaikrs that wc ad
to their conqueror*. In thel
in the Danish ten \\

we will go to try a i
you have saved, wc \\\\\ jui
patriotism for the republic J
interest in the iUustria
wc arc not only attach
has rendered our coun
of liberty, but for the |
that wc delight to Ov
deepest gratitude has \
our hearts. Saluta
"Lafav
LatovhI
BultEAMl

Among all llie marksl
showered upon the esc
of Austrian tyranny,
M. dc La Fayette loor

A Heroine of Conjugal Love.

793

rom Madame de Stael — full of
ct and emotion. Mathieu de
morency added to it a few lines
ich these words strike us : " The
ant occupation of your misfor-
and your courage has outlived
e, and ever will, my alienation
all political activity ; but I be-
I should renew all my ancient
isiasm to welcome one so con-
in the cause of liberty."
:hough the health of Madame
I Fayette was destroyed, she pre-
d her wonderful activity and
of character. It was she, the
one of her family, whose name
not on the list of the banished,
was able the first to enter
:e, and there regulate her affairs
the return of all her relations.
5 she again who, after the i8th
laire, understood that General
ayette should return immediate-
thout waiting for any authority
might possibly have been re-
. him. Sure of the marvellous
*rith which she judged her sur-
iings, he followed her advice
►ut any other information. The
of his arrival in Paris was not
ing to the first consul ; he
:ci the general to return to Hol-
and solicit his entrance, Kke
one else. Madame de La F«y-
alled upon him, was graciously
ed, exposed the peculiar posi-
>f her husband, and the favor-
■ffect that his return could not
produce on all honest and pa-
men, and pi oved herself noble,
, and prudent. "I am de-
l, madame," said the first con-
fa or, " to have made your ac-
atice ; you have great good
but you understand nothing of
^s." However, it was agreed to
t . de La Fayette might remain
' in Paris without asking per-
^. Madame de Lasteyrie, in
cital, in which the most noble

sentiments are expressed so simply
and happily, has given us a page
that portrays the whole soul of her
heroic mother.

•* Retirement would still have been pre-
ferable to my Either under the consular
magistracy of Bonaparte ; under the despot-
ism of Napoleon, it was, through honor, en-
forced upon him. In either case, it fulfilled
the wishes of my mother. After so much
suffering and exhaustion, a retired life — per-
fect quietude would not have been necessary
for her — ^in which in peace she could conse-
crate the affections of her soul to those dear-
est to her, was the only earthly happiness
she sought She felt too deeply, too pas-
sionately, I may say, the emotions of family
life to desire others. Neither the grandeur
of her former state, nor the klat even of
her misfortimes, had excited in her that
pride of imagination which cannot bear a
simple existence. Her devotion rose above
every trial, but the sentiments and easy du-
ties of an obscure destiny sufficed for her
heart Love filled it entirely."

Wliat can we add to this picture ?
Nothing, only to ask the perusal of
the admirable letter of M. de La Fay-
ette, which ends the volume. He
there relates the long agony, the
tender and charming delirium of the
heavenly creature whose affections
he possessed. To have seen him a
practical Christian would have been
the realization of her most cherished
wish. " If I am going to another
home, you must feel," she said to him
once, " that I shall be occupied there
with you. The sacrifice of my life
would be very little, however much it
may cost me to part with you, if it
could assure your eternal happiness."

Another lime, she said to him :
" You are not a Christian ?" As he
did not reply, she said : " Ah I I
know what you are, a fatalist."
" You believe me proud," answered
the general, " are you not a little so
yourself?" "Oh! yes!" she cried,
"with all my heart I feel that I would
give my life for that sect" Another
time, in this half delirium which led

794

astray her ideas, but never her heart,
she said : *' This life is short, trou-
bled ; let us be reunited in God, and
set out together for eternity.** Her
God and her husband were her
thoughts to the last moment She
died on Christmas night, the 25th of
December, i8o7» pressing the cher-
ished hand and saying, " I am yours
for ever."

Those who wish to finish this pic*
ture of conjugal love, must do as we
have done, seek in the memoirs of
an illustrious contemporary the scene
that completes it. In the Memoirei
de M, Guiwt^ in the year 1834, we
read:

" Some months before M, dc Talleyrand
had reiifed from public stflkirs, another ccle*
brated man, very difcrcnt in character, and
celebrated in other ways, had disappeared
from all worldly scenes. No life had been
more cjcdiisivcly» more passionately politi-
cal than that of M. de La Fayette ; no man
had more consUntly placed his political
sentiments and ideas above all other pre-
occupations and all other interests, and yet
in his death he was completely estranged
from thenu Having been ill for three
weeks, he approached his last hour; his
children and family alone surrounded his
bed* He spoke no more, and they sup-
posed he could not see. His son George
noticed that, with an uncertain hand, he
i>ought something on his breast ; he came to
the assistance of his father and laid in his
hand the medallion that M. de La Fayette
always wore suspended from his neck. He
pressed it to his lips^ and cxpLred."

This medallion contained the like-
ness and hair of Madame de La Fay-

ette, his wife whom he
twenty- seven years bcfa(
already separated from]
world, alone with ih«
image of the devoted
his life, he died* WT\e
quies were spoken of, it »
nized fact in the famitypi
La Fayette w ished to be I
little cemetery adjoining
of Picpus, by the side of j
La Fayette, in the midst k
of the revolution, for the]
royalists, and of the
whose relations had fo
pious establishment* Tj
the veteran of 1789 was
respected and carried
mense crowd, troops, 1
people of all kinds
funeral procession
nues and strceu of Paris,
at the gate of the coover
was slopped ; the interic
could not admit more
three hundred persons;
the near relations, the
thoritles entered alone»
lently through the conve
modest garden, then
cemetery. There do polj
festation took place; tio
was pronounced; lelii
intimate memories of
were present ; politic
near the death-bed
the man whose life it
governed. L^pi^

Fldminia.

795

TSAMSLATBD VSOM TRB XXTUB DD MON&B CATHOLIQUB.

FLAMINIA.

BY ALEXANDRE DE BAR.

eally believe that the
ever ?" said the Baron

I do/' answered the

:ry strange," replied the
emptying at a single
card of beer whose size
Id alone look at with-

elieve that those whom
in this world we shall
the next, and they will
even as we shall re-
?"
I do!" again replied

2t more strange," ob-
ron ; and then both of
^d to smoke on in si*
eemed, indeed, so com-
bed in the contempla-
uish clouds of smoke
itinued to puff forth so
the already misty and
Dsphere, that one might
ive thought that the
•uld end there ; but
he case,
it by this interval to

to our readers who
it Shrann and the Ba-

They were two old
, of whom the recol-
smains in the minds
> knew them, as be-

perfect type of that
/oted friendship which
an one thinks or than
. They were two brave
' had courageously held

their places during the wars in the
commencement of this century.
They had fought side by side with
all the ardor of theiryouth and patrio-
tism, and had on many occasions
saved each other's lives by their bra-
very. This community of dangers
and obligations had yet further
strengthened the links of a friendship
commenced in their childhood ; so
that when the peace of 1815 gave to
Europe, wearied out by war, a time of
rest, our two friends placed their ex-
perience and capabilities at the ser-
vice of their country, as they had al-
ready offered the tribute of their
blood and courage, each taking on
himself the tie and responsibility of
married life. Both married on the
same day the two daughters of a
neighbor whom the war had ruined ;
and if their brides were little endow-
ed with worldly possessions, at least
they were rich in virtues, and that is
a wealth which equals the former, al-
though it be much less sought after,
and, we may even add, more difficult
to find.

Unfortunately these marriages so
alike in happiness were far less so in
their duration ; for at the end of two
years Gertrude, the wife of the Ba-
ron Frederic, died, leaving in the
heart and life of her husband a void
which nothing could fill. Many were
the efforts made to console the poor
baron, many were the mothers who
lavished on him their sweetest smiles ;
many were the maidens who directed
on him their chaste regards, and who
pictured to themselves a brilliant fu-

796

Flaminia.

ture in which his name and fortune
held a prominent place ; but all was
useless, for the baron remained quite
insensible to these efforts and de-
signs. His friendi and even his sis-
ter-in-law, counselled him to seek in
a new marriage that close and loving
friendship which he wms so well
adapted to appreciate ; but at length,
seeing him so obstinately faithful to
the memory of Gertrude, they feared
to afflict hira, and so ceased to press
him on the subject, trusting all to
time, which, nevertheless, rolled on
without bringing any change to the
baron's regrets and resolutions* His
was one of those strongly organized
minds where the impressions, lively
as they are lasting, resist the stronger
that they are unaccompanied by out-
ward efforts. Hence was it that the
baron supported, without giving way
an instant, the blow which had struck
him, and yet the w^ound in his heart
remained as sensitive and as painful
as on that day when with his own
hands he placed his well be loved
Gertrude in her shroud. Old age
came on, bringing with it its longing
for rest, and then the two friends
quitted their public life as they had
entered it, side by side. The baron
went to live with his brother, for thus
he designated his friend ; and only
once ever}^ year left his castle to visit
his own property and tenants, toward
whom he showed a kindness without
limit Some of these tenants abused
that kindness, and paid their rent
year after year, w^ith tears, excuses,
and complaints, the worthy baron
leaving them unmolested ; and when
his steward spoke to him of sending
off the estate these families, he re-
plied : " Better that this should hap-
pen to me, who have patience with
them, than send them away to those
Mrho probably would have none,"
No sooner was he returned to the
castle than he forgot all these things.

and recommenced spoiling %t\
ling his nephew^s and nieces, \
he had no small number^
Count Shrann wms a
those ancient families whc
have preserved the prolific
the golden age ; nor did the
of his nephews and nieces
anxious thoughts to i)-
often would he say to i

"Why torment yourself saj
about the future of your chi
You will always have enough td
them all in life ; and *
self, who have but c
not know what remoit:
affinit)% I find it but jttsl^
my nephews should inherit
perty before them."

And then the cotint
lent, for he found the
swcr quite natural, and siiAJ
himself should ha'
positions been ic
these two men, so closely 1
affection and so similar in 1
understanding, there was bu
subject on wl ■ r point (

was diametn nscd, sa

was the one wiili which ibey
engaged at the opening of this I
ter. Count Shrann, who badj
brought up by a loving
mother» was a Cathohr be
and soul ; wh

had, on the i \\

parents at a very early ag
been brought up by his
boasted of being the fri«
protector of the F
that Frederic hau
that cold and barT
rialism which Vo!:
ful honor of having founded.
Frederic believed in nothiii
tual, a circumstance wbkh
great chagrin to h; r
happened that on *«

ny former occasions, the
after the dinner- hour,

Flaminia,

797

mrs in smoking and drinking
nkards of beer, whilst making
le questions and the same an-
)n this, the one great subject
X difference in opinion and

you believe that the soul
r ever ?" said the baron.
rtainly I do," replied the

s ver>* strange," answered the
and then both recommenced
ke yet more vigorously than
After a lapse of time during
two less serious men would
iscussed three or four such
s of conversation, the count
lenced : " What do you see
ige in my remark ?"
> to see a mind such as yours
ly to similar ideas and tales
', to say the best of it, to
I children with."
or my part, am yet more as-
d to see a man so logical as
f refuse to believe it; and how
Du treat as springing from
ss of mind that belief which
nnot deny fortifies the soul
ces it above the blows of ad-

I soul, the soul," replied the
" what is the soul ? A name

a substance, and I do not
hat of indefinable and vague,
thing that we can neither see
ch, and which eludes both the
and the understanding. I,

part, believe in nothing but
ich I can see or touch."
irould remind you, my dear
that there are a crowd of
n which you believe, without
ving seen them."
is because science explains
lings, and I believe in her."
snce I why, you are too clever
admit of her inability to give
full explanation of any one

Science proves that the fact

exists, but she does not explain the
first cause of its existence. She dis-
covers the eternal laws which rule the
universe, and it is by that means
that she conducts the unprejudiced
spirit from the discovery of things
created to the knowledge of the
Creator of all things ; but the first
causes of these same laws are utterly
unknown to her."

" And what tells you that she will
not yet discover them ?"

" Never 1 For if the human un-
derstanding is immense, yet it is
not infinite. We have seen many
discoveries and marvels ; our great-
grandchildren will witness yet many
more ; but these will not be produced
in any more developed sense than
that which I just now indicated to
you. The first causes will ever rest
unknown to them as for us."

" But where are the proofis which
prove the existence of the soul, and
render it palpable to the eyes of the
understanding ?"

" The eyes of the heart, do they
not equal those of the understand-
ing?" quickly answered the count
" What I You feel within yourself a
soul which thinks and which loves,
which possesses in itself a longing
for happiness, a thirst for truth, so
utterly beyond the happiness and the
truths of this world that it can only
be a souv€nir or a revelation, from on
high, of something purer and more
perfect ; you love the good and you
spurn the evil, even to self-sacrifice ;
nay, more, you prefer death to the
evil ; you hear in the depths of your
heart that powerful voice which cries
to all humanity that the soul cannot
die ; and yet you ask for a proof of
the existence of this soul, and of its
immortality 1 Death is visible to us
on every side. He menaces us ; he
presses upon us ; all that is above,
beneath, on each side of us, is dead
or dying. Man alone drives back

798

FlaminU

before him that supreme law of final
decay and oblivion ; he whose life is
comparatively much shorter than that
of all other existences in this world,
he alone hopes for an eternity which
has no t}^pc here below, and which
he could not even have conceived in
himself, had it not been revealed to
him. Surrounded by errors, he
dreams the truth ; wretched in this
life, he dreams of a happiness with-
out alloy ; mortal, he dreams of im-
mortality. Is not all this an infalli*
ble proof of his future destiny ? God,
who created man, would not he be
both cruel and unjust had he given
him all these profound aspirations to-
ward a future state of happiness, only
to plunge him finally in the abyss of
eternal death? That secret %*oice
speaks to you also, my friend ; it re-
sounds in the silence of your heart,
and offers to you, as it does to others,
its consoling hopes. Why do you
not listen to it ? WTien you saw be-
fore you, pale and discolored, des-
tined to an inexorable decay, the
body of her whom you so much loved ;
when the mouth that had so lately
spoken to you, closed for ever ; when
those eyes, in which you had ever
read their tenderness, became fixed,
dull, and without expression ; when
that hand, which had but a moment
before sought yours to press it for a
last time, fell forever powerless, equal-
ly insensible to the kisses with which
you covered it, and to your tears,
which rained on it — *' Here the ba-
ron, without trying to hide his emo-
tion, dried, with the back of his hand,
the tears that this recollection of his
beloved Gertrude caused him. The
count continued: "That mouth,
those eyes, that hand, ihey are the
same ; but where is the soul which
animated them ? Did you not then
hear that interior voice which called
with yet greater force, Thou shalt
see her again ? That body which the

earth

forn

war

rendci
anima
palp^
basfl
less."
motioi

lestii
your c
with a
suffer
this is
whilst
that tt
of ite
thaal
to til
to Gel
living,
and]^
wh^
shalH
lore I
thine
one, t
am CO
and oi
thou d
Whi
ing, tl
himsel
which
trembl
tion.

Flaminia.

799

the error was much more plea-
than the truth, and that in place
le hope, perhaps false, but cer-
y full of consolation, to re-find
Hends one day, they have left us
the terrible certainty of having
v^er lost them, and that they leave
ith the heavy burden of misery
h is crushing human nature, after
ng broken the very support that
1 man to bear its weight. Now
the evil is done, how remedy it?
if I do not believe, what must I
lat I may believe ?"
Acknowledge humbly our utter
lessness ; humble the pride of an
irfect reason, which is irritated by
thought that there is something
e it; listen to our conscience
h speaks within us; and then,
cly kneeling down before the
who has created the universe,
at to him, with simplicity and
, these words of the blind man in
gospel, who cried, * Lord, that I
receive my sight !' God is not
to persevering prayer. Pray,
^fore, and you shall see likewise."
Certainly," said the baron, " if I
I should at once believe ; but
ever saw a soul ?"
My great-grandfather did," an-
ed the count
ifou are joking."
Mot at all. Adolphus Shrann,
^eat-grandfather, saw not only
soul, but even two !"
He was dreaming, then."
Mo, for he knew what he was
y to see, and that thought alone
sufl&cient to keep him awake."
Ah 1 then in that case somebody
e a jest of him, and by some op-
delusion caused him to believe
he had seen a veritable supema-
vision."

Mo, I assure you it was not so,"
ed the count. "I am deter-
:d to relate the history to you in
this evening ; and," added he.

with a voice changed by the ardent
friendship that he felt for the baron,
" I should esteem myself really hap-
py if its recital could cause you to
kneel down side by side with me be-
fore the altar of that God whom you
are so worthy to know. It is but
there that we are separated, and did
you know all that my true friendship
suffers in the thought that, afler liv-
ing these long years together, and
after having shared all the trials and
the pains of this life until our old
age, notwithstanding this, I should
yet be alone when the hour comes to
receive the recompense. Ah I my
dear Frederic, that single thought
would suffice to empoison the jo3rs
of paradise."

Here the two friends warmly shook
hands, and after having again replen-
ished their tankards and their pipes,
the count commenced the story that
you are going to hear.

** You know," said the count, " that
the Shrann family has always been
cited as one of the most fruitful in
all Germany."

" And you 1 you certainly have not
derogated from the example of your
ancestors," said the baron.

"Neither had the Count Franz,
the same who was raised from the
rank of baron to that of count by
Ferdinand III., in 1645, since he
was the father of fifteen children,
eight boys and seven girls ; and of
these lads Adolphus, the seventh son,
was the only one who remained to
perpetuate the name and race, for
the others gave their lives to defend
their country and the empire. But
if this numerous offspring was an
honor to the family, it was also a
great cause of anxiety to the count ;
it being a fact that though a nume-
rous family be a source of fortune to
a poor farmer, such is not the case
with a poor nobleman ; and it was no
slight task to place advantageously

Flaminm^

all these children, so that they might
wortliily bear and uphold their family
name. Count Franz made, therefore,
the most active endeavors to marry
his daughters and to establish his
sons ; and he succeeded as well as
he had hoped, since only one son re-
mained at home, and that was Al-
bert, the youngest child ; nor did
the future of this the last scion of his
race much disturb the count, des-
tined as he was, by him, from his very
youth, to enter tlie church. But
divine Providence often smiles at
and overthrows our wisest calcula-
tions, and this is what occurred in
Albert's case ; for, notwithstanding
the serious tendency gi%^en to his
education, it was found that of the
eight sons of the count this, the
youngest, showed the greatest cou-
rage and taste for war. This mar-
tial spirit was the great despair of
his tutor ; for the lad left on the small-
est pretext his studies and his books
lo play with an old rusty sword that
he had found in one of the lumber-
Vooms of the castle, and with this he
amused liimself for hours, fencing
against his desk or stool, and shout-
ing all the war cries and songs that
he had lieard or read. When the
vexed t^tor complained of his pupiPs
conduct to the count, and of his
little attention to his more serious
studies, joined to his openly expres-
sed contempt for them, the count
answered, * Bah 1 never mind; time
will change all this, and you know
that it is only natural that he should
have imbibed a little of the fanftily
taste for war.* The seventh son, Adol-
phus» likewise distinguished himself
by his recklessness of danger and by
his great courage. This conformity
of tastes, yet more than the similar-
ity of ih^^ir ages, had closely united
these the two youngest brothers to-
gether; so that when the day came
that the younger saw the elder leave

home as a lieutenant
engage in that life of
danger of whicli Uiei
talked together, he
a yet stronger repugn^
ture destined for him.
of spending his da)*s^
ment of the cloister, insC
ing with his brother i
achievements of a soldi*
spired him with not
distaste for this future,^
an aversion lo all that
ed him. Albert fcil^
despair and lethargy ;
his tutor dread that i
which Albert had been j
en him ; not that bt:
gressed any better for
though he read with
Iliad and the ^nctd, he s
with distaste from the stu
logy, and when any^
were made to him on
leged that * he should |
enough to cause him J
ertmtV Not that thcj
religious feeling was d«
far from that ; he was,oi|
animated with the liv«
sincere faith; nor was]
an invincible repugnai;
gations of the priesthc
generous, sober, charit
tient, and therefore cstc
the sacrifices that the cc
state requires. What t
and dreaded above all wi
uniformity and of rep
seemed to him the lif^ii
This antipathy to
which he was destined \
to day, when, unable a|
any longer agi-
he armed himsL
tion, and respc'
his father his in^...v.
coming a priest, an
the favor of being ;
a soldier. Great '

Flaminia.

8oi

f the count on hearing this de-
. What was he to do ? he who
nade all his arrangements in
that Albert might become a
D ; and here was this son who
ice of bearing the mitre and
-al staff, desired nothing less
:o wield the sword and don the
•f mail.

