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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

¥
h

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

General Literature and Sqence.

VOL. VIII.

OCTOBER, 1868, TO MARCH, 1869.

NEW YORK:

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

126 Nassau Street

1869.

660556

JOHM ▲. OIAT A OEBW,

nmiwn,
t6 AKP l8 JACOB SntKBT, NKW YOKIC.

CONTENTS.

CoDcge in Rome, The, 560.
Letter from the Pope, 721,
for Husbands, 824.

St. Satnrnin, The, 101.

he Faith and Poetry of the, 123.

ta Peoi>Ie and its Poems, 598.

the Fotme, The, 145.
and Pantheism, x8x, 360, 565, 657, 8x1.
, Statue c{, aoo.
Migress ? Shall we have a, 334.
Customs, 346.
f New York, The, 379.
. Creative Genius of, 406.
Gifts, 546.

Jiieri, 313.

Catholic View of, 686.
f*% Homer, 74a

lilei, 321, 433.

Ime and our own. The, 380.

iZatholicity, The Creative, 406.

invention of the Protestant Episcopal

461.

Nudl, The Approaching, 796.

r. Legend oC 68.

rle.Tbe,i37.

;, Rev. P^ Discourse ot, 188.

1.389.

^-BraDdua, ps, 663, 7S4.

nU, Teaching of Statistics concerning, 643.

latd, by Earl Derby, 740.

A Legend for, 824.

[artyrs, 838.

ad the Era of the Reformation, 56.

Massacre of St. Bartholomew, u
Maria von Mdrl, 33.
Marcel, The Story at, a54, 347. 494-
Middle Ages, Ignorance of the, 59>>

Out of the Depths have I cried, 453*
O'ReUly's Irish Martyrs, 838.

PhiIo«>phy and Sdence, The Preteat DispatM in, aa^.

Purgatory, Treatise on, a66.

Protesunt Episcopal Church, General Convention

o^ 46t.
Protestantism a Failure, 503.
Pope Pins IX., Letter Apostolic ot, xfi.
"Poor Mara 1" 637.
Porter's Human Intellect, 671, 767.
Progress of Nations, Seaman's, 734.

Religion Medically Considered, 1x6.

Rings, X39.

Right Path found through the Great Snow, The, 370.

Ritualism, The Future at, 8a8.

St Bartholomew, Massacre of; x.

Sisters of the Poor, The Little, xio.

School'Room, In the, 133.

SchafTs Church History, 4x7.

Scientific and Revealed Truth, The Unity at, 485.

Sun, Eclipse of, in 1868, 697.

Seaman's Progress of Nations, 734.

St. Michael the Hermit, The Lqcend of, 853.

The Invasion, 18, 163, 30X, 473, 619^ 746.

Talleyrand, 8&

The Little Sisters of the Poor, xxow

The Faith and Poetry of the Breton^ 133.

Tnscvny, Glimpses at, 196, 31&

The Great Snow, The Right Path foond throvgh, 37a

The Poor? Who shall Uke care of; 703, 734.

The Iliad of Homer, 740.

Who shall take care of oar Sick ? 43.
Who shall take care of the Poor? 703, 734.

Ximenes, Cardinal, 577.

POETRY.

(, 333.

iscription on, 636.

fontakmbeit, 138.
47«-

inet from yUa Nttava cX, 545.

64X.
dis, 853.

s, 187.

Indian Summer, 405.

Lines, 745.

Mine Enemy, 73.

Penitence, 431.

Primrose, The Evenhig, 531.

Pius IX., The Volunteers for, 655.

Summer Shower, A, 40.

The Silent Qock, 733.

Contents.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Alton Pvk, 143.
A Pqrche of To-day, 143.
A Bediet, Life of; 428.
Asroodeus in New York« 429.
A Book about Dominies, 719.
A Few Friends, 856.

Bamngtoo's Sketches of his own Times, 287.
Bepmiing Gennan, 574.
Begmner's French, 576^
Biarnob*s Theoretical French, 718.
Bottala, ReY. Paul, on the Pope, 285.

Canlinals, Lives of the English, 139.
Cradle Lands, 42a.
Criminal Abortion, 573
CharUe Bell, 860.

Dalpuraa on the Holy Commonioo, 43a

EanUcrt or Essays on Pdf teness, aSS.
Emmet, Life and Times off 430*

Father Clrrdand, Z4>.

Fay's Ootlmes of Geography, 4^.

Gropmgs after Troth, 4^
Gayasv<'a Philip IL of Spam, 570.
Greeley's Rccollectioos, 571.
Gajnsvi's History of Looisana, 716.
Giay^ Botany, 86a

Heriierf s Cradle Lands, 4»-
Hebrew Grammar, New, 426.
Historical Gaxetteer of Vermont, 428.
Htipkitts's Law of Love, 858.
Ha)-d«i's Light on Last Things, 858.

Illustrated Family Almanac, 57a.

Kelly's Dissertations on Irish Church History, 856.

i^ogic for Young Ladies, 143.
Leaf and FknMT Pictures, a86.
Lifo of Blessed Spinola, 859-

Mflhihach's Goethe and Schiller, 141.
Modem Women, 143.

Mrs. Sadlier*s MacCarthy More, 288.
Mignon, 288.

Moore's Poetical Works, 431.
Moore's Memoir of Sheridan, 431.
Mark's Lessons in Geometry, 431.

New Adam, The, 427.
Newman's Verses, 574.
New Illustrated History of Ireland, 720.

O'Leary, Rev. Arthur, Works of, 287.
O'Sbea's Juvenile Library, 573.

Plain Talk about ProtesUntism, a88.
Plain Chant, A Grammar oi; 857.

Roman MartyTology» The, 43a
Rural Poems, 573.
Report of New York University, 575.
Robertson's Lectures on Buriie, 717.

Svmbolism, by Moehler, 285.
Sunday-School Library, Illustrated, t86.
Shier s Sketches of the Irish Bar, 087.
Sydnie Adriance, 430.

South America, A Thousand Miles across, 431.
Synodus Dioecesana Baltimorensis, 43a.
St John's Knowledge and Love of God, 573-
Sadlier's Ahnanac, 718.

The Worics of Bums, Scott, MQton, etc, 14*

l-he Lily of the Valley, 287.

The Bird, 4a5<

Tablets, 426.

The Two Women, 43a.

Taine's Ideal of Art, 572.

I1ie Little Gipsy, 574.

Tobacco and Akohol. 719.

The Conscript, 859.

Willson's Histories, 141*
Webster's Dictionaries, 144*
Winninger, Rev. F. X., 00 the Pope, a8s.

Lander's Outlines of Composition, 859-

f\THOLIC WORLD.

VOL. VIIL, No. 43— OCTOBER, 1868.

»f ASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW— ITS ORIGIN AND
CHARACTER.*

historical events have been
ersistently used in arguments
the Catholic Church than the
xe of Admiral Coligny, and a
lumber of Protestant nobles
opie, at Paris, on St. Bartho-
$ day, 1572, by orders ema-
from the court.

ited from the religious wars in
it is but one of the darkest
es, this affair has been set for-
5 an independent act — a deli-
scheme of the Catholic party
ice — king, nobles, and clergy
rtinguish Protestantism at a
•low. The numbers of the vic-
ve been exaggerated to an ex-
ompatible with all contempo-
tistics of population ; and the
"e of St Bartholomew has
:en transmitted, as if by a
f distorting mirrors, from the
ets of the time to the his-

rassacrtefSt. BartMcmrw: ^rtctdeJby
»/ Ou Rtligiotu Wart in tk* Reign if
X. By Henry White. London: John
1868. «To» pp. XTiil-505.
^•rtklUmy^ us Origitut, j#« Vrai Cartw
iuiteK Par Geoq^e Gandy. Rtvm tUt
HiMt0riqm$, Tome ler, pp. 11-91, 3*-39»'
VOL. VIIJ — /

tories, sermons, periodicals, and
school-books of our days, each re-
flection but a distortion di the last,
and so exceeding it in unreality that
at length truth had become utterly
hopeless.

In fact, we might as well expect
to have Bibles throw out the long-
sanctioned misprint of "strain at a
gnat," and print, correctly, "strain
out a gnat," or omit the intrusive
words at the end of the Lord's Pray-
er, which all Protestant Biblical
scholars admit to be spurious, as
to expect popular accounts of St.
Bartholomew's day to come down
to what is really certain and au-
thentic.

Even among writers of a higher
stamp, there seemed to be a disposi-
tion to avoid research that would
break the charm. Historical scho-
lars made little effort to free the sub-
ject from the mists and fables with
which it has been encompassed, and
set down only well-attested facts with
authorities to sustain them. It is,
therefore, with no less surprise than
gratification that we find in lYit t^

The Massacre of St, Bartholomew,

cent work of Henry White a labori-
ous and thorough examination of the
evidence still extant as to the origi-
nators of the dark deed, their mo-
tives and object, the extent of the
slaughter, and the reasons assigned
at the moment and subsequently.
It is one of those subjects in which
no work will be accepted entirely by
readers of an opposite faith, inas-
much as it is almost impossible to
avoid drawing inferences, and as-
cribing motives for acts, to real or
supposed modes of thought in the
religious body to which the actors
belonged.

"Respecting the massacre of St.
Bartholomew there are also two theo-
rfes. Some contend that it was the
result of a long-premeditated plot;
and this view was so ably maintained
by John Allen, in the Edinburgh Re-
vkWy (vol. xliv. — 1826,) that nothing
further was left to be said on the
subject Others are of opinion that
it was the accidental result of a mo-
mentary spasm of mingled terror and
lanaticism, caused by the unsuccess-
ful attempt to murder Coligny. This
theory has been supported by Rankc,
in a review of Capefigue's Histoire
de ia jRSforme ; bySoldan; byBaum,
in h\%LifeofBeza; and by Coquerel,
in the Revue Thioiogique^ in 1859."

Such is White's statement of the
position of the question ; and his
work has been justly styled "able
and unpretentious.*'

In France, the anti-Christian writ-
ers of the last century — ^Voltaire and
his school — ^were all loud in denun-
ciation of the affair, and painted it
in its worst colors. It was too good
a weapon, in their war against reli-
gion, to be easily laid down \ and it
was made to do such good service
that later Catholic apologists have
till recently scarcely ventured on any
examination of the question that
would seem at all Oavorable. The

discussion by Gandy i
and research, as well i
ness of principle, by far
view of the subject. Yc
historical argument, the f
times destroyed by the
comparatively weak anc
authorities.

In English, the best C
on St. Bartholomew was
Lingard.

Some of his positioi
well taken, and do not
confronted with author!
forward by later researc
essay compelled a real h
tigation by subsequent
has led, indirectly at 1
work of Mr. White.

This writer says, not
200) : " It is easy to pr
torical untruth by a skilf
tion of documents."
manipulation need not I
the consciousness of gu
be the result of prejudice
bias ; and he himself is 1
objection. With an evid(
to be impartial, his ed
prejudices lead him to sli
acts and expatiate on ot
cribe to exalted piety a
of one party, and deny
any real religious feeling

This taints all his
chapters on the religic
France, prior to 1572, gi
light and color to the
gives the impression thci
devotion, religious fcclii
to be found at all amon.
lies of France, but were
attributes of the disciple
the emissaries sent fron
Calvin.

Biassing the reader th
back the real exterminat
tive, and intolerant spiri
guenots, and, while de
and there excesses, treat:

The Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

cant the conspiracy of Amboise, Co-
lignys complicity in Poltrot's assas-
sination of the Duke of Guise, Queen
]ane's ruthless extirpation of Catho-
licity, the Michelade, and the fearful
butchery enacted by Montgomery at
Orthez, a small place where, never-
theless, the Catholic victims number-
ed, according to his own figures,
three thousand, half what he claims
as the number of Protestant victims
at Paris on the bloody day of St.
Bartholomew.

Nor is he more happy in depicting
the theories and ideas of the two par-
tiei

Compare the Protestants in France
with the early Christians and the dif-
ference will be seen. The Reform-
«s everywhere were aggressive and
intolerant They did not ask mere-
ly h1)erty to adopt new religious views
ttd practise them. They did, indeed,
wise the cry of religious freedom —
fiftedom of worship — freedom of con-
Kience; but what did these words
Wafly mean ? They meant the sup-
pression of the Catholic worship, the
cxtennination of the priesthood and
re%bus orders, the pillage and de-
^'ng of Catholic churches, and the
fetmction of paintings, statues, re-
^fc^ and crosses. When this was
^one, they proclaimed religious liber-
ty. Thus, at Lyons, in 1562, "the
Vass was abolished, liberty of con-
*Hence proclaimed," in two consecu-
^ clauses.

The utter absurdity of such a con-
"fcction does not strike Mr. White, nor
^ it strike many English readers as
* does a Catholic ear. The Protes-
^t spirit has so falsified ideas that
^ constantly hear the same incon-
**tency. The enthusiastic son of
Sew England claims that the Puri-
^ fathers established " freedom to
^onhip God according to the dictates
•f conscience," when, in fact, they
Slimed only the right to worship for

themselves and denied it to all others;
the son of Rhode Island claims Ro*
ger Williams as the real founder of
toleration, and yet his fanatical op-
position to the slightest semblance to
Catholicity was such that he exhort-
ed the trained bands not to march
under the English flag because it had
the cross on it ; the historian of New
York, or the more elaborate historian
of the Netherlands, will claim for
Holland the honor of establishing
religious freedom, and we read their
pages with the impression that the
people of the Netherlands were Pro-
testant, as a unit ; and that the repub-
lic established after throwing off the
Spanish yoke made the land one
where all creeds met in harmony,
and all men were equal in the eye oi
the law in their religious rights. Yet
what is the real fact? From that
time till the present nearly one half
of the people of the Netherlands
have been Catholics. The Protest
tants, possessing a slight numerical
advantage, ruled, and to the Catho-
lics their rule was one of iron. They
were deprived of all churches, pro-
hibited from erecting others, confin-
ed to certain quarters, subjected to
penal laws. Where then was the
freedom of worship? In the re-
formers' minds these words had no
application to Catholics.

Now, it was this aggressive, intole-
rant spirit of the reformers that
made the civil governments in coun-
tries which elected to remain Catho-
lic so severe on the new religionists.
The moment a foreign emissary from
Geneva gathered a few proselytes,
enough to form a body of any size,
then began coarse, songs, ridiculing
and scoffing at the holiest doctrines
of the Catholics ; then crosses would
be broken down, crucifixes, statues
of the blessed Virgin and the saints,
defaced or destroyed ; as their nuixv-
ers grew, priests would be dTwexittom

Th$ Massacre of St. Bartholcmcw,

their churches or shot down, and the
edifices themselves plundered and
appropriated to the new creed. That
such things could be borne tamely
was impossible. In France the gov-
ernment was weak and vacillating.
The humbler and less instructed por-
tions of the Catholic body retaliated
in the same measure that they saw
meted out, and resisted a creed that
used abuse and violence, by abuse
and violence. They had not the cant
of their antagonists, but true religion
is not to be measured by that stand-
ard.

Alarmed by the excesses of the
Reformers elsewhere, the French gov-
ernment attempted to repress their
entrance into France by penal laws,
a course that seldom attains the end
proposed. The progress of error was
to be checked by more assiduous
teaching of the people by their pas-
tors, by zeal in reforming morals, by
institutions practically exercising the
apiritual and corporal works of mercy.

Yet, while conceding the general
deficiency of power in penal laws to
check the progress of religious opin-
ions, it must be remembered that the
destructive tenets we have alluded to
made the increase of the Calvinists
a danger to the peace and well-being
of France. Beza, in his Praftsswn
pf Faith^ (v. Point p. 119,) advised
the extermination of priests. Cal-
vin {Apud Beaut, t. V. opusc* 17, aph*
15, Dc modo propag.indi Calvin is-
mi) declares that the Jesuits must be
killed or crushed by falsehood and
calumny* The destruction of all re-
presentations of Christ and his saints
was the constant theme of the re-
formed preachers, and under this war
against idols, as they termed them,
they included insult and outrage to
the remains of those illustrious men
of tbepaat whose exalted virtues had
tndtaml thais to the Christian peo-
ple.

From that day to this Prof
ism has sanctioned the outr;^
advised and thus committed
right of Protestants to demol
any slight pretext, Catholic ch
convents* shrines, monuments,
tures, seems even now a sort
evident axiom, its exercise be,
gulated merely by grounds of 4
ency, England and the United!
can show their examples of thi
in the present century ; in ihc 1;
outrages committed by New E
troops in Canada and Acadia
ever a Catholic church fell int
power ; the careful aiming of <
at the monastic buildings in th
of Quebec ; the expedition s
Louisburg, with the chaplain 1:
an axe to demolish the idols ; 1
suggest themselves to the min

I'hat Catholics possessed an
to tlieir own churches, their owi
of worship, was never entertair
a moment

The civil law might Justly I
such men, if not on the simple (
of teaching false doctrines, a
for their claim of right to desti
liberty of those who professed
ligion of their ancestors.

For some years the refom
ed slowly in France, the emi
of Calvin never relaxing their >
and finally winning to thei
Queen Jane of Navarre, the
of Condd and the three famoi
Ihers of the house of Chi
D'Andelot, Admiral Coligny
the profligate Cardinal Ode
this time the Protestant chi
true to their aggressive cha
assumed a military organizat
White (p. 23) and Fauriel, a
French Protestant author, adm
aimed at the overthrow alike
tholicity and royalty. This
preparation for an armed atte
secure the mastery of Franc
by 1560, attained its fuU d(

The Massacre of SL Bartholomew.

ment* The moment had come for
I grand efibrt which was to extermi-
nate Catholicity from France as ut-
terly as it has been from Sweden,
when not even gratitude for their
foremost struggle for independence
saved the Catholic Dalecarlians from
annihilation.

Tiie position of affairs in France
justified the hopes of the reformers.
There were three parties in the state
—the earnest Catholic party, headed
hy the Guises of Lorraine ; the Hu-
guenot party, directed by Ciilvin,
with Cond^ in France as its future
king; and Coligny as its master-spirit ;
and, as usual in such cases, a third
party of weak men, who hampered
the Catholics, and thus strengthened
their opponents, by hesitation, uncer-
tainty, and fitfulness.

The queen mother, Catharine de
Medids, disliked the house of Lor-
ramcmore than she loved Catholi-
city; and, jealous of the growing
power of iJie Guises, was not disin-
clined to see the party of Condd
counterbalance it. Hence, she gene-
rally threw her influence into the
third party, in which figured the
I)uke d'Alen^on, the Montmoren-
cies, Coss^, Kron, and to which
men h'ke the famous Chancellor
I'Hopital gave their influence. How
little the true Catholic spirit, as we
understand it now, prevailed among
the higher nobility, may be inferred
fiom the fact that the two great Pro-
testant leaders, Condd and Coligny,
were brothers of cardinals, their close
lehtionship to princes of the Roman
Church exerting no influence. One
of these cardinals apostatized, and,
after defying the pope, fled to Eng-
land, to be poisoned by his valet ;
Ae other was a mere figure in the

* Cooadt HhH0irtt ie SsmIx Tmoattmtt P> >9i ;
T iwK e, Hiihin deg Frmmfmu, 1 1>. 575; Faurwl.
Im' «r Ut BvimmumiM fmi mi /rMdi *t mmtmi

stirring scenes and times in which
he lived.

Francis II., husband of Mary,
Queen of Scots, on ascending the
throne, placed the control of af&irs
in the hands of his uncles, the Car-
dinal of Lorraine and the Duke of
Guise. This meant a firm govern-
ment, not one to tolerate an imperium
in imperio — a power able to put in
the fleld, as Coligny boasted, one
hundred and fifty thousand men.

Encouraged by the edict of Janu-
ary, 1560, the masses of the reform-
ed party were, everywhere that their
numbers permitted it, seizing Catho-
lic churches and monasteries, expel-
ling the inmates, demolishing every
vestige of the ancient faith. While
they were thus committing them-
selves, and overawing the Catholics,
the leaders formed the celebrated
plot of Amboise to assassinate the
Guises, seize the person of the king,
and, of course, the control of the
government. In spite of his dis-
avowal, made after it had failed, Cal-
vin really approved of it at first. This
White denies, (p. 82 ;) but the letter
to Sturm, cited by Gandy, (p. 28,) is
decisive ; and in the very letter where
he seems to condemn his followers, he
says : <' Had they not been opposed,
in time our people would have seized
many churches; . . . buttheret
too, they yielded with the same weak-
ness." (BuUeHn de la SociiU de
THistoire du Frotestantisme Franfais^
i. p. 250.) Coligny's complicity is
as evident. The ostensible leader
was Bary de la Renaudie, ''whose
enmity to Guise," says White, " pro-
bably made him renounce his reli-
gion and join the reformers."

Protestant writers all admit that
the plot of Amboise would, if suc-
cessftil, have overthrown Catholicity
for ever in France. The Guises saw
the danger to themselves, to Catho-
licity, and to royalty, and acted vrVtiDL

The Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

promptness and energy. Every road
iBnd avenue leading to the place was
guarded, and the separate bands of
the conspirators as they came up
were met and crushed, la Renaudic,
tlie ostensible leader, being slain.

Tlien followed a series of terrible
'criminal proceedings. The partisans
of the rebellion were tried, condemn-
ed, and executed with as little mercy
MS English rulers ever manifested to
llrish rebels. White puts the num-
fber executed at one thousand two
hundred, but cites no authorities to
' fustify so large an estimate.

After this affair at Amboisc, " the
political character of the Hugue-
nots,** as White admits, "became
rftiore prominent, and proved the tem-
Lporary destruction of French Pro-
[icstantism/' The reformers com-
mitted many outrages on the Catho-
lics after the failure at Amboise, es-
pecially in the districts where Mont-
brun and Mouvans swept through
with the hand of destruction, till the
latter perished miserably at Draguig-
nan. Then followed a new Hugue-
not plot, formed by Conde' and his
brother Anthony, but Francis IL
aised a considerable force^ and,
narehing down, overawed ihem.
Cond<^ and the other Huguenot lead*
ers were summoned to appear before
him. D'Arulelot fled ; Cond^ ap-
peared, was tried, and condemned ;
but before any other steps were ta-
ken Francis H. died in November.
" Did you ever hear or read of any-
thing so opportune as the death of
the little king ?" wrote Calvin ; and
Bcza gloried over " the foul death of
the miserable boy."

Charles IX. became king, with his
mother, Catharine dc Mcdicis, as
regent, and she sought to weaken
the power of the Guises. Cond<5
was released from prison, his brother
Anthony made lieutenant general of
the kingdom. An assembly of the

Three Estates was convened,
dissolved without effecting aoy-j
Throughout the land, the Hugn
employed abuse and violence^ (
ing on themselves fearful punish

Still, under Catharine*s fick
vor, the Huguenots were sU
gaining ground, and the Coll
at Poissy, in 1562, where Bei
peared in person, was, in its a
result and in moral effect, a vict<
the reformers. The countenan
the court gave them boldness.
Catholic party saw the evident
gcr and were loud in their
plaints, but this only made colli
more frequent ; one parly elate
hope and triumph, the other s
naught but treachery and viol

It needed but a spark to kin
conflagration ; at last it canie«
Corpus Christi, in 1561, as the
cession of the blessed sacra
moved through ilie streets of L
a Huguenot rushed upon the ol
ting clerg)^man and endeavorc
wrest the consecrated host froi
hands. So daring an outrage ro
the Catholics to fury. In an in
the whole city was in arms, ani
innocent atoned in blood foi
madness of one. Even in Par
self similar riots took place, and
Catholics were killed or wounds
the church of St, Medard, into ¥
D'Andelot rode on horsebadM
head of the Huguenots. ^

The edict of January, 156?, i
at last to effect a peace. By its
visions the Protestants were t<
store the churches they had sc
to cease their abuse of the Cat
ceremonies in print or disco
and, in return, were allowed to
meetings unarmed outside the
but their ministers were not to go
town to town preaching.

l*he measure of toleration
granted may not seem excessive
it Was far greater than any Pi

The Massacre of SL Barthohnuw.

tint power then, or long subsequently,
granted to such subjects as preferred
not to change their creed.

The measure, however, failed to
produce tranquillity. The Hugue-
DotSi £ar from restoring what they had
seized, continued their acts of vio-
lence. At Nismes the churches and
convents were attacked and profaned,
while in Gascony and Languedoc the
reformers had established such a
reign of terror that for forty leagues
around no Catholic priest durst show
himsel£ Montpellier, Montauban,
and Castres beheld similar profana-
tions of churches.

Coligny, a prototype of Cromwell
m apparent fanaticism, in military
skill, in relentless cruelty toward
the Catholic clergy, like the Puri-
tan leader of the next century, look-
ed beyond the Atlantic. He had
projected a Protestant colony of re-
fiige in Brazil ; its failure did not
prevent his renewing the attempt in
Florida. In the month following that
in which the edict was issued, he
<iespatched John Ribaut to lay the
foundation of a French colony in
America. He seems to have been
Panning a retreat against sudden
disaster in the war they were ra-
pidly preparing. The fate of that
colony is well known. At Vassy,
in March, a Huguenot congrega-
tion came into collision with
the Duke of Guise ; accounts differ
videly as to the details. The duke
asserted that his men were attacked.
On being struck in the face with a
itone, he cried to his men to show no
i|oarter, and, according to White, iif-
^or sixty were killed and two hun-
dred wounded.

In a moment the affair was taken
op and echoed through France. It
was worth an army to the cause of
rebellion. The military churches
rote. So complete was their organ-
isatioQ that almost ikmvAtameousiy

thirty-five cities were taken, the Ce-
vennes, the Vivarrais, and the Comtif
Venaissin were in revolt Every-
where the Catholic worship was sup-
pressed, the chiu-ches stripped, ^
clergy banished, while the riches torn
from the shrines and altars enabled
them to maintain the war.

The shrine of St. Martin of Tours,
venerated and enriched by the piety
of France during a thousand years,
gave Condd, prince of the blood, a
million two thousand livres to de-
vastate France. To add to their
strength, the Huguenots then formed
the treaty of Hampton Court with
Elizabeth, and by it agreed to restore
Calais to England.

As we have seen, they took Lyons,
and, after massacring priests and re-
ligious, abolished the Mass, and with
the same breath declared that every
one should be free in his religion.
As the Catholics were unprepared,
city af^er city fell into their hands,
till no less than two hundred were
swept by these devastating hordes,
fiercer than €k)th or Vandal. The
history of every French city marks
at this epoch the destruction of all
that the past had revered. Orleans,
Mans, Troyes, Tours, Bayeux, all re-
peat the same story. Everywhere
priests, religious of both sexes. Ca-
tholic laity, were butchered and mu-
tilated with every barbarity. The
Baron des Adrets stands forth as the
terrible butcher of this period, who
made his barbarity a sport, and
trained the mind of France to savage
inhumanity. In the little town of
Montbrison, in August, 1562, he
slaughtered more than eight hundred
men, women, and children.

The recent French historian, Mar-
tin, whose work is in process of pub-
lication in this country, glosses over
this period by merely alluding to the
profanation and pillage of the Catho-
lic chmchts and religious houses.

The Massacne hf St Bartholomew.

Every local history in France, how-
ever, attests the slaughter and muti-
lation of the clerg)% the last infamy
ill ways popularly ascribed to the or-
der of Coligny, Beza, WTiting in
January, 1562, admits that the Pro-
testants of Aquitaine, though enjoy-
ing full religious libert)% massacred
priests and wished to exterminate
their enemies*

This sudden rebellion was the
work of Coligny, who, with his army
of religious enthusiasts, and '^ all the
restless, factious, and discontented,
who linked their farlunes to a party
.whose triumph would involve confis-
Fcation of the wealth of the church,"
with German mercenaries and Eng-
lish plunderers, swept through the
land with prayer on his lips and trca-
, ^n in his heart.

He cloaked his treason under the
bypocritical pretext that he was in
rms not against the king, but against
fie king's advisers. White allows
himself to be deluded by this hypo-
critical sham, and in several places
censures the irtasonabU conduct of
the Cardinal of Lorraine and others,
who wrote to the King of Spain soli-
citing his aid to save Catholicity in
\ France, while Coligny, in arms against
I his king, making treaties with Eliza-
Ibeth of England, introducing into
[France English and German mer-
^ cenaries, is never branded as a trai-
tor at all. And if Condtf and Colig-
ny merely sought to banish the Guis-
es, how was that to be effected by
, pillaging Catholic churches > They
took up arms to exterminate the lead-
ers of the Catholic party and the
clergy, suppress the Catholic worship,
and place Condd on the throne.
White^ too, censures the pope for in-
terfering, but neglects to put before
his reader the fact that part of France,
the Comtd Venaissin, then belonged
, to the Holy See, and that in that
part the Huguesotswere committing

the same ravages. Meanv
royal armies rallied ; and, 1

step, endeavored to induce
gue n ot leaders to lay down t \
Cond<f was so far influence
offers made, that he agreed '
France if Guise would do
but Bcza traversed the pre
peace. He besought the pr
White, "not to give over
work he had begun, whic
whose honor it concerned^
bring to perfection."

Negotiation failing, theroy
began the campaign to rec
conquered cities. Blois^ To
tiers, Angers, Bourges, and
were at once retaken, and
the stronghold of reform,
In the battle of Dreux, fought
19th of December, the rebJ
utterly defeated, Condd remJ
prisoner in the hands of til
forces, \

While besieging Orleans, (1
ry 1 8th,) Guise was assassini
Jean M^r«^ dc Poltrot, a taHJk
CoHgny aided with money, i)
had revealed to that nobleii
project of murder. White s en
to exculpate Coligny is ver}|
He deems it suspicious thaa
was executed at once witM
being confronted with Colifl
though the rebel general woul
come into court for the puq
the very heat of the civil w^
finally, however, admits xk
leaves no doubt that Colign]|
ed, if he did not consent, to the
He was not unwilling to profi
though he would do nothing to
it. This may diminish the lo
ral pedestal on wliich somei
have placed the Protestant
but he was a man, and hac
man^s failings, though he ma
controlled them by his religioi
ciples. Norwas assassinatior
dered at all cowardly or dl

Tkg Massacre of

m those days \ not more so than kill-
ing a man in a duel was, until very
Rcently, among us."

As he knew the project and gave
money, it is hard to see how "he
wottki do nothing to further it"
That he had all a man's failings is a
very loose form of speech ; so loose
and broad that, if assassination was
not then deemed cowardly or dis-
graceful, the subsequent killing of
Cbligny himself, ^ a man with all a
man's fiulings," can scarcely be deem-
ed cowardly or disgraceful. In fact,
at the time, the Protestant party open-
lydefended the murder of Guise, and
Beta, not exempt himself from sus-
pidon of complicity, '^ conferred on
Poltrotthe martyr's crown."

The Catholic party, thus deprived
of its best military leader, (for Mont-
norency was a prisoner, and St An-
dc^was butchered in cold blood after
the battle of Dreux,) again inclined to
peace. A negotiation, opened through
Cond6, resulted in the pacification of
Amboise, March 19th, 1563. This
gstve each man liberty to profess the
itl^n of his choice in his own do-
micile, but restricted public worship
of the Protestants more than the
edict of January had done.

The conference at Bayonne be-
tween the French and Spanish courts
has often been represented as a plot
for the utter extermination of the
Hoguenots. White shows that it was
bat a series of festivities ; and though
the troubles were spoken of, neither
court counselled violent measures.
EfCQ Alva went no further than sug-
gesting the seizure of the most turbu-
lent leaders.

Charles himself, favorable at Bay-
onne, became embittered against the
lefbrmers, as White^ himself states, by
idiat he saw as he returned through
the states of the Queen of Navarre,
vho had, with relentless fury, extir-
palnl Catholicity from her territory.

^^^^i^

--•>->^^%,

Th^H)|i^Nl#i^^MAd Jibt restore
peace to tlte-eM^ted public mind
while the two antagonistic parties
stood face to face. The favor shown
to Condd after he joined in expelling
his English allies from Havre, as well
as to Coligny, whom Montmorency
summoned to garrison Paris, embold-
ened the reformers. The remaining
Catholic churches began to undergo
the terrible profanation that visited so
many, and with this came retaliation.
The Protestant princes in Germany at
this time appealed to Charles to show
lenity to their fellow-believers in his
kingdom. The French monarch re-
buked their intermeddling, and add-
ed, " I might also pray them to per-
mit the Catholics to worship freely in
their own cities." And White admits
that the Catholics there fared no
better than the Huguenots in France.

Meanwhile the Huguenot party was
preparing for a new effort to obtain
complete control. A force raised to
watch the Spanish movements in the
Low Countries was made the pretext.
A plot was formed to seize the king
and his mother, and Coligny, to blind
the court, remained superintending
his vineyards. But on the 28th of
September, 1567, all France was in
flames. Fifty towns were seized, and
a strong force of Huguenot cavalry
dashed upon Meaux to seize the
king. Charles, nearly entrapped by
the specious L'Hopital, reached Paris,
protected by a body of gentlemen
under the Duke de Nemours, but
Condd pressed so close that Charles
more than once turned on his pur-
suers, and fought at the head of his
little body-guard.

As before, the Catholics were with-
out union or plan, while the Hugue-
nots were an organized body of se-
cret conspirators, acting on a well-
concerted plan.

Protestant allegiance to a Catholic
monarch has never been very strong \

The Massacre of St, Bartholomew.

indeed, it seems simply a creature of
circumstance, not a matter of obliga-
tion. The attempt to set aside a
Catholic sovereign after the death of
Edward VI. and of Charles II. has
never been treated as a crime. In
the same spirit, White sees nothing
wrong in Cond^ except failure : " His
failure (to seize the king's person)
made him a traitor as well as a rebel."
And yet, with that strange perversity
of ideas that seems inherent in his
school, he at once brands the Car-
dinal of Lorraine as a traitor for in-
viting in the King of Spain, as Cond^
had Elizabeth.

The battle of St. Denis, under the
walls of Paris, cost the royal party
the life of Montmorency, while it
gave them a doubtful victory. The
usual horrors again desolated France.
Nismes, in 1567, witnessed its famous
Michelade, or massacre of the Catho-
lics. It was a deliberate act. White
says none has attempted to justify it.
He puts the number of victims at
sc\'enty or eighty, but cites no author-
ity. Mesnard, in his Hisioire de
Nismes ; and Vaissette, in his Histoire
GiniraU de Languedoc^ make it from
one hundred and fifty to three hun-
dred.

The military operations continued
until Catharine visited the Huguenot
camp, and effected the treaty of Long-
jumeau, (March 20th, 1568.) But
this peace was as hollow as the rest.
White charges that the Catholics put
numbers of Protestants to death.
The Huguenots certainly continued
their destruction of Catholic church-
es. ** Brequemant, one of their lead-
ers," says White, " cheered them on
to murder, wearing a string of priests*
ears around his neck."

At last«the Catholics saw the neces-
sity of organizing, and in June, 1568,
a Christian and Royal League was
formed at Champagne, " to maintain
the Catholic Church in France, and

preserve the crown in the ho
Valois, so long as it shall gov'
cording to the Catholic and Ap
religion."

This White qualifies as "a
dable league that shook the I
and brought Frajice to the bi
destruction :" while he has n<
terms to apply to the military 1
zation of the Huguenot chi
which was endeavoring to se
government, and raise Cond^
throne under the name of Loui*

The Catholics did not act toi
The Huguenots were again ri
action. The leaders retired
chelle, and France was again in
Elizabeth sent to Rochelle
arms, and money ; the Prin
Orange also promised aid.

The first great battle was foi
Jarnac, March 13th, 1569, wher
d<^was defeated and killed,
lot died soon after, in Ma;
Duke Wolfgang, of Deux Pont
brought fourteen thousand Ge
to swell the Huguenot ranks,
followed. Coligny gained son
vantage in the action ac Roche A
showing terrible cruelty to the p
ers ; but in the battle of Mono
his army of eighteen thousan
scattered to the winds, scarcely s
sand being left around him.
cries for quarter were met by j
of " Remember Roche Abeille

Retreating, Coligny was joir
Montgomery, fresh from that t<
massacre of Orthez, before whi
Bartholomew itself pales, three 1
and Catholics having been butci
without regard to age or sex, ai
river Gave being actually damm
by the bodies of the Catholics.
indecisive action of Arnay le I)i
to negotiations resulting in the
of St. Germain, August, 1570.

These treaties are differently
ed. The proposal for them a
came from the court, and fol

TMg Massacre of St, Bartholonuw,

erery victory gained by the Catholic
party. White would make them out
lobe traps laid by Catharine ; Gandy
seems to lean to the same solution
in attributing them to her, though he
makes her object to have been to
prevent the Guises from being com-
plete masters.

But may we not suppose the Catho*
fie party sincere in their wish for
peace > They were never first to take
tip arms ; they were unorganized ;
the court was wavering, and always
contained a number of secret allies
of the Huguenot cause. That the
Huguenot leaders, after a defeat,
diouM through these raise a peace
party at court would be a matter of
coarse. The peace gave them all
they needed — ^time to prepare for a
new campaign.

Charles IX. was sincere in his wish
to make the treaty of St Germain a
reality. In the interval of tranquillity
he married, and turned his thoughts
to foreign affairs, proposing to aid the
Netherlands against the King of
Spain. But the Huguenot leaders
kept together in the strong city of
Rochelle, ready for prompt action.
At last, however, Coligny, in Sep-
tember, 1571, repaired to court, where
i»e was received by Charles with great
cordiality. Two marriage schemes
were now set on foot to strengthen
the Protestant cause — ^the marriage
of Henry of Navarre with Marga-
ret, sister of Charles IX., and the
marriage of his brother, I)'Alen9on,
to Queen Elizabeth. Even Jane,
Queoi of Navarre, came to Blois to
negotiate in regard to the marriage
of her son.

G>ligny so far gained Charles that
I French force took Mons, and an
amy under Genlis, marching to that
place, was defeated by the Spaniards,
onder Don Federigo de Toledo.
The marriage of Henry took place
on the i8th of Aagiist^ and seemed

tc> confirm Coligny's paramount in«
fluence at court.

This influence, thus suddenly ac-
quired, is in itself a great m3rstery.
Why Charles should thus take to his
confidence a man who had so recently
and so repeatedly organized armed
treason, who had ravaged and deso-
lated half his kingdom, who had
laid in ruins nearly half the church-
es and religious establishments of
France, has never been satisfactorily
explained.

That Charles was a mere hypo-
crite, and that his conduct was part of
a concerted plot, does not seem at all
warranted by any evidence that de-
serves consideration. That he could
really have conceived so sudden an at-
tachment, confidence, and respect for
the admiral can be explained only
as one of the sudden freaks of a man
whose mind was eccentric to the very
verge of insanity. But Coligny really
ruled in the councils of France ; the
Guises were, in a manner, banished
from court. Catharine and Anjou
saw their influence daily decrease.
Coligny insisted on war with Spain,
and plainly told Charles that he must
fight Spain or his own subjects — use
the Huguenots to aid Holland against
Philip XL, or behold civil war again
ravaging France.

Catharine strongly opposed this
warlike spirit, and sought means to
regain her lost power.

The arrogant attitude of Coligny
was fast uniting all whom jealousy
or personal interest had divided. As
often happens, it needed but a spark
to kindle a vast conflagration.

One of the great historical ques-
tions has been as to the premedita-
tion of the massacre of St Bartholo-
mew. The Huguenot pamphleteers
of the day, followed by the overrated
De Thou, Voltaire and his school,
and the less temperate Catholic wri-
ters, maiotain that the plot was long

The Massacre of St, Bartholomew,

before concerted. White, by his
chain of authorities, shows that it
was at first aimed at Coligny only»
and that the general massacre was
not premeditated.

Anjou expressly states that, find-
ing the influence of the admiral dan*
gerous to himself and his mother,
they determined to get rid ol him,
and to concert means with the Duch-
ess of Nemours, "whom alone we
ventured to admit into the plot, be-
cause of the mortal hatred she bore
to the admiral," in her mind the real
murderer of her husband, the Duke
of Guise.

This statement of Anjou is sup-
ported by the testimony of Michieli
(Baschet, Diplomatk Veneticnfte^ p.
541) and of the nuncio Salviati.

This makes the first move one of
the court part>' against Coligny per-
sonally. The Catholic party, then a
recently formed organization, had no
part in it ; and yet, if we may credit
the statement of Cretineau Joly, who
has never deceived as to a document
he professes to possess, Catholicity
in France was in imminent peril, Co-
ligny having, in a letter of June 15th,
1572, to the Prince of Orange, given
notice of an intended general execu-
tion of the Catholics in September,
If a general massacre was plotted,
the Catholic party were to be vic-
tims, not actors.

Coligny's death having been de-
cided on, Henry de Guise was ad-
mitted to the plot, and the execution
assigned to him. It needed little to
stimulate him to shoot dow^i one who
had been privy to his father's assas-
sination. An officer, either Maurc-
vert or Tosinghi, w^as stationed in a
vacant house belonging to Canon
Vilicmur, and as Coligny rode past
fired at him» cutting off the first finger
of the right hand, and burying a ball
in his left arm.

Charles was, as all admit, not only

not privy to this act, but '
incensed at it He ordered tfw
sin to be pursued, and, in d^
to other parts of the king
assurance of his intention
to the edict of pacification s
punish all who infringed it. /
panied by his mother and his k
Henry, he went, that same afte
to see the admiral. There 1
private conversation ensued hi
the king and Coligny. Whit<
this at length from a life of C
published in 1576, but whid
not surely be held as authori
rests probably on no better
than the Manoires de /*^
France. fl

Charles, in his letter to th^
ambassador at London, tells hli
this *^ vile act proceeds from t
mity between Coligny's hous<
the house of Guise. I wiil take
to prevent their involving m;
jects in their quarrels,"

Whether the inter%'iew chaiig>
king's mind as to the source <
attempt, of course is only c
tural. Still acting in good &I
appointed a commission of in
including members of both reli
the Huguenots apparently sug|
by Coligny. jfl

Charles returned to his^
moody and incensed. He or
guards to protect Coligny aj
any furthur violence, and b
demeanor alarmed his mothei
Henry. The Duke d'Aumalc
Henri de Guise, foreseeing a
pest, withdrew to the Hotel A%.
and shut themselves up.

The position of affairs waaJ
enough. The admiral was nofc
ed so as to excite any alarnT
his recovery \ the loss of a 1
and a bullet- wound in the arr
juries not requiring, one would
pose, the nine physicians and c
surgeons called in. But it

Tkg Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

attempt on the life of the leader of
didr party, and the Huguenots de-
tnnined to pursue it at all hazards.
The more violent of them marched
tbroogh the streets in military array,
tiireiteniog not only the Guises, who
lere considered the prime movers,
but Anjou, the queen - mother, and
even the Icing himself. They passed
die H6td de Guise with every mark
of defiance, and proceeding to the
Louvre, made their way to the king's
presence as he sat at supper, fiercely
demanding vengeance : '' If the king
refuses us justice," they cried, '' we
vill take the matter into our own
hands."

This violence could not but have
had its effect on the king. At all
events, it must have made him ready
to credit any charge of violence
thought against them. Catharine
was clearly overjoyed at the false
step of the Huguenots, as offering
her a means of escape from her criti-
cal position.

On Saturday, after dinner, a cabinet
cooncil was held, and here, accord-
ing to Tavannes, Anjou, and Queen
Margaret of Navarre, it was for the
first time proposed to Charles to put
an end to all the troubles by cutting
off Coligny and the leaders of the
parfF. The council was composed, it
is said, of Catharine, Anjou, Nevers,
Tavannes, Retz, and the chancellor
Birsgne. Of Catharine and Anjou,
afterward Henry III., we need say
Dothing. Tavannes was little but
a soldier, ready for action. The
rest, strangely enough, were Italians.
Louis de Gonzaga, Duke of Nevers
bf marriage, was timid and easily
led; Albert de Gondi, Marshal de
Sell, fi>ster-brother of the king, was
a idiemer ; Rend de Birague is re-
presented by Mezeray as one who
bent before every breath of wind
the court
Not only in this councJi was there

no one of the Huguenot party so re-
cently restored to favor, but no one
of the moderate party, none even of
the old French nobility. All but Ta-
vannes were bound to Catharine, and
would naturally support her.

According to Anjou and Tavannes,
Catharine urged the necessity of the
blow to prevent a new civil war, for
which the Huguenots were preparing,
having sent for ten thousand Germans
and six thousand Swiss, their object
being to place Henry of Navarre on
the throne. Margaret states that
they made the king believe his life
in danger. The nuncio Salviati, in
his despatch of September ad, also
ascribes the king's ultimate action to
the instigation of Catharine, impelled
by her fears.

Charles hesitated long, and at last
yielded, crying : " Kill all, then, that
none may live to reproach me."
The words of 'the weak king, wrought
to madness by his perplexities, seem
to have been accepted at once ; and
the scheme of murder took a wider
scope. The Huguenots were doom-
ed. •

The question arises, Had Catha-
rine any ground for charging the
Huguenots with a plot against the
king ? A despatch of the Duke of
Alva had been received, announcing
it. White derides the idea as pre-
posterous. Gandy examines the sub-
ject, and admits that the charge
lacks all requisite proof. He as-
cribes the whole to fear. But this
does not seem to explain it suffi-
ciently.

The fact of a plot formed after
Coligny's wound must have been
established in some degree at least,
to have brought the king to the policy
of the queen-mother. The bed of
justice on the a6th, the solemn de-
claration of Charles, the action of
the Parliament, may have been rash
sLnd unsupported by proper testi-

The Mizssacre of St. Bartholomew.

mony, but were to all appearance
sincere. Charles was not a hypo-
crite. The declarations of Boucha-
vannes as to what was proposed at
Coligny's house were doubtless more
than justified by the loud threats of
some of the leaders, like De Pilles
and Pardaillan, whose words and
deeds make La Noue call them
stupid, clumsy fools.

The solution of this historical
question is made the more difficult
from the speedy termination of the
house of Valois. That family and
the League come down to us under
a heavy cloud of odium ; the suc-
cession of Henry IV. to the throne
made them the only parties on
whom all might safely lay the bur-
den of an act at once a crime and a
blunder, while it was equally neces-
sary to shield the party with which
Henry then acted from any charge
of conspiracy. Interest raised up
apologists for him and his associ-
ates j there was none to do rever-
ence to the name of Catharine or
the fallen house of Valois.

Once that the council had decided
on its bloody course, the action was
prompt Guise, from being a pri-
soner in his house, was summoned
to command. To the leaders of the
people of Paris he repeated the
charge of a Huguenot conspiracy
against the king, of Swiss and Ger-
man invaders, adding the approach
of a force under Montmorency to
bum the city. At four in the after-
noon Anjou rode through the streets.
At ten, another council was held, to
which Le Charron, provost of the
merchants, was summoned. To him
the king repeated the same charges,
giving him orders to put the able-
bodied men in each ward under arms,
and take precaution for the safety of
the city.

Meanwhile, Huguenot gentlemen
entered the palace as usual, and Ca-

tholics mingled with the Hi]|
who called upon Coligny.

White makes an observatu
must strike all : '' It is stran
the arrangements in the city
must have been attended \
little commotion, did not roi
suspicion of the Hu^enots."

At midnight another coun
held in the palace. Charles ^
lent and wavered, but Ca
hield him to his decision, an(
went forth to complete the w<

Between three and four
morning. Guise, Aumale, Ang<
Nevers, with some Germa
Italian soldiery, proceeded to
ny's house. Admission was
in the king's name, and Ca
nowitz, or Behm, ran the \
through, others finishing him
fell to the floor. The bo<
then thrown from the window
Guise and Angoul^me treated
temptuously. Petrucci cut •
head. The mob mutilated th<
as priests had been, by the ac
orders, and it was finally hung
public gallows at Montfau^o;
the occupants of the hous
slain but two. Merlin and Co
In the adjoining dwellings w
ligny, Rochefoucault, and othe
were all slain.

Then came the signal froi
Germain TAuxcrrois, and th
sacre became general. The !
not gentlemen in the Louvi
slain before the eyes of the
the number of two hundre
White in his text, although \
note, citing Queen Margan
count, says her estimate of t
forty is more probable.

In the city, the houses ir
Huguenots lodged had been i
ed, and were thus easily foum
soldiers burst in, killing a
found ; but the citizens seem
gone too far. At five in th

The Massacre of St. Barikclomew.

wxm, they were ordered to lay down
their arms, although the work of
Uood was continued for two days by
die soldiery.
The details of thie massacre would
atend this article much too far.
Among the questions that have
I arisen, is the allied firing of Charles
[ on the drowning Huguenots thrown
into the Seine. It is asserted in the
party pamphlets, the RtveUU-Matiny
\<;\^LeTo€smy iS79> but rests chief-
ly on what Froude calls " the worth-
less authority of Brantome."

A more important point is the
manber of victims. The estimates
dife widely:

La Popdaiife, a Hufoeaot contemporary. . . . 1,000
KobUy of Grai^;ie, in a ktter to Scotland at

' the tine, and the T»csim^ a pamphlet of the
^> Hwell at Tavannes, a main actor in the

[ ahmfaler 3,000

Ad)i|B^ another Hngoenot author, and Capi*

^i 3.«»

Theeiiiantci ofamhusadora at Paris are higher.

Aha'i bdletia 3, 500

Gwes ie Silva, and the Simancat archives... 5,000

Hcsndt letter 6,000

'MSr-ifafM, a party pamphlet 10,000

White bases his estimate on a

carious calculation. An entry in

the registers of the Hotel de Ville

states that on the 9th of September

certain persons received 15 livres for

burying dead bodies, and on the 23d

the same men received 20 livres for

bjuying iioo. He concludes that

the 15 h'vres represented 1500, by

what rule he does not explain, " giv-

fflg," he says, " a known massacre of

«6oo.*' Even on his basis, 35 livres

would really represent only 1925.

Bat according to Caveirac, who first

c&es this entry, 35 livres were paid

far interring iioo, which would give

only about 1600 in all.

Gandy concludes his view of the
matter by giving 1000 or 1200 as the
nearest approach to the truth; but
the estimate of Tavannes, an actor,
Kirkaldy, a witness, and the Toe-
sm^ a Huguenot pamphlet, would
to be most zuthentla

Thus fell the great admiral, the
Cromwell of France, in religion less
fanatical than hypocritical, a soldier
of a high order, aiming under Cal-
vin's teaching to make France a
commonwealth with a religious ty-
ranny that would brook no opposi-
tion. A man who occupied long a
prominent position as one of the
high nobility and rulers of the land,
but who was simply a destroyer, not
a creator ; for no great work, no line
of sound policy, no important reform,
is connected with his name. His
life was most injurious to the coun-
try, and but for the cowardly and
cruel circumstances attending his
death, he would occupy but a sub-
ordinate place in French history.
Few other victims were eminent:
Peter Rainus, the learned professor,
Pierre de la Place, President of the
Court of Ans, and some say Goujon,
the sculptor. In fact, the more able
leaders of the party had not come to
Paris, and this renders the deed in-
defensible even on the ground of po-
licy. The few nobles who hastened
to bask in the sunshine of the court,
were not the men most to be dread-
ed. The slaughter of men and wo-
men belonging to the lower classes
could but rouse the sympathies of
Europe.

The work of blood was not con-
fined to Paris. Throughout France,
as the news spread of a Huguenot
conspiracy against the king, the
scene was reenacted. Of this, White
remarks : " The writers who main-
tain that the tragedy of Saint Bar-
tholomew's day was the result of a
long premeditation support their opi-
nion by what occurred in the pro-
vinces; but it will be found, after
careful examination, that these va-
rious incidents tend rather to prove
the absence of any such premedita-
tion."

Were orders sent from court to

The Massacre qf SL Bartlwlomiw,

massacre the Huguenots? White,
on the authority of Davila, De Thou,
and expressions in certain letters, in-
clines to the opinion that verbal or-
ders were sent Gandy as positively
asserts that no such orders were
given. The provincial registers
show no trace of such orders. Yet
he admits secret orders, subsequently
recalled by Charles, and gives a let-
ter addressed to Montsoreau, dated
August 26th, which is explicit. The
massacres took place as follows:
Mcaux, August 25th ; La Charit^,
August 27th; Saumur and Angers,
August 29th ; Lyons, August 30th ;
Troyes, September 2d ; Bourges,
September 15th ; Rouen, September
1 7th ; Romans, September 20th ;
Toulouse, September 23d; Bor-
deaux, October 3d ; Poitiers, Octo*
ber 27th. They were thus con-
tinued from lime to time for two
months ; long after Charles formally
revoked any secret orders given on
the spur of the moment This point
is involved in as great obscurity as
any other connected with the af-
fair.

Several letters current as to the
matter, including those of De Tcnde
and Orlher, are manifest forgeries.

. As to Saumur, WTiitc represents

[ Montsoreau as killing <j//the Hugue-
Tiots in that town. The only author-
ity, Afemoirts de TEtat de France^

[ says he killed all he could, and the
whole charge rests on this feeble
foundation. There is similar exag-

I geration elsewhere. White, speaking
of Lyons, says : " In this city alone
4000 persons are estimated to have
been killed ,-" but in his note adds
that one authority says that they
were all killed in one day, " which is
not probable/* He then cites an-
other contemporary brochure setting
dofwn the total at Lyons at 1800 ; and
he corrects the error of De Thou,

, urbo asserted that the Celestine ca-

nons allowed Huguenots to
in their monastery, when
authorities admit that the
saved the lives of those
lives.

What was the number sli
provinces ? The martyrol^
detailed estimate, make th(
in Paris 10,000, elsewhere 511
names 152 as identified in Ym
in the provinces ; but the esi
Paris is of the very highest, aoi
as we have seen, not
The very fact that, with
and personal recollections,
names could be recalled,
in a hundred out of 10,.
elsewhere one in eight was
very suspicious. Taking hi
for the provinces, it would redti
whole number in France la
7000. vj

After giving the calculate
guesses of various authors, r
from 2000 to 100,000, White
'* If it be necessary to choose
these hap-hazard estimates, tl
De Thou is preferable, from th<
unexaggerating temper of the
De Thou's estimate for all I
was 30,000. Gandy thinlu
number given by Popclinifcre 1
nearer the truth.

Under the examination of i
tial histor)% the massacre of %
tholomew dwindles really to fj
in numbers, extent, and brutalit;
the massacre of the Irish Cat
under Cromwell ; and does not
ly exceed tlie number of victi
the Huguenot outbreak in 156,

One other point remains. CJ
on the 25lh, represented the 1
ere in Paris as a collision be
the houses of Guise and Cha
but from the 26th he unij
charges a conspiracy agaim
person. This he announced
the foreign courts in explai
His letter to Gregofy XU

The Massacre of St. Bartholomew,

nounced the escape of the royal
£unily and the punishment of the
conspirators. The nuncio Salviati,
in his letters, shows a belief in the
reality of the plot At Rome, the
Cardinal of Lorraine, brother of the
murdered Guise, was high in influ-
ence. What his views and feelings
would be on the receipt of the tid-
ings of the discovery of a plot, and
the sudden action of the king, it is
easy to conceive. In his eyes it was
a triumph of justice, religion, loyalty,
and law. The pope received the
same impression, and under it pro-
ceeded to chant a Tc Deum at Santa
Maria Maggiore. Processions fol-
lowed. A medal, well known from
its frequent reproduction, was struck.
But in all this there is nothing to
show that Rome knew of the intend-
ed massacre or counselled it. Gre-
gory XIII. approved it, o«ly as re-
presented in the brief despatches of
Charles IX. and the verbal state-
ments of Beauvilld, to which they
refer.

Nor did the clergy in France take
any part No bishop shared in the
council, no priest or religious roused
the mmds of the people. They figure,
indeed, in romances, but history is
silent Even in the most virulent
pamphlets of the time only three are
ever mentioned, the Bishop of Troyes,
Sorbin, king's confessor at Orleans,
and Father Edmond Auger, at Bor-
deaux. The Bishop of Troyes is
charged with having approved the
massacre there, but White does not
even name the bishop in connection
with the murders at that place, and
says they were done by a drunken
mob, and " filled the humane Catho-
lics with horror."

At Orleans, White reduces the
1850 of the Mariyrologe to 1400,
and gives details, but is silent as to
any action of Sorbin, or the terrible
Franciscan who insulted the Hugue-
VOL. VIII. — 2

nots, received their abjuration, and
said Mass for them. Evidently, White
found the charges against these cler-
gymen too frivolous even for a stray
allusion.

He attributes the massacre at Bor-
deaux to the preaching of Father Au-
ger, but cites no authority. Fortu-
nately, Auger is not an unknown man.
His life has long been in circulation.
He was a missionary, known for
years among the Protestants, amid
whom he had prosecuted his labors.
He had suffered imprisonment for
the faith ; he had even been led to
the gallows by order of the Baron des
Adrets. So notorious were his char-
ity, his virtue, and his merit, that the
voice of Protestant and Catholic
alike was raised to save him. Are
we to believe on the vaguest of
grounds that such a man suddenly
became a monster of intolerance?
White blushed to give his authority ;
he should have been ashamed to
make the charge.

But it would scarcely do to let his
book go forth without lugging in at
least one priest Of the proceedings
at Rome he makes more capital. Af-
ter stating what was done, and mis-
translating a Latin phrase to make
Charles IX. an angel, he says : "With
such damning evidence against the
Church of Rome, a recent defender
of that church vainly contends that
the clergy had no part in the mas-
sacre, and that the rejoicings were
over rebels cut off in the midst of
their rebellion, and not heretics mur-
dered for their religion." The logic
of this is admirable. The pope and
cardinals ordered rejoicings on re-
ceiving despatches from the King of
France, announcing that, having disr
covered a plot against his life and
throne, he had put the rebels to the
sword; therefore the Catholic clergy
had a part in the massacre.

Apply the same to Drogheda. Par-

The Ifwasian.

liament thanked God for CromweU's
massacre of the Irish after granting
quarter, and rewarded a captain for
throwing prisoners overboard at sea ;
therefore the Puritan clergy had a
part in the massacre, and the evi-
dence is damning.

The labors of Mr. White, however,
on the whole, will do good. The
wild assertions that fill our school-
books and popular histories must
give place to statements that will be

justified by his work. It gives v
standard to which we may ap

andj if not all that we would daiu
is so ixi on the way to impartialiti
that we may feel thankful for it
It is not little to have wrung i
the London Aihiuaum the ad mis
sion that the common view of Sfi
Bartholomew is "one of the grcai
historical errors which has beer
transmitted from teachers to taught
during a long course of years.*'

FROM TlfB nUifCH OF SXClCHANH AWD CKATRIAK.

THE INVASION ; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL.

CHAPTER L

If you would know the story of
the great invasioi? of 1814, even as
the old hunter, Frantz of Hengst,
related it to me, you must accompany
tne to the village of Charmes, in the
Vosgcs. Thirty cottages, ranged
along the bank of I he Sarre, and
roofed with slate and dark green
moss, compose the hamlet ; you can
see the gables garlanded with ivy
and withered honeysuckle— for win-
ter is approaching — and the leafless
hedges separating the little gardens
from each other.

To the left, crowning a lofty moun-
tain, rise the ruins of the ancient
castle of Falkenstein, a fortalice,
dismantled and demolished two
hundred years ago by the Swedes.
It is now but a scattered heap of
stones, only approached by an old
schiitte^ or road for transporting fell-
ed trees, which pierces the forest
To the right, on the mountain-side,
is seen the farm of Bois-de-Ch^nes,
with its barns, stables, and sheds^ on

the flat -roofs of which are plae
great stones, to enable them to resis
the furious northern blasts. A fc*^
cattle stray upon the heather, and
few goats clamber among the rockai

Everjlhing ts silent. Children ir
gray trousers, bare-headed and baie-^
footed, are warming thcmselvcSjB
around little fires, kindled near theV
zAgft of the wood, and the bloc
smoke curls slowly through the atr b^
heavy white and gray clouds hangH
motipnless over the valley, and far
above these rise the sterile peaks of
Grosmann and Donon,

You must know that the last hous
of the village — ^that with two gla
donner windows upon the slantir
roof, and the low door opening upoq
the muddy street — belonged, in 1813J
to Jean-Claude Hullin, an ancient
volunteer of '92 ; but since his
turn from the wars, the shoe, or, ra-
tlier, sabot-maker of the village, and
enjoying a large share of the esteem
of the mountaineers. He was ii
Stout, strongly built man, with gray
eyes, thick lips, a short nose, aod

The Invasion,

kavy, grizzled eyebrows. He was
jovial and tender-hearted, and unable
to refuse anything to his adopted
daughter, Louise, whom he had ob-
tained, when an infant, from a band
of those miserable gypsies who, with-
out hearth or home themselves, wan-
der from door to door, soldering
spoons and pans, and mending
broken china. He, however, look-
ed upon her as his own daughter,
and never remembered her as the
child of a strange race.
, Besides this, his affection for his
little girl, stout Jean-Claude had a
few others. Next in order, he loved
his cousin, the venerable mistress of
Bois-de-Ch^nes, Catherine Lefevre,
and her son, Gaspard, a fine young
fellow, betrothed to Louise, but whom
the conscription had carried off, leav-
ing the two families to await the end
of the campaign and his return.

Hullin often recalled, and always
with enthusiasm, his campaigns of
the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and
of Egypt. He often mused upon
them, and sometimes at evening,
when his day's work was done, he
would wander to the saw-mill of Val-
tin, a gloomy building, formed of
logs cotvcred with the bark, which
)^u see yonder at the bottom of the
go'ge. There he would sit, in the
fflidst of coal-burners and wood-cut-
ters, be^e the huge fire made of
saw-dust, and while the heavy wheel
kept turning, the sluice thundering,
and ihe saw cutting, would he dis-
course of Hoche, of Kleber, and of
General Bonaparte, whom he had
seen a hundred times, and whose thin
£ace, piercing eyes, and aquiline nose
he drew over and over again.

Such was Jean-Claude Hullin, one
of the old Gallic stock, loving strange
adventures and deeds of heroic em-
prise, but bound by the feeling of
duty to his toil from New-Year's
day to Saint Sylvester's,

Louise, his gypsy daughter, was
slight and graceful, with long, deli-
cate hands, and eyes of so tender a
blue that their glance seemed to
melt their way to the depths of your
soul ; her skin was white as snow,
her hair a gold-shot flaxen, soft as
silk, and her shoulders drooped like
those of some sweet sculptured saint
at prayer. Her guileless smile, her
musing brow, her whole form, seem-
ed to recall the antique lay of £r-
hart the Minnesinger, wherein he
says : '' I saw a ray of light flash by,
and mine eyes are yet dazed with its
lustre. Was it the moon glancing
through the leaves? Was it morn-
ing smiling beneath the woods } No,
nol It was Edith, my love, who
passed; and still mine eyes are
dazed.''

Louise loved the fields, the gar-
dens, and the flowers. In spring she
eagerly listened for the first notes
of the lark, or sought the bluebells
beneath the bushes, or watched for
the return of the sparrows to the cor-
ners of the windows on the roof. She
was ever the child of the wandering
gypsies, only a little less wild than
they ; but Hullin forgave everything ;
he understood her nature, and often
cried, laughing :

" My poor Louise, with the booty
you bring us — ^your bunches of flow-
ers and little birds — we should all die
of hunger in a week."

But she would only smile, and he,
as he returned to his work, exclaim :

" Bah ! why should I scold ? She
is right to love the sunlight, and
Gaspard will labor for both I"

So reasoned the good man, and
days, weeks, and r*.onths rolled by in
patient waiting for Gaspard's return.

But Gaspard returned not, and
now for two months they had had no
tidings of him.

One day, toward the middle ot
December, 1813, between three and

The Imvasiom.

four o'clock in the afternoon, Hollin,
bent over his work-bench, was finish-
ing a pair of spiked sabots for Ro-
charty the wood<rutter. Louise had
placed her fkywers near the little stove
which crackled on the hearth, while
the monotonous tick-tack of the old
village clock marked the seconds as
they flew, and occasionally the tramp
of clogs upon the frozen earth was
heard without, and a head covered
with a hat or wrapped in a hood
passed the window. At length, Hul-
lin, glancing through the panes of the
window, suddenly stoi^d his labor,
and stood with both eyes wide open,
as one gazing at some unusual sight

At the comer of the street, just op-
posite the tavern of the Three Pi-
geons, a strange figure was advanc-
ing, surrounded by a crowd of jump-
ing, laughing boys, each vying with
the other in shouting at the top of
his voice: ''King of Diamonds!
King of Diamonds!" In truth, a
stranger figure could scarcely be ima-
gined. Fancy a man with a grave
face and red beard ; a gloomy eye,
straight nose, eyebrows meeting, a
circlet of tin upon his head, an iron-
gray shepherd dog-skin flapping upon
his back, the two fore-paws knotted
around his neck ; his breast covered
with little copper crosses, his legs
with a sort of gray stuff trousers, and
his feet bare. A large raven with
lustrous black wings was perched
upon his shoulder. One might think,
from the majesty of his air and gait,
that an ancient Merovingian king
had come back to earth ; and, in-
deed, he carried a short stick cut to
the shape of a sceptre, while with his
right hand he gestknilated magnifi-
cently, pointing to the skies and
apostrophizing his attendants.

Every door opened as he passed,
and curious faces were pressed
against every window-pane. A few
old women upon the outside stairs of

their cottages called to hii
deigned no reply ; others d
to the street amd would ha^
his passage, but he, with h
and Imyws hanghtily raise
them aside.

'"Hold!" said Hullin,
Yegof. I did not expect t
again this winter, it is co:
his habit ; and what can he
retumii^ in such weather a

Louise, laying aside her d
to look at Uie King of D
for the appearance of the fc
beginning of winter was
event, and the source of ai
to many who were glad to
in the taverns, listening to
of his imaginary power an
others, especially women, fel
fear of him ; for the ideas
as everybody knows, are s
drawn from another world th
to them is confided the kno^
the past and future ; the onl
ty is in understanding them,
words have always a doubh
one for the ears of the cc
vulgar,' and one, far diffe
wise and lofty souls. More
thoughts of Yegof, above
all other fools, were extraoi
not to say sublime. No c
whence he came, whither
he wandered through the la
soul in pain ; he vaunted J
ness of long extinct nations,
ed himself Emperor of I
of Polynesia, and other far-c
Volumes might be writter
strength and beauty of hi!
his fortresses, and his pal
number and grandeur of wh
lated with an air of much
and simplicity. He spok
•tables, his coursers, the oj
his crown, his ministers, coi
and intendants, and nevei
mistake their names or attt
particular merits of one to

Tie Invasion,

bol be complained bitterly of having
been dethroned by an accursed race,
and Sapience Coquelin, the wise old
woman of the village, as well as
odiers, wept whenever he referred to
tbe subject Then would he, lifting
Ids hand toward heaven, cry out :

"Be mindful, O women! The
boar is at hand 1 The spirit of dark-
ness flees afar 1 The ancient race,
the masters of your masters, come
sweeping on like the billows of the
sea!"

Every spring he wandered for
leeb among the ruins which crown
the Vosges at Nideck, Geroldseck,
Lotzelbourg, and Turkestein — for-
ner dwellings of the great ones of
earth, but now the refuge of bats and
owls. There would he declaim on the
long past splendor of his realms, and
plan the subjection of his revolted
people.

}ean-Claude Hullin laughed at all
this, not being fond of approaching
the invisible world ; but the fool's
words troubled Louise exceedingly,
especially when the hoarse voice and
flapping wings of the raven added to
their wild effect

Yegof marched majestically down
the street, turning neither to the
f^htnorthe left, and the girl, seeing
^ his eyes were fixed upon her
hahftation, exclaimed :

''Father, father 1 he is coming
hcrcr

"Very likely," replied Hullin,
''Re, no doubt, needs a pair of sabots
ID a cold like this, and if he asks
tbem I should be sorry to refuse."

Y^of was some fifty paces from
the cottage, and the tumult continued
10 increase. The boys, pulling at
his strange garment, shouted, " Dia-
Bonds ! Spades ! Clubs !" till they
were hoarse, when, suddenly turning
round, he raised his sceptre, and
cried furiously, thoUgh still with an
air of majesty :

"Awayl accursed race! away^—
or my dogs shall tear ye I"

This threat only redoubled the
cries and shouts of laughter ; but at
this moment, Hullin appearing at the
door with a long rod, and promising
its speedy application to the backs
of five or six of the noisiest, the band
soon dispersed in terror, for many of
them had felt its weight Then
turning to the fool, he said :

^ Come in, Yegof, and take a seat
by the fire."

" Call me not Yegof," replied the
latter, with a look of offended dig-
nity. " I am Luitprand, King of
Austrasia and Polynesia."

"True, true, I remember," said
Jean-Claude ; " but, Yegof; or Luit-
prand, come in. It is cold ; try to
warm yourself."

" I will enter," answered the fool,
" for reasons of state — to form an al-
liance between two most puissant
nations."

" Good I Let us talk over it"

Yegof, stooping in the doorway, en-
tered dreamily, and saluted Louise
by lowering his sceptre. But the
raven refused to follow. Spreading
his broad black wings, he swept
around the cottage and then dashed
against the windows, as if to break
them.

" Hans 1" cried the fool, " beware !
I am coming."

But the bird of ill omen fastened
its pointed talons in the leaden sash,
and flapped its wings until the win-
dow shook, as long as his master re-
mained within. Louise gazed af-
frightedly at both. Yegof seated
himself in the large leathern arm-
chair behind the stove as on a throne,
and throwing haughty glances around,
said:

" I come straight from Jerome to
conclude an alliance with thee, Hul-
lin. Thou art not ignorant that the
face of thy daughter hath pleased

Tlu TiivasiOfL

me. I am here to demand her in
marriage/*

Louise blushed, and Hull in burst
into a peal of laughter.

"You laugh!" cried the fool an-
grily- " You will live to regret it I
This alliance alone can save thee
from the ruin which tlireatens thee
and thine. Even now my armies are
advancing ; they cover the earth,
numberless as the forest leaves in
summer. What will avail the might
of thy people against that of mine?
Ye will be conquered^ crushed, cn-
slaved» as for centuries you were, for
I, Luitprand, King of Austrasia and
Polynesia, have willed it. All things
shall be as they were, and tlien— re-
member me r*

He lifted his hand solemnly on
high,

" Remember the past. You were
beaten, despised serfs ; and we^the
old nations of the nortli — we trod
your necks beneath our feet. We
burdened your backs with heavy
stones that our strong castles and
deep dungeons might be built- We
yoked you to our ploughs ; you fled
before us like chaff before the tem-
pest. Remember, and tremble l"

" I remember it all well," replied
Hull in, still laughing, '* but you know
we had our revenge."

"Ay," said the fool, knitting his
brows, ** but that time has passed.
My warriors outnumber the sands of
the shore, and your blood shall flow
like rivers to the ocean* I know
ye, and for a thousand years have
marked ye 1"

"Bahl** said Hullin.

"Yes, this arm vanquished ye
when we first sought the hearts of
your forests. This hand bent your
necks to the yoke, and will again.
Because you are brave, you think
that you will be for ever masters of
France ; but we have divided your
fair laodi and will again divide it be-

tween ourselves. Alsace;
rainc shall again be Gem
tany and Normandy sb
belong to the Northmen J
and the South, to S pains
will be a petty kingdom
Paris, with one of the atu
its king, and you will nor
murmur — you will be veryS
ha ! ha I ha 1'^

Yegof laughed loudly in fa

Hullin, who knew little o|
was astounded at the fooPsI

" Bah I" he exclaimed'
" Enough of this, Yegof. Ti
soup to warm your blood." m

" I do not ask for food,!
the fool ; " I ask your dau
marriage. Give her willingl
will raise you to the foot
throne ; refuse, and my arm
take her by force,"

As he spoke, the poor wretc
on Louise with looks of th^
admiration,

" How beautiful she
mured. " How her brow wi
a crown \ Rejoice, sweet mai
thou shalt be Queen of Au*

" Listen, Yegof," said Hul
am flattered by your preferen<
it shows that you know how t(
ciate beauty \ but my daught
ready betrothed to Gaspard L

" Enough 1" cried the fool
angrily, " we will now speak i
of it ; but, Hullin/' he contin
suming his solemn tone, " th
first demand. I will twice r
Hearest thou ? Twice I If j
sist in your obstinacy, woe^
thee and thy race !"

"Will you not take your sou
Yegof?"

"No!" shouted the foot;
accept nothing from you ut
have consented — nothing T
waving his sceptre, he sallic

Hullin burst into another
laughter.

The Invasion,

^Toor fellow I" he exclaimed;
''hb eyes turned toward the pot in
^of himself; his teeth are chat-
tering; but his folly is stronger than
even cold and hunger."

**He frightens me," said Louise,
blushing, notwithstanding, as she
tbought of his strange request

Ycgof kept on the Valtin road
Their eyes followed him as his dis-
tance from them grew greater. Still
his stately march, his grave gestures,
continued, though no one was now
near to observe him. Night was fall-
ii^fast; and soon the tall form of
the King of Diamonds was blended
with and lost in the winter twilight

CHAPTER II. •

Thb same evening, after supper,
Louise, taking her spinning-wheel
with her, went to visit Mother Ro-
chart, at whose cottage the good ma-
trons and young girls of the village
often met, and remained until near
midnight, relating old legends, chat-
ting of the rain, the weather, bap-
tisms, marriages, the departure or re-
turn of conscripts, or any other mat-
ters of interest

HuIIin, sitting before his little
copper lamp, nailed the sabots of
the old wood-cutter. He no longer
gave a thought to Yegof. His ham-
mer rose and fell upon the thick
wooden soles mechanically, while a
thousand fancies roamed through his
mind. Now his thoughts wandered
toGaspard, so long unheard of ; now
to the campaign, so long prolonged.
The lamp dimly lighted the little
room ; without, all was still. The fire
grew dull ; Jean-Claude arose to pile
CD another log, and then resumed
his seat, murmuring :

"This cannot last; we shall re-
ceive a letter one of these dajs."
The yii}age clock struck nine ; and

as Hullin returned to his work, the
door opened, and Catherine Lefevre,
the mistress of the Bois-de-Ch6nes
farm, appeared on the threshold, to
the astonishment of the sabot-maker,
for it was not her custom to be
abroad at such an hour.

Catherine Lefevre might have
been sixty years of age, but her form
was straight and erect as at thirty.
Her clear, gray eyes and hooked nose
seemed to resemble the eyes and
beak of the eagle. Her thin cheeks
and the drooping corners of her
mouth betokened habits of thought,
and gave a sad and somewhat bitter
expression to her face. A long
brown hood covered her head and
fell over her shoulders. Her whole
appearance be^oke a firm and re-
solute character, and inspired in the
beholder a feeling of respect, not
untinged with fear.

"You here, Catherine?" exclaim-
ed Hullin in his surprise.

" Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the
old woman calmly. " I wish to speak
with you. Is Louise at home ?"

" She is at Madeleine Rochart*s."

" So much the better," said Cathe-
rine, seating herself at the corner of
the work-bench.

Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There
was something mysterious and un-
usual in her manner which caused in
him a vague feeling of alarm.

" What has happened ?" he asked,
laying aside his hammer.

" Yegof the fool passed last night
at the farm."

" He was here this afternoon," said
Hullin, who attached mo importance
to the fact

" Yes," continued Catherine, in a
low tone ; " he passed last night with
us, and in the evening, at this hour,,
before the kitchen fire, his words were
fearfiil."

''Fearfidl" muttered the sabot-
maker, more and more astonishedv

The Invasion,

for he had never before seen the old

woman in such a state of alarm.
** What did he say, Catherine ?"

"He spoke of things which awak-
ened strange dreams."
** Dreams ! You are mocking me/'
"No, no," she answered. And
then, after a moment of silence, fix-
ing her eyes upon the wondering
Hullin, she continued:

"Last evening, our people were
seated, after supper, around the fire
in the kitchen, and Yegof among
, them. He had, as usual, regaled us
with the history of his treasures and
castles. It was about nine o'clock,
and the fool sat at the comer of the
I blazing hearth, Duchene, my la-
borer, was mending Bruno's saddle ;
Robin, the herdsman, was making a
i basket ; Annette arranging her dishes
on the cupboard ; and I spinning be-
fore going to bed. Without, the dogs
were barking at the moon, and it was
bitter cold. We were speaking of the
winter, which Duchene said would be
severe, for he had seen large flocks
of wild geese. The raven, perched
on the corner of the chimney-piece,
with his beak buried in his ruffled
feathers, seemed to sleep.'*

The old woman paused a moment,

as if to collect her thoughts ; her

eyes sought the floor, her lips closed

I tightly together, and a strange pale-

[jaess overspread her face.

** What in the name of sense is she
coming at?^* thought Hullin.
She resumed :

" Yegof, at the edge of the hearth,
with his tin crown upon his head and
his sceptre lafd across his knees,
seemed absorbed in thought He
gazed at the huge black chimney,
the great stone mantel-shelf, with its
sculptured trees and men, and at the
I smoke which rose in heavy wreaths
|among the quarters of bacon, Sud-
Jy he struck his sceptre upon the
and cried out like one in a

dream, 'Yes, I have s^en it all — all

— long since !' And while we gaied
on him with looks of astonishment,
he proceeded :

** * Ay, in tliose days the forests of
firs were forests of oak. Nideck,
Dagsberg, Falkenstein — all the cas-
tles now old and ruined were yet
unbuilt. In those days wild bulls
were hunted through the woods j
salmon were plenty in the Sarrcj
and you, the fair-haired race, buried
in the snows six months of the year,
lived upon milk and cheese, for you
had great flocks on Hengst, Schnee-
berg, Grosmann, and Donon. In
summer you hunted as far as the
banks of the Rhine ; as far as the
Moselle, the Meuse. All this can I
remember*!'

" Was it not strange, Jean-Claudc?^
said the old woman. **As the fool
spoke, I seemed, too, to remember
those scenes, as if viewed in a dream*
I let fall my distaff, and old Duchene
and all the others stopped to tisten.
The fool continued :

** * Ay, it was long ago I You had
already begun to build your tall chim-
ne}'s ; and you surrounded your hab-
itations wiih palisades whose points
had been hardened in the fire. With-
in you kept great dogs, with hanging
cheeks, who bayed night and day.*

" Then he burst into a peal of crazf
laughter, cr)-ing :

" * And you thought yourselves the
lords of the land — you, the pale-faced
and blue-eyed — you, who lived on
milk and cheese, and touched no
flesh save in autumn at your hunts
— you thought yourselves lords of
the mountain and the plain — wheti
we, the red-bearded, came from the
sea — we, who loved blood and the
din of battle. *Twas a rude war,
ours. It lasted weeks and months ;
and your old chieftaincss, Marga-
relh, of the clan of the Kilberix.
shut up in her palisades, surrounded

Tlu Invasion.

«S

r dogs and her warriors, de-
i herself like a she-wolf robbed
young. But five moons passed,
lunger came \ the gates of her
[hold opened, that its defenders

Hy; and we, ambushed in the
, slew them all — all — save the
ea She alone defended her«
the last, and I, Luitprand,
her gray head, and spared her
father, the oldest among the
lat I might chain him like a

my castle gate.'
len, Hullin," said the old wo-
the fool sang a long ballad —
int of the old man chained to '
te. It was sad, sad as the
re. It chilled our very blood.

laughed until old Duchene,
insport of rage, threw himself
lim to strangle him ; but the
strong, and hurled him back,
randishing his sceptre furious-
ihouted :

> your knees, slaves I to your
My armies are advancing,
irth trembles beneath them.
:, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg, Tur-
, will again tower above you.
tr knees !'

vcr did I gaze upon a more
figure ; but seeing my people
to fall upon him, I interposed
lefence. * He is but a fool,' I
^ Are you not ashamed to mind
ds ?' This quieted them, but

not close my eyes the entire

His story — the song of the
\ — rang through my ears, and

mingled with the barking of
gs and the din of combat,
what think you of it ? I can-
Ish his threats from my mind 1"
lould think," said the sabot-
with a look of pity not un-
with a sort of sorrowful sar-
'* I should think, Catherine, if
>t know you so well, that you
>sing your senses — ^you and
»e and Robin and all the rest **

"You do not understand these
matters," said the old woman in a
calm and grave tone ; " but were you
never troubled by things of like na-
ture ?"

" Do you mean that you believe
this nonsense of Yegof?"

" Yes, I believe it"

"You believe it I You, Catherine
Lefevre I If it was Mother Rochart, I
would say nothing ; but you — I"

He arose as if angry, untied his
apron, shrugged his shoulders, and
then suddenly, again seating himself,
exclaimed :

"Do you know who this fool is?
I will tell you. He is one of those
German schoolmasters who turn old
women's heads with their Mother
Goose stories; whose brains are crack-
ed with overmuch study, and who
take their visions for actual events —
their crazy fancies for reality. I
always looked upon Yegof as one of
them. Remember the mass of names
he knows ; he talks of Brittany and
Austrasia — of Polynesia and Nideck
and the banks of the Rhine, and so
gives an air of probability to his va-
garies. In ordinary times, Catherine,
you would think as I do ; but your
mind is troubled at receiving no
news from Gaspard, and the rumors
of war and invasion which are fly-
ing around distract you ; you do not
sleep, and you look upon the sickly
fancies of a poor fool as gospel
truth."

"Not so, Hullin — not so. If you
yourself had heard Yegof — "

" Come, come I" cried the good
man. " If I had heard him, I would
have laughed at him, as I do now.
Do you know that he has demanded
the hand of Louise, that he might
make her Queen of Austrasia ?"

Catherine could not help smiling ;
but soon resuming her serious air,
she said :

"All your reasons, Jean-Claude^

Tlie Invasmi,

cannot convince me ; but I confess
that Gaspard's silence frightens me.
I know my boy, and he has certainly
written. Why have his letters not
arrived ? The war goes ill for us,
Hullin ; all the world is against us.
They want none of our Revolution.
While we were the masters, while we
crowned victory with victor}^ they
were humble enough, but since the
Russian misfortune their tone is far
different"

** There^ there, Catherine ; you are

w^andering ; everything is black to

you. What disturbs me most is not

receiving any news from without ;

I we arc living here as in a country^ o{

' savages ; we know nothing of what is

\ going on abroad. The Austrians or

the Cossacks might fair upon us at

any moment, and we be taken com-

^ pletely by surprise."

Hullin observ^ed that as he spoke
the old woman's look became anx-
ious, and despite himself he felt the
I Influence of the fears she spoke of.

"Listen, Catherine," said he sud-
denly; "as long as you talk reason-
iibly I shall not gainsay you. You
speak now of things that are possible,
I do not believe they will attack us,
but it is better to set our hearts at
case, I intended going to Phals-
bourg this week. I shall set out
to-morrow. In such a cit}' — one
( "H'hich is, moreover, a post-station —
'tbcy should have certain tidings of
what is going on. W^ill you believe
I the news I bring back ?"

**I will*'

''Then it is understood. I will
Lfitart cirly to-morrow morning. It
is five leagues off. I shall have re-
[tliirned by about six in tl>e evening,
and you shall see, Catherine, that
your mournful notions lack rea-
son."

" I hope so," said she, rising ^ " in-
deed I hope so. You have some-
fcVrhat reassured me^ Jean-Claude, and

I may sleep better than I did last;
night. Good-night, Jean-Claude^*'

CHAPTER IIL

The next morning at daybreak,]
Hullin, in his gray-cloth Sunday
small-clothes, his ample brown
velvet coat, his red vest with its cop-
per buttons, his head covered with
his mountaineer's slouched hat, thefl
broad brim turned up in front over ^
his ruddy face, took the road to

I'naisDourg, a siout sian in nis nana, h
Phalsbourg is a small fortified cityH
on the imperial road from Stras- ^
bourg to Paris, It commands the
slope of Saverne, the defiles of Haut* fl
Barr, of Roche-Plate, Bonne-Fon- ™
taine, and Graufthal. Its bastions,
advanced works, and demi-lunes run
zigzag over a rocky plateau ; afar
off you would think you could clear
the walls at a bound ; a nearer ap-
proach shows a ditch, a hundred
feet wide and thirty deep, and be-
yond the dark ramparts cut in the
rock itself. All the rest of the cityi
save the town-hall, the two gates of
France and Germany with their point-
ed arches, and the tops of the two
magazines, is concealed behind the
glacis. Such is the little cit)s which
is not lacking in a certain kind of
grandeur, especially when we cross
its bridges, and pass its heavy gatcs»
studded with iron spikes. Within
the walls, tlie houses are low, regu-
lariy buiit of cut stone in straight
streets. A military atmosphere per-
vades ever) thing,

Hullin, whose robust health and
joyous nature gave him little care
for the future, pushed gayly onward,
regarding the stories of defeat and
invasion which filled the air as so
many malicious inventions. Judge,
then, of his stupefaction when, on
coming in sight of the town, he saw
tliat the clock-tower stood no longer,

The Invasion.

not a garden or an orchard, not
a walk or a bush could he see ;
everything within cannon-shot was
utterly destroyed. A few wretches
were collecting the remaining pieces
of their cottages to carry them to
the city. Nothing could be seen
to the verge of the horizon but the
lines of the ramparts. Jean-Claude
was thunder-struck ; for a few mo-
ments he could neither utter a word
nor advance a step.

"Aha!" he muttered at last,
"things are not going well. The
enemy is expected."

Then his warrior instincts rising,
his brown cheeks flushed with an-
ger.

" It is those rascal Austrians, and
Prussians, and Russians, who have
caused all this," he cried, shaking
his staff; "but let them beware 1
They shall rue it !"

His wrath grew as he advanced.
Twenty minutes later he entered the
city at the end of a long train of
wagons, each drawn by five or six
horses, and dragging enormous
trunks of trees, destined to form a
block-house on the Place d'Armes.
Between drivers, peasants, and neigh-
ing, struggling, kicking horses, a
mounted gmdarme, Father Kels, rode
grimJy, seeming to hear nothing of
the tumult around, but ever and anon
saying, in a deep base voice :

" Courage 1 my friends, courage !
We can make two journeys more be*
fore night, and you will have deserved
well of your country."

Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.

A new spectacle presented itself
within the walls. All were absorbed
in the work of defence. Every gate
was open* Men, women, and chil-
dren labored, ran, or helped to car-
ry powder and shot. Occasionally,
groups of three, foiu*, or half a dozen
would collect to hear the news.

** Neighbor^" oae would say, *'sl

courier has arrived at full speed.
He entered by the French gate."

"Then he announces the coming
of the National Guard from Nancy."

" Or, perhaps, a train from Metz."

"You are right Sixteen-pound
shot are wanting, as well as canister.
They are breaking up the stoves to
supply its place."

Some of the citizens, in their shirt-
sleeves, were barricading their win-
dows with heavy beams and mat-
tresses ; others were rolling tubs of
water before their doors. Their en-
thusiasm excited Hullin's admiration.

"Good!" he cried, "good! The
allies will be well received here !"

Opposite the college, the squeak-
ing voice of the sergeant, Harman-
tier, was shrieking :

" Be it known that the casemates
will be opened, to the end that each
man may bring a mattress and two
blankets; and moreover, that mes-
sieurs the commissioners are about
to commence their round of inspec-
tion to see that each inhabitant has
three months' provisions in his house,
which he must show: Given this
twentieth day of December, one
thousand eight hundred and thirteen.
Jean Pierre Meunier, Governor."

Strange scenes, both serious and
comic, succeeded every minute.

Hullin was no longer the same
man. Memories of the march, the
bivouac, the rattle of musketry, the
charge, the shout of victory, came
rushing upon him. His eyes sparkled
and his heart beat fast, and the
thoughts of the glory to be gained
in a brave defence, a struggle to the
death with a haughty enemy, filled his
brain.

" Good faith !" said he to himself,
" all goes well ! I have made clogs
enough in my life, and if the time
has come to shoulder the musket
once more, so much the better. Yf e
will show these Prussians and Ausr

The Invasion,

trians that we have not forgotten the
roll of the charge !"

Thus mused the brave old man,
but his exultation was not of long
duration.

Before the church, on the Place
d'Armes, were fifteen or twenty wa-
gons full of wounded, arriving from
Leipsic and Hanau* Many poor
fellows, pale, emaciated, with eyes
half-closed and glassy, or rolling in
agony, some with arms and legs al-
ready amputated, some with wounds
not yet even bandaged, lay awaiting
death. Near by, a few worn-out
horses were eating their scanty pro-
vender, while their drivers, poor pea-
sants pressed into service in Alsace,
wrapped in their long» ragged cloaks,
slept, in spite of cold, on the steps
of the church. It was terrible to
see the men, wrapped in their gray
overcoats, heaped upon bloody straw;
one holding his broken arm upon his
knee ; another binding his head with
an old handkerchief; a third already
dead, scning as a seat for the living.
HuUin stood transfixed. He could
not withdraw his eyes from the scene.
Human misery in its intensest forms
fascinates us. We would see how
men die^ — how they face death ; and
the best among us are not free from
tliis horrible curiosity. It seems to
us as if eternity were about to dis-
close its secrets.

On the first wagon to the right were
two carabineers in sky-blue jackets —
two giants — but their strong frames
were bowed with pain ; ihey seemed
two statues crushed beneath some
enormous mass of stone. One, with
thick red mustaches and sunken
cheeks, glared with his stony eyes,
as if awakened from a frightful night-
mare ; the other, bent double, his
hands blue with cold, and his shoul-
der torn by a grape-shot, was becom-
ing momentarily weaker, but from
time to rime started up, muttering

like one in a dream. Behind, ii
fantr^men were stretched in cou-
ples, most of them struck by bullets.
They seemed to bear their fate with
more fortitude than did* the giants,
not speaking, except that a few, the
youngest, shrieked furiously for water
and bread. In the next wagon, a
plaintive voice — the voice of a con-
script — called upon his mother* white
his older comrades smiled sarcasti-
cally at his cry.

Now and then a shudder ran
through them all, as a man — or may-
hap several — would rise, and with a
long sigh fall back. This was death.

While Hullin stood silent, the
blood frozen in his heart, a citize%
Some, the baker, came forth from his
house, carrying a large pot of boiled
meat. Then you should have seen
those spectres struggle, their eyes ^_
glance, their nostrils dilate ; a oew ■
life seemed to animate them, for the n
poor w retches were dying of hunger.

Good Father Some, with tears in
his eyes, approached, saying ;

" I am coming, my children. A
little patience, and you will be sup-
plied."

But scarcely had he reached the
first wagon, when the huge carabineer
with the sunken cheeks plunged his
arm to the elbow in the boiling pot,
seized a piece of meat, and concealed
it beneath his jacket. It was done
like a t!ash, and savage cries arose
on all sides. Men who had not
strength enough to move would have
strangled their comrade. He pressed
the precious morsel to his breast,
his teeth were already in it, and he
glared around like a wild beasL At
the cries w^hich arose, an old sol-
dier — a sergeant — sprang from a
neighboring wagon ; he understood
all at a glance » and without useless
delay tore the meat from the cara-
bineer, saying :

**Thou deservest to have none.

Tlu Invasion.

Let us di\nde; it will make ten
radons."

*• We are only eight," said a wound-
ed man, calm in appearance, but with
eyes glistening in his bronzed face.
"You see, sergeant, that those two
there are dying ; it is no use to waste
food."
The sergeant looked.
« You are right," he replied. " Eight
parts."

Hullin could bear no more. He
fled, pale as death, to the innkeeper,
Wittmann's. Wittmann was also a
dealer in leather and furs, and cried,
as he saw him enter :

"Ha! it is you. Master Jean-
Claude ; you are earlier than usual.
I did not expect you before next
week." Then, seeing him tremble,
he asked : *' But what is the matter ?
You are ill."

" I have just been looking at the
wounded."

" Ah ! yes. The first time it affects
one ; but if jrou had seen fifteen .thou-
sand pass, as I have, you would think
nothing of it."

" A glass of wine, quick !" cried
Hullin. "O men, men! you who
should be brothers !"

" Yes, brothers until the purse gives
out," replied Wittmann. "There,
drink, and you will feel better."

" And you have seen fifteen thou-
sand of these wretches pass," said
the sabot-maker.

** At least ; and all in the last two
months, without speaking of those
that remained in Alsace and on the
other side of the Rhine; for, you
know, wagons could not be procured
for all, and it was not worth while
removing many."

" Yes, I understand. But why are
those unfortunates there ? Why are
fljey not in the hospital ?"

" The hospital 1 Where are there
hospitals enough for them — for fifty
ihomand wounded f Everyone, from

Mayence and Coblentz to Phals-
bourg, is crowded; and, moreover,
that terrible sickness, typhus, kills
more than the enemy's bullets. All
the villages in the plain, for twenty
leagues around, are infected, and
men die like flies. Happily, the
city has been for three days in a
state of siege, and they are about to
close the gates, and allow no one to
enter. I have lost my uncle Chris-
tian and my aunt Lisbeth, as hale,
hearty people as you or I, Jean-
Claude. The cold has come, too;
there was a white frost last night."

"And the wounded were in the
street all night ?"

" No ; they came from Saveme this
morning, and in an hour or two — as
soon as the horses are rested — they
will depart for Sarrebourg."

At this instant, the old sergeant,
who had established order in the
wagon, entered, rubbing his hands.

" Ha, ha I" he said, " it is becom-
ing cooler. Father Wittmann. You
did well to light the fire in the stove.
A little glass of cognac would not be
amiss to take off the chill."

His little, half-closed eyes, hooked
nose, separating a pair of wrinkled
cheeks, and chin, from which a red
tuft of beard hung, all gave the old
soldier's face an expression of good
humor and jollity. It was a true
military countenance — ^hale, bronzed
by exposure, full of bluff frankness as
well as of roguish shrewdness — and
his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat,
shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed
part of himself. He marched up and
down the room, still rubbing his
hands, while Wittmann filled him a
little glass of brandy. Hullin, seat-
ed near the window, had, in the first
place, remarked the number of his
regiment — the sixth of the line. Gas-
pard, the son of Catherine Lefevre,
was in the same. Jean-Claude would,
then, have tidings of Louise's betroth-

The Invasion,

ed ; but when he attempted to speak,
his heart beat painfully. If Gaspard
were dead I If he had perished like
so man)* others 1

The old sabot-maker felt strangled.
He was silent. ** Better to know
nothing," he thought.

Nevertheless, in a few moments he
again tried to speak.

"Sergeant/' said he huskily, **you
are of the Sixth ?"

♦* Even so, my burgess," replied
the other, returning to the middle of
the room.

" Do you know one Gaspard
Lefevre?"

" Gaspard Lefevre ? Parbleu J
that do L I taught him to shoulder
arms ; a brave soldier, i* faith, and
good on the march. If we had a
hundred thousand of his stamp—**

" Then he is alive and well ?"

" He is, my citizen — at least he
was a week ago, when I left the re-
giment at Fredericsthal with this
train of wounded ; since then, you
understand, there has been warm
work, and one can answer for
nothing — one might get his billet at
any momenL But a week ago, at
Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still
answered roll-call/'

Jean Claude breathed.

**But, sergeant, can you tell me
why he has not written home these
two months hack ?"

The old soldier smiled and winked
his little eyes,

" Do you think, my friend, that a
man has nothing to do on the march
but write?"

** No ; I have seen service. I
made the campaigns of the Sambrc-
and-Mcuse, of Eg)'pt and of Italy,
but I always managed to let my
friends at home hear from me."

** One moment, comrade," inter-
rupted the sergeant. " I was in Italy
and Eg)'pt too, but the campaign

in eve^^
one, nm^

just finished was
peculiar."

"It was a severe one, ni

'* Severe 1 Ever>'thing am
one was against us ; sickness
torSi peasants, citizens, our 2
all the world I Of our coi
which was full when we left
bourg the twenty-first of Janua
only thirty-two men remain,
lieve that Gaspard Lefevre
only conscript left living. Th
conscripts I They fought we
exposure and hunger did thei
ness,"

So saying, the old sergeant 1
to the counter and emptied hi:
at one gulp.

"To your health, citizen,
you, perchance, be Gaspard's fa

" No ; I am only a relative, *!

** Well, you can boast of
solidly built in your family. \
man he is for a youth of twent]
held firm while those around
sent by dozens to mount gua
low.^*

**But," said Hullin, after
mentis silence, "I do not y
what there was so extraordin
this last campaign, for we, to
our sickness and traitors — "

** Extraordinary 1" cried th
geant ; " everything was extrac
ry. Formerly, you know, a G
war was finished after a vict
two ; the people then receive
well ; drank their white wim
munched their sauerkraut whi
and, when the regiment dcp
every one even wept. But this
after Lutzen and Bautzen, inst€
becoming good-natured, tlicy
fiercer than ever : we could <
nothing except by force; it wa
Spain or La Vendee. I don't
what made them hate us so.
we were all French, things
after all have yet gone well j I

The Invasion,

had our Saxon and other allies ready
to fly at our throats. We could
Iia?c beaten the enemy, even if they
wre five to one, but for our allies.
Look at Leipsic, where in the middle
of the fight they turned against us —
I mean our good friends the Saxons.
A week after, our other good friends
the Bavarians tried to cut off our re-
treat; but they rued it at Hanau.
The next day, near Frankfort, another
colooiD of our good friends presented
themselves, but we crushed the trai-
tors. If we only foresaw all this af-
ter Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wa-
gram!"

Hullin stood for a moment silent
and thoughtful.

"And how do we stand now, ser-
g^eaot ?" said he, at length.

" We have been driven across the
Rhine, and all our fortresses on the
German side are blockaded. All
Europe is advancing upon us. The
emperor is at Paris, arranging his
plan of campaign. Would to heaven
we could get breathing time until the
spring !''

At this moment Wittmann arose,
and, going to the window, said :

" Here comes the governor, mak-
ing Yiis tour of inspection."

The commandant Jean - Pierre
Meunier, in his three-cocked hat,
with a tri-colored sash around his
waist, had indeed just made his ap-
pearance in the street.

" Ah !" said the sergeant, " I must
get him to sign my marching papers.
Excuse me, messieurs, I must leave
you."

"Good-by, then, sergeant, and
thank you. If you see Gaspard,
embrace him for Jean-Claude Hullin,
and tell him to write."

"I shall not fail."

The sergeant departed, and Hul-
lin emptied his glass.

" Do you intend to start at once,
Jean-Claude ?" asked Wittmann.

" Yes, the days are growing short,
and the road through the wood is
not easily found after dark. Adieu !"

The innkeeper watched the old
mountaineer from the window, as he
crossed the street, and muttered as
he gazed at the retreating figure :

" How pale he was when he came
in ! He could scarcely stand. It is
strange I An old man such as he —
a soldier too I I could see fifty regi-
ments stretched in ambulances, and
not shake so."

Maria van MorL

TVAirSLATES PltOM THK llIST0«ISat'l>OLtTt9CH« BLATTSl.

MARIA VON MORL.

In the beginnings of ihis year a re-
markable human life came to a close.
That wonderful being whose name
and fame travelled from South Tyrol
all over Germany, and made her re-
sidence become a frequented pilgri-
mage without her will— but for the
great consolation of multitudes dur-
ing a whole generation — that extraor-
dinary w*oman is no more. Maria
von Mori died on January nth, 1868,
in the fifty-sixth year of her age, and
in the thirty-sixth of her ecstatic life.

It is now over a score of years
since the masterly pen of Gorres
sketched, in his Mystik, so striking a
portrait of Maria von Mori, and still
the attention of the believing world
is attracted to the life of the ecstatic
virgin. Since then thousands have
gone to the South Tyrol markets to
behold as a reality what would sound
legendary to read or hear, and to
bear testimony to the truth of what
Gorres wrote about the stigmata of
that holy woman. All the pilgrims
■ found his statements perfectly cor-
rect. Although Gorres, in describing
the phenomena, abstained from a de-
finitive judgment regarding her sanc-
tity, according to the rule that no
one must be called a saint before
death, we are not restrained any
longer from expressing our convic-
tions, now that she is no more. Her
happy and holy death is the strongest
confirmation of her unimpeachable
life.

We have now all the necessary
documents to form a correct estimate
of her holiness. Let us glance at the
most interesting events in her life,

and sum up brie% and simply lb
chief traits of her inner and exteri<
character.

Three miles south of Botzen, in t
charming landscape, with a prospect
extending over a wide and smiling
valley, lies the vine- crowned spot iti
which Maria Theresa von Mori fir
saw the Hfjht of day, on October i6t]
18 1 2. She was the daughter of
reduced, but noble, vine cultivator
Kaltern,* Joseph von Mori, of MuJ
len and Lichelburg, who was blessed]
with a very large family, but nol
with sufficient means to raise them
became their blood. Maria received,
from her good, sensible mothcr,i
whose maiden name was Selva, %\
pious and simple education \ and iho
young giri grew up in virtue, modest
and gentle, affectionate and obliging
to all, of good understanding, but
with no great powers of fancy. She
was an expert little housewife, and
aided her mother in the management
of their domestic affairs. Frequent ill-
ness, which began to trouble her as
early as her fifth year and continued
to alfect her through life, as it hai
its seat in her blood, rendered hergi
even at an early age, rather grave, and^
increased her zeal in prayer, which
showed itself especially in her love
and veneration for the Blessed Sacra-
ment. This was her character until,
in the year 1827, her beloved mother
was taken from her by death ; and
she, at the age of fifteen, was left in
sole charge of the family, her father
being unable to provide better for the

• lUlUra u (]»« G«niMst Ibf tb< Italian Caldmb^

T«.

Maria von MSrL

care of her eight younger sisters.
Maria undertook the task of their
bringing up with courage and readi-
ness. She sought among her increas-
ing labors and responsibilities, more
than ever, consolation in religion, and
in the frequent reception of the sacra-
ment of the altar.

But the burden was too heavy for
her young shoulders, and she sank
under it. In her eighteenth year she
fell into a wearisome sickness, which
was increased in painfulness by rea-
son of violent cramps, which broke
down her constitution. Only by
slow degrees was her pain alleviated,
without the disease having been com-
pletely driven out She never became
perfectly sound again. Yet she bore
all her afflictions with heroic resigna-
tion, although to her physical tor-
ments mental struggles were often
added temptations of the devil ; and
troubles of soul which we cannot
dwell upon here.*

Such was her condition during
about two years, when her confessor.
Father Capistran, a quiet, prudent
man, and for years a true friend of
the distressed family, observed "that
at certain times, when she was inter-
rogated by him, she did not answer,
and seemed to be out of herself."
When he questioned her nurses and
others on this point, they inform-
ed him that such was always the
case when she received the holy com-
munion. This was the first symptom
of her ecstalic state, into which she
entered in her twentieth year, gnd
which soon became more and more
striking. On the feast of Corpus
Christi, 1832, which in Kaltem, as
throughout the whole Tyrol, is cele-
brated with unusual solemnity. Fa-
ther Capistran, for special reasons,
gave her the holy sacrament at three
A.1C., and immediately she fell into an

• cams <l«KribM tbtm fidly ia his Clf^^icAf J^
Iflbbuidiu.

VOL. VIII. — i

ecstasy which lasted, to his personal
knowledge, for several hours 1 He
left her to attend to other duties;
and when he returned, at noon on
the following day, he found the ecstatic
still kneeling in Uie same place where
he had left her thirty-six hours be-
fore ; and heard, to his astonishment,
that she had remained the whole
time thus undisturbed in contempla-
tion. The good Franciscan now com-
prehended for the first time that ec-
stasy had become almost a second
nature to her; and undertook the
regulation of this supernatural con-
dition of his saindy penitent

The power of the perceptive fac-
ulties increased wonderfully with her
ecstasies, as several presentiments
and prophecies demonstrated in a
surprising manner. Her fame was
soon noised abroad. The report of
her ecstatic kneeling and prayer
spread through the Tyrol, and great
excitement was created throughout
the whole land. Crowds of people
flocked to see her, and to be edified
by the sight From difierent and
distant places niunbers came as pil-
grims to Kaltem. During the sum-
mer of 1833, more than forty thou-
sand persons, of all classes, visited
her, without die slightest disorder or
scandal, although sometimes two or
three thousand people in a day
passed through the room of the
rapt maiden, kneeling undisturbed
in contemplation. Many sinners
were moved and converted by the
spectacle.

No one could explain the sudden
and extraordinary commotion excited
in a whole people. The civil and ec-
clesiastical authorities wished to pre-
vent the concourse ; so it was an-
nounced that no further pilgrimages
would be allowed. They gradually
ceased. The priests, however, bore
testimony to the good results which
had flowed from those pilgrimages^

Maria van Marl

In the autumn of the same year,
Francis Xavier Luschin, Prince-Bish-
op of Trent, caused an investigation
to be made, and the witnesses to be
examined on oath, regarding the state
of the ecstatic virgin, to prevent any
further proceedings and annoyances
on the part of tlie police, but espe-
cially to remove all suspicion of pious
fraud. The prince-bishop, who was
impartial enough not to give a final
decision, iiformed the civil authori-
ties ** that the sickness of Maria von
Mori was certainly not hoUness, but
that her undoubted holiness could not
be called a sickness."

All this excitement was unknown
to the cause of it, who remained un-
disturbed by the throngs who came
to see her. Her inner life seemed
to be completely developed in the
year 1S34, when she received the stig-
mata. How this happened is best
told in the words of cidrrcs himself:
" In the fall of 1833, the falher-con-
fessor occasionally remarked that the
centre of her hands, where the wounds
appeared at a later date, began to
fall in, and the places became
painful and troubled with frequent
cramps. He suspected that stigma^
tkation was about to happen, and the
T€sult justified his expectations. At
early Mass, on February 4th, of the
year 1834, he found her wiping her
hands with a cloth in childish as-
tonishment. When he perceived
blood on it, he asked her what was
the matter. She answered that she
did not well understand what it was j
that she must have cut herself in
some strange way. But it was the
stigmata, which from that day re-
mained unchangeably in her palms,
and soon appeared in her feet also,
as well as in her side. So simply did
Father Capistran act in the whole
affair, and so little desirous of won-
der-seeking did he show himselff that
be never asked her what were her

interior dispositions or phenomena
immediately before the reception of
the wounds. They were almost
round, slightly oblong, about two
inches in diameter, and appearing
on both the upper and under parte
of her hands and feet The sixe of
the lance stigma in the side, which
only her most intimate female friends
saw, could not be determined- Oft j
Thursday evenings and on Frida}'%fl
clear blood flowed in drops from the^
ivounds ; on the other days of the
week, a dry crust of blood covered
them, without the slightest symp-
toms of inflammation or the slightest
traces of pus ever appearing. She
concealed most carefully her 5tat](|,j
and all that might betray her inte-
nor emotions^ But on the occasiott
of a festive procession, in 1833, she
fell into an ecstasy in the presence of
several witnesses. She appeared like
an angel, blooming like a rose. Her
feet scarcely touching the bed, she
stood up, with arms outstretched in
the shape of a cross, and the stig-
mata in her palms manifest to tH
beholders." *

Maria von Mori became a sisiei]
of the Third Order of St. Franci%
and, in virtue of the obedience due t#
him, her confessor undertook to keep
her ecstasies within due bounds. She
promised him complete obedience.
A word from him recalled her to her-
self. But his experience was very
little. No one at home paid much
attention to her. She was left veiy
muf h alone. Her confessor was a
sensible man, but very simple and^
not at all inquisitive. The cirdifl
of her spiritual phenomena rollejt"
round within the ordinary limits of
the feasts of tlie church. Father
Capistran did not interfere at all
in the singularities of her interiotJ
condition, or even try to investigati

Maria von Mori.

their nature iiWth curiosity. " If she
is not questioned," wrote the good
and simple confessor to Gorres, ''she
says very little, and seldom speaks
at all ; thus, for instance, it is only
to-day that I learned completely her
vision of St. Paul— on the feast of
his conversion. Only now and then
does she tell a particular circum-
stance, which I listen to quietly ; and
if she says nothing, I do not trouble
her with questions. She sometimes
says to me, 'I cannot properly ex-
press what I see by word of mouth
or by writing ; and perhaps I might
say something false.' My direction
is extremely plain : I want her to be
always humble and devout to God ;
and I am satisfied when she prays
so fervently to God, and intercedes
for others, for sinners as well as for
the just It always seems to me
that it is not the will of God that
I should inquire too curiously about
her visions and revelations, as Bren-
tano did with Emmerich." Thus
wrote Father Capistran, who de-
scribes himself in his letter better
than our pen could do it.

In September, 1835, Gorres came
to Kaltern, in tiie Southern Tyrol,
where be saw frequently the stigma-
tized giri, whose health was becom-
ing every day worse. He found her
in her Cither's house, lying in a neat,
plain, \riutewashed room, on a hard
mattress, and covered with clean
white linen. At the side of her bed
was a little family altar ; behind it,
and over the windows, were a few
religious pictures. She had a deli-
cate figure, of medium height, and
somewhat emaciated fix)m the use of
^>arse diet, yet not unusually thin.
When he saw her for the first time,
she was in an ecstasy, kneeling on
Ac lower part of her bed. Gorres
describes her thus : ** Her hands, with
the visible stigmata, were folded on
her breast ; her face turned to the

church, and slightly raised ; her eyes
having a look of complete absorption
which nothing could disturb. No
movement was perceptible in her
kneeling form for a whole hour, ex-
cept a gentle breathing, occasionally
a muscular action of the throat as in
swallowing, and sometimes an oscil-
latory movement of the head and
body. She seemed as if looking
into the distance, gazing in rapture
at God, like one of those angels who
kneel around his throne. No won-
der that her appearance produced
such a great effect on the beholders,
so as to bring tears to the eyes of
the most hardened. During her ec-
stasy she contemplated the life and
passion of Christ, adored the Blessed
Sacrament, and prayed according to
the spirit of the season of the eccle-
siastical year. This we are told by
her spiritual director. Her visions
and revelations had all reference to
something holy and ecclesiastical ;
and, unlike somnambulists, she re-
mained entirely blind, like other per-
sons, to her own bodily state." (II.

504.)

In her natural condition, Maria
von Mori left the impression of her
being a simple and candid child on
those who visited her. Gorres gives
a characteristic description of her:
" No matter how deeply she may be
lost in contemplation, a word of her
confessor, no matter in how low a
tone it may be uttered, recalls her
from her rapture. There seems to
be no medium condition ; only suffi-
cient time elapses to make her con-
scious of the word having been spo-
ken, before she opens her eyes and
becomes as self-possessed as if she
were never in ecstasy. Her appear-
ance becomes immediately changed
into that of a young child. The first
thing she does on awaking from her
ecstasy, if she perceives spectators,
is to hide her stigmatized hands

Marin van MdrL

under the bed-clothing, like a little
gfirl who soils her hands with ink,
and tries to conceal them at the ap-
proach of her mother. Then she
looks curiously among the crowd, for
she is now accustomed to the sight
of multitudes, and gives every one a
friendly greeting. As she has bee a
dumb for some time, she tries to
make herself understood by gestures ;
and when she finds this method un-
successful, she turns her eyes entreat-
ingly, like an inexperienced child, to
her confessor, to ask him to help her
and speak for her. The expression of
her dark eye is that of joyous child-
hood. You can look through her
clear eyes to the very bottom of her
soul, and perceive that there is not
a dark corner in her nature for any-
thing evil to hide in. There is noth-
ing defiled or deceitful \n her cha-
racter ; no sentimentalisra, no hypo-
crisy, nor the slightest trace of any
pride ; but all in her is childlike sim-
plicity and innocence/' (II. SoB.)

Clement Brentano bears a similar
witness to her virtue when he visited
her at Kaltem, in 1835^ ^^^^ again
in the harvest of 1837. In one of
his letters he says of her : " Here
lives the maiden Maria von Mori,
who is now in her twenty-third year.
She is a lovely, pious, and chosen
creature. She is incessantly rapt in
ecstasy, kneeling in bed, her hands
outstretched or folded. She is so
wonderfully lengthened during her
ecstasy, that one would take her
for a very tall person, though
really she is quite short. Her eyes
remain open and fixed, and though
the flies run over her eyelids, she
moves them not She is like a wax
figure, and her look is striking. Now
and then her spiritual director inter-
rupts her visions, and immediately
she settles into repose on her couch,
but after a few minutes rises to her
Jejoccs again. She makes no effort

to rise ; she seems carried by anj

into a kneeling posture* The wlioli
appearance of this extraordinary' gii
is moving, yet not shocking, for the
moment the priest commands her to
resume her natural state, she be
comes like one of the most simple
and innocent of children, as if she
were not seven j^ars old. The mo-
ment she perceives persons around
her, she hides herself to the very
nose under the bed*clothes, looks
timorous, yet smiles on all around,
and gives them pictures, preserving
always a serene and attractive coun-
tenance, like that of the blessed Em-
merich," *

Like a child, she was fond of chil-j
dren, of birds and flowers. It was
obser\'ed that birds seemed to have
a great liking for her. They sang
in flocks around her windows, and if
they were brought into her room
they flew to her. On one occasion
three wild doves were given to hefi
and although they never allowed any
one to fondle them before, they
alighted on her, two of them on her
arms, and the third on her clasped
hands, putting its bill to her mouth
as she prayed. This beautiful scene
was repeated for several days, until
the doves were driven away. The
same thing happened with a chicken
which a little sister of Maria's, a
child of nine years old, accideri tally
brought into her chamber.

If friends were around her, she
could sometimes remain mistress of
herself and lake part in their conver*
sation ; but this was only for a short
time, and she fell again into ecstasy.
The passion of our Lord seemed to
be the special object of her contem*
plation, and on Fridays especially
she suffered agony in her mystical
life. In the forenoon her sufferings
began to be noticeable. As the

I
I

• Oemcot Bf«f»toi*o, G*immmtti4* iiri^f*, band B,
596, tie canmA a ltk«««s» *^ ^^ to b« pumnt

Maria voft MorL

great drama of the crucifixion pro-
ceeded, its traces were visible in her ;
her pains increasing until the hour
of the death on the cross, when her
dbole person became as if it were
lifeless. Gorres paints, in his usual
graphic style, all these phenomena,
even to the most minute details. (P.
505-508.) For the sake Qf brevity,
we shall quote only Brentano's
words. As he was an eye-witness
of what he narrates, he is perfectly
reliable : " I have never seen any-
thing more awfid and astounding;
all the patience, anguish, abandon-
ment, and love of Jesus dying was
represented in her with inexpressible
truth and dignity. She is seen dying
by d^prees; dark spots cover her
face, her nose becomes pinched, her
eyes break, cold sweat nms down
her person, death struggles in her
trembling bosom ; her head is raised,
while her mouth opens in pain ; her
neck and chin form almost a straight
line, her tongue becomes parched,
and is dravm up as if withered ; her
breathing is low and slighdy gurgling ;
her hands fall powerless to her side,
and her head sinks on her bosom.
A priest, to whom Father Capistran,
wbo was present, gave authority,
commanded her to repose. In a
moment she lay fatigued, but calm
on her bed, and after about three
minutes rose again to her knees,
and returned thanks for the death
of the Lord."

These phenomena were repeated
every Friday throughout the year.
Her sufferings became more and
more extraordinary. In the year
1836, it was observed that, on the
Fridays after the ascension of Christ,
when she finished her mystical agony,
beginning at three p. m., she fell into
a new ecstasy which lasted until half-
past four o'clock. Her body lay
extended on her couch as on a cross,
her arms outstretched as if power-

fully wrenched ; her head hung on
one side, bent somewhat back off her
pillow, and unsupported by anything.
Thus she remained sometimes two
hours as if dead, and could not be
recalled without violent and painful
convulsions. But when she came
back to her natural state, she was
ever the same innocent and gende
girl, as if she had never been blessed
by God with extraordinary visita-
tions.

So much had ecstasy become a
second nature to her, that she was
self-conscious only at intervals and
by great efforts of the will. During
Gorres's stay at Kaltem, Maria was
asked to stand godmother for a new-
ly born child. She accepted the in-
vitation with great joy, and took the
most lively interest in the ceremony ;
but during it she became ecstatic
several times, and had to be repeated-
ly recalled from her trance.

Yet with all this, she did not neg-
lect the care of her family as far as
it lay in her power, and with the
direction and counsel of her good
confessor. Two o'clock in the after-
noon was the hour appointed by him
for her to attend to her household
affairs. At that hour she was com-
manded by him to leave her trance,
and then, with the greatest diligence,
and with the care of a mother, she
directed business matters, dictated
letters, and arranged all the neces-
sary temporal concerns with great
prudence and good sense.

In the year 1841, she left her
father's house, and went, in the begin-
ning of November, to live in the con-
vent of the Sisters of the Third Or-
der of St Francis, where, as one of
its members, she received a separate
dwelling next the church. Here
she enjoyed great repose, for access
to her became less easy, as visitors
were required to procure permis-
sion from the ecclesiastical author-

itks to see her. Still, pilgrimages
did not cease ; and the good influence
exercised by her increased. Of the
deep religious impression produced
by her ecstasies, the Bishop of Terni,
Monsignor Vincent Tizzani, speaks
authoritatively in a pastoral letter pub-
lished regarding Maria von Mori in
the year 1842. He had seen her, one
Friday, in her ecstasy and agony,
and lie could not repress his tears at
beholding the text so literally verified,
" I live ; yet not I, but Christ liveth
in me.'' Plis testimony concerning
the stigmata and the circumstances
of ber supernatural state agrees in
every particular with that rendered
by Gorres and Brentano seven years
previously, Louis Clarus also, at
that time a Protestant, afterward a
Catholic, in his studies on mysticism,
felt compelled to render this witness
concerning her. " The force of truth
and reality/' sa)^ he, writing of his
visit to Kaltem, ** impressed me so,
that I felt necessitated, like the apos-
tle John, to announce what I had
heard, my eyes had seen, and my
hands touched."

Many others, among them Lord
Shrewsbury, attest the same fact,
every succeeding witness confirming
the testimony of his predecessor.*
A whole generation has passed since
then, and no one has been able to
contradict their statements, or explain
the phenomena on any natural prin-
ciples. For thirty years every one
could behold her in ecstasy or agony,
and see the wounds plainly on her
hands and feet, while she remained
ever humble, meek, modest as a child,
and intensely pious and holy. Her his-
tory could be written \n two words :
** She sufficrs^ and cmti^mplaiesy She
was a passion-flower clinging to the

foot of the cross. In ecstasy she

spent her life, contemplating ibe
suflerings of Jesus Christ, ptraytag
for all, for the church, and for her
native land ; doing good to counties
poor people, alleviating their sorrows,
like the divine Master who dwelt in
the recesses of her souL

Three years before her death she
lost her confessor, Father Capistian^
who had guided her soul for almost
forty years. He was a distingubhcd
theologian, a good priest, and had
been judged worthy to be chosen
provincial of his order, the Francis*
cans. He died on the 4th of Miy,
1S65, She mourned his deatit like a
child, and longed more than ever to
be dissolved and be wth Christ,

Her m%\\ was soon gratified. She
became very weak in the autumn of
1S67, and the numerous visits she
was compelled to receive^ as well as
the frequent requests made of her,
completely prostrated her physical
powers. The number of pilgrims to
her ** Swallows' Nest/' as Gorres call*
cd her abode near the Franciscan
church, was extraordinary ; men,
women, priests, and laity, sdl came
to her shrine.

The measure of her physical suf-
fering was full ; but the measure of her
mental anguish was not )*et complete.
On the 8th of September, 1867, she
was visited by a severe spiritual trou-
ble. She seemed to be struggUng
with some power of hell. She be-
came sad, and as if forsaken by God,
to such an extent that until Sepiem*
ber 17th, and for weeks after, cod-
sciousness seems to have entirely left
her. In this spiritual conflict she
saw troops of demons, which sur-
rounded, attacked her, and threat-
ened to czrry her off to judgment.
She saw and heard the 6ends blas-
pheming all things holy, and trying
to bear even the most righteous away
to the ab>^ss. She heard the devil

■ Maria pom Mini.

at her, and boast that they had
pe in theu" power ; that they
isecrated churches and con-
and made wickedness thrive
and. These temptations and
ons lasted from the middle of
iber to the middle of October,
peace again returned to her
From the 23d of October
s able to receive the blessed
ent regularly ; the struggle
er; she had conquered, and
w at rest When she was af-
l interrogated regarding these
ons, she said that, on the night
7th of September, as she was
I for the pope and the emperor,
ack began. It was precisely
time that the invasion of the
temporal possessions by the
Idians, sanctioned by the Sar-
government, took place. The
. expedition was sent to the
relief toward the middle of
r, just when Maria's soul ob-
rest from demoniacal agres-
so that her personal affliction
:o have been a participation in
ferings of the church,
the light of her life was flick-
n the socket She had a pre-
ent of her death before it took
and prophesied often that she
lever pass the winter on earth,
i All Saints' day her weak-
fcame greater, and everything
1 her dissolution. She could
;er bear nourishment Lemon-
water, with the essence of
», was almost her only nourish-
for some weeks before her
When she felt better on cer-
ys, she ate fruit, bread, or por-
but never meat or meat soup.
>metimes spent several days
t eating or drinking. In the
iek, especially from Wednes-
le suffered great torture. But
s full of resignation ; indiffer-
ife or death, she never repined

or murmured* She was patient and
full of calm resignation and infantile
I0V& On the feast of the Epiphany,
five days before her death, she showal
herself in her usual way to the pil-
grims ; there was a mission at Kal-
tem, and the missionaries visited her
on that festival, to bid her farewelL
She received them with bland hospi-
tality, and offered them grapes to eat.

She knew nothing positive about
the precise moment of her death,
but only that she should die when
everything on her became white.
The stigmata b^^ gradually to dis-
appear, leaving only a blue spot,
which disappeared entirely after her
departm-e. She received the viati-
ciun on January 6th, in the evening.
Every one thought she would die
immediately ; but she made known
by gestures that she should not die
yet She remained conscious, and
was able to receive holy commimion
daily.

At last the day of her demise,
January nth, came. About half-p^t
two on Saturday morning, two hours
after communion, she passed from
this vale of tears to her heavenly
home. Her last agony was easy and
calm. She lay quiet, occasionally
murmuring the name of Jesus ; and
one of the bystanders heard her
say: "Ohl how beautiful; oh!
how beautiful." Her breathing
grew weaker, and she fell gently
asleep in death.

Her body was exposed in the
church for two days, and thousands
visited it Many felt as if they had
lost a member of their own family.
She lay dressed as a bride, clothed
in white, with a white veil on her
brow, and a crown of flowers at her
feet Her face was beautiful to look
upon, half-childlike in expression, yet
mingled with the dignity of a matron ;
her head reclined, bent toward the
left side I her brow and eyes were

A Sumtner Shower.

fiill of dignity ; her mouth like that
of an infant smiling in sleep ; her
hands white as alabaster, and ruddy
as roses. Afterward the veil was
taken away and she appeared more
angelic than ever, her rich flowing
hair surrounding her noble head. A
look of perfect happiness beamed
from her entire coimtenance.

Her burial was solemn. Sur-
rounded by mourning and edified
multitudes, her body was borne by
young maidens from the catafalque
to the zinc coffin prepared for its re-
ception. Her remains were taken
on January 13th to her father^s family
vault at Kaltem, where they now
rest in peace.

Kaltem lost its jewel in lo
Maria; but her virtues will liv<
ever in the hallowed spot where
was bom, where she lived and c
Truly did Gdrres write of her tc
Prince-Bishop of Trent : " God
her like a living crucifix on the c:
roads, to preach to a godless
dissipated people." She was on
those lamps lighted by the han
God himself to shine in the d
ness, when infidelity is abroad
bing and devouring in the vine
of Christ For this purpose she
sent by God, and hence we may
expect that the wonderful supe
tural phenomena of her ecstatic
will not cease with her death.

A SUMMER SHOWER.

Welcome, O summer rain j

To thirsty hill and plain,
To desolate beds of streams of all their waves run dry.

We know who sent thee forth

From out the windy north.
To trail thy cooling fountains through the sultry sky.

The parched earth drinks up
, • The crystal-flowing cup ;
The dusty grasses wash them emerald-green again :

The sweet, drenched roses sigh

In fragrant ecstasy ;
The truant brooks foam down their glistening beds amain.

The robins, full of glee.
Answer from tree to tree ;
'Neath dusky boughs the glancing orioles, aglow,

A Summer Shower. 41

Mimic the vivid play
Of lightnings far away,
That southward toss their fiery shuttles to and fro :

While at the fall and lift
Of lights and shadows swift,

Titanic laughter rolls through all the bending skies^
\nd every water-bead
Trembles, but laughs, indeed,

And every insect quicklier breathes as low he lies.

O Heart ! whose pity flows

To cheer the languid rose,
Hand I outstretched to wake the brooklet's merry din,

Behold me like a blot

Upon this happy spot,
Where joys knock at my door, but never enter in 1

Behold the arid ways

Through which my weary days
Tread with unfruitful steps that wander far from thee ;

The wasted heart and brain.

All empty, save for pain ;
Behold the hidden thorn which thou alone canst see ;

And while my fainting sighs

Through nature's hymn arise,
Comforter of flowers ! leave not me to die I

But send thy heavenly rain

Unto my soul again.
Even to me, as grieving in the dust I lie I

IVAtf shall take care of our Sick t

WHO SHALL TAKE CARE OF OUR SICK?

We have taken occasion, in re-
cent numbers of The Cathouc
World, to present to our readers
several of the works of charity which
appeal most strongly lo Christian
sympathy and ask for Christian aid.
In our articles on **The Sanitary
and Moral Condition of the City of
New York*' — as but one, however,
out of the iDany cities of our land
with like evils and like needs — we
directed attention to some lamenta-
ble features of the situation of the
poor in our midst, and especially of
the many thousands of poor and va-
grant children growing up in neglect
and consequent ignorance and vice.
The kindred matter of the condition
and proper treatment of the inmates
of our jails, prisons, and penitentia-
ries was touched upon in our last,
under the head of ** Prison Disci-
pline ;" and, again, that of the poor
and unfortunate subjects of mental
ailments in the article on " Gheel, a
Colony of the Insane." In the pre-
sent number, we invite attention to
another branch of the subject, sug-
gested by the inquir}' at the head of
this article, *' Who shall take care of
our sick >"

By tlj ? mean all who by

infirmity or mind are incapa-

ble of i.v of themselves; for

the range lu win uiquir)^ entbraces the
belplessness of infancy, of decrepi-
tude, insanity, and idiocy, and extends
even to prisoners and criminals.

By ^wr sick, we mean the sick poor,
the duty of providing for whom de-
volves on collective society.

But as what is everybod/s busi-
is nobody's business, and as
aocietyj however imperfectly organ-

ized, has many distinct organs
recognized functions correspondiagji
it remains to be determined through
what special ministry the sufferijig
members of humanity shall be suc-
cored and the erring reclaimed.

If the rich, and those whose social
combinations have been succ
are succored in their need by their
families, their friends, their ser\'ants ]|
who constitute the families, ihel
friends, tlie servants, of the poor]
and isolated? This is a que^tionj
which pagan societies have evaded,^
or insolently answered, Va vicHsi
Religion alone, and only in so far j
Christ's spirit has penetrated man*
kind, has given, through its orders of
charily, a fair and candid answer —
an answer in deeds as well as words.
For many centuries in Christendom,
this answer appeared satisfactory in
its spirit and intent Not even the
insane were left out of the Christian
fold^ — witness the Colony of Gheel —
and it only remained to extend, and
multiply, and perfect the works of
charity, in proportion as science and
art added to the resources of so*
ciety.

But the Protestant " Reformation"
came, sweeping away the work of
pious ages, confounding uses with
abuses, and upset the whole admi>
nistration of charity by the ser\'ants
of Christ, along with public and reli-
gious hospitality: in changing the
privileged orders, it confided to secu-
lar hands the doling out of such pit-
tance to the destitute as the fear of
insurrection compelled, and still com-
pels, from the reluctant economy of
self interest.

A revival of Christianity in Pro-

Who shall tahi care of our Sick t

testant countries now opens the pub-
lic mind to the horrors and crimes
against humanity perpetrated, in the
name of charity, in their "work-
houses," ''alms-houses," hospitals,
and asylums ; it leads to the recall
and renewal of religious orders de-
voted to the care of the sick and
other classes needing charity. This
has not been merely a brilliant cor*
ruscation, like the rescue which Flo-
rence Nightingale carried to the
British troops in the Crimea. Miss
Nighdngale had previously been
trained for years in the religious or-
der of the Kaiserwerth, a normal
school of nurses, and the movement,
inaugurated by her, continues in
England as the "Institution of St.
John." A number of religious works,
of high merit and extensive useful-
ness, are described among the Chari'
ties of Europe^ by De Liefde.*

In New York, we have the Hospi-
tal of Sl Luke, ministered to by pious
Episcopal ladies, who, like the Scturs
Griscs of medisval Europe, take no
TOWS, and may marry, yet for the
time being perform the same func-
tions as our Sbters of Charity or of
Mercy.

While attesting a tendency hi
Christendom to recover the ground
bst by the " Reformation," such in-
stitutions as we have cited are still
very trivial in numbers and power ;
aad though small appropriations of
public funds have been made to them,
neither they nor the principles which
titey represent have been officially
recognized by states or cities. There
iS| on the contrary, a jealous opposi-
tion to admitting, even to the service
of the sick poor, who are mostly
Europeans and Catholics, as at Belle-
vnc, the Sisters of Charity; and
one of its most eminent surgeons,
who knows by experience how pre-
ckms is their aid, has declared to us

Mc«Y«tk«

with regret his conviction that this
salutary measure could not pass. To
obviate the prejudices that withhold
the administration of charity from
its own votaries, whose noble emula-
tion would utilize the differences of
sect or order for the common good ;
to show that the State will find in
this restoration economy, at the same
time with social or moral advanta-
ges, while Christ will be more worthi-
ly served ; to make it felt that the
burden of human sorrows will be
lightened, and the redemption of our
race from evil promoted, by re-allying
piety with charity, is the purpose we
have now in view.

" Suum cuique trihuito^^ " Give to
each his own." Two chief orders of
power exist in societ}' — ^interest and
sentiment The natural sphere of
interest is confined to material pro-
perty or goods of the senses ; that
of sentiment embraces the relations
oi persons^ that is, of beings consider-
ed as hearts and souls \ so that sen-
timent culminates in devotion, and
ranges love and consanguinity,
friendship and honor, in the minis-
tries of religion, expanding the self-
hood of the individual by the con-
sciousness of his solidari^ with the
race, and through Christ with our
Father in heaven.

Still, practically, the functions of
each power are distinct It is ad-
mitted, in regard to the divers organi-
zations of fire companies, for instance,
that the payment of fixed salaries
is an efficient or adequate motive
for the protection of houses. This
service was once confided to public
spirit; there was no lack of heroic
devotion in its exercise ; but salaried
firemen were found to be more ame-
nable to discipline, and their organi-
zations to be more permanent and
reliable. Now, the contrary is true
of hospital service and kindred func-
tions, which employ in some places

W/io shall take care of our Sick f

the religious orders of chanty, in
others hired assistants. Physiciatis,
patients, and inspectors, all proclaim
the superiority of the former. Visit
our great secular establishments, such
as Bellevue or the Charily Hospital,
where the service is either hired or
compulsory by convicts, and then
the hospitals of religious orders, even
the poorest, such as that of the Sisters
of the Poor of St. Francis, which is
supported by begging from door to
door, not to mention the more richly
endowed hospitals of St. Vincent de
Paul or St, Luke, all free to every
needy patient : scent the air of the
wards, share the food of the refectory,
feel the human magnetism of these
spheres, take time and mood to ap-
preciate all their conditionsj and you
will find their difference amount to
a contrast in many essentials of hy-
giene, physical as well as moral, al-
though science is impartially repre-
sented at the secular as at the
religious establishments. The for-
mer have been largely endowed by
private and public benefaction; en-
ergy, ability, and good will are not
I wanting among their officers ; yet
jthey inspire such aversion that the
' decent poor will often rather perish
than resort to them.

The characteristic superiority of
religious charities is historical, and
^ remounts to the earliest epochs of
i Christendom ; although the secular
I interest of states in the health and
(contentment of their peoples has
[been the same in all times and all
(countries. If their conduct has
Ibeen different, the reasons of this
difference may be found in the na-
ture of their religions and the fervor
or torpor of their piety.

Conversely, just in proportion as
our modem states alienate their
"public charities" from the influ-
ence of religion, they become per-
Lirerted by the same cruelty and

heartlessness that characterized the
behavior of the pagan world toward
its unfortunate classes. Betw^'een
the philanthropy of the Englisli
worlvhouse and that of Rome which
sent poor slaves to perish on the
''dismal is/and" in the Tiber, tlw
shorter course seems preferable to
us, because less degrading to the
soul of the victim, and because it
has the courage, at least, of its
crime.

The Emperor Maximianus, who
shipped a cargo of beggars out lo
sea and drowned them, was still
more complete in this economy of
suffering. Disease and misery, de*
crepitude and helpless infancy, have
each in turn become the object of
such elimination, which ignores ten-
derness toward the individual ; but
the process has never stopped whenfi
it might have been justified, in a man-
ner, by the substitution of healthier
and stronger or more perfect, for less
perfect individuals among the repre-
sentative types of the species. No ;
the same spirit that sacrificed the
feeblest, revelled in tlie destruction of
the strongest men in its gladiatorial
arenas. Even in the restricted sense
of patriotism, which had contributed
so many devotions on the altar of
the count^}^ in the heroic days of
Greece and Rome, solidarity had
ceased to be matter of practical con-
science in the pagan world of the
great empire. The Hebrews had
developed it only as a tribal and
family principle. Where has it ever
been a social life-truth, unless in
the fold of Christ's disciples ? and
where has this been practically
organized, except by its religious
orders ?

The inconsistencies of war except-
ed, we see life and personal liberty
becoming more sacred from age to
age, even amid the corruptions of
advanced civilization in Christen-

Who shall take care of our Sick f

dom; whereas, on the contrary, in
pagan civilizations "the springs of
humane feeling in every ancient na-
tion, like the waters of the fountain
of the sun, were warm at dawn of
morning, but chilled gradually as the
day advanced, till at noon they be-
came excessively cold."

When the development of intelli-
gence in civilized communities ren-
ders them conscious of needs and
of resources outlying the circles of
family providence ; one of their first
Christian movements is to care for
their disabled members, stricken by
disease or wounds from the army of
the working poor.

In our monster cities, the hospital
acquires gigantic proportions, and
poMcal economy meets humanity
in the research for a system which
shall afford the greatest mitigation
of inevitable suffering and the best
diances of restoring the sufferers to
social uses.

In this research, charity has anti-
cipated experimental science, and to
the religious orders belongs the ho-
nor of fulfilling the highest ideal of
this sacred function.

The organization of hospitals con-
tains lor modem civilization and for
cosmopolite New York problems of
the h%hest practical import, which
tspedally interest the Christian
church.

What has been hitherto effected
tnder the social pressure of extreme
necessity, whether to avert the gene-
ration and difRision of pestilence, or
the shame of allowing millions of
the poor to perish in their squalid
Oiisery, is still painfully inadequate
to meet the needs of humanity at
points where Europe disgorges her
miseries upon America. New insti-
tutions are annually struggling into
existence to supply this demand.
Among the most important by their
locial and religious nature are those

of the Sisters of the Poor of Saint
Francis, which may serve as a type
of what we would urge concerning
the superiority of piety and charity
—those daughters of the Christian
church — over secular calculations,
in this work.

Few, small, and poor as are the
hospitals of this order in America,
they shine by the spirit which ani-
mates them, by the naked purity of
their Christian faith, and its works,
that confront the world now, precise-
ly as they did eighteen hundred years
ago.*

* This order of the " Sistera of the Poor of Saint
Francis*' has been introduced already into several
of our larger cities, and with much promise of success.
Houses of their order exist in Cindnnati, in Brook-
lyn, in Hoboken, and elsewhere, and. more recently,
have been established here in New York.

If they shall have the wisdom — the churdi's
irisdom of old and of all time, and the spirit which
has always animated and characterized her workings
—^o adapt themselves to the countiy, to its needs and
requirements, to its speech, and (so &r as compatible
with piety) to its habits and ctistoms, they will doubt-
less receive vocations, will grow in numbers, will be
able to accomplish much in alleviating the sufferings
of humanity, and will do no small share of the great
work of bringwg the Catholic Church rightiully befora
the American people.

We subjoin the following deserved tribute to their
house here in New York, which w find in tha
Evening Post^ of August X3th. :

''saint ntANas hospitau

" To the Editors of the Evening Post :

** I venture to affirm that at least nine tenths of the
food people of' this great city are entirely ignorant of
Uie existence of the Hospital of Saint Francis in our
toidst Indeed, with my long and generally intimate
knowledge of the various benevolences of the dty, I
was not at all aware of this mstitution, until a kind
lady who has been a warm friend of the House of In-
dustry acquainted me with the &ct a fiew days since,
and m her company I had the pleasure of visiting the
hospital. For several reasons I beg your permission
to say a few words about it in the Evening Post.

" It is located on Fifth and Sixth streets, between
Avenues B and C, being the two brick dwellings
Nos. 407 and 409 Fifth street, and the one immediate-
ly in the rear of No. 173 Sixth street It is under
the care of the * Sistera of the Poor of Sabt Fran-
cis,' and is a free hospital for both sexes, without
distinction as to creed, and its inmates comprise
Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. l*he means for
purchaung this property were obtained by the solidu-
tions of the sistera from door to door. I think the
order of Saint Frands originated in Germany, where
it still has its headquarters. Most of the sistera here
are German, though there are certainly one or two
ezceptiona. The accommodations are altogether m-

Wio shall take care of our Ski t

Arrogant, imposing, and splendid
in Broadway, the lusts of power and
greed which the poor world now
serves show the reverse of the pic-
ture in the indigent swarms which
vegetate a little way east from First
avenue. Passing from the hot-beds
of luxury and their exhaustive reac-
tions of improvident misery, enter
the Hospital of the Sisters of the
Poor of Saint Francis, on Fifth
street, near Avenue R Its extreme
neatness in the midst of squalor, its
sweetness amid corruptions, atmos-
pheric and social, its severe simplici-
ty of self-renunciation, shaming the
complex artiftces of our cupidity, its
devotion so consistent, so persistent,
as the stream of charity ascends
toward its fountain-level in the

adequate, and not at all wetl adapted to the purposes.
The parients arc cheerful and happy, and there i»
fvery evideocc ihit all the cffbrta of the»c aittert
ari»e fruct) the most pure and a a selfish motives, and
thai there u not the Icatt constrajot in regard to reli-
fioin mattcn mdiis upon the mmatea. There ia a
iresyimal] chapel m theesUblithtntnt. (he atiendazKe
upon which ia wholly voluntary. The commonest
eervfcee are performed by the tiaterm, and Puritaa
Frotestant as I ^mA edticatcd^ I could but admire the
devotion and kindDess of ihe«e women, f believe
their dtuirity ia a tme and unselfish ooe ; that they
fti« animated by hia Spirii who went about doing
food, and they fkov&A be well supported in their

"The palieittt are of »11 ^sst% and natiovialitiea, per-
t^pa ■ fikon th«B nsual Average of Gennana. I waa
fMnkolirly inlereelcd m two of the warda, one ibr
the * fFrandfathers* and the other ibr the 'grand-
inoiher%' both of them 6Ued with quite i^jed people.
iliikXky of the paticnta wemed to be incurables*
and have a pen&anent home in the Saint Francia.
The grtod aistm have secured a large plot of ground
on whidi they pitrpoie erecting a building of much
greaicr capacity than ihoM (hey oow occupy, and
thuroujilily adapted lo the objoctaof the institution.
For thia object th^ will o«ed large contributioiia.
which 1 caroeatfy hope wilt he proroplly fumUhed.
The ibllowing ii « geoeral ntauiiary of the paat
year;
Kimbcr oC pBtienta treated in HoipililL (lo^e^

4B4 : fcrnalc^, loH) * soa

DiechatBid, cured or improved *• 4a]

l>»<d..,. ., m

lUinaJtiing Deeember 3M8frr , ,,, .. U

** I have written oat this ismpte itstenent, beeaoee ft
!• alway«plc«aaiit for me 10 oommend all riglit igeii-
dee wmIoi^ for the comAsrt of the aklc poor, and
becMav. O0ttpw«tiv«1y botated aa these ivrnnen an,
lh«y have ^lecial claim to sympathy and assiitaiiee I
M alao^ becstne they are Catholica, I an gtad of an
•ppodnnlty to iliow Ikal Proteetanla can apfwciBle
«bU b 9004 B9 BAtttr wlko ongineiea it.

heights of faith ; all smite upon the
heart with the manifest presence of
Jesus. Its inmates attest with a
grateful enthusiasm the kindness
there lavished upon them. The
voices of prayer and praise cons^
crate the wholesome food to bo<!i!y
uses ; the sweetness of fellowship m
Christ pervades all its relations and
dignifies tht humblest offices. Here
are no hired nurses \ iife-devotioa
supplies all The iniquities of ci%4-
li2ation,or the discrepancies between
the soul*s ideal and the world's pos-
sible, may defeat nature's fondest in-
tentions of personal destiny in love
and maternity for individual lives;
but as ** the stone which the builders
rejected, the same shall become the
head of the corner,** so the career of
charity opens to all who live in
Christ a higher sphere of espousals
and of motherhood, pure from the
dross of selfishness.

One who observes the practical
working of this institution must soon
be convinced that it possesses neither
time nor inclination for other arts of
proselyting, than the attractive ema-
nations of a glowing, earnest life of
love and duty. Fourteen sisters sup-
port and care for more than a huo*
dred patients, and even add to tht
domestic and ward ser\ice that of
the pharmacy. The patients recci\*e
daily visits from a physician and a
clergyman, "We know,'* say the
sisters, *' that, when the body is sick,
the soul suffers, and that spiritual
consolation often does the body
more good than the best medicines."
Books are provided for those abl«
and willing to read. Attendance at
the chapel is optional. There art
regular services on Sunday. The
patients are of diverse creeds, as of
diverse nations. This hospital U
often preferred by Protestants, and
even by Jei»^^ ; for tJiose who suffer
go where they find hearts to s}^pi^

Who shall take care of our Sick t

d&ize with and hands to help them.
They see that the poor sisters have
nothing for their labors but their
simple food and clothing. More
is not allowed by the rules of
their order, that they may the
more disinterestedly apply them-
selves to the care of the poor and
suffering sick, the support of whom
and other expenses of the institution
depend upon the daily collections
and labors of the sisters themselves."
{Report for 1867.) This noble ig-
norance of all dbtinctions of creed
and sect is the common attribute of
the Sisters of Charity. Those who
serve the Hospital of St Vincent de
Paul, an older and wealthier charity
than that of the Sisters of St. Francis,
one of the most creditable, indeed,
in our country, open its doors alike
to sufferers of all denominations.

In regard to the matter of practi-
cal economy and saving to the
state, from placing its hospitals, and
other like institutions, under the care
of the religious orders, we are per-
mitted to give the following extract
from a letter from a Catholic lady of
Cincinnati :

''The only public institution we as
yet have which is supported from the
public purse is the prison, managed
by the Good Shepherds. In his an-
nual report, the mayor always praises
their economy and excellent manage-
ment, but he has never had the mag-
nanimity to publish the thousands an-
nually saved, in comparison with the
old regime. Their salaries are fixed
It $100 a year for six sisters — $600,
idiich is $100 less than the pay of a
single policeman. The sisters have
(he entire management of the prison.
The Harris School is in full opera-
tion. The house can receive no more
than about fifty-five. Colonel Har-
ris, the founder, a Protestant, always
expresses his surprise at the liftle
eutlay. Our own experience shows

an immense economy, as well as su-
perior moral influence in the effects
of our charities, so beneficial in
softening the hearts of the poor."

We may here take occasion to re-
mark that a religious order affords
guarantees of honest administration
in a higher degree than any indivi*
dual can do by his personal respon-
sibility. The legal security, or values
pledged, may be equal ; but in one
case there is at stake only a business
responsibijity, in which it is often re-
garded as smart to outwit a com-
mittee of inspection ; while, on the
other hand, corporate honor is in-
volved, and the officer entrusted with
funds is doubly responsible to the
committee of inspection, and to the
order of which he or she is a mem-
ber, under the more extended affilia-
tion of the church.

Moreover, the discipline of the re-
ligious orders is very rigorous on the
chapter of economies, and there are
not by any means the same opportu-
nities or temptations for an officer to
divert funds from public to private
uses. The inspectors themselves
will often be Protestants.

It behoves us to examine the use
of hospitals in the general S3rstem of
humanitary functions. The hospital
is a corollary of the city. The city
is a gland or glandular system of
elaboration for the social and in-
tellectual secretion^ of humanity —
arts, sciences, and refinements. But
the advantages of the city are obtain-
ed only by great sacrifices; among
which is the separation of great num-
bers of persons from their local and
family attachments, obliging them
to derive their subsistence from in-
dustries more precarious than those
of rural life. More wisdom being re-
quired to direct one's course in the
complex relations of the city, more
are bewildered, misled, overwhelm-
ed; vast and powerful currents of

W7iO shall take care of our Sici f

crime and of waste are generated,
and restorative measures are needed
to counteract them. Now, the neces-
sity of cities and that of hospitals be-
ing admitted, how, let us ask, can
this kind of help be rendered, this
sort of duty performed, so as most
worthily to attest the principle of hu-
man solidarity, so as to benefit most
the recipients of chanty, to honor
most the organs by which charity is
rendered, and so secure the best
kind of service in this arduous func-
tion ; finally, how best to economize
tlie resources of collective society in
the adaptation of means to ends ?

First, let us consider the expe-
diences of public charity, especially
in reference to the persons or char-
acters of its organs.

The best interest of society de-
mands that there shall be a place
for every one, and every one in his
place ; or, in other words, that as spe-
cific vocations are inherent to each
type of character, so that use should
be allotted to each for which nature
supplies the aptitudes, and which it
embraces with ardor.

The attractiveness of certain func-
tions, or the aversion occasioned by
them, has very little to do with the
impression they make on the senses
of a party indifferent. The cares
required by an infant, for example,
which excite maternal zeal in all its
plenitude, appear simply tedious and
disgusting to most men. So it is
with the care of the sick, in which
science and affection find powerful at-
tachments insensible to others, who,
good in other w^ys, feel no vocation
for it. Finally, and beyond all spe-
cial vocations, there is the enthusi-
asm of devotion, the religious in-
stinct to which Christianity appeals,
which it awakens in many souls, and
which it justifies in affording to it
the highest spheres of use. The
contemplative idealist may try to es-
[ caoe the normal limitations of his

nature in vague aspiration ; but Jcsia^
has provided against this Brah]
perversion by the culture of
in ideniifying the love of God
the love of the neighbor, and
self with the least of mankind. *
long as you did it to one of these
least brethren, you did it to me,'* (Si
Matthew xxv, 40.)

We do not suppose that Cbristiai
ity endowed human nature witli p)
lanthropy as a new passion \ it gai
this aspect, this evolution, ibis mo-
dality, to what had been patrtotisi
for the huroic states of Rome^ ol
Greece, and other nations, which \v
always sought, and sometimes founi
a social channel, but which Christi
ity more fully satisfied in the iheoi
and practice of unity.

There have always been developed,
in proportion with the indusiriai pro-
gress of civilization, wants exttaordi
nary without being fantastic. Si
are the cares of illness. The
dom of Christian charity has
ed to these extreme wants voc
equally extreme, in the devotion
religious orders ; and this duly
devolved especially upon the female
sex, because it is better gifted
the male for the ministry of d
passion.

It is feasible, moreover, for reli
gious orders to accept as well th(
penitent as the virgin ; and shamlni
the world's intolerance, to
from sin and disgrace a lower wortrf
of souls, whom passion or impm>
dence had otherwise ruined.

There is no depth of crime, in*
deed, from which its subjects m;
not be rescued by charitable labors
and in proportion as their organ izi
tion is extended and perfected^ leg;
as well as simply moral offences may
find here at once their preventiaa
and their expiation. The brothel
and the p riitentiary, those two insti-^
tutions of hell on earth, may thus be
countermined, and the means of re»

thaiij

li^o shall lake care of our Sick f

di8i|ilioii afforded to tbeir victims.
Ik salutary influence which the dis*
d|iliiie of charitable works exerts
over foeiital and moral aberrations,
oqr oreti reclaim not a few of the
ot those who, under ordinary
are drifting fatally to-
Ifae tniuidc asylum.
Thai extraordinary virtue which the
impuUc and exercise of active bene-
voitncc has in developing the soul
awakening its lateot powers
torpor, may appear from the
iDg incident lately observed at
Kr. Bost'Sy in Laforce, Dordogne :

One day a poor girl, deaf, dumb,
Umd, paralytic, and epileptic, was
brought to Bethesda. **It required
SQcne courage,'' says the narrator, Mr.
Dcliefde, *'to fix one's eyes on that
le creature, with her dried-
itracted limbs, her repulsive
the features of which were con-
itly contorted in the most hideous
Unoer. Well, an idiot took charge
of tlkat child, guarded and nursed it,
lad stood by its death-bed to admin-
kta to it the last solace of love I
And fuch was the indefatigable care
tod e\*en intelligent thoughtfulness
mk «iiich she tended her poor help-
kii diarge that Mr, Bost said, ' When
■^^■p my death-bed, I shall count it
^^^Bting to be nursed in this way.^
Tdo not n-ooder at such hearts being
aUe to understand what is the mean-
ing ot the simple sentence, 'God
lovetli you,* long before the intellect
k able to catch the difference be-
npcen two and three ; nor can I be
u^rpHsed at what Mrs. Castel told
^K, that tJ»e same children who do
^B| know whether a shoe ought to be
^K tlia ^t or 00 the head, or w ho,
TBTho! ».-d, would, like beasts,

walk • >urs and lick the dirt,

mmyyet sometiines be heard ejaculate
* Mon Dku / prtnds pilikdt mou
m Sicft bemn*
l49ii§ before they could catch the
?ou vtiu — 4

idea of shifting a piece of wood from
the right hand to the left, they gave
evidence of being pleased by an act
of kindness, and of being grateful for
a benefit bestowed on them.

" In the year 1854, a girl who was a
perfect idiot stood, one day, in Mr.
Bost's lobby. The aspect of the hi-
deous-looking little creature was so
sickening that Mr, Bost could not
permit her to be taken into the es-
tablishment, but still less could he
send her away* If ever there was a
subject for compassionate, saving
love, it was here. The power of
prayer and the perseverance of cha-
rity could now be put to the test.
Mr. Bost resolved to keep the girl in
his own house. The doctors declar-
ed it perfect folly. During three
months, all his efforts to strike a
spark of intellect out of this fiint
proved a total failure. But one even-
ing, at worship, while the hymn was
being sung, he heard an articulate
and harmonious tone proceed from
the brutishly shaped mouth. The
child evidently tried to put its voice
in accord with the sounds which
it was hearing. Mn Bost is a musi-
cian, and at once applied his talent to
the benefit of his unhappy pupih
Under the softening and cheering in-
fluence of harmony, it was affecting
to see how, first with painful strug-
gles, and then with growing ease,
the mind of the child emerged
from the dark deep in which it
had been confined. By little and
little, the idiot succeeded in uttering
articulate sounds, then in uniting them
into syllables, and finally into words.
At the same time, her health improv-
ed visibly, her ner\^ous system be-
came less irritable, her face assumed
more and more a rational expression.
She began 10 show joy and surprise
when receiving something that was
agreeable to her. Then tokens of
gratitude and of affection followed-

WAo shall tak€ care of aur Sick f

In short, after a lapse of two years,
tJie idiot had disappeared to make
room for a child which appeared to
be behind but a few years only, when
compared with other children of her
own age. At present, that same child,
formerly beneath the level of the
brute, speaks well, sews, and knits,
and might be the teacher of children
less sunken in idiocy than herself
when she first set foot on Mr. Bost*s
threshold."

Such was the spirit and such the
conduct which determined mediseval
Europe to entrust the religious or-
ders with vast landed possessions,
and with these the whole care of
the poor, of the sick, and of the way-
farer, duties which they discharged
with greater satisfaction to the peo-
ple than any secular aristocracy of
privilege known in the records of
history.

*' For the uncertain dispositions of
the rich, for their occasional and
often capricious charity, was substi-
tuted the certain, the steady, the im-
partial hand of a constantly resi-
dent and unmarried administrator of
bodily as well as spiritual comfort
to the poor, the unfortunate, and the
stranger,'*

Now, still the question presses,
■whether, instead of confiding our
sick to hired nurses, we shall not
invite the willing sisterhood to ex-
tend their organization among us,
and sustain them in this devotion.
It is well ascertained that none can
make a thousand dollars go so far as
they can in the service of tlieir sick.

It is notorious in America, that
public works undertaken by the
government arc generally ill done
and very wastefully. Hence, com-
mon sense excludes the government
from enterprises of internal improve-
ment, and confides them either to in-
•dividuals or companies, without hesi-
tating thus to create privileged orders
and to favor a moneyed aristocracy.

To have a great work well done,
passions as well as interests must be
engaged in it ; personal character*
pride, and ambition, as well as skill
and capital ; and where many pw- '
sons must co-operate, there is no
guarantee of harmony in action and
of successful result so sure as that co^
porate zeal which religion employs
with so much power, and which reli-
gion alone can bring to bean This
is indeed a holy fire, enkindled and ^
kept alive upon objects of charity,
that purges away dross.

If the Catholic Church has in all J
ages conducted her enterprises «itli
the greatest success, it is because she
has known how to enlist the greatest
number of motives, the strongest and
the best On the other hand, it will
be readily confessed that the greaiC
public hospitals under secular coih |
trol do not even bring into pl.iy the
common le%Trs of interest which se* ,
cure results in the management of i
railroads, of hotels or banking-housea^J
nor those of ambition, which anima
the army and navy. Charity, as a]
secular business, is always poorly [
paid, rendered grudgingly, distaste*
fully, and so as to excite aversion. |
Many will rather die than have re*|
course to it. It always carries wfthi
it a certain stigma of inferiority and]
contempt No personal character 1
or corporate zeal is identified with it^l
still less can there exist that unison]
of feeling and of effort which pla
the seal of the divine humanity oa
such institutions as those of the sis-'
tcrs. We transcribe from one of the
most remarkable works of modem
travel, The Pillars of Hcrcuks^ by
David Urquhart, his impression of
the last remaining hospitals of the
religious order in Spain. Let us note
that Mr. Urquhart is an Englishman
and a Protestant :

** The Hospicio of Cadiz is at once a
poor-house and a house of industry, a
school, a foundling hospital, a hospi-

Wiko shall take care of our Sick f

tal, and a mad-house ; that is, it sup-
plies the places of all these institu-
tions. It is imposing in its form,
embellished in its interior, and as
unlike in all its attributes and effects
ts anything can be to the edifices
consecrated to the remedying of hu-
man misery, by our own charity and
wisdom.

" HOSPFFAL DE LA SANGRE, (SEVILLE.)

" This is a noble edifice, composed
of several grand courts and of two
stories ; the lower one for summer,
and the upper one for winter. I
think I may say that to each patient
is allotted at least four times as much
space as in any similar European
establishment, and the very troughs
in which the dirty linen is washed
are marble : the patients have two
! dianges of clean linen in the week.
The kitchens are all resplendent with
painted tiles and cleanliness, and
j there seemed abundance of excellent
I food. In these institutions, in Spain,
I the inmates are completely at home.
^ft and blooming girls, with down-
cast look and hurried step, were at-
tending upon the poor, the maimed,
and the suffering. The lady-direct-
ress had told the servant who accom-
panied me to bring me, after my
nsit^ to her apartment, which was a
hall in one of the corners of the
boikling; she said she had heard
that England was celebrated for its
diarity, and asked if our poor and
lick were better ofif than in Spain.
I was obliged to confess that the re-
verse was the case. She asked me
if it was not true that we hired mer-
cenaries to attend on the sick, and
abstained from performing thiyt duty
ourselves; and if our charity was
not imposed as a tax ? She told me
diat there were eight hundred of her
order In Spain ; that it was the only
one that bad not been destroyed;
that none were admitted but those

of noble birth or of gentle blood ; and
that they took all the vows except
that of seclusion, and in lieu of it
took that of service to the poor and
sick. The Saint Isabelle of Murillo
was the model of their order. The
Hospital de la Sangre was founded by
a woman."

Mrs. Jameson* pays a just tribute
to the Hospital Lariboissi^re, in Paris,
" a model of all that a civil hospital
ought to be — clean, airy, light, lofty,
above all, cheerful. I should observe,"
she says, "that generally in the hospi-
tals served by Sisters of Charity, there
is ever an air of cheerfulness, caused
by their own sweetness of temper and
voluntary devotion to their work. At
the time that I visited this hospital,
it contained six hundred and twelve
patients, three hundred men and
three hundred and twelve women, in
two ranges of building divided by a
very pretty garden. The whole in-
terior management is entrusted to
twenty-five trained sisters of the
same order as those who serve the
H6tel Dieu. There are, besides, about
forty servants, men and women, men
to do the rough work, and male nur-
ses to assist in the men's wards un-
der the supervision of the sisters.
This hospital was founded by a lady,
a rich heiress, a married woman too.
She had the assistance of the best
architects in France to plan her
building, while medical and scientific
men had aided her with their coun-
sels."

In the Genial Report on the Con-
dition of the Prisons of Piedmont ^ to
the Minister of the Interior^ we find
this paragraph :

"It is an indisputable fact that
the prisons which are served by the
sisters are the best ordered, the most
cleanly, and in all respects the best
regulated in the country. To which
the minister of the intenor adds : Not

• Sisitn ^ Charity t Prottsiamt and CatMic.

•.• ,'/ our 5.VC ?

• '.ctv, clean'iir.o-;?, and comfoH
:.\\\. Xo <.l.:y passes, said
.: rector, that I d » rsot bless Cn
■'W chanp;e >\h:ch 1 was the hi
••!Stniinent of acromplishin^ ii
•sace. Very similar was the inf
von received relative to the
hospital at Genoa.

** Another excellent hospital,!

;; St. John, at Turin, contained

x^N, hundred patients, male and ft

. ^ ; besides its ward for sick chi

• i\e and two for the bedridden and

, . less poor, the whole bein;; und

•••/led management of twenty-two rel

^.,.1^0- women with forty-five assistant

. idinit- a large number of physicians an

.•so! to dents. All was clean, neat,

•.! oide- cheerful. I was particularly 5

. 11. live a by the neatness with which tht

M.vli^tri- was served ; men broui^ht it

..•,,Hwi- large trays, but the ladies themj

. I s^v to distributeil it. There was a

.•^v ".bed dog with its forepaws resting 01

•. 'U of of the beds and its eyes stead

fixed on the sick man, with a pat

'v- :'.'eat wistful expression, while a girl

.! Ml"*, beside him, to whom one of ih

f* one tors was speaking words of coi

V-. ilMt " In this and other hosj)itals

. r'ied excellent arrangement for the 1

,. Sis- watch. It was a large sentry b

.•••.'11. octagon shape, locking each wa

K'-^v- la- upper part all of glass, but furn

, • PIUS- with curtains, and on a table

. ••v't:;h- writing materials, meilicines, ar

v»- uise .storalives, lint-n na])kins, etc.

^ riie sisters watched liere all night ;

. .•-.•, iry the accf)unts were kept, and pr

• • J.iit, secured, when necessary, lor tl

V \\i*re dies (»n duty.

.Av \er, ** Hie Marchese A . one (

.u-.lica! governors of the Hospice de I.'

M the ternife, described to us in terr

•v V inie, horror the state in which he ha<l 1

svJ.and the establishment when undei

*^v»me management of a boanl of gover

.,.e in- who employfd hired matrons

.exily nurses. At last, in despair, he

;»ro- for some trained sisters, ten of w

Who shall take care of our Sick t

vidi a saperior, now directed the
liiole io that spirit of order, cheer-
/oloess, and unremitting attention
liDcfa belongs to them.

*We cannot," he said, "give them
unlimited means, for these good ladies
tfaink diat all should go to the poor ;
bot if we allow them a fixed sum, we
find they can do more with it than we
could have believed possible, and
they never go beyond it; they are
admirable accountants and econo-
mists.

** In the great civil hospital at Vien-
na, larger even than the Hotel Dieu
of Paris, the Sisters of Charity were
being introduced some twelve years
ago when Mrs. J. visited it

The disorderly habits and the
want of intelligence in the paid fe-
I male nurses had induced the mana-
gers to invite the co-operation of the
religious sisters, though it was at first
igainst their will. In the Hospital of
Saint John, at Salzburg, the same
diange had been found necessary.

** At Vienna, I saw a small hospi-
tal belonging to the Sisters of Chari-
tjr there. Two of the sisters had set-
tled in a small old house. Several
of the adjoining buildings were add-
ed one after the other, connected by
vooden corridors. In the infirmary
I found twenty-six men and twenty-
ax women, besides nine beds for
diolera. There were fifty sisters, of
tbom one half were employed in the
ioose, and the other half were going
their rounds among the poor, or
mming the sick at private houses.
There was a nursery for infants
whose mothers were at work ; a day-
school for one hundred and fifty
giris, in which only knitting and sew-
ing were taught, all clean, orderly,
and, above all, cheerful. There was
a dispensary, where two of the sisters
were employed in making up pre-
scriptions, homoeopathic and allopa-
thic There was a laige, airy kitchen.

where three of the sisters, with two
assistants, were cooking. There were
two priests and two physicians. So
that, in fact, under this roof, we had
the elements, on a small scale, of an
English workhouse ; but very diffe-
rent was the spirit which animated it

" I saw at Vienna another excel-
lent hospital for women alone, of
which the whole administration and
support rested with the ladies of the
Order St Elizabeth. These are
cloistered. All sick women who apply
for admission are taken in, without
any questions asked, so long as there
is room for them. I found there
ninety-two patients, about twenty of
whom were ill of cholera. In each
ward were sixteen beds, over which
two sisters presided. The dispensary,
which was admirably arranged, was
entirely managed by two of the la-
dies. The superior told me that they
have always three or more sisters pre-
paring for their profession under the
best apothecaries, and there was a
large garden principally of medicinal
and kitchen herbs. Nothing could
exceed the purity of the air, and the
cleanliness, order, and quiet every-
where apparent"

Let us remark certain features in
these last two examples :

1. The possibility of recreation
by a timely change of labors, as from
the hospital to the school, or to the
garden, etc.

2. The economy, and guarantee
of genuineness, afforded by the cul-
ture and pharmaceutic preparation
of medicinal herbs.

3. The unison of action, by fulfil-
ment of sanitary functions by mem-
bers of their own body.

^< It was admitted on all sides in
England, when investigations were
held on the office of hospital nursing,
/ that the general management of our
hospitals and charitable institutions
exhibited the want of female aid such

WA& shall take care of our Sick ?

as exists in the hospitals abroad —
the want of a moral, religious, intel*
hgent, s)Tnpathizing influence com-
bined with the physical cares of a
common nurse. Some inquiry was
made into the general character of
hospital nurses, and the qualifica-
tions desired, and what were these
qualifications ? Obedience, presence
of mind, cheerfulness, sobriety, for-
bearance, patience, judgment, kind-
ness of heart, a light, delicate hand,
a gentle voice, a quick eye ; these
%vere the qualities enumerated as not
merely desirable, but necessary in a
good and efficient nurse — virtues
not easily to be purchased for £\\
ios» per year! (or hired at $14 a
month in New York *)— qualifica-
tions, indeed, which, in their union,
would form an admirable woman in
any class of life, and fit her for any
sphere of duty, from the highest to
the lowest. In general, however, the
requirements of our medical men are
much more limited ; they consider
themselves fortunate if they can en*
sure obedience and sobriety, even
without education, tenderness, reli-
gious feeling, or any high principle
of dut)% On the whole, the testimo-
ny brought before us is sickening.
Drunkenness, profligacy, violence of
temper, horribly coarse and brutal
language — these are common, albeit
the reverse of the picture is general-
ly true* The toil is great, the du*
ties disgusting, the pecuniary remu-
neration small, so that there is no-
thing to invite the co-operation of a
better class of nurses but the high-
est motives which can influence a
true Christian, At one moment the
selfishness and Irritabilit)^ of the suf-
ferers require a strong control; at
another time their dejection and

* Tht« t» the salarT of ord«rli«« »l Belleime H«»-
pitel, whe» the Aofam are oHen lo arduoua that one ,
#tt«uUnt would be q«iile iaadc^iiale to the care of
fwenrf bed* b«t for the aid muterad bf patient* to
mu^ oilMT. The sithMralch pawti bac oace in two

weakness require the utmost tendcM
ness, sympathy, and judgment T^l
rebuke the self-righteous, to bind up
the broken-hearted, to strengthen^
to comfort the feeble, to drop thej
words of peace into the disturbed ocJ
softened mind just at the right mo*!
ment; there are few nurses whoj
could be entrusted with such t|
charge, or be brought to regard it as J
a part of their duty. To this socitl J
function corresponds the Sister of I
Charity, as defined by St. Vincent de^
Paul, an ideal so often fulfilled ia life
and action.

" Can any one doubt that the cl^ |
ment of power, disunited from ihitl
of Christian love, must, in the long!
run, become a hard, cold, cruel raa-f
chine, and that this must of necesait]
be the result where the masculine
energy acts independently of the 1
minine sympathies ?

•* All to whom I have spoken, witl
out one exception, bear witness t^
the salutary influence exercised by "
the lady nurses in the Crimea over
the men. In the most violent at-
tacks of fever and delirium* when the
orderlies could not hold them down
in their beds, the mere presence of
one of these ladies, instead of excit*
ing, had the cflcct of instantly calm-
ing the spirits and subduing the most
refractor)'. It is allowed, also, th:il
these ladies had the power to repress
swearing and coarse language, to
prevent the smuggling of brandy and
raka into the wards, to open the hearts
of the sullen and desperate to contri-
tion and responsive kindness. ' Evco
when in an apparently dying state/
writes one of these illustrious nurses.
* they would look up in our faces and
smile.' "

Dr. H, R, Storer, of Boston, has
recently put forth a little book enti*
tied Nurses and Nursings etc,>
abounding in suggestions which may
some day be utilized in a hospital

Who shall take care of our Sick t

nore liberally endowed and more
daborately organized than anything
vbich now exists, and in which he
mentions, with the highest regard, the
Hospital of the Sisters of St. Fran-
dSjin Boston, 28 Sansom street The
doctor does well to dedicate his hu-
naoe aspirations for a perfect sys-
tem of nursing to the sisterhood.
From what zeal less earnest, less in-
telligent, less refined, or less holy,
can we ever expect to find music and
flowers, birds, landscape views, the
Taiied resources of luxury in nature
and society, made tributary to the
senrice of the sick ?

A worthy servant of our Master,
Mr. Bost, of Dordogne, the founder
and administrator of several impor-
tant charitable institutions, having
among them departments for the
kygienic treatment of epilepsy, scro-
fula, consumption, and idiocy, one of
those cures we have cited, remarks :
"The best physician, under God,
b Nature. I never visit the hospitals
in our great cities without a feeling
of distress. What, then, you ask, is
wanted ? Are the patients not cared
fcr ? Are there no able medical men,
00 remedies, no order, no cleanli-
aesSy no wholesome and abundant
ooorishment ? No doubt there is
plenty of all that I have with ad-
miration accompanied the medical
men on their morning visits. Every-
tjbing art could contrive for resto-
ration to health was applied ; yet the
core was slow, attended with horrible
pains, and the case often terminated
in death. I will tell you what was
wanting — ^the country air, the fra-
grance of the flowers and of the
earth, the hues of morn and eve, the
sunbeams, the harmony of nature,
the carol and warbling of birds, so
adapted to cheer hearts broken by
siifibring^ and to which no otlier re-

creation is offered than the sight of
rows of beds upon which sufferers
are sighing and groaning from morn-
ing till evening and from evening
until morning."

" It is amazing," writes Mr. Liefde,
" to witness the cures which simply by
the application of natural hygiene,
have been effected at the establish-
ments of Laforce: Consumption of
the lungs, in an advanced stage,
has quite disappeared in some cases,
hysteria in others ; amputations are
prevented ; a girl sent away from a
hospital as incurable from hip dis-
ease is enabled to walk well. The
invalids are occupied in the fields or
the garden ; they go into the stable
and see the cattle ; they are in sight
of the works of creation so adapted
to raise their thoughts to God, who
is love, even when his hand presses
heavily upon them."

If one wish to wtness the healing
power of the Gospel over both body
and soul, he can do no better than
to spend a week at Laforce.

In conclusion, we would urge it, as
a matter of high policy, duty, and
right, upon the church of Christ, to
reclaim, as fast and as far as its means
will allow, its primitive position in re-
gard to the administration of chari-
ties in general, and of hospitals in
particular ; for we believe it to be
the only social organ adequate to
these humane uses. Science can-
not remain neutral, and the trustees,
the wardens, orderlies, nurses, the
cooks, and all the persons employed
in the hospital service, should be bro-
thers and sisters of one and the same
order, the voluntary subjects of the
same rule, all pervaded by the same
religious sentiment and corporate
spirit, while friendly rivalries obtain
between the different institutions.

5«

Kaulback and the Era of the Refarrnation,

TRANSLATED FROM LB CORRVSKtHPAIIT.

KAULBACH AND THE ERA OF THE REFORMATION*

I CALL up matters still fresh in
recollection, io proceeding to speak
here of a work of art which so justly
drew to itself the public attention at
the Universal Exposition of 1867. I
refer to the grand cartoon of Kaul-
bach, which, under the title of tlie
Era of the Reformation^ figured in
the Bavarian department

The purely artistic critic has al-
ready fulfilled his mission in regard
to that remarkable composition, and
it is not from the artistic point of
view that I permit myself to reopen
its study. I had already, years ago,
admired that magnificent fresco, one
of the most beautiful ornaments of
the Berlin Museum ; and after hav-
ing a long while contemplated and
meditated upon it, it seemed to me
that one could not too highly praise
the vigor of composition and the
marvellous skill with which the ar-
tist had been able to group, within
so narrow a space, so many different
personages, and to render living to
the eyes of the spectator one of the
most stormy periods of modem times.
But in this beautiful drawing there
is something else than a work of art :
there is a thesis. And that tliesis is
tliis : That the sixteenth centur)^ be-
longs wholly to the Protestant Re-
formation \ that that Reformation is
its centre, its heart, its vital princi-
\ pie ; that everything of that period
^theolog)% letters, science^ art, the
discoveries of human genius, polili-

• KJiulbach** picture of (he Er^ ef the R$/9\
^ii»m Tiow beiriK oa exhibilton in this oountry, a rt-

¥i>ykitjan of ihe above nnicW from the p^ses of our
rrncK omtemparary h«s ttetned to lu not inoppor-
' i«n».-Ea C. W.

cal and military power — all came of
the Reformation. Hence the name
given to the tableau — the Era of the
Rffermation. Hence, also, the selec-
tion, the treatment, and the grouping
of all the personages in it J

And since I cannot avail myseir*^
of the help of an engraving or photo-
graph, I am going to attempt a rapid
sketch, as a whole and in its princt- ■
pal details, of this vast composition.
In the centre, and as the culmi-
nating point toward which the whole
movement of the picture convcrgeSi
is figured Dr. Martin Luther. The
fonner Augustinian monk holds him-
self erect, upon the uppermost step
of that temple within whose walls a
whole centur)" is represented as in
motion, and he raises aloft above his
head, with both hands, the Bible —
the Bible, that world at once both
old and new, which, according to
the Protestant hypothesis, the ge-
nius of Luther discovered, buried
under the darkness of ignorance
and Roman superstition, as, in like
manner, thirty years before him the
bold Genoese navigator, Christopher
Columbus — whom one sees at the ■
left-hand side of the picture, resting' V
his hand, firm and inspired, upon the
map of the world^ — had found, in the
ocean's midst, the vast continents of
the American hemisphere.

At the left of Luther stand the
theologians and pastors who adhered
to his dogmatic teaching : Justus Jo-
nas, and. next to him, Bugcnhagen,
who is distributing the Lord's Supper
to the two princes, John le Sage and
John Frederic, the two grand patrons

Kaulback and the Era of the Reformation.

ofMScent Lutheranism, At the right

of (he Saxon monk stands Zwingle,

Wmg also the book of the Scrip-

Kfcs, and Calvin, who is giving the

bflttd and cup of the Lord's Supper

fo a group of Huguenots, among

iftom we distinguish Maurice of

Sciony and Coligny,

The artist does not tell us, it is
irue — and I own that his pencil
couJd hardly have told us — whether
(he Bible which Luther holds speaks
le same language as the Bible plac-
ed in Zwingle's hands ; nor how, with-
in a step or two of the patriarch of
the Reformation, Bugenhagen gives
^A L^rd*s Supper wherein is really
^■vntaitied, with the bread and wine^
^Blc body of Christ, while, alike
H|bar to him on the other side, Cat-
tit) is giving another Lord's Supper
which is only a figure of that same
body, and wherein the faithful par-
e of the communion of Jesus

t by faith only.

A little beneath Luther, in the at-

:ude of a submissive disciple and

irer, and indicating by a gesture

Wittenberg doctor, as much as

say, ** There is the Master V*

'tUnds the mild Melanchthon, con-

tcrsing with two savants of the times

1 — Eberhardt of Tann and Ulrich

These two men are pressing

Other's hands, as if the artist

express thereby the strange

accommodations to which, in the

ittaitCT of the Augsburg confession,

Restrict Lutherans, on the one side,

iM those who had a leaning toward

^ Zwtnglian and Calvinistic ideas,

on the other, lent themselves.*

^ \\\\ well known ttut Melanchtbrin^whoperson^

*Df ■dinei toward the ideas of CarJotradt and iho

itnacnttftan* respeelf&g the Lordb Sur^pcr; who,

■"••onr, npim Ibe quc«<kin (if the outwrard hierarchy

■^ (h« dkiBiKt would have wiUingly lent him»eir to a

CBiVraniM wiiH the Citholici ; who, undenteath the

\ did emt dare to contradict Luther— thought to

"r aD these difficuttica by putting forth two edi<

Ibe Aufvborg Cooi^asioii — the edition intvf

' MriOiy Lutlierao^ and the edtlton varialat

' I to Odvioistic idcHMk

Behind these corypheuses of the
Reformation of the sixteenth century,
the precursors of the grand ** liberal-
izing " mo^rement have not been for-
gotten.

The Reformation, as is known,
holds essentially to having a tradi-
tion — a rise and visible continuation,
reaching back to the earlier ages.
I$ehold them, then, these prophets
and forerunners of the **word of life:*'
Here, Peter Waldo, Arnold of Brescia,
Wickliifejohn Huss; there, Abelard,
the bold metaphysician, the merciless
dialectician, the same whom St. Ber-
nard accuses of sacrificing failh to
reason, and of destroying, by his ex-
plications, the essence of the myste-
ries ;* next, by his side, Savonarola
and Tauler, the spiritual sons of the
canonized monk of the thirteenth
century, (St. Dominic,) to whose
memory classic Protestantism never
fails to attach the founding of the
Inquisition, with all its attendant
train of horrors: Tauler, of whom
they desire to make one of the pre-
cursors of the new exegesis of the
Scriptures; and Savonarola, whose
animated and fiery gesture recalls at
once the popular tribune, the Floren-
tine republican chief, and the head-
strong opposer of the churches hie-
rarchical authority.

Following upon these, come next
in order all those other great geniuses
of the human race, more numerous
and prolific than ever in an age which
justly calls itself the age of reneioalj
{de In /imaissanci%) and when a thou-
sand favoring circumstances had im-
parted mighty impulse to the human
mind; and they all proceed to ar-
range themselves in a most harmo-
nious manner around that renovation
of Christianity and the church, which
is, as it were, (in the picture,) the
heart and the vital principle of all

* St. Beravfd, ktten iSStli and i^lh.

Kaulbach and the Era of the Refonnation.

the movements of the era. Princes,
warriors, statesmen, savants, artists,
scholars, jurists, poets, critics, in-
ventors — all have their place in this
grand composition.

In the train of the haughty Eliza-
beth of England, but marching at
some distance from that pitiless refor-
mer, as if they desired to leave place
for the gory shade of the unfortu-
nate Mary Stuart, " Queen of Scots,"
appear Thomas Cranmer, More,
Burleigh, Essex, Drake, and other
gentlemen who represent the English
Church. Another group brings to-
gether Albert of Brandenburg, Wil-
liam of Orange, Barnevelt, and, at
the end, Gustavus Adolphus, evoked
a centuf)^ in advance, it is true, but
nevertheless consecrated by his bold
deeds of arms and his premature
death as a hero — I was about to say
as a saint — of the Protestant Church
militant.

To warriors and statesmen the
painter has given only a secondary
place, in a work chiefly designed to
glorify intellectual power ; and, after
the apostles of the Reformation, the
honors of this grand piece of canvas
arc meted out to savants, scholars,
and artists*

Bacon of Verulam, with his Naiimt
Organum^ makes a part of that group
so vigorously designed, where are

I seen, with Christopher Columbus,
Harvey, Vesalius, and Paracelsus.
High up in the edifice, and properly
placed there as in a sort of obser-

I vatory, Copernicus, Galileo, Tycho
Brahe, and Kepler are studying the
course of the stars, and calculating
tlie laws of their revolutions. So
much for science.

Marsilio Ficino, Giordano Bruno,

' Campanella, and Nicolas de Cus
represent philosophy, with Pico Mi-
randola, author of the celebrated
thesis, De omni re scihiH,

Petrarch, with the crown lie re-

ceived at the capitol, Eaces Shalom

speare and the immortal author of
Don Quixote^ Micliael Cervantes.
The aged Hans Sachs, the popular
poet of the Reformation, is there
also, quite at the bottom of the pic-
ture, and bending under Uie weight
of age. He represents that litera-
ture of the people which hencefor-
ward will always hold place grow-
ingly by the side of the special
literature of the learned. This lat-
ter is personated in Reuchlin and
Erasmus ; and the artist has judged
most wisely and properly in placing
the latter of these close to Ulrich of
Hutten and to Bucer, that is to say,
in company with the brutal enemy
of monks, and with one of those un*
frocked monks whom the RoiterdaJD
critic, with such cutting sarcasm, ral-
lied upon their enthusiasm for a re-
formation which so generally, like
the never- failing conclusion of a co*
medy, ended in marriage.

The painter has taken care not to
forget the personages of the era who
ought to be dearer to hira than all
the others together: Albert Diirer,
Peter Vischer, Leonardo da Vindf
Michael Angelo, Raphael, and last|
with the inspired gesture of a maa
who feels himself master of the fu*
ture, the author of that magnificent
discovery which men will henceforth
make use of, alike WMth their reason
and their freedom, their intelligence
and their speech ; here employing
it to spread error, to persuade to
falsehold, to sow dissensions ; else-
where, using it to serve for the difl^*
sion of truth, the advancement of jus-
tice, the amelioration — intellectual^
moral, and religious^^-of the human
race : I mean Gutenberg, the immor-
tal inventor of the art of printing.
He holds in his hand that sheets still
fresh, which with deep emotion he ^
has seen come forth from the first ■
preSSt and with which he can speed

Kaulbach and the Era of the Reformation.

round the world, crying out with
Archimedes, carried away by en-
tinisiasm, ^ I have found it 1 I have
feandit!" ''Evpiyica! m^]KaV' And
he Aof found, in fact, the mighty and
Ibnnidable lever with which without
difficulty he will lift the world of
modem thought

Such, so far as I have been able
to describe it, passing by some per-
sonages or some details of secondary
interest, is this famous picture, which,
as a work of art, I admire with the
iiillest measure of sympathy, and
have found it truly worthy of the
high award made to it But, I re-
peat, the artist has not been in it the
artist only. He has also, at the same
tune, been the controversialist and
the historian. He has not only made
a chef-d'csuvre of painting : he has
wished also to write a page of -the
history of Europe. That was his
right unquestionably, and I am far
from disputing it with him. I will
even add that, if I was a Protestant,
I should be justly proud of the man-
ner, so intelligent and bold, with
which the illustrious author of the
Berlin frescoes has been able to glo-
rify the Reformation.

It is for this very reason, also, that
I have profoundly studied this grand
picture. In fact, if a work of art is
at the same time a thesis of history
or of theology, it is no longer amena-
ble to artistic criticism only. Kaul-
bach has, so to speak, crowned the
work of the Magdeburg ceaturia-
tors, in making, as he has done, all
the events of the sixteenth century
the triumphal cortege of the Reform-
ation. Historic science has the
right, then, to intervene ; and, with-
out being a Baronius, one can try to
answer this thesis, and to point out
what there is in it of the purely sys-
tematic and exclusive.

II.

I COMMENCE by according thus
much to it : To compress a whole
century within the frame — narrow
and always a little factitious— of a
picture or of -a historical representa-
tion, is no easy task. So many di-
verse facts to bring together, to con-
dense, or at least to point out; so
many movements and collisions of
ideas to depict ; so many personages
to group together and arrange ; then
to gather this multitude into unity,
to bring order out of this seeming
confusion ; to know precisely how to
seize and place in proper relief that
which can be called the culminating
point of the epoch, and to make
that point the centre around and
from which shall radiate all the other
events of the period — this is a work
which demands at once great power
of synthesis, a wide yet sure range
of vision, an accurate sentiment of
just proportions, and, in the case of
a historical painting, a complete di-
vesting of one's self of the spirit of
mere system, and a most scrupulous
impartiality.

Now, what strikes one, first of all,
in looking at Kaulbach's grand pic-
ture, is the exclusive idea which has
presided over the whole, as well as
over all the details, of its composi-
tion. Even the title given by the
author to his work is witness to this.
It is not so much the sixteenth cen-
tury that the artist has desired to
paint as the Era of the Reformation;
and the Reformation, moreover, sole-
ly as regarded from the Protestant
point of view. Accordingly in the
picture everything is treated with re-
ference to Luther and Calvin ; and
the choir of great personages who
figure in it serve only, so to speak,
as the retinue of the new gospel and
its first apostles.

But if the unhappy rupture which

Kaulbach and the Era of the Refarmatwrn^

separated from the Catholic Church
a large part of Northern Europe is
one of the most considerable events
of the century, it is not, however, so
exclusively such that it has the right
to absorb into itself all the other
events of the period ; and it is well
known how numerous those events
were in an age which should be re-
garded as one of the most eventful
epochs in European history.

And it is not solely from the point
of view of religious and artistic his-
tory that it is just to make this ob-
jection; it should be made, more-
over, in behalf of political history.
In fact, whatever influence Protes-
tantism may have exercised upon the
relations of the civil states among
and toward each other, it is but slight
up to the seventeenth century, the
beginning of the Thirty Years* War
and the treaties of Westphalia, which
caused new principles to prevail in
the public law of Europe, He has
becn» therefore, entirely blind to the
, grandest political contest of the six-
[ teenth century — that between France
and Austria ; a contest that holds too
large a place in the history of that
century not to be noticed and made
mention of, at least by introducing
into the sketch the princes in whom
it was personified — Charles V, and
Francis L

Francis I., the enlightened patron
of letters, the founder of the College
of France, the friend of Benvenuto
Cellini and Leonardo da Vinci, the
secret supporter of the Lutherans of
the empire, should have had, by
these by-passages of his life, some
right not to be forgotten by the pen-
cil of the German painter. But if
state policy caused him to lend a
helping hand to the Protestants
of Germany — the adversaries of
Charles V. — ^ihat same policy, join-
ed with religious motives, caused him
to sigti the edicts of proscription

against the Protestants of his own
kingdom ; and the prince who, in
despite of his sister's sympathies for
Calvin, refused to drag France upon
the precipice of the Reformation,
could scarcely find favor w^ith the
panegyrists of Protestantism.

As to Charles V,, even had he not
joined to his title of Emperor of
Germany the crown of Spain, wth
all his possessions in the Low Couo*
tries and in the New World, one
would have still found it strange to
see him excluded from the cortk^
of sovereigns, politicians, and states*
men who gave lustre to the sixteentli
century,

A sketcli of the sixteenth century,
then, is incomplete without these
two princes, who represent the fierce
struggle between the two most power-
ful Catholic nations at an epoch ia
which the religious revolutions of the
European world should have made
such an omission, so it would seem,
impossible. Strange antagonism in-
deed that between these two nations,
who would have been able by their
accord to arrest the political progress
of Prote-stantism, and to hinder the
theolog)^ of Wittenberg and Gene-
va from becoming subsequently a
preponderating influence in the di-
rection of the affairs of Europe 1
Strange and restless antagonism,
which occupies a large part of the
political history of the sixteenth cen-
tury ; fills, again, the seventeenth with
Richelieu and Louis XIV,; seem*
ingly is quieted for an instant when
Marie Antoinette shares the throne
of Louis XIV. and Marie- Louise
that of Napoleon the First ; survives,
however, three centuries of wars, of
changes and revolutions of every
sort, to place anew the two peoples
in hostile array upon the fields of
Magenta and Solferino, and only
seems bound to disappear when it
has arrived at one of its extreme but

I
I

)e^\ consequences, namely, the

flollation of the power which most
fally represents upon the European
continent the Protestant enthusiasm

I and the ancient grudges against
France. It is, in fact, only since the
hatde of Sadowa that this antago-
nism between these tA*^o great Catho-
lic nations has seemed to give place
to mutual intelligence of a common
danger, and to that sympathetic re-
gard which a recent and distinguish-
ed visit has consecrated, so to speak,
in the face of Europe, and commend-
ed to the intelligent applause of the
people of Paris.

The exclusive glorification of Pro-
ttetantism in the master-work of
K Ii3ulbach has also been an occa-
Hsioa of another lamentable omis-
^KsiOD. It is not enough — be it said
^^l^out excessive and immoderate
partiality toward our own country —
it b not enough to have made
France represented only by Calvin
iod by Coligny in the imposing cor-
^% of all the glories of the sixteenth
^btcntiny. This systematic exclusion
"tetplained even by itself. In such
a composition the places of honor
were to be reser>'ed to the countries
thkh welcomed Protestantism with
HI enthusiasm so ardent, or submit-
ted themselves to its dictation with
» strange a docility. One knows,
00 Ae other hand, what insurmount-
Mt resistance France opposed to
iuclion and establishment
ftestantism. It cost her, it is
more than forty years of con-
wars. And what wars those
ble fratricidal and religious strifes
riKe sixteenth centut}' were ; stirred
ispand kept alive on both sides by
! most violent passions, and which,
Jer the unhappy and sanguinary
convulsions in which were consumed
the reigns of Henry II., Francis IL,
aades IX., and Henry 111.^ would

have ended surely in ^e breaking
up of the ancient national unity, if
Providence had not, at the conclu*
sion of those frightful dissensions,
caused to intervene a prince pre-
destined to pacify the minds, quiet
the discords, and close up and heal
the deep wounds of die country 1
Henry IV. arrives at the end of the
sixteenth century, as it were in order
to bring about union between Pro-
testantism vanquished and Catho-
licity triumphant. He gives to the
latter the pledge of a public conver-
sion ; to the former, the benefit of a
legal existence ; and, especially in
rendering sacred the respect due to
minorities, he demonstrates, better
than by all arguments, and perhaps
for the very reason that his conver-
sion was less a work of devotion
than of policy, how the genius of
the French nation was opposed to
the doctrines of the reformers.

Whatever may be said of the
equivocal sincerity of his Catholi-
city and of the blemishes of his pri-
vate life, Henry IV., who belongs to
the sixteenth century by his birth,
by his elevation to the throne and
some of the most considerable trans-
actions of his reign, worthily repre-
sents, at the close of an epoch so
disturbed, some of the highest and
most rightful aspirations of what may
be called, right or wrong, the spirit
of modern times. Great prince as-
suredly was he who could cause to
triumph over passions envenomed by
the civil and religious wars of half a
century that love of common coun-
try » in which, despite of all that would
divide them, the French people ought
to feel themselves cliildren of the
same mother and defenders of the
same flag.

The exclusion — ^almost entire^-of
France from a picture designed to
glorify the sixteenth century, is not

IIP

Kaulbach and the Era cf the Refarmatum.

the only, nor even the gravest, re-
proach which historical criticism has
ihe right to address to its author.

It is, still further, authorized to de-
mand of him if it is strictly just to
cause this grand composition, artistic,
scientific, and h'terary, to do lionor
solely to Luther and Calvin — a com-
position which, from a certain and
strictly proper point of view, would
have sufficed to the glor>^ of an
epoch — and above all, if it does not
do a strange violence to truth to en-
rol under the banner of Protestant-
ism such men as Petrarch, Shake-
speare, Christopher Columbus, Mi-
chael Angelo, and Raphael ?

The name of Shakespeare, indeed,
not long since stirred up quite a live*
ly discussion upon this very subject.
In the eyes of a certain school it
seemed to import absolutely that, to
the lionor of letters, the immortal
author of Hamlet and of Oihdh did
not belong to the Church of Rome —
as if Comeille and Racine sparkled
with any the less brilliancy because
they were Catholics, or that the dra-
matic art had need to be ashamed of
Poiyeucte^ Esther^ and AthaUe,

The question has been examined
with all Ihe attention which it mtTits,
and the conclusion to which a con-
scientious inquiry seems to bring us
is, that, if Shakespeare belonged by
his birth to the time of the Reforma-
tion, it is not, nevertheless, necessary
to ascribe, either to the gospel of
Luther and Calvin or to the Dra-
[ conian Protestantism of Queen Eli-
zabeth, the masterly productions of
his genius.

As to Christopher Columbus, who
does not know, I will not say his
obedience and filial devotion to the
Church of Rome, but the profound
piety of his soul and the tenderness
of his religious sentiments ? Ac-
ording to the chronicler who has
presented for us in Latin die admini'

ble prayer made by that great man
at that solemn hour of his life when,
triumphant at last over so many dis-
trusts and so many wrongs, over so
many delays and so many obstacles,
conqueror, so to speak, of the de-
ments and of men, but always sub-
missive to God, he cast himself upon
his knees on the land of the New
World, as if to take possession of it
in the name of faith. " O God T* he
said, ** eternal and omnipotent, thou
hast by thy holy Word created heaven
and earth and sea. Blessed and
glorified be thy name; praised be
thy majesty which has deigned hy
thy humble servant to cause that thy
holy name should be known and
proclaimed in this other part of the
world."

Now, by whom, think you, had the
bold discoverer the intention of pro-
claiming and making known the
name of Jesus Christ in the New
World? Was it by the Methodist
and Quaker missionaries ? or by those
apostolic men who, docile to the
word of the Roman pontiff, and like
him " fishers of men," went forth to
announce the Gospel to ever)* crea-
ture and to "cast the net of the
word " amidst all nations ? It is mere
idle fancy, then, to connect with
Luther and Calvin that wonderful
movement, made up of theoretical
science and of boldness, of learned
calculations and of enthusiastic in-
tuitions, which set out to open to
the adventurous genius of the race
of Japheth the vast field of enter-
prise presented by the continents of
America and the Archipelagoes of
Oceanica. Chronology, moreover,
suffices to give the lie very explicitly
to this iniquitous claim. Christopher
Columbus discovered America in
1493, and died in 1506: die same
year in which Martin Luther entered
as a novice the Augustinian convent
of Erfurt, and when no one looked

Kaulbai'h and the Era of i/u Refarmaiwn.

^ tisee him become one day an ad*
tffiary of the Papacy.

Tlic Papacy I Far rather with its
rencmbrance should be associated
tikxt grand qxxJi of modern Europe,
ibt new cnisadal enterprise, not to
rtcovtr the tomb of Christ, but to
flaflt the cross, to propagate the
"" pel, and to accomplish the pro-
respecting the universality
the church. It was, in fact, a
ipe, and that pope an Alexander
1— the same that proved how
the grandeur of that institution
independent of the worth. of indi-
kiuals — ^it was Borgia, so severely
history, who promulgated
> bull of 1493, designed to
line of demarcation between
veries of the Portuguese and
tkosc of the Spaniards. From that
biitt, and from the names of the peo-
I pies who bore away the palm from all
tJ>e rest of Europe in the career of
■ great discoveries, it follows that the
^■Protestant Reformation had nothing
^Bbshow or pretend to in that splendid
^Mpisode of the history of the fifteenth
^B|ifsi centuries. AH those

^Wftp: _ aors were Catholics;

1 1 iy power which intervened
^ le and pacify the feverish
iftwcment that bore them onward was
Ae Church of Rome — the Papacy 1

It may be said, perhaps, that the

Spaniards, in discovering America,

pQl td shame the Catholic religion by

ttdf sharp cupidity and the disgrace-

fid severity of their conduct toward

Ifcr natives. We have not the slight-

m inteotion of transforming the sol-

fien of Cortez and of Pizarro into

peaceful missionaries. If the feroci-

tf of those men disgraced the Gos-

pd, fo much the worse for them.

Jbt as to the church, if it be insisted

00 thai she shall be mixed up with

•lie qtiestion, she has nothing to lose ;

kur it was she herself, and she alone,

vlio toterveQed to moderate the cu-

pidity of the conquerors, and to de-
fend against it the cause of the con*
quered. To her alone belongs the
name, ever to be venerated, of Bar-
tholomew Las Casas, the eloquent
pleader in behalf of Catholicity and
of its beneficent action upon society.
As to the great Italian artists of
the sixteenth century, and particular-
ly as to Michael Angelo and Ra-
phael, it is still more arbitrary, if
possible, to have enrolled them in the
army of the innovators. What could
be more entirely Catholic than the
inspirations and great works of these
men of genius ? Not to speak in de-
tail of the inimitable Madonnas of
Raphael, nor of the gigantic frescoes
of Michael Angelo in the Sistinc
chapel, nor the many other mar\'el-
lous works with which they have for
ever enriched Italy and Europe ; but
of the church of St. Peter, upon
which both had the glory of working,
is it not, as it were, the very personi-
fication, at once ideal and plastic, of
the entire Catholic Church? It is
the grand church of the popes ; it is
there that repose, by the side of the
illustrious chiefs St. Peter and St
Paul, the remains of so many sove-
reign pontiffs. It is under its dome
that is celebrated, on the grand so-
lemnities of the year and by the very
hands of the vicar of Jesus Christi
the sacrifice of the Mass. It is from
its balcony that is given, on those
same solemnities, that pontifical bene-
diction, preceded by that absolution
and those indulgences, against which
for three hundred years Protestant-
ism never loses an occasion of cast*
ing its anathemas or its sarcasms j
save perhaps when one of its chil-
dren, assisting on Easter-Day at that
wonderful solemnTt}^ and hearing the
sonorous and affecting voice of Pius
IX., at the moment of imparting
benediction to the world, mingling
itself with the roll of drums, the

Kaulbach and the Era of the R^farmatian.

discharge of cannon, and the chimes
of the thousand bells of Rome, falls
upon his knees in spite of himself,
subdued by I know not what myste-
rious power, and rises up again with
the confession that the inspirations
of Catholicism are far differently fit-
ted to charm the soul and seize hold
upon the heart than the chilling cere-
monial of a Calvinistic Lord's Sup-
per under the arches of St. Paul's in
London. In a word, ever)'thing of
that grand basilica of the Eternal
City, from its comer-stone to the cross
which surmounts its domCj all has
been inspired by Catholic thought ;
and it may be affirmed with assurance
that all the grand artists who worked
upon it could say as Raphael replied
to Leo X.: "I love so much the
Church of St. Peter r*

Moreover, independently of all in-
dividual names, can it not be said in
a general manner that it is going
quite counter to historic truth to at-
tempt to connect the art-movement of
the sixteenth century with the influ-
ence of Luther and Calvin? It is
well enough known, in truth, what
was the attitude of the Reformation,
especially of the Calvinistic part of
it, toward the beautiful and the di-
vine in the arts. Many of our old
cathedrals in France still bear, after
three hundred years, the marks of the
iconoclastic fury of the Huguenots.
The literal interpretation — literal
even to barbarous n ess — of the text in
Exodus, "Thou shalt not make lo
thyself any graven images,*' it trans-
lated, especially in its beginnings,
into a relentless proscription ; and
the statues, pictures, and w^onderful
great church-windows, where the mid-
dle ages had expended so much of
faith and often so much of genius,

♦ Reply of Rxptuel to the brkf ^ L«o X. . Daming
him wiper iiitendeat of the wwk of the church. bc«,
further, the will of lUpbjiel. Catted ku Audin'i Lta X.
t ii. p. J47 )

disappeared under the blows of t
most savage vandalism.

They are ours, then, altogethcf
ours, those divine men, as the Gi
would have called them, who
written in the history of art the xw^
mortal pages stamped with the na
of Ferugino, Leonardo da Vincy
Brunelleschi, Bramante, Michael j
gelo, and Raphael. It is not arouQ
Luther and Calvin that they should
be grouped, but around those Roroa
pontiffs who gave such a vHgoroa
impulse to literature and the arls^ i
who caused all those beautiful poen
of painting or of stone to serve foi
the glorification of the Cathotid
Church. On that point, moreo
public sentiment has passed jud
ment for all future time. The histoi]
of the arts does not know the
Luther; it knows and will
know the era of Leo X.

in.

If it had been given to one
those masters of art of the sixteentj
century to make a synoptical pictursl
of that grand epoch, he would have
singularly modified the perspcctiv
and enlarged the horizons. In
gard to that rebellious monk
holds up the Bible as a standard of 1
revolt; in regard to those men whoj
surround him, and among whom ar
found at the same time the cowork^
ers and the adversaries of his w^ork |
a Melancbthon, who had been hii
disciple, and a Zwingle who had beenl
his rival — strange council, wher
there is no unanimity except to atl
and deny, and where there is divid
when the matter to be treated of is
that of affirming and establishing — in
this respect, one would have seen»
majestically grouped upon the steps
of a temple based, sixteen hundred
years previously, upon immovable
foundations, the Fathers of the Coun-

Kauibaek and the Era of the Reformation.

i Trent, who, during a term of
iy twenty years, had brought to-
er, classified, and fixed, in won-
i] conformity with the whole cur-
of tradition, the divers points of
ioctrine and the discipline of
Ihristian church.

e popes* occupied the See of
ster during the holding of that
arable council. Some among
may, perhaps, be justly blame-
Y for this or that fault in their
listration ; but to have been
a convoke and reunite that im-
I assembly ; to have caused it to
e its labors when they had been
ipted ; to have conducted them
;h so many obstacles and diffi-
;, coming from men or things,
ir close; to have, at last, as
one by Pius IV., perpetuated,
say, the authority and reform-
action of that oecumenical as-
y by the institution of that Con-
ion of the council, whose ipis-
for three hundred years past,
een to explain and put into
:al execution the decrees pass-
Trent — this is evidently one of
)st important pages of the his-
f the Reformation within the
)f Christianity, and is, per-
one where the divine power
le supernatural constitution of
urch shine forth most visibly,
either the popes who presided
iie council nor the bishops
omposed it were, taken indi-
ly, men of genius; and it is
ted to us to say that in great
s where the personal consi-
m of man appears the least,
ihe" wisdom and power of God
!brth all the more strikingly,
1 then, again, around those two
3 which mingle themselves in
be Papacy and the general
I — and which represent so

III., JaUus III., Marcellus II., Paul IV.,
IV.

VOL, VIII. — 5

forcibly, in the face of the preco-
cious divisions of Protestantism, the
grand and living unity of the church
of Jesus Christ, what astonishing
fecundity for good, what varied re-
sources, what fruitful germination of
men and deeds I What souls, those
great saints of the sixteenth century,
recruited from among all ranks of so-
ciety, and to whom Providence seems
to have confided the mission of re-
plying by some beneficent institu-
tion to all the attacks and all the
negations of Protestantism 1

Would that, then, be a picture want-
ing in grandeur, where a competent
artist — wishing to glorify in the six-
teenth century not the warlike Re-
formation which rent asunder with-
out remorse the ancient and majestic
unity of Christendom, but the peace-
ful and fruitful reform which multi-
plied, according to the needs of a
much troubled and suffering age,
grand inspirations and magnanimous
self-sacrifices — should group around
the living centre of the church Ig-
natius Loyola and his brave com-
panions, the pastor Pascal Baylon
and the grand nobleman Francis
Borgia, St. Philip Neri and St. Ca-
millus of Lelli, St. Charles Borro-
meo in the midst of the plague at
Milan and St. Francis of Sales evan-
gelizing the populations of Chablais?
And yet this enumeration must be
limited to the names of the more il-
lustrious only, and to works the most
considerable.

Now, in these names are found truly
personified the inspirations which con-
stitute, in its plenitude, the veritable
spirit of Christianity.

First, the spirit of zeal and apos-
tleship. Those who have seen the
frescoes of the church of St. Igna-
tius at Rome remember with what
just pride a Jesuit painter has repre-
sented the triumphs of the first fa-
thers of his company over heresy and.

Kauibaeh and the Era af the Refat-mation,

iniidelity. And unless blinded by in-
curable prejudices, what a striking
comparison can one make bctweea
Melanchthon, the disciple of Lutlier,
and that student of the Paris Uni-
versit)% the friend of St. Ignatius^ —
that St Francis Xavier who, setting
out for the Indies in 1541 and dying
in 1552, had converted, by himself
alone, more heathen in a dozen
years than all the Protestant mis-
sionaries united have been able to
convert in a century ; that man
whose life would seem but a legend
of olden times, were it not authenti-
cated by most unexceptionable doc-
uments, and had it not appeared in
the sixteenth century, which is far
less the age of enthusiasm than that
of criticism — that man, in fine, to
whom a Protestant, Baldeus, has had
the impartial it)' to render a splendid
eulog)', closing with that apostrophe
so naive and nearly as honorable to
the writer as to the hero, ** Would to
God that, having been what you were,
you might be of us 1"

If the Company of Jesus represents
in so high a degree the spirit of zeal,
behold St Theresa and St Peter of
Alcantara, who represent none the
less worthily the spirit of penitence
— that essential part of the Christian
life, so entirely foreign to the heroes
and the works which spring forth
from Protestantism.

In contrast with the rehabilitation
of the flesh, openly preached and
practised by Luther, by Henry VIII.,
by the Landgrave of Hesse and the
principal corjpheuses of the Reform-
ation, see how, in the train of these
two Spaniards — that reformer of Car-
mcl and that son of St Francis —
whole generations follow. They em-
brace with enthusiasm that hidden
life of the cloister, where the superfi-
cial glance of the man of the worid
sees only an arbitrary captivity and
aimless mortifications ; but where the

eyes of faith discover the
those acts and movements of
ration which preserve from ign
and ruin the ages dragged aloi
dangerous declivity of scepticia
immorality, by teaching men i
unbelief and luxury destroy
duals and societies, it Is the fo
prayer, united to that of sa<
which alone can raise them up

Finally, after the spirit of 2t
the spirit of penitence, the sp
charity completes the fulness
Christian life. |

Now, can Protestantism taJci
offence, if, in looking over mj
the list of its founders and ap^
we demand of it where thereJ
be found, among those arde^
versaries of Roman superstiti<
single man to whom one can
scientiously give the title of bei
tor and consoler of men ? I

I see Luther, indeed, presfl
the Bible to Germany surprised
misled - and Calvin adminJM
the cup of the Lord's Supper Ic
tlemen of the court of Francfa
to the rich burgesses of Gc
Here, in one place, Reuchliu
Ulrich of Hutten are jeering
laughing at the monks, and thi
another, Gustavus Adolphus is
dishing his valiant sword in d<
of the new gospel ; but slilU i
among these bold promoters c
Reformation, among these indef
ble champions of gospel -christij
as they proudly entitle thems(
would that I were shown one of
souls inspired from above to
upon the miseries of the age the
ures of divine consolations f I b
party4eaders, Bible-expounders
diers, politicians, and savants ; \
friends of the poor, of protecte
old age and deserted infancy, oi
who sacrifice all and who sa<
themselves even, to gain the
the privilege, of dr>'ing up

) U||

ted And of holding out
4ng hand to the unfortunate
: I see none. These are all
iks of that church whose
; it will always be, and which

has ever been able lo take
ir, to prove that she alone is
ale spouse of Jesus Christ,
; she alone is the true mother
Bhold St PhiHp Neri and
Mons of the Oratory of
* whose remembrances still
(the hospital of the Trinity
pims — St, Philip Neri, whose
|fter more than three hundred
always associated in the
fCity with the idea of what-
jmost tender and good. By

of St Philip, his contem-

friend, St Camillus of

Jtor of a congregation

iroled to the care of the

r; while, by a like inspira-

Spaniard, St John of God,
hei in 1540, that charitable
pread since then throughout
Ddom, and whose members
I self-sacrificing devotion the
s of St Camillus in consecrat-
feiselves to the work of reliev-
rtan infirmities. In fine, if
tent of Paul constitutes the
till, more than the glory, the
tion of the seventeenth cen-
le sixteenth century has,
bIcss^ the right to claim him
; foT it saw his binh, and it
him the first inspirations of
isd and charily which draw
very day upon his name the

benedictions of all who lan-
Eid suffer — upon that name at
m humblest and the most
r of all names,

Inclusion, if, in this picture of
Biotic glories of the sixteenth
p it were necessary also to
ice for men of the sword and
^ law, arc there many figures
Butial than that of Bayard, the

chevalier ** without fear and without
reproach," or those of the admirable
Knights-Hospitallers of Malta, who,
in 1585, under the orders of their
grand-master, La Valette, stood as a
living rampart, against which all the
forces of Islamism dashed and broke
themselves, and who did for Chris-
tian Europe in the sixteenth century
what, a century later, the immortal
Sobieski had to do with his brave
Polanders ?

As to men of law, Catholic France
has the right to name with pride the
grand-chancellor Hopital ; and Pro-
testant England has not the right to
claim Thomas More, It was this
courageous magistrate who refused
to subscribe to the divorce of Henry
Vm,, and who, when entreated by
his wife not lo expose himself to
capital punishment by opposing the
king's wishes, replied in these beau-
tiful words: "What I Would you have
me compromise my eternity for the
sake of twenty years which yet per-
haps remain for me to live?" He
died upon the scaffold, the 6th of
July, 1535, with the constancy of a
martyr ; worthy precursor of that
long and illustrious generation of
witnesses to the faith, who, during
all the second half of the sixteenth
centur)\ watered with purest of blood
the soil of England, and did more
honor, it seems to me, to the ancient
renown of " The Isle of Saints '* than
a Cranmer, the courtly and apostate
archbishop, or an Essex, one of the
numerous lovers of that princess who
foully stained with mire and blood
the throne upon which she sat, and
that state church of which she made
a mere vassal of that throne.

After having rectified and com-
pleted, so far as it has been given
me to do, this painting, so original
and vigorous, but at the same time
so manifestly devoted to a precon-

Kmtlbach and the Era of the Reformation.

ceived and systematized idea, I ar-
rive at a conclusion which is appli-
cable not to the sixteenth century
only, but to all the epochs of history.

It is that, after the likeness of man
himself, each phase of the life of
humanity bears in it two souls, and,
as it were, two humanities. These
are the twins that slniggled togeth-
er in the womb of Rebecca^ and
on the occasion of which the Lord
responded to the troubled mother :
" Two nations are in thy womb, and
two peoples shall be divided out of
thy womb, and one people shall over-
come the other." (Gen, xxv. 23.)

Ves, as each one of us bears with-
in him two men, whose unceasing
struggle makes up the whole prize
and the whole grandeur of the moral
life, so in like manner each age of the
world bears within it two ages r the
one \vhich is the docile instrument of
God in the pursuit of truth and the
accomplishment of justice ; and the
other, which paralyzes a part of the
living forces of humanity by leading
I hem astray into error, or by putting
them to the service of selfishness
and evil.

This grand principle of the philo-
sophy of history, due to Christian
psychology and the true knowledge
by man of himself, has been admira-
bly demonstrated by SL Augustine.
One sees, from numerous passages in
his w^ritings, how that holy doctor
was impressed by the perpetual an-
tagonism and irreconcilable opposi-
tion between these two powers, or
** cities," (as he terms thera^) who al-
ways and everywhere are making
war upon each other, and to whom
each succeeding century serves but
as a battle-field.

Quite as much and even more than
others, does the sixteenth century
present to the look of the observer
the militant dualism of these two
principles : the one, calling itself the

the

oii<H

ridsB

ligbt^
duofl
itdi-^

Reformation of the church by dis-
order and violence j the other, wiil
ing to be, and which has been,
fruitful and pacific renovation rf;
Christian life by humble zeal tni
true charity. The Protestant Rcfc
mation claims the sixteenth century'
as exclusively its own. I believe I
have sufficiently demonstrated that,
by its most beautiful and most en-
during parts and characteristics, the
century belongs neither to LuiJx
nor Calvin ; but that the Calholi
Church can exhibit it with just prii
alike to her friends and her
mies.

From this study, made in the li
of this principle, I w^ould|ilso dedi
a second conclusion and apply it
rectly to the times in which we live

Are we not ourselves witnesses
and actors in a struggle like or m\
logons to that which, before our da]
divided our fathers ? Yes, our ccnti
ry, soon to complete the third quarter
of its term, itself also is engaged in
this struggle between, so to term it,
two opposing cities or communi
For some lime past, this struj
seems to have entered upon a ni
pliase and into a most sharp crisii

With whom will victory rest, ai
which of the two principles shall
ry captive the other in its triumph,
as to decide definitively the cha:
ter of this epoch ? That is a secret
yet only known to God, and it is
mine to attempt a reply to so hidd
and mysterious a question. What
do know is, that we ought to opp<
with all our might, those who, Wi
ing to bring about a violent rcli
grade movement in European
ety, threaten every day to carry
back to the age of Voltaire, and wj
present to us the saturnalia of '93
tiie ideal of liberty, prosperity,
progress 1

What I know, again, is, that
yesterday the antagonism betw<

TJit L^gmd of Hospitality.

«9

WO opposing powers {des deux
ras personified in two men,
whom, if I mistake not, the
ent of posterity has already
to be made up : One of them,
presents, in all his serene ma-
and with impressive authori-
a in his weakness, the force
t — ^the august and mild pontiff,

twenty-two years of revolu-
and ingratitude do not dis-
1 and dissuade from blessing
•rid, and calling down, by his
s, upon sorely tried and trou-
ociety, the spirit of wisdom,
1, and peace ; the other, that
gible leader of the antichris-
rmy, the man of those bold
whose ephemeral triumph as-
o build up right upon force,
ich one day, I hope, Italy will
m in the name of her religious
ms, as well as in the name of
e and sound liberal traditions,
this nineteenth century, where

side of so much that is evil
is so much that is good — so
generous sallies of self-devo-

tion, so many hidden acts of self-
sacrifice, so many solid virtues — the
century which has given us a Cur^
of Ars and a Pius IX., an Affi% and
a Lamoricibre, a Lacordaire and a
Ravignan, an O'Connell and a Za-
moyski, a Jane Jugan — founder of
the Little Sisters of the Poor — and
those students to whom not only
France, but the Catholic world, are
indebted for the institution of the
Conferences of St Vincent of Paul ;
this century will never be dragged
down to the gcmdHia scalal^ of hbtory
with the ignominious stamp upon it
of having been the Era of GarihaldL
It will triumph over all the obstacles
heaped upon its pathway by scepti-
cism, by false science, and by the
violence of party-spirit These ad-
verse forces seem at this hour, it is
true, to take up with renewed energy
the struggle which for eighteen centu-
ries nothing has interrupted ; but by
so doing they only serve to show us
more clearly our duty, and to urge us
on the more strenuously to fulfil it

TXAHSLATBO ROM THS nDDCCR.

THE LEGEND OF HOSPITALITY.

OJSXTD or history, history or le-
here are truths to be culled
tach, my friends," justly re-
that charming writer, Charles
•. A beautiful legend creates
n atmosphere of sweet and
Influences, as a flower exhales
fume. Happy they who can
I and appropriate them 1 It is
se old and popular legends
tentimes will be found infused
'er is most beautiful and pure

of a nation's poetry and of its fiuth ;
they being, as it were, the expression
of a people's thought For a long
time, indeed, those simple traditions
of the past constituted, as we may
say, the literature of the people's so-
cial gatherings, and served an im-
portant part in keeping firmly ce-

*Th«/viMM£» Kolm wereitept b aiiclaiit Romt*
near the prison called TuOitmmm^ down which th«
bodies of those who had been executed in priaon wtft
dragged and thrown into the Forum, to be there ex-
poMd to the fuc ol tht ttdtitada.— TBANt.

The Legend of Hospitality.

mented the noble principles of fam-
ily, of union, and of justice, which
formed the triple corner-stone of all
well-regulated society. When the
trembling voice of the old man was
heard, all were silent, and went forth
after his narrative with souls deeply
impressed, on the one hand, by the
punishments which struck down the
wicked, or, on the other, softly moved
by the justly deserved reward that
so often formed the graceful denoue-
ment of some touching ballad.

Some of these legends, coming to
us, as they do, from afar, have even
preserved the first freshness of the
primitive a^es. This is, indeed, their
greatest charm. Witness this ex-
quisite legend of hospitality, which
for a long time delighted tlie simple
hearts of the peasants of France.

In the da)^ of Jesus, there lived
on the banks of the Jordan an old
man, wlio might well have been ta-
ken for a patriarch of an ancient
tribe, whom Death seemed to have
forgotten. His name was Philomen,
and in his lowly cabin he subsisted
solely on the fruit of his little garden,
and the milk furnished him by his
goat Now, one quiet evening, some
one tapped gently at his door, and an
old man, though younger than he,
entering, claimed his hospitality.

"Most willingly, my friend. My
cottage is not large ; my garden
yields not much fruit ; my goat gives
but little milk ; but, even so, I share
it cheerfully with all who cross my
threshold in the name of hospitality.
Enter, then, good friend, and rest
after the fatigue of the day/*

** But," said the traveller hesitating-
ly, ** I am not alone* I have twelve
companions with me, overpowered by
weariness and parched with thirst,
for we have just crossed the de-
•crt,''

•* L-ct them all come ; you are all

welcome. All who come hungry to
my door are welcome to all I possess,"

Then tlie stranger made a sign
his companions, who were silent
standing at the door; and he fom
that they were Jesus and his twel
apostles, whom St Peter led on tin
journey, ever walking in advance,
who was one day to open the gat(
of Paradise.

They entered, partook of his simple
fruit, drank the milk furnished byliii
goat, and rested for a time on his
rough mat. When day dawned, St
Peter said to him, " Before
hence, hast thou no petition to
to us? Hast thou not some
Ask whatever thou wilt in return d
thy hospitality. All that tliou shall
ask shall be granted unto thee.*'

Then the old mati made thrc^i^
wishes, and said : " My sweet Lordfj
I love life so well, grant me yet fivt
hundred years to live ; the days pi&S
50 quickly in this peaceful cabin/'

** Granted/' said a sweet and touch-
ing voice, which seemed to come, ai
it were, from the midst of the groups
"What else wilt thou have?'*

"My good Lord, I have a beaati*
ful fig-tree in my garden, which bearf '
such fine fruit that they are often
stolen from me* Grant me, then,
that whoever climbs into it may n^
be able to descend until I give hi
leave ; thus I will ensnare the thie£*

Jesus smiled as he heard
quaint wish, and, bowing his fair
head, said : " It shall be done as thou
wishest Hast thou more still to
ask? Speak freely, for thou seest
that I grant thee all that thou hast
wished for/'

"My dearly loved Lord, I have
a wooden chair, on which my friends
sit when they come sometimes at
night to talk with me. Grant me
tl)at whoever rests on it may not be
able to rise, and must remain them
as long as I shall please/'

The Legend of Hospitality,

And Jesus approved again, be-
cause he loved this guileless old man)
who was so simple of heart and
laade such modest wishes. St
I then thanked him, and went
[followed by his twelve com-
panions, among whom Jesus loved
« conceal himself,
h^ears passed by one after the
►er. One century passed, then
afiotber, until finally the last day of
dtt Last )^af arrived, and the venera-
We Fhiiomcn saw the grim traveller
Death enter his cabin, who said to
bin:

"Coroe along, old man! Thou

bst eluded me this long time^ —

thanks to an especial favor. Thou

ha$t reached the years of Mathusale.

-Jf every one lived as thou hast, I

lid have no work on earth* Come

g, quick. Regulate thy affairs,

I'lid farewell to thy garden, because,

with the setting sun, I lead thee

forth with me,"

**0 my good dame I if you would
Jut pity me 1 Ah I yes, if you would
avc some pity, you would let me
some few days more— only one
lay, tlicn. It is so good to live !'*
*No, nothing; not one moment
i,'* replied the sinister guest in a
laish and dry voice.
**At least, then, let me once more
»t of the fruit of my fig-tree. I
ved them so well ; it will be
f consolation to me. But I am
I weak to shake the tree, and too
i to reach those highest branches.
Do yoii go up, and gather me that
% up there ; it is so thoroughly ri-
pened by our eastern sun."
^^*^ Most willingly. See, old man, I
^■11 show thee that Death is not as
^■iriy as 'tis said she is."
^^llien placing her hour-glass and
^fttlie at the foot of the tree, the
■Rucky dame climbed up ; but scarce-
ly had she pressed her foot upon the
branches, than, lo! they sprang up

as if from her tread, closed around
and so shut in the impudent wight
that she could not even stir. She
called; she cried aloud, then moaned
and supplicated. Philomen renewed
his humble petition, but she persist-
ently refused.

** Very well 1 I only want five
hundred years, five centuries morel"
And raising his head menacingly, he
took up the hour-glass and scythe,
quietly returning to his cabin. Every
morning he returned, imposed his
conditions of release, which Death,
becoming more and more irritated^
as obstinately refused. Then he
would go back patiently to his cabin*
On the third night he saw a dark
figure, with glittering eyes, prowling
round the foot of his tree. He lis-
tened, and heard this conversation.
Now, you must know that this was
the Devil, who came to make his
complaint r " What dost thou there,
thou idler ? Thou no longer send est
me work to do. I am ruined by thy
delay."

But the terrible accomplice could
do nothing; because he who binds
on earth as he binds in heaven had
bound her so firmly that Death her-
self could not undo it.

Next momingi after a fresh dispute
with Philomen, she yielded, and con-
sented to let him have five hundred
years added to his life. But as Death
is treacherous, he sought his tablet,
and before she came down he made
her sign the treaty. After that he
set her free, restored her baggage,
her hour-glass and scythe, and let
her depart, threatening and raging;
as she went, vowing to cut off, at the
very moment of the promised time,
the life of one who had so pitilessly
ridiculed her.

Years again passed by, one by
one ; the centuries were accom-
plished ; and yet Philomen did not
grow old. Ten times had he seen*

The Legend of Hospitality.

pass by that unhappy pilgrim con-
demned to wander for ever round the
world. Each journey marked one
centur)' as this wandering Jew cross-
ed the Jordan, near his little cabin,
on the road to Jerusalem, that, as-
cending Golgotha, he might sue for
mercy on the very spot where the
blood had been shed of him whom
he had despised 1 The centuries had
all now passed, and one evening,
when Philomen sat quietly by his
hearth, the dark traveller entered
once more. Midnight was the fatal
hour She rudely accosted him :
" Come along now, old man I Thou
shouldst long since have been in thy
grave. No mercy for thee this time 1
Thou wouldst but mock me again,
could I show pit>^ for thee. Oh 1 how
tired I am; so tired, so worried 1
To-day I have killed nearly three
thousand Christians, then a whole
race of infidels, and decimated an
entire kingdom, with my well-tem-
pered weapon, pestilence. Rich and
poor, prelates and priests, I have up-
turned everything — everything. But
I am horribly tired, and while await-
ing the e.vpiration of thy time, I will
rest me a little here.'* Saying these
words, she threw herself on the
wooden stool that Jesus had gifted
with supernatural powers. Then she
began to jeer at the old man, speak-
ing to him of the joys of life, of youth,
of love, etc. When midnight tolled,
she attempted to rise from the chair
and spring at Philomen » who had
•wisely placed himself beyond her
reach ; but, nailed down upon this
wonderful seat, she could not move !
In vain she shook her glass, made
♦deadly thrusts with her scythe I
'Then the good man went to his
Ihearth, and kindled such a lire as
tnearly roasted her even at that dis-
tance. Her hour-glass was about
ifalling to pieces, the handle of her
■scythe was nearly reduced to ashes,

when, after a most vigoroy
she granted Philomen a
of five centuries more of liJ

Now, this was, as you
second time she had been <
the same trap, and morel
than ever, she went forth"
aloud that she should not be
again ; and good old Philonac
on through the long years fi|
by this trick. But everyfl
time must end; everj'thii^
everything dies; everything
away. And these five centuri
were gathered with all that \m
before. But Death had lean
dence now, and did not^
near, sending a shaft from a{
pierced the good old man an
him at once from life to deatli
as he had lived so innocentl
ever obser\'ed the laws of hd
pitality, God had a place pr
for him in his ov^n beautiU
disc. ■

Now, it happened that beS
ing there our Philomen wis!
see, just a little, what was gc
in hell Since the night that h
heard the dispute between Dea
Satan, he had cherished a gr
sire to do so. He quietly c
the abode of the condemned
when the Devil came to mee
and would have seized upoi
Philomen cried out : ** Stop th
am not for thee I I am of thi
dom of the elect, and come hei
to see if all that is said of t
the kingdom of the living b
Lead me everywhere !" Whe
ducted by his dark guide, h
visited the bowels of the ear
witnessed all manners of torti
proposed to him to stake h:
soul against some of the mos
fully punished among the d
who were uttering most
shrieks. The dice were brougl
shaken by each in turn.

Mine Enemy.

gained twelve souls ; then Satan be-
came fearful he might lose all with
this mysterious partner, and refused
to play on. Philoroen then took the
road to Paradise, and, reaching the
gate, tapped gently. Saint Peter
came to open for him. He at once
recognized him, and, smiling, said,
"Pass on, we have expected you all
this time." " Oh ! very well," said
the acute old man, '' but, like you for-
merly, I am not travelling alone : I
have with me twelve companions,
who claim your hospitality." " This
is but fair," said St Peter, once more
smiling, "so come in." AndsoPhilo-

men and his twelve ransomed souls
all went to join the throng of the
blessed who will for ever sing the
glory of God.

It is thus the good old man lived
fifteen hundred years, and practised
the holy rules of hospitality. And it
is thus that our pious ancestors
taught their children never to refuse
entrance to those who knocked at
their doors, imploring shelter ; and
thus we, too, see how religiously and
beautifully hospitality was practised
in the former ages, in the chateaux of
the rich as well as in the more hiun-
ble dwellings of the poor.

MINE ENEMY.

If he could stand against me now.
With other eyes and an alien brow ;
If I could break the spell that still
My will entangles with his will ;

If he could laugh the while I weep ;
If I could wake, and he asleep ;
Could I uncoil the mystery
Where he is I, and I am he :

Then might I hide me from his face ;
Or strike him down within his place ;
And so, at last, my life be free
From his tormenting company.

But no ; his blush my forehead bums,
His the pallor my pale cheek turns,
And when he sees the thing I do,
Tis mine own eyes that he looks through.

When I would hate this tiresome mate,
He teaches me the way to hate ;
When from his presence I would flee,
He, taunting, flies along with me.

74 Mine Enemy.

But best I like his baser slips.
His angry eyes and impious lips \
For then, half-wrenched away from mt^
Almost it seems he leaves me free.

Tis then I raise aloft my cry :
St. Michael, to the rescue fly !
'Tis then almost my foot is prest
Upon the monster's struggling breast ;

*Tis then I feel my shoulders glow
With hints of wings they yet may know,
And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet,
Whose chains are falling to their feet 1

Tis then I nestle, safely bound
By wings of angels circling round.
And feel the drawing of the cord
That holds my anchor in the Lord !

And most I fear when cunningly
He crouches, hidden from mine eye.
And breathes inta the pipes whose keys
Hold all my spirit's melodies.

When I his hiding would betray,
He holds the lamp, and leads the way ;
When I would break his hardihood.
He wields the lash that draws my blood.

So deep his guile, I scarce can know
From whose intent my actions grow ;
So brightly do his tear-drops shine,
I oft mistake his grief for mine.

When veiled emotions, swift and strong.
Run all my trembling nerves along.
If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swell
Upheaves my breast, I cannot tell.

When friendship frowns, I turn to see
My foe's eyes beaming tenderly ;
When friendship harshly speaks, I hear
His dulcet tones wooing mine ear.

When God is slow to hear my cry.
Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh 1
When thirst has parched my vitab up,
His hand presents the sparkling cup.

Mine Enemy. j^

If I would reascm with my foe,
He lets the high-piled logic grow,
And lowly bends, in humble guise,
With silent mouth and drooping eyes.

But as, o'erflowing with content,
I view my stately monument.
Nor guess the thoughts lie side to side
In subtle, weak cement of pride,

With sudden flash of mocking wit
He plays about and shatters it,
Or some volcanic underthrust
Levels my structure with the dust

And straight, ere I can speak for pain.
He builds my chang'd thoughts up again
In airy stretches, bright or dim.
With flower-woven cornice-rim j

With domes that melt into the sky,
Like piles of snowy cumuli ;
And pinnacles where fancy sees
Stars cling and swim, like golden bees j

With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tips
The sunset kisses with red lips ;
And cloudy-curtained windows bright,
Whence pours a flood of rosy light

And with it come bewildering tunes.
Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes ;
And, calling sweet and calling clear.
The voice that most I long to hear.

But if, lured by this temple fair.
Dazzled, I seek to enter there.
It clings, and bums with lurid light,
Like Glance's bridal-garment white.

Then since my foe so potent is.
And I so weak, lest I be his.
Some friend I need, stronger than he.
To stand and keep my heart for me.

And since, though driven forth with pain,
Ever he stealeth back again.
More need have I of heavenly light
To make his lurking-places bright

Flaminia.

And since I stand unarmed^ indeed.
Before his wrath, great is the need
I should invoke, with prayerful word.
Saint Michael of the fiery sword 1

That night and day I still should cling
Beneath my hovering angeFs wing ;
And ne*er let slip the golden cord
That holds my anchor in the Lord ]

TRANSLATED rHOU TKS KSVU1I DV MOKOK CATHOLIQUK.

FLAMINIA.

BY ALEXANDRE DE BAR,

CONCLUDED.

*' You will not be surprised to see
that Flaminia was ignorant of the
veritable nature of the affection that
she felt for Albert ; but you will be
astonished to learn that he shared
entirely her ignorance, although he
had seen much of life. Yet think
that it is to know nothing of the
most impetuous passion of our soul
if we have only learnt the theory ;
for as to know tlie world we must
have lived in tlie world, so to know
the heart one must have lived by the
heart ; if such has not been one's ex-
perience, all is obscurity and one
takes a false route. Now, Albert had
lived out of the world, and had not
yet loved aught but a glorious re-
nown. Besides all this, if you will
look back upon that fair time of
youth which has now fled from us,
you will remember that the descent
which allures us is often so gentle
that we follow it without attention ;
until the day when an unforeseen
events and often even an unimpor-
tant circumstance^ arouses us« and
permits us by a glance to see the
road that we have already glided

down, Albert, too, descended that
charming declivity, gathering the per*
fumed flowers which hung on the
shrubs, and intoxicating himself with
perfumes, with light and songs.
His soul happy, his heart pure, dax-
zled by the celestial gleams which
irradiated him, how could he see
where all this was conducting hira?
This is how he first became aware
of his position : There was at the
bottom of the gardens of the palace
Balbo a long alley, that was covered
by the thick foliage of the vines,
whose stems, black and distorted^
clung to and spread up the stone
pillars on each side. Here and there
the jasmines displayed the silver stars
of their flowers, which shone out of
the deep shade of their leaves. From m
that alley the eye gazed upon a vastf
horizon, bounded by two large sheets
of azure, the sea and sky, between
which the mountains lifted their im-
posing masses, gilded by the rays of
the setting sun. It was in this perfum-
ed gallery that, each evening, Albert
was conducted by his hosts, as soon as
the refreshing breeze of evening blew

Flaminia.

across the sea. Often it was the arm
of Flaminia that aided his yet feeble
steps in this exercise. How many
charming hours thus passed for them
during the calm of those evenings,
when the noises of the day ceased
one by one, until the ear brought but
the sound of the whispering breeze,
pure and sweet as the breath of a
sleeping child, to the touched and
softened soul ! One day, the fever
seemed struggling to regain its power
over the form of Albert ; his wounds
were scarcely closed, and the emo-
tions that he experienced reacted
most powerfully upon his health.
Sir, man is bom for suffering, and
not for joy. His body can support
an immense weight of sorrow and
pain without giving way ; but it is
worn out by pleasure, and joy kills
it. Giovanni, uneasy about his friend,
strictly forbade his leaving his room,
and that evening the family went
alone to their walk. Albert returned
sadly to the saloon, become more
desert for him than the sands of Sa-
hara, in company with Giovanni, who,
in the hope of distracting his loneli-
ness, talked to him of battles and of
victories ; although had he known
how far the mind of his friend was
from all such subjects, he might have
given himself far less trouble with an
equally good result Little caring
then for glory, Albert's heart was
with Flaminia under the perfumed
shade of the vines and jasmines. At
their return, Flaminia held out to
Albert a spray of jasmine covered
with flowers, saying to him : * You
like these flowers, so I bring you
them.' When Albert had retired to
his own room, he took this bouquet
and covered it with kisses : he lis-
tened with delight to the voice that
issued from those flowers and that
told him such sweet words. A flame
seemed to mingle wiHi their perfumes
that carried a new life to his heart ;

but it carried there also the light.
Another voice made itself heard and
showed him the truth, and he fell
from the regions of happiness where
his dream had carried him, into the
implacable reality ; for he then dis-
covered with what sort of an affection
they were both animated. And he
a knight of the Order of Malta ! If
absence could have given the repose
of forgetfulness to Flaminia, Albert
would not have hesitated to have
left her at once. But if there exist
attachments so slight that the simple
absence of their object is sufficient
to cure them, so there are others
whicli may be likened to those long-
lived plants that extend their roots
in all directions and all depths ; so
that one cannot tear them from the
soil in which they have once gained
a hold. Such affections as these re-
sist all human efforts, and absence
but serves to render their wounds
more poignant and more lively. Al-
bert understood too well the charac-
ter of Flaminia not to know that
their destiny was irrevocably flxed.
Divine Providence seemed to have
drawn them together in this world
but to make them merit, by a sacri-
fice of their affections, the happiness
that was destined for them in the
next The ordinary remedy of ab-
sence would have been useless in
their case. Albert understood this,
and the idea of getting himself ab-
solved from his vows of knighthood
came to him. This thought he re-
pelled. It was not that he believed
the success of such a measure im-
possible, but that he saw in it a de-
sertion of his duty ; he felt that his
conscience would not be in tranquil-
lity, and that it would perpetually
remind him that one cannot thus
break his engagements with God.
He knelt down piously, and that
which passed in his soul during that
cruel night, and that which he suf-

Flaminia,

fered during that struggle, ever rested
a secret between him and God. For
you, scholar of the eighteenth centu-
ry, it is an unpardonable weakness
that of placing one's self humbly
on one*s knees before the Divine
Majesty. Yet, thanks only to this
weakness, Albert, in all the force of

I youth, resisted without failing be-
fore the most impetuous, the most
irresistible of all our passions, and
came forth victorious out of the rud-
est combat that he had ever given.
He loved, passionately, Fiaminia:
Flaminia, beautiful, rich in heart
and soul, fiill of all the merits, of
all the virtues, that can entrance at
the same time the heart, the soul,
and the senses j Flaminia, who lov-
ed him with an equal ardor, and

I who confided herself to him abso-

' lutely and without reserve. He had
over her an absolute power, and, far
from using it, he subdued his passion,
and, directing by a determined will
the tumultuous waves of his heart,
he traversed without shipwreck those
tempests that are more ungovernable
than the rage of the ocean. The

tstrength with which he aided him-
self was that same weakness which
makes you smile. Had he trusted
only in himself, he would have fallen,
because he was but a man ; he im-

^plored the aid of him who is strength
itself, and he vanquished. Faith was
for him what the fortifying oil was
with which the athletes rubbed their
bodies before the struggle ; and, not
content with aiding him to overcome
himself, she knew also how to dry his
tears by the blessed aid of hope.
For, at the same time that she show-
ed him in all their barrenness the
painful paths of duty, she let him
see at the end of the journey, and
as the price of his victor)% that eter-
nal union of souls which time itself
is powerless to break. I know you
to be prejudiced, my dear Frederick,

on all that which touches religious
questions ; but, at the same time, I
know you to be of too good faith not
to acknowledge that there is truly
something superhuman in a doctrine
which gives such victories ; neither
shall I insist on the detail of the events ,
which occurred during the six months
that Albert yet passed by the side of
Flaminia, for they would have no
value in my recital. It would not,
perhaps, be without a certain interest
to follow the developments of that
affection, so completely purified from
all earthly thoughts; but, as there
are certain situations where a look, a
smile, takes the proportions of a veri-
table event, it would be necessary
for me to enter into the very slight-
est points of its psychology. On
learning the gravity of the wounds
of his brother, Adolph Shraun had
come in all haste to the palace Balbo*
Antonia failed not to produce in his
heart an impression as profound, but
more decisive, than that which Fla-
minia had already aroused in his
brother. As he knew that the pro-
ject of an alliance would be joyfijly
received in the two families, Antonia
was not long without knowing the
sentiments which she had enkindled.
The frank, impetuous, and lively cha-
racter of Adolph had already pre-
disposed her in his favor, so that she
quickly shared the same sentiments
and hopes as himself. Joy renders
us much more disposed to confidence
than does sorrow, and Antonia did
not fail to feel the need of confiding
to some one both her secret and her
love. This need caused her to seek
in Flaminia for sympathy, and the
reciprocal confidence which was due
between these two young hearts, so
well formed to love and sustain each
other, was then established for ever.
The Hiiwe confidences of her sister
enlightened Flaminia on her own
sentimentSi and carried into her soul

Flaminia,

ibc light tiiat she had but caught
|Iitnpses of before. She then under-
L stood the nature of her destiny, and,
H Hke Albert, she accepted it without
V amnnDtir. She took refuge in the
B consoling thought that their union
f iroold be accomplished in those ce-
feslial r^oos where only reign the
eiernil laws of love ; and thus plac-
ing her hopes upon a sure basis, she
resigned herself to her cross, prayed,
and awaited God's wilL I think that I
I kve quite sufficiently instructed you
upon the state of these noble hearts ;
«o XhxK I can arrive at that which is
the object of ray story — namely, to
^ idJ you how it was that my great-
H gnrndfather, Adolph, saw, one day,
W two souls." The Baron Frederick
could not here repress a deep sigh
of satisfaction, and the count, who
noticed nothing, continued : " The
boors, which their separation was
loon to render so long, passed away
with t cruel rapidity ; the moment

P approached when Albert ought to
leave Flaminia, that he might report
himself to the Grand-Master Coroner,
L who was then preparing an expedi-

■ tioti directed against Napoli of Rou-
Btnanlii, and the few days they had yet
y lo pASS together made them feel still

IDOTC strongly the happiness tl»at they
Here about to lose. Giovanni had
announced his intention of following
his friend, and their approaching de-
Jtirture had cast a shade of sadness
^on that household, lately so joyous

■ that it had seemed a nest hidden
Hfrom the world, where alone happi-
W Mss dwelt. One evening, w^hcn, ac-

oording to their usual custom, they
grouped together under the
of the \nnes, the conversa-
look a melancholy form, and
fear that reigned in all their
bearta expressed itself by words:
they were talking of death. * Come,
come,' said the Prince Balbo, after a
few mtntites of discussion on the sub-

ject, *what is the use of tliese fears?

When duty calls, we must obey, not
only by action, but in heart, and with-
out regret. Besides,' he added, *the
hour of our deatJi is not in our own
choice ; and none are protected from
his stroke when God calls the angel
of death and says, "Strike!*^ I
have, like you, my children, incurred
many perils in my life, and yet sixty
winters have whitened my head \ and
how many have I not seen of those
whose life was peaceable — of flourish-
ing youth — sheltered from all harm,
who have been struck down before
their time I Let us confide in God,
my children \ let us resign ourselves
beforehand to his will, which is al-
ways just, always good — since he L3
eternally just and good.'

"Flaminia, crushed by the grief of
a separation that snatched away from
her for ever the half of her soul, had,
until these last words of her father,
remained silent; but then, lifting her
head and leaning slightly toward Al-
bert, said to him in a tone that was
audible only to him, * Yes, happily,
one dies at ever)^ age.'

" Albert understood her thought

** * Do you not, then, think on the
grief of those who arc left?* an-
swered he, in a voice of low re-
proach.

** * Oh !' replied she quickly, * if I
die first, I will come to seek you/

•* Before that cry, uttered from the
heart, before that affection that felt
ilself sufiiciently strong to vanquish
the laws of death, sufficiently holy
til at God should grant it a miracle,
silence could be the only answer;
but a glance of Albert replaced with
all the eloquence of the heart the
powerless word. On the morrow of
that evening, Albert left Flaminia,
I will not paint to you their afflic-
tion. It was immense. But a hope
that is too ill known, in this, our
century, sustained tlieir courage and

Ftmninia,

energy. At the moment of an
adieu so cruel to both, not a tear
fell from their eyes. That they did
flow, and most abundantly and bit-
terly, there is no doubt, since grief
never loses its rights, and human
force, even the best sustained, has
its bounds \ but they flowed in si*
lence and in secret, and he who was
their only witness treasured ihcra up.
I The days, the months, the seasons
^ passed on ; three times the trees had
lost their foliage and renewed their
leaves; three limes had the alley
of vines seen the winter's sun pass
unobstructed through their naked
branches. All had changed around
them ; their hearts alone changed not
The renown of Albert grew each day,
Willi his valor, more brilliant j but it
was no longer renown that he sought,
it was a death that would have opened
before him that wide field where im-
patience dies away before I he eter-
nity that then commences; death
that he desired because it would
have brought him near to Flaminia ;
and death would not listen to him.
In vain did he fling himself into the
thickest of the danger; in vain did
be accomplish prodigies that had
caused the bravest to turn pale ; he
passed through all these without even
a wound- Although he had but very
rare occasion of knowing what pass-
ed in that cherished spot where ever
rested his heart and thoughts, still
he doubted not but that the tender-
ness of Flaminia was as lively and
as deep as his own ; nor did he de*
ceive himself. Flaminia had refused
tinder different pretexts the offers that
had been made to her ; and notwith-
standing all the desire they felt to
establish their daughter, I would dare
to affirm that it was not without a
certain secret joy that the Prince and
Princess Balbo looked upon the pros-
pect before them, the hope of keep-
ing her always by their side* Do not

blame them too quickly, my friend |
for it is a painful thought that duri
twenty years a child should have bee;
the object of your affection and ofi
your solicitude ; that she should havt^
taken the best and largest portion of
your life and heart, in order that, one
day, a stranger, under the title of a
new-bom love, should carry away from
you all your joy; leaving you to see
your much-loved child place hersclt
under another protection than thioev
and quit without regret tlie house
where she leaves a blank that nolh^
ing else can fill

" I had almost forgotten to tell you
that Anton ia had married Adolphus^
and lived happy and peaceful in
same castle where we now are finish*,
ing our career. Albert, tired of war,
and freed from all further illusions
of glory, had come, after having re-
fused the highest distinctions of the
order, to seek some repose by his
brother's side* Ambition was dead
in him ; his soul, that had been so
severely proved, had need of recoU
lection and calm ; and he found this
by the side of him whom, after Fla-
minia, he loved the best in the world
Moreover, although he himself scarce*
ly ever spoke of her who filled all his
thoughts, still he felt a lively pleasure
in hearing her spoken of so frequent-
ly by his brother and his wife. Al-
bert was then calm and composed ;
he marched courageously forward in
life as does the traveller who climbs
with difficulty the bare paths of a\
desolate and arid mountain, sure to
find in the evening the joys of the
fireside and the shelter of his friends'
roof.

** Three years, day by day, had pass*
ed away since the moment when AU
bert had quitted the paJace Balbow
It was the evening; Adolphus and
Antonia were by his side, in this
same saloon where we now are. Con-
trary to his custom, Albert, for wham

bus, ,
thisA
ii&h*H
nrarpB
ions^

{

Flaminia,

that anniversary was a day of mourn-
ing, fdt his soul full of a penetrating
and serene joy, when ten o^clock
sounded from that same clock that — *'
Here the recital of the count was
iDtemipted by the sound of the clock
which resounded in the vast apart-
ment One would have said that it
ifnncd the words of the count, by
TiepeAting the ten strokes which it
hd caused to be heard at the mo-
toent of which he was speaking.
That metallic sound seemed to have
fa it an unusual power ; there was
lomcthing solemn in its grave slow-
Dcss \ in the deep noise of the wheel
ibwn round by the falling lead,
•Mch accompanied with its heavy
the more piercing sound tjiat
d the thick oaken case. Both
nt and his friends were seized
impression which they did not
i 10 dispel or resist. Both in-
iciively uncovered their heads, and
ilc the count waited almost respect-
r ris last vibrations were lost

the baron^ more moved
than perhaps he was willing to show,
cm the table his pipe, yet fully
d with tobacco, and, an event
It certainly had not occurred with
once in ten years, he left that
uscparablc companion of his leisure
UJ^t without touching the tankard
it in ^'ain oflfered to his gaze its
►wn and golden tints,
'Ten o'clock had then sounded,*'
,ed the count, *' and that being
nioment when each was accus-
to separate for their l>ed-
looms, Adolphus had got up and
looked at bis brother, who had been
ht some time pre>ious motionless
ud in an attitude of profound at-
I temiDr' 'ling a man who fol-

^4g irs V. ir the scarcely percep-

^Kle sounds of some distant harmo*

^H^'AIl is finished,' murmured Al-
Hnt ai the moment when the clock
VOL, VIII. — 6

had finished striking ; and, placing
his hand on his brother's arm, ' Re-
main here,' said he, and turning
toward Antonia: * Pardon me, my
sister, if I thus detain Adolphus ; but
I have need of him to-night, and
to-morrow it will be too late.* ^

" * You frighten me/ answcred^Affl"*
tonia; 'what then is going tCyha|Wf;
pen?*

"*you will know very sooi
plied Albert. * Poor sister 1 your'
will shed many a tear ; but they
be dried by the thought tliat the md^
tive which causes them to flow as-
sures for ever the happiness of those
who are dear to you/

" He then kissed her forehead,
and, followed by Adolphus, went to
his own room, the same %vhich is now
yoursj dear Frederick*

"'What is die matter with you F
asked Adolphus of his brother, as
soon as they were alone.

•* * I am sad and happy at the same
time ; sad because 1 am going to
leave you alone for a short time ; but
very happy because I go at last to
rejoin her, and for this time not again
to leave her 1'

"'Explain yourself; why do you
leave us V

** * Listen : for that you may under-
stand what is going to happen here
this night, it is necessary that you
should know what I hav^e felt and
suffered during the past three years/

** Albert then told him of all that
which I have just described to you ;
of his love for Flaminia, of his
struggles, and of his victory over
himself; and Adolphus, who already
knew through his wife of what Fla-
minia had suifered, saw with asto-
nishment that all which had been
felt by the one had also been by the
other, in the same degree and at the
same moment. Never had the most
profound sympathy established be-
tween two beings a more complete

Flaminia.

identity of sensations and thoughts ;
near or separated, their two existen-
ces had formed but a single life, as
their two souls seemed to form but a
single soul. When Albert had fin-
ished his recital, he added :
^* * ** If I die first, I shall come to
' * seek you !" Flaminia had told me,
and now Flaminia has just died.
Do not ask me how I know it, for I
am ignorant myself of the reason ;
but I do know it. I have followed,
moment by moment, tJie progress of
her death j at the end I have felt her
die, and now I await her coming*
In a few instants more she will be
here, and we shall depart together for
that blessed home where nothing can
again oppose itself to our eternal
union. It seems to me that already
I feel my soul disengaging itself
from its bonds ; I no longer regard
the suflferings that I have endured,
except with that sentiment of thank-
fulness and joy which one feels at
the recollection of perils that have
been overcome ; my past sufferings
have no longer their sting, my tears
no longer their bitterness I At the
solemn moment when I am about to
quit a life that has been most pain-
ful in its trials for the happy life of
triumph, I have wished to have you
by my side, that I might say to you
my last farewell in this world, and
press for a last time your hand be-
fore going to await you in eternity.'
I leave you to think, my dear Frede-
rick, what must have been the aston-
ishment of Adolphus at receiving
this strange confidence.

** • I have too much confidence in
the firmness of your reason,* he an-
swered to his brother after a short si-
lence, • to believe that it has become
weakened, were it only for a mo-
ment ; but do you not fear to have
been the victim of some mental illu*
sion, and to have taken for a reality
that which was in reality only the

dream of your heart exalted by saiJ*
ness and solitude V

*^ * I understand your incrcdttlitj,'
answered Albert, * for I have ms^M
shared in it. Each time lliat the re
collection of that promise presented
itself to my memor)', my reason rt-
volted against such an evident impose
sibility ; the soul cannot agn
in this world once that it h ;
it, thought I, and yet I counlti
the prctmise even while I disbelieved
its possibility. Only an hour ag^
I yet doubted, but now that doubt
has passed away, since the inomtnt
when her dying voice sounded in itu
cars uttering her last words : " \ oy
have waited for mc i I am hcreT
Then I understood that it was not
merely the strong desire of a soaf
overexcited by the desire to be f^
united to the second half of itself
that I felt, but that it was really a
mysterious w^arning \ and the accom-
plishment of a promise that God bim*
self had blessed, and that he pcrmifr
ted to be fulfilled.'

"*But how to explain this
cle?*

" ' I am unable to explain it ;
you what is about to happen, thtt
all that I can do. In a few minut
Flaminia will be present, and in scfr
ing her you wil! believe me. For the
rest,' added be, after a momeni
pause, * all is a mystery in this woi
but the grand end of all is sufficiei
to enlighten our paths. Do
think that it would be more easy
me to tell you how it is that, not-
withstanding we have never said a|^j
thing to each other that could di!|^^H
the mutual state of our heartsj^^^
have yet, in spite of our separation,
lived by the same life and the c^w*^m
love ? That you cannot believe m^fl
I know, but only wait a little llrac,
and you shall see.'

** In truth, Adolphus did not believe,
although the evidently profound COIK

Flamiftia.

r Albert shook his mind and
1 him an impression that he
ladly have shaken o^ so
to reason did it seem to
^t us make haste, the time
said Albert He then ar-
il ovder, with rapidity and
treral important affairs with
I was charged, relating to
:ipal commanderies of Ger-
len, kneeling down, he offer-
short prayer ; scarcely had,
ed, than, rising up quickly,
i the hand of his brother,
1: 'Look! she is come.'
s turned round, and saw
standing by the side of Al-
ou who have lost some one
dear to you, Frederick, you
larked that, at the moment
I last sigh escapes and be-
work of decay begins, the
ossessed of a calm beauty,
oral and indefinable in its
m, that inspires an awed re-
that now lifeless form which
loment before contained a
jch looked Flaminia; her
irrounded by a luminous at-
B, had received from immor-
august expression. It was
the form of Flaminia, such
)hus had known her, but it
longer the creature that is
t, and subject to the attacks
and life. It was the being
able who, coming forth vic-
rom her many trials, bore in
the splendors of her glory,
luty was not that which
by the uniformity, more or
plete, of its lineaments ; no,
the celestial beauty whose
graven in ourselves; the
single ray of which suffices
inate the face that hides a
il : this was the beauty sub-
t enveloped her with its di-
gs, and transfigured her face
anging its lineaments. Adol-

phus bent his knee before the vision.
*Had I not told you that she would
come?' said Albert to his brother.
' Yes r replied a harmonious voice,
which issued from the then incorrup-
tible lips of Flaminia. *Yes! our
love was too pure not to merit its
recompense. God has permitted it;
you waited for me, and I am come.'
She bent slightly toward him to
whom she at length was about to be
united, and, surrounding him with
her arms, she drew his face closer to
her own, that gleamed with a celestial
joy. Behind them, and contemplat-
ing them, stood Death, not under the
form of fleshless skeleton, but as a ra-
diant angel who changes bitterness
into joy, and tears into smiles. His
beautiful face bore the impress of
grave majesty rather than of severity,
softened by that mfinite mercy which
gives hope to repentance. The mercy
and goodness of the Master who
sends him shone in his look, which
is so sweet to the contemplation of
the soul wearied by the painful jour-
ney of life. The hour was come !
At the moment when Flaminia, in a
manner, took possession of Albert,
the angel of Death drew near him,
and while with one hand he touched
his shoulder, with the other he point-
ed toward heaven. Albert's body
fell back into the arm-chair, which,
living, he had just occupied ; and
when Adolphus, drawn forward by
an instinctive motion, ran to support
him, he saw by the side of Flaminia
the form of his brother, that shone
forth surrounded by the same glory
and the same joy. He passed the
rest of the night by the side of his
brother's body, and wept, though not
over him whom he had just seen pass
away to heaven. The man whom
faith sustains with its sweet conso-
lation weeps not the loss of his
friend, but his absence. He wept
because every separation, even the

Flamitiia,

shortest, is a grief, and his tears
were dried by the certainty that Al-
bert was in the possession of a hap-
piness that could neither diminish
lior fade, and which he hoped one
day to share with him."

The count here left off his stor>^
The baron had listened to him with
a sustained attention, and although
he preser\x'd his imperturbable calm,
yet the recital had so much moved
htm, that he remained silent ; and the
count, after waiting a few minutes,
continued: "Such is the history of
my great-uncle Albert, as it has been
transmitted to us by him who was the
witness. Do you find it, then, surpris-
ing that the faith should be heredi-
tary in a family where such fiicts
happen? \Vliat can you reply to
this history?"

" Nothing,'* answered the baron,
** except that, to draw the conso-
lations which it contains, one must
have the faith ; and besides, in sup-
posing that Gofl, if he exists, inter-
feres with the affairs of this world,
he is unjust, since he refuses to me the
consolation that he gives to others,"

" Have you ever asked him for it V*
answered the count with a friendly
severity, **Have you not, on the
contrary, repulsed by a determined
obstinacy the soUcitations of divine
Prondencc? Pardon me, my friend,
if I awaken a painful recollection for
you, but have you not even resisted
the awful voice of Death ?'*

" What is the good of my asking?*'
replied the baron, eluding the se-
cond part of his friend's demand.
"If faith be necessar>% God owes it to
me without asking him."

" Food is also necessary," answer-
ed the count, " and does man find it
ready for him, unless he works? No,
no, my friend ; labor and prayer, such
is the destiny of man upon the earth.
His material life isbought by the sweat
of his broW| as his spiritual life is the

price of his efforts, * Seek, ts
shall iind ; knock, and it shj
opened unto you,' has said t
vine Master. Ah I if you hat
knelt before that God whon
blaspheme; if you had wit!
severance exposed to him
doubts, your miseries, you
have known that he never !
without help the soul that sin
implores him; you would
known that he never hides l^i
from him who seeks him n
humble and contrite spirit 3
pure heart. Pray, my dear Fred
pray, I tell you, and you wil
that he is near to you j thi
arms "are open to receive you
his hands ready to shed on yi
the sweet consolations and
with which they are filled !"

It was now late ; the two fi
then separated, and, without i
the count that night in his pi
demanded with more than usui
vor the conversion of the man
warmly loved. Ordinarily, on
ing his room, the baron was t
tomed to install himself as con
bly as possible in an immen!
leathern armchair, whose age
back for two or three ceni
which he placed in front of the
fire that burnt noisily on the h<
and after having again lit his
that inseparable friend, he ua
take a book, and, stretching 01
feet upon the copper fire dogs
until he felt sleepy, which inva
occurred as soon as there rem
no more tobacco in the sculf
wooden bowl of his pipe*

But on that night he cast a
him many a curious look, and >
ined with as great an attention, c
ter the other, the several piec
antique furniture with which his
was furnished, as though it hac
the first time that he had seen 1
then, in place of sitting down in tl

aiFp which he preferred to
iters on account of its large
ins, he placed it in front of
I, sitting down on the most
of his chairs, he regarded
lestioning curiosity and cer-
lect that mute witness of an
c, the mere recital of which
cd so great a trouble in his
ieming to ask of it a solution
cubts and fears. After a

silent contemplation, he let
brchead on his hands, and,

his 6n^ers among his hair,

rather by sorrow than by
tn to meditate profoundly.
:ation of his mind was so
1 the flow of his thoughts so
it, without knowing it, he be-
hink aloud. '* If what he
fr true, if there were some-
llin us that outlived our bo-
could see thee again, my
;lid best'beloved Gertrude ;
)uld again find the joys of
hort union, and this time for
unchanging and eternal f
ht I to repulse that thought
be childish fear of abandon-
f to a false hope ? Of these

were it not better to follow
h g^ves us consolation and
i to live, rather than that
[ikens around us the already
Wind shades of life, and

our grief into despair?
rsolation have I ever found
son of which I am so proud?
'pride has withheld my tears
so, yet since twenty years
: flowed on in silence with-
sourcc being yet dry. If I
kbed to let my weakness be
men, have I not felt it a
times within me, implacable,
tfe^ before my vain revolts
■pestiny that broke my
^feat I was forced to sub-
Wheti beside her death-bed
sterile despair, when my

will, my love, were powerless to re-
tain for a single moment the last sigh
of that life that I would have been
willing to prolong at the expense of
my own days, what have I been able
to do ? Nothing I not even to die I
Since tw^enty years I implore the ob-
livion which flies before me 1 Since
twenty years, I recoil before the
thought to precipitate myself there-
in I Is it fear that hinders me ? No !
I have faced the peril when my duty
demanded it, and I would do it
again ; I have too often s^en Death to
fear him. The reason is that a se-
cret voice speaks within me higher
than all the sophisms of my grief, an€l
tells me that I have not the right to
destroy the life which I did not give
myself Yet if there is nothing be-
yond the tomb, why should I fear it,
and what have I to dread from obli-
vion ? Have I not the most absolute
right on myself, since all ends but in a
dreamless sleep ? Is it really a sleep ?
Ah \ there is the truth, both for me
and for all others ; it is that in secret I
doubt as often of that oblivion that I
so loudly affirm, as I do whether that
God does not exist whose existence
I so deny. Yet again, if God is but
an imaginary being, and if immorta-
lity is but a dream, what does one
risk to have thought the contrar}^?
One would have lived fortified
against the ills and crosses of this
life by a thought that sweetens even
the terrors of death. One would not
even feel the loss of that hope, since
the hour of our disenchantment would
be the one which should plunge us
into the deep repose of oblivion 1
The Ue, then, would have done that
which the truth could not do ; it
would have given us happiness. If;
on the contrary, immortality is not a
vain chimera, but a reality, is it not
a terrible responsibility to have shut
one's heart to its evidence and to
have misunderstood the sublime Au-

Flamirtia.

thor of all things ? Yes t in truth
terrible ; for in that momentous
question, doubt is not to be permit-
led. On all human questions indif-
ference follows uncertainty, but here
indifference is itself a fault — one must
deny or believe. But how am I to
believe? When from earliest child-
hood you have had your aspirations
broken or wounded under the repeat*
fed blows of contempt^ and when you
have been taught but to laugh at tn oth-
ers that faith whose absence you shall
one day so bitterly deplore, how
then to believe ? Pray, he told me.
Pray I Can I pray ? Oh ! happy are
they who» arrived like me at that sad
epoch in life when one drags painful-
ly along the burden of one*s worn-
unt days, have not to curse those who
\ held them away from that source of
strength and consolation ! Yes, they
are happy whom a pious mother
taught from their cradle to bend tlie
knees and join the hands in prayer I
Gertrude also, she too prayed ; and
many a time have I felt myself touch-
ed in seeing her bend her head be-
fore the God of whom she asked for
[ me the Hght of the faith. How many
Plimes have I not felt the desire to
Uhare her belief, and to kneel down like
Merand say : * My dearGertrudc, there
exists no place on this earth where
Iwe ought to be separated ; there is not
la thought, a belief, an affection, that
Icught not to be shared by us. What-
fcver may be iJic destiny that awaits
ills after the destruction of our being,
iwhether it be oblivion or immortality,
f J wish to share it with you. Let
your convictions be mine also, even
[fts your life is mine. After having
pven me happiness in ihis world,
ffthow me the road that leads to that
'^eternity I wish to believe in because
you believe ; make me to know that
God whom I wish to love because
you love him V But alas ! held by a
false shame, I resisted that voice

which spoke In the depth of my
and which, perhaps, was the vo
God I for is it not possible that
feelings as these are those by
Providencecallsusto the truth i
I, how have I responded tc
voice ? Why, by rallying her c
belief, I caused her tears to
the only ones most certainly, fa
day they fall heavily upon my
And now friendship speaks I
this day the very same languag
did of old her love. Shall 1 3
main deaf? Ought I lo cede
resist the voice which now s
to me? O Albert! you on
was accomplished, in theTt>oiii
I am, and in that arm-chair I
now look on, so incomprehe
a mystery, cannot you come i
of the most faithful friend tha
family ever had !*' And the
lent baron, letting himself be c
away by his emotion, found bi
without knowing how, on his |
before that chair in whose sm
bert had died ; and the head OG
by his hands, and the heaft
with the thirst for truth, he pf|

" O my God !*' pmyed he,
is true that you are not a vain
tion of the w^eakness or of the
of man ; if it is true that you
nue to watch with solicitude ov
creature who has issued frora
hands, you will not see withou
the heart full of trouble that I ]
toward you. Led astray by i\
bits begun in childhood, I hav
haps followed error thinking I
low the truth ; but I have done
all sincerity and through love <
truth. If I am deceived, O Got
lighten my trembling soul, dis
the doubt which is crushing mi
draw toward you the soul that
you and desires you ! And
Gertrude, dear companion too
lost to me, if you sec my regrei
time cannot extinguish ; ant

Flaminia.

teifs tbat your memory cosU me,
isk of your God that he make him-
self known to me; ask him that 1
may adore him as you adored him,
and, above all, ask him that I may
^in be united to you/*

His voice died away then, and
yet his prayer continued. His soul,
overexcited with the emotions of
ibar night, poured itself out before
^^ without following any line of
thought It was an immense lift-
fag up of his whole being toward the
truth — an ardent thirst for hope ; it
was the twenty years of a mute de-
spair that resumed itself into a su-
^eroe cry ; it was the heart, so pure
id so good, of that worthy man, that
Opened itself completely and mount-
id full of desires and tears, canying
with it the most fervent prayer that
lad erer reached the immovable
me of the EtemaL At last the
arose^ but in place of at once
himself down to sleep on the
fel, whose soft pillows vainly invit-
^ id him to repose, he retook his for-
^^^kiner position and began to reflect.
^Hh||i thoughts pressed so tumultu-
H|^ia his brain, ordinarily so calm,
■ Iw succeeded each other with so
I great a rapidity, that he could but
i*fuely seize them. His eyes, fixed
ttpOD the light flame that yet burned on
hearth, saw^ not that they expired
• . The last played yet some
lie log covered with white
lib^ disappearing for a moment to
reappear in another spot; at
It died out The lamp burn-
wJth a reddened glare through its
of oil, and yet the baron did
How long he had rested
ite of semi-sleep is what he
r knew himself, when to the dy-
^eam of the lamp succeeded so
illiant a light tliat the baron always
tntained that one so intense had
before shone on mortal eyes ;
It ibe same time brilliant and soft, it

penetrated all objects without causing
them to cast any shadow, and, as it
were, drowned them in a sea of light
The baron lifted up his head at this
unexpected brilliancy ; he wished to
speak, and his voice expired on his
opened lips ; but he distinctly heard
tliese words : ** Frederick, the prayers
of your beloved Gertrude have been
at length heard ; the straightforward-
ness and simplicity of your heart have
found grace before the tlirone of the
Eternal Master ; he smiles on those
who imitate him* He loves those who,
like him, bear their cross with cou-
rage, and drink without feebleness
the chalice of bitterness that is offer-
ed to all, without exception, in this
life of probation. If it has been that,
until now, you have rested deaf to
the warnings that divine Providence
sent you, at least you have listened
with docility to that which was con-
tained in the recital of your friend^
and it was not without a reason that
he was inspired to tell the true le-
gend of the loves of Flaminia and Al-
bert to you this night The faitli that
strengthens the soul in the midst
of the calamities of life descended
into your heart and penetrated it with
its salutary ardors at the moment
when, breaking your pride before
your will, you have knelt down before
the Lord and asked of him the light \
you could not remain always out of
the truth ; you, the devoted friend,
the faithful husband ; you whose en-
tire life has been but a long research
for the rarest virtues, and who feel
beating in your breast as noble and
loving a heart as ever animated a
Jiuman form." Here the brilliant
light faded slowly away. The lamp
was extinguished, and the blackened
logs gave forth no glimmer of light
The baron gained, by feeling his way,
his bed, and laid himself on it, feel-
ing himself full of an unknown joy,,
understanding the duties of a Chris-

Talleyrand*

rian, and resolved to perform them.
He fell asleep in thinking of that
happy clay when should be restored
to him that wife whom he had never
ceased to love. The next mornings
when he descended to the saloon
where all the family were united, he
embraced his friend*s wife, and kiss-
ed, one after another, her children
and grandchildren » who were all there
that day at the castle ; and all Ibis

with a demonstration of joy so con-
trary to his usual phlegmatic manner
that it for the moment gave cause to
fear for his reason ; and then, a
proaching the count, who regarded
him with stupefaction, he embracedi
him vigorously, and said to him,
while wiping his eyes, humid with
tears of joy : ** Ah I you are right,
my dear friend ; I shall see again mj
Gertrude !'*

TALLEYRAND, BY LYTTON BULWER .•

Sir Henry Lytton Bitlwer has
presented the public with sketches of
some eminent men, and has done his
work well It is not a series of biog-
raphies, but rather a finished outline
of their prominent characteristics and
of iheir achievements. In advance
of the memoirs of Talleyrand, writ-
ten by himself, and now in course of
publication, this illustrious French-
man is placed among the number,
and in a new light. He is no longer
the inscrutable being he appeared
to his contemporaries, and as he
has appeared since to their children.
His name has been intimately asso-
ciated with the great men and events
of the last years of the unfortunate
reign of Louis XVI. of France, near
the close of the last centur)% Still
more prominently is the memor)' of
him associated with the convocation
of the States-General and the Nation-
al Assembly. By accident, he had
the good fortune to be free from the
odium attached to the Legislative As-
sembly and the atrocities of the Na-
^tional Convention, with the attendant

• Hi*t»t^ai CkAracUrt. By Sir Henry Lyit^m

horrors of the Committee of Public
Safety in the Reign of Terror,

He fled from France in all ha
as an ^migre^ and yet was lucky t<i]
avoid being classed with the aristo^f
crats and so-called enemies of his|
country. He was prominent in ih
Revolution, without the stain of
regicide ; he was a fugitive with ih^
loyal crowd, without being stigrna*^
tized as a royalist. No amount of
human foresight could have served ,
him as a safe guide to shun the dac
gers which beset his fame and secu<^
rity on either side. His success wa§
altogether fortuitous ; but his friends
attribute all to his superior sagacit]
and wisdom, while his enemies
cribe it to his remarkable cunning'
and prudence. When the days of
danger and of blood passed by, Tal-
leyrand relumed to Paris with pres-
tige, and was immediately employed
by the Directory. When that went
down, he floated to the surface with
Bonaparte in the consulate and em*
pire. Upon the fall of the empire,
with the entrance of the allied ar-
mies into the capital he was their
trusted counsellor. The restoration
of the Bourbons was at once accom*

ed^
acHfl

raifl
ids

linfir™

Talleyrand.

pmicd Willi the restoration of Tal-
le)Tind to the foreign office and to
the head of affaire. When the Bour-
bons were expelled, in 1830, he was
again reinstated by Louis Philippe,
' under whose reign he died in 1838,
mtfa ihat sovereign an attendant at
Ikisdeath'bed.

In truth, the same good fortune set

riir his favor when he was a boy \ but

I il came in the guise of a calamity.

JKcglcct on the part of a nurse re-

llQltcd in a slight lameness for life

his legs, and in consequence a

nily council was convened wherein

lit vas decided he should be depriv-

Id of his rights of primogeniture,

his high station as a nobleman,

I of the wealth which went with

His younger brother was sub-

timted, while Talleyrand was des-

td for ihc priesthood. But such

\ tbe waj-^'ardness of fate that in a

"ily was abolished, its

joyed, and the nobles

selves were in exile, with his im-

rished brother among the num-

On the other hand, Talleyrand

[tntered the church \ he became a

[fchop, and in turn he deserted I lie

church and his diocese when the

Rj^d to greater worldly success and

dijtinction led through desertion,

, He was excommunicated by the pope

papal censure and condcmna-

I could only, for the time being,

L-Bdd to his popularity. Subsequently

were removed by the pontiff,

a brief to that end, wiih the

ling tide of events, was all that

i wanting to increase his prestige.

To what peculiar talent, quality, or

IS indebted for his happy

always been an open ques-

I ; nor is it yet completely solved.

Henry does not undertake to dis-

thc problem, although he must

tain an opinion on the subject

\ it is much better that he declined

to propound any theory of his own ;

for in doing so the readers of his
book would have misgivings that he
tampered with some facts, or sup-
pressed others altogether, in order
to maintain it. His work in its pre-
sent shape invites confidence, inv
ports greater accuracy, and imparts
additional satisfaction. No one can
distrust his historical integrity, or
doubt the extent of his inquiries and
research in an honest endeavor to
enlighten the public, or fail to appre-
ciate the information obtained. It
is a decided accession to biographi-
cal literature.

Nor are the opinions of the author,
interspersed through the pages, the
least interesting part of his perform-
ance ; for these opinions on the
mighty men and events of the peri-
od to which he refers may be taken
as a reflex of the sentiments now
current in the continental diplomatic
corps, of which Sir Henry is an old
and constant member of high stand-
ing. In his expositions, it is enter-
taining to compare the slow, lagging
judgment of Europe on those times
with American impressions, which
are far more correct, enlightened,
and advanced. The great idol which
the foreign diplomatic community
adores is success: Paris is its pe-
culiar shrine; and Parisian society
are fellow- worshippers. But, until
success is attained and established,
their fetich image is only one in the
rough, to be hewed and hacked as
cheap lumber. Napoleon and Tal-
leyrand, during the long wars of the
consulate and empire, were not deem-
ed by neighboring states as much
better than misshapen monsters of
the human species ; while the brillian-
cy of their achievements was dazzling
the sight, bewildering the imagina-
tion, and extorting applause or ad-
miration on this side of the Atlantic.
When the sanguinary contest
closed in Europe, the exhibition of

Talleyrand,

Its continuous blaze of glory had
lost much of its novelty in America ;
the ardor of our people commenced
to cool down ; they began to make
a more dispassionate, and, conse-
quently, a more rational estimate of
their late heroes. This examination
in some of its aspects was not favor-
able to the character of the republi-
cans and of Napoleon. His genius,
indeed, could not be denied ; his
deeds were marvellous ; the splen-
dor of his course had never been sur-
passed in ancient or modem ages ;
his individual or personal popularity
was not in the least impaired. But
on the whole, had his life been a
blessing or otherwise to mankind ?
Had it been beneficial or injurious to
progress ? Had he or the preceding
government of the Convention in the
Reign of Terror promoted the welfare
of France ? Reluctantly but surely
the American mind came to the con-
viction that the wars of the emperor
had been as useless as they were
prodigal of life, more desolating than
the bloody guillotine worked by Ro-
bespierre* That decision will not
soon be reversed ; in all probability
it will be confirmed and strengthened
by time. On the eastern continent,
however, this stage of enlightenment
has not been reached by tlie mass
of the intelligent population ; but
they are coming up to it. Napoleon
as the scourge had there to be with-
drawn, before he could reappear
transformed into a hero, and from a
hero into a great beneficent political
being. His wars were there pro-
nounced productive of good, as a
destructive fire that had consumed
tl»e vermin of class abuses ; that had
extirpated the noxious weeds stran-
gling civilization, which could not
}he eradicated by peaceful means j
that the Reign of Terror had
been a terrible tempest, to be sure,
but a tempest, nevertheless, which.

in the oratorical figure of L0
kine, had driven away pestilen
purified tlie atmosphere, i
point European sentimeal
stands.

In republican America, th
stride will be still in the a
to the further conclusion, ih
poleon, in his martial policy,
ed only the cold-blooded,
nately selfish despot, whose l
country was centred in se
w hose patriotism for the Sta
unbounded when he was the
for which he u ould sacrifice aj
as Louis XIV. in a dazzling
equally disastrous to the haf
of his subjects. But iti Eun
condemn the warlike propensi
Napoleon, is at the same ti
condemn the hostile coalitiot
promoted or provoked Uicm,
measures adopted by Inimica
rival powers to overthrow the I
empire originated in passion
for a purpose fully as absm
damaging to their own people,
sides wanted war, without cd
the cost, and now both are co;
the loss, when war ts no
wanted. The losing figures ti
the longest columns to contemj
countenances the most elongate
this showing, the picture is not ii
to monarchical perceptions y th
unwilling to acknowledge the I
of the portrait. England was 1
first in heart and soul in thes
spiracics against the peace of
tendom^ and England ever sin
feit also, both first and last, tJ
effects from the heaviest debts
borne in consequence. Hen(
dispiriting consciousness in th
of British circles, that Franc
der Robespierre and Napoleo
matched in its foolishness by
land under Pitt and Castlci
Something like even handed
butive justice was meted out

Talleyrand.

four: Robespierre attempted self-
destruction when the executioner at
the guillotine awaited him ; Castle-
reagh cut his own throat ; Pitt pined
away and died as he closed the map
of Europe with his finger pointing to
the fatal field of Austerlitz ; Napo-
leon lingered out a miserable life on
a barren rock. The administrations
of these men are now understood in
the American republic, and have re-
ceived the American condemnation.
Talle}Tand was an inferior per-
sonage to them in power, but only
one degree less ; he was the greatest
in importance, and in position of the
second grade. He is not so well
comprehended. They did not know,
until now, he had said to Montalvert :

^Yoo have a prejudice against me, be-
came your father was an imperialist, and
jou think I deserted the emperor. I have
Bcver kept fealty to any one longer than he
has been obedient to common sense. But
if 70a judge all my actions by this rule, you
vill find that I have been eminently con-
sirtcnt." (P. 4C^.)

The cause of his success was gen-
erally found in his strict adherence to
Ac maxim that

"The thoughts of the greatest number of
intelligent persons in any time or country
»e sure, with a few more or less fluctua-
tiow, to become in the end the public
opinion oftheir age or commum'ty." (P. 442.)

He profited by this experience and
howledge ; he understood men ; he
consulted public opinion, and fol-
lowed it

For these revelations and for these
reasons, every line in the volume of
Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer attracts
attention and invites scrutiny. Sir
Henry's style, turn of thought, opin-
ions, even his words, must be weighed
and studied, not only to gather the
import of their meaning, but the ex-
act shade of meaning. In this criti-
cal examination, it will be discovered
Sir Henry adheres to no fixed me-

thod or standard of composition.
Sometimes he is easy, smooth, and
flowing as Joseph Addison ; again he
is terse as Dean Swift ; sometimes
he is turgid and rambling as a pleni-
potentiary who has particular in-
structions to communicate nothing
in very verbose sentences long drawn
out, wherein he is neither choice in his
language nor correct in the common
rules of grammar. Now, diplomacy
admits of all these varieties of writing,
and Sir Henry tries them all. No pent-
up uniformity contracts the powers
of his rhetoric or vocabulary. In
one paragraph he exercises the pre-
cision of an algebraic formula; in
another he wanders astray in the
collocation of phrases with unguarded
looseness. For him to write in his
vernacular idiom must be something
of an effort, although he can write well
when on his good behavior; but it
is evident he thinks in French. His
ideas, thoughts, and some of his
opinions and principles have conse-
quently a Galkc tinge, and read like
a translation ; while others, if more
cosmopolitan, are limited to the tone
pervading the diplomatic circle ; and
diplomatists have among themselves
a professional cant or set of political
dogmas, which in a class less polish-
ed and select would be mistaken for
a species of slang.

It is interesting and instructive to
be made familiar with their prover-
bial philosophy, but it does not fol-
low the infallibility of their proverbs
must be recognized. Many of Sir
Henry's opinions, therefore, may
meet with dissent on this side of the
water; much of his free and easy
continental code he himself would
abhor if made applicable to British
interests, British politics, or British
domestic ethics. In the cultivated
opinion of the United States, the con-
tinental standard of justifiable policy
b even more detestable, and ought

Talleyrand.

to be in all climes and countries, in
every latitude and longitude on the
face of the earth.

Charles Maurice Talle)Tand de
Pe'rigord was born in 1754, of
one of the most noble and ancient
families in France. He was sent to
the College d'Harcout, where he gain-
ed the first prizes ; transferred to tlie
Seminary of St. Siilpice, his talents
for disputation and composition were
long remembered ; and when, at last,
sent to the Sorbonne, he was equally
remarkable, although destined for
the church, as a ver>^ clever and a
very profligate young gentleman. He
made no secret of his dislike to the
profession chosen for him, but it was
not doubted among those who knew
him that he would reach its highest
honors. In 1773, he entered the Gal-
lican priesthood. When twenty years
of age, his countenance was peculiar-
ly attractive* It was indicative of
softness, yet of boldness ; of imper-
turbability, yet of humor and wit.
When somewhat older, his features
wore a long, oval appearance ; his
eyes were blue, deep, and variable ;
his lips usually compressed with an
ironical smile, but not of ill nature ;
his nose, with clear-chiselled nostril,
was delicate and slightly turned up ;
his voice deep toned, almost sepul-
chral. In five years he was chosen
to the distinguished post of agent-
general of the French clerg)^, where
he administered with great success
the ecclesiastical revenues of im-
mense amount, and where he first
exhibited his financial abilities in
the clearness and neatness of his
statements and reports. He became
Bishop of Autun in 1789.

** * He drcsacd,' says one of his many bio-
Mmphcra, *likc a coxcomb, he thought like
\% deist, he preached like a saint At once
f flclivc and irregirtar, he found time tor cvcrj'-
^ thing : the church, the court, the opera. In
'be4 erne day from indolence or debauch, up

the whole of the following night to prepare
a memoir or a speech. Gentle with the
humble, haughty with the high ; not very
exact in paying his debts, but vtry scrupu-
lous with respect to giving and breakh^
promises to pay them**" (P, 31.)

Early in life Introduced into
salons of Paris, he readily cau
their spirit, and soon obtained the
friendship of the leading encyclopae-
dists and philosophers of scientific
and historical fame ; he was on jnti- 1
mate terms with many well known
in letters and in the arts. The cele-
brated wits of both sexes, the beau-
ties, the belles, courted his society ; 1
the charm of their brilliant conversa*
tion, their versatile accomplishments, ]
and their winning manners were fa^
cinating and irresistible, The^e di-
vinities imagined they moved andj
had their being in a sublimated at-
mosphere far above and beyond the I
aspiration of common mortals ; their
sentiments breathed of perfect phi-
lanthropy, expressed in tenns andi
in lenderness befitting persons di-
vinely inspired. Every allurement
that could inspire the imagination,
every blandishment entrancing the
senses, every grace, talent, every or- \
rament which could enhance theJ
form or ennoble the intellect, was
cultivated and appreciated- Luxury
in dress, in gems, in furniture, in
equipage, in banquets, in music, io^
flowers, in painting, in frescoes, mfl
sculpture, was displayed with excess"
of prodigality which vied with the
purest taste. An ambrosial flavor of
expression abounded in a common
salutation ; a delicate oriental per-
fume seemed to permeate ever)^ com-
pliment, nor was any remark deemed
appropriate unless it contained a
compliment ; eloquence was discard-
ed because it was tinctured with too
much external exhibition of feeling;
it, moreover, took up too much preci-
ous time. But a higher art was attained

Talleyrand.

ia its stead — the art of epigramraati-

cal brc^nty, to commuaicate in a half-

linc what an oration could not teach

in a half-hour ; nor was an epigram

deemed perfect when its wit was

, rare and its sense profound, unless

I It tended to a sneer at religion or

dness in mankind, or told a scan-

[daiouslie.

The pentad ing object, the avowed

in this society, was to seek

ricisiirc, to declaim against abuses

institutions, moral, political, and

stian, in the public at large, in

omcstic habits and manners, in the

ale, and in the churdi^ But these

fined creatures were not good, nor

oral, nor pure, nor Christians ihem-

jlves ; they made no pretensions to

ijy of these virtues ; they were not

roselyting reformers \ they were in

\ sense radicals ; they made no ac-

cxertions to pull down, neither

ilid they aim to build up, nor to im-

mx the world, but were content to

human evils and to rail at

fiy. If a choice had been

pven to them to abolish institutions,

ily to remove their abuses inci-

llo all things of human creation,

• would have preferred to abolish

ifee institutions, provided the abuses

•ere permitted to remain intact.

Bui as tliey could not be rid of the

beoeficial advantages of the sub-

sUttce without the banishment of

,te c\il shadow, they were content

a.te the nuisance of what was

to the nation, in order to

for themselves the pans per-

. which were of sinful, comfor-

consi deration in their sight,

^ I their mission fulfilled

^^ , tiked and did nothing.

the coterie had turned

aspired to usefulness, he

lid have beJen deemed a harmless

[tor, and commiserated for the

Jolly of his desertion. His efforts

woold bave subjected him to their

lamenting sjinpathy, their smiling
mocker}^ their laconic brevities,
which, although seemingly soothing,
would be as scorching as they were
short Because he had accomplish-
ed something commendable or at-
tempted its accomplishment, they
would decide he had fallen from grace,
had rendered himself liable to their
biting condolence, and laid himself
open to the piercing shafts of their pity.
Voltaire, still lingering in his senility
as head and chief priest of this high-
ly refined and deeply depraved com-
munity, had sent forth a parting re-
script to the faithful in their infidelity,
that " one who has done nothing is
possessed of a terrible advantage ;
but he must not abuse it.*'

Talleyrand, at the age of thirty-six,
was fast rising to great prominence,
if not preeminence in this unholy set.
When Voltaire should be called to
his last account in another world,
and his mortal remains repose in the
Pfere-la-Chaise or Parthenon, it was
generally supposed the young Bishop
of Autun would by common consent
be raised to the place of tJie old phi-
losopher of Ferney. But had it been
thus, had the reign of the Bourbons
been prolonged, Talleyrand would
have betrayed and mocked the irre-
ligious of the Palais Royal and St.
Germain, as he bartered away the
pious interests of his diocese. In
some respects he resembled Vol-
taire» but in many more they widely
differed. In general he was in mind
unlike to him, as he was in morals
dissimilar to the late bishop. Vol-
taire was always in search of flat-
tery J Talleyrand despised it Vol-
taire was pleased with petty schem-
ing and petty intrigues \ Talleyrand
pushed them aside. Voltaire be-
trayed and lampooned his friends ;
Talleyrand did not deceive his, nor
slander. Voltaire was much feared
for his malicious sarcasm ; Talley

Talleyrand,

rand was well liked for his boun-
teous humor. The one was a judge

^ of books, as the other was a judge of
men ; the one was always grumbling
from his failures, the other always
content with his success ; the one
injecting a telling point into a false-
hood, the other imparting force to a
truth. Both were great in epigram-
matic hits in their own way ; with
this difference, however, that Vol-
taire, being soured with the world,
exposed his asperity in his jests;
while Talleyrand, pleased with it, con-
cealed all vejcation and rounded his

J remarks wnth an easy smile* Vol-

' taire was a spoiled child of society ;
society was a plaything for Talley-
rand. In a w^ord, the graceless
bishop, intellectually, morally, so-

, cially, was the superior, and far out-
shone the snarling philosopher. Vol-
taire could never, in playing long
whist and counting his points, if in-
formed that an old lady had married
her footman, have drawled out, " At
nine honors don*t count f nor cotild
he in pleasantry have said to Frede-
rick of Prussia what Talleyrand re-

^marked to Louis XVIIL: ♦'There
is something inexplicable about me
which brings ill luck on the govern-
ment that neglects me/'

Before the death of Voltaire, the
young Bishop of Autun had dis-
covered, with his preternatural clear-
ness of mental vision, that the scoff-
ers who were the embodiment of
science, philanthropy, and refine-

I ment, joined to profligate professors
and shameless women, farmed an in-
stitution, with its abominations also,
like all others ; just as the holy
church had its sacred virtues scan-
dalized by some glaring abuses
among a portion of the clerg^^ The
bishop must have felt that he consti-
tuted in himself a t>*pe of what was

■good and of what was bad in each :

[he ardently loved sciencej art, and

whatever was refining and progresa-
ive, as he conscientiously revered the
revealed truths of the Catholic faith.
But he could not resist the entice-
ments and adulations of society j nor
refuse the temptation to raise hii
self to political power by laying sac
rilegious hands on the property
the church. Not for one moment,
however, was he deceived by the
sophistries or jargon of the infidelH
school that reigned supreme in polite"
circles, and only once was his sound
judgment found wanting in fidelity
to his religious order, of which he
was a most unworthy representative.
He confounded tlie abuses io Che
state, the depravity of the aristocrac^^i
the irregularities among the clergy,
one common class of grievances
the nation which ought to be ended ;
but he did not desire to witness the
sovereign beheaded, the mob su-
preme, nor the idol of Reason en-
throned in the house of God.

His aim in life seems to have been
the possession of unrivalled frtstiff,
in Parisian society. To reach that
pinnacle for his ease, comfort, and
earthly happiness, he did or was
willing to do whatever would pro*
mote his purpose: he left undone
whatever would militate against it*
He understood the requisites for its
attainment, but would not sacrifice
present tranquillity, the absolute sati^
faction now, for the shadowy antici-
pation in the future. Intellectual
exertion was a pleasure to him at all
times. He desired wealth, rank^
power, fame, as passports into the
magic circle of his ambition ; but he
held himself on a level with the
great, while he treated the unfortu-
nate, the weak, the unsuccessful, with
undiminished attention. He was
keenly sensitive to censure, for cen-
sure impaired his prestige, P021Q
de Borgo, a celebrated and rival
diplomatist, once said of him : " This

QOC^

iniffl
ac«fl
of I

%
i

he J

taf

TalhyrmA

mioKasmade himself great by plao

m^ himself always by the side of the

I little and amoDg those who most

I naed him*" In truth, he was willing

' In aid any one, powerful or weak,

who could now or hereafter aid him.

he never deceived those whom

\ was serving, nor cringed, nor in-

^ jrd, nor betrayed them ; he was

-aJw^ivs true to his country, and al-

w^ sound in his judgment in de-

by what line of conduct the

sts of his countT)' could be best

Dted.

one instance only did he make
1 mistake, but that mistake was ter-
fale ; it was, moreover, unfortunate
France as for himself j it pro-
ihe only bad luck that befell
his very long life and invari*
rosperous careen It was in
criminating between the clergy,
trustees of the church property,
the property itself entrusted to
' keeping. He viewed the tem-
lUties as absolutely their own,
' inheritance, instead of perceiv-
t these possessions were only a
dehVered to them for safe
and transmission, which
descend to their heirs but
to their successors. He
nfoundcd their duties as adminis*
I of the estate with the rights
\ Ae persons for whom the estate
r1. If the clergy were will-
lore, to take a bribe to
iteay their trust, Talleyrand sup-
the nefarious bargain amount-
I lo a fair and honest purchase of the
4t property. The estate was not
atcd for them, but they were cre-
; for the estate.
few months after Talleyrand
Was installed Bishop of Autun, he
«w elected a representative to the
Sttte^^eneral. Of his peculiar fit-
ocas for the place, Sir Henry Bul-
•cr brings forward some striking and
eoQTtncing testimony.

'than

When the States-General met,
they formed themselves into the
National Assembly \ they resolved
to legislate in one and the same hall,
the nobles and the clergy mixed
with the commonalty, and all three
merged into one body. The Three
Estates were no more ; it was only
the Third Estate that remained. The
impending danger from immediate
bankruptcy of the nation being the
vital as it was the first subject for
discussion, the high reputation pos-
sessed by the Bishop of Autun for
financial abilities and practical skill
easily gained for him the first place
as a man of business, as the first
rank in social position was already
accorded to him. He spoke well,
sensibly, to the point Mtrabeau
was the greater orator, it is true,
but Mirabeau was the orator for
the commons ; TallejTand was no
orator at all ; he was a fluent
speaker, never indulging in meretri
cious or ornamental embellishments,
never appealing to the vulgar pas-
sions : he was the pride and glory,
the great favorite of the nobles and
clergy. His sphere had been more
select, more exalted, more refined,
where the declamation, passionate
appeals, rounded periods, startling
antitheses of Mirabeau would have
been deemed low and voted down,
Mirabeau was unable to shine in the
Parisian salons frequented by the
choice aristocracy, while Talleyrand
despised making a figure of himself
for the applause of the bourgmsie
of the Third Estate. But what the
Third Estate was wanting in elegance
of manners, in wit and cultivatioui
they supplied in the strength of their
numbers, and in the corresponding
determination to absorb all political
power. It was evident tlie nobles
and the clergy would be compelled
to succumb. At last they gave way,
and not only yielded up whatever

political rights or immunities were
their own, but whatever also was
confided by others to their keeping.
To quote from Sir Henry ;

•* On the 4th of August . . « almost
all the institutions and peculiarities which
constituted the fr^imcwork of government
and socicly throughout France were unhesi-
tatingly swept away, at the instigation and
demand of the first magistrates and nobles
of the land, who did not sutficiently consider
that they who destroy at once all existing
laws (whatever those laws may bc^ destroy,
at the same time, all established habits of
thought ; that w, all customs of obcdiencc»
all spontaneous feelings of respect and
aflfection, without which a form of govern*
ment is merely an idea on paper. In after
times, M. dc Tallcyrandi when speaking of
this period, said, in one of his characteristic
phrases : *La Rhsiluthn a dhoss^ la Fnim-^^
*Tbc Revolution has disboned France'
, , , The Bishop of A utun was undoubt-
edly among the foremost in destroying the
traditions which coi^stitutc a community,
and proclaiming the theories which capti-
vate a mob." (P. 55.)

This extract is a fair specimen of
Ihe false statement of facts, and of
the fallacious reasoning in the diplo-
matic body, on popular events. It
is as destitute of truth as it is of logic,
or a correct understanding of the
principles upon which civil govern-
ment is constituted. In all that wns
done so far, only antiquated, eflfete,
feudal, or petty provincial privileges
were surrendered ; privileges which
properly belonged to the state for
the benefit of the nation whenever
the state might deem it proper to
demand them or to destroy them ;
for, long before, they ought to have
been abolished. The aristocracy
now chose voluntarily to relinquish
them gracefully. They removed
thereby great grievances from die
public, and many intolerable bur-
dens from the peasants. The laws
which were repealed at the same
time were only customs or statutes
which h.id protected the privileges
given up, and became obsolete wlien

nothing was left for them to protect
Instead of dissolving society, the 1
Hnquishment of petty political right!
was the removal of pernicious, de
testable rubbish. All laws were no
abrogated; nor was one destroyed,!
altered, or amended which protect*!
ed the person or preserved propertyvl

The next step of progress in the!
right direction was a vigorous effoiti
to induce the king to be equalljpj
generous and patriotic in relinquish-
ing some of his odious antiquated J
prerogatives. But Louis XVI. wai
unwilling to conform to the public
wishes ; he refused, because compli*i
ance would trench upon the sovereign*!
ty which he had received untouche
from his royal ancestors, and whii
he resolved to transmit untamish
to his posterity. But when the pn
sure for a written constitution began
to threaten his personal safely, he'
yielded with a mental reseTvattoo
that he had given way to superiof
force ; he conscientiously, but erro
neously and fatally, believed bis co
sent was not binding on him or 1
heirs. The representatives of
nation now maintained, that minis
ters having the national confident
should be called into the royal cabi«
net. To this reasonable request, thq
king refused his consent ; but h4
temporized by reluctantly givir
audience to Mirabcau, TallcyrandV
and some others of the liberal party,
leaving them under the mistaken ira*
pression that he would listen to their
advice. But tlie king did not adopi
their counsels ; he did not intend
that any of them should become hia
counsellors.

Louis granted them a hearing in
order to conceal his intentions. It
was only a blind to cover his pup-
pose» which was to resume, at the
first opiK)rtunity, what he had relin*
qui<^hed, and to send Mirabeau and
Talleyrand, wiUi their friends the ja«*-

Talleyrand.

esy adrift. These liberals were
quently deceived ; in truth,
lided in their own deception;
could not imagine the king

prove a traitor to his own
5ts. The king, however, was
)laying over again the losing
practised by Charles I., and

son, James II., of England.
:ake in both countries was the

it was, whether sovereignty

repose in the crown, as in
t times, or in the people, in
ance with modem ideas. The
cannot be divided, as some
;ed ; it can never be divided ;
very nature it is indivisible ;
lid be as impossible as to
one crown on two separate
at the same time. Sir Henry
', as a true Briton, thinks, no

the Stuart sovereigns were
td knaves, because they de-
the House of Commons, and
K)lemn promises made to their
;rs ; but he views the Bourbon
IS foolish only in doing the
hings, and pursuing the same
■ policy. Now, in verity, the
code applies alike to both dy-
, in both countries, in both
es. Whatever royal promise
le should be royally and reli-
' fulfilled ; but its violation
ot justify a resort to the block
itehall or to the guillotine at
rrousel. The execution of a
:h for defending his preroga-
y fair means or false promises,
iss a crime against civilization
is a political error. No good
ome of it; no good ever

the duplicity and falsehood of
in its incidents, brought on
it blow against property ; and
le attack on property, all the
and calamities, all the misery,
Yt and long list of woes of the
ition commenced. Then socie-
VOL. VIII. — 7

ty began to disintegrate ; then France
began to disbone; it never ended
until morality, Christianity, civiliza-
tion, were crushed to a jelly. Talley-
rand was the leader in this raid, and
on his head rests the responsibility.
He was the great oracle on financial
topics in the National Assembly ; he
was the member looked up to for the
solution of the financial problem to
save the nation from ruin; he had
accepted the position almost thrust
upon him ; and his reputation was at
stake in surmounting the crisis. With
success he could compel the king to
invite him into the ministry. Mira-
beau admitted this in a letter to a
(riend, and a portfolio in the ministry
was the goal of Talleyrand's ambition.
All eyes were, therefore, turned to
the Bishop of Autun, and the eyes of
the bishop turned to the landed pro-
perty of the church, from whence the
wants of the treasury could be imme-
diately and with facility supplied. He
was willing to propose the double sa-
crilege on religion and on society ; for
it was no less an outrage on civiliza-
tion or civil government than it was
on Christianity, which is the founda-
tion of good government

The coolness with which Sir Henry
Bulwer states this desecration can
only be compared with the absurdity
in Uie line of argument with which
Talleyrand advocated the measure.
If some Bishop Colenso in the House
of Lords should propose the seizure
and confiscation of the wealth of the
Anglican Establishment, the question
would appear in a different aspect to
the British diplomatist. He would
view it with horror. In either case,
however, the measure would be infa-
mous. Governments are instituted
to protect property, not to squander
it; and the only difference between
that which is held by an individual
for himself and that which is held in
trust for the benefit of others, is in

Talleyrand,

the circumstance that whatever is in
trust is, in the public estimation, more
sacred, because it is presented for the
welfare of the poor, the weak, the ig-
norant or infirm of mind, who can-
not provide for themselves; just as
the state extends a more paternal
care over the property of infants,
idiots, or orphans, than over the inter-
ests of men and women of full growth
and sound mind. If a call must be
made in a sudden exigency for funds,
what government, not demented,
would spare the mercantile houses
of tlie rich, to sequestrate and spo-
liate the hospitals for the helpless?

Talle)Tand considered the church
property as public property ; but this
view, plausible at first sight, is found
on reflection to be fallacious. It
was not derived from the nation,
nor from the public, but from indi-
viduals, and from its ovfn accumu-
lations \ it was not designed for the
benefit of the public, but for a spe-
cific class of the people — the needy
— to which class the mass of the
community did not belong, and, fur-
thermore, hoped they never would.
So much for the bishop's premises
and argument. But a stronger ob-
jection remains : it is the broad prin-
ciple of the invasion of private rights,
of common justice ; and when that
principle is once rendered unstable
by common consent, the stability of
all public opinion, of all civil institu-
tions, of all organized government, is
shaken ; the state is liable to be over-
turned. When the National Assem-
bly deemed it proper for the public
good to confiscate the church proper-
ty, the Legislative Assembly followed
the example set to deprive persons of
their Iibert)% and the National Con-
vention next voted away lives by the
hecatomb daily ; under the same
plea, the king himself was decapita-
ted. When the public morality was
once vitiated, who could foretell

where the national criminaliq
terminate, who or how man]
not be its victims?

It has been the same wit!
pean ethics. When the great
rick of Prussia violated the I
tic Sanction, to which Prusi
assented, and seized upon
neighboring nations were not
forget and forgive his audac
to follow his unrighteous 63
The partition of Poland gren
it, from the contempt enlertai
international opinion. Nex
the French Revolution, when
had no faith in the integrity k
governments, nor had goii
much confidence in the
The world went backward
zation, and the long wars of
public, of the consulate, of the (
ensued ; not only the Frem
every foreign soil on the Cof
was drenched in blood* At \\
moral atmosphere became !
that the idea of assassinati*
entertained and talked about i
court at war with Napoleon,
deemed feasible, it was fa von
silent assent j it floated in the

Sir Henry, in echo to dip]
opinion and to the sentiment
belligerent nations, treats thei
in co!d blood of the Bourbor
d*Enghien, by order of Napol
an atrocity. The act certain
atrocious ; but, at the bar of \
who are all the criminals Ihi
be arraigned as accomplices ,
spiring to efface the stain of tui
in assassination from the Ct
code of morals? How many wei
ing at the prospect of doing ui
French emperor that which
unto the duke ? Not one stat«
or legisbtor, or diplomatist, c
er, could in his conscience Ci
first stone. Public opinion H
bauched on the subject ; mo
tegrity was disboned. Napolc^

TaUeyrttttd.

riJ^ed his conduct in the only way
left open to modify the enormity of
the offence — to extenuate the nefa-
\fm& deed. He excused himself as
\ excused his first attacks in war ;
: was to defend himself by becom-
b^ the assailant- He undertook to
ach his enemies the efhcac}^ of re-
gion, and the lesson did teach
Nothing more was ever whis-
ed in secret, or again talked open-
y of taking him off by poison or the

[Talleyrand, although imperial
lime minister at- the time, does
appear to have been consulted,
ijm all that is known, he certainly
not advbe or countenance the
\ ; he did not approve or condemn
irtien it was done. What he commu-
ited officially, he wrote, as secre-
■ of the emperor, that which was
[ lo him to T^xite. But, on the
and, no one is aware that he
'^Qnselled against the murder; in
ill probability, in his laxity of mo-
nds, his sensibilities were not much
Aocked by the event. He was never
bowD to hav^ considered the trans-
aoba an impolitic measure ; the
DD Story that he spoke of it as
than a crime — as a political
cr — ^has no authentic founda-

Soch was the course of affairs grow-
iftgoutof the first invasion of rights
to property at the suggestion of the
\ of Autun, But the immedi-

\ effects upon his fortunes are cu-
He was erroneously associa-
ted in the foreign mind with the
W^ltitionary acts that followed \ and
fbco^ oo the contrar}^, for self pre-
lOTitiony he fled to London to es-
Qpc the stigma of those very acts
i»d Uie malice of the very men who
prrpetratcd thera, he was ordered out
of England as a Jacobin or re^cide
iQil found a refuge in America. But
ia our republic no countenance was
p?eii to him, no cordial greeting ex-

tended. By the Federalists, he was,
contemned as a traitor to his king
an apostate to his religion, an ene-
my to social order. By the anti-Fed-
eralists he was viewed as an aristo-
crat, an tmigrk, an obstacle to social
progress. The ex-bishop, therefore,
in 1794, like the expatriated M, Blot
in 1864, had leisure to turn his at-
tention to the culinary art. Talley-
rand, and the other involuntary emi-
grants, observed upon the vines near
the kitchens a beautiful round red
production growing, which was culti-
vated as a vegetable ornament, whose
botanical name was the lycopersiaim^
but which Americans called the love-
apple. The French gentlemen re-
cognized in it their tomate, and
forthwith taught our great-grand-
mothers how to render it a more
palatable esculent for their tables
than it was a pleasing embellish-
ment to their gardens.