X is very perplexing/ at last
red the count, after having
hed his ear several times ; ' this
jf yours completely upsets all
ins; but rather than see you
le a bad priest it shall be as
ssire. Although/ again added
th a heavy sigh, * it is very pei>

bert, after having again explain-
his father all the reasons for
pugnance to the life of a priest,
lued, • You see, my dear father,
is not a taste for the pleasures
world that drives me from the
lood j it is only my dislike to
Dnotony of such a life that hin-
le from embracing it My vo-
leads me to follow a career of
r and of change, and not one
e and uniformity. But I think
lere is a means of conciliating
eas that your tenderness had
Jted for me and my own tastes.'
desire nothing better than that,'
red the count with visible cha-
but how to do so, that is the
^n. I wish you to become a
), and you desire to become a
n; now, we are no longer in
lys when bishops wore a suit
1 inside their robes.'
'hat is true, dear father ; but
mid place me in a position to
e one day a knight - com-
r,' (here the count lifted up
id with an air of satisfaction.)
order of St. John of Jerusa-
continued Albert, *is a glo-
order, assimilating* to the
1 by its vows and its consdtu-
VOL. VII. — 51

tions, and to the army by its obliga*
tions and labors. The Turks are
now menacing Christendom ; what;
more glorious use can one make of
one's sword than to defend one's bro-
thers in Jesus Christ, and to oppose
one's self against the barbarity of
the Mussulman, who already regards
Europe as a wild beast does his prey ?
What more glorious destiny than to
consecrate one's courage and one's
life to force back even to the very
sands of Asia those hordes of infi-
dels whosi domination, similar to a
pestilential atmosphere, has brought
ruin and death upon the fertile coun-
tries where it extends ?

" * If, then, as I hope, you will con-
sent to my desires, I shall find in
that career the occasion to place in
a yet higher rank the glorious name-
that you have given me ; and thus
both my ancestors and yourself shall
have reason to be proud of their de-
scendant.'

'' My worthy ancestor, on hearing
this proposition, felt a similar satis-
faction to that which a man would
feel who, after being shut up ihi a
chest during some hours, could- at
last stretch his limbs out again in
liberty. Therefore was it that he
seized eagerly a proposition which
drew him out of a great difficulty ;
for between ourselves, be it said, the
worthy man was more accustomed to
fighting than to solving difficult ques-
tions. It was easy for the count ta
prove the sixteen quarters of nobility
which the rules of the order required
for the admission of Germans;:
moreover, he had several friends in
the order whose influence he madfr
use of; nothing, therefore, opposed
itself to the realization of Albert's
desires ; and, in consequence, a few
weeks after the above related con-*
versation, he left Germany, and be-
came page to Nicholas Coroner, then
Grand Masterof theorder,andGover-

F&iMitiM*

nor of Malta. In this position be
did not fail to make himself very
soon remarked by his dauntless
courage and impetuous audacity.
The requisite occasions did not fail
him ; each day the galleys of the
order darted from their ports, as the
eagle from his eyrie, and, powerful as
the eagle, seized on some one of the
innumerable Turkish pirates which
were then ravaging the coasts of the
Mediterranean, burning villages, and
carrying off their wretched inhabit-
ants to reduce them intor a painful
And degrading slavery. In this man-
ner the order rendered the most im-
portant services to Europe, whilst
the most adventurous spirit in it
found means, in this incessant war-
fare, to satisfy his thirst for danger.
Albert, ardent and indefatigable,
scorning danger and braving Death,
who seemed to shrink back before
so much braver}^ and audacity, fought
30 often and so well, that scarcely
was the time of his novitiate finished,
than, by the general consent of his
companions in arms, and the appro-
bation of the grand master, he was
created knight In truth, it was im-
possible to show more valor and self-
diffidence. This latter quality shows
forth the more, that it was not an
ordinary virtue in the order. Some
years thus rolled on, during which the
bravery of Albert had caused him to
be known and remarked in all the
commanderies of Europe ; but the
time was come when at length he
should appear on a field more worthy
•of his talents.

" I will not here give you a recital
X)f the evxnts which brought the
troops of Mohammed IV. under the
vtalls of Vienna; since, in the first
place, you recollect them as well as I
■do y and in the second place, it is too
sad a thought for him who feels with-
in him a soul truly German, to re-
elect that there was a day when Ger*

man hearts beat with ftar|
standards of Mohammed 1
when the Hungarians, wi^
ness that even their cxce
otism does not exct
the heart of Europe
mies of European
bert was in Germany*
news w hich reached him <
of Mustapha on Vienna,
to the commandcries that '
est to htm« and animating I
the knights, united togeib
great difficulty a few of J
panions, with whom he
to that city. They reac
on the very day thai
left it ; and terrible wa
stcrnation then reigning
town, abandoned by those ^
to have been the first
danger and animate the i
others by their example.
** The brave Count of
commanded the fortres9 i
not dare hope to save, all
was determined to die in
The aid that Albert brou
fully accept*'d by him ; IbrI
eight or ur nd men]

the city iu i*c Tii

whose number was three £
thousand ; and besides thi^
was badly provisioned M
ficientiy amied. NevenheB
defence was organized in tj
manner possible ; anns
tributed to all the citizens ;.j
the schoolboys were taugfa
arms, and perform the ac
of the defence of the
the entire population
suffer famine, and all i
rors of a prolonged ^ege, i
yield tamely to the eneml
preparations made, they ai
infidels ; nor did they wait j
in a few d.Tvs after the
the en he Turkish

camp 1 1 Vienna,

^^^

Flaminia.

803

rst trench. Then began in
St that terrible siege. Albert
'med prodigies of valor; now
;ing a sortie, then driving back
;sault, ever in the foremost
he, as it were, multiplied him*
joing on every side ; he foresaw
provided against all emergen-

his courage excited even the

timid, whilst his unchange*
:alm reassured their fears. In
nidst of all this peril, which
Ki endless, he alone seemed at
^e ; so much so, that the Count
iremberg used to say, 'Oh! that

only one hundred knights like

for then, in place of resting
blocked up, like a rat in his
I would drive back, and follow
Lcse three hundred thousand
> to the very walls of Constan-
e I* During all this time, not-
tanding the pressing demands of
ope, Innocent IX., and in spite
e necessity which bound the

Christian nations to prevent
la's falling into the hands of
iiidels, the aid so much needed
lUt slowly organized. Already
lie siege lasted two months, and
ng had yet happened to relieve
espair of the wretched inhabi-

already weakened by famine.
5 seemed to them no alternative
:en a cruel and lingering death
yet more painful slavery. Almost
they reduced to the last extremi-

It was quite impossible to ob-
)rovisions, and the ammunition
learly exhausted, whilst many of
annon had become useless for
lie ; and yet no voice was heard
spoke of surrender. Soldiers
citizens, alike excited by the
pie and firmness of the chiefs,
>rted with courage and resigna-
Jl the horrors of a desperate de-
At last the signals and ban-
of King John Sobieski were
from Uie walls as he came to

their rescue, leading the combined
forces of Europe. It was time I The
King of Poland, notwithstanding the
immense inferiority of his troops in
point of numbers, hesitated not a
moment to take the most favorable
position for giving battle to the
enemy. Mustapha, on his side, di-
vided his troops' into two divisions,
the one destined to make a last and
desperate assault upon the city, and
to enter it by main force through the
breaches already made in its walls ;
whilst die second division was to stop
the passage of Sobieski, and to hin-
der him from giving any aid to the
besi^ned. But the impetuosity of
the attack of the Christians was such
that the battle became but a rout on
the side of the Mussulmans, as they
fled before their pursuers on every
side, and were as soon and as com-
pletely dispersed as is a wisp of straw
before a hurricane. Vienna free,
Europe breathed again, being once
more delivered from the immediate
fear of the crescent, whilst awaiting
the day when the Mussulman should
be for ever driven back to the arid
sands from whence he came. This
heroic defence spread a new lustref
upon the arms and reputation of the
order. But none of its knights had
acquired a similar renown to that of
Albert The name of this young
warrior was in every mouth, his sou-
venir in every heart, and he shared
with John Sobieski the enthusiastic
ovation made by the Viennese to their
deliverers. The loudest acclamations
of admiration and gratitude greeted
him during the day that he accom-
panied the King of Poland, who, still
covered with the blood of his ene-
mies, went in solemn state to the
cathedral of St. Stephen, there to
assist at the Te Deum which was
sung in thanksgiving to God for this
miraculous delivery of the city from
the Turks. Mustapha, forced to

8o4

nma.

make such a speedy retreat, had left
in the possession of the Christians all
his treasures, tents, and baggage.
Among the spoil was found the
standard of the Prophet This, it
was decided, should be offered to the
pope as a gage and as a memorial of
the victory, and it was Albert who
was chosen to perform this honorable
mission. His old father nearly died
with joy on learning of the glorious
renown of his son ; and 1 leave you
to guess if he did not praise himself
in his heart for not having resisted
the desires of Albert I'he old count
foresaw in the future his family giv-
ing a grand master to the Order of
St, John, and he trembled with hap^
pin ess in thinking of the honor which
would thus result to the Shrann race
and name. In fact, one could hardly
say where would have stopped the
worldly honors of Albert, had not
God reserved for him a yet more
sweet and glorious recompense for
his labors in his service/'

At this point of his story, the
count took a few minutes' repose,
minutes that were ftilly employed, to
judge by the manner in which he
emptied the tankard that stood before
htm J and as the two friends did
nothing without each other's aid or
example, the baron hastened to imi*
tatehis friend ; and when his tankard
left his lips, there did not remain
sufficient in it to satisfy the thirst
of a wren. Then, grasping with a firm
hand the immense jug of beer which
awaited their good pleasure, he filled
his own glass and passed the jug on
to the count, who, with an equal dig-
nity and silence, took his share. It
is true that the baron paid but a
slight attention to all these details of
a family histoiy that the count so
complacently related to him ; per-
haps he was getting impatient for
the appearance of the two souls that
had been promised him ; but he let

r yet ^

grdU

tant
It Ca

no indication of bts
cape him, and comin
on ^ith great tranqutUit^
forth clouds of smoke '
timed to the cadenced
old clock that stood
whose sculptured oak
have delighted the ust«
quary. At length the
menced: "The Turks
have abandoned their
Germany, but the war yet 4
with activity between
and the order and
on the shores of the Mc
Notwithstanding the grc
fices, and the most valiant
the part of the Turks, Ca
fallen into the hands of j
a new expedition was til
upon to lay siege to
Hector de La Tour de W
having been chosen
mandcr, he made choic
for his lieutenant

" Upon one of the j
pope had joined to the
of the Knighlsof St Jc
Venetians, the young Gi
bo, only heir to one of
tinguished names in 1
Venice, had been
then This illustrw
long been a friend to *
in fact, we counted scvc
between the two famili
therefore, Giovanni Icai
bert was in the fleet, hcj
attempts to become
him ; and succeed*
in a short time they
greatest friends in the wol

** On this event, so slight
pearance, nevertheless dl
destiny of Albert* V<
remarked, my friend,
same with us alL Tbe i
important in our \i%*t%
decide our future, ind ]
suit our happiness or

FlauttMia.

80s

, have always as their first
lencemeDt, some circumstance
I is perfectly indifferent in itself,
le results of which have an in-
:e on our entire destinies,
'ne would say that divine Provi-
\ mocked our proud reason, in
making use of events which at
light seem so utterly unfitted to
: at the end which it proposes
df ; and I might even add, that
impenetrable mystery would

suffice to eyes less wilfully
»d than your own, to prove the
ince of an unseen power that
restrained by human laws and
dices. Does God owe to each
)f us a miracle ? Ought he to
nd for each individual man the
al laws which govern the uni-
? Can we not believe in him
s we see the very rivers flow
to their sources ? Does he not
"est himself to us at each instant
r lives, on each side of us and
? Is not the admirable connec-
of events which exists in this
. sufficient to make the certi-
of his power and of his inces-
action shine forth to the vision
! soul, as shines forth before the
of the body the brilliant multi-
of planets that have each their
nted path in the wide space of
n? The siege was terrible, and
xess cost to the Order of Malta
id twenty of its bravest knights ;
>r de la Tour de Maubourg was
; the number of the dead, and
t, who had flown to his side to
:t him, had fallen covered with
Is, which caused his life to be
Ired of. His youth, the strength
\ constitution, and, above all,
nder care taken of him by his
. Giovanni, finally triumphed
he severity of his wounds, and
3n as he was sufficiently reco-

to bear the fatigues of the
e, Giovanni brought him to

Venice to visit his family, who re-
ceived him with the warmest hospita-
lity. I have told you that Giovanni
was the only heir of the Balbo fami-
ly ; this was but partly true, since
there were two daughters, Flaminia,
who had then attained her eighteenth
year, and Antonia, who was but seven-
teen.

"Nothing could be more unlike than
these two sisters, Flaminia and An-
tonia. Although both were in looks
and in character equally charming,
Heaven had gifted them with very
dissimilar talents and tastes. Never-
theless, this did not impede the ex-
istence of an intimate friendship be-
tween these two natures so diametri-
cally opposed; and, later in their
lives, it proved no hinderance to a
complete confidence. It is thanks
to this confidence — that arose be-
tween tfiem one day by reason of an
imperious necessity of mutual aid
and sympathy — ^that I can now de-
scribe the more intimate particulari-
ties of this history. Antonia, as you
may judge from the portrait of her
hanging in the room, was one of that
sort of beauties that seem to overflow
with vigor and life. Her complexion
slightly brunette ; her eyes of a deep
black, ever glistening under her well-
arched eye-brows, notwithstanding
the depth of her eye-lashes ; her
mouth ever smiling, with its full
and firmly designed lips ; her per-
fectly chiselled nose, whose nostrils
dilated at every instant ; and, above
all, the extreme vivacity of her face,
where was portrayed, as in a mirror,
every emotion that agitated her, even
the most fugitive ; all in her appear-
ance indicated one of those vigorous
natures that have need of real physi-
cal exertion. An over-rich develop-
ment of physical forces impedes the
flight of the imagination. Thus, Anto-
nia was always remarked for the viva-
city of her impressioDSi for the impe-

Fhmmia.

mosity of her scntiinents, and for ihe
sallies of her quick and brilliant spi-
rit. But that world of reverie, peopled
with vague and indefinable forms;
that world illumined by a supernatu-
ral light, where we catch the glimpses
of a happiness unknowTi here below ;
that world which is created by the
soul and colored by the imagination,
was to her quite imknown* Whilst
her sister delighted in all this, and
listened with her whole heart to those
harmonious voices which spoke to
her of a coming happiness j>enetrat-
ing and sweet as the joys of heaven,
Anlonia was bounding like a young
fawn among the trees of their gar-
den, or, mounted on a spirited horse,
rapidly ascended the paths of tlic
mountains that surrounded the town.
The same impetuosity was to be re-
marked in her sympathies and anti-
pathies ; she could not moderate her
expression of them, nor did she even
seek to impose upon herself a use*
[ess constraint on this subject. On
the other hand, Flaminia seemed al-
ready lo bear in her entire appear-
ance the impress of those sorrows
that she was destined to suffer. Her
look, so sweet and sad even in its
smile, was half veiled with her eye-
lids, and gave to her face an indefi-
nable expression of melancholy. That
expression could be again found in
her delicately shaped mouth, and
even in her movements full of lan-
guor and grace. Whilst Antonia,
lively and petulant, employed by
every outward effort the too abun-
dant forces of her life and youth,
Flaminia seemed to place hers in re-
serve for the terrible moment of need.
She concentrated in the depths of
her soul all her impressions ; nor
could she give to herself a reason for
so doing. She had the consciousness
of her exquisite sensibility, and pro-
tected It, under the shield of indiffer-
ence and affected calm, gainst all

contact that could
But under this a(
an attentive eye could \
cognized the marks of i
and of a strong nervous o^
A sudden 6ame would i
lighten up thos^ gianceu
ed in indifference, the
cal voice took an acc<
asm, and her whole eji{:
ed, being animated bjp
an emotion that she
strained, and whose vi^
the more violent, be
far from pouring itself i
surrounded her, as did
was one of those that ;
hour in life is destine
trate all its force on a j
and on an
ly cold anil

sensibility showed its
perceptible signs; but]
happy to hnd at her sidi
with similar ideas, all
Is there not in us, atj
when life commences,
at the epoch when the
from the long slumber j
vague presentiment
destinies? For the \
we have so often seen ill
diers tremble on the i
battle, feeling beforchaii
will call them during th<
not likewise in us a
warns us of the iriab
have later in our lives]
The birds have a present
coming storm, even when
sphere is yet full of splcndoi
insects that crawl upOQj
foresee in the autumn
the approaching wifitcf,
their eggs with a doubly
silk ; and why should ]
vored than the birds or i
should he be the only i
is delivered up, as it w
hands and feet boondft to,

Flaminia.

807

future? It is possible that
a obeyed that sentiment of
lodesty that causes us to hide
1 eyes our better qualities —
iccret riches of our hearts,
may lavish them without stint
e hidden object that we have
She knew herself to be in-
of half-loving any object, and

that her heart was a fragile
ent; that, if touched by a
hand, it would render har-
i sounds, but that it would
y break under a rude or awk-
ach j and she wished to pre-

from such a fate. None of
irrounding her suspected the
3f this instrument j on the
Tj her great outward calm-
ssed for the evident indica-
a certain coldness of heart,
the expansive nature of her
as considered as the sign of
reme sensibility. Flaminia
eh grieved at being thus mis-
ood, and ver}' often, in the

of the night, bitter tears
from her eyes; very often
ry crucifix which hung at the
her couch, saw opening before
oul so full of purity and love,
ne to seek, at that inexhaus-
►urce, a present consolation
ture strength. Sometimes she
that she heard in herself the
mutterings of the heart's tem-
len she prayed with ardor, al-
/erishly, as she listened to the

within her of those myste-
3ices which warned her of a
jril, and told her to spread
her those riches of affection
)ving ardor, that then devour-
and that one day would con-
»r. In these moments of in-
5 alarm, she drew herself yet
) God, hiding herself under the
of his protecting hand, ever
p over those who with faith
it ; and then she felt herself

reassured. At such moments as
these was it that she felt herself to
be so completely alone, notwithstand-
ing the parental tenderness that sur-
rounded her, and she suffered by
this loneliness. In truth, Flaminia
was right — she was alone ; for though
both the Prince and Princess Balbo
cherished their daughter, yet time
seemed to have passed on for her
alone, and not for them. The child
had merged into the young girl ; the
naive graces of the infant had given
place to the more opened charms of
youth, yet they had remarked noth-
ing of all this. They dreamt not even
that parental affection ought to be
modelled after the child of whom it is
the object, and ought to transform
itself and grow with that child. They
did not understand that the protect-
ing tenderness accorded to the in-
fant who shelters himself under it
as does a bird in its nest, becomes
insufficient for the heart that time
has developed, and that has need of
leaning upon sentiments less protect-
ing and more friendly. One of the
most dangerous shoals in the difficult
task of educating children, is doubt-
less that of noticing the first moments
when the child whom we have held
until then under our hand, and caus-
ed, as it were, to live of our own life,
lays aside the trammels of infancy,
and seeks to fiy with his own wings.
It is then that we ought to know how
so to modify our affection that we may
inspire that freedom and that confi-
dence in ourselves that will protect
this second period of life, as a salu-
tary fear protects the first.

" Now for the development of these
sentiments, so fragile and delicate,
we must seize the instant when the
child commences to become a man,
when he first feels awakening in him
thoughts and sensations that are his
own, and not simply the echo or re-
flection of our own. It is at that mo-

Flaminia,

809

felt in his soul— a void that even
his glory was unable to hide from
hiiDy and which friendship was power-
less to fill. Like Flaminia, he felt
himself isolated on the earth; but
while her solitude was sweetened by
a hope as vague as her thoughts and
desires, that of Albert was a bottom-
less abyss, full of discouragement
and despair.

" The profound darkness of night
then fell upon his soul, an obscurity
similar to those sombre and cold
nights in winter, when the eye sees
not a single star piercing the sky
covered with clouds ; and when the
sad heart hears but the moans of the
wind that bends the tops of the bare
trees as it passes over them, mingled
with the boding cry of the birds of
prey which slowly wheel around in
the thick and misty atmosphere. A
lassitude had fallen on him similar
to that which a traveller feels at the
sight of a straight and monotonous
road which extends as far as the eye
can reach in a dry and burning plain.
Seeing nothing around him that
seemed worthy either a desire or an
effort, he allowed himself to be car-
ried slowly on by time toward the
common end ; nor did he hasten that
course by^ his vows ; for even whilst
he firmly believed in the joys of eter-
nity, he felt not his soul drawn to-
ward them. If he had run forward to
meet death, it was through his natu-
ral intrepidity ; for he felt in its pre-
sence but the same desolating indif-
ference that he had shown at the
moment of his recovery to life.
Such were the secret sentiments of
Albert and Flaminia when their mu-
tual destiny placed them for the first
time in presence of each other in the
ancient salon of the Palace Balbo.
We are both of us, my dear Frederic,
so far distant from the time when
our hearts first experienced these im-
pressions of affection, that there now

remains to us but a very slight recol-
lection."