But the Reign of Terror soon ter-
minated ; like the reign of Louis, it
ended also at the guillotine. He
now returned to Paris, His friend
Barras was in the Directory, and Bar-
ras was of the aristocracy, who, how-
ever, "had been forgiven the crime
of being a noble, in consideration of
the virtue of being a regicide." From
that date began the new lease to
Talleyrand of power, prestige^ influ-
ence, and prosperity, which was never
again broken during his long life.
He was willing to ser\'e any adminis-
tration under any form of govern-
ment» providing it was the best un-
der the circumstances, and when he
could be, as he for the first time ex-
pressed it, the right man in the right
place. But never for a day did he
remain when he could not be useful
to France, nor serviceable to the ex-
ecutive by whom he was retained.
He knew how long it was beneficial
to adhere to the Directory, and when
the time had come to drop off. The
first consul was treated in the same

lOO

Talleyrand,

manner, and the emperor, and the
allies, and Louis XVllI,, and Louis
Philippe. None of them could fasci-
nate hira by their condescension or
consideration \ yet he ser\'ed them
all honorably, honestly ; but it was
requisite he should be called and re-
tained on his own terms. When he
was dismissed, it was not before he
already knew it was better for his
own interests to go.

When Alexander of Russia entered
Paris, in 1814, with the allied armies,
the czar took up his imperial resi-
dence at Talleyrand's mansion, and
expected to use the late prime minis-
ter for his own purpose by the high
honor conferred. But Talleyrand was
insensible to such delicate attentions ;
he was fully conscious be was him-
self a prince, and of the proud family
of Perigord, a family that were sove-
reign in provinces of France in the
middle ages, long before the Ro-
manoffs, surrounded by a wild horde
of ha!f-nak<5d Tartars, had ever held
court on horse-back, or crossed the
Ural, or been heard of in Europe.
Talleyrand wa% not made a tool by
the czar, but the czar was moulded
like wax under the manipulations of
Talleyrand; to him Louis XVIIL
was Indebted for his throne ; and af-
terward, at the Congress of Vienna,
when Alexander discovered Talley-
rand could not be induced to be-
tray French interests for the benefit
of Russia, the czar compelled Louis
to dismiss him from office.

Napoleon was estimated in a si mi*
lar manner, but with even less re-
spect, for he had been a plebeian, and
perhaps, if anything, worse ; he was
not a Frenchman, he was a Corsican,
After the battle of Leipsic, Napo-
leon offered the portfolio of foreign
ministry to his former minister, but
on the condition he should lay down
the rank and emoluments of vice-
grand elector. The object of the em-

peror was to make him deg
imperial favor, ButTalleyn
would have accepted the oi
fused the condition, sayingJ"
emperor trusts me, he shoy
grade me ; and if he doe
me, he should not emplo
times are too critical for]
sures.'* No circumlocutioi
sorted to on either side ; it |
dealing ; for the parties
whom they were treating^
compliments were requisit
Thiers remarks that ** twcij
Frenchmen, until they have||
tunity to flatter one another,
turaJ enemies." However 0^
leyrand's wish might hava|
assist the emperor, he wouldfl!
it: his invariable maxim w;
de z^h — never evince ardo
thing.

But while he had no aba
the presence of the great, \
assumption toward equals
ors in mind and in positiod
roughly self reliant, he was
found disconcerted nor c
guard ; in the widest sense h<
man ; he held all others as r
and no less. He had no con
Perhaps Montrond was an exc
for Monlrond was a specia
Henry tells us, of the age, a \
the French rout. He was ^
Talle}Tand s pets, as Talleyra
one of his admirations. Eacl
ill of the other ; for each s
loved the other for his vicea
no one could speak to Tall
with so much intimacy, nor
from him so clear an answe
they trusted one another,
Montrond would never have t(
one else to trust Talleyran
Talleyrand have told any one
trust M. de Montrond. J

Here we must, with relucql
down Sir Henry's book ; spi
not permit dwelling longer

The Basilica of Si^'^atumim

loi

THE BASILICA OF ST SA^UKNIN-

My journey to the ancient and
religious cit)* of Toulouse was made
in a season of sorrow. I was in the
fearful grasp of giant Despair^ whose
whips were as scoq>ions urging me
oa, Eveiy step in this sorrowful
wy was a torture, because it widen-
ed the distance between me and a
past which could never return, I
(dt like those poor souls in Dante's
kfimo^ whose heads were placed
batkward^ so their tears fell on their
shoulders^ So my heart was looking
ever back — back, with sorrowful
^fts, as if the future held no conso-
UHon In store. O sou! of little faith !
encompassed by thy black cloud,
absorbed in thy griefs, thou seest
not the brightness beyond the dark-
oess that enfolds thee ! Journeying
«i witli weary steps, I found in my
tjf a cross. I was already laden
*itll me — seemingly overwhelming
'-^llich the past had bequeathed to
mr, and I was about to turn aside
ibrn ilus matt rial cross I had stum-
Wed upon, when I called to mind a
^fravcller of the olden time who found,
! me, a cross in his pathway. Not
ficd with kneeling before it, he
IVfe^t it up and pressed it to his
art What should he find but a
tious treasure concealed beneath 1
S^b a treasure I found beneath the
Latin cross known as St Sa-
i OT St Semin^s church at Tou-
-a treasure I took to my heart,
\ it continues to enrich, and hal-
and beautify, I turned aside
my weary path to find consola-
' and rest in this great cruciform
nple, and not in vain. O little
' of peace in an ocean of sorrow 1
iWectly did the hours pass in
rcijc atmosphere I The Vatie
k pad came to my soul like the

sun after a great iempest, restoring
brightness and fresfin^ss to n?y world,
A thousand tender and holy emotions
floating around, like tlie Birds^ift', the
arches of Notre Dame dc'-J^ris,
came nestling to my heart Afsiich .
moments

" The eyes forget the tears they have »hed,
llie heart fotgeta its sorrtm and ache,*'

But it is not ray intention to indulge
here in any display of personal emo-
tion. I only wish, in gratitude for
many holy memories, to note down
a few of the impressions I received
in a sacred place, and mention in a
simple way some of the objects that
interested me particularly, but not
as a connoisseur of Christian art.

I am sure no one has ever lived
in Catholic countries witliout feeling
thankful that there is one door ever
open to the passer-by, with its mute
appeal to sinful, sorrowing humanity
to enter and lay down its burden. It
is the door of God's house, which re-
jects no one — always open, remind*
ing us that the All-Father is ever
ready to receive us. Who can resist
the appeal ? How many a poor pea-
sant have I seen, with care on the
brow, turn aside for a moment into
a church, lay down the basket of
provisions or utensils for a brief
prayer, and then go on his way re-
freshed I These ever-open churdies
are like fountains by the wayside,
where the heated and foot-worn tra-
veller may find rest and a cooling
draught, without money and without
price. Ah I who would close thy
gates, O house of prayer ? As the
poet says : ** Is there, O my God 1 an
hour in all life when the heart can
be weary of prayer? when man, whom
thou dost deign to hear in thy tem-
ple, can have no incense to offer be-

102

The Basiiica of St Satumin,

fore thy altar, no tear to.cuMde to
theer /A'.'

Even the undevqal -Vannot pass
one of the grand otd churches of the
middle ages ,ivi*b''J"'difference ; es-
pecially pne lilcjB the basilica of St.
Sernin, whh so many historic and
religkldls tHemones connected with
it^- •aujl' which seems to appeal to
•.^vc^y instinct of our nature. Entcr-
'ing this great church by the western
• portal, I could not forget that through
it had passed three Roman pontifTs
and many a king of France. Pope
Urban II., returning from the Coun-
cil of Clermont, where the first cru-
sade had been decided upon, came,
in the year of our Lord 1096, to
consecrate this church, built on the
ruins of two others* Some days af-
ter came Count Raymond de St
Gilles, the hero of the Holy Wars, to
pray before the tomb of St. Satumin,
followed by princely vassals, before
reviewing the one hundred thousand
. soldiers at the head of whom he
I opened a passage to the Holy Sepul-
. chre. His two noble sons, Bertrand
and Alphonse Jourdain, likewise
passed through the same door, pre-
ceded by their family banner, before
going, like their glorious father, to
die in the Holy Land. Simon de
Montfort, of Albigensian memor)% be-
fore being invested with the comil
of Toulouse, came here to kneel be-
fore the tombs of the apostles and
martyrs. Among the kings of France,
Philippe le-Hardi came here four
times. Charles VI., Louis XL, Louis
XIIL, and Louis le Grand also ren-
dered homage to the saints herein
enshrined. Above all, Saint Ber-
nard, St, Dominick, and many other
renowned saints trod these pave-
ments and prayed under tliese
aix^hes) • , .

Some may think lightly of these
associations, and say,

*^ A iihi9*i • in*ii for «* that i^

but there are no greater hero-wor-
shippers than the Americans ; none ,
love a title more than a stanch re- !
publican ; and I, a Hebrew of the
Hebrews I frankly own to tliis little i
weakness. I love the grand old
names and titles. I look with curr
osity and respect on the footprints
of kings and crusaders, and even of
knights of low degree, and I tread
with reverence the stones the blessed |
saints have trod. . . .

St. Sernin's church, built in imi- 1
tation of St. Paul's at Rome, is of
the Latin style, cruciform in shape, '
terminating, in pious memory of the
live sacred wounds of our Saviour,
with five chapels toward the holy]
East ; for the orientation is carefully
fixed, as in all ancient churches*
There are five naves in this churchi j
separated by four rows of majestic
pillars. It is rare to find these col-
lateral naves.

On entering this church, one is
profoundly impressed by the majes-
tic arches and the length of the
grand nave with the double row of
arcades on each side. A mysteri*
ous light, coming one hardly knows
whence, is dii!used through the mul-
tiplied arches, disposing the soul to
calmness and meditation. The loog
naves all seem, through the converg-
ing rows of columns, to point to that
altar in the distance where is seen
the twinkling light that ever bums
before the tabernacle, drawing one
on like a powerful magnet. The
Christian heart feels the influence of
a Presence diffused, like the light
before it, throughout the vast en-
closure.

Thoreau, who only worshipped na-
ture, impressed by the religious atm* ^-
sphere of a great Catholic cathedi il,
said such a vast cave at hand in the
midst oi a city, with its still atmo-
sphere and sombre light disposing to
serious, profitable thought, is worth

TA€ Basilica of St. Satumin.

103

dsof our (Protestant)churches
ire open only on Sundays,
k," says he, " of its value,
y to religion, but to philoso-
I poetry : besides a reading*
> have a thinking room in
ity!" And who can tell the
e, not only on the mind and
Dut on the taste, of such a
with its paintings, statuary,
iblems, and antique shrines
lave for ages been the glory
city, and intimately connect-
its past history ?
nost striking object, on enter-
principal nave, is the tomb
:rnin, raised in the air on the
heads of four gilded bulls,
is a baldaquin on which is
ited the apotheosis of the
The whole is richly gilded,
en lighted up, has a brilliant

SA SANCTI SATURNINI,

gilded letters, is inscribed on
ophagus. At first the tau-
izzled me. I thought of the
Bashan — of the cattle upon a
1 hills — and of the sacrifices
>ld law, but I could not see
Qnection with St Satumin.
recalling his martyrdom I
le solution of my perplexity,
ernin, the apostle and first
of Toulouse, was sent by
:. Fabian, in the third cen-
carry the light of faith into
His success in the conversion
people to Christianity so in-

the priests of Jupiter and
, who were specially wor-

in the capital of Toulouse,
y one day seized him, and,
refusing to sacrifice to the
:ached him to the feet of an
d wild bull, who leaped down

dashing out the brains of
„ Two holy women gathered

his remains, but the place

of their burial was known only to a
few till after the triumph of the
Christian religion in the empire of
Rome. An oratory was erected over
his tomb in the fourth century, and
later a church rose which was com-
pleted by the great St. Exuperius,
the« seventh successor of St Semin
in the see of Toulouse — that saint so
renowned for his charities and learn-
ing, and whose remains are en-
shrined in this church. He was the
friend of St Jerome, ,who corres-
ponded with him, and dedicated to
him his commentary on the prophe-
cies of Zachary. St Exuperius even
sold the sacred vessels of the altar to
feed his flock during a great famine,
so the Body of Christ had to be car-
ried in an osier basket, and a chalice
of glass was used in the service of
the altar — ^a chalice carefully preser-
ved by a grateful people till the Re-
volution of 1793.

One loves to recall, among the
many sainted bishops of Toulouse,
that "flower of royal blood," Louis
of Anjou, grand-nephew of St Louis,
King of France, and nephew of the
dear St Elizabeth of Hungary. At
the age of twenty-one he was offered
a kingdom, which he refused in favor
of his brother, wishing to consecrate
himself to God among the Francis-
cans. " Jesus Christ is my kingdom,"
said he. " Possessing him, I have all
things : without him, I have nothing."
He was ordained priest at the age
of twenty-two, and obliged by holy
obedience to accept the see of Tou-
louse. Before receiving episcopal
consecration he made a pilgrimage
to Rome and took the habit of St
Francis. The Toulousains received
him with magnificence as a prince,,
and revered him as a saint Like
St Exuperius, he was devoted to the
poor, to whom he gave the greater
part of his revenues. Every day he
fed twenty-five poor men at his table.

104

The Basilica of St Satumin,

and served them himself, sometimes
on his knees. Terrified by the obli-
gations of his office, he begged to be
released from them, and God granted
what men denied. During his last
sickness, he exclaimed: **I have at
last arrived in sight of the desired
haven. I am going to enjoy Hhe
presence of my God, of which the
world would deprive me,*' He died
wnth the A7'C Maria on his lips, at
the age of twenty-three and a half
years.

What renders the basilica of St.
Sernin one of the most remarkable
and one of the holiest spots in the
world, after Jerusalem and Rome, is
the number of the saints herein en-
shrined. The counts of Toulouse
brought back from the Holy Land
many relics which they obtained in
the East. Thus a great part of the
body of St. George was brought from
Palestine by William Taillefer, eighth
Count of Toulouse. Kings of France
also endowed this church with relics.
Those of St. Edmund, King of Eng-
land, were brought to France by
Louis VHL The crj^pts in which
most of these relics are contained are
intended to recall the catacombs of
Rome. In the eleventh century they
were not in shrines or reliquaries, but
reposed in marble tombs, and the
faithful went to pray before them, as
in the crj^ts of St. Calixtus on the
Appiau Way. Over the door leading
into the upper crjpts is the inscrip-
tion, ** Hie sunt vigiics qui cnsiodiunt
civitat€m^^ and over the door of the
pilgrims, ^^ Non €st in foto sancttor

\*erb€ locusP This door leads to the
inferior cr}'pts, which you descend by
a flight of steps. The numerous
pilgrims of the middle ages paused

•on each step to repeat a pray en Thus
they passed on into the numerous
passages of the crypts, recalling the
catacombs. As you go down into
ihcm, you pause amid your prayers to

anfl

read an inscription, in red
a white marble tablet :

"Under the auspices, ar
pious munificence of the era]
Charlemagne, Louis le D«£bon
and Charles le Chauve, the w<
ful basilica of Saturnin has re<
the precious remains of sev^eral
ties and of a great number ol
t}Ts, virgins, and confessors (
faith. The dukes of Aquitain
counts of Toulouse, have inci
this treasure. The magistrat
tliis capital have faithfully guan

"Here Religion preserves f
eternal edification of the faitl
portion of the cross of our L<
thorn from his crown, (the g
Count Alphonse, brother of St. I
a fragment from the rock of the
Sepulchre, (glorious conquest <
Toulousain crusaders,) and a
of a garment of the Mother of

" Under these vaults, O piou
veller [ are venerated the relics
Peter, St. Paul, St. James the i
St* James the minor, St Phili
Simon, St. Jude, St. Bamaby, St
tholomew, apostles.

** St. Claudius, St. Crescentii
Nicostratus, St. Simplicius, St.
tor, St. Christopher, St. Juliai
Cyr, St. Asciscle, St C>Til, St
sius, St George.

" The first bishops of Toul
the series of whom date fron
third century: Saint Saturnir
Honorius, St Hilaire, St Sy
St. Exuperius, repose in this ck

" Not far from their venerate
mains are those of St. Honestu
Papoul, St William, Duke of
taine, St Edmund, Kingof Eng
St. Gilles, St Gilbert, St Th
of Aquin, St Vincent of Pau
Raymond, Pope St. Pius V., S
sanna, St Julietta, St Margare
Catharine, St Lucia, and o
Agatha.*'

Grow not weary, kind re

The Basilica of St Satumin.

los

over this long list of names,
for each one has its history, which
is interwoven with that of Holy
Church. Let us rather linger with
love and faith over each name,
whether humble or mighty on earth —
now potent in heaven ! Let us
marmur them in reverence, for some
of them are inscribed on the founda-
tions of the New Jerusalem — and all
gleam like precious stones on its
walls — ^all these did wear on earth
"the jewelled state of suffering," but
they are now triumphant in heaven,
and their memory has long been
glorious on earth.

One feels deeply awed in descend-
ing among these shrines containing
the bodies of the saints — temples of
tkcHofy Ghost, Virtue hath not yet
gone out from them, as is testified by
the wonders still wrought at their

Many of the present shrines are
antique, some costly, and all inter-
esting, but they have lost their an-
cient splendor. Their magnificence
before the Revolution may be ima-
gined from existing descriptions.
These tell us of, among others, the
silver shrine of St Edmund, an ex-
^to from the city of Toulouse, in
1684, in gratitude for deliverance
from the plague, adorned with statues
^ solid silver. When the saint was
^sferred to this chAsse^ it was ex-
posed to the veneration of the people
for eight days, and all the parishes
of the environs came to honor them.
Some days there were fifty proces-
sions, which gives an idea of the
lively faith and piety of that age.
The octave was terminated by a gen-
eral procession in the city, in which
were borne forty-four shrines, the
most of them silver, and adorned
with gold and precious stones.

And when, in 1385, the relics of St.
James the major were transferred to
a oew shrine, the Due de Berry,

brother of Charles VI., gave for it a
silver bust of the saint, a gold chain
to which was attached a sapphire of
great value, surrounded by rubies
and pearls, with other jewels which
adorned the bust till the time of the
Revolution.

Like Madame de Stael, " I love
this prodigality of terrestrial gifts to
another world— offerings from time
to eternity ! Sufficient for the mor-
row are the cares required by human
economy. Oh 1 how much I love
what would be useless waste, were
life nothing better than a career of
toil for despicable gain 1"

Though these shrines are stripped
of most of their former splendor, the
inestimable relics remain still vene-
rated by the people. They no long-
er go there in the old garb of the
pilgrim, with "sandal shoon and
scallop-shell," or only occasionally,
but their faith is as profound, and
their piety as genuine. I was so
fortunate as to meet a pilgrim in the
orthodox garb as I was going into
the church. He entered just before
me. He was clad in a loose brown
habit which extended to his feet.
Over his shoulders was a cape,
around which were fastened scallop-
shells, as we see in pictures of pil-
grims. His feet were sandalled.

*' His sandals were with travel tore :
Stafi^ budget, bottle, scrip he wore."

In truth, he had a bundle sus-
pended by a stick on his shoulder.
His hair was disordered, his eyes
cast down, and he went from shrine
to shrine paying his devotions, re-
gardless of every one. From the
way in which he made the sign of
the cross I took him to be a Spani-
ard. I felt an indescribable emotion
of pity for him whose contrition had
induced to assume a penitential garb,
and go from church to church living
on alms, and I prayed that his soul

io6

The Basilica of St Saturftitu

might find peace — ^that peace which
the world cannot give I

One of the first subterranean cha-
pels I entered was that of the Sainte-
Epine, in which is a beautiilil silver
reliquary, containing one of the thorns
from the crow^n our suffering Saviour
wore. It was given by St. Louis to
his brother Alphonse, who married
Jeanne, daughter of Raymond VI L,
last Count of Toulouse. On the
pavement of tlie chapel is graven
this ancient dbtich» Hkening the
Sain te- Epine, surrounded by the bo-
dies of diirteen saints, to a tiiorti
among roses ;

*' Quikqtiis et exlerntw quxrent miracula tiicto^
£n tradedm pukhrii lusita tpinai rwltv"

After the Revolution a holy priest
of Toulouse established, in honor of
this precious relic, the Confraternity
of the Holy Thorn, composed of the
most fervent Catholics of the city.
Afllictcd by the prolonged captivity
of Pope Pius VI I. , they begged of
God his deliverance — not only at
their own shrines, but at that of St
Germaine of Pibrac. Their prayers
were heard. On the 2d of Febni-
ary, 1814, the holy father slowly
and sadly passed the walls of Tou-
louse on his way to Italy, locked up
in his carriage! The highway was
completely obstructed by the crowds
of people, who, all bathed in tears,
w^ent out to meet him, and on their
knees besought his benediction.
Among them were the votaries of
the Saiute-Epine, raising their hands
to heaven in behalf of the holy cap-
tive.

The pope earnestly desired to en-
ter the city that he might venerate
the body of the angelic doctor, in
the church of St Sernin, but it was
not deemed expedient to entrust
such a guest to the faidiful Toulou-
sains. Halting beyond the ramparts,
merely to change their horses and

obtain refreshments, tJiey hurried oq
as if afraid of losing their prisoner.

In another chapel of the cr)^pts is
the altar of St Simon and St Jud^
containing their relics. It was coot
secrated by Pope Calixtus IL OI4
legends tell us that these apostlef
were two of the shepherds of Bethle-
hem, who first heard the Ghria flf
Excdsis, One loves to believe that
they who were encircled by the bright-
ness of God, to whom angels raUcedf
and who were first at the manger,
should afterward be called to follow
our Saviour and preach the glad tid-
ings, which they had heard from an*
gelic tongues, to the nations afar off
They could not have lost sight of
him who was so miraculously revetl*
ed to them. They must have hasten*
ed to join him as soon as he entered
upon his public life.

In a niche, close by the chapel of
St Simon and St. Judc, is the entire
body of St. Gilles, to whom tlie old
counts of Toulouse had a particular
devotion, especially Raymond IV.,
who is invariably styled in history
Raymond de St Gillcs. This saint
was very popular, not only in France,
but in England and Scotland. A ^
large hospital for lepers was built by ■
the queen of Henry I. outside the "
city of London, which has given its
name to a large district of that city ;
and St Giles is the patron saint of
Edinburgh, where a church was
built under his invocation not later
then 1359. This renders his shrine
a place of interest to all who speak
the English tongue. St. Semin pos-
sesses, too, the body of one of Eng-
land's sainted kings and that of her
patron saint

St Gilles, or St Giles, was an
Athenian of royal blood, who, fear-
ing the admiration excited by his
talents, went to France,^nd became
a hermit in a cave near the mouth of
the Rhone. He subsisted on the

The Basilica of Si, Satuminn

107

iuce of the woods and the milk
of a tame hind. After his death a
^magnificent monaster>% and then a
^■it)% rose round his tomb, and gave
^Bb name to the counts of Langue-
Hoc.

^^ Id a large portable Msse is the
head of the gloriotas St Thomas
AquioaSt the author of the profound
Sitmma JTttahgux and the sublime
Office of the Blessed Sacrament,
orthy of the tongues of angels.
Kis great doctor of the middle ages
; not dead. His voice is still heard
I the office of the church, ** now with
single antiphon unlocking whole
bysscs of Scripture, and now in al-
st supernatural melody, more like
echoes of heaven than mere po-
of earth/' says Faber, One
listen to this grand office re-
[ig in the arches of the church
re its author is enshrined, when
ousands of tapers, around the en-
d ostensorium, light up the
It shrine of St Semin I It is
tasle of the song of the re-
nedl
When the body of St Thomas of
^quin, brought from Italy, approach-
jse, Louis of Anjou, brother
. s V, of France, with arch-
^tishops and mitred abbots, at the
of one hundred and fifty thou-
nd people, went out to meet it
like Louis and the principal lords
his court bore over it a canopy
i \ h gold and precious stones.
it tioated six standards: on
were the arms of France, the
d of Anjou, the others of the
Dpc, the house of Aquin, and the
of Toulouse. They enshrined it
kagnincenlly in the church of the
:»minicans, but it has been at St
in since the Revolution, When
laced in its present <h&5se in 1S52,
lie venerable P^re Lacordaire made
panegyric of the saint, attracting
immense audience. The arms of

the illustrious house of Aquin are
emblazoned on his altar.

In passing out of the crypts on
the side opposite that which I enter-
ed is the following inscription :

"After having reunited in Cler-
mont, in the year of salvation X096, the
faithful destined to deliver the Holy
Sepulchre, Pope Urban IL wished
himself to consecrate this basilica,
one of the most precious monuments
of Christian art. The sovereign pon-
tiff had near him Raymond IV.,
Count of Toulouse and of St Gilies,
that glorious prince who first dis-
played on his banners and on his ar-
mor the Holy Cross of the Saviour.

*• Popes Clement VII., Paul V.,
Urban V., and'Pius IV. have grant-
ed numerous privileges to this abba-
tial church. Those who visit its seven
principal altars obtain indulgences
like those acquired before the seven
altars of St* Peter's church at Rome.

" Charles VI., Louis XL, Francis
L, Charles IX., Louis XIIL, and Lou-
is XIV., kings of France, have, in
praying, passed tlirough these holy
catacombs. It is here that in all
public calamities a pious population
has constantly resorted to implore
the powerful intercession of the holy
protectors of this antique and reli-
gious city."

There is hung on the walls of the
crj^pts a curious bas-relief of the
youthful Saviour, which is supposed
to date from the Carlovingian age.
He is in an aureola, ovoidal in form,
pointed at its two extremities. With-
out in the angles, are the emblems
of the four evangelists. Around the
head of our Saviour is a nimbus in
the form of a cross, on which are
graven the letters Alpha and Omega.
This bas-relief was evidently the
centre of an extensive work. The
youthful ness of the features of Christ
gives a presumption in favor of its an-
tiquity. He is often found on many

io8

The Basilim af St Saturnitu

Christian sarcophagi, and in many
of the paintings of the catacombs at
Rome, witli a youthful face, M. Di-
dron says that, from the third to the
tt.*nth century, Christ is oftener repre-
sented young and beardless, but his
face, young at first, grows older froni
century to centur)', as Christianity
advances in age. The ancient Chris-
tian monuments at Rome, Aries* and
elsewhere represent Christ with a
young and pleasing face*

Many non-Cal holies do not like
these representations of our Saviour
at all. The old Puritans were so
opposed even to a cross that, in
1634, they cut out the holy emblem
from St George's flag ; but there is
now a great reaction in this respect
We pray it may grow still stronger.
We find many of these representa-
lions of our Saviour, which must date
from the beginning of Christianity.
The Emperor Alexander Severus,
who ascended the throne a,d, 222,
had placed in his Lamrium a statue
of Christ, but we are not told how he
is depicted. The Sudario of Ve-
ronica, the portrait attributed to St
Luke, the statue raised in the city of
Paneas by the grateful H^mt^rroiste^
whether genuine or not, belong to the

Pearliest ages, and prove, says M.

|l>idron, that the Son of God was re-

^presented by painters and sculptors

from the dawn of Christianity,

The chapels in the upper cr\*pts

\ v^ery interesting, with their statues

1 bas-reliefs covering the panelled

liches which contain the holy relics.

ere is, in one of the chapels, a cru-

cife which Sl Dominick used when

ilie preached, and which he is said to
»ve held up to animate the army of
»n dc >Ionlfort, at the great bat-
8c of Murei, when the Albigcnses
were decisively overthrown. Lacor-
d:ure sa>*s St Dominick was not pre-
sent at tbc battle, bttt retnain^^d in %
el hard \ff^ 10 f»ny» like Itoses^

with uplifted arms. One took!
the crucifix with interest It
wood, blackened by time,
a yard in length. The fo
Christ are fastened one
other, in the Italian stymie.

One of the chapels bears the
ling title of the Seven Sleepers,
would seem to savor, of ma|
oriental legend. They were
Christians martyred at Ephes
the reign of Trajan, where, i
language of Scripture, thty ikpi
Lord, Their bodies having
found in the year 479, it was s;
mystic style, that they had awa]
again, after a sleep of more th«
hundred years. Honoring thei
lectively, it became a custom t
them the Seven Sleepers, an
Mohammedans have preserve
tradition as w^ell as Christians
chapel dedicated to them b \
found ,' but Mrs. Jameson says
perpetually occur in the roinb
sculpture, and stained glass o
thirteenth and fourteenth cent
They are found in the diapel a
ward the Confessor at WestinJi
Their statues, lying side by si<
a bed of stone, were formerly in
chapel at St Semin, but only ti
them now remain.

In the treasury of the abb<
St Satumin were formerly \
curious and valuable objects,
of these, now in the museum at
louse, is the horn of Orlando, w
indeed, is ornamented with fi;
in the st> le of the age of CI
magne. i>uring the last da\-s of
Week, when the bells were hw
during the awfiil days conxuDeni
tng our Saviour s passioo mnd d
the prolof^ed notes of this bom
ed the ^thful to pmyer. A sii
one was used in the cfatirch o
Orens at Auch, whidl b stltl ou
ly pceservied. One lores wba
lecails Qrtmdcs llie xg^ of C

The Basilica of St Satumin.

109

dan chivalry. Many a tradition of
him lingers in this country. Ronces-
valles claims to possess his armor,
and Blaye his terrible sword and his
tomb. In the country of the Escu-
aldume is the Pas (U Rolandy a gi-
gantic footprint on a large rock. At
the other extremity of the Pyrenees,
in Roussillon, the long table of a
Celtic dolmen Is called by the people
U Paid de Roland; and large depres-
sions in the form of a semi-circle, in
this part of France, mark the passage
of Orlando's steed — ^that steed over
which, when dead, his master wept,
begging his forgiveness if he had ever
been ill-treated. The poet tells us
the horse opened his eyes kindly on
his master, and never stirred more.

One would like to think this the
veritable horn of Orlando — which
was so powerful, when sounded for
the last time, that the very birds of
the air fell dead, the Saracens fell
back in terror, and Charlemagne and
his court heard its notes afar off!
There is far more enjoyment in accept-
ing all these local traditions than in
disputing their truth. Let us reserve
our incredulity for so-called history.
From the tower of St. Semin there
is a magnificent view of the Pyre-
nees from sea to sea, and of a large
extent of country full of historic and
religious associations. Directly be-
neath is the old city of Toulouse, re-
calling Clemence Isaure and the gold-
en violets, and the troubadours of an
older time. St Artthony of Padua
frequented its famous schools. St
Dominick here founded the order of
Preaching Friars, which has given so
many doctors and missionaries to the
church. St Vincent Ferrier preach-

ed yonder in St George's Square.
In that same Place afterward preach-
ed Friar Thomas de Illirico against
the excesses of the Carnival, and
against all games of chance, with
such effect that all the cards found in
the shops were publicly burned and
the trade of card-maker abolished.
One day, after the preaching of this
servant of God, the capitouls had
placed on the five principal gates of
the city a marble tablet which bore
en relief the holy name of Jesus sup-
ported by angels — that name so pow-
erful for defence that it makes the
very demons tremble !

Another famous preacher of that
time induced the capitouls to ap-
point four watchmen to patrol the
city at night, from one till five, and
chanting loudly :

•• R^reillex-rous, gens qui donnez,
Priez Dieu pour les tr^passez.*'

Before leaving St Semin, we stop
to murmur a Requiescantin pace at the
tombs of the counts of Toulouse, the
first sovereigns who styled them-
selves " By the grace of God," and
whose history is so glorious and yet
so sad and tragical.

And as no Catholic Christian
quits a church without leaving a tri-
bute of love before the altar of the
Madonna, so, before reluctantly leav-
ing this antique basilica, perfumed
with a thousand memories, I drop
my bead at the feet of Mary, remem-
bering that in this country were first
strung together the bright jewels of
the rosary, which have ever since
adorned the garments of Christ's
spouse — the Church.

Ave Maria!

The Little Sisters of the Pc&r.

THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR.

The thoughtful soul, whether with-
in or without the Catholic Church,
cannot fail to be impressed with the
extent of her chanties. The father-
less» the widow, the aged, the poor,
as St, Laurence the martyr declared
when ordered by the prefect of Rome
to deliver to him the wealth of the
church — ^these are her riches. But
one must be within the fold to appre-
ciate the universality of her bounty ;
to see that every need of suffenng
humanity, as it rises, finds pious
souls whose vocation it is to look
after that very need, to provide for
that very want; and the smallness
of the beginning of each world-wide
charity makes the humble-hearted
leap wtih joy that, even in the nar-
rowest sphere, every one may be
privileged to help our dear Lord in
the person of his poor.

When St Francis of Assisi gave
his rule of strict poverty to the ten
united with him in hungering to work
for Christ, it needed more than his
great faith to believe that, in forty-
two years after his death, two hun-
dred thousand zealous souls would
be banded together, under his name,
for prayer and alms-deeds ; while,
through all coming ages of the
church, his followers should stea-
dily increase, steadfast in the work
for which they had joined hands.

When, in 1537, Angela Merici, of
Brescia, a lady of birth and fortune,
I sorrowing over the death of a well-
beloved sister, soothed her grief by
devoting herself to the education of
poor female children, at a time when
four doctors of the law declared the
instruction of women the work of the
devil, she did not realize that from

hJ
htl

'mtA
and

stn

g V

the grave of her own soi
spring the far-famed order
lines, (a beautiful resurrect!*
collected and taught the p(
phans of massacred paren ~
French revolutions, and
their infant and ragged sch<
before England had thought

When, in 1633, St. Vinci
Paul, seeing the misery and
tution of the poor in the stn
Paris, placed four young
who volunteered to aid hi
lieving present distress, ii
of a noble lady who had
ral years devoted herself J
work under his direction, hel
ly expected to see in tweni
two hundred houses and hoi
the order of Charity, spreadii
where their sheltering arm!
suffering poor.

Franciscans, Ursulines,
Charity, we have in our midst,
ing, by their lives of selfab:
in this hard, worldly age and
that the evangelical counsi
sake all for Christ's sake, is
solete.

But another branch of _
tree of charity that, like the bs
plants itself and rises with m
and vigor wherever it takes r<
about to spread its benign
over our land.

The Little Sisters of the Pi
coming among us, and it is wi
should know whence they comi
what is their work. Like the
orders in the church, Lis Pet ties ,
des Pauvres had a very smaU
ning.

In St Servan, a small to'
north coast of France, washi

Tkt Little Sisters of the Poor,

WHters of the English Channel, the

male peasantry have, from time im-
memoriali obtained a scanty living
hi themselves and families by fol-
lowing the sea- This life of exposure
aad dinger leaves always, wherever
ft ij followed, many children father-
less and wives widows, and often de-
prives aged parents of their only sup-
port. It was the custom for these
poor bereaved widows and parents
of deceased fishermen to gather
about the church-doors, asking alms
of the congregation as they passed
wt ; many abuses arose out of this
way nf distributing charity ; the bold-
est fired the best, and the money
thas obtained was often wasted in
t!rink or self-indulgence, without pro-
viding for any real w^ant. The good
Cod touched the heart of the pious
Cttr^ of Servan by the sight of these
poor persons, oflen blind, aged, and
inilmj, with none to care for them.
!n die quiet of his own humble home,
Wbi le Pailleur thought over the
condition of these miserable beings,
commending them to his divine Mas-
ter, iod asking the guidance of him
'*wbo had not where to lay his head,'*
in his efforts for their relief. The
blK5cd Spirit guided to his direction
rphan-giri from the labor-
., w*ho, for the love of God,
lesDed to do something for those
destitute than herself. The
irf recommended to her care an
H blind woman, utterly without
ds, and who, from the scanty
bestowed at tlie church-door,
Idom able to obtain the small-
est pittance, her blindness prevent*
her access to the charitably in-
led.

Not many weeks passed, before

lothcr poor seamstress confided to

pastor the same desire to work

Christ's poor ; she was permitted

share the labors of the other, both

ng all day, and coming by turns

to watch and tend and to

prm^ide for the old blind woman,
vnXh what they could spare from their
o^Ti small earnings. At length, that
there might be no loss of time and
labor, Marie Augustine and Marie
Theresa hired an attic where they
dwelt together, and took their aged
pensioner to share their home.

Here tJieir devotion and self-denial
attracted the attention of a servant,
Jenny Jugan,* who, by industry and
frugality in early life, had accumulat-
ed about six hundred franc-S. She
asked to go with them, and to share
with them, giving her all to the good
work, taking her part of the toils
and privations, and bringing with
her one or two aged poor. Thus, on
the feast of St. Theresa, 1840, the
house of " The Little Sisters of the
Poor " may be said to have been es-
tablished,

Abbif le Pailleur had early given
them a rule of life, one article of
which they pondered with special
care : **We will delight above all things
in showing tenderness toward those
aged poor who are infirm or sick ;
we will never refuse to assist them
Yihtn occasion presents itself, but we
must take great care not to meddle
in what docs not concern us/' They
still went about their daily labors,
and though their earnings never ex-
ceeded one franc per day, at night
they shared it with those whom God
had confided to their care. The
cm6 helped them 10 the extent of his
resources, which were very limited.
Prayer and faith were the means
whereby they made so little serve for
so many. The good Lord who heareth
the cr)^ of the ravens listened to the
pleadingofthe Little Sisters, and sent
them a faithful friend and benefac-
tress in one Fanchion Aubcrt, who
took no vows, but gave all her sub-

• Jenny Jti^an was about forty. She ww living ia
the attk mcntsoaed, and nodvcd io that |»)«oe tli«
poor bUnd who had been under th« cue of Mtfw
AugUittuic lod Mam Tberta*.

113

The Little Sisters of the Poor,

stance to their work, wishing to live
and die among them. She possessed
a Htlle property, a small stock of the
plainest furniture, and a quantity of
linen ; with these she came, sharing
ever)'thing with them and their poor.
By her thrift she had gained credit in
St. Scr\'an, and through her the sis-
ters were able to leave the attic, and
rent a long, low dwelling with space
for twelve beds, which were immedi-
ately filled. And now came the time
when, with the small band of sisters
and the multiplication of pensioners,
the age and infirmities of their poor
required all their attention ; they
could no longer go out to earn any-
thing ; and though those of the old
j women who were able did sometimes
'assist the funds of the establishment
^y begging, their faithful guardians
desired to save them from the temp-
tations and degradation to which
such a life too often led them.

Help came now and then, but not
enough \o supply all the needy ones,
and the sisters often went hungry.
They sought counsel of the father of
the house, Abb«f le Paillcur. After
prayer and meditation, he proposed
to the sisters that for the love of God
they themselves should become beg-
gars. Most cheerfully they went
forth with baskets on tlieirarms, ask-
ing charity, ** the crumbs that fell
from the rich man*s table/' From
that day they have provided in this
»Way for their destitute ones ; nothing
rComes amiss, the refuse of the table
or the wardrobe is accepted thank-
fully. These mendicant sisters have
never been without their share of
contumely and reproach. Members
Df older orders in the beginning turn-
ed the cold shoulder upon them, and
they were spurned from the presence
of one religi^Hse with the reproach,
** Don*t speak to me, I am ashamed
of your basket 1" but they only re-
iiewe<l their entire consecration to
and went on begging. At

length their basement was crowded]
to suffocation ; the abb^ sold bis
gold watch, and with the remains of
Fanchion's property^ and all thdrj
savings, they made Uie first payments j
for a large house ; before the end of
the year, tlie twenty-two thousand
francs (the price of the house) i
all paid. Here they took that nam^
so redolent of sweetness and humiUj
ty, "Little Sisters of the Poor," and
here they accepted fully what befon
had been necessarily imperfect, their J
rule of life, taking, in addition to the
usual vows of poverty, chastity, and
obedience, the vow of hospitalityJ
At the end of two years, fifty agedj
people were fed and clothed by ihcJ
begging sisters, and comforted andi
cared for with all the assiduit}^of the
most tender love. Their rule was to
divide all the broken victuals among.
the poor, and feed themselv^es upon !
what remained, never murmunng if 1
they went without One winter's]
night, when the old people, fed and
cared for, had gone to their rest, the
sisters had for their suppers onlyfl
about a quarter of a pound of bread. ^
They sat doviTi cheerfully at the ta-
ble, said their Benedicite, and passed
the bread from one to the otlier,each
declining any right to it, and all pre-
tending to be well able to do without
it. Before it had been decided how
the loaf should be divided, the bell
rang ; some one had sent them a sup-
ply of meat and bread. ** Trust in the
Lord and do good, and verily Uiou
shalt be fed,'' was the motto of their
holy lives. It will not surprise us to
learn that, in return for their self-
sacrifice, Almighty God gave them
many souls from among the aban-
doned and often dissolute people^
who» but for the peaceful refuge of
their home, would have been lost in
the whirlpool of ignorance and vice
To bring back these poor creatures
to their forgotten Father was the de-
light of the zealous sisters, and ihcy

The Little Sisters of the Poor.

113

fell themselves well rewarded when
they saw these darkened minds open-
ing to the truth, and returning to sit
at the feet of Jesus with loving peni-
tence.

But the house was filled to over-
flowing, and they resolved to build.
They well knew in whose hands are
the gold and silver, and into his
erer-Iistening ear they poured their
new want

The reply did not linger, for they
wrked as well as prayed. At the
s^t of the zeal witfi which they be-
gan to clear the stones from a piece
of ground, which they already owned,
and to dig the foundations, workmen
came, materials were sent, and alms
flowed in abundantly.

Some time previous a person from
the Island of Jersey, which is not far
from St Servan, came to that town to
seek for an aged relative. He found
her sheltered by the " Little Sisters,"
and with devout thanksgiving to God
he gave alms of all that he possessed,
and at his death bequeathed th^ house
seven thousand francs. This legacy
fell to them as they began the build-
ing; and with the new house came
new souls, ready to consecrate
themselves to the service of God's
poor, and with these new sisters
came the desire that the hand of
charity might be held out to the
poor of other regions. The elder of
the two girls who were first banded
together in this order, and who was
now called Mother Marie Augustine,
with four sisters, went out fi-om the
mother-house, and established them-
selves at Rennes, a town of forty
thousand inhabitants, fifty or sixty
miles firom their first home. The
trust in Providence which led to this
movement was greatly blessed, and
soon there came another call from
the town of Dinan. This call came
fit>m the mayor of the city, who
thought it a wonderfiil stroke of po-
▼OL, VIII.— 8

licy to provide for the town's poor
without drawing on the city treasury.
The sisters went without hesitancy,
and in 1846 had three well-establish-
ed houses, which ten of the sisterhood
supported by begging.

In France, as in this country, it
has been for a long time the custom
for persons living in the interior to
seek the sea-coast during the sum-
mer months. A young lady coming
from Tours to St Servan did not, as
too many do, leave all thoughts of
her religion behind, but in her tem-
porary sojourn gave herself to good
works. Attracted by the genuine
humility and piety of the "Little
Sisters of the Poor," she begged
them to go back with her to Tours.
They asked only a roof to shelter
and liberty to work, and in January,.
1847, they hired in that city a small^
house in which they received at
once a dozen poor people. In 18^8;
they bought, for 80,000 francs, a very
large building, and found shelter for
a hundred. How this sum was paid
and the family supported remains a
secret with the angel who makes re-
cord of alms-deeds. For the food of
these poor people, every C2S6 was
engaged to save their coffee-grounds
and tea-leaves, and schools, colleges,
barracks, and families their crusts 01
bread; each sister, as she went
forth, carried on her arm a large tin
pail, divided in compartments, which
allowed the scraps of bread and
meat, with the cups of broth and
other fragments, to be kept apart
from each other. At their return,
these bits were overlooked, and by
the hands of the sisters made into
very palatable dishes for their be-
loved poor. But we must not forget
that other and more arduous and
disagreeable duties were required of
these indefatigable workers than
even providing their food from such
material. The nursing, tending, and

114

The Little Sisters of the Poor,

watching of these poor creatures
whose former lives of misery had often
brought upon them repulsive infirmi-
ties and diseases, lifting the helpless,
comforting the forlorn, and bearing
with the ungrateful, all these must be
shared by these devoted women, who
had undertaken to follow the com-
mand of the apostle, to provide for
the aged and the widow. Most of
these nuns came from the people;
many of them had witnessed want
and woe from their infancy, and un-
derstood the special needs of the
poor; but now and then ladies of
rank and education joined them, all
working together in perfect equality,
each undertaking that class of duties
for which she was best fitted. Many
a sbter has been truly a mart}T for
Christ, in working for these ignorant,
degraded beings, oflen obstinate and
full of ingratitude. But **it is not for
the sake of gratitude we nurse them,"
said a sister whose pale face showed
the wearing nature of her cares : " it
is because in them we see U bon
Dicur

To tell the story of the joumey-
ings from place to place all over
Franco, the difficulty with which
they took root in some of the larger
cities, and the comparative welcome
they met in the smaller towns, would
fill a volume. From France they
went to Belgium, to Spain, to Switzer-
land, and lately to Ireland, and even
to Frotestant England and Scotland.
To-day one hundred and eight houses
of tliis order are scattered over Eu-
rope, wiih a sisterhood of eighteen
hundred women, who watch over,
comfort, and maintain more than
twelve thousand poor old men and
women, without money and without
price save the voluntar}* offerings of
the cheerful giver !

In England the appearance of the
order excited a: first much curiosi-
ty, but many turned away from them

with aversion, the aversion which ceo-
turies of false teaching has plant-
ed in the minds of most Protestant
communities against all religious
orders; but their uniform humility,
gentleness, and kindness won the
day. In Park Row, Bristol, Eng-
land, in Bayswater, in London, as
well as in other places, their con-
vents are admirably conducted, and
they welcome visitors most cordially;
wherever they go they become popu-
lar. "We get a good deal in Eng-
land," said one of the sisters; "the
English are very good to us, Uiougb
they are Protestants." There is
something in simple, honest trust in
God which touches the heart, and
oflen those who at first turned away
from the begging sisters, in the end
prove their warmest supporters.

On his way to business a butcher,
belonging in London, and glorying
in the name of "a stanch Protest-
ant," was induced to visit one of the
convents. He was so delighted with
the charity and with all he saw, that
he told the "good mother" to let
the convent cart call at his stall
once a week, and he would give
them soup-meat for the house. As
he went away, his conscience re-
proached him; the "horns and
hoofs " of the dreadful " beast " of
whom he had so often heard appear-
ed before him ; he might be suspect-
ed of a leaning toward poper}* 1 But
then his Anglo-Saxon common sense
told him that to help the aged and
infirm was right, popery or not, and
he kept his word ; the meat is always
ready when the cart arrives, but no
communication passes between the
sister who takes and the man who
gives; he has not yet lost his fear
of the '' seven heads and ten horxiSi
and the number 666.*'

The insiiiution of this order at
lea5t nukos plain one fact: that
numbers of poor con be well sup-

The Little Sisters of the Poor,

ported fix>m the waste of the rich. It
oi^t also to put to silence those
who scoff at the idea of an overrul-
ing Providence — the living God
lather, who cares for the raven and
the sparrow, and is constantly work-
ing miracles under our eyes, where-
by the hungry are fed and the naked
clothed*

Madame Guizot de Witt, a Pro-
testant lady, says : " Every time I visit
one of the houses of the 'Little
Sisters,' and see their bands of old
people — aged children, so neatly
dressed, so well taken care of, occu-
pied and amused in every way that
age or weakness allow, I seem to
hear the voice which says, ' Go, and
do thou likewise.' "

This band of noble workers is
coming among us, to gather the
abundance that falls from our tables,
often wasted, or thrown to dumb
beasts, while souls made in the image
of God look on with hungry eyes.

How shall we greet these servants
of God ? If we receive the " Little
Sister" kindly, giving of our plenty
when she asks, she will thank God;
if we turn away with cold question-
ing, she still thanks God that she
may bear trial for his sake.

To the thrifty American mind, this
scheme of beggary will, no doubt,
appear to some as a nuisance, and
call for the interference of the
laws against begging ; but there are
others whom the hand of God has
touched ; these will welcome to the
freedom of our land a band of
sisters whose charity beareth all
things, endureth all things, and
bopeth all things. But however we
leceive them, they will still go on,
and if they are turned away from
one town or city by the iron hand,
Acy will bring a blessing upon an-
other, both now and in that day
when the Judge shall say, ** Come, ye
blessed of my Father, possess the

kingdom prepared for you from the
foundation of the world : for I was
hungry, and ye gave me meat ; thirs-
ty, and ye gave me drink ; I was a
stranger, and ye took me in ; naked,
and ye covered me : ... for as long
as ye did it to one of my least bre-
thren, ye did it to me."

LIST OP TIIE HOUSES FOUNDED BY THE
LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR.

In France, — The novitiate at La-
tour ; St. Joseph, near Becherel, (He
et Vilaine ;) Rennes ; St. Ser\'an ;
Dinan ; Tours ; Nantes ; Paris, Rue
St Jacques near the Val de Grice ;
Besan9on ; Angers ; Bordeaux ; Rou-
en ; Nancy ; Paris, Avenue de Bre-
teuil j Laval ; Lyon, d la Vilette ;
Lille ; Marseilles ; Bourges ; Pau ;
Vannes ; Colmar ; La Rochelle ;
Dijon ; St. Omer ; Brest ; Chartres ;
Bolbec ; Paris, Rue Beccaria, Fau-
bourg St Antoine; Toulouse; St
Dizier ; Le Havre ; Blois ; Le Maus ;
Tarare ; Paris, Rue Notre Dame
des Champs ; Orleans ; Strasbourg ;
Caen ; St Etienne ; Perpignan ;
Montpellier; Agen; Poitiers; St
Quentin ; Lisieux ; Annonay ; Ami-
ens ; Roanne ; Valenciennes ; Gre-
noble ; Draguignan ; Chateauroux ;
Roubaix ; Boulogne ; Dieppe ; Be-
ziers ; Clermont-Ferrand ; Lyons, La
Croix Rousse ; Metz ; Nice ; Lo-
rient ; Nevers ; Flers ; Villefranche ;
Cambrai; Niort; Paris, Rue Phi-
lippe Gerard ; Les Sables d'Olonne ;
Troyes ; Maubeuge ; Nimes ; Tou-
lon ; Tourcoing ; Cherbourg ; Val-
ence ; P^rigueux ; and one just now
beginning in Dunkerque.

In Switzerland, — Genevra.

In Belgium. — Bruxelles, Rue
Haute ; Liege, at the Chartreuse ;
Jemmapes, near Mons ; Louvain ;
Antwerp; Bruges; Ostende ; Na-
mur.

In Spain. — Barcelona; Maureza;

Il6

Religion medically comidered.

Granada ; Lerida ; Lorca ; Malaga ;
Antequera ; Madrid, Calle della
Hortaletza ; Jaeti ; Reuss ; two more
are preparing in Valence and Anda-
lusia.

In England^ Ireland^ and Scatland,
— London, (Southwark,) South Lam-
beth Road ; London, (Bays water,)
Portobello Lane ; Manchester, Ply-
mouth Grove ; Bristol, Park Row ;
Birmingham, Cambridge Street Cre-
scent ; Leeds, Hanover Square ;
Kewcastle-on-Tynet Clayton Street ;
Plymouth, St. Mary's ; Waterford ;
Edinburgh, Gilniore Place ; Glas-
gow, Gamgad Hill; Lochee, near

Dundee ; a new foundation b^;^i-
ning in Tipperary,

In the United States, — No ho«i9e
exists as yet, but the " Little Sisters
of the Poor^* are preparing three
foundations which are to take pttoe
very soon, one In Brooklyn, De Kalb
Avenue ; a second one in New Or-
leans, in the buildings occupied by
the Widows* Home ; the third one ia
Baltimore, with the charge, too, of the
Widows' Home ; besides these, sev^
ral other foundations are contempUt*
ed in the course of the next and of
the following year.

RELIGION MEDICALLY CONSIDERED.

Bv the term ** religion," we mean
that divine code mercifully revealed
by God to mankind, in the old and
new dispensations, as their rule of
faith and practice. Its precepts have
reference both to the corporal and
spiritual, the temporal and eternal
welfare of men. Religion, it is true,
\x\ its higher sphere, addresses itself
to the soul. It embraces the affec-
tions, emotions, and sentiments of
our spiritual nature, and its direction
is always toward the Infinite fountain
of love and wisdom* Yet its scope,
while for eternity, is for time also.

When God first revealed himself
to Moses, the Israelites were fast re-
lapsing into heathenism, with its per-
nicious and degrading habits of life.
Under the divine inspiration, ho^v-
ever, the prophet imbued them anew
with faith in the true God, and pre-
sented them at the same time with an
admirable code of practical life. He
^ht them to love and fear God,

to obey his commandments, to live
soberly and uprightly in themselves*
and to practise justice and love to*
w^ard each other. He coniinuallj
placed before them the divine promi^
ses of not only eternal but also tem^
poral rewards for obedience, and, in
like manner, the threatened penalties
of disobedience. Viewed even as
practical rules of living for earthly life
alone, his are models of Excellence.
No man has ever done more toward
retaining that tabernacle of the bib-
man soul, the earthly body, in a pure
and healthy condition than this greal
lawgiver. Contrast the preccpl
given by God through him to the I
raelites after he had brought thei
out of the land of Eg}'pt, witli th(
of the Eg>'ptians, of the Cinaanites,
and other heathen nations of the pe*
riod. How wise and elevating are
the tendencies of the one 1 Wlial
injustice, inhumanity, and degrad
Uon mark the other! Go the

Religion medically considered.

117

ove supreme to God and to
eighbor as one's self, joined
bearance, justice, truthfulness,
% chastity, temperance, clean-
iven, and rigid adherence to
rould now be termed sound
^ principles ; while on the
i side, what maybe comprised
5 words — selfishness, sensual-
l force. The fruits of obedi-

the former were, even here,
ative immunity from disease
sufferings, with enhanced ma-
•rosperity and happiness, and
creased longevity; while to
er there came the legitimate
is of inordinate self-indul-
3f selfishness and evil-living ;
its of the laws of life which
lism gave to them,
hence that we claim for reli-
br the religious precepts re-
to man by the divinely in-
prophets of the old dispensa-
at they contributed vastly to
sical and temporal well-being
race. The God of nature re-
that there should be no viola-
the laws of nature ; that our
and faculties, designed for le-
2 uses, should not be subjected
B and perversion. Hence tem-
\ and moderation, and a rigid
ice of whatever tended toavio-
)f the natural laws of health,
joined upon man as duties of
s obligation. That the mortal
light be and remain a fit en-

of the immortal soul, the in-
teachings of the old law de-
1 to the minutest details of
rs of health and life. This,

constituted the less exalted
of religion, yet one of prime
ince, so far as the well-being
ippiness of earthly life was
led.

i, then, should we, for the mo-
l^ore religion in its higher re-

and leave out of the qqestion

a future existence, regarding man
merely as an animal who is to be an*
nihilated at death; still we shall find
that by its precepts and its influence,
it has always largely contributed to
his measure of health, happiness, and
longevity.

It b our purpose, in this paper, to
confine our remarks to this view of
the case, and to discuss the influence
of religion and a Christian life upon
man in his physical and earthly re-
lations. For the atheist even, for
the deist and the sceptic, we claim
that the precepts and practice of
Christianity are, above all other sys-
tems and modes of life, conducive
to physical and mental health and
vigor, to true enjoyment and long
life.

Nearly all of the eminent philo-
sophers and heathen teachers before
and at the time of Christ seem to have
regarded the pursuit of sensual plea-
sure as life's chief aim and end.
True, they advised a certain measure
of moderation in the gratification of
the appetites and passions, in order
that the vitality might not be too ra-
pidly exhausted ; but this was their
only limit to self-indulgence; reli-
gious or moral obligation was not
taken into the account in making
up the programme of practical life.
The pagan disciples of Aristotle, So-
crates, and Plato, as well as the more
cultivated and polished polytheists
of the empire of the Caesars, lived
for sensual enjoyment alone. Even
human life was made subservient to
this dominant idea, as the frequent
and wanton murders of slaves and
newly born children demonstrate.

Early failure of the vital forces,
followed by disease and its accom-
panying physical and mental suffer-
ing, was the fruitful result A par-
ticipation in the revels of the tem-
ples of Venus and of Bacchus might
give its few brief hours of sensual

Religion medically considered.

pleasure ; but violated nature always
inflicted her bitter penalties there-
for, ill the form of painful and te-
dious morbid reactions. The spec-
tator at the Colosseum may have
been momentarily excited by the
bloody scenes of the arena \ but
the simple instincts of humanity
must have filled the soul with horror
and disgust, on subsequent reflec-
tion upon the cruelty involved there-
in. Even in the higher planes of
pagan life, in the very lyceums and
groves of the philosophers of the
Augustan age, so lax and inefficient
was the moral code of the day, and
such their own imperfect moral teach-
ings, that the practical Hfe-results
were little better. One can appre-
ciate the reality of this when he
calls to mind ihc utter variance of
the new law of Christ, when first in-
troduced among them, with nearly
all the philosophies, customs, and ha-
bits of tlie period. He has but to
read, for this purpose, the frightful
description of ancient heathen society
given by St. Paul in the latter half
of the firsjt chapter of his epistle to
the Romans, addressed to the Chris-
tian converts from among this very
people. Without the restraining and
healthful influences of true religion,
to what depths of moral and physi-
cal dtgradation is not human nature
capnUe of bringing itself !• '* Pro-
liesuqg themselves to be wise,'* sa}^
llic apostte» ** they became fools, . .
Wbercforc God gave them up to the
desires of their heart, to unc leanness,
to shameful afiections, and to a re-
probate sense :" [thereby] *' receiving
in tliemselvTs the rDcompensc whkh
was due to their error. . . Being
filled «nth all intqnity, nuitfet» for*
nlesiiofi, co\Ttousii^s« mktdDts$«
lUl of eoty* murder, contention, de*
ceit* n^Oignily* whisperers, detract*

ors, hateful to God, contumelkiiii^
proud, haughty, inventors of cril
things, disobedient to parents, fool*
ish, dissolute^ without affection^ wttbf
out fidelity, without mercy."

In contrasting, then, theprincipleSi
habits, and lives of the Latin subjects
of the Roman empire with thost
inculcated by Christ in the new law>
it will be found that the latter werft
by far tlie most conducive to ph)*si*
cal and mental vigor, material hajKl
piness, and longevity. In one ex^iih
pie we have a material philosophyi
wealth, sensuality, and unlimited self-]
indulgence ; in the other, a Christi;
code, inculcating virtue, charity, mo^i
rality, temperance, and moderation
in all things. The fruits of both
systems were plainly visible, even id
the days of Christ.

It has been estimated that more
than one fourth part of the populi-
tion of the empire, under August
and Tiberius C^nesar, were slaves.
The condition of these bondmci
was deplorable- They were nol
only deprived of all political ani
social rights, but were regarded aa"
soulless and devoid of moral respon-
sibility. Human slavery was a leg^^^H
timate offspring of the pagan philo^l
Sophies of tlie period.

Anodier portion of the Roreaq
people, amounting to about one \
of the entire population, occupied ;
moral and social status nearly as 1
as that of the slave. The mothers*
wives, and daughters of Roman citi*
rens were regarded as inferior bein^
mere pets and playthings of the roep^^^
household ornaments, useful only s<ul
far as tibcy were capable of conlit*^^
buti^ to the sensual pleasures of
their brck and masters. This waa*
ton degradation of the s^ vas aiH^
other direct result of the pcmii *
tttidiii^ of Ihost neci who are
landed and Nmofwi bgr the wortd
vmMiorwMoMsadiriitoel Hms

DinaQ^
hallfl

ied aS

icioiidH

BstaM

Religion medically considered.

119

fiee patricians and plebeians, com-
prising less than one third of the en-
tire population, and possessing near-
ly all of the national wealth, devoted
their lives in striving to add to the
military power and glory of the em-
pire, and in the pursuit of worldly
pleasure. In the furtherance of
these objects, neither right, justice,
humanity, nor even life itself was re-
garded as important when opposed
to their dominant passions. Such
were the materialists of that day.

Let us now turn to the precepts
of our blessed Saviour, and their im-
mediate practical results in elevating
humanity to a higher plane, and in
enhancing the general welfare of the
human race. The fundamental prin-
ciples of the Christian system are,
besides faith in the revealed myste-
ries, supreme love to God and fra-
ternal love to man. "Thou shalt
love the Lord thy God with thy
whole heart, and with thy whole
soul, and with thy^ whole mind. This
is the greatest and first command-
ment. And the second is like to this :
Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thy-
self. On these two commandments
dependeth the whole law and the
prophets." (Matt. xxii. 37-40) "All
things, therefore, whatsoever you
would that men should do to you,
do you also to them : for this is the
law and the prophets." (Matt. vii. 12.)

One of the first-fruits of these
new ideas was a recognition by the
Christian converts of the dignity and
brotherhood of all mankind, and of
the equality of all in the sight of
God. Thus were females and slaves
at once elevated to their proper posi-
tions in the scale of humanity. They
could no longer be regarded as mere
instruments of sensual gratification,
but were recognized as brethren,
children of a common father, co-
workers and coequals in the spiritu-
al vineyard of our Lord Jesus Christ

How readily, then, can we compre-
hend the ardent and untiring devo-
tion and love which were everywhere
evinced by Christian women for their
divine Redeemer and Benefactor!
How readily can we explain the
boundless enthusiasm and joy of the
multitudes of poor, oppressed, and
disease-stricken men who followed
Jesus from place to place for conso-
lation and restoration ! When these
multitudes heard the precious sermon
upon the mount, so much at variance
with the prevalent tenets and prac-
tices of the world, they were amazed
and delighted ; for in it false philoso-
phies, a vicious civilization, and per-
nicious usages were rebuked, man-
kind exalted to a higher sphere, and
humanity vindicated.

As the lives of the pagans were
natural reflexes of their false and in-
human moral and social codes, so
were the lives of the Christians natu-
ral reflexes of the divine code. The
foundations of the one were idolatry,
selfishness, sensuality, uncharitable-
ness, pride, and arrogance ; of the
other, godliness, charity, love, hu-
mility, and benevolence. Humanity
cannot clothe itself with the first
without chilling and paralyzing the
higher impulses of the soul, and fos-
tering the bitter germs of mental and
physical sorrow. Nor can it adopt
the last without developing those
spiritual attributes which elevate, re-
fine, and bless the possessor.

Let us come down to our own day,
where materialism, sensuality, and
general immorality are nearly as com-
mon as in the days of the apostles.
We call ourselves Christians, profess
to believe in one God, in the immor-
tality of the soul, and in a future state
of rewards and punishments ; but
practically, in actual life, many com-
munities are as inhuman, as sensual,
as material, and as immoral as were
the pagans of the golden age.

130

Religion medically considered.

The pagan disciples of Aristotle,
for instance, did not hesitate to vio-
late the sacred germs of humanity,
and thus to blast the souls of multi-
tudes of victims, for the purpose of
preventing too great an increase of
population. The religion of Christ
changed all this, and true Christians
have ever heeded the change. But
the recent work of Dr. Storer, of Bos-
ton, and official legislative reports,
demonstrate that this great crime is
quite as prevalent in the modern
Athens and in the State which con-
tains it, as it was in the worst days
of the Roman empire. The influ-
ence of this alarmingly prevalent
crime of our own day and of our own
nation is baneful in the extreme.
On strictly sanitary and material
grounds, it is to be deprecated as
an evil of the greatest magnitude.
Among its deleterious results may be
recorded diseases of important vital
organs, which are in turn reflected
to the entire nervous system, and a
consequent train of phj-sical and men-
tal disorders, which make life a bur-
den instead of a blessing. Here,
then, we see that a truly Christian
mode of living is more conducive to
heahlu happiness, and long life than
that of the sensual materialist.

Contemplate, again, the world of
wealth, fashion, and pleasure. lx:hold
thepv>mp, the luxur\\ and the numer-
ous sensual enjoyments which m.ike
up Svt largely its sum of life. Follow
the votaries of pleasure in their daily
and niijhtly rounds, sit at their epi-
cure.iTi tables, accompany them to
routs, balls, play-houses, ar.J innu-
menb'.e other p!aovs of resort, which
temp:inj:\v bovko:i them on ever>-
hanol. Iv with them also :n thoir
sicevir.i:. a:':.i at thoir early mor.*::?j:
hours, when :ho ine\:;ab'.o rvao::o:*.s
mar.::Vs: t^cinse'-ws ; when ps\i:^>,
las>::us:i.\ ar^vi iutvous ar.,i r.u*;»:al
de"o:vxsN>a o\";:rtAkc thcui. Read

their interior convictions, thoughts
and regrets for ill-spent time, and for
perversions of the higher faculties.
Consult the epicure, who " lives to
eat" and to stimulate his artificial ap-
petite daily with highly seasoned dish-
es. He will discourse eloquently
upon the pleasures of the table ; btU
he can depict also the horrors of indi-
gestion, hypochondria, and not ua-
frequently of paralysis, apoplexy,
and kindred ailments. Consult the
wine-bibber and the whiskey-drinkex;
They can point to the enormous reve-
nues which the government derives
from their patronage ; to the innume-
rable drinking-saloons which cover
the land, and which are sustained
and enriched by them ; to the nume-
rous dens, above-ground and under-
ground, where the poor congregate
to imbibe fiery poisons that steal
away their brains and the bread of
their wives and children ; to the un-
told millions which are expended in
their traffic by men of all classes and
conditions.

These men can portray the tem-
porary delights and excitements of
such exhilarating beverages. They
can tell you how the braio glowSi
how the pulse rises, and how all the
organs and faculties are roused to
preternatural energ}- under the influ-
ence of these potent agents. Bat
alas ! what multitudes have experi-
enced the dreadful reactions which
alw.m follow their habitual use!
What multitudes have gone down to
the grave prematurely with Bright's
discise, liver complaint, softening of
the brain, dropsy, insan in*, paralysis,
delirium tremens, etc.. \-ici:ms of
these i::s:c;ous poisons 1 In the Unit-
evl States esjwial'.y. the prevalence
anvi the evils of whskcy^irinking are
tmly mv*nstrv^us. I: :> :he dominant
ou:sv\ the OT%;r^ evil cf the day. It
l>e:%,w>'i a*l o:" :>,e ra:r.:ncaiionsof
»ocuI l:Hf^ It i*.;::::-.S?r> ::s viciims by

Religion medically considered.

121

millions of all ages, sexes, and con-
ditions. It corrupts and undermines
the very foundation of health, per-
verts and degrades the intellectual
and moral faculties, and depresses
men deep, deep into the lower strata
of humanity.

Thousands have become habitual
drinkers, and ultimately confirmed
inebriates, through the advice of their
medical advisers. In accordance
with some absurd hypothesis, or per-
diance to please their patients, too
many medical men, during the past
twenty years, have ordered the habit-
oal use of whiskey, rum, brandy, and
other stimulants. The calamities
dins entailed are fearful to contem-
plate ; and those thoughtless physi-
cians who have contributed so largely
in extending this great national vice
will bear to their graves a dreadful
responsibility.

So far, then, as eating and drink-
ing are concerned, it is evident that
tiie precepts of the Christian religion
are far better calculated to promote
Ae welfare of mankind than are
those of the man of pleasure. Reli-
gion inculcates simplicity, frugality,
temperance ; and the fruits are phy-
sical and mental vigor and tranquil
enjoyment. Irreligion encourages
onrestrained convivial excesses ; and
the results are disease, pain, and
general debasement.

Note, again, the devotees of fash-
ion, whose pleasure consists in un-
natural and artificial excitements,
who regard the ordinary affairs and
duties of life as tame and irksome,
who convert night into day, and who
are happy only when in the midst of
the exaggerations, the frivolities, the
romances of life. Do these indivi-
duals employ their faculties or their
time in accordance with the laws of
nature, or with reference to the du-
ties and destinies which manifestly
pertain to them? The excitements

of the play-house, the ballroom, the
race-course, and similar places of
fashionable resort are prone to di-
vert the mind from the serious duties
of life, to engender morbid tastes
and sentiments, and to implant feel-
ings of discontent with reference to
ordinary duties and occupations.
When indulged in to such an extent,
these amusements are unchristian,
and therefore derogatory to health
and happiness. Not in the gilded
saloons of fashion are to be found
peace, contentment, and charity.
Not in the souls of pleasure-seeking
devotees are to be found real satis-
faction and enjoyment. But among
those who lead religious lives,
whether high or low, rich or poor,
wise or simple, will be found the
highest developments of love, vir-
tue, health, and true happiness.

A worldly life develops and fos-
ters all that is sensual and selfish in
man. It continually rouses the or-
gans and faculties of the system into
abnormal activity and excitement
It perverts the delicate and sensitive
functions of the organism from their
legitimate uses to the gratification
of transient impulse, passion, and ca-
price. It plays with the thousand
living nerves and fibres as upon the
inanimate strings of an instrument,
heedless whether the overstrained
and palpitating chords of life snap
asunder under the exciting ordeal.
Its fruits, consequently, are demoral-
izing, and in the highest degree de-
trimental to health, usefulness, and
happiness.

In a religious life how great a con-
trast is presented ! Such a life deve-
lops and fosters the highest and pur-
est attributes of the soul. It rouses
into ever-living activity the divine
sentiments of love and charity, and
puts far away sensuality, selfishness,
and inordinate and unlawful self-in-
dulgence. It inculcates temperance,

122

ReligioH medically considered.

moderation, disinterested benevo-
lence, chastit)% and the cultivation
of those virtues and graces which
secure health, contentment, and tran-
quil happiness.

From a strictly material point of
view, then, we may rest assured that
a truly religious life is far more con-
ducive to genuine pleasure and to
longevity than a mere worldly one.
A simple contemplation of the com-
plicated and sensitive human organ-
ism, of its physiology and its sub*
jection to certain natural laws and
requirements, renders the justness of
our position manifest Health can
only be maintained by a just equili-
brium in tlie action of all the organs,
functions, and faculties. Every over-
action, every undue excitement, is
followed by a corresponding reaction
which is depressing, debilitating, and
productiv^c of more or less disorder
and sutfering.

IVhe thoughts, energies, and hopes
of men of business are too generally
absorbed in the eager pursuit of
weahh. Their ideas, aspirations,
and daily and hourly actions pertain
solely to this world. From childhood
to old age the idea of eternity is
almost entirely put from them, Prac*
dcaUy, these men arc inBdels, be-
cause every act of their lives, from
waking to sleeping, has sole reference
10 the present life. Tliey live and
think and act as if they were to re-
main for ever on this earth. They put
far from them the momentous re-
alities of the near future, and cling
to the richcs» the pomps, the vanities,
aad the frivolities of this world like
monomaniacs. Follow them to their

counting-rooms, to their clili
their places of recreation, to
homes, and see how much oi
anxiety, and suffering, and how
an amount of tranquil happin<
tend them. Contrast the live
the deaths of these devotees o
ness and riches with those i
humble and exemplary Christii
there a doubt on which side 1
contenlment, and true eujoym*
life will be found ? *' Lay not
yourselves treasures upon earl!
lay up for yourselves treasu
heaven : for where your treasi
there win your heart be also*
Ye cannot serv'e God and mam
(Matt. vi. 19, 20, 21, 24.)

Let it not be thought that 1
opposed to a reasonable devot
material and worldly affairs, <
we would place a single obsti
the way of human progress, wl
pertaining to trade, commerce,
useful and ornamental arts,
man in his sphere has duties f
form ; but it must not be fof]
that these duties are neither
sively material nor yet spiritual
it not be forgotten that the sm
its wants and necessities as
the had^. And let it not be loq
that, while the physical roan I
for a day, the spiritual man
eternity. The wise man, tliei
will recognise the fact that ihei
time for all things — for businei
recreation, for mental culture
(chief of all) for spiritual duties
he will best accomplish the jus4
of his existence who rightly ap
atea and acts upon this great

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons.

123

TKANSLATSO ROM THE FKSNCH.

FAITH AND POETRY OF THE BRETONS.

CONTIKUBD.

ttUrr.THlGONNEC— CEMETERIES — CALVA-
UES— CHARACTER OF THE PEOPLE.

We need not traverse the whole
of Brittany to have a perfect idea
of the works of architecture which
fiiith has embellished. In one little
borough-town, Saint-Th^gonnec, be-
tween Morlaix and Landemeau, we
find all the types of Christian art in
Brittany concentrated — church, fune-
real chapel, burying-vault, calvary,
and sculptures.

The Breton cemeteries closely re-
semble each other; nearly every-
where they surround the church, and
are enclosed by a low wall, often
without gates of any kind, merely an
iron grating set flat upon a small
ditch preventing the cattle from
trespassing on the abode of the
dead.* A cross, or a calvary, where
the scenes of the passion are repre-
sented, or sometimes the kneeling
statue of a loved or lamented
pastor's venerated image that re-
calls his virtues to his faithful
people, these are the only monu-
ments of the cemeteries of the Breton
villages. The tombs are marked by
small heaps of earth, pressed each
against the other, and surmounted
by a cross. Some are covered by a
«tone, and in this stone is indented
a b'ttle cup tliat gathers the dew and
rain from heaven, and offers to the
mourning relative — the mother, son,
the friend — the blessed asperges to
accompany the prayer for him who
lies beneath.t These cemeteries,

*At Gooeznon, at Plabenncc, etc
f We see ia AlKcria Uttl« copt hollowed in the w
fktral rtcpo of the Mimnlimms ; hat this water ia

placed in the midst of towns and
villages, cannot be of any great ex-
tent ; soon, therefore, they are filled
with extinct generations, and these
bodies must be exhumed to make
place for new-comers. In one vil-
lage, Plouha, after the sons had dis-
interred the bodies of their fathers,
they decorated the facade of the
church with the stones of the tombs,
that they might be cold witnesses of
their memories, or, at least, might
never cover the bodies of others.
The general resting-place for these
exhumed bones is a mortuary chapel
constructed by the side of the church ;
and if a glance is taken through the
Gothic arch which opens on this
charnel-house, bones upon bones
may be seen heaped up and mingled
like blades of straw. These were
men who have walked on the earth,
now solitary and forsaken until the
eternal resurrection.

But at Saint-Thdgonnec a more re-
spectful and tender sentiment has
tried to preserve intact at least a
portion of these bodies so rudely
torn from the earth. Before enter-
ing the church, we are struck by an
unexpected sight ; from every projec-
tion of the building, on the porches,
on the prominent cornices, are laid
or hung and suspended, one above
the other, a multitude of small boxes
arranged as a chaplet; these little
boxes, surmounted each by its cross,
are coffins, and enclose the skull of
an ancestor, his head, or, according
to the expressive word of the old

only used by the birds to tatiafy their thirst, or to
water the flowert that dacorau the tomba.

124

Faith and Poetry af the Bretons,

language, le chef^ that which is most
noble in man, and which may be
resumed. An inscription indicates
the date and name :

** Here lies le CHEF de , . ."

Another touching symbol may be
seen through the openings, the fune-
ral archivejs of families preserved in
the shadow of the church, that rising
generations may discover them, so
that they may not be forgotten, as
they would be, immured in their
own homes.*

Here and there on the cornice,
exposed to the air, are skulls of the
dead, poor creatures once without
friends or family to give them burial,
painted green, their eyes filled with
Band and blades of grass projecting
from them» often leaning against
each other ; here, one supported per-
haps by him who was his bitter
enemy.

Passing there double rows of cof-
fins, we enter the church, and this is
but a repetition of all the Breton
churches ; everything here — an ele-
gant font, sculptured mouldings,
pulpit of choice wood and of marvel-
lous workmanship— r/i^dT^i/i'/r of
the end of the Renaissance, and one
of the finest pulpits in Brittany —
pictures on wood, chisel paintings,
ever perpetuating the patriarchs, the
kings, and prophets of the Old
Testament mounting from earth to
heaven ; even to the Blessed Virgin ;
vault of gold and azure fairly spar-
kling in its complete beauty ; the
choir, the altar, and the side chapels
filled with statues, wreathed columns,
heads of angels, flowers, garlands,
gilded and painted in everj* color, a
perfect stream of gold, verdure, bril-
liant crimson, and azure.

From this refulgent and living
whole, a single door rises on the

* Al Locin»{qaer there Are not only coSnu with
btadft, but minuiure one» enctcninfi; all the b()&e«,
piled ooa above the other Uke baJea of fooda, id t])«
r ^Uc« ipponkAed tlicnv

I
I

tyleS
^on^S

side, high and naked ; no sculpturCi
do ornament ; the stones sweat thdi
dampness; the bricks, that have as-
sumed a blackened tint, separated
by their white cement, present a lu-
gubrious aspect ; a great mourning
veil seems spread before the c)*cs—
this is the gate of death. You
open, and you pause eDchanted.
Before you lies the cemetery. At
your right, at your left, monumeot
upon monument breaks upon yotti
gaze. Under the porch where yoi
stand are the statues in line of the
twelve apostles ; and opposite you,
large gate with three arches, the
of the cemeter)% in its imposing si
an arch of triumph, as if the Brelon^^
passing under it the perishable bodf,
had typified the life eternal, thegloqf
and the joy of the imperishable sooSj
At the right, a mortuary chapel of
st}'le of the Louvre of Henry IV.
erected, its sculpture from the boC^
torn to the top, an immense eAAsti
pictured in granite ; at your left is
the calvary, one of those complicate
ed calvaries, found only in Britt
a whole people of statues ; eighq^
a hundred personages in the m«
natural and simple attitudes — dlj
ciples, prophets, holy women, thie'
on their crosses, guards on borsebt
and, towering over all this crowd,
tree of the cross, colossal in its stnii
ture, of several stones, cross u[
cross, and holding on its branchi
statues of the Virgin, Saint John, l!
guards, and others, and, in immensil
of size and above all, the Chi '
himself, with his arms extended oV(
the world, and his eyes uplifted t
heaven. Angels arc there, too, sus^
pendcd in the air, and collectiTJg la
their chalices the precious blood froi
liis hands.*

And ibis is not all : enter the crypfi

*T1i« alvafie« of F1ouKi«t«l «nd Pleybcn — lovra*
w rvmarkibte for ibdr be«M|i^il dmrch«»-^i« pwn

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons.

I2S

I mortuary chapel, and there
rill find yourself face to face
another chef-iToiuvrc — the en-
ng of Christ, the scene which
rer inspired the greatest artists,
1 cx)lossal proportions. These
linted statues, and the painting
to the impression, giving to the
^ moved personages the appear-
of life. You hear them cry,
ie their tears course down their
faces ; the Virgin-Mother with
'essed lips on the livid feet of
ivine Son, the Magdalen over-
led with grief and still beauti-
the nudst of her sorrow. Can
il to become an actor in this im-
ned scene ? You are rooted to
ot ; the terrible blow that made
uffer becomes your reality, and,
d to the depths of your soul,
jel your own tears flow; the
of ages is forgotten, and you
ing in that Calvary scene.
I when we think that these
of religious art are spread all
Jrittany with the same profu-
that in towns apparently the
emote from any road or centre,
nt-Herbot in the Black Moun-
at Saint- Fiacre, which is only a
illage of Laouct, and even less
I village, a miserable hamlet
; or sLx houses, in the chapel
)zegrand near Quimperl^, a
t manor which hardly merits
me of a castle — we find in all
places galleries of sculptured
painted, gilded, and figured
ifty or more persons, rivalling
ost costly churches ; works so
ably reproducing the history,
iracles, and the mysteries of
•n, while they preserve among
eople and reanimate and in-
: their ardor and faith, we can-
it ask. What is the cause of such
litude of works of art appear-
erywhere on the surface of the
ry, and what has been the inspi-

ration which has produced such fruit
— richness of invention, truth of ges-
ture, expression of physiognomy, a
true and deep sentiment of every-
thing divine in scenery and action ?
In all these monuments of the middle
ages, there is to be found the same
truth, the same power of imagina-
tion, while the artist never repeats
himself and never tires you. He
leads you on like the musician,
scarcely giving you time to recover
from one melody ere you are soul-
entranced with another still more
beautiful.

But this creative power has a
cause ; this society — as a man arrived
at maturity with all his work accom-
plished for the end he would attain —
had been prepared by previous ages.
Disengaged from the swaddling-
clothes of antiquity, its tongue was .
formed, its religious ideas fixed, and
with its new-formed Christianity, it
was logically constituted — it became
a unity. Still in possession of such
power, this people struggles only to
create ; never led by contrary tastes
or carried away by disorderly and
unregulated motives, so justly named
in our day caprice^ they cling to what
preceding ages have sought for, ga-
thered, and inculcated. The mate-
rials are ready to their hands, they
seize them, and, with the genius of >^

the age, reproduce, in a thousand
forms, new beauties ; the well-filled
vase has only to diffuse itself and
overflow with treasures. Thus, ima-
gination bursts out everywhere live-
ly and colored; the same mind, in
literature as in art, reproduces the
varied ornaments of churches, in-
vents fables and legends, and finds
at every moment new images to re-
present manners, ideas, opinions;
and this imagination, far from ex-
hausting itself, grows and increases,
not as the forced plant of the hot-
houscy but the natural flower of their

Il6

Faitk and Pcetfy of the Bntms.

own spring. Ages train on, and the
last one bears the crown.

We see, too, why such artists — au-
thors of such exquisite works — are
so obscure, so unknown. They have
not rendered their own ideas simply,
but those of their race; the senti-
ments of their ancestors, of the fa-
thers with whom they have been born
and raised, have penetrated their
whole being, and they have merely
expressed their surroundings. Thus,
these monuments of art are not only
proof of talent and their sojourn on
earth, but witnesses of their piety
and faith — the worship of a people.

So, the faith of days past still lives
in Brittany : could one doubt it, let
him look at the evidences of an
unwcakened piety which meet him
at every step. See the gifts of the
women of the aristocracy, beautiful
scarfs of cashmere, covering the al-
tars of the cathedral of Tr^guier, and
the offerings of the poor, bundles of
crutches, left at Folgoat by the in-
firm ** made whole," Then the pil-
grimages, vast armies of men and
women, moving yearly to their favorite
shrine of Saint Anne d*Auray, and
the miraculous pictures, decking from
top to bottom this church of the
Mother of the Virgin, too small for
a Christian museum replenished so
constantly. At every step arise new
chapels and churches : at Saint-Brieuc
several were built at once; Lorient,
a town peopled with soldiers and sail-
ors, has just raised at its gate a church
in the st)'le of Louis XIV.; Vitr^ gives
to its church a new bell and a sculp-
tured pulpit; the little villages put
up in their cemeteries calvaries with
figures of the middle ages ; the cal-
vary of Ploezal, between Tr<^guier
and Guingamp, is dated 1856 ; Dinan
restores and enriches its beautiful
church of Saint Malo ; Quimper
throws to the air two noble spires
from the towers of its cathedral ; the

h of J

thiifl

\few

5 «»■

chapel of Saint Ihin^ a model cf el^
gance and grace, rises in pure whit^
ness on the borders of the sea, in
the midst of the calm roofs of itj!
pious colony; Nantes, while she
builds several new churches, finishes
her immense cathedral, its dome of
Cologne and Brittany, to which eadi
age has given a hand, and in con-
structing this beautiful church of
Saint Nicholas, proves what the pl(
and zeal of a pastor and devi
flock could accomplish, in less
ten years, by alms and giAs. A few
years since, at Guingamp* a chapel
was dedicated to the Blessed Vi;
outside the church ; the statues
painted of the twelve apostles, tlie
altar is magnificent, and the roof
azure and stars of gold. No expense
was spared, no decoration loo great
to ornament the sanctuary of ibi
Virgin. Fift}ahousand persons
there the day of the inauguralioi
These are the national holy-da^-s
the Bretons. Elsewhere* people
to the inauguration of princes
the revolutions which presage thck
downfall ; but here they come from
all parts of Brittany to assist in the
coronation of the Queen of heave
And what piety, what recoil ectioi
what gravity in the deportment of
these men and women, kneeling on
the pavements of the churches !
at La Trappe, so here is seen
same complete absorption of the
human being in the thoughts that
fill the soul ; the functions of life
seem annihilated, and, immovable in
prayer, they remain in that absolute ^^
contemplation in which the saintyfl
are represented, ovenvhelmed by seil-^
timents of veneration, submission,
and humility: the man is forgotteri>
the Christian only exists. More ex-
pressive even than the monuments
are these daily acts of devotion, that
evidence the habitual state of the
soul.

inc
of ^

JOB 1

Faith and Poetry of the Bretons,

127

Walky on a market-day, through
the square of some city or town of
Finist^re. How varied and animated
it appears! Rows of little wagons
standing around, and on these all
sorts of merchandise : velvet ribbons
and buckles for the men's caps ;
voollen ornaments made into rosettes
for the head- dresses of the women ;
Tuiegated pins, ornamented with
glass pearls ; pipe-holders of wood ;
Utde microscopic pipes and instru-
nents to light them, with other use-
fid and ornamental wares. Under
the tents of these movable shops,
a crowd of men and women are seen.
The women with head-dresses of dif-
ferent forms, their large white hand-
kerchiefs rounded at the back and
carefully crossed on the breast; the
men with their pantaloons narrowly
tightened, falling low, and resting on
the hips, so that the shirt may be
seen between them and the vest, their
caps with broad brims covering their
long hair, often tucked up behind, and
walking with measured steps, carry-
vag their canes, never hurried, always
calm and dignified. Twelve o'clock
is heard ; from the high bell-tower of
the neighboring church comes the
echoing peal of midday ; twelve times
it slowly strikes, and then all is
hushed. Every one pauses, is silent.
\^th simultaneous movement, the
men doff their hats and their long
hair falls over their shoulders. All
are on their knees, the sign of the
cross is made, and one low murmur
tells the Angelus. A stranger in such
a crowd must kneel ; involuntarily he
bends his knee with the rest The
prayer to the Virgin finished, they
rise again ; life and motion commence,
and a din is heard, the almost deaf-
ening noise of the roar of the sea.

Again I see them in the church of
Cast, (Finist^re.) It was Sunday, at
the hour of vespers. The bell of the
church-tower had sounded from the

break of day, and crowds of men and
women surrounded the church, talk-
ing in groups, gently and noiselessly.
The bell ceased ; the groups broke
up and separated into two bands, on
one side the men, on the other the
women, all directing their steps to
the church. The women entered
first, and in a moment the nave was
filled ; the young women of the Con-
fraternity of the Blessed Virgin took
their places in the middle of the
church, all in white, but their costume
ornamented with embroidery of gilt
and silver, gilded ribbons on their
arms, belts of the same encircling
their graceful figures, and falling in
four bands at the back on the plaited
petticoat, and the heart of gold and
cross on the breast of each ; in the
side aisles, the matrons ranged them-
selves, wives and mothers, in more
varied costumes, gayly colored, head-
dresses of deep blue and yellow, blue
ribbons with silver edges on the
brown jackets, red petticoats, and
clock stockings embroidered in gold.
All knelt on the pavement, their
heads inclined, their rosaries in their
hands, and in collected silence.

The women all placed, another
door opened at the side of the church,
and the men's turn came. With
grave and measured steps they walk-
ed in file, and strange and imposing
was the sight — in comparison with the
variegated and gay dress of the wo-
men, so opposingly sombre was that
of the men ; and yet the attention
was not so much riveted by their uni-
form attire, their long brown vests,
their large puffed breeches ; but their
squared heads, their long features,
the quantity of straight hair, covering
their foreheads like thick fleece, and
falling in long locks on their shoul-
ders and down their backs. All,
children and men grown, wore the
same costume, this long black hair,
which in the air assumed a sombre

128

Count de MatUdUmbert.

reddish tint, and falling on the thick,
heavy eyebrows, gave to their eyes
an expression of energy, of almost
superhuman firmness. They scarce-
ly seemed men of our time and coun-
try ; the grave, immovable faces, with
the brilliant eyes scrutinizing at once
the character and appearance of the
stranger among them, the uncultivat-
ed heads of hair, weighing down
their large heads like the manes oT
wild animals, gave the idea of men
apart ; men from the wilds of some
far country moving among the mo-
dem races, with silent gesture and
solemn step, and uttering brief and
pithy sentences, as if they alone held
the secrets of the past, the knowledge
of the m}-steries and truths of the old-
en time.

They defiled one by one, prostrat-
ing themselves before the altar, and
kneeling in turn on the stone floor,
surrounding entirely the grating of
the choir. True assemblage of the

faithful ! The men, a strong
in front, the women behind,
humble crowd, but each fo
the other, living but for one
— for God. For God is not i
barbarians what he is for
civilized inhabitants of cities,
to explain God, and even
knees in his temples we
him, comment upon his ac
even doubt if he exists. The
no time in such vain thoughts
meditations : for them God i
know and believe in him. Y
the heaven over their hea
earth that produces their h
made them themselves, and pi
them or takes them to him.
the Invisible who can do eve
from the heights of the heave
everywhere at once ; and in c
son with this All-Powerful tl
their littleness, prostrate the
and adore.

COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT.

In that drear twilight, herald of the day

On which new £uih, new hope, new lo\-e were born.

And while my heart still pressed against the thorn

Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay

Of forest warbler in his own loved May,

Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn,

Kli2abeth*s young Toice, which sang death s scorn

In carols with celestial transports gay.

Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade

Creeps o er my life, as clear and jubilant

As ihai wild mocking-bird's, b heard the chan:

Of mighty abbots» whose processions fide

Into the dark of ages, made by ihee

New themes for thought and holy minscrelsy.

Rings,

129

RINGS.

over an old jewel-case,

:r day, I found a ring ; no
ta^ired heirloom ox gag£ if amour
by-gone days, but a simple black
;lcit whose sole ornament was a
jheartf on which were engraved
fashion die letters va. The
of it recalled a stormy day dur-
mg the winter of 1S64, when a pale
emaciated Confederate soldier
;ked at our door and asked for
Iter, Of course, it was cheerfully
gnnted*

On questioning him we learned
ika be had suffered the rigor of
in life for two years ; had just
released, and was m route to
his regiment before Petersburg,
Ipon leaving, he thanked me for
hospitality, and begged my ac*
ice of this little ring, the mak-
of which had served to while
ly the tedium of captivity. I put
carefully aside, and the lapse of
and other more stirring events
almost obliterated the circum-
itince £rom my mind, until it was
ttes revived.

As I gazed upon it, how many
laanories were revived by it J In it
I tntced the life of the donor, and in
lum the vain hopes and aspira-
tions of his comrades and the ruin
:h befell them. I heard the call
arms; saw the leave-taking and
tre for the field ; followed him
lid the sanguinary contests of bat-
tle ; till at length defeat, like a black
doud, lowers over his decimated le-
^mis^ and he finds himself within a
prison^s walls. There, chafing against
captivity, listening eagerly for tidings
of release, and sick with hope de-
liened, I see him beguiling the weary
VOL. vui. — Q

hours in fashioning this little trinket
At last the hour of liberty arrives,
and with bounding pulse, to tlie tune
of ** Home, sweet home,^' he turns his
back on prison-bars. Once again he
is a soldier of the army of Northern
Virginia ; but gone are tlxe high
hopes which animated his breast,
and gone are most of the brave
comrades who once stood shoulder
to shoulder with him; hardship,
hunger, and death have done their
work, and tlie end is near j a few
more suns, and he and his cause fall
to rise no more !

Such is the story that I read in
that little hoop of black horn. How
many startling events, how many pas-
sions of the human heart crowded
into a tiny compass !

And this, methought, is not the
only ring about which might be
woven a tale of joy or sorrow^ The
" lion-hearted " king, notwithstand-
ing his pilgrim guise, by means of
one was betrayed to his relentless
Austrian foe ; and, centuries later,
the gallant Essex entrusted his life
to such an advocate. Trifling bau-
bles as they are, which may be hid
in the hollow of a baby's hand, they
have, from their first introduction to
the world, acted a conspicuous part
in its hi$tor}%

The Persians maintain that Guiam-
schild, fourth king of the first race,
introduced the ring. Whether this
be true or not, it is certainly of an-
cient date, since mention is made of
it in Genesis as being worn by the
Hebrews as a signet. It was also in
use among the Eg>^ptians j for we are
told that, after the interpretation of
the dream, ** Pharaoh took off his

130

Rings.

ring from his hand, and put it on Jo-
seph's hand," as a mark of royal fa*
vor. The Sabincs used this orna-
ment during the lime of Romulus,
and perhaps the glittering jewels on
the fingers of the women may have
enhanced their attractions in the eyes
of the bold Roman youths when they
so unceremoniously bore them offl But
it is not certain at what precise period
the Romans adopted rings ; for there
are no signs of them on their statues
prior to those of Kuma and Servius
TuHius, They were commonly made
of iron^ and Pliny sa3's that Marius
wore his first gold one in his third
consulate, the year 650 of Rome.
Senators were not allowed to wear
them of this mcta! unless distinguish-
ed as ambassadors in foreign service ;
but in after days golden rings be-
came the badge of knighthood * the
people wearing silver, the slaves
iron.

In tracing its history, we can read-
ily imagine that the ring was invent-
ed merely as an accompaniment to
bracelet and necklace ; afterward it
became a badge of distinction j and
finally, when the art of engraving
and cutting stones was introduced,
it attained an importance which no
other trinket can boast of. Orna-
mented with initials, armorial crests,
or mystic characters, it has been used
for centuries as a seal for state docu-
ments and secret despatches, a sort of
^^'/^ry^' of their authenticity. There
are numerous instances in the sacred
writings of its peculiar significance
when thus emplo)*ed. For example,
when Ahasuerus, giving ear to the
counsels of his favorite, consented to
exterminate the Jews, it is recorded
that **thc king took his ring from
his hand, and gave it unto Haman ;"
and, concerning the proclamalion^
*'m the name of King Ahasuerus
was it written, and sealed with the
king's ring." We also read else-

canw^
thoQlf

where that the den into which Daa
iel was thrown was sealed by the
king " with his own signet, and with
the signets of his lords, that the par
pose might not be changed concern-
ing Daniel."

It is supposed that the Greeks did
not know the ring at the time of the
Trojan war; for Homer docs not
speak of it, and instead of sealing;
they secured their letters by roeiio
of a silken cord. Although tbii
people encouraged learning and the
fine arts* they do not seem to Ittie
possessed that of engravings whicll
they borrowed from the EgypiijioSi
who excelled in this branch to a re^^
markable degree.

The rage for signets soon becj
universal, no patrician was withoQl
his ring, and in Rome the engravers
were forbidden to make any two
seals alike. In such esteem were
they held, that it is related,
Lucullus visited Alexandria, Ptol
my could find no more accept;
present to oflfer him than an
raid, on which was engraved a poi^
trait of himself. Julius Cses^r hid
on his ring the image of Venus,
armed with a dart ; and the se;
of Pompey was a lion holding
sword, while that of Scipio Afrii
nus bore the portrait of Sypl
the Libyan king whom he had
quished.

The manner of wearing the signet
differed greatly, the Hebrews pre-
ferring to ornament the right hand,
the Romans the left The Greeks
put it on the fourth finger of
left hand, because of the belief
a nene connected that meml
with the heart; hence the
custom is observed with the wed
ding-ring.

After the advent of Christianity, ifl
assumed a spiritual as well as p^'
litical value, the episcopal ring, as it
is called, being used as a pledge of

ireeks

Rin^s,

Iknl maniage betixeen the bishop

lie church. This custom is of

%l date, since there is mention

^ proceedings of the fourth

jcil of Toledo, A,D. 633^ that a

} condemned for any offence

Ic council, if found innocent

'm second trial, should have his

^tor^d. The popes also wore

^and at the present time the

kI Father of the Catholic

9i has two-^one which he

\o sign apostolical briefs and

it letters J called ih^Jtshcrmaffs

representing St, Peter drawing

I net lull of fishes ; the other,

rhicii he seals his bulls^ is or-

Ited with the heads of St. Paul

It Peter, with a cross between

po.

I Hebrew used the wedcling-
though some writer maintains
\ was not a pledge of love, but
in lieu of a piece of money,
\ evident that the Christians
ed the practice in their mar-
rites at an early period, some
I oldest liturgies containing the
with regard to it,
ng esteemed in a political and
|ws sense, it is no matter of
5f that Cupid's minions have
■ftp time immemorial, made
Wpk seal of undying constancy,
ling its circular form as a t)T3e
Sraity. Thus, Portia, after be-
)g her riches upon Bassanio,

" 1 pi^e iHero with ihi* ring ;
lihca jtm yvt fronn. low, or gire away,
^ ««(|« tbe ruLn «C your lovct
l« wif vantage to esdaim 011 you. "

lorerSf not content with the
Ifn oi ihape, also added mot-
W^ it became the fashion to
\ %*eTscs, names, and dates
Ibe ring. Alluding to the
a* H&mlct asks, *'Is this a
^ or the posy of a ring?"
the last act of The Mer-

chant of Venice^ when Portia ex-
claims :

** A qiuirel, bo, already ? Wluit*t t]i« j»alt«r 7"

Gratiano answers :

*' Abmit a hoop of ^M, a ptitry ring
That ilic did ^ve me ; »hos« po«y wai
Far all the world Uke cutler's poelry
Upoo a )ai\it—Lepe mt^ and l*^vt m* maf,**

The wedding-ring of Lady Cath-
arine Grey, sister of Lady Jane Grey,
consisted of five golden links, and
on the four inner ones were these
lines of her husband's composition:

" As drclcs five by art compact^ ilicwe bat <»i« rinf

in taghtt
So trust unileth ferthfull mbdei with kuott of aecrei

m^ht:
Whose force to breaks but greedie Death noe wight

poMeurth power.
As time and sequel* weQ dudl prov«. My rioge

can say no more.*'

The famous ring given by Queen
Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex is
said to be still extant, and in the
possession of Lord John Thynne, a
descendant of Lady Frances Deve-
reux, the earl's daughter. It is t>f
gold, the sides engraved, with a ca-
meo head of Elizabeth in a sardonyx
setting.

Before ending this paper, I must
relate a curious legend, told of the
Emperor Charlemagne, prefacing my
story by saying, that in those times
certain precious stones were thought
to possess peculiar virtues which
had an influence on the wearers
or those around them. At the court
of Charlemagne there lived a wo-
man, neither young nor handsome,
but who appeared to have a won-
drous fascination for the monarch.
So potent were her charms, that
he neglected the affairs of his em-
pire, and allowed his sword to rust.
At last, to the great joy of all,
the woman died ; but Charlemagne
mourned grievously, and even when
her body was prepared for burial, re-
fused to allow it to be carried out of
his sight However, there was in

13^

In the SchGol'Raom.

the p&lace a bishop, learned in the
arts, and acquainted with the super-
stitions of the time; and one day,
when the king had gone hunting, he
resolved to examine the corpse. His
search was successful; for under the
woman's tongue he found a ring,
which he immediately secured. On
his return from the chase, the em-
peror repaired to the room where
the body lay; but instead of linger-
ing near it, he ordered it to be inter-
red, and seemed to have entirely re-
covered from the spell that bound
him. That night a ball was given at
court ; and many a fair cheek flushed
in anticipation of being the choice of
Charlemagne in the dance ; but lo!
when the music struck up, the em-
peror stepped forward and requested
the bishop to be his partner. The
good priest, resenting the indignity,
escaped from the hall, and feeling
assured that the ring in his posses-

sion was the cause of such conduc^^
threw it into a lake beneath thii
palace walls. Thereupon ChaiJi
magne recovered his senses,
ever after was devoted to the ^lOV^
and built there the town of Aii,
Some old chronicler also asserts
that, when the monarch was on his
death-bed, he said that it was m
possible for him to depart in peace
from this world until a certain riDg;
was restored to him. The secrctj
of its hiding-place being revealed,
the lake was dragged and the charm
found. Charlemagne received it
with many sigjns of joy, and request
ed that it might be buried wick
him.

For the truth of this legend I do
not vouch; but it is av^erred thai,
years aften^'ard, when the tomb of
the mighty Frank was opened, oai
liis breast was found an antiqui
ring.

IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.*

Tfte author of this volume has
evidently spent much time in the
school-room, and has not spent it in
v.iin. He writes like a practical man,
in a clear, vigorous st)^le. As he
says in his preface, he takes " a pret-
ty free range over the whole practi-
cal field of inquiry among profes*
sional teachers, and presents to us
thoughts suggested in the school-

• fn iM* Stk^'R^^m i CJka/im in the Phil^sff-
^y »/KdHctUhn. John S. Hart, LL.D., Prindpa]
of the New Jcrt-y St^t« Normal School Eldredg*

7 i 'f Edmatiffm, clemcrnf trnted

Ijyiii i:Kif»neii«ianilorphrvnoIo::p-

cal f;MrU« m a hj ie» ui tetteri to the Dcp»nincnt of
Putilic (nutructirn in th« dry of Kew Vork. Bjr
Jobo Hsckrr. Fii!iti»Ked by the Author. 5^ Rulfcrt
Straet, New York.

room itself in short, detached cliap-
ters." The work is not a phiMs€fky
of education, but rather a laudable
attempt to contribute something to-
ward it.

In the first chapter, on "What is
Teaching?'* he brings out forcibly the
truth that teaching is not simply tell
ing, nor is talking to a class necessa-
rily teaching, as experience shows
that a class may be told a thing
twenty times over, and talked to in
the most fluent manner, and still
make little advancement in ktioir-
ledge.

This truth deserves more atteoiiott
from those engaged in

In the School-Room,

f! work of universal education
ch is required in our country is
vast, that necessity has forced
ina^ny to assume the office of teachers
^^o have very little knowledge of
^|Ut teaching is. '* Teaching/' as the
^anthor well says, " is causing one to
know. Now, no one can be made to
Icnow a thing but by the act of his
0ini powers. His own senses, his
wm metDory, his own powers of rea-
son, perception, and judgment must
be exercised. The function of the
teacher is to bring about this exercise
of the pupil's faculties."

The second chapter, on ** The Art

of Questioning," states that a " most

important and difficult part'* of the

teacher's art is to know how to ask

i question, but he gives none of the

priociples that underlie the art The

omest reader will say : If so much

depends on skilful questioning, why

does he not tell us how to do it?

The little work of J, G. Filch, M.A,,

on Vi€ Art of Questioning appears

to OS much more philosophical and

I tttisfactor>\ According to him,

^H qyestions as employed by teachers

^nay be divided into three classes,

^Bilccording to the purposes which they

^■hay be intended to serv*e. There is,

^Birst^ the prdiminary or cxperitncntal

^t^uestion, by which an instructor feels

iis vray, sounds the depths of his

;>il's knowledge, and prepares him

' the reception of what it is design-

l to teach,

*rhere is, secondly, the question

nployed in actual instruction^ by

of which the thoughts of the

kmier are exercised, and he is com-

pcUfid, so to speak, to take a share in

gving himself the lesson.

Thirdly, there is the question of
txmmtatlofi, by which a teacher tests
his own ^ork, after he has given a
ks90n, and ascertains whether it has
htm soundly and thoroughly leani-
id. By this method, as an eminent

teacher has said, one first questions
the knowledge into the minds of the
children, and then questions it out
of them again.

The following chapters on the or-
der of development of the mental fa-
culties are very good* We think,
however, he lays too much stress on
the necessity of knowledge before
memory. The memory, being strong-
est and most retentive in youthj
should then be stored with those
germinating formulas which will bear
fruit in after life. When the reason*
ing powers are developed at a later
period, they then have something
upon which to act

The chapters on ** Loving the
Children " and ** Gaining their Affec-
tions " are excellent*

The high salaries paid in our pub-
lic schools induce many to engage in
teaching, merely because it affords
them honorable and lucrative em-
ployment. They have no love for
the children, and are, therefore, unfit
for the work. They have no sym-
pathy for the children of tlie poor
with bright eyes and tattered gar-
ments. It is painful to go into the
school of such teachers. They seem
to regard the children as pawns on a
chessboard, or as things which they
are paid to manage and keep in or-
der. Such teachers should study
well the chapters on loving the chil-
dren for what they are in themselves.

He then introduces a chapter on
'* Phrenolog}'," in which he details
several instances where a professor
of phrenology, as he says, was misled,
and gave an incorrect deUneation of
character. We suppose he wishes us
to conclude^ phrenology is there-
fore a humbug. But such an in-
ference is evidently unwarranted
from any data he has given. One
might as well say that several in-
stances of malpractice on the part
of physicians prove the science of

134

Ih the Schml-Room.

fnedicine to be a humbug. There is

no doubt that, by phrenology, physi*
ognomy, and various temperamental
peculiarities, a person's general cha-
racter and disposition may be dis-
cerned. The wise teacher will study
these, that he may intelligently vary
his government and teaching to suit
the various characters of the pupils
under his charge.

The work of Mn John Hecker on
77i€ Scientific: Basis of Education
shows to how great an extent a
knowledge of phrenology and of the
different temperaments may assist
the teacher in the instruction and
government of children. His work
is worthy the attention of every
teacher.

The chapters on "Normal Schools"
and " Practice Teaching " are impor-
tant It by no means follows that,
because a person knows a thing, he is
therefore prepared to teach.

The art of communicating one's
knowledge to others is quite a dis-
tinct acquirement.

No one who has compared the re-
sults obtained by teachers who have
been trained for the work with those
who have not can fail to appreciate
this. We hope the time will come
when all who occupy the position of
teachers will be required to attend
to this matter, and keep pace with
the progress made in the art of
teaching.

The chapter on cultivating a habit
of attention should be studied by
every teacher.

The freaks into which an unculti-
vated ear may be led for the want of
attention will be best illustrated by
one of the author's examples. A class
at the high-school was required to
copy a passage from dictation. The
clause, " Every breach of veracity in-
dicates some latent vice,** appeared
with the following variations :

£v«ry far«a«h of vetadiy mdicatcfts

'* breech " ferociiy

** preach " emcity

" bruicb ** vivadiy

" *' ** veracity *'

♦» - " iQtbfiBOflV

reach flf dicir uddicy iodkato

ij-^kl ftdMct

(

ublic ^
rtionfl

Every one who is called upon to give
out " notices " or to speak in public
knows full well how great a portion
of what is said in the plamest
ner is misapprehended for the
of this habit of attention.

The volume closes with a lengthf
"Argument for Common Schools."
It would be more properly called aa ^
"apology." His first point is, ** that ■
without common schools we cannot^
maintain permanently our popular
institutions." The necessity of uui*
versal education to secure the pei^
manence of our popular institutiooi
is conceded by all. But educadocii
according to the author's own de(^
nition, is the "developing in du«
order and proportion whatever is
good and desirable in human
ture." Therefore, not only the in*
tellect} but also the moral and relt*'
gious nature must be developed*
This the common schools fail lo da^

A man is not necessarily a good
citizen because he is intelligent, with-
out he also possesses moral integrity.
According to the author's own adiBts*
sion, his education is incomplete. As
the public schools fail to give any
moral training, they fail to make re- _^
liable citizens, and are therefore in-
sufficient to secure tlie permanence
of our democratic form of govera*
ment.

To this objection he replies *^ that
many of the teachers are professing
Christians, and exert a continual
Christian influence.*' But many more
are non-professors, and exert ao aoti^
christian influence.

In the School-Room,

In visiting schools, we have been
able to tell the religious status of the
tiers in charge by the general
: of the exercises- One presided
by a zealous Methodist resem-
a Methodist Sunday-school or
ence meeting. Another, under
re of a ** smart young man,"
M^ted in love songs, boating
fongSi etc., and had the general tone
of a young folks' glee-club. In an-
other of our most celebrated public
kIuioIs, o(ne of the professors was
in atheist, and it was a matter of
, remark among the boys that

said there was no God.

another, one of the teachers
oi'crheard sneering at a child
I she believed in our Lord Je-
rbt, and had a reverence for
t%ious things. We admit that the
niliar intercourse and intimate re-
[ItilOEts of the teachers with the chil*
htXi give them a great influence over
Iheir plastic minds, but» to our sor-
row, we know that it is not always
^ fer good. We do not, therefore, con-
tier it a recommendation of a sys-
I to say that the moral tone of its
siching depends altogether on the
price and character of the differ-
Dt teachers it happens to employ.
Again, be says the law of trial by
rir,' r» n,.rres that every citizen should
nt, as they are thus called
like part in the administration of
atice. True ; but it requires much
that jurymen should possess
I principle. WTiat makes courts
F justice so often a mockery, but the
^tant of principle and of conscience
in those who administer the lawf If
i tistate, life, or reputation depend-
ou the decision of twelve men,
lid he feel easy if he knew them
unprincipled, immoral men,
npen to bribery and corruption,
however intelligent they might be?
No; the constitution of our govern-
nent, the popular institutions of our

country, require that here, more than
in any country of the worid, the
young should receive a sound moral
and religious training, which cannot
be done where, as here, religion is
excluded from our common schools*

But, he says, tlie children attend
the Sunday-school, which supple*
ments the instructions of the week-
day-school True; but every earn-
est pastor who has any positive
creed or doctrine to teach his chil-
dren will tell you that one or two
brief meetings on Sunday are not
enough for this purpose. We our-
selves are forced to the painful con-
clusion that the Sunday-school sys-
tenfi does not give sufficient control
over the children to form in them
any earnest Christian character. It
is like reserving the salt which
should season our food during the
week, and taking it all in a dose on
Sunday.

The Sunday-school should be dili-
gently used to supply, as far as may
be, the lack of religious instruction
in the common schools, but that it
alone is inadequate to tliis purpose
is shown by the constantly increas-
ing number of our young who follow
not the footsteps of their parents in
the ways of a Christian life.

The author then, changing his
base, argues that intellectual educa-
tion alone tends to prevent sensuali-
ty and crime, and adduces statistics
to show that the majority of convicts
in our prisons are from the unedu-
cated class. But if he attended to
other statistics recently brought to-
light by Rev. Dr, Todd, Dr, Storer,.
of Boston, and others, he would dis-
cover that sensuality, only more refin-
ed^ is permeating American society*
and that hidden crime is depopulat-
ing some of the fairest portions of
our land. It is true, perhaps, that
those crimes which are taken cogni-
zance of by the police courts may

136

In tJu Sclwol'Room.

be more numerous among the unedu-
cated, but it is those secret crimes
against God and the moral law that
corrupt society and endanger a na-
tion's life.

In New England, which the author
holds up as the ideal of what the
common-school system can produce,
physicians testify that immorality and
hidden crime prevail to such an ex-
tent that the native American stock
is literally dying out, the number of
deaths far exceeding the number of
births. Intellectual culture aJom will
not presence American society from
corruption, any more than it did pa-
gan Greece and Rome.

The author seems to feel the force
of this objection, which, as he says, " is
urged with seriousness by men whose
purity of motive is above question,
and whose personal character gives
great weight to their opinions," and
admits that "religious teaching does
not hold that prominent position in
the course of study that it should
hold ; but he seems forced, like many
of his fellow-educators whom we have
known, to argue and apologize for
the common-school system, because
they see no way of securing univer-
sal education and at the same time
providing for proper religious train-
ing. If they turn, however, to the
educational systems of France, Aus-
tria, or Prussia, they would find the
problem solved. Even in Canada,
the British Parliament has avoided
by its provisions those serious errors
.under which we labor, and which are

making our system daily
more unpopular.

By " An Act to restore
Catholics in Upper Canad
rights in respect to Separate
passed May 5th, 1865, ^^^t
that "the Roman Catholii
schools shall be entitled t
in the fund annually grant
legislature of the provinc
support of common-sch<
shall be entitled also to m
all other public grants, invi
and allotments for commcHI
purposes now made or her©
be made by the municip*
ties, according to the avei
ber of pupils attending su<
as compared with the who!
number of pupils attendinj
in the same city, town, \
township." (Cap. 5, sec. d

And also that "the R<
tholic separate schools (1
registers) shall be subject
inspection as may be din
time to time by the chief
tendent of public instnictiG
5, sec 26.)

Let our separate schools
been and may be established
the children receive a prop^
ous training, receive their
portion of the public fun^
the inspection of a board
tion be kept up to the hig]
ard of secular learning,
grievances under which wi
fer will be removed.

Th« Holy Gntyle.

J37

rXUI THS GUMAN.

THE HOLY GRAYLE.

"'HcKB on the niahes will I sleep,
AodperduLDce tbere may come a visioa true,

Ere day crtaUe the worid anew.*

Slowly Sir Lannfid's eyes grew dim»
Slumber fell like a cloud on him.
And into his soul the vision flew."

LOWBLL.

Sir Launcelot du Lac — ^without
his peer of earthly, sinful man — had
taken the Quest of the Holy Grayle.
One deadly sin gnawed at the heart
of the flower of chivalry ; but a mighty
sorrow struggled with and subdued
his remorse, and a holy hermit as-
soiled him of his sin. With purified
and strengthened heart, he won his
way to a sight of that wondrous ves-
sel, the object of so many knightly
vows. It stood on a table of silver
veiled with red samite. A throng of
angels stood about it. One held a
wax light and another the holy cross.
A light like that of a thousand torch-
es filled the house. Sir Launcelot
heard a voice cry, " Approach not I"
but for very wonder and thankflilness
he forgot the command. He press-
ed toward the Holy Grayle with
outstretched hands, and cried, "O
most fair and sweet Lord I which art
here within this holy vessel, for thy
pity, show me something of that I
seek." A breath, as from a fiery
furnace, smote him sorely in the face.
He fell to the ground, and lay for
the space of four and twenty days
seemingly dead to the eyes of all
the people. But in that swoon mar-
vels that no tongue can tell and no
heart conceive passed before his
^ace. . . *.

The history of the wondrous ves-
sel was in a measure made known to
him. His purified eyes saw in the
dim past a long line of patriarchs
aod prophets, who had been entrust-

ed with this sacred charge almost
from the beginning of time. The
San Greal was revealed to his ardent
gaze:

First : in the hands of white-rob-
ed men, who met Noah as he went
in, and his sons, and his wife, and
his sons' wives, with him into the
ark, bearing with him the bones of
Adam — great Progenitor. Its origin
and history were revealed to Noah,
and that it was destined to be used
in the most mysterious of rites.

Next : Abraham was standing be-
fore an altar on a hillock in the val-
ley of Jehoshaphat His flocks were
grazing around or drinking from the
brook Cedron ; his camels and beasts
of burden and armed servants in the
distance. The patriarch, flushed
with victory, stood as if in awe and
expectation. Majestic, white-winged
Melchizedek came from Salem. His
tall, slender frame was full of temper-
ed majesty. He wore a garment of
dazzling whiteness, confined by a
girdle on which were embroidered
characters of mystic import His
long hair was fair and glossy as silk ;
his beard white, short, and pointed.
His face shone with divine splendor.
A holy calm seemed diflused in the
air around him. He bore in his
hands the holy vessel handed down
from Noah. He placed it upon the
altar, behind which rose three clouds
of smoke ; the one in the midst rose
higher than the other two. On the
altar lay the bones of Adam — ^long
after buried beneath the great altar
of Calvary — and both prayed God to
fulfil the promise he had made to
Adam of one day sending the great
Deliverer who would bruise the ser-

138

Tke Holy Grayh.

pent's head The priest of the most
high God then took bread and wine
—emblems of the great Eucharis-
tic Sacrifice — ^raised them toward
heaven, and blessed them, and gave
thereof to Abraham and his ser\^ants,
but tasted not thereof himself. They
Hvho ate of this bread and drank of
this wine seemed strengthened and
devoutly inspired thereby. And
Melchizedek blessed Abraham, and
said: "Blessed be Abram by the
most high God, who created heaven
, and earth." And he renewed to him
I the promise that in him should all
[the families of the earth be blessed.
The San Greal seemed, ia the vi-
rion, left with Abraham a5 a pledge
I of that promise, and afterward^was
[carried down into Egypt by the chil-
Ivdren of Israel Moses took it with
liim when he fled to the land of Mi-
dian, and w^as using it for some mys*
terious oblation on Mount lioreb,
when the Lord appeared to him in a
Jame of fire out of the burning bush.
Sir Launcelot saw the vessel long
after in the temple of Jerusalem
among other precious objects of anti-
quity \ its use and origin nearly for-
gotten. Only a few remembered its
strange history, and/<r/if, rather than
knew, that it yet awaited its most
glorious use. Its holy guardians had
always w^atched over its safety with
jealous care, until the abomination of
desolation entered the holy place.
But a divine Eye seemed to watch
over it. At the institution of the
Mass, it w^as in the possession of a
holy woman, since known as Veroni-
ca — her who took off her veil to wipe
the dust and sweat and blood from
the divine face of suHering Jesus,
which was left thereon so miraculous-
ly imprinted. Veronica brought the
vessel to the disciples of Jesus to be
used at the Last Supper.

The Holy Grayle revealed to the
astonished eyes of Sir Launcelot was

composed of two partSi the cup and
the foot The cup alone had been
handed down from the time of the
holy patriarchs. Its very form was
wonderful and significant, and its
composition mysterious. Jesus alone
knew what it was. It was dark,
compact, and perhaps of vegetable
origin. It was covered and lined
With goldj and on it were two han-
dles.

The foot of the chalice, added at
a later period, was of virgin gold,
wrought with the skill of a cunning
workman. It was ornamented with,
a serpent and a btmch of grapes,
gleamed with precious stones.

The whole chalice rested on a sil-
ver tablet, surrounded by six smaller
ones. These six cups had belonged
to different patriarchs, who drank
therefrom a strange liquor on cer-
tain solemn occasions. They were
used by the holy apostles at the
Last Supper, each cup serving for I wo
persons. (These cups Sir Launce-
lot saw belonging afterward to dif-
ferent Christian churches, where they
were held in great reverence.) The
Holy Grayle stood before our bless-
ed Lord. . . . Let not sinful hand
depict the vision of that unbloody
sacrifice, so clearly revealed to the
adoring eyes of Sir Launcelot, and so
affectingly told in Holy VVriu . • .
The San Greal, fashioned with
mysterious care for the most myste-
terious of oblations, and handed
down from remote antiquity by
righteous men, to whom it was
the pledge of a solemn covenant^
was henceforth to be the object of
the veneration of the Christian
world. Only the pure in heart
could guard it. Angels with lov-
ing reverence folded their wings
around what contained most pre-
cious BIockI. Its presence confer-
red a benediction on the land in
which it was preserved.

New PublUations.

Sir Launcelot saw afterward the
hind Uxat came from heaven right
to the holy grayle and bare it away.
But a comforting voice told him that
it should reappear on the earth,
though for him the quest was end-
ed.

At the end of four and twenty days,
Sir Launcelot awoke. The vision had
passed away^ but the place was filled

with the sweetest odors, as if of Pa*
radise. Wondering thereat, he cried :
" I thank God of his infinite mercy
for that I have seen, for it comforteth
me/' And he rose up and went to
Camelot, where he found King Ar-
thur and many of the Knights of the
Round Table, to whom he related all
that had befallen him.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Ims OP THE English Cardinals ;
kauDiNG Historical Notices
or THE Papal Court, from Ni-
cholas Breakspear (Pope Adri-
Ax IV.) TO Thomas Wolsey, Car-
WXAL Legate, By Folkestone
Williams^ author of, etc, etc. Phi-
laddphia: J. B, Lippincott 3t Co.
iS6S. 2 vols. 8%»o, pp. 484, 543.

Wonders will never cease. A few
tars since, the present pope, willing
> do honor to a great nation, conferred
one of its subjects the highest dig-
litT in his gift The new cardinal was
^ tiun honored alike in England and
ca for his learning and ability, as
1 for his never departing from the
line of his priestly and episcopal
Ctions. One would have supposed
be English government and people
have felt flattered, and that the
ngllsh sovereign, who is queen not
[of certain Protestant EngliJ^hmen,
' a mass of Catholic subjects who
Eit number much less than twenty
[lions. Would, while thanking his holi-
ess, have hinted that her twenty mil-
ons should have more than one repre-
11 tali ve in the Sacred College. Instead
this sensible course, a period of in-
ensued — England frothed, Eng-
amed, England grew rabid,
judge by this book, England is
actually becoming sane. The author
teems to feel that England is slighted

because she has no cardinal. *' There
has recently been a creation of cardi-
nals, and, though some disappointment
may have been caused by the omission
of an eminent English name from those
so honored^ the extraordinary claims of
one of the most active of Roman Catho-
lic prelates are not likely to be overlook-
ed by so discriminating a pontiff as Pto
Nono.''

Mr Williams here, in two goodly oc-
tavos, gives the lives of the English car-
dinals, from Robert le Poule to Wolsey,
as he conceives it ; and a rapid exami-
nation of tlic whole, and careful scrutiny
of portions, leads us to the judgment
that seldom has a work been attempted
by a man so utterly unfitted for the task.
As though his proper task did not afford
him a field sufficiently large» he gives an
introduction of eighty pages on the Pa-
pacy, the Anglo-Saxon Church, and the
Anglo-Norman Church. The whole his-
tory of the church down to the Reforma-
tion is thus treated of, and to the mighty
undertaking he brings only the usual
superficial reading of our time, with a
more than ordinary amount of religious
flippancy, and false and prejudiced views
of Catholic dogma, practice, polity, and
life. There is not a silly slander against
the church that he does not adopt and
give, with all the gravity imaginable, as
undisputed fact, not even deigning to
quote vaguely any of his second-hand
authorities or modem treatises, while, to

140

New PuhUcatiotis,

niake a parade of his learning, he gives
us a four- line note in Greek to support
his opinion as to a topographical ques-
tion as immaterial to the history of the
English cardinals as a discussion on the
Zulu language would be. As instances
of his utter unfitness, we might refer to
his treatment of such points as St. Gre-
gory VIL, Pope Joan, and the institu-
tion of the Feast of the Immaculate
Conception.

What his own religious stand-point
may be is not easily decided. He lays
down (p. 146) that Christ*s divinity is
his humanity ; that the idea of the Good
Shepherd^ put forward by our Lord and
ever deemed so typical of himi was of
pagan origin, (p. 8,) and, from the note
on the same page, that the church, as
founded by Christ, was a grand failure.
He maintains, too, that the Christianity,
as introduced into England, was and is
only the old paganism, the names of the
days of the week settling the question,
(p. 24.) On one point only he seems
clear and positive, and this is, that on
general principles popes must always
be wrong, and that to deny anything they
lay down must be pre-eminently right.

As a specimen of his style, take the
following: "The Good Shepherd was
the recognized emblem of the divine
Founder of their religion, but as the
community enlarged it required a hu-
man director/' We are left in doubt
whether this community of primitive
Christians required this human direc-
tor as a new emblem, or a new founder,
or a new religion. He proceeds \ *' He
who by his superior sanctity gained au-
thority as well as admiration was in-
vested with that character. His flock
became a church, and he undertook its
spiritual management in the capacity of
presbyter." This is a very pretty fable,
Dut he fails to give us any authority^
An expression of our Lord shows that
church authority began at the other end :
^NoH vox me eUgistii; sed ego eUgi vos^
ti posui vos ui eatis^^ " You did not
elect me, (your God and Redeemer,) but
I picked you out and set you up to go
and teach/* And they did' go and did
teach, and such as listened to their
teaching and became their disciples

became Christians with htuoaii direc>
tors from the outset

During the i>eriod covered propcdy
by these volumes, from the beginning
of the twelfth to that of the liftecnth
centuries, England had comparati'veljr
few cardinals; English kings 8ceia«4
to have cared little to exercise any in-
fluence on papal councils, and nei'er
sought to obtain for an English prince
an honor given to memt*ers of many
reigning families. The English cardi-
nals whose names at once suggest them-
selves are Cardinal Nicholnjs Break*
spear, (subsequently Poi>e Adrian IV.,)
Cardinal Stephen Langton, Cardinal
Beaufort, and Cardinal Wolsey. Of
all except the f.rst, the general idea in
men's minds is drawn less from historjr
than from Shakespeare. Of these es-
pecially, really well-written lives, with
sketches of the less known and less im-
portant English cardinals, would indeed
be a valuable addition ; but such Mr.
Williams's book certainly is not.

In beginning his life of Adrian IV.,
he quotes Matthew of Paris, who makes
him son of Robert de Camera, said by
William of Newburgh to have been a
poor scholar ; then cites Camden's state*
ment that he was born at Langley, near
St Alban*s; but he slips in a charge,
hunted up in the filth of the wTctched
Bale, that he was illegitimate ; as though
the assertion of such a man, in the most
virulent stage of the Reformation abuse,
could be authority as to ^ fact of a period
so Jong past Even Fuller, as he ad-
mits, with all his readiness to belittle
the papacy, only " insinuates that he was
an illegitimate son.** Yet Mr. Williams,
on the assertion of a Bale and the in-
sinuation of a Fuller, says, ** There is
reason to believe that he was the natural
son of a^ri^j/," and on this supposition
he proceeds to erect his whole super-
structure.

From such a writer no book can ema-
nate that .iny man can read who do^
not witfiilly wish to be misled.

GoKTKK AND Schiller. An Histori-
cal Romance. By L, Muhlbacl% au-
thor of "Joseph IL and his Court,"

Niw Fublicatmis,

141

•* Frederick the Great and his Court,**
" The Empress Josephine," " Andre-
as Hofer/' etc., etc. Translated from
the German by Chapman Coleman.
lllostnued by Gaston Fay. New
York ; D. Appleton & Co. Pp. 283.
1S68.

A careful perusal of this, the author*s
latest production, has not caused us to
modify, in the slightest degree, the opin-
ion heretofore expressed in these pages
concerning the volumes comprising what
18 now kno\m as the Miihlbach series
of historical romances. That they are
aWy written wx admitted then, and we
. ire m»t now disposed to deny. But
' th>s» their only merit, in our judgment,
CM be claimed equally as well for many
literary works which no prudent father,
00 careful mother, would dream of keep-
ing within reach of, much less of placing
F Id the hands qU their guileless offspring,
[lllidt love, in some instances covered
bin veil of Platonism, the intrigues
ders, duplicity and meanness,
arc the pivotal pcnnts on which the in-
cidents principally turn* For these and
fiilar offences against morality, the
uthor has no word of censure, while
\ for the dramatis per sond^ their virtu-
Hr indigTiation, when given utterance
, is always directed against the crimi-
i and not the crime. In fine, we look
on these as books by which not a
^ngle person can become better or
ftore enlightened, while very many will
om their perusal worse than before*

f ATRER CLE\^LAKD ; OR, THE jEStrrT,

By the authoress of *' Life in the
doistcr,*' ** Grace ■ If alloran," " The
Two Marys," etc., etc Boston: P.
Donahoe* Pp. 17S. 1868.

Aa affecting talc, founded on fact

"^main incident, the heroine wither-

^Jjcneath the breath of calumny and

Bnally dying of a broken heart, truly de-

bicts the fatal consequences too often

csulting from the sin of slander. The

«enc is laid in England, Ireland, and

he New World. The incidents being

rinci pally descriptive of the fallen for-

iies of the Desmonds, the sad reverses

of Squire Cleveland, and the untimely
fate of the amiable heroine, give a rather
sombre tone to the narrative, which is
somewhat relieved, however, by the filial
affection of Aileen Desmond, the quaint
humor of Pat Magrath, and the unaffect-
ed piety and zealous ministrations of
Father Cleveland, the good Jesuit.

Outlines of Ancient and Modern
History, Illustrated by numerous
Geographical and Historical Notes
and Maps, Embracing : Part I. An-
cient Histor>'. Part I L Modern His-
tory. By Marcius Wills on. School
Edition, Published by I vison, Phin-
ney & Co., New- York*

Messrs, Ivison, Phinney & Co. are
amon^ the most extensive publishers of
school books in the United States,
They are the publishers of Sanders s
series of Union Readers, Robinson's
Arithmetics and Mathematical Works,
KerPs Grammars, and many other
school publications. All of these arc
largely used in our Catholic institutions,
and extensively used in the public
schools all over the country. At pre-
sent we will confine our remarks to the
Outlines of A ncient and Modern History
at the head of this notice. We are fully
satisfied that any candid, intelligent, fair-
minded reader of this misnamed history,
after the most cursory examination,
would pronounce its introduction into
the schools of the country as highly cal-
culated to mislead such as should rely
on its statements, and corrupt such as
should adopt its principles. In note I,
p, 332, he tells us that the " Albigenses
is a name given tg several heretical sects
in the South of France, who agreed in
opposing the dominion of the Roman
hierarchy, and in endeavoring to restore
the simplicity of ancient Christianity,**
and that "the creed of the unfortunates
had been extinguished in blood." The
Protestant historian, Mosheim, speaking
of these ** unfortunates,'' says that
" their shocking violation of decency
was a consequence of their pernicious
system. They looked upon decency
and modesty as marks of inward cor-
ruption. Certain enthusiasts among

New Puhlkathm,

them maintained that the believer could
not sin, let his conduct be ever so hor*
rible and atrocious." (Murdock's Mo-
sheim, note, vol. ii. b. lii. p. 256, •)
But our object is not to refute or expose
its inconsistencies, contradictions, mis-
representations, falsehoods, and caluro-
nics, as the book, left to itself, is for be-
low our notice. But the case is different
when Messrs. Ivison, Phinney & Co,
set their machinery in motion for intro-
ducing this SCHOOL-BOOK tnto all the
schools in the country, send their agents
from school to school soliciting their in-
troduction, and advertise in school pub-
li cations throughout the country that
** this Hisimry has an extensive circula-
tion, has received the highest recommen-
dations from hundreds of presidents and
professors of colleges, principals of aca-
demies, seminaries, and high-schools."
It is these powerful and, we are sorry
to say, successful efforts that have
caused us to take any notice whatever
^iof this demoralizing book ; for left to
" it would be of very little conse*
Iquence. In the same page fix»m ivhich
I we have already quoted, p. 333, the au-
thor assents that " the avarice of Pope
Leo X. was equal to the credulity of
the Germans ; and billets of salvation,
or indulgences professing to remit the
punishments due to sins, even before the
commission of the contemplated crime,
were sold by thousands among the
German peasantry*" And then he goes
on to tell us that Luther bitterly in-
veighed against the traffic in indulgen-
Lces, and that he was a man of high re pu-
liation for sanctity and learning. Here
ttfie author is so anxious to falsify the
Catholic doctrine of indulgence, and to
blacken tlie character of Leo X., that
he goes so far as to slander and misre-
present even his idol, Martin Luther,
For Luther did not inveigh against the
pope for the sale of indulgences, or
ever say that an indulgence was a par-
don for sin past, present, or to come. It
was left for his followers to coin this
falsehood, and it is a slander on Luther
to accuse him of the fabrication. He
has enough to account for without
charging him with what he is not guilty
of ; and he knew and taught while a

* TSik OOI* wu OBLitted b tbt EoslMh tnailation.

Catholic priest that an indulgence
not pardon sin, and that a pers
mortal sin cannot gain an indiilj
We may return to Willson's Hu
again, for he has written othei
sides the one referred to^ and «
the same strain ; but we trust ipe
said enough to draw the attention 1
readers to the character of the
and we hope that neither the so
lions of agents, nor the high^oui
recommendations of interested p
in its favor, will prevent them iio:
posing its introduction into our sd
public and private, and preventif
introduction whenever they can. (
de Maistre has testified that histoi
the last three hundred years, is % |
conspiracy against truth ; and altl
the Wilisons and their tribe arc
numerous, active, and powerful, thi
gress of the age warns them that
cannot delude the public

^autJiH

I. The Complete Poeth
OF Robert Burns, with
Notes, and a life of tlie
James Currie, M.D.— 2* The Pi
CAL Works op John Miltojc.
which is prefixed a Biogmpli
the author, by his nephew* Ed
Phillips. — 3. The Monastery
Hp-art op Mid-Lothian. Bi
Walter Scott, Bart Paper.— 4.'
MiDSHiPUAN Easy. By Ca
Marrj'att Paper. — 5. The Life
Aoventures of Nicholas N

LEBV, MARTIK CHUZZLEWIT

American Notes. By Charles \
ens. New York: D. Appletoa i

1S68.

We give above the titles of ila
ferent works, by well-known anit
new editions of whose writings arc
being reprinted, in a cheap and po
form, by the Messrs. Appleton.
long as the majority of people will
little else than fiction, we are gk
sec the Messrs. Appleton give them
works as Walter Scott's and Ch
Dickcns^s, for the trifle of twenty
cents a volume. The v
markably cheap, and \\
effect, even m a slight 4kj^iu4^ Xf^

New Publuatums.

143

the 700th of the country turn from the
sickly trash of newspaper stories, and
read these instead, the Messrs. Apple-
ton will have done good for the rising
generation. If we are to have cheap
Utentnre spread broadcast over the
land, it is better to have such works as
those of Scott, Dickens, etc., than the
dime novel and the weekly-paper stuff
sow so wkiely prevalent

Modern Women and what is said
OP THEic A reprint of a series of
articles in the Saturday Review.
With an introduction by Mrs. Lucia
Gilbert Calhoun. New York : J. S.
RedfiekL Pp. 371. 1868.

This volume contains thirty-seven
articles on modem woman in her va-
rious phases. That they are, in a cer-
tain sense, ably written, it is needless
to assert ; and as the majority of them
have been extensively copied on this
side of the Atlantic, it may be equally
unnecessary to state that, as regards
the subject under discussion, they are
generally denunciatory. Hence we are
at a loss to understand what could in-
duce one of the sex attacked to take
upon herself the ungracious task of a
compiler, even with the opportunity of
ttlf-vindication afforded by the intro-
duction. Perhaps, however, this advo-
cate of woman's rights acts on the prin-
ciple that even kicks and cuffs are bet-
ter than being entirely ignored.

Alton Park ; or, Conversations on
Reugious and Moral Subjects.
Chiefly designed for the amusement
and instruction of young ladies. New
edition. Philadelphia : Eugene Cum-
miskey. Pp. 408.

Alton Park is so well and fevor-
^ known to Catholics, that praise at
ov hands and at this late day is super-
•Wgrtofy. We must, however, com-
J^ittrt die publisher for the very
■■^■itti ttrie in which he has brought

A Pysche op To-day. By Mrs. C.
Jenkin, author of " Who breaks
pays," "Skirmishing," "Once and
Again," " Cousin Stella." New
York: Leypoldt & Holt Pp. 280.
1868.

This tale represents to us certain as-
pects of Parisian life, which are inter-
esting, not as always exciting pleasur-
able emotions, but as being evidently
drawn from life. The story is told in a
pleasing, unaffected manner, and the
main incidents are only too probable.

Logic for Youno Ladies. Trans-
lated from the French of Victor Dou-
blet, Professor of Belles- Lettres. New
York: P. O'Shea. Pp.148. 1868.

An excellent text-book ; clear, simple>
comprehensive. We would suggest,
however, in order that its sphere of
usefulness may not be even apparently
circumscribed, that the title for the
next edition read, not " Logic for Young
Ladies," but " Logic for the Young."

Academic Edition. A Dictionary
OF the English Language, explan-
atory, pronouncing, et)rmological and
synonymous. With an • appendix,
containing various useful tables.
Mainly abridged from the latest edi-
tion of the quarto dictionary of Noah
Webster, LL.D. By William G. Web-
ster and William A. Wheeler. Illus-
trated with more than three hundred
and fifty engravings on wood. Pp.
xxxii. 560. 1868.

A High-School Dictionary of the
English Language, explanatory,
pronouncing, and synonymous. With
an appendix containing various useful
tables. Mainly abridged from the
latest edition of the quarto dictionary
of Noah Webster, LL.D. By Wil-
liam G. Webster and William A.
Wheeler. Illustrated with more than
three hundred engravings on wood.
Pp. xxiv. 415. 1868.

244

New Publkaiions.

A Common-School Dictionary of
THE English Language, explana-
tory, pronouncing, and synonmous.
With an appendix containing various
useful tables. Mainly abridged from
the latest edition of the American
dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D,,
by William G. Webster and William
A» Wheeler. Illustrated with nearly
250 enji^vings on wood. Pp» xix^
400. i86S«

A Primary-School Dictionary of
THE English Language, explana-
torvi pronouncing, and sjTionjmious.
With an appendix containing various
useful tables. Mainly abridged from
the latest edition of the American dic-
tionary of Noah Webster, LL.D., by
William G. Webster and WiUiam A.
Wheeler. Illustrated with more than
200 engravings on wood. Pp. xii.
5$a. t868.

A Pocket Dictionary of the Eng-
lish Language ; abridged from the
American dictionary of Noah Web-
ster, LL-D. Prefixed is a collection
of words, phrases, mottoes, etc,^ in
Latin and French, with translations
in English. William G. Webster,
editor Pp. iv. 249. 1868.

The Army and Navy Pocket Dic-
tionary. By William G. Webster.
Pp. iv. 319. 186S.

The peculiar claims of these books to
professional and popular patronage are

so fully set forth in the titles pfrefixed,
that it only remains for us to say that
we heartily recommend them to teachers
and others, as among the best dictiona- 1
ries of their class now before the pub* |
lie. They are published by I visoiif Phin*
ney, Blakeman & Co., New York.

The <* Catholic Publication Socjcty"
has in press The Holy Communum:
its Philosophy^ Tkeolo^\ and Fractict.
By John Bernard Dalgaims, Priest
of the Oratory of St Philip Ncri 1
A new edition of the Illustrated His-
tory of Ireland^ by a member of the
Poor Clares, Kenmare, Ireland, and
sold for the benefit of that community.
This edition will ha%^e additional en-
gravings, and over loo pages more
matter than the first edition. It will ^
also contain a chapter on the Irish in
America. The work will be ready
about October 15th. Canvassers srei
wanted to sell it in the cottnlry.

■001C5 KEOuvnx

From T«» Catholic PttiLicATiow Socwrr, \
York : SymVjulitm. By John Adam Moeh1«v '
D.D. t vol crown «vo, pp. 304. iViot, 1^—"
[lliutnilcd Catholic Suttdiiy-SchcDol Libniy
oood series. Ji vtilit, in boXf |6 per booc

From Patrick: Domaiios, Botloo; Tbe^orki «i
Rev. Arthur 0*Learj, O.S,F. E^ed by « On
gyntan of M^ssacKittetts. x voU &vo» pfi.
Pricey 1^

THE

or THf *

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. VIII., No. 44— NOVEMBER, 1868.

THE CHURCH OF THE FUTURE.

The phrase which forms the title to
Ihis article does not originate with
us. We find it floating in the col-
umns of various recent periodicals.
Our attention is especially directed
to it, as the expression of a definite
idea, in a late number of the Ga-
l^i and by an editorial in the
Churchman for the 35th of July of the
present year. From these we gather
that, in the opinion of certain mo-
dem prophets, some one of the ex-
isting Protestant denominations is
destined to achieve pre-eminence over
all the rest, and, gathering into its
single fold the population of Ameri-
ca, become the "Church of the Fu-
ture ^ in our land.

The author of the article in the
Gdaxy writes in the interest of Me-
thodism. In its past successes and
its present characteristics he beholds
an omen of its ultimate supremacy
over all other Christian bodies, if
not over infidelity and rationalism
itself. The Churchman^ on the con-
trary, claims the laurels of this fu-
ture victory for Protestant Episco-
palianism — predicting that, through
VOL. VIII. — xo

its inconsistency with republican in-
stitutions, the influence of the Catho-
lic Church must eventually be de-
stroyed j that Presbyterianism, being
a growth of but three hundred years,
and never yet attaining, or likely to
attain to, the semper^ et ubique^ et ab
omnibus of mature and stalwart age,
must soon decay; that Methodism,
having lost its pure vitality when it
departed from the sacred unity o£
*^ Mother Churchi^ can never meet
the needs of coming generations;
he thence concludes, that the dimina^
tive society once called the "/Vp»
testant Episcoptd^^ but now rejotcing
in the title of the '^Reformed CaUuh
lic^^ Church, is to absorb into- its
bosom the teeming millions of this
country, and become the guide and
teacher of the Western continent.

The expections of these dreamefs
are well calculated to provoke a
smile. While the great fact re-
mains uncontradicted that the uni^
ed strength of Protestant Christen^
dom has failed to check the spread
of irreligion in the bosom of modem
society, while neariy every one of its

14^

The Church of the Future,

denominations is struggling to main*
tain its present spiritual powers, it
seems a time for humiliation rather
than for boasting, for prayer and labor
rather than for triumph. Far be it
from us to discourage Chrislian hope,
or snatch away from Christian zeal
the visioa of those future glories to
which it should aspire. But the im-
pression is strong upon our mind
that such ^Uastics in the air'' as those
to which we have referred, imply
worse than time wasted in their
building, and manifest an increase
of that indolent consciousness of
strength which, in communities as
well as individuals, is the forerunner
of a swift decay.

With this remark, w^e leave the
thoughts suggested by the advocate
of Methodism, and pass on to discuss
the question raised by the assump-
ttions of the Churchman, namely :

Whether the Protestant Episcopal
'Church is destined to attain pre-emi-
nence over the other sects of Chris-
tendom in this country, and become
ilhc church of the future people of
America ?

This question is susceptible both
of a divine and human answer. It
may be said that the Protestant Epis-
copal Church is the true Church of
God, and therefore that its ultimate
supremacy, not only here but every-
where, is certain. It may be also
said that, as its internal structure
and eortemal operations are such as
will adapt it to control and harmo-
nize the elements of which Ameri-
can society is now and will bereaf-
ter be comjxised, so is it likely to
ittain the relative position which its
advocates with so much assurance
claim, and to wear the crown which
already glitters in their dazzled e}*es.
Together these two answers stand or
Call ; for, if the Protestant Episco-
;pal Church be the true church of

God, then must it, ex fucessitaU rd^
be adapted to control and harmo-
nize, not only the society of ihb age
and country, but the societies of every J
other age and clime ; and, ria VfrsOfi
if it be adapted to control and unify I
the faith, and, through the faith, thel
acts and lives of men» then must F
also, ^' ftecessitate rd^ be the chu
of God.

71ie writer of the Churchnuin ap-
pears to us to have chosen the former
method of reply. He says :

" Our own church is to be the chorch
the future in our country. It is a church
apostolic constitutioti and derivation, with
pure, un corrupted faith, with a duly autiiar*
jzcd ministry^ with the word and sacrameotl
of Ihe gospel, and, wilh and through these,
the dispensation of the supcmatuial gruoe
of God. without which everything else woliM
be but ineffectual words and forms. ^Tiat*
ever may be alleged of others, it ouinnl be
denied that all this is true of otrr chui
We do not find it to be true, in alt panki
lars, of any church in the land but ourt.^

The two syllogisms of which i
allegation forms a part, seenfi to
logically complete as follows :

(i.) The true church of God will be
the church of the future in our country.

The church, which is alone of
apostolic constitution and dcrivm*
tion, with a pure and nncorrupl
faith, a duly authorized ministry,
word and sacraments of the
and, with and through these » tlie di
pensation of the supernatural grace
of God, is the true church of C*od.

ErgOy The church, which is alone
of apostolic constitution and deriva-
tion, with a pure and uncorruptcd
faith, a duly authorized ministry, the
word and sacraments of the go&peli
and, with and through tJiese, the dis-
pensation of the supernatural gracse
of God, will be the church c^ the
future in our country.

(j.) The church, which is alone of
apostolic constitution and deniratiofi«
with a pure and tmcomipted

ted lai^.

Tke Church of the Future.

a duly authorized ministry, the word
and sacraments of the gospel, and,
with and through these, the dispen-
sation of the supernatural grace of
God, will be the church of the future
in our country.

The Protestant Episcopal Church
is alone of apostolic constitution and
derivation, with a pure and uncomipt-
ed faith, a duly authorized ministry,
the word and sacraments of the gos-
pel, and, with and through these,
the dispensation of the supernatural
grace of God.

£rg^f The Protestant Episcopal
Church will be the church of the
future in our country.

With both the premises and the
conclusion of the former syllogism
we presume that nearly every Chris*
tian. Catholic or Protestant, will
heartily agree. But we believe the
conclusion of the second to be erro-
neous, and its fdlacy we find in what
we conceive to be the utter falsehood
of its minor premiss, as a simple
matter of fact We know that the
writer says : " Whatever may be al-
leged of others, it cannot be denied
that all this is true of our church."
But, whether it can or cannot, it most
certainly is denied. We here deny
it. We deny the apostolic constitu-
tion and derivation of the Protestant
Episcopal Church. We deny that
she holds a pure, uncorrupted faith.
We deny that she has a duly author-
ized ministry. We deny that she pos-
sesses the word and sacraments of
the gospel. We deny that through
that mlnbtry, that faith, that wonl,
those sacraments,* she retains the
dispensation of the supernatural grace
of God. And, in support of our de-
nial, we point to Holy Scripture, to
the unanimous tradition of the fa-
thers, to the vast treasures of histo-
rical and theological learning which
have accumulated in the past eighteen

•EaoeplbaptinL

hundred years, and to the united
voice of the holy Catholic Church
throughout the entire world.

Nor only we. In our own country
these bold assertions, and the extra-
vagant pretensions which are based
upon them, are also constantly de-
nied. Two million Methodists deny
them. One million six hundred and
ninety thousand Baptists deny them.
Seven hundred thousand Presbyteri-
ans deny them. Six hundred thou-
sand Universalists deny them. Three
hundred and twenty-three thousand
eight hundred Lutherans deny them.
Two hundred and sixty- seven thou-
sand four hundred Congregational-
ists deny them. Of the one hundred
and sixty-one thousand two hundred
Episcopalians, how many dare main-
tain them ? How many are at open
warfare with that party, within their
communion, from whom these rash
and groundless allegations come?
Among the extremest of *^ Reformed
Catholics^** how many actually believe
that the ecclesiastical organization
to which they protestingly belong, is,
in truth, that glorious fabric which
our Lord built upon the Rock, St
Peter, and to which he communicated
the infallibility of his perpetual pre-
sence? Even the subtle Church-
man will hardly venture to affirm
distinctly his belief of such an ex-
travagant proposition, but will most
likely take refuge in the declaration
that his is a reformed branch of the
Catholic Church, a declaration that
destroys the value of his whole argu-
ment, unless he also demonstrates,
the impossibility, to other branches,
of the reformation which has sprung
from within his own.

To argue that the Episcopal
Church alone possesses those cha-
racteristics which indicate the true
church of God, and that, as such,
she must eventually predominate
over all the rest, is thus as useless

The Church 4>f the Future.

as it b QDvise. It opens op a se-
ries of disputes which no generation
would be long enough to exhaust^
and no acknowledged authority be
luSident to determine. It creates in
advance an adversary in every Chris-
tian outside her exclusive pale, and
puts hira on his guard against the
courtesy and solicitude with which
she seeks to win his personal devo-
tion. It thrusts into the face of the
inquirer a proposition whose absur-
dity annoys hiro, whose positiveness
discourages him, whose arrogance re-
pels him. If our Episcopal brethren
wish to realize the dreams of their
modem seer, they must abandon
this species of argument and be-
take themselves to the adaptation
of their church to meet, more fully,
the wants and necessities which sur
round them upon every side.

In their ability or inability to do
this resides the human answer to the
question whose discussion we pursue*

The syllogism in which this an-
swej is embodied may be thus con-
structed 3

The church which is best adapted,
by internal structure and external
operations, to control and harmonize
American society, will be the church
of the future in our country.

The Protestant Episcopal Church
is best adapted, by internal structure
and external operations, to control
and harmonize American society.

Ergo^ the Protestant Episcopal
Church will be the church of the
future in our country.

The major premise of this syllo-
gism is evidently sound. If the mi-
nor is reliable in fact as well as form,
the conclusion is unmistakable. Our

L inquiry is thus reduced to this :
Whether the Protestant Episcopal
Church is best adapted, by its inter-
nal structure and external opera-
tions> to control and harmonize
American society ?

The answer to this inqoliy inU
unfold our own view of the isatficr
now in issue, ud will, we tnisi, tei
forth some of the principal mterk
by which the church of the fiilMt
may, at this day, be humanly dir
cemed,

I. The "church of the future '*ii
a "church of the people.**

The American nation \s now^ tod
always must remain, in th« stricccit
sense, ** a pmph, *' The order of oar
political and civil institutions, tte
vast area of our territory and the
unlimited susceptibility of its de-
velopment, the achievements of lit
and mechanism by which alone th«t
development can be secured, all ne-
cessitate, in the future, as in the p«*
sent, a nation of working-men,
geneous in principles, in inteil ^
and in toil. Classes of socie^,
cept so far as based upon the wcA
dents of personal friendship, culttra*
tion, or locality, are practically now,
and must hereafter become more
and more, unknown. The distioe-
tions by which its divisions in tht
Old World were created and maiH'
tained, lost the last hold upon Ame*
rica when slavery went down in ihe
fierce tempest of the recent war.
The proud prerogatives of race and
birth are henceforth without value*
Every man must receive himself from
the hands of his Creator just as that
Creator made him, and car\'e out for
himself a destiny, limited only by las
individual ambition, and by his fideli-
ty to the end for which his life and
independence were bestowed upoo
him.

Unfavorable as such a stale of
things may be for the extreme cul-
tivation of the few, that the great
masses gain immeasurably by it^ is
undeniable. A race of farroerSf of
mechanics, of tradesmen, of laboren,
can never be illiterate, immoral, or
impoverished. A race whose Aiture

(

Th€ Church of the Future.

149

::es the population and politi-
rection of a continent, into

veins the choicest blood of
stern hemisphere poiirs itself
n exhaustless tide, whose wis-

the experience of six thousand
and whose labors already tes-

the vigor of its ripe and lusty
od, must be a people in whose

each individual counts one,
y the overwhelming pressure
>se progress ignorance and
ism must eventually disap-

church which gathers this
race of the future into her
, and holds them by her spi-
hand, must, therefore, be a
. adapted to the wants, the
thies, the tastes of working-
Its creed must be within the
of their intelligence. Its wor-
lust give form to their devo-
Its teaching must be simple,
t, hearty, like themselves. Its
il care must be at once fami-
nstant, and encouraging. Just
the so-called ^ masses^* need
in faith, in ceremony, in the
in the priest, will the whole na-
iek for in those years of com-
K>r. Just that internal struc-
nd external operation which
nost fully and most readily
;s that need, will characterize
hurch which then absorbs the
nd guides and governs this
)eople in all heavenly things.
r, of all the clashing sects of
tantism, there is one which is
*d to occupy this exalted sta-
is that one which is to-day
church of the people," and
trophies, won in warfare with
iling multitudes of past and
t generations, are the sure
of complete and final vic-

2^d by this standard, what
trt has the Protestant Epis-

copal Church of becoming the
'^church of the future" in our
country?

This question merits a most seri-
ous and thorough answer ; not mere-
ly as a speculative problem, but as a
matter eminently practical, affording
a fair test of her divine commission,
and of the quality of the spiritual
workmanship which she performs.
For this reason, we attempt to pass
upon her no verdict of our own, but,
turning to her best authorities, ga-
ther from them the dcUa of her pro-
gress, and the measure of her church-
ly capabilities.

The first few years of this half-cen-
tury were a season of unusual prospe-
rity to the Episcopal Church. From
1850 to 1856 the numerical increase
of her membership far exceeded that
of any former period. The ranks of
her clergy gained largely in extent
and influence. A spirit of unprece-
dented activity seemed aroused with-
in her ; and, above all, was manifest-
ed a disposition to rally round herself
the other Protestant ^^nominations,
and unite them with her into one ec-
clesiastical body.

This disposition met with much
encouragement from those outside
her fold. Many who. never yet had
called themselves by any distinctive
Christian name were attracted, by
her dignity and order, to regard her
as the most desirable of Protestant
societies. Eminent '^ dissenters " look-
ed to her for the solution of that en-
tanglement of schism in which their
various barks were already well-nigh
overwhelmed. Large charity on both
sides, and a full meeting of the issue
upon her part, alone seemed neces-
sary for the consummation of that
" union " for which distracted Chris-
tendom had so long yearned and
prayed.

It was her golden opportunity.
The iron was hot for the hammer.

ISO

The Church of the Future.

The wheat was ripe for the harvest.

I'hc profound peace, which rested
oa the entire country, gave leisure
for sedate and kindly inquir)\ The
spirit of organic life was kindling
over all the land, and men were
drawing into closer brotherhood, and
prejudices waned and lost their power.
It needed but a strong will and skil*
ful hand to sweep away tlie few re-
maining obstacles, and the triumph
of Episcopacy in this country might
have been secured.

Perhaps the most startling of the
events which marked this important
period, and certainly the one which
most clearly manifested its awaken-
ing vitality, was the presentation of
a Afemorial to the General Conven*
tion of 1853. Therein was suggest-
ed the important question, wht^ther
" the posture of our church with re-
ference to the great moral and social
necessities of the day '* was all that
could be desired or expected, and
whether her usefulness might not,
by specified means, be greatly cn-
larged* The convention referred
the subject to a commission of
bishops, which met six times during
the inter\^al between the date of its
appointment and the convention of
1856. At its first meeting this com-
mission published a Circular^ pro-
pounding certain questions, and re-
questing answers to them, from any
persons interested in the subject
into whose hands the circulars might
fall A large number of communi-
cations were received in reply, both
from Episcopal and non-Episcopal
divines, most of which united in ad-
mitting the necessity for some deci-
sive change, and in recommending
the improvements suggested in the
Memorial itself At the general con-^
vention of 1856, the commission made
their report, warning the church of

* Jtwrnai of tSsj, |i. \%t^ H ##f .

the great popular destttutioir' ,

surrounded her, and advising the
adoption of extemporary preaching, ,
the curtailment of the liturgical sc^l
rices, the emplo>Tnent of lay workertfl
the association of unmarried women '
into sisterhoods, the better troinji^
of her ministry, and the thoroagh
Christian cultivation of the youn^
as the principal means by which hcCj
ability to meet these necessitie
might be extended.* The house l.
bishops therefore passed a series of J
resolutions, expressing their opiniorf
that certain variations might be lavfS
fully made in public worshipi and ap-
pointing a ** Commission on Chun^
Unity " to confer with other churches
as occasion might require.f But
legislation followed. No practical
recognition of the emergencies ill
which the nation lay, or of her
gent duty to meet the wants wh
cried so loudly for her interference
marked the proceedings of this chic
council of the church. Not one of
the important measures which th«.
Mammal suggested, which manj
leaders of the church recommende
and which the Episcopal com mi ssjg
had itself advised, received the sane
tion of her legislative will. On
contrary, at the next session of th«l
convention, in 1859, a strong azuf
determined effort was made, by ihl
house of clerical and lay depiiri<_^
to move the house of bishops to m^J
scind their resolutions, and pQ

the representative branch of the ^

vention to take part in the discti
sion of the subject and in determiii
ing what steps should be adoptc
This the bishops rcfused,t and thei^
the matter rested and still rests-
solitary report of the ** Commissi!
on Church Unity" that t/iey hn
dane fwthmg% alone marking ih«

•7w^TM/or^Sifi,p, J39. MHi.^\

% y€mm«i^\%y^ pp. 5 J. y^ vio, 14}.

The Church of the Future.

iSi

^t where the vast hopes and as-
pirations of the Memorialists exhaled
and disappeared.

And thus the golden opportunity
of Protestant Episcopalianism pass-
ed by. The terrible events which
followed in the next six years, put
far away that quiet calm in which
religious differences grow dim, and
love for God and man overcomes
human pride. Through her own bi-
section into Confederate and Federal
her unifying influence has sustained
a shock from which it will not, for
long years, recover. The evangelical
churches have, at once, lost confi-
dence in her disposition to meet
them with a fair and open compro-
mise, and in her separate ability to
do the work which, in the provi-
dence of God, is placed before her;
while her internal difficulties have
augmented year by year, and ren-
dered less and less likely the revival
of that spirit which promised such
achievements only fifteen years ago.
Her golden opportunity passed by.
But that hour of trial, in the great
crucible of national emergencies, can
never be forgotten, either by her
fiiends or foes, and both will look to
it for the disclosure of her real abili-
ties, and for the revelation of her
daracter, as human or divine.

The Memorial^ the report of the
commission, and many of the com-
mumcations which were received in
inswer to the Circular^ were collected
1 into one volume, and published by
4c Rl Rev. Bishop Potter, of Penn-
sylvania, in 1857. For some reason,
(vfaich we never could explain,) the
poblicatwn of this volume was soon
afterward suspended, and such por-
tions of that edition as could be
itached were called in and destroy-
ed. The last monuments of the
rmtf uprising were thus levelled
^ the dust ; and, to^lay, except
fe the few copies of Memorial Far

pers which escaped destruction, and
the scattered records of Convention
youmaisy reliable statistics of that
eventful period are almost unattain-
able.

Fortunately, however, we have
these authorities at hand, and thus
are able to try the Episcopal Church
by her own evidence, and rest the
truth or falsehood of her claims to
be the " church of the people " on
her own solemn and well-weighed
admissions.

First, then, in the Memorial itself,
which bears the date of October 14th,
1853, we find the following state-
ment:

" The actual posture of our church, with
reference to the great moral and social ne-
cessities of the day, presents to the minds
of the undersigned a subject of grave and
anxious thought Did they suppose that
this was confined to themselves, they would
not feel warranted in submitting it to your
attention ; but they believe it to be partici-
pated in by many of their brethren, who
may not have seen the expediency of declar-
ing their views, or, at least, a mature season
for such a course.

" The divided and distracted state of our
American Protestant Christianity ; the new
and subtle forms of unbelief, adapting them-
selves with fatal success to the spirit of the
age ; the consolidated forces of Romanism,
bearing with renewed skill and activity
against the Protestant faith ; and, as more
or less the consequence of these, the utter
ignorance of the gospel among so large a
portion of the lower classes of our popula-
tion, making a heathen world in our midst,
are among the considerations which induce
your memorialists to present the inquiry
whether the period has not arrived for the
adoption of measures, to meet these exigen-
cies of the times, more comprehensive than
any yet provided for by our present ecclesias-
tical system ; in other words, whether the Prth
testant Episcopal Churchy with ofily her present
canonical means and appliances^ her fixed ana
invariable modes of public worships and her
traditional customs and usages^ is competent to
the work of preaching and dispensing thegoi*
pel to all sorts and conditions of men, and so
adequate to do the work of the Lord in this
land and in this age t This question, your pe*
titioners, for their awn part^ and in conso*

153

The Church of the Futun,

»me with ma9^ tk<mghtftil minds among tss,

\eikvf KUST BB ANSWERED IN THE KEGA-

"The undersigned/' who passed
this severe and searching criticism
upon the practical efficiency of the
Episcopal Church, were such men as
Dr, Muhlenberg, founder and chap-
lain of St Luke*s Hospital, New
York ; Dr, Cruse, librarian, and Drs.
Turner and Johnson, professors at
the General Theological Seminary;
Drs, Bedell and Coxe, both since
made bishops; Drs. Hobart and
Higbee, of Old Trinity ; Drs. Fran-
cis and A, H, Vinton, two of the
most eminent of her parochial cler-
gy ; and Dr, Hanvood, late professor
at the Berkeley Seminary of Con-
necticut. Certainly no Episcopalian,
cither of that day or our own, could
ask for more reliable authority.

Second, the report of the commis*
sion of the house of bishops, made
to the convention of 1856, after some
preliminary^ statements, thus con-
tinues:

**An examtnalion into the relative in-
onease of the various bodies of Christians in
the United States within the last thirty
years will exhibit some startling facu, which
may well rouse us to serious considerations,
and lead us to ask ourselves the questions^
*What have we been doing ^ and what
shall we do V We have been in the habit
of looking merely at the increase of otir
ministers and members within given periods
as the proper exponent of our growth, with-
out considering how that increase compares
with the rate of increase in the population
at large. Making our estimate in this way —
and it is the only accurate method to ascer-
tain the ratio of our growth or increase as a
church — it wilJ be found that we are hy no
nuoHi keeping pace with the population of the
eountry in the provision we make for their
religious instructionf to say nothing of our
duty to heathen and foreign lands ; that we
are consequently falling very far below the
measure of our responsibility, and that our
growth in the last half century^ which has
been dwelt upon with complacency^ if not

with a spirit of vainglory, furnhkn wtattif
of deep humiliation aid^htmUt f»Mtfrlj|» ^

boasting,**^

And again :

" Ministers are found, who yet dn not i
minister ; rectors who cannot govern ; pa^ '
tors who do not feed the flock ; teachers
send forth theological essays, for the in-
struction of the church, who might find bet-
ter employment in studying the Bible aad
catechism, while the necessary tneani kit
maintaining religious services too often haiv
to l>c wrung from those who appear 1 "
tant to recognize it as a Chri.^tian obltg
to give of their ability, as God has proB[
thcm» with liberality, with chccrfulne^ a
with simplicity. On ei^ery sidi the compiami ^
is heard^ that the work of the ehwrtk im*
guishes, or is not done.* t

The bishops over whose signa-
tures these statements were made
were Otey of Tennessee, Doane of
New Jersey, Potter of Pennsylvania,!
Burgess of Maine, and Williams of]
Connecticut; all of whom, exec
the latter, have since closed their J
earthly career, leaving behind thcmJ
reputations for prudence, learning,,!
and earnestness in their ofBcial li-j
bors which are sacred in tlie heartJ
of every member of the church ovcr|
which they ruled.

Third, in the communicationsi
sent to the commission, in answer tQ|
their Circular^ the same sentiment
prevails. The Rev. Dr. Craik, of j
Louisville, Ky., in speaking of th
constitution of the apostolic chi3
remarks :

'* Nearly the whole church hassanctio
the wisdom of this seemingly ap»o5tolic \
rangcment by imitating iL TTie refusal
the church in the United Sutes to imit;
it, has sanctioned its wisdom in another w^yg^
by our comparative failnrt to do the mark i
the ihureh in this eountfyJ*i ^

The Rev.
cuse, writes :

Dr. Gregory, of

** It is said that the EptMopd Chtirch it «

t f6id, p. sS. I tUd, p. nt.

TJlr CkurcA of the Future.

IS3

te dmrch of the educsted and the rich.
Tltf tf jv to a coMiderahle extent, pardcu-
larly in the dties."*

Then, speaking of certain reme-
dial measures, he continues :

" It cannot be done, in the present state
of fieeling — the pride of social distinction is
i^ainst it ; and all the canons and councils
in Christendom cannot make a church effi"
ami in which this feeling prevails.**!

And again, in concluding, he

«*Thc great body of our people are at
case — satisfied to have a vaHd ministry, and
^Oid sacraments, and a sober liturgy, and a
WMMrvative ecclesiastical system. And the
rest of the world have no evidence that we
tare very much about them."|

The Rev. Dr. Howe, of Philadel-
phia, declares :

" Having been through my whole minis-
try (now of more than twenty-two yean
continuance) in a position to observe the
rehdon of our church to the middling and
lover classes as they are found in and
vimnd great dties, I cannot forbear the con-
fession that we do not, by the authorized
appliances of the church, reach and interest
than. Individuals of these classes, by the
fcrce of early association, or a refinement
of taste unusual in their sphere, do reUdn or
acquire a strong attachment to our worship,
aad derive unspeakable benefits from its
Bse. But the fact is too glaring to be
denied, that mechanics and laboring men
se not in any considerable numbers reck-
coed among our people ; and pastors who
liU expose the truth in this behalf, must
confess that of those who are reared among
V to these industrial pursuits very many
deaert the church, and find religious assod-
ations more acceptable to them among other
denominations. This is too general to be
attributed to the nnfeithfulness of ministers.
TVere must be some lack in the system of
Bans under which sudi disastrous issues
oocar.*"!

These are but a few out of the
Bttny writers whose communicarions
v^ collected into the volume before
■Doded to, and even those were few

in number, when compared with
those whose letters were omitted
from lack of room. Of these, Bishop
Potter, in his Introduction^ says :

«* A large proportion plead for change in
one or more respects more earnestly than
most of those inserted ;"♦

and then significantly adds :

" That a spirit of self-depredation and of
change for the mere sake of change is not
that to which as a communion we are most
obnoziou8."t

Fourth, at the same general con-
vention before which the Memorial
was first discussed, another document
was presented, in tone and applica-
tion almost exactly similar, which
forms a valuable corroboration of the
statements which we have already
cited. This was the report of the
Committee on the Domestic and
Foreign Missionary Society, of which
the Rev. Dr. Stevens, now Bishop of
Pennsylvania, was chairman. In
this report the following occurs :

" Not only have we to deal with these mul-
titudes of emigrants, spreading their igno-
rance, their irreligion, and their superstitions
over the land, but we should also carefully
provide for another and deeply interesting
class, those who come to us from countries
and churches holding like prindples of ec-
desiastical polity and Christian faith, the
sons of Sweden, and the children of the
Church of England, and the brethren from
Moravia. .... Thomands of emi-
grants from these forngn churches^ who^ if
properly looked after, would unite themselves
to our church, are lost to us, and either relapse
into infidelity or unite themselves with the sects
around them, because we make no effort to win
them to our bosom^X

The report then calls attention to
the new missionary fields opening in
the West, and says :

"Every other evangelical denomination
in the land has gone before us in this mat-
ter, and the Romish Church has planted
bishops, clergy, schools, churches, convents,

t Wd. p. S5I.
f Ibid, p. J55.

• Memorial Pm^ertt p. ix.
X ypmmaloi 1853, pp. 8o» Si.

t Hid, p. ix.

154

Tht Church of the Future.

and coUegics, while we have been debating
^bout one bishop and two or three ministers.
^s in too many previous instances, our

I church has been too much stiffened with
dignity to run, like the prophet, before the
chariot of some political or commercial
Ahab, but, like a laggard in the race, treads

I daintily and slowly in others' footsteps, and
then, when almost too late, discovers her

I error."*

Such was the deliberate verdict of

the bishops and the leading clergy
l^of the Protestant Episcopal Church,
I concerning her efficiency, during and
prior to the year 1856, Such was
the intensity of the conviction which
forced itself upon the minds of com-
mittees and conventions, and swept
from one end of her communion 10
the other, that, without great changes
in her mode of dealing with the
masses ofour people, no considerable
influence over them could ever be
obtained. It is no wonder that
Bishop Upfold should have written,
concerning these admissions, that

•• i Icr worst enemies could not have said
a worse thing of the church ; and, if ii be
irue^ itnolvtj a cogrnt argttment for at &nce
a^ndening a church so radicaily and esscn*
imiiy de/ectwe in its or^ganimtian and working
ajgma£s"f

Surely if evidence of any kind
could satisfy us that, at any time at
least, the Episcopal Church was not
adapted, by internal structure and
extenial operations, to control and
harmonize American society, the
evidence which the Memorial move-
ment thus elicited, has done it. If it
ever has been, or can ever be, made
manifest that any given church is
not the "Church of the People,"
it was then demonstrated that the
Protestant Episcopal Church is not
so.

Since that golden epoch twelve
years have passed away. That the
people of America have materially
changed, either in intelligence or re-

t Memarsal Pa^rst p. 189,

Hgious feeling ; that their necessities
are lessened or more easily supplied,
no one will venture to assert AB
the world knows that the spiritual
destitution of the nation has in*
creased, and that the same means
which failed to relieve it then meet
with like failure now. AH the world
knows that the Protestant Episcopal
Church is the same dignified and
stolid organization, moving on in the
same beaten track, its ponderous and
cumbersome machinery revohing ^
heavily round the same well-womj
axis, and limited on every side bjj
ctamps and bands, which tremulouil
conservatism dare not offer to '
loose.

The records to which we hav^ j
heretofore referred show also thaf^j
in both of the^e particulars, all the}
world is right Not one of the mea«|
sures advocated by the Mrmoriat-l
ists has ever been adopted, Nal
law has ever passed, requiring dutl
her clergy preach instead of remd»l
No general attempt has yet bee!||
made to organize the lay elementtJ
either male or female, into a body of
efficient laborers. No change has
taken place in the canon which r©»J
quires that upon every occasion of
public worship the Prayer-book, i
it only, should be used. And,
than this, no disposition to so modtf]
existing modes of labor as to :
their wider range or surer ei
has ever since been manifest
Even when, at the convention
1865, a memorial was prcscni
signed by nearly fifty leading clci
men, repeating the statements of
Menwriai of 1S53, and prayi
for Uie institution of an associati*
of ^'Evangelists*' in the hope that
"these statements may be so re-
garded as to secure to the church
the important iJistrumentalities/' *
. , " which were nei'cr more up
gently demanded than at the preseilH

The Chunk of the Future.

time/' the house of bishops coolly
resolved that *^iiw€u not expedient to
entertain the subjeet" and the other
house tacitly concurred in the de-
cision.*

If, in the face of facts like these,
we judge of the future by the present
and the past, what shall we say? Is
there a hope that, in that mighty era
when this great continent shall
swarm with prosperous, intelligent,
industrious millions, a church, which
during a whole century, with every
advantage of respectability and
wealth, has met with such signal
(ailure, shall rise into supremacy?
Is there a probability great enough
to justify our serious contemplation
that a church, whose claim to be the
"Church of the People" is thus
denied by that unerring voice of his-
tory which is the echo of the voice
of God, should be the " Church of
the Future" in our country ?

We know no better answer to these
questions than the thrilling exhorta-
tion given by the venerable Dr. Muh-
lenberg to the Memorial Commission
concerning their own duty to their
durch :

" Bid her/' said he, " look over this vast
continent, filling with people of all nations
ad languages and tongnes, and see the folly
of hoping to perpetuate among them an
ii^am communion, that will ever be re-
CDpiized as aught more than an honorable
ttcL Bid her give over the vain attempt
to cast all men's minds into one mould.

" Bid her cherish among her own members
■Btoal tolerance of opinion in doctrine, and
tMte m worship ; remembering that uniform
ttneaess in lesser matters may be the am-
lite of a society, a party, a school in the
dtech, bat is for below any genuine aspira-
tion of the church herself: It is the genius
of Catholicism which is now knocking at her
'oon. Let her refuse to open. Let her,
if the wiD, make them Cuter still with new
^ and bars, and then take her rest, to
^>va s wUdtr dream tkanatty •fthe MemO'
^ tf ktcmmmg Hke CathaUc Church of Uust

♦ 9tanNir«ri»siPpi 361, 190.

11:;. t m m x Ui faetn^^^SL

The conclusions to which the ex-
perience of a hundred years has
thus directed us will be extended
and confirmed by an examination
of certain characteristics which the
" Church of the Future," as a" Church
of the People," must necessarily pre-
sent, and by a comparison of these
with the internal structure and ex-
ternal operations of the Episcopal
Church. In the course of this ex-
amination we shall also probably
discover the causes from which the
past failures of the latter have result-
ed, and the means by which she
might adapt herself more fully to the
wants of the country and the age, if,
in fact, such adaptation were any
longer possible. Therefore we pro-
ceed :

II. The " Church of the Future"
is a church of stability in principle
and flexibility in operation.

The work of the church of God
upon the earth is to teach and gov-
ern men. The truth, by which alone
the intellect can be enlightened, the
law, by which alone the heart and
life can be subjected to the will of
God, are both entrusted to her keep-
ing. Doctrine informing and direct-
ing discipline, discipline realizing and
preserving doctrine — such is the sys-
tem by which her Lord commanded
her to subdue the world, and by
which to .this day the world has
been subdued.

The people whose church the
** Church of the Future " is to be, and
of whom, as its members, it must be
composed, will be ^ifree people. The
race from which they spring long
ago recognized, as fundamental truth,
that the will of the people is the high-
est law, and every civil and political
institution which is or is to be de-
rives its origin and permanence from
the sole fiat of the citizen. There is
no power above it by which its er-
rors may be corrected or its excesses

IS6

Th€ Church of the Future.

be restrained. The popular vote is
the tribunal from whose decision
there can be no appeal. The baliot-
box is the throne of state, from which
supreme authority comes down only
to take up the thunderbolts of war.

The sturdy independence which
results from such a national cultiva-
tion will place a burden of no com-
mon order upon the church into
whose hands the control and unifi-
cation of American society must fall
The bearer of divine illumination,
the custodian of unalterable truth,
the spiritual government of the peo-
ple, will be also on her shoulders ;
and she must be able to withstand
not only persecution from without,
but the more dangerous assaults of
innovation and revolt within. She
must have tw capacity for compromise.
The organic principle which binds
into one body her integral elements
must be beyond tlie power of popu-
lar tumult to disturb or political
dissensions to destroy. In every
storm and tempest she must be im-
movable, and, with a will of divine
firmness and an arm of godlike
might, must bend the tempest and
control the storm.

Again, the people over whom the
"Church of tlie Future" will extend
its sway embraces men of every na-
tion, color, class, and tongue. The
offspring of the African, the Saxon,
and the Indian dwell here together
with the children of the Hebrew,
the Mongolian, Jlhe Teuton, and the
Celt. Religions of all forms offer
contemporaneous and discordant
worship to their several divinities.
Prejudices of every complexion and
against every truth mingle in the re-
ligious atmosphere. Vices of every
name, grown, through long apathy or
longer ignorance, into a second na-
ture, contaminate the public heart
Every possible diversity of ideas, of
tastes, of impossibilides, is found

among them, and, under alt, the s«M
great wants, the same unceasing as^
pirations, the same formless void.

The diurch which heals the spirit
tual wounds of such a people must '
both possess and use appliances of
infinite variety. Her phar
must contain all remedies wbickl
have been suitable to man. He
learning and ability must extend i
their appropriate selection and
stowal. She must, indeed, be *'all
things to all men," high with the bigl^
and lowly with the low, wise with Ihft
learned and simple with the igno-
rant, firm with the headstrong attd
gentle with the meek, sublime with
the imaginative, cold with the severe,
in every way adapting the method
of her operations to the dispusi lions
of the people whom she seeks
save, if by any means their salv
tion may be made secure.

Thus, in herself immovable, et
and in her laix>rs as flexible and
rious as the needs she must supply^]
the " Church of the Future'' will no
only conquer, but wherever an4
whatever she has conquered she will
thenceforth unceasingly retain*

But can the church which does thifl
be the Episcopal Church? Let
test her immobility of principles*
Let us measure the flexibility of he
operations. The result will leac
us much that is worth learning, an
should not be without its influeti
on her.

The Protestant Episcopal Churdk^
in the United States consists **(
Ihirty-four confederated dioces
under the care of bishops, ustc
the same liturgy, and yielding ob
dience" to the same canon Law«l
The organic principle by whicb thi^
confederation was originated and ha
been maintained is a written const]
tution^t Its organic life is manife;

• Ckurck AlMmmac for al67, pi t^

t Law wnters dc^M i ** ceiutittttkiD *"

The Church of the Future.

IS7

through a general convention, in
which the supreme l^;islative and
judicial authority of the whole church
resides.

Each of these several dioceses
consists of various parishes, united
under one bishop, and yielding obe-
dience to the same local law. The
oiganic principle of the diocese is a
written constitution ; and its organic
life is manifested in a diocesan con-
vention, in which the supreme legis-
lative and judicial authority of the
diocese resides.

Each of the several parishes which
compose a diocese consists of a
greater or less number of lay-peo-
ple, united under one pastor and
occupying certain fixed and well-
known territorial limits. Its organic
principle is usually a written consti-
tution ; and its organic life is mani-
{ested through a body of vestrymen,
to whom the management of its pa-
rochial affairs is entrusted.

With the exception that the church
possesses no chief executive, corre-
sponding to the President of the
United States, her organic system is
almost identical with the political
order of the government under which
sbe lives.

The general convention of the
durch is composed of two houses,
a house of bishops and a house of
derical and lay deputies. The house
of bishops consists of all the bishops
of the various dioceses, as members
a tffuio. The house of deputies
consists of ft'ir delegates — ^two cleri-
cal and two lay— from each diocese,
qipointed in diocesan convention.
A concurrence of both orders in the
lower house, and of both houses, is

"NtMiw'*crm''fnBt'*orpoiv«r. Did tb* gen-
*ilcoM«ntioa of I7t9» b ad^tiag the constitution
if «t E|Meo|al Omrclw thmbr rnM< to the chwrch
if Chri^, or to WKf pMt thereof; powcn of which it
^PRvioady dcatitato, or Hmit pofwen whidi Christ
^Iffwiiiiiil «po« il? Or, OQ the contrmry, is
Mt Iks iAm of a ••coostitatioo " ctstntiallj repug-
■■t !•«• idM gf Ite Chriatiu church ?

necessary to a vote of the conven-
tion,*

The convention of each diocese is
composed of the clergy, canonical-
ly resident within its limits, and of
a certain number of lay-deputies,
appointed by the various congrega-
tions of which the diocese consists.

The vestrymen of each parish are
elected annually by the people.

In each of these three bodies the
lay element possesses the virtual su-
premacy. In general convention, no
Uw can be enacted, no lax discipline
can be reformed, no erroneous doc-
trine can be corrected, without the
express acquiescence of the lay-depu-
ties. In the diocesan convention,
no bishop can be elected, no dele«
gates to the general convention can
be appointed, and no local diocesan
regulations can be established, until
the laity agree. In the parish, no
pastor can be called, no church-build-
ing be erected, no regular order be
determined, while the people withhold
their permission. And though, upon
the face of it, this power may seem
to be entirely negative, yet it is not
so ; for, in the right to choose their
pastors and convention-delegates, the
real control of the diocesan conven-
tions, and, through these, of their
bishops and the general convention,
is placed ultimately in their hands,
and, whenever they might choose to
organize for such a purpose, a single
generation would suffice to overturn
the doctrine, discipline, and worship
of the church itself.

In this respect, also, the Episco-
pal Church has practically conformed
herself to the model which our na-
tional institutions set before her. If
she believes that, in religious as
well as secular affairs, "all govern-
ments derive their just powers from
the consent of the governed," her

•See Constitution, appendix to yauntalcX i86s,
arts^ sends.

15*

The Chunk cf the Future,

system and belief are certainly con-
sistent, but it can hardly be pretend-
ed that either of them is divine.
Nor will it be denied that all the ob-
jections to which the temporal is
open on the score of instability and
weakness are doubly pertinent to the
ecclesiastical, so long as those whom
Christ intended that his church
should govern on the contrary real-
ly govern her.

But however unstable and inse-
cure in all her fundamental and
organic principles the Episcopal
Church has thus been rendered by
the inherent nature of her system,
she certainly is far from ilextble in
ber methods of external operation.
Here all the strength of her con-
servatism concentrates itself* The
►Prayer-Book is "the apple of her
eye." It cost her less to blot out a
creed in which the faith of ages was
embodied, and rob her clergy of the
power of absolution, than it would
now to change a single syllable of
her "incomparable liturgy." Yet
nothing is more widely understood,
even in her own borders, than that
this very liturgy is the greatest bar-
rier which stands between her and
the masses of the people ; and that
her inflexible, unvarying use of it
on all occasions is the great patent
cause of her acknowledged failures.

The entire Memoriai movement
proceeded upon the assumption that
this inflexibility exists, and that to it
roust be attributed the uselessness of
efforts which, under different me-
thods, should have accomplished
great results. The Memorialists
did not hesitate to say that, with
" her fixed and invariable modes of
public worship,** her "canonical
means and appliances," **her tradi-
tional customs and usages," she was
•* inadequate to do the work of the
Lord," and that, in their view, it was
necessary to define and act upon a

system "broader and more compie*

hensive " than that which then exist-
ed, and "providing for as much free-
dom in opinion^ discipline, and wor-
ship as is compatible with the essen-
tial faith and order of iJie gospd-**^
The commission boldly acknowledg*
ed that "we have to labor in places
where vcr>* much of our work is out-
side of that contemplated in the
plans of our offices,"! and that **oiif
methods of dealing with men should
be more direct and manifold."t They
admitted the "necessity of that di-
versity in our modes of operation
which has not been heretofore suffi-
ciently appreciated,"§ and that " we
have refused or neglected to use many
gifts which Christ has bestowed oo
his church."! Different bishops de*
clared that her ministers "must often
preach the gospel where the attempt
to perform the entire service wouldl
be incongruous, unsuccessful, and in-
jurious ; " * ♦ that at such limes the
clergy were *Mike David in Saul's
armor,"tt and objects of compassion
in the eyes of others. The late
Bishop Polk, with characteristic
frankness, stated :

♦* I am satisfied our liturgies] wrrvii c^ ^
1M>W used are to a certain ejtlcnt jrn[»cdi»
ments in oor way, • . - There arc dr-
cumstajKcs in which all the scrvicfs h€l|)
us, . . . There arc other drc«m»ta»icei
in which Ibc use of all the service » a maoi*
fcst and felt hindcrance. , * , We are
not as powerful a church aft we might be If
wc had more liberty. Of this I am fuOf
persuaded, "tt

The missionary bishop of Oregoo
and Washington, out of his large ex-
perience, concludes :

" There are undoubtedly great advariLige*
resulting to the church firom a gener*! 'jnt*
formiiy of worship; but if that umlannity
be so minute and fixed as to refuse adap^ac
tion to the actual condition and waala ol

• Mwm*rua pAptn, p. Jo. t nid ^ y^
% ihid. p. s> %llul^ fa.

(

The Church of the Future.

159

ChristiaD men, or to restrain in any degree
the preaching of the gospel to every area-
tore, then it becomes a jroke of bondage and
a damage to Christ's kingdom."*

The Rev. Dr. Howe remarks :

" I do not believe, sir, that the difficulty
lies in the organization of the church, . . .
but in the unvarying and (in the esteem of
aany) invariable use of our forms and other
asages of worship. . . . The church
may be entirely Catholic in her doctrine and
polity, yet she can never be practically so
viule she requires all men to worship every-
where in precisely the same forms.**t

The Rev. Dr. Trapier asserts that

"b the country-places, among the rural
pqmlation, it has proved to be an almost
hopeless task to introduce our services, that
it, in their integrity.**!

And so great an advocate of for-
mal worship as the Rev. Dr. Francis
Vinton is reputed to have been ex-
claims:

** Yon cannot fulfil the Lord's will while
the canons of our church are left in their
stiflhess."§

We have already seen how much
effect the movement, of which these
veil-considered statements form a
party finally produced upon the ex-
ternal system of the church, and it is
only too well known that at this
day the declarations of the Memo-
rialists are as appli^ble as they
were twelve years ago. The evan-
gelical leaders, hopeless of legitimat-
ed liberty, have grown more and more
restless under the unyielding yoke,
and here and there some bolder spi-
rit has burst away from the intolera-
ble servitude, and asserted his right
and duty to do " the Lord's work "
unhampered by her himian institu-
tions. Ever and anon some anxious
writer ventures to repeat the declara-
tions and the prayers of the Memo-
rial. But those who dare to look
for any change are few in number,

* Mnm0riml Pafertt p. ssj.

t IHd, p. 356.

and the high hopes of former days,
that the iron bars were soon to be
unloosed and the eager wings of
Christian zeal unbound, are already
well-nigh buried in despair.

That, in reference to either of
these two essential characteristics,
any improvement will take place we
see no reason to believe. It would
be contradictory to all experience if
the Episcopal laity should volunta-
rily relinquish their share in the
government and administration of
the church which they uphold, or
that, by any exercise of spiritual
power, the clergy could compel
them to its resignation. It seems
to us almost equally impossible that
the inflexibility of operation which
prevents her success can ever be
materially diminished. Her liturgy
is her eentrum unitatis, her teacher,
her authoritative law. It is the gold-
en band which binds her members
to one another ; which unites bishop
to bishop, diocese to diocese, priest
to priest ; which links her with the
centuries of the past, and reaches
onward to the future; which keeps
her heterogeneous elements in con-
tact with one another, as the electric
coil binds into one repellent particles
of steel. In it her denominational
existence is bound up, and with ma-
terial changes in it she herself is
fated to dissolve and die.

It cannot be. No day will ever
come when Protestant Episcopalian-
ism can convert this people. N o day
will ever come when, if converted,
she could govern them. Honored
for her learning, her decorum, and
her wealth, she may endure to wit-
ness many generations pass away.
Great names will be in her and great
men will be of her. She will do her
work in the world, whatever that may
be ; but her continuance will be that
of a sect, and a sect only, until the
day of her absorption comes.

Ifo

716^ Church of the Futurs*

III. The " Church of the Future ''
is a church of uniform and consis-
tent faith.

It seems almost superfluous for us
to argue in support of this proposi-
tion. That divine truth is one, that
what God teaches is unchangeable
and every way harmonious with itself,
are axioms which even the unlearned
can sec to be infallible. And that the
thoughtful, earnest, practical people
who must by and by cover this great
continent will ever acknowledge as
God*s representative and their spi-
ritual teacher a church whose faith
. is variable and undefined, whose theo-
logians are at issue concerning fun-
[ damcntal points of doctrine, and
[whose public preaching is in per-
petual self-contradiction and uncer-
! tainty, is utterly impossible. The
I ** Church of the Future '' is a ** Church
[ of Truth," a church of divine origin
and of divine authority, over whom
is one Lord, and in whom is one spi-
rit ; a church whose voice is ever
clear and certain, whose unity with
herself is evidence of her unity with
God, and who, in gathering the na-
' tions to her footstool, maketh them
rail "to be of one mind in the house,"
through " the faith once delivered to
the saints."

Will the Episcopal Church justify
this description? Has she that **pure
and uncorrupted faith," that "word of
the gospel," which is ** always, and
ever}^vhere, and by all " invariably
I taught and held ?

Everybody knows better. She
lliersclf denies it. Years ago one
of her bishops described her as a
^church in which parties were "ar-
rayed in bitter hostility to each
other ;" in which there was ''so much
difference of opinion upon important
^ points of doctrine that the bishops
I and other ministers could not be
I brought to agree ;" in which ** one
; denies all cl aim to an evangel i-

cat, that is» a gospel, character, Id

all who do not agree with them In
every particular/* while **the other
party denies to the former any just
right to the name of churchman/'*
Years ago a venerable presbyter de^
clared that the prime source of all
her difficulties was that "M^ Ac«m?'*
was ** divided against itseif^^ and that
so long as men were "ordained to
her ministry, clothed with her autho>
rity, and seated in her high places,
who cannot conscientiously teach her ■
Catechism for children, and whose
work of love it is to revile her doc-
trines, her institutions, and her faith-
ful people, her enemies "t would re-
joice, and the world repudiate her
claims. The church in tJie United
States has not yet brought forth a
Colenso, neither has a Pusey yet
arisen in her midst; but the diver*
sity between these leaders of the An- ]
glican communion is hardly greater]
than obtains between the congrega*|
tions on this side of the AtlanticT
The rector of old Trinity with \\\%i
confessional, the rector of %U\
George's with his prayer-meeting, *
are exponents of parties, the gulf (
of whose separation cleaves down^
ward to the bottom of the great plan^
of man's salvation. " Father " Mor*
rill at St, Alban's, and the younger^
Tyng beneath the missionary^ tent in^
the public square, represent creeds^
and principles as different as any that"
divide the world. Under the shelter <
of a liturgy which each interprets
according to his personal views, they i
dwell together, and through its rigid 4
formularies preserve external unifor- -
mity. But ever^^where outside of it I
their unity is wanting. Pulpit ii
arrayed against pulpit, seminary
against seminary, society againat
society. Her bishops are cata-
logued as "high" and "low/* and

The Church of the Future.

i6l

e leaders of her
Her general con-
ifety in inaction.
I existence hangs
r compromise,
state of things can
-e not to prophesy,
opal Church is des-
te like other sects
:ther she will over-
s schismatic miasm
members and be
)me of peace and
is which we have
er. But that this
vas ever possible
liformity, wherever
tly accidental^ and
ipon her teachings
ch a clear-sighted
le will demand as
r faith.

other characteris-
irch of the Future"
le limits of this ar-
:amine them. The
have directed our
5 which were most
, and concerning
research and com-
readily at hand,
ed our question as
whole ground had
and have told us
uman calculations
otestant Episcopal
be the "Church of
r country.

> demonstrate this
c been actuated by
!ty toward the Epis-
K> many sacred me-
years of deep and
e made her priests
revtr to our hearts.
in the inscrutable
dy she has a work
Uch, stained with
di schism as she is,
^ well Standing
— II

between the Catholic Church and the
remoter darknesses of Rationalism
and Infidelity, she catches the light
of its eternal truth more fully, and
breathes a far diviner atmosphere
than they. She drinks in the solemn
beauty of its apostolic order. She
feels the power of its infallible au-
thority. She wonders at its vast and
perfect unity. She strives to repro-
duce these marks of the true church
upon her own exterior, and calls her
neighbors to examine and admire.

Thus she becomes the school-mit-
tress to lead them to the truth. How
many, who by birth, by prejudice^ by
old associations, appeared to be for
ever aliens to the Catholic fold, have
yielded first to the modified Protes-
tantism of the Episcopal Church, and
through her have been led straight
home to the real mother of their
souls ! The names of Newman and
Spencer, Faber, Ives, and Baker,
teach us how much Catholics may
owe to her who, even since her fall,
has nursed the spiritual infancy of
many saints of God. And we, who
from her breast drew our first reve-
rence for Holy Church, and, guided
by her hand, at last beheld the bea-
con-light which led us to the Rock of
Peter and the Home of Peace, can
never cease to love her, or to pray
that her great work may spread unttt
the people of this nation, entranced
by her reflected beauty, may turn
their eyes to whence her light pro-
ceeds, and hasten onward to the
Catholic Church, in which the sun
of truth for ever shines.

Let, then, the general convention
of 1868, so soon to gather in this
great metropolis, awake to the emer-
gency and quit themselves like mea.
The task imposed upon them is wor-
thy of their toil, and, though the
church for which they legislate reap
not the harvest, they shall have their
reward. The influence of their grand

l62

7%/ Inuasiom.

and solemn worship, of their fixed,
conservative ideas, is necessary to
keep down this restless age, and
make it look with calmness on the
questions of the day. Let that wor-
ship be established and those ideas
extended in every town and hamlet to
which the Catholic Church has not
preceded them. Let her bishops and
her clergy imbue the people with
veneration for apostolic order and
with a spirit of submission to apos-
tolic power. Let her maintain the
truths which she preserves, and with
them build foundations in the na-
tional heart for the erection of the

divine temple of the ChristiaB fiuth.
Letherdothisaqdsofiilfil thewoik
which lies before her, doubting not
lest the Lord foiget her labor, but
hoping that the way of grace she
paves for others it may be finally her
lot to tread.

And when the ^ Church of the Fu-
ture " counts the trophies of her vi^
tory, and reviews the means by wfaidi
it was accomplished, the woik of Pro-
testant Episcopalianism shall not be
forgotten, and the workmen who pe^
formed it shall receive the meed of
praise which is their due.

nOM THS nntMCH or BBCICMAJni and ClUTWAKi

THE INVASION; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL.

CHAPTER IV.

All this while, everything was
■pursuing its usual course at the farm
of BoisKle-Ch^nes. YegoPs strange
behavior was almost forgotten, and
^rxr was fi>r the time unthought of.
Old Duohene, while Hullin plodded
back, was driving his cattle home,
the herdsman Robin spreading the
straw on which they were to rest,
and Annette and Jeanne were skim-
ining the daily tribute of their dairy.
•Catherine I^fe\'n^ alone, silent and
gUx^my, mused over what had pass-
■eil. OS she superintendeii the work of
her pe^^ple. She was too old. too
gra\T, to so so^Ht foiget e\'ents
which had agitated her so stivnglr.
At nighUall. al\er the ex-enini: n>
-fvjiM, she eniered the laip^ kitchen
where the faim-servant* awa;te\i her.
ami thei>^ lKV>k down her register
-and placed it u|X'« the table. KaUv,

as was her wont, to regulate the ac-
counts of the day.

It might have been half-past seven,
when footsteps were heard at die
gate. The watch-dog qmmg fe^
ward growling, listened for a mo-
ment, sniffed the air, and then quiet-
ly returned to his bone.

^ It is some one belonging to die
farm," said Annette; «" Michd knows
him."

At the some moment old Dnchene
exclaimed :

** Good-evening, Master Jean-
Claude! You are back."

"* Yes— from Phakboiii)g^ and I
will remain here a few moments lo
i>Kt before going to the village Is
Catherine at home?"

** She is within."* replied Dudiene.
And bra\'e Tean-Clonde entered inio
the bright light, his broad hat drawn
o^-er his c}>K. and the roll of j
skin uDOQ his shonkler.

Tkt Invasiott.

I«3

''Good-evening, my children,"
said lie^ ''good-evening. Always at
vork, I aee.**

^Yesy Monsieur Hullin," answer-
ed Jeanne, laughing. ''If we had
nothii^ to do, life would be tiresome
indeed."

"True, my dear, true. There is
nothing like work for giving rosy
cheeks and shining eyes."

Jeanne was about to reply when
tte door opened, and Catherine Le-
fevre advanced into the room. She
cut an anxious glance on Hullin, as
if to divine beforehand the news he
was bringing.

''Well, Jean-Claude, you have re^
tamed"

''Yes, Catherine, and with good
and ill tidings."

"Let us have them!" exclaimed
she, presenting a seat to the sabot-
maker, as he deposited his roll upon
the table.

"Well, the news from Gaspard is
1^; the boy is well, although he
has had a haid time of it ; so much
the better ^hardship strengthens
yoiuh. But the war goes badly,
badly 1"

He shook his head as he spoke,
and die old woman, seating herself
hi her arm-chair directly in front of
him, fixed her e3res upon his.

"Then the allies are in France;
the war is to be brought home to
us?"

" Yes» Catherine ; we may any day
eq)ect to see the enemy in our moun-
tams."

" I feared it— I was sure of it— but
go on, Jean-Claude."

Hidlin, in a low voice, proceeded
to relate all he had seen and heard;
he told of the works around the city,
the proclamation of the state of siege,
the wagons loaded with wounded on
die Place d'Armes, and his meeting
with the old sergeant From time
to time 1m panted, and die old lady

half-closed her eyes, as if graving his
words upon her memory, and when
Hullin spoke of the wounded she
gasped:

" But Gaspard has escaped ?"

At the end of the sabot-maker's
sorrowful story there was a long,
pause. How many bitter thoughts
were burning in the minds of both !
At last Catherine broke the silence :

** You see, Jean-Claude," said she,
"Yegof was right"

"He was right," replied Jean-
Claude, "but what does that prove?
It woidd, indeed, be astonishing if a
fool — ^wandering, as he does, every-
where, from village to village — in
Alsace, in Lorraine — saw nothinf^
heard nothing ; and if he should not
occasionally utter a truth in the midst
of his nonsense. Everything is
mingled in his head, and you ima-
gine you understand what he does
not understand himseUl But enough
of the fool, Catherine. The Austrir
ans are coming, and the question is
whether we shall let them pass quiet-
ly through our mt>untains, or defend
ourselves like mountaineers."

" Defend ourselves !" cried the old
woman, her pale cheeks flushing.
"Think you we have lost the cour^
age of our fathers ? Did not the blood
of their men, women, and children
flow like water, and no one think of
yielding?"

"Then you are for defence, Car
therine?"

"Ay! while a drop of blood re-
mains in my body. Let them come.
The old woman will be in their padi.'

Her long, gray hair in her excite-
ment seemed to quiver upon her
head; her cheeks trembled and
glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
She seemed even full of a fierce
beauty— of a beauty like that of
Margareth of whom Yegof spoke.
Hullin stretched his hand to her in
silence.

TIu Ifwasion,

•* I knew you, Catherine," said he
Urith enthusiasm ; " I knew your true
faeart. But we must look calmly at

^ what is before us. We shall fight,
but how? Where are our muni-
tions ?'*

*• Everywhere ! axes, scythes, pitch-

, fcrks— "

" Yes, yes ; but muskets and bul-
lets are the best. Muskets we have ;
every mountaineer's cottage has one
hanging over the door ; but where is
our powder? where are our bullets ?**
The old woman became suddenly
calm ; she pushed back her hair be-
neath her cap, and looked around
thoughtfully.

**Yes," she replied; **we lack
powder and ball, it is true, but we
shall have them. Marc-Dives the
smuggler has plenty. You will see
bim for me lo-morrow, and tell him
that Catlierine Lefevre will buy all

i.that he has, and pay for it too; yes,
Ihotigh it cost her house, lands,
and cattle — all she possesses. Do
you understand, Hullin ?"
> **I do. This is splendid, Cathe-
rine l"

- "Splendid! Bah 1 To drive from
our doors those Austrians, those Prus-
sians, the red-bearded race who once
already all but exterminated ours \
They are our mortal foes 1 You will
buy the powder, and the wretches will
see whether their old castles are to be
rebuilt by us I''

Hullin saw that Yegofs story yet
preyed upon her mind, but he said
simply :

'*Then it is understood. I go to
Marc-Dives's to-morrow ?"

•*Yes,** replied Catherine; "and

• you will buy all his powder and lead.
Vou must also go to all the villages
ifXi the mountains, to warn our people
of the danger and agree upon a sig-
nal to be used in case of attack/'

"Rest easy as to that," said Jean-
Claude ; " it shall be my care,*'

Both had risen and turned toward
the door* For half an hour past the

noise in the kitchen had ceased; the
people of the farm had retired. The
old woman placed her lamp on the
chimney-shelf and drew the bolli.
The cold without was sharp, but
the air clear and still. The peaks
around, and the fires on the Jaeger-
that stood out against the dark-blue
sky in masses of silver or jet, and
no sound broke the quiet save tbc
short bark of a far-off fox,

"Good-night, Hullin/' said the old
woman.

•'Good -night, Catherine."

Jean-Claude walked rapidly down i
the heath-covered slo|>e, and hts late I
hostess^ after following him for a few
moments with her eyes, closed the
door,

I must leave you to imagine the
joy of Louise when she learned ihit
her Gaspard was safe. Hullin was
careful not to mar her joy by a view
of the dark cloud rising upon its hO'
rizon. All night he heard her talk-
ing to herself in her little chambefi j
murmuring the name of Gaspard,
and opening drawers and boxes to
find tokens he had left.

Thus does the linnet, unmindful '
of the coming storm, sing in the fast*
receding sunshine.

CHAPTER V,

When Jean-Claude, the next i
ing, pushed open his windowH
ters, he saw the neighboring mouQ*
tains — Jacgerthal, Grosmann, Donoa
— covered with snow. This first I
sight of winter — ^when it overtakea
us in our sleep — has a strange at*
traction about it The old firs, tliO(
moss-covered rocks, were yesterdajfj
still clothed in their verdure, but qo#J
they glitter with frost, and fX[ cm
soul with an indescribable sense o(
sadness. ** Another year has pifiift! '

TUt IttvaOOM.

165

we murmur to ourselves ; '' an*
-ude season must pass away

the flowers return!" And
ty to don our great-coat or to

roaring fire. Our little re-
. full of white lights and with-

hear the sparrows — the poot
vs crouching beneath the eaves
ishes — ^who with rufHed fea-
(eem to cry, "No breakfast
)ming — no breakfast !"
in put on his heavy double*
hoes and his thickest jacket
ard Louise walking over his
1 the little garret
uise," he cried, " I am going."
lat I to-day again ?"
s, my child ; I must My busi*

not yet finished."

I pulling his broad felt hat
is head, he went half-way up
irs, and said in a low tone :

u must not expect me back very
hild, for I must go a long way
^o not be uneasy. If they ask
lere I am gone, say to Cousin
ts, at Saveme."

II you not have some break-
fore starting ?"

i ; I have put a loaf of bread

e little flask of brandy in my

Farewell, my child. Be

and think of Gaspard."
, without waiting for more
»ns, he seized his staff and left
ttage, directing his steps to-
he hill to the left of the vil-
At the end of a quarter of an
le had passed it and reached
th of the Three Fountains,
winds around Falkenstein by

wall. The first snow never
3ng in the damp shadows of
leys, and it had already begun
it and form a stream in the
ly. HuUin mounted the wall
ipe the water, and throwing a
toward the village saw a few
anen sweeping the snow from

their doorsii and a few old

men exchanging their morning greet-
ings and smoking their morning
pipes at their thresholds. He pur-
sued his way along dreamily, mur-
muring : '* How tranquil all is there]
None suspect that danger is nigh,
and yet in a few days what tumults,
what shrieks, what crashing of can-
non and clattering of muskets will fill
the air r

Powder was the first necessity,
and we have seen how Catherine
Lefevre turned her thoughts to Marc-
Dives the smuggler; but she did
not speak of his amiable helpmate
Hexe-Baizel.

The couple lived at the other side
of Falkenstein, beneath the cliff on
which the ruined castle stood. They
had hollowed out for themselves a
very comfortable den, although it
possessed but one entrance and two
little windows, but rumor hinted that
it communicated with ancient sub-
terranean passages. These last;
however, the custom-house officials
were never able to discover, not-
withstanding several visits they made
the worthy pair with this object in
view. Jean-Claude and Marc-Dives
knew one another from infancy ; they
had many a time together driven
the owl and the hawk from their
nests, and still saw one another at
least once a week at the saw-milL
Hullin placed full reliance upon the
smuggler, but he somewhat mistrust-
ed Madame Hexe-Baizel. ''How-
ever," said he, as he neared their
domicile, " we shall see."

He had lighted his pipe, and firom
time to time turned to contemplate
the immense stretch of country spread
out before him.

Nothing can be more magnificent
than the view of snow-covered wood-
ed mountains, rising peak after peak
far into the pale-blue sky until sight
is lost in distance, and separated bj
dark valleys, each with its torrent

166

The Invasim,

flowing over mossy stones, green
and polished like bronze.

And ihen the silence — the silence
of winter — broken only by the foot-
fall on the soft, white ground, or the
dash of snow falling from the higher
branches of the firs to the lower,
which bend beneath the weight ; or
mayhap the shrill screams of a pair
of eagles, whirling far above the tree-
tops, startle the car. But all this
must be seen and felt ; it cannot be
described.

About an hour after his departure
from the village, Hullin, climbing
over rock after rock, reached the
foot of the cliff of Arbousters. A
8ort*of terrace, full of stones, and
only three or four feet in width, en-
tirely surrounds this mass of granite.
The narrow way, itself surrounded
only by the tops of trees shooting
from the precipice below, seems dan-
gerous, but is scarcely so in reality,
for dizziness is all that is to be fear-
ed in passing along it* Above the
niin-covered rock overhangs the
path.

Jean-Claude approached the smug-
gler's retreat He halted a few mo-
ments upon the terrace, put his pipe
back into his pocket, and then ad-
vanced along the passage, which de-
scribed a half<:trcle and tenninated
in a notch in the rock. At its end
he perceived the two windows of the
cave and the half-open door.

At the same moment Hexe-Baizel
appeared, sweeping the threshold
with a huge broom of green twigs.
She was short and withered ; her
head covered with a mass of dis-
hevelled red hair, her checks hoi*
low, her nose pointed, her little eyes
glittering like burning coals, her
mouth small and garnished with very
white teeth. Her costume consisted
of a short and very dirty woollen
gown, and her small, muscular arms
were bare to the elbow, notion thstand-

ing the intense cold of wioter it
such a height; a pair of worn-out
slippers half-covcred her feet,

** Ha ! good-moming, Here-Bai*
zel," cried Jean-Claude, in a tone of
good-natured raillerj'. " Stout, fat,
happy, and contented as usual, I
see."

Hexc-Baizel turned like a startled
weasel. She shook her hair, and
her eyes flashed fire. But she calm-
ed herself at once, and said, in a
short, dry voice, as if speaking to
herself:

*'Hul!in the sabot-maker 1 What
does he want here ?"

**I want to see my friend Marc,
beautiful HexeBaizel/* replied Jean-
Claude. **We have business to'
gether/*

"What business?*'

" Ah I that is our affair. Com^ ^
let me pass ; I must speak to hiia.*'

" Marc is asleep."

** Well, we must wake him, TiiMi
presses."

So saying, HulTin bent beneath the
door-way, and entered the cave^ whidi
was irregular in shape and seamed
with numerous fissures in Its walls*!
Near the entrance the rock, Tisin||
suddenly, formed a sort of natun]]
hearth, on which burned a few coali j
and some branches of the juniper.]
The cooking utensils of Hexe-Baizel 1
consisted of an iron pot, an earthen i
jar, two cracked plates, and three or
four pewter forks; her furniture, of j
a wooden stool, a hatchet to split
wood, a salt-box fastened to the!
rocky wall, and her great broom of]
green twigs. At the right,
kitchen opened upon another cav
by an irregularly shaped aperturol
wider at the top than below,
closed by two planks and a i

"Well, where is MarcT
Hullin, seating himself at the i
of the hearth*

" I have already told you that 1

TA^ /fivasum.

167

is asleqi. He came home very late
last ni^t, and he must not be dis-
turbed ; do you understand?"

''I understand very well, Heze-
Baizel, but I have no time to
wait**

"^Then leave as soon as you
please."

"That is very fine, but I don't
mtend to leave just yet I did not
nake this journey to return empty
handed."

« Is that you, Hullin?" mtemipted
a rou^ voice in the inner cavern.

"Ay, Marc."

"Wait a moment, I am coming."

A noise of rustling straw was
beard, then the planks were remov-
ed, and a tall man, three feet at least
60m shoulder to shoulder, bony, bent,
vidi ears and neck of a dull brick
color and disordered brown hair,
bent in the aperture, and then Marc-
Dives stood erect before Hullin, gap-
ing and stretching his long arms.

At first sight the countenance of
Marc-Dives seemed mild enough;
his bioad, low forehead, temples on-
ly tiiinly covered with hair, pointed
nose, long chin, and calm, brown
efcs would seem to betoken the
quiet, easy-going man, but one who
ihoold so class him would sooner or
later discover his mistake. Rumor
said that Marc-Dives had little scru-
{de in u^ng his aze or carbine when
the custom-house officials invaded
Us premises, but proofs were want-
ing. The smuggler, thanks to his
complete knowledge of all the defiles
of the moontaun, and of all the roads
from Dagsbourg to Sarrebriick, from
Raon TEUpe to BAle in Switzerland,
always seemed twenty miles from the
place where such conflicts occurred.
Then he had such a harmless air —
in shor^ die rumors against him in-

cntably recoiled upon those who

itaitedthem.
^I Mt lh**^*"g of you last night.

Hullin," cried Marc, coming out of
his den, " and if you hadn't come I
should have gone all the way to the
saw-mill to meet you. Sit down.
Hexe-Baizel, give Hullin a chair."

He himself sat upon the wide
hearth, with his back to the fire, op-
posite the open door, around which
blew the winds of Alsace and of
Switzerland.

The view through the narrow
opening was magnificent— a rock-
framed picture, but how grand a
one ! There lay the whole valley of
the Rhine, and beyond the moun-
tains melting into mist. The air,
too, was so fresh and pure, and when
the blue expanse without tired the
eyes, the little fire within, with its
red, dancing flames, was there to re-
lieve them.

" Marc," said Hullin, after a mo-
ment's silence, "can I speak before
your wife ?"

" It is the same as speaking to me
alone."

" Well. I have come to buy pow-
der and lead of you."

" To shoot hares, I suppose," re-
turned the smuggler, half closing his
eye and gazing keenly at Jean-
Claude.

" No ; to fight the Germans and
the Russians."

There was another silence.

"And you want a good deal, I
suppose."

" As much as you can furnish,"

"I can furnish three thousand
fi^ncs* worth to-day," said the smug-
gler.

"I will take it"

"And as much more in a week,"
continued Marc calmly, still gazing
steadily at his friend.

" I will take it"

"You will take itl" cried Hexe-
Baizel—" you will take it I I believe
you, but who will pay for it?"

"Silence!" said Marc roughly.

i68

Th^ Invasum.

"HulHn will take it; his word b
enough/*

Then, stretching out his broad
hand to the sabot-maker, he ex-
claimed :

" Jean-Claude, here is my hand I
The powder and lead are yours ; but
I wish to stand my share of the ex-
pense. Do )t)u understand ?*'

"Yes, Marc, but I intend to pay
at once/'

** He win pay himself/' cried Hexe-
Baize L " Do you hear ?"

** Am I deaf? Bairel, go fetch us
a bottle of Brimhtlk-wasscr to warm
us. What Hullin tells me fills me
with joy. Those beggarly Kaistrliks
won't have things go as easily as
they imagine. Our people will de-
fend themselves, and well !^'

"They Willi they will I''

•* And there are those among thera
who will pay for what is needed/*

** Catherine Lefevre will pay, and
it IS she who sends me here," said
Hullin.

Then Marc arose, and, extending
his hand toward the precipice, ex-
claimed :

" She is a woman among a thoa-
sand. Her soul is as great as yon-
der rock, Oxenstein. Never saw I a
grander. I drink to her health*
Drink too, Jean-Claude/'

Hullin drank, and Hexe-Baiiel
followed the example.

**The bargain is made," cried

Dives; "but, Hullin, it will not be

I easy to beat back the foe I All the

; hunters, the workmen, and the wood*

cutters in the mountain will not be

too many. I have just come from be-

, yond the Rhine. The earth is black

with Russians, Austrians, Bavarians,

Prussians, Cossacks, hussars. The

I villages cannot contain them, and

they are encamped upon the plains,

I in the valleys, on the heights, in the

cities, everywhere, ever^^wherel"

A sharp cry pierced the air.

" It is a buijcard chasing it?i nrpv
said Marc.

At the same instant a ^i:.iuim
passed over the rock, A cloud of
chaffinches and small birds swcpCj
over the cave, and hundreds of \m
zards and hawks dashed on above,
them, with loud screams. So dcme
and broad was the feathered masi,
that it seemed almost jmmovabJf
while the fluttering of so many tlioo^<
sand wings sounded like dead Icivo
driving before the wind,

** It is the birds leaving Ardenms,".
said Hullin.

*'Yes, the last of thetn. Their
corn and seeds are buried in the
snow. But there are more men in
the enemy's armies than birds yonder.
No matter, Jean-Claude ; France will
live though the world assail hef.
Hexe-Baizel, light the lantern ; I widJ
to show Jean-Claude our stock of
ammunition."

Hexe-Baizel could oot willingly
obey this command.

** No one," said she> " has been en
the cave for twenty years^ He can
as well take your word for it, Wc
take his for payment. I will nrt
light the lantern — not 1 1"

Marc, without saying a wordL
stretched forth his hand and gras{icd
a stout slick. The old woman, titm*
bli ng in every limb, disappeared Ukc
a ferret through a small aperture, and
in a moment returned with a lif]^
horn lantern, which Dives tranquiUf
lighted at the hearth.

**Baizel," said he, replacing il»
stick, "you know that JcaD-Ciaude
is my friend, and has been since w«
were boys, and that I would trust
him much sooner than I would yo*
old snarl er ; for you know well thit
if you did not fear being hung the
same day, I would long since hav«
danced at the end of a rope. CoM
Hullin, follow me/*

They went out tQgetliCTi iiid 4^

Tkg Invasum.

169

'f tnniing to the left, kept on
the notch, which projected
Valtin two hundred feet in
He pushed aside the foliage,
nted oak, and then disap-
IS if hurled into the abyss,
.ude trembled, but he saw at
s moment Dives's head ad-
along the wall of rock. The
' called out :

in, place your hand on the
:; there is a hole there;
ut your foot boldly ; you will
!p, and then turn upon your

r Jean-Claude obeyed, not
fear and trembling; he felt
in the rock, found the step,
ning half-way around, pre-
tood face to face with his
1 a niche which must for-
ve belonged to some postern,
ad of the niche a low vault

' in the world was this dis-
*" cried the wondering Hul-

me on it while hunting for
irtyfive years ago. I had
m a magnificent eagle with

upon this rock ; they were
birds, full six feet across the
I heard the cries of their
^yond the notch, and, after

trial, found myself here,
battle we had ! They tried
ly eyes out, and when I kill-

I cleared their nest of the
lat lay there after I had
the necks of the young;
ept on, and you shall see
Hind. Come."
glided together beneath the

narrow vault, formed of
s red stones, over which the
hrew a sickly glare.
i end of about thirty steps
rcular cave, formed from the
:k, appeared, on the floor of
rere perhaps fifty piles of

little kegs, and on the sideSi a great
number of bars of lead and bags
of tobacco. The air of the cavern
was strongly impregnated with the
strong odor of the last

Marc placed his lantern at the en-
trance and gazed around with a well-
satisfied smile.

** Here is what I found," said he,
'' only the cave was empty, save that
in the middle of the floor yonder lay
the skeleton of an animal— of a fox,
which had probably died there of old
age. The rogue had discovered the
way before I did, and he could sleep
in safety here. At that time, Jean-
Claude, I was twelve years of age.
I thought then that the place might
some day be useful to me, I knew
not how; but afterward, when I
made my first essays at my trade
with Jacob Zimmer, and when for
two winters the revenue officers were
on our track, the remembrance of
my cave returned. I had made the
acquaintance of Hexe-Baizel, who
was a servant at the farm of Bois-
de-Ch6nes, then owned by Cathe-
rine's father. She broiight me twenty-
five louis by way of dowry, and we
set up our establishment in this car
vem of the Arbousiers.

Dives was silent, and Hullin asked :

" You like this den, then ?"

^ Like it 1 I would not change it
for the finest house in Strasbourg.
For twenty-three years have I kept my
goods here — ^sugar, coffee, powder,,
tobacco, brandy — and no one the
wiser. I have eight horses always
on the ro^d."

" But you enjoy nothing of your
wealth."

" Enjoy nothing I Think you there
is no pleasure in mocking and out-
witting the police — in defying the
shrewd officials of the custom-house ?
And, besides, the people all love you;
you sell at half-price ;. you are the
benefactor of the poor."

tjo

The Invasion^

"But the danger r

" Bah I What revenue officer would
Jare come here V^

"I believe you," muttered Ilullin,
^ as he thought that he must again
I brave the precipice.

" But I am used to it," continued

, the smuggler, '* although* when I first

made my way hither with a cask on

my shoulder, my heart fluttered as it

had not for many a day before."

He took up the lantern and held
it so that the light might fall upon
^the heaps of kegs.

** It is fine English powder," said
he ; "it rolls like grains of silver in
your hand, and is strong as fate. A
,-little goes a long way; a thimbleful
is enough for a charge. And there is
lead that Europe cannot beat. This
evening, Hexe-Baizel shall run some
into balls. She knows how, as you
shall see."

They turned to leave the cavern,
when suddenly a confused noise of
voices was borne upon the air. Marc
instantly blew out the lantern, and
the two men were in a moment
plunged in darkness.

" There is some one above," whis-
pered the smuggler, "Who in the
fiend's name could have climbed
Falkenstein in the snow ?"

They listened breathlessly, their
eyes fixed upon a ray of pale-blue
light which descended through a nar-
row fissure in the top of the cave.
Around this opening hung glittering
' spars of frost j above it could be
seen the crest of a ruined wall
While they gazed thus in profound
silence, a head shaggy with disorder-
ed hair, a glittering circlet binding
the brow, the face long and ending
in a pointed red beard — all sharply
outlined against the white wintry
Aky — ^became visible.

*It is the King of Diamonds l"
cried Marc, laughing.

** Poor wretch," munnured HuUin ;

'* he is making a progress to his cas*
ties, his bare feet upon the fn»ea
ground, and his tin crown protecting
his head from the cold. Look, Di-
ves, he is giving orders to the knights
of his court ; he stretches his sceptre
north and south — all is his. Poor
wretch, he makes me shiver to see
him with nothing but his dog-skin
robe around him."

" He makes me think,** laughed
the smuggler, ** of some round-paunch*
ed burgomaster, or village mayor, I
rolling back in his chair as he di-
lates upon his wealth : * H'm, I am
Hans Aden ; I have ten acres of fine
meadow-land ; I have t^^o houses, a
vine, my orchard, my garden — h*in,
I have this, that, and the olbcr,*
The nex:t day a colic seizes him, and
then, good-night 1 We are Ibols^ aQ
of us. Come, Hullin, after all, the
sight of that miserable creature talk- i
ing to the winds and of his famine*
stricken crow makes my teeth chat*
ter too."

They passed on to the entrance of
the vault, and the glare of day break-
ing suddenly upon them dazzled Hul-
lin. The tall form of his companion
guided him, however, and he pressed
on after him.

** Step firmly," said Marc, " and do
as you see me ; your right hand in
the hole, right foot on the step, half i
a turn, and here we arc 1"

They returned to the kitchen,
where Hexe-Baizel told them that .
Yegof was among the ruins.

At the same moment the ra
sailed past the door over the abyss,
and uttered its hoarse cry; they
heard the frozen heather bend be-
neath steps, and the fool appealed I
on the narrow terrace ; he was w
and haggard, and cried, looking to* ^
ward the fire :

"Marc-Dives, try to leave tHi»
soon; I warn you. The fortifica-
tions of my domains must be fret

TXr Imuasum.

171

fiom such venniiL Take your mea-
sures accordingly."

Then perceiving Jean-Claude, he
knit his brows.

-"Thou here, HuUinr said he.
"Art thou yet far-sighted enough to
accept the proposals I deigned to
make thee ? Knowest thou that the
alliance I offered b the only means
of saving thyself from the destruc-
tion that Ixoods upon thy race ?"

Hullin could not avoid laughing.

"No, Yegof," he replied; "my
light is not yet clear enough ; it b
dazed by the honor you offer me.
But Loube b not yet old enot^ to
marry/'

The fix>l seemed at once to grow
more gloomy and thoughtful. He
ftood at the edge of the terrace, his
back to the abyss, as if in his own
hall, and the whirling of the raven
ironnd hb head dbturbed him not
m the least.

At length he raised his sceptre,
ind said, frowning :

" I have twice demanded her, Hul-
lin ; twice tiiou hast dared to refuse
me. Once more shall the demand
be renewed — ^but once — dost hear?
«^4nd then the decrees of £site shall
be accomplbhed."

And turning upon his heel, with a
finn step and haughty carriage, not-
withstanding the steepness of the
descent, he passed down the rocky
padL

Hullin, Maic-Dives, and even the
acrid Heze-Baizel, burst into peals
oflau^ter.

"He b a fool I" said Hexe-Baizel.

"I think you are not altogether
wrongs'' sneered the smuggler. "Poor
Yegof b losing hb head entirely.
But Ibten, Baizel ; you will b^n at
once to cast bullets of all calibres ;
I am off for Switzerland. In a week,
at latest^ the remainder of our muni-
tions wOl be here. Give me my
bootiL"

Drawing on the last, and wrapping
a thick red woollen scarf about his
neck, the smuggler took from a hook
on the wall a herdsman's dark-green
coat which he threw over his shoul-
ders ; then, covering hb head with a
broad felt hat and seizing a cudgel,
he eried :

"Do not foiget what I say, old
woman, or if you do, beware I For-
ward, Jean-Claude I"

Hullin followed hb host without
even bidding Hexe-Baizel farewell,
and she, for her part, deigned not to
see her departing guest to the door.
When they had reached the foot of
the clifi^ Dives stopped, saying :

"You are going to the mountain
villages, are you not, Hullin ?"

" Yes ; I must give the alarm.'*

" Do not forget Mateme of Hengst
and his two sons, and Labarbe of
Dagsbourg, and Jerome of Saint-
Quirin. Tell them there will be
powder and ball in plenty ; that Ca-
therine Lefevre and I, Marc-Dives,
will see to it"

"Fear not, Marc; I know my
men."

They shook nands warmly and
parted, the smuggler wending hb
way to the right toward Donon,
Hullin taking the path to the left
toward the Sarre.

The distance was rapidly iK>iden-
ing between them, when Hullin call-
ed out:

" Halloo, Marc I Tell Catherine, as
you pass, that all goes well, and that
I have gone among the villages."

The other replied by a nod, and
the two pursued their different ways.

CHAPTER VI.

An unusual agitation reigned along
the entire line of the Vosges ; rumors
of the coming invasion spread from
village to village. Pedlars, wagon-
ers, tinkers, all that wandering popu-

IJ»

Thi Invasian.

lation which is constantly floating
I from mountain to plain, from plain
to mountain, brought each day bud-
[gets of strange news from Alsace
I and the banks of the Rhine. They
said that every towTi was being put
( in a state of defence ; that the roads
to Metz, to Nancy, Huningue, and
Strasbaiirg, were black with anny
and provision wagons. On every
side were to be seen caissons of pow-
der, shells, and shot, and cavalry,
' infantry, and artillery hurrying to
tlieir posts. Marshal Victor, with
twelve thousand men, yet held the
Saverne road, but the draw-bridges
I of all the fortified towns were raised
from seven in the evening until eight
in the morning.

Things looked gloomy enough, but

I the greater number thought only of

[defending their homes, and Jean-

I Claude was evcr)^vhere well received.

The same day, at about five, in

I the evening, he reached the top of

Hengst, and stopped at the dwelling

fof the hunter-patriarch, old Materne.

I There he passed the night; for in

[winter the days are short and the

[toads difficult Materne promised

I to keep watch over the defile of Zom,

with his two sons, Kasper and Frantz,

ftnd to respond to the first signal

[that should be made from Falken-

I $tetn.

Early the next day, Jean-Claude
I arrived at Dagsbourg to sec his friend
Labarbe the wood-cutter. They went
[together to the hamlets around, to
I light in all hearts the love of count^>^
[ Labarbe accompanied Hullin to the
I cottage of the Anabaptist Nickel, a
I grave and respectable man, but they
I could not draw him into their glorious
I enterprise. He had but one reply to all
I ^eir arguments. **It is well," he said ;
tl^it is doubtless right ; but the Scrip-
Itures say that he who takes up the
[•word shall perish by the sword."
He promised, however, to pray for the

good cause, and that was all th^

could obtain of him.

They went tlience to Walscb, where
they found Daniel Hirsch, an aocieiit
gunner in the navy, who promised to
bring with him all the men of his
commune.

Here Labarbe left Jean-Claude to
pursue his route alone*

For a week more our brave friend
wandered over tlie mountains, from
Soldatenthal to Leonsbcrg, frora
Meienthal to Voyer, Cirey, Petit-
Mont, Saint-Sauveur, and the ninth
day he found himself at the shoe-
maker Jerome^s, at Saint-Quirin.
They visited together the defile of
Blanru, after which HuIUd, entirely
satisfied with the results of his jour-
ney, turned once more toward his
village.

Since two o'clock in the afternoon.
he had been pressing an at a brisk
pace, thinking of the life of the camp,>
the bivouac, the crash of battle,
marches and countermarcl-
those details of a soldier's liii
he regretted so often and which h©
now looked forward to with ardor.
The twilight shadows had begun to
fall when he discovered the village,
of Charmes, afar off, with its Itllle*
cottages, from which curled wreaths
of light- blue smoke, scarcely per-
ceptible against the snow-covered
mountain-side, its little gardens with
their fences, its slate-covered roofv
and to the left the great farm-house
of Bois-de-Ch^nes, and below, in the
already dark ravine, the saw-mUl of
Valtin.

And then, without his knowing
why, a sadness filled his heart.

He slackened his steps \ thoughts
of the calm, peaceful life he was los*
ing, perhaps for ever, floated through.
his mind ; he saw his little room^ SO-
warm in winter and so gay in spdng^
when he opened his window to III©
breezes from the woodsy he heaid

Tke Invasion.

the never-changing tick of the vil-
lage clock ; and he thought of Louise
—his good little Louise — spinning in
silence, her eyes cast down, or, may-
hap, singing in her pure, clear voice
at evening. Everything in his home
arose before his eyes: the tools of
his trade, his long, glittering chisels,
the hatchet with the crooked handle,
the porringers of glazed earthenware,
the antique figure of Saint Michael
Duled to the wall, the old curtained
hed in the alcove, the lamp with the
copper beak — all v/ere before him,
and the tears forced their way to his
(yes.

But it was to Louise — ^his dear
child, his Louise — ^that his thoughts
turned oftenest. How she would
weep and implore him not to expose
himself to the dangers of war I How
she would hang upon his neck and
b^ him not to leave her I He saw
her large, affrighted eyes ; he felt her
amis around him. He would fain
deceive her, but deceit was no part of
Jean-Claude's character ; his words
only deepened her grief.

He tried to shake off his gloom,
and, passing by the farm of Bois-de-
Chtnes, he entered to tell Catherine
that all went well, and that the moun-
taineers only awaited the signal.

Fifteen minutes later, Master Jean-
Claude stood before his own door.

Before opening it, he glanced
trough the window to see what Lou-
ise might be doing. She was stand-
ing in the alcove, and seemed busily
arranging and rearranging some gar-
ments that lay upon the bed. Her
bet beamed with happiness, her
eyes sparkled, and she was talking
to herself aloud. Hullin listened,
but the rattling of a passing wagon
prevented his hearing her words.

He pushed open the door and
entered, saying:

** Louise, here I am back !"

She boimded like a fawn to him

and threw her arms around his neck,
exclaiming :

" It is you, Father Jean-Claude !
How I have been waiting for you!
How long you were gone ! But you
are home again, at last."

"My child — many things" — said
the good man, putting away his staff
behind the door — "many things
kept—"

But his heart was too full ; he could
say no more.

" Yes, yes, I know," cried Louise,
laughing. " Mother Lefevre told me
all."

" How is that I You know all and
only laugh? Well, it proves your
good sense. I expected to see you
weep."

" Weep ? And why, Father Jean-
Claude ? Oh ! never fear for me ; I
am brave. You do not know me."

Her air was so prettily resolute that
Hullin could not help smiling; but
his smile quickly disappeared when
she added :

"We are going to have war; we
are going to fight, to defend the
mountains 1"

" IVe are going I WJr are going 1"
exclaimed the good man, astounded.

" Certainly. Are we not ?" she ask-
ed, her smile disappearing at once.

" I must leave you for some time,
my child."

" Leave me ? Oh ! no, no. I will
go with you ; it is agreed. See, my
little bundle is all ready, and I am
making up yours. Do not be un-
easy; let me fix everything, and you
will be satisfied."

Hullin stood stupefied.

"But, Louise," he cried, "you are
dreaming. Think, my child! We
must pass long winter nights without
a roof to cover us; we must bear
hardship, fatigue, cold, snow, hunger,
and countless dangers I A musket-
ball would mar my pretty bird's
beauty."

174

The Invasian.

**You are only trjring your little
Louise," cried she, now in tears, and
flinging herself upon his neck- *' You
will not leave me here alone.**

" But you will be better here ; you
will have a good fire and food. Be*
sides, you will receive news of us
every day/*

** No, no I I will go with you ; I
care not for cold. And I have been
shut up here too long; I want the
fresh air. The birds are out; the
redbreasts are out all winter ; and
did I not know what hunger was
when a child ? Mother Lefevre says
I may go ; and will you whom I love
BO much be more cruel than she ?"

Brave Jean-Claude sat dowTi, his
heart full of bitter sorrow. He turned
away his head that she might not
see the struggle going on within,
while Louise eagerly continued :

" I will be safe ; I will follow you.
The cold I What is the cold to me ?
And if you should be wounded^ — if
you should wish to see your little
Louise for the last time, and she not
be near to take care of you^ — to love
you to the last ! Oh ! you must think
me hard-hearted I"

She sobbed ; Hullin could hold
out no longer,

" Is it indeed true that Mother Le-
fcwe consents ?*' he asked,

** Ycs» yes. oh ! yes» she told me so ;
she said, *Try to get Father Jean-
Claude to let you ; I am satisfied.* *'

" Well,*' said the sabot-maker, smil-
ing sadly, **I can do little against
two. You shall come ! It is agreed."

The cottage echoed with her cry
of )oy, and with one sweep of her
fiand her tears were dried, and her
face, like an April sky, beamed in
tmiles.

" You are a little gypsy still," cried
•Hullin, shaking his head, ** Go trap
a swallow."

llicn, drawing her to hinii he con-
tinued: ^ \ %^9m

'^Look you, Louise: it is not.
twelve years since I found yoo
the snow. You were blue with the '
cold, poor child ; and when 1 brought
you to the fire and warmed you^ the
fimt thing you did was to smile at
me, and since that day youjr smile
has ruled old JeanClaude, Bui let
us look at our bundles/' said tlie
good man with a sigh, " Are thqr
well fastened ?**

He approached the bed, and saw
in wonder his wannest coals, his .
fiannel jackets, all well brushed^ iwH J
folded, and well packed. Then in J
I^uise*s bundle were her best drcsste
and her thick shoes. He could doi]
restrain a laugh, as he cried :

**0 g>psy, gypsy 1 It Ukcs yo«
to pack up."

Louise smiled*

"Then you are satisfied witb
them r* she asked.

** I must be ; but in the midiit of all
this fine work, you did not think, Ml
wager, of getting ready my s^
per.'*

"That is soon done," said she,
''although I did not know you would
return to-night, Papa Jean-Claude."

** That is true ; but get somctlitQf
ready quickly ; no matter what, Ar
my appetite is sharp. In the mean-
time I will smoke a pipe."

" Yes, smoke a pipe."

He sat at the corner of his '
bench and drummed dreamily upon iL
Louise flew to right and left like a veri-
table fairy, kindling up the fire, breal^ ,
jng eggs, and in the twinkle of an cyel
she had an omelette ready, Ncvtf l
had she looked so graceful, so Joyaii% i
so pretty. Hullin leaned his cheek
upon his hand and g^i^ at her
gravely, thinking hew much firmnca^
will^ resolution, there was in
little form, light as an anteic
decided as a cuirassier. In a
ment she had laid the omelette ht^\
fore him on a large plate^ <

The Invasion,

175

ed with blue flowers, a loaf of bread,
his glass, and his bottle of wine."

"^ There, Father Jean-Claude, eat
your sapper."

The fire leaped and crackled m
the stove, throwing ruddy stains on
tiie low rafters, the stairs half in
shadow and the large bed in the al-
cove, and lighting up the poor dwell-
ing so often made joyous by the mer-
ly humor of the saBot-maker and the
songs of his daughter. And Louise
lould leave all this without regret to
brave the wintry woods, the snow-
covered paths, and the steep moun-
tain-side, and all for love of him.
Neither storm, nor biting wind, nor
torrents staid her. She had but
one thought, and that was to be neat
him.

The repast ended, Hullin arose,
saying:

''I am weary, my child; kiss me
fcr good-night"

''But do not forget to awake me,
Fadier Jean-Claude, if you start be-
fore daybreak."

"Rest easy; you will come with
m," he answered, as he climbed the
narrow stairs.

All was silence without, save that
the deep tones of the village clock
tdd the hour of eleven. Jean-Claude
ut down and unfastened his shoes.
Just then his eyes fell upon his mus-
ket hung over the door. He took it
down, slowly wiped it, and tried the
lock. His whole soul was in the
vorfc in which he was engaged.

** It b strange— strange! The last
time I fired it was at Marengo—
fourteen years ago^ and it seems but
yesterday."

Suddenly the frozen snow crunch-
ed beneath a foot-fidl. He listened.
Tiro taps sounded upon the window-
panes^ He ran and (^)ened the
door, and the ferm of Marc-Dives,
Us broad hat stiff with ice, emerged
fron the datknesf.

•*Marc! What news?"

" Have you warned Mateme, Je-
rome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

" It is none too soon ; the enemy
are advancing."

" Advancing ?"

"Yes, along their whole line. I
have come fifteen leagues since
morning to give you warning,"

" Good. We must make the sig-
nal : a fire upon Falkenstein."

Hullin's face was pale, but his
eyes flashed. He again put on his
shoes, and two minutes afler, with
his cloak upon his shoulders and his
staff firmly clinched in his hand, he
opened the door softly, and with long
steps followed Marc-Dives along the
path to Falkenstein.

CHAPTER VII.

From midnight until six o'clock
in the morning a fiame shone through
the darkness from the summit of
Falkenstein.

All Hullin's friends, and those of
Marc-Dives and Mother Lefevre,
with high gaiters bound around their
legs, and old muskets upon their
shoulders, tvooped in the silence of
the woods to the gorges of the Val-
tin. The thought of the enemy
pouring over the plains of Alsace to
surprise their glens and defiles nerved
every heart and arm. The tocsin at
Dagsbourg, at Walsch, and at Saint-
Quirin ceased not to call the coun-
try's defenders to arms.

Imagine the Jaegerthal, at the foot
of the old burgy in the early morning
hour, when the giant arms of the
trees begin to break through the
shadows, and when the approach of
day softens somewhat the intense
cold of the night. The snow lies
deep upon the ground. Imagine the
old saw-pit with its flat roof, its
heavy wheel glittering with icicles ;

1/6

Th£ Invasion,

a fire of sawdust shining from within,
but paling before ihe moniing twi-
light, and around the fire fur caps
and slouched hats and dark faces
crowded together ; further on, in the
woods, and along the winding valley,
were other fires lighting up groups of
men and women seated on the snow.

As the sky grew brighter friends
began to recognize each other,

** Hold ! There is Cousin Daniel
of Soldatenthal. You here too ?"

'* As you see, Heinrich, and my
wife too/^

** What ! Cousin Nanette I But
where is she ?*'

** Yonder, by the large oak, at
Uncle Hans's fire,"

They clasp each other's hand.
Some slept, some piled branches and
broken planks upon the fires. Flasks
passed around, and those who had
warmed themselves made way for
their shivering neighbors. But im-
patience was gaining upon the crowd.

"Ahl" cried one, "we have not
come here only to stretch our legs.
It is time to look around, to agree
upon our movements,'*

"Yes I yes! let us organize and
elect our leaders T* cried many.

" No ; all are not yet here. They
are yet coming from Dagsbourg and
Saint-Quirin," replied others.

Indeed, as day advanced, the
pathways of the mountain seemed
full of people. There were already
some hundreds in the valley — wood-
cutters, charcoal-burners, and others
— ^without counting the women and
children.

Nothing could be more picturesque
than that halt in the snow, at the
bottom of a defile covered to the
douds with high firs ; to the right,
valley following valley as far as the
eye could reach \ to the left, the
ruins of Falkenstein, reaching, as it
seemedi to the sky \ and before you
groups of thickly bearded men with

gloomy brows, broad sqi|
ders, and hands callous fi
Some of them, taller thaq
lows, were red-haired aj
skinned, and seemed stra
oaks of the forest. Of lb
were old Matcrne of Heng
two sons, Frantz and Kasp
three, armed with short \
rifics, their high gaiters oC
vas with leather buttons
above the knee, their bodi^
with hare-skin jackets, ;
slouched hats pushed far t
their heads, did not de^
proach the fire* Since u
they had sat upon the fella
a fir by the border of the bi
eyes constantly on the i«
their feet buried in the snot
time to time the old man j
to his sons:

** What are they shive
yonder ? I never saw a mi
at this season ; it is a fii
night; the brooks are not |i

Every hunter as he pass
their hands, and tlien joi;
lows, who formed a sepan
among whom but few wo«(
for silence is one of the ^
of the chase.

Marc* Dives, standing ii
die of anotlicr group, ovei
towered by a head, talked i
culated, now pointing ta
of the mountain, now U
Opposite him was the old
Lag.nrmilte, in his gray sisi
his dog at his side. He
ing open-mouthed to the
and from time to time gravi
his head. The remaind
group was composed of
and workmen with whom \
daily dealings.

Between the saw-pit aiH
fire sat the shoemaker |
Saint-Quirin, a man beti
and sixty years of age

The Invasion.

177

were sunken, lus face long and
brown, and his 3rellow beard de-
scended to his waist ; his head was
covered with an otter-skin cap ; and
as he leaned forward upon a heavy
knotted staff, in his long woollen
great-coat, he might easily have been
mistaken for some hermit of the
wilds. Whenever any one approach-
ed with news, Father Jerome slowly
turoed his head and listened with
bent brows.

Jean Labarbe sat motionless, his
elbow resting upon his axe-helve.
He was a pale man, with an aquiline
Dose and thin lips, and exercised a
great influence over the men of Dags-
boinf by the resolution and force of
his character. When those around
him cried out for action, he simply
said, ~ Wait ; Hullin has not arrived
yet, nor Catherine Lefevre. Theref
is no hurry," and all around became
quiet

Piorette, a little, dry, thin, ener-
getic man, with eyebrows meeting
over his nose, and a short pipe be-
tween his teeth, sat at the threshold
of the saw-mill, and gazed with a
quick but thoughtful eye at the
scene.

Nevertheless, the impatience in-
creased every minute. A few vil-
lage mayors in cocked hats called
npon their people to deliberate. Hap-
pily the wagon of Catherine Lefevre
2t last appeared, and a thousand en-
thusiastic shouts arose on all sides.

"Here they are ! They have
come!"

Old Mateme stood up upon the
tnmk of a tree and then descended,
giavely saying :

"Itisthey."

Much excitement now prevailed ;
the scattered groups collected.
Scarcely could the old woman be
tten distuictly, seated upon a truss
of straw with Louise by her side,
vhen the edioes rang widi the cry :

VOL. VIII.-r-I2

"Long live France I Long live
Mother Catherine !"

Hullin, behind, his musket strap-
ped upon his back, was crossing the
field of Eichmath, grasping hands
and saluting his friends :

" Is it you, Daniel ? Good-morn-
ing, Colon !"

" Ha ! Things look stormy, Hul-
lin."

" Yes, yes ; we shall soon have
lively times. You here, old Jerome I
What think you of the state of af-
fairs ?"

" All will yet go well, Jean-Claude,
with God's help."

Catherine, when she arrived in
front of the saw-mill, ordered Labarbe
to open the little cask of brandy
she had brought from the farm-house.
Hullin, approaching the fire, met
Mateme and his two sons.

" You come late," said the old hun-
ter.

" True, but there was much to be
done, and too much yet remains to*
be done to lose more time. Lagar-
mitte, wind your horn."

Lagarmitte blew until his cheeks,
seemed bursting, and the groups
scattered along die path, and at the
skirts of the wood hastened to assem-
ble, and soon all were collected be-
fore the saw-mill. Hullin mounted
a pile of logs, and spoke amid the
deepest silence :

"The enemy," said he, "crossed
the Rhine the night before last. He
is pressing on to our mountains to
enter Lorraine. Strasbourg and
Huningue are blockaded. In three
or four days at most the Germans
and the Russians will be upon us."

A shout of " Long live France !"
arose.

"Ay, long live France!" cried
Jean-Claude ; " for, if the allies reach
Paris, all our liberties are gone I
Forced labor, tithes, privileges, and
gibbets will flourish once more. If

178

The InvasiotL

you wish that they should, let the
allies pass."

A dark scowl seemed to settle on
every man's face.

** I have said what I have to say I'*
cried Hullin, pale with emotion. '* As
you are here, you are here to fight T'
"Ay, to fight r'

** It is well ; but one word more. I
would not deceive you ; I see among
you fathers of families. We will be
one against ten — against fifty. We
must expect to perish ! Therefore, let
those whose hearts may grow faint
ere the end comes, go. AH are free !"
Each in the crowd looked round to
see his neighbors' faces» but no one
left his place. Jean-Claude spoke in
a firmer tone :

" No one moves I All are ready for
battle \ A chief — a leader^ — must be
named, for in times of danger ever}^-
thing depends on order and disci*
pline. He whom you shall appoint
must be obeyed in all things. Reflect
well, for on him depends the fate of
every one of us.''

So saying, Jean-Claude descended
from his tribune, and earnest voices
began at once to whisper in the
crowd. Ev^ery village deliberated
separately ; each mayor proposed his
L^man ; time passed ; Catherine Lefe-
F'vre burned with anxiety and impa-
tience. At length she could contain
herself no longer, and rising upon her
seat she made a sign that she wished
lo speak.

••My friends,*' said she, "time
Hies ; the enemy is advancing. What
l^o we need ? A man whom we can
trust ; a soldier acquainted with war,
and knowing how to pmiit by the
strength of mere positions^ Well»
'Why not choose Hullin? Can any
ilMnong ^'ou name a belter? I pro-
pose Hullin !**

" Hullin \ HaUiQ 1'' cried Labarbe,
^Divcs Jerome, and muiy allieis,
^Lctttsliave a volt T

Marc-Dives, climbing the pile o( I
logs, shouted in a voice of thvmdcr;

** Let those who are opposed to
having Jean-Claude Hullin for our
leader, raise their hands 1"

Not a hand rose.

" Let those who wish Jean-Claude
Hullin to be our chief, raise their |
hands T'

Every hand rose*

"Jeandaude,*'said the smug^J
"you are the man. Come hiti
Look V'

Jean-Claude mounted the Ings, andl
seeing that he was elected, said|
calmly :

** You name me your chief. I
cept* JLet old Mateme, Labarbe of J
Dagsbourg, Jerome of Saint-Quinn
Marc-Dives, Piorctte the sawyer, and
Catherine Lefevre enter the saw-mill
We will hold a coimcil, and in twent]
minutes I will give my orders.
the meantime let evcr)^ village dcfc
two men to go lo Falkenstein wltJ
Marc-Dives for powder and ball/*

CHAPTER vni.

Those whom Hullin named met
in the hut attached to the saw-mill
around the immense chimney. A
sober sort of merriment seemed to j
play about the face of more tliaa]
one.

" For twenty years I have heard
people talking of these Russians and]
Austrians and Cossacks>*^ said old
Mateme, smiling, ** and I shalJ
be sorry to see one at the muzzle
of my rifle/-

"Yes," answered Labaibe ; ••ne
shall see enough of them at last, and
the little children of to-day will luive
many a tale to tell of their lalfaeis
and Ihetr gntndsires. And how the
old «o«i^ of filfy )^eais heoce w91
chatter of it at eveni]i|r uound .
winier liie r*

-Comrades,*' cned HtriUn, «J

The Invasion.

179

know the country — ^you know our
mountains from Thann to Wissem-
bourg. You know that two grand
roads — the imperial roads — traverse
Alsace and the Vosges. Both start-
ing from Bile, one runs along the
Rhine to Strasbourg, and enters
Lorraine by Saveme. Huningue,
Neuf-Brisach, Strasbourg, and Phals-
bourg defend it. The other turns
to the left to Schlestadt. Leaving
t Schlestadt, it enters the mountains,

(and passes on to Saint-Di^, Raon-
ITtape, Baccarat, and Lun^ville.
i The enemy would like to force the
passage of these two roads, as they
are the best for cavalr}', artillery,
and wagons ; but, as they are well
defended, we need not trouble our-
sdves about them. If the allies lay
siege to the cities upon them, the
campaign will be dragged out to a
great length, and we shall have no-
thing to fear ; but this is not proba-
ble. After having summoned Hu-
ningue to surrender, and Belfort,
Schlestadt, Strasbourg, and Phals-
bourg, on this side of the Vosges,
and Bitche^ Lutzelstein, and Sarre-
briick, on the other, they will fall
upon us. Now, listen. Between
Plialsbourg and Saint-Di^ there are
several defiles practicable for infan-
try, but only one for cannon, that is,
the road from Strasbourg to Raon-
lesLeaux, by Urmatt, Mutzig, Lut-
zelhouse, Phramond, and Grandfon-
taine. Once masters of this road,
the allies can debouch in Lorraine.
This road passes us at Donon, two
leagues hence, to our right. The
first thing to be done is, to establish
ourselves upon it at the place most
favorable for defence — ^that is, upon
the plateau on the mountain ; to
break down the bridges, and throw
heavy abatis across it. A few hun-
dred large trees, with their branches,
will do the work, and under their
cover we can watch the approach

of the foe. All this, comrades, must
be done by to-morrow night, or by
the day after, at the latest. But it
is not enough to occupy a position
and put it in a good state of defence.
We must see that the enemy cannot
turn it."

"That is just what I was think-
ing," said old Mateme. " Once in
the valley of the Bruche, and the
Germans can bring their infantry to
the hills of Haslach, and turn our
left ; and there is nothing to hinder
their trying the same movement
upon our right, if they gain Raon-
TEtape."

" Yes ; but to prevent their doing
either, we have only to occupy the
defiles of the Zom and of the Sarre
on our left, and that of Blanru on
our right. We must defend a defile
by holding the heights, and, for that
purpose, Piorette will place himself,
with a hundred men, on the side of
Raon-les-Leaux ; Jerome, on Gros-
mann, with the same number, to
close the valley of the Sarre; and
Labarbe, at the head of the remain-
der, on the mountain, will overlook
the hills of Haslach. You will choose
your men from those belonging to the
villages nearest your stations. The
women must not have far to come to
bring provisions, and the wounded
will be nearer home. The chiefs of
each position will send me a report
each day, by a messenger, on foot,
to Donon, where will be our head-
quarters. We will organize a reserve
also ; but it will be time enough to
see to that when our positions are
taken, and no surprise from the ene-
my is to be feared."

" And I," cried Marc-Dives, " am
I to have nothing to do ? Am I to
sit with folded arms while all the rest
are fighting ?"

"You will superintend the trans-
porting of our munitions. No one
among us understands keeping pow-

i8o

The Invasion.

der as you do — preserving it from
fire and damp — or casting bullets and
making cartridges***

** That is a woman's work/' cried
the smuggler, " Hexe-Baizel can do
it as well as I, Am I not to fire a
shotr'

" Rest easy, Marc," replied Hullin,
laughing j "you will find plenty of
chances. In the first place, Falken-
stein is the centre of our line^^-our
arsenal and point of retreat, in case
of misfortune. The enemy will know
by his scouts that our wagons start
from there, and wnll probably try to
intercept them. Shots and bayonet-
thrusts will not be wanting. Besides,
we cannot confide the secret of your
cave to the first comen However, if
you insist — "

**No/' said the smuggler, whom
Hullin's reflections upon the cave
touched at once. **Noj all things
well considered, I believe you are
right, Jean-Claude. I will defend
Falkenstein/'

** Well, then, comrades," cried
brave Jean-Claude, "we will warm
our hearts with a few glasses of
wine. It is now ten o'clock. I.et
each one return to his village, and
see to the provisions* To-morrow
morning, at the latest, the defiles
must be occupied."

They left the hut together, and
Hullin, in the presence of all assem-
bled, named Labarbe, Jerome, and
Piorette chiefs of the defiles ; then
he ordered those who came from the
Sarre to meet, as soon as possible,
near the farm of Bois-de-Ch^nes, with
axes, picks, and muskets.

** We will start at two," said he,
" and encamp on Donon, across the
road. To-morrow, at daybreak, we
will begin our abatis/'

He kept old Materne, and his two
sons, Frantz and Kasper, by him,
telling them that the battle would
surely begin on Donon, and sharp-

shooters would be ne(
Mother Lefevre never
happy. She mounted
and whispered, as she
Louise :

** All goes well. Jcan-C
man. He astonishes mc^
known him forty years. Jeai
she cried, " breakfast is wi
a few old bottles which th<
will not drink,'*

** Good Catherine, I am

But as he struck the h<
the whip, and as the mtil
had just begun to scattQ
way to their villages, thej
the road to Trois-Fontaiw
thin man, mounted upon a J
his hare-skin cap, with a m
pulled well down upon hid|
great shepherd-dog, with 1<
hair, bounded beside hiii
skirts of his huge overc
like wings behind him.

** It is Dr. Lorquin, fromi
exclaimed Catherine; "h<
tends the poor for notliing ;
is his dog Pluto with him."

It was indeed be, wh
among the crowd, shouting

" Halt I stop I Halt, I s

His ruddy face, large, qi
beard of a reddish-browi
square shoulders, tall he
dog, in a moment appeari
foot of the mountain. Ga
breath, he shouted, in hi
ment :

" Ah the villains 1 Th
to begin the campaign
They shall pay for it I"

And, striking a little
ried at his crupper, he con

** Wait awhile, my fii5
wait awhile I I have son
here you'll want by and 1
knives and great ones
pointed ones — to cut out i
and canister your friend
will treat you to."

Catholicity and Pantheism.

i8i

So saying, he burst into a gruff
peal of laughter, while the flesh of
bis hearers crept. After this agree-
able pleasantry, Dr. Lorquin said
gravely:

^Hullin, your ears should be cut
off! When the country was to be
defended, was I to be forgotten? It
seems to me that a surgeon might be
useful here, although may God send
you no need of one !"

"Pardon me, doctor; it was my
fanlt," replied Hullin, pressing his
hand. "For the last week I have
had so many things to think of that
some escaped me, in spite of myself.
But a man like you need not be call-
ed upon by me to do his duty."

The doctor softened.

"It is all well and good,** he cried \
"but by your fault I am here late.
Rit wliere is your general ? I will
complain to him."

"I am general."

"Indeed!"

*' And I appoint you surgeon-in-
chief."

** Surgeon-in-chief of the partisans
of the Vosges. Very good, Jean-
Claude." And, approaching the
wagon in which Catherine was
seated, the doctor told her that he
relied upon her to organize the hos-
pital department.

"Very well," she answered ; "for-
ward. You dine with us, doctor."

The wagon started, and all the
way the brave doctor laughingly told
Catherine how the news of the rising
reached him ; how his old house-
keeper Marie was wild with grief,
and tried to keep him from going to
be massacred by the Kaiserliks ; the
different episodes of his journey from
Quibolo to the village of Charmes.
Hullin and Mateme and his sons
marched a few paces in the rear, their
rifles on their shoulders; and thus
they reached the farm of Bois-de-
Ch^nes.

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER ONE.

INTRODUCTORY.

Man is made for truth. The ray
^ intelligence beaming from his
countenance and kindling his looks
^ life marks his superiority over
«fl inferior creation, and loudly pro-
<^bmis this fact Intelligence must
hve an ol^ect \ and what can this
<*jcct be but truth ? As a necessary
consequence from this fact, it follows
that error can be nothing else than
Pigments of truth ; ill-assorted, im-
properly jcnned together. Error does

not consist in what logicians call
simple ideas, or self evident proposi-
tions ; but in complex ideas, the re-
sult of a long chain of syllogisms.
Another consequence, closely allied
to the first, is, that the greater the error,
the more universal and more widely
spread, the more particular truths it
must contain. Or, if it does not
contain a greater number of par-
tial truths, it must have the power of
apparently satisfying a real and pre-
valent tendency of our mind, other-
wise it would never exert dominion

l82

Catholicity and Pantheism.

over the intelligence ; or else it must
possess the secret of awakening and
alluring a true and imperative aspira-
Lion of our nature.

It is through these views that we
have been enabled to explain to our-
selves the prevalence of Pantheism.
The simple utterance of the word
Pantheism, the Deity of everything,
would seem to carry its refutation
with it, so plain and evident is its
falsehood, so glaring its absurdity.

Pantheism, however, has been the
universal error in time and space.
In India, Persia, China, Greece,
Rome, Pantheism flourished ; now
under a religious, and then under a
philosophical form. After the Chris-
tian era it was the religion or system
of those who did not understand the
Christian dogmas as taught by the
church ; and the fathers of the first
centuries, in battling against Gnosti-
cism, Eclecticism, and Neoplatonism,
were struggling with this old error of
the world — Pantheism. Depressed
for awhile by the efforts of the doc-
tors of the church, it arose with
fiercer energy under the forms of
all those heresies which attacked the
dogma of the Incarnation of the
Word.

In the middle ages there were
many philosophers who held Panthe-
ism ; and in modem times, since the
dawn of the Reformation, it has be-
come the prevalent, the absorbing
error of the world. Always the same
as to substance, it assumes every va-
riety of form : now you see it in a
logical dress, as in the doctrine of
die German school ; again it lakes
a psychological garb, as in that of
the French school with Cousin at its
head ; or it assumes a social and
political form, as in the Pantheism
of Fourier, Leroux, Saint Simon,
and all the progressists of ever}' color
or shade; and finally, it puts on a
ghostly shroud, as taught by the

American spiritualists. XJii
ever garb it may appear, it [
and fills alh and pretends to \
alL It penetrates philosoph
raJ science, history, liieratu
arts, the family, society a
politic, and religion. It i
sway over all, and exhibit
having the secret of good!
How is this to be explaine
falsehood of Pantheism be sofi
whence is it tliat it is the ||
error in time and spacCffl
made such ravages in maiA
gcnce? The greater its faL
the more inexplicable beefl
prevalence. Has the natuM
changed ? Has his intelliger
its object ? It is true, ma
gcnce is not perfect. Sic
it is weakened and obs
doubtless it has not ceased!
not cease to be intclligend
has not ceased to be its qJ
sential object How, then^}
explain the prevalence of i
an error ?

By the fact that it is a syslS
by its generality seems to
supreme tendency of
and to appease one of the '
perative cravings of our sou
intelligence has a natural
to synthetize, that is, to bring
thing into unity* This le
arises both from the essenti
ness of the mind and froiJ
ture of its object. The objcl
mind is being or reality in son
or other. I'hat which do©
cannot even be apprehcndt
hence cannot be the objc
mind. To understand and
stand nothing is, at the
the affirmation and the nc
the understanding. Now, ;
jecl of the intelligence, ia J
be known and understo
said faculty, must repres
under tlie form of being or

Catholicity and Pantheism,

183

IS under this respect necessarily one,
ITnder whatever form it may exhibit
ivself. under whatever quality it may
be concealed, it must always be real-
ity or being, and, as such, one. But
if being, reality, or unit}% taken in
ihe abstract, was the sole object of
the in tell ige nee, there would be an
eT»d lo all its movement or life. All
sdcDce would be at an end, because
science is a process, a movement;
ind movement is not possible where
an abstraction is the sole object
of the mind* Being and unity, then,
abstractly considered, would be the
flcrnal stupor of the mind. This
cmnot be so, however. Intelli-
gence is action, life, movement
Now, all this implies multiplicity \
hence the object of the intelli-
gence must also be multiple. But
does not this second condition also
l^desiro)^ the former, which requires
I that the object of the intelligence
Ishould he one ? Here reason finds a
though, as we shall see,
I parent contradiction, both
f to tbc logical as well as ontological
l^l^r. In the logical order, because
\ Intelligence seems to require uni-
fly jintf multiplicity as the conditions
irirhout which its action becomes im-
fiible. In the ontological order,
r the order of reality, because if the
ijcct is not at tlie same time one
innhiple, how^ can those condi-
\ of the mind be satisfied ?
Ttit intelligence, then, in order
live, must be able to travel
unity to multiplicity in an
iing or descending process, and
I do so, not arbitrarily, but for rea-
M rc?s!ing on reality.
If» \\\\s lies the life of the int^lli-
Ip i'jnce is nothing but this

11^ ! and analytical movement.

I the mind stop at analysis or mul-
blkity, and you will give it an ag-
cralion of facts of which it can
see the reason nor the link

which connects them : and hence
you place it in unnatural bonds,
which, sooner or later, it will break,
it matters not whether by a sophisti-
cal or a dialectic process* On the
other hand, let it stop at unity, and
you condemn it to stupor and death.
The foregoing ideas will explain
the fact how a particular error will
either have a very short existence or
fall into the universal error of Pan-
theism. For in this, so far as we
can see, lies the reason of the uni-
versal dominion of Pantheism. Be-
cause it proposes to explain the whole
question of human knowledge, it
takes it up in all itsuniversalit>', and
the solution which it sets forth has
all the appearance of satisfying the
most imperative tendency of our
mind. To be enabled to explain the
numberless multiplicity of realities,
no matter how, and, at the same
time, to bring them into a compact
and perfect whole, strikes to the
quick the very essence of man's in-
telligence and allures it with its
charms. If this be not the main
reason of the prevalence of Panthe-
ism, we acknowledge we do not un-
derstand how such a mighty error
could ever take possession of man*s
mind ; we are tempted to say that
human understanding was made for
falsehood, which is to deny the very
notion of intelligence.

What Pantheism proposes to do
for the mind it also promises to ac-
complish for the soul.

There is, in jnan's heart or soul,
impressed in indelible characters, a
tendency after the infinite, a craving
almost infinite in its energy, such is
the violence with which it impels the
soul to seek and yearn after its ob-
jects To prove such a tendency
were useless. That void, that feel-
ing of satiety and sadness, which:
overwhelms the soul, even after the
enjoyment of the most exquisite

1 84

Catholicity and Panthiism,

pleasure, either sensible or senti-
mental ; the phenomenon of solita-
ries in all times and countries ; the
v^ry fact of the existence of religion
in all ages and among all peoples ;
the enthusiasm, the recklessness and
barbarity which characterize the wars
undertaken for religion's sake; the
love of the marvellous and the myste-
rious exhibited by the multitude ; that
sense of terror and re\^erence, that
feeling of our own nothingness, which
steals into our souls in contemplating
the wide ocean in a still or stormy
night, or in contemplating a wilder-
ness, a mountain, or a mighty chasm,
all are evident proofs of that impe-
rious, delicious, violent craving of
our souls after the infinite. How
Olhenvise explain all this? Why do
we feel a void, a sadness, a kind of
pain, after having enjoyed the most
stirring delights? Because the infi-
nite is the weight of the soul — the
centre of gravity of the heart — be-
cause created pleasures, however de-
lightful or exquisite, being finite, can
never quiet that craving, can never
fill up that chasm placed between us
and God.

The pretended sages of mankind
have never been able to exterminate
religion, because ihey could never
root out of the soul of man that ten-
*dency. I say pretended sages, be-
cause all real geniuses have, with
very few exceptions, been religious j
for in them that tendency is more
keenly and more imperiously felt.

This is the second reason of the
prevalence of Pantheism. To pro-
mise the actual and immediate pos-
session of the infinite, nay, the trans-
formation into the infinite, is to en-
tice the v^vy best of human aspira-
tions, is to touch the deepest and
most sensitive chord of the human
heart.

Both these reasons we have drawn
a priori; we might now prove, a pos-

teri&ri^ from history, how

ticular error has either fa]
Pantheism or disappeared j
But since this would cany \
we will exemplify it by on
Protestantism,

The essence of Protests
in emancipating human ret
dependence on the reasc
It is true that at its dail
not proclaimed in this na||
nor is it thus announced
present time ; but its very \
lies in that. For if humtti
be made to judge objeJ|
God's reason alone can compi
man is literally em an cipatedJl
reason of God. ■

What does this supreme pi
of Protestantism mean, th^
individual must, by reading!"
find for himself what he
lieve ?

Are the truths written in 1
intelligible or superintelligibh
is, endowed with evidence imn
or mediate, or are they mys
If they be purely intelltgib
dowed with evidence medi^
mediate, there is no possi)|
of the Bible, for, in that caa
could find them by itself,
be mysteries, how can reason^
cd by any higher power, fine
out? It will not do to say, Th
written in the Bible, and re
merely to apprehend them*
a dispute should arise as tol
meaning of the Bible; who|
cide the dispute? Reasonj
reason must grasp and con
mysteries in order to decide
pute. For none can be judj
he is qualified thoroughly
stand the matter of the disputS"
this it is evident that to ma
son judge of tlie faith is XtA
judge of the mysteries of I
nite, and, therefore, is to email
the reason of man from su

Catholicity and PantJieism.

i8S

to the reason of God. Hence, Pro-
testantism was rightly called a mask-
ed rationalism.

It soon threw off the mask. The
human mind saw that it can never
be emancipated from the reason of
God unless it is supposed to be in-
dependent, and it could never be
supposed independent unless it was
supposed equal to the reason of the

The result of all this is necessarily
Pantheism. And into Pantheism
Protestants soon fell, especially the
Gcnnans, who never shrink from any
consequence if logically deduced
from their premises. Such was the
latent reasoning of Fichte, Schelling,
H^I, and others, in building up
their form of Pantheism.

To understand is to master an
object, to mould it so as to fit oiu* in-
telligence. We can understand the
infinite, we can master it There-
fore, we are at least equal to the in-
finite, *we are ourselves the infinite,'
we ourselves lay it down by a logical
process. Hence the astounding pro-
posal which Fichte made to his dis-
ciples, that the next day he would
proceed to create God, was nothing
dse but the echo and logical conse-
Jjuence of the cry raised by the un-
frocked monk of Wittenberg, pro-
claiming the independence of reason
from the shackles of all authority.

On the other hand, the denial of
human liberty and the absolute pre-
tetination of the Calvinists give the
»mc result. If we are not free
^ts, if God can do what he lists
with us, we are no longer agents in
the strictest and truest sense of the
*wd. Now, every substance is an
set, a mmosy a force ; if, then, we are
"ot agents, we are not substances,
and hence we become qualities, phe-
Wmena of the infinite substance.
AD this as regards doctrine. But
Protestantism ran into Pantheism by

another road alfnost as soon as it
arose, for the action of the feelings
is swifter and more rapid than logic.
Protestantism being rationalism in
doctrine is necessarily naturalism
with regard to the soul ; and by pre-
senting to the soul only nature, its
authors left the craving after the su-
pernatural and the infinite thirsty
and bleeding. What was the conse-
quence ? Many Protestant sects fell
into mysticism, which is but a senti-
mental Pantheism, a species of in-
terior theurgy. History is too well
known to render necessary any proof
of these assertions. These are the
consequences at which active minds
must arrive when, in their researches,
they do not meet with truth.

As to those minds which are not
active, or not persevering in their
inquiries, they fall into indifference,
which is but a scepticism of the
soul, as doubt is the scepticism of the
mind.

Now, the question arises. What is
the best method of refuting Panthe-
ism? Many have been the refuta-
tions of Pantheism, but they are li-
mited to pointing out the absurd
consequences following from it, which
consequences, summed up, amount
to this: that Pantheism destroys and
makes void the principle of contra-
diction in all the orders to which it
may be applied; that is to say, it
makes void that principle in the on-
tological order or order of realities,
in the logical order, etc.

But, notwithstanding the truth and
force of this refutation, we do not
know that it has converted a single
Pantheist. From the fact that Pan-
theism is more prevalent at the present
time than ever it was, we should con-
clude that it has not We say this with
all the respect and deference due to
those who have exerted their talents
in the said arena. For we know that
some of the noblest intellects have

i86

Catholicity and Pantheism

•

brought their energy to bear against
this mighty error. But, if we are
allowed to express our opinion, we
say that all former refutations have
i,been void of effect for lack of com-
Jetcncss, and a determination on
Ihe part of their authors to limit
themselves to the abstract order,
without descending to particulars,
and to the order of realities. The
result was, that while Pantheism,
without any dread of consequences,
applied its principles to all orders of
human knowledge, and to all parti-
cular questions arrayed under each
order, and was, as it w^ere, a living,
quickening system— false, indeed, in
the premises, but logical and satis-
factory in the consequences resulting
from those premises — the refutations
of it, confined within the limits of lo-
gic, were a mere abstraction ; true,
indeed, and perfectly satisfactory to
any one who could apply the refuta-
tions to all the orders of human
knowledge, but wholly deficient for
those who are not able to make the
application. We think, therefore,
that a refutation of Pantheism should
be conducted on the following prin-
ciples:

ist To admit all the problems
which Pantheism raises, in all the
generality of their bearing,

ad. To examine whether the so-
lution which Pantheistic principles
afford not only solves the problem,
but even maintains it.

3d, If it is found that the Pan-
theistic solution destroys the very
problem it raises, to oppose to it the
true solution.

These are the only true principles,
as far as we can see, which will ren-
der a refutation of Pantheism effi-
cient. For, in this case, you have,
in the first place, a common ground
to stand upon, that is, the admission
of the same problems ; in the second
place, if you can prove that the Pan-

theistic solution of the
stroys them, instead of
it will be readily granted
theist for the sake of 11
themselves. When 3nod
all this, you do not leaJ
in doubt and perplexity,!
sent to it the true soli|
will then be ready to em(

A refutation conducted
principles we have altenj
articles we now publish, ij

We take Pantheism in
versality and apparent g<
accept all its problems ; |
them one by one, and wi
the Pantheistic solution, J
solving the problems, des|
and we substitute the tri
In a word, we compare|
with Catholicity \ that isl
sality of error with the unj
truth — the whole system {
with the whole system ol!
make them stand face i
we endeavor to exhibj
plainly that the brigH
splendor of the one ma^
ly extinguish the phosph^
the other. We show thj
that, if he ever wants ai
his problems, he must a<
licity» or proclaim the
intelligence.

To do this it will be nec<
to compare Pantheism anc|
in all orders ; in the logic
the ontological order of
of reality ; and under til
must compare tliem in^
social, political, and sestfcl
The truth of the one q
will appear by the compai

It is true we underta!
task ; great especially as]
positive part of the refut
it embraces the whole q
not only with relation -
commonly regarded as itt
in the sense of its being \

Friendships.

1S7

general science, the queen of all
ces, the universal metaphysic in
)ssible orders. We own that we
felt the difficulty of such a task,
many times have we abandoned
; being far above our strength,
a lingering desire has made us
ra to the work. We have said

to ourselves : Complete success and
perfection are beyond our hope, but
we can at least make the attempt;
for, in matters of this kind, we think
it well to reverse the wise maxim of
the Lambeth prelates, and rather at-
tempt too much than do too little.

FRIENDSHIPS.

The glowing wreaths that *mid curled locks repose.

Through night of pleasure worn,
Myrtle and jasmine, orange-flower and rose,

Fall shrivelled by the morn.

The simple immortelles for loved ones twined —

With many a tear and sigh.
Hung round the cross — the rain-compelling wind

And winter snows defy.

Thus gilded friendships, knit by pleasure brief.

Fade when joy's scenes have passed ;
But duller links, annealed by burning grief.

Through checkered years shall last.

TAe Lamp,

t88

Discourse by the Rev. Pire Hyachtthe,

TlAXStATSD tWOm L« CUMSSPONOANT.

DISCOURSE BY THE REV. PERE HYACINTH!

"Mtsericordiai Dixnbi in xtemum canlabo,** " ! will nnc elenwUy the ii

Kof ibeLodU

Madam and my sister in Jesus
Christ: It is you who have given
me the text and the subject of this
exhortation. It is you who, over-
flowing with gratitude toward him
who has called you from darkness to
his admirable light, have asked me
to forget this audience and to think
only of you and of God, and to speak
only of his loving-kindness which
has been manifested in every event
of your life, I will obey you; and,
taking this life in its three divisions
which mark time, I will endeavor to
speak in simple truth, and the pious
confidence of an overflowing heart,
of the mercies of God over your
past, your present, and your future
career.

The history of Christian souls is
the most mar\^ellous and yet the most
hidden of all histories. The more
exterior events which agitate society
find only in tliese interior histories
their true sense and their highest
reason ; and when we shall read these
entire in the book of life, and by the
light of eternity, we will find therein
the unanswerable justification of the
providence of God over human affairs,
and the true titles of the nobility of
mankind in the blood and by the
grace of Christ. " We will sing eter-
nally the mercies of the Lord !"

And first, madam, what were these

•Delivertril on the occasion of a prnl««,ioo of
GMhoUc faith mid Ihe ftrit communion of an Ameri*
can ProtcitAnt lady, in the cluipel of the convent of
** Le« Damei de rABSoroption/* jit Piris, July i4lh,
■868«

mercies of your past life ?
better understood, what
What have you been until
acknowledge some embarn
giving an answer to my ow|
Although born in tlie bosotj
you we re not a heretic*
grace of God you were nots
and nothing shall force me
this cruel name — justly cnn
which cries out all the ki
have of your past. One
tors — die most exact anrf
severe — of Christian antiqu
Augustine, refuses ia sevq
writings to class among;
those who, born outside
communion of the CatliolJ
have kept in their hearts
love of truth, and are
follow it in all its manifesi
in all its requirements.*

That which makes hei
spirit of pride, of revolt, ani
which burst forth in he;
Satan, separating the angels
attempted to remodel, acc<
his liking, the theology of
and reform the work of G
world ; it is that breath bl<
the nostrils of the archang^
to stir up about him his
dists throughout time. Q
humble of heart, you hi

•See |>4nicuhr1y ihc letter uliiw
C'f the Denedktinc« of SaJnt-Maur : *
saam. qtumvui fatsam itque penrer
nad aotoioiitate ddiendiaat, pncMfliil
d4cb prsenunptknb moi pcpeferant, it
qu« in erronni kpiit {Mnntibiii aecq
■tttcm cauU tolJicitadJQe veriAaum,
cum hrveneriat ; rnqma^^uam Mmni nl

that breath. You are not,
eretic*

en, what were you ? One
srro^ted one of your most
ihed fellow-countrymen, Pro-
r birth, now a Catholic and a
d in the outburst of that pi-
sity which is awakened by
»ry of souls I asked him
question: "What were

Igqu

swered me thus: "I did
ig to any Protestant com-
I had been baptized in the
if my parents, but I had
fcssed their faith." " You
»n, a rationalist?'* said I.
sponded he smilingly ; ** we
nited States know nothing
lentai malady of the Euro-
I blushed and was silent
It, then pressed him to ex-
ber, when he gave me this
>Iy; ** I was a natural man,
he truth with my whole in-
I and heart"

||dam, you were like that:
Bfioblef womanly nature —
K truth in love, and love

But you were more: you
[irisiian J ay, a Catholic.
> a fundamental distinction
fhich it becomes impossible
t toward communions sepa-
n the Catholic Church, and
he souls which compose
M religious schisms contain
sir bosom two elements en-
Dtpry: the negative ele-
K makes it a schism and
^py ; and the positive ele-
^ft pre&en'es for it a por-
rSr less great of its ancient
3f Christianity, Not only dis-

hostile, these two elements
ertheless brought together
ant combat; the darkness
light — life and death — meet
mingling, or without either
i j and then results

what I shall call the profound mys-
tery of the life of error. As for my-
self, I do not give to error that un-
deser\'ed honor to suppose that it
can live of its own life, breathe of
its own breath, or nourish of its own
substance souls who are not without
virtue, and peoples who are not
without greatness.

Madam, Protestantism, as Pro-
testantism, is that negative ele-
ment which you have repudiated, and
which with the Catholic Church you
have condemned and abjured. But
the spirit of Protestantism has not
been alone in your religious life : by
the side of its negations there were
its affirmations, and, like savory fruit
confined within its bitter husk, you
were in possession of Christianity
from your infancy.

Before coming to us, you were a
Christian by baptism, validly receiv-
ed, and when the hand of your minis-
ter poured the water upon your fore-
head with the words of eternal life,
"I baptize you in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost," it was Jesus Christ
himself that baptized you. ** Of lit-
tle importance is the hand," writes
Saint Augustine, "whether it be
that of Peter or that of Paul : it is
Christ that baptizes.**

It was Christ who affianced you,
who received your plighted faith and
pledged you his. The depths of
your moral being — ^that sacred part
which in noble souls feels instinct-
ively a repugnance to error ^ — the
Word consecrated to himself, and
like a chaste virgin he reserved it
for the skies ! ** Virginem castam ex-
hiberc Christo."*

Christian by baptism, you were
also one by the gospel. The Bible
was the book of your infancy j and
therein you have lisped at once the
secrets of this divine faith, which is

* J Connthiant xL %.

Discourse by the Rev. Pire Hyacinthe.

191

II.

ried, madam, to tell what
ast, and how the mercy of
red you in it by his far-
md for the marvels of the
^Vhat is now this marvel ?
ystic marriage with Jesus
the communion with his
ind with his real blood, in
lent of his true church,
of God in baptism, you
> spouse in the Eucharist,
sed are you to have been
Jie marriage feast of the

without a touching motive
lave chosen the 14th of
isumraate this solemn act.
: anniversary of your mar-
that marriage sundered by
)u have made your entry
latholic Church the epoch
t transformation in your
e: you have chosen the day
innately, desiring that this
11 of the remembrances of
; and grief, should mark
\ union with your crucified
le no more separated for

antiful is he — in his blood,
^ your tears — tliis Spouse
', and how lovely, and how
nade for you, my daughter !

QB a momunent smiling at grief :**

nansported with sorrow and
II death.

iri>er well the day when I
fir the first time in the
Irf humble convent. The
prodfix you already wore
Irinneast, and from time
li eyes were turned toward
'''^"Toss suspended against
i which presided over
, foil of light and full

of tears, with an expression which
revealed your whole soul — all that
it still lacked — ^all that it already fore-
saw.

I would exaggerate nothing, and
above all I would offend no one ; but
can I not say that the orbit wherein,
ordinarily, Protestant piety moves is
the divine, rather than God himself?
It is conscience, with its steel-like
temper, which is at the same time
evangelic and personal. It is re-
spect for truth — the instinctive taste
for what is moral and religious. All
these are what I call the divine : it is
not God. It is the glorious ray of
the sun, but it is not that resplendent
disk. Where, then, is the elevation
of the soul to the living God ? " My
soul has thirsted for the strong and
living God ; when shall I come, and
appear before his face ?"* Where is
the habitual communion of the heart
and its works with the Word made
flesh ? and the tears poured out like
Magdalen at his feet ? and the bowed
head — like that of John — upon his
breast ? and all that which the book
of the Imitation so well calls the fa-
miliar friendship of Jesus ? Where, in
a word, is that Real Presence which,
from the holy sacrament, as from a
hidden fountain, flows forth to the true
Catholic, like a river of peace, all the
day long, fructifying and gladdening
his life ? It was this Emmanuel — this
God with us — who awaited you in
our church, and in the sacrament
which attracted you with so much
power even when you but half-be-
lieved in it. As in the ancient sy-
nagogue, you found in your worship
only symbols and shadows; they
spoke to you of the reality but did
not contain them, they awakened
your thirst but did not quench it.
Weak and empty elements which
have no right to existence since the
veil of the temple has been rent

* Psalm xli. 3.

19^

Discourse by the Rev. Phre Hyacinthe.

asunder and the eternal reality dis-
covered. " Old things have passed
away, and all things are become
new.*** Oh ! blessed are you to have
been admitted into the nuptial cham-
ber of the Lamb.

However, madam, if Christ has
taken captive your heart, it is the
language of the prophet; '*Thou
hast beguiled me, (3 Lord, and I am
beguiled: thou hast been stronger
than I, and thou hast prevailed,"!
But he has respected all the rights
of your reason and of your liber-
ty* That which you have resolved,
that which you are tlbout to accom-
plish, you have weighed well and
long in the balance of investigation,
study, reflection, and prayer \ and
1 owe you this justice to say that
you have carried your reflection to
the utmost scruple, and completion
almost to delay — so much have you
feared, in this great religious act, any
other argument but of personal con-
science ; to such a degree have you
persisted in rejecting the shadow of
any human influence, or the shadow
of the influence of imagination or
sentiment.

It is thus, however, that Jesus
Christ would have you to himself.
Spouse of love, he is at the same
time the Spouse of truth and liberty,
and this is why, in drawing souls to
him, he never deceives nor constrains
them. He is the eternal Word, be*
gotten of the reason of God the Fa-
ther; born in the outpouring of infi*
nite splendor, he remembers his ori-
gin, and when he comes to us it is
not under cover of our gloom, but in
the efllilgence of his light. And be-
cause he is the truth he is also liber-
ty. He bows with respecti before
the liberty of the soul, his image and
daughter, and forgets the language
of command that he may only cm*

•», Cor. r. ry. t Jcr. kjl j.

ploy that of prayer, hx
cred song, he says: "C
my sister, my love, my d
defiled : for my head is
and my locks of the d
nights. '*♦

" Here am L" He s4
the Apocalypse, " I stand
and knock : if any one stai
voice, and open to me the
come in, and will sup with
with me."t He never fi
trance into the heart ; 1
only when it is openei
How tender and beatjj
words that prove that wil
with man there is the sa:
the same tenderness I
spects as much as it lo^
dains triumph at tlie e
bertyl

Is this all, however ?
is jealous and liberty is
there must be the comi
sacrifice- What were tl
conflicts, free though you
rendered your decision s
and so painful ? I mai
of them. Family, frien*
I have seen these sacred
near to dare to touch th<
only say that I was ignc
now of what it costs ^
mind most perfectly conl
to the strongest will, to le
ligion of their mother an
country I

Ah 1 why is it that oo
soil of the United States (
is still, I do not say unk
despised, by so many soul
to God it were only unki
new apostle will invoke
shores the God whom Pat
before the Areopagus, ignc
church which they love in
without knowing it in il
and, free from prejudices,
minded Americans will

Discourse by the Rev. Pire Hyacinthe.

^93

lan did the frivolous Atheni-
ut they think they know us,
ey see us through such base
Jiat even our name excites
and hatred. How much long-
: these sectarian misappre-
3 continue? and when will
last command that the walls
ion shall be thrown down?
vents, it depends upon us to
for that much desired day, by

together, not with doctrinal
Ions, which would be criminal
limejrical, but by abandoning
jective prejudices before the
nown reality, and by the forma-
those kindly relations, while
and charity could yet unite
hom diversity of beliefs still
J. As for me, this is niy most
)rayer, and as far as I under-
id appreciate the situation of
» affairs in this century, this
is invested with a quickened
re pressing character. And
len, the time has come when
nt should begin at the
f God,* let us Roman Catho-
>w how to give the example ;
ise resolutely and give a loy-
to our separated but well-be-
rethren.
'hat do I say ? Is it not you,

who have come to us first,
iting obstacles which I can-
ount? You have overcome
»t only with the sweat of your
lit by the blood of your soul';
laint Augustine so truly says,
is a blood of the soul/' And

which you have poured out ;
ve removed by your heroic
the hewn rocks which shut

Like the daughter of Zion,
e made straight your way and
ime.t

let me welcome you with

I est ut indpiat judidum a do-
<i Peter it. 17.)
duit vias meat lapidiboi qaadris, semitas
■tk.** (Lam. in. 9.)

TOL. VIII. — 13

these words of your own, in which
you expressed the inspiration which
was your strength : " My love, my
beautiful, calls me : I know his voice,
and though I am weak and trem-
bling I will come to him."

III.

Let us finish this song of the lov-
ing-kindness of God in your soul.
Affianced by baptism, even in the
bosom of your involuntary errors, es-
poused by the Eucharist in the in-
tegrity of Catholic faith and charity,
what remains for you to complete
the cycle of divine love and to con-
summate your life therein, except to
become a mother in the apostolate ?

Our Lord was speaking one day to
the multitude, when he was told that
his mother and his brethren were
without and had asked for him. Sur-
veying the people with his look of
inspiration, he asked, " Who is my
mother, and who are my brethren ?"
Then stretching out his hand over the
listening piultitude, he said, '' Behold
my mother and my brethren. For
whosoever shall do the will of my
Father in heaven, the same is my bro-
ther and my mother."*

The Pope Saint Gregory the Great,
explaining, in one of his homilies,
this teaching of the Master, found
some difficulty in his saying, " This
is my mother." "We are without
doubt his brothers and his sisters, b}
the accomplishment of the will of the
Father ; but how could any being
other than Mary be called his mo-
ther ?" And the great pope remarks,
as soon as a soul by a word, by ex-
ample, by a spiritual influence, what-
soever it may be, produces or deve-
lops in another soul the Word, the
God, the Truth, substantial and liv-
ing, justice and charity, in fact, Je-
sus Christ — ^for Jesus Christ is all

* Matthew ziL 49^ fo^

these — she becomes in a way supe-
rior to the reality of maternal con-
ception, the mother of Jesus in that
soul, and the mother of that soul in
Jesus,

Well, madam, if I mistake not,
God reserves for you a part in his
choice of this spiritual maternity. It
is of those cherished ones of whom
1 cannot speak — respect and emotion
forbid — but you will be their mother
in Jesirs^ their mother in the integiity
of their liberty as you have been his
spouse in the plenitude of your own.
Since there are other souls without
number and without name, at least
to our feeble minds, but who are
counted and inscribed in the book
of divine election, and who, by the
mysterious power of your apostleship,
shall be gathered from the four winds
of heaven j for the Lord hath not
spoken in vain : " And many shall
come from the east and the west, and
shall sit down with Abraham and
Isaac and Jacob, in the kingdom of
heaven/'* Yes, many, born like you in
heresy without having been heretics,
ignorant without being culpable, are
hastening to the banquet of Catholic
truth, to the joys of a refound unity ;
wliile, alas! some there are among
us, zealous for the letter, but using it
to smother the spirit, who will see
themselves perhaps excluded from
the kingdom of God, for which they
do not bring forth fruit. t

Go, then, as a missionary of peace
and of light to the land that awaits
you, and of w^hich by an especial de-
sign of Providence the moral future
is almost entirely in the hands of
w*omen. You will not regret the
public preaching which is forbidden
your sex ; you will speak in the mo-
dest and persuasive eloquence of
conversation ; you will speak by your
person and your entire life, free yet
submissive, humble yet proud, aus-

tere yet tolerant, cai
of God even to aspiratii

sublime, and the 10%"^ o£^
beings to condescensiod
tender I

But I w^ould define i
the special character ol
tolate. In recounting to
tory of your soul, with i
hates, you hav*c said, "1
three things: slavery, |
Church, and immoralitj
three hates only one rei
very fs no more: God!
the sign of Cain from j
your people with a baptj
As for the Catholic Cl
you came to know it 3^
turned to love, and yi
poused it to battle moijl
with it against the last i
it is in the firm foundj|
dogmas, replacing the s)
whereon your uncertain I
is in the fecundity of its'
substituted for the sterj
worship ; it is under the
its hierarchy, and in thi
unit>% that you will coml
ble immorality which dl
Christian world — the in)
mind, which we in Euni
tionalism, which you ^
call Infidelity; two wouj
know, but two wounds i
tal : and the immorality 1
that which corrupts the n
former does thought, Tl
moralities are sisters; 1
the virginit)- of faith, IH
virginity of love, and botl
in w^oman a special eneil
serpent which crawls on 1
eats the dust of the eaii
has said from the beginni
ing to woman, who is th^
springing from the heart 1
will put enmities betwe^
the woman, and betwc^

Discourse by the Rev. Pire Hyacinthe.

195

id thou shalt lie in wait for

ow, behold the woman above
len ! Mary, the young wife,
ing mother, going over the

Judea to visit her friend,
id in years, and hopeless as
ed in sterility. She carries
omb the infinite weight of the
>ut her step is light like truth,
e. Under the charm of the
love of God she greets Eli-
who feels at her approach the
f nature quicken within her

" From whence cometh this
iss that the mother of my
hould come to me?" The
1 were yet mute, but their
J prophesy, Elizabeth before
le Baptist, Mary before Jesiis
" Already," to speak with St.
5C, "already the day of the
ng of the salvation of man
gun,"t and because sin had
need by woman, regeneration
need by her.
xms to me I see now the

tsui. 15.

ont enim jam tentaroenta salatu humans."

Christian woman, espoused of Jesus
and his mother, advancing toward
this century, bowed down like
Elizabeth in the sadness of steri-
lity. The obstacles which have
repelled us do not hinder her. She
will imbibe in the inspirations of her
charity, faith, and hope, which we
have too often failed to show; ris-
ing like Mary upon the delectable
heights, walking in the paths of the
spring-time and of the dawn; she
will cause to be heard in the ears
of the men of this century this cry of
the heart which recognizes the pre-
sence of Jesus : " Behold, as soon
as the voice of thy salutation sound-
ed in my ears, the child in my womb
leaped for joy." ♦

Arise, daughter of Zion, unbind
the cords about your neck, you who
were captive : " Solve vincula colli tui^
captivafilia Sim. "f How beautiful
are the feet of those who stand upon
the mountain-top, proclaiming peace
and bringing the glad tidings of sal-
vation, crying: "The Lord shall
reign I"

^LiakeL44.

flaaiahliLa.

Santo Spirito is not as well

known to strangers as the other large
churches of Florence* It is on the
south, or less frequented, side of the
river, and is so hemmed in, hidden
away, and thrust out of sight, by
compact masses of tall dwellings and
old palaces, that, although just round
the corner from the Pitti, it was a
month before I found it out. In-
deed, I was only then apprised of its
existence by the drums of the Sixth
grenadiers beating for military Mass.
A piazza in Florence means an
acre, more or less, of oblong, open,
fiat, macadamized, unornamented
ground; without tree, or shrub, or
flower, or even the picturesque grass-
es of the deader Italian towns* The
Piazza of Santo Spirito is peculiarly
bald and insipid. The exterior of
the church itself is dreadful ; shab-
biness and dilapidation unrelieved
by a single line of beauty. The cu*
pola, for which Brunelleschi is re-
sponsible, is mean almost to vulgari-
ty ; almost as mean as the cupola of
San Lorenzo. Two such cupolas
would ruin any other reputation than
his who vaulted Santa Maria, del Fi-
ore. The only redeeming feature in
the whole quadrilateral is the charm-
ing Campanile, or belfry of Baccio
•d*Agnolo's, which hovers like the
dream of a poet over Ser Filippo's
prose. The facade of the church is
tinfinished, and, what is worse, dts*
figured by the introduction of the
scroll, that poorest, falsest, shallow-
est of architectural devices. The
scroll is properly the symbol of the

fleeting ; a line described
or water with wand or
scriptural type of evanesce
tAe htavem shaU he roU^ii
scrolir (Isaiah,) ''Am
withdrew^ as a scroll
gdher'' (Revelation.)

How monstrous a violi
fitness to adopt it as pa
ed form and outline of 3^
to fasten the sign of tbl
on the front of mansionij
to the serv^ice of the Etef
front is the weakest eleval
basilica, but the scroll onl
worse. See how well tho^
be mended by the gold ||
linear grace of San Mink
arched colonnades of PiJ
pointed buttresses— m?/ 1
windows — of Milan. Yd
rage with Ser Filippo and I
sance at once.

But enter \ push the
aside ; step fairly in. Hi
beautiful 1 What breadth,!
what repose \ Round-ar©
of dark Corinthian colif
stopping at the choir^ l>i|
clean round transepts 1
traversing a Latin crossj
than three hundred by 4
hundred feet No stain^
all in transparent shadoil
heart of a forest A chuii
use, not show; yet loftyij
beautiful, with an atniospl
own which is luxury to bni
the gloom of the Duorao, nji
of St, Peter's, nor yet ih'
San Lorenzo ; the place

Glimpses of Tuscany.

1, mysterious gladness. Al-
n the round style, and com-
ly barren of detail, it looks
ven than it is ; larger than
Maria Novella or Santa

Its real magnitude is en-
by its perfect proportions ; a
ch should keep us from flip-
mputing to the same cause
ivc littleness of St Peter's.
he grenadiers are marching
y score strong;" their bayo-

flashing in nave and aisle,
uld think the church would
old them all ; yet there is
neath those brown arches for
s many more. As soon as
1 are formed, the' officers
lown the nave amidst com-
ence — their breasts covered
orations won at Magenta and
) — and range themselves be-

choir. In the transept on
ht is stationed their band,
; best in Florence — some forty
:nts, admirably led, and nearly
as the Austrian. Just as the
*gins, the chaplain, a hand-
ave young ecclesiastic — fol-

two tall grenadiers who serve
J — advances from Cronaca's
. sacristy ; and, without the
pearance of haste, and with
ost dignity, Mass is said in
linutes. No noise, no shuf-

whispering, none of the ef-
l formality of a festa ; the

that of a ceremony first be-
: as the celebrants are first at

their parts. The cavalry

Santa Maria Novella is far
osing ; dismounted troopers
ys awkward, and their band,
istance, is a poor one. But
jry fine at La Novella — the
;oons flanking the altar with
labres, else motionless at
es, flashed forward in swift
; the elevation.
Km as Mass was over, the

troops dispersed and I was at liber-
ty to explore the church. What a
relief to find the pictures covered J it
almost reconciled me to Lent. What
a delight to find all the details unob-
trusive — all the chapels modestly in
the background, instead of parading
their comparative insignificances.
Nothing blank or bald: a broad,
single efiect like the Sistine Sibyls
and Prophets, or the Madonna dL
the Fish, or the Idylls of the King.

In the ages of faith, the monk, die
noble, and the state went hand in hand
in erecting and adorning the house
of God — ^in making it gigantic, beau*-
tiful, imperishable, complete. Not
only in Italy, but throughout Europe,,
there was a silent compact between
the present and the future — an assu-
rance that the inspiration of to-day
would remain the inspiration of to-
morrow — an abiding conviction that
the creed of the sire would remain
for ever precisely the creed of the
son. In this belief, the founders of
the great churches cut out work for
three centuries with less misgiving
than we should now have in project-
ing for as many years. The builders,
of the English abbeys foresaw not
the day when the torch and sword
and hammer of the descendant would
be uplifted to bum, to stain, to shat-
ter a repudiated inheritance; when
the rites of new and hostile doctrines
would affront the few ancestral tem-
ples that were spared. The archi-
tects of St Peter's foresaw not the
large revolt for which they were im-
consciously paving the way in Ger-
many. Like ourselves, to be sure,
they had the record of the past before
them. They knew, as well as we,
that naught was left of Corinth, and
next to nothing of Athens, and little
of ancient Rome save her Colosseum
and her. Pantheon; that the temple
of Solomon was ashes; that the
obelisks were pilgrims to the West ;

that the tmied sepulchres of the
shepherd kings stood soli tar)* and
meaningless in the desert. But. in
spire of all this panorama of muta-
tion and decay, they could not sub-
due the sacred instinct of building
for eternity, Christianity was so
chained with promise, triumph, and
immortality that they fancied her ta-
bernacles as indestructible as her-
self. There was a joyous trust, loo,
that *' the time was at hand/' a con-
fident expectation that those domes
and spires would abide till the com-
ing of the Son of man in the glory
of his Father with his angels.

But the English Reformation, the
French Revolution, and Italian Unifi-
cation have taught us that the monu-
ments of the new faith, instead of
being specially exempt from injiir)%
are peculiarly liable to insult and
mutilation. Men and nations have
measurably ceased to care or ex-
pect to peqjetuate themselves through
the temple and the tomb. The soul
of architecture has received a shock.
Her throne is the solitude or the
waste. She lurks amidst ruins and
relics^ the very Hagar of art. She
that seemed mightiest has proved
weakest ; her daintier sisters* sculp-
ture and song, have triumphed where
she failed. The statues that adorn-
ed her porticoes arc upright still, but
the porticoes themselves are over-
thrown. The lay, the legend, the
chronicle, committed with plying fin-
ger to paper or parchment, are living,
while the forms of beauty and gran-
deur entrusted to marble are broken
or beneath the sands. Here and
there you meet her skeleton in the
wilderness, her white arm upraised
in sublime self-assertion ; but though
the stor)^ of Zenobia is immortal,
there is scarcely a column of Palmyra
.standing. The very mummy, with
his dry papyrus which a spark might
annrbilate, may chance to survive

m granite, iroD, <

that seemed solidest, ha

est: her back is bent j

toil, her hands are roi

mallet and chisel ; yet

a poet traced on calf*

the vision embodied in

porphyry. If an earths

the Val d'Arno, the can'

would surviv^e his camp:

What mockery, tlien,

attempting the indestru^

dissolution or disinlcgr^j

inevitable doom of thi

Time has demonstrated

more ponderous the in^

expression, the less easy<

tion the art. The oblite^

script can be forced to

no chemistry can rej

vanished temple. Tl

forces of tlie universe

tliose which are subtled

substantial. Steam ancl

are well-nigh impalpablej

ble. It is the spirit, no<

save as purged and spii^

decay, that exists for e\ll

then, with the unattainab

with a miscalled real/ ]

a cheat, may it not be d

with impunity,^ Away ^

of stone, with lacework]

marble, with blazonry i||

walnut I Away with all

difficult truth, and welcj

and mortar, lath and pU

and whitewash, gilt and v^

the cheap will look as wfj

ly as well as the dear, ^

it ,^ It is no falser, only s^

When it w^ears out or b|

tumbles dov\m, try it againj

with the tower of Babel

clings faster to architccti

speech. And as for

drop it ! It is always

Glimpses of Tuscany,

199

disappointment in nature
, in minster, mountain,
•a disappointment in all
ive the broad dome of the
1 with its floor of emerald,
ig of unfathomed blue or

bronze, its draperies of
winged, ethereal cloudland.
rt, like the artist, must en-
death. But shall we em-
e mean because sooner or

must relinquish the great ?
; forsake the permanent for
sient because the enduring
rt of the everlasting ? Shall
Turate a reign of sham be-
e real is not always the per-

nemico del bene i ramator del ottimo."

aiuses should never pout:
t should reverendy accept
tations. Though the pen
tier tlian pencil or chisel,
)nly the word and the song
ileged to pass intact from
ge, yet a portion of the soul
ic art may sometimes baffle
Even in ruin, architecture is
out its prouder consolations.

Hercukm, While a bone of
vives, imagination can ap-
te a resurrection of the de-
vhole. The malice of her
enemies, the elements, is
es providentially her salva-
e shrouded lava of^ Vesuvius
ed a more vivid presentation
an life and manners than

the pages of Terence or

A broken shaft, a fragment-
h, a section of Cyclopean
at once a poem, a chronicle,
picture. The ruin is time's
ic seal, without which history
\ inconclusive as the myth.
St is a present voice as long
istige of its architecture re-

The Column of Trajan is
X orator of the forum now \

there is a deeper charm in the living
eloquence of the Colosseum than in
the dead thunder of the Philippics.*
We are as awed and startled when
unexpectedly confronted by some
mouldering but still breathing monu-
ment of antiquity, as if the form of
the deathless evangelist stood bodily
before us.

We perfectly understand and sym-
pathize with the modem instinct
that recoils from imparting a more
than needful permanence to private
dwellings. The home of man is sul-
lied with low cares and offices ; be-
neath the screen and shelter of its
roof the worst passions are often
nourished, the darkest mjrsteries are
sometimes celebrated. In many an
ancient manor, there is scarcely a
chamber without its legend of sin,
scarcely a floor without its bloodstain.
But the House of God is the witness
of the virtues, not the vices, of hu-
manity; within its hallowed pre-
cincts the casual profanity and levi-
ty of the few are quite lost in the
earnest adoration of the many ; the
whispers of blasphemy drowned in
the ceaseless tide of general thanks-
giving; the rebellious beatings of
passion hushed in the solemn chorus
of penitence and praise. The longer
it endures, the holier it becomes.
Its aisles are impregnated with
prayer, its vaults enriched with ashes
of the blest, its altars radiant with
the wine of sacrifice. Bel^ind the
doors of the palace and the dwelling,
time is sure to plant the spectre and
the thorn ; behind the doors of the
cathedral, the angel and the palm.

The primary charm of churcli ar-
chitecture is veracity. The interior
of Santo Spirito is perfect truth.
The columns are, what they claim to
be, stone ; the balustrade of the
choir is, what it claims to be, bronze ;

* <* TuDy was not so eloquent at thou.

Thou nameleas column with the buiied base P*

200

The Statue of the Curi dArs,

the altar what it claims to be, pietra

dura. You do not sound a pillar
and hear a He, or scratch a panel
and see a lie, or touch a jewel and
feel a lie. All is fair, square, honest
— not even the minutest lurking in-
sincerity to vex the Paraclete. I
soon learned to love Santo Spirito as
well as any Florentine ; to love it bet-
ter than the Duomo with its windows
of a thousand dyes ; better than the
bride of Buonarroti with her frescoes

of Masaccio, her Madonna of

hue's, her Crucifix of Giotto's ;
even than Santa Crocc with \1\
of Angelo, its Annunciation of
tello's, its Canova's AlfierL—
to sit for hours in its spacifl
undisturbed even by the duHJ
inharmonious chanting of the
Augustinians, and hsten to tl
raons preached by those diu
ing arches.

TRAKSt-ATSO ntOM THB KIV17B DV MtHfUm CATHOLIQUB.

THE STATUE OF THE CURE D'ARS, INAUGURAl
ARS, AUGUST 5, 1867.

God's purposes sometimes reveal
themselves in a manner greatly to
perplex us. They move contrary to
all foresight or to any human logic.
Day succeeds to nfght, liglit to dark-
ness, hope to despair, without any
apparent reason, indeed in spite of
reason itself. When all seems lost,
then everything is regained, and even
death itself appears to live anew.
The history of religion is full of such
decay and such regeneration.

After the frightful crisis of the
eighteenth centur>% one would have
thought the Church entirely abandon-
ed, and that no new breath could
revive the fallen ruins which the
efforts of a hundred years had accu-
mulated. **The pinnacle of the tem-
ple is crumbled, and the dew of hea-
ven comes to moisten the face of the
kneeling believer," says, in his thea-
trical and pseudo-biblical style, the
most celebrated enemy of our time,*

Many Christians were distress©
the timid braved with difficult
universal defection. That whicl
believed in was denied, that
they adored was burned, and
which they loved was disgraccf
God permits these humiliadc
show us that "the work is all
hand," and sustained only by
To the triumphant cries of h
vers an es, to the cry of distress
his faithful, he has responded 1
glorious miracle which eteqjj
tests his power, Lazarus wfl
tomb ; he has restored himH
The Church, said its enemies
crushed to the earth; he has \
fied it To the eighteenth^
the most impious and cor
tunes, he has caused the
to succeed, which will remaiQ i
tory one of the most fruMl
beautiful of the Church* 1^
properly, the nineteenth d
seems to have for its mtsslo
raising of the ruins made by it
deccssor. Following it over a

ne SMue of the Curi ifArs.