"You are deceived," interrupted
the baron ; " from the day when for the
first time I saw my poor Gertrude, until
that when I placed her in her tomb,
I have forgotten nothing of all that
has passed between us. There is
not an hour of that much-regretted
time which is not present in my me-
mory ; not an incident, however
slight it may have been, that I can-
not recall in even its slightest de-
tails!"

" You can the more easily under-
stand, then," continued the count,
"how it was that these two souls
united themselves so closely the one
to the other, that there soon existed
between them but a single life, a
single taste, and a single thought;
and how it was that they both pre-
served, even until their very last mo-
ment, the most absolute certainty of
their mutual affection, without ever
having interchanged a single word on
the subject. Scarcely had they been
but a few days together, when already
Albert had penetrated into all the
thoughts of Flaminia. He read in
her heart as in an open book ; he
•divined all its secrets ; that soul which
to all others was closed, he saw
opening, and breathed all its per-
fumes, foresaw all its destinies !
Was it, then, in a few commonplace
conversations that he had gained so
complete an insight into that heart
habitually closed ? No ; he had not
judged Flaminia by any acquain-
tance that he had gained of her cha-
racter by her words or actions ; he
had only looked upon her, and in-
stantly, by intuition, he had under-
stood her; and this was so true,
that there were moments when it
might have been said that he saw her
think. On her side, Flaminia saw
the soul of Albert by that same
light which I should call supematu-

FlaminU

I I

ral, did I not consider it as one of
the eternal laws instituted by the
Creator. She knew him to be loyal
and generous, and she saw his un-
changeable goodness and patience ;
not because he had had any occasion
of showing them before her, but be*
cause a lively and penetrating light
thus showed him to her. All that
Albert fell found in her an echo;
the mirror does not more faithfully
produce the image than did her soul
his slightest sensations. By his side
she felt happy, because she felt her-
self understood and loved. A new
existence then opened for her ; move-
ment and activity succeeded to her
vague reveries and habitual indo-
lence \ new horizons showed them-
selves each day to her soul. Nature
became more beautiful, the flowers
more sweet, the sun more brilliant;
it seemed to her that her eyes had
been shut until then, and that they
now opened for the first time. At
the same time that a new affection
acquired ovfer her soul a stronger in-
fluence than her affect ion for her fa-
mily had yet exercised on her, even
these became more lively and more
complete. Nevertheless, it was no
longer at that source whence she had
so long drawn her sensations and
ideas that she now went to seek
them : all came to her from Albert,
or had reference to him. She saw by
his eyes and thought by his ideas ; her
tastes, her desires, were nothing else
than the tastes and desires of Albert
Were he present, she seemed to live
with delight ; in his absence it seem-

yokm SUrling.

8it

JOHN STERLING.

iTEVER importance may attach
life and writings of John Ster-

due to the fact of his having
i representative man. With-
ing supremely original, without
ig wonderful in his career, he
en made the subject of a me-
y two eminent men, Archdea-
ire and Thomas Carlyle. The
^resents Anglican belief, which
tial infidelity, and the other
inth-century belief, which is
ity, pure and simple; and
he one and the other have

the portrait of their friend
lero in colors of their own

Archdeacon Hare has traced
tgret the lapse of Sterling into
2f, while Carlyle has seen in
;ry lapse a rise into transcen-

faith of the highest order,
r of them has neglected, but,
: contrary, both keenly appre-
Sterling's literary labors and
; and both would concur in
\g him out as a type of that
eation of thinkers and suppos-
ilosophers in whom doubt and
are ever contending for the
y — ^who are ever seeking, and
ible to come to the knowledge
ruth — a mongrel breed, sprung
an unnatural union between
:ism and Christianity.
1 Sterling was bom at Kaimes
, in the Isle of Bute, on the
f July, 1806. His father rent-
nail farm attached to the Cas-
d the first four years of John-
fe were spent on a wild-wood-
:ky coast, among headlands,
, and thundering breakers.
J gave him a good schooling ;
ten he left the Isle of Bute, it
: the well-grassed, many-brook-

ed village of Llanblethian, in the
Vale of Glamorgan. Five years more
passed in that pleasant spot, and
time never effaced the lovely images
it imprinted on Sterling's mind. Eve-
ry line and hue, he said, were more
deeply and accurately fixed in his
memory than those of any scene he
had since beheld. Beautifully and
with deep feeling did he retrace the
impressions they made on his child-
ish fancy, in an article written in the
Literary Chronicle in his twenty-
second year. He had not seen the
spot since he was eight years old,
yet he described the old ruin of St.
Quentin's Castle, the orchard of his
home, the school where he used to
read the well-thumbed History of.
Greece by Oliver Goldsmith, and
the garden-sports of himself and his
playmates, with as much distinctness
as if they had been souvenirs of the
previous spring. Very precious are
such recollections, for one personal
experience is worth a hundred facts
learnt from books.

When Napoleon returned from
Elba, in 18 15, little Sterling was in
the midst of French school-boys, at
Passy, shouting, Vive rEmpertur.
His father had become a writer in
the Times^ under the name of Vetut^
and was in hopes of being appointed
one of its foreign correspondents.
The Hundred Days which convulsed
Europe drove the Sterlings from
France; and fortune, who tries
literary aspirants with her ficklest
moods, shifted the father from Rus-
sell Square and Queen Square, to
Blackfriars Road and the Grove, at
Blackheath. At last he rode at an*
chor, and was permanently connect-
ed with the Times. John was sent

TiT

to Dr, Bumey*5 school, at Greenwich,
and afterward came under the tuition
of Dn Waite, at Blackheath, and of
Dr. TroUope, the master of Christ*s
Hospital. He was twelve years old
when his younger brother, Edward,
died. It was an early age to become
familiar with death. John felt the
loss as if he had been a Catholic*
God or nature, one knows not wliich,
taught him the communion of saints.
" Edward is near me now,*' he used
to say to himself. " Edward is
watching roc. He knows what I
am doing and thinking. He is sad
for my faults. I must, I will strive
to do what he would approve.*' Very
active was his mind at this period.
His keen eye observed everything ;
his soul was winged. He read the
entire Edinburgh Etiiew through,
from the beginning, and cartloads
of books from circulating libraries,
"wading," as Carlyle says, **]ike
Ulysses toward his palace, through
infinite dung." No advantages of
education were denied him. At the
University of Glasgow he was tutored
by Mr. Jacobson, since Regius Pro-
fessor of Divinity at Oxford and Bi-
shop of Chester ; and in 1824, when
he was in his nineteenth year, he
removed to Trinity College, Cam-
bridge, where another man of emi-
nence, Julius, afterward Archdeacon
Hare, became his tutor and his last-
ing friend. He was in all respects
worthy of such friendship, A youth
who, with a delicate frame, could
stand waist-deep in the river, to
aid in passing buckets to and fro,
when the buildings of King's Court
were on fire, must have had a sin-
gular disregard of self, and readi-
ness for all moral enterprise. " Some-
body must be in it/' he said, when
his tutor remonstrated with him.
"Why not I, as well as another ^
Friendships were the best gift Ster-
iing received from CtimVjnd^ift. The

classical knowledge !
was not very exact,
mit to any strict disciplic
Union he was " the mastc
and out of such comrades]
Buller, Richard Milnes,
ble, Richard Trench,
Maurice, he made of
dear and intimate fnendsJ
Frederic Maurice, indeed^
two sisters ; and to him
ridge he owed chiefly thij
of his opinions and char
latter was at that time
found a school of thouglj
former, Frederic M auric
and has long been, a
leader of the Broad Chur
the Anglican communion.

If ever there was a m»
prophet, Samuel Taylor
was one. As a poet, he i
as a divine, an ignis faiuui,
jected faith to reason, cc
, embraced Gcr
I d by the hour 0Il^
and the Logos in langua^
cal and shining, but cofl
meaning whatever to any I
hearers.* Your reason
bound you to accept Jll
of facts and principle*
understanding ( Virsia
With a gooti understandir
might be an unbeliever,
would exalt you into a .
Everything depended 1

tion, and if you eoull

hend it, (which nobodjf W
much the worse for you. \
lish society was fast being c
by such theosophic nc
hazy "Kantean trans
The clear ' ' radi^

and the s

wise, were being obsenrcdl
of jargon. Dr, Fusey {n|
was sliding into Gemjan
Isaac Taj lor was watf^

^ohM SUrttHg.

813

Dwn into human philosophy ;
nold was pleading for an Eras-
lurch comprising all sects and
inations ; Dr. Hampden's ter-
gy was effacing the time-hal-
language of the schools ; Cole-
csrith his drunken imagination,
[ilman, with his rationalistic
n of Scripture miracles, were
the way for Strauss and Re-
and if it had not been for the
revival of primitive tradition
itristic lore, the English mind
have wandered away into the
iesert of infidelity without one
-one guiding path by which to
to the fresh pasture of truth
ace.

ing, unfortunately, was not
t under this happier influence,
ed sown in him by Coleridge
s compeers produced, as we
;e, its natural fruit, and made
forerunner of that worship of
ty which is now to so large an
superseding the worship of
After spending a year in
College, Cambridge, he mi-
to Trinity Hall, and in 1827,
the university altogether,
i to seek a profession, and
ot what to choose. He tried
ite secretaryship, and ended,
se, with literature — the pro-
of all clever men who have
For that, and especially for
:al literature, he was best fit-
his thoughts were quick and
t, " beautifullest sheet-light-
►t to be condensed into thun-
5," deriving their momentum
vift strokes, not from metallic

:opyright of the Athenaum be-
sale. Sterling and his gifted
thought it would make a fine
\ for them. He wrote much
the years 1828 and 1829, toge-
th Maurice, who was editor.
'shades of the Dead,'' " Alexan-

der the Great,'' *'Joan of Arc,"
" Wycliffe," " Columbus," " Gustavus
Adolphus," " Milton," and " Bums,"
are full of thought, color, and enthu-
siasm, but they produce a saddening
effect. They are " a beautiful mirage
in the dry wilderness ; but you can-
not quench your thirst there I" Ster-
ling knew not the stand-point from
which alone the characters of past
times can be duly appreciated. He
describes Joan of Arc as " perhaps
the most wonderful, exquisite, and
complete personage in all the history
of the world," yet he maintains that
" her persuasion of the outward ap-
pearance of divine agency was caus-
ed by a diseased excitability of the
fancy." As if to hear a voice from
heaven " to assist her in governing
herself," to see an angel, and receive
visits from the departed, implied of
necessity a diseased imagination !
He sees in Wycliffe a Gospel hero
almost as full of *' immortal wisdom"
as Coleridge, his " Christian Plato."
He couples him with Erigena, who
" questioned transubstantiation — the
master-sorcery," and Berengarius,
who "opposed the same monstrous
doctrine." But he tells us in praise
of these new lights, what may well be
regarded as dispraise, that " they en-
couraged themselves to cast away the
belief of all that Luther afterward re-
jected by the simple study of the Bi-
ble, unaided by general knowledge, and
without the guidance of sufficient inter-
preters'' Such is the fatal admission
of one of whom his friend and biogra-
pher. Archdeacon Hare, writes that
" the most striking and precious qua-
lity in his writings is the deep sympa-
thy with the errors and faults, cmdeven .
with the sins, of mankind'' Here,
then, is another admission — an ad-
mission, not of the disciple, but of the
master, that while Sterling combated
that Catholic religion which is from
first to last the worship oC 0»S&\^ V^

yokn SUrUng,

8l$

ti the midst of tropic vegetation,
does, and slaves as yet unworthy
edom. One hurricane, fiercer
its fellows, stripped the roof
the house where Sterling lived,
hirled about the cottages of the
es as if they had been chaff,
while, in December, 1831, Tor-
the deluded democrat general,
es Spain, runs ashore at Fuen-

with fifty-five desperadoes like
If, seizes a farm, barricades it,
rounded, surrenders, is haled
tiis comrades to Malaga, and
hem all, the rich Irishman in-
i, is swiftly fusiladed. " I hear
)und of that musketry," wrote
ig ; " it is as if the bullets were
g my own brain." No wonder,

his brain the folly of a wild
»rise was mainly due.
)entance came ; religion was
idy ; and prayer, earnest prayer
idance, arose from his lips as

under the dates and palms,
ized on the mirror of summer

Such prayer had been an-
l more folly if teachers such as
dge, with his gift of words,
dward Ir\'ing, with his gift of
:s, had not already imbued him
L multitude of truths which
half untruths, and untruths
were half truths. He believed
f to be " in possession of the
igs of Christ's redemption;"
lOugh he scarcely as yet knew
ments of Christianity, he began
ik of teaching it. It is always
y with pious Protestant youths,
lave vocations to preach before
re schooled ; and what ought
aken for presumption is hailed
ir friends as the most signal
►f grace. So Sterling, wearied
»t India life, formed a vague
i of anti-slavery philanthropy,
rned his face toward Europe
s thoughts toward the minis-
he Established Church.

It was in June, 1833, and on tho
banks of the Rhine, that the unripe
aspirant for holy orders met his old
friend and tutor, the Rev. Julius
Hare. That worthy gendeman en-
couraged a desire he should rather
have checked, and Sterling was not
long in arriving at a determination
to become Mr. Hare's curatp at
Hurstmonceaux in Sussex, and wear,
at least, the surpHce and stole,
though he had no hood or academi-
cal degree to adorn himself withal.
So on Trinity Sunday of the follow-
ing year, he came out of Chichester
Cathedral a raw deacon, and estab-
lished himself with his family in a
modest mansion in a quiet, leafy lane
ofHurstmonceaux. Very diligent was
Sterling in his pastoral duties ; but
the fervor of his zeal soon cooled.
In September he began to have mis-
givings, and in February following
he had quitted the path he had
prematurely chosen. The reason as-
signed was loss of health ; but Car-
lyle guessed shrewdly, and with too
much truth, that Sterling was disap-
pointed even to despair by the church
whose garment he had spasmodically
caught by the hem. The virtue
he expected did not go forth from
it, and the glimmer of truth which
reached him came through a dense
cloud of confused writings. The
very names of these betokened chaos,
and the twilight that struggled
through them was sufficient neither
to cheer nor to guide. Many pages
of Archdeacon Hare's memoir are
filled with extracts from Sterling's
letters, and accounts of his favorite
studies at this period. They form a
labjTinth none can thread, where he
wanders to and fro without land**
marks, bourn, light, or hope. The
more he reads the Old Testament,
the less can he believe in its mi-
racles; and having no guide who
speaks with authcmty) he a.^T^Ue& &t

n9-£

mtrary, he now and then per-
1 service for a friend at Bays-
but it became more and more
it that his faith in Christianity
irtial and unsound. His mind
ot in the highest degree devo-
nor had he that fear of the
which is the beginning of wis-

knowledge of German writers
to was confined to semi-sceptics
If-appointed evangelists, Nean-
td the like. Carlyle introduced
) higher souls, if literary merit
tutes height. He brought him
feet of Goethe, Richter, Schil-
id Lessing, and with these he
o satisfy the void which an im-
t religion had been unable to
Mr. Dunn, an amiable Irish
man, became one of their cho-
reic, and we learn from Sterling
If that Ms theology was com-
ed of the Greek fathers, mys-
nd ethical philosophers, and
\s main defect was an insuifi-
ipprehension of the reality and
of sin. The very word sin
isidered objectionable in the
of Carlyle and Mill, because
he correlative of grace. Ster-
friends seemed fated to be the
ss of his soul. He had an-
named Edgeworth, a nephew
is Edgeworth the novelist. He
ell read in Plato and Kant, yet
less of a believer than they,
mtertained not creeds, but the
lie or Kantean gAosts of creeds."
ys Carlyle, of whom Sterling
witness, that " Ais fundamental
)n is the good of evil, and the
ss of wishing to jump off one's
fiadow."

>Iorable health again, in 1836,
Sterling to a sunnier clime.
>s always dodging and jerking
* to escape the scythe of Death."
cleaux his feeble frame revived,
delved in the mines of litera-
VOL. VII.— 5^

ycAm SUrling. i*** i

ture for fine gold, ^'iiije tittolo
fever in his mind ha^^ilbattd.
is Carlyle's account— teff<i)ie i
of pure reason retume<]| t>r s^ost
retiuned. He had done with the-
ology, rubrics, church articles, and
" the enormous ever-repeated thrash-
ing of the straw." But did he find
the grain? If theology is chaf!^
where shall we look for wheat ? Will
the heart of mankind accept litera-
ture as the summum banum^ the guide
of life, the antidote of sin, sorrow,
and death ? Yet for it Carlyle and
Sterling bid farewell to Christianity,
and cry : " Adieu, ye threshing-fioors
of rotten straw, with bleared tallow-
light for sun ; to you adieu !" The
Sextants Daughter was a poem which
indicated Sterling's gradual renunci-
ation of those fragments of Christi-
anity which still clung to him. He
even began to think of attacking
revelation, on the principle of folly
rushing in where angels fear to tread.
The Christian religion, he believed,
would be really indebted to him for
meddling with its foundations, and he
should be " doing good to theology,"
by writing what would for ever exclude
him from minbtering even in the
Church of England. His letters at
this period are full of distressing jum-
ble, which Archdeacon Hare records
as Christian with a certain unction,
and Carlyle, more sagacious, claims
as antichristian with a chuckle of de-
light

A sickly shadow of the parish
church still hung over Sterling's
compositions, according to the latter
biographer, and he gives an amusing
description of the parson-like way in
which his friend read aloud the .S^-
tan^s Daughter at Blackheath, and
gave painful effect to its maudlin
morality. It was " a dreary pulpit,
or even conventicle manner; that
flattest moaning hoo-hoo of prede-
termined pathos, with a kind of rock-

yokn Sterling.

819

them. He admired an essayist who
sat loose to the received opinions and
belief of his time, chose Plutarch
for his favorite author, (as Rousseau
and Madame Roland did after him,)
and "of all men seemed most tho-
roughly to have revered and loved
the saint, prophet, and martyr of pa-
gan wisdom, Socrates."

Perhaps Socrates would not be in
such good odor with the sceptics of
our day, if he too had not been in
some sense an unbeliever. Perhaps
it is in his protesting character that
they chiefly admire him, and trace in
him some resemblance to the sage of
Wittemburg. They admire him, and
Mt him up as a model, because he
•as a witness against the established
ifld popular religion of his country.
V^et it may be that Socrates had
"tally more faith than they have, and
With all the disadvantages of pagan-
Wm, made, if we may so speak, a
better deist than nineteenth-century
•ceptics. Perhaps his mind was
dearer, after all, than Montaigne's, or
than Sterling's, who wrote of Mon-
taigne that, " in the bewilderment of
his misunderstanding at the immen-
Mty and seeming contradictions of
the universe, perhaps he even hoped
that one day or other the puzzle of ex-
istence would find its solution in the
^^^^^npanying puzzle of revelation. "

A^c have not time, in this place, to

follow Sterling's review of his friend

Carlyi^.g works. Suffice it to say,

what^^g believe to be the fact^ that

^ discovered Carlyle's intellectual

^^Ur^ to be high because the lite-

^ '^orld had already recognized it

g^.^^^h ; but he did not discover the

fhe 1*^^ of Tennyson's powers because

,j^ *^«rary world had not yet recog-

^l£j^^ them. This is not very com-

^j^^titary to Sterling's critiques or

i,^ ^^*"ation — but dreamy and indis-

^^^^ beauty is all that he ever

*^^^8> and his exposl of Carlyle's

philosophy is as hazy and unsatisfac-
tory as his appreciation of Tennyson
is hesitating and imperfect

After founding the Sterling Club,
our hero once more turned his face
toward the sweet south. In com-
pany with his friend. Dr. Calvert, he
crossed the Alps, and wandered from
city to city through the garden of
Europe, till he reached, in the winter
of 1838-9, the city without a rival.
Perhaps Sterling was apt to let other
people reflect for him. If he had
set his own thoughts originally to
work, he could hardly have failed to
detect in the metropolis of Christen-
dom something more than he pre-
tended to And. A philosophic mind,
even of a minor order, could not al-
low itself to dwell on Rome, the Holy
See, and the pontifical line, without
finding in them matter for the great-
est consideration and most search-
ing inquiry. Whence the mighty, the
enduring influence of these on man-
kind and mankind's history, if there
lie not at their root, principles
which escape the glance of super-
ficial observers? Whether divine,
human, or diabolical, they must de-
serve philosophical research, were it
only for the magnitude of their re-
sults. Yet Sterling is bold enough
to affirm that " one loses all tendency
to idealize the metropolis and system
of the hierarchy into anything higher
than a piece of showy stage-declama-
tion, at bottom thoroughly mean and
prosaic." Again he tells us that
"The modern Rome, pope and all
inclusive, are a shabby attempt at
something adequate to fill the place
of the old commonwealth" So
warped was his judgment that St
Peter's itself found little favor in his
eyes. His artistic notes are as un-
sound as his religious ones. Preju-
dice jaundiced all. "I have seen
the pope," he says, " in all his pomp
at St Peter's \ and he looked tj^ ^boa.

yokn Sterling.