20I

and taking up its work as a
erpart, the present century re-
the breaches made before it
j-establishes at each point the
ises and ramparts of virtue,
hout doubt die enemy is still
ms ; he is far from being van-
2d, and puts forth his last ef-

The nineteenth century is a
here truth and error, good and
pve themselves up to solemn
It The ground is cleared, the
lediate questions laid aside,
ach party knows well what he
) and where he goes. Scepti-
and materialism never had a
brilliant career ; never have
md Christian virtues shone with
r iilat In which camp will
e victory ? This is God's own

and only from the past may
idict the future. In no age,
)s, even in its best days, has
lurch collected around her so
and such valiant champions,
reatest bishops, the greatest
, the greatest orators, have suc-

each other for nearly a hun-
*ars, and have formed for their
il mother a magnificent crown
Dce and genius. Speaking in
ly point of view, the age be-

Catholics ; our adversaries,
side of our apologists, make
altry figure.

cs, too, are on a level with the
hat inspire them. Never have
en so numerous, and never so
Foundations of all sorts,
!S, monasteries, orders, mis-
schools, hospitals, orphan-
Vj have multiplied in emula-
each other. A small part of
'ks of our day would suffice
glory of any epoch. The
encourage and direct these
snts; they display zeal and
egation ; and, devoted to their
they become more and more

1 to the church. The ilite

of society do them honor by follow-
ing in their footsteps. Disabused
of the unhealthy and destructive
ideas by which their fathers were lost,
and instructed by a hundred years
of experience and misery, the higher
classes, in France especially, return
with simplicity to the faith and to the
Christian virtues. Obedient to the
eternal law which regulates society,
the lower classes by degrees model
themselves according to their exam-
ple. The centenary fitesy the ca-
nonizations, the pilgrimages of Sa-
lette, Lourdes, and others, are living
witnesses of the fervor of the clergy
and the public faith.

And, to crown all, the Church never
attested its supernatural fecundity by
such a number of saints and martyrs.
The nineteenth century is the richest
in canonizations. When the Church
is accused of being exhausted, she
replies by showing a new harvest
And what saints! what models!
The Labres, the Germaine Cousins,
the Marie Alacoques, the Cur^ d'
Ars! The greatest defiance thrown
at our time, and the most violent
antithesis of its ideas and instincts,
is the actual Christianity in our midst
— so hostile to the spirit of the world
and the spirit of the age.

II.

Two men seem to represent and
renew the periods that follow them,
and the eternal tendencies of hu-
manity. These two men offer a si-
militude and a contrariety so strange,
that it seems as if God had opposed
the one to the other to make the ba-
lance equal. Their skulls even, and
the form of their faces, present strik-
ing analogies. The expression is
contrary, but the mark is the same.
Both, bom a hundred years apart,
have inhabited the same country;
both have passed the greater part of

202

The Statue of the Curl d*Ars,

their lives in two villages that touch
each other, and these two villages,
so obscure before their time^ have
through them attained extraordinary
celebrity. Each has been the object
of the world's attention, and each the
goal of eager pilgrimages. The eigh-
teenth century rushed with ardor to
Fcrney ; the nineteenth goes to Ars
in greater transports. As the nine-
teentli century is to Catholics the re-
taliation for the eighteenth, so Ars
is the retaliation for Ferney.*

These are the resemblances* and
great ihcy are. The diiferences are
greater still.

One, to speak properly, personifies
the genius of evil. Scepticism, wick-
ed irony* liardness of heart, corrup-
tion of mind and senses, egotism and
cupidity, united in forming a modern
cor\T3heus. The other personifies
the spirit of good. Tmth, purity, self-
abnegation, love of God and man,
the spirit of sacrifice and mortifica-
tion, in a word, all of moral grandeur
revealed to man by Christ himself,
has rarely an exemplifier more per-
fect. One is the type of the Chris-
tian, elevating himself to the saints,
to the angels ; tiie otiier is the anti-
Christian tvpe, descending to the
cursed, to the demons.

Each has attracted the attention of
man by the most opposite means : the
first by his delicacy of wit equalling his
duplicity; the second by his integrity
and a simplicity of character bright-
ened apparently by supernatural
rays ; the first by his pride, the second
by his humility ; the first by noise, tlie
second by silence. Each has exercised
toward his contemporaries results the
most contrary. The refined in wick-
edness, the utterly corrupted, visited
the scholar to plunge deeper in per-
versity. Entire populations, just

*7liii eKpKSBon h h&aa the Abb^ Mortoin. a mis-
mmtf It An, who Km given to the life of tlie Cur^
' i'AiBiev«iil popmiar worka of rire ixicrit.

men and men of good vi

the priest to establish the!
justice, or submit tlicir i
him, and go on toward p
l>oth still eflfect by their n
their remembrance — from
tion of tlie world to the Q
same consequences. <

And that is not all. ,
The world flies fi-om thi
his character and doctrine
better elucidated. It a|
the second, as he is betti
and the beauty of his chaj
veloped. Femey was a
shortly after tlie death of ^
was its centre ; the faetitioi
admiration accorded him
most brilliant and pervert
age could not survive the |
attraction which Voltaire (
To-day Ferney is only v
amateurs in human curios
on the contrar)', grows gri
greater. The sentiment }
tracts people Uiither incrd
by hour, and the entire wo|
the name of the obscur(
whose echo even seems !
the most indifferent. 11
flock there incessantly* z^
Ferney and the memory of
the hero of impiety of the
shall by degrees have diss
Ars and the memory of its
hero of truth and of the pri
will attract sdll greater crfl
greater homage.

By a circumstance not Id
than those already ment
these two men so totally
the erection of a statue Q
now occupying the publ
Unheard of efforts have b^
to erect that of Voltaire-
mond Brucker says — by the
the executioner, for the
stratagems and the most tr
sitics have been resorted ti
dint of puffing and scandal,

The Statue of the CuH (TArs,

203

ans, whom Voltaire himself
iisowTi, will perhaps attain
Qrious end. And without ef-
hout puffing, without scandal
)sture of any kind, by the
imotion of love and of Chris-
leration, to the saint of the
ith century is being erected a
orthy of him.

e criticising this work, lately
ited at Ars with great solem-
vill relate its history. It is
tly striking to merit being
and places in bold relief one
the person it is destined to
It.

III.

Cur^ d'Ars obstinately refus-
t for his portrait On this
; was more obdurate than a
nan, and never lent himself
roposition or stratagem the
wrhich was to reproduce his
Several artists, working
had been rejected; others,
idden means, watching for
it, and following him in the
• in church, had been warn-
ep quiet Under these cir-
ces, M. Emilien Cabuchet,
or of the statue of which we
g to speak, presented him-
rs. He was furnished with
rom the bishop, and numer-
mmendations. He did not
s success, and accosted the
1 spoke of his business with
rate air. " No, no, I do not
' said the cur^ ; " neither
seigneur, nor for you, • my
jnd ! At least," added the
hanging his mind^ and tak-

favorite idea, " unless mon-
will permit me to go away
tely, and weep over my poor

But, Monsieur le Curd — "
«less."
liscomfited artist ran to re-

late his adventure to the missionaries
established near the curd. They
gave him new courage. "Perse-
vere !" said they to him. " You
are not here to make your court to
the Curd d'Ars, but to make his
portrait Go on, we will sustain
you."

Thus reassured, the artist risked
everything, and commenced by fol-
lowing the curate to church. Dur-
ing the Mass he was behind the
curate, at the sermon back of the
good women, and at the catechism
behind the children. Every one as-
sisted him, and took part in the en-
terprise. The artist held the wax
between his fingers, and modelled
in the bottom of his hat — ^his eye
now on the curd, now on his work.
Sometimes, to mislead the priest, he
pretended to pray with fervor, or to
follow attentively the instruction.
He thought he was very adroit

One day the curd bent toward
him.

" You are well aware, monsieur,'
said he in a gentle tone, " that you
are causing distraction to every one
— ^and to me also !"

What was he to do? How de-
fend himself to a man so very polite t
" I would have preferred harshness,"
said the artist to me. " This gentle-
ness disconcerted me."

He returned to the monastery de-
cided to renounce the enterprise.
"Persevere!" again said the mis-
sionaries.

The artist renewed his work.

Two days after, in the street, where
he now worked from choice, the curd
again addressed him :

"Have you, then, nothing to do
at home?"

" O Monsieur le Curd I one would
think that you would turn me out of
doors."

This time the curd was discon-
certed.

'*No, nOi" said he eagerly, and
slightly embarrassed. " Stay as long
as you choose, but don't begin
again f , • -

The next day, seeing the curd so
surrounded that he could not disen-
gage himself, and in danger of leav-
ing his cassock in the hands of the
pilgrims, the artist ran to his relief
and offered him his arm,

"I constitute myself your body-
guard," said he gallantly.

" Then I am emperor 1 . . . But
this is not the question. Do you
know, I would like to excommunicate
you?'*

" Really, Monsieur le Cure?, what
a tremendous word 1 Have I, then,
committed so shocking a crime ?"

" Bah I you understand me well
enough.**

"Well then, what?*'

"You cause me constant distrac-
tion ; and when you think seriously,
would it not be far better to take the
head of the first dog you meet ?"

** O Monsieur le Cure !"

And when the model was finished
and the cur^ saw it,

" Well/' said he, ** it is not a sub-
ject of rejoicing I Look at the poor
Cur^ d*Ars 1 How odd it is," added
he, **your power of giving life to
plaster I"

I HAVE given this dialogue at
length, as it was repeated to me by
the artist If I am not deceived, it
represents well the character of the
good priest ; his humility, his humor,
his brusquencss touched with raillery,
his politeness and goodness — all are
well portrayed. .\li this is repro-
duced in the statue. It gives us
the character of the dialogue, and
the almost legendar}' figiire that our
contemporaries have seen, and which
will pass to posterity.

ana so«
bead;!

'31

The Cunf d*Ars is kn<

cassock, with the surplici
stole. His hands are
eyes uplifted to heave]
smile brightens his face.
cut off square, falls oo
abundant locks, and sh|
on the top of his bea4 i
is left free. The ~
such fervor and
say a passion which mabj
of paradise. Angels
this way. His hands
toward heaven with an
emotion ; the eyes ha\t
ardor in their expressia
spirit of prayer seems 10 i
from earth and cany it
I know no work with ma
there does not cidst ^
sioned statue. Fat
sire, transfigured in
animate it and gire
reality.

As a whole, the worit
and excellent type of
sculpture of our age.

set aside classical

himself in the

brances of antiquit}*

fere in the leali;

taken from the vexy

porary life and the

age. Gothic tradil

glected, and the wmi

careful to give Ibe

its own time, hts

him to avoid the

which so many

Wishing to repres^it^

time, the sculptor

mitted an an ad

ted if he had impi

with a mysticism

distinguished the

art of the thirteentli

centuries. In the

was to give to the

in this saint the

which i the

The Statue of the Curi dArs,

205

age; but over and above

iral feature there was an

secondary shades he was

respect, to give to the
age and physiognomy.
)uchet has admirably seized
jred the double character I

1 to define. His saint is as
as the saints of the middle
he has the reality of a man
iC. Gothic, or rather Chris-
intiment, he is modem, and
ich, in his exterior aspect,
a few words, is the exact
on shown in this work of
het, and the double reflec-
> him, in my opinion, the
ink among sculptors of his

litation of antiquity would
iuced a dead work ; the
of the middle ages would
iuced a work impersonal
tic ; but going out of him-
all national traditions, in-
ly with his subject and his
artist has brought to light
i striking piece of work, a
men of religious and mo-
)ture.

jasy to see what remem-
nd what masters have di-
s statue. French sculpture,
jiting, has particular traits
i easily recognized. Less
;rhaps, and less noble than
Italian sculpture, it has an
ower, a life, that has no
uget and Houdon are the
ost artists in our school, so
1 French. Using Greek
ily to simplify and enrich
, they have sought beyond
' expression and the power
1. M. Cabuchet has fol-
ir example, and, walking in
steps, has given us a work
his masters could not be

* ** Rest content, Voltaire, and thy hideous smile.

king at the statue of the —alfrxo db Mussbt.

Cur^ d'Ars the spectator is reminded
of the celebrated statue of Voltaire
by Houdon ; not only that the re-
semblance of the two faces is unac-
countably striking, but because the
build and the exterior appearance
of the marbles offer incontestable
analogies. In both statues we find
the same amplitude, the same facility,
the same light and soft manner ; in
both the details are uniformly sacri-
ficed to the whole, and the whole
owes to this mode of execution a
more decorative and lifelike repre-
sentation.

Voltaire is seated, his hands lean-
ing upon, almost clinching, the arms
of his chair. The Cur^ d'Ars is on
his knees. Voltaire smiles with a
cynical air, as if rejoicing in the
ruin he has made. ^^ Dors tu
contetit^ Voltaire, et tofi hideux sou-
rire,*** The Cur^ d'Ars smiles
with the ineffably sweet smile of
those who see God and dream of
the happiness of their equals. In
the two marbles, the head is the
same ; the forehead is the same ;
the two cheek-bones, so prominent,
are the same ; the receding chin is
the same ; the mouth opens by the
same smile. In one it has a repul-
sive and Satanic character; in the
other it is angelical and attractive.
Everything is similar except the ex-
pression. The features are brothers
— ^twins, I might say ; the souls that
animate these features are as divided
as the poles. In each face the cor-
nea of the eye is represented by a
deeply cut circle, a style of carving
peculiar to the best age of statuary.
This has given to each an intensity
of look ; and while that of Voltaire
is lowered toward the earth, and
only expresses the baser passions,
that of the Cur^ d'Ars is uplifted to

The Statue of the Curi (TArs,

207

e of the Cur^ d'Ara pos-
triking degree this supra-
ict that I have just no-
:ontact with divinity the
f is transfigured — grace
earns and gives to the
ind of immaterial trans-
fesus Christ is present
s into the passionate and
:s, into the lips and the
le ; the personage lives
world; his attitude, his
have nothing in common

If the spectator could
ame of the priest repre-
attention would not be
i, and he would easily
his face the presence of
ral element, heightening
►ersonality.

^ever, I will make a re-
body of the Curd d'Ars
ison with his face ; it is
, too vigorous, too vulgar
ire speak from my heart.
K:k of the Curd d'Ars
e nothing under its large
he biographer. . . . "He
V," added he still further.
x€ d'Ars of the artist has
a shadowy appearance,
rs are strong, his breast
nds knotty. The sculp-
ed to express the humble
priest, but in my opinion
Dtten the transformation
ontemplative and mysti-

necessarily operated in
tion of the saint,
rk, necessary to be made,
hing, or almost nothing,
rit of the work ; it could
predated by those who
nally known the Curd
ceases to be of import
ith.

tOw understand the char-

acter and various merits of the statue
of M. Cabuchet All who see it re-
tire satisfied, and the mass of specta-
tors are struck by the pious and com-
passionate expression of the holy
priest. Connoisseurs admire the
freedom of the effect and of the exe-
cution. The author may be proud
of his success. He has paid for it
by effort and anguish of every kind,
and it is well to know sometimes
these artist-struggles, that we may
rightly value the works that charm
us so much.

When the statue came from the
workshop of the finisher, the sculptor
did not recognize it. He had ex-
pected his model to be reproduced
on a less grand scale, and the differ-
ence of proportion rendered it not
easy to be known again. At such
a result Cabuchet experienced one
of those counter-blows which have
made certain young artists of twenty
grow old in a quarter of an hour,
and only those who have tried to
realize an ideal can perfectly under-
stand such emotion. Benvenuto
and Palissy in similar moments were
taken with fevers which brought
them to the very portals of the tomb.
Sigalon, noticing his picture of Atha-
lie compromised by difference of
light, saw his hair turn gray in
two minutes. Cabuchet had no less
trouble, and the wonder is he escap-
ed a similar shock ; he withstood it,
however, and, seeing no other means,
he did what any valiant artist would
have done in his place ; he took his
chisel and mallet, and in the style
of Michael Angelo and Puget he
attacked the marble. Each blow
knocked off a piece, but each blow
soothed the heart of the sculptor, for
in reducing his statue he re-estab-
lished it in its first form, and restor-
ed its true physiognomy.

Cabuchet has devoted a year to
such labor. For a whole year he

208

The Statue of tJu Cnri ^Ars.

has worked with chisel and mallet,
seeking the form, the movement, the
life ; and finding, little by little, this
form» movement, and life at the end
of his tools. He played a dangerous
game \ the first stroke of the hammer
could have destroyed his work.
Driven to a corner, the artist acted
as a great captain. He risked all to
gain all. Fortune, which encourages
audacity, or rather the good God
who sustains energetic and faithful
artists, came to his aid \ and at tlie
end of a year Cabuchet saw his sta-
tue rc-creatcd by his chisel, and be-
come truly and doubly the daughter
of his brain and of his hands. He
gained more titan one wrinkle at this
ta$k and more than one white hair.
According to his own expression, he
sn^tUJ mam* s/tirts. But he forgot
difificviUics and anxieties when he
saw the long dreamed of figure, the
ideal of his days and nights, realized
and looming before him 1

Vf.

Thky have given this excellent
liork a reception worthy of it. At
Its arrival at the dock at Villcfranche,
near the village of Ars, a numerous
cavalcade, and a multitude composed
of the entire surrounding population,
rushed to meet it, and received it
with transports of love and admira-
tion, 'i'he faithful, the penitents of
the holy curt?, saw again their master
and their mode!. The parish saw
again its venerated father. They
surrounded the marble, they tried to
touch it ; many fell on their knees,
and prayed as before the images of
the saints. On the day of the inau-
guration the demonstrations were
the same ; every moment a newly
collected crowd prostrated itself at
the foot of the statue ; flowers were
hnng on it, and rosaries and medals
laid on the pedestal. Kadi believed

that«new and streng
would escape from the
regenerate those happy eil
approach it; and yet thij
was nothing more than
genius ; it had not even
ed, it liad no place in the
had received no certiiicale or
cration from Rome — no matt<
crowd saw none of these qfaj
Abandoning themselves witlfl
thought to the impression i^lil
tity always produces on the i
they rushed to the image of tJ
who appeared to Uiem a saiol
seek the Consoler and Alle
all human suffering.

The inauguration was
with a ceremony befitting
sion. Mouse igneur de Lan
Bishop of Belley, a prelate afl
able for the urbanity of h!S
as his superior mind, came hin
preside over the occasion.
miier and friend of the Cur
wished to give to his men
proof of his affection. M<]
hundred priests of neighborf
rishes accompan)'ing him, pre
an imposing €orikge. Quietly
ly, and with recollection, th«
dered homage to the remem
and virtues of a saint. The 1
and official element was repw
by the Comte de Carets^ a ( ^
tian gentleman, and for
the friend of the Cur^d'Ais,'
rous crowd from all the n«
country testified by repeated a|
tations the ardor of its failll
timent. The church of j
by a talented architect, '
too small for all this weald
ing.

The Mass was celebr
pomp ; at the gospel the Abb
nam, vicar-general, mounted d
pit, and described the mos
points of physiognomy of |
Ars, Inspired by his textl

The Statue of the Curi cTArs.

209

bow God always employed
eans to act upon and gov-
h ; weakness to confound
unility to confound pride,
iss to confound grandeur ;
despicable in the eyes of
found all that is powerful
y his respect. A staff
ds of an old man is suffi-
xi, and well represents the
3 he sometimes employs
worid. The Cur^ d'Ars
cure parentage ; the Cur^
lumble, ignorant, illiterate,

the world, without power,
Ih, without prestige. He
ill less repute, in that be-
i so completely anniliilated
Son of a poor farmer, with
le reached the seminary,
ilty he staid there, with
le attained the different
Everywhere, always, the
>f his faculties proved the
listrust from his superiors,
pt from his equals. He
jne thing, to love, to pray,
» himself — above all to
imself. The less he felt
le less he made himself;
le was despised, the more
d himself. But wait ! the
k)d appeared, and the or-
vement of the see-saw was

1 The lower the world
n at one end, the higher
ed him at the other, and he
le instrument God always
is great works — an instru-
ly yet powerful, and that
, attracts, and subjugates
t world. This humble
K>werless, lacking ability,
?ard in appearance — saw
)f men, great and small,
ignorant, known and un-
►ck from all comers of the
ear his word, see his coun-
LSten to his advice, feast on
expressions — to touch his
fou VIII. — 14

vestments. He will govern conscien-
ces and hearts; he will' read their
souls, enlighten them, touch them.
He will predict the future, will over-
come nature, and subject to his will
the world of mind and the world of
matter. . . . Admirable effect
of humility which produces sanctity I
The most humble shall become the
most celebrated, and his name re-
sound from pole to pole. He shall
agitate multitudes, and no living man
can hear him without thrilling with
love or anger. His image will pro-
voke enthusiasm. The world will
prostrate itself before it and kiss its
very traces ; and when other images,
other glorified, other renowned con-
querors, poets, legislators, politicians,,
are only a remembrance, a vain
sound which cannot thrill a single-
human fibre, the name of the obscure,
the despised Cur^ d'Ars will radiate:
in an ever new orbit of splendor, and
produce emotions and effects ever
new in millions of hearts. Strange
consequence ! Contrast truly striking;
which shows that Catholicism by a
brilliant overthrow of events is alone
heard to give glory and immortality !
After the Mass, monseigneur was
heard in his turn, and related the ef-
forts made at Rome to obtain the
canonization of the defunct whose
memory was then and there celebra-
ted. He spoke of the hope which he
cherished to see ere long the Cur^
d'Ars and his image among the glo-
rified ones, and placed on those al-
tars where public veneration had'
already given them a place.

VII.

After the ceremony was over, the
priests and some of the pilgrims
coming to the solemnity united in
an old-fashioned feast at the house
of one of the missionaries.

The day was passed in recalling

210

The Statue of the Curi etArs,

the virtues and actions of the saint,
while the crowd continued its homage
and demon strattons.

Nothing could be more striking
than the appearance of the village
of Ars during this f^tc. The spec-
tator goes backward several centu-
ries ; he lives in the earliest age j le-
gend becomes reality in his eyes, and
the natural world is entirely forgot-
ten in the consciousness of the su-
pernatural that surrounds him. M.
Renan speaks somewhere with con-
tempt of times and populations for
whom the natural and supernatural
have no exact limit Ars presents
every day, and especially those days
in which the saint is honored, the
same character. The natural and
supernatural touch and mingle. The
multitude kneels, it intercedes, it
asks ^ and sometimes, in the simplest
manner, extraordinary favors are
granted, which strike with wonder
the Christians of our day, so much
less habituated than others to the
manifcstalions of the immaterial
^orld. The church is always full ;
the tomb of the good pastor, recog-
nizable by a black slab, covered per-
petually by an eager crowd. Some
are kneeling, others standing await-
ing their turn, and prostrating them-
selves as soon as a vacant place of-
fers itself. They dispute a corner of
the tomb of the Cur<l d*Ars, as during
his life they disputed a comer of his
confessional or an end of his cas-
sock. All pray, some w*eep, others
kiss the funereal marble. Mothers
bring their sickly children, and rest
them on the slab. Paralytics and
the lame take tlieir places. Each
one touches the tomb with his cross,
his medals, or his beads, and carries
it away persuaded of its renewed ef-
ficacy. Every object, every part of
the church, bears the trace of what I
may call a pious vandalism. The
confessional, the pulpit in which the

holy priest passed nearly all
are cut in a thousand places,
one has chipped the wood 1
off a relic.

Outside of the church j
ness and veneration are no
places frequented by the (
poin ted out, and into the old p
ry they hurry and almost smotJ
other on the stairs. One hasj
on his way a quarter
sometimes before reachir
room of the Cur^ d'Ars* Th<
ber has been barricaded, and p
with an opening in the wall
may escape the general deva
The door is armed with a strc
ting and plated with iron. '
such precaution all would ha
long since broken open, dem
and carried away. As itWjk
more than one hole in the 1^
and even the walls are brolw
places. It is said that workn
ed with crow-bars have adfl
throw down the wall. The A
herbaceous plants in the coi
are spoiled incessantly ; as if
itors, unable to molest the w
venge themselves on the ftl
verdure. But they cannot^
into the chamber and are fb
stay behind the barricade, Tl
ceed each other, as on some
occasion of pubhc curiosity ti
when the crowd is unusuallj
From the kind of vestibule
forms the opening in the wall!
tor can take in the whole apart]
not entirely at his ease, on aoc
the pressure of the crowd, i
without losing any detail. Ev«
remains as it did during ihe
the Cur^ d*Ars. Here is tl
sheltered under its green tapt
present from the Comte de Ga
place of another bed which was
under extraordinary circums
Here is the wooden chtmnei
the priest came each

The Statm of the Curi d'Ars.

211

g iroin sixteen to eighteen
the confessional — to revive
LUSted body by the sdl] living
" a siiople branch. The table
."S set, as if it awaited its old
ioiL An earthen porringer,
r spoon, a little pitcher,
which held the milk,
icn plate, and a coarse linen
and nothing more. This
service, and the necessarily
repast it supposes, had sus-
for nearly forty years, the
iliant and fruitful life of the
tan lives not by bread alone j
lived almost without it ; a
Ik sufficed him, and on this
ed nearly all his life^ — a trait
astonishing tlian the power
gy widi which this milk seem-
jpire him. Two oaken chests,
by pious persons, some
.vlngs, enough books to
lie shelves, two or three
complete the furniture
»r chamber, as popular to-
he apartments of the Louvre
Museum of Sovereigns, A
iL^e wall, covered with a
^■tion, preserves and ex-
?M piety of the pilgrims the
cap of the poor priest
ytery is no longer in-
o one has been reported,
If, sufficiently worthy
after its last possessor,
longer a Cur^ d\'\r5,
^"Hill be a Cur^ d'Ars^ — no
_ ►ng enough to struggle
!& a remembrance, nor bear
fodary title. The missiona-
I during his lifetime were es-

fr the presbytery^ do the
parish and suffice for

ts the prestige of the Cur£
kioe his death] and the in-

vrii.

fluence he exercised during his life
was no less astonishing. We are
amazed at hearing or reading tlie de-
tails of this exceptional existence.
Eighty to a hundred thousand per-
sons came to Ars every year, and
from all parts of the world. France,
Belgium, Germany, England, Italy,
America, Asia, by turns sent their pil-
grims ; and the enthusiasm of old —
of the days of Bernard, Dominic,
Francis d' Assise, Vincent Fcrrier,
Phih'p de Neri — has been renewed.
Petitions were addressed to the Cur<*
d*Ars as to a superior being. Every
day he received letters, demands,
confidences, and prayers. '* One
must come to Ars," said he some-
times, "to know tlie sin of Adam
and the evils he has caused his poor
family]" Sinners, the ill in body
and mind, the suifering of all kinds,
went to the Cur^ d'Ars as the healer
sent by God himself. His faith, his
humility, his love of God and man,
his frightful austerity, his perfect ab-
negation of self, astonished and ra-
vished souls ; the gift given him to
read the human heart, his man^ellous
intuition, his power over nature, his
predictions, his miracles, ended by
according him the supernatural au-
reole, and the signs of election which
in all ages have carried away multi-
tudes. At Ars one could learn how
tlie Christian religion was founded ;
by what virtues, what miracles, its
initiators had acted on the public
mind and conquered. The life of the
gospel and the glorious days of the
church reappeared ; hagiography lived
again ; the supernatural and legend-
ary history of Catholicism became
comprehensible and impressed itself
on every mind.

According to calculations which
may be called official, nearly three
millions of pilgrims have been admit-
ted to the Cur^ d'Ars. Every kind
of human misery^ has presented itself

212

The Statue of the Curi d'Ars.

before him, and how many have been
comforted ! The blind have seen,
the deaf have heard, th^ paralyzed
have walked ; bread, wine, and com
have been multiplied ; and all the
miracles of the gospel, except the
resurrection of the dead, have been
reproduced. The greatest miracle
of the Cur*5 d'Ars was, perhaps, the
resurrection of the living and the
conversion of sinners, to which the
holy priest had dedicated his life,
and was the principal end of all his
efforts. Notwithstanding his ardent
desire for death and heaven, he would
have consented to remain on earth
until the end of the world to gain
hearts for Jesus Christ It was in
this r^/(f that so brilliantly shone the
supernatural character of the life and
mission of the Cur^ d'Ars. When we
think of the sijtteen to eighteen hours
of the confessional, of the eighty to a
hundred penitents who knelt daily at
the feet of the holy priest, we may
form some idea of the attraction that
he exercised, and the deep furrow he
ploughed in the soul of the present
age.

So many shining traits give to
the Curt^ d'Ars the most wide-spread
fame of his time. Chateaubriand, De
Maistre, Goethe, Voltaire ev^en, and
others less famous, are only known
to the more refined. Their names
have not penetrated the stratum of
an immense humanity. The Cur^
d'Ars was known to all, and his name
had traversed every country, every
ocean, every race. In Europe, Ame-
rica, Asia, it echoed and wakened
souls ; and everywhere w^e find his
portrait, in every town, in every coun-
t^)^ Siberian huts can show the Cure
d'Ars. No face — not even that of
Napoleon I. — is as popular. His hair,
his cap, his cassock, his shoes, his
furniture, his books, his bre\iaTy, have
been sold over and over again for
more than their weight in gold. His

blood, if taken from him i
was collected and treasui!
lie ; and we see still at Ar
places, vials containing th
pure as the day it flowed
encc account for this?
men on is, to say the le
abnormal. The objc
blessed were almost takea^
and before his death riv
disputed for his body»
pute came near degener
bloody conflict. No bona
or public respect was wanti^
Cin6 d'Ars, and once again pic
Christian virtues have proven
selves the surest means of act
the world and attracting the O
because they represent
and eternal ideal of lif<
manity.

IX,

But I must pause. I have ^
to sketch in a few words the a
ance of this remarkable ma
yesterday our contemporary, I
whom an extraordinary
has given me the opp
speak. I fear I have
and, forgetting the statue, hav«
pied my readers' attention wil
person represented ; but I h
be forgiven, as the best way, i
to impress the merit of a poU
to make known the model tb<
has wished to depict The
will be better appreciated as thi
d*Ars himself is fully underaW

Again, It seems to me i
pearance and actions of :
in the uncertain limes
live, are a symptom and hfl
something better, to whufll
not give too much weight. ^1
age is bad enough ; hardened a
God, it is hardened agaim
church, and tries to sap evei]
datioo of virtue and honesty*

Danti Alighieri.

213

litfa, attacks good principles
virtuous instincts that prompt
nd endeavors to replace the
order of consciences by a
individual independence
owing division, can only pro-
in. Character and manners
ng as,low as ide^ ; cupidity,
» unbridled pleasure, sensual
tnts, sought for and held up
3nly end of life ; the expan-
luxury by every ingenuity
society an ideal of Babyloni-
zation ; revolution, that is to
olt and universal overthrow,
climax, and threaten to swal-
everything : behold the situ-
id its dangers ! Seldom have
sen more troubled, or the
QS more terrible,
ope revives and the mind is
: when it contemplates the
^ camp. So long as an age

is able to produce a Cur^ d'Ars, it is
full of strength ; and if the Catholic
faith can excite such a sensation as
that of which I have just spoken, she
assures her future. Monarchs, gen-
erals, politicians, legislators, writers,
may become powerless. They could
not preserve the society of old, and
saints alone saved it^ walking in the
footsteps of Christ They recon-
structed and regenerated it, because
they were the last and unique ex-
pression of the true and beautiful in
morals, the only pivot of progress,
the only lever which lifted a people
to lead them onward to God, the only
source of life. Producing the same
men, modem society may hope for
the same regeneration ; its cure and
its future health will not depend on
human means or agents, but on the
divine grace exercised by its saints.

DANTE ALIGHIERI.

ame of the Fiero Ghibdlmo^
alians are wont to call Dante
i, is great, not in extensive-
t in weight Wherever and
nsoever he is known, his
id his works carry a charm
uithority vouchsafed to only
the department of authors.
Dante, and Shakespeare are
5, whose names are enshrin-
n elevation above the rest ;
iathe, so to speak, in an at-
•e of their own. They are,
masters and guides,

" Maestri di color cfae nima'*

, to understand their works,

dy thereof must needs be

specialty. Yet even those

who have lisped their names in
their mothers' tongue find that " ars
longa^ vita brevisJ* The student will
drink at those pure fountains with
ever-increasing pleasure. " How of-
ten have you been in St Peter's?"
asked of us a venerable monk, the
first time we entered the Vatican.
"Never before, sir." "Well," re-
plied he, " I have been coming here
almost every day for the last thirteen
years, and every day I find some
new thing to admire and study!"
The same has been averred by those
who have been familiar with Dante,
Homer, and Shakespeare.

We well remember how, in our
youth, and in our native schools, we
were so trained in the study of Ali-

214

Dante AUghieru

ghieri that it was an easy matter to
discover whether an author, be he
poet or prose-writer, had been form-
ed on Dante, whether he had drunk
at the head fountain or at side
streams. Only few poets we re-
member whose verses we read with
an enchanted devotion^ — Gasparo
Leonarducci, of Venice ; Vincenzo
Monti, of Milan j and Alfonso Va-
rano, of Ferrara. Of the prose- writers,
Paolo Segneri, Sforza Pallavncino,
of the seventeenth, and Pietro Gior-
dani, of the nineteenth century, are
the only Dankschi in whom we de-
h'ghted, as we were delighted in
reading Homer transformed into the
succum €t saparem of the jEmid.
Those above mentioned were poets,
historians, and orators, than whom
more ardent and persevering students
of Dante are not recorded in the an-
nals of Italian literature. Theirs was
not, however, a pedantic ser\^ility :
Dante was the fiithcr that engender-
ed their style, the eagle who provok-
ed them to fly ; and they did fly, and
soared above the rest, and fixed their
pupils on the brightness of the sun.
Which remarks afford us also the
measure by which to value the suc-
cess of those who have attempted
to translate Dante into foreign lan-
guages, an attempt which to the Ita-
lian scholar sounds almost presump-
tuous. For, if the style and the
meaning of Dante have proven a mat*
ter of so much difficulty and labor to
the coontr)Tnan of Dante, how much
more laborious and difficult must they
prove to the foreign-born student ?

Whoever attempts to translate a
poet must join ** the fidelity of rendi-
tion to the spirit of a poet." The
former presupposes a tliorough know-
ledge of the t^'o languages, even to
the commonest idioms. Then, un-
less one is born a poet, the attempt
will be the very madness of folly.
Which truth receives additional evi-

dence when the worli
lated is one of transcei
its originality ; ay^ ii
is incomparable: incoi
mean, as a human worl

Such is the Dhina
Dante Alighieri. Pind|
supernatural in conc^
tive in expression and 1
Dante is " tlie father c
tongue,") Dante stand
scholar as a most dil
Nor are the numberli
tators and voluminom
agreeing or conflicting,
absurd, a mean proofs
tion j

Commentators have,
ed their folly and their
to an excess equalled
absurd twisting of Holy
of the thousand and one;
defenders of opposite dil
fancied they read in (
same text, A witty Ii
he sees Dante crouchi
vainly endeavoring, wil
culations and lusty cri<
parry the blows by whi(
and lajrmen, iaico o €h£t^
to force him to admit stii
into his words as he nevi
at the same time thej^
among themselves, exd
and throw at each othei
heavy comments, bound
rudely embossed with ta
It is related that ona
poet, while passing b;
heard snatches of his
but so interlarded \
words, and tlie ends i
bitten o^ that the grati
ears was unendurable;
he entered the shop, ani
wantonly throwing into
sion the tools of the
thinking him mad^ rushrf
and yelled: "What
thou about ?*' ** And i«j

Dante Alighieri.

215

' retorted Dante, sobering
t once. " I am at my work,
►u art spoiling my tools !" re-
le smith. ^\i thou wishest
leave thy things alone, leave
Dne also." " And, pray, what
)oiling of thine ?" " You are
my verses, but not as I made
t is the only art I possess, and
dlit"*
nother occasion the poet met

driving before him a mob
(keys, and enlivening his
me journey by singing also
s of the divine poem. But,
turally, he would intersperse
gs with an occasional prick-
le haunches of his asinine fel-
ellers with the goad, and the
of arriy arri — the Italian
^long, Dante at once visit-
ellow's back with an earnest
id cried : " That arri^ arri, I
>ut it in that verse !" The
inaro shrugged his shoulders,
ted to one side, not well pleas-

the uncouth salutation ; but

a safe distance, ignorant as
of the cause of the blow and
nan who had inflicted it, he
[lis tongue out, and said,
that," an indecent act even
talian boor. Dante replied :
Id not give mine for a hun-
thine !"

the smith and the drover
heir own way, and in Dante's
5 been repeated down to our
i/'olumes might be filled with
iie tides of essays, treatises,
Dries, at times ingenious, sel-
teresting, always betrayingf
:eit of the writer. Editions
able are crammed with inter-
ns conflicting with each other,
Bvhich the sense of the poet

akespeare this anecdote in mind when he
ado cry out, " I pray you, mar no more
» with reading them ill-fovoredly " ? {Ai
'I, act iH. sc a.)

has been cruelly distorted. We, who
have been reared in the deepest re-
verence for Dante's orthodoxy, have
always felt indignant at the irreli-
gious and unphilosophical inordina-
tions to which the Divina Commedia
has been made to afford foundation
and development

For the nonce we mean to deal
with translations, yet not in a gene-
ral or comprehensive treatise ; for
to treat of all English translations of
Dante, down to Sir J. F. W. Herschel's,
the latest of all, would carry us over
fields too extensive and uninviting.
We have been led to beg for a comer
of The Catholic World, in order to
introduce to its readers what, afler a
close and careful study, we deem the
best of all translations of Dante. We
allude to The First Canticle (In-
femo) of the Divine Comedy of
Dante Alighieri, Translated by Tho-
mas William Parsons. Boston : De
Vries, Ibarra & Co. 1867.

That Mr. Parsons possesses the
spirit of a poet, no one who has read
ever so little of his original compo-
sitions will gainsay. Whatever he
writes has the true ring; there is
nothing transcendental in him, and
no mannerism; his sentiments are
spontaneous, and flow into his dic-
tion with a naturalness that takes
hold of the heart of the reader at
once, like a peaceful streamlet min-
gling its waters with kindred waves.
Opening a collection of his poems at
random, we do not hesitate to tran-
scribe, without any studied choice,,
what first offers itself to our eye.
He writes on the death of his friend,
the sculptor Crawford, and thus he
suddenly gives vent to his feelings:

" O Death t thoa teacher true and rough I
Full oft I fear that we have erred.
And have not loved enough ;
But, O ye friends I this side of Acheron,

Who cling to me to-day,
I shall not know my love till ye are gooa
And I am gray I

Dafi$€ Aligfnrri,

F«ir wotti«Ti, with your liming eyea,
Old niif'u thit i.nte ray footsteps ltd,

S- -tnuch ai iktl T priie,

Un. . ' ust of death be ihcd

Upon f j,rn ll^.^^ aad venerable bead*
I cannot love yt>tt ai I love the dead I

** But ntm^ the natiirsd man bein^ town,
We can more lucidly behold
The tpinltuJ one :

Forwe> till time sliail endt
Full visibly th.ill *ee our friend
In »U His hand* dfd mould —
Th»t v^'oni and patient band that ti«a «o
cold 1"

On a Palm-Sunday, as he wends
his way to the bedmde of a dying
young convert, he begs of a Ihile
Catholic girl a twig of the blessed
palm she is canning home. Where-
upon he extemporizes the following :

" TO A YOtmC ClUL DYING I WITH A CtrT OP HtCStt
PAl^M-LHAVeS,

" This i* Palm-Sunday t mindful of the day»
I bring palm branches, found upon my way t

* But Ihe^e wiB wither ; thtue •ImUI ne-ver die—
The sacn^ palm« thou heareat to the tky t
Dear little sulci t, though but a child tn years,
Older in wi>dem Ihan my gray compeer* t
M-V doubt and tremble— ti*, with 'bated breathy
Talk of thxji mystery of life and death ;
Thou, ttrong in bith. art gifted to conceive
Beyond thy years and teach uft to believe f

"Tbea take my p«k1m«» triumphal* to thy home,
Geetle white palmert never more to noam I
Only, vwcet ii*ter, ^ve me, ere thou f o*ftt»
Thf benediction — for my love ihou know'&t I
We, Wio» are pilKrimv, tra vetting toward the shrine:
Pray that our pilgritoage may end Uke thine f

Mr. Parsons's poetical gift mani-
fests itself most sensibly in what
might be called "fugitive pieces,"
They are gems, like the above, and
as tliey are offered to the reader they
are at once set in the most fitting
comer of his heart. We regret our
limited space will not allow us to
transcribe the poems To Magdalm^
**Mar>^ from whom were cast out
seven devils ;** or the death of Mary
Booth : or the Vespers on the Shores of
th^ Mediterranean^ when the Italian
mariner

'* In mare iralo in tabita procellA
Invoca Tt nottra benlfna stelh.^

But we must be allowed to quote
*one little poem \ an impromptu one,

written on the death of|
prelate (February 13th,
memory is held in bene
vast number of our re

" Son of Sl Patrkk, John, J
Boston** bk»t b'ttbop bidi|
Nol kwf «KO we parted f
And aaid ferewell— nor thousht \
lltat brain to weary, and tbat I
With many care» I The i
But he came back — he c
'\\\(* well might ihooe t
Or Ara CceJi^and the a
That climbs the Capitol— «]r Mitf
In that queen dty.

*' Scholar and friend I oTd %
Pa«t me in lev
To our free i^

One mune to '.

Thy faJtJi ^-ai Urge, tveu in fhiftl
And ti pleavrd thee to (4tro<iiiie||
When I turned Hffl^ce into I"
And thought my%clf a po«| Hm f
la Latin nchool'-dayii^bu^ 4
Drivei from rememhran«i(
Of tender imaRet ; f:\re«i
t cannot think of the«e \
Tliine, good Fittpatrick* n«^f«t
Who went before thee — Fcniricl
Gentle apo«tk Cheveraa, i
Whom in my boyhood 1 1

'* But the bell moreJi me.
I loYed my biihop and I mind t

Let us now approach
more closely. But here dl
is how to enable our rea
are not acquainted with tt
Italian, to appreciate the
the American translator—
the beauty whereof const!
Mr. Parsons translates a
raiiy and at the same time
lation is poetr>\ After all
entitled to extraordinary p
being endowed with poetic
catches the sense of th!
and gives it in foreign ver
best plan seems to tis to
text, then a literal (pedant
al) translation, and after
sons's. Thus, for instant
reads on the architrave o\
trance to hell :

" per mc w v» neHa dttA dolente.*
Per m« «i va nell* eterao dulorc

* BoUnit meant waatm withnot ai

I Im perduta* Kente.
1 mlo alto Fttttore :

i Sapiensa, e 'I priino Amore.
m m me nna fur com create*
3«o ettnME. cd io eternA dtiro :
dtleogDJ «per%ii«a, *\ii, cbe 'ntrale.**

: Through me you go into the
city ; through me you go into
I grief; through me you go
; the lost people. Justice
, my lofty Builder ; Divine
made me ; and the supreme
m and the first Love. Ere me
10 things created — unless eter-
^ I eternal last ; relinquish all
ycm who enter,
I compare with Parsons's ;

1^ lit )POu reach the Ctty of Despair :
Mflk ae etcma.1 wrelchedttcs ye find :
11^ fM AmoQSperditioaS tribe ye fire.
1r inpmd my lo^ Founder's mind :

Lofc and WUdom — Heavenly Firat Mott

Nigh-
ifd Bic Befirrre me naaght had been

tkingt e(em»J — iad eteme am I ;
« |i lil hoipe, O y* who enter io P'

any translation be more lite-
'an it be more faithful? We
ned to find fault with it, but

up in despair ; yea, the more
lin our critical eye, the more
ly does the original beauty

reflected in the translation.
C the reflection of the mirror ;
! reflection of the sun*s light
tnoon's face.

conomize room, we shall give
e text ; we will only add a
:ranslation by way of note,
ing on the reader for his trust
knowledge of both languages,
mr honesty.

long extract we are going to
' *ps, the noblest specie
live poetry in the Ita-
guage. It is, however, found-
L historical mistake, inasmuch
lino was starved to death not

I ibe «ni«e «f chat f^eamin tit iihi in
" ^% viit. JO.) abscilote oondemnatioa,
\ luJian is die ru^m ditn^/fha^m of
, beyond sll Hope of moval re-

by Archbishop Ruggieri, but by Gui-
do da Montefeltro, Lord of Pisa. The
true account runs thus : Ugolino dei
Gherardeschi, Count of Donovatico,
and a Guelf, had, with the conni-
vance of the archbishop, made him-
self master of Pisa, But having put
to death a nephew of Ruggieri, and
sold some castles to the Florentines,
that prelate, at tlie head of an infu-
riated mob, and aided by Gualandi,
Sismondi, and Lanfranchi, three
powerful leaders, attacked the count
in his own palace, and made him pri-
soner with his two sons Gaddo and
Uguccione, and three nephews, Ugoli-
no Brigata, Arrigo, and Anselmuccio.
Thus bound, they were all thrown
into the donjons of the Tower at
the Three Roads. Montefeltro, hav-
ing meanwhile got the power into his
own hands, forbade any food to be
administered to his prisoner rival,
whereby Ugolino and tlie rest died
of hunger, Dante, {Inferno^ c. xxxii.
and xxxiil,) admitted to the ninth
circle, or bolgia, on entering that part
of it which was called Anlenora,
witnessed the horrible punishment
of the traitor and of the murderer :

* " In a single gap.
Fast froxe togciher other two I *aw,
So that one bead ^'Ot bis companion*B cap:
And as a famUhed man a crust mi^ht gnaw.

• I saw ewo/tnmi froten in one hole, — so that one
head to the other fww bat :— and as bread in liitnger
» eaten,— 40 tlie uppermost hi» teeth Inio the other
stuck, — there where the brain i» joined tr> the nape,—
Nol intlierwiic did Tydeus gnaw— the temples of Me-
nalippus throuj^b disdain— than he did the skull and
the other things,— O thou who showeat by fo bestial
token— hatred over him whom thou eaie&i,> — teJ) me
the why, caul I : on sndi condiiton;,— Uiatf if thoa with
reason of Kim complaine5l,^kti*iwinif who you ftre,
and his offence, — In the world above I alto may re*
p.ty thee Tor it, — if that [tongue] with which 1 &peak
does not ttcmiu dry.

llie mouth [he] raised from the beastly' food. — that
nnner, ftiping it on the hair — of the head which he
had di5fig;urcd (maimed) behind. — I'hen [he] bej^n :
Thouwikhcst that I renew— des^pcrate grie^ whicll

» Ti mtntgi^ " Uiou selfishly 1" '■ ■ ' ' nty
food." lilts ia one of those i<l '!»«

reciprocal proQoun **ti." almosr ir.a-

latc* lis tneaning is felt only by Hit ti.iiivL iLiIiao.

' /»r(», here as the C9ircas.s on which a beast of
prey will feed, from jfrrts, savage beast.

2l8

DanU Alighieri.

So i^utwed the u{>per one the iin^elch bctieaUu
Just where ihe ncck-bonc'» nurrow joini the brain :
Not otherwise did Tydcus fti hi» teeth
Oti ^f enalipptii* templef in disdikin.

While thfut he mumbled skull and hair and all^
I cried ; * Ho ! thou who ihciw'si irach bestial hate
or him on whom thy ravenous teeth so f^tl,
Why feedesl Ihou thus ? On ihi* agreement slate :

That, if thou have good reswm for thy sjute.
Knowing you both, and what hi? erune was, I
Up in the world above may do thee right,
UflleiiS the tonpie \ talk with first j^row dry.*

From his foul f«as1 that siimcr tiiised hts jaw,
Wiping tt on the hair, first, of the head
Whose hinder pan hi* cmonching had made raw.
Then thus : * Thou would.?t that I r^ticw,* be said,

* The agony which still my hcArt tlolh wring.
In thotif^ht ev«n, ere a syllable I say;
But if my words may future harvest bring
To the vile traitor here on whom I prey

Of infamy^ then thou shalt hear tn« speak,
And see my tear* too. I know not thy mien.
Nor by what means this regiois ihoa do*t se«k ;
But by thy tongue thoo'rt sore Florentine.

me lo the heart opprcsM*, — even only thinking, be-
fore I speak of it,— But if my words must (may) be a
teed — iliat wiU bear frtiit of in£imy to the traitor I
gnaw, — thou shalt sec me both speak and weep, — I
know not « ho thou be nor by what means — art thou
come licre below; but Florentine— /A^* »eemc«i to
me truly* when I hear thee.— Thou shouldst know
that I was Count Ugolino,— «ud thb Arthbishop Rug-
gieri : — now I'll tell thee why I am such' neighbof. —
How by the means of his evil mind, — trusting in him,
I was taken— and then killed, there is no need of
lelUng. — But that which iAdw canst not have heard,
CfcncFwn),*— tbit iv bow cmel roy death was. — dioa
shall hear; and [thou] shalt know whether he bath
doa« me wrong.- A oarrow hole within the mew*—
which from me has the title of Himger,— and in
whicb it needs that others be confined, — had shown
n»e through its opening — many mooas already, when
I had the fatal dream— which lore from roe the veil of
the fiiture. — This [man] seemed to me leader and lord*
— driving the wolf and wolf-cubs* to the mouniain, — for
which the Plsans cannot tee Lttcca.^ — With hounds,
(she-hounds, ] iean, keen on the scent, and well tnuned,
{jcagiu ma^g studiMt t cvwfir,>— Goalandi with Sis*
niiondi,^ and with Lanfranchi — bad [he] put before him
tn the van.— After a sborl run ihey seemed to me
borne down,— the father and the sons, xvA by those
sharp teeth — 1 deemed their sides lorn open.^ — MrTien
I became awake ere the morning— [ heard weeping in
their tlccp my children.— who were with m% and ask
for bread.— Indeed thou art cmel if (boo dost fuvl al^
ready grieve,— thinking of what to my heart was than
foreboded :—and if thou weepeat not, at what art
thou wont to ^'eep? — They were now awake, and the
hour fra» drawing near-^vrben food u«ed to be brought
iift,-^and his dream gave each miagivtog^— And tktn

* Tid tfkmo^ a neighbor lo barbarooaly distrcaaing
another.

* *mitso Udirwt, hear by chance ; tucoit^rit to listen.
ndendtwt^ to uadoTtand what you hear, or are told.

* Mid^ the plaoe where the republic's eagles were
kept during mooltlng-time. MudATt^ lo moulu

* UgolIiM» had the dream while au&ring the acute
pangs of hunger. He dreamt of a finished wolf and
ila whelp*, hunted by she-hounds, under which alle*
gory he reoogiUEes the Ghibellines, liimself being a
GuelC

^ Smm Gkdimn9, a mcKmtain between Piaa and

r oi^BP

Know then, Count Ugolino ooce was T,
And this Arcbbisliop Rnggicri : fate
Makes us close neighbors— I will teH
*Tis needless all the story to relate.

How through his malice, trusting in hia
I was a prisoner made and after alain.
But that whereof thou never caiut hate
I mean how cruelly my Hie was U*en,

Thou sltalt hear now. and thenceibrtii kno#l
Have done me wrong. A loophole Sn lhe<
Which Iiath tia name of Famine's Tower
And where his doom some other yet must nie.

Had shown me now already through its i
Moon after moon, when that ill dregua
Which from fijturity the oirtain reft.
He» in my vision^ lord and master aeo

Hunting the v^'olf and wolT-cuba on the
Which Ecreenelh Lucta from the Pi»in'i
With cajEer hounds, well trained and lean
Gualandi and Lanfranchi darted by.

With keen Si«mondi— these the foremost
But after some brief chase, too hardly borna,
n»e sire and off-jprinpt seemed entirely qxnt.
And by sharp fanes thctr bleeding sides '

When before room from sleep I raised my
I beard roy boys, in prison there with me.
Moaning in slumber and demanding bread.
If thou weep not, a savage thou miut b« :

pent; I

awK-'MM
htaa.

I heard the door bolted' bdow — in the bnnifali
whereat I looked— into the Cice of mydiildnsiviiki
s^yrni; a word. — T was not weeping* ao ma I prtifa
(impietrat) wtlhin : — they were we«inng ; aaid W^W
Ansetm— said : 'ITiou kiokcat sot Father, whjl »ihl
thee?— Yet I shed no tear, nor answered I— al ll
day, nor tjie following night, — until another
over the world— As soon a» a little gkam of Ml
(wK jkvit di rti£jri^) began to creep^-tnlo iba " '
prison, and T saw in four faces my own Veiy hi
both my hands throii|th pain I bit : — and ibaft. tth
ing that I did it for wish of ibod, instanllf
and said : Father, far leas painlid will ii be lo oa^
thou eatest of us ; thou didat dresa — [as irtih)
miserable flesh, do thpn take it ofL — I then
myself; not to make tliem more wretched, —Thi
and the next we all lay silent :— alas 1 crod cacti
didn'tst thou open?— AAerwc had reached tht
day^-Caddo threw htmself prostrate at my fcet,«
ing : Fattier mine, why dost thoQ not help
There be died : and, as thou aeest me, — did I tec
three fisU one by one,— bctwbct the fifth day and
siath, whereat I began,*-already biiad, bi snv*
ejch :— and three days I called them after ibcy
dead— Then more than the grief did the &i ~
whelm me,— When he had aaid thia, with
torted— he resumed the loathsome skull be
teeth,— which, like a dog\ stuck to the bcme.-
Pisa I disgrace to the people— of the hk land
the Mt sounds ;* — as thy neighbors are slow to
thee,— let Capraja and Got^ooai* ariaa , m 4
dam on Amo's mouth" that may drown %wmf
ther*a child in ihee- For if Count Ugoibio "
name— of having defrauded thM of thy eaado%-
shouldst noi have pot tbe children
Innocent were by their yoothfut age, — Mt
Thebes t Ugucdone and Brigata,— and ^ olfai
whom my song haa mentioned.^*

* The Pisans, about eight moolha after \
tmprisoontent, I ' ^
locked them, and Ihraw tho heya info the i

• Dante calla tbe fai^iaige of
the language of pt^ and the Italian tbe 1
both #r and ti meaning ** yc«,"

•Twos

I at the I

kof Ibc J

Danie Alighieri,

219

i llitnkanf of the fear
\ carat thou wrcp it aoght?
? alan, and the hoar was near
r daily pittance to be broiigfaL
leach mUtructful ; and I heard
pt dread tower n Ailed up beUmt
n'» eyes, without a word,
l^not ; and 1 wept not : »o

I, that I could not.
Eluid mj little Anselm cned«
> I Father, what*A the matter^ what ?*
t i»ot. nor a word replied,

r all the following night,
I die suu't returning r^y :
\ &iBt gjeam of montiag light

1 dungeoQ where we lay,
» fear vtng«a I cnr
I horror of my own,

'\ aoguul) I began to ^aw :
JDg want of food alone
rttarled up^ and cried, " Tax Ics»,
', it will torture its if thoti
^ on tis [ Thou gaveist u» this dresi
I flesh— 'tis thine, and take it now.'
heir little hearts, at last
mIC and, all in lUence, thus
fcleit day tnotionJe»s we past
■ earth I why didst not ope foriu ?
r AovBuig. Gaddo at ray feet
rptotnte, nitinaiiriBg, * Father I why
tat help me? GWt. me food to eaL*
KHed : and even »o saw T,
1^ now, three more, one by one,
ffRh day and the with day fall ;
[JM. siglitlefla grown, o'er each dear son
ad tvo d^ 00 the dead did call :
d" could not do, hunger did tlien.
le rolled lits eyes aakance, and fell
Uknll with greedy teeth ag^
Kg opon the bony »hc]K
K of all in that 6itr land
[wtcred, since thy ncipi;hbor» round
fltoce on thee with a tardy hand,
ipraja'» and Gorgona't bound I
k ArDo'i mouth up, till the wave
Xf soul of thine in its o'erflow 1
|L*#aMJ mid Count UgoUoo gave,
K^ry, thy strongholds to the foe ?
Plhave tormented so his sotis,
HI Thebes I— their youth saved them

I, and thuote two innocent ones
, the canto calls by name/'

arked one or two more
scription, but we deem
for a dUigent collation
>ns's text with the literal
have given ad caicem
convince the reader of
less of the work. Of
nUd be absurd to expect
were rendered for words,
ly impossible. Again :
irords which cannot be
We know the Italian Ian-
well — and why shouldn't
; have never been able
lalian word corresponding

with the English '' home*' ; nor have
twenty-three years of close and earn-
est study of the English language
yet enabled us to find an English
word corresponding with the Italian
vagkeggiare. We say, " He was lost
in the contemplation of a picture :'*
the Italian will simply say, ''Vag/teg-
giava lapiituray Translate, if you
C2,n,'^L'amante'i^agheggia la sua bcUaP'
You can do it no more than the Ita-
lian can render with corresponding
meaning the words, " Home I sweet
home r'

In our opinion a too literal trans-
lation will not give us Dante \ it will
only give his words. Although we
must admit that the meaning of the
wordp as it conveys the idea, must be
scrupulously rendered as well as the
idiom, yet it is evident that too
great an anxiety in translating the
word into that which bears the great-
est resemblance to the original may
lead into a misconception ,or misre-
presentation of the author's idea.
In an elaborate article in thQAflantk
Monthi}\ of August, 1867, the word
height, employed by Mr. Longfellow
in his translation of Dante, (Purgat,
xxviii. V, 106,) receives the pre-
ference over summit^ employed by
Car>\ True, height is the literal ren-
dition for aitezza; yet Dante there
employs aitezza not in its literal
meaniTig, which is one of measure-
ment, but in that of a summit^ or a
top, A comparison with parallel
cases in the Commedia will bear us out
in our remark. We must not be un-
derstood as if we meant to prefer
Gary to Longfellow, By no means :
for tlie former gives us Gary's Daniej
whereas the latter gives us, if we may
be allowed the expression, Dante^s
Dante. Which remark, however,
must not be taken as if we were dis-
posed to endorse the fidelity of every
line of the American translator. The
very narrow limits to which he has

220

Dante AUghieri,

confined himself often place him
tinder the necessity of employing
words which convey not the originars
idea ; while, on the other hand, often
must he add words in order to fill up
his line ; for example,

*' When he had said ihii, with im eye* dUtorted.'*

That his Dante never put there ;
why, it is a pleonasm.

While we do not like nor did ever
like the freedom of Car)% nay, have
felt indignant at the liberties he has
taken with the text, we are amazed
at the boldness with which Mn Long-
fellow has endeavored to master his
Procrustean difficulties ; but we give
preference to the work of Dr. Par*
sons, because his translation is easy
{disiftvoltay the Italians would call it)
and yet faithful j it is poetical, and
yet we challenge our readers to point
to any idea which is not conveyed to
the English mind in scrupulous fide-
lity to Dante's ideas. He sits in
Alighieri's chair, and he is at home.

Were we requested by him who
knew Italian only moderately as to
the easiest method to understand
and enjoy Dante, we would say:
Read the text, collating it verse for
verse with Longfellow ; then read
Parsons. Yet, to be candid, we hope
no American scholar will form his
idea of Dante*s transcendental merit
on the translation of Mr. Longfellow,
who, it must be admitted, has done
more meritorious work in behalf of
Dante than the one hundred thou-
sand and one who have written com-
ments on him. But one feels a pain-
ful sensation in alighting from Dante's
text on Longfellow^s translation,
whereas the transition from the pe-
rusal of the original to Parsons's
causes no jerking in our soul, and
the pleasure, decks repetitay never
abates. To the Italian scholar Mr.
Longfellow's translation will never
prove satisfactory.

Lest our readers should tl
we are blind admirers of Dr.
we will conclude this par
paper with the remark that
different words were in a
sions employed by him.
instance, the word, *' in bla<
tersj" {Ifff, c. Ui, v. lo,) do
vey the full meaning of
*' parole di colore oscuro/' (
the doctor can easily defe
rendition (and we know he k
dered on the suitableness
word) with the obvious reitj
a scoundrel may be hicick
being an Abyssinian, he
** blackest letters" must be^
a moral sense j yet it req;
after-thought to understand I
as the word ** oscuro" at one
at something black in itsi
dreadful in its forebodings. B
English word will convey the

Our article, incomplete
would yet appear more defi(
we not to give our readers
idea of what the Ditina
is, what it proposes to conve)
reader*s mind. Were we to i
idea of the nature of this poe
what has been written aboi
should call it a saddle. F<
no sptem, theological, phil
or political, the supporters
have not taken their pi
Dante. According to soi
was a Catholic devotee ; w]
especially in these our day
present him as the most do<
and conscientious foe of <
Catholic, ft sic de ceteris.

In the language of an
modern Italian scholar, " H
ed the Italian language fi
cradle, and laid it on a thn
spite of the rudeness of the tti
yet freed from barbarism, he
to conceive a poem, in which
bodied whatever there was li
stTuse in philosophical atid

Dante Alighieri,

221

cal doctrines ; in his three canticles
he massed whatever was known in
the sdentific world ; after the exam-
ple of Homer and Virgil, he knew
how to select a national subject
which would interest all Italy, nay,
all whose hearts were wanned by
the warmth of Catholic faith \ in a
word, he became the mark either of
decay or of prosperity in the Italian
literature, which was always enhanced
according as his divine poem was
studied and appreciated, or laid
aside and neglected.'**

Dante was bom in Florence, in
March, 1265, and died in Ravenna an
exile in 132 1, September 14. His
father's name was Alighiero degli
Alighieri. His education was as per-
fect as the times could afford in
science, belles - lettres, and arts.
^Vhen only nine years old he
^>ecame acquainted with Beatrice di
I^olco Portinari, a young damsel of
^i^t summers, but endowed with
great gifts of soul and body, and her
praises he sang in prose and verse,
^rid to her he allotted a distinguished
place in paradise. Dante served his
country faithfully both in the councils
*>£ peace and under the panoply of
''^^ar. \Vhen only thirty-five years
pld, he attained the highest dignity
*ri the gift of his countrymen. On
^lie occupation of Florence byCharles
^^f Valois, whose pretensions he had
^^Pposed and so far thwarted, Dante
"^^^ banished from Florence, (Jan. 27,
^ 302.) At the time, he was in Rome
^'Hieavoring to interest Pope Boni-
^^ VIII. in behalf of his dear Flo-
^"^5ce. Dante never saw his native
^^ again, but after nineteen years
^^^ exile and poverty he died highly ho-
^ored and very tenderly cared for by
^^ Polentas, the masters of Ravenna.
Dante was the author of many ex-
^^llent works; but to the Divina
^^omnnedia he owes that fame by

• CsT. a Maflfei, SUria LiL IttO, I. iii.

which he stands of all the Italians
facile princeps. At first, it was his

intention to write his poem in Latin
verse; but seeing that that language
was not understood by all, and many
even among the educated laity could
not read it,and just then the great trans-
formation of the new language taking
place he wisely conceived the plan
of gathering all the words which were
then used from the Alps to the sea,
and exhibited a uniformity of sound
and formation, and thus to write a
poem that might be called national,
and at the same time be a bond that
would unite all the Italian hearts.
This may be looked upon as the po-
litical or patriotic aim of his work.
A moral end had he then in view :
thus, laying down as the principle of
common destiny that man was crea-
ted for the double end of enjoying
an imperishable happiness hereafter,
* to be attained by securing a happi-
ness in this world, which should arise
from attending to the pursuits of vir-
tue, in Paradise he described the for-
mer, which cannot be attained without
a soul entirely detached from the af-
fections of this earth, a process ,of
schooling one's self and purification
so well represented by what he ima-
gines to have witnessed in Purgatory.
But as the soul needs be animated
to do works of justice by the promise
of reward, as well as by the intimida-
tion of deadly punishment, so he de-
picts the horrors to which the lost
people, those who were dead to even
the aspiration of a virtuous nature,
will be doomed in HeiL

Naturally, this triple state of the
soul, lost, redeeming herself, glorified,
gave him a chance of embodying in-
to his work theological expositions
of the duties of man, of the working
of grace, and of the economy of reli-
gion ; revelation, natural religion, and
science, all in turn lend him a helping
hand. And because examples should

Aspirations. 223

Yet did thy breath no less

Create me ; sprung from thy eternal fires,
I glow ; without thee, I am nothingness ;

Thy wisdom guides me and thy love inspires.
" Give me thy heart" — O strange benignity I

What is a mortal's heart, O God ! to thee ?

My bursting heart expands

To meet thee, and thy presence weighs me down ;

He who contains the heavens wiUiin his hands,
Annihilating systems with his frown.
Comes clad in garments of mortality
To dwell on this dim, shadowy earth with me.

For what shall I exchange thee ? For the shine

Of worldly pomp and pageantry and power ?

This spark, within eternal and divine,

Spurns the false baubles of a fleeting hour.

Thou art all glory, power, infinity —

Thou art; what can I want, possessing thee ?

Thou shalt unchanged behold

The starry host, quenched like a firebrand, die ;
The firmament is as a vesture rolled

Around thee — as a vesture 'tis cast by.

A thousand years are nothing in thy sight —

Or as a watch that passes in the night.

And when this earth shall fly

To atoms ; when the mountains shall be tossed
As chaff; when like a scroll rolls back the sky.

And Nature and her laws for ever lost ;

When thou shalt speak in fire the dread command

And hurl it from the hollow of thy hand —

What hope for me ? Thy promises sublime

That o*er the wreck of worlds I shall survey,

With eye unmoved, beyond the touch of Time,

The stars grow dark, the melting heavens decay.

And sit arrayed in immortality

In peace eternal and supreme with thee.

C £. B.

SHALL WE HAVE A CATHOLIC CONGRESS]

All our readers must have read
with interest the account given of
the last Catholic Congress at Ma-
lines. The importance and utility
of such assemblies are generally un*
derstood. Shall we have a Catholic
Congress? The feasibility of in-
troducing it into the United States
can scarcely be doubted. The
people here are more accustomed
to self-government than in Europe*
We are tlioroughly acquainted with
the management and rules of popu-
lar, deliberative assemblies. We
have learned members of the clergy,
and educated laymen, who appreci-
ate the value of a congresSi and are
competent to render its workings
practical and make its deliberations
effective. The episcopacy is ever
ready to aid undertakings for the
benefit of religion. There can,
therefore, be no doubt of obtaining
the necessary sanction from the
ecclesiastical hierarchy for the as-
sembling of the congress.

Who, then, will begin it? And
when will it be held? Many ear-
nest Cathohcs of the countr}% who
have seen the great benefits derived
to Belgium and France from the
congresses at Malines ; and to Ger-
many from those at Munich and
elsewhere ; who have witnessed the
powerful influence for propagating
doctrines and concentrating forces
of the sectarian or philanthropical
assemblies which annually meet in
New York or elsewhere, are ask-
ing these questions. Our forces
are scattered ; a congress would
unite them. There is no centre, no
unanimity, no harmony of action
among us in reference to many im*
portant matters which might be
treated of in a congress.

Let us briefly enumen
of the objects which coul
cussed and studied in an
of our learned clergy aa
ted laity.

Free Sunday and Day
their regulation and ami
might be one of the ob
large cities like New Yo
more, Bostooi and Phi
where Catholics are, manj
w^eailhy and instructed, th<
of parochial or Sunday sc
often highly capable of o
their establishments. Thej
ties afford so many opport
study and improvement t
one can learn. But in I
country districts, how is I
teachers are isolated. T
more system. There is n
point to which they may
light The rural clergy i
districts are often suffei
want of some large and pd
ganization which could as
in their labors, either for the
ment of their schools, their d
or for the counteracting of I
propagandism.

The influence which has-
ercised on education in Bd
the Catholic congresses i
known. The labors of tb^
Catholic congresses is nol
lie. The Nineteenth Genei^
bly of the Catholic associ|
Germany took place at BaS
Bavaria, during the interval]
the 31st of August and^
September, a,d. 186S. ~"
man congresses, like thot
gium, are composed of
well as ecclesiastics. Thc|
all political questions from
sions. Their only aim is

Shall we have a Catholic Congress t

22$

t the Catholic cause. In
rst meetings, one at Ma-
848, under the presidency
valier Buss ; the other at
^ided over by M. Lieber,
ity was in a state of siege,
md in the third, held at
a 1850, the members or-
mity of action among the
St. Vincent de Paul, es-
:hools and reading-rooms
est of Catholic literature,
d over the religious wants
lans in Paris and through-
of France. The Congress
1, presided over by Count
tolberg, founded the Socie-
liface, which has since then
e sum of $700,000, and
ans established one hun-
;n missions and one hun-
fifty schools for the poor
itholics living in Protest-
es.

in Westphalia, had a
n 1852. The president
ron of Andlau. In it was
the method which the
isociations could take to
hristian education and to
tholic university. These
is were continued the fol-
: at the Vienna Congress,
Zell presided. In 1856,
Congress, in which Count
was president, the foun-
children's asylums was
Salzburg was proposed
of the Catholic universi-
alzburg Congress, in 1857,
[ly occupied with this pro-
rith the means of develop-
urer of the Catholic press,
latholic publication socie-
iving pecuniary aid to the
>f the East At Freyburg,
e Congress, presided over
int de Brandis, treated of
ic press and religious mu-
Thirteenth Congress at
OL. VIII. — 15

Munich, in 1861, founded the lite-
rary review known as the Littera-
rischer Handweisery edited by Hula*
kam and Rump, at Miinster.

The Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, in
the following year, took up again the
question of the establishment of a
Catholic university. A committee
was appointed to found it ; but the
government opposed them. This ra-
ther excited than diminished the zeal
of the persevering German Catholics.
Professor Moeller, of Louvain, on this
occasion said : " The word impossible
is not Christian*^ There was not one
of those congresses that did not op-
pose the secularization of education ;
not one of them that did not materi-
ally and morally aid the cause of
Christian doctrine.

In these German congresses we
have a good model to imitate. Isor
lated attempts to obtain public sup-
port for our own schools will rarely
if ever sdcceed. There must be
union ; a union of the Catholic
brain, intelligence, and wealth, not
only in one state, but all over the
country.

Our Catholic Reformatories is
another object worthy the attention of
a Catholic congress. No one can ex*
aggerate the importance of these in-
stitutions. That of New York, sup^
ported and maintained by our good'
and zealous archbishop, has produce
ed incalculable benefits in our city
already. A Catholic congress would
strengthen the hands of our zealous
prelate; would increase tKe efficient
cy of the institution ; would encoif-
rage the Catholics of other citieSi
where they are not already establish-
ed, to found similar establishments
for the orphaned or homeless chil-
dren who swarm in our country.
How many of the poor sons and
daughters of our Catholic emigrants
are lost for ever to faith and virtue
in our cities I Will not their blood

226

ShaU we Jmve a Catholic Congress t

cry out on tlie last day against their
fellow-Christians, who have the wealth
and the intelligence, but not the zeal,
to save them from a life of crime and
ignominy ?

The St. Vincent de Paul Socie-
ties could also profit by union of ac-
tion among the different conferences
throughout the countr>\ In the South,
especially, the war has multiplied wi-
dows and orphans. The poor there
have not the same advantages as in
the North. Some of the dioceses
were poor before the war. They are
now all ver)^ poor. The bishops and
fpriests are Xvying to build up what
the sword or the cannon destroyed.
It is true there are regular assem-
blies of the different conferences ;
but they need a stronger impulse
from without to make them flour-
ish as they should and as they are
needed.

Then there is the question of Re-
ligious Music * which none of the
European congresses ever omit in
their deliberations. We are not dis-
posed to find fault ; but every one
knows that the music of our churches
is frequently anything but rubrical
or ecclesiastical. We are in favor of
the best music ; the very best, wheth-
er it be figured or plain chant ; but
let it be at least church music, not
rehashed operas. We know that
•many of the pastors are unable to
procure singers who are competent
to render Catholic music as it should
'be in our churches. We need a Cath-
-olic training-school of music. A Cath-
■4)1 ic conser\'atory might easily be
ibrmed in New York. It is no ex-
•aggcration to say that the best of
*the foreign musicians in the United
"States are Catholics, whether they
be remarkable for their skill with in-
struments or for the culture of their

♦ Prolbctor Jao9Q<ci at thic PropiKanda CcJlese. in
a recent dcruUr to ihebuihops» urges ihit point on the

voices. There is besides i
talent, which only needs
tunity to become distingu
there be founded a nation
conser\'atory of music,
and exhibitions ; let the i
it see that their efforts wilT
pecuniarily and profitably \
ed, and we venture to pre
a short time America wiQ
high as her European sisH
gious music. Toward
the last Maiines Cong
tude of Belgian Catholic "at
gave an oratorio on the Lm
fncnif which was magnMM
Catholic conservatory of s|
New York could give simi
tertainments, as an approprii
mination to our Catholic coii|
and be able thereby to pay
expenses, and have even nw
with which to remunerate in
bers.

Libraries, Reading-Rooi
the Press could also be dis
Nothing will do more good in
munity than a supply of goodi
matter. We have already dii
the method of founding funi
Sunday school libraries in the
of this magazine. A Cathol
gress would encourage thoe
wished to found them ; wouli
out the energies of many of tl
and clergy who only seek % p
portunity to display them,
respect we might learn a lessc
many of the Protestant sects.
ever we may think of the real ]
Protestants, however mudy|
condemn their external shoM
their confounding Christia?
with philanthropismt we mw
mire the energy which they
fest in the cause of cducatioi
church of theirs but has it$
class, its well - organized S
school, its Sunday-school
its young men's association

Skatt we have a Catholic Congnsst

i2j

hg-room, and newspaper. No doubt
tbese are but the accidentals of
Qiristianity ; but they help very
much in propagating or sustaining
the essentials.

It is certain that our Catholic
PRBsdoes not receive all the suph
port which it deserves. We have Cath-
olic newspapers, which could be ren-
dered much more useful and efficient
were they better patronized ; and as
for our magazine, our readers must
jodge whether we do not endeavor
oor atmost to satisfy their intellec-
toal wants. In Europe, every petty,
poor Catholic community is willing
to support a journal. We often find
■any reviews flourishing in coun-
tries hr less wealthy and populous
than our own. Ought not the five
minions of Catholics of the United
States to give The Catholic World
I sobscription list of at least fifty
thousand ? And if they do not, what
is the reason ? Is it because they
ire poor ? No, but because there is
■0 centra! point from which the cur-
rent of electricity can be sent leaping
through the brain and heart of our
population. Let us have a congress
for these purposes also.

Then there is the project of a
Catholic University. Every day
*e read of wealthy gentlemen leav-
ing donations of thousands of dollars
^educational establishments belong-
iBg to the state or to religious de-
i iKminations other than Catholic In
Eorope this is also a common cus-
tom. We have read of Mr. Pea-
kod/s donation to Yale College.
%sird, an infidel, founded the insti-
^^ in Philadelphia which bears
^ name. Our Catholic millionaires
<*Kew York and other cities, we are
^ only need to be asked to show
tteir generosity in the founding of a
Catholic university. Several of the
petty German states have theirs.
Even impoverished Ireland has had

the courage to originate one. Will
not rich America follow her example?
What is wanting? Not the money;
not the patronage ; not the ability to
conductit j but simply that there is no
united, powerful body of Catholics to
undertake it Give us a congress,
and we can have this union ; a con-
gress of the brain, good sense, and
faith of the American church.

Are we to have a school of Catho-
lic ARTISTS in this country? Shall
we do anything to promote the Cath-
olic arts of painting, sculpture, and
architecture ? What style of church
ornament shall we keep ? Shall we
cultivate the taste of our clergy in
these matters ? After what fashion
shall our churches be built ? Will we
make no effort to unite the Catholic
architects and artists of the country
to consult, compare their experiences^
and improve their taste and talent by
mutual contact ? They individually
desire to be brought together. There
b no true artist who does not wish
for an opportunity to be appreciated ;
and where can so just an apprecia-
tion of an artist's work be had as in
a Catholic congress of American
Catholic talent which would influence
even the remotest parts of our vast
country ?

Our priests all feel the want more
or less of a central point to which they
can look with safety for proper vest'
mentSy altar furniture^ and altar wmc.
It may be suspected without rashness
that many of the merchants who sell
wines for the altar are not always re-
liable. In many cases the wine is
adulterated. In such a state of un-
certainty, would it not be well to
have a " Bureau of Safety " establish-
ed ? Would it not be well to have
some authorized and reliable agents
who could transport to this country,
cheaply and safely, some of the trea-
sures of Europe — ^vestments, chalices,
pictures, and the like — ^instead of

228

Shall we have a Catholic Cangresst

obliging every priest to depend on
his own individual knowledge, or
leave hira at the mercy of some
purely mercantile monopoly ? If
there were a Catholic congress, all
this state of disorder could be reme-
died, if not in one year, at least in
two or three. There are zealous
Catholics enough in the country to
devote a portion of their time to the
general interests of religion.

The condition of Catholic pris-
ONEKS in jails or penitentiaries could
form not the least important object
of a Catholic assembly. There are
many unfortunate members of our
church in the prisons on the neigh-
boring islands of New York who
are in the best dispositions to pro-
fit by spiritual consolation, yet they
have no books, save the few which
the devoted chaplain may give
them when charit)^ affords him tJie
necessary funds. The prisoners in
more remote districts are worse off.
Docs it not stir up the fire of zeal in
the heart of a Catholic to know that
he can save a soul, reclaim the vi-
cious, and give consolation to a poor
wretch who may have unfortunately
forgotten the sanctity prescribed by
his religion ? Would not a supply of
good books be a godsend to Catholic
prisoners ? Would it not tend to re-
form them, to beguile their weaty
hours, and sanctify them ? Now, a
Catholic congress could establish
a picrmanent committee, to see that
. the prisons of the country were sup-
plied with Catholic literature. If we
w*ant to convert the United States,
we must be in earnest about our
work. We must take evcr)^ method
that our means will enable us to use
and our piety suggest. Let Catholic
doctrines percolate through the veins

of society not only by preaching in
our churches, but by spreading Catho-
lic tracts, Catholic newspapers. Cath-
olic books in the city, in the countr)',
in the work -house, even in the jail
and penitentiary. Let our religion
be like its Founder, "going abouS^
everywhere doing good :" *^*^pcrtran^^
siii bcnefackndo,^^

Although centralization, in a poli-
tical point of view, when canicd to ex-
cess, is injurious to liberty, too much
individualism is equally pernicious,
for it entails too much responsibility.
A Catholic congress would not de-
stroy indi%idual zeal, but only con-
centrate it. A Catholic congress
could coerce no man's will. It
would only be an index to show
men what they could do ; to ask them
to be unanimous and to pull toge-
ther.

The details of the congress could
be arranged at its meeting. The
constitution and by-laws of tlie Ma-
lines congresses, or of those which
succeeded so admirably in Germany,
could be adopted with slight modifi*
cations. The approbation of the
Holy Father would be given to it
as to those in Europe. Our vene-
rable archbishops and bishops would
sanction it. The prelate in whos^i
diocese it would assemble migh
preside at its deliberations or ap*^
point a substitute. Committeei
w^ould be appointed, some perma-
nent, others transitory.

In the interest of the laity, then, w#|
ask for a Catholic congress. We ask
fbr it in the interest of the clerg>* also,
who are anxious to keep up their own
tone of respectability, and at the
same time influence by unanimity the
great work of the conversion of the
whole United States to Catholicity.

Tiir Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science. 229

TSAMSLATBD FBOM LB COUSSfONDAIfT.

THE PRESENT DISPUTES IN PHILOSOPHY AND SCIENCE.

BY DR. CHAUFFAIDi OF THE IMPERIAL ACADEMY OF MEDICINE.

Philosophy or rather philosophi-
cal discussions are being renewed.
On the one hand, materialism rages
like a tempest over the regions of
science ; menacing our scientific, in-
tellectualy and moral past and future
with destruction. On the other side,
we behold noble efforts, beautiful
works, and eloquent protestations, on
the part of reason and liberty, in fa-
vor of the dignity of human nature
against the debasing tenets of posi-
tivism. We know what shall be the
result of this struggle. Materialistic
doctrines and hypotheses can never
conquer the best aspirations and real
l^ry of humanity. But if final tri-
amj^ is certain, when will it take
place? Immediately, or only after a
passing victory of the great philo-
fophical error of the day ? This is a
serious question; for a temporary
victory by materialism would be a
fatal sign of our time, and humiliate
our race beyond anything that can
be imagined. The philosophical dis-
cussions, therefore, which have been
raised around us are not a mere use-
less noise ; but they are the most im-
portant subject for our consideration,
bearing with them great destinies —
those of science, and perhaps of na-
tional life.

To appreciate the true character
of the materialistic movement which
is stirring every layer of society, and
idiose action the learned and the ig-
norant equally feel, we must exam-
ine all the remote and proximate, la-
tent and manifesti causes which in-

fluence the currents, the ebb and
flow of materialism. It would be
well to determine how actual materi-
alism has its exclusive origin and
its new sources in the bowels of
modern science; what new support
it has met with in recent scienti-
fic discoveries, and what are the
value and bearing of those discove-
ries.

In beholding the tumult which the
partisans of the experimental method
in philosophy create, the enthusiasm
which they show, and the passionate
defence of their theory, one would sup-
pose they had made a new conquest
of the human mind, and made some
astounding discovery. Yet we know
what the exact value of the experi-
mental method is. Why, then, so
much nervous excitement over it ?
Yet the excitement is probably only
artificial ; still it has an aim. The
experimental method is clamorously
extolled for the purpose of covering
with its authority sophisms destruct-
ive of all philosophy and of all science.
This method is a great flag under
which all causes that are not sci-
ence are sheltered. M. Caro, in his
excellent book, Materialism and
Science^ has endeavored to dispel
all confusion on this subject, and to
re-establish facts and the truth. Posi-
tivism — which must not be con-
founded with positive science — ^tries
to unite its destiny with that of the ex-
perimental method ; calling itself the
necessary fruit of the latter, the sys-
tematized result of a method which
subjects all visible nature to man.
Positivism concludes from the pre-

230 Tki Pnstnt Disputes in PkilasopAy and Science.

mises that it has the same certainty
as the experimental method,

M. Caro, with a strong hand, up-
sets all such pretensions. He de*
monstrates that, if positivism has
skilfully stolen the name and some of
the processes of positive science, the
experimental school, to which the
positive sciences owe so much, owes
nothing to positivism. Taking for
guide, in the study of the experi-
mental method, one of the savants
who understands it best, and who^
after practising it successfully, has
exposed its precepts with incompara-
ble authority, M. Caro proves that
this method is not bound by the ty-
ranny of positivism, ** Nothing is
less evident to my eyes," he writes,
** than the agreement of M. CL Ber-
nard's manner of thinking with cer-
tain essential principles of positiv-
ism. His independence is clearly
manifested especially in regard to two
points : Firstly, in opposition to the
spirit of the positive doctrine, he
gives place to the idea a priori in the
constitution of science. Secondly,
contrary to one of the most decided
dogmas of the positivist school, he
leaves a great many open questions,
and thus allows his readers to revert
to metaphysical conceptions for their
solution/*

In the thought of M. CL Bernard,
the a priori element loses all abso-
lute sense and becomes a purely re-
lative and accidental fact It has no
longer any of those eternal forms
of the understanding, of those ne-
cessary conceptions through the aid of
which the human mind sees and judges
the things of nature, contingent facts,
aod phenomena which happen be-
fore our eyes. It is not that power,
obscure yet admirable reflection of
the divine power, which enables us
to apprehend the immutable rela-
tions of things, and establishes sci-
ence by compelling us, by an irresisti-

ble attraction, to seek in their cause
the reason of phenomena* No ; Jl,
CI. Bernard does not rise directly to
that alliance of the infinite and iitiite,
of cause and effect, which takes place
in the active depths of the human
mind. To this great experimental-
ist the idea a priori is revealed only
in face of experience ; it is an in-
stinct, a sudden illumination which
strikes and seizes the mind, when the
senses act and perceive, as impas-
sible and mute witnesses. ** Its ap-
parition is entirely spontaneous and
individual. It is a particular senti-
ment, a quid propriuffty which consti-
tutes the originality, the invention,
and genius of everj' man. It hap
pens that a fact — that an observation
— remains for a long time before the
eyes of a savant without inspiring
him with anything, when suddenly
a ray of light flashes on him. The
new idea appears then with llie ra-
pidit)' of lightning, as a sort of
sudden revelation." This flash, tliis
ray of light, is well known to medi-
cal tradition, and often called tact,
sense, and medical skill. These ex-
pressions will exist notwithstanding
the denials of a narrow scicncet
which thinks to ennoble itself by
suppressing art. There are physicians
who, in face of the obscure manifes-
tations of a disease, perceive, with a
rapid and sure intuition, the hidden
relations of the malady, its nature
buried in the living depths of the
organization, its future tendencies
and probable solutions. This intui-
tion has nothing mysterious in it,
and is not the play of a capricious
fancy; it is the flash of light, the
new idea, the sudden revelation, of
which M. CI Bernard, the learned
savant and most severe of experi* ,
mentalists, writes. This, then, fsj
what M. CL Bernard calls the idea <
priori; certainly he does not prefcnc
nor think that he is WTiting mc

7}ir Prestni Disputes itt PhilosopJ^ and Science. 231

physics. Nevertheless, when we at-
tentively consider it, is not this idea
mfriari a species of prolongation or
consequence of the necessary ideas,
the true ideas a priori^ of the human
mind ? Is not the idea a priori a
perception of a cause through its ef-
fects ; at one time the perception of
a contingent and particular cause;
and again the perception of a cause
in itself — of the supreme, necessary,
and infinite cause ? Does not M. CI.
Bernard himself seem to admit me-
taphysical conceptions, when, after
considering the spontaneity of the
mtellect under a general aspect, he
writes as follows, '' It may be said
dut we have in the mind the intui-
tion or sentiment of the laws of na-
ture, but we do not know their form" ?

The experimental school has not,
however, determined this point of
doctrine; it has so confusedly felt
and expressed it that the positivist
school could not avoid refuting those
rather vague aspirations, and admit,
without denying its own principles,
those soarings of the understanding
in presence of facts. But the experi-
mental school, of which M. CI. Ber-
nard is the interpretefV, puts itself in
opposition to positivism. He allows
those high truths which cannot be
demonstrated by sensible phenomena
to have some place in science. He
tells us that true science suppresses
nothing, but always seeks and con-
siders, without being troubled, those
things which it does not understand.
"Deny those things," says M. CI.
Bernard, "and you do not suppress
them; you shut your eyes and ima-
gine that there is no light" Positiv-
bm could not be more formally con-
demned by positive science.

Will it be pretended that, although
the experimental school accepts the
order of metaphysical truths, it re-
jects them disdainfully when there is
question of the natural sciences ; and

that thus rejected by science they
cannot be counted among the serious
knowledge of humanity.? Nothing
could be more unjust than such a
condemnation; for nothing proves
that there is not another knowledge
besides that of experience. M. CI.
Bernard discovers, even in the order
of biological truths, capital truths
which are not at all experimental,
susceptible of a real determinism^ to
use the expression of which he is so
fond. When he tries to define life
by using a word which expresses ex-
actly the idea, he calls it creation.
In every living germ he admits a
creating uiea^ which is developed by
organization, and is derived neither
from chemistry nor physical nature.

In fine, the experimental school,
such as tradition presents it to us
and its ablest expounders teach it,
must not be confounded with positiv-
ism^ which tries to steal its name and
flag.

The experimental school, healthy
and fruitful, gives to metaphysical
truths their legitimate influence, their
superior and imperishable sight, and
does not suppress them by a violent
and arbitrary decision. Especially,
it does not resolve difficulties by de-
nying all other causes and activity
than what is purely material. The
experimental school is not fatally ma-
terialism.

Materialism is the legitimate con-
sequence of positivism. The posi-
tivist sect, at the beginning of its ca-
reer, pretended to take hold of ma-
terialism with a superb indifference
and dogmatic insolence, in presence
of those eternal problems which, to
the honor of humanity, have always
puzzled and tormented it But it is
easy to show that most of the defini-
tions and teaching of positivist phi*
losophy correspond with the mate-
rialist dogmas, from which positivism
pretended to hold itself aloofl How

-j^TAint Di^t$Uf in Philosophy and Science. 233

would enjoy the full brightness of
this universe, whose secrets would no
longer be redoubtable, and whose
eternal and necessary laws would be
opposed to all idea of a higher
origin, and government regulated by
any exterior will.

But let us leave aside for a mo-
ment the examination of those sad
illusions and past solutions and the
part which experience has in them.
Let us consider at first, from the
stand-point of method alone, those
problems of origin which materialism
pretends to resolve. How are those
problems capable of being solved by
the experimental method? Such is
the true question, and it is this one
the study of which completes the
beautiful book of M. Caro. "We
shall not be opposed," says the elo-
quent author of the Idee de Dieu^
"by any unprejudiced savant, when
we assert that, in the actual state of
science, no positivist dogma author-
izes conclusions like those of materi-
alism on the problem of the origin
and ends of beings, on that of sub-
stances and causes ; that to give ex-
act knowledge on these points is con-
trary to the idea of experimental
science; that this science gives us
the actual, the present, the fact, not
the beginning of things ; at most, the
immediate how^ the proximate con-
ditions of beings, and never their re-
mote causes; finally, that from the
moment materialism becomes an ex-
press and doctrinal negation of meta-
physics, it becomes itself another
metaphysics ; it falls immediately un-
der the control of pure reason, which
may be freely used to criticise its hy-
potheses, as it uses them itself to es-
tablish them and bind them together."

This a priori dogmatism imposes
itself as a necessity on materisLlism,
and destroys the experimental cha-
racter which it loves. The learned,
devoted to the worship of positive

3sorbs, theiefore, the
It tries to resolve
questions regarding
*jnd of man. It does
metaphysics on the
it fkishes to know the
jwn, and appioach the
It admits neither un-
inacccssible. It substi-
fHimary causes of meta-
sidered as pure chimeras,
-s the reality of which it
t prove. This is a bold
ittimde, and preferable in
rect to the constrained po-
sitivism.

t materialism tried to solve
dons it proposes ? It can-
al to pure reason or to the
I faculties of the human un-
£ng, affirming or denying
primary cause of existences,
soul as secondary cause of
nan person. \Vliere would
luthority of materialism if its
, of demonstration, if its me-
were not separated from the
■^ and methods of traditional
ntism ? The latter cannot be
Kred on its own ground; it
F always find there the height
fcs m oral inspirations^ and the
tf of its demonstrations. Mate-
in has felt thi% and pretends to
diate both the methcKls and the
lines of the old metaphysics.
Bsd of asking the understanding
Inaginarjr means of demonstra-
, it iHTodaims its adherence to
UUe experience, its belief in the
cs alone, and the analysis of
ations. Just like positivism, it
\ itself the immediate production
lie experimental method, and at-
ites to itself the certitude which
ngs to the positive and experi-
lal sciences. The old doubt
lid thus be dissipated, and man

234 ^^'^ Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science,

science, are obliged to admit this, and
M. Caro cites, on tJiis point, the pre-
dous admission of an illustrious sa-
ftanf, M. Virchow, whom the materi-
alists claim as one of themselves,
**No one, after all," says M. Vir-
choW| ** knows what was before what
is. • • . Science has nothing but the
world which exists, , , , Materialism
is a tendency to explain all that ex-
ists, or has been created, by the pro-
perties of matter. Materialism goes
beyond experience ; it makes itself a
system. But systems are more the
result of speculation than of experi-
ence. They prove in us a certain
want of perfection which speculation
alone can satisfy ; for all knowledge
which is the result of experience is
incomplete and defective."

It is not a metaphysician w^ho
speaks thus ; it is a savant^ who, in
Germany, ranks at the head of cx-
perimenlal biology, who leans to ma-
terialism, and admits, nevertheless,
that materialism has no other root
than an un demonstrable a priori; con-
sequently M. Caro has the right with
ironical good sense to draw these
conclusions : " Until materialism
leaves that vicious circle which logic
traces around Its fundamental con-
ception ; until it succeeds in proving
experimentally that that which is has
always been as it is in the actual
form of the recognized order of phe-
Bomcna ; so long as it cannot strip
those questions of their essentially
transcendental character, and subject
its negative solutions to a verifi-
cation of which the idea alone is
contradictory; until then — and we
have good reason to think that period
far distant — ^materialism will keep the
common condition of every demon-
stration that cannot be verified. It
may reason, after a fashion, on the
impossibility of conceiving a begin-
ning to the system of things, to the
existence of matter and its proper-

tics, but it will prove nothing cxperi*
mentally, which is, according to its
principles, tlie only way of proviiig
anything ; it will speculate, which is
very humiliating for those who de- h
spise speculation ; it will recommence ■
a system of metaphysics, which is the
greatest disgrace for those who pro-
fess to despise metaphysics. We are
continually reproached with the a
priori character of our solutions con-
cerning first causes. Materialism must m
necessarily accept its share of the ^
blame, no matter how full it may be of
illusions regarding its scientific bear-
ing and value, no matter how intoxi-
cated with the conquest of positive
science with which it essays in vain
to identify its fortune and right/'

We have Just seen, witli M. Ca-
ro, whether materialism can call it-
self the faithful reprcscntalion and
direct product of the experimental
method. M. Janet, in one of those h
little volumes, Lc Materialiime Con^ ^
tcmporain, destined to a happy popu-
larity, and in which high reason and
good science are made clear andfl
simple to convince belter, shows us "
what is the value of tlie solutions
proposed, even nowadays, by mate- m
rialism. The two work of MM. |
Caro and Janet thus complete each
other : the one discusses the question
of methods, and judges materialism
in face of its own work, and system-
atic development ; the other asks it,
after its labors, whither the method it
has used has led it, and interrogates
it on those questions of origin and
end which it treats and so boldly re-
solves.

ni.

Materialism has two grand pro-
blems to solve : matter and life. No
one would hesitate to say that the
first of these is within its scope, and
the solution easy for it. What should

TXtf Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science. 235

be better able to teach us what mat*
ter is than a system which recog-
nizes nothing but matter? Has
matter in itself the reason of its ex-
istence, the reason especially of the
motion which impels and moves it,
causes all its changes, and what
seems now to be the only origin of
all its properties and of all its mani-
festations ? M. Janet, in a chapter
particularly original, La Mati^re et le
Mnnement^ demonstrates that mat-
ter cannot present the conditions of
absolute existence which are neces-
sary to it if we admit nothing above
iL Materialism, instead of arriving
at a substantial and freed matter, has
nothing ever before it but an intan-
gible unknown* To find nothing for
basis of its affirmations but the un-
known, and pretend on this basis to
build a philosophical belief, seat the
destinies of humanity on the un-
known, is an outrage on reason and
good sense. What a chimerical en-
terprise! ''What would signify, I
ask," writes M. Janet, "the pieten-
sions of materialism in a system in
which one would be obliged to con-
fess that matter is reduced to a prin-
ciple absolutely unknown? Is it
not the same to say that matter is
the principle of all things, in this
hypothesis; and to assert that x^
that is, any unknown quantity, is
the principle of all things ? It would
be as if one should say, ' I do not
know what is the principle of things.'
What a luminous materialism this
is!'' But let us leave pure matter
aside ; although it touches and bounds
us on every side, it does not seem to
contain the peculiar secret of our
(mgins and destinies. Let us go
further and interrogate materialism
regarding life and. livmg beings,
among which we are counted, and
the study of which penetrates so
deeply into our own life.
Materialism pretends to explain

the mysterious origin and first ap-
pearance of life ; and imagines that
it can establish by experience the
conditions and cause of the forma-
tion of simple and rudimentary or-
ganizations. The theory of spon-
taneous generation answers these
experimental conditions, and is the
proximate and sufficient cause of the
existence of life. Having obtained
those primary organic forms, mate-
rialism explains the immense multi-
plicity of living species by the gra-
dual transformation of the rudimen-
tary organic forms, produced by spon-
taneous generation ; a transformation
effected by natural conditions. Spon-
taneous generation is consequently a
primary thesis of materialism.

" We see," says Lucretius, " living
worms come out of fetid matter when,
having been moistened by the rain,
it has reached a sufficient degree of
putrefaction. The elements put in
motion and into new relations pro-
duce animals." The whole theory
and all the errors of spontaneous
generation are contained in these
phrases.

The progress of the natural sciences
gradually extinguished the belief in
spontaneous generation. In propor-
tion as science studied this pretend-
ed generation it disappeared, and
ancestral generation became evident.
M. Pouchet has reawakened the dis-
cussion of the question by transport-
ing it into the study of those lives of
only an instant in duration, which the
immense multitude of animalcula
presents. Those lives, still so little
known and so hard to observe in
their rapid evolution, offered a favor-
able field for confusion, premature
assertion, and arbitrary systems. To
affirm their spontaneous generation,
or demonstrate their generation by
germs detached from infinitely small
organizations in their complete deve-
lopment, was a task equally obscure

236 ^^4^ Present Disputes in Philosophy attd Scieftce,

and apparently impenetrable to ex-
perimentation. The one theory was
opposed to all the known laws of
life, while the other was in con-
formity with those laws. It seemed,
tlicrefore, that unless demonstrated
by all the force of evidence, the
spontaneous generation of animal-
cula should find no legitimate place
in science. But not only was evi-
dence always wanting, but thanks to
the wonderful ability displayed by
M, Pasteur ; thanks to the beauty,
precision^ clearness, and variety of
the experiments performed by him ;
thanks to the penetrating sagacity
with which he has exposed the de-
fects of the contrary experiments of
M. Pouchet and M. Jolly, all the
evidence is in favor of ancestral
generation ; and the Academy of
Science, so prudent and ordinarily
so reserved in its judgments, has not
hesitated to pronounce openly in this
sense. Let us hear the eminent M,
CI. Bernard, judging spontaneous
generation \ even that which, not
daring to maintain the complete ge-
neration of the being, sought refuge
in the spontaneous generation of the
ovulum or germ, which being evolv-
ed produced the entire being;

"That generation,** says M. CI.
Bernard, ** which governs the organic
creation of living beings has been
justly regarded as the most mysteri-
ous function of physiology. It has
been always observed that there is a
filiation among living beings, and
that the greatest number of them
proceed visibly from parents. Never-
theless there are cases in which this
filiation has not been apparent, and
then some have ixAvi\\\VtA spontaneous
deration ^ that is, production without
parentage. This question, already
very old, has been investigated in
lecent times and subjected to new
study. In France, many savants
have rejected the theory of spon-

taneous generation, particularly M.
Pouchet, who defended the theory of
spontaneous o\^lalion. M. Pouchet
wished to prove that there was no
spontaneous generation of the adult
being, but of its egg or germ. This
view seems to me altogether inad-
missible even as a hypothesis, I
consider, in fact, that the egg repre-
sents a sort of organic formula,
which resumes the evolutive condi-
tions of a being determined by the
fact that it proceeds from the ^^,
The egg is ^g^ only because it pos-
sesses a virtual ity which has been
given to it by one or several anterior
evolutions, the remembrance of which
it in some sort preserves. It is this
original direction, which is only a
parentage more or less remote, which
I regard as being incapable of spon-
taneous manifestation. We must
have necessarily a hereditary in-
fluence. I cannot conceive that a
cell formed spontaneously and with-
out ancestry can have an evolulioni
since it has had no prior state. What-
ever may be thought of the hypo-
thesis, the experiment on which the
proofs of spontaneous generatioa
rested were for the most part defec-
tive, M. Pasteur has the merit of
having cleared up the problem of
spontaneous generation, by reducing
the experiments to their just value
and arranging them according to
science. He has proved that the
air was the vehicle of a multitude of
germs of living beings, and he has
shown that it was necessary before
all to reduce the argument to pre-
cise and well-formed observations.

** In order to express my thought
on the subject of spontaneous gen<
ration, I have only to repeat hero|!
what I have already said in a report
which I have had to make on this
question ; that is to say, that in pro^ -
portion as our means of investigatioEtl
become more perfect, it will be found

Tilr Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science.

^Z7

that the cases of supposed spontane-
ous generation must be necessarily
dassed with the cases of ordinary
physiological generation. This is
what the works of M. Balbiani and
of MM. Coste and Gerbe have re-
cendy proved in reference to the in-
fosory animalcula.''

These latter works, especially
those of M. Balbiani * completely
overturn the basis of the doctrine of
spontaneous generation. Those in-
fasory animalcula which were sup-
posed to be produced by a silent
self-formation are really produced by
sexnal generation, and those germs
floating in the atmosphere are real
eggs, the laying of which M. Balbiani
discovered.

Nevertheless, spontaneous genera-
tion has still some decided partisans.
Some, like Messrs. Pouchet and
Jolly, still believe the theory as sa*
vatUs. The observations which they
trusted in affirming spontaneous ge-
neration or ovulation still preserve
their value for them. It is not easy
to give up one*s ideas and works.
The children of our mind are often
dearer to us than the of&pring of
our blood. It requires a species of
heroism for a savant to immolate
what he has conceived with labor,
protected and defended against all
assatlers. But besides these illusions
and attachments which may be re-
spected, interested passion arose
and transformed into aggression and
violent quarrel the peaceful discus-
sions of science. The Origin of
Life^ such is the title of a recent
publication on spontaneous genera-
tion; such is the problem which
those who nowadays maintain a
cause scientifically lost pretend to
resolve.

'BalboBl "Sar rEtwfnca d'oot Reprodoctum

tLXIiJiiM da U Vies HMtoira da la Quettioa de«
rfadiBlieni ^poatandw. Par le docteur Gtotfe Pen-
Miar, aa«e mm iidiMa fw b doctaor PoodMl.

The origin of life I Observe the
general meaning of the terms ; there
is question of life in itself, of the es-
sence of all living beings. Human
life is a particular case of this gene-
ral problem ; the solution of both is
the same. Behind the animalcula
and their spontaneous apparition is
man. The higher origin, the high
aspirations, the predestined end of
which man thought he had the right
to feel proud — all these vanish like
vain dreams and puffs of pride in
presence of the origin of primary
life through the energy of matter
alone. It alone is the true creator,
the only cause, and it alone contains
our end ; beyond it there is nothing ;
science shows it, at least that science
which places spontaneous generation
at the top of its conceptions. The
importance of the consequences ex-
plains the reason why the partisans
of materialism have been so ardent
in defence of their principles. If a
simple problem of chemistry had no
more proofs in its favor than the
theory of spontaneous generation,
no savant worthy of the name would
have maintained it or founded on
so fragile a basis a multitude of
scientific deductions. But there was
question of the order and constitu-
tion of the world, of the reason, of
the being of every creature, and
hence the proofs seemed good and
sufficient to a materialism which
calls itself scientific and experimen-
tal. An aggressive polemic repre-
sented even as enemies of progress,
as retrograde spirits, all those who
rejected errors to which too easy a
popularity had been given.

IV.

Spontaneous generation gave
materialism a point of departure at
once rash and weak; bold if one
looked behind, almost miserable if

838

Tke Presmt Disputes in Philosophy and Science,

one looked ahead I What efforts to
draw out of some rudimentary ani-
malcula ihe regular development of
the whole animal kingdom, man in-
cluded — that being who thinks and
wills^ who is conscious of its acts
and liberty, who possesses the notion
of good and evil, who aspires after
the true and the beautiful, who feels
himself as cause and admits other
causes in nature I How can the
abyss which separates those two ex-
tremities of living creation be bridg-
ed ? What omnipotence will be able to
produce from these infusoria the pro-
digious number, the infinite variety
of those animated beings, all those
living species which, no matter how
profoundly or how far the world may
be investigated, are almost like each
Other, as it were immutable in their
precipitate succession, stationary
even in motion I

The same science which affirmed
spontaneous generation has not
balked before this enterprise, and it
has pretended to prove the hidden
mechanism which, from the tgg
spKjntancously laid, produces the
fearful immensity of animate forms!
There have been found naturalists,
eminent savanis in other respects and
possessing great authority, like La-
marck and Darwin, who have ima-
gined that they discovered the laws
of the transformation of species.

M. Paul Janet, in the book which
we cited above, has made a sharp
and searching criticism of the theo-
biries of Lamarck and Darwin. He
asks, in the first place, in what the
hy'pothesis of a plan and of a de-
sign of nature, otherwise called the
doctrine of final causes, would be
contrary to the spirit of science.
We must not undertake phenomenal
analysis with the premeditated de-
sign of finding the phenomena con-
formable to an object decreed in
iidvance; this preconceived object

should never take the place of rea-
son and be the explanation of tha
facts observed j such a manner of
proceeding is hardly scientific, and
leads fatally to arbitrary and errone-
ous conceptions. But does it follow
that the facts observed and analyzed
in themselves should not, by their
collection and connection, express
to the human intelligence a superior
design, a progressive and ascending
harmony, which are its final reason
and vivifying spirit? To refuse \n
advance every final cause is an error
similar to that of imagining it alto-
gether and before the observation of ■
the phenomena. Flourens has well ™
said : " We must proceed not from
the final causes to the facts, but from
the facts to the final causes/' These
are the fruitful principles, and this ii
true natural philosophy,

** The naturalists," says M. Janet;
** imagine that they have destroyed
final causes in nature when they have
proved that certain effects result ne^
cessarily from certain given causes^
The discovery of efficient causes ap-
pears to them a decisive argument
against the existence of final causes.
We must not say, according to them,
"that the bird has vi'mgs/or iliepur^
pose of flying, but that it flies because
it has wings/' But in what, pray, are
these two propositions contradictory?
Supposing that the bird has wings to
fly, must not its flight be the re-
sult of the structure of its wings?
And from the fact that the flight is a
result* we have not the right to con-
clude that it is not an end. In order,
then, that your materialists should re-
cognize an aim and a choice, must
there be in nature effects without a
cause, or effects disproportioned to
their causes? Final causes are not
miracles ; to obtain a certain end the
author of things must choose seconda*
ry causes precisely adapted to the in-
tended effect Consequently, what is

I
I

Tke Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science.

239

there astonishing in the fact that in
the study of those causes you should
be able to deduce mechanically from
ihem their effects? The contrary
vould be impossible and absurd.
Thus, explain to us as much as you
please that, a wing being given, the
bird must fly; that does not at all
prove that the wings were not given to
it for the purpose of flying. In good
£uth we ask, If the author of nature
villed that birds should fly, what
could he do better than give them
vings for that object ?

The demonstration of the reality of
final causes, and of a decreed and
premeditated plan in nature, furnish-
es a primary and powerful refutation
of the systems which pretend to ex-
plain the successive formation of or-
ganized beings by the sole action of
natural forces, acting fatally, petrify-
ing, modifying, transforming living
matter in an unconscious and blind
manner. Lamarck and Darwin, as
ve have said, are the two naturalists
who have substituted most success-
fiilly a fatal, necessary, and in some
sort mechanical plan, instead of a
premeditated plan, realized by an in-
telligent and spontaneous cause. La-
marck appealed especially to the ac-
tion of means, habit, and want. The
combined action of those agents suf-
ficed to him to conclude from the
rudimentary cell to man him-
selC

The action of means, exterior
conditions, can modify the form and
the functions of living beings ; this
is a fact of which the domestication
of animals offers the most striking
examples. But does it follow that
because we can modify certain ani-
mal and vegetable species, we can
therefore create their species ? Can
we imagine the possibility of modifi-
cations so active and powerful that
they arrive at the most complex crea-
ticms, at the construction of the great

organs of animal life, and of those or-
gans of the senses, so diverse and so
marvellously adapted to their func-
tions ? " For instance," says M. Ja-
net, " certain animals breathe through
their lungs, and others by the bron-
chial tubes, and these two kinds of
organs are perfectly adapted to the
two means of air and water. How
can we conceive that these two means
should be able to produce so compli-
cated and so suitable organizations ?
Is there a single fact among all those
proved by science which could justify
so great an extension of the action
of means? If it is said that by
means we must not understand mere-
ly the element in which the animal
lives, but every kind of exterior cir-
cumstance, then, I ask, let the mate-
rialists determine what is precisely
the circumstance which has caused
such an organ to take the form of the
lung, and such another to take the
form of the bronchia; what is the
precise cause which has created the
heart — that hydraulic machine so
powerful and so easy, and whose
movements are so industriously com-
bined to receive the blood which
comes from all the organs to the
heart and send it back through the
veins ; what is the cause, finally,
which binds all these organs together
and makes the living being, accord-
ing to the expression of Cuvier, " a
closed system, all of whose parts
concur to a common action by a re-
ciprocal reaction ?" What will it be
if we pass to the organs of sense ;
to the most marvellous of them, the
eye of man or that of the eagle?
Is there one of those savants who
have no system who would dare to
maintain that he sees in any way how
light could produce by its action the
organ which is appropriated to it ? Or,
if it is not light, what is the exterior
agent sufficiently powerful, sufficient-
ly ingenious, sufficiently skilled in

240 TAs Present Disputes in Phihsaphy and Science,

geometns to construct that marvel-
lous apparatus which has made New-
ton say : "Can he that made the
eye be ignorant of the laws of op-
tics?" Remarkable expression, which,
coming from so great a master, should
make the forgers of s^^stems of cosmo-
gony reflect an instant, no matter how
learnedly they may dilate on the ori-
gin of planets, and who pass with so
much complacency over the origin
of conscience and life 1

If the action of means is incapa-
ble by itself of explaining the forma-
tion of organs and the production
of species — what Lamarck calls the
power of life, namely, habit and
want — how can they give us the suf-
ficient reason for those great facts ?
According to Lamarck, necessity
produces organs, habit develops and
fortifies them. But what is this ne-
cessity and this habit which are ap-
pealed to so complacently, and who
proves their strange power ? Let us
take the necessity of breathing, of
which M. Janet WTote as we have
quoted* Whence comes this neces-
sity ? From the necessity of giving
to the blood the oxygen which is ne-
ccssar)' for it ; and this latter neces-
sity is derived from the necessity of
keeping up the organic combustion,
and furnishing the nervous system
with an appropriate stimulant Who
does not see that there is here a con-
nection of functions and organs which
requires a simultaneous creation,
which displays a preconceived plan,
and not a successive growth of or-
gans according to wants which find
in each other the principle of their
being, and which cannot be perceived
and satisfied separately ? What un-
heard-of aberration, what decadence
of the scientific spirit, to transform
necessity into a sort of effective and
creative power ; to make of a senti-
ment, ordinarily vague and obscure,
a new and active entity, which not

only animates the created being, but
actually creates it I

Lamarck, it is true, admits that
observation cannot demonstrate the
producing power which he attributes
to want ; but if a direct proof is
wanting, he considers an indirect
proof sufficient by appealing to cus*
tom. What does he mean ? Habit
can develop and fortify existing or-
gans by an appropriate and sustain-
ed exercise ; but how does that prove
that want can create them? How
can habit develop an organ which
does not exist? How can the de-
velopment of an organ be compared
to the creation of this organ, or
make us realize the mode of creation
of the organ? We can conceive
want as the reason not of the crea-
tion but of the development of an
organ, and habit as excited and sus-
tained by this need ; but the need of
an organ which is absolutely wanting
cannot be bom of itself, cannot pro-
duce the organ, cannot excite habit
How can an animal deprived of
every organ of seeing or hearing ejc-
perience the want of sight or hear-
ing, or acquire the habit of either \
What chimerical h\T>othescs !

Let us hold to the judgment of
Cuvier on all these hypotheses, whose
authority is very great :

** Some naturalists, more material
in their ideas, and relying on tha ^
philosophical observ^ations of whicllH
we have just spoken, have remained
humble followers of Mailiet, (Tallia-
med,)* seeing that the greater or
less use of a member increases or
diminishes its force and volume,
have imagined that habits and exte-
rior influences, continued for a long
lime, could change by degrees the
forms of animals so as to make them
attain successively all those shapes
which the different species of animals
now have. No more superficial and

* Bcao«tdcMAi]let«iaUicpredeceMoroifLuau«k.

The Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science, 241

foolish idea could be imagined. Or-
ganized bodies are considered as a
mere mass of paste or clay, which
codd be moulded by the fingers.
Consequently, the moment these au-
thors wish to enter into detail, they
liil into absurdities. Whoever dares
to advance seriously that a fish by
keeping on dry land could change
its scales into feathers and become a
bird, or that a quadruped by passing
through narrow places would become
ekmgated like a thread and trans-
formed into a serpent, only proves
bis profound ignorance of anatomy."

The forms of scientific error
diange rapidly ; only the principle
always remains. But this principle
requires to be clothed from time to
time in new garments, which rejuve-
nate and disguise it. The system of
Lamarck, for a moment popular on
account of th6 philosophic ideas to
which it gave support, could not
maintain itself in lasting honor in
science. It was as it were buried
in deep oblivion, when Darwin un-
dertook to awaken it from its ashes
by substituting for the antiquated
conceptions new ones, destined to
give a similar satisfaction to the pas-
sions which had applauded the enter-
prise of Lamarck.

The work of Darwin — ^we must do
him the justice to say it — is an im-
portant work, and displays rare sci-
ence. The author, gifted with great
penetration, employs to the greatest
advantage what he knows to deduce
from it what he does not know ; and
if he goes beyond experience, it is
always in appealing to experience ;
so that he seems to remain faithful to
observation even when he ventures
far be)'ond its limits. Nevertheless
so much science and sagacity can
hardly blind us to the radical weak-
ness of the system ; and it would not
have met with so favorable a recep-
tkm if all the prejudices of the ma-
VOL. VIII.— 16

terialists whom it satisfied had not
become its ardent champions. A
first fact strikes one who studies im-
partially the theory of Darwin, name-
ly, the incalculable disproportion be-
tween the means of demonstration
and the immense problem to be re-
solved. There is question, let it be
remembered, of the origin of living
species. Darwin tries to explain this
origin by the action of a natural se-
lection, incessantly at work, which
draws the collection of organisms out
of one or several primitive, simple,
and rudimentary types formed by the
simple action of forces proper to mat-
ter. This natural selection is the
image of the method according to
which new races of domestic animals^
have been created, as the modera
doctors maintain. In order that this,
natural selection should produce the
powerful effects which Dar^i'in gives to
it, he imagines two agents always
active—changes in the conditions of
existence, and especially vital concur-
retice. The changes in the condi-
tions of existence, the accidental
characters acquired by a living indir
vidual and transmitted by inheri-
tance to its descendants, create cer-
tain varieties of type. Vital concur-
rence, the battle of life, the strug-
gle of animated beings to subsist,
allow only some of those varieties
to last on the scene of the worid ;
the others are vanquished and dis-
appear. These transformations, con-
tinued and accumulated from age to
age, increased by the indefatigable
labor of an immense number of ages,
have produced all the animal species
actually existing ; which are imper-
ceptibly their predecessors in a con-
tinuous line of transformation, under
the permanent influence of the same
natural forces.

The notion of species as well as
that of variety and race disappear in
this order of ideas, of at least lose

242 The Present Disputes in Philosophy and Scienee,

the detennined sense which the na-
turalists had attributed to them.
Variety and race become species in
the way of transformation, in course
of development. The living form
passes insensibly and by eternal mo-
tion from the one to the other, from
the species to the variety, from the
variety to the race, and from the lat-
ter to a new species which appears
only to disappear in its tnm. It is
only an affair of time. The lining
kingdom is in perpetual transforma-
tion. No one can tell what it will
become naturally.

Such is the essence of the Dar^vin-
ian theory. It begins by the hypo-
thesis of a natural selection w^hich
no direct fact proves or confirms.
But can the method of selection as
Darwin explains it be the foundation
of such a hypothesis ^ But in this
artificial election, due to the labor
*of man, man is the agent who choos-
es, who works ; he becomes the final
and active cause of the transforma-
tion undergone by the species ; he
takes care that the character of the
races which he has obtained should
be maintained by an ever-vigilant
election. Can anything of this kind
be invoked in the natural selection
^of Darwin ? Who replaces the choice
of man ? If the natural selection is
made according to a plan decreed
and premeditated by the omnipo-
tence which has created nature, this
selection changes its character ; it is
no longer anything but one of tlie
forms of creation ; it is an interpre-
tation of the mode of acting of the
creating cause, it is no longer the
negation of this cause. Dar%*inism,
which consists in conceiving the or-
der of things without any superior
intcrv^ention, under the simple action
of accidents passing fortuitously to
permanence ; Darwinism, hostile to
all finality, disappears if the idea of
plan is perceptible in the natural se-

lection. Can vital concurrence
place the intelligent action, and
sure to the natural selection that f(j
cundity and power which are not
it, and which must oome to it fro
without? But can "vital concuij
rence, tJie battle of life,*' be
means of creation ; can they engende
directly organic modifications, varic*
ties, animal species? Evident
not ; the battle of life can make sub
jects ; It is an agent of elimination foj
weak and defective species ; it can
not produce by itself a new
Natural selection remains ai
livered up to itself, to its blind re-^
sources, which nothing directs or
gulates, which acquire fecundity ool]
by chance. To imagine that the I
monic and infinite collection of livin
species can be legitimately refefred
to a given agent, even by granting tO
it thousands of years to manifest iti
action, seems to oie arbitrary and
sterile rashness, which has nothiDf
in common with a noble rashness of'
science, with the intuitions of a ge-
nius which sometimes forestalls eif
rience and the proofs which it adfj
duces,

M. Janet has given a general
futation of the theories of Darwiitj
and sufficiently strong to show iheLi
folly. General facts have their ownl
light, but it does not shine the lesaj
far or the less brilliantly for bcinj
general- Nevertheless, in a que
tion obscured by so many prejudice
and by the assertions of a scicncd
which calls itself entirely experimen-
tal, thai is to say, entirely particularJ
particular facts acquire a singular!
eloquence and power of demonstraJ
tion which the most audacious sysni
tematizers cannot refuse to ackiaow^ '
ledge.

Those facts embrace the infinite^
individualities of the living kingdom™
continued across the known ages*
Tlie source of inforBiation is inex*

Tkd Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science. 243

hausdble. What does it 'teach us?
Do particular facts confirm the ideas
of Darwin regarding the gradual mu-
ability of species ; do they even
isnush the sketch of a demonstra-
tkm limited to certain determined
points^ to certain animal or vege-
table species; do they finally show
■ some of those transformations
ihich are the foundation of the sys-
tem? Man has been observing and
saxlying nature for centuries : tradi-
too, the ruins preserved from the
past, permit us to remount far up
the stream of time ; have they appre-
hended in nature any traces of those
^t changes which incessantly and
iittally transform the vegetable and
aaiinal species ? Or, on the contrary,
does not everything go against those
sqyposed transformations, and prove
dK fixity in time and space of those
»I species ; a fixity which is not
GOGtrauiictory, which rather adapts it-
self to a certain normal physiologi-
cal Tariability, which always allows
3> subsist and be perceptible through
it the type of the species, the essen-
tial and primary form? We easily
csDceive the importance that a sin-
cere response to these questions may
acquire. They strike at the experi-
■ental foundation of Darwin's theo-
ry ; if this experimental basis is want-
i:^, what becomes of those theo-
Ties? Are they not mere personal
and arbitrary conceptions; brilliant
pla^-s of an imagination strong and
creative, it is true, but which cannot
be substituted for Nature herself and
her direct teachings?

A learned professor of the faculty
of science of Lyons, M. Ernest Fai-
\Te, has just undertaken this parti-
cular and experimental study of the
origin of species, of their variability
and essentiality; and we signalize
his work to our readers — La Variabi-
lUi des Espies et Ics Liniitcs, It is
impossible to write, on so complex

and obscure a question, a book more
rich in facts, more clear in its devel-
opments, or more authoritative in its
conclusions. It seems to us the con-
demnation without appeal of the sys-
tem of Darwin.

The vegetable kingdom is consi-
dered less rebellious than the others
to the theories of Darwin ; variety
has more extended limits in it,
less fixed than in the animal ; gene-
ration, increase, the exterior condi-
tions, present the occasion of many
changes often profound in appear-
ance. M. Faivre shows that the
true species exists through all these
changes, and that it is reproduced
of itself from modified types, when
circumstances or the artificial selec-
tion of man no longer supports the
latter. Nowhere has man been able
to create a real and durable species ;
and the species from the most re-
mote times to our days are maintain-
ed with a fixity which has become
one of the essential characters of
species. The ancient land of Egypt
is full of moving revelations on this
subject : the animals, the plants, the
grains buried in the caves, are the
same as the plants and animals which
cover the borders of the >Jile at the
present time. All the naturalists
have proved this identity of a consi-
derable quantity of animal and vege-
table species. Hence, Lamarck and
Darwin, to lessen the value of an ex-
perience of more than three thousand
years' duration, have pretended that
the conditions of life and the condi-
tions of the exterior medium had not
changed in Eg}'pt from the historical
times, and that the permanency of
the, species became consequently an
ordinary and logical fact. But his-
tory, geography, the study of the
soil, prove that the situation of Egypt
has been profoundly modified. The
level of the Nile, the limits of the
desert, the extent of tlie cultivated

244 ^^^ Present Disputes in Philosophy and Seience,

lands, the culture of the soil, the
number of populous cities, the prox-
imity or distance of the sea, the ^eat
public works, ever)'lhing which trans*
forms a country under the action of
men, all have changed in Eg}^t as
much if not more than in other
countries, and nothing is found
changed in the productions of this
soil, in the living beings which it
supports and nourishes. But we
may go further than the historical
period- The permanence of species
is proved to-day from the glacial pe-
riod ; the bogs of Ireland, the sub-
marine forests of England and of
the United States, conceal in their
depths relics of mamraifera or of
vegetable species exactly comparable
to the vegetable and animal species
actually living in those same coun*
tries. We could not enumerate all
the proofs which establish the great
fact of the permanency of species ;
the number of these proofs is im-
mense, and no fact seriously contra-
dicts them, and yet it is in the name
of experience that the partisans of
natural selection pretend to speak!
The accidental, temporary, and su-
perficial varieties which they produce
become for them a sufficient warrant
of absolute and permanent varieties
which they cannot produce^ but of
which they impudently suppose the
formal existence ; thus destroying
species by a mere h}^othesis,

Natural selection has artificial se-
lection for its ideal godfather, but
what has the latter produced ? Not
only no species, but not even a per-
manent race definitively fixed and
acquired. All the races made by
the hand of man die if they are^left
to themselves, unsupported by an ar-
tificial selection constantly at work.
It is a fact which M. Faivre sup-
ports with superabundant demon-
stration, taken from both the vege-
table and animal kingdoms. The

the ^

ite^

collection of those facts is truly :
sistible* What I the continued tranS
formation of species is given to us \
a law, and yet we cannot find a soil
tary transformed species ! The trans^
formation of races, which must not
be confounded with that of species^
is itself conditional and relative, is
soon effaced if nothing disturbs the
return of the race to the pure type <
the species, and yet we are told
the power of natural selection ar
of the battle of life which consecrate
this power 1 This selection, ihis
vital concurrence, this action of
means, have been all employed to
modify the proximate species, as
the horse and ihe ass; domestication
offered here all its resources ^
hand of man could choose, ally, ;
cross the types at will.

"Assuredly," says M. Flourenij
**if ever a complete reunion of
the conditions most fivorable to I
transformation of one species into
another could be imagined, tliis re-
union is found in the species of the
ass and horse. And, nevertheles^H
has there been a transformation^^^
. , , Are not those species as
distinct to-day as they have always
been? Among all the almost in- -
numerable races which have bce||H
produced by them, is there on^l
which passed from the species of the
horse to that of the ass, or, recipro- *
cally, from the species of tlae ass to '-
that of the horse?** Why, say we '
with M, Faivre, pay no attention lo
such simple facts, and take so muc' "
trouble to seek outside of evidcnc
explanations which do not agree witJ
the reality?

The theories of Darwin have
come the chief support of those wh
attribute to man a monkey origin
•* I prefer to be a perfect monkey w
a degenerate Adam,** says one of the''
partisans of these theories. But why
can they not perfect an ass so as I

^ta^

TJU Present Disputes in Philosophy and Scieme, 245

vake a horse of it ? There is not
betveen these two latter species the
iBofound anatomical difference which
exists between the monkey and man
—1 difference so well established by
Gndolet, a great mind and a true
«»«/. On what, then^can be found-
ed die theory of our descent from
& monkey species, since the slight-
est change resists all fusion, all
tnosition from one neighboring spe-
cies to another ?

The book of the Variabiliti des
E^eas is the answer of facts to the
spent of system. Calm and severe,
rigoroiis and cold, this book admits
4dIt the testimony of nature. It will
iDstnict and convince those who
doubt on those questions. The au-
dbr terminates by those conclusions
vhich we willingly reproduce be-
cmse they allow us to divine some-
tidng else besides the indifferent stu-
dy of facts ; they are perhaps the
oily lines of the work where the
sadment of the moral dignity of
■ui is apparent "This hypothe-
sis (namely, of the mutability of
species) is not authorized," says
i Faivre, " either by its principle,
ihich is a. mere conjecture ; or by its
deductions, which the reality does not
confirm ; or by its direct demonstra-
tions, which are hardly probabilities;
or by its too extreme consequences,
vfaidi science as well as human digni-
ty forbid us to accept — the theory of
spontaneous generation, the intimate
sod degrading reladonship between
man and the brute."

Notwithstanding the ability — ^we
may almost say the genius — which
illustrious savants have employed in
defending the doctrine, reason and
experience have not weakened the re-
served and just judgment which Cuvi-
er has passed upon it, and which will
serve as the conclusion to this essay:
" Among the different systems on the
origin of organized beings, there is

none less probable than that which
causes the different kinds of them to
spring up, successively, by develop-
ments or gradual metamorphosis. '^

One word more before quitting the
subject. All these great forms of
scientific error spring up in our old
Europe, where they find at the same
time numerous and passionate adhe-
rents, and firm and eloquent oppo-
nents. The attack and the struggle are
kept up incessantly in the press, in our
books, in our learned bodies, in our
teaching faculties. If we examine
the general character of these con-
flicts, we find in them truth almost
intimidated, certainly less bold and
less respected than error. Truth
is self-conscious, and that is sufficient
to prevent it from becoming weak or
yielding to fatigue and discourage-
ment ; but it has not popular favor ;
it is tolerated, but hardly ever greatly
encouraged. If we quit this torment-
ed Europe, which is drawn only to-
ward new errors, and cast our eyes
toward those great United States of
America, that fertile land appears to
us as favorable to truth as to liberty.
Let us listen an instant to that illus-
trious savant who has no superior in
the domain of natural science, M.
Agassiz ; let us follow his teaching
in the University of Cambridge. What
elevation and what sincerity ! How
all those systems which seduce so
many minds in these cisatlantic re-
gions are brought to their true pro-
portions — judged in their profound
disregard of the laws of nature 1 Let
us take, for instance, the influence
of exterior conditions and of physi-
cal agents on animals — the basis of
the system of Lamarck, and one of
the principal conditions of the muta-
bility of species in Darwinism. M.
Agassiz, on this point, uses again the
firm language which from the days
of Cuvier natural science has not
spoken in France:

246

Canadian Oistoms.

** In so for as the diversity of ani-
mals and plants which live in the
sanie physical circumstances proves
the independence as to the origin of
OFjoranlzed beings, from the medium
in which they reside, so far does
this independence become evident
anew when we consider that identi-
cal types are found everywhere on
the earth in the most varied condi-
tions* Let all those different influ-
ences be iinited--all the conditions of
existence^ under the common apcUa-
tion of cosmic influences, of physical
causes, or of climates — and we shall
always find in this regard extreme
diflferenccs on the surface of the
globe, and nevertheless we shall see
living nonnally together under their
action the most similar or even iden-
tical types. . - . Does not all this
prove that organized beings manifest

the most surprising independence i
the physical forces in the midst c
which they live, an independence
complete that it is impossible to 1
tribute it to any other cause than
a supreme power governing, at tl
same time, physical forces and the t
existence of animals and plant
maintaining between both a harmonlj
cal relation by a reciprocal adapta
tion in which we can find neitJ
cause nor effect ? , . , It would
necessary to write a volume on t
independence of organized beings of
physical agents. Almost everything
which is generally attributed to the
influence of the latter must be con
sidcred as a simple comelaiion
twcen them and the animal
resulting from the general ,
creation. "♦ •

• HfVttt dtt Cfiuri icitHiiJlfm^ Mai i^ ill

CANADIAN CUSTOMS.

The neighboring British provinces
of the north — the new Dominion of
Canada — from various reasons, claim
at this time tlie public attention.
From intrinsic merits they arc worthy
of notice. With much of interest in
the natural prospects and the in-
terior life of this country and its
denizens, it is almost a terra incog-
nita to the general traveller, and few
penetrate to those remote portions
where the ancient customs of the
original settlers are faithfully retain-
ed and kept up in their primitive sim-
plicity. Although closely contiguous
to the American line, bordered by
its lakes and its forests of dense
timber, rich In valuable mines and
costly furs indigenous to northern

latitudes, it is chiefly for these pos-
sessions that the province is sotT2:ht
by the utilitarian trader, rnlher than
visited by the pleasure-seeking tour-
ist And yet the general beauty of
scenery and the peculiar character-
istics of the people are worthy of
close obser\^ation, and one might
vainly seek in a wider range for ma-
terial so grand J or characteristics
better deserving of appreciation.
The noble St, Lawrence is bordered
by shores of smiling fertility in the
summer months. The country rises
in gradual ascent from the present
boundaries of the stream^ and geolo-
gical inquiry demonstrates that at an
earlier period the bed of die river
extended to much wider limits than

Canadian Customs.

247

at present. Still it is a grand and
noble stream, as it goes sweeping
onward majestically to the ocean,
gemmed with a thousand isles, and
hariii^ hundreds of peaceful villages
that nestle on either shore. A mere
passing Toyage on this route of
travel presents a rich and varied
pmorama of natural beauty. Still
■ore interesting to the mind of seri-
oos thought than this mere material
attraction, is the suggested idea pre-
sented in every village, crowned hill,
or hamlet, nestling in some nook
along the shore, of the happy unity
and devotion of a people who make,
within their humble homes and in
the practice of piety, the sacred faith
of their worship the main object of
Iheir existence. Strangers to their
zeal many deride this devotion and
call \\. fanaticism ; but no system can
offer, in practical moral results, a
higher order of virtuous life than
Aat presented by the Catholic
Habitants^ of Lower Canada. Re-
taining, with their French origin,
the happy temperament of the Latin
race — courteous, hospitable, and en-
thusiastic — ^foreign refinements have
not destroyed original purity of char-
acter ; and in their simple lives, wise-
ly directed by zealous, self-denying
corfe, they illustrate in piety and
amtentment the happy results of
diis influence. To notice, then, the
habitudes of this class, to enter their
homes and penetrate the arcana of
tfieir inner life, is a profitable study
to all who are willing to receive the
high moral lessons that grandeur
does not constitute comfort, and
that contentment may prevail where
wealth does not abound, and that
piety in simple faith presents a con-
solation that mere material posses-
sions fail to bestow. While the pa-
triotic Canadian claims as his motto,

^TIm HmbiUaU is ■ generic name applied to the
faMOK pnpnlatinn of Canada East.

" Notre cultey notre langue, noire lois^^
he properly places his religion first
and above all other mundane con-
siderations. This religion is the
Catholic faith ; and while the Cana-
dian submits to political innova-
tions, and recognizes the rights of
the conquering arm of the British,
he claims, in unbending adherence
to his church, the obser\'ance of
every ancient rite. The Code Na-
poleon may be modified by Saxon
legislation ; but the great common
law of traditions in religious forms
must ever remain undisturbed.
Hence arises a peculiar charm in the
simplicity, fervor, and unity of de-
votion among the Catholic Canadi-
ans. Voyaging from Montreal to La
Rivifere du Loup, at every interven-
ing two or three leagues are defined
the boundaries of a Catholic parish,
denoted by the dome or spire of the
villajge church. The proportions of
these edifices present a solid cha-
racter and generally harmonize in
style; and, although lacking the
finish of architectural design, they
are constructed of stone, with am-
ple accommodations for from one
to two thousand worshippers. In
this one edifice gathers, for miles
around, the populace of the entire
district; for here no discordant
sects prevail to divide and weaken
congregations. This one church,
then, is the grand centre around
which the people cluster, and
which usually occupies the most
commanding point of observa-
tion. If an ancient edifice, the
building occupies the centre of
the plateau of cottages, at once
in former times the house of
worship and fortress of defence.
Should the approach of hostile In-
dians be signalled, the populace re-
tired within the sacred precincts un-
til after the danger passed, which
was generally escaped by the appeal

248

Canadian Customs.

for peace, on terms of mutual accom-
TOodalion, by the venerable priest.
The influence of moral force often
served to lead the minds of the ag-
gressive savage to belter and higher
purposes.

Thus in this barren and bleak
land whole tribes have been re-
claimed from heathenism, though
many priests, especially those of the
Jesuit order, fell victims to their holy
zeal, and offered their lives in sacri-
fice to their sacred efforts. Others
lingered for years, prisoners in the
hands of their captors, but still teach-
ing in bondage, and finally, gaining
influence from their virtues and learn-
ing, made proselytes of their perse-
cutors. Thus whole tribes were
brought within the influence of Chris-
tianity, and Canada was reclaimed
from the savage customs of the na-
tives, who have been elevated and
preserved by the happy influence of
the Church. These tribes have not
disappeared, as elsewhere, before the
fude invading march of the Chris-
tian, so-called, but continue in their
united character and distinctive ha-
bits to Jive prosperously wilh their
white brethren, and to venerate the
religion they have embraced* Their
principal villages dot the shores of
the St. John and St. Lawrence, and
even approach so near Quebec as
Loretto. Their church edifices are
generally of a simple character ; but
of late years, throughout Canada,
many have been rebuilt, enlarged,
or superseded by magnificent struc-
tures of more modern stj^le than the
ancient village church, in which, in
times of a more primitive civiliza-
tion, their forefathers worshipped.
But the worship, in its outward cere-
monies, remains unchanged. The
same faith that won amid Siberian
snows the land from savage rites, is
alone fostered tenaciously in all its
ancient forms. The devoted zeal of

the French mission priest, drivci

from France by the bloody Revolu-
tion, carried the seeds of the trui
faith to the bleak shores of thi
Canadas ; and their influence is wei
maintained by the cur^s of the pi
sent day, who continue not only h
console spiritually, but in all the at
fairs of life give that wise dircclion
which their superior intelligence en^-
ables them to exercise. The efforts
of modern missionaries, who exhaust
themselves in temporary efforts in
remote regions, might take a wise
lesson from this concentration of
labor and dedication of life to the
ser\4ce of religion witliin fixed limits*
It is granted (for the fact cannot be,
controverted) that ibis people and
country have been Christianized by
the labors of the Catholic missiona*
ries, and that the religion they inculT
cated is universally established and
practised by the French population
of the rural districts. It must, also^.
in fairness be admitted that the good
effects of the system is demonstrated
by the superior morale of die people
under this control, who compara
favorably with other sections where
mixed sects predominate. Canada
East, from the ocean to Quebec, is
settled almost universally by Catho-
lics, principally agriculturists, though
along the shores the fisheries and
pilotage occupy their attention as s^
means of livelihood. Among this
people crime is almost unknown, so
efl[icient have been the influences of
their faith upon their moral habi-
tudes. Notwithstanding this favo-
rable condition of morality, emis-
saries from Canada West are dili-
gently sent yearly witJi their stock
of tracts for distribution and well-
bound Bibles for sale. The preach-
ing from one text, ** Be not a busy-
body in other people's matters/'
would be a judicious commentary
on this course, especially as the in-

Canadian Custofns.

249

iaence of their own system ails to
produce the benign influences of
Catholicity, in freedom from the or-
dinary evils from which these happy,
peaceful French parishes are ex-
empted.

Devotion to their religion defends
tbem from the influences of vice.
Murder is a crime that rarely occurs
among the native population, and
odier minor offences are equally un-
ftequent To a people thus living
brmoniously under an established
rdigious influence, faithful in observ-
aace of their duties in patriarchal
smplicity, and devoted to their re-
l^n, such invasion of the Protest-
at colporteur is a gratuitous imper-
tinence. If the Catholic fhith pro-
tects its votaries practically from
SD, the substitution of another sys-
tem, from the section of Canada
West, ( which by no means contrasts fa-
vorably with Catholic Canada East in
comparative statistics of crime,) is no
recommendation for the propagation
of a fiadth that does not produce equal
oemption from evil where their own
influence prevails. Notwithstanding
dsis common-sense proposition, zeal-
ots from the Bible societies yearly
arrive among these devoted Chris-
tians, each one successively quarrel-
lii^ about the proper construction
erf" a book they universally recom-
mend. The logical Canadian might
well ask: "Why don't you agree
among yourselves before you come
to teach us? We are all happy in
one opinion herel" Notwithstand-
ing such rebuffe, the colporteurs pro-
ceed from house to house, leaving
their incendiary documents, which in-
foim the people that the creed that
defends them from the influence of
sin is a snare and delusion, and that
to be saved they must forego its exer-
cise, and advantageously adopt that
of some one of the fifty Protestant
sects. Any of these may be sup-

posed to possess a sufficient diversity
of doctrine to satisfy the most exact-
ing inquirers in their search after
religious novelties. If these so-call-
ed religious propagandists confined
themselves exclusively to these state-
ments, in conscientious diversity of
belief, their action might be regarded
as an ardent desire to do good to the
souls of their fellow-men. But the
basest means are used to proselytize,
by deliberate forgeries of the truth.
The following incident is recorded
from personal knowledge of its oc-
currence, and can be verified by wit-
nesses to the transaction : A colpor-
teur of this beneficent class, from
Canada West, entered the cottage of
a poor Habitant family in the third
range of the village of Saint-Michel,
some fifteen miles from Quebec. One
of the family was dying, in a room
apart, and the priest of the parish
was administering the last rites of
the Church. The other members of
the family were in the general room,
during the confession preparatory
to the anointing, and, although in
grief, their circumstances did not
protect them from the intrusion of
the insidious stranger. The pedlar
in piety vaunted his tracts, but as
they were unable to read, these were
unappreciated, and he finally display-
ed his costly Bible, which, he informed
them, unless they possessed, studied,
and read, they never could be saved.
A stranger present — companion of
the curd — asked the question : " Is
it a Catholic edition?" "Oh! yes,
certainly, a Catholic Bible," pointing
to the binding with the embellish-
ment of a large cross, the imprima-
tur of a bishop in France, and the re-
commendatory note from some Pope
recommending its perusal to the study
of the faithful. One had only to look
within at the text to discover the per-
version from the truth, and expose the
fact that all these emblems were but

350

Canadian CusUnns.

^ fake pretence^ to make the book sell
among those who. would be more at-
tracted by its external resemblance
to the authorized version of Holy
Scriptures, The curd at this mo-
ment entered, and, in taxing the man
with his dupl icily, he answered with
effrontery, **It is a Catholic Bible,
but not the Romish edition ;" adding,
unless all read it they must certainly
perish. " Then," answered the priest,
** all here must be lost, for not one
can read ; and unless you remain, in
y#ur Christian benevolence, and in-
struct them, they cannot avail them-
selves of your written instructions,"
Fortunately, as a protection against
the insidious wiles of such base pre-
tenders to exclusive possession of
religious truth, the laws of Lower
Canada protect the people against
dangerous forms of prose lytism, cal-
culated to create breaches of the
|>eace ; and the invasion of a harmo-
nious parish by these disturbers of the
contented people can be promptly
punished as a penal offence. They
may sell or give away their books,
but here their influence for evil ends ;
and the trouble these colporteurs
give themselves, if expended in a
more legitimate manner, tnight prove
quite as effective for their personal
good in earning an honest livelihood
by more worthy methods. To up-
root these tares of evil is the one
trouble given to the worthy curds,
who diligently watch and guard their
Hocks from the invasions of wolves,
as well as instruct and guide them
truthfully in the w^ay of life. The
lesult of their self-denying labors is
manifest ; and Catholic Canada com-
pares favorably in its morality with
any portion of the Christian world.
An American Catholic entering one
of these rural parish churches describ-
ed, though recognizing the same ser-
vice in the offering of the holy sa-
crifice, would be struck by several

distinctive features in the Mass auil
congregation, and perhaps more than
one observ^ance that, as a republican
Catholic, he never before witnessed.
Distinctions in society are observed,
but the deference is paid to superior
goodness only; the lines that mark
the grades of superiority in society
being drawn by the personal worth
of the possessor in his elevation Xo^
the place of honor. Three diief
officers are elected from among the
congregation every tw^o years. They
occupy the seat of honor in the
church on a raised banc^ in some
cases canopied, but always decorated
by two candles and a crucifix. To j
these points the priest first proceeds ■
at the aspersion, and, making liis
obeisance and blessing, proceeds with
the ceremony. And they are like-
wise first sensed on the distribution of
tlie pain Mnii^ and always take prece-
dence in the grander ceremonies of
the church, being admitted within tho
sanctuary to receive the palms, and
on other appropriate occasions hav-
ing the phu£ noth assigned to their
occupation. This gives the laity an
active part and place of honor in the
service of the church. Personal
worth, and aptitude to look after the
secular interests of the church, are the
sole qualifications for this position,
and the united voice of the congre*
gation, in assembly, declares their ^
choicL". No alteration or repairs^!
or any mo^icment connected with
changes in matters pertaining to the
interests of the church, can be im-
dertaken without their approval.
They are the defenders of the se-
cular interests, as the priest is exclu-
sively of ihe spiritual direction, but
most generally harmonize with their
cur^ in any plans of improvement he .
may suggest.

An American participating in these
Canadian ser^^ces could intelligently
follow all that is exhibited in the

Canadian Customs.

251

ritual, though he woald he surprised
in a simple rural population at the
pomp and exactitude with which on
g;rand occasions the ser\'ices would
be performed- No ceremony is omit-
ted that would give dignity to dexo-
tion, and the Roman ritual is closely
followed. Although the American
stranger might not understand the
French sermon or hymn, generally
sang during the gradual or commu-
Eion service, still in common faith
he would recognize the offering of
tihe great sacrifice, expressed in the
same sonorous language in which the
service of the Church offers her
devotions in every clime. Thus, as
a foreigner, in the Catholic Church
he would in the most solemn parts
of the service feel at home. In com-
mon with Roman discipline, the
Diocese of Quebec excludes female
singers from the organ-loft, save by
dispensation during the month of
Mar\', when this joyful season is
marked by this indulgence. The
choristers, composed of men and
boys, sit within the sanctuary, in
stdls arranged in a double row on
either side, and these are chosen for
Iheir excellent character as well as
vocal powers.* None would be ad-
mitted who did not possess the one
qualification of piety. All are
decently surpliced, and on Sundays
and fSte-days four of the boys wear,
in addition to the surplice, pend-
ent wings of muslin, neatly plaited,
and act as the prominent assistants
to the Mass. At the feast of Corpus
Christi, the grandest ceremonial of
the Church, (after the consecration
of a bishop,) as many as eight cen-
sers are used, and the road through
which the cortige passes is garlanded
with flowers, and banners are wav-
ing from every point The grandeur
of the ceremonial exceeds that of

^ Tliqr lOMatf WM nmabcr forty or fifty io ui ordi-
my TilUct church*

cathedral pomp in American cities,
for the procession makes the out door
circuit of the village, stopping at four
sections for the benediction. Two
of these are erected temporarily of
boughs of trees tastefully decorated,
and most \nllages possess two small
chapels distinct from the church that
are permanently constructed for
these purposes, and used on various
occasions, whenever the bishop pre-
scribes peculiar devotions. Thus, at
the blessing of the seeds of the enrth,
in invoking prayers for a plentiful
har\'est, in times of plague, war, or
inundation, these specialty ser\-ices
are peculiarly enjoined, and these
chapels are then ever ready for the
reception of the sacrament. Other-
wise they are closed and unused,
and only stand as memorials of
the faith of the people; marking
with the emblem of Christianity the
Catholic land of Canada. At every
mile a black cross stands as a mile-
stone to point the way and keep re-
ligious hope alive on every side and
every step ; and sometimes, to mark
special blessings in answer to pray-
ers, these crosses are handsomely
carved and of stone, and almost al-
ways enclose, even when of ordinary
material, some sacred statue of ven-
erated saint. Thus in the frigid
clime and snow-capped hills of
Canada, a Catholic love of the beau-
tiful, pure, and good stands in me-
morials as frequent as may be found
in the sunny climes of Italy or of the
smiling lands of the south. Who
will say that these objects of venera-
tion do not tend to keep faith alive ">
The rustic Canadian, as he passes
the memorial, lifts his mind to the
higher reality to which it points, and
in respectful adoration either raiises
his hat or devoutly crosses himself
in prayer. Call it superstition if you
will, but it is at least a harmless form
of decent respect to the earthly in-

iignia of hcavcniy rcalilici which the
emblem p The same re*

fpcct, too. r ^ally extended to

ihe curi^ w}icn he passes abroad ; all
bow or lowly make their obeisance
to the man of God. These outward
manifestationA of human respect
only tciirh lessons of honor for the
f'^ '-r to be observed ; and, to

tl of Protectant gentlemen

it may be added, in Lower Canada,
the character and influence of the
j*rje*t arc lo highly esteemed that,
even(i rs to the Church,

Inni.ii I icy conform to ihc

cuj^tunu A (Catholic never passes
iht' clergy nf the church without the
nimplimcnt of the saitit; to omit the
obuerviince would be a mark of dis-
respect. Thcfte peculiarities, like
the oilier of the church service, ar-
rent the attention of the American
Ctthollc* The \vholc Ma^s is uni*
fonnly performed in Gregorian tones.
The \Tiniclc of the day and the In*
iwsHt lilt? chanted by leading voices
[xy the i^aucliiar)-. The choir com-
mrnce the ATrw, And it \% likewise
nf;i(iiM>Hi\^ly intoned ulternalcly, first
by v>>io^* in the $Anctunr>% and then,
with oni^n accompaniment, an*
%v\v»vd tn* *injtt*r» in the organ*
MV ^ is carried

011 W' iionjjliouithc

HHt^iJi ami C>«^ e\«en unto the
e4hni>ii of *y^ ^''■^<, ^\th the same
h>we that to the Mass of

|H« Ms\ ■ ' tTect

of m^lcmn vith

Iht celebrant ;t ,:, No light

llfifrattc air cl\. ,.h the scxTrc

Hluat^ Imt aU b grax-e and stil>di>e<!)
nr * ' ^ * » v,^ simple pa*
tl^ ^ifin, crt*dit-

aUI) . :^tly

an a ^ the

ch«*ir. The I'anadians art amitsic*
\m\x\.- i^vvj.. and all orders culti-
*' nature* Their melo-

thr^ iiir Hpiru<9Cgifii^ and desenriiiK

of wider cultrvatioo. As it is, many
of our popular airs spring from la
€ Hanson Canmiitnne. Frugal in their
taste Sy the simple pleasures of social
companionship are their chief relaxa*
lion ; though the games and enjoy-
ments of their hardy clime have their
many votaries, and they excel in all
the manly out-door exercisesi in
which even their women participate.
Perhaps this may be one reason,
besides higher moral causes, that ac-
count for the peculiar longevity and
large families of the Canadian peo-
ple. If more primitive in their cus-
toms than in lands where luxurious
habits prevail, they are exempted
from many evils consequent on their
indulgence, and the virtues of the
heart flourish and abound in luxu-
riance as the teachings of the church
prevail and are practised. Hospi*
tality is the crowning merit of the
Canadian people. The stranger ever
receives a generous welcome and
courteous attentions. The Frenclx
origin of the people retains alt the
idiosyncrasies of the latter race, and
that easy grace of manner insepara*
ble from French habitude. A Cana-
dian peasant will receive a stra^^ger
witli a ready tact that is universal,
even to those in the simplest rank in
life. This frankness and generositv
of manner are partially the infitieiioe
of the Church, which inculcates ibe
practice of courtesy springing bam
goodness of heart and virtwms in*
tention, and it is especsally isbCBlcft-
ted in a rite peculiar to the ritfioMc
Church in Canada. Dviiiiig tht
course of the Mass> every Sntdiy, la
duly obsenxd the genetaHy nlwokig
custom called tbe A^^m^ of
toHc institution. It is oae of
ceremoTuals which in its 1
ticance teaches a
and daty, and It b In be
that it should hare fallen iolo (
tode dacwtwre.

I
I
I

Canadian Customs,

JS3

good-fellowship that should prevail
among all members of the human
family, and in recognition of o^r
common dependence one upon the
other, and the duty of mutual aid
and support to our brother-man, this
feast of love is eaten in common by
all ranks and conditions in life. If
a Protestant should be preseilt, and
conduct himself orderly during the
service, the courteous Canadian
would extend a portion of the bread
for the acceptance of his dissent-
ing brother, as there is nothing of
a sacramental character in its re-
ception, and it is as free as the holy
water fount in which the curious un-
believer often dips his hand with more
superstitious dread than the Catho-
lic believer. In this rite, large
loaves of bread are prepared in ro-
tation by the respective families of
the parish, each in their order sup-
plying the demand. This is called le
fain hhiit^ blessed bread ; and, af-
ter its benediction by prayer, that
our daily food may be used to our
advantage, which ceremony takes
place from the steps of the altar, just
before the Gloria^ it is cut and
divided into small pieces among the
congregation, who receive it from
the ushers, (the maires being first
served,) in whatever position they
may be in during the course of the
service— either kneeling, seated, or
standing. Its distribution usually
commences during the course of the
Credo^ and, unless the congregation
is very large, concludes at least be-
fore the commencement of the most
solemn period of the Holy Sacrifice.
The ceremony creates no confusion,
but b received as an ordinary part
of the day's duties. The morsel is
accepted, the recipient blesses him-
self, with a short prayer, and the par-
ticle is consumed. The value of the
observance of this rite is, the sacred
lesson that it so significantly teaches.

Its absence would only create remark
in the mind of the Habitant^ who is
singularly tenacious of any innova-
tion on the established customs of
his forefathers, even where they ma-
nifestly are somewhat burdensome
to be observed ; for the preparation
of bread in three or four large loaves
for a thousand people is not entirely
an insignificant matter. In the city
churches of Quebec, the rite by dis-
pensation is not observed, but it is
universal in all the rural parishes.
"Za religion est chang^e" the Habitant
would say with a sigh, should an ef-
fort be made to cut loose from any
of the ancient landmarks and customs
to whose practice he had been ac-
customed. The observance of this
habit is therefore wisely retained, as
teaching a wholesome lesson of
charity to our fellow-man. All are
recipients alike, young and old, the
sinner as well as the saintly, for all
have need of the tender indulgence
of each other in deference to their
common infirmities. Many lands of
softer clime possess fairer scenes
and a richer soil ; but for the elevated
affections of the heart in simplicity,
none possess in a rarer degree those
virtues calculated to render man
noble and happy, and to elevate him
in the social scale, than the people
of these northern possessions that
bound our American limits. Per-
haps in the march of events, should
their country ever be absorbed with
our own republican institutions, the
strongest bond of fellowship will be,
the common religion they hold in
such perfect unity with numbers of
their American brethren. It is this
principle that will render them adap-
tive to our political institutions as
good citizens ; and, perhaps, in sim-
ple faith, earnest devotion, and ri-
gid standard of observances of the
Catholic faith, the American Catho-
lic could well borrow from his Cana-

254

The Story of MarcfL

dian brethren a portion of that zeal
for which they are so justly conspicu-
ous.

Our h'mits forbid all that might
be said of the Catholic hierarchy in
Canada ; a body of men who, for
learning, piety, and self-sacrifice, fur-
nish so many glorious examples
worthy of imitation* Zealous in the
cause of education, asfcrv^ent in their
picly, they have made the sterling
worth of the Canadian Church a
subject for praise and imitation in

every land. The simplest Canadian
follows the language of the Church
in his daily prayers ; and as the An-
gelus sounds wkhin her borders
tlirice a day, or the passing-bell tells
of a soul departed, or the joyful
chime proclaims a Christian received
within the Church, the Latin prayer
universally ascends from a thousand
hearts, and Heaven's bcnisons fol*
low in benignant response. May
the sun of prosperity ever lighten her
borders I

TKAKSLATKO yiTOM Tl« FHKNCH.

THE STORY OF MARCEL, THE LITTLE METTRAY

COLONIST.

CHAPTER 1,

"O cmitF beyond all <tthcr gri«& t when fikte
Fit»l Icfives the young htaal dcaolttte
In the wide worW." Mqo«k.

It was at the close of the memo-
able 26th of June, 1848, one of the
most dreadful days of that sanguinary
strife called " the Revolution," which
had desolated Paris since the month
of F€bruar}% that a man, dressed in
a torn and blood-stained blouse, his
face and hands black with gunpow-
der, and carr)ing a gim on his shoul-
der, climbed hastily the dark, dirty
staircase of a house in the Rue de la
Parcheminerie. He was followed by
a miserable-looking child of appa-
rently about eight years old, whose
little, trembling legs managed with
difficulty to keep up with the long
strides of the individual before him,
who from time to time looked back
to sec that he was coming.

On reaching the third stor>% the
revolutionist, for such he evidently

was, opened a door, and entered a
dismal, bad-smelling room of poverty-
stricken aspect. A woman of about
fort)' was there, busily occupied over
a small iron furnace casting lead bul-
lets, of which a number ready for use
were lying on the dirty brick floor
beside her.

" Here they are, all hot, all hot,"
cried she with a fierce laugh as he
came in, " 1 don't keep you wailing
for your tools, you see ; there's not a
citizen of Paris that has a better help-
mate than you, Auguste ; is there,
now? And Vm as ready with my
knife as^but what have you there?"
And the dreadful woman strode for-
ward a step as she caught sight of
the child, half-hidden behind her
husband*

** It's a poor little devi! I picked
up on a barricade,*' replied Auguste,
" Ma foi ! I believe that he had fol-
lowed his father to the fight, where
the citizen received his passport far

The Siofy of MarceL

255

tlie other woiid ; the little one had

hooked himself on Ui ihe corpse^ and

some trouble to loosen his

mnd afterward to put him on

again ; but a drop of brandy

it at last, and here he is I"

And what on earth arc we to do

th him V* vociferated the woman,

had listened to tliis explanation

jth many a shrug and mcQacing

re* " I shall not feed him, I tell

Where's the gnib to come from,

I should like to know T*

** Come, now/' said Auguste sooth-
mgljr, ** be reasonable, da Now that
the doge's dead, you can give him the
txMies and lickings, can't you? It
ivoci't cost more to keep this little
wretch than it did to keep the dog.
Not so much, I believe."

He's not wijrth either bones or

kings/' screamed the wife. ** Me*

earned his living, while this

of a child '* — here she caught

ghtened boy by the arm and

ried him violently round — " hasn*t

strength of a fly I"

He'll be able to pick up rags in

I day or two, Pelagic, you will see ;

le^ now, let us keep him. Here,

iwn, young one." And Auguste

d the child down on a wooden

scoqL

Pcbgie stormed, but Auguste at
last gained the day, and even obtain-
^^d a crust of bread for the wrelch-
^Hd little creature, whose large eyes
^^slaoced from the one to the other of
^^fiie speakers while they debated his
fate. His thin, pale cheek stili bore
ihe traces of the tears he had shed
when his father fell, shot through the
heart, on the barricade, and his little
blouse and torn trousers were stained
ilh his father's blood 1
Wc shall not repeat the conversa-
of the husband and wife on the
•- nf the day — that day when
dated workpeople and prole-
:^ oi Paris murdered the vene-

rable priest who, obedient to the call
ol his sacred duties, had come to
the scene of strife and slaughter to
preacli mercy and forbearance. ** The
shepherd gives his life for his sheep,"
and, " May my blood be the last
shed/* were the last words of Arch*
bishop Aifre, Alas! when the torch
of civil war is once lighted, men seem
to grow mad ; the fiercest passions of
humanity are let loose, and rui-n and
death seem alone able to end the
struggle. So has it ever been with the
excitable people of Paris ; so will it
ever be with the ignorant and vicious.
Many fell after the good archbish-
op, and among them Auguste Vau-
trin. He had gone off, carrying with
him the newly-made bullets^ and
leaving the child whose life he had
probably saved ; he returned no
more, A neighbor whispered to Pela-
gic that same night that her husband
was lying dead in the Rue St. Antoine,
but the depraved and unloving wife
did not care to reclaim his body, and
all that was left of the miserable man
was consequently thrown ignomini-
ously into the common grave of the
misguided revolutionists.

CHAPTER n.

•• PiNN^Dv beaten* cold, pinch'd, (hreatetiM, lad
abnised,
» His efforlA pimish'd and his foot! rcAued,
Awake tormenied, soon aroused frofn sleeps
Sinick if he wept, and yet caiupeiied to weep,
The irembling boy dropped down, and »trov« to

prayt
Received a blow, rod tx^nibliqg ntfn«d avray."

Crabu.

Pelagie Vautrin, now a widow,
continued to gain her living as before.
She was what is called in France a
** merchant of the four seasons;" that
is, a costermonger, hawking about
the streets in a handcart the diflfer-
ent vegetables and fruits of each sea-
son, sometimes even venturing on a
load of salt mackerel, sometimes of
dried figs. She was a strong, mas-
culine-looking virago, who might have

Tkg Stmy €f Hmml

ler faroi%hC ber in aboi^
X, bid wke not been gmn
to drink. EwcTf bargzia sbe made
to bay or to feO was ratified
' a gb» of brand J, so that hj the
tbe bad aii|vded ber can, ber
t was nearly enp^loa At all
(daei wkboat gentleness or pitr, sbe
lltecaQie aloK^ feroekms wben ex-
I cited by liqoor, and it was a crael
: tbat bad made tbe Utile orphan
into her hands. He, poor id-
Wf seemed to be quite friendless,
{.Questioned and crossKiiiestiooed by
Pelagie and her neighbors, be could
ghre no ftiither account of himself
than that he was caKed Marcel, and
that his father was shot on the barri-
cade ; the child shuddered each time
r that he was forced to answer this. He
I appeared nei'er to have known his
f mother^ replying always that he had
lived with his father, only with his
father, and nobody else. He was a
1 flighty elegantly formed boy, with the
intelligent, delicate features peculiar
to the true Parisian. Timid and ner-
vous, he trembled each time that Pe-
lagie addressed him, and implicitly
^,obcycd her slightest order.

During the two days that followed
the death of Auguste, Pelagie re-
mained shut up in her dirt>% close-
smelling room. Whether she feared "^
that the restoration of public order
[might expose her to the unpleasant
lobscrvaljon of the law, or that the
I loss of her husband did really some-
I what nficct lier, we know not ; certain
it is that she staid quietly at home,
and even shared the bread and boiled
beef that a neighbor had fetched for
licr from a gargat^^ or poor eating-
fhousc» near by, witl\ Marcel. He had
^bccn proviHcd with a heap of rags
for a bed, and permitted to sleep.
And for two nights, poor boy, he had
slept as cliildren, happily the poor
well as the rich^ only can sleep-^

ijtpllul of tiifi pKC and mitbtnktng
of tbe fenre. Bnt on the morning
of tbe ibiid dajf Fdagie got op ta
loB po&'teiftiun of aU ber wonted
eraei gy and bfUtabtT* mt

"* Out of bed, litik beggar r wtfefl
her fiixt vordSy as ^e poshed the
sleeping difld wlAk ker foot ; " out of
bed ; |oa most begin to work for )'our
bread. Nov, listen to m^" sbe con-
thmed, as Marcd, with a scared look,
waited up ready<iiesscd from his bed j
of rags; "* listen, do you be ar^ to mc]
Yoa will go seaitdi for all the bits
of iM tron, old naiby and things of
tbat sort, tbat you can find in tbe
streets and gutters* Here is a lea*
them bag to put them in i do you
see ? I shall tic it about yimt waist,
and take care you don't lose it And
here is a basket and a book ; wlih J
this hook you wilt catch up all the 1
pieces of paper and rag that yoa see,
and put them into the basket Now, ■
mind what you're about ; I shall have I
an eye on you, wherever you may be.
Here is a piece of bread ; and don't
come back until your basket is fall,
or I shall skin you,**

So saying, she thrust the bc\nldcr-
ed, frightened boy out of the door, ]
which she shut immediately, leaving '
him to grope his way down the dark^
crazy staircase as he best might

After two or three falls he reached
the door of the house, and found
himself in the narrow, filthy gutter
called the Rue dcla Parcheminerie —
one of the impure, airless thorough-
fares of that old Paris which the pre-
sent ruler of France is levelling to
give place to wide, healthful, hand-
some streets and squares. He stood
a moment hesitating whether he
should turn to the right or to the left,
when the voice of Pelagie calling to
him from the window above made
him look up, " Be off I" she scream-
ed. **rm watching )'0U* and mind
you bring me back all >-ou get J**

Tk^ Story of Marcel

257

The child shouldered his basket
and ran on. Turning the comer and
out of sight of his fierce protectress,
if we may call her so, he stopped,
poor little fellow ! His basket and
hook dropped to the ground, as with
a gesture of despair he threw up his
hands toward heaven and cried
aloud, " O my father I my father I"

The cry and the gesture were not
addressed to that Heavenly Father
whose eye was then as ever upon
him, full of pity and mercy though
unseen and incomprehensible, for the
unhappy orphan knew not how to
pray ; but we can believe that it was
heard and answered, as if it had
been a direct supplication to the
throne of grace ; not then, perhaps,
but in the fulness of that time which
he hath chosen for our consolation.
A moment after, the boy gathered up
his fallen basket and hook and dili-
gently set to work. Not a rag or
scrap of paper escaped his searching
eye. Nails and metal buttons, and
bits of old iron, and many a flatten-
ed bullet that had probably done
some deadly work, all found their
way into his basket or his leathern
bag.

Toward twelve o'clock he found
himself near the fountain in St. Mi-
chael's Place ; tired and hot, he took
a drink, and, seating himself on the
curbstone near by, began to eat the
piece of bread that Pelagie had given
him that morning. His appetite was
good, and he enjoyed his dry crust
better than many a rich man did his
sumptuous dinner that day. His lit-
tle teeth went so busily and vigorous-
ly to work, that a hackney-coachman
belonging to the coach-stand in the
place, and who was lazily contem-
plating humanity from his box-seat,
after watching him awhile with admi-
ration^ threw him a sou, telling him to
buy some sausage, because he de-
served something for the way in
vou ?iii.— 17

which he attacked that piece of
brick-bat.

" He has teeth like a rat," cried
the coachman, grinning, to one of
his comrades ; " the way he nibbles
that crust, that's as hard as the stone
he's sitting on, is a sight !"

Marcel took the sou, and returned
a look of such smiling gratitude that
the observant coachman again re-
marked to his friend that that little
chap had eyes like the gazelle's in the
Garden of Plants \ " they're just as
soft and tender," added he, "only
blue." But the child dared not spend
the money on himself— had not Pela-
gic told him to bring her back every-
thing he got ? So he put it into the
bag with the old iron, and once more
went to work. Steadily and earnest-
ly he plodded on, all his little facul-
ties concentrated on his task, so that
at five in the afternoon his leathern
bag was full, and his basket piled up
and pressed down.

Glad and triumphant, with some
hope of kind words this time at least,
he turned toward the Rue de la Par-
cheminerie, and reached the wretched
house just as Pelagie was pushing
her empty handcart through the nar-
row passage into the yard, where it
was put up under a shed for the night
He climbed the staircase and stood
waiting for her on the landing-place
before the door of her room.

" You here 1" she cried when she
perceived him. " What's brought you
back so soon, you little vaurim /"•

" My basket and my bag are both
full, madam," replied Marcel, trem-
bling as he looked up into the furious
eyes of the drunken virago.

'' I shall soon see that." She push-
ed him violently into the room.
" Now, give me the bag."

She snatched it from him as she
spoke and emptied out the contents
on the floor.

• Worth-nochmg.

The Story of MarceL

** ^\Ti}% what is this ?" she exclaim-
ed as she caught sight of the sou.
" Did you find this ? don*t you know
what it is ?"

" I know what it is, madam ; it
was given to me to buy some sausage
with to flavor my bread*"

" To flavor your bread, you little
beggar f Good bread *s not good
enough for you, then I I'll flavor
your bread, you idiot" And with her
strong right hand she dealt him a

^ blow on the side of the head that
felled him instantly to the floor.

He hid his bruised face in his lit-
tle trembling hands and lay there
weeping silently.

" Get up^ get up, you idle dog ;
youVe not going to stay there, I
tan tell you ! Come, take your basket
and hook and be off again," The un-

' feeling woman pulled up the wretched
child as she spoke. " What I crj'ing \
1*11 have none of that I Come, be off \
You'll get no supper, I promise you,
until your basket's full again."

Down the crazy staircase once
more the little orphan stumbled into
the street — hungry and tired, his
beck blue with the cruel blow, and

Phis young heart swelling with the
ense of so much injustice and op-
pression. The thought came to him
suddenly that he would not return
lin to that wicked woman ; but

[then, where should he go? WTio
vould take care of him ? He wan-

Vdered through many dirty, narrow

Istreets while he thus meditated, and

^at last found himself before the old
church of St. Eticnne du Mont He

yaaw some children going in, and fol-
lowed them. There was so profound
I silence in the sacred edifice, such a

*8oft, subdued light streamed in from
the beautiful painted windows, that
the child's agitated, angr)^ heart seem-
I calmed almost by a miracle. He
slunk into a dark corner, and there,
doing as be saw the happier children

with whom he had entered do, he
knelt. He did not pray ; he had
never known a mother's care, never
been taught to lisp " Our Father who
art in heaven " at his mother's
knee ; but peace and forgiveness
entered into the orphan's soul as he
knelt, silent, unheeded, in that dark
corner of God's house.

Half an hour after he slunk out
again into the street, feeling better*
he knew not why, poor ignorant boy,
and only anxious to try to satisfy his
task-mistress.

All the evening he went to and fro,
filling his basket from the heaps of
rubbish thrown into the streets as
soon as night comes by the numer-
ous inhabitants of Parisian houses.
At last, when ten o'clock had struck
from all the church-towers in the
quarter, he again climbed to the
third story. The door was ajar, he
entered softly, and saw, by the light
of a gas-lamp that was on the oppo-
site side of the street. Pelagic Vau-
trin lying extended on her bed, and
snoring the heavy sleep of the drunk-
ard.

He crept, tired and hungry, to his
heap of rags, and soon happily forgot
for a few hours that he was mother-
less and fatherless, a little waif adrift
on the sea of life.

Thus passed and ended MarcePs
first day of labor,

CHAPTER Iir,

•' TMtr» Hv*d lli« lad, in hnnfer. perils ^a^
Ht» lear» deqfb'd. his tupplkatJKios vatii.

Strange ihat a fraixie to «cak Cfnald br»r «o loqf
The {(jcdiscst in»uJt and the ftmktsk wrong :
But iheru wct^ causes.'* CxAaaaL

Marcel had continued to ply this
business for the profit of Pelagic Vau-
trin about two years, most times half-
starved, and ofttimes beaten, and had
become one of the quickest-sighted
and quickcst-witted of the little X2%

The Story of Marcel.

259

I of Paris, when one wet win-
ter's night, as he passed near St.
Michaers Bridge, he put his foot on
sonediing hard. To pick it up, to
see by the nearest gaslight that it
vas a coarse linen hag, containing a
qoantity of gold coin, was the work
of a minute j the next saw him run-
ning as if for dear life to the office of
the Commissary of Police in the Rue
des Noyers ; he knew the place well
by the red-glass lamp over the door.
Almost breathless he handed his prize
to die worthy magistrate, telling him
at die same time where he had found
it

The commissary looked into his
fittle, eager, intelligent face while he .
toki his story, then taking his hand
kindly, ** You are a good boy," said
k^ ^ uid, mark my words, your hon-
esty will bring you good luck."

Marcel blushed with pleasure and
surprise to be praised, but stood ner-
voosly twirling his ragged cap round
and roond.

''The man who lost the bag of
{dd," continued the commissary,
"was here half an hour since ; he is
a poor clerk, and is in despair ; he is
afraid of going back to his employers
:o tell them that he has lost their
money. You have saved him and his
poor wife and children from much
miseiy. Go, you are a good boy ; but
first tell me your name and where you
Uve."

The child told him, it was written
carefully down, and he then went
away bappier than he had ever been
since that dreadful day when he had
convulsively fastened himself to his
fiither's dead body as it lay on the
barricade.

Bat as he approached his misera-
bla home, thb happy feeling decreas-
ed ; and he began to think of what
Pdagie would say if she knew what
he had been doing. To tell or not
to tell, that was the question, and it

was not yet decided when he opened
the door of the dismal room, where
Pelagic, drunk as usual, was making
her preparations for going to bed.

" And where do you come from,
vaurUnV* asked she as he came
in.

He did not reply \ he was not pre-
pared with a lie, and he feared to tell
the truth. Pelagic, accustomed to
prompt and ready answers from her
victims, turned round and stared at
him, surprised beyond measure at
this unwonted hesitation.

" Do you hear, little beast, do you
hear!" she screamed presently.
"Where do you come from? Why
don't you answer me?" And she
seized him violently by the arm.

" Pray don't beat me !" said the
child imploringly. "I will tell you.
As I was passing over St. Michael's
Bridge, I — I found — a bag — "

" A bag !" exclaimed Pelagic, still
holding him fast. " A bag of what ?
Quick ! quick ! Speak faster !"

"Of gold," whispered the child,
trembling, for he knew now that he
should suffer for what he had done.

" Of gold ? of gold ? Where is it ?
Give it to me !" And she fumbled
about his little breast, as if she
thought it must be hidden there.

" I haven't got it !" said the boy,
whose cheeks waxed paler and paler,
but whose blue eyes met hers for
once undauntedly. " I carried it to
the Commissary of Police."

For one moment the drunken fury
looked at him silently, and then burst
forth in bitter curses and bitterer
blows. Hard and fast they fell on
the young head and tender face ; he
was knocked down and kicked up
again — hurled against the wall —
pushed into the fire-place — and at
last thrown upon the cranky table,
which fell with so terrible a crash
that the noise fortunately brought up
the tenants of the story benc;ath in

26o

The Story of Marcel

time to prevent a murder ; for it is too

probable that would have been the
end of this frightful scene, if no one
had come to save poor Marcel.

" Madame, Madame Vautrin !"
cried M. Poquet, as he rushed into
the room, followed by his wife and a
number of the neighbors, " what is
the matter here ? Pray, be calm.
You've beaten that child too much 1
Now, stop, or I'll go for the police."
And the strong man seized the fu-
rious woman in his arms, while his
wife and one or two other w^omen
got hold of Marcel and carried him
down-stairs, covered with blood and
bruises, to the Poquets' room.

Covered with blood and bruises I
Such was this wretched child's re-
ward for the first act of probity he
had as yet found an opportunity of
performing I

Be gentle, then, in your judgment
of his future errings, O children
of happier fortunes 1 ye who are en-
couraged in every generous thought
and honest deed by the tender ca-
resses of a mother and the approv-
ing smiles of a father, remember
that he was an ignorant^ homeless or-
phan, whose first good impulses were
beaten out of him, or stifled by the
k vicious influences which surrounded
^bim*

Monsieur and Madame Poquet were

— it is a pity to be obliged to say it of

such a kind-hearted couple — no better

than they should be, rather, indeed,

far worse. M. Poquet called himself

a cobbler, but few, very few were the

\ boots or shoes that could show trace

of his handiwork. Talking politics

in the cabaret^ at the corner, with

idlers like himself, seemed to be his

^principal occupation; but there were

I rumors aiioat that, at night, when

\ honest men were sleeping peacefully

in their beds, he and his companions

were dodging the police, and trying

* WiDe^iboik

to find the money they would not"
work for. Certain it is he generally
had a forty-sous piece in his pocket, i
and few people knew how he got it. M

Madame Poquet earned or rather "
thieved her living as a fcmme de tn^
nage^ and a very good living she
made too ; for, not satisfied with stuf-
fing herself as full as she could of fl
victuals at her employer's house, she"
regularly brought back every evening
in a great basket, that was continually
suspended at her arm, such a supply
of cheese, charcoal, sugar, garlic,
bread, cigars, cold meat, and such
like, that there was not a better fur-
nished cupboard nor better fed chil-
dren than hers in the neighborhood.

These children consisted of a boy |
and a girl — Polycarpe and Loulou —
cunning, ready-witted, unprincipled,
and idle. Never had they heard a
word of truth ; their only teaching j
since they came into the world had
been to lie and steal, but like their
parents they were naturally meny
and good-tempered ; they had never
been ill-treated, as children generally
are among the vicious poor, and they
were well-disposed to be generous [
with their pilfered plenty.

Such were the people who hadj
rescued the orphan from Pelagie Vau-
trin's murderous hands, and who now
washed away the blood from several j
cuts on his head, and applied such
remedies to his poor bruised Umbs
as they were acquainted with. And
Madame Poquet had a kind, motherly
way with her that comforted poor j
Marcel wonderfully, and Polycarpe (
and Loulou showed much syinpathy
and at last he w^as put into bed (a
dirty one, it is true, but warm) with
Polycarpe \ and the boy fell asleep
happier, notwithstanding his aches
and pains, than he had been for
many a year of his short life*

For three whole days Marcel re-

The Story of Marcel

261

mained quietly with the Poquets, who
vould willingly have kept him alto-
gether^ and only hoped that Pelagie
would let things he as they were.
The fourth morning, however, brought
a change. Scarcely had Madame
Poquet taken herself and her great
basket off for her day's work and
pilfering, and M. Poquet slunk off a
moment after to the cabaret at the
comer, when Madame Vautrin ap-
peared suddenly before the frighten-
ed eyes of the three children. She
was sober, and in few words ordered
Marcel to get his basket and hook
and go to work. The trembling boy
silently obeyed.

CHAPTER IV.

** Alas t lygardleM ^ their doom,
The little Tictrnit play >
No senee have they irf" iDt to come,

Nor care beyond to^y.
Tet tee how all around them wait
The minnlert of human fiite

And black misfortune** baleful train.**

Gkay.

BurPolycarpe Poquet did not drop
the acquaintance so well begun ; far
from it; he seemed to have become
really attached to the pale, weak child,
who was about a year younger than
himself, and proved his friendship
by becoming a kind of amateur rag-
picker and helping to fill the dread-
ful basket and leathern bag that Pela-
gie exacted twice a day. This busi-
ness finished, he would lead off Mar-
cel in quest of amusement, with the
understood intention also of picking
up a few sous as he best could, and
Polycarpe was not at all particular.

All was new to Marcel ; he had
never yet had time to stroll through
the great thoroughfares at the hours
when the magnificent shops of Pa-
ris display their wonderful merchan-
dise to tempt the luxurious rich. He
had not even ever crossed the bridges
since that fatal 26th of June, 1848,
and knew nothing of beautiful Paris

but the narrow and busy streets of
the " Quartier Latin," the quarter of
the great schools, of the College of
France, the Sorbonne, and the Insti-
tute.

How wonder-stricken was he the
day that Polycarpe conducted him to
the Place de la Concorde ! The sky
was blue, the sun bright, the two
beautiful fountains were spouting their
many waters in feathery spray, the
grand old chestnut-trees of the Tui-
leries gardens were in full bloom be-
hind him, palaces on either side of
him, and before him stretched away
the magnificent avenue of the Champs
Elys^es, bordered by trees and flow-
ers and grassy lawns, and bounded
in the far distance by the Arch of
Triumph ! The boy's heart swelled
within him, for the love of the beau-
tiful was hidden in it, as well as the
sense of the good and true, and he
:ould not speak. He had never
gazed before on so brilliant a scene,
and he could find no words to express
his feelings.

Polycarpe understood nothing of
this silent admiration, and after loi-
tering a short time around some of the
cafks among the trees in the avenue,
proposed going down on the quay to
look at the river. They stopped for a
glass of brandy at the nearest cabaret
— for Marcel had learnt this dreadful
habit from his friend, who had been
accustomed to tipple from his very
birth — and then, ready for any mis-
chief, descended to the river's side.
An old lady was standing there, gaz-
ing at the swift-flowing water, as if
she were longing to throw into it a
very apoplectic-looking little dog she
held by a string.

" Marcel, Marcel," whispered Po-
lycarpe, " Fm going to have some fun
with that old woman. I'll squeeze
some sous out of her, you see if I
don't!"

He started off running as he spoke,

jife

The Story of Marcel,

then suddenly stopped close to the
dog.

"What a love of a dog 1" cried he

in apparent ecstasy. " I never saw a

preilier little animal in my life J

I What kind of a dog do you call that,

I madam ?"

*It is a Scotch dog, my young
friend/' replied the old lady, evident-
ly much flattered \ *'you have very
good taste, for he is really a very
pretty creature."

•* He is a love 1" ejaculated Poly-
carpe.

"I have brought him here for a
bath/' continued the old lady. **I
J ihink that it would do him good If
he would swim a little."

*'That it would, madam/' an-
swered Polycarpe, stroking and kiss-
ing the fat, wheezy little animal ;
"but it would be well to give him a
Bttle nibbing first; his skin is rather
dirty^ I perceive, madam, on look-
ing close, ril wash him for }'Oii, if
rm like. I'm used to washing dogs,
wash my mother's dog every Satu]>
f day, madam/^

* Really !*' said the old lady. ** Well,
I thimld be glad to give Zozor a good

^urashing, but Tm afraid he*s dilBcult ;
lie don't like it \ he never did/*

"That's nothing, madam. Julius
Orsar— that's my mothers dog —
ion't like it, but he's obliged to. for
i*s for his good. You should just
Julius C^sar when I've washed
find dressed himl He's perfectly
utiiult He'sapoodle, quite while,
I've cut his coat so that he has
flounce round each ankle, three
ows of fringe on his hips, a fine ban-
Jclet on his side, a f riU oo his chest,
[mnd a magnificent tassel at the a»d
his tail."

*' He must be very handsome,** re-
narked the old lady, who had Itsten-
tA with much interest to tlus descrtp*
ftie»L

* He is, madam. My iikotber says

no one can dress a dog better than
I can. So ril wash Zozor» if j^m
like ; I'll not hurt him in the least*'

" You're very kind, indeed/' said
the old lady. ** I really shall be very
much obliged to you. Now then, Zo-
zor, don't be naughty ; it will do yon
good, Zozor."

So saying, the trustful old lady tm-
did the string attached to her pet's*
collar, and delivered the victim inla
the hypocrite's hands. In an instant
the wretched little creature was
smeared from head to tail with a
villanous compound of black soap
and soot that Polycarpe drew from
one of his dirty pockets. The poor
animal howled dismally as his tor-
mentor daubed him all over, and
more vehemently still when his eyes,
nose, and mouth were crammed with
the nasty, stinging mixture.

**Now, roadam,^* said Polycarpe,
when the poor beast was well plas-
tered and utterly unrecognizable,
" that*s the first operation ; and if you
want me to go on, and wash it ofl^
my charge is forty sous, paid in ad«
vance. I never give credit : it's a bad
system J I%e learnt that by experi-
ence,''

** You wicked boy 1** screamed the
old lady, '^ )-ou little impostor I youVe
killed my poor Zozor I"

The unlucky pet was rolling him*
self in the mud, in an agony of paia

" You cruel, wicked boy I Oh 1 what
shall I do? what shall IdoT

" V\*hy, )*ou*ve only to pay me the
forty sous,*' said Polycarpe, who
stood calmly contemplating the con-
tortions of his victim, " and I'll con-
tinue my operations* Forty sous is
not dear, madam, especially as I
provide the soap."

The old lady, unable to endure any
longer the sight of her darling's suf-
fiuings, at last drew from her purse a
piece of k>xx^ sous, and put it intc
the cmtsiietcbed palm of the youiig

The Story of Marcel

263

scamp, who no sooner had closed bis
dirty fingers on the coin than he
burst into an insulting laugh and
took to his heelSy leaving Zozor's
mistress inarticulate with astonish-
ment and rage.

Marcel had stood a little distance
off while this scene was enacting. At
first he laughed ; but when he saw
how much the poor dog suffered, the
innate humanity of his nature was
awakened, and as soon as his friend
had disappeared he approached the
yelling animal, and, with much diffi-
culty and no little danger of being
bitten, managed to seize him by the
nape of the neck and throw him into
the water. The miserable animal
straggled desperately, and so got rid
of a great part of the soap and soot ;
with the help of a boatman who had
come up just in time, Marcel got him
oat again, and, af^er a little rubbing
and rinsing, restored him to his weep-
ing mistress, clean, but with blood-
shot eyes and inflamed nostrils, and
certainly very much the worse for his
adventure.

The poor lady was profuse in her
thanks. " You have saved his life,"
she cried \ " I shall be eternally grate-
ful to you ; I will never forget you 1"
And she pressed her dripping darling
to her heart, while she hastily climbed
the steep that led from the river's
side to the quay above.

Marcel followed when she was out
of sight, and soon perceived Poly-
carpe waiting for him, and half-hid-
den behind one of the kiosks on
the sidewalk in which newspapers
are sold in Paris.

" So you washed that old woman's
little monster !" cried he, as soon as
he saw Marcel. " You needn't have
done that Here I've been waiting for
you to go to Mother Crapaud's for a
real hlow-out. Come along, now, I'm
as hungry as a wolf. Did you ever
see an old woman so nicely done?

O my eye ! poor Zozor ! wasn't he
well soaped ?"

CHAPTER v,

" Lkt not Ambition mock their humble toil.

Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure ;

Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smile

The low and petty knaveries of the i>oor.

** The titled villain and the thief of power,
The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour :
The paths of wickedness but lead to shame.*'
Parody on Gray*s Elbgy.

Polycarpe's favorite dining-saloon,
the gargote, or eating-house, of the
M^re Crapaud, was situated in the
Rue de la Huchette, one of the nar-
rowest, darkest, and dirtiest of the
old streets of Paris. It was a large,
low room, opening from the street ;
the whole length of one side of it was
taken up by four great furnaces which
cooked the contents of the four great
marmites, or boilers, that were con-
stantly suspended over them. The
contents of three of these marmites
consisted of beef-soup, flavored with
carrots, turnips, cabbage, onions, and
garlic. The fourth generally con-
tained stewed beans, a favorite ac-
companiment to the boiled beef. A
kind of counter, on which stood bas-
kets of cut bread and bowls of salad,
separated tlie furnaces and marmites
from the other part of the room, which
was furnished with tables of six
places each, and benches, all painted
dark green. The place was smoky
and grimy, and not rendered plea-
santer by the presence of the Mbre
Crapaud herself, an enormously fat,
blear-eyed old woman, possessed of
a most abusive tongue. Indeed, she
would have seemed better fitted to
drive away than to attract customers.
The M^re Crapaud, however, was
very popular, and with good reason ;.
for not only were her beef and soup
the very best that could be bought
for the money, but she also could

264

The Story of Marcel,

be depended on in critical moments^
when those whom she recognized as
regular customers were in difficulties
with the authorities.

Fifteen or sixteen customers, of all
ages and of both sexes, were seated
at the tables when the two boys en-
tered, and the M^rc Crapaud, bran-
dishing the great spoon with which
she measured her soup» was busy
behind the counter, assisted by two
perspiring marmitons.*

"Bonjour, la m^re,** said Poly-
carpc, as he entered with the ease and
swagger of a well-known and favored
guest ; " how goes it with you ?"

"Bonjour, mauvais sujet," returned
the hostess ; *' what brings you here,
to-day ?"

'* Well, I followed my nose, good
mother, which was attracted by the
smell of your bouillon and beef, and
brought me straight here. Permit me
to present my friend M. Marcel, a
young gentleman who is as yet un-
acquainted with the mysteries of
your marmites."

" Mysteries I \vhat do you mean by
that, you little polisson ? There are
no mysteries in my souppots ; good
beef and good vegetables ; find any
better if you can."

"Why, I know I can't, Mother
Crapaud, and that's why I've come."

" I don't intend running up a score
for you, M. Polycarpe, I can tell you ;
-SO clear out, you and your friend, if
jouVe nothing to pay with.'*

" But I have, Mother Crapaud. I'm

a millionaire to*day, or very nearly

sso, and so I^m going to treat my

' ifriend and myself to two sous apiece

of soup, and well see presently if

jou can give me change for this."

] JVnd he tossed up into the air and

I -caught again the silver piece he had

► •extorted from poor Zozor*s mistress.

The boys then seated themselves
*at one of the tables, and were pre-

• ScuUiont.

sently served with a bowl of good
bouillon and a hunk of bread.

" Now for a slice of fat beef, la I
m^rc," said Polycarpe, when the^
soup had disappeared ; " six sous*
worth will be enough for us two, and-
two sous each of stewed beanSwf
What a cram ! isn't it, Marcel ?"

Marcel did indeed like his goodl
hot dinner. Poor fellow I it was only!
when Polycarpe treated him that he^
knew what it was to eat his fill. No
conscientious scruples prevented his j
full enjoyment of the present Cc
science, that mirror of the soul» whic
never flatters, never deceives,
veiled in him by the thick mists of
ignorance, and the only kindnesses
he ever received were from the hands<H
of thieves. ■

They were finishing their beef and
beans when two big, rough boys,
dressed in dirty blue blouses and
dirtier trousers of some nondescript i
color, rushed into the gargatc and
bellowed for something to cat
Throwing themselves on the bench
opposite to that on which Polycaipe
and Marcel were seated, they com-
menced a series of contortions, el-
bow nudges, whispers, and loud guf-
faws, which were only stopped by the —
arrival of their victuals* The elder ■
of the two presently looked up, and, T
catching Polycarpe *s fixed gaze, after
a moment's hesitation exclaimed,
" Well, yes I ^tis you, Polycarpe 1 I
thought I remembered your face.
Pm glad to meet you ; you're a good ^
one, I know," ■

Polycarpe was evidently much \
flattered by tliis recognition. **I
thought I knew your face too, as
soon as you sat down» Gugnste, but
you were so full of fun that
wouldn't interrupt you.**

**rn make you laugh presently,** I
replied Gugnste, bursting out afresh,
as did his companion also. ** 111 tell
you something that'll tickle yoiL j

The Story of Marcel,

26$

Come now, stop your noise," he con-
tinued to his friend, who wriggled
and choked in a convulsion of merri-
ment, •* or I'll punch you quiet. 1*11
tell you, Polycarpe, when I've put
this plateful away. My eyes, what
fun!"

So saying, he and his friend fell to
again, and had soon finished both
beef and beans. When the plates
were empty, Guguste leaned his two
elbows on the table and took breath.
•*That matter being happily finish-
ed," said he presently, "1*11 tell you
the other; it's a joke, a real good
joke, in my opinion ; what old Gorgi-
bus the shoemaker calls it, is another
thing. What do you think he calls
it, eh ! Touton ? A riddle, perhaps.
Ha, ha, a riddle I"

His friend Touton twisted and
wriggled and giggled so heartily at
this idea, that he fell off the bench
in his ecstasy. " What a fellow you
are for fun!" exclaimed Guguste,
polling him up ; " but really I don't
wonder at you, to-day ! You must
know. Poly, that I haven't had a shoe
to my feet that was decent for an
age, and youll agree that fAa/ was
uncomfortable and unpleasant, not
to say inconvenient, especially for a
man of business like myself— ha, ha !
So when I got up, this morning, I
said to myself— while I shaved, you
know, ha, ha, ha ! — that I really must
find some kind of covering for my
trotters. But where ? That was the
question. So, to settle it, Touton and
I strolled about the streets until we
found ourselves pretty far in the Rue
St Antoine. What should we come
upon all at once but a shoe-shop, and
there in the window the very kind of
shoes that suited my taste. Gorgi-
bus was the name over the door. I
shall always remember it ; sha'n't you.
Teuton?"

*• Don't speak to me, Guguste; I
dall bmst with laughing," replied

Touton. " Poor old Gorgibus, at the
sign of holy Saint Crispin! Oh!
don't we owe him a candle, Gu-
guste ?"

"That we do, Touton, and you
shall go to the church of St. Severin,
it's close by, and pay it to the good
saint !"

" Not now, Guguste. Go on with
the story, do ; I want to know how
you got your shoes," cried Polycarpe.

" Well, then," continued the young
reprobate, " Touton and I consulted
together for a minute, and then in we
went. * I want a good pair of shoes,
monsieur,' said I very politely.
* I'm just going as clerk to a notary,
and I must be well shod. What is
the price of this pair ?'

" Ten francs,' said he.

" So I put my hand in my pocket
and pulled out my cash, and counted
it over with him, and I had just nine
francs. ' That's all I have,' said I,
putting the money back again into
my pocket; *will you give them to
me for nine francs, if they fit me?'

" ' Well, yes, I will, my boy,' said
the old fellow good-naturedly. Upon
that I sat down and put on both
shoes ; they went on like gloves, so
comfortable, you have no idea!
Then said I, *Now, let me see if no-
thing hurts when I walk ;' so I walk-
ed up and down the shop, old Gorgi-
bus standing by admiring the fit,
when, just as I was passing near the
door, this great vaurien of a Touton
gave me a punch in the nose !"

" Ha, ha, ha !" screamed Touton,
unable any longer to restrain himself,
"how I cut up the street when I'd
done it ! and Guguste cried, * Stop, you
rascal, I'll make you pay for that!'
And he ran and I ran, and old Gorgi-
bus looked after us and laughed till he
cried, and he's crying still very like-
ly! — ha, ha, ha! — and waiting for
Guguste to come back and pay for
the shoes ! Ha, ha, ha !"

a66

Tnaiise am Pmrgatary.

*" Ha, ha, ha !" echoed the listen-
ers.

''And then the neighbors^'' con>
tinued Guguste, wiping his e)-es,
''came to their doors, and kept call-
VD% out, ' Hell catch him, hell catch
himr O Lord! what fiin! And
^diat a capital pair of shoes !*' And
tlie scamp put a foot on the table to
show his prize, while the numerous
customers around who had over-
heard the story applauded him with
enthusiasm. Excited by the univer-
sal admiration, Guguste now invited

the two boys to accompany him and
his friend to the cabaret at the comer
of the street to take a glass, an invi-
tation most willingly accepted^ The
four unfortunate children according-
ly, after paying for their dinners, ad-
journed to the wine-shop, where, in
the society of bad men and worse
women, they were initiated still
deeper into the m}'steries and the
practice of crime.

Poor Marcel ! poor little orphan !

TO IB coarxixcnx

TRE.\TISE ON PURGATORY.*

BT SiLDTT CATHARINE OF CEXQA.

Whex the gates of puigatory
opened to Dante and his companion
with awful thunderous roar, he heard
mingling with the sound a chorus of
voices — " We praise thee, O God !**
— ^rising and fading away like a sol-
emn chant and sound of the organ
under the arches of some vast cathe-
dral

And afterward, while piu^uing
their journey, they felt the whole
mount^n of purgatory tremble. A
shout arose — " Glory be to God in
the Highest !" — swelled by the voice
of every suflering soul in that vast

^ The mooth of Korember is nsoallj set apart by
pkms Catholics for commemoration of the souls in
pmiptory, and for praxers and oferings in their be-
kal£ As specially bditting the season, therefore, we
republish anew the beautiful Trwatiu en Purgatory
by St. Catharine of Genoa, with the abore pre&tory
remarks by the transUtor. There have been several
translations of the treatise heretofore published,
and h might seem a needless work to give another.
Bnt besidea iu appropriateness to the season, and
that many will read it in the pages of Thb Catholic
World who might not elsewhere see it, the new trans-
lation we now give has special merits of its own which
wiU justify iu publication.— £a C W.

realm. It was the expression of uni-
versal, unselfish joy over the deliver-
ance of one soul from its bounds.

Such are the tones that ring all
through the Treatise on Purgatory
by St Catharine of Genoa — ^full of
praise, of holy joy, and of unselfish
love. It ought to be read beneath
the mild eyes of the Madonna in
some old church, to the sound of
solemn music. If you do not meet
in it the dazzling angels of the great
Florentine poet, you feel their pre-
sence, and you rejoice like him in
the nooks of beauty where " spring
sweet, pale flowers of penitence,"
refreshed by the fragrant dews of
God's mercy.

The patient, silent suffering of the
tried souls she describes, which are
living on the glimpse they had of the
divine Splendor at the moment of
death, is full of eloquence. They
suffer intensely, but peace and joy
rise above pain, as in the beautiful
bay of Spezia, we are told, tlie sweet

Treatise on Purgatory.

267

water rises up out of the salt and bit-
ter sea.

While reading this production of
genius and of inspiration, we no
longer shrink from that dark region,
lighted up, as it is, by rays of God's
wonderful goodness. With St. Cath-
arine* we regard it as a provision of
great mercy which the soul gladly
avails itself of as a means of purifi-
cation, which will fit it for the awful
l»resence of him in whose sight the
very stars are not pure — a presence
the soul could not endure till it had
purged " the world's gross darkness
oflL" As Faber says, " The moment
that in his sight it perceives its own
unfitness for heaven, it wings its vol-
untary flight to purgatory, like a dove
to her proper nest in the shades of
the forest" It cries :

"Take me away, and in the lowest deep
Then let me be,
Aad there in hope the lone night-watches keep»
Told OQt fiar me.

otionleas and happy in ny pain,
Lone, not forlorn,
t win I ang my sad perpetual stndn.
Until the mom.
Thoe win I sing, andsoothe my stricken breast.

To tibrat^ and pine, and languish, till possessed

Of its sofe peace.
TImm wfll I sing my absent Lord and Lore : —

Take me away.
That sooner I may rise, and go above.

And see him ia the truth of everlasting day."*

M. le Vicomte de Bussierre, in
writing of this treatise, says : " But
is the state described by the saint
that of all the souls detained by di-
vine justice in this place of expia-
tion?" The reply to this question
requires some preliminary observa-
tions.

The dogma of the church respect-
ing purgatory is very brief. The
Holy Council of Trent is satisfied
with declaring that there is a purga-
toiy, and that the souls therein de-
tained are helped by the suffrages of
the faithful.

• D w mm ^GtrmUhttt by Father Newman.

The church does not define the na-
ture of the sufferings endured there,
but this is our idea of them :

This world is a place of probation.
In it are prepared the materials for the
construction of the New Jerusalem.
Not only stones are wanted for its
walls, but jewels for its decoration.
Diamonds are not cut in the same
manner as common stones. Thence
we can perceive the necessity of diffe-
rent ways of preparing the righteous
for a higher state of existence. The
place each one will occupy in heaven
is irrevocably fixed at the moment of
death, but, before taking possession
of it, he must have the highest polish
of which he is susceptible, and be
without any defect or stain.

Take t^vo persons who are entering
purgatory. One has passed his life
in gross sensual pleasures, but abso-
lution with the necessary dispositions
has restored him to the paths of righ-
teousness ; the other has ahyays liv-
ed in innocence and in the closest
union with God, but slight imperfec-
tions deprive him for a time of the
beatific vision. Shall it b.e said that
the manner of purifying these two
souls is the same, and that their pur-
gatory only differs in point of dura-
tion? It does not seem probable.
We do not use the same means for
removing a stain from a garment
that we should for a particle of dust
on a polished mirror.

This explanation will better enable
us to understand St. Catharine's
treatise. Most Christians believe
there are sensible pains in purgatory.
It is the view commonly taken of
that state by our preachers. Our
saint does not contradict this opin-
ion. She speaks of a special purifi-
cation for certain souls, but without
excluding any. The soul in question
in her treatise is a diamond already
cut with wonderful exactness, and
from which the Divine Artist is re-

268

Treatise on Purgatory,

moving the last stain before placing
it among his choicest jewels.

Faber says there are two views of
purgatory prevailing among Chris-
tians, indicative of the peculiar tone
of the mind of those who have em-
braced them.

One is, that it is a place of sensi-
ble torture, where the least pain is
greater than all the pains of earth
put together — an intolerable prison-
house, full of wailing and horror ; vi-
sited by angels, indeed, but only as
the instniments of God*s awful jus-
tice. The spirit of this vnew is a
horror of offending Almighty God,
a habitual trembling before his judg-
ments, and a great desire for bodily
austerities.

The second \iew does not deny
any of these features, but it gives
more prominence to other conside-
rations. " The spirit of this view is
love, an extreme desire that God
should not be offended, and a yearn-
ing for the interests of Jesus." It is
not so much a question of selfish con-
sideration with the soul, as of God*s
will and glory. " Its sweet prison,
its holy sepulchre^ is in the adorable
will of its Heavenly Father, and there
it abides the term of its purification
with the most perfect contentment
and the most unutterable loye."

In short, this second view is that of
St, Catharine of Genoa, which comes
home to our hearts, as we read her
treatise, with joyful conviction- —
giving new conceptions of that holy
realm of pain.

This treatise is not the production
of human vanity, St Catharine only
wrote by the express w ish of her spi-
ritual director, who fathomed her ge-
nius and knew her familiarit}^ with
the secrets of the Most High, It is,
in the estimation of judges of the
highest authority, one of the most as-
tonishing and admirable productions
of mystical theology, says M, de Bus-

sierre. And it has been approved of
by the Holy See, and by the Sacred
Congregation of Rites.

It was one of the favorite books of
St. Francis de Sales, with whose spirit
it is so greatly in harmony, and he
calls the authoress a seraph.

And Faber styles her, " The Great
Doctress of Purgatory."

St. Catharine was con temporary with
Christopher Columbus, being bom a
few years later in the same city. And
she was the grand-niece of Pope In-
nocent IV., who first gave, authorita-
tively, the name of Purgatory to the
Intermediate State, and who was, like
her» of the noble house of the Fieschl.

The French author so often quoted
says : " There are many expressions
in this work to which a forced mean-
ing is not to be given, St. Catharine
represents a soul as strictly united to
God as it can be without being al>
sorbed in the divinity. But she docs
not annihilate individual it}'. She docs
not teach pantheism. She only ex-
presses tlie doctrine of St. Paul, * In
ipso vivimm^ ct mot'cmur^ et sumus/
* In him we live, and we move, and we
are/ "

How she makes us long for that
union, and welcome all that hastens
it ! We would join with all our earth-
worn heart in that ** liturgy of hallow-
ed pain." " O world !" we cry with
Faber — " O weary, clamorous, sinful
world ! who would not break away, if
he could, like an uncaged dove, from
thy perilous toils and unsafe pilgri-
mage, and fly with joy to the lowest
place in that most pure, most safe,
most holy land of suffering and of
sinless love ?"

(Hector Vernaccia, who first pub-
lished the works of St. Catharine of
Genoa, wrote the following preface
to her Treatise on Purgatory :)

" The soul of Catharine, still clad
in the fiesh, was plunged in the fur-

i
i

Treatise an Purgatory.

26g

nace of God's anient love, which con-
sumed and purified her from every
imperfection, so that at the end of
her life she was fitted to pass at once
into the presence of God, the only
object of her affection. This interior
fire made her comprehend that the
souls la purgatory are placed there
to he purified from the rust and stain
of the sins which they had not ex-
piated on earth. Swallowed up in
this divine and puiging fire, she ac-
quiesced in the will of God, rejoicing
in all his love wrought in her ; she
clearly understood what must be the
state of the souls in purgatory, and
thus wrote thereof :"

CHAPTER I.

STATE or THK SOULS IN PURGATORY— TIIEY
ARC DXVXSTKD OF ALL SELF-LOVE.

The souls which are confined in
pui^tory, as it is given me to under-
stand, can wish for no other dwelling-
place than that wherein God hath
justly placed them.

They have no longer the power of
reviewing their past lives. Nor
can they say : " I deserve to remain
here for such and such sins. Would
that I had not committed them !
Then should I be participating in
the joys of heaven.^ Neither can
they compare the duration of their
punishment with that of others. They
have neither in good nor evil any
remembrance which aggravates their
pains, not even respecting others;
but they feel a great satisfaction in
being at the disposal of God, who
doeth all that seemeth to him good,
and as it pleaseth him, so that in
their greatest sufferings they cannot
think of themselves. They regard on-
ly the goodness of God, whose infi-
nite mercy would draw all men to
himselfl They anticipate neither
the pain nor the solace that may be

their portion : if they could, they
would not be in a state of pure love.

Nor do they see that they are suf-
fering in punishment of their sins.
They cannot retain such a view in
their minds, for that would be an ac-
tive imperfection, and impossible in
a place where there is no actual sin.

Only once, at the moment of
quitting this world, do they see the
cause of purgatory which they have
in themselves, but never afterward,
or there would be some selfish con-
sideration. Being in a state of pure
love, from which they cannot deviate
by actual fault, they can only will
and desire what is conformable to
that pure love. For in the flames of
purgatory they are under the divine
ordinance and will ; that is to say,
in that state of pure charity from
which they can no longer be separa-
ted by any cause whatever, because
it is as impossible for them to com-
mit actual sin as it is to acquire ac-
tual merit.

CHAPTER II.

OF THE JOY OF THE SOULS IN PURGATORY —
COMPARISON WHICH SHOWS HOW THESE
SOULS BEHOLD GOD MORE AND MORE
CLEARLY— DIFFICULTY OF DESCRIBING
THIS STATE.

I do not believe that there can be
any peace comparable to that felt by
the souls in purgatory, unless that of
the saints in paradise. And each
day this peace increases by the in-
fluence which God exercises over the
soul. It increases in proportion as
the impediment to that influence is
consumed.

This impediment is nothing else
than the rust of sin. The fire con-
suming the rust, the soul is more and
more exposed to the divine influ-
ence. An object which is covered
cannot correspond to the reverbera-
tion of the sun's rays ; not by any

9»

Treatise on Purgatoty,

k of ibe son, which ceases not to
m^ bot bccaose of the covering on
ofafect. If that be consumed,
diject bene&th is laid open to
I ; sDci the more completely the
is consumed, the more per-
\ tlbe rci^efbcration.
So the file of pargatofy wears
wf the lust of sin which co\^rs the
eiporiffig it to God — the true
profMxticMi to itspori^, aod^
the same pcopoitioii, tncreastng
ibfieaee. So that its happtoess goes
wm mcmem% mod tiie rust weaiins
awy m ttw line be fiilir

le suits fron tbe
God docs aot
£ of Its dmatioQ
As to tibeir wSI, these sools

! diqr ^Bidl tihe wlB oC

deptet it — do
ibe leest cork
kof i^vdhsebf a apedal
i fSo& He bas pveA me
Moaori^ tel caiMM well
I Et ySh^ tbe Lord his le*
itime bas alwa^ remaioed
toamfmimL 'iwinteUle
I caA of it Tbej w^ imder-
bGodgireththein-

ouma XXL

»AaATimf faoii ooorm oaiAiasr loa*
■^rr or i^toAToaT— WKXiaoi rviOA*
9aY Dirraas wwsm niLU

All pain is tbe consequeoce of
original or dctual sin. God created
the soul perfectly pure, and gave it a

certain instinct for happiness which
forces it toward him as its true
centre.

Original sin enfeebles this instinct
in the soul at the beginning. Ac*
tual sin diminishes it still more.
The more this instinct diminishes the
worse the soul becomes, because
God's grace to llie soul is withdrawn
in proportion.

All goodness is only by participa-
tion in the goodness of God, which
is constantly communicated, even to
those creatures which are deprived
of reason, according to his will and
ordioaoce. As to the soul endowed
with reason, he communicates his
grace to it in proportion as he finds
it freed from the obstacle of sin.
Consequently, when a guilty soul re-
covers in a measure its primitive pu-
rity, its instinct for happiness also
retunss and increases with such im-
petuosity and so great an ardor of
love, drawing it to its chief end, that
c¥efy obstacle becomes to it an in-
supportable torment. And the more
dearly it sees what detains it from
union with God, the more excessive
b its pain.

But the souls in pulsatory being
freed from the guilt of sin, there is
no other impediment between God
and them but Uiis pain which pre-
vents the complete satisfaction of
their instinct for happiness ; and
they see in the clearest manner that
the least impediment delays this sa-
tisfaction by a necessity of justice :
thence springs up a devouring fire,
like to that of hell, eiccepting the
guilt.

This guilt constitutes the malig-
nant will of the damned, which
obliges God to withhold his good-
ness from them ; so they remain in
a fixed state of despair and malignity,
with a will wholly opposed to the di-
vine will-

Treatise on Purgatory.

271

CHAPTER IV.

ITATT OF THE SOUL IN HELL — DIFFER-
ZXCE BETWEEN IT AND THAT OF THE
SOUL IK FURGATOEY— EEFLECTIONS UPON
THOSE WHO NEGLECT THE AFFAIRS OF
SALVATION.

It is, then, clear that the perverse
will of man in revolt against the will
of God constitutes sin, and that the
guilt of sin cannot be efEaced from
the soul while it is under the domi-
nion of that evil will.

Now, the souls in hell departed
this life with a perverse will ; conse-
quently, their guilt has not been
washed away, and now cannot be,
because death has rendered their
will unchangeable. The soul is for
ever fixed in a state of good or evil,
according to the disposition of the
will at the moment of death. Where-
fore it is written : Ubi ie invenero^ that
is to say, Wherever I find thee at the
hour of death — ^with a will to sin or
10 repent of sin — ibi tejudkaho^ there
will I" judge theej and from this
jcdgment there is no appeal, be-
cause, all freedom of choice ceasing
with life, the soul must remain unal-
rerably fixed in the state in which
death finds it.

The souls in hell are guilty to an
infinite degree, being found with a
sinfxil will at the moment of death.
Their pain is not so great as they
merit, but it will never end.

As for the souls in purgatory, they
only endure pain. Guilt was effaced
before death by a true sorrow for
having offended the divine goodness.
This pain is finite, and the time of
its duration is constantly diminish-
ing.

O misery transcending all other
woes, and ^o much the greater be-
cause the blindness of man takes no
precaution against it I

The torments of the damned, we
have said, are not infinite in their

rigor. The great goodness of God
extends a ray of mercy even to hell.
A man expiring in a state of deadly
sin merits a punishment infinite in
duration and in intensity. God, in
his justice, could have inflicted on
the damned torments far greater
than they have to endure ; but while
he has rendered them infinite as to
their duration, he has limited their
intensity.

Oh ! how dangerous is voluntary
sin ; for repentance is difficult, and,un-
repented of, the guilt of sin remains,
and will remain as long as man re-
tains his affection for past sins or has
the will to commit them anew.

CHAPTER V.
OF THE PEACE AND JOY IN PURGATORY.

The souls in purgatory, being en-
tirely freed from the guilt of sin, and
thus far restored to their original
purity, and their volition being en-
tirely conformed to that of God, they
are constantly participating in his
goodness.

Their guilt is remitted because,
before departing this life, they re-
pented of their sins and confessed
them with a firm purpose not to com-
mit any more. They retain, then,
only the rust of sin which is worn
away by those penal fires.

Being thus cleansed from all sin
and united to God by their will, they
contemplate him clearly according to
the degree of light which is given
them. They comprehend how impor-
tant it is that they should enjoy God,
the end for which they were created.
They feel so united to him by entire
conformity of will, and are attracted
so powerfully toward him by a natu-
ral instinct, that I find no compari-
son, or examples, or way by which I
can express this impetuosity as I un-
derstand it Nevertheless, I will

372

Treatise on

give a comparison which has been
suggested to my mind,

CHAPTER VI.

COMPARISON ILLUSTRATING THE ARDENT
LOVE WITH WHICH THE SOULS IN lUR-
CATORY LONG FOR UNION WITH GOa

If in all the world there were but
one loaf, the mere sight of which
would satiate the hunger of all crea-
tures, what would be the feelings of a
man, with a natural instinct to eat
when he is in health, if he were nei-
ther able to cat, nor yet to be ill or
to die ? His hunger would always be
increasing with its undiminished in-
stinct, and, knowing that he could be
satiated by the very sight of this loaf
of which he is deprived, he remains
in unbearable torments* The nearer
he approaches it, the more ravenous
is his hunger, which draws him toward
this food» the object of his desire.

If he were sure of never beholding
this bread, he would endure a kind
of hell, like that of the eternally lost,
who aredcprived of the Bread of Life
and of the hope of ever beholding
Christ our Redeemer.

The soub in purgatory, on the con-
trary, hope to behold this bread and
to eat their fill thereof; but mean-
while they suffer the torments of a
cruel hunger after it — that is to say,
after Jesus Christ, the God of our
salvation and our love.

CHAPTER Vn.

OF THE WONTJERFUL WISDOK OF COD m
THE CREATION OF FURGATORY AND

HELU

As the purified soul finds its re-

jpose only in God, for whom it was

k created, so the soul defiled by sin has

no other place but hell assigned it

for its destination.

The soul, at the moment of its

separation from the l^ody, naturally
gravitates toward its true centre. If ^
in a state of deadly sin, it goes tifl
its appointed place, carried lliere*
by the very nature of sin. If
it did not find this place provided^
for it by divine justice, it would re-^
main in a worse hell ; for it would no
longer be under the ordinance of ^
God, still participating in his mcrcy,H
and where the pain is less than the^
soul merits.

Not finding, then, any place better
suited to it, or less fearful than hell,
by divine appointment it goes thither
as to its own place.

It is the same with purgatory. The
soul, separated from the body, not
finding in itself all its primitive puri
ty, and seeing that this impediments
to its union with God can only be re-
moved by means of purgatory, volun-
tarily throws itself therein. If the
place prepared for the removal of
this impediment did not exist, there
would instantaneously be generated
in the soul a torture far worse than
purgatory, for it would comprehend
that this impediment would hinder it
from union with God» its aim and its
end.

This end is so ardently longed for,
that the torments of purgatory seem
as nothing, although, as we have
said, they are like those of hell in
some respects. But, I repeat, they
seem as nothing compared with the
soul's true end.

CHAPTER VIII.

OF THE NECESSrrV OF FURGATOEY A WD '
THE TEHEriJtE NATURE OF rrs TOA'

MENTS.

Furthermore I will say; the
gates of heaven, through the good-
ness of God, are closed against no
one. Whoever wishes can enter, for
the Lord is full of mercyi and

Tnaiist on Putgatary.

«73

nms are odnstantly extended to re-
ceive US into glory.

But I see also tiiat fhis divine es-
sence is of such parity, surpassing all
ve can imagine, that the soul which
perceives in itself the slightest mote
of imperfection would cast itself into
a thousand hells rather than remain
with a ungle stain in the presence of
infinite Majesty.

Therefore, seeing purgatory or-
dained for the removal of these stains,
the soul plunges into it, esteeming it
a provision of wonderful mercy by
which it can be freed from the impe-
diment it finds in itself.

No tongue can express, no mind
conceive, the nature of purgatory.
As to the severity of its torments,
they equal those of hell.* Neverthe-
less, the soul with the slightest stain
endures them as a merciful dispensa-
cioDy r^^iding them as nothing in
comparison with what opposes their
union with God.

I seem to understand that the sor-
row of the souls in purgatory for hav-
ing in themselves the cause of God's
displeasure, resulting from their past
oflfences against his great goodness —
I seem to understand, I say, that this
sorrow surpasses all the other tor-
ments which they endure in this
place of purification. Being in a
state of grace, they comprehend the
force and seriousness of the obstacle
which hinders their union with God.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MDTUAL LOW OF GOD AND THS
SODLS IN PURGATORY—DIFFICULTY OF
FINDING EXPRESSIONS ON THIS SUB-
JECT.

Everything which has been re-
vealed to me upon this subject, and
which I have comprehended accord-
ing to the capacity of my mind, is of

* Except that the tools in purgatory are not Kp«>
nted from tlM love and will of God, and have hopt.

VOL. VIII.— 18

SO much importance that, compared
therewith, all the knowledge, all the
sayings, all the opinions, all the rea-
son, and all the wisdom of man in
this life seem as vain trifles and as
things of no account. I acknow-
ledge, to my confusion, that I can
find no other words to express my
meaning.

I perceive so great a conformity
between God and the soul in purga-
tory that, in order to restore the lat-
ter to its original purity, God inspires
in the soul an ardent love which
draws it toward him — a love forci-
ble enough to annihilate it, were it
not immortal. It transforms it to
such a degree that the soul beholds
nothing but God, who draws and in-
flames it continually, without ever
abandoning it, till he has brought it
back to the source whence it issued,
that is to say, to the perfect purity
in which it was created.

And when the soul, interiorly en-
lightened, feels itself thus attracted
by the fire of God's great love, it
melts completely in its ardor. It sees,
by a supernatural light, that God
never ceases to lead it on, with con-
stant providential care, to its entire
perfection ; it sees that God, is
prompted only by pure love, and that
the soul, impeded by the effects of
sin, can only follow the divine im-
pulse, that is to say, that attraction
which draws it toward God ; it com-
prehends also the greatness of the
obstacle which hinders its admission
to the presence of the divine light ;
finally, it is drawn by that powerful
instinct which would have nothing
hinder it from yielding to the divine
attraction : it sees and feels all these
things, I say, and therein is the source
of the soul's torments in puigatory.

But it does not regard its pain, how-
ever great : it regards infinitely more
the obstacle the will of God finds in
it| that will which it clearly sees is

«74

Trmtiu am PmrgaUfy.

UI of the purest and most aideot
loir ibrh.

This love and this nnitiTe attnc-
tioo act so coodnoalij and so power-
Mlf vpoD the soul, that if it could
find another pnrgatorj more terrible
than this, in which it could be sooner
dd if oed from all that separates it
from the Sovereign Good, it woold
qwedilj plunge therein, throogh the
impctnosity of the love it bears to
God.

retaining anything m itself. It has
its being then in God. And when he
has bro u g ht the soul to himself, thus
purified, it becomes impassible, for
there is nothing left in it to be con-
sumed. And should it still remain
in the fire after being thus purified,
it would suffer no longer. That fire
would be to it a flame of dinne love,
itself etonal life, in which the soul
could experience no more contradic-
tiotts.

CHAFint z.

CHAPTER XI.

SOVTL Dl nrsGA*
TOBT— THB SOVL ACQCQtIS THSKKIX
STCH mtFICT PUUTT THAT WXIJE IT
TO KDtADC THEKE AFm Tt% ?rUFI-

CATKKX rr wocu) scma 310 mokx.

I bdiold, abo, the ardent rajs of
iliiiiielove toward thesoubcf men
pewctrating and potent enot^ to de-
stroT,not onhrthe bodj, but the soul
«cven, if diat were possible.

These rays produce two efiects:
iher purih*, and they annihilate.

Look at gold : the more you melt
h the purer it becomes, and you
xouid go on refining it till every im-
purity is destroyed. Such is the effect
•of fire upon material things. Though
the soul cannot annihilate itself in
*God, it can in its own self; and the
more it is purified, the more com-
•pletely is it annihilated in itself, till
-at last it rests quite pure in God.

It is said that gold, when it is pu-
rified to a certain degree, no longer
•diminishes, nchatever d^ree of heat
it may be exposed to, because no-
thing butihe dross can be consumed.
The divine fire acts in like manner
•upon the soul. God holds it in the
fire till every imperfection is con-
sumed. He thus reduces all souls
"to a state of purity, each one accord-
jing to its own degree of perfection.

And when the soul is thus purified
\K rests altogether in God, without

THX 90CLS IN PUKGATOXT DESIXE TO BE
PUXIFIXD rXOM EVEXY STAIN OF SIN>—
OF THE WISDOM OF GOD IN IMMEDIATE-
LY COmrEALIXG rXOM THESE SOULS
THXIX FAULTS

The soul was originally endowed
with all the means of attaining its
own degree of perfection, by living in
conformity with the laws of God and
keeping itself pure from all stain of
sin. But, being contaminated by
original sin, it loses its gifts and
graces. It dies, and can only rise
again by the assistance of God. And
when he has raised it to life again
by baptism, a bad inclination still
remains in the soul, leading it, if un-
resisted, to actual sin, by which it dies
anew. God raises it again by another
special grace ; nevertheless it remains
so soiled, so fallen back upon itself,
that, to be restored to the state of
purity in which God created it, it has
need of all the divine operations
before mentioned to enable it to re-
turn to its primitive condition.

When the soul is on its way back
to this state, its desire of being lost
in God is so great as to become the
purgatory of the soul.

Purgatory is nothing to it as pur-
gatory. The burning instinct which
forces it toward God, only to find an
impediment, constitutes its real tor>
ture.

Tfwattse an Purgatory.

275

Bf a last act of love, God, the au-
tfwr of this plan for the perfection of
the soul, wosks without the concur-
RDce of man ; for there are in the
soul so many hidden imperfections
diat if it saw them it would be in de-
spur. But the state of which we
lave jost spoken destroys them all.
It is only when they are obliterated
Aat God shows them to the soul, in
order that it may comprehend the
'divine operation wrought by this fire
of love consuming all its imperfec-
tions.

CHAPTER XII.

BOW JOYFULLY SUFFERING IS KNDURID IN
PURGATORY.

Remember that what man con-
siders perfect in itself, is full of de-
fects in the eyes of God. Every-
thing man does which has the ap-
pearance of perfection fix)m the point
of view in which he sees it, or feels,
understands, wills, or recalls it, is
soiled and infected if he does not
attribute it to God.

Our deeds are perfect only when
they are wrought by us, without
considering ourselves the principal
agents, and when they are referred
to Cody we being only his instru-
ments.

Such are precisely the final opera-
tions of pure love wrought by God
himself in the soul, without any merit
on our part. These operations are
so ardent and so penetrating in
their effects upon the soul, that it
seems as though the body which
envelops it would be consumed as
in a great fire where death alone
could give relief.

It is true that the love of God
which fills the soul in purgatory in-
spires it, according to my compre-
hensiooy with a joy that cannot be
But this satisfaction

does not take away one particle of
the pain. Nay, it is the hindering
of love from the possession of its
object which causes the pain, and
the pain is in proportion to the per-
fection of the love of which God has
made the soul capable.

Thus it is that the souls in purga-
tory at once enjoy the greatest tran-
quillity and endure the greatest pain ;
and the one in no way hinders the
other,

CHAPTER XIII.

NO MERFF IS ACQUIRED IN PURGATORY^
IN WHAT MANNER THE SOULS IN PUR-
GATORY REGARD THE SUFFRAGES MADE
IN THEIR BEHALF ON EARTH.

If the stains of the souls in pur-
gatory could be effaced by contrition,
the divine justice might in an in-
stant be satisfied, so prpfound and
ardent is their sorrow in view of the
great obstacle which opposes their
union with God, their chief end and
their love.

But, remember, God has decreed
that the last farthing is to be de-
manded of these souls for the satis-
faction of eternal justice. As to
them, they have no choice \ they can
now see and wish only what God
wishes. This is the unalterable
state of their souls.

If some spiritual alms are given
on earth to abridge the time of their
sufferings, they cannot regard them
Tilth affection, only as they are
weighed in the equitable scales of
the divine will, leaving God to act
according to his own pleasure, and
to pay himself and his justice in
the way his own infinite goodness
chooses to select.

If it were possible for them to re-
gard these alms apart from the good
pleasure of God, they would be
guilty of an act of appropriation
which would deprive them of the

376

TrmUiu 0m Pwrgaimj.

knowledge of the dmoe wfll, and
thus making their abode a helL

Thus tkey receive ercnr appoint-
nent of God vith tranqoiUitj, and
neither joy, nor sati^factinoy nor snf-
feiing^ can ever induce theinto£iIl
back upon thmwrlves,

CHAFTSn ZXT.

or IRK smassK>9 or trk socls di

PTIGAZOBT TO THE VXZX OT COD.

These souls are so perfectij con-
finned to the viQ of God diat thej
are alwajs satiwd vidi his boljde-

If a sodl were adBxtfied to the
visaoQ of God, haraig still soaedung
left tt> be deacsed avar. it voold
cpn aid er itself grieroosbr mjnred
and Ks sucklings wjfsc than nan^j^
cffies^ far ic voidd be viable
that esccsBicve goodness
asid diat penect jostace*

Wbas an BKoognctT rt would be
is the 5%:hc cft'God^ as weO as of the
scdL XT his HEStke not to be entirely
saSBfied! If this soollacted a single
Boom: cf ripintifwi. it would feel
an inscpf^xtable toftore. and would
p^Tir:^ i::;o a thousand hells to re-
BOTe this little rust rather than re-
bxLb in the presence of God without
beng ennrely porined.

CRAFTER XT.

A wAurnco to pbotlb or ths woauk

Would that I could ay loud
enough to frighten all the men who
dwell upon the face of the earth, and
say to them : O miserable men 1 why
do you suffer yourselves to be so
blinded by the world as not to make
any provision for that imperious ne-
cessity in which you will find your-
selves at the moment of death ?

You all shelter yourselves under
the hope of God's mercy, which you

can so infimte. But do you not see
that it is precisely this great good-
ness of God which will rise up in
judgment against you, miserable
men, for rd)eliing against the will
of so good a Lord?

His goodness should incite you to
die foil accomplishment of his will,
instead of encouraging you to sin
with impunity ; for, be fully assured,
hb justice can never fail, and it
mnst, in some way, be entirely satis-*
fied.

Do not reassure yourself by saying :
I will confess all my sins, I will gain
a plenary indulgence, and thus I
shall be cleansed at once from all
mr iniquities ; and so I shall be sav-
ed. Remember that contrition and
confession are necessary to gain a
plenary indulgence. And perfect
cu nti i tk m is so difficult to acquire
Aat, if you knew how difficult it is,
you would tremble for very fear, and
would be much more certain of not
gaining the indulgence than of ob-
taining soch a grace.

CHAPTER XVI.

cc WHICH rr is shown that the tor.

ICEXTS OF PUHGATORY DO NOT AFFECt
tHB PKACB AND JOY OF THB SOULS
THKEEIN DETAINEa

I see that the souls suffering in
purgatory are conscious of two ope-
rations of divine grace in them.

By the first of these operations
they willingly endure their sufferings.
Considering, on the one hand, what
they have merited, and, on the other,
the incomprehensible majesty of an
offended God, they understand the
extent of his mercy toward them.
For a single sin merits a thousand
hells eternal in duration ; but the
goodness of God tempers justice with
mercy in accepting the precious blood
of Jesus Christ in satisfection for
sin. So that these souls

Treatise on Purgatory.

27;

their tcynnents so willingly that they
vDold not have them diminish one
iota. They see how fully they are
BMrited, and how righteously they are
oidained : and as to their will, it no
Bore revolts against that of God than
> if they were participating in the joys
of eternal life.

The second operation of grace in
fliese souls consists in the peace with
idiich they are filled in view of the
dinne ordinances^ and the love and
mercy of God manifested in their
behalf:

The knowledge of these two opera*
tions is imprinted by God on these
souls in an instant, and, as they are
in a state of grace, they comprehend
them, every one according to his ca-
jMcity. They feel a great joy, which,
£ir from diminishing, goes on increas*
ing in proportion as the time for
tbeir union with God approaches.

These souls do not view these
things in themselves or as belonging
to themselves ; they view them in
God, with whom they are far more
occupied than with their own tor*
ments. For the least glimpse man
has of God transcends every pain
and every imaginable joy.

Nevertheless, their excessive joy
does not in the least detract from
dieir pain, nor their extreme pain in
the l^t from their joy.

CHAPTER XVII.

ni WHICH ST. CATHARINE APPLIES WHAT
SHE HAS WRITTEN OF THE SOULS IN
PURGATORY TO WHAT SHE HAS FELT
AKD EXPERIENCED IN HER OWN SOUL.

My own soul has experienced the
same state of purification as that of
the souls in purgatory — especially
within two years — and each day I spc
and feel this more clearly. -; If y soul
remains in the body as in a purgatory,
but only in such a degree of sufTen-
ing as the body can endure without

dying. And this suffering will go on
increasing by degrees till the body is
no longer able to support it, and will
really die.

My mind has become unused to all
things, even spiritual, which could
refresh it, such as joy, pleasure, or
consolation. It is no longer able, by
will, understanding, or memory, to
relish anything, whether of a tempo-
ral or spiritual nature, so that I can
say one thing pleases me more than
another.

My soul has been so besieged, as
it were, that by degrees it has been
deprived of all that could refresh me
spiritually or corporally. Even this
privation makes me feel the power
these things have of nourishing and
refreshing me ; but the soul, con-
scious of this power, loathes and ab-
hors them to such a degree that they
have ceased for ever to tempt me.

For it is an instinct of the soul to
strive to overcome every obstacle to
its perfection — an instinct so cruelly
exacting that it would, as it were,
allow itself to be cast into hell to
achieve its object It goes on then
depriving itself of everything in which
the inner man can delight, and this
with so much subtlety that the slight-
est imperfection is noted and de-
tested.

The outer man, being no longer
sustained by the consolations of the
soul, suffers to such a degree thatf
humanly speaking, it can find no*
thing on earth to sustain it. There
remains for it no other consolation
than God, who ordereth all these
things in infinite mercy and love, for
the satisfaction of his justice. This
view inspires me with great peace
and joy, which, nevertheless, do net
diminish the violence of my suffer-
ing; but no pain could be severe
enough to induce me to deviate in
the least from the order of things
established by God. Nor would I

jcyt xatsssii bac I
^■K 3V 'Vans !D fCRSS ST nex^

"WKBBtSm I xr^ xii 2CS cotnDCQ in
3r 3V3. scizL 'mbjoh Lb girai me
zfe aecesBKT Ljkjv Sedge ibr vndng

ThepcisoQ IB wliich I seem to be
B Ae world ; the duin that binds
■e therem is the bodr. And the
90«I, flhwijnatrd hj grace, recog-
nizes die importance of the obsta-
cles vhich hinder it from attaining its
true end. This causes great grief to
the sod, on account of its extreme
sensibilitT. Nevertheless, it recei\-es,
thnx^ the pore grace of God, a
certain nopress of dignity, which
not onhr assimilates it to God, bat
l e ud c is it in a manner one with
hzm br a participation of his good-
Pf^ ' And, as it is impossible for
God to sufier. so the soul which lives
m unioci wfdi him becomes impassi-
bte» M»d tike more complete this union
the more ic shares in the divine at-
tnontes^

But tfae debr of this union causes
an tnooterahie suderiag in the souL
Aad :his «i&rj:f: and this delay
amlw it dirimsc sra what it was
at its creaootL G<>i. Vy his grace,
TBiMCes knuwn 3? is :3 orUiioil condi-
MO. Wttnmic Ae p»>wr of return-
ti^ n^ 1^ ami ncc M^i:^ itself adapt-

lemains in a
rronate to its
ir GuL Tiji Icttc increases
pe scuL s kzc^lecgc of God,
i3 kzcvje-ige ricreases in the
ride as =k xkI is purified from
T^KS diis delay becomes more
aore intolerable, because the
90cL, eadrelj absorbed in God, has
Bodcx^ more to hinder it from truly
Bsowmf iiT*n i

The man who prefers to suffer
death rather than otffend God is not
the less fiilly alive to its pangs, but
the di\'ine grace inspires him with a
fervor which makes him think more
of the honor of God than the life of
the body. It is the same with the
soul that knows the will of God. It
regards that as of infinitely more im-
portance than all interior or exterior
sufferings »'hatever, however terrible
they may be; for the Lord who work-
eth in it surpasses all that can be felt
or imagined The result is that the
slightest hold of God upon the soul
keeps it so united to his supreme will
that everything else is esteemed as
nothing. The soul thus loses all con-
sideration of self It becomes so
regardless of pain that it does not
speak of it or even feel it. It is
conscious of its real condition for
one moment only — as has been said
before — ^when passing from this life
to the next

I will only add, in conclusion : let
us become thoroughly impressed with
the fact that God, at once good and
powerful, has created purgatory for
the purification of man, wherein is
consumed and annihilated all that
he is by nature.

7X# Charities of New York.

279

THE CHARITIES OF NEW YORK.

Ir we recur agaun to a subject on
vfaidi we have two or three times al<
ready addressed the readers of Thb
Catholic World, it is because we
are so deeply impnessed with its im-
portance, and because we are per-
suaded that in any matter which so
highly concerns the Catholic cause
an our friends must be heartily inte-
rested. The generosity of Catholics
toward their church is almost prover-
bial. They give more to religion
than any other denomination ; they
give more liberally in proportion to
their means ; and they give sponta-
neously. And nowhere is their gene-
rosity more strikingly shown than in
the great cities of America, where
they have built so many scores of
cosdy churches, and raised up con-
Tents and orphan asylums, and where
ftey have given almost every parish
its free school, though the law has
compelled them likewise to pay taxes
fi>r the support of common-schools
to which they cannot in conscience
entrust their children. Here, in New
York City, we have had a particularly
heavy task to perform. As this is
the landing-place of most of the Ca-
tholic immigrants, besides being the
chief city and business centre of the
country, the growth of the Catholic
population has been especially rapid,
and it has grown in principal mea-
sure by the influx of the poorer class-
es, who, while they stand in greatest
need of the help of the Church, are
able to do least for its support It is
a notorious fact that, while a large
proportion of the more thrifly im|nic-
grants move out to the West, and
help to build up Catholicism in our
new States and territories, the desti-
tute and shiftless almost invariably

remain in the large cities. Hence,
the growth in the material resources
of the Church in New York does not
keep pace with the growth in its
numbers. The well-to-do immigrants
who have settled here, and the Ame-
rican-bom Catholics, children of the
last generation of settlers, or else
converts from Protestantism, have
a task of peculiar difficulty, as they
must provide not only for the natural
increase in their own numbers, but
for the spiritual wants of their poorer
brethren, who have no means of pro-
viding for themselves. And it is a
task which seems to grow harder and
harder every year. The congrega-
tions increase much faster than the '
churches. Children multiply faster
than the schools. With all the unre-
mitting labors of our successive bish-
ops and archbishops, and all the un-
tiring exertions of our zealous priests,
there are not yet churches enough in
New York City.

We must remember this peculiar
condition of our Church when we
undertake to compare Catholic with
Protestant charities. The noblest
work of benevolence is that which
assists our neighbor to save his soul \
and Catholics understand perfectly
well that they can make no better
disposition of their alms than in con-
tributing to supply the poor with op-
portunities of hearing Mass, receiv-
ing the sacraments, and learning the
principles and precepts of their faith.
Hence, their liberality has been di-
rected first toward the building of
churches and the education of priestSy
arid neVct toward the support of Ca-
tholic schools. While there was so
much to be done in these directions,
they felt comparatively little disposi-

Tke Charities of New York

281

vlndi are supported entirely, or al*
most entirely, by appropriations from
tSie city or State, such as Bellevue
I Hospital, the New York Blind Asy-
hnn, etc., as well as those which do
Mt properly belong to New York
City. The figures represent the num-
ber of persons who have obtained aid
or shelter from these various organi*
ations during the past year. The
admirable Mission-House in St
Jimes* x>arish has gone into opera-
tion since last year, and therefore
caomot be included in the table.

CATHOLIC

L Sl Vmcent's Hoipitil, 831

X. St. F^nncb'a German Hoqjitsd, .... 59a
> Sc ScepheB*s Home for Destitute Little

Girts, 100

^ St Patrick's ICale Orphan Asylum, . • . 550

5. Sc. Patridc*s Female Orphan Asylum, . . 390

6. Sl Joseph's Orphan Asylum, 150

^ St. ViiiGeiit's Orphan Asylnm, 85

1 Hcase of the Good Shepherd, .... 500

% lasdtatioo of Mercy, 2845

■k. Si. \nnceot de Paul Sodety,*

Total,

6044

PROTESTANT AND JEWISH.

1. Sl Lake's Hospital, 1027

X, Society for the Reli^ of the Ruptured and

Crippled, X684

y, Women** Ho^tal, 189

4. German Hospital and Dispensary, . . .

5. Efc and Ear InEnnary, 80^

Ik Mount Sinai Hospital, 1028

7. Infirmary for Women and Children, . . 137

L N««evy and Child's Hospiul, .... 57s

%. Lcdce and Watts Orphan House, . • . 100
la Sl Lake's Home for Indigent Christian

Females, 31

B. ftmcrif in Female Guardian Society and

Home for the Friendless, ..... 5033

SL P. E. Hooaeof Mercy, iis

13. Orphan Asylum, 1S6

14. Colored Oqihaa Asylum, 154

15. Orphan Home and Asylnm of the Protes-

tant Episcopal Church, 158

16. Society for the Relief of Half-Orphan and

De«titale CluUren, 230

xj. Hdirew Benevolent and Orphan Asylum

Society 150

xlL Five points House of Industry, .... xooo

x^ Hie Sheltering Arms, 157

an. Children's Aid Society, 819a

SL Five Paints Mission .

SL Association for the Relief of Respectable

Aced Indigent Females, 79

S). Magdalen Society, 37

94. Ladies* Union Aid Society, 65

as. Colarcd Hosm, 800

* Lack of infermation obliges us to leave several
Uaaks ia dM above table, where figures should ap-

a6w UnioD Hobm and School for ChildraB of

Volunteer Soldiers and Sailors, . . . 350
S7. Asylnm for Lying>tn Women, ..... 395

38. Women's Prison Association, 3J0

99. New- York Prison Association, ....

30. Presbyterian Home for Aged Women, . . as

3x. Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with

small Children,

3s. Howard Mission and Home for Little Wan-
derers, xoo

33. Working- Women's Protective Union, . .

34. Association for Improving the Condition of

the Poor,

35. The Home, in West- Houston street, . . xxa
36w Samaritan Home for the Aged, ....

37. Protestant Episcopal City Mission, . . .

38. Woricing- Woman's Home, rso

39. Ladies' Christian Union, ...... X50

4a House and School of Industry, .... xoa

Total,

This is not a pleasing compari-
son. Out of fifty institutions here
enumerated, only ten belong to us.
Out of 37,904 persons annually re-
lieved by the fifty charities, our
share is only 6044. The case is
not so bad, however, as it appears
on first inspection. Our Sisters of
Charity and Mercy perform an im-
mense amount of benevolent work
outside of their own houses and asy-
lums, nursing the sick, consoling the
afflicted, watching in public hospi-
tals, feeding the hungry, and visiting
the prisoner ; work which cannot be
measured by figures, because there is
no record of it except in heaven.
Benevolent labor of the kind to which
our sisterhoods devote themselves
is undertaken by various of the non-
Catholic organizations enumerated in
the above table, and largely increases
their apparent predominance over
our own establishments, because they
sum up in statistical form what is
done, and we do not Then again,
several of the charities set down as
Protestant are entirely unsectarian
in their character, and we dare say
draw a fair proportion of their sup-
port from Catholic sources. Not so
bad as it seems, we say ; yet surely
bad enough. Perhaps we ought not
even to claim credit for what the
sisterhoods do ; for theirs are in rea-
lity labors of individual benevolence^

The Chanties of New York.

283

ation of a Labor Bureau, by which
die superfluous hands of the city may
be distributed among the farming re-
gions, where labor is badly needed.
Sectarianism appears to have nothing
to do with this enterprise, and it of-
fers relief in the best possible way,
by enabling the poor not to eat the
bread of idleness, but to earn an
honest living. For the aged and
friendless, who are past work and
have no provision for the sunset of
life, we still have no asylums; but
their claims must be postponed until
those of the children are satisfied.
We are told that our city contains
DO fewer than 40,000 vagrant and
destitute children. What a fearful
seed of crime and misery this sad
multitude constitutes, growing up in
every kind of ignorance and vice,
and ripening for the prisons ! What
are we doing for them? We have
orphan asylums \ but most of these
children are not orphans, and even
if they were, the asylums have not
room for a tithe of them. We have
the Protectory, at Westchester ; but
that is only for young criminals, who
must be committed on a magistrate's
warrant, and must, moreover, be the
children of Catholic parents. Now,
thousands of these young vagrants
have never yet fallen within the grasp
of the law ; thousands are the chil-
dren of no faith whatever, and, if
brought before a justice, would have
to be sent to the Protestant instead
of the Catholic asylum. And, even
if all these children could be brought
under the control of our Protectory
Association, twenty such asylums as
the excellent one at Westchester
would not hold them. Nol there
b much for us yet to do ; there are
Aousands of poor little children upon
whom Catholic diarity has not yet
hid % finger.

We spoke, in a former number of
Tbb Catholic World, of the noble
■ission-scfaod which the zeal and

perseverance of one good priest has
founded in St. James's parish in this
city. If almost every church in New
York were able to build an institu-
tion of a similar kind, we might rest
satisfied; but what is one mission-
school among 40,000 children ? What
can one over-worked clergyman do
toward performing a task which is
the duty of the entire Catholic com-
munity ? It is a sad and humiliating
thing to confess; but Protestants
seem to appreciate the claim which
these vagrant children have upon
the public much better than we do.
The Protestants are not idle: they
have their Refuges, their Industrial
Schools, their "Homes," their mis-
sionaries, right in the heart of the
vagabond population ; they spare
neither trouble nor money to catch
these souls ; and we are ashamed to
say they capture a great many who
are 'rightfully our charges. If we let
this continue, will not God have a
terrible account to exact of us some
day?

We are gratified to know that what
we have heretofore said on this sub-
ject has not been without its effect.
There are some good brethren who
seem to believe that it is the duty of
all Catholic writers to defend those
of the faith from ever>' aspersion, to
cover up all their defects, to excuse
all their wrong-doings, to hold them
up as perfect models of the Christian
life, and to ignore or decry every
good work undertaken by heretics.
Such as these were offended at the
account we gave of the Howard Mis-
sion, and similar Protestant institu-
tions. But others have listened to
us in a more sensible frame of mind,
have acknowledged the justice of our
remarks, and have offered to contri-
bute their purses whenever an ef-
fort is made to supply the want we
have indicated. Made it will be and
must be, before long. Now, who will
make it?

284

The Charities of New YarL

Wc had written thus far, when we
received an unexpected answer to
our question in tlie following letter
from a charitable Catholic lady :

To TitE EorroiL or The Cathouc
Would:

Rev. FATKRRt The llvouglit of doing
•omcthing for the neglected children of New
York prompts me to write to you. Since
the moment that I read the letter that you
published irv TiiE Catholic World, they
have scarcely been out of my mind. 1 have
oflered up all my prayers and communions
ibr them, and I have prayed especially for
them every day. I had no thought that I
could do anything el«c, but sometimes I
think that, if all should content themselves
with praying, there would be nothing done.
I am afraid I cannot do much, for 1 do not
know how to begin, and I have so little
confidence and I know so few people. But
I felt as if I could not pray any more with-
out trying to do something also. Perhaps
the work could be begun by an appeal
something Ukc the following :

to cathouc mothers.

**Of forty tbouaacid vagrant cUildren m New York
vre caoDOt doabt that hx more than mic half have in-
herttcd llie CatboUc Ciiih."— Cathulic Woxlo ftft
Aug. iS68.

More than tinentj thousand Catholic
children in New York, homeless, uncarcd
for, ignorant, and aban<bncd ! Can we
Catholic mothers think of this and sit quiet-
ly in our homes with our little ones around
tis ? Can we shut from our cars their cries
of sorrow, from our eyes their little forms
trembling with cold and hunger, or from
our hearts the thought of their desolation ?
No, we cannot, and we would not ; for is it
not most especially our right, our duty, and
our privilege to do for them ? Our priests
are overworked, they cannot do everything ;
let us, then, beg their blessing and begin
this noble undertaking. We have not much
to do^ only to prepare the way. The Sisters
of Charity or Mercy are ready and longing
to care for these little desolate ones. We
have only to put the means in their hands.
Already a Catholic lady of New York has
given one thousand dollars for this end, and
we have only to follow her as far as wc are
able. I think ten others can be found in
our dty to imitate her example. If we can,
let us give largely, for tt is but lending to
the Lord ; if wc have but little, let us give
of that, not forgetting that the widow's ttiite

was more than all else cast into the i
sury. Shall we let the snows of another '
winter find these little ones still unclothed
and unsheltered ; shall we let their souls
perish here in the midst of churches and
altars, while our priests and missionaries in
distant lands are shedding their blood for
the heathen ? Let us Christian mothers be-
gin our work earnestly, let us pray and la^
bor for these little ones ; they arc here tji
our midst, and before God we aie reapoti*
sible for them.

Kespectfullj,

Our correspondent, we believe, ha$'l
gone to work in the right way, andy^j
unless we greatly misjudge the Ca*'
tholic ladies of New York, her ap^l
peal will be heard. The best plan, ]
we think, w^ould be to establish, tii
the heart of the poorer quarters of
the city, a mission-house under the 4
charge of Sisters of Charity, or Sis- 1
ters of Mercy, who should make it
their whole business to visit the des-
titute in their homes, teach them
how to lead decent lives, see that
their children were brought into
Sunday and day-schools, iliat the
whole family went to mass and con- ^
fession, and that the children receiv
ed proper care at home. It is muc
better to persuade parents to train!
up their offspring properly than to'
take the children out of their hands
and rear them in mission houses and
asylums. The family relation ought
to be rigidly respected; for God's
plan of education is a good deal bet-
ter than anything we can invent in
place of it. For homeless and or-
phan children, tlie Sisters might see
that admission was procured into the
Catholic establishments already pro- ^
vided for those classes ; for the sicl
and the starving they would ask
lief from the charitable throughc
the city, and whatever we placed it
their hands we might be sure woul(tj
be judiciously distributed. There
are generous Catholic womt-n i nnuglj
in New York to die foim'.' tJcJa^

a house, and provide for me >upporl* '

New Publications.

285

flf ft smftll ooodmiiiity to take chai^ge
of it; ftnd there are many who
vonld biglily value the privilege of
co-operating with the Sisters in their
holy work. Let them come forth,
cflfect an oxganiiation under the
aanctioa of the ecclesiastical aur
Oority of the diocese, begin at once
to raise the money required, and a
great undertaking, the parent of

many others, will be effected. When
we once get into the way of practi-
cal benevolence, we shall be surpris-
ed to see how easily one foundation
will follow another, and how the ha-
bit of alms-deeds will become so
fixed that it will seem easier and
more natural to give than to refrain
from giving.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SncBOUSM ; or. Exposition of the
Doctrinal Difeences between Catho-
lics and Protestants, as evidenced by
their Symbolical Writings. By John
A. Moehler, D.D. Translated from
the German, with a Memoir of the
Author, preceded by an Historical
Sketch of the state of Protestantism
: and Catholicism in Germany for the
' hst hundred years. By J. B. Robert-
son. New edition, revised and anno-
tated by the Translator. One voL
Svo, pp. 504. New York : The Ca-
tholk Pubfication Society. 1868.

The Symbolism of Dr. Mdhler is,
periiaps, the most remarkable polemical
work which has appeared since the
dajs of BeUarmine and Bossuet Its
hiflnence in Germany has been extra-
ordinary, and the translation by Mr.
Rober ts on has exerted an influence of
Bmilar importance in Great Britain and
tibe United States, as well as in every
part of the world where English is
qMken. The late illustrious convert
frBn Ae Protestant Episcopal hierarchy,
Dr. Ives, was greatly indebted to this
book for the convictions which brought
kun into tiie Church, and many others
might donbtless say the same of them-
adves. It may be well to say, for the
benefit of non-professional readers, that
'SymboHim^ In German phraseology
mtnm the exposition of symbols of
' ibnnularies of doc-

trines, and that this work is a thorough
discussion of the dogmatic differences
between the Catholic Church and the
principal Protestant denominations. The
present edition is a very convenient one,
in one volume, neatly executed and
well printed. We cannot too earnestly
recommend to our intelligent readers,
who desire thorough and solid informa-
tion on the great topics of Catholic
doctrine, to study carefully this great
masterpiece of learning and thought

The Pope and the Church Con-
sidered IN their Mutual Rela-
tions with Reference to the
Errors op the High Church
Party in England. By the Rev.
Paul Bottalla, S.J., Professor of The-
ology in St. Beuno's College, North
Wales. Part I. The Supreme Au-
thority of the Pope. London : Bums,
Oates & Co. 1868.

The Apostolical and Infallible
Authority of the Pope. By F.
X. Weninger, D.D., S.J. New
York: Sadlier. Cincinnati: John P.
Walsh. 1868.

The first named of these two works
Is one of the very best and most learned
treatises on the subject discussed which
has appeared in the English language,
and will prove an invaluable addition to
every clergyman's or educated layman's

286

NiW PuhHcations,

libraTy. It is, moreot^er, of very mode-
rate size, and written with remarkable
logical terseness and lucidness of style
and order.

The second work also contains a
valuable and extensive collection of
authorities and testimonies to the su-
preme teaching authority of the Holy
See, and a risnmi of the arguments
usually given by theologians in support
of the author^s thesis. The modenite
and gentle spirit in which the venerated
author speaks of the adherents of an-
other school of Catholic theologians is
especially commendable and worthy of
jraitation, particularly as wc are now
awaiting the assembling of an Ecumeni-
cal Council, which will doubtless decide
all questions heretofore in controversy
5n regard to which the good of the
Church requires any clearer definitions
than those which have been already
made and universally accepted. There
are some few corrections called for in
the construction of the author*5 sen-
tences, especially one which occurs in
the note to page 206. The mechanical
execution of the book cannot receive
any high commendation.

The Illustrated Catholic Sun-
DAV-ScHOOL Library. Second Se-
ries. Twelve volumes, pp. 144 each.
New York: The Catholic Publication
Society, 126 Nassau street 186S.

The titles of the volumes in this

series are as follows : Nettkthorpi^ the

YMistr; Tales of Nar*al and Military

Vi^ifc; Harry G*Brien^ and Other TaUi;

\The Hermit of Mount Atlas y' LeOj or

The Choic4 of a Friend; Antonio, or

\The Orphan of Florence; Tales of the

South of Franu; Stories of Other

^Mnds ; Emma^s Cross ^ and Other

Tales \ Uncle Edward's Stories; Joe

^aker; and The Two Painters,

These tales were evidently selected
with good taste and sound judgment
All are interesting, of a high moral
tone, and well adapted to carry out the
praiseworthy object for which this ** li-
brary " was intended : furnishing Ca-
tholic youth of both sexes with reading
matter both useful and entectaining.

These i^olumes, in diveralh^' of eceni^j
variety of incident, etc., fuHy'equal thosM
ivhich appeared in the " First Scries j'M
while in external elegance, and in beauty
of illustration, they arc decidedly supe-
rior ^ We find one fault, however. J
Considering how far girls outnumberl
boys in our Sunday-schools, we tli'uikl
it hardly lair that but one volume shouldll
be devoted to the joys and sorrows, the
temptations and triumphs, of girlhood.
In our opinion, several volumes in each
series should be, in an especial manner,
set apart for their particular pleasure ]
and benefit. We hope our suggestion
will be, if possible, acted upon in the J
next series.

Leaf and Flower Pictures, and]

now TO MAKE THEM. New Yofk !

Anson D. F. Randolph. 186S.

This pleasantly written and instruc-
tive little work is dedicated most af- ^
fectionateiy to the authoress's " Two I
dear little * Doppies,^ " two little girls .
named respectively NeUic and Anna,
who one day *dopled her for their aunt
Hence their name. Wlioever H. B.
may be, (for this is all that is given tis
to know of this good **aunt,*) we are
sure that many persons who are inter-
ested in the delightfiil recreation of
making leaf and ^^ower pictures will
thank her for the composition of this
book. That our readers may under-
stand its object, we quote from the pre- i
face t ** 1 think even quite small chtl* M
dren, both bo}'s and girls, as well as V
older persons* will find It delightful to
make themselves pictures, and have a
collection * of their own ' of all sorts of
leaves, mosses^ grasses, flowers, and
lichens. Will it not add greatly to the
pleasure of being out of doors, tf^ in
every walk you lake, from May to Oc*
tober, you carry home some leaf, or
ilowcr, or spike of grass, to add to the
treasures of your hortus stccus^ or to
lay aside until Uie long cold hours of
winter come, when, in varnishing and
arranging them as pictures and decora-
tions, you can almost restore to ]roursel/
the delight of your summer ramblea«
and make into a permaneJit and abaclti^p

New PublicatiotiS.

287

pkasnre a portion of tiie beauty which
then diarmed and refreshed your soul ?
Therefore, dear reader, be you child or
WNnan, boy or man, if you would open
your eyes some frosty morning next
JaBury, and behold a lovely wreath of
ftmers blooming upon the walls of your
damber, with all the freshness of June
^a wreath that Jack Frost cannot
wither, even if be has sent the mercury
est of sight below zero — read this
little book ; for you can have one by
Uowing its directions."

Personal Sketches op his own
Times. By Sir Jonah Barrington,
Jndge of the High Court of the Ad-
miralty in IreUmd, etc., etc One
voL i2mo.

The Ltfb of the Right Honorable
John Philpot Curran, late Mas-
ter OF the Rolls in Ireland.
By his son, William Henry Curran.
With additions and notes by R. Shel-
lon MsLckenzie, D.C.L. One vol
isno.

SUTCHES OF the IrISH BAR« By

the Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil,
M.P. With Memoir and Notes by
R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L. Two
vohimes, pp. 388, 58a New York :
W. J. Wlddleton. 1868.

Above we give the titles of three
lories which have been out of print for
some time, but new editions of which
have just appeared Shell's ^ Sketches,"
oomraenced in 1822 and continued until
1829^ embrace short, piquant biographies
of the most prominent members of the
Irish Bar— O'Connell, Flunkey Burke,
(yLoghlin, Norbury, etc ; with inci-
dental allusions to other celebrities —
Lady Morgan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald,
Robert Emmet, etc, etcy There are.
In addition, the author's personal recol-
kptions of the Catholic Association in
1833 ; of the visit of the Catholic depu-
tation to London in 1825, and its recep-
tkia In the House of Commons; and
of die great Oare Election in 1828.
. Borriiiglon's Sketches are also racy
and piquant and give an insight into
IiUi maohcn and customs fifty yean

ago. The " Life of Curran " has been
a standard work, and this new edition
will bring it anew before the rising gen-
eration.

The Works of Rev. Arthur O'Lea-
RY, O.S.F, Edited by a clergyman
of Massachusetts. One vol. 8vo,
pp. 596. Boston : Patrick Donahoe.
1868.

The reputation of F. O'Leary is uni-
versal among all who take an interest in
Irish history and literature. His works,
which abound with learning, humor, and
passages of remarkably fine writing of
the rich, ornate style of the old school,
have been carefully edited by the learn-
ed clergjTnan whose name is modestly
withheld on the title-page, and publish-
ed in good style by Mr. Donahoe. We
thank them both for this valuable service
to Catholic literature, and have no sug-
gestion to make, except that the small
number of typographical errors which
have escaped the vigilance of the proof-
reader should be corrected in the second
edition.

The Lily of the Valley ; or, Margie
and I, and other Poems. By Amy
Grav. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.
1868.

The gentle authoress of these poems,
which have, at least, the merit of con-
veying a genuine expression of her
sentiments, presents the volume to the
public with this pre&cc, which we copy
entire : ** The object of the publication
of the poems, and in view of which most
of them were written, is to aid in the
education of destitute little girls of the
South, orphaned by the late war. The
author cannot hope for more than a
mite from so small a volume — ^the pro-
duction, too, of an unknown writer ; but
the proceeds, whatever they may be,
will be unreservedly appropriated to the
object above named. To an intelligent
and generous reading public the author
confides this little work, feeling sure
that their generosity will secure for it a

paitrdnage tliat its intrfnsic merit can*
not hope to obtain. It was of old the
duty And pHvQege of the chosen people
of God to offer the fvrst-fruitsof all their
possessions to his service ; and it is
with gratitude for many mercies re-
ceived, and with earnest prayers for the
divine blessing, that the author would
dedicate the first-firuits of her pen to an
object which seems in accordance with
the tcajchinjcrs of our blessed Lord, who
has said : * Take heed that ye despise
not one of these little ones ; for I say
unto you, that in heaven their angels do
always behold the face of my Father
which is in heaven.* "

hUtorical, and can be ibund in 7^ j
snd Letiers of Fhrenct Mac Carikj^ '
RtagK Tanist of Carherry^ ^fac Cartkf
Afar, compiled from unpublished docu»J
ments in her Majesty^a State }'aj>cf 1
Office, by Daniel Mac Cartliy, (Glas^J
and published by Lonfptian & Co., Lon*!
don. For tliose who cannot atTord td|
purchase the more expensive Knglisli
work, Mrs* SadJier's condensation of thi
life and times of the great Irish chic
tain will prove a very agreeable substj
tute. Besides being thus presented uti*|
der the guise of a graceful little storyp|
they will doubtless be more acccptalila
to most readers than the dr>* and prosai^
details of mere historical narration.

CxccLsiOR ; or. Essays on Politeness,
Education, and the Means of Attain-
ing Success in Life. Part I, For
young gentlemen. By T. E. Howard,
A.M. Part II. For young ladies.
By a ladv, (R. V. R.) Baltimore;
KcHy&PSet ia68.

A capital book, and one we would
like to have placed in the hands of
every student, boy or girl, in the coun-
try. It is not easy to write l>ooks of
this character, at least lMx>ks that young
persons will read ; but Mr. Howard and
hb gentle co-author have produced a
volume as pleasantly written as it is
golidly instructive. It is said that it
requires a high degree of moral courage
to purchase at the bookseller's a book
**on politeness." We trust that few
among our young fiiends will be want-
ing in this courage when the purchase
of the present volume is concerned, and
we win guarantee that not one will fail
to peruse it with very great pleasure.

Mac Carthy Morej or, The For-
tunes of an Irish Chief in the Reign
of Queen Elizabeth. By Mrs. J. Sad-
lier. New Yoric : D. & J. Sadlier
& Cow Pp. 277. 1868.

This, the latest production of Mrs,
Sadlier*fi prolific pen, is in no wise infe-
rior to its predecessors. The incidents
which form its groundwork are strictly

Plaik Talk ahout the Protest-
antism OF Today. From the
French of Mgr, Segur. Boston ; P.
Donahoe. 186S. J

The best word we can say about this
little book is to copy the first few lines
of the translator's note :

** You ask me, dear sir, * What mafcet
me so anxious to publish this work ill
America?' Well, I wish to ha^-e \%
published for the sake of Catholic chil-
dren attending common schools — of
Catholic girls living out in families— of
Catholic boys serving their time — of all
dear and poor Iriends so often wounded
in the aifections dearest to their hearts,
and whose religion is so often attacked
in rude words. I herewith hope to
place in their hands such arms as they
can easily use, and which will ha%c a
telling effect on the enemies of tbcir
failh;^

MiGKOif. A Tale. Translated from
the French. New York : P. O'Shca^

Pp. 202. 1^68.

A charming little story, neatly got tip 5
but the pleasure to be derived from \i%
perusal would, however, be consirttralilv
increased if the thread of thr

were not 5-0 *"'"" ^nd so neecl. ..

ken by wh icvoted to sefitira^ii*

talisms of luc Mi.tuuwest t)'pc

'Of ...

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. VIIL, No. 41

Atl*^

HYPNOTTTS;

The craving for opiates indicates
tbber pain or restlessness. The
•onDded man longs for that which
Buy dull the sensation of physical
stirring and procure the temporar>*
aUmon of sleep. One who is weari-
ed by Uie morbid activity of his brain^
md the lassitude which is caused by
k, desires some artificial remedy to
him the repose which refuses to
ac naturally to his sleepless eye-
A person in health has no need,
iftd, consequently, no desire for opi-
His activity is healthful and
[irable; his weariness is natu-
making rest pleasant, and giving
ud, recreative slumbers. In like
aaiioer, when one begins to talk
about a craving for an intellectual or
ipifitual opiate, the presence of some
taalady making the soul restless is
/est. Its activity is morbid and
lar, preventing that repose
iiich is the natural consequence
of a perfectly sound and normal
coddiiion of the mental and spiritual
Acuities,

These remarks were suggested by
reading, in an article written with
otocb refinement of taste and deli-

VOL, Vllf. — 19

cacy of sentiment in one of our prin-
cipal literary papers,^ the following
passage on the hj^notic qualities of
Catholicity :

** Mrs. Craven certainly offers very ahun-
dant and convincing testimony on this point
— a point which probably no one ever dreams
of controverting. Given natures like these,
ill which the emotional clement entirely pre-
dominates ; to which the pursuit of truth, as
an ultimate object, is totally mcooiprehen-
sible ; which crave happiness and repose
with a passionate longing, and the Church
certainly offers a satisfactory and compre-
hensive solution of all their difficulties. W^
lAewM all he Caiholics xotrt it not that the
Church sets too high a price upon her opiaUs,
One generally pays for extreme wealth of
emotional power by a corresponding pover-
ty of judgment, and though, if we had our
choice^ we might all l>c willing to be born
blind, that we might never feci afraid in the
dark, the settlement of the matter is certain-
ly not optional with us. It is a congenital
impossibility for some people to conceive of
their natural passions, of their judgment,
will, and reason, as mere counters with
which they can purchase eternal rest, and a
tardy but complete gratification of the wants
which arc here unsupplied. Such people do
not, in rejecting Catholicism, necessarily dis-
avow the yearning for this rest, nor the he-

• Thf Ntktum, Augutt 18th, 186ft ; R«vie« oC Mn..
Cr»vcn*a SiHtr's ■Story,

290

ffypnatics.

lief that it will be attained* 7%i crmnng^ ii
mihferialt the Churth^s aiuxvtr only partial'-^
ii aUmvs the claims of the emotiotis^ but it dis*
{tllows those of the intellect. There is no doubt
that she docs her legttttnate work well and
thoroughly, that she gives hope to the de-
spairing, comfort to the sorrowing, and some-
times memis the morals of the vicious — ^we
f|uajTel wiih her only because in \irtue of
doing this she claims the right to outrage or
ignore wants yet profounder than those which
she supplies."

We have selectfid tTiIs passage as
the theme of €ome brief discussion,
without any reference to 4he parttcti-
lar topic of the article in which it is
contained, or intention of raising any
special controversy with the writer of
it, whose personality is entirely un-
known to us. It has struck our at-
tention simply as a remarkably tan-
gible and felicitous expression of a
sentiment or opinion shared in com-
mon by a large class of minds, and
well worthy of our most serious con-
sideration. They tliink that those
who have embraced the Catholic re*
ligion have been driven^ by the un-
rest and weariness of the soul, to take
a spiritual opiate — a metaphorical ex-
pression, but one whose meaning is
so obvious that it needs no explana-
tion. They acknowledge the exist-
ence of the same unrest in their own
r souls, but refuse to accept the remedy
'.offered by the Catholic Church, be-
cause they imagine that it can only
produce its effect of relieving the
pain of the soul by superinducing an
artificial sleep of the intellect The
mind must slumber, intelligence must
cease its activity, in order that the
heart may be made peaceful and
happy in the practice of the Calho-
lllc religion. They are unwilling to
rpurchase re^it at such a price, and, it
'may be, would be unable to do it if
they were willing. Therefore, they
prefer to endure the pain of doubt,
the restlessness of scepticism, the
weariness of a yearning after an un-

known good, in the vnguc eif
tion of finding it at ^ome dislal
riod, if not in this world, yet in i
future sphere of existence, TTic ob-
jection of these persons fo Ciitholi^
city is, that it does not acknowledg
or adequately satisfy the just deJ
mands of the intellect. Those wh<3
embrace it, they say, cannot justif
their conversion on rational grounds
or allege sufficient and conclusive
evidence of the truth of its doctrinesJ
They have either never sought fori
a religion which satisfies reason, or
have abandoned their search in de
spair, and laid their intellect to sleqil
upon the soft pillow of an unreason-'
ing submission to an authority ihatl
supersedes all exercise of thought,]
and quiets all action of intelligence.
The correctness of this assump- ]
tion is the precise topic of discussion J
we now propose. It is evidently al'l
together useless to frame an argu-l
ment on the supposition that we have I
to deal with any form of Protestant I
orthodoxy, so-called. Persons who]
profess to believe in a definite sys-
tem of doctrine as revealed truth j
cannot admit any such unsatisfied]
yearnings after truth as those are]
whose existence is denoted by the '
writer of the paragraphs w*e have
cited. It is, therefore, useless to
take as data any of the principles or
doctrines of the common Protestant
theology. It is with a sceptical state
of mind we have to deal, which re- ^
jects every received version of Chris* V
tianity as incomplete and unsattsfac-
tory, however it may admit, in a gene-
ral way, that Christianity itself isj
something divine. We think we
may take it for granted that the
very state of mind indicated by the |
language on which we are comment-
ing has been produced by a revolt
of the reason against Protestant the-
ology. Probably those whose senti-
ments are represented by this Ian-

Hyptwtics.

291

gnage have been more or less strict-
ly educated in the tenets of some one
of the Protestant churches. They
have found these tenets to be ab-
surd — incredible ; based on no solid
evidence ; mere individual theories,
contradicted by the facts of history
and the dictates of mature reason.
They have, consequently, abjured all
allegiance to any sect or school of
Protestant Christianity, and have
fallen back upon their own reason
as the exponent of the Christian re-
ligion, and of all other religions, as
•Jie only criterion of truth in all or-
ders of thought, and the only guide
vhich has been given to man amid
the perplexities which beset his in-
tellect on every side." The Catholic
system of doctrines is supposed to
be essentially the same with ortho-
dox Protestantism, //i/j a few more
dogmas, a system of elaborate cere-
monial, and a peculiar hierarchical
organization, which openly claims
and enforces submission to its own
doctrinal decisions and moral pre-
cepts as infallible and supreme. The
same absurdities which exist in the
Protestant system of theology are
supposed to be contained also in
the Catholic system. It does not
occur to these persons that these ab-
surdities may be traced to exaggerat-
ed or distorted theories respecting
the ancient dogmas of Christianity,
which are rejected by the Catholic
theolc^y, and to the incompleteness
of the Protestant systems, which are
built up from fragments of the sub-
lime edifice they have destroyed,
without plan, order, or architectural
harmony. This is, however, the fact ;
and when we speak of the unreasona-
bleness of the orthodox Protestant
form of Christianity as the occasion
and temptation to scepticism, we
must be understood to speak in ac-
cordance with this fact. Wc do not
mean to say that the evidences of the

divine revelation and truth of Chris-
tianity, and a vast body of true and
reasonable doctrines, are not retain-
ed in the Protestant teaching, or that
it makes scepticism justifiable. We
merely intend to say that it does not
satisfy reason or command assent as
a system in all its essential parts,
and therefore leaves the mind in a
bewilderment by its partial truths
and partial errors, which is the occa-
sion of a kind of intellectual despair,
resulting frequently in scepticism.
The truly rational part would be to
hold on to the conviction of the great
facts of Christianity and its substan-
tial truth, and to search for some
more reasonable and satisfactory ex-
position of the true meaning of Chris-
tianity than that given by these self-
constituted, unauthorized, and mutu-
ally conflicting expositors of divine
revelation. Such a search would in-
evitably land the honest and perse-
vering seeker in the Catholic Church,
as it has done so many and will
so many more in time to come.
There is a divine philosophy in the
Catholic religion which satisfies all
the legitimate demands of reason —
that same philosophy which attracted
Dionysius of Athens, Sergius Paulus,
Cornelius, Pudens, Justin, Tatian,
Athenagoras, Clement, Pantaenus,
St. Augustine, and a host of other
noble intellects, to Christianity in the
days of old, and in which they found
that perennial source of truth from
which Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle,
Lao-Tseu and Confucius, had only
drawn some rills.

It is not within the scope of our
thesis to show positively the truth of
the above affirmation. We merely
intend to show that it is made ; that
the church does not "disallow the
claims of the intellect," or "claim
the right to outrage or ignore wants
yet profounder than those which
she supplies ;" that " the pursuit of

HypHoiks.

Intth as tn ultimate object '^ is not
** totally incomprehensible " to those
who yield the allegiance of their
minds to the light of faith ; that they
do not " conceive of their judgment,
will, and reason, as mere counters
with which to purchase eternal rest"
JlViicthcr the Catholic solulion of the
problerui* of re;isou is objectively the
true one is not the direct aim of our
reasoning. The point is, whether
Catholic theology and philosophy
propose any solution at all ; whether
any class of minds who seek earnest-
ly after such a solution find one wliich
ihey hold and maintain to be com-
pletely satisfactory to reason in the
Catholic Church. The writer whose
language we have quoted denies it,
;ind Dn Bellows hns recently denied
it, asserting boldly that those who
have embraced the Catholic faith
have done so by a reaction from an
extreme rationalism into superstition.
What is gratuitously asserted may be
gratuitously denied, anci wc deny it
accordingly. Some few persons, per-
ceiving ih.U they were following prin*
ciples which lead logically to Panthe-
ism and Atheism, and that there is
no real logical alternative of the de-
nial of CJod except Catholicity, have
l>een letl to exauiine and embrace
the Catholic faith. Neither Dr. Bcb
low** nor aiiy other person professing
to be rational is entitled to call this
act a superstitious one. unless it can
lie shown that tli s of it are

reducible to an j I credulity,

or a vtilunl*ir\* NuUuuxsion to some
claim of Mit>ernatural aiUhority
which is destitute of probability, on
Itiounds which arc incapable of con*
villi ni|* a prudent man, I'hc remark

lait

lO U*v i SIM V'tM <ii ■

e, simply
ice. The
s is more-
(, since a
w converts
iHvu u.4\c travailed

the road of ortiiodoK ]
and not that of i

It is no less i nootfeq to state that
it is only persons in vboca ibe sexiti-
mental elei&eQi prnkMBciiatjes who
find satb6u:tioii for dw waiUs of tbw
souls in the Catholic fd^ion. la the
first place, it is absani to suppose
that Uie legitimale cja:vifigs or a^H-
rations of any one pait of Ikumaa ]
ture can be satisfied oompleldy
that which is not real« and :
not true. Truth, goodness, and I
ty are identical in relied to thetr
being or realit\\ The religion vhtch
is adapted to one class of minds is
adapted to all. It is, moreorcr, *
correct to reduce all men to
classes — those who are led b\* the le
gical faculty, and those who are Ic
by sensibility. The intelligence \
its intuitions in an order of thou
far superior to the mere understand
ing. The vnW has also a subUa
range in an order far superior to i
sphere of sensible emotions. Th
who never occupy their minds in anj
metaphysical or theological specuIaH
tions whatever may, therefore, in the
spiritual nature, apprehend diving
truth far more immediately and
fectly, and may possess the true
and highest wisdom in a much mo
eminent sense, than the most acutcl
philosopher. The interior or spirit-
ual life, moreover, of tliose persons
who are rather seeking to perfect
their souls in virtue than their intel-
lects in knowledge, is by no means
a life of indulgence in pleasurable J
emotions, the enjoyments of sensible 1
devotion, or anything else which givies
sensitive nature the pabulum or the ,
opiates after which it hankers* Thisj
whole order of ideas belongs to sen-
timental Protestantism, and is totally I
alien from Catholic ascetics, as is I
well known to the youngest novice in I
any religious community. Of course
wc cannot expect literary gentlemen

Hypnotics.

293

to understand these matters, and can-
not wonder at tlie mistakes they make
when they write about them. We
can justly require of them nothing
more than a supreme love of truth
for its own sake, and a willingness
to see it when it is presented to them.
Any one who loves the truth on this
point sufficiently to read Rodriguez
on Christian Perfection^ F. Baker's
Sauta Sophia^ or F. Faber's Growth
m Holiness^ can satisfy himself of the
Tery low estimate in which sensible
devotion is held by our spiritual wri-
ters If he should wish for a more
extensive course of reading, we would
recommend Tauler's Sermons and
the works of St. John of the Cross.
He will there see that the pleasures
of sensibility, imagination, taste, the
afiectionSy the romance and poetry of
religion, are not condemned or rude-
ly trampled on, but simply relegated
to the low*esl: place, made use of as
die waiting-maids of the divine wis-
dom and strong virtue which consti-
tute solid perfection. The Catholic
religion satisfies not merely the emo-
tional nature of man, but his spiritual
nature. It could not do this unless
it were capable of placing the soul in
its true relation to its proper object,
to its final end, to its real destiny,
and furnishing it with all the means
of advancing continually toward the
onion with God in which beatitude
consists. It could not be capable of
doing this unless it came from God ;
and, conung from God, it must teach
the truth which is necessary and ade-
quate to the perfection of the reason,
as well as the perfection of the will.
We will take up the question, how-
ever, in a more historical and induc-
tive manner, in order to show, as a
matter of fkct, that those minds in
which the logical faculty and the taste
lor the cultivation of pure reason is
more strongly developed and active,
find an equal scope and satisfaction

in Catholicity with the other class
above mentioned.

One needs but a moderate ac-
quaintance with the method and spi-
rit which have always prevailed in
the great Catholic schools to know
how powerfully they stimulate the ac-
tivity of the intellect, awaken the
thirst for rational investigation, en-
courage the effort to penetrate as far
as possible into the domain of ideal
truth, and to trace the relations of all
things in the world of thought to
their first and final cause. The ba-
sis and foundation of the whole struc-
ture of the higher education, espe-
cially in the department of thcolo^,
is laid in a thorough training in logic
and philosophy. The same logical
and philosophical method pervades
the entire system of theological in-
struction. Every dogma of faith,
every opinion of the schools, every
principle of philosophy, is subjectetl
to a rigid and critical analysis, in-
cluding an examination of all the
difficulties and objections which have
ever been raised by the adversaries
of the Church, during all past ages
and in the present. In the theses
which the students of theology and
philosophy are obliged to defend,
covering the whole field of these
higher sciences, sceptical, atheistical,
pantheistic, infidel, and heretical ar-
guments, stated with the utmost logi-
cal subtlety of which the objector is
possessed, are presented without any
restriction or reserve, not only by
other pupils but by the professors
and other learned theologians. In
the universities, colleges, and reli-
gious houses, where bodies of men are
collected possessing the means and
requisites for a life of study and learn-
ed labor, there is every facility and
inducement afforded for the most
thorough prosecution of every branch
of human knowledge which can pos-
sibly have any bearing on the ad-

Hypnotics.

29s

don of swaying the minds of men by
a systematic violation of all the rights
of reason, or made the partisans and
upholders of what they knew to be
in imposture, is too incredible for
anything less than a boundless cre-
dulity to embrace.

Let us turn our attention now to
that class of minds nurtured in
anti-Catholic opinions, over whom the
Catholic Church has regained in part
or completely an influence, bringing
them to the recognition of her divine
authority. What is the force which
has made itself felt at the great dis-
tance to which the Protestant mind
has been violently thrown by the re-
volution of the sixteenth century, and
vhich has dra^^Ti back toward the
Catholic centre a body of persons
who cannot be either ignored or de-
spised without the most stolid preju-
dice or the sheerest affectation ? Is
it a mere force which is capable
of acting^ only on the emotions, the
imagination, the sensible portion of
the nature of individuals in whom
reason does not exercise her just and
rightful supremacy ? Are there none
who have been led by the philosophy
of history, by metaphysics, by theo-
logical reasoning, by the investigation
of Scripture, by the search for a su-
preme and universal science, by the
deductions of logic, and the induc-
tions of experience and observation,
to a calm and rational conviction that
the highest wisdom and the most per-
fect law are embodied in the Catholic
Church? The statement of Lord
Macaulay is familiar to all, that the
doctrines of the Catholic Church
have heretofore commanded the as-
sent of the wisest and best of mankind,
and may therefore command the as-
sent of men similar to them in the
future. A fair examination of the
question will convince any one of the
fact, which cannot be gainsaid by
any one professing to love the truth

supremely for its own sake, that num-
bers of men fully qualified to judge
of evidence and to comprehend the
most abstruse reasoning have given
the homage of their minds to Catho-
lic doctrine precisely because of the
invincible logic both of facts and argu-
ments by which its truth was demon-
strated to their reason.

Leibnitz is one instance in point.
Although he never joined the commu-
nion of the Catholic Church, yet the
whole weight of his authority as a
philosopher and a theologian is on
the side of the Catholic principles
and doctrines, which are the most ob-
noxious to our modem rationalists.
The same is true of Baron Stark,
the author of the Banquet of Theodu-
lus. The celebrated Leo, one of the
greatest historians of Germany, be-
gan his career as a Pantheist, and
by his profound historical studies
was brought to a full conviction of
the divine authority of revelation,
and of the necessity of a return to
the communion of the Holy See on
the part of all the dissentient and
separated communions. His Univer-
sal History is an irrefutable argu-
ment for the truth of Christianity and
the authority of the Roman Church.
Although, therefore, none of these
three distinguished men can be
counted among the converts to the
Catholic Church, yet their names can
be cited in support of the position we
have taken, since we are persuaded
that our candid opponents will admit
that strict logical consistency would
require any one admitting their premi-
ses to draw the practical conclusion
that it is obligatory on his conscience
to become a member of the Catholic
Church.

Hurter, Phillipps, and Stolberg
are instances of German scholars
whom profound and learned studies
brought to a full Catholic conviction.
Mayne de Biran is an example of ^

de Hi08t complete refutation of the
WfHical, pantheistic, sensist, and
pKodo-inductive orpositivist errors
of die day, as well as of the chief
klenMloz systems of doctrine. In
thit noblest and most essential por*
lioa of philosophy which includes on-
toiogy and theodicy, he has laid
dovn the metaphysical basis of na-
tnal tiieology widi a Platonic depth
ad an Aristotelian precision of rea-
ming. Beside the massive structure
rf ugnments respecting the positive
etidenoes of the authority and infalli-
bBty of the church which he has
cncCedy a work in which he has many
able compeers, who though not
■ore logical are more erudite than
faiMseU^ he has thrown out some
li tie ipi cces in that more difficult
aad more rarely executed branch of
labor, the exposition of the hidden,
abilzwe harmonies between rational
Imlha and the mysteries of faith.
hesdndi^g all question respecting
die bet of his having presented the
Pflfhrtlir; doctrine in such a light as
to demonstrate its reasonableness,
is not the point at issue, he
at least attempted it. He has
1 that a man can be a thorough-
, orthodox Catholic, and at the
! time a philosopher in the high-
etc and best sense of the word.

These instances are only examples
ad iOnstrations of a general rule.
The taro maxims of St. Augustine,
I vaUk ama^ zndjldes quarms
have always been and are
\ of the Catholic schools.
The church has no fear of light, no
diead of the pn^^ress of science ; in
of fiict, the greatest obstacles
L adtvocates of the Catholic cause
\ to contend with are ignorance,
of the laws of logic, and
of belief in the reality and
ily of the affirmations or judg-
Dore reason. It is only
hh great difficulty that

we C*43;illtb|Bnmj|SM|6- of wri-
ters or rf*1flsifl to pw/^tention to
the facts of history, and cast away
the fables with which they have been
duped themselves and duping others
for so long. It is equally difficult to
force the controversy respecting phi-
losophical and theological principles
to the true logical issues, to get at-
tention to our arguments, or to ex-
tract from our opponents any clear
and distinct answers to them, or de-
finite and precise statements of their
own positions. Bishop England
scarcely did anything else in his
masterly controversies than to point
out the rules of logic violated by his
opponents, and the misstatements of
historical facts and Catholic doc-
trines made by them. The truth is,
that our conflict is far less with any
positive system of heterodoxy or
rationalism than with a vague but
universal scepticism. It is not so
much that men disbelieve in the
specific doctrines of revelation, as
that they disbelieve in the existence
of any truth. The power of reason,
the capacity of the intellect to grasp
the intelligible, the certainty of ra-
tional principles and logical deduc-
tions, the dignity of philosophy, are
not exaggerated, they are depreciated.
Those who revolt from the legitimate
and supreme authority of God, divine
revelation, and the infallible teaching
of the church over the mind of man,
are not the legitimate offspring of the
ancient philosophers, or the true
continuators of philosophy. The
ancient philosophers of Greece and
China recognized the need of a di-
vine revelation, a supernatural light,
a teacher sent fi-om God. The whole
civilized world of heathenism was
gasping in agony for the advent of
the divine Redeemer when he ap-
peared on the earth. Our modem
self-styled rationalists have turned
their backs on that light toward

j^fpnotic:.

ii|ttf^in'!'i ":? .'ncmr^^:

r. _' . r.bcc -cn:-

.i.*.-n.::ce ^r con-

■■- ^ backward,

. ^;- ill wiih de-

. r'.ie modern

^ .::::lt a sneer

'.. v.;.'iiy. it has

.-.*.: > generally

.Tv'.lMi :o han-

•. . .'.rrrcs: are

.. ur:«?. ''^•' of

..::: -..-.:> xer.ts :

--; ■:•. r.iTi' wan-

":..'.\ iro have

. :> "!.'.•■ ViC ■'-■
■■:■.' . -"t'.iSx-:-.

It.-.

' ■• V *i" "sl .•is
.■* .■■•■ .; ■ * ■%■

j'^ ••>': '.itA r;-::: ::i God rii>: Iv :>e
'-.Til'- t'.i* tl.i y :ire in his c*.v:i \\\\\w.,
ii'i'l th.it if.iiiy j>iini>hmcnt i*; inrtic:-
«'l "11 liirii h« rr.iftf.r, which docs not
•"•ml with his jircscnt sense of jus-

xo.. ;ie wf.i never admit the right of
riiicrinj; it. Yet, upon his own prin-
::pie3. he cannot be sure that his
r.vn ideas of right and ju>:ice will
aot be totally altered in ilie next
-^orid, and that his ro2^' \\ will not
compel him to adr/.:: :;..■: v. hat now
seems to him m\\\^-\ \...'. ihcn ap-
pear to be precisely -.'r.z :::.:rary. No
matter, theref ::--':.: ^ i:>:rd may
be the doctrlr.r* v: : r. :-. -. rofesscd
as dogmas by lj-v :-._.^- . s >cci, v.o
follower of Mr. M.l. :_r. i.ave any
right to reject ihcir: :r. 7 -:-/y ration-
al grounds. Mr, Sptr^cv:: ■.■horiousK-
argues to convince us tli.ii we are
compelled by the princip'.L-s of logic
to admit the truth of a number of
directly contradictor}- propositions,
and that consequently all pure meta-
physics are worthless, ami all that is
worth knowing is unknowable. When
such laughable follies are seriously
put forth and lauded to the skies as
the sum of human wisdom in its nio>:
advanced stage of [^r\^re^<, and when
i::e tanciful hyj-H'ihcs^s « :' Darwin
.;n: vaunted as sc:t:>:e ■ y i-.x-n v.h?
v~.":l<s to follow ti::^- :.•:''... :\v ))hi-
.-s^^phy, it is the turn .»}' u ; .kKo-
.':.js .'f revelation and i^c n:;. -terie-*
-. 'e v.'a:nolic faith to cr;. a:: i:: o::
■'.■ \::ri^e that is put i::-.-:i rt\:-cr.
: '. . * .iende the creilu'.ijy if ;*.'.' -l-
t '■• .•.: ' je duped by such cru'/.L-
I .*--.. es. Human reason and the
r ■-. .-i" •'uin are indeed extremely
\v:x I'd :a".:j!e if the e>iimate of
. '..■•: -rr/.-j by these sceptical writers
s . ' Ve --^sv.:! a» correct. Weak and
r >'.• -In :hey are. and inca))able
.. ---:». V.4 arything in the ortier of
y.-.-v riMS.-n and objective reality,
.■,v.'-/.::'j; :o this humiliating theory.
\c: :'i »er:heiess they can be forced
:.^ ,;»•.::;:: as much reality in the re-
\e.;*i\: truths ci the Catholic faith
as in .fry thing else. The capacity
of the mind to take note of particu-
lar facts and phenomena, and by in-

Hypnotics,

299

daction to reduce these particulars
to general laws, and also the neces-
sty of following practical reason as
in actual guide, will be admitted even
by the most extreme unbelievers,
llie facts and phenomena produced
by the action of the Catholic Church
on the human race, and by Jesus
Christ himself in his life, death, and
resurrection, as obsen-ed and attest-
ed by competent witnesses, just as
much warrant us in making the in-
duction that he is a superhuman in-
te!%ence, as all the observations of
astronomy warrant us in accepting
the heliocentric theory of Copernicus.
Practical reason tells us that the
religion of Jesus Christ as explained
by the Catholic Church is good for
mankind, and the safest rule we can
follow. If, therefore, we find probable
evidence of the fact that Jesus Christ
bas taught certain doctrines through
the church regarding that sphere of
the unknowable into which reason can-
not penetrate, it would seem to be
the dictate of good sense and of a
right conscience that we should sub-
mit to that teaching. The power of
objecting to any doctrine that does
DOt satisfy reason or apparently con-
tradicts it has been surrendered.
Reason cannot judge of the unknow-
able. We have all the certainty that
the case admits of that Jesus Christ
possesses a reason of higher order to
which that which is unknowable to us
is clearly intelligible, and that he has
declared to us the truth of these doc-
trines. We have, moreover, evidence
of his benevolence and veracity, and
therefore all the motives which we
are capable of appreciating combine
to induce us to give the same assent
to his teaching that we do to any
generally received truths. Even on
this low level, Christianity and
Catholicity can stand their ground
Eu- better than any other subject of
inalytical investigation. It is true

that logically and philosophically we
attain only to the apparent and the
abstract truth of Christianity. But
if the individual asserts for himself,
or the Catholic Church asserts for
herself, a supernatural light, an il-
lumination of .the intellect giving
certainty, how can the allegation
be refuted ? How can any advocate
of the ignoramus theory show that, if
we are naturally in such a deep dark-
ness of the unknowable, it is not pro-
bable that God would send a ray of
supernatural light to enlighten us ?
The natural outcry of one in such
a state would be, "O my God!
if there be a God, send the light of
truth, if there is any truth, to enligh-
ten my soul, if I have a soul !"

We will leave, however, this soft
and marshy ground to those who like
the prospect of fighting the enemies
of Christianity in such a region of
swamps and sloughs. We retort the
charge of ignoring or outraging rea-
son upon our adversaries in a far
different way. We accuse them not
only of rejecting revelation but of
denying reason, and in their as-
sault upon the supernatural order
of subverting the natural order upon
which it is based. We affirm that
the Catholic Church not only protects
revelation and grace, but reason and
nature, by the ajgis of her authority
against a universal doubt or denial.
She affirms the existence of the spiri-
tual, thinking, reasoning principle in
man as a truth known with infallible
certainty by the very light of reason
itself, and therefore affirms the intrin-
sic infallibility of reason within its
proper sphere. It is to reason that
it appertains to judge of the evidences
of revelation. And although reason
does not furnish a positive criterion
wherewith to judge the intrinsic cred-
ibility of mysteries transcending the
grasp of reason, yet it is acknowledg-
ed by all theologians that it is <

The Inversion.

301

FROM THE PRSN'CH OF BRCKMANN AND CMATRIAK.

THE INVASION; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL.

CHAPTER IX.

The farm-house presented a bus-
tling scene when Jean-Claude, Doctor
Lorquin, and the others arrived. The
kitchen-fire had been blazing since
day-break, and old Duch^ne was
drawing from the oven innumerable
loaves of bread, the fresh, crisp odor
(^ which filled the whole house. An-
nette piled them in heaps beside the
hearth, Louise waited upon the guests,
and Catherine saw to everything.

Hullin, from his seat, gazed at his
old cousin.

"What a woman she is !" he mut-
tered. " She forgets nothing. Com-
rades," he exclaimed, " to Catherine
Lefevre's health !"

"To Catherine's health!'* cried the
others ; and the glasses clinked in
the midst of discussions on battles,
attacks, defences, and retreats. Every
one was full of cheerful confidence ;
every one declared that all would go
well.

But heaven had still a joy reserved
for that day — especially for Louise
and Mother Lefevre. Toward noon,
when the bright sunshine sparkled
on the snow and melted the frost
apon the window-panes, old Yohan^
the toothless and almost blind watch-
dog, began to bay so joyously that
all present stopped talking, and lis-
tened.

"What can it mean?" thought Ca-
therine. " Since my boy's departure
Vohan has not barked like that.''

Swift steps were heard crossing the
yard ; Louise sprang to the door ; a
acrfdier I4)peared on the threshold —
iMt a soldier so worn, thin, weary.

and ragged — his old grey great-coat
so torn, his canvas gaiters so tatter-
ed, that a murmur of pity ran from
mouth to mouth.

He seemed unable to go a step
further, and slowly placed the butt of
his musket upon the ground ; his face
was the color of bronze, but his un-
kempt moustaches trembled, his
cheeks grew pale beneath their
brown skin, and his hollow eyes
filled with tears when he gazed on
the party within.

Without, the old dog barked, whin-
ed, and tugged at his chain ; within,
you could hear the fire crackle in
the deep silence. But in a moment
Catherine had rushed forward, and
was hanging upon the soldier's neck.

"Gaspard! Gaspard! my boy!"
she cried, while the tears burst from
her eyes.

"Yes, mother!" he replied, in a
voice choked by a sob.

Then Louise sobbed too, and then
the whole kitchen was filled with
voices. Gaspard's name was on
every tongue, and every hand was
stretched forth to clasp his.

But the mother would not yet give
up her son; the woman, a moment
before so strong, so brave, so reso-
lute, still hung weeping upon his
neck, his brown hair mingling with
her grey locks, as he murmured :

"Mother! mother! how often have
I thought of this meeting! But
where is Louise?" he said. "I
thought I saw her."

And then Louise ran forward,
blushing, while she exclaimed :

" I knew it was Gaspard I I knew
him by his step 1" And old Duchene,

The Inversion,

303

nette, go to the cellar and bring
three bottles here 1 But your leave,
Gaspard/' she asked; "how long
does it last?"

** I received it last night at eight
o'clock at Vasselonne. The regi-
ment is retreating on Lorraine, and
I must rejoin it this evening at
Phalsbourg."

" Then you have yet seven hours
before you; you will only need six
to reach there, although there is
much snow on Foxthal."

The good woman sat by her son ;
her heart beat painfully; she could
not conceal her trouble. Louise
leaned on Gaspard's worn-out epau-
lette and sobbed. Hullin bent his
brows, but said nothing until the
bottles arrived and the glasses were
filled.

** Come, come, Louise !" he cried,
"CouTE^e! These wars cannot
last for ever ; they must end one way
or the other ; and then Gaspard will
return, and we shall have a merry
wedding of it"

He filled up the glasses, and Ca-
therine dried her eyes, muttering,
however, as she did so :

" And to think that those robbers
are the cause of all this ! But let
them come I They will rue it."

The old wine, however, cheered
all, and Gaspard told the story of
Bautzen, Lutzen, Leipsic, and Ha-
nau, where conscripts fought like
veterans, winning victory after vic-
tory until treason ruined all.

Every one listened in silence.
Jean-Claude's eyes flashed as he
heard how rivers were forded and
crossed amid storms of shells and
bullets; how batteries were carried
by the bayonet alone ; and how hus-
sars and Cossacks were hurled back
from the steady squares. The doc-
tor inquired particularly about the
positions of the field-hospitals ; Ma-
Icnie and his sons bent forward with

ears erect, and lips pressed tight to-
gether, fearing to lose a word ; Ca-
therine looked with pride upon a
son who had borne a part in scenes
over which ages will grieve or re-
joice ; and the ardor of all present
mounted to the highest pitch as
more than one muttered that the
end was not yet.

At length the hour for Gaspard's
departure arrived. He arose, but
when Louise clung to his neck and
with sobs implored him to stay, the
color left his cheeks.

** I am a soldier," he said ; " my
name is Gaspard Lefevre ; I love
thee a thousand times better than
my life ; but I must not disgrace
that name."

He unclasped her arms, and Hul-
lin tore them apart.

"Well said !" cried the old sabot-
maker; "and spoken as a man
should speak."

Catherine buckled the knapsack
on her son's back ; she did so calm-
ly, but her brows were knitted, and
she tried hard to press her quivering
lips tightly together, while two great
tears rolled down her wrinkled
cheeks.

" Go — go — ^my child," she sobbed,
"and take your mother's blessing
with you, and if it should be the will
of God that— that— "

But the poor woman's stout heart
could sustain her no longer; she
burst into an agony of weeping.
Gaspard seized his musket, and,
covering his eyes with his hand,
rushed from the house.

All this while the men from the
Sarre with picks and their axes were
making their way up along the Val-
tin path. The sounds of their voices
could already be heard, as they
laughed and jested as if on the way
to a festival, and not to privation,
danger, and death.

The InvasuHU

CHAPTER X.

But while Hulliti and his moun-
taineers were thus preparing for
battle, where was the tin^rowned
King of Diamonds — Yegof the Fool ?
Wandering barefoot over the snow-
covered paths, his breast open to the
cutting winds, cold, hungr)% and com-
panionless, save for his grim friend
the raven.

Night was approaching, the cold
growing keener and keener ; even
the fox seemed to shiver as he pur-
sued his unseen prey, and the fa-
mished birds of prey had hidden
themselves in the rocky nooks of the
mountains* But the fool, his raven
upon his shoulder, kept on — on —
talking to himself, gesticulating
wildly, from Holderloch to Sonne-
berg, from Sonneberg to Blutfeld.

And that %'ery night, Robin, the
^old herdsman of Bots-tle-Chene, saw
, strange and fearful sight.

A few days before, having been
surprised by the snows at the bottom
Elf the gorge of Blutfeld, he left his
agon behind him and drove home
the cattle, but finding upon h>s ar-
rival that he had forgotten his sheep-
skin cloak, he started at about four
o'clock that evening to seek it,

Blutfeld is a narrow gorge be-
tween Schneeberg and Grosmann,
bordered by pointed rocks. A
thread of water winds its way through
ithe valley, in summer and winter,
fid on its sides, among the grey
rocks, spots of good pasturage are
found : but the place is rarely visit*
ed ; something weird and ghostly
seems to hang over it, and the cold,
white light of a winter's moon serves
to intensify its sinister aspect Tra-
dition says that here was fought a
great battle between the Triboci and
Jhe Germans, who, under a chief
amed Luitprandt, attempted to
enetrate into Gaul. It tells how

the Triboci from the peaks aiound
fiung huge stones upon their foes,
crushing them by thousands, and
that from the frightful carnage the
defile derived its name — ^Blutfetd —
the field of blo6d. Rusted spear-
heads, broken helmets, and cross-
handled swords two ells in length
are yet found there.

At night, when the moonlight falls
upon the snow-covered rocks, when
the wind w^histles through the bare
bushes, the cries of tlie surprised
Germans seem borne upon the air^
mingled with the wailing of their
women and the neighing of steeds,
and the rattling of chariots through
the defile. The Triboci ceased not
from the slaughter for two entire
days, and on the third they retired
to their homes, every man bending
beneath the weight of his booty.

Such was the legend of the gorge
which Robin reached just as the
moon was rising.

The good man had a hundred
limes descended to its depths, but
never had it seemed so bright or
so ghastly. His wagon, at the bot-
torn, seemed one of those masses of
rock under which the invaders were
crushed. It stood at the entrance
of the valley, behind a tliick clump
of bushes, and the little stream
dashed along by it, flashing like a
thousand swords. The old herds*
man soon found his cloak and ao
old hatchet too, which he had re-
garded as lost ; but, when he turned
to depart, his blood ran cold.

A tall figure was advancing straight
toward him. Behind it followed
Ave grey wolves, two full grown and
three young. He recognized Yegof,
and at first thought the wolves were
dogs. They followed the fool step
by step, but he seemed not to see
them ; his raven flew about, now in
the clear moonlight, now in the dark
shadows of the rocks ; the wolves,

The Inversion.

30s

with glittering eyes, sniffed the afr
as if scenting their prey. The fool
lifted his sceptre.

Robin darted like a flash into his
wagon unobserved. Yegof advanc-
ed down the valley as if walking
some great castle-hall, and the raven
with glittering black plumage flew to
the branch of a dead tree near by,
and there perched, and seemed to
listen.

It was a strange scene, Robin
thought. If the fool slipped, if he
fell, there was an end of him ; the
wolves would instantly devour him.

But in the middle of the gorge,
Yegof turned and sat down upon a
stone, and the Ave wolves sat around
him in the snow.

Then the fool, raising his sceptre,
addressed them, calling each one by
name, and they replied with mourn-
ful howlings.

" Ha, child, Bl^ed, Merweg, and
you, my old Siramar," he cried, " here
we are once more together I You
have grown fat ; you have had good
cheer in Germany, have you not ?"

Stretching his arm, after a mo-
ment's pause, over the moonlit val-
ley, he continued :

" Remember ye not the great bat-
Ue?"

One of the wolves howled plain-
tively as if in reply ; then another,
and at last all five together.

This lasted full ten minutes, the
raven the while sitting motionless on
its withered branch. Robin would
have fled, but dared not

Still the wolves howled, and the
echoes of Blutfeld replied to their
chorus, until at last the largest ceas^
ed, and the rest followed his example.
Yegof spoke again :

" Ay ; 'tis a sorrowful story. There
runs the stream that overflowed with
our blood ; but others fell too, and
for three days and three nights their
women tore their hair. But how the
VOL, VIII. — 20

accursed dogs triumphed in their vic-
tory r'

The fool seized his crown and
dashed it upon the ground ; then,
sighing, stooped and placed it again
upon his head. The wolves sat as
if listening attentively, and the largest
again howled mournfully.

" Thou art hungry, Siramar," said
Yegof, as if replying to him ; " but re-
joice ; flesh will soon be yours in
plenty; the battle will again be
fought. Our war-cry was long hush-
ed, but the hour is near, and it will
again shake these mountains, and you
shall again be warriors; you shall
again own these valleys. The air is
full of the shrieks of women, of the
flashing of swords, the creaking of
wagons. They rushed down upon
us and we were surrounded; your
bones sleep here on every side, but.
your children are coming ; rejoice I.
sing, sing !"

And he himself began to howl like
a wolf, and his hearers took up the
savage strain.

These cries, growing every mo-
ment more horrible, the reverberating
echoes, the motionless rocks, white
and ghastly, or buried in blackness
and gloom, the bare branches bend-
ing beneath their load of snow — all
filled the old herdsman with speech-
less horror.

But the scene soon ended. Yegof
spoke no more, but moved slowly
with his strange train toward Haz-
lach, and the raven, uttering a hoarse
cry, spread its sable wings and fol-
lowed through the dark blue air.

All disappeared like a dream, but
for a long time Robin could hear the
howling growing fainter and further
away. It had, however, ceased for
nearly half an hour, and the silence
of a winter night taken its place, be-
fore the good man dared leave his •
wagon, and make at his best speed '
for the farm-house.

3o6

' Ifrtfasimt,

ArrivingatBoisde-Chene he found
ever)- one excited and busy. They
were about killing an ox for the Do-
non men, and Hullin, Doctor Lorquin,
and Louise had departed with those
fronn the Sarre- Catherine was hav-
ing her great four-horse wagon load-
ed with bread, meat, and brandy, and
all wiirc busy in the preparations.

Hobin would not tell any one of
his adventure. It seemed, even to
himself, so incredible that he dared
not speak of it. The whole affair
puzzled him sorely » and it was not
until he was lying in his crib in the
stable that he concluded that Yegof
had some time or other captured and
tamed a litter of wolves, to whom he
uttered his folly as men sometimes
speak to their dogs ; but the rencoun-
ter left a superstitious dread in his
mind, and even years after, the honest
old man could not speak of it with-
out a shudder.

CHAPTER XI.

All Hullin's orders had been car-
ried out The defiles of Zorn and
of the Sarre were securely guarded,
and that of Blanru, the extreme point
of their position, had been placed in
a state of defence by Jean-Claude
himself and the three hundred men
who formed his principal force.

Thither, on the eastern slope of
Donon, near Grandfontaine, must w^e
wend our w^ay,

AlKJve the main road, which winds
up the mountain for two thirds of its
height, might be seen a farm-house,
surrounded by a few acres of cultivat-
ed land — a large flat-roofed building,
belonging to Pelsly, the Anabaptist.
The stables and barn were behind,
toward the summit of the mountain.

Here w^as the camp of our parti*
sans. Beneath Ihem lay Grandfon-
taine and Framont, locked in a nar-
row ravine ; further on, at a turn of

the valley, was Shirmeck, with its
piles of feudal niins ; sdll further La
Bruche stretched onward into the
grey mists of Alsace. To their left
rose the sterile peak of Donon, cover^
ed with huge rocks and a few stunted^
firs. Before them lay the road, made
impassable by the wearing away of
the earth caused by the melting
snow, and by huge trees, with
their branches on, thrown across it.

It was a scene of stern grandeurf
Not a lix^ing thing appeared on al
the long road ; the country seemed
desert, and only a few scattered fin
sending their long wreaths of smokj
toward the sky, sliowed the positi^
of the bivouac.

For three days had the mou;
taineers been awaiting the enemy,
and the delay had told not A littli
upon their ardor. When, iherefon
at about eight in the morning, the
sentinels descried a man coming to-
ward them, waving his hat, expect
tion at once stood on tii 1

messengers were at once d. I

for Hullin, who since one o I

been sleeping in the fann i; i.^., , a
a wide mattress, side by side wii
Doctor Lorquin and his dog Pluto.

The cause of the commotion w
Nickel Bentz, the old forester of
Houpe, and Hullin at once salute
him with —

**Wcll, Nickel, w^hat tidings?*'

** Nothing, master Jean-Claudi
save that toward Fh.alsbouj^ there
a noise as of a storm. Labarbe sayi
it is artillery; for all night long we
saw flashes like lightning in the wood

of Hildehouse, and this morning tJi^fl
plain is covered with grey clouds,'* ^

** The city is attacked I" exclaimed
Hullin; **but from the Lutzelstcir
side. They are tr)ung to cut it oil
The allies are there ; Alsace b over
mn."

Then turning to Mateme, who
stood behind him, he added ,

The Invasion,

307

" We can remain no longer in un-
certainty. Make a reconnoissance
with your two sons."

The old hunter's face lighted up.

" Good !" he cried. " We will have
a chance to stretch our legs and bring
down an Austrian or Cossack or two
before we return."

"Steady, my friend," said Jean-
Claude sternly ; " you must not think
of bringing down Cossacks, but only
of observing what is going on. Frantz
and Kasper will be armed, but you
will leave your rifle, and powder-horn,
and hunting-knife here."

"Leave my arms here, Jean-
Claude ! And why ?"

"Because you must go into the
villages ; and if you are caught there
armed, you would be shot at once."

" Shot ?"

"Yes, shot We are not regular
troops ; they will not make prison-
ers of us ; we can expect no quarter.
You will follow the Shirmeck road, and
your sons will follow you in the copse,
half a rifle-shot off". If any maraud-
ers should attack you, they will come
to your aid; but if a detachment
meet you, they will let you be taken."

" Let me be taken !" cried the old
man indignantly. " I would like to
see them do so."

" Obey orders, Mateme. An un-
armed man will be released ; an arm-
ed one shot. I need not tell you not
to let those Germans know you come
as a spy."

" I understand, Jean-Claude, and
although I never parted yet with my
rifle, you may take it, and my horn
and knife. ^Vho will lend me a
blouse and stafl" ?"

Nickel Bentz pulled off* his blue
smock-frock and hat, and passed
them to the old man ; and when he
had donned them, no one would im-
agine the old hunter to be other than
a simple peasant of the mountains.

His two sons, proud to be selected

for such an expedition, reprimed their
pieces, fixed their long, straight, wild-
boar bayonets, and tried their hunt-
ing-knives in the sheaths ; then, as-
sured that everything was in proper
order, they turned to go, their eyes
sparkling with pleasure.

"Do not forget Jean-Claude's
words," said Doctor Lorquin; "a
German more or less makes little
difference among a hundred thou-
sand, but we should find it diflficult
to replace you."

"Fear nothing, doctor," replied
old Mateme. " My boys are hunters,
and know how to bide their time, and
profit by any chance that offers. And
now, fonvard ; we must be back be-
fore night"

CHAPTER XII.

Materne and his sons pursued
their way for a long distance in si-
lence. The weather was fine ; the
winter sun shone on the dazzling
snow without thawing it, so that the
path was firm and solid. Afar off",
in the valley, the tall firs, pointed
rocks, and the roofs of the houses,
with their hanging icicles and little
glittering windows and steep gables,
were sharply outlined in the clear air,
and in the street of Grandfontaine
tliey could see a troop of young girls
around the wash-house, and a few
old men in cotton caps smoking their
pipes at their cottage doors ; but of all
the busy life so plainly seen, not a
sound reached their ears.

The old hunter halted at the edge
of the wood, saying :

" I will go down to the village, to
Dubreuirs, the keeper of the Pinc-
Cone."

He pointed with his staff* to a long
white building, with doors and win-
dows surrounded by a yellow border,
and a pine branch hanging from the
wall by way of sign.

308

The Invasion.

"Wait for me here," said the old
man, "unless I come to the door and
raise my hat, when you may follow,
and take a glass of wine with mc,"

He descended the snow-covered
mountain-side, gained the plain, and
crossed the village common, and his
two boys, resting upon their pieces,
»aw him enter the inn, A few mo-
ments after, he reappeared on the
threshold and raised his hat. Fif-
teen minutes after, they had rejoined
their father in the large hall of the
Pine-Cone— ^a long, low room, warmed
by a huge siove on the sanded floor,

Except for the presence of the
innkeeper, Dubreuil, the fattest and
most apoplectic man in the Vosges,
with little round eyes, a flat nose, and
a triple chin falling upon his breast —
except, I say, for the presence of this
redoubtable personage, who was sit-
ting in a large arm<hair near the
fire, Materne found himself alone
when he entered the inn. He or-
dered the glasses filled as the old
clock struck nine, and the wooden
cock upon it flapped his wings with
a strange rusty noise,

**Good morning, Father Dubreuil I"
said both the young men.

*'Good morning, my boys, good
morning !*' replied the inn-keeper, in
an oily voice, smiling an oily smile.
" Any news ?''

"No, faith,*' answered Kasper.
** Winter is upon us, the season for
boar-hunting,"

Then both, placing their rifles in
a corner of the window, at hand in
case of need, sat down at a table op-
posite their father, and drank, say-
ing. ** To our health !" as they had
been taught to be always careful to do.

** So," said Materne, turning to the
innkeeper, and apparently resuming
a conversation that had been inter-
nipted, " you think, Father Dubreuil,
that we may hunt without fear in the
wood of Baronies ?**

** Oh ! as for that I can't say,''
plied mine host, shrugging his shoul-
ders ; " I only know that at present
the Allies have not got beyond Mut-
zig. But they don't injure any one ;
but receive all well-disposed people
— who wish to fight the usurper."

" The usurper ? Who is that ?"

** Eh ? Why, Napoleon Bonaparte,!
the usurper, to be sure. Look on the|
wall there.'*

He pointed to a large placa
hanging near the clock,

" Look there, and you will see that
the Ausirrans are our true friends/

Old Mateme's brows knitted, but

he repressed his feelings, and said,
ad. Monsieur D
Explain tlie mat-

** But I cannot read, Monsieur Du^fl

breuil, nor ray boys,
ter to us."

Then the old publican, raising him*
self with much difficulty from his arm
chair, and puffing like a porpoise with;
the unwonted exertion, placed him-
self before Uic placard, witli%his arms
folded across his enormous breast,
and in a majestic tone read a procla-
mation of the allied sovcreigtis sct-j
ting forth that they, said sovereign;
were waging war against Napoleoi
and not against France, and thai
consequently, it behoved all g(
people to remain at home and ti
mind their own business, under pain
of having their houses, goods, and
chattels pillaged and burnt, and them-
selves shot.

The three hunters listened to al
this, and then looked at each other,

When Dubreuil had finished read-
ing, he again took his seat* saying,

" Well, you see now, do you not?'

" Where did you get that ?** asked
Kasper.

" It is posted everywhere.

** We are glad to hear it," said Ma-j
teme^ pressing the arm of Franlz, whOj
had risen with flaming eyes. ** D<
you want some fire, Frant2? Here
my steel"

The InvasioPi,

309

Fhmtz sat down, and the old man
]voceeded good-humoredly,

"And so, our good friends, the
Austrians, will take nothing from us?"

"Well-disposed people have no-
thing to fear, but those who rise in
arms are stripped of everything ;
which is only right, for it is not just
diat the good should suffer for the
bad. Thus, for instance, you would
be very well received at the allied
headquarters ; you know the country
and could ser\'e as guides, for which
you would be well paid."

There was a moment of silence ;
again the three hunters gazed at each
other; the father placed his hands
upon the table, as if beseeching his
sons to remain calm, but he himself
was pale with rage.

The innkeeper, perceiving nothing
of this, continued,

" You have more reason to fear in
the woods of Baronies those villains
of Dagsberg, of the Sarre, and of
Blanru, who have revolted, and wish
to commence '93 over again."

" Are you sure they have ?" asked
Mateme, struggling hard to contain
himself.

" Am I sure ? You have only to
look out the window and you will see
them on the Donon road. They have
captured the Anabaptist, Pelsly, and
bcnind him to the foot of his bed ;
they are pillaging, stealing, destroy-
ing the roads ; but let them beware !
In a few days they will have their
hands full, and it is not with a thou-
sand, or ten thousand, men they will
have to deal, but with hundreds of
dioosands. They will all be hung."

Mateme arose.

"It is time for us to be on our
way,* said he shortly. "By two
o^dock we must be in the woods.
Farewell, Father Dubreuil."

An tliiee rushed out, anger chok-

i -TIL

«4iat I told

you," cried the innkeeper, from his
arm-chair.

Once without, Mateme turned
with quivering lips, and cried,

" If I had not restrained myself,
I would have broken the bottle over
his head."

" And I," said Frantz, " would have
thrust my bayonet through his body."

Kasper still stood at the threshold,
hesitating. His fingers clutched the
hilt of his hunting-knife, and his eyes
were almost savage in their glare ;
but the old man seized him by the
arm and dragged him away, saying :

" Away ! We will meet the wretch
again. To advise me to betray my
country ! HuUin said well when he
told us to be on our guard."

They passed down the street gaz-
ing fiercely around.

At the end of the village, opposite
the ancient cross, and near the
church, they halted. Mateme then,
somewhat calmed, showed his sons
the path which winds around Phr&-
mond, through the bushes, and
said :

" You will take that foot-path. I
will follow the road to Schirmeck,
going slowly, so that you may get
there as soon as I."

They separated, and the old hunt-
er walked thoughtfully on, his head
bowed, and his eyes fixed upon
the ground, wondering all the
while how he managed to restrain
himself from breaking the inn-keep-
er's head. From time to time herds
of cattle passed him, and flocks of
sheep and goats, all on their way
to the mountain. They came from
Wisch, from Urmatt, and even from
Mutzig, and the poor animals seemed
scarcely able to move.

"Where are you going so fast?"
cried the old hunter to the sad-look-
ing herdsmen. " Have you not heard
the proclamation of the Russians
and Austrians ?"

310

The IfwasiofL

But tliey seemed in no humor for
jesting, and replied :

** It is easy for you to laugh at ns.
Proclamations indeed ! We know
what they are worth. Those Rus*
sians and Austrians are pillaging and
stealing all they can lay hands on ;
laying forced contributions, carrying
off horses, cows, cattle, wagons/*

*' Hold there ; it cannot be possi-
ble r^ returned Mateme. "They arc
the saviours of France ; her brave,
good friends. I cannot believe it.
Such a beautiful proclamation !**
** Go down into Alsace and see 1"
The poor fellows went on, draggini;
themselves wearily along, while the
old hunter laughed bitterly.

As he approached Schirmeck,
things grew worse. Wagons, cattle,
horses, even flocks of geese, throng-
ed the road, mingled widi women and
children, carrj ing whatever of their
household effects they could bear oi^
and often beating their breasts and
tearing their hair. The air was filled
with wailing and lamentation, while
ever and anon a cry arose,

** We are lost ! The Cossacks I
the Cossacks!'*

These words of fear passed like
lightning through the mass ; women
\ feinted, children stood up in the
^wagons to see further along the road,
and Materne blushed for the coward-
ice of people who might have made a
stout defence against the enemy.

Just outside Schirmeck, Frantz and
Kasper rejoined their father, and all
three entered the tavern of the Gold-
* en Key, kept by the widow Faltaux.
The poor woman and her two
daughters were standing at the win-
' dow gazing at the flight, and wring-
ing their hands ; for indeed the tu-
mult was increasing every moment,
> and now cattle, men, and wagons fair-
blocked the street, and shouts,
earns, and even curseSi arose on
all sides.

Materne pushing open the door
and seeing the three women standing
pale, groaning, more dead than alive*
struck his staff angrily upon the floor,
and cried :

" Are you becoming mad, Mother
Faltaux I You, who should set you
daughters a good example ? It
shameful !"

The old woman turned round and '
replied in a heart-broken voice :

** Ah Materne I If you onl|^
knew—'* ^

** Knew what ? The enemy are
coming, but they won't eat you/*

"No, but they will devour all I
have! Old Ursula, of Schlestadt^B
arrived here last night, and says^
they are never satisfied* Ah I those
Russians and Austrians — "

"But where are they?" cried the
old hunter. "I have not yet seen
one."

" They are in Alsace, near Urmatt,^
on their way hither." ^

"Well,'' observed Kasper, "before
they arrive you may give us a cup of M
wine ; here is a crown for you ; you H
can hide it more easily than your
casks." 1

One of the daughters went to the fl
cellar to bring the refreshment, and '
at the same time several strangers
entered. One was a seller of alma-
nacs, from Strasbourg ; the others
were a wagoner from Sarrebruck,
and two or three people from Mul-
zig, Wisch, and Shirmcck, who were
flying with their cattle : all seemed
completely jaded.

They sat down at the same table,
opposite the window.s, so that they
might look out upon the road, and,
the wine ser\ed, each began to tell
alt he knew. One said that the Cos-
sacks had fired a village in Alsace,
because candles were refused thcm^
for dessert after dinner :
the Cahnucks ate soap
and that many of them drank branny ]

The Invasion.

by the pint, after putting handfuls of
pepper in it ; that their filthiness was
beyond description ; and that ever}'-
thing had to be hidden from them, for
that there was nothing they would
not devour. The stories these good
people told, of what they had seen
with their own eyes, seemed almost
incredible.

Toward noon, the old hunter and
his sons rose to depart, when sud-
denly a cry, louder than any they had
yet heard, arose without,

"The Cossacks! The Cossacks!"

The entire party rushed to the
door, except the three hunters, who
contented themselves with opening a
window and looking out. Every one
was now fleeing across the fields ;
men, flocks, and wagons were scat-
tering, like autumn leaves before the
wind. In less than five minutes the
zoad was clear, except in the village
streejt, where the crowd was jammed
and blocked by its mass. Materne
gazed for a while and then shut the
window.

** I see nothing," he said.

" Nor I," replied Kasper.

'^ I see how it is," cried the old
hunter ; " fear adds to the enemy's
strength ; and fear," he added, shrug-
ging his shoulders disdainfully, " is a
niiserable thing. We have only one
poor life to lose. Let us go."

They left the inn, the old man
taking the road to the top of Hirsch-
berg, his S9ns following. They soon
reached the edge of the woods, and
Materne sought the highest point,
whence he might obtain a view of the
plain ; for he utterly despised the wild
tales of the fugitives he had met.

When they reached the summit
of the mountain — which forms a
sort of promontory extending into
the plain — ^they could see distinctly
tke enemy's position, three leagues ,
ainf, between Urmatt and Lutzel-
kpm$^VBkfi> loqg black lines upon the

snow; further on, the artillery and
baggage appeared in dark masses.
Other lines and masses were winding
among the villages, and, notwith-
standing the distance, the flashing of
bayonets told that a column was on
the march to Wisch.

After long gazing at the picture
before him, the old hunter said
thoughtfully :

" There are at least thirty thousand
men yonder. They are advancing
toward us, and we shall be assailed
to-morrow, or the day after at the
latest. It will be no holiday work
to check them, my boys ; but if they
have numbers, we have a good posi-
tion, and in such masses as those
there will be no balls lost."

Having made these reflections, he
measured the height of the sun, and
added :

"It is now two o'clock, and we
know all we want to know. Let us
return to the bivouac."

The young men slung their rifles
upon their backs, and, leaving the
valley of the Broque to the left, they
pushed up the steep ascent of Hengs-
bach and descended on the further
side, without following any path
through the snow, but guiding them-
selves solely by the peaks, to cut
short their journey.

They had thus proceeded for about
two hours •, the winter sun was droop-
ing to the horizon, and night was fast
approaching, but calm and light.
They had only to cross the solitary
gorge of Riel, which forms a wide
circular basin in the midst of the
forest, enclosing a blue lake, often
the resort of the roebuck.

Suddenly, as they left the cover
of the trees, the old man stopped
short behind a clump of bushes.

"Hist!"

He pointed to the litde lake, which
was covered with a thin and transpa-
rent coating of ice. A strange spec-

312

Tlie Invasion,

tacle greeted theit ^^y«s.:V Twenty

Cossacks,*with n^ttecl.yt'JftJW beards,
head.s co ver^ avj t h^old f^»ff e 1 -s h aped
caps of the ;|lgnx)f«ome animal, and
long ragged cloaks hanging from their
shoulders, were before them, seated
on their little horses. Their stirrups
were simply looped ropes, and the
steeds, with long manes, thin tails,
and flanks matted with yellow, black,
and white, looked not unlike goats.
Some of the riders were armed only
with long lances, others with sabres,
others with merely a hatchet hanging
by a cord from their saddle, and a
large horse-pistol in their belt. Some
gazed with ecstasy upon the lines of
green firs, and one tall, lean fellow
was breaking the ice with the butt of
his spear, while his horse drank.
Others dismounted, and began to re-
move the snow preparatory to en-
camping.

They formed a singular picture
—those men from afar, with their
bronzed features, flat foreheads and
noses, and grey fluttering rags, as
they stood by the side of the lake
under the tall tree-covered crags. It
seemed a glimpse "of another world
than the one we live in, and as the
three hunters gazed and caught the
sounds of their uncouth speech, curi-
osity for a while mastered all other
feelings. But Kasper and Frantz
soon fixed their long bayonets on
their rifles and retired once more
into the cover of the woods. They
reached a rock some twenty feet
high, which Materne climbed ; then,
after a few words exchanged in a low
voice, Kasper examined his priming,
slowly brought his piece to his shoul-
der, and aimed, while his brother
stood by ready to follow his exam-
ple.

The Cossack whose horse was
drinking was about two hundred
paces from our little party. The re-
port of the rifle rang through the

forest and awoke the deep echoes
of the gorge, and the horseman bent J
forward and disappeared beneath thej
ice of the lake.

It would be impossible to describe 1
the stupefaction which seemed to,
seize the band. The echoes rolled J
hke a volley of musketry ; the dis-
mounted barbarians bounded on
their steeds, gazing wildly around,
while a thick wreath of smoke rolled
above the clump of trees behind j
which the hunters stood.

Kasper had in a moment reloaded,]
but at the same instant the Cossacks 1
dashed toward the slope of Hartz,!
following in single file and shouting '
savagely, ** Hurrah ! Hurrah !**

They disappeared like a flash, and
as Kasper aimed again the last horse
disappeared in ihe woods.

The steed of the dead Cossack
stood alone by the lake. His fallen
master^s foot yet remained in the
stirrup, although the body was sub-
merged in the water.

Materne listened on his rock» and
then said joyfully :

** They are gone ! Let us press ■
on. Frantz, remain here for a while,]
If any should return—"

But despite this direction all three!
ran to where the horse yet stood, and I
Materne, seizing the animal's bridle, I
cried :

"Now, old fellow, we will teach J
thee to speak French. These Cos-j
sacks have famous horses niy boys/' '
he continued, " and when I am too^
old to go afoot, I will keep this one to |
hunt with."

" Let us go," cried Kasper.

Toward six o*clock they heard the |
first challenge of their sentinels :

" Who goes there ?"

" France r* answered MateTne,j
vancing.

He was soon recognised, and
rushed forth to meet the three hunl
ers. HulUn himself as curious

The Invasion, -v^

the rest, came out with Doctor Lor-
quin. The partisans stood around
the horse, gazing with looks of won-
der and admiration.

" It is a Cossack's," said Hullin,
squeezing his old friend's hand.

" Yes, Jean-Claude ; we captured it
at the pond of Riel. Kasper shot its
master."

Kasper, leaning upon his rifle,
seemed well pleased with his prize,
and old Materne, rubbing his hands,
added :

"We were determined to bring
something back with us, for my boys
and I never return empty-handed."

Hullin took him aside, and they
entered the farm-house together,
while the young hunters gratified the
curiosity of their comrades.

CHAPTER XIII.

That whole night long the little
£uin of the Anabaptist was filled
with partisans going and coming.

Hullin had established his head-
quarters in the large hall of the
ground floor of the house; on this
floor, too, was the hospital, and the
fiirm people occupied the upper sto-
ries.

Although the night was calm and
innumerable stars shone in the sky,
the cold was so keen that the frost
seemed almost an inch thick upon the
window-panes.

Without, the cry of "Who goes
there?" occasionally broke the still-
ness, while ever and anon the howl-
ing of wolves was borne on the air
firom the neighboring peaks; for
since 1812 wolves had followed our
armies by hundreds, and now, stretch-
ed on the snow, their pointed muz-
zles between their fore-paws, they
called from Grosmann to Donon,
and from Donon to Grosmann, until
Ite breeze seemed filled with their
More than one

^ ^

iw gale-as he listened

mounlAi«tJ|r||> _

to th^llta^m^

" It ]^^K^^(£|gitJ^^^
the battle frouTsARyuud (falls us to
follow him."

Then the cattle lowed in their
stables, and the horses neighed witli
affright

Some thirty fires were burning on
the plateau where was the camp ;
the old Anabaptist's wood-pile had
paid tribute, and log after log was
heaped on ; but though the face might
scorch, the back quivered with the
cold, and frost hung from the beards
and moustaches of those who stood
warming their backs.

Hullin, in the house, sat before the
great fir table, absorbed in thought.
From the latest reports he had re-
ceived, he was convinced that the
first attack would be made the next
day. He had had cartridges distri-
buted, had doubled the sentries, or-
dered patrols through the mountain,
and fixed the posts of all along the
abatis. He had also caused Pio-
rette, Jerome of Saint- Quirin, and La-
barbe to send their best marksmen
to him.

The hall where he sat was lit by
a dim lantern, and full of snow ; and
every moment his officers came and
went, their hats drawn far down over
their heads, and icicles hanging from
their beards.

" Master Jean-Claude, something
is moving near Grandfontaine ; we
can hear horses galloping."

" Master Jean-Claude, the brandy
is frozen."

" Master Jean-Claude, many of the
men are without powder."

Such were the reports and com-
plaints that every moment assailed
the leader's ears.

"Watch well toward Grandfon-
taine and change the sentries on that
side every half-hour."

" Thaw the brandy at the fires."

314

The Invasion,

•*Wait until Dives *coiii»s J he has

ammuniuon. Distribute wliat cart-
ridges remdThlJttW let all who have
more than lw«f>tyfminds divide the
surplus among their comrades,"

And so the night passed.

Toward five in the morning Ras-
per reported that Marc-Dives with
a load of cartridges, Catherine Le-
fevre, and a detachment from La-
barbe had arrived and were at the
farm.

The news eased the old sabot-
makef s jnind, for he feared greatly
the result of a delay in the supplies.
He rose at once and went out with
Rasper.

At the approach of day, huge
masses of fog had begun to rise from
the valley ; the fires crackled in the
damp air, and all around lay the
sleeping mountaineers. All was
silent, and a cloud, purple or grey,
as the fire rose or fell, hung around
each bivouac. Further olT, the dim
outlines of the sentinels could be
seen as they paced to and fro with
arms shouldered, or stood gazing
into the misty abysses.

To the right, fifty yards beyond
the last fire, horses were neighing,
and men stamping to keep their feet
warm.

" Master JeanClaude is com-
ing,** said Rasper approaching the
group.

One of the partisans had just
thrown a bundle of dry sticks upon
the fire, and by the light of the blaze
Hullin saw Marc-Dives and his
twelve men on horseback, standing
sabre in hand, motionless around
tlieir charge, Catherine was further
on, half covered with the straw of
her wagon, her back leaning against
a large cask; behind her were a
huge pot, a gridiron, a fresh-killed
hog ready for cooking, and some
strings of onions and cabbages for
soup. All started for a moment from

the darkness, and disappeared again
as the blaze fell.

Dives left his party and rode for-
ward.

"Is that youj Jean-Claude?*'

" Yes, Marc/'

" I have already several thousand
cartridges. Hexe-Baizel is working
night and day."

**Goodl goodl"

" And Catherine Lefevre b here
with provisions."

** We shall need all, Marc. The
battle is near/'

** I do not doubt it ; we shall not
have long to wait. But where shall
I put the powder ?"

** Yonder ; under the shed, behind
the house. Is that you, Catherine ?"

** It is indeed, Jean- Claude. A
cold morning.**

** Always the same, Catherine, Do
you fear nothing ?"

" Would I be a woman if I lacked
curiosity ? I must see all that is going
on, you know.'-

** Yes, you have always excuses
for your good deeds/*

** No compliments, Hullin. People
cannot live on air, and I have taken
my measures. Yesterday w^e killed
an ox — poor Schwartz — he weighed
nine hundred, and I have brought a
quarter for soup. Let me warm my-
self*'

She threw the reins to Duchcne and
alighted, saying :

** Those fires yonder are a pretty
sight, but where is Louise?**

** Louise has passed the night mak-
ing bandages with Pt-lsly's two
daughters* She is there in the hos-
pital, where you see my Jantcm shin-
ing/'

** Poor child !" said Catherine ; " I
wil! run and help her. It will warm
me.''

Hullin gating at her rctneating
figure could only mutter, •*What a
woman I What a woman !''

The ImvasmtL

51$

Dives and his men took the pow-
der to the shed ; and vfaat vas Jean-
Glanders surprise, on approachicg the
nearest fire, to see the ibol YegoC his
crown upon his head^ gravely sitting
upon a stone, his feet at the embers,
and his rags draped anxmd him like
a royal mantle.

Nothing could be stranger than
his figure. He was the only one
waking there, and seemed a barba-
rian king surrounded by his sleeping
horde.

Hullin, however, only saw the fool,
and gently placing his hand upon his
shoulder, said in a tone of ironical
respect:

"Hail, Yegof! thou art come to
ofier us the aid of thine in\'incible
ann and the help of thy numberless
armies !"

The fool, without showing the
least surprise, answered :

" That depends upon thee, Hullin.
Thy fate and that of thy people
around thee are in thy hands. I
have checked my wrath, and I
leave it to thee to pronounce the
sentence.'*

"What sentence?" asked Jean-
Claude.

The fool, without replying, con-
tinued in a low and solemn tone :

"We are here now, as we were
sixteen hundred years ago, on the
eve of a great battle. Then I, the
chief of so many nations, came to
thy clan to demand a passage — "

" Sixteen hundred years ago !" in-
terrupted Hullin ; " that would make
us fearfully old, Yegof. But no mat-
ter ; go on."

"Yes," said the fool; "but thine
obstinacy would hear nothing ; hun-
dreds of dead lie at Blutfeld ; they
ciy for vengeance !"

"Ah! yes, Blutfeld," said Jean-
daiide ; " it is an old story ; I have
teird you tell it before."

Yegof rose widi ihtshed fiice ar,d
flashing eyesL

**Darest thou boast of thy vie*
tor}-?"* he cried. "But beware* be-
ware ! Blood calls for blood !'

Then his tone softened, and he
added:

" Listen ! I would not harm thee ;
thou art braA-e, and the children of
thy race may mingle their blood
widi mine. I desire thy alliance —
thou knowest it."

*^He is coming back to Louise,"
thought Jean-Claude, and, foreseeing
another demand in lorm, he said :

"Yegof, I am sorn\ but I must
leave you ; I have so many things to
see to — "

The fool bent an angr)- look on
him.

"Dost refuse me thy daughter?"
he cried, raising his finger solemnly,

" We will talk of it hereafter.'*

" Thou refusest !'*

" Your cries are arousing my men,
Yegof"

"Thou hast refused, and for the
third time. Beware I Beware !"

Hullin, despairing of calming him,
strode away, but the fool's voice fol-
lowed :

" Woe to thee, Huldrix 1 Thy la-
test hour is nigh. Soon will the
wolves banquet upon thy flesh I The
storm of my wrath is unchained, and
for thee and thine there is no longer
grace, pity, nor mercy I Thou hast
spoken thy doom 1"

And throwing the ragged end of
his cloak over his shoulder, the poor
wretch hurried toward the peak of
Donon.

Many of the partisans, half
awakened by his voice, gazed with
dull eyes at his vanishing form.
They heard a flapping of wings
around the fire, but it seemed like a
dream, and they turned and slept
again.

3i6

Glimpses cf Tuscany.

An hour later, the horn of La-
garmitte sounded the rcvdllt. In a
few moments ever)^ one was upon
his feet.

The chiefs assembled their men.
Some went to the shed, where car-
tridges were distributed ; others filled
their flasks at the cask, but every-
thing was done in orden Then each

platoon departed in the gxey dawn
to take its place at the abatis.

When the sun rose, the farm was
deserted, and, save five or six lires yet
smoking, nothing announced that the
partisans held all the passes of the
mountain, and had so lately been
encamped there.

GLIMPSES OF TUSCANY,

THE PASSION AT PRATO.

IV.

As Good Friday drew near, I was
more than once asked by our maestro
di casa if I meant to attend the Pas-
sion at Prato. Prato is an old wall-
ed town in the valley of the Arno,
about ten miles from Florence. It
contains some twelve thousand in-
habitants, whose principal occupa-
tion consists in plaiting Leghorn
straw, manufacturing Turkish red-
caps, smelting copper, and quarrying
the dark green serpentine, which fig-
ures so extensively in Italian church
architecture. It is renowned in
Christian art as the shrine of the
Sacratissima Cintola. Our m<ustro
explained that once in ever}' three
years, from time immemorial, the ci-
tizens of Prato had celebrated Good
Friday by a nocturnal representa-
tion of the Passion ; that it was a
sight well worth seeing, and famous
throughout Northern Italy ; that
he and his family were going, and
that they had a window, or stand,
very much at my service. My aunt,
who thought nothing worth seeing
but the Cascine and her native Luc-
ca, shook her head despairingly, leav-
ing me somehow under the impres-
sion that the affair was a large pup-

pet-show accompanied by fireworks.
So the matter dropped, and I quite
forgot it, until invited on Holy Thurs*
day by an English gentleman, long
resident in Florence, to make one of
a party to Prato, Friday afternoon.
As the trains were uncomfortably
full, and all the better public ba-
rouches engaged weeks before, we
had to put up with an old blue hack,
drawn by two lank, slovenly bays.
But the hack-horses of Florence are
singed cats. Although not unlike
crop-eared mules, they can hold a
trot or canter all day long, without
seeming much more distressed than
when they started. We were hardly
through the Porta al Prato before
our team struck an honest, even,
steady lope that soon brought us
to the Villa Dcmidoflf.

The spring is a slow one, but the
violets are out, the fruit-trees in
bloom, and the roses budding. There
is no dust ; the road, like all Tus-
can roads, smooth and firm, curbed
and guttered, weeded to the ^^^
fringed with unbroken borders of
olive, mulberry, and vines. Along
the wayside, and in the docrwaya^
old women and children are braid-

Glimpses of Tuscany.

317

log straw. Men and girls, in holiday
attire, are flocking to the great tri-
ennial festa ; some in carts, drawn by
mild-eyed, dove-colored oxen ; some
on foot ; others in jaunty spring- wa-
gons, jerked along by plucky little
ponies. The whole country is astir,
with a general concentration on
Prato. It must surely be something
worth seeing that provokes such a
deliberate crowd. Still, I asked no
questions. It is so much more in-
teresting to anticipate a spectacle
\*aguely than exactly. The indefi-
nite anxiety about the form in which
a dawning unknown will finally pre-
sent itself is always more engross-
ing than mere curiosity to realize
a picture distinctly foreshadowed.
Yet, while speculating on what the
good people of Prato could possibly
make of the awful mystery they were
undertaking to represent, I must con-
fess that I felt apprehensive lest some
awkward handling should affiront the
unutterably sacred.

At sunset we reached the fine old
walls, and came to a halt just inside
the gate. To drive further was im-
possible. The city swarmed with
amiadini from the neighborhood;
with natives and forestieri from Flo-
rence, Pisa, Pistoia, Lucca, and even
Milan ; with the beautiful maidens
of Segna and the dark silk-venders
of Pescia. It was evident, at a glance,
that the ceremony was to be a pro-
cession. The piazzas were all ready
for illumination ; every window along
the line of march displayed at least
two lamps suspended from brackets
of thick iron wire ; every door and
balcony was thronged with still, ex-
pectant faces.

As two of our party, a young art-
ist and a mature cosmopolitan, were
bent on seeing the cathedral, we
managed to reach it after toiling
through the crowd. It is wonderful
many objects your disciplined

sight-seer can absorb at once. He
is never satisfied with less than a
constellation in his field of vision.
The emotional jumble that maddens
a novice serves only to tranquillize
his' nerves. He is utterly insensible
to the charm of a separately enter-
tained idea — the undulating, widen-
ing waves of thought dispersed even-
ly and unbroken ly from one central
point of agitation. He is, apparently,
never so happy as when the surface
of sensation is pelted with fresh im-
pressions, overshowered with novel-
ties, tremulous and titillating with
myriads of clashing circlets. But,
although the Duomo is partly of the
tAvelfth century, although it is said
to enshrine the Sacratissima Cintola,
although its choir contains the best
specimens of Fra Lippo Lippi, I was
not sorry to find the doors locked.
My mind was so preoccupied with
the coming Passion that I scarcely
cared to do more than glance at the
fine balcony built by Donatello for
the exposition of the treasured gir-
dle.

We drifted about the piazza till
dark, when an electrical movement
and murmur of the people announced
the near approach of the initial mo-
ment. Instantly a thousand ladders
are up against the house-sides ; swift-
ly and mysteriously the throng of
on-lookers melts away; the bands
of Pistoia and Prato unite in a mi-
nor march ; the momently deserted
streets are filled with radiance and
music — the great triennial festa has
begun. Half-past seven ; a perfect
night ; no moon, a low breeze, and
faint starlight. We are in the rear
of the starting-point ; the procession
must traverse the whole town — two
hours — ^before it reaches us. But we
shall have the best of it then, for the
close is said to be even more solemn
and better ordered than the start.

The narrow sidewalks are lined

3l8

Glimpses of Tuscany.

wilh spectators ; doors, ijpindows, and
tbalconies alive with faces ; but there

; little movement and less conversa-
tion. Although we had a room of
our own, we found ourselves address-
ing each other in whispers. At nine
o'clock the silence dcjepened ; the
low rustling in the balconies ceas-
ed ; our hostess crossed herself; the
glare of coming torches lights up a
living lane of men bare-headed, of
women mutely praying with clasped
hands \ and then a solitary Roman
^knight, with casque and spangled

3be, and steed unshod, glides noise-
lessly into view, like an apparition.
After him a band of mounted knights,
clad as at Calvary, ride slowly, si-
lently together; then a blast from
'twenty Immpets, in superb unison,
by twenty Bersaglieri of the Guard ;
and then — a sight which to this day
brings the tears to my eyes as I re-
call it — thirty gladiatorial lictors, ten
abreast, stripped to the waist, bare-
headed, belted, filleted — all picked
men of equal height — ^moving with a
step that spurned the ground, light
but swift and stern as fate- How^
that wonderful step startled us ! How
its determined energj^ran sported us
to Jerusalem \ They have sustained
it for two hours without the slightest
symptom of weariness. They march
on as if they could keep the pace for-
ever.

After these, in helmet and cuirass,
with shield and sword and spear,
come the Roman legion a riejr, true to
tradition in gait, garb, and array.

** W.itch the sway of their spears,"
whispered our artist friend, as the
long lances flashed through the air
with the even sweep of an admiral's
oars.

It was worth watching : nearly as
much so as the wonderful stride of the
lictors. And, all the while, you could
not hear a footfall, a comment, or a
murmur \ the procession passed like

a vision through the heart of that <
still* torchlit, reverent multitude. But,
as the dread sequel approached, I be-
gan to tremble — began to fear ihey
might overdo it — although the march-
ing of those drilled lictors and the
swaying of those legionary spears
might have reassured me. Fresh
companies of knights, fresh sections
of the cohort are filing forward, every
man of them as earnest and absorbed
as if he were chmbing the hill of the
Crosses Three. Not a sign or ges-
ture of levity, distraction, or fatigue j
not even a side-glance at the living
walls that hemmed tliem in.

As the vanguard melts away, the
sudden glare of many torches, the
sudden chaunt of many voices, again
invade the solemn stillness with mu*
sic and light. Marshalled groups of
ecclesiastics, each group with its sep-
arate choir, are seen advancing in
endless perspective ; and in the cen-
tre of each choir, between two torch*
bearers, a lovely boy, with dow^nc^ist
eyes and rigid face, supports some
symbol of the Passion. One by one,
at measured intcn^als, the precious
emblems of salvation arc thus succes-
sively displayed— each with its guard
of acolytes, its escort of deacons and
sub deacons, its swelling choral, its
angelic boy -bearer. Those rapt, con-
centrated, inspired young faces i 1
see them now bending in meek beau-
ty over the Scourge, the Crown, the
Keed, the Cross, the Nails, the
Sponge, the Spear,

And when these too have p.assed,
there is another pause, another inter-
val of darkness, anotlier pulseless si-
lence, broken as before by the tide of
radiance and song. Seven white ban-
ners inscribed with the Seven Last
Words are borne by with the same
mournful pomp, the same separate
array. Whose the music, I know
not : neither Haydn's, I am sure, nor
Mercadante'Sp I think ; but quite as

Glimpses of Tuscany.

319

effective, for the moment, as either.
We looked and listened spell-bound ;
an overpowering illusion held us
speechless and motionless ; a dread
expectation weighed at our hearts
like lead ; we were body and soul at
Calvary, as once more the torchlight
died away. And in the darkness,
we asked ourselves, " Will they ven-
ture farther ? Will they attempt the
act of sacrifice itself? Why, the city
of Prato would reel like Jerusalem —
her graves would open and her dead
would walk !"

But Prato is too merciful for that.
After an interval of profound sus-
pense, a lofty sable catafalque, encir-
cled by priests arrayed in stole and sur-
plice, is borne silently along — and
on it, pale and unmoving, the shroud-
ed image of the divine Victim, with
all the agony of the Passion on the
white lips and crimson brow. Con-
summaium est ! — But as we sat unex-
pectant of more, another figure emerg-
ed from the settling gloom — the life-
size effigy of the Mater Dolorosa,
"following with clasped hands and
streaming eyes the dead form of her
Son." After all that long array of
Irving actors, the introduction of any
effigy, however perfect, must create a
disillusion. And this one is far from
perfect — far more suggestive of the
Prado than of Calvary. The dead
on the catafalque is appropriately re-
presented by the inanimate ; but
when knights, soldiers, lictors, centu-
rions, are moving, breathing flesh and
blood, its application to the equally
living Mother is a violent incongruity.
The action has been too intensely
vitalized to assimilate a counterfeit
vitality, however sacred its signifi-
cance.

" But what then ?'* asks the genius
of Prato. " Am I to forego this tri-
bute to my dear Padrona because it
shocks the sensibilities of a specula-
tive tourist ? Does not my cathedral

enshrine the very girdle of the As-
sumption that fell to the kneeling
Thomas ? Can you fix a single un-
orthodox or unscriptural significance
upon these time-honored obsequies ?
In the final throes of crucifixion, was
not the last thought of the dying Son,
the last concern of the expiring Re-
deemer, for his Mother ? Was not
* Behold thy Mother !* the last charge
of the thirsting lips } We obey the
Ecce Homo of Pilate : dare we diso-
bey the Ecce Mater of Jesus ?"

Let it be discriminated, however,
that in the Ecce Mater we are sum-
moned to contemplate our Blessed
Lady, not in her agony, but in her
maternity — ^in her relationship rather
to the future than to the present.
The Evangelists are singularly careful
not to distinguish any finite sorrow —
not even hers — from the overwhelming
spectacle of immolated Deity. Had
the Mater Dolorosa formed part of
the funeral tableau, had she been
pictured Dolentem cuufilio, had she
been stationed directly at the bier so
as to constitute a group or Pietk —
although the inconsistency of effigy
remained, yet the marbles of Angelo
and the canvas of Raphael would
have abundantly prepared us for the
sight But at that supreme moment,
to present her, after a distinct inter-
vai, as a separate spectacle, was at
variance with all the examples of
Christian art. The Stabat Mater
does not wander an inch from the
Cross; though here, with exquisite
propriety, as the sorrow of the Moth-
er is revealed, the cross she clings to
is so dimmed by her tears that we
catch only mournful twilight glimpses
of the DULCEM Natum — ^veiled, in-
finite, triumphant woe, but none of
the vivid, minute, specific agony of
the Passion.

The sublime reticence of the Evan-
gelists, so far from diminishing the
true glory of the Handmaid of the

320

Glimpses of Tuscany,

Lord, is in inspired accord both
with her maiden humility and ma-
ternal dignity. The falhonVless pro-
cesses of redemption present them-
selves to our limited perceptions
rather as consecutive than simul-
taneous. The paternal, the filial,
the spiritual aspect of the Holy
rinity seems each consecutively
rominent in the church. As the
special work of the Redeemer is con-
summated, the special work of the
Comforter begins. The sphere of
the Paraclete is as broadly defined,
as lovingly respected by the Son, as
the sphere of the Padre Etemo, In-
finitely dear as is the bond between
babe and mother, we instinctively
sympathize with ihe mystical cour*
tesy that resented the full exaltation
of the Bride of the Dove, like the gift
of the cloven tongues of fire, for the
operation of the Holy Ghost,

Che'l dd di tuc bellexze innsmoruU.'*

And the hearts of the faithful, now
as at Ephesus, are jealously alive to
the full significance of her paramount
title, '' Mater Dd:'

The mission of Peter, to feed the
sheep, is not more emphatic than the
mission of John as the child and
guardian of Mary, The apostolic
inheritor of the keys, and the execu-
tor of the cross who took her as his
own, walk side by side through the
ages, not in the fleshy indeed^ but in the
spirit ^ following the Lord till his
coming. In this relation^ the dearest
disciple is as deathless as the church ;
under this aspect, Christian art loves

to depict him ; under this aspect he
becomes the preferred of the Para-
clete, as he has been the best beloved
of Jesus — becomes tlie great herald
of the incarnation ; llie prophet to
whose vi^on the doors in heaven are
opened ; the bearer of the mystic
challenge, '^ And the Spirit and the
Bride say come/''

Salve Regina 1 Much as I should
have preferred the chime of the Sta-
bat Mater to anymore direct sugges-
tion, or to aught in imitative art save
the very face of the San Sis to trans-
formed by maternal sorrow, yet no
man in Prato bows with deeper
heartfelt reverence than I to the
image of our ever honored Lady.
Tuscany is not Mariolatrous enough
for me, I should like it belter with
a Madonna presiding over every
fountain and hallowing every path-
way. And» in the deep hush that
precedes the stir with which Prato
struggles back to herself, the sphTs
conception of the yuxta crucem
lacrymosa takes the place of the
vanishing effig}', and, aided by the
inspired seers of art, constructs some
tenderer semblance of the blessed
countenance.

** ch' ji C(m»to

Piu &' A&»omigljd/*

There was but little conversation
as we drove back in the midnight.
And when at last, in the starry dis*
tance, arose the mighty cupola of
Santa Maria del Fiore, I caught my*
self searching among the towers of
Florence for the lonely spire of
Santo Sptrito.

GatUeo-Galileiy tlu Florentine Astronomer,

321

GALILEO-GALILEI* THE FLORENTINE ASTRONOMER.

1564-1642.

" EvBN ID great a man as Bacoa rejected the theory of Galileo with scorn. . . . Bacon had not all the means
of arriving at a sooikI condusion which are within our reach ; and which secure people who would not hare
been worthy to mend his pens from fidling into his mistakes."— Macaul ay.

Very few years of life now remain
to the Galileo story as heretofore ac-
cepted. It has received more than one
mortal wound, and, writhing in pain,
must soon 'Mie among its worship-
pers.'* And yet some of them still bat-
dc for its truth. For these, too, the end
a{^Toaches. We therefore hasten to
glean the field and gather in our har-
vest of historic leaves, while yet the
controversial sun shines with fading
warmth. We wish at once to present
the Galileo story as truly told ; for
soon there will be nothing left of it to
discuss, and the moving drama of

** The starry Galileo* with his woes,'*

will cease to be played to crowded
and delighted anti-Catholic audiences.
K flood of historic daylight has been
gradually let in behind the scenes.

^ GdUlf—Tke Roman Itiquisiticn. Cindnnati.
CmiSit^ € rinquisizunu. Marino-MarinL Roma.

HiMUirg ties ScUnces MatkitmUiques en Italie.
Par Libri. Paris. 1838.

I^0ies 0H the AtOe-Galilean Co^emicatu. Prof. De
Morpm. London. 1855.

O^ere di Galileo-Galileu Alberi. Firenxe. i84>-
t856w 16 Tola. imp. 8vo.

GmiSe^'GtUiiei, sa Vie, son Proch et us Contemfo-
mims. Par Philar^te Chasles. Paris. 1862.

GaiSeo and the Inquisition, By R. Madden.
London. 1863.

Gmlilht sa Vie^ ses Dhouvertes ei ses Travaux.
Par le Dr. Max Parchappe. Paris. 1866.

GaisUe. Trag^die de M. Ponsard. Parin. 1866.

La ComdamnatioH de Galilie. Par M. TAbb^
Rooiz. Arras. 1866.

Artieleeon Galileo, in Dublin Review. i83*-i865.

Ariiele* on G.-dileOy in Revue des Deux Mondes.
1841—1864.

MUamges Scientifiques et LUthraires. Par J. B.
BioC 3 vols. Paris. 1858.

GaUUey Us Droits de la ScUnceet la Mitkade des
Sciemees Physiques, Par Thomas Henri Martin.
raris. s868.

VOL. VIIL — 21

and our pensive public now begin
plainly to discern the bungling frame-
work, the coarse canvas, and the
roughly-daubed paint, that, in a light
shed by a blaze of religious bigotr}%
seemed the brilliancy of science and
the beauty of truth.

The " persecution," the " torture,"
the ^^e pur si muove^^ the " shirt of
penance," and all the other proper-
ties, scenery, dresses, and decorations,
constituting the ^*miseen schn^^ of the
wretched play that so long has had a
sort of historic Black Crook run, are
now about to be swept away with oth-
er old rubbish, and the curtain will
fall never again to rise.

The Galileo controversy is of com-
paratively recent date in our litera-
ture. In the year 1838 a well-known
article in the The Dublin Review gdcv^
the best statement of the case which,
up to that period, had ever been pre-
sented to English readers. It was in
this country generally attributed to
Cardinal Wiseman, but was in fact
written by the Rev. Peter Cooper.
Republished in 1844 at Cincinnati,
with a timely preface, it has been
largely circulated among the Catho-
lic reading public throughout the
United States. Since the dates men-
tioned, however, there are many val-
uable accessions to our knowledge on
this interesting subject ; and, not to
mention others, the publications of
Marini, Alberi, and Biot have clear-
ed up several important points here-
tofore in doubt, and placed some dis-
puted facts in an entirely new light

322

Galiitv-Galilei, the Fhniithie Astronomer.

The occasion of The Dublin Rn^ieiv

article was the appearance of Whe-
weirs History of the Inductive Sdcfires^
and Powell's History of Philosophy.
Its republication in Cincinnati, ac-
companied by an American introduc-
tion, was provoked by some remarka-
ble statements made concerning Ga-
lileo by John Quincy Adams, in a dis-
course delivered before the Astrono-
mical Society of that city. In like
manner, the controversy was lately
brought to the surface in France by
the production of M, Ponsard's five-
act drama {Galilee) at the Theatre
Fran^ais. Before it is put upon the
stage, the play is objected to by
official censorship, on the ground
of historical misrepresentation. M.
Ponsard justifies, censure responds.
M. Ponsard*s friends, the Avenir Na-
ti&ftal and a compact phalanx of
ardent yonng /aiilletonistes^ spring to
the rescue ; pamphlets fly from the
press as thick as autumn leaves, and
the whole controversy is once again
put in agitation.

Generally speaking, English and
American boys emerge from their
school or college reading with an
idea, more or less vague, that the
moment Galileo announced the doc-
trine of the earth *s rotation he was
seized upon by the Inquisition^ cast
into prison, tortiired in various ways
until all his bones were broken ; that
he pretended to recant, but, with
broken bones aforesaid, stood up
erect, stamped his foot, and thunder-
ed out, " e pur si muofe " — ^and yet,
it moves. We believe this is no ex-
aggeration of the main features of
the version that in an undefined and
misty form still holds possession of
the public mind ; and the distinguish-
ed Biot appears to recognize this fact
in the title of his memoir (1358) on
the subject, La llrite sur Galilie —
The truth at last — or, in other words,
we have had enough of fiction.

And no wonder ; for, up to within
comparatively few years, the story
has been systematically obscured by
thick shades of fable and falsehood.
Falsehood as gross as that of Mong
tucla, tliat the astronomer's eye
were put out ] or of Bernini, that he
was imprisoned for ^vt. years. False-^
hood as flippant as that of Morei
( Grand Dtctionnaire Biographiqtu^
that Galileo was " kept in prison fiv
or six years/' prefacing his statement
with "y*^ sais lien,** Fables as trans-
parent as that of Ponlecoulant, who
says Galileo was a mart}T, leaving
you free to imagine the astronomer
beheaded or burned, at your choice.
As liberal a quarteriy as Xh^Wesi
minster sap of Galileo : ** For tb
remainder of his life he was subjcci
ed to the persecution of the Inquisi
lion.'^ Even the last edition of th<
Encycloptzdia Britannica tells us th
**at the end of a year the Grani
Duke had the influence to procun
his release from prison j*^' and Sii
Benjamin Broclie informs us, in hii
Psychi}iogical Inquiries, that ** the I
quisition of Rome subjected Gali
leo to the torture because he assert
ed that the earth moved round th
sun, and not the sun round the^
earth.'* But for a specimen of the
most daring intrepidity of statement
on tliis topic, see an article by
Libri in the Revue des Deux Mondes^
184 1 ; and for one out of a thousand
silly rhetorical flourishes, see Inirth
duciion d t Etude Phil^sophtque de
tHistoire de VHumanitk, par Altmey-
er, (p. 95,) ** Galilee fut forc^ par
un clerg^ retrograde de dcmander
pardon \ Dieu d'avoir r^veW aux
hommes les ^tcrnelles et ravissantes
harmonies par lesqueJles il regil
Tunivers."

Summing up this peculiar phase of
historical treatment, there is left from ^
it a general impression that Galileo H
was persecuted, imprisonedi maltreat* ■

CalilethGalilei, the Florentitie Astronomer.

323

cd, and tortured, wholly and solely by
reason of his scientific belief; that
he pretended to abjure, but said
**e pur si muave^^ and did not ab-
jure.

The Ponsard controversy in France,
which had hardly died out at the lat-
est advices, produced many asser-
tions, strong expression of weak
theories, loose statement, some fine
writing, pleasing amenities, such as
** exagtf ration," " inexactitude de
transcription," "menteurs," "men-
songe complet," and very little his-
torical proof.

Throughout the entire range of
the discussion one capital feature ap-
peaxSy as usual, to be left totally out
of sight We mean

THE CONDITION OF THE SCIENTIFIC
QUESTION.

The theory of the earth's motion,
A.D. 1868, is demonstrated. There
is no one to question it — unless,
indeed, we except Pastor Knaack,
an orthodox Lutheran, or, at any
rate, Protestant preacher, in Berlin,
who lately had an exciting contro-
versy with Pastor Liscow, in which
he maintains that the accounts given
of the creation of the world in the
first chapters of Genesis are literally
true ; that the earth does not move,
etc., etc. And most persons nowa-
days, taking it for granted that Gali-
leo had demonstrated the truth of his
system, appear to be satisfied that
the tribunal by which he was judged
must have been perversely blind and
disgracefully ignorant in refusing
assent to a proposition so evident.
Even in many books that treat this
discussion with comparative thor-
oughness, the true condition of the
scientific question in Galileo's day is
passed over in silence, or presented
with startling incorrectness. Thus
any one might read Dr. Parchappe's

pretentious work carefully through,
and never suspect that Galileo had
not triumphantly demonstrated the
system.

For another, out of many exam-
ples, listen to M. Philar^te Chasles !
"Galileo accomplished the noblest
conquest of modern science after
that of Newton. He determined the
problem of the movement of the earthy
and thus became culpable of three
crimes — against society, the savants,
and the power of his time." So in-
tent is M. Chasles on his antitheti-
cal three crimes, that he loses sight
of the fact that this assertion pros-
trates the whole kchafaudage of his
defence of Rome — for, ultra-liberal
though he be, his book is written with
unusual fairness of intention. If Gali-
leo did what M. Chasles thus claims for
him — namely, determine the problem
of the movement of the earUi — there
is no exmsefor Rome ! But a candid
examination of the condition of as-
tronomical science at that period,
and of the extent of Galileo's acqui-
sitions, will show that not only was

THE SYSTEM NOT DEMONSTRATED BY
GALILEO,

but that, with the entire fund of as-
tronomical and physical knowledge
in existence in his day, it was not
then susceptible of demonstration by
him or by any one else.

This examination we now proceed
to make. And we set out with the
proposition that Galileo, with all the
aid of the eighty years of confirma-
tion that grew with the theory of
Copernicus, with the light of his own
remarkable discoveries, with his bril-
liant genius and intimate conviction
of the truth of his theory, was yet not
only powerless to prove it, but was so
far wide of demonstration that he as-
signed as evidence in its support rea-

Galileo-Galilei, the Floraititu Astronomer,

325

before been put to practical use.
Passing over the " perspective glass-
es" of the English astronomer Dee,
or modifications of the suggestion
in the Pantometria of Digges in 157 1,
we find that the idea of bringing
nearer the image of distant objects
by means of a combination of lenses
B to be traced almost clearly to a
very remote period. Baptist Porta,
in his Magica Naturaiis, published
in 1589, speaks of crystal lenses
by which he could read a letter at
twenty' paces, and was confident of
being able, by multiplpng such lens-
es, to decipher the smallest letters
at a hundred paces. Going further
back, we read in the Homocentrica of
Fiacastorius, who died in the year
1553, of glasses through whose aid
we can decipher writing at a great
distance ; and yet further, Roger
Bacon, who died a.d. 1300, speaks
of glasses by which very small letters
could be read at an incredible dis-
tance.

Galileo's first telescope had only
a power of three, his second magni-
fied eight times, his third thirty-three,*
and was soon succeeded by a better
one made on a suggestion of Kepler,
who wrote to Galileo : " There is
as much difference between the dis-
sertations of Ptolemy on the Anti-
podes and the discovery of a new
world by Columbus as between the
bilenticular tubes which are every-
where hawked about and thine in-
strument, Galileo, wherewith thou
hast penetrated the depths of the
skies.''

These embryo telescopes were
firom twenty to thirty inches in
length. Now, from a mere portable
toy which Galileo held in his hand,

* Tte faogett telescopes we now hare are at Cb'
, XH local feet ; Greenwich, (England,) 210 :
i4fe, (Mala.,) 370; Pultowa, (Russia.) 389 : E.
ir, (priinrt« observatory, Ireland,) 303. Auzont
CVMi) b said to have made one of 600 focal feet, but
kMifendtobti

this instrument has become an im-
mense construction capable of sup-
porting the astronomer himself, and
which complicated and powerful ma-
chinery is requisite to move.

It is a remarkable fact that, as late
as 1637, no glasses could be pro-
duced in Holland, the cradle of the
telescope, capable of showing the
satellites of Jupiter, which, in our
day, can be discerned with a good
field or opera-glass.

With his baby-telescope, then, in
16 10, Galileo discovered the irregu-
larities or mountains of the moon,
forty stars in the Pleiades, and the
satellites of Jupiter. These discov-
eries were announced in a work
bearing the appropriate title. The
Herald of the Skies y (Nundus Side-
reus;) and it would be diflicult to
describe the profound sensation this
publication created. Kepler, in a
letter to Galileo, describes his im-
pressions on hearing of the discovery
of the satellites of Jupiter in the fol-
lowing graphic manner : " Wachen-
fels stopped his carriage at my door
to tell me, when such a fit of wonder
seized me at a report which seemed
so absurd that, between his joy, my
coloring, and the laughter of both,
confounded as we were by such a
novelty, we were hardly capable, he
of speaking, or I of listening."

GALILEO GOES TO ROME.

Galileo visited Rome for the first
time in i6i i. His fame had preced-
ed him, and his stay there was one
long ovation. Attentions beset him
and honors were heaped upon him.
"Whether we consider cardinal,
priest, or prelate," says Salsbury, " he
found an honorable welcome firom
all, and had their palaces as open
to him as the houses of his private
friends." His reception was indeed,
as was beautifully remarked, "as

ECS ted oi
Heered

of tik ova starry
ted dropped from te akj."
Heercdod luitest telescope in
of Caidsaal Buhdlol, and
«e^cs aQ clittr% priest aod lay*
^wMesBd phMM^aocked to
Ite lioederi for the fiisl time
9 to !■■» Saje.
s i§tt aad s6ia, ke bad a pro-
uomttw ei %f% and wroie tEea*
Ml the cpKSlieBvlMlter ^'tte
of bodies tea «Bf ieAttBDce on
toioat orstnk in a
nocb
la wmomt of the
ofl

GmliU^G^iH^ the Ftm^niin^ Asirafumter.

tbeir prejudices, he wieMcd against
them his powerful weapons of ridi-
cule and sarcasm." His progress
was a triumphant march. Sovereigns
received his dedications, and learned
academies sought a reflection of his
£uiie in sending forth his works with
all the illustration of their high au-
thority. The path to the full estab-
lishment of the Copemican system
was open and broad before htm ; but
the pride of the man* was stronger
than the modest science of the phi-
losopher, and he made it rugged and
difficult by obstacles of his own erec-
He strove not for troth, but

victory*

lf«

\^mm.m\

^ Kot bb the &to

mi Ty^o BrabOy cohh

" * ^ the hospitality

Not his the

a Urn mntrnWA l f^tteon,

m te tetua that

iaimiimil osTtt Not

ft «f Siil and silent

^ I only «o see the light

^iAntt tte bwi Aid itaced then was
fMMii^lUirib. Kol his the COO'
mm m Mrti iJti ytw rf pomt>%
^h«t MM. bi i1»iKt of which
CMmtes AmmA a Mi«icotU» iiot«
KkftCUKIto'^aiMtiik the vault of
tiMv^Mi, but awnwi> wbaown, be-
]f«»«tbisiraehksswm

Ho wi«4» and spoke me o^nim^
Md, wbefcbet with or witbout proofs,
n» a tooe of oi«*cfbearing conHdonce,
When argument latted lo enlighten
the judgment of his adversaries,
*ays LarUucr, " and reason to dispel

THE COrSRKICAN THEORY

»*as, so to speak, bom, cradled^ nur-
tured and developed in the Church
and under the very shadow of St. m
Peter's, "

Nicholas Copernicus was a priest*
acquired his scientific education at
Bologna, was shortly afterward ap*
pointed to a professorship in Rome,
where he lectured many years, and
announced and discussed his theot)'
of the solar system long before it
«as published. The printing of hb
great work was long urged in vain by
Cardinal Scomberg, who sent money
to defray the expense. The Bishop
of Culm superintended itspublicaljon.
and Copernicus dedicated it to the
Head of the Church, Pope Paul 1 11^
on the express ground "that the au-
thority of the pontiff might silence
the calumnies of those who attacked
these opinions by arguments drawn
from Scripture/' It was well under-
stood that the authority of the pon-
tiff might be relied on ; for in 15331
ten years before the publication of
De Revalutimibus by Copernicus,

t;^irr

GaUUO'GaUUiy the Florenting Astronomer.

327

John Albert Widmanstadt, just ar-
rived in Rome from Germany, was
invited by Pope Clement VII. to give
in his presence at the Vatican an ex-
planation of the Copemican system.
Widmanstadt accordingly delivered
a lecture on the subject in the gar-
den of the Vatican ; and his holiness,
in token of his high gratification,
presented the distinguished German
a valuable Greek manuscript, (long
preserved at Monaco, and now be-
kmging to the royal library at
Munich,) on the fly-leaf of which is
recorded, by Widmanstadt, the gift
and the incident connected with it.

From that time (1533) to 1610, a
period of seventy-seven years, the
Copemican theory was widely dis-
cussed and written upon throughout
Europe. Lectures were delivered
and books published in Italy, Ger-
many, France, and Spain, without
let or hindrance, in which the new
system was thoroughly debated and,
to a great extent, controverted —
controverted, too, far more bitterly
by astronomers than theologians. It
was, moreover, discussed amongst all
classes of men. So much so, indeed,
that it was publicly satirized in a
fiffce put upon the stage at Elbing.
So great, however, was the personal
popularity of Copernicus that the
piece was hissed.

Intentionally or not, the impres-
sion has been strongly made on the
English and American Protestant
nund that before Galileo the new
system scarcely existed, and that he
was the first to announce it to the
astonished and benighted priests and
cardinals at Rome. In like manner a
certain amount of literary industry
appears to have been used to pass
over in comparative silence the merit
of Copernicus and his fellow-priests
— simply because they were priests.*

* In the interest of truth and historical aocuncy*
k k hiyUy gntifyinc to be able to point out a ugnal

Much of this reprehensible effi>rt is
chargeable to English literature, and
even Hallam, fair and honorable usu-
ally, is not free from the reproach
of an apparent fear of stating boldly
that Copernicus was a Catholic priest.

As remarked, more than three
quarters of a century — that is to say,
from the period of the Widmanstadt
lecture to the discovery of the satel-
lites of Jupiter — the new theory as
propounded by Copernicus was pub-
licly taught or discussed by numbers
of the first scholars and men of sci-
ence in Europe.

Among them were Erasmus, Rein-
hold, and George Joachim Rheticus ;
personal friends and survivors of
Copernicus.

Francis PatriciuSy the distinguished
Platonist, who from 1592 to 1597
taught the diurnal motion of the
earth at Rome under the patronage
of the pope. In connection with the
name of Patricius it is interesting to
note the fact that the most careful
biographers of Galileo have been
unable to fix the precise time when
he abandoned the Ptolemaic system
for that of Copernicus. True, M.
Libri, (in his Histoire des Sciences
Mathkmaiiquesen ItcUie^) with his usual
readiness undertakes to inform us,
by stating that " Z>^j sa premiere
jeunesse Galilee avail adopte le systhme
de CopemiCj^ which statement, in a
question of dates, we find eminently

and honorable exception in the following passage,
which we read in the Natianal QuarUrty Review,
a Protestant periodical published in this city : " Thus
we are bound to admit, as beyond all dispute, that not
only was the system of the universe now universally
received founded by a priest of the church which »
said to be an enemy to science, but that it was a bishop
and cardinal of the same church who, above all others,
took most pains to have the system promulgated to
the world. It was, in £u:t, they who paid all the ex-
penses of printing the work, and finally, it was to
the head of the church the book was dedicated ; nor
was it dedicated to the pope without his having given
full permission, and it is forther proved that Paul III.
had not given the permission until he had made him-
self acquainted with the character of the worit."— iV«-
twneUQttarUrijf Review, October, x868, p. 219.

GalileihGaliUiy the Floretitine Astronomer,

329

geCher with the opinion of the emi-
nent Bellarmine, shows precisely the
condition of opinion and feeling in
Rome at the period in question.

Galileo did not leave Rome afler
die inquiry of 1615, and then writes
to Picchena Feb. i6th, 1616 : " My
aiEur has been brought to a close,
so far as I am individually concern-
ed ; the result has been signified to
me by all their eminences the cardi-
nals, who manage these affairs in
die most liberal and kind manner,
with the assurance that they had felt,
as it were with their own hands, no
less my own candor and sincerity,
than the diabolical malignity and
iniquitous purposes of my persecutors.
So that, so far as I am concerned, I
migfat return home at any moment.''

But he did not choose to return,
and remained in order to obtain a
decision that should declare his
scientific opinion in accordance with
Scripture. His friend Cardinal Or-
sini entered warmly into his views,
and after having failed in having the
question taken up by the cardinals,
had the imprudence to force it
farr^td potius quant captd occasione)
iqpon the attention of the pope and
the cardinals while in deliberation
upon matters of weighty concern in
one of their largest meetings. On a
second interruption the pope, natu-
rally impatient, declared he would
send the matter before the Inquisi-
tion. He kept his word, and eleven
consultative theologians had orders
from him to report, which they did,
Febniaxy 24th, 1 6 1 6. By virtue of an
order, said to have been written by
the pope himself upon this report,
and notified on the 25th February,
to the Commissary of the Holy Office
bf Cardinal Mellini, Galileo was
nanmoned the next day to the palace
of the Inquisition, where he was
bioii^t before Cardinal Bellarmine.
Tbe decree was not one of utter con-

demnation, but a declaration that the
system appeared to be contrary to
the sacred Scripture. Galileo was en-
joined by the decree to abandon the
opinion of terrestrial motion, and
neither to teach nor treat of it Nor
was this a discrimination against Ga-
lileo merely because he was a lay-
man. A few days afterward the
congregation condemned the work
of Foscarini, a Carmelite friar and
professor of philosophy, who publish-
ed a letter defending the systems of
Copernicus and Galileo. It is im-
portant here to remark that the decree
of 26th February, 16 16, forbidding
Galileo to teach the doctrine of the
immobility ^f the sun was scientifi-
cally correct, even tried by our mo-
dem scientific standard. "Ut su-
pradictam opinionem quod sol sit
centrum mundi et immobilis . . .
omnino relinquat, nee eam de cetero
quovis modo teneat, doceat, aut de-
fendat." Will any man of modem
science undertake to say that Galileo
was right in denying the rotation of
the sun ? Nevertheless, Galileo writes
to Picchena: "The result has not
been favorable to my enemies, the
doctrine of Copernicus not having
been declared heretical, but only as
not consonant with sacred Scripture ;
whence, the whole prohibition is of
those works in which that conso-
nance was maintained."

Meantime these proceedings, im-
perfectly known abroad, doubtless
gave rise to reports which the " dia-
bolical malignity " of Galileo's ene-
mies (as he styled it) did not fail to
exaggerate. Hence, the certificate
which he procured shortly after from
Cardinal Bellarmine. The enemies
Galileo speaks of were at first not
in Rome but in Tuscany, as Libri, in
his Histoire des Sciences, (p. 231,) is
at some pains to explain. The ser-
mon of Caccini, who took for his
text Josue x, 12, "Move not, O

GmHUo-Galiki^ the Florentine Astronomer,

331

deum the effort of sound and right
reason, by which the mind or cultiva-
ted nature b searched and her more
hidden secrets brought to light"
(Pius IX. 's letter to the bishops of
Austria.) The Holy Father, in his
\-arious encyclicals, has repeatedly
given eloquent expression to the ne-
cessity and true use of reason and
of science ; and these are the worldly
arms whose skilful use by our priests
and missionaries will most avail
where worldly arms are needed to
carry the outposts of intrenched po-
sitions in which there are conver-
sicKis to make or souls to be saved.

On the termination of the inquiry
of 16 1 6, Galileo had an audience with
Pope Paul v., who received him very
graciously and gave him every assu-
rance of good-will and friendship, his
Holiness assuring him in parting
that the Congregation were no longer
in a humor to listen lightly to ca-
lumnies against him, and that so
long as he occupied the papal chair
Galileo might consider himself safe.
In his introduction to the Dialogue,
(1630,) Galileo thus speaks of this
visit: "Mi trovai allora presente in
Roma; ebbi non solo udienze ma
ancon^ applausi dei piu eminenti Pre-
lati di quella Corte."

Here is the certificate referred to,
which was given to Galileo by Car-
dinal Bellarmine :

" We, Robert Bellarmine, having learned
that the Signor Galileo-Galilei has been sub-
jected to folse imputations, and that he has
beea reproached with having made before
«ft abjuration of his errors, and that by our
order certain penances were imposed upon
him, declare conformably with truth that
die taid Galileo, neither before us nor be-
bre any other person whomsoever in Rome,
nor in any other place that wc are aware of,
made any sort of retraction in relation to
any of his opinions or of his ideas, that no
pwrishment or penance was inflicted on him ;
b«t that a communication was made to him
•C a declaration of his Holintss, our sove-
which declaration was promulgated

by the Sacred Congregation of the Index,
from the tenor of which it results, that * the
doctrine attributed to Cof>emicus as to the
pretended movement of the earth round the
sun, and as to the place which the sun oc-
cupies in the centre of the world without
moving from its rising to its setting, is op-
posed to the Holy Scriptures, and conse-
quently may not be defended or held.'

" In faith of which we have written and
signed the present the 26th of May, 1616^ as
here below. (Signed)

" Robert Cardinal Bellarmine.**

The expression '* Holy Scriptures,"
gives the key to the whole difficulty.
The Congregation, in the first place,
discriminated properly in refusing to
recognize as a demonstrated proposi-
tion that which as yet was and only
could be hypothesis.

We have seen that it was the un-
yielding obstinacy of Galileo in con-
tinuing to make it a theological or
scriptural question that created all
the trouble ; and if any one doubts
it, he may be corrected, as was Mr.
Drinkwater, by an authority which
will hardly be questioned :

" Mr. Drinkwater seems to be mistaken
in supposing that Galileo did not endeavor
to prove his system compatible with Scrip-
ture. In a letter to Christina, Grand- Duch-
ess of Tuscany, the author (Brenna) of the
life in Fabbroni*s work tells us that he argued
very elaborately for that purpose. It seems,
in fact, to have been his over desire to prove
his theory orthodox, which incensed the
church against it" (Hallam, Hist, Lit, Eu-
rope^voX, iv. p. 171.)

In vain Bellarmine cautioned him,
"It was essential that he should con-
fine himself within his mathematical
studies^ if he wished to secure tran-
quillity for his labors." In vain Car-
dinal Matteo Barberini gave him the
same advice. Still Galileo persbted,
although from 16 16 to 1633 he was
not in the slightest degree interfered
with, and during all that time never
ceased receiving distinguished marks
of honor and esteem from pope and
cardinals.

332

Galileo-Galilei^ the Florentine Astronomer,

URBAN VtIK (bARBERINI.)

In August, 1623, Cardinal Barbe-
rinl was elected pope. His promo-
tion was bailed by scientific men
fivith enthusinsm. He had proved
himself the friend of Galileo, and on
his accession addressed a letter to
the Grand-Duke of Tuscany, felici-
tating him on the glory redounding
to Etruria by reason of the genius
and discoveries of Galileo,

Meantime, in 16 18, Galileo had
published his Theory of the Tides^
chiefly noted for its hostile tone of
sarcasm, and its scientific incorrect-
ness. He had also been deeply oc-
cupied with his method of finding the
longitude at sea, and imagined he had
succeeded. He was, however, mista-
ken. His method was a failure.

Galileo's third visit to rome

•was made in the spring of 1624. He
was again enthusiastically received,
and admitted to six long and gratify-
ing audiences with Urban, whose
kindness was most marked. Gali-
leo returned home laden with pre-
sents, besides a pension from Urban
of one hundred crowns yearly, and
anotlier of sixty pounds for his son
Vincenzo.

"Thus," says the Edinburgh Re-
vietVt "did the Roman pontiff propi-
tiate the excited spirit of thephiloso*
pher, and declare before the Christian
world that he was neither the enemy
of Galileo nor of science."

And now, honored with all these
marks of esteem, confidence, and
favor ; with the fullest license to pro-
secute his researches and publish his
discoveries, provided only that he ab-
stained from any theological compli-
cation by dragging the Scriptures
into the discussion, how did Galileo
act?

But before answering the question,

let us pause a moment to see what
was the condition and reputation, at
Rome itself, of astronomical research
in the direction of the new doctrines,
and the estimate in which they were
held.

ASTRONOMY IN ROME.

The papal court was filled with the
personal friends and adherents of Ga-
lileo and his system. The Pope i M
Ciampoli, his private secretarj* ; Cas- fl
telli, his mathematician ; Csesarini^the
Grand Chamberlain, and the most dis- ^
tinguished among the cardinals, were fl
known to entertain the Copemican
doctrine. The distinguished Jesuit
Torquato de Cuppis was delivering
lectures in the Roman College in _*
support of Copemicanism. At the 1
Sapienza another Jesuit gave similar
lectures. Yet another, the distin* |
guished Scheiner^ advanced the sys-
tem with observations and discovc- 1
ries, and, says BailH, was the first a^ |
tronomer who obser^'ed and explain-
ed (Sol ellipticus) tlie elliptic form
which the sun takes in approaching ^
the horizon. The celebrated work ■
of the Carmelite friar Foscarini, at
Naples, was published for Ron)an cir-
culation, and boldly argued not only
the Copernican hypothesis in all its ^
fulness, but its consistency with ■
Scripture. But more than and be- ^
yond all this, the chair of astronomy
in the pope*s own university of Bolog-
na, vacant by the death of Magini in
1616, was tendered to Kepler ; thus
offering the leaching of heretical as- ^
Ironomy to a Protestant heretic, who I
was if not the most active yet the
most efficient advocate of Copemi-
canism !

Indeed, it may be remarked, since
Kepler's name is mentioned, that as- fl
tronomerswere far better off in Catho* ^
He Italy than in Protestant Gcrma
ny ; for while Galileo was teaching in

GaUleo-Galilei, the Floretitine Astronomer,

333

peace and honor from his profess-
or's chair at Padua, Kepler and Ty-
cbo Brahe met for the first time at
Prague. Protestant exiles from Pro-
testant lands, they found in the mu-
nificent protection of Rudolph safe
asylum and an appreciation of their
scientific merits denied them at
home.

TYCHO BRAKE.

Hostility was excited against Brahe
at the court of Denmark, and, on the
ground of an exhausted treasury and
the inutility of his studies, he was de-
graded from his office, deprived of
his canonry, his pension, and his
Norwegian estate, and both his wife
and family obliged to seek shelter in
a foreign land. His injuries and suf-
ferings preyed upon his mind, and he
survived only two years the shameful
treatment he had received at the
hands of his Lutheran countrymen.
Lalande, in referring to the perse-
cution of Tycho Brahe, holds up the
Minister Walchendorf to execration
and infamy.

KEPLER

was forced to leave home, to accept
a professorship at the Catholic Uni-
versity of Gratz. Why ? Wolfgang
Menzel informs us, {Geschichte der
Dmtsihm^ vol. ii. p. 645:) "The
theologians of Tiibingen condemned
his discovery, because the Bible
teaches that the sun revolves about
theearth^and not the earth about the
sun. He was about to suppress his
book, when an asylum was opened at
Gratz. The Jesuits, who better knew
how to prize his scientific talent, re-
tained him, although he openly avow-
ed his Lutheranism. It was only at
iMNDe that he suffered persecution,
aad it was with difficulty that he suc-

ceeded in saving his own mother
from being burnt alive as a witch."*

If we may be permitted such home-
ly phrase^ English literature " draws
it very mild " when obliged to refer to
the shameful treatment of Kepler and
Tycho Brahe. Their persecutors were
the Protestant theologians of Tiibin-
gen, and the Lutheran ministers of the
Danish court Consequently, these
barbarous transactions are always
delicately alluded to when not sup-
pressed, and are but little known.
If these preachers had been Roman
priests and cardinals — ah I then in-
deed ! As astronomer, Kepler's first
task was to draw up the Styrian Ca-
lendar for 1594. This only served
to add fuel to the flames of the wrath
of the Wurtemberg divines, inasmuch
as Kepler used the Gregorian calen-
dar. Having no antipathy to popes
as such, he was willing to take the
good and the useful without asking
whence it came, and gladly used the
better measure of time.

The Academic Senate straightway
addressed Duke Louis in protest
against the introduction of the detest-
ed papal calendar ; and their memo-
rial is so eminently characteristic and
comical that we cannot deny our
readers the enjoyment of its perusal.
Here it is :

" A Christian, sensible, and good-hearted
governor knows that in reformations of this
kind he should take counsel of the ministers
of the church. As long as the kings of Ju-
dah followed the counsel of the prophets and
other highly enlightened ministers of the
chiu'ch, they ruled laudably and well — pleas-
ing unto God. It is only when the tempo-
ral power is in a member of the true church
of God that it has authority, with the coun-
sel of the ministers of the church, to change
the outward ceremonies of the church.

** As the emperor holds the pope to be the
vicar of Christ on earth, it is not to be won-
dered at that he has introduced his calendar

* For other remarkable features of this persecation*
see yokatm KepUt's Lthtn umd IFtrikn^ vm G. L.
C. Frnhtrm vcm BnUukwert,

334

Gdlite&'Gaiilfi, the Fhraitinc Astrofiomer.

Into his hereditary dominions, smd sent it to
the caitsUes of the Roman empire. Julius
Caesar had not members of his empire who
were lords and rulers themselves like the
estates of the present Roman empire. The
imperial majesty understands itself, and, in
its letter to the estates, merely gives them to
understand that this accommodating theni-
sclvca to his word will give the highest sa-
tisfaction,

" But the new calendar has manifestly
been devised for the furtherance of the idol-
atrous popish system, and we justly hold
the pope to be A cruel, devouring, bcax*wol£
If we adopt his calendar, we must go into
the church when he rings for us. Shall we
have fellowship with Antichrist? And
what concord is there between Christ and
BeUal ?

•* Should he succeed through the imperial
authority in fastening his calendar about our
neck, he would bring the cord in such a
way about our honis that we could no longer
defend ourselves against his tyranny in the
church of God.

'* The pope hereby grasps at the electoral
hats of the princes'of the empire. If the
new calendar Ijc not generally adopted, the
world will not go to ruin on that account.
Summer will not come sooner or later if the
vernal equinox should l>e set a few days fur-
ther back or forward in the calendar ; no
peasant will be so simple as, on account of
the calendar, to send out his reapers at
Whitsuntide, or the gatherers into his vine*
yard at St James* day. These arc merely
the pretexts of the people who stroke the
foxtail of the pope and would not lie thought
to do 80. Satan is driven out of the Chris-
tian church. We will not let hltn slip in
again through his representative the pope"

And since we speak of Kepler, it
may here be remarked that the ap-
preciation in which Galileo and Kep-
ler are held in general historical
literature is far from according with
the estimate of scientific men. It is
assumed tJiat Galileo was persecu-
ted, and that the church was his per-
secutor. Elevated on the pedestal
of his trial at Rome, the man of
science is lost in the martyr, and the
Tuscan philosopher appears in bold
relief on the page of history, while
Kepler, the greater astronomer, re-
mains invisible. It is thoughti and
not without reason, that, but for the

Inquisition, the relative reputation

of these tM'o great men would be re-
versed, and the transcendent genius
of Galileo's Lutheran contemporary,
the legislator of the planets, have been
long since recognized. In their anxi-
ety to make the strongest possible
case against Rome, anti-Catholic
writers have, some perhaps uncon-
sciously, and some with set purpose,
greatly exaggerated all the abilities
and good qualities of Galileo, and
invested him with a superiority far
from merited. To believe them, one
must look upon Galileo as immeasu-
rably excelling all his predecessors
and contemporaries — centring with-
in himself almost superhuman quali-
ties of research and scientific attain*
ment. Merit, talent, genius, Galileo
certainly possessed ; but tried by a
scientific standard, it was inferior to
that of the more modest and less di-
morons Kepler,

Galileo's true and enduring merit
as founder of tlie modern science of
dynamics, and as the author of ihc
grandly suggestive principle of the
virtual velocities, is entirely over-
looked to claim for him a position in
modern astronomy which cannot just-
ly be accorded to him except as
secondary to Copernicus, to Kepler,
and probably to Newton, The pre-
eminence claimed for the Tuscan as-
tronomer will not stand the lest of
examination. With English readers,
it mainly rests on Hume*s celebrated
parallel between Bacon and Galileo.
"The discoveries of Kepler/' re-
marks Professor Playfair, ** were se-
crets extracted from nature by the
most profound and laborious research.
The astronomical discoveries of Gali-
leo, more brilliant and imposing^
were made at a far Jess expense of in*
telleclual labor,"*

• M, n»ont« Henri Martin, iullKir of 1^ wrjr
Umt «wk i>a CatUe<\ U s>M at alt of dM Bfxndk

Home h Uudltiunof GiffleaL

GmliUthGaliUi^ the Florentine Astronomer.

335

MARTYRS OF SCIENCE.

But to return. If, besides Kepler
and Tycho Brahe, another martyr of
science is needed, he may be seen
in the person of Descartes, hunted
down by the Protestant churchmen
of Holland.

Nay, jf suffering science herself is
looked for, she may be found in the
Gregorian calendar, for more than a
century refused admission or recog-
nition by an English parliament that
would rather quarrel with all the stars
in heaven than count time with
Rome! "Truth," as Hallam re-
marks, " being no longer truth when
promulgated by the pope !" Among
the very few men in all England who
treated the Gregorian calendar with
any degree of politeness was Lord
Chesterfield, then a member of par-
liament. He writes, (March i8th,
1751, old style,) "The Julian calendar
was erroneous, and had overcharged
the solar year with eleven days. Pope
Gregory XIII. corrected this error.
His reformed calendar was immedi-
ately received by all the Catholic
powers of Europe, and afterward
adopted by all the Protestant ones
except Russia, Sweden, and England.
It was not, in my opinion, very hon-
orable for England to remain in a
gross and avowed error, especially in
such company. The inconvenience
of it was likewise felt by all those who
had foreign correspondences, whether
political or mercantile.**

Lord Chesterfield was mainly in-
strumental in getting up the bill for
its introduction. On mentioning the
project to the prime minister, the
Duke of Newcastle, then in the ze-
nith of his power, the noble duke
seemed most conservatively alarmed
at such an undertaking, and conjured
the earl (Chesterfield) not to stir
matters that had long been quiet;
adding that he did not love new-

fangled things. Lord Mahon, in his
history, gives several curious instan-
ces of the resentment of the English
people against those who aided in
bringing about the change in the
calendar; thus, when in 1754 Lord
Macclesfield's son stood a great con-
tested election in Oxfordshire, one
of the most vehement cries raised
i^inst him was, "Give us back the
eleven days we have been robbed
of!" and even several years later,
when Bradley, the astronomer, worn
down by his labors in the cause of
science, was sinking under mortal dis-
ease, many of the common people
ascribed his sufferings to a judgment
of Heaven for having taken part in
that infamous undertaking.

Suffering science may again be
found in England in the person of
Alban Francis, insultingly refused the
degree of A.M. by the University of
Cambridge in 1687, but afterward
mockingly offered it on condition that
he — a Benedictine monk — should
take the state oath pronouncing the
Catholic religion damnable and idol-
atrous, when it was well known that
the degree had been given to men of
every variety of nationality and reli-
gious profession, even in one case to
the Mohammedan secretary of the
ambassador of Morocco !

Suffering science again in the Eng-
lish statutes, 7th Will. III., ch. 4, s. i
and 9, by virtue of which :

1. If a Catholic in Ireland kept
school, or taught any person any
species of literature or science, such
teacher was punishable by law with
banishment ; and if he returned, he
was subject to he hanged as a felon.

2. If a Catholic child received
literar}' instruction from a Catholic,
either privately or at school, such
child, even though in its infancy, in-
curred a forfeiture of all its property
present or future.

3. And thus deprived of the

Galilio^GaliUiy the FlorenHm Astronomer.

337

learned editor of the only complete
edition of Galileo's works, says :
'^Crediamo col Tiraboschi, che il
fervore e rimpetuositk sua contri-
buissero ad irritare gli awersari del
sistema Copernico."

** It is doubtless an extraordinary
fact," says the Edinburgh Review^
(October, 1837,) "in the history of
the human mind, that the very same
doctrines which had been published
with impunity by Copernicus, and in
a work, too, dedicated to the Roman
Pontiff, Paul III., for the avowed
purpose of sheltering them under his
sacred s^s, should, nearly a hun-
dred years afterward, when civiliza-
tion had made some progress, have
subjected Galileo to all the terrors
of the Inquisition. If we study, how-
ever, the conduct of Galileo himself,
and consider his temper and tone of
mind, and his connection with a po-
litical party unfriendly to religion,
as well as to papal government, we
shall be at no loss to account for the
different feelings with which the
writings of Copernicus and Galileo
were received. Had the Tuscan
philosopher been a recluse student
of nature who, like Copernicus, an-
nounced his opinions as accessions
to knowledge, and not as subversive
of old and deeply cherished errors \
had he stood alone as the fearless ar-
biter and champion of truth, the Ro-
man pontiffs would, probably, like
Paul III., have tolerated the new
doctrine ; and like him, too, they
might probably have embraced it.
But Galileo contrived to surround
the truth with every variety of ob-
struction. The tide of knowledge
which had hitherto advanced in
peace, he crested with angry break-
ers \ and he involved in its surf both
his friends and his enemies. When
the more violent partisans of the
chmch, in opposition to the wishes
of some of its higher functionaries,

VOL. VIII. — 22

and spurred on by the school-men
and the personal enemies of Galileo,
had fixed the public attention upon
the obnoxious doctrine, it would not
have been easy for the most tolerant
pontiff to dismiss charges of heresy
and irreligion without some formal
decision on the subject."

The astronomer Ddlambre: "On
aurait passd k Galileo, de parler en
math^maticien de I'excellence de la
nouvelle hypothbse ; mais on soute-
nait qu'il devait abandonner aux
thdologiens Tinterpretation de TEcri-
ture." (It was free to Galileo to
speak as a mathematician of the
merit of the new doctrine; but it
was claimed that he should leave
interpretation of Scripture to the
theologians.)

The historian Hallam : " For eigh-
ty years the theory of the earth's mo-
tion had been maintained without
censure, and it could only be the.
greater boldness of Galileo whicln
drew upon him the notice of the-
church."

Philarfete Chasles, (Professor in
the College of France :) " Galileo, a
man of vast and fertile intellect, was^
not in advance of his age and counr
try*; he was incapable either of de*
fending the truth or eluding the efforts*
of those who endeavored to destroy
it. In his contests with the latter, he
showed neither grandeur of mind nor
frankness of character. Unstable^
timorous, equivocating, and supple,"
etc., etc

Alfred von Reumont, many years
Prussian minister at the Court of TuS"
cany, (see his Beitrdge zur ItaHmi-
schen Geschichte^ Berlin, 1853 :) " Gali-
leo's great mistake was, that he insist*-
ed on bringing into conformity witbthe
Scriptures the doctrine of the earthfs
motion — a hypothetical and then in-
complete doctrine, and one denied
by many of the most learned, such
as Bacon^nd Tycho Brahe. So

/l^'^J

rtti

:rsaLt ^

CS:5 <:> ^

he wViL^zr*'
eveloxp* '«^"

NKXT-

338

GaliUo-GaliUit the Florentifte Astronomer.

that, in the interpretation of certain
'passages in the Biblcj an arbitrary
discretion was assumed which the
Church, according to her invariable
principles, could not concede to an
astronomical doctrine as yet un-
proved."

Such citations as these might be
multiplied indefinitely. But they are
sufficient, and more than sufficient.
I Copeniicus, as we have seen, dedi-
cated his great work to Pope P;iul
III., with these remarkable words:
"Astronomers being permitted to
imagine circles, to explain the mo-
• tions of the stars, I thought myself
' equally entitled to examine if the
supposition of the motion of the
I *earth would make the theory of
these appearances more exact and
simple/'

Eighty years had gone by, and the
system had undergone no ** persecu-
tion," in Italy at least. Galileo was
tiow sixty years of age ; nearly forty
r»of these years had been passed, not
■ -only in the safe but triumphant and
even aggressive and defiant vindica-
tion of his astronomical and physical
doctrines, without let or hindrance
save the warning not to trench on
the theological view. But this he
could not bring himself to consent
to, and in 1618, in publishing his
Ificory of the Tides^ he indulged in a
stream of sarcasm and insult against
the decree of 16 16. " The same hos-
tile lone, more or less,*' says Drink-
water, " per\^aded all his writings ;
and while he labored to sharpen the
edge of his satire, he endeavored to
guard himself against its effects by
an affectation of the humblest defe-
rence to the decisions of theology/'
Nor was Galileo's letter to Chris-
tina forgotten. It was a letter,
widely diffused at Rome and in Tus-
cany, in which he undertook to
prove theologically, and from rea-
sons drawn from the fathers, that

the terms of Scripture might be re
conciled with his new doctrines, etc.
D^lambre, Hallam, and Biot all
take the same view of it.

THE CELEBRATED DIALOGUES,

Galileo had now resolved to pul> J
lish a work demonstrating the Co- 1
pernican theory, or rather, his own
views of the earth's motion. But he \
lacked the courage or tlie sincerity J
to do it in an open, straightforward 1
manner, and adopted the plan of dis
cussing it in a supposed dialogue I
held by three disputants. The two ]
first, Sagredo and Salviati, are rep-
resented as accomplished and leam- 1
ed gentlemen* whose arguments arc
marked by talent and ability. The
third, Simplicio, is an old Peripatetic,
querulous and dogmatic, measuring J
ever)* thing by Aristotle, and accept-
ing or rejecting accordingly.

This work, entitled The System &f\
the World of Galiko-GalUei^ waal
completed in 1630; but, owing to the]
delays attending the procuring a ccr*
tificate, it was not published until j
1633. **lt is prolix and diffuse,"'^
says De'Iambre, " wilh high estimate]
of his own discoveries, but deprecia- ]
tion of others/' ** Indeed, I would
advise scholars,*' says Arago, " not
to lose their time reading it/*

More than one historian has re- J
marked that, in obtaining the license (
to print, Galileo exhibited a dextc-l
rous management, tinged with bad!
faith. Biot mentions, "par quels de-j
tours il s'en procura une approbation j
k Rome ;" Ddlambre speaks of his]
" manque absolu de since'rite ;'* and!
Sir David Brewster s.iys, ** His mol
mory has not escaped the imputation J
of having acted unfairly, and of hav-l
ing in%'olved his personal fricndsj
in the consequences of his impr
dence/'

In as few words as possible^ the'

Galileo-Galilei^ the Florentine Astronofner,

339

history of the license affair is as fol-
lows. The censor of new publica-
tions at Rome was Riccardi, a friend
and pupil of Galileo, and devoted to
his master. Anxious to oblige him,
Riccardi examined the manuscript of
the dialogues, suggested the change
of some imprudent language, and re-
quired absolutely that the Coperni-
can doctrine, dogmatically presented,
should be— either in the exordium or
peroration of the argument — ^produc-
ed simply as a mathematical hypothe-
sis. Under these stipulations Ric-
cardi returned the manuscript with
his written approbation, only to be
used when the suggested alterations
should be made.

This was in 1630. In 1633, Gali-
leo applied for leave to have his book
printed in Florence. Riccardi, with
full confidence in Galileo's fulfilment
of his promises, merely inspected the
beginning and end of the book, which
was all that Galileo then submitted
to his examination, and gave the de-
sired leave to print.

The introduction, addressed, with
an air of sarcasm, " to the discreet read-
^," was, to the last degree, imprudent.
He speaks of the decree of 1616 in
language at once ironical and insult-
ing, and does not even spare his be-
nefactors. In Simplicio, every one
instantly recognized Urban VIIL,
who was naturally wounded beyond
expression to find language put in
Simplicio*s mouth that he. Urban,
had used to Galileo in a private con-
versation at his own table. And, as

if to leave no doubt possible, Galileo
says, in introducing these passages,
that he had them from a most learn-
ed and eminent personage, ("^'i ap-
preso da doctissima e eminentissima
persona.^^)

Thus held up to ridicule and con-
tempt, and made the butt of the se-
verest irony and sarcasm. Urban was
placed in the false position of the
enemy of science, and forced into
the attitude of an antagonist of his
former friend — unless, indeed, he
would consent to be dragged, a dis-
graced prisoner, at the chariot-wheels
of Galileo's philosophy.

We do not refer, in speaking of
Galileo's philosophy, to a mere as-
tronomical theory, but to the phi-
losophical and theological opinion
which the actual condition of science,
the ability of Galileo's adversaries,
and the treacherous counsels of his
false friends had forced him to cou-
ple with it.

Alberi, who is high authority, de-
nies that it ^as Galileo's intention
to attack Urban VI 1 1, through Sim-
plicio. But Olivieri, quite as good
authority, is of the contrary opinion.
We know certainly that Urban al-
ways maintained, in his conversations
with Galileo, the worthlessnessofthe
tidal theory, and told him plainly
that he injured his position by rest-
ing upon it. Now, the tidal theory
was precisely Galileo's cherished ar-
gument, and he devotes the whole of
the fourth dialogue to its development.

CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.

340

Tlu Ancient Irish Church,

TKAKSLATEO FROU DKR KATHOLIK.

THE ANCIENT IRISH CHURCH,

II.

Wk must say something about St
Columbanus, and his labors in Lux-
euil, Braganza, and Bobbio ; and of
St. Gall, the apostle of Alemania ;
for it was through these two that the
ancient Irish Church did so much in
Switzerland and south-westem Ger-
many.

Columbanus was bom in the pro-
vince of Leinster, about the year
534, when Christianity began to bear
its first fruits in Ireland. While the
child was yet in the womb, his mo-
ther saw, in a vision, as it were, a
sun pipceeding from her body and
enlightening all parts of the world.
The son whom she bore became in
fact, through the light of his wisdom
and the splendor of his virtues, a
star in the church ; not only in Ire-
land, but also in Burgundy, Alema-
nia, and Italy. Instructed, from early
youth, in grammar, rhetoric, geome-
try, and in the study of the holy
Scriptures, he left his mother's house
in manhood, in order to enter the
monastery of Cluain-Inis, and conse-
crate himself entirely to God. In
the year 565 he asked to be received
among the monks of the monastery
at Bangor, which the Abbot Com-
gall, equally distinguished by his per-
sonal sanctity as well as by the rigor
of the discipline which he used in
govern ing< ruled with applause. Co-
lumbanus became so remarkable here
that Abbot Comgall entrusted him
with the directorship of the schools.
The fame of the new teacher spread
far beyond the limits of Bangor, and
the nobles of the land deemed them-

selves happy to be able to leave iheit
sons to be educated by a man as well
skilled in profane science as in Chris-
tian perfection. Gallj born in Ire-
land in 545, became one of hts pupil
Columbanus and Gall taught ani
learned in a blessed abode. Thr
thousand monks were united in the'
monastery of Bangor, under Abbot
Comgall, in common prayer, the prac-
tice of virtue, and a virtuous life.
The monastery was built in the year
558, by Comgall, and was, tn its
first form, a collection of many cell^
and huts, somewhat straggling in theic
arrangement Bangor was fruitful ixi
holy men and apostolic missionaries-
Many convents were founded from iL
Comgall himself founded the monas-
ter}' of Heth, in Scotland, a.d. 565,^
and the monastery of Cambar, and'
several other smaller communities,
in Leinster, Comgall died on the
10th of May, 602, in tlie 85th year of
his age, and the forty-fourth stifter the
foundation of Bangor. Bangor was
laid waste by the Danes in the year
Zt^^ afterward entirely destroyed by
pirates, and on one day the Picts mur-
dered 900 monks. Archbishop Ma-
lachy, of Armagh, re-erected Bangor.
There now remains on the coast of
the bay of Belfast, where the re*
nowned cloister once stood, no ves-
tige of its former greatness.

Columbanus had lived and taught
a number of years in the cloister of
Bangor, when the desire of travelling
and announcing the gospel of Christ
filled his soul. He was obliged,
however, to make repeated requests
before Abbot Comgall gav^c him per-
mission to depart, and allowed him

The Ancient Irish Church.

341

to choose a certain number of monks
as his companions. Columbanus
chose twelve, recommended himself
to the prayers of the rest, and set
out, after receiving the blessings of his
abbot, with his chosen band about the
year 589— S9o« ^Ve know the travels
of Columbanus, and must mention
them here. The chosen followers of
the great apostle were : Gall, founder
of Saint Gall, and apostle of Alema-
nia ; Cominnius, Emroch, and Equa-
nach, Lua, and Patentianus, after-
wards made bishop of Constance, in
Annorica, where he erected a mo-
nastery; Antiemus, who, becoming
homesick at Luxeuil, wished to
return to Ireland, but was retained
by Columbanus; Columbanus the
younger, a near relative of our apos-
tle, died in the early part of his life,
at Luxeuil ; Deicola, the founder of
the monastery of Lutra, in the dio-
cese of Besangon ; Sigibert, the
founder of Dissentis, in Croatia ;
Aldan, later Bishop of Calboaldus.
(Grcitk^ p. 272.) In British Cambria
the holy company joined several
British clerics to its ranks.

Whither did these apostolic men
wish to go ?

It was not advisable to remain in
Britain at that time. In the south
of this land the Anglo-Saxon con-
querors laid waste the country, de-
stroyed the churches ; both heathen-
ism and barbarism raised their heads
triumphantly in the most populous
parts and cities of the island. The
two last bishops of Britain, he of
London and he of York, fled to the
mountains of Wales, with all the holy
relics and church vessels which they
could save. On account of these
circumstances Columbanus determin-
ed to leave Britain, to sail for Gaul,
and there improve the moral condi-
tion of the people, so that if success
attended his labors, the good seed
might be scattered there with fruit ;

but if the people were stiff-necked,
he would turn to other nations.

The company went to Gaul. This
land was divided into three king-
doms : Neustria, Austrasia, and Bur-
gundy. King Guntram ruled in Bur-
gundy ; King Childebert in Austra-
sia ; but after Guntram's death, (a.d.
593,) Burgundy also fell to the share
of Childebert.

Columbanus was warmly received
at Metz by King Childebert, was in-
vited to remain in the land, and re-
ceived from Count Agnoald the an-
cient ruined castle of Luxovium in
the Vosges, where the apostle and
his monks dwelt, and exercised an
extraordinary influence on the peo-
ple of the neighboring countries.

But how did the noble wanderers
find life in the Vosges ?

They first rested at Anegrai. "In
the wide circle around, the region
was a wild desert of thick woods, and
steep, rock-ribbed hills; bears and
wolves dwelt in them, and only the
shrill cry of the birds of the forests
broke the frightful stillness. The
friars built their huts with twigs and
branches. They lived on the bark
of trees, wild vegetables, and apples,
until, on the third day after their ar-
rival, a countr3rman brought them
better food on a wagon. But, as
want returned after a short time,
they were well supplied with bread
and herbs by the abbot of the mon-
astery of •Sancy, three miles distant
from them."

But the first monastery was erect-
ed, and the mission opened in France.
Soon the place in Anegrai was not
large enough for the increasing num-
ber of the brethren.

Columbanus looked around for a
second place in the wilderness of
the Vosges. His eyes rested on
Luxovium, which had already been
offered to him. It was eight miles
from Anegrai. There were in it the

342

The Ancient Irish Church,

ruins of cities, of old baths ; and in
the thickest part of the wood, stone
idols, which had been worshipped in
ancient times.

In this spot Columbanus began
the building of a larger monastery.
Soon so many came and consecrated
themselves, under the guidance of
Columbanus, to piety and science,
that the saint was compelled to erect
on a height, supplied by a fountain
of fair water, a third monastery, to
which he gave the name of Fontaine,
(Fontanas.) Whilst he appointed ap-
proved men as rulers over these mo-
nasteries, he maintained a general
supervision over them all, and gave
ihem a common rule, which he copi-
ed in part from the rule of the Ab-
bot Comgall, of Bangor.

The Right Rev. Dr. Greith gives
us a very interesting account of tlie
life and w^orks of the monk Colum-
banus in ihe three monasteries ; but
we can only give a small portion of
it here.

In the year 600 the number of the
monks at Luxeuil had increased to
220 ; and crowds of scholars were in-
structed in the monasteries.

"All must fast daily, but also
daily take nourishment ; and as all
must eat daily, so must they daily
partake of spiritual food, pray, work,
and read in books every day." The
special usages of monastic discipline
were observed most strictly in the
three cloisters; violators* of rules
were punished with rods, imprison-
ment, or a portion of their food was
kept from them. ** Before eating there
was an examination of conscience,
then grace was said, and there was
reading during tlie meals. Before a
monk used his spoon, he should
make the sign of the cross ; the same
should be done in taking his lamp,
in undertaking any work, or in going
out of the cloister. He was com-
iDanded to pray before and af^er la-

bor, and on his return to the mona
tery he should go before tlie abbo
or superior and ask a blessing. Whc
ever cut the table with his knifd
spilled beer or anything else oir
the table, did not gather the bread-
crumbs^ neglected to bow his bca<j
at the end of the psalms, or disturb
ed the chaunt with coughing or loud
laughter, was punished," etc* DS
vine service at Luxeuil consisted it;
the daily reciting of the psalms, and
especially on Sundays and otlier fc
tivals, in the celebration of Mass
The custom of uninterrupted psalmc
dy by day and night never prevaile
at Luxeuil, as was the case among
the monks of Agane in WalHs, and
of Haben in Burgundy, and amood
the nuns of the convent of St. Said
berga.

Columbanus, well educated in boti
profane and sacred literature, taughjj
his own monks, made them acquainteq
with the discipline of the Quadrhiun
and gave them a knowledge of bolj
Scripture.

Columbanus often retired at
approach of the principal feasts int
the solitude of the forests to devot€
himself to piety and meditation. Hti
sometimes remained hfty days or
longer in those places. As in lh«
ages of persecution the blood of thfl
martyrs tamed the tigers and lee
pards, so that they learned to pilj
the saints in the circus and amphiJ
theatre ; as in the deserts of Africa
and Asia Minor holy monks formed
a league with nature and its animals
so Columbanus and Gall, whose lifiK
was like that of the early fathers of J
the desert, stood in the most friendlj
relations with the wild beasts of the|
Vosges, ** As Columbanus was walki
ing one day in the wide forests of the
Vosges with a book under his 2smA
he saw a pack of wolves approacb«(
ing. The saint stood unmoved*!
The wolves surrounded him on both

The Aftcient Irish Church.

343

hands, smelled the hem of his gar-
ments while he prayed to God for
protection ; they did him no harm,
left him and went farther into the
wood." Once Columbanus found in
a cave a tame bear, which left its
abode at command of the saint, who
made it his place of shelter. Often,
as he reposed under the shadow of
old oaks, he- called the beasts of the
forest to him, and they followed him.
He caressed them tenderly ; and the
birds often flew to him, and sat quiet-
ly on his shoulders. A little squirrel
had become so accustomed to him
as to leap from the branches of the
trees and hide in his bosom, run up
his sleeves, and then go back to the
nearest boughs. A raven was so
obedient to him as to return the
glove which he had stolen from the
saint. (Page 294.)

Columbanus could not remain
long in his cloister. He became en-
gaged in a controversy with some
French priests, and was persecuted by
the corrupt Merovingians, who final-
ly compelled him to quit Luxeuil.

The fact that the Irish clergy
clung to the ancient custom of the
Irish Church regarding the celebra-
tion of Easter, and to the Irish tra-
ditions regarding the liturgy of the
Mass, gave the French bishops and
priests occasion to complain and
make opposition. Columbanus
wrote three letters on the Easter
Controversy to Pope Gregory I.
Two of them miscarried ; the third
reached its destination, but was un-
successful, because Gregory I. main-
tained the discipline of the Roman
Church on this disputed point. A
fynod in France, a.d. 600-601, to
which Columbanus sent a memorial,
did not favor him any more than the
Pope. The controversy gradually
died out

The controversy with the Mero-
vingians was far more serious. The

crimes of Queen Brunhilda are well
known ; for instance, how she sys-
tematically ruined her grandson.
King Theodoric of Burgundy. Co-
lumbanus on one occasion having
refused to give his blessing to the
illegitimate sons of Theodoric, pre-
sented to the saint by Brunhilda,
she swore vengeance against him.
A royal decree was published that
no monk of the order of Columbanus
should leave his monastery ; that no
Burgundian convert should for the
future hold communion with him,
and that no one should establish an-
other foundation according to his
discipline. Columbanus expostulat-
ed in vain ; he wrote a severe protest
to the king and threatened him with
excommunication. This was the mo-
ment of revenge for Brunhilda. She
prevailed on the king to cause the
abduction of the saint to Besan^on
by Count Bandulf. Columbanus re-
mained there for some time, highly
honored by the people, and doing
much good. But he soon returned
to Luxeuil. The king, however, sent
a whole cohort to seize him and take
him out of the kingdom. The sol-
diers unwillingly executed their or-
ders. The saint left the monastery
amid the sighs and tears of his
monks, who followed him in funereal
procession with weeping and wailing.
Only those whom he had brought
from Ireland and Britain were allow-
ed to accompany him. Columbanus
lived twenty years in the wilderness
of the Vosges, and left it in the seven-
ty-fourth year of his life. (a^d.
609-610.)

Let us be brief. Columbanus was
brought to Nantes to sail for Ire-
land ; but God prevented him. King
Clothaire of Neustria allowed him to
return to Austrasia. He went to
Metz, then to Mayence,up the Rhine,
until he came to Zurich, where he de-
cided to make a longer stay. But

The Ancient Irish Church.

the inhabitants of the place were
fierce idolaters. Many were con-
verted, while others took arms in
hatred of the saint, determined to kill
himself and his companions. They
consequently left this region and
went to Arbon, where they dwelt
seven days ; thence travelling to Bra*
ganza, where they built cells near the
ancient Aiirelia Church. SL GaJI
took the three idols from the walls
of the church, in the presence of a
vast multitude, broke them to piece*;,
and threw them into the sea, A
portion of the people became Chris-
tians, and the Aurella Church was
reconsecrated- Coiumbanus remain-
ed a few years in Braganza, when
persecutions of various kinds com-
pelled him to quit this region also.
(612-613.) ^^ crossed the Rhetian
Alps, accompanied only by Attala,
and arrived at Milan, where he was
well received by Agilulf, king of the
Lombards, who offered him a new
field for the exercise of his apos-
tolate. King Agilulf and Queen
Theodolinda used the holy man for
the evangelizing of the Lombards.
But his days were numbered. After
build i 112^ a monaster)^ and a chapel
at Bobbio, he lived only an entire
year, and died on the 2 rst December,
in the year 615, in the seventy-ninth
' year of his age, one year before the
death of Agilulf, king of Lombardy-
** Whilst Ireland glories in being
the fatherland of Coiumbanus, France
remembers him in her old abbeys in
the Vosges, and his vocation to Italy
still lives, not only in the dear relics
of Bobbio, in his coffin, chalice, and
holly staff, but also in the still living
monument of his g\ory the town of
St. Columbano, in the district of
Lodi* The writings of this distin-
guished man, which have come down
to us, display a comprehensive and
varied knowledge not only of eccle-
siastical but also of classic literature.

His eventful life has been written by
the monk Jonas of Bobbin.*'

We shall conclude with a few de-
tails of the mission of Sl Gall, the
apostle of Aiemania. We already
know in what an illustrious school
he studied- When Coiumbanus was I
preparing himself for the journey to j
Italy, Gall was sick with a fever, and ]
excused himself from travelling with
his superior. In order to keep him
and compel him to go, Coiumbanus
harshly said to him, **If thou wilt
not partake in my labors, I forbid j
thee to say Mass as long as I live/' 1
He suspected that Gall feigned sick- |
ness out of love for the place, so as
not to depart from it. Thus Gall,
who had been so long under obe- ,
dience, was at length left to his owii ^
will

He went to Arbon to visit a priest » '
W^llimar, and was nursed during his
illness by the clerics Maginald and '
Theodore, and, having recovered his
health, became again an efficient
apostle through the assistance of
Christ. In 612-613. he began, with
his companion Hittibold, the building I
of a monaster)^ on the bank of the
little river Steinach. This valley on
the banks of the Steinach, together
with Thurgau, belonged at that time
to the kingdom of Austrasia^ from
which it had been severed under
Chtldebert II. (594) for a short time,
and separated from Burgimdy, to
which it was again annexed by King
Dagobert. (a.d. 630-38.) Two
hundred years later, in the days of
Charlemagne, this region was called
High Alemania. When Gall came
to it, it was almost without dwellings
or inhabitants. It was a primeval
forest, never inhabited for a thousand
)'cars, and never touclicd by human
hands. It was like the woods of the
Vosges, a wilderness for savage beasts
to roam in without danger. The
wood which Gall and Hittibold found

The Ancient Irish Church.

345

was full of underwood in which ser-
pents nestled ; the Steinach was full
of fish ; on the heights hawks built
their nests ; bears, wolves, and wild
boars were numerous around. In
this spot St Gall built his monastery.
Wonderful things happened at the
building of this convent, all of which
is charmingly told in Greith's book.
"As, in every spot where, after the
migration of the Germanic races, (p.
355,) holy men founded religious in-
stitutions, a new life was infused and
a new impetus given to civilization,
and the wild and savage districts
around the monasteries became
changed into fertile and well-tilled
plains ; so did it happen in the neigh-
borhood of St Gall's monastery from
the very beginning of the foundation.
The blessed place drew inhabitants
near it; Christian worship became
the focus around which they gather-
ed; religious instruction ennobled
their morals, led them to an orderly
family life, made their new home
dear to them, and made them love
labor and industry. Under the
mild protection and guidance of the
monastic fraternity, strangers and
colonists came from far and near;
they became fiefs of the monastery,
and aided in spreading its influence
and its possessions. From this cen-
tre civilization spread far over the
surrounding country, so that it be-
came by cultivation transformed from
a wilderness into a blooming garden.
For twelve hundred years the nume-
rous subjects of the monastery of St
Gall led a happy and peaceful life
without soldiers or police. The only
bayonet that governed them was the
breviary of the monk ; and the only
sword was the crosier of the abbot.
We must also remember that Gall
and his followers, axe in hand, hew^d
down the forest, or with the spade
fireed the earth from thorns, thistles,
and roots. He must therefore be

considered as the founder and ori-
ginator of the agricultural and social
glories of Switzerland ; for by the law
of nature and of intelligence the
glories of the effect must redound to
the honor of the cause."

The building of the monastery of
St Gall was far advanced when Gall
expelled an evil spirit from Fridi-
burga, the daughter of the German
Duke Cunzo, of Ueberlingen. Duke
Cunzo gave him many presents on
this account, as did also King Sigi-
bert, to whom Fridiburga was affi-
anced. Sigibert sent him a donation
letter, the first on record in the life
of St Gall. Gall had at this time
only twelve disciples with him, deem-
ing it improper to overstep, in the
smallest particular, the limits of the
rule. The Irish monks had a pecu-
liar preference for the apostolic num-
ber twelve in all their foundations.
When Columbanus died, on Decem-
ber 2ist, 615, the hour of his death
was revealed to St Gall, and from
that time he began again to cele-
brate Mass.

Gall declined the bishopric of
Constance, and had the mitre given
to his disciple John; the monks of
Luxeuil wished him to be their abbot,
but this honor he likewise declined.
After the man of God had thrown
aside the burden of worldly affairs,
he retired to his cloister, to devote
himself more completely to a spiritu-
al Hfe. His nightly vigils were re-
newed, and the fastings of his early
days repeated, and the discipline fre-
quently used.

Finally, at an advanced age, he left
his cell to visit Arbon, and after
preaching to the people, he was at-
tacked by a fever as he was about to
return. The malady became so vio-
lent that he could no longer take any
food. The eternal reward of his great
works and services approached. His
strength almost gone, almost reduced

346

The Ancient Irish Church.

to skin and bone by disease, he ne-
vertheless persevered in prayer, held
pious conversalions, and remained
faithful to the service of Christ to the
end of his life. He rendered his soul
to God, after fourteen days' illness, on
the 1 6th of October, a,d. 640. His
body was brought by Bishop John
to the monaster)* which tlie saint had
inhabited, and buried between the
altar and the wall, with mournful
chanting. Many infirm persons were
healed, partially or entirely, at his
sepulchre.

Even during his life Gall was com-
pared to the early fathers ; after his
death, the Church honored him as a
saint ; holy Mass was offered at his
tomb ; his intercession was invoked
with success ; and his life presented
I as a model for Christians to imitate.
Eleven years after the death of the
saint, his tomb was broken open by
robbers ; but shortly after replaced
I by Bishop Boso, of Constance, (a.d.
642-676.) When the great monaste-
ry church was consecrated, on Octo-
ber 17th, 839, by Abbot Gotzbert, the
bones of the saint were placed on the
thigh altar. They are partially pre-
Lsenx*d there to this very day.

A glance now at the disciples of
[Call. The disciples of this great
Impostle went forth in all directions
I from his sepulchre to evangelize the
pations, and establish among them
I new foundations and centres of learn-
[ing and piety. Theodore built the
[abbey of Kempten, in ancient Nori-
[ca ; Magnus travelled on foot to the
[entrance of the Julian Alps; Sigi-
ert. Gal rs former fellow-student,

went to Dissentis, in Croatia, where
they founded monasteries which^ after
a lapse of more than a thousand years,
still exist as firm supports of the |
Christian religion, learning, and civi-
lization. These monasteries must be ]
considered as daughters of the great \
metropolis which the holy Irish mis^
sionary built on the side of the lofty
Alps, The monastery of Reichcnau, |
in Untersce, and that of Braganza, 1
were closely united with St Gall's
foundation. The former was found-
ed* under Charles M artel, by the
Irishman Pirminus ; the latter, 150
years earlier, by Colurabanus and |
Gaily in the beginning of their mis-
sionary labors. The countless
churches and chapels built even at]
an early period in honor of St, Gall, 1
as well as the numerous acts of do-
nation to the monastery bearing his
name, prove the powerful influence
of the disciples and successors of the
saint in spreading Christianity, edu-
cation, and civilii?ation to the farthest
regions. The bishoprics in Switrer-
land, Germany, and in the Austrian
provinces, in the T)to1 and Bohemia*
hold a special festival in honor of
St. Gall, and give him a special oflSce,
honoring him now as well as former-
ly as the Apostle of .^lemania. " The
temporal inheritance which St. Gall
left to his people was long enjoyed :
tlie higher inheritance which he has
left us with the eternal possessions of
Christianity in our Church is still with
us ; and our constant prayer to God
and strenuous effort must be to guard
it intact, and render it fruitful in the
future." ( Greith^ p. 40 1 .)

The Story of Marcel.

34;

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

THE STORY OF MARCEL, THE LITIXE METTRAY
COLONIST.

CHAPTER VI.

** Dark the evening shadows rolled
On the eye that gleamed in death,
And the evening dews fell cold
On the lip thai gasped for breath.**

James Montgomery.

A YEAR had passed away when one
day Pelagie Vautrin went out in the
morning, as usual, with her hand-cart,
but did not return as usual in the
evening. Marcel had been on a spree
with Polycarpe, and was glad, when
he crept to bed late at night, all muzzy
with tippling, to find his dirty home
vacant.

But when, at a late hour the next
day, he opened his hot, aching eyes
and looked around him, he was at
first astonished and then frightened
to see that he was still alone. He
started up and ran down-stairs to
ask the neighbors if they had seen
Madame Vautrin that morning. There
was soon a great excitement in the
house ; for no one had seen her, and
it was well known that Pelagie never
staid out at night ; she was generally
very regularly drunk in bed by ten
o'clock.

" Go to the prefect of police," cried
one to the anxious boy, " they*!! find
her for you !"

"Go to the Morgue," cried an-
other. " I shouldn't wonder if she
had fallen into the river."

" Or been run over by an omnibus,
the drunken slut !" cried a third.

" Ay, go to the Morgue, Marcel,"
said Polycarpe, who had just got up,
and had hurried down to take part,
as usual, in what was going on.
** Come, I'll go with you."

Marcel was by this time as pale as
death: the idea of Pelagie being
dead was dreadful to him ; for though
the poor boy could not love the cruel
woman who had worked him so un-
sparingly for her own profit, still she
seemed something more to him than
the rest of the world ; she had sheltered
him when he had no shelter ; she had
given him a dry crust when he knew
not where to find one ; and the child's
heart was made of such tender stuff
that the slightest kindness could kin-
dle in it a flame of never forgetful
gratitude.

Pale and trembling, he now follow-
ed Polycarpe to the low, black, sinis-
ter-looking building then situated
close by St. Michael's bridge, on the
right bank of the Seine.* Many
persons were going in and out of the
horrible place, some seeking missing
fi-iends ; others, and the greater num-
ber, urged on by a depraved curiosity
and love of excitement.

The two boys entered ; Polycarpe
noisily, and with an air of busy im-
portance that would have been lu-
dicrous under any other circum-
stances; Marcel sick and faint with
anxiety and fear; and awfiil in-
deed was the interior of that house
of death. At one end of the stone-
floored room in which they found
themselves was an iron grating, be-
hind which, on marble slabs, were
laid out the perfectly naked forms of
the unknown dead, victims of acci-
dent or of violence. The bloated
body of a drowned man, whose start-

* It hat since been palled down, and rebuilt more
handaomsly behind the cathedral of Notre Dame.

The Siory of MarceL

ing eyes first caught the scared glance
of the shuddering child, made him
start with horror and surprise. He
had often thought, from all he had
heard, that the sights to be seen in
the Morgue must be dreadful, but
the reality surpassed all his imagin-
ings. He closed his eyes, but open-
ed them an instant after to take a
look at the corpse of a woman, whose
blood-clotted hair and battered fea-
tures showed but too plainly that the
wretched creature had been the vic-
tim of some foul crime.

** 'Tis she !" cried Polycarpe,

But Marcel could bear no more ;
the child's ner\^es and heart had been
tried to the uttermost, and he fell in-
sensible on the cold, damp floor.
Polycarpe and two or three bystand-
ers dragged him out of the building,
and, getting some water from the
river, soon brought him to again^ but
very shaky and weak.

Polycarpe Poquet was a regular
camp, an idle beggar, a street-thief;
tieveithcless very gently and lovingly
did he help his friend on his legs again,
and very softly did he speak to him
as they walked slowly away from that
horrible place. ** Come in here, old
fellow," said he, %vhen they arriv-
ed before the door on the second
landing. ** Mother wants to see you,^'
he added, as he perceived that Mar*
eel hesitated,

Madame Poquet and Loulou were
both at home ; for the charwoman was
just then at libert}^, her last mistress
having been mean enough to lock up
the charcoal and bread and butter,
and various other useful items in
housekeeping, and as ^fadame Po-
quet said to her neighbors, "After
that evident want of confidence, she
felt herself obliged to leave, especially
as the wages were so low that with-
out the perquisites the place was
worth nothing 1'' She was a good-
natured woman, notwithstanding her

dishonesty, and received poor Mar-
eel in a kind, motherly manner that
contributed much to soothe and con-
sole him. ** Now, you see^ Marcel,"
said she, " you need not feel so bad ;
you shall come and live with us ;
there's room for four, and so there's
room for five. l*m sure I always
wanted to have you, for Madame Vau-
trin was not good to you — you know
that she w^asn^t— everybody knows
that she wasn't. Now, come, don't
cry so; it shows that youVe a good
heart, but it is not reasonable, and I
can^t bear to hear you. I never could
bear to hear any one cry. Come,
courage, courage !" And the old thiev-
ing charwoman kissed the w^eeping
boy tenderly, and then wiped her
o\\Ti overflowing eyes. He threw his
arms around her neck and sobbed
aloud, and the motherly old soul sob-
bed with him, ** Come now," said she
presently, and she placed him as she
spoke on a chair by the table, ** here's
some good hot cofiec and milk, and
a piece of nice fresh bread. I got
it ready for you half an hour ago.
There, you and Polycarpe sit down
and take your breakfiist ; thal*ll do
you good, and comfort you/'

And certainly tJic good meal did
much to cahn him, though perhaps
the sympathy of Madame I'oquet and
her children did more*

And so it was settled ; the land-
lord sold the few miserable sticks of
furniture belonging to Pelagie Vau-
trin for the arrears of rent, and Mar-
cel became one of the Poquet family.

As for the battered corpse lying
on the marble slab in the Morgue, it
was never reclaimed, but was hur-
riedly buried in the pauper grave that
the state provides for the unknown
dead. Yet it w^as a long time before
the orphan whom Pelagic Vautrin
had so cruelly ill-treated ceased to
think of her, or shudder as he re-
membered her terrible death* It

I
I

The Story of Marcel.

an end, however, as ivc know^
to be expected for one cursed with
so wicked a temper and of such dis-
holute habits. Drunkenness, quarrels,
blows, and death I It is a natural
scpuence I

Poor Marcel gained by the change ;
at least, his life was not so hard a
one as it had been. He was no
longer obliged to bring home a cer-
tain quantity of rags and old iron
every day ; he had no regular ta.sk
I set him. But Monsieur and Ma-
I dame Poquet nevertheless fully ex-
pected him to pick up his owti living
and something more, in the same way
^ as did their son Polycarpe.

The two boys after a time adopted,
j as their principal source of income,
Lthe business of gathering cigar-ends
[and converting them into pipeto-
Eicco. It was a profession that re-
(quired early rising, quick eyeSj and
[light heels, for there were other lads
lin the same walk of life, but who
[could be better fitted for such a pur-
suit than Marcel and Polycarpe ?
At four every morning they sallied
kforth to make their round ; hunting
ffor the precious bits on the sidewalks
and in tlie gutters of the most fre-
quented and fashionable streets, the
Boulevards, the Champs Elys^us, and
the purlieus of tlie theatres. Some-
times, when they were flush of money,
I ihey bought from the waiters in the
coffee-houses tlie permission to pick
I up the ends that might be under the
tables.

The harvest made, they hastened

.down to the river's side, and there,

'seated under or near the dry arches

of one of the bridges, they emptied

their bags on the ground beside ihem

I and commenced the sorting of their

' merchandise. The prime or first

quality consisted of the ends of Ha-

cigars, regalias, londres^ etc, ;

' the second qualit}', of those of home

growth, or bits picked up in dirty

gutters, and consequently somewhat
deteriorated. The sorting finished,
our young tobacconists commenced
their work of metamorphosis. Each
one was furnished with a small
square of smooth wood, a sharp,
thinbladed knife, and a whetstone,
for the knife required frequent sharp-
ening during the operation of cutting
up the ends. This was perfonned
on the square of wood, and as fine
as possible, so as to resemble nnv
smoking tobacco. Paper parcels
were then made up of this novel
manufacture ; the inferior quality
selling at one sou tlie packet; the
superior fetching as much as fift}'
sous the pound.

The rest of the day was passed in
disposing of their morning labors,
and this was never difficult ; they
found plenty of customers, masons,
street-sweepers, and rat-catchers, and
often made as much as three francs
each in the day. They might have
gained an honest living by this hum-
ble means, had they only possessed
an honest hotne. But Monsieur and
Madame Poquet were tliieves, and
the more the lads gained the more
was exacted from them. And then
in the dreadful drinking-dens they
frequented to sell their merchandise
they became each day initiated in
some new vice. There was indeed
nothing to stop them on their down-
ward course \ and soon, alas, the
orphan boy, intelligent, and natural-
ly conscientious, became versed in
knavery and a common street-thief I
Poor, poor Marcel I

CHAPTER VI t.

" Sooa« Kite capttvea, ahiill ^e leam
Wayi le« wild and lawi more ■tern." Amok.

Daj-s and weeks and months had
passed away in this kind of life, when
jone morning, while Marcel and

3SO

The Story of MarceL

Polycaq^e were still yawning and
stretching themselves in their dirty
bed, Louloii, who had gone round
the comer to fetch some ready-made
hot coffee and milk, for their break-
fast, rushed back again with cheeks as
white as it was possible for her rare-
ly washed face to show,

" Get up quick and run T* cried she
as she burst into the room, ** the
police are coming this way ; Tm sure
they're coming here to look for
father, and, if they find you, iheyll
grab you too."

The two boys needed no further
calling ; indeed, they were out of bed
before Loulouhad ended her cry of
danger. Old Poquet had become a
marked man at the Prefecture of
Police, and his reputation was very
bad among his neighbors. He had
been fearing a visit of this kind dur-
ing the last eight days, and had
taken himself off no one knew
whithen So the boys, knowing this,
would not have been so much afraid
for their own safety, had they not done
the preceding day what they called
**good business," and had in their
possession this morning more money
and a greater variety of purses than
they could well have accounted for.

So they jumped out of bed at the
first word of ajarm, and huddled on
their clothes in less time than it
takes to write the fact ; and precipi-
tating tliemsclves down the stairs,
were out of the house and out of
sight, just as itwo policemen turned
into the street. It was not until
they had threaded many narrow,
dirty streets behind the Pantheon,
diving into dark passages, and pass-
ing through liouses which were
thoroughfares, as there are many in
the great city, and at last found
themselves near the Barri^re of St
Jacques, that they felt secure enough
to walk slowly and take time to ask
each other where they should go.

** Parbleu !" cried Polycarpe, who
was the first to break silence, "at
any rate our pockets are not empty !
LilDerty for ever ! Hurrah for plea-
sure and potatoes ! Never say die,
old fellow!'^ And he clapped his
friend on the back and laughed as
if it were the pleasantest thing in
life to be running away from the po-
lice.

Marcel was not so gay: the boy's
instincts, per\^erted as they were by
the depraved influences that sur-
rounded him, became restive at
limes; mysterious aspirations, and
disgust of he knew not what, agitated
strangely the poor child*s aching
hearty and gave him sometimes an
appearance of timidity that had ac-
quired for him among his profligate
companions the iobrtqmt of *'/<y
dcnwisdie^^ the young lady. He
was now more moved than usual, his
cheek was very pale, and his large
blue eyes wore a more thoughtful
expression than ever before.

Making a violent effort over hlm^
self, he at length replied to his com-
panion's vivacity by asking what
would become of Loulou.

"Loulou!" cried Polycarpe, "w*hy\
shc*s safe enough ; she'll get out of
the scrape, and there *s nothing
against her and mother. You
needn't think of her, but of us, I can
tell you. Now, what do you think
Tm thinking of, ch?**

" I suppose of where we must go
to-night."

"Exactly so, mademoiselle, and
can you guess ? No, that you can't,
so you needn*t try. Well, we must
go hide in the quarries at Is^* ; we
shall be safe there, and we won*t come
back to Paris before two months.'*

"The quarries!*' cried Marcel,
•* How dreadful !"

** Not so dreadful as Mazas,'* re-
plied Polycarpe, " as youll know one
of these days."

I
I

The Story of Marcel.

351

** I hope not," ejaculated Marcel,
shuddering.

" You hope not, you idiot 1" said
Polycarpe angrily, " why, how can it
he otherwise ? One can't be always
in luck. Don't you know that every
one gets to prison at last? Every
one that I know has been there, and
why should I escape, I should like
to know? Of course my time will
come, and your time will come, and
what we have to do then is to show
game. No cry-baby goings on then,
if you please. Master Marcel, or you
and I'll part company when we come
outr

Marcel did not answer, and they
continued silently their way until
they had passed the fortifications.

"Now," said Polycarpe at last,
"we must try to kill time as pleas-
antly as possible until the night, and
then well go straight to the quarries j
we can't go there during the day, for
there is always danger from spies."

"I'm very hungry," remarked
Marcel.

"And so am I," answered his
friend, "my inside has let me know
for a long time that it didn't get any
coffee this morning."

It was not long before the two
boys found a kind of nondescript
cabaret and restaurant— one of those
drinking and eating houses that do
most business with Sunday-breakers
and holiday-makers, if not with worse
gentry. They were soon seated be-
fore a smoking omelette, which, with
a great loaf of bread and a bottle
of sour claret, they pronounced to be
a first-rate breakfast. The meal
finished and paid for, they bought a
couple of bottles of brandy, and then
strolled off again to the fortifications,
where, choosing a sunny spot on the
grassy side of the deep, dry moat
that surrounds the massive walls,
they snoozed away the rest of the
day.

The quarries of Issy had long been
the rendezvous of all sorts of young
scamps. Idle, vicious boys who
had run away from home ; unfaithful
apprentices who had robbed their
master's tills ; pickpockets whose suc-
cessful operations had rendered their
absence from the scene of their la-
bors desirable for a period ; harden-
ed vagabonds waiting an opportunity
to rob or murder, as the case might
be — all found there a hiding-place
and congenial society. Carefully
concealed from any passers-by or
workmen, they slept the daylight
away, but as soon as darkness had
rendered the place secure, the
wretched youths commenced their
orgies. Gorging on the provisions
provided by two or three of their
number in turn, and bought or stolen
in the neighboring villages of Issy,
Clamart, and Meudon ; guzzling, sing-
ing, and swearing \ boasting of their
skill in every cunning and thieving
art; teaching and learning all man-
ner of vice — thus passed they their
turbulent night, while outside the
stifling hole that screened their wick-
edness the starry sky spread cool
and calm over the sleeping village
and peaceful fields and woods.

How the contrast between the
within and the without struck Marcel
a few hours after he had entered
that ignoble hiding-place I He and
Polycarpe had quitted the moat at
nightfall and had found themselves
about ten o'clock at the rendezvous.
The place was well-known to the
cobbler's son ; many and many a time
had he come hither to see some friend
in hiding, and he now advanced with-
out hesitation. At a certain distance
from the entrance, he put his fingers
to his lips and uttered a shrill, pecu-
liar cry, then seizing his companion's
arm hurried in. They were met by
Guguste, and received an enthusiastic
welcome, not only from that young

3S3

Tki Story of Marcel

rascal, but also from the rest of the
Lband, which contained a great many
fat that moment, and consisted almost
I entirely of old acquaintances. The
Itwo bottles of brandy were hailed
iwith acclamations, and the donors
[invited to take part in the eating and
■drinking that was about to com-
mence.

Used as our young hero was to
all kinds of wickedness, he at first
listened with fear to what he heard
around him now; but the brandy
Land the example of his companions
[»on acted on his impressionable na-
ture, the revolting instincts were
^stifled as usual, and Marcel quickly
became one of the noisiest and most
cynical of those wretched children.

One half of the company was al-
ready nearly drunk, and the other
half at the height of its revelry, when
a sound of many feet marching in
step and close at hand silenced each
and all in an instant. The lights
were suddenly extinguished, pistols
cocked — for most of the young mis-
creants were armed ; then came a
rush from the outside, a struggle,
several shots, smothered groans,
oaths, and all was over. Law had
conquered, and the whole band was
in the power of a posse of gendarmes
under the command of an officer.

To handcuff the young ruffians
and lead them one by one out of
their den was soon accomplished ;
and it was then that Marcel, emerg-
ing into the tranquil night, was struck
by the contrast. W'ithin, drunken-
ness and crime, false, feverish merri-
ment ending in bloody strife ; with-
out, the cool, fresh air of early mom,
tiie first streak of breaking day in
the Air east, the market-carts wend-
ing their plodding way to the great
metropolis — all telHng of peace, all
so quiet 1 Beautiful nature and hum-
ble toil \

Poor Marcel 1 he could not under-

stand his feelings, for his intelligence
was warped and dwarfed with his
conscience \ but his young heart ach-
ed with vague aspirations and r
grets, and he wept bitterly.

CHAPTER VI 11.

** We travel thrmigh a desert, and our feet
Have measured m Uax space. Have left behind
A thoiMand dmgttri ukl a thcniKuid tnare*.

The pa«t temptJitioiis
No more »Jj*U tcx ui.** WAnm

*' 'Ti* beauly alK and jn^tcful soog nround.
Joined to ihe Itrw ofkine, jind numsxittt bleal
Of Doclu Uiick oibbtbg tbroQgh the dovered vale."
Tmomsok.

A few weeks after this catastrophei
the who!e band was tried and con*
demned to various degrees of punish-
ment and correction. Nothing had
been proven against Marcel and Po-
lycarpe further than that they had
been found among recognized thieves,
and were by that fact alone suspi-
cious characters in the eyes of the
law. The answers elicited from
Marcel on his examination had ex-
cited the compassion of the tribunal,
and the president declared his in-
tention of giving him the opportunity
of redeeming the past and of becom-
ing an honest man, Polycarpe Po-
quet, also, had been judged leniently ;
his frank, generous nature had been
discovered amidst all the vice that
overshadowed it,

Very beautiful and touching were
the words in which the wortJiy presi-
dent announced to the two boys that
he acquiited them because he be-
lieved that they had acted without I
discernment, but that, fearing for ^
their future, he should send them to
a house of correction where ihcy
would be detained until they had
each reached the age of twenty-one.
He reminded them that at least six
years lay before them to reform and
elevate tliemselves. He promised

The Story of Marcel.

353

them that every means should be
given to them to improve, and that
they should be taught a trade or pro-
fession, and thus enabled by their own
labor to gain their living and become
respectable citizens. Obedience and
industry would be expected from
them, he said ; and he entreated them
to have pity on themselves, and to
aid by their own exertions the efforts
of those who sincerely desired their
welfare, both temporal and eternal.

Marcel's tears flowed plentifully
while the good magistrate thus ad-
dressed themj he had never before
heard such things, and he wept as
much from gratitude as from fear.

Imprisonment for six years seem-
ed terrible; but if those six years
were to give him the very thing for
which he yearned — a different life
from that he had hitherto led, in
which all was fear and pain !

As for Polycarpe, he was more
silent than usual, but he seemed
neither afraid nor sorry. He felt
the influence of virtue and truth,
hoiwever, and the president's dis-
course made more impression on
him than he cared to confess even to
Marcel ; for in minds rendered obtuse
by vicious habits a good feeling or
impolse is generally considered as a
weakness, and resisted or concealed.
The boys were conducted back to
the depot of the prefecture as soon
as the president had finished speak-
ing to them, there to await their re-
moval to the House of Correction
&at should be appointed by the au-
thorities.

In 1839, a few noble-hearted, phi-
lanthropic men conceived the idea of
founding at Mettray, near the beau-
tiful town of Tours, in almost the
heart of France, a colony of young
convicts, to whom should be given a
moral and religious training, and the
blessings of a home. These bene-
volent men had studied with pro-
VOL. VIII. — 23

found attention the admirable peni-
tentiary system of the United States
of America; compared with it, the
system of correction as practised in
the state prisons of France had struck
them as singularly ineffective and
quite inadequate to attain the end
and aim of all punishment, the eradi-
cation of vice, and the awakening of
a desire to practise industry and
honesty. The published reports of
these prisons had even proved that,
far from the morality of the unfortu-
nate children detained there being
improved, these unhappy victims
did actually become more confirmed
in their perversity by their sojourn in
the house of correction. Though
restrained by the prison discipline,
they were not actually taught ; for it
is not intimidation that can teach a
fallen nature how to rise, nor inculcate
the love of honor and virtue. The
helter-skelter way of these houses-
was fatal to their utility. Young of-
fenders, guilty of comparatively slight
offences, were associated with scoun-
drels versed in every mystery of
crime. The burglar and the high-
way robber, the coiner and the as-
sassin, became the companions of the
child so apt to learn, so ready to re-
ceive any impression whether of
good or evil. Want of space was
pleaded in extenuation of this great,
this fundamental error in the work
of reformation ; and thus justice and
social good were sacrificed to consi-
derations of economy !

The system of detention, too, as
applied to children, did not render it
obligatory on the administration of
the prison to continue its care of the
child after he had quitted the walls
where he had passed the last five or
six years of his young life. On the
day of his liberation, the rule was to
give him a few clothes and a part
of the products of his labor during
his detention, and then all was end-

354

The Stofy of Marcel,

ed between him and those who were
supposed to have been his teachers
and protectors. Thus thrown all at
once into a world from w^hich he had
been sequestered for years, without
any family traditions of industrj^ and
probity to g^iide and uphold him, the
unhappy youth found it impossible
to gain a footing among the honest
and res|5ec table, and was soon irre-
trievably lost.

All the errors, all the consequences
of this system, were then to be avoid-
ed in the new colony of Mettray ;
and guided by sound sense and a deep
love of their kind, the founders of
this admirable establishment under-
took the task of endowing the erring
children confided to tliem by the
-state with family affections and ha-
bits» with the love of order, and with
health. Their minds and hearts were
'Xo be cultivated^ and they were to be
given the desire and the means of
.gaining their living by honest labon

It was to the agricultural colony
of Mettray that Marcel and Poly-
•carpe were sent, a few days after their
[-examination before the tribunal ; and
* they made the journey thither in the
•company of thirty or forty other un-
fortunate boys of their own age.
What language can express the de-
light that filled the bosom of the
poor orphan when his eyes first rest-
*-cd on the home that a merciful Provi-
•dence had at last given him I Most
lovely was the wide landscape that
spread before him ; for fertile Tou-
raine is indeed the garden of beauti-
ful France. The bright waters of
the magnificent river Loire were there
' to be seen winding amidst green fields,
its shores bordered by strange habita-
tions hollowed in the rocks, or fringed
iwitli waving trees. There were the
houses of the Mettray colonists on
the side of a rising ground, the ta-
mpering steeple of their chapel show-
ing itself from the middle of the

group like a giant finger pointing the
way to heaven. On the bank of iJie
little stream that passed close to the
settlement on its way to the grea^|
river stood a windmill, turning it^B
sails right merrily. Plantations of
mulberry-trees, beautifully kept gar-
dens and orchards, and wheat-fields
nearly ripe for the harvest, surround-
ed the colony ; oxen grazing or pull-
ing heavily-laden carts, sheep brows^B
ing with tinking bells, young colonists^
smiling, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked,
directing, helping, working in evei
way and with a will; all the sigh
and sounds of husbandry, and amonj
the leaves a whispering breeze, am
the warm air perfumed with thej
scent of newly-mown hay, and ovci
all the bright blue, sunny sky. Such
was the landscape that met the eye;
of the pale-f.iced, stn-degraded chil^
dren of Pans. Such was the home]
that a few true men with loving hearts
and living sympathies had provided
for the victims of povert}* and crime
Here were they to learn, by the all-
powerful lessons of religion and
healthful labor, how to become hon-
est, useful citizens ; here were they to
acquire self respect, love of country
and of their fellow-men, !

Oh I blessings on the Christian
men who fuundcd the colony of Met-
tray I Their names arc inscribed on
the walls of the chapel j but those
walls will crumble away in time, their
names will be forgotten, but the good
they have done will never decay or
pass away, and " PWUy ikey shaii
have their reward r

CHAPTER IX*

Law, comdenw, Honcu', atl obeyed, nit i^^ve
Tlie approving voice, and mjU' live ,

While fill ih, when lite CAn noli i plj*

Shall tlreagthcD hope and tnisl tLe

The boys at Mettray arc divided]
into families, each inhabiting a sepa-
rate house inscribed with the name I

The Story of Marcel,

35$

of certain towns, or of the generous
giver. There is the " House of Pa-
ris," the " House of Limoges," the
** House of the widow Hubert," and
one is called the " House of Mary,"
in which the youngest children are
placed. There were more than a
dozen of these dwellings when our
two culprits entered the colony, each
directed by a Father and an Elder
Brother, the inmates of each one em-
ulating the inmates of the others in
their progress to reformation, and
every family considering itself a dis-
tinct brotherhood.

It was to the " House of Paris,"
that Marcel and Polycarpe were con-
signed ; and what a new life began
for these poor children when, after a
short sequestration, so that at least
the first elements of religion, order,
and honesty might be instilled into
their minds, they were permitted to
associate with the older colonists, and
take full part in their lessons and la-
bors. Strange but sweet did it seem
to Marcel when he first felt himself
a member of a family, one among
many brothers, where he was to find
those ties and that affection refused
to him hitherto. How soon he came
to love his superiors, the Father and
the Elder Brother, and how easy obe-
dience was to him, can be readily
imagined by those who have followed
his fortunes so far.. How fond and
proud he grew after a while of his
home — ^his saving ark— can only be
conceived by those who have visited
Mettray, and who have seen and
heard with their own eyes and ears
that every child there considers him-
self honored by the title of colonist,
and bound in his own person to prove
the worthiness of the community.

One of the first tasks of the new-
comers was to learn the duties and
discipline of the house.

•* The colonists' duties are honora-
ble," said the Father of the family

to them the day after their arrival \
"they resemble the soldiers; obedi-
ence to superiors and submission to
discipline. Without discipline no asso-
ciation of men is possible. With it
a nation may become invincible !"

To Marcel the discipline of Met-
tray was not only easy but even
agreeable, and none could be more
scrupulously observant of the regula-
tions than he. At the first sound of
the clarion which awoke the family
each morning, he was out of his ham-
mock and dressing himself with si-
lent haste. Then, folding his bed
and putting it away, he was ready to
march with his companions to the
wash-hou?e. Here the ablutions were
plentiful and thorough ; for the boys
at Mettray ore taught that not only
is cleanliness absolutely necessary to
health, but that we are also more
worthy to come in prayer before our
Maker when purified and refreshed
by his blessed gift of water.

The washing and combing finished,
he returned with his brothers to the
dormitory, to render thanks for the
peaceful rest of the past night and to
beg God's blessing on the labors of
toKlay. Then the clarion sounded
again, and each ran to take his place
in the ranks of workers about to
march to their daily labors out of
doors. Scarcely would they have been
recognized by those they had left be-
hind them in their old Paris haunts,
as, clothed in their dark-blue blouses,
their feet warm and dry in good sa-
bots, their cheeks glowing with clean-
liness and health, they marched in
step, light and brisk, to their respect-
ive tasks. Some proceeded to the
fields, where, superintended by an
intelligent superior, they worked with
a willing spirit, encouraged and
strengthened by the sight of their
teacher laboring with them. Some
entered the out-houses fitted up as
work-shops, where, while one learned

3S6

The Simy of Marcel,

tailoring on his brethren's clothes,
another worked at bis f;imily*s shoes.
A little farther on, and the young col-
onists reached the blacksmith*sshop,
where they hammered away manfully
at the chains and rails, the gear of
the carts, the locks and hinges, and
all the other iron necessities of the
place. And near by stood the car-
penter's shop, where another band
prepared all the wood -work of the
colony, even to the doors and win-
dows of the new houses to be built
to receive other poor castaways.

Some again, whose turn it was to
attend to the farm-yard, went on to
the cow-house, where the cows lowed
with content as they entered. And
then began such a cu rr}n ng and cleans-
ing that it would be difficult to say
which enjoyed it the most, the boys
or the cows. Cows are not accus-
tomed to have so much attention be-
stowed on them ; but the lads took
pleasure in it, and each house had
the privilege of participating in rota-
tion, and the kine prolited wonder-
fully. After the cows came the turn
of the pigs, the horses, and the don-
keys, the latter great favorites gene-
rally. And then the dairy with its
pans of yesterday's milk thick with
cream, to be skimmed, and then but-
ter-making and cheese-making.

And thus worked the once idle,
quarrelsome boys until the welcome
hour of breakfast summoned them
within. The simple but wholesome
meal finished, after a short pause the
thanksgiving was said, and a quarter
of an hour's recreation permitted, and
then at the first blast of the clarion
they left their play, formed their ranks,
and gayly marched off to labor again.
As ihey passed the Director on their
way out, they greeted him respectful-
ly and affectionately, their bright and
now honest ^'^^^ becoming still bright*
eras he returned their salutation with
a kind word and fatherly smile.

Marv*ellous change, operated by
the force of enlightened charity alone,''
by a few devoted men and women !
For there were at Mettray no mana-
cles nor blows for the refractory; no
prison-walls to keep in the discon-
tented, lazy, thief, or beggar ; only la-^
bor and religious influence, justice^
and love, ever working together to re-
pair the ravages that sin and igno-
rance had wrought in the consciences
of these forlorn ones, and endeavor-
ing to extirpate even the very germ
of evil in their souls.

The day of healthful toil in the
woods, fields, and workshops ended
at six o'clock, when the clarion's clear
voice again summoned the young la-
borers, this time to school, whither^
they marched in regimental ordeiW
preceded by a band of military mu-™
sic.

The schoolrooms were large^ wcU'i
ventilated chambers, their white wallsi
bearing the inscription, " Dieu vous-|
voit," God sees you, oft-repeated, and '
decorated with lists, "tablets of hon-
or,^' containing the names of those ^
boys who had for three months gain- fl
ed an immunity from all punishment.
Many of these names had become j
** fixtures,** I hey had been lliere so^l
long ; for the erasure of a name is]
considered by the colonists as a great j
disgrace, while its continuance on the j
tablet is an honor.

Here during two hours, aided by
kind, intelligent teachers, the boys
learned reading, writing, arithmetic,
singing, and linear drawing. The.
more advanced helped to leach the
beginners, and witli few exceptions
proved themselves patient, painstak*]
ing tutors.

To Marcel these hours of instruc-|
tion were the best and sweetest re-
creation. The boy seemed to yearn
after knowledge, and the progress he
made was really surprising. He was
even after a while able to undertake

The Story of Marcel.

357

to teach a class of new-comers to
ready and proud and happy was he the
day this honorable task was assigned
to him !

But music especially soon became
his greatest source of pleasure. It
soothed, cheered, and elevated him ;
it awakened in him the teuderest and
highest sentiments. It saddened
him, toOy sometimes, but that was a
solemn sadness that refined rather
than depressed the boy's sensitive
nature. The patriotic songs taught
in the school roused his enthusiasm
and inspired him with the most ardent
love of his country. The soft strains
of the simple catechism-hymns he
and his brothers sang when the good
chaplain prepared them for their first
communion entered into his inmost
hearty bringing peace and hope. But
deep, very deep was his emotion when
they sang some of those pieces com-
posed expressly for them, and bear-
ing reference to their past or present
state. How his heart swelled when
he joined his voice, high and sweet,
to his fellow castaways, as they
chaunted —

"DRMp not, though tkamt^ si$t, and anguish are
round thee:

fling oir the co!d chain that hath bound

Look at ym pore heaven smiling beyond thee ;

Real not content in thy darkness a clod.
Wrnrk fair some good^be it ever so slowly,
Cherish sooie flower— be it ever so lowly.

Let tliy good deeds be a prayer to thy God."

How every stirring line re-echoed
in his inmost soul, awakening there
gratitude so deep and full to all those
who had rescued him from sin that
no language could have expressed it
We are told that there is "joy in heav-
en over one sinner that repenteth ;"
how many blessings, then, must rest
on the heads of those who have con-
ducted smning M^r^ to repentance
— ^lildren whom he loves and wishes
to be brooght to him.

Tiro hours of school and the cla-

rion sounded for supper. The repast
over, after five minutes* play the re-
fectory was converted into a dormi-
tory by suspending the hammocks,
and then came the evening prayer
and hymn. The day was ended, and
our orphan and his companions
climbed into their clean beds, to
sleep peacefully under the protection
of that Heavenly Father who had
permitted them in his inscrutable
wisdom to bear the brunt of the bat-
tle while unprepared, but had saved
them, scotched and bleeding, it is
true, yet still with vitality enough to
recover from their wounds, and fight
again, and win at last — if they would I

CHAPTER X. -

" I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones.
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."

Tbnnysok.

Polycarpe Poquet found it more
difficult to conform himself to the
rules of the establishment, and the
law of obedience to the Elder Broth-
er especially was peculiarly gall-
ing to him. The Father of the
Family he could submit to \ but this
superior, the Elder Brother, elected
every month by themselves from
among themselves, was regarded by
him as a kind of hypocritical upstart,
whom he took every opportunity to
annoy. Many were the insulting
words he addressed to the poor boys
who received this mark of their com-
panions' esteem, but who by their very
position were forced to report every
fault committed by those same com-
panions, and many a weary hour did
he pass in solitary confinement, mak-
ing nails, before he had learned that
first duty of a good citizen, obedience
to constituted authorities.

Perhaps the visit of a venerable
ecclesiastic who had come to exam-
ine the working-system of the colony

358

The Siofy 4>f Marcel,

might be taken as the turning-point
in Polycarpe's condocti though not
the real date of his improvement, as
we shall see hereafter. The good
Abb<5 had been questioning the boys
of Marcel and Polycarpc's family,
when he suddenly requested them to
tell him which were the three best
lads among them. Need we say
that our poor orphan was one of
those who were instantly, and with-
out hesitation, pointed out by their
comrades ?

" And the worst ?'* asked the abb«^
again.

Every eye remained fixed, immo-
vable ; every tongue silent. All at
once Polycarpe stepped forward and
said in a low but clear voice,

**TisI]"

** My boy 1" exclaimed the worthy
priest, as he clasped the young con-
vict*s hand in both of his, *' I cannot
believe it ! I will not lake even your
word for it ! This ver>' acknowledg-
ment proves that you are mistaken.'*

Polycarpe never from that day
forth wore the ignominious mark of
punishment, tJie ugly black gaiter on
the left leg.

His progress in learning was slow,
compared with that of Marcel ; but
he was an adept in the house-duties,
which were performed by each fami-
ly of boys in turns of a week at a
time. He was skilled in sweeping
and dusting, washing dishes and
cleaning knives. He was the apt*
est pupil, too, that ever studied the
culinary art, and, after a time, was
wont to boast that he could dish up
a savory dinner there where a less
gifted individual could find nothing
to eat. Not that Mettray could be
considered as one of the best schools
for learners, nor its wholesome din-
ners as specimens of the world-famed
Ffench cookery ; for they consisted of
msgetables entirely, with the excep-
tion of twice in the week, when bacon

and beef figured on the tables ; but^
Polycarpe felt that he had natura
abilities, and could do more ihafl
was required of him in the simply
kitchen where he practised. He wai
quite a favorite with the good Sister
who presided there ; Ihey were al^j
ways glad when it was his week ta
assist them, and praised him con^
stantly for his activity, good temper,
and disposition to oblige.

But if Polycarpe was useful in the
kitchen, he was invaluable in the in-j
firmary, A handier fellow for help
ing the suffering never entered a sick-|
room. He was quick-eyed and iig/tt\
fotgtreti, (in the good sense of th^
word ;) he saw in a moment how bcstl
to arrange the pillows for the weary,
feverish head ; he could dress a blis-,
ter without drawing a single excU-j
mation from the patient } he could
make palatable gruel and ptisan jJ
he was punctual in administering the]
potions, and, though last not least oif
his good qualities, he was wakefuiJ
and, at the same time, good - temper-, j
ed and cheerful. The kind Hospi-I
tal Sisters, who had charge of the
infirmary^ pronounced him the best i
of inirses, and would have rejoiced^
could they always have had him with ]
them*

The very first week tliat he was on I
duty there, a poor boy, who had only I
been a month in the establishment,
died of the disease whose germs he
had brought with him. Polycarpe
watched over him with the tenderest
care, and the child became gratefully J
attached to him, and talked much to
him of his past life — a short but sad j
one. His father, he said, was in the
galleys for life; his mother in tlieJ
hospital at Tours ; his two elder sis-l
ters in prison for theft ; his youngj
brotlier, a miserable deformed child
was a street-beggar; and he knewJ
not what had become of his little sis*i
ter of six years old I The poor fel-

The Story of Marcel.

359

low loved this little ^ter with all the
concentrated strength of a heart that
had had but few objects to love, aiid
he cried as he spoke of her.

When the chaplain came to see
him, the last evening of his short
life, Polycarpe related the sad story
to tiie good priest

"Victor Bourdon," said the abb^
gently, as he still knelt by the side of
the bed, after having prayed with the
dying boy, "Victor Bourdon, I will
go to Tours, and find your little sis-
ter, and I will place her where she
will learn to be a good and industri-
ous girL I promise you this, my
child."

Victor turned his dim eyes toward
his consoler, a smile of ineffable con-
tent played over his pain-drawn fea-
tures ; then, sighing rather than speak-
ii^ these last words, " Oh I what a pity
to leave the colony so soonT' the
young earth-tried spirit passed away.

This death made a lasting impres-
sion on Polycarpe. The exclama-
tion, ** Oh ! what a pity to leave the
colony so soon !" was like a revela-
tion to him ) all at once he under-
stood all that he had escaped — all
the privileges he now enjoyed.

The Father of the family found the
poor fellow in tears one day, and, af-
ter a few sympathizing questions, drew
from him a touching confession of his
repentance. He freely acknowledged
that his good conduct had hitherto
been prompted by pride only ; " and
if," added he, " I have not run away,
it is only because there are no walls at
Mettray,"

Singular proof of the innate senti-
ment of honor that exists in France 1
Even this ignorant boy felt it to be
an unworthy, cowardly act to betray
the confidence reposed in him; he
considered himself a prisoner on pa-
role, and scorned to take advantage
of the liberty granted him.

AH his in-door talents did not, how-

ever, prevent his working well at the
harder labors out of doors. He was
great at the plough, and no one groom-
ed a horse belter than he. His strong-
ly-built frame, too, became admirably
developed by the farm-work and the
gymnastic exercises in which all took
a part, but in which none excelled as
he did. His stout, muscular form,
the splendid glow of his cheeks, and
perfectly healthful appearance, would
have made him remarked anywhere.

He had at first chosen to learn
the trade of a baker, as his future
means of gaining a living ; but his
sttong physical nature and necessity
of movement soon inspired him with
a decided inclination for a military
life, and the administration permitted
him to revoke his first choice. Marcel
had wished to be a gardener ; he loved
nature, and was passionately fond ot
flowers, and his desire had been grant-
ed.

So the two boys worked hopefully
and cheerfully on ; one day was a
repetition of the other, until Marcel
fully understood that higher life which
brings its own recompense, and Poly-
carpe acquired the love of truth and
of honest labor.

A year after his admittance into
the colony, Polycarpe's name was in-
scribed on the tablet of honor by the
side of Marcel's, which had already
long gained its place there. A few
months later, he succeeded to his
friend as Elder Brother, and, after
another interval of exemplary con-
duct, both lads received as a recom-
pense a sum of money which was
placed in the savings bank of the
establishment for their future use,
and were entided to wear a corpo-
ral's stripe on their sleeve — a high
and envied distinction.

" For the good workers there is a
future!" is the hopeful salutatioq
inscribed over the gate at Mettray. .

Yes ! there is a future for all true

36o

Catholkity and Pantheism.

workers! Labor, then, steadfastly; earth; the good time cometh — th«,
Jabor trustfully, poor children of reward is sure I

TO BE CONTIirimo.

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER TWO.

FAlfTfrETSM EXAMrNFJ) FROM THE ONTOLOCICAL POINT OP VIEW— THE INFINrTE—
IDEA OF THE rNFINriE ACCORDING TO THE PANTHEIST. I

The infinite of the pantheist is
' somtthing stripped of subsistence,
I Hmits, determinations, definiteness,
\ qualities, or quantity \ it is devoid of
' ill consciousness, intelligence, will,

or the impersonal reason^ with Cousin
— all converge into this idea, that the ^
infinite is something indeterminate, ^
unconscious, impersonal ; which^ by
.an interior necessity, is impelled to
individuality; it is something hang- unfold and develop itself, assuming fl
ing between reality and unreality, all kinds of limitations and forms ; "
bordering on possibility and exist- and thus, from being undefined, in-

cnce ; it is not altogether actual, nor
[entirely possible, but that which is
[ in fieri ^ or becoming ; in a word, that
I which is both being and nothing. It
j Is pure, unalloyed abstraction, with-
out a mind which makes the abstrac-
tion.

We acknowledge that pantheists

do not all express themselves in the

b nbove manner with regard to the in-

I finite ; but, if we strip their systems

ftf their various forms, al! agree in

Fpresenling the same idea.

Whether, with the materialistic

[pantheists of old, we call the infinite

[a con»moi> principle or seed of liquid

[IJature, from which ever}* thing

prang up, and which is the subslra*

[turn of everything; or whether we

all it l^c primitive number, with the

[Tythngorcans ; or we like to exhibit

ft as the first unity or monas^ with

IPlotinus and the Neoplatonists ; orwe

riook upon it as the infinite substance

of Spinoza ; or finally, with thcGer-

nans, we prefer to call it the ep} or

be absolute identity^ or the ideal-being:

determinate, abstract, it becomes
real, defined, determinate, concrete;
from being one, it becomes multiple*
The genesis of creation in all its com-
ponents, and the history of mankind,
are the successive unfolding and
realization of the infinite in a pro-
gressive scale. For, in its necessary
development, it becomes matter, or-
ganism, sense ; and in man it ac-
quires intellect with the conscious-
ness of itself* Here commence all
the phases of the development of
man recorded in history : phases of
a progressive civilization, which are
but necessary un foldings and modi-
fications of the infinite ; and which
will ^o on progressing perpetually,
to what end, or for how long, pan-
theists and progressists are unable to
determine.

By means of this theory of the in-
finite, they endeavor to reconcile
reality with the ontological ideas of
being, the infinite, substance, and the
absolute. For ihey reason thus:
The idea of being is essentially uni-

Catholicity and Pantheism.

361

versaly and as such it must embrace
all reality, and therefore it can be
but one. The same must be said of
the idea of the infinite. This com-
prehends everything, and therefore
absorbs everything.

The reader can easily see, from
what we have thus far said, that the
first problem which pantheism raises
and which is to be solved, is the fol-
lowing: What is the nature of the
infinite? We accept the problem,
and shall discuss it by making the
following inquiries.

1. Does the idea which pantheism
gives of the infinite really resolve
the problem ?

2. What is the true solution of the
problem ?

With regard to the first inquiry we
answer that the idea of the infinite,
as given by the pantheists,' when
well examined, leads to one of two
diffisrent conclusions :

1. Either it is the idea of finite
being, and consequently requiring the
exbtence of an infinite being as its
ongin.

2. Or, it is the idea of a mere ab-
straction, an absolute nonentity, and
hence leading to absolute nihilism.
In both cases pantheism, instead of
resolving the problem, destroys it.
We shall endeavor to prove both
these propositions, assuming as
granted that the principles of panthe-
ism are these two :

1. The infinite is that the essence
of which lies in becoming.

2. It becomes multiplicity, that is
matter, organism, animality, etc., by
a necessary interior movement.

The pantheistic idea of the infinite
leads either to the idea of God given
by the Catholic Church, or to abso-
lute nihilism. Proven by the first
principle of the pantheists.

Before entering upon the proof,
we must lay down a few truths of

ontology which are metaphysically
certain.

First Principle. Being and actuality
are one and the same thing.

The proof of this principle lies in
the explanation of what actuality
really means. Now, actuality is one
of those ideas, called by logicians
simple ideas, and which cannot be
defined. We shall endeavor to ex-
plain it as follows.

Actuality is but a relation of our
mind. When we think of a being,
not as yet existing, but against the
existence of which we see neither an
interior nor an exterior reason, we
call it possible being ; and the per-
ception of all this, in our mind, we
call the perception of the possibility
of a being.

But when we think of the being,
not as possible, but as having, so to
speak, travelled from possibility to
real existence, we call that being
actual ; and the perception of the
mind, the perception of the actuality
of a being.

It is evident that actuality adds
nothing to being, beyond a mere re-
lation of our mind, which, comparing
the being, as really existing, with its
possibility, calls it actual; because
it is existence in act, in contradis-
tinction to possibility, which is
power or potentiality.

Actuality, then, and being or real-
ity are one and the same thing.

Second Principle. Actuality and
duration are one and the same thing.

An act or being which does not
last, not even one instant, is nothing ;
because our mind cannot conceive a
being to exist, and have no duration
whatever. Therefore an act or being
necessarily implies duration, and
they are therefore one and the same
thing.

But it will be remarked : Are
there no transitory acts? Do not

3^2

Catholicity attd Pantheism.

all philosophers admit the existence
of acts which are continually chang-
ing?

We answer, What is meant by a
transitory act ? Does it mean some-
thing which is continually changing^
so much so that none of ils elements
has any duration whatever, not even
for an instant ; or does it mean that
the parts or moments, if we may call
ihem so, are in a state of continual
transition ? In both cases such acts
do not and cannot exist.

Before demonstrating this, we ob-
sen^e that it was the ancient Italian
school of Elea which, before ever)^
other school, raised the problem of
transient acts, pointed out the great
difficulty which existed in explaining
their nature, and demonstrated the
impossibility of their existence. To
render the demonstration clear, we
remark that a transient act may
mean either one of two things ; an
act which is composed of different
parts, each in continual transition ;
or an act which has a beginning,
and, after a certain duration, also an
end* We admit the existence of such
acts in the second sense and not in
the first. For if an act continually
changes, none of the states which it
successively assumes have any du-
ration whatever. Otherwise it would
no longer be a transient act in the
first sense. But that which has no
duration at all cannot be considered
to exist. Therefore an act really
transient cannot exist. What then
is a transient act? We have seen
that it supposes something standing
or lasting. But what lasts is im-
manent, that IS, has duration. There-
fore a transient act can only be the
beginning or end of an immanent
act, or, in other words, the beginning
or end of duration. To illustrate
this doctrine by an example : sup-
pose I wish to draw a line on this
paper If all the points, of which

the line is to be composed, were ta
disappear the very instant I am
drawing them, it is evident I should
never have a line. Likewise, if all
the states, which a transient act as-
sumes, are supposed to have no
duration whatever, the act also can
have no duration, and hence no ex-
istence. A transient act, then, is the
beginning or end of an immanent
act.

Having laid down the foregoing
propositions, we come to the discus-
sion of the pantlieistic idea of the
infinite.

What, according to pantheism, is
the idea of the infinite? Something
the essence of which consists in be-
coming, in being made, in fim.
Now, we reason thus : a being the
essence of which lies in becoming
means either an act permanent and
lasting, capable of changes, or it
means something the essential ele-
ments of which are continually
changing, and have, therefore, no
duration whatever. If the last sup-
position be accepted as describing
the pantheistic idea of the infinite,
then the infinite is a sheer absurdity,
an absolute nonentity. For, in thi»
case, the infinite would be a transient
act, in the sense that its essential
elements are continually changing,
and have no duration whatever.
Now such acts are absolutely incon-
ceivable. The mind may put forth
its utmost efforts to form an idea of
them, yet it will ever be utterly at
a loss to conceive anything about
them.

Pantheism, on this supposition^
would start from absolute nihilism,
to build up the existence of e\'ery-
thing. On the other hand, if the se-
cond supposition be admitted, that
the infinite is a permanent being,
capable of changes and develop-
ments, then it is a transient act iti
the second sense, that is, tlie begin-

CatHolicifx and Pantheism.

363

oing or end of an immanent act ; in
which case we object to its being
self-existing, and insist that it leads
to the admission of the idea of the
infinite as given by the Catholic
Church. We demonstrate this from
the ontological idea of immanent and
transient acts.

If there be transient acts, there
must also be immanent acts, be-
cause transient acts are the begin-
ning or end of immanent acts. But
no immanent act can be the cause
of its end, because no act could be
the catise of its cessation ; nor can
an immanent act be the cause of its
own beginning, since in that case it
would act before it existed.

It follows, then, that an immanent
act cannot be the cause either of its
beginning or of its end. But a tran-
sient act; that is, the beginning or
end of an immanent act, must have
a cause, by the principle of causality.
\t, then, the transient act is not caus-
ed by the immanent act, of which it
is either the beginning or the end, it
must be caused by another immanent
act

Now this immanent act, which
causes the transient act, has either
itself a beginning, in which case it
would be preceded by a transient
act, or i( has no beginning at all,
and consequently can have no end.
If it be caused by a transient act,
we should be obliged to admit an-
other immanent act ; and, if we do
not wish to admit an infinite series
of causes, (which would by no means
resolve the difficulty, but only in-
crease it,) we must finally stop at an
immanent act which has neither be-
ginning nor end.

If it be not caused by a transient
act,, then we have already what we
9eek for; an act without beginning
or end.

But, the infinite of the pantheists,
if it be not a mere abstraction, an

absolute nonentity, is a transient
act.

Therefore, it leads to the admis-
sion of a purely immanent act. We
present the same demonstration in
another form, to make it more intel-
ligible.

A transient act is the begin-
ning or cessation of an immmanent
act.

Now, this beginning or cessation
must have a cause, by the principle
of causality. What can the cause
be? It cannot be the same imma-
nent act, of which the transient act
is either the beginning or the end.
Because, if the immanent act were
the cause of its beginning, it would
act before its existence ; and if it
were the cause of its end, its action
would be simultaneous with its de-
struction or extinction, which is a
contradiction in terms. On the
other hand, it cannot be a transient
act, because this itself must have a
cause. Nor can it be another imma-
nent act, which has a beginning or
end ; for in that case it would be a
transient act. Therefore, it must be
a purely immanent act, without be-
ginning or end. In short, a self-ex-
isting transient act, such as the infi-
nite of the pantheists, is an absurdity,
because this denotes an act which
gives itself a beginning, or which
gives itself an end. This beginning
or end must be given it by another.
Now, this second is either a purely
immanent act, without beginning or
end, or it has had a beginning, and
may have an end. In the first sup-
position we have the Catholic idea
of God. In the second we may mul-
tiply these causes ad infinitum^ and
thus increase ad infinitum the ne-
cessity of the existence of God to ex-
plain those existences.

We pass to the examination of the
second leading principle of panthe-
ism, which is thus expressed. The

364

CathoHcity and Pantheism,

infinite, by a necessary interior move-
ment, becomes multiple*

How is this to be understood? If
the infinite of the pantheists, by a
necessary interior movement, unfolds
itself, and becomes multiple, it fol-
lows that it IS the cause of transient
acts. Our mind can attach no other
signification to that principle, be-
yond that of an immanent act, pro-
ducing transient acts. Now the
question arises, Is this onlologically
possible ? We insist that it is not,
and lay down the following proposi-
tion : No being, which moves or un-
folds itself, that is, which performs
transient acts, can do so by its own
unaided energy ; but requires the aid
of another beingi different from it-
self

An immanent act which produces
a transient one does so either by an
eternal act, also immanent, and in
that case it cannot be the subject of
the transient act produced ; or it
produces a transient act of which it
is the subject — so much so that the
transient act is its awn act, as,
for instance, the act by which
a sensitive being feels a new sensa-
tion, or the act by wliich an intelli-
gent being begets a thought, are
transient acts, the one of the sensi-
tive principle, the other of the ration-
al being. These transient acts mo-
dify the subject which produces them,
and effect a change in it.

Now, in the first case, if an im-
manent act which produces transient
acts is eternal in duration, these can-
not terminate in the subject, by the
supposition. For, if the transient
act were laid inside the permanent
act, it w^ould be its cessation, and in
that case the act would no longer be
eternal according to the supposition.

In the second place, if an imma-
nent act becomes the subject of
transient acts, or, in other words,
modifies itself, a sufficient reason

must be given, a cause of such modi-
fication, by the principle of causality.
Why does it modify itself? What is
the cause of such a change ? The be-
ing or subject, or immanent act, does
not contain the sufficient cause of
the modification or change ; because
if it contained it, the act produced
would be permanent, and not transi-
ent, that is, it would have always
been in the immanent act. For it is
a principle of ontology of immediate
evidence that, given the ///// cause,
the effect follows. Now the imma-
nent act in question uhi$ before the
transient act existed ; therefore, the
immanent act is not full and suffi-
cient cause of the transient act which
modifies it. If it is not the full and
sufficient cause of its modification, it
cannot modify itself without the aid
of exterior being. Now, this exterior
being cannot be supposed to be of
the same nature with the act in ques-
tion, otherwise it woidd itself require
aid. Therefore, it must be a being
which does it by an eternal imma-
nent act ; and that Being b the Im-
finite of Calholic philosophy.

Apply this demonstration to the
second principle of pantheism, that
the infinite, by a necessary interior
movement, unfolds and develops it-
self, or modifies itself, it is evident
that this second principle, like the
first, is ontologically impossible ; that
the infinite must either be purely,
simply, and eternally actual, or it
cannot develop itself without the aid
of another being of a different na-
ture; consequently that the second
pantheistic principle is nothing else
but the idea of finite being perfect-
ing itself by the aid of the Infinite
of Catholic philosophy.

In order that this conclusion may
appear more evident, we subjoin an-
other argument, more adapted to the
comprehension of most readers.

According to the pantheistic hy^

Catholicity and Pantheism.

36S

pothesisy the infinite, by a necessary
interior action, is forced to expand,
to develop itsel£ Now, we want to
show that this it cannot do by its
unaided energy. We prove it thus :
This action of the infinite is a move-
ment; we make use of the word
movement in its widest signification,
as meaning any action whatever.
Now, this movement either existed
always in the infinite or it had a be-
ginning. In the system of the pan-
theists it has a beginning, because
they hold that the infinite success-
ively assimies different forms. There
was then a time in which it did not
move. Then the infinite had only
the power, and not the act of mov-
ing ; and when it did move, it passed
from the power to the act.

It will not do for the pantheist to en-
deavor to avoid this conclusion by say-
ing that the movement of the infinite
is eternal. Conceding that the move-
ment is eternal, we ask, is the action
only one, or is it multiple ? In other
words, is the full intensity of its en-
ergy concentrated in one movement,
or is it divided ? The pantheist can-
not, in force of his system, admit
that the whole intensity of its energy
is concentrated in a single move-
ment ; otherwise, the successive un-
fbldings were impossible; the un-
folding would be instantaneous, and
not successive.

The infinite, then, in its success-
ive unfol dings, passes from the power
to the act Now, it is an ontological
principle, as evident as any axiom of
£uclid, that no being can pass from
the power to the act, from quiet to
movement, but by the aid of another
being already in act. For power is,
in relation to action, as rest is to
movement. If the being is in rest,
it cannot be in movement ; if, on the
contrary, it is in movement, it cannot
be in rest. Likewise, if the being
is supposed to act, it cannot, at the

same time, be supposed to be in po-
tentiality. A being in power and
action, with regard to the same effects,
is as much a contradiction as a being
in rest and motion at the same time.
To make this more intelligible, let us
take an instance. Suppose the seed
of a tree, say of a lemon : this seed
is in potentiality to become a lemon.
But it could never of itself become a
lemon ; because, if it could, it were
already a lemon ; it were a lemon,
not in power only, but in act. To
become a lemon it must be buried in
the earth, it must go through the
whole process of vegetation, and as-
similate to itself whatever it needs
from the earth and the air and the
sun ; and not until then can it be the
fruit-tree we call lemon.

No being, then, can pass from the
power to the act, except by the aid
of another being which is in act.
Now, the infinite of the pantheist is
continually passing from the power
to the act j from being indefinite and
indeterminate, it becomes limited
and determinate. Therefore it can-
not do so but by the agency of an-
other being, which is all action and
no potentiality.

This being is God.

We have examined the first princi-
ple of pantheism with regard to the
infinite, and we have seen that a be-
ing the essence of which lies in be-
ing made, in becoming, either means
something the essential elements of
which are continually changing, so
much so as to have no duration
whatever, or it means a being which
has a beginning and may have an
end. In the first case, the infi-
nite of the pantheist would be a
mere absurdity, a pure abstraction.
In the second, it expresses nothing
else but the idea of a finite being,
and leads to the existence of a pure-
ly immanent being or act. Proceed-
ing to discuss the second principle

366

Catholicity and Pantheism,

of pantheism, that the infinite, by a
necessary, interior movement, un-
folds itself, we have demonstrated
that this is impossible ; that, grant-
ing the possibility of the infinite un-
folding itse]rsucces5ively,this it could
never do by its own unaided energy,
but requires the help of another be-
ing. That, consequently, the second
principle of the pantheists leads also
to the idea of God as proposed by
the Catholic Church.

As a corollary following from the
whole discussion, we draw the con-
clusion that the infinite is utterly in-
conceivable, unless it is supposed to
be most perfect, most finished reali-
ty, if we may speak thus ; that it is
jjtogether absurd, unless it is sup-
posed to be pure actuality, without
the least mixture of potentiality ; in a
word, pure, simple action itself; in
the language of the schoolmen, actus
purissimus.

The discussion of the pantheistic
idea of the infinite has led us to the
main idea of the infinite as it is
given by Catholic philosophy. We
shall now proceed to fill up this idea
and develop it to its utmost conclu-
sions, so as to give an exact and full
exposition of the doctrine of the
infinite, as proposed by Catholic
philnsophy. The result of our dis-
cussion has been that the Infinite, or
God, is action itself; or, in other
words, pure actuality, an immanent
act without beginning or end. Upon
this we shall build the whole con^
struct ion of the essential attributes
and perfections of Gad, and admire
how consistent, how logical, how sub-
lime, is the Catholic idea of the In-
finite.

GCD IS NECEiSAKV BEING.

Nccessar)' being is that the es-
sence of which is one and the same

thing with its existence; and, vkt
versa^ the existence of which is one
and the same thing with the essence,
so much so that the idea of the one
implies the idea of the othen

But God*s essence is to be j for we
have seen that he is actualit)- or reali-
ty itself. Therefore, God is neces-
Sxiry or self existing being.

Hence the sublime definition he
gave of himself to Moses r *'/ am
WHO am. He who is sent me to you "

OOD IS ETERNAU

Eternity is duration without suc-
cession or change ; du ratio tot a simui^
as the schoolmen would say. Hence it
excludes the idea either of beginning
or end. But duration and actuality
are one and the same thing. There*
fore actuality itself is duration itself ;
that is to say, duration \iithout suc-
cession or change.

Now, God is actuality itself. There-
fore he is eternal

III.

GOD IS IMMin^ABLE.

Iramutabihty is life without suc-
cession or change ; or, in other words,
life without beginning or end, and
without being subject to modifica-
tions. Now life is action. Action
then, without succession or change, is
immutability.

God is action itself Therefore
God is immutable.

IV,

OOD IS iNFmmt.

Infinity is being itself with the cat-
elusion of limits, that is, of not being ;
or* to express ourselves more intelli-
gibly, it is being or perfection io its

Cdikoliciij and PjimtheUm.

167

utmost and supremest actuality, ex-
cluding the possibility of any succes-
sive actualization, for the reason of its
being already all possible actualiza-
tion. Human language is so imper-
fect and so inadequate that, even in
our efforts to avoid in the definition
of the infinite all idea of succession
or development, we are forced to make
use of words which seem to suppose
it Those who are trained to think
logically will grasp the idea without
much effort ; for the words being it-
sel/y to the exclusion of not being or
limitation, sufficiently and adequate-
ly define the infinite. Now, God, as
action itself, is being itself.
Therefore, God is infinite.

IMMSNSmr IS THE PRESENCE OK THE
WHOLE BEING OF GOD IN HIS ACTIONS.

This definition of immensity, being
somewhat different in words from
that commonly given by metaphysi-
cians, requires explanation. Let the
reader, then, pay particular attention
to the following remarks.

Ubiquity implies residence of be-
ing in space, both spiritual and mate-
rial. By spiritual space we mean the
existence of different created spirits
and nothing more.

By material space we mean the ex-
tension of matter.

That God can act on or reside in
spiritual beings does not involve any
diflSculty.

But how can he reside in material
space, space properly so called ?

It is evident that a spiritual being
cannot dwell in space by a contact of
extension, since spiritual being is the
very opposite of extension.

Therefore, a spiritual being can only
dwell in space by acting on it.

The presence of the whole being of
God in the action by which he cre-

ates, sustains, and acts ia spirittal.
and material space, is ubiquity.

Immensity is the presence of the
whole being of God in his action.
The difference between the two lies
in this : that ubiquity implies a rela-
tion to created objects, whereas im-
mensity implies no such relation.
We say, then, the presence of the
whole being of God in his action, be-
cause God is pure actuality, action
itself If, therefore, in his action we
did not suppose the presence of his
whole being, we should establish a
division in God ; that is, we should
suppose his being and his action to
be distinct, which they are not, and
this distinction would imply a deve-
lopment in God, which is contrary to
his being action or actuality itself.

It will easily be remarked that im-
mensity is an attribute which flows
immediately from the idea of God be-
ing actuality itself We may there-
fore conclude that he is immense.

VI.

GOD IS ABSOLITTE SIMPLICITY.

Absolute simplicity, in its nega-
tive aspect, implies the absence of all
possible composition or distinction in
a being ; the distinction, for instance,
of essence and existence, of faculties
and attributes.

Now, God is pure actuality, and
this excludes all idea of such distinc-
tions. Therefore, God is simplicity
itself.

VII.
GOD IS ONE,

God is a necessary being, eternal,
immutable, infinite, immense, all of
which are sides of one idea — that of
pure actuality.

Now, such a being can be but one.

368 . . '^ ^'*!*^j^ Catholicity and Pantheism,

^'^ai ^^ evItUm to every mind which - -J* '* -'--
undPrs tanas the terms. God is there-
fore one.

Before we leave this part of the
subject, let us compare both the pan-
theistic and the Catholic ideas of
Gi?(tf so that, when brought together
face to face, they may appear in a
better and more distinct light,

God, according to the pantheists,
is an eternal » self-existing somethings
devoid of all determination or limitj
of all individuality, of all conscious-
ness, of all personalit)% of all shape
or form.

When well examined, the principle
of the pantheists presents no other idea
to the mind than that of possibility,
a kind of self-existent possibility, if
we may bring together two terms
which exclude each other.

Starling from this possibility, the
pantheists make it acquire determi-
nation, concreteness, consciousness,
personality, by supposing an interior
necessary' force of development.

The Catholic idea of God is the
very opposite of the pantheistic.

For, whereas they make God a
possibility, something that is be-
coming, to be made ; the Catholic
Church exhibits him as reality, actu-
ality, being itself. It is careful to
eliminate from him the least idea of
potentiality or possibility, of becom-
ing something, or of being subject to
development or perfection ; because
it insists that God is all reality, per-
fectly and absolutely actual. Any
idea of further perfection is not only
to be excluded from him, but cannot
even be conceived ; for the simple
reason that he is all perfection, abso-
lute, eternal perfection.

That this is the only reasonable
idea of God is evident to every mind
which is capable of understanding the
terms. For happily it does not re-
quire a long and difficult demonsira-
the falsehood and ab-

surdity of the pantheistic, and the
truth of the Catholic, idea of God,
The understanding of the terms is
quite sufficient.

Whoever says possibility, excludes,
by the very force of the term, exist-
ence and reality, A self existent
possibility is a contradiction in terms ;
for possibility excludes existence, and
self existence implies it necessarily.

An eternal possibility is also a con-
tradiction in terms ; for eternity ex-
cludes all succession or mutation, and
possibility implies it. An infinite
possibility is yet more absurd; be-
cause infinite means absolute reality
and actuality ; possibility, on the con-
trar)', implies only power of being.

But, on the contrary% how logical,
how consistent, how grand, and how
conformable to all onto logical princi-
ples is the idea of God held by the
Catholic Church I God is absolute^
pure, unmixed actuality and reality.
Therefore he is self existing being
itself ; therefore he is eternal, because
pure actuality is at the same time
pure duration ; therefore he is immu-
table, since pure actuality excludes
all change and development j there-
fore he is infinite, because he is being
itself, the essential being, M^ being;
therefore he is simplicity itself,
cause a distinction would imply
composition, and all composition is
rejected by actuality most pure, so to
speak, unalloyed, unmixed.

The God of the pantheist is a nul-
lity, a negation ; the God of Uie
Catholic Church is really the Infinite.
He is in himself whatever is real
and actual in spirit, whatever is real
and positive in matter, whatever is
real and positive in the essence of all
creatures. But he has all the reality
of spirit without its limitation ; all
tlic reality of matter without its limi-
tation ; all the reality of all creatures
without their limitation. All this
t such and such a

•IiH"- t'Hf),

CatkoKcity and Pantheism.

>'%^

reality; but he is all reality, pure,
unmixed reality, without limit and
without distinction.

What leads the pantheists into the
admission of their principle is a false,
wrong idea of the infinite. They
suppose, and suppose rightly, that
the infinite must contain all reality ;
and seeing around them such a mul-
titude of different beings or creatures,
each one with its particular difference
and individualization, they ask them-
selves the question, How can all these
differences be concentrated in one
being? — the infinite — and in endea-
voring to resolve it they admit a first
something undefined, indeterminate,
which assumes gradually all these
different forms.

What is this but a very material
and vulgar idea of the infinite ? That
it was the idea of the first who began
to philosophize is intelligible. But
that modern philosophers should have
no higher comprehension of the in-
finite, that they should not conceive
how the infinite can be all realit)', in
its being without distinction, compo-
sition, change, or succession, is quite
inconceivable ; and is much less
than we should expect from men
boasting so loudly of their enlight-
enment

Let them hear a Catholic philoso-
pher of the middle ages upon the sub-
ject After having demonstrated
that whatever is real in the creature
is to be found in God as the infinite
and most perfect, he proposes the
other question. How can all these per-
fections be found in God ? and he
answers, that they are necessarily to
be found in God, but in a most simple
VOL. VIII. — 24

manner, as one and sing
We subjoin his words :

"From what we have said, it
evidently follows that the perfec-
tions of creatures are essentially
unified in God. For we have
shown that God is simple. Now,
where there is simplicity there cannot
be found diversity in the interior of
the being. If, then, all the perfec-
tions of creatures are to be found in
the infinite, it is impossible that they
could be there with their differences.
It follows, then, that they must be in
him as one.

" This becomes evident, if we reflect
upon what takes place in the faculties
of comprehension. For a superior
power grasps, by one and the same
act of comprehension, all those things
known, under different points of
view, by inferior powers. In fact, the
intelligence judges, by a unique and
simple act, all the perceptions of
sight, of hearing, and of the other
senses. The same occurs in sciences :
although inferior sciences are various
in virtue of their different objects,
there is, however, in them all a supe-
rior science which embraces all, and
which is called transcendental philoso-
phy. The same thing happens with
relation to authority. For in the
royal authorit}', which is one, are in-
cluded all the other subordinate au-
thorities, which are divided for the
government of the kingdom. It is
thus necessary that the perfections of
inferior creatures, which are multi-
plied according to the difference of
beings, be found together as one, in
the principle of all things — God !" *

* St ThoniM't Comptndium Tktdcgug, cajx aa.

r^jo ^«' Jiighi Path found through the Great Snaw,

THE RIGHT PATH FOUND THROUGH THE GREA1

SNOW,

The d rifling, wnde-spread snow-
storm of January 17th, 1867, will live
in the memory of the ** oldest inhab-
itant** among the strange things of
rthat eventful year. It confirmed in
Jits depth and fulness the weird sto-
rries of our grandsires, which our
[later years had come to look u|>on as
I myths ; of benighted travellers buried
in drifts that covered houses ; of
fcommon roads only made passable
by archways cut through the white
heaps ; of houses where the only
was by the upper windows, or
haps the chimneys. Among the
fiultitudes who found themselves
I snow-bound on that memorable
[Thursday aforesaid, I was shut up to
1 the cold comfort of a country inn, in
bleak, mountainous district, Mr*here
J I had arrived the previous evening
[•with the intention of spending only
|a night and day ; less^ if the business
that brought me could be transacted
in a shorter time. I had engaged the
foarlor and bed- room adjoining, that
[ might occupy m>^elf with necessary
vriting uninterrupted by any chance
[arrival. The dimensions of my suite
tof apartments were small, and the
Tfurniture of the plainest kind ; a
dingy carpet covered the floor, and
reen and yellow paper adorned the
^al!s. The brilliancy of the Aw/
'ensemble was heightened by a series
of coarse, highly-colored plates, re-
presenting the life of the prodigal
•son in all its phases, and an equally
radiant " family tree," laden with what
^*^*as intended to represent tropical
Jits, in red and yellow, the oranges
earing the names and dates of the
rfemale members of tlie family, and
the lemons those of the males ; a

very suggestive picture certainly, and
one that told some queer tales of my
landlord's family* Fox's Mock &/
Afartyrs and an almanac for ^66
were the only books the room fur-
nished. The chairs were of the stif-
fest pattern, arranged in funereal order
around the sides of the apartment,
with a notable exception in a large
stuffed arm-chair, of the olden times,
which I drew before the open grate
piled with blazing peat

That fire was a comfort indeed,
A sight almost lost in these days in
New England ; it helped me to foi^et,
in its beautiful variations^ the dash*
ing appearance of the youth pictured
on tlie walls, and the cruel plates
antl malicious lies of the ^'Engli:ih
martyrologist'*

Little did I dream, as I arranged
my plans for the next day, oi the
change that would come over the
outer world wliile I slept, although
there were already signs of a coming
storm, I looked from my windows
in the morning, through the large
elms, heavy with the accumulating
weighty across the road and opposite
fields which the snow had swept into
one broad expanse of whiteness, ob-
scuring landmarks and obliteratipg
fences, and which the furious wind
was now lashing into billows, all
dead white, save where

" Some dlAfk ravine
T«>ok sliidow, or the Mimbiv freen
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
A^imt ibe «lnten«js «l fbeir back.**

To be " snow-bound " may be very
nice in a large, well-ordered house-
hold ; but in solitude, with neither
books nor companions, and with the
remembrance of a family far away.

I
1

The Right Path found through tJu Great Stww, 371

who perchance may just then need
your stout arm to release them from
a like imprisonment, it is not a cheer-
ful position ; and I could not repress
a sigh as I gazed over the trackless
way, remembering that I was five
miles from a railroad station, in a
smaJl upland village, not famous for
the enterprise of the inhabitants.
The sigh was scarcely breathed
when, on the confines of the opposite
meadow, I espied two figures strug-
gling against the elements, evidently
intent on working their way to the
inn through the terrible drifts. It
was weary work ; for they fell and
arose again often, during the short
time I watched them before hastening
to the old landlord, who was smoking
lus pipe where was once the bar-
room, and dreaming over the visions
of his long-gone youth. As soon as
the purpose of my call was known,
he summoned three stout laborers
ftona the kitchen, where they were
rejoicing with the maids over the
prospect of an idle day, and bade
them go at once to the relief of the
travellers. I grew impatient with
die long delay of the servants, the
more as but one of the two men was
to be seen breasting the storm ; the
other must have fallen. Forgetting
my delicate lungs and small physique,
I donned my overcoat and hat, and,
fortified with a flask of brandy, has-
tencrd to the rescue, reflecting that
brains are often as useful as muscle
in an emergency. The more suc-
cessful traveller, a stout son of "green
Erin," was quite exhausted when we
reached him ; but he found breath to
articulate, in answer to our inquiries
for his companion : " Indeed, he fell
near the big tree. Oh! he he's
a real gintleman." The informer
was conveyed to the house by two of
the men, while with what seemed to
me supernatural strength, I made my

way with the third toward the afore-
said " big tree," walking on the drifts
where the stouter man went down,
and though the strong, keen north-
west wind nearly took away my
breath, and the sleet almost blinded
me, I was first on the spot. It seem-
ed to me two hours, though it was less
than half that time, from the moment
when I lifted the head of the fallen
man and succeeded in pouring into
his mouth a spoonful of brandy, till
we landed with our burden at the
door of the inn.

There was something in my first
glance upon that cold, handsome face
that came to me like a dream of
early days — something that claimed
kindred with the associations of my
youth. By the motherly solicitude
of the landlady I knew that he would
be speedily resuscitated, and, pros-
trated by my exertions, I was leav-
ing him in her care, when I stooped
to reach the hat of the gentleman
from the floor where it had been
thrown, when I saw the name " Red-
wood' R. Hood," written in the
crown. Immediately I knew why I
had been impressed with his face,
and turning to that form over which
strangers were bending with curious
gaze I said peremptorily, " Take the
gentleman to my room ; he is a friend

of mine; and, Mrs. S ," I added

to the landlady, who looked incredu-
lous, " with your help we can very
soon restore the circulation, and he
will have more quiet there than here."

I will not enter into the process of
resuscitation; let it suffice that by
evening my friend was the occupant
of the large arm-chair before the piles
of burning peat, and we had gone
over the years intervening between
us, with the circumstances of our
meeting again in a summary manner,
and we now sat in the early twilight
quietly looking at one another.

372 The Right Path found through the Great Snow,

" The * wolf snow came near de-
vouring little *Red Riding Hood*
this time/* I said, bursting into a
laugh again at the joyous memories
that name recalled,

** Even so," replied the pale figure
opposite, " and I owe my life to you,
William Dewey, the ^hiliet dou^ of
early days. Happy hours of our
youth !" he added, almost regretfully.
** Yes, they were happy," I responded,
'* even with all their drawbacks ; yet
. "what do you think now of the ser-
I mons of two hours in length filled
with the strong meat of total deprav-
ity, election, inability, foreordination,
and reprobation, to which we were
under bonds to listen and to give a
rehash at home, and the tedious
prayers which we were obliged to
take all standing ; a much more re-
spectful attitude, however, than the
lounging, sitting posture of the pre-
sent generation of the so-called or-
thodox r

" Doyou remember,*' he said, a smile
' spreading all over his face, "when
\ we were at Parson Freewill's school

in L ^ in tlie old meeting-house

I with the square pews, with seats that
lifted when the congregation arose
\ for prayer, and the vigorous slam we
I gave the covers when we reseated
f ourselves ? I think that powerful
Stroke rather compensated for the
length of the prayer ; it was some*
I thing to look forward to. But my
[most fearful remembrance is the
rkour after supper devoted to the As-
)sembly*s Catechism* I can see my
[poor aunt now, shaking her grey
r curls over the old family Bible, from
► which she was endeavoring to prove
f to me the words of the Catechism
^•which said I had lost all communion
rwith God, was under his wTath and
Kcurse, and so made liable to all the
[liseries of this life and the pains
rof hell for ever, and that through no

fault of mine j but that such was the
corruption of my nature that I was
utterly indisposed and made, oppo-'
site unto all that is spiritually good;^"
and wholly inclined to evil, and thatl
continually!'' (Z/^/^- Catechism of
Westminster Assembly.)

"How is it possible you have'
your catechism at your tongue's end
even at tliis date?" I replied. " Really
I doubt if I could repeat an answer
correctly ; but I thank God who haj
brought me out of such terrible dark-
ness."

**Then you have escaped?" he
inquired, putting out his hand to
grasp mine ; ** you, a deacon's son,
brought up in the very midst of
* Brimstone Corner* t Well, well I I
must believe the age of miracles has
not passed, for this cannot be any-
thing less than a miracle f*

** Yes, a miracle indeed," I replied
gravely, " A double miracle, that 1
escaped, and am at last anchored/*

** Anchored 1" he exclaimed in-
credulously, ** do tell me where j'ou
can find bottom after such uproot-
ing."

** Where you will perhaps de-
spise me more than if I had been con-
tent to walk the Calvinisiic rut
tlirough life,*' was my reply, as I gave
into his hand my prayer-book. He
examined it wnth curiosity and sur-
prise. "A Catholic 1 a Roman
Catholic I" he exclaimed at length,
with a shade of what I thought sa-
vored of contempt in the tone of his
voice; "you, VVilliam Dewey, son
of Deacon Norman Dewey, of the
puritanical city of Boston, you a
Papist I Excuse me if I cannot help
saying, it seems to me» ' out of tlie
fr}nng-pan into the fire* "

** And pray, may I ask where you
find yourself religiously T' I said
" men of our years, after the fifties,
ought to be fixed somewhere,**

The Right Path found through the Great Snow. 373

** On the other pole from yourself,"
he replied quickly ; " I believe in no
creed, no church, no—"

" No God ?" I questioned, a little
satirically.

"A great first cause, certainly,"
he said slowly. " Yes, the God in
everything, * Jehovah, Jove, or Lord,'
the true Shekinah is man. But let
us not mar this pleasant reunion
with discussions. With your fixed
£uth| you can have no sympathy re-
ligiously with one the pride of whose
creed is^ that it is changing daily,
wholly unfixed and afloat."

"There you mistake," I replied
earnestly. " I can and do most heart-
ily sympathize with you ; for I floated
for years on that same waste of waters
— ^that shoreless sea of doubt"

•* Is it possible I and came at last
where you are? I know nothing
about Uie Catholic faith, I must
own, from actual study, and from
what I have heard I did not think it
would bear examination ; but there
must be something in it if it has
caught you, and, if you like, it would
give me pleasure to hear the pro-
cess : but perhaps you will object ?"

"Not at all," I replied, "but it
would take me all night to tell you
the course I run in this matter, and
fatigue you after your misadventure
to listen."

"I think it would dome good," he
said more earnestly than he had yet
spoken ; " I am really impressed with
a desire to know how such a trans-
formation could take place, and you
come to embrace what you were
brought up to hate. As to my strength
and ability to listen, I am about as
well as usual, but miss my tobacco
sadly. My meerschaum probably lies
in the drift that had nearly been my
winding-sheet" I went to the hall
and despatched a servant, who soon
fttumed with a box of clay pipes and

tobacco in one hand, and the missing
meerschaum in the other.

" We must be in a remarkably pri-
mitive region to find this again, and
without reward," he cried, looking
tenderly at the old friend. " Now go
on," he added, after the first pufl";
" begin at the beginning, where you
used to be flogged about every Sun-
day for going reluctantly to cate-
chism. Oh ! if there is any one thing
more than another that upset that
old cross-grained theology of our
childhood, it was those dreaded Sun-
days ; when, after two sessions of
Sunday-school, two long sermons,
and an hour's sitting on the West-
minster Divines, we were allowed
some spiritual sugar-plums in the
shape of the Memoir of Nathan Dick-
erman^ Life of Mrs, Harriet Neivell^
or some other questionable saint
Yours was a large family at home,
and did not feel what it was to be
the sole recipient of the full vials of
reprobation. What saved us from
being arrant hypocrites or open infi-
dels?"

Though I questioned in my own
mind how far my fi^iend's religion
was from infidelity, I replied, " The
fact that we felt that our teachers'
hearts were better than their creed ;
for surely never did there exist a
man more free from every taint of
hypocrisy than my honored father,
who held tenaciously to the five arti-
cles agreed to by the Synod of Dort,
which represented most of the Cal-
vinistic churches of Europe, looked
upon Calvin's Institutes as binding
next to the Bible, and I believe
worshipped this terrible God in whom
he believed with the most earnest
faith."

" And you a Catholic !" he said,
striking his hands together. " Excuse
me if I repeat what I said. I can-
not sec how you have bettered the

374

The Right Path found thraugh the Great Snatif,

matter, since the CEtholic Church
holds to total depravity and foreordi-
nation, and moreover excludes all
from any hope of salvation who do
not bow their necks to her yoke."

** Excuse me for flatly contradict-
ing you, but the Catholic Church
liots not hold the doctrine of the
total depravity of the human race ;
on the contrary, she ever teaches
that man did not lose by the Fall
the image of God, or his own free
will, or the powers of his reason.
But you asked me how I became a
Catholic. 1 am more interested in
telling you that than in refuting
what her enemies say of the church,
because that you can find in books
any day ; but you must allow me to
echo your surprise when I see a
large, earnest soul like yours satis-
fied with a simple negation of faith."
** Satisfied 1 if by satisfaction you
mean certainty, I say no ; for I do
not believe it is to be found. The
best, I find, is to follow the light that
comes to me," he added, with, I

L thought, a shade of sadness in his
lone ; " I broke the fetters of Cal-
vinism with a bound, and when I
had started, there was nothing for
me to do but to cut loose from ever)'-
ihing traditional, and rest solely on

T reason. But tell me of yourself, for
any man who is in earnest, thinking
for himself, I respect, be he Mormon
or Mohammedan.'*

** I thank you for my share of tlie
respect," I replied, ** though I do not
consider it very flattering, I never
was a Calvinist ; my earliest reason
rebelled against the teachings, and
many a snubbing did I get in my
youth for daring to question — * canV,'

I it was called, I went through all the
phases of the system, trying to be-
lieve as I was taught ; for I had large
human respect and strong desire to
please, with a devout turn of mind,

making many a violent effort to be
in a condition to become, what my
friends wished, * a professor ;* but
my conscience was too clamorous to
allow me to pretend that I had * ob-^
tained a hope,' or * experienced reli-fl
gion.' Invariably, after a few weeks
of fervor, I settled back into a state
of indifference or doubt, although,
to please my father, I was a constant^—
attendant on all * inquiry-meetings'fl
and * anxious-seats.' When I think
of those meetings and the selfcon-
stituted teachers, who came there ioM
hear the confessions, and to guideH
anxious souls in the road to heavenffl
a flash of indignation passes through™
my frame. About five years after»
w^e parted as school-mates ; you for
the South and a stirring business
life, I to New-England and the me*
ditalive days of a student. I was at^
tracted and fascinated by tlie specious
talk of transcendentalism ; it waB^
my first taste of liberty, I read,"
thought, and dreamed ; tried to feed'
my soul on naturalism, and to re*
nounce ever) thing supernatural ;
talked very flippantly about ihd
God in ever)thing as the object of
my worship ; but my hungry^ soul waa
unsatisfied ; there was a cold, dreary
chilliness, and undefined '
ness, a rejoicing in unti
which brought noticing like food to
my spirit This/aM (if it deserves
the name) flattered my proud heart|
giving me the * genus homo' as aa-
object of worship ; but I saw plainly
that it could never reach the needs
of humanity, and tliough 'brother*
hood ' was its watchword and cry, it
could never be a religion for the
masses. It was only for the refined,
the cultivated, the gentle, and the
good, Where were the abandoned,
the dissolute, the coarse, vulgar herd
to find a God in sudi a snare ? I
often asked myself this question, and

The Right Path found through the Great Snow. 575

tiiis speciofus infidelity gave me no
answer. Of the Catholic Church, I
am ashamed to say, I then knew no-
thing, except that I had often heard
her called 'the mother of harlots,*
* Babylon/ ' the scarlet woman,* and
such like attractive names, but it did
not once occur to me that I ought
to examine her claims ; floating as I
was, seeking for foothold, she was
not presented to my mind as an ob-
ject to be looked at or feared, only
to be despised. At that time I was
associated with many of the purest
and noblest spirits, longing and feel-
ing after God by the dim light of na-
ture ; tr3dng to think him out for
themselves ; finite minds blinded by
vaun efforts to comprehend the infi-
nite. The first genuine wave of af-
fliction brought me to a standstill on
the brink of the abyss that says there
is no God. I lost my mother ; she
was one of those timid, fearful souls,
and had not that 'assurance' of
which Calvinists make their boast ;
the words spoken of my precious
mother afler her burial nearly drove
me wild ; they snapped the last cord
that bound me to the iron system of
opinions which had thrown their
shadow over my young life. Three
years of rushing into the world to
drive away thought followed this
terrible blow, and then came a bless-
ing — the best blessing of my life."

" A wife ?" questioned my friend,
as I paused a moment in my recital ;
"a wife, yes, I have it," as a smile
twinkled in the comers of his clear
grey eyes and spread over his hand-
some face; "I see it, she knocked
the transcendentalism out of you with
the Catholic hammer."

" Hardly," I replied, joining in the
hearty laugh that followed his remark ;
"being a fearfully high-church wo-
man, and looking upon hers as the
only pure branch — the via media — the

only barrier against Rome, * Roman-
ism,' as she sedulously named the
Catholic Church, was the only thing
her loving soul was bitter against."

" Then you came through the gate
of ritualism ?" he questioned again ;
" a very natural sequence."

" You are excellent in jumping at
conclusions," I answered ; " I could
never embrace the Anglican myth,
though I was bound by my own creed
not to trouble myself about that of
other people. I was brought behind
the curtain of this household, how-
ever, and saw the cruel intestine
warfare between high and low church ;
the vital difference in the teaching
of the two classes of clergymen, the
' sacramental * and the ' evangelical ;*
and I saw within her fold young,
earnest hearts becoming partisans in
these divisions and calling it zeal for
God. I often heard more talk of an
evening over the particular shade of
an altar-cloth, the size and pattern
of book-marks for the altar, the pro-
per position of faldstools, credences,
sedilia ; the way in which a clergyman
read or pronounced, the depth of the
genuflection he made in the creed,
and so forth, than I have heard the
whole ten years I have been in the
Catholic Church. I saw, too, that
she was eminently the church of the
fashionable, 'the most genteel de-
nomination,' as I heard one of her
members declare, with much self-
satisfaction, containing the 'cream
of society ;' the poor shut out from
her churches, and compensated by
mission-chapels for their exclusive
use. Of course my wife was ver}-
earnest to make me a convert to
Episcopacy, and by her repeated so-
licitations I examined the ' Book of
Common Prayer,' as she so often
said (what is a truth everywhere)
that one must not judge of a religious
body by individual members or teach-

'^r* TJu Right Path found

ti *^^yt^ J^y ^^^ standards, I was
^^Wfifty confirmed, by this examina-
1^ TOO,' in my opinion of the want of
conformity to ihcir own rules by
many of the cler^% and the helpless-
ness to reach them by discipline,
which is the first requisite in a well*
ordered household. That the body
of the book contradicted the thirty-
nine articles was as plain as that
* Protestant' was on the title page ;
for while one acknowledged priest,
altar, and sacrifice, the other stoutly
denied all three."

"And did you make knoven the
esult of your investigations to Mrs*
'^^Dewey, or did you leave her in igno-
rance of what you had found ?**

" I dreaded to shake her faith,
knowing that I had nothing to give
her in its place, and I withheld my
conclusions, till she insisted so ear-
nestly, assuring me that she could
not be moved, that I yielded, I could
see that she was moved by what I
said ; but she was only carried for-
ward, grasping more firmly the frag-
ments of Catholic truth she already
held, and growing, as I afterward
knew, into a more Catholic spirit At
length I said to her, as she was
mourning over the want of unity
among her chosen people, and the
alarming progress of 'Romanism/
which had just clasped in its embrace
one of her dearest friends, * Suppose,
my dear, you and I were to look into
this matter; I have no doubt you
would be more of an Anglican
than ever, and I less in favor of
creeds. It is but fair we should give
Catholics a hearing ; for my part, I
know nothing of them except from
their enemies.' She was inclined to
listen to my proposition ; but her
spiritual pastor, from whom she hid
none of her religious difficulties, put
a veto on the examination, by forbid-
ding her to read or to talk with any
one on the subject Indignant at

through the Great Snow.

what I then thought his narrow*
mindedness, but which I now see
was only proper selfpreserv^atron, I
determined to pursue my investiga-
tions alone, though it was the fi r:>t
time in our married life that any sub-
ject of interest had not been com-
mon with us. I procured such books
as were within my reach, and com-
menced my inquiries. It was a most
interesting study, and opened a new
worid of thought to me ; every mo-
ment of leisure for six months w*as
given to the search, into which I en*
tered as I would into a question of law,
consulting and comparing author!*
ties, examining both sides, question-
ing and cross-questioning witnesses.
But we are touching on the time of
sleep," I said, as the haJl-clock struck
the hour of midnight.

** Oh I no, go on," he replied eager-
ly, "you don't know how interested I
am.'*

** No," I said firmly, ** your experi-
ence of to-day requires that jtm
should rest ; and as there is no pros-
pect of getting away from here, I
shall have ample time to finish my
tale to morrow.'* I insisted upon his
occupying my quarters, being the
most comfortable in the house, and
as I went to my rest in another apart-
ment, and thought of the eagerness
with which he had listened lo my re-
cital, I breathed a prayer that God
would give him light

The sun arose clear and bright the
following morning, and the wind, that
had made such havoc with the snow-
drifts the previous day, had died away
into a cold calm. I watched from
the window the long line of men
and boys, with patient oxen, tug-
ging and toiling at the great while
heaps. I had Snmu Bound in my
coat-pocket, and took this opportunity
of assuring myself of the tniiii of
the beautiful word pictures therein
painted. It was quite late when my

I
I

The Right Path found through the Great Snow}.

friend appeared from the inner room,
and in answer to my inquiry if he
had rested well replied, " I have not
once wakened since I succeeded in
driving our conversation from my
mind, which I did afler a long pro-
cess, by repeating the multiplication
table over and over till I fell asleep.
We cannot get away to-day," he add-
ed, going to the window. " I am glad
of that, for I am impatient to hear
you out" He was uneasy till break-
fast was dispatched, our grate and
pipes replenished, and we seated
again for a talk.

** Now tell me the result of your
lawyer-like examination of authori-
ties," he said by way of commence-
ment

** Yes, it was indeed lawyer-like," I
replied ; " for prejudice, feeling, early
impressions, all went against the de-
cision. But the logical conclusion,
from what I read, was this : if (mind
I got no further than the if) the
Bible is the word of God, it certainly
teaches that our Lord established a
church, and gave to that one body
apostles and teachers, conferring on
them wonderful powers, to be contin-
ued for all time in some way ; for he
says, ' I am with you all days, even to
the consummation of the world ;' with
the same breath with which he tells
tketti to preach the Gospel, he bids
fhem to bind and loose, to work mi-
racles and to feed his flock. These
are the facts on the face of the Gospel
narrative. I tried to explain these
things in some other way ; I even went
to commentators ; but the candid ex-
amination I had promised forbade
my trusting any man's opinion. I
went to the early Fathers, (whom, by
the way, I had always ignored, as is
the fashion ;) I found that they rea-
soned very much like other men ; they
asked questions, and answered them.
I saw that if these powers were given,
as the Scripture asserts, to the chosen

twelve, these were the men"
they were transmitted. Without
tion they confirmed the teaching dl
Bible with regard to the church, am
opened still more fully the dogmas of
Scripture. I compared them one
with another, and found that, without
any denial or variation, they declared
the authority of the church and the
necessity of the sacraments. It was
also plain that this church being one
and universal, having the same faith
and discipline wherever established,
until some body of men protested
against some received doctrine, no
dogma assumed prominence, the
faith was one perfect whole. But
while, as I told you, I had gone no
further than ' if,' my wife, by an en-
tirely different road, was coming to
the same gate. Her pastor had given
her two very beautiful devotional
works, that charmed her beyond any-
thing she had ever seen; but during
one of the rare calls of her Catholic
friend, (for her guide had advised her
to renounce this friendship, but I, with
a higher claim on her obedience, had
forbidden this sacrifice,) during this
call, these books were the subject of

discourse, and Miss M told her

she wished her nothing better to read,
as they were both translations of Ca-
tholic authors, which she proved by
bringing the originals in French at her
next visit. My wife saw at once the
absurdity of denying her Catholic
books, and giving them to her in dis-
guise. This honest guide of souls
had also told her that * Romanists '
altered the commandments, leaving
out the second entirely, lest it should
condemn their idolatry; while her
friend gave her the Catechism which
is taught to all Catholic children,
where the commandments are written
as they were spoken on Mount Sinai.
I think these two mistakes (I will
call them by a mild name) of her
pastor shook her faith in him very

37S

The Right Path found through the Great Suow,

sscntially. From that clay we talked
freely j I gave her my conclusion?,
Twitb the * if* and she took the Fathers
for daily reading. I had gone no
further than the j/"— my pride prevent-
ed — when it pleased AlmightyGod to
^take from us our eldest son, and to
Lbring my wife to the borders of the
Igrave* What could comfort me, as I
Llooked at my beautiful boy cold and
lifeless, and my wife at that point
i-here earthly help is unavailing ?
I The cheerless creed that I had held
[with so much pride gave me not a
'glimmer of light. I called reason to
my aid, but I called in %^ain ; it was
, no pleasure to me to think of those
\l had loved and lost reabsorbed into
iDeity, never more to be anything to
Me. How could it satisfy me, yearn-
ling for the treasures I was losing, to
(ffcel that * there is no time, no space ;
ve are we know not what, light spar-
Ikies in the ether of Deity,* The
Words which I had used in answer to
Lmy wife's questioning, * if this be true/
Lfcl lowed me continually ; now, I
iJBieeded to know if it were true; I
needed something firm to rest me in
bthat weary hour. It was many years
since I had knelt in prayer ; now I
was bowed to tlie earth, and my
^whole cry was, * Lord, give me light.*
^l am ashamed to tcU you of the fear-
jI struggle with my pride, when at
klast the light of faith came into my
ifeewildered and darkened soul, the
nany worldly ties that held me
back, the loss of position and favor
irhich I feared ; I blush for my cow-
rdice, it was unworthy of the name
pf man made in the image of God.
^Jiy beloved wife knew not of this
Itrife in my soul ; in her extremity
be had sent for her pastor, and re-
eived all he could give her of the
rites of his church ; but she was not
^* Satisfied. What was my surprise to
hear her say, as if the sight of death
had given her boldness, * There is the

command of St. James for the com-
fort and help of the sick and dying ;
why may I not have it T ' Ah ! my j
child,* he replied, *that was given forfl
the early ages of tlie church, and pass- ^
ed away with them.' * But why do we
not need it as well as they ? * she ques-
tioned, * It is too much for you to argue
in your present state,' was his cold re-
ply, * but it is sufficient for me, as an ^
obedient son of the church, to submit ■
to the deprivation, since our holy ^
mother has not seen fit to retain it.*
I saw the speciousness of the reason-
ing wherewith he silenced her, and I
sat by the patient sufferer after the
departure of the divine so faithful to
his church, hesitating as to my duty
in the matter, when she cried out as
if in anguish, * Oh 1 if I only knew it
was right, only knew — '

*' * What was right ?' I questioned,
holdiitg her trembling hand, * I
want confession, I want absolution,
I want the anointing of the sick,*
she said eagerly, her dark eyes bent
on me imploringly. * You shall not
be denied,' I replied, and, leaving her
with the nurse, I went for the nearest
Catholic priest I will not enter
into details ; let it sufBce that, be-
fore two hours had passed, my wife
was a member of the Catholic Church,
improved in physical condition and
mental quietness, and I was prepar-
ing for baptism/'

I paused in my recital ; I saw that
my friend was much moved, even as
I had been, by the memories of the
past. After a moment* he gave me
his hand cordially, saying, " Thank
you heartily, it has done me good ;**
then, after another pause. '* But tell
me one thing candidly, have neither
of you regretted the step ; never
wished yourselves back again ?"

" Regretted I" I cried indignantly,
** wished ourselves back to a region
of doubt and uncertainty! Why, I
say a Gloria every morning that I

The Right Path found through the Great Stww, 379

am a Catholic; and my wife sings
T€ Deum all the time."

**And did you suffer all you ex-
pected," he asked, ** in the way of
loss of friends?"

** I had nothing in my experience
worthy of the name of suffering;
but my wife endured much in the
way of reproach, withdrawal of
friendship, and the cold shoulder
socially."

" But let me ask one thing, and
don't feel hurt; how do you, with
your fastidious tastes, worship in
churches crammed to the full with
the laboring Irish, before those taw-
dry altars which I have sometimes
seen ?" I felt the color rising to my
cheek at this question, but I replied
calmly, crushing the temptation to
be severe, and remembering what
this thought was to me before the
li^t of faith illumined my soul, '' You
can never know what it is to forget
distinctions till you believe in that
Presence which dwells on Catholic
altars. It would ill become sinful
man to object to other company he
finds in church when Jesus our God
condescends to be present for our
sake. My wife seeks out the churches
frequented by the very poorest ; she
says she feels nearer God when she
has his poor by her side. As to the
tawdry altars, you must remember
that the love and devotion of an un-
educated and unrefined taste is as
truly expressed by something com-
mon and showy, as your refined deli-
cacy would be by tnore exquisite
adornment God looketh at the
heart ; and the poor servant-girl who
presents to her favorite altar bou-
quets of gaudy artificial flowers, for
the sake of her dear Lord whom she
really believes to be present there,
is as acceptable as the lady who
sends her lovely blossoms from the
hot-house. In the Catholic Church
in this country — and may I not say in

every country? — the poor are in the
majority among her members."

As I spoke, the steam-whistle, the
first since the storm, sounded through
the air. With a regretful look, Mr.
Hood went to the window. " That
reminds us," he said, " that the world
is moving again."

" You will go to my home with
me," I replied ; " you must."

*' Not now," he answered ; " but
when the business that brought me
to this part of the country is accom-
plished, I will come and talk with
your wife about this matter before I
leave for California."

According to promise, he came ;
and when he left us for his Southern
home, we were not without hope that
our long talks had had an effect ; my
wife would not leave him till she had
his promise that he would examine
for himself, prayerfully, earnestly,
and thoroughly, and would write me
the result, which I have in a letter
by to-day's mail.

San Francisco, Cal^ Oct 24, 1867.
S, Raphael the Archangel.

My Dear Dewey : I was received
into the Catholic Church to-day.
Laus Deo I I wonder how any one
can remain out of it ; it is such a joy
to have a foothold, to know that one
stands on something, and that some-
thing firmer than the ''everlasting
hills." I must give up my business
in this publishing house ; for I can-
not have my name any longer linked
with the falsehoods that teem from
the press, against Christ's Church.
It is a disgrace that American school-
books should contain such lies as
you find on the pages of the Readers,
Geographies, and especially the His-
tories, which are the text-books of
our institutions of learning. May
the good God help me to repair the
injustice I have done in this matter
as a publisher.

I am the wonder and pity of the

380

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

old transcendental clique here, who,

as one of them said to me yesterday,
"can't understand how a man can
go back to the dark ages for his re-
ligion," I told him my faith iilumin-
ed what he called the *' dark ages'^
till they transcended the nineteenth
century in brilliancy. My younger
children were baptized with me ; I

hope in time to see alt my dear ooes
safely housed. Tell Mrs. Dewey^
witli my kindest remembrance, to
sing Te Deum for me, and don't for-
get me and mine in your prayers,
Very sincerely yours in the blessed
faith,

Redwood Raphael Hood«

T1tA»!LATXD PmOM THS RBVUK CSNSItALV:, OF SBtSSUA

THE GOOD OLD TIME AND OUR OWN.

I» the daily struggle for truth and
right, in our hours of lassitude and
discouragement, how willingly we be-
lieve that formerly the battle of life
was less severe than nowadays.
We love to compare ourselves with
our predecessors, pigmies to us
giants of the nineteenth ceotur}^
and sincerely believe them so, either
because of our short-sightedness or
because of the great distance from
which wc regard them. But when,
by the study of history, we have
drawn nearer the distances which
separate these epochs of the different
evolutions of humanity, we become at
the same time more modest and more
courageous ; more modest, because we
know our fathers have had to struggle
as much if not more tlian ourselves ;
more courageous, because by their
example we learn how we should
battle for triumph in moral stnjggles ;
and of these alone we would here
speak.

Many of our contemporaries think
they have done their duty if they
have abused their own time, praised
the past, and predicted a sombre
future unable to confer upon us any
blessings. It is so sweet to live in

abstract contemplation of heroes or
epochs of which inexorable time has
deprived us ; it is so easy to make
an apology for them without combat-
ing the living men and the concrete
ideas which in real history form the
shadows to these brilliant pictures ;
it is so easy to choose from former
ages models of virtue, of civil cour-
age and faith, without preoccupying
ourselves with obstacles that these
just people, these citizens, these
saints have conquered, and that our
indifference, our idleness, our weak-
ness, or our cowardice hinders us
from looking fairly in the face>
through the medium in which we
live- W'e do not perceive often
enough that the vulgar expression of
the '* good old lime,'* which has been
forbidden in every age, is in the mo-
ral history of a people a truly vicious
circle. Indeed, we cannot pretend
that every age is worth only so much^
and, interpreting badly the proverU
" Man proposes, but God disposes,**
go to sleep in the false historical
securit)^ called fatalism. It is legiti-
mate to have our preferences for such
and such an epochs and it is not al-
ways difficult to give good reasons

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

381

for.them ; but between these ratioqal
preferences and an unjustifiable dis-
dain for our own time, there is an
abyss.

To act with our own epoch we
must love it ; then we work with ar-
dor and confidence for its reform.
Who loves well, chastises well. I
wish to show that our age merits to
be loved as well as any other that
has preceded it ; and I will demon-
strate this clearly by a moral, reli-
gious, and political sketch of the
Christian age the most justly prais-
ed — the thirteenth. To circum-
scribe this vast subject as much as
possible, I will speak of Italy alone ;
of that Italy which then, as now, was
the object of the most audacious at-
tacks and the theatre of the most in-
structive resistance. I will first tell
what was the condition of the
"Christian republic'* at the end of
the twelfth century. Then I will
show the radiant transformation of
society in the thirteenth century
while determining its general causes,
and finish by comparing this heroic
age with our own.

For most of Belgium, the history
of civilization commences only with
the day when General Dumouriez
"brought them liberty at the point
of the bayonet.*' Before the French
revolution, it was the common error
that the era of political and religious
revolution only opened with the six-
teenth century, and such error is
common to-day. Yet Gnosticism,
Manicheism, Arianism, and Greek
schism have produced in Christian
Europe commotions much greater
and more fatal than those of which
the predictions of Martin Luther
have been the occasion, and of which
the Protestant princes have so abun-
dantly reaped the fruits. From the

tenth to the thirteenth centur}% the
Catholic Church suffered on the part
of the state— of the empire, as they
then termed it — assaults in compari-
son to which the thirty years' war
and the revolutions fomented by the
statolatres of the thirteenth century
were only children's play.

Never was the spirit of sectarian-
ism more active than in the twelfth
century. The disguised partisans of
Gnosticism, Manicheism, or Arian-
ism, these habitual forms of antichris-
tianism, were spread all over civiliz-
ed Europe under the most diverse
names : Caiharts^ Pauliciensy Petro-
brusiens, Tcmchelmites^ Henriciens^ Bo-
gomiies, Apostoliques^ Endistes^ Arnold-
istesy CirconsiSy Passagieres^Pubiicams,
Vaudois Pons Hommes yttc.y^ic. These
names appear strange, but they are
not more so than their actual parti-
sans: socialists, free-thinkers, solid
men, Fourierists, Saint Simoniens,
etc.

And do not suppose that these
sects, or these schools, as they are
called nowadays, confined them-
selves to the innocent publication of
their programme, and simply distri-
buted a few partisans through anony-
mous societies, among the councils
of administration, or in the senates
of empires.

The Ambrosien church was dur-
ing a certain time directed by the
Nicolite priests of Milan, and sup-
ported violently by the emperor and
by the government. Our compatriot,
Dankelm, a deist a little sore, who
preached against the corruptions of
the monks, their artifices, the tithes
and mortmain, was head of an orga-
nized church at Bruges, and also at
Anvers. If the Vaudois had, like
Luther, obtained the support of the
corrupted and sensual bishops, and
the ambitious princes so powerful
and rapacious, their church would
have taken root in a great part of

382

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

Europe during the twelfth century ;
it has endured longer than will any
Protestant church ; for it still exist-
ed in the last ccntur}', and I believe
there are still some communities in
Holland and Suabia.

AH these sects agreed on one
point, their hatred of the Church of
Rome, M, Renan, in his last book,
Questions Conicmporains^ writing with
a haughty moderation almost disdain-
ful, feared for the Catholic Church
of the nineteenth century a grand
schism resulting in the simultaneous
election of two popes. Such an ap-
prehension denotes in this writer a de-
fect of memory or a strange want of
perspicacity ; for in the church, anti-
popes were counted by dozens, and
in the twelfth century, this kind of
schism appeared several tijnes. The
competitors or anti-popes of Calixtus
II., (1119-1124,) of Innocent IL,
(1130-1143,) and of Alexander III.,
(1159-1181,) were sustained by em-
perors whose material power had but
little weight in the then known world.
Under Innocent II., the schism last-
ed only eight years. Sixty years
later, Innocent II L governed Eu-
rope.

Heresies and schisms are always
accompanied by social revolutions.
However, tlie irreligious antagonism
of capital and labor, which is one of
the causes of modern socialism, did
not exist in the twelfth century under
the learned and redoubtable form of
our day. The reason is a simple one,
and we should be proud of our age r
labor, of which Christianit)' has made
a duty, had not then in political so-
ciety the great and legitimate impor-

ftnce it has now. The problem of
pauperism had never been solved po-
litically except in densely populated
countries, and in the tw*elfth century

he population of Europe was rela-
tevely less considerable. Hatred of
capital only manifested itself among

tl)e idle, among certain sects, (the Ca-
thares, the Frerots, the Apostoliques,
the Begghards, the Lollards, etc,)
and particularly in ** the wars of the cas-
tle and the hut;" violent wars which
were not only carried on by poor
devils hardened by passions, but by
the cMfdaim, (governors or keepers^)
thieves only distinguishable from
the others by new titles given them
through euphemism. This category
of men was then more numerous than
in our time. We respect a mill, but
w^e steal a province. Then they took
the province and the mill also.

Great luxury existed in all the
to^^^ns of Italy. Money was a courted
power. The bankers* families be-
came the source of dynasties.

A portion of the secular clergy
lived in the relaxation of disctpUne,
and even morals. Neither the encr-
g>* of the great Hildebrand, nor the
activity of the admirable Alexander
II L, the friend of the Lombard com-
munities, had been powerful enough
to completely reform the regular cler-
gy. Neither in the fifteenth nor in the
eighteenth century were more scan-
dals seen than those which disheart-
ened the great St Bernard* '* Oh !
for the power to see again, before my
death," wrote he to the pope, Eugene
IIL, " those happy days of the church
when the apostles cast their nets for
souls, and not for gold.'* This Pope
Eugene was not permitted to die at
Rome, The Eternal City was in the
hands of the Garibaldians of the
time, the Mazzini of whom was nam-
ed Arnold, a clerk of Brescia, of aus-
tere manners and quickwitted ora-
tory. After having studied philoso-
phy in Paris under the cold and li-
centious Abelard, Arnold commenc-
ed to traverse the Lombard cities.
Imposing upon himself a mission al-
together political, he pretended not to
wish to injure the CatlioUc faith.
** Detractor of clergjinen and bish-

Tlu Good Old Time and Our Own.

383

ops, persecutor of monks, he reserv-
ed," said a chronicler of the time,
"all his flattery for the laity. He
sustained the theory of no salvation
for clergymen possessing lands, for
bishops disposing of regal rights, or
monks owning valuables ; that all
these things belonged to the state,
and it alone should dispose of them
in lavor of the laity. It is said
also that he did not reason sane-
ly on the eucharist and the baptism
of infants." His partisans, called /^/i-
/nnmLr, called him to Rome, where he
had resolved to establish a new go-
venunent Forced to fly from this
city after the second council of La-
teran, he wandered for several years
in France, in (Germany, and in Switz-
erland, promulgating evennn'here the
doctrines which he applied to his
Italian friends. During an insurrec-
tion, the pope, Lucius II., was killed
by a blow from a stone, (to-day they
only kill ministers,) and his succes-
sor, Eugene III., took refuge in Vi-
terbo, and afterward in France. Ar-
nold was in Switzerland with 2000
soldiers collected there; the multi-
tode having granted him the dicta-
torship, he proclaimed the fall of
the temporal power of the popes,
and the re-establishment of the Ro-
man republic ; then, carried away
by the logic of his ideas rather than
by his situation, he called to Rome
the emperor, the monarch of Italy,
in order that he would deign to re-
store to the empire the lustre it had
under Justinian. Demagogues natu-
rally advocate Caesarism.

The emperors rushed to Rome. Ar-
nold and his government were thrown
into the Tiber. Then recommenced,
mider anew form, the quarrel between
thepriesthood and the empire, existing
stni in Europe. Never had the pride
of the depositaries of the civil power,
the absolutism of the god state, and
the tyranny of the supreme authority,

representatives more complete, and
in certain respects more sympathetic,
than the emperors of the house of
Hohenstaufen. How many laws
vaunted by certain schools of our
day of progress have been dressed
in the signature of these fierce Sona-
bes, then abrogated as despotic and
contrary to the liberty and dignity of
citizens.

The Staufcn were fanatics in law
when it was a question of their au-
thority. Frederic I. had for his wit-
nesses the four famous doctors of
Bologna, who, mih Irnerius, their
professor, were masters of the study
of modern law. It was these four
doctors who, by the aid of texts and
juridical interpretations, were ready
to impose on the Lombard cities re-
presented at the diet of Roncaglia
the chains which the entire material
power of the German emperors had
never been able to forge. It was the
chancellor of Frederic II., Pierre
Des Vignes, who is the author of the
Reateil dcs Lois de Siciie, the first code
of despotism of modem times.

In few words, then, we have here
the state of Europe, in its most civiU
ized centre, in the second half of the
twelfth century. The truth was at
once attacked in church and state,
with the view of cornipting both ; in
the church, with an aim at her au-
thority j in the state, to banish liberty.

II.

It is the glory of the epoch which
begins with the Lombard League and
the pontificate of the English Mendi-
cant, Adrian IV., to have re-establish-
ed a moral equilibrium in Christian so-
ciety, and to have saved Europe from
a lethargy similar to that in which a
Caesaro-papacy has plunged the East

That which distinguished the civil-
izing genius of this epoch was a
moral vigor, a consequence of the

384

Th€ Good Old Time and Our Own,

intimate union existing between the
citizen and the Christian, between
the scholar and the theologian j I
say union, not confusion. In the Cid
of Giiillaume de Castro, from which
P. Comeiile has borrowed largely,
there is a scene in which the hero
seated at table exhorts his compan-
ions to render homage to the patron
of Spain, **a chevalier himself, and
with a large rosary suspended to his
sword." A leper enters and asks
charity. The warriors take flight
Alone the Cid remains, and forces
him to sit on his cloak and eat with
him from his own plate. The repast
finished, the mendicant blessed the
Cidt and betrays himself as Lazarus,
who has come to reveal his future
destiny. The sword, which for the
chevalier is the sign of the citizen,
serves to sustain the rosary, the em-
blem of the Christian,

In the Iraite tie f Office du Podestd,
extract of Book III. of the Tresor of
Brunetto Latini, the master of Dante,
we find in old French the exposition
of tiie public law as understood by
the communicants of that time. The
Ddesta of our time could learn from
> it much that is useful and necessary
I to know. This, for example, is the
^beginning of the chapter where the
author treats of things ''that gentle-
men should know and teach to those
over whom they are placed" :

*• Rimember ihen^ thffu wkogovcmest a city^

) %0hen<c comes th£ power ia fosuss Uty

VwtigHory, Rememhir thou the Imv and ihe

Wfommandmenis, and mver forget God and his

UmiSf fmt often approach the altar and pray

^od for thee and Iby subjects ; for David

I and the prophets say, * God gtiardcth the

[city and every thing that laboreth within it.*

rllonor the pastor of pastors of the holy

Church ; for God says, * He who receiveth

' ee reoeivcth nie.* Be rch'gious, and cvi-

the true iaith; for nothing is more

ful lo the prince of the earth than true

[faith and right belief: fnr it is written^

•When the jnst king is on his throne, no

honn can t>^l him.* Guard the churcbe*,

the houses of God» take care of widowed
women and orphans i for it ts written,
defenders of orphans and widows.' Defci
the poor against the wickedness of power ;
thou hast in thy care the great, the 6mal]
and the mean. Such thin^t became thee /rem
the Ite^htning^ ete,^*

Have you observed the character
of the figures seen on the tombs of
this period ? The dead are lying 01
their backs, with hands clasped ; the;
do not bear the impress of death
they seem to sleep and await the re*
surrection. Their attitude is simple,
naturally humble, but at tiie same
time naturally proud. They are arm*
cd ; it is understood that they hav(
fought the battle of life, and in pass-
ing to the other shore have vanquish-
ed the enemy of the human race with
the arms of prayer. The citizen and
the Christian are so blended that it
is impossible to distinguish them ; and
this harmonious whole presents an
appearance at once humble and mar-
tial, tender and manly, which fills one
with respect without imposing fear.

Such is the character of the epoch
I would depict while portraying the
causes of its grandeur. Let it be
remarked, however, I do not seek to
make an apology for the thirteenth
century or tlie middle ages. My
ideal is in the future, not in tha
past But the past being the mir-
ror of the future, I love to regard
in the thirteenth century* the mem-
orable examples of what could be
done by the citizen under the influ-
ence of Christian faith and reason
in the midst of a society agitated and
upset by heresy, schism, socialism,
the power of demagogues, and Caesar-
ism.

I suppose that the son of a rich
merchant of Anvers, transported by
that enthusiasm for good which is
the fruit of a grace divine, renounces
suddenly the luxur)' of a p.itemal
home, and a dissipated and idle Ide,
which is too often the consequence

red

The Good Old Time and Our Own,

38s

of a bad education, pampered by
fortune. After having trained his
soul by fasting and prayer, and the
contemplation of the divine attri-
butes toward the supernatural regions
of life, he robes himself voluntarily
as a poor man and traverses the in-
dustrial centres of the country, com-
municating to his equals the ardent
faith which escapes from his mouth
in luminous characters. At Gand,
at Charleroi, at Liege, some young
men become his followers, and be-
tween them form an association for
the service of tlie humble, the weak,
the poor, the miserable. Their mis-
sion is to go about in the dress of
workmen, living as they do, and
preaching from the steps of build-
ings, at the cross-roads, and in the
fields. To the rich, the obligation
of working for and befriending the
poor ; to the poor, the duties of suffer-
ance and respect ; to all the world,
the love of God and the church
which he has made the depositary of
his graces. What might not be ac-
complished by such missionaries of
love, labor, science, and peace ? What
would not be their influence and their
authority ?

Again, let me suppose the son of
a rich English lord renouncing the
ostentation, the privileges and errors
of his family and religion, and, seized
with an irresistible love for his neigh-
bor and humanity, seeking his old
friends of Eton and Oxford, commu-
nicating to them the flame of his
convictions, and then proposing to
ihem to travel through England, Eu-
rope, the world, and propagate Chris-
tianity ; arguing everywhere with the
adversaries of the church; in the
miifersities, in the public-houses, be-
SoBt the door of the palace, or in the
jonk-shops and the huts ; preaching
justice to the English, to the Irish
respect for the laws, to all the world
peace, science, liberty ; opening here
VOL. VIII. — 25

a school, there a hospital, and draw-
ing after him his contemporaries, by
the authority of faith, the power of
science, the contagion of devotion.
If you can imagine the results ob-
tained by theO'Connells, the Fathers
Mathews, and the Newmans, you will
fonn a feeble idea of a revolution
that could produce a phalanx of men
of such vigorous temperament.

This son of the wealthy merchant,
and this child of an illustrious house,
existed in the beginning of the thir-
teenth century. "The one," said
Dante, "was surrounded by all the
kclat of the seraphim, and the other
walked in wisdom and sanctity in the
splendor of the cherubim."

The history of the life and works
of these two extraordinary men con-
tains most precious teachings, the
deep import of which oflen escapes
us, because given to us in such a
common way, without explaining
their actual life. This seraphim
(Saint Francis) and this cherubim
(Saint Dominic) governed the en-
tire thirteenth century by the extra-
ordinary movement they impressed
on souls, and by the moral conquests,
political, scientific, literary, and ar-
tistic, with which their disciples en-
riched humanity.

The Mendicant friars, as they were
later called, were not only cloistered
religious, giving themselves solely to
a contemplative life, and only leaving
their convents for the church ; they
were citizens in every acceptation of
the word, but vowed to no ambitions,
mingling with their contemporaries,
living in the forum, and mounting the
tribune of the popular assemblies as
well as the pulpits of the universities.
When this tribune or pulpit was for-
bidden them, they improvised one of
their own, and made appeals to the
people who wished to hear the well-
known voices, simple, disinterested,
loving, and therefore eloquent.

386

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

Tlrus the Franciscans penetrated
even into China, " on the horse of
St. Francis" — that is, on foot — and
traversing, wonderful as it may ap-
pear, the whole continent of Asia.
They founded a Christian colony at
Pckin* where the ships of France and
England could only enter with noise
of cannon — a result assuredly more
jimposing but not half so certain.
}urin|j the Renaissance, wiien the
' first Holland vessels arrived at Green-
land, they found there a convent of
Dominicans.

In the thirteenth centur)-, there
were, even in civilized Europe, more
Chinese and Laplanders than would
be supposed. To convert them, the
Franciscans and Dominicans applied
themselves assiduously, vanquishing
them by science, and convincing them
by chanty.

I understand the word science in
its old acceptation ; a deep rational
research into the first principles of
things and the origin of our know-
ledge. At no epoch of history, I dare
to say, has this research been car-
ried on by more passionate lovers,
by more powerful intelligences, by
more magnanimous hearts, than the
Mendicant monks of the thirteenth
centur)\ To prove this, let me only
mention four names.

The first in date is Uie Count dc
llollstaedt, first Bishop of Ratisbon,
then Dominican ; a professor of Co-
ogne, and a perfect encyclopedia ;
bis gigantic works replete with all
the ideas of his time, and the initia-
tor of German learning.

This scientific knowledge was only
surpassed by that of his pupil and
companion, the Count d'Aquin, de-
cendant of Staufen on his mother^s
side, and called by his comrades *' the
ox of Sicily," by the learned world
** the angel of the schools," and by the
church Saint Thomas. His principal
theological work {Summa Totius Thco-

logim Tripartita) remained unfinished
with the grand cathedrals of the mid-
dle ages ; but what we know of this \
and tiie other works of this prodigi-
ous man will suffice to place him
in the rank of tlie greatest geniuses
tliat have appeared on the earth.

However he himself emulated in
science the genius of his friend, tile
seraphic doctm\ Jean de Fidanza, of
Tuscany, professor in the University
of Paris, an admirable man, of whom
his master, the English Franciscan,
Alexander Hales, said : ** Verus Is-
rtuiita in quo Adam nan peaasse vi-
dctur"'* When they brought him the
cardinal's hat, Saint Bonaventura w^as
occupied in placing the plates on the
table of his convent He died at the
general council at Lyons, (1274,) just
at the moment when he was endea-
voring to reunite the Greek to the Ro-
man Church.

The fourth of these great doctors,
who tnily indoctrinated science, is
the great English Franciscan, the ad-
mirabk doctor, Roger Bacon, philo-
logist and naturalist, who predicted
steam navigation and railroads. He
is also supposed to have invented
the telescope, and foreseen the dis-
covery of America. The Protestants
of the sixteenth century, who pre-
tended to shed light on the world, un-
fortunately burnt the convent that
held the manuscripts of this precur-
sor of natural science.

A French writer, who does himself
honor in protecting the church with
his valiant pen as others have done
with tlieir swords, M. L. Vcuillot, and
of whom it may be said, ** brave as
his pen," says somewhere that the
thirteenth century has produced such
great things in the moral order that
Saint Thomas had been able to build
up the colossus styled La Somme ; yet
during this epoch people went on foot,
and time was not lost running over the
world on railroads. I am persuaded

The Good Old Time and Our Own,

387

lie contemporaries of Roger Bacon
would not have approved of this
rapologetic argument ; for if they had
nenown the great discoveries of our
lay, of what works would not such
vigorous and universal minds have
een capable? If such men» con-
^sumed by activity, by love of science
and humanity, ran from Naples to
I Oxford, from Bologna to Paris, pro-
essing, preaching, writing, admin-
stering the sacraments, directing
their communities^ or working with
tlie pope and the bishops in the gov-
iment of the church ; if such men
bave produced such great things on
foot, what would they not have un-
lertaken with railroads at their dis-
3sal? To-day there come from
Italy but few philosophers measur-
iblc with the Count d'Aquin and
fean de Fidanza ] but, to make
amends, how easy to convoke an
ecumenical council and send zou-
aves to Rome 1

The observation I have just made
|is not a digression, for it tends to
icmonstrate the profoundly practical
lim of science in the thirteenth cen-
iry. These professors of Paris, Co-
ne, and Oxford did not content
themselves with teaching their doc-
trines from the privileged benches of
university to a fewcultivated» deli-
ate, and critical minds. They did not
:yle themselves philosophers, as the
srise men by profession, who in the
last century wished thus to distin-
;iiish Christians. They practised
beir doctrines, and their teaching
ras democratic, (pardon the so much
Slbused expression,) not only on ac-
count of their principles but in re-
gard to the public whom Uiey ad-
iressed. They called all the world
the feet of their pulpits, and after
Jistributing the bread of faith and
cience, that of charity was not want-
rig, " Thus,'* said Ozanain, " the poor
knew and * *ir names. And

even to-day, after six hundred years,
the inhabitants of Paris bend the
knee before the altars of "the angel of
the schools," and the workmen of Ly-
ons are honored in carr}-ing once a
year, on their robust shoulders, the tri-
umphant remains of the "seraphic
doctor.*'* Can we belie%'e that six
centuries hence they will do the same
for the ashes of Kant, Fichte, or He-
gel ?

This enthusiasm of holy people for
science was not entirely the fruit of
the doctrines of St Francis and
St. Dominic, or of the personal ten-
dencies of their disciples. When the
zeal for such subjects weakened, the
church tried to revive the dame. Let
us recall the bull of 1254, published
by Innocent IV., for the re-establish-
ment of philosophical studies : ** A
deplorable rumor, spread abroad and
repeated from moutli to mouth, has
reached our ears, and deeply afflicts
us. It is said that the many aspi-
rants for the priesthood, abandoning,
repudiating even, philosophical stu-
dies, and consequently the teachings
of theology, have sought the differ-
ent schools to explain the civil laws.
Sarah then is the slave, and Hagar
haB become mistress. We have
tried to find a remedy for this unex-
pected disorder. We would bring
back minds to the study of theology,
which is the science of salvation, or
at least to philosophical studies, in
which it is true the tendercst emo-
tions of piety are not met with, but
where the soul discovers the first
lights of eternal truth, and frees it-
self from the miserabie preoccupa-
tions of cupidity — the root of all evil,
and a species of idolatry. Therefore
we decide by these presents, that in
future no professor of jurisprudence,
no lawyer, whatever may be his rank
or the renown he may enjoy in the

• Dmnle wt At PhiUtfi^f^k CmtkMpit, ^ I ch. ii

p. KJl

388

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

practice of law, can pretend to any
r. prebend, honor, or ecclesiastical dig-
[nity, nor even to an inferior benefice,
if he has not given proofs of requisite
f capacity in the faculty of arts, and if
he is not recommended by the inno-
cence of his life and the purity of his
manners.'*

Such admirable teaching could not
remain barren in a Christian socio
fcly* In 1256, just as Pope Alexander
I «IV. had declared all the serfs eman-
cipated who would abandon the
cause of Eselm ie F^roce^ the autho-
rities of Bologna proceeded to the
Lgeneral enfranchisement of those of
r their territor}-. The city was not
contented to set free only its own
serfs ; it extended the benefit to those
belonging to private masters, indem-
nifying the proprietors, as some mo-
dem states have done in the slavery
&f the blacks: the middle age was
distinguished always for its respect
for acquired rights* The slate paid
ten livres for every serf over fourteen,
eight livres for those below that
The freedmen were bound to
pay to the state some moderate tax
in cereals. The suggester of this
generous measure was Bonacursio
de Sorresina, €apitano ddpopolo^ elcc-
rted podesta the ftjllowing year. He
i)iaced the names of all the enfran-
hised on a register called the Fara-
ike of Joy, " An all-powerful God/*
lid he in the introduction to this
^register, ** created man it^x^ ; original
sin poisoned him ; from immortal he
ii>ecame mortal, from incorruptible
Corruptible, from free the slave of
helL He sent for man's redemption
his only Son, begotten by him from
all eternity. It is then just and
equitable that man saved and freed
by God should not stagnate in servi-
tude, where human laws have preci-
pitated him ; that he should be set
free. By these considerations, Bo-
logna, which has always fought for

public liberty^ which recalls the past
and weighs the future, has for the
glory of our Lord Jesus Christ re-
deemed all the serfs of its territory,
and proclaimed, for the future, slavery
will be no more tolerated. A little
leaven leavens the w^hole lump ; the
presence of one degraded being dis-
honors society."

It is right to obscn^e that this
noble language is the reproduction,
often textual, of the well-known words
of the holy Pope Gregory L, the
Great, against the slavery of the
Anglo-Saxons,

Ten years aftcr^vard Bcla, king of
Hungar>% having rejected a bishop
because he was born a serf, the pope
wrote him that **lhe will of man
could not prescribe against nature^
that has given liberty to the human 1
race*"

'*It is a frequent error among men/*
said the Count d'Aquin, ** to believe
themselves noble because they are
the issue of noble families, ... It
is wtU not to have failed in examples
of noble ancestors ; but it b far bet-
ter to have adorned an Jiumble birth
with great actions. ... I repeat,
then, with Saint Jerome, that nothing
appears to me worth envying in this
pretended hereditary nobility, if the
nobles themselves are not restrained
in the paths of virtue by the shame
of derogating from it. The true
nobility is that of the soul, according
to tlie words of the poet :

*' Nobilitai sola e«t antmum q«« tnoribui onuL* "*

A disciple of this great master, the
B. Egide Colonna, cardinal arch-
bishop of Bourges, wrote in his book,
De Regimine Principum : •* Society
cannot attain to the supreme end as-
signed it without a combination of
three means^ — virtue, light, and ex-
terior well being. A prince should,
then, in his kingdom first watch witli

^ /V E^vditiant Printijmtm.
t Liy. iiL p. a, c. viU.

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

389

wise solicitude over the culture of
letters, in order to multiply the num-
ber of the learned and skilful. For
where science flourishes, and the
sources of study spring up, sooner
or later instruction is disseminated
among the crowd. So, to dissipate
the shadows of ignorance which
shamefully envelop the face of roy-
alty, the king should encourage let-
ters by a favorable attention. Still
more, if he refuses the necessary en-
couragement, and does not wish his
subjects instructed, he ceases to be a
king — he becomes a tyrant."

To finish the picture of the ideas
of this time, let us quote again these
words of a sermon of the gentle and
seraphic Bonaventura : " We find to-
day great scandals in governments ;
for while an inexperienced pilot
would not be placed on a ship to
manage the rudder, we put at the
head of nations those who ignore the
art of governing them. When the
right of succession places children
on a throne, woe to empires I"

The doctrines of the thirteenth
century on the formation of public
power, on the duties of supreme au-
thority, on the rights of people, on
sedition, etc., are so rigorous that
they appear bold, even in our time,
when the defect is not precisely an
excess of reserve and respect. Truth
alone can free the human mind from
every prejudice, develop character,
and inspire a language at once so
proud and so simple. What reflec-
tions it provokes when one has listen-
ed to the magnificent platitudes of
so many men of our time, who be-
lieve they think freely because they
are not Christians.

When Innocent IV., Celestin IV.,
St. Thomas, the B. E^de Colonna,
and St. Bonaventura spoke thus, the
Caesarism of the middle ages was de-
cidedly vanquished for several centu-
ries. This is one of the grandest

facts of history since the incarnation
of the Word.

The emperors of the house of
Swabia, assuming with greater power
and more science the despotic plans
of the Saxon emperors, had the
monstrous pretension to realize to
the letter these texts of The Digest:
"The will of the prince is law,"
(Ulp. ;) " The prince is above all
laws," (Pauli) By virtue of these
texts the prince commanding would
have been the absolute sovereign of
the world, the proprietor of the
Christian universe, and not only of
the royalties of the earth, but also of
private property. Interpreters taught
without blushing the Caesarian theory
of the dominium mundi, Le Recueil
des Lois of Sicily, revised by Pierre de
Vigne for Frederic II., and promul-
gated by this autocrat in the king-
dom of Naples, is a model of this
abominable legislation that progress-
ists of our day sometimes dream of
restoring.

The Roman Church alone resisted
these false principles, these mon-
strous politics, and, thanks be to
God, she triumphed.

The ruler of modem times has
become' what he was in the age of
pretorian law, corrupted by the Cae-
sarian jurors of the empire, of the
middle ages, and particularly the Re-
naissance, that is to say, the people,
who by a so-called "royal law"
would have relinquished their rights
into the hands of the Roman empe-
rors. But if the sovereign people
could not but be a majority purely
numerical, arrogating in its turn the
pretended laws of Caesar, the strug-
gles of the middle age between the
clergy and the empire would cer-
tainly be renewed.

This indissoluble alliance between
Christian truth and civil liberty is
one of the most striking facts to those
who study history without prejudice ;

390

Tfu Good Old Time and Our Own,

one of the best apologetic arguments
, I know. In the cast, Csesarisna has
only been able la succeed through
the corruption of the ecclesiastical
hierarchy and through schism ; and
we know only too well what has be-
come of the countries where Homer
sang, where Plato wrote, and where
Saint Gregory of Nazianzen and St
Basil preached. Plurope has had to
suffer frequently from an excess of
power in individuals lA the church ;
but they must not be confounded
with the church itself, which has in-
troduced into the world the distinc-
tion of two powers : this salular)'
distinction was not known of old, and
is only menaced in our day by ration-
alism in the state.

'I'he people have understood this
august r^ie of the church, and do not
cease to invoke with the poet : ** Hail,
mighty parent/* In the midst of ruin
accumulated by the ambition of prin-
ces, tlie corruption of governments,
human passions, or time that has no
respect for truth, there remains to-
day nothing but the good old pope,
and young nations ask the benedic-
tion of the aged man. In modern
democracies there will soon exist but
one historical institution, the papacy.
The old religions of paganism have
left us but cold and gigantic pyra-
mids of stone inclosing the ashes of
theirpriests. Christianity, on thecon-
trar)% has transmitted us the living
sionc of the church, which will out-
live the dust of ages.

In all these struggles against here*
sies, schism, materialism, Caesarism,
the Roman Church had from the
tenth to the thirteenth century its
allies, the communes, who were the
masses of those days. Civil liberty
•was, so to say» the fruit of the preach-
ings of the church. It was from this
epoch we dale t/ie Afass agiiinst ty-
rants, which can be found in the old
missals. It was at the end of the

twelfth and the beginning of the thir
tcenth centuries, under the pontifi-5
cates of Alexander III. and Innocent^
III,, two of the noblest successors of
St Peter, that this alliance, so natural,^
so necessary, between the church that
represents the human conscience, and
the communes who represent the li-J
berly and independence of the cili^
zen, produced the most happy and
considerable results* In 1183 was]
signed the peac4 of Constance^ which]
assured definitively the liberty of the
Lombard people. In the final clausQ
of the petition of the citizens of Flais
ance, the preliminary of this celebra-l
ted peace, the deputies of the Lom-j
bard League had expressly stipulated
" that it would be permitted to th6
cities of the society to remain alway
i n u n i ly w i t h t h e chu rch . * ' The great
charter of the liberties of Englan<f
dates from 1215, At the head of the
signatures of this memorable act for;
the English people is found, for tJ>c
church and for liberty, a disciple of
the pope, the learned Cardinal Stc-J
phcn Langton, whose statue has re-]
cently been introduced into West- J
minster Palace, where it will be
significant witness of the past, and]
of the salutary breath which is pass
ing to-day over old England. And]
not only in England, but in Spain
and Hungary, had the church sur-J
rounded the cradle of modem reprc
sentalive rule with its maternal canes
by its celebrated " Golden BulV* 1
tablishing the law of peoples and con
munities cm the basis which lo-daj
it enjoys in this apostolical kmgJom,

But in the Italian cities particular
ly is best obser\'ed the fecundity o|
this salutar)' alliance between tlic sec
timents of the citizen and those of thfl
Christian,

I have spoken of the
rel igious r^lr of the Me 1 1 1 ars j

it would be better to call themcitrxcn
monks. At Bologna, it was one

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

391

them who fulfilled the function of in-
spector-general to the people. Ezelin
le Feroce^ tyrant of the marshes of Ve-
rona, and the terror of the Lombard
cities, was only afraid of the Francis-
cans, especially Saint Antony of Pa-
dua.

After ten years of penitence. Saint
Francis, having prayed and watched
for forty nights, ordered Brother
Leonard to take a pen and write
what he should dictate ; and this an-
gelic man, entranced by the ravish-
ments of divine love, improvised the
following beautiful canticle :

" Most high, most powerful and gracious
Lord, to thee belong praise, glory, and
every blessing. All is due to thee ; and
thy creatures are not worthy so much as to
call thy name.

" Praised be God my Lord for all crea-
tures, and for our brother the sun, who gives
us the day and the light Beautiful and ra-
diating in all his splendor, he does homage
to thee, O my God !

" And praised be thou, my Lord, for our
sister the moon, and for the stars. Thou
hast formed them in the heavens, clear and
beautiful.

" Praised be thou, my God, for my brother
the wind, for the air and the clouds, and for
good and bad weather, whatever it may be !
for by these thou sustainest thy creatures.

" Praised be my Lord for our sister the
water, which is so useful, humble, precious,
and chaste.

** Praised be thou, my God, for our brother
the fire ! By him, thou illuminest the night ;
"beautiful and pleasant to see, untamable
and strong.

" Praised be my God for our mother the
earth, which sustains us, nourishes us, and
produces every sort of fruit, of various flow-
ers, and herbs !"

A few days after this admirable
scene, there occurred between the
Bishop of Assisi and the magistrates
of the people one of those quarrels
so frequent in the Italian cities of the
thirteenth century. Saint Francis,
distressed at such discord, added to
his canticle the following verse :

" Praised be thou, my Lord, for those who
forgive for the love of thee, and who patient-

ly bear infirmity and tribulation. Happy
those who persevere in peace ; for it is the
Most High who will crown them at last''

Then he ordered the minor bro-
thers to hasten to the magistrates and
go with them to the bishop, before
whom they were to chant the new
verse of the canticle of the sun. The
adversaries present could not resist
the chanting of the mineurs, and they
were reconciled.

Since I have mentioned the canti-
cle of the sun, one of the models of
Franciscan poetry of this age, I can-
not forego the pleasure of relating
the end of it After the pacification
of Assisi, Saint Francis, who suffered
terribly from his stigmata, had gone,
to recruit his health, to Foligno,
where it was revealed to him he
would die in two years. He then
composed the last verse :

" Be praised, my God, for our sister, cor-
poral death, from which no man living may
escape ! Woe to him who dies in mortal
sin ! Happy he who at the hour of death
is found conformable to thy most holy will !
for death cannot injure him.

" Praise and bless my God, render him
thanks, and serve him with great humility.*'

The spirit of party had become
truly a moral malady in the Italian
cities of the thirteenth century. If
among my readers there are those
who abuse their own time because
the spirit of party condemns them to
the struggle, I will tell them that in
Italy, in the time of Saint Francis and
Saint Louis, they saluted each other
" in Ghibelline style " and cut their
bread " k la Guelph," and for a trifle
parties attacked each other in the
cross-streets and in the public places.
We have certainly progressed since
then.

In 1233, the nobles and the people
of Plaisance were in open warfare ;
the Franciscan Leon, selected as ar-
biter, published a law, and divided
equdly all the employments of state

392

Tim Good Old Time and Our Own,

between the two inimical factions ;
he exacted, besides, a confirmation of
the sentence through the kiss of
peace. In the same year the brother
Gerard, of tlie same order, reconciled
I he parties at Modena. At Parma,
he reformed the statutes of the people
and recalled the proscriptions. In
1257, the Dominican Eberhard caused
to be set at liberty the Guelphs impri-
soned at Brescia. One of his com*
^panions had the same success at Par-
ma* But the most interesting exam-
ple of the powerful influence of reli-
gion on civil life was the mission of
the brother John of Vicenza, in the
Lombard towns.

Inspired by an apostolic zeal, the
aged Pope Gregory IX. charged the
Dominican, John of Vicenza, {Fra
Gmfiwni C/iio,) to go preach peace
to the inimical factions, and re^estab-
lish everywhere among the people
union and concord. Brother John,
endowed with winning eloquence,
commenced his mission at Bologna.
He obtained immense and unhoped-
for success in the city where Saint
Francis and Saint Anthony had al-
ready achieved extraordinary tri-
umphs ; nobles and people, profes-
sors and students, all laid down their
enmities at the feet of the brother
preacher ; the magistrates handed
him the statutes of the people, in or-
der that he might correct all that
could give rise to new discussions.
The Paduans, informed that he was
coming to Uiem, went to meet him,
preceded by their magistrates and the
cafTtHciOy to Monselice, four or f\\t
miles from the city j Brother John,
seated on the patriotic car, made a
triumphal entry among the people ;
the success in Padua surpassed that
of Bologna] the people asssembled
at the Place de la Valle, applauded
him with joy^ and begged him to re-
form the statutes, 'llie same tri-
umplis at Trevise^ Feltre, Bclluna,

and Vicenza. At Verona, Ezelin

and the Montecchi promised him un*^
der oath to do everything the pope!
might order. The eloquent monk J
again visited such places as Camino^j
ConegUano, Saint Boniface, Mantua,]
Brescia, preaching everj^here uni-1
versal peace, reconciling factions,]
and setting prisoners at liberty. At J
last, he appointed the 28th of Au-
gust, tlie feast of Saint Augustine, for]
a general assembly to be held on the ]
plain of Pacquara, on the borders of
the Adige, about three miles from
Verona. On the day determined,
the entire populations of Verona,
Mantua, Brescia, Padua, Vicenza,
with their magistrates and mrfveew, |
arrived at the appointed place; a'
multitude of people from Trevise^ Fel-
tre, Venice, Ferrara, Modena, Reg-
gio, Parma, Bologna, and most of
them barefooted in sign of penitence ;
the bishops of Verona, Brescia, Man-
tua, Bologna, Modena, Keggio, Tre-
vise, Vicenza, and Padua ; the patri-
arch of Aquila ; the margrave of
Estc, Ezelin and Albcric de Romano,
the Signors de Camino, and all of
Venetia. Parisio de Cereta, a con-
temporary author, in his Veronese
chronicle, enumerates his auditory at
four hundred thousand persons. Th<^
Dominican took for his text: ^*My
peace I give to you, my peace I
leave to you.'* Never had Chris-
tians witnessed a more august spec-
tacle. The enthusiasm was carried
even to excess. It was a delirium of
peace and union. Brother John or-
dained, in the name of God and the
church, a general pacification, and
devoted those who infringed upon
it to excommunication and eternal
malediction. He proposed the mar-
riage of Renaud, son of the margrave
of Este, with Adelaide, daughter of
Alberic of Romano, and obtained
also from the brothers Romano the
promise they would sell to the towa of

The Good Old Time and Our Own,

393

Padua for fifteen hundred livres the
possessions they had in the territory
of this city. The act embraced di-
vers clauses, and contained promises
of pacification.

Sixty years after the assassination
of Pope Lucius II. by the Arnoldites,
the spiritual power of the papacy was,
so to say, omnipotent in Italy, if not
in the whole of Europe. And it is
precisely about this epoch that in
proportion as the civil power of the
Roman Church determined, limited,
and fortified itself, in Italy the eccle-
siastical principalities were extinguish-
ed ; while for centuries they have
been maintained in other countries,
less submissive to the Holy See.
This fact will not astonish us, if we
follow with attention the progression
of ideas propagated by Christianity,
and taking such deep root in the
thirteenth century.

Thus the sap of Christianity
mounts in all the branches of this
immense tree called humanity, and
produces abundant fruit. The
Gothic art is displayed while de-
veloping the Roman ; the ogive
comes out from the arch by a natu-
ral elevation toward the summit or
the roof. Elliptical forms, wiser and
more perfect than circular ones, (the
circle is an ellipsis in which the fo-
cuses are blended,) transform the
architecture, and give to the monu-
ments an apparent flight to heaven,
just as the study of the ellipsis in
analytical geometry conducts to the
infinite. The austere energy of St.
Bernard had no time for art. He
needed the science of Roger Bacon
and the poetry of St. Francis. The
Roman basilica gives place to the
Gothic cathedral, and throws its gra-
cious shadows on the mansions of
the neighboring town. The whole of
Europe is covered with a vegetation
of admirable monuments, epic poems
of stone — as the church of Assisii

the cathedral of Florence, the cathe-
dral of Cologne — poetry of the high-
est order, not for rich idlers, or deli-
cate minds, but for the people eti
masse. Art agrees with the epoch of
which it is the emanation — it is for
the people themselves. " The more
I see of these Gothic monuments,"
wrote M. David, (d' Angers,) "the
more I experience the happiness
of reading these beautiful religious
pages so piously sculptured on the
secular walls of the churches. They
were the archives of an ignorant peo-
ple ; it was therefore necessary the
handwriting should be legible. The
saints sculptured in Gothic art
have an expression of serenity and
calmness, full of confidence and faith.
This evening, as I write, the setting
sun gilds the fagade of the cathedral
of Amiens : the calm faces of the
saints in stone diffuse a radiant
light."

Mysterious power of truth ! M.
David was attracted to it by art ; M.
Pugin was converted, it is said, by
studying the cathedral of York. In
truth, there are few languages more
perfect than that of the symbo-
lism, so deep and complete, of the
thirteenth century. "The men of
the middle age," said one whose
works and remembrances are very
dear to me — " the men of the middle
age were not satisfied to simply raise
stone upon stone ; these stones were
to speak, and speak a language of
painting, equally understood by rich
and poor ; heaven itself must be vis-
ible, and the angels and saints re-
main present by their images, to con-
sole and preach to the people. The
vaults of the two basilicas of Assisi
were covered with a field of blue,
strewn with stars of gold. On the
walls were displayed the mysteries
of the two Testaments, and the life of
St Francis formed the sequel to the
book of divine revelations. But, as

394

The Good Old Time and Our Own,

if it were impossible to approach
^iitli impunity the miraculous tomb,
the painters who ornamented in
fresco seemed inspired with a new
spirit \ they conceived an ideal more
pure, more animated, than the old
Ityzantrne types which had had their
day, but which for eight hundred
years had continued to degenerate.
The basilica of Assisi became the
cradle of a renaissance in art, and evi-
denced its progress. There Guido of
Sienna and Giunta of Pisa detach-
ed themselves more and more from
the Greek masters whose aridity they
softened and whose immobility they
shattered. Then came Cimabue.
He represented all the sacred writ-
ings in a scries of paintings which
decorated the principal part of the

I church, and which time has mutilat-
ed. But six hundred years have not
tarnished the splendor of the heads
of Christ, of the Virgin, and of St.
John, painted at the top of the
vaults ; nor the images of the four
great doctors, where a Byzantine ma-
jesty still carries with it an air of life
and immortal youth. At last Giotto

I appeared, and one of his works w;is
the triumph of St. Francii?, painted
in four compartments under the
vault which crowns the altar of the
chapel. Nothing is more celebrated

I than these beautiful frescoes \ but I
know nothing more touching than
one in which is figtired the betrothal
of the ser\'ant of God to holy pover-
ty. Poverty, under the appearance
of a lady perfectly beautiful, but the
face attenuated, the clothing torn ;
a dog barks at her, two children
throw stones at her, and put thorns in
her way. She, however, calm and
joyous, holds out her hand to St
Francis ; Christ himself unites the two
Spouses j and in the midst of clouds
appears the Eternal Father accompa-
nied by angels, as if loo much of
heaven and earth could not be given

to assist at the wedding of these two
mendicants. Here, nothing suggests
the painting of the Grecian school \
all is new, free, and inspired. Pro-
gress did not cease with the disciples
of Giotto appointed to continue his
work : Cavalini, Taddeo Gaddi, Puc-
cio Capana. In the midst of the
variety of their compositions, we re-
cognize the unity of the faith shed so
lustrously through their works. When
one pauses before these chaste repre-
sentations of the Virgin, ihc Annun-
ciation, the Nativity, before the cruci-
fied Christ, with the saddened angels
weeping around the cross, or collect-
ing in cups the divine blood, it would
require a very hardened heart not 10
feel the tears flow, and not to bend
the humbled knee and strike the
breast with the shepherds and poor
w^omen who pray at the feet of such
images."

And this is the art of the thirteenth
century ; it caused to weep under llic
same vault, and caused to pray on the
same slab with poor peasants, one of
the purest-minded intelligences, one
of the noblest hearts of our lime, one
that the thirteenth century would
have styled " the seraphic Ozanam/'

And let us again remark this at-
traction, at once logical and living
with facts produced by the germina-
tion of Christian thought in civil so-
ciety. St. Francis and St Dominic
no longer preach as the disciples of
St Benedict to the few members of
a military oligarchy, or to a ilock of
serfs; they address themselves to a,
civilized society, living in the midst
of the benefits of Christianity, with-
out having to give an account of the
origin of these benefits ; in the midst
of a society aggrandized by the pro-
gress of Cliristian equality, and still
desirous of enlargement There is
no longer a fierce Licambre, but
haughty jurists. No more cruel
Anglo-Saxons, but emperors, cle-

The Good Old Time and Our Own.

395

gant, educated, poetical, seductive,
who hide their despotic projects un-
der titles the most pompous and the
most fallacious. No more pagan
kings martyrizing the Christian ;
but Catholic kings more or less sin-
cere, who, in the name of social and
state interests, seek to torture con-
sciences. There are no more lords
whose brutality scandalizes the coars-
est minds ; but there are rich citizens,
softened and blinded by selfishness,
who weary under the Christian yoke,
and who hide their sensualism under
the interest they profess for Caesar or
the prince. It is, then, from the time
of St. Francis the chanter of poverty,
from the time of St. Dominic the
descendant of the Guzman, of the
race of Cid, that is born in Italy,
by the side of the citizens, a new
class which completes the political
emancipation of the Christian peo-
ple. After having grown up, the
people disappeared under the Renais-
sance when Protestantism triumphed,
not to appear again until modern
times, in our own age, when the sap
of Christianity forces the church to
remount into the branches of the
tree of which I spoke. Art has re-
sented this moral revolution of the
thirteenth century, and literature
also. The grand writer whom I
have already quoted, I was going to
say the poet who has founded the
society of St. Vincent de Paul, makes
somewhere a reflection which has
struck me forcibly. Have you re-
marked, with him, that the church
has put poetry into the choir, while
she has banished reasoning into the
pulpit — into the grand nave ? I do
not say reason, for true poetry is the
chant of reason. Poetry that I call
real and practical, that which elevates
the soul toward its end, which ba-
lances the sighs of humanity, and
clothes itself in spoken or written
form, rhythmical or not, the senti-

ment which attracts us toward the
infinite, and which St. Francis desig-
nates love, such poetry is simply
prayer. A poet is naturally sacer-
dotal. He is really the vates of an-
tiquity. David and Solomon prayed
with lyre in hand, and their prayers
became the hymns of Christianity.
Isaiah chanted the coming of the
Messiah.

So in the thirteenth century, poetry
was everywhere, a consequence of the
Christian sentiment, spread in every
direction through the moral life. To
Innocent III., who under the name
of the Count de Signa was consider-
ed one of the most learned men of
his time, is attributed the Dies free.
He has composed other spiritual
songs. St. Thomas has left us the
Pang£ Lingua. St. Francis is the
chief of the poetic Franciscan school,
in which shone St. Bonaventura, St.
Antony, and the blessed Jacopone
de Todi, of whom every one knows
the beautiful stanzas Stabat Mater
Dolorosa^ etc. Then comes Dante,
who governs Christian ages as Ho-
mer did the olden time. And lastly
in the same age in Italy, at Vercelli,
it is said, lived and died the great
unknown who has left us the most
beautiful book from the hand of man,
The Imitation^ the true poem of hu-
manity redeemed by the blood of Je-
sus Christ. The fall, the redemption,
the grand drama of the moral history
of the world, the battle of life, the art
of vanquishing passion and matter,
the effort of man to reach his ideal
on the wings of simplicity and purity
— where are those things better chant-
ed than in The Imitation 1

The thirteenth centur)', then, merits
to be cited among the grandest epochs
of history. However, it would be a
false idea to imagine society elevated
to a high degree of perfection. Many
Christians of our day, charmed by the
recital of the life and works of these

396

The Good Old Time and Our Oum.

great saints, and by the sight of the
magniiiccnt monuments of the first
era of ogival style, become almost
melancholy, and have a disposition to
blame everything new in the world,
and defy their contemporancs or fu-
ture generations even to imitate the
virtues of the age of Innocent III.
1 think this tendency all wrong, and
Christians who permit themselves to
be so carried away, lack firmness and

ith ; for Christianity cannot decay,
and the more the saints of the past,
the greater the protectors of the
church for the future* Besides, it is
so easy to regard only the \irtues of
the thirteenth ccntur)^ and ignore the
vices. We must remember St, An-
thony was the neighbor and the con-
temporary of Ezelin the Ferocious,
the t)pe of the tyrant of the modern
world Frederick 11. lived in the same
age as St. Louis. 7/tc Sidlian Code
was revised fifty years after the peace
of Constance* at the same time as
the Magfta Charia of England. St.
Thomas d'Aquin and Roger Bacon
are contemporaries of the Albigenses.
You cannot point out in our age an
error or a calamity that has not its
equal, or rather its precursor, in the
ihirtcenth centur)\

Cfesarism, vanquished in politics,
was protected by the literary men and
the jurists, Dante in his old days
wrote the CjEsarian treatise, De Mo-
tmn'hko. It was in Uic beginning of the
fourteenth century, a hundred years
after Innocent IIL, that the popes,
chased from Rome and Italy, set
out for die exile of Avignon, which
lasted seventy-five years,

IIL

A reasonable study of such gran-
deur and such fall, the review of
which must demonstrate human lib-
erty, should make us better know
our own age, and love it ilie more.

We possess more elements of mate- 1
rial prosperity and material progress^
and we jealously preserv^e the depo-J
si tor)' of all the moral truths. We en-
joy greater political securit)% and the 1
sentiment of right is more general in
our day than in any other*

What we want, what has given an ]
expansive power and grandeur and!
beauty to the thirteenlh century, is
a moral unity in the general direc-
tion of civil society. Our epoch feels )
its instinct, it seeks it, it desires it. ^
People submit to the heaviest sacri-
fices, and agitate ihcmsclves to ob- i
tain what they call their unity. It.,
is a false, factious, exterior unity, I
know, but after all, it is unity.

But a true, living, and moral unity
can only be found in efforts such a!»
I have tried to depict ; and moral
unity, which should be tlie only legiti-
mate aim of a people, is not estab-
lished by force, nor even by the
splendor of industrial production, nor
the attractions of an economical well-
being. It will only grow as the peo-
ple liberally accept the direction of
the Christian law. Expelled from
political constitutions, I see this uni*
ty reconstitute itself In the masses.
The neighboring democracies .should
be Christian, Recently we have met
a battalion of crusaders, going to
Rome, and coming from North Ame-
rica, which will soon add to the num-
ber of its bishops as many as presided
at the Council of Nice. To mani-
fest with new klat the fact of ClinV
tianity, and advance so salutary a
movement, which will perhaps pro-
duce moral splendors unknown to
the thirteenth ccntur)', we must arm
ourselves, under the buckler of faith,
with the science and rights of the
citizen, as did the great doctors of the
thirteenth century.

This struggle, I know, is to-day
more difficult, but therefore more
meritorious, more glorious. Nowhere

The Good Old Time and Our Own,

397

have we the support of governments.
I do not complain — I state a fact;
and perhaps this very support is a
defect because it has been so much
abused. The purity of the moral
struggle of the thirteenth century is
tarnished by the religious persecu-
tions. I know the adversaries of the
church have exaggerated their inten-
sity ; but I know also that never has
the church, as a church, persecuted,
nor given or proclaimed the right to
persecute. Besides, we must not lose
sight of the fact that the alliance of
church and state was such that a
heresy was considered above every-
thing a crime against the state. For
example, we are astonished to see a
Saint Louis condemn severely the
blasphemers of God as state crimi-
nals \ but we do not consider it extra-
ordinary nowadays to see the blas-
phemers of a sovereign or minister
condemned to prison, exile, or trans-
portation. It is necessary to remark
that the greater part of the sects of
the middle ages proclaimed principles
the realization of which would have
consequences of great civil and poli-
tical importance. I defy our contem-
porary societies, so proud of their re-
ligious tolerance, to support the wor-
ship of the Mormons, those pests of
our age. Only Christian societies are
strong enough to resist such currents
of corruption, to preserve their integ-
rity, to endure and develop by the
side of such sects. Christians alone
can be tolerant with impunity, be-
cause tolerance for them is not a
social necessity, but a virtue. Only

they can repeat with Saint Augus-
tine : " Let us convert the heretics,
but let them not be sacrificed." So
when we think of the universal
blame of which St. Ambrose and
St. Martin made themselves inter-
preters, against the condemnation to
death of the Priscillians, those Mor-
mons of the fourteenth century, we
are justly astonished at the rigors
exercised in the thirteenth centu-
ry against the Albigenses and other
sectarians. To-day, thanks be to
God, a religious persecution could
not be possible in countries where
the Catholic religion predominates.
Persecutions are only prevalent
among the Mussulmans of Asia Mi-
nor or the schismatics of Poland ; and
if the Protestants of Ireland or the
liberal anti-Catholics of the Continent
have such tendencies, they devise
some form which to them alone ap-
pears as progress.

For the contest, then, we must act
as citizens, and use the pen and the
word, and without truce or relaxa-
tion. When St Francis Xavier made
in the Indies his great and admi-
rable spiritual conquests, destroyed
by the Holland Protestants and the
English, he asked for reinforcements
from the superior of his order.
" Especially," said he, "send me from
Belgium those robust and broad-
shouldered men." With such, this
great saint believed himself able to
encounter every difficulty. Their
race is not extinct, thank God ; and
it seems to me Europeans are easier
conquered than Asiatics.

Brittany: its PtopU and its Paans,

BRITTANY: ITS PEOPLE AND ITS POEMS.

Progress is the order of the day ;
the very watchword of the nineteenth
century. Our times are possess-
ed by an ever-active, restless spirit.
Here and there only, in this surging
sea, sheltered havens arc founds
where the quiet waters can reflect
the fair forms and hues of heaven,
floating above them in the deep and
far-off blue. Here and there, out
of the beaten track of the world's
highways, He rich and fertile retreats,
among whose hills and fountains,
woods and mossy stones, the spirit
of the past, with music on her lips,

etry in her soul, and the cross clear
ind bright on her brow, still loves to
dwell

In scarcely another corner of Eu-
rope is the influence of this spirit so
tenacious, so pervading, as in Brit-
tany. Nor to those among us who
may be descended from, or linked
with, the original inhabitants of the
British island, can Europe furnish
many more interesting studies than
this granite promontory — the bul-
wark of France against the wild At-
lantic — and the CeUic tribes there,
who guard, even to-day, their old
Armorica from invasion of the no-
velties of Paris in manners and in
thought,

Brittany preserves the same cha-
racteristic relations with regard to
France as Wales, Ireland, and the
Highlands of Scotland preserve to-
ward England. Its geographical po-
sition, its mountains, and the sea,
have continued to protect it in a great
degree from foreign influences. In-
deed, this isolation is observable
throughout its history. Almost from
the first, the Breton Celts were the
sole occupants of their own corner

of the earth. The Gauls, the origi-
nal inhabitants of the country, were
outnumbered and absorbed by the
influx of British emigrants ; who, of
the same original stock with them-
selves, speedily became the domi-
nant sept, and possessors of the
country.

The first extensive emigration of
the insular Britons from what is now
Great Britain into Armorica, took
place about the year 383, by order of
the tyrant Maximin. It was not, how-
ever, undertaken by compulsion, but
was a willing adventure. The second
took place when they fled in great
numbers from the Saxon domination,
after a.d, 450, when Ambrose and the
great Arthur had fought so bravely and
so long, in vain. This time they wcne
drivm from their land, and as they
crossed the sea to find a home with their
brethren in Armorica, they sorrowful-
ly chanted the psalm which their Chris-
tian bards had translated into their
native tongue, " T^pu hast given us,
O Lord^ as sheep for the slaughter ; and
thou hast scattered us among tht na-
tions,** A terrible pestilence with
which, about this time, various parts
of Britain were visited^ is said to have
done more than anything else toward
confirming the sway of the Saxons in
England, and diminishing the old Bri-
tons to a mere remnant in the island*
They themselves regarded it as a sign
that the kingdom was taken from them,
and given by God to their enemies.
The emigrations thenceforward be-
came so frequent and so numerous
that the British isle was almost de-
populated of its ancient inhabitants ;
and King Ina, of Wessex, who was
also Bretwalda, coming to the throne
in A.D. 689, grieved to lose so many

Brittany: its People and its Poems,

399

of his subjects, sent to entreat the
emigrants to return. At that period,
they more than equalled the indige-
nous population of Armorica, upon
whom they had imposed their own
laws and form of government. Thus,
in the fifth century, Armorica was,
like Cambria, divided into small in-
dependent states : those of Vannes ;
Kerne, or Cornouaille ; Leon ; and
Tr^guier — all Celtic in language,
customs, and laws, and each division
having its own bishop and its own
chief. Among the chiefs, one often
obtained a predominating power over
the rest, with the title of konaUy or
crowned chief. Hence, all the earlier
kings of Armorica of whom we hear in
history, Meriadek, Gradlon, Budik,
Houel, and others, were Britons from
the Island. Their bards, who form-
ed an essential part of every noble
family among the Cambrians, accom-
panied them into their adopted coun-
try. Of this number was Taliessin,
" the prince of the bards, the pro-
phets, and the Druids of the West."
He took up his abode in the land of
the Venetes, (Vannes,) near to his
friend and brother bard, Gildas, who
had emigrated thither, and who is
said to have converted Taliessin to
the Christian faith. Three other cele-
brated bards of the same period were
Saint Sulio, Hyvarnion, and Kian
Gwench'lan.

Tradition gives the following ac-
count of the manner in which St.
Sulio received his vocation. When
very young, he was one day playing
with his brothers near the castle of
their father, the lord of Powys, when
a procession of monks passed by,
led by their abbot, and chanting, to
the sound of his harp, the praise of
God. The sweetness of their hymns
so delighted the child, that, bidding
his brothers return to their sports, he
followed the monks, "in order to
learn of them how he might compose

beautiful songs." His brothers hast-
ened to tell their father of his flight,
who sent thirty armed men, with a
charge to kill the abbot and to bring
back Sulio. He had, however, been
sent at once to a monastery in Ar-
morica, of which in due time he be-
came prior. The Welsh, who call
him Saint Y Sulio, possess a collec-
tion of his poems.

The Christian faith won its way
more slowly in Armorica than it had
done in Britain. They who had
inherited the harp of the ancient
Druids, with the mysteries of their
religion and the secrets of their
knowledge, were often reluctant to
submit to the belief which despoiled
them of their priesthood. " If Ta-
liessin," says M. de la Villemarqu^,
" consecrated to Christ the fruits of
a mysterious science, perfected under
the shadow of proscribed altars ; if
the monks, taking the harp in hand,
attracted to the cloister the children
of the chiefs ; if the Christian mother
taught her little one in the cradle to
sing of him who died upon the cross,
. . . . there were, at the same
time, in the depth of the woods, dis-
persed members of the Druidic col-
leges, wandering from hut to hut,
like the fugitive Druids of the Isle of
Britain, who continued to give to the
children of Armorica lessons on the
divinity, as their fathers had been
taught; and they did so with suffi-
cient success to alarm the Christian
teachers, and oblige them to com-
bat them skilfully with their own
weapons."

Even after paganism had fallen
before the cross, we find curious tra-
ces of the Druidic element scattered
here and there in the early poems of
Brittany. Her bishops of that period
are spoken of as " Christian Druids,
who grafted the faith of Christ on
the Druid oak ;" and of her poets^ it
is said, " They did not break the harp

400

Bfittany : its PeopU and iis Poans,

3f the ancient bards ; they only
changed some of its chords."

The most ancient poems preserved

jin Brittany which bear evidences of

eing the scientific compositions of

Uic bards, are : T/ie S€fieSy or the

Indd ami the Child ; The Prediction

GwcnclChm; The Submersion of

he City of Ys ; The Changding ; The

Wine of the Gauls ; The March of

irthur; and Alain the Pox, These

''are the last breathings of the learned

poetry of the Bretons of Armorica.

But, besides the scientific poems
[►f the descendants of the Druids,
Ihcre grew up, at the same time, a
irge amount of popular poetry, both
|n Wales and in Armorka, As early
the sixth century, this divided
self into three distinct kinds: theo-
ogicaJ, heroic, and historical poems ;
lomestic poems and love-songs ; and
2ms on religious subjects, including
be versified histories of saints. This
vhole class of poetry sprang from the
people ; it was the expression of tlieir
beart, the echo of their thoughts, the
Jepository of their history and of
beir belief.
Upon this poetry of the people,
Dth in the British island and in Brit-
tany, the bards made war. And
when, among the Bretons, the popu-
lar minstrels overcame the bards, the
r\'elsh triads put the Armoricans in
iie number of " the three peoples
irhich have corrupted the primitive
bardism by mixing with it heteroge-
neous principles/*

" It is only the hkr, (scholar poets,)
the vagabonds, and the beggars,"
says Taliessin, '* who give themselves
trouble.*'

^^Bark not against instruction in
be art of verse. Silence ! miserable
pretenders, who usurp die name of
bards ! You know not how to judge
between truth and fables 1 ... As
for me, I am diviner and general-in-
liief of the bards of the west T*

Gildas is equally energetic in pro-
testing against all ** who take plea-
sure in listening to the vociferations"
of the popular poets of his time.

Reality and good faith are the two
principal qualities inherent in popu-
lar poetry in its primitive state. The
poet's aim is always to paint faitli-
fully something which actually occur-
red, or which he M/WWdid occur.

Chronicler and novelist, legendary
and sacred psalmodist, the poet of
Brittany is all this to the mass of the
Breton population — to twelve hun-
dred thousand uneducated persons,
without any odier learning than that
which Uiey gain from the oral instruc-
tion of their clergy. A thoughtful
and imaginative people, full of poetic
instinct, and of the desire of know-
ledge; and to whom every event,
possessing a moderate share of in*
terest, furnishes subject-matter for a
song.

We will now attempt translations
of a portion of the bardic poems which
remain to us. We omit tlie first, en-
titled Ar Rannoce^ or Tlie Series: a
dialogue between a Druid and a child
who Is one of his disciples. Its length
w^ould unduly prolong the present ar-
ticle; but, inasmuch as it conveys an
interesting sketch of the cosmogony
and theolog}' of the bardic system,
we may End for it a place in some fu-
ture page.

To come, then, to the second poem
on our list, The Prophecy ofGwencik*'
Ian, The bard Kian, sumaraed
Gwench'lan, or ^^ Pttn Race^* was
born in Arraorica at the beginning
of the fifth centur)% and was never
won to the Christian faith. His en-
mity to it, indeed, was embittered by
the treatment he received at the
hands of a foreign prince, calling
himself a Christian ; who threw the
bard into a dungeon, and, after de*
privtng him of sight, left him there
to die. During his hard captivity he

Brittany : its People and its P^ems.

40t

composed the following poem, called
Diougan GwenchUan^ or The Pro-
phecy of Gwench^lan^ in which he
predicts the fate of his captor, who
was shortly afterward slain in battle
fighting against the Bretons.

The composition of this poem is
exactly after the pattern of the an-
cient Welsh bards. Like Taliessin,
Gwench'lan believes in the three
cycles of being of the Druidic theo-
logy, and in the doctrine of metem-
psychosis. " I have been born three
times," says Taliessin. . . . "I
have been dead ; I have been alive ;
I am that which I was. . . I have
been a wild goat upon the mountains ;
I have been a spotted cock ; I have
been a fallow-deer ; now I am Ta-
liessin."

Like Lywarc'h-Hen, he mourns
over his old age and decrepitude.
He is melancholy, and a fatalist

Like Aneurin, who had been made
prisoner after the battle of Kattracz,
and in his captivity composed The
Song of Gododin^ Gwench'lan sings
in his chains and in the darkness of
his dungeon.

It was not unusual among the
bards to compare the leader of the
enemy to the wild boar of the woods,
and the champion who withstood him
to the war-horse, or the white horse
of the sea.

Gwench'lan is said to have com-
posed many songs in praise of the
warriors of his country — those who
marched to battle invoking the Sun-
god, and, on returning victorious,
danced in his honor to the " Sword^
King of Battle:* A collection of his
poems and prophecies was preserved
until the French revolution, in the
abbey of Landevenec ; but the fero-
cious joy with which, in some frag-
ments that remain, he contemplates
the slaughter of the Christians in the
Menez Br^, and the extermination of
their faith, makes their destruction
VOL. VIII. — 26

small matter of regret to any but the
antiquary.

Gwench'lan, however, continues to
be famous throughout Brittany, where
the remnants of his compositions still
are suhg ; especially The Prophecy^
of which a part has been translated
by M. de Villemarqu^ from Barzas
Breiz^ {Breton Ballads :)

DIOUGAN gwench'lan.
rKOPHBCY OP cwsmch'lan.

When the sun b setting,

When the sea is swelling,
I sit upon the threshold of my door.

I ssng wboD I was youngs

And still, grown, old, I sing,
By nigfit, by day, though with sad heart and sore^

If my head is bent low,

If my trouble presses ;
It is not causeless care that weighs me down.

It is not that I fmx ;

I fear not to be slain :
For long enough my life has lingered on.

When they seek not GwenchMan,

Gwenchlan, they will find him :
But find they shall not, when they seek for roe.

Vet, whatsoe'er betide,

To me it matters not
That alone which cuiki to be, will fe.
Thrice all must die, ere reat at last they tee.

Wild boar, II

From the wood forth comes he :
Mnch he drinks ; he hath a wounded foot :

His luur is white with age :

Round him his hungry younji;
Are how ing. Bloodstained is hb gaping throat.

White horse of the sea, lo I

Comes to the encounter.
The shore for terror trembles 'neath his tread.

Bright and daxtling he, <

Bright as the qMurkUng snow ;
And silver horns are gleaming on hb head.

Foams the water *neath him.

At the thunder-fire
Of those fierce nostrils. Sea>horses around

Press, thick and dose as grass

Upon a lakelet's bank.
Horse of the sea I strike well I Strike— strike him
to ths ground t

As I waa sweetly sleeping, in my oold, cold tomb,
I heard the eagle calling, at midnigfat callmg, ** Com? !
Rise on yoor wings, O eaglsts I and all j% birds of

heaven.
To yoo, nor flesh of dog% nor ibecp^ bat CJkristymtf

shall be given 1"

404

Brittany: its People and its Poems.

*' WIdp wM; fior ctrike, but restore him to me :
Hirm lulh been noa« to itty boy, betlc Marie :
King ovar all xn »ur country is he t**

When to her home returned Marie that day,
Safe in hl& cradle her own baby lay,
Sweetly ajsJeept a» if wearied with play.

While she stands g:azinR, entranced at the sights
Bending to kiss the fair chccka with deltghl,
Laolk, Jier to»l on*, tiii eye* opeoa bright.

Half ming iip, and with wotidcritig eyes,
Sfiik arim oututretched in a dreamy surprise,
'* Mother I haw loDg I've been sleeping !" he cries.

We will conclude our present in-
stalment from these interesting relics
of Celtic antiquity by a spirit-stir-
ring fragment ; for the reader will
perceive that it is incomplete. This
is Arthur's March^ {Bale Arzur^
written^ like the last, in the les
Kerm^ or dialect of Comouaille —
Cornu GaiUm — a district of Brittany-
There is a complete change of metre
J>etween the parts marked I. and II. ;
the former being so arranged, that
.the poetical foot composing the lines
is of three short syllables following
a long one, and produces a spirited
and martial effect, somewhat like the
l>eat of a modern drum,

M de Villemarqu^, from whose
Barmz Briez, or Breton Ballads^
we have drawn so largely in these
pages, speaks thus of the ballad be-
fore us :

•• The jwpulanty which the name of Ar-
thur cnjuys in Brittany 13 one of the most
curious phenomena in the history of Breton
fidelity. Neither defeat nor exile could
make the Bretons forgetful of Arthur. Ifts
magic renown, crossing the sea with them,
received new life in Armorica ; he became
there, as he was in the Ule of Britain, an
armed symbol of national liberty ; and the
people, at all periods from the »ixth century
to our own time, repeated, with adaptation
to circumstances, the traditions and the say-
ings or prophecies of which he was the sub-
ject. Thus, whenever war is impending,
tbey Bee, as a warning sign, the army of Ar-
thur defiling at break of day over the sum-
mit of the Black Mountains ; and the poem
here given has for twelve centuries been in
>tbe mouth of Bretons armed to defend their

hearths and altars. 1 learnt it firom an aged
mountaineer named Mikel Floc'h, of Leu-
han, who told me that he had often sung it
when marching against the enemy in the last
wars of the west*'*

The last strophe, which is of later
date tlian the preceding ones, may in
some measure have contributed to
save from oblivion the March of Ar-
thur, It is always sung three times
over, and with the greatest enthu-
siasm.

Some of the strophes^ breathing
the savage vengeance of pagan times,
have been omitted in the English
translation. They retain in tlie origi-
nal so much of the Cambrian dialect
and idiom as to be scarcely in the
least understood by the Bretons who
sing them.

THE liAftai OF ARTHUR*
ip

Maite, fiaste to the combat T Come kinatoan, come

brotheTj

Come father, come ion. to the battle sp««d forth I

The brave and the dau tilled, come, apMKl one an-

oihcT t

Come all 1 there ia work for the wirrion of wonh.

Said to his laihef, at day-dawn^ the »oit of ihc war-
rior,
" Horsemen t aee, on the (ar roonntaln tnromfta, who
Cather,

" HofKRiein all mounted on war-stecda of gnty* like
the mist-wrcjihA ;
Couriers Uiat sooit with the cold on the bcif hu (rf
the mountaina.

** ao*e rauka of aix by tix ; thr«e by three : Ihou-
«anda of lances
Flash in the beama of the ttin, to our vale yet twi*
risen.

** Double TTinka foJtow the bauoers that wave in the
death wind.
Measuring nine caita of a slin£ from the van to the
rearward,"

" PendfivgMi*a amy 1 I know it \ Great Arthur Peo-
dragon
Leading Ida wamgiii manche* *niid douds of the

' If it be Anhtif, then quidi to our boiwi and PuriH or-
rriwa!
Forwardt and foCow him, Set the ti«e« death-
winf ed dart Ayinf 1**

Indian Summer. 405

E'en as he spake rang the 6erce cry of war through JjopC tO present them in OUr next

the mountains : i. • i. r u

" Heart for eye: head for arm: death for wound!" number With turtncr SpCCimcnS ; m-

through hill and valley. cluding the death of Lord Nann from

If in such manner we die as befits Breton Chris- the Spells of a malignant KorHgan,

tians, ... . r ij r or Breton fairy, and the argument by

Too soon we cannot smk down on the field of our . •" ., ®. -^

conflict 1 which a Breton maiden persisted m

choosing the cloister against all the

If our readers are not yet wearied persuasions of a suitor to her hand,

with details of the ancient poetry of Both these poems date at least from

this exceptional part of France, we the sixth century of Christianity.

INDIAN SUMMER.

Upon the hills the autumn sun

His radiance pours like golden wine ;
And low, sweet music seems to run

Among the tassels of the pine ;
Around us rings the wild bird's scream ;

Above, an arch of dark-blue sky;
While, like a maiden's summer dream.

The mists upon the meadows lie.

O peerless Indian Summer hours,

With bracing mom and slumbrous noon 1
How pale are June's bright, flaunting flowers

Amid thy wealth of gorgeous bloom.
The river ripples softly on.

With purple hills upon its breast j
And soft cloud-shadows, floating down.

Have found a scene of perfect rest

The evening darkens ; from the hills

The glory fades, so proudly worn ;
And in the west serenely fills

The fair young moon her silver horn ;
While from the deepening blue above

The stars steal slowly, singly forth ;
And night-windsi like the breath of love,

Come floating o'er the silent earth.

Veronica.

Cornwall Landing.

If the creative genius of Catholi-
city were to be stated from an a
priori point of view, it would reduce
itself to the form of an axiom ; for
Catholicity being the body of revealed
truth, confirming and agreeing with
truth in every order, truth being es-
sentially " that which is," (to employ
the words of Bossuet,) Catholicity
must be pre-eminently endowed with
the germi native and fry it fu I spirit of
origination. But inasmuch as truth
has in this world a clouded scene
for her activity, as effects arise con-
stantly, and almost invariably, from
an intermixture of causes of a diverse
and contending character, and as
the divine, the human, and the ma-
terial elements are incessantly con-
joined in action, it becomes necessa-
ry to trace the chain of events and to
elucidate the influence of principles.
This process does not, with the mind
which is gifted with faith, arrive at
the dignity of the highest proof; it
rather serves to record examples and
to collect illustrations.

In executing such a process, the
difficulty is, not to find instances, but
to decide which of them to choose
amidst the boundless variety, I
think it germane to the subject to
compare Catholic genius with that of
the most polished nation of the Gen-
tile world, as the two have been dis-
played under the sensuous relation of
form. The Greeks, beyond all other
people, possessed a native capability

• We take ptea*ure in firesenting in our \>»gt% the M-
lowitif aWe ifiTcle^ frnm «hc pm of the taf<^ l?»mrTit«d
CoJ-- - - --.^ . :,,d»

lull. \y

fiWth, , , r.,'yA

power > it ciu^eta hvin^ quc»iiuuA of the tUy ^uh A
rare afitirudv* «nd pre*cnts views and applies princi-
ple* in ft Bianner trontir ^ atteuiive and thoughtful
1.— Edw C W.

in art, and there remains of the pro-
ductions of the Greek mind enough
for a just estimate of its rich capabi-
lities. The models of Greek genius
have won the enthusiastic admiration
of mankind, and they dominate with
a strong mastery over all cultivated
minds which lack the Catholic faith.
" Even from their urns, they rule
them still."

Whatever difficulties language, poe-
tr>% philosophy, may labor under from
the lapse of time, that which is tac-
tual and visual needs but to be pre-
sent to be appreciated. If an be the
emanation of a creative spirit ; if it
be not, in its highest sphere, a copy
or an imitation, then must it be ad-
mitted that the evolution of the
Greek orders of architecture, com-
bining majestic strength, radiant
grace, and flowery beauty, embo-
died in pure and enduring material,
is the loftiest expression of impas-
sioned heathen genius. It is higher
than their types of the human form,
because it was wrought without a
model and shaped directly from the
mind s ideal. The conception is one
so strong and great that it has never
had a rival outside of Catholicity —
and indeed hardly a respectable imi-
tator. The coarser capability of the
Roman mind not only originated
nothing and added nothing to Greek
invention, but it marred and misap-
plied that which it undertook to
adopt. Later copyists have aimed
no higher than a restoration of what
their masters had created.

All that addresses the eye, and
through it the mind, under form
alone, may be objectively resolved
into lines and surfaces, which may
be again subdivided into yet simpler

Creative Genius of Catholicity.

40?

elements. The combinations of these
elements — their union, tangencies,
and contrasts — ^may be classified, and
may furnish certain deductions which
are incontrovertible general conclu-
sions. Indeed, the deduction may
become so far generalized as to pass
beyond the boundary of the art
which suggested it — as " the perfec-
tion of form is said to annihilate
form;" it then arrives at abstract
truth, which seeks its illustration in
matter, without deriving its validity
therefrom. This is so fair true that
the science whose highest deductions
fall short of such generalization is
yet in a rudimentary condition.*

In adjusting the elements of form
under harmonious combinations, and
in expanding them into imposing di-
mensions, the Greek mind was so
subtle and appreciative that it missed
nothing, and exhausted everything
within the reach of its science, "un-
winding all the links of grace, with-
out a blunder or an oversight" If the
Gothic architecture had borrowed
from the Greek, or had simply carried
forward into further development the
same formative idea, it might be said
that the case was that of the dwarf
upon the giant's shoulders, who sees
further than the giant himselfl But
the fact is entirely otherwise. The
projectors and moulders of the Gothic
church architecture found the field ot
invention limited — as must ever be
the case — by preceding invention.
The genius, therefore, must have
been the greater which not only dis-

* As an example, we may take the principlo of
beauty as shown in the simplest and least beautiful of
the regular cunres, the droilar. In the circle varia-
tion in direction is combined with identity in the di»-
tance from a fixed point. There ia, then, unity in
diversity— a general principle, of which the drde is
but an example. Nature, ever affluent in resources,
varies the tameness of the circle by presenting it to
the eye as a right line, an ellipse, etc, accocding to
the point of view. Thus again illustrating the law of
unity in diversity ; for the knowledge that the figorc
is still a circle ia mt, while the gradations m its ap-
pearance are many.

covered new combinations of excel-!
lence, but anticipated and antedated
yet surpassed all predecessors.

Among tribes of men whom the
Greek styled " barbarous " emanates
a life in art which transcends his
highest conception. We encoun-
ter fabrics loftier, broader, deeper ;
the arch which lu did not employ is
lifted from its circular character into
a higher curvature, and its key-stone
boldly stricken out We find pillars
massed, scalloped, and filleted \
mouldings of a more graceful con-
tour, every way flexure of contrast
and gradation ; a mazy web of tra-
cery combining lightness, symmetry,
permanence, and equilibrium ; in
mid air, a shapely dome, poised by
the daring hand of science, where the
cloud might visit it and the rain-
bow circle it. All this prodigality of
invention and unequalled execution,
springing forth as from an exhaust-
less fountain, is not confined to some
favored peninsula, but is common to
Italy, Germany, France, and England.
The common cause of an effect so
uniform and remarkable was the in-
spiring and elevating influence of the
One Catholic faith.

I will quote here a Protestant wri-
ter's view of the difference in de-
sign between the Greek and Go hie
building :

** The essentia], germinal principle of dif-
ference between the temple and the cathe^
dral is, that the former is built for exterior
effect, the latter for interior. On occasions
of worship, the multitude surrounded one
edifice, but filled the other. The temple
has, aa regards architectural impression,
really no interior at all ; for the small alU
or tioM which hid ihtpemtraiia entered not
at all into the effect of the structure. From
this difference in character and design, the
whole diversity between the characters of
Greek and Gothic forms and decorations
may be derived. To the former, viewed
from without, an aspect of elevated repose
must belong ; and all the decorations must
be superfidal The elaboration of an im-

'4<:^

Creative Gcnins of Cathalkitj^

, pi 1 inspiring interior led ncccssa-

t,« ¥lii> ('. ^.».*4iitg height and a general upward-
ncs»jofalf ihc courses j to longdrawn vis-
fj* -idc by side; tu grand portals to give
e, and a multitude of windows to give
1 _, ^ , and to a generil style of decoration,
concave, receding, and perspective.^'

^
^

The same writer says :

** If Fngland's cathedrals are inferior to
those of France» they arc more beautiful
Itian anything else in the world. Durham
and Ely, and Winchester and Salisbury,
what needs the soul of man more impressive,
glorious, transcendent, than these ?"

Another cofnpeteat authority —
also a Protestant — says :

** There is infinitely more scientific skill
displayed in a Gothic cathedral than in all
the buildings of Greece and Rome ; nor
could these latter have resisted the shock
d[ time so long, had they not been almost
bolid masses of stone, with no more cavity
than was indispensably necessary,**

Let us examine the principle of
delineation in the human form — iJiat
which has ever captivated the effbrts
of the greatest artists. In the classic
execution of the highest human types
there is an evident straining after the
expression of something above the
actual. Sir Charles Bell has shown
that this effect is attained by a refin-
ed species of exaggeration. It con-
sists in exaggerating whatever distin-
guishes man from the animals — in
enlarging, for example, the facial an-
gle. It is a further remove from the
animals than man is, but wi the same
direction. The Hercules, for instance,
is an embodiment of the central form
of strength — it is an exaggeration of
muscular development. The highest
expression is the embodiment of hti-
man passion. In this way the Greeks
attained the delineation of the super-
human. Under the tutorage of
Catholicity the human lineaments
achieved the expression of the super-
natural. One was the idealization of
nature ; the other the supernatural- Si"

ization of humanity. Of this latter*

classic art had no conception ; while
therefore it may equal or surpass
Catholic art in execution, it must fait
far below in its ideal,*

Finally, all art is expression. Giv-
en a knowledge and mastery of the
instruments of expression, and the
thought will determine its character ;
the nature of the thought expressed
depends upon the conceiving mind ;
the highest conception of the mind is
the offspring of religious aflfeciion ,
the Catholic is the true religion ;
therefore the expression of Catholic
genius is the summit of art. It is by
no means a necessity that tlie soul
shall express itself under sensuous
forms ; but to all outvtard manifesta-
tion a power over the instrument is a
condition — in which sense the body
is itself an instrumentality* What
the soul expresses must be thought
— either its own, or another*s — it
must cither imitate or originate ; imi-
tation is merely repetition, and is* in
the power of a mirror. So that what
in every art cannot be taught is

• In this cooncction kl ut record « liew remsirki
from the ablest wriien upon the ftubject.