821

as Whig or Tory, Peelite or Anti-
Peel ite, not as the whim took him,
but as it took the blatant public for
whom he wrote. There "Captain
Whirlwind," as Carlyle used to call
him, let loose his winds, and, secure-
ly anonymous, looked forth from his
cave on the seething seas and thun-
dering surges which he rolled on the
shore. The son could not but re-
flect in a degree the father's face.
Hence, in John Sterling we find, to
Ws misfortune, great and habitual un-
certainty. " Christianity," he wrote,
Jtot long before his death, " is a great
comfort and blessing to me, although
I am quite unable to believe all its ori-
iinat documents." What kind of
Christianity was this which comfort-
^ him, and whence did it derive its
^^'cfences ? The same inconsistency
^d vagueness appears in his remark
****and it was one of his latest — Ihat
^® ^ad gained but little good from
''^^t he had heard or read of theolo-
gy* liut derived the greatest comfort
^rri. the words, "Thy will be done."
A* ^Fthese words did not involve the
^^^X« circle of theology, as the egg
cot^ tains the chicken, and the acorn
*^ oak.

X^ the beginning of 1843, Sterling
V^^ke a bloo^-vessel ; his mother
al&o became seriously ill ; and his
holer's mansion at Knightsbridge,
** built on the high table-land of sun-
shine and success," was filled at once
with bitterness and gloom. Very af-
fectionate and pious were Sterling's
letters to his mother ; nor can it be
said that death came to either of
(hem unawares. They saw the grim
shadow approach, and awaited his
stroke with such fortitude as their
flense of religion gave them. " Dear
mother," wrote Sterling, "there is
surely something uniting us that can-
not perish. I seem so sure of a
love which shall last and reunite us,
that even the remembrance, painful

as that is, of all my own follies and
ill tempers cannot shake this faith.
When I think of you, and know how
you feel toward me, and have felt for
every moment of almost forty years,
it would be too dark to believe that
we shall never meet again."

On Good Friday, 1843, Sterling's
wife had borne him another child,
and, with her infant, was doing well.
The post arrived on the Tuesday
following, and Sterling left her for a
moment to read the tidings brought
of his mother. He returned soon
with a forced calm on his face, but
to announce his mother's death.
Alas 1 another bereavement, still
more desolating, was at hand. In
two hours more his beloved wife also
was numbered with the dead. His
two best friends were cut down by a
single blow ; to him they died in one
day — almost in one hour. A mo-
ther's love is unique; there is no-
thing like it in the world; a wife's
love is all that imagination can pic-
ture of earthly affection ; and . to
Sterling they were now both things
of the past. Alone, alone he must
pursue his pilgrimage, haunted by the
perpetual remembrance of joys never
to return. " My children," he cried,
"require me tenfold now. What I
shall do, is all confusion and dark-
ness."

It is in such seasons of bereave-
ment especially that the Catholic re-
alizes his church as the mourner's
solace and the outcast's home. But
Sterling, unhappily, was debarred
from this best and sweetest consola-
tion. Friends he had in abundance, but
they were almost all errant meteors
like himself, and stars shining in
mist. By the death of his mother he
became rich, when riches could no
longer purchase increase of joy. He
took a house at Ventnor in the Isle
of Wight, and there strove to live for
his children and in a si^hese oC

822

ybJin SUrling.

poetry. But his lyre had few listen-
ers ; and it would be but loss of
time to criticise at length what is
now forgotten. Now and then he
went up to town, and even enter-
tained friends in his father's desolate
dwelling at Knightsbridge. It was
like " dining in a ruin in the crypt of
a mausoleum/* His silent sadness
was manifest to all through the bright
mask he sometimes wore. ** I am
going on quietly here, rather than
hsjppily," he wrote from Ventnor to
Mr. Frank Newman ; •* sometimes
quite helpless, not from distinct ilU
ness, but from sad thoughts and a
ghastly dreaminess. The heart is
gone out of my life." That life was
fast ebbing away, and he knew it ;
he was drifting into the vast ocean
of eternity, and he watched without
regret the receding shore. A certain
piety sustained him. ** God is great/*
be would exclaim with Moslem fer-
vor, **God is great.'* His heart
yearned especially toward Carlyle,
and the Maurices were constantly at
his side. Infidelity and semiChris-
tianity, in death as in life, were his
presiding genii. He clasped the
Bible in his feeble hand, though he
believed it but in part He prayed
to be forgiven j he thanked the all*
wise One ; but it was long since he
had begun " to deem himself the op-
ponent, the antagonist of everj'thing
that is,** and antagonism is a frame
of mind Little conducive to peace and
joy. A few days before his death he
wrote to Carlyle : ** I tread the com-
mon road into the great darkness^
without any thought of fear, and with
^xry much of hope. Certainty, indeed,
I have none, • , . Toward me
it is more true than toward England,
that no man has been and done like
you. Heaven bless you! If I can
lend a hand when THERE, that will
not be wanting.*' To this same
incnd| four days before Vus d^^*0[\^\i<i

addressed some stanzas wht^
lyle has not published, but %%
were written as if in Matiire .
mortal tears/* His cy<
on tliis world on tlic \%
ber, 1844. He sleeps in thrl
ground of Ifoncburch, %vA
balraed in the memory' of hts I

His natural virtues were ,
highest order; his life was
his temper uncomplaining,
transparent, and his imag
lively. Standing, \
between belief and unbelief^ I
ciliated the esteem and frien^
believers and ur'
deacon Hare an«I
be reckoned amoii
archdeacon, Indee
excuses he makt>
jng, **Such men
they fall ; nay, u*
because they fall T a ^c;aiii
travagant that the most liberal^
lie will condemn it without I

Every life has its moral ;
of Sterling's is certainly no 1
to the rule. He is a type off
England in the present di
Christian, half infidcJ, Nali
cultivation had given him
was requisite to make htni
member of society, and to «
dying hours with the reti
existence applied to the hjpj^ic
highest ends. But one xik
wanting in him, a steady
and a clear view of the
which it was to be obtained,
load been fortun.ite cnoii|>;h 10^
enjoy, and exemplify Uie
religion, it would have stippu
with a definite scope, and hi
down a rule of faith and ob
by which to compass his
would have collected all his a
forces, given ^A^^ to his
sober color to his imagination, 1
faction to his yearnings, rest V
d\^c\\ivi£^ comfort to his s#diiM|

Saint Cdlumba.

823

would have enabled him to realize
with all the certitude of faith facts
which by the light of nature he could
not credit, and truths which he could
not comprehend. It would have
taught him with authority things
which his teachers propounded in
doubt, asserted feebly, or distinctly
denied. It would have saved him
fix>m a wasted existence, from the
shallow theology of Archdeacon
Hare and his '* Guesses at Truth,"
fix>m the puzzle-headed metaphysics
of Coleridge, the wild utterances of
Edward Irving, the Arian tendencies
of Maurice and Dean Stanley, the
supercilious incredulity of Carlyle,
the proud unbelief of Francis New-
man, and the efforts, intentional or
unintentional, of them all to bring
about an unnatural and odious al-
liance between infidelity and Chris-
tian faith. They have labored hard

to establish a school, and in England
the results of their toil is unhappily
everywhere apparent. Unbelief is
wearing a Christian mask ; and often
has the language of Christ on its lips.
Ministers of religion scatter doubts
in evangelical terms, and scoffers
mimic the tones and language of
honest disciples. Atheists and Deists
do homage to the son of Mary, and
speak respectfully of saints, doctors,
and popes. Protestant divines apo-
logize for sincere unbelievers, and
quote with approval the writings of
the apostles of doubt. Conciliation
and compromise are loudly called for
on both sides, and hatred of all law
and dogma is extolled as charitable
and wise. The proposal of marriage
between Christianity and Infidelity
is openly published ; and the Catho-
lic Church alone solemnly and per-
sistently forbids the banns.

SAINT COLUMBA.

CoLUMBA, gentlest of all names I Bequest
Of a strong Celtic mother to a child
Who, unto life's meridian, kept the wild.
Impassioned grandeur of his race ; his guest
The patriot bard ; while innocence oppressed
Flew, with the instinct of souls undefiled.
To his great heart, who, to the guileless mild,
Called heaven's swift curse upon the lifted crest
Of lawless power. And still the generous mind
Pores, kindling, o'er heroic legends quaint.
In which grave history dips her brush to paint
That nature fierce and tender ; but combined
With grace celestial, till the man we find
Crowned with th' eternal glories of the saint

Gtcd.

GHEEL.

A COLONY OF THE INSANE, LIVIWC IN FAMttlES AND AT

The Belgian Kempen Land is a
vast stretch of sandy plains in the
piovinces of An vers, Brabant, and
Limburg. Its chief parish, Gheel,
has a population of some 12,000,
about one fifteenth of which are luna-
tics in family treatment, and many of
them occupied in the usual routine
of domestic, field, and garden work.
This custom has prevailed there for
a thousand years. In the seventh
century, a chapel was built and dedi*
cated to Saint Martin, the apostle of
the Gauls. Some cells of pious her-
mits surrounded it and formed tlie
principal nucleus of Ghcel. Here
the young daughter of a pagan king
of Ireland sought a refuge from his
incestuous love, accompanied by Ger-
rebert, the priest who had converted
herself and her mother to Christian-
ity. Her father, discovering her
traces, pursued her, caused Gerre-
bert to be put to death, and his ser-
vants refusing to execute his san-
guinary orders against his daughter,
he cut off her head with his own
hands, thus avenging, by the most
horrible crime, the defeat of his
guilty passion. Certain lunatics who
witnessed this terrible martyrdom,
and others whom piety led to the
grave of the victims, as the legend
runs, were cured. Gratitude and
faith attributed the merit of these
cures to the holy young virgin, hence-
forth honored as the patroness of the
insane. Attracted by hopes of a
miracle, other families brought their
afflicted to the foot of the memorial
cross and double bier. The visitors,
on their departure, confided their
patients to the charity of the resi-

dents. This custom 1
tution. Little by little, 1
formed here, animated
well as prayer, and whic
last, an important bur
and beautiful church, bu
of Saint Dymphna, rej
Martinis chapel, early %n\
century, and was consec
completion in 1340, by
of Cambrai, The popu
there was approved by j
Pope Eugene IV,^ in 144
riate composed of nine
director was instituted
in 1563 changed into a <
sisting of nine canons
con.

From these times up *
day, a current of pilgrima
sustained by the
faith.

This fountain of praya
sert, these pious cares^
granted, have becofi
dustry and liberty for \
of prosperity for the distri<
is readily explained.
soil of the Kempen ren^
cult to live there,
more onerous there tha
and economy as well
charity counselled the
but one board with his^
keep him apart would h^
ing the time of those occ
ing care of him. Lefti
he would naturally
them to the fields, and
the soil which solicited 3
step of progress was ac
So, without any const
attractions of social

Gfuel.

8as

influences, many of the insane
\ useful members of the family.
St inspirations of religion, re-
el by considerations of econ-
ime to be organized in a secu-
:tice of humble virtues by the
f affectionate cares. Thus, in
e middle ages, the Gheel folk,
: the light of science, but in
a religious faith made fruitful
heart and sustained by their
:, practised a treatment of in-
based on the liberty of move-
n rural and domestic industry,
I the sympathy of an adoptive
far from all that might recall
er past

arbitrary discipline founded
netrical and military ideas in
I times has not spared Gheel ;
latever abuses ten centuries
troduced and habit protected
as well as its good services,
>certained by a most thorough
. The new regulations for
in 1851-52-57 and '58 secure,
as written laws can go, the
ing of the insane,
insane are admitted at Gheel
\ distinction as to nation, re-
age, sex, or fortune. Every one
Dmed with sincere sympathy,
:eives the same hygienic and
1 care, though nothing pre-
:he rich from enjoying their
, or whatever, in tlie way of
s, their relatives may provide
m. One English gentleman,
ance, consumes in festive en-
nents the income of a large
Of late years, the Belgian
stration has excluded from
certain dangerous forms of
such as homicidal and incen-
lonomanias, and those who
istantly bent upon escaping
ny place to which they may
!en taken, or whose affections
such a nature as to disturb
iecency. It does not appear,
T, that this recent transfer of

250 patients had been called for by
any disasters. It was rather a con-
cession to administrative routine,
and Mr. Parigot, the inspector at
that time, regrets that the colony
should thus have lost a class of pa-
tients the control of whom best at-
tested its moral power. Both the
patients and their guardians felt ag-
grieved by this arbitrary measure.

No distinctive dress is worn by the
insane; their garments are such as
are worn by the country folk in gen-
eral, so that nothing calls public at-
tention to them, nor reminds them
of their peculiar situation.

Liberty under all its forms is the
good genius which has inspired, pro-
tects, and preserves this colony : es-
pecially the liberty to come and go,
to sleep or get up, to work or to rest,
to read or write or talk at pleasure,
to receive one's friends or correspond
with them without any restriction.
The supreme science of government
consists in not contradicting the in-
sane, but humoring their innocent
fantasies, or imposing nothing by
force, but obtaining all by persuasion.
Unless some evident and particular
inconvenience prevents it, they enter
public places, smoke a pipe at the
cafiy play a hand of cards, read the
papers, or drink a glass of beer with
the neighbors. The tavern-keepers
are not allowed to sell wine or dis-
tilled liquors.

If liberty, equality, and fraternity
are not/^/iVirii/ terms there, they are
the realities of common life. The
lunatic is a man, and is treated as
such by the same right as all his
brothers in God.

You would never hear at Gheel such
a complaint as this, by a poor lunatic
confined in an asylum, where, indeed,
he was the subject of intelligent and
devoted cares :

" They call us patients^ to control
and to oppress us, but they do not
allow us the indulgence of sick folk I

Gheel.

827

taneous intervention of the neighbors
sufficed; for it was understood^ for
many leagues round, that any indi-
vidual whose demeanor awakened
suspicions of his sanity, should be
conducted to Gheel as to his legal
residence. The restorer of a run-
away was also entitled to mileage
fcr his trouble. When it is known
that a certain lunatic is beset with
the idea of escaping, which may take
possession of Uie insane like any
other, it is customary, after obtain-
ing a permit therefor from the physi-
cian in charge, to fasten two rings or
bracelets, covered with sheep-skin,
vpon the legs, with a covered chain,
about a foot in length, connecting
them. By this means the lunatic,
^thout being confined, has his
Movements obstructed, while atten-
tion is directed to him. How pre-
''able this is to the mortal ennui^ to
the sullen despair of confinement in
*n asylum I What matters it to the
Wient that his limbs are free, if be-
^^ him is the barrier of bolts and
"*'^— of massive doors, and impas-
ttWe walls!

T'he morale of the insane cannot
b* otherwise than favorably affected
Py 3.ssocialion with persons who pro-
^t him with solicitude, while they
*PP^al to his good sense and good
^^U admitting him on a footing of
^Ua.lity to their hearths, their tables,
snd their work: such a welcome
"^^ishes from his mind the idea of
'^wniliation and oppression, which
everywhere else is connected with
™^^ of sequestration. Instead of
r^'^^g a pariah shaken off by society,
?? iiow belongs to humanity; his
■ffnity as a man is safe, for it is
^^^Pected in its chief privilege — lib-

*^ the name of this liberty, he is

^**ted — he is constituted, in a mea-

''^» the arbiter of his own lot If

^o not abuse it, supervision of him

is relaxed. If his freedom be some-
times limited, the least remaining
gleam of reason suffices to render
him conscious that the restrictions
imposed are not hostile in their spi-
rit, but are simply precautions which
he may disarm by a rational con-
duct.

Such sentiments sustain or awaken
within him the life of the soul ; they
influence his manners and bearing.
He does not lose the habit of socie-
ty, and if he one day return home,
it may be without shame or embar-
rassment; his absence will have
been a journey, and not a humilia-
ting sequestration.

Translated from political into psy-
chologic language, liberty is sponta-
neity ; and if we analyze it more pro-
foundly, we find this term applicable
to those actions only which employ
the limbs, the senses, and the intel-
lectual faculties as ministers of our
inmost affections of will. For all
spontaneous action, the head, the
hands, and the heart are in union —
the conflict between the spirit and
the flesh is reconciled.

This supreme harmony implies the
unison of man with himself, with his
fellow-creatures, and with his spirit-
fountain life. Express it as you will,
its conception is the basis of the
Christian therapeutics of insanity.
All must be obtained of the lunatic
by gentleness, and not by intimida-
tion or violence; nothing ought to
oppress the individuality of the pa-
tient The mission of the guardians
is to render inoffensive, amiable, and
useful, a person imperfectly conscious
of his acts. It is by one of the
noblest powers of the spirit that they
say to him virtually, Be free, and
understand the sympathies that ani-
mate us. Alexander of Macedon
accepted the beverage of his physi-
cian Philip before mentioning that
Philip had been accused of intending

to poison him. Now ihe insane are,
in the immense majority of cases, no
more guilty of ill intentions than the
Acarnanian doctor, and our Alexan-
ders of Belgium arc poor peasants.

These Gheelois have faith in their
providential mission, faith in the
ancient miracles which have predes-
tined their country to the cure of in-
sanity, faith in tlieir own power, Es*
quirol one day expressed to a pea-
sant of this place his apprehensions
about paroxysms of mania. The
countr}-man laughed at his fears, and
said : " You do not understand these
folks ', I am not strong, and yet the
most furious of them is nothing for
me.'* This is the way they alJ talk.
The sentiment of an unlimited and
privileged power is insinuated from
childhood into the soul of the Ghee-
lois by example and tradition. This
power grows with his muscular force
and experience ; it imposes upon the
insane, who feels himself feeble and
disarmed before a master, and usu-
ally submits without resistance. Any
desired help can be had, moreover,
at a moment's warning, from the
neighbors. The exigencies of family
life with the insane invite the in-
habitants of Ghcel to respect their
inoffensive fantasies, and to study in
all its aspects the difficult art of di-
recting their erring wills, of redress-
ing their false ideas when they
threaten mischief, of taking advan-
tage of a lingering sentiment of soci-
ality or a last gleam of reason, to se-
cure themselves against violence and
surprises. On the other hand, as
they can have recourse to material
constraint only in accidental cases,
ns they can reckon but exceptionally
on the intelligent obedience of pa-
tients» it is especially by the evolu-
tion of sympathies, those quick rays of
the soul which usually survive the in-
tellect, and arc often extinguished
only with life, that the Gheelois

have understood the tactic^
government. That wome
excel in this diplomacy isf
prising. On them devolv
delicate and important
tern based on
ness the most
Simple, ignorant, laborious
the vanities of fashionable
kind by nature, religious by
tion, and guided 1
woman of Ghecl a^
vels of devotion and saga
her cares, which no disgu
she is the visible Pro%'ider
poor madman. By her
expedients, she averts stormy
and never shows herseli
Without title or costume, sli
sister of charity. To matd
power over her fantastic sub
studies their intimate ihci
serves their least geslu
their secret projects, and
read souls the most
To subdue the most^
young girl does not shrink]
manoeuvres of an innocent i
At other limes, it is the
magnetism of the look,
tude, of the voice, that lay
upon the spirit and dtsslfi
It is not rare to see mania
culean frame obeying tilth
bowed and emaciated by
whose only arms are a
spH3ken with ^
bands and fath^
in these arts of mtn^
sides their innate tum^
the peace of their hou
their interests lead them tfl
idleness is a loss^ and the|
losing his time and mall
lose theirs, if he rcmaiii
value, would soon becK»me
Compulsion to labor ts
question. It is necessary tci 1
the lunatic, to entice bim
ing the work attractive.

bim bfB

GhiiL

829

They are patient Is he awk-

They make fun of his blun-
irithout humiliating him ; he
» better next time. As soon as
ceeds a little, he is flattered
icouraged ; he soon comes to
e job. Gradually he is tamed
ained. Behold him, then, an
and a useful member of the
proud of himself, a friend and
f the house, rising at the same
s his companions and sharing
oils. Fallen as he may be
lan's estate, does he not still
^eater capacities of sociability
lose of wild beasts ? To sue-
1 the education of the insane,
labitants of Gheel have dis-
a persevering and intelligent
, the power of which is en-

by the natural sympathy of
r man. Much charity in the
gentleness upon the lips,
^ actions, reasoning even, at an
me moment, exert a sovereign

over characters whose sus-
ity is exalted by disease. Pa-
s the first of virtues necessary
community, and it has always
> the height of the aberrations
lad to meet No eccentricity
es either surprise or anger,
enty years Daniel Peter has
)arding with a Gheelois. This

covers the walls of his cham-
th the most original carica-
never does he mingle with the
rs of the family ; he likes only
the children, Joseph ; but he
im to the point of abdicating
1 personality. He nicknames
md him, persons and beasts,
le matron, whom he calls the
Dur major." When she asks
rough the door whether he

to eat, he replies: Joseph
like it ; or else, Joseph will
>ne. The only way of getting
ig from him is to compare
h some tall object, calling him

a tree, a mast, a tower, etc. On Sun«
day only he will eat no meat, and
takes flight at sight of a woman or
of a horse. Notwithstanding all
these whims, he is beloved by all the
family, and remains inoffensive,
because he is well treated. He re-
turns to his lodgings regularly every
evening after having wandered in the
woods and over the heath. From
this exchange of kind offices, which
is the general tone, the most solid
attachments spring. "You must have
seen the afflicted family of der PhU-
ger around the sick-bed of die Phkg-
i*^g^ you must have witnessed the
touching scenes when the latter goes
forth cured from the establishment,
in order to get a clear idea of the
means which constitute the basis of
the treatment and the proper employ-
ment of which assure the success of
the colony. These testimonies of
gratitude and of mutual affection,
these tears of happiness and of regret,
these promises to see each other
again, are the sincerest homage that
can be rendered to the solicitude of
the guardians."*

Nothing better proves how deeply
these feelings have penetrated, not
merely into individual souls, but into
the blood and race, than the conduct
of the children of Gheel toward the
insane. Elsewhere generally, and
even at Horenthals, in the neighbor-
hood, we have seen the unfortunate
persecuted and derided. Childhood,
especially, is without pity for them.
Nothing like this at Gheel. There
the Zott is, even for children, an
amusing companion, without wicked-
ness, often a comrade of their games,
sometimes a protector. It seems
that between beings who have not
yet quite attained their reason, and
those who have lost it, some alliance
b formed. Dr. Parigot relates his
first visit as inspector to a farm near

•BmUitm, ft«portoriSs6kPp. 34«35-

850

Gk€€L

Gheel * It was a cold, snowy spell
In the winter. The family were press-
ing round the hearth beneath the vast
chimney-place, and the best seat was
occupied by a lunatic. The unex-
pected appearance of a stranger on
the threshold of this poor house,
troubled the quiet inhabitants a lit-
tle. The frightened children took
refuge, with little cries, between tlie
legs of the maniac. This poor man's
affection for the children was vividly
depicted in his countenance, as he
protected them with a gesture. This
affection was, perhaps, the only tie
that attached him to society, but this
tie of love protected himself, by de-
serving the regard of his hosts." We
have been gently touched by seeing
in the streets of Gheel an old man
bearing two children in his arms,
while two others followed his steps.
The intellectual focus was extinct,
or projected but a feeble and vacil-
lating lights but the affectional focus
still revealed by its glow the moral
grandeur of man even in his saddest
miseries.

A woman of Ghecl was in company
with a maniac, when suddenly he was
seizetl with a paroxysm of excitement
The danger was great, her presence
of mind was still greater. She took
the young child that she was bear-
ing in her arms, and whom the mad-
man loved, placed it in his arms, and
availed herself oi this diversion to
slip out by the door ; then, concealed
behind the window, she followed with
eye and heart the movements of the
lunatic. Marvellous calculation I the
child had at once and completely
calmed the madman, who, having
caressed him and set him upon the
floor. Was now playing with him. A
few minutes afterward, the mother
could reenter, the crisis was passed.
No one at Gheel blamed this con-
duct in the mother, who had esti-
mated j ustly the fascination of infancy.

When the eqtialitj of
to friendship, this becomes i
between the children of Ihc
and the insane, TI >m

which boards a yo jf

is also deaf and dumb* SI
become a cherished sister.
daughters of bcr host. W
are at work together, enter
nouncc that you come to t^
aHlictcd child back (o thej
Instantly a cry of terror,^
the precipitate flight
carrying their friend ak
will teach you how lively is I
of their tenderness.

A woman of beautiful
countenance, and superior <
had been found insane at ]
without any information
her. From her own ji»i|:
swcrs, it seems she was a
Mauritius, %vherc her father
a roan of note in fhe Fi
tion.
crs at <

a delicate deference for ber
antecedents. During twe
they served a little tabic
her, with more elegan
own ; yet they receive
count only the pittanc
paupers. One day whc
mentioned ihis^ they ansn
** It is enough, doctor j we<j
little lady, and we wi^h to
here, ^t^ one
we are doing ; ^ nai

dren, and this is our socicti

A father on his dc
commended to his
lunatic, who had
and who had amused 1
When she married, sbe^
in dower to her hns
of the contract. Heave
generosity. The lunatic*
nearly a hundred years old.
this period,
rebuilt; bm

Gkeel.

831

rifice of its symmetry and conve-
nience, so as to leave untouched the
cell of this old man which had be-
come endeared to him by a long
abode.

The relatives of patients are often
too poor to offer presents. One day
Dr. Parigot was visiting a young epi-
leptic. As he had always found him
well cared for, and knew that his
friends came to see him every year,
he ventured to ask the mistress of
the house what she received on his
account. She smiled and replied :
" Our Joseph's relations are poor like
me, and make their journey afoot. I
keep them here a week, and they re-
turn afoot, but I give them a rye loaf
and bacon to eat on the road. These
are our presents." The exercise of
these pious and delicate virtues has
formed in the heart of the Gheel folk
a sentiment of corporate honor and
of mutual responsibility, which with-
stands individual perversions as well
as the conflicts of social life. The
whole community is interested in the
fate of these unfortunates. Every
one there might affirm concerning
the insane, the humani nihil a me
alienum puto.

The household that has no lunatic
seems to lack something, and looks
oat for a favorable occasion to sup-
ply this want. The reciprocal super-
vision of the inhabitants prescribes
moderation and justice to all. If
woman presides in the household,
and man out of doors, the eye of the
community, watching over both, pro-
tects the weak in the course of daily
life, as in the struggles which a par-
oxysm sometimes necessitates. De-
nounced by the cries of the victim,
any arbitrary violence would be
promptly reported to the ph3rsicians
and to the administration. If official
defenders were absent, the public
voice would suffice, and it could not
be silenced. Any suspicion of im-

proper conduct is readily cleared up
by the interchange of visits in the
neighborhood, and thus a protection
is established permanent, universal,
invisible, sanctioned by custom and
superior to all administrative patron-
age or written rule.

A population thus reared in the
practice of sincere devotion to a spe-
cial humanitary office, by immemorial
tradition, by interest, by personal
and communal honor, and by reli-
gious faith, may well bear compari-
son with the most zealous servants
of any public or private asylum. The
brothers or sisters of charity, who
are but casually guardians of a cer-
tain infirmity the more difficult of
treatment, because it attacks the
soul as well as the body, can hardly
possess those hereditary faculties and
the thousand expedients which from
infancy upward germ in the child
and develop in a family and locality,
devoted to the treatment of insanity.
How much more unequal is the com-
parison with simple mercenaries I
Heaven forbid we should ignore the
abnegation of self, so often evinced
in the most obscure services, or the
unprovided aptitudes which neither
danger nor disgust discourage. Yet
it cannot be denied that the insane
generally persist in regarding all over-
seers as jailers and complacent tools
of the injustice of families or of society.
At Gheel, on the contrary, the most
susceptible patients can see around
them only hosts who take in board-
ers, and among whom they often
find friends and companions. Be-
fore all disinterested judgment, what
is elsewhere the competition of busi-
ness here assumes the character of a
social and medical mission, while a
closer analysis discerns, in this crea-
tion of a lively faith sustained at
once by charity and interest, a fortu-
nate equilibrium of the springs of
human action The twofold motive

GkeeL

835

terest in him. When this sym-
tic indulgence can no longer be

of the natural family, where
for it elsewhere than in the
ive family ? Less discomposed
s tendemesSi the latter more

obtains the obedience of the
c, who even through his dark-
reason, fails not to perceive
le has neither the right nor the
3 of imposing his caprices on
jers.

B fact constantly occufs at
. upon the arrival of raving ma-
After a few days passed in
;uardian*s house they can scarce-
recognized. Coming with the
jacket or in bonds, they are
sed as soon, almost, as these
ken off. Must this change be
uted to the new sphere that en-
\ them, to the regard that is
ied to them, or to the new cur-
)f impressions and ideas that
ses their own folly? These
nces, severally useful, are
;thened by their association,
igh them, what remains sound
mind is aided by good tenden-
what there is morbid, is restrain-
Vt Gheel is perpetually renewed
henomepon which occasioned
ch surprise at Bicdtre, at Cha-
1, and in all the hospitals of
le, when intrepid humanity

their chains and whips, con-
id, until then, the only possible
ments for controlling the in-

It now remains for science to
5S that every closed establish-
is in itself a chain, the last but
^viest that remains to be sup-

I lunatic taken to an asylum is,
the first, assailed with painful
ssions, bunches of large keys,
ve doors, bolts, bars, cells,
.walls, guardians, uniforms, Te-
ons, bells, all the appearances
U the realities of a prison. At
VOL. VII. — 53

Gheel, welcomed with alacrity by the
family to which his abode secures a
pension, he feels himself at his ease.
This first welcome exerts over the in-
sane soul the most auspicious influ-
ence j for one who comes from a hos-
pital, it is a true emancipation. By
daily repetition, this contentment
soon becomes an energetic prefer-
ence. When of late years certain
councils of the Belgium hospitals de-
cided on withdrawing their insane
from Gheel, to transfer them to a ri-
val establishment for the sake of some
trivial economy, it occasioned the
most touching scenes. Guardiansr
and lunatics embraced each other
weeping, and several of the latter
hid themselves to escape from this
transfer. Force had to be employed
with otliers. Besides breaking ia
upon their affections and their ha-
bits, they knew they were passing
from liberty to confinement I When
questioned on this subject, their feeK
ings clearly appear. A foreign phy^
sician visiting Gheel with me, one day
asked a lunatic who had spent some
time in one of the lock-up establish-
ments, which system he preferred.
" You may answer that for yourself,"
he replied reservedly ; but a long and.
silent look beaming with joy was the
expressive interpretation of these
words. This attachment to Gheel
arid to the guardian's family often sur-
vives the cure. Guardians have of-
ten been known to keep gratuitously,,
wards restored to their right minds,
but who had lost their families or
their relations with the world. Not
seldom is a friendly correspondence
kept up all their lives, while living-
far apart. Annual pilgrimages from
Brussels to Gheel renew ties formed
during the malady.

There seems to be no possible
doubt that life for the insane is more
benign at Gheel than in the immense
majority of asylums. Patients seat:

citif.

fbert in (be toHtal period oflnsafihy,
freqncDtljr experieooe a chaoge lor
the better, and oiaitf recorcr tliesr
reason. Some cme^ have beta ef-
fected at Cbeel^ after two or three
yeai-i of abortive treatment elsewhere*
Maniacft^ much agitated, in mhism tlie
f prin^ of Ji'c preserve* its energy, are
aired fooficr than ihc qaict ones, irlio
often become imbecile. Monoma*
niars^ e%pc(:i;i|]y religious monoti>3-
niari, arc steldotn cured. Ihcy arc
more fortunate willi intemihtcnt forms
of InRiinity, and such are the patients
preferred by tlic Gheelois, as most
hclf^ful in their work. Cures are
nunc frequent on the farms, where
the innane labor, than in the village,
where tliey arc les!» occupied. It
teems to be ascertained that the
lUimbfT of cures has diminished with
the rulUnj; off in devotion » and this
rcjiiilt \s no surprise to science, which*
without intervening in the religious
question, arcounts faith among the
.most powerful ihcrapculic agents.
Among the patients classed as cura*
1ilc% \l\v piuportion of cures has ave-
ij^cil 1m twccn fifty and sixtyfive per
cent V nforlunatcly, about three fifths
of the patients sent tod heel are dcspe*
rate cases, an whom alt the resources
of art have been vainly exhausted
•elsrwhero; for Gheel makes no flou-
n,sh of trumpets, and only of late
years has possessed even an infir*
mary» or a corps of phviilcians, lis
simple hygiene of liberty, and the
f;imily Wft of [K>or peasants* is not cal-
culatcd lo exert the/nrxA^of those
»adly magnificent palaces tn which
the insane are confined by thou*
sands, ;ind wher^ pretentioits sel-
••oce so unwisely smMbB nattirc. Cer-
*lttiii medkat admmbtnimrs have
«\Tn pretended that Ghee! was only
*l fof the incurable. Formerly, they
<«••• at search of miracles j wm^
Ihipy teek a last abode here. It
ikMM t>e fematlie< nmwr^, that

mgm of real
at Gheel^ mhcs^
source of profit* aad
tient b often mon
at home, nothtng
ture, which is actt
mature examtnalkn hy i
of the section arid the j
tor* The chances are
than elsewheie^ that the ]
missal corresponds to i

In default of complcl
the COT flife at

mine ill ;ne a general^

ration w^hich constitutes ill
manner of being compati
mental dcrangemeim
state, reduced to its stnii
sion, excludes neither
fort nor a certain order {
joymenls, some of which!
even to refinement. The i
tendencies are attenuated, if i
annulled. A young lady,
for a year in a 1 *uh

break up there .fi|r^

could lay her hands upoti,4
severest restraints had to
on her, At GheeU fr^e
peasants, she breaks up
bits of wood. Vnable to
entirely the fatal in
her* still she onder
in a family which dc
tion, stncet hi from
they allow her to obey 1
neals of actm
youDf hmaftic does her 1
ham as she oisit and
mirably eihiUts the
Gheel^whadi nil%iies *
not mr% \
any other
ahre^'iaiiot

This
to a smpatbeck
Amaa

GkuL

835

there are, generally, compatriots or
acquaintances of the new-comers
The former become the interpreters
of their companions in misfortune ;
they initiate them into the kind of
life led at Gheel ; they advise them
how to manage, point out to them
what the place presents of interest,
and thus assist in naturalizing them.
If liberty is the first principle of
the colonial system, labor is the
second. Although every lunatic is
free to abstain from it, and no physi-
cal discipline or coercive measure is
brought to bear on him, a few sym-
pathetic words and example frequent-
ly suffice to wean the insane from
idleness. From half to two thirds
of the whole number are usefully oc-
cupied. The household cares are
shared by women, by the aged and
the infirm, along with the children
and servants of the family. Most
of the artisans, such as tailors, shoe-
makers, cabinet-makers, blacksmiths,
bakers, curriers, etc., find a place in
the local industry. Some work on
their own account, and are patronized
in proportion to their skill. There
used to be at Gheel an excellent
cabinet-maker, very intelligent, and
who earned a good deal of money in
the exercise of his trade. A Dutch-
man, he had served in the French
army, was made prisoner in Russia,
then incorporated among the Cos-
sacks of the Don. In 1815, being in
Belgium, he deserted, or rather re-
sumed his liberty and nationality,
and married at Brussels, where he
fell into hallucinations which occa-
sioned his transportation to Gheel.
He lived twenty -five years there,
practising his art with success, and
talked very rationally about matters
in general, only he affirmed that the
devil every night entered his body
by the heels, and lodged somewhere
in it, which led him to conclude
all his discourses by asking for a

probe to hunt the evil spirit Care
is taken to place every lunatic in a
family so situated in village or coun-
try, as to employ his or her indus-
trial capacities to the best advan-
tage. The furious maniacs are most
in request by the peasants, a prefer-
ence easily explained. Fury attests
the energy of the organism ; the in-
ternal force, physical or moral, is dis-
ordered but abundant In their pe-
riods of calm, madmen of this class
are vigorous laborers ; whereas no
profit can be made of an idiot or a
paralytic. On a sudden and violent
paroxysm of acute mania, the farm*
er's family, aided by the passengers
and neighbors, soon obtain control
of it Quieted again, the lunatic re-
sumes his work, and this work, which
profits the fanner, ameliorates by an
energetic and continuous diversion
the state of the patient, rendering
his paroxysms less frequent

Although the importance of work-
ing is now very generally understood,
few asylums are provided with ade-
quate grounds, workshops, and im-
plements for employing their patients
to advantage ; hence this progress is
still a rare exception, and even when
it exists, its benefit is much dimin-
ished by the vexatious constraint of
its discipline resembling penitentiary
labor. In most of the rich establish-
ments life passes in oppressive idle-
ness, leaving the patient all day long
to his dreams, without procuring him
that muscular fatigue so propitious
to sleep at night It is enough to
drive a sane man mad.

As for mental occupation with
books, games, spectacles, and social
assemblies, they tend to excite in-
stead of reducing the circulation
of the brain, and are often opposed
to the desired equilibrium of the or-
ganism. In the Russian hospitals,
the military organization of labor be-
comes but a tribute of passive obedi-

SjS

cnce to absolute authority, and ceases
to effect energetic revulsion from
the bewilderment of the mind. So
needlework affords to uomeh a kind
of instinctive or mechanical activity
of the fingers^ which leaves the im agi-
nation vagabond Such labors, pro*
longed for many hours, are so much
the more objectionable from tljeir
sedentary nature, which rather favors
than averts glandular obstructions
and correlative disturbance in the
circulatory and nervous systems.

The mode of life of the small far-
mer, considered as a whole, com-
bines natural interests with varied
occupations and movements requir-
ing skill and strength in moderate
degree, obser\^ation and attention.
Above all, man feels himself here a
direct coagent with the elemental
forces, a shareholder in the common*
wealth of the universe, alternately
obeying and commanding, utilising
and enjoying the play of solar and
planetary forces. It is Inic that all
have not equally the intellectual con*
sciousness of their participation in
this great drama, nor the intimate
satisfaction and dignity that accrue
from it ; yet none can be alien to Its
penetrating virtues, they sustain the
meanest hind and the most oppress-
ed slave ; much more, the free, the
voluntary, and amateur collaborator.
The aspects of nature wear the color
'6f the spirit ; they are sanative in
proportion as man becomes the mir-
ror, the guide, and the instrument of
her powers. In the prisoner, at
best their suggestions cherish painful
aspirations. For the free laborer
alone are they pregnant with infinite
sweetness.

The arts, and especially music, con-
tribute to the social life of GheeJ,
and repeat for many a tormented spi-
rit the experience of David with
Saul • A lunatic, surnamed Colbert

the Great, a skilful tio^
the harmony or chora
Ills name is still honored int
r}' of all the Gheelots. H3
adorns the hall where Ihe^
holds its meetings, ar^d
age attests the cordi^il
devoid of prejudices :u3cl]
shame, which characterues i"
folk. In their concerts^ alj
or religious festivals, the
distributed to the musician
ing to the irrespective falcnfi
play or sing well, nothing
required* To improve nat|
there is a singing-school
sane. Mullcr, at distinguis
man composer and chief of
mony club, is I lie director j
ted by the public voice,
the honor of forming, amoij
sane, pupils who shiUI
his concerts.