Solger has laid : ** Fhilosophy caa crei(« notUins :
it can anly mukniamd. It can crute ntkhcf the
rcHgimis intptTBttcn nor th« artistic geniut : but it
can detect and brinf to light all diil is gooHIsmI
therein. "

Meget, in ttaling lh« relaltoo of art, religion, tnd
pliilosopliy. say-3 ;

'*Art fulfil* \\A Kighei^t mi&.iioQ wlien it has «flU-
blished itself with re%ion attd phHoiophy in the one
circle commoD to all, and bi merely a tnctltod of rev«al^
iog the godlike to macv of giviug utteratxv to the
deepest interests, the tno«t comprehensivB tmili* per-
taining to mankim!. Nations have deposited the
most holy, ricH» and intenae of their idtas lu *ixki
of art, and art Ls the key to the philosophy aod retigioci
of a naiioo/*

SdicUing. with hts peculiar theory^ says; *'That
artist i» to be accoanted happy to whom tht i^nda
have granted the crmtiv* #/- *' ' ' ^tiat
mtt^tM* the aspect and t>^ *tf

trtatipt idem^nnA produces ii, i vi'

dual mwi^ridin iUt^, a jt^ei^i, Mi *UraaJ /»■*«%"

Not one of these three ttatemenis U beyond the
r^Mh of cavil or of juit exceplioci ; but^ for the pur-
pose IB Ivfcud, w« sec ihit the first says thai ** phitnao«
phy can create nothing; i" the serood. that " art U a
method of revealing the godlike to nian, a«>d of fhr*
iiig ulierance to his most huty and intense i>deas ;**
and the third, that it involves a gift or endknntienl of
cr«iliv«flplffiL**

pression. The highest effort of the
soul is spontaneous and original.
Herein we find the superiority — visi-
ble at a glance — of Catholic architec-
ture over the Greek orders, of Ca-
tholic delineations of the human
countenance over the finest models
of antiquity.

We have sufficiently considered the
originative character of Catholicity
under the aspect of constructed form.
We have contemplated her mould mg
and shaping matter in her flexible
fingers, and evolving that wilderness
of artistic grace and loveliness which,
in the ruins of a Tintern or Melrose
Abbey^ compels the admiration, but
defies the rivalr)-, of the apostate
sons of Catholic sires. We shall
now consider her influence in the
building up of states and the organ-
1 ization of societies.

Christianity took its rise under a
' universal military despotism. It sus-
^ lained for three hundred years the
r superincumbent pressure of a hostile
^heathen empire. It exhausted the
[ malice and the power of a pagan and
j brutalized temporal order j and ^vhen
rthe Roman empire shook the world
Vflih its ftll, Christianity survived the
death-throes of that mighty organ iza-
[ lion.

When she rose from the cata-
combs* she did not sweep away the
^ temples of the heathen gods ; she
irove from those fanes the unclean
^spirits which so long had dwelt with-
fin them; she rescued them from
rthelr demon desecration, monuments
[of her triumph, trophies of her vic-
[•torious agonies ; she made them the
1 basilicas of her majestic Avorship.

When the fierce tribes from the

J north poured over Southern Europe,

I'lhe church preserved what was sound

fin the Roman civilization, instructed

\he barbarians in agriculture by the

example of her laborious monks, and

taught them all the arts of life ; in-

stituted laws and polity j\
and restrained tyranny ; pl3
nourished the seeds of libert)
veloped civilization and refinen
and built up the whole grand fabric*
of Christendom.

In this formation of new stales
out of new populations, they did not
become perfect exemplars of Chris-
tian ethics and morals, nor exact ex-j
ponents of the formative power of
Catholicit}\ The church encounter*]
ed in those ages, as she does in this,
incessant obstacles, difliculties, and
resistance. Whatever was good and
admirable in those constitutions came
to them from the Catholic religion
and was derived from the papal see*

The canon law had, under the
emperors, tempered and modified
the civil code ; and among the new
states it operated a beneficial change -
in the feudal principles. Both these '
systems prescribed for the mass of
men an unchristian servitude. En-
lightened equity and justice, andj
equality before the law, originated m{
the jurisprudence of the churchy and i
not in barbarous feudalities, nor in the |
capricious and tyrannical decrees of i
Roman emperors. There are men
in this age and country who profess
great love for the people and great
regard for the rights of labor, but who
are stanch partisans of the tyrants
of the middle age in the contentions
which arose between them and the
papal see. Inherited ill-will blinds
them to the fact that the only power
in those days which could hold ty-
ranny to an accountability or check
kingly license wa-s that of the pope.
The exercise of the papal protector-
ate not only tended to prevent cause-
less wars, but it controlled the cor-
rupting influence of royal vices by
stamping them with reprobation and,
where needful, with degradation. It
was the bulwark of the feebler states,
the barrier against ^riuceVj ^sc^v

4^0

Creative Gcuiiis of Cat/wlkiiy.

tion. and everywhere the advocAte^
t I, and the defender of the

, uutiilude.
,^Thc new organization of states
vas to be marked by a characteristic
which was also new. Human govem-
-tncnt is ordained of God, Christian-
Ijty was to recognize and to exemplify
llhis truth. She was to legitimate and
[ennoble human government in its
jwn separate order. To effect ibis
Kn the fullest manner, there must be
Mn exemplification directly from the
Itpcrsonality of the hierarchy \ for,
I Sacrifice being the most exalted hu-
Itnan action, the priest, whose office it
lis to offer aacrifice, is by his function
Ifirst among men. The highest re-
liition must therefore derive from
i'prieslhood. But there would al*
rays be something lacking of the
^kig^esi^ unless the head of the hie-
rarchy were a temporal ruler. The
temporal power of the pope is the
>nsecralion of humein government.
Jnlike others, he receives no dignity
rom the office, but confers grace
Upon it and upon its order ; and Chris-
tendom, created by the church, re-
ceives the key-stone of its strength
and its crowning symmetry when the
first of Christian priests becomes a
ruler among the nations. And con-
sequently, religion suffers its direst
outrage when, reversing the order, the
temporal power lays its unfaltering
hand upon the vessels of Uic sanctu-
ary.

The church not only created the
iDlerior coherency of states by intro-
ducing just principles into their con-
stitution ; she not only bound them in
links of feHo^vship whose nfXHs was
at Rome ; she also organi2ed their
exterior defence. In uniting Chris-
tendom during the crusades to repel
the Moslem invasion, the popes caus-
ed the reconstruction of systematic
aod scientific strategy, which had di»»
appeared with the Roman Iegtoo«

thus furnishing to civiliration anee<i-;

All defence and a desirable superior-
ity » while at the same time the
narrow spirit of Uie feudal method
and its local strifes were rendered
obsolete.

For a thousand years the ^
begun by Mohammedan i,
continued to rage on the couhnes of
Europe. At its early period it pene*
trated to Tours in France, where it
was checked by Charles Martel, in
732. But the triumph was not com-
pleted on that wing of Christendom
till the capture of Granada, and the
annihilation of the Moorish power in
Spain in the year of tlie discovery of
America. On the other border, the
Turks besieged and took Belgrade,
and suffered a final repulse at Vien-
na from John Sobieski, King of V(y
land, in 1683.

But, so far as human causes indi*
cate, the question whether the faith
of Europe should be Christian or
Moslem was decided iu the Gulf of
Lcpanto, in 1571. These were all
European battle-fields. The struggle
was against an invasion which struck
at the existence of ChristiaJiily. The
master-spirit w^hich created, conar
bined, informed, and directed the re-
sistance dwelt in the Vatican.

The modern age is distinguished
for the intense application of human
intelligence to the laws and coiidi-
tionalities of time, space, and matter,
in their triple relations ; and Provi-
dence seems to be permitting to man
the reassertion of his dominion o^^er
the earth. " Knowledge is power,*'
but the right employment of power la
virtue: and unless the moral forces
keep pace with the conquests of
mind In the realm of matter, there
will ensue antagonisms more destruc-
tive than before, as well as a more
profound desolation of the human
raoe. The rectification of the will is
of an importance prior aud superior

Creative Genius of Catholicity.

411

to the activity of the intelligence;
and without a religious faith and
sanction the fruits of the understand-
ing are but dust and ashes.

When we consider the spirit of in-
vention and examine its results, three
great products assume an acknow-
ledged superiority. These are, the
magnet, with its corollary, the exten-
sion of geographical discovery ; the
printing-press in its action upon in-
telligence ; and gunpowder in its re-
lation to physical forces in war. The
magnet can never again point the
way to a discovery like that which
was achieved by Columbus ; the
art of printing cannot be applied to
a higher purpose than that of multi-
plying copies of the Holy Scriptures ;
and gunpowder, which still controls
the practice of the art of war, was
never employed upon an occasion so
critical to civilization and so momen-
tous in the world's affairs, as when
the cannon of Don John of Austria
won for Christendom the great fleet-
fight of Lepanto. These three com-
manding discoveries, and these their
greatest applications, belong to Ca-
tholic nations and to Catholic indi-
viduals. The Protestant religions
have no part in these discoveries,
because there is an awkward meta-
physical axiom which says that the
cause must exist before the effect,
and these greatest of inventions all
preceded — some of them by centuries
— the birth of Protestantism.

Some writers have claimed that
the inventive spirit began with the
dawn of the Reformation, at which
time, according to Robert Hall, the
nations "awoke from the sleep of
ages to run a career of virtuous emu-
lation." If this be so, why is it that
later discoveries have not equalled
those which we have just specified?
According to this theory, the dawn
eclipses the noon-day; and Protes-
tantism would seem to belong to th^t

class of things of which the less you
have of them the better.

The revival of letters is usually
dated in the thirteenth century, and
that honor is universally accorded to
Italy. The first bank and the first
newspaper are found at Venice. The
Bible had been published in nume-
rous editions before Luther began to
dogmatize from a printed copy of it
in Saxony. The system of modern
commerce took its rise under the
papacy, and ran a brilliant career in
the Italian republics, and in the free
cities of Germany, long before the
era of the Protestant religions. Co-
lumbus had discovered the New
World, and Vasco da Gama had
doubled the Cape of Good Hope and
marked the pathway to India, before
the rise of England's commercial
greatness. The "progress" had
been installed, and had achieved such
works as these, before the century in
which Lord Bacon lived to write his
Inductive System of Philosophy,

It would be an incomplete view of
the subject if we failed to remark the
enduring character of the work which
is of Catholic creation. Not like
the mutable religions which protest
against her ; nor struck with incu-
rable sterility, like the Greek schis-
'matic ; nor frozen into lifeless forms,
like those of the Asiatic world; the
living faith of the church incessantly
and indefinitely advances the nation
and the individual who faithfully cor-
respond to it. That vitality, once in-
fused into the pulses of a people, goes
forth from them only with its life-
blood. There is an exemplification
of this truth in the persecution which
the Irish people have sustained, and
are sustaining, at the hands of the
English government History pre-
sents no parallel to this antagonism
of physical power, on- the one hand,
and moral determination on the
other* To sustain )i!Qc^«xs^9i!^ggL^:^*

412

Creative Genius of Catholicity,

sion, and to uphold her detestable
system of classes and privileged or-
ders, England has taxed everything,
even the air and the light of heaven.
This legalized oppression has ground
down tlie English laborer and opera-
tive, but it has fallen with crushing
cruelty upon the Irish peasant, whose
country, in addition to the evil of
partial and jealous legislation, has
been compelled to pay tithes to a
hostile and hating creed.

This merciless system has depopu-
lated the land, and in the enforced
emigration the Irish peasant has
found no powerful government to aid
him in his going \ he has paid, to the
last farthing, the exactions and rob-
beries of English domination, and
then has made his own unassisted
way, dogged by an indicted poverty
but with his gallant spirit still unbro-
ken. What has England gained by
this conflict of centuries with Ire-
land? She has sapped her own
strength and merited the condemna*
tion of mankind. Moral causes con-
trol the universe, and the moral hero-
ism of Ireland has vanquished every
odds and ever)^ disaster. A tempo-
ral power far greater than that of
Rome when her eagles were invin-
cible has pursued for ages the deter-
mined purpose of forcing the people
of ihe sister-island to join in protest
and hostility against the Apostolic
See, But the imperial monarchy,
the riches, the splendor, the craft of
England have found their master in
the stern, unyielding, unconquerable
fidelity with which the Irish people
have clung to the Catholic faith.

The existence of this hemisphere
* was made known by agencies alto-
gether Catholic. The first act of
Columbus on his landing in the New
World, that of planting a cross upon
its soil, the ni « ven of his bap-

tismal namt , ignificant In

South Ainerica, in those self-same

years that nations were torn from he
communion by the abuse of leamln
and liberty derived from herselt Cai
tholicity was engaged in widenin
the domain of Christendom and add
ing a continent to the faith.

I will briefly quote a New En J
Protestant writer in this connc
In the second volume of his Ca$i^u
of Peru^ Prescott says:

"The effort to chrislfaniie the hcatl
an honorable characteristic of the S]
conquests. The Puritan, with cqua
gioiia zeal, did comparatively little for ih
conversion of the Indian. But the Spatiial
missionary, from first to last, has shown i
keen interest in the spiritual welfare i
natives. Under his auspices churches
niagni6cent scale, have been erected,
for elementary insuuction founded, an
every rational means taken to 6))read th
knowledge of religious truth, while he hi
carried his solitary mission into remote an
almost inaccessible regpons, or jjathcrcd hij
Indian disciples into communities, like th
good Las CasaA In Cumani, or the Jesuit]
in California and Paraguay. At all time
the courageous ecclcsiasric has been readf
to lifk his voice against the cruelty of :
conqueror, and when his rcmonstfanc
proved unavailing, he has still follq
bind up the broken-hearted, to tea
poor h^dian resignation under his Iq
light up his dark intellect with the rcvd
of a holier and happier existence. The \
nation which sent forth the hard'h
conqueror from its bosom sent fori
missionary to do the work of bcncfi
and spread the light of Christian civilii:
lion over the farthest regions of ihc
world."

Elsewhere the same histortaiil
speaks thus of the Spanish conquer* «
or of Mexico :

*'The conversrdn of the heathen
predocninant motive with Cortes ii '
diiion. It was not a vain boasL
have sacrificed his life for it at -.v
and more than once, by his indiscreet tealt]
he actually did place his life and the \
of his enterprise in jeopardy. It was
prr nt Tinrni^sc ttk inirity the land froa
1 f the Aftccs 1

F' ^. _, r Jesus. This j^

hii expedition ihc cbsncter of a crusAde.

Creative Genius of Catholicity.

413

It furnished the best apology for the con-
quest, and does more than all other consi-
derations toward enlisting our sympathies
on the side of the conquerors."

For the benefit of those who have
a tender sympathy for the Incas and
Montezumas, and naught but exe-
crations for the Spanish invaders, it
may be remarked that the religions
of Mexico and Peru were stained
with human sacrifices, followed in
the former by cannibalism. The
same unerring and irresponsible Be-
ing — ever adjusting the retribution
to the crime — who hurls the ava-
lanche from its mountain, gives its
mission to the tempest, and scourges
the city with pestilence, likewise di-
rects the fearful visitation of the
sword, whether in the hand of a Josh-
ua, a Cyrus, an Attila, or a Pizarro.
On the southern continent Catholic
colonization preserved, christianized,
and elevated the aboriginal races ;
while in the north, Protestant coloni-
zation swept away even their graves.

It is time to consider, and in a
more special manner, the agency of
the Catholic religion in the forma-
tion of this majestic Republic of the
United States.

The fundamental principle upon
which our ancestors based their re-
sistance to England was, that they
were Englishmen, and had lost none
of the rights of British subjects by
being transplanted to these shores.
They claimed the system of the com-
mon law as an inheritance, and also
all those guarantees which had grown
up into that frame-work called the
English Constitution. Upon this
issue they went into the Revolution,
and upon the same issue Chatham,
and Burke, and others defended the
cause of the colonists in the British
parliament. The definite question,
then, is, What were those principles,
and whence were they derived ?

The first declaration of public

rights in England is the document
called Magna Charta, delivered by
King John, at Runnymede, in 12 15.
This instrument begins as follows :

"John, by the grace of God King of
England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Nor-
mandy and Aquitame, and Earl of Anjou :
To the archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls,
barons, justiciaries of the forests, sheriiis,
governors, officers, and to all bailifis, and
other his faithful subjects, Greeting : Know
ye that we, in the presence of God, and for
the health of our soul, and the souls of all
our ancestors and heirs, and the exaltation
of his holy church, and amendment of our
kingdom, by advice of our venerabib fathers,
Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury, Pri-
mate of all England, and Cardinal of the
Holy Roman Church ; Henry, Archbishop
of Dublin; William, Bishop of I^ndon,
. . • have, in the first place, granted to
God, and by this our present charter, con-
firmed for us and our heirs for ever.

"Art. I. That the Church of England
shall be free, and enjoy her whole rights and
privileges inviolable," etc

Many of the articles are occupied
with matters relating to feudal ten-
ures, which, of course, are without
application to this country. The
twentieth article is as follows :

" Art. XX. A freeman [that is, a free-
holder] shall not be amerced for a small
fault, only according to the degree of his
fault ; and for a great crime, in proportion
to the heinousness of it, saving to him his
contenement, [means of livelihood;] and
after the same manner a merchant, saving to
him his merchandise ; and a villein shall be
amerced after the same manner, saving to
him his wainage, [carts, etc,] if he fidls un-
der our mercy ; and none of the aforesaid
amerciaments shall be assessed but by the
oaths of honest men of the neighborhood.

"Art. XXX. Nosheriffor bailiff of ours,
or any other, shall take horses or carts of
any freeman for carriage, without the con-
sent of the said freeman.

"Art. XXXI. Neither shall we or our
bailiffs take any man*s timber for our castles
or other uses, unless by the consent of the
owner of the timber.

"Art. XXXIX. No freeman shall be
taken or imprisoned, or disseised, or out-
lawed, or banished, or any way destroyed ;
nor will we condemn him, or commit him to

Creative Genius cf Catholicity.

priaan, unless by the legal judgment of his
peers, or by the law of the land

"Art. XL, To none we will sell, to nane
will we deny, nor delay, rijj;ht or justice,

** Art, LL And, as soon as peace is re-
stored^ we will seod out oi the kingdom all
foreign soldiers, cross -bowmen, and sstipcn-
diarics, who arc come with horses and arms,
to the injury of the kingdom.

**ARr, LV, All unjust and illegal fines,
and all amerciaments imposed unjustly, and
contrary to the law of the land, shall be
entirely forgiven." etc

The sixty-third and last article is :

«Art. LXIIL Wherefore we will, and

firmly enjoin, that the Church of England

be free^ and that alt men tn our kingdom

\ have and hold all the aforesaid liberties,

rights, and concessions peaceably," etc*

Copies of this charter were found
ito have been deposited in the cathe-
Vdrals of Lincoln, Salisbury, and Glou-
ster. When, in the next reign,
that of Henry IIL, circumstances re-
quired that the charter should be
I confirmed, the ceremony was per-
Mormed by the Archbishop of Can-
rterbury and the other bishops. Corn-
king before the king, in Westminster
IHall, with tapers tn their hands, ihey
pdenounced excommunication against
I the breakers of the charter; and,
I'Casling down their tapers, exclaimed,
*So may all that incur this sentence
extinguished." To which the
king responded, " So help me God,
fcl will keep all these things invio-
'ate,**

Hal lam says, of this great charter :

** It is still the kcy-stone of English liber-
ty,** '• and all that has since been obtained
is little more than as confirmation or com-
mentary*"

Sir James Mackintosh and Sir Wil-
liam Blackstone agree essentially with
HaJlam* In respect to the merit of
obtaining the charter, Mr. Hallam
Says:

** As far as we are guided by hiftorical

testimony, two great men, the pillan ofc

church and state, may be coui»idcred as ei^

titled beyond the rest to the ^\

monument — Stephen I^ngton, .

of Canterbury, and Wiljiam, Earl ol r<

broke."

Of the charter, Sir WiHlam Black
stone says ;

"It protected every individual of ih
nation in the free enjoyment of his (ifc, hi
libertyt and his property* unless declared \
be forfeited by the judgment of his peers."

The Petition of Right, passed
162S, was based confessedly upon
Magna Charta. Its principal pr
visions are ; i. That no loan or
might be levied, save by consent
parliameiiL 3. That no man m^f
be imprisoned but by legal process!
3. That soldiers might not be quar^
tcred on people against their wiUJ
4* That no commissions be granted
for executing martial law. Thii
Petition of Right, in its third articL
quotes entire the thirty-ninth of th^
charter, w!iich is there styled *'the
great charter of the liberties of En|
land," Coke, who drew up the pcL
tion, in his speech against the king^l
prerogative, says: " In my opinion, it
weakens Magna Charta and all our '
statutes."

The Bill of Rights, passed at th<
Revolution of 1688, assumes it
the clear duty of the subjects " _
vindicate and assert their ancient
rights and liberties." The Act
Settlement declares that ** Uie lawaj
of England are the birtliright of the ]
people thereof."

The correspondence and analogy^
between the principles of the great
charter, together with its successive
commentaries and confirmations, and
those upon which the American Kc-
volution rests, are obvious and strik-
ing. We may particularly instance
the royal infringements upon the
rights of the colonists, in refusing .

Creative Genius of Catlwlicity,

415

assent to laws the most wholesome
and necessary to the public good ;
keeping up standing armies in time
of peace without the consent of the
legislature ; affecting to render the
military independent of and superior
to the civil power ; quartering armed
troops upon the inhabitants ; impos-
ing taxes upon them without their
consent; depriving them, in many
cases, of the benefit of trial by jury ;
and altering fundamentally the form
of their government.

Without a basis of right principle,
the American Revolution would have
been a rebellion against legitimate
authority, and the people would have
been deprived of that rectitude of
conscience which bore them through
the war ; they would have been de-
moralized by the overthrow of their
inbred loyalty, without which no free
government is secure. If there was
not a violation of consdence in with-
drawing their allegiance to the British
crown, it was because they had sove-
reign rights which were above that
allegiance. It was because there
was a Magna Charta which, in the
words of Coke, "would brook no
sovran.'' The contest was for those
transmitted liberties which the Ameri-
can people claimed as a birthright
under the British Constitution. Near-
ly six centuries divide 1776 from
1215; but the gulf is spanned by
that arch of immortal principles
which was projected by Cardinal
Stephen Langton and his Catholic
compeers in the meadow of Runny-
mede.

In violating the unity of Christen-
dom in the sixteenth century, Eng-
land thus outraged the national con-
science, and her disloyalty to the
truth that she had inherited for a
thousand years was followed by the
oppression of her colonies, which fin-
ally led to their separation from her.
There was this great principle involv-

ed in that contest, and this great dif-
ference in favor of the colonists : Eng-
land oppressed them, from her want
of Catholic guidance and restraint and
the observance of her own organic
principle ; they resisted fur on that
basis of public right, and loyalty,
and reason, which had been embed-
ded in the English Constitution by
their common Catholic ancestry.
Not for the defence only of those
rights, but for the knowledge of them
— ^for their very existence — ^were our
ancestors indebted to the Roman
Catholic religion.

Upon the traditional laws and free
principles of the English Constitu-
tion, we have erected an unrivalled
system of order and right, while in
English hands they have degenerated
into a scheme of legalized oppres-
sion which is without a parallel
among nations claiming to be free.
Providence, acting on events, has so
disposed them that England's perse-
cution of the faith has transferred
the Catholic population from that
country to this, where with the lan-
guage are found abo the true tra-
dition and the just development of
the English Catholic constitution.

What is wanted to the perfection
of American nationality is a firm mo-
ral, that is, religious foundation. It
is easily susceptible of proof that no
strong nationality has ever subsisted
without such a basis. I do not, of
course, limit the proposition to the
Christian religion. But the founda-
tion must be the more stable as the
religion which underlies and props
it is nearer to a conformity with
unmixed truth. The first step in our
career of greatness wa3 to turn from
England and to advance toward
that unity which she had abandoned
— ^when we seized upon the tra-
ditional Catholic principles and de-
fended them against her attempted
despotism. The true course of our

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Schaff's Church History.

417

. TRANSLATKD FBOM THE HISTOKISCH-POLITISCHB BLABTTSR.

SCHAFFS CHURCH HISTORY.

In the year 1854 appeared a work
of great merit, entitled A History of
the Apostolic Churchy together with a
General Introduction to Church His-
tory^ from the pen of Philip Schaff, a
professor in the Lutheran Seminary
at Mercersburg, and a literary col-
league of Dr. Nevin, called " the Ame-
rican proto-martyr of the suffering
church." At that time, Professor
Schaff, who is a native of Graubiind-
ten, in Switzerland, was making a
long stay in Europe. In the same
year he published two other works —
St, Augustine^ Berlin, 1854, pp. 129, a
brochure or precursor of the present
large work, and America — the Politi-
cal^ Social^ and Ecclesuistico-Religiaus
Condition of the United States^ which
is a continuous eulogy of his adopted
country. That Dr. Schaff has for
thurteen years zealously prosecuted
the study of ecclesiastical history,
the unusual size of the work before
us sufficiently evinces. It is dated
from the Bible House in New York,
January, 1867, ^"d dedicated to the
teachers and friends of the author,
August Tholuck, Julius Muller of
Halle, J. A. Domer of Berlin, and
J. P. Lange of Bonn.

From the preface and dedication
we learn that Schaff studied exegesis
in Tubingen under Dr. Schmid, his-
tory under Dr. Bauer, and attended
the lectures on systematic theology
of Dr. Domer. At this time he re-
sided in Halle, ** under the hospita-
ble roof" of Tholuck, and by him

VOL. VIII. 27

and Julius Muller he was encourag-
ed to choose an academical career.
Since his residence in North Ameri-
ca he has twice visited Europe, in
1854 and in 1865. His friends fre-
quently wished him to obtain a pro-
fessor's chair in Germany, but he
coidd not determine to separate him-
self from a land in which since his
twenty-fifth year he had found a
second home, and desired his days
to close in the '' noble mediatorship
between the Evangelical Christiani-
ty of the German and English lan-
guages." His book shows that he has
defended in America, not altogether
unworthily, the German theology —
" the true, liberal, catholic, and evan-
gelical theology."

An English translation of the pre-
sent history of the ancient church,
entitled History of the Christian
Church ; or^ History of Ancient Chris-
tianity^ appeared at the same time.
Editions of this work were simulta-
neously published in New York and
Edinburgh, in the years 1859 and
1862. It is indeed a continuation of
The Apostolic Church, but, like it,
a separate work; "it contains the
fruits of twenty years' active labor as
professor of church history in Mer-
cersburg, Pennsylvania."

Dr. Schaff remained in New York
two years, for the purpose of availing
himself of the use of its laiger libra-
ries. Here the Astor Library was
at his command. This library,
founded in the year 1850, by ther

German, John Jacob Astor, with a
capital of four hundred thousand
dollarsi has been extensively in-
creased by his son. It contains in
a magnificent building one hundred
and fifty thousand carefully selected
volumes, among which are many
costly and classic works on all
branches of literature. He had also
access to the library of the Union
Theological Seminar)*, ** which has
purchased the Van Ess Librar)',
(that of the well-known Catholic BU
ble translator,) with a collection of
the fathers of the Church and the
great learned compilations j it has
since been increased by the addition
of the library of E. Robinson, and
the productions of recent Protestant
theology. It is worthy of remark ihat
the libraries of our celebrated German
church historians find their way to
America. Thus, the Neander libra-
ry has been for a length of time in
the Baptist Seminary at Rochester ;
the Thilo Libran,'^ in Yale College,
New Haven ; and the Nicdner Libra-
rry in the Congregation alist Seminary
at Andover, Ncander's library, to-
gether with the manuscript of his
ohurch historjs are shelved in a sepa-
cate room at Rochester*' This is
unfortunately the customary way in
which the important libraries of Ger-
man theologians find their way either
to England or North America, or, at
least, are sold under the hammer.

The author honors the truth when
he acknowledges and prefers the old-
er and mostly Catholic investigators
to the labors of Protestant inquirers.
He mentions the Benedictines in the
editions of the fathers of the church,
the Bollandists in hagiography, Man-
si and Hardouin in the collection of
the councils, Gallandi, Dupin, Ceil-
lier, Oudin, Cave, and J, A. Fabri*
cius in patrology and tlie history
of church literature; in particular

branches he mentions Tillemont, Pc-
teau, (Pctavius,) Bull, Bingham, and
Walch as his favorite guides. Whe-
ther he will prepare for the press his
numerous manuscripts on the church
history of the middle ages and mo-
dern times, the author refers to a dis-
tant and mdefinite time. It will be
done if "God grants him lime and
strength." For the present, his lei-
sure time will be employed with the
enlarged English edition of Lange's
biblical works.

The peculiarity of our author con-
sists in working up and turning to
advaijtage the studies of others. In
Sdiaflf'we find little or no indepen-
dent research, for which he needs
both time and inclination, but he ex-
cels in an exact and erudite employ-
ment of that which has been prepar-
ed by others. We are not finding
fault with this, but rather approve of
and commend it. In more personal
and independent investigation, the
present lacks the results of his pre-
vious intellectual labors. Dr. SchaiT
may make these once more respected ;
indeed, he avails himself more ex-
tensively of the labors of Catholic
authors than any other modern Pro-
testant historian.

In a book so rich In its contents,
we are obliged to co!ifine ourselves
to a notice of special points only ;
we prefer this limitation to an esti-
mate of the general contents, which
of course embrace the ordinary well-
known topics. The author treats ot
the inner life of the church, monastic
cism, ecclesiastical customs, worship,
and Christian art more minutely than
any of his predecessors.

The author discusses more briefly
than we expected the two important
chapters on llic church's care of the
poor, and of prisoners and slaves.
The question of slavery is consider-
ed in paragraphs S9 and 152, in 75^«-

I
I

Sckaffs Church History.

419

History of the Apostolic Church, para-
graph 1 13, and in a separate treatise
published in 186 1, Slavery and the
Bible, More than thirty-four years
ago, as Mohler for the first time treat-
ed of this subject, he could say that
he had searched with ardor both
large and small works on church his-
tory for the purpose of instructing
himself on the mode of the abolition
of slavery, but all to no purpose ; so
that here he was compelled to open
the way himself. Frequently since
that time this question has been his-
torically treated, but by no means
exhausted. With a few words Dr.
Schaff dismisses the important de-
crees of the Emperor Constantine in
the years 316 and 321. He only
remarks : '' Constantine facilitated
their liberation, granted Sunday to
them, and gave ecclesiastics the pri-
vil^e of emancipating their slaves
of their own will and without the wit-
nesses and ceremonies which were
otherwise necessary." Here he cites
Corpus JuriSy 1. i. art. 13, 1. i and 2.
The fact is, that the Emperor Con-
stantine issued a command, April
i8th, 321, to Bishop Hosius, of Cor-
dova, according to which the libe-
ration of slaves in the Christian
churches should have the same effect
as manumission under the Roman
law. The principal law of this de-
cree reads thus : " Those who libe-
rate their slaves in the bosom of the
church are declared to have done
this with the same authority as if it
were done by the Roman state, with
her accustomed solemnities." This
statute may be found in the Theodo-
sian Code, lib. iv. tit 7, DeManutniss,
in EccUsia; Lex 2, Codex Justin,
De his, qui in Ecclesia manumit'
tuntur. It is mentioned by Sozo-
men in the Historia Tripartita, and
by NIcephorus Callisti, vii. 18. It
does not appear to us that Dr. Schaff

has seen the text of the decree ; for
this does not refer only to the slaves
of ecclesiastics, but to slaves in gene-
ral. Whoever declared in the church
that his slaves had received their
liberty, they were from that fact free.
Schaff is of the opinion that Mohler,
(who was also ignorant of this de-
cree,) in his able treatise on the abo-
lition of slavery, has overestimated
the influence of the sermons of St
Chrysostom on the subject, and we
cannot say that he is entirely incor-
rect. On the other hand, the latter
raised the question of the so-called
/>f»^ liberation of the slaves, that is,
their Christian treatment, the solici-
tude and care of Christian masters
for their servants. The emancipa-
tion of slaves who were not prepared
for liberty was always injurious to the
slaves themselves, and not at all pro-
motive of the general welfare.

Dr. Schaff treats the life and teach-
ing of St Augustine with becoming
respect He does him, however, a
great injustice when he makes him
teach, after the example of Tertullian
and St Cyprian,* a symbolical doc-
trine of the Last Supper, which at
the same time includes a real spiri-
tual repast through faith, and thus in
this respect he makes him approach
the Calvinistic or orthodox reformed
doctrine. St Augustine a Calvinist
in the doctrine of the Eucharist!
But the few passages which Dr.
Schaff advances for this purpose
prove directly the faith of St Augus-
tine in the real, not in the symbolical,
presence of Christ in the sacrament
of the altar. In his twenty-sixth
tract on John we read : " Who abides
not in Christ, neither eats his flesh,
nor drinks his blood, even though he
should press with his teeth the sac-

*It is Dr. Schaii; and not th« authorof the article,
wboattribatee this doctrine to the two miteiB mcd-
tioned.— Ed. C. W.

apo

SchajSTs Church History.

rament of the body and blood of
Christ." Our Lord says : ** He who
eateth my body, and drinketh my
blood, abideth in me, and I in him."
(John vi. 57.) Jesus refers to those
who receive it with living faith and
devotion, since the mere corpora!
partaking of the Eucharist is no
abiding in Christ ; therefore St.
Augustine could say» and so can every
Catholic teacher at the present time,
** Who abides not in Christ,* neither
eats (truly) his flesh, nor drinks his
bloody even though he should pr^ss
with his teeth the sacrament of the
body and blood of Christ," The
same doctrine is contained in the
familiar hymn, ^^ Sumunt kmi^ Si4m(mt
maii^ sorie iamen irtfrgwih\ vita vel
intiriius,'''^ The wicked, then, who
receive the body, receive it not to
life, but to judgment, for Christ lives
not in them. With no better reason
can Schaff adduce the words of St,
Augustine in the preceding tract:
** Why prepare your teeth and your
stomach ? Believe and eat" Every
Catholic teacher must declare the
same ; it is not the corporal partici-
pation, but the spiritual disposition,
which is faith and love, which must

, be impressed upon the mind of the

I faithful in receiving the Holy Eucha-
rist.

Dr. Schaff is quite unfortunate in

^lidducing the passage, (De pecrafor.
\tis €t rem, ii, 25,) " Although it is

'not the body of Clmst, yet it is holy,
since it is a sacrament." The impres-
sion is created in the mind of the
reader that St. Augustine here denies
in plain words the real presence of
Christ When we examine more
closely, it is found that the question
is not of the Eucharist at all. bnt of
the blessed bread called Eulogia,

• " Tbe rood ttD4 dw huA roeftlt^ yet witllilit m-

Mrast lot of Kfe Of 01 detraction.

on Ufl

and of which catecliumens were il

lowed to partake. The entire
sage mns thus : •* Sanctification
not of one mode \ for 1 think
even catechumens are sanctified i
certain way through the sign of Christ
and the prayer of the imi>osition of
hands ; and that which they receive,
although it is not the body c
yet it is holy, more holy i
food by which we are nourishedp'
since it is a sacrament." Hene the
saint distinguishes three kinds of
food. First, that which is used fof'
sustenance ; second, the Eulogia, or
the blessed bread, which catechu
mens received after they were set
apart for the laying on of hands and
blessings — this is called a sacra--
ment ; and third, the Eucharistic
bread, which he calls the "body of
the Lord;'' This blessed bread
(which twenty years ago the author
saw handed around in French church-
es) is indeed holier than common
bread, a ver)' sacrament, or, as we
would say, a sacramental, but Stfll it'
is not the body of the Lord. The
real presence is, then, taught in thiS'
passage, and Schaffwould have been
guilty of a falsification if he had read
it in its proper connection. For his*
credit let us suppose that he has not
done so. We find this quotation m
Professor Schmid's Compendium of'
the Hhtory of Dogma^ the first edi-
tion of which was often before Dn
Schaff» Schmid at least pennits the
truth to appear (second edition, p.
109) when he quotes St Augustine
saying, "That which tliey receive,
although it is not the body of Christ*
yet it is holy," etc. Since we find
so many passages in St Augustine,
which prove his belief in the real
presence of our Lord in the Blessed
Sacrament, we are bound to explain
the other passages, in which he speaks

. Pmcimce. ^ 421

of a figurative partaking, in confer- Schaffs work, and expressing the

mity with them. hope that the author may employ his

These defects, however, do not undoubted talents in the service of

prevent us from heartily acknow- Christian truth,
ledging the excellence of Professor

PENITENCE.

A SONNET.

A Sorrow that for shame had hid her face,

Soared to Heaven's gate, and knelt in penance there

Beneath the dusk cloud of her own wet hair,

Weeping, as who would fain some deed erase

That blots in dread eclipse baptismal grace :

Like a felled tree with all its branches fair

She lay — ^her forehead on the ivory stair —

Low murmuring, ''Just art Thou, but I am base."

Then saw I in my spirit's unsealed ken

How Heaven's bright hosts thrilled like the gems of mom

When May winds on the incense-bosomed thorn

The diamonds change to ruby. Magdalen

Arose, and kissed the Saviour's feet once more,

And to that suffering soul his peace and pardon bore.

Aubrey de Vere,

Niw Puhlkatwns.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Cradle Lands. By Lady Herbert.
With Illustrations. New- York : The
Catholic Publication Society. 1S69.

We welcome the appearance of this
I handsome volume with especial hearti-
[ness and interest for at least two rea-
Laons. It is the first attempt ever made
[by a Catholic publisher in this country
E|o produce an illustrated work, of other
|than a strictly religious character, suita-
ble as a holiday gift and valuable at the
" same time from its intrinsic merit ; and
it is one of the few good narratives in
the English language of travel in the
I Holy Land written by a devout Catho-
llic, and filled consequently with a ge-
Jliuine religious spirit* We have had
Christmas books, annuals, etc., some of
them excellent in their way ; but their
way was rather a narrow one, and we
rliave never until now attempted to
rival the Protestant publishing- houses
on their own ground. Cradie Lands^
.however, is just the book which hun-
Ireds of our friends will be glad to buy
V presents, and hundreds more will
glad to have for their own use. It
very handsomely made, is clearly
rinted on excellent paper, and well
3UDd; and the illustrations, faithfully
^reproduced from the London edition,
are everything that could be desired.
The book is well worth the pains that
av^ been spent on it. Lady Herbert is
in experienced traveller ; with a quick
ftyc for whatever is interesting, and a
Istyle sufficiently lively to make her
[chapters easy reading. She has not the
aceful pen of a Kingbke or a Curtis ;
but she is rarely or never dull» and her
owcr of description is by no means
ontemptiblc. But, as we said before,
\m, peculiar interest belongs to her nar-
ptaiive on account of the spirit of Catho-
lic piety which permeates it — ^not break-
ing out inopportunely in religious com-
monplaces, but coloring the scenes she
I paints with a graceful light of faith, and
* enticing us to look upon the land of our

Lord not with the eyes of modern 9ce(»*|
ticism, but in the devout spirit in which ]
a good Christian ought to look a.t ft.
She travelled with a party of friends
from Eg>'pt through Palestine, visiting '
the holy places, and afterward passing
into Asia Minor. She describes not
only the venerable relics of the past |
scattered through those sacred spots,
and the condition of the modem native I
population, but the state of Christian-
it}', the convents, schools, asylums, and
other religious foundations, in which she
appears to have found frequent hospital*
ity. We need not follow her closely over '
ground which, in its principal features,
is already familiar to most of our read*
crs ; but, as sped mens of her style, we
shall reproduce a few episodical pas-
sages. Here is a picture of harem life,
a subject trite enough, yet always fresh :

*' Before leaving Cairo, the English tidies
were invited to ^pend an evening in rhe
royal harem, and accordingly, at eighc
o'clock, found themselves in a beautiful gar-
den, with fountains, lit by a multitude of va-
riegated lamps, and were conducted by black
eunuchs through trellis-covered walks tw a
large marble paved hall, where about forty
Circassian slaves met them, and escorted
them to a saloon fitted up with divans, at
the end of which reclined the pacha's wives.
One of them was singularly l>eautiful, and
exquisitely dressed in pink velvet and ct*
mine, and priceless jewels. Another very
fine figure was that of the mother, a vcnera*'
bleold princess, looking exactly like a Rem-
brandt just come out of its frame. Great
respect was paid to her, and when she came
in every one rose. The guests being seated,
or rather squatted, on the divan, each was
supplied with long pipes, coffee in exquisite-
ly jewelled cups, and sweetmeats, the one
succeeding the other without intermission
the whole night. The Circassian slaves,
with folded hands and downcast eyes, stood
before their mistresses to supply their wanti.
Some of them were very pretty, and dressed
with great richne^ and taste. Then began
a concert of Turkish instruments, which
sounded un pleasing to English ears, follow-
ed by a dance, which was graceful and prct-

■
■

New Publications,

433

ty; but this again followed by a play, in
iw'hich half the female slaves were dressed
up as men, and the coarseness of which it iii
impossible to describe. The wife of the
foreign minister kindly acted as interpret^
cr for the English ladies^ and through her
means some kind of conversation was kept
upt. But the ignorance of the ladies in the
harem is unbelievable* They can neither
lead nor write ; their whole day is employed
m dressing* bathing, eatings drinking, and
' smoking.

" Before the close of the evening, Princess

A 1 addressing herself to the mother of

the party, tJirough her interpreter, spoke
very earnestly and seriously about her
daughters, (then twelve and fourteen years
of age,) remonstrating with her on their be-
ir^g still unmarried, and adding : *ICcxt Fri-
day is the most auspicious of all days in the
year for betrothal. I will have six of the
handsomest and straightest'eycbrowcd pa-
chas here for you to choose from.' In vain
f the English lady refused the intended honor,
pleading that in her country marriages were
not contracted at so early an age, to say
nothing of certain differences of race and
^of fcuth ! The princess was not to be di-
verted from her purpose, and persisted in
arranging the whole of the Friday's ceremo-
\ niai. Let us hope that the young ' straight*
) eyebrowed pachas * found some other fair
\ ladies, to console them for the non-appear-
> aace of their wished-for English brides on
f the appointed day. The stnrie lasted till
I two o'clock in the morning, when fhe royal*
I ty withdrew; and the English ladies re-
) turned home, feeling the whole lime as if
I they had been seeing a play acted from a

• scene in the Arabian Nights, so difficult
I was it to realize that such a kind of exist-
^enoe was possible in the present century."

The onginal plan of our travellers was
I to proceed from Cairo across tire desert,
tbut they were afterward obliged to
r choose an easier route on account of
the sickness of one of the party. Prepa-
rations for the desert journey, however,
had been made, and there is a pleasant
^description of their outfit :

"At last, thanks to the kindness of an
^ English gentleman long resident in Cairo,

* Mr. A , five tents were got together and

' pitched, on approval, in the square oppo*
^ Bite the hotel. One was a gorgeous affair,
^sky-blue, with rcd-and-white devices all
[over it, looking very like the tent of a tra-
^ veiling wild*bciUit show. But as it was the

only large and roomy one, and was capable

of contaim'ng the four ladies and their beds
and bedding, i^ was finally decided to keepr j
it, and to make it the draviing-room by dayi [
reserving the more modest ones for the gen«j
llemen of the parly, as well as for the ser* J
vants and the cocking apparatus. Theif J
numbers were so great, with the * tent-pitch^ ]
ers 'and the other necessary camp- follower% J
that our travellers decided to dispense witbJ
chairs and tables — rather to the deispair of
a rheumatic member of the company ! — ^and
to content themselves with squatting on
their car|>cls for their meals in true oriental j
fashion, and making use of the two wicker- I
baskets (which were to sling on each side of I
the mules, and contained the one dress fori
Sunday allowed to each lady) for dressing I
and wash-hand stands. A cord fastened I
across the tents at night served as a hanging j
wardrobe, to prevent their getting wet on j
the (sometimes) damp ground ; some tiiiJ
jugs and basins, with a smarter set in bras* I
of a beautiful shape, (called in Cairo a * itsht* j
and Ubrcek^') together with a few ' nar^fhh ' |
pipes for the use of their guests on state oc-
casions, completed their furnishing arrange-
ments. They had brought from their boats ]
a * Union Jack,' so as to place themsclvei
under the protection of their country's flag, j
and also an elaborate ' Wyi-^crn,* the fabrica-
tion of which, in gorgeous green, with a
curly tail, had aflbrded them great amuse-
ment in their start four months before.

** This life in tents is a free and charming j
way of e.xistence, and, except in wet weather, f
was one of unmixed enjoyment to the whole ]
party. The time spent by the leaders of j
the expedition in providing these necessary!
articles was occupied by the younger oncaf j
in buying presents in the bazaars : noflf 1
struggling through the goldsmiths' quarter,
^the narrowest in all Cairo,) where you buy ]
your gold by the carat, and then have it ma-
nufactured before your eyes into whatever I
form you piease ; now trying on bright I
^ kaffirs'* made of the pure Mecca silk, and j
generally of brown and yellow shades, witlxl
the *^akgal^^ a kind of cord of camcl's-hair
which binds them round the head ; or else 1
the graceful burnous, with their beautifully I
blended colors and soft camcl's-hair texture } [
or the many bright-colored slippers ; or, j
leaving the silk and stuiT bazaar, threading
their way through the stalls containing what I
we should call in England 'curiosities,*
and selecting the beautiful little silver fila-
gree or enamel cups called * s^rfs^ which ,
hold the delicate, tiny Dresden ones within
— meant to contain that most delicious of '
all drinks, the genuine Eastern coffee, made \
without sugar or milk, but as unlike the hor-

liatlA were to be Ibttnd beand^ Torkiib ro-
saries of jasper and agate, or sveet-iceot'
ed woods, wllb long -shaped bottle of attar
of roaeap cnmelfed * nar^etUhs ' and amber-
pipea, and octagooai Little tables
loftoftoiie-shell inlaid with motber-of*

I
I

Here b a good story of EfypcUn
law-courts r

^ A certain Freoch gentleman entrasbed
an Englishman with jf 90 to buy a horse for
him- The Englishman, accordingly, gave
the money to a native, whom he considered
ihoroughlj trustworthy, with orders to go
Into Arabia and there purcha<^ the animal.
T!ie Arab; however, spent most of the mo-
ney in hia oun devices, and returned 10
Cyro, after a few months, with a wretched
hofie, loch as would appear at a Spanish
buIl-Hght. The Englishman, immensely dis-
gusted, returned the /f90 to his French
fHend, dimply saying that he had failed in
executing his commisalon ; but he deter-
mined to try and recover it from the Arab.
So be went and told the whole matter to the
governor of Cairo, who appointed his depu-
ty aa judge. While the case was being
fried, dinner-time came ; and the judge, the
prosecutor, and the prisoner, all sat down
together, and dined in a friendly way. No
emlTarrassment was caused thereby ; but
aft' T ' the judge, turning to the pri*

»«" 1 said I * Can you pay the Frank

gcnii^i(i.ijj tiie money you owe him?' On
receiving a simple reply in the negative, the
judge added, * Then you had better go off at
once to prison, and delay this gentleman no
longer,* The Arab went without a word,
and remained in this miserable place (for
the prisons are infamous) for two months,
after which his brother took his place for
him. Finally the money was paid by instal-
ment*.'*

With ibe following beautiful descrip-
tion of a ** Good-Friday ser\'ice at Je-
rusalem," wc commend Lady Herbert*s
book to the favor of otir readers :

*• It is a bcautlfal and solemn service, in
which even Protestants arc seen to join with

itnw^ ' •■ 'vor ; and on this special day it

w.i Metcess, When it was over»

kthL L 1 li ret limed to the altar of St.

Mary Magdnlen, the words and tones of the
hymn iiilJ tingiring in their hearts :

To tbose iHio are mmml l i l \
at the sense of t&eir own t
ooBtimial s^iortoonings, there
atuacdoii and help in the thougbti of fftli
saint, apart from all the rest* The fMffii^
tions of the Blessed Virgin d^cete a* by
their very brightnesi, and make m, as »
were, despair of following her exuaplib
But in the Magdalen we have the fricCuse «|
one who, like us, was tempted and iionill
and fell, and jfet, by the mercy of God mA
the force of the mighty love be put into IMT
heart, was forgiven and accepted Ibr fftr
sake of that very love he had tnlitseid.

^ Presently the English stranger roM^ asd^
approaching one of the Prandscm nonlo^
begged for the benediction of her Orudis
and other sacred objects^ accordiiig fo Hit
short form in use at the shrine of the \M^
Sepulchre ; a privilege kindly and U'iuil9
ousty granted to her. And now the sIumIm
of evening are darkening the aisles of the
sacred building, and the pilgrims arc gatli*
ercd in a close and serried ma9» in the Chtt^
pel of Calvary, waiting for the ceremony
which is to close the solemn offices of that
awful day. By the kindness of the dulec;
who had been their companion in the Vrk
Crucis, the two ladies were saved from the
crowd, and conducted by a private staircase
from the Greek chapel to the right of the
altar of Calvary. The whole is soon wrap-
ped in profound darkness, save where the
light is thrown on a crucifix the sire of lifir,
ereaed close to the fatal spot You might
have fancied yourself alone but for the low
murmur and swaying to and fro of the dense
crowd kneeling on the floor of the chapel.
Presently a Franciscan monk stepped fcxr-
ward, and, leaving his brethren prostrate at
the foot of the altar, mounted on a kind o\
es trade at the back, and proceeded to de-
tach the figure of our Blessed Lord from the
cross. As each nail was painfully and
slowly drawn out, he held it up, exclaiming,
* Ecce, dulcei clavos 1* exposing it at the
same time to the view of the multitude, who^
breathless and expectant, seemed riveted to
the spot, with their upturned faces fixed on
the symbol represented to them. The sn-
pematural and majestic stillness and silence
of that great mass of human beings was one
of the most striking features of the whole
scene. Presently a ladder was brought, and
the sacred figure lifted down, as in Ruben&'s
Ikmotts picture of the * Depoiition.* into the
iums of the monks at the Ibol of the \

:cro».

New PuiiuatioHs.

435

As the last nail was detached, and the head
fell forward as of a dead body, a low deep
sob burst from the very souls of the kneel-
ing crowd. Tenderly and reverently the
Franciscan fathers wrapped it in fine linen,
and placed it in the arms of the patriarch,
who, kneeling, received it, and carried it
down to the Holy Sepulchre, the procession
chanting the antiphon, < Acceperant Joseph
et Nicodemus corpus Jesu ; et ligaverunt
illnd lintels cum aromatibus, sicut mos est
Judaeis sepelire.' The crowd followed ea-
gerly, yet reverently, the body to its last
resting-place. It is a representation which
might certainly be painful if not conducted
throughout with exceeding care. But done
as it is at Jerusalem, it can but deepen in
the minds of all beholders the feelings of
intense reverence, adoration, and awe with
which they draw near to the scene of Christ's
sufferings, and enable them more perfectly
to realize the mystery of that terrible Pas-
sion which he bore for our sakes in his own
body on the tree.

"And with this touching ceremony the
day is over ; the crowd of pilgrims dis-
perses, to meet on the morrow in the same
spot lor the more consoling offices of Eas-
ter-eve.

" But in many a heart the memory of this
day will never be effaced ; and will, it is
humbly hoped, bear its life-long fruit in
increased devotion to the sacred humanity
of their Lord, and in greater detestation of
those sins which could only be cancelled by
so tremendous an atonement"

The Bird. By Jules Michelet With
210 illustrations by Giacomelli. New
York : T. Nelson & Sons. 1868.

It is not often that nature finds so
charming an interpreter as Michelet
He throws around us the very perfume
of the flowers ; and his birds not only
sing, but sing to us, speak to us, and
become our dearest friends. Reading,
we forget the close walls of the city, the
weary noise, the heavy air of overcrowd-
ed human life ; we follow the birds in
their flight, drink in their spirit of liber-
ty* Joy> tenderness, and love, till, with
Midielet, we almost give them a person-
ality, a soul. It is difiicult to cull from
a bed of choice flowers a single speci-
men, for one will appeal to us through
its beauty of form, another of color, an-
other by its delicacy and fragrance ; so

here, where every page is charming, we
know not how to choose between the
gnmdeur and magnificence of the tropi-
cal forests, or the stem and silent melan-
choly of the polar regions, or the more
home-like charm of scenes that we
know. The last, perhaps, cannot foil
to please. Here is his description of
an autumnal migration : " Bright was
the morning sky, but the wind blew
from La Vendue. My pines bewailed
their fete, and from my aflflicted cedar
issued a low, deep voice of mourning.
The ground was strewn with fruit, which
we all set to work to gather. Gradually
the weather grew cloudy, the sky as-
sumed a dull leaden gray, the wind sank,
all was death-like. It was then, at about
four o'clock, that simultaneously arrived,
from all points, fhim the wood, from the
Erdre, from the city, from the Loire,
from the Sftvre, infinite legions, darken-
ing the day, which settled on the church
roof, with a myriad voices, a myriad
cries, debates, discussions. Though,
ignorant of their language, it was not
difficult for us to perceive that they dif-
fered among themselves. It may be
that the youngest, beguiled by the warm
breadi of autumn, w<Mild fein have lin-
gered longer. But the wiser and more
experienced travellers insisted upon de-
parture. They prevailed; the black
masses, moving all at once like a huge
cloud, winged their flight toward the
south-east, probably toward Italy. They
had scarcely accomplished three hun-
dred leagues (four or five hours* flight)
before all the cataracts of heaven were
let loose to deluge the earth ; for a mo-
ment we thought it was a flood. Shel-
tered in our house, which shook with
the furious blast, we admired the wis-
dom of the winged soothsayers, which
had so prudently anticipated the annual
epoch of migration."

This book was to the author a sort
of oasis ; it was undertaken or rather
grew up in the interval of a rest from
historical labors ; it was fbr him a refresh-
ment, a rest ; and such it could not fell
to prove to any one of us in the midst of
the weary cares of every-day life. Un-
fortunately, Michelet has not interpret-
ed history so successfully as he has na-
ture, and the results of his labor are far

426

New PuUicatians,

less piaiseworthy than the results of his
recreation. The Bird is most beau-
tify illustrated by Giacomelli, Dorf 's
collaborate or on his celebrated Bible.

Tablets. By A. Bronson Alcott Bos-
ton ; Roberts Brothers. j86S.

No one who has ever enjoyed the
pleasure of an interview with the ** Or-
phic Alcott," and felt the charm which
\ his rare conversational powers throw
) around every subject to which tliey arc
[directed, can fsXi to find a renewal of
I that pleasure while perusing the genial
irolume which has just emanated £rom
his too infrequent pen. Elegant in its
external garniture, it brings upon its
I pages the fiaint odor of the roses that
\ bloom on the broad Concord lawns, the
^rustle of the leaves that shelter the se-
cluded nook in which tlie writer finds
" the leisure and the peace of age," the
cool air that floats across clear Walden-
[water, filling both library and studio
I with its bracing breath ; so giving to
the reader, familiar with the scenes
Jamid which these Tablets were in-
^scribed, a double satisfaction in the
thoujs^hts which they suggest and in the
memories which they revive.

The book itself consists of two series
l«f essays : the first, ** Practical ;" the
laecond, ** Speculative." The former
rwill most interest the ordinarj^ reader.
I The latter will be appreciated by few
I who are not otherwise instructed in the
(peculiar views of their autlior. The
r" Practical" essays are entided *'The
[Garden," "Recreation," ** Fellowship,"
i •* Friendship," ** Culture/' ** Books,"
** Counsels," and each is subdivided
into different heads. Hackneyed as
several of these subjects appear to be,
the reader will experience no sense of
weariness while following Mr. Alcott
fOver them. Were not his ideas origi-
|jial, " the method of the man " would
be alone sufficient to give an interest of
no common order to his well-wcighcil
, Words. Many of his aphorisms are like
' * apples of gold in pictures of silver ;"
nd some deserve to become house-
old truths with all tlvoughtfut men.
Such is his verdict upon political parti-

sanship CO page 14S ; his sljon^ ooiir^
gcous plea for individuality on pdige 14$/'
and his high irtcw of education 00 1
105 tt si^. From these and
other passages, which space aJoae <
bids us to distinguish, we may j
if **a man's speech is the roc
his culture,^* there are few
whose sphere one can be brought i
kindliness and courtesy, whose fio
spirits and sprightly wit, can more
tivatc and charm than the gray-J
student who sits in the arbors, j
and gardens, and day by day I
up on the tablets of his diary the (
things of mankind, and illustrates then
with choice memories of his own.

At this period of Mr. Alcott^s lift^ 1
anticipated, in reading his Tab!-'\ "^'
speak 50 charmingly of tliis w*
ing some light shed on the world lu h«iti.:.
It makes us sad to think we found nptli*
itig.

A New Practical Hebrew Gram^

MAR» WITH HkBREW^-EngLISH AXI> I

English-Hebrew Exercises, and I
Hebrew Chrestomathy. By Solo* I
mon Deutsch, A.M., Ph.D. New]
York : Le>'poldt & Holt 1S68.

Text-books should be valued accord-
ing to the pertcction of die method
adopted, and the precision and arrange-
ment of details, rather than on account
of abundance of matter or exhaustive |
explanations. Books which contain
copious treatises are useful, and c\^n
nccessar)', for the master, but injurious
to the advancement of the pupil. The
author of the school-book should aim at
arranging the elements in the depart-
ment in which he writes so that tlie
scholar may, with the least trouble, ac-
quire a knowledge of tlic rules, princi-
ples, and leading features of the subject.
Students should not be expected to
learn every tiling in school. The pro-
fessor who aims at imparting a com-
plete knowledge, or all he may know on
a subject, will confuse his students, be
found loo exacting, and will be finally
punished by disappointment. School
exercise was very appropriately called
iituiplina by the Romans, a term which

New Publications,

427

implied rather a training in the manner
in which the various branches should
be studied, than the attainment of their
nuwtery.

Mr. Deutsch's Hebrew course, ac-
cording to the principles just enunciat-
ed, is beyond doubt the best school-
book of its kind that has appeared from
the American press. Rodiger's revision
of Gesenius's Grammar, translated from
the German by Conant, is much too ex-
tensive for beginners, and was never in-
tended by its eminent author to &11
into the hands of the uninitiated. Yet
it is commonly used in the colleges and
seminaries of this country as an intro-
ductory treatise. The same objection
should be urged, in union with others,
against Green's Grammar ; while his
chrestomathy is more of an exegetical
than a grammatical treatise. The stu-
dent is frequently terrified from the
study by the vast array of particulars,
and he who has courage to persevere
must learn to shut his eyes to the great-
er portion of these works, in order to
clearly discern that which is truly valu-
able in them.

Mr. Deutsch has succeeded, to a con-
siderable extent, in giving a concise and
lucid exposition of the elements of the
Hebrew language, but has greatly di-
minished, if not destroyed, the useful-
ness of his grammar as a class-book
by introducing his elaborate 83rstem
of "Hebrew-English and English-He-
brew exercises." These exercises,
which compose the greater portion of
his work, will be found to be merely
omibersome material, which will pre-
vent its adoption in the schools.

Living languages, or such as are par-
tially so, might be, periiiq>s should be,
learned by acquiring a facility of render-
ing the phrases of one's mother tongue
into those of the language he is en-
deavoring to acquire ; but it is not easy
to understand how such a readiness can
be, or need be, acquired in Hebrew,
which is nowhere spoken, and living in
no form if not in its degenerate off-
spring, the rabbinic of the Portugoese,
German, or Polish Jews.

Those who are looking for a concise
and lucid exposition of the elements of
Hebrew will not be pleased with Mr.

Deutsch*s repetition of the nine declen-
sions of nouns, as given by Gesenius.
This constitutes an additional encum-
brance to the work, not unlike that which
would arise in a Latin grammar from
an attempt to form a new declension
from each of the various inflections em-
braced in the third.

A Hebrew course for Catholic schools
has been supplied, as to the more im-
portant part, and the portion requiring
the greater amount of labor, by Paul
L. B. Drach, in his Catholicnm Lexicon
JJebraicum et Chaidaicum, Mr. Drach
had been a Jewish rabbi in Paris before
his conversion to the Church, and as he
was an eminent oriental scholar, the
last Pontiff, Gregory XVI., requested
him to publish a Hebrew lexicon for
the use of Catholic schools. His work
resulted in a corrected and enlarged
edition of Gesenius' Lexicon, from
which all Jewish and rationalistic er-
rors were excluded. It received the
special approbation of Pius IX. in 1847,
and was published by the greatest pro-
moter of ecclesiastical literature in this
century, Abb^ Mignd. This is undoubt-
edly the best work of its kind, and its
complement, consisting of a grammar
and chrestomathy, is aU that is wanting
to constitute a course of Hebrew for the
Catholic schools of this country.

Ths New Adam ; or, Ten Dialogues
on our Redemption and the Necessity
of Self-Denial. Edited by the Ver)-
Rev. Z. Druon, V.G., and approved
by the Right Rev. Bishop of Burling-
ton. Claremont, N. H. 1868.

This little book was first published in
Paris, A.D. 1662. From a second and
more complete edition, the present
translation was prepared and edited.
The subjecU of the "Ten Dialogues"
are as follows : I. The State of Origi-
nal Righteousness. II. Adam's Fall.
III. The Penance of Adam and Eve
after their Fall. IV. The State of Pen-
ance we are in is preferable, in some re-
spects, to the earthly Paradise. V. The
Infinite Perfection with which Jesus
Christ, the new Adam, performed the
penance imposed on the old Adam. VL

42S

New PubticatwHs,

Self- Denial VI L Obligation of Self-
Denial VIIL ImiUtion of the Self-
Denial of Christ IX. Scnptural texts
concerning Self-Denial X. The Sclf-
Denial of Jesus Christ From this
\^ew of its contents, and the cursory
glance we have been able to bestow
upon its pages, we believe it to be, as
its editor claims, " well grounded on the
Holy Scriptures^ sound in doctrine, re-
markable tor its clearness and depth of
thought, full of piiius and practical re-
flections, instructive, and, at the same
time, interesting and pleasing, "

The LrpE of St. Thomas 1 Becket, ot
Canterbury, liy Mrs, Hope, author
of The Early Mariyn^ etc. With a
Freftice, by the Rev, Father Dalgaims,
of the London Oratory of St Philip
Neri. 1 6mo, pp, xxiv,, 398. London :
Burns, Gates & Co. New York:
The Catholic Publication Society.

Veneration for the memory of St
Thomas, of Canterbury, has undergone
recendy a remarkable revi\'al in Eng-
land, and this meritorious compilation
by Mrs. Hope is one of the fruits of it
She has drawn most of her materials
from the more elaborate biographies by
the Rev. Dr. Giles and the Rev. John
Morris, and from the Remains of the
Rev. R, H, Froude, and, of course
makes no pretension to the rank of an
original investigator; but she has done
a very serviceable work nevertheless,
and, upon the whole, has done it well.
Her narrative is interesting and rapid.
The style possesses the merit — rare
with female writers on religious sub-
jects — of directness and simplicity ; the
story being unencumbered by either
ambitious rhetoric or commonplace re-
flections. From this reason^ as well as
from the care witli which she seems to
have studied the subject, the book not
only gives us an insight into the saint*s
personal character, but leaves on ^t,
reader's mind a very clear comprehen-
sion of the nature of that long struggle
for the rights of the Church and for
the independence of the spiritual order
which resulted In his martyrdom, and
which modern historians have done so

much to obscure. Mrs. Hope U
too fond of telling dreams, which
apparently half-believes and half d^
not believe to have been prophetic in
rations, although most of them were 1
the answers of the pagan oraclfi
ceptible of almost any inter
and only to be understood in t|
of after-events ; but that is a }iabi|
she borrowed of the medtseval
clers, and she shares it with a vc
class of modem biographers. Of <
God may speak to man in a dr
well as in other ways ; but wh

dreams are clearly referable to <

physical causes, as some of ttiose
corded in this book are, when, in
they are just like ordinar}^ nightn
the attempt to elevate them to the (
nity of supernatural visions is more
pious than prudent.

The preface, by Father
comprises a very effective
some of the misrepresentations in
Stanley*s life of the saint, coaii
the Memorials 0/ CantirturVn

Vermont Historical Gazetteer
A Magarine embracing a digeM
the History of each town, civil, C(
cational, religious, geological, and
tcrary. Edited by Abby Miuria He^
men way, compiler of Tht Poets and
Poetry of Vermont. Buriingtoa,
i86o^lS68.

We have received the first eleven
numbers of this magazine. The author-
ess has evidently endeavored to produce
a iirst-class ux>rk of its kind, and has,
a great extent, succeeded. It is to
regretted, however, that some of the
numbers are printed on inferior paper,
a serious fault in a work of so much
local interest and so permanent a cha^
racter.

Miss Hemenway does not conte]
herself with the historical and topoj
phical, as is usual with the authors
produce moat of our local annals. Bio-
graphy and literature form a large por-
tion of her work. Art also lends its
charm, and adorns her pages with pop
traiU of distinguished men and repi
sen tations of memorable scenes. To

cha^

^gn^S
wbo^

New Publications.

429

the work seems almost exhaustive.
The Green Mountain State has reason
to congratulate itself on so laborious and.
persevering a historian, and its sons
should certainly reward her toil with the
most prompt and liberal pecuniary re-
cognition.

Gropk<gs after Truth. A Life Jour^
ney from New England Congrega-
tionalism to the One Catholic and
Apostolic Church. By Joshua Hunt-
ington. New York: The Catholic
Publication Society. 1868.

This little work, which has been
some weeks before the public in pam-
phlet form and already promises to shed
"light in many dark places" in the
hearts of candid seekers after truth, has
at last been issued in a permanent and
elegant edition. It is with great plea-
sure that we commend it to our readers,
not only for their own perusal, but for
distribution among their non-Catholic
acquaintances and friends. As the Re-
verend Father Hewit says in his preface,
the impulse toward a new and more vigo-
rous life " will be quickened and direct-
ed in many souls " by the present vol-
ume ; and we believe that few whose
earlier religious life was similar to that
of Mr. Huntington can read the book
without misgivings for themselves, and
a longing to discover, by some means,
that peace and light which the author
deems himself to have attained. That
God will make known this truth and
bestow this peace to them and to all
others is, as it should be, the chief ob-
ject of our labors and our prayers.

An Outline of Geography for High
Schools and FABflLiES. With an
Atlas. By Theodore S. Fay. New
York: G. P. Putnam & Son. 1867.

We are inclined to regard this work
as a very valuable aid to the study of iu
subject, which is treated more scientifi-
cally in it than in any other equally ele-
mentary book which we have seen. The
plan is decidedly original, and evidently

is the result of careful thought, aided ap-
parendy by experience.

Prominence is given in it to the as-
tronomical and physical aspects of the
earth. The political division, which
from its artificial and mutable character
is an obstacle to a clear view of geogra-
phy in its unity, is kept in the back-
ground, but is by no means neglected.
A map showing the changes produced by
the war of 1866 may be specially men-
tioned in this connection.

The astronomical part is very full, and
in the nuun correct ; there are, however,
a few inaccuracies, as in the time occu-
pied by light in coming from Neptune,
and in the statement that the sun could
hardly be distinguished in brightness
from a fixed star by an observer on that
planet. But these are small matters.
The explanations in this part are clear
and interesting, and the reticence of the
author on points beyond the scope he
has proposed to himself is specially com-
mendable. To satisfy the student with-
out misleading or puzzling him is an ad-
mirable talent.

We doubt the propriety of the items
of historical information occasionally in-
troduced ; they seem unnecessary, and
spoil the unity of the work.

Considering the strength of memory
generally possessed in youth, the advan-
tage claimed by the author that his me-
thod makes no direct demand upon this
^iculty seems doubtful ; but, as he states
in the preface, the work must be used
to be judged ; and the lessons can be
memorized if desired.

We must protest against the use of
small initial letters in the national ad-
jectives ; as british, french, etc

The maps deserve the highest praise
for their conception and execution.

AsMODEUS IN New York. New York :
Longchamp & Co. 1868.

This work appeared last year in Paris,
and is now translated and published in
this country by the author. It pretends
to give an inside view of American so-
ciety, and to do this the author picks
out aJl that is bad, vicious, and immoral
in this country, North and South, and

lis this conglomeration ** American
ociety," He, however, shouldi' have
told his readers that the first spectmen
of ** American Society " he presented
them was that of on^ of Ms tnvn c^ttn*
trywomtn f We need hardly say
that most of the other characters in the
Ixjok are as good samples of American
society as those given in the first chap*
tcr.

H The Holy Communion: Its Philoso-
^1 phy, Theology, and Practice. By

^^^^ John Bernard DaJgaims* Priest of
^^^^ the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. i vol
^^^K isnio, pp. 440. New York: The
^M Catholic PubHcation Society. 1868,

The Cadiolic Publication Society has
Just issued an American edition of this
work, which has been for a long time
much sought after in this country. We
take occasion to recommend it as one of
the very best works on its august theme
in the English language. The most re-
markable and original portion of the
work is that which treats of the philoso-
phy of iransubstantiation. The author
has handled this difficult and abstruse
matter with masterly abiht^v explaining
the doctrine of various philosophical
schools respecting substance and acci-
dents with clearness and precision, and
has furnished most satisfactory answers
to rational objections against the Catho-
lic dogma. Both Catholics and those
who are investigating Catholic doctrine
will find this volume one of great inte-
rest and utility.

Thk Romax Martvrology. Trans-
lated into English, with an introduc-
tion by the Archbishop of Baltimore.
Baltimore : Kelly, Pict & Co. 1 863.

One of the most beautifully executed
books which has been issued by the
Catholic press in this countr)% printed
in the ritualistic stj'lc, with red marginal
lines and red edges. The publication of
books of devotion which are standard
and have the sanction of the Roman
Church cannot be too much encourag-
ed, and we cordially congratulate the

Sydnie Adriakcb; or. Trying Cbe
World. By Amanda M* Daugbs,
author of In Trusty Stepfitn thmt^
CituUiay etc. Boston: Lee & She-
pard. Pp. 355. 1869.

Those who read novels, and their
name is Legion, will find this — the latest
production of Miss DougIas*s pen^ — ^no-
wise inferior to its predecessors. While
avoiding the sensational characters and
incidents, her language is always pleas-
ing and unaffected.

The Life akd Tires of Robert
Emmet. By R. R. Madden, M.D.,
j\L R.LA. With numerous Notes and
Additions, and a Portrait on SCeel.
Also, A Memoir of Thomas Addts
Emmet, with a Portrait on SteeJ.
New York; P. M. Haverty. Pp. 32S,
1868.

Few, if any, of the Irish patriots of
modern days have a stronger hold on
the affection of the people than Robert
Emmet Perhaps, with the exception
of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, we might
have written none other. His deep love
of country, his abiding trust in her fu-
ture, his daring but futile attempt to
accomplish her liberation, his death
upon the scaffold^ these were his, in
common with many others, who are re-
membered but with gratitude, not, like
him, treasured in the popuLir Iieart.
Like our own immortal Washington —
the man is loved, the patriot revered.

This history of his life and limes
should find readers wherever a friend to
liberty dwells ; but for us, this volume
has a special interest, containing, as it
does, a AUmoir 0/ Thomas Addis Em-
nut^ the last twenty-three years of whose
life were spent in this city, and whose
monument may be said to form one of
the sights of the metropolis. The vol-
ume i* very neatly got up; the steel
poitrailh excellent, both as likenesses
and works of art.

I
I

New Publications,

431

Memoirs of the Life of the Right
Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheri-
dan. By Thomas Moore. New
York : W. J. Widdleton. 2 vols. pp.
307, 335-

Moore's Life of Sheridan has long
since passed beyond the province of the
critic. We will, therefore, merely call
attention to the present edition as being
very handsomely got up ; containing,
also, a very fine portrait of Sheridan,
after the original painting by Sir Joshua
Reynolds. We ought, perhaps, in this
connection, to award a meed of praise to
the enterprising publisher for placing
within reach of all, books such as
this, which, as of standard excellence,
should be, but were not, of easy access.

rican continent^ from Montevideo to
Valparaiso, could not but furnish to
an inquiring mind and an adventurous
spirit abundant material for interesting
detail and startling incidents, and of
these there is certainly no scarcity in
the present volume. There are some
portions, however, op)en to objection,
where allusion is made to the religion
of the people, less, indeed, it must be
confessed, than we almost, as a matter
of course, expect from Protestant tour-
ists in Catholic countries ; and some
attempted caricaturing of the Irish resi-
dents, which might be deemed insulting
if they were not so very puerile. These
excepted, it is a book both useful and
entertaining.

The Poetical Works of Thomas
Moore. Brooklyn and New York:
William M. Swayne. Pp. 496.

Moore's complete works for fifty
cents 1 Truly, a marvel of cheapness.
The typography — something unusual in
cheap books — is very good.

Marks's First Lessons in Geome-
try, objectively presented and de-
signed for the Use of Primary Classes
in Grammar Schools, Academies, etc.
By Bemhard Marks, Principal of Lin-
coln School, San Francisco. New
York : Ivison, Phinney, Blakeman &
Co. Pp. 157. 1869.

We can unhesitatingly recommend
this little work. We have often felt the
need of just such a text-book as this,
and have no doubt its appearance will
be hailed with equal pleasure by both
teachers and pupils. The style in which
it is got up reflects the highest credit on
the publishers.

A Thousand Miles' Walk across
South America. By Nathaniel H.
Bishop. Boston: Lee & Shepard
Pp. 310. 1869.

A journey on foot of more than a
thousand miles across the South Ame-

The Trotting Horse of America—
How TO Train and Drive Him.
With Reminiscences of the Trotting
Turf. By Hiram Woodruff. Edited
by Charles J. Foster, of Withers Spirit
of the Times, Including an Introduc-
tory Notice by George Wilkes, and
a Biographical Sketch by the Editor.
New York: J. B. Ford & Co. Pp.
412. 1868.

The papers comprising this work were
originally published in Withers Spirit
of the Times^ and are a record of the
author's forty years* experience in train-
ing and driving. While especially in-
tended for those who are interested in the
breeding, training, etc., of horses, there
is abundance of matter likely to prove
attractive to the general reader ; biogra-
phies, so to speak, of famous trotters,
whose names are familiar as house-
hold words ; and graphic descriptions of
the various matches in which they were
engaged. In fiict, it is one of those rare
books which, while got up for a special
purpose, and seemingly suited to the
few, overleaps the narrow limits appa-
rently prescribed, and attracts to itself
the &vorable notice of the entire com-
munity.

It makes a very handsome volume, is
neatly bound, well printed, and illus-
trated with a fine steel portrait ot the
author.

432

New Publications.

Synodus Dkecesana Baltimorrn-
SIS Septima, etc. Joannes Mur-
phy, Baltimore. 1868.

The constitutions adopted at the above
S>'nod of September 3d, 1868, were : i.
Of the Publication of the Decrees of the
Plenary Council of Baltimore. 2. Of
the Officers of the Archbishopric and
the Government of Dioceses. 3. Of the
Pastoral Care of Souls. 4. Of the Sa-
craments. 5. Of Divine Worship. 6.
Of Discipline.

The Two Women. A Ballad, written
expressly for the ladies of Wisconsin.
By Delta. Milwaukee. 1868.

A poem in five parts, celebrating the
creation of Eve and the motherhood of
Mary.

M. DuRUY's History of France.—
Several esteemed correspondents have
written to the editor of this magazme
expressing regret at the commendatory
notice of tiie above work, which appear-
ed in our columns. Our judgment and
sympathy are entirely with Mgr. Dupan-
loup in his contest against M. Duruy
respecting religious education. This
does not, however, affect the question
of the value of his book as a secular
classic and a manual of political and ci-
vil history. In respect to the ecclesias-
tical portion of the history, it is very
true that the work is deficient ; never-
theless, it is far superior to the English
historical works which our readers, whe-
ther Protestant or Catholic, are likely
to be ^miliar with ; and we think that,

in spite of the author's liberalistic bias^
the general tone and efiect of the work
justifies our recommendation. If my
of our correspondents will send us a
history of France equal to this in other
respects, and at the same time perfectly
Catholic in its spuit, we will gladly re-
commend it in preference. We will
add, however, that it is not for sale lit
the Catholic Publication House.

The Catholic Publication Society
will publish The Illustrated Catholic
Family Almanac on November 25th.
It will be sold for 25 cents a copy. The
same Society will issue, on December
I St, The New Illustrated History oflre-
laud.

Mr. Donahoe, Boston, has just pub-
lished Verses on Various Occasions^ by
John Henry Newman, D.D.

BOOKS RKCSIVKD.

From D. Applbtom & Ca, New York : Mental Sci-
ence ; a Compendium of P^rckology, and the Histo-
ry of Philosophy. Designed as a text-book fer
High-Schools and Colleges. By Alexander Bain,
M. A., Professor of Logic and Mental Phiknopfay in
the University of Aberdeen^ author of " The Senses
and the Intellect," "The Emotions of the Will,"
etc etc Ppi 4*8 1 Appendix, 99. 1868.

From Ckarlbs Scribksr & Co.. New Yoik : Gu-
yot's Elementary Geography for Primary Classes.
Felter*s First Lessons in Numbers. An illustrated
Table Book designed for elementary instructioQ.

Footprints of Life; or, Faith and Nature
RscoNaLBD. By Philip Harvey, M.D. New
York : Samuel R. Wells. 1868.

D. & J. Sadlibr & Ca, New York : Outlines of the
History of Ireland. Being the substance of a lec-
ture reoMitly delivered at Hooesdale. By Rev. J.
J. Doberty. In behalf of the Sunday-schools.
pp. 35.— A new edition of Carleton's Valentiiie
McQutchy.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. VIIL, No. 46— JA

GALILEO-GALILEI * THE FLORENTINE

1564-1642.

OMER.

*' EwN so great a man as Bacon rejected the theory of Galileo with scorn. . . . Bacon had not all the means
of arriving at a sound conclusion wUch are within oor reach ; and which secure people who would not hare
been worthy to mend his pens from £dling into hb mistakes.'*— Macaula v.

AN UNWRITTEN CHAPTER.

Galileo's " connection with a po-
litical party, unfriendly to religion as
well as to the papal government," is
correctly referred to by the Edin-
burgh Review as one of the causes
of his difficulties concerning a ques-

* GidiUo — Tht Roman Inqmsition, Cincinnati.

Galileo * rinquUizione. Marino-Manni Roma.
1850.

Histoire de% Sciencts MatlUmatiques en Italie.
Par Libri. Paris. 1838.

NoUs OH the A nU- Galilean Co/emicans, Pro£ De
Morgan. London. 1855.

O^re di Galileo-GalUei. Alberi. Firenze. 184a-
1856. 16 vols. imp. 8vo.

GalUeo-GaliUi^ sa l^ie, son Proch et us ConUmpo-
rains. Par Philarite Chasles. Paris. i86x

Galileo and the Inquisition. By R. Madden.
London. 1863.

GeUtlie, sa Vie^ ses Dtcouveries ei ses Travanx.
Par le Dr. Max Parchappe. Paris. 1866.

GaliUe. Tras^^die de M. Ponsard. Paris. 1866.

La Condemnation de GaliUe. Par M. TAbb^
Bouix. Arras. 1866.

A rticUs on Galileo^ in Ihtblin Review. 183^-1865.

A rticles on Galileo^ in Revue des Deux Mondes,
1841-1864.

Mllanf^s Scifniifiques et LitUraires. Par J. B.
Biot. 3 vols. Paris. 1858.

GalUiey les Droits de la Science et la MHA^de de*
Sciences Physiques, Par Thomas Henri Martin.
Paris. 186S.

VOL. VIII. 28

tion upon which Copernicus met with
none whatever.

Our space will not permit us to
treat this interesting chapter of the
Galileo story, or we might show that
not only such a connection, but Ga-
lileo's associations with the partisans
and friends of such men (and in
some cases with the men themselves)
as Sarpi, (Fra Paolo,) Antonio de Do-
minis, etc. etc., contributed power-
fully to encourage in him an insult-
ing aggressiveness that even the in-
dulgent admonition of 1616 could
not restrain.

In various ways, these men stirred
up strife that might otherwise have
slumbered, and instigated Galileo to
fresh infractions of a rule by which
he had solemnly promised to abide.
They are referred to by the North
British Review (Nov., i860) in ener-
getic language as " the band of scep-
tics who hounded him on to his ruin."

In like manner, since we have
spoken of the treatment of Urban
at Galileo's hands, we cannot, for

434

GaWeo-GaUM, the Florentine Astronomer,

want of space, dwell upon the person-
al bearing of Urban toward him after
the trial was resolved upon. The
law that compelled the trial was as
binding upon the pope as upon any
layman. It had to be fulfilled ; but
so far as Urban *s personal demean-
or and acts are evidence, there was
nothing in them, and nothing in his
heart, but kindness, forbearance, and
generosit}^ toward the offender; and
it will be remembered that he car-
ried these 50 far as to allow the de-
cree of the Inquisition to go forth un-
signed and unconfirmed by him.

If revenge for any conceived per-
sonal affront had actuated him, he
could, by his signature and approval,
have given that decree a vigor and a
value it could never otherwise pos-
sess*

We resume the thread of our rela-
tion, and proceed to recount the main
facts of

THE TRIAL.

Galileo was now summoned to
Rome to answer for his infraction of
the injunction of x6i6.

The summons was issued Septem-
ber 23d, 1632. There was, however,
neither hurr)' nor precipitation ; and
after a delay of some months, caused
partly by Galileo's endeavors to have
the trial deferred, partly by his ill-
ness, and partly by the prevalence of
an epidemic in Florence, he reached
Rome on the 13th of February*, 1633,
and became the guest of the Tuscan
ambassador.

Still there appears to have been
no haste with the proceedings, and
Galileo passed his time in perfect
freedom, surrounded by his friends
and the attentions of his noble host,
who could not help remarking that
this was the first instance he had
ever heard of in which a person cited
■befo re the Inquisition — even though

they were nobles or bislvops or
lates — was not held in strict confin
ment.

When, at last, Galileo's presenc
at the holy office was absolutely in
dispensable, the best and most con
modious rooms were placed at
disposition, and his fomial interrog
tor}^ commenced April i2lh.

On the termination of this prellc
nary examination, he was assigne
the more spacious and pleasant apa
mentsof the Fiscal of the Inquisitio

"Galileo,'* says Mr. DrinkwaterJ
"was treated with unusual conside
ation f and Sir David Brewster state
that " during the whole trial, whicN
had now commenced, Gahleo
treated with the most marked induft
gence.*'

On the 2 2d of April, the commis
sary charged with the conduct of thcj
trial was ready to proceed, but post-
poned it on Galileo's statement ihad
he was suffering from severe pain ia
])is thigh.

So matters rested, tJntil, on tJie
30th, Galileo asked for a resumption
of the examination, and presented 1
complete and utter disavowal of
book and its principles. He decUr
that, having again read over his I^ia-
ii\q7iesy in order to examine whether, j
contrary to his express intention, he
had inadvertently disobeyed the de^l
cree of 1616, he found thai two argu-
ments were too strongly presented j
that they were not conclusive, and
could be easily refuted. ** If I had tol
present them now," he said, ** I should!
assuredly do it in terms that wouldl
deprive them of the weight they ap-
parently have, but which in reality
they do not possess/*

His error, he admitted, arose from^^
a vain ambition, pure ignorance and^fl
inadvertence : "^ siaio dunque ter-
ror mio^ e io dm/issoy di una vana
ambitimtr, e di una pura igtwranza €
inaverimza.^^

»tlOQH

hiflM
aredfl

Galileo-Galilei, tlie Florentine Astronomer.

435

GALILEOS VOLUNTARY RETRACTION.

Here the examination closed for
the day ; but Galileo voluntarily re-
turned, and reopened it with the de-
claration (*'^ et post pauhdum rediens
dixit'' ) that he had not held the con-
demned opinion of the earth's motion,
and that he was ready, if time were
granted him, to prove it clearly.

**I will take up," said he, "the
argument in my Dialogues, and will
refute with all possible energy the
arguments presented in favor of that
opinion."

He closes by reiterating his request
to be allowed the opportunity of put-
ting these resolutions in execution :
^^Frego dunque questo S, Tribunale c/u
voglia concorrer meco in questa buona
risolutione col concedcrmi facolt^ dipo-
terle metter in effetto^

It is painful to see a man's convic-
tions so lightly held. Why, all this
voluntary proffer is more than was
imposed on Galileo by the decree of
1616, and no more than assumed by
the decree of 1633, not yet pro-
nounced !

Alas, poor Galileo ! Of such stuff
martyrs never yet were made.

It seems strange that this phase
and these incidents of the trial should
never have been commented upon, as
showing the scientific question to be
entirely secondary in the estimation
of the Congregation.

Had that question been the only
point or the important point, this
voluntary retraction, confession of
judgment, plea of guilty, offer of re-
paration, and self-imposed sentence
on the part of Galileo should have
been more than sufficient to end the
case, and leave naught for the tribu-
nal to do but to put the self-imposed
sentence in legal form.

But not so. As Galileo well knew,
he might have gone on to the end of
his life teaching, in peace and honor,

the astronomy taught by Copernicus
and others for the previous century.
Copemicanism was not his crime,
and therefore his retraction, as made,
could not reach his criminal infrac-
tion of the decree of 1 616, and of his
own solemn pledges, nor could it mo-
dify the accusation of deception in
the matter of the license to print his
Dialogues, and the improper means
taken to obtain that license.

THE TRIAL GOES ON.

On the same day Galileo made his
voluntary retraction, he was permit-
ted to return to the palace of the
Tuscan ambassador.

On the loth of May, he was noti-
fied that a further delay of eight days
would be allowed him for the prepa-
ration of a defence, when he imme-
diately presented it already prepar-
ed, in a written statement of two
pages, accompanied by the Bellar-
mine certificate of 1616.

Meanwhile, the Congregation deli-
berated ; and such was the friendly
feeling in Rome toward Galileo that,
as late as the 21st of May, Cardinal
Capponi thought he would be acquit-
ted.

Giuducci asserted it positively,
and Archbishop Piccolomini made
preparations to take Galileo with him
to Sienna as his guest.

A large mass of documentary evi-
dence, letters, reports, etc., had accu-
mulated in the case, and on the i6th
of June a preliminary decree was en-
tered, by which Galileo was enjoined
from writing either ^r or against the
theory of the earth's motion, (^" injunc-
toeine de cetcro scripto vel verbo trac-
tet amplius quovis tnodo de mobilitate
terra nee de stabilitate solis et e con-
tra,'' etc.)

On the 2ist of June, Galileo was
interrogated, and stated in his re-
plies that, before the decree of 161 6,
he had held both opinions as to the

436

Galileo-Galilei, the Florentine Astr&namer,

sun or the earth being the centre of
the world \ but that since that time,
convinced of the prudence of his su-
periors, all doubt had ceased in his
fnind» and he had adopted as true
and undoubted the opinion of Ptole-
my ; that in his Dialogues he had
explained the proofs that might be
urged against one or tlie other sys-
tem, but without deciding for either.

To this he was answered that he
asserts positively the immobility of
the sun and the movement of the
earth, and that he must make up his
mind to acknowledge the truth, or
that he should be proceeded against
according to the law and ihe facts
of the case, " devenietur contra ipsum
ad remedia juris et factt opportunaJ*

Again Galileo replies that he nei-
ther holds nor has held that opinion
of Copernicus since he received the
order to abandon it.

Being admonished that, if he does
not tell the truth, he refuses under
penalty of torture, ** et ei dido quod
dicat veritafetn alias deifcnietur ad tor-
turam^* he replies, *'^ lo son qua per
far robedienza e mm ho temtta qucsta
^iniofu dopo la determinatlmie fatta
came ho detto^' *' I am here to make
my submission. I do not hold and
have not held this opinion since the
determination taken as I have al-
ready stated."

^^ Et cum nihil altud*^ proceeds
the record, ^* posset habcri in execu-
timem decretiy habit a ejus subscrip-
Hone, remissus fuit ad locum suum,*
(Signed) lo^ GALtLEo-GALiLEt,

" ho deposto come di sopra^

On the following day, (Wednesday,
June 22d. 1633.) Galileo appeared
again before the Congregation to
hear the decree in his case, and pro*
nounce his abjuration.

* *■ And M oethini ebe i«n»iiicd to be done, he
■allied Ihe reoofil, aod ma wnt back lo kb piAOe of

THE DECREE*

was based upon and mainly taken
with the recital of the proceedings
1 6 15, the injunction of 16 16, the vji
laiion of that injunction, tJie eflc(
of the liellarmine certificate, llic v
lation of Galileo's pledges, the i
proper means taken to obtain tlie
cense to print his Dialogues^ and hi|
confessions and excuses. Thcr^
no discussion of the scientific qm
lion,

'* Wherefore/' recites the dc?ci
" as here,'* namely, in the Bell;
mine certificate, "there is no m<
tion made of two particular articli
of the said precepts^— that is to sajfJ
that you should not teach — docer
and in any manner — quovis nwda^
write of the same doctrine, you
gued that it was to be believed th;
in the course of fourteen or sixt<
years those things passed out of yo(
memory, and that, on account of \h\
same forgetful ness, you were silciil
about that precept when you solidi
ed a license fur publishing ihc sai<
work of yours. And this w;is not
said by you to ejccuse error, but, as
it IS ascribed, rather to a vainglo-
rious ambition than to malice* But
this very certificate produced by yoii
in your defence rather aggravates
tlie charge against you, since in it, it
is declared Umt the said opinion was
contrary to Scripture, and neverthe-'
less you dared to treat of it, to dc-
ftrnd it, and even to argue in favor'
of its probability. Neither did that
certificate give you the faculty, as
you interpret it, so artfully and sub-
tly extorted by you, since you did

* So £ur a* it rdai«« to the •d«ntift<' qu«a«»mi| tfciS']
decree wi* wj-tr- ^ ' ' •" . . ^ .*» ^^^^ rcjr*al' \
ed in full ctm«<i mc. Irt* Pj#*

l9£mM wrere rci vvith all ib«

tt»u>] ccdw 1.1*1. it jl ..\\ ,'x-l'Hini;_. 1 hv ctlitiou in ihe
A«KiT Ltlffiiry IV x\\A\ of P«iduii, 1744, juj<t dliowa whifti
mt, Iter* iUte.

Galileo-Galilei^ the Florentine Astronomer.

437

not make known the prohibition that
had been imposed on you. But as
it appeared to us that you did not
speak the entire truth with respect to
your intention, we indicated that it
was necessary to proceed to a rigor-
ous examination^ of you, in which,
without prejudice to the other things
which were confessed by you, and
which are deduced against you with
respect to your intention, you an-
swered Catholically.

"Which things, therefore, having
duly considered, and examined into
the merits of this cause, together with
the above-mentioned confessions and
excuses of yours, and whatever other
matters should be rightly seen and
considered, we come to the following
definitive sentence against you :

" We say, judge, and declare that
you, the above-named Galileo, on ac-
count of those things set forth in the
documents of this trial, and which
have been confessed by you as above
stated, have rmdered yourself to this
holy office vehemently suspected of here-
sy ; that is, that you believed and
hold that doctrine which is false and
contrary to the sacred Scriptures,
namely, that the sun is the centre
of the orbit of the world, and that it
moves not from east to west, and
that the earth moves, and is not the
centre of the world; and that an
opinion can be held and defended as
probable, after it had been declared
and defined as contrary to the sacred
Scriptures. And consequently, that
you have incurred all the censures
and penalties by the sacred ca-
nons and other general constitutions
and particular statutes promulgated
against delinquencies of this kind,
from which it is our pleasure that you
should be absolved ; provided, first,
that with a sincere heart and faith,
not feigned, before us you abjure,
curse, and detest the above-mention-
ed errors and heresies, and every

other heresy and error contrary to
the Catholic and Apostolic Roman
Church, by that formula which is
presented to you. But lest this grave
fault of yours, and pernicious error
and transgression, should remain un-
punished altogether, and for the time
to come that by more caution you
should avoid them and be an exam-
ple to others, that they should ab-
stain from this sort of crime, we de-
cree and by public edict prohibit the
book of the DicUogues of Galileo-Ga-
lilei ; we condemn you to the prison
of the holy office during our pleasure ;
and as a solitary penance, we pre-
scribe that for three years you shall
once a week recite the seven peni-
tential psalms ; reserving to our-
selves the power of moderating, com-
muting, or taking away in whole or in
part the above-mentioned penalties
and penances.

** And thus we say, pronounce, and
by sentence declare," etc.

Then followed Galileo's abjuration
of his errors and heresies ; that is to
say, abjuration of his error as to the
earth's movement, and of his heresy
as to the decisions of the Congrega-
tion.

We thus give, in all their crudity,
and without comment, the only por-
tion of the trial and the decree at all
available to the advocates of the old
version of the Galileo story. Let
them make the most of it.

THE RECORD OF THE TRIAL OF
GALILEO,

or the Proems Verbal, still exists in
all its original integrity. The history
of these documents is singular. The
archives of the Inquisition at Rome
were carried off to Paris at some
time during the reign of Napoleon.
Lord Brougham says in 1809. M.
Biot (who cites M, Delaborde^ Direc-
teur des Archives Franfaises) says in

438

Gaiiho-Galild, the Florentine Astratumter.

1811. A French Iranslalion of the
Galileo trial, begun by order of Na-
poleon, was completed down to April
30th, i^ZZ* Just before the Hundred
Days, Louis XVI 11. desired to see the
documents, and all the papers con-
nected with the trial were brought to
his apartments. His hasty flight
from Paris soon followed, and the
Mss, were forgotten and lost sight of.
When the plundered archives were
returned to Rome, it was found that
the Galileo trial was not among them.
Keclamation was made, and it was
not until 1S46 that Louis Philippe
had the documents returned by M.
Rossi. They are now in the Vatican,
In this connection, it is an inte-
resting fact to note that seventy folio
volumes of the archives of the Inqui-
sition are now in the library of the
University of Dublin. The archives
at Rome were plundered a second
time in 1849, whether by Garibal-
dians or French is not known. The
plunder was brought to Paris by a
French officer, and there, in 1850,
sold to the late Duke of Manchester,
who sold Iheni to the Rev, Mr. Gib-
bings, a Protestant c1erg)^man of the
Irish Establishment. Mr. Gibbings
I again sold them to the late Dr. Wall,
J vice-provost of the university, aided
l>y Dr. Singer, Bishop of Mcath, who
presented them to the library of Tri-
nity College, Dublin.

We return to the Galileo record.
In 1850, Signor Marino- Marini, Pre-
fect of the Vatican Archives, pub-
lished Galileo € t fnguizitione. This
Signor Marini is the same who is so
^ghly spoken of by William von
Humboldt, (See Schlesier's Lives
of (he Humbohits.) His wr^rk ori-
tginalfy appeared in the furra of a
•discourse addressed to the Archaeo-
logical Academy of Rome.

Looked for with anxiety^ the book
was received witli some disappoint-
ment Instead of the text, and the

attire text of the trial, Signor Marii

gave extracts and fragments, stating
at the same time that the FrencI
who had these documents in thi
possession so many years, had ai
dared to publish them, because tJi<
were disappointed at not Ending ii
them what they sought for.

To this it was objected — and the
point was well taken — "Why, thcDj
did not you publish the whole
The truth is, the choice of Signi
Marini for the task was unfortunate,
An excellent scholar and accomplish-
ed man, he was yet too timid or toa
narrow-minded for it, and undertook
the function of an advocate rather
than the far more important one of
a historian.

He shrank from the publicity of
such passages as, ** Dnenietur contrm
ipsum ad remeJia juris etftuti opfor*
tuna^^ " Alias dci^enietur ad ti
ram^" as though we were not awai
of the universality of the use of tor
tore in all the criminal procedure of
all Europe, and that the Inquisition:
took it not from ecclesiastical, but
from the secular tribunals of the day j
as though we did not only deplore,
but openly reprobate, the fact» and as
though we did not hold the Inquisi-
tion responsible for the odium it has
entailed on the Catholic Church,
very much, we presume, as any right-
minded Protestant holds star-cham-
bers and Elizabethan tortures re-
sponsible for burdens they find hard
to bear.

A distinguished French writer, M.
Henri de TEpinois, expressed his re*
gret to the present prefect of tlie Va-
lican Archives as to the unsatisfac-
tory manner in which Sig. Marini had
presented the Galileo record, where-
upon the Rev. Father Thcincr im-
mediately offered to place all the do-
cuments at his disposition for any
examination of publication he might
wish to make. The result is M.

oiS
te.S

Galileo-Galilei^ the Florentine Astronomer. \ 439

L'Epinois's work, Galilke^ son Proch^
sa Condamnatioriy d^aprh des Docu-
nuns Incdits^ in which are given all
the original passages omitted by Ma-
rini.

The record of the trial covers two
hundred and twenty pages, and in-
cludes, besides the interrogatories
and replies of Galileo and of several
witnesses, sixty-three letters, orders,
opinions, depositions, etc., besides
the various decrees and Galileo's
defence and abjuration.

The interrogatories are all in La-
tin, the answers in Italian.

Thus, for example, where Galileo
is examined as to the publication of
his Dialogues^ the record runs :

^^ Inter rogatus. An si ostenderet sibi
dictus liber paratus sit ilium recognos-
cere tanquam suum ?

^^Rcspondit. Spero di si che mi sara
monstrato il libro lo riconoscero.

" Et sibi ostenso uno ex libris Flo-
rentiae impressis, anno 1632, cujus
titulus est Dialogo di Galileo-Galilei
linceo, in quo agitur de duobus sis-
tematibus mundi, et per ipsum bene
viso et inspecto, dixit: lo conosco
questo libro benissimo, et fe uno di
quelli stampati in Fiorenza, et lo
conosco come mio e da me composto.

^^ Inter rogatus. An pariter recognos-
cat omnia et singula in dicto libro
contenta tanquam sua ?

^^Respondit. lo conosco questo libro
mostratomi, ch'^ uno di quelli stam-
pati in Fiorenza e tutto quello che
in esso si contiene lo riconosco com^
composto da me."

"e pur si muove!"

The temptation of the dramatic
effect of this phrase has been too
strong for writers who should have
known better than to give it currency.
In the declamation of a school exhi-
bition, we are not surprised to find it;
but from a serious historian it comes

with a bad grace. M. Ponsard has,
of course, preserved it in his drama.

It is simply fable, and like the " Up,
Guards, and at them !" of Lord Wel-
lington, " un de ces mots de circon-
stance inventus aprbs coup."*

" Unstable, timorous, equivocat-
ing, and supple," says Philarfete
Chasles, " he never had the heart to
exclaim, * E pur si muove !* " He ne-
ver exhibited that heroical resistance
which has been attributed to him.

The penitential shirt or sack is
also fabulous, notwithstanding even
so distinguished a man as Cousin
speaks of Galileo as " forc^ d*abjurer
d genoux, en chemise, son plus beau
titre de gloire."t

VALUE OF THE DECREE.

A few words — and but few are
needed — as to the common assertion
that the Catholic Church, claiming
infallibility in matters of faith, decid-
ed the doctrine of the earth's immo-
bility to be a truth affirmed in the
Scriptures. Granting the decree of
the Inquisition in the case of Galileo
to have been all that is claimed
against it, it was, after all, nothing
but a decree of the Inquisition ; no
more, no less.

And first, what was the Inquisition ?

The Inquisition forms no perma-
nent or essential part of the organ-
ization of the Catholic Church. It
was always a purely local tribunal,
and the original appointment of its
officers as quasitores fidei^ or inquisi-
tors, seems to have been designed to
prevent civil wars on the score of
religion. The prevailing sentiment
as well as the positive jurisprudence
of the middle ages approved the pun-
ishment of heresy by temporal penal-
ties. Indeed, such principles, abhor-

* *' One of thoM impromptus composed at leisure.'*

t *' Forced to abjure on his knees, and clad in a shirt,

has DoUett title to i

440

rent to us, seem to have come down
out of the so-called dark ages far
toward our own time. For full confir-
mation of this statement, you may
read John Calvin's treatise in defence
of persecuting measures, in which he
maintains the lawfulness of putting
heretics to death ; and for illustration,

I you may peruse the account of his
treatment of Casiellio and Ser\xtus,
who found Calvin's reasoning of such
peculiar strength that they did not
sunrive its application ; or his letter
to Somerset, (1548 :) *' You have two
kinds of mutineers: the one are a fa-
natical people, who, under color of
the gospel, would set all to confusion ;
the others are stubborn people in
the superstition of the Antichrist of
Kom e . These altogether do describe to be
well punished by the sivordP (See
Froude'*s History of England^ voL v,)
Charming impartiality I

More than a hundred years after-
ward, Calvin*s followers embodied his
doctrine in their solemn confession
of faith, wherein they say ( Westmin-
ster Cort/asion^ ch. xxiii.) that "the
civil magistrate hath authority, and
it is his duty, to lake order, that all
blasphemies and heresies be sup-

I pressed."

Although inquisitors existed in
Italy from the time of Innocent IV,,
Iheir authority was so rarely exer-
cised that it was scarcely kfiown until
Paul III,, in the year 1545, organized
the Congregation of the Inquisition,
consisting of six cardinals. To ihc^e
were added two more by Pius V,
They formed a strictly ecclesiastical
tribunal, charged with matters re-
garding the integrity of faith through-
out the world ; their duty being to

•examine and censure erroneous pro-
positions, condemn and proscribe bad
books, inflict ecclesiastical censures
on clergymen convicted of error, and
exercise a superintendence over the
local tribunals of faith.

Galileo-Galilei, the Florentine Astranamer,

It still exists, acts, and exer

its ecclesiastical attributes.

But however powerful to suppress
opinion or to exact obedience
Inquisition might be within the limiti
of its own special jurisdiction,
have never yet heard that any dc
of any inquisition ever determined \
question of faith, or, in other wordl|
ever attempted to usurp the functic
of a general council!

Even Riccioli, the original sour
up to within a few years, of all ac
counts of the trial and sentence on
Galileo, and himself one of the strong
est theological opponents of the the
ory of the earth^s motion, expresslj
protests against the assertion that anj
declaration whatever had been mad^
on the subject by the church itselfj
He says: "The Sacred Congrega-^
tion of Cardinals, taken apart fron
the Supreme Pontiff, does not makfl
propositions to be of faith, ei^ett thou
it should actually define them to be <
faith ^ or the contrary ones hcretica
Wherefore, since no detinition upon
this matter has as yet issued from the
Supreme Pontiff, nor from any couii'^
cil directed and approved by him, i^
is not yet of faith that the sun mov
and the earth stands still by force 1
the decree of the Congregation ; but
at most and alone, by the force of the
sacred Scriptures to those to whom it
is morally evident that God has rc-^
vealed it. Nevertheless, Catholics arc
bound, in prudence and obedience,^
not to teach the^

at least so far as
contrary."

And yet, plain as is tliis distinc-
tion, men of professedly theological
acquirements, for the sake of inBict
ing a wound on the church, system-
atically ignore it wlienever they havd'
**a point'* to make with the Galileo
story.

And the distinction is not only ^
plain at the present day, but was ex-fl
pressly made at the time of GalUeo^s ^

Galileo-Galilei, the Florentine Astronomer.

441

trial. " It was not in the power of
the holy office to declare it (Gali-
leo's scientific theory) or any other
doctrine heresy ; it would take an
(Ecumenical Council for that." (Let-
ter of September 4th, 1632 : Cardinal
Magalotti to Galileo.) Even Des-
cartes, six months after the trial, re-
marks that the decision of the In-
quisition had received the ratification
of neither pope nor council.

THE TORTURE.

The relators of the torture fable
ask us to believe that an old man
bending under the weight of seventy
years, after underg(^ing imprisonment
and mental anguish, suffered the
f eine forte et dure of torture on the 21st
of June, and on the next day was
capable of remaining more than an
hour on his knees to receive his sen-
tence, and then, unaided, arose,
stamped his foot, and thundered
out, " E pur si muove 1" Truly a
vigorous performance, but not more
hardy than the story which relates it.

No ; these fables can no longer
have place in history ; and we know
positively that Galileo, who, on the
evening of June 24th, after his three
days' detention at the holy office,
(the sentence of imprisonment being
immediately commuted by the pope,)
was conducted by Niccolini to the
Villa Medici, and who, on the 6th of
July, old as he was, was able to walk
four miles without inconvenience,
could not have been tortured on the
2ist of June.

" Those who undertake," says the
German Protestant Von Reumont,
" to accuse the Inquisition on this
point, are forced to have recourse to
fiction."

Lord Brougham, after an examina-
tion of the case, says, in his Analyti-
cal View of the Principia, that " the

supposition of Galileo having been
tortured is entirely disproved by
Galileo's own account of the lenity
with which he was treated."

Biot dismisses the matter thus :
"II y a Ik une reunion d'invraisem-
blances qui ne permet pas de conce-
voir raisonnablement un soup^on
pareil."*

Galileo survived his sentence eight
years. Is it credible that, during
that long period spent in intimate
personal intercourse and literary cor-
respondence with his friend, no word
or hint of complaint of such an out-
rage as torture should have escaped
his lips ?

Castelli was constantly with him
to the hour of his death, and heard
no whisper of it.

In August, 1638, writing to Ber-
negger, Galileo could boast that nei-
ther the freedom nor the vigor of his
spirit was repressed.

Three months before his death,
with the certainty of its approach, he
sent for Torricelli, and spent long
hours in unreserved discourse with
him. Not a word of torture !

Finally, in his last letter, just three
weeks before his death, to Beccherini,
he bewails his endurances and his
troubles in a spirit that could not
and did not fail to unseal his lips for
ever)'thing he had to say in the spirit
of complaint ; but here, too, not a
word of torture !

The majority of the French feuille-
tonists on the Ponsard drama mani-
fest disappointment at not finding
any torture, and straightway seek
solace in such reflections as, " Ainsi,
Galilee ne fut point mis k la torture ;
on en a aujourd'hui la pleine certi-
tude."t

But the feuilletonist wants to

• " There is here such a conjunction of ihiprobabili-
ties as to exclude all reasonable possibility oi such a
suspicion."

t "Thus, then, Galileo was not put to the torture.
Of that we now have the fullest certainty/'

442

Galiko-Galilei^ the Flormtine Asirmomen

know if the persecutions, bitterness,
and vexation of every kind to which
Galileo was subjected were not the
equivalent of physical torture?

And what, then, does he take to
be the equivalent of the irony, sar-
casm* ingratitude» and insult gratui-
tously heaped upon Urban, the kind
friend and liberal benefactor of Ga-
lileo?

No reasonable doubt can now exist
as to the fact that it was not Ga-
lileo's assertion of the hypothesis of
tJie earth's rotation that brought him
into trouble. It was his intempe-
rance of language, impatience of wise
counsel, tlisregard of sacred obliga-
tions, violation of solemn promises,
and above all, his insane perversity
in dragging the scriptural element
into the controversy. Of the scores
of distinguished adherents, disciples,
advocates, and professors of the he-
liocentric doctrine, Galileo alone gave
annoyance and created difficulty.

To tlie extent of examining and
discussing the question scientifically,
the freedom at Rome was perfect
But when the point w^as reached
when it \va5 gratuitously thrust into
collision with Scripture, a degree of
demonstration was needed that could
not be produced.

AFTER THE TRIAL.

To complete the chronological
statement of events, it is only neces-
sary to add that on the 6th of July
Galileo left Rome for Sienna, where
he remained with Archbishop Picco-
lomini» one of his most intimate
friends, imlil the month of December.
He then returned to his own home
at Arcetri, near Florence.

It wois here he received the oft-
descrrbed and well-known visit of
Millon, then in the prime of youth.
In 1638, he transferred his residence

to Florence, where he occupied
self with scientific pursuits, his
gotiation with Holland for the use of
his discovery concerning the longi-
tude, the publication of his book
Dialoghi delle Nuove Sdcn&e at
Leyden, (1638,) correspondence with
scientific men, and visits £rom his
friends.

He died on the 8th of January,
1642, in the seventy-eighth year of
his age.

** The noblest eye/' wrote bb
friend Father Castclli, announcing
his death, " which nature ever made,
is darkened ; an eye so privileged
and gifted with such rare powers
thai it may truly be said to have seen
more than the eyes of all that are
gone, and to have opened the eyes of
all that are to come,"

We now pass to the consideration
of the exact condition of

THE SCIENTinC QUESTION

as it existed in 1633, leaving, of
course, aside all discussion of its
theological or scriptural connection.

Without going back so far as Py-
thagoras, the new system in 1633 was
not original with Galileo, nor e%'en
with Copernicus, who is said to have
received the germ of his new doc-
trine at Bologna from the hypothesis
of Dominicus Maria on the varia-
bility of the axis of the earth ; and it
would be most in teres: ing, did space
allow, to review the intelleciual
struggles of the predecessors {ad
astro) of the Polish priest with a
theory* they felt to be true, but were
powerless to demonstrate even to
themselves.

Among these men were :

I. The great mystical theologian,
Richard of St. Victor, who described
the true method of physical inquiry
in terms which Francis Bacon might
have adopted. **It would not bo

GalilethGalileiy the Florentine Astronomer.

443

easy at the present day," says Dr.
Whewell, {Philosophy of Discovery^
pp. 52-53,) " to' give a better account
of the object of physical science."

2. Celius Calcagnini, (born 1479,)
who published (Tiraboschi says di-
volgh, which may or may not mean
simply printing) a work in which
he endeavored to prove " quod coslum
stety terra autem fnoveaturT

3. Cardinal Cusa, sometimes called
Nicholas the Cusan, an intellectual
giant of his time, the highest expres-
sion, probably, of the active mental
movement that marked the 15th cen-
tury. He was equally distinguished
in science, in letters, and in philoso-
phy, and in 1436, at the Council of
Basle, proposed the reform of the
calendar afterward carried out by
the pope. His knowledge of astro-
nomy was, for his time, profound, and
he asserted and published that "the
sun is at rest, the earth moves," (" is-
tarn terra m in veritate tnoveatur^)

4. Novara, the preceptor of Coper-
nicus ; for it is certain that Coperni-
cus found his new doctrine in Italy.

5. Jerome of Tallavia, whose papers
are said to have fallen into the hands
of Copernicus.

6. Leonardo da Vinci, who, in
15 10, connected his theory of bodies
with the earth's motion, " showing,"
as Whewell says, "that the helio-
centric doctrines were fermenting in
the minds of intelligent men, and
gradually assuming clearness and
strength."

Although Da Vinci constructed no
system of explanation, he neverthe-
less held the motion of the earth, as
appears from one of his manuscripts
of the year 1500.

Some light may be thrown upon
the actual condition of astronomical
science during the Galileo period by

* " That heaven is motionless, but that the earth

a short statement of the arguments
most in vogue between

PTOLEMAISTS AND COPERNICANS,

and of what the latter had to pre-
sent in the way of proof.

The Copemicans contended gene-
rally for the greater simplicity of
their system, and the incredibility of
the enormous velocity which the
sphere of the fixed stars must have if
the ancient system be true. To this
it was answered that God doeth won-
ders without number.

But the earth would corrupt and
putrefy without motion, whereas the
heavens are incorruptible. To which
the answer was ready that wind
would give sufficient motion.

But the most movable part of man
is underneath, since he walks with
his feet ; whence the most unworthy
part of the universe, the earth,
should be movable.

Objected that, if the earth moves,
the head of a man moves faster than
his feet.

But again, " Rest is nobler than
motion, and therefore ought to be-
long to the sun, the noble body."

Replied to, " For the same reason,
the moon and all the planets ought
to rest"

Again, " The lamp of the world
ought to be in the cen tre. " Answered
by, " A lamp is frequently hung up
from a roof to enlighten the floor."

** Can we fancy," asked the Coper-
nicans, " that God has not acted on
a scheme so impressive and so beau-
tiful as ours ?"

" Can we fancy," replied their op-
ponents, "that this earth is con-
stantly in motion, which we feel to be
the stablest of all things ? that our
senses are given to deceive us ?
that during the greater part of our
lives we cling to the earth with our
head downward ?"

444

Caliho-Galilei, the Florentine Astronomer.

I
I

Finally, the Copernicans were ut-
terly silenced by the unanswerable
argument of throwing^ up a stone,

•* Would they please explain,'* was
asked of them, " why, if the earth
moved, the stone, beino: thrown di-
rectly upward, should fall on the spot
from which it was thrown ?"

The Copernicans were silent, for
they conld assign no reason. ** In the
sixleenlh century," says Professor
De Morgan, ** the wit of man could
not imagine how, if the earth moved,
a stone thrown directly upward would
tumble down upon the spot it was
tlirown from." It was reserved for a
man who was born on the same day
Galileo died to furnish the reason.

ASTRONOMY IN 1633.

To one seeking for a demonstrated
system, astronomy w^as then a hope-
less chaos of irreconcilable facts— an
impenetrable jungle of conflicting
theories. That such was the actual
condition of the science in Galileo's
day, we find fully recognized and
aptly described by a distinguished
English Protestant, a great name in
English literature, who, himself *'an
exact malhemalician" and astrono-
mer, was most active in research and
observation precisely during the pe-
riod of Galileo's greatest fame. We
refer to Burton, author of the cele-
brated Anatomy of Melancholy.

This remarkable book was written
by Burton during the years extending
from 1 6 14 to 1621, when the first
edition was published. The subse-
quent editions of 1624, 1628, 1632,
and 1638 were all issued during the
life of the author, who died in 1639,
a succession of years precisely cover-
ing the period of Galileo's contro-
versies and trials ; and yet its author,
vicar of St. Thomas and rector of
Segrave, (Church of England as by
law established,) who never misses

an opportunity ever so sligEit of
giving Catholicity a thrust or a slab,
makes *mere mention* of Galileo^s
condemnation tlius: **TIi -a-

doxes of the earth's mos -h

the Church of Rome hath lately con-
demned as heretical/'

The truth is, that in that day the
course pursued by the CongregTatioo
at Rome was generally approved
even by Protestants, In their eyes,
nothing but a paradox was con-
demned. Having exhausted all his
proof, where does Galileo leave our
exact English mathematician, who
evidently read and knew of every-
thing published on the subject in his
day?

Why, Burton speaks of ** that main
paradox of the earth's motion now
so much in question/' and devotes
^\^ full pages to a presentation of
all the theories then current, giving
Galileo s as of no more value than
the others 1 He thus sums ihem up :

"One offends against natural phi-
losophy, another against optic prin-
ciples, a third against mathematical,
as not answering to astronomical ob-
servations. One puts a great space
between Saturn's orb and the eighth
sphere, another too narrow. In his
own hypothesis, he makes the earth
as before the universal centre, the
sun to the ^\^ upper planets ; to the
eighth sphere he ascribes diurnal
motion ; eccentrics and epicycles to
the seven planets, which hath been
formerly exploded ; and so, dum vi-
tant sttiitt vitia^ in contraria curritnt^
as a tinker stops one hole and makes
two, he corrects them, and doth
worse himself: reforms some and
mars all In Ihc mean time, the
world is tossed in a blanket amongst
them, they hoist the earth up and
down like a ball, make it stand and
go at their pleasures : one saith the

ctKitTAry/

' While they avoid OM ItiiMJike. tli«y ntit ioio Ihe

Galileo-Galilei^ the Florentitie Astronomer.

445

sun stands ; another, he moves ; a
third comes in, taking them all at re-
bound, and lest there should any pa-
radox be wanting, he finds certain
spots and clouds in the sun. . . .
And thus they disagree amongst
themselves, old and new, irreconci-
lable in their opinions ; thus Aristar-
chus, thus Hipparchus, thus Ptole-
maeus, thus Albateginus, thus Alfraga-
nus, thus Tycho, thus Ramerus, thus
Raeslinus, thus Fracastorius, thus
Copernicus and his adherents," etc.
Not a word here of Galileo.

The whole chapter is very curious,
and will well repay the trouble of
reading. See pages 323 to 329,
London edition.

Notwithstanding his condition of
paradox as seen by disinterested men
of science, Galileo claimed three pro-
positions as settled :

First, The system was demon-
strated.

Second. He demonstrated it.

Third. His was the honor of fur-
nishing the demonstration from the
flux and reflux of the tides.

To these three propositions it is
replied that the system was not at
that day demonstrated by Galileo or
by any one else, and that his tidal
argument was worthless.

Indeed, a sufficient answer is found
in the simple statement, in which all
astronomers must certainly accord,
that before the time of Sir Isaac
Newton there was nothing to make
the Copernican system more plau-
sible and reasonable than the Ptole-
maic theory, because the English
astronomer first explained the one
law on which planetary revolutions
depended.

The theory of the earth's rotation
was, in 1633, barely a matter of in-
duction — strong, it is true, yet no-
thing more than induction. Strong,
if the two arguments taken from the
phases of Venus and the satellites of

Jupiter are duly weighed ; but weak
without them.

The discovery of the satellites of
Jupiter was called by Herschel ** the
holding turn of the Copernican sys-
tem," but Galileo had no conception
of its value ; he passed it by as insig-
nificant, and settled down compla-
cently upon the flux and reflux of the
tides as the crowning proof. To this
proof, and to no other, he clung dur-
ing the citation of 16 16.

Astronomers express great sur-
prise that Galileo makes no mention
of the belts of Jupiter, although they
are visible with the aid of the small-
est glass.

Zucchi, a Jesuit, was the first to
note them in Rome, (1630.) In like
manner, the discovery of the spots on
the 6un do not appear to have bene-
fited him in ascertaining the sun's
rotation. " Galilee," says Arago, " n'a
pas non plus la moindre apparence
de droit k la ddcouverte du mouve-
ment de rotation du soleil. On a vu
les taches ; aucune consequence de
cette observation n'est indiqu^e."*

The oversights concerning Jupiter
are the more remarkable as Galileo's
labors in investigation of the satellites
were long and exhausting. It is only
within a few years that this fact has
been ascertained through the dis-
covery by Professor Alberi of a long
series of observations of the satel-
lites of Jupiter, with tables and ephe-
merides drawn up for the purpose
of comparing the longitude.

These manuscripts, described as a
" mighty monument of his labors" —
and doubtless they must be, for all
his calculations were necessarily
made without the aid of logarithms
— were found in the Pitti Palace
library, and are published by Alberi

* ** Neither has Galileo the slightest apparent claim
to the discovery of the sun's rotation. The spots are
observed, but no deduction is drawn from the obterva-

446

Galileo-Galilei, the FlorcHtiw Astronomer.

I
I

in the fifth volume of his magnificent
edition of Galileo's work.

Hcrschel says that the science of
astronomy was yet in its infancy at
the period of Newton's death, and
after all that Newton had done for
it. What, then, must we think of its
condition in the hands of Galileo,
with his toy telescope, his fallacious
tidal theor)', and his necessary igno-
rance of the great discoveries that
followed him ?

In i6i8, he published his Theory
of the Tides. In 16231 he ^g^^in puts
it forward in a letter to Ingulfi ; and
finally devotes the fourth and last
day of the DiaIogu€ to the develop-
ment of the same argument

Nay, more, in this dialogue he
scoffs at the simplicity of Kepler»
who has had the temerity, after his
(Galileo's) satisfactory explanation
of ihc phenomena, to listen to such
stuff as the occult properties of the
moon's influence on the tides, and
other like puerilities ! We find by
reference to a marginal note in the
Padua edition of the Diahgnes at the
Astor Librar\% that a prelate, Giro-
lamo I^irro, wrote a pamphlet setting
forth the theory of the moon's in-
fluence on the tides, and Simpliciois
made to quote him : *' Eultimamente
certo prelato ha publicato un tratello
dove dice che la lona vagando per il
cielo altrae e sol leva verso di se un
cumulo d'acqna, il quale vacontinual-
mcntc seguitando," etc*

Here Sagredo stops him abruptly,
saying, " For heaven*s sake, Signor
Simplicio, let us have no more of tliat ;
for it is a mere loss of time to listen
to it, as well as to confute it, and you
simply do injustice to your judgment
by regarding such or similar puerili-
ties.*'

• •• And Idielv a c*rl.rtn pnfUti* ha« publi»li«d i
pAmplilei, ta which he vit« <\\a\ lUe miiotv 1fAver«i«ic
iHe h^vHent, atir«cia anil ilraw« ^Ocr hvr « «tiM» uf

No wonder, as BailH says, "I1
foule d*astronomes etaicnt contrcl*^

GaliJeo died in profound ignorance
of the true tidal theor>', and the cre-
dit of pointing it out is ascribed by Mr.
Drink water to the College of Jesuits
at Coimbra,

But more than all this, Galileo had
already made great mistakes, and
committed errors that were publicly
rectified by his contemporaries.

Thus, one of the most remarkable
astronomical phenomena of the age,
the three comets of 1618, was totally
misunderstood by Galileo, who pro-
nounced them atmospheric meteors.

The Jesuit Grassi, in his treatise
De Tribus Cometis, (i6i8») had the
merit of explaining what had bailed
Galileo, who at first held them to be
planets moving in vast ellipses arouJUl
the sun.

CHARITY FOR ALL.

In referring to these errors of Ga-
lileo, Laplace says that it would be un-
just to judge him with die same rigor
as one who should refuse at present la
believe the motion of the earth, con-
firmed by the numerous discoveries
made in astronomy since that period*

And John Quincy Adams, in a me*
morable discourse delivered at Cin-
cinnati in 1843, says of Tycho Bralie,
(who maintained that the earth is im-
movable in the centre of the universe,)
**The religion of Tycho in the en-
counter with his philosophy obtained
a triumph honorable to him, but er-
roneous in fact'*

All which may be very true ; and if
Laplace and Mr. Adams err at all,
they err certainly on the side of cha-
rity and kindness.

But are we to have one standard of
justice for one class of mcn» and a
far different one for another class ? is

• ** Ttte iniw of tmoMiinicn wtiv of lh« omtmy
opt moil.**

Galileo-Galileiy the Florentine Astronomer.

447

that which is excusable in an Italian
and honorable in a Danish astrono-
mer, ignorant, bigoted, and vile in a
cardinal ? Or is there any good rea-
son why that which in Denmark is a
" triumph of religion " should in Rome
become a " victory of ignorance" ?

Tycho Brahe, in his day a profound
astronomer, noble and wealthy, de-
voting his whole life to science in
unremitting observation of the hea-
vens, with the aid of the most com-
plete and costly apparatus in exist-
ence at the time, might surely be
supposed to have reached a safer con-
clusion than an ignorant churchman.

And how, moreover, could such a
churchman be expected to pin his
faith to the sleeve of an astronomer
like Galileo, whose errors and blun-
ders were frequent and serious, and
who, when in his conjectures he stimi-
bled upon the truth, could hardly dis-
tinguish it from error, and was there-
fore as likely to give a bad as a good
reason for his doctrine ? Or, as M.
Biot admirably expresses it, " si Tdtat
imparfait de cette science Texposait
ainsi k donner parfois de mauvaises
raisons comme bonnes, il faut par-
donner h. ses adversaires de n'avoir
pas pu toujours distinguer les bonnes
des mauvaises."*

Anti-Catholic controversialists will
persist in endowing the Galileo pe-
riod with an amount of astronomical
and physical science that then had no
existence. Intelligent, industrious,
and learned the cardinals of Gali-
leo's day certainly werfe ; but it is
absurd to attribute to them or to their
times a knowledge of the Copernican
system, as afterward explained by
Kepler, Newton, and two centuries
of men of science. Kepler's Laws
of the Universe were not published

• " If the imperfection of this science that
him liable to give bad reasons for good, his adversa-
ries should surely be pardoned for not always being
blc to distinguish the good from the bad.'*

until 1619, and even then, and long
years afterward, who could possibly
apply them until Newton's discove-
ries gave them force and authority t

If our modem sciolists, who prat-
tle so much about " the ignorant
and bigoted court of Rome," knew
enough to be a little modest, they
might take to heart the reflection of
the great English essayist, and re-
member it is no merit of theirs that
prevents them from falling into the
mistakes of a cardinal " whose pens
they are not worthy to mend." It
certainly was asking a great deal of
men that they should abandon setded
tradition, the teachings of authority,
the evidence of their senses, and the
warrant of Scripture, as they under-
stood it, to embrace a strange, star-
tling, and incomprehensible doctrine,
in no degree better off in demonstra-
tion than the old one. Even the
weight of scientific 'authority was in
their favor, as is readily seen when
we look at the relative strength of

COPERNICAN AND ANTI-COPERNICAN.

Tycho Brahe was far from being
alone in his dissent from Copernicus
and Galileo. Saving only the bright
spot made by Kepler and a few of
his disciples, all Germany, France,
and England were still in compara-
tive darkness, and it is difficult to
believe that at the period of Galileo's
trial there were as many avowed
Copemicans in all Europe together
as in the single city of Rome.

In Germany, the new system was
almost universally rejected, and Wolf-
gang Menzel, in his History of Ger-
many^ speaks of it as " die unter den
Protestanten in Deutschland noch
immer bezweifelte Wahrheit des Co-
pemikanischen Welt-systems."*

• " The ev^n yet (by German Protestants) contested
truth of the Copernican ^stem."

448

Galileo-Galilei, tlu Floretttine Astronomer.

The frontispiece to Riccioli*s Al-
magest um Navum^ Astor Library
copj/ published in 1651, presents a
curious illustration of the prevalent
estimate of the new doctrines. A fig-
ure with a pair of balances is seen
weighing the Tychonian against the
Copernican system, and the truth of
the former is shown by its overwhelm-
ing preponderance, Riccioli cites
fourteen authors who up to that day
had written in favor of the Coperni-
can theor>% and thirty-seven who
had written against it. He adduces
seventy arguments in favor of the
Tychonian» and can find but forty-
nine in support of the Copernican ;
consequently, the mere force of num-
bers proves the improbability of the
latter.

In France, Ramus, the Huguenot
Royal Professor at Paris, utterly re-
fused the doctrine ten years after the
death of Galileo.

Thomas Lydiat, a distinguished
English astronomer of his day, and
so good a scholar as to come victo*
rious out of a controversy on chrono-
logy with Scaliger, openly opposed
the Copernican system in his Fralec-
ti& Astron&mka^ (1605.) In fact, no
man of astronomical acquirements of
that day, and for more than fifty years
aftenvard, dared risk the success of
a book by putting in it anything fa-
voring the Copernican thcor)^

Even as late as 1570, we find John
Dee, an English Copernican, who, de-
spairing of the ignorant prejudice
around him, would not so much as
hint at the existence of the system in
his preface to Billingsiefs Euclid.

In Great Britain, the system was
discredited by the illustrious Gilbert
Milton, too, seems to have doubted it
Its most active opponent was Alex-
ander Rosse, a voluminous Scotch
writer, alluded to in Hudibras.

Hume tells us Lord Bacon "re-
jected the system of Coocmicus with

the most positive disdain."* It is
but fair to say, though, that this
statement, like too many of Hume's,
should be qualified. It is true that
in his Dc Augtncnfis Bacon says that
the absurdity and complexity of the
Ptolemaic system has driven men to
ihe doctrine of the earth's motion,
which is clearly false, ** qtwd nobis
constat falsissimum esse /" but, on the
other hand, in the Awum Organum^
he distinctly speaks of the question
of the earth's molion as one to be eJt-
amined. Now, the latter work^although
published before, was written after the
Dc Augment is ^ which is less serious
and argumenlative than the Novum
Organum.

Even in 1705, tlie Hon, R How-
ard published in London a work
entitled Copemicans of all Sorts Con-
victed.

In 1806, Mercier, a FrencJiman,
wrote to prove ** Fimpossibiliti^ des
.sysiimes de Copernic et de New-
ton ;*' and even so recently as 1829
an individual was found so rclrogade
as to publish a work entitled 2*/t^
C/niverse as it is ; wherein the Hy-
pothesis of the Earth*s Motion is Re-
futed, etc., by W. Woodley.

THE UNDEMONSTRATED PROBLEM.

And now, having spied out the
nakedness of the astronomic land
throughout Europe, let us return for
a moment to the scientific position of
the tribunal that tried Galileo.

What solid proof was presented to
it ? None whatever. And those fa-
miliar with the history of astronomy
will readily recognize the fact that,
so far from seeing in the new opi-
nion a scientific novelty, they recog-
nized in it substantially the old hy-

• Micauby ttiould h4ve »id, '• theory rif Citp^mi-
co»,*' inttcatl ol "tK*ory of (' lilco," liicon nev«r
credited C:ilileo wuh a 4]rA|4*iti, and did ooi luild hi)
tctenlilk meriu ia mud) ettecm.

I
I

Galileo-Galileiy the Florentine Astronol

pothesis of Pythagoras, which, after
obtaining credit for more than five
hundred years, was triumphantly dis-
placed by the Ptolemaic theory;
which was that the earth is a solid
globe at rest in the centre of the
universe, with the various planetary
bodies revolving in larger and larger
circles, according to the order of
their distances.

The new doctrine had not even
the form of a system :

" 'Twas neither shape nor feature."

Indeed, as has been truly said, it
was nothing more than a paradox for
the support of which its authors had
to draw upon their own resources.

High astronomical authority, Dd-
lambre, thus sums up the utter ab-
sence of proof, in Galileo's time, of
the theory of the earth's rotation :

" What solid reason could induce
the ancients to disbelieve the evi-
dence of their senses ? Yes, and even
despite the immense progress which
astronomy has subsequently made,
have the moderns themselves been
able to allege any one direct proof
of the diurnal motion of the earth,
previous to the voyage of Richer to
Cayenne, where he was obliged to
shorten his pendulum ? Have they
been able to discover one positive
demonstration to the point, to prove
the annual revolution of the earth,
before Roemer measured the velocity
of light, and Bradley had observed
and calculated the phenomena of
the aberration ?

" Previous to these discoveries,
and that of universal gravitation,
were not the most decided Copemi-
cans reduced to mere probabilities ?
Were they not obliged to confine
themselves to preaching up the sim-
plicity of the Copernican system, as
compared with the absurd complex-
ity of that of Ptolemy ?"

What "solid reason," indeed, could
VOL. VIII. — 29

airrhi9>aDre-vA'A

be given ? But Gahlei

sumption did not consl

duced to " mere probabilT

relying on his tidal fallacies afltJ-mn- ^

explained phenomena, sought to pass

hypothesis for dogma, and his ipse

dixit for demonstration.

Of the great discoveries enumerat-
ed by Ddlambre, Galileo was neces-
sarily ignorant, and we must insist
upon the fact that the cardinals and
the Inquisition were equally ignorant
of them.

There was, in reality, no astrono-
mical science in Galileo's time worth
speaking of, except as we compare it
with the astronomy that preceded it,
which is the only fair test of its value.
Compared with what Ptolemy knew,
it was twilight.

Compared with what we know, it
was darkness.

It is moderate to say that in 1633
astronomy was in its infancy. To all
that was then known, add Kepler's
magnificent labors, Torricelli's disco-
very, Newton's principle of gravita-
tion, and all the English astronomer
did for science — come down to the
year 1727, in which he died, and
what was the condition of astronomi-
cal science even then ?

Herschel has told us : " The lega-
cy of research which was left us by
Newton was indeed immense. To
pursue through all its intricacies the
consequences of the law of gravita-
tion ; to account for all the inequali-
ties of the planetar)' movements, and
the infinitely more complicated and
to us more important ones of the
moon ; and to give, what Ncivton
himself certainly nether entertained a
conception of a demonstration of the
stability and permanence of the sys-
tem under all the accumulated influ-
ence of its internal perturbations ;
this labor and this triumph were re-
served for the succeeding age, and
have been shared in succession by

450

GaUlcO'GalUci^ the Florentine Astr^mmir,

Clairaiilt, D'Alembert. Euler, La-
grange, and Laplace. Yet so ex-
^lensive is this subject, and so diffi-
cult and intricate tlic purely mathe-
matical inquiries to which it leads,
that another catttiry may yet be re-
quired to gQ through the task,''*

THE LEGACY OF RESEARCH

left by Newton may truly be called
•* immense.** And Herschel does
well to modify his statement as to
the ** triumph " and postpone it yet
another century,

For it must be borne in mind that
no astronomical system is a strictly
verifiable fact. The circulation of
the blood is a verifiable fact, and it
has been verified. No announce-
ment of the discover)^ of a new de-
monstration of its truth could now
attract any attention on account of
its merits as proof.

Not so as to the earth's motion.
The proofs of that have always been
tuerely referential and cumulative.
The final, the crowning point of
demonstration has never been
made, and probably never can be
reached. Who can say that he ever
saw the earth move ? Hence it is
that every successive item of cumula-
live evidence is hailed with pleasure
and excitement. Thus was it with
TorriceUi*s, Newton's, Richer*s, Roe-
mer*s, and Bradley's discoveries ; thus
with all the brilliant inventions in
mechanics by means of which the
illustration and explanations of
these discoveries became possible —
cxpLi nations which, after all, not one
man in a thousand can understand,

POST-GALILEAN ASTRONOMY.

A few words in addition to what
we hav^ already said concerning the
j^reat discoveries made since Gali-
leo's lime, and we close.

Three of these dtsco^ertes^ withmit
which the Copernican theory as to ,
demonstration wovrld be but little '
better off than the Ptolemaic, merit
special mention. They arc :

First. The Newtonian llieory of
gra\atati on.

Secoml The discovery of the short- j
encd pendulum* showing the diurnal '
motion of the earth.

Third. The velocity and aberra* |
tion of light, showing the annual ino- '
tion.

It is scarcely necessary to etiter
into any detail concerning the so
generally known, great* and univer-
sal principle of gravitation.

THE SHORTENED PENDULUM,

Up to the year 1672, no doubt had
been entertained of the spherical
figure of the earth, and, as a conse-
quence, of the equality of all the de-
grees of the meridian ; so that one.
being known, the whole circumfe-
rence was determined.

In that year, ihe French Academy
of Sciences, then occupied in the
measurement of an arc in the meri-
dian, sent the astronomer Richer to
Cayenne, on the coast of South Ame-
rica, to make observations of the
sun*s altitude.

In the course of these obser\'ations
he was surprised to find that a supe-
rior clock, furnished with a pendu-
lum which vibrated seconds, was
found to lose nearly two minutes
and a half a d*iy.

The astonishment created by the
report of this fact in France was
ver)' great, particularly after the ac-
curacy of the clock had been fully
tested.

Other scientific men then visited
different points on the coasts ot
Africa and South Americn, and
were convinced of the absolute ne*
cessily of shortening the pendulum

Galileo-Galilei, the Florentine Astronomer,

451

to make it vibrate seconds in those
latitudes.

The phenomenon was explained
by Newton in the Third Book of his
Principia (1687) — see p. 409 et seq.^
Amerfcan edition — where he shows
it to be a necessary consequence of
the earth's rotation on its axis, and
of the centrifugal force created by it.
That force, in modifying the gravity,
gives to the earth an oblate sphe-
roidal figure, more elevated at the
equator than on the poles, and
makes bodies fall and pendulums
vibrate more slowly in low than in
high latitudes.

There is, unfortunately, such a
thing as national jealousy even in
science, and to such a motive only
can we ascribe the fact that New-
ton*s explanation was not accepted
in France until presented by Huy-
ghens, several years afterward, in a
different and less accurate form.

THE VELOCITY AND ABERRATION OF
LIGHT.

In the entire range of scientific
literature, there are few chapters of
greater interest than those which re-
count the rise and gradual develop-
ment of all the principles involved
in the triumphant demonstration of
these two beautiful discoveries.

They admirably illustrate the total
ignorance of Galileo concerning a
problem upon which he experimented
with utter failure, as also the slow
pace of scientific progress, and the
necessity of the co-operative efforts
of many men and many sciences to
perfect it.

It required the genius and research
of Roemer, Bradley, Molyneux, Ara-
go, Fizeau, Foucault, and Struve,
joined to the patient experiment and
mechanical skill of Br^guet, Bessel,
and Graham — the labor of all these
men extending through a period of one

hundred and ninety years (1672 to
1862) — to complete its demonstra-
tion.

And first, as to the velocity of
light. In 1672, Roemer, a Danish
astronomer residing in France, be-
gan observations on the satellites q{
Jupiter and their eclipses, which re-
sulted in the discovery of progressive
transmission of light and the deter-
mination of the value of its velocity.
Up to his day, it had almost become
a fixed principle that the passage of
light through space was absolutely
instantaneous.

From the time of Galileo, an im-
mense mass of exact calculations of
the eclipses of the first satellite of
Jupiter had been accumulating, and
Roemer found that at certain times
the satellite came out of the shadow
later, and at other times sooner, than
it should have done, and this varia-
tion could not be accounted for on
any known principles. Remarking
that it always came too late from the
shadow when the earth in its annual
movement was at more than its mean
distance from Jupiter, and too soon
when it was at less, he formed the
conjecture that light requires an ap-
preciable time to traverse space.

Becoming satisfied of the truth of
his theory, he, in September, 1676,
announced to the French Academy
of Sciences that an emersion of the
first satellite, to take place, on the 1 6th
of November following, would occur
ten minutes ' later than it should
according to ordinary calculation.

The event verified his prediction.
Nevertheless, doubters and cavillers
abounded, and Roemer's theory was
not accepted without dispute. It was
claimed that the delays and accele-
rations in the immersions and emer-
sions, instead of being attributed to
change of position of the observer,
and to the progressive transmission
of light, might be regarded as indicat-

4S2

Galileo-Galileif the Flormtinc Astroncmer.

ing a real perturbatjon in the move-
ment of the satellite, due to a cause
not yet discovered.

These doubts were removed fifty
years later by the English astrono-
mer Bradley, who discovered the
phenomenon of aberration, which
consists in an apparent displacement
which all the stars and planets expe-
rience on account of the combination
of the velocity of the earth with the
velocity of light,

Bradley's discovery was accidenlaL
A superior instrument, constructed
by Graham, and destined to observe
with the greatest precision the pas-
sage of the stars near the zenith, had
been placed at the observatory of
Kew for the purpose by Molyneiix.

Bradley used this instrument to
arrive at some precise data of the
annual parallax of the stars. His
first obser\^ations led him to the dis-
cover)^ of aberration^ the details of
which, of the highest possible inte-
rest, may be found in the Phiiosophi-
Ciit Transactions, Royal ScKicty, No.
406, December, 1728.

Thus confirmed by liradlevi Roe-
mer's progressive transmission of
light became an incontestable fact.

Then followed the experiments
projected by Arago to determine
Ihc velocity of light, (1838,) which
for eleven years remained a merely
ingenious suggestion, until realized
by MM, Foucault and Fii!eau.

From 1840 to 1S42, Struve, in Rus-
sia, made immerous observations to
obtain the exact value of aberration.

In 1856, the Institute of France
awarded to M. Fizeau, for hrs suc-
cessful demonstration of Arago*s
suggestion, the triennial prize of thir-
ty thousand francs founded by the
emperor, "for the work, or the dis-
covery, which, in the opinion of the
five academies of the institute, has
done most honor and ser\uce to the
countrj."

Finally, in 1862, M. Fouc3u]|« per-
fecting his apparatus, measured the
velocity of light by an admirable ex-
periment in physics, which rendeis
not only sensible, but even me^isti-
rable, the time employed by light to
nm over a path of twenty metre*,
(65 feet 7.4 inches,) although this
lime barely equals T^jWjrr*** o^ »
second 1

And yet, after all this, there still
remains a doubt as to positive cer-
tainty of accuracy in the calculations.

The sun's parallax, calculated from
observations of the last transit of
Venus over the disk of the sun tti
1769, is fixed at 8.58 seconds, and
on this basis is ascertained the dis-
tance from the earth to the sun.

For reasons too long to detail |
here, many distinguished astroiio- I
mers are not entirely satisfied wilji
the determination of 8.58 seconds^ |
and prefer to wait for the next tran-
sit of Venus, in 1874, for a full and i
satisfactor)' solution of all doubts on
the subject !

CUNCLUSIUX AND A PROPOSITIC

Thus, after a lapse of two hundf
and thirly-five years, filled with un-
remitting labor and triumphant re-
sults in the field of astronomical dis- ]
coveiy, it appears from the showing |
of those most competent to judge
that something yet remains to be
produced in the way of demonstra-
tion of the astronomical system as
now accepted.

We will not ask those who difffer
with us concerning the Galileo ques-
tion to wait another century — the
period assigned by Sir John Her-
schel as ** requisite " I Herschel gave
that opinion in 1S28, which would
send us to a.d. 1928 **' to go through
the task/*

As it might not probably be con-
venient either for us or for those

Out of the Dept/is,

4SJ

who differ with us to resume the
controversy in that year, namely,
1928, we will — in the spirit of com-
promise, and taking all the rest for
granted — content ourselves with and
abide by the " satisfactory solution "

promised for 1874, to which period
it would seem proper, on scientific
grounds, to adjourn any attempt to
show that a system not yet proved in
1868 was, nevertheless, fully demon-
strated in 1633.

"OUT OF THE DEPTHS HAVE I CRIED UNTO THEE^

O LORD 1"

A CHRISTMAS SKETCH.

** Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants I
And your purple shows your path.
But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath."

** If wishes were horses, beggars
might ride," says the proverb.

What a pity it is that wishes are
not horses ! — that at seasons when
almost every tongue drops the words,
" A merry Christmas !" " A happy
New- Year !" the will should not
rise and breathe the breath of life
into those words ; make them move,
make them work ; put bit and bridle
on them, and direct them to go where
they are most needed. Wishes might
then be made into very excellent
horses, and beggars might ride at
least once a year; might be lifted
for a day out of the mire of care
and suffering that dulls the light of
heaven to their eyes, and stops out
the voices of heaven from their ears ;
lifted into a belief in the humanity of
man and the mercy of God ; might
be given a little restful journey into
that easy land where the rich dwell
every day.

There is more truth than poetry in
the line,

" Leave us leisure to be good.''

One who has no time for thought

will almost certainly go astray ; and
men and women whose lives are
spent in fighting the wolf from their
doors, will fight him with whatever
comes to hand, and will sometimes
catch up strange weapons.

So it might chance that these liv-
ing wishes may have wings also, and
the beggar's soul may rise as well as
his body.

I should like to set a regiment of
such wishes galloping down Grind
street this coming Christmas, and
stopping at every door.

That was a sorrowful street a few
years ago, and I don't know that it
has grown merry since. A tall block
of tenement-houses walled the north-
ern side from end to end, leaving off
so abruptly that, had they been writ-
ten words instead of brick houses,

there would have been a after

them. Indeed, if the reader has a
fancy for a miserable pun, he might
say that there 7vas a dash after them,
houses being scarce.

A very sensitive person, on look-
ing at that block, would be likely t
straighten himself up, draw his el-
bows close to his sides, and feel as
though his nose was unnecessarily
large. It is not impossible that he
might " toe in" a little in walkings

454

Out of the Depths,

unless he reached the next street
Not a curve was visible in the whole
block, horizontal and perpendicular
reigning supreme. The mean brick
front came to the \t,xy edge of the
sidewalk, and the windows and doors
were as Hat as though they had been
slapped ill the face when in a soft
state. Every house was precisely
like eveiy other house, and the only
way of finding any particular one was
by counting doors.

" These houses toe the mark," the
builder had said when he looked on
his completed work, standing com-
placently with his hands in his pock-
ets, and his head a little on one side.

" Toe the mark" was the right
phrase. The two meagre steps ihat
letl to each front door suggested the
thought, and the whole had an air of
soul obedience*

The tenants in tJiis block were of
that pitiable class called ** decent/'
which generally means poor ; too in-
dependent to beg, straining every
nerve to live respectably, and making
an extra strain to hide the first one ;
people whose eyes get a little wild at
the prospect of sickness, who shud-
der at the thought of a doclor*s bill
and workless days, who sometimes
stop their toil for a moment, and
wonder what may be the meaning of
such words as '*ease," *' content-
ment/* *' pleasure," There were
clerks and book-keepers whose fami-
lies burst out through their incomes
in every direction ; starving artists of
all sorts ; and the rest, people who
toiled down in the dark, at the foun-
dations over which soared the marble
palaces of the rich, darkening heaven.

These people had got in a way of
dressing alike ; they had the same
kind of curtains, and the same plants
stretching beseeching shoots toward
ihe tantaliziiig line of sunshine that
let itself down, slow and golden, to
the middle of the second floor win*

dows, then drew back over the rooftj

of the houses opposite, while little i
flowers of all colors looked lovingly I
and reproachfully after it, cheated so j
day after day, but never quite losing]
faith that some day the brightwingedj
comforter wouJd come quite down to]
their hearts.

Eyes of angels, to whom these]
roofs and walls were transparent,]
saw, doubtless, variet}' enough under]
the surface : aspirations that reached (
to the house-top and looked over ; I
aspirations that soared even to ihe
clouds and the stars, catching a
heavenly likeness; aspirations that I
stopped not at the stars, but climbed I
so high that their flowers and fruitage I
hung in the unfailing sunlight of j
heaven beyond reach of earthly [
hands, but seen and touched by in-
effable hopes ascending and descend-
ing. What dark desires ^crawling
upon the earth and covering their
own deeds those poor eyes looked |
upon, I say not ; what hate, deep I
and bitter ; what cankering envy and i
disappointment ; what despair, that j
witli two tears blotted the universe ;
what determination ; what strongly
rooted purpose ; what careless phi*
losophy eating its crust with a laugh*
Let the angels see as they may, with
human eyes we will look into one
room, and find our storj' there.

This room is on the second floor^ j
and consequently gets its windows '
half full of sunshine every pleasant i
afternoon. The furnishing of it
shows that the occupants had seen
better days ; but those days are long
past, as you can see by the shabbi-
ness of ever>'thing. There arc evi-
dences of taste, too, in a hanging
vase of ivy, a voluble canary, a few
books and pictures ; and everything
is clean.

It was a bright gloaming in De-
cember of 186-, when a woman sat j
alone in this room. She

Out of the Depths.

455

dently an invalid, looking more like
a porcelain image than a flesh-and-
blood woman, so white and transpa-
rent was she, so frail the whole make
of her. Soft light-brown hair faintly
sprinkled with gray was dropped be-
side each thin cheek, dovelike eyes
of an uncertain blue looked sadly out
from beneath anxious brows, and
the mouth, which once must have ex-
pressed resolution, now, in its compa-
rison, showed only endurance. This
was a woman who had taken up life
full of hope and spirit, but whom life
had turned upon with blow after
blow, till finally both hope and spirit
were broken. Her days of enter-
prise were over.

She sat there with her hands list-
lessly folded, her work fallen unno-
ticed to the floor, and her eyes flush-
ed with weeping. She had been sit-
ting so an hour, ever since a visitor
had left her ; but, hearing a step on
the stair and a child's voice singing,
she started up, wiped her eyes, and
mended the fire, her back turned to-
ward the door as it opened.

A little girl of eight years old came
in and gave her school-books a toss
upon the table, crying out, in a bois-
terous, healthy voice, "O mother!
I am starved ! Give me something
to eat."

" Supper will soon be ready, Nell,"
the mother said gently, drawing out
the table.

" I can't wait !" cried the child.
" My stomach is so empty that it
feels as if there was a mouse there
gnawing. You know we had nothing
but bread and butler for dinner, and
I do think that's a mean dinner.
Why don't you have roast beef? I
kno'.v lots of girls who have it every
day."

'' We can't afford it," the mother
said falteringly. " Beef is very
high."

" Well, what have you got for sup-

per ?" demanded the child. " You
promised us something good."

"I have nothing but bread and
butter, dear. I couldn't get anvthing
else."

" Well, Mother Lane, I declare if
that isn't too bad !" And the child
flung herself angrily into a chair.
"We don't have anything fit to eat,
and I wish I could go and live
with somebody that wouldn't starve
me. I won't eat bread and butter,
there now ! I'm so sick of it that it
chokes me."

The mother's face took a deeper
shade, and her lip trembled, but she
made no reply ; and Nell sat angrily
kicking her heels against the chair,
and pouting her red lips.

Mrs. Lane knew well how vain is
the attempt to teach a child gratitude
for the necessaries of life. Children
are grateful only for that which is
superfluous, taking the rest as a mat-
ter of course, and they are not to be
blamed either. For gratitude is a
fruit, and not a flower, and those bud-
ding natures know not yet what it
means. After a little while, another
and a louder step sounded on the
stairs, this time accompanied by a
whistle ; and the door opened noisily
to give admittance to a boy of ten
years old, who also flung his books
down, and opened his cry :

"Mother, give me some money,
quick ! The oysterman is just at the
end of the street, and I can get oys-
ters enough for our supper for thirty
cents. Hurry up, mother, or he'll go
away !" And the boy performed a
double-shuffle to relieve his impa-
tience.

"I can't spare the money," his
mother said faintly.

" Well, what have you got for sup-
per, then ?" he asked fretfully.

The mother made no answer, and
the boy turned to his sister for an ex-
planation.

456

Out of the Depths,

"Bread and butter!** said Nell,
with an air of ferocious sarcasm.

**WcIl, if I ever r* pronounced
her brother, standing still with his
hands driven emphatically into the
uttermost depths of his pockets, and
looking at his mother witli an air at
^nce astonished and accusing, "If
we live like this, VVi run away ; see if
I don^t V

She turned upon them with a look
Ihat was either desperate or angry.

** Children, wait till your sister
comes home, Don*t ask me for any*
thing."

Frank gave the door a bang, pulled
his cap still closer on to his head,
since he ought to have pulled it off,
and taking a seat by the window,
sat kicking his chair in concert with
his sister. The mother continued
her preparations with the air of a
culprit watched by her judges.

Unheard in this duet of heels, a
softer step ascended the stairs, and
a young lady opened the door and
entered, a smile on her pretty face,
her breath quickened and her color
heightened by the run up-stairs, and
waves of yellow hair drawn back
from her white forehead. She tossed
her hat aside, and sank into a chair.

** There, mother, I do feel tired and
hungry,** she said ; then, catching a
glimpse of her mother's face, started
up, exclaiming, " What is the mat-
ter ?*'

'* Mr. Sanborn ha^ been here," Mrs.
Lane answered unsteadily, without
looking up.

The daughter's countenance show-
4*d her anticipation of e%Hl news.

**And what of that ?'' she asked.

•* He has raised the rent," was the
faint answer.

'* How much ?''

** Eight dollars a month T

** Impossible f cried the daughter,
flushing with ejccitement. ** We pay
now all that the three rooms are

worth. He knows what my Sftbifjr
is, and that 1 cannot give Mif
more."

** He says he can get that for the
rooms,*' her mother said.

"Then we will go elsewhere !'*

** We cannot T* whispered the mo*
ther despairingly, for the first tunc
raising her woeful eyes. ** Every
place is full. They are going to tear
down houses to widen two or three
streets, and Mr. Sanborn says tliai
people will have to go out of town to
live.''

"What are w^e to do!*' exclaimed
the girl, pacing excitedly to and fro.
** We only just managed to get along
before. Did you tell him, mother ?*'

" I told him everj'thing, Anne j
and he said that he was very sorry,
but that his family was an expensive
one, and it cost him a good deal to
live ; and, in short, that he must
have the eight dollars more,**

" He is a villain !" cried Anne
Lane. " And I will tell him so. I
should think his fimily 7vas an expen-
sive one. Look at their velvets, and
laces, and silks I Look at their pictures
and their curtains I One of my scho-
lars told me to-day that Minnie San-
born said they were going to have a
Christmas-tree that will cost five
hundred dollars. Think of that !
And this is the way they pay for it 1"

** Don't say anything to him,
Anne,*' pleaded her mother, in a
frightened lone. " Remember, he is
one of tJie committee, and can take
your school away from you."

The young teacher's countenance
fell. It was true ; her employment
did, in some measure, depend on the
good-will of this man.

She choked with the thought, then
broke out again.

"The hypocrite! I Jmve seen
him at prayer-meetings, and heard
him make long prayers and pious
speeches/*

Out of the Depths.

457.

The mother sighed, and remained
silent. She had been wont to check
her daughter's somewhat free ani-
madversions, and to make an effort, at
least, to defend them of whom Anne
said, " Their life laughs through and
spits at their creed ;" but now the
bitter truth came too near.

There was a moment of silence,
the children sitting still and awed,
the mother waiting despondently,
while the fatherless girl, who was the
sole dependence of the household,
did some rapid brain-work.

"You think he really means it,
mother ?" she asked, without paus-
ing in her walk.

" Yes, there is no hope. I almost
went on my knees to him."

There the widow's self-control
broke down suddenly, and, putting
her hands over her face, she burst
into a passion of tears.

It is a terrible thing to see one's
mother cry in that way ; to see her,
who soothed our childish sorrows,
who seemed to us the fountain of all
comfort, herself sorrowing, while we
have no comfort to give.

Anne Lane's face grew pale with
pain, and it seemed for a moment
that she, too, would lose courage.
But she was a brave girl, and love
strengthened her.

" There, there, mother !" she said.
" Don't cry ! I guess we can make
out some way. Couldn't we do with
two rooms ? I could sleep with you
and Nell, and Frank could have a
pillow out here on the sofa."

" I thought of that," the mother
sobbed drearily. " But he said that
the rooms go together."

The girl's breath came like that of
some wild creature at bay.

"Then we must draw in our ex-
penses somewhere. We must give
up our seats in church, and I will do
the washing."

" I meant to do the washing,

dear," her mother said eagerly.
" And perhaps I might get some
work out of the shops. You know I
have a good deal of time to spare."

Even as she spoke, a sharp cough
broke through her words, and her
face flushed painfully.

" No, mother, no !" the daughter
said, resolutely holding back her
tears. " You are not able to work.
Just leave that to me. Washing
makes round arms, and I find my el-
bows getting a little sharp. I can
save money and bring the dimples
back at the same time."

There was a knock at the door,
and their laundress came in, a sober,
sensible-looking Irishwoman.

" Good-evening, ma'am ! Good-
evening, miss I No, I won't sit
down. I must go home and take
my young ones off the street, and
give 'em a bit of supper. I just
stepped in to see if you want your
washing done to-morrow."

Mrs. Lane looked appealingly to
her daughter to answer.

"We are sorry, Mrs. Conners,"
Anne said, " but we shall have to do
our own washing, this winter."

" O Lord !" cried the woman, lean-
ing against the wall.

" There is no help for it," the girl
continued, almost sharply, feeling
that their own distresses were
enough for them to bear. "Our
rent has been raised, and we must
save all we can."

"Oh! what'U I do, at all?" ex-
claimed the woman, lifting both
hands.

" Why, the best you can ; just as
we do," was the impatient reply.

Mrs. Conners looked at them at-
tentively, and for the first time per-
ceived signs of trouble in their faces.

" The Lord pity us !" she said. " I
don't blame you. But my rent is
raised, too. I've got to pay five dol-
lars a month for the rooms I have,

458

Out of the Depths.

and I don't know where I'll get it
It*s little I thought to come to this
when Patrick was alive — the Lord
hiive mercy on him ! The last thing
he said to me when he went away to
Califonna was, * Margaret, keep up
courage, and don't let the children
on tlie street ; and 111 send you
money enough to live on ; and V\l
soon come back and buy us a little
farm/ And all I ever htard of him,
since the day he left me, is the news
of his deatli. Now III have to take
the children and go to the poor-bouse.
All I could do last winter only kept
their mouths full, let alone rent I
couldn't put a stitch on them nor me ;
and you wouldn't believe how cold l
am with no stockings to my feet, and
litde enough under my rag of a dress.
I couldn't buy coal nor wood. The
children picked up sticks in the street,
and after my work was over I had to
go down to the dump, and pick coal
till my back was broke."

'*Who is your landlord.^'* Mrs, Lane
asked,

** Mr. Mahan — Andrew Mahan,
that lives in a big house in the
square. And he asks five dollars
for two rooms in that shanty, that's
squeezed into a bit of a place where
nothing else would go. Besides, the
house is so old that die rats have ate
it half up, and what's left I could
ca rry off on my back i n a d ay. W hen
Mr. Mahan came to-day, his dog
crawled through the door before it
was opened. I said to him, says I»
' Sir, when the wind and the rain take
possession of a house, it belongs to
God. and no man has a right to ask
rent for it' You see, I was mad.
And so was he, by that same token."

** But he is an Irishman, and a
member of your own church," said
Anne.

••And why not ?" demanded the wo-
man. " Do you thuik that Yankees
^are the nnlv onrs th.il i^iind the

poor ? Yes, Mr, MaJian is rich,
he lives in style^ and sends his daug
ters to a convent school in Montrc;i
And often Tve seen him in i:I»urdi|
dressed in Ins broad^clotJis, and bead
ing his breast, with his face the lengtl
of my arm, and calling himself a stfl
ner; and troth, I thought to mysclj
' that*s true for ye f **

Anne Lane went into her school^
room the next morning with a bumin
heart, and it did not soothe her feel^
ings to see Mr. Sanborn, her lanclj
lord, appear at the door, a few minutes
after, smilingly escorting a clericaJ-j
looking stranger, who had come to|
visit the school.

Mr, Sanborn, though not an edur]
cated man, chose to consider himself
a patron of education ; made himself
exceedingly consequential in school I
affairs, and had now brought a distin-
guished visitor to see his pet school,!
the " E^icelsior." Anne Lane had oneJ
of the show-classes, and he began th^l
exhibition with her.

** Commence, and go on with yourl
exercises just as if there were no oncl
here," he said, with a patronizing 1
smile, after they had taken their i
seats. *^This gentleman wishes tol
see the ordinary daily working o£
our system."

The first exercise was a reading]
from the Bible, and a prayer by tlieJ
teacher, and Anne*s fingers were un-I
steady as she turned over tlic Icavesl
for a chapter. Her eyes sparkledl
as she caught sight of one, and her f
pulses tingled as she read» her fine,
deliberate enunciation and strong em-
phasis arresting fully the attention of j
her hearers :

'* Times are not hid from the Al- !
mighty: but they that know him,
know not his days,

** Some have removed landmarks* j
have taken away flocks by force, and
fefl them.

Out of the Depttis.

4S9

*' They have violently robbed the
fatherless, and stripped the poor com-
mon people.

"They have taken their rest at
noon among the stores of them, who
after having trodden the wine-presses
suffer thirst.

" Out of the cities they have made
men to groan ; and God will not suffer
it to pass unrevenged.

" Cursed be his portion upon the
earth : let him not walk by the way
of the vineyards.

" Let him pass from snow-water to
excessive heat, and his sin even to
hell.

" Let mercy forget him : may worms
be his sweetness ; let him be remem-
bered no more, but be broken in
pieces like an unfruitful tree."

Closing the book then, Anne Lane
dropped her face into her shaking
hands, and repeated, almost inaudi-
bly, tiie Lord's prayer.

Mr. Sanborn was not dull, but he
was incredulous. It was almost im-
possible that this little school-mistress
would dare to mean him. Yet that
new sternness in the young face, or-
dinarily so smiling, the passion in her
voice, with the rememl3rance of his
last interview with Mrs. Lane, alto-
gether made up a pretty strong case
against her.

** She makes a strange selection
from the Scriptures to read to chil-
dren," whispered the stranger to him,
as Anne hurriedly went through with
the first recitations.

"Very strange, sir! very strange!'*
answered the other, stammering with
anger. " And what is worse, it is in-
tended as an insult to me. I have
found it necessary to raise the rent of
my houses. She is a tenant of mine,
and til is is her revenge. I hope, sir,
that if you have anything to say on
the subject, you will not hesitate to
speak freely."

The Rev. Mr. Markham sat and

considered the case, laying down cer-
tain points in his mind. Firstly,
women should be sweet, humble, and
modest. Secondly, sweetness, mo-
desty, and humility, with firmness
and patience, should especially cha-
racterize a teacher of youth. Third-
ly, persons in authority, clerg>'men,
school-committee men, etc., should
be treated with scrupulous respect by
all their subordinates.

The reverend gentleman put on
his spectacles, the better to see this
young woman who had so boldly
vetoed his fundamental doctrines.
She held herself very erect, no mo-
dest droop whatever; there was a
little flicker of heat-lightning in her
eyes, and a steady, dark-red spot on
each cheek ; moreover, she had red
hair. Verdict for the plaintiff. She
must have a reprimand, a warning,
and, on repetition of the offence,
must be informed that she is no
longer considered a suitable person
to mould the minds of youth.

Poor little Anne Lane ! This
great, stupid, conceited man did not
dream that her aching heart was
laden with sweetness as a hive with
honey, and that what he called a
sweet woman was a sugar-coated
woman. He did not allow that there
might be some exceptions to his
third rule. The reprimand was de-
livered pitilessly, the warning made
sufficiently plain ; then the two gen-
tlemen withdrew, leaving the teacher
pale and stimned. The visitor had
taken the coldest possible leave, and
Mr. Sanborn had not noticed her at
all.

" Oh ! why did I yield to anger ?"
she thought, in terror and distress.
" What right have the poor to feel-
ings, to thoughts ? How dare they
denounce wrong, even when they die
by it? What was I thinking of i*"

A thrill of pain ran through her
every nerve at this last question.

She had been thinking all the time
of her mothers sobbing words, " 1
almost went on my knees to him 1"

The month crept on toward Christ-
mas. Unknown to her daughter,
Mrs. Lane had spent day after day
going about the shops and vainly so-
Itciting work. She had not sufficient
clothing to protect her from the wea-
ther ; she was weakened by sorrow
and anxiety, and the disease, which
had long been threatening and reach-
ing out for her, made a final grasp.
With a terror, all the more terrible in
that she could not speak of It, she
felt her kings give way and her
breath grow shorler. What would
her young children do without her?
If she should be long ill, how were
the doctor's bills to be paid ? How
were the funeral expenses to be met ?
What crushing burden, beside the
sorrow, was she going to lay upon
the already burdened shoulders of her
poor Utile girl? She only prayed
that the blow might fiill swiftly.
Poor people can*t afford to die lei-
surely.

One day, about a wuek before
Christmas, Anne came home and
found her mot her lying senseless upon
the floor. Mrs. Lane had held up as
long as she coidd, and now her
powers of endurance were gone.
But she had her prayer, for the blow
fell swiftly. On Christmas morning
all her troubles passed away.

Christmas evening came, and all
was stil! in the house. The neigh-
bors had kindly done what they
could, and two of them sat with the
lifeless form of what had once been
the mother of these children, Frank
and Nell had cried themselves to
sleep, and Anne was left with the
Bight upon her hands. She could
not sleep, and she could not pray.
The faith that comforts in sorrow she
knew not. She had wept till her

head reeled, and the air of the house
stifled her

'* I must get out and take the ik^
or I shall go cra^y,'* she ihottgfit
And, dressing hastily, she went out
into the bright and frosty night. Sho
wandered aimlessly about the streets^
scarcely knowing where she went;
not caring, indeed, so long as she
walked and felt the wind in her face.

** Christ on earth?" she thought,
'' 1 don't believe it 1 It's all a fable."

On her way she met Mrs. CoE-
ners, weeping bitterly. She was
going to the watch-house after her
little girl. Biddy had stolen a turkey
from a shop-window, and a police-
man had caught her.

'' It is the first thing the child c%'ct
stole,*' the poor woman said ; ** and
what made her do it w^as hunger.
We haven't had a taste of meat in the
house this month, and poor Biddy
heard the other girls tell \vh:n they
had fordinner, and it made her mad/'

Anne listened as one in a dream,
and went on without a word. Pre-
sently she came into a sharp glare of
light that fell across the sidewalk
from a brilliantly illuminated win-
dow. She paused to look in, not be-
cause she cared what it was, but be-
cause she longed far dislractioa.
There was a long suite of parlors,
showily if not tastefully furnished,
and filled with a gay company, many
of them children. In the fartlicst
end of the rooms stood a magnificent
Christmas-tree, decked with colored
candles, flowers, and fruits, and hang-
ing full of presents. The company
were all assembled about the tree,
and, as she looked^ a smiling gentle-
man stepped up, with the air of a
host, and began to distribute the
Christmas gifts.

Anne Lane's heart stood still
when she recognized Mr. Sanborn.

•*0 you murderer I" she moan-
ed, as she sank exhausted on the

ita

General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church. 461

icy steps. " Your candles and your
flowers are red with my mother's
blood !"

When the Christmas angels looked
down upon the earth that night to
see how fared the millions, to whom
in the morning they had sung their
song of joy, their eyes beheld alike
the rich man in his parlor and the

stricken girl who lay outside his
door.

Did they record of him that he had
"kept the feast," and worthily re-
membered one who came that day
" to fill the hungry with good things" ?

Or did they write against him the
fearful judgment which had once al-
ready sounded in his ears,

" Let mercy forget him :
Let him be remembered no more" ?

THE GENERAL CONVENTION OF THE PROTESTANT
EPISCOPAL CHURCH.

The General Convention of the
Protestant Episcopal Church, which
has just closed its labors, was looked
forward to with much interest by all
Episcopalians. Each of the two im-
portant sections of which their com-
munion is composed was anxious
for a better explanation of some dis-
puted points, or, at least, for a vindi-
cation of its own interpretation of
doctrine. It was supposed that some-
thing would be settled in regard to
the many vexed questions of dogma
and ritual which perplex the public
no less than the members of the
church itself. For even the public
are interested to know what a church
believes and professes, and especially
if that church makes any pretensions
to authority. On a careful review,
however, of the journal, we believe
that, while a few are gratified, many
are disappointed. Some are gratified
that no direct attack was allowed
against their own favorite opinions ;
while both High-Churchmen and Low-
Churchmen stand precisely where
they stood before, no nearer each
other, and no better satisfied with the

condition of things. Moderation, we
are told, is the characteristic of the
Episcopal Church, by which we are
led to understand the sweet blending
of contrarieties and contradictions,
and the permission to every one to
believe what approves itself to his
private judgment. Catholics can
hardly comprehend such a harmony
in discord, or discord in harmony.
Even candid minds, with no religious
bias, are unable to appreciate how
contrary doctrines can be held in one
and the same church, and by equal
authority. Our own opinion of this
con vention is, that it has accomplished
nothing for doctrine, nothing to heal
the disputes of its members, very
little for discipline, and not very
much for the extension of the Epis-
copal communion, although some of
the plans proposed are good in them-
selves. We strongly incline to think
that very many Episcopalians will
coincide with our judgment. Under
these three heads — of doctrine, dis-
cipline, and church extension — let us
briefly review the labors of the con-
vention.

462 General Coiwmtion of the Pr<^tatant Episcopal Church.

L It seems that the Nicene Creed
was under consideration, and that
there was a strong inienlion to re-
store it to its ** original form ;" but
the Church Record says that it was
left untouched for the present. If
this important and ancient symbol
had been altered, there would have
been quite an advance in doctrine,
A committee has been aj3pointed to
prepare an accurate translation from
the original Greek for the use of the
next convention. It therefore bides
its time, when the same body whi^h
expunged ihe At ha nasi an Creed maj-
leave out the proper doctrine of the
Trinity, or the procession of the Holy
Ghost from the Son, or the com-
munion of saints, or any other point
of Christian dogma. Nevertheless,
by this convention nothing was done
on this subject.

The project of bracketing those
portions of the Prayer-Book which
embody the doctrine of baptismal
regeneration was not favored by the
committee on canons ; and a motion
to refer a proposition for striking out
the words, " Whosesoever sins tJiou
dost remit, they are remitted," was
very summarily disposed of It was
decided not to alter anything, to
leave regeneration in the baptismal
ser\^ice for the gratification of High-
Churchnicn, and also the denial of it
in the Articles for the consolation of
Low- Churchmen.

This was the wisest course, and on
this point we record with satisfaction,
** Nothing done."

As to the ordinal, the bishops are
not obliged to say, ** Whose sins thou
dost remit/' etc., when they do not
believe it, as it is only to be used at
option, and can therefore put tlie
whole otTensive doctrine in their
pockets. VV'hy, then, should the wis-
dom of an ecclesiastical body be dis*

turbed on a mere matter of opinioti \

Here, again, nothing was done*

So by the convention in bptl
orders, nothing has been done in tli4
way of doctrine, save to lea%-e
matters precisely as they were, in full
freedom for both sides. And \\tx\
an anecdote comes forcibly to ourl
memory which illustrates tlie mode-
ration and libcrt)^ of ihe Eptscapal
communion. A young candidate was
under examination for deacon's or--
ders before one of the oldes-t andi
wisest of the High-Church bishopfk. |
" How/' said that prelate, ** do you
receive the Thirty-nine Articles I* j
" I receive them," said the candidate. I
** in such a way as not to contradict
the rest of the Prayer- Book." ** Per-j
fectly right," replied the bishop ; ** and '
moreover, it is the General Conven-
tion which imposes the articles upon
you, and this body is composed of all '
degrees of churchmen, from those I
who hang on the walls of Rome to I
those who breathe the atmospheic
of Geneva. Between these two ex*
tremes, my son, you have perfect
liberty," And the young man was
made a deacon, and went away re-
joicing that he had freedom of con-
science and a wide range of opinion,
which lie certainly had. But if the
Lower House, consisting of ministers
and laymen, has been so prudent, the
Upper House has terribly committed
itself. In the Catholic Church the
bishops alone are allowed to give
judicial opinions in doctrine ; while
among the Episcopalians, we believe
that both houses of the convention
are equally authoritative, and^ that
one has a negative upon the other.
What the bishops have done, there-
fore, docs not propose to bind the
conscience of any one, we prestunc ;
yet certainly their solemn pastoral
ought to be received with great re-

General Convention of ttie Protestant Episcopal Church. 463

spcct, and be considered at least as
an indication of the doctrinal position
of their church. In this pastoral, we
find some remarkably interesting
points, in regard to which, though we
may say nothing was ^one, we cannot
say nothing was spoken.

This address to the whole Episco-
palian body asserts first that " the
incarnate God hath committed the
great commission wherewith he came
into the world to falUMe men."
What, then, is to prevent the utter
failure of this great commission, and
the complete ruin of all Christ's
work ? ** To his ministers," sailh the
pastoral, " thus weak and subject to
error, he hath given his infallible
word, that, without peril of mislead-
ing their flock, they may instruct
them with all authority by speaking
always according to the Scriptures."
Who is to know, then, that these
ministers speak according to the
Scriptures, especially when they differ
one from another ? Bishop Lee spoke
very plainly at the opening of the
convention, and his interpretation of
the Scriptures gave some offence.
Common sense pauses for a reply.
Each one must decide for himself
whether his minister speaks accord-
ing to the Bible ; and this being
granted (which is the fundamental
position of all Protestant bodies) we
do not see the use of ministers, much
less of bishops, much less of a coun-
cil of bishopfe. Christ's great com-
mission, according to the Episcopa-
lian prelates, hinges on the chance
that the Bible will be circulated and
rightly interpreted. The history of
religion since the Reformation does
not cause us to think much of this
chance.

The next point asserted in the
pastoral is the necessity of com-
munion with the visible church.* It
is indeed asserted somewhat equivo-

cally, and with a caveat^ that " the
proper individuality of every soul
must not be merged in its corporate
relations to the body of Christ," an
expression which we do not at all
understand. How the merging is to
be accomplished we do not see, un-
less by some physical process, and
we are very glad the bishops do not
recommend it. Yet they say that
" the necessity of membership in the
communion of which Christ is the
head, is a truth of vital importance."
We presume they mean here a union
with the visible body of Christ, for
otherwise they would really assert
nothing, since what Christian denies
the necessity of union with Christ?
And again, where would be the
danger of merging an individual in
an invisible body }

But then comes the great question,
Where is the body of Christ, with
which membership is necessary ? Do
the bishops mean to say it is the
Episcopal Church, and that it is ne-
cessary to belong to their commu-
nion in order to be saved ? We do
not really know what they mean, but
are quite persuaded that they do not
intend to unchurch all the rest of
mankind, and hence come to the
conclusion that these words are to
be taken in a figurative sense, that
having spoken much they have said
nothing.

Now comes the great trouble which
oppresses the prelates. "The un-
scriptural and uncatholic pretensions
of the Bishop of Rome, as in times
past, so now, are a fruitful source of
error and evil." The pope has done
all the mischief, he did it in the early
times, he did it in the middle ages,
and he will keep doing it now. What
is it that he does " which is the bar to
the restoration of the unity of Chris-
tendom?" Why, he fulfils the pro-
mise of our Lord : " Thou art Peter,

464 General Convention of tke Ptiitestant Episcopal Chunk.

and on this rock I will build my
church." There is no visible body
without a head, and he is that head
by the appointment of Christ. We
think the blame ought to be laid upon
him who founded the church and
made the Papacy. He made his
church to be one^ with one head, when
it seems that he ought to have made
it capable of division.

The bishops then urge upon their
brethren to teach that "Jesus Christ
is the living centre of unity ;" that "his
true vicar is the Holy Ghost \' that
"the visible expression of catholic
unity is the apostles' doctrine and fel-
lowship, the breaking of bread and
prayers."

Is it the English language which
here we read, and is it our mother-
tongue which thus is made to confuse
our minds? If any one understands
Ihesc phrases, we compliment him
upon his sagacity. We do not ho-
nestly believe that the venerable pre-
late who wrote them knows what he
means, or intends others to know,

"Jesus Christ is the living centre
of unity*" Certainly ; but we have
been speaking of a visible unity, and
Jesus Christ is not visible to us. The
vicar of Christ is the Holy Ghost, a
singular office for the third person of
the undivided Trinity, and he is not
visible either. The invisible Christ
has an invisible vicar on earth, and
this is the coequal and coeternal Spi-
rit ! The visible expression of Ca-
tholic unity is the "apostles' doctrine
and fellowship, the breaking of bread
and prayers."

Oh ! for the good and honest heart
among the Episcopalians to see that
these words are empty sounds which
mean nothing at all. " Where is the
apostles' doctrine and fellowship ?'*
Is it in the Episcopal Church alone,
and if not, where is it ? The bislmps
ought to have said that their doctrine

was the apostles', that their fellow
ship was the apostles*, or if
doubts on the point, they sh*
told us unequivocally where to nn
these important and absolutely
cessary " expressions of caihoUc '
ty/* We are here reminded of ;
old negro who in our young day
used to speak Latin fluently ; but 1
his phrases were made up of plur
genitives, we could only hear tlic so-
norous ^' Bonorum^ filiorum^ malarun
optimoru m, " wi thout co m pre he ndi]
one single word. In like ma
with at least the commoji intelli|
which God has given us, we do Tid
comprehend this pastoral, unless
really means, in circumlocution,
say nothing.

The bishops then go on to defci
the Anglican reformation, and hold
up to condemnation the attcmpu
made by some High -Churchmen
disparage it. And in this connectta
they '* especially condemn any dc
trine of the Holy Eucharist which ir
plies that after consecration the pr
per nature of bread and wine doe
not remain, which localizer \n the
the bodily presence of our
which allows any adoration other thai
that of Christ himself.*' Here we dd
think the prelates have said some
thing, and wc can understand wha
they mean. We would have preferre4
that they should have used languag
more direct, and without any insiAU
ations. But we understand them
say that the bread and wine are 1
changed by their consecration, aii4
that there is no presence of Christ ^
all in the Eucharist, For as he
very man, his presence must nee
sarily be a bodily one, and must
localized. We Catholics adore
blessed sacrament only because k
Christ himself; because the bread
and wine are changed into his body
The bishops here deny any such pr

General Convention of tiie Protestant Episcopal Church, 465

sence of Christ, and go on to assert
tiat the humanity of our Lord is only
be found at the right hand of God
heaven.

For this reason, very appropriately,
the ceremonies of the ritualists are
denounced, because they are built
upon a doctrine which supposes Christ
to be present on the altar. Will it
3W be believed that the organ of the
itualtsts, in New York, expresses it-
elT pleased with tliis part of the pas-
3ral ? We blush for the insincerity
"and dishonesty of men who love to
call themselves ^'Catholic pHestsJ'
They are satisfied with this open de-
nial of any real presence of Christ in
the Eucharist, and **they will work
>n with new vigor, cheered and sus-
%ined by the admonitions of their
athers in God." If such admonitions
leer them, what kind of admonition
irould dishearten them ?
No, my friends, you are not cheered,
?r sustained ; but being determined
make the best of your cause, you
rive to look pleasant. God is the
iidge. You may deceive yourselves
nd mislead others, but you are re-
jnsible to him for calling white
tl»lack; and black white.

On questions of doctrine we find,
lien, that the convention has done
Dthing, save that the bishops have
sserted, on their own authority, that
Christ's commission has been com-
mitted to a fallible instrumental it>^ ;
aat communion with the body of
Jhrist is necessary, while no instruc-
ans are given as to what and where
at body is to be found ; that the
pope is die great obstacle to catholic
aity j that the vicar of our Lord on
is the Holy Ghost; that the
glican reformation is good and to
imitated ; that there is no presence
rtiatever of Christ in the Holy Eu-
harist ; and that the extravagances

VOL. VIIl. — 30

of tlie ritualists are entirely to be
condemned.

We do not remember any ecclesi-
astical body which has said more
striking things than these \ but as no
canons have been made, we must
only take them as the opinions of the
bishops of the Protestant Episcopal
Church in 1868.

n. In regard to discipline, we find
that there were discussions on many
subjects, but t!iat very few laws were
passed.

In the early part of the session, an
attempt was made to change the name
of their body from '* General Conven-
tion" to ** National Council," or some-
thing similar. The disputes were
quite racy, one member insisting that
" convention "was a dirty word. But
the delegates were unwilling to re-
baptize themselves, and after three
or four days the whole thing was
dropped.

The singing by the boys in sur-
plices, which we believe is usual in
Trinity chapel, was so much objected
to by some of the members, that they
withdrew from the church during the
service, until the point was conceded
and the boys were put away. No
canon, however, was introduced on
this subject. Shortly after, the ses-
sions of the deputies w^ere removed
to the church of the Transfiguration,
where the Church Record tells us
that ** the music was led by some of
the deputies, and a beautiful marble
altar, with a large brass cross, and a
pair of candlesticks with candles y add-
ed to the solemnity of the scene,"
We are glad that our ritualistic friends
had such great consolations.

The question of adopting the pro-
vincial system of the Catholic Church,
which would have practically made
Dr. Potter an archbishop and Bishop
Smith a kind of patriarch, was under

466 General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Churtk.

consideration, but finally gave way to
the " federation of dioceses/* which
means, we believe, the small conven-
tion of a few dioceses, instead of the
large one of them aJL The small
one is, however, to be subject to the
large one.

A canon was passed that no cler-
gyman shall unite in marriage any
divorced persons having a husband
or wife living, except the innocent
party in a suit for divorce on the
ground of adultery. This is a great
advance toward the law promulgated
by our Lord, St. Matthew v. 32 and

I XIX, 9. The next time diey will pro-
bably take the whole verse, and adopt
the Litter clause, as well as the for-
mer. We congratulate the Episcopal
Church upon this really serious im-
provement in a practice pregnant
with great evil

Some canons were also adopted
concerning clerical support and the

I trials of ministers, which have no ge-
neral interest and need not hare be

[■enumerated.

The Rev. Mr. Tyng and his friends

I Ivere quite anxious to get the canon,
in pursuance of which he was admo-

jaished, altered or interpreted; but

|.tfter several discussions they failed

|to accomplish anything favorable to

Ifheir cause, tlie temper of the majo-
rity of the convention being adverse
to any changes. A slight amendment
to what the Church Record calls the
** canon on intrusion^* was passed,
and the officiating of dissenting mi-
nisters is positively forbidden. The
nost unpleasant part of this matter
that, in the opinion of the Low-

IChurchmen, the canon is not yet quite

lear. They do not understand it as

Dme of their brethren do ; and we are

teld that, even during the session of

'lie convention, the Rev. Mr. Tyng

*"permitted a Presbyterian minister to
preach in his church.

A very important improvefnen
was made, however, by which CatI
lie priests who leave the church, and
desire to become Episcopalian minis-
ters, shall be put upon a longer pro-
bation. Heretofore only six month
were necessary ; now a full year
required. We think tJiis change im*
portant forthe Episcopal Church, be-
cause, as far as our experience go^
priests, who put themselves in such
a position, require quite a long pcrio
to fit themselves for so honorable
profession. We hope, for the wdl»1
being of the Protestant Eptscopd^
ministr)% they will at the next con-
vention extend this probation to m
years. They may rest assured they
wi!l have no cause to regret it

The subject of ritual attracted!
considerable attention. Various me-
morials were presented against the'
innovations of late days, by which
the practices of the Catholic Church
have been fitted into the Prayer-Book. '
It was proposed to prohibit by canon
the wearing of other vestments than
the surplice, black stole^ bands, and
gown ; surpliced choirs, candlesticks,
crucifixes, super-altars, bowing at the
name of Jesus, the use of the sign of ,
the cross, elevation of the elements
or of the alms, and the use of incense.
After some excitement, the whole
matter was referred to the committee
on canons, who, being divided in
opinion, gave two contradictory re*
ports. The majority report rccom- |
mends moderation and forbearance,
that every one be careful to do right,
and that then there can be no just
cause of offence. In any doubt as
to what is right, reference should be
made to the Ordinary, whose godly
counsel in each diocese should be
the rule of opinion. The minority
of the committee were in favor of
passing a law forbidding the objec-
tionable practices which we have

General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, a,(>J

enumerated. After a very protracted
discussion, neither of the reports was
accepted ; but a resolution was adopt-
ed which asks " the House of Bishops
to set forth at the next convention
such additional rubrics in the Book
of Common Prayer as, in their judg-
ment, may be decided necessary ;"
and that in the meanwhile reference
should be made in each case to the
diocesan. The House of Bishops re-
plied that, while they would not
think of altering the Prayer-Bcok,
they would consider the whole sub-
ject, with a view to action, if it should
be thought expedient at the next con-
vention.

Thus the whole matter is postpon-
ed for three years, and, in the inte-
rim, ritualists must seek such dio-
ceses as are favorable to their views.
While Dr. Potter has no objection
to the use of Catholic vestments, we
see no reason why Dr. Dix and his
friends should not come out at once
with the chasuble and the incense.
We earnestly hope, for the cause of
honesty and truth, that they will do
.so. The case is different under the
regimes of Bishops Coxe and Mcll-
vaine who are seriously opposed to
any alterations of the existing ritual.
Ritualists must migrate to the bish-
ops whose godly counsels will allow
them freedom of action. It is true,
as we have seen, that the pastoral of
the whole House of Bishops condemns
their practices ; but in spite of this
each one of the prelates may have
his own counsel, " not having merg-
ed his individuality in his corporate
relations to the body of Christ."

III. It remains to consider what the
convention has done in regard to the
extension of their own church, as was
its first interest. Under this head
we can briefly review what was said
upon the relations of the Episcopal
Church to other Christian bodies, and

the views expressed by the deputies
upon the condition and growth of
their own communion.

In regard to other Christian de-
nominations, the Episcopal Church is
singularly unfortunate. It has com-
munion with no other body of Chris-
tians in the entire world. It objects
to the other Protestant sects, on the
ground that they are irregular, and
refuses to allow any of their ministers
to officiate in its churches, as we
have seen by " the canon on intru-
sion." It calls itself a branch of the
catholic church, that is to say, those
who speak for it call it by this title.
The other branches are the Eastern
churches and the Roman Catholic
Church ; at least, we are told so by
those who say anything on this
branch theory. With these other
branches the Episcopal Church has
no communion, however, and is not
likely to have any. Nothing need
be said of the Roman Church, for
its action and language have al-
ways been decided and clear. But
the Eastern branches have condemn-
ed the Anglican doctrine and orders
much more plainly than the Episcopa-
lians have condemned their Protestant
brethren. Not one single instance
has been found where a Greek bishop
has been willing to give communion
to a member of the Anglican branch,
without the abjuration of his errors ;
and the rejection of the orders of the
English ministers is as unequivocal
in the East as it is in the West.
Moreover, the doctrines specially
condemned by the Thirty-nine Arti-
cles are held as firmly in the Eastern
branch as in the Western. With all
due respect, therefore, we agree with
Bishop Lee, and say that, if the Epiis-
copal Church is not a Protestant
church, it has no right to be a church
at all. Why then do our High-Church
friends hanker after the patronage of

General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal ClturcA,

the Greek Church ? It will not help
them any as far as the Catholics are
concerned, and it will certainly fail
to make the disinterested public
think any better of their claims.
They may go upon their faces before
the Archbishop of Moscow, and "com-
promise themselves ;*' but though like
a gentleman he will treat them with
courtesy, he will have a meaner opi-
nion of them, and in his heart will say,
** Gentlemen, if you have no feet of
your own to stand upon, it seems to
me you had better sit down."

The High-Churchmen,who seemed
to have had the upper hand in the
convention, have established a com-
mittee on church unity. This able
body is to labor on this important
subject^ with probably the same re-
sults as hitherto. No care seems to
be given to the thousand Protestant
bodies who came into the world eith-
er before or after the Episcopal
Church. They are out of the ques-
tion, and, if they want religious unity,
must look for it by themselves. But
all attention is devoted to the East,
where, if they could get even a pass-
ing smile, as if of recognition, it would
do their hearts good. Perhaps now
they will get it, because they have
gone so far as to recognize the juris-
diction of the Greek Church in Al aska.
The Chunk Record calls this a great
advance, and we suppose it means
that they will send no ministers to
Alaska, because, if they did, it would
conflict with tlie authority of the
Greek bishop. This makes it bad
for any Episcopalian who may go up
there, since they will have no church
to go to. The Greek Church will not
admit them to its communion, and
they cannot have any of their own.
The upholders of the branch-theory*
must, however, put up with this small
inconvenience.

Three years are now to be spent

in making an accurate translatioQ of i
the Nicene Creed in ^ ttke ongmal
Greek." Then we expect to m i
" the procession of the Holjr <
from the Son" omitted in the Pr
Book. The question is not whether
it is true, or whether the Scriplurei
teach it The only question is. Docs
the Eastern branch receive it ? l/it
does not, then it must go. Bat wc
venture to inquire if the learned
committee has made itself sure that
the authorities at Moscow will be
satisfied with this simple concession.
We know that there is no evidence
like that of sight, and hence respect-
fully recommend the authorities of
the convention to go to the East,
and there ask for a recognition.
Then, when three years come around,
we shall hear some positive answer.
It would be a pity to alter the Creed,
without any recompense whatever.

Sympathy is also expressed with
the Italians who are trj'ing to sub-
vert the temporal power of the pope,
and especially with those priests who
would like to reform the Catholic
Church after the model of the A.ngli*
can communion. One gentleman of
much information asked, in the con-
vention, if there really was any mo\'e*
ment of the kind in Italy. He said
he had read many travels, and had
travelled himself extensively, and had
never seen or heard of any ^w^-/ priests
who were disposed to turn Protes-
tants, and as for the bad ones, he
had not much faith in them* The
committee replied that, in their oppor-
tunities for correspondence, they had
seen much, and the results would one
day appear. We wait in patience,
then, to see how many good and mo-
ral priests will appear in what will
probably be called the Protestant
Episcopal Church in Italy» As the
East, however, is nearer to them than
Uie United States, and as England

General Convefiiion of the Protestant Episcopal Church, 469

is somewhat passive, we would sug-
gest that this new church be placed,
for a lime at least, under the jurisdic-
tion of some Greek bishop. This
will be more convenient, and less
likely to offend, because the Greek
bishops cannot marry as the Angli-
can bishops have power to do. But
then a perplexing question will arise.
If the Eastern branch has jurisdic-
tion in Alaska, has not the Roman
branch some jurisdiction in Italy?
This is among the perplexities of the
branch theory. To plain common
sense, a church with branches is not
one church, and to Catholics the ul-
tra-Protestant theory is far more ten-
able. We believe, therefore, that the
efforts toward church union will only
prove more plainly the isolation of
the Episcopal Church from all other
Christian bodies. We are for the
largest liberty possible with truth, but
we are not for falsehood ; and we
have a right to demand that a man
shall call himself what he is, and not
persist in calling himself what he is
not.

The view of the state of the church
given by the committee is quite a fa-
vorable one, though we do not see
that Episcopalians are largely in-
creasing by conversion. Several
new dioceses were formed, which
will, no doubt, divide labor if they do
not multiply population. The most
important subject which engrossed
the convention was that of educa-
tion ; and the principle, so long acted
upon by the Catholic Church, was
virtually adopted.

It was resolved to establish paro-
chial schools wherever possible, in
order to save the young from per-
version by the many popular errors of
our day. We earnestly hope that this
resolution will generally be acted
upon. It is quite evident that any
denomination which has positive

doctrines to teach must take care
early to teach its children the prin-
ciples of faith, and that . a system of
education without Christianity is ef-
fectually an infidel system. When
the Episcopalians shall have built
their parochial schools, they will be
able to appreciate the labors of Ca-
tholics, who, far poorer, and far more
numerous, have never been willing
to trust their children to the public
schools. Then perhaps they will
unite with us in asking the state le-
gislatures for a just proportion of the
funds raised by taxation and devoted
to the education of the young. We
could never see an3rthing but simple
justice in this demand. The action
of the Episcopal Convention, if car-
ried out, will be an advance in favor
of our practice, and an argument for
the propriety of our claims.

The bishops express themselves in
their pastoral as anxious to promote
the works of mercy and education, by
the establishment of communities of
men and women. We understand that
such organizations are to be devoted
to the service of the poor, sick, and ig-
norant, and that they are to be model-
led after the plan of our Christian Bro-
thers or our Sisters of Charity and
Mercy. They are to be, however, " free
fh)m ensnaring vows or enforced con-
fessions." The members are to come
and go when they please, and devote
themselves to the labors of the com-
munity as long as they are disposed,
free to leave, without scruple, at any
time. We fear that on such princi-
ples communities would not hold to-
gether long, nor always act together ;
but we are very desirous that the
Episcopalians should thoroughly try
them. Confession is to be permitted, it
seems, when it is not forced ; hence it
would appear that the House of Bish-
ops is in favor oi voluntary confession
for the members of these proposed as-

470 Getural Convention of the Protestant Episcopal CkurcfL

relations. Any step of this kind is a
great advance, for it leads the earnest
mind toward the true Bride of the
Lamb, ** whose clothing is of wrought
gold." It is hard to see why volun-
tary confession should be permitted
to these communities and not to the
Episcopalians in general. But per-
haps the bishops did not mean to
favor sacramental confession, al-
though they w^ould seem to do so by
the language of the pastoral.

In this brief summary we have
given what seems to us a candid re-
view of the work of the last Episco-
pal Convention, as it interests Catho-
lics and the public generally. If at
^ny time there has been anything
savoring of the ridiculous or comical
in our language, we beg our reader
to refer it to tl^ subject-matter, and
not to any intention of ours. He
that makes assumptions of preroga-
tives to which he has no title will
certainly excite the laughter of his
neighbors. The historian who sim-
ply records facts is in no way to
blame. When Episcopalian minis-
ters call themselves Catholic priests,
people will innocently laugh: and
perhaps we ourselves, with all our
courtesy, could not refrain from a
smile. In like manner, when a church
isolates itself from all the world by
claims which ever>'body else on earth
denies to it, there is something of the
ridiculous in its position, and, while

we may be pained, we are at ihc j
time amused. If the committee oq
church union will only labor a litlli
harder, and once in a while tra%e
abroad^ they may perhaps open tli<
eyes of not a few.

The Episcopal Church must work '
either for us or for Protestantism. It
has no harvest of its own to reap, and
there is no middle ground for the
honest mind. It has already sent J
many a gifted and pure soul to thq
home of truth and purity, and
Catholics are daily gathering in thos
whom it has led to our gates. W<
w^ish it Godspeed in this work
conversion — in this, perhaps untJ
tentional, labor of love. Let the sOf ]
called " Catholic priests *^ go on, aod
unprotestantize and catholicize thei^
flocks. They will never be able tq
feed the hunger they have excitedil
nor satisfy the cravings of the hear
in which God the Redeemer is showr?
ing the marks of his love. We staB
ready for them and their children,
show them a truth and beauty w^hic
are real — a church which is not the"
work of imagination, but a living re*
ality, formed and sustained by the ivi-^
carnate Word. God grant that Uicj
sport not too long with shadows
that they delay not too long befa
the portals of Sion ! ** The nigh
Cometh in which no man can work*"
" He that hath ears to hear, let J
hear."

Christmas. 471

CHRISTMAS.

God an Infant — ^bom to-day I
Bom to live, to die, for me !

Bow, my soul ; adoring say :

" Lord, I live, I die, for TheeJ

Humble tiien, but fearless, rise :

Seek the manger where He lies.

Tread with awe the solemn ground :
Though a stable mean and rude,

Wpndering angels all around

Throng the seeming solitude :

Swelling anthems, as on high.

Hymn a second Trinity.*

Lo, in bands of swathing wrapt.
Meekly sleeps a tender Form :

God on bed of straw is lapt !

Breaths of cattle keep Him warm !

King of glory, can it be

Thou art thus for love of me ?

Hail, my Jesus, Lord of might !

Who in tiny, helpless hand
Thy creations infinite

Holdest as a grain of sand !
Hail, my Jesus — all my own !
Mine, as if but mine alone !

God made Man, and Man made God —
Natures Two in Person One,

I adore Thy Precious Blood,
Pulsing, burning to atone :

I adore Thy Sacred Heart,

Surest proof of what Thou art.

• Jesw, Mary, and Joseph are caUed by theologuuii " The Earthly Trinity."

47^ Christmas,

Hail, my Lady — ^full of grace I
Maiden Mother, hail to thee f

Poring on the radiant Face,
Thine a voiceless ecstasy ;

Yet, sweet Mother, let me dare

Join the worship of thy prayer.

Mother of God — O wondrous name 1
Bending seraphs hail thee Queen.

Mother of God — ^yet still the same
Maiy thou hast ever been :

Still so lowly, though so great :

Mortal, yet immaculate I

O'er our exile's troubled sea,

Thou the star, no sky shall dim :

Christ our Light we owe to thee —
Him to thee, and thee to Him.

Take my heart, then : let it be

Thine in Him, and His in thee.

Joseph, hail — of gentlest power I
Shadow of the Father thou :

Thine to shield in danger's hour

Whom thy presence comforts now.

Maiy trusts to thee her Child ;

He, His Mother undefiled.

Teach me thou, then, how to live
All for them — ^my only all ;

Looking to thy arm to give
Help in trial or in fall ;

Till 'tis mine with thee to prove

What it is to die of love.

The Invasion.

473

FROM THB FRBNCM OF BRCKMANN AND CHATRIAN.

THE INVASION ; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL.

CHAPTER XIV.

At seven o'clock everything was
still quiet.

From time to time Dr. Lorquin
opened a window of the great hall
and looked abroad. Nothing was
stirring ; even the fires had gone
out.

Louise, seated near her father,
gazed sadly and tenderly upon him.
She seemed to fear that she would
never again see him, and her redden-
ed eyes showed that she had been
weeping.

HuUin, though firm, showed signs
of emotion.

The doctor and the Anabaptist,
both grave and solemn in their man-
ner, were conversing, and Lagarmitte,
behind the stove, Ibtened thought-
fully to their words.

" We have not only the right, but
it is our duty to defend ourselves,"
the doctor was saying. " Our fa-
thers cleared these woods and culti-
vated the land. They are now right-
fully ours."

"Doubtless," answered the Ana-
baptist; "but it is written, Thou
shalt not kill ! Thou shalt not spill
thy brother's blood !"

Catherine Lefevre, whom this view
of matters annoyed, turned sudden-
ly from her work, saying :

" Then if we believed as you do,
we would let the Germans and Rus-
sians drive us from house and home.
Your religion is a famous one for
thieves ! The Allies ask nothing bet-
ter, I am sure. I do not wish to insult
you, Pelsly ; you have been brought
up in these notions ; but we will de-

fend you despite yourself. I love to
hear of peace, but not when the ene-
my is at our doors."

Pelsly remained mute from asto-
nishment, and Doctor Lorquin could
not repress a smile.

At the same moment the door
opened, and a sentry entered, cry-
ing:

" Master Jean-Claude, come ! I
believe they are advancing."

" I am coming, Simon," answered
Hullin, rising. "Embrace me, Lou-
ise. Courage, my child ; fear not, all
will go' well."

He clasped her to his bosom and
his eyes filled with tears. She seem-
ed more dead than living.

" Be sure," said he to Catherine,
" to let no one go out or approach the
windows."

He rushed from the house to the
edge of the plateau, and cast his eyes
toward Grandfontaine and Framont,
thousands of feet below him.

The Germans had arrived the
evening before, a few hours after the
Cossacks. They had passed the
night, to the number of five or
six thousand, in barns, stables, or
under sheds, and were now clus-
tering like ants, pouring from every
door in tens and twenties, and hurry-
ing to buckle on knapsacks, fasten
sabres, or fix bayonets.

Others — cavalry — Uhlans, Cos-
sacks, hussars, in green, gray, and
blue qniforms, faced with red or yel-
low, with caps of waxed cloth or
lamb-skin, were hastily saddling
their horses or rolling their blankets.

Trumpets were sounding at every
street-comer, and drummers were

474

The InvasioHn

tightening their drum-cords. Every
phase of military life seemed there.

A few peasants, stretching their
heads out of their windows, gazed at
all this ; women crowded at the gar-
ret-wndows, and innkeepers filfed
flasks.

Nothing escaped Hull in, and
such scenes were not new to him,
but Lagarmitte was petrified with
wonder

** How many they are !* * he cried.

** Bah 1" returned Hullin ; " what
does that matter? In my time, we
annihilated three armies of fifty
thousand each of that same race in
six months, and we were not one to
four. Rest easy, however ; we shall
not have to kill all these j ihey wtll
fly like hares. You svill see."

These judicious reflections uttered,
he turned back to the abatis, and the
two followed a path which had been
made in the snow a couple of days
before. The snow, hardened by the
frost, had become ice, and the trees
formed an impassable barrier. Be-
low lay the ruined road.

As he appeared, Jean-Claude saw
the mountaineersfrom Dagsberg in
groups, twenty paces distant from
each other, in round holes like nests
which they had dug for themselves.
These brave fellows were seated on
their haversacks, their fox-skin caps
pulled down over their heads and
their muskets between their knees.
They had only to rise to view the
road fifty yards beneath them at the
foot of a very slipper)^ slope.

" Ha, Master Jean-Claude I When
is the work to begin ?"

" Easy, my boys ; do not be impa-
tient ; in an hour you will have
enough to do.'*

" So much the better."

" Aim well at the height of the
breast, and don't expose yourselves
more than you can help/'

" Never fear for us. Master

Claude."

" Do not forget to cease firing

when Lagarmitte winds his horn ; we,
cannot afford to lose powder."

He found Materne at his post^
lighting his pipe ; the old manV
beard was frozen almost soh'd.

" They seem to be in no hurry lo
attack,^' said Jean-Claude. '* Can it
be that they will take another roiile
through the mountains?"

** Never fear it,*^ answered the old
man, ** They need the road for their
artillery and bag^gage. Listen J The
bugles are sounding, * Boots and
saddles,' But do you know, HuUin,**
asked the hunter with a low chuckle,
" what I saw a while ago in Grandfon-
taine ? I saw four Austrians knock
old Dubrcuil, the friend of the Allies,
down and thrash him well with sticks,
the old wretch 1 It did my heart
good. I suppose he refused some
of his wine to his good friends."

Hullin listened to no more ; for,
happening to cast his e^'es to the
valley, he saw a regiment of infant-
ry debouching on the road. Beyond,
in the street, cavalry were advanc-
ing, five or six officers galloping in
front. ■

** At last 1" cried the old soldier, '
his face lighting up widi a look of
fierce determination — ** at last t"

And dashing along the line, he
cried :

"Attention, men of the VosgesT*

Lagarmitte followed with his bu-
gle. Ten minutes after, when the
two, all breathless^ had reached the
pinnacle of the rock, they saw the M
enemy's column fifteen hundred feet V
beneath them, about three thousand
strong, with their long white coats,
canvas-gaiters, bear-skin shakos,
and red mustaches, their young
officers, sword in hand, curveting in
the intervals beti^een the companies,

The fnvasioH.

475

N
*

and from time to time turning round
and shouting hoarsely, *' Forvertz I
forvertz T' while above the line the
bayonets flashed and glittered in the
sun.

They were pressing on to the a^aiis
at the pas de charge.

Old Materne, too, saw the Ger-
mans advancing, and his keen eyes
could even note the individuals of
the mass. In a moment he had
chosen his quarry.

In the middle of the column, on a
tall bay horse, rode an old officer,
wearing a white peruke, a ihree-
comered hat heavily laced with gold,
and a yellow sash. His breast was
covered with ribbons, and his thick
black plumes danced merrily as he
cantered on.

" There is my man !" muttered the
hunter, as he slowly brought his piece
to his shoulder

A report, a wreath of white smoke,
and the old officer had disappeared.

In a moment the whole line of in-
trenchmcnts rattled with musketry ;
but the Austrians, without replying,
pressed steadily upward, their ranks
as regular and well aligned as if they
were on pirade ; and to speak truth,
many a brave mountaineer, mayhap
the father of a family, as he saw that
forest of bayonets come on, thought
that perhaps he might better have
remained at home in his village than
have shouldered his rifle for its de-
fence. But as the proverb says, the
wine was drawn, naught but to drink
remained I

When two hundred paces from the
abatis^ the enemy halted, and began
a rolling fire, such as the mountain
echoes had never before replied to.
Bullets hailed on every side, cutting
the branches, scattering the icicles,
and flattening themselves on the
rocks ; their continued hiss was like
the humming of a swarm of bees.

All this did not arrest the fire of

the mountaineers, and soon both
sides were buried in thick gray
smoke ; but at the end of ten min-
utes more, the drums beat out the
charge, and again the mass of bayo-
nets dashetl toward the abatis ; and
again thd cry of ** Forvertz 1 for-
vertz !*' rang out, but now nearer and
nearer, until the firm earth trembled
beneath the tramp of thousands of
feet.

Materne, rising to his full height,
with quivering cheeks and flashing
eyes, shouted, ** Up 1 up 1"

It was time. Many of the Aus-
trians, almost all of them students
of philosophy, or law, or medicine,
gathered from the breweries of Mu-
nich, Jena, and other towns — men
who fought against us because they
believed that Napoleon*s fall would
alone give them frccdom^ — many of
these intrepid fellows had clambered
on all-fours over the frozen snow and
hurled themselves upon the works.
But each who climbed the abatis was
met by a blow from a clubbed mus-
ket, and flung back among his com-
rades.

Then did the strength and bravery
of old Rochart the wood-cutter show
themselves. Man after man of these
children of the Vaterland did he
stretch upon the whitened earth.
Old Materne's bayonet ran with
blood. The little tailor, Riffi, loaded
and fired into the mass with the cool
courage of a veteran, and Joseph
Larnette, Hans Baumgarten, whose
shoulder was pierced by a ball, Da-
niel Spitz, who lost two fingers by a
sabre stroke, and a host of others,
will be for ever honored by their
countrymen for their deeds that day.
For more than a quarter of an
hour the fight was hand to hand.
Nearly all the students had fallen,
and the others, veterans accustomed
to retiring honorably, turned to re-
trace their steps. At first they re-

T%€ InvasioH.

I
I
I

treated slowly ; then faster and fasten.
Their officers urged them to the at-
tack once more, and seconded their
words with blows from the flat of
their swords, but in vain ; bullets
poured among them from the abatis^
and soon all order was lo^t ; the re-
treat was a wild rout.

Materne laughed grimly as he
gazed after the flying foe, lately ad-
vancing^ in such proud array, and
shook his rifle above his head in joy.

At the bottom of the slope lay
hundreds of wounded. The snow
was red with blood, and in the midst
of heaps of slain were two young
officers yet living, but crushed be-
neath the weight of their dead horses.

It was horrible ! But men are
oftentimes savage as the beasts of
the forests. Not a man among the
flushed mountaineers seemed to have
a thought for all the misery he saw
before him ; it even seemed to rejoice
many.

Little Riflfi, carried away by a sub-
lime ardor for plunder, glided down
the steep. He had caught a glimpse
of a splendid horse, that of the
colonel whom Materne had shot,
which, protected by a corner of the
rock, stood safe and sound.

" You are mine !" cried the tailor,
as he seized the bridle. " How
astonished my wife Sapience will
be !"

All the others envied him as he
mounted his prize ; but their envy
was soon checked when I hey saw the
noble animal dash at full speed
toward the Austrians. The little
tailor tugged at the bridle, and
shouted, and cursed, and prayed,
but all to no purpose. Materne
would have fired, but he feared that
in that wild gallop he might kill the
man, and soon Riflli disappeared
among the enemy's bayonets.

All thought he would be m.'issacrcd
at once, but an hour later they saw

him pass through the street of Griiid*
fontaine, his hands bound behind hb
back, and a corporal followitig «itb
uplifted cane.

Poor Riffi ! He did not long co*
joy his triumph, and his comnules at
length laughed at his sac! fate 3S
merrily as if he had been a Kaiserlik.

Such is the nature of man ; as loog
as he feels no ill himself, tlie trouble
of others aflect him little.

CHAPTER XV.

The mountaineers w*ere wild with
exultation ; their triumph knew no
bounds, and they looked upon eacii
other as so many heroes.

Catherine, Louise, Doctor Lar-
quin, all who had remained at the
farm, rushed out to greet the victors.
They scanned the marks of buUetSi
gazed at the blood stained slope ;
then the Doctor ordered Riumg-.irlen
and Spitz to the hospital, although
the latter insisted on still remaining
at his post.

Louise distributed brandy among
the men, and Catherine Lefevre,
standing on the edge of the slope,
gazed at the dead and wounded.
There lay old and young, their faces
white as wax, their eyes wide and
staring, their arms outstretched.
Some had fallen in attempting to rise,
and the faces of some wore a look of
fear as if they yet dreaded these ter*
rible blows which the clubbed rifles
had dealt. Others had dragged
themselves out of the range of fire,
and their route was marked by tracks
of blood-
Many of the wounded seemed re-
signed to their lot, and only seeking
a place to die ; others gazed w^ist-
fully after their regiment, which they
could discern on its way to Framont
— ^that regiment with which they had
quitted their native village, with
which ihey had till then safely

The Invasion.

477

braved the toils and dangers of a
long campaign, but which now aban-
doned them to die, far from friends
and home, surrounded by an infuri-
ated foe. And they thought how a
trembling mother or sister would ask
their captain or their sergeant, " Did
you know Hans, or Kasper, or
Nickel, of the first or second com-
pany?" And how coldly would
come the reply : " Let me see ; it is
very likely. Had he not brown hair
and blue eyes ? Yes, I knew him ;
we left him in France near a little
village, the name of which I forget
He was killed by the mountaineers
the same day as the stout major,
Yeri-Peter. A brave fellow ! Good
evening."

Perhaps, too, some among them
thought of a pretty Gretchen or Lot-
chen, who had given them a ribbon,
and wept hot tears at their depar-
ture, and sobbed, " I will wait for you,
Kasper. I will marry no one but
you I Thou wilt wait long, poor
girl!

All this was not very pleasant, and
Mother Lefevre's thoughts, as she
gazed, wandered to Gaspard. Hul-
lin, however, soon came with Lagar-
mitte to where she stood, and cried
exultantly :

" Hurrah, boys I you have seen
fire, and those Germans yonder will
not boast much of this day's work."

He ran to embrace Louise, and
tlien ran back to Catherine.

"Are you satisfied. Mother Le-
fevre ? Fortune smiles ; but what
is the matter ?"

" Yes, Jean-Claude, I am satisfied ;
all goes well ; but look yonder upon
the road ; what a massacre 1"

"War is war," replied HuUin
gravely.

" Is there no way of helping that
poor fellow there — the one looking
up at us with his large blue eyes ?
O heaven I they pierce my very

heart I Or that tall, brown-haired
one binding his arm with his hand-
kerchief?"

" Impossible, Catherine 1 I am
sorry ; but we should have to cut
steps in the ice to descend ; and the
Austrians, who will be back in an
hour or two, would make use of them
in their next attack. But we must
go and announce our victory through
the villages, and to Labarbe, and Je-
rome, and Piarette. Holla ! Simon,
Niklo, Marchal! carry the news to
our comrades. Materne, see that
you look sharp, and report the least
movement."

They went together to the farm-
house, and Jean-Claude met the re-
serve as he passed, and Marc-Dives
on horseback in the midst of his men.
The smuggler complained bitterly of
having had no part in the fight ; he
felt disgraced, dishonored.

"Bah!" said Hullin, "so much
the better. Watch on our right ; if
we are attacked there, you will have
enough to do."

Dives said nothing; his good
humor could not so easily be re-
stored, nor that of his men — smug-
glers like himself — who, wrapped in
their mantles, and with their long
rapiers dangling from their sides,
seemed meditating vengeance for
what they deemed a slight.

Hullin, unable to pacify them,
entered the farm-house. Doctor Lor-
quin was extracting the ball from the
wound of Baumgarten, who uttered
terrible shrieks.

Pelsly, standing at the threshold,
trembled in every limb. Jean-Claude
demanded paper and ink to send his
orders to the posts, and the poor Ana-
baptist had scarcely strength to go
for them. The messengers departed,
proud enough to be the bearers of
the tidings of the first battle and vic-
tory.

A few mountaineers in the great

The Invasion,

hall were warming themselves at the
stove, and discussing the details of
the fight in animated tones. Daniel
Spitz had his two fingers amputated,
and sat behind the stove, his hand
wTappcd in hnt

The men who had been posted
behind the abatis before daybreak,
not having yet breakfasted, were —
each with a huge piece of bread and
a glass of wine — making up for lost
time, all the time shouting, gesticu-
lating, and boasting as much as their
full mouths would allow them to, and
every now and then, when some one
would speak of poor Riffi and his
misfortunes, they were ready to burst
their sides laughing.

It was eleven o*clock, when Marc-
Dives rushed into the hall, cr)nng :

•* Hullin ! Hullin ! WTiere is Hid-
linr

*• Here !"

*' Follow me — quick !*'

The smuggler spoke in a strange
e, A few moments before, he was
furious at not having taken part in
the battle ; now he seemed trium-
phant. Jean-Claude followed, sorely
disquieted, and the hall was cleared
in a minute, all feeling that Marcos
hurry was of grave portent.

To the right of Donon stretches
the ravine of Mi nitres, through which
roars a torrent which rushes from the
mountain-side to the depths of the
valley.

Opposite the plateau defended by
the partisans, and on the other side
of the ravine, five or six hundred feet
distant, rose a sort of terrace with
very steep sides, which Hullin had
not deemed it necessary to occupy,
as he was unwilling to divide his
forces, and saw also that the position
could be easily turned under cover of
the fir forest, if the enemy should oc-
cupy it.

Imagine the brave old man's dis-
may when, from the farm-house door,

he saw two companies of Attstrfaifis
climbing up the side with two field-
pieces, w^hich, dragged up by strong
ropes, seemed to hang over the pre-
cipice. They were pushing: «t t*>c
wheels, too, and in a few mofnents
the guns would be on the flat tap.
He stood for an instant as if strode
by lightning, and then ttirned lietcdy
on Dives.

" Could )'ou not tell me of this be-
fore ?" he cried. ** Was it for this I
ordered you to watch tlie ravioef
Our position is turned ! Our retreat
is cut off I You have lost all T*

All present, even old Maleme,
shrank from the flashing eyes bent
upon t|je smuggler, and he^ not with-
standing his usual cool audacity,
could not for some moments reply,

** Be calm, Jean-Claude/' said be
at last ; " it is not so bad as you
think. My fellows have yel done
nothing, and as we want cannon,
those shall be ours/*

" Fool ! Has your vanity brougltt
us to this? You must needs 6ght^
boast — and for this you sacrifice us
all \ Look f they are coming from
Framont, too T'

Even as he spoke, the head of si
new column, much stronger than the
first, appeared, advancing from Fra-
mont toward the abatis at the double-
quick. Dives said not a word. Hul-
lin, conquering his rage in the face
of danger, shouted :

** To your posts, all ! Attention,
Maleme !*'

The old hunter bent his head, lis-
tenings

Marc-Dives had recovered all his
coolness.

** Instead of scolding like a wo-
man," said he, "you had better give
me the order to attack those yonder
from die cover of the woods,"

•* Do so» in heaven's name," cried
Hullin. " Listen, Marc ! We were
victorious, and your fault has risked

The Invasion.

479

all the fruits of our victory. Your
life shall answer for our success,"

** I accept the terms.*'

The smuggler, springing upon his
horse, threw his cloak proudly over
his shoulder, and drew his long,
straight blade. His men followed
the example. Then, turning to the
fifty mountaineers who composed his
troop, Dives pointed with his sword
to the enemy, and cried :

**We must have yon height, boys.
The men of Dagsberg shall never be
called braver than those of the Sarre.
Forward !*'

The troops dashed on, and Hullin,
still pale from the effects of his an-
ger, shouted after :

** Give them the steel 1'*

The tall smuggler, on his huge and
strong steed, turned his head, and a
laugh broke from his lips. He shook
his sword expressively, and the troops
disappeared in the wood.

At the same moment die Austrians,
with their two guns — eight-pounders
— reached the level top, while the
Framont column still pressed up the
slope, Evcrj'thing was as before the
battle, save that now the mountain-
eers w^ere between two fires.

They saw the two guns with their
rammers and caissons distinctly. A
tall, lean officer, with broad shoulders
and long, flaxen mustaches, com*
manded. In the clear mountain air
they seemed almost within reach, but
Hullin and Materne knew better ;
they were a good six hundred yards
away, further than any rifle could
carry.

Nevertheless, the old hunter wish-
ed to return to the abatis with a clear
conscience. He advanced as near as
possible to the ravine, followed by his
son Kasper and a few partisans, and,
steadying his piece against a tree,
slowly covered the tall officer with
the light mustaches.

All held their breath lest the aim
might be disturbed.

The report rang out, but when Ma-
terne placed the butt of his rifle again
on the ground, to see the effect of his
shot, all was as before.

** It is strange how age affects the
sight/* said he.

" Affects your sight !" cried Kasper.
** Not a man from the Vosges to
Switzerland can place a ball at two
hundred yards as true as you."

The old forester knew it well, but
he did not wish to discourage the
others,

"Well, well," he replied, "we
have no time lo dispute about it.
The enemy is coming. Let every
man do his duty.*'

Despite these words, so calm and
simple, Materne too was sorely trou-
bleti. As he entered the trench, the
air seemed full of sounds of dtre fore-
boding, the rattling of arms» the
steady tramp of a trained multitude.
He looked down the steep and saw
the Austrians pressing on, but this
time with long ladders, to the ends
of which great iron hooks were fas-
tened.

** Kasper," he whispered, " things
look ill — ill indeed. Give me your
hand. I would like to have you and
Frantx near me ! Remember to do
your part like a man."

As he spoke, a heavy shock shook
the defences to their foundations,
and a hoarse voice cried, **0 my
God !"

Then a fir-tree, a hundred paces
off, bent slowly and thundered into
the abyss. It was the first cannon-
shot, and it had carried off both old
Rochart*s legs. Another and an-
other followed, and soon the air was
thick with crushed and flying ice,
while the shrieking of the balls struck
terror to the stoutest hearts. Even
old Materne trembled for a moment ;

I
1

48o

The Invasian,

but his brave heart was soon itself
again, and he cried :

** Vengeance 1 vengeance 1 Vic-
tory or dcnth !"

tfappily, the terror of the moun-
tatneers was of short duration. All
knew that they must conquer or die.
Two ladders were already fixed, de-
spite the hail of bullcLs, and the com-
bat was once more foot to foot and
liaml to hand, fiercer and bloodier
than befure.

Hullin had seen the ladders before
Materne, and once more his ^Tath
against Dtves arose ; but he knew
that anger then availed naught, and
he sent Lagarmitte to order Frantz,
who was posted on the other side of
l>onon,to hasten to the farm with half
his men. The brave boy, warned of
his father's danger, lost not a mo-
ment, and already the black slouched
hats were seen climbing the moun-
tain-side. Jean-Claude, breathless,
the sweat pouring from his brow, ran
to meet them, crying:

" Quick, quick ! or all is lost T'

He trembled once more with rage,
attributing all their misfortunes to the
smuggler.

But where was Marc-Dives?

In half an hour he had made his
way around the ravine, and from his
steed saw the two companies of Aus-
trians drawn up at ordered anns, two
hundred paces behind the guns, which
still kept up their fire upon the in-
irenchments. He turned to the moun-
taineers, and in a low voice, while the
thunder of the cannon echoed peal
upon peal from the valley, and the
shouts and shrieks and clatter of the
assault rose beyond it, said :

" Comrades, you will fall upon the
infantry with the bayonet. 1 and
my men will do the rest. For-
ward I"

The whole troop advanced in good
order to the edge of the wood, tall
Piercy of Soldatenthal at their head.

They heard die IVerd*:^ of a sentineL
Two shots replied ; then the shout ol
" Plve la France/'' rang to heaven, and
the brave mountaineers rushed upon
the foe like famished wolves upon their ^_
prey. ■

Dives, erect in his stirrups, looked
on and laughed.

"Well done !" he said "Charge I *^

The earth shook beneath the shock-
Neither Austrians nor partisans fired i
for a while nothing was heard but the
clash of bayonets or the dull thud of
the clubbed muskets as they fell ; then
shritrks and groans and cries of rage
arose, and from time to time a shot
rang out. Friend and foe were mix-
ed and mingled in the savage fray.

The band of smugglers, sabre in
hand, sat all this while gazing at the
fight, awaiting their leader's signal lo
engage.

It came at last.

"Now is our time," cried Marc.
" One brave blow, and the guns arc
ours.*^

And forth from the cover of the
wood, their long mantles floating
behind in the wind, ever)' man, in
his fier)^ impatience, bending over
his saddle-bow, and pointing his
long, straight rapier straight forward^
broke the bold riders.

" The point, my lads I the point 1
never mind the edge I" shouted
Dives.

In a moment they were on the
pieces. Among Marc's troop were
four old dragoons who had seen the
Spanish wars through, and two vete-
ran cuirassiers of the guard, whom
love of danger had attached to the
smuggler. The rammers and short
sabres of the artillerymen could avail
but little against their wcll-airacd
thrusts, each one of which brought a
man to the earth.

Marc*s check was blackened with
the powder of a pistol fired withm

• "Whosoetthmr

■
I

The Invasion,

six inches of his head ; a bullet pass-
ed through his hat ; but his course
was not staid until his sword pierced
the old officer with the light mus-
tache through and through, at one of
the cannons. Then, rising slowly in
his saddle until his tall fofm sat erect,
he gazed around, and said senten-
tiously ;

" The guns are ours !"

But the scene was terrible ; the
jncleeow the high plateau ; the shrieks,
the neighing of horses, or their cries
of agony ; the shouts of rage ; men
casting away their arms in a wild
flight for life, an inexorable foe pur-
suing ; beyond the ravine, ladders
crowded with white uniforms and
bristling with bayonets ; mountain-
eers defending themselves with the
fierce courage of despair ; the sides
of the slope, the road, and the foot of
the abatis heaped with dead, or wound-
ed writhing in anguish ; still further
away, the masses of the enemy ad-
vancing, with musket on shoulder, and
officers in the midst urging them on j
old Materne, on the crest of the steep,
swinging his clubbed rifle with deadly
effect, and shouting for his son Frantz,
who was rushing at full speed with
his command to the fight; Jean-
Claude directing the defence ; the
deafening musketry, now in volleys,
now rattling like some terrible hail-
storm ; and, rolling above all, the
vague, weird echoes of mountain and
valley. All this was pressed into
that one moment.

Marc-Dives was not of a contem-
plative or poetic turn of mind, how-
ever, and wasted no time in useless
reflections upon the horrors of war.
A glance showed him the position of
affairs, and, springing from his horse,
he seized one of the levers of the
guns, and in a moment had aimed
the yet loaded piece at the foot of
the ladders. Then he seized a match
and fired.

VOL. VIII. — 31

Strange criesi arbs^ fronri afafp^^
id the .smug^Wr7 -,i>iti^-njjiroiA^
a^hlnrHlv In we V ^\
Ht ^btrt^^ l^i^J^.hr^i^l
\ h e ad lix ^ r ' r ^1 ■ : ' k , 'rfnd \\
mph arii k the /

and

the smoke, saw

enemy's ranks.

hands above Jiis

a shout of triumph

breastworks.

" Dismount !" he cried to his men.
" Now is our time for action ! Bring
cartridges and balls from your cais-
sons. Load I We will sweep the
road ! Ready ! Fire !"

The smugglers applied themselves
to the work, and shot after shot tore
through the white masses. The fire
enfiladed the ranks, and the tenth
discharge was at a flying foe.

" Fire ! fire !" shouted Marc. And
the partisans, re-enforced by Frantz,
regained the position they had for a
moment lost.

And now the mountain-side was
covered only with dead, wounded,
and flying. It was four o'clock in
the evening, and night was falling
fast. The last cannon-shot fell in
the street of Grandfontaine, and, re-
bounding, overturned the chimney of
the " Red Ox."

Six hundred men had perished.
Many of the mountaineers had fall-
en, but many more of the Kaiserliks.
Dives's cannonade had saved all ; for
the partisans were not even one
against ten, and the enemy had
almost made himself master of their
works.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Austrians, crowded in Grand-
fontaine, fled toward Framont, on
foot and on horseback, flinging their
knapsacks away, and looking behind
as if they feared the mountaineers
were in hot pursuit

In Grandfontaine, in a sort of
spirit of revenge, they broke what-
ever they could lay hands on, tore
out windows, crushed in doors, de-

483

TJu Invasion.

liiiiiHlcil ffidil .iimI rliink, and insulted
llic |n'n|ih' l»y w;iy (if |)aynu'nl. Their
iin|i!r( .ilinns nnd erics, the com-
mands III' tluii otru-i'is, the com-
|iliiintH nf (hf inli.thitants, the heavy
Itiiinp t»r Irrt across the bridpjc of
Kianinni, and the aj;()ni/ed neijjh of
wnnndrd hoisrs, all rose in a con-
lUHcd nuinnur to tlte ahUis,

K >n iho side y^i. the mountain, arms,
shako's knapsacks, dead — all tJie
si^ns \»l a loui wore alone seen.
OpposUo appealed Man' Pives's
jjui^N leadx t\^ open lire anew in
\avc ol a new ailav k.

The paiiivans had c-dned the
\la\ . V\\\ no nIkhu ol tninnph rv^se
ti\Mn lis:'. n^iiv'iH lunonts. Their

h ix" ^;\ xVvc.x'J. :V.e ;;;tu

>:.e:ux*
of Ki:;!e

they, no less moved, sobbed like lit-
tle children.

But the old man soon recovered
himself and cried with a forced gay-
ety :

" We have had a rough day, lads :
let us take a cup of wine — I am
thirsty."

Throwing a last glance at the
bloody slope, and seeing that the
sentries whom Hullin had stationed
at intervals of thirty paces were all
at their posts, the old man led the
way to the farm-house.

They were passing carefully
ihrv^u^h the corpse-piled trench, when
a feeble voice exclaimed :

'• Is that you, Materne ?"

"Ah pcv.^r Rochart: Pardon!
lorj-'ve ir.e if I hurt you." said the
o\: h:::::er. ber.iir.g over :he wounded
:::Ar. : ->.: v c.n'.es :i ihat you anr

** Kr-.MUs: I cirr.o: move hence :
. -.-.sr -:h i> I h.-ve r.? 'ez:*/' answer-
^,. :- ^:^ir -.\r, z =::ur::n:! son of

5::'>j. silent tor

i:i-e. :ha: be
1 i'::«:kiT-^. she
I j^i'ri :hem in
. 1 :i ! s.ck ; but

: r- — - ■;: r:: ay live

■ V ' ;. * rirjTTied

■ --■ r .rr^ore.

- •: , - r — ive."

■. ■ ■ •^^. Si^.eri

■ -. -.:■> :.-^r:her

• - • -: ^ be '.ef:

<— * * r* r

The Invasion,

483

hospital were there. Doctor Lorquin
and a fellow-surgeon, named Des-
pois, who had come during the day
to his assistance, had work enough
on hand ; and as Materne and his
sons with their piteous load travers-
ed the dimly-lighted hall, they heard
cries which froze the blood in their
veins, and the dying wood-cutter al-
most shrieked :

" Why do you bring me here I Let
me die in peace. They shall not
touch me !*'

**Open the door Frantz," said
Materne, his forehead covered with
a cold sweat, ** open quick !"

And as Frantz pushed open the
door, they saw, on a large kitchen-
table in the middle of the low room,
with its heavy brown rafters, Colard,
the younger, stretched at full length,
six candles around him, a man hold-
ing each arm, and a bucket beneath.
Doctor Lorquin, his shirt-sleeves
rolled up to his elbows, and a short
wide saw in his hand, was about cut-
ting off the poor fellow's leg, while
Desbois stood by with a sponge.
Blood dripped into the bucket, and
Colard was pale as death. Cathe-
rine Lefevre was near, with a roll of
lint, and seemed firm ; but the fur-
rows in her cheeks were deeper than
usual, and her teeth were tightly set.
She gazed on the ground so as not
to see the misery around.

"It is over !" said the doctor at
length, turning round.

And casting a glance at the new-
comers he added :

" Ah ! you here. Father Rochart?"

" Yes ; but you must not touch me.
I am done for ; let me die in peace."

The doctor took up a candle, look-
ed for a moment at the old man's
wounds, and said with a grimace :

"It was time, my poor Rochart ;
vou have lost a great deal of blood,
and if we wait any longer, it will be
too late."

" Do not touch me !" shrieked the
old man. " I have suffered enough 1"
" As you wish. We will pass to
another."

He looked at the long line of mat-
tresses. The two last were empty,
although deluged with blood. Ma-
terne and Kasper placed their charge
upon the last, while Despois went to
another of the wounded men, say-
ing :

" It is your turn, Nicholas."
Then they saw tall Nicholas Cerf
lift a pale face and eyes glittering
with fear.

" Give him a glass of brandy,"
said the doctor.

" No, I would rather smoke my
pipe."

" Where is your pipe ?"
" In my vest."

" Good ; and your tobacco ?"
"In my pantaloons pocket."
"Fill his pipe, Despois. This
man is a brave fellow — I like to see
such. We will take off your arm in
two times and three motions."

" Is there no way of preserving
it. Monsieur Lorquin — for my poor
children's sake ? It is their only
support."

" No, the bone is fractured and
will not reunite. Light his pipe,
Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man,
smoke, smoke."

The poor fellow seemed after all
to have little wish to do so.

" Are you ready ?" asked the
doctor.

" Yes," answered the sufferer in a
choking voice.

" Good I Attention, Despois ;
sponge !"

Then with a long knife he cut
rapidly around the arm. Nicholas
ground his teeth. The blood spirted ;
Despois tied something. The saw
ground for two seconds, and the arm
fell heavily on the floor.
"That is what I call a well-per-

484

formed operation,** observed
quin.

Nicholas was no longer smoking ;
the pipe had fallen from his lips.
They bound round what remained of
Ills ami with lint, and replaced him
on his mattress,

** Another finished I Sponge the
table well, Despois, and then for the
next/' said the doctor, washing his
hands in a large basin.

Each time he said, " Now for the
next,'* the wounded men groaned
with fear. The shrieks they heard
and the glittering knives they saw
were enough to strike a chill to their
hearts ; but what could be done ?
All the rooms of the farm house and
of tlie barn were crowded. Only the
large hall remained clear, and so the
Doctor could not help operating un-
der the eyes of those who must a
little later take their turn.

Materne could see no more.
Even the dog, Pluto, who stood be-
hind the doctor, seemed to tremble
at the horrible sight. Tlie old hunt-
er hastened to breathe the cold air
Without, and cried :

** And to think, my bo>^, that this
might have happened to us I'*

" God is good/' said Frantz, ** and
why should we let sights even like
these affright us from our duty ? We
are in his hands."

A munnur of voices arose to their
right.

** It is Marc-Dives and Hullin/'
said Kasper, listening.

** Yes, they have just come from
the breastwork they made behind
the fir-wood for the cannon,'* added
Frantz,

They listened again. Footsteps
approached,

•* You are embarrassed with your
three prisoners," said HuUin, in
short tones. " You return to Falk-
enstein to night ; why can you not
take them with you ?"

** But where shall I put them V*
^^ Parhku! In the prison of AJ
reschwillei ; wc cannot keep

Iiere."

** I understand, JeaJi-Claudc^ Al
if they attumpi to escape on til
way, I will plant my rapier between
their shoulders,**

"You must 1"

They reached the door, and HtiM
lin, seeing Materne, cried joyaus]/!

'* You here, old friend ? I haf
been seeking you for an lie
Where were you ?'*

** We were carrying old Roch^
to the hospital.'*

Jean-Chiude dropped his head sad
ly ; but his joy at the result of
day's battle soon gained the Upp
hand, and he said :

" Yes, it is mournful, istde<:d.
But such is the fortune of war, Af^H
you or your sons hurt ?'* ^|

'*Not a scratch.'*

" Thank Heaven ! Materne, the
who passed through this day's
may w^ell rejoice.*'

"Yes,** cried Marc-Dives, \%
ing, ** I saw old Materne reidy to"
beat a retreat ; without those littlc_
cannon-shots, things would have ba
a different ending.^'

Materne reddened and glanced
angrily at the smuggler,

*• It is very possible,*' he answer
ed; **but without the cannon-shot^
at the beginning, we should not hau
needed those at the end, and ol^
Rochart and fifty brave fellows^
would yet have legs and arms — a
tfiing which would not have hurt om
victor}%'*

'' Bah !*' interrupted Hull in, wlic
saw a dispute likely to arise. ** Quid
this discussion. Every man hai|
done his duty,"

Then addressing Materne, he
added :

** I have sent a flag of truce to
Framont, to tell the enemy to remove^

,thos^
i wodjH

:idv to ^
ttle J

-a

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth,

48s

their wounded. They will arrive in
about an hour, doubtless, and you
must order our outposts to let them
advance ; but without arms, and with
torches. If they come otherwise,
fire on them."

"I will go at once," replied the
old hunter.

" Return with your sons, and have
supper with us- at the farm-house,

your

when you have carried out
orders."

" Very well, Jean-Claude."
Hullin ordered Frantz and Kas-
per to have large bivouac-fires light-
ed for the night, and Marc to have
his horses fed and to go at once for
more ammunition, and, seeing them
depart on their way, he entered the
farm-house.

TRANSLATED FROM TUB FRBNCU.

THE UNITY OF SCIENTIFIC AND REVEALED TRUTH.*

I HAVE not been able to come
among you as soon as I desired. The
duties of my office, and especially the
difficulties which always surround
one's initiation to a new sphere of
duties, are the causes of this delay.
Had I the leisure, my first visit after
my entrance into this vast diocese
would have been to Louvain — ^to
Louvain, so celebrated for its glo-
rious traditions — to Louvain, which
has ever remained true to them. To
the attraction of great historical re-
membrances are joined in my case
ties of a more intimate nature. This
pulpit recalls to my mind the days of
a ministry which must always be dear
to my heart, and which was far less
onerous than that which has replaced
it ; for if in those days I spoke of the
cross, it was surely without carrying
the one which now weighs upon my
shoulders. Yet it is with joy that I
address for the first time, as pastor
of their souls, the children of this
city, twice blessed by the Church for

♦ A discourse pronounced by ihe Archbishop of
Malines on liis first pAstoral visit to the city and uni-
versity of Louvain.

the signal ser\'ices she has rendered
to the Christian world, both by her
ancient university, and by the one
which lives again in our time with so
much lustre.

Louvain bears a great title, because
she symbolizes a great thing — the
unity of science and faith. How, then,
my brethren, can I avoid speaking of
her, and of that unity which men now
strive to banish from the schools
of learning ? Everywhere it seems as
if some invincible power had given
the command to expel Christianity
from our schools in the name of sci-
ence. I gladly seize, therefore, the
first opportunity which has been
offered me to consider this question,
because it deeply interests the living
minds of the age, because it is one
of the great cares of our social life,
and because here the two interests
are united in one place : the interests
of science, because I speak of Lou-
vain ; the interests of religion, be-
cause I speak from this sacred pulpit.

Not always in their efforts against
the unity of science and religion do
we find our opponents frankly de-

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth,

daring war upon Christianity. No ;
its enemies prefer to extinguish it by
stratagem. They wisely fear the love
of parents for their offspring ; and
while they are eager to destroy the
faith of the one, they hope to ac-
complish their task whhout the
knowledge of the other. It is on this
account that ihey have sought and
found the proper word to conceal
their design, and this word is neu'
traiity in tcachiHg. I wish, then, to
show you two things :

First. That neutrality in teaching,
as far as it regards the Christian re-
ligion, is evidently impossible ; that
a teacher must unavoidably declare
himself for or against the Christian
faith, even as Christ himself said,
** He that Is not for me is against
me/* .

Second. Science cannot declare it-
self against the Christian faith with-
out denying itself, without being un-
faithful to its ow^n principle, which is
reason, and without renouncing the
v^ry conditions of a free, perfect, and
progressive science.

May the Mother of Science and
Faith, Mater ^Ignttionis, obtain for us
from the incarnated Wisdom the light
which we need !

When I speak of instrurtion, I do
not intend to designate certain
branches of study in particular, but
I refer to the whole course of teach-
ing in each of its three degrees. I
affirm, then, that neutrality in teach-
ing is an evident impossibilit)% so far
as it regards Christianity in each
of these three degrees, and more
especially in the highest grade of in-
struction. This could be demon-
strated by running over a great num-
ber of the various branches of study ;
but in order to be more concise,
though not less conclusive, I will

speak of only two among them^ H

tory and morals, upon

school can be silent. The;

fice to convince you that the scii

which is not Christian is neccs

antichristian, and that it will ever be

impossible to be neutrab

Let us begin with historj-, Iflfc
Christian religion were a mytholc
certainly we could separate it froi|
the teaching of histor}^ and banish j
to the domain of fable ; but Chri^
lianrty before as well as after the In
carnation is a great historical fact!
nay, it is the greatest fact of histor
This fact is a living one in that
ligious society which embraces ever
nation. This living fact speaks an
affirms itself divine ; not divine
man who accepts it, but divine
that which constitutes its essence, 14
its doctrine, in its worship, and in iti
doctrinal and sanctifying power.

Christian teaching affirms
Christianity is a dhine fact Ant
christian instruction denies it. Whatj
then, can neutral instruction be ? if
it neither affirm nor deny, necessarilf
it doubts, and consequently it mi
teach doubt. But is not the teacli
ing of doubt formally antichristian]
The divine Author of Christ ianit
teaches us that, in the presence of th^
proofs of his mission, doubt is inex^
cusabl e : ** If I fujd not rome and spaike
to thi^m^ they wmitd not have sin;
but now they have no excuse for
sin'' (John \\\ 22.)

We will see, in a few moments
why tins doubt is inexcusable ; buti
we only affirm a self-evident truth
when we declare neutrality to be im-
possible, because he who is not for
the faith is necessarily against i^an<i
to teach doubt is only another waji
to deny truth, Hut perhaps it vHll
be said that neutral instruction w^ill|
say nothing concerning this matter j
that it will pass by the fact of tho
Christian religion in silence \ and

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth,

487

that, without relegating it to the do-
main of mytholog)', it will quietly ig-
nore its existence. Now, the absur-
dity of this position is still more
manifest, for Christianity is linked to
everything in this world. We can-
not take a step in history without
meeting with it ; if you search the
annals of antiquity, of the first cen-
turies of the Christian era, of the
middle ages, or of modern times, at
every age alike you will see Chris-
tianity before you, and everywhere it
governs all other things from its lofty
height.

The pretence of silence in this
matter is therefore one of two things :
it is either nonsense or it is hypocri-
sy. It is nonsense when it is said,
as I have recently been informed it
is in a certain classic work adopted
by our schools, that it will contain no
question about sacred history, nor
about the history of the church,
whether of the old or the new alli-
ance, because these questions are all
beyond the scope of history. The
chain of facts which a Bossuet has
unrolled in his discourse upon uni-
versal history — that marvellous chain
of facts beyond the scope of history ! ■
The expectation of redemption
among all the people of the globe,
which is proved by the universality
of expiatory sacrifices, and by fore-
shadowings which redemption can
alone make intelligible ; the estab-
lishment of Christianity in its last
and definite form, its civilizing in-
fluence, its trials, its long-continued
struggles, its triumphant existence —
these are all beyond the scope of his-
tory 1 This pretended silence, then,
is not nonsense, it is h)rpocrisy; it
is only, like the neutrality which it
defends, the hollow mask of infidelity.

Again, neutrality is not less im-
possible in the sphere of morals than
in history. What is morality? It is
the science of duty. By itself, it is

the science of means furnished by
reason to overcome our passions.
Therefore to morals belong these ab-
sorbing questions : Why have the
passions revolted against reason ?
Why does not the same beautiful har-
mony reign in the moral as in the
physical order? Why are there, as
it were, two men within us, and why
do we know what we ought to do,
and why do we follow the opposite ?
What is the cause of this deep-seated
evil, which is only too well known to
us all ? What is the remedy for it ?
Where shall we find the strength to
conquer this interior revolt ? Where
are the arms with which we can tri-
umph ?

He who knows not this knows
nothing. But faith has positive
answers for these fundamental ques-
tions. It teaches us that the revolt
of passions in human nature is the
first result of the revolt of the human
mind against God ; that the soul,
which did not wish to submit to its
Creator and its Master, has rightly
suffered the uprising of its own slaves,
the senses and the appetites ; that,
if it would vanquish them, it must
humiliate its pride, lament its evil
deeds, implore the grace of God,
pray to obtain again its lost strength.
It teaches us that by prayer we seize
familiarly the divine armor, " arma-
turam Dei orantes^^ and that only by
its aid can we hope to combat and to
triumph. This is Christian teaching.
And will not that teaching be anti-
christian which denies what Christi-
anity, in this respect, declares to be
true ? Certainly it must, because in
the teaching of morals, to be silent
concerning the necessity of grace and
of prayer, by which man freely ob-
tains grace, is to make an avowed
profession of antichristianity. To
say nothing of the grace which
strengthens our nature ; to say no-
thing of grace, which not only

488

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth.

strengthens^ but elevates nature above
itself J to say nothing of the life of
grace, as if, when compared with the
physical and intellectual life, there
was not a far more noble life, which
all men have experienced, since no
one is completely abandoned by its
merciful inspirations — this is not a
neutral course ; it is antichristian,
formally antichristian,

I might prove to you here that in-
struction upon morals is not only
antichristian when it is silent con-
cerning the means given us by faith
to conquer these passions, but also
irhen it refuses to recognize the great
notives for fulfilling our duties, for
these motives are so many Christian
truths. I might show, or rather re-
call the fact, that these truths have
transformed private and public mo-
rality, that they have begotten mod-
em civilization ; and those are indeed
blind and ungrateful who enjoy the
fruit of this civilization, while they
would miserably tear the fiiir tree
from the hearts of their Christian
countrymen.

But 1 must be satisfied with plac-
ing these arguments before you ; and
I am the more readily contented with
this sketch, because I know that it is
not requisite to say everything! in or-
der to be understood. 1 am convinc-
ed that I have said enough to make
It clear, both to your reason and to
your conscience, that instruction
must be Christian, or it will become
antichristian ; that science is neces-
sarily either for or against the holy
faith ; and that its pretended neu-
trality is only an unmeaning word.
Hence it follows that the organization
of public instruction on the basis of a
^ieceitful neutrality is in reality the
affinnation of antichristianity in the
stale.*

• \\\ fWleiiim, tlK?!* \%7k vociaiy which beir* rlw li-
lt* <i\ Tkt /.f.f^H/ */ Imtrv^tion.. Thia »oc»ciy <• trtc
louii£«a(M Ar>ikhri*U4nily i»i 4t» ■cbnoli^ but «Iiv*y«

II.

•It remains for us lo see thjit^wf]

science declares agiiinsl the Crhristi
failh, it really denies its own print
pie, that is to say, reason. Atvd %«rhy^
Because it is reason which itivak^
the light of faith, and it is rcasoi
which recognizes it. It is rea
which invokes the light of failK Fo
what is reason ? Reason is that an
of our powers which reaches afted
truth ; it is that faculty which is eve
forcing us to search out the ^ tvky '
of things. It has even the sat
name as its object, for the reaso
and the ** wky''^ of anything are one,|
Again, we only act reasonably wbea
we know why we are acting. Ev
in our most insignificant actions^
always propose to ourselves an in J
tention, an end which determine
them. In order, therefore, to liv^
reasonably, we must know why. It
is necessary to know the why^ or lh€
end, of life, so that the first wortis i
our catechism answer the first que
tion of reason. Why are you in thel
world ? Is it only to go to the ccmc-T
tery? Has man been placed upon!
the earth only that he may be thrown]
into a grave? Humanity will nei'cf
accept this doctrine. The generations
of the human race kneel at the tombs]
of their ancestors and pr^ i nst 1

this monstrosity— Uie m J mdj

absurd system of those who clamor- 1
ously desire a liberty of the human I
mind, which can only terminate inl
corruption and worms. The human i
conscience and human reason unite
in declaring that life is only a jour- 1
ney, that its end is beyond the tomb,
and that to die is to attain it. But
what do we attain? Where do we ar-

drliraYing tt» ov uid tA itn own ruk %vA

peril lluj •^H me d:ariati*fird, l«»«ne

dctice <»' tb* ri*n|H» \ i^tiLo ih**y have iourthl to i-c^ i
mAVtt l^iC o'Ut«cli«« by imiUnilriK ihe iiroCectidn gftll* ^

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth.

489.

rive ? Here reason searches, and
trembles while she seeks. She looks,
and feels that she is powerless to
penetrate single-handed into the
abyss of the futurS life. The learn-
ed and the ignorant are equally baf-
fled, and can only say, " It is neces-
sary to return to the other world, in
order to know what really is done
there." The gospel tells us the
same ; no one has penetrated the
heavens except he who came from
them : " No one has ascended into
heaven, except he who descended
from heaven, the Son of Man who is
in heaven."

Let us try then, brethren, to dis-
cover what reason asks, and justly
asks. It asks the " why'' of life ; it
does not care to exist without know-
ing " why'' and knowing it with cer-
tainty. It can obtain certitude in
many other spheres of thought ; but
it wishes to be assured upon this far
more than upon any other question.
Let us, then, state how reason has
certitude in some other matters, and
how it wishes and can attain it in this.

We know the things of the exterior
world with certainty, and reason tells
us to admit that which is well attest-
ed by the senses. We know the
things of the interior world, of that
world which is within our own breasts,
because reason tells us to admit what
is revealed by our self-consciousness.
We know the great mass of truths of
the intellectual world with certainty,
for our reason tells us that we must
acknowledge the truths proclaimed
by evidence. We know that which
is passing upon the earth in the pre-
sent day. We know events which
occur in distant quarters of the world,
and we know the facts which are
separated from us by long intervals
of time, because our reason tells us
that history and the testimony of
mankind are reliable grounds of cer-
titude.

But that which we wish to know
more than all these things is the end
of our own existence ; and we wish
to know this precisely, because we
are reasonable beings. Our reason
longs to know more of the meaning
of our creation ; it desires to know
what is true in regard to our end,
because this truth must be divine
and eternal. But to be certain of
divine truth, must not reason be will-
ing to obey the voice of God ? To be
certain of eternal truth, must we not
accept the testimony of eternity ?
The testimony of God was implored
in every age, and from this it comes
that faith, which is the acceptance
by human reason of God*s revelation,
is a constant, perpetual, universal
fact, even as the fact of reason itself.
It is ridiculous to urge against the
truth of revelation the various reli-
gions which claim to be revealed ; for
the counterfeits of revelation do not
prove more against it than the per-
version of reason proves against rea-
son. The wanderings of reason do
not compel us to deny the truth of
human reason, so neither do the mis-
representations and counterfeits of
revelation force us to deny its truth.
We have seen, therefore, what reason
requires ; let us see how it recog-
nizes revelation when it meets with
it.

There is a certain manner of speak-
ing indifferently of all religions which
is used as a cloak to hide the desire
to confound them. This is common
in the world of letters among men of
scanty science. But serious science,
like a sincere conscience, discovers
divine revelation, in spite of its hu-
man alterations, by certain signs and
characteristic marks which are un-
mistakable. These signs have been
multiplied by Providence with love ;
but I wish to insist here upon that
token which has not only followed
past ages in their course, but has, if

490

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth.

I
I
I
I

I
I

I may so speak, grown with their
growth: that grand characteristic
which reveals the author of nature,
and which assures us of the giver of
revelation, is unity. The unity of
nature reveals God as the creator ,
the harmony of the heavens and of
the earih recount the glory of their
author: "The heavens explain the
glory of God,'* It is the chant of
the imity of space. But the unity of
ihue is not less splendid than the
unity of worlds ; it is the harmony
of centuries in Jesus Christ, who has
revealed God as the author of reve-
lation. Nature and revelation are,
then, the two great works in which
God is revealed by the same sign —
queenly and all-powerful unity ! The
unit}' of lime in Jesus Christ, and in
hun alone, is a fact without a paral-
lel ; more eas}^ for us to rejoice in
than to depict. Yet here is the mas*
terstroke of a great pencil : "These
are great facts, clearer than the light
of the sun itself, which make us
know lliat our religion is as old as
the world, and demonstrate that he
only could be its author who, hold-
iiig all things in his hand, has been
able to begin and continue that
which holds all centuries in its em-
brace. To be expected, to come, to
be adored by a posterity which will
last through every age, is the charac-
ter of him whom we adore, Jesus
Christ, yesterday, to-day, and to end-
less ages, the same." This, then, is
the manifest sign of divine revela-
tion, the unity of time in Jesus
Christ.

St, Augustine spoke of this sign,
considering it, however, under only
one of its aspects, when he answered
those persons who envied the good
fortune of those who conversed with
the risen Christ: ** The aposllcs saw
one thing, but they believed another;
and because they saw, ihey believed
that which lliey did not see. They

saw Jesus Christ risen, the head dl
the Church, but they did not yet see
this body, this Universal Church,
which Jesus Christ anr to

them,*' this mar\^ellous ^ i tU

incredible Catholicity, extending
over every country, with its unbtooiijr
sacrifice of the great invisible Victim,
with the manifestation of conscicn«
and remission of sins, with its perpe-
tuity to the end of time, with its cen-
tre of unity established by tb^
words : " Thou art Peter, and upon
this rock 1 will build my church, aiwl
the gates of hell shall not prevail
against it." The apostles saw none
of these things, and how could tbcy
believe in such apparenlly incredible
promises ? But they were in the pre-
sence of the risen Christ ; they had
seen him dead and crucified, I bey
saw him living and glorious* and it
is from liis mouth that I hey received
the promise of that which they did
not see. " They have seen the head/*
says St, Augustine^ "and they have
believed in the body ; we see ibc
body, and we believe in the hcacL
We are like ihem, because we see,
and therefore we believe that which
we do not see."

It is necessary for us to recall here
what St. Thomas Aquinas says upon
this point: ** No one believes, unless
he sees what is necessar)^ to be be-
lieved.'' It is because we are rea*
sonable that w^e are believers, ll is
also because we are believers, we
are Christians; and it is as Chri^
tians and children of Catholicity that
we love with the same affection faith
and science, the plenitude of science,
the liberty and progress of science.
The plenitude of science, for, without
its harmony with the sphere of feilh
and the truths which surround our
faith, science must always be incom-
plete.

There is a science to day which
calls itself ^^ posith i'" meaning that it

The Unity of Scientific and Revealed Truth.

491

is founded on well-attested facts. It
is indeed good to rely upon facts.
Facts should undoubtedly be the ba-
sis of natural science. Still the na-
tural sciences are not the only ones
which should be sustained by facts.
The moral order, as well as the phy-
sical, appears to be a magnificent as-
semblage of facts. Humanity with
its reason, its conscience, its sublime
inclinations, its immortal yearnings —
is not humanity a grand fact ? Then
this great fact must be considered as
it really exists, in its entirety, and not
as mutilated by the false spirit of a
system. If the order of facts to which
positivism would limit us were the only
order, do you know what humanity
would be? An ant which disputes
with the grains of sand. But humanity
will never allow itself to be thus dis-
honored.

To the moral fact of humanity cor-
responds that which we have seen
triumph over centuries — the fact of
revelation. I say it corresponds to
them, because Christian revelation
offers the only satisfactory reply to
questions which philosophers have
always asked and never answered.
I say it corresponds, because Chris-
tian revelation has alone thrown a
flood of light upon the mysteries of
the positive state of humanity, and it
alone affirms that it bears a sove-
reign remedy for the moral disorder
of our nature : " Come to me, and
I will refresh you." Do we really
possess science, then, if, in the pre-
sence of these two great facts and of
this divine appeal to experience, we
obstinately close our eyes and shut
our ears ? Have we science when,
without investigation, we assert as
the first condition the gratuitous de-
nial of the possibility of the things
that were to be examined ? What is
really this pretended scientific posi-
tion ? It is the attitude of fear. If
science would be perfect, it must in-

vestigate every order of facts, investi-
gate their character, declare their
harmony. It is when it states the
harmony of the facts of the natural
order with the facts (I say /aits) of
the supernatural order, the harmony
of the actual condition of the human
race with the revelation which en-
lightens its depths, then it is that
science becomes perfect, or at least
always tends more and more toward
perfection. The very names which
represent this harmony are, as you
are well aware, the greatest names of
science.

But will science be free, some one
asks, if it is bound by revelation?
Does it cease to be free because it is
bound by nature ? That which trou-
bles certain minds on this point is
due to a false and pitiable notion of
liberty. In what respect is liberty
everywhere distinguished from li-
cense? In this, that liberty always
moves within the sphere of law, and
license always beyond it. In the or-
der of science, the law is the truth
established. The liberty of science
is not, then, absolute in its independ-
ence, as has been recently declared
by an academician. No ; liberty is
not the independence of science, for
it consists precisely in the fact of its
dependence upon truth. The servi-
tude of science, on the contrary, con-
sists in its dependence upon opinion.
Indeed, it is not the freedom of the
human mind, but license, mother of
servitude, which pretends to-day to
reduce everything to opinion. This
pretence is the negation of science.
To possess science is to know with
certainty ; to have only opinions is to
doubt; and to submit to doubt is
slavery. The true man of learning
never asserts when he is ignorant ;
but science does not require less
certainty, and only becomes science
when she can attain it Science
is therefore sdcpice only because the

492

Hie Unity of Scimtific and Revealed Tmifu

truth controls it, and by controlling
itj prcscnes it from the senntude of
opinion, so that this shininj; sentence
of our Lord concerns also the learned :
"The truth shall make you free/'

** But does not experience show that
in bearing the yoke of truth we are
sure to yield to illusions?'* I an-
swer, is it not proven that those who
resist the evidence of a diWne order,
whether in the work of revelation or
in the work of nature, bend beneath
ever)' breath that passes, turning to
every wind of doctrine, yield to every
caprice of intellect, and frame their
convictions according to the phrases
which are daily set forth by the press
of both hemispheres? Have you
never met with one of these slaves ?
They are ready to believe anything
that is affirmed without evidence,
provided it is contrary to the faith,
and they arc willing to accept any
theory as a demonstrated fact, so long
as it can be used against Christianity.
What is this but the credulity of in-
credulity ?

The notion of progress is not less
false among them than that of liberty.
Do they not say every day that faith
is incompatible with progress, be-
cause revelation is immutable? Is
not nature also immutable ? Is the
immutabilit)^ of nature an obstacle to
the progress of natural science? Why,
then, is the immutability of revelation,
w^hich we have seen clothed with the
same divine sign as nature— why, then,
is this immutability an obstacle to
the progress of the moral sciences ?
Is it not concerning the progress of
these sacred sciences that Pius IX,
has recently adopted the words of
Vincent of Lerins, and made tfeem
his ov^Ti ? " Progress exists, and it is
very great ; but it is the true progress
of faith, which is not constant change.
It must be that the intelligence, the
science, th^ wisdom of ail ages» as
well as of each one in particular, of

all ages and centuries of the whole

church, should, like individuals^ in-
crease and make great, very great
progress ; so that posterity may have
the good fortime to nnd erst anil that
which antiquity venerated witlintit
comprehending ; so that the precious ,
stones of divine dogma may be cur, i
exactly adapted, wisely ornamented,
that they may enrich us with their
grace, their splendor, and their bcaut)\
but always of the same kind, that is
to say, the same doctrine, in ill e same
sense and with the same substance,
so that, when we use new tcmis, wc
do not say new things." Voii under-
stand then, my brethren, tliat the im-
mutability of revelation does not offer
a greater obstacle to the progress of
sacred science than the immutabili^
of nature places in the way of tlic
natural sciences.

The popes were not only the friends
of the progress of tlie sacred sciences ;
they were the most ardent supporters
of all science, as well as of the pro*
gress of letters and arts. The facts
which prove this are so nvimerous that
I shall content myself with recalling
those which concern you more direct-
ly. Who founded the universities of
Oxford and Cambridge in England?
The popes. Who founded the univer-
sities of Paris, ISologna, Fcrrara, Sala-
manca, Coimbra, Alcala, Heidelberg,
Prague, Cologne, Vienna, Louvain,
and Copenhagen ? Again the popes.
Who institoited the professorships of
the Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and Chal-
dale Lmguages at Paris, Oxford, Bo-
logna, a nd Salamanca ? A pope — Cle-
ment V. Ws whom, during two cen-
turies, were sustained, encouraged,
recompensed, the works of savants
which finally led to the knowledge of
the system of the world? By the
popes and the cardinals of the holy
Roman Church. This is what those
ignore who do not blush to perpelti-
ate the fabulous condemnation of

77/^? Unity of Scientific attd Rnu^alcd Truth,

493

Galileo by the Church. Neither tlie
I Church nor the sovereign pontiffs have
^ ever coudemia'd Galileo, Galileo was
condemned by a tribunal of theolo-
Igians, who soon withdrew this con-
I clernnation to give astronomy the same
liberty which was granted to Galileo
himself, whose sombre prison is only
[a romance. Where was this system
of the movement of the earth adopted
by Copernicus, and then first tayght
1 by Galileo? At Rome, in i495» ^J
1 Nicholas de Cusa, professor in the Ro-
[man University, furty-eight years be-
fore the birth of Copernicus, and one
hundred and thirt)^-nine before that
L of Galileo, Nicholas de Cusa defend-
fed at that time this system in a work,
dedicated to his professor, Cardinal
Julian Ccsarini. Pope Nicholas V.
raised Nicholas de Cusa to the cardi-
' nalate, and named him Bishop of
[Brixen, in Tyrol. Again, it was at
, Rome, toward the year 1500, that Co-
pernicus explained and defended this
Isystem before an audience of two
[thousand scholars. Copernicus was
Imade Canon of Konigsberg. Celius
[CaIcagnini,who taught the system of
[Cusa and Copernicus, in Italy, about
1518, ^vas appointed apostolic pro-
, thonotary by Clement VII [., and con-
I firmed in this position of honor by
Paul II I. ; it was to Paul 1 1 L that Co-
pernicus dedicated his work De Rn^o-
Viutionibus Orblum drkstium. At last,
[when the renowned Kepler, who de-
Ivelopcd and completed the system of
tCopernicus, was on this account pcr-
Isecuted by the Protestant theologians
lof Tubingen, the Holy See used its
I utmost endeavors to place in the
[University of Bologna this savant, so
[Christian in his ideas, and who had
not merely embraced the system of
Galileo, but had given it an immense
weight by the authority of his immor-
lital discoveries. If I insist on this

episode, it is because bad faith is
stubborn in its efforts to find an ar-
gument against the conduct of the
popes in the great history of the mo-
ral progress of science. The Church
never fears the light. She knows and
teaches that the light of reason and
the light of faith come from the same
source. She knows that one of these
truths will never contradict the other,
and that among the proofs of revela-
tion we must not forget its harmony 1
with the sciences. The sects cannot
withstand the presence of science j
never has pagan or mussulman be-
come a savant without losing his poor,
bewildering failh. It is not so of the
true religion. From Clement of Al-
exandria and Origen to Descartes,
Leibnitz, Pascal Kepler, and De Mais-
tre, to siy nothing of our contempo-
raries, science and faith have dwelt
togelh^er in the greatest minds of
Christendom.

Continue this glorious tradition,
young men of the Catholic university,
and remain always worthy of your
Aima Mater! Become truly men,
and you will be men the more power-
ful and useful the more faithful Chris-
tians you are.

And you, city of Louvain, be justly
proud of remaining, through your uni-
versity, the object of noble envy to
the nations which surround you, Ire-
land has taken you for her model;
France and Catholic Germany look
upon you, and endeavor that they too
may possess something which resem-
bles you. Never cease to be yourself,
the city of science and of religion, that
your children, ever faithful to these
two lights, may be consolcti, during
their life and at the hour of death, by
the thought that iheir love has never
divided these two great things which
have been united by the infinite wis-
dom of God,

The first itumdalions of the Loire
with which we are acquainted have
been made known to ns by the cele-
brated historian and bishop St, Gre-
gory o( Tours, wJio has let\ detailed
accounts of eight dreadful disasters
that occurred in the space of eleven
years ; that is, from 580 to 591. In
the archives of France there is pre-
served an edict of Louis le Debon-
nairc, son and successor of Charle-
magne, who, touclied by the piteous
com pi aims made to him by the inha-
bitants of Touraine and Anjou^ whose
harvests were in constant danger from
the sudden risings of the river, or-
dered the buiUling of dams and em-
bankments, which, modiikd by some
of his successors and strengthened
by others, became at last the magni-
ficent structures we behold them at
the present day, between Elois and
Tours.

Nevertheless, the capricious river
has never yet during all these long
centuries been kept for any lime with-
in Its bed. Its devastations were
fearful in 14 14, and again in 16 15,
when the sudden melting of the enor-
maus masses of snow which had
fallen on the surrounding country
duriuir the winter caused so frio^htful
a catastrophe that it has smce been
known in French history as the
" Deluge of Saumur/' The begin-
ning of the seventeenth century saw

ten risings of the Loire in ten yeafs;
and the Duke of Saint-Simon lu^
left us, in his celebrated memoirs, 3
notice of one in 1708, which was the
cause of much miser)\ In more mo-
dern times, France has had, cverf
eight or ten years, to deplore some
dreadful misfortune arising from the
same source, and the more fax^ortJ
portions of that beautiful land ba\'e
been compelled repeatedly to come
to the aid of the ruined population
of the basin of the Loire, whose farm-
houses had been swept away by the
Hood, their harvest-fields devastated,
their cattle drowned, and who, too
often, alas! had also had to weep
over irreparable losses far more bit*
ter than these — the life of dear ones
lost In the surging waters.

About five years after Maroel^
admission into the Met tray Colony,
one of the most terrible of these
visitations overtook the inhabitants
of the banks of the picturesque stream.
A long continuation of rainy weather
had swollen the Cher and the Allier^
both tributaries of the Loire, and
the river, rising suddenly, broke
through its strong embankments and
spread itself over the counlry\ The
local authorities, of every degree
and station — prefect, subprefect, and
mayors—with the soldiers, engineers
and townspeople of Tours, all hasten*
ed to the relief of the drowning vil-
lages and Hirms, and all did I heir duty •
but even among these courageous
men the young Colonists disirnmiish-
ed themselves by their ener^ and
self devotion. ^ ^"^

The inundation had commenced

The Story of Marcel.

495

in the night, and whendayhght reveal-
ed the extent of the disaster, the di-
rector assembled the youths.

" Boys," cried he, " the Loire has
risen, the country is under water,
and hundreds of families are in dan-
ger of their lives. Boys, the oldest
and strongest of you must go and
help to save them !"

The lads looked at one another an
instant in silence, then broke forth in
a cry that rang far and near, " Long
live Demetz ! Long live our director!"
a cry that was a perfect explosion of
gratitude and of pride ; for the poor
fellows fully comprehended all that
their wise and good director meant
them to understand — his confidence
in their honor, their honest}', and
their courage.

And well they justified his trust in
them ! More than a hundred were
soon actively at work raising dikes
and dams, propping houses, and car-
rying succor to the distressed.

Marcel, Polycarpe, and one of
their companions, a young baker,
named Priat, to whom both of them
were much attached, were among the
foremost in these labors. They had
gone with some others to carry help
to a village containing about twenty
families ; it was situated only two
hundred yards from the river, and
completely surrounded by water. An
immense quantity of wood — wrecks
from other villages swept away by
the flood — drifted about in the streets,
and was dashed incessantly against
the water-soaked walls of the houses,
shaking them terribly ; two, indeed,
had fallen in the night and been
washed away. On the roofs, or lean-
ing from the upper windows of the
tottering dwellings, were to be seen
the frightened inhabitants imploring
aid ; the mothers holding out their
little ones and praying for pity. It
was a heart-breaking sight, and the
noise of the ever-rising and surging

river, of the wind and pouring rain,
of the shocks of the drift-wood, in-
creased the terrors of the scene.
Nor was it possible to approach near
enough to the houses to save any of
the unfortunates shrieking for help ;
for every boat belonging to the place
had either been swamped or had
been torn from its nworings by the
overwhelming current and carried
away.

" Let us run to Saint-Pierre," cried
Polycarpe, after he and his com-
panions had contemplated the fear-
ful spectacle for a few moments with
consternation. " We may find a boat
there !"

He started oflf as he spoke, fol-
lowed by half a dozen of the Colo-
nists. Marcel did not accompany
them, for he had heard cries of dis-
tress from the windmill, a short dis-
tance off, and had hastened thither
with three or four more. The water
at this point was quite seven feet
deep, and the building evidently
giving way. There seemed to be no
possibility of saving the miller and
his wife and child, for the flood rush-
ed so fiercely around the mill that the
most experienced swimmer would
not have ventured into it. Marcel
was gazing in hopeless pity at the
fated building, when a man on horse-
back trotted into the midst of the
group of despairing spectators. A
sudden thought struck the boy.

" Give me that horse !" cried he ;
" quick, give me that horse !"

"What do you mean, youngster?"
asked the man, somewhat surprised
by the imperative tone and unexpect-
ed demand of the stranger.

"For God's sake, lend me your
horse ; every moment that we lose
may cost a life !"

As he spoke he turned toward the
mill, where the unfortunate family
could be seen at the window, stretch-
ing forth their imploring hands and

496

The Story of Marcel,

crying for help. The traveller got
off his horse without another word,
and, quick as lightning, Marcel was
in the saddle and spurring the ani-
mal forward into the water. Before
his surprised companions well com-
prehended what he intended to do,
they saw him breasting the furious
current and struggling to reach the
windmill.

They saw him reach it at last, and
then the miller letting down his wife
to him by a rope passed under her
arms. The poor woman held her
child clasped closely to her bosom,
and though she clung to her deliver-
er with a grasp that almost strangled
him, she seemed to think only of her
babe, whispering to it as Marcel urged
the panting horse back again to the
land, " Thou art saved, my little one,
thou art saved !"

The brave boy placed the mother
and child in safety in the hands of
the admiring spectators of his cou-
rage and self-devotion ; then, with-
out staying for a moment's breathing
or rest, forced his unwilling horse
again into the flood.

This time the owner of the good
beast made some indignant remon-
strances. " Both boy and horse will
be lost,'' cried he ; *' ihey are both
tired now ; they can never fight
against the current !'*

"Why don't the miller throw him-
self into the water and swim ? He's
fresh and the others aren't.''

" Suppose he don't know how,"
answered one of the bystanders ;
"and if he did, do you think he
could stem that torrent ?"

" Why, he'd be carried down the
Loire to the sea, just like a piece of
straw," said another.

"The horse, the horse, look how
he strains ! he's giving way! he*slost
his footing!" cried half a dozen at
this instant.

For a moment the strong, high-

spirited animal was hurried along
by the foaming, eddying stream, then
with a mighty effort recovering him-
self he reached the mill, and the
miller had just time to drop down
and cling with a death-grip to the
pale, intrepid rider, when the build-
ing toppled over and was carried
away !

Cries and tears of joy hailed them
as they approached the dry land ;
the young Colonists surrounded their
heroic companion, and presently bore
him off to Mettray for a change
of clothing and some refreshment ;
his trembling frame told how much
he needed them. But the family he
had saved so gallantly did not let
him depart before they had thanked
him with tears of gratitude, while
the owner of the noble horse pressed
his hand in both of his and swore to
be his friend through life.

" You're a brave fellow, and I
honor you," cried he. "Til be your
friend, and a true one, or my name's
not Charles Rodez !"

The poor miller with his wife and
child were taken to a house prepared
to receive and succor the unfortu-
nate victims of the inundation.
Food and warm clothing and beds
were here ready for the half-siarved
and half-drowned families that were
arriving continually — poor, despair-
ing people who had most of them
lost their little all, and some of them
a father, or husband, or child.

Scarcely had Marcel, cold and
wet, but very happy, been borne off
in triumph by his comrades, when
there appeared on the road, coming
toward the village, a great truck
drawn by two horses, and loaded
with a large boat and its oars.

Polycarpe and his friend Priat
had been successful in their search,
and were now returning at the head
of the little band of Colonists who
had followed them to Saint-Pierre.

Th€ Story tf MardL

497

The people in the water-logged
houses of the village fairly screamed
with hope and joy when they saw the
procession, and then the boat taken
off and launched. A dozen Colo-
nists were eager to jump in, but Poly-
carpe and Priat were given the pre-
cedence, and they, with another well-
grown youth, presently pushed off
into the fast and furious stream. It
was hard work to keep clear of the
drifting beams that were hurled
along, rather than carried, by the
current through the narrow streets
of the village; harder still to get
the boat near enough to each totter-
ing house to take off the frightened
family from the roof or out of the
windows.

Once, indeed, it came near being
swamped, with eight persons on
board, by the sudden falling of a
wall of the house from which they
had just been saved. Polycarpe's
quick eye saw the coming danger in
time to give such a vigorous pull
with his oar that the boat sprang
forward just out of reach of the
stones and beams, but she was so
violently rocked by the concussion
of the falling materials with the
water that it seemed a miracle that
she did not capsize.

And once, too, the brave boy
missed his footing as he climbed on
a roof to take off a lame old man,
and fell headlong into the water.
An admirable swimmer and diver,
he did not lose his presence of mind,
but passed under the boat and came
up on the other side ; he was soon
hauled in by poor Priat, who was
more frightened and affected by this
accident than by any other event of
that terrible day.

All day long the work of rescue
went on. When the three rowers
were exhausted with fatigue, three
others took their places. There
was not one among the young Colo-

VOL. VIII. — 32

nists who hung back or shirked the
danger; not one who did not give
proof of courage and Christian chari-
ty. The boat went and came, until,
at last, one after another, all the poor
peasants were in safety. When
night fell, not a house of the village
was left standing, but not a life had
been lost

CHAPTER XII.

" Not always full of leaf, nor ever spring,

Not always endless night, nor yet eternal day ;
The saddest birds a season find to «n&

The rooghest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all.
That man may hope to rise, and fear to &1L*'
Southwell.

The services rendered by the
young Colonists during the inunda-
tion attracted unusual attention to
the Colony, and visitors from Tours,
and even from Paris, flocked in num-
bers to Mettray every Thursday and
Sunday. The afternoons of these
two days were set apart for the pub-
lic, who were permitted to be present
at the bojrs' gymnastic exercises, and
for whose pleasure* the band of the
military establishment performed its
best pieces.

On one of these occasions, about
a couple of months after the events
we have endeavored to describe in
the preceding chapter, Marcel re-
marked a gentleman whose counte-
nance he seemed to remember, who ap-
peared to be looking at him, almost
examining him, with much attention.
Toward the close of the exercises,
he perceived the same gentleman in
conversation with one of the head-
officers of the place. Presently they
came to him.

"Marcel," said the officer, "this
gentleman wishes to ask you a fe^
questions."

"I want to ask you, my boy, if
you recollect ever to have seen me
before I" said the gentleman, with an
encouraging smile.

498

The Story of MartA

"Yes, sir,*' replied Marcel;"!
believe that I have, I think that
you are the Commissary of Police in
the Rue ties Noyers."

"I was ; I see that I am not mis-
taken either, I never did forget a
face that struck me. You are the
boy who, some years since, found a
bag of Napoleons in the street and
brought it to me. Am I not right ?'*
<*Yes, sir," said Marcel, looking
down.

** Wei!, my good fellow, your hon-

sty saved a poor man from a broken

tart ; but he was very ill for a lonj;
"time from the dreadful emotions of
that night, and circumstances pre-
vented my seeking yo\i out immedi-
ately, and so it happened tliat, when
I did go to the address you gave mc^
I only learnt that the woman with
whom you lived was dead, and no

nc could tell me anything about

5u. I suspect that no one would.
Perhaps I was recognized to be the
Commissary of Police, and inspired
no great confidence. But I am glad
to wee you again, my boy. I have
Just Icariicd something of your his-
tory, and I rejoice to find that I was

;>t mistaken in the opinion I formed
you that night that you brought
■|nc the bag. I often regretted that
yiHi received no reward. I don*t
know how it happened either.
>'oti'rc a brave fellow, too, as well
an honest one, they tell me.
Shake hands, will you ?"

He took Marcel's hand as he
•poke ; the boy burst into tears ;
the past returned so vividly to his
recollection at that moment ; the
commissary-s long speech brought
back so much that had almost been
forgoUen, so much misery and shame
and sin, that ilie different present
overpowered him. The good-natur-
ed visitor patted htm on the shoulder
•lln % kind, fatherly manner, his eyes
glistening with sympatliy*

" Come/* said be presently, •'^
me what you intend to do when
leave the Colony. I hear that yoor
time will soon be out now. Whxt
trade have you learned ?''

" I am a gardener/* replied Mar-
cel. " I always loved flowers^ and 1
should like to cukivate them/'

** Quite right,** said his new-foond
friend. " Well, I shall look out fori
place for yoa And now, my boy.
remember that I am your friend, a
sincere one, and be sure to write to
me in any emergency. This is mr
address, M, de Morel^ Rm du Lux-
embourg^ Paris; take care of this
card, and do not forget to let me
know two or three months beibfe
you leave the Colony."

He gave Marcel his card, with aft-
other cordial shake of the hand, tod.
returning to his party, shortly alter
left the establishment.

Marcel had a long talk with Ibc
father of the family and Polycarpe
that evening. They both agreed
that the promised influence of M.
de Morel was a bright prospect for
Marcers future career.

*' This friendship, however, is not
absolutely necessary for your pros-
perity hereafter, Marcel," said the
father. " Vou know well that Mettray
never abandons her children. Our
good director would find you a suit-
able situation, and continue to watch
over your interests. But still I think
you must do as this kind gentleman
wishes. It is a pleasant and useful
thing to have friends; one cannot
have too many good ones !'*

** You will get acquainted with the
poor clerk, very likely," remarked
Polycarpe. ** Wouldn't you be glad to
know him ? I should, I think/*

**Ycs, I think I should too," an-
swered Marcel thoughtfully.

The friends went to bed that
night very happy ; Marcel to dream
of that future garden, the aim of jdJ

The Story cf Marcel,

499

his ambition, in which he wandered,
hand in hand with the poor clerk,
until the clarion sounded ; Polycarpe
to fancy himself marching, drums
beating, colors flying, at the head of
a regiment of Zouaves !

There is not a pleasanter place in
Paris than the Garden of Plants —
the people's delight and the people's
own !

Who that has seen it in spring
can forget its magnificent avenues of
linden-trees, fragrant with the deli-
cious perfume of the tassel-like Wos-
soms; its grand old chestnut-trees,
covered with spikes of creamy-white
or rose-colored flowers; its lilac-
bushes, its pear-trees, white with
blossoms, as if they had been snowed
on ! And then the twitter of birds,
mingled with the bleating of sheep
and goats, and the soft lowing of
cows ! Delightful sights and sounds
in the very heart of poor old Paris,
close by the door of the hospital!
'Tis there that the pale Parisian
workman spends his holiday with
his wife and children ; 'tis there the
little ones learn to love and be gen-
tle to God's creatures.

How pleasant it is in the warm
summer-time, when the shady ave-
nues are crowded with bands of
happy children, jumping the rope or
playing at hide-and-seek behind the
thick trunks of the old trees planted
by BufFon, while their smiling moth-
ers sit near with their sewing. How
beautiful then are the gay parterres
of bright-colored flowers so skilfully
grouped, so harmoniously contrast-
ed ! How interesting the rich botanic
garden, where so many strange ex-
otic plants, each with its common as
well as scientific name legibly in-
scribed near it, can be freely and
conveniently studied by all !

Who that has climbed the little
hill, on whose summit stands the

Cedar of Lebanon, and rested be-
neath the glorious spreading branch-
es, has not felt it a heart-warming
sight to watch the crowds of hard-
working people rambling with their
children amidst the trees and flowers
of this magnificent garden; here
stopping to feed the patient elephant,
who seems to pass his life begging
for bits of bread ; here contemplating,
with some aversion perhaps, the
clumsy hippopotamus bathing its un-
wieldy form in its tank ; then making
a long pause before the monkeys'
palace, where some twenty of those
natural gymnasts excite roars of
laughter by their tricks; and then
again before the great cage of the
many-colored parrots, that look to
the delighted children like giant fly-
ing-flowers? And as they stroll
along, the goats and sheep, and soft-
eyed gazelles and fawns, that beg by
the way, get each a few crumbs of
black bread and many caresses ; and
the boys jest en passant with the
bear at the bottom of his pit — " Old
Martin" they call him — and they bribe
him to climb the great pole placed
expressly for him, with a bit of crust ;
and the little girls pity the eagle as
they pass by his narrow grated pri-
son. Sitting there under the cedar,
the eye falls almost involuntarily on
a group of pretty houses, nestled to-
gether in a comer not far from the
Museums of Natural History. They
are the residences of many of the
professors attached to the Garden of
Plants — professors of botany, of
comparative anatomy, of mineralc^
and geology, of natural history, etc. —
men of world-wide reputations, whom
the privileged inhabitants of Paris
may hear lecture on these various
sciences, in well-ventilated, well-
warmed halls, twice every week, for
nothing.

In an out of the way nook, but
quite near to the homes of these cele-

500

The Siory of Marcei,

brated men, there was one quaint,
old-fashioned little house which, in the
spring of the year 1859, had been ap-
propriated as the dwelling of one of
the head-gardeners, a young man of
great intelligence in his profession,
and who had lately been appointed
to the situation.

It was a very httle house, it is true,
but large enough for the tenant and
his young, newly-made wife, who
thought it, for her part, the sweetest
nest ever built. It was covered with
climbing roses ; they could scarcely
be shut out by the windows and doors,
so that it had received the name of
**The House of the Roses." Outside,
it needed no other ornament to be
beautiful ; inside, its charms were
neatness, cheerfulness, cleanliness,
and quiet.

But the afternoon that we present it
to our readers the little house was in
a busUe, for wife Gabrielle and her
maid Marie were preparing a dinner
far more elaborate than was usual in
that simple household* and very anx-
ious were the two little women that
every dish should be worthy of the
occasion, for the banquet was to feast
the return of an old friend from the
war in Italy.

The master of the house had but
just got home from bis daily occupa-
tions when there came a vigorous ring
at tlie door, and he ran to open it

" Marcel !"

" Polycarpe 1"

The two friends threw themselves
into each other's arms, unable to utter
another word.

** How well and happy you look 1"
exclaimed Polycarpe at fast, laying
his hand caressingly on his friend's
shoulder and gazing affectionately at
htm,

'* And you, Polycarpe, what a tre-
inendous fellow you are with your
turban and your great beard 1*' re-
tyrcied Marcel, looking with admira-

1^ tyrm

tion at the supple, sinewy l<ma of the
handsome Zouave^ on whose brotti
chest shone the Gross of ihc Legion
of Honor.

The blushing young wife received
her husband's old friend with a cor-
diality that soon put the soldier quite
at his ease, and by the time the din-
ner was ended they were chatting to-
gether as if they were acquaintances
often years' standing.

" Now, Marcel," said Polycarpe,
when the happy trio were quietly seat-
ed in the little salon through wboM
open windows the fresh roses petpid
in, perfuming the soft evening air—
" now, Marcel, you must tell me some-
thing more about yourself than Uw:
few letters I have received from you
have contained/'

** First, let me tell you sometfc
Monsieur Polycarpe/' cried
elle. *' Let me tell you that I shall be"
grateful to you^ and love you as x
brother to my dying day^ for having
saved Marcel from being a sok
dier"

"Madam," replied the Zouav
laughing, '*you must love me as yc
brother, but you owe me no gratitudi
Why, 1 had always wished to be
soldier, and it was the most natural
thing in the world that I should ex*
change my good number for Marcel's
bad one. But that drawing for the
conscription is really a dreadful or-
deal !'•

" Thank God that you have con
back to us 1" ejaculated Marcel softl)

** Oh 1 that horrible batde of So
ferino I" cried Gabrielle with a shud
der, " When Marcel knew that you
had been engaged in it, I thought
that he would go distracted, until he
was assured of your safety."

** He ought to have seen us Zou-
aves, how ready we were for the fight ;
not a man among us who would have
backed out r'

" It was because I knew your im-

The Story &f Marcel

501

petuosity, Polycarpe," said Marcel,
" that I despaired of ever seeing you
again."

" Well, my friend !" said the sol-
dier, pressing his friend's hand, " here
I am, safe and sound, with two legs
and two arms ; there is many a brave
man who came back from Solferino
who cannot say that !"

" I have always been lucky," con-
tinued he after a short pause ; " I en-
tered the army a simple soldier, with-
out a single friend, and yet here I
am with the Cross of the Legion of
Honor, and next month I shall get
my epaulettes 1"

"I am not surprised, not in the
least surprised. You acted like a hero
in Italy, I know, or you would not
have been decorated 1 We shall see
you a captain soon I" And Gabrielle
clapped her little hands with delight
at the thought.

" Come, Marcel," cried Polycarpe,
laughing, "I shall become too vain
if I listen to your wife any longer.
Come, tell me ; when we parted, you
for Paris, and I for the army, how
did you get on ?"

" It will be a twice-told tale to you,
Polycarpe, for you must have receiv-
ed my letters 1"

"Never mind! There are gaps in
what I know of your doings, and they
must be filled up."

" Well, then, after that painful part-
ing with our friends at Mettray, I pro-
ceeded to Paris, and went immediate-
ly to see M. de Morel ; he was just
as cordial as he had given me reason
to believe he would be, and one of
the very first things he did was to
take me to see Gabrielle's father."

** Do you know who he was, Mon-
sieur Polycarpe, or is that one of the
gaps you mentioned?" interrupted
Gabrielle, smiling.

" Oh ! no, that is not a gap," re-
plied the soldier. "I know that it
was your father who lost the bag of

gold Marcel was so fortunate as to
find."

"What a dreadful remembrance
that night is to us all even now I I
was very young then, but I can per-
fectly recollect my poor father's de*
spair, and my mother's bitter weeping,
I have never since heard of a sum
of money being found, without pic-
turing to myself the loser's agony,
and some such scene of wretchedness
as I witnessed in my own home !"

" Monsieur Tixier received me as
if I were his son," continued Marcel,

" Well, you were to be I" said Ga-
brielle archly.

" But I certainly never should have
dared to have thought of such a
thing then," replied her husband,
smiling. "I saw Mademoiselle Ga-
brielle sitting at work by her mother's
side ; but I little dreamt that that fair
young girl would ever be my wife I"

"How glad we were to see him,
you can imagine, Monsieur Poly-
carpe 1 We had wanted for years to
prove our gratitude to him! But
you know we had never been able to
find him. In the street where he
used to live they told father that
Pelagie Vautrin was dead) and the
family with whom Marcel lived had
moved,"

" You can understand how that hap-
pened, Polycarpe," continued Marcel,
" for you know that your unfortunate
father was never seen again after
that day when we so hastily fied
the house. And then your mother
and Loulou left the neighborhood."

"Poor father, poor mother, both
gone I" sighed the soldier. "How of-
ten have I hoped to possess a decent
home of my own that I might save
them from a miserable old age!
They are both gone, for I cannot
help believing that my father is dead,"

" Loulou will be a comfort to you ;
the good sisters in Rue St Jacques
have brought her up well. She is a

502

The Story of Manel.

good, industrious girl^ and an excel*
lent needlewoman. Gabnelle has
had her to spend the day with us twee,
and we are very fond of her."

** Madame Gabnelle, how can I
thank you I What kind, good friends
you are tome!" The brave Zouave
hid his face for a moment in his
hands ; when he raised it, his cheeks
glistened as if they had just been
washed with tears.

"Go on^ Marcel, what happened
after you had made the acquaintance
of M. Tixier r

" Very shortly after, M, de Morel
succeeded in getting me a place in
the staff of gardeners attached to
the Garden of Plants, and here I
have worked steadily on while you
have been fighting my battles, Poly-
carpe/'

"You have fought your own, Mar-
cel, and manfully too I"

" Happy years they have been — ^my
profession pleased me^ and I made
many friends, and as time went on I
was promoted, until, at last, six months
ago, I was appointed one of the head-
gardeners, with a good salar}^ and
this Uttle house rent free."

"And then, Monsieur Polycarpe,
my good father, who had knowm for a
long time that Marcel and I loved
one another dearly, made him under*
stand that my mother would be hap-
py to call him her son 1"

" Yes, when my way was clear be-
fore me, my good friend bestowed on
me the best little wife that ever man
was blessed with ; and where do you
think we went for our wedding trip ?'*

"Where? Why, to Mettray, of
course," cried Folycarpe excitedly.

"Yes, to Mettray. We staid with
Rodez at Tours ; he was very kind
to us, and took us to see all our

friends. First of all, Priat; ike it

foreman to the richest baker in the
town, and is ver}^ highly esteemed by-
his master He was v^xy glad to
see me again, and we talked a great
deal of you and of the Zouaves.'^

"Good fellow 1 I shall go to
him, one of these days !*' eJLclaimed
Polycarpe.

" Yes, do. Then we went to Met-
tray, How my heart beat whco I
caught sight again of the chapel stee-
ple ! I saw many new faces* but ow
kind director, and the good abbe^ and
the father of our family were tlicre
just the same, all well, and so glad
to see me, and so glad to know thai
I was prosperous and happy ; and
they admired my litile wife so much !**

" Enough, enough, Marcel 1" \vt
temipted Gabnelle, brightly blusUiy
and smiling.

" Marcel," said Polycarpe after a
short silence, " I have been on ihc
battle-field, my comrades falling by
hundreds around me, while I was
spared ; I have seen death in its
most fearful shape>, and human suf-
fering inconceivable to the imagina-
tion of those who have not witnessed
it, and I have escaped, unhurt, un-
touched ; but I declare to you thai
when the battle was over and the
danger past, I never felt that ovcf-
powering gratitude that fills my heart
when I remember Mettray, For, after
all, what is physical pain, what is the
loss of this life compared to that cor-
ruption of the heart and conscienct
that was ours when we first entered
the Colony ? I do not believe Uiat I
have ever closed my eyes in sleep
since I quilted that saving home be-
fore praying, * God bless the fouadm
of Mcllray t* "

Protestantism a Failurt,

503

PROTESTANTISM A FAILURE*

Dr. Ewer is a Protestant Episco-
pal minister of Christ Church in this
city, and is, we are assured, no ordi-
nary man. Afflicted in early life
with doubts of the truth of revealed
religion, but subsequently getting the
better of them, he joined the Protes-
tant Episcopal Church, became an
Episcopalian minister in California,
whence he was called to the pasto-
rate of Christ Church in this city.
He is, we are told, a man of great
ability, of genuine eloquence, and a
true pulpit orator. He appears to
be an honest and earnest-minded
man, who took seriously the church
pretensions of Episcopalians, treated
the Episcopal Church as a real Chris-
tian church, in which he might hold,
develop, and defend what he regard-
ed as real church principles.

But he found that he had counted
without his host, that is, without his
vestry, with whom the principal power
in Episcopalian churches is lodged.
His vestry or wardens complained of
his preaching, and censured his doc-
trine as tending Romeward, or as not
sufficiently Protestant. Like a brave
man, he answered their complainings
by these four discourses, in which
he distinctly asserts the failure of
Protestantism as a religious system,
and " Catholicism " as the remedy.
Nothing could be more startling to
a Protestant congregation, and it
seems to have startled to a consider-
able extent the whole American Pro-
testant public. But we are bound to

* X. PaUurt 0/ ProUiUuUUm, and CatMictsM
tMf Remedy : Four Discoaraes dcdivered bf the Rer. .
F. C Ewer, D.D., in Christ Church, Fifth avenm,
New York. Reported in the New York Timet,
1868. a. Dr. Bwef^s Re^ytoDr. AdmmtmmdOtken,
in Defence of his Discounes on the Ftuhm ^ Pr^
iestanfitm^ Mid Cmtholieitm ike Remetfy' Reportsd
a the Mmv Vock Ur^rld, Kofwabtr iMk» sSfil.

say, if any one imagines that in these
discourses Dr. Ewer rejects Pro-
testantism for the church in com-
munion with the Roman Apostolic
See, he is very much in error. Dr.
Ewer, in the train of the Oxford
Tracts, the Puseyites, and the Ritual-
ists, disclaims Protestantism, proves
unanswerably that it was a blunder,
and is as a religion a disastrous fail-
ure ; but the Catholicity he looks to
for a remedy is of a very different
stamp from ours, and whether it be
a genuine Catholicity or not, he
claims to be as far from being a Ro-
manist as he thinks he is from being
a Protestant Rome, he says, failed
in the fifteenth century, as Protes-
tantism has failed in the nineteenth.
That Protestantism * was a sad
blunder, and has proved a disastrous
failure, Catholics have proved over
and over again ; and on this point
Dr. Ewer has said no more nor bet-
ter than they had said before him.
He has said no more than was said
by the Oxford men, or than is said
every day by the Ritualists, who are
so strong in the English Church that
its authorities do not dare condemn^
and are obliged to tolerate them.
The Convention of the Protestant
Episcopal Church of the United
States, lately in session in this city,
could not by any means be induced
to take any action against them, or
to do anything to favor the party in
the church opposed to them. The
Anglican Church, or a considerable
portion of it, would, if it could, like
to get rid of the name of Protestant,
and assume that of Catholic. It is
growing ashamed of its origin and
principles, and it has many noble
members who are doing their best to

§04

Protestantism a mtltm!

bring its doctrine and form of wor-
ship up to tlie level of Catholicity.
Dn Ewer indeed says nothing of
Protestantism that all thinking men
do not see and know as well as he*

I Protestantism was always more poli-
tical and national than religious. It
originated chiefly wnth the princes of
the sixteenth centur)% who were op-
posed, for secular reasons, to 'tJie

^pope, or wished to frighten him in
order to bring him to tlieir terms ;

I and it relied wholly on thecivi! power
to diffuse, protect, and defend it
Now, when the civil powers are
abandoning it as no longer necessary
to their purposes, and giving partial
or complete liberty to Catholics, it is
able to make a show of sustaining it-

|«elfonlyby forming an intimate alH*
ance with the unbelief and natural-
ism of the age. It is not an insigni-
ficant circumstance that, when re-
cently the attempt, for political pur-
poses, was made in England to re-
vive the " No Popery " cry, once so
effective, it wholly failed. The Pro-
testant mind in the Protestant world
is evidently drifting away from the
Keformation, even if not drifting to-
ward the church.

But though the part of Dr. Ewer's
discourses which so effectually prove
the failure of Protestantism as a reli-
gious system is the part most satis-
iactory to us, w^c must for various
reasons confine the remarks we de-
sign to make chiefly to the remedy

, proposed. The error, nay, the blun-
der, the author assures us, was in
breaking away from the One Holy
Catholic Church of the Bible and
the Creed, and setting up in its
place the Bible interpreted, by the
private spirit or private judgment,
almost inevitably tending to discre-
dit the Bible, and to develop in pure
rationalism or naturalism ; the reme-
dy, of course, must be in the return

\4^ this One Catholic Apostolic

Church with its divinely
priesthood, its august sa<
sacraments, sacred rites, and
authority in matters of faith
cipline. This» if asserted
would be very intelli^ble to
world, and would mean a
the Roman Catholic A
Church, or church in coi
with the Apostolic See of Roa^llic
See or the Chair of Peter. Biltik
Ewer takes great pains to haw an
understand that this is nothismcsD-
ing, and that in rejecting Protcslinl-
ism he is far from accepting Rtmm-
ism, or Roman Catholiciiy. Hie
puzzle, then, is to detertntne wkiL
which, or where is the One CatboGc
Apostolic Church which be pro-
poses as the remedy of the wide-
spread evils of Protestantism.

Is it the Roman Church? " Na
That is a Catholic Church, but i»ot
the Catholic Church. Is it the
Greek or Oriental Church ? K^
That is a catholic churchy but not
the Catholic Church. Is it the An-
glican? No. That, again, b i
catholic church, but not the Catho-
lic Church. These, the doctor says^
near the conclusion of his seoood j
sermon, are particular and l<x:al|l
churches, not the one universal™
church itself, but holding from it
and subordinate to it Where, then,
is this universal churdi ? He tit-
swers, in the same sermon, a little
further on, *' We must go deeper and
broader " than these particular and
local churches " to find the Catholic
Churchy down to the great foundation
on which the three stand ; down out
of the differences of the broiJjers to
the unit)' of the family, to find th«
ground upon which we stand as C*
tholics, not as Romanists, not
Greeks, not as Anglicans, far Jess as
Episcopalians.*' But is tliis catho^
lie church which underlies alike ih^
three particular churches an m^\

Protestantism a Failure.

SOS

ization or organism distinct from
them, with a centre of unity, life, and
authority, independent of them, but
on which they themselves depend
for their church unity, authority, and
life ? Not at all. If we understand
the author, the Catholic Church is in
what these three particular or local
churches have in common, in what
they agree in holding, or what re-
mains after eliminating their differen-
ces. In order not to do the author
any injustice, we quote nearly at
length, in his own words, the answer
he gives in his fourth discourse to the
question, "What is the Catholic
Church?"

** Now, a church is an organism. The Ca-
tholic Church must be an organism univer-
sal over space and universal back through ,
time to Christ. Suppose, now, I go to the
Methodists again. I find there an organ-
ism ; but in looking back I find it was ar-
ranged about the time of John Wesley, one
hundred years ago. Before his day there
was no such church organism. I pass then
to the Presbyterians. There I find a differ-
ent organism. But in looking back I find it
dates its origin only about three hundred
years ago. That will not answer, then. Very
well, I try the Congregationalists, and, in
fact, each and all of the modern Protestant
organizations. Avowedly they do not, any
of them, run back into the dreadful mediae-
val times — those dark ages. Whatever
these Protestant organisms may be, then,
they mist each and all be set aside, as, at
any rate, not Catholic organisms either in
space or in time, and therefore not Catho-
lic at all. Well, suppose I come to our
church. I find it, as an organism, with its
bishops, priests, and deacons, its ritual form
of worship, its altars and sacraments, its
conventions and synods, its dioceses and
parishes, running back in the history of
England into mediaeval times ; yea, still fur-
ther back through the early days of old Bri-
tain and up even to the apostles. I seem
to strike something Catholic here. But be
not in haste. Suppose I go to the Roman
Church. I find that I can trace its life back
also interruptedly to the apostles. Suppose
I go to the Greek Church. I find the same
peculiarity of continued existence back to
the apostles there. Here, then, in the Ro-
man, Greek, and Anglican chnrdies, we

have reached something which it will do at
least to pause upon for further investiga-
tion.

" But have a care. When we look a lit-
tle more closely into the Anglican organiza-
tion as a whole and consider it part by
part, and when we examine the Roman or-
ganization in like manner, and the Greek,
we find that each of the three differs fi-om the
other two in certain respects. Rome has a
pope and a cultus of St Mary the ever-Vir-
gin; these are not parts of the Greek (?) or of
the Anglican organisms. Though we have
paused here, then, though the Catholic
Church must be hereabouts somewhere,
nevertheless, when we have reached our
church, we have not yet reached the Catho-
lic Church we are in search of; when we go
to Rome, we have not yet reached that Ca-
tholic Church ; and equally, when we go to
the Greeks, we have not reached the object
of ouF search. For we find that neither of
these three organisms, when taken as a
whole, and in all its minutiae, is accepted by
the other two. Shall we go elsewhere^ then t
There is nowhere else logo,

"Let us look, then, more closely still
here. As we examine, we find that, although
the three — Anglican, Greek, and Roman^ —
thus differ in some respects, they are mar-
vellously alike in all others. All three
have a hierarchy of bishops, priests, and
deacons. All have the holy altar of the tre-
mendous sacrifice as the central object in
their churches. All have robed clergy. All
have saints' days and identical ecclesiastical
seasons. All have a ritual form of worship.
All have parishes, dioceses, and provinces.
All (?) date their life back into the first cen-
tury. All have stately ceremonials and
processions ; the Greeks the most glorious,
the Romans less, and the Anglicans the
least

" All acknowledge the authority of gene-
ral councils. All have the same apostolic
succession and the same sacraments. Here,
then, I begin to find the Catholic Church.
Those few peculiarities in which the Greek,
the Anglican, and the Roman differ from
each other are merely local ; all those
maHy peculiarities in which the three are at
one shape out for me visibly, solidly, and
sharply the great Catholic Church ; one in
space as in organism, and one in time ; to
be found equally in Russia, and Italy, and
England, and America, and Mexico, and
Germany, and Brazil—everywhere; to be
found, too, in the nineteenth century, and
equally in mediaeval time, and also in the
earliest days, unchanged and unchangeable.
And everything in the Anglican, Greek, and

Protestantism a Failun.

Roman bodies which the three hold in
cammon, smd which has been hcM in Lhera,
everywhere, always^ and by all, is Catholic
Anything else, any peculiarity which wc
have that Rome and the Easterns have not,
or which Rome has, but the Greeks and we
have not, or which ihe Greeks have, but
Rome and we have not. is merely local, par-
tial, and not Catholic"

This is explicit enough. Take
all that any one of the three holds
in which the other two agree, and you
have the One Holy Catholic Apostolic
Church. Eliminate from all three the
points in which they differ, which are
assumed to be trifling, and take their
points of agreement, and you will have
what the preacher calls "Catholi-
cism," and which he proposes as the
remedy for the evils of Protestantism.
Ertend the rule so as to include all
professedly Christian churches, de-
nominations, or sects which profess-
edly recognize a Christian church
and a Christian ministr^^ and it will
be the view of the Catholic Church
generally taken by Protestants. No
Protestant sect has ever had the au*
dacity to claim to be itself alone the
visible Catholic Church of the Creed ;
and none of the older Protestant
sects deny that there is, in some
•ease, a %Hsible Catholic Church. In
the early Protestant teaching, if not
in the later, there is recognized one
visible Catholic Church, which is what
all professedly Christian communions
agree in holding, or which alike un-
derlies them all In this sense, Pres-
byterians and Congrcgationalists,
Methodists and Baptists, Lutherans
and Calvinists, have always been as
strenuous asserters of the Catholic
Church and of Catholicity as is Dr.
Ewer himself. We see, then, in Dr.
Ewer's " Catholicism," noihing that
need startle a Protestant or especially
gratify a Catholic. In principle, at
least, he asserts a very common Pro-
testant doctrine, and in no sense ne-

cessarily breaks, excepf in ^
the Protestant Kefomiation*

But be this as it may, it is cenaia
that Dr. Ewer admits no catholic
body or organic centre of unity anil
catholicity distinct from the Roman,
the Greek, and the Anglican churcbei^
and independent of them, and re
nizes no catholicity but what
three churches agree in maintaioIl]|;
and possess in common. Neither of
them, he contends, is by itself alome
the Catholic Church ; each is a cath*
olic church, but no one of them is the
Catholic Church herself. W'hcncc,
then, their quality of catholic churchr
es ? Particular or locaJ churches arc
catholic because they hold from, de-
pend on, and commune with a cadio-
lic centre of unity, life, and authority,
which is distinct from and indepen-
dent of themselves. This is not the
case with the three churches named ;
they hold from and depend on no
common organic centre, recognize no
organic source of life independent of
themselves, are subordinated to DO
authority not each one s own, com-
mune with no centre of unity which
each one has not in itself, and not
even with one another. They are each
complete in themselves, and are there-
fore not three inferior churches, sub-
ordinate to one supreme catholic
apostolic church, but, if churches at
all, three distinct, separate, and inde-
pendent churches. If, then, no one
of them is the one holy catliolic apos-
loHc church, no one of them is even
a catholic church, and Dr. Ewer
fails entirely to recognize any Catho-
lic Church at all

The author is deceived in his
assumption that these tliree churches
are particular or local churches, sub-
ordinated to the universal church.
St. Mary*s church, which is my
parish church, is a catholic church,
if the see of Rome is the Catholic
Apostolic See ; for it depends on it.

Protestantism a Failuri.

507

and through the bishop of the diocese
communes with that see, and through
that see with every other particular
catholic church, thus establishing in
the unity and catholicity of the See
of Rome, or, as the fathers said, the
See of Peter, the unity and catho-
licity of all particular or local churches
in communion with it. By coming
into communion with St. Mary's
church, one comes into communion
with the one universal church, is in
the catholic communion, and is
a Catholic ; but nothing of the
sort can be affirmed either of the
Greek Church or of the Anglican.
They acknowledge no subordination
to any other organic body in exist-
ence ; they depend respectively on
no ecclesiastical authority or organic
centre independent of themselves;
they commune neither with each
other nor with the Church of Rome,
which holds them to be both in
schism, and one of them in heresy.
Certain Anglican ministers would
willingly commune with the Greek
Church, but it repels them, and de-
clares that sect to be not even a
church. The three churches named
cannot, then, be particular churches
holding from a common centre of
unity, and Dr. Ewer must take one of
them as the Catholic Church and
exclude the other two, or have no
Catholic Church at all.

The fact that there are certain
points, if you will, essential points,
of agreement between these three
bodies, does by no means make them
one body. Agreeftient is not iden-
tity. Great Britain and the United
States speak the same language ;
adopt the same Commoi\ Law, which
governs their respective courts ; agree
to a great extent in their usages,
manners and customs, and civil in-
stitutions ; and throughout they have
a far closer resemblance to each
other than has the Anglican Church

to either the Greek Church or the
Roman Church ; and yet, are they not
one nation, with one national au-
thority, and having one and*the same
national life. Eliminate from New
York and New Jersey the points in
which they differ, and retain only the
points in which they agree, and would
they be one state under one and the
same state government ? Not at all,
because they are separate organiza-
tions, and, as states, are each inde-
pendent of the other. The Eastern
churches were once in communion
with Rome under the supremacy of
the Apostolic See, and then were one
with the Roman Church ; but having
separated from that see, they are
churches in schism indeed, but de
fcuto independent. There was, down
to the sixteenth century, a Catholic
Church in England in communion
with the Church of Rome or the Apos-
tolic See ; but the so-called Church of
England is not its continuation, and,
in the judgment of both the Roman
Church and the Greek Church, is
not a church at all, for it has no
orders, no priesthood, no sacrifice ;
its so-called bishops and clergymen
are only laymen, but for the most
part educated, refined, and highly re-
spectable laymen, devoted to the ele-
gant pursuits of literature and sci-
ence, the cultivation of private and
public morals, and the interests and
well-being of their families. But
not to insist on this at present, we
may affirm that, even supposing An-
glicans have an episcopate, and that
it resembles the Greek and Roman
episcopates, it is no more identical
with them than the government of
Great Britain is identically that of
Italy, Prussia, or Austria. These three
states are all limited monarchies ;
they, also all have parliamentary
governments, and place the sove-
reignty in the nation, not in a par-
ticular family. But they are not one

ProUsiantism a Failurw^

and the same monarchy, nor one and
ihe same government, for they are
politically separate and indepen-
dent. It will not do to answer tliis by
saying that each of these three epis-
copates hold equally from Jesus
Christ, and are one in him ; for that
would either suppose the church to
be in her unity and cadiolicity in-
visible, and without any visible organ
or manifestation ; or else that Christ
has three churches, or three bodies,
which the author can admit no more
than we, for he professes to hold or
believe one Holy Catholic Apostolic
Visible Church.

In the beginning of the extract
from Dl Ewer's fourth discourse, the
church is declared to be ** an organ-
ism/* An organism, we need not
tell a man like him, is a living body>
not a simple aggregation of parts, or
an organization which, having no
life in itself, depends on the me-
chanical, electric, or chemical ar-
rangement of its several parts. In
every living body or organism, there
is and must be — as the older physiolo-
gists, and even the most recent and
eminent, like M. Virchow, of Berlin,
and M. Claude Bernard, of Paris,
tell us, and by their researches and
discoveries have proved — an original
central cell, from which the whole
organism proceeds, in which its vital
principle inheres, and which is the
type, creator, originator, and director
of all its \Ttal phenomena. The
whole life, evolution, and course of
the organism is originated and deter*
mined by this original central cell —
this germ, or ovule, without which no
organic life or living body is possi-
ble. This primitive cell or germ is
never spontaneously generated, but
is always generated by a living or-
ganism which precedes and deposits
it, according to the old maxim, omue
vivum ex 01^0,^ It is the origin and

: *

Sm a vox learned md fedentUic essay la L* Cw^ Xt.

law of the unity, evoltition, or
of the organism, and is the type
generator of all the innumerable cells
which form the whole celluJarsystenii
of the entire organism, whether no^^
mal or abnormal.

What we insist on here b thtt
there is no organism without tUs
original central cell or germ, tod
that this central cell, whence the
unity of the organism is generated
by a pre-existing organism, that is, b^
ancestors of the same species* and b
neither self-generated nor made op
by any possible mechanical or phy*
sico-chemicaj action or combinatiiui
of parts, as Messrs. Virchow and
Bernard have demonstrated. This
principle or law of all organic life t$
universal, and applies to the chttrcb
as an organism, notwithstanding her
supernatural character, as to any o(
the organisms studied and expert*
niented upon by physiologists in the
natural order. The Creator does
not work after one law in the natural
order, and another and diverse or
contradictory law in the supernatural
order ; and herein we discover the rca*
son of the perfect accord of all the
Creator's works, tlie perfect harmony
of revelation and real science, and
the aid revelation gives to science,
and, in return, the aid that real sci-
ence gives to the interpretation and
clearer understanding of revelation*
God is one, and works always after one
and the same law in all orders, and is \
never in contradiction with himselC ■

The essential error of the non* "
catholic church theory is, that it de*
nies the central cell or germ whence
is evolved or produced the whole
church organism, and assumes that
the church derives her life from her

rtsp^niamt, for October »it\ iS69; Dt P Idtr df Vh

known to our redden by a very able etsay Om tMe
PrKunt Dh^tf e/ Philes^fkf, tr«n»lated and pub-
liahed in thit itiaKuinc for November U>t» llMi1^||i
ihe typtstnade im call hua Dr. CluidCud iaalefld of

Protestantism a Failurf.

509

members, and that she is constituted
in her unity and catholicity as a liv-
ing body by the combination of the
several parts, or that the central cell
is created by the organism, not the
organism by the central or organic
cell, which is as much as to say, mul-
tiplicity can exist without unity to
produce it, or that dead or unliving
parts can generate life and activity 1
No one need be surprised that men
of clear heads and logical minds, try-
ing to remove, on Protestant princi-
ples, the discrepancies between sci-
ence and the Protestant religion,
should rush into materialism and
atheism. The principle the Protes-
tant adopts in his non-catholic
church theory is precisely the prin-
ciple on which Mr. Herbert Spencer
proceeds when he ascribes all the
phenomena of life, or of the living or-
ganism, to the mechanical, electric,
and chemical arrangement of mate-
rial atoms. The same principle ap-
plied in theology leads inevitably to
atheism ; for, multiplicity given as
prior to and independent of unity, no
argument in favor of the divine exist-
ence can have any validity, nay, no
argument to prove that there is a
God can be conceived. Such is the
terrible injury the non-catholic or
Protestant church theory has done
and is doing to both religion and sci-
ence.

Dr. Ewer, no doubt, intends to re-
ject, and honestly believes that he
has rejected, this destructive theory,
which, universally applied, results in
nihilism ; but we fear that he has not.
He includes the one catholic church
in what he calls the three particu-
lar churches — the Roman, the Greek,
and the Anglican. Each of these, he
says, is a catholic church, but no
one of them is the Catholic Church.
Whence, then, do they or can they
derive their character of catholic?
The Catholic Church, according to

him, is an organism. If an organ-
ism, it must have a central cell, an
organite^ or organic centre, originated
not by itself, from which all in the or-
ganism proceeds, or in which, in the
language of St Cyprian, all " takes
its rise," and therefore on which all
the parts depend. This central cell,
which in the church we may call the
central see or chair, and which the fa-
thers, whether Greek or Latin, call the .
Chair of Peter, and since it is the ori-
gin of all the parts, is evidently prior
to them and independent of them.
They do not constitute it, but it pro-
duces, sustains, and governs them.
On no other conditions is it possible
to assert or conceive the unity and
catholicity of the church as an organ-
ism. Particular churches are Cath-
olic by holding from and communing
with this central see or the organic
centre, not otherwise.

But Dr. Ewer acknowledges no
such central cell or central see. His
organism has no organic centre, and
consequently is no organism at all,
but a simple union or confederacy of
equal and independent sees. Rome,
Constantinople, or Canterbury is
no more a central see or organic
centre of the church than any other
see or diocese, as Caesarea, Milan,
Paris, Toledo, Aberdeen, London,
or Armagh, and to be in the unity of
the church there is no particular see,
mother and mistress of all the
churches, with which it is necessary
to commune. The several sees
may agree in their constitution, doc*
trine, liturgy, and discipline, but they
are not integrated in any church
unity or living church organism.
This is the theory of the schismatic
Greeks, and of Anglicans and Pro-
testant Episcopalians, and is simply
the theory of independency, as much
so as that of the New England Con-
grcgationalists, but it admits no
organic unity. It is also the theory

Sio

Protestantism a Failure.

which Dr, Ewer himself appears to
assert and defend. By what author-
ity is he able to pronounce any one
of the three churches named a cath-
olic church, since no one of them
holds from a catholic centre, or a
central unity, for he recognizes no
such centre or unity ? The only uni-
ty of the church he can admit is that
formed by the combination of the
several parts, a unity formed from
multiphcity* He holds that we need
a great catholic reformation, a com-
bination of the Roman, the Greek,
and the Anglican churches, which
shall ** evolve unity from multiplexi-
ty/* Here, it seems to us, is an un-
mistakable recognition, as the basis
of his catholicity, of the non-catho-
lic church theory, and a virtual de-
nial of the unity and catholicity of
the church; for from multiplicity can
be evolved only totality, which, so
far from being unity, excludes it al-
together.

Recognizing no central see, centre
and source of the unity and calholi-
city of the church, how can Dr. Ewer
determine what churches are in
schism orw^hat are in union, what are
catholic and what are not? What
criterion of unity and catholicity has
he or can he have ? He says the Ro-
man, the Greek, and the Anglican are
catholic, and he confines the Catho-
lic Church to them. But how can he
call them catholic, since they have
no common organic centre^and have
no intercommunion ? We can find in
his discourses no answer to this ques-
tion but the fact that they have cer-
tain things in common. Why confine
the Catholic Church, then, to these
three alone ? Why exchjde Methodists,
Presbyterians, Lutherans, and the
Swiss, the Dutch, and the German Re-
formed communions ? All these have
something in common with the Ro-
man, Greek, and Anglican commu-
nions, and even profess with them to

%^t^

believe the 'Apostles* and
creeds. The Methodists hav

ops» priests or elders, and de __^
as the Anglicans, and adopt the sa
articles of faith. The churches nar
have presbyters, and so have Pre;
terians, the continental Refom
and the Lutheran churches
the Lutheran churches evet
bishops. There is something
mon between these and the chmc
the author claims to be catho
Why, then, does he exclude them h
the list of communions of wfaich
Catholic Church is composed ?
why, indeed, exclude any one who p
fesses to hold the Christian chui
and the Apostles* and Nicene cree<
And why not reject as non-caAc
everj^thing which all these do l
agree in holding ? Does he not s
that cat hoik means all, not a pa
and why exclude from the ail any w
acknowledge Christ as their Lord a
Master, and profess to be memberi
his church ? The author has no Cffi
rion in the case but liis own pHvi
judgment, prejudice, or caprice, 1
has no other rule, having rejected t
apostolic or central see,^ for int'
preting the (^uod scfttper^ quod uhif[
ef ah omnibus creditur of St. Vlnoc
of Lerins. The all with us means \
those, and those only, who are, lu
always have been, in communion vi
the central or Apostolic See, and ob
dient to its supreme authority ; h
Dr, Ewer, who admits no such h
has^ and can have, no authority i
not including in the ali^ the amniH
all who profess to follow Christ or
hold and practise the Christian re
gion. His catholicity is, then, tJ
creature of his own private judgmec
prejudice, or caprice ; and his cathol
church is founded on himself, and
his own arbitrary constructioo <
creation. This is not the rejecdc
of Protestantism, but is rather ProtG
lantism gone to seed.

Prci€SiafUis$H a Failure,

SIX

Throughout the whole of Dr. Ewer's
ffeasoning, except where he is simply
Ifollowingj Catholics in pronouncing
fand proving Protestantism a blunder
nd a failure, and answerable for the
ationalism and unbelief in revealed
eligion now so prevalent among sci-
entific, intelligent, clear-headed, and
honest-minded men, there is the im-
plied assumption that catholicity pre-
cedes the church, and that we are to
determine not what is catholic by the
church, but the Catholic Church by
what we have, without her, deter*
mined to be catholic. " This is not a
Catholic but a Protestant method.
We must first find the One Catholic
Apostolic Church, and from her learn

I what is catholic, and who are catho-
lics and who are not. This is the
only scientific rule, if we acknowledge
% Catholic Church at all
If the Roman, Greek, and Angli-
can churches are no one of them the
^Catholic Church, they can be catho-
c, that is, be in the catholic organ-
Bra, only by communing with the
rganic centre from which the life, ac-
livity, and authority of the organism
proceeds, in which is the source and
entre of tlie unity and catholicity
the church. But all particular
iiurches in communion with the or-
anic centre, and obtaining their life
from It, exist in solida^ and commune
1th one another. The three church-
> named do not commune with one
nother ; they are, as wc have seen,
rce distinct, separate, and indepen-
^bodies, and foreigners to one
her. Then only one of them, if
ly one of them, can be a catholic
lurch. The other two must be ex-
Juded as non-catholic. What the
iithor has to determine first of all,
ince he restricts the Catholic Church
the three, is, in which of these
iree is the original, organic, or ccn-
al cell, or central see, whence all
tie others proceed, or from which

they take their rise. But instead of

doing this, he denies that any one of
the three is the Catholic Church, and
contends that it is all three in what
tliey hold in common or agree in
maintaining. The meaning of this is,
that no one of them contains the or-
ganic cell, that there is no central
organic see, as we hold the See of
Peter to be, and therefore no church
organism one and catholic. But this
is to deny the Catholic Church, not
to assert it In attempting to include
in the One Catholic Apostolic Church
non-catholic and foreign elements,
Dr. Ewer, therefore, manifestly loses
the Catholic Church itself.

Dr. Ewer, notwithstanding his vi-
gorous onslaught upon Protestantism,
remains still under the influence of
his Protestant training, and has not
as yet attained to any real conception
either of unity or of catholicity.
Unity is indivisible ; catholicity is il-
limitable, or all that is contained in
the unity ; and botli are independent
of space and time* The unity of the
church is her original and central or-
ganic principle, or principle of life ;
the catholicity of the church is inse-
parable from her unity, and consists
in the completeness of this organic
principle, and in its being always and
everywhere the complete and only
principle of church life. The unity
of the faith is in the fact that it, like
the church, has its central principle
out of which aH in it grows or germi-
nates, and on which all in it depends ;
the catholicity of the faith is in the
fact that this faith is complete, the
whole faith, and is always and every-
where believed and taught by the One
Catholic Church, is always and every-
where one and tlie same faith, always
and everywhere the truth of God.
The catholicity of the church de-
pends in no sense on diffusion in
space or the number of her members.
The church is catholic, not because

5»3

Protestantism a Failure.

she IS universally diffused in space,
but because she is the one only
church, and includes in her organism
all that is essential to the church as
the church, or the mystic body of
Christ, to the entire churchi life for
all men and for all times. Catholic
means ally rather than universal, or
universal only because it means all ;
and hence the church was as truly
catholic on the day of Pentecost as
she is now, or would be were all na-
tions and all men included in her
communion, as the human race, in
the order of generation, was as com-
plete and entire when there was no
individual but Adam, as it will be
when the last child is bom. Time
has no effect on either the unity or
catholicity of the church ; for she is
always living in her unity and catho-
licity, an ever-present church, in her-
self the same yesterday, and to-day,
and for ever. She is in time and
space, but not of them, nor, in her
internal organism, affected by the ac-
cidents of either. The primitive
church, the mediaeval church, and
the church of to-day are identically
the same, and the distinctions these
terms imply are distinctions only in
things externally related to her, not
in herself Such must be the church
if one and catholic, holy and apos-
tolic.

The central life of the churchy the
source of all the vital it}% force, and
authority of the organism, of which —
to use the figure we have already so
many times used^the central cell is
the organ, and which gives it all its
generative force and governing pow*
er, is Jesus Christ himself, who is the
forma of the church, as the soul is
^^ forma of the body, or its organic

Jnciple ; for the church is the i>ody
of Christ, and is nothing without him,
and if separated from him would in-
stantly die, as does the body when
separated from the soul. But we are

treating of the church, in which lite
unity of Christ is made manifest iaj
her visible unity, and tliercfore 43(
the visible, not of the in
church. That the inv^isible
might be manifested, Sl Cy^nan
argues, in his I>e Unitaie Ecdaim^
Christ established a central chatr,
the Chair of Peter, whence all might
be seen to take its rise from ooe.
This chair, the visible centre of oai-
ty, is to the church organism, as ire
have seen, what the central or organ-
ic cell is to every organism •or living
body in the natural order ; but Jesus
Christ, whom it manifests or repre-
sents in the visible order, is the liv-
ing force and generative power of
the central chair, as the soul is of the
organic cell of the human organism.
So much we must a^rm of the CAris-
tian church, if we call it, as Dr.
Ewer does, ** an organism."

This organic central cell generates
or produces not many organisms, bat
one only. So the Chair of Peter, the
central cell of the church organism,
can generate only one organism*
Christ has one body and no more.
That only can be the Catiiolic Church
in wliich is, as its centre, the Chair
of Peter, or, as we have before said,
the organic central see, which may
justly be called the Holy See, the
Apostolic See, ** the mother and mis-
tress of all the churches," as in Uie
living body the original central orgaii*
ic cell is the mother and mistress of
all the secondary or inferior celU
generated in the evolution of the or-
ganism. Here, again, theology and
physiology coincide in principle.

We may now ask, Does the Greek
schismatic church, as we call it, coa-
tain this central organic see ? Cer-
tainly not ; for she admits no such
see, or, if she does, she confesses that
she contains it not, and the Roman
Church does. The Greek schismatic,
as we call himi recognizes no churda

Protestantism a Failure,

unity in the sense we have explained.
He recognizes only diocesan, metro-
politan, or patriarchal unity. Does
the Greek Church, then, commune
with this central see ? No. For it
communes with no see or church
outside of itself. How is it with the
Anglican Church ? It does not any
more than the Greek Church claim
to possess it. It does not pretend
to find it in the see of Canterbury,
York, Dublin, or Armagh, and in-
deed denies both the necessity and
existence of such see. She denoun-
ces the Roman see because she
claims to be it ; and Dr. Ewer tells
us, in his reply to Mr. Adams, that
the Protestant Reformation rendered
noble service to the Anglican Church
by del hiring it from papal tyranny
and oppression. Well, then, does
the Anglican Church commune with
the central or organic see, or Chair
of Peter ? No. For she communes
with no see beyond herself. Then

I she is not the, or even a, catholic
church. There remains, then, only
the Roman Church, which is and
must be the One Holy Catholic Apos-
tolic Church, if such church there is ;
for it can be no other. The reve-
rend doctor's attempt, then, to find a
catholic church which is not the
Koman Church, or a catholicity
which is ** broader and deeper" than
what he, as well as other Protestants,
calls "Romanism,*' seems, like Pro-
testantism itself, to have failed.

Dr. Ewer would evade the force of
his conclusion, which the common
nse of mankind unhesitatingly ac-
lepts, by resorting to what is known
the branch theory." The Ro-
an, the Greek, and the Anglican
ihurches are not one or another of
lem exclusively the Catholic Church,
ut they are catholic churches, be-
use branches of the One Catholic
ihurch. But branches suppose a
trunk. Where there is no trunk
VOL. vin. — 33

there are and can be no branches j
for the trunk produces.tiMJaranches,
not the branches the lrurt^#^yHere,
then, is the trunk o^T which Vat ^ee
churches named ar^ toaj(j|jbes,.es^©^^
cially since the authojpj^^yi'we *re^ \
not to look beyoncTym^ for- dife v^
Catholic Church? We lA tlm'^'K*»: /'
swer in his own words : •

" Permit me to close this part of m^Hll- \^^
course by an illustratiun of the CattioUc
Church. Wc will take, for the sake of sim-
plicity, a tree. For eight feet above the soil
its trunk stands one and entire. Somewhere
along the ninth foot the trunk branches into
two main limits. We wilj call the eaalern
the Greek limb, and the western we will
call the Latin, Six feet further out on the
I^tin limbg that is to say» fifteen feet from
tlie ground, that western limb subdivides
into two vast branches. The outmost of the
two we will call the Anglican branch, the
other wc will call the Roman. These two
branches and the Greek limb run up to a
height of nineteen and a half feet from the
ground. There they are» the tliree great
boughs, each with its foliage, Anglican at
the west, Koman in the centre, Greek at
the east. If now you shield your vision
from all but the top of the tree» there will
ap]}ear to you to be three disconnected tufts
of vegetation ; but lo \ the foliage and the
flowers are the same. But remove now the
shield from before your eyes, and behold in
the whole tree a symbol of the C atholic
Church — one organism from root to sum-
mit."

This assumes that the trunk is
the primitive undivided church, or
tJie church prior to die separation
of the Eastern churches from the
jurisdiction of the Roman see. But
does that undivided church, the
tmnk church, still exist in its integ
rity ? No. For if it did, there would be
no difficulty. It ceased lo exist in the
ninth century, and now there is no un-
divided church. Then that has fallen
into the past. Then there is no pre*
sent living tnmk, but branches only.
Branches of a trunk that has ceased
to live can be only dead branches*
The alleged branches communicate

$'4

ProtataHlism a FaiimnL

with no Iiirtng root, and have no in-
teroofnantiiiOEi ; they therefore are not
amlcaisool be one Imng organtsoi.
The «athor him^lf half concedes it,
fm he coittmoes :

•• A drardi ehst f» one like the Irmik of
itft tiee im the lirat nine cealanes^Hhat
Imidio then inla Eutem mm! Western ;
Itie Wd^trrn ■ubdrvidiztg at the fifteenth
« > Ant^Hcan and Komaiu As a

j^ ity of the organi»m b not broken ;

k&tbtwcmmmmon between iu three parts U
limply miipeTided for a time — suspended nil'
til that differentfaition Ahall take place in
C^Vm tmt chtirch whrdi, as Herbert Spen«
ar no admirably thowv i* the law of all
growth ; a difTcrentialion which means, in
iti last iasue, not a camptete sunderinjef, bat
the eventual unity of muliiplexityt the har-
n 'i,iitc paru. I>id it not mia

I ntewhat, I wcnild go on and

' rur^^traiion by supposing son*

' N of thi* tree to be cut off from

Xki,.-. ,,),ic and ini^ert«:d into vanes of wa-
ter standing round aliout the great tree. Be-
ing without root, those cut lungest ago arc
all dead ; while only the moat recently cut
are green with a deceptive Ufc, thprnsclvea
•oon to wither and die. These cut branch-
€B» standing tntnkless and rootles abtrat th€
living tree, would be apt symbols of the
Protestant sects.

♦* We have found, then, what the Catholic
Church is,"

There can be no suspension of
intercommunion of the branches so
long as their communion with the
root, or organic cell, through the
trunk, h not suspended ; for through
communion with that they intercom-
mutic. But any interruption of that
communion is not only the BUJipen-
Bion, but the extinction of intercom-
niunion, The restoration of inter
cotnininiinn tmrc extinrt ranuf^l be
iiffccicd t-'xtrpt by a living rruninn
of each with the root or otganii- rrll
of the organism. l'iob,ibly, then, the
author has been loo h,iiity In rx-
_c1iiiming, " We have found whrtt the
' ;atho!it' Church U.'* He secmn to
[us to have found nelUier unity nor
■catholicity*

I )r. I :wer seemii to forget that the
church never has been and neve?

can be diridcfL Has aoc te VmmM
sud that ihe is oncv and doea he
need to be CoU that one is iiMfif»
ble^ or that its division woofd be 'm
death I The tree wish ff! HTnwi
branches whkfa be addkxres in iBib^
tnUionB,iiodoqbt,almog o i ^4uiiH ;
but it can iUitstrate only the noiqp
and catholicity of the cenml and
ruHnf^ see, and the p^rticslar
churches holding from it. fikmdl
churches are admissible only as ptr-
ticular churches produced by and de-
pendent on the or^nic centret or
apostolic see, mother and mistiess
of all the churches of the
But we have already shown that
Roman, the Greek, and the Angl
churches are not particular chuj
for they are Independent bodies, sub-
ordinate to or dependent on no organic
centre which each has not in Jtielf
As the Catholic Church is one, not
three, and as we have shown that it
is neither the separated Greek
Church nor the Anglican, it must
be the Roman See and its depend-
ent churches, in which is the primi-
tive, original, productive, and crea-
tive life of the church, since, as we
have seen, it can be no other. We
have refuted the " branch theory** it?
refuting the author's assumption that
the Roman, the Greek, and the Angli-
can churches hold from and are sub*
ordinate to the one universal church,
which, as independent of thein, ha$
no existence.

Phe f^iilurc of the author to find
ihe Catholic Church is due to the
iM\ that, from first to last, though he
calls the chtirch one, he really recog-
nise?* no church unit)% since he re-
txjgnircs no visible centre of unity
whrnrc emanates all her life, acti\nt>\
and authority. Till the ninth century
the Kasl and West were united, and
the church was one ; but it had no cen-
tre of unity at Rome any more than
at Antioch, at Alexandria, or Con-

Protestantism a Failure,

stantinople, in the successor of St
Peter in the See of Rome any more
than In any other patriarch or bishop.
Hence no church could be convicted
of schism^, unless its bishop refused
to commune with another, or another
I refused to commune with him ; but
^ which was the schismatic was inde-
terminable, unless the whole church
should come together in General
Council and settle the question by
vote. This is the author's theory of
unit)\ a unity which has no visible
centre. It is the common Anglican
theory, and appears to some extent
to be that of the schismatical Greeks.
But this theory makes the unity of
the church a mere collectiv^e fede-
rative unity, or an aggregation of
fparts, which is simply no unity at all,
and at best only a union. The unity
of the church implies that all in the
church proceeds from unity, and is
generated, upheld, and controlled by
it. The unity is the origin of the
whole organism, and what does not
proceed from it or grow out of it is
abnonnal — a tumor, or an excrescence
to be exscinded. Hence the impos-
sibility of arriving at the unity of
the church by aggregating the parts
, which have lost it or have it not. Jt
i impossible to assert the unity of the
fehurch without asserting a central
ee, and its bishop as its visible ma-
nifestation. There is, we repeat, no
Organism without the central cell,
^nd no visible organism without a vi-
sible centre of unit}\ The author

3ald do well to study anew the
reatise De Unitate Ecdesia^ of St.
Jyprian, to which we have already
^ferred.

There is and can be no visible uni-

' of the church without a central see,

lie centre and origin of unity, life,

lud authority ; and when you have

bund that see, you have' found the

Catholic Church, but not till then.

Every see, or particular or local

church in communion with that see ;
and dependent on it, is in the unity
of the church and catholic ; and
every one not in communion with it
is out of unity and not catholic, nor
any part of the Catholic body. Ad-
mitting that there is the Catholic
Church, the only question to be set-
tled is, Which is that See? Reduced
to this point, the controversy is vir-
tually ended. There is and never
has been but one claimant. Rome
has always claimed it, and nobody in
the world has ever pretended or pre-
tends that it is any other. Constantino-
ple and Canterbury have disputed the
supremacy over the whole church of
its pontiff; but neitherclaims nor ever
has claimed to be itself the central
organic see, the visible centre of the
church organism, and organ of its
life and authority.

With no recognized central and
mling see with which all, in order to
be in unity, must commune, and with
only particular, or rather independent
and isolated, churches in existence,
without any intercommunion one
with another, and all of which,
as separate and independent church-
es, have failed, how can those sev-
eral branches, which are only trunk-
less, be restored, ''unity evolved
from multiplexity," and intercommu-
nion re-e5tablished? If there is an
organic see, the centre of unity, mo-
ther and mistress of all the churches,
particular churches that have failed
can easily be restored if they wish.
They have only to abjure their schism
or heresy, be reconciled with that see,
submit to its authority, and receive
its teaching. They are thus reincor-
porated by the mercy of God into
the church organism, and participate
in its unity and the life that flows
from it. But on the author's church
theory, we can see no possible way
in which the separate bodies can
be restored to the unity of the

5i6

Protestantism a Failure,

church. Unity cannot be constructed
or reconstructed from multiplicity ; for
there can be no multiplicity where
there is no unity. Multiplicity de-
pends on unity, which creates or gen-
erates and sustains it. Suppose we
grant for the moment the Catholic
Church is no one of the three church-
es, yet is not separable from or in-
dependent of them, and, in fact, un-
derlies ihem, but inorganic, or hav-
ing only these for its organs. How
shall they be brought into organic
unity? By a General Council? Where
is the authority to convoke it, to de-
lennine who may or who may not sit
in it, and to confirm its acts ? You say,
Summon all the bishops of the Roman,
the Greek, and the Anglican bodies.
But who has authority to summon them,
and why summon these and no others ?
Who shall say ? It is the same question
we have had up before. Why extend
or why confine the Catholic Church
to the three churches named? W^here
there is no recognized centre of au-
thority, that is to say, no recognized
authority, there is authority lo ad-
mil or lo exclude. It is necessary
that authority define which is the
Catholic Church, before you can say
what organizations it includes or ex-
clutics, or what prelates or ministers
have the right to be summoned as
Catholic prelates or ministers, and
what not/

A nation disorganized, as the au-
thor assumes the church now is,
though he trusts only temporarily,
can reorganize itself; for the political
sovereignty resides always in the na-
tion » or, as we say, in modern limes,
in the people. The people, as U»c na-
tion, possess, under God, or rather
from him, the sovereign power to go-
vern themselves, which they can nei-
ther alienate nor be deprived of so long
as they exist as an independent nation
f>r sovereign political community.
When the old government which, as

legal, held from tbem, is bnoketi if)

or dissolved, they have the inherit
right to come together in jsuch wii
as ihey choose or can, and recoidi}-
tute government or power m sudi
manner and vest ft in such hands as
they judge best. But tlv 'iis^

organized cannot reorg -elf;

for the organic power does not vestb
the church as the faithful or the Chfb'
tian people. Authority in the churdi
is not created, constituted, or delega-
ted by the Christian people, nor doc*
it in any sense hold from them.
Church power or autliority comes im-
mediately from God to the central
see, and from that see radiales
through the whole body ; for the au-
thor agrees with us that Uie chttrd
is an organism. Hence we recogniiK
the Council of Constance as a Geneisl
Council only after it was convoked
by Gregor)' XII., who was, tn onr
judgment, the tnie Bishop of the ApoA*
tolic See, and hold legal only the acK
confirmed by Martin V. The diao^
ganization of the church is, then, its
dissolution or death. It has no power
to raise itself from the dead. If
the central sec could really fail, the
whole organism would fail.' The
cljurch is indefectible through the in-
defectibih'ty of the Holy See, and (hat
is indefectible because it is Peter's
See, and our Lord promised Peters hat,
however Satan might try him, his
faith should not fail : ** Satan has de-
sired to sift thee as wheat ; but I have
prayed the Father that thy faith fail
not." The prayer of Christ cannot
be unanswered^ and is a promise* The
attacks on the Holy See have been
violent and continual, but they have
never been successful. Our Lord^s
prayer luis been effective, and Peter *s
faiUi has never failed, No doubt
there is the full authority to teach and
to govern in the church ; but tl)is au-
thority is not derived from the faith-
ful nor distributed equally among

Protestantism a Failure.

517

them, but resides primarily and in its
plenit\ide in the Holy See, and there-
fore in the bishop of that see, or the
pope, Peter^s successor, in whom Pe-
ter lives and continues to teach and
govern the whole church. All Ca-
olic bishops depend on him, and
iceive from him their jurisdic-
tion, and by "Authority from God
through him govern their respective
dioceses. The church is papal in its
essential constitution, not simply epis-
copal ; for we have seen that it is an
organism, and can be an organism
nly as proceeding from an organic
ntre, or central see, on which its
Unity and catholicity depend. The
Apostolic See cannot be separated
from the Sedats ; for without him
^it is empt}', incapable of thinking,
^■peaking, or acting. It is, then, it
^Keems to us, as utterly impossible to
^l^ssert the church as really one and
i^catholic, without asserting the pope,
or supreme pastor^ as it would be to
assert an organism without asserting
a central organic cell. The failure
f the pope would be the failure of
e whole church organism, with no
wer of reorganization or recon-
ction left— an important point in
hich the church and the nation dif-
fer. The overlooking of this point of
dilTerence is the reason why our ca*
tholicizing Anglicans suppose that the
^Khurch, though disorganized, is able
^Bo reorganize herself I'he reorgan*
^■sed church, if effected, wniild be a hu-
^Htian organization, not a divine organ-
ism as created by our Lord himself.
But the church, as we have seen,
has never been disorganized, and
uld not be without ceasing to exist,
lid cease to exist it cannot, if calh-
ic. The organic centre from which
le whole organism is evolved and
iirected has remained at Rome ever
ince Peter transfeired thither his
air from .^ntioch, and the particu-
r churches holding from it and con-

tinuing subject to it are integral ele-
ments of the catholic organism,
which is as perfect, as complete, and
as entire as it was when the Oriental
churches acknowledged and submit-
ted to the supremacy of the successor
of Peter, or when the church in Eng-
land was in full communion with the
Apostolic See of Rome. The sep-
aration of these from the Roman
communion, though it destroyed their
unity and catholicity, did not break
the unity and catholicity of the or-
ganism ; it only placed them outside
of that organism, and cut them off
from the central see, the source of
all organic church Xii^. The revolt
of the Anglo-American Colonies from
Great Britain, in 1776, and the Decla-
ration of their Independence of the
mother- country, did not break her
unity or authority as a nation, and
indeed did not even deprive her of
any of her rights over them, though
it enfeebled her power 4o govern
them, till she herself acknowledged
them to be independent states.

The author seems to suppose that
the Greeks and Anglicans, in separa-
ting from Rome, broke the unity o(
the church, and carried away with
them each a portion of her catholici-
ty» so that theren ow can be no One
Catholic Church existing in organic
unity and catholicity, save in remi-
niscence and in potent illy unless these
two bodies are reunited with Rome
in one and the same communion.
But the Greeks and Anglicans had
both for centuries recognized the au-
thority of the Apostolic See, as the
centre of unity and source of juris-
diction. When the Greeks separa-
ted from that see and refused to obey
it, they took from it neither its or-
ganic unity nor its catholicity ; they
only cut themselves oflf and deprived
themselves of both. The same may
be said of Anglicans in separating
from Rome and declaring themselves

Si8

Protestantism a Failure,

independent They deprived them-
selves of unity and catholicity, but
left the original church organism in
all its integrity, and only placed
themselves outside of it The sepa-
ration in both cases deprived the
church of a portion of her population,
and diminished her external power
and grandeur, but took away none of
her rights and prerogatives^ and in
no respect impaired, as we have al-
ready said, the unity or catholicity
of her internal organism. All that
can be said is that the separated
Oriental churches and Anglicans,
not the church, have lost unity and
! cathol]cit)% and have ceased to be
Catholics, even when agreeing with
the church in her dogmas and her
external rites and ceremonies.

There is, then, on the side of the
church, no broken unity to be hL*aled,
or lost catholicity to be restored.
If the Oriental churches wish to re-
gain unity and catholicity, all they
have to do is to submit to the juris-
diction of the Apostolic See, and re-
new their communion with the moth-
er and mistress of all the churches.
Not having lost their church organi-
2ation, and having retained valid or-
ders or the priesthood and the au-
gust sacrifice, Ihey can return in their
corporate capacity. There is in their
case only a schism to be healed. The
Anglicans and Episcopalians stand on
a different footing; for they have not
even so much as a schismatic church,
since the Episcopalians hold from the
Anglicans, and the Anglicans from
Uie state. They have no orders, no
priesthood, no sacrifice, no sacra-
ments^ — except baptism, and even
pagans can administer that — no
church character at all, if we look at
the facts in the case, and therefore, like
all Protestants, can be admitted to
the unity of the church only on indi-
vidual profession and submission,
There is much for those out of unity

to do to recover it and to dSxt Ik
union in the Catholic commtmion of
all who profess to be Christians, te
nothing to render the church herself
one and catholic. Her unity and
catholicity are already establishcil
and unalterable, and so are the terms
of communion and the conditions of
church Ufe. No graifd combinatKXi,
then, is needed to restore a divided
and disorganized church.

But if die church were disorgan*
ized and a restoration needed, no
possible combination of the se
disorganized parts would or
effect it. The disorganization cmS
not take place without the loss
the whole organism of the orgaaic|
centre, and that, once lost, can be re-
covered only by an original creatioo,
by our Lord, of a new church organ-
ism, which, even if it were done^
would not restore us the CatiktSi
Church ; for it would not be achuidl
existing uninterruptedly from the be-
ginning, and there would be a time
since the Incarnation when it did
not subsist^ and when there was no
church. The author assumes tbal_
unity may be evolved from " oiulli
pk'xity," which is Protestant, &c
Catholic philosophy ; without unit]
there can be, as we have said,
multiplicity, as without the univer
there can be no particulars, Th
universal precedes the particub
and generates them, and when it {^
they go with it. Unity precede
multiplicity, and produces* su
tains, and directs it. This is implic
in every argument used, or that can'
be used, by philosophers and theo-
logians, to prove the existence of GoA
and his providence. Atheism
suits from the assumption U^at mul
liplicity may exist by itself, independ
ently of unity; pantheism, from th€
assumption that unity is a dead, ah
stract unity, like that of the old EleatJ
ics, not a concrete, living, and efTec

Protestantism a Failure.

S19

I
I

tive unity, and the denial that unity
creates multiph'city. Physiology is re-
futing both by its discoveries, con-
finning what has always been affirm-
ed in principle by traditional sci-
ence, the fact that there is no organ-
ism or living body, in either the ani-
mal or vegetable world, without the
original central cell, bom of ances-
tors, which creates or generates and
directs all the vital phenomena, nor-
mal or abnormal, of the organism,
as has already been stated, thus plac-
ing science and the teaching of the
church in harmony.

Dr. Ewer probably does not in
his own mind absolutely deny the
present unity on which depends the
catholicity of the church ; but he sup-
poses it is in some way involved in
multiplicity, so that it needs not to
be created, but to be evoked from the
exbting "multiplexity*' which now ob-
scures it and prevents its effective-
ness. But this we have shown is not
and cannot be the case, because the
unity not only produces, but directs
or giwerns the manifold phenomena
of the church, and must therefore be
always distinct from and independ-
ent of them. Also, because so long
as unity and catholicity remain, no
disorganization or confusion requir-
ing their evolution can take place,
except in the parts exuded or thrown
oflT by the organism, severed or ex-
scinded from it, that is, only in what
is outside of the One Catholic Church,
and forming no part of the catholic
body. That schismatics and here-
tics lack unity and catholicity, is, of
course, true ; but they cannot obtain
either by an evolution from such
organization as they may have
retained when the separation took
place, or may have subsequently
formed for themselves, but must do
it, if at all, by a return to the organic
centre, where both are and have
never ceased to be, on the terms

and conditions the Holy See pre-
scribes.

Dr, Ewer maintains that the Cath-
olic Church is restricted to the Ro-
man, Greek, and Anglican Churches^
and consists in what these have in
common or agree in holding. These,
he maintains* have all failed, have
taught and still teach grievous errors,
set up false claims, and one or more
of them at least have fallen into su-
perstitious practices ; yet he contends
that the universal church has not
failed. But as the universal church
has no organic existence indepen-
dent of these, has no organs of
speech or action, no personality but in
them, how, if he is right in his theory,
can he maintain that the whole
church has not failed ? If he held
that the unity and catholicity of the
church were in the central or organ-
ic see, he might hold that particular
churches have failed, and that the
One Catholic Church has not failed.
Then he could assert, as we do,
that the organism remains, acts,
teaches, and governs through its
own infallible organs, in its own in-
dividuality, or the supreme pontiff
who is its personality or person.
But on his theory, the failure of each
of the three parts which comprise the
whole church, it seems to us, must
carry with it the failure of the whole.

Dr. Ewer's difficulty w^ould seem
to grow out of his wish to be a Catho-
lic and remain in the Anglican or
Episcopalian communion in which
he is a minister, or to return from
Protestantism to Catholicity without
any change of position. This would
be possible, if holding, on private
judgment. Catholic dogmas, and
obser\^ing, on no authority, Catho-
lic forms of worship, constituted one
a member of the Catholic Church.
But he should understand that what
he wishes is impracticable, and that
all his efforts are labor losL So

520

Protestantism a Failure,

long as a man is in a communion
separated from the present actual
living unity of the churchy he can be-
come a Cathohc only by leaving it»
or by its coqiorate return to the
Holy See and submission to tlie su-
preme pontiff.

A corporate return is practicable
in the case of the Eastern churches ;
but even in them the individual who
is personally aware of the schismatic
character of bis church should aban*
don it for unity at once without wait-
ing for its corporate return ; but in the
case of Anglicans and Episcopa-
lians, as in the case of all Protestant
communions^ the return must be in-
dividual and personal.

We are surprised at Dr. Evver*s
statement that the Greek Church
has no cultus of St. Mary ever-Vir-
gin, as we are that many Anglicans,
like Dr. Pusey, who object to the
Roman Church on account of that
cultus, should seek communion with
ihe schismatic Greeks, with w*hom
that cultus is pushed to an ex-
treme t\T beyond anything in the
Latin Church. The truth is^ that
all that olTends Protestants in the
Church of Rome, except the pa-
pacy, exists in even a more offen-
sive form in the Greek schismatic
Church. The schismatic Greek
bishops exercise over their flocks a
tyranny which is impracticable in the
Roman Church, where the papal au-
thority restricts that of bishops and
tempers their administration of their
dioceses.

But it is time to bring our remarks
to a close. We are unable to recog-
nize the Catholicity we profess in
that proposed by 0r. Ewer. The
one holy catholic apostolic church
he sets forth does not appear to us
to be the church of the fathers, nor
the one of which we are an affection-
ate if an unworthy son. In our
judgment, Dr. Ewer is still in the

Protestant family, and following pri-
vate judgment as his rule, tboogfl
denouncing it. He has not grssped
the central, or, as Dr. Channing S
would say, the ** seminal " prtncsple "
of the Catholic Church. Yet he
seems to he well dispiosed, and to be
seeking it, and has made large strides
toward it. We think his discourses

are not only brilliant, bold, and

energetic, but fitted to have ^eat in-
fluence in turning the public mind
toward the Catholic Church. We
have given our reasons why we do
not admit that he has as yet found
that church ; but still we think his
discourses will help many to find it,
though he himself may not find it*
He has, as yet, strong prejudices
against the Church of Rome, and is
undeniably an li-papaK But still there
can be no doubt that he would like
to feel himself a Catholic, and ha\*e
done once for all with Protestantism,
Dr. Ewer stands not alone. There
are large numbers in his communion,
and other Protestant communions»
who think and feel as he does, who,
from the top of Mount Pisgah, have ob-
tained — if not the clear vision Moses
had — at least some glimpses, more or
less confused, of the promised laud,
and are attracted and charmed by what
they sec of it. We have a feeling of
respectful tenderness toward these
men, and of great symp:ithy with
their trials and struggles. While we
must tell them the truth in firm and
manly tones, treat them as men, not
as children, we would, on no account,
say or do anything to wound their
susceptibilities, or to create an im-
pression that we do not take a deep
and lively interest in their efforts to
arrive at Catholicity, The spirit is
working in tlicm to bring thera to
light and life. They are not against
us, and to some extent are with us.
We would* for their sakcs, ihey were
wholly with us, and we never cease

I
I
I

The Evening Primn>se. 521

to pray God that they may find the can have for them only words of en-
haven of security and rest it has couragement and hope. In what we
pleased him that we should find for have said we have had only the de-
ourselves. We once were one of sire to assist them to find and un-
their number, thought and felt with derstand the One Holy Catholic
them, struggled with them, and we Apostolic Church.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE.

Of twilight and fresh dews,
Most odorous flower, thou art the child ;
Adorning evening's pensive hues

With splendors mild.

A vesper acolyte,

Born, but for this one night,
To swing thy golden censer of perfume.
While stars the tranquil firmament illume,

For heaven's delight

Thy term of service, fleet,

Creative wish doth meet ;
A swift existence ; but which this rare grace
Of ceaseless worship, filling life's brief space.

Crowns as complete.

Thy blissful vigil keep.

Rapt flower, while others sleep :
Adoring angels claim thee from above
A dear companion in their task of love ;

And I would fain present.

With worshipful intent.
Thy dewy blossoms on my evening shrine ;
A contrite homage ; sighing to repair,
Wiih the accepted incense of thy prayer.

For sloth like mine.

522

HerefHore-Brandrnt,

HEREMORE-BRANDON ; OR, THE FORTUNES OF A

NEWSBOY.

** BoWl^Bit it be, it »ecma to me
*T» ody noble to be good ;
Kiad heam ar« more than coroncti^
And lirople ^th than Normfta blood, '*

CHAPTER L

Four little boys : two of them had
soft fair hair, and were dressed in the
finest cloth ; the other two had very
bushy heads, and were dressed in
whatever they could get. It was
early Christmas morning, and the
two rich boys were sitting by the
window of a handsome bro}vn-stone
house, and they had each a slocking
plump full of dainties ; the two
poor boys were calling the morning
papers on the slone-cold sidewalk,
and if they had any stockings at ail,
you may be very sure they were
plump full of holes.

"An't he funny," remarked the

^smaller of the two in the house,
looking at the larger of the two in
the street ; ** an*t he too funny !*'
And between laughing and eating,
little Fred came near choking him-
self "See his old coat, Josie, it
trails like Aunt Ellie's blue dress 1
And such a queer old hat ; don*t it
make )'ou laugh, Josie ?''

" I have seen so many of 'em/' ex-
plained Josie.

"What are you laughing at, Fred,"
asked their sister Mar}% coming up
to them,

" Those newsboys," he answered,
and imitated their "Times, *Erald,
Tribune ! Here's the *Erald, Times,

^ Tribune I* ' so perfectly that their

ifather thought it was a real news-
oy calling, and cried out to them

■from another room to ** hurry up and
bring a Herald,*' at which command
the children rushed eagerly into the

hall, and tugged with their united
strengtli to open the doors, eac
anxious to be the first to speak tol
the odd-looking newsboys, and a!»
to be the fortunate one to take thel
paper to their father* In the mcntl
time, the two newsboys had not been*
unmindful of the faces behind the ^
plated window.

" I say, Jim," said the big boy. who
was about twelve or thirteen years
old, "did you ever see the beat of h
that young *un there ? Don't yoiiH
choke yerself, youngster, ffe ar you*d
cheat a friend from doing tliat same
when you're growed up. — Ere's the
'Erald 1 Tribune! Times! — George!
Jim, I wish to tliunder there'd some
new papers come up. An^t yer tired
allcrs a hollerin' out them same old
tunes ? — Times I 'Erald ! Tribune ! —
How d'ye s*pose a fcller'd feel to
wake up some of these yere mornings
in one o' them big houses ?"

" Heerd tell of stranger things 'ilj
that, Dick/' replied Jim, who
the weekly papers. " * Turn again,!
Whitlington, Lord-Mayor of London/I
as the cat said 1 Turned out true
too."

" F^ttV/better get a cat, Jim, you're^
such a stunnin* feller ; shouldn't
wonder if you*d turn out alderroaa
some of these days T' At which, for
no apparent reason, Dick laughed d
until every rag was fluttering. ™

"They wants a paper; better
'tend to yer business," answered Jim, .
at wliich the other newsboy instantly J
grew grave, and, shuffling his old
shoes across the street, mounted

Heretnore-BrandotL

523

steps where the children were waiting
and calling for him,

**I want a New York Herald/*
said Fred very grandly.

" Han't got no 'Eralds,** answered
the newsboy.

Fred rushed into the house saying,
** His Heralds are all gone."

"Tribune, then, and don't keep
the door open," instructed the rough
voice from some invisible spot. Mary
shut the door all but a little crack.
" Papa wanted a Herald/' she said ;
** you ought to have one when my
papa wants it,"

** Thought I had, but couldn't help
it ; 'Erald's got a great speech to-day,
and Tve sold *em all."

" Do you sell papers every day ?"
Mary asked.

The bushy head made a sort of
bow, as the poor newsboy looked at
the fair-haired little girl on the stoop,
who condescended to question him,

"Yes, miss/'' he answered, ** since
ever I wasn't bigger'n a grasshopper"

" A n't he funny?" said Fred.

" Don't you get tired V asked Mary.

"Well, I can't say I doesn't, 'spe-
cially sometimes."

" An't you glad it's Christmas ?"
Josie asked, as questions seemed the
fashion.

** I kinder am," replied the news-
boy.

** Did you have many presents ?"
questioned Mary.

" Me ? Bless you, who'd give 'em
to me, miss ?"

"Didn't you hang up your stock-
ing last night ?" Fred asked.

The newsboy seemed much amus-
ed at the question ; for it was plain
that he could hardly keep from laugh-
ing right out.

"Well, no, I didn't," he answered.
" Don*t think things would stick in
one long, if I did !"

" Do you put your money in a
savings bank ? By and by you'd

have enough to build a house may be,
if you were carefiil/' said Josie.

"Jim and me likes takin* it out in
eatin' best," answered Dick.

" Why don't you bring me that
paper ?" cried their father's voice.
And the two boys ran hastily into
the house.

" You may have my candy," said
Mary in a stately way. " I can have
plenty more," And she put her store
of dainty French candy into the boy's
hand, and, while he was still looking
at her in amazement, followed her
brothers into the house and shut the
door.

" Just you pinch me, Jim," Dick
said, joining his companion. " Drive
in hearty, now, An't 1 asleep ?"

"Well, I dun no; what yer got
there V

" She give it to me."

"Who's that?"

" Her on the steps ; didn't you
see her?"

" You tell that to the marines 1
Guess you took it."

"No, I didn't," Dick said indig-
nantly. " I never took nothin' as
warn't mine yet."

" Let^s have a look/' said Jem,
rea^iing out his hand for the pack-
age; but Dick would not let him touch
it. "I'm going to keep it always to
remember her," he said.

" Guess you want ter eat it yerself,"
Jem said. " I wouIdn^t be so mean."

" I an't gen'rally called mean,"
Dick answered with great dignity.

"Don't you wonder, Jim/' said
Dick, as they made friends and
passed on — "don't it seem curious
how some folks is rich and purty like
them there, and others is poor and
ugly like me and you, Jim?"

"George! speak for yerself, if ye
like. Guess I'd pass in a crowd, if
Vd the fine fixin's 1^'

" S'posin* me and you had dandi-
fied coats and yeller gloves, and the

Heremcre-Brandon,

fixin's to match, s'pose ariybody*d
know we was newsboys ?** Dick asked
thoughtfully,

*' I rayther think/* said Jim, *' we*d
be a deal sight handsomer*n some of
them chaps as has Vm now.'* ,

" Let's save our money and try it,
Jim/'

** ^NuflTsaid," answered Jim, laugh-
ing- And the newsboys in their
queer gamients, and with their light
-hearts, passed out of sight of Mr.
'Brandon's brown-stone house and
fair-haired children.

But not out of all remembrance.
The children had a party that Christ-
mas afternoon ; and when they were
tired of romping, and were seated
around the room, the girls playing
with their dolls ; the Catholic ones
telling thu others in low voices about
the flowers and lights, and the won-
derful mnnger which they had seen
at Mass that morning ; and the boys
eagerly listening to the stories of far-
away lands, which one of the older
people was telling, little Mar\^ knelt
in an arm-chair,, and looked out of
the window at the people hurrying
through the driving rain and snow,
and at the street-lamps glaring
through the wet and cold. Her kind
little heart had been very light, and
a strange joyousness had surrounded
her all day, making her more gentle
than ever, so that shehad not spoken
one hasty word, or once hesitated to
take the lowest part in any of the
plays. Though she did not know it,
the little infant Jesus had smiled on
her that morning when she was kind
to the poor, homeless newsboy ; and
now she under^^tood — for chanty had
enhirged hor mind — more distinctly
than she ever had before, that there
were many cold and desolate chil-
dren for whom there were no earthly
glad tidings that day, yet who were
as much God*s own as the little ones
grouped around her father's pleasant

parlors. Then, just as she did
best she could, and prayed in hc8
heart for the children of the poor, sh€
thought she saw the new^sboy td
whom she had spoken in the r
standing close to the railin^
window ; but before she could l^
sure of it, the servant lighted the gsis \^
she heard the children calling her foi
a new game, and she ran Ughll|
away. But there was one crouche
in the cold outside, who wondered ;
the sudden light and glow within j
and as the bewildered newsboy sav
her dancing past the lighted wtndc
it seemed to him that it was not \
far, after all to the heaven and th«
angels of whom he had heard ; fiorl
the " glad tidings*' had come to Dick,
even Dick, and they woke up the
good, the will to do right, which is in
every heart, and which did not slee
again in him, even when the liltle* un
carcd-for, outcast head rested on
stone steps that Christmas night.

CHAPTER It.

Very little idea had poor Dick of j
right or wrong. No fond mother took
him to her heart when he was a tod-i
dlingwee one, just big enough to half]
understand, and between her kis
told him of angels and saints, of he^J
roes and martyrs, and of that QueeH
Mother up in heaven, dearer thaiil
them all, who never forgot those wh4^1
once had loved her, and of the bcau-^
tiful world with its flowers and fruit
its great rivets and high mountains,!
its delicious green and its gloriouH
blue, which a good Father had giveni
to men for their enjoyment No
loving sister, with bright eyes and
tender voice, tossed him in her strong,
young arms, and sang to him how^^
knights and warriors, the great aii<tfl
good of earth, and loved of heaven,
had all been children once like him,
only never half so sweet and dea

ean^

Hcremore^Brandon .

Sas

No noble father, true in the midst of
trials, ever watched wth anxious care
that those little feet should walk only
in the straight and narrow path. So
it was a hard thing: for poor Dick,
when he rubbed his brown hands
through his bushVi uncombed hair the
next morning, and pushed the worn
old hat over his stili sleepy eyes, to
know just what to do to find the tem-
ple of Fortune. At times, though, he
had followed the crowd of noisy boys
and girls w*hom you may see around
the doors of any Catholic church at
about nine oVlock on Sunday monv
ings, and had listened with a critical
air, and slightly supercilious, from
some dark corner near the door, to
the talking and the prayers which he
did not wholly understand, but por-
tions of which he did once or twice
take into his *' inner consciousness"
and fully approve. In someway, he
then seemed to feel that which made
him less rough in all his answers,
I readier in all his responses to the
\ call for papers, not always gently
• called for ; and, tliough he knew not
why, there were fewer wicked words
on his lips that day than for many a
day before.

It happened that he kept his eyes
open and grew thoughtful, and did
not forget his wish to be better ; so
that, from being a newsboy, he be-
came an errand-boy in a book-store,
where he learned to be honest and
to tell the truth, which was a rapid
advance in his education ; for you
know it is more than some people have
learned who have lived to be six
times Dick's age. Sometimes a little
lady came to that very store to choose
her picture-books and Christmas sto-
ries ; and it was his place to open
the door for her ; or perhaps some
one would call out, ** Dick, a chair
for this lady," and then he was as
happy as a prince. Sometimes he
would be sent home with her pur-

chases, and mounted the steps, en-
tered her father*s house, and always
felt '^ good" again ; for always the
same picture of a little girl in blue,
with fair hair, and her hands full of
dainty French candy, and a ragged '
newsboy, dirty and amazed, would
be there before him.

Christmas had come and gone
more than once, and it was coming
again, when Dick turned up the gas I
in a mere closet of a room very high j
tip in a dingy boarding house, and '
made a ghost of afire in an old rusty
stove. It wouldn't seem to us a very
enlivening prospect ; for the room
was but slightly furnished, and the
stove smoked, while the wind beat at
the not overclean windows, on which
there were no curtains to shut out the
dark and cold. But Dick seemed to
think it something very luxurious ;
for he rubbed his hands before the
blue apology for a flame, and sat
down on the broken wooden stool,
with as much zest as that with which j
I have seen grand people sink into a
great arm-chair after a walk.

** Christmas eve again," he said to
the fire, for it was his only compa-
nion, •* Let me look at you, Mr,
Coals, and see what pictures you have
for me to-night. How many nights,
w^orse nights than this, I have been
glad to crouch under an old shed, or
in some alley, and now to think,
thanks to the good God, I have a
fire of my own ! Poor little bare
feet on the icy pavement to-night, I
wish 1 had you round my jolly old
stove. When I am rich, I will !*'
Then he laughed at the idea. " But I
won^t wait until I am rich, or I w^ould |
never deserve to have the chance."

" How are you, Dick ?" said a
cheery voice, though deep and rough,
at the door. And a man came into
the room, which either his figure, org
his coat, or his voice, or the flute uti-t^
der his arm, seemed to fill to such an

Heremore-Brandon,

extent that the very corners were
crowded,

** How are you, Dick ? It's blow-
ing a hurricane outside, and you're
as cold as Greenland here. It may
do for you, but not for me ; old blood
is thin, my boy, old blood is thin,'*
At which Dick laughed heartily, while
putting more coal on the fire ; for
Carl Stoffs was in the prime of life,
hale and hearty, w^eighing at least
two hundred pounds, I am sure, and
with a round face, very red, but also
very solemn, for Carl StoflTs was a
German every inch of him. The
stove grew very red also under his
vigorous hands ; but whether from
anger or by reflection I will not
attempt to s?iy. " And now," he said,
seating himself on the wooden chair,
Dick having given it up to his guest,
while he occupied a box instead
— " and now^ how are you, boy ?
Ready for merry Christmas, eh?
You'll come to us tomorrow, so says
my wife. In America, you all do
mind your wives ; mine tells me to
bring you."

** Then I must, I know," Dick
said, looking at the other, who was
near three times his size, " I would
have a poor chance in opposing
you!'' Eut Carl StofTs knew well
how gratefully the friendless boy ac-
cepted the thoughtful invitation.

" Now, shall we have some music,**
said he, as he drew out his flute, and,
without wailing an answer, put it to
his mouth, and brought forth such
rich, full tones from the instrument
that Dick, as he stared at the now
bright fire, seemed to be in a land of
enchantment

** You are the only man, from the
queen of England down, whom I
really envy," said Dick, in one of
the pauses. " You can have music
whenever you wish it ; I am only a
beggar, grateful for every note tlirown

in my way. Were you out, last

night r

*' Yes, all night in Fourteenth streelj
at the rich Brandons* Madam
very gay, this winter/'

** I wish I were a musician,'* said
Dick. ** It must be jolly to seeaJlS
the dancing and the bright dresses TV

"And the pretty ladies, eh? vrho
don't mind you no more than if you
were a stick or a stone. Indeed, mf
boy, you'd soon get tired oi it; it J
seems so grand at first, the beauiifull
picture all in motion ; but your eyef]
— they ache after a little. Too madii
light, my boy, too much light." And|
the musician went long journeys up
and down his wonderful flute before
he spoke again. " They'll go music- j
mad over some fool at the piano ; but ^
you play until your own music makes
you wild, and never one thinks or
cares about you. Last night, I played
only for one. She was always danc-
ing, and she seemed to go on th« ;
wings of the music just as it said W
her go, I was not tired last night**

Awaiting no answer, he turned
again to his flute, and all through
the dingy, crowded house rang a
joyous ** Gloria in excehisr Rough
captives of labor heard it, and an-
swered to it, knowing well the glad
tidings, the most glorious ever sung,
and yet sung to kings and shepherds
alike. The old sinners heard it» and
thought of the strange days %vhen
even they were young and innocent

" Finis," cried the German, rising
slowly, and putting on his shaggy
overcoat. " I promised my wife that I
would be home at nine, and, as do all
the people here, I mind my wife ; but
it is one inconvenient thing. You will
come to us after Mass, to-morrow?"

" You are too good to me. When
I am rich, perhaps I shall know how
to thank you."

** You should think yourself ridi

now. You are young
riches like that,'*

**I wish I were olderj though,"
sighed Dick.

"Never say that, never, never.
The poorest youth is better than the
richest age/' said the German ear-
nestly. I shoyldn't wonder if Mr
S toffs had just found his first gray
hair, and was speaking under its in-
fluence. At all events, he did not
convince Dick, who said, with equal
earnestness and more quickness :

'* I must say it : every day seems
too longj every hour goes too slow-
ly, until I can get at my life's work.
This waiting for it kills me.*'

" My friend, do you call this wait-
ing?" laughed the Gennan. **Was
it waiting and doing nothing that
changed you from — "

" But think/^ interrupted Dick, " of
what ought to have been. Some day
— some day I will get my hand to the
plough, you'll see ! At least," a little
ashamed of the seeming conceit, " I
hope you will."

** And what makes you care ?'*
" I think it's born in us all to like
to be active — ^to be doing something.
Indeed, it's about the only legacy
ray poor parents left me. It may be»
for I know nothing of them, that they
were just the same as other people,
out of whom bitter poverty has taken
all pride and ambition ; but I can't
think it, somehow/'

"Do you really know nothing of
them ?*'

•* Nothing. I have a little sealed
box, with an injunction on the out-
side of it that I am not to open it
until I am of age, I don't know
where I first got it, nor from whom
it came. It may be some trick to
tease me for years, and disappoint
me at last, for all I know ; and still
I have always kept it, for it is all I
have. And I think it came from
them."

" It may tell you something won-
derful," said his visitor, laughing. For
it was easy for Aim to understand that
some young mother, who even in
her poverty had found the means of
reading and believing stories of prin-
ces in disguise, and countesses in cel-
lars, disowned and disinherited, all
for true love's sake, had made a mys-
tery of leaving a lock of her hair, and
perhaps a cheap wedding-ring, to her
boy ; and he could not forbear a little
ridicule of the folly. "It may tell you
some t h i n g wond e rfuJ . Ifitgivesyou
possession of half of New York, don't
forget your friends, will you, Dick ?"
And then, buttoned up to his chin,
and with his cap covering half his
face, and looking just like Santa
Claus, Carl Stoffs bundled his che- ^
rished flute under his arm, and obe^^^
dicntly went home to his wife.

Dick lingered a moment, after he
left, before closing the door. The*
room was not wholly his own ; but
his companion had a father and a mo-
ther in New Jersey, and he had gone «
home to them, with something in his j
pockets for the children's Christmas; 1
so for that night Dick was in undis*
puted possession. The passages were
dark and cold ; the snow had got
through some of the broken windows,
and lay in several little hills on the
entry floor ; the sash rattled, and
Dick shivered, as he stood irresolute
at the door of his room. But the ir-
resolution did not last long. He
bundled up, as well as his scanty
wardrobe permitted, closed the door
firmly behind him, and went down
the creaking, broken stairs» and <
through the dreary passages, where
he could see the snow huddling up to
the dark window-panes, as if it were
a white bird trying to get in and
beating its wings against the dirty i
glass. Dick had not far to walk,
after leaving the house, before he
found that which he had come out

528

Hcremore-Brandon,

to find — somebody without a shelter
from the slorm. And I should not
wonder if any night, however bitter
and cold, that you or I should take a
notion to go out on the same errand,
we should not have to go far for
jual success, and that even if we

ited from the most delightful dwell-

~ ace in all New York.

;3er the remains of some broken
steps, or more truly by the side of

I them, for they were too broken to
shelter a kitten, two dark figures
were lying close together. \\\ one
of the pauses of the storm, when the
street-lamp had a chance to shine a
little, Dick could see that the figures
were those of two boys asleep* He
ci id not wait long to rouse them. One
woke up at once, cross, and, if I must
tell the trnlh, with some very wicked
words on hts lips,

" Get up, and come with me,"* said
Dick.

" What yer want ^long o' me ? I
an't doing nothing" he muttered,

" I know that ; but I will give you
a better place to sleep in. Come."

Bad words again. ** I an't done
nothin' to you. Le* me lone."

**1 want you to come home with
rae. Did you ever hear of a news-
boy called Hig Dick ? Thai's me."

** I an't afeard o' nothin*. Here
g<fe !" And the poor little fellow,
still believing the other was ** chaff-
ing," got on his feet. " Do you want
t'other? He an't worth nothhi*, but
he'll keep dark."

" Ves» both of you* Hurry him up ;
it is a terrible night."

**Come along, Joe. Where's yer
spunk? I an't afeard o' nothin*,"

" There's nothing to be afraid of,"
said Dick, as gently as the roaring
storm would let him. *' Don't talk
now, but come on. TU lake you to
a room with a fire in it," added Dick,
in spite of himself feeling that he was
bon prime to the little newsboys.

" Come on, Joe," urged the other,

dragging and pushing tin ws-

boy, who w^as hardly rsi ma

baby, but who seemed to n-hiinper,
sleepy and frightened, as no doubt
he was, until, as quietly as the old
stairs would permit, and almost hold-
ing their breath, they followed Dick
to his room.

" An't this bully, now ?** said Jack
in an undertone, when he stood be-
fore the fire in tlie lighted room, and
Joe, with round, staring eyes, but not
a word of complaint or fear, had been
put on the wooden chair. *^I say,
now, Joe an't much, but he'll never
blab ; but Tse all right. What yer
want us to do, now, sir ?"

**To get warm," answered Dick.
** I was once a newsboy, and slept
under stoops and sheds, like the rest
of them ; but now I*ve got a fire of
my own, and I wanted company ; sa
I went out and got you and Joe, aod
now make yourselves at home for to-
night. Here's some crackers and
cheese, and when you've had somc-
tliing to eat you can go to sleep here
It's better than out there, isn't it?"

The newsboy stared at Dick, and
grunted something which sounded
very much as if he did not believe a
word that his host had said. The
other sat silent, stolid, and seeming-
ly ready to hear anything. He ate
his share of tlie crackers and cheese
greedily, but with a watchful eye on
the giver. The w^armth, however,
soon proved too much for his vigi*
lance, and, though his eyes were still
fixed on Dick's face, they were hea%^
and expressionless. At last, Dick
took him up, undressed him, and
laid him in his bed in tlie corner \ and
then, for the first time, Joe's tongue
was loosened. ^* There, now," he
said, as he lay exactly as Dick had
placed him, '* I are dead and gone
at last 'Twasn't no lies about t'other
world ; they wasn'i a fool in' on us,

Heremore'Brandon^

529

after all. Here an't no more Heralds
and Tribunes. I are dead and gone
at last 1" And so rejoicing, Joe's eyes
closed securely, and it is likely he
dreamt of angels, if he dreamt at all,
until morning came.

" He an't much," said Jack, whom
this act of Dick's, together with the
fire and the food, had made less in-
credulous and more confidential.
" He's a soft 'un ; he an't got the
right pluck. He'll never be no-
body."

" Is he your brother ?" asked Dick.

" Do yer think I'd have him for my
brother? He's a youngster, come
from nobody don't know where. He
was fetching up in my quarters last
winter, and didn't know his name nor
nothin' \ so we gives him a start, us
fellers, and he's stuck on to me ever
since."

Then Dick asked more about his
new friend's life, and told him a little
of his own, and a story or two that
he thought suited to his understand-
ing; and, having won the child to
believe a little in his good intentions,
had the satisfaction of seeing him at
his ease, and willing to go to sleep
with Joe in the corner.

When this was accomplished, Dick
put out the fire and the light, and lay
down on the floor to sleep soundly
and well, until the joy-bells from the
great city churches should wake his
guests and himself to the glad tidings
that Christmas had come again.

CHAPTER III.

And now I am sure you are satis-
fied that Dick was on the right road,
acting religion as fast as he learned
it ; trying to be all he knew — ^to live
a truthfiil, generous, self-respecting
life. He had little help, you know,
and, if he followed that crowd that
I told you of oftener than before, and
VOL. viii. — 34

heard much that enabled him to take
whole books into his "inner con-
sciousness" which would otherwise
have been a dead letter to him, he
was not one to make a flourish of
trumpets about it, or to dream of
complaining that the world would
not stand still until he got up to it
He had but one intimate friend, it is
true ; but he was a friend you and I
might be glad to win ; a friend who
never argued or lectured, but only
quietly built his life on the only true
foundation — the true faith — and then
left it to show for itself So, simply
trusting in whatever was good, yet
so fierce against whatever was evi>,
scomfiil of everything wrong and
weak, practising as well as believ-
ing, you may be sure Cari Stof&
would never have held out his hon-
est hand to Dick, if Dick were not
worthy of it. And this makes me
think great things of my hero, of
whom scarcely anybody thought at
all. He had his place in Ames &
Harden's store, and he had his talks,
too, now with one person, now with
another, and perhaps thought of
things he heard. He was only a
boy yet, and had his follies, without
doubt, fancying at times that there
was something in him, if circum-
stances would only draw it out,
which would prove him a great
deal worthier of high places than
those now occupying them. I am not
sure but that, if he had had a coun-
try-home, he might sometimes have
lain down under the trees, and, while
watching in a dreamy way the clouds
sailing down to the west, and the
vigilant stars coming out to guard
the earth in the sun's absence, and
listening to the wind among the trees,
the twittering of some wakeful bird,
or the rustling of sonie grand old
river, he might have had yearnings
no one could explain, and not have
felt the sky too far to climb or the

S30

Hcrcf^iore-B randan.

river too deep to fathom j for Dick's
was only a boy*s heart, that had still
to leam that we cannot go from the
Broadway pavement to Trinity spire
in one step. Even in his city home,
if home it could be called, it may be
that, just after he had been to church
with Carl, he had glowed with the
thought that he — ^even he — ^might
some day be a Loyola or a Francis
Xavier, for ** the thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts.'*

But as yet his life consciously held
but one romance — one dream of
earth. There were few to care for
him ; but there was a little girl once
who had made Christmas memorable
to him, and Dick had not forgotten
hen She had grown a beautiful
young lady now, in Dick's eyes,
though to all others she was mere-
ly a thin, dark school-girl. They
stjU lived in the handsome house on
Fourteenth street, and Carl Stoffs
and his band played for many a
dance there, although I am sorry
to say that, even after a New Yearns
party, Dick had to be sent more than
once to Mr, Brandon's office with a
little bill, due to Ames & Harden,
mostly for school books, novels, and
gilt annuals. But then that was no
fault of Mary^s, you know.

Mr. Brandon was not a pleasant
•man to go to with a bill, or for much
of anything in the money line, ** The
deuce take it, my dear I" he often
said to his wife. " Are you bent an
ruining me ?''

"Don^t be silly, Charley, love,"
the dauntless little woman would
say, not in the least disturbed by
the angry voice and black brow that
^rere so terrible to Dick. ** For pco-
[l>le of our position, we live very shab-
bily.''

** Hang our position ! I tell yoii,
madam, we arc going the road to
•beggary ; we are, indeed."

" O Charles ! do be quiet," was her

ready answer. " I am so sick of thi£
sort of stuff." ^

"Then be sick of it,'' this dmacU^
man would ejcclaim ; *' for I'll tcJJ U
to you every day and every hour, un-
til it gets through your silly heaiL
Money 1 money t money f I nev^^f
hear anything else in tills hoiiiiH
I've sold myself for it^ body and
soulj and much good it has done
me ! I'll not give you a peony, mt-
dam ; not a penny."

But that was all talk ; for,
course, he had to give his wife,
was a nice little body, very s«
and good-tempered, but rather
of the good things of this irorld
whatever she had set her heart up
having*

**If papa should be right — "
Mary would sometimes ur^.

** Nonsense ! they all say the i
thing ; why shouldn't they ? If
didn't spend your father's n;
making things pleasant at h^
be spending it on clubs, or wJiatcvc
it is which uses up their money whe
they have the spending of it all
themselves. Youll have a husbandpl
likely enough, one of these dayS||
who'll scold for every pocket handler
chief you buy ; but you won^'t mind
it. They must scold about
tiling, you know, dear."

** O mamma I Fd never live
day — if — " At which sentence, neve
completed, Mrs, Brandon would
laugh, and the subject would
dropped for the present ; but, of J
course, after such scenes, Mr Bran-f
don wouldn't be very amiable to a"
boy like Dick with a bill in his hand.
But Dick to him was a mere ma-,"
chine, belonging to a store over the
way, and as such he treated hiri
with as little malice in his bardl
words as if he were swearing at
table or chair. To Dick, Mr, Bran<i^J
don was Mary's father, and that
meant a great deal; Dick cxnild

Heremore-Brandan,

531

never talk openly to him, nor stand
in his presence quite as he did in the
presence of other men.

For, though Dick had never been
outside the cit}' limits, and had never
seen a hill, nor a field of corn, he
was a trifle romantic, I am afraid,
after all.

Yes, it is true that he grew to be
almost a man without having ever
climbed a hill or seen a field of
grain. But there was a good time
coming.

" Dick,'' said Carl Stoffs, that true
and faithful friend — "Dick, would
you like to go to the country?"

" Would I like to go to the coun-
try ?" he repeated, finding no words
of his own to say, so great was his
bewilderment at such a question —
" Would I like to go to the coun-
try ?"

** Any time youVe ready," said the
German, seating himself. "Take
your time to answer, my lad."

" What would I do in the country ?
I was never there in my life 1"

" And you don't look more pleased
than though I'd asked you to go to
— to— the end of the world."

" I have often wished to see the
country," returned Dick, in the tone
in which we might wish to see China
if we had nothing else to do ; " but I
don't see my way to doing so at pre-
sent"

" I do believe, Dick, that you have
lined the walls with gold pieces, you
are so miserly of your time, and so
stuck to this old place. Come now,
we shall take you to the country, my
wife and I. Now, to think there
should be one on earth who never
saw the green fields and the woods !
It is to me a very odd thihg ! You
are the blind man who never saw the
sun, and does not think the sun
worth seeing."

" Oh I no, indeed ; not so bad as
that ; but—"

"Then you shall go. My sister
has a house, with room for many, and
we have taken half, keeping one
room for you. Come and take your
week with us."

" But, Mr. Stoffs, I intended dui^
ing that week to read so much — ^to
take long walks about the city — and
Mrs. Stoffs—"

" My wife sent me ; I would not
of myself have such a blind man
with me, to read, to study, to walk ;
how can you in the city now ? You
will be wild when you have been
once with us. You will go to-day
with me — I will be waiting for you
at my place at five. Will you come ?"

" Indeed—"

" You will come." And, in truth,
Mr. Stoffs had previously said so
much of that wonderful land in
which he was now living that Dick
could not resist his last appeal, and
afraid and shy as he well might be,
having never spent twenty-four hours
in a home circle in his life, he gave
his promise to be at the appointed
place of meeting in good time for
the train.

But when the magnetism of his
friend's presence was taken from
him, Dick's heart grew heavy in his
breast. If it had been to go to an-
other city, or on a matter of business,
Dick's excitement would have been
delightful; but "the country," of
which he knew nothing, and of
which he had such strange fancies,
picked up he could not tell where,
that was another thing. City boys
always laughed at country people
when they came to the city — they
had such queer ways — and yet— and
yet — he felt strange and shy about
going among them. Perhaps he
felt that the tables would be turned
on him there, and that his ways
would be as queer in their eyes as
theirs had been in his ; perhaps he
felt the full force of the homely old

53a

Hercniorc-Brandfrn,

saying that " a cock can crow best

his own farm-yard."

But, as the day wore on, Dick's
ipirits rose ; he thought of all the

^ries he had read of fresh country
^life; a poem or two of cows and
brooks came vaguely among his
thoughts, and by the time he reached
his little room, and began to pack
his not abundant wardrobe, he was
eager for the first glance at " the
country."

** Then, may the Lord's blessing
go with you/* said his kind but very
slovenly landlady. " I hope youll
come back as brown as a berry, sir.
I was two year in the country once,
and, though I won*t say Fd like it
for always, yet my heart do get to
wishing these days for a sight o* the
flowers and the fields. You'll mind
the fruit, sir, and the dews o' night ;
there does be great dews fall in', and
a deal of ague, Fm told. Good-by
to you." And Dick said " good-by "
to her with something like emotion ;
for it was his first " good-by " to
any one, and the woman had been
good to him, and if her hair was in a
blouse, and her garments ill made
and not clean, Dick was not star-
tled, for he had never seen them oth-
erwise.

Then he walked on to meet Mr,
Stoffs, and foimd he was nearly an
hour before the time. It seemed as
if the moment of departure would
never come ; but it did, at last, and,
as tn a sort of dream, the dusty city
youth was whirled by cottages nes-
tling among proud, protecting trees,
past the green hills, and through
fields ** all rich with ripening grain,"
until the panting train pulled up be-
tween a pile of stones and a litde
yellow station-house, with a narrow
platform running beside it.

" Now, then, here we arc I" said
the German, and took up his bundles
and basket ; for who ever saw a Carl

Stofis in the cars that had not a bundle
and basket, and a quantity of house-
hold furniture besides ? This last
Dick took in charge, and so ladea
the two made their way out of iha-
cars. Around the little yellow su-
tion-house dodged \y(Q splendij
bays with 'silver harness, that were
being driven rapidly round a comer
close to the narrow platform, aod
went out into the dusty road ; for I
sidewalks there were none, Sooo
the sound of carriage-wheels made
them turn aside, and Dick stumbled,
as he walked for the ftrst time on the
soft green grass.

When you take a mountain lassii
to Rome and show her St. Peter's,
she is not enthusiastic; indeed, she
is terribly disappointed. She fx
pected something so much greater
than her mountains, so much briglit-
er than her green valleys. If Dick
was disappointed when he put his
foot on nature's velvet carpet and
found it only caused him to stumble,
I cannot say. 1 think he felt surprised
that a brook beside the way and far
blue hills before him WTought no
emotion within him. Fortunately
Carl asked no raptures,

" That was the Brandons' turn-
out,*' he said in a prosaic way, as
Dick recovered his footing, and re-
turned to the road.

*'ls tliat so?" asked Dick. "Do
they live here T'

"Yes,'' said Carl, "and a fine
place it is too ; but I think the man's
going too fast."

Then Dick w^as thoughtful for a
minute or two, pitying the daughter,
if it were so ; but it is hard to think
that a man's family are near to want
when his stylish carriage has just
turned you out of the road, and the
pity soon seemed misplaced.

The walk seemed long to Dick ;
he did, indeed, enjoy the cool breeze,
fresher and purer than any he had

Heremore-Brandon.

533

ever felt before ; but he had his own
baggage and Carl's curtain-rods be-
sides, and he was used to pavements.
They had already passed many fine
houses, with lawns and carriage-
ways, shaded by great trees in front
of them, and now and again a little
house, with flowers and clustering
vines, and groups on the porches;
but Carl's steps lingered at none.
At last they turned out of the dusty
road into a shaded lane, a veritable
lane, as new to Dick as the Paris
Boulevards would be to Mrs. Par-
tington ; two or three more cottages,
smaller and not so much garden-
room, and then Carl said :

" Eh ! but Vm glad to get home !
Come here. Will ! Come, boys !"

The last call seemed to fill the
lane with children. They might
have come down from the trees, or
up from the earth, for all Dick could
tell ; but at the sound of Carl's voice
the place was alive — ^big boys and
little boys, great girls and small girls,
all round and fat, brown-eyed and
yellow-haired, with all manner of
greetings, gathered around the tra-
vellers, eagerly drew their baggage
from their hands, and with baskets,
bags, bundles, and curtain-rods, made
a grand triumphal procession before
them, shouting, laughing, pushing
against each other, the big ones
stumbling over the little ones, and
yet nobody hurt.

A few steps more and a rustic gate
was opened and some one came and
stood under the archway of ever-
green branches, intertwined with some
drooping vines. She was facing the
West, looking down the lane, shading
her eyes with her hand, although the
sun was almost down. Just for a
moment she stood in the bright sun-
set glow, under the green archway,
shading her brown eyes from the
light, looking down the shadowy
lane ; and, as she so stood, she

seemed a very fair and graceful
girl indeed. An instant more and
the children, in the importance of
their mission as baggage-carriers,
pushed past her, and she retreated
with them toward the house.

" Come, Rose ! Here we are I"
called Carl to her. And she turned
and met them as they reached the
gate.

"You are welcome," she said to
Dick when he was introduced at the
gate.

"You are welcome," said Mrs.
Stofis, coming toward them from
the porch.

" You are welcome," repeated Mrs.
Alaine, at the door. And Dick had
not a word of answer to any one of
them.

They were to him as grand as
princesses and as gracious as
queens, as they came forth to re-
ceive him and bid him welcome to
their little cottage ; and Dick was not
used to courts or to queens and
princesses, so he could only bow and
shake the hands so cordially extend-
ed to him.

I am afraid my hero was not at
all happy for the first few minutes
that he sat on the stoop between
Mrs. Stoffs and Mrs. Alaine, not
knowing what answer to make to
even their simplest remark, and that
he was much relieved when they
joined their voices to the hubbub
the children were making around
Carl. Such shyness as Dick's is
very painful to the spectators, as
well as to the embarrassed one ; but,
then, there's this to be said about it,
when it is once entirely conquered it
never can come back again, and I
fancy there are some very nice peo-
ple in the world, now very self-pos-
sessed and perfectly well-bred, who
would give much to feel again the
awkwardness and embarrassment
which, once upon a time, caused

H^i'tmore-Brandan^

tbem such keen annoyance. The
I women pitied Dick, but liked him
none the less for the color that would
( come into his face and the hesitation
of his replies ; but their feeling for
the stranger was greater tlian any
pleasure to themselves, and so it Wiis
not long before they went into the
I bouse with the declared intention of
[♦'getting tea." But going into the
I kouse was not going away altogether,
I for the room which ser^-ed for parlor,
I library, sitting-room, dining-room, and
] all, had a low window opening on the
stoop, and Carl and Dick could see
them well, and speak, if they chose,
without raising their voices, as they
J went back and forth from the table
[to the closet, and from the closet to
■the table, not to mention innumera-
ble visits to CarPs basket, which
seemed a pantry in itself The chil-
fdren ran in and out, and one jolly lit-
tle one, called Trot, who was as round
as a dumpling, and was too young to
be shy for very long, informed Dick
she was glad he had come, for they
were to have sweet-cakes for tea. Oc-
casionally Rose would come and
stand at the window and say some-
thing to tease " Uncle Carl," who
was not slow to " give her as good as
be got*" Thus gradually Dick be-
came more at ease, and began to
distinguish a difference in the tones
of the children's voices, and to take
note of the strange Sunday*like still-
ness which, except for the merry
noises in the house, was complete,
and, to him, wonderful.

I think a tea tabic is one of the
nicest sights in the world. If there
b a grain of poetry in a woman, and I
believe that there is no woman with-
out a grain of poetr>^ in her, it will
surely, mark my words, however
rough and prosaic she may be, come
out about tea-lime. That was a very
pretty tea-table at which Dick look
his place that evening \ there was no

silver nor China, and thare «i^s^ pe^

baps, too great an abun good

things; but it starileu md I

contend that it was nice and pretty,
if only for the reason that It had a
clean table-cloth, a bunch of flowers,
and every dish in its proper pl:r.
Mrs. Alaine, who was only a I'li.!.
nine edition of her brotlier Carl, sat
at the head of the table, tn a dean
calico dress, with a white collar and
a blue ribbon. She had a ckfld
on each side of her^ whose glee, is
the prospect of swcel-cakes ir.'
peaches (out of Carl s basket) aUur
they had eaten their bread and but-
ter, she tried to moderate wiUi &
smiling, " Hush, children t What will
Mr. Heremore think of you ?'* Mra.
Stofls, who had also a round flat face^
and was dressed in a clean calico,
with white collar and a knot of piok
ribbon s» Dick had seen many times
before, and dearly loved the good
humor that bubbled all over her fact
whenever she spoke. She also hid
a child on each side of her, whose audi-
ble whispers about the good things
coming she answered and mysterious-
ly increased by promises of the sane
again another day. But opposite
Dick was a face that was not round
nor especially good-humored \ for tbe
two children under charge of Kosft
were the least repressible of the
whole flock, and ihcy tried her slen-
der stock of patience sorely \ espe-
cially, as she s.iid afterward to lier
mother, with many bhishes an^I half
crying at the recollection, **as they
would say such things right before the
strange gentleman I" Rose had a
pretty blue muslin, with a tiny bit of
lace around the neck, for her raiment^
and there was a something red, green> M
brown, blue, pink, or yellow, that flut- 1
tered here and there before Dick*s
eyes whenever she moved to help
the children, or turned her young
face, with its flitting colors, toward

Herenwre-Brandon.

535

him. But whether it were a Hbbon,
or a blush, or the hue of her hair, or
an aureole around her head, and
whether it were no color at all, or
all colors together, or a rainbow out
of the clouds, I do not think Dick
had, for one moment, a definite idea
— at least, while it was flitting before
his eyes.

After tea, Carl took out his pipe,
and settled into his big chair on the
porch ; and the children, having got
somewhat over their awe of the
stranger, volunteered to take him
down the lane, and show him where
there had been a robin's nest last
spring, an expedition, however, that
was vetoed by Carl on the ground
that you couldn't see even a robin's
nest in the dark. Then Rose came
out to tease Uncle Carl again ; but,
forgetting her purpose, stood where
the light from within seemed to set
her in glory, like the angels in pic-
tures ; and by and by, it came about,
no one knew how, that her shrine was
vacant, and she, a very nice little girl
with her hands in the pockets — very
impracticable pockets they were — of
her muslin apron, was telling Dick,
with the children as prompters and
commentators, the full particulars of
the finding of the robin's nest, and
what work she had had to keep the
children from bringing sorrow and dis-
may to the hearts of the parent robins
by stealing away their little ones.
Then, as the moon rose, there was no
reason why the children should not
take Dick down the lane to show to
him the tree where the nest had

been ; and then it was needfiil that
he should know just how far it was
from sister Rose's window, and yet
how quickly, on hearing the shouts
of rejoicing, she had come to Mrs.
Robin's assistance. Then it was so
funny to see a man who had never
climbed a tree, that it was needful
two or three should go up one to
show how it is done. Then, too,
there were lightning-bugs by the
million around them, and as Dick
had never seen anything like them,
unless it was fire-crackers on Fourth
of July night, they had to catch sev-
eral for his investigation. When Rose
told how those little things are really
the people of the forest, who are so
timid they do not dare to come out
in the daytime, but do all their
praying by night, and have always
been good friends to children, show-
ing them their way home when lost,
and driving away the ghosts that
would frighten the wanderers, then
the children opened their brown
hands and let them fly away, pro-
mising never to make prisoners of
them again.

And so, though Dick still felt
strange and shy, it was not in such
an impleasant way as when he sat on
the porch trying to answer Mrs.
Alaine and Mrs. Stoffs when they
spoke to him. When, at last, he
closed his eyes that night, he was
half ready to admit that " the coun-
try " might almost be the enchanted
land some people had made it out to
be.

536

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius TX.

LETTER APOSTOLIC OF OUR HOLY FATHEK THE P0PE|

PIUS IX,

TO ALL PROTESTANTS AND OTHER NON-CATHOLICS,

I
I

To ALL Protestants and other non-
Catholics, Pius IX., Pope :

You already know that We, having been
elevated, notwithstanding our unworthincss^
to this Chair of Peter, and therefore invest-
ed with the supreme government and guar-
dianship of the whole Catholic Church by
Christ our Lord, have judged it reasonable
to summon to Us Our Venerable Brethren
the Bishops of the whole earth, and to unite
them together, to celebrate, next year, an
CEcumcnical Council ; so that in concert
with these our Venerable brethren who arc
called to share in our cares, we may take
those steps which accni most opportune and
necessary, to disperse the darkness of the
numerous pestilential errors which every-
where rajje to the increasing overthrow and
the intoxication of many souls j and also to
con6rm and increase daily more and more
among the Christian people entrusted to
our watchfulness the dominion of true
Faith, Justice, and the Peace of God. Con-
fidently relying on the dose ties and most
loving union which in so marked a way
unite to Ourselves and to this Holy Sec
these our Venerable Brethren^ who, through
all the time of our Supreme Pontificate, have
never fiuled to give to Ourselves and this
Holy Sec the clearest tokens of their love
and veneration ; We have the firm hope
that this CEcumenical Council, summoned
by Us at this time, will produce, by the in-
spirations of Divine Grace, as other Gene-
ral Councils in past ages have done, abun-
dant fruits of benediction, to the greater
glory of God, and the eternal salvation of
men.

Sustained by this hope, and roused and
urged by the love of our Lord Jesus Christ,
who gave his life for the whole human race,
We cannot restrain Ourselves, on the occa*
ttoo of the future Council, from addressing
otir Apostolic and paternal words to all
those who, whilst they acknowledge the
tune Jesus Christ as the Redeemer, and
glory in the name of Christian, yet do not
profess the true faith of Christ or hold to
and ibtlow the Communion of the Catholic
Church. And we do this to warn, and con*
tjiire, aod beseech tbem with all the warmth

of our zeal and tn all chartcj, that they aia|
consider and seriously examine whether
they follow the path marked out for
by Jesus Christ our Lord, and which
to Eternal Salvation. No one can
doubt that Jesus Christ himself, in ordci to
apply the fruits of his redemption to all f^
nerations of men, built his only church ia
this world on Peter ; that is to say, the
Church, One, Holy, Catholic, and Apo«ti»>
lie ; and that he gave him all the pa««
necessary to preserve the deposit o<"
whole and inviolable, and to teach the
Faith to all kindreds, and peoples, an<l^
tions ; so that all men who through baptbn
become members of his mystical body, lad
of that new life of grace, without which Ofl
one can ever attain to Jife ctcntal, may al-
ways be preserved and perfected in ihcttj j
and this church, which is his mystical Btxiy,
may always in its own nature remain firm
and immovable to the consummation of
ages, that it may jlourisb, and supply to ill
its children all the means of Salvation,

Now, whoever wll carefully exaintnc and
reflect upon the condition of the vai jou» re-
ligious societies divided among thcmseive9|
and separated from the Catholic Church,
which from the days of our Lord Jesui
Christ and his Apostles has ever caerciscd,
by its lawful pastors, and still docs exercise,
the divine power committed to it by this
same Lord ; wilt easily satisfy himself that
none of these societies, singly nor all toge-
ther, are in any way or form that one Catho-
lic Church which our I^rd founded and
built, and which he chose should be ; and
that he cannot, by any means, say that theie
societies are members or parts otf that
Church, since they arc visibly separated
from catholic unity.

For such like sodettes, being destitute of
that living authority established by God«
which especially teaches men what is of
Faith, what the rule of morals, and guide*
them in everj-thing that relates to eternal
life, are always varying in their doctrines^
and this changing and instability is increai*
ing. Every one therefore must perlecdy
understand, and clearly and evidently le^
that such sodeties arc distinctly opposite to
the church instituted by our Lord J<

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius IX.

537

Christ ; for in that church truth must always
continue firm and inaccessible to change,
so as to preserve absolutely inviolate the de-
posit confided to her, for the guardianship
of which the presence and aid of the Holy
Ghost has been promised to her for ever.
Every one also knows that from these diver-
gent doctrines and opinions, social schisms
have had their birth, which have again ge-
nerated within themselves sects and com-
munions without number, which spread
themselves continually to the great injury
of Christian and civil society.

Indeed, whoever observes that religion is
the foundation of human society, must per-
ceive and confess the great influence which
this division of principles, this opposition,
this strife of religious societies among them-
selves, must have on civil society, and with
what force this denial of the authority esta-
blished by God, to determine the belief of
the human mind, and direct the actions of
men as well in private as in social life, has
fostered, spread, and supported those deplo-
rable changes of times and circumstances,
those troubles which at this day overwhelm
and afflict almost all peoples.

Let all those, then, who do not profess
the unity and truth of the Catholic Church,
avail themselves of the opportunity of this
Council, in which the Catholic Church, to
which their forefathers belonged, affords a
new proof of her close unity and her invin-
dble vitality, and let them satisfy the long-
ings of their hearts, and liberate themselves
from that state in which they cannot be as-
sured of their own salvation. Let them un-
ceasingly offer fervent prayers to the God
of Mercy, that he will throw dovm the wall
of separation, that he will scatter the dark-
ness of error, and that he will lead them
back to the Holy Mother Church, in whose
bosom their fathers found the salutary pas-
tures ofTife, in whom alone the whole doc-
trine of Jesus Christ is preserved and hand-
ed down, and the mysteries of heavenly
grace dispensed.

For Ourself, to whom the same Christ
our Lord has entrusted the charge of the su-
preme Apostolic ministry, and who must,
therefore, fulfil with the greatest zeal all the
functions of a good Pastor, and love with a
paternal love, and embrace in our charity
all men, wherever disi>ersed over the earth,
We address this letter to all Christians se-
parated from Us, and We again exhort and
conjure them quickly to return to the one
fold of Christ

For We ardently desire their salvation in
Jesus Christ, and We fear to have one day
to render account to him who is our Judge,

if We do not show them, and if we do not
give them, as fiu" as is in our power, the
sure means to know the way which leads to
eternal salvation. In all our prayers, be-
seeching and giving thanks, we cease not,
day or night, to ask earnestly and humbly
for them, of the Eternal Pastor of souls,
the abundance of light and heavenly grace.
And since, notwithstanding our unworthi-
ness. We are his Vicar upon Earth, with
outstretched hands We wait, in the most
ardent desire, the return of our erring sons
to the Catholic Church, so that We may re-
ceive them with love into the mansion of
our Heavenly Father, and enrich them with
his unspeakable treasures. On this longed-
for return to the truth and unity of the Ca-
tholic Church depends not only the salva-
tion of individuals, but still more Christian
society ; the whole world cannot enjoy true
peace unless it becomes one Fold under
one Shepherd.

Givei) at St. Peter's, in Rome, the 13th
day of September, 1868, and the twenty-
third year of our Pontificate.

The remarks which follow are ex-
tracted from The London Saturday
Review :

THE POPE AND THE GENERAL COUNCIL.

We read the Pope's Address to all Protes-
tants and non-Catholics at some disadvan-
tage. It reaches us only through a French
version, furnished to the Moniteur^ and
published in that journal of Monday. And
we may, in the first place, complain to His
Holiness of the slovenly and parsimonious
way in which he discharges the function so
dear to him. He expatiates on his zeal for
all Christian souls, and he is assured that he
shall have to give account for us all at the
Great Day. He, the Good Shepherd-
such is his title, and we ought perhaps to
write it, " His," entrusted to him by Christ
Himself our Lord — ^is bound by the charge
of his Supreme Apostolic Ministry to em-
brace in his paternal charity all men in the
whole world, and therefore he addresses
this letter to all Christians separated from
hinu So lofty a purpose might have justified
some care in carrying it out But what has
His Holiness done that his epistle should
reach his erring i>eople ? Does he expect
that the whole human race is bound to read
the Government journal of Rome ? Is his
conscience satisfied that his tremendous re-
sponsibility is fulfilled by the cheap and
easy method of publishing his behests in an
obscure newspaper, and leaving to those

538

Liitir Apostolic of Pope Pius IX.

most concerned to find out, as they can, what
so nearly concerns their eternal sdvationt
through the medium of unauthorized ver-

, sions and newspaper reports ? This is the
liciilty of a Vicar of Christ who has hea-

^«nly functions to discharge, and only human
means to work wnth. As it is quite certain,
as things stand, that the awful words which
concern the immortal destinies of every
human being who names the name of Christ
will not reach one in a hundred thousand of
them, it seems to follow that if the Pope has
these duties toward all mankind, he ought
to have been entrusted with an archangclic
trumpet to address himself to so very large
an audience. It is a sad come-down from
the appeal urbi ci orbi to have to hoist it up
in a penny Dublin paper. Who knows how
many the Pope would not influence if he
would be at the trouble of addressing us by
some such mundane instrumentality as the
penny post ? The Archbishop of Canterbury',
for example ; has he, as courtesy would seem
to require, received in any authoritative way
this communication from Rome, or heaven,
or wherever it was mditcd ?

We say it with all respect, that the Pope's
address was calculated not so much to at-
tract as to repel. He docs not condescend
to argue ; although he assures us that wc
are enveloped in a cloud of error, he Is at no
pains to dissipate it ; with a h^AA f^^titio princt-
t*ii he sonorously assumes the very point at
issue — ihe pointy be it added, at issue not
only between him and his bishops on the one
hand, and the imposing ranks of the vast
oriental church, our own church, and the
vast Protestant communities of Europe and
America, on the other^ but the point which
has been most keenly debated by the theolo-
gians and canonists of the wi^stern obedi-
ence. The Pope's address rests upon one,
and upon only one, huge assumption. It 15
that the Pope, In his single capacity as mon-
arch and autocrat of the church, advanced
to the supreme government of the whole
Catholic Church, has the inherent right of
prescribing the faith of the church ; that he
is the one and supreme legislator as well as
administrator. This is what even the church
of Rome has not yet formally decreed, cvca
by the easy method which a few years ago

• decreed the Inmiaculate Conception. Ullra-
mqnt^ni$m^K)r, in other words, and lo ex-
press it generally, the personal infallibility
and supreme authority of the pope — is not
_ yet de/iJr, But this is what the Pope as-

H sumcs ; and it is most likely as a step to-
H ward what it is understood will be the next
H Roman development of doctrine, and prob*
H ably the e&d aimed at in summoning this

so-called cecumenical council tkat the Po{m^
in his letter, takes up ihe pofrition <d
crat He addresses us, but it \% only
assist his r\ciit move as regards his awn
jccts, and to help to settle the vexed qi
which his predecessors have foumi to
inconvenient when denied by Boifti
Marca, Van Espen, and the Doctoti
Sorbonne, to say nothing of the Coundli
Constance and Basle*

In the mean time let us see what it is
Pope in his exuberant charity offisrs ha.
is, we regret to say, extremely little.
bids us stay at home and pray to be anili
at least wc hope that he goes as far as
But as he cannot count much upon the
cacyof the prayers of obstinate berctics,il
would be perhaps nearer lo the truth if we
said that all that the I'opc has to say ts ta
invite us to return to his fold. The Vatkas
Eirenicon is of the simplest — no com
no explanations, no discussion of dilfii
no healing of wounds^ no solemn canvi
of controversies, no arguments^ Ketom
first, and discuss afterward^ when there it
nothing to discuss. Might we venture t*
hint to Archbishop Manning — who is po&te
enough to consider the present attitude 6^
the Church of England toward Fius IX. »
exactly similar to Uic stale of things as be-
twecQ Gregory I. and the Pagans and Ctoihi
and Arians of his time — that even Artus got
a hearing, and was allowed his say > Not m
with us. There is a controversy bctweea
Rome and those whom Rome calls noe*
Catholics, as to the, not primacy, but exda-
sive autocracy of the Sec of Rome. There
is only one way of deciding it — rixd at ^
tti puhas, <j^ i^pulo tantHm, All that wc
have to do is to be kicked, and subtruL This
is good schoolmaster's language ; but, as fxt
as wc remember, it is not the old way of
dealing with even heresy and schismu The
huge scries of councils might have l^en re-
duced to a single and very p^^rtablc volume*
had this mode of settling controversy been
the churches old and compendious method

One misunderstanding, ormisreprc^nia*
tion, it seems to be well at once to remove.
The Westminster GautU — writing, wc hope,
without having read the Pope^s address-^
sfieaks of it as an invitation to those to whom
it is addressed to repair to the CEcumcnical
Council of 1S69, adding that the church will
ever be ready to offer explanations, and to
labor to remove obstacles to reunion. Tlii«
is just what the Pope does not do. He do«i
not invite non*Catholics, either in any oor*
poratc or private capadty, to repair to Rooiek
He simply says that he will pray for them«
and bids them be reconciled. Invitatiaa

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius IX.

539

there is none ; offers of explanation there
are none. We are seriously to lay to heart
our condition, and give it up. We are in-
vited to conform, and nothing else. To the
council neither our bishops nor pastors are
asked. And this is the more noticeable
because the Orientals are invited. " We
raise our voice once more to you, and with
all the power of our soul we pray you, we
conjure you to come to this Council, as your
ancestors came to the Council of Lyons and
to the Council of Florence." Such is His
Holiness's language to the Oriental bishops,
as we find it in his Apostolic letter of Sep-
tember 8th, translated in the Westminster
Gazette, This Florentine precedent will
hardily be reassuring to the Orientals ; and .
though, after all, the summons to them is
substantially only what the summons to us
is, as the Pope in either case takes up the
same position — that of the exclusive supre-
macy of the See of Peter, and denies that the
Eastern bisnops are really bishops till they
have submitted to him— yet we must remind
not only the Westminster Gazette but the
Uuiversy that their statement that the Pope
has issued anything like an invitation to
attend the council, or rather his council, to
" all those whose separation dates from the
sixteenth century," is simply untrue. Even
if we had been asked, and even were it an-
nounced that we should have ample liberty
to state our case, we say, as Laud said more
than two centuries ago, " To what end free-
dom of speech, since they are resolved to
alter nothing ?"

The following report of the action
of the New School Presbyterian
Synod of New York and New Jersey
we clip from the columns of one of
the daily papers :

THE PRESB\TERIANS AND THE POPE.

The following memorial and resolutions
were presented by Rev. Dr. Adams :

Whereas y The Pope of Rome, called Pius
the Ninth, did, on the 13th day of September,
in the year of our Lord 1868, issue a certain
letter, a proclamation addressed to all Pro-
testants and non-Catholics throughout the
world, the import of which is to unite and
urge all persons and organizations thus de-
signated to hasten to return to the only fold,
meaning the Church of Rome.

Wfureasy The said Pope in the said letter,
called paternal and apostolic, has in an un-
wonted manner, as if pleading at the bar of
public opinion, assigned several and ▼arioiit
reasons for its preparation and publication.

Whereeu^ Among the reasons so mentioned
are the assertion of his own supremacy over
the hum^n conscience as the vicar of Jesus,
and '* the authority to govern the persua-
sions of the human intellect and to direct the
actions of men in private and social life," as
also this, that the rejection of this authority
and protest against it by so many has pro-
moted and nourished those perturbations in
human affairs, in this our day, which the said
Pope pronounces miserable and grievous,
but which must be regarded by every friend
of his species as eminently hopeful and au-
spicious.

Whereas, All such claims and assertions
on the part of the Pope of Rome are to the
last degree unfounded in fact, contrary to the
truth, reason. Scripture, and the whole genius
of Christianity, and, if allowed, would prove
subversive to all human rights and liberties.

Whereas, Recent movements, especially
in Austria and Spain, nations long in sub-
jection to the monstrous pretensions of the
Papacy, command the prompt recognition,
sympathy, and support of all friends of hu-
manity, freedom, and religion throughout the
land ; therefore, be it

Resolved, That the facts here recorded
furnish and present a proper and fitting oc-
casion for all Protestant churches through-
out Christendom, each in the mode which
its own wisdom shall suggest, to prepare
and set forth for general distribution, through
the same channels which the Pope himself
has chosen, a suitable response to hb letter,
which response shall contain a statement of
the reasons why his claims can in no wise be
recognized, as inconsistent with a catholicity
more catholic than Rome — the authority of
infallible Scripture and the glorious suprem-
acy of Jesus Christ

Resolved, That a committee be appointed
by the Synod, whose duty it shall be to con-
sider the expediency of corresponding with
other Protestant bodies in this country and
in Europe as to the propriety of such timely
action for the furtherance of free Biblical
Protestant Christianity.

Resolved, That it be referred to the same
conmiittee, if they deem it wise, to prepare
and publish a reply to the said letter of the
Pope, which shall be regarded as an expres-
sion of the sentiments of this Synod concern-
ing the matters therein contained as of vital
importance to all civil and religious liberty
throughout the world, and to the salvation
of the human race.

It was suggested that a committee con-
sisting of three ministers and three elders,
be appointed to carry out the objects of the
resolutions. Dr. Cox wanted to see the com-

540

LetUr Apostotk i>f P&pe Pirn fX.

mittec larger. It was an important subject,
and wc want names on the document which
will encourage our brothers in England and
in all parts of Europe, The following com-
mittee was appointed to take the whole sub-
ject into consideration : Rev. William Adams,
D.D», Rev. Henry R Smith, DJX, Rev. Ros-
well D. Hitchcock^ D.D.» Rev. Jonathan F.
Stearns. D.D., Rev. Edwin F. Ilaltield,
D.D., Rev. Samuel T, Spear, DJX, Rev.
George L. Prentiss, D.D., lion. William E.
Dodge, Professor Theodore W. D wight,
LL.D., Hon, Daniel Haines, Hon. Edward
A. l^mlwrt, J. B. Pinnco, Esij., S. F. B,
Morse, Esq,, Cyrus W. Field, Esq.

We subjoin another report of the
action of the central authority of the
Evangelical Church of Prussia, from
The New York Herald:

THE BERLIN EVANCEUCAL CONStSTOEY ON
THE PONTIFICAL LETrER.

The pastoral letter in connection with his
oecumenical circular addressed by Pope Pius
IX* to n on -Catholic Christians has roused
Prussian evangelic church authority. The
following circular has been addrc?^ed to its
consistories : " An open letter of the 13th
ult,» by the chief of the Roman Catholic
Church, is directed to all Protestants, thus
including the members of our Evangelical
Slate Church. As this document contains,
besides unjust accusations, many expressions
of respect and kindness toward Protestants,
we ttre ready and wilting to consider it as a
pledge of friendly and peaceable relations for
the future between both confessions for the
sake of the state and its citizens, and for the
efficiencv and triumph of Christian truth.
Every sincere evangelic Christian acknow-
ledges the duty of loving other confessions
and deplores the separation in the church,
especially among members of a common
country. But as the chief of another church
undertakes in the said letter 10 demand, with
anumed authority, from the memlxrs of
ours a renunciation of their cherished creed,
founded upon the inviolable word of God,
and a retractation of evangelical truth won
by the blessed Reformation, without offering
Qfi his part the least prospect of a reconcilia-
tion on the basis of evangelical truth, we
must decidedly reject his action as an wn-
justiHable trespass upon our church, and in
BO doing we are sure of the agreement of
all Evangelicals, An appeal to the members
of our church not to heed this voice may be
deemed unnecessary \ but it is proper to keep
alUl more in mind, opposed to such prcten-

sionsp the numerous Ktembeis flf 4Mr pc^
suasions who in the midst of Ronsa Ccib»>
lidsm arc exposed to the teinpiiiiooi cf
infidelity toward the Hvangeltdl creed t
therefore, to procure the means ferjKMcU^
to them, giving them the sacramcoii^ tkf
Evangelical school and pastoraJ rare, col*
lections are directed soon to be made in aQ
our churches. The royal corasistoHei »Cfl
communicate this to the ministers oftliedii^
cescs* who on the days of ooUectioti on &
following Sundays ire to make proper aa-
iion of it to their congregaffonSk ^^H

There was also an announcoaHf
in the papers that some sort of a let- 1
ter to the Pope was proposed by '
members of the late General Ccm-
vention of the Protestant Episcopil
Church, although we do not knov
what came of the a(Tair eventually.

We must give justice to one por-
tion of the comments of the SaturdAj
Rcvitiv^ namely, that which refers to
the publication of the pontiBc^U let-
ter. It is a matter of great incon«*
nicnce to Catholics throughout the
world, that the publication of impor-
tant official documents at Rome is so
tardy and insufficient This is a de-
fect which ought to be, and we hope
will be, remedied. We have not ycl
seen the Latin text of the letter ad*
dressed by the Sovereign Pontiff to
Protestants, and have been obUged
to take a translation of it which is
not remarkably well-executed, and in
which we have corrected forty- seven
typographical errors, from an Eng-
lish Catholic newspaper. The Eng-
lish translations of the grand and
dignified pontifical documents which
are sent forth by the Holy See, arc
generally wretched ♦ and make them
appear to readers who are un acquaint*
ed with the originals in a very unfa*
vorable light.

It seems to us that it would hav^
added very much to the effect of the
Holy Father's paternal address to his
erring and strayed children, if an*
thentic copies had been at once sent
to all the bishopSy with a command

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius IX.

541

to publish both the original Latin
text, and also a translation authorized
by themselves, with their own official
counter-signature appended, for the
benefit of all Christians within their
several dioceses. As it is, however,
the letter of the Holy Father has
become very generally known through
the indirect channel of the newspa-
pers, and has not failed to produce a
great sensation. It is just such an
admonition as the head of the
Church, who is conscious that his
authority to teach the world is indu-
bitable, might be expected to issue.
It is in the style and manner which
become the Vicar of Jesus Christ
speaking to all the baptized, who, by
virtue of their baptism, are lawfully
subject to his pastoral jurisdiction.
The Pope speaks as one having au-
thority, and must necessarily do so,
just as our Lord and the Apostles
did, because he knows that he has
authority, and that the evidence of
his authority is so plain and clear,
that at least all the educated pastors
and teachers of the different Chris-
tian sects are capable of perceiving
it and bound to acknowledge it.
The Saturday Review complains
that the Pope does not argue on the^
subject, or adduce reasons to con-'
vince those who reject his authority.
This is a most unreasonable objec-
tion. How would it be possible,
within the limits of a brief letter, to
address arguments, at length, to all
the hundred and one different sorts
of Protestants? The letter is not
destitute of that kind and amount of
argument which are alone suitable in
a document of the kind. It appeals
to the manifest fact that Protestants
are divided among a multitude of
differing sects and doctrines, without
any principle of unity or certain cri-
terion of truth ; whereas the Catholic
Church, in communion with the See
of Peter^ possesses that unity and

universality which are the sure and
evident marks of the presence of the
Holy Spirit within her body, leading
her perpetually into all truth, accord-
ing to the promise of Christ. Our
Lord, when he demanded the obedi-
ence of faith under the peril of eternal
damnation from all his hearers, did
not enter into long arguments. He
presented brief and simple reasons
in an authoritative manner to his
auditors, and appealed to the eviden-
ces by which his divine mission was
attested from heaven. In like man-
ner the Holy Father, who is Christ's
vicegerent upon the earth, affirms
his own authority, commands sub-
mission to his teaching, and pre-
sents a simple, obvious argument ad-
dressed to the reason and conscience
of all men, which they have the
means of easily verifying if they will.
The affirmation of his authority, and
the command or exhortation to sub-
mit to it, are not made gratuitously,
and do not rest upon a mere personal
declaration of the Pontiff, to which
men are to yield an assent which is
blind, unreasoning, or destitute of
solid motives. \ The motives are not
expressed explicitly and at length in
the letter ; but they are appealed to
as existing within the reach of those
who are addressed, and the claim of
submission is based upon them.
The Holy Father speaks as the
head of a communion embracing al-
most two thirds of all Christendom,
which has existed in an unbroken
continuity of doctrine and organiza-
tion from remote antiquity, with the
entire united moral force of all the
bishops, doctors, and saints of the
church in the present and the past
ages, to back and support him. He
speaks to those whose ancestors ac-
knowledged his authority, and who
have been severed from his commu-
nion by a violent revolution, whose
justification three centuries have not

542

Lftier Apas(0lic of P^pe Pius fX.

been able to establish ; but whose
condemnation has been unmistaka-
bly pronounced by the disastrous
rcHuhs it has produced. He has»
therefore, a prima-fade claim of pre-
scription, possession, and general
acknowledgment in his favor, which
gives an immense moral weight to
his utterance. Moreover, he speaks
after having for three hundred years
argued the whole case between him-
self and Protestants in the most
thorough and complete manner, by
the means of the theologians and
writers of the Catholic Church, whose
works are accessible in all langua-
ges. His bishops and priests are
everywhere to be found, ready to ar-
gue and explain the doctrines of the
church for the benefit of all those
who desire it. At the council itself,
instructions and conferences in va-
rious languages will be given upon
all the points of controversy by the
ablest and most learned preachers of
all nations, and theologians will be
ready to give private conferences to
those who desire them- It cannot
be said, therefore, that the Holy Fa-
ther shuts out inquiry, argument, or
discussion ; for he does everj^hing
to invite and favor them» and by his
act in summoning a council, and
challenging the attention of the
whole world, throws open all the
doors and windo\^-s of the church to
the light of all the intelligence of
Christendom.

The reviewer complains^ moreover,
that the Pope claims an authority
above that which is admitted by a
school of Catholic theologians, or
even required by any formal pontifical
decree to be acknowledged as of ob-
ligatory doctrine. This is an utter-
ly reckless and baseless assertion*
Whatever may be the teaching of
Van Espen, Von Hontheim, Richer,
and other court canonists and law-
yers, whose erroneous and schisma-

tical doctrine \& coodeiiiiied
rejected in every CaXholic
Bossuet, De Marca, ami atl oilfao*
dox Galljcans have alurays lecogotr*
ed and supported every whil oC tiM
authority which ts afBrmed or tai])tied
in tlie pontifical letter.

As for the schtsmatical Orietilll^
who are supposed to be aggrkiei
by the terms of the invitation irfdc^
the Pope has extended to them to
attend the council, tliey an? (bcced,
in consistency with the doctrioe tbej
have evermore admitted, to acknov^
ledge the primacy of tlie Roman Pixi'
tiff, and his right to call an c^cumenka!
council. The Patriarch of Ccnstan-
tinople, although some of the bisbops
of his synod are said to 1 1 ^ • ^red
the acceptance of the V .iia-

tion, has refused even to receive
the letter containing it. The Anne-
nian Patriarch will probably follov
suit, and the Synod of St. Pelersbur|,
which is only a bureau of the i^lp^
rial government, will, of course, not
only reject the invitation to the coun-
cil in the most decisive manner, but
will put forth the entire political in-
fluence which Russia possesses io
the East to hinder the Oriental pft-
lates from attending. This line of
conduct, however, is totally inconsis-
tent with the principles and profes-
sions of the Eastern communions.
They all recogniste the primacy of
the Roman bishop, and his right to
convoke a council. They acknow-
ledge that their separation from the
Western church is an abnormal con-
dition, and that all portions of Chris-
tendom ought to be in unity, llicir
refusal to attend the council will
therefore be a condemnation of
themselves, and will manifest most
clearly the schismatical spirit by
which iheyare actuated. It may be
said that the terms on which they
are invited arc such that they can-
not attend. The gist of this excuse

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius IX.

S43

is, that the Pope demands a submis-
sion to his supremacy which they
cannot admit. This, however, does
not really excuse them. Admit, for
the sake of argument, that the Ro-
man Church has usurped a suprema-
cy which does not belong to it, and
is really to blame for the existing
schism. They are invited to attend
the council and sit in it as bishops.
If they are confident of the justice of
their cause, why do not they embrace
the opportunity to send their patri-
archs, metropolitans, and fifty or a
hundred of their principal bishops,
together with their most learned
archimandrites and theologians, and
the diplomatic representatives of
Russia and Greece, who may argue
their cause before the council and
in presence of all Christendom. If
they had any moral force at all, now
would be the opportunity to show it.
But they have none, and therefore
they dare not go, and by their open
manifestation of cowardice and utter
recklessness of the common good
of Christendom, they will give a
death-blow to their own cause.

The Pope is blamed for not having
invited the Protestant bishops to at-
tend the council. It is impossible
for him to invite them, because it is
impossible for him to recognize their
episcopal character. The Orientals
themselves would not sit with them
in council as fellow-bishops. Their
claim even to an exterior succession
is so extremely doubtful that at the
highest it has only probability in its
favor. Aside from all question, more-
over, concerning the alleged fact of
Parker's consecration by Barlow, and
of the consecration of Barlow him-
self, the essential defect of form in
the English ordinal of Queen Eliza-
beth must prevent the recognition of
any true episcopal succession in the
Protestant Episcopal Churches. This
is no reason, however, why the Pro-

testant bishops should not make an
attempt to gain a hearing and present
their claim before the council. They
cannot be admitted to the council
as bishops, but they might, and no
doubt would, be received with cour-
tesy and urbanity as distinguished
personages, and as representatives
of some millions of baptized Chris-
tians. Do they believe themselves
to be a portion of the Catholic epis-
copate ? One of their most learned
divines. Palmer, to say nothing of
many others, acknowledges that the
Roman Bishop, when he is in com-
munion witl^ the whole Catholic
Church, is thef centre of unity and
the presiding bishop of all Christen-
dom. Why, then, do they not de-
pute a large body of their number to
go to the council, attended by their
most learned theologians, and ask for
a hearing ? Nothing could give them
a better chance of manifesting the
full strength of their position, and
bringing into the light all the justice
there is in their cause, than such a
demonstration as this, if they only
had courage, independence, and con-
cert of action enough to make it.

We would say the same of other
Protestant communions making no
pretension to any Episcopal succes-
sion. They very generally profess a
desire for union among Christians.
Surely there must be some basis
upon which this union is possible.
Those who profess that Jesus Christ
has established a religion, given a re-
velation, taught a doctrine and way
of salvation, must admit that there is
some way of ascertaining with cer-
tainty what Christianity really is, and
refuting the claims of every kind of
pseudo-Christianity. Why can they
not make a bold and generous effort,
then, to bring the matter to a test,
send their representatives to Rome,
and try to have at least some be-
ginning of a conference respecting

544

Letter Apostolic of Pope Pius TX.

I
I

the cause of dissension and dis^
union?

We are glad to see the action taken
by the Presbyterians of New York
and New Jersey and the Evangeli-
cals of Berlin. We could have wished
that the former had exhibited equal
courtesy and amenity in their lan-
guage with the latter. However, we
let that pass. What we desire above
all things is, that attention shouk! be
drawn to tlie letter of the Holy Fa-
ther, and to the great and vital mat-
ters which it presents. Our Protes-
tant brethren can do us, in this re-
spect, a much greater sen' ice than we
can do ourselves. Their resolutions,
replies, discussions, and indignant
denials of the authority of the suc-
cessor of Peter only bring before the
minds of the multitude more distinct-
ly and universally the claim wliich he
makes to be heard and reverenced
as the Vicar of Christ. This is pre*
cisely what we desire. We do not
ask, and the Holy Father has never
demanded, that those who are sepa-
rated from his communion should
submit to his authority witliout hav-
ing just and adequate reasons pre-
sented before their minds. We ask
only that they lay aside their inherit-
ed prejudices, and that animosity
which is their result; examine, in-
quire, and weigh calmly, with a pure
desire to know the truth, and with
prayer to God, the evidence of the
supreme authority bequeathed to the
Roman Pontiff by St, Peter, the
Prince of the Apostles. It is idle to
pretend that the claims of the Roman
See are unworthy of a hearing, and
can be set aside by a simple denial.
There is no other human being ex-
cept the Pope who has the slightest
claim to call himself the Father of all
the faithful, or who would dream of
doing it. Whoever should attempt
it would receive no attention, but
would be disregarded as an idiot.

No church, even, hc»wever ]af]ge in
numbers, can gain any genentt attoh
tion to its pretensions of pos^e^ini
that doctrine and polit
truly apostolic, or its iv.
the rest of Christendom lo confbrai
to its peculiar type of Christtanttf.
The Pope alone compels the altai-
tion of the world when he speaks.
The emphatic protests which his tot*
jestic and paternal admonitions to iS
Christians to return to the fold of
unity call forth, are themselves wh*
nesses to the immense power whid
he possesses as the successor of St
Peter and the heir of that prtjmiae
which was made by Jesus Chrisi:
**Thou art Peter, and upon this rock
I will build my church ; and iBt
gates of hell shall not prevail against
it : and I will give to thee the kc?s
of the kingdom of heaven j whatso
ever thou shalt bind on earth shall
be bound in heaven, and whalsocrer
thou shalt loose on earth shall be
loosed in heaven/' There is no hu-
miliation in beings admonished and
instnicted by the voice of one wha
is the inheritor of such a promise, of
in being invited to return under ibe
guidance of such a majestic and an-
cient pastoral authority. It is not
in the spirit of pride or disdain thit
we urge upon our fellow-Chrislians
the duly of returning to the bosom
of the Mother Church, We ardently
desire that they may be our brethren,
united with us in faith and fellow-
ship, sharers with us in the glorious
privilege of Catholic communion, and
in the noble work of propagating
Christianity throughout the world.
W^e desire to judge as favorably as
possible of the motives and inten-
tions of those who, with mistaken
zeal, repulse the earnest and paternal
exhortations of the Father of Chris-
tendom, and trust that when they
have more cnlmly and thoroughly in-
vestigated the grounds of their sepa-

Sonnet from Dante.

S4S

ration, many of them will obey the
voice of truth and conscience, and
retrace the path which led their an-
cestors away from the doctrine and
fold of the successor of St. Peter.
We are not sanguine enough to expect
that the approaching Council of the
Vatican will be followed by the im-
mediate and universal return of all
Christians to Catholic unity. We
have no doubt, however, that it will
mark a great epoch in ecclesiastical
and human history, and, like the
Council of Trent, will inaugurate a
new period of progression and tri-
umph for the church. To what ex-
tent the separated Christians of the
East and West will become reconciled
to- the Catholic Church, we will not

venture to predict ; but we will ha-
zard a prophecy that within the next
half-century the great mass of those
who are not reabsorbed into catholi-
city will have melted away into some
form of infidelity, or have been swept
up by some new false religion which
is openly anti-Christian. What course
the body of the Protestant clergy will
take remains to be seen ; but if they
are not wise enough to anticipate and
lead the movement which must inevi-
tably bring back the most religious
portion of their people to the unity of
the See of St. Peter, they will be left
behind by it, and will ere long find
themselves without flocks and without
churches.

SONNET (XIII.) FROM THE VITA NUOVA OF
DANTE ALIGHIERI.

So gentle seems my lady and so pure
When she greets any one, that scarce the eye

Such modesty and brightness can endure,
And the tongue, trembling, falters in reply.

She hears ; but heeds not, people praise her worth —
Some in their speech, and many with a pen —

But meekly moves, as if sent down to earth
To show another miracle to men I

And such a pleasure from her presence grows
On him who gazeth, while she passeth by —

A sense of sweetness that no mortal knows

Who hath not felt it — ^that the soul's repose

Is woke to worship, and a spirit flows
Forth from her face that seems to whisper, " Sigh 1"

T. W. P.

VOL. VIII. — ^35

CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

A PLEASANTLY-FURNISHED paHor,

looking out upon noble trees and
gray shnibbery.

Within, books, pictures, portfolios,
and a superb piano.

At tbe piano a lovely girl of twenty
summers, whose face, figure, and fair
while hands give token that no care,
or sorrow, or labor has ever reached
hen

A footfall on the piazza startles
her ; the bell rings, and is answered.

** George T'

" Isabel !*'

And in another moment brother
and sister are locked in each other's
amis. He put her from him a little,
and looked in her face.

** You are more than ever Bdia^^
he said, while two or three times he
kissed her fair forehead.

" How is my mother ? Didn't I
hear some strains of Mozarfs
* Twelfth * as I came into the gate ?"

** Yes, I was just playing the Agtms
Da, Mother is nicely ; and I was
enjoying my music immensely ; for it
is the first day in two or three weeks
that I have been allowed to touch
tlie piano."

"Whyr'

" Ikcause mother has been so sick.
Don't look so frightened ; she is
quite well now. Did you know you
had a little sister upstairs?"

**No, indeed !" he exclaimed, with
an expression of delight, at which
Isabel laughed again, while she went
on to say :

*' Mother was so nervous, and so
excited by the storms and shipwTecks
that the papers were full of, that for
nights and nights she did not sleep
at all, and the doctor was afraid she
would die or lose her reason; but

for some time past she has slept, lad
now she seems quite reconsred"

*' Let us go to lier^ — can I gp upf

Just then a HttJe girl of siic jtus
came into the room, with wide CJ^cd
ant eyes, and, " Mother sa)^s — ^

*' Ah 1 little one," said tlie jwpj
man caressingly, " do you remeniba
brother George ?*'

**Yes, indeed I do»"

** Then give me a hug/' said k
folding her in his arms, and then re-
leasing her. ** It is a long time since
you saw me. I should not wooderSf
you had forgotten me/*

** But I have not forgotten you
and mother says," she went on, dbnc^
ing up and down in great glee, " t
it's brother George, you^re to come
right up'Stairs; only you must»t
make a noise for the sake of tht
baby. What did you bring roe?'*

" \^ you have a baby, you ought miT
to expect me to bring you anyiliing.
Isn't the baby enough V*

She smiled rather doubtfully, and
trotted on before them up-stairs.

*' Isabel," said George, ** wait i
minute/' Then, as if something in
his sister's face failed to invite die
meditated confidence, he asked, as
they slowly ascended the stairs thcit
hands locked, "' Is Philip here r

"No ; he will not be here till neat
Monday^the Monday before Christ*
mas."

" And you are to be married—"

" On Christmas eve ; how glad 1
am you've come !*'

**Is my father well r

** Yes J he will be so sorry not tOi
have met you at the wharf ; but he

had to go to W on Thursday,

and will not be home till evening/

They entered Mrs. Hartland's

Christtnas Gifts.

S47

n, and the son^ so hardly parted

rem J so anxiously and long expected,

yas pressed to his mother's heart.

My darling boy, you are indeed a

Christmas gift.*'

**Yes, dear modier, we ought to
have been back long ago ; sometimes
was afraid I should never get back
you. Besides that hurricane off
be Cape, which obliged us to put in
:)r repairs, we have had ver)' heavy
eather since we crossed the line.
3ut I have accomplished the business
father sent me to do, thank God^ and
am with you all once more. Are
Mar)^ and Fanny well ?'*

*' Yes, they have gone out to buy
!^hristmas presents, and Robert with
lem,"
"And Charlie?"

" Is spending a few days with Aimt
Ellen, and will come back with them
Monday for the wedding and for
iristmas.'*

**0 mother dear!" said Isabel,
^whom was your letter from ?"

" From Aunt Ann. They are all
irell, and are coming on Monday/'
** And Lucy and Jane ?''
"Yes/'

"But, my darling mother/* exclaim-
George, with a look of distress,
^ you will be perfectly worn out with
"all this company/'

** Mother has nothing to do with
that,'* said Isabel ; ""' we take care of
lat. If mother takes care of the
aby, that is all we expect of her ; and
Irs. Redly is to stay till Philip and
I are off/*

** And how is this dear little Christ-

aas present ?" said George, stooping

tenderly over the sleeping infant,

** Lovely,*' said his mother, smiling,

** As lovely," said Isabel, with a

Jf ght laugh, " as such little nuisances

ver are/'

'* Why, Bella dear, don't you love
er?'* asked George.
"Oh I yes, to be sure, I love her ;

but I dou't see the use of her ] no-
body wants her."

" I beg your pardon, dear, I want
her,'* interrupted her mother.

" Oh t yes, mother, I don't mean
that ; I know you want her, and I am
sure I am glad you have her ; only I
mean to say that she has chosen to
come at the most inconvenient time
possible, as babies always do ; and that
there is no place here for a baby, and
that she deranges everything ; and
turns the whole house upside down ;
and I think babies are a nuisance ;
and then Kate is six years old, and
we had no right to expect any more
babies ; and there were enough of
us without her ; and I am just going
to be married, and it all seems so
odd and queen"

Mother laughed, and seemed to
think it not at all odd and queer,
nor yet did she lake to heart Isabel's
repugnances ; but George said mus-
ingly :

" And yet you are going to be mar-
ried yourself next week ?'*

** That is precisely why it is such
a nuisance/' said Isabel.

** Would there hav« been enough
of us without her," said her mother,
" if brother George had never come
back, as for so long a time we feared
he would not?**

*' There are never enough of us
without George,*' replied Isabel, red-
dening, partly from vexation, and
pardy from the consciousness that
the brother, of whom she was so fond
and proud, was regarding her, she
really did not know why, with some-
thing like surprise and disappoint-
ment.

Just tHen the baby stirred, woke,
was taken up^ admired, discussed,
and caressed, and in the midst of a
consultation as to what her name
should be, a noise of feet and voices
was heard in the hall below.

By a mutual instinct tliat**mothet*5

548

Christmas Gifts,

room *' should be spared ihe distur-
bance of too noisy greetings, the
young people ran down-stairs. There
were lender embraces on the part of
the girls, more vehement and lumul-
tuons ones from Bob, and confused
cries of, ** Are we not glad lo see
you 1" and ** How long you staid I"
and **We thought you would never
come back !" with " I was in dan-
ger of never coming back ;^ and
•* How you have grown f and ** How
pretty you are !" at which Mary and
Fanny laughed and blushed,

" I say, old fellow," cried Bob,
*' hadn*t you a terrible time ? w^ere
you frightened ?'*

** I hadn't time to be frightened,"
returned George, *' there was too
much to do."

** What could you do ?'*

** Not so much as a sailor, of
course \ but every one can do some-
thing — every one who is cool and
not afraid.**

"By Jove I but I should think
'twould be fun I only I should be
afraid ; I shouldn't like to go to the
bottom/*

** No, most of us w^ould object to
that.**

" I wish you wouldn't say * l»y
]fove,' Robert," said Isabel ; "I wish
you wouldn't take up expressions
from your school-fellows that you
never hear at home/'

** Isabel isn't fond of foreign im-
portations," said Fanny.

" Yes, she is, though,'* retorted
Robert wisely, **what is she made
of, from top to toe, but foreign im-
portations?''

Amid the general laugh which fol-
lowed this thrust, Mrs. Hartland's
voice was heard at the head of the
stairs :

*' Fanny I brother George will want
to go to his room ; is it ready for
him ?"

" Yes, mother, it is all ready ; I

will go and see. You md\
plenty of time, George ; £ar«itnnaj
half an hour later to*day, obaccti

of father."

Not long nfter th'
thundering rap at (
which opened and admitD
youngest brother^ a lad of leal

"\\%, Charlie, boy/*heexdi
as the liU>e little iel'low sprang oHi^
his arms. ** I didn*t expect you; 1
thought you weren't coming tUI Ha
day/*

**No, I wasn't ; but father wrnl.
the paper that tlie ship wasin» awil
told Aunt Ellen 1 couldn't stay
longer/*

" You've grown a head talleriin
I saw you/'

**I should think I'd had
enough to grow; how long bav^TOl]
been gone ?"

** Fourteen months ; but let's j
down and see father."

" But, George," said the little I
looking round the room, "do let J
come back and chum with you i
Fve slept with Robert ever since j
went away, and 1 like it very
with Robert, but Td rather
back to you, mayn't I ?'*

"Certainly you shall, if
and Robert agree to it/' And Cha._
made one leap to the first landing
another to the second, and wdth t
third bound reached his fat
door.

A gay party assembled at dinne
Motiicr came down for the first tts
to honor her boy's return. Mr Hj
land said along, earnest grace, thank
ing God for the bounties spread
fore them less than for the return l
the long-absent, and for their joyful
reunion. The girls were lookic
their prettiest, the boys full of gle
All being more talkative than hungr
they discussed home aiTairs, family'
affairs, the voyage, the tropics, and
Valparaiso, until Charlie, tired of J

Christmas Gifts.

549

pushed it back, and began
g summersets over the floor,
y of digesting his dinner,
general move fullowcd ; father
eorge exchanged a few sen ten-
business matters in a low voice
ich nobody listened, and the

man k'ft the room. Presently
turned with a bulky envelope,
he gav^e his father, saying :
lere are the papers, sir ; I
you will find the whole matter
learly stated, and the affair sa-
Orily arranged.*'
Hartland took thebundle, and,
g himself at a side table, turn-
drop-light conveniently and

to open and read. At this

the rest of the party moved
le parlor ] mamma was placed

most comfortable chair, and
wng people were presently ab-
i in a conversational and phi-
M'cal game. How long the wits
>f them had been on the strain,
t of them could have guessed,
just as Robert was insisting
lie article under discussion
►e red clover, and that it must
nd chietly in icebergs, or else

anny and George had made

mswers, suddenly their father's
[lire loomed up before them,
HI ally calm face was slightly
bus.

never can be thankftd enough,
tar boy," he began abruptly,
is voice trembled also, ".to
jfou among us once more j

must say I am ver\^ proud at

inner in which you have ma-

this business.'*

Ilje blushed, mamma's eyes
mih tears, and Charlie, who
6 last half-hour had been so
that he was of no use except
:e a laugh at his own expense,

his eyes and looked up.

Tge is a trump I" said he sen*

,ly."

This was a great relief to papa^
who fairly looked as if he would have
liked to cry himself, and the hubbub
o [Voices and inquiries which followed
was quieted by Isabel placing her-
self at the piano, and beginning the
same strain from Mozart's Twelfth
which had charmed her brother on
entering the gate.

George stood over the piano and
again looked at Isabel, as if he were
half inclined to tell her something,
but refrained ; and Isabel was too
much occupied with her own plans
and prospects lo indulge an indiscreet
curiosity.

The next day Mr. Hartland hav-
ing established himself in the library
soon after breakfast, and the younger
members of the family having gone
out on their Christmas errands, Mrs.
Hartland bethought herself to go
and sec if her son's room were sup-
plied with all things necessary to his
comfort. The door was open, and
George and Isabel were both there,
gaily chatting and laughing, amid a
confused medley of books, papers,
clothes, and odd nicknacks, to which
George was busily adding, as he
pulled pile after pile from his tmnk.
Isabel glanced from one object to
another, with the idle curiosity and
eagerness begotten of such occupa-
tion ; but seeing her mother ap-
proach, she made ha-ste to clear the
rocking-chair and place a footstool
for her feet.

**Tell mother about that curious
little pipe,'* she said.

'* Yes, but let her see it first ; isn't
it odd?*' said he, showing it, "I
thought of giving it to Robert, he is
so fond of oddities ; and see, mother,
is not this shagreen case pretty, with,
the silver trimmings, and that quaint
old medallion on tlie cover? It will
do to keep your needles and thimble
in."

"Yes, and scissors, and a gpod-

SSo

Christmas Gifts,

sized spool of cotton ; it will do nice-
ly to take to the sewing society, moth-
er dear."

**And here is a box which I
thought of giv ing to father," returned
George, " only he never takes snufT/'
producing a beautiful amber snuff-
box, mounted and lined with gold,

" Exquisite ! he could keep post-
age-stamps in it," suggested Isa-
bel

"That would do very well for you
girls, who only WTite three or four
letters a week \ I have something else
that will please father much better-"
And he brought from his trunk a dag-
ger of fine metal, curiously wrought
in arabesque, the massive handle
also richly carved and inlaid. While
her tnother was admiring the work-
manship of the dangerous little wea-
pon, Ltell took up, one after another,
the books upon the table, most of
them old acquaintances, travelling
companions, taken from home and
brought home again. As she listen-
ed to the story of the pipe, mamma
observed in Isabers hand a little,
well-thumbed book which attracted
her attention,

"What book is that, dear?" she
asked, as the story ended.

** A prayer-book," said Isabel.

'* An Episcopal praycrbook?"

** No,** said George, ** a Catholic."

"What do you have that for?*' said
Mrs, Hartland, with a mingled ex-
pression of surprise, contempt, and
indignation.

** Hccause I want it," he returned,
smiling.

** W hat do y'ou want it for ?** she
exclaimed, instantly alarmed at his
look and tone,

** Because, dear mother, I want it
10 use ; I am a Roman Catholic,"

" A Roman Catholic 1 You might
as well plunge this dagger into my
heart/* said his mother, **as tell me
that. Dearly as 1 love you, I would

lai^l

much rather see you dead and bu-
ried."

** And I,** said George qui
** would much rather be dead
buried than ever be a Pro'
again."

''What infatuation I But how c
you to be a Catholic, and what
it into your head to change your
gion ?"

George began to tell her of an
quaintance formed on the outw;
voyage with a Catholic priest, who
bound for the same port as hioasetf ;
of tlie inexplicable attraction whi
drew him to this man ; of the ch,
of his conversation and manners J
of their discussions ; of the bcKiks
which he lent him ; of his tender
fatherly advice and instruciioni
here Mrs. Hartland interposed an
pression of impatience and coniei
— ** in short, dear mother/' pursiii
the young man earnestly and quicti
** I became perfectly convinced tli
the Catholic religion is the only ti
religion ; and as I did not choose
risk my salvation by living any loi
er without it, I was received into
church before I left Valparaiso."

** Well, I feel as if all the ha
ness of my life were blighted."

** 1 am sorry yon feel so, dear
thcr ; I am grieved to pain you,
there was no help for it ; you woi
not have me violate my conscienc

** There is such a thing as an
enlightened conscience/'

" That's so, my dear mother/
he, with something more than his
bright smile, *' and I am sure
when you have heard fairly stall
the arguments which have infiueQi
me — "

** I don*t want to hear any ai
ments or any reasons \ I would
thcr die than be a Catholic ; it
bad sign when young people be[
to think themselves wiser than th«
elders/*

IS]

Christmas Gifts,

551

** So it is, dear mother; but you
did not repulse Grace Estabrook with
that arg^umcnt when she left the Uiii-
tarian church and began to come to
yours, against the wishes of both her
parents.'*

" I don't wish to hear anything
about it, or to talk or argue ; the
whole subject is hateful to me. You
have given us all the dagger, my
son," said she, placing it upon the
tabic, and risings she went below to
communicate to Mr, Hartland the sad
intelligence.

The allusion to the dagger affected
George ver>^ sensibly, and he dreaded
to go downstairs or meet his father
and sisters ; but having at last made
the effort, he was immensely relieved
lo find ever)^ one as kind as usual.
His father's face was pale and excited,
but he said nothing ; Bob stared at
him rather saucily, as if he were a
phenomenon ; and the rest of the
family evidently regarded him as an
amiable dupe. This was hard, but
endurable. His spirits rose, he romp-
ed with the little ones, capped verses
with his sisters, and convinced every
one that his self-respect was in no way
diminished by the slender apprecia-
tion put upon his faith. There were,
of course, not wanting arguments and
persuasions to lure him back lo the
faith of the family ; but George was
not a fellow having once in his life
met with positive truth, to abandon it
afterward for a mere negation.

After dinner, some of the novelties
which be had brought home were
produced ; the dagger, which his fa-
ther accepted and admired, without
seeming seriously wounded by it j a
collection of shells, a set of corals,
and some exquisite little articles of
mother-of-pearK Kate fished out of
hl> pocket a necklace, as she called
it, of garnet beads, not running all
together, but separated occasionally

by little bits of gold chain, with a gold
medal pendent from it

" Isn't this a reward of merit ?" ex-
claimed she ; *' is this for me, brother
George? may I have it?"

** Yes," said George, laughing, "you
may have it."

But it would not go over her head,
and it had no clasp to fasten round
her neck ; then she tried it on for a
bracelet, but it would fall off. In
short, it was not meant to wear, nor
for an ornament at all, but for some-
thing else ; and as she twirled it ra-
ther uneasily over her fingers, not
knowing exactly what lo do with it,
George took it from her, and replaced
it with a carnelian necklace which he
clasped round her wlnte throat. Kate
was contented to see the little garnet
beads slip back into her brother's
pocket, with the assurance that she
should see them as often as she
wished, not, however, till ihey had
been curiously examined and inquired
into by Charlie and Fanny.

**They are to say?" said Fanny,
with great curiosity, " how do you say
them ?" But before George could
answer the question, the baby was
brought in^ and the subject dropped.

The litde one was petted, praised,
and passed from hand to hand with
an affectionate eagerness which show-
ed plainly that she was not generally
considered a nuisance, and at last all
protested that it was high time she
had a name.

" I shall not call her Bridget, to
please George," said mamma.

"But it would not please me, dear
mother, to have you call her Bridget.
I see no more propriety in calling her
Bridget than in calling her Eulalie,or
Genevieve, or Inez,'*

" I think I will call her Elizabeth
Tudor ; she was a good Protestant."

"I doubt \tTy much Eli^abetli's
being what you would call a good

552

Christmas Gifts.

Protestant," retumed George merri-
ly; **but if you call baby after her, I
shall immediately put her under the
protection of St. Elizabeth,"

"Who was St. Elizabeth?'* asked
Fanny.

" She was a Hungarian princess,
and very pious. She washed the
saints' feet and tended llije sick and
poor with her own hands;"

** If it was a boy, I w^ould call him
Cranmer," said mamma.

*' I guess not/' said Mn Harlland ;
"I should have something to say
about that/'

" You might cal! her Jezebel, or
Baths heba/' suggested Robert ; ** I
dare say they were both genuine Pro-
testants." There was frequently an
uncertainty as to how Robert's mis-
siles were intended to fall ; and whe-
ther his barbed arrows were sped in
innocence or with malice afore-
thought was a point in regard to
which the most unlimited private
judgment was conceded to every
member of the family. Of course, no-
body laughed at this sally, though
Isabel bit her lip to keep from smil-
ing, and George said,

**Why not call her Annie, after
Aunt Ann ?"

" I have been thinking of that,"
said mamma, **only Isabel thinks it
is such a homespun name."

" I like homespun names," said
papa,

Isabel liked Blanche, and Fanny
suggested Margaret. Robert thought
Schwartz would be more appropriate
than Blanche. George said any
name was good that was in the cal en -
'dar. Robert said Charlotte Corday
-was in the calendar. George thought
not, and after a brisk discussion and
sundry pros and cons, it was decided
to call the little one Annie.

" And St. Anne was the mother of
the Blessed Virgin Mary," whispered

nd ■

George to Isabel, as he opcDed

piano for her.

" Christmas gifts not appr
said George, turning round
head of the first flight of
bid Isabel good nighL

** What do you mean ?" saic

"I mean the dear little sis
there," pointing to his mother*i
" whom you think a little nuis^

*• Psha !" said Isabel

** And I here, too," he
"who should have been und
water rather than have come hoiB
Catholic. And tlie gift of faiti* **
said seriously, " which God
stowed upon me, and which my i
would wish me to throw ai
trample under foot, and the gua
ship of saints and angels, whicll
pie mock at."

*' Baby can hardly be cal
Christmas present," said Bell» *4
she is four weeks old, and Chr
is not until next Thursday.**

"Not precisely.*'

** Nor your gift of faith* as yc
it, since you became a Catholiij
say, before leaving Valparaiso.''

"Not as we usually speak j
ever}' blessing comes to us real
cause of the Incarnation, and
blessing which we have particutai
to be thankful for may be grai
regarded as a Christmas gift,'

"Well, it must be owned/'
Isabel, "that you bring your idea
like the wise woman in the Pro
from afar."

George went on quietly wi
smiling, " There will be more
mas gifts next Thursday.*'

*' 1 dare say," said Bell, thoof
her face demanded an explanation.
" Fatlicr and mother will hai
another son, and we all shall hai
another brother, and you will ha^
one who in some sort will stand J
you in the place of God."

. idea

Christmas Gifts.

553

Bell colored and was silent If
she had chosen to speak, she would
have said that of all her brother's
far-fetched ideas this was the oddest,
and one which she was little likely
to appreciate. She certamly had
not regarded Philip at all in that
light, or as a gift from God any way.
She returned her brother's good
night, and, R^ing into her own room,
meditated how Gt.'orge was always
the same incomprehensible fellow,
always gay and full of life, and yet
always taking seriously what every
one said in temper or in fun, or by
vanity, or for elTect, " as if an klle word
signified." With every one else in
the house she did pretty much as she
pleased ; hut George always contrived
to manage her, and had done so
ever since she was born. He had a
quiet, serious way of talking to her,
as if he were ti\Tnty years her senior,
which was not ilaUering to BelPs
vanity ; yet she loved him so ver}^
much, she was not at all sure that
she loved Philtp better.

**WeIl, George," said Robert on
Saturday night, *^ I suppose 3^ou are
not going to church tomorrow with
us?"

" Probably not,'* said George.

** I suppose you will go to St. Law-
rence's, over here, with Servian t-girls»
and stable-men, and rag-pickers j
won't it be a sweet crowd !'*

"Do be quiet, Robert,*' said his fa-
ther, "what difference does it make
whom you go to church with ?''

** Mather," said Fanny, **niay I go
to church with brother George to-
morrow?"

*' No, Fanny, you may nof,^* said
MVs. Hartland shortly, "and you are
not to ask for such a thing. The
Catholic religion is the religion of
the devil, and I don't want you to
know anything about it, or to hear or

think anything about it. I would
rather you were dead and buried
than that you should be Catholics,
any of you. '*

Poor Fanny looked dismiyed, and
Robert and Mary Liugbed irreve-
rently ; but Mr. Hartland said miklly,

** If the Catholic religion were the
religion of the devil, my dear, I think
there is nothing gained by saying so.*^

And when the children had dis-
persed for the night, and he was
alone again with Mrs. Hartland, he
said :

" George has been led away by his
imagination ; and your vehement
opposition will only strengthen him ;
let him alone, and he will get over
this."

In due time Philip made his ap-
pearance. He was a gay, spirited,
handsome fellow — a great favorite
with every one, and especially with
George, whose classmate he had
been.

The Shirleys and Hartlands had
been intimate for many years, having
moved in the same society, inherited
the same religious opinions, and im-
bibed by association the same ideas.
Mr. Shirley was a man of great
wealth, and was still living ; but Philip
had just inherited a tine property
from the uncle after whom he was
named, so that he was as rich as he
needed to be now, with a prospect of
as much again hereafter. Indeed,
as Mrs. Hartland rather proudly said,
"It was precisely the connection
which they had most desired for Isa-
bel"

And yet, such as Philip was, it was
not strange, perhaps, that George's
idea of the Christmas gift should
seem to Isabel far-fetched. " BtU it
is not so,** George reasoned, ** for you
all say that marriages are made in
heaven, and St. James says that

554

Christmas Gifts.

* Every best gift, and every perfect
gift, is from above, and comelh down
from the Father of lights."''

Christmas eve arrivedj and, accord-
ing lo the programme, the young peo-
ple were married ** The wedding
was furnished with guests/* and it
may be taken for granted at once
that evcrjthing was planned and
carried out in the most approved
style, since Isabel had tlie su-
preme dictatorship. George was first
groomsman, and the others were se-
lected from the list of Beliefs incon-
solable admirers. Little Kate was
the smallest bridesmaid, and went
through her part with serious gravity,
evidently believing that she was as-
sisting at a solemn function. The
bride and groom were pronounced
the handsomest couplCj and so forth ;
the cake and the weather were de-
licious. Philip certainly appreciated
his Christmas gift, and thought him-
self a happy man. He had always
considered Belle the prettiest girl in
P— — ^ as she was certainly one of
the cleverest ; he was perfectly per-
suaded that she was equally good
and beautiful, and he had the grace
to think that his outi wealth, with
his other advantages, did no more
than place him upon a j>ar with her.
Certainly, Isabel's prospects of hap-
piness were very fair.

And so she passed away to adorn
a new house, very much missed by
all at the old, and by none more than
by Mary, who succeeded to the place
and honors of elder sister, though
confessedly by no means so beauti-
ful, brilliant, or clever as " Miss Hart-
_land that was." But Mary was a
girl, played and sang very
I sweetly, and was always ready to
■f^atify her father with those simple
ballads in which he chiefly delighted.
Home was quieter, but perhaps
scarcely less happy, and home hap*
ptness was constantly augmented by

the pleasure of anticipating Isabel's
visits.

If Mr- Hartland really expected
George to get over his \ox^ for and
belief in the Catholic religion, he
was evidently doomed to disappoint-
ment ; for, to all appearance, it every
day penetrated more and more tlie
very substance of his being, though
he had always been so sincerely
religious that his external condod
was modified by it less than might
have been supposed. Fanny never re-
peated her preposterous request for
permission to go to church with
brother George ; but she was per-
petually slipping into his room, peep-
ing into his books, admiring his little
pictures and statuettes, trying, in
fact, with a girl's insatiable curiosity,
to discover why the forbidden fruit
was so unspeakably poisonous. She
incurred repeated scoldings for her
restless inquest ; and, after being re-
proved the twentieth time for tak^
ing possession of brother George's
books and carrying them off into her
own room, she fairly disconccflcd
her mother by indignantly inquiring,
** Why they had no * cned,* and what
right the people who first started the
Protestant religion hail to hide away
the * Apostles' Creed ' from every-
body, so that hundreds of persons
who thought themselves Christians,
and meant to be Christians, lived
and died without ever knowing there
was any * creed.' *'

Poor Mrs, Hartland was com-
pletely nonplussed ; she knew nothing
about creeds herself, but she hesi-
tatingly suggested that they had a
" form of covenant." This, Fanny
insisted, was not the least like the
** Creed,*' and her mother, having no
other forces in reserve, took refuge
in the usual invective, and assured
her daughter in the most solemn
manner thai she would prefer to see
her iii her grave ratlier tlian have her

Christmas Gifts.

555

imbibe her brother George's senti-
ments. Fanny, of course, was obliged
to go to George for a satisfactory
answer to her question, and having
learned from him the gradual process
by which the first Protestantism had
dwindled down into New England
Congregationalism, her rev^erence for
the system in which she had been
brought up was not increased.

Meanwhile, almost another year
has passed away. Little Annie
Hartland is creeping about the car-
pet, or pushing herself round with a
chair, and, under great persuasion
and generous bribery, making some
diffident attempts to talk. Isabel
has been at home some weeks, and
is domiciled in her own old room.
Philip's visits are frequent, but short
and uncertain, for though a rich he
is by no means an idle man. All
are improving the last beautiful days
of autumn, in anticipation of the dis-
agreeable weather of settled winter.

Fanny, especially, who was fond
of riding and a capital horsewoman,
rode almost every afternoon, some-
times without any escort, and some-
times accompanied by Robert, who
was very proud of the elegant figure
his sister made on her spirited yet
gentle horse.

On one of the loveliest of these
days, as George, returning from a
long walk, was sauntering up the
drive, he was startled at seeing Rob-
ert upon the lower end of the piazza
without a hat, trembling, and exces-
sively pale.

** Do you know ? did you see her?"
he asked, quivering with excitement,
and without waiting for an answer,
*i Y^w — she's been thrown—and mo-
ther says she*s been terribly hurt."

*' Where was she ? who was wnth
her ? is she here ?'*

•** In mother*s room. Where were
you that you did not see it ?"

** I have been in the other direc-
tion^ up toward the academy. Has
Philip come ?"

*' Yes, he came just before Fan
was hurt,"

George went up-stairs, and found
Fanny quite insensible.

The poor child was settled in her
mother's ropm, out of the way of Isa-
bel, -whose little boy was only a week
old, and from whom the sad news
was to be kept as long as possible.
For some days it seemed very doubt-
ful wlielher Fanny would recover;
but her youth prevailed, and at last
the doctor pronounced that, with
great care, she would be perfectly re-
stored, though she would scarcely be
able to leave the house before spring.

During this interval Belle, who was
rapidly convalescing, had repeatedly
asked for Fanny, and wondered so
much that she did not come to her
room that it was at last no longer
possible to conceal her sister's injury.
Isabel's excitement and agitation
were at first extreme ; but the assur-
ance that the invalid was now doing
well soon soothed tkwA cheered her,
and she pleased herself that before
long she could go into her mother's
room and show Fanny her beautiful
baby.

** He is four weeks old to-morrow,"
said Isabel, '' and tl^e doctor says I
m a y go d o vv n -s t a i r s I o m o rr o \\\ Poo r
dear little Fanny I I wonder when
she wmII be able to go out ? Do you
know*, George, I think, considering
all tiiat has been said on several oc-
casions about preferring that we
should be dead and buried rather
than that we should be this and that,
we all ought to be very thankful that
Fanny was not killed outright?"

** Of course/'

** I wonder if mother ever thought
of it r

But George made no reply ; only,
after a few minutes, he said :

SS6

Christmas Gifts*

"You ought to have this dear little
fellow baptized, now, while Phrlip is
here,"

**0 clear r* said Isabel, ''vvc don't
dream of having him baptized till
spring ; it is too cold ; and Philip is
going to-morrow evening, Annie was
almost six months old before she was
baptized/'

'* 1 know, but it is very wrong j
most Catholic children are baptized
before they are ten days old/*

"Oh I yes, I know you think it is
necessary/*

" If it is not necessary, I don*t see
why you do it at all"

**Why, it is a pious observance/'
said Isabel ** What hurry is there ?
besides, we can't have him baptized
now, for Philip and I have not agreed
what to call him."

** And while you are debating that
point, you run I he risk of having him
die without bcnng baptized at all/'

" I don*t lliink there is any danger.
He is as well as he can be. And
mother's little — I forget what his
nnme was — tiied without being bap-
tized at all, and I don*t believe it
makes anydilTerence/*

** Just as I told you last year, Belle/*
said George, smiling^ "gifts despised ;
you place a sacrament instituted by
our blessed Saviour himself on the
same footing with grace at table ; a
pious obsen^ance, of course ; to be
attended to, no doubt, when one is
not in too much of a hurry/*

Isabel half smiled ; but she was too
proud and happy, and too busy pet*
ting her darling, lo regard much the
drift of her brother's words. At that
moment Philip came in to get the ba-
by to show Fanny, and the three ad-
journed into tiicir mother's room,
Philip carrying the baby, of whom he
was evidently vcr}' proud.

** There are most too many of you/'
said Mrs. Hart I and ; but she could
not choose which to dismiss, so ihev

all went in. ** I don't let Fanny I
A7WX, but you need not stay loo^,**

Fanny was very fond of babies,
and they made her examirie his beai>*

tiful eyes and forehead and dimpled
chin ; and then Belle called her sis-
ter*s attention to the exquisitely em-
broidered dress which she hc-rscif had
worked.

** I wonder how long it vrill be be-
fore I shall be able lo work another^^'
said Fanny, with a patient smile.

" You will soon be well cnougli,
dear Fanny, for me to come aud read
to you," said Geot^e.

" Oh ! yes, I shall enjoy that ; and
if Belle is going down-stairs to-mor-
row, she can play a little, and if the
doors are left open, I shall hear/'

" Yes, and Mary can play to you ;
for I shall be carrying Belle Off pretty
soon,*' said Philip.

** No, indeed,'* said mamma, "she
can*t go till after Christmas; so ycnt
will have to come back and ^pend
Christmas with us/'

** It will be a great drawback to
our Christmas, having Fanny up-
stairs," said Isabel.

" Yes/' returned mamma ; **but tf
she recovers, we shall have no reason
to complain."

" I have been telling Isabel that
she ouf^ht to have the baby baptized
while Philip is here,** said George.

" Nonsense, George I'* replied his
mother ; "nolxidy thinks as you do,
and why will you be forcing )'our pe-
culiar notions upon us?" And so the
suggestion passed and was Uiought
of no more.

" Put him down and let me kiss
him," said Fanny; ** dear little fel-
low! I wish I could take him/* But
she knew it was impossible, and she
made no objection when, after a few
minutes, Mrs. Hartland put them all
out of the room.

'Phat evening, when the baby was
put to bed, Mrs. Hartland thought

Christmas Gifts,

SS7

he seemed dull ; but this was natural
enough ; nurse said he was sleepy.
He slept very well and was bright in
the moniing, but toward night be-
came dull again. Another day
brought no improvement, and Mrs.
Hartland became uneasy. She con*
suited the doctor, and strictly follow-
ed his suggestions, but the symptoms
were only aggravated. She did not
like to show Belle her anxiety, and
proposed taking the baby herself
into Fanny's vacant room, in order,
she said, that Isabel need not be dis-
lurhed. For two nights she watched
and tended him, hardly sleeping her-
self until daylight, when she suffered
Mrs, Rcilly to take her place.

Mrs. Reilly was a kind, prudent,
motherly woman, and very fond of
Mrs. Hartland's children, most of
whom had been washed and dressed
by her for the first time in their lives.
She was also a Catholic.

The second night George sat in his
room till very late, reading. Shortly
before midnight, he went to bed, and
slept uneasily for two or three hours,
then rose, and finding that it wanted
some minutes to four oVlock, he
dressed, and resumed his reading,
listening the while till some one in
the house should stir.

Soon after the great hall-clock
struck five, Mrs. Reiily left IsabeVs
xoQva. very softly, and went into Fan-
ny's to take the baby. George waited
until he heard his mother pass from
the little room into her own, and close
the door. Then he went down -stairs
and into Fanny's room, where Mrs.
Reilly sat with the poor little suffer-
ing child upon her lap,

** Is there any change ?" he asked.

She shook her head.

** Hell not live till night, Mr.
George,*' she whispered. ** Poor
Miss Belle I what will she do ?"

Mrs. Reilly could not get over her
habit of calling Isabel **Miss Belle."

** Did you ever baptize a child,
Mrs. Reiily ?"

" Indeed I have, sir.''

" Then you can do it once more,"
said he, smiling sadly. "We must
not let this child die without bap-
tism,'* And he poured water into
the basin, and brought it to her.

And the humble Irish nurse per-
formed those sacred acts which, by
the power of the Word made flesh,
sanctify the soul.

George replaced the basin, kiss-
ed the little creature upon whose
head the baptismal water was still
glistening, and returned to his own
room as silently as he came.

Isabel slept heav^ily and uneasily,
and woke un refreshed and with a
vague sense of apprehension. She
rose on hearing the bell ring for fa-
mily prayers, and hearing her bro*
thersgo down stairs she dressed lan-
guidly and went into the next room.

The babe still lay upon I he pillow
in the nurse's lap, and, aUhough the
break fast- bell had already rung, Mary
was sitting in the window, looking
silently and with folded arms at the
sick child.

" Why, he seems so sick,'* said Isa-
bel, with a tone and look of pain and
alarm.

"Yes," said Mary, **he is very
sick."

Mary bad always helped her moth-
er more than Belle in taking care of
the little ones, and she knew better
than her sister how to judge of ill-
ness. Isabel asked several questions,
to which Mrs. Reilly gave only the
most vague and cautious answers.
The faint ring of silver was heard in
the hall.

** There is your breakfast. Belle,
dear," said Mary, "go into your own
rcKira and take some coffee; you
ought not to be standing about here
without having taken anything."

"O dear!'* said Isabel, *' I don't

I
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ntttjp «Hn wm^ Md «fat «a be
-**^ "f te^f llie htSttf «i •!£&?"

f 4 (eir iv»oni«i9U^ «lie followed
rier MUsf'i at! tier. M a chMi i c jByAe
put lti« ioipr and crvan iata die
eKilbe« anri had Jim dniiik tt <M^ and
fHinliiiil iway the tittle stand, when
r>ii* rjiior ripened and Itiilfp entered.

*• \S\mit \% be ?*• ^n^ bif face of
igimy ntul conntertiaticm told all

lit* Inifl br<*ri iK?nt for, and sbe
JintJW why.
: ** ( Jh I no» no, they don*t think he
III die*/* rritnl h.ibcl psissionately,
Ihrfiwlnj; littrwrlf intfi Pbilip'*v arms ;
**ilHty (|r»n*t Ihbik he will die I O
my diirlin^ t riiy bjil>y f my beautiful
b(»y 1** Aivd hIu? rushed into the next
Ifioni.

IliM ^rirf wns (errihic U> witncHs,
mihI IMilbfi hiid to coitnnaiul himscll^

*MI«^ b/tn ebitnjjr*! a good deal
nbut* diiybghl,** wrtiil Mrs, Kcilly,
hmMH^ \\\\ ill Philip ; but she was
uttrry *ht* \v\t\ looked, nntl hastily
tMiMt it \\s\ oyvT* 4»|iainu|Hm tlic child.
Mm. ItAfliAnd c^mc in,
iM.,, .M.,.nd thAt l*hdip alHHild go
^\\sy\\ i^Md b.i\v ?itmu^ breAkfast» and

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die dosed ereswidi their long]
— BO pass, no sorrow, ilie
peace tJbeie, contrasting
bnnie of agDoy tn her
bfwiigJMr Ite leais to Befle's e>-es.

Gecff]ge oottld nat beip thinking of
hb own Utile brother, just about as
old^ whom, years ago, he had 9M31
lytng in the same way in that vey
room, upon whose head ihe baptis*
mal water had never fallen ; and he
thought Isabel very happ3^

And thus was laid away, till the
morning of the resurrection, the fair
casket which had enclosed^ for so
short a time, a beautiful souL

Isafoers room was neatly set in or-
der. It was the brightest and prct-
liest chamber in the bouse, but it
looked empty and desolate, thoi^
the family inclined to congregate
there, every one wishing to do some-
thing to comfort their poor sister,

** It is five weeks to-day since my
little fUrlingwas bom,"' said Isabel;
" how proud and happy I was o«Jy a
wet^k ago^ showing him to Fanny,*'

George seemed in a reverie, bat
after a moment he said,

*' And it b a year to^y i
rccunied 6«d Valpwraiso/^

Belle fixed a look <tf«wgi]|sli opoii
her biwdier's teei, and diefi wcpc bit-
leily» wuil hara^ slopped, appareat-
ly fPHiioefe ^fanwsikiQ, alie said»

- 1 tetw bcMpiwpiriy innt^mL'*

Christmas Gifts,

559

pleasure than about anylhin.g else in
the world. I have been a member
of the church and have had a class
\n the Sunday-school, and I have
thought myself a very good Christian \
but f have really occupied all my life
in thinking how I should contrive to
look prettier and to dress belter than
others, and to secure my personal
gratification. And I have always
thought everything a nuisance that
has stood in my way* When the
dear baby came, 1 have been thinking
ever since he was born how I should
dress him and make him look pretty
— and now the body that I thought
so much of — " She stopped and
sobbed again.

" Don*t make yourself so unhappy,
my darling sister," said George ten-
derly, as he rose and kissed hen

She seeme d soothed, and presently
ceased weeping,

" And for my Christmas gift this
year, I have that little grave,'^

** Dear Belle, you must not be too
hard upon yourself; the gifts of God
are as many as the sands upon the
sea-shore, and one honest sight of
one^s self is a Christmas gift worth
having. Even if we think we are
punished, his chastisements are al-
ways gifts, if we know how to receive
them ; my dear sister, isn't it so?*'

" I have heard so times enough
from the pulpit," said Rille^ through
her tears ; ''but you know, George, I
have never thought al:iout those
things. And then, my baby's souh
which T cared so little about^ — dear
Georj2;e, do you really think it makes
any dilTerence ?"

"What, dear?"

** Whether he was baptized or not ?'*

"I don't think anything about it*
my darling sister ; I kmnv that it
makes all the difference between go-
ing instantly to the heaven of heavens,
where God is, and staying, perhaps
forever and ever, in a place which,
though not an unhappy place, is by no

means so happy as the very presence-
chamber of the King of kings. But
you need not grieve about that ; for
he was baptized, and your little darling
has gone to keep a joyful Christmas
in heaven/'

And then he told Belle how he
came down that morning, and how
Mrs. Reilly had baptized the child.

Isabel listened and wept and seem-
ed comforted.

" I am sure I thank you, dear
George, you are always so kind and
thoughtful I know father and mo-
ther don't think it makes the least
dilTerence in the world, and I don't
know why I should trouble myself
about it ; but stili, now that I have
lost him, T can't bear to think that
anything was left undone which could
have been done to his possible ad-
vantage. And then Philip — ^Philip
is a great deal better than I am ; I
have thought very often, George, of
what you said List year about Philip
being a gift to me — ^a gift from God ;
he really is verj*^ good, and he seemed
to feel so badly because baby was
not baptized/'

"Our blessed Saviour Jias given
us the sacrament of baptism for same-
things no doubt,'* said George, ** and
it is taking considerable upon our-
selves, short-sighted creatures as we
are, to pronounce that it is of no con-
sequence to any one, even to a babe
a day old. But you must be comfort-
ed now, my darling sister, and remem-
ber that God has given you this year
for your Christmas gift, not merely
that little grave, but a spotless soul
btifore his throne, who will never
cease to pray for you and Philip until
you are so happy as to arrive there
yourselves/'

Then bending over her, he made
the sign of the cross on her fair for
head, and in his heart invoked on
her those Christmas benedictions
which faith alone can give.

S6o

The American Colhgi in Rome.

THE AMERICAN COLLEGE IN ROME.

We design, in the few following re-
markS) to call the attention of our
readers to a work which is in process
of execution in this country at pre-
sent, to secure an endowment for the
American College in the Eternal City.
In the earnest appeal which will be
I found at the end of this articlci made
f by I he most Rev, Archbishop of Bal-
timore and the Rt, Rev. Bishop of
{ Philadelphia^ in the name of their
brethren of the Episcopate, to the
more wealthy among our American
, Catholics, the reasons are plainly
stated why this should be done. The
[voice of our prelates is to us the
I voice of God ; and we believe that
I we are furthering the designs of his
providence in sustaining this insti-
tution, which was founded by the
Holy Father for the benefit of the
' Catholics of the United Stales. We
have had the college in Rome
for some years, and we are now
I called upon to decide whether we
j shall permit it to be closed for want
of proper support, and thus show
I- that we are not able to appreciate
the gift of his Holiness, to maintain
the College when he has given the
buikiing, to do our share when he
has so generously done his.

The prelates have placed the whole

i question with admirable practical

wisdom before us. Their plan is

both grand and feasible, and is cha-

I racterired by that energy of purpose,

fieal for religion, and attachment to

I the real progress of the church,

' which eminently distinguish the hie-

' rare by, Ibe clergy, and the faithful

of the United Slates.

It is not necessary to recapitulate

the arguments which are contained

^Hin the . circular, for they speak for

themselves. Reference^ bovre%'er,mair
be briefly made to some of the im*
mense advantages which are enjoyed
by the young Levites brought up iu
the centre of unity, as Samuel of old
within the precincts of tlie temple.
In the first place, the const^nc pn
sence of the visible head of th
church upon eartli reminds then
continually of our blessed Lord's pr
mises to his first Vicar, so perfc
fulfilled in the long line of his suc-^
cessors, the gates of hell continually
striving but never prevailing
them, and excites in their b* x \

true devotion to the Holy See whic
is the surest test of orthodoxy, as i
is the most perfect safeguard a^n
error. Wlierever they turn, they be-
hold the evidences of the \nctofy
achieved by the faith of Christ ovter
paganism and infidelity. The de-
spised cross has fully conquerccL
The student in Rome is contioujillj
reminded of the immense revoluttoi "
which took place first in Rome, when
Constantine embraced the faith of
Christ, and the Csesars gave place to
the pontiffs, and heathen temples
were converted to the worship of the
one true God, and Rome became the
centre of another empire grander far
than ihe ox^ of which she was th<
centre before, which stretches " front^
sea to sea, and from the river to the
ends of the earth.'* There is some-
thing, moreover, m the atmosphere
of Rome provocative of study ; nor
is there wanting that generous com-
petition which serves to awaken i
every energy* in the endeavor to ex* J
ccl in the various departrocots of I
learning. Rome is, in this sense, ami
intelleciual arena \\\ which contend 1
bright intellects from all parts of the

The American College in Rome,

561

known world, whose powers are
brought out and strengthened by
their very exercise.

Not only are there many advan-
tages to be enjoyed there in a literary
and intellectual point of view, but
even greater in a spiritual. Where
else are the great festivals of our holy
religion celebrated with the splendor
and magnificence that they are there ?
Where else is God awarded the
first place, and religion paramount ?.
Where else is devotion to the blessed
sacrament practised as it is in Rome ?
To say nothing of the countless
masses, of the churches open from
early dawn to dusk ; the kneeling
worshippers ; no day in the year but
what, in the beautiful devotion of the
Forty Hours, the blessed sacrament
is exposed to the adoration of the
faithful^now here, now there — the
Son of God upon his earthly throne ;
lights burning as they burn nowhere
else ; and the silent throng ador-
ing, worshipping, thanking, praying,
Then the intense devotion to the
Blessed Virgin, the Madonna at
every street comer, in every shop, in
every house, and the light which
love and reverence have lighted,
burning before it. It has well been
said that the business of Rome is
prayer. What an advantage for one
who must labor in a country like
ours, filled with every form of re-
, ligious error, to have these memo-
' ries to fall back upon, to encourage
' him in the midst of the contradiction
of these dogmas of our holy faith in
which he has to dwell, to stimulate
; both himself and the flock committed
to his care to imitate the example of
ferverff piety and devotion which
Rome sets to the world. How power-
ful there, too, the example of the
saints I Nowhere else so much as
in Rome does the truth spoken by
the apostle, that we are *'lhe feliow-
I cituens of the saints and the doraes-

VOL. WW, — 36

tics of God," come home to us ; we
seem to stafjd in their footsteps, \
from the martyrs who laid down theit '
lives during the fearful persecutions
of the first three centuries to the con-
fessors and virgins almost of our own
day. There lie, side by side, llie bo* 1
dies of the great apostles, Peter and
Paul ; of Peter, who received fronij
our blessed Lord the charge of the
sheep and lambs of his flock ; of
Paul, miraculously converted to faith
in Him whose followers he had per-
secuted ; who» in turn, became the
great instrument in the hands of God
of preaching that holy faith and lead-
ing thousands to embrace it. There,
in that amphitheatre, the martyrs
were torn in pieces by wild beasts '
from the Libyan deserts. There, in \
those catacombs, their bodies were j
reverently laid. Here, one mart}T
after another suflfered. There is the
resting-place of Lawrence, of Sebas- .
tian, of Agnes, of Cecily. Here lived j
those holy popes whose names are|
found in the calendars of the saints J
and, to come nearer home to our own [
day, there St. Ignatius lived; here
St. Aloysius and St. Stanislaus Kost-
ka passed their angelic lives, and!
breathed out their pure souls to God. |
This was the home of St. Philip
Neri, the apostle of Rome \ here he
preached, said mass, and heard con-
fession.

But the list is too long, and we
must stop. Let the examples given 1
suffice. There can be no question
of the advantages of such influences j
as these upon the lives of those whoJ
are surrounded by them, and specially 1
upon those who are to be consecratedi
to God in the service of his sano^
tuar)\

Another point must be remem-
bered, and that is, that as Rome i$1
to us what Jerusalem was, under thei
old dispensation, in a certain sense,.!
the place whither the ** tribes of the

earth go up," so il is very desirable
that every nation should have a col-
lege there which should serve as a
kind of headquarters to represent
them, and to which persons coming
from that nation could go, and feel
that they were at home. Thus, the
Englishman naturally llnds his way
to the English college, the Irishman
to the Irish, and so on ; and he finds
those there who caii speak to him tn
his own tongue, and to whom he
can apply for advice and informa-
tion. Again, at Ropie are the limina
apostoiomm^ which every bishop is
bound to visit at certain periods of his
episcopate. We have now between
forty and fifty bishops in this coun-
try, and from time to time they go
thiiher, as Paul did to see Peter, to
expose to the Chief Pastor the con-
dition of their flocks, to consult with
him, and to obtain for themselves
and their docks the blessing of the
Vicar of our Lord upon earth. Dur-
ing the late gathering at Rome, four-
leen of our bishops were lodged at
the American College. During the
coming council there should be
more ; and at other than these special
times there will be sometimes one,
sometimes another of our bishops
there, not for himself, but for us ;
and this alone should be a strong
argume*nt why tiie college should be
sustained, that as the bishops of
other nations have homes in Rome,
so ours should have one too.

There can be no doubt* then, about
the advantages of the college and
the importance of maintaining it. It
involves an outlay of money, but the
return will be sure and great. There
is no more pressing need at the pre-
sent time than that which this col-
lege, with many others, supplies,
namely, an increased number of
priests. There are five millions of
Catholics in this country, and it is
impossible that with so many to pre-

vent it, and specially of the
now called upon^ the necessi
closing the college should occur.

We are proud of our country*, of
its lakes, and its rivers^ and its moun-
tains, surpassed nowhere in the world.
Let us not be content with these
natural excellences which are not of
our making, but come to us from the
hand of God. Let us try to excel in
those things which are under oui
conlrol^ — in virtue, in learnings and in
all that makes man great and good;
and in this particular instance let os
try to excel the other nations in our
college in Rome. Let it be a model
in discipline, in spirit, and in intellec-
tual culture. Let us try to moke it
the leading college in this respect,
and also in tlie number of studentl^
In this point let it be second only to
the Propaganda, Let us not be salis^
fied until we have it fully established,
and at least a hundred students
within its walls, lliat this may be
accomplished, we call the attention
of our readers to the appeal, and
trust that every one who is able will
take part in this great undertaking
to the utmost of his ability.

APPEAL TO TUE MOXK W*KALTHY AMOKC

the catholics of the united states.

Beloved Children in Christ: You
are aware that some years ago the duster of
National Colleges in Rome was increased
by one, and that one was the CoUege rc»
presenting our own nation. Almost c%'cJ7
nation had previotialy been represented
there : the Irish, the English, the Scotch,
the French, the Germans, the South .\Rieri«
cans, etc At last the deficiency was tup-
plied, through the munificence of our beloved
PonUff, Pius IX., who generously bestowed
a spacious and centrally located site for the
purpose. Our College \\ ' T it

has already trained a nn for

the American Mission ; hIihl n nis
a place to which Americans in I<
matter what their faith, might Tc^v*,i. -i.^^
feel that they weic at home.

Unfortunately, however, sufficient means
were not provided, at the commencement, to
establish the College on a solid basis; And

teas College in Rome.

563

"alter struggling on for some )'earsi it is now
in imminent danger of being closed- It
would be one thing never to have had the
College, but it is another altogether to have
had it and to lose it- This latter contin-
gency, Ijesides being a great disgrace to us»
woiitd be also an irreparable loss to the
country.

The late Plenary Coancil ordered a gen-
eral collection for the relief of the immediate
wants of the Collep:e ; nor is it our inten-
^tton to supersede this collection, but rather
aid it toward effectually accomplishing
the olijeci in view. This oallection will
still be necessary to pay debts already in-
^H^curred, and to provide for pressing needs.
^V But» in addition to the general collection,
^H^^hich we dope will soon be taken up, it has
^Bbeen suggested to propose to our wealthier
^KCatholics, for their imitation in this matter,
the noble example of their forefathers in the
faith, who did great things for religion and
for God Instances of this occur in Rome
itself, where, besides several* other colleges
for various natianalities, founded principally
by the munificence of particular wealthy
I Catholics to rear up priests for their re-
ective countries^ the English College,
iince such a blessing to the English nation,
ras founded by Ina and by Offa, Saxon
j>rinces, first as a resting-place for English
ipilgrims, and then as a nursery to train up
priests for the English Mission. In those
days, kings and princes, and men of wealth
r willingly liiunded and endowed churches,
|collcges, asylums, hospitals, institutions
of religion, learning, and chanty, whose
ery ruins, in lands where they have been
Fallowed to go to ruin, are monuments of for-
mer Catholic muniticcnce while they are a
reproach to our own degenerate days. It
has been thought that, at this juncture, this
glorious example of our ancestors would be
promptly imitated; and that an appeal made
to those Catholics in this country, whom
God has blessed with abundant means, to
come to the rescue, and not only to save the
College, but to put it at once on a sound
and substantia] basis, would not be made in
» vain, but would be generously responded to.
It is with this view, that we make our
at appeal to you at this time, and pro-
a plan which, we think, with your
D-operation, will he successful in speedily
bunding and endowing the American Col-
cge in Rome, We urge the matter upon
ou the more strongly, as next year the great
eneral Council is to be convened in Rome,
nd wc are to meet the bishops of the whole

world in one of those grand assembtied
which mark an era in the history of the
Universal Church. To the Councils of
Nice, Ephesus, Chakcdon, Latcran, Lyons,
Florence, and Trent, is to be added that of
the Vatican, Let us, before we go to the
Holy City, have the consolation of knowing
that, through your munificence, we have a
college there to which we can proudly
pointy as bishops of a great Catholic people ;
let us be spared the disgrace of going thither
to find its doors closed, and its name blotted
out from the list of National Colleges exist-
ing in the Ktcmal Cit)-. We confidently
appeal to you as Catholics and as Ameri-
cans^ loving your religion and your country,
that Ibis may not be so* Surely, the means
with which God has blessed ,ou can be ap-
plied to no higher or holier purpose than
this ; nor can there be any which will draw
down upon you ^nA your families a more
abtmdant blessing of heaven. The prayers
and holy sacrifices which will be cheerfully
offered up in your behalf by those who,
through your bount}', wnll be trained up for
the holy ministry, cannot fail to draw dawn
upon you heaven's choicest benedictions.
Our plan, then, is briefly this :

We wish to raise from 1250,000 to $300,-
ooa We have appointed, as our agpnt in
the matter, the Rev. G, H, Do,-ine, Chan-
cellor of the Diocese of Newark, to visit all
the pnncip^il dioceses of the United States,
and call upon those who are most able, to
contribute their suljscripttons. We propose
that of these generous contributors to a noble
work there should be three classes :

1. Founders of Burses ; who will con-*
tribute, once for all,/?."^ thiymand doUars m
currency, yielding something over two hun-
dred dollars, in gold, of jrcirly interest ;
and who will have the right of selecting,
from those who will be recommended and
approved of their respective bisht>ps for this
purpose, one student of the College for ever,

2. Patrons ; who will contribute one
(Amtsand dollars^ once for all, and, will be
entitled to send a student, approved of by
the bishop, for three years,

3. Life Members; who, by contributing
Jii'f hundred ddlarsy will share in the holy
sacrifices and prayers of the College and of
the students.

The names of all these three classes wiU
be enrolled and placed in a handsome frame,
to l>e kept in the Chapel of the American
College ; and solemn high mass will be
celebrated for them in Rome twice a year —
once for the living and once for the deceased

S64

The American Cotlegt in Rome*

bent factors ; besides the private m^^sses
which the priests educated at the College
will feci impelled by gratitude to offer up
frequently for their respective patrons and
benefactors and their fannilics.

This plan, if zealously and efficiently car-
ricd out, will, we arc convinced, accomplish
the desired result in very short time. One
Catholic gentleman in Baltimore has already
founded a Bursc» and others vvnll follow his
good example. We believe that we can
safely calculate on the following amounts to
be realized in the United States, under the
three heads above named ;

Twenty BuT9es» at $5*000 |i«>,ooo

One Huodrcd Patrcms. at f t»ooo. ...... 100,000

One Hundred Life Membem, at f 500. , . 50,000

Total

.1250,0

The reverend father to whom we have
entrusted this important matter, and in
whose zeal and efficiency we have the ut-
most confidence, will call upon you during
the course of the coming winter. You will,
we are quite sure, receive him worthily, as
our representative ; and you will enable him,
we trust, to return to us with fresh and
abundant proofs of your well-known gene-
rosity and aelf-sacriiice, and with an ample
and suSSdcnt sum not only to save, but to
endowp and render perpetual for all time,
cmr American CoU^ in RQme,

M, J, Spalding,

Ard^bitke^ »f Bmitimcrt^ and Chairwan
ir Mttropoiitmu*

J. K Wood,

Bhhvp tf Phtlnditpkia^ CA'm*M Ex^ciUiv* Cem-
mitti* 0/ Biika^s^ and Tr**iHrtr.

BaUimwt^ Feast of the Presentation of the
Blessed ViiKWi 1868.

LKITER OF REV. GSORGB R I>aJUr]

Having been appointed by the Most

Archbishop of Baltimore, and the Rl
Hishop of Philadelphia, as Chaimitn
spectivcly of Metropolitai», and uf
Executive Commitiec of Bishoja.
have charge of the aifalrs of the
College in Korne^ with the duty of
voring to raise an endowment ' '
College, I have, with the coni
own bishop, accepted the trust
have confided to me, and pro|
upon the work at once. Before
I hope to visit, with the
Archbishops and Bishops of those
timore, Philadelphia, Albany, Boston,
Hartford ; during the holidays, Ne«-V(
Brooklyn, and Newark ; and ;iUmf
middle of January to start lor tbe Ni
West, and South.

Love for Rome, and the desire to
some little return for the mamy bli
received while a student in one oC llkfr,
tional Colleges there, (the Aoicri
not having then been founded^) by
procure the same blessings to o(
love for my country, with the di
preserved for her, in the very
Eternal City, a place where
young Levites may grow up to tbe
of Rome, under the shadow of St Fete
and in the immediate presence of the
of our Lord upon earth, are the in
which prompt me to undertake thia at
duty.

That it may succeed, I earnestly bcf '
prayers of the faithful, the gctienias 1
zealous co-operation of all in tlic m
work, and remembrance on the part of
fathers and brethren at the altar of Cod
the daily sacrifice.

G. VL DoAjri

Catholicity and PafUheism.

S6S

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER THREE.

THE PROBLEM OF MULTIPLICITY.

In the development of the Catho-
lic idea of God, which we have given
in the previous number, we have
met with no opposition from panthe-
ism.

Here, however, it raises the most
difficult as well as the most sublime
and profound question which can be
proposed to human intelligence — the
problem of multiplicity. We shall
let a pantheist propose it in his own
words.

It will be remembered that the
last of the attributes which we vindi-
cated as belonging to the infinite
was that of absolute unity. This at-
tribute gives rise to the problem.

"What is unity," says Cousin,
" taken by itself? A unity indivisible,
a dead unity, a unity which, resting in
the depths of its absolute existence,
and never developing itself, is, for it-
self, as if it were not. In the same
manner, what is variety without
unity? A variety which, not being
referable to a unity, can never form
a totality, or any collection whatever,
is a series of indefinite quantities,
of each of which one cannot say that
it is itself and not another, for this
would suppose that it is one ; that is,
it would suppose the idea of unity ; so
that, without unity, variety also is as
if it were not. Behold what variety
or unity isolated would produce ; the
one is necessary to the other in order
to exist with true existence; with
that existence, which is neither mul-
tiple, various, mobile, or negativeexist-
ence ; nor that absolute, eternal, in-
finite existence, which is, as it were,
the negation of existence. Every
true existence, every reality, is in the

union of these two elements ; al-
though, essentially, the one may be
superior and anterior to the other.
You cannot separate variety from
unity, nor unity from variety ; they
necessarily coexist. But how do
they coexist ? Unity is anterior to
multiplicity; how then has unity
been able to admit multiplicity ?"*

Again : " Reason, in whatever way
it may occupy itself, can conceive
nothing, except under the condi-
tion of two ideas, which preside
over the exercise of its activity ; the
idea of the unit, and the idea of the
multiple ; of the finite and the infi-
nite ; of being and of appearing ; of
substance and of phenomenon ; of
absolute cause and of secondary
causes ; of the absolute and of the
relative ; of the necessary and of the
contingent; of immensity and of
space, of eternity and of time.

" Analysis, in bringing together all
these propositions, in bringing togeth-
er, for example, all their first terms,
identifies them ; it equally identifies
all the second terms, so "that, of all
these propositions compared and
combined, it forms a single proposi-
tion, a single formula, which is the
formula itself of thought, and which
you can express, according Jo the
case, by the unit and by the multiple,
the absolute being and the relative
being, unity and variety, etc. Final-
ly, the two terms of this formula, so
comprehensive, do not constitute a
dualism in which the first term is on
one side, the second on the other,
without any other relation than that

* Coosin't HUtory of Modtm PkUa$9phy.

Catholicity and Pantheism,

of being perceived at the same lime
by reason. The Hlation concerning
them is quite otherwise essential,
unity being eternity, etc. ; the Erst
term of the formula is cause also, and
absolute cause ; and, so far as abso-
lute cause, it cannot avoid develop-
ing itself in the second term, multi-
plicity, the finite and the relative.

" The result of all this is, that the
two terms, as well as the relation of
generation which draws the second
from ihe first, and which, without
cessation, refers to it, are the three
inte^n-al elements of reason. It is
not in the power of reason, in its
boldest abstractions, to separate any
one of these three terms from the
others. Try to take away unity, and
variety alone is no longer suscepti-
ble of addition — it is even no longer
comprehensible ; or, try to take away
variety, and you have an immovable
unity — a unity which does not make
itself manifest, and whichi of itself, is
not a thought 3 all thought express-
ing itself in a proposition, and a sin-
gle term not sufficing for a proposi-
tion ; in short, take away the relation
which intimately connects variety and
unity, and you destroy the necessary
tie of the two terms of everj- propo-
sition. We may then regard it as an
incontestable point, that these three
terms are distinct but inseparable,
and that they constitute at the same
time a triplicity and an indivisible
umt>^"♦

As the reader may have observed,
Cousin raises die problem of multi-
plicity? He expresses it under a
logical form, but the problem is a
metaphysical one, and hence applica-
ble to all orders, logical as well as
ontologtcal. It is raised by all pan-
theistSi whose words we abstain
from quoting for brevity's sake ; and
so far as the problem itself is con-

cerned, it is a legtrlmale one ; sod
ever)' one, who has thought de^f
on these matters, »nd ts not satisfied
with merely looking at the $udi»ceof
things, must accept iL

Let MS put it in its direst liglit
The infinite. considtTti v '

unity, actuality, (all v.
mean the same thing,) can be known
neither to itself nor to any other in-
telligence. It cannot be known lo
itself. For to know implies thottgbl,
and thought is absolutely impossiyc
without a duality of know tng and of
being known* of subject and of ob-
ject It implies an intelligence, ao
object, and a relation between the
two. If, then, there is no multipli-
city in the infinite, it cannot kuiM
itself. It is, for itself, as if itwEfc
not; for what is a being wbicb cannot
know ijself ?

Nor can it be known to any otk«
er intelligence ; for mere cxislcncc,
pure unity does not convey any idea
necessary to satisfy the i ce.

Moreover, the mere ^x\ md

unity of an object does not make itf
on that account, intelligible. For an
object to be intelligible, it is required
tliat it should be able to act on the
intelhgence, such being the coodi-
tion of intdligibility.* Now, action
implies already a multiplicity^ a sub-
ject and the action. Therefore, if
the infinite were mere pure unity, it
could not be intelligible to any iniel-
ligence. But in the sv ]y,^^ i^^i

there is a kind of nn; in yig

infinite, how would niulLi|jliciiy be
reconciled with unity? How would
these two terms agree?

Multiplicity seems lo be a necessa-
ry condition of the infinite, without
which it would not be inteJligihJe
either lo itself or to others. Abso-
lute unity seems also to be a neces-
sar>' attribute of Uie inlinite, and yet

Catholicity atid Pantheism.

567

these two necessary conditions seem
to exclude each other. How then
must we bring them together ?

This is the problem to be solved ;
•the grandest and mo^t sublime pro-
blem of philosophy ; which has occu-
pied every schoolof philosophy since
man began to turn his mind to philo-
sophical researches.

The two great antagonists, panthe-
ism and catholicity, give an answer
to the problem, and it is the province
of this article to discuss the two so-
lutions, and see which of them can
stand the test of logic, and really an-
swer the problem instead of destroy-
ing it. We shall enter upon the dis-
cussion, after premising a few re-
marks necessary to the right under-
standing of the discussion.

The first remark which we shall
make is to call the attention of the
reader to the absolute necessity for
the existence of the problem.

It is not pantheism, nor Catholi-
city, which arbitrarily raises the pro-
blem ; it exists in the very essence
of being, in the very essence of intel-
ligibility. Those philosophers who
cannot see it may have taken a cur-
sory glance over some pages of what
purports to be philosophy, but they
never understood a word of that
which really deserves the name of that
sublime science. We make this re-
mark for two different reasons : First,
in order to close the door to all the
objections raised against the pro-
blem. For if it is demonstrated that
a multiplicity is required in the infi-
nite, then to raise objections against
it only shows want of philosophic
depth, but does not prove anything
against the existence of the problem.
Wc shall return to this subject. The
second reason is a consequence of
the first, to wit, that should we find
that the answer to the problem is not
as clear and evident as we might de-
sire, we must not, on that account^

reject the problem, but should be sa-
tisfied with the light that is afforded.
This is but reasonable. Deny the
problem we cannot. It follows then
that we must be satisfied with an an-
swer which, whilst it saves the pro-
blem, throws as much light on it as
is possible, under the circumstances.

PANTHEISTIC SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM
OF MULTIPLICITY ANO UNITY IN THE
INFINITE.

Pantheism arrives at infinite unity
by eliminating from it all possible de-
termination, definition, reality, ideal-
ity, thought, will, consciousness ;
and rising from abstraction to ab-
straction, from elimination to elimi-
nation, from a more limited indefi-
niteness to a higher and broader and
less restricted one, up to mere sim-
ple, unalloyed abstraction and unity.

All pantheists follow the same pro-
cess in order to arrive at unity. Cou-
sin calls it dead, immovable, incon-
ceivable ; a thing existing as if it
were not ; the Being — Unreality of
Hegel. But ascended to such a sum-
mit, all multiplicity eliminated, and
pure unalloyed unity once found,
how is multiplicity to be reconstruct-
ed? With the greatest ease in the
world. Pantheists make this Being-—
nothing unfold and develop itself
like a silkworm ; alleging, as a rea-
son for such development, an intrin-
sic necessity of nature, an impera-
tive instinct which broods in its bo-
som.

Thus they reconstruct multiplicity
by making the Infinite become finite,
cosmos, matter, spirit, humanity, etc.
Let us hear Cousin : " This is the
fundamental vice of ancient and
modern theories ; they place unity
on one side, and multiplicity on the
other; the infinite and the finite in
such an opposition that the passage
from one to the other seems impos-
sible."

568

Catholicity and Pantheism,

And, after having remarked that this
was4he error of the school of Elea,
he continues: "Immensity or unity
of space, eternity or unity of time,
unity of numbers, unity of perfection,
the ideal of all beauty, the Infinite,
the absolute substance, being itself,
is a cause also, not a relative, contin-
Igent, finite cause, but an absolute
I cause* Now, being an absolute
t cause, it cannot avoid passing into
action. If being, in itself alone, is
given as absolute substance without
causality, the world is impossible ;
but if being in itself is also a cause
and an absolute cause, movement
and the world naturally follow. The
true absolute is not pure being in
Itself j it is power and cause taken
absolutely, which consequently cre-
ates absolutely, and, in dn^ehping
itself* produces all that 3'ou see
around you/'

We quote Cousin in preference to
others on account of his lucidity of
t style and expressions ; but everyone
|. acquainted with the systems of the
' German pantheists knows that their
answer to the problem of multipli-
city is substantially the same. We
refer the reader, in confirmation of
I our assertion, to the excellent lectures
»on the systems of the German Pan-
kbeists, of Heinrich Moriiz Chaly-
^baus, professor at the University of
Kiel.

Now, does the answer resolve the
problem ? Does it really conciliate
unity with multiplicity in the In-
finite? Does it really maintain in-
" tact the two terms of tlic problem ?
I We think tliat it does not, and main-
tain that it destroys both terms of the
problem. The leading idea and
principle of Pantheism is that unity
is /'^ftv^iwiV/^ multiplicity.

It is an existence in a continual
ix-sisUre in an emergence and mani*
festation. •

• Chdyblu** Lect«y«», eic

Now, who can isa\ lo pcrcefre

if unity is such, that is, unit}* '
it is merely potential, when it
only the power of becoming, ofpt
ing into multiplicity, it is doubtle
destroyed as soon as it passes
the power into the act ; or, in otfccr"
words, it is destroyed as tmtty uhea
it becomes multiplicity? Stiiptbis
idea of a potential unity becon
actual multiplicity, strip it of all 1
logical phantasmagoria with 1
has been adorned, especial Jy
theists of the German school*
phantasmagoria can only impoi
upon the simple, and you can see, ;
clearly as that two and tivo mak
four, that the whole thing amounts I
nothing but to tliis; that unity* van
ishes as soon as it becomes roulti
plicity. It is with a special tntentioil
that we have made use of the simiM
of the silkworm. This poor creatun
too, like the unit)^ of the pantheisms;
has an instinct given it by God,
unfolding and developing itself
the effect of its operation is thel
which serves to set off tlte beauty <
man. But unfortunately, the pn
cess of development exhausts the li^
tie creature ; for when it is coniplcti
the poor creature dies, and its dcvel
opment is its death, and its prodti
tion is its shroud ; yet, it has this ;
vantage over the unity of the |>ail
theists, that its remains continue t<
exist J whereas their unity evaporate
completely in mulliplicity.
speak more seriously, it is perfcctl;
evident to every mind, that the an
swcr of the pantheists destroys tfc
very problem it undertakes to solve
Unity is unity so long as it is a
tency, a power of becoming ; it vanish
es as soon as it becomes muUiplicityJ
Add to this, that their unity, to
infinite, must remain undefined,
lential, and in the possibility of
coming 5 such being their idea of tl:
Infinite. For which reason thc|

Catholicity and Pantheism.

569

eliminate from it every limitation, all
individuality, all thought, all con-
sciousness. The natural conse-
quence of this principle must be that
it remains infinite so long as it is
wrapped up in its vagueness and in-
definiteness. Let it come forth from
its indeiiniteness, let it become defi-
nite, limited, concrete, and its infini-
ty together with its unity is gone. It
evaporates in the finite forms it as-
sumes. On the other hand, let it
remain absorbed in its indefiniteness,
in its abstractiveness, and conse-
quently, in its infinity, and multipli-
city can no longer be conceived. It
is absurd then to speak of multiplici-
ty in the Infinite of the Pantheists,
since it is clear that, when it assumes
multiplicity, it can no longer be eith-
er infinite or one ; and when it re-
mains infinite it cannot be conceived
as multiple. All this we have said,
conceding the premises of panthe-
ism. But we have, in the first arti-
ticle, demonstrated the following prin-
ciples : I St. If the pantheists take
their unity in the sense of a pure
abstraction, a transient afet, the ele-
ments of which do not last one single
instant, it is in that case an absolute
nonentity, an utter unreality, and
then it is useless to speak of multi-
plicity, since ex nihilo nihil fit.

2d. Or, they suppose their unity
as something really existing, having
the power of gradual development,
and in that case we have demonstra-
ted that such a being could not de-
velop itself without the aid of a for-
eign being.

The premises of pantheism then
being false, the solution of the prob-
lem falls to the ground independently
of ita intrinsic value, if it have any,
which we have shown it has not

Pantheism cannot answer the
problem of multiplicity. How can
we then attain to its solution ?

We answer : the Catholic Church

resolves it, giving such an explana
tion of it as the finite and limited
intellect of man may reasonably ex-
pect. For the Catholic Church does
not pretend to give such a solution
of the problem as to enable us tho-
roughly to understand it. She pro-
ceeds from two premises, to wit, that
God is infinite, and that man, neces-
sarily distinct from God, is finite, and
therefore endowed only with finite
intelligence. That these premises
are true, appears evident from the
demonstration we have already giv-
en, in which we have shown that the
pantheistic idea of the infinite is the
idea of finite being when it is not ta-
ken as meaning only an abstraction, a
pure mathematical point. The ideas
of the infinite and the finite exist,
and therefore there must be also
objects corresponding to these ideas.
We shall return to this subject in a
following number.

From these two ideas of the finite
and the Infinite, it follows that man
can never comprehend God ; or, in
other words, that the intelligence of
man, with the relation to God ^s its
object, must find mysteries or truths
above and beyond its capacity. For,
as it is absurd to shut up a body of
large size in a body of much more
limited size, supposing the present
conditions of bodies not suspended,
so it is absurd to suppose that the
intellect of man, limited and finite,
could grasp or take in God, who is
infinite. We are aware of the oppo-
sition which is made by many to
mysteries or super-intelligible truths ;
but we insist upon it, that all such
opposition would vanish, if men
would study philosophy more deeply
and more assiduously. Why, a real
philosopher, one who has sounded
the depths of creation, and plunged
into the profundity of the great ideas
of being, of substance, of the abso-
lute, of the infinite, the finite and the

570

Nfw Pnhlicatiofis,

relative, into tbe ideas of eternity, of
immensity, of immutability, of space
anrl time, into the ideas of cause^ of
action, of movement ; one who has
entered into the labyrinth of his soul,
and tried to catch the flying pheno-
mena of its life, and to anal3'ze all the
fibres of its consciousness ; such a one
meets, at every step, with mysteries,
and the more he digs into them, the
profounder and the wider is the abyss
lying at his feet If we should meet
with a man denying m3^steries, and
desirous to engage in a discussion,
we would beg of him to go and first
study the alphabet of philosophy.

The problem, then, proposing the
reconciliation of unity with multi-

plicity in the ln0mte, is held bv the
Catholic Church as a . i

truth which cannot be fly

understood by the huiiian nnnL
But, notwithstanding all Uiis, the so-
lution which Catholic doctrine af-
fords, though a mystery, is dear
enough to be perxreived, and dtsiinci
enough to make us see through the
agreement of the two terms of the
problem ; so that, through the help
of the Catholic Church, we shall have
all the light thrown upon the problem
in question which man may reasona-
bly expect, seeing that the object of
the problem is the Infinite, and the
intellect apprehending it only limiti
and finite.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Philip IL of Spain. By Charles Ga-
yarr<5, Author of the History of Louisi-
ana finder the French^ Spanish, and
A me^rican Domination, With an In-
troductory Letter by George Bancroft.
New York. i866. W. J. Widdleton.
8vo, pp- N-iii. iv. 366.

Mr. Gayarr<? is not unknown among
American authors. Of Spanish origin,
born and nurtured i-n Louisiana, he has?
connected his n*-imc with the history of
th.it Slate by his devotion to its annals,
Liibonous research hojs cna]>lcd him to
give to the world three volumes, com-
prising the histor}' of Louisian.1^ under
French, Spanish, and American domi-
nation. Unfortunately, the first volume
was taken up rather as a romance of
history: and in the treatment of his
subject imagination is allowed a scope
that the stricter schools of history deny
that faculty. Imbued to no small ex-
tent with the petty philosnp>hism of the
worst age of France, he seldom fiiils to
g;ive the Church, where it enters his his-

toric paintings, darker colors than truth
will warrant.

His present work Is not a li/c of Phifrp f
11. It is a .series of studies, not com- j
plete enough^ indeed, to form a charac>
ter of that great and singular ruler, wha
made Spain a great power in Europei
but failed to bequeath to his succejisors
the ability and statecraft that enatiled
him to maintain the influence of the
peninsula in European affairs.

Mr. Gayarr<5's studies are disconnect-
ed, involve repetitions, and fail to give
us the salient points which mainly need
discussion and examination. He begins
with die; death of Phih'p ; then ircals of
his religious policy j his love of art ; bb
reign in general ; Antonio Perez ; the
Cortes during his reign ; literature, Tlie
jxiint of view may be inferred from Kf r.
Bancroft's remark, that the present n-ork
is written "with a mind superior to the
influences of superstition**— an idea we
have already expressed in somewhat
different terms, vocabularies differitig
slightly, as Saul of Tarsus notes^ In

New Publications.

571

givini: ilie estimate made by the most
civilized and enlightened people of his
day in regard to the cross.

Philip as ruler of Spain, Portugal,
and the Indies ; Philip and the Low
Countries ; Philip in his relations with
foreign countries ; Philip and the In-
quisition in Spain ; Philip and his fami-
ly, here were indeed themes to dis-
cuss, to examine by the aid of the sound-
est authorities. Had Mr. Qayarr^ done
this in true historic spirit, his work,
whatever the judgment at which he ar-,
rived, would have been of real value to
every thinking man. As it is, we can-
not say that we see any necessity or
utility for the work. In Prescott there
is at least a complete picture and an ar-
ray of authority. Gayarrd gives neither,
and can scarcely be read without obtain-
ing false views — without the facts which
in Prescott often enable you to see the
fallacy of statements based really on er-
roneous arguments.

Ri:COLLECTIOXS OF A BusY LiFE. By
Horace Greeley. New York. J. B.
Ford and Company. 1868.

The autobiographical papers, which
comjiose the larger part of this volume,
were originally published in a weekly
journal of this city, and have probably
attracted the attention of many thou-
sands of readers. They are now issued
in a permanent form, under Mr. Gree-
ley's personal supervision, and will take
their place among the standard works
of American biography.

^Vhatever may be said or thought
of the religious and political principles
from time to time professed and advo-
cated by the "Editor of The Tribune,''
no man can deny to him the character
of an earnest, outsj^oken, indefatigable
supporter of what, at the moment, he
believes to be just and right The man-
ner in which he braved a public opinion
thoroughly tyrannical, both at the open-
ing and close of the late war, sufficiently
attests his independence of spirit and his
fidelity to the dictates of his own judg-
ment.

One interest, however, attaches to Mr.
Greeley, chiefly as a man who, from the
humblest beginnings, has raised him-

self, by his own exertions, to one of the
most influential and honorable positions
in this country. The story of his pro-
jects and reverses, of his perseverance
and his triumphs, is well told in the vol-
ume before us, and will serve to encou-
rage and refresh the hearts of many
young men, whose struggles after influ-
ence and honest wealth are meeting
with continual disappointment

In the hurry of preparing this work
for the press, Mr. Greeley has fallen into
an historical error which should cer-
tainly be corrected. In his opening
chapter he informs us that, in 1641,
during the insurrection which occurred
in the province of Ulster in. Ireland,
against the British power, "40,000 Pro-
testant settlers were speedily massacred,
with small regard to age or sex." The
number who actually suffered in that
"rebellion" has been variously esti-
mated by historians not favorable to-
ward Ireland or her people. Sir John
Temple fixes it at 150,000 ; Milton, in
his Eiconoclastes. at 154,000 for one pro-
vince alone ; Clarendon puts the num-
ber at 40,000. Mr. Greeley follows Cla-
rendon, but with equal reliability he
might have taken Temple or Milton for
his authority. He might also have stated
with the former, that " Hundreds of the
ghosts of Protestants, that were drowned
by the rebels at Portadown Bridge, were
seen in the river, bolt upright, and were
heard to cry out for revenge on these
rebels. One of these ghosts was seen
with hands lifted up, and standing in
that posture from December 29th to the
latter end of the following Lent." For
additional testimony about the pre-
sence of the ghosts, he might have
called up09Dr. Maxwell, the Protes-
tant Bishop of Kilmore. But if instead
of relying upon such ghostly authori-
ties, Mr. Greeley had consulted a Httle
work, entitled Memoir of Ireland^ Ama-
tive and Saxon, written by Daniel
O'Connell, and published by Greeley &
McElrath in 1844, he would have seen
that, in 1641, there were less than 200,-
000 Protestants in the entire island, and
that tlie number massacred (?) in its
most northern province failed to reach
any thousands whatever. He would
also have discovered that ii these in-

572

New Publications,

j&urrecttons it was the Calholics who suf-

rfercd, and not Protestants, as, for in-

Fatance, at Island Magee.

Mr. Greeley is too wise and liberal a

' man wilfully to repeat so stole a cal-
umny, and he is not so inconsistent as
to contradict, in 1868, the statements of
a work which he deemed worthy of pub-
lic confidence in 1844. Whvic, there*
fore, we point out the error, we impute
no malice to the writer ; to whom, in
view of his constant activity, some in-
accuracies may be pardoned. But the
}\]{iry inflicted by his mistake is not
esscned by its thoughtlessness, and the
leiLst that can be done to remedy the
evil is to correct the error in the next
edition, should one be ever issued.

The Ideal in Art. By H. Taine.
Translated by J. Durand. ^New
York : Leypoldt & Holt. 1869.

The object of these two lectures, first
delivered by M. Taine to the students
of the Sehr»(>l of Fine Arts in Paris, and
now published in an American transla-
tion by Messrs. Leypoldt & Holt, is to
erecl a standard of criticism in art, in-
dependent of the taste and fancy of the
Individual critic, and so based upon es-
tablished principles as to be worthy of

_pthe name of **a law," To our mmd,
he distinguished author has approach-

"- ed, if not attained^ success. The fun-
damental rule with which he starts, dis-
tinguishes between that mechanical
skill by which the production of the
artist is m.ide a faithful representation
of his own ideal, and that artistic g^enius
by which the loftiness and grandeur of
the ideal is itself determined. He then
proceeds to measure the ideal itself,
and, u|.>on the purity and elevation of
this, bases the stindni ^o( the artist
and the merit of his works.

A complete sketch of M. Tainc's Kys-
tern would necessitate a reprodutlion of
the work itself In his volume there
are no wasted words ; and while, per-
haps, not altogether intelligible to the
utteriy unlearned in art* the treatise
which he gives iis will serve to stimu-
late the reader to an inquiry* wliich
cannot fail to improve his taste in liter-

ature as well as in the peculiar d<
which it professes to e3q>lofie.

We especially welcome this vx>Iuzne at.
this time, because of the opportunitii
which are now afforded for a study oft
the principles of M. Taine, in cono*
tion with the great schools of I
art themselves. In the Jarves G
tion, now at Yale College, Ttiz.y be foi
paintings of representative masters, frota
the dawn of Italian art to the commence-
ment of its decline. Hundreds of vis»*
tors liave examined this treasure-bouse
of painting, and thousands more shoaki
follow their example. And we ventnre
to suggest that a careful study of the
work before us will render, at Ie.^lIt b
the case of cultivated persons* whtt
would olhcnvise have been a incre vi«t
of curiosity^ a most valuable lessrm on
that iikal in art In which the tri.
of every age have given the
of their own genius and the pledge
their artistic immortality.

a on

e o{ ■

ThK IlLU5;TRATED CAXftOLIC Fa MILT

Almanac, for the United .States, for
the Year of our Lord (869. New
York : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety. 1869,

Tills is the first attempt by any Catho-
lic pulilisher rn this country to gel ti|i
an Almanac suitable for Catholic tami*
lies. It contains a complete calendar
for the year 1869, with a variety of other
matter both useful and entcrt.\li>tQg,
The illustrations^ nineteen in number,
arc excellent We arc glad to t»c able
to state that it is the intention of tlwj
Society to issue such an ?ilm-in:ic cvrty
year, and we hope that this first at-
tempt may meet with the success whicb
it so well deserves.

It should be found in every Catliotic
household in the United States, Al-
manacs have become almost a necessj^
ty, and are looked for as reg^ilarly as
the new year. It is, then» hi^^'hty impor-
tant that an almanac, to say thr le,"%^i,
shouhl contain nothing obj' to

morals, and this cannot be i<x>

many frequently met witli, which ajfc
only mere advertising mediums ibr
quack tnedrciues, etc. We hope Tkg

New Publications,

S73

Catholic Famiiy Almanac will hence-
forth supersede all such trashy produc-
tioTis — which no father of a family
should allow to endanger Jhe faith and
morality of his children- The excuse
heretofore urged for their presence in
the house, that there was no Catholic
family almanac to be had, is no longer
valid.

Criminal Abortion: Its Nature, its
Evidence, and its Law. By Horatio
R. Storcr, M,D., LL,B,, and Franklin
Fiske Heard. Boston : Little, Brown
& Company, 1868.

This subject is here brought before
the public in a manner proportioned to
Its importance ; and Dr. Storer, for his
indefatigable efforts in ferretin|T out the
statistics of this crime, and his outspo-
ken honest opinions, deserves the thanks
of the American people. The evidence
adduced in support of the author*s as-
sertions is so conclusive that the ques-
tion suggests itself, Whither are we drift
ing? In a note on page 74, the moral
effect of the Catholic religion is shown
in preventing this "slaughter of the
innocents,** but the author fails to sug-
gest the general dissemination of the
religion throughout the country as a
means of checking this rapidly growing
evil.

Book IL gives ample extracts from
the Common and State Laws on the
subject, as well a.s quotations "from
English reports, which are not general-
ly accessible even to the legal profes-
sion in this country^** making the work
an indispensable addition to the library
of every la>^7er and physician rn the
country.

The Knowledge and Love of Jesus
Christ, Bv the Rev, Father St. Jure,
S.J. New York : P. O'Shea, 39 Bar-
day street*

St- Jure w^as one of the best spiritual
writers in France of the early part of
the seventeenth centur)% and this is
one of his best works. It is full of
solid tliought and learning, as well as

of the purest and wannest piety. I
cannot, therefore, be too highly recom-
mended as a book for spiritual reading,
well adapted to the wants of tlie most
intelligent and highly educated persons,
and approved by the judgment of the
most enlightened men in the church for
two centuries. The translation was
made by the accomplished authoress ol
the Life of Catharine Macau lay ^ and
the publisher has issued it in a very
good style.

O' Shea's Popular Juvenile Libra-
ry, Second Series. 12 vols. Illus-
trated. New York: P. O'Shea. 1868.

This series is an acceptable addition
to our rapidly increasing list of Catholic
" juveniles.^' The titles of the volumes
it contains are as follows : The Gene-
rous ftnemy, and other stories ; Anna's
Vacation, and other stories ; The Beg-
gar's Will, and other stories; Bertrand
du Guesclin ; Kascm the Miser, and
other stories ; The Blind Grandfather,
and other stories ; Trijles ; The True
Son, and other stories ; Marian's His-
tory; Patience Removes Mountains,
and other tales ; The Best Dowrj*, and
other tales.

Rural Poems, by William Barnes.
Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869.

These poems have received unqua-
lified praise by English critics in the
principal literary reviews. It is sai^j
of them that they are ** in a high dettr-
pleasant and novel ;'* ** invested wit*
simple beauty," ** clothed in hor
healthy language," etc. We migh^,
do, say the same of the renowned Melo-
dies of Mother Goose, whose *^* Poems"
the greater part of the present collection
very much resembles. Who will not be
forcibly reminded of*' Ride acockhorse
to Banbury Cross" by the following
verses ?

*' Bn'jHIit wu the morning iiikI tyriK^tt wis fhe iiK»a^.,
BHi^ht wai ih« rorerrNUn itid brinjlit wa* ihe oa
Bri|[ltl «irai the road dmvn iKe sun»1iiny u^V^
Bnithl was the w:itcr and briclit vrns ihc bridge :
Bngbt in the light wicre two cye^ In my light.
On the road that 1 ri»*:*k up to Brcnbiiry t(iw€r»
The eyef at my side were my F*iii>y*t, my bride.
The day of my weddin|;, my wedding's ^y hour.

I
1
I

574

NiW Publications,

We think that if the author had beeii
an American, the English critics would
have laughed at him. The b(Xik is
elegantly published, with good illustra-
tions, and would make a nice holiday
present for children.

Begix^ung Germah, Lessons intro-
ductory to the Study of the German
Language. With a Vocabularj% Select
Phrases for German Conversation, and
Reading Lessons* By Dr. Emil Otto,
Professor of Modern Languages and
Lecturer at the University of Heidel-
berjg;. First American Edition. With
additional reading matter and notes,
arranged by L. Pylodet. New York :
Leypoldt & Holt 1S69.

Dr. Otto deserves a great deal of
praise for the attention that he has
shown to the wants of the student. In
the above work he has carefully collect-
ed all the necessary matter for the com-
mencement of a systematic study of the
German.

The book has been prepared for young
persons ; but contrary to the usual me-
thod^ l>r« Otto does not overtask the
memory of the learner with endless vo-
cabularies, which serv^e only tt> hide the
important parts. He first explains the
alphabet, and also German accentuation
and punctuation. Next he gives a
thorough ifriil upon each of the parts
of speech, and by the aid of foot-notes,
gradually places before the student the
salient points of the German grammar.
After which comes select phrases and
reading lessons.

The vcK!abularies in nearly all French
and German grammars are made up of
the most foolish and impracticable sen-
tences that could possibly l)c invented ;
and Dr. Otto cannot put forth the claim
of originality for his selection of sen-
tences.

Tlie ** parti ttx^e sense "and the pos-
sessive case create an immense amount
of confusion in the minds of those who
plan German methods, and they accord-
ingly attempt to perpetuate their trou-
ble by filling their exercises with child-
ish and improbable examples. Dr.

Otto forms no exception to the geoei
custom. Tlie rules gixxn at the bott<
of the pages in regard to decIeniJi
are spread over so many pages
they will not be of much assistanci
the student will be obliged to lutti
once to the synopsis of German Gi
mar, which tlie book aJso con tains, if
he desires to thoroughly understand^
tins part of the German-

The reading lessons are simple slid
well selected ; but there is no necessity
for the abundant notes which are ap-
pended.

On the whole» this is a very cxccUent
work : beinjs^ far in advance of the Ger-
man text-books that are so much used
in the schools of this city, by serving to
impress upon the minds of the Jeamer
a true regard for the grammatical funaa-
tion of their own language.

The Little Gypsy, By Elie Sauvagie.
1 11 us t rated by Lorenz Frolic h. Trans-
lated from the French by I. M. Lys-
ten Boston : Roberts Brothers. Tpw
133. J 868.

This is a charming little story — otic
that we can heartily recommend, both
from its intrinsic merits and the bean*
tiful manner in which it is got up, as a
suitable Christmas present.

Verses on Various Occasioxs. Bos-
ton, Published by Patrick Donahoe*
1868.

On the reception of the English cdi*
tion of this exquisite volume^ we called
the attention of our readers to the true
Catholic beauty and fervor of the poems
which it contains. The edition by Mr.
Donahoc is elet^intly printed on toned
paper, and faultlessly bound* We can
think of no more appropriate book km
a Christmas gift than this.

The Calamities axd Quarrels of
Authors: with some Inquiries re-
specting their Moral and Literary Clia-
ractcrs, and Memoirs for our Literary
History, By Isaac Uisraell. Edited
by his Son, the Right Hon. B. Dis-

New Publications.

57S

racli. New York: W, J- Widdle-
ton. 2 vols. pp. 349, 41 1. 186S.

These two volumes complete an edi-
tion in nine volumes of the writings of
the elder Disraeli. His works are too
well known to need, even if the limited
space at our disposal this month per-
mitted, an extended notice.

Twentieth Annual Report of the
Regents of the University of
the State of New York, on the
Condition of the State Cabinet
OP Natural History, and the
Historical and Antiquarian
Collection annexed thereto.
Albany : Van Benthuysen and Sons'
Printing House. 1868.

The study of Natural History is in
its infancy in the United States^ yet it
is encouraging to know that there are a
few earnest men who continue their in-
vestigations in spite of the almost uni-
versal indifference upon llie subject. It
is not so much because there are no
men of science to determine the species
of our fauna^ as that there is a general
lack of attention to these questions. Per-
haps one of the most gratifying features
of the present Report is the indication
of a newly-awakened interest among
our citizens. A large number of t>pes
have been presented to the Museum by
private collectors ; among the more in-
teresting of these is the skeleton of a
Mastodon found recently at Cohocs.
This animal has been imbedded in such
an unusual stratum of rock, and in such
a peculiar manner^ that the learned
Curator of the Cabinet believes it will

I afford a valuable guide in determining
its natural histor)^ and geological rela-
tions. The Smithsonian Institute has
generously presented more than two
Siouaand specimens to the collection of
shells. These, as will be seen from the
catalogues given, are o^ great value, be-
cause they embrace alniost exclusively
Bpecics from distant quarters of the
globe, and which consequently can only
be obtained through some State institu-
tion.
However, the zealous efforts of the

Curator and Regents seem to be much
impeded by the want of proper cases for ,
the display and arrangement of speci-
mens. A similar difficulty was experi- I
e need by the Society of Natural History '
in this city ; tliey at one lime possessed
a large and interesting collection of in-
sects, which were packed in boxes and
stored in the basement of the Medical
College of the New York University,
The destruction of that building by fire
has relieved the officers of the society
from any further trouble concerning
them. It is to be hoped that a similar
fate does not await the State Collection,
but that the modest request of the trus-
tees for a small appropriation will be
granted at the present session of the
Legislature, The catalogue of books
sCnarcely numbers a hundred volumes,
and does not merit the name of a li-
brary- This is a serious obstacle in the
way of those who are charged with the
dut>^ of classifying the specimens sent
to them, but one which the Regents of
the Cabinet anticipate to see gradually
removed.

The statement of the necessities and
financial condition of the State Cabinet
is followed by an essay of Prof. W. D.
Wilson, of Hobart College, on Local
Qimatology. This is chiefly interest-
ing because of a new theory accounting
for the cold weather of winter. Of
course^ one of the principal reasons why
the temperature is lower in winter than
in summer is because the days of win-
ter are several hours shorter. But tJie
sun*s heating power is also determined
by its altitude. Herschel and Fouillet
have demonstrated that a large propor-
tion of the sun's rays are absorbed by
passing through the atmosphere, or
rather by the moisture in the atmo-
sphere, so that only about seventy-five
per cent of its heat reaches ^^ earth.
Hence, it is evident that the temperature |
will varv', not only for places of different
latitudes, but also at the same place at
different seasons of the year, and during
the different hours of the day. Still, the
mere fact of the absorjJtion of heat does
not explain the difference of tempera-
ture. Heat absorbed always increases
the temperature of the absorbing bcjdy,
except when the heat becomes latent by

576

N€w Publications,

passing from a solid to a fluid, or from a
fluid to a gaseous state. As an atmo-
sphere does not change the form of the
haftt, it would itself be increased in tem-
perature, and consequently the influence
of the heat would be felt in precisely
the same degree as if it were conducted
directly to the earth. But this difficulty
is removed by Prof. Wilson, who claims
that tlie atmosphere has the same power
of reflecting as of absorbing heat ; hence
the heat is never transmitted beyond the
outer boundary of our atmosphere, but
is immediately reflected into space, and
loses its influence upon anything within
the power of our observation. The de-
crease of heat has long been known to
depend greatly upon the sun's altitude.
It varies with what is commonly termed
the sine of the sun's altitude. It is
worthy to be remarked, therefore, that
on this theory the decrease of heat will
depend upon the angle at which the
sun's rays strike the atmosphere, and
hence it must always, as in fact it does,
coincide with the sun's height

The result of Prof. IlalFs labor for the
year is seen in several elaborate notices
upon the Paleontology of the State,
Those who feel interested in this en-
licinjB: department of Natural History
wiil take pleasure in the clear analysis
of ccrbiin families and genera described
in the Report. The effort to aid begin-
ners in this study, as seen in the mono-
l^ram upon the Graptolites, is particu-
larly commendable. These sciences
cannot make any substantial progress
until they are brought down to the ca-
pacity of learned men engaged in other
pursuits, because they all depend upon
the careful observation of phenomena
which require the united attention of
many individuals. Hence, all domestic
contributions to the determining of the
species of our own fauna should be
sufficiently elementary to be understood
by amateurs in the science. And to
the want of such works as these may
fairly be attributed the fact, that many

1 young men begin to investigate the \^-

I fious branches of natural science, but

Lirery few persevere.

The volume is increased in value by

1 a number of well-executed plates, which
appear to be accurate copies of the

in a mo*
ad ba^
yoftifl
aocttnfl

specimens in Pro£ H^*s ooUedJOo. It
shows, at least, that he recognbes tiietr
importance in conveying scientific koxifW'
ledge. A figure skilfully drawn wiB
frequently determine a species in a
mentis comparison, wliich would b;
cost many hours* careful study of
descriptions of even the most
and painstaking observer,

Begikner*s French Rrader. Short
and Easy Pieces in Prose and Verse,
with a complete Vocabulary. Ar-
ranged by L. Pylodet. New Y<
Leypoldt & HolL
This little book seenfs to be very

adapted to fully carry out the end t

cated by its title-page,

Messrs. John Murphy Sc Co, haw
just published a small volume contain-
ing the life of Jakn M, CosUlia, or Th
Beauty of Virtue^ ixempiified in d»
American Youtk. The author sii
proposes to lay before the reader **
virtues of a young man who
seventeen years of his short life ia
peaceful seclusion of his homc^
remaining two and a half in the
routine of a college, and who» thercl
could have practised only what St
cis of Sales calls * little virtues.* *•

nootcs RBcenncD.

From Chaxlbs Scxibhsx ft Co., Nc« Voflc: M^
d^me Hiih-ibe; or^ The VnluQfcen oC *^ %f
MM. KrcknuiQ-Qi4m4n. TrantbiedlibMiilJlie tlM^
tcenth edition, with t(^n full-ptgc iDoBtrstJAiQ.

From Pathick Dokahob, Hcwt^m i Le l*eik O^
chicmc de Quebec: — The Furleyc* nf Farley : «t»
Faichful anii Trtie. 6f Rev. Thomi* J. Ponia*
All Hallcmi CoUege, DubJt».

Fmm LttB & SHErAitD. Boston : Dr. HcmelTt Tm^
ily. By Mf*. H. B. Gwjdwin.— HiJbborti r«m
By Sriptiia Dickinson Cobb.— The Mimic 8i^
A icries of Drxmai, Comedies^ Barl^sqiiciv W^
Fin:c«> Tor Puhtic Kxhiliitionc Jmd Private TTwfrf
cala. By George \i. Baker,

From LivroLDT 8t Molt, Ne«v Yodt : **»^Tir 4^
Beauprf. By Mre. C. Jenkin.

From Jqujc Mukphv & Ca, Baltimore % TW Vmpe-
tonAf) Con»tjlcr. A mariiAf i>f pniyn^rs, «v>ntafM^|
a fctecfion of devotional '
pared for ihe use of the iin.
Archcotifniteniity ; enUry
uae by a Rcdcmptocist Fjiii^r. Publiak
th« approbation of the Mrmc R«v«rr'iMi Ih
bidiop of Balttmore.— Th« VitirAtion I
A collection of piayrrt and instructional
pflrfl accordinc lo the SpiritraJ l>ir«ciory
Spirit of St. Fracctt de Sde^ ftitinder nf \}m RcIk
Utoits tJrcler of the Vi»itj*ii<jn of B, V. Mary.
lialu d wiiti ih« ^Approbation of the Moat f
Ansbbblxip of Baltimore. i86^

ciory and |

ihtltclK
iry. Pab-

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

!V^

VOL. VIII., No. 47.-

»K

CARDINAL XIME^

The greatness of Cardinal Xime-
nes has weathered ihe storms of
time* It has spread far beyond the
people by whom it was first recog-
nized and proclaimed. All Europe
as done it homage, and the whole
'civilized world hails it willi gratitude
and joy. It is a small thing in com-
parison to excel as a prelate, a states*
inan, a general, or a man of letters ;
but to shine foremost in each and all
I of these capacities, as did Ximenes,
to make a lasting impression on the
^^age in a fourfold character, and to
^knould anew the destinies of a nation
^■n virtue of it, have been the lot of few,
^Bknd scarcely the ambition of any.
^^imenes de Cisneros is part of the
Spaniard's nationality. They admire,
they love him, they boast of him ;
and so lately as April, 1857, they as-
sembled in vast numbers in the city
of Alcald to deposit his remains in
Iglesia Magistral, just 340 years
*ter his decease. The precious rae-
oirs left by Gomez have never been
ployed with greater effect than by
r. Von Hefele, who, from these—
e basis of all lives of Ximenes —
d from a variety of collateral
mrces, has produced a complete
VOL. vtii. — 37

and most valuable history of the il-
lustrious cardinal.

Like many eminent prelates in the
Catholic Church, Ximenes was a self-
nnade man. He was born at Torde-
laguna — a small town — in 1436. His
father, though of noble descent, was
comparatively poor, and collected
tithes for the king. His mother
likewise came of a valiant stock de-
cayed in fortune ; so that Ximenes
enjoyed on both sides the advantage
of gentle blood. From an early age
he was destined for the Church ; at
Alcala he was well schooled, and at
Salamanca he studied canon and
civil law, theology, and the Scriptures,
It was here that his love of biblical
lore first displayed itself, and gave
promise of that abundant growth
which afterward made tlic name of
Ximenes famous in the literary world.
Poverty was his good angel. It urg-
ed him to exertion, and he supported
himself at the university by giving
lessons. Then, having taken his
bachelor's degree in canon and civil
law, he boldly turned bis face toward
Rome, and resolved to better his for-
tune, if possible, in the heart of Chris-
tendom. Twice on the way he was

578

Cardinal Ximenes*

plundered by robbers, and but for
the kindness of a fonner school-fel-
low would have been stopped at Aix,
in Provence, and compelled to re-
turn, minus money, clothes, and
horse. To Rome, however, he came,
and worked steadily in the ecclesias-
tical courts during six years, till his
father died, and he was recalled to
Spain lo perform a parent's part to
his bereaved family. Happily he
carried in his pocket an expedahve
letter, by which the pope granted
him the first vacant benefice In the
diocese of Toledo. The right of
bestowing benefices in this manner
had often been questioned, often re-
sisted ; but with such controversies
Ximenes had nothing to do. It was
not till the Council of Trent that
Graf lit ExpectativiJt were finally sup-
pressed ;* and it was clearly his
interest to obtain a living from the
holy father, if he could, according to
established precedent* Uzeda soon
fell vacant, and though Ximenes laid
•claim to it immediately, Carillo, the
archbishop, was in no degree inclin-
ed to yield it to him. The more Xi-
menes pressed his claim, the more
stoutly Carillo resisted, and the re-
I suit was that the claimant, though
backed by papal auihority, soon
found himself a prisoner in the very
parish of which he sought to be pas-
tor. Nothing could break his iron
resolution, and being removed to
the fortress of Santorcaz, he there
•spent six years in confinement, till
the archbishop, wearied by his firm
and constant refusal to forego his
i- claim, at length yielding the point,
restored htm to liberty, and confirm-
*€d him in possession of the benefice.
His constant study of the Scrip-
tures could not escape observation,
.and he was often referred to as an
f.authorhy in Hebrew and Chaldee.
^ eing made vicar of the diocese of
• Sen. x»v. «s^ 19,

Sigtienza, and agent for the est
of a nobleman who had been
prisoner by the Moors, Xtsie
sighed for retirement, and entered
a novice a convent of the Francisca
order. But his interior life was
disturbed. Numbers resorted to his
for counsel and instruction-
prayed to be sent to some more lon^
ly retreat, and accordingly fourni , '
home in a small convent near Tele
called after our Lady of Castafitrr
It stood in the midst of a forest of
chestnuts, and here, like an anchoritJi
of old, he built a hermitage and
ported life on herbs and roots, wid
water from the neighboring rilli
Though a scourge was in his ban
and a hair-shirt on his body,
Bible he so prized was before hin
angels surrounded him, and the Hol|
Ghost established within hini a reig
of serenit)^ and light.

According to the rule of the Fmn
ciscans, he was, ere long, again
moved. He became guardian of J
the convent of Salzeda, and it wa»
here, in his fifty-sixth year, that hitl
career, so far as it concerns history,
began. A confessor was required for
the devout and beautiful Queen Isa*
bella, and Cardinal Mcndoza, whohad]
been Bishop of Sigiicnza* and knew}
Ximenes well» recommended him as*^
the fitting person to guide her con-
science. Being summoned to court cm
pretence of business, the FranctsctQ "
recluse was introduced, as itivere \if\
accident, into the royal prescncCL
Isabella was charmed by his candor*
his modesty, and native dignity..
vain he declined the office for

he was designed. The queen

take no refusal, but consented fa hk
residing still in his mon ivrjy

from the splendor and tci > of

a court He strove to avoid inu-ncr
ence in politics, but Isabella so much
the more applied for his advice in the
aHairs of state. Thus influence Ofrtf

Cardinal Ximenes,

579

others is oflen given to those whose
lonly aim is to acquire the mastery
:)ver themselves. Not long after be-
Hng made confessor to the queen,
{Ximenes was elected Provincial of the
Franciscan order for Old and New
ICaslile. He made his visitations on
[foot, begged his way like any other
3f his brethren^ and often lived on
raw roots. The order had relaxed
ts original strictness, and was divid-
into Conventuals and Olnen*an-
Hnrs, of whom the latter only adher-
ed to the letter and spirit of their
, founder's laws. The report, there-
_ 5rc, which the provincial had to
' make to his royal mistress was any-
thing but favorable, and he conse-
quently became himself an object of
calumny and dislike to those whose
vices he sought to correct. Many of
,the Conventuals who would not re-
arm were ejected from their sanctu-
ies by his order, and his couflict
vith evil was silently and surely pre-
paring him for the high post of Arch-
[>ishop of Toledo, Primate of Spain,
and Chancellor of Castile. This see
ihad generally been filled by one of
aoble birth, and Ferdinand was anxi-
£>us to bestow it on his natural son,
LIfonso, Bishop of Saragossa, But
Isabella was strong in her resolve to
Bromote Ximencs. On Good Friday,
1495, s^^ s^"^ ^^^ ^^^ confessor, and
placed a paper in his hands. It was
addressed by his holiness Alexan-
ier VL, " To our venerable brother,
S'rancisco Ximencs deCisneroSjArch-
|bishop-e!ect of Toledo." As he read
ais the friar turned pale. ** tt can-
Eiot be meant for me," he said, and
ibruplly left the apartment, dropping
no. packet. ** Come, brother," he
fcxclaimed to, his companion, **we
[must be gone in haste." Bi^t the
[foyal messengers overtook him on the
3ad to Ocana, trudging along brave-
in the noontide heat. He was fly-
\xig from an archbishopric with 80,000

ducats a year, from power and influ-
ence second only to that of the king,
and from towns and fortresses with
numerous vassals. No arguments
could induce him to accept these
earthly goods. During six months
he persisted in refusing them, and
yielded at last only in obedience to
a command from the sovereign pon-
tt£

He was now in his sixtieth year.
In October, 1495, he was solemnly
consecrated in presence of the two
sovereigns, and when, after the cere-
mony, he came to do them homage,
he said : " I come to kiss the hands
of your majesties, not because they
have raised me to the first see in
Spain, but because I hope they will
assist me in supporting the burden
which they have placed on my shoul-
ders." Ximenes was, on the whole,
the model of a prelate ■ and accord-
ingly we see in him modesty and
self-confidence singularly combined.
In the well-balanced mind they re-
act upon each other and produce each
other. Hence, humility is the source
of moral power. No silver adorned
Ximenes's table, no ornaments hung
on his walls. His garment was the
habit of St. Francis^ his food was
coarse, his journeys were made on foot
or on a mulcts back, and his palace
was turned into a cloister. But many
persons cavilled at this austerity and
ascribed it to spiritual pride. The
pope thought it undesirable in the
case of a primate of Spain, an4 ex-
horted Ximenes, by letter, to ** con-
form outwardly to the dignity of his
state of life in his dress, attendants,
and everything else relating to the
promotion of that respect due to his
authority."

In private, however, Ximenes con-
tinued as mortified as before. The
hair-shirt was next his skin, and he
mended with his own hand the coarse
garments concealed by the sUks and

S8o

Cardinal Ximcnes,

furs of office. The sunnptuous bed,
adorned with ivory, purple, and gold,
which stood in the palace, was never
used by him ; he slept, though his
attendants knew it not, on the bare
floor, and thus, by night and day, he
kept up in his own person a cease*
less protest against the prevailing
luxury of the times. He feared the
seduction of wealth, and was ever
on his guard against the temptations
of his princely domain, consisting of
fifteen cities, besides many villages
and towns. But if any presumed on
his unworldly habits, and thought that
he must be pliant because he was de-
vout, they were soon disabused of
their mistake. He refused, at the
outset of his primacy, to make any
appointments at the instance of great
men, and declared that he was will-
ing at any time to return to his con-
vent and his beads ; but that ** no
personal considerations should ever
operate with him in distributing the
honors of the Church," Even the
brother of Cardinal Mcndoza was
iin.ible to obtain from Ximenes the
confirmation of his appointment tq
the governorship of Cazorla, and his
relations, highly incensed, could gain
no redress from the queen. Having
thus established his own indepen-
dence and freed himself from impor-
tunate suitors, Ximenes saluted Don
Pedro dc Mendoza one day by the
title of Adelaniatio of Cazorla, say-
ing that» as no suspicion of sinister
influence could now attach to him,
he was happy to restore Don Pedro
to a post for which he knew him to
be qualified.

In the biographies of Gomel and
Quintanilla, of Ovicdo and Robles,
Marsollier, Fl^chier, Baudier, Von
Hefele,and Barrett, a number of such
anecdotes may be found, illustrating
the diocesan life of Ximenes, his won-
deriul penetration, piety, and zeal
But these, for the most part, wc must

I Sim

id I
del
Gr3

lie ea

pass over, and dwell rather qq

events in his career with ^H
history of his country is c^[
Several years had passed sim
last Moorish king in Spain 1
defeated and stripped of
nions. The genius of Wa

Irving, the research of Piea

the fancy of Southcy and I
have found full scope in del
the history of the war of Gr*
the surprise of Zahara, the «
of the Marquis of Cadiz,
resistance of the Moors, anc
ture of Alhama. But the
though conquered, had reason
satisfied with the terms of th^K
They were allowed by treacyfl
their mosques and mode of ^
their property, laws, commerce
civil tribunals. They had soni
vileges of which even the Spai
were deprived ; and if^ durinj
governorship of Tendilla ^
archbishopric of Talavcra, tl^|
of Granada were brought u^
rious Catholic influences, tJicy
not complain of any force ai^
beingcmployed by those who r
convert them. Talavera, indeed, i
Ximenes had succeeded as cotii
to the queen, was ceaseless in ]
forts for their salvation. He le
Arabic at an advanced age, an
quired his clergy alsq to do tlies
He caused portions of the Scrip!
Liturgy, and Catechism to be trai
ed, and so recommended the rel
he professed by his consisten
and amiable temper that Mohai
danism in Granada melted awa
fore tlie genial light of tlieJI
and the Moors themselves SB
love and revere the Christian h\\
whom they called "The Gr^^
qui," or Doctor. ^|

Thus far all was progressing!
fully, when, in 1499, Ximenes m
viicd by iJie Catholic sovereigi
assist Talavera in his important

hey

Cardinal Ximenes,

S8i

Ision. In addition to the means al-
ready employed, Ximenes resorted to
a large distribiilion of presents. "In
fcrder," says Von Hefele, "that his
Instructions might make some im-
pression on their sensual minds, he
did not hesitate to make the Moorish
priests and doctors agree ablep resents,
consisting chiefly of costly articles of
^« dress and silks. For this object he
^■encumbered the revenues of his see
~ for many years."* Conversions fol-
lowed in great numbers, and Ximenes
baptized in one day 4000 persons.
Many of the mosques were converted
:ito churches, and the sound of bells
for Mass and vespers was heard con-
tinual ly in the midst of a Moslem
>puIatIon, But this success produc-
ed a reaction. The Moors who were
Kealous for the iidse prophet raised a
■^clamor against the archbishop and
the government. The most noisy
L^ere arrested by Ximenes's order, but
4n the height of his zeal he over-
stepped the bounds of the treaty
^hich the government had made with
ie Moors, by tr}'ing to impose on the
[prisoners the obligation of receiving
Rnstruction from his chaplains in the
IChristian religion. Those who refus-
ed he even punished very 5everely.**t
Among those who were thus im-
prisoned was a noble Moor named
egri, who had distinguished himself
the recent wars. Being obliged to
ast several days and wear heavy irons,
ae suddenly declared that Allah had
appeared to him in a vision and com-
landed him to embrace the Christian
aith. Certain it is that during the
Ifemainder of his life he attached him-
ijielf to Ximenes with constant fidelit}^
id gave undeniable proofs of the sin
feerity of his conversion.

Encouraged by this signal success,
timenes became more and more
iverse to dilatory measures. He be-

• Von Hefde, tmulated bj Cutan Dalton* pk 63.
t Id, p. &4.

Ueved that Providence designed the
extinction of Islamism in Spain, and
that he should best co-operate with tlie
divine will by prompt and energetic
steps. Some thousand copies of the
Koran and other religious books were
delivered up to him by tJie Moorish
alfaquis^ and committed to the flames
in the public square. Works on me-
dicine only escaped, and tliese were
afterward placed in the librar}^ of the
university which he founded at Al-
call The children of those Chris-
tians who had become renegades
were taken from their parents and
received into the Church, for Ximenes
would not suffer a treat}% which he
perhaps considered too temporizing,
to stand hi the way of rescuing souls
from error and converting an entire
people.

About the end of the year 1499,
a terrible outbreak checked for a
time the progress of evangelization.
Salzedoj the archbishop*s major-
domo, was sent by his master into
the city with another servant and an
officer of justice to seize the daughter
of an apostate from Christianity. The
young woman, however, raised a cry
against the violation of the treaty;
the Moors nished to her aid ;
the officer of justice was killed by a
stone ; and the ma|or-domo escaped a
like fate only by secreting himself
under the bed of an old Moorish
woman who offered him assistance.
The Albaycin, or Moslem quarter of
the city, containing 5^000 dwellings,
rose in arms. The palace of Ximenes
was the object of their attack, and they
cried for the blood of him whom a few
days before they had extolled with
praises.

The archbishop's friends urged him
to fly to the fortress by a secret pas-
sage. But they knew not the temper
of the man whom they counselled-
He would never» he said, desert his
servants in the hour of danger. AH

58=

Cardinal Ximcnes,

night he was engaged witli them in
repelling the Moors* assaults, and in
the morning the Count of Tendilla
arrived from the Alhambra with an
armed force, and rescued Ximenes
from imminent peril The outbreak,
however, was not so easily subdued.
The herald sent by the count to the
rebels was murdered^ and his staff of
office was broken in contempt. Nine
days this frantic resistance continued,
though without even a remote pros-
pect of ultimate success. Ximenes
tried in vain to soothe the raging
multitude ; but the milder archbishop,
Talavera, going forth with his cross
and a single chaplain, like Pope Leo
when he encountered Attila, the
crowd of rebels became appeased,
and pressed round him to kiss his
garment's hem. The governor Ten-
dilla then appeared before them in a
civil attire, threw his scarlet bonnet
among the crowd, promised his in-
fluence to obtain the royal pardon,
and left his wife and two children as
hostages In the Albaycin.

Meanwhile, Ximenes, on the third
day of the revolt, sent lo the sove-
reigns at Seville an accoutit of what
had happened. His messenger was
an Ethiopian slave — one of the tele-
graphic wires of those days — who
could run fifty leagues in forty-eight
hours. But the slave got drtink on
the way, and arrived in Seville five
days after he was despatched, in-
stead of two. Reports frightfully
exaggerated had reached the king
and queen. The court was in a
panic. Ximenes w^as blamed for his
indiscretion ^ and Ferdinand, who had
not forgotten the preference given to
•Ximenes over Alfonso of Aragon, his
natur.il son, bitterly reproached Isa-
bella for having raised an incompe-
tent monk to the see of Toledo. But
the archbishop soon appeared to plead
his own cause. The king and queen
were not only satisfied with his ex-

planations, but thanked ium for 1
ser\ices, and assented to his
sal that the inhabiiantsof the A
cin should be punished for bi|
treason, unless they purchased
pardon by being baptized.
treaty made with the Moon
thought to be annulled by tbejj
lence of the Moslems then
Those who persisted in their
retired to the mountains or cr<
over into Barbary ; but by far
greater part of the Moors e«
Christianity, and the number of 1
converts is computed at about 6o,oq
Ximenes and Talavera togcti
catechised the people, working
perfect harmony, except in refcr^n
to the translation of the Bible tn
Arabic. Talavera wished to malj
the version complete, while Xime
on the contrar)', w^as of opinion :
the Scriptures should be preseni
in the ancient languages halloiit
by being used in the inscriptions
the cross. To place the Bible in I
vulgar tongue in the hands of i
phytes and ignorant persons was, 1
believed, to cast pearls before swin
and would certainly issue in spirllu
revolt. But the friendship of the I
prelates remained unbroken, and *
lavera declared that the trin
Ximenes exceeded those of 1
and Isabella, since they had ca
quered only the soil, while he
won the souls of Granada,
can be no doubt that in the mass {
converts there were many unwor
persons who afterward disgrac
their profession. It will always
thus when worldly advantages
held out to proselytes ; but Xinaeo^j
knew that this would be the ca
and was prepared lo rnect the en
with appropriate remedies. He
lieved that good on the wh' '
result from his decisive ni
that many, to say the least, of
conversions would be sincere, %vA

Cardinal Ximeties,

583

bat the children of the converts in
eneral would be educated in the
religion. We do not criticise
his conduct, neither do we altogether
set it up as exemplary. It was more
suitable to his time and country than
it would be to ours \ and having re-
Drded it faithfully, our work is done.
' whatever means accomplished, the
suit has been a happy one, Islam-
ism, after many spasmodic attempts
at revival, has died out of Spain, and
tlie cause of European morality and
civilization has been saved from its
most formidable enemy.

Ximenes was in his sixty-fourth year
when extreme activity brought on a
severe illness and endangered his
life. Every day his energies were
divided between the sovereigns who
required his counsel and aid, and the
converts, chiefs, and others who lis-
tened to his instructions. The king
and queen evinced the greatest con-
cern for him when smitten down with
fever, and removed him from the for-
tress of the Alhanibra, which was ex-
posed to the wind J to the royal summer-
house of Xenerahfa. Isabella in par-
ticular bestowed on the venerable pre-
ite her utmost care. He was soon
bble to walk along the banks of the
Darro and enjoy its pure and bracing
iir, soon able to return to his belov-
l Alcala, where he was founding the
diversity whieh has made his name
lessed for ever ; while the queen, so
auch younger than himself, wlio had
lised liim so high, and from whose
fipathy and protection he had so
iuch to expect, the queen who was
f the mirror of every virtue, the shield
the innocent, and an avenging
3rd to the wicked,*'* was ere longt
be called away from her earthly
TOne, and leave her aged and fai th-
ill serv^ant to fight his way in the
iiidst of those who understood him

• Peter Miirtyf, £>«/, ^79.
t November adih, 1504.

less perfectly and prized him less
highly than she had done.

He was engaged, at this time, in
a great work. The new university,
founded by him at Alcald in 1500,
became the rival of Salamanca, and
was called by the Spaniards "the
eighth wonder of the world.'* From
the moment he was made Archbi-
shop of Toledo, he resolved to de-
vote its immense revenues to the
construction of this seat of learning.
The spot was pleasant, the air pure,
and the site of the ancient Coroplu-
tum was hallowed in the eyes of all
whose sympathies were with the pasL
Gonsalvo Zegri, the converted Moor,
assisted at laying the foundation-
stone ; and Ximenes obtahied from
his royal patrons an annual grant
and sundry privileges for the pro-
jected establishment. Thither Xime-
nes repaired, as to his fondest occu-
pation, whenever the duties of state
and of his diocese pennitted. Often
he might be seen on the ground, w^ith
the nde in his hand, taking measure-
ments of the works» and encouraging
the laborers by his example and by
suitable rewards. Pope Julius IL
issued a brief authorizing the endow-
ment, and Leo X. afterward aug-
mented the liberties of the new foun-
dation. The College of San lldefon-
so stood at its head ; in 1508, several 1
students arrived, and 33 professors -
with 12 priests were installed, who
answered in their numbers to the
years of our Lord's life and his col-
lege of apostles. Schools were at-
tached for boarders, lectures and
disputations were set on foot, class^
es were formed, scholarships found-
ed, examinations publicly conduct-
ed, and diplomas conferred. The
intellect of the students was exercis-
ed in every branch of knowledge — in
tlie ancient languages, including He^
brew, in tlieologj', canon law, medi-
cine, anatomy, surgery, philosophyv

S84

Cardinal Ximenes.

moral philosophy, mathematics, rhe-
toric, and grammar The physical
sciences were as yet little known and
barely studied. Theology spread its
arms widely beneath and around all
attainable knowledge. In 15 14, King
Ferdinand visited the university, at-
tended some of the lectures, and ex-
pressed his admiration of I he gran-
deur and beauty of the buildings.
They were but a feeble sign of the
mental fabrics which Ximenes was
raising to the honor of Spain and for
her service. Patriotism blended in
him with religion, and helped to make
him what he was.

Some years after the death of Xi-
menes, Francis I., of France, on visit-
ing Alcala, is reported to have said:
"Your cardinal has undertaken and
accomplished a work I myself could
not attempt. The University of Paris,
which is the pride of my kingdom, is
the work of many sovereigns. But
Ximenes alone has founded one like
it"

It was by a ruthless decree that
this grand and famous seat of learn*
ing was finally broken up, in 1850,
by the creation of a central university
and the sale of the buildings to the
Count de Quinto.* The inhabitants
resolved at least to save the rich
tomb of the illustrious cardinal, and
the translation of his remains was
eflfected with great solemnity on the
27th of April, 1857.

It was in this university that Xime-
nes published that noble Polyglot by
which he earned the praise and gra-
titude of all biblical students. The
text of the sacred Scriptures had be-
come deplorably corrupt at the com-
mencement of the fifteenth century,
' owing to the inattention or ignorance
of copyists. But the invention of
printing gave a new impetus to eveiy
branch of learning, and promised
biblical scholars great advantages in

their study of the Bible. Fronn
year 1462 to 1500 no less than eiglity
editions of the Vulgate ap
and the zeal of Jews iti ameti
Hebrew text became an in%*j
assistance to the labors of Chr
in the same field. The constant pe^~
version of the meaning of Scrip
by those who were aliens to
Church made it increasingly nc
sary to study the Bible io its (
languages, so as to be able to refill
the impudent assertions of ypstsrt
divines. Hence Ximenes, whose ifc*
signs were naturally grand, for
the intention not only of raising I
new university, but of publishing]
new edition of the Scriptures in ihfl
original tongues, and of thus resto
ing in some measure the lost Hrx^
pla of Origen. No translation,
held, could perfectly represent til
original, and the mss. of Uie Lid
Vulgate were painfully discrepant
was needful, therefore, to go back 1
the prime sources, and " correct
books of the Old Testament by
Hebrew text, and those of the N«
Testament by the Greek text/'*

Having thus resolved to revive \
dormant study of Holy Writ, Xin
nes's next step was to procure aisii
ance from learned men, and access \
the most ancient mss. Sever
Jewish converts were enlisted, and,
besides other profes^rs, a Grc
named Demetrius Ducas. Th€
were all handsomely paid and
mulated lo the utmost excrtioS
" Make haste, my friends," Ximenes
would say; ** for, as all things in ilia
world are transient, you may Ic
me or I may lose you. Let us wot!
together while we can." Enor
sums were spent by him in the
chase of Mss., and some were^
to him by Pope Leo X., who hone
cd him as sincerely as he loved t!i
fine arts. To these loans Ximenes

* Prakcoaiau to lb* PoJiffei.

aiMl,

t>odH

Cardinal Ximenes,

585

refers in the ititroduction to the Poly-
glot It is calculated by Gomez that
nearly ^"2 5,000 sterling {50,000 du-
cats^? 125,000) were spent in bring-
ing the work to a conclusion. The
sale bore no proportion to the pub-
lishing expenses, as 600 copies only
were struck off, and these, though
consisting of six folios, were sold at
six and a half ducats each. ' The
price of the copies still in existence
varies according to the state in which
they have been preserved ; but it
ranges from £^0 to £^<^. The Po-
lyglot occupied fifteen years in its
completion, and the New Testament,
which forms the sixth volume of the
work^ appeared first in order of time.
The Greek, being without the accents,
has a strange appearance, but the
editors excuse themselves on the
ground of the accents not having
been used by the ancient Greeks,
nor by the original writers of the
New Testament, The volume, on
the whole, is beautifully printed,
while the grammar and lexicon
which accompanies it made it a
valuable means of promoting the
study of Greek. The Pentateuch
appeared in Hebrew, Chaldee, and
Greek, together with three Latin
translations. The roots of difficult
words in the Hebrew and Chaldaic
texts are given in the margin, and
this is no mean assistance to begin-
ners in studying these languages, in
which the radical meaning pervades
all the derivatives in so marked a
degree. Altogether, it was a boon
to mankind, munificent in its cost,
noble in its design, beautiful in exe-
cution, and as profound in scholar-
ship as it could be in the age in which
it saw the light- When John Broca-
rio, the printer's son, brought the last
sheeis 10 the cardinal in his best at-
tire, Ximenes raised his eyes to hea-
ven with great joy, and exclaimed :
"I gpve thee thanks, O God most

high I that thou hast brought to a
long-wished -for end the work I un- ,
dertook in thy name/' Only foiiri
months later his eyes were closed la i
death. The Complutensian Polyglot]
became very useful in preparing sub- j
sequent editions of the Scriptures ; and J
though the labors of Griesbach, Bux*
torf, Michaelis, and other critics haver!
thrown its authority into the shade,i|
it was an important link in the chainri
which has issued in the present com- ]
parative purity of sacred texts. AH
real scholars award it cheerfully theif j
meed of praise, and the charge* 1
brought against it by Wetstein andM
Semler have been amply refuted. Itj
is an astonishing production, con-'
sidering the disadvantages under 1
which its compilers lay, that they
had not access to the best and most]
ancient mss,, and that the G;</i*jrl
ViUkanui was not within their reach. ^
What Mss. were really used we shall!
never knoWj for, besides that many
were returned to their owners after 1
the Polyglot was completed, others, |
which had been purchased, were sold]
in 1749 as waste-paper to a rocket-^
maker named Toito 1

As the reform of the Franciscan or*
der was the first glory of the hermiti
of Castanar, and the foundation of a [
great university \h^ second, so the
Bible of Alcala will evxTbe regarded]
as the third durable monument ot\
Ximencs's vast and varied powers.

But his literary labors were not
confined to Holy Writ. He set on.]
foot a complete edition of the works!
of Aristotle ; and though his deathl
interrupted the design, he ^vas able!
to bring out many other useful books,!
in Latin and Spanish, for the use of]
the learned and the instruction of^
the people. The demand for sucj
works was then steadily increasing^i
and the supply not being equal to i^
there was difficulty in finding onl
sale, fifty years later, a single copy

S86

tnm Xtmenef,

of the volumes Ximenes had edit-
ed. Ecclesiastical music-books also,
which had hitherto been in manu-
script/ were published by him, and
distributed through the churches of
his diocese, so that the Gregorian
chant, to which he was strongly at-
tached, might be better known and
practised. Nor did he forget works
on agriculture, being desirous of pro*
moling in every way the welfare of
bis kind.

Finding among the Mss. in the
library of Toledo a number of litur-
gies in oldGodiic characters, he con-
ceived a design of rescuing from de-
struction the Mozarabic or Mixt-Ara-
bic rite. Its use was long confined
to Toledo and to some parishes where
Christians lived under Moorish do-
minion. Then, in course of time,
the Mozarabic families having died
out, and the reign of the Moors being
at an end, the Gregorian rite super-
seded the old Gothic one, and the
memory of it was kept alive only by
occasional use on certain festivals.
It was evidently desirable, for the
sake of history and literature, to col-
late the Mss. of this ancient litur-
gy, and presence it in a printed form
for future generations. This task
Ximenes accomplished in a manner
worthy of his comprehensive genius.
He printed a number of Mozarabic
missals and breviaries, changing the
Gothic characters into Castilian, and
erected a chapel in his cathedral
where the Mozarabic Mass might be
said daily. He founded a college of
thirteen priests, who should recite
the canonical hours, and perform
other functions according to this li-
turgy. Robles himself, Ximcncs's
biographer^ was one of these chap-
lains. This foundation gave rise to
others of the same kind in Salaman-
ca and Valladolid. They have
fully answered the purpose of the
founder, and Moxarabic missals can

easily be purchased at tbe

day.

The obstacles whkh Ximenes hull
to overcome in re form i rig his diocese 1
were very serious, but he encounterefl|
them with the utmost firmness. The|
bishops enjoyed at that period
mense revenues, the bencfictt of
priests were richly endowed, and tilt
clerg)' were too numerous, lax i» xu>
rals, and often extrenu " ruit

The corruption of the C- .mft

was scandalous, and the natural cUI-
dren of kings and princes w«re tfXf
stantly elevated to episcopal sacs.
The monasteries were changed into
abodes of luxury, and it needed \
queen like Isabella, and a pria
like Ximenes, to stem the tide
centiousness. His first effort was I
reform the lives and habits of h
chapter, and in this attempt he mx
opposed by a canon named AtboriMM^
whom he caused to be arrested dtt
his way to Rome and cast into prison. J
Severe measures were indispensable i
in the state of society then existii||^
His own life as a bishop was stricl
in the extreme. He shunned all ior |
tercourse with women, an ' /al-

ways with a Bible open irm^

he had no time for idle and intrusive
visitors. His charities made himbe- '
loved by the poor, and all the decrees
issued by the synods under his presi-
dency tended to revive the spirit and I
the forms of tnie religion. The strict
rule of the Obser\'an tines was tntro-
duced into the Franciscan onler,
and those who would not conform I
it were expelled the country,
valiant reformer raised up encmies.1
enough by his courage and zeal ;
honest intentions such as his and
force of character only triumph the
more signally by being opposed*
His friends pointed to his works of
mercy as the best answer to the i:*-!
lumnies of petty foes. He rabedj
twelve churches \ he founded four 1

Cardinal Ximenes,

587

pitals and eight monasteries ; he fed
thirty poor persons daily at his pa-
lace, visited the hospitals, and pen-
sioned desolate widows. Would his
enemies, even if they had possessed
the means, have done the like ?

When Isabella died, Ximenes, hold-
ing in one hand the archbishop's cross,
grasped in the other the sceptre of
state. Joanna, the consort of Philip
the Fair, who inherited the crown of
Castile, had become the prey of a
disordered imagination. Her hus-
band would not reside in Spain » and
she would not consent to live there
without him. Isabella had foreseen
her incompetency and probable ab-
sence. She had appointed Ferdi-
nand of Aragon, her o\m husband,
Regent of Castile, till her grandson
Charles should have attained his twen-
tieth year. The nobles of Castile fac-
tiously resisted this wise provision ;
and though Ferdinand acted with
prudence and moderation, though he
caused his daughter Joanna, with
Philip her husband, to be proclaim-
ed sovereigns, and contented himself
with administering the affairs of state
in their absence, a struggle ensued
in w*hich Ximenes sided constantly
with Ferdinand, and adhered closely
to the terms of Isabella's wilh Phi-
lip prepared an army to drive his
father-in-law from Castile, while Jo-
anna wTote to him requesting that he
would not resign the government,
and surrendering her rights to him
in the most earnest and affectionate
terms.

By the wisdom and resolution of
Ximenes, the rupture between Philip
and Ferdinand was partially healed.
He mediated between them with ad-

I mit^hX^ finesse^ and his success was
the more remarkable because h^

\ found in Philip a faithless, wrong-

\ headed, and vindictive man, the
slave of passion and the dupe of

[evil counsellors j while the confi-

dence reposed in him by Ferdinand
was not always complete, nor equal at
any time to that placed in him by
the virtuous and noble Isabella.
With his consent Philip was allowed
to have his own way, and to govern
Castile without the assistance of Fer*
dinand. But Philip was removed
from this worfd in the flower of his
age, and thus the path was opened
for Ximenes becoming Regent of
Castile. He was by this time tho-
roughly conversant with the affairsl
of state. Ever)' Thursday he gavel
an audience to the king's chief minis-1
ters, and heard from them the most J
important matters which were nextj
day to be brought before the counciL
On Friday he gave these mattersJ
again his careful consideration, andj
then handed in a report respectir
them to the king.

It was in September, 1506, tliati
Philip died after a short illness, andJ
Ximenes, with several others, wa^j
chosen provisional administrator of [
the kingdom. His powers were sooaJ
increased, and exalted above those of J
his colleagues. He had a difficult]
part to play, for the Castilian noble
were passionate and intriguing, ancf 1
the disconsolate widow Joanna refus*]
ed to endorse his authority as regent
She sat nearly all day long in a dark!
chamber, with her face resting on herl
hand, silent, bitter, and sorrowfulj^.l
listening only at intervals to sweetj
music which nursed her melancholy,!
These eccentricities ended in total de*J
rangement. She disinterred her hus^ I
band*s corpse at Miraflor^s, contrary 1
to the laws of the church and to Phi^ 1
lip's will, and ordered it to be con* I
veyed before her by torch light to thej
town of Torqucmada. Endless fu-
nereal ceremonies were performed,
and fantastic images of death and.j
grief were multiplied in virtue of her
diseased imagination. She insistedJ
on residing in a little town where her

588

Cardinal Xtmtnes.

I
I

court and attendants could scarcely
find a cabin-roof to screen them from
sun and storm.

In August, 1507, the unhappy
queen, wild and haggard in appear-
ance, attended by the corpse of her
royal husband, met her father Fer-
dinand at Tortole's. With her con-
sent he assumed the reins of govern-
ment, and Ximenes resigned hie
powers into the hands of the king.
His services had been great» and Fer-
dinand was too noble to leave them
unrewarded. The archbishop was
named Cardinal and Grand-Inquisitor
of Castile and Leon. Never was a
cardinal's bat bestowed at Rome with
greater satisAiction ; and the impor
tant ofllice of grand-inquisitor, which
was attached to the higher dignity,
will be estimated more correctly af-
ter a few observations.

It was the opinion of St. Augus-
tine, who herein followed that of
St Ambrose and St. Leo, that per-
sons ought not to be put to death
for heresy, but the great doctor did
not disapprove of force being em-
ployed to restrain and correct here-
sy. This opinion became the basis
of the civil laws of Theodoslus II.
and Valentinian IlL ; but in the
middle ages the alliance between
church and state was much closer
than it had been in earlier years,
and it was usual to punish obstin:ite
heresy as a twofold crime worthy of
death, St Thomas Aquinas de-
fends this as reasonable, but St.
Bernard was in favor of a more leni-
ent policy. Ecclesiastical tribunals
were established in which cases of
heresy were tried» and the ci\al magis-
trates were required by law to carry
into cflfect the judgment of bishops.
Papal legates also, like Peter de Cas-
telnau, were often entrusted with in-
quisitorial powers. The Council of
Toulouse, in 1229, issued various de-
crees relative to the suppression of

heresy,^ and may thas be cowider-
ed as founding the first tnquisdicctt
The Dominicans especially wcfcc»-
ployed in the work of extirpatiitg
heresy, and but for the cxcrtkiiis of
such men the nations of Eimipr
would have been overran with Mxn^
chauism and various other forms of
pestilent error. The Jews settled in
Spain, penetrated in disguise every
branch of societ}% and stro\*c la
ever)* age to Judaize the people.
The inquisition uras directed fn m
particular manner against this suhtk
influence, and the peculiar nature of
the evil required peculiar remedies
and antidotes. It was Judaism in
the church that it labored to extir-
pate, and not the race of IsraH
dwelling in the Peninsula-

The inquisitors of Seville toolt
office in 1481, and were appointed
by the sovereigns Ferdinand and
Isabella^ Nothing was more natu-
ral than that they should seek la
rid the body politic of a gangrene so
fatal as secret Judaism. Vet Sixtus
IV. had occasion to rebuke the royal
inquisitors foi* their needless scvai-
ty and to take measures for llic
mitigation of their sentences. But
the tribunal was placed more and
more under the control of the state,
and whether clergy-men or laytnen
were employed, they w^ere alike sub-
senient to the Spanish go\rmm€nt
In 1492, when, by a memorable
edict, the Jews were ordered to quit
Spain, unless they submitted to be
baptized, the sphere of Uie inquisi-
tion's labors became greatly enlarg-
ed in consequence of the increased
number of Jews who professed Chris-
tianity from worldly motives alone.
The Moriscos also, or baptixed
Moors, came within the sphere of
its action ; and it was introduced in-
to Granada by the advice of the se-

• ll«rrlutiv tuma vit. pfs tji^iy*.
t VoD Hcfele, p. aa&

Cardinal Ximenes,

cond grand-inquisitor, Deza, in order
to prevent their relapsing into Is*
lam ism.

The sovereigns of Castile and
Aragon promoted the inquisition
for other motives besides those here
alluded to. They used it as an in-
strument for consolidating their own
power and breaking that of the
clergy and nobles. Piombal, at a
later period, did the same in Portu-
gal. Hence it was popular with the
lower classes, detested by the aristo-
cracy, and often censured by popes.
To these facts Ranke and Balmez
abundantly testify, and their evi-
^^ dence is confirmed by that of Henry
^V Leo, Guizot, Havemann, Lenormant,
^1 De Maistre, and Spittlcn The false-
^P hoods of Llorente respecting the in-
^ quisition have been fully exposed,
^^ and those who sift the matter tho*
^v roughly will find that it was latterly
^" more a political than a religious in-
I stitution ; that the cruelties it exer-
cised have been enormously exagger-
ated \ that it was in accordance with
principles universally recognized in
^^ its day ; that its punishments, how-
^Kever severe, were in keeping with
^" the ordinary penal laws; that the
popes constantly endeavored to miti-
gate its decrees ; that Gregory XUL,
Paul ni., Pius IV., and Innocent
XII., in particular, reclaimed against
its rigors; iJiat its intentions were
good on the whole ; its proceed-
Jugs tempered with mercy ; and
that Ximenes, the third grand inqui-
sitor, conducted himself in that office
ith moderation and humanity, pro-
tvided for the mstruction of Jewish
,nd Moorish converts, and '* adopt-
every expedient to diminish the
[mumber of judicial cases reserv^ed
for the tribunal of the inquisition.''*
e caused Lucero, the cruel inquisi-
:or of Cordova, to be arrested, tried,
,nd deposed from his high functions,

•V^MiHefele, p, 387.

He protected Lebrija, Vergara, and
other learned men from envious as- 1
persions, and kept a strict watch
over the officers of the inquisition,
lest they should exceed their instruct
tions or abuse their power. He en* 3
deavored, but without success in
Ferdinand's lifetime, to exclude lay-
men from the council, and thus free
the tribunal as far as possible from
state influence. The number of
those who suffered punishment un-
der his rkgime has been greatly exag-
gerated by Llorente ; and if he in-
troduced tlie inquisition into Oran,
America, and the Canary Isles, it*
must be remembered tliat its juris-
diction extended over the old Chris-
tians settled there, and not over the
natives.

In reviewing Ximenes's conduct in
such matters, we must never lose
sight of the fact that absolute unity
of religion was then the aim of all
Catholic governments, whereas cir-
cumstances are now altered, and the
question of religious liberty, though
the same in the abstract, is wholly
changed in its practical application.
But the scene now changes. We
have seen the hermit of Castanar
doff his cow! to wear a mitre, found
the University of Alcala, edit the fa-
mous Polyglot, and rule as regent
the kingdom of Castile, We shall
now behold him mount a warcharger,
place himself at the head of an army,
and lead it to victory on the coasts of
Africa. We shall admire and won-
der at the versatility of his genius,
and the resolution and activity which
no difficulties could break nor ad-
vancing years slacken. It would be
easy to point out resemblances be-
tween Ximenes and the fiery Cha-
tham, nor can we wonder that the
latter statesman admired the former
more than any other character in
history.*

• Horace WalpokV G*9r^ !L p. iil 19.

590

C^^inal Ximmes,

The cardinal had a double reason
for advising Ferdinand to employ
the troops which Gonsalvo de Cor-
dova had led to victory m Italy, in
the conquest of some stronghold on
the African coast. Mazarquivir was
taken in 1505, and Ximenes, ex-
panding his designs as usual, con-
ceived a vaster project for a new
crusade and the recovery of the
Holy Sepulchre. It had been for
ages the favorite and oft-baffled
scheme of popes and Christian
princes. It seemed to realize every
/hope of Catholic domination in Eu-
rope, and to involve the downfall of
Islamism. The idea was as glorious
as the accomplishment would be
useful to humanity. It was the
cause of civilization against barbar-
ism, and of truth against error. But
the strife between Philip and Fer-
dinand, already referred to, com-
pletely frustrated it, and the loss of
Mazarquivir, in 1507, supplied Xime-
nes with an opportunity of opposing
Mohammedanism nearer home and
under more urgent circumstances.
At his earnest request a fleet was
fitted out for the conquest of Oran.
That city was strongly fortiJied, rich
and powerful, and in its harbors were
a multitude of cruisers, ever ready to
sweep the shores of the Mediterra-
nean and carr}' off their victims to
be so!d as slaves. Though in hts
seventy-second year, though hamper-
ed by the infirmities common at such
an age, Ximenes resolved to march
in person to the conquest of this
place, and to furnish the means re-
quired for the expedition out of his
own revenues. He would thus, he
thought, be able to pursue his own
plans with greater freedom, and ex-
em^jt the king from responsibility
and loss which he might not be able
or willing to incur. There were
those who sneered at the cardinars
girding on his sword, and murmured

that he had better tell his beads
but Ferdinand knew well the \\
of his mind. He willingly pUctd
his disposal all the fi3rces ihat c/mJi
be raised, and gave him a large ni
ber of blank papers, signed only widi
the royal manual, to be filled \x^
the great cardinal mig^ht think pnvl
per. Fourteen thousand men
soon under arms, and Count P<
Navarro was appointed by Xii
commander of the forces. A Uli
bishop was at the head of one ffiiii-
sion, and all the generals were db-
tinguished for iheir valor. Durof
some years Ximenes had been bti§>
banding his resources for some suck
enterprise, and subsidies flowed ftl
from other churches and dioceses.

Intrigues and jealousies delajned
for awhile the sailing of the expedi-
tion, Navarro strove to obtain tJic
sole command. Ferdinand i^^as of-
ten wavering, A mutiny broke oot
in the army. The soldiers deniaiid-
ed their pay in advance. But ihr
voice of the cardinal calmed ihc
storm^ and the soldiers, being pro*
mised a part of their pay as soon as
they had embarked, hastened to the
ships with the merry sound of tnatt-
pets. On the 16th of May, 15091
the fleet weighed anchor. Ten pJ»
leys, eighty large transports, and
many smaller vessels traversed the
straits, and on the following day —
the Feast of the Ascension^ — Ximenes
with his fleet and army anchored isi
the port of Mazarquivir He passed
the night in giving his instructions ;
and though his health and strength
were impaired by age* toil, and study,
his energy filled the troops with con-
fidence and enthusiasm. He sum-
moned Navarro before him, and co-
trusted the conduct of the army to
him alone, yet the relative positions
of the cardinal and the commander
were not, after all, clearly defined

The lines were formed in order of

Cardinal Ximenes.

591

battle, when a striking scene present-
, ed itself. Oran was to be attncked
by sen and land. A mendicant friar
was transformed into a chieftain and
a hero. Forth he rode, mounted on
a mule, with a sword belted o%^er his
pontifical robes. Many ecclesiastics
surrounded him. Canons and priests
"were his body-gimrd. Swords and sci-
mitars hung from their girdles, and be*
fore them rode a giant Franciscan on
a white charger, bearing the primate's
I silver cross and the arms of the house
of Cisneros, The hymn Ve^iila regis
prodcunt rose to heaven as the caval-
cade advanced ; and the cardinal,
riding along the ranks, imposed si-
lence and harangued the troops.
His words were few, but full of fire.
The mother^ of Spain, he said, whose
children had been dragged into sla-
very, were prostrate at that moment
before the altar of God, praying for
success to his soldiers* arms. He
desired to share their danger, remem-
bering how many bishops who had pre-
ceded him in the see of Toledo had
died gloriously on the battle-field.

Officers and men were excited to
the utmost by Ximenes's address, but
when he was about to place himself
» at their head, they entreated him
with one voice not to expose so pre-
cious a life. He retired, therefore,
within the fortress of Mazarquivir,
and there, in the oratory of St. Mi-
chaeU implored the God of battles
to crown his troops with victory.
Scarcely had he entered the fort,
when the folly of Navarro compelled
the cardinal to interfere. The com-
mander had ordered the cavalry to
remain inactive, because the country
I was so hilly, and if Ximenes had not
resolutely insisted on their support-
! ing the foot-soldiers, the day would
[ probably have been lost. With iike
' cnerg)' Ximenes condemned any de*
lay as criminal, and prevented Na-
varro from deferring the combat, as

he proposed, to the next day, when
the arrival of the chief-vizier of Tre*
mesen with strong re-enforcements
would have been dangerous, if no
fatal, to the Spaniards' prospect of J
success.

The infantry, therefore, in four
battalions, advanced immediately up
the sides, of the sierra, shouting,
** Santiago, Santiago T' A shower
of stones and arrows was hurled on
them by the Moors, and the position
was obstinately disputed. But a
battery of guns playing on the ene-,
my's Hank, they wavered and fled,
while the Spaniards, in spite of con*
trary orders, pursued and slaughtered
them with great havoc. The fleet,
meanwhile, bombarded the city^ and,
though ill provided with ladders, thej
Christian troops scaled the walls^l
planted their colors, and with loud J
cries of "Santiago y Ximenes!^*)
opened the gates to their comrades. (
In vain did their general call thenf j
off from the work of carnage. No-I
age or sex was spared ; till at last, j
weary with plunder and butchery,
they sank down in the streets, and
slept beside the corpses of their foes.
Four thousand Moors were said to
have fallen, and only thirty Spaniards,
The booty was counted at half a
million of gold ducats.

The cardinal spent the night in
praising God, and the next day, pro-
ceeding by sea to Oran, made a so-
lemn entr}'. The troops hailed him as
the conqueror, but he was heard to
say aloud. *' Non nobis, DiWiine, std
no mini iuo da gioriam^^^ He set at
liberty three hundred Christian cap-
tives ; and when the entire spoil of
the city was presented to him, he
reserved nothing for himself, but set
apart a portion for the king, and
divided the rest among his troops.
Sixty pieces of cannon fell into his
hands, and it seemed HttJe less than i
a miracle that a place so defended

CarJinatAimfHSr

should have been taken in a few
hours. Others affirmed that there
had been traitors among tlie inhabi-
tants, and that Ximenes had gained
over to his side some persons who
acted as spies and gave him secret
intelligence. The mosques were
soon converted into churches, and
a branch of the inquisition was
established, lest convert Jews should
hasten from Spain to Oran and re-
nounce the Christian religion with
impunity.

It now became a question whether
the war should be pushed further
hito Africa. The people of Treme-
sen, stung to madness by the fall of
Oran, had massacred the Christian
merchants and slaughtered even the
Jews. But Navarro had grown jeal-
ous of Ximenes, and scorned to obey
orders issued by a monk. He in-
formed the cardinal that his power
cjcpired with the siege of Oran, and
that, if he remained with the army
any longer, he would be treated as a
private individual. To this indignity
Ximenes would not submit, yet he
bad no desire to continue in Africa.
A letter of Ferdinand's, which he
saw by chance, instructed Navarro
to detain him there as long as might
be needful ; and he suspected that
the king wished him to languish and
die on a foreign shore. He knew
that Ferdinand could ill bear to see
the glory of Gonsalvo de Cordova,
'• the great captain," and his special
friend, to be obscured by that of a
general in a monk's cowl, but he was
not disposed to gratify his royal mas-
ter by dying before his time.

Just a week after he had landed,
the cardinal set sail on his return.
He remained seven days at Cartha-
gcna; established a line of trans-
ports to run between it and Oran,
and then departed for Alcala^ where
he made his eiiiry with a sort of mili-
tary triumph. A part of the walls

had been broken down for iita
pass tlirough, but this honor hm
dined, and contented htmseif «iik
entering through the usuaJ gau^ jpt»
ceded by Moorish slaves Icidaig
camels laden mth boot>'. The keprf
Oran, chandeliers from the
banners, and Arabic mss. oil
cine and astrology were presented
to the university ; and a tabkt «ai
placed in tlie Mozarabic cha|ielof
the cathedral of Toledo, wah aa in-
scription recording the success of tb«
expedition. Some of these ouios-
ties are still shown to visitors in the
cathedral ; but the fame of Xtmcno
has little need of such meinoriall
As a martial ex was an enter*

prise least to Lr ,t-d of him, io

it is that which marks hiip most pt>
minently on the page of history.

The capture of Oran led to funh(
conquests on the coasts of A
yet, after all, the declining power
Spain made it difficult to retai
she had acquired, and impossi!
extend her dominions. In i
after a dreadful earthquake,
fell into the bands of the Dey
Algiers. Since then, it has baefl
annexed to the French cmptlfii
under conditions more favorable to
civilization than it enjoyed under
Spanish rule.

One of the conditions attached by
Ximenes lo the conquest of Onm
had been that it should either be
annexed to the archbishopric of
Toledo, or that the expenses be
might incur should be refunded from
the tTeasur)% Cabals, however, were
raised against him. He was charged
with having enriched himself, and
the promised conditions seemed hh
ly to stay unfulfilled. He persisli
in his claim, wrote to Ferdinand
the subject, and was mortiired
seeing a commission appointed to
examine his private aparlmcnis, in
order to ascertain what part of iJac

Jid

Cardinal Ximenes.

593'

spoils he had reserved for himself.
The account-book, which he handed
to the commissioner, was the only
reply he made to this indignity. Not
long after, the king proposed that he
should exchange the archbishopric
of Toledo for that of Zaragoza, and
yield the primacy to Ferdinand's
natural son, a bfave warrior and
able politician, but a worldly prelate.
To this unworthy proposal Ximenes
made answer that he would never
exchange his see for any other. He
was willing to return to the poverty
of a cloister, but if he held any see
at all it should be that one over
which Providence had appointed him
to rule.

Cold and capricious as Ferdinand
was sometimes toward the cardinal,
he treated him with the same respect
as ever when his own interests or
those of the state seemed to require
it. When he had espoused the cause
of Julius II. against the King of
France, he sent for Ximenes to meet
him at Seville and aid him with his
counsels. It was in the depth of
winter, but the cardinal promptly
obeyed the summons. He admired
the bold attitude assumed by the
pope, and heartily sympathized with
his efforts to recover the territories
which had been torn from the Church,
to extend the temporal sovereignty
of the successor of St. Peter, to com-
pel his vassals to obey him, and to
humble the power of Venice, then
mistress of almost all his seaports.
He saw with satisfaction the blows
inflicted on the pride and insolence
of the Baglionis and Bentivoglios,
and he approved of the League of
Cambray, by which Julius II., Louis
XII., the Emperor of Germany, and
the King of Spain bound themselves
to enfeeble Venice and avenge the
injuries she had done to the domains
of the Church. But Ximenes, though
he concurred in the papal policy as
VOL. VIII. — ^38

regards Venice, shared also the fears
of the sovereign pontiff lest France
should extend her possessions in the
north of Italy. He justified Julius
II. in withdrawing from the League
into which he had entered, and was
prepared to afford him every assist-
ance in resisting the arrogance of
Louis XII. when he seized on Bo-
logna and convened a council at
Pisa, in defiance of the Holy See.
The adhesion of Ferdinand and
Ximenes encouraged Pope Julius to
form an alliance with Venice, and
thus to oppose the united forces of
the Emperor Maximilian and Louis
XII. Under the auspices of these
princes a schismatical council dared
to assemble at Pisa, and afterward
at Milan. Seven insubordinate car-
dinals and twenty bishops, chiefly
French, were present at the opening,
and in the eighth and ninth sessions
they audaciously declared Julius II.
deposed. But a general council,
convened by the pope, met in the
Lateran ii^ 15 12, condemned these
schismatical proceedings, and re-
stored the wavering to obedience.
Even Maximilian deserted the King
of France, and Henry VIII. of Eng-
land sided with Ferdinand against
the pope's enemies.

It may here be mentioned that
Ximenes was averse to the distribu-
tion of indulgences under Julius II.
and Leo X. for the completion of
St. Peter's in Rome. The ground
on which he disapproved of it was,
that the relaxation of temporal pun-
ishment which these indulgences
conferred might weaken and disturb
ecclesiastical discipline. Devoutly
submissive as he was to the Holy
See, he nevertheless, as Gomez re-
lates, advised Ferdinand to enact a
law by which all papal bulls should,
before publication, be submitted to a
minister of state. His object was to
guard against abuses, since dispensa-

Cardinal

tions were often obtained too easily
from Rome.

During Ferdinand's last illness,
Ximenes occupied a prominent post
in the affairs of state ; and on one
occasion, when the sovereign was
absent from Castile^ the government
was entrusted to him, in concert with
the royal council- It was, therefore,
natural that, when the king died, he
should be appointed regent during
the minority of Charles V. Ferdi-
nand had, it is true, objected to him
as too austere, but he yielded to the
advice of others, and consented to
the appointment immediately before
Tcceiving the last sacraments. It
was, he thought, an advantage in his
case not to have been bom of a
noble family, since he could on that
account conduct the administration
with greater impartiality. Thus, on
the 23d of Januar)', 1516, Ximenes
became once more the ruler of a
nation daily rising in importance.

Another claimant of supreme pow-
er appeared on the scene. This was
Dean Hadrian, afterward pope, who
had been tutor to Pn'nce Charles,
and who produced a document sign-
ed by the prince, authorizing him to
assume the regency of Castile in the
event of Ferdinand's demise. The
legal decision on the question was
unfavorable to Hadrian's claim ; but
Ximenes, wishing to avoid disputes,
consented to rale conjointly with his
rival until Charles himself should
decide by which of the two he would
be represented. Nothing could ex-
ceed the promptitude and energy of
the cardinal's measures. If an in-
surrection broke out, troops were
despatched instantly to suppress it
Madrid was in the neighborhood of
his own vassals, and he therefore
chose it as the seat of government,
lest he might in some other place be
exposed to the violence of interfering
grandees*

The authority gi^'en in Ibc
instance to Ximecics was M\y
firmed by Charles, and in a kil0
which he addressed to the cifiiaii
he declared that " the most ocdknt
clause he had found tn his
father's will was that by
Ximenes was invented nrtth the jpir
ernment of tlie kingdom aod dn
administration of justice." Tlie for
of the consummate wisdoaa, tift
rience, and eminent vtrttnss of iJb
cardinal had reached^ he said, ««■
Flanders ; and he therefore enjdacd
on all the members of his {.im^Yf *^
nobles and prelates, to rccognis
him as regent To Hadrian tk
prince assigned a subordinate peat
and every arrangement was m^
with due regard to the r^bu of Af
unhappy Queen Joanna^ whose cfe-
range men t made her practicallf 4
cipher, though nomin. '■ nmii

ruler. Her name prei
her son Charles in all j-n i], d> r^a
ments; but the prince v, j^ piuui^ios
ed King of Castile by order of
Ximenes. It was not until Chaiia
arrived in Spain that the Cortes of
Aragon consented lo recognise his
title as king of thai country also.

The height of power is geneniftf
the height of discomfort. Many
the nobles combined to harass
menes, and incite the people to rcl
against ** a monk of base extraction.
They questioned his a -

decided on sending n* ^ .

Flanders to demand bis dii^missal.
The cardinal, however, was fully
prised of all their plans; and it
said by Gomez that, when some
them waited on him fo ask for
documents in virtue of which he hcl
the regency, he took them to
window, and showing ihera a
of artillery, said, ''These arc 1)
powers by which I govern Cast
according to the king's will and
mand."

Cardinal Ximenes.

595

He took, indeed, if Peter Martyr
can be credited, great interest and
pleasure in military affairs. He had
heard Ferdinand expatiate on the
Ivantages of a militia as opposed
an army recruited from different
countries ; and now that he was

fwielding dictatorial power, he re sol v-
fed to put the scheme in execution.
He conferred with the senate, and
issued a proclamation inviting the
enlistment of volunteers. They were,
llrith the exception of officers and
musicians, to serve without pay, but
ID return they were exempted from
taxes, socages, and all other charges,
^^mmediate success attended this
^Boeasure. Thirty thousand citizens
^Brere speedily enrolled,, and were
^iBaily drilled in public. The compli-
ments paid to Ximenes by ambassa-
^_jdors, and the envious cavillings of
^■jbreign princes, sufficiently proved
^^he wisdom of this organization. It
I encountered great opposition from
the nobles, but, being endorsed by
the special approval of Charles, it
triumphed ultimately over every ob-
stacle,

Ximeoes's attention, at the same

^^^me, was turned to the maritime

^Jpower of the kingdom. He added

twenty trireme galleys to the na\7,

and put the entire fleet in movement

against the Moors and pirates who

^^nfested the Spanish coasts. The

HIeas were thus cleared of " Red Ro-

^^vers/' and Pope Leo X. congratulated

the cardinal on the success of his

^■■narine administration. His govcm-

^^ment was assailed on all sides, but

the great churchman was never at a

ioss. Whether he had to meet in-
rading forces on the frontier, or sup-
press rebellion in the interior,* he was
n the highest degree prompt and re-
K)lute ; he struck terror into his foes,
md earned the absent sovereign's
warmest gratitude. He was equally
attentive to the details of govern-

ment and to its general aims. He
caused exact accounts to be drawn
up of the revenues, finances, and
laws of the three military orders;
and was preparing similar documents
relative to the kingdom at large when
arrested in his labors by the hand of
death. To relieve the royal treasury
he suppressed numerous sinecures,
beginning with those held by his
own friends, and remonstrated with
Charles on his lavish expenditure.

Successful as Ximenes had been
in the capture of Oran, it was his
misfortune afterward to be foiled
and worsted by a robber. The name
of Horac Barbarossa was feared
throughout the Mediterranean. He
was scarcely twenty years of age
when a pirate-fleet of forty galleys
sailed under his command. Though
a cannon-ball carried off his left arm
in an attvick on Bugia in 1515, he
returned to the assault, took the ci-
tadel, and put the entire Christian
garrison to death. He roused the
fanaticism of the Moslems, and ex-
cited them to throw off the Spanish
yoke. The King of Algiers sought
his aid against the Spaniards ; but
the treacherous pirate murdered his
friend in a bath, seized the throne,
and refused to pay tribute to Spain.
He also took the King of Tunis pri*
soner, and put him to death, A
talkative and bragging general,
named Vera, was sent by Ximenes
with 8000 men to reduce this brigand
and usurper to subjection. But he
was too strong and skilful for the
blundering Vera. The Spanish ex-
pedition utterly failed, and the two*
armed general who could nnt beat
the one-armed buccaneer was an
object of ridicule and scorn to wo-
men and children when he returned
to Spain.

The conquest of Granada had
been the means of bringing into pub-
lic notice two of the greatest men of

596

Cardinal Ximmes.

that or any other age. The appoint-
ment of Talavera to the see of Gra-
nada led to Ximenes being summoned
to court to fill his place as confessor
to the queen ; and in the joy felt by
Isabella at the final %nctory over the
Moors in Spain she granted Colum-
bus the vessels he had solicited dur-
ing many years. In March, 1493,
the glorious adventurer returned
from the far West, and brought wiih
him numerous proofs of the extent
and importance of his distant
discoveries. The natives whom
he had on board his ships increased
the desire of Ferdinand and Isabella
to impart the blessings of Christian-
ity to their new subjects ; and Xi-
menes, then occupied with the con-
version of the Spanish Moors, was
anxious toco-operate with the sover-
eigns for the repression of crime and
cruelty in the American colonies, and
in the instruction of the caciques and
the Indian tribes in the faith of the
gospel. It is well known how long
and how miserably thc^u ptous de-
signs were fnistrated by the barbari-
ty of Spanish governors, the rapacity
\ and license of Spanish sailors, con-
> victs, and settlers. It is not surpris-
ing that the cacique Hatuey vowed
he would rather not go to heaven if
the Spaniards were there.

The royal decrees respecting sla-
fver)'' had been hesitating and con-
[iradictory; nor were the religious
I orders in the New World agreed as
[to the practice that should be pur-
Fsued. Some of the governors allow-
ed the natives to be treated as slaves,
jvhile others received orders from
rthe home government to limit sla-
[Very to the case of cannibals. When
[imenes became regent, he careful-
ly investigated tJie matter, heard a
lUumber of witnesses, and formed
Ms own resolution independently of
Either counsellors. The principal
baciques were to be called together,

and informed, in the name of ^

Isabella and her son ChxrYcs, thlt
they were free subjects^ and thii;
though the tribes would be rMjoM
to pay a certain tribute, their ng|k&^
liberties, and interests would be p»-
tectcd. The caciques would nik IB
the several territories and villigesii
conjunction with a priest and ropi
administrator; religion wottld be
taught, civilization promoted, inc»
ful laws introduced, and tra^ k
slaves, whether Indian or negi%
strictly forbidden. It was fotmdbf
subsequent experience that tlttSi
wise and merciful regulattoiis inefi
too good for the purpose reqmrei;
that it would be dangerous to eattt-
cipate the Indians suddenly ; ad
that it could only be done afters
sufficient number of negro sbfo
had been imported from Africa.

The authority of Ximenes dinlif
the latter part of his regency WM
disputed, not merely by factious 00-
bles, but also by Dean Iladrtao aod
the Seigneur dc la Chaux, Thiy
sought to establish a triumvicafiCr
and reduce Ximenes to a second-rale
power. But the cardinal recdTUif
some papers to which they had iiiit
affixed their signatures, he tmiiie-
diately ordered fresh copies to bt
made, and signed them himself only.
From that time neither La Chaujt oor
Hadrian was ever allowed to sign a
decree. They complained, indeed,
to the king, but with little eflcct
Ximenes paid no attention to the re-
monstrance of the royal ambassador,
and the affair ended by his exclusive
authority being recognized and ap-
proved.

The machinations of his enemies
ceased only with his life. To Uie
last, intrigues, jealousies, and caJtim-
nies hedged in his path with thorns.
In August, 15 17, it is said, an attenpt
was made to poison him ; and it
would ha\'e succeeded had not Ilia

Cardinal Ximenes.

597

servant, according to custom, first
tasted every dish set before him, and
fallen seriously ill at Bozeguillas. His
^health was failing fast when Charles
arrived from Flanders, and the court-
iers used every artifice to prevent his
having an interview with the young
prince. They feared the influence
of his genius and experience, and
hoped that death might speedily rid
them of his presence. Issuing vigor-
ous orders daily for the government
of the state, he calmly awaited the
arrival of the king, and of his own
approaching end, in the monastery
of Aguilera. There he renewed and
corrected the will by which he left the
bulk of his vast property to the Uni-
versity of Alcala. He often blessed
God for enabling him to say that he
had never knowingly injured any man,
but had administered justice even-
handed. The peace of his own con-
science did not preserve him from
the persecution and insults of his
enemies. They even indulged their
spite by the paltry annoyance of
quartering his servants in a neigh-
boring village, instead of their be-
ing under the same roof with their
master, when, wrapped in furs, he
took his last journey to meet Charles,
and welcome him to his kingdom and
throne. From the sovereign him-
self he received a heartless letter,
thanking him for all his great ser-
vices, and expressing a hope that they
should meet at Mojados ; but after
their meeting, he suggested that the
cardinal should be relieved of his
arduous duties ; in other words, that
he should share no longer in the con-
duct of public affairs. This cruel
letter is thought by many writers to
have hastened Ximenes's death, while
others are of opinion that it was
never delivered to him, and that he
was thus spared a wanton addition
to the pangs of dying.

Ximenes died in all respects the

death of the righteous. The lan-
guage of contrition and praise was on
his lips, and the crucifbc in his hand.
He recommended the University of
Alcald to the king in his last mo-
ments, together with the monasteries
he had founded. He expired, ex-
claiming, "y« /<f, Domine^ spcra'Bi^^ on
Sunday, the 8th of November, 15 17,
in the eighty-second year of his age.
All the surrounding country hastened
to kiss his hands while his body lay
in state. The corpse was embalmed,
and conveyed by slow stages, and
amid the blaze of numberless torches,
to Torrelaguna, his birthplace, and
afterward to Alcald, the city of his
adoption. Arriving there on the Feast
of St. Eugene, the first Archbishop
of Toledo, the day was celebrated
yearly frpm that time by a funeral
service and panegyric in honor of
Ximenes. Fifty-eight years after the
university was founded, his monu-
ment was enclosed in bronze tablets,
on which the chief events in his ca-
reer were represented. Thus, by
sermons, by external images, by tra-
dition, and by history, the memory of
this remarkable man was kept alive.
Posterity became indulgent to his de-
fects. They were specks in a blaze
of light. Heroism and saintdom
encircled his memory with effulgent
halos. His person became familiar
to the Spaniard's eye: his tall, thin
frame, his aquiline nose, his high
forehead, Lis piercing, deep-set eyes,
and those two prominent eye-teeth
which gained him the nickname of
"the elephant." According to the
custom of the time, he kept a jest-
er, and his dwarfs jokes diverted
him when depressed with violent
headaches, or worn with the affairs
of state and opposition of factious
men. Study was his delight. He
never felt too old to learn, and he
frequently assisted at public disputa-
tions. Prayer lay at the root of his

598

The Igpiorame of the Middle Ages,

greatness ; it regulated his ambition»
tamed his inipetuosit>% and filled him
with the love of justice. It made
him severe toward himself, firm and
fearless, equally capable of wielding
a sceptre of iron and a pastoral crook.
You may search as you will for his-
torical parallels, but Ximenes is the

only prirne-mintster in the wodci vli
was held to be a saint bf tlie f»
pie he ruled, and the only pfmiilB
who has acquired laslmg rcoovQ ii'
such varied characters as asodk^
sofdier, cliieftain, scliolar, ami d
letters, statesman^ reformer, and tt-
gent.

FKQU t.A RSVOS DU MONDB CATHOUIQCTB.

THE IGNORANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES,

A RECENT and famous circular re-
specting the education of women has
called attention to the public schools
of France, and the revolutionary jour-
nals have unanimously profited by
the opportunity to load past ages
with sarcasm and irony. It is because
there is a question of religion in tliis
case, as in all the principal incidents of
the time. The antichrrslian press is
but little interested in the degree of
knowledge diffused in the middle
ages, or in the pretended degrada-
tion of the people of Rome ;• but un-
der these deceitful pretexts is con-
cealed a design, persistently and ar-
dently pursued — the annihilation of
Christianity. Christianity must be
put down because it is now the only
force that strongly resists unruly pas-
sions, and because modem barbari-
ans, eager to possess the goods they
covet, wish to submit no longer to
any obstacle or delay.

Let not Christians be deceived by
the hypocritical protestations of re-
spect uttered by this enemy, to whom
falsehood is a jest. Let them not grow

• The degradation of whicKan editor of the J^mr*
imi d€* Dihati (M. J. Jatiin) iwrote in 1136 : '• Talk
to me uf the enftLiv«d country of the HcOy Father M
free I" -,

weary of countermining the
tcrrancin attacks carried Oft
the city* For each assaolt letttal
be a sortie ; for each new batief)^» i
new bastion ! Resources arc not
wanting; we possess ficts, worb
men, the testimony of history, jsl
even the admission of our enemid^
and we are sure victory will be otn
in the end

A former essay* depicted ihe af-
age brutalit)" of the ^ us ti*^

tions converted to CIh , ihdr

passions, their vices, their lerocitf*
and their excesses. We will ftflw
show what the church did in 000
particular to stibdue, civil i:£e, und de»
vate them^by diffusing with unpaf-
alleled munificence the most extend*
ed» the most general and complete
course of instruction ever giv^cn ^
the world ; how, in the most tr
blous times — in the tenih century^ lor
example — the church was the invk^*
lable guardian of the productions vi
the human mind ; what ardor for
knowledge it excited in these me|^
but recently so \iolent and so nEi3il|H
rial ; and besides its saints^ whiP

• ♦* U» BedMreft ci le Mojfen A»ft." Rmm db
Mmig C^dk., of Aug. lo aad Sept. i^ %Uif.

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages.

599

learned men, it formed — ^what great
men, full of talent and genius !

CHRISTIAN ANTIQUITY,

Some writers, having lost the spi-
rit of Christianity, have denied that
Christian antiquity had a taste for
science and literature, and have stig-
matized the middle ages as dark.
If they had been Christians, they
would have knovm that this accusa-
tion is as erroneous as it is injurious
— was contrary to the very principles
of Christianity.

Pagan society, established, with a
view to this life, for the well-being of
a few, kept the people in ignorance
in order to keep them in servitude.
Ignorance, by rendering men mate-
rial, disposes them to servility and
strengthens tyranny. It had acade-
mies for the free-bom, but not for
the slave. Why trouble themselves
about the minds of those miserable
creatures who were " incapable of
good, of evil, and of virtue," who
were called speaking instruments
and chattels ? It had philosophers,
poets, and learned men, but no pop-
ular schools ; for it loved science and
not man.

The first principle of Christianity,
on the contrary, is love. Love is
without narrowness : it does not re-
pel, it attracts : it is not exclusive, it
is all-embracing : it seeketh not its
own, it is generously and openly dif-
fusive, it searches out and summons
the whole world : Veniteadtne omnes.
Christianity knows only one race oi
men who are all equal. Its other
name is Catholicism^ universality. It
has but one object, which is super-
natural — to lead men to God.

In order that man may aspire to
this sublime end, he must be made
free — €ui libcr^ est /ider—must be

enlightened, that he may comprehend
the Supreme Intelligence that cre-
ated him. Christianity breathes into
man "that ardent love ofknowledge"*
which buoys up his wings : it lights
up before him a perspective extend-
ing to the very confines of heaven.
" The more fully man comprehends
in what way God has established
everything in number, weight, and
measure, the more ardent is his love
for him," says a simple nunf of the
middle ages, beautifully expressing
the idea of the church. This is the
reason why Christianity has patron-
ized science, and diflfused and culti-
vated it.

As soon as Christianity had a
foothold in the world, instead of
turning toward a few, like the phi-
losophers, it addresses all — the poor
who had been despised, the lowly
who had been made use of, and the
slaves who had not been counted.
The door of knowledge was opened
wide to plebeians. " We teach phi-
losophy to fullers and shoemakers,"
says St Chrysostom. From the
depths of the catacombs, where they
were obliged to conceal themselves,
the first pontiffs, whose lives for
three centuries terminated by mar-
tyrdom, founded schools in every
parish of Rome, and ordered the
priests to assemble the children of
the country in order to instruct them.
What, then, was the result when Chris-
tianity, issuing from the bowels of
the earth, bloomed forth in freedom ?
There were schools everywhere, mo-
nastic schools, schools in the priests*
houseSjt episcopal schools, estab-
lished by Gregory the Great, and
schools at the entrance of churches,
(as in the portico of the cathedral of
Lucca, in the eighth century.) The
decrees of councils, the decretals of

* J. de Maistre, Du Pa/f, iv. 3.
t Roswitha, Papkmtct.

XK council of the tixteenth century sjxeakt of
•cbools in the priests* houses.

6oo

The Igfwrance of the Middle Ages,

popeSi attest the desire of distribute
ing to all the food of the mind, and
of multiplying schools* And who
were their tirst masters ? The priests,
bishops, and doctors of the church,
'*It is our duty," (it is a pope who
speaks,) ** to endeavor to dispel igno-
rance." t Ulphidas, a bishop of the
fifth, century, translated the Bible
into the language of the Goths, for
the instruction of the barbarians ; and
at a later period, Albertus Magnus
and St. Bonaventura composed
abridgments of the Scriptures for the
poor, called the Bibk of tlu Poor,
Biblia Pauperttm, ** If the important
knowledge of reading and writing
was spread among the people, it was
owing to the church," says St, Si-
mon the Reformer.!

And how did the church bestow
it? Gratuitously, " to all who could
not pay for it." The church is
truly democratic, according to the
modern expression, or rather, it is
an institution of charity ; gratuitous
instruction is its conception which
it put into execution, (Ventura.)
Listen to its councils : " Every
cathedral and every church that has
the means is obliged to found a
professorship of theology for ecclesi-
astics, and provide a master for the
gratuitous instruction of the poor,
mcoriiing to the amimt customs ~% It
is thus it understood obligatory in-
struction, not imposed on those
who received it, which would be ty-
ranny, but exacted fr<?m those who
l^^ve it, which was an act of virtue.
But was it elementary knowledge

•Hepannr dw MiDiMar oT Public Inatnidlon, M.

y* 1I65,
T Inhocent IIL at ibc Council of 1S15.

f T" ■ - . .^ .. .T,p

, Cil nt ' , .J.