Several of the insane
bers of the choir of Saint
Many of them piously mic
processions. They arc i
this churcl) imploring on ^
the grace of heaven,
whose illusion it is to beli«
selves gods or king^ do
but otherwise behave,
with decency and res
as elsewhere, individuals sal
aberrations of reason, still
the influence of the prevaifj
and manner of deportm^
in their turn good ej(
are generally much
faith of their childhood,^
or in sickness, and ait the z^
of death, they are admitte
sacraments of the churcli
their condition is not such
dude moral conscience.
raise the poor lunatic in
spect, and in the eyes of the J
tion they are a medicine of

Toward the close of die ci^
century^ when the ligocs ple^

Ckea.

iS>

ed against the insane were re-
a king was the first to experi-
he benefits of an opposite sys-
George III. was treated by
on the conditions of personal
', out-door amusements, and
mily life. The sons of Willis,
1 to their father's lessons, con-
to receive at Greatford, luna-
)arded in private families, but
:es which limited this privilege
e wealthy. Gheel, without
id palaces, gardens, and parks,
delight visitors, but make little
;sion on those who are used to
accords to the poorest the
ent of George III., and with
ecious addition of work,
"ranee, Pinel was the promoter
irsevering apostle of the reform
laugurated at Bic^tre, then ex-
l to the Salp^trifere and Cha-
. Aiming to raise to the. dig-
patients those hapless victims
ad previously been treated as
als or as wild beasts, beaten
iained,he realized half his pro-
le in making them simple pri-
, watched and cared for with
jence. His successes were
^ated throughout Europe, and
blic or private asylums aban-
the system of direct violence
slraint, to give, in the measure
ir resources in grounds and
igs, a larger part to liberty of

action and to labor. The so-called
^* nan-restraint^^ system of England
merely substitutes for active cruelties
dark cells padded with mattresses.
Some asylums endeavor to utilize the
influence of the director*s family cii;-
cle, but only at Gheel are the com-
mon rights of man accorded to the
insane. Benevolent sentiments to-
ward the insane have been cherished
in Mohammedan countries ; regular
and methodical labor with a view to
economy is common to many estab-
lishments ; excursions and amuse-
ments are organized by a few : but
nowhere so effectively as at Gheel
have liberty, sympathy, and labor
been combined in the common int^
rest of the insane and of their keep-
ers. These, with the sedative influ-
ence of a mild, moist climate on the
temperament, and the consolations
of religion for the soul, have almost
divested insanity of its dangers, and
authorize emancipation from those
chains of stone which elsewhere
weigh no less than chains of iron oa
the unhappy victims of fear and dis-
trust.

This humble parish addresses to
every conscience a lesson eloquent in
its simplicity of tender devotion to-
ward our brothers the most fallen, and
whom the world disdains and repul-
ses. It shows how charity may pre-
cede and complete science.

838

Lifi^ Chariiy.

LIFE'S CHARITY.

, And the great sea closed over
that wild struggle, and the wreck
went down with its precious freight
of immortality 1

There was a single cry that came
from the white lips, one glance from
the tearless, appealing eyes.

**All ready 1" sounded a rough
voice from tlic long-boat.

** For my child I" she called out to
me, above the awful din and tumult
And I could only clench the rosary
with its precious crucifix in my bosom,
and spring into the already crowded
boat, I missed and fell, and, grasp-
ing an oar, fought the angry sea for
life.

I vaguely recollect a fearful shriek,
as the steamer turned and settled ;
and when she sank, the strong cur-
rent drew in the last of the boats, the
boat in which sht had taken refuge.
I closed my eyes, but in my ear rang
the agony, the wild despair of that
cry, ** My God 1 my God 1** I sup-
pose I fainted ; for I only remember
opening my eyes on the deck of a
small vessel, which was scudding un-
der bare poles before a perfect hur-
ricane. Weeks passed by, and in a
quiet English village, on the soft,
ba!my south coast, I lay trj^ing to re-
gain the strength which brain fever
had quite exhausted.

My kind English nurse told me
that through it all I grasped the ro-
sary, and her heart was touched by
my devotion to the crucifix. This
recalled that fearful autumn morning,
when, amid the dimness of the fog,
the Arctic went down to her burial.

Reverently I kissed the crucifix,
and murmured my Credo ; from the
very depths of my soul went upward,
** I believe in God V Then, as I

clasped the cross, I felt it i
I went through my praytij
suppose that the prcssur
hands caused the
and a closely folded
my breast The cruciii*
and hollow. I carefully unj
delicate paper, and a shudci
over me as the vision of
woman, struggling aniid the I
arose from memory*^
very first words IK
were, ** I believe in God 1
wrote, " I will follow bis
Far from those that are
me, I have buried my hitsb
his fathers rest ; and now,
voice calls me from roy
the Atlantic. I dreamed
of a fog, a dense rnisi^ thai I
a curtain ; of a fearful
vision of anguish that
for dreaming ; but my \
is echoing in my hea
God speed my wandcrii^ 1
row as of conung wo^ opp
but I believe in God t ajmI
will save me.

** My litile daughter. Ma
ci], is with her guardian, Hed

No. Z^ East street, NJ

May the everlasting Arms fbrci
fold her I Rtrm Cec

Poor lamb ! my Heart whis]
the one idol, and so desolate I
the spring found me on myjfi
to the busy metropolis ; and]

my way to East stree(,|

the most elfish little fairy
had ever set drifting on litf
all alone. A bonnte wee thio
Madge Cecil ; so frail that I
here seemed too slight fof j
yet from the wonder
came Dasbes that gai^

7|
1

LifJt Chanty.

83^

lid future. Golden hair court-
\ sunbeams, and, flecked with
Nrrapped around the most grace-
itour that twelve summers had
lone upon. She knew of her mo-
death, for her deep mourning
:ontrasted almost painfully with
ilicate whiteness of her com-
n. And when I drew her upon
ee and put the rosary in her
she threw her arms around me,
•bbed as though her heart would
I really trembled as I listen-
• a storm of passionate agony
onvulsing a frame which had

offer in combat " Mamma I
la !" she sobbed out, and she
d me clbser. "Will God take
me to her ? O mamma ! come

heart ached for the child, whose
eemed agonizing her very soul,
led to quiet her, and told her of
ighter home where, with the ho-
>ther of God, her own mother
be singing hallelujahs. I told
lat this earth was only a brief
•ying-place which led to the
haven of eternal love, the land

farewells could never bring a

nor partings cast a shadow.

the large gray eyes looked
igly up into my face, and with
rms around me, I felt the love

heart go out toward her with
ingth and purity I had never

1 before. -

►n after this, her guardian plac-
r at Madame Cathaire's large
ing-school, and " Uncle Hal,"
e now called me, was always
losen confidant and friend,
irs passed, and I watched her
iful girlhood unfold. She had
dents, a quick intellect, and in-
appreciation of the beautiful ;
i, a purer spirit seldom lived in
lortal tenement. Yet, with her
siastic, impulsive nature, she
5sed a quiet' strength of control
aused visions of the old martyrs

to rise ; for I felt that she, too, could
wrestle with passion, and, with God'9
grace, subdue all sin.

And thus time sped on, and each
passing season left its impress only
to mature and render more perfect
the succeeding ; and her eighteenth
birthday found her the realization of
spiritual loveliness. The exquisite
golden curls of her childhood fell in
irregular waves from the low Grecian
brow, and the sweet, earnest eyes
always recalled those of Guidons an-
gel, bearing the branch of lilies, in
his beautiful picture of " The Annun-
ciation." She was living with her
guardian, and her great wealth at-
tracted many in a city where gold is
" the winning card.**

There was a charming freshness
and ndiveih in the young girl, and at
times almost a religious light gleam-
ed from the depths of her large gray
e)res.

Her guardian's nephew, Henry
Elsdon, had just returned from Eu-
rope, and I watched him as he dallied,
at first carelessly, among the crowd
that gathered around her.

I did not fancy the young man,
and there was an indescribable bar-
rier which rose up always when I
tried to like him. He was what the
world would call handsome and dis-
tinguky but the droop of the lower lip,
the heavy jaw, and narrow forehead
tnily tol4 of the fierce animal nature
within. Madge was very lovely in this
first season, and it was plainly appa-
rent that he entirely failed to impress
her ; indeed, at times her coldness
toward him was marked.

On returning from vespers, one
mild May evening, she asked me to
accompany her on her Sunday visits*
Of course, I went, for who could re-
fuse her ? Down the dark streets we
wandered, till we arrived at an old
brick house that, a hundred years
ago, may possibly have been in its
prime. She tapped at the dingy

^j Ckaritjt.

door, and, like an angel of light, her
presence seemed to brighten the
room, A sick woman Jay stretched
on a miserable pallet, and a racking
cough shook her weak frame ; but a
smiic of happiness illumined the
pinched features, and her voice was
tender as it thanked Madge for her
gentle deeds of love.

A woman's kindliness is nevermore
beautifully displayed than in a sick
chamber ; and my heart did homage
to the young girl, as she knelt by the
sick woman*s bed, murmuring, in low,
comforting tones, the prayer :

** Visit, we beseech thee, O Lord I
this habitation, and drive far from it
all the snares of, the enemy. May
thy holy angels dwell herein, to pre-
serve her in peace ; and may thy
holy benedictions always remain
with hefi through Christ our Lord.
Amen/'

Her face was radiant, and her up-
turned eyes were holy with inspira-
tion. Just then a shadow darkened
the doorway, and I looked, to meet
the eyes of one perfectly absorbed in
the scene before him. My startled
movement recalled Madge, and a
soft color deepened in her cheeks
as she seemed to feet the observa*
tion of the stranger.

**0 Miss Cecilf here is Mr.
Grey, who has been as kind as
yourself. This is Miss Cecil, Mr.
Grey." And then he advaticed, and
the fading sunlight fell upon a splen-
did specimen of manhood. Sijc feet
of magnificently proportioned height,
and a head which Vandyke would
have gloried in ; steel-gray, flashing
eyes, a brow upon which intellect
and wiJl were marked, and a com-
plexion which the suns of Southern
Europe had darkened into olive.

** Pardon me, Miss Cecil, but the
likeness is perfect, and the name so
fiimiliar. Was your mother Ruth An-
derson r
Tears streamed from her eyes as

she half-whispcrto,
could nevcf speak
mother, ^r her love scco
strengthen as years
more keenly fclL In an .
was by her side, and, i
but perfectly respectfts
manner so acceptable to
he told her how eager]]!
sought for this child of hU <
esteemed friend. He
abroad with her mothei;
mained in Europe till wi
months. He hid read
ful doom of the Arctic^
tried to trace the child.
** I need not tell you,
very glad I am to see yc
fore long, I shall hope
good friendJ*

And they did meet
Madge spent the suiniti
port, and Mr. Greys
near her guardian s lovely^
suppose there is trttth
and familiar theory of di
ties ; for the strength.]
seemed to absorb lier-j
trust, and her impulsive, ;
heart was entirely swaye
steady, strong atTectiou
each chord felt the ecJto
And so, in the autun:)n^
surprised when she poiu
magnificent ^o/#Aii>y di.
the forefinger of her left
told me that she had pn
be the wife of Newton Grc

They had returned to
and Madge and Mr. Grey ^
ing over a portfolio of cc
the fur til er end of the Ubcar
sat smoking in front of the brigl
fire, dreaming day-dreaQis, \
smoke curled and Hoat^
when suddenly the door c
and Henry li^lsdon
shall never forget the
only for one single
cd his features ; only fi>r
his £ace looked thu9^ and

•Lifis Ckarify.

icky'soft 'stet>i he crossed the
ry, and suavely joined the circle
id the engravings. I could see
^f ewton Grey would never stoop
tspect him; but Madge recoil-
om him, for there was not the
test affinity between such na-

Jncle Hal," she told me one
ing, " I always feel that I ought
OSS myself when Henry Elsdon
IS near me, that I may pray to be
i from some impending evil."
id my lamb was right, for truly
f did prey near for her destruc-

siness called me to the South,
[ left New York to breathe the
ier air of Charleston. It was a
bus winter, that soft season in
unny South. Violets in the gar-

in December, and the scarlet
T roses and sweet mignonette
tening the lovely villa - like
:s on the battery,
iras slowly descending the stone

that led from the beautiful ca-
al, while the last echoes of the
►p*5 gentle voice yet rang in my
when a letter was put into my
s by my friend Colonel Everett

not open it then, but strolled

Broad street, to the Mills House,
n my pleasant room I sat down
ijoy Madge Cecil's confidence,
ine my horror as I read :
'ome to me, dear Uncle Hal, for
alone can strengthen me in this
il sorrow. I cannot understand,
esterday Mr. Grey left me after
rt visit, and to-day they tell me
Mt is dead. I hear low whisper-
>f a terrible sin, of which Henry
)n is guilty. For my dead mo-
\ sake, come and aid your deso-

Madge."
eft that evening, and on Satur-
beld my darling in my arms.

the whole story in its fearful
I was repeated. Henry Elsdon
wished to marry my ward, but

•she had refbsed him, some time be-
fore her engagement with Newton
Grey. Elsdon's pride was piqued,
and he determined to be revenged.
Then began a system of deceit that
was Machiavelian ; for with subtle
skill he won Grey's friendship, till at
last, in one unguarded moment, he
dared to speak lightly of Madge. In
an instant Grey rose, his face white
with a terrible calm :

" I am in my own rooms, Mr. Els^
don, therefore you are safe ; but you
must feel that each word that you
have uttered shall be retracted, else
there can be but one settlement."

" And, by God 1 thece shall be but
one settlement 1" And Elsdon^s face
glared with hate.

And ^o in the code that teaches
murder — cold, passionless, brutal
murder — they sought refuge ; and
Newton Grey fell, pierced through
the temples.

Sorrows seem truly convoyed on
this ocean of life, this sea of wild
unrest ; for in a few months Mr.
Alan lost his fortune, and, of course,
my ward's wealth was also engulfed
in the great whirlpool of ruin.

A strange suspicion clouded my
heart, and with an intuition of the
truth, I felt that I could single out
the demon who had spread destruc-
tion in this home.'

But with the suavity of deceit, he
subtly turned aside the tide of cen-
sure, so justly his due, and the world
even forgave him for the duel ; for
strange travestied stories floated
through the city. Who gave them
to the public? I felt, I knew that
Henry Elsdon had only added to the
infamy which weighed upon his soul ;
but as yet the avenger had not struck,
the race of hell had not been accom-
plished! . . .

It was the exciting winter of '60—
December, i860! South • Carolina
had torn herself from her sisters^
and Washington was in a ferment

Lifis Charity.

843

*' Ab Crod I I do repent, and if a
thousand years of suffering could
atone for all, I would not shrink from
a single pang. Sister,"' and he turn-
ed and held her hand closer, and
gazed long and anxiously into her half-
averted face. " My God I can it
be ?•* But she turned further into the
shadowy twilight, and her face was
almost hidden. " Sister, I must tell
you, because there is something in
your tone and look, though I cannot
see you well, that brings her back to
me ; so be patient for a little while
and do not leave me yet. In the
long ago I loved, and she whom I
worshipped gave me no return. I
think that circumstances might have
moulded her differently, though my
selfish passions taught me then to
care for little, save what contributed
to my own gratification. Well, I
watched her love for another, and the
devil influenced me ; he stole away my
truth, my love, my honor I I was mad
with jealousy, I was wild with disap-
pointed love, and I swore to be re-
venged. Therefore the schemes I
laid, the deceit I practised ; ay, I
bided well my time. I stole the
friendship of her lover, and poured
my poison into his ears ; but his no-
ble nature shamed me, his trust could
not be shaken ; then — ah ! how well
I remember the evening — I spoke of
her as my heart never believed ; I
lied, wickedly, maliciously lied, upon
her 1 Then his knightly spirit rose,
and he fell by my hand ! I had be-
gun ; the poison was maddening ; I
could not stop, even though murder
barred my path ; so I counselled her
guardian as to investments, and in
one mad moment her fortune crashed
with his.

" Still I tracked her on her mission
of mercy to Washington ; I dogged
her steps when she lefl the couch of
the sick woman whose death agonies
5he had soothed ; I stood near the
door of the wretched hovel, listening

to the sweet tones of her voice that is
haunting me to-night ; and — I hardly
knew what I was doing, I only felt
that there was yet something undone
which might humble her, might place
her at my mercy ; helFs fires raged
in my heart — and, may God forgive
me, but I spoke words to her which
no man should utter and live. But
she escaped me, and was torn from
my grasp, while her pallid face grew
whiter still as she spoke in terror,
• In the name of the cross, forbear 1*

" Since that evening, I have never
seen her face ; but, sister, to-night
all her saintly purity comes back to
shame me, and I feel that the flames
of hell would be less fiery if I could
hear her say, ' I forgive you !' " There
was a brief pause; the twilight of June
shadowed the whitewashed wards,
and the young moon shed a soft
light over the starry heavens ; but
was it a message that flashed from
Our Lady's crown, that lit the pallet
over which the sister leaned? Ay,
the face of Guido's angel, the angel
of the lilies, shone over the dying
man, as the sweet voice whispered,
" Do good to them that hate you,
and pray for them which despitefully
use you."

" Her voice !" he cried. And a sud-
den strength seemed to possess him ;
for, seizing her hand, he pushed back
the black bonnet, and whispered,
" Madge Cecil, dare I pray for your
pardon ?"

" And forgive us our trespasses, as
we forgive those who trespass against
us. Amen." And she gave him her
crucifix, which he pressed to his lips.

** Then let me die in your faiUi ;
for, if its doctrines teach you even
to forgive me, then through the pray*
ers of your church will God grant
mercy to my soul." He fainted in
her arms, and she summoned me.

" Dr. ^ take care of him till my

return."

I had heard it all, but she failed

Tk* Rights of Catholic Womem

84J

lucing the abstract to the con-
^ntiment to work, resolution
lite action.

\renture to suggest something
so, to those of our fair readers
ly be awakened to a desire of
ig their woman's rights by the
of their gifted countrywoman,
ictical, and yet not so difficult,
iing checks for one thousand
, or searching the streets for
tchildren. A society exists in
or making and embroidering
nts and other ornaments for
irs of poor churches and mis-
Why not inaugurate the same
mong the ladies of New York,
benefit, first, of small country
es and chapels in our own
;, and secondarily of similar
es elsewhere ? We cannot ri-
ris by a sudden coup de main
jmplish everything in a day.
is possible to make a begin-
ith one necessary work of cha-
er another, and to bring them
lly to the colossal dimensions
vant and misery and vice have
d without any effort. — Ed.

The Atlantic Monthly of April
ay, 1868, appeared a generous
jh-toned article, entitled "Our
I Catholic Brethren," in which
hor, appreciating the fact that

can lose ground by treating
istice those who differ from
I opinion, frankly recognized
)le struggles of our priesthood
I success with which they have
rowned.

assertion in this article we
jnture to comment upon, mak-
s the occasion for a few sug-
s to the Catholic women of
lited States, whose right to
he labors of Catholic men is
able and incontestable, being
d upon the unvarying teach-
the church.

The author, in speaking of a mis-
sionary bishop whom he had known
and respected as an " absolute gen«
tleman," an "exquisite human be-
ing," in whom all the frailties spring-
ing from self-love had been con-
sumed, leaving the " whole man kind,
serene, urbane, and utterly sincere,",
concludes thus : " A Catholic priest^
indeedy would be much to blame if he
failed to attain a high degree of se^
renitjf, moral refinement, and paternal
dignity;'* because, be it understood,
he has neither family cares nor busi-
ness anxieties to harass him.

Most assuredly true, so far as con-
cerns priests in a Catholic country,
where the ranks of the priesthood
are full ; perhaps true in a purely
missionary country, where the priest,
in his intervals of repose, communes
with his only companions, God and
nature ; absolutely untrue when ap-
plied to a parish priest in the United
States, drained of his spiritual rich-
es all day, and often half the night,
and for relaxation thrown sometimes
upon the companionship of his in-
feriors. It is no uncommon thing to
see a noble priest, at the very centre
and core of life, when powers should
be ripe, strength unbroken, hope and
nerves unshaken, break down, crush-
ed under the weight of work which
should have been divided between
several persons, leaving to each one
work enough to occupy a man of
average capacity, time for study, and
time for the recuperation of his spirit-
ual powers by prayer and medita-
tion.

Now, where is the remedy for this ?
Not in a sufficient number of clergy-
men, because we cannot hope for
such a blessing for many years to
come. Not in a diminution of labor,
thank God, for the domain of the
church is constantly widening, and
souls are clamoring more and more
eagerly for the privileges of religion*.

Th€ Rights of Catholic Women.

847

only knit them more closely to old
friends and to natural claims ; and
this is seldom consistent with much
exterior activity soon after conver-
sion. It is very rarely advisable to
undertake any work of importance
without the advice of a judicious con-
fessoc^ a just appreciation of one's
personal strength and weakness is too
rare a gift to be relied upon as a
right

It is our misfortune in the United
States that the number of communi-
ties is very small in proportion to the
work to be done ; but though a clerg}'-
roan would rather receive assistance
from religious than from any one else,
he would gratefully accept the aid of
women of the world, provided they
were possessed of judgment, tact, and
perseverance.

To take up a charitable enterprise
from love of excitement and lay it
aside just as one's assistance had be-
come valuable, would not be a pro-
ceeding modelled on the actions of
the early Christians.

To make one's way into a public
institution to patients or prisoners in
a manner at variance with the regula-
tions of the establishment, would not
tend to advance the cause of religion.

To foster the whims of the poor
and excite in them false wants, would
add to their sufferings, not lessen them.