II, and recvive
»-■" -, 1^^ ^..^.. .r»i illy ukd through

alone ? Does the church disdii

rature, which a father calls the ^

ment and consolation of the wrftcl

edness of man — polite literature,

t h e h u m an i t i c s /ar excel Icncc^ beca ii!

they sustain humanity in the cofnbfl

of life ? Certainly not ; the char

found the pagan world powerful an

renowned for its attainments in titi

rature, the sciences, and the arts ;

would not leave to that world its sup

riority ; it would also become the

tron of knowledge, because that wouli

aid in the progress of truth.

ought," says St. Basil, ** to study tb

profane sciences before penetratin

the mysteries of sacred knowledg

that we may become accustoined i

their radiance."* The church

horted its children to the acquir

ment of knowledge ; nay, it ct'C

wished itself to excel therein, and

succeeded so as to terrify its enemies

as in the case of Julian the Af

tate, who, to crush the church, un

dcrtook to prohibit it from studying

the sciences. Where shall we finq

men more learned than Clement <

Alexandria, who fathomed and

plained the origin of pagan mytlic

log\' ; St: Basil and the two Gr

r)'s. who, pupils of the Athenia

school, acquired there tlie cloqucnc

in which they equalled Demosthenes j

St. Augustine, whose work, Di Ch

Dei, is the compendium*of all know-J

ledge, philosophy, literature, scicr

and ihc entire history of iJie world j

and Origen, before whom the most]

celebrated masters of the East ro

up and ceased to teach, intimidated]

by his presence? "We arc not;

afraid," says St, Jerome, *'of an}

kind of comparison f*

The church thus continues: ** Sf
dy," wrote Cassicxlorus, in the fifl
century, to his monks— **5tudy Gale

Pix^ttfM mi tkg fkmnUff Si, MMiL

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages,

6oi

Hippocrates, Dioscorides, and the
other authors you find in the library."
The course of study at Salernum
was pursued by a great number of cle-
rics, priests, and bishops :* priests
learned history, grammar, Greek, and
geometry at the school in the basilica
of Lateran.t Where did the Greek
artists, driven out by iconoclasts, take
refuge ? In Rome, under the protec-
tion of the popes. Who were the first
historians of the West ? Priests and
bishops : Gregory of Tours, Frede-
garius, Eginhard, Odo, and Flodoard.
There is an ecclesiastical tone
throughout the entire Merovingian
literature — the legends, hymns, and
chronicles, t Even the poets, For-
tunatus and Sidonius Apollinaris, are
priests familiar with the works of
antiquity. " I am engaged," wrote
Aljruiri to Charlemagne, " in giving
instruction to some by drawing from
the fount of Holy Writ, and intoxi-
cating others with the old wine of
the ancient schools." And for what
purpose ? He continues : " In order
that the church may profit by the
increase of knowledge." Finally,
when a pope, great through his
genius and his sanctity — Gregory
VII. — was inspired with the noble
ambition of christianizing the world,
he called science to his aid, revived
the ancient canons that instituted
schools for -the liberal arts in the vi-
cinity of cathedrals ;§ " desiring a
saintly clergy, he wished them also

• Darerabcrg, Cours dg iS66tur rHistoire de la
MedUcine.

t And in the Benedictine monasteries.

X D'Espinay, Influence of Canon Law on French
Legislation.

% Innocent III. continued the work ; he extended
the obligation of acquiring knowledge among the
priests. " The bishop wU ascertain," sayt he, " the
capacity of those on whom he confers holy orders.
It is better to have a few who are learned to serve
the altar than many who are ignorant." And in our
own day the Roman College gives gratuitous instruc-
tion in the classics and in the higher sciences, theo-
logy, philosophy, law, medicine, astronomy, etc.,
which docs not prevent the revolutionary journals
from declaring the pontifical government an enemy
of progress and of light.

learned."* And it is so truly the
spirit of Christianity that schools are
multiplied in proportion to its diffu-
sion. Clovis hardly received bap-
tism when schools were established
even in his palace ;t the more fully
kings were imbued with a Christian
spirit, the more letters were protect-
ed and honored. Theodosius, who
almost attained to sanctity by his
penitence, decreed that masters, af-
ter teaching twenty years, should be
ennobled with the title of count, and
be on an equality with the lieute-
nants of the prefect of the pretorian
guards ; and Charlemagne, the great
Christian emperor, established under
his eye an academy, which, we are
told, was called the Palatial School :
the palace was consecrated to sci-
ence, and its true name would have
been the Scholastic Palace. t

THE TENTH CENTURY.

We are not contradicted. Yes, in
the first centuries the church favor-
ed knowledge ; but there is an excep-
tion : from the ninth to the eleventh
century, letters almost entirely disap-
peared, the light of knowledge was
obscured, and this epoch is justly
calltd the night of the middle ages.

It is not so ; a multitude of wit-
nesses prove how unfounded is this
prejudice.§

Letters never perished. In the
sanguinary tumult, the royal offspring
of intelligence was saved by a pious

• Oianam, L* Ckristianisme chez Its Bariares.

t Dom Pitta, Rapport sur une Mission scientifique,
xSsow

X Dom Pitra, Histoirt de St. Liger, ix.

§ ITiat is to say, the erudite men who have careful-
ly studied this confused epoch and have arrived at
the same conclusion, whatever their philosophical
opinions : Littr^ and Ozanam, Darembcrg and VUle-
main, Renan and Danlier, Hallam and Bemngton,

602

The Igfwmnce af the Middle Ages,

hand, and protected that it might be
restored some day to the world —
great, powerful, and fit to reign.*

Charlemagne was hardly laid in
his tomb at Aix-la-Chai>elle, when
his lords, barons, counts, dukes, and
the inferior leaders dispersed and
established in a thousand places
their divided rule ; furious and de-
vastating wars overwhehned the peo-
ple and spread terror in every heart
through the country ; there was no
longer peace, securit)', or leisure.
Were intellectual pursuits suspended
during that time ? No. Throughout
Europe, then a field of battle, shel-
tered in the valleys and intrenched
on the summits of the mountains,
were fortresses, which became the
asylum of knowledge, with an army
resolved to defend it — monks in
their convents. Italy was like a
camp with a resen^e corps of
instruction : there soldiers were
fonned and organized and drilled in
the use of all kinds of arms ; the
Benedictines of Monte Casino,
"where ancient literature was con-
stantly studied,*'! the ecclesiastical
schools of Modena, the episcopal
schools of Milan, the school of ju-
risprudence at Lucca, of rhetoric at
Ravenna, of literature at Verona, of
the seven arts at Parma, of giam-
maratPavia, and, inthe midst, Rome,
guardian of the heritage of ancient
traditions and the seat of the papa-
cy, ** which has always surpassed all
other nations in learning/'J Beyond
the Alps, traverse Provence, almost
Italian, Languedoc, also half Roman
in learning and in language, on

• Ti' nfuryt we irtclude the end of the

Timt^i ning of ihe eleventh, 4s men who

Kvcd ^ I ttie *pvcni«nlh ccniury and the

commencement oi the nirtetecntti ai.re considered JW
belonging to the eighteemti ; rontetielle and Delille,
for c»»int>1e.

t And A great number of o^tirr retigiotit lioime* : J«
I late ms the scveutccoth centuiy there were more than
I three htirvlrcd.

t Vilknnin. tfaitirr dr le LiU^mimmt 4m Mtftm
Agtt kuou sc

urn:

the banks of the Loire you will
these abbeys, famous as seats
learning: Fleur}', St. Benok, andli-
gug(f, (near Poitiers ;) and proceoi-
ing to the north, Ferriferc» S^
Wandrille, Luxeuil, Corbie^ and Le
Bee, (in the eleventh century.) Ffcm
Lyons you could see, far Bmwf o«
the mountain-heights of Switzerbod,
Reichnau, whose garrison was resell-
forced by foreigners who CTOSS€fi tlic
water, (Irish monks,) and Sl Gi
whose monks quote the /Had,
Spain, Christians did not strive
valor alone with the Moors; \hxj
vied in learning with the Arab^ mid
studied and translated their wofk&
The meihw^s universal. LuttprtiKL
an Englishman, who took part id it,
as well as Gerbert, a FrenchiiiAii«
heard ten languages spoken there
among others, Hebrew, A
Greek, and Latin.* Cross the Ch:
nel : in England at every step z\
colleges and seminaries : that fa
off murmur comes from the sevci
thousand students of Armagh^ io Ii
land. And if you penetrate the wil(
of Germany, among the Saxons
just converted, you will disco\^r the
advanced posts — the school of Fut,
den, founded by St. Boniiace ; Ni
Corbie on the Wescr, whcre^ at a tal
day, were found the five books
the Annals of Tacitus ; and what
more, a convent of learned nuns
the Monaster}* of Roswiiha.

This is the main army, and It
not without support. The lead*
of the people and the directors
snuls do not abandon these valiai
troops. Kings, when they ha^'c th<
power and the leisure* send them
enforcements : there are the school
of Eugene IL for the study of the'
liberal arts ; of grammar under ljt>
thai re in France ; of jurisprudeQce

• Gn^ek by mochaota, Hebrew by the Jew«,
bic everywhere, while Lattn ia tlic fou&datigQ

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages.

603

at Angers ; of Edward the Confessor
in England. It is not till the time
€>i Henry of Germany that princes
are unmindful of them. He wuld
not listen to the petition of a poet
for schools of belles-lettres and law.
These are the scattered forts that
support and bind together the main
army.

But perhaps they are destitute of
arms and have no arsenals and am-
munition ? What, then, are all these
books of medicine dating from the
seventh to the tenth century, " accu-
mulated in all the convents" ?♦ — ^the
celebrated libraries of Ferrifere and
Bobbio, which owned Aristotle and
Demosthenes; of Reichnau, which
in 850 possessed four hundred vol-
umes catalogued ; the Greek manu-
scripts of Uie tenth and eleventh
centuries discovered at Rome, Ve-
rona, Monte Casino,t and at Tour-
nay \X the copies of ancient authors,
made in the ninth and tenth centu-
ries by the monks of St. Gall ?§ Do
you not hear resounding the most
illustrious names — of poets, histori-
ans, philosophers, and orators — Ho-
mer, Seneca, Ovid, Sallust, and
Pliny ?|| This one, like a watchman
who calls for help from the mountain-
heights, (Lupus, abbot of Ferrifere
to Pope Benedict IH.,) requests the
loan of the Orator of Cicero, the In-
stituiions of Quintilian, and a com-
mentary of Terence ; another (see
Life of St. Columba) quotes Titus
Livius ; others (see Acts of the SaitUs)
quote Horace; treaties are fortified
with passages from Cicero ;1 and
there is not a barbarous chronicle in
which there are not lightning-like

♦ Dan tier, Missions scieniifiquet,

t Renan, "Sfissions scieniifiques.

X Dom Pitra, ibid.

§ Dantier, ibid.

II Tliere are proofs, says Daremberg, that the
Franks of the age of Charlemagne read Pliny. These
books were not lost, but preserved in the coifvents.

IT Dom Pitra, Missions scitHiiJiques,

flashes from the inspired lines of
Virgil*

They do not lack arms, and they
make use of them. They have^ cap-
tains — leaders who are capable,
learned, and indefatigable. They
are well known : Abbo, abbot of
Fleury-sur-Loire, who is called the
" Alcuin of the tenth century," who
wrote a history of the popes, on phi^
losophy, physics, and astronomy, and
the commander of a numerous corps
of more than five thousand students,
among whom is one who translated
Euclid ;t Fiodoard, author of La
Chranique de France; the thirty-two
professors of belles-lettres at Saler-
num ; St Fulbert and Henry of Aux-
erre, in France ; Elphege at Monte
Casino ; in Spain, Petrus Alphon-
sus, who compares the literature of
France with that of his own coun-
try ;$ in England, Odo and St. Dun-
stan, a geometrician, musician, paint-
er, and sculptor ;§ and finally, that
wonderful man, who made the tour
of the world of learning and was fa-
miliar with every part of it — mathe-
matics, mechanics, astronomy, litera-
ture, and philosophy — at once a
prince of the church and of science
— Gerbert.||

But, blockaded in their fortresses
by barbarism, brigandage, and tyran-
ny) what important deeds could they
achieve, what feats of arms, what ex-
peditions .^ In the first place, they
held their position by keeping the
ramparts in constant repair. In the
scriptorium of every abbey, a nume-
rous detachment of patient copyists,
bending all day over manuscripts,

^ See Villemain, Histoirt de la Litiirahtrt du
Moyen Agt^ lesson x.

t There is a second Abbo in the tenth centarjr — a
monk also, and a poet

X In his book De DisciplinA CUri. See Dom Pi-
tria, Histoirt de St. Liger.

% Berrington, Histcry of Literature in the Ninth
and Tenth Centuries.

I) Gaillard, in his Hisioire de Charlemagne, gives a
list of roasters who succeeded each other without in-
terruption from Alcuin till the twelfth century.

6o4

Ths Ignorance of the Middle Ages.

transcribed the holy books and the
masterpieces of antiquity, and ren-
dered eminent service to the arts, to
letters, and to history by preserving
and keephig in order the store of
munitions which otherwise would
have been squandered and for ever
lost. At the same time, watchful sen-
tinels on the walls observed all that
was passing in the world without, and
made an exact report of it ; that is to
say, tiicy drew np those chronicles,
charters, and cartularies in which
were recorded facts, nUmes, con-
tracts, donationSj and the changes in
the countries in which they lived,
among the people they directed, tn
the lands they cultivated, the sove-
reigns who ruled over them, and the
conquerors who despoiled iheni.*
And that tlie descriptions might be
complete, painters illuminated the
margins of the vellum manuscripts,
supplying by delicate and faithful mi-
niatures in the briglitest colors what
was wanting in the text, general de-
tails respecting the splendor of the
vestments, the sculptures on the
walls and the ornaments of the
houses, thus bequeathing to posterity
a lively and true portrayal of their
lime. And the whole makes up the

r immense and inexhaustible treasure

I where wc find depicted the manners,
ams, classes of society, the na-
of the soil, and facts respecting

I the tillers of the earth, their lords,
and the church, forming the moraK

' industrial, and agricultural histor\' of
all Christendom. These transcripts,
chronicles, and paintings are the
magazines, casemates, and bastions

.without which the citadel of letters
and science would have been dis-

j mantled and rendered uninhabita-
ble for generations to come 1
They did not confine themselves

• It rt TOffidetit ta mention the Potyflii^Hr of ihe
liibbcrt Tmiinon, (lenlh century,) and ilie mimerou*
canularics that have been pablttlied wilhin half a crn*
tury.

to ihb j nothing was negle
should occupy a well -
my ; first, regular ex
makes the soldier active, roixisti \
ready for any duty ; the sUuiy of I
liberal arts, divided into two djtsaes
for the recruits and the vctenns:
the qitadrivium^ (arithmetic,
tr}', music, and astronomy,) ,
trhmtm (grammar, rhetoric, and
lectics.*) These labors were carrieil
on m the interior of the fortresi^g
They also made expeditions and sal^f
lies to keep the ways of access clear
— commentaries upon authors, varii^^
tions of texts, (as the comment,
on the Fasti of Ovid,t the treati
De Senectuit^ with different rcadtl
of the same text,t and numeronsj
nuscripts with Greek annotatio
They undertook sieges, /or a
lation may be called a siege ; ev<
where you could find real worksh
for translating Greek autliors is
Latin, such as books of mcd
(Galen, Hippocrates, and Oribasus,)!
the fathers, (the IlomHie^ of Stj
John Chrysostom,) and tpall

ancient authors,!! (the L , . .VnSr
totle.) Under the guidance of dM
leaders already named, Ihey
forth to daily combat and even
fight great battles; in the
colleges, monasteries, and pij
tures, professors, doctors, and sin-
dents IT stimulated the public mindj
they touched on every science, anq
treated, under the names of nomina
ism and realism, of all those qi;
tions about which man is contini]
agitated — his nature, his original
relations with God, and his destiny j

♦ Menlioneil by RoswiUu in the tenth txsMnrg,

t Found at Reichn*u by M nmtier.

I At Mr. PhiUppa** in EngUutl, by Hooi Pit*%.

lion ufih* sijciitei uku* j.tXAtfrvctl. jVi tu mf rl'iclit v_,
enoe, h« adds ii » cvidcnily not % aiiapte qimiioo of
iii«diaoe-
t B^fatkcer, Loxklnrac, RoaceliQ, etc.

SO toB

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages.

605

struggles constantly renewed, in
which they fought furiously and dis-
played all their strength by quota-
tions from authors, allusions to cele-
brated events and to sayings of anti-
quity, (for example, the sarcasm of
Julian to the Christians, mentioned
by Roswitha ,•* the veil given by a
king of England to the Abbey of
Croyland, on which was embroidered
the Ruin of Troy;t the Latin war hymn
chanted at Modena, which alludes to
the devotedness of Codrus ;t) brilliant
tournaments in which, like knights of
prowess, some endeavored to distin-
guish themselves by a display of eru-
dition better suited, it might seem,
to the refined age of the sixteenth
century than to the tenth. They
signed acts written in Greek ;§ in
Latin verse ;( they wrote the lives of
the saints in French verse;! the
kings of England prided themselves
on the name of Paoikevg ; they spoke
Greek in ordinary intercourse.**
These knights of science, like the
paladins in the combats with giants,
displayed wondrous feats. "I am
over shoes in Cicero's Rhetoricy^
writes Ingulphus, Abbot of Croy-
land.tt

They did not confine themselves
to the defensive. In studying the
ancient writers they were inspired to
imitate them, and they went forth
into the open field and vied in a thou-
sand works of the imagination — fic-
tion, poetry — (hymns, poems of the
eleventh century, and history.) What
is more, they undertook fatiguing and

* Christians should congratulate themselves on be-
ing deprived of their riches, for Christ said : " Every
one of you that doth not renounce all that Ke possess-
cth cannot be my disciple," See the GcUiicanus,

\ See Darboy, Life of Si. Thomas of Canterbury,

X A Latin hymn was also chanted at Pisa, in the
e'eventh century, to celebrate a victory over the Sara-
cens.

§ At Poitiers, at the end of the ninth century.

II At Sienna.

H In 1050, Thi! aud de Vernon, canon at Rouen.

** The monks of England and Ireland.

tt Tenth ceniu y.

dangerous expeditions into far-off
and almost unknown countries —
archaeology, which had not then a
name, (see "the valuable manu-
scripts of the tenth century, discov-
ered by Mabillon at Einsiedeln,
which treat of Roman inscrip-
tions;") cosmography, in which
they divined truths of the high-
est importance. The Irish monk .
Virgilius taught in Bohemia the
antipodes, and consequently that
the earth is round. He was not
comprehended: they supposed him
to believe there were other lands
under our earth, with another sun,
another moon, and inhabitants for
whom Christ did not die, and he was
excommunicated. He went to Rome,
where he was permitted to explain
his theory ; the pope withdrew his
anathema and elevated him to the
episcopacy.* Finally, the drama,
into which was infused a new and
original character. Whilst the monk
Virgilius taught the true form of the
earth, the nun Roswitha composed
her tragedies, the first specimens of
the Christian drama, at once full of
the reminiscences of antiquity and
the spirit of the gospel.

You will see by all this activity,
this animation, and these names,
"that the tenth century has been
unjustly accused of barbarism" (Mag-
nin)^that age in which there was
such a taste for classical studies that
"many Christians," says Roswitha,
"preferred the vanity of pagan
books to the utility of the Holy Scrip-
tures, on account of the elegance of
their style," and that, far from mer-
iting the appellation of the Iron Age,
it should rather be called " a great
centre of light. "t When we look

^Quatrefages, Peu^Ument de VArnhnques which
proves : z. The geographical knowledge of the times,
a. The perpe'uity of tradition. 3. The intercourse
of different nations. 4. The tolerance of the church.
Bouillet, in his Dtctumnaire untverselle tTHistoire el
eU G^ogra^e^ is deceived on this point.

t Dom Pitra, Roj^^^rt sur utu Afusion \cVcti-

o/,

7 hi Jgfu>ratu€ cf the Middle Ages.

fiKi' I' < fifif **},**ifft '/rhirJi ii called
tli< .i;^ '/I pf'»;v' ; 1, ififo this dct-p
|/iiM '<( tin iu\'\'\\' .i;^i-v-*tfi': ninth,
|i hUi, .Mi'l « l« v" iiili Mrnturios — wc
iiir \\n\ .i-.i«iiii .hi-d :it ilH rliirkncss,
liiil liy Hii liiilh.iiil r:iyH that issue
hiihi tl ll n iini iiM iihyss. At the
lli'tl I'JiiMir ihiti* *\\'v\\\ lo l)L* only a
li>w |iMinl>i mI tii'Jii ; l)ut tlir eye is
hihin iiiii.tih-il liy a nmllitiide of
|iimI.i iNi'nwhi'it* iisin^u|> with hril-
\\w\\ MUitutnl'. .mil trsplrndent ^la*
\\\\i 'y\y\\\s\\\v\ with i.uli.mt li;;ht.
\V»' ui* ,»'.li«iH»h»»l aiul jiive ourselves
\\\\ It* .iJnui iiuM\. \\\ the \\ot\|sof (he
|ii»»i \\!»i». |su»'i\uu; ll\o Alps at'ar

Stationary and shut up in their for-
tresses without endeavoring to see
and know each other. It is precise-
ly the contrary. There was a con-
stant and ardent desire for inter-
course which caused nations to min-
gle and exchange languages, ideas,
and customs. What was the conse-
quence of the incessant wars, if not
to lead men of the North to the
South, those of the East to the West
the people of Normandy to Naples
and to England, the Britons of Armo-
rica into Great Britain, and vut vara,
(trom the fifth to the eleventh cen-
tury' ;>* the Burgundians into Lusiu-
nia. where they founded the kingdoa
of Portugal. (Henry of Bui^ndy.
t!i :ho eleventh centur\\ accompanied
Vy kr.i^i$ and troubadours) ? And
:hcr. :*^ varied and extensive coo-
r.vr.-^f .*: ±e g^tat cities of France
Avl ,*:' :be rich aad ir-dusnious Flem-
^.'t c 7*^5^ '■r^.'^se roris. nlled w:±

•r:;. ref^ru'cec

::u Tl. lit 1^

Tk€ Ignorance of the Middle Aga.

607

which its adventurous citizens pene-
trated, (as in the case of Marco Polo
and several others,) and with the
extreme East, which the nineteenth
century has only just discovered, if
we may dare say so, and allied with
the rest of the world.*

The love of knowledge also drew
nations together. Learned men did
not hesitate to undertake long jour:
neys, to cross the Alps, the Pyrenees,
and the sea, that they might pursue
their studies in Italy, (as Fortunatus
at Ravenna in the sixth century,)
obtain books on medicine, (Richer
in the eleventh century,)t meet £ng*
lish students in Spain,* (Peter the
Venerable in the twelfth century,)
hold converse with some doctor at
Bologna, or some monk in a monas-
tery of the Apennines. How could
there be no intercourse between the
universities of Salamanca, of Pavia, ^
of Oxford, and of Paris, when the
same questions were discussed at
them all; when the metaphysical
heresies which sprang from one were
refuted in another five hundred
leagues distant ;| when the masters
and pupils of Germany, England,
Spain, France, and Italy flocked to
these schools; from France to Pa-
dua, from England to Valencia, and
from all countries to Paris, where,
almost at the same time, disputations
were carried on by Englishmen,
Italians, Irishmen, and Germans, who
were to be known as Dante, Duns
Scotus, Roger Bacon, Brunetto La-
tini, Albertus Magnus, Alexander of
Hales, and St. Thomas Aquinas ? It
has been said that for literature to

* The Venetian Samito penetrtled as frr as Cam-
bodia ; a goldnnith of Paria aetded io China ; aar-
chants from Brealau and Poland met Gc n oaa e , Plan,
and Venetian merchantoin the interior of Taitiiiy, elc
See Le Bas PrieistU fHUtHrt dm Mtytn Agt,

t Daremberg, ibid,

X And there were auch dose relatioQa bet we ao dm
factions in Fiance and thoae of Biq^aod. that, ia the
fourteenth century, the rerolutiooiffjr mofe m e nto hi
Paria oiincided with thoae hi Loo-loBi Set Nandal^
C^nturaiiom d Rtiemm MmruL

flourish, a nation must be invigora-
ted by powerful and varied deeds :*
at what epoch was there a more stir-
ring and varied life than in the mid-
dle ages ?

Follow the continued journeys
of the poet-historian Froissart to
and fro in every direction, in
France and without, now at the foot
of the Pyrenees at the Chiteau de
Foix, and now in Italy, where, at
Milan, he meets another poet, Chau-
cer of England, who had come to
visit Genoa, Padua, etc. From Brit-
tany he goes to Flanders, and even
to Zealand, where he forms a friend-
ship with a Portuguese lord. He
thinks nothing of crossing the water ;
he goes to England repeatedly,
dwells there, and penetrates even to
Scotland, then '' an unknown land."
He traverses France from one end
to the other; is in Spain to^lay and
to-morrow in Germany. Would you
not think you were reading the life
of a modem individual ? He is call-
ed a chronicler : a chronicler indeed,
and after the manner of the men of
our own time ; like them, chronicler
and tourist, traversing earth and sea
to participate in festivities, witness
battles^ and mingle in courts.t

Yes, kings, conquerors, and those
in pursuit of adventures took long
journeys with their armed followers,
their vehicles, machines, and engines
of war ; princes, nobles, and warriors
traversed Europe, escorted by bril-
liant cavalcades, upon their steeds
and palfreys ; merchants landed on fo-
reign shores, the winds swelling the
sails of their vessels ; even learned
men crossed the water and the
mountains to add to their knowledge ;
conquerors to found empires, princes
to strengthen their power by allian-

• Madame deSta«1.

t Bat with thb cUfierence : he did not travel in a
qwhi o ne i ! car gonig at the rate of fcrty milca an -
B0V| iMt OD BonwadEt at a good round trolt with
ip«n OB Ua hada and hb Inggage behind

6o8

The Ignorance of the Middle A^pes^

ces, and merchants to gain wealth.
But there were men who surpassed
all these who were borne by chariots,
[ vessels, and noble horses — the pil-
grims who went on foot.

Crowds, in constant succession, of
men, women, and children, from all
countries, undertook these pilgrim-
ages to hundreds of holy places in
Flanders, Spain, Rome, (where, says
Villani, the jubilee of 1300 led more
than two hundred thousand pilgnms,)
and, above all, to the Holy Land,
which led to the wonderful outpour-
ing of all Europe into Asia and Afri-
ca for three centuries— the crusades,
during which the West was brought
into contact with Eg\^pt, and through
Eg}pt with India ; through Constan-
tinople, where the Latins founded an
empire that lasted more than fifty
years, TOth the Greeks, and through
them with the chefs-irmivn of pagan
and Cliristian antiquity, and from
whom they obtained books, manu-
scripts, agricultural rm piemen ts, and
a knowledge of industrial pursuits
literature, and the arts.*

And the monks, what long journeys
they made in the world 1 Carried away
by zeal for religion, they dispersed
in every direction to preach the gos-
pel ; some to Prussia, Poland, and
the extremities of Europe — to Nor-
I lA'ay ; others from Greece, Eg}^pt, and
Syria to Ireland ; others still (in the
► time of St. Louis) into Tartary, and
• even into China, where they found
[traces of Christianity left tlvere by
other monks who had preceded them.
They went still farther beyond Ire-
land and Norway into Iceland, and
hfrom Iceland (St. Brandan in the
'eighth ceniur}') into an unknown
fland, peopled by strange men, clad
^with tlie skins of marine animals,
where they built monasteries and

• T1*c>- brought back, «inofi|; other book%, An»*
nilo'* workji on ineiApliyska, anJ cane, milk- 1, c;ini«}V
' luir ftlu&i etc

churches, whence they peoeQ
still farther into tlie inteHor, y
far as Mexico perhap«i, leftving |^
hind them an ineffaci riieB-

brance, thus being the ' _i500^

er^ and inhabit the ccnintry to 1
they did not give its present
but which was really tlie souUicm
extremity of the New World vUcli,
four centuries after, Colunibus db^
covered, and which is caJIed AmolH
ca, ^B

It was neither thirst for ikh^
nor love of conquest, n * ' '> ft*

power, nor even en thus i ..!«>»-

ledge, that induced them to ua Jcrtike
these extensive, dangerous, and fnril*
ful enterprises ; they were inspinrd by
a more sublime sentiment — the Imt
of God and of souls^ — the desire of
devoting tliemselves to God^ aini <rf
leading to him new followers o m ^
strange nations.

tv.

WOMAN.

There is no mark more dis
tive of the character of indi vidua
or nations than the treatment
woman. Christianity emancipali
woman ; it brought her forth fn
the obscurity to which she had been '
banished, and taking her by the hand,
introduced her into the social worMi
and gave her a place beside ntasit
that she might receive the spiritial
aliment which would develop her
mind, as well as elevate her soyl.
Taught by the example of Christ,

• "• When, in the ' 1 <ri4i«i*

vi.infl landed in Gre' > \ ||iaii

that At the fODth thir n |«^|

black robes, who «v4)Uvi klM^uo^ - \^^

DCS* beJbre them ; they were the '
eighth ccntitry, had »et mi] tn- '
thrownby the wind on rhcAn
Lt Chruti^Hiimt ektx lit

{Hhiairt di St Li^tr^ mentioo* \ buok ol Uu» t

teenih eentiuy nn the voyi^igeft of the BeaodicliaM
into A4Dcrka— doubileM these mocik* \vait amooK 1^
aantgeK, who Icift \ho^ ugj'\ of Chri»ti«ntt7, Jjm i
« knul oC bApti«it% cv§., which were :YAer«<mM I
fttMl whkb oUicrwIftc wuuld be mcxjAicable,

Ml the

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages,

609

be most eloquent and learned of the
Ithers^ — those philosophers of no
Ect — Jerome, Gregory of Nazianzen,
Augustine, Paulinus, and Basil, ad-
dress numerous letters to women —
to women, so disdained by paganism
that not a single letter to a woman is
^to be found in alj the correspondence
|Kf Cicero.^

^V But it may be said that these
^potneo who showed themselves
^^vorthy of holding converse with such
reat men read and wTote Greek,
Latin, and Hebrew, and belonged to
be highest Roman society. There
no women who are not noble.
The church opened schools for wo-
aen where they received the same
astructions as men.f There is, from
lie time of the illustrious patrician
Idles who followed St. Jerome into
be desert, St. Paula, St. Eusto-
Ilium, etc.,t an uninterrupted list of
^uns, of abbesses, whom the church
everes as saints, and who might be
llaimed by the literary world on ac-
>unt of their attainments. For ex-
iple, St. Radegonde, {in the sixth
sntury,) who introduced into the
[lonastery of St. Croix, at Poitiers,
be rule of St, Caesarius, which
^Hged all the nuns to the study of
titers, that is to say, Latin, the
athers, canonical law, history, cos-
mography, etc., to devote two hours
. day to reading besides that which
bey listened to during labor and their
aeals, and to the transcribing of
3ks, etc, etc. ; Lioba, at Bischofs-
keira, in Germany, the mistress of a
chool in a barbarous country who
&nly lefl her books to pray ;§ St.

• And of Pliny. I f Seneca cumpaMid two tr»t»e9,

f C^msc^wnt. for Mama nnd Hctvia it woi becau&c

( ideas were modified by cnatact wiitli Oimtianity.

%nA I we herein a proof, which has not been sulfi-

.d, of hi& knowledge of the Chriitiaa

|f^ his acquainULnce with St Paul.

; And MircdLT, Bleiilla, Paulina. Fabiob, (of
be faailly of FAbii. t Furia« (uf tlie family of CamiUui,
ifeUnia. Marcciima. etc.)

f See \ycm Pitr»« ih. He metitiotia St. Aldefconsdca,

VOL. vin. — 39

Bertille, at Chelles ; St Gertrude, in
Belgium, (seventh century,) who sent
to Ireland and to Italy for books ; and
those poor women who studied iheo-
logy under St, Boniface, (eighth cen-
tury;) and Roswitha, whose dramatic
works display not only the inventive
imagination of the poet, but a learn-
ing rare among women of any age^
show^n by her quotations from the
ancient poets, tlie historical facts she
mentions, her knowledge of foreign
languages, etc.* A Gerbert and a
Roswitha are sufficient to redeem a
whole century from the charge of ig-
norance and barbarism ; and if nuns
in the heart of Germany made such
attainments in literature, what must
have been the women of the age of
Charlemagne, of Si, Bernard, and of
St. Louis ? Then the daughters and
nieces of the emperor took lessons
of Alcuin \ a queen sang the sweet
serenity of the cloister in gp^acefUl
Latin verse ;t a young girl of Paris
\i%A for her teacher one of the most
celebrated professors of her time \%
and then was drawn up a course of
studies in which were prescribed,
such as these :§

*' Children of both sexes, from five
to twelve years of age : readings (in
^he V^TsAiei^) singings grammar, moral
iiistichs, (of Cato,) and, a litde later,
Latin, which they will learn to speak.
Young girls : natural history^ sur-
gery, medicine, logic, Latin, and the
oriental languages "^ — a plan drawn
up in the dark and ignorant middle
ages, which could not be easily pur-

St. Anstrudc, etc. Tlie monastery of Lioba, he ay«,
was like n normni »choo] with respect to the other '
BchunU s; i 1 Gerrnany.

• Spai Iv, proved by the //ts/,ntnmtM

m her ssy ^ ui by her leartied editor, Ma^-

orn.

t Richarde, wife of Charld le Gros.

t KcloTfte, and doabtlesa she was not the only one
among the bomieawie of Paris. Recall al«o ihc
learned btm raentiooed in the bcginniDK of Du Giicft-
clin*$ life, wb^, in predicting Hia stioxu, removed, u
it were, the obstadei to his glorioui career.

I Boutaiic, fit ti (Eirv<rt$ de Pierrt d» B^it^ ia
the mcmoin of the Academy of Intcriptiotift, 1^(64.

6io

The Igfwrance of the Middle Ages.

sued even in ihis age, distinguished
and enlightened by the romances of
so many women of genius !

We need not wait till the time of
Clemence Isaure (fourteenth centu-
ry) to find a woman whom Chris-
tianity had imbued with taste and a
delicate poetical nature. History,
chronicles, and ballads have opened
to us Ihe chateaux where, whilst
the mail-clad baron and his armed
followers fought without, his wife,
seated in some deep embrasure, would
cast a glance from time to time
through the narrow window upon the
varied landscape, and then resume,
in the large, open volume before her,
the fabulous and heroic exploits of
knights and brave men among the
paynim and giants ; where, at night-
fall, in the midst of her servants and
followers, she listened smilingly and
thoughtfully to some wandering trou-
badour singing of war, of love, and
of tournaments, and relating his ad-
ventures — a charming picture wh^ch
allies the romantic chatelaine — pass-
ing by the elegant and trifling ladies
of the court of the Restoration —
with the strong-minded women of the
seventeenth century, so captivating
and so learned, who read philosophi-
cal treatises, spoke several language^
studied the doctors and fathers of
the church, and who are considered
by the world as models of wit, taste,
elegance, and grace: Longue\ille,
Montausier, Lafayette, RambouUlet,
Jacqueline Pascal, Maintenon, and
S<fvign^ !

THE XODILrTY,

But it is necessary to make a pain-
ful avowal In the midst of the gen-
eral diffusion of knowledge in monas-
terics^ schools, universities, towns,
boroughs, and villages, and even
among the poor and lowly, there is

Asv

one class of society whieli
during all the midd
ful ignorance^ — ^thc ti _

The kings, however^ wba
from Its ranks, and who In aU age
prided themselves onr the naane cf
gentleman, were an -i. TV

sons of Clovis were %t pii|ii

of the school est;^b{ished in his in-
lace and directed by his ch^ai^
This example was pcrjjctuatcd Tfce
princes of the M jlan dyws«j

pursued their stt, ihc moo^

teries, and literary habtts bccimeso
congenial to tlieni lhar> in san» ifr
stances, they were carried to cio»
and became a kind of fnanta, 2i ie
the case of the prince catled ik
Ckrc couronnk. (Ch
Charlemagne, who m
language, undersiood 1 .

astronomical calculation..., .

professors from Italy, (Peter of Pa*
and Paul the Hellenl ' ' '*

founded the first ac
first university, it is i
on him, for he is univ-
edged to be at once a hero, a lofiB^
man, and a sainL Nor are tlie \tt
rary tastes of the most enuneiit i^
ereigns denied, as Alfred the Gi^
the translator of i^sop mod ccmdido^
tatorof Bede; Charles le Chauvi:,!^
had Aristotle and Plato explained ti
him by masters from Constantinofik,
Alfonso the Wise, astronomer, Ic^g^
lator, and historian ; Robert tk
Pious ; Otto 11., who appointed C«t*
bert, tlie wisest man of the ^
tutor to his son : Frederick IK, wto
spoke German, French, Arabat
Latin, and Greek ; and Phihp k^
gustus^ the patron of literature ani
the arts, " w^ho, for that age, was is
magnificent as Louis XIV/** Ai»i
later than the twelfth century, is ^
astonishing that St. Louis admliie:
St. Thomas of Aquin to his Labk,
where, in his presence, wete dis-

The Ignorance of tJte Middle Ages.

6ii

cussed the highest questions of phi-
losophy ? That the rule of study
drawn up for John, son of Philip of
Valois, included Latin and several
languages?* That Charles V. col-
lected at the Louvre a library of
considerable size, and that his broth-
ers, the duke-s of Burgundy and Berri,
carried away by lose for the arts,
ordered miniatures^ which are ad-
mirable paintings, from the celebra-
ted painters, Memltng, Van Eyck,
and Jean Fouquet ? But we are ap-
proaching ihe time of the Restora-
tion, and consequently alJ these facts
prove notliing.

But were tnese enlighlcned, well-
informed, and even learned monarchs
satisfied with their own attainments,
and did they live in their courts
among brutal, ignorant, and coarse
warriors w^ho could only talk of com-
bats and gallantr)^ ? No ; it is well
known tliat their principal vassals,
the minor sovereigns, especially those
of Southern France, where the learn-
ing of Rome was diffused, wore not
wholly unlettered. In the ninth
century, Ihere was the son of a Count
(Maguelonne) St, Benedict of Ami-
ane, who was at the head of all the
monasteries in France, and who
compared, modified, and wrote com-
tnentaries on the rules of ibe various
religious orders — Greek as well as
Latin j Foulques, Count of Anjou, in
the tenth centur>^ — yes, in the tenth
century, that darkest period of the
middle ages^ — understood Aristotle
and Cicero, as has been proved, and
in the following century, when the
leaders of the crusades assembled at
Jerusalem to draw up a code of laws
— a civil and political code — charter
of citizenship, etc., they evidently

* In a memoir addrewed to the qoeea id 1334 and
eoinpoied of one liandrcd md wa, articIeA, tHe an«
known author gives the kiiig*t d^ily role of life as foJ-
knwi : " Ri*e at tix alt the year round— Ma*> at tcven
— ^business tilt ten — fftipper at wa. — lo bed a I ten — to
have bii ion uugbt sev»%l laacui^ges, cYen Laitii. to
fit lujn 10 travel**

understood not only the general
customs, but Roman law ; and sev-
eral of them (Iselin, etc.) were no
less proficients \rv the law than va-
liant knights f finally, if the muse
of France w^ould trace its ancestry
back to former times, it would fintl
two princes, William of Poitiers and
Thibaut of Champagne. It is right,
then, to leave out the testimony of
sovereigns.

History also certifies a ver)' singu-
lar fact: the leaders, the' ktides,
under the \ferovingians, sent their
children to the school at the palace
" to be initiated in palatial learning."
There they underwent examinations,
studied the fathers, histor)% law,
religious dogmas, received degrees,
etc. This fact is thus explained :
tliese young men were hostages that
the king kept at court to insure the
fealty of their fathers, no doubt ; and
the consequence of this truly barba-
rous idea was to convert a prison
into, a school and an academy!
There was another custom almost as
singular : these young men are rep-
resented as travelling, even in the
earliest ages, in the various countries
of Europe — France, Spain, and Italy
— and in the East. Yes, notwith-
standing the insecurity of the routes,
it was the fashion in the seventh
century to send young Englishmen
to France to be reared, and even in
many cases across the Alps to Rome,
Padua, etc. Some went to complete
their education in Greece, and, after
the establishment of the Latin Em-
pire, at Con Stan tin ople. These young
men apparently belonged to wealthy
and noble families. And we would

♦ Robertaon, in hi* introduction to the ffixtaty fi/
Chariot K, la mistaken when he saya the middle
ag» were ignorant of Roman law until the twelfth
century. Rom^u law was not revived by the discovrry
of a copy of the Pandects at Amalfi : it waa alwayi
known and practised : it wa» cited at the tribuajUa.
and gei>craUy known durinft all (lie middle ages, as
demanatnted by Savifp^ty, ffixttirt dtt Dr»it ni
9u Mvytn A([0. See aiio Faunel, HiHMm do d
laii^ti tniridwmUM.

6l2

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages,

recall the fact that in the schools
directed by Clement, a Scotchman,
Charlemagne assembled — strange
idea \ — " a great number of children
of all classes from the highest to the
lowest rank ;*'* that among the pu-
pils of Lanfranc, at the abbey of Bee,
were a great number of the children
kof lords and borons, and, among
folhers, William, Duke of Normandy,
land that son of an Italian nobleman
pwho, later, was known as Pope Alex-
lander IL It would appear that these
[young men did not allow the facul-
rties they had developed to remain
I unproductive and useless, from the
[feet that the earliest poets were prin-
Ices and nobles. But then, poetry is
fthe offspring of the imagination and
I of genius, and the French race, par-
Nicularly in tiie South, are so richly
gifted therewith I

What is more surprising, the first
r French historians were two lords :
•Villehardoin in the twelfth century,
and Joinville in the thirteenth— his-
torians not without culture. There
are in their language elegance, dis-
ftinction, and Attic wit. They men-
ion, en passant, and without affecta-
tion, names and facts that attest
faried knowledge, and their style is
perfect that competent writers
fhave concluded that the nobility
loulded the French language to
►history and poetry — the ideal and
jithe practical !t It is probably to
bese studious habits and this incli-
nation for intellectual pursuits, per-
Ipetnated for ages like a tradition, is
due the delicate and correct taste
peculiar to the French nobility of
the last two centuries, and the noble
ambition of the great lords who have
not been satisfied with protecting the

• Tl« racmk of St GatI, mentioned by Phil le
B;ui, n't J.

♦ Vi!krti4m. Hid., L/^op. Del}*tc. A. de li Bsjrdejrre,
larchegiy. See nbu Aud^ Mlmoire$ dffa Sd>ci^

^EmnUtufm df U Vemdi*^ mA the worVs alicady
wentwrtcd d" Bouterk» LUtrf» Pierre Q^eoti eic

ior
\ to-
beeafl

arts« but have deemed \t an honor 1o
have their historical names inscribed
on the list of the academies, hsve
striven to acquire a knowledge
letters, to excel in it, and to add
the lustre of "their descent bciilUncy^i
of talent and the glory ^es€^^*•ed fidr
intellectual labors.

Finally — for we roust collect lo-
tiraony for the acquittal of the
cused — since the judgment has
so severe, the most conscien
and erudite men of modem UQie%
having traversed the middle «gei
and returned laden with dooQ-
mentSi declare that, among the nuiiK
beriess titles that passed throygh
their hands, they never met tlitslicir*
mula, so often mentioned : this ooe^
being a nobleman, attests his inabiW
ity to sign his name.

Yet in spite of these proofs, these
attestations, and the authority of the
witnesses, there is one fact beyond
doubt, the absolute ignorance tff ike
mhility of the middle ages^ and mt
are forced, to our great regret, to con-
clude that this opinion must be ao*
cepted as a historical fact of the
same class, and as clearly proved, as
the so well authenticated facts o£
Sixtus V. throwing away his crutches'
as soon as he was elected Pope^
Gilles de Raiz slaughtering his wiv
like Bluebeard^ Charles V, pirtici-
paling in his own funeral rites at Si
Just, Marie de Medicis dying of hui
ger in a garret at Cologne, and G
ilco imprisoned in a dungeon of the
Inquisition!

CHARACTER OP THE KNOWLEDGE CNP *
THE MIDDLE AGES.

The language of a people is one of
the signs that mark its progress or j
decay. If the genius of a langu-*ge u]
fully developed, the nation is in it

The Igfwrance of the Middle Ages,

5i3

stfpogfee ; if ft is not developed, or if

eit is losing its purity, the nation
Is progressing or declining. This
is a truth remarked by one of the
most active minds of the last cen*
tury. "In the thirteenth century,"
says Rivarol, " the French language
had more nearly attained a certain
^^perfection than in the sixteenth/'*
^■He is astonished : he finds the fact
^■"very extraordinary,** but he does
I not explain it. The explanation is
^Leasy. The French language was
^fmuch nearer perfection in the thir-
teenth than in the sixteenth century,
because society was more firmly es-
tablished. The sixteenth centur)'
was an age of transition, the dawn
of a great era — an avenue leading
to a large city which we pass through,
but in which we do not linger. The
men of that time, without being
aware of it, were preparing for the
future. They collected materials for
building from the remains of anti-
quit}- and the attempts of foreigners ;
they imitated and did not invent.
Consequently their language was ob-
scure and loaded with foreign idioms
and antiquated expressions ; it was
neither bold, nor expressive, nor
clear ; it was ornamented, rich, and
redundant ; it was overladen like a
tree not pruned ; the fruit was hid-
^^den by an excess of foliage. A great
upwind — the agitation of civil war —
" shook off this exuberant foliage and
the fruit appeared ; the sun of the
seventeenth century warmed and
colored it with its rays ; then it ri-
pened, and tlie French language at-
tained its definite form and became
immortal.

The language of the thirteenth

• Vrk\MM DuC'Omn s*^ P Umivrrmliti di in L^hi^h*
>»WC«M^, alwaysi totbe paiAtt and oHcn profound,
I writer af our time goc« still further; ** The lAnsiiAge

«» fully developed and equnj to our o«rti/* says M.
f Ulemiiint Hisi^irt dg la LitUrutm^ dn Maygn Agt,

century was as complete and perfect
as it could be. At that period
were laid the foundations of Chris- J
tian science,* DoubUess, each age
adding to the knowledge of man-
kind, that science was not as ex-
tended as now, but it h«ad the es-
sential qualities of true science :
it was analytical ; it constantly ap-
plied this axiom, which is the condi-
tion of progress r Multi^m^ non multa.
Everything corresponds: the sci-
ence of the Eg) p tian s was on a level
with their arts ; their philosophy
was as complex as their religion was
mysterious. It was the same in the
middle ages. They possessed the
true religion, had right views of phi-
losophy, attained to eminence in the
arts, and made accurate scientific
observations. And late researches
have shown that they greatly extend-
ed the knowledge they inherited from
antiquity.f Their alchemists and
physicians were not charlatans. The
general principles of Albertus Mag-
nus and the Jewish and Arabian phy-
sicians of Spain and Asia harmonize
with those of modern science* They
were ignorant of certain phenomena,
as a certain skill was wanting to the
artists of the time ; but this ignorance
can no more be raised as an objec-
tion than against the learned men of
our time for not knowing the scien-
tific discoveries of a thousand years
hence. It is not extent of know-
ledge that stamps an epoch as great,
but the use it makes of it, and the
logical conclusions it draws from its
principles.

The science of the middle ages
was eminently logical, for it had its
source in a mountain whose summit
rises to heaven — in theology —
whence it flows in streams upon all

ii», by VeiiUiia-

6i4

The Igfwrance of the Middle Ages,

minds. Theology, it has been said/
is only the expression of an idea : it
is much more, it is the sublime end
of thought — the first of all sciences,
the scm\c^ par exceiience — ^the science
of God. The sceptre of science be-
longs to Europe only because it had
its source in iheology,t vvhich occu-
pied every mintl in the middle ages
— ^the greatest as well as the narrow-
est minds — ** which, dwelling on great
things, became great." It prompted
them to other attainments. To
climb to the heights of knowledge,
they had to lay hold of the asperities
of the mountain and of all the branch-
es of science one after another j of
jurisprudence, civil law^the branch
nearest the surface of the earth ; then
of the physical sciences ; afterward
of geometry, algebra, astronomy, and
the still higher branches, canon law
and philosophy {%

Andiabove all» and mingled with
all, literature ; for letters are the
expression of the mind itself — the
universal mind — whilst ** the sciences
require only a partial application of
it"i In the literature of a people
are embodied its ideas, manners,
arts, industrial pursuits, worship, and
its whole life. By it man traverses
countries and ages, imbibes their
spirit, and^trengthens his mind more
than by any other study. Thence
the incessant study of ancient h'te-
rature, which, in the thirteenth cen-
lur)% was more generally diffused
than ever. Latin, the langua;::e of tradi-
tion and of the church, the original lan-
guage of the present dominant nations
of France, Italy, Spain, and even Eng-

At9% ImoD XTtH. He evidentJy does Dm compre-
hend ilie tnduenoft of theology, for he ticJUK **A4 in
aaetlier ajie the public roind is eipretsed by polirici,
the lhct*lo£y of one epoch is ihc philosophy of ^x%-
o<ber,'*

t J. de Mabtn-.

% The Chdbrd ttudentt nnd thoM of other nnivcnl'
ties ftttidied At the Mme time civil and canoa lavr.

I Eiprciaiafi of Napoleon t.

land, (Latin was spoken in Ei
until the fourteenth century, ai
great number of wards in the
lish language is derived froin
Latin,) was understood by all class-
es ; discussions in Latin were c
on in universities, and grammar
Latin were taught in the vili
schools.* They were constanili
making researches ; Villani at Roi
read Lucan, Virgil, Valerius Ma:
nius ; the scholars of Cambridge
wrote commentaries on Cicero*
France, Sallust and Titus Lii
were translated, soon followed by
Ccesar, Ovid, and Suetonius^ (unckt
Charles V.) Greek became roi
universally known after the taki
of Constantinople by the crusaders
Aristotle was translated into Lalia'
by Michael Scott, and bishops in^
Italy wrote homilies in the language
of Chrysostom.t Theologians^ phi*
losophcrs, and poets Hjere nourished
by the valuable and concise remains
of antiquity ; Dante, Petrarch, Boc-
caccio, as well as the Franciscan
lyrics and the Romance of the Rme.
All the works of that time are full of
ancient reminiscences.

Nevertheless, they did not n-
other languages. In the great
course of nations there w^s an
change of idioms. How much IS
proved respecting that intercourse
and the knowledge of languages^ by
the single fact that the Archbishop
of Toledo, at the Council of Lateran
in 1 2 15, delivered a discourse in
Latin, and then repeated it for the
laity in Spanish, French, and Ger
man. But they did not rest
themselves to the European
guages. Why should not the learn*
ed men who went to seek knowledge
from the Jews and tlie Moors, and

die a*t trtisQmt lik^U.
f Miitiuacripi^ i«a by M< Renaa, in thit '

lUII OC

legkccfl
t intef^
an ex-S

the

trklfl
am*V

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages.

6is

Studied Aristotle as often from the
Arabian commentators as from the
original works, endeavor to acquire
the language of those they so often
came in contact with? and the ad-
venturers who crossed the deserts
' ito the heart of Asia ; and the
Italian republics that traded wilh
Vfrica ; the ambassadors that kings
ent to the Khan of Tartar}^ \ the
lerchants who daily saw, landing in
their ports and mingling in their
fairs, the turbans, pelisses, and caf-
tans of merchants from Cairo, Alep-
po, Bagdad, Novgorod, and Sar-
macand ? Besides, the oriental lan-
guages had never been neglected.
Id the sixth centurVi King Gontran,
at his entrance into Orleans^ was ad-
dressed in Latin, Greek, Hebrew,
Arabic, and Syriac* In the crowd-
ed schools of the eighth century' were
studied all languages, even the
oriental, says Dom Fitra. From
the tenth century the pilgrimages
to the Holy Land and the crusades
made the language of the Saracens
(Arabic) familiar to a great number.
But there was a still stronger reason
vhiclt led to the acquisition of the
Eastern languages — the conversion
of tlie infidels.

The course of study already men-
[ioned was inspired by a great idea —
Christian in its nature— the conquest
of the East by the infusion of Chris-
tianity ; regeneration by civilization,
to use the modern expression. The
noble mind that conceived it wished
to continue the work of the crusades
by diffusing the doctrines, opinions,
id arts of Christendom : after arms,
He sciences, France, in its enthusi-
sm for proselyting, w^ished to send
an a mission of priests, artisans,
physicians, women, entire families,
fact, a whole colony. These peo-
ple would establish themselves in

* See Grefiory of Tourt.

the Holy Land, colonize it, found a
Christian race, and from that sacred
spot — from Mount Zion — diverge on
every side, into Africa as well as
Asia, into Egypt^ Mesopotamia, Per-
sia, and Arabia ; mingle among the
people enveloped in darkness, (the
term is just in this case,) influence
them by their actions, morals, intel-
ligence and good deeds, and ac-
complish in that age — the thirteenth
century- — tlie providential work that
Europe, without entirely knowing
what it is efifecting, is realizing in
our day — the transformation of the
rest of the world, the union of sav-
age, barbarous, and brutal people
into a universal nation who will be
guided by the spfrit of the gospel.*

It was in order to prepare labor-
ers for this sublime enterprise that
this plan of studies, as varied as ex-
tended, was prepared. Do you not
see all it supposes — the comprehen-
sion of the authors, schools, and
men* capable of applying the plan ?
And it did not remain a mere project ;
it began to be executed. The Univer-
sity of Paris proposed to establish a
professorship of the Tartar language.
It was not done till a later day, be-
cause tlie university only acts with a
view to science ; but the church did
not delay, prompted by a more noble
motive. At Rome it taught the
oriental languages in its colleges \
at Paris, the monks of St. P^re de
Chartres, at the annua! expense of
one thousand francs, opened, for the
space of three years, a school for young
men from the East, who returned to
their country carrying with them the
acquirements of thd West and the
eternal truths of religion. f The
councils (that of Vienna in 13 ii)'
decreed that the oriental languages

* Abel dc R^tuuiN Mtm^irt tmri^s R* fait em dk§

by M. Guiiot, Histfiiry dtU CivilUaiUHtH E^rtp9*
t Cartulary of St. P^ de Chartres.

6i6

The Ignorame of ike Middle Ages,

should be taught at Paris, Salaman-
ca, Bologna, Oxford, and all the
greit universities. The church
wishes to diffuse knowledge in order
to evangelize the world ; it arms
men with science that they may be
more powerful^ and it pushes them
forward in the career of learning,
that, at the end, they may find God.

Vlfp

ARDOR FOR LEARNING.

And the church has always found
disciples eager to listen to its instroc-
tions» The very barbarians, it has
been remarked, were not averse to
study; they had, on the contrary,
that innate taste for letters which
distinguishes the Germanic race.
The Franks were easily instructed j
they mingled among the Gauls of
the South in the course of rhetoric
and poetr}^ (at Bordeaux in the fifth
and sixth centuries ;) St. Medard,
Bede, and Mici counted them by
thousands in their schools. When the
twelfth centur}' opened more numer-
ous schools, an immense crowd has-
tened to them. It was an invasion
of recruits, who wished to learn the
use of the arms of knowledge, in
Enghiud, Germany, and Italy ; at
Milan there were eighty masters
who were laymen ; France, above all,
displayed its characteristic ardor.
At Paris, colleges w^ere founded one
after another ; t\vo at the end of the
twelfth century, fifteen in the thir-
teenth and fourteenth ; one half of
Paris was transformed into schools.
" That of the Canons of Notre Dame
• extended from the church to the
Fetit-Pont ; then it passed over the
left bank and ascended the moun-
tain* — the mountain that has pre-

• VtcL le Clerc, UMain df ia Litirmimtw mm ini-

served the name of ^
Uie true realm of magjuKi

by the poets, where Jived, in dosr
proximity, turbulent bands of ibor
dents from ev^ery land, in grotsps^ac^
cording to their nations and lift'
guages. Foreigners* proclaimed ^am
the centre of knowledge, and, in i
right and elevated sense, iJie leader
of Europe. There was then sooc
merit in the pursuit of knovrledjgt
The name of one of the streets of
PariSjf the Rue du Fouare, so^alW
from the straw and hay upon whidfe
they seated themselves, bears wttoess
to the ardor of these students of tlie
dark ages, less anxious for thetreni
than to obtain knowledge. TIict
rewarded tJieir own masters, and
valued no expense to obtain tboat
most renow^ned ; they sent la all
parts of Europe for them» and gift
them a position often ten times more
valuable than that of the professors
of our timet It was difficult far
many to contribute their share in alt
this expense, in addition to the cost
of living in aNlarge city ; but in
hope of acquiring the knowl
the poorer subjected themselvi
the most painful sacrifices. The
romance of Gil Bias depicts the
young men of the University of Sala-
manca as valets and students.
What existed in Spain in the
eighteenth centu^ was the conditioil
of many students of the middle ages-
Yes, they reduced themselves to
servitude to obtain degrees, aod
made themselves valets to gain theil
daily brend^ — a noble servitude for
which they did not blush, which put
the body in subjection, and left the
mind free, showing the superiority
of mind over matter ; it was a volun-
tary humiliation, which, for a lim«^
put the indigent scholar beoent^

* John or SalUbury, Dante, Bninetto Ltttlni, •!&
t Le f Uy« Kifarme s^m/t, (17,) And MalcveevXj

1867.)

The Ignorance of the Middle Ages,

617

the nch, but aided him to attain in
the world the place due to intelligence
and knowledge, to rise to the level
of the most powerful, and often to
the most eminent dignities of the
church and state — to the councils
of kings \x\A the purple of cardinals.
And wh^t ardent scholars I It
was the age of the schoolmen.
Scholastic learning, afterward so
disdained by forget fulness or igno-
rance, was the animated, living, and
natural form which gave expression to
the passionate love ofthose young men
for study. Those descendants of
-the Franks rushed forward with the
same eagerness as to battle to share
in the close reasoning, the logic that
contended so fiercely, that made
ever}' effort and climbed tooth and
nail to obtain a position strongly
contested. What valiant armies !
what soldiers in "these tournaments
. that are like combats !"* But what
' captains also ! what leaders I what
masters ! St. Thomas Aquinas, St.
Bonaventura, Alberlus Magnus — at
once theologians, philosophers, mor-
alists, politicians, writers on political
economy, and savants 1 What a trio
in one century and at the same
period !

But do you know w^hat took place
in the thirteenth centur}' at the course
of Albertus Magnus? Not hundreds
but thousands of pupils hastened to
his lessons.f It ^vas not ardor that
animated them, but enthusiasm ; an
apartment was not required to con-
tain them, but a squire I No enclo-
sure would have sufficed for such a
multitude, A great commotion
forced the master to leave his chair —

• Bofiald.

t It was the tame ihrou^hout the middle »Rea^ At
Bdopu lilt re were^ in Ihe thirtectith cietitury, ten
thouMnd pupila at the IdW school : ui llie eleventti
ecDCUry, they c.vn>o frani every land to attend Tlie
iQfttnictiu^* of Aliclanl ; he coimlcd &ev<;r4l ihou^nd
auditors, and among them twenty cardtnah and fifty
bJahop*. Wc cotild multiplyHhese examples iiidefi-

a commotion such as is rarely seen
in our days, in which the crowd cried
to their teacher, "Away from here !**
^^Exii ForasP- — a respectful uprising
in which the master is proud to obey ;
he descends from his chair into the
midst of the crowd, which is roaring
like the sea, and is borne away by a
thousand arms to a large square,
where, on an elevation of stone, he'
can overlook the countless human
heads \vhich extend back to the
houses and fill up the openings of
the streets, but which are now mo-
tionless, attentive, and mute before
the sound of a single voice that en-
chains them, O barbarous genera-
tion 1 O age of darkness in which a
master required the open air of hea-
ven and the paved square for a class-
room ! Compare the literary dilet-
tanteism of a few hundred young men
enclosed within the walls of an am-
phitheatre of a hundred feet, with.,
the ardent thirst of this crowd, which.4
required not a jar, but a whole riverpl
to satisfy its thirst for knowledge,J
and which has left a proof of its eagei*
desire in the capital and in the lan-
guage^ the name of the square into
which so many students crowded to 1
hear their master — the Place Mau-"^
bert, Magni Albert! — the Square of
the great Albert I

We see how erroneous is the opi-
nion that attributes to tlie epoch be-
tween the middle of the fifteenth and
the middle of the seventeenth centUn
ries the revival of letters and the arts.
Letters were not revived ; they still
existed and enlightened the world.
'* The great agitation of the Reforma-
tion is often represented as having^ .
contributed to literary and scientific
development," says M. A. Maury, a
writer not suspected of partiality to
the middle ages. **This is not abso-
lutely true. The contests to which it
gave rise retarded for a time the dif-
fusion of knowledge ; many monas-

6i8

The Ignorance of the MiddU Ages.

teries, libraries, and schools were
suppressed, which had been, up to
that time, the great sources of light J'
Chrishan historians were the first to
bt!Come suspicious of error and to
point it out Hurter, the great Ger-
man historian, says : ** Only superfi-
cial minds that disdain the study of
documents and are blinded by the
pretended superiority of our epoch,
or by systematic hatred, dare accuse
the church of having favored igno-
rance.'** AH truly learned men sooa
became of the same mind. One of
them, who has made the middle
ages his study for twenty years, can-
not restrain his indignation: **Our
historians, even those who are con-
sidered the best, dwelling on the
grossest conjectures and influenced
by obsolete prejudices, without think-
ing of verifying, still less of rectify*
ing, old assertions, have summed up
the whole history^ of the first part of
the oiiddle ages in these two words,
igfiorafhc and superstition ; but it is
to themselves,** he adds severely,
"and not to the ages they have mis-
understood and calumniated, that
these two words should be applied/'t
" The idea of progress is not a pagan
idea,** says Ozanam.J The doctrine
of progress Is as old as the gospel ;
and the author of Lcs Etudes sur ies*
Barbarts et k Moym Age confirms

♦ Hist0wy mfJmm»ctmt Iff., book %xi.
t DjiTemlxss, C^mrt jf iSbj : an<l to cbe cttp|Wft of
faia anions he fari^gi Guuot, Doni Pitn, Onnmifc

this: *'The people of the middle^
ages felt the necessity of knowle^gt ;
they studied and labored conscien-
tiously and energetically, and marked
each age by important develop- j
ments/* The more carefully we cl*
amine those ages, the better shall i
understand the extent of knowledge
in the church. The most emineot
men of those times — who does not
know them? — ^are bishops, mookSi
and popes : Gerbert, St. ileni^
nocent III., and St. Thomas
nas, who can only be compaied
Aristotle; the most original write
— who does not forget it?-
priests: Froissart, Petrarch, an
later, Calderon, Lope dc V«^a, and *
Tirso de Molina ; the greatest port
of the middle ages, Dante, was be
not a theologian ? Ctmabue, who re-
vived the art of painting, was he not
reared among the Dominicans of
Florence ? Was not the first press
in Paris set up at the SorbooTie?
The best informed cla^s of men wercS
so incontcstably the clergy that the V
names of priest and savant were con-
founded. The word clcrgk in tlit
middle ages signified learned,* Th«
church takes the highest rank in lh« K
world of science. 1 1 does not acquire ^
knowledge for itself alone, but to dif
fuse everj'wherc. that the w hole earth
may be enlightened Like the suxHi
it is a great centre diffusing the lig^ll
it derives from God — its etenula
source!

The Invasion,

619

FROM TKB rRBXCR OF BACKlfAltMr AKO CHATltAKt

"THE INVASION i OR, YEGOF THE FOOL,

CHAPTER xvrr.

At the end of a dark passage
through the house was the farm-
yard, to which hve or six well- worn
steps descended. To the left were the
barn and the press ; and to the right,
the stables and the dove-cote, the
dark shape of the last standing
sharply outlined against the gray,
misty sky. Opposite the door was
the wash-house.

Not a sound was heard. Hullin,
after the wild and stormy day, was
impressed with the deep silence.
He gazed at the tufts of straw hang-
between the rafters of the barn, the
harrows, the ploughs, the carts, half
hidden in the gloom of the sheds,
with an indefinable feeling of calm-
ness and satisfaction. Fowl were
roosting along the wall, and a cat
fled by like a flash, and disappeared
in the cellar, Hullin seemed waking
from a dream.
^_ After a few moments of silent re-
^fcverie, he turned slowly toward the
^Bwash-housc, the three windows of
^■.which shone through the darkness,
^BThe kitchen of the farm-hnose was
^Enot large enough to prepare food for
f three or four hundred men, and the
work had been carried thither.

Master Jean-Claude heard the
childish voice of Louise giving or-
ders in a tone so resolute that it as-
tonished him.

"Come, come, Katel, hurr}-. It is
nearly time for supper, and the poor
fellows must be hungr)% Just to think
— fighting since seven this mornings
and not eating a morsel 1 Here,
Lessele, move yourselfl Salt I pep-
rl'*

Jean-Claude's heart beat at that
voice. He could not avoid peering^
through the glass before entering. ^
The kitchen was large but low, and ,
with white-washed walls. A huge '
fire of beech-logs crackled and blam-
ed upon the hearth, in the midst of
which appeared tlie black sides of
an immense pot. The chimney, ,
high and narrow^ was scarcely large
enough to carry off the billows of
smoke that arose. Near the hre was
the graceful figure of Louise, lit up
by the brightest tints that flashed
from the hearth^ bustling, active,
coming, going, tasting sauces, try-
ing the meat, approving, and cri-
ticising.

The two daughters of the Anabap-
tist, one tall, dried up, and pale, with
large, flat feet, cased in great shoes,
hair bound with black ribbons into a
little knot, and a long gown of blue
stuff hanging down to her heels ; the
other^ chubby, and waddling along
much like a goose, formed a strange
contrast with her.

The good Anabaptist himself, seat-
ed at the end of the room upon a
wooden chair, with feet crossed, cot*
ton cap pulled well down upon his
head, and hands plunged into the
depths of the pockets of his blouse,
gazed on all that passed ^vnth an air
of wonderment, and from time to
time ejaculated sententi.ously ;

" Lessele, Katel, do as you are
told, my children. Let this be for
your instruction ; you have yet seen
nothing of the world. Walk quick-
er/'

" Ves» yes, you must move," added
Louise. "What would become of us
if we meditated days and weeks about

620

The Invaswiu

putting a little seasoning in a sauce?
You, Lessele, are the tallest ; unhook
that bundle of onions from the ceil-
ing/'

And the tall girl obeyed.

Hullin was proud and happy as a
prince,

'" How she makes them mind 1" he
chuckled. "What a little dragoon
she is I a very puss in-boots I Ha,
ha, ha !"

And he waited full five minutes be-
fore entering.

Louise flung down the spoon she
held, and rushed to him, crying :

" Father Jean-Claude ! papa Jean-
Claude ! You are not hurt ? you are
not wounded ?"

Poor Huilin could not speak for a
moment. He folded her tenderly in
his arms, and at length replied, in a
voice whose tremor he could not re-
press:

'* No, Louise, no ; I am well and
happy."

" Sit doiRTi, Jean-Claude," said the
Anabaptist, seeing how his emotion
affected him, " Here, take my chair."

Hullin seated himself, and Louise,
placing her hands upon his shoulders,
burst into tears.

** WTiat is the matter, my child ?"
asked the old man in wonder. ** A
moment ago you w^erc brave enough."

" Yes, 1 made believe, but I w .is
very frightened. I thought — I
thought, * Why does he not come ?* **

Then a sudden whim seemed to
enter her little head ; she seized her
father's hand, and cried, laughing
through her tears ;

" Let us dance, papa J can -Claude !
Come, dance !"

And she pulled him around the
room.

Hullin, smiling in spite of himself,
turned to the An.ibaptist, who saw
all that passed without a change in
his gravt; visage, and said :

•• Wc are somcwhal foolish, Louise

and I ; but don't let that
Pelsly."

" It does notf Master HuUin. M
not King David dance wlieo he
had smitten the Philjstines liip

thigh?"

Jean-Claude, rather astoonded at
his resemblance to King Dosii
made no reply,

"Well, Louise," said he, **ywi
frightened during the batlJci
you?**

"Yes, at first; the cannoo-sholi
and the din were fearful 1 Bdl aft0>
ward I only thought of you and mo-
ther Lefevre."

Then she took htm by the hu^
and, leading him to a reg^iiBeot of
pots, kettles, and pans, ranged anwal
the fire, enumerated her forces «ifk
the air of a conqueror ;

" Here is the beef; here b
ral Jean-Claude's supper ; and here
is broth for the wounded. But ilat
is not all. Here is our bread.*" she
added, showing him a loi^ pile ol
loaves on the table, atid she «as
drag^ng him to the oven, whea
Catherine Lefe\Te entered.

*' It is time to set the table,** Cfiwl
the old woman. " Ever^-body is wail-
ing. Come, KateU spread the clolh,**
The stout giri departed, nmning;
all followed to the great hall, u^befe
Doctors Lorquin and Despots* Mart*
Dives, and Mateme and his two soiis^
impatiently awaited the meal,

"How are the wounded, doctor?^
cried Hullin.

'•Rest easy. Master JeanClaude ;
all are cared for. You ha%e ^vea
us a hard day*s w*ork ; but the wctather
is favorable, and fe\ er or mortifica-
tion need not be feared. Everrtliin^
looks welL" "^ ^

Katcl, Lessele. and Louise soon
entered, bearing an enormotis soup*
dish, and two magnificent rounds of
beeC which tbejr pkceci upon the
table. Sharp appetites left scant

The Invasion,

521

room for ceremony, and soon the
rattling of knives and opening of
bottles alone were heard. Without,
L^ke broad flames from the bivouac-
^Hres flashed on the window-panes,
^Hnd showed the mountaineers doing
^Rtill justice to Louise's cheer.

At nine o'clock Marc-Dives start-
[ for Falkenstein with his prisoners.
Lt ten, all in the house, or around
be fires, were sleeping, and no sound
broke the stillness save the passage
>f the rounds and the challenge of
lie sentries.

So ended the first day in which the
noun tain eers proved that the spirit
jf their fathers had not degenerated
them.

But other and not less stem trials
rere soon to follow those already
Jiast ; for throughout man's life one
Obstacle is overcome only to make
ray for another. The world is like
stormy sea; wave follows wave,
from age to age, in a flow that eter-
^^lity alone may stay.

CHAPTER XVI IL

DURmo the entire battle, until
nightfall, the people of Grand fon-
taine saw the fool, Yegof, standing
on the summit of Little Donon, his
crown upon his head, his sceptre

I paving in his hand. There he stood,
like a Merovingian king, issuing his
prders to his imaginary armies.
What feelings shook him as he
^w the Germans beaten back, rout-
ed, no man may say. At the last
echo of the cannon he disappeared.
Whither had he gone ? This is what
the people of Tiefenbach say :

At the time of which I speak, two

it range beings — sisters — lived on the

cksberg. One was called Little

dateline ; the other Tall BerbeL

These two ragged creatures made

leir home in the cavern of Luit-

^prand, so named, as old chronicles

aver, from the fact that the King of
the Germani, before descending into
Alsace, buried beneath its immense
vault of red stone the barbarian
chiefs who had fallen at Blutfeld.
The hot spring, which always bub-
bles and streams from the middle of
the cave, secured the sisters from the
fierce cold of mountain winters, and
Daniel Horn, of Tiefenbach, the
wood-cutter, had the charity to close
the main entrance from without with
great heaps of broom and brushwood.
At the side of the hot spring was an-
other spring, cold as ice and clear as
crystal.

Kateline always drank at this
spring, and was not more than four
feet in height ; but what she lacked
in length she made up in rotund
breadth ; and her wondering look,
round eyes, and enormous throat,
gave her the appearance of a medi-
tative matronly hen. Every Sunday
she bore an osier basket to the vil-
lage of Tiefenbach, and the good
people there filled it with cooked
potatoes, loaves of bread, and some-
times, on holidays, with cakes and
other remnants of their festivities.
Then the poor creature would make
her way back to the cave, breathless,
laughing* chattering, rejoicing.

But Tall Berbel was ever careful
not to drink at the cold spring. She
was bony, fleshless as a bat, and had
lost an eye ; her nose was flat, her
ears large, and her single orb spark-
led like a coal ; she lived upon the
fruits of her sister's sallies. She
never left Bocksberg. But in July,
when the heat was greatest, standing
upon the height, she shook a withered
thistle over the grain of those who
had not regularly filled Katcline's
basket ; and fearful tempests, or hail,
or swarms of rats or field-mice,
ruined the budding harvest. The
spells of Berbel were feared like pes-
tilence \ she was everywhere known

622

The Invasion

as the Wetferhcxi^ or storm witch,
while little Kateline was esteemed
the good fairy of Tiefenbach. In this
way Herbel lived in idleness, and
Kaieline begged food for both.

Unfortunately for the two sisters,
Yegof had for some years pre%'iously
established his winter residence in
the cavern of Luitprand, Thence
he departed in the springs to visit his
numberless castles and to count his
feudatories, as far as Geierstein in
the Hiindsnick. Every jear, to-
ward the end of November, after the
first snows, he arrived with his raven
— an event which the storna-witch
always bitterly bemoaned.

** Again thy plaints/* he was w*ont
to say, as he tranquilly installed him-
self in the most comfortable spot the
cave afibrded ; "do you not both
live upon my domains ? I am very
good to suffer two vaikyrs^ useless
in the Valhalla of my fathers, to re-
main here."

Then would Berbel, aroused to
fury, overwhelm him with reproach
and insult^ and Kateline look offend-
ed ; but he, careless of the storm
he raised, would only light his old
boxwood pipe, and relate his far-off
wanderings among the souls of the
German warriors, who, for sixteen
centuries, lay buried in the cavern,
calling them by name, and speaking
to them as to men yet living. Vou
may inicipne with what deh'ght Ber-
bel and Kateline looked forward to
the coming of the fool with his dis-
mal tales.

But this year, Yegof had not come,
and the sisters believed him dead,
and duly rejoiced over the prospect
of seeing him no more. Neverthe*
less, the We tier he xe had observ^ed
the agitation in the valleys, the
crowds of men, musket on shoul-

. "Maid '

illd to li

1.C *end* ro every b&tfJc-

.incl *fho *hall be vic-

I the lieroes in Vallulli.

Un iiiPr

Mn 111

der, leaving Falkenstein and
Surely, soniething strange lud
pened ; and the sorceress* caJliiis to
mind that the preceding year Yq^
had related to the spirits ofhiiwiF
riors how his couniless armies wonli
soon invade the land, felt a ?i^
uneasiness. She would £iin hxrt
learned the cause of the
•around her j but Kateline
made her tour the Sunday
would not again budge ftcm
home for an empire, and OO oil€
climbed to the cavern.

In this frame of mind Berbd
and went, w^andered restlessly
the cave, growing hourly more uoeiigr
and irritable. But during Satm^
she had enough to think on. Fim
nine o'clock in the morning, bcaiy
and deep peals rang like thmukr
over the mountain side« and awolt
the thousand echoes of the r^
leys ; far away toward Donoa fipirf
flashes crossed what sky appeaced
between the peaks ; and as nigta
approached, yet louder sounds folW
through every gorge, and the holbv
voices of Hengst, of Gantzl^ Gii»
mani and Grossmann replied,

*'VVhat can all this be T askd
Berbel of herself, •' can the day of
doom have come ?"

Then returning to the ca\iero aiaci
finding Kateline huddled in a come?
munching a potato, she shook to
rudely and hissed \

** Idiot 1 hearest thou nothiag^
Fearest thou nothing ? Caresl thoi
fornothing but eating and drinkingr

She dashed the potato furiously to
the ground, and sat herself trem-
bling by the hot spring, which sent tt>
grey vapors to the rooL Half aJ*
hour later, the darkness groirip^
deeper, and tlie cold intense, she
lighted a fire of brushwood, whidl
threw its pale flashes over the vaulit
of red stone, and pierced to the ctid
of the cavern, where Kateline

eline sJ^t

The Invasion,

621

with her feet buried in a heap of
straw, and her chin resting on her
knees. Without, all noise had ceased.
The stomi-witch pulled aside the
briars at the entrance, and gazed
down the mountain side ; then she
returned to her post by the fire, her
thin lips set tightly together^ and her
eyelids closed ; she drew an old
woolen coverlet over her knees, and
seemed to sleep. No sound broke
the stillness but the dripping of the
condensed steam falling from the
vault back to its source with a me-
lancholy plash.

So lasted the silence for hours.
Midnight was nearing, when sudden-
ly the sound of footsteps, mingled
with discordant noises, started Ber-
bel from her slumber. She listened,
and heard the cry of a human voice.
She arose trembling, and, armed with
a huge thorn branch, glided to the
opening ; there, pushing aside the
briars, she saw in the moonlight the
fool Yegof advancing alone, but
writhing as if in agony, and beating
the air with his sceptre, as if thou-
sands of invisible beings surrounded
him, .

" To the rescue, Roug, Bl^d, Ad-
elrick T' he shouted in tones that
pierced the cold air like the clangor
of an iron bell, his malted beard and
hair waving the while, and his dog-
skin cloak folded like a buckler
around his left arm ; " to the rescue I
Follow me to the death ! See you
not who are coming, cleaving the
skies like eagles ? On, men of the
red beards I Crush this race of
dogs ! Ah I Minan, Rochart, are ye
here ?"

And then he called with savage
shouts, upon all the dead of Do-
non, defying them as if they were
really there ; then he recoiled step
by step, still striking the air, hurling
curses, urging unseen armies to the
fight, and struggling as if surrounded

by foes. A cold sweat poured from
Berbel's brow, she felt her hair rise
upon her head, and she would have
fled - but at the moment a strange
murmuring arose within the cave,
and, to her horror, she saw the hot
spring boiling fiercely, and masses of
vapor rising from it and adv^ancing
to the entrance of the cave.

Like phantoms the thick clouds
came slowly on, and suddenly Yegof
appeared, crying in a husky voice,

" At last ye have heard me I ye
are come !"

With a bound he darted to the
opening. The icy air filled the vault,
and the vapors pouring fortli, twisted
and wreathed beneath the vast vault
of heaven, as if the dead of to-day
and those of long gone centuries had
begim a never-ending conflict.

The pale moonbeams shed a weird
light over Yegofs face and form, as
he stood with flashing eyes and
sceptre outstretched, and beard fall-
ing over his breast, saluting each
phantom and Ctalling it bv name.

" All hail, Bled ! Hail to thee,
Roug ! and to ye all, brave warriors I
The hour which for centuries you
have awaited is at hand ; the eagles
are whetting their beaks; the earth
thirsts for blood ! Remember Blut-
feld r'

Berbers senses had almost left her ;
fear alone kept her standing ; but
soon the last clouds escaped from
the cavern and melted in the limit-
less blue.

Yegof entered the vault and sat
upon the ground near the hot spring,
his head resting upon his hands,
and his elbows on his knees, gazing
with haggard eyes on the bubbling
waters.

Kateline awoke sobbing* and the
storm -witch, more dead than alive,
observed the fool from the darkest
nook of the cave,

** They have all arisen from their

I
I

624

The Tnvasum.

graves,"* cried he suddenly; "all I
all! not one remains behind. They
will give life to the hearts of my
young warriors, and teach them to
despise death !"

He raised his face, A crushing
sorrow seemed settled there.

*' O woman !" he said, fixing his
eyes upon the Wetterhexe with a
wolfish glare, "0 ihou descendant
of the Valk)TS, but who at the
festal board hast never filled the deep
cups of the warriors with mead, nor
placed before them the smoking flesh
of the boar Serimar, what canst thou
do ? Canst spin winding-sheets ?
To thy task then I Spin night and
day, for thousands of bold warriors
are stretched upon the snow. They
fought valiantly. They did their
work well, but the hour had not yet
come. Now the ravens feed upon
their flesh 1"

Then in ungovernable fury, seizing
his crow^n with both bands, and tear-
ing it from his head, although with
it came away handfuls of hair, he
shouted :

** Accursed tribe ! Will ye ever
bar our way 1 But for ye we had
long since conquered Europe ; ay,
we of the red beards had been mas-
ters of the world. And I humbled
myself before this race of dogs ! I
asked his daughter of one of them,
instead of bearing her oflT as the
wolf does the lamb 1 Ah Huldrix !
liuldrix ! Listen, Valkyr," he sud-
denly added in a low tone, ** listen !**

He raised his finger solemnly.
The Wetterhexe listened ; a blast
arose without, and shook the old
frost-laden forest. How often had
the sorceress heard that sound before,
during tlie long winter nights, with-
out giving it a thought. Now, she
was afraid.

And while she stood trembling, a
hoarse cry smote her ear, and the
raven Hans, sweeping beneath the

rockt flew in circles round aod
the cavern, flapping his wings
in terror, and croaking inounifi

Yegof became pale as death.

" Vod 1 Vod !" he cried in despair-
ing tones, "what has thy son Lait-
prand done to thee? Why chooic
him rather than another ?"

And for some seconds he
have swooned ; but soon, as if cankd
away by a savage enthusiasm, brand-
ishing his sceptre, he darted from
the cavern.

Wetterhexe, standing in the opez^
ing, followed him with an anjdoa$
eye.

He strode straight onward* witli
outstretched neck, like a ^ild beait
rushing at its prey. Hans flew be-
fore, and they disappeared in tte
gorge of Blutfeld.

CHAPTER XIX.

Toward two o*cloclc tliat ni^
the snow began to fall, and at day-
break it rested inches deep upon the
men at the bivouacs.

The Germans had left Grandfoo-
taine, Framont, and even Schirmeck,
and black spots far away on the
plains of Alsace showed where thdr
battalions were in full retreat.

Hull in, roused at early dawn, in-
spected the bivouacs ; , he stopped
for a few minutes to gaze at the
plateau — the scene of Dives's charge
at the cannon pointed down the
mountain side, the partisans stretch-
ed around the fires, and the pacing
sentries ; then satisfied that all was
well, he returned to the farm-house
where Catherine and Louise were
yet sleeping.

The gray rooming was entering
at the windows. A few wounded,
whom the fires of fever had already
seized, shrieked loudly for their
wives and children. Then tlie hum
of many voices arose, and at last

101^

The Invasion.

625

Catherine and Louise appeared, and
saw Jean-Claude seated in a corner
of a window ; ashamed to be thought
more devoted to slumber than he,
they hastened to bid him good morn-
morning.

" Well !" said Catherine inquiring-
ly.

" They are gone, and we are mas-
ters of the road."

This assurance did not seem suffi-
cient for the old woman. She gazed
through the windows, and saw the
Austrians far off in Alsace. Still her
face bore the impress of an indefina-
ble uneasiness.

Between eight and nine o'clock,
Father Saumaize, the priest of the
village of Charmes, arrived. A few
mountaineers then descended to the
foot of the slope, and collected the
dead who lay there so thick. Then a
long trench was dug, to the right of
the farm-house, in which partisans
and Kaiserliks, in their blouses, their
slouched hats, their shakos, and their
uniforms, were ranged side by side.
The good priest, a tall old man, with
locks white as snow, read the an-
cient prayers for the dead in that
rapid and mysterious voice which
pierces the very depths of the soul,
and seems to summon long-past gen-
erations to greet the new-comers to
their realms — which calls so vividly
to the hearts of the living thoughts
of the darkness and terrors of the
grave, and of the light and mercy be-
yond.

All day wagons and sleds kept car-
rying the wounded to their villages ;
for Doctor Lorquin, fearing to in-
crease their excitement, was forced
to yield to their cries and prayers
that they might again see their homes.
Toward evening Catherine and Hul-
lin found themselves alone in the great
hall; Louise had gone to prepare
supper. Great flakes of snow still
continued to fall without, and from

VOL. VIII. — 40

time to time a sled departed silently
bearing its wounded owner buried
in straw, sometimes a man, some-
times a woman, leading a horse by
the bridle. Catherine, seated at the
table, folded bandages with an ab^
sent air.

"What ails you. Mother Lefevre ?"
asked Jean-Claude. "Ever since
morning you have been sad and
thoughtful. Is this your rejoicing
over victory ?"

The old woman looked up, and
slowly pushing the linen from her,
replied :

" True, Jean-Claude ; I am anx-
ious."

"Anxious? About what? The
enemy is in full retreat, and Frantz
Materne, whom I sent to watch them,
and all Pivrette's and Jerome's and
Labarbe's couriers report that they
are returning to Mutzig. Old Ma-
terne and Kasper, after having buried
the dead, learned at Grandfontainc
that not a white coat is to be seen
toward Saint Blaize-la-Roche. All
this proves that our dragoons of the
Spanish wars gave them a warm re-
ception on the Senones road, and
they fear to be turned by way of
Schirmeck. I see no reason for un-
easiness, Catherine."

And Hullin gazed at her with a
look of inquiry.

" You will laugh at me again, Jean-
Claude," said she ; " I have had a«
dream."

"A dream r

" Yes ; the same that I dreamed'
at Bois-de-ChSnes.*'

Her voice grew louder, and, before-
Hullin could interrupt, she continued'
half aTigrily :

"Say what you will, Jean-Claude,
a great peril hangs over us. Yes,
yes, all this seems senseless, and'
is only a dream, but it was not
a dream; It was what had pass-
ed and what I saw again and

626

The Invasion,

ognized in my sleep. Listen !
^e were as we were to-day — after a

P'peat Victor)' — where I know not — in
a sort of huge wooden hut, crossed
by strong beanis and defended by
palisades. We were secure and
careless. All whom I saw aroimd
me I knew. There were you. Marc
Dives, Old DuchOne, and many others
^-old men long since dead — my
father and old Hugo Rochart of
Harberg^ the uncle of him who has
just died, all in gray blouses, and
with long beards and bare necks.
We were rejoicing and drinking from
great vessels of red earth, when a
cry arose, *The enemy are return*
ing I ' And Ycgof on horseback,
his beard streaming in the wind, his
crown surrounded with spikes, an
axe in his hand, and his eyes glitter-
ing like a wolfs, appeared before
me, I rushed at him with a stake ;
be awaited me, and I saw no more.
But I felt a sharp pain at my throat ;
a cold blast struck my face, and it
seemed as if my head were s^\^nging
at the end of a cord, Yegof had
hung it to his saddle and was gallop-
ing away." The old woman ended
her story in such a tone of belief that
brave Jean-Claiide shudderetl.

There were a few moments of si-
lence ; then Hulhn, rousing himself,

|feplied :

' It was but a dream. I, too, of-
ten have horrible ones. It was the
noise, the shrieks, the terror of yes-
terday tormenting you, Catherine.*'

"No!'* she answered firmly, as
she resumed her work ; **it was not
that. Ju good truth, during the
whole of the battle — even when the
cannon thundered upon us^ — I feared
nothing ; I was sure we would be
victorious^ for that too I had seen.
But now I fear f*

'* But the Austrians have cvacua-
ed Schirmeck ; all the line of the
fgsgcs is defended ; we have more

men than we need, and suD iwv

are arriving every xnorncDL"

" No matter !*'

Hullin shrugged his sfaookkfi.

"Come, come, Catheiiael Hm
are feverish. Try to calm yainself
and dispel such gloomy thoifg^
I laugh at all these dreams is I
would at the (I urk wjtl

pipe and blue - ^j,s. Wcl

men, munitions, and defetHies^l
these arc better than the
colored dreams."

'* Y'ou mock me, Jean-CUtide,*

** No ; but to hear a woman cf
sound sense, of courage and detcn»
nation, talk as you do, makes one in-
deed thmk of Vegof, who boasts tlvt
he has ,been Uvin^^ sixteen buoiked
years."

'*Who knows?'* said the old «>•
man obstinately. " He may reincD
ber what others have forgottco*"^

Hullin proceeded to relate his cot-
versation of the day before with Ye
gof, at the bivouac, thinking thtistt
disperse her gloom ; but seeing tblt
she was inclined to agree with ihelbol
on the score of the sixteen centuries,
the good man at length ceased* snd
paced the room with bowed h^
and anxious brow. •* Slic is bc€<i»
ing mad/' he thought ; *• another
shock, and her mind is gone.*'

Catherine, after a silence^ seen
about again to speak, when
tripped into the room, crj-jtig :

** Mamma Lefevre, Mamma
vre, a letter from Gaspard !'*

Then the old womm, whose lip
had been pressed tighi together in
her indignation at Hullin's ridicuU
lificd her head, and the sharp line
of her face softened.

She took the letter and ;:--■
the red seal, s;|id to the yoi

'*Kiss me, Louise ; it bears
tidings."

Iluilin drew near, gLnd ibat soma
thing had happened to distract

The fnvasian.

627

ar
L vai

therine's thoughts, and Brainstein,
the postman, his heavy shoes cover-
ed with snow and his hands resting
upon his staflf, stood with a weary
and careworn air at the door.

Catherine put on her spectacles,
opened the letter slowly, notwith-
standing the impatient glances of
Jean-Claude and Louise, and read
cud :

"This, my dear mother, is to in-
form you that all goes well, and I
arrived Tuesday evening at Phals-
bourg, just as they were closing the
spates. The Cfissacks were already
pn the Saverne side, and skirmishing
iras kept up all night with their ad-
vance. The next day a flag of truce
lummoned us to surrender the place.
The commandant Meunier told the
bearer to go and hang himself, and»
I three days after, a storm of shell
I and canister began to hail upon the
^^rfty. The Russians have three batte-
^Bies; but the hot shot do the most
^Hiarm. They set fire to the houses
^Klind when the flames appear, showers
of canister prevent our putting them
^^uL The women and children keep
^Hiirjthin the blockhouse ; the citizens
fight with us on the ramparts. They
are brave men, and among tfiem are
Hpome veterans of the Sambre-and-
^ftiieuse, of Italy and Egypt, who have
not forgotten how to work the guns.
It makes me sad to see their grey
moustaches falling on the cannon as

Kiey aim. I will answer for it, they
aste no powder ; but it is hard to
see men, who have made the world
j^tremble, forced in their old age to de-
end their own homes and hearths."
Hard indeed," said Catherine,
ir^^ing her eyes. "It makes my
lieart bleed to think of it.'*
She continued :

**The day before yesterday the

povemor decided to attack the tile-

tiln. You must know that these

' Kussians break the ice to batlie in

platoons of twenty or thirty, and aflei^
ward dry themselves there at the fire.
About four in the afternoon, as even-
ing was coming on, we made a sally
through the arsenal postern, passing
through the covered ways and filing
along the path leading to the kiln.
Ten minutes after, we began a roll-
ing fire on it, and the Russians had
scarcely time to seize their muskets
and cartridge-boxes, and, half-dress-
ed, to form ranks upon the snow.
Nevertheless, they were ten times
more numerous than we, and began
a movement to the right, on the little
chapel of Saint John, so as to sur-
round us, when the guns of the arse-
nal opened a fire upon them, the like
of which I never saw before, sweeping
them down in long lanes. In less than
a quarter of an hour they were in full
flight to Quatre- Vents, without wait-
ing to pick up their coats^ their offi-
cers at their heatl» atid round-shot
from the town acting as file closers.
Father Jean-Claude would have
laughed at their predicament At
night-fill I we returned to the city,
after destroying the kiln, and throw-
ing two eight-pounders we captured
into its welL So ended our first
sortie. I w^rite you from IJois-de-
Cht^iies, which we have reached on
a foraging expedition. The siege
may last months.

*^I should have told you that the
Allies are passing through the valley
of Dosetibeim to Weschem, and
flood lug the roads to Paris by thou-
sands. Ah ! if God would only give
the emperor the victory in Lorraine
or Champagne, not one of them would
return. But the trumpets are sound-
iiig the recall, and we hai^e gathered
a goodly number of oxen and cows
and goats. We may have to fight
our way back* Farewell, my dear
mother, and Louise, and Father
Jean-Claude. You are ever in mj
thoughts and my heart"

628

The Invasion.

Catherine's eyes grew moist as she
finished.

** What a brave fellow he is !" she
murmured ; " he knows only his
duty. Well I well ! Do you hear,
Louise, how he remembers you ?*^

Louise ihrew herself into the old
woman's arms, and Mother Cathe-
rine» despite the firmness of her cha-
racter, could not restrain two great
tears, which coursed down her fur-
rowed cheeks ; but she was soon
herself again. '' Come, come T* said
she ; '*aH is welU Come Brainsiein,
cat a morsel of bread and take a
glass of wine, and here is a crown
for your trouble; I wish I could
give as much every week for such a
letter."

The postman, well pleased at her
bounty, followed her, and Jean-Claude
hastened to question him as to the
enemy's movements ; but he learned
nothing new, except that the Allies
were besieging Bilche, and Lutzel-
stein, and that they had lost some
hundreds of men in attempting to
force the defile of Graufthal

CHAPTER XX,

About ten o'clock that night Ca-
therine Lefevre and Louise, after
hav-^ing bid Hullin good-night, retired
to their chamber, which was situated
over the great liall In this room
were two huge feather beds, with red
and blue striped curtains rising to the
ceiling.

** Sleep well, my child," said the
old woman. ** I can no longer bear
up against my weariness.**

She threw herself upon ker bed,
and in a few minutes was in a deep
slumben Louise did not delay fol-
lowing her example.

This lasted mayhap two hours,
when a fearful tumult broke upon
them.

** To arms 1 to arms I*' shouted

fifty voices. ** They are on luf T«

arms f

Shots resounded, and the tn»p
of hurraing feet mingled with criesd'
alarm ; but above all was hcanl Hill'
lin's voice giving orders in short,
resolute, ringing tones, and to the
left of the farm, from the gorges rf
Grosmann rose a deep heavy OIQ
like that of an approaching siofi

"Louise I hearest thou, Louise T
cried Catherine.

" Yes, yes. Great Heaven I it »
terrible ?'*

Catherine sprang from her bed

"Arise, my child/' she Cffcd;
" dress quickly,"

The shots redoubled and ihc »«•
dows were lit up as if by cOfwUill |
flashes of lightning.

"Attention!" shouted the voice 1
of Materne.

They heard the neighing of a hortt
without, and the rush of many feft
below in the passage, the yardt tn^
in front of the house, which shook tt^
its foundations.

Suddenly shots were fired from the
hall on the ground floor, A heaty
step soundfd on the stairs ; thed'r^
opened, and Hullin, pale, his hairds*
ordered and his lips quivering i^
peared, bearing a lantern.

** Hasten," he cried, ** we have not
a moment to lose/*

"What has happened?'*
Catherine.

The firing became louder
louder,

"Ls this a time to explain?" He
shouted. " Come on ! **

The old woman covered her bciii
with her hood and descended the j
stairs with Louise. By the fitful ligh
of the shots, I hey saw Maieme. ba
necked, and his son Kasper, firinj
from the doorway on the abatis, whik
ten others behind them loaded an
passed the muskets to them Thr
or four corpses, lying agaijist the i

r ao^H

The Invasion.

629

ken wall, added to the horrors of the
fight, and thick smoke hung among
the uafters.

As he reached the stairs, Hullin
cried :

" Here they are, Heaven be
thanked !"

And the brave fellows below
shouted :

** Courage ! courage, Mother Le-
fevre !''

Then the poor old woman, whose
stout heart seemed at last broken,
burst into tears. She leaned heavily
on Jean-Claude's shoulder; but he
lifted her like a feather and ran from
the house, skirting the wall to the
right. Louise followed, sobbing.

They could hear nothing but the
whistling of bullets, or their dull
thud as they flattened themselves on
the rough east wall, scattering the
plaster in showers, or as they hurled
the tiles from the roof. In front, not
three hundred paces distant, they
saw a line of white uniforms, lighted
up by their own fire in the black
darkness. These the mountaineers
on the other side of the ravine of
Minibres were assailing in flank.

Hullin turned the corner of the
house ; there all was darkness, and
they could scarcely distinguish Doc-
tor Lorquin, on horseback, before a
sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre
in his hand and bearing two horse-
pistols in his belt, and Frantz Ma-
terne, with a dozen men, the butt of
his rifle resting on his foot and his
lips foaming with rage. Hullin seated
Catherine in the sledge and Louise
by her side.

" Here at last !" cried the doctor,
"God be thanked!"

And Frantz Mateme added :

" If it were rfot for you. Mother
Lefevre, you may be sure that not
one of us would quit the plateau to-
night ; but for you — "

At this moment, a tall gaunt fel-

low, passed at full speed, shrieking as
he ran:

" Ttiey are upon us I Every one
for himself."

Hullin grew pale.

" It is the miller of Harberg," he
muttered, grinding his teeth. " Trai-
tor I"

Frantz said nothing, but brought
his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and
fired.

Louise saw the coward fling his
arms in the air and fall face down-
ward on the snow.

Frantz, with a strange smile, re-
loaded his piece.

" Comrades !" said Hullin ; "here
is your mother ; she who gave you
powder and food that you might de-
fend your homes; and here is my
child. Save them !"

And all answered :

"We will save them or die with
them."

" And remember to warn Dives to
remain at Falkenstein until further
orders."

"We shall not fail."

"Then forward, doctor, forward,"
cried the brave old man.

"And you, Hullins?" asked Cath-
erine.

" My place is here. Our position
must be defended to the death."

" Father Jean-Claude !" cried Lou-
ise, stretching her arms toward him.

But he had already turned the cor-
ner; the doctor whipped up his
horse ; the sledge crunched the snow,
and behind it Frantz Mateme and
his men, their rifles on their shoul-
ders, strode on, while the roll and
clatter of the musketry continued.
The old mistress of Bois-de-Ch^nes,
remembering her dream, was silent.
Louise dried her tears and threw a
last long gaze on the plateau, which
was lighted up as if by a fire. The
horse galloped beneath the blows of
the doctor, so that the mountaineers

630

The fnvanon.

of the escort could scarcely keep up
with it; but it was long ere the tumult,
the shouts of battle, the clatter and
crash of the shots, and the whistling
of the balls, cutting through tlie
branches of the trees, and growing
more and more indistinct, were heard
no more ; then all seemed vanished
like a dream.

The sledge had reached the other
slope of the mountain and darted
Kke an arrow through the darkness.
The tramp of the horse's hoofs^ the
hard-drawn breath of the escort^ and
from time to time the call of the
doctor, **Ho, Bruno, old fellow T'
alone broke the deep stillness.

A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up
from the valley of the Sarre, bore
firom afar, like a sigh, the never-ewd-
ing plaint of the torrents and woods.
The moon broke through a cloud and
looked down on the dark forests of
Blanru, with their tall, snow- laden firs,

A few moments after, the sledge
reached a comer of the woods, and
Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle,
cried :

•• Now, Frantz, what are we to do ?
The path turns to the hills of Saint-
QuiriD, and here is another going
down to BtanriL Which shall we
laker

Frantz and the men of the escort
drew near. As they -were then on
the western side of the Donon, they
began to catch glimpses once more
of the German lusilade, and occa-
sionally they heard the crash of a
cannon-shot echo through the abysses*

"The path to the hills of Saint-
Quirin,^ replied Frantz, " is shorter
rf ve wish to stop at Bois-deCh^nes ;
«e shall gain at least tluee qaarters
of an hour by \t^

•'Yes," said the doctor, '•but we
risk being taken by the Kaiserliks
wbo now bold the defile of the Satre.
They are already masters of the
be^hts^ and they have doubtless sent

detachinents U> the Sarre-
order to turn Donon.'

"Lotus take the Blanru
answered FranUt; *'itii
safer,"

The sl^ge descended the
tain side to the left, along the
of the wood. The parti^aos in
file, their rifles slun^ on tJieir
marched upon the lop of
and the doctor, on horse!
narrow way, broke th
drifts. Abo\e hung^ the
branches, burying rr
in deep shadow, bey ^
ed the pale moonlight. The
was picturesque and maiestic,
under other circtim stances
would have woodered at its
beauty, and Louise would not
failed to admire the clesj

tering like spars of l ,hi

moonbeams fell \ but iKiw thi^r
were fuU of unrest and fear, and
the sledge enteted the deep
whence they could se^ no I
that which flooded the
peaks. Thus they pushed on
lence until at length Catheriu^
ing herself frooi the gloomy
in which she seemed plun^^cd* __..

'"Doctor Lorquin, now that yo
have us at the botton • ~ ~ ^

3rou explain why we . tt;

carried off? Jean Claude seized on
threw xue on ibis truss of atraw^ a&
here I am.'*

** Ho, Bruno r cried the doctor.

Then be answered gravely :

^ To^iight, Mother Catherine ti
greatest of evils has befallen us. I
cannot be laid to Jean-Claifde \ ft
by the fault of another wc have lo;
the fruit of alt our blood and totL''

"^ By whose fault?*'

*'Labariie*s,whodid m^t ^aidli
delile of StodUd. - ^ftc

ward doti^ Iwduly 1; i,,

hb death could not repair hi

aad if Pmcueiioes oot anire m ua*

The Invasion.

631

to support Hull in, all is lost. We
must llieii abandon tlie road and
retreat/'

" What I Blulfeld in possession of
^Ihe enemy/'

P •* Yes* Mother Catherine. But who
would have thought that the Ger-
mans would have entered it? A de-
file almost impracticable for infantry,
^—.surrounded by pointed rocks, where
^Bthe herdsmen themselves can scarce-
^Hly descend with their flocks and
^P^oats? Well, they passed through
' it, two by two, turned Roche-C reuse,
crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon
I Jerome, who defended himself like a
^vlion until nine at night, but finally
^Bliad'to take to the woods and leave
^Blhe road to the Kaiserliks. That is
^^the whole story, and it is fearful
r enough. Some one must have been
cowardly and treacherous enough to
I have guided the enemy to our rear—
to have delivered us over bound hand
and foot, O the wretch !'* cried
the doctor in a trembling voice ; *' I
am not revengeful, but if ever he falls
under my hand, how I will dissect
him 1 Ho, Bruno ! Ho, boy V
The partisans still maintained
^^their steady shadowy march, and no
^PNnrord was spoken.

The horse again began a gallop,
but soon slackened his pace and
breathed heavily.

Mother Lefevre was once more
buried in thought.

" I begin to understand," satd she
I at length \ " we were attacked to-
^bnight in front and flank."
^^ "Just so, Catherine ; and, by good
fortune, ten minutes before the at-
tack, one of Marc-Dives's men — the
I smuggler Zimmer, an old dragoon —
arrived at full speed to WMrn us. If
lie had not come, we were lost. He
fell among our outposts after having
passed through a detachment of Cos-
sacks on the plateau of Grosmann.
The poor fellow had received a terri-

ble sabre-thrust, and the bbod was
pouring from his wound/'

" And what did he say ?'* asked ths
old woman.

"He had only time to cry, *To
arras I We are turned I Jerome
sent me — Labarbe is dead — the Ger-
mans passed through Blulfeld !' *'

" He was a brave man 1" murmur*
ed Catherine.

**Yes, a brave man T' replied
Frantz, drooping his head.

All became silent, and thus for a
long time the sledge kept on through
the narrow, winding valley. From
time to time they were forced to stop,
so deep was the snow, and then
three or four mountaineers took the
horse by the bridle and pulled him
on.

" No matter," exchiimed Catherine,
emerging from her reverie, *' HulUn
might have told me — ''

*^ But if he had told you of the two
attacks/' intermptcd the doctor, ♦^you
would not have come away/*

** And who dare hinder my doing
as I wish ? If it pleased me to de-
scend from this sledge, am I not free
to do so ? I had forgiven Jean-Claude
— I repent having done so !"

**0 Mother Lefevre I" cried Lau-
ise ; " if he should be killed, while
you speak thus !**

** She is right, poor cLild I" thought
Catherine —

And she continued :

** I said I repent of forgiving him ;
but he is a brave man, to whom I
can wish no ill I forgive him with
all my heart. In his place I would
have done as he has done.**

Two or three hundred yards fur-
ther on, they entered the defile of
the Rocks. The snow had ceased
faUingand the moon shone brilliantly
from between two great black and
white clouds* The narrow gorge, bor-
dered by pointed rocks, seemed to un-
roll its lengtli to their view, and oa its

4j2

The Invasiam.

f;if,/i-. N'/f.'.;^ Kv//'; th': deep
/|iii« I of t}.«- '/.'/'/'I) ; h^jman turrTiOil
v/'iii'"l ii.'I'"! fir ;jA;iy. So pro-
f/fijM'l v/;i -. iIj'- '.iI'M'.': that thf:y heard
f.yfty ^i< |; of ill': liors': in the soft
i»iir»w, ;ih'l rvi-u his wrary breathing.

Cocid Jean-Claude hold his own m-
dl the arrival of Pi vrette ? So many
painful thoughts weighed upon the
mind of each that no one cared to
speak.

They were some five minutes un-
der the old oak when the cloud slov-

Kiiiiii/ M.itt'inc haltftd from time to ly passed Way and the pale roooo-
liiM*', <;i-il :i KhuiM: ovt^r the dark light streamed down the gorge. But
iitoiinl.iin '.idi's and then hastened what is that yonder, between the two
III nvrtl.ikr the otlirrs. firs? A beam of light falls upon it

Ami v.ilh'VH snccci'dc'd valleys ; — upon a tall dark figure on ho^5^
Ihf* fihil iiMi'n(hMl,(h*s(:rndcd, turned back ; it is a Cossack with his lamb-
lot i^lil .hxI tohMt, and the partisans, skin cap, and long lance hangin*
with Ihi'ii tiilil l>lu(* bayonets fixed, backward under his arm, slowly ad-
lolhmcil Mrathly at'lor. vancing ; Frantz had already aimed,

*rhuH ti^w.ud tiuiv in the morn- when behind appeared another lance,
in^ ihrv h.hl ii'.\i*iuHl tho ttold of and another, and in the depths ot
Hiunbrllrv. wiu'u* rvcn yot may In? the forest, under the deep blue skv,

the little group saw only swallow-
tailed pennons waving, lances flasb-
ini:. and Cossacks advancing straight
oa toward the siedge, but wi:hout
hurry, son^.e looking arou:uL others
*crv*\: vrwMrd ::i :hr:r > -sidles iiie

\rc\\ M\ oM o,\k sl.uulinj; in a tuni
of tlu^ \.\ll^'\ i^n the othor sidi\ to
iho h'll. \\\ ilu* jusInI oI' buslu-s white
h:::o \i.i!l of
•.v\';vj:s of ::>

^^,

•oV

■ ■'^. '^:; A'tr

The Invasion,

633

(le field, Heeing like deer, to the for-
est locl^e,

** There they go,'* cried the doctor \
*we are safe!'*

But the brave surgeon was too hasty
in his conclusion ; the Cossacks, de-
scribing a circle in their career, mass-
ed their force, and then, with lance
in rest, binding over their horses'
necks, came right on the partisans,
shouting ** Hurrah ! hurrah !"

kFrantz and the others threw ihem-
elves before the sledge.
It was a terrible moment. Lance
rated against bayonet ; cries of rage
replied to curses. Beneath the old
oak, through the branches of which
only a few scattered moonbeams fell,
^■rearing horses, with manes erect,
^^truggled up from the field to the
path, bearing barbarous riders with
blazing eyes and uplifted arms, strik-
ing furiously, advancing, recoiling,
uttering yells that might chill the
stoutest hearts.

Louise and the old mistress of

I Bois'dc-Chdnes stood erect in the

^blcdgc, pale as death. Doctor Lor-

^■quin, before them, parried, lunged,

and struck, cr}'ing the while :

'* Down, down 1 Morbleu I Lie
^ down I"

^^ But ihey heard him not,
^V Louise, in the midst of the tumult,
I thought only of protecting Catherine,
and Catherine — imagine her horror
when she saw Yegof, on a tall, bony
horse, among the assailants — ^Yegof,
his crown upon his head, his un-
kempt beard and dogskin mantle
floating on the wind, and a lance in
his hand. She saw him there plainly,
35 if it were broad day, flourishing
his long weapon not ten paces from
her, and she saw his gleaming eyes
fixed on hers,

• ) The most resolute souls seem often
Utterly broken by the pursuit of a re-
lentless and inflexible fate. What was
to be done ? Submit — yield to that

fate. The old woman believed her-
self doomed ; she saw the mingled
combat — men striking and falling in
the clear moonlight; she saw rider-
less horses dashing over the field ;
she saw the attic window of the for-
ester's lodge open, and old Cuny aim
without daring to fire into the mass.
She saw^ all these things with strange
distinctness, but she kept repeating
to herself, '* The foo! has returned ;
whatever may happea, he will hang
my head to his saddle-bow. My
dream is true — true f^

And indeed, everything seemed to
justify her fears. The mountaineers,
too feeble in numbers, began to give
way. Soon, hke a whirlwind, the
Cossacks burst upon the road, and a
Iance*s point passed through the old
woman*s hair» so that she felt the cold
steel pass across her neck.

" O WTCtches ! wretches !** she
cried, as she fell to the bottom of the
sledge, still holding, however, the
reins in both hands.

Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen
upon the sledge. Frantz and the
others, surrounded by twenty Cos-
sacks, cou!d render no assistance.
Louise felt a hand grasp her shoul-
der — the hand of the fool, mounted
on his tall steed.

.\t this supreme moment, the poor
^\x\ crazed with fear, uttered a shriek
of distress ; then she saw something
flash in the darkness ; it was tlie bar-
rels of Lorquin 's pistols, and, quick as
lightning, she had torn them from the
doctor's belt. Both Hashed at once,
burning Yegof*s beard, and sending
their bullets crashing through the
skull of a Cossack who was bending
toward her. She seized Catherine*s
whip, and standing erect, pale as a
corpse, struck the horse's Eanks with
all her might. The animal bounded
from the blow, and the sludge dashed
through the bushes ; it bent to the right
— to the left ; then there was a shocl^ j

&i4

The ImHmom,

C'Mthirrine, \jmwt^ sledge and straw,
rolled down the ftteep road-side in
till! snow, The horse stopped short,
lluMK b»(.k on his haunches and his
nioiidi full of blrKKly foam. He had
slttii k it^itinHt nn oak.

Hwifi UM WitH their fall, Louise had
Mfrn Nonir Hhiidows pnss like the wind
Iwhhul tlin ropHc. She heard a tern-
blrvoicT-^-the voice of l)ives*-shout,

" I'orwnrd I Point ! point I**

1 1 Hrrninl hut an illusion — a min-
ftlrd vlMion, such ah at our latest hour
prtHHtH hct'oro our glaiing eyes ; but
MM A\^ x\\\^^ the |)oor prl doubted it
wkA \ %\Awx% wvre cbshing twenty
|\4i\Ys ftxMU hor« iH'hind a curtain of
litH*^ aiu) MiUvs \-okx still rang on
Ihi" ni)iht ;

*' IkAwlw Uh*^ hrawlv ! No q[uar-
K>i »- ^ *

l>>^»\ xV juxr A \k^^^n Co$$Jirk$
\^^.w'^:^^J^ ;S>* n\^v \H>fex\si>f* ia the

nV ^'^

\\vx , V x^c' v^.

:sf o^^-Jtr

■•^ " X X . .X * > V,- * X V.x^- i\ A

* N" X»X \ ,, V*\XXv * N . fv\ ,V. ?.. •

*-.x xV...,-. . . ^.> : ^^

^^ V X ■■. X V ' N .'^ VNA-?^ x^N. V'v \ :>>^' .

I* »»* iS \ s "x". » X -x.^^ . "i^ ?■* *
. . x«. *v . \ ■ X , X. N . \ ^ X .

'^ You bote yotnvelfwen and bll^
ly,** said the old woman. *«Je»
Claude, Gaspard, and I may wdlbe
proud of you."

Louise trembled fimn hesd to
foot The danger passed, her gn-
tle nature asserted itself and die
could not understand her courage of
a few moments before.

Then, finding themselves aoe
composed,! they tried to readi tk
road, when they saw the doctor sod
five or six partisans coining to Met
them.

"Ah I you needn't ay, Louise,*
said Lorquin; '*you are a dragooi,
a little Amazon. Your heart see»
now in }-OQr throat; but we saw aB.
And. by the by, where are my do-

A$ he spoke, the thicket scporattd,
and tall Maic-Oms. his sabie hai^
1^ mom hssviis^ appeared- cnittL

-Ha! Mother Catherine! ^
a vl33)e: W^^i: hack dikat I hxppeaed
^^Stcciiac! How those bcs^-s
»>,X'i >JLT- rrcictir^ roc :~

* I >;::t«r;s T-ni. Xtc afc'r- tin

'i.r ::ie ^t:

:so2 ^i^ z'-

• >a»- » ~. i

N. ,»«>!;

\ -^

ic c- n::

The Invasian.

63s

ronly sure that matters were going as
well on Donon, we might indeed re-

tjoice."
'* Yes ; Frantz told me all about
ft ; sortiething is always going wrong,**
answered Marc. ** But here we are
standing in the snow. Let us hope

»that Pivrelte will not let his com-
rades be crushed, and let us empty
our glasses which are yet half full/'

Four other smugglers came up,
saying that the villain Yegof was
likely to return with a swann of
fc thieves like himself,
^B " Very true/* replied Dives. ** We
^PwiU return to Falken stein, since Jean-
Claude so orders ; but we cannot
bring our wagon with us ; it would
hinder our crossing the country, and
in an hour all those wretches wilt be
upon us. But let us go to Cuny*s.
Catherine and Louise will not object
to a cup of wine, nor will the others.

■ It will put back your hearts in the
right place. Ho ! Bruno !"

He took his horse by the bridle.
Two wounded men were placed on
J'ttie sledge. Two others killed, with
Iseven or eight Cossacks Jay stretched
upon the snow. They left them as
they were, and all entered the old fo-
rester's house. Frantz was begin-
ning to console himself for not being
on Donon- He had run two Cos-
^ sacks through the body, and the
sight of the lodge put him in good
humor. Before the door stood the
wagon, laden with cartridges* Cu-
ny came out cr)'ing,

" Welcome, Mother Lcfevre. What
a night for women to be out ! Be
seated. What is going on yonder ?"

While they hastily emptied a bot-
tle, ever^'thing had to be again ex-
plained, 'i'he good old man, dressed
in a simple jacket and green knee-
breeches, his face wrinkled and his
head bald, listened with staring eyes,
ever and anon clasping his hands as
he cried,

** Great God I good God ! in what
days do we live 1 We cannot travel
the high roads without fear of being
attacked. It is worse than the old
stories of the Swedes 1^*

And he shook his head.

" Come," said Dives, ** time press-
es ; forward 1'*

All went out ; the smugglers drove
the wagon, which contained several
thousands of cartridges and two little
casks of brandy, three hundred paces
otT, to the middle of the valley, and
there unharnessed the liorses.

** Forward, forward !'' cried Marc ;
**we will overtake you in a few mi-
nutes.*'

**I?ut what are you going to do
with 'the wagon?'' asked Frantz*
" Since we have not time to bring it
to Falkenslein, we had belter leave it
under Cuny's shed than to abandon
it in the middle of the road/'

**Yes, and have the poor old man
hung when the Cossacks return, as
they will in less than an hour,'* re-
plied Dives. ** Do not trouble your-
self; 1 have a notion in my head,"

Frantz rejoined the party around
the sledge, who had gone on some
distance. Soon they passed the saw-
mill of Marquis, and struck straight
to the right, to reach the farmhouse
of BoiS'de-Ch^nes, the high chimney
of which appeared over the plateau,
three quarters of a league away.
When they were on the crest of the
hill, M arc- Dives and his men came
up, shouting,

"Halt! Stop a moment. Look
yonder !"

And all, turning their eyes to the
bottom of the gorge, saw the Cos-
sacks caracoling about the wagon to
the number of two or three hundred.

** They are coming I Let us fly I"
cried Louise.

**Wait a moment," replied the
smuggler ; ** we have nothing to fear."

He was yet speaking, when a sheet

636

Inscrifiiam 0h m Door.-

of flame spread its purple wings from
one mountain to the other, lighting
the woods to their topmost branches,
and the rocks, and the forester's
lodge fifteen hundred feet below;
then followed a crash that shook the
earth.

And while with dazzl^ eyes they
gazed at each other, mute with hor-
ror, Marc*s peal of laughter min-
gled in the sound that yet rang in
their ears.

" Ha, ha, ha !" he shouted ; *• I
knew the beggars would gather round
the wagon to drink my brandy, and
that the match would have time to
reach the powder. Do }'ou think
they will follow us further? Their
limbs adorn the firs. So perish all
of their kind who have crossed the
Rhine!"

The entiw party^ partisans, the
doctor. e\Yr\*one* had become silent
So m^ny fearful scenes, scenes which
comnKM^ lilc kt*.o>*^ :iot. ir-i\-e all Kxxi
^^r envilt^is thouj-hr. F.;ch one mur-
mur ^1 to hi:ns<cl:*. - \V>y mus: men
t^v:s r.^:tv,rr. ;ear. rx:::* ore Jtr.o:her?
\Y>A shx\.!M :lvy :h*,^ h^:e each o:h-
er? A:vl >iha: ^rrvvivxa^ >::*;::: u-^^^s

them to such deeds, if not the s|vx!
of evil, the archdemon himself r

Dives alone and his men were im-
moved, and gralloped on laughing and
applauding what had been done.

" Ha, ha, ha 1" cried the tall san^
gler ; ^ I never saw such a joke! I
could laugh a thousand years at it*

Then he became gloomy, and said,

^' Yegof is at the bottom of all dus.
One must be blind not to see tfiat it
was he who guided the Gennans to
Blutfeld I would be sorry if he
were finished by a piece of my wag-
on; I have something better in store
for him. All that I wish is, that he
may remain sound and healthy nndl
I meet him some day in a corner of
the woods. Let it be one, ten, or
twenty )-eais — only let it come ! The
longer I wait, the keener will be mf
appetite; good morsels are best cokL
like wild-boards cheek in white wine.**

He said all this with a good-hnmor
ed air ; bat those wiio knew him knev
that beneath that lanr danger for Ye-
gor!

H^If an bocr after, mil reached die
aeld cc Rxs-^ie-ChiSQcs.

:N<<^K:rr:oN on a rocsL

WKvr*5\ 5> •:ssv:.^v',?^:^:n 7i:«fiCP ,f :ai5j^csL a^^ J^ol

Vt, "'sx' fts \'-i^rt*. r>e^. r"i.s mrua scoxtcc

^ ; *vir ' ^ Cuwi> ouv.^ iw:i;'?<s: IV,:-

Poor Mara f*

637

"POOR MARA!"

The celebrated Rosenthal, in Ger-
many, was the retreat where Goethe
passed so many hours of leisure
when a student. It was indeed a
valley of roses, especially in early
summer, when flowers are most abun-
dant, and the tender green of the
rich foliage is freshest and brightest.
It was a lovely afternoon, but not
sultry ; a large awning was spread
for temporary use ; and just in the
shade of a group of trees was set out
a table with refreshments. A dozen
seats were arranged round it, evi-
dently for a small and select com-
pany. Ere long, carriages drove up,
and some ladies alighted, and began
to arrange the collation. Two of
them were the wife and daughter of
Doles, the musician ; they brought
flowers which they had gathered, and
decorated the table, placing a wreath
of roses and laurels over the seat
destined to be occupied by their
honored guest, no less a person than
Mozart, who had come to give his
last concert in Leipsic. The rest of
the company soon joined them ; and
it would be interesting, had we space,
to relate the conversation that
formed the most delightful part of
their entertainment. They were a
few choice spirits, met to enjoy the
society of Mozart in an hour sacred
to friendship. There was no lack of
humor and mirth ; indeed, the com-
poser would have acted at variance
with his character had he not be-
guiled even the gravest by his amus-
ing sallies ; but the themes of their
discourse were the musical masters
of the world, and the state and pros-
pect of their art.

" Oh ! could we only entice you to
live here," said one of the company
to the great composer.

" No ; the atmosphere does not
suit me," replied Mozart ; " the re-
serve would chill my efforts, for I live
upon the love of those who sufler me
to do as I please. Some other time,
perhaps, I may come to Leipsic;
just now Vienna is the place for me.
By the way, what think you of
Bonn ?"

" You cannot think of Bonn for a
residence ?"

" Not I. Had you asked me
where art had the least chance of
spreading her wings for a bold flight
— where she was most securely
chained down and forbidden to soar,
I should have answered, * Bonn.* But
that unpromising city has produced
one of the greatest geniuses of our
day."

" Who ? who ?" eagerly demanded
several among the company.

" A lad, a mere lad, who has been
under the tutelage of the elector's
masters, and shocked them all by
his musical eccentricities. They
were ready to give him up in disgust.
He came to me just before I left Vi-
enna ; modest, abashed, doubting his
own genius, but eager to learn his
fate from my lips. I gave him one
of my most difficult pieces ; he exe-
cuted it in a manner so spirited, so
admirable— carried away by the mu-
sic, which entered his very soul, for-
getful of his faint-hearted ness — full
of inspiration 1 'Twas an artist, I
assure you ; a true and noble one,
and I told him so."

" His name ?"

"Louis von Beethoven."

"I know his father well," said
Hiller.

"Then you know one who has
given the world a treasure 1 For,
mark me, railed at as he may be for

638

" Poor Mara /"

refusing to follow in die beaten path,
decried for his contempt of ordinary
rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to
a splendid fanne ! But his forte will
be sacred music."

The conversation turned to the
works of Bach and Handel.

As the sun declined westward, the
company rose and returned to the
city* When they had left the pounds,
a figure came fonvard from the con-
cealment of the foliage, and walked
pensively to and fro. He had heard
most of the conversation nn observed.
It was the artist Mara, a violoncellist
of great merit— famous, indeed — ^but
ruined by dissipation. Hi5^\^fe had
left him in despair of reforming his
intemperate habits ; his friends had
deserted him ; all was gone but his
love of art ; and that had brought
him to see the great Mozart.

"Well, well,'' he said to himself,
** I have heard and know him now.
His taste is the same with mine \ he
glories in Handel and old Sebastian.
Ah 1 that music in my dream." He
struck his forehead. ** But I can
keep nothing in my head j Mara —
Mara — fion e piu £om era prima !
If 'twere not for this vertigo, this
throbbing that I feel whenever I
strive to collect my thoughts and fix
them on an idea ; if I could but
grasp the conception, oh ! 'twould be
glorious !"

The spirit of art had not yet left
the degraded being it had once in-
spired \ but how sad were the stRig-
gles of the soul against her painful
and contaminating bonds !

" Why," resumed the soliloquist —
** why was I not inviled to make one
among the company assembled here
to welcome tJie great chapel master?
I, too, am a famous artist ; I can
appreciate music ; the public have
pronounced me enlitled to rank
nmong the first. But nobody will
•*»ociale with Mara in the day-tirac I

Btt&

]

It is only at night, at the
revels, where such grave o&&^ OW
director .scorn to appear, that ll^i,
like a bird of evil omeD, is pcfmit
ted to show his face. Then
shout and clap for mc, aud
me a merry fellow ; and I iMI
merriest of them all I But I
not like such welcome, I w(
rather be reasonable if I could,
the wine would let nie. The wi
Am I a slave to that ? Ha, a sbi
Alas ! it is so ; wine is my masi
and he is jealous of every oiher^ aii2
beats me when I rebel, till 1 ay
mercy, and crouch at his feet agw
Oh ! if 1 had a friend strong CDOU^
to get me out of his clutches. &&
I have no friends — none, not
Gertrude. She has left mc ;
there is no one at home now
to reproach me when I come b;
drunk, or make a notse in tlic liotisc
over die table with a cof-
two, Hejnrich — no ; he I ^
makes game of me like the rcit
am sick of this miserable life \ 1
tired of being laughed at and
ned ; I will put an end to it all,
tiien they will say once again, * P(
Mara!*"

With a sudden start the wretc
man rushed away, and was pn
hid among the branches of the Iri
A whistle was heard just then, an^
lad, walking briskly, followed, halli
ing after him. He came just in tt:
A stream, a branch of the Pie
watered the bottom of the valli
Mara was about to throw htm!
into it in the deepest spot, when
arm was caught by his pursuer.

•* What tiie mischief are
about r

"Let me alone!" cried M
struggling*

"Do you mean to be drown-
ed T*

" Yes ; that is just what I want,
came here for that purpose;

" Poor Mara r

639

what have you to say against it,
Friedrich ?"

" Nothing, if your fancy runs that

way," replied the lad, laughing;

" only you have plenty of leisure for

• it hereafter, and just now you are

wanted."

** Wanted ?"

" Yes ; I came to look for you."

"Who wants the poor drunkard
Mara ?"

" They want you at BreithofF's, to-
night, at the supper given to Mozart
after the concert ; and you must
bring your instrument ; we are to
have some rare fun. Come, if you
are obedient, you shall go with me
to the concert."

Mozart's concert ! Surprised and
pleased that some of his acquaint-
ances had remembered him, Mara
suffered himself to be led away by
his companion.

The concert was a splendid one,
and attended by all the taste and
fashion of Leipsic. The orchestra
was admirable, the singers were full
of spirit and good humor, the au-
dience delighted, the composer grati-
fied and thankful. Mozart thanked
the performers in a brief speech, and
as soon as the concert was at an end
was led off in triumph by the con-
noisseurs, his friends.

Magnificent beyond expectation
was the entertainment prepared, and
attended by many among the wealthy
and the noble, as well as the most dis-
tinguished artists. The revelry was
prolonged beyond midnight, and, as
the guests became warmed with good
cheer, we are bound to record that
the conversation lost its rational tone,
and that comical sallies and uproari-
ous laughter began to usurp the place
of critical discourse. They had
songs from all who were musical ;
Mara, among the rest, was brought
in, dressed in a fantastic but sloven-

ly manner, and made to play for the
amusement of the company. When
he had played several pieces, the
younger guests began to put their
practical jokes upon him, and pro-
voke him to imitate the noises of
different animals on his violoncello.
Mara entered into all their fun, con-
vulsing them with his grotesque
speeches and gestures, drinking glass
after glass, till, at last, he fell back
quite overpowered and insensible.
Then his juvenile tormentors painted
his face and clipped his mustaches,
and tricked him out in finery that
gave him the look of a candidate for
Bedlam, and had him carried to his
own house, laughing to imagine what
his sensations would be, next morn-
ing, when he should discover how
ludicrously he had been disfigured.
In short, the whole party were con-
siderably beyond the bounds of pro-
priety and sound judgment, Mo-
zart included.

It was considerably after noon, the
next day, that poor Mara, the victim
of those merciless revellers, might be
seen sitting disconsolately in his de-
serted home. He had no heart even
to be enraged at the cruelties prac-
tised on him. Pale as death, his
eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs
shivering,* sat this miserable wretch,
dressed in the same mockery of fine-
ry which had been heaped upon him
in wicked sport.

The door soon opened, and Mozart
entered. At sight of the composer,
Mara rose and mechanically returned
his salutation. Mozart looked grave
and sad.

" You are much the worse for last
night's dissipation, my good fellow,"
said he.

"Ah Master Mozart!" said the
violoncellist, with a faint smile, " it
is too good of you to visit such a dog
as poor Mara."

640

" Poor Mara T

** I have something to say to you,
friend," answered the composer, in a
voice of emotion. **In the first
place, let me thank you for your rnxx-
sic, last night."

The bewildered artist passed his
hand across his forehead.

" I say, let me thank you. It is
long since I have heard such music.'*

**Vou were pleased with it ?'* asked
Mara, looking up, while a beam of
joy shot into the darkness of his soul.

*• Pleased ? It was noble — ^hearl-
stirring I I must own I did not ex-
pect such from you. I expected to
be sbocked, but I was charmed.
And when^ you played the air from
Id^mmwsacrk / but it went to my
souL I have mver bad my music so
thoroughly appreciated—so admira-
bly executed. Mara, you are a raas^
ter of your art \ I reverence jxm !**

- You r repeated ibc anist, draw-
ing his breath quickly.

'* Yes ; I own you for my brother,
and so I told theoi ail, last ntght.''

The poor oiasi gave a teap aod
scixed the master by both hands ;
lapittre had penetrated his inmost
heart

^Oh t you nuke lae veiy happy,^
bhieredhe,

•^langiadoftc^fariicwIaB
fwsig y^ say soneiliiiig paloM.**

Mara hang hs head.

** Nay, I reproach myself as mocii
as yoo. We bodi behaved tit, last
tstghi ; ««e both fc»]goc ibe d^gai^ of
the aittsi iml the 1

^We forgot llM
set ap for aa

to blash for t^s.*"

^ For aiew cxica M a ia i deeply
mi9f^ ; * bat aoc fiar yott."*

^ Vc^ §0€ me^* fcptaitd Mosb%»
*^mmA§md^^^ warn mum. U^

a shamefiil scene. I^liat,* he cto-
ttnucd, with rising imfiga il i c a ^
** what would the true frieads rf vt
have thought of such beasdy oigijea^
celebrated ici her name/ Wliy, the?
would have said, perhapt, * TJitse .
men are wild felli>w% Iwl «e Mt
let them have their way ; we owe ik
fine music they g^ive us to tlvir free
living ; tbey must have stimohais !»
compose or play well.' Kov w>t wl
it is base to maiign the holy i
we love. Such excesses bat
us for work. I have never owed a
good thought to the botlJe. I leU
you, I bate myself iat last aagfafa I
foolery." '

^ Ah master^ you wbo ase so Ea |
above me ^ 8%hed Mara.

"* Aod kv here the wreck of a aa-j
ble hciiigr said the coanposcTi
low voice and with mix^ blttenias;|
then resuming : " Listen to me. Mata [
You have been your own ei^ony, butj
j^oiir fall is DOt vhollj yoor ownvorL^
You are woodroosly gified ; you tm
be» you shall be^ maiizlicd fowi noa
You caB» you shaU* rise aboire those

JDU II0V;

Mod beio'ved, aod
leate an boooced oaaie to poslenq^
You have gnren aiie a tessoiv Mara—
a kssoo which 1 shaU tenembet ar
l^e loi^— ^Hikh I s^aU leach to
others. Yoa have do«e me good-^
wiB do iomrtbiwg for jtou. Come
with me to Yi

IbeL
fisteaed to the words of]

be bmlEed oti as a

While be talked to

whde be acknow-

all w^ oot
3«t loss. Ibe ^UtoTtbe d^raded

OS.** ueatu ie tt f im4 wiihia ba^ it was 1

." cried Mam. deeply ibe «aM*g of hm mittd s acqpes ^

t mx for iPOtt."* the itwu^k oi tbe «m| fw wM

me»* Tcpeaccd Moon, ^itt the btba^i rf ^ monai ma- ■

woo ^^^B^ ^^H^a •• w3w wn^^ ^i^K H^^^^y^Ks 1 aaata was

Discipline.

641

once more a man ; but overcome by
the conflict and by the last generous
offer, he sank back, boWed his face
upon his hands, and wept aloud.

" Come," cried Mozart, after a
pause, during which his own eyes
moistened — " come, we have no time
to lose. I go out to-ifight by the
evening post for Vienna ; you must
accompany me. Take this purse,
put your dress in order, and make
haste. I will call for you at eight.
Be ready then. Not a word more."
And forcing a well-filled purse into
his trembling hands, the master has-
tened away too quickly to hear a

word of thanks from the man he had
saved from worse than death.

The great composer was early
summoned from this and many other
works of mercy and benevolence.
But if this noble design was unac-
complished, at least good seed was
sown, and Mara placed once more
within view of the goal of virtuous
hope. Rescued from the mire of
degradation, he might, by persever-
ance, have won the prize ; if he did
not, the fault was wholly his own.
Whatever the termination of his ca-
reer, the moral lesson is for us the
same.

DISCIPLINK

A BLOCK of marble caught the glance

Of Buonarotti's eyes.
Which brightened in their solemn deeps,

Like meteor-lighted skies.

And one who stood beside him listened,

Smiling as he heard ;
For, " I will make an angel of it !'*

Was the sculptor's word.

And soon mallet and chisel sharp
The stubborn block assailed.

And blow by blow, and pang by pang.
The prisoner unveiled.

VOL. VIII. — 41

A brow was lifted, high and pure ;

The wak'ning eyes outshone ;
And as the master sharply wrought,

A smile broke through the stone I

gi|2 Disciflim.

Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair
Escaped in floating rings j

And, plume by plnmcj was slowly freed
The sweep of half&rled wings*

The stately bust and graceful limbs
Their marble fetters shed, '

And where the shapeless block had betn.
An angel stood mstead I

O blows that smite ! O hurts that pierce
This shrinking heart of mine 1

What are ye but the Master's tools
Forming a work divine ?

O hope that crtUnbles to my feet !

O joy that mocks, and flies I
What are ye but the clogs that bind

My spirit fW>m the skies ?

Sculptor of souls ! I lift to thee
Encumbered heart and hands :

Spare not the chisel I set me free,
However dear the bands.

How blest, if all these seeming ills
Which draw my thoughts to thee

Should only prove that thou wilt make
An angel out of me !

Freedom of the Human Will.

643

FROM TKB GBXMAN OF DR. B. WBSNBKX.

THE TEACHINGS OF STATISTICS CONCERNING THE
FREEDOM OF THE HUMAN WILL.

The enemies of Christianity are,
in our days, making war upon its
dogmas more fiercely and more gene-
rally than at any previous period.
Materialism — the teachings of which
may be summed up in the following
propositions : There exists no God
as a spiritual, immaterial personality;
there exists no spirit as a super-
sensible, self-existent, immortal sub-
stance — is finding its way into every
rank of society. By clothing it in a
popular garb, its advocates are meet-
ing with no small degree of success
in making converts to its errors,
even among the working classes and
the deluded proletaires who have
a dread of labor. Materialism no
longer goes to the trouble of exhibit-
ing itself in the guise of a well-con-
nected philosophical system : it pre-
fers the more insidious method of
appearing only occasionally, in writ-
ings and speeches whose theme is
of quite another nature. It puts on
an appearance of science and of
devotion to genuine progress ; and
herein consists its principal danger.
When doctrines, opposed to faith,
are secreted in works on natural
science, and placed side by side with
evident facts, there must necessarily
result a strong temptation for the
unwary to look upon them all as un-
deniable truths.

The science of moral statistics is
one of those that have been most
recently perverted to the purposes
of materialism. The founder of this
science is Quetelet, the celebrated

Belgian astronomer and statistician.
He first observed that, by consider-
ing large masses of men during a
long period, a certain uniformity in
the manner of their accomplishment
could be traced, in such voluntary
acts as come under the observation
of statisticians, more especially in
marriages, suicides, and crimes. He
even reached the conclusion that^
acts elicited under the influence of
free-will occur with a greater degree
of regularity than events which de-
pend exclusively on the influence of
physical causes. This discovery was
pursued still further.- Observ^ations
were made upon different nationali-
ties, the results were compared, and
upon their evidence it was thought
justifiable to speak of a law of na-
ture by which all human acts were
supposed to be controlled. This
new law could not but be hailed with
pleasure by the disciples of material-
ism. They immediately took it up
and adduced it as evidence in favor
of their doctrines. It requires but a
small amount of perception to see
that, if all human acts are controlled
by a law of nature, there cannot be
any free-will. The denial of free-
will implies the elimination of one
of the essential faculties of the
human soul, and it, at the same time,
shakes Christianity to its foundation.}
For, if everything is subjected to an
immutable necessity, sin and grace,
redemption and sanctification, need
no longer be mentioned.

It is well worth our while to sub-

644

Freedom of the Human Will.

I
I

ject the new doctrine, founded on
the evidence of moral sUtislics, to an
examination and to test its tenability.
Wc propose to do this in the follow-
ing pages. Before entering, however,
into the assertions and inferences of
the materialists, it will be expedient
to state a few of the principal results
of the science of moral statistics, so
that the reader may see the method
by which such unexpected and sur-
prising conclusions have been reach-
ed, and may thus be enabled to form
a judgment for himself

A glance at the statistical tables
which record the sum-total of mar-
riages contracted in a single country
reveals in reality that their number
is nearly the same, year after yean
Even in so-called anomalous mar-
riages, that is, marriages in which a
young man allies himself to a wo*
man much older than himself and
7'ke versa J as well as in marriages
between widows and widowers, there
seems to be a certain uniformity.
Thus, if we take Belgiumj with a
population of about four and a half
millions, we find the total number of
marriages, from the year 1844 to the
year 1853, running as follows: 29,326,
29**io» 25,670, 24,145, 28,656,31,788,
33*762, 33»i69, 31,251, 30,636. Du-
ring the same years, the number of
marriages between men of 30 years
and under, with women of 30 years
and under, stands thus : 13,024,
i3»'57. 1 1*578, 10,749, 12,642, 13,933,
14,440, I4i337» i3»4S3, i3,»<5i. Ano-
malous marriages, bet\^*een men of
30 years and less, and women of
from 45 to 60 years, likewise e\'ince
a perceptible regularity during the
same years: 129, 102, 118,98, 101,
140, 130, 128, 104, 115. On the
other hand, marriages between men
of 60 years and over, and women of
30 years and under, during the same
series of years : 41, 36, 33, 42, 44,
47, 49i 421 39. 32- '^hesc figures

are sufficient for an iUustraUon. The
result is similar in the case of other
countries.

If we consider the age at vhlchj
marriage is contracted, we discover \
considerable uniformity in a sin|^e
countr}^, but wide differences in dif-
ferent countries. The fol!owing table |
exhibits what percentage of men and <
women contract marriages in the |
different countries, at the diffcrent
ages indicated :

i
1

lnrn„«, jM^;^

1
5

IS
as

31
3*

IB
10

t
f

I» B*™*. {JJSi*

3«

'■

These iigures show that in England
72 per cent of the men mari^- be-
tween tlic ages of 20 and 30 years ;
in France, 60 per cent ; in Norway,
62 per cent ; in Bavaria, liowcvefi
only 44 per cent. In England, 82
percent of the women contract mar-
riage at and under the age of 30
years, whilst in Bavaria the percent-
age is only 61, It is hardly to be
supposed that what Quetelet calls h
tendance an mariage (the tendency to-
ward marriage) is less strong in
Bavaria than in England ; we may
only infer that the conditions ivhich
render marriage practicable areroorc
easily realized in England than in
Bavaria, and a single glance at both
these countries will show that such is
really the case.

We shall now give a few Agures
from the statistics of suicide. The
following table contains the annual
^ggi'^^iite of suicides, during a period
of twenty years :

ijb

Freedom of the Human Will.

645

1S36

■§40

1841

xa49
1844

list.

1853
1853
•854

1855

Making all possible allowance for
increased population in each of these
countries rhroughout the space of
twenty years, and for greater accura-
cy in the later records than in the
earlier ones, it still remains incontes-
table that in civilized countries suicide
is on the increase, and that this in-
L^ (fi-ease exceeds that of the population.
^B By taking the annual proportion to
^^L « million of inhabitants, we shali per-
^^R^ve that this crime is more frequent
} in some countries than in others.
t The following figures comprise the
^H period from 1856 to 1S60 : In France,
^1 to one million of inhabitants, there
^P occurred yearly in suicides ; in Be!-
■ gium,47 ; in Denmark, 276; in Aus-
tria, 64 ] in Pnissia, 125 ; in Saxony,
245 ; in Bavaria, 72 ; in Hanover^
137 ; in Wiirtemberg, 85 ; in Baden,
to8; in Hesse, 134; in Meckien-
^B burg, 162 ; in Nassau, 102 ; in Por-
^P tugal, 7 ; in England and Wales, 65 ;
~ in Hungary, 30 ; in Dalmatia, 1 1 ; in
Europe generally, 84.

Very notable diflTerenccs may be
observed in these figures. The de-
gree of intellectual culture and social
refinement is about the same in Sax-
ony as in Belgium, yet tliese two
countries stand widely apart on the
record of suicides^ even if it be al-
lowed that the estimate for Belgium
is somewhat too low. There can be

no doubt that religion exercises a de-
cided influence in this matter. Sax-
ony is a Protestant country, whilst
Belgium is Catholic. Similar diver-
gences exist in favor of Austria when
compared with Prussia, and of Bava-
ria compared with Hanover.

Suicides are far more frequent
amongst Protestants than amongst
Catholics. The latter possess in their
faith far more remedies 'against temp-
tation to suicide than the former arc
able to obtain from theirs. A Protes-
tant despairs more readily than a
Catholic.

These remarks apply only to coun-
tries at large. The great metropolises,
^vhich may properly be designated
hot-beds of suicide, must be taken
as exceptions, because in them practi-
cal religion easily dies out and can-
not exercise its usual influenccj
In the year 1865, when Paris had 1
population of 1,863,000 inhabitants
there were 706 cases of suicide, that"
is, one to every 2638; in Vienna,
with a population of 550,000 inhabi-
tants» there were no cases, that is,^
one for ever}' 5000 ; in London, with
3,000,000 inhabitants, there were 267,
that is, one for every 11,715; and
in New York, population 1,095,000,
36 cases of suicide, one to every
28,000 inhabitants. Accordingly,
the greatest number of suicides i»^
committed i\\ Paris» where reign the
highest degree of social culture and
the most rigorous police surveillance,
and the smallest number occurs in
New York, the seat of the greatest^
social and political liberty.

We may here state, as a general
rule, that high intellectual culture is|
not a preventive of suicide. Obser-i
vation shows, on the contrary, that J
it is comparatively most frequent iti]
countries where the enlightenmentJ
of the population has attained the!
highest point, and that it occurs far
oftcner in cities than in rural dis-
tricts. This fact is u\\\xofi^'?3«v'^!Msft

64A

Fntdom of the Human Will.

avlclciicc that moral improvement is
not ktrcplng pace with intellectual
proKroNNi and that governments,
whllNt furthoring the latter with in-
crrnNlng xeal, are not bestowing suf-
(*lrnt (*arc on the former. From the
yrar tHj6 to the year i860, suicides
iMriraMcMl i,)o (kt cent in France,
whllM the population increased but
M |H*r it'nt. This astounding cir-
rum^tantH^ has l>ccn looked upon as
rtttitlmtrtltic to the advancement of
iuiiui^ti y aiul the prt^rrvss of science
A\\\ |vp\iUr cdm^ation ; aiHl no
d\^uUi iuMh\ if \^v ivn»ider how much
iiUM[V t\t^\)^iu)y suicide is committed
iu (Ktr nUij^htriK^i northern and easl^
tHi\ «k|^rtmcnt;^ vNf V^nce than in
Ih^ )m )M\>(^tv^\^ sv>uthcni and

^>«iM^hin^ «^wiUr b isMxx^jibSe iai
I WiwAnx s :s*\\Nt*. V arsi i^^ ne%^SK^

^\^t.v\*,^x^^ i,^2s. v»vr ■;, It :x'

\ ■ i tyv-x V tv ; «- ^"^ x^; ^>kfc ' *!• * 1; vT i. r*

x;v'.>» \>v ■■'•■X. ^^v •*. •- .-x ^'<< ^:

venting for the purpose a gaurmHam,
according to which suicides are sqh
posed to be apportioned to the vari-
ous ages of humaiv life.

We will now cast a glance at the
statistics of crimes. Accurate records
upon this subject, published in Eng-
land, Belgium, and France during a
series of years, aflford us ample mate:
rial for this 'investigation. Similar
records, commenced at a later peri-
od, have been kept in the Nether-
lands, in Bavaiia, in Baden and
other states; and mice 1S54, the
Prussian Ministry of Jostioe has,
every second ortUrd year, published
a thorough report of die proceedings
of die cximinal coots dL diat king-
doaa. It is ipraclinHfj bowcver,
to estib&di a mi^miiiim b c la c cu
QHciest GomCnes ob ubbs i HW^ ff, as
vecT zixabk fiKfcnoes cadst be-
t««a then wi^ imicU Id thor

7<^ c\rai2jiv^ ccc ■?* w^— * ■* »'^^*^r to oof
c-.MiriCT- ^'i C3>>»e 1^ J ! ^K ^« js i:

mLSic ?^^irTire> t^

■^•!«-C

Freedom of the Human Will.

647

On an average, from eighteen to
nineteen per cent of tlie accused
were every year pronounced not
guilty. It might naturally be expect-
ed that, in the case of special crimes,
the ratio of tliose acquitted to those
condemned would vary greatly.
Thus, of I CO accused of theft, an
average of 6 was acquitted ; of se-
rious injury done to the person, an
average of 25 \ of murder, about 16 \
of violation of official obligations,
about 36 3 of perjur)', upward of 41.
By calculating what proportion of
the accused from 1859 to 1S62 be-
longed to each of the above-men-
tioned religious denominations, we
find that of the Jews there w^as one
accused for every 2978 inhabitants;
one Catholic for ever)^ 3087, and one
Protestant for every 3415. Hence,
the accused were most numerous
amongst the Jews ; least numerous
amongst the Protestants. The un*
favorable position here assigned to
the Catholics is accounted for by
the fact that large figures refer to the
eastern provinces of Prussia, which
are inhabited in a great measure
by Catholic Sclaves, with little culture
and very much impoverished. A
considerable difference is observ^a-
ble in the provinces. The average
of a period of four years (i 859-1 862)
counts I accused for every 2345 in
Silesia, 2503 in Posen, 2853 InBran-
Idenburg, 3101 in Prussia proper,
4056 in Pomerania, 4436 in Saxony,
4863 in Westphalia, 5095 in the
Khenish province.

The eastern provinces present a
sadder condition than the western.
Unfortunately the statistical tables
give us no information concerning
the nationality of the accused. But,
if we confine our investigation to
Rhineland and Westphalia, where
the population is purely German, the
result will be found altogether in fa-
vor of Catholicity. The census of

these two provinces, including Ho*
henzollem, amounted in 186 1 toi
1^474,520 Protestants and 3,313,709
Catholics. During a term of five
years, (1858-1862,) 1463 Evangelicals
and 313S Catholics appeared before]
the tribunals, making i for 5035 {
Evangelicals and i for 5280 Catho-*
lies. Whence we infer that nation-
ality, want of education, and poverty
produce effects in the eastern pro-
vinces which cannot be found where
Catholics and Protestants are on an
equality in those respects.

The comparison seems to be spe-
cially favorabfe to the Catholic pro-
vinces when the infliction of pun-
ishment upon the guilty is considered.
For great otTences, the punishment is
penitentiary ; for less otTences, impri-
sonment. Now, although in 1855
the number of accused was much
greater amongst the Catholics than
amongst the Protestants, neverthe-
less there was but one penitentiary ,
culprit for 8430 inhabitants in
Rhineland and Westphalia, whilst in
the Protestant provinces tiiere was 1
for 4179. Hence, the number of
penitentiary culprits in tliese latter
being double argues likewise greater
crimes.

The foregoing statistics of crimi-
nals, considered with respect to
creed, enable us to form a conclu-
sion in regard to the influence of the
particular form of religion upon the
dispositions of men. Amongst Ca-
tliolics, tlie crimes peculiar to youth
seem to predominate, whilst amongst
Protestants they are the crimes of
mature and of advanced age.

The former appear to decrease
with the advance of intellectual cul-
ture and improvement in temporal
welfare, whilst the latter, on the con-
trary, appear to become more nu-
merous.

Further figures might be given
showing that the majority of crimi-

648

Freedam of the Human WilL

nals belong to the laboring classes,
and that the incentives to crime are
rant and absence of training amongst
the working people, and dissipation
and luxury in higher ranks of society.
We will, however, content ourselves
with what has been stated, and pro-
ceed to discuss the conclusions which
materialists draw from such data.

At the present day, materialists
conclude, from such facts and figures
as these, that the volition of man is
not free. They pretend that it is
impossible to explain the regularity
with which acts, seemingly voluntary
and deliberate, are elicited, unless
we accept the conclusion that free
will is a mere fiction of the imagina-
tion, and that science inevitably
forces us to the conviction that all
human acts depend on what they
designate a law of nature. They say
that such a degree of order in the
occurrence of human acts could not
l>05sibly result from the unbiassed
power of self-determination. They
reject die distinction between nature
and man as a being partly spiritual,
and consider him as a purely ma-
terial product of nature, subjected,
like animals, plants, and minerals, to
general laws, without the power of
exercising the slightest influence on
his own destiny. And this outcry
against free-will is raised by men in
every department of science, by
Tiaturalists, philosophers, historians,
physicians, and jurists. Says Buckle,
in his History of English CiviUza-
Hoh^ speaking of the evidences of
moral statistics :

" In certain conditions of society a Urge
proportion of men must put an end to their
own existence. Such is the general law.
The special inquiry as to who is to commit
the crime dcpend-sof course, upon partial*
lar lan^, which, in their united cnergie?^.
must obey the general law to which they
4je snhtjrdinale. And the force of the
higher Jaw is so irresistible that neither the
atuchmcnt to life nor the dread of the fu-

ture can to any degree hinder itt c
tion,^*

Dankwart declares boldlf ;

" Man is not a finee agent* Ue b JDit ^ I

little responsible for any of hlft defils as i i
stone which, in obedience to ih« lawof fn* i
viutionf falls upon one's hcacL Tlw oini-
nal act was the necessary deveJopmetil of i
law of nature."

What are we to say in reply lo
these attacks ? Are the facts of su
tistics really so decisive and convinc-
ing as to compel us to abandoD the
time-honored dogma of Free-Will, to
which the noblest and loftiest mindt
of all ages have so tenaciously ad-
hered? Can those imposing anrnys
of figures operate in us to the con-
viction that, when a man contracts
marriage, commits a crime, puts «n
end to his own life, or performs any
other act, he necessarily follows a
universal law of nature, and cafinot,
therefore, be held responsible for hb
deed? Do the acts of men efilff
into the economy of nature like ebb
and flow of tide, day and night, stim-
mer and winter ? It is not om pai
pose to enter into deep philosophical
disquisitions on free-will. Its ma-
terialist adversaries ignore all pluli>-
sophical speculation. They occuff
themselves exclusively with fadt^
visible, palpable facts — and upon
this vantage-ground we intend to
oppose them. Our task, then, in Uk
present instance, is to demoosdBtiQcj
that the conclusions drawn from the
given premises are unwarranted atul
erroneous ; that the regulariiy in the
recurrence of certain acts can be
satisfactorily accounted for by ^ikn
causes, without having recourse to
mysterious law of nature ; and lasti;
that there are many facts whi-
even without free-will, are problci
not less difficult to solve.

In examining the method
which our adversaries draw infcrcuo
from facts, we shall find that ih<

Freeiiovt of the Human Will,

649

logic is in contradiction to all the
laws of coVrect thinking. ** Not all
acts are free, therefore some acts are
not free/' is a proper conclusion ;
"but some acts are not free, therefore
all acts are not free ;'* who would
admit such a conclusion ? As an il-
lustration, let us take another ex*
ample from statistics. According to
the testimony of statistics, of 908,000
families in Belgium, only 89,630
were in good circumstances in the
year 1857. 373,000 were in a x^r^f
straitened condition ; 446,000 were in
downright naiser)% In all probabilit)',
the same relative situation may be
found existing through a series of
years» Now, what would the ene-
mies of free-will say to the following
reasoning: " In Belgium, the masses
are in poverty, therefore all Belgians
are poor ; affluence docs not exist at
all in Belgium '* ? Is not the follow-
ing reasoning of theirs identically
the same : " In marriages, suicides,
crimes, and other human acts, the
influence of I'ree-will is imperceptible,
as shown by statistics ; therefore,
these acts are not free ; therefore,
the influence of free-will is impos-
sible in all acts ; there is no free-will
at all " ? We might even, for argu-
ment's sake, grant — which, of course,
we do not — ►that the above-mentioned
acts are not free, without thereby
Joing away with free-will in num-
grless other human acts.
But this is not the only logical
blunder made by our opponents.
They infer from the deed to the vo-
^ition, ** The deed is not free, there-
are neither is the volition." Do
le deed and the volition always cor-
Bspond so perfectly that we may,
Inder all circumstances, infer from
le former to the latter ? The very
act that in trials before courts
'extenuating circumstances are so
strongly insisted upon, is proof posi-
tive that the deed and the volition

are not always identical. It is a long
way from deliberation to decision,
and from decision to execution. We
may not more infer from the deed to
the volition than from the volition to
the deed. How absurd to infer from
the volition to the deed 1 And
should the reverse be more logical ?

What does experience show — in
trials, for example ? A man is mur-
dered, for instance. In one case, the
evidence shows that the murderer
had harbored his dark design for
years, until finally a favorable mo-
ment presented itself for the execu-
tion. In another case, it will appear
that, in a casual quarrel, a man dealt
a mortal blow to another, perhaps
even to his friend, without intending
to do it ! The criminal courts of all
countries present multitudes of such
instances. It is the statistician's pro-
vince to note the deed, but not the
volition ; and hence, sound logic will
never permit inferences in regard to
the volition to be drawn from statis-
tical facts.

Let us now examine the founda-
tion on which arguments against the
freedom of man's will are based.
This foundation is the regularity
with which the aforesaid acts have
been obser^'ed to recur, as if within
the range of a higher and wider law.
How have statisticians discovered
this regularity? Evidently only by
summing up facts as they took place
within a period of some duration, and
over an extensive range of territory,
a process by which the actual diffe-
rences were entirely put out of sight.
We learned above that, from 1855 ^"^
1862, a yearly average of 6144 crimi-
nals was arraigned before the crimi-
nal courts of Prussia. But particular
years fall wide of this average figure.
Thus, in 1856, the number was 8722,
that is, 2500 more than the average ;
in 1858, the number was 4995, that is,
more than 1300 less tlian the average \

650

Freedom of the Huwum WilL

and the total of the difference of these
years, 3800. It would seem that this
might as truthfully be called irrcgU"
ianty as regularity. If, in Prussia,
crimes are merely the necessary cen-
sequences of a natural law, and of
l>oHtical and social circumstances,
can it bo reasonably believed that
these undonvent so great a change
in the space of two years that the
number of crimes was diminished by
one half? It is impossible to draw
from such premises conclusions
strong enough to uproot convictions
plantei! as deeply in the human breast
as is that of the freedom of man's
will, Kxtonial circumstances may
indeed have undergone changes
within t«v )'ear^ still these changes
aiv not 5ukic:ent of themselves to
acwuni for such variitioas in sutis-
lical r^urcs as v^e hax-e above qiK>-
M^, rh<se can be accounted K>r
K>n!y by tukirj: :r.:v> coossceriUOQ the
tK\\L^u V*:' :ho hu:r,a:i wilL which
max S." ;:::*;5crs^rvu in a s^eosun?. by

sM.

N^,N^"x>v. . >* *^ Jtri 4Cv:5 ^vcve
;va:v-: v." ;Iv a-vrt^ f^v^. -^4^

oc'^ tvV-v.-: ,\ . v yv'i-rc xV *. X IF Kin.
jK* >s.'^uii» »x. iv'Jhft K"44 1 Sm\*i!v:

on the brink of the slieam, we ow-
^$ud that the water ivas in motioo
and produced a sound ; but in this
elevated position, from whidi we see
the stream for miles, we discover
that we were mistaken \ the stream
is evidently silent and without mo-
tion"? Where lies the mistake in
this instance ? and where the truth ?
Is not the case of the statistician the
same ? If, viewing things 60m his
elevated stand-point, he fails to r-
cognize the fireeHvill of the indhridoal,
is the cause to be foond in the ab-
sence of all finee volition, or b it not
rather owing to his having taken too
high a stand-point? In order to ob-
tain correct infbnnatioa coocecning
the material creation, we must enter
into details, and caieially examine
single specimens ; hence the impor-
tance of the microscope in natmai
sciences. And whj shall we pass by
the itKihridnal altogether, and generi!-
ize OCT obiserraQoas^ when we under-
take Ube snadr of moral phenomena?
Scntly. liiere cia be rso reason ibr
pKOxei=^ :i:25^ No man Iooids|
freer ^ hi^i tc^r^r cpoc a cod: 01
s^ieep CXI ejc^scc 10 c^caia a cma a
knc^iei^ c£ rusir «-^=^'' carsre axsc

,*c xcrxL jciz^scosw xad hs n >j^ a-
IiSTric rf7r;!S«2Ctr.-r*. t^x^£>es^ses him-

2«jLf £> x-ilc^v'S- ::cea zie «;;]aescca 1:

Ti-«i¥ ef sucir i-'jiiiicois*. -^a? fraeocn

^-"■

rr -ri-rgc-

>y ICC ^jTRivaarrr^ jn£LT:iiaaI casesw

Freedom of the Human WilL

6sr

Ur moral powers, as well as to

physical* in order to hinder man

encroaching upon bis eternal

The possibility of founding a

ice of moral statistics, and of

ing useful inferences from it,

tods mainly on the fact that, as

as obsen^ations are made upon

rge numhtr of individuals^ the

,n will retires and manifests no

Bptible influence/'

iC action of the free-will of man

I reality, confined within very

iw limits. The less a man knows,

twer must be the objects of his

on and of his desire. Most

have, in this respect, but a very

m range. It is the poor and

illiterate who everywhere com-

the bulk of the population, and

this bulk precisely that the

Itician is obliged to consider.

fouf^r of execution is still more

kI For executing, ability and

Is are required, which^ however,

■numerable instances, are found

fecicnt. But even though the

^and the power to execute be

id, freedom of volition may still

1 For we speak of the freedom

merely human will, and man is

feature a limited^ not an infinite,

The freedom of man's will

le made available only within

imits placed about the indivi-

The individual can wi/l only

rhich he has knowledge of, and

at which he has the means to

Nero once wished that the whole

lan people had but one head,

at a single blow he might strike

1 It was simply the wish of a

It gone crazy. It is pretty near*

same with free-will as with

mbered bodily motion. We

it in our power to wander in

direction upon the globe, but

obe itself we cannot leave. It

es about the centre of the

itary system, and carries us with

it in its career. In the same man-
ner can we possess freedom of voli-
tion and of doing; but step beyond
the limits of our nature we cannot,
and for diis very reason, says Que-
telet, does the influence of free-will
disappear when larger groups be-
come the object of observ^ation.

The transition from the will to the
deed depends on the objective pos-
sibility of accomplishing the deed.
External circumstances must be con-
sidered ; at times they are favorable,
at times again they are unfavorable.
Any man can elevate his thoughts
to God. The will becomes the deed
forthwith. But raising his hands in
prayer is quite another thing. This
can be done only by a man who has
the free use of his members. We
may infer from a glance at the statis-
tics of marriages and crimes, how
much the execution of the will de*
pends upon external circumstances.
We quoted above that, among ever}*
10,000 inhabitants, there are usually
87 marriages in Prussia, 82 In Saxo-
ny, and only 66 in Bavaria. Now
the question arises, Is there less in-
clination to marriage amongst young
people in Saxony and Bavaria than
in Prussia, or does the law of neces-
sity, supposed to control such events,
cease to be in force when it reaches
the boundaries of Bavaria ? Not at
all. The difference is simply this.
In Prussia it only requires two par-
ties, a bride and a groom, for a mar-
riage contract, whilst in Bavaria it
requires three, a bride, a groom, and
a functionary of the police depart-
ment, and, as ever)^body knows, it is
harder for three to come to an agree*
ment than for two. Besides the^e
legal hinderances, there are many
others that oppose the will to marry.
We have only to look about to notice
them. One man may have the will
to marry, but cannot And a suitable
match ; another may not be able to

Ci$2

Freedom of the Humatr WilL

<ibt:iin the consent of his parents; happens to be placed. Still it canr.o:

a third may not have a sufficient be conceded that these circumstances

livelihood; a fourth may be prevented do away with the freedom of man'>

from man ia«:o by war, by sickness or will. True enolugh, men permit

iiny othrrc.uiso. They all may have themselves to be controlled, in i

the will lv> j;vt married, but external great measure, by the circumscribal

cireumstanees do not permit it.

I'Aternal eireumstances exert a si-
milar inlluenee upon crimes. Statis-
lies .show that live times more men
ihan \\vM\ien are arraij^ned for crimes.
Aie we losi^pp.^se hence that women
a»e s^» muv h be;ier than men ? Hard-
ly. r!\o nmu!vr of wvMuen crimina!-
Iv vU^'.v^»iOv! eav.nv^t siirc'.v K* much

le>s

\\\

.U\ l''.

.i: v^t

men

bi:

: woir.en

wa:*;

u» .l>*

'.:>. I*

>.o me

t>.

.u!x<v

\\\'

;::ov<

v.vwss:

ir\-

:o carr\'

**v.; ;'

!u'

V. v\

'. *'v>'

i» ■ >■

.*. X

v'.ir^ e:"

\x.;

relations of private life, but they c>
so for the vcr\' purpose of reniaiai:;
in those relations. There are maiy
cases in which men see no moLvr
for withdrawing from under ihe iri-
ence of existing circumstances. Sir/
fices are even made to existing circ-js
stances in order that they may cor^r-
nue the same. As for instance, in vjt
case oi tax-paying. We may com: '.i :
loud'.y of the burden cf tx\e>. -i-
we ray them. Shculd we have :
RV.r.d r.o: :o pay ihem, we leave ■.:■-
C'untT)- f?r a::c:her less cprrrjjci
The nar. :hat remair.s pay> ii:< :r.-.->
.-t:.- .'-v.; LrieevL ye: r/his .^r /> .
.V-.'. I'-iIl ^^ness c:<s r:: r'~

•nr.r u:^

Frcidam ofUhe Human Will,

6S3

terference on the part of man, nat^
al circumstances continue the same
uring centuries. At the present
^me the Amazon river presents about
e same appearance as when the
St wliiLe men paddled their frail
noe along its luxuriant banks,
he hand of man has made but few
thanges. But within the same space
time the Mississippi and its tribu-
ries have undergone the most asto-
ishing changes. Flourishing towns
w occupy the former pasture-
ound of tlie buffalo, and where the al-
igator once held undisturbed posses-
sion » are now to be seen golden acres
of corn and snowy fields of cotton.
It would be hard lo recognize in the
Germania of Tacitus the Germany
of the present day. Soil and climate
ave both undergone changes. Were
en controlled by laws of necessity
like the rest of creatures^ they never
would have been able to effect these
modificattons of physical nature.
There is a principle in man which
iher creatures want. Together with
derstanding, he is endowed with a
ee-w^ill whose action is always per-
ceptible where man engages in an
^ unusual struggle with nature,
r Much ado is made about ihe influ-

^ftrnce of the social, domestic^ and re-
^■Igious condition of tlie masses upon
^Hie individual It is said that his
^^ction is necessarily directed and
controlled by this Influence. But we
' would know who creates these parti*
J cular conditions — who brings them
about — and who changes them ?
Everybody knows that elephants are
ery sagacious animals. But the
elephants employed nowadays in
India for the chase and other pur-
are not a whit more sagacious
a whit less stupid than those
which King Porus employed in the
war against Alexander the Great,
2000 years ago. Had elephants been
endowed with understanding and

free-will, they would, hi* all probabi-
lity, have made some little progress
within 2000 years. We never speak
of intellect, morals, and religion
when animals are the subject of con-
sideration ; we only speak of their
natural condition, and this circum-
stance alone shows that we must
not look upon man as a mere part
of material nature, under the same
necessar)^ laws. So far as the body
is concerned, he belongs to material
nature, and undergoes its influence ;
but, as to the spirit, he rises above
nature, and for this very reason, ea-
ters into a contest with nature, and
triumphs. The fertile marshes of
Holland and Friesland are not a gift
from the ocean, but man has wrested
them from the ocean ; they are the
creation of his mind and invincible
strength of will.

We several times before made
mention of the happy influence of
Catholicity upon its adherents. Most
Catholics, it is true, belong Ao the
communion by virtue of their descent
from Catholic parents, and, thus far,
this may be called a natural circum-
stance. But this same circumstance
is brought about by the deliberate
and free will of thousands of persons
who in England, Germany, and
America are annually returning to
the old church. Somebody might
perhaps imagine a "conversion-law/*
according to which a certain number
of Protestants must inevitably be-
come Catholics every year.

It seems to us that the science of
moral statistics has been turned
against the dogma of free-will, chiefly
because statisticians have directed
their attention to such facts on!y as
are most immediately under the con-
trol of external circumstances. Had
they selected other facts, the result
would not have led men so easily to
form conclusions opposed to the
freedom of the human will. We will

654

Freedom of the Jfiuman Will.

give an example. France is a Catho-
lic countr)'. There are 35,000,000 of
Catholics in France* It is customary
amongst Catholics to go to confes-
sion. We suppose it would not be
putting the figure too high if we said
that about 100^000,000 confessions
are heard annually in France. Every
statistician will readily grant that in
France, and in e%^ery Catholic coun-
try, the aggregate of the confes-
sions will be nearly alike for different
years — and that the proportions of
men and women, and the variances
for the different seasons, months,
days, etc., will present a decided ap-
pearance of regularity. Now, would
Buckle be ready to say : " In the
present condition of France, one
hundred millions of confessions must
take place every year. This is the
general law. The particular inquiry
as to who is to go to confession de-
pends, of course, on special laws
whose united forces must, however,
obey the general laws to which they
are subordinate. And the force of
the general law is so irresistible, that
neither fear of the priest nor the im-
penitence of man can exert the
slightest influence for the hinderance
of its action*'? We are inclined to
think the materialistic historian would
have hesitated a while before rang-
ing confession under the economy of
nature.

Before concluding, there are two
more facts which we beg permis-
sion simply to state. Material-
ists believe in facts. They say that
there is no effect without a cause,
and that the effect corresponds wnth
the cause. Now, it is an undeniable
fact, that every man that has attain-
ed the use of reason believes his
wiU to be free. How will material-
ists account for this fact ? The belief
in the freedom of the will is an effect

— the effect of what ? — of t«1 di
sity > We thought the effect should!
correspond with the cause. For ci
tunes men have believed their wil
free, and for centuries crim'i
been held responsible for th
and have been punbhed — ai
now the statistician does a-n-i
free-will altogether ! It is 1
this mode of blotting out fiLv-mu i?
merely a cunning but erroneous piece
of calculation.

The second fact is this : As ofloi
as a reaction follows upon a penod
of greater political and social firt
dom in a state, it has been remarked
that at once the number of births de-
creases and that of deaths incrf^fi
It was the case in Franc t/
and in Prussia in 1855.
fact we infer that liberty is the %V
mosphere that suits the nattire of
populations best, and furthers theif
increase most. If this is the
can we, in consequence of the
taken evidences of statistics, retase
individual man the faculty of frc^
will, which must be the basb and
condition of every other kind of I^
erty ? Certainly not.

One more observation. Tlic finee-
will of man is one of the fundamen-
tal dogmas of Christian, and in
ticular, of Catholic faitli. We
seen what can be advanced agi
it on the evidence of moral statistics:
But the case of statistics is like that
of many other sciences. Its restiltSi
at first, appear opposed to CathoGc
faith, and the enemies of the churdi
begin to shout with joy at the v'
of" Science over Superstition. •*
when more closely inspected, the
facts and developments are not onJ
nowhere in contradiction to fait!
but are often found to agree w*il
and even to aid in substantiating il

imen-
pafS
haifl

itics:^

The Volunteers for Pius IX, 655

FROM THB FRBNCH OP MARIS JBNNA.

THE VOLUNTEERS FOR PIUS IX.

Both from Rome and France these men have earned a radiant crown of

merit;
As they drew their sword of fire, all hell, with trembling, saw its flashings.
What their name ? One — Christians I Fear no more when such have come

to guard thee.

Throne and home of Pius I

On they came, those boasters, fed by Rapine, armed by drivelling Folly,
Eager to profane with blood-stained hands the apostolic altar.
They were met. And now, as ever, at thy gates, O holy City I
Hate by Love is conquered.

At thy pure and sacred majesty they dared, O holy Pontiff!
Dared to mock with cries defiant ; and like wolves for blood were thirsting —
Thine ! No, never ! Thou hast drunk enough of Suffering's bitter chalice.
Father ! look — thy children !

These for thee have gladly quitted wives and mothers, home and country :
When the clamorous dastards cried, " Down with the Pope !" then these,

uprising.
Clutched their arms, and shoulder unto shoulder marched. " Fear not !"

they shouted,

" We will come and save thee I"

In their faces gleamed the sacred fire that bums in breasts of Frenchmen !
If but one of them should fall — for thee the boon of life disdaining —
From their country's borders there would rise upon the morrow morning
Thousands to avenge them.

Only that one day, at least, the Christian phalanx — serried closely.

So that heart may beat to heart — could know that thou hast gazed upon

them ;
Only that the Holy Church in prayer their names will once remember,
Death they gladly welcome.

Holy Father, keep thy double sceptre and thy stainless glory !
Rome is spared to thee and thou to Rome. Not yet, O sacred exile !
Heaven will claim thee soon enough, and then, bereaved of thy dear presence,
We shall be the exiles.

656 The Volunteers far J^ims IX.

Yes ; the Christian world has sworn that thou from Rome shalt not be

driven,
As a gage it sends these dauntless heroes forward to thy rescue.
Look upon them. Mark that steady tread, those eyes that flash forth victor}'.
Raise thy hand and bless them !

On to triumph, cavaliers of Christ 1 • Yea, Lord, for tfaee they conquer,
When they overcome the enemies of him who represents thee.
Count this faithful band, O Thou who in thine hour of dereliction
Saw all thine desert thee !

You whose dear and sacred memory is upon our hearts engraven —
You, who were the elder brethren of this youthful band of heroes —
You, who bore the white cross banner till the hands of all fell lifeless
At Castelfidardo —

You were there ! And more than one of these beheld your glorious spirits
Hovering o'er them as they proudly fell and yielded up their life-blood,
Waiting with the crowns and palms prepared for such as should be honorai
So to die and conquer.

Happy ye, O chosen ones I your death is fruitful Ever passing
Through the world the Church broadcasts her seed in sadness ;
Harvesting in turn with overflowing hands upon the places
Sown with blood of martyrs.

Mothers, wives, they come not back, the nearest, dearest that have left you !
Weep ! He also wept. But ponder well the words that He has spoken :
" Greater love no man may show for him he loves than dying for him."
Even thus they loved Him I

Weep ! but sing a song of triumph as the bitter tears are flowing.
Blest are ye who, in his temple, humbly kneeling at the altar,
There can ofier him a sacrificial incense of such sorrow
With such glory mingled !

CaiholicUy and Pantheism,

657

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER FOUR,

'^U-

TH< IrinSED TRimXY, OR MULTIPLICITY IN THE INFINITE.

GENERAL IDEA OF THE BL£SSED TRrNFTY,

Catholic doctrine adniits that the
most pure, simple, and undivided
unity of the Godhead lies in its na-
ture ; but that this most simple na-
ture is terminated by three real, dis-
tinct subsistences or persons, who
form the only true and living Infi-
nite. How this answer aJTords the
solution of the problem will be seen
in the course of this treatise, in which
we shall endeavor to develop the
idea of the church in a scientific
form. But, before we proceed to
analyze it, we feel obliged to develop
it in a cursory manner, tn order to
enable the reader to follow us in the
analysis to which it will be subjected*

We say, then, that the essence of
3d, absolutely simple, is terminated
by three real» distinct, opposite sub-
sistences, which are a primary unbe-
gotten activity, a begotten intelligi-
bility, an aspired^oodness ; all three
in a state of personaUty. For this
primary, unborn activity in the state
of personality, in whom the whole
Godhead resides, by understanding
himself, begets a most faithful con-
ception of himself, an intellectual
utterance, a word or hgos. Now, the
nature or essence of intellectual con-
ception or logos, consists in being
the object conceived in the state of
intelligibility. It follows, then, that
the conception of the primary activ-
ity, in whom the fulness of the God-
head resides, is, in consequence, the
Godhead itself in the state of intel-
ligibility^ whilst the conceiver is the
Godhead itself, in the state of intel-
VOL' VII 1, — 42

ligent activity. Under this last re-
spect, to wit, of intelligent activity
and of intelligibility, the conceiv^er
and the conception are necessarily
related to each other; a relation
which arises from an opposition of
origin, since the conceiver, as such,
originating the conception, is neces-
sarily opposed to it, and the concep-
tion, as such, by being conceived,
is necessarily opposed to the con-
ceives In this sense tliey are neces-
sarily distinct from each other. It
follows from this that each one has
a concreteness of his own, a termina-
tion or a state, by whatever name
it may be called ; which concrete-
ness is incommunicable to the othier,
and hence each one has the owner-
ship of himself, and therefore is a
person. For the first is the whole
Godhead under the termination of
unborn intellectual activity, which
termination is strictly his own and
incommunicable. The second is the
fulness of the Godhead, under the
termination of intelligibility or con-
ception, which belongs to him alone,
and is likewise incommunicable.
But because in both resides the whole
identical Godhead, though under a
distinct, opposite, and relative termi*
nation, they are both one and the
same God.

God conceiver and God conceiv-
ed are, then, in nature and essence,
one and the same ; whilst as the con-
ceiver and the conceived, they are
two distinct persons ; and in this
sense, there is a necessary' duality in
the infinite. This duality is brought

658

Catholicity and Pamikeism,

ftito harmony and unity by the pro-
duction of a third termination, the
Holy Ghost. The conceiver and
the conceived necessarily love each
other. This is the result of a meta-
physical law of the act of intelligence^
including subject and object ; since
to intelligence an object produces an
inclination or attraction in the sub-
ject toward it. Now the two per-
sons in the Godhead intelligence
each otlier ; therefore they love each
other. It is, again, the nature of
love that the object loved should
abide in the subject loving, in a state
of feeling or an actively attractive
state, a state which human language
cannot utter. The best expression
we can find is, that the object should
abide in the subject in the capacity
•of beatifying it The Godhead, un-
•der the termination of conceiver,
loves the Godhead under the termi-
nation of conceived ; and, vicevcrsa^
the Godhead, under the termination
of conceived, loves the Godhead un-
der the termination of conceiver.
The result of this operation is a third
termination of the Godhead — the
Godhead under the termination of
love, goodness, or bliss, proceeding
from ihe other two terminations, the
conceiver and the conceived. This
new termination being distinct from
the two former, and opposed to them,
inasmuch as it originates from them,
is consequently its own, incommuni-
cable to the others, and hence a per-
son. But as it is the same identical
Godhead, under the termination of
love, the three are but one and the
same God. Without these termina-
tions or triplicity in the Intinrte, the
["God cannot exist or live. For what
is a being without the knowledge of
himself and without love. > What is
life but action ? and action without a
I' term originated is a contradiction in
l^terms. The Godhead must, then, in-
-telligence and love himself. The re-

3 vmaiciff

I ton^H

ijhs. ^I

suit of this are three lerminjij
the Godhead ; a prim
activity, a begotten ir _ J:
aspired goodness. That Uiese
terminations do not break
of the Infinite will be maniA
the analysis to which
ject them.

We shall now proceed tovlDdiciZic
the personality oi the three \\
tions against a class of
pantlieists— disguised even
selves — that i.s, the Unitarijns.

Why should these three tcrmixa-
tions in the Godhead be persons^
Could not the Godhead und^rstisil
and love itself without supposaf
three personalities }

We answer that without the ad-
mission of three persons in the Cod-
head, we should necessarily fall IOI0
the pantheistic theory coi
God.

The Unitarians will concede to
that God must understand and li
himself. Without this he were
conceivable. Now, we beg the Ui
tarians to tell us what this inti
gence and love arc ? Are tiiey 01
passing and transient acts or ii|(
ficalions, or are they faculties 9aA
attributes ? What are they ?

Besides essence and nature, which
includes substance, our minds cannot
conceive any other categories than
the following:

isL Attributes or perfections,

2d. Faculties,

3d. Acts of the faculties or modi-
fications.

4th, Subsistence and personality.

Now, excluding subsistence and
personality, the understamling and
love of the Godhead must be either
an attribute or faculty, or a transient
act, or both of these together.

The Unitarians may demur at
many distinctions ; but we would
them to observe that when we
the most sacred dogmas, nay, the

Catholicity and Pantheism.

659

very pivot of knowledge, attacked by
a flimsy and proud philosophy, we
have a right to descend into the
j depths of science, and ask of the
ftimsy and boastful philosophy what
if means when it attacks so sweep-
ing! y and so confidently. This re-
^—Uiark has been forced from ys by
^■leading the following words of Chan-
^^ning : ** We believe in the doctrine
of God^s anity, or that there is one
God, one only. To this truth we
give infinite iniportance, and wc feel
ourselves bound to take heed lest
any man spoil us of it by vain (?)
philosophy. This proposition, that
there is one God, seems to us ex-
ceedingly plain. We understand by
it that there is one beii\g, one mind,
^_one person, one intelligent agent,
^windone only, to whom underived and
^Knhntte perfections and dominion be-
^Klong. We conceive that these words
~ coukl have conveyed no other mean-
ing to the simple and uncultivated
people, who were set apart to be the
depositories of this great truth, and
who were utterly incapable of under-
standing those hair-breadth distinc-
tions between being and person,
which the sagacity of other ages has
^^discovered."

^tk We have read very few passages of

^"other authors in which we find as

much magisterial tone, sweeping

assertion, profound ignorance of true

philosophy, confusion worse con-

P funded, as in these few lines of
Channing.

Is it possible that Dr. Channing
should call a hair-breadth distinction,
that which lies between essence and
ature, and personality ? We sus-
ct that the distinction between
ese terms being so nice, Dr Chan-
ing never apprehended it ; and
ithout this elementary apprehension
of the most fundamental notions of
ontology, Dr. Channing should have
kept his peace, and never have writ-

ten a book touching mysteries, held
and defended even unto death by
thousands of the sublimest, the pro-
foundest, and the most universal
geniuses of Christianity ; such men
as S. Alhanasius, S. Justin, S. Irenae-
us, S. Hilary, S. Augustine, S. Am-
brose, S. Chrysostom, S. Jerome, S.
Fulgentius, S. Thomas, Bossuel,
F^n^lon, Pascal, Leibnitz, etc. Be-
fore the testimony of such in-
tellectSt even the self-assurance of
Dr. Channing should have hesitated.
Dr. Channing, then, along with all
those who hold his opinion, will be
kind enough to tell us what they mean
by God being one mind, one person,
one intelligent agent. Are these
things attributes, faculties, or acts ?
Let us define the terms, that the dis-
tinction which exists between them
may be more manifest. An attribute
or perfection is a partial conception
of our minds, of a certain nature, and
more particularly of the Infinite. The
idea of the infinite implies all per-
fections. But as our limited minds
cannot apprehend all that is con-
tained in that idea at one intellec-
tual glance, we are forced to appre-
hend it partially, and to divide it
mentally, and to consider each side
apart. The ideas or notions corre-
sponding to all these apprehensions
of the infinite, we call perfections or
attributes. But let it be distinctly
understood ; ontologically, that is^ id
the order of reality, they do not exist
out of, and are not distinct firom, the
essence of the Infinite. A faculty is
the capacity of development in a
being. An act is the transition from
capacity into movement. Now, be-
fore we close with the Unitarians, wc
shall give the definition of individu-
ality and personality as carefully and
intelligibly as we can.

That last termination or comple-
ment of a being, which makes it a
unit, in se^ separated or at least dis-

Catholicity and Pantheism,

Inct from all other beings^ which
[lakes it sui Juris and incommuni-

1 cable to all others, constitutes what

['ontology calls individuality. To

illustrate this definition, let us sup-
pose our body in the two different

I states to which it is subject, when it
is united to our soul, and when it is

•separated from it. It is evident that
when my body is yet united to the

^6oul, it is a corporal substance, but

rnot an individuality, because it has
none of those elements necessary to
constitute individuality. It is not a

I 'unit in se^ neither is it separated from
any other being, because it is united
to the soul, and hence it is commuiii-

'cable ; and above all, it is not sni
juris, since the soul possesses it as
its most intimate and most subordi-
nate organ and instrument. Let us
take the other state of our body,
when the soid has left it

By this very fact, the body becomes

[mn individuality, that is to say, a unit
in sf, distinct and separated from any
other being, sui juris, anrl incom-
municable, So true is this, that
should that body in such a state, un*
dergo any change, or do what we
might improperly call an action, that
change or action would be attributed
to it, and to it alone.

For instance, suppose that body
should fall and crush by its weight
some living creature, we should say

I- that body has killed that crea-
ture, because it is an individuality ;
whereas, suppose that same body*
possessed of the soul, falling at night
out of bed, should kill by its weight
that living creature, we could no
longer say that body has killed, but
we should say that man fell last night
out of his bed, and killed, for in-

I'stancc, his child ; because the union
of the body with the soul as its most
Intimate organ, deprives it of its in-
dividuality, and consequently of soli-
darity.

Personalit)' adds ta (»dividi»%
the element of intelligence, and eoft-
sequently of self-con sciousnesa.

A person, therefore, is a scbftasioe*
possessed of intelligence am) s^
consciousness, forming a unit w st,
and hence being distinct (rum aO
others, having the ownership of hinKj
self, sui juris, and being the prindpl *
of imputability for all his actioai.

If these notions, on which dc^lf
the whole field of ontology, which )A
the foundation of moralitV, of all so
cial and political rights of man, oi
which the very* bliss and uUinuie
perfection of man rest — if such is^
tions are hair-breadth distinctKMU^
we thank God that we are endowei
with intelligence enough to appn
hend them ; else, were a ni;»n to rr..-.'
row to force us into slaver}% on xht
plea that we are only things, and not
persons, we should be at a loss how
to stop him, not being able, like
Channing, to apprehend our own per-
sonal it)% that supreme gift whidi
makes us feel master and owner of
ourselves and accountable for wa
actions.

Having premised these notions,
say the Unitarians, who grant thi
the Infinite is endowed with intcUi'
gence and will, must admit one of|
these three things : either the intcll
gence and will are perfections or »l
tributes, or they are faculties, or ihey'
are persons. If they admit them to
be perfections, tliey divide the lofi-
nite ; if they admit them to be facul
lies, they Till into pantheism.

This is what we are going to
in the following propositions.

First proposition : If inteUigencC^
and will were admitted to be mere
perfections in God, the admission
would imply n division in God and a
breaking up of the Infinite,

Before we proceed to prove thill
proposition, we premise that in lh<
argument we lake intelligence and

If,

Catlwlicity mid Pantheism,

66i

will in action, and not in potential'
ity; in otlier words, we take them
as acts, and not as faculties.

The reason is because, as we shall
prove, there can be no faculties or
potentiality in the Infinite. This pre-
mised, we lay down the undoubted
ontological truth that between intel-
ligence in act and the conception or
interior logos ^ the result of intelli-
gencing, there is and must be a real
distinction. In other words, the in*
tellect in act and the conception of
the intellect necessarily imply a du-
ality.

The reason of this is evident
First, because between the intellect
in action and conception there is ne-
cessarily an opposition. The intel-
lect in actj is such, inasmuch as it is
not conception, and vkc versa. Now,
a real opposition implies, necessarily,
a real distinction. Again, the con-
^ception or interior logos is to the jn-
ellect in action as the effect is to its
'cause, or, better, as tlie consequence
is to its principle.

If, therefore, there were no real
distinction between the intellect and
tlie conception, there would be no
real distinction between the effect
and its cause, the principle and its
consequence. Hence, thinking and
thought are necessarily distinct.
What is true of the act of thinking
and of thought is true of the will and
its volilwn, for the same reason.
lence it is evident that the intellect
action, thought or the conception,
be will in action and its volition, are
necessarily distinct by their very on-
[)logical nature and relation. It fol-
3ws, then, that if we admit Uiem to
[l»e mere perfections of the Infinite,
re would imply a real distinction
I the essence of the Infinite, in other
rords, a duaUt)^ of essence ; because
perfection in the Infinite is identi-
with essence, since we have said
aat perfections have no real exist-

ence in r<r, and are only partial con-
ceptions of our minds, which cannot
take in the Infinite at one intellectual
glance.

Intelligence in action and concep-
tion, therefore, being considered as
perfections, would be identical with
the essence ; and they requiring, in
force of their metaphysical nature, a
real distinction, die distinction would
fall upon the essence of tlie Infinite.
Any one versed in ontology will per-
ceive this truth at a glance. Hence»
Unitarians cannot say that the intel-
ligence and the conception of the in-
telligence, the will and love in the
Infinite, are mere perfections* with-
out admitting a real distinction in
the essence of the Infinite, and thus
admitting a multiplicity of Infinites,
which is absurd.

Second proposition : If Unitarians
rank the intellect and thought, the
will and its volition, of the infinite
among faculties, they then fall into
pantheism.

Ontology, as we have said, defines
a faculty to be a force of develop-
ment by union with its object.

Its notion implies three elements :

1. A force residing dormant in a
being.

2. An object

3. A union of tJie force with the
object, to render the development
actual.

Applying this idea to the subject
in question, ever}^ one can see at a
glance that a faculty cannot be pre-
dicated of the Infinite without falling
into pantheism.

For it would be to admit in God a
force of development, a capacity of
unfolding, of actualizing himself.

Now, every faculty of development
necessarily begins, from the mini-
mum degree of actuality, to travel by
progressive stages of unfolding to an
indefinite maximum of progression.
Hence, in the supposition, we should

662

Catholicity and Pantheism.

be forced to admit that God started
from the minimum of life and action,
and that he travelled through tium-
berless stages of development, and
will travel indefinitely through higher
stages in the direction of a maximum
of progress never to be attained.
Now, this is almost verbatim the
pantheistic theory of Hegel.

Every one who has read Hegel will
have obsen^ed that his idea of the
Infinite coincides perfectly with the
above. For he starts from a mini-
mum of real it)^, the Being, Idca^ which,
through a necessary interior move-
ment, becomes mattefi organism, ani*
mality, intelligence, etc.

It would not do for Unitarians to
say that the argument does not ap-
ply to their system, since they admit
a substance already existing and per-
fect as to being, only endowed with
faculties. For, in the supposition,
they would admit a finite, not an in-
finite being.

In a finite being we can conceive
one already perfect in the order of
existence, w^ith facuUies or force of
accidental development. But we
cannot say the same of the Infinite.
The positive infinite, so to speak, is
essentially actuality itself; hence,
perfection itself, all terms which ex-
clude and eliminate every possibility
of development If it be not that it
must be the Infinite of pantheism, a
mere abstraction and unrealit)'.

From what we have said, we con-
clude :

First, that the mysterj^ of the Tri-
Bily is essentially necessary to the
idea of God ; that there can be no
conception of Infinite actualit}^ but
through the supposition of three dis-
tinct terminations of the same es-
sence.

Secondly, that Unitanaos are ib-
solutely powerless before pantheiit
nay, that their system is dtsgui
pantheism ; and that by holding
only to the unity of God, they sap
very foundation of the reality of the
Infinite.

The Infinite is essenttatly Mvii^
A living God is essentially cooOGfiiC
himself by intellect A subjective
conception necessarily implies an ob-
jective conception. These two are
absolutely and necessarily opposii
to each other, and hence, really dis-
tinct. Again» a living God, who ne-
cessarily conceives hinnseff, neoessi^
rily loves himself through his con*
ception. Again, subjective love ne-
cessarily implies an objective loD'e,
and the two are essentially oppo$«4
and hence distinct

Thus we have three real distiod
relations in the Infinite, a coiKcivYt;
a conception, and love.

On the one hand, these three rtlt^
tions cannot be either perfectiooi of
faculties ; on the other, they cannol
be denied of the Infinite without
stroying the vcr>^idea of the Infinil
It follows, then, that they should
three terminations of the same
sence.

The act of intelligence in God i*
so actual and perfect as to be in ihf
very same slate of personality inld-
ligence itself. The production o i^
this act is also so actual and perfcd^|
as to be conception itself, a pensoa-
ality distinct from the first. Lore,
the necessary production of both tli<
intelligence and the conception, b
also so actual and perfect, as to be
love itself in a state of personality*
three distinct subsistences of the
same one infinite essence.

(1 Vi

nitlH

Heremore-Brandon.

663

HEREMORE-BRANDON ; OR, THE FORTUNES OF A
NEWSBOY.

CHAPTER IV,

In the beautiful dawn Dick awoke,
hardly remembering where he was,
and almost frightened at the wonder-
Hil absence of many noises which
had never before failed to greet his
waking. Not knowing whether it
were ver)^ late or very early, Dick took
the safest view of the subject, and hur-
riedly dressed himself ; then, cautious-
ly opening his door, he looked out
to see if there was any sign to giride
his further movements. All was
silent around him ; but the hall door
stood wide open, letting in a scjuare
of golden sunshine at the foot of the
stairs. , He went carefully and
noiselessly down, and found himself,
when he reached the porch, in a
flood of glorious light. The flowers
that hung above the porch were
sparkling in it, for the dew was yet
esh on all the world ; a thousand
is were carolling songs of exul-
ation from every tree, while the
cool, fragrant morning air came to
him in the freshest, purest breezes that
ever were known.

■ Even the pebbles, from which the
^un had not yet kissed away a single
dew-drop, were sparkling like jewels
as Dick approached them on his
way to the little rustic gate under
the evergreen arch. He stood lean-
ing over it a long time, looking down
the cool, shadowy lane, his heart join-
ing in the joyous morning hymn of na-
ture, for the first time heard.

He was standing by the gate, en-
joying all, when new voices reached
his ears — human voices — and the
children all at once came rushing
from the garden at the back of the
house, in a tumult of delight, sur-

rounding hira almost before they
were aware of his presence, so intent
were they upon their mission to the
village.

** Me doing to the 'tore !" exclaim-
ed little Trot, rubbing her hands.
** Me dot a pocket.*'

Which double hint Dick took at
once by putting pennies in the
" pocket,** much to her delight and
the older ones* annoyance.

" For shame. Trot I" said Will,
*' that's as bad as asking ; and you
can't go to the store either ; youll
get wet, the grass is all wet. 'Tan't
00 good for girls \ you stay home."

Whereupon Trot rubbed her brown
little lists in her eyes, and loudly be-
wailed her misery in being only a
girl, showing also that she had a
will of her own that by no means ac-
knowledged this big boy as its lord
and master, Dick attempted to
show him that whereas Troths dresa
was already a finger deep with wet
from the long grass through which
she had been tramping all the morn-
ing so farj it couldn't make much
difference if it got a little wetter.
But Will was firm, and Trot inap-
peasable, until, much to our hero's,
relief, the noise brought out Rose,
who was greatly ashamed of Trot
for making **such a time before the
strange gentleman,'* and ver}^ firmly
decided for Will, In some magic
way she sent the boy portion unen-
cumbered by any of the weaker sex, .
on their way rejoicing, found some-
thing for the girls to do, and look
Trot's hand so resolutely that not a
sob was ventured by that small maid-
en, so that there was again peace in
the land.

Then came breakfast, with a ftir-

664

Herimore-Branthn.

tber display of clean calico, a great
deal of laughing and merry talk, but
in a less leisurely way than at
tea, for tlie day's work was be-
fore not behind them. Breakfast
finished, the children, our hero,
Rose, and Rose's bosom friend,
Clara Hays, were sent ofT to pick
berries in the w^oods. Half the
morning they were in getting started ;
for ever}^body spoke at once, and
everybody hurried and detained
everybody else. There were at least
a dozen false starts. As soon as sev-
en got to the gate, Trot and Minnie
were reported missing; no sooner
were Trot and Minnie secured, than
3ome one else was out of the way.
But at last they got fairly off, and
went dovvn the lane in great glee ;

[' the children swinging their pails and
baskets in advance, and running
^bick ever)^ two minutes to give some
■fftltiable information about the road
or the woods or the berries, or some-
thing equally important Rose, Clara,
and Dick brought up the rear in
a manner that showed they had a be-
coming sense of the responsibility
thrown upon them as the elders of
the party.

What they did all day in the
woods, how many brooks they cross-
ed, who fell in and was fished out
with much laughter ; how little Trot
got in everj'body's way, and ate the
•others' berries as fast as they were
picked ; how the children met other

(* children on the road ; how often all
parties rested, and teased each

[•-other, and compared the quantity

Keach had picked ; and whether Dick.

j*who had soon got over his awkward-

''oess, put his berries into Clara's

pail or into Rose's basket, I am not

I able to relate. I only know they re-

limed at evening very noisy and

very tired ; and that Rose had a

I larger stock than any other one of

^the whole party ; and that as she

took off her broad-biiauned
hat, and pushed back the
curls from her face, this yociag
did not go up at once to wash off
the purple berry stains from her
hands, and to put on the pretty blue
muslin with its tiny bit of lace around
the neck, but lingered to hear the chil
dren, each interrupting tli£ otkr,
until they were nearly all talking it
once, tdl Mr. and Mrs. Stoffe and
Mrs. Alaine the day's advcnttJT&
Dick, too, had somewhat to relik,
and glanced at Kose while be l;^
it, although it was only what the
children had told twice over already,
how Mr. Dick — it had come to tbii
with the children^ — dkln't know i
turkey from a goose^ and had calld
things by their wrong nanus :l'
day; whereat Rose laughed wlihi:.!:
rest, and then ran up to batJie hcf
glowing cheeks in time to help get
tea.

When she came down, she foqad
the children in the same eager ci*
citemenl, following the two woimii
from kitchen to cellar, Croro die
closet to the table, still telling abod
the big snake they were sure ihcf
had seen run across the path just
before them, and the rabbits, and
what Minnie had said, and '' '

done, and Chariey had iht
all which the listeners gave an attm*
tive ear. laughing when there wis
need, and surprised at the proper
moment. At tea, the day io Ihc
woods continued to furnish food fef
animated discussion, and neither
Rose nor Dick looked as if the sub-
ject were a tiresome one.

** And how did my little Trot gel
along ?" asked Uncle Carl ; but Trot,
who was tired, and cross, and impa-
tient for her piece of cake^ made no
answer.

** Trot tumbled into the wafter,"
said Will ; " she alw.iys tumbles Ja."

Then Trot who couldn't bear to be

Heremore-B randan.

teased, looked as if she were about

to ct*)', but was appeased by a word
or two from Rose, and Carl asked
who pulled her out.

"Oh ! I did," answered Will rea-
dily ; " I and Mr. Dick/*

"I see that Mn Dick is ver)' p^ood
to you/' said Mrs. Stoffs, with a kind
smile toward our hero, who colored

»and looked his delight.
"I don't think we can get along
without Mr. Dick any more, can
wer

The children declared they could
not, and Dick was as pleased as if he
had just taken a degree ; but Rose

■said nothing about the matter.
Well, that was a merry, merry week ;
there were so many things needed,
and such long walks were required
through the woods, and over the
hills, and even down to the beach,
in order to procure them, while every
errand took all day to perform, that
Dick learned to walk on the soft
^Mp^ass without stumbling ; even to
^Poiter slowly along by Rose's side,
not often looking to see where he
placed his feet ; and the children
were such good tutors that he learn-
ed the names of the birds and ani-
mals and insects that came in his
way, and knew where there had been
the best cherries in the spring, where
there would be the best place for
nutting in the fall, and when the
grapes would be ripe, "If only he
could be here !**

If only he could be here ! But a
iRreek is only a week, and it will end.
If it has a life-time in its seven days.
The last day had come, and they all
knew it ; there had been a better
dinner. "Mr. Dick's last dinner
with us, you know," they had said
to each other ; and something more
than sw^eet-cakcs and peaches for
tea, for ** to-morrow Mr. Dick will
not be here." But, for all their con-
sideration, Mr. Dick hardly knew

that night if he were eating sweet*
cakes or bitter bread.

It was a very quiet evening that
followed the last tea at Caflton. The
children were more silent than usual ;
even Trot was not proof against the
indescribable feeling that settles over
a group from which one is about to
take his departure. She climbed
into Dick's lap, and^ — ^an uncommon
thing with that restless maidens-did
not offer to leave her position all
those long twilight hours. When
Miss Brandon rode by — as I forgot
to state she did at twilight every'
evening — her beautiful pony, her long
dress, her hat with its drooping fea-
ther, her veil fluttering in the evening
breeze, her buff gauntlets, and her
silver handled riding-whip — things
which had set the whole flock in
commotion before — were hardly
commented upon. When Mr. Ir-
ving, so tall and princely, left her
side for a moment, and, coming
close to the gate, called after Will,
it was found Rose had forgotten the
usual bouquet of flowers for the la-
dies, and had to beg the gentleman
to wait. Rose felt very guilty j but
Dick endeavored to console her by
saying that, without doubt, Mr. Ir-
ving was glad to have a little more
time with such a beautiful young
lady as Miss Brandon ; and then
fell to praising Miss Mary vehe-
mently — how beautiful she was, how
gracious and pleasant to all, and yet
always remembering she was a grand
young lady. Rose thought it very
easy to be good and pleasant when
people are rich and beautiful ; and
then Dick tried to comfort her again,
and perhaps with better success than
before ] for her only answer was a si-
lent act of contrition for the envious
thought that had flitted across her
mind. Then, still in silence, she cut
the flowers that she could hardly
more than guess at in the gathering

666

Herimort-l

twilight Dick was silent, too ; and
yet there was a great deal he would
like to have said, even though he
little su5pected diat all he had so far
made clear to her was that Miss
Brandon was to him like an angel in
a picture, or a heroine in some old
romance, and that, beside her silent
act of contrition, poor little Rose's
heart had given one great throb, and
had then made an act of resignation
beside* But Dick found voice to ask
for a good-by flower, which Rose
gave ; and it may be there were
spoken then a few words of more
solemn meaning, such as will come
when two people, young and fresh,
find their skies suddenly glowing
above them, and their hearts full of
grateful praise to God, who has
made life so sweet. And it may be
that little Rose, who said her pray-
ers so regularly for all sinners and
for all who are tempted, said a few
broken, bashful words, exhorting
Dick to goodness even in the midst
of the '' snares of the great city," and
ihat he eagerly caught the words as
they fell, promised her never to for-
get them, and inwardly made a quick
cry for God*s grace to let him die
then rather than do aught to offend
him who had showered such bless-
ings upon him. It may be, too, that
Rose — die simple hearted maiden —
was sure he would never break the
promise, and that their goodby there
was a request and a promise each to
pray for the other. But if so, it was
not said in long paragraphs, with
flowing periods ; for Rose was too
conscientious to detain Mr. Irving a
moment longer than needful

But I am afraid Rose had to makt
another act of contrition that night ;
for when Will brought her the money
for the flowers — the garden was her
own — she would not take it^ but told
him to divide it among the children,
himself, of course. Included. Dick

thought it very generous of her ; 1 u:
1 have my own opinioQ about tli^L
Too soon for aII tlie last **good»
nights" were said, and Dick kneir
he had spent out his last eveoing m
Carlton for who could tell how Jong?
Yet his dreams were not sad. If he
did not actually believe he was riding
on a splendid great horse, by the side
of a fair damsel on a while pony, dotira
the shadowy lane, into the br
of the future ; that he had g
a home for life, and a load of to)"S to
the children, with, perhaps, an up-
lifung of his heart, and a readiness
to bear whatever life should bnof
him worthy of a faithful Christian,
I think it was something *• very hloe
it''

The next morning there was a btir
ried breakfast, after which they all
went to the little yellow station*house
to see him off, and w\ived tTi ' *
and handkerchiefs until tJie i I
out of sight. A little longer, and
they had returned in a rambling pfo-^
cession home, each with some rt^|
membrance of him to tell the other,
while he was in the city at ^ork oiicae
more, but as a different Dick Hete-
more from the one who had said good>
by, not without emotion, to his sk>*
venly landlady,

CHAPTER V,

When Christmas came arc
again, and made the first br
in the routine of his life after hb]
ever-memorable visit to the country,^
Dick, now no longer a follower at a. J
distance of that Sunday morning
crowd, but a devout and well in-
structed Catholic, to whom all the
glory and grandeur of the Clmstmas
lights and flowers, the music a»d tJie
bells, were no longer mysteries ; afto'
hearing the grand high mass — ooc
the only one he had heard that day
— turned down Fourteenth street, {

Heremore-Brandan*

667

cording to the custom of many years,
in order that he might pass the Bran-
dons' house, which had ever held a
charm for him, since on its broad
steps he had first seen the beauty
and loveliness of charity. But he
was not thinking just then of Miss
Bratidon, nor of his newsboy days,
nor yet of the fast approaching hour
w^hen he should present himself at
Carl Stoffs's table, in a quarter of the
city very different from this, where
he was to eat his piece of Christmas
turkey. His thoughts, I am afraid,
will seem wild ones; but he was
young, it was Christmas-day, he had
just come from that glorious mass,
and the world seemed so small and
easy to conquer to one who had
heard the *' glad tidings," so that he
may be forgiven for dreaming, in a
less prosaic and unspiritual man-
ner than I can tell you, of a time
when he would eat his Christmas
dinner neither at a boarding-house
nor at another man's board, but
would carve his own Christmas tur-
key, at his own table. Of what-
ever he was Uiinking, he did not
faii to notice the house, and to
glance upward when he came to tlie
stoop where he — was it really he,
that' rough, shaggy, ragged little
newsboy, ignorant and dirty ? —
where he had, for the first time in
his hard young life, heard a voice
address him kindly ; and his glance
changed to a steady gaze of surprise
when his eye caught a name on the
door-plate that was not Brandon.
He looked at the number^ — that was
a!l right, but the old name was gone.
He was perplexed, and walked ab-
sently backward and forward for seve-
ral moments.

•*Then Mr. Stoffs was right," he
said, ** and he "(meaning Mr. Bran-
don) ** has had to come down a peg
or two, or he would not have given
up his house at this season. I

wonder where they have gone
now/'

He remembered, at this moment,
that none of the family had been at
Ames & Harden*3 during the whole
fall, and that he had not seen Miss
Brandon since she and Mr. Irving
had ridden down the lane for the
flowers that Rose had forgotten to
have ready at the usual hour. It so
happened that, remembering the ne-
glected flowers, why they had been
forgotten, and how the negligence
had been repaired, Dick's thoughts
strayed from the graceful figure of
the beautiful lady, who had seemed
to him more magnilicent and gentle
than a vision, and turned to another
figure, not tall nor stately — to another
face, not grand nor graciously sweet.

But when he met Mr. and Mrs,
StotTs. almost the first words he said
were,

** I went by the house on Four-
teenth street to-day, and Mr. Bran-
don's name was off the door. I had
not heard of their going away.^*

'* Its long ago, though," said Mr.
Stoffs.

"Is it any difficulty made them
leave their old house ?" asked Dick.

*' There's been no end of difficul-
ties," answered the German, puffing
out great clouds of smoke between
every sentence. *' Things were bad
enough last summer^ and when Mrs.
Brandon died — "

"Mrs, Brandon dead I" exclaimed
Dick.

'* Oh I I forgot that was after you
left ; it was quite an excitement The
horses ran away one night — those
same stylish bays of which she was
so proud — when she and her daughter
were returning from some party, and
she was dead before morning,"

** And Miss Brandon ?" Dick could
hardly ask, his terror of the answer
was so great.

"Miss Brandon," answered Mr.

668

JSrS^fHOflP^SftiHCwftn

Stoffs in a formal way, and puffing
out greater clouds of smoke than
ever, '^ Miss* Brandon was ill for
some days, and they were afraid
would never get over the shock j your
fine ladies are so nervous !"

" Miss Brandon is not that kind,**
said Dick hastily, vexed by the con-
temptuous tone of his friend's re-
mark. ** And Idon*t believe fin^ la-
dies are any more — ^more — fussy than
others."

*'I suppose you know them well
enough to be a certain judge,'* said
Carl, who seemed in a \'txy ugly hu-
mor,

*' Of course I don't know one in
the world," answered Dick, with con-
siderable animation and a deeper
color in his face. *' But I can*t see
the good of always running down
people, just because they happen to
be richer than ourselves."

** Hush ! now,'* interposed Mrs.
jStofiTs, as her husband was about an-
|fi%veringi ** or no dinner shall you have
lis day. I will not let you two quar-
rel"

** You were going to tell me about
Mr. Brandon's difficulties,** suggest-
ed Dick \'QTy gently, after both he
and Mr. S toffs had assured their
peacemaker that they were never in
belter humor toward each other,
" You were going to tell me about
Mn Brandon's difficulties."

** Yes. His wife she died» and it
was found he had used all her mo-
ney and had lost it, as he had his
own ; there was a failure and every-
thing w;is sold out, and so — there's
an end of him.**

"Did he leave New-York r

** I don't know. Who asks what
has become of a one-time rich man
after the bubble has burst ?**

" I think I heard he wanted some
situation to start life again/* said
Mrs. StofFs. "Poor man r'

Mns. Stoffs was right* Mr. Bran-

don had tried to start zg^m \ but
had been a hard man in his daj^
prosperity, and an UDtaithful loait,
he would not be as he was now ;
so, many who heartily pitied htm
his family for their fall, and mh
would willingly have given them as-
sistance out of their own pockets^ dii
not feel justified in giving him a
sition that could be better filled
some man in whom they coiild tJUSt
Thus among all his rich friends* not
one of whom felt unkindly toward
him, there was none to pusJi Kim a
plank with which to save himself Crom
drowning.

Dick had learned all that hb hosts
could tell, and knowing well how
fearfully rapid is a man*s fall whc3i
once he is over tlie precipice of Cd^
ure, his heart was heavier than it
ever been for troubles of his owiuj
He sought to sustain his part in the"
conversation, feeling that a silent
guest seems scliish and ungratcibi,
and tried to laugh as heartily at his
friend's jokes as ever \ but it was m
without an effort, and his friends
were keen and saw tiiat he was trou-
bled.

" I do not like it," Carl grunted in
his deepest tones, that Christmas-
night after Dick had gone and the
children were asleep ; ** I do not like
it''

"You must not think too hardly
of him," answered Mrs. Stoffs, wh<v
with tliat sort of perception women
obtain when they become wH^eSy
knew her husband referred to Dick's
troubled manner, the anxious way
in which he had asked about Miss
Brandon, and his hot resenting of
CarVs careless words. " You are too
hard on him,'' said Mrs. Sloflls, not
because she did not equally disUke it
all, but because tliere would be no
conversation between them if old
married folks were always to agree.

" Fine ladies, indeed 1" muttered

Heremore-Brandon.

669

Mn StoflTs, pu(Bng away harder than
ever. ** Miss Brandon — what for
should he care if Miss Brandon was
hurt, more than for any other lady?'*
** She is poor enough now," said
Mrs. Stoffs musingly, "It would
not be so strange now ;*' and under
her breath she sighed^ " Poor Rose !"
** Not that he has one thought of
^uch a thing,** Carl went on consist-
ently ; ** you women always get such
ideas into your heads.'*
1^ Mrs. Stoffs, being an experienced
^■wife, raised no question about the
^■l>wnership of the "ideas," whatever
^Blhey were, but sat looking into the
^^fire for a long time before she spoke
again, and then it was to say, " After
all, I am glad we were too poor to
^^have Rose come up for Christmas.*'
^V " If she would not be satisfied with
^^what we hadj so am I," grumbled Mr.

Stoftk
^K ** I was not thinking of that," an-
^Pfirwered his wife mildly.

" I know Heremore*s never such a
fool as to be thinking of one so much
above him as Miss Brandon," remark-
ed Mr. Stoffs.

"She is not above him now that
they are poor," answered his wife,

** It isn't the money that made the
difference/* said Carl rather impa-
tiently, *' it's the habits that money
gives. 7'hatVs what is the matter.
Miss Brandon may not be half worthy
of him, and yet he would be mad to
^■ihink of her ; it is misery when peo-
^^>1e marry out of their rank, misery
to both."

"But if they love each other?"
suggested his wife.

"That only makes the matter
irorse ; he knows not her ways. She
ias a language that is not his ; if
liey did nut care, they could go their
ways, and seek their own. I
llink Heremore is a great fool • I

" I don't believe he has a thought

of such a thing," said Mrs, Stoffe ;
but there was a manifest question in
her voice.

"If he has, he* 11 rue the day he
thought of it first," said her husband
emphatically ; and there the conver-
sation ended ; but when Mrs. Stoffs
wTote again to Mrs. Alaine, which
she did not do for some time — for to
write a letter was an event in the
honest woman's life— she thought
proper to give her sister a hint of
that which they had obser\^ed ; and
Mrs. Alaine, in her turn, thought
proper to convey the hint, in the
form of information, to Rose, who,
however, answered readily,

" Love Miss Brandon ? Well,
mamma, and why shouUJn't he.***

" Because Miss Brandon is not in
the same class of life that he is,
dear.*'

" I am sure Mr. Heremore is bet-
ter off than her father is now," urged
Rose ; " for he has a regular salary,
and Mr, Brandon has nothing left,
and nobody will give him any
place.**

" No doubt, my child ; but it b
not money that makes the difference.
Miss Brandon has her ideas of life
now just as she had them when she
was rich ; and Mr. Heremore is
what he is, and would not be differ-
ent if he were suddenly made a mil-
lionaire,*'

So Rose said no more.

While Mr. and Mrs. Stoffs were
thus disturbed about him, Dick, un-
conscious of any cause he had given
for their disquietude, was walking
slowly and thoughtfully home.
" Where was that little Mary with
her fair hair and gent!e smile this
cold Christmas night ?" was the
question lie kept putting to himself.
It was a clear, bright night, with the
moon shining on the pavements and
the frozen earth, not at all such a
night as that during which he had

6/0

Heremotr- Bran Jen.

slept by her father's steps, and there
was no fear that her fair head was
shelterless \ but still it was very sad
to think of her, whose Christmas days
had been such pleasatit ones, in
mourning for her mother, and per-
haps in troubles such as those which
men hear, but shudder to see, cloud'
ing the girlish youth that is so short,
and should be so sunny.

"With God's help V\\ find them
out before to-morrow night if they
are in this city," said Dick to him-
self, and then walked on more rap-

idly.

And he kept his word, though not
without much trouble ; and within
twenty-four hours he stood in front
of the wretched boarding-house to
which poverty and sickness had al-
ready reduced the family that, a few
months before, had never dreamed of
die meaning of want.

But though he had found them
out and stood before their door,
Dick had done and could do noth-
ing to lessen th«ir trouble. Mr.
Brandon had not seemed more un-
approachable when, a rich man, he
scowled and said hard words to the ill-
dressed errand-boy — than he now did
to the simple clerk, though Dick him-
self was richer now than was the once
rich merchant. Miss Brandon was,
in his eyes, now no less a lady, be-
longing to a sphere far above him,
than she had been when, in all the
glory of Wi^alih, youth, and beauty,
he had seen her ride down to the
StotTs's cottage to buy flowers for her
hair. It seemed to him greater pre-
sumption for him to tliink of ap-
proaching her now tlian tt would
have been then, so he passed and
repassed her door, grieved for her
trouble, but more grieved, if possible^
that he, with his youth and strength,
should be powerless to give her one
grain of comfort. How often and
ofleni as he had watched her — she all

s naaj

unconscious of htm and his ,
reverence — ^in her days of |
had he dreamed of her as Vk

damsel of olden romance in sonc <
tress, and thought that
knight rushed more joyously i
potently to the rescue
to hers. Now his dr^
to pass — she was a damsel in wtt
distress; but where was his prmdnc
steed, his burnished armor, his mdjf
lance? Then, as he
membrance of his Xk-
suddenly thought of Mr. Ining,
gentleman— just a boy's ideal ofagil'
lant knight — whom he had seen m
often with Miss Brandon in the coim
try. He recollected well the mguiiT
bearing of that ''perfect gentleman,'
whom he and Rose had looked U|iob
as a veritable Sir Launcelot ; he 1
seen many an act or**gemlc cour
shown in a grave, tender way, fa I
fair lady by whose side he alwt
rode ; and where was he now tb
that fair lady needed her kntght
never before ?

There was nothing morbid ar
ter about Dick. When he as
himself that question, it was wia
no tliought of the common judgment '
pronounced upon ** summer friends."
He recognized Mr. lrving*s right to
aid and comfort the family of bis
former host. He knew that be bad
wealth, position, character, and, <rf
course, ample influence, and not for
an instant doubted tliat he would
use every means in his power to be-
friend Mr. Brandon, if only for the
sake of that beautiful daughter whoa
he so evidently admired. Whcr
then, was Mr. Irving ? If he ha
been here, all this could not haf
happened. But as Dick asked hill
Sflf this, it did not occur to him Xh%i
Mary thought as he thought : if Mr.
Irving had been here, alt this would
not have happened*

At last Dtck» fuUy convinced tluiC

PorUf^s Human Intellect.

671

he would be guilty of no presump-
tion in speaking his mind to Mr. Irv-
ing on this subject, cheerfully turned
his steps homeward, and resolved
that the first moment he had of his
own should be spent in seeking Mr.
Irving, and informing him of what he
could not now be aware of, the down-
fall of the Brandons. For the fall of
the Brandons, as he heard from one or
two who knew, had been very great,
very rapid, and, it was feared, was not
yet completed. Mr. Brandon had nev-
er held his head up since his failure,
but dragged around, shabbily dressed,
querulous and half-sick, dejected and
clearly miserable. His two sons had
been given very poor situations, on
very niggardly pay, by a relative in
another city, who, having always been
odiously cringing to Mr. Brandon
when he had money, seemed to de-
light now in heaping humiliations
upon his sons. So great a crime it
was in his eyes to be better bred,
better educated, and more kindly
cared for than were his own rude,
blustering, ignorant boys. If only

Fred and Joe had been taught
whence come adversity and prospe-
rity, doubtless these humiliations
would have been crowns of glory for
them j but theirs had been only a
vague, dreamy sort of faith, which
they never suspected had any appli-
cation to their real life. I dare say
they were very idle, useless, self-con-
ceited and aggravating boys ; but I
can't help feeling sorry for them in
their troubles. Miss Brandon, Dick
was told, had not recovered her
strength since the accident, and
however well she might have been,
with all her accomplishments, could
not have done more than she was
now doing: giving music-lessons to
a few persons residing near her new
home.

But all hope of seeing Mr. Irving
faded the first thing the next day;
for Dick's questions brought the un-
welcome information that he had left
home in October for two years* travel
in Europe, and Dick, of course, could
not presume to write to him.

PORTER'S HUMAN INTELLECT.*

This formidable volume is, unless
we except Professor Hickok's work
on Rational Psychology ^ the most con-
siderable attempt that has been made
among us to construct a philosophy
of the human understanding. Pro-
fessor Porter is able, patient, indus-
trious, and learned. He knows the
literature of his subject, and has no lit-

* The Human InUlUct ; with mn JtUr^tbtctUn
upon Psychohgy and Uu Soul. By Noah Porter,
D.D., Clark Professor of Moral Philosophy and Metsi-
phystcsin YaleCoUese. New- York: Scnbocr&Ca
x868. Svo, pp. 673.

tie facility and fairness in seizing and
setting forth the commanding points
in the views and theories of oth-
ers ; but, while he shows great fami-
liarity with metaphysical and psycho-
logical questions, and some justness
and delicacy as an analyzer of facts,
he seems to us to lack the true phi-
losophical instinct, and that synthe-
tic grasp of thought which seizes fleets
in their principles and genetic rela-
tions, and reduces them to a dialec-
tic whole, without which one cannot
be a philosopher.

672

Porters Humatt Inteltcct,

The professor's book is a hard
book for us to read» and still harder
for us to understand. Its raechani-
cal aspect^ with three or four differ-
ent sizes of t)^ on the same page,
is repulsive to us, and prejudices us
against it. It is not absolutely dull,
but it is mther heav}', and it requires
resolution to read it It has nothing
attractive or enlivening, and it deals
so much with particulars and details
that it is difficult for the reader to
cjirr>- what he reads along in his me-
mory. Even when ive have in our
minds what the author actually says^
it IS not easy to understand it, or de-
termine which of several possible
meanings he adopts. Not that his
laiiguage, thotigh seldom exact or
precise, and disfigured occasionaUy
by needless barbarisms, and a ter-
minology which we hope is not ]ret
in good iisage^ is not dear enough
for any one accustomed to phtloso-
pMcal studies, nor is It that his sen-
leooes are mvolved and haid 10 be
oottstrued, or thai his stalieHieiits,
laled stataBMnls;, are not
iNil it b hard to defter-
mine their meaning and vahie from
his point of viev, and in i^tatioii to
his system as a whole. Hb book is
composed of |iatticiilars» of mifwte

teOUCUOQ «Q IBC

generate^

know that I know? With afl ddff
ence to the Fichteans, we teoont %
assert that there is and can be m
science of knowing separaie fam
the science of things, distinct tai
and independent of the anfef^
knowing. We know, says all tbt,
we know that we know, »ys* Ht
who knows, knows that he koiias;
and if one were to doubt fhil knop-
ing is knowing, we most let Im
doubt, for we have oqIj kooM|
with which to prove that knomis ii
knowing.

We can hy no possthle vm^
mjcal dissection of the eye, or pl^
ological description of its fuiietiim
explain the secret c^ external viiifla
We are told that we s» xtcmil

objects themselves, bu ctnM

painted by the I^C 011 tii-c retiiii
and it is only by them that w^ afff^
hend visible objects. But »ippo»i
so, it bfings Qs no nearer to the f/t
ciet of vision. How do we see tk
pkrtnre I How by means of tbe |i&
ture a fi pt ehan d the external obyeet?
Yet tte man who se^ knows be seeib
and all that can be sajd is, that P
elieit the risaal act there amst bt
the vistte sufa j ect, Uie visible object
andthei^ght which mediates betweca

b it «jlh lafclkctml visaoau Wc naf

der which we know, bat die knomi
imdf is in IB aa tBeapficahle omiefy:
Ko&sectiaa or twaffihle ins^ectiOB
of the sottl Oft rapfalp is. or thaw
Aekast^iPtfooiL AB that can be
sald^te in the fKt oTkacMda^

iee^ the i niil||JhlL olsiect, a^a thr

ptOiemaj

^ I

Portals Human InUUtct.

knowledge, are not only useless, but
worse than useless ; for, dealing with
abstractions which have no existence
in nature, and treating them as if real,
they mislead and perplex the student,
and render obscure and doubtful what
without them is clear and certain.

Professor Porter is a psychologist,
and places all the activity in the fact
of knowledge on the side of the soul,
even in the intuition of principles, with-
out which the soul can neither exist,
nor think, nor feel. His purpose in his
Introduction is to establish the unity
and immateriality — spirituality, he
says, of the soul against the material-
ists — and to vindicate psychology not
only as a science, but as an inductive
science. With regard to the unity
and immateriality of the soul, we
hold with the professor, though they
are not provable or demonstrable by
his method ; and we recognize great
truth and force in his criticisms on
materialism, of which we have to de-
plore in the scientific world, and even
in popular literature, the recrude-
scence. That psychology is, in a se-
condary sense, a science, we do not
deny ; but we do deny that it is eith-
er " the prima philosophiay^ as the
professor asserts, or an inductive
science, as he endeavors to prove.

All the inductive sciences are se-
condary sciences, and presuppose a
first science, which is strictly the sci-
ence of the sciences. Induction, the
professor himself maintains, has need
of certain first principles, or a priori
assumptions, which precede and
validate it. How can psychology be
the prima philosophia^ or first phi-
losophy, when it can be constructed
only by borrowing its principles from
a higher or prior science ? Or how
can it be the first philosophy, when
that would suppose that the princi-
ples which the inductive sciences de-
mand to validate the inductive pro-
cess are contained in and derived
VOL. VIII. — 43

from the soul ? Is the professor pre-
pared to maintain that the soul is tlie
first principle of all the sciences?
That would imply that she is the
first principle of things, of reality it-
self; for science is of the real, not of
the unreal. But this were pure
Fichteism, and would put the soul
in the place of God. The professor
would shrink from this. He, theoi
must have made the assertion that
psychology is i\\^ prima philosophm
somewhat hastily, and without due
reflection ; unless indeed he distin-
guishes between the first principles
of science and the first principles of
things.

The inductive sciences are coi^
structed by induction from the ob-
servation and analysis of facts which
the soul has the appropriate organs
for observing. But psychology is the
science of the soul, its nature, powers
or faculties, and operations ; and if
an inductive science, it must be con-
structed by induction from psychical
facts observed and analyzed in the
soul by the soul herself. The theory
is very simple. The soul, by the ex-
ternal senses, observes and analyzes
the facts of the external world, and
constructs by induction the physical
sciences ; by her internal sense, call-
ed consciousness, she observes and
analyzes the world within herself, and
by way of induction from the facts or
phenomena she observes, constructs
psychology, or the science of herself.
Unhappily for the psychologue,
things do not go so simply. To this
theory there are two grave objections:
First, the soul has no internal sense
by which she can observe herself, her
acts or states in herself ; and second,
there are no purely psychical facts to
be observed.

The professor finds the soul's fa-
culty of observing the facts of the in-
ternal world in consciousness, which>
he defines to be '' the power by whicb

674

Porters Human Intellect.

Ihf; ftoiil knows \\s own acts and
%\AU'.%y iSitt consciousness is not a
powfr or fariilty, but an act of know-
ing, and iH simply the recognition of
the Hotil hy the soul herself as the
mihjrc t ii( liu^. We perceive always,
nnd all that is before us within the
Mnpi- of our percipient powers ; but
Wf* do not always distinguish and
note rath objrct perceived, or rccog-
nirr the fart that it is we who arc the
mibjort priiviving. The factof con-
W'Uuisness is |ueiisely in the simple
|H»n'eptii»n Inking so intonsitiod and
pnMonjiod that the soul not only ap-
|m'hrt\ds the objoct, but recognizes
itM*ll" an I ho subjevl appro hen ding it.
It is not. a«i tho piotossor maintairs
«l gtxMi lo^v;:h in Tat: I., a preser.-
t«ti\e po\u". . tlM it isa!\\a\s a rer.ox

ftCJ, arx »

.o»»a.r.v> >omo::*::'^ ot r:;c-

Wv*»\ V,

: r-o :x\v^:v: ;.."". by :>.<r

MMli L'\ '•. ■

.u -N aN :>o s;:> iv: jlc: :\:

is %»""x\

• ; \,-\ .- -^v"; vvr:: : v

^V, ' ,' 'v.-

: ',;•;' -^ •■: "i:

^''

■ ' *■«"»,• >^ ' ■,. ..". . .'^

We deny not that the soul can
herself as manifested in her ac
that she can know herself in I:
and be the object of her own th
I can not look into my own
yet I can see my face as rcf
in the glass. So the soul knov
self, and her powers and fact
but only as reflected from, or r
ed in, the objects in conjunctioi
which she acts. Hence the p
and Hiculties are not learned t
obser\ation of the soul hersei
from the object. The soul is 2
and acts always as a unit ; bu:, t
acting always in her unity, .sh
act in dinerent directions, and
1 at ion to dinerent objects, ami
in :h:s fact thai orii^i nates :h
;:nc:ion of powers and faculiics
oisvir.ciion is not in the soul h
:Vr sbe is a ur.::, bu: ;.-: :he obicc
..iT.ce :-":e jv'r.co.irer. :dchi;<:
:s :.'!* vj'ec: ::ij.: cr:enri!r.es :

Porter's Human IntelUct,

6TS

"Thought," says Cousin, "is a fact
that is composed of three simulta-
neous and indissoluble elements, the
subject, the object, and the. form.
The subject is always the soul, [/e
Mbi,] the object is something not the
soul, [/^ non-Moi\] and the form is al-
ways the relation of the two." The
object is inseparable from the sub-
ject as an element of the thought, but
it exists distinct from and indepen-
dent of the soul, and when it is not
thought as well as when it is ; other-
wise it could not be object, since the
soul is all on the side of the subject.
The soul acts only in conjunction
with the object, because she is not
sufficient for herself, and therefore
cannot suffice for her own activity.
The object, if passive, is as if it were
not, and can afford no aid to the fact
of thought. It must, therefore, be ac-
tive, and then the thought will be the
joint product of the two activities. It
is a grave mistake, then, to suppose
that the activity in thought is all on
the side of the soul. The soul can-
not think without the concurrent ac-
tivity of that which is not the soul.
There is no product possible in any
order without two factors placed in
relation with each other. God, from
the plenitude of his being, contains
both factors in his own essence ; but
in creatures they are distinct from
and independent of each other.

We do not forget the intelUctus
agens of St. Thomas, but it is not
quite certain what he meant by it.
The holy doctor does not assert it
as a faculty of the soul, and repre-
sent its activity as purely psychical.
Or if it be insisted that he does, he
at least nowhere asserts, implies, or
intimates that it is active without the
concurrence of the object : for he
even goes so far as to maintain that
the lower acts only as put in motion
by the higher, and the terrestrial by
the celestial. Hence the pramotio

physka of the Thomists, and the ne-
cessity in conversion of prsevenient
grace — gratia prcmtniens.

But even granting that there is the
class of facts alleged, and that we
have the power to observe and ana-
lyze them, as, in the language of Cou-
sin, " they pass over the field of con-
sciousness," we cannot by induction
attain to their principle and causes ;
for induction itself, without the first
principles of all science, not supplied
by it, can give us only a classification,
generalization, an hypothesis, or an
abstract theory, void of all reality.
The universal cannot be concluded,
by way of induction, from particulars,
any more than particulars can be
concluded, by way of deduction, firom
the universal. Till validated in the
prima philosaphia, or referred to the
first principles, without which the
soul can neither act nor exist, the
classifications and generalizations
attained to by induction are only
facts, only particulars, from which no
general conclusion can be drawn.
Science is knowledge indeed ; but the
term is generally used in English to
express the reduction of facts and
particulars to their principles and
causes. But in all the secondary sci-
ences the principles and causes are
themselves only facts, till carried up
to the first principles and causes of
all the real and all the knowable.
Not without reason, then, has theo-
logy been called the queen of the
sciences, nor without warrant that
men, who do not hold that all change
is progress, maintain that the displace-
ment, in modern times, of this queen
from her throne has had a deleterious
effect on science, and tended to dis-
sipate and enfeeble the human mind
itself. We have no philosophere now-
adays of the nerve of Plato and Aris-
totle, the great Christian fathers, or
the mediaeval doctors, none of whpin
ever dreamed of separating theology

P^rtn'z Hi

• y>t r. r* ^^-. • ;. « .-. -f vr •:-. • *3*r-. "i: c.*r_ t^-
fptv ; v: % ;r'«;, '/ v.v.^.- 2. r'--V-»c

iSiK\' h '//.':: r»:!i*..or.% rha: yo-- look
trj v^iiri f'/f jr. *;**: j.rji>/V/p>itn of th*
#rij{K»':':fj*h '.TT/'jr/ and '■jf our own.
Hut thi% lyy th*: way. When things
afi* at th*; worst, they sometimes
fn«fn'!.

V%yt.hnW^y^ not psychologism, is
31 iKJ<7nr«r, though not an inductive
Nr:irnr«?, nor a science that can be
attained to hy the study of the soul
nnd hrrr phenomena in the bosom of
ronsr.i'Misiiess. The psychologists —
IIkihc*, we mean, who adopt the psy-
(:hol(>(;i(::il methcKl, a method seldom
ndopted before the famous cogiio, ergo
sum of Descartes — seem incapable
of f-ompreliending that only the real
\% rri;;tii/:il>l(\ and that abstractions
nrr mM real but unreal ; and there-
fore (hat th(* first principles of science
nuist be r(Ml, not abstract, and the
liiMi piinciplcs of thin|;s. Thus Pro-
Irssm Poitrr ap))ears to see no real
ronneciion l»cl\veen iheni. True, he
N:ivs, (p (t.j,> '* Knowledjje and being
rtie con datives. Thore must be
\\c\\\\\ in on lei that the 10 may be
kno>*led:ie Thovo can be no know-
l<slj;o \\lu» h IN Dot the knowlodjje of
Is^sni; Sisl^i^vf.vcK viewed, to know
iw]v;*^H ,v':an>t\ . ^^b»iv:ively, it re-
*^r*5vs v*m'.:x Vn .u^; iM knowing
r.^ \\'* »V ;'nvv :n r.^ %v'.:ainty in the
>o^v •.. r ,*. v,^ v*\;'::\ v. :^e ^>bioci.
»x «*.v*xx >\- - o.^'.i^v.^iixvj ,;v.d in
1 ;, . . '• N «.^i• .' >ivm :^^ ai^scM
r* •.. ,* X >, ■ . , V* X* k:^^v:'^. or :ha:

» .*-x ^"'vc^'-c^ m.".* xt; rv

rti^ir 'kzjZ'w^ br xbe li^ of bcia
•■hi-is cr-ates iImja. We know b
i/t.'z^ 2* well AS being iiselL

Lc: be z.yi a" armed. TTie pro^i
era bt:r-2- u.e oaly object of knew
kcze. Lis reality- wiihout which ther
is zo cogr^izabie object, is nothirij
very* formidable ; for he tells us, ii
smaller type, on the same page, iba
^we must distinguish different kind:
of objects and di^erent kinds of real
it)'. They may be /orm€d by the muti
and exist \orA\\ for tk€ mind that fitrm
them^ or they may exist in fact aiui
space for all minds, and yet in ead
case they are equally objects. Tfar
realit}' may be mental and intemJL
or material and external, but in eacj
case it is equally a reality. Tu
thought that darts into the fancy aui
is gone as soon, the illusion iha:
crosses the brain of the lunatic, t!:£
vision that frightens the ghost-secr.
the spectrum which the camera p;iir.:$
on the screen, the reddened lar£-
scape seen through a colored lers
the yellow objects which the ja-
diced eye cannot avoid beholiiir;.
each as really exists as does the m^:
ter of the solid earth, or the eicrnj
forces of the cosmical system." lie
** eternal forces " of the cosmical >}5
tern can be only God, who only :?
eternal. So the illusions of ix!\C:.
the hallucinations of the lunatic, 2::
the eternal, self-existent, necesssr*
being whom we call God, and»^
names himself I AM THAT .\M
SUM Qri SUM, are alike bcir^
ar.d equally real !

The learned author tells us e!5i-
where tha: we call by the namebt:::
be:rs:> ci very dinerent kind> i^
5,^:1 5s cwinj: 10 the poverty :•:* <"'
Lirp:*^, which supplies bu: -"•'
r.:-:7^e :Vr ihem. He w:;: pertnl: -*
:.- s.^.y :ha: we suspect ihe povcnv ■'
r.x :r. :he iAr.guage, We hive in i^"
■.;.:-.^^ai:e iwo w^nis which serrt »
z.-^ m&rk ibe precise diSercDce 1^

Portals Human InteUect.

^ft

hat which is in, from, and by
one, and that which exists in,
.nd by being. The first is
le other is existence. Being is
^ applied only to God, who
Supreme Being, as is often
t the one only being, the only
It can say, i am that am,
EST ; and it shows how strict-
age represents the real order
no tongue can we make an
n without the verb to be, that
by being, that is, again, only
himself. Existence explains
Existences are not being, but,
c implies, tax^from being, that

him in whom is their being,
t Paul says, " For in him we
1 move, and are," " vivimus, et
r,et sumus,^^ Reality includes
id all that is from and by be-
simply being and existences.
J else is real or conceivable j
t from God and what he cre-
besides God and his creatures,

nothing, and nothing is no-
nd nothing is not intelligible
izable.

orter understands by reality
r only what is an object of
Ige, or of the mind in know-
jgh it may have no existence
le mind, or, as say the school-
*>artc rci. Hence, though the
:ertain that the object exists
y to her act of knowing, she
irtain that it is something ex-
1 nature. How, then, prove
re is anything to correspond
ental object, idea, or concep-
In his Second Part, which
' the representative power, he
that the objects represented
^nized in the representation
3ly psychical, and exist only
oul and for the soul alone,
hen, do not exist in nature ;
, in the ordinary use of the
real, illusory, and chimerical,
uthor himself confesses. If

the object of knowledge can be in
any instance unreal, chimerical, illu-
sory, or with no existence except in
and for the soul itself, why may it
not be so in every instance, and all
our knowledge be an illusion ? How
prove that in any fact of knowledge
there is cognition of an object that
exists distinct firom and independent
of the subject? Here is the /«ww
asinorum of exclusive psychologista
There is no crossing the bridge from
the subjective to the objective, for
there is no bridge there, and sub-
ject and object mu^t both be given
simultaneously in one and the same
act, or neither is given.

Dr. Porter, indeed, gives the sub-
jective and what he calls the objec-
tive, together, in one and the same
thought ; but he leaves the way open
for the question, whether the object
does or does not exist distinct from
and independent of the subject Thi«
is the difficulty one has with Locke's
Essay an the Understanding, Locke
makes ideas the immediate object of
the cognitive act ; for he defines them
to be " that with which the mind is
immediately conversant." If the soul
can elicit the cognitive act with these
ideas^ which it is not pretended are
things, how prove that there is any
real world beyond them? It has
never been done, and never can be
done ; for we have only the soul, for
whose activity the idea or concept
suffices, with which to do it, and
hence the importance to psycholo-
gists of the question. How do we
know that we know ? and which they
can answer only by a paralogism, or
assuming the reality of knowledge
with which to prove knowledge real.

For the philosopher there is no
such question, and nothing detracts
so much from the philosophical ge*
nius of the illustrious Balmes as his
assertion that all philosophy tur»
on the question of certainty. The

678

Portals Human Inteileei.

filiilonophAr, liolrling that to know is
U9 know, ii:i% nftcr knowing, or having
IhouKht thi! (;l>j(r(.t, no question of
(;rr lit inly (o ask or to answer. The
crttiiinty thai ihr object exists in na-
tine In in thr fai.t that the soul thinks
it. 'V\\v fihjcrt is always a force or
nctivity distinct from and indcpen-
drnt ol \\\v Nultjcct, and since it is an
Ki'tivily it n\usl bo either real being
ur \\\\\ v\\sW\\CK\

Tho viioi of the author, as of all
|VHYvlh»K>pMS. is not in assuming; that
iho Noul ratniot think without the
OMU'\uuM>cc o! il\o objoci, or that the
objivt is not loally object in rclaiion
t\^ tho Noul's coj;nitive |vuor, but
iw >upjv^Ni:^j; ■!«.,»; ;ho soul can r:\i
the oVnv; ;^i ;Im: wh.ch h,is r.o rtul
c\;M»iNV Ux' AvsiruK's :ha: jiK<:r:tc-

hx^\ '/ X- : V .; s \ x;c - ^v a^ ^;c • v Tr :>-^
o :'x v.o xv. v.* .\ - v-:*. *.^.*\ ;r^

the individual. They and their indi^
viduals subsist always together in 2
synthetic relation, and though dir
tinguishable are never separable. Tbe
species is not a mere name, a mere
mental conception or generalizatico .
it is real, but exists and is knoii
only as individualized.

The unreal is unintelligible, aPii.
like all negation, is intelligible ODiyic
the reality denied. The soul, tbcL
can think or know only the real,oc:i
real being, or real existences by uk
light of real being. If the soul ca:
know only the real, she can krui
thin^ only in their real order, r-
consequenily the order of the rti.
ard cf :he knovable is the same, ^zr.
ihe prr.cirle* of the real are 'J:*
rr ac •. rle$ of sc ic r. oe. The soul a 'J
:r:illi^i=: exisceiioe. and ihe '^t.z<^
rli-s. Ci-.2«i^ ir>i <xc.d:::or.* c: "ic

,N'\ V \N

"-^J* !•- T-J -

Portet's Human ItUtUtct.

6991

1 of God, or know by intuition
tocJ is. We have intuition of
^hich is God, but not that what
in is God. Ontology is a most
ial part of philosophy ; but ex-
e ontologists are as much soph-
\ are exclusive psychologists.
I first principles of reality are

existence, and the creative act
ng, whence the idea! formula or
lent. Being creates existences.
s the primum in the real order.
at is real and not necessary and
fficing being must be from be-
or without real uncreated being
can be nothing, and existences
mething only in so far as they
ipate of being. Things can ex-
m being, or hold from it, only
tue of its creative act, which
ces them by its own energy
nothing, and sustains them as
nt. There is only the creative

which existences can proceed
>eing. Emanation, generation,
ion, which have been asserted

mode of procession of exist-

give nothing really or sub-
illy distinguishable from being.
ncos, then, can really proceed
Deing only by the creative act,
ideed, only by the free creative
being; for necessary creation
Tcation at all, and can be only
rlopment or evolution of being
In theological language, then,
ind creation include all the
what is not God is creature or
ice, and what is not creature
itence is God. There is no re-
'hich is neither God nor crea-
10 tat turn quid between being
xistence, or between existence
othing. The primum of the
, then, the ideal formula or di-
Lidgment, Ens creat existeniias^
affirms in their principle and
eal relation all that is and all
"cists. This formula is a proper
ent, for it has all the terms and

relations of a judgment, subject, pre-
dicate, and copula. Being is the suIh
ject, existences is the predicate, and
the creative act the copula, which at
once unites the predicate to the sub-
ject and distinguishes it from it. It
is divine, because it is a priori^ the>f»-
mum of the real ; and as only the real
is intelligible or knowable, it must
precede as its principle, type, and
condition, every judgment that can be
formed by an existence or creature,
and therefore can be only the judg-
ment of God affirming his own being
and creating the universe and all-
things, visible and invisible, therein.

Now, as the soul can only know
the real, this divine judgment must
be not only the primum of the real,
but of the knowable ; and since the
soul can know only as she exists, in
the real relations in which she stands,
and knows only by the aid of the ob-
ject on which she depends for her
existence and activity, it follows that
this judgment is the primum scienii-
ficum, or the principle of all real or
possible science.

Is it asked, How is this known or.
proved, if not by psychological ob-
servation and analysis ? The answer
is, by the analysis of thought, which
discloses the divine judgment as
its idea, or necessary and apodictic
element This is not psychologism
nor the adoption of the psychological
method. Psychologism starts from the
assumption that thought, as to the
activity that produces it, whatever
mayor may not be its object, is pure-
ly psychical, and that the ontological,
if obtainable at all, is so by an
induction from psychological facts.
1'he first assumption is disproved
by the fact just shown, that
thought is not produced or produci-
ble by the psychical activity alone,
but by the joint action of the two
factors subject and object, in whicb
both are affirmed. The other as-

4ft>

P^>rterz Hmmt^x Isi^UiimA

fittt "«rii* .'i :v.' -: ..- •!•* ir^i- » j, c:

'jf>k^ if: ''//r/.!^,':';^: \rj way c: :r.-
dvJ.or., •/.:.>.;, r'/;!'] ^.ve us or.'.y a
jf»nvrTaJ:/;i*.ori or si':>s*.rac'.ion, but :hc
fir»t prif.' ipl'.s th^;rris':lves infjitively
givrn.

J'hiIosoj>JjCT> :(cncrally assert that
cnrlHin ronrlitions precedent, or
crrt»iri \i\i'.:v\ a priori^ are neccs-
niry to i:v«Ty fart of experience or
ocrtiinl ro;;iiition. Kant, in his mas-
terly Critik tier rtincn Vemunft^ calls
thrm soiiictiines cognitions, some-
flincH syntJKftic jiitlgments, a priori^
hut faiU to identify them with the
(livinr jiid<;in('nt, and holds them to be
necn'KHnry forms of the subject.
(?Auiiin :issiMts them and calls them
nriTiisary and absolute ideas, but
fnllfi to identify them with the real,
iinH even ilenics that they can be
!*o iilc*ntitiiMl. Keid riTop;nized them,
and railed them the lirst principles
of Imni.tn belief", sometimes the prin-
I iples oi I oimuon sense, after Father
lUmlliet. wlneh all t»nr aetual know-
lr\lj:e piesnpposos and must take for
^'j anted Pi.Mesvoi Toner also recoj::-
ni.-e\ihen\. holds them lobe iniuiiively
jinei^ ea*!'* \\w\w eeiiain reeessary
asxnmp;;xv»s. li-.s*. tniths or pTinoipV^s
\\Ul»on! w !•.:*>. r.> s.'ienvv is poss:-
H<\ be.: !".'s t,^ ^Is-p.v.fv them \x::h
the*' \ '.^.^ ;•./:;'"!*,*:•:. /.v-.i soe^'.is :o :e-
j:i:\; :V*'>^ :v .;Vv::.u-: v'::v:;\es i^r
'^^e.is. .;n ' *.*"v. ■ •.»■;■/"< v\^;'.\', S".'.'l"*S">r
^^Jt-e;-: ;*•. : ..-,-.•;.<, .- :- : V "V>

**v ^Nv '. . . , V ■»v,vv.-."% .■'.>>::"*:''■
:nV'v .» ■, \xx-\ "^ >". !^^' v."

VnV,: --...' . ,-'^, . ,- .- ^^ ..:■
V^^w.*^.' *• ^ . '^ .* •;:."\s:>

'JL -2>t M^3icr**e objects of ciBtenc
'""-^ — ^-1 thinner obtaiaed bvoi
OT- jye-.Til ict.-\-;n- ; for wiihu
ur.em L-.ere is r.o mindL no rotn:
ac::*.-n-. no experience. Dr. Pone
a::er Kc:a. Kar.r. Cousin, and other
his c'.ear!) seen this, and concluyai
ly proved it — no philosopher mi\
conclusively — and it is one of ih
ments of his book. He iherefi^r
justly calls them intuitions, or phi
ciples intuitively given ; yet eiik
we do not understand him, or her?
gards them as abstract truths or at
slract principles. But truths .iw
principles are never abstraci, m
only the concrete or real can be intii
lively given. Those intuitions tbct
must be either real being or coni:i
gent existences ; not the latter, K"
they all bear the marks of nectssi:^
and universality ; then they must be
the real and necessary being, aai
therefore the principles of ihin;^
and not simply principles of science
Dr. Porter makes them real princ
pies in relation to the mental jc:.
but we do not find that he idcri
fies them with the principles of :h^
real. He doubtless holds iha: uV-
represent independent lru:h>. i-
truths which are the princinios ■::
ihins^s ; but that he holds them, k
present to the mind, to be the priri:
pies themselves, we do not nnd

nr. Porter's error in his Parr IV
in which he discusses and liennt?
i::u::io:^s. and which must be irte:
rrore.i by the fc>regoing parisofr.^
w,-k. arriear? to us to be precijc ■
>.i his :ak:n^ princip'e to mear. •:■
SM- : i - ii -ro \vA of the s<Mii in :he -i : ■
.*:" kr.'-a'.ed^e, and diszirgyishirs •
:-r~- :he p-.iKrip'.e of :he real ^'^''■■
W'Z :. >:.r^u:>hc:5 betveen L-.e w-^^;--
:i •c.-rv i-.i :he ob*ec: i* rt. i'-
Y: .-:> :>*: the X'-raer :> by no v:Jt*^
',-i-:c^ ^.ih :be laner.* He i5*
s, prv^^^ i cAcneacc between ^
sc-'ir.r.fv: croer juod ihe real. ^

PorUp's Human InUlUct.

68i

therefore that the principle of the
one is not necessarily the principle
of the other. This is to leave the
question still open, whether there is
any real order to respond to the
scientific order, and to cast a doubt
on the objective validity of all our
knowledge. The divine judgment,
or ideal formula, we have shown, is
alike \\\^primum rea/e Sind the primum
scUntificum^ and therefore asserts
that the principles of the two orders
are identical, and that the scientific
must follow the real, for only the
real is knowable. Hence science is
and must be objectively certain.

The intuitive affirmation of the
formula, being creates existences,
creates, places the soul, and consti-
tutes her intelligent existence. The
author rightly says every thought is
a judgment. There is no judgment
without the copula, and the only real
copula is the copula of the divine
judgment or intuition, that is, the
creative act of being. Being creat-
ing the soul is the principle of her
existence ; and as we have shown
that she can act only as she exists, the
principle of her existence is the prin-
ciple of her acts, and therefore of
her knowing, or the fact of know-
ledge. There is, then, no thought or
judgment without the creative act for
its copula. The two orders, then, are
united and made identical in princi-
ple by the creative act of being.
The creative act unites the acts of
the soul, as the soul itself, to being.

The difficulty some minds feel in
accepting this conclusion grows out
of a misapprehension of the creative
act, which they look upon as a past in-
stead of a present act. The author
holds that what is past has ceased
to exist, and that the objects we re-
call in memory are ^ created a sec-
ond time." He evidently misappre-
hends the real character of space and
time. These ace not ezistencesi en-

tities, as say the scholastics, but sim-
ple relations, with no existence, no
reality, apart from the relata^ or
the related. Things do not exist in
space and time ; for space and time
simply mark their relation to one
another of coexistence and succes-
sion. Past and future are relations
that subsist in or among creatures,
and have their origin in the fact that
creatures as second causes and in
relation to their own acts are pro-
gressive. On the side of God, there
is no past, no future ; for his act has
no progression, and is never in
potentia ad actum. It is a complete
act, and in it all creatures are com-
pleted, consummated, in their begin-
ning, and hence the past and the
future are as really existent as what
we call the present. The Creator is
not a causa transiens, that creates
the effect and leaves it standing alone,
but a causa manens^ ever present in
the effect and creating it

Creation is not in space and time,
but originates the relations so-called.
The creative act, therefore, can nev-
er be a past or a future act, an act
that has produced or that will pro-
duce the effect, but an act that pro-
duces it always here and now. The
act of conservation, as theologians
teach, is identically the act of crea-
tion. God preserves or upholds us
in existence by creating us at each
instant of our lives. The universe,
with all it contains, is a present crea-
tion. In relation to our acts as our acts
or our progressiveness toward our
final cause or last end, the universe
was created and will remain as long
as the Creator wills ; but in relation
to God it is created here and now,
and as newly created at this moment
as when the sons of the morning
sang together over its production, by
the divine enei^ alone, from noth-
ing ; and the song ceases not ; they
are now singing it. There is noth-

682

ing but this present creative act that
stands between existences and noth-
ing. The continuity of our existence
is in the fact that God creates and
does not cease to create \\s»

We have only to eliminate from our
minds the conceptions tiiat transport
the relations of space and time to
the Creator, or represent them
as relations between Creator and
creature, where the only relation is
, ttH^t of cause and eOectj and to re-
^glird the creative act as having no
relations of space and time, to be
able to understand how the divine
judgment, intuitively affirmed, is at
once the principle of the real and of
the scientific, and the creative act, the
copula of being and existence, is ihe
copula of ever)^ judgment or though t»
as is proved by the fact already
noted, that in no language can an
assertion be made without the verb
i0 ^j that is. without God.

Dr. Porter, engaged in construct-
ing not the science of things, but a
science of knowing — a IVissenschafts-
iehrc — ^has iipparently been content
with the intuitions as principles or
laws of science, without seeking to
identify them with the real. He is a
doctorof divUn'ty, and cannot intend
to deny, with Sir William Hamilton
and the Positivists, that ontology can
be any part of human science. The
Positivists, with whom, in this respect,
Sir William Hamilton, who has finish-
ed the Scottish school, fully agrees,
assert that the whole field of science
is restricted to positive facts and the
induction of their laws, and that their
principles and causes, the ontologi-
cal truths, if such there be» belong to
the unknowable, thus reducing, with
Sir William Hamilton, science to ne-
science. But though Dr. Porter pro-
bably holds that there is an ontolo-
[ gical realitv, and knows perfectly
well that it cam>ot be concluded
from psychical phenomena, either by

Porters Human IntelUci,

way of iiiductioii or otf
yet seems unable or aawtlltnf lo
tiiat the mind has m jntutlioe
and immedimic appreiicnskie of i
The first and necessary truths^ «f
necessary assumptions^ as ht 'dh
them, which ti coa|MiM

lo make in kn* ^ ^ alanwmft

as '*what is, is," "Uic same tiling caa^
not both be and iKit be at (be siai
time," ** whatever beg^ins lo exist una*
have a cause," etc., ii - iIjc-

trine, abstract ideas, nty^

they may represent a reality beyond
themselves — and he tries to n* «''.«^ "^^
they do — arc yet not that ii
These ideas be slates^ ion
abstract form, in which th
real \ but they are all rdei^uu^oi a
the ideal formula, ordjvtnc \\t^pmai^
whicli is not an abstract but a liaL
concrete judgment. He bcil^ Itai
to be intuitions, indeed ; bul lotttitm
in his view, simply stands oppotad
lo discursion, and he m;ikes It aaKt
of the soul imi -j rmin^ tht

object, not the . obJ€Cl ii

mediately affirming itself by its
creative act Till being, in its
live act, affirms itself, the mjuI
not exist; and the in ict

that which creates it, .. act ii

intelligent. The intuitmn canool,
lht'n» be the act of the sowl, quIi
you suppose the soul can aet wil
existing, or know without iniell
If we make intuition the act
soul, and suppose the ncccssai7
truths intuitively given are abstr«e*
tions or representative ideas, how
can we know that there is any tealt-
ty represented by tliem > The oM
question again : How pass from Uk
subjective to the objective? — froA
the scientific to the real?

The doctrine of represent
ideas comes from the scl
and most probably fmni the
prehension of their phtl

^^t we kiM>w

■|

iCt 9

act It
canool*

wilhqfl

Plato maintained

Parteis Human IntMeet.

683

'f similitude, which similitude he called
.' idea. No doubt, Plato often means
by idea something else ; but this is
t one of the senses in which he uses
- the term. This idea, with the peri-
patetics, becomes in sensibles the
phantasm, in intelligibles the intelli-
gible species. The intelligible species
was assumed as something mediating
between the soul and the intelligible
object. But though they asserted it
as a medium, they never made it the
object cognized. In their language,
it was the objecttim qtio^ not the ob-
jectum quod; and St. Thomas teaches
expressly that the mind does not ter-
minate in the species^ but attains the
intelligible object itself. In this
magazine for May, 1867, i^ ^^ ^r^>"
tie entitled "An Old Quarrel," we
showed that what the scholastics
probably had in mind when they
spoke of the intelligible species^ is ad-
equately expressed by what we, after
the analogy of external vision, call
the light, which illuminates at once
the subject and object, and renders
the one cognitive and the other cog-
nizable. This light is not furnished
by the mind, but by being itself light,
and the source of all light, present
in every fact of knowledge in the
creative act.

The Scottish school has made
away with the phantasms, and prov-
ed that, in what our author calls
sense-perception, we perceive not a
phantasm, but the real external ob-
ject itself ; but in the intelligible or
supersensible world, this direct ap-
prehension of the object Dr. Porter
appears not to admit. He conscious-
ly or unconsciously interposes a
mundns iogicus between the mind
and the mundus physicus. The ca-
tegories are with him abstract rela-
tions, and logic is a mere formal sci-
ence. This is evident from Part III.,
in which he treats of what he calls
" thought-knowledge." But the ca-

tegories are not abstract forms of
thought, but real relations of things ;
logic is founded in the principle and
constitution of things, not simply in
the constitution and laws of the hu-
man mind. Its type and origin are
in being itself, in the Most Holy Tri-
nity. The creative act is the copula
of every strictly logical judgment.
The Creator is logic, the A6yof , or,
as Plato would say, logic in itself,
and therefore all the works of God
are strictly logical, and form, medi-
ante his creative act, a dialectic
whole with himself. Whatever does
not conform to the truth and order
of things is illogical, a sophism ;
and every sophism sins against the
essence of God, as well as against
the constitution of the human mind.
Ps^chologism is a huge sophism ; for
it assumes that tne soul is being, and
can exist and act independently
when it is only a created, dependent
existence ; that it is God, when it is
only man. Satan was the first psy-
chologist we read of. Ontologism is
also a sophism of very much the
same sort. Psychologism asserts
that man is God ; ontologism asserts
that God is man. This is all the
difference between them, and they
terminate at the same point. Exis-
tences cannot be logically deduced
from being, because being, sufficing
for itself, cannot be constrained to
create either by extrinsic or by in-
trinsic necessity. Existences are not
necessarily involved in the very con-
ception of being, but are contingent,
and dependent on the free-will of the
Creator. God cannot be concluded
by induction from psychological facts;
for the universal cannot be conclud-
ed from the particular, nor the neces-
sary from the contingent.

Both the ontological primum and
the psychological must be given intui-
tively and in their real synthesis, or
no science of either is possible. The

6H4

Portef^s Hmmam InielUci.

\%\uA xiwi'sX X'aVk \\s starting-point
,\u*\ \t\'\\\* i|;I*' of vi*:nri: from neither
fe< |i;iMl<)y, l;iit from llie real synthe-
kin of \\\v iwo, ws in tlie ideal for-
iiiul.i. '1 lif :illf'n>i)t to construct an
f'ft« liinivciy oiiiulo^ical or an exclu-
htvi'ly ptyf iiolo^iriil sricnc'c is as
iiliMiiil (iinl as Mipliisdcal as the at-
Irnipl (iM'\i>trHH .1 jii(l;;inrnt without
ihi* iiijtiil.), Ill to ronsiruct a syllo-
ItKiii wilhiuit (hr midillc term. The
ittil r(i|iulii III thr jml^mont, the real
m,\hu\ t\'9miHnx (h.K unites the two
oxheiuoN ol ihr s\ Holism, is the ore-
iiU\«' k\\\ oI boil)};.

All (lenh)e plnlov^phv uiK\K l>c-
* .u«M* ti l,uK'*l iv» u\\\::5v.:o the C!oa-
luo M\ K\\\^.s\i: o! hNt.rssn, the

,ns jv j» . w \n: \ • 1 :^ \ .; ■ •* w ■ 1 \ \^::

\ ^.

bcrs who look upon the world God
has made as a huge machine; ud
now that it is made, as indepeDdtct
of him, capable of going ahead on its
own hook, and even able to bind bin
by its laws, and deprive him of bis
freedom of action^ as if it were or
could be anything but what he >i
each moment makes it. He ougbt.
as a doctor of divinity, to understand
that there can be no science wiihoc
the efficacious presence of God, vbo
created the soul, and none viib^x:
his presence creating it now, and br
his light rendering it intelligenL T)
construct science without God in b
creative act as the principle. :> :?
he^ln in sophism oxkI end in rfij-
ism.

We rwec hard]y say tkit. :" a?*^-
:r^ :he iv.ir>e ;:3Ci:iDeE: cr iifl ::f-
rr:-:!i i* ilv rclrv: r-Z* zi ill ^j^*'-^
vv. xs :>< -fj^fs.<*ary xri ir^iixtc

PorU^s Human Int^lktL

685

y eternal, the immutable, the necessary,
«, of which we have intuition in all our
^. mental acts, is and must be real, ne-
„ cessary, universal, eternal, and im-
.. mutable being, that is to say, God
^ himself. Few reflect far enough to
^ perceive that in intuition the object
J is real being ; and the number of
men who distinctly recognize all the
terms of the formula in their real re-
lation is a very small minority, and
every day growing smaller.

But the intuition is not, as Dr.
Porter supposes, of ideas which lie
latent or dormant in the mind till
occasion wakes them up and calls
them into action ; but they are the
first principles, or rather the prin-
ciples from which the mind proceeds
in all its intellectual acts. They are
intuitively affirmed to the mind in
the creative act, and are ever present
and operative ; but we become aware
of them, distinguish them, and
what they imply or connote, only by
reflection, by contemplating them as
they are held up before the mind, or
sensibly represented to it, in lan-
guage. Though the formula is really
the primum philosophkuniy we attain
to it, or are masters of what is really
presented in intuition, and are able to
say, being is God, and God creates
existences, only at the end of phi-
losophy, or as its last and highest
achievement.

The principles are given in the
very constitution of the mind, and
are present to it from its birth, or, if
you will, from the first instant of its
conception ; but they are by no
means what Descartes and others
have called innate ideas. Descartes
never understood by idea the intelli-
gible object itself, but a certain men-
tal representation of it. The idea
was held to be rather the image of
the thing than the thing itself. It
was a tertium quid somewhere be-
tween real and unreal, and was re-

garded as the medium through which
the mind attained to the object In
this sense we recognize no ideas. In
the fact of knowledge, what we know
is the object itself, not its mental re-
presentation. We take idea or the
ideal in the objective sense, and un-
derstand by it the immediate and the
necessary, permanent, immutable ob-
ject of intuition, and it is identical with
v.'hat we have called the primum phi-
losophicum^ or divine judgment, which
precedes the mind's own activity.
Hence we call that judgment the
" ideal formula." With this view of
idea or the ideal, analogous, at least,
to one of the senses of Plato, from
whom we have the word, it is evi-
dent that the Cartesian doctrine of
innate ideas, which was afterward
changed to that of innate faculties,
cannot find in us an advocate.

The formula is ideal and apodic-
tic, but it is not the entire object of
the cognitive act. It is that which
precedes and renders possible expe-
rience, or what Kant calls synthetic
judgments a posteriori. We have
said the soul can know only as she
exists, and that whatever object she
depends on for her existence must
she depend on for her acts, and it
enters into all her thoughts or
facts of knowledge. The soul de-
pends for existence on God, on hu-
manity and nature. In the formula,
we have only the ideal principle of
man and nature, and therefore the'
ideal formula, while it furnishes the
principle and light which render
knowledge possible, does not su-
persede experience, or actual know-
ledge acquired by the exercise of the
soul and her faculties. Here the
soul proceeds by analysis and syn-
thesis, by observation and induction,
or deduction, according to the nature
of the subject We do not quarrel
with the inductive sciences, nor ques-
tion hilated the mystery which

nee filled the hearts of nations with
awe and unquestioning obedience.
Public opinion now rules the ruler.
Kings and their ministers have now
to elect between intelligent and vir-
ous opinion on the one hand, or
volution ary passions on the oth-
er. The wisest of them, therefore,
are hastening to educate the people ;
d they are striving above all things
to make such education distinctly
Christian^ and not simply moral : for
they well remember the fate of all
nations who have staked their salva-

ion upon tlie sufficiency of the natu*
ral virtues. While kings are doing
this to preserve the shadow of their
royalty from the aggressive spirit of
the age, we, in this chosen land, are
doing or aiming to do the same thing,
in order that we may rear successive
generations of virtuous and enlight-
ened heirs to the rich inheritance of
t>ur constitutional democratic free-
dom. Ours should be much the
easier task ; as we labor for no dy-
nasty, but strive only to make a na*

tion capable of self-preservation. We
are no less in earnest than the kings ;
and we may surely examine their
work and see what is good in it.
The kings tried the pagan idea of in-
tellectual culture adorned with the
glittering generalities of moral phi-
losophy ; and they added to it the
maxims of the Christian gospel, wlien-
ever that could be done without get-
ting entangled in the conflicting
creeds of the numerous sects. The
school was like Plato s lecture-room,
only that the sacred voice of the
evangelist was heard occasionally in
such passages as do not distinctly set
forth faith and doctrine, about which
the scholars could differ. Sectarian-
ism, as it is called, had to be exclu-
ded, of course, in a mixed system of
popular education, wherein freedom
of conscience was conceded to be a
sacred right and proselytism was dis-
avowed. The result was twofold :
ftrst^ tens of thousands of children
were deprived of distinct religious in-
struction and doctrinal knowledge ;
and secondly, in countries where
the Roman Catholic population was
large, though in a minority, other ter>s
of thousands were left without secu-
lar education, because their parents
would not permit them to be brought
up in habits of indifferentism, which
means practical infidelity, or trained
in knowledge hostile to their reli-
gious faith. Prussia, though she is
the very embodiment and represen-
tative of Protestant Europe, soon
came to the conclusion that this
would not do— that education must
be Christian^ — that it must be doctri-
nal and conducive to religious prac-
tices — that, as all could not or would
not believe alike, each should have
full opportunity to be reared in hi^
own faith, to learn its doctrines and
to fulfil its duties and discipline — and,
therefore, that enlightened govern-
ment established the denominational

Ofl

The CaUtolU I'trw of Public Education.

^y>.!«rn, j^ivifi;^ fo #;a/.h r,rted practi-
• ;il <'«}ij:i!ity \M'.ff/Tt: iUf: Isiw, a separate
V li'/*/! Of j^.'ini/jition, (wherever num-
\f'ti> iiiii'N: it pr:iMk:;ibIe,) and a rat-
;ilfif hliMM'of t}i«T piililir; sc\v)o\'fund ;
ii'vrviiijj lo tlir government only a
pi-iin.il Mipfi vision, sr) as to secure a
l.iiililiil :i|ipli(-:ition of ihe public mo-
iii'V. iind lo I'iifnrce ii proper compli-
.11111' will) fill* nlucatioiial standard,
ritf ptthlic H('h(»oIs are orp;anized so
lliiit rvt'iv cili/en shall obtain the
I lunpli'to rducation of his child, in
I ho r«iilh anil prarlico of his own
I'huii'h. All ditVu'ultii's have disap-
piMiod.and pciUvl harmony prevails.
In Ki.uu'o. Uy iho last census, the
pi«pul.ithM\ was ihiily seven millions,
dixuhsl aUmi as folKnvs : 480,000
TaK ini>is» .*07»vw» l.nihorans* j;o,ooo
»x! oihot ri»»!ONi.»!M soots, and rj.oco

|**\\N . ;ho !vn\ai

:^i:^j: ihirtv six mil-

IjxV^v K*'.'*s; 0: tho-

pi .;o::oaV.v or no-

rn v.viV.x i' ;.ho*.o

\:::^M:^h":hod:s.

xO^;0^x O". :**o

., ». ^v.» .' •"• ;^ "-^

maintained upon pagan ideas ; :
that the safety of every comB
wealth depends upon the Chris}
education of the people. Theyh
also clearly seen that dodrtna^ i
pline^ moralSy and " the religious ai
sphere^^ must be kept united, .
made to penetrate and surround
school at all times ; and that, hov<
greatly the Christian denominati
may differ from each other, or e
err in their belief, it is far better
society that their youth should be
structed in some form of Chn>
doctrine, than be left to perish ir.
drear}- and soul-destro\-ing waste
deism. Experience has provw
them that moral teaching, wi'^ Il-
eal illustrations, as the piety cf
seph. the heroism of Jud::h.
jx^niience of David. ^;;1 c": «c
to estabMsh the Chr:>::ar. fi!-J:
yours: hearts, or to qii:e: :>-e i:-
of-rju-.rini: minds*. Thes-::iei
b."7.. r^rck.rij: the cr:>5c> :' C:

■r> -p::^ l:^r jiir:^-?

V-

V > \ -1 N.

^;: -^--fci j:?

The Catholic View of Public Education,

693

that religious impressions and religious
observances should penetrate into all
its parts, Religion is not a study or
an exercise to be restricted to a certain
place and a certain hour ; it is a faith
and a law, which ought to be felt every-
where, and which after this manner
alone can exercise all its beneficial iur
fluence upon our minds arui our lives P
The meaning of which is, that not a
moment of the hours of school should
be left without the religious influence.
It is the constant inhalation of the
air which preserves our physical vital-
ity. It is the ''^religious atmosphere ^^
which supports the young soul. Re-
ligion cannot be made " a study or an
exercise to be restricted to a certain
place and a certain hour,^^ It will not
do to devote six days in the week to
science, and to depend upon the
Sunday-school for the religious train-
ing of the child. M. Guizot is right.
The enlightened governments of Eu-
rope have accepted his wisdom and
reduced it to practice in their great
national school-systems.

Now, the Catholics of the United
States have said no more than that ;
have asked no more than that ; and
yet, a wild cry of anger has been
raised against them at times, as
though they were the avowed ene-
mies of all popular education. They
pay their full quota of the public
taxes which create the school-fund,
and yet they possess, to-day, in pro-
portion to their wealth and numberSi
more parochial schools, seminaries,
academies, colleges, and universities,
established and sustained exclusive-
ly, by their own private resources, than
any other denomination of Christians
in this country! Certainly this is
no evidence of hostility to education I
And why have they made these
wonderful efforts, these unprecedent-
ed sacrifices? It is because they
believe in the truth uttered by M.
Guizot It is because they believe

in the truth established by all history.
It is because they believe in the
truth accepted and acted upon by
enlightened men and governments
of this age. It is because they know
that revealed religion is to human
science what eternity is to time.
It is because they know that the
salvation of souls is more precious
to Christ than the knowledge of all
the astronomers. It is because they
know that the welfare of nations is
impossible without God. And yet,
they fully understand how religion
has called science to her side as an
honored handmaid; how learning,
chastened by humility, conduces to
Christian advancement ; how the
knowledge of good and evil (the
fruit of the forbidden tree) may yet
be made to honor God, when the
sanctified soul rejects the evil and
embraces the good. Therefore the
Catholic people desire denomina-
tional education, as it is called.

That is the general view of the
question ; but there is a particular
view, not to be overlooked, and which
we will now briefly consider.

The most marked distinction be-
tween pagan and Christian society is
to be found in the relations which
the state bears to the family.
Scarcely was the Lacedaemonian boy
released from his mother's apron-
string, when the state seized him
with an iron hand. The state was
thenceforth his father and his moth -
er. The sanctities and duties of the
family were annihilated. Body and
soul, he belonged to the Moloch of
Power. Private conscience was no
more than a piece of coin in
circulation ; it was a part of the
public property. Christ restored
the family as it existed in Adam and
Eve. Christian civilization denies
that the state can destroy the fam-
ily. The family is primary; the
father the head; the mother the

'>V4

Ihjt C«r^.'/ir

fi r^ ^-9,7;^' .c^^atsxrsrw

Vi*

1* a

't'^f't'

/.f

:.V:

I'.

i :»-.

/ '/* •'.': ' '

f^': ^*:l•«; ;', «:v':ry -/.'v/ to t^^r.r.V:^*.*
hij» i* t:iUT,',\ 'AThhrzrWy cortro! the
rri'r f i t ;i ) ;i n ' I r n or a I t rn i n i r. ^j of t h e pe'>
f/N'S rhi!*lr#:rj. That right and that
P"^porrjl;ilify arc dorn':stical, and be-
\'tu'/^ lo thr; parent.

Now, the ('alholif: parent is aware
fh:if thcrr*' are between his creed and
:ill oihiTH tJie widest and most irre-
( niif il:i))lr differences^anrl that it is im-
puhsihli* to r»pi:n the New Testament,
:il ahiinst any pa^e, without forth-
with c'iic(nni!erinjr^the prime difficul-
ty. To n-ad the IJihle, without note
oi nmuucnl. to younj; children, is to
.ih.indon thiMU to dan;;orous spcc-
iil.ilinn, nr to h'avf them dry
.\\u\ h.iiuMi of all Christian know-
l»Ml",r. In inixi'd schools thrre is no
otIuM ici'oiiisr ; luHMusr it is impos-
•.IMc to ni.ikr anv ronnnont upon
MW do«liinal loarhinj^ol* Christ and
his apo>tlrs. \\ithoul tronohinjx up-
*M\ \\w ronsi^irniious v^pinions of
H,^lu^ iMu' oj ojIum- ot* the listeners.

\ ;

i;^*M and I aiv one :" ** The
. :::ratei than 1 :" here ar
h \>,' tlu* rni:a:ian Awd the

.•\

• 1: -v

J ' .

•k:

i».'

" This
i: whioh

'•■!':r:ive

u.— : 5«t-r:«- ▼'i.-iih. tt-zj rtrieri:
= .':'* ::t "iSf- :t rr::* :"". : -e ec

1".- •^m*-?* 2^r^ZTz th* Pt^*?

v'^z'.ir.z "-^-^ c-rT^crr"'?". aT^r.'Ttil *V3
S'jch 25 "are rr^d in the Euro
co'^ntrie? abrve referred to.
be!:eve :ha: education should U
tinctly based upon doctnna"; relij
and they are libera] enough to ii
that, by natural rj^rht. as well 3
the constitutional guarantees o1
free countr}-, no doctrine adven
the faith of a parent may lawful
forced or surreptitiously impose(
on his child. It is well known.
ever, that, between the Call
faith and all Protestant creeds, i
is a gulf which cannot be bri
over. It would, therefore, be si:
impossible to adopt any reli-
teaching whatever in mixed ^1
without at once interfering
Catholic conscience. No such te
ing is attempted, as a j^eneral
we believe, in the public scl^>:»l
the United States ; and herx;
have only a vague announcer
of moral precepts, the utter fu
and barrenness of which we h al-
ready alluded to. Catholics, a;
ing with ver)' many enlightened
;e.ilous Protestants, believe thr.
ular education administered in
way is not only vain, but cmlr<
pernioi.'^us : that it is fa^t ut
TTiinirg :he Christian faith of ihi:
::.^n : that h is rapidly nllin^: the
\\::h r."i:i-^r-a':>m : that i: •> de^
:h:r:ry ..•^f ihe H Vy >
^\:r."i:ir»^ men
-A " Rrvcrt-i •■ -r.d r.i^x -P
T-^ci- r.."Tr.:-<. the Trr^-t: effects

• :c-:*\ c^-er: :nnicl::v :o C

• r.-\:-i--r.":5rr.s : :h.it. fns'ea:
s:.^-.rc r>?ral:rr of the c:«k

The Catholic View of Public Education.

69s

ist, which rests upon revealed mys-
is and supernatural gifts, it is offer
us that same old array of the natu-
virtues or qualities which pierced,

broken reeds, the sides of all
then nations. And more than this,
holies know by painful experience,
; history cannot be compiled,
els written, poetry, oratory, or
ance inflicted upon a credulous
lie, without the stereotyped as-
Its upon the doctrines, discipline,

historical life of their church,
m Walter Scott to Peter Parley,

from Hume, Gibbon, and Ma-
lay, to the mechanical compilers
:heap school-literature, it is the
le story, told a thousand times
ner than it is refuted ; so that

English language, for the ftist

centuries, may be said, without
ygeration, to have waged war
inst the Catholic Church. In-
d, so far as European history is
sidered, the difficulty must always
insurmountable ; since it would
lys be impossible for the Catho-
and Protestant to accept the
e history of the Reformation or
the Papal See, or the political,
al, and moral events resulting
1 or in any degree connected
I those two great centres and
trolling causes. Who could write
►olitical history of Christendom
the last three hundred years and
t all mention of Luther and the
•e ? And how is any school com-
dium of such history to be de-
d for the use of the Catholic and
testant child alike ? And if his-
' be philosophy teaching by ex-
)le, shall we expel it from our
cational plan altogether? Or
[1 we oblige the Protestant child
tudy the Catholic version of his-
', and vice versa f Certainly, it
uite as just and politic to oblige

one as the other! Shall the
tjority " control this ? Who gave

" majority " any such power or right ^
With us, the ^ majority^ controls
the "j/df/f;" and we have seen that
the " state " becomes a usurper when
it attempts this I We are quite sure
that, if the Catholics were the " ma-
jority'* in the United States, and
were to attempt such an injustice,
our Protestant brethren would cry
out against it, and appeal to the
wise and liberal examples of Prus-
sia and England, France and Aus-
tria ! Now, is it not always as un-
wise, as it is unjust, to make a
minority taste the bitterness of op-
pression ? Men governed by the
law of divine charity will bear it
meekly, and seek to return good for
evil ; but all men are not docile ; and
majorities change sides rapidly and
often in this fleeting world 1 Is it
not wiser and more politic, even in
mere regard to social interests, that
all institutions, intended for the
welfare of the people, should be
firmly based upon exact and equal
justice? This would place them
under the protection of jixed habity
which in a nation is as strong as
nature ; and it would save them
from the mutations of society. The
strong of one generation may be the
weak of the next ; and we see this
occurring with political parties with-
in the brief spaces of presidential
terms. Hence we wisely inculcate
moderation and justice in political
majorities, under the law of retribu-
tion.

Profoundly impressed with these
views, and impelled by this com-
manding sense of duty, our Catholic
people have created a vast network
of schools over the country, at a price
which the world knows little of — ^the
sacrifice which the poor man makes,
who curtails the wheaten loaf that
he may give to his child the spiritual
bread ! Ah ! how many humble
cottages and dreary tenement-houses

69B

The Catholic View of Public Educaii&n,

could testify to that I There are six
millions of them here now ; and still
they come, from the deserted hearths
beyond the seas. They are upright,
Industrious, and love the new land
like the old ! In war, they shoulder
J the musket ; in peace, they are found
suing every avenue of labor and en-
Iterpnse. They contribute millions
jto the public revenue, and hundreds
lef millions to the productive Indus-
jtT)^ of the country*. Their own wel-
ffere and the highest interests of the
►country demand that their children
nd their children's children should
8*rell instructed in secular learning,
•arid thoroughly grounded in moral
and religious knowledge. As we
.have shown, they cannot avail them-
' selves of the public school system,
as now organized, though they con-
tribute largely to its support by their
I taxes. They do not desire to interfere
with that system^ as it seems at pre-
sent to meet the wants, or at least
I the views, of their Protestant fellow-
( citizens ; and they are, therefore, not
* opposed to the common schools"
[in the sense in which they have been
mpresented to be. They simply ask
I that they may be allowed to partici-
Ipate in the only way open to them,
[that is, by the apportionment to them
f of a ratable part of the fund, in aid
I of their existing schools, and of such
[others as their numbers, in any given
[locality, may properly enable them
Ito establish, subject to the limited
supervision of the state, as we have
I before explained. We need go no
I further than Canada to witness this
[system o[>erating harmoniously and
to the best advantage. The argu-
I'ment generally used against it is,
[lat this would destroy the unit)'' and
Itflficiency of the whole. Why is it
jliot so in Prussia, Austria, France,
[Enghnd, and the British Colonies ?
■Besides, the Catholic populations in
this country are very much aggrega-

ted, as in Baltimore^ FhHaiMliliii
Boston^ New York, V Ci»*

cinnati, St Louis, Chic.,^ , liwwh
kee, and in the lar^ge ^^pcvimsA
settlements throuirhaut the Nort^
Western States. Certainly^ in sadi
local it4es there cotild be no difficnitfr
It is contemplated by the school Isw
that all these are to be edocstedl
Then, why can they not be pemttHed
to organize separate schools, as in tbe
countries referred to } Such arpa^
zation would be an integral part ol
the whole system ; and the c«st
would be precisely the same. In
fact, we learn from the Reports of
Assistant Superintendents Jones and
Calkins, made to Hon. S. S. RandalL
the City Superintendent, and tlw
froft his Report made to the Hcbl
Board of Education, in I>ecenibef,
1866, that the school room provided
in the city of New York (espedalhr
in the primary department) is alto-
gether inadequate ; and yet we know
that tens of thousands of Catbc^ir
children could easily be cared for, if
the means were afforded those who^
even now, with the scantiest resour-
ces, are erecting parochial schools all
over the city.

It would be impossible tn m brief
article to enter into details. Otif
purpose has been rather to set diii
question before a liberal public m it»
great leading aspects, as we are quite
willing to trust to die wisdom lad
experience of our legislators to devllt
the proper plan and specincatlooa
They will be at no loss for precr
dents. The statutcboolts of half
a dozen countries may be consylted
profitably. All we ask is^ that this
momentous question may be candid-
ly considered and justly and
ously disposed of. We hope that
day has gone by when such a qiies-1
tion as this shall be met with passion*
ate declamation or the obsolete ctf\
of " no poper>\'' Disraeli has faiM '

Eclipse of the Sun.

697

to stem the tide of popular reform
in England by reviving the insane
clamor of Lord George Gordon.
The world has outgrown such narrow
bigotry. Vital questions, affecting
the conscience and the rights of mul-
titudes of men, and deeply involving
the welfare of nations, must hence-
forth be settled by calm and just
decisions. Christendom will tolerate

nothing else now. And surely, this
free and wise Republic will not be
the last to put into practice those
principles of equality before the law,
justice, and generous confidence in
human nature, which it published to
all the down-trodden nationalities of
tshe earth, almost a century ago, over
the signatures of Hancock, Living-
ston, and Carroll of CarroUton.

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN OF AUGUST 18, 1868.

A REPORT ADDRESSED BY M. JANSSEN TO THE MARSHAL OF FRANCE, PRE-
SIDENT OF THE BUREAU OF LONGITUDES.

Calcutta, November 3, 1868.
M. LE Mar^chal et Ministre:

I have the honor of addressing to
you, as President of the Bureau of
Longitudes, my report on the eclipse
of the 1 8th of last August, and upon
some subsequent observations, which
led me to the discovery of a method
of observing the solar protuberances
when the sun is not eclipsed. I will
beg you to have the kindness to com-
municate this to the Bureau.

I have the honor to be, etc. etc.,
Janssen.

Mr. President:

I had the privilege of writing to
you on the 19th of September last,
to give you a brief account of my ex-
pedition. I am now able to furnish
you with a more complete report of
my observations during the great
eclipse of the i8th of August

The steamer of the Messageries
Imperiales, in which I left France,
landed me, on the i6th of July, at
Madras, where I was received by the

English authorities with great cour-
tesy. Lord Napier, the governor of
the province, gave me passage to
Masulipatam upon a government
boat. Mr. Grahame, an assistant
collector, was sent with me to remove
any difficulties which I might meet
with in the interior.

On arriving, I had to select my
station.

A chart of the eclipse shows that
the central line, after crossing the
Bay of Bengal, enters the peninsula
of India at Masulipatam, and cross-
ing the great plains formed by the
delta of the Kistna, passes into a
hilly country, containing several
chains of mountains, on the frontier
of the independent state of Nizzam.
After receiving and considering much
information on the subject, I deter-
mined to choose the city of Guntoor,
situated on this central line, half-way
between the mountains and the sea.
I thus avoided the sea-fogs, very fre-
quent at Masulipatam, as well as the
clouds which often hang about lofty
peaks.

698

Eclipse cf the Smt.

Guntoor is quite an important
place, being the centre of a large cot-
ton trade. This cotton comes most-
ly from Nizzam, and is shipped to
Europe from the ports of Cocanada
and Masulipatam, Several French
merchants, with their families, live at
Guntoor ; they are descended, gene-
rally speaking, from those ancient
and numerous families which in for-
mer times were the glory of our
beautiful Indian colonies.

My observatory was at the resi*
dcnce of M. Jules Lefauchcur, who

•was so kind as to place at my dispo-
sal ail the first stor^^ of his house,
which is in the highest and best part
of the city. The rooms of this first
stor)' communicated with a large ter-
race, upon which I erected a tempo-
rary structure suitable for the obser-
vations intended.

The instruments were several
achromatic lenses of six inches aper-
ture, and a Foucault telescope of
twenty-one centimetres. The former
were all mounted upon one stand.
The general movement was given by
a mechanism constructed by Messrs.
Brunner Bros., which enabled one to
follow the sun by a simple rotation.
The apparatus was furnished with
finders of two and two and three
quarter inches aperture, which were
themselves good astronomical glass-
es. In spectral analysis, these find-
ers have a peculiar importance ; for
by means of them the precise point
of the object under examination is
known, to which the slit of the spec-
troscope in the principal telescope is
directed. It is therefore necessary
that the cross-wires, or in general
the sights placed in the fit-Id of the
finder, should correspond with great
exactness with the slit of the spec-
tral apparatus, and 1 had, of course,
taken great care to secure this essen-
tial point. Special micrometers

> were also provided, to measure rap-

idly tJie height and angle of posi<
tion of the protuberances. As fo
the spectroscopes, I had chosen
them of different magnifying powe
so as to answer to the different
quircmcnts of the various phcnomc^
na- Finally, the apparatus carried, at
the eye-piece end, screens of black
cloth, forming a dark chamber*
order to preserve the sensibility ofJ
the eye.

Besides these instrument^
ed for the principal obser\
had brought a full set of very dehcatc j
thermometers, made with great skill |
by M. Baud in ; also some portable}
spy-glasses, hygrometers, barometers, j
etc. Thus I was able to turn to ac-l
count the kindness of MM, Jules, j
Arthur, and William Lefaucheur, who j
offered their semces for the subsidi- j
VLvy work. M» Jules, who is a good j
draughtsman^ undertook to sketch!
the eclipse. An excellent u*
of three inches aperture, fu
with cross-wires, was assignee! to his j
use ; he practised with it the reprc-l
sentation of the expected phenome-
na by means of artificial imitatiotu j
of eclipses. The thermometric ofeJ
servations were given to M. Ar
who was also directed to asce
the brilliancy of the protuberance* 1
and of the corona at the moment of |
totality, by a very simple photome-|
trie process*

I was assisted in my own opera'}
lions by M, Redier, .i young subal*]
tern, whom the commander of ihej
steamer L'lmperatrice had supplied I
to mc. The ser\'ices of M* Redier, ]
who has excellent observing quali*
ties, were very useful to me.

The time which remained before ^
the eclipse was cmploytid in
nar)' study and practicu, win
ed to familiarire us with the hand-
\\\\^ of our instruments, and suggest- 1
ed to me various impruvcmcnts iii j
them.

EeU^0 tf th0 Strn.

699

The day approached, but the wea-
ther did not promise to be favorable.
It had rained for some time all along
the coast. These rains, were consi-
dered as extraordinary and excep-
tional. Fortunately, they moderated
gradually before the i8th ; and on
that day the sun rose unclouded,
and dimmed only by a mbt out of
which it soon passed ; and at the
time when our telescopes showed us
that the eclipse began, it was shining
with its full splendor.

£very one was at his post, and
the observations immediately com-
menced. During the first phases
some thin vapors passed before the
sun, which interfered somewhat with
the thermometric measurements ;
hut, as the moment of totality ap-
proached, the. sky became sufficient-
ly clear.

Meanwhile the light diminished
sensibly, surrounding objects appear-
ing as if seen by moonlight The
decisive moment was near, and we
waited for it with some anxiety ; this
anxiety took nothing from our pow-
ers of observation, it rather stimulat-
ed and increased them ; and it was,
besides, fully justified by the gral:^
deur of the spectacle which nature
was preparing for us, and by the
consciousness that the fruits of our
thorough preparations and of a long
voyage would depend on the use
now made of a few minutes.

The solar disc was soon reduced
to a narrow bright arc, and we re-
doubled our attention. The slits of
the spectroscopes were kept precise-
ly upon tiie purt of ^ moon's limb
where the last light of the sun would
be seen, so that they would be di-
rected to the lower regions of the
solar atmosphere at the moment of
contact of the discs.
. The total obscuration occurred in*
stantaneously, and the spectral phe-
nomena also changed immediately

in a very remarkable manner. Two
spectra, formed of five or six very
bright lines — red, yellow, green, blue,
and violet-^occupied the field in place
of the prismatic image of the sun
which had just disappeared. These
spectra, about one minute (of arc)
long, corresponded line for line, and
were separated by a dark space in
which I could see no lines.

The finder showed that these two
spectra were caused by two magnifi-
cent protuberances which were now
visible on each side of the point of
contact. One of them, that on the
left, was more than three minutes (or
one tenth of the sun's diameter) in
height ; it looked like the flame of a fur-
nace, rushing violently from the open-
ings of the burning mass within, and
driven by a strong wind. The one to
the right presented the appearance of
a mass of snowy mountains, with its
base resting on the moon's limb, and
enlightened by a setting sun. These
appearances have been carefully
drawn by M. Jules Lefaucheur. I will
therefore only remark before quitting
the subject, which I shall have to
treat subsequently under a special
aspect, that the preceding observa-
tion shows at once :

ist. The gaseous nature of the
protuberances, (the lines being bright )

2d. The general similarity of their
chemical composition, (the spectra
corresponding line for line.)

3d. Their chemical species, (the
red and blue lines of their spectrum
being no other than the lines C and
F of the solar one, and belonging, as
is well known, to hydrogen gas.)

Let us now return to the dark
space which separated the spectra
of these protuberances. It will be
remembered that, at the moment of
the total obscuration, the slits were
tangent to the solar and lunar discs,
and were tiierefore directed toward
the circumsolar regions immediately

Tod

Eclipse of tlie Sun,

above the photosphere, in which
regions M. Kirch hoffs iheor^^ places
the atmosphere of vapors, which pro-
duces by absorption the dark lines
of the solar spectrum. This almo*
spherej when shining by its own light,
should, according to the same theory',
1 give a reversed solar spectrum, that
' is to say, one composed entirely of
bright lines. This is what we were
expecting and trying to verify, and it
was to make the proof decisive that
I had used so many precautions.
But we have just seen that only the
protuberances gave positive or bright-
line spectra. Now, it is ver)^ certain
that, if an atmosphere formed of the
vapors of all the substances which
have been found in the sun really
existed above the photosphere, it
would have given a spectrum at least
as brilliant as that of the protube-
rances, which were formed of a gas
much less dense and less luminous.
It must, then, be admitted that, if this
atmosphere exists, its height is so
small that it has escaped notice.

I must also add that this result
did not much surprise me ; for my
I investigations on the solar spectrum
had led me to doubt the reality of
any considerable atmosphere around
the sun, and I am more and more
inclined to think that the phenomena
I of elective absorption, ascribed by
I the great physicist of Heidelberg to
.an atmosphere exterior to the sun,
I are due to the vapors of the photo-
sphere itself, in which the solid and
J liquid particles forming the luminous
[clouds are floating. This view is not
f merely in harmony with the beautiful
I theory on the constitution of the
[photosphere which we owe to M.
I Payei but even seems to be a ncces-
j sary deduction from it.

In fine, the eclipse of the iSth of

I August appears to me to show ihat

» the formation of the solar spectrum

cannot be explained by the theory

heretofore admitted, and I propose
a correction to this ihcoiy as abcMre ]

indicated.

To return to the protuberances*
During the total obscuration, I was i
much impressed by the extreme bril-
liancy of their spectral lines. The
idea immediately occurred to me i
that they might be seen even n?hctt
the sun was unobscured ; unfortu-
nately the weather, which became
cloudy after the eclipse, did not allow
me to try the experiment on that day,
During the night, the method a&ci
the means presented tliemselves
clearly to my mind. Rising the next
morning at three, I prepared for
these new observations. The sua
rose quite clear ; as soon as it had
risen from the ha/e of the horizon, I
began to examine it, placing the sht
of the spectroscope, by means of the
fmder, upon the same place where,
the day before, I had seen the pro-
tuberances.

The slit, being placed partly on tiie
solar disc and partly outside, gai'e,
of course, tsvo spectra, that of tlie
sun and that of the protuberanccit^j
The brilliancy of the solar spc
was a great difficulty ; I par
avoided it by hiding the yellow^ tllc '
green, and the blue portions, which
were the most brilliant AU my
attention was directed to the line C,
dark for the sun, bright for the pro-
tuberance, and which, coming at a
rather faint part of the spectrum^ waa
seen with comparative ease.

I had not examined the right hand
or western part of the protiiberattt,
region long w^hen I " *
a small bright red II* f^l

act prolongation of the daik hue G of
the sun* Moving the slit so as to
sweep methodically the region vliidi
I was exploring, this line rti
but changed its length and
Uancy in the different parts, siiawin^

Eclipse of the Sun.

701

t inequality in the height and
icss of the various parts of the
lerance. This examination was
d at three different times, and
iright line always appeared in
wne circumstances. M. Redier,
Assisted me with much interest
tse experiments^ saw it as well
rftnd soon we could even pre-
Its appearance by merely know-
ftat region we w^ere examining*
I after, I ascertained that the
jP showed itself simultaneously

rthe afternoon, I returned to the
^ examined in the morning j
fright lines again showed them-
i, but they indicated great

^s in the distribution of the
»rant matter ; the lines broke
imetimes into isolated fragments
^ would not unite with the prin-
I one, notwithstanding the shift-
If the slit. This suggested the
fence of scattered clouds formed
tg the forenoon. In the region
|e great (or left hand) prolnbe-
L I found some bright lines, but
(length and arrangement showed
;reat changes had also occurred

icse first observations already
Ed that the coincidence of the
iGand F was real, and that hy-
Hn was certainly the most im-
tit element in these circumsolar
PS. They also established the
iity of the changes which these
BS undergo, which cannot be pcr-
|d during the short duration of
llipse.

||e following days, I availed my-
6f all the opportunities allowed
|te weather to apply and perfect

Fiew method, at least as f^r as
permitted by the character of
struments, w^hich had not been
cted to suit this new idea,
rving very attentively the lines
protuberances, I have some-

times noticed that they penetrated
into the dark lines of the solar spec-
trum, showing thus that the protube-
rance extends over part of the sun's
disc. This result was naturally to
be expected ; but the interposition of
the moon has always made its proof
impossible during eclipses.

I will also detail here an observa-
tion made on the 4th of September
at a favorable time, which shows how
rapidly the protuberances change
their form and position.

At 9h, 50m., the examination of
the sun showed a mass of protuber-
ant matter in the lower part of the
disc. To determine its shape, I used
a method which may be called chro-
nometric, since time is employed in
it as the standard of measure.

In this method, the telescope is
placed in a fixed position, so chosen
that by the diurnal movement of the
sun all parts of the region to be ex-
plored shall come in turn into the
field of the spectroscope ; and at de-
terminate times the length and situ-
ation of the spectral lines succes-
sively produced are noted.

The time occupied by the sun's
disc in passiog before the slit gives
the value of a second of lime in
minutes of arc. This, combined
with the length of the lines estimated
in the same unit, gives the means for
a graphic representation of the pro-
tuberance.

The application of ibis method to
the study of the solar region just
mentioned as seen on this occasion,
showed a protuberance extending
over about thirt}* degrees (or one
twelfth) of the sun's circumference,
ten of which were east of the verti-
cal diameter, and twenty west. Near
the extremity of the western part, a
cloud was lying, distant one and a
haif minutes, or one twentieth of the
sun's diameter, from its limb. This
cloud, about two minutes long and

702

Eclipse of the Sun,

one high, was parallel to the limb.
One hour afterward, a new drawing
showed that the cloud had risen
rapidly, and taken a globular form.
But its movements soon became still
quicker ; for ten minutes later, at
eleven o'clock, the globe was enor-
mously extended in a direction per-
pendicular to the limb and to its
previous position. A little mass of
matter was also detached from the
lower part, and hung between the
sun and the main body of Uie cloud-
Thick weather coming on prevented
further observations.

To resume our remarks. Con-
sidered in regard to its principle, the
new method is based upon the dif-
ference of the spectral properties of
the protuberances and of the photo-
sphere. The light of the latter ema-
nates from solid or liquid particles,
which are incandescent, and is in-
comparably brighter than that of the
former \ so that these have hardly
been visible hitherto, except during
eclipses. But the case is quite
altered when we use the spectra of
these bodies. For the solar light is
spread over the whole extent of its
spectntm, and thus much weakened ;
while that of the protuberances, on
the contrary, is condensed into a few
lines whose intensity bears some
proportion lo that of the correspond-
ing solar ones. Hence their lines
are quite easily seen in the field,
together with those of the sun, though
their ordinary images are entirely
effaced by the dazzling light of the
photosphere.

Another very fortunate circum-
stance for the new method comes lo
the support of the one just men-
tioned, namely, that the bright lines
of the protuberances answer to the
dark ones of the solar spectrum.
Hence they are not only more easily
Seen in their own proper field, out-
side and on the edge of the solar

spectrum, but tliey can even be fd
lowed into the interior of the Utter,^
and by this means the protuberanc
can be traced upon the globe of the
sun itself.

As regards the determination
chemical composition, the niethodt
followed during total eclipses al«a^
carried with tiiem some uncer
since, in the absence of the i
tight, graduated scales had to bel
employed to fix the position of thej
lines. The new method enables uil
to compare the two spectra directly.

As to the results obtained during
the brief period in which this method |
has been used, they are as follows:

ist. That the luminous protttbei^l
ances observed during total eclipteii
belong unquestionably to the circBm*
solar regions.

2d. That these bodies are maiolfl
or entirely composed of incatulescent |
hydrogen gas,

jd. That they are subject to i
ments of which no terrestri^
menon can give us any idc* ; siticci|
though they are masses of maRcrl
having several hundred tiroes tbei
volume of tlie earth, they channel
completely their form and posttio^l
in the course of a few minutes.

Such are the princi]
rived at. I hope, not Jin

the state of my eyes — fatigued by |iro*1
tracted experiments upon the subject]
of light — that I shall be able to cofi*l
tinuc my labors, and liave the hooof 1
of submitting the results to lh€ ,
Bureau,

In conclusion, I will add^ that f ]
have also had an opportunity to con-
tinue my researches on the spectngm I
of the vapor of water. The cUnute |
of India, which is very moi>i
sent, is quite favorable to i
vestigations. I am inclined lu a*-
tribute lo this spectrum a continualtf I
increasing impottance. The wiiole )
series of my observations bene itfi

Who shall take Care of the Poor f

70s

at Paris has made me confident of
an elective action upon all the solar
rays as far as the extreme violet,
though in the latter such an action

is much more difficult to establish
with certainty. These experiments
will form the subject of a separate
communication.

WHO SHALL TAKE CARE OF THE POOR?

FIRST ARTICLE.

The duty of caring for the poor,
which Christ laid upon his church,
has been assumed in modem times
by the civil power ; and governments
have sought, by legislative enactments
and political machinery, to fill the
place of those ecclesiastical charities
which disappeared in the convulsions
of the sixteenth century. It is need-
less to say that their attempts have
failed, and that the problem, " Who
shall take care of the poor?" is still,
in all Protestant countries, practically
unsolved. We feel, therefore, that
no apology is necessary for entering
upon its discussion here, and that
any light which may be thrown upon
the subject by ourselves or others
will tend to elucidate gne of the most
perplexed and difficult social ques-
tions of the present age.

There are certain fundamental
principles which any examination of
this subject, from a Christian point
of view, must assume, and in accord-
ance with which all Christian theo-
ries and practice concerning it must
proceed.

These principles may be thus
briefly stated :

L That the care of the poor de-
volves upon those who continue the
mission of Christ in the redemption
of mankind and accept and obey his
command, " Feed my flock ;" upon

those whose discipline of character,
at once personal and corporate,
enables them to help the helpless, to
reform the vicious, and to conciliate
the dangerous, while their organiza-
tion affords a guarantee of persistence
in these good works and of the pro-
per use of the means confided to
them ; in a word, upon those who
combine the attributes of a provi-
dence at once universal and discern-
ing, with equity in administration
and energy in execution.

IL That the principle of action,
by which this work alone can be
effected, is what may be termed " ab-
sorbent substitution," that is, the
voluntary assumption of poverty out
of practical sympathy with the poor.

III. That the legitimate effect of
this action is to encourage, aid, and
guide the poor to help themselves, and
to infuse into them that love for their
neighbor which, by this mediation,
becomes reciprocal.

IV. That the established means
by which this work must be perform-
ed are, first: The church in her
collective capacity ; second, the or-
ders of charity ; third, the various-
ly constituted beneficial societies ;
fourth, the hand of private Christian
charity, the latter of which, in the
discussion of this question as a public
one, does not, however, enter into our

704

W/i(? shall lake Lar€ of the pQorf

consideration. The three first men-
tioned are often found united in the
same community : the church, repre-
sented by the congregation, contain-
ing Sisters of Charity or Mercy, and
also assistant orders of pious persons,
who, though bound by no vows, work
in the world and aid the other orders
With their purse and influence. Still,
those who take the vows of poverty,
chastity, and obedience, and who, in
organized communities, dev^ote them-
selves to works of charity, must be
regarded as the most perfect organs
of this Christian work. And these
become thus voluntarily poor, self-
denying, and exclusive, because not
only is the healthy soul fortified and
preserved in spiritual power by pri-
vation of the pleasures of the senses,
but poverty itself becomes ennobled
by the assumption, and its degrada-
tion disappears.

Treating these principles^ for the
present, as self-evident, we now in-
quire :

Who arc our poor, and how shall
they be cared for ?

Upon this question, the CatJiolic
Church cannot limit her providential
mission or assume a sectarian atti-
tude. While preaching, by example,
to the pious and humane of every
creed, the zeal of active charity, she
must extend her benefits to all those
who need and seek her, without favor
or distinction. This she must do to
be consistent with her own historic
record, and to fulfil the behest of her
Lord.

Wherever Christian faith and love
exist, ** by their works ye shall know
them/* Charity is the test of the
Catholic faith. Our Douay Catechism
says that "the first fruit of the Holy
Ghost is charit)'.*' Then it tells us
what charity means, in the language
of its effects, namely, " To feed the
hungry^ to give drink to the thirsty, to
clothe the naked, to visit and ransom

captives, to harbor the harbortesSi \
visit the sick, to bury the dead :"
very^ matter of fact definition, bti
which implies that,

** Thou shalt love thy neighbor
thyself/'

The practice of charity alone
reconcile mankind by dissip
schism, and by thus re-estmbli
their unison, secure the triumph
the Christian churdi over the work

This universal unity of spirit
ploys in its melliods of action manf
distinct organs and correspondin
varieties of function, and the tin
honored maxim, C'najidts^ una i
** One faith, one house/*
obedience to constituted aullioriti
bind in the circle of good-will the
orders which, though each adopts]
particular rule and special
cably co-operate in their sepa
like the branches of the same viot.

Whatever principles of action c«
perience has sanctioned in Catholid
charities, commend themselves
to all Christians.

•* Why is it," asks Mrs. Jamo
" that we see so many womcHi i
fully educated, going over to ih
Catholic Church ? For no otlier i
son than for the power it gives
to throw their energies into a sph
of definite utility, under the
trol of a high religious responstfa
lit>%"

To each of the notable aspects i
human affliction corresponds, to
history of Christendom, one or i
orders consecrated to its relief, an
from being confined to mere pal
expedients, organic efforts lov
radical cure of our social evils ]
been developed under the mt
of the Catholic Church.

Distmctive characters of the
tholic orders, though not canfif>ed I
them, are celibacy andcommunitf <
property. A bond of union pufeljr]
spiritual dissolves and replaces 1

WJIu) shall take Care of the Poor?

70S

ties which develop the personality of
the individual.

No fair comparison can be institut-
ed between Catholic and Protestant
orders of charity, for the simple rea-
son that marriage and the family,
which perpetuate secular estatefS by
entail or inheritance, or seek, in the
exchange of love, an earthly heaven,
act as effectual dissolvents on reli-
gious orders consecrated to a special
work. The vitality of the Episcopa-
lian charities, St. John's and St.
Luke^s, is now undergoing this expe-
riment, to-wit: Can the requisite
number of efficient nurses and offi-
cers be maintained without binding
vows ? Can the service of the order
be organized with influences that
shall counterpoise the temptations of
worldly vanities and interests, the
powerful attraction of the sexes,
and the honorable ambition of be-
coming one's self a focus of social ra-
diation ?