All these mistakes may easily be
made by well-meaning persons who
have not prudence. With fidelity,
modesty, and common sense, it is im-
possible to make serious blunders,and
it is possible to do a great deal of
good without the sacrifice of much
time or comfort.

Those who have health and leisure
can work for the church ; those who
are too busy or too ill to undertake
missionary labor can pray for the
church. All who have an hour to
spend or an ave and pater to recite,
or an ache or a pain to offer to Al-

mighty God, can do their share of the
blessed work.

Without questioning the fact that
the highest of all vocations is the call
to a religious life — conceding the
point that the work done by women
has been usually better done by re-
ligious than by women of the world —
we think there is a tendency to deny,
to that obligation resting upon us all
to do the work God marked out for us,
the name of vocation^ unless it leads
us to a life in the community or to
marriage. We venture to predict that
an important share is to be taken in
the work of the church in this coun-
try by women who have neither a
vocation to join a religious order nor
to marry.

There is a correspondence between
the various vocations of religious or-
ders and those of persons living in
the world. Let us read over the
golden record, and decide which
path we are called to follow. There
are the working orders, Sisters of
Charity, of Mercy, of the Good Shep-
herd ; the teaching orders, Ursulines,
Sisters of the Visitation, Ladies of
the Sacred Heart, and that sweetest
of orders, the Sisters of Notre Dame,
whose fame is hidden behind humil-
ity and obedience ; and the contem-
plative orders, on whose prayers hang
the fruit of thousands of energetic
enterprises.

Most of the prisons, work-houses,
and hospitals in the United States
need the influence of judicious wo-
men. As such institutions are al-
most exclusively filled with poor peo-
ple, and as more than half our poor
people are Catholics, more than half
the inmates of asylums, penitenti-
aries, etc., are Catholics ; it is, then,
a matter of justice that Catholic pri-
soners, patients, and paupers should
be under Catholic influences. Obe-
dience to discipline is a principle most
strongly inculcated by the church,

IMS

fnff-CnMtffit Facimk

and no consistent serv^ant of the
church will infringe the smallest reg-
ulation \n any institution to which
he has admission. When this truth
is fully recognized, Catholic ladies
will be allowed to visit freely all the
public establishments in tlie Union,
Let those who wish to do work cor-
responding to that of the working
orders use all ax'ailable opporluni-
ties for alleviating the sufferings and
ameliorating the condition of the
lower classes.

There are hosts of children who
must iearn the catechism ; not after
a parrot-like fashion, such as any
ignorant person can teach it to them,
but in a vital manner, so that the
truth shall be set in their souls like
a je^-el, to be transmitted to future
generations as a precious heritage.
Every well-disposed and intelligent
Catholic child can be sent forth from
his course of instruction in the Sun-
day-school with the fervent determi*
nation to be a missionary in his own
little sphere. Those who emulate the
labors of the teaching orders have not
far to seek for their work.

Tlie Catholic literature o|
Germany, and Italy should 1
ral circulation in Amcriea«.)
the medium of good
Women are especially iittc
translators. Their impre|
and adaptive mtnds make
for tbem to understand anj
thought and adopt hb styl
those who would follow iu
steps of the contem] '
ages, whose leisure 1
to writing for tlie benefit of rcl
study critically their motlicTg
and one other modem langti
thus unlock some of ilie \
foreign liter^^hire to tl)ofl
than t3

But t ^, ndmorctl]
for the present, Wc have
arouse a sense of the impor
the work to be done^ noi to tk
the best method of
it. We have tried to show I
women what arc their rigfc
it to God to awaken in
ambition to claim
those rights.

THE LAST GASP OF THE ANTICATHOLiC FA(

Protestantism and the Protes-
tant denominations jreiay be consi-
dered under two aspects. Under
one aspect, the former is an imperfect
Christianity^ and the latter are socie-
ties professing each a certain form of
this Christianity. As such we respect
them, recognize the Christian and
evangelical truths they retain, honor
the virtue and goodness which are
found among their adherents, and
freely admit their great utility in
many important particulars. We

have no desire to wage a
lemical war upon them,
desire to discuss with tl
ternal spirit the diffcrcfl
us, the causes which keep Xxt
ration, and the means of rc
tion and reunion.

Under the other as
denial of the first princtf
tianity, and the others
tions under the control (
ers whose principal oh}ect ii(
struclion of the chtttch of CI

The Last Gasp of the Anti-Catholic Faction.

849

IS and discipline. Although
r denominations do not
ostile intent toward all dog-
discipline, each one profess-
intain whatever it has select-
constitutive principle out of
e Christian system, yet the
ium and result of their com-
forts against the Catholic
ends to the utter demolition
tianity. This active, anti-
Protestantism in our own
country is principally con-
a comparatively small frac-
ominal Protestants. It is a
thin a wheel, an imperium in
I ring, a faction, very impo-
extremely turbulent. The
juarrels of its component
with each other interfere
y with their unity of action
heir common enemy. Now
I, however, a common senti-
,'ms to awaken in them that
better postpone their private
until they have compassed
united energies the fall of
Such a phenomenon has
I quite recently in the eccle-
heavens. The newspapers
incipal sects have resounded
all for united efforts on the
episcopalians, Presbyterians,
ns, etc., against the progress
itholic Church in the United
Dr. Bellows, who is as rest-
* he were pursued by the Eu-
and who seems to get into a
comfortable frame of mind
jr as he prosecutes his travels,
^er a loud call showing the
r of doing something to pre-
it Protestantism which it has
business of his life to over-
^ith ridicule and contempt
jral papers, false to their
d protestations of hatred
orthodox Protestantism and
y with Catholics, re-echo the
hich is taken up by one and
VOL. VII. — 54

another of the lowing presses in tunii
until each one ^id lachrymahile mu-
git. Dear friends, what is the mat-
ter? If you will permit the citation
of a somewhat trite classical passage,
permit ui to ask, Tantane animis ex-
lestibus irat We have been much
at a loss to divine the immediate ex-
citing cause of such a sudden aggra-
vation of symptoms in our domestic
"sick man." We think, however,
that we have at last discovered that
we are the innocent cause ourselves,^
through a few little harmless tracts,^
which were intended as a poultice, but
have proved, we suppose on account
of the extreme irritability of the pa-
tient's skin, a violent blister. We
made the discovery by reading the
following circular, which we publish
cheerfully, in order to promote as
much as possible that free and lively
discussion which our excellent friends
at the Bible House desire :

(raiTATB.)

Amikicam axd Forbign Christian Union, )

a; Bible House, New Yoric, I

June 17, 186a. )

Mr. Editor :

Dear Sir: We are desirous of
employing, in your journal, the peni
of one of your ablest contributory, im
the fair and thorough discussion of
the recent publications and preten-
sions of the Roman Catholic ChurcK.

You have doubtless seen some of
the popular tracts of the '* Cathc^c
Publication Society." They have
been circulated in all parts of the
country with great assiduity. They are
very ingenious and plausible, and ¥«i}k-
fallacious. It is matter of connnan^
interest to all who love evangelical'
truth that these fallacies shouM* be
promptly and effectively exposed.

We have a proposition to make
which seems to us to be for the mu^
tual advantage both of your enter-
prise and of ours. If you mil send

The tast Gasp of the AnH-Caikaiic

us the address of that one of your
contributors or collaborators whose
papers on this subject will be most
acceptable to you and your readers,
we will make proposals to him for
contributions to yourjournalt we sup-
plying him with a copy of the series
of popular tracts of tlie " Catholic
Publication Society," and such other
documents as he may need, and pay-
ing for his lilerar)' labor at a gene-
rous rate of compensation.

If you shall succeed in introducing
lis to writers on the Roman Catholic
controversy who are learned, accu-
rate, and courteous, and at the same
time lively and effective in their po-
pular style, wc shall hope to continue
and renew an arrangement which
must be for the advantage of all the
parties to it, and of the great cause of
Christian truth.

Yours respect fully^

J, ROMEYN BeRRV,

Leonard W. Bacon,

E. F. llATFlRLn,

Samuel T. Prime,

C^mmiileefin PuNkaihns ef the " American
and FortigM Christian Uni^m^^

Naturally, wc have been on the
alert ever since receiving this interest-
ing circular, expecting a rare treat
from the articles to be furnished by
the learned, courteous, lively, and
well-paid contributors to the press
who must have jumped at once
at this handsome offer. We have
not yet gathered in a very ample col-
lection of choice mar(€aux as the re-
sult of our study of the anti-Catholic
press. We have obtained, however,
a few gleanings which may be indi-
cations of an abundant harvest yet
to come. Here is one from 17t€
Episcopaiian^ which no reader of that
paper will expect to find cither accu-
rate, courteous, or lively, but which,
as comiuunicdting a piece of rare and

recondite information, may fitj
a sample of the '* loirncii *'

♦• It ha* been tuggetted — and, '
not without some reason — Ihit
of ritualism in the IVotcirant
Church may be traced lo the Rv
lie Church itself; in other word
Roman Church, with the view
tng the Episcopal Chardu Hoji
us ftcciet emii>saric3, of the Jc
who, while pretending to be Ep
are really Romanists, &nd whose
is to introduce one Romish novclr
another, until the ^
they^u^ introduced ti|

drawn into the cou.
Church,

" To those who have st«;!*r<! tf
ing policy of the Rom
secret workings ftar age-
tjon will not seem strange *>r
That equally subtle means for
have been used by that ch urc

past no one can doubt who ha

history; and what has tiecn dooe'^
done— or, at least, uicd— again*
**!

"Trenton, N. J., June, iS68**^

The following^ from
lyn Unwn^ if not learned
]y, is at least in a highj
"accurate and courteous*'
most respectful remonsirar
the Audacity of Catholics an j
tng to be so numerous, and
the corner-stane of a
open day on Sunday :

" He that Rulics rwit Crrv 1
CauNTRV.— The Pope of Rome \
this axiom. The Jesuits know it
tidan knows it* They all scfy
ties arc chosea as their ccotr
tion. From these ccnircs Ih
ates through every town
hamlet and district of oar laikd.
ernment like our own* this U
true. The pulsations of life voA ,
our larger cities, hoi'
tics, indicate the con
of our whnlc couni
policy of the Pap^i \
subjects, when em>^>
States, to settle within th

CCSSfil' »iir i-itw'^ Sr.ili

eign
and - -

The Last Gasp of the Anti-Catholic Factiofi,

8SI

dtics. No one with his eyes open has failed
to see this with respect to New York, New
Orleans, St Louis, Chicago, Cincinnati, and
Bufiala The foreign population of these
cities rule thenu They present a majority
of thirty thousand in New York. What
may be their exact proportions in our other
populous dties, the writer has at present no
means of ascertaining. But from the num-
ber, the grandeur, and the costliness of their
cathedrals and educational institutions in
other. dtics — in such as Chicago and Sl
Louis — we should judge that their number
is greater in proportion to their population
than it is in New York. This statement has
reference to the Papists. For the infidel
proportion who come to our shores from
Europe, and who have been driven to infi-
delity by the tyranny and wickedness of Pa
pacy, have no sympathy with that system in
propagating its means of worship. All their
sympathies are with our free institutions.
Their licentiousness and disregard of the
Christian Sabbath are the fruit of their infi-
delity. Even for this the Papal Church is
responsible before Gi)d. But the Papacy, in
its spirit zsiA in its/tf/rV^and in its designs^ is
opposed to our republican government It
is the sworn inveterate enemy to every prin-
dple and policy which favors republicanism.
No bishop, no priest, and no member of the
Papal Church ever has been or ever can be
ft loyal subject of a free government Every
pretence or profession or act which they
avow to the contrary is the necessary out-
growth of wilful deception, hypocrisy, and
fidsehood. Among the masses of her mem-
bers an oath of loyalty may be the result of
Ignorance ; and it may be permitted to re-
main of binding authority so long as it does
not conflict with their first and paramount
obligations with their church. But with the
bishops, the priests, and the Jesuitical hordes
of their hierarchy, an oath of loyalty or of
testimony is of no value as a test of truthful-
ness. Nay, it is often taken as a means of
deception, to accomplish some concealed
purpose. Their fundamental doctrines of
meniai reservation and universal subordina-
Hon to Rome necessarily exclude from their
virtues that of true patriotisnu That this
hierarchy has for some years past been col-
lecting, arranging, and concentrating the
elements of her strength in and around the
dties of the United States, is evident to any
one who has watched its progress. Her
power is abundantly manifest in the influ-
ence which she has exerted in the legislation
of our dties and our states, in the appoint-
ments of many of our highest offices of trust
and power, in the disposition and distribu-

tion of our public diarities, and in the con-
trol of our popular system of education ; and
that the time has come, in their judgment,
when she can, with safety to herself openly
assert her power, can be seen in the popu-
lar tracts, now numbering some thurty-one,
of her religious press, in the public discus-
sions of her periodicsUs, in her politico-reli-
gious organizations, as well as in her open
and defiant Sabbath parades, and other de-
secrations of that blessed day. Let her
have full scope to her power and freedom
as a church, in a legitimate way. Let her
seek to build up her cause as a system of re-
ligion, the same as Protestant churches in
our country. But let her not attempt to
ride rough-shod upon the rights of Protes-
tants by her noisy parades, with drum and
fife and bobterous shouts in front of our
churches upon the Sabbath — ^by her inso-
lent and brutal outrages upon unoffending
Protestants when peaceably pursuing their
avocations. Let her no longer refiise to
listen to the respectfiil remonstrances of
American citizens against such encroach-
ments. Public religious services and the
administration of the Lord's Supper in some
of our churches were almost entirely pre-
vented by- the noise and confusion of the
Papal parade on a late Sabbath. This nui-
sance has been repeated in New York and
Brooklyn in opposition to the respectful but
earnest petition of Protestant laymen and
clergy. On these occasions, several of our
largest streets were piled up with dty pas-
senger-cars, that were forced to stop running
on account of the procession. And what
was all this confusion, all this violation of
law and order, upon the Christian Sabbath
for ? Why, simply that a single Papal con-
gregation might lay the corner-stone of the
church of the 'Immaculate Conception.'
Hundreds of quiet and orderly churches
must be interrupted in their worship, the
rights of large corporations must be tram-
pled under foot, and the stillness of the Sab-
bath be invaded by the drum and fife and
shout of a drunken rabUe, for the sake of a
single Papal congregation I Such occasions
are not without a purpose. They afibrd the
priesthood a fine opportunity of testing the
strength of numbers, of trying the patience
of the Protestant community, of gradually
corrupting their respect for the Christian
Sabbath, and of intimidating politidans with
a show of power. Their design is a politietd
one. There is no religion about it Her
power is broken upon the ' Seven Hills ' of
Italy, and she is trying now to re-establish
it in the metropolis of America. Bat who
dare array himself against her avowed de-

TAe Last Gasp cf the Anii-CaiMic Fatti

tcrminalion to subordinaie all things to her
puTjiosc ? What poiiticiant what party^ of
wb»« partUan newspaper dare oppose the
palitkal system of Papal hierarchy ? It re-
mains for the Protestant clergy of our evan*
gcHcal ilcnoitii nations to uke up the cause
of religious liberty* No one will dare to
speak out if they remain silent. The e^res
of all are toward ihera. They rou*t take the
lead in the conflict with * the man of sin,*
Gm! has thrown the responaibility upon
them. They can, if ihey will, sway both
the religious and political destinies of our
naiii^n. Let no one talk about the danger
or the Ctnatidsm of introducin|r politics into
0<if putpitSL The da)-* of such cowardly
Gonservatiim tre past Let politicians as
well a« Papists, »t whose feet the former
K^w he made to fieel that patriotism is a
ijin virttic, and that its saaed fire is
illvr ;nu! pure onty m the breasts of
1 ^ by an open Bible and a

i If our Protestant ministers

wili fill ihcir duty, the masses of our people
win sec the danger which threatens us. They
wilt unite their strength in a succcsslVil issue
with the YV5trr« of darkness, and our politi'
Cian*. strength of such a combina-

tion, s Ul their sympathy and pa-

tronage It jm X srstcm which, in the garb of
»W* <•»*>*. aims its death-blow at the very root
oC o»ir cirii liberty, C/'

The following is a specimen of the
" U\xly and cfTcctivc " style :

CATUOUCISM.

K tlTLY to JL C» ^ttO(!t^ AKTtCLK IK

Ti» jknAnmc MovrraiY.

. . _ . > ■• fVii|>e€lnsi}y present*

•d Ml J. a fMoA wd III Mr CaikdSc
We«fam» ^dwir Ivsiktf aai ilia4i Cteta
W.GillKfft.

» Aai |eM OHM wl ifiabe Mto Ihc^
■y^ M p mm w m giTeKOBtoflK to lK«fBt
aiitowtli.^-'Milthew xmfi. fH

*" Hit ii ilie ^iifv «Wcii was M It Mi^H

iCiWomer. IMlMr k tte* «dbtfte to
iirilNf^li mm

Mn. J. 0» Parton : DrAH Sit
myself you will excuse me for i
have taken in addressing you thtt
has been called for by reading
cation in Th^ Atlantic Monthly^ \
respecting our Catholic brethren

I have neither time
half I want to, only to menti
And first, you say there is \
tween Catholics and Yt<
mode of praying ; you say a]
his face in his hands, but Cjl
though they kneel, but the
Dear sir, do you not know \
Catholic brethren worshif
God has forbidden. Tg
commandment: "Thousk
thee any graven image, or i
anything that is in hearen i
in the earth beneath,*' eto,!
not bow down thyself to ill
them : for I the Ijord thy y
God, visit tnic the tniqn'
upon the diildrcQ unto the 1
generation of them tliat 1
ing mercy unto thou
me, and keep my <
shalt not Uke the nmc «l
God in vain; iM^the Loffdl
gutUless that lafeetli Ills i
member liic Sokfaiib^^
Sis days iWl Ibo
work^" etc Tiki yaw
the commsndmenls*

Deir aif , oui yM %m^ \
GttMlebrettoMtl
mewnf Tanitot^Fbiti
jan\ aecoM ctiiptrf^
tto^aitK 1 toMw toav i

illJtor, Md

\ Newwal

The «est tofMc to ih«
mibo<:L $m^ wlsat to i

Tht Last Gasp of the Anti-Catholic Faction.

853

Christ Jesus." — 2 Timothy iii. 1 5. We read
also, in the sixteenth verse, 'M// Scripture
U given by inspiration of God, and is profit-
able for doctrine, for reproof, for correction,
for instruction in righteousness."

What said Jesus? "Search the Scrip-
tures ; for in them ye think ye have eternal
life: and they are they which testify of
me." — John v. 39.

You say the children in the Sabbath-
school sing to the Virgin Mary the follow-
ing sUnza, " O Mary I Mother," etc. Dear
sir, who is this Mother Mary ? Let Christ
answer. Turn to Matthew xii. 50 : ** For
whosoever shall do the will of my Father
which is in heaven, the same is my brother,
and sister, and mother. " Read also in Mark
liL 35 ; also Luke vilL 21.

You quote the prayer that the superin-
tendent uttered, in Latin. How edifying that
must have been to the children, especially
when he used the word immaculate Host I
Could the children have understood that
word, they would have blushed.

You give us a glowing description of the
different cathedrals, and how they are oc-
cupied. Now, my dear sir, let me tell you,
the best prayer-meeting that I ever enjoyed
was in a log-cabin. Read St John iv. 23,
S4. Jesus told the woman of Samaria that
the hour had now come "when the true
worshippers shall worship the Father in
spirit and in truth ; for the Father seeketh
such to worship him. God is a Spirit:
and they that worship him must worship
him in spirit and in truth." Christ told the
woman of Samaria she need not go up into
tfie mountains nor to Jerusalem to worship
the Father, but anywhere, in the log-cabin
ir in your house, if you worship God in
spirit

The next topic is, you say : " Our Catholic
brethren are very candid, and are as truly
and entirely convinced of the truth of their
leligion as any Protestant"

I am now almost seventy-three years of
age, and have labored among our Catholic
brethren more than forty years. I have
seen many of them happily converted, bom
^gmn ; as Christ told Nicodemus, told him
lepeatedly, " Except a man be bom again, he
could not enter heaven." — ^John iii. Yes, I
have seen themputofthe old man with all his

(deeds and put on Christ ; yes, his very coun-
ienance was changed ; yes, he will not visit
\ Ae Dutch gardens or saloons on the Sab-
> bath. Said a com>ertcd Roman Catholic lady
to me, the other day : " I have perfect peace
now. When I belonged to the Roman Ca-
tholic Church, I was in constant misery."
Said a converted Catholic man, aged sixty-

six years: "I never took any comfort be-
fore." I asked him if he was ready to die.
He said, « Kr/." I asked him how he knew.
Putting his hand on his breast, he said,
**Spirit tell me so.** So Christ says his Spirit
shall enlighten every man that cometh into
the world.

In all my conversation with our Catholic
brethren, I have never found the first one
that could say with St Paul : " I long to be
absent from the body that I might be
present with the Lord, that I might be
clothed upon with another body like unto
his."

Our Catholic brethren are taught that
there is 2, purgatory. I wonder if St Paul
had to go there first I have often asked
our Catholic brethren where the penitetU
thief went to, that was crucified with Christy
when Christ said to him, ** To-day shalt thou
be with me in paradise."

If there is a purgatory where we have to
go to atone for our sins, Christ must have
suffered in vain, though he cried on the
cross, *' It is finished."

I have seen Catholics die in despair. I
had one in my employ as a sailor on the
North River. He caught a severe cold ; it
ran him into a quick consiunption. I asked
him if he would like to have me read the
Bible to him. He said. No ; he said the priest
had forbidden him to read the Bible or
hear it read. As he was failing very fast, I
*.yent in again and asked him if he wished me
to read to him in the Bible. He said. No, but
wished I would go and call the priest I did
so, and after the priest went away, I went
into his room and asked him if he was hap-
py. He answered, No, and cried bitterly, and
said, **/am going to hell I I am going to
hell IP* and died in a few minutes.
. You next speak of young men that were
studying for the ministry ; you say they study
Latin, Greek, and theology. Dear sir, what
is theology ? If I understand it, it is a Science
of God. How can they study theology with-
out the Bible, the word of God ? They are not
allowed the Bible, so a converted Roman
Catholic priest published to the world, at
least he said that there was not more than
one in twenty that ever saw a Bible.

You say the Catholic Church is getting
very rich. I do not doubt it Oh ! how I pity
the poor Catholic brethren. Sec how they
toil and work to support the priest and the
nunneries, and to build meeting-houses to
please the eye and charm the weak minded.
And what do ihty get for all this 7 Let echo
answer. Look at our poor-houses. Every
winter thousands have to go to our poor-
houses to be taken care of by our Protestant

«S4

The Last Gasp of the

churches. Here in our city many would have
jKrishcd this Ust winteri bad not our po<jr-
masicr fed them*

Yoa next give us a history of a woivdcrfal
miracle that was performed in Washington
in 1S14. Dear sir» do you think any Protes-
tant with one eye, and that halfopcn, can be
tnadc io believe such nimstme ? I iycm wish to
«ee miracles wrought in the nineteenth cenlu*
n%ju3t give the BOfU to our Catholic brethren,
then you may sec greater miroiUs p^J^rmed
than you speak of; for to see a man that is
dead in tin chang^ed to a spiritual man, made
alh!( in Christ, is a miracle.

Our Catholic brethren are taught that
Ihcir church was thc^r/Zc^wri-A. Let me in-
form you that there was no Roman Catholic
church on the earth for three hundred years
after the death of the apostles. Permit me
to quote a few passages from the word of
God. 2 Thessalonians ii. 3, 4 : " I^t no
man deceive you by any means : for that
day shall not come, except there come a
fall'mg inway firsts and that man of sin be
reveal edi the son of perdition ; who oppo»-
Cth and exalteth himself alK)vc all that is
called God, or that is worshipped ; so that
he as God sitteth in the temple of God,
showing himself that he is God." Could an
angel from heaven portray the character of
the pope in any plainer language ?

t Timothy iv. 1-5 ; '* Now the Spirit speak-
cth expressly, that in the ttUter times
some shall depart from the faith, givinj;
heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of
dcvU<i ; speaking lies in hypocrisy ; having
their conscience seared with a hot iron ; for-
biitding to marry, and commanding to al>*
%t^\\\/rffm mAffj^ whicli God hath created to
be recci%'cd with thanksgiving of them which
believe and know the truth. For every
creature of God is good, and nothing to be
refused, if it be received with thanksf^iving :
for it is sanctified by the word of God and
prayer,**

Paul speaks of risiting the churches;
that is to say, little bands of Christiam. We
read in the Acts of the Apostles xv, 3 :
*' And being brought on our way by the
church ;'* that is to say, a few Christians.
Read, also, xvi. 5 : ** Likewise ^vw/ the
church that is in their house,** etc.

You will now turn to Revelation xiir. 16-
iS i •• And he causeth all. both small and
great, rich and poort/r^^r and Undt to receive
a mark in their Hghi hand, or in their fore-
heids,** Now, every true Catholic receives
the sign of the cross in his forehead every
Ash- Wednesday ; every priest, when he U
ordained ht the ministry, ^receives the mark
of die croM in his right band.

Frai

The Last Gtup cf tlu Anti-Catholic Faction.

855

of the will of the flesh, nor of the
in, but of God."— John L 13.
U us that in this easy and pleasant
Datholic brethren join the church.
, does joining a church make a
ist-like? Christ says i "If ye have
, ye are mine ; if ye have not my
are none of mine." — Romans viii. 9.
: whole chapter; it contains the
n of salvation.

itholic brethren are taught that the
ary was bom immaculate ! What
ly ! And also that the church is
' When Christ asked Peter and
)lcs, "Whom say ye that I am?"
swered and said, "Thou art the
ic Son of the living God." Upon
owledgment or confession of Peter,
ist was the son of the living God,
id, " I will build my church " — not
er, as the pope claims,
ly our Catholic brethren are not
to be found praying. Please turn
cth chapter of Matthew, and read
verse, which is as follows : " But
en thou prayest, enter into thy
id when thou hast shut thy door,
ly Father which is in secret; and
IT which seeth in secret shall re-
; openly."

y the superintendent of the Catho*
th-school you visited told you that
sited many of the Protestant Sab-
K>ls and had copied after thenu
where he found a Protestant Sab-
)ol without the Bible I
y that the Catholics expect to rule
ountry, and that all Protestant
will be in their Sabbath-schools,
jay, " Let God be true, but every
ir." — Romans iii. 4. St Paul has
:d that the time shall soon come
p Sword of the Spirit shall de-
Man of Situ

are thousands of our Catholic
in America that are sick of the
religion, and will soon leave it

When I was engaged in teaching a Sab«
bath-school of Catholic children, a father
and mother called on me and wanted to put
their children in my school. I said, " Your
priest will not allow you to do so." They said
they did not care anything about their priest ;
they had been brought up in ignorance; they
did not want their children brought up so.

You cannot tell us of a Sabbath-school
in all Italy, or in any other country where
the Roman Catholics rule, except those
that have been established by Protestants.

You tell us about Roman Catholic bene-
volent societies. Where, o^ I where is there
an asylum for the blind and deaf and duml^
that they may learn to read the word of
God, and get a knowledge of our Savioor
Christ Jesus, and learn the way to heaven ?
You cannot show one in any Catholic
country.

Permit me to give you another graphic
picture from the Bible, giving a picture of
the priests' dresses. Please turn to Reye^
lation xvii. 4, 5 : " And the woman was
arrayed in purple and scarlet color, and
decked with gold and precious stones and
pearls, having a golden cup in her hand,**
etc

Now, all this I have seen in the great
cathedral in Montreal. I have seen our
Catholic priests and brethren bowing doum
to graven images for several minutes.

Mr. J. G. Parton, dear sir, I sincerely
pray that you will, after reading this com-
munication, repent, (not do penance,) and
turn to the Lord, and not be under the ne-
cessity of calling upon the rocks and moun-
tains to fall on you and hide you from the
face of the Lamb. (Revelation vl 16.) Do
read, also, verse 17 : " For the great day of
his wrath is come ; and who shall be able
to stand?" Do read this communication
carefully, and pray that it may be blessed to
your salvation.

No more at present, and I remain your
friend in Christ,

Charles W. Gilbert.

New Publications.

857

since theiL Ah me I how much has
tied I Of that g^oodly company, what
s and heroines have vanished from the
! Thrones have toppled, dynasties
arumbled, institutions that seemed fiist-
1 in the everlasting hills have wither-
ay. But the church that was present
and was judged moribund by transcen-
l zeal, and rattled so ominously in
pudental ears, is present still.
; was finally resolved to start a journal
should represent the ideas which had
y influenced the association already
ig to dissolution. How to procure
;quisite funds was a question of some
ilty, seeing how hardly philosophic and
lercial speculation conspire. An ap-
ras made. Would Mammon have the
less to aid an enterprise whose spirit
cd his methods and imperilled his as-

The prudent God disclaimed the im-
verdure ; and the organ of American
icendentalism, with no pecuniary basis,
litted to the chance and gratuitous ef-
md editing of friends, if intellectually
piritually prosperous, had no statistical
ss. It struggled, through four years,
Jl the difficulties of eleemosynary jour-
1 ; and then, significantly enough, with
d concerning the * Millennial Church,'
1 its last breath, and gave up the ghosL
e the four volumes among the choicest
ires of my library. They contain some
lerson's, of Theodore Parker's, of Mar-
Fuller's, of Thoreau's best things ; not
eak of writers less absolute and less
n.

teanwhile the association, if so it could
"Bed, had gradually dissolved. Some
i members turned papists — I should
>ught refuge in the bosom of the Catho-
lUrch. A few of the preachers pursued
calling, and perhaps have contributed
vhat to libersilize and enlarge the theo-
>f their day. Some have slipped their
ngs on this bank and shoal of time.
;ank beneath the wave, whose queenly
bad no peer among the women of this

Of one

' A stranee and distant mould
Wraps the mortal relics cold.*

ly, a fragment of this strangely com-
led body lodged in a neighboring town,
>ecame the nucleus of an agricultural
arise in which the harvest truly was
lenteous, and the competent laborers
and of which, the root being rotten-
the blossoms soon went up as dust."

•. Vickers may thank the Archbi-
of Cincinnati for having given his
boyish lucubrations a little momen-

tary notoriety, which they never could
have acquired by their own merit They
are crude, ill-mannered, replete with
commonplace, effete, and senseless vi-
tuperations of all that is venerable in
Catholicity and Christianity, and betray
an ignorance of the subjects treated of
which makes them unworthy of any se-
rious attention. The point which the
discussion chiefly turns upon is " free-
dom of thought" If Mr. Vickers is
a disciple of the German pantheistic
school, as we suppose him to be, he
is not in a condition to maintain that
there is any such thing as thought or
freedom. We intend to give abundant
proof of this assertion, in a series of ar-
ticles, to be published in our Magazine,
on Pantheism, in which we shall show,
to the satisfaction of any person capable
of metaphysical reasoning, that panthe-
ism destroys the possibility of thought,
in the true sense of the word, as the in-
tellection of real, objective truth. Pan-
theism destro3rs, also, all possibility of
freedom by reducing all phenomena to
a fatal, invincible necessity. A panthe-
ist is bound to accept all the persecu-
tions of the middle ages, all the defini-
tions of the church, and the encyclical
of the pope, as manifestations of God.
Our godlike friends are too much like
the wife of the Connecticut corporal,
who replied to the query of her in-
nocent offspring, " O ma ! are we all
corporals now ?" with the haughty re-
joinder, " No, indeed ! only your pa
and /." Mr. Vickers and the mem-
bers of the free-thinking coterie are not
the only participators in the universal
deity. If Mr. Vickers's brilliant exposi-
tion of the doctrine of the immaculate
conception was a divine inspiration.
Archbishop Purcell was equally moved
by divine inspiration to the paternal
castigation which he administers to his
young and somewhat forward fellow-ce-
lestiaX In fact, Mr. Vickers, the arch-
bishop, the book containing their con-
troversy, The Catholic World, our-
selves, our readers, St Thomas, Torque-
mada, Luther, Heidelberg University,
and the Jesuits, are all one thing, or one
nothing; a Seyn^ or a Werden, or a
Nkhtseyn; all bubbles on the fathom-
less ocean of infinite — nonsense. 1 1 is a
wonder that Mr. Vickers lays so much

858

N€W PubUeaiions.

to heart,, and makes such a serious
business out of that which has no reali-
ty. A nephew of the great German
philosopher, Hc^el, who was also a fa-
vorite pupil of Feuerbach, and who is
now a devout Catholic, told us, some
time ago, that he asked Feuerbach why
philosophy was making no progress,
but seemed to be at a stand-still. The
lallcr replied, that they had already
proved by philosophy the nothingness
of ever)'thing, and it was, therefore, use-
less to push philosophy any further, add-
ing, that it was time to go back to com-
mon sense. Such is the end of that
lawless, intellectual activity which Mr.
Vickers calls "free thought'* It is like
a head of steam that bursts its boiler,
and is then dispersed in the circumam-
bient atmosphere*

Memoirs ako Letters of Jennie C
White— Del Bal. By her mother,
Rhoda E. White, i vol, royal 8vo,
pp, 363. Boston: Patrick Donahoe.
S&68.

We must presage our notice of this
interesting book, by saying we have a
dislike to memoirs written by fond and
partial friends. Lives of the saints we
love to read, but our digestion was early
impaired by the memoirs of good chil-
dren (who all died young) with which
we were fed for Sunday fbod^ and wc
have latterly been in the bad habit of
turning away from a book labelled^ Me-
moirs o/y etc.

However, we read Jcnnic^s life with in-
terest; and it is a beautiful story, giving
to the reader a delightful insight into a
truly Catholic family, where the breath
of piety permeates the daily walk of
every member, mingling with and
heightening the light-hearted pleasures
peculiar to the seasons of childhood and
youth. The tale of her courtship and
marriage is told witli a sweet and win-
ning grace, which charms us by its nat-
uralness. Quite unlike the prevailing
spirit and sentiment of ** Young Ameri-
ca** is the history of the prompt obedi-
ence to the mandate of parentaJ author-
ity, in giving up iheir engagement The
accepted lover, a resident of Santiago^
New Granada, ha^i promised his aged
filth er not to forsake his own country,
And Jennie's £itUer could not give his

' you
panS

consenni
that farJi
gle, they \
leased frot
influence
mother Tt\
Contrary
can girls v
nic's marri
one. Th
both
faith,
faith,
ness in 1
happy you
circle
Jennie \
a com pa
try distn
churches c
us a glowi
ing spiifl
by landi|
l»er desttn
and we CO
why sikB
intcllig^
whom hei
have prow
way of^
was theS
attracted n
by her bg
her largfl
her honOT
childlike %
giving us
heartaches
herself I
appears^
be gay,j
ever>* pM
ing.'
nada at \
erals,*^
ascendant,
ligious libi
first acts n
gious conn
upon the n
es, banishi
took an oal
to be Cathc
himself po
agovernnu
DO conoec

New Publicaiu

cle for the twenty-third of their Consti-
tution :

*^ In order to sustain the national sov-
lereignty and to maintain public peace
and security, the national government,
and in some cases the state government,
shall exercise the right of supreme in-
spection over all religious worships, as
the law shall determine."

This is a law of liberty very like those
the English Catholics enjoyed under
Queen Elizabeth.

Mrs. Del Bal exerted herself to give
the press at the North the true state of
the case with regard to this matter, since
the public papers have loudly lauded
Mosquera and his government How
£ur she succeeded in influencing minds
that swallow eagerly anything called
*' liberal," we are not told. Our friend
Jennie was loyal to her heart's core, and
never ceased to call herself and her
husband American citizens ; and her
thorough celebration of the ''glorious
Fourth" was a complete success. Ame-
rican thrift and industry carried her
through what would have been impossi-
ble to a New Granadian.

But it is Jennie's almost superhuman
efforts to revive the faith in the land of
her adoption which excite our wonder
and admiration, even more than the ten-
der breathings of her woman's heart, se-
parated for ever from the earliest loved.
She had everything to struggle against
in her work; "deplorable ignorance
among the lower classes, and the falling
away from £iith and duty in the educa-
ted ;" and this in a land once hallowed
by the daily sacrifice. Well might she call
the country "God forsaken," when those
who should have cared for the sheep
became themselves grievous wolves de-
vouring God's heritage. The secret of
the country's desolation we may read in
this sentence :

" It is a well-known fact to Protestant
travellers and a wound in the heart of
the Catholic world, that the Catholic
priesthood in this part of the world and
in the West India Islands, scandalize
the faithful. Why are they permitted to
remain in the church ? is asked often by
Protestant and Catholic. Because they
are sustained by a government which
will not acknowledge papal authority ;
and if the archbishop were to remove

them to-mo]
be reinstated
these scandals."

But we turn from this sad picture to
our young friend. Working with all the
ardor of a soul given to God, filled with
the love of Christ, her prayers and la-
bors brought forth abundant and imme-
diate fruits ; but not till that day when
the Great Master shall make up his
jewels will it be known how many were
brought back to faith and duty by her
efforts. The missionary spirit pervaded
all her life, and we may believe that love
for souls, in part, led her to give her con-
sent to so sad and final a parting from
her early home ; for she laid her plans
for these poor, neglected people before
she left her father's roof. She found
some pious, devoted women in Santia-
go, (where are they not found ?) and she
gave them work to do. Everything
prospered in her hands : Sunday-schools,
altar societies, associations of the Sa-
cred Heart ; and at last, through her in-
strumentality, the laws were repealed
that closed the churches, the Te Deum
was sung, the sanctuary lamp was re-
lighted, and 'la nina Jennie' was ac-
knowledged, by the grateful people, as
a public blessing God sent.

It is extremely touching to mark how,
amid the constant terror of revolution,
the wearing care of churches, hospitals,
Sunday-schools, altar societies, planta-
tions, and housekeeping, with a retinue
of easy-going, lazy servants, she turns
to entertain a dear friend with tales of
her beloved parents, recalling the happy
and united life at home, and then runs
to console these absent ones by telling
them, in her letters, with the arUessness
of a child, that her husband must be
good, since she is so happy with him,
away from all she loved before ! Only
four years was she permitted to cheer
the heart of her fond husband — only
four years to lead the life of a devoted
missionary in that desolate vineyard.
The snapping of the chain by death that
bound that household ; the departure of
her noble father — we may well believe —
coming upon a heart filled with care for
the souls about her, lying in worse than
heathen darkness, hastened her own
death.

As we close the volume, we can not

/
/

«6o

Ntw PuklkaiwHS,

mciiim for her nor for her dear family ;
it is a bles&ed privilege to have such a
friend in heave lu

** Life ti emTy hriqhl w>icti *t\ yTf^rtt^^i\\

1. .

No, we mourn for Santiago, and pray our
dear Lord to compassionate a country
80 piteously torn by revolutions, and
abandoned by those who should be first
to hear the cry that comes over the land
to all Catholics, " Send us priests who
have an apostolic spirit, good judgment,
and Uct r'

The publisher's portion of the work
is well done. It is well printed on 5ne
paper, and the binding is in keeping
with the rest of the book. It is, in fact,
the handsomest book Mr. Donahoe ever
published, and we are glad to see so
great an improvement iu his book-nuk-
iag.

The Woman Blessed by all Gene-
KATioNs; OR, Mary thr Object
OF Veneratio!^, Confiuence, axd
I MIT ATI ontoallChristians, By
the Rev. Raphael Melia, D»D. Lon-
don: Longmans, Green & Co. 1868.
For sale at The Catholic Publication
House, New York,

Dr» Melia is an Italian priest, resid-
ing in London ; a man of solid learn-
ing, great xeal for the conversion of
Protestants, and possessing a compe-
tent knowledge of the English language.
His work is a comprehensive treatise on
the dignity and office of the Blessed
Virgin, and the reasons for the venera-
tion and invocation of Mary practised
in die church ; to which is added a de-
votional treatise on the imitation of her

virtueSr The author goes _
♦into the arguments froni ^cHptH
dition* reason, theology, and antl
His style is lively, popular, and •<
what diffuse, so that his leami^tj
brought to the level of t"hc unde ~
ing of ordinary readers, and hi^
mcnts made plain by ample and 1
explanations. The book is
trated \>y fac-simiUt from ;
of art. It is a treasury of 1
the charming and delightfii
which it treats, and both Cd
Protestants who wish to gait
solid inforniationrespectiogl
devotion to Mar)% with ea*
sure to themselves, will find
to be the very one they arc Jn \
The author is entitled to
all English-speaking Catli
labor of love, and we trust I
lent work may be the means j
ing and diffusing, both in
America, that solid and fen*<
to the Blessed Mother of
both the poetry and an tnteg
the practical piety of our rell

We have just received firom
Murphy & Co., Baltimore, Tk
ti9id Decrets of tht Sict^nd
Councii of Baltimore, THE
Lie World, for August, contsii
elaborate article on this wnrk, '
from an advance copy kindly J
by Mr. Murphy. It is one
say anything more with
contents, except to reiterate
111 en said as to its e-xlcrnaJ
It is a handsome volume, fii
on good paper, and bound I
styles and in the best manni
the art of binding, and is a 1
publisher It is for sale at the ^
Publication House, New Yc

i:^