Of course, it is not necessary to
the effectiveness of a given service
that it should always be rendered by
the same individuals; but numbers
avail not without discipline; and,
while relays and successions are al-
lowed, they must not be too fre-
quent. The sacrifice of personal li-
berty, to a certain extent, is indis-
pensable to the order and efficiency
of co-operative charity. Hence it is
not surprising that the first attempts
in England to constitute Episcopa-
lian orders of charity should gene-
rally have failed. This impulse was
due to the humiliating lesson of the
Crimean war, when Sisters of Chari-
ty and Mercy flocked from all Eu-
rope to the assistance of the French
sick and Wounded, when similar or-
ders of the Greek Church came to
befriend the afflicted Russian sol- ^
diers ; but the English were perish-
ing miserably, until their unlooked-
for succor by the intervention of
VOL. VIII. — 45

Miss Florence Nightingale and her
heroic band.

The necessity thus apprehended,
to fall back on the institutions of
Catholicity, has recently occasioned
the formation of orders, who take
the vow of chastity, poverty, and
obedience. Sisters of Mercy and
Sisters of the Contemplative Life may
be seen in London, repairing to cha-
pel through deserted streets in the
early morning hours. Will such
vows, unsanctioned by the public
opinion of Protestant countries, be
really binding ? How has it proved
at Valle Cruce ?

Oppressed and alarmed by the in-
crease of pauperism, and the worse
than inefficiency of her poor-rates
and secular measures of pauper-re-
lief, England now feels that she has
committed something near akin to
suicide in the destruction of her re-
ligious orders. No longer "merry
and wise," her political economists
are splitting hairs to find just what
pittance may suffice to keep the poor
from dying of hunger without making
them more comfortable than others
whose pride refuses alms, so as not
to set a premium on idleness.

" The notion popularized by Cob-
bett," says Herbert Spencer, arguing-
the question, " that every one has a
right to a maintenance out of the
soil, leaves those who adopt it in an
awkward predicament. Do but ask
them to specify, and they are set
fast. Assent to their principle ; tell
them you will assume their title to
be valid ; and then, as a needful pre-
liminary to the liquidation of their
claim, ask for some precise defini-
tion of it ; inquire what is a mainte-
nance. They are dumb ! Is it, say
you, potatoes and salt, with rags and
a mud cabin } or is it bread and ba-
con, in a two-roomed cottage ? Will
a joint on Sundays suffice .^ or does
the demand include meat and malt-

7o6

WAo shall take Care qf the P&arf

liquor daily ? Will tea, coffee, and
tobacco be expected ? and if so, how
many ounces of each ? Are bare
walls and brick floors all that is need-
ed ? or must there be carpets and pa-
per-hanging? Are shoes consider-
ed essential ? or will the Scotch prac-
tice be approved ? Shall the cloth-
ing be of fustian? If not, of what
quality must the broadcloth be ? In
short, just point out where, between
the two extremes of starvation and
luxury, this something called a main-
tenance lies. How else shall we know
whether enough has been awarded,
or whether too much ? One thinks
that a bare subsistence is all that
can fair!}' be demanded. Another
hints at something beyond, A third
maintainsthatafew of the enjoyments
of life should be provided for. And
some of the more consistent, pushing
the doctrine to its legitimate result,
will rest satisfied with nothing short
-of community of property.^*

What this argument renders most
apparent is, the necessity for an um-
pire, or mediatorial power, between
collective society and the individual
or family requiring aid, a power sym-
pathetic alike with those who have
more, and with those who have less,
than necessity demands, and whose
social position shall derive, from a
source superior to either, a prestige
wHich will inspire confidence in its
discretion and give a certain authori-
ty to its decisions* If personal bene-
ficence or corporate guarantees suf-
fice for the relief of sufferers, or to
obtain for those able and willing
the opportunity of suitable employ-
ment, the mediatorial power will not
interfere. If, on the other hand, ap-
peal be made to it, it may act ehher
by the exercise of its own faculties,
or as the trustee of social goods ; a
mutual intelligence bureau of higher
grade than our ordinary business of-
fices. Such a function the Catholic

Church and its orders of charit
filled in England, and may ycl
in America,

Mr. John Stuart Mill w^ell obsent
that the state cannot undertake
discriminate between the dcscmnj
and the undeserving indigcnL ll
owes no more than subsistence to fhk
first, and can give no less to the lasfi
Since it must provide subsistence 1
the criminal poor while undergoin
punishment, not to do the san
the poor — who have notoflende
to give a premium to crime, Guaf
dians and overseers are *ot fit to
trusted to give or withhold other \
pie's money according to their ve
diet on the morality of the person
soliciting it, and it would sh-
ignorance of the ways of m.i;
suppose that such persons, even
the almost impossible case of the
being qualified, will take the trouM
of ascertaining and sifting the pa.^
conduct of a person in distress, soi
to form a rational judgment on it^l
Private charity can make these dis-1
tinctions, and, in bestowing its owo
money, is entitled to do so accordifi
to its own judgment.

It is admitted to be right that tw
man beings should help one another 3
and the more so in proportion to i
urgency of the need. In all cases (
helping, we distinguish the
quences of the assistance itself, an
the consequences of relying on th
assistance. The former art-
ly beneficial, but the latlei
most part injurious : so much so, m\
many cases, as greatly to out¥
the value of the benefit There j
few tilings more mischievous tha
that people should rely on the hab
tual aid of others for the meai|
subsistence, and unhappily iht
no lesson which they more easily
learn. The problem to be solved 1%
how to give the greatest amoanl <
needful help with the smallest

WA(P shall take Care 0/ the Poarf

707

•Agement to undue reliance on it.
rgy and self dependence are,
ever, liable to be impaired by
absence of Iielp as well as by its
*ss. It is even more fatal to ex-
)n to have no hope of succeeding
t than to be assured of succeed-
without it- When the condition
my one is so disastrous that his
'gies are paralyzed by discour-
Tient, assistance is a tonic, not a
itive. It braces instead of dead-
ig the active faculties, always pro-
jd ihat the assistance is not such
r> dispense with self-help by sub*
iting itself for the person's own
>r, skill, and prudence, but is
ted to affording him a better
B of attaining success by those
Limate means. This accordingly
test to which all plans of philan-
[py should be brought, whether
ided for the benefit of indivi-
I or of classes, and whether con-
Rd on the voluntary or the gov-
ient principle.

Hooking the spiritual forces
s chanty brings to bear
g the moral lone of cha-
jlr, Mr. Mill finds the foregoing
Ciples well applied by the Eng-
Poor-Lawof 1834, because, while
pvents any person, except by hh
pchoice, from dying of hunger, it
iheir condition as much as
ble below that of the poorest
► find support for themselves.
Mill's logic here seems to arrive
le red Hit iO *td absurd urn ; for the
of these poorest of the working
, whom pride forbids to claim
cr relief, is too distressing for
ily, acting only below that level,
} of any avail Usually inclined
most liberal and humane views,
Mill has here given way to a
slant prejudice, which regards
advised the more whole-souled
lie style of charity. The fol-
extract from De Verc*s work

shows the contrast, and affords a
good answer to this overcantious-
ness about doing too much. All
depends upon the spirit in which
charity is bestowed j it should be
cordfal, not humiliating and distress-
ing:

** Most of the Sisters arc from the class of
servants and needle -women ; but there are
many who, having been brought up to enjoy
;ril the comforts and even ctcganccs of life,
have willingly renounced all to make them*
selves the humblest servants of the poor, to
washi and caok, and l^^ for those who have
been beggars all Iheir lives. The secret of
alt this lies in this, that the Sisters see, in
their poor^ Jesus Christ himself, to wait on
whom must be their highest glory. From
thisj then, springs the most delightful inter-
change of feeling between the Sisters and
thetr pensioners ; for these [joor people reve-
rence with the liveliest gratitude those who
seem to them as the angels of God sent to re-
deem them from all their misery and wretch-
edness, to comfort their bodies^ and enlight-
en their souls. The change wrought in the
old people after they have been with the Sis-
ters a little while, is said to be most remark-
able. From being fractious* complaining,
and idle, they grow cheerful and contented
in the highest degree* and every one is anx-
ious to do something to contribute to the
common stock. ' Our houses, our Sisters/
they say— a type of the perfect union which
reigns amongst them. Everything is done
by the Sisters to cultivate a spirit of cheer-
fulness ; they are treated as children, and
every opportunity is embraced of making
them a little festival. The beautiful simpti-
city of childhood seems to return in all its
fulness to these poor creatures, whose lives
have been spent in vice and misery. From
a state approaching to brutality, they revive
even to gaycty. Well may they say as they
do, ' We never were happy until we came
here,' On great occasions they sing and
dance, and the Sisters join with them.
When the anniversary of the hotfse of Rou-
en wa<i lately celebrated, the old woman who
had 1>een the first pensioner was crowned as
the queen of the day* and her lowly seat deck-
ed with flowers, whilst her aged companions
cheered her with the heartiest good will.

" The tender regird with which the Sisters
cherish the poor on whom they wait, calls
forth the best feelings of their hearts, so
long dead to every human chanty. They
respond by the most refreshing cordiality ;
but truly hearts could not resist the winning

foB

WAo skail take Care 0/ ihe Padrt

kmdness with which they are invariAbly
Irealed. One little inckleiit may illimtrate
how aIjovc all selfish considerations the law
of kindness prevaiU: One old woman was
anxious to be received among the * Little Sis-
ters- somewhere in France. Her case well
deserved the privilege, but the old woman
insisted on bringing also into the house her
hen and her sparrow. Without these com-
panions, she would not enter; she would
rather forego the advantage offered to her.
The old woman, her hen, and her sparrow
were all admitted together, anything rather
than lose an opportunity of doing good.

** Selfishness cannot long exist where such
examples of sclf-dcnial are ever present in
these Sisters. They take the worst ofcvery-
thing for themselves. Even in the longest
established houses there are no chairs ex-
cept for the old people ; the Sisters * sit
upon their heels/ A Jesuit father, on rune
diiy visiting one of the hoiises, found the
Sisters just sitting down to dinner. They
had nothing to drink out of but odd and
broken vessels, mustard-pots, jam-pots, etc;
ail in such a dilapidated condition that the
gt»od father hastened off the very first pcni*
tent, who came to him for confession, with
an injunction to buy a dozen of glasses and
send them to the house of hb ^ PoiUs Saturi,*
Such is their voluntary' poverty!

** Every time a house is opened, so soon
as a sufficient number of poor are collected,
a retreat is preached The fruits of these
retreats, in Chose who have been so long
ent from the sacraments, i* wonderful.
( the house is furnished with those who
serve to set a good example to all those who
are afterward admitted.

** Nothing can exceed the gratitude of
these poor creatures when reconciled with
GocL They embrace the Sisters with (ears.
' It is seventy^five years since I drew tvear
to God,' said one ; * and now I am Roing lo
receive him to-morrow,* A poor b:\rl»cr who
had lost the use of his hands through rheu-
matism, and, being unable to exercise his
profession, had fallen into such a state of
dcslitution that he was thankful to accept an
asylum in one of the houses of the ' Little
Sisters,* was observed, after his confession,
to be looking at his hands. • What are you
doing }* was aakjcd of him. • I am looking
at the finger of God,* he replied This
spirit of resignation and gratitude is nearly
universal, and the Sisters arc not without
their consolatJoQ even in this world."

To the special ministry of the Sis-
terhoods of Charity have been as-
signed the sick, inftrm, and aged

poor, whom all regard as pfopfr

jects of relief and piotis cart.
have shown, in our October ntuni
how well they satisfied alike the
Christian and the economic ueed,
Mrs. Jameson, in the work theie in-
ferred to,* has strori ^tfled
the conditions of the ' wofk*
house system" (which \s> ttie same ai
ours) with the religious matt;
not only of the sick^poor, but also
the criminal and most degraded cl.
es. Take, for instance, the Aitstrij
prison at Neudorf. Th
experiment which as yc: . ;
a three years' trial when Mrs. ]^n*r■
son visited it, but had already sui
ceeded so well, both morally and
economically, that the Austrian gov*
ernment was preparing lo organbe
eleven others on the same plan, h
began by the efforts of two humane
ladies to find a refuge for ijime
wretched creatures of their own sex
who, after undergoing their tcnn of
punishment, were cast out of tho pi^
sons. They obtained the aid of ImpO
Sisters of a religious order in Fraacc,
devoted to the reformation of loll
and depraved women. Gcyvemmciit
soon enlarged their sphere of action,
and confided to them tht- adrnmistn*
tion of a prison, pen ir '
hospital, with several i ^ ana
a large garden,

"In its management, t found
two hundred criminals, separated into
classes. The 6rst class con
rate characters* the refuse
Vienna, who are brim^ri^
armed guard, bound 1
appearance was either
cant or frightful from the i
evil projjensiiJes. The seen
from the first, were railed the pcaitcnta, md
showed, in the expression of their counte-
nances, an extraonlinary chanice from Ihf
newly arrived. l*hcy vrere mlto«irnl io asHVt
in the house, lo cook and t<i waxli. aaid ^
work in the gartien« which last was a gfvat
boon. There were more than fifty of tiicse,
and they were, at least* htmuuiilieii TUt

lot, Tlwr
^s^. and ▼»'

■>ce nf
_ ,'TsM

TVka shall take Can of the Poor f

709

third dass were the voluntanea who, when
their term had expired, preferred rcraainmg
in the house and were alluwed to do 50.
Part of the profit of their work was retained

I ^for their benefit

^K *• Twelve women, aided by three chaplains,
^Hi ftorgeon, and a physidrtn, none of whom
^^■e&ided in the establishment, managed the
^Hbhole. They had dismissed the soldiers and
^^policc -officers, finding that they needed no
other means of constraint than their dignity,
I ^ood sense, patience, and tenderness. There
\ as much of frightful physical disease as
ere was of moral disease, crime, and mis-
Two Sisters acted as chief nurses and
t>thccaries. The vcntilalron and clcanli-
CSS were perfect. When I expressed my
itonishment that 90 small a number of \vo-
en could manage such a set of wild and
jricked creatures, the answer was, * If wc
nt assistance, we shall have it ; but it is as
sy with our system to manage three hun-
«d as one hundred or as fifty. The power
^ not in ourselves, it is granted from above,'
icre men and women were acting together ;
pd in all the regulations, religious and san-
y, I he re was mutual aid, mutual respect,
nd interchange of experience ; but the Sis-
rrs were sulx>rdinate only to the chief dvi(
nd ecclesiastical authorities ; the internal
ninistration rested with them/*

^m The "Little Sisters of the Poor''
^^^ve inspired the following remarks,
^Bhtch apply to many other orders
I^Bctively en|;a^ed in works of cha-
rity :

•* Their records demonstrate that religious
institutions do, effectually and cheaply, what
the clumsy and bfcless machinery of the
State docs at an enormous cost and peril,
with a very questionable preponderance of
gain over loss. Charity is a religious work,
and these orders arc specially qualified, as
religious, to lead the charity of the country ;
their have a special vocation and a superna-
tural aim ; they unite the strongest motives
lor individual exertion with the highest de-
velopment of the co-operative system ; they
arc free from the impediments of other par-
ties ; what they give cstabUahes no legal or
poUlical right, yet it recognizes a moral
claim and provides for a human want In
addressing the statesmen of this country, we
can prove that one thousand dollars a year,
thus wisely spent in well -organized charity,
fpcA twice AS far as two thousand dollars a
j^X spent with a blundering alternation of
prodigality and cruelty, such as characteriics

the management of our secular charities.
Organic bodies contain within themselves a
principle of endless adaptation. The church,
herself an organic body, is the fruitfid rooth>
er of all such organizations as the moral
needs of man require ; nor is there any rea*
son to doubt that she can help the modem
pauper as readily as the captives, the lepers,
and the laborers in mines for whom her
mediaeval orders worked. The recent insti*
lution of the * IJttle Sisters of the Poor' de-
rives a jjeculiar intereiJt from the mode in
which it approaches thai special trial of
modem society, pauperism, and it may, with
the divine blessing, advance from its present
humble beginning to enterprises which, alike
on the ground of theology and of sound po-
litical economy, arc beyond the efforts of the
most beneficent governments now existing,**

The gospels abundantly attest the
loving and tender behavior of Christ
toward the poor at^d the afflicted of
every class. It is important to note
how lively and loyal is the tradition
of this conduct in the Christian
church, from its earliest periods to
our ovni day. It was a favorite turn
in the mediaeval legends of charily
that our Lord should reveal himself,
even in the body* to those who had,
for his love, consoled some poor ob-
ject of compassion. It is written of
St. Elizabeth, Queen of Hungary, that
she kept always near her, and herself
served, thirteen sick poor, in memory
of Christ and the twelve apostles.

'^ Among the sick was a poor little leper
named Hclias, whose condition was so de-
plorable that no one would take charge of
him, EllEabcihj seeing him thus abandoned
by all, felt herself bound to do more for him
than for any other j she took and bathed
him herself, anointed him with a healing
balm^ and then laid him in the bed, even
that which she shared with her royal hus-
band. Now it happened that the duke re-
turned to the caAtle whilst Elizabeth was
thus occupied. His mother ran out imme-
diately to meet him, and when he alighted
she said, ' Come with me, dear son, and I
will show thee a pretty doing of thy Elira-
beth.' • What docs this mean ?' said the
duke. * Only come,* said she, * and thou
wilt see one she loves much better than
thee.* Thcn^ taking him by the hand, she
led bim to his chamber mn<i to hi» bed, and

7o8

WA& shall take Cmr &f th€ P^dff

kindness with which they ire invariably
treated. One little incident may illtistrate
how ;ibovc all se16^h considerations the law
of kindness prevails: One old woman was
anxious to be received among the * Little Sis-
lets' somewhere in France. Her case well
deserved the privilege, but the old woman
insisted on bringing also into the house her
ben and her sparrow. Without these com-
panions, she would not enter,- she would
rather forego the advantage offered to her.
The old woman^ her hen, and her sparrow
^■ere all admitted together^ anything rather
Jhttn lose an opportunity of doing good.

" Selfishness cannot long exist where sn*
examples of self-denial are ever present
these Sisters. They take the worst uf ■
thing for thcmselvesi. Even in the !>
cstdblished houses there arc no cl»,i
ccpt for the old people; the Sisi
ufK»n their heels/ A Jesuit (aihc
day visiting one of the houses,
Sisters just sitting down to dir
had nothing to drink out of
broken vessels^ mustard' pots,
all in such a dilapidated cor 'J^/^**
good fatlier hastened off Ih' ^'V^
tent, who came to him for
an injunction to buy a do
send them to the house o
Such is their voluntary

** Every time a hous«
.a»a sufftdent number
a retreat is prcacbcc'
fclreats^ in those w
cnt from the s.i
\ the house is

fe to set a goot
are afterward adr "'

** Nothing ca»
these poor crer if^**

(tod, Thcv cr
*lt is stvMii
to God,' 5 11. 1
receive him I
lad lost the
matjsm, an
profession,
dcstitutioi

.Sisters,* •
to be loc

doini^ ■*

at tf;,;

spirit I
. nnivcf*
. their r

poor, whom

jecls of r

have shf

how w

Chrig'

Mrs

fen

./. f^P

7(11

^oD^^s of tlic
,2, "used
ntt* with

T^-

Ai (br !fce si^»f

,foms of the anttVnt

Mi ihc Emperor ]"•

j'TheAposlatCiriei

I !ucc ibem. ^^

Ml doctrine, he wi^

I itc influtince ofChnsum

cA would fain have tn

.?] the pagan stock this ^"^^

ivr dispensation,

irc the poor and affltotd

J,!; given in charge to tk

ij, and why does the Christian

;hem wrtli quite other eyes than i

sc of mere benevolence ? Wrf

I hrtst idcntiiiecl, in his birth a^d

.vnipanionship, with the poor? 1^1%

^fcific most suffering classes the fill*

objects of his care and tnediation ?

If it is written that ** He who shaJL
give to one of my disciples only i
much as a cup of cold water in \
name, shall not lose his reward,"
is also written that the hungry*,
thirsty, the stranger, the nakc4» !
sick, the prisoner, are all our breth-
ren in Christ. It is by virtue of 1
susceplibilily, which the exercise
chanty develops in us, that
come consciously "members one ef
another in the body of Christ,''

Jesus Christ came to awaken
humanity a conscience including <
neighbor, a conservative instinc
bracing the relations of the ind|
with the species, unlimited by I
clan, or nation ; and which
scends the analpis of a Matthns,!
Locke, or a La Rochefoucauld.*
The suffering persons or da
arc the atoms, the organs, or

• Th«l Si-stqr t^ the Pooc, tituim yt»k \
ai on a err r

\\XVt\ of 11'^

^ thatitliiev'
TO its ibfT-

iTulity (bin th« ,

v.,

W»'

T lUU the ftaitad lh« •!

take Care of the Poor?

711

lirect-

fere

spirit

f^t^^ f^ or schis-

J'Si^ ing the true

merely sup-

'^nisery by sup-

' the miserable.

that the spirit of

-fl or encouraged in

ii, is itself a living

propagator of human
.iigious sympathy alone
en the intelligence to this
and find something pre-
i life of the wretch res-
his wretchedness ; find
e rags, the dirt, and the
sath ignorance, the vices,
;s, that "a man's a man

Again, Christianity dis-
:ious discipline of virtue
:ise of charity, and prac-
less for the sake of the
hat of the receiver. This
cal commentar}'^ on the
Liman unity or solidarity,

the fuller light which
>ected from a knowledge
lor destinies.

• the church has nobly
Dart as the social con-
"hristendom, (a function
:he confessional so well
I she has been the intel-
ator between those who
e or to serve, and those
ially in need ; she has
asocial equilibrium while
I jealousies and hatreds
and by her enlightened
us distribution has pre-
rity from ministering to
nposture.
or ye shall have always

The worst prejudices
terpret this saying of our

Lord so as to discourage our efforts
to eliminate, from the condition of
the poor, its actual vices, disgraces,
and miseries. This once effected by
means, the success of whch ex-
perience has verified, there remains
an honorable poverty due to the dis-
interested devotions of science, art,
and social affections, in which the
love of our neighbor, under divers
forms, absorbs cupidity and the
cares of self-preservation. The
church has always encouraged vows
of voluntary poverty, and directed
the zeal which animated them to
Christian uses. She has permitted
the rich to expiate their crimes by
sharing their fortunes with the poor,
even by soliciting alms for them ;
and we are told that Roman nobles
have been seen, during this very year,
thus begging in the streets of Ronie.
To a noble poverty belong the
first years, and often the whole life,
of the inventor, of the true artist, of
all whose originality of conception
or fidelity to the ideal transcends
prudential economy. We may glance
but in passing at that "Bohemia,"
where floating wrecks mingle in dis-
order with germinal forces of the
social future. In proportion as the
constitution of societies shall be per-
fected in kind and useful labors,,
those in whose characters friendship,
predominates, whether attached to.
holy orders like the Trappists and.
Sisters of Charity, or simply mem-
bers of the church of Christ, will,
content themselves with the common i
minimum^ and work in their elected,
spheres without care for any other
material compensation. To such has .
Christ said : " Take no care what ye.
shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or
wherewithal ye shall be clothed," etc.
" Consider the lilies," etc. We:
shall not confound these noble poor
with paupers, a term which compre-
hends indifferently the victims of

710

WAo shall take Care of the Peorf

Baud to him, * Now look, dear son, thy wife
puts lepers in thy bed without my being
able lo prevent her. She wishes to give thcc
leprosy, thou seest it thyself/ On hearing
these words, the duke could not repress a
certain degree of irritation, and he quickly
ra^ised the covering of his bed ; but» at the
same moment, the Most High unsealed Ihe
eyes of his soul, and, in place o( the leper,
he saw the figure of Jesus Christ crucified
extended on his bed. At this sight he re-
mained motionless, as did his mother, and
began to shed abundant tears without being
able at first to utter a word. Then, turning
roimd, he saw his wife, who had gently fol-
lowed in order to calm his wrath against the
leper. * Elizabeth,' said he, * my dear, go<jd
sister, 1 pray thee often to give my bed to
jiuch guests. 1 shall always thank thee for
this, and be thou not hindered l">y any one in
the exercise of thy virtue/ Then he knelt
and prayed thus to God, * Lord, have mercy
upon me a poor sinner. I am not worthy to
see all these wonders/ " •

For the many illustrations of the
wonderful diffusion of benevolence
in the early ages of the Christian
church, in contrast with the truculent
spirit of the contemporaneous pagan-
ism, see Rev. Dr. Manahan's Tri-
ymphof (he Catholic Church ^^\c.

We recall here the mention of
John, Patriarch of Alexandria, who
asked of his clergy a register of all
the poor and destitute in that city.
** Go," said he» ** and get me a full
list of my masters."

From the Theodosian code, it ap-
pears that the church owned large
vessels, employed either in bringing
to some dioceses provisions for their
own flocks, or in sending help to the
most afflicted communities, from
Eg)^pt even unto Gaul.

" The Cenobites, or Monks of the
Desert," says St. Augustine, ** used
to freight these ships of charity with
grain, obtained by them in exchange
for the mats and baskets which they
manufactured." The vast hospital,
founded by St. Basil, of Cappadocia,
near CjHI!:?* ^^ called by St. Gre-

gory ** a new city built for the stcl

and poor."

Hospitals were so great an tono
vation on the customs of the ancicn^
classic world, that the Emperor jui
lian, surnamed ** I'he Apostate/* trie
in vain to introduce them. Repel<
ling the Christi,in doctrine, he wa
sensible of the influence of Christian
charity, and would fain h^ive
grafted on the pagan slock lliis frmt
of another dispensation.

Why are the poor and afflkte
especially given in charge lo thcl
church, and why does the Christian
see them with quite other eyes than
those of mere benevolence ? Whj
is Christ identified, in his birth and
companionship, with the poor ? VNTij
are the most suffering classes the fir
objects of his care and mediation ?

If it is written that " He who sh^l]
give to one of my disciples orUy !
much as a cup of cold water in mj
name, shall not lose his reward," ill
is also written that the hungry, th<
thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the
sick, the prisoner, are all our brcth'^
ren in Christ* It is by virtue of tba
susceptibility, which the excrdse
charity develops in us, that we "
come consciously ** members one
another in the body of Chrij^l.'*

Jesus Christ came to awaken
humanity a conscience including (
neighbor, a conservative instinct
bracing the relations of the individu
with the species, unlimited by familfj
clan, or nation ; and which tra
scends the analysis of ti M althtis« i
Locke, or a La Rochefoucatild.^

The suffering persons or cla
are the atoms, the organs, or

• Thjit Si5ter •"!" iKe Poor, i»Hom yr>-j |iiri ti
street V t, and prth i « r»

ai on a rrii-iT crude, i - *ull

heart Ml uimvc.b-h • ' ' ..^, *

than di« proud pllilo mof*

in its abnefaiioo 4ik1 g^iwnl

hu Woody Uiirel*, Thi» >* *o, Iw^w^e tli*
Hut of lift m<M]<li ttw «r{|J iaA «W §9m
jnova th* bovel* <lf eom^BiMstt 1«« biJan I
mature* iU achciDM of a^tiao.

-'Oj,

»,

Who shall take Care of the Poor?

711

local points where the life of hu-
manity is threatened or compro-
mised j thither, with unwonted ener-
gy, must its vital resources be direct-
ed ; and how directed ? Here we
find the contrast between the spirit
of Christ and that of pagan or schis-
matic countries. Ignoring the true
unity of man, paganism merely sup-
pressed the effects of misery by sup-
pressing the person of the miserable.
It did not consider that the spirit of
cruelty, developed or encouraged in
this elimination, is itself a living
cause and propagator of human
misery. Religious sympathy alone
could quicken the intelligence to this
perception, and find something pre-
cious in the life of the wretch res-
cued from his wretchedness ; find
beneath the rags, the dirt, and the
chains, beneath ignorance, the vices,
and diseases, that " a man's a man
for a' that." Again, Christianity dis-
cerned precious discipline of virtue
in the exercise of charity, and prac-
tised it no less for the sake of the
giver than that of the receiver. This
is a practical commentary on the
axiom of human unity or solidarity,
anticipating the fuller light which
may be expected from a knowledge
of our ulterior destinies.

Wherever the church has nobly
filled her part as the social con-
science of Christendom, (a function
for which .the confessional so well
adapts her,) she has been the intel-
ligent mediator between those who
need to give or to serve, and those
who are really in need; she has
maintained a social equilibrium while
averting the jealousies and hatreds
of classes, and by her enlightened
and judicious distribution has pre-
vented charity from ministering to
vices and imposture.

"The poor ye shall have always
with you." The worst prejudices
only will interpret this saying of our

Lord so as to discourage our efforts
to eliminate, from the condition of
the poor, its actual vices, disgraces,
and miseries. This once effected by
means, the success of whch ex-
perience has verified, there remains
an honorable poverty due to the dis-
interested devotions of science, art,
and social affections, in which the
love of our neighbor, under divers
forms, absorbs cupidity and the
cares of self-preservation. The
church has always encouraged vows
of voluntary poverty, and directed
the zeal which animated them to
Christian uses. She has permitted
the rich to expiate their crimes by
sharing their fortunes with the poor,
even by solicidng alms for them ;
and we are told that Roman nobles
have been seen, during this very year,
thus begging in the streets of Rome.
To a noble poverty belong the
first years, and often the whole life,
of the inventor, of the true artist, of
all whose originality of conception
or fidelity to the ideal transcends
prudential economy. We may glance
but in passing at that " Bohemia,"
where floating wrecks mingle in dis-
order with germinal forces of the
social future. In proportion as the
constitution of societies shall be per-
fected in kind and useful labors,,
those in whose characters friendship,
predominates, whether attached to.
holy orders like the Trappists and.
Sisters of Charity, or simply mem-
bers of the church of Christ, will.
content themselves with the common i
minimum J and work in their elected,
spheres without care for any other
material compensation. To such has •
Christ said : " Take no care what ye.
shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or
wherewithal ye shall be clothed," etc.
" Consider the lilies," etc. We
shall not confound these noble poor
with paupers, a term which compre-
hends indifferently the victims of

71^

IVka shall take Care tjf the Paar f

misfortune^ of vice, and of disease ;
I deficient in faculties either corporeal
[or mental, or in consistency of pur-
[pose^ principle, and will. Pauperism
lis not to be regarded as a state of
Buflering to wliich the Christian
t should be resigned; far from being
Ian expiation of sin^ it is not only
I humiliation, but degradation and
1 perversion, and owes its parasite ex-
istence to the absence or decline of
I Christian life.

The Catholic Church commenced
Ian exterminating war on pauperism
in those fraternal associations which
sprang from the breath of the Saviour,
and which its religious orders have
never intermitted. Disbanded by the
[persecutions of the Roman empire,
I tiiey rallied to works of charity ; and,
f gradually obtaining spiritual ascend-
Icncy over Europe, organized agricul-
I ture and the arts of peace. In the
sixth century, the Benedictines and
' Columhans rechimed the soils of Eu-
rope from their wilderness, and their
, peoples from the .worst of barbarism.
The monasteries and convents,
[considered from the point of view
of political and social economy, were
I agricultural, scientific, and domestic
I associations, with fields, gardens, and
[orchards, libraries, laboratories, and
irorkshops, provided with all the
neans and facilities known in their
sje and country for the subjection
j»of nature's resources to the progres-
ksive evolution of humanity. Fusing
he nobles and the people, absorbing,
the sentiment of our common fa-
berhood In God and brotherhood in
t Christ, the invidious distinctions of
aste, reconciling again in their ad-
lintstration the behests of spiritual
Lilture with the exigencies of mate-
Irial existence and refinement of taste
ffn letters and the arts, the monastic
iera were for Christendom a most
benign providence. Their charities
vet have been limited to the neces-

sities of mere subsistence, like the
secular dolings out oi so-ca /led moi\t:m
charity. Hearts must respond to the
needs of hearts, and brains to those
of brains; in other wr i * * or-
ganization of Christian ci sen-
tially embraces social life and edu-
cation, intellectual and moral cultUTe,
as well as the conditions of labor, o< j
remuneration, of lodging, of clothing, '
and nourishment, comprised in the
guarantee of access to the soil. By
separating the material from the spi-
ritual elements of charit\% Christen-
dom retrogrades into paganism ; less
brutal, less ferocious, the economic (?) ^
workhouse system is colder and ^t *
more inhuman than those meth
of sum mar}' destruction by
Greece removed her supemumc
helots, or Rome her infinn poor,

^' It U not without a mingled shime and
fear," says Mrs. Jameson, nf the EHgll*!!
workhouse, *'that I approach this nutifcct.
Whatever their arr.ingcment and conilllUjft,
in one thing; I found alt alike — the wast 9^
a proper moral supervision.

" The most vulgar of human beings are ieC
to rule over the most vulgir ; the pauper b
set to manage the jsaupcr; the t|^orant govtm
the ignorant ; every RoUtrnpg or elevating in*
fluencc is absent or of rare <» - M^^r ». , ,n,i
every hardening and dcpr.i
continuous or ever at hand. . -.... 1
visit any dungeon, any nbode af cf ime of
misery, in any country^ which left me the
same crushing sense of sorrow^ indignatioOi
and compassion — almost despair— as somt
of our English workhouses. Never did I ,
see more clearly what mtt^ii be the inetiulik
consequences where the tcminidc and rell^
gious influences are ignored ; whete wlui
we call chanty is worked by a stern« hMxA ^H
machinery ; where what we mean for good ^|
is not tjcstowed but inflicted on others in a
spirit not pitiful, nor merciful^ but rrlticturt
and adverse, if not cruel. Pcrhap» thn*«
who hear me may not all be aware ti Ite
origin of our parish workhouses. Thef
were not designed as finite ntiartcs, jfcl*
though they have really b*riMnr ^ttcK
They were intended to be ^lai 1

charitable insittijtionsit to su\ «ce

of those conventual hospital- lies

which, with their revenues, W' -scd

by Henry VIIL

Who shall take Care of the Poor?

713

t epithet ' charitable * could never be

to any parish workhouse I have
Our machine-charity is as much cha-

the Christian sense, as the praying-
es of the Tartars are piety.
»e institutions are supported by a
t tax, paid so reluctantly, with so
ympatliy in its purp>ose, that the
:d paupers seem to be regarded as
3f parish locusts, sent to devour the
icc of the rate-payers ; as the natural
s of those who are taxed for their
mce, almost as criminals ; and I have
tation in saying that the convicts in
f our jails have more charitable and
:spectful treatment than the poor in
rkhouses. Hence, a notion prevails

the working-classes that it is better
criminal than a pauper — ^better to go
I than to a workhouse,
ween the poor and their so-called
ns, the bond is anything but charity,
gentleman who had served the office
me : * I am really unfit to be a poor-
irdian ; I have some vestige of hu-
left in me !' Under these guardians,
immediate contact with the poor, are
;r and a matron, who keep the ac-

distribute food and clothing, and
rdcr. Among them some are re-

and loved, others hated or feared ;
re kindly and intelligent, others of
rest grade. In one workhouse the
had been a policeman, in another
per of a small public-house, in an-
l: had served in the same workhouse
er. The subordinates are not of a
;radc, except occasionally the school-
and school -mistress, whom I have
ics found struggling to perform their
sometimes quite unfitted for them,
netimcs resigned to routine and de-

the wards for the old and the sick,
;nse vulgarity, the melancholy dul-
lingled with a strange license and
ire dreadful. I attribute both to the
)sence of the religious and feminine

is there not always a chaplain ? The
1 has seemed to me in such places
I religious accident than a religious
:. When he visits a ward to read
ly once a week, perhaps there is a
n in his presence ; the oaths, the
the vile language cease ; the vulgar
; silenced, to recommence the mo-
is back is turned. I remember one
; in which the chaplain had request-
the poor, profligate women might be
It of his way. They had, indeed,

shown themselves somewhat obstreperous
and irreverent. I saw another chaplain of
a grreat workhouse so shabby that I should
have mistaken him for one of the paupers.
In doing his duty, he would fling a surplice
over his dirty, torn coat, kneel down at the
entrance of a ward, hurry over two or three
prayers, heard from the few beds nearest to
him, and then off to another ward. The
salary for this minister for the sick and poor
was twenty pounds a year. This, then, is
the religious element ; as if religion were
not the necessary, inseparable, ever-present,
informing spirit of a Christian charitable in-
stitution, but rather something extraneous
and accidental, to be taken in set doses at
set times. This is what our workhouses
provide to awaken the faith, rouse the con-
science, heal the broken spirit, and light up
the stupefied faculties of a thousand unhap-
py, ignorant, debased human beings congre-
gated together.

"Then as to the feminine element in a
great and well-ordeted workhouse, under
conscientious management, (to take a favor-
able specimen,) I visited sixteen wards, in
each ward firom fifteen to twenty-five sick,
aged, bedridden, or helpless poor. In each
ward all the assistance given and all the
supervision were in the hand<) of one nurse
and a helper, both chosen from among the
pauper women supposed to be the least im-
moral and drunken. The ages of the nurses
might be firom sixty-five to eighty years ;
the assistants were younger.

" The number of inmates under medical
treatment in the year 1854 in the London
workhouses was over 50,000, (omitting one,
the Marylebone.) To these there were 70
paid nurses and 500 pauper nurses and as-
sistants, (not more than one fifth of the
number requisite for effective nursing, even
if they were all able nurses.)

** As the unpaid pauper nurses have some
additional allowance of tea or beer, it is not
unusual for the medical attendant to send
such poor feeble old women as require
some little indulgence to be nurses in the
sick wards."

Such is the standard of qualifica-
tion, and as for their assistants, Mrs.
Jameson found some of them nearly
blind and others maimed of a limb.
She remembers no cheerful faces ;
their features and djeportment were
melancholy, or sullen, or bloated, or
harsh, and these are the nurses
to whom the sick poor are confided !

714

W/w shall take Cart af tlu P&art

** In one workhoiiae the nurses had a
j>enny a week and extra beer ; in another the
aUowance had 1>ccn a shilling a month, but
recently withdrawn by the guardians from
motives of economy. The matron told me
that while this allowance continued, she
could exercise some control over the nurses,
she could Slop their allowance if they did
Hot behave well ; now she has no hold on
them ! They all drink. Whenever it is
their turn to go out for a few hours, lh*y
come back intoxicated, and have to be put to
bed in the wards they are set over !'^

Mrs, Jameson speaks of bribery
as the only means by which some of
the bedridden patients could obtain
help.

"» Any little eictra allowance of tea or sugar,
left by pitying friends, went in this way.
One nurse made five shillings a week by tlius
Acccirig the poor inmates. Those who coutd
not piiy this tax were neglected, and im-
plored in vain to be turned in their beds.
The matron knows that these things exist*
but has no power to prevent them ; she
knowii not what tyTanny may be exercised
in her absence by her deputies, for the
wretched creatures dare not complain, know*
ing how it would be visiicd upon thcnu"

In some workhouses many who
can work will not \ in others the in-
mates arc confined to such labor as
is degrading, such as is a pimishment
in prisons, which excites no faculty
of attention, or hope, or sympathy*
which contemplates no improve-
ment, namely, picking^ oakum, etc.,
and this lest there should exist
some kind of competition injuri-
ous to tradesmen-

As to the " out door relief* at
certain workhouses, Mrs. Jameson
says it was distributed to creatures
penned up for hours in foul air, who
watted sullenly for the bread doled
out with curses. She complains
again here of the system which brings
a brutal and vulgar power to bear on
vulgarity or bnitaliiy, the bad and
defective organization to bear on one
bad and defective, " so you increase
and muliipty and excite, as in a hot-
bed, all the material of evil instead

of neutralizing it with good, mdi llim
leavened, you turn it out oo society
to contaminate all around/^

Rev. J. S. Brewer, a work-
house chaplain, in his iectuxes tn
ladies on practical subjects^ writes of
the insensible influence which the
mere presence of ladies, thar voice,
their common words, their ordin.irv
manners, their thoughts, all that tiicy
carry unconsciously about tlicm, csn
exercise on the poor ; but tlr^ -- -i-*,
to real ladies, cultivated, get
born, well-bred. There art
pic more alive to gentle hi
gentle manners than the J^ugiish
poor He confirms in other respects
the preceding remarks of Mrs. Jame-
son, and says of the children :

** The disorderly girt« 2nd boys of oai
streets are mainly the produce of the wor%*
house and the workhoti&e srl^on?* Ow
them the society has no h* '
have l>ccn taught to feel th.i"
ing in common with Uttir
Their experience is not of a bonv:
but of a workhouse and a govcroi^^d, 01 a
prison and of a jailer/'

Nature exhibits two conlr
methods for controlling that f^4
to increase of population beyond a t
pr apart tan to (he means of suhtk
which seems to justify in the eye
some political economists the partil
destruction of the species by
One of these methods is extcrmin
tion ; the other, elevation. Malll
saySf in substance : I would
all my having with the poor. I <
proclaim this the duty of the
were it possible, by even cnfoft
and continuing the most Isll
distribution of goods, while all
working faithfully to increase
yield of the earth as fast as
mouths that consume it would rou
liply ; but extensive obscrvalioo ,
experience proves that, the easier Ufl
is made for the poor, the faster th
increase ; tliis increase is ai a
so much greater than the 1

WAo shall take Care of the Poor,

71S

subsistence are capable of reaching,
that we should soon be all paupers
unless we restrain each local popula-
tion within the ratio of its provisions.

Malthus understood that high-toned
character and uncommon force of
will were essential to the perfection
of such restraint. He invokes the
influence of the church and of
education to this effect One step
further, however, in the filiation of
ideas would have led him to perceive
a supreme harmony in the equilibrium
between population and subsistence,
arising out of the perfection of organic
types and individual characters; so
that quality is the cure of quantity.

If it be true, as travellers affirm,
that in Europe the temperate are di-
vided from the intemperate populations
by a curve which, commencing at
the eastern extremity of France,
intersects Berlin and terminates at
Sevastopol, being the northern limit
of the vine-growing countries ; then,
a fortiori^ will the greatest temper-
ance be found among peoples
whose refinement not only rejects
distilled liquors but the coarser
qualities of wine, and will have either
the very best or none.

This law is universal. Compare
the order of mammifers, a high type
like man or the elephant, with a low
type like the rabbit or mouse. Spe-
cies are more prolific with each grade
in their descent. Now compare the
order of mammifers with the order
of fishes, passing through the birds
and reptiles, embracing all vertebrate
animals ; still the lower are more
prolific, and consequently more sub-
ject to destruction. Now compare
the vertebrate type with the insect,
passing through the articulate. Still
the same increase of numerical ratio
down the scale of life ; and when we
reach polyps and plants, every section,
every bud, may become a complete

organism, and multiplication takes
place by several methods at once —
seeds, tubers, roots, suckers, buds,
etc. Follow this law in the science
of breeding. Even among fish, the
fat and well-conditioned breed but
slowly, and " ponds of misery" are
kept for breeding carps. The history
of the turf verifies similar facts in
the physiology of the horse.

We no longer wonder that the
hovels of the suffering poor should
swarm with children ; but the analo-
gies of the animal kingdom encourage
us to believe that social and indus-
trial procedures, which convert these
children into Christians and launch
them in the path of a general pros-
perity, will itself tend to reduce the
ratio of their increase by a method
more expedient than those of war,
pestilence, or famine.

In conclusion : If the first of these
natural methods of checking popula-
tion be adapted to the world of the
fall — a world of selfishness and sin —
the other method is adapted to the
world of the redemption — a world of
Christian co-operation and love of
our neighbor. By the first method,
population is reduced so effectively
that the most agreeable portions of
the earth's surface remain almost
untouched by human culture. When,
by the triumph of true religion, wars
and their consequences cease to vex
humanity, population may increase
until it covers the area of the habita-
ble globe, without danger of starving
itself, without sinking into pauperism.
The numerical population of the
world may increase while its actual
ratio of propagation is diminished,
and is harmonized with its capacity
of production. Such is the logic of
charity, which in relieving suffering
aims at the spiritual elevation of
character and the permanent pro-
tection of mankind.

New Publications.

717

institute suit, Claiborne wrote him a
noble letter requesting him to stop the
prosecution, (p. 227.) "An officer
whose hands and motives are pure," he
said, " has nothing to fear from news-
paper detraction, or the invectives of
angry and deluded individuals. My
conduct in life is the best answer I can
return to my enemies. It is before the
public, and has secured, and will, I am
certain, continue to secure me the es-
teem and confidence of that portion of
society whose approbation is desirable
to an honest man. The lie of the day
gives me no concern. Neglected cal-
umny soon expires ; notice it, and you
gratify your calumniators ; prosecute it,
and it acquires consequence ; punish it,
and you enlist in its favor the public
sympathy."

The story of the heroic defence of
Fort Bowyer is well and spiritedly told
by Mr. Gay-arr^, and that of the defence
of New Orleans, in the various skii
mishes and battles that for weeks preA
ceded the grand culminating victory of
January 8th, is, for the first time, clear
and intelligible to us. Here Mr. Gayarr^
gives us several pages of nervous and
picturesque writing. His description
of " the night before the battle," and of
the brave but disastrous charge of the
British troops upon the American line,
is excellent in spirit and in detail.

Mr. Gayarr^ explodes the popular
story of the cotton-bale fortifications.
There were none. " Some bales of cot-
ton had been used to form the cheeks
of the embrasures of our batteries, and
notwithstanding the popular tradition
that our breastworks were lined with it,
this was the only one," etc. etc. (p. 456.)

The account of the two colored bat-
talions which rendered such excellent
service is interesting, as also Mr. Ga-
j-arr^'s comments on the celebrated
British countersign of "Beauty and
Booty."

Mr. Gayarr^'s history closes with a
long paragraph, somewhat in the same
dithyrambic vein that marks the pages
of his first volume of Louisiana. He
has, however, greatly improved both in
style and judicious arrangement of mat-
ter, and, combining many of the best
qualities of the historian with great ap-

titude of research and study, has un-
doubtedly made a mark in literature,
his state may well be proud of, even
though she be amenable to the reproach
conveyed by the author at page 391.

It appears that, in 18 14, Governor
Claiborne advised one David McGee
in regard to some literary work of the
latter: "A love of letters has not yet
gained an ascendency in Louisiana, and
I would advise you to seek for your pro-
duction the patronage of some one ot
the Northern cities."

" How bitter," comments Mr. Ga-
)rarr^, " is the thought that it is true !
How hard it is for the veracity of the
Southern historian to admit that, even
in 1864, a judicious and frank adviser
would be compelled to say to a man of
letters, in the language used by Clai-
borne in 1 8 14, "I would advise you to
F^ti!^1(^c3(0t!r4)roduction the patronage
l)UMWyi^'>f^>Northern cities " !

) Suffered
LAND in the
lAeeiftfc, and Eigh-
teentti'CenlurfW^j'Myles O'Reilly,
B. A., LL.D. '^ NTew York : The Ca-
tholic Publication Society, i vol.
i2mo, pp. 462.

An elegant volume, containing biogra-
phies of the martyrs of the Reforma-
tion in Ireland, which we intend to no-
tice at length in a future number.

Lectures ox the Life, Writings,
AND Times of Edmund Burke.
By J. B. Robertson, Esq. London;
John Philp. For sale by tlrc Catho-
lic Publication Society, 126 Nassau
Street, New York.

In. this volume. Professor Robertson,
as an extremely conservative monar-
chist, and as an enthusiastic admirer of
what he calls the " old temperate monar-
chy," best typified in modern politics
by the government of England, the na-
tive land of the lecturer, treats of the
history of the life, writings, and times of
Edmund Burke, the most illustrious
Irishman of the eighteenth century.

718

Ntw Publications,

and» in purely civil afihirs of all times,
from a monarchical point of view ; and
makes his lectures^ which he seems to
have designed for a biography of the
P^eatcst of British orators and states-
men, really the medium of an exposi-
tion of his own peculiar doctrines and
opinions in the political relation, with
such incidental notices of the immortal
Burke as were deemed pertinent to the
illustration and enforcement of the poli-
tical speculations of the gifted lecturer,
who appears to live and move in utter
awe of ** the spirit of revolution,*' and in
utter detestation of " the sovereignty of
the people ** and of ** the republic,"
The book is of value chiefly as showing
how the complex affairs known as con-
stituting the modern world are viewed
by an Englishman of fine culture, elo-
quent expression, and very conservative
instincts and sympathies.

The book is got out in Mr. Philp's
I est style ; the paper, type, and binding
are faultless.

Sadlier's Cathouc Directory, Al-
manac, AKD Ordo, for the year of
our Lord 1S69.

This work is published in the same
style as heretofore, and is, we presume,
about as correct as can be expected of
such a publication. There is one improve-
ment, however* which touldht made at
the expense of one cettt a copy, namely,
to sew the book instead o{ stitching \\,
The way it is now bound, several pages
are defaced by the large holes punched
through the book.

A PRACTirAL AND THEORETICAL ME-
THOD OF Leahking the French
Language. By A. Biarnois. D. &
J, SadJier & Co. i863.

Of al! the systems hitherto devised to
feciliLile the study of the French lan-
guage, and at the same time offer to the
student a method which, in its develop-
ment, will prove attractive to him, we
arc inclined to think the present one by
M. Biamois is in many respects to be
preferred.

The idea in the inventioa of moat of

the modem systems is a good one: t^j
give the pupil words and phrases befcu^l
he is taught the rules for their grmimna^l
tical construction. This is the dcilgli
proposed by our author, and after an iiwl
troductory article on pronunciation he]
gives us at once a sentence. '* Un nouiJ
dit que le Sultan Mahmoud, par »ei]
guerres perp<Jluelles, au dehors et sa ty-i
rannie k Tint^^ricur, avait rcmpli lci|
eiats de scs ancetres de mine ct de <
solation ; et avait d^peupld, TKn
Persan." This sentence is ihori
airalyzed, which g^ives him occasH
explain; i. Transposition and contrac-
tions of pronouns. 2. The gender andj
numl:)er of substantives, y Formalioa]
of the feminine of adjectives. 4, Ofthi]
plural of adjectives, 5. Place, cl«*fcwv I
and contraction of the article, 6. Formi ]
of negation. 7. Possessive pronouns.
8. Possessive, demonstnitivc, ?-'^ '•'•''^•
finite adjectives, with many gr.
relations of all tiiese. This is i<ji'.»Lij
by an original set of niles to lind Freacli
words to express what we know in Eng- ]
lish, how to form verbs out of substaJ)*
tives, and to determine, without a dic-
tionary, the conjugation to which each |
of these verbs belongs.

Again we have more phrases, accQBB* J
panied by running explanatory notes, I
and the whole couched in a familiar coo- J
versational style wliich cannot tail of 1
fixing the attention and impre$ising the >
memor)^ of the student.

The latter half of the work, uiuler tlie
title Recapitulation, takes up the parU
of speech in more regular order.

We confess that for young bcjnnnen 1
we would prefer a certain amount oil
study in the admirable work of Dr„j
Emilc Otto, as revi5»ed by Mr. Fcndi
nand Richer for English students, be*
fore taking up the mctl:»od of M. lUar-
nois. The latter supposes a coosidera*
blc advance in the knowlcdijr of fi>r
English language, and he is «
at the very outset to make use . . . ^
and phrases which, to youthful pupils 1
might need explanation fully as much as
the corresponding ones in French, But
for students in our colleges, who hav« |
already some notion of English nr Jj-
tin grammar^ we think this grammar el \

New Publications.

719

iarnois is one "of the best, and in
' respects better than any that have
under our notice.

lCco and Alcohol. I. It Does
Y TO Smoke. II. The Coming
ln will Drink Wine. By John
ke, M.A., LL.B. New York:
rpoldt & Holt 1869.

was hardly possible that Mr.
n's attack on the "smokers and
srs " of this generation should
without a reply. Mr. Fiske has
g into the lists, while yet the
let of the challenger has scarcely
ed the ground, and has begun the

with a force and vigor which, to
le least, must temporarily startle
►posers. Scientifically, he appears
^e the advantage. There is very
)f assertion ; very much of author-
d argument about him. His man-
r dealing with the sweeping state-

of his adversary is more effective
ourteous. His theory of the value
)hol and tobacco, as stimulants for
use, is certainly plausible, and

be welcome to all who either
\ or drink, or who aspire to do so.
^logically, also, it appears sound,

accordance with the latest thera-
al discoveries. But it will be in-
a task of difficulty to lead Mr.
I, or his sympathizers, into the
that either smoking or drinking
rofi table to mankind ; a task
id only by that of bringing smok-
i drinkers to observe that golden
of temperance which even Mr.

admits to be of indispensable
ity.

whatever may be the scientific

of Mr. Fiske*s treatise, we can
1 that, morally, he is on the los-
le. The advantages and disad-
es of tobacco and alcohol are to
mated by their effect upon man-
: large, as mankind uses and will
2m, and not by the medical influ-
hey exercise when taken by the

persons, in proper quantities, at

times. Many things are^^r se

and beneficial which, as used,
irces of great injury and destruc-

tion. Soihe of these can scarcely be
used as they ought by man in general,
but become, almost inevitably, the cause
of ruin and disorder. To this class we
believe that tobacco and alcohol belong.
Experience seems to teach that their
abuse necessarily follows from their use,
and that, whatever their peculiar bene-
ficial properties, they have been, and
still are, among the worst enemies of
man. For this reason we regret to see
any argument put into the mouths of
smokers and drinkers, whereby they can
quiet their own consciences or beguile
others into self-indulgence ; and we feel
that it were safer and better that the
nerve-power of the individual should
waste a little faster, and the stimulus be
denied, than that the misery and wretch-
edness which tobacco and alcohol have
already occasioned should find either
an increase or an apology.

A Book about Dominies : Being the
Reflections and Recollections of a
Member of the Profession. Boston :
Roberts Brothers. 1869.

But for one fault this were a charm-
ing book. There is a freshness and
genial warmth about it which is very
welcome to the heart of any one who
has ever been "a boy." The keen
appreciation of the " lx)y nature," of the
"boy aspirations," of the "boy trou-
bles," which the dominie, whose ex-
perience is here narrated, seems to have
possessed, gives a rare relish to his
sketches, and makes his book almost a
story of the reader's own youth and
school life. For these merits it will be
read not once only but often, and will
serve both to maturity and age as " a
tale of the times of old — ^a memory of
the days of other years."

The feult of which we speak is the tone
of religious sentimentalism which runs
through the whole book, and crops out
in various flings at positive religious
faith, and in innumerable expressions
of an unhealthy, mawkish, self-congratu-
lating piety. Latitudinarianism is bad
enough, but when it reaches to the open
contempt of dogma, and elevates the
undisguised conceit which despises all

720

New PubUcatiatis,

authority and law above the humility
which acknowledges some truth outside
its own cone his ions, it becomes the
worst possible kind of teaching both for
boys and men. It is difBcuU to realize
that the writer of the substance of this
Ixjok should also be the author of these
dangerous and disagreeable sentlment-
alisms.

Ah Illustrated Htstorv of Ire-
land, from the Earliest Period to the
Present Time. With several first-
class full-page Engravings of Histori-
cal Scenes, designed by Henry Doyle,
and engraved by George H anion and
George Pearson ; together with up-
ward of One Hundred Woodcuts, by
eminent artists, illustrating Anliqui-
ties^ Scenery, and Sites of Remark-
able Events ; and three large Maps,
one of Ireland, and the others of
Family Homes, Statistics, etc, i vol.
8vo. Nearly 700 pages, extra cloth.
New York: The Catholic Publi-
cation Society, 126 Nassau street
1S69.

Wc are glad to sec this new and im-
proved edition of this excellent history
of Ireland. The first edition we noticed
at length, on its appearance, some
months ago ; but the demand for it
was so great that it was soon exhaust-
ed. The distinguished authoress, (Sis-
ter Mary Frances Clare,) having made
several additions and improvements,
presents us with a finely illustrated vol-
ume, worthy of a place on the shelves
of every library, public or private, in
America-
It is VQxy important that the people of
the United States should study the his-
tory of Ireland intelligently. They
have, as a people, too long neglected it ;
and all the greater portion of them know
about Ireland and her history is that
which they have learned out of their
school-books, and vitiated novels. In
fact, our public men, writers and speak-
ers alike, have not thought it worth their
while to read Ireland's history; it was,
to manv of them, a country beneath

their notice, except to slander^ by quo
ing her history from the biassed writi
of England. But tho.sc times are i
We now have good histories coough<
Besides, there is no countrj' of Europe
that has sent so many of her
populate this country; her child
their descendants are 10 he fou
every town and hamlet from Maine I
Oregon, It is therefore incumbent Ofl
ri// American citizens, native or adop
to sttidy the history of that

" l»lc of andcnt £un«,'*

whose history is almost as oh! as "Ail
of Judea. Wc trust that those who
have not yet done so will now pmcuft
a copy of this work. Apart from Iti
intrinsic merits, which are manifold, j
there is another which is of some tmpmvl
tance. It is sold for I he benefit of th
Convent of Poor Clares, Kenmare, Ire"!
land, which institution n- AtioaJ

to hundretis of poor Irihl

From IvisoN, V ''

of Civil 0*'
lir amogtrn.

Suies. Dt'^iMi**^ a* * ►'« tjf

Grammar, Hfjjh. and N'l ■ wir"

and other limituiiaiis of Ic^i iUMi^ *. , v ^> . .n i «iv«.
send, CounieUor-At- L4W. New Yfult. iM^

Frtim Lies & SirFFAKii: QdverROQ and Ha SSiA
P^rtncr^ Hy Ralpli Reder. »869i>^W4pii ti
M<ipe. " TImi ye s<irrov not, eren •» <Ahtn «•!<*
have no hope." 18*9*

From J. B, 1
and Uuw tlv

chspterA ; c.

and games, and -i
I>odcc^ avthur of i
S lories. iS6^

Si Co, : A Yem fmmk.

From D. 9t }. %hxn,\wm ft Ca, : Soucft of MM
am) other Lands ; being a OtUecliOQ <f ifc* *«l
pDpuUr Irish »6oiit»ctiul aiid cmaic »»«

Frooi CHAftLE» Sciil»»nt« 3L f'n
E&sayion the Procr^** ■ '
Productive tndiHtry, W-
By Eara Q Seaman, t y^.. liu.u.

From D. Arn.KTOM &[ Co., Ne« XnAi %mtd,
Science; a Compcnditim oF PV/^u^lnp^,, m4 ^
HiftOTf of Phikitinphy, Djr AlfaAndct e«i%ltA
I voti lasio.

THE

]ATHOLIC WORLD.

^* $i

Yqi^ VIIL, Nd ^.•T-MA)?:^^ 1869.

V ^ ^> ■■ » ■ \ ^ ^y

iN APOSTOLIC LETTER FROiT HIS, IfQJjyfeSS POPE

PIUS IX. * -''

ffE letter of the Holy Father which we publish below, in Latin and Eng-
together with one from Cardinal Bamabo, Prefect of the Congrega-
of the Propaganda, have just been received from Rome. The readers
HE Catholic World, and those persons especially who have taken an
e interest in, and have generously contributed to, the establishment of
^aulist Congregation, the Publication Society, and other associated works,
doubtless feel gratified and encouraged by the approving words with
h the Holy Father has deigned to give them his sanction and apostolic
iing. These gracious words of the Vicar of Jesus Christ ought to
urage us all to redoubled efforts for the advancement of our holy
ion, and such, we trust, will be their influence.

ODUM R. D. :

im Sanctissimus Dominus Nos-
non levi inter qutbus afficitur
^itates jucunditate ex pluribus
:iis acceperit, D. Tuam per Ca-
cos ephemerides curam omnem
ndere ad religionis nostrae sanc-
nae studium fovendum, ad falsas
rinas refellendas, et ad hujus
itolicae Sedis jura tuenda, all-
suas patemae dilectionis tes-
lium voluit exhibere. Pergra-
proinde erit D. Tuae literas
titatis suae hisce adjectas repe-
quibus factum iri confido at ma-
usque studio et alacritate incep-
q>us prosequaris.

Very Reverend Sir :

Inasmuch as the Sovereign Pon-
tifl^ our Holy Father the Pope, amid
his many afflictions, has received
great joy at hearing, through many
different sources, that your Rever-
ence is taking such great care to
spread the knowledge of our most
holy religion through Catholic publi-
cations, adapted to refute false doc-
trine and to defend the rights of this
Apostolic See, he has desired to give
yoH a testunony of his paternal affec-
tion. Accordingly, it will be most
pleasing to your Reverence to re-
ceive, together with this, the letter of
bis Holinta&tbj hYiascSelI Xraafic. y^^

722 An Apostolic Letter from His Holiness P<^t Pius IX.

Cui quidem benevoke, quam Sanc-
tissimus Pater ergaTe testari voluit,
voluntati propensionis m«e significa-
tiones addens, Deum precor ut D*
Tuae fi:iusta quaeque largiatur.

Romre, ex Aed. S. Cong, de Prop.
Fide, die 5 Januarii, MDCCCLXIX.

Addictissimus^

Al, C. Barnabo, Pr,

may be encouraged to ptirsve the
work you have undertaken with stin
greater zeal and alacrity.

Adding to the sentiments of good
wiil which the Holy Father declares
toward you, the expression of niy
own regard, I pray God that He
may grant to your Reverence cvciy
kind of prosperity,

Rome, Office of the S. C01
of the Propaganda, Januarr 51
MDCCCLXIX.

Most affectionately,

*Al. C. Barkabo, PlL

DiLECTO FiLTo, L T. Hecker, Pres-

BYTRRO AC ReCTORI MlSSlONARI-
DRUM COLLEGII A S. PAULO KUN-

cup,, Neo-Eboracum.

PIUS, PR IX,

DiLFXTE FiLi, salutem et Aposto-
licam Benediclionem. Gaudem\is,
Dilecte Fill, te tui propositi memo-
rem voce scriptisque constanter ad-
laborare propagandae Catholicae re-
ligioni dissipandisque errorum tene-
bris ; ac tibi gratulamur ex animo de
incrementis, quae tnitis a te operibus
accessisse discimus. Scilicet con*
fertse illae condones, ubi Catholicam
exposuisti doctrinam, quaeque tui
desiderium ita fecemnt aliis, ut ad
nobil tores ac frequentiores inviteris ;
existimatio, quam apud ipsos dis-
sentientes ephemeridi turn Catholic
World eruditio et perspicuitas com-
pararunt; aviditas qua passim ex-
petuntur editi a Societatc Catholica»
per te coacta, libelli ; novi sodales,
qui culturse a te susceptas fines
latius porrecturi, dant famillae tuae
nomen ; alumni tandem, qui in
idem opus,se tibi tradunt excolendos,
totidem sunt amplissimi fructus et
^iserti testes zeli solerriaeque tuie,
ac ccelestis illius favnris, quo ccepta
tua fcecundantur. Quod sane facile
. intclliges quana pcv ''A>\& c<^u-

To MY Beloved Son, I. T, Hecjuei,
Priest and Superior op t»»
Missionary Congrecatioh Of
St. Paul» New York.

PIUS IX., POPE,

Beloved Son, health and apastoiii
benediction. We rejoice^ bdovcd
son, that you, mindful of your pu^
pose, labor continually, by your woi
and writings, to spread the Catholi
religion, and to scatter the darlcni
of error ; and We heartily congratu-
late you upon the increase wiiicil, is
We have been informed, the works un-
dertaken by you have received, Ui
doubtedly those thronged assemblii
where you have set fortJi the Cathcl
doctrine, and have thereby cxdl
in others such a desire to hear jk
that you are invited to address aw
ences still larger and more notable
the esteem which }'our periodicalt
The Catholic World, has, throiigfi
its enidition and perspicuity, acquir-
ed, even among those who dtjfer &o«d
us ; the eagerness with vhieh tiie
tracts and books of The Catholic PiiIk
lication Society, established by yos,
are every^whcre sought for ; the oew
associates who enroll themselves in
your congregation to eactend
widely the good worlc yoa

An Apostolic Letter from His Holiness Pope Pius IX, 723

who oflfer themselves to you to be
educated for the same work, all
these are so many abundant fruits
and eloquent witnesses of your zeal
and skill, and of the divine favor
through which your undertakings are
made fruitful. You will easily under-
stand, of course, how gratifying this
must be to Us, who desire, above all
things, that the gospel should be
preached to every creature; that
those who sit in the shadow of death
should be brought into the way of
salvation; that, in fine, all errors
being destroyed, the reign of truth
should be everywhere established;
in which justice and peace, kissing
each other, may restore to the hu-
man family the tranquillity of order,
so long banished by the extrava-
gances of error. While, therefore,
We most cordially commend your
zealous efforts, and those of your
associates who contribute to the suc-
cess of the same by their labor, their
gifts, or their talents. We give
especial thanks to God that He has
condescended to second them, and
We pray Him that, by the power of
His grace. He may stimulate still
more your already strenuous exer-
tions; and may give you
more and more associates
who, with you, shall bestow
their industry and strength
on the common good of the
^^ yj Christian people. And as
.^ / /\ , a token of the divine fa-
vor, and an evidence of
Our paternal good will,
We impart most affection-
ately to you, and to your congrega-
tion of missionaries. Our apostolic
benediction.

Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, on
the 30th of December, 1868, in the
twenty-third year of Our Pontificate.

tingere debeat, qui id potissimum
optamus, ut evangelium nuncietur
omni creaturae, ut sedentes in umbra
mortis ad viam salutis adducantur,
ut demum destructis erroribus uni-
versis, ubique veritatis regnum con-
stituatur, in quo justitia et pax se
invicem osculantes, humanae familiae
reddant ordinis tranquillitatem jam-
diu a monstrosis opinionum com-
mentis abactam. Dum itaque stu-
dia tua, et eorum, qui tibi opere,
subsidio, ingenio opitulantur, liben-
tissime commendamus, maximas Deo
gratias agimus, quod ipsis obsecun-
dare voluerit ; eumque rogamus, ut
gratiae suae virtute, novos tibi jam
currenti veluti stimulos addat, alios-
que atque alios adjutores tibi con-
ciliet, qui tecum industriam viresque
suas conferant in commune Christiani
populi bonum. Coelestis vero favo-
ris auspicem, et paternae nostras
benevolentiae testem Apostolicam
Benedictionem tibi tuaeque Missio-
nariorum familiae peramanter imper-
timus.

Datum Romae apud S. Petrum
die 30 Decembris, 1868, Pontificatus
Nostri Anno XXIII.

TAe Progrtss of Naliom.

THE PROGRESS OF NATIONS.*

The first series of the Essays which
compose these two stout volumes
.appeared as long ago as 1846, and
has now been revised, amended, and
.enlarged, and, after being long
• out of print, republished in connec-
tion with a second collection similar
in character and general design,
Mr Seaman's purpose has been to
inquire into the principal causes of
the welfare of nations, such as mo-
rality, education, personal and politi*
cal liberty, commercial, mechanical,
and agricultural development, and
those natural conditions of climate
and geographical position which man
has no power to modify, and to show
how these causes have operated at
various times and in various countries.
To the adequate treatment of so vast
a theme, there should be brought the
labor of a life-time, the learning of a
ripe scholar, and the intdlect of a
philosopher. Mr. Seaman, we must
frankly say, has brought neither of the
three. He has attempted what not
one man in a thousand would be wise
to attempt; and if he has failed, he
has at any rate failed in very respec-
table company* The essays are crude
and fragmentary. They lack a sus-
tained train of thought and logical
connection ; they are encumbered
with commonplaces and repetitions \
and ihe statistical and historical illus-
trations with which they are thickly
interwoven have the disadvantage of
being borrowed from sources that con-
vey no weight of authority. Citations
from incompetent witnesses carry no

^E$i^yt fim tht Prvirvu •/ K^Unx^ im Crpffiaa-
film, r^iisfmiivt /mdmsify, WemHh, mmd P^^mimHm^
By Etn C. Seamwi. Ftnt atid Secood Swici, iwrna,
V^ ^5. 659- New York i Charlei ScHbMr ft Co.

force, but rather weaken the effect (
an author's statements.

The fundamental fault of Mr, Sea-
man*s work is not its raggedness, how
ever ; but it is the misapprehcns
with which he starts, of the mca
of his subject. He understands ^
gress" merely as material prosperity, j
** Civilization " means nothing in]
his mind but ** Productive Industry^ ]
Wealth, and Population/* That peo-
ple is the most advanced which owns
the most money and wears the best]
clothes. The destiny of man is com-
merce and manufactures. The end
of civil society is the acquisition of
wealth. Liberty is good bec^inse it
leaves man free to invent telegraphs
and railroads. Government is good
because trade would be impossible
without it. Education is valuable be-
cause it stimulates production and
regulates induslr)'. Religion is le-
spectable because it develops the ta-
tellectual faculties, and teaches us to]
restrain the appetites whose free in*j
dulgence would undermine the con*
slitution or injure our fellow-m,\n, j
We do not mean to say that Mr. Sea*
man teaches these doctrines in so|
many words. He does not know thai ^
he teaches them at all. If he ever
sees this article, he will no doubt be
shocked at our interpretation of his
argument. Yet, pushed to their fair
and by no means remote conclusions,
these are the teachings to which his
essays amount. He seems to forget
that man was created to know and
love God and promote the divine
glory, and that is the highest slate of
civilization in which he most perfect
ly fulfils the end of his creation, TheiC .
is no true progress except toward thtsl

The Progress of Nations.

72s

end. There is no real prosperity,
where this heavenly destiny is lost
sight of. There is no education which
keeps it not constantly in view. Mr.
Seaman treats religion merely as an
agency for the development of civili-
zation, whereas it is the very essence
of civilization itself. He thinks of
the worship of God as a useful mental
exercise, which sharpens a man's wits
and makes him keener at a bargain.
One who has practised his brain in
theological controversy must of ne-
cessity be the clearer-headed when
he has to decide between free-trade
and protection, or calculate the rate
of exchange and the fluctuations of
stocks. But theology is not worship.
Religion is a matter of the affections
as well as the intellect. The unlet-
tered peasant can praise God, and is
bound to praise God, no less than the
scholar. A purely intellectual reli-
gion could not be of divine origin,
since it would only be suitable for a
small minority of the human race ;
it could not be the great business of
every man's life, as religion must be,
if it is worth anything at all. " Hap-
piness, in a future world as well as in
this," says Mr. Seaman, " is the sove-
reign good of man, and constitutes
the end and chief purpose of his ex-
istence." That statement may pass
if you understand happiness to con-
sist in the promotion of the divine
glory ; but not if you place it in bank-
notes and steam-engines. These
seem to be the goal of progress in
our author's eyes, and he looks at
nothing beyond them.

With Jiis false conceptions of the
nature of society and religion, it is
not surprising that Mr. Seaman should
thoroughly misapprehend the work
and purpose of that divinely organized
church to which we owe all the true
civilization there is in the world, and
all the progress we have ever made.
The only thread of thought which can

be clearly discerned running through
his essays, is the idea that Catholi-
cism is the great enemy of civilization.
We wish it were quite as clear by
what line of argument he purposes to
prove it. In one chapter, the church
is an enemy to education because
she does not teach the people enough.
In another she is the enemy of free
thought because she teaches them too
much. Now her offence is neglect,
now it is overmuch care. We don't
see how it can be both.

" A part," he says, " and one of
the most efficient parts of govern-
ment in all civilized countries, con-
sists in the education of the people."
And he argues the necessity of edu-
cation from the fact that " the great
mass of mankind ... are guided by
imitation, precedent, and the instruc-
tion of others." They have very few
ideas except those which are put
into their heads by better educated
people, or are derived directly from
the senses. "Such people in all
countries are under the influence and
control ... of the aristocracy, the
clergy, the members of the learned
professions, and the military and
civil officers of government." The
policy of the pope and the priest-
hood, he complains, is to retain the
masses in a state of ignorance.
" The Bible is kept from them ; they
are denied the right to read, and
exercise their own individual judg-
ments in matters of religion, but
must allow their priests to read,
think, and judge for them, and to
form their opinions ; and no efforts
are made by the priests to establish
common schools, or to teach the
common people anything beyond the
catechism, and the ceremonies and
dogmas of religion, and absolute, un-
conditional submission in all things
to their priests and rulers. Their
whole efforts in matters of education
are directed to founding colleges and

The Progress of Nations.

727

But sectarian bigotry
a double tax upon our
the education of our chil-
rather than we should
them about God opposes our
tiing ihem anything at all. We
the best we can. AVe pay our tax
the support of the schools we do
^oot approve ; we pay another volun-
tary tax for such parish schools as
our poverty can afford ; and if* these
are too small to receive our children
and too poor to do as much for them
as they would be glad to do, the
fault is not ours but the law's,
which deprives us of the aid to
which we are justly entitled from
the common fund. One thing is clear
to every dispassionate observer : the
Catholics do twice as much for educa-
tion as any other denomination — nay,
do that which no other denomination
would think of attempting. A state
s}'Stem of gratuitous instruction is
often referred to as one of the exclu-
sive boons of Protestantism. Well,
in how many of the great countries
of the world, besides our own, is such
a system known? Only in France
and Austria, which are Catholic, and
in Prussia and Scotland, which are
Protestant. Protestant England has
done less for popular education, and
has consequently a more grossly igno-
rant peasantry than any other coun-
try on the globe equally advanced in
general civilization. Her great uni-
versities and grammar-schools are
the relics of Catholic foundations.
The half a million of pounds annual
income which they enjoy is drawn
from Catholic endowments, perverted
from their ancient uses ; and it is es-
timated that not mqrethan three-fifths
of this sum is actually made available
for educational purposes in any way
whatever. So shamelessly have these
legacies of the ancient faith been
misapplied, that there are masters
drawing large salaries for presiding

over schools which have no scholars,
and a few years ago it was found that
the teachers of 708 inferior schools
and 35 grammar-schools signed their
returns with a mark 1 Of late the
government has made efforts for a
reform, and the various dissenting
sects have also done a great deal in
the establishment of denominational
schools; but no general system of
popular instruction has yet been de-
vised. Popular education in fact is
a purely Catholic idea, almost as old
as Christianity itself, and the germ
of the modem common-school system
was in the bosom of the ancient
church. "After the introduction of
Christianity, " says The American Cy-
clopcedia, (art. " Common Schools,")
'* and its accession to power, the duty
of the authorities to educate the
young was speedily recognized by
the bishops and clergy. The object
of this education was of course their
training in the doctrines of Christi-
anity, but it was the first recognition
of the duty of giving instruction to
the masses. As early as a.d. 529
we find the council of Vaison recom-
mending the establishment of public
schools. In 800 a synod at Mentz
ordered tliat the parochial priests
should have schools in the towns and
villages, that * the little children of all
the faithful should learn letters from
them. Let them receive and teach
these with the utmost charity, that
they themselves may shine for ever.
Let them receive no remuneration
from their scholars, unless what the
parents through charity may volun-
tarily offer." A council at Rome in.
836 ordained that there should be
three kinds of schools throughout
Christendom : episcopal, parochial in
towns and villages, and others wher-
ever there could be found place and
opportunity. The Council of Lateran
in 1 1 79 ordained the establishment
of a grammar-school in every cathe-

728

Ttu Progress of Nations.

dral for the gratuitous instruction of
the poor. This ordinance was en*
larged and enforced by the Council of
Lyons in 1245. Thus originated the
popular or common school as an out-
growth of the Christian Church. '* A
council of the i6th century speaks
of schools in the priests' houses, and
the decretals abound in mention of
popular instruction as one of the first
duties of the clergy and one of the
traditional and most ancient glories
of the church. **If the important
knowledge of reading and writing
was spread among the people/* saj^
the socialist philosopher St* Simon,
**it was owing to the church." If
that knowledge, during the political
and social disorders of the middle
ages became so difficult of attain-
ment that only a favored few could
acquire it, it was the church alone
who kept the sacred flame of learn-
ing alive in the schools and the clois-
ters, maintained the great universities
and grammar classes in the midst of
the most turbulent periods ; and when
society crystallized again into order,
brought forth the treasure of know*
ledge which she had guarded so long,
and gave it to the world. • Nearly all
the most famous institutions of learn-
ing in Europe are of Catholic foun-
dation. Rome is especially well pro-
vided with schools, and the Roman
College gives free instruction in the
classics and the sciences. And in
the face of all these facts — ^knowing
as he must know if he has studied
the "progress of nations" with a
•particle of intelligence, that the
Catholic Church has been the most
munificent patron of learning the
world ever saw — Mr, Seaman has
the sublime effrontery to say that " no
effort has ever been made in any
■Catholic country to educate the mass
of the people or any of the common

•See Tii« Catholic Would fcr Tthnarf, 1869 •
wt. ** Tin lioonuwe oT tike Middle Ages."

classes, except some few selected
the priests, to be educated and trail
for the ministry/* and that **
great body of Catholics seem to be
studiously kept in profouini igno-
rance, that they may be managed aod
governed the mone easily " ! It seesns
to us it would be a good and a just
thing if the penalties against malpcic-
tice by which the law protects tiie
medical profession from ignoraiitchif-
latans could be extended to the pto-
fession of literature. There is a gfnoe^
ful compliment to the literature of the
Catholic Church in Matthew ArmM^s
essay on ** The Pagan and Mcdiaeira]
Religious Sentiment." For the ben-
efit of Mr. Seaman and his class nt
cite the passage nearly at fuUlei^:

*• In spite of all ihc shocks wKSch t!»e
feeling of a good Catholic has h|_
Protestant country Inevitably to und
spite of the contemptuous insenstii
the grnndeur of Rome which be
general and «o hard to >>car. how ntti
he to console him, how mat
to the greatness of his rcli
if he has his eyes open 1 I will 14:11 him di
one of ihem. Let him go, in Laodim, to
that delightful spot, thai T* - -

l^loomsbury, the reading n
tish Museum. Let him vi^u it* <%acro:
quarter, the region wlicre its ihfoiqsial
books are placed. I atn almo&t Afraid l«i ftf
what he will find ihcrc, for fear Mf. ^fm*
geon, like a second Caliph Onvar, tlioili
give the library to the flames. He frtQ tad.
an immense Catholic woik, the colleak^ff
the Abb^ Mignc, lording it ovrr that iilidi
region, reducing to insigniRcano: the tVtblc
Protestant forces which hat
Protestantism la duly repr*
Mr. Panizzi knows hi» business too wil tt
suifcr it to be otherwise ; all the vari«tMtfl
Protestantism are there ; there is Ihef^
of Anglo-Catholic Thcolop>% tcan^etli^
ous, exemplary, but a Itttk uvinteff
there are the works of Calvin, ligkl, 1
inenactng ; there are the wo«k& of Ui;*
Chalmers, the Scotch thistle^ VAlLa&tly d<nf
duty as the rose of Sharon* but kecfupg
something very Scotch aNout it aQ tbc
time; there are the work * '- "^^ *
ning, the last word of reli
in a land where every one Xk.^ ^^ '
and where su]>erionties are i

r»iv \ ****i**ii.

The Progress of Nations.

729

— ^hc flower of moral and intelligent medi-
ocrity. But liow are all these divided against
one another, and how, though they were all
united, are they dwarfed by the Catholic
leviathan, their neighbor ! Majestic in its
blue and gold unity, this fills shelf after
shelf and compartment after compartment,
its right mounting up into heaven among the
white folios of the Acta Sanctorum^ its left
plunging down into hell among the yellow
octavos of the Law Digest, Everything is
there, in that immense Patrologia Cursus
Completus^ in that Encydopidie ThMogique^
that NouvelU Encydopidie Thiologique, that
Troisihne EncychpidieTTitothgique; religion,
philosophy, history, biography, arts, sciences,
bibliography, gossip. The work embraces
the whole range of human interests ; like one
of the great middle-age cathedrals, it is in
itself a study for a life. Like the net in
Scripture, it drags everything to land, bad
and good, lay and ecclesiastical, sacred and
pro&ne, so that it be but matter of human
concern. Wide-embradng as the power
whose product it is ! a power, for history,
at any rate, eminently the Church ; not, I
think, the church of the future, but indis-
putably the church of the past, and in the
past, the church of the multitude.

" This is why the man of imagination —
nay, and the philosopher, too, in spite of her
propensity to burn him — will always have a
weakness for the Catholic Church ; because
of the rich treasures of human life which
have been stored within her pale. The
mention of other religious bodies, or of
their leaders, at once calls up in our mind
the thought of men of a definite type as
their adherents ; the mention of Catholicism
suggests no such special following. Angli-
canism suggests the English Episcopate;
Calvin*s name suggests Dr. Candlish ;
Chalmers^ the Duke of Argyll ; Channing*s,
Boston Society; but Catholicism suggests
— what shall I say ? — all the pellmcll of the
men and women of Shakespeare*s plays.
This abundance the Abl^e Migne*s collection
faithfully reflects. People talk of this or
that work which they would choose, if they
were to pass their life with only one ; for
my part, I think I would choose the Abb^
Migne's collection. Quicquid agunt homines
—everything, as I have said, is there."

But Mr. Seaman complains, not
only that the Catholic Church neg-
lects to teach the people, but that
she neglects to let them alone. Not
only has she never had any schools,
but she has had too many schools.

She has taken no care of education,
and moreover she has meddled
ofl5ciously with popular instruction
when she ought to have confined
herself to masses and sermons. The
clergy, being for long ages the only
teachers of letters, science, philoso-
phy, and religion, acquired an influ-
ence over men's conduct and opin-
ions which can only be regarded as
unfortunate. Yet, a little while ago,
he said that in all conditions of
society the majority of mankind are
ruled by the thoughts and instruc-
tions of others, and that education
is one of the most important parts of
government Is it better that this tre-
mendous influence should be exerted
by the wisest and most virtuous class,
or by those who are eminent only
because they are the most powerful ?
If any set of men are to mould the
opinions of the rest, should they not
be the men who are best qualified
by study and by sacred pursuits to
exercise that function with intelli-
gence and sincerity? We believe
that when the child passes from the
hands of the parent, its best guides
are the servants of the church who
have devoted themselves to the train-
ing of the young in order that they
may do good to their fellow crea-
tures and give glory to God. Mr.
Seaman would entrust this sacred
duty to -pot-house politicians, who
covet ofl5ce for the sake of gain. The
theory of a paternal government,
which watches over all our relations
in life, and rears children to be good
citizens, may be all very well ; but
we know what governments are in
practice, and petty office-holders are
the last men we should want to trust
with moulding the opinions of society.
There is something too demoraliz-
ing in the means by which they
generally get their places ; and, after
they have got them, how many are
fit for them ? It is the duty of govern-

730

The Progress of Nations.

ment to promole education and
general culture, that is very true ;
but Iww this ought to be done is
another question, Mr. Seaman says
the proper way is to remove children
fmm ihe influence of the two institu-
tions which God has designed for
their guides and educators — the fam-
ily and the church — and to put them
under the control of place-hunters,
who may possibly have a special
talent for instruction, but are just as
likely to be fools and rogues. But
he has no arguments to support his
opinions, and it is not worth while to
answer sheer dogmatism.

Mr Seaman is not satisfied with
once gravely declaring that " in all
Roman Catholic countries education
by means of schools and books is
confined lo the wealthy classes/* and
then blaming the priests for inter-
fering with the secular studies of ihe
people instead of confining them-
selves to religious teaching ; assert-
ing that the Church has " usurped the
whole domain of metaphysics and
philosophy,*' and yet that she has
never done anything for education
at all ; praising the Presbyterians of
Scotland formaking schools a part of
theii religious establishment, so that
the young might be instructed ** in
the principles of religion, grammar,
and the Latin tongue," and upbraid-
ing the church because eenturies
earlier she had done the same thing j
but he returns time and again to the
same misstatements and the same
contradictions. During the Dark
Ages, he says, coming back again to
the Bible question, " tJie Scriptures
were in the possession of those only
who were learned in the dead lan-
guages. Thry had never been trans-
lated into any of the modern lan-
guages, A good explanation of this
remarkable fact may possibly be
that the modern languages, at the
period to which Mr. Seaman refers,

had not yet taken a literary
He probably means to sa;
sacred books had not been w
into the vernacular of any people
If he docs, he makes a great
take. In the first place, iJje
Vulgate was by no means a
volume. That version had been ma
expressly lo render the Scriptun
accessible to all. The tongue
which it was turned was the one i
generally understood by whoever hi
education enough to read any 1
at all ; and during the so-called Dark
Ages, Latin was still in common \
all over the continent of Europe*
was not then a dead language, so I
as books were concerned, though U
the conversation of common life it hi
passed out of use. Moreover, ^ i
have already seen, translations oft
Bible into other languages were i
as fast as those languages look shape*
Translations of the New Testasiieot
were made very early into all the
tongues then spoken by Christian.
Portions of the Scriptures were turti-
ed into Saxon by Adhclm, Egbeit^liie
Venerable Bede, and others, between
the Sth and lotli centuries ; and
there was a complete EnglishJ
sion as early as 1290, that is 1
90 years before Wycliffe^s, whi«
lam erroneously calls the ea
The first book printed at Guttcnl
press was a Latin Bible, and in Iul|
under the vcr}" eye of the church
there were translations in use in
15th century. The popular fah
that Luther first threw open the sa-
cred book to the world is one of th^^
most mischievous falsehoods in hifl^|
tor)\

On almost ever)' page we find cr*
rors hardly less monstrous. **No
one valuable invention, discoix
or improvement," says Mr,
** during the last three centurk!S and
a half, has originated where tlic hu-
man mind has been subject to Ci

The Progress of Nations^

731

tholicism .... and the same may be
said of jurisprudence, government,
and science, as well as the useful
arts," The impudence of this asser-
tion is enough to take away one's
breath. France, then, has done noth-
ing for the arts or for science, Cath-
olic Germany has done nothing, Bel-
gium has done nothing, Italy has
done nothing. Nay, more ; if the
Church for three hundred and fifty
years has blighted material progress,
if the Catholic clergy during that
time have, as our amazingly ignorant
author declares, " restrained the hu-
man mind from the prosecution of
new discoveries in natural science
under pretence that the new opinions
promulgated were contrary to Scrip-
ture, and therefore impious and he7
retical," how does it happen that
the world made any discoveries at
all before that period ? Why, does
Mr. Seaman forget that the art of
printing itself, the greatest invention
of all time, dates from that " dark
age " when the power of the Church
was at its height, and Luther had
not yet arisen, and that its first use
was in the service of the sanctuary ?
Does he forget that Copernicus was
a Catholic priest ? that some of the
most brilliant of modem discoveries
in the positive sciences, in astrono-
my, in medicine, in natural philoso-
phy, have emanated from Catholic
Italy and France, and that the sci-
ence of jurisprudence, to which he
especially refers, owes more to those
two countries and (Jermany than to
all the rest of the world 1 The case
of Galileo, to which of course he al-
ludes, has so recently been examined
in two elaborate articles in this maga-
zine that we need give but little space
to it here. It is enough to say that
although the Florentine philosopher
was forbidden to wrest Scripture to
the support of his theory, and was
censured for his disobedience of a

solemn obligation to let theology
alone and confine himself to science,
the Church stood throughout his pa-
tron and protector, and the Pope and
the Cardinals were the most zealous
among his. disciples. Mr. Seaman's
statement that " when Galileo taught
in Italy the Copernican system of
astronomy as late as tlie year 1633,
it was decided by the Pope and a
Council of Catholic Cardinals
AND Bishops " that the doctrine was
absurd and heretical, and he was
"consigned to the dungeons of the
Inquisition and compelled to re-
cant and abjure his opinions in or-
der to save his life," (the capitals
and Italics are Mr. Seaman's,) is a
plain up-and-down falsehood. There
is no justification of it in any reputa-
ble history. " The Pope and a coun-
cil of Catholic Cardinals and Bish-
ops" never pronounced any judg-
ment whatever either upon Galileo
or his doctrines, and never had any-
thing to do with the affair. The
judgment, such as it was, expressed
merely the opinion of the "qualifiers,"
or examiners of the Inquisition — an
irresponsible committee attached to
a civil tribunal, whose report carried
no theological weight, and no more
represented the doctrine of the
Church, or the sentiments of Pope,
Cardinals, and Bishops than the
Munchausenisms of Mr. Seaman re-
present the sober verdict of history.
The Church is not to be reproached for
the blunders of her individual mem-
bers. Moreover, Galileo never was
consigned to the " dungeons of the
Inquisition," and never was in peril
of his life.

The course of Mr. Seaman's argu-
ment leads him to a sketch of the
constitution and history of the church,
and here he wanders in such a maze
of error, that it is bewildering to
follow him. He tells us that the
Pope and the bishops have the most

732

absolute and unlimiied power ovei
the inferior clergy, sending them
wherever they choose, and appoint-
ing and removing them at pleasure,
and that the Pope exercises similar
amhority over the bishops. Has
our learned historian ever heard of
such a thing as ^affifn lauf^ which
secures to the inferior clerg)' a per-
fect immunity from arbitrar)^ itucr-
ference by their superiors, and which
is in force all over the Christian
world, except in new countries, where
the church is yet too young to com-
plete her organization? He tells us
tlmt the church invented and upholds
the doctrine of the divine right of
kings, and teaches that the people
are bound to submit passively under
all circumstances, and th.it no amount
or continuance of oppression and ty-
ranny can justify resistance or rebel-
lion in any case whatever. All his-
tory contradicts this statement — con-
tradicts it so plainly that we can
hardly account for the author's te-
merity. If we had the patience to
read his book straight through, we
should probably find him on some
other page blaming the Popes for
encouraging rebellion and insurrec-
tion. As it is, he declares that " this
tyrannical and despotic doctrine
. . . is the work of the clerg}' of
a comparatively modem period, and
as late as the year 1682 the Univer-
sity of Oxford, in England, adopted
it." We presume Mr, Seaman is aware
that Oxford University in 1682 was
ProUstant. He tells us that the
Catholic Church is a cruel and per-
secuting church, and refers to the
penal statutes against heresy, which
wi?rc in force in England, from the
X4th to the i6th century, and under
which, during the reigu of Queen
Mary, " several hun<lrcd persons
were burned ;" but he seems not to
know that a// denominations, in those
cruel times, persecuted one ftnother

The Progrtss of Nations.

impartially ; that Henry VIIL 1
set Mar)^ the example, and Elirabefh
was a wortliy follower of her father
and Calvin and the conrii>cnta] rt-
formers were as bad as " bloody
Mary," and even the ProtcsUnl set-
tlers of America had little coocqh
tion of the principle of rcltgkwf
freedom, until it was taught them by
the Catholics of Maryland, He de-
clares that the persecution of hcnrtf-
cal sects during the 4th, 5th, and 6ch
centuries, and the t)Tanny of tlie
ecclesiastical aristocracy* were the ac-
tual causes of the decline of
Roman empire. This is too muchlj
Why, the commencement of the de
cline dales from the second cf
tury, and the Roman a^^
was entirely overthrown by
die of the fourth ; and during thij
period of decay, the church had n«J
power in the slate, but was her
persecuted and driven into ihcc
ness of caverns.

We have spoken our mtnd plainlj
about this book, because we ihbk i
is one c>^ a class that deserve no 1
cy. A man who sets himself to \
history without consulting e%*en
ordinary sources of historical tofer-
mation commits an offence aga^st
truth and against society, Ignonmoe
does not excuse him. Ignorance 10
such a case is a crime- Of oovrse
we do not su|' " - - ifnaa

intenlionally f >cnts»

But he makes rantiora statements
which the slightest examtnatioii
would have satisfied him were &be
He was bound to undertake such an
examination, and not having done it,
he bears the responsibility of the
falsehood. The pnssage we hite
already cited about Galileo is agtiod
example of what we mean. There
is no color of authority for the errO'
neous version of the c^ ' ■; Mn
Seaman gives. He c* ^avc

evolved that story out of a vii^iie ini»

The Silent Clock.

733

pression that the Pope and the Car-
dinals had done some very cruel and
illiberal thing to the philosopher ;
and he must have put it into the
words he used, because he considered
those words effective in representing
the action of the church in a black
aspect. But the errors are very seri-
ous ones. They amount to the as-
sertion that the church has declared
a scientific fact to be a theological
heresy. If this were true, the church
would be no church. Not being true,
the words amount to a gross slander.
If Mr. Seaman, having been educa-
ted in a prejudice against Catholics,
and believing that they are cruel and
vindictive people who ought to be
excluded from good society, should

print a pamphlet, charging the Arch-
bishop of New Vork and his Vicar-
General, and the editors of The Tab-
let and The Catholic World with
a conspiracy to torture or murder the
Rev. Dr. Prime, the fact that he
thought it probable the accusation
might be true, would be no justifica-
tion, and would not save him from
the consequences of a libel suit.
The author who is guilty of slander
in writing the history of the past,
cannot be mulcted in damages like
the criminal who carelessly destroys
a private character ; but he deserves
to be placed in the pillory of moral
criticism and to be held as a literary
outlaw.

THE SILENT CLOCK.

\0^.''//;

Its sounds were hushed by weeping love, ^\^)'^ -^^
A sad heart bade it cease to move,
And one long hour of sorrow prove.

A heart and it did beat their last,
A trembling hand before it passed.
And endless silence on it cast

A spectre from the silent lands,
A shadow of life's grief it stands.
Still pleading with uplifted hands.

Whose awful stillness seems to say ;
Here was the closing of his day —
Here was the loosing of the clay.

Forget not one, of old so dear,

Lift up your hearts for him in prayer

As we are ever lifted here.

734

WAa shall take Care of our Poor?

It shames the soul— that silent clock,
Its mournful muteness seems to mock
The love we thought no years could shock*

Our sighs and tears of fond distress
Have changed to smiles of happiness —
It stands unchanged, dumb, motioDless !

G£ftALDt9ri.

WHO SHALL TAKE CARE OF OUR POOR?

NO, U.

The point of view in which we
propound this problem is that of the
adequacy of the Christian Church,
by its organic institutions, to coun-
teract, in America, those social and
political aberrations which, in the
eastern hemisphere, have developed
and maintained the scourge of pau-
perism. On this question, history is
prophecy ; an incomplete prophecy,
yet containing all the principles of
action which a plastic intelligence
and fresh inspiration from its foun-
tain life may enable the church to
adapt to our present exigencies.

Under myriad forms and faces,
pauperism is the sphinx that devours
ever>^ society which cannot, within a
certain time, find its solution, unless
wars have anticipated its fate.

Result of international wars, and
source of intestine wars — those irrup-
tions of organized crime — pauperism
is the ulcer on the leg of civilization
which betrays the impurity of its
blood.

It behoves us on the threshold of
this inquiry to distinguish between
accidental impoverishment, and pau-
perism as an organic malady, which
develops, as in Great Britain, pari

passu with population and ercniriA
the increase of wealth.

An earthquake devastates Pttt,
prostrates its cities and destroys *t&
harvests : its inhabitants suflct dtf
greatest privations, but having Tctilf
access to the soil in that pn 'iV
climate, little or no chronic pauper-
ism will result. The while populi^
tion of our immense South has bew
recently reduced by war to sn ci*
treme distress. Flanders, Germajiyr
France, the most prosperous couor
tries of Europe, have been scourged
still more severely; yet industrious
generations suffice lo efface the inct
of war Pestilences, which decimH
the population of a countrj-, yet
spect property, and do not pauperise
the survivors, but the contrar)' ;
they have freer access to the means ^
production. But why is it thati
Britain — the old monarch of th
with her predatory grasp on the I
of the Indies, with all her sttipenilo
machinery of production, and feanii|
no enemy from abroad — is ro€tifl|
with pauperism amid peace tnd
wealth, perishing r»1d eagle.

condemned to st i by the

excessive curvature of his ovctUp

take Care of our Poor f

735

mother

idjnstitu-

main re-

imes against

* by exposing

^^^ y of specul ators,

!W ; inherit by emi-

^ >e fate we must

y as the same causes

■e effects, unless we

>uth.

)ne faith, one path of

on, remains for us both
the world — namely, co-
iristian association, that,
2 and greed, restores to
n the produce of his
nders the practical love
bor the means of satis-
)ur own needs, whether
2S or the soul. Now,
d its kindred co-opera-
ies, whose success is so
in England ; the masons
irtisan associations of
2 trades co-operations of
d the old Italian cities;
nseatic League, so mo-
iscipline — all proceed in
Dm the Columbans, the
nd other religious orders
ctine group, who initiat-
:ultural Christianity of
le seed sown in the me-

did not rot amid that
f society which is call-
nation. It has survived
)ns of aristocracy and
•nger tempered by mo-
> ; it has survived the
:ompetition of our mo-
at ; and now the same
under new names, puts
if, buds, blooms, and

ok," says Balmes, "at
systems which ferment
voted to the study of
d its remedies, we shall
:here association under

one form or another. Now, associa-
tion has been at all times one of
the favorite principles of Catholicity,
which, by proclaiming unity in faith,
proclaims unity in all things. If we
examine the religious institutions
characteristic of Europe in its dark-
est period of ignorance, corruption,
and social dissolution, we observe
that the monks of the west were not
content with sanctifying themselves ;
from the first they influenced society.
Society had need of strong efforts to
preserve its life in the terrible crisis
through which it had to pass. The
secret of strength is in the union of
individual forces, in association. This
secret has been taught to European
societ}' as by a revelation from hea-
ven."

Sufficient attention has not per-
haps been paid to the merit of the
industrial organization, introduced
into Europe from the earliest ages,
and which became more and more
diffused after the twelfth century.
We allude to the trades-unions and
other associations, which, established
under the influence of the Catholic
religion, had pious foundations for
the celebration of their feasts, and
for assisting each other in their ne-
cessities.

We must recognize here that high-
ly effective organizations of labor
had taken root in Europe, either by
the initiative of the religious orders,
(to whom the north owed its civiliza-
tion,) or in the congenial atmosphere
of Catholicity ; that in this organiza-
tion, co-operation, the Christian spirit,
had supplanted or prevented inter-
necine competition, the secular spirit;
that this system of labor rendered
pauperism impossible and elevated
the working classes to a plane of
virtue, of dignity and prosperity else-
where un attained ; that it had con-
quered and kept its ground against
feudal oppression and aggression, by

736

W/w shall take Can of aur Pmrt

a scries of bloodless battles m whtch
wisdom and patience, self control
and forethought^ perseverance and
the love of honorable uses, vindicated
the political superiority of the Chris-
tian principle ; finally that it possess-
ed within itself vigorous reproductive
or propagative forces, and had indeed
become the manifest destiny of Eu-
rope at that epoch when schism in
the church sowed everywhere ha-
treds and discord, and denatured
civilization, substituting the ideal of
individualism for that of solidarity.
Hence, incoherence and destructive
competition alike in the market as
in the church. For labor, its result
is pauperism; for piet^^, despair.

Besides the religious motives which
brought property into the hands of
the monks, there is another title,
remarks Balmes, which has always
been regarded as one of the most
just and legitimate. The monks
cultivated waste lands, dried up
marshes, constructed roads, restrain-
ed rivers within their beds, and built
bridges over them. Over a consid*
erable portion of Europe, which was
in a state of rude nature, the monas-
teries founded here and there have
been centres of agriculture and the
arts of social life. Is not he who re-
claims the wilderness, cultivates it,
and fills it with inhabitants, worthy
of preserving large possessions there ?

The religious and moral influence
of the monks contributed greatly, in
early European epochs, to the respect
of property as well as persons against
attacks which were so frequent in the
turbulent ages succeeding the over-
throw of the Roman empire by bar-
barian nations, that in some countries
almost every castle was a den of
robbers, from which its chief over-
looked the country and sallied forth
to collect spoils.

The man who is constantly oblig-
ed to defend his own is also con-

eio^^_
cd S

n moi^^
rdedl^

stantly led to usurp the propcftyof
others : the first thing to do to reme-
dy so great an evil was to locate af)d
fix the population by means of agri-
culture, and to accustom ihem to re-
spect property, not only by reasons
drawn from private inlurcsl^ Uut also
by the sight of large domains Ucioi
ing to establishments regarded
inviolable^ and against which a
could not be raised without
lege. Thus religious ideas
connected with social ones, and ibcy
slowly prepared an <
which was to be completed in moi
peaceable limes.

It is to the protection aibrded
farmers by the monastcHr^ ii^
places that we owe the ilioa

of the people in rural tj i , \vbj(

would have been otherwise imj
ble. Those who have lived m
country convulsed by war, like ow
South, can best appreciate Ibis.

Mallet {History of the Swist^
i. p. 105, a Protestant authority]
tells us that '* the monks softened
their instnictions the ferocious mai
ners of the people, and op[
their credit to the tyranny of the
bility, who knew no other occupatioo
thuti war, and grievously appn
their neighbors. On this accoui
the government of monks was pn
ferred to theirs. The people sougl
them for judges, (that is, as umpires^
It was a usual saying that it was bel-
le r to be governed by the bishop*!
crosier than the monarch's sccptrc'^

The kindness and chanties pel
formed by the religious orders,
marks Cobbett, {History qf fJkt
test ant Hrforfnatian,) made them ol
jects of great veneration, and
rich made them in time the chatineb
of their benevolence to the poor.
Kings, queens, princes* princesses^
nobles, and gentlefolk f ' ' nioo-
asteries and convents, t i • cled

the buildings and endowed tbem vjlh

Who shall take Care qf our P§mrt

737

I for their maintenance. 0th-
ome in the way of atonement
lir sins, and some from a pious
5, gave while alive, or be-
led at their death, lands,
>, or money to monasteries al-
erected. So that in time the
teries became the owners of
landed estates ; they had the
ip over innumerable manors,
ad a tenantry of prodigious
, especially in England, where
onastic orders were always
1 great esteem, in consequence
istianity having been introduc-
) the kingdom by a community
iks.

of the greatest advantages
ing the monasteries in thfe
al economy of the country was
liey of necessity caused the
es of a large part of the lands
»pent on the spot whence those
es arose. The hospitals and
I other establishments of the
ad the same tendency, so that
enues of the land were diffused
iately among the people at

We all know how the state
parish changes for the worse
a great land-owner quits his
)n in it, and leaves that man-
mt up, and what an effect this
on the poor-rates. What, then,
lave been the effect of twenty
teries in every county, expend-
nstantly a large part of their
;s on the spot ? If Ireland had
r seven hundred or eight hun-
monastic institutions, there
be no periodical famines and
fevers there ; no need of sun-
sunrise laws shutting the peo-
at night to prevent insurrec-
no projects for preventing the
►e of families ; no schemes for
: rid of a " surplus population ;"
asion for the people to live on
ite potatoes — not enough, at
:or tfieir nakedness, their hun-

VOL. VIII. — ^47

ger, their dying of hundreds with
starvation, while their ports are
crowded with ships carrying provi-
sions from their shores, and while an
army is fed in the country, the busi-
ness of which army is to keep the
starving people quiet.

Sir Walter Scott thus exposes the
nonsense of the " economists on the
non-influence of absenteeisnu" In
the year 1817, when the poor stood
so much in need of employment, a
friend asked the Duke of Buccleugh
why his grace did not prepare to go
to London in the spring? Byway
of answer, the duke showed him a
list of laborers then employed in im-
provements on his different estates ;
the number of whom, exclusive of
his regular establishments, amoimted
to nine hundred and forty-seven
men, who, with those whose support
depended on their wages, would
reckon several thousand ; many of
whom must have found it difficult to
obtain subsistence had the duke not
foregone the privilege of his rank in
order to provide with more conveni*
ence for them. The ^result of such
conduct is twice blessed, both in the
means which it employs and in the
end which it attains in the general
economy of the country. This anec-
dote forms a good answer to those
theorists who pretend that the resi-
dence of proprietors on their estates is
a matter of indifference to the inhabi-
tants of the district Had the duke
been residing and spending his reve-
nues elsewhere, one-half of these
poor people would have wanted em-
ployment and food, and would pro-
bably have been litde comforted by
any metaphysical arguments upon
population which could have been
presented to their investigation.

'^ Many such things may be daily
heard," says Howitt, " of the present
Duke of Portland."

The monks, whose religious cha-

7i8

WAa shall iakg Cars ef mir Pcorf

racter gave them an extraordinary
security^ as ihey were the first re-
storers of agriculture, so they were
the first improvers of our gardens.
Their long pilgrimage from one holy
shrine to another, through France,
Germany, and Italy, made them early
acquainted with a variety of culinary
and medicinal herbs and various
^its, and amongst the ruins of ab-
beys we still find a tribe of plants
that ihey have naturalized,

Lingard, writing of the conse-
quences of the ^^ Refarmaiion^^ tells
us that "within the realm poverty
and discontent generally prevailed*
l*he extension of enclosures, and the
new practice of letting lands at rack-
rents, had driven from their bonnes
numerous families whose fathers had
occupied the same farms for several
generations, and the increasing mul-
titudes of the poor began to resort
to the more populous towns in search
of that relief which had been for*
merly distributed at the gates of
the monasteries. I'he reformation
preachers of the day — Knox, Le\'er,
GUpin, Latimer — avow ihat the suf-
ferings of the indigent were treated
witii indifference by the hard -hearted-
oess of the rich ; while, in the pursuit
of gain, the most barefaced frauds
were justified, robbers and murderers
escaping punishment by the partiali*
ty of juries or corruptions of judges.
They tell us that church-livings were
given to laymen or oon^^erted to the
use of the patrons," etc

In dealing with that sbameliil
pamparism^ the annual reports of
ulach ring in the ears of the British
govern men t — ** mumt^ mun£^ ii^kd^
w^arsm^ vhicfa press^^ the fall «»£
fiAbyloti— 4t faeboves OS to distiogiiisli
the victim poor and the Ji^kiu^/^gr,
The fighting poor exasperate tlie
evils of poverty by ine&ciive insttr-
recttuns against the orgmiaed gar-
of tiM iicIl Frotestiog

against injustke and
tion by strikes, which they camot
sustain, and which sooa leave 0Km
at the mercy of the emphym% thef
have defied, they ptovoke
t>* of the laii-s by

by poaching, robbery, aiBGtii cic^
necessitating the matnteiumce of a
numerous and rigorots poUci^ mad
even of standtiig armies. Them
withdraw great numbers horn pro*
ductive industry, and double the ex-
penses of government^ which imwc,
at last, be borne by the wcviui^
classes^ bou^ver indirect the medt
ods of lajutiom. It is troe that te
arii>cocrac\' in commaod of amki
could enrich England by the spoil
of Indt;i, or Spain b}* that of M^m
and Peru ; but these tU-gotteo gaias
have cursed alike the robber aai
the robbed. No coootTy has evci
matntatned a real prospcfity caecyl
production and the eoa-
I of its prodtictag daaKk

1 he j'^'^^t tiot organiaed m

armit- u...^. iJic dtsdpliiie aad f^
of govemmentiy but remainiiig aa
integral part of the people, are ififli^
mately leagued with the rtcftm fm
by family ties, and even by the mm
nence of a common fate^ ^iiice i
wound, a fit of Elness, a fhnad, tk
prolonged lack of woric^ or odw
mislbrtune, may depress then ial»
pauperisin* Thja dass of poor b
the most daogeroos elonoii of a n*-
tion, and costs in waste and la pie
cautions a great deal more than the
sum expended in pauper relief. Ai
admiiiistTative nieihod which eooc^
ates this class with the rich, with
the establiabed gpvemiMttt avi
public Older, Is ei^ideiitly maater d
the sitiiatiocu This end has booB
achieved by the teliigiotis organiii-
tion of labor.

^lial the Catholic Church ooct
did far Et^^asd, ttnder mihtasy U»
dattsm* she can do agaiti* and mori.

Who shaU take Cart of our Poarf

739

because the present financial and in-
dustrial feudalism is pacific in its
tendencies and susceptible of being
harmonized with the interests of the
church and of labor by co-operative
association ; whereas the former feu-
dalism existed for war, was essential-
ly opposed to the spirit of Christiani-
ty, to the honor of productive indus-
try, and the prosperity of the people.
Now, what is cure for Great Bri-
tain may be prevention for America,
which undergoes, like England, the
yoke of industrial feudalism. Allow-
ing for the category of accidents, for
relief needed by the infirm, etc.,
vastly the larger proportion of pau-
perism remains to be prevented by
opportune employments, of which the
soil serves as the basis. Let the re-
ligious orders reacquire everywhere,
by all legitimate means, the control
of large bodies of land, which they
shall withhold from speculation,
which they shall either administrate
by leases or by direct culture, and on
which they shall establish the arts of
fabrication. Then they may subdue
the world with its own weapons,
commanding capital and labor, con-
ciliating them in Christian action,
and producing wealth without sacri-
ficing the producer to the product
They would lease farms or hire
workmen according to local and tem-
porary expediency, but in either case
they would constitute, as of old, a
bulwark between the people and
speculators, and they would reattach
the masses by intimate household
ties. This begins as of old with the
voluntary assumption of social bur-
dens, especially with the care of the
sick and infirm. By organizing a
high order of attractive social life at
^ its rural institutions, where it is so
much easier to find healthful work
for either sex and every age, the
church will counteract that destruc-
tive fascinatioa which the city now

exerts over the country-folk. In re-
storing and upholding an order of
yeomanry, subject to its general ad-
ministration of agriculture, but free
in a scope of action sufficient to con-
tent them, within a predetermined
plan, the Catholic Church would
counterpoise the present league of
the Church of England with its aris-
tocracy, as its corporate philanthro-
pies would counterpoise the corpo-
rate selfishness of simple business
firms.

Pursuing the noble initiative which
the Jesuit order took in the work of
education, especially in Paraguay, it
remains for the church to second the
views of American legislation in the
foundation of art and labor-schools,
or agricultural and polytechnic in-
stitutes, for the support of which
public lands were appropriated in
1842, although Minnesota alone has
had the wisdom to protest against
the malversation of this fund to the
comparatively sterile work of our
common schools.

It is not by any means an unrea-
sonable assumption that, after a few
years of experience and discipline
for the teachers, art and labor-
schools, embracing all the depart-
ments of rural and domestic econo-
my with religious and social training,
may be made self-supporting. From
that day their popularity will be as-
sured, and pauperism will be well-
nigh eradicated, together with the
vices and crimes which it engenders.
The diploma of such an institution
might confer either a lease of land or
an appointment to some office of so-
cial use and profit. The administra-
tion of the schools and charities of
the church would supply a great
many such places.

We shall not ask whether it be not
expedient and just to oblige every
family, in so far as it may be compe-
tent, to provide for its own poor, be-

740

Tlu Iliad of Hamen

cause modern civilization has not
the patriarchal basis, the family has
no such collective unity or substan-
tial existence among us, as formerly
in Palestine, or still in the Arab
douan At most can the family be
held responsible for its minors, since
its authorit}^ does not extend beyond
this class j but we remark thut the
largest proportion of pauperism is
due to the neglect of efficient educa-
tion during the years of minority ; so
that with the actual population of the
world* and even in the most thickly
settled countries, there need be no
such thing as pauperism, if the pro-
ductive energies of the whole people
received during childhood and youth
a practical direction ; while the diplo-
mas of our labor and art-schools
conferred valid titles to the use of
the soil or other means of remune*
rative employment. If to organize
such education for the children of
poor families be regarded as beyond
the province of our governments or
secular powers, how much more ex-
travagant must this seem for the
children of the rich, who are, how*
ever, exposed every day to become
poor, and whose wasteful idleness
subtracts so much from the possible
resources of mankind? Is it not
self-evident that the influence of reli-

gious OTganirations has every idi
tage over secular authority in refetni*
ing education while remlerio^ it wm^
versal ? At once personal and f»
porate, they can take an initial
which is refused to govemmenl*
which governments declhse. H\
as in the middle ages, in civiliied
in savage or barbarous states^ _
can restore to labor its religiocis hi^
nor, they alone can successfully cov*
bat the idleness and vices of fashion-
able dissipation, they can subslatsle
the arbitrament of Christian cifiiitf
for that of fire and sword, and ^Mt
pouring oil on our troubled itaiefl
they can teach by example as wdl as
by precept, those wholesooie re-
straints which prevent the ificm«
of a local population faster than As
means of its subsistence.

If pauperism in this cotinCry ii
chiefly exotic, it is none the le»
real, and none the less afllktife cr
disastrous- If an obvious remedy «•
ist in our vast tracts of unoceupic4
land, it is so much the more fifgeoi
to organize while directing the ti(fc
of emigration by ' : of Clirir

tianit}\ By coli ^^ vmiiznTits

under the guidance of re
ders we obviate the tiprofolM t**^ m
their pauperism and their isolatioa.

THE ILIAD OF HOMER.
Rendered into English blank verse by edward, earl or Mtil*

It is our custom, or that of our
time, to decry classical education.
We have a right to do so, no doubt,
if our unfavorable judgment regard-
ing it is based upon a correct and
inteIHgent estimate of its value, as a
method of training the youthful mind
and of disciplining the intellect by

the exercise of its nascent p0i«t
upon works of model t^-^- --^ «*^
vailed elegance. Sub l

cal education to tl '
glibly join in the

those who sec n it i v n pnx-ciui^
acquiring a kn-wicc-jti t,t Greek iwi
Latin words, of no eartlily use to the

The Iliad of Homer,

741

)r or to anybody else. Nei-
the other hand, would we,
ch test, accept it as the only
f liberal education, to the ex-
of others that may serve the
of instruction with more
1 advantage.

^ould fain offer Earl Der-
nslation of the Iliad as an
;, according to our notion,
practical process to be fol-
n studying the classic au-
1 order to profit by their
and of the gifts the mind re-
rom the cultivation of classic
e. Not a poet himself, the
•rd has imbibed into his own
mind the conceptions of the
ign poet " in all their poetic
md serene grandeur, and re-
s them for the English rea-
pely moulded, not distorted
igured. We shall not enter
omparison of his translation
.t of Pope or Covvper, neither
discuss the fitness of the me-
as adopted. His own trans-
if argument were wanted,
ompel us to agree with him
has selected that metre best
for rendering the Homeric
ato English verse, and we
n our hearty accord in his
nation of the English hexa-
a lumbering rhythm, not in-
Dmpared, by some author,
loise of pumpkins rolling on
loor. We shall merely show,
IV extracts, how he has sue-
in reproducing the concep-
the poem, and how happily
caught, without imparting
lixture of modern sentiment,
ing style in which the poet
rth, as it were, without draw-
:ath, his grand melodious
His translation is not a dead
t a copy, and a copy instinct
. His task was not an easy
d when we reflect upon his

life and eminent station, we cannot
help thinking that to ordinary men
the difficulty would be much enhanc-
ed thereby. Still, it redounds the
more to the honor of English scholar-
ship and English statesmanship, that
the foremost among its orators and
statesmen, who, for more than a
quarter of a century, has borne a
large share of the weighty affairs of
a vast empire; who by his talents
has helped to solve the thousand
vexed questions of modern politics
and reform, could, during leisure,
withdraw his mind from the absorb-
ing interests of the political arena,
and allow it to repose on the sub-
lime naturalness of the Iliad^ and
float in placid unison with the serene
grandeur of Homer's song. Though
the translation is truly Homeric, yet,
wrought as it is with spirit and ge-
nius, it bears in it something of the
mind it springs from. The reader
will not fail to discover in the echo
of the niad^ so faithfully reflected in
its purity, natural freshness, and vi-
gor, something of that splendid elo-
quence heard amid strife as angry
and as fierce as raged between Aga-
memnon and Achilles.

In giving quotations, we shall omit
those finer passages that are familiar
to most readers, such as those well-
known passages of the Third Book,
with their beautiful similes, that de-
scribe the Greeks assembling and
passing in review before their lead-
ers. On these many a youthful and
full-grown bard has tried his skill ;
but never have we seen them so
beautifully rendered as in the trans-
lation before us. We select for our
readers, first, that picture in the
Fourth Book, in which all the raging
elements of battle are thronged to-
gether — the maddening vengeance,
the wrath, the fury of hostile ranks
in the horror of collision — and which
commences with the description of

742

TA0 If lad cf IJ&mer.

DrUtood-stalned M«ra the mter nnd the friend ;

With humble CTMt at ftm, ail'

While fct »h« tre^d* the e«rtii ildcm.

The gage of battle in tlie midii - - - ,

Strode through the crowd ami woe to mortaJi

wrought.
When to their midtt they cim' " ' rh^hcd 510
Bucklers iind Uncea, and the
Ofmail-dad wamon: bo»y -I id

Clattoxd in conflict ; loud the cUiuur lu&c.
Then rose two minjcTed shouts aod ^rcans of men
Slayiiisand »tain ; the earth nn red with blood, 515
Am when descending from the mounlAiD'ft brow,
Tvvo wintry torrents from their copiouA source
Pour d'jwnward to the narrow f>a»*, where meet
Their mingled waters io some deep nivttie,
Their neij^ht of flood ; on the Ht mountain side 5x1
The theptierd hears the roar : so loud arose
Tbc ahoQla and yells of those commingling ho«ts.*^

Nothing can give a better idea of the
power of the translator than llie
manner in which he has compressed
this passage, with its bewildering
throng of elements, into the same
fjumber of lines as the original Wc
raiss none of the simple grandeur,
none of the directness^ none of the
even, rapid movement so characteris-
tic of Homer. There is no importa-
tion of what belongs not to Homer
into it, no amplification, no turning
aside from the object, or indirectness
in introducing and depicting every
incident in the picture. It is Ho-
mer's strain ; grand, rapid, and sim-
ple.

A few lines further on we have
one of those beautiful images by
which the poet has a fondness for
describing the fall of his young he-
roes. Depicting the death of the
stripling Simoisius, he sings :

** Prone in the dust he fell ; ^^t
As tome tiQ poplar, p-own in manhy mead,
Smooth -«temiDed, with boughs np-ftpringing toward
the head.*'

Again of young Gorgythion, in the
Eighth Book :

*' Down sank his hesid. n m a fitden aiiik*
A ripentd poppy ch»rRed with vqmal rains ; 350
So sank his Iiead beneath hts helmet's wei^ht^*

And of Asius, in the Thirteenth
Book:

" He fell as H\\% an oak, or poplar \%\
Or loAy pine.'*

These passages are placed together
as containing some of the poet*s fa-

vorite and beautiful images, audi
showing how happy tlie
has been in rendering theoi
truthfulness to their natuml grace

Earl Derby is not less succc^sliii
in reproducing the deep lendenieft
and moving pathos that form i con-
spicuous feature of the IBad^ Wc
quote from the Sijith I >n] t^

aflFecting scene betwci .r and

Andromache; but, instead of An-
dromache's words, so wcH kno
through Pope's translation, wc
the answer of the no! ' ' ' >r,
hero of the IHad^ in w! , foi

felt tenderness, be scuki* lo coirsi
his desponding wife :•

f»

** Think not, ^<aa wife, chat by fudh tfaoM
tliese ^

My heart luia peW b<cii woim; Int I

blush

To face the inea and loos^mbed daniM of Ttaf,
K lik« a cpwArd, t eodd ahot} th« tfi^L
Nnr cniitd my Mnil the tc«iO«ii of mjr y«sUi
So far forget, whose boast it sfdl \iam Smm,
In the forcfrutit of battle to b< Ib«fi4,
Charged with my feU>cr'« ^&tj aM iij||»i«%
Yet in my inmost suul ttio well 1 \aum |9

The diiy must conie whn. ihi out iu..7»j Tim.
And Priam's r^ire, sntl V
Shall in rme cr^mon rrj

Jjut not the llimiKhls ot i roy * >rM|.rf>UrTt lass,
Nof Hceuba\ nw royal Priam's W(««, ~ m

^ retlim^i^

''' " - ••-■•■- i-"«—'*»« i-oK.!-*!! |i.«t aa I

which » tiutugh not a ^imXXH to the abiiHL it
whstl kli>dred \ it is thi tint at hand. «iai «ill
our piir])nie.

" Trust me» whatewf Gue iny «oul m«f f*l^
Thoi) At il)y woman's choice ahall n«*« tifsa
Trujit rne» wiiaieveT storm on me oiJiy M,
'Hiia nian*s true heart shall intfd ^m b^

thine.

Hark, wheir the bird fhun yOQ dark Ocx bHtfllv
Soul lilt.. (u^!iE— ^>hc thy |c»«« to nil
I'O'^k rl the bird the Mci «»al^ M

Stilt chs, fobemytowtolbecr V

Oduc ... .;,..,, l.can I the tDtisie Ibiae; '

And the deep 5.h«lter — wilt thou scons ft 3^ tniae"
It m\\\ he- ob.tn^,-'.!. to rr,\i.TJfi|; thrjM? eiquaMLe &«k
how c. ,, ^ ,rt4«.

A^itu \Krftimm^

anti ini.._ , .,^^*^ta. la ||»>

mcr there is 1 tg^ xnflMt it* li

feeling : tlu .. 1 i^i^ %^^ ^

fout, it iu>c croMed try iiMdoi* «r OB^e ftm^ Mt
olbtf objMi. nor dMi' It difciyi tbb wmg v ^i »
borrow ^ otiMr Mittoe* b nwiapbar m timnmiiwc
tone, coW, or pothoa, f^ mfifiaiiMl in Itflmr a
natural, direct, em. tw^ ; m4 99c Umi feanr^
*.n.r.;.. .?..-., ^...k ^ %«{ii|g pfft«c«ita tn a» a «tf
•i exprcMitv pirtwr» «f • m^
i ruder lovtt anH t«n«« iJ i
g,tedt but lacing the stem tuk ^ivtf.

The Iliad tf Homer.

743

Mar loM of bnihraa, i

By hostile hands bid prostrate in the dust.

So deeply wring ray heart as thoughts of thee,

Thy days of freedom lost, and led away

A weeping captive by some brass-dad Greek. 530

Haply in Argos, at a mistress* beck,

Coodemned to ply the loom, or water draw

From Hypereia's or Messais* fount

Heart wrung, by stem necessity constrained.

Then they who see thy tears perchance may say, 535

*Lol this was Hector's wife, who, when they

fought
On plains of Troy, was Uhim*s bravest chief 1 '
Thus may they speak, and thus thy grief renew
For loss of him who might have been thy shield
To rescue thee from slavery's bitter hour. 540

Oh I may I sleep in dust ere be condemned
To hear thy cries and see thee dragged away.'*

The opinion of Lord Derby's ora-
tory, entertained on this side of the
Atlantic, may tempt those who ad-
mire it to think that in this transla-
tion his splendid eloquence and vi-
gorous language would have their
fitting scope in depicting the scenes
of camp and field, in transmitting,
lifelike, those angry encounters in
the councils of gods and men ; but,
that the most tender and delicate
tones of human feeling are not alien
to his speech, is amply proved by
the lines we have quoted. The
same deep chord of feeling is struck
by the words and modulations of this
beautiful passage that vibrates in
the pathetic language and melody of
the Ionian bard.

We add another of those magnifi-
cent incidents of the Iliad^ where
the struggle of warriors on the very
brink of battle is so grandly describ-
ed by the poet. In the I'hirteenth
Book, the Greeks, closely massed
under the Ajaces, .

Waited the Trojan charge, by Hector led :
Spear cIoao to spear, and shield by shield o'erlaid.
Buckler to buckler pressed, and helm to helm.
And man to man, the horse-hair plumes above.
That nodded on the warriors' glittering crests,
Each other touched, so closely matched they stood.
, Backward, by many a sulwart hand, were drawn
The spears, in act to hurl ; their eyes and minds
Turned to the front and eager for the fray.
On poured the Trojan masses ; in the van
Hector straight forward urged his furious course :
As some huge boulder, from its rocky bed
T>etached, and by the wintry torrent's force
Hurled down the cliff's steep foce, when constant

Tbe maaaiTt rock's firm hold have undermined,
Whh gfattt booids it flies ; the crashing wood

Resmmds Uawlli it, Hill it hnriaa 00,

Until, arririaf at the level plain,

Its headlong impdse diecked, it rolls ao more ;

So Hector, thraateniqg now through ships aad

tenU
Even to the sea to force his morderoos way.
Anon, confrtmted by that phalanx firm,
Ualu close before it."

This truly fine passage is the perfec-
tion of Homeric poetry. We doubt
if p^n or brush has ever produced a
picture abounding so much in life
and action. The marvellous combi-
nation of objects presented to view
in these lines, each heightening the
effect of the other, and all blending
into one tumultuous action, stirred
by the fiery spirit of war, gives us a
grand and terrific picture. In read-
ing it, with almost the noise and din
and the fray of warring men ringing
in the words employed in the trans-
lation, we feel as if we had never be-
fore been enabled, by any English
version, to enter into the full spirit
of Homer himself.

We give a last quotation from the
closing scene of the poem, where the
cry of mourning Troy is raised over
the lifeless body of its brave defen-
der. The wail of his wife and of
his mother has been heard ; but
there remains one other, the beaute-
ous Helen, whose fatal charms had
deluged the plains of Troy with
blood, had inflicted on the lifeless
hero on whom she now gazes in sad-
ness many a day of toil and many
an hour of pain, and now had crown-
ed the heap of Ilium's sorrows with
this last scene of woe. Her words
of love commingled with self-re-
proach, are the highest tribute the
poet could pay, in his closing verse,
to the hero whom, throughout his
song, he endows with all the noblest
traits of son, of patriot, of brother,
and of husband.

" Hector, of all my brethren dearest thou !
True, godlike Paris claims me as his wife.
Who bore me hither — would I then had died I
But twenty years have passed since here I came
And left my native land : yet ne'er from thee 895
I heard one scornful, one degrading word.

Thi Iliad of Homer,

And when from other* T luive borne raproadc

Ttiy brr>rhcm. titters, r>r ihr Vi'^^'^hers* wives

I tr .: ■ , : ....■■'''.

\ in still

V' ■ , :l ,„ „ "\i*

For thee 1 weep, and tor mracit no lex* ;

For tKrougti the breadth ofTroy, none love rne new,

KoDO kindly look on me, but all abhor/'

In the portions of Lord Derby's
translation we have here given^ we
have not selected what are univer-
sally regarded as the most beautiful
passages of the poem. We have
selected such passages as from their
crowded incidents, their bewildering
throng of objects, their rapid succes-
sion of scenes or deep and tender
pathos, appeared to us the most diffi-
cult for the translator to reproduce.
We doubt if there be a student of
Homer who will fail to find thera a
transcript of ihe poet*s meaning, with
almost literal exactness, as well as a
copy of the genius and spirit of the
poem. We had purposed selecting
some passages which would give our
readers a sample of his manner of
rendering the Homeric epithets. The
beauty of the few occurring in the
above extracts will not escape them.
Students of Homer are aware how
constantly he appends distinctive
epithets to persons' things, and
places. To translate these wherever
they occur would give a strange, unna-
tural cast to the poem. The English
language, not like the plastic Greek,
could not bear along the burden of
them ; besides, many of them would
require an awkward paraphrase,
iwhich would only add words, not

vividness or disdnclDess, to
thought of the poet. Lord
has wisely and discriminately deilt
with these ; when he renders
he does so with so much
and exi>ressive force, that we fee!
within us, at this late hour, a sigh,
regret that we had not at our hand
version of them, when we were
dents of Homer, In readitig
translation through, we cannot
where we would have an cpitl
added that has been omitted,
where we would have stricken it
where it has been preserved. Wcs;
that the translation is a copy of
liiad — ^a copy produced with genl
and spirit. It will be read with plea-
sure by the classical scholar, to wh<
it will recall in tlieir freshness
grandeur the scenes of that
which charmed him in years l
past. It will be welcomed by
general reader, who has not bcfc
tasted the charms of Homer^s soi
and who will gratefully acknowl^
it as a new treasure to the storehi
of English literature. In it — and
the life of the noble author, whi
devotedness to classical liternt
could not have lived through his h\
political life, did he not in his q<
inward consciousness ever find
great benefit and elegant pleasure he
had gained from it^ — is furnished for
the public at large the strongcsl
argument we know against banishii^|
classical edurirlon from our scho<liiP
and colleges.

Lines writtm by Theodulphus. 745

TRANSLATBO FROM THK LATIN.

LINES

lirRITTEN BY THEODULPHUS, BISHOP OF ORLEANS, A.D. 82O, IN A COPY OF
THE HOLY SCRIPTURES, TRANSCRIBED BY HIS OWN HAND.

Light of God's law ! divesting earth of glooui, *

More white than snows, more bright than starry skies,
Beneath whose radiance good and virtue bloom —
From whom all error flies.

Blest word of God ! gift of that wisdom, whence

Springs life and light ! what worth exceeds thy worth ?
Word that excels all words in sound and sense
As heaven excels the earth.

Whate*er of wonders human arts have taught

Have here their fountain — whence derive their force ;
Of all the grand achievements of man's thought
Here wells the living source.

By day, by night here meditate, here school
To holiness thy hands, and lips, and soul :
Thou rulest others — ^be this book the rule
That shall thyself control.

This sharer of thy couch — joy of thine eyes,

Clasped in thy arms and on thy knees shall rest ;
Thy watcher when soft slumber on thee lies —
Thy earliest morning guest.

Be not for knowledge only thy desire ;

In virtue's presence learning's light is dim :
Deeds and not words the Almighty will require —
Yet offer both to him.

By ceaseless study learn, by actions teach.

Untiring seek for Wisdom's pathway here.
This meditate, a light thy heart will reach,
And make all fair and clear.

Who walks a tangled forest's briery way

By frequent treading makes it broad and plain.
And what the quick mind wins from day to day,
Slow study doth retain.

C. E. R

746

Tke Invasion.

rSOM THB ntXMCM or BBCKMANN AKD CHATKIAM.

THE INVASION; OR, YEGOF THE FOOL.

CHAPTER XXI.

•

Jerome of Saint-Qu»rin had made
good his retreat upon the farm-house.

" Who goes there ?" cried the sen-
tries, as the party approached.

" People of the village of Charmes,"
replied Marc-Dives in his voice of
thunder.

They were recognized and allowed
to pass.

The house was silent ; a sentinel
with shouldered arms paced in front
of the bam, where thirty partisans
were sleeping upon the straw. Ca-
therine, at sight of the great dark
roofs, the old sheds, the stables, the
ancient dwelling where her youth had
passed, where the peaceful and labo-
rious lives of her father and her
grandfather had tranquilly glided
away, the home which she was per-
haps about to leave for ever, felt a ter-
rible pain at her heart ; but she spoke
not of it, and springing from the
sledge, as she had often done before
on her returning from market, she
said :

"Come, Louise, we are home at
last ; thanks to God."

Old Duchene had pushed open
the door, cr)'ing,

" It is Madame Lefevre !"

" Yes, it is we. Any news from
Jean-Claude Y^

" No, madame."

Then ever}- one entered the huge
kitchen.

A few coals yet glowed upon the
hearth, and, under the immense, over-
hanging chimney-piece, Jerome of
Saint-Qulrin was seated in the sha-
dow, in his great-coat ; his long-

pointed red beard hanging on hb
breast; his thick staff between his
knees, and hb rifle leaning against
the wall.

" Ha I good morning, Jerome T
cried the old woman.

" Good morning, Catherine !" an-
swered the grave and solemn chief
of Grossmann. "You come from
Donon ?"

" Yes. Things are going ill there,
my poor Jerome. The Kaiserlib
attacked the farm-house when we left
the plateau. We could see only
white coats on every side. They be-
gan to cross the abatis — "

"Then you think Hullin will be
forced to abandon the road ?"

" It is possible, indeed, if Pivrette
does not come to his assistance.**

The partisans had neared the fire.
Marc-Dives bent over the coals to
light his pipe ; as he rose, he
cried :

"Jerome, I ask only one thing of
you ; I know that they fought well
where you commanded — "

" They did their duty," interrupt-
ed the shoemaker ; " sixty men lie
stretched on the side of Grossmann,
who will bear witness to it on the
judgment -day."

" Yes ; but who guided the Ger-
mans } They never could find of
themselves the pass of Blutfeld."

" It was Yegof— the fool Yegof,"
replied Jerome, and his gray eyes,
surrounded with deep wrinkles and
thick white lashes and brows, glitter-
ed through the darkness.

** Are you ver)' sure of it ?"

" Labarbe's men saw him ascend,
leading the others."

The Invasion.

747

The partisans gazed at each odier
with angry looks.

At the same moment, Doctor Lor-
quin, who had remained, without to
unharness his horse, pushed open the
door, crying :

"The battle is lost! Here are
our men from Donon. I have heard
Lagarmitte's horn."

It is easy to imagine the feelings
with which this news was received.
Every one thought of parent, friends,
whom perhaps he was never more to
see, and all who were in the kitchen
and the barn rushed at once to the
fields. Then Robin and Dubourg,
posted as sentries, cried :

"Who goes theife?"

" France !" replied a voice.

And despite the distance, Louise,
recognizing her father's voice, would
have fallen had not Catherine sup-
ported her.

Presently a great number of steps
echoed upon the frozen snow, and
Louise, no longer able to contain
herself, cried in a trembling voice :

" Father Jean-Claude I"

" I am coming," replied Hullin ;
" I am coming."

" And my father ?" cried Frantz,
rushing to the sabot-maker.

" He is with us, Frantz."

" And Kasper ?"

" He has received a little wound,
but it is nothing : you will see them
both."

Catherine threw herself into Hul-
lin's arms.

" O Jean-Claude ! what a happi-
ness it is to see you again !"

" Ay," replied he in a low tone ;
"there are many who will never
again see those they love."

" Frantz !" cried old Materne ;
"hallo! this way."

And on all sides, in the darkness,
men sought each other, pressed each
other's hands and embraced. Others

called aloud for "Vielau" or "Sa-
pheri," but no voice replied.

Then the calls grew hoarse, stran-
gled, and finally ceased. The joy of
some and the grief of others were in
horrible contrast. Louise wept hot
tears in Hullin's arms.

"Ah! Jean-Claude," said Mother
Lefevre ; " you have much to learn
of your daughter. Now I will tell
you nothing, but we were attacked — "

" Yes, we will talk of it by and by.
Time presses," interrupted Hullin.
"The Donon road is lost ; the Cos-
sac ks may be here at daybreak, and
we have yet many things to do." .

He entered the farm-house. All
followed. Duchene had just thrown
a fagot upon the fire. Those faces,
black with powder, but still breathing
the fire of battle ; those garments,
torn by bayonet-thrusts, some of them
bloody, advancing from darkness into
the full light, offered a strange spec-
tacle. Kasper, whose handkerchief
was bound around his forehead, had
received a sabre-cut ; his bayonet,
blouse, and high blue cloth gaiters
were stained with blood. Old Ma-
terne, thanks to his imperturbable
presence of mind, came safe and
sound from the fray. The remnants
of the two troops of Jerome and Hul-
lin were thus united. They showed
the same fierce countenances, animat-
ed by the same energy and desire for
vengeance, save that the last, worn-
out with weariness, sat wherever they
might find room — on the fagots, the
hearth — with their heads bowed upon
their hands, and their elbows resting
on their knees. The others looked
around, unable to realize that Hans,
Juson, Daniel, had disappeared for
ever, and exchanging questions fol-
lowed by long periods of silence.
Materne's two sons held each other
by the arms, as if each feared he
would lose his brother, and their fa-

748

The tnvasim.

ther, behind them, leaning against
the wall, gazed on wiih looks of de-
light

**The)r are there; I see them/*
he seemed to say. ** And they are
famous fellows, and both have es-
caped." The good man coughed, and
when some one came to speak to him
about Pierre, or Jacques, or Nicolas
— of a son or a brother — he replied
at random, " Ay, ay, there are a good
many stretched out yonder ; but
what would you have ? War is war.
Your Nicolas did his duty. Be con-
soled." And then he thought, **My
boys are out of the scrape, and that
is the principal thing."

Catherine set the table with Louise.
Soon Duchene, returning from the
cellar with a cask of wine upon his
shoulder, placed it on the sideboard.
He opened it, and each of the parti-
sans presented his glass, or cup, or
pitcher, to the purple fountain, w^hiah
gave back the leaping flames on the
hearth in a thousand re fleet ions»

*'Eat and drink!" cried the old
mistress of the house. " All is not
yet ended ; you will yet need
strength. Frantz, hand me down
those hams. Here are bread and
knives. Be seated, my children."

Frantz, with his bayonet, roasted
the hams at the fire.

Benches were brought forward ;
the men sat down, and ate with that
keen appetite which neither present
grief nor thought of future evil can
make mountaineers forget. But al! this
did not keep sorrow from the hearts
of these brave fellows, and sometimes
one, sometimes another, would stop,
drop his fork, and leave the table,
saying,

** I hav^e had enough."
While the partisans thus recruited
their strength, their chiefs met in the
neighboring hall to make their last
determinations relative to the defence.
There were seated round the tablej

lighted by a tin lamp. Doctor Lor

quin — his great dog Pluto near}
watching with uplifted mu^de \
rome in the recess of a wttKlQ
the right ; Hullin at the left,
pale. Marc- Dives, with his elbow OQ
the table and cheek resting in
hand, sat with his back to tlsc
and showed only his brown
and one of the ends of his longi
lache. Materne alone was stac
as was his habit, leaning
wall behind Lorquin*s chair,
resting upon his foot. A mumtH
voices came from the kitchen.

When Catherine, who was called
by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard t
sort of groan w^hich made her tiembk.
It was Hullin speaking,

** Do you think," he cried,
burst of wild grief, " that the fali
those brave sons, those whtte-h
fathers, moved not my heart ? Wal
I not gladly have died a
limes that they might live?
know not the woes with which
night has overwhelmed me. To I
life is but little ; but to bear
the burden of such a trust l"

He was silent, but hU tremb
Irp, the tear that coursed si
his cheek, showed how hv
trust weighed upon him, in a (
where conscience itself hesrtatesi
seeks support Catherine noisele
seated herself in the lai
his left. After a fewn
Hullin proceeded mov

*' Between eleven o i id

night, Zimmer came crying that '
were turned ; that the Germans '
coming down from Grossmann ;
barbe was cnished : Jerome could I
out no longer. He said no tiiQ
What was to be done ? Could J
treat — ^abandon a position vrhidil
cost us so much blood — ^the
road, the way to Paris ? I were a i
indeed to do so; but 1 had onlytiiiee
hundred against the four ihoosandit

Th^ Invasicn.

749

Grandfontaine, and I know not how
many descending the mountain. But
cost what it might, I determined to
hold out ; it was our duty to do so.
I thought that life is nothing void of
honor ; we might all die, but never
would it be said that we yielded the
road to France! Never, never,
never !*'

His voice again trembled, and
his eyes filled with tears as he added :

"We held it — for more than two
hours — my brave boys held it. I
saw them fall ; they died crying,
* God save France ! ' When the
battle began, I sent word to Pivrette.
He, with fifty men, came up — too
late I too late ! The enemy flanked
us right and left; they held three
fourths of the plateau, and we were
driven among the firs toward Blanru,
their fire crashing into our bosoms.
All that I could do was to collect
the wounded who could yet drag
themselves along, and place them un-
der the escort of Pivrette ; a hundred
men joined him. I kept only fifty to
occupy Falkenstein. We cut through
the Germans, who tried to cut off our
retreat. Happily the night was
dark, otherwise not one of us would
have escaped. We are here, and all
is lost Falkenstein alone remains,
and we are reduced to three hundred.
Now we must try who will dare the
bitter end. I tell you that my bur-
den presses heavily upon me. While
the Donon road was to be defended,
our duty was clear ; every man's life
belonged to his country: but that
road is lost ; ten thousand men would
be needed to regain it, and even now
the enemy are entering Lorraine.
What is to be done ?"

" Resist to the last !" replied Je-
rome.

"To the last!" repeated the
odiers.

** Is this your counsel, Catherine ?"
asked Hullin.

" Ay !" cried the old woman, with a
glance of unconquerable determina-
tion.

Then Hullin, in firmer tones, laid
his plan before them :

" Falkenstein is our point of re-
treat. There is our arsenal ; there
are our munitions ; the enemy knows
this, and will attempt to storm it.
We must all be there to defend it ; the
eyes of all our countrj'men must see
us ; they will say that Catherine Le-
fevre, Jerome, Materne and his sons,
Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, are there;
that they will not lay down their
arms. This will revive the drooping
courage of all who have hearts to feel
for their country. Pivrette will re-
main in the woods ; his force increas-
ing day by day. The land will be
covered with Cossacks, with robbers
of every kind ; and when the enemy's
army has entered Lorraine, at my
signal Pivrette will fling himself be-
tween Donon and the road, and the
laggards scattered through the moun-
tains will be caught as in a net. We
can also watch our chance to carry
off their wagons, harass their re-
serves ; and if fortune favors, as we
hope, when those Kaiserliks are beat-
en by our troops in Lorraine, we
can cut off their retreat"

All rose, and Hullin, entering the
kitchen, made this simple speech to
the mountaineers :

" My friends, we have determined
to resist to the last Nevertheless
each one is free to do as he pleases,
to lay down his arms and return
to his village ; but those who seek
vengeance will join us! They will
share our last morsel of bread and
divide our last cartridge."

The old wood-cutter. Colon, rose
and replied :

" Hullin, we are all with you ; we
began the fight together, and togeth-
er we will end it"

" Ay, ay I" cried every voice.

750

The Invasion.

**This is your resolution? Then
listen ! Jerome's brother will take
command/'

*' My brother is dead," interrupt-
ed Jerome ; *'he lies on the side of
Grossmann,"

There was a moment^s silence, and
then Hullin continued :

" Colon, you will take command of
all who remain, except those who
formed the escort of Catherine I-e-
fevre, I retain them with me. You
will rejoin Pivrette in the valley of
Blanru.*'

** A nd our munitions ?" cried Marc-
Dives,

** I have brought my wagon with
me," said Jerome. " Colon can sup-
ply himself from it."

" Let them take the sledge too,"
cried Catherine, ** The Cossacks are
coming, and they will steal every-
thing. Our people must not go away
empty-handed ; let them lake with
them oxen, cows, and goals — every^
thing ; for whatever ihey take is so
much won from the enemy/*

Five minutes after, the farm-house
was a scene of pillage. The sledge
was loaded with hams, smoked meats,
and bread ; the cattle driven from
the stables ; the horses harnessed to
the great wagon, and soon the train
began its march, Robin at the head,
blowing his horn, and the partisans
behind pushing at the wheels. When
they had disappeared in the woods,
and silence suddenly succeeded the
tumult, Catherine, turning round, saw
Hullin behind her as pale as a
corpse.

** Well, Catherine," he said; "all
is finished. We will begin the as-
cent."

Frant^, Kasper, and the men of
the escort, Marc-Dives and Maternc,
awaited them in the kitchen, resting
on their arms.

'* Duchene," said the good old
woman, '* go down to the \^llage ;

they must not ill-treat yoti on 1
count."

The old servant, shakin<* his white
head, replied with eyes full of te^n:

" I might as well die hcre^ MiuUxne
Lefevre. It is fifty years since^L
came to this house. Do not Icm^k
me away ; that would kill mc"

*' As you will, my ix>or Duchenc,*'
answered Catherine, much aflbcted
** Here are the kep of the hotijie.**

The old man seated hlmseif (
stool by the hearth, with eye*
and lips parted like one in soflM
dream.

The others started for Falkenslt&
Marc Dives, on horseback^ Im lot{
blade hanging from his wrists IbmHl
the rear-guard. Franti and Hilllaii
on the left, reconnoitred the ]
and Jerome, on the right, the '
Materne and the men of the (
surrounded the women. Sto
At every threshold^ at every win
of the village of Cbarmes af
faces, young and old, gating with <
rious eyes at the flight of Mother L^
fevre, and evil tongues were not
wanting, *^Aht driv'en from yoiff
nest at last," they cried, **Yob
would meddle with what did notoo»
cern you !"

Others muttered aloud that Caibe*
rine had been rich \6rt^ enou^iK aod
that all had their turn. As fori
labor, the wisdom, the kindness
heart, the thousand vinnes of thee
mistress of Bois-de -Chines, the
triotism of Jr ■♦ the coor _

of Jerome at, rec Materno^

the unselfishness of l>octor Lorquin,
the devotion of Marc Dives-^abenit
atl these things no one had a wool
to say: their owners were b^itoil^

CHAPTER XXn.

At the bottom of the valley <
leaax, two mn-^ -" * t^ fniin 1
lage of Chan- itlle <

The Invasion.

75 1

gan slowly to ascend the path leading
to the ancient burg, Hullin, remem-
bering how he had taken the same
path when he had gone to buy pow-
der of Marc-Dives, could not re-
press his grief. Then, notwithstand-
ing his visit to Phalsbourg, the sight
of the wounded from Hanan and
Leipsic, the story of the old sergeant,
he despaired not; he kept all his
energy alive, and never doubted the
success of the defence. But now all
was lost ; the enemy were descending
upon Lorraine, and the mountaineers
flying. Marc-Dives rode along the
wall in the snow ; his great horse,
accustomed to the journey, neighing,
lifting his head and then dropping it
beneath his chest. The smuggler
turned from time to time to throw a
glance at the opposite field of Bois-
de-Ch^nes. Suddenly he cried :

"Ha! the Cossacks are showing
themselves."

At this exclamation the entire par-
ty halted to look around. They
were already high above the village,
land even the farm. The gray win-
ter dawn was scattering the morning
vapors, and in the hollows of the
moimtain side they saw a number of
those wild horsemen, pistol in hand,
slowly approaching the old house.
They were separated like skirmish-
ers, and seemed to fear a surprise.
A few moments after, others followed
from the valley of Houx, then others,
and still others, all alike standing
up in their stirrups to see further.
The first, passing the farm-house and
seeing nothing to fear, flourished
their lances and turned half-way
round. The rest came up at a gal-
lop, like rooks following one of their
number that rises in the air as if per-
ceiving some prey. In a few sec-
onds the farm was surrounded, and
the door pushed open. Another
. the windows flew out,
m; furniture, mat-

tresses, linen followed from every
side of the house at once. Cathe-
rine, with lips pressed tightly togeth-
er, gazed calmly at all this destruc-
tion. For a long while she said no-
thing; but suddenly seeing Tegof
strike Duch^ne with the shaft of his
lance, and drive him from the house,
she could not restrain a cry of indig-
nation.

" The wretch I coward 1 to strike
a poor old man who can no longer
defend himself. Ah villain ! if I had
thee here 1"

"Come, Catherine," said Jean-
Claude ; " we have seen enough, and
the sight does us no good."

" You are right," she replied ; " let
us go. I cannot bear it."

As they ascended, the air grew
keener. Louise, the child of the
gypsies, with a little basket of pro-
visions on her arm, clambered at the
head of the troops. The blue sky, the
plains of Alsace and Lorraine, and
at the verge of the horizon those of
Champagne, the boundless immensi-
ty of space wherein sight was lost,
inspired an enthusiasm in all. They
seemed to have wings, to pierce the
blue air like those great birds that
glided from the tree tops over the
abysses, uttering their free and fear-
less cries. All the wretchedness of
the world beneath, its injustice. and
its suffering, were forgotten. Louise
saw herself a child on the back of
her mother — that poor wandering
gypsy — and thought, "I have nev-
er since been happier ; never had
less of care ; never laughed so much,
sang so gayly, and yet we often
lacked bread. Ah ! those dear days
gone !" And the words of old songs
rang in her ears.

As they neared the great red rock,
crusted with its white and black
stones, and hanging over the preci-
pice like the tower of some grand
cathedral, Louise and Catherine

755

The Invastan,

paused in ecstasy. Above, the sky
seemed yet deeper ; the path cut in
the rock yet narrower. The valleys
stretching on till lost in distance,
the boundless woods, the far-off lakes
of Lorraine, the blue ribbon of the
Khine — all the glorious scene filled
them with emotion, and the old wo-
man said thoughtfully :

"Jean-Claude, He who lifted this
rock to heaven, whose hand hollow-
ed these valleys, who scattered these
forests, those thickets, and even these
little mosses upon his earth, will
surely render us what we deserve."

While they gazed thus, standing
upon the forest terrace of rock, Marc
had led his horse to a neighboring
cavern, and returned on foot, saying,
as he climbed before them.

** Be careful j you may slip,"

At the same time he showed them,
to the right, the blue precipice, with
the tops of the fir-trees so far down
that they seemed at its base. All
were silent until they reached the
terrace where the vault began. Then
they breathed more freely, and saw
in the middle of the passage the
smugglers Brenn, Pfeifer, and Tou-
bac, with their great grey cloaks and
black slouched hats, seated by a fire
which stretched all along the rock.
Marc accosted them :

" Here we are I the Kaiserliks are
victorious, Zimmer was killed last
night. Is Hexe-Baizel above?"

*' Yes," answered Brenn ; " she is
making cartridges/*

"They may save us yet," said
Marc, ** Keep your eyes open, and
if anyone ascends, fire on him/*
. The Maternes halted at the edge
of the rock, and the three tall men,
with their hat brims turned up, their
powder-horns at their sides, their
rifles on their shouUlcrs, and their
muscular limbs, and feet firmly
planted on the point of the rock,
stood, a strange group, against the

blue of the abyss. Old Maloi
with outstretched ami, pcnnted f
very far away, to an almost tmp
ceptible white spot amoi^ tlie fi
saying :

** Do you recognize that, my beyi

And all three gaxed with hi
closed eyes.

'' It is our house,*' replied Kjj|N

" Poor Magredel l" said the o
hunter ; " how uneasy she must far
been for the last vreek ; how oAc
has she prayed for us I"

MarC'Divcs, who led the piRj
uttered a cry of surprise,

" Mother Lcfcvrc," said he, stof
ping short, " the Cossacks have n
fire to y'our house I**

Catherine heard this news ci
and walked to the edge of the^
Louise and Jean-Claude foU
hen At tlie bottom of the
stretched a great white cloud, I
which shone what seemed Ij
spark. That was all j but iioo
to time the breeze blew asid
smoke and the fire appeared |
two high gables, standing da?
from the flames, the ruined ba
the blazing stables \ then all
was hidden.

"It is nearly finished,*' s^^
1 in in a low tone.

"Yes," replied the old mlamnl
the burning dwelling; *'fof^ycir
of toll and care are there ttiming I
smoke. Bui no matter ; they <
bum my good lands — ^iny fine '
dows of the Eichmath. We
gin to labor once more
and Louise will restore all that
chief. I am content I repent ^
nothing I have done/'

At the end of a quaner of ao hM
millions of sparks arose, and aU th
buildings fell — ^all save the dark fi
bles. The party again damhcse
up the path ; and as they reached th
highest terrace, the sharp
Hexe-Baizel wa^ hi»Td 3

The InvasufH,

7S3

* You, Catherine !" she cried ; ** I
ever thought that you would come
"to see me in my poor den."

Baizel and Catherine Lefevre had
been school-girls together ; there was
but little ceremony between them,

" Nor I," replied the latter ; " but
m misfortune one is glad to find a
companion of one's childhood,"

Baizel seemed touched.

** Whatever is here is yours, Cath-
erine," she cried. " Everything/'

She pointed to her poor stool, her
broom of green twigs, and the five or
six logs on her hearth, Catherine
gazed on all in silence for a few mo-
inentSy and then said :

'*They are not very grand, but
they arc substantial, and the Cos-
sacks will not easily burn your
house."

** No, they will not bum it," laugh-
ed Hexe-Baizel ; ** they would need
all the trees in the county of Dabo to
only warm the wafls. Ha, ha, ha!"

The partisans, after many toils
and dangers, felt the want of repose.
Each man hastened to place his mus-
ket against the wall and scretch him-
self on the floor, Marc-Dives open-
ed the door of the inner cavern for
them, where they were at least shel-
tered, and then sallied forth with Hul*
lin to examine the position.

CHAPTER XXIIT.

On the rock of Falkenstein, high
in the blue air, rises a round tower,
the base of which is broken and
sunken. This tower, covered with
brambles, hawthorn, and myrtle,
seems old as the mountain itself; it
has survived French, Germans, and
Swedes, Its stones and mortar have
ecome a solid mass, from which it
almost impossible to break the
sma] rnent, and the whole

strut rs a gloomy air of mys-

tery which bears back the mind to
roL, VIII. — 48

ages long past — ages which have no
place in the memories of man. Here
was Marc-Dives wont to lie in am-
bush when the wild geese flew south
— if he had nothing better to do j
and here sometimes at night-fall,
when their flocks pierced the fogs
and swept round in a broad circle
before going to rest, would he bring
down two or three of their number —
a feat which rejoiced the heart of
Hexe-Baizel, who wasted no time in
preparing them for the spit. Here
loo« in autumn, did Marc often set
snares among the bushes, where the
thrushes loved to perch ; and to
crown all, the old tower served him
as a storehouse for his winter's stock
of wood. How often was Hexe-
Baizel, when the northern gales blew
fierce, and the crashing of branches
and groans of the neighboring forests
rose like the dashing of a tempest-
tost ocean — how often t|ien was
Hexe-Baizel almost torn from that
old lower and hurled to the opposite
Kilberi I But her long fingers held
fast to the vines, and the wind only
flapped her coarse hair about her
head.

Dives, perceiving that his wood,
covered with snow and wet with
every rain, gave more smoke than,
flame, made a roof of planks for his
storehouse ; and the smuggler relates
that, while laying the rafters » he found
a screech-owl white as snow, blind
and feeble, but provided with field-
mice and bats in abundance. For
this reason he called it the " Grand-
mother of the country,'* 'Mipposing
that all the other birds fed it on ac-
count of its extreme old age.

Toward evening the partisans^ —
placed on the lookout on every ter-
race of the rock — saw tvhite uniforms
appear in the surrounding gorges.
Masses of men debouched from the
depths on all sides at once, showing
an intention to blockade Falkenstein.

7S4

The Invasion,

Marc-Dives seeing this, became
thoughtful. " If they surround us/'
said he musingly, ** wc cannot pro-
cure provisions ; we must surrender
I ^or die of hunger/*

The enemy's staflT were plainly
\ seen on horseback around the spring
I of the village of Charmes. There a
^fltout officer was observing the rock
]■ through a long field-glass ; behind
ttim was Yegof, to whom he turned
Ijfrom time to time to question. The
I women and children of the village
Dked on at some distance away, as
Ijf enjoying the scene, and five or six
[Cossacks caracoled about. The
iv«muggler could bear no more ; he
liook Hullin aside.

"Look," said he, "at that long
rie of shakos glistening along the
Sarre, and nearer, those others run-
ning like bares through the valley,
fhey are Kaiserliks, are they not ?
[S^^ell, what are they going to do,
lean-Claude >"

" They are going to surround the
mountain."

" That is clear. How many men
do you think they have ?"

" From three to four thousand."
"Without counting those in the
^*Open country. Well, what would
you have Pivrette do with his three
hundred men against that mass of
vagabonds? 1 put the question
frankly, Hulfin f'

'• He can do nothing," replied
brave Jean-Claude simply. "The
Germans know that our munitions
are at Falkenstein ; they fear a ris-
ing after they enter Lorraine, and
wish to secure their rear. The en-
emy's general sees that he cannot
overcome Us by force ; he has de-
cided to reduce us by famine. All this,
Marc, is surely true ; but we are men ;
we will do our duty ; we will die here 1"
There was a moment's silence.
Marc- Dives knit his brows, but
:seemed not at all convinced.

" Wc will die ?" be repeated. '
do not see why we should die ; th
idea did not enter our :he

are too many people ^* i id I

glad of it if we didl"

"What would you doT ash
HuJlin shortly; "do yoti waai (
surrender ?"

" Surrender f ' ciied the smogi^
** do you take me for a coward (

"Then explain."

**This evening I start foe
bourg. I risk my neck
through the enemy *s lines \ but J
would rather do that than fold Qqf
arms and die of hunger. I wilt ca-
ter tlie cit>' the first sortie that is
made, when I will try and re
gate. The commandant, Mc
knows me ; I have sold htm tob
for the last three years. He, tike
you, served in Italy an- r
will show him the state *
will see Gaspard Lefevre, 1
matters so that they v^rill pr
give us a company. If wc onlji
a uniform, we are saved — do you|
Jean-Claude ? All of our brave l
pie who are left will join P»vr
and, in any case, they can clchve
That is my idea \ what do you i

of it?'*

He gazed at Hullin, whose fiid
and gloomy eye disturbed him.

" Is it not our only chance?*'

"It is an Idea,'' replied j
Claude at length j *' I do not i
it."

And looking the smuggler
in the eyes, he said :

"Will you swear to do yo«i7^
most to enter the city.^'

"I swear nothing," mnsv
Marc, his brown cheeks ftu
" I leave here all I possess — my wife^
ray goods, my comrades, Catlierlne
Lefevre, and you, my oldest fricodl
if I do not return, I shall be a traiM;
but if I return, you will eiplaia
your demandi Jean-Claude \ we triO

The Invasion.

755

clear up this little account between

• Ml '»

US.

"Marc," said HuUin, "forgive
me. I have suHered too much ; I
was wrong ; misfortune has made me
distrustful. Give me your hand.
Go ; save us ; save Catherine ; save
my child ! I say now to you, that
our only hope lies in you."

HuUin's voice quivered. Dives
softened, but he said :

" Very well, Jean-Claude ; but in
such a moment you should not have
spoken so. Never let us again
speak of it 1 I will leave my body
oa the way or I will return to deliver
3^11. I will start to-night The
Kaiserliks already surround the
mountain. No matter; I have a good
horse, and I was always lucky.'*

At six o'clock darkness had fallen
on every peak. Hundreds of fires
flashing in the gorges showed where
the Germans were preparing their
evening meal. Marc-Dives descend-
ed, groping his way. Hullin listen-
ed for a few seconds to his com-
rade's footsteps, and then turned,
buried in thought, to the old tower,
where he had established his head-
quarters. He lifted the thick wool-
en curtain which closed the entrance,
and saw Catherine, Louise, and the
others gathered round a little fire,
which lighted up the grey walls. The
old woman, seated on an oaken
block, her hands clasped around her
knees, gazed fixedly at the fiame,
her lips set tightly together, and her
fece seemingly tinged with a green-
ish tint in its extreme pallor. Je-
rome, standing behind Catherine,
his folded arms resting on his stafi^
touched the slimy roof with his otter-
skin cap. All were sad and dis-
heartened. Hexe-Baisel, who was
lifting the cover of a great pot, and
Doctor Lorquin, scraping the old wall
with the point of his sabre, alone
kept theur accustomed looks.

"Here we are," said the doctor,
" returned to the times of the Triboci.
These walls are more than two thou-
sand years old. A fine quantity of
water must have flowed from the
heights of Falkenstein and Gross-
mann through the Sarre and tlie
Rhine since fire was made before in
this tower.*'

"Yes,** replied Catherine, as if
awakening from a dream, "and
many besides us have here sufiered
cold, hunger, want. Who knows
how many ? And when a hundred,
or two or three hundred years shall
have passed, still others may here
seek shelter. They, like us, will
find the walls cold and the floor
damp. They will make a little fire,
and gazing on each other as we now
gaze, will ask. Who suffered here
before us, and why did they sufier ?
Were they pursued, hunted as we
have been, that they would fain hide
themselves in such a miserable den ?
And then they will think of by-gone
years, and no one may answer them !"

Jean-Claude drew near. In a few
moments, raising her head she said,
as she looked at him :

" Well, we are blockaded ; the
enemy seeks to reduce us by famine.**

" True, Catherine," replied Hullin.
" I did not expect that. I counted
on an attack ; but the Kaiserliks are
not yet so sure of us as they imagine.
Dives has just started for Phalsbourg.
He knows the commandant ; and if
they only send a hundred men to our
succor — '*

"We must not rely on it," inter-
rupted the old woman. " Marc may
be captured or killed ; and even
should he succeed in making his
way through their lines, how could
he enter Phalsbourg? You know
the city is besieged by the Rus-
sians.'*

All remained silent.

Heze-Baizel soon brought some

Tfu Invasion,

soup, and the party formed a circle
■•n>und the great smoking pot,

CHAPTER XXIV.

Catherine Lefevhe came forth
from the ruin at about seven
o'clock in the moraing. Louise
and Hexe-Baizel were yet sleeping;
but day — the brilliant day of the
mountains^ — already flooded the val-
leys. Far below, through the blue
depths, forests, gorges, rocks, were
outlined like the mosses and pebbles
of a lake beneath its crystal waters.
Not a breath stirred the air, and
Catherine, as she surveyed the gran-
deur of the scene, felt a sense of
peaceful calm — of repose, greater
even than that of sleep, steal over
her, " Our miseries, our unrest^ and
our sufferings arc but of a day," she
thonght. '* Why disturb heaven with
our groans? Why dread the future?
All these things endure but a mo-
ment. Our plaints are as those of a
butterfly when the leaves fall ; they
do not keep winter away. Time
must end for all ; we must die that
we may be born again."

Thus mused the old woman, and
she no longer feared what might
happen. Suddenly a murmur of
voices filled her ears ; she turned
and saw Hullin with the three smug-
glers, all earnestly talking, on the
opposite side of the plateau. They
had not seen her, so deeply did the
subject of their conversation interest
llieni,

Old Brenn, at the edge of the rock,
with a short, black pipe between his
teeth, his cheeks wrinkled like a
withered leaf, short nose, grey mous-
tache, bleared eye-lids, half-closed
over reddish brown eyes, and long
greatcoat sleeves hanging by his
sides, gazed at the different points
Hullin was showing them among the
mountains ; and tlie other two, wrap-

ped in their gray cloaks, step
ward or backward, shading the
eyes with their bands^ in dc€p t
tention.

Catherine walked toward tbefl
and soon she heard :

**Then you do not think it possi
ble to reach the foot of the
tain?"

" No, Jean-Claude ; there \m
of doing so," answered Brenfif
villains know the country thor
and all the paths are guarded.
there is the meadow of ChevreoHl
along that lake ; no one ever rroi
thought of watching it ; but see, }bef
are there. And yonder, the past of
Rothstein^ — a mere goat-path, vbef9
a man is scarcely seen once tn ten
years — you see a bayonet gltsteo
hind the rock, da you not?
there, where I have climbed for<
years with my sacks without
meeting a gendarme, they hold
too. Some fiend must have sbom
them the defiles."

"Yes," cried tall Toubac,
fiend Yegof/*

"But," said Hullin, **jt seen
me that three or four stout rocn n
carry one of those posts/*

" No ; they are supported by
other ; and the first shot fired
bring a regiment upon us,** re
Brenn. *• Besides, if we got thr
how could we return with provisid
It is impossible V*

There were a few momenU of i
lence, ^—

" Nevertheless," said Toubac ^|
Hullin wishes it, we wilt try ali iB
same."

"Try what?" cried Brenn.
lose our lives trying to escape,]
leave the others in the toils ? Bail
is all the same to me \ if the othe
I will. But as for talking iU>oiit]
turning with pii
impossible. \V:
take going, and whicii rciurniil

The Invasion.

757

discs Will not do here ; we must
ip to them. If you know a way,
us. For twenty years I have
en the mountain with Marc. I
V every path and pass for ten
les around ; but I see none open
except through the air."
ullin turned, and saw Mother
vre a few paces away, listening
itively.

Ifou here, Catherine!" he ex-
led, " Our affairs wear an ugly

ies; I understand. There is
ay of getting a supply of provi-

i^rovisions !" said Brenn, with a

ge smile. " Do you know, Mo-

Lefevre, for how long we are

lied ?"

?*or a fortnight, at least," replied

erine.

"or a week," said the smuggler,

ing out the ashes of his pipe on

ail.

t is true," said Hullin. " Marc-

s and I believsd that an attack

i be made on Falkenstein ; we

r thought the enemy would be-

it like a fortress. We were
iken."

^nd what is to be done ?" asked
erine, growing pale.
le must reduce each one's ration
ilf. If Marc does not return
brtnight, we shall have no more.
I, indeed, we must see what is to
)ne."

saying, Hullin with Catherine
he smugglers, their heads droop-
ook the path to the notch. They
ted the descent, when, thirty feet
ith them, they saw Materne
»ing breathlessly among the
s, and dragging himself along
e bushes to increase his speed.
Veil," cried Jean-Claude, " what
lappened ?"

Lhl there you are. I was going
>k for yoiL One of the enemy's

officers is coming along the wall of
the old durg^, with a little white flag:
He seems to desire a parley."

Hullin, directing his steps toward
the slope of the rock, saw, indeed, a
German officer standing upon the
wall, seemingly awaiting a sign to
ascend. He was two musket-shots
off, and further away were five or six
soldiers, resting on their arms.

After gazing a moment at the
group, Jean-Claude turned, saying :

" It is a flag of truce coming to
summon us to surrender."

" Fire on him 1" cried Catherine ;
" we have no other answer."

The others all seemed inclined to
do so, save Hullin, who, without
speaking, descended to the terrace,
where the rest of the partisans were
gathered.

" My friends," said he, " the enemy
sends a flag of truce. We know not
what he wants. I suppose it is a
summons to lay down our arms ; but
it may be something else. Frantz
and Kasper will go to meet him.
They will bandage his eyes at the
foot of the rock, and lead him hither."

No one having any objection to
mak^ the sons of Materne slung
their carbines on their backs and
departed. At the end of about ten
minutes the two tall hunters reached
the officer ; there was a rapid confer-
ence between them, after which all
three began to climb to Falkenstein.
As they ascended, the uniform of the
German officer, and even his features,
could be clearly seen. He was a lean
man, with ashy flaxen hair, tall, well
knit, and resolute in movement and
appearance. At the foot of the rock
Frantz and Kasper bandaged his
eyes, and soon their steps were heard
beneath the vault Jean-Claude went
to meet them, and himself untied the
handkerchief, saying :

^You wish to communicate with
me, sir. I am listening."

758

The InvasicH.

The partisans stood some fifteen
paces off, Catherine Lefevre, nearer,

knitted her brows ; her bony figure,
long, hooked nose, the three or four
locks of gray hair which fell by chance
upon her hollow temples, and down
on her wrinkled cheeks, her tightly
pressed lips, and fixed gaze, seemed
first to attract the officer's attention ;
then the pale and gentle face of
IxJuise behind her ; then Jerome^
with his long, yellow beard and
cloak ; and old Mateme leaning on
his short rifJe. He looked at the
others, and at the high, red vault,
with its colossal mass of granite
hanging over the precipice, and
covered only with a few brambles.
Hexe-Baizel, behind Mateme, her
long broom of twigs in her hands,
her outstretched neck and feet, on
the very edge of the rock, seemed to
astonish him.

He himself was the object of much
attention. His attitude and bearing,
Jong face, finely-cut bronzed features,
clear gray eye and thin mustache, the
delicacy of his limbs, hardened hy
the toils of war, all bespoke aristo-
cratic lineage j and he had, too» a
look of shrewdness mingled#with
that of the man of the world, the
soldier, and the diplomatist.

But this mutual inspection was
only the work of an instant The
officer began, in good French :

" Is it the Commandant Hullin
that I have the honor of address-
ingr

" Yes, sir," replied Jean-Claude.

The officer glanced hesitatingly at
the circle around.

"Speak out, sir,'* cried HulHn ;
** let all hear you. Where honor and
our country are the subject, no one in
France is out of place ; our women
understand the words as well as we.
You have some propositions to offer
me. In the first place, on behalf of
whom?"

"Of the general
chief. Here is my conm

*'Very good. We are
sir."

Then the officer, raising
proceeded in a firm lane :

** Before I begin, commandanl,
mi t me to say that you have ]
ed your duty magnificently ; ;
forced your foes to admire ;

**As for duty/* answered Hii
" we merely did what we coiiMA

*• Yes," added Catherine, flfl
dry tones ; " and since our ioH
mire us on that account, they
admire us much more in a Mtl
two, for the war is not ftl end
Marc is to come V*

The officer turned J i
her, and stood as if 5»t
savage earnestness imprint
the old woman*s features,

*' Those are noble sent
said he, after a few mom«
lence \ **but humanity hasjt
and to spill blood uselc
doing evil for the sake of ^

**Then why do you comel
country?'" cried Catherine,
voice seemed like the eagle's
*' Begone, and let us alone !*'

Then she added :

"You make war like robl
steal, pillage, burn. You aU i
to be hanged. We ought ta
you over the rock, for the sake
example."

The officer tnrncd pale, for the
woman seemed ready to execute i
threat ; but he soon recovered ll
self, and continued calmly :

** I know that the Cossacks i
to tlie farm-house opposite
They are pillagers such as
armies, and this one act prove! '
thing against the discipline
troops. The French soldier
did the same in Germany, an
cularly in the Tyrol ; Kod^ i
fied with robbing and tmrxiia^

Tk€ Invasion.

759

villages, they shot pitilessly all the
mountaineers suspected of having
taken up arms to defend their
homes. We might make reprisals.
It is our right to do so ; but .we are
not barbarians ; we understand that
patriotism is grand and noble, even
when wrongly directed. Besides, we
do not make war on the French peo-
ple, but on the Emperor Napoleon.
Therefore, our general, on learning
of the conduct of the Cossacks, pub-
licly punished that act of vandalism,
and moreover, decided that the pro-
prietor should be indemnified."

" I ask no indemnity of you," inter-
rupted Catherine rudely. " I wish to
live with my wrong, and to avenge it I"

The officer saw the hopelessness
of trying to bring the old woman to
terms, and that it was, besides, dan-
gerous to reply. He turned, there-
fore, to Hullin, and said :

"I am charged, commandant, to
offer you the honors of war, if you
consent to surrender your position.
You have no provisions, as we are
•well aware. A few days from now,
you will be compelled to lay down
your arms. The esteem the general
bears you alone impelled him to of-
fer you these honorable conditions
Longer resistance is useless. We
are masters of Donon; our corps
iTarmie is passing into Lorraine.
The campaign will not be decided
here; so that you have no interest
in defending a useless position. We
wish to spare you the horrors of fa-
mine upon this rock. Decide, com-
mandant."

Hullin turned to the partisans, and
said simply,

"You have heard. I refuse the
conditions ; but I will submit, if all
accept the enemy's propositions.".

"We all refuse them," cried Je-
rome.

''Yes; all, all!" repeated the
others.

Catherine Lefevre, till then so
stern, happened to glance at Louise,
and then her firmness gave way. She
took her by the arm, and leading her
to the officer, said :

"We have a child among us ; is
there* ^o means of sending her to
one of her friends in Laveme ?"

Louise had scarce heard the words
when, throwing herself in Hullin's
arms, she cried affi-ightedly,

" No, no I I will stay with you.
Father Jean-Claude 1 I will die with
you I"

" Go, sir," said Hullin, with blood-
less lips, "tell your general what you
have seen ; tell him that Falken-
stein we will hold to the death 1
Kasper, Frantz, lead back the
officer."

The last seemed to hesitate \ but
as he was about to speak, Catherine,
pale with wrath, cried,

" Go, go I You are not yet so
sure of us as you think. It is the
villain Yegof who told you we had
no provisions; we have enough for
two months, and in two months our
army will have swept you from the
earth. Traitors will not always flour-
ish, and then woe to you !"

As she grew more and more ex-
cited, the officer judged it prudent
to withdraw. He returned to his
guides, who again put on the ban-
dage, and led him to the foot of Fal-
kenstein.

Hullin's orders regarding the pro-
visions were carried out the same
day ; each one received a half-ration.
A sentry Was posted in front of Hexe-
BaizeFs cavern, where the food was ■
kept, and the door barricaded. Jean-
Claude ordered the distributions to
be made in presence of all, to avoid
injustice ; but all these precautions,
did not save the unhappy patriots
from the worst horrors of famine.

760

Tk€ Jnvasi<m.

CHAPTER XXV.

. For three days food had been en-
tirely wanting. Still Dives gave no
sign. How often during those long
days of agony did the mountaineers
strain their eyes toward Phalsbourg I
How often did they listen to the low
murmur of the breeze, thinking it
bore upon it the sound of the smug-
gle r*s footsteps I

In the midst of the torments of
hunger, the nineteenth day since the
arrival of the partisans on Falkcn*
stein dragged away. They no longer
spoke to each other ; but seated on
the earth, their fleshless faces gazing
at vacancy, they passed hours as in
a dream. Sometimes they would
turn sparkling eyes upon each other,
as if ready to satisfy their hunger at
the expense of a comrade's life ; then
all would again sink into a gloomy
calm.

Once Yegofs raven, winging its
way from peak to peak, came near
this scene of misery ; but old Ma-
tern e brought his rifle to his shoul-
der, and the bird of ill omen flew
back at its utmost speed, uttering
mournful cries, and the old hunter's
piece fell harmless.

And now, as if the horrors of
hunger were not enough to fill the
measure of their misery, they only
opened their lips to accuse or
threaten each other.

Louise was delirious ; her great
blue eyes, instead of living objects,
saw spectres fleeting over them,
sweeping the tree*tops, and lighting
upon the old tower,

" Food — food at last I" would she
♦ciy.

And then the others, carried away
by fury, shrieked that she was mock*
itig them, and bade her beware.

Jerome alone remained calm and
collected; but the great quantity of
snow he had eaten in his pangs kept

his body and bony face cx>ven
a cold sweaL

Dr. Lorquin knotted a ban
chief around his waist, aad di
tighter and lighter, preCendfa
he thus satisfied hu cravic
sat against the wall ofrhe
closed eyes, which from bo
he opened, saying;

" We are at the first* secotid, thm
period. Another day, and all «il
be over l"

Then he would deliv^er
tions on the Druids, on Odin,
ma, Pythagoras, quoting Lacio^
Greek, all announcing the app
ing transformation of the
Harberg into wolves, foxes, and aS
sorts of animals.

" I," he cried. " I will be i
I will eat fifteen pouods of
day.*^

But soon recollecting hin
continued,

"No, I would rather be a
I will preach peace, brotherly
justice I Ah my friends I we !
for our own faults. \Vlial bav
been doing on the other side
Rhine for the last ten yeara? 1
what right did we place niastersl
those nations ? Why did wit,
rather exchange thought, fe
products of our arts and
with them? Why did we not
them as brothers, instead of try
enslave them? We should have I
well received. How they,
wretches, must have suffertril t
ten years of violence and m
Now I hey are avenging ihca
God is jusL May the mah
of heaven fall on those who
nations to oppress them V

After a few m
like this, he wi :
against the wall, mujmurings

*' Bread ! only a mnr^

Mateme*s boys, sc n

bushes, their rifles ai mcu-

The Invasum.

761

ders, seemed awaiting the sight of
game, which never appeared; but
the thought of their eternal rest-
ing-place sustained their expiring
strength.

A few, in the agonies of fever, ac-
cused Jean-Claude of being the
author of their misery in bringing
them to Falkenstein.

HuUin, with more than human
energy, yet came and went, watching
all that passed in the valleys, but
speaking no word.

Sometimes he would advance to
the very edge of the rock, with jaws
pressed firmly together, and flashing
eyes, to see Yegof seated before a
great fire on the meadow of Bois-de-
Chenes, in the middle of a troop of
Cossacks. Since the enemy's arrival
in the valle^ of Charmes, this had
been the fool's constant post; and
from it he seemed to gloat over the
agony of his victims.

The tortures of hunger in the
depths of a dungeon are no 'doubt
terrible ; but beneath the open sky,
with floods of light pouring down on
every side, in view of help, in view of
the thousand resources of nature,
then no tongue can paint their hor-
rors.

At the end of this nineteenth day,
between four and five in the evening,
the weather became cloudy; huge
masses of gray vapor rose behind the
snowy peak of Grossmann ; the set-
ting sun, glowing redly like a ball of
iron just taken from the furnace,
threw a few last gleams through the
thickenipg air. Deep silence reigned
on the rock. Louise no longer gave
any sign of life ; Kasper and Frantz
still sat motionless as stones among
the bushes. Catherine Lefevre, hud-
dled on the ground, clasping her
knees within her withered arms, her
features hard and rigid, her hair
hanging over her ashy cheeks, her
eyeB hagggid, and lips dosed tight as

a vice, seemed some ancient sibyl.
She no longer spoke. That evening,
Hullin, Jerome, old Mateme, and
Doctor Lorquin gathered around the
old woman, that all might die to-
gether. They were all silent, and
the last glimmer of twilight fell dimly
upon the group. To the right, be-
hind a projection of the rock, the
fires of the Germans sparkled in the
abyss. Suddenly the old woman, .
starting as from a dream, murmured
a few words, unintelligible at first

"Dives is coming!" she con-
tinued in a low tone ; " I see him ;
he sallies from the postern — to the
right of the arsenal. Gaspard follows
him, and — "

She counted slowly.

" Two hundred and fifty men, Na-
tional Guards and soldiers. They
cross the fosse ; they mount behind
the demi-lune. Gaspard is talking
to Marc. What is he saying ?"

She seemed to listen.

" * Hasten ! Ay, hasten ; never
was more need of speed I They are
on the glacis 1"

There was a long silence ; then
the old woman, suddenly springing
to her feet, rose to her full height,
and with arms outstretched, and hair
flying wildly about her head, shouted :

" Courage I Strike 1 kill I kill 1
kill 1"

She fell heavily to the earth.

Her terrible cry had awakened all ;
it might have awakened the dead.
New life seemed breathed into the
besieged. Something strange and
unearthly seemed to fill the air. Was
it hope ? life ? I know not ; but the
entire party came crawling up on all
fours, like wild beasts, holding their
breath that they might listen. Even
Louise moved slightly, and raised
her head. Frantz and Kasper drag-
ged themselves on their knees, and
strange to say, Hullin, casting his
eyes toward Phalsbourg, thought he

762

The Invasion,

saw the flashes of musketry, as if a
sortie were being made.

Catherine resumed her first atti-
tude ; but her cheeks, lately rigid as
a marble mask, now quivered, and
her eye again grew dreamy. The
others listened ; their lives seemed
hanging on her lips. Thus a quar-
ter of an hour passed, when she
again spoke slowly:

**They have passed the enemy's
lines ; they are hastening to Lutzel-
bourg ; I see them. Gaspard and
Dives are in the van with Desmarets,
Ulrich, Weber, and our friends of
the city* They are coming! they
are coming I'*

She was again silent They lis-
tened long, but the vision had van-
ished. Minutes followed minutes
that seemed centuries, when at once
Hexe-Baizers sharp voice arose :

" She is a fool I She saw nothing.
I know Marc. He is mocking us.
What is it to him if we perish 1 So
long as he has his bottle of wine and
his dinner, and his pipe after, what
does he care ? O the villain !*'

Then all was silence again, and
the wretches whose hearts were for a
moment animated with the hope of
speedy deliverance, again sank back
in despair.

** It was a dream/* thought they.

" Hexe-Baizel is right ; we are
doomed to die of hunger,"

Night had fallen. When the moon
rose behind tlie tall firs, shedding
her pale light on the mournful groups,
Hull in alone watched, although fever
was burning his vitals. He listened
to every sound from the gorges. The
voices of the German sentries called
their IVer da / IVa* da/ zs the
rounds passed the bivouacs ; the
horses neighed shrilly, and their
grooms shouted. At last, toward
midnight, the brave old man fell
asleep like the others. When he
awoke, the clock of the village of

Charmes was striking four*
at the sound of its far-olf l
started from his stupor, opeoed 1
eyes, and, while he gazed upv
trying to collect his senses^ a
tight like the fiare of a torch ]
before his eyes. Fear seised
and he muttered:

" Am I going mad ? The Qtgiht |
dark, and yet I see torches I"

The flame reappeared ; he saw |
more clearly ; he arose and pn
his hand for some seconds upoo 1
brow. At last, risking a ^lanci^
saw distinctly a fire on Giromaav <
the other side of Blanru, flingiog i
red glare in the sky» and lb row
black shadows from the fir» oti i
snow. Suddenly he remembered i
it was the signal agreed on betwe
Pivrette and himself to <?€ j

attack I he trembled l id

foot ; a cold sweat poured trom
forehead, and groping through
darkness like a blind man with ;
outstretched, he stammered :

"Catherine! Louise 1 Jerome!

But no one answered ; dnd
wandering thus, feeling his way, i
often thinking he was nioving
when he made not a step, he fcU 1
the ground on his face crying,

•* My children I Catherine I They
are coming ! We are saved 1"

There was a dull mumniir; it
seemed as if the dead were awakeii*
ing. There was a short peal tt
laughter. It was Hexe-Baixel^ erased
through suffering ; then Cathoiiie
cried :

''Hullin! Hulltn! Whospokel

Jean-Claude, overcoming his ee
tion, shouted in a firmer votcc :

"Jerome, Catherine, Mateme,
of you ! Are you dead ? Do
not see yonder fire on the side
Blanru? It is Pivrette coimn|r
our rescue !**

At the same instant a crmsh
like a tempest through the gocg^ I

Th€ Invasiof^

763

the Jaegerthal. The Urump of judg-
ment could not have produced a
greater effect upon the besieged.
At once all were awake and listen-
ing.

"It is Pivrettel It is Marc I"
cried broken voices, sounding hol-
low as those of skeletons. "They
are coming to save us !"

They tried to rise. Some fell back
sobbing ; they could no longer weep.
A second crash brought all to their
feet

" It is the volley of a platoon I"
cried Hullin ; " our men are firing
by platoon too! We have soldiers
in line I Long live France I"

"Mother Catherine was right,"
said Jerome ; " the men of Phals-
bourg are coming to help us ; they
are descending the hills of the Sarre,
and Pivrette is attacking by way of
Blanru."

The fusillade was, in fact, com-
mencing on both sides at once,
toward the meadows of Bois-de-
Chenes and the heights of Kilberi.

Then the two leaders embraced,
and as they groped about in the
darkness, seeking the edge of the
rock, the voice of Mateme shouted :

" Take care ! the precipice is
there."

They stopped short, and looked
down, but saw nothing ; a current of
cold air, from the depths beneath,
alone told them of their danger.
All the surrounding peaks and val-
leys were buried in darkness. On
the sides of the opposite slope, the
flashes of the musketry glanced like
lightning, now lighting up an aged
oak, or the black outline of a rock,
or mayhap a patch of heather, cov-
ered with forms rushing hither and
thither. From the depths, two thou-
sand feet below, rose a confused mur-
mur, the clattering of horse-hoofs,
cries, commands. Now the call of
a mountaineer — ^that prolonged shout

which flies from peak to peak — ^rose
like a sigh to Falkenstein.

"That is Marc!" said Hullin.

" Yes, it is Marc cheering us," re-
plied Jerome.

The others, near by, with necks
outstretched and hands on the edge
of the cliff, gazed wistfully. The
fire continued with a rapidity which
told of the desperation of the fight ;
but nothing could be seen. How
those poor wretches longed for a
part in the struggle ! With what
ardor would they have hurled them-
selves into the combat ! The fear
of yet being abandoned — of seeing
the retreat of their rescuers — made
them speechless.

Soon day began to break ; the
pale dawn shone behind the dark
peaks ; a few rays of light fell into
the shadowy valleys, and, half an
hour after, silvered the mists of their
depths. Hullin, glancing through a
break in these clouds, at last under-
stood the state of affairs. The Ger-
mans had lost the heights of Valtin
and the field of Bois-de-Chenes.
They were massed in the valley of
Charmes, at the foot of Falkenstein,
one third of the way up the slope, so
that the fire of their adversaries
might not plunge from above upon
them. Opposite the rock, Pivrette,
master of Bois-de-Chenes, was order-
ing an abatis to be raised on the de-
scent to the valley. He rushed hith-
er and thither, his short pipe between
his teeth, his slouched hat pulled
down on his ears, and his rifle slung
behind him. The blue axes of the
wood-cutters glanced in the rising
sun. To the left of the village, on
the side of Valtin, in the midst of the
heather, Marc-Dives, on a little black
horse with a trailing tail, his long
sword hanging from his wrist, was
pointing out the ruins and the old
path over which the wood-cutters
were wont to drag their trees. An

7*4

77ie Ifivasimi,

infantry officer and some National
Guards in blue unifonns listened.
Gaspard LefevTe alone, in advance
of the ^oup, leaned on his musket
and seemed meditating. His mien
^lold of desperate resolve. At the
top of the hill, two or three hundred
men, in line, resting on their arms,
gazed on the scene.

The sight of the fewness of their
defenders chilled the hearts of the
besieged; the more so as the Ger-
mans, outnumbering them seven or
eight to one, began to form two col-
umns of attack to regain the posi-
tions they had lost. Their general
sent horsemen in every direction
with orders, and the lines of bayo-
nets began to move.

"The game is up!'* muttered
Hullin to Jerome. " What can five
or six hundred men do against four
thousand in line of battle ? The
Phalsbourg people will return home,
saying, 'We have done our duly I'
and Pivrette will be crushed.^*

AH thought the same ; but what
filled the measure of their despair
was to see a long line of Cossacks
debouch at full speed into the valley
of Charmes, the fool Yegof at their
head galloping like the wind, his
beard, the tail of his horse, his dog-
skin and his red hair streaming be-
hind. He gared at the rock, and
brandished his lance above his head.
At the bottom of the valley he spur-
red toward the enemy*s staff.
Reaching the general, he made some
gestures, pointing to the other side
of the plateau of Bois-de Chenes.

"The villain T* exclaimed Hullin.
" See 1 he says Pivrette has no abatis
on that side, and that the mountain
must be turned/*

A column indeed, began its march
at once in the direction shown, while
another pressed on toward the
abatia to mask the movement of the
first

•itS

s||

'7 "*'

dM|

** Mateme/' cried Jean-Oatidi
is there no means of sending a bd
let after yonder fool ?*'

The old hunter shook his !

'* None," he answered ;
possible ; he is not in range."

Even as he spoke, Catherine qI
tered a mid cry, a scream like tin
of a falcon.

" Let us crush them !" she sh
ed — ** crush them as wc did at "
feld r

And the old woman, but a momen
ago so feeble, seized a fragment d
rock which she lifted with bod
hands ; then, with her long gray haii
floating in the wind, her hooked ;
bent over her compressed and <
less lips, and her wrinkled cfc
rigid as iron, she rushed with fifSi
steps to the edge of tlie cliff, and tJhf
rock cleft the air,

A horrible clamor arose from be-
neath, through which could be !
the crash of broken branches
the enormous mass r^ '
hundred feet outward — ii
the steep slope, again flew out
the open air, dowm, down, fallloi
on Yegof, and crushing him at
general's feet ! All was the
a moment.

Catherine, erect on the edge of Ac
cliff, laughed a long, rattling laugh.

Then the others, those pbantoeii
spectres, as if a new life had bcec
given them, dashed over the mi^
of the ancient burg, shrieking :

*' Death! Death to the Grnti|
Crush them as we cl

Never did eye i
more terrible. Wretches at the j
of the torn!) — lean, flc-shless as
etons — found agnin their strenfi
their cnurnge. They blencfc
each man seized hi? fm*:
rock, hurled it overt'

rushed back to find : i

even waiting to see the effect <
one he had thrown*

Thi Invasion.

76s

No pen can paint the terror of the
Kaiserliks as this storm of rocks
dashed down upon their heads. All
turned as they heard the crashing
bushes and trees, and at first stood
gazing as if petrified. Raising their
eyes, they saw others, and still others,
rushing down, and, above, figures like
spectres appear and disappear, hurl-
ing missiles of death into the air;
they saw around them their crushed
and mangled comrades — lines of fif-
teen or twenty men stricken down at
once. A wild cry echoed from the
depths of the valley to the peak of
Falkenstein, and despite the com-
mands of their leaders, despite the
hail of shot that began to pour from
right and left upon them, the Ger-
mans, careless whither they went,
fled anywhere — anywhere to avoid
the horrid death that smote them
there.

In the thick of the rout, however,
the Austrian general succeeded in
rallying a battalion and brought it in
good order to the village. Calm
and collected amid disaster and
deatli, he seemed worthy his high
rank. He turned gloomily, from
time to time, to gaze on the falling
rocks, which still ploughed bloody
furrows through his column.

Jean-Claude observed him, and in
spite of the intoxication of victory, and
the joy of having escaped the horrors
of a death by famine, the old soldier
could not restrain his admiration.

" Look," he cried to Jerome, " he
does as we did on the retreat from
Donon and Grossmann. He is the
last to retire, and only yields his
ground foot by foot. Truly there are
brave men of all countries 1"

Marc-Dives and Pivrette, witness-
ing this turn of fortune, descended
among the fir-trees to cut off the en-
emy's retreat ; but the effort was in
vain. The battalion, reduced one
hal( formed square behind the vil-

lage of Charmes, and then retreated
slowly up the valley of the Sarre,
halting at times, like a wounded and
hunted wild-boar turning upon his
tormentors, whenever the men of
Pivrette or from Phalsbourg pressed
them too closely.

Thus ended the great battle of
Falkenstein, known among the moun-
tains as the Battle of the Rocks.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Scarcely had the fight ceased,
when, toward 8 o'clock, Marc-Dives,
Gaspard, and some thirty mountain-
eers, bearing baskets of food, reach-
ed the peak of Falkenstein. What a
spectacle awaited them there ! The
besieged, stretched on the earth,
seemed dead. In vain they shook
the bodies and shouted in their ears ;
no answer came. Gaspard Lefevre,
seeing his mother and Louise lying
motionless with teeth fast locked to-
gether, told Marc, in his agony, that
unless they recovered he would blow
out his brains with his own musket
Marc replied that every one was
free to do as he pleased ; but that for
his part, he would do no such thing
on Hexe-Baisers account. At length,
old Colon placed his basket on a
stone. Kasper Materne suddenly
sighed, opened his eyes, and, seeing
the food, began clacking his teeth
like a famished fox.

They knew what that meant, and
Marc-Dives passed his flask under
the nose of each one, which was suf-
ficient to resuscitate them. They
wanted to devour all the provisions
at once ; but Doctor Lorquin had
sense enough remaining to warn
Marc not to listen to them, for the
least excess would be sure death.
Each one received, therefore, only a
small piece of bread, an egg, and a
glass of wine, which restored their
powers singularly. Then they placed

766

The Invasion,

Catherine, Louise, and the entire
party on sleds, and descended to the
"llage.

'Who could describe the enthusi-
asm and emotion of their friends,
when they saw them arrive, more
meagre than Lazarus risen from his
grave I They were gazed at, em-
braced, hugged, and every new-com-
er from A bresch wilier, Dagsberg,
Saint Quirin, or anywhere else, had
to repeat the ceremony.

Marc-Dives was obliged twenty
times to relate the story of his jour-
ney to PhiUsbourg, Luck had been
against the brave smuggler. After
having almost by miracle escaped
the bullets of the Kaiserliks, he fell,
in the valley of Spartzprod, into the
middle of a troop of Cossacks^ who
robbed him of every thing. Then
for two weeks he had to roam about
the Russian posts, which surrounded
the city, drawing the fire of their sen-
tries and running the risk dozens of
times of being arrested as a spy, be-
fore he was able to enter the works.
Then the commandant Meunier, fear-
ing from the weakness of the garri-
son, at first refused all help, and it
was only at the pressing entreaty of
the inhabitants of the city that he at
length consented to detach two com-
panies for the purpose.

The mountaineers, listening to this
recital, could not cease admiring the
courage of Marc, and his persever-
ance amid so many perils,

"What would you have me do?**
asked the tall smuggler of those
loudest in their praises. ** I only did
my duty ; would you have me leave
my comrades to perish? I knew
that the task was not an easy one;
those rogues of Cossacks are sharper
than customhouse oflficers; they
scent you a league off like cro\vs \
but no matter, we got the better of
them this time."
^ At the end of five or six days> all

the lately besieged were oo tiieir J
again. Captain VidaJ^ from Pll
bourg, had left twenly-fi\'e mcB it
Falkenstein^ to guard the atmotmi'
tion, Gaspard Lefevre was of ibe
number, and the brave fellow ctne
every morning down to the vQla^
The allies had alt passed into Lor^
raine ,* none were seen in Alsace;
except around the fortresses. Soon
the news came of the victories d
Champ-Aubert and Montmiraal^ l»
the evil days had come upon u%aai
in spite of the heroism of our ansjr
and the Emperor's j: ^ Go-

mans and Russians ei ^ ^ris.

This was a terrible blow tor \e»
Claude, Catherine, Mateme, Jcrooe;
and all the mountaineers ; but ocbos
have related the history of llwat
events ; they form no part of 001
story.

Peace concluded, the old &«►
house of BoiS'de-Chenes was itbutU
in the spring ; wood-cultcrs, sabot-
makers, masons, and all the woriuDcn
in the country round lent a hand in
the work.

About the same time, the annf
having been disbanded^ Gai^fttnl
trimmed his mustache, and luf
marriage with Louise took place.

The wedding-day was all the W
roes of Falkenstein and Donon gaiii-
ered, and the farm-house rcccWed
them with open doors, and window)
too. Each one brought a prcseatj
the couple — ^Jerome, a pair of Jil
shoes for Louise ; Dives, packages j
smuggled tobacco forGaspard;
one according to his means.

Tables were set even in the
and sheds. How much wine, braA
and meat, how many pics and faA^
dings were disposed of» I know art,
but what I do know is that Jeaa
Claude, filled with gloom since ti»
entry of the allies into Paris, dictfid
upon that day and sang the old io^
of his youth as gayly as when he lei

idovt
ratlfa

Portet^s Hmman InUlUct

767

out, musket on shoulder for Valmyy
Jeimnapes and Fleurus. The echoes
of Falkenstein took up the old pa-
triotic air — the grandest, noblest ever
heard by man. Catherine Lefevre
beat time on the table with the han-
dle of her knife ; and if it be true, as
many maintain, that the dead come
to listen when we speak of them, our
slain must indeed have rejoiced, and
the King of Diamonds foamed on his
red beard.

.. Toward midnight, Hullin arose,
and addressing the bridegroom and
bride said :

" You will have brave children ; I
will dance them on my knees, and
teach them this old song ; and then I
will follow those who have gone be-
ion[e me."

He embraced Louise, and linking
arms with Marc-Dives and Jerome,
went to his own little home, followed
by all the wedding guests singing

their grand old song. Never was a
finer night known ; millions of stars
sparkled in the dark blue sky, and a
low murmur arose from the bushes
at the foot of the slope where so
many brave hearts lay cold. All felt
at once rejoiced and sad. At Jean-
Claude's door they shook hb hand
and gave him good night ; then, scat-
tering in little parties to right and
left, sought their villages.

" Good-night Materne, Jerome,
Pivrette, Dives," cried the brave
sabot-maker cheerily.

His old friends turned and waved
their hats, and said among them-
selves :

" There are indeed days when it is
a joy to be in this fair world. Ah !
if there were no pestilence, nor war,
nor famine ; if men understood, loved,
and helped one another ; if wrongs
and distrust were unknown — what
a paradise would be ours I"

PORTER'S HUMAN INTELLECT.*

In returning to consider this ela-
borate volume more in detail, we
would remark that its author has
designed it as a text-book for college
students in the class of philosophy,
and has proceeded, in writing, on
Ae presumption that they for whom
he writes have not the slightest
knowledge of the subject Hence
his pages are filled with matters
which those who have made some pro-
ficiency in the science of the human
understanding, and are not whol-
ly ignorant of philosophy, properly

97%t Hmman ImUOtei ; wkk mm Iniroiwctwn i^m
^jMi/igy mmd Mr S^ttl, By NoaOi Porter, D.D.,
QMfcProfcMBrof IfamI PhiloMphj and Utt^phf
dbi k Yal« Colltie. Ntw Yoik z Scribow ft Ca

SO called, are already masters of, and
which they cannot even read without
great weariness of the body, and do
not deem it worth their while to read
at all. They feel that to be able to
understand the author, it is enough
to consult his principles and method,
and his definitions of the several top-
ics he takes up and discusses. They
have neither the patience to read
carefully through a huge volume
which is, nine-tenths of it, filled with
what is for them mere baby-talk.
But the author does not, in compos-
ing his work, begin by stating and
defining his theses, and then pro-
ceeding to elucidate and prove them ;
but attempts to begin where he sup-

Porters Human InteUtct.

poses the infant begins, and proceeds
as a learner, not as a master, Con-
' sequently, we are compelled to read
liis book from the beginning to the
end, or not be sure of his doctrine on
any one point.

It is true, the author sometimes
attempts definitions, but they are sel-
dom scientific, rarely embrace his
whole thesis, and nothing else, and
are pretty sure to mislead the unfor-
tunate reviewer who relies on them.
He seldom abides by his own defini-
tions. In one place he defines con-
sciousness a power, and in another
be makes it an act Sense-percep-
tion is defined to be the power by
which the intellect gains the know-
ledge of material objects ; then we
arc told that the object perceived is
not the material existence, but "a
joint product of the material agent
and the sentient organism,*' a psychi-
cal transcript of the material object ;
while in another part of his work we
find him denying that what the mind
perceives is such transcript, and re-
futing, by plain and solid reasons,
those who maintain that it is. A
really scientific definition is a defini-
tion per gmus etper differmttam ; Dr.
Porter sometimes gives the gmm
and forgets the differentia^ and some-
limes gives the differentia without
giving the genus. He also adopts a
terminology in many respects not fa-
miliar to us, though it may be to oth-
ers, without the necessary explana-
tion of the terms he uses \ and even
when the terms he uses are such as
we are familiar with, they are used in
a sense to which w*e are not accus-
tomed. We cannot tolerate subject ob-
ject^ for subject and object are distinct,
and stand the one over against the
I other. The subject in thought is ncv-
I er the object, and the object is never
* the subject. Grammar teaches so
much. Object'Object says no more than
simply object. Every object is object^

and no object is more or
object. The object is always res
for it is causative, since in the i
of thought it resists the subject, a]

becomes a count- re.

^\%\\k^ percepts anti
are intended to imply that ilteyl
as it were, independent of tli€
ject and the object, and that
duct of subject and object may I
be object We protest earn
the name both of j '
losophy, against Ch
which are nothing except by i
ative act of God, beings^ and
more eamesdy against so coUing di
products of second or third
This might pass with the Gc
who substituted generation fori
tion, but is inexcusable in a Cli
philosopher. We know the
men did so, but they arc not
commended for it. They sp
ens simpiiciier^ ens secundum quii^ \
rciile^ and ens pt/ssibi/e^ and even o
ens rationis^ as if being, the era
tions of being, mental abstmc
and the creations of fancy and]
gt nation could bt! all of tlie san
nus or placed in the same
There is a philosophy in la
which can never be disregarded ^
out more or less injury to the pliSl
sophy of things.

The professor's method and \
nology render his work exccc
difficult to be understood withe
much study as would be nccc
consti-uct the philosophy of Ihrf
man mind without it ; and tbcrvRSr
if we should happen at times toj
his meaning, Ive must blame htii
He is far more intent c i
the processes of the m
ing than on s
knows. Thest .
terest for us ; for ihcy rcatl|
light on the power or fact \
ledge We want to know Wha
author means by philosopliyi 1

Porter's Human IntelUcL

769

_what is its value, and we therefore
^ant him to speak as the professor,
Dt as the pupil. We have no dispo-
ition to waste our time and weary
le flesh, even, in reading the mass
\f stuff which he writes and which
fclls us nothing we want to know.
Jut enough of this.

The professor divides, not verj' sci-
tnlifically, his work into four parts.
Part L treats of Presentation and
Presentative Knowledge ; Part Il.^of
Representation and Representative
Knowledge ; Part III., of Thinking
and Thought- Knowledge ; and Part
IV., of Intuition and Intuitive Know-
edge, He says, p. 77, "The lead-
ng faculties of the intellect are
'three : the presentative or observing
faculty, the representative or creative
faculty, and the thinking or general-
izing faculty. More briefly, the fa-
culty of experience, the faculty of
representation, and the faculty of in-
telligence/* But experience is not a
faculty \ it is the result of the exer-
cise of all our faculties, and a source
of intelligence. Intelligence, as a
iiUy, is the intellect itself; as a
, it is indistinguishable from ex-
*perience, which is improperly re-
stricted by some psychologists of the
inductive sort to the knowledge of
the external world through the senses,
but extends to all acquired know-
ledge, whatever the faculty exercised
in acquiring it or the object per-
;ived. The real distinction is not be-
tween experience or empirical know-
ledge and intelligence, but between
empirical knowledge or experience
and the ideal principles which are
given intuitively by the Creator, and
neither acquired nor developed by
I the soul's own action. Distinctions
I should be real, not arbitrary or ab-
stract.

We are able to know objects of
various kindii and sorts, but the
'Icnowing is always the same fact,
VOL. viu. — 49

and by the same cognitive faculty,
whatever the object known, the or* |
der to which it belongs, or the means
and conditions of its cognition. The
learned professor's division, making
four sorts of knowledge, since he
makes intuition empirical, or an act
of the soulj appears to us, therefore,
without any real foundation. All
knowledge or actual knowing is pre-
sentative, and is in all cases by di-
rect contemplation of the object in
the light of ideal intuition. Demon-
stration only strips the object of its
envelopes, removes the prohibcftHa^
and presents it to direct contempla-
tion. In the longest chain of rea-
soning, each link is, in the empiri-
cal sense, intuitively apprehended.
The apprehension is always immedi-
ate, and the several mental processes
ser\*e only to bring the subject and
object together, face to face. These
processes, however named or what-
ever their character, never extend the
matter of knowledge beyond tlie ob-
jects presented.

The preseutative faculty the au-
thor subdivides into consciousness
and sense-perception. But con-
sciousness is not a presentative facul-
ty, nor a faculty, nor a subdivision of
a faculty at all. It is simply the re-
cognition of the soul, as reflected"
from the object, of herself as subject.
At most, it simply presents the sub-
ject of the thought. Sense-percep*
tion presents only material or sensi-
ble oi:yects. The professor*s doctrine-
is then that of Locke, who derives,
all our ideas from sensation and re-
flection, and confines all our know-
ledge to sensibles with the soul and*
her operations. Reflection only ope-
rates on the sense-perceptions with-
out extending the matter of know-j
ledge beyond them. This is pures
sensism, which we are somewhat sur- j
pnsed to find held by an eminent^
professor in Yale College, Does.

770

Parians Human InUUfct,

Dn Porter know his doctrine is sens-
ism, and therefore materialistic ? He
ftays, though not truly, we apprehend
the soul in consciousness as a spirit*
uai being, but is the soul the only
non-sensible he means to assert ?

But, as we showed in our former
article, the soul recognizes herself
only as subject, and therefore only as
the correlative of object. She knows
her ow n operations only in the same
correlation. Take away the object
and you lose the subject or fact of
consciousness. This, we fear, the
professor does. He defines, p» 13 1^
senseperception to be *' an act of ob*
jcctive knowledge, in which the soul
knows and only knows j" but adds,
** if the soul knows, it knows some
being as its object. But what being
does it affirm ? We answer, The be-
ing which is the joint product of the
material agent and the sentient or-
gan iisra. ... In perception proper
we do not know the excitant apart,
nor do we know the organism apart,
only the result of their joint action.
This we know^ as an object, with
which the mind is confronted both
as a sentient and as a percipient/'
But as there can be 00 thought with-
out the conjunction of the intellective
subject and the intelligible object, if
the mind tloes not apprehend the
material object itself, there can be
no such joint product as pretended^

I and, consequently, no object at aJL
The object then vanishes, and leaves

•ooly the subject, which is, we need

, tjot say, pure idealism. As the sub-
ject is the correlative of object, and

ifccognizes itself only in thinking the
l»€ibjcct, if the object vanishes, the

[^subject, too, must vanbb, and leave

it only the smsaiaam trans-

of CondiUac« But as sensa*

however transformed, is still

ition* and as sensations are in-

of standing alone, or of sub-

^ttng without the subject, the sen-

sations themselves most go^ and i
hilism alone remains — the restilt \
which all psychologisms and
gisms are necessarily tending, j
which Sir William Hamilton 1
philosophy necessarily enrfs^
may trust a passage v '
quoted from him not 1 _
T^e AW*/ Snglander^ by a PritiocltJ
professor, in a striking article c
The Presetif State &/ PhU&fi^fk^, i
which the writer has well slated it
problem presented, but which h^wf
ther solves nor attempts \
a problem, the solution of
in the ideal formula, or the real sy!
thesis of principles of things afl
of science, of which he seems n€¥i
to have heard.

The professor draws a proper dl
tinction between sensation as fee
ing and sensation as per
we cannot agree with him that
sation as feeling is an
the soul. Those ps\*ch»
make a great mistake wIkj %^^V
body ''The Honse I ihr «»." Hi
union of soul and body is too ific
mate for that I am not soul, as dB
tinguished from the body^ tKir afli
body, as distinguished from the soul
but I am the union of the two. >
General Council de6nes the ^H
to be ** forma corporis," the infl|
ing and animating principle oC fli
body. Yet there is a dtstincuon b
tween ihem. We can predicate
the one things which we cannot €
the other. There is. indeed, 001
sation without Oii \

the soul ; but ^ lion 1

distinguished from the perception,!
felt, not merely localized, iii^
body, not in the soul, Wlien
the twinges of the gout, f feel
not in my soul, but in my toe.
must distmguish two classes oft
tions, Irequeotly cotifoanded ^
one sensible^ of the body, the €XiK
spicittaai^ oC the soiiL The sattiU

Porters Human TnttUect,

7ft

afTections or emotions^ such as joy
land grief, sorrow and delight, pain
1 and pleasure, are of the body 'ai>i-
I mated and informed by the souL
\ They indeed imitate in the sensible
order the affections of the soul, but
, have in themselves no moral charac-
ter. Hence, the masters of spiritual
life make no account of what is call-
ed sensibk" devotion, and see in it
nothing meritorious, and no reason
why the soul, in its itinerary to
, God, should seek it. But very diffcr-
Iftnt is the other class, often called
by the same name, and which may or
may not be accompanied by sensible
emotion. This difference is at once
understood by all who have learned
to distinguish between the love of the
senses and the love of the soul, the
I love Plato meant when he represent-
ed the soul, in his fine poetical way,
as having two wings, intelligence and
love, on which it soars to the empy-
reum. This love, in one degree, is
chivalric love, which the knight cher-
ishes for his mistress whom he wor-
I sbips as a distant star ; in a higher
degree, it is heroic love, a love that
braves all dangers for the beloved,
whether friend or country ; in a still
higher degree, and informed by
grace, it is charity or saintly love,
with which the saint bums and is con
sumed as he contemplates the Bean-
ty of Holiness, or " the First Good
and the First Fair." This is not
sensible love, and its glory is in strug-
gling against the seductions of the
senses, or the flesh, and by the grace
of God winning the victory over
them, and coming off conqueror
through Him who hath loved us and
given his life for us.

The professor has entered largely
into the physiology of the senses,
and the joint action of the soul in
the (act of knowledge, and the pro-
ct!ss of the mind in forming what he
calls p€rapts; but as all he says

under these heads, whether tnje or
not true, throws no light on the intel»J
lectual act itself, we pass it over, and J
proceed to his Part IL, Representa^-j
tion and Rcpresentaii\^e Knowledge^ (

** Representation or the represen^J
tative power," the author says, pc/
248, *Vraay be deitncd in general!
[that is, th€ genus\ the power to re^d
call, represent, and reknow objects
which have been previously knowni
or experienced in the soul, MorfeJ
briefly, it is the power to representl
objects previously presented to ihei
mind." Clearly, then, representatio
adds nothing to the matter previously|I
presented by the presentative power:,,
But the author continues : ** It is ob^J
vious that, in ever)^ act of this power,;!
the objects of the mind*s cognitio^J
are furnished by the mind itself, be
ing produced or created a second!
time by the mind*s own energy, and J
presented to the mind's own inspeo^j
tion. It follows that representation! J
in its very essence, is a creative or 1
self-active power."

We cannot say that this is obvioud
to us. The definition of representa^J
tion given by the author makes \t\
what, in the language of mortals, im\
called memory ; and we have nevel^J
learned that memory is a crealiv
power, or that in inemor}* the mind
creates the objects it remembers. T0J
recall or to reknow is not to create^' I
Even that the soul is self-active^ — tha€|
is, capable of acting from itself J
alone — is by no means obvious j nay; f
is impossible, unless we take ihrfJ
sou! to be the first cause, instead of I
merely a second cause \ and, even if*j
it were self-active, it would not foUf
low that it creates, God is self-act^iJ
ive because self existent, or being ir
its plenitude ; but he is not neces^
sarily a creator. He has tnfinitcfj
scope for his infinite activity itlj
himself, and he is free to create or ^
not to create as he pleases. Thai

772

Porters Human IntclUct

the mind does not in memory create
the objects remembered, is evident
from ihe fact that the facts remem-
bered are, as the author himself ad-
mits, facts or objects previously
known or experienced. The fact of
memor>% or the fact remembered, is
the same fact that was known in pre-
sentation! accompanied by the recog-
nition of it as an object previously
present and known, and not now
known for ihe first time. There is
DO creation a second time any more
than there was the first time, or
when the object was presented.

The professor says, p. 251, "The
objects of the representative power
are . , . . mental objects. They
are not real things^ nor real percepts,
but the mind*s own creations after
real things. They are spiritual or
psychical, not material, entities \ but,
in many cases, they concern material
beings, being psychical transcripts
of them, believed to be real or possi-
ble," Does he mean this as a true
description of the facts of memory ?
Probably not. Then his definition
needs amending, for it docs not in-
clude all that he means by represen-
tation. His definition includes only
mcmor)* ; but his description in-
cludes, beside memory, reflection,
fancy, and imagination, things which
have nothing in common except the
fact that the mind operates in them
all on matters which have been pre-
viously presented. Reflection and
memory are in no sense creative fa-
culties \ fancy and imagination axe
sometimes so called, but even they
do not create their own objects.
Reflection is the mind operating on
the ideal principles re-presented in
language, and in their light, on the
facts of experience in their synthe-
tic relations with them. Memory is
simply* as a faculty, the power 10 re-
tain and to re-prescnt, more or less
completely and distinctly, the facts

of experience. Its objects are 1
facts themselves, not a mental repA-
sentation or transcript of them,
author confounds re presenting '
representation. In the one, the
ject previously prcsenied is re-prc-
sented, or presented anew ; in Uie
other, the object itself Ls not ps^
sented for more elaborate cotisUkm*
tion, but a certain mental transc7i|4
image, or resemblance of it» which b
the product of the mind fancying or
imagining, yet is never its object m
correlation with which it acts. Tto
distinction alone upsets the auti
whole theory of science, or Wi
schafUiehrt^ and renders H-orsc
useless more than nine-tenths of I
volume. His whole theof}^ is vitaS^
ed by confounding representatiois« is
the sense of showing or exJiibiling ^|
resemblance or similitude, with 4P
etymological sense, that of repre-
senting, and in taking the rcpteseft*
tation as the object of the soul in tlM
intellectual act, which it never &
Neither reflection nor memory 1
sents, in his sense of the word,
objects prenously presented ;
only represent them.

In point of fact, we never knov
anything by mental rcprescntaticm;
for we either know not at all, of we
know the thing itself. Keprc
tion only replaces the phantasms i
intelligible species of llje
men, for ever made away with, wc
had supposed, by the > ^chool

of Reid and Hamilton. c pto»

fessor himself has given excclk^
reasons for not accepting the
Plato, indeed, asserts that we
by similitude^ but in a very difiej
sense. The idea is impressed
matter as the seal on wax, ;
impression is a perfect fac-sill
the idea ; and by knowing the
pression« we know the idea imp
ed. But he never made cither
idea or the impresis of it on matter 1

Porters Human Intellect,

773

product of the mind itself. He makes
either always objective, independent
of the mind, and apprehensible by it
In other words, he never held that
the mind creates the similitude by
which it knows, but, at most, only that
by observation the mind finds it
The peripatetics never, again, made
their phantasms and intelligible spe-
cies mental creations, or represented
them as furnished by the mind from
its own stock ; but always held them
to be independent of the mind, and
furnished to it as the means of appre-
hending the object If they had re-
ferred their production to the mind it-
self, they would have called the spe-
cies intelUdivey not intelligible species.
The soul has, indeed, the faculty of
representation ; but in representing its
correlative object, it is not the repre-
sentation, but the thing, whatever it
may be, that it attempts to represent
The product of the mind may be a
representation, but the object of the
mind is not In all the imitative
arts, as poetry, painting, sculpture,
the artist seeks to represent, but
operates always in view of that reali-
ty of which he produces the repre-
sentation or resemblance.

The author himself distinguishes
memory from representation, though
very indistinctly. " Representation,"
p. 303, "recalls, memory recogni-
zes." Here he uses representation
in the sense of re-presenting; for
what is recalled is not the mental
representation or semblance, but the
object itself; so, really, there is no
representation in the case, and the
professor should not have treated
memory under the head of represen-
tation. "I see a face, and I shut
my eyes and picture it to myself."
This is not an act of representation,
but of memory. There is a re-pre-
senting, but no representation, in
memory ; for, so far as the fact is not
reproduced in memory, there is no

memory, but simply fancy or imagi-
nation. The objects of reflection are
simply the objects originally present-
ed with only this difference, that, in
presentation, the fact of conscious-
ness is myself as subject knowing,
whereas in reflection it is myself
as subject reflecting, and, in memory^
myself as subject remembering.

Fancy and imagination are, in a
loose way, called creative faculties ;
but properly creative they are not
Creation is production of substantial
existences or things from nothing ;
that is, without any materials, by the
sole energy of the creator. Fancy
and imagination can operate only on
and with materials which have been
or are presented to the mind. Fan-
cy is mimetic and simply imitates
imagination, as throughout the uni-
verse the lower imitates the higher,
as the universe copies the Creator,
or seeks to actualize the type in the
Divine mind ; and hence St Thomas
says, Deus sinxilitudo est omnium re-
rum. God creates all things after
the type or ideal in his own mind,
and idea in mente dhnna nihil est
aliud quam essentia Dei, Hence,
man is said to be made after the im-
age and likeness of Grod, cul imagi-
nem et similitudinem^ though he is
not the image of God ; for that is the
Eternal Word, who, St Paul tells us,
is ** the brightness of his glory and
the express image of his substance,"
or being. (Heb. i. 3.) Fancy is mi-
metic, and plays with sensations and
sensibles ; but though it combines
them in its own way, as a winged
horse, the objects combined are al-
ways objects of experience. Imagi-
nation is of a higher order than fan-
cy, and operates on and with objects
of experience, sensibles, intelligi-
bles, and the ideal principles intui-
tively gfven. It sweeps through the
whole range of creation, descends to
helly and rises to heaven ; but its ob-

774

Porters Human Intellect

jects are always those which have
been presented to the tuind, which
it can only arrange and combine in
new forms of its own. But the repre-
sentations it produces are its pro-
ducts, not its object. In producing
them, the mind has a real object as
its correlate, as in presentation.
Let the professor, then, abandon the
absurdity which runs through his
book that a mental creation or repre-
sentation is the object of the soul in
producing it. The object of the soul
is the object whose activity joined to
its own produces it.

Take the artist The object in his
lichest and sublimest productions is
the beautiful which he sees, which is
bis soul's vision and hfs soul's love,
and which he seeks to express on can-
vas, in a statue, a temple, an oration, a
poem, or a melody. Tell us not, as
\ so many jEsthetic writers do, thai the
artist projects from his own soul, or
created the beauty which he strug-
gles to express in his work, and
* which he can never express to his
satisfaction. The ideal infinitely
'■transcends tlie expression. The
[soul contemplates the beautiful, but
fdoes not create it The beautiful, as
jFlato somewhere says, ** is the splen-
^dor of the Good/' It is the splendor
\p\ the True and the Good, that is, of
; though Giobertt, in his Dd
BfJh^ seems to di%^rce it from the
deal, and, while asserting the reali-
ty of the object would appear to re-
[ftolve the beautiful into the subjec*
tive impression on the sensibility,
^produced by the apprehension of the
object which supposes that beauty
exists only for sensible existences,
pit is as real as God himself, and as
bjective as the ideal formula. It is
lie divine splendor, inseparable from
be Divine Being. Everything God
. made participates, in a higher or
ttwer degree, of beauty, because it
rltcipates of being j but beauty it-

self in its infinity is only tal
himself, which exceeds all the pc^
of men and angels to reprcaa
The artist, by the noetic power
the soul, which, if a true artist,
possesses in a higher degree Ul
ordinary men, beholds, conteniplali
and loves it It is, as we liave ji
said, the vision of his soul aiad ll
object of his love. He detects it
creatures, in the region of fanc)^
the mind, and in tlie soul iUel^H
adores it in the idcaL The ^|
of detecting it in sensibles is lane;
in the ideal, is imagination. In see
ing to represent it or express tt
his productions, it is the real, Uie ol
jective, he seeks to express or p
body. He may form in his
representation of it, but that
sen tat ion is not the object
mind in either fancy or tin^
nor is it a pure mental
tion, not only because it is"*
after the real, but because it isf
ed only in conjunction with
tivit}' of the real. •

These remarks are sui&cie
show that all that Dr. Porter saj
the faculty of KepresentaU
when not confused or fabe^

* The ankl ouidht i)wiy« t« b» l%U)p »«iti
voou but whether to or iml A.|w.uai «« lis m^
With mlticii Iw acta* or l^axpow fcr ^^tuA he apdliM
embody the beauty he wc*.. The vdAd^ dT 90m
tio. lo cthicK d^ ait to ceUciaB b anrily Mi4«liNl
Art is not, H srme Gcnaafl* vraold pcniB4« wtk ^
^ion, nor li the culture of u% ttim tMlgMW mm

unly the Mtiwoal pMnoiM ac»d affccAwM «f oar MMl
ajid th« nutt M} so praponira to ^ eu^mm Mil
aed sktU m the decutian. 1& no c*fl« c^ ili^ i^,
KaBcir wA pcriectkon of th« <
Bwcal ditewiT itf lltt oliecl I
afftnk mm^%o^bittmBmuat% ai
ble dora(i«% b not iifiri ■fily
{vwiiTety taora) or rdvMBL B
cjube^r vt &^nm tlw ideal,
pmI. the tnev th« good, vrfcdhcr m pifiiii^ ii ft
idol iftuoooo, or » p ar rM pitid fay A* niagjin 4
OodLcan htidlj£i£)iebei«Mmla»4 fd^^vmht^
dbsta m vdl fti » lis ideal. GM hk wmMmdk
i^im nd in tmK cwB H M tih ii i w d i»lie«^^ir
be eaien into all bi» mtka. m i^m vmm, and #^
bei^liinllin Wc puke God in faia »Mi. a ^
\m ma^ timmtrnm^aiBt. The on k aat A« w

floa ip jA aicea faa* «tll«d lale m mimm^l
and lirhut faii rfail.

Portef^s Human IntelUci.

moment. He darkens instead of
tlucidating his subject We pass
>n, therefore, to his Part IIL, on
Thinking and Thought-Knowledge.
The menial operations treated by
the author under the head of Think-
ig and Thought-knowledge, are
bo&e which Locke calls by the gen*
ral name of retiection, and are con-
sption^ abstraction, or generaliza*
>n^ judgtnent, reasoning, deductive
nd inductive, and scientific or sys-
ematic arrangement. They are not
faculties, but operations of the mind.
The proper English name Jbr the fa-
culty on which they depend, so far as
usage goes, is not thought, nor the
|K)wer of thought — for every intel-
lectual act, whether representative
or presentative, is a thougbt — but utt*
derstantiing or reason. The old word
i?as understanding, but it is objec-
f enable, because it includes, accord-
to present usiige, only the intel-
Dtual activity of the soul, and im-
plies nothing of voluntary activity,
teason is the better term ; for it corn-
lines both the intellectual and the
jToHtive activity of the souL
The objection of the professor
** reason is used for the very
tst of the rational functions, or
■Ise in a very indefinite sense for
ill that distinguishes man from the
brute," does not appear to us to be
conclusive. Evcr>' intellectual act,
ihc highest as the lowest, is thought,
an act of one and the same thinking
faculty. The objects and conditions
of knowledge may vary, but the fa-
inilty of knowledge does not vary
with them. Reason is not used in a
more indefinite sense when used for
all that distingiu'shes man from the
brute, than is thought as used by the
professor. Man is well defined to be
an f ma i rationale y or rational animal ;
but this does not mean that man is
animal plus reason, but the animal
transformed by reason ; and hence

there is a specific difference between

the sort of intelligence which it
seems difficult to deny to animals,
and the intelligence of man. All
human intelligence is rational, the
product of reason. Coleridge and
our American transcendentalists, af-
ter Kant, attempted to distinguish be-
tween understanding [ V€r5tani{\ and
reason \V€rnunft\ and to restrict
understanding to that portion of our
knowledge which is derived through
the senses, and reason to an order
of knowledge that transcends all
understanding, and to which only
the gifted few ever attain. But ihey
hav^e not been successful Know-
ledge of the highest objects, as of
the lowest, is by the same faculty,
and we may still use reason in its
old sense, as the subjective principle
of all the operations the professor
calls tliinking.

The word reason is, indeed, used
in an objective as well as in a sub*
jective sense. As subjective, it is
a faculty of the soul ; the objective
reason is the ideal formula, and cre-
ates and constitutes the subjective
reason. Cousin distinguishes be*
tween the two, but as between the
personal and the impersonal — a mere
modal distinction, not a distinction
of substance. He identifies the ob-
jective reason with the Aoyo^ or
Word of God, while it is really iden-
tical with the ideal formula, which
embraces both being and existences
united and distinguished by the cre-
ative act of being, as explained in
our former article. This asserts a.
distinction of subject and of sub-
stance between the objective and
subjective reason asserted by Cou-
sin. In the objective reason, God,,
in the subjective, man, is the actor ;,
and there is all the difference of sub-
stance between them that there is
between God and man, or between
real, universal, and necessary being,

776

Porters Human InUil^t

and finite, contingent existence.
They ought not to be both called by
the same name, and we ourselves
rarely so call them. We ourselves
call the objective reason the ideal
formula, or, briefly, the ideal ; yet
good writers and speakers do use the
word in both senses. They say,
"Man is endowed with reason," or
has a " rational nature," in which
they employ the term subjectively.
They say, also, of such an assertion,
** It is unreasonable, or it is contrary
to reason ;" that is, to the truth, or
principle of things, in which they use
it objectively, as they do when they
speak of the principles affirmed in
the ideal formula, and call them
the reason, necessary and absolute
ideas, or the principles of reason ;
for noihing necessary or absolute is
or can be subjective.

We ourselves use the word in a
subjective sense, and understand by
it the faculty of reasoning, or the sub-
jective principle of all our mental
operations. It is not a simple pow-
er, but a complex power, embrac-
ing both the percipient and volitive
capacities of the soul. In every ra-
tional operation of the soul, there is
both perception and volition, and it
is this fact that distinguishes reason
from the simple power of perception,
*or intellectual apprehension. We
4ee znA we iook^ and we look that we
fmay see,* we hear and we listen^ and
Mstm that we may hmr. The looking
;and the ihtming are peculiarly ra-
'tional acts, in which the soul volun-
^tarily, or by an act of the will, directs
;her intellectual capacities to a spc-
K;ial intellectual purpose or end.
*This voluntary acti%'ily, or direction
*of tlie capacity to know, must not be
-confounded with free will ] it is the
-v&luntarium of the theologians, dis-
tinguished, on the one hand, from
spontaneity, and on the other, from
the iiif^ arbitrium^ or free will^

which is the faculty of ded

choosing between right and
and implies, whichever it cho
the power to choose the cootr
It is the princi»>le of all moral
countability. The vQiuniarium is
simple, voluntary activity, or
of directing our attention to thin
that intellectual object, or of usin
the cognitive power in tlic scnice <
science. The reason may be de
ed, then, the soul's faculty of osio
her intellectual and volitive
for the explication and vcrific
of the knowledge furnished by|
sentation.

With these preliminary remi
we proceed to consider some <if the
mental operations which give
what Professor Porter calU Thou
Knowledge. We do not qui
the fact of these operations, nor \
importance in iJie development
our rational life ; what we dtmy
that they are a power or faculry
the mind, and that in p* '
them they are objects of tl
or that they add anything lo tiic
matter of our knowledge.

The professor says, p. 383, " The
power of thought [reason] as a ca*
pacity [faculty] for certain psvdio-
logical processes, is dependent for J
its exercise and development on tlktl
lower powers of the intellect The« 1
furnish the materials for it lo trotk
with and upon. We must apiinflicnil
the individual objects by means of
the senses and conscious. ness [purt
sensism] before we can ihmk thcfe
objects." So in consciousness and
sense-perception we do not think
and we must apprehend sensible
before wc can think them f To
tell ectually apprehend a ^ '
think it. Intellectual ,
and thought are one and tli4.'
fact The professor continues, '
can classify, explain, and met)
only individual tilings^ and

Portef^s Human IntelUa.

777

must first be known by sense and
consciousness before they can be
united and combined into generals."
Here are two errors and one truth.
The first error is in regarding con-
sciousness as a cognitive power or
faculty, and the second is in confin-
ing the individual things to sensibles,
or the material world. We know in
presentative knowledge not only the
sensible but the supersensible, the
intelligible, or ideal. The ideal
principles cannot be found, obtained,
or created by the mind's own ac-
tivity, and are apprehended by the
mind only as they are given intui-
tively by the act of the Creator ; But
being given, they are as really appre-
hended and known by the mind as
any sensible object; nay, are what
the mind apprehends that is most
clear and luminous, so luminous that
it is only by their light that even
sensibles are mentally apprehensible
or perceptible. The one truth is
that the objects of the soul in her
operations must first be known
either by perception or intuition before
they can be classified, explained, and
methodized. Hence the operations
of which the author treats under this
head do not extend our knowledge
of objects. They are all reflective
operations, and reflection can only
re-present what has already been
presented.

The professor is right in maintain-
ing that only individual objects are
apprehensible, if he means that we
apprehend things only in individuo
or in concreto ; for ihis is what we
have all along been insisting on
against him. Things are not appre-
hensible in general, but in the con-
crete. Hence Rosmini*s mistake in
making the first and abiding object
of the intellect ens in gmere, which
is a mere possible ens, and no real
beings at all. It is simply concep-
tion or abstraction formed by the

mind operating on the intuition of
real being, which never is nor can be
abstracted or generalized. Yet the
author has argued under both pre-
sentative knowledge and representa-
tive knowledge that the mind, some-
times with, and sometimes without,
anything distinct from and indepen-
dent of itself, creates its own object ;
and that the object, as well as the
act, may be purely psychical. Thus
he tells us that in sense-perception
we do not perceive the material
thing itself, but the joint product of
the material agent and the sentient
organism ; and that in representation
the object represented may be un-
real, chimerical, and exist only in
the soul, and for the soul alone.
And he dwells with great unction on
the relief and advantage one finds in
escaping from the real world to the
unreal which the soul creates for her-
self. True, he says that whatever
the object, real or unreal, abstract or
concrete, it is apprehensible only as
an individual object ; but the unreal,
the chimerical, the abstract, is never
individual. Why does he call con-
ceptions concepts^ if not because he
holds the conception is both the act
and the object of the mind in con-
ceiving ? And does he hold the con-
cept to be always individual, never
general ? Conception, in his system,
is always a generalization, or a gen-
eral notion, formed by tiie mind, and
existing only in the mind. How,
then, can it be an object of the
mind ? He says truly the object is
individual, but "the concept (p.
391) is uniformly general." And
yet, in the very first paragraph on
the next page, he calls it an object
of cognition I Farther or> he says,
" The concept is a purely relative ob-
ject of knowledge," whatever that
may mean ; and in the siime section,
section 389, he speaks of it "as a
mental product and mental object.*^

778

Porter's Human JnidkcL

To our undcrsUriding, be thus con-
tradicts hiniseif.

Vet we hold that whatever the
mind cognizes at all, it cognizes in
the concrete, as an individual object.
And Uierefore we deny that the
ide;is of the necessary, the universal,
of necessary cause, and the like,
which the author calls intuitions, and
treats as fust principles, necessary
assumptions, abstract ideas, etc., are
abstractions, mental conceptions, or
generalizations j for there are no con-
cretes or individual objects from
which they can be abstracted or gen-
eralized. As we really apprehend
them, when affirmed in the ideal for-
mula by the divine act, and as we
cannot apprehend wliat is neither
being nor existence, as the author
himself says, though continually as-
serting the contrary ; and as every
existence is a finite contingent exis-
tence, they must be real, necessary,
and universal being. They cannot
be generalizations of being ; for no-
thing is conceivable more general
and universal than being. Being,
taken in its proper sense, as the ens
simpikiUr of the schoolmen, is itself
that whidi is most individual and, at
the same time, the most general, the
most particular and the most uni-
versal. These so called necessary
ideas, then, are being ; and in ap-
prehending tJiem as intuitively affir-
med, we do really apprehend being.
Hence, as being, real and necessary
being, is God, whom the theologians
call Efts ncfcssarium et ren/i', God,
in affirming the ideal formul.1, intui-
tively affirms himself, and we really
apprehend him, not as he is in him-
self, in his essence, indeed, but as
being, the ideal or the intelligible,
that is, as facing our intelligence ;
or, in other words, we apprehend
him as the subject of the judgment,
£ns crcat f^istmtias^ or as the subject
of the predicate eicistences, united

and distinguished by hts creative ic^
tJie only real, as the only possabk,
copula.

The author makes mail ibc aiiil<^
gon of God« and, indeed, God i«
miniature, or a finite God, aiid
gravely tells us, p. foo, that **•»
have only to conceive the latnitJiiQtt
of our being removed, and we hkX^
the conception of God." But »i \
are not being, but exigence, we
finite and limited in our\<
remove the hmilalions, ,i.
not God, but nothing. Kitoiij
Uie finite, says P^re Gralry, and j
have God, in the same way and I
tlie same process that the
matician has his infiiutcf>tmaJ&
this process of elin^ii
finite gives the inath<
the intinitcly less than the
number or quantity, and it
give the theologian not the iiifi&iielf
greater but the infinitely less tlua
the finite existence. Be^td^s, tiie
process could at best ^ Dot

God in his being* but a .tmct

God, existing only as a mental g^
eralization. The universuJ cann
be concluded from the particub
nor the necessary from tiw? co
gent, bec;iusc, without the intuitioiii
the universal and the necesjMiry, '
have and can have no expericQce (
the particular and the coutingcni-
fact we commend lo the couside
tion of the inductive lbeolcigiaii&

As the conception i^ ' geo

ral, it can never he th^ .^

mind in the fact of thougliL It is I
product of the mind operating oo I
individual object or objects mt
which the mind has thought, and I
never the object itselC The
may be said of general satid
straction, and e^^ry fonn
soning. But if this be so, in
are conceptions, abstractions^
known ? If they are known
they miist be objects of ktiowji

com^H
itiooil

PifiUf^s Human Intellect.

779

if not known at all, how can we
think or speak of them? They
are known in knowing their con-
cretes, as the author himself tells us.
As concepts, abstractions, gene-
ralizations, or general notions, they
do not exist in nature, and cannot
be known or thought But they ex-
ist as qualities or properties of
things, and are known in knowing
the things themselves. Thus we
know round things ; all round things
have the same property of being
round ; we may, then, consider only
this property common to all round
things, and form the general concep-
tion of roundness ; but we do not see
or apprehend roundness, and the ob-
ject of thought is always the round
thing. So of all so-called univer-
sal that are abstractions, concep-
tions, or generalizations. The ob-
ject known is the concrete ; the ab-
straction, abstracted from it, being
nothing, is not known or even
thought.

But Cousin, in his Philosophic
ScholastiquCy has very properly dis-
tinguished general conceptions or
general notions from genera and
species. The former are real only
in their concretes, and knowable
only in them ; the latter are real, and
actually exist a parte rei. Genus has
relation to generation, and is as real
as the individual, for it generates the
individual. Hence, we cannot agree
with Leibnitz, when he makes the
genus or species consist in resem-
blance, and declares that resem-
blance real. The individual docs
not merely mimic the genus, but is
produced by it The genus is al-
ways causative in relation to the spe-
cies, and the species, in relation to
the individual. The intelligible is
always causative in relation to the
sensible, which copies or imitates it
The ^enus is not the possibility of
IndividualSi nor are they its realiza-

tion. It is not a property or a qua-
lity of men as individuals, for it is, in
the order of second causes, the cause
producing them, and therefore cannot
be generalized from them, or be a
general notion or conception, like
roundness, the generalization or ab-
stract of round. Without the genus
there could be no generation, as
without a generator there could be
no genus. Yet, though genera and
species, the only universals, properly
so-called, are, as the old realists
held, real, existing a parte reiy and
are distinguishable from the individ-
uals, as the generator from the gen-
erated, the species from the specifi-
cated ; they are not separable, and
do not exist apart from them. Adam
was an individual, lived, acted, sin-
ned, repented, and died, as an indi-
vidual man ; yet was he the gene-
ric, as well as individual, man ; for
he was the whole human race, and
the progenitor of all men that have
been born or are to be born.

But while we adopt, in relation to
genera and species, the doctrine of
the mediaeval realists, we hold with
regard to other so called universals
with St Thomas, who says they ex-
ist in mcnte cum fundamento in re.
The fundamentum in re of concep-
tions, abstractions, and generaliza-
tions is precisely the individual ob-
jects apprehended by the mind from
which reason abstracts or general-
izes them. The only point which
we now make against the author is
that the object of thought or know-
ledge is not the conception or notion,
but the object from which the reason
forms it ; and that in it nothing is
thought beyond that object Philoso-
phy has been divested of its scientific
character, made infinitely perplexing
and most difficult to be understood,
as well as utterly worthless, by being
regarded as the science, not of
things, but of these very conceptions,

abstractions^ and general notions,
P which, apart from their individuals or
l*concretes, are pure nullities. We in-
Tsist on this, because we wish to see
[philosophy brought back to the real,
I to objecls of experience in their rela-
Ition to the ideal formula ; and our
[principal quarrel with the professor
lis, that his philosophy is not real, is
luot the science of realities, but of
[conceptions and abstractions.

We can hardly pause on what the
Iprofessor says of judginent and the
[proposition. We can only remark
fin passing that every thought, every
erception, even, is a judgment — a
'judgment that the object thought or
[perceived is real or really exists.
j Every affirmation is a judgment, and
[every judgment is an affirmation ; for
[de?iials are made only by affirming
[the truth denied. Pure negations
fare unintelligible, present no counter-
j action to the mind, and cannot be
'thought. "The fool hath said in
his heart, God is — not." It is only
by asserting that God is that we can
deny that he is. Ever)^ negation is
the contradiction of what it afiirms,
[So-called negative judgments are re-
ally affirmative. We do not mean
that denials cannot be made, for we
are constantly making them ; but they
can be made only by affirtjung the
truth ; and the denial that transcends
the truth affirmed in the denial is
simply verbal, and no real denial at
all. Universal negation is simply
impossible ; and hence when we have
shown that any system of philosophy
leads logically to nihilisra, or even
universal scepticism, we have reluted
.it. Logicians tell us that of contra-
iictories one must be false ; but it is
equally just to say, that of contradic-
Jtories one must be true ; for truth can-
ttot contradict itself, and only truth
fcstn contradict falsehood.

But we pass on to Reasoning,
which the professor holds to be me-

Porttf^s Human Initilect

diate judgment, and to wliSe
hold alt the reflective operatioos c
reason may be reduced-. What
mediate judgment is, we do n
know. Reasonings nccessai

as the means and < i of ;

ing in a certain cla_ss of case^
the judgment itself is in all
rect The error of the pr
here, as throughout the whole i
Part III., and, indeed, of h\&
treatise, is that he treats ei
tion from the point of vie
ception, or the general notidli
stead of the point of view of :
as he cannot help doing as an i
tive psychologist.

Reasoning is a relleettve opa
tion. It operates on the matte
sented by ideal intuition and
Hence; it clears up, explains^ t
fies, and classifies what is intuili
affirmed, together with what
rience presents. Its h\
language. We can tli
language^ and so far De Bunaid^
wrong, unless he understood, ,
professor does, by thought, an i
reflection ; but we cannot relie
reason without language of sonifi
to re- present to the mind s-i
plation the ideal or inlelligifc
tion. This re presentation is nd
act of the soul herself, nor the (
and immediate act of the Creat<3
is the ideal intuition. It is
only by language in which the
or intelligible is en ' ^it^

presented, and of r \% tie

sensible sign or representation- In
other words, the ideal is an object d
reflection only as taught throo^ tbc
mediiun of language ; for
bear in mind that man i#
spirit or pure in
united to body,
have some sort of scnsihle rep
tation in order to reflect. He
peripatetic maxim, AtM esi m
iectu^ fuod n<m prim fuerU m .

Porter's Hutnan hUelUct

781

which does not mean that only sensi-
bles are cognizable, but that nothing
can be reflectively thought, or as the
Italians say, re-thought, (ripmsor
re,) without sensible representation.
That God is, can be proved with
certainty by reason; for we have
immediate intuition of that which is
God in the intuition of real and
necessar}' being; but we cannot
reach the conclusion that the intui-
tively affirmed object really is God
without reflecting on the intuition,
and this we cannot do unless it is
re-presented or held up to our con-
templation in language, or without
its being sensibly represented by the
word God. Language is the neces-
sary instrument of reason ; we can-
not reason without it, and only ra-
tional existences have language pro-
perly so called. No animal deprived
of " the discourse of reason " has
even articulation.

Those philosophers, or pretended
philosophers, who regard language
either as a human invention or as
the spontaneous production of hu-
man nature, have never duly consi-
dered its office in the development
of thought, and in the rational ope-
rations of the soul. Men could not
have invented language without re-
flection, and without language they
cannot reflect It needs language
to be able to invent language. The
other theory is no better. The soul
does not secrete language as the
liver secretes bile, for language has
in it more than human nature. The
spontaneous productions of nature
may be less than nature, but cannot
be more. There is a philosophy in
language broader and deeper than
human thought, a philosophy that
embraces elements which are known
only by revelation, and which human
nature does not contain. All lan-
guage is modelled after the ideal for-
mula. Its essential elements are

subject, predicate, and copula, or the
noun, adjective, and verb. The
verb and adjective may be, and often
are, combined in the same word, but
they can be resolved always into the
predicate and copula. The copula
is always the verb to be^ or its equi-
valent in other languages than our
own, and this verb is the only verb
in any language.

The verb to be is precisely the
name of God himself, the sum qui
SUM. We cannot make, then, a sin-
gle assertion but by the Divine Be-
ing, and he enters as the copula into
every one of our judgments without
which no affirmation can be ex-
pressed. But God is supernatural,
and is the author of nature; the
ideal formula which is repeated in
every judgment is not contained in
human nature, is not in the human
mind as in its subject, but is above
our nature, and by affirming itself
creates our nature, both physical and
intellectual. How then could our
nature, operating simply as second
cause, produce spontaneously lan-
guage which in its essential nature
expresses what is beyond and above
itself? Men, especially philoso-
phers, or rather theorizers, have
corrupted and still continue to cor-
rupt language, as we can see in the
book before us ; but we have never
yet heard of any one by the sponta-
neous action of nature secreting or
producing a language, or of any one
having a language without being
taught it. Yet nature is all to day
that it ever was, and as fresh, as
vigorous, as prolific. Even the fall
has not deprived it of any of its
primitive faculties, capacities, pro-
perties, or tendencies. If language
is a spontaneous production of hu-
man nature, we ought to have some
instances of children growing up and
speaking a rich and philosophical
language without having ever learned

782

Porters Human Tntetlecf,

it For ourselves, we have a huge
distrust of all those theories which
assume that nature could and did do
in the past what she does not and
cannot do in the present. Our sa-
rants employ themselves in seeking
the t_\7)es of domestic animals in the
wild races ; why not seek the t^^pe
of the wild races in the domestic?
Why suppose man could and once
did domesticate races which he
finds it difficult, if not impossible, to
domesticate now? We do not be-
lieve much in the modern doctrine
of progress, but we believe just as
little in the wonderful superiortly of
nature and men in antehistorical
times, which is sometimes assumed,
especially by the champions of pro-
gress.

Language is neither a human in-
vention nor a natural production,
but was created by God himself
and infused into man along wnth
the affirmation of the ideal formula,
when he made him and placed him
in the Garden, and it has been per-
petuated by tradition, or by being
handed down from father or rather
mother to child. It comes to us
from ihe hand of the Creator; he
who made man gave him speech.
We can explain the origin of lan-
guage in no other way, as we can ex-
plain the origin of man only by say-
ing With the catechism, God made
him. As language is the instrument
of reason, and represents to his con*
tempi ation the ideal which the Crea-
tor fitted it to sjinbolize, its corrup-
tion or confusion has a most disas-
trous effect on philosophy. It was
confounded at Babel, and men lost
the unity of speech, and with it the
unity of the ideal, and were dis-
persed. The Gentiles lost the unity
of language^ and they lost with it the
unity of the ideal, or the copula of
the divine judgment, and labored to
explain, as our modem satwth are

laboring lo explain, the
and laws of the universe iii^ithout tbe
creative act of God, Language, ct)^
rupted, represented to the aiiciett
Gentiles, and as it does lo our Bwk
deni physiologists and psycli
the ideal only in a mutil;it<
and hence the fatal error of <
and of modem so-called scic
which asserts panlheisin. It \%
cessary, in order to have a true phi*
losophy, to h^vt some means of pi^
serving the puritj' and infallibility cff
speech, and at no former period wis
such means more neccsswrf tkiB
it is now.

The instrument of reasociiog ii
language ; its form is the syflo^isoii
which is given in the ideal formda
All the matter of knowledge is gifwi
in presentation, and the syllogisa
does not advance it ; but it exptAJfl^
distinguishes, arranges it acconiiiif
to the real relations of the ob)ecti
known, clears up what is
and verifies what is uncertain, do
ful, by reducing the whole to
principle or principles. The prti
pie and model of the syT
in the ideal. Being and
are the extremes, and the cre»H
act is the mctitHs terminus.
major represents being, the
existences, and the middle temi ]
duces the conclusion. To this i
lar form of the syllorgism every fcfli"
of argument is reducible. If lit
major is universal, and the niitf
is proved, the conclusion ts
sary and apodictic.

The modes in which reaso
rates are two, deduction and
tion, or analysts and synthesis^
duction is simple anah^^is, or i
Kant calls analvttc ludgment,
simply dissects the subject,
it, and brings out to our disti
what is in tt It is neirer
but always cxpiicatlvey and _

us to distti^gvisli the part in #

Portias Human IntdUct,

783

ole, the property in the essence,
or the effect in the cause. Dr, Por-
ter entirely mistakes it in supposing
it to be an imperfect induction.
ere is nothing inductive in it.
iduction is what Kant calls a syn-
thetic judgment a posteriori^ and
,ds an element not contained in the
ibject analyzed. In synthetic judg-
lents a posteriori^ the added ele-
lent is taken from experience ; in
n the tic judgments a priori^ the
ded element is from the ideal for-
la, intuitively given, or rather, the
al formula is that into which what
ant calls synthetic judgments a
iori are resolvable. The syllogism
is used in deduction and in indue*
tion ; yet it is not properly either,

Kit is productive. As being creates
Eistences, so the major through the
iddle term unites the minor to it-
self and produces the conclusion.
Such men as Sir William Hamilton
and J. Stuart Mill, who reject the
middle term, and hold the major
^Aay be a particular proposition, are
^Ksled by their philosophy, which
^excludes the creative act of God
both from the universe and from sci-
e. No man who has a false or
'ective philosophy can understand
■c as a science. Pantheism,
ich excludes the creative act, is
supreme sophism. It is not easy
say what Dr. Porter's views of
Ipgic^ either as a science or as an art,
lly are.

'he chief complaint against the
fessor here is, that he makes rea-
ding tuni on the laws of the mind,
on conceptions, and general notions,
and reflecting, as logic, only the rela-
tions and forms of the creations or
products of the mind, instead of the
^fidacions and forms of things. He
^Bldies ever)'thing from the point of
^Hbw of the mental act, instead of
^fudying them from the point of view
' tli the ideal intuition, which is the

point of view of God himself. He
therefore gives in his science, not
things as they are, but as the mind
conceives them.

The conceptions and general no-
tions play, no doubt, an important
part in the process of reasoning, but
they play not the chief part, nor do
they impose upon logic the laws it
must follow. The categories are not
general conceptions or general no-
tions, formed by generalizing indi-
viduals or particulars. M. Cousin
assumes that he has reduced them to
two, substance and cause, or being
and phenomenon \ but as with him
substance is a necessary cause, and
as phenomenon is only an appear-
ance or mode of substance, his re-
duction is really to one, the category
of substance, which it is needless to
say is pure pantheism. They, how-
ever, may be reduced to the three
terms of the ideal formula ; for what-
ever is conceivable is being, exis-
tence, or the creative act of being.
The categories are not, then, mere*
ly formal, simply conceived by the
mind cum fufniiimcnto in re : but are
the ideal principles of things them-
selves. Take the categories of space
and time, which seem to puzzle the
author as they have puzzled many
greater and wiser men than he.
Space is ideal and actual Ideal
space is the power or ability of God
to externize his act, that is, to create
or act mi extra; and actual space is
the relation of coexistence of his
externized acts or creatures. Ideal
space pertains to being, is being it-
self; actual space being a real rela-
tion between creatures, and, like all
relations, really existing in the rela-
ted, comes under the head of exis-
tences, and is joined to being as well
as distinguished from it by the crea-
tive act. The reason of space and
time is the same. Time also is
ideal and actual. Actual time is

784

Hereniore- Brandon^

the relation of succession* and ideal
time is the ability of God to create
existences that, as second causes,
are explicated and completed suc-
cessively, or reach their end pro^es-
six'ely. Ideal time is God. Actual
time is creature, since all relations
really exist in the related. The
difficulty which so many eminent
men have felt with regard to these
two categories, evidently reducible
to the terms of the ideal formula,
grow out of their attempt to abstract
them, the ideal from God, and the
actual from the related, whether ex-
istences or events. Take away the
body and the space remains, says
Cousin. Certainly; because the in-
tuition of the ability of God to ex-
ternize his act — that is, to create — re-
mains. So of lime. So of the infi-
nite lincii of the geometrician. No
actual line is infinite, and the con*
ception of its infinity is based on the
intuition of the infinite power or

ability of God, the real grattcid do

which die line, when conceived lo
extend beyond the actual, is pio*
jected.

There are various other potots
presented by the learned proTessof
in this part and in Part IV, oo
which we intended to contoicJit, bal
wc have exhausted our space and Ibe
patience of our readers. We kite
said enough, however, to sJiow tJut
he recognizes intuition only as
act of the souL, and then'ff:*fv, hd
ever honorable his it till

he fails to recognise i*:
which is the act of God, he fails
get beyond experience^ lo
science beyond the sensible of
terial world with the ^

the soul on sensations. J j.:

cannot be followed as a sai'e guukin
the philosophy of the human mil
He has learning, industry, and
philosophical instincts, but is rutne
by his so-called Baconian method.

HEREMOREBRANDON ; OR» THE FORTUNES OF A,
NEWSBOY.

CHAPTER VI.

I couLT> not tell you one half the
projects Dick formed and rejected as
entirely hopeless before he at last
succeeded in inducing a gentleman
who had been very kind to him to
make an offer to Mr. Brandon of
some place in his office, which, while
it would not be more than, with his
now broken energies and failing
health, he could easily perform, if
he had the disposition, would give
him something to help him live upon.

Soon after this offer was made
and (with much grumbling) finally

accepted, Dick^ without reallf
ing it, found himself becoming ki
to Mn Brandon ; and, thanks to tbft
patience with which he listened to
that gentleman*s railings against tic
world, and his own hard fortUQ» in
it, taken into favor. It was a
sad sight for a hopeful, setf-rcspei
ing, Godfearing Catholic like Dii
to see this querulous m^n, fi
whom all vigorous spirit seemed t9
have fled, brooding over his
instead of holding up his hcad« %\
bravely going forth to make
most of what was icft ; a sad ibi
to hear the&e miserable repimn^

Heremor€-Bran(hfu

f(l85

which there was never a thought of
gratitude for the long years of com-
fort and plenty witli which God had
blessed him. But Dick bore it
latiently, and sought in every way
hich his simple experience could
devise to draw him from his despon-
dency ; to inspire him with some
trust in God. It was, however, with-
out any apparent success, other than
greater condescension from Mr.
Brandon, who, at last, weak and ner-
vous, would glafily avail himself of
Dick*s young strength in his walks
home.

And so» in time, that which had
seemed the impossible came to pass
very naturally* Mr. Brandon urged
Dick to enter the house, and he was
received as a guest in Miss Bran-
don's home. Home it must be call-
ed^ I suppose ; though it was a
dreary, desolate room, with ** board-

Eing-house " stamped in glaring let-
ters all over the grey walls and bad-
Jy*assorted furniture. Even Dick
could realize that it must be a very
different home from any which Miss
Brandon had ever seen before ; for it
was far different from the only pretty
rooms he had ever entered^ — ^those
dear, clean, sweet rooms at Mrs.
Alaine's.

"Mr. Heremore, Mary," was his
introduction, accompanied by a pa-
tronizing wave of Mr. Brandon's
and. Do not be surprised ; you
now I have never said— not even
1 his days of prosperity — that he
|lnras a gentleman — " Mr. Heremore,
Mary ; a young man who has thought
it not worth while to be unkind and
disrespectful to an old man who has
[lost every thing,"

'* I have heard my father speak of

you often,*' said Mary very quietly ;

.but in such gentle tones that Dick

[wondered how any man could count

limself poor — ^knowlng her,

"I really felt very nervous," Mr.

YOU VllL — 50

Brandon further explained, "about
coming home alone. I have been
so very uncomfortable to*day. But
that*s of no consequence, of course,

" I am very glad you brought Mr,
Heremore/* Mary answered readily,
and with more warmth than before ;
" and I am sure he was very careful
of you."

After that, conversation became
somewhat easier; although Dick
felt half like an impostor, and could
not do much to second Miss Bran-
don*s efforts to make the hour go by
pleasantly. She had several albums
and scrap-books of engravings with
which she tried to entertain him ;
but to do his best, he could think of
little else than the languid, weary
manner which had replaced the quick
steps and stately sweetness he had
known of old. When Mr, Brandon
left them for a few minutes, she turn-
ed with animation and said :

** Mr. Heremore, I must thank you
for your kindness to my father. I
would not have him suppose I consi-
der it kindness, but in my heart I
know it is, and I know you mean it
as such. Since things have gone
wrong with him, he seems to have
changed his whole nature ; he does
not appear to have any courage to
stand against tlie tide. I suppose it
would have been very different if
Mrs. Brandon had lived \ a wife
would have kept his spirits up as no
one else can,"

*'I know," stammered Dick, not
knowing what to say under the gaze
of her beautiful eyes, " I know — that
the death of your mother last sum-
raer— "

** Mrs. Brandon, you mean," she
interrupted in her quietest tones,
** that is, my father's second wife.
This Mrs. Brandon was not my
mother ; my own mother died long
ago." This so coldly that, for some-

786

Hereftwre-Brandan.

inexplicable reason, Dick fancied
she was glad to correct him.

" You were in the carriage at the
same time/^ said Dick, feeling that
he must say something.

** Yes,** answered Mary, ** but I re-
member little about it ; as soon as
wc found the horses were running
away, Mrs. Brandon became very
much alarmed, and almost before I
could say a word to her, we were
thrown out, and were both picked up
senseless. She was not conscious
of anytliing again. All these things
together have completely unnerved
poor papai and I really feel very
grateful to any one who is interested
in him. His old friends have re-
ceived but little encouragement to
visit us here, although it is only a
fancy of papa*s, I am sure, that they
feel any difference, and he is often
quite lonely."

Mr. Brandon soon rettimed, and
seeming to wish his daughter's undi*
vided attention, Dick rose and said,
"good-night."

It need hardly be said that he was
after this more enthusiastically de-
voted to their fortunes than ever be-
fore. He spent a few^ hours there at
different limes during the winter and
spring, and soon found himself at
ease in that drear\^ room ; but as he
knew Marj' better, his reverence for
her, "while it diminished not in the
least, became a deep and fervent
feeling, which kept her always in his
thoughts. She, too, seemed to re-
Ijard him with very kindly feelings,
and the sympathy between them was
so strong that it bore down many of
their differences of association and
education, and each was astonished
to find an unexf>ectedly ready under*
standing in the other. But as yet
Dick had said nothing of the litde
girl on the steps who gave him her
candy one cold Christmas morning
3*cars ago.

Once at New-Year's, and ;^sio ce
the 2 2d of FebniJiry, fioUilays on
which he was free, Dick bad beoi
down to the cottage in the coonnr,
and had seen Rose and the
skate and make soowhouses,
spent two of ilie coziest, hap
evenings of his life around the \
fire, talking pleasant talk with diose
dear people, among whom alcmej
realized the faintest idea of the ^
home. Now time bad gone by"
rapidly that he was to spend a witok
week there as he had the jrear be-
fore. But not exactly the saxnc ;
the last time he had been then
clear, bright day in February,
they were all coming home from
skating-pond together — it had cha
ed that he and Rose had fatlciii
in the rear of the children, who» hir-
ing skated since one o*clock in I
keen air, professed themselves " <
so hungry,*' and, as Dick Htiuld
hurry with tJiera, walked off in di$^
gust, each declaring to th^- ^i:fl

they didn't like Mr. Dii . ^

much this time as before ; he was
" no good '■ at atl.

" What a magnificent day P ]
said, for about the tenth time, a§ \
tramped by Rose's side through ^
crisp snow, j s gDiflf

down in ont • theOL

" I think I never sav. iplea*

did winter day in all i..\ „.

Not thinking of any additioni
this speech, and not being able i
truth to contradict it, Rose ke
her way, her neat little boots i
the snoWy and making, Dick tl
the most delicious music there ntf
was. Rose looked especially cham^
ing that afternoon ; fh>m the vny
crown of her head, with ?ier weall^
of golden hair, only half hidden by
her felt hat, to the dn boots

before mentioned, wl
skating dress, looped up, dtd
even affect to conceal^ Rose

Heremore-Brandon,

787

charming. Dick thought that her
very cloak seemed to nestle more
lovingly to her plump figure than
another's would ; and as for the
tiny muff, Uncle Carl's present, and
the blue silk handkerchief knotted
around her neck, Dick was certain
that Stewart never sold anything
half so pretty. So, if his lips talked
about the weather, it is hardly sur-
prising that his eyes embraced an-
other subject ; and I question if,
when her demure glances met his
gaze, Rose needed words to tell her
its meaning ; for, after all, are words,
the dearest and sweetest that come
from the lips, any dearer or sweeter
than those the eyes speak ?

But whatever she knew. Rose was
a true little woman, and showed no
sign.

"This is the place where Mrs.
Brandon was thrown," she said, as
they passed a broad street cutting
across the narrow road they were
following. "Just by those trees.
They say the horses could have been
managed only for her screams ; a
woman who screams at such a time
must have very little sense."

" I think so," answered Dick, look-
ing sadly toward the place Rose
pointed out.

" Miss Mary behaved wonderfully
well," continued Rose, with one quick
look into Dick's face as they passed
on. "She was perfectly calm, and
tried to quiet Mrs. Brandon. She
was very much hurt herself."

" Yes, so I have heard ; she shows
it, too ; you would hardly recognize
her now, she is so thin and altered."
" But, of course, she is more beau-
tiful for that," said little, plump
Rose, who had a great idea of deli-
cate, fragile girls.

"Not more beautiful, exactly," an-
swered Dick, -who had not a great
idea of delicate, fragile girls, " but it
makes one feel for her more."

"I know you feel for her very
much," said Rose.

" I have always honored her very
much," answered Dick warmly. " It
almost seems presumption for me to
say \feel for her ; but I do, indeed I
do."

" I am sure of it," Rose responded
with great warmth, and then there
was silence for a long time.

Rose broke it with a little trem-
bling in the first word or two at her
own audacity, but gathering courage
as she went on : "I knew you did
when you were here last summer ;
then I heard of her father's failure,
and then it seemed more natural ;
and — now — I am very glad for your
sake. I hope you will be very hap-
py. I do, indeed."

Now, Dick was no fool, and when
the strangeness of this speech caused
him to look harder than ever into the
glowing but demure little face by the
side of him, he felt for the moment a
great inclination not to say a word ;
for provokingly innocent as she
looked, he did not believe she was
at all so ignorant of the real state of
things. Rose felt the moment's hesi-
tation, and, poor little thing, got
frightened at her own conjuring,
which fright so changed the expres-
sion of her face that Dick's hesita-
tion vanished, and he answered :

" Of course I know what you mean,
Rose, although it is so strange. I
do not think of such a thing— it
would be very strange if I did. You
know better, don't you. Rose ?"

Rose looked up with a careless
answer, but thought better of it, and
said nothing.

"You never did really think it, did
you. Rose ?" he added, pursuing his
advantage, and repeating it until
there was no escape for Rose, who
had to answer truthfully, " No." She
having made this concession, he
made one, and told her the story of

JfW

HerefHore-Brandatu

his boyish days, and of the Christ-
mas day when he first saw Maty
Brandon. He had not felt very easy
about Rosens opinion of much he
' had to tell her, and was greatly re-
lieved when he saw all her assumed
carelessness depart, and that she Us-
, tened to him with earnest sympathy.
PHe was so encouraged by the gentle,
■womanly interest she gave him that
Ihe did not stop with the history of
his boyish days, but went on to nar-
rate a later experience ; very few
words sufficed for this. When he
told it. Rose understood very well
" vhy, if Mary Brandon were a queen
'^upon her throne, she would be no
more than friend or sister to him.

After that, there seemed no more
to be said ; for ihey finished the walk
in the still winter twilight almost in
silence.

Xhat was in February, when Dick
went down to Carlton to spend
^Washington's birthday, and it inau-
gurated a new era for Will, Rose
had a sudden interest in the post-
office, which was a long walk from
the cottage, and, in rainy wcatlicr or
on very busy days, was beyond her
reach. I believe all her spare pen-
nies went into Will's coffers about
that time, and I am sure all her
cakes and apples went into his pos-
session ; but, for all that, he was an
ungrateful page, and wished " there
wasn't no post-offices in the world/'
which opinion Will may alter -when
his own time comes.

This was in February, and it was
now August, and Dick was going
down for a week, one whole week in
the countr)\ Rose was at the gate
as she had been a year ago ; but she
iid not say " you are welcome," as
he had said before. The children
^k him into favor when they found
he had not come empty-handed, but
kad brought the books for Will, the
doll for Trot, and just such toys for

the rest as were most dcstn
though many rimes in their
Will did have his pailefi
tried by '* Mr. Dick's ever'
ging," he was, on the wl
ted to be an acquisition,
though, that Rose*s ba
Clara Hays, who was alv
to be of everj^ part)% and sidl|j
lected when she got there,
greatest sufferer ; it is not ev<
you see lovers who are
well bred and considerate fori
body. My excuse for Roisc]
Dick is, that they only had a '
and a week is such a short J
when one is very happy !

Dick's week was nearly al i
when his birthday, his iwctiO
birtliday came, and his good fn
made a little rejoicing for
their homely way. li W3is mJ
beautiful August day, and wai|
brated like a holiday by
ly. Vet it was not ex
less day for Dick, i!
first birthdav of his i i\

ceivcd the slightest notice froci
one, and ought to have madcj
radiantly happy. He had
a present made for him wit
hands, with no one cx>tilcl
many loving thoughts of hifu '
in it, from his own dear Rose.
little table was covered with thi
keepsakes he had ever recet%Td 1
any one, and still he was not
Among the treasures on his litt|
ble there stood one — which rca
me that I should not have callo
others the first — from the
whose face he could not reioei
and what might it not
Hitherto he had thought but litd
the box of which Carl
slightingly years ago ; but now j
the day of opening it had
grew really afraid of it. He i
bered stories of vengeance 1
ed from the grave» of oimes

Heremore-Brandon.

789

expiated by the children of the per-
petrators years afterward, of fearful
confessions of sin and sorrow and
wrong in countless forms ; and Dick,
in the first glow of his first joyous
A^ySy did not know how he could
bear even a mist upon the rising sun
of his happiness.

" Not until the last thing to-night,"
he said finally, laying down the box
and turning away from the table.
" I will be happy to the last minute,"
and he went down to ask Rose to
walk with him in the beautiful twi-
light afler tea. It was earlier than
he had thought when he went down,
and Rose was reading in the shadow
of the porch, or seeming to read, for
a book was in her hand, and not, as
he supposed, engaged in getting tea.
" I did not suppose I should find
you here," said Dick.

" Shall I go away ?" she asked,
looking up and smiling.

"Yes, do," he replied, sitting by
her, "you know there's nothing
would please me better." But for
all he tried to be gay. Rose saw that
the shadow she had observed over
Mm all day was deeper than before.
" Dear friend," she said, softened
and made earnest at once, "some-
tiling troubles you to-day."

"Yes, dear Rose, I am troubled
to-day in spite of all the kindness
shown me. My little box troubles
me ; I am afraid to open it."

" Then the best thing is to do it
at once, is it not ? One only makes
such things worse by thinking about
them."

** I know it. No, I will not open
it now ; I will have every moment of
happiness I can first."

" What happiness can it take from

you ? You will be yourself still, let

there be in it what there will. Our

happiness is our own."

« O Rose 1"

« O Dick ! if we are good, are we

not happy? And nobody can make
us bad against our will."

"But, Rose, this may tell me
something that you — there is my
fear, Rose, it may take you away
from me."

" Oh I no, Dick, dear Dick, how
can anything take me away from
you ? But even if it did, you know
we always said, ' If it were for the
bestJ If it were not for the best, we
would not wish it, would we, dear ?
Yes, we could help wishing it ; when
the good God saw it was not best, he
would give us strength to bear it."

" I never could bear it," said Dick.

"Yes, you would; but I am not
afraid. One should not be afraid of
ons's own parents. Come, there is
a long time before tea. We will go
up the hill where no one will inter-
rupt us, and where we shall be with-
in call if we are wanted. Won't you
get the box, Dick, and we will open
it up there ? that is, if you want me
with you."

" You make me brave, dear Rose.
Perhaps, after all, it is nothing."

So he did as she advised ; and,
seated a little back of the house, the
only spot in which there could be
five minutes' reading possible, he
broke the seal, undid the wrapping,
now yellow with age, while Rose
spoke a word or two of courage, then
turned her head a little away from
him, and you may be sure prayed
hard and fast for strength and grace
for both to hear whatever of good or
of evil was in store for them. Inside
the wrapper Dick found a tiny key
with which he eagerly unlocked the
little mahogany box which was, per-
haps, to make great revelations to
him.

Then Rose drew still further away
from him, and with a more earnest
gaze watched the sun going down to
the west ; for they were young, and
many things that you and I would

79P

Heremore-Brandan.

count ihe merest triHes, were of

great importance to them ; neither

thought of anything worse than of

1 something which should separate

tliem. Poor little Rose trembled

kst he should 6nd a will therein — as

I she had read in story-books — -that

J would make him too rich and great

I for her to think of him ; and Dick, to

[ivbom her love for him had always

seemed a wonder — ^so great was his

[reverence for her and his own feci-

I ingof un worthiness — ^trembled lest he

should find some legacy of disgrace

that would make it impossible for

\ him ever to see Rose again. So in

I silence and with wordless but ear-

nest prayers, they sat together in the

softening August sunlight, with

, hearts beating heavily for fear it

) might be for the last time,

CHAPTER Vlt.

After all, there was not much in
the mysterious box. A square pack-
age, looking like a letter, folded in
[the old style, and just fitting in the
[box, lay uppermost \ upon the out-
jsidc of which, in a clear, round hand,
Iwas written the name Richard Ilere-
\more. Before breaking the seal of
I this, Dick took out two paper boxes,
[in each of wliich was a miniature,
I painted on ivory ; he glanced at one,
llhen with an expression of intense
relief, notunmingled with something
of awe, he, for the first time, turned
f to Rose.

" Look, Rose," he said, in a low
voice.

'Do you think this is your mo-
l^her?*' she asked, in a voice even
I lower and more reverential than his,
1 after a long, long look ; for it was a
kyoung and beautiful face, with clear
[eyes that looked frankly at you, and
f that bore in every feature the unmis-
I takable stamp of true womanliness.
' Do you think I his is your mother ?**

"I cannot tell yet," said
" but as t/iis is here, it*s all
there's nothing more to dread i

But Rose did not aoswer*
quick eyes had seen more tha
character ; diey had pUced thcoi^
nal of that portrait in her propers
cial sphere, and that — the highest

The other miniature was of a m
somewhat older, though not noc
than twenty-five or thirty^ if so nocb
but it was a face of less charactci m
less culture. Dick showed it to Rait
but neither made any comiDeoC i^
it- Dick then broke the seal <
letter, and again Rose turned
her face. A few slips of pap
out as he unfolded the packjfe
these he gathered up without look
ing at them, and then, calling
name once more, he read In
voice, from the yellow paper, 1
thefs letter :

" My Dear Child : I
aside a few little things that harel
treasures lo me, and as I iiii|
live to see the day when I eanj
them to you, I write a few tine
them, which possibly may co
your eyes some day. A healthrj
dy little fellow you a
around my feet and try
up my dress as I write, aii«
weak a woman that I ma
stoop to raise my darling to i
It is hard for me, seeing yoii
write to you as a man ; and
kind of a man I have no wi
judge. I fear I shall not live'
enough to leave any imprc
your mother's face upon yoti^j
what will become of you, my f
dear cliild, in this terrible world :
I am gone, I dare not think. Yoiii^
so tender and good now that
not realize that you will change ;
you will have no one to guide \
You put your arms up to me^
brown, hard little arms, as If i
me not to speak of thil» and

Heremore-Brandatu

791

try to believe that God will save you

rough everything; so that when you

ad this, you will be one whom I

uld be proud to own if I lived.

** You are my greatest comfort, and

.such a comfort 1 It seems as if you

:new ever}'lhing, and could console

it ev^iy thing ; and often I think

that for you I shall in some way find

strength to struggle on for a few

years more. Dear child^ I know not

how much or how little to tell you. I

would like to write volumes for you,

that you might know me in the future

edays when no father, mother, or bro-
nier will be near to help you in your
troubles. But I can only write a
Mttle.
f "1 have been married five years,
land you are my oldest but not my
only child. You have a sweet little
sister asleep on the bed. I say the
words to you aloud, and you creep
n tiptoe to look at her, turning and
iling at me as you go. Even if
e should live after I am gone,
ich I cannot wish for, I cannot tell
hether you will be kept together j
not, 1 know you will care for her
it is possible, if only because your
lead mother asks it. I cannot be-
ieve the wonderful child-love you
,ve for her and me will be permit-
d to die out, or that your heart
n ever grow hard, your heart so ten-
der now% There I kiss the dimpled
hand ever so softly and come away,
for you must not wake the darling
now. Will you love her always, let
what may be her fate ? Remember
ways, she had no mother to guide
r. Your father I have not seen for
two years, since Mamie was a few
ontJis old. I have since heard that
is dead. I know none of his rela-
ves ; for he brought me an entire
ranger to New Yerk three years ago,
and seemed unwilling that I should
,ke many acquaintances. I have
relatives whom I have ever seen, in

the world, except my father,who lives,
or did live, at Wiltshire, in Maine.
I do not know if he is living or not ;
I have written to him again and
again, but I have heard nothing from
him. He would have come to me if
he were alive, for he was always de-
voted to me. I could write you a
hundred letters about his love and
devotion ; and now, if I could only
let him know where I am, he would
come to me wherever he might be,
I have named you for Iiim. He saw
you ouce when you were a month
old ; he came and took me home for
the summer ; he loved you dearly, as
he loved me, and was proud enough
of you. If only I could put you
and Mamie in his hands now, how
contentedly I could die 1 For this I
toiled and struggled from the day I
saw your father last, until this pover-
ty and sickness have killed all hope.
Not al! hope ; for I think every step I
hear — and I hear thousands passing
by — that my father has come to me
to save me, to take my darlings under
his care, and to let me die on my
own white bed in my own dear room
at home.

** There, darling, there's no more
to tell. Why should I tell more?
You come of good blood, my child^
of a brave, upright race. My child,
my darling, put your arms tight,
tight around mammi*s neck, and'
promise for the man that you will be
worthy of your name and race. Be
good, be true, be honest. How L
should blush in my grave, it seems
to me, if child of mine, if these dear
children, so pure and innocent, who
cling to me now, covering me with*
kisses, should soil their white souls
with falsehood, deceit, or dishonesty.
God knows what I would say. Fa-
therless, motherless, I must leave my^
little ones ; no earthly help^ no com-
fort, nothing, only the one hope that
will not leave me to my latest breath.

792

Brandon,

that my father lives, will find me out,
save me, and take care of you,

"It has been hard for me to write

this poor, childish letter; one poor

apple-woman — poor, yet not so poor

as I^ — has been my only friend ] to her

['1 have talked for hours of you, and

Ifibe has listened earnestly, and will do

her utmost for you two, God will

'aid her, I know. I will not put any

i' good-byes * on paper so little like-

f ty ever to be seen by your eyes j but

[I will kiss you a thousand times, my

Harling, while I lake one last look at

liese portraits of your father and me,

you leaning against my knee looking

It them too. You, pure, unsullied

[child, shall cling to mc, and answer,

rthough you cannot understand, the

promises to be good I ask of you to

ulfil through all your life. Your mo-

ber,

" Marv Herbmore Brandon."

** Brantfon f^* repeated Rose and
)ick together, when he read the sig-
nature. Then Dick read the slips of
aper that had fallen out of the let-
ter ; they were all the same, notices
of her marriage from different pa-
pers :

"Married. — At the residence of the

«ide*s father, on Wednesday, May $tb,

Charles Brandon, of New- York, to Mar}%

only daughter of Dr. Richard Hcremore, of

IViitshire, Maine."

Rose looked at Dick almost with
terror in her face, Dick knew not
how to answer her,

" It may not be the same," she
said at last,

^ ** The letter does not seem sure o
his death," suggested Dick.

** But you have met him — would
he not have noticed your name?"

" I should think so. But it %vas
long ago» and perhaps he has known
others of the name. Besides, Miss
Brandon — O Rose I if she should be
that sister! — Miss Brandon told me

her mother died long ago ;

ed so proudly to disclaim this

Brandon, whom I called her tnotl

" How could she be with you
ther, if Mr. Brandon is that,
not know any thing about yoitJ

*' I cannot understand it,
go to see him to morrow/*

" O Dick t"

** Yes, dear Rose, I must. I|
only two days of vacation left, i
must know all before I go bad

" And then you will not be
for so long ?"

"Yes, I will, Rose ; lH be bcrei
I have to walk all night, sec
windows, and go back before '
light ! Yes, I will see you.
not bear all the long sepamt»OQ !
did before, it is loo muck f
may I go to-morrow?*'

"Yes, Dick, you must go,
Dick! what a mother she wasj
can just see her, so weak she
not lift little you in her arms]
yet, I am sure, giving you a the
caresses, and ctying over you
wrote that letter ! If she could (
see you now 1"

" I know she doe^ see me ; I
does not see me as I o^ight
having had such a mother."

*' She is proud of you if she
you/'

" See how patient she was, Ra
She says she is poorer than the [
apple*woman, and yet no comply
and she was not used to trow
am sure» from her face."

** So sweet and grave as she^
Really, Richard, look ! Upon
word, Miss Brandon has just
eyes I It £f so I See ! ihe same 1
gray eyes, so clear, deep, at]
ing at )^u so frankly and ^%
not with the frankn*
asked ; but — I can'i
that calmi straightforward way
Mary has when she lisieuii to
alwa}'s as if she would en

Heremore-Brandon.

793

)0, to go on. Indeed, you
D to-morrow !"

is so strange, Rose. I feel
d almost turning. Have we
read it over once more ?"
iar not, for it is already quite
)ut you will tell mamma and
Clara about it, and Uncle

! at once ; as soon as I can.
think of nothing else until
ow. Rose, he must have
her badly, or she would have
ne his name instead of her

think, perhaps she meant

n to be added."

I does not say a word against

>ut she does not praise him.

lake him tell me, himself, if

e man. Do you think he is ?"

im sure of it ! And Miss

n is your sister ; perhaps that

she spoke to you that Christ-

y, and why you have always

I attracted to her."

w strange it is ! Will she

/ to have me for a brother, I

ry ! She will be very proud

onder how I should speak to
) Rose, Rose ! do say some-
• steady me ; I feel so strange,
f I were talking so foolishly 1"
I are not talking foolishly,
ick ; and if you were, there
Rose to hear you, and shall
: talk as you please to her ?"
mk God, my darling ! this

separated us."

not yet."
: yet !"

at will your new father and
ind sister think of me ?"
.1, Rose, wait till I ask

haps a grandfather, too,"

>se.

ve him alreadv. If he should

be living, that would be something
grand, wouldn't it? You may be
sure she loved him."

" And you may be sure she never
let him know until perhaps the very
last, that she was in trouble. Wo-
men and children never tell their
sorrows to those who are entitled to
help them."

"Why, Rose?"

•* Oh ! I cannot tell you that ! I
only know it's so. Here we are at
home. Have patience ; for though
to-morrow you will have the news,
to night is all /have !"

"And no matter what happens,
Rose," said Dick, as they lingered a
moment outside the house, "you
will trust me just the same ?"

" Of course I will," Rose answered
readily. A question and answer that
have been given — and falsified — I
wonder how many times since the
world began; falsified, for even a
woman's faith is not without limit ;
though Rose thought it was, as
many had thought before her. *' Of
course I will ; why should you ask,
Dick ?"

" I don't know ; only that every-
thing seems whirling around with
me to-night, and the only thing that
seems clear to me is that I must not
lose you."

" It will be your own fault if you
do," said Rose. " But you must not
try me too much ; for things might
get whirling around with me, too,
some day, and I should not know
faith from want of pride; so be
good."

" And if it is possible, I must come
down at once and tell you how it all
ends. If it could only be that I
could have you close at hand to tell
you all !"

" Indeed ! I am glad," exclaimed
Rose, who, much as she loved Dick,
could not endure to think of the
time when she should have to leave

Heremore-Brandoiu

795

old stocking, at her liege lord's com-
mand, for this purpose.

" But, Mr. Stoffs, I have, I think,
enough for this."

"Then do not spend mine, but
take it with you for fear of accident
Good-night ; do not be fooled by any-
thing Mr. Brandon may say — he's an
artful one — but find out all you can
about your grandfather; remember
that."

So Dick was left to pass a sleep-
less, fevered night, filled with the
strangest fancies, and perplexed by a
thousand fruitless conjectures. At
the first glimmering of daylight he
was up, and, after making a show of
eating the substantial breakfast his
kind friends had prepared for him,
turned, without being able to say
more than a word or two, to leave.

"Dood-by," said Trot, sliding
down from her chair, with her bib
on, and her face not over clean, to
get his parting kiss, as well as to put
in a reminder for his return. "What
'oo bing Trot from the 'tore ?"

" What do you want^ Trot ?" asked
Dick, lifting her up.

" Me wants putty tat," she answered
with animation ; " dear 'ittle titten I"

Dick promised to do his best,
shook hands silently all around,
tried to laugh at the old shoe Minnie
had ready to throw after him, at last
heard the gate close behind him, and
was alone on his way to the little
yellow station-house.

" He'd better be alone," Rose had
said when something had been said
privately about accompanying him.
" He has a great deal to think about,
and he can do that best while he is
walking in this fresh morning air."

" O mamma !" she said, when
Mrs. Alaine stood beside her, after
Dick had passed out of sight, " O
mamma ! if Mr. Brandon should take
it angrily !"

"You may be sure he will not,"
replied Mrs. Alaine, " he is so broken
down, he will be very thankful to
find a son like our Dick who will be
worth so much to him. He is the
most selfish man ever lived, Mr.
Brandon is."

"Well, I wish it were over,"
sighed Rose, turning back to the
house and the day's round of house-
hold duties.

TO BB CONCLUDED.

796

The Approaching Gmcral CounciL

THANSLATKD FROM TH« FRXMCH.

THE APPROACHING GENERAL COUNCIL,

BY MGR. DUPANLOUP, BISHOP OF ORLEANS.

The church and the world have
been filled with expectation for more
than a year. When the catholic bish-
ops were gathered at Rome to cele-
brate the eighteenth centenar)-' of the
martyrdom of St. Peter, and for the
solemn canonization of saints, the
Sovereign Pontiff declared the neces-
sity of a general council, and an-
nounced, at the same time, his inten*
tion to convoke it at an early date.

The bull of indiction has already
appeared. On the twenty-ninth day
of last June, the feast of the holy
apostles Peter and Paul, the Holy
Father, by letters addressed to all the
bishops of ihc Christian world, fixed
the date of the future council, and
summoned the Episcopate of the Ca-
tholic Church to Rome, Since that
time, by two truly paternal letters,
the Holy Father has invited the
Greek Bishops, and our separated
brethren of all the protestant com-
munions, to profit by the future coun-
cil to undertake again the work of
reunion, already several times at-
tempted by the church, but which
has always been frustrated by the
misfortunes and the evils of our day.

So it is no longer merely a hope.
The first act necessary for the hold-
ing of the council is accomplished.
The apostolic letters, known already
throughout the world and received
everywhere with joy, even amid tJie
infatuations and the bitter woes of
llie present time, have stirred the
hearts of the people. All look again
to Rome. Even her enemies are at-
tentive as well as astonished, and
they feel that a great event is going

to happen. And truly that whidi 1
soon to come to pass at Rome, afl
in the church, is a rar^ and so-
lemn fact, a fact of sovereign irnpof*
tance, perhaps even the grea
event of the century. Let no on
feel surprised at this language. I k
well aware that events of imroena
importance have marked fT
ning and the course of the 1 1
century. Profound revolution^i
passed over it, and even yc^ti
we have seen one of ihc otte
thrones of Europe loppling
Enmities and wars have dtstud
nations. The old and i
forced to meet the ^
problems. Yet in lliis century ihep
is something superior to worldly j
bition and the interests of politic
passions. It is the spiritual inle-~
rests of the people, and those su-
premely important questions, whosi
solution brings peace to the sou
and tells us of the eternal desd
nies of humanity. It is for su
purposes as these that the Cathoii
Church calls her bishops to Ro
True it is that the church appears I
many men as being of little iinpor-
tance ; she seems to occupy only i
small place in modem society,
small, indeed, that modem poGd
cians have recommended tbal
should no longer be taken iDtOCOmid*
eration. Yet the church is^aod i
remain, the most noble power of i
world, because she is the Hpinf
power ; and Rome* the centre of I
power — Rome which will sooq
within her walls these gremt
of catliolicit)' — wiU be alwiq^ ao*

The Approaching General Council,

797

cording to the words of the poet,
** tlie most beautiful and the most
holy of things beneath the sun"—
Kerum pukherrima Roma.

What then is the Catholic Church,
and what is this council which is
going» within a few months, to pre-
sent so grand a spectacle to the
world ? I propose to follow the ex-
ample of my venerable colleagues,
who have, in France and in the dif-
ferent parts of Christendom, publish-
_^ed pastoral instructions on this sub-
let. I will recall to your minds what
m ecumenical courxil is, to which,
>r a long time, we have not been ac-
customed, I will state the motives,
inspired from on high, which have in-
duced the Holy Father to take this
step, which is the most considerable
and extraordinary of the ponlifical
government. Then we shall see if
there is any foundation for the alarm
that the announcement of this act
aas caused among certain badly dis-

sed or feebly enlightened minds :
inally, I will make known what we,
jishops, priests, and faithful, have the
right to expect.

THE COUNCIL.

" God," says Bossuet, " has created
a work in the midst of us, which, se-
parated from every other cause and
belonging to him alone, fills all time
and all places, and bears everj^where
in the world the impression of his
hand, the stamp of his authority : it
is Jesus Christ and his church,''*

There exists, then, in this world,
above all human things, though at
the same time most intimately con-
fiected with them, a spiritual society,
in empire of souls. An empire of a
ifTercnt and divine order, more hea-
irenly than worldly, and yet an em-
pire really here below, a complete

society, having, like every other so*
ciety, its organization, its laws, its
action, its life. A society not built
up by the hand of man, but by God
himself It does not require the ap-
proval of any human being ; for its
mission is as sacred as its source,
and it draws from it all its essential
rights. A pilgrim in this world and
a divine stranger, as Bossuet has
somewhere said, and yet a sovereign,
the sovereign of souls, where she has
an inviolable sanctuary. She does
not encroach upon the temporal pow-
ers, neither will she abdicate at their
suggestion her divine riglits. She
is happy to meet with their approval,
and she does not disdain their ab
liance j but she knows^ when it is ne-
cessar), how^ to do without them. She
does not impede their terrestrial mis-
sion, nor will she consent that they
should interfere with her career. A
universal society is God's church,
which knows no limit of time or bar-
rier of space; she is the treasnre-
house of celestial goods, charged to
communicate evangelical truth to
men until the end of time ; and, for
this reason, as well as by her origin
and her growth, she holds in a world
which she alone has civilized, a place
which no other power will ever fill.
Ves, this marvel exists upon the
earth ; among all human, temporal,
limited, and constantly changing go-
vernments, there is this spiritual so-
ciety, this government of souls, ex-
tending everywhere, immutable, with-
out boundaries, and which is called
the Catholic Church

If we examine her construction
more closely — and we must do this
if we wish to understand the mean-
ing of the most solemn of her acts,
the Ecumenical Council— w^e shall
sue with what divine art Jesus Christ
has proportioned the means to the
end. It is a part of our faith, that
the Son of God has given to men, not

798

The Approaching General CouftciL

lor a time but for the whole duratinn
of time, " for all days, even to the
consummation of the world," a collec-
tion of truths, of commandments, and
of sacred ordinances. The Chris-
tian society that our Lord called his
church, ecciesiam meam^ has the
guardianship of these divine revela-
tions. A visible society, because re-
ligion should not be an occult thing;
and perpetually visible, because per-
petuity has been promised to it j in
short, a universal society, because all
men, without exception, are called
and admitted within her fold.

But the divine revelations could
Bot be transmitted unaltered for
"ages, if they had been subjected to
changing and capricious interpreta-
tions of private judgment ; therefore
it was indispensable that the doctri-
nal authority should be sovereign,
that is to say, it must be infallible.
An authority cannot be sovereign in
matters of faith, and demand an inte-
rior assent, without being infallible.
This it was that the divine Founder
of Christianity has wished to do, and
really did, when, giving to the apostles
their mission, he pronounced these
words, the last which have fallen from
his lips : " As the Falher has sent me,
I send you. Go then and teach all
nations, baptize them in the name of
the Father, of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost, and teach them to ob-
serve all the commandments that I
have given to man : and behold I
am with you all days, even to the
consummation of the world." Such
is, then, the essential character of the
church ; it is a doctrinal authority,
providentially infallible by the divine
assistance, in all tilings revealed by
God.

It is easily seen how unity is born
of this infallibility ; not an acciden-
tal unity, but a necessary^ and per-
manent unity, because the principle
of unity is permanent in the church.

The principle of unity, an
this, a centre of unity, was aioo
indispensable conditions o{ a i
th us founded. 1 1 was necessary tin
a teaching church, spread ihfnugtioi]
the world, should have a he
centre, a chief, in order that it i
be united in a single and dtstijl
body. Jesus Christ has not nc
ed this necessity; for among hi]
ciples he chose one whom
vested with certain special privil
to whom he entrusted, accordiq
his divine expression, ** the kc
the kingdom of heaven," who
called the rock, the foundation-^
of the edifice, whom he comnuiDdn!
" to confirm his brethren in the £u
whom he called the pastor
sheep as well as of the lamlis,^
is to say, the shepherd of the
fold.

This is the hierarchy of the i
lie Church- In order to plice i
perpetual check upon timc^
destroys alt things, and in ordf
give the necessary support to th
man mind, which is ever chani
jt was, indeed, necessary tJmt a ■
gious society should be thus
structed. But a divine hand '
quired to constitute a society of I
kind, which was composed off
men ; and these grand characteii
unity and authority, in per
and in catholicity^ are m the cfc
as the shining seal of Uie po«
hand which has established it.
it remains firm among men, and (
in spite of universal change. In \
is the natural restlessness of
man mind shocked at the dogmi
our faith, and heresies succee
heresies f this constant movra
cannot affect her firm constituij
she will remain, as says the ap
** the pillar and ground of ir
— Coiumnatt Jtrmsmmhtm Vmt^

*<* It is neoesiary that hcveiis ilnd^ W* t

Connlii. xi. 19^ Ternble aeemiiir, mi* Bbwa*

The Approaching Gmeral Council

799

b is the Catholic Church. An
inical council is this Catholic
Y assembled to do, with more
flity, the same work which, dis-
t, she does every day. This
5 the transmission and authen-
trprelation of the dogmatic and
. iralhs of divine revelation.
is what I desire to explain at
(me, so that it may be clearly
Itood by our contemporaries,
|ve long been unaccustomed to
.things. My design is not, in-
as you know, an intention to
p exhaustively that no one else
reat upon the questions con-
l with the councils of the
^ Volumes have and could
be written on this subject. But
It there are some necessary no-
Which require to be explained
(jrecision, since these matters
It familiar at this day, and also
$e, as on every other topic, the
% and fundamental ideas areal-
jhe most useful.

ouncil is an assemblage of bish-
^nvoked for the purpose of dis-
g questions concerning the
(norals, and discipline. A coun-
larticular or general ; particu-
|t represents only a part of the
I ; general or ecumenical, when
tesents the universal church,
eral council, simply because it
pnts the whole church, has the
if doctrinal infallibility and
)ne authority given by Jesus
; to the church herself, to the
>f pastors united to their chief,
tticular council has no infalli-

\ supreme chief of the church,
^pe, and he only, has the right
(yoking general councils. For
pne reason, the Pope alone has

f^ht of presiding over their deli-
►ns. And as a question of fact,
|ie that popes, either personally
legates, have presided over

every ecumenical council. Thus
at Nice, Constantinople, Ephesus,
Chalcedon, as well as at Trent, the
popes presided by legates. At the
councils of Lateran, Lyons, Vienna,
and Florence, they presided person-
ally. " Holy Father/' wrote the fa-
thers of Chalcedon to Pope St, Leo,
" you will preside in the midst of the
bishops, who are judges of the faith,
as the chief over the members in the
persons of those %vho hold your
place." It is the sovereign pontiff's
duty to close the council, to dissolve
it in case of necessity, and to con-
firm its decrees. The accord of the
bishops and the Pope is manifestly
necessary for the ecumenical charac-
ter of a council.

Gathered in council from all quarr
ters of the world, and having the
Pope at their head, as witnesses of
the faith of their churches, as judges
of the divine law, ^^ Episcopis judi-
cibus,^* said the fathers of Chalcedon.
" Defining I have subsctihtd^^ " /
have subscribed pronouncing with the
hoiy synod :''^ thus it was that the
bishops of Chalcedon and Ephesus,
and also of Trent, affixed their sig-
natures.

Custom governs the exterior forms
used in these assemblies. The sol-
emn sessions, where the decrees are
promulgated, are distinguished from
the congregations where they are ela-
borated ; with what care, what exact-
ness, what profound research, the
history of the Council of Trent has
already shown, and the coming Coun-
cil of Rome will gv\^ us a no less re-
markable proof. The Holy Father,
indeed, ever since he took the great
resolution of convoking a council,
has been occupied with activity pro-
portioned to the importance of the
future assembly. He has used such
means as were proper for the head

8cx)

The Approaching Gemral CounciL

of the church in an ecumenical
council. Several commissions or
congregations, composed of learned
cardinals, and of theologians chosen
from different nations, were at once
appointed by him, and are now zeal-
ously working upon the questions
which will be considered in the coun-
cil. There is a special congregation
upon Dogma, one upon Canon Law»
one to consider the various questions
concerning Religious Orders, one to

► discuss the relations of Church and
State, and one upon the churches of
the East.

It is the usage of the church, when
the Pope intends to convene an ecu-
menical council, to notify in advance
the bishops who bring there not only
the authority of their sacred charac-
ter, but also the counsels of their ex-
perience, because their dispersion in
many different countries has given
them great knowledge and a special
competency to understand the times
and the needs of their |>eople. Thus
Pius IX., in two allocutions, address-
ed to the bishops assembled at Rome,
announced to them the future coun-

I cil. By his last Bull, he has called
them all there and fixed the precise

I date, so that the prelates, notified
and convoked in advance, may have
the time to study the questions at
their leisure, and arrive perfectly pre*

I pared at the date indicated by the

I Sovereign Pontiff.

I do not need to add that, although

' the Pope and bishops can add discipli-
nary laws, and modify, more or less,
the canon law, because these are not
by their nature immutable, that in
matters of faith, it is not the business
of councils to make dogmas. Dog-
mas are never made in councils, but
they may be formulated there. All
that concerns dogma is learned from
the holy Scriptures and tradition, and
from their authorized interpreters. It
b only after these have been tho-

roughly investigated and dis
and after tlie invo< the Hdl

Ghost, that the coui. . , ijx» «lu

has always been, what vk D0W| d
belief of the church.

History counts eighteen
cal councils.* It wou
to determine the almost
ber of particular councils. N^
can show more clearly than i
assemblies tlie wonderful vii;
the church, and the pow er she 1
within herself to protect her of
istence both against the errors i
the human mind is ever pre
and also against comiption and d
within the church, abuses whic
unavoidable becatise of the in
of human nature. She is the J
society upon the earth where
lions are not necessary^, and
reform is always possible,
not one of these many cou
which has a regulation upon
pline at the same time that it i mj
definition of faith ; and the fl|
Council of Trent itself, withoutUP

coundlf: t. Ku i^iuMtl Anoi. «§» i^

ihe divinity of ' Cnnnmnanofk, k fk

Holy GImml j. Ephcmw, in 4|i, «K>iinil Kciiski
who erred otTiKemiag tlic InoniAtkv^ mni Mavil
give liie BletMd Ytrpn the tiile Modw ef Girf. <
Chaloedoa, in 4S'.tcanu& ffirtjihc^ «il« mitd/HB
an ettar« Ibe oppotoc of thai of NaliviaB. %. Cfl
ttvniincifiie. in 55^ aRaintt th« (hvec ciflttWMidM
Icn whtdi fostered ilie error of Nea«oila» OA Af V
canutiocu 6u Cotutantinople in 6lio» tg^Aair i
Monotlieltteft, i»ho concinJbd Uie error ef CMpAi
to denying thai Jevtu Chriet hJid a Imwwa V^ '
Ktce, ta ^ft?* «l*iii«t llie looBociMli, or 1ncA«f \
utt^gca. 8. CooelsoliiKipk, ia aagb
die author of ih« Greek adbiaoi* %
Of ihc r * peace b«rwc«

cal ;«m pire, aA«r flk«

live lirresiiiuncs, Anu g|j«0 ifX tK<
nui, in 1139, fbrths rcunioa of Ihc
(he eirora ii the Albjmrnw, tt _

for diilercnt qimtiont of disctjilm*, mmk
bcfcsiooflhedAyt t^ LAicran. In tais,
VandoK 13. Lyioiii*, in 1445,^ tlie ~
troubles wtUi Oic Emperor Frvdcrio %^
»*74, for ih« Cru«aJ*, and fer rrumon vvth dl
15. Vien«e. b > > e Dnaa4i^ ^mi

qticatxHB «f di ' ^ '*-"• ttlffiih' if

pbre^ 16. Fit r '43^ ior

Grfeki. 17. T ninn. rm iji i.^fitiii
<ii Pisa. iS. Ticnt, in is^Si •l^uiAtti
Sev«s»l «cw«ta of ibe Covadt of

The Approaching General Council.

80X

lat word, reform, which had revo-
nized Europe, accepted it, be-
e it belonged to the church, and
mpanied its dogmatic decrees
eming the Catholic faith with
jes concerning reformation — Dt
nnatione. Assembled in ecu-
cal council the Pope and bishops
•ughly investigate the situation
fairs in the Christian republic,
jse fearlessly the remedy for its
ds and its sufferings. Thus the
)rtal youth of the church is re-
d, a more active and vigorous
h of life animates this immense
, and even society feels its happy
;nce. It is, then, one of these
enical assemblies which the

has just convoked. After
meditation upon the needs ol
ime, and earnest prayer for
5 guidance, the head of the
Dlic Church has spoken a single
He has made a solemn sign,
t is sufficient. From the west
last, from the north and south,

every part of the habitable
, from every race, from every
le, from every nation, the chiefs
is great spiritual society, the
rsed members of this govern-

of souls, leave their sees to

at the place appointed by the
-eign Pontiff. They meet, not

human congresses, to debate
:rning peace and war, conquests
"ron tiers, but to treat of souls
heir sacred interests, of things
ual and eternal. They obey the
I words of Him who founded the
h, " Go^ therefore^ and Uach ah
ts." They meet to accomplish
lost august duty of their sove-
mission — to proclaim, in a gen-
:ouncil of the church, and, as
re, in the very face of human
», those truths whose guardian-
has been confided to them by
who is the Truth itself. Such
work of an ecumenical council.
VOL. VIII. — 51

Can there in this world be a greater
one?

It is now three hundred years
since the world has seen one of these
assemblies; even at the beginning
of this century they were considered
impossible. "In modern times,"
wrote J. de Maistre, less than fifty
years ago, " since the civilized world
is, so to speak, cut up into some
sovereignties, and the world has been
so much enlarged by the boldness of
our sailors, an ecumenical council
has become a chimera."

The political difficulties which so
provokingly impeded the Council of
Trent were remembered, and it
seemed that the present time was yet
more unfavorable. It was thought
that the modem powers were more
defiant and more hostile, and conse-
quently that the liberty of the church
was in greater danger, her action
more circumscribed than ever. But
we wronged our century, and instead
of coming before God with com-
plaints, we shall do better to adore
his powerful hand, which, as an an-
cient proverb goes, " can write
straightly on crooked lines," and
force events to bend themselves, in
spite of man's efforts, to his eternal
designs. A missionary and a travel-
ler, the church longs to see the road
diminish. A preacher and a libera-
tor, she profits and rejoices oyer the
destruction of fetters. Then our
age has accomplished these two
works, the suppression of distance,
the breaking down of barriers. I un-
derstand the words distance and
barriers in the social and political
sense, as well as in a material point
of view. It was thought that they
would serve only the world's interests,
but they are really allies of the faith ;
all this marvellous movement, which
seemed to be contrary to catholic
ideas and opposed to the Catholic
Church, will turn to her advantage..

Tht Approaching General Catmdl

The spirit of the age obliges politi*
cal governments, whether they be
viUing or not» to act more fairly to-

ard the church, and it has destroyed
the old prejudices which even recent-
ly have hindered her actions. The
holding of an ecumenical council is
easier to-day than it would have been
in the times of Philip Il.» Louis XIV.,
or of Joseph IL

** For the convocations of the
bishops alone,*' says again J, de
Maistre, **and to establish legally
this convocation, five or six years
would not be sufficient/' To-day it
has been enough for Pius IX. to post
his bull upon the walls of the Lateran;
modern publicity, in spite of many
wishes to the contrary, carries it to
the extremities of the earth. Soon,
thanks to the marvellous progress of
the sciences and mechanics, the bish-
ops will hasten to obey the Pontic's
summons on the wings which steam
has given to our vessels and our
cars. These have, as it were, con-
sumed space* The bishops will come
from every free country, and, as we
hope, even from those which are not
free. And thus — for I like to repeat
it — this double current of the idens
and of the industry of our time is
going, in the future, not to serve the
material life of man alone, but also to
aid us in the government of souls, in
the highest manifestation of the spiri-
tual life of man, in the greatest work
of God's Holy Spirit upon the earth.
It is just, as divine Providence has
so willed, that we should see in this
the secret harmony hidden in the
depths of things and in the unity of
divine works. Matter is placed once
more at the ser\^ice of the spiritual,
and the thoughts of man follow the
order of God*s counsels.

Three times already, as you are
awn re, the bishops have gathered
about the vicar of Jesus Christ within
a few years ; but none of these three

great reunions had the
a council. The glory of a
the ancient traditions of the cl
so long intemipted, by the
tion of a true ecunienical a^
has been reserved to thb mj
mo us Pontif]^ so powerful n
mildness, so calm amid his trt;
so confident in that God
sustained him and who has mat
ly inspired him to undertake
work of summoning the ecumei
council,

THE PftOGRAMMB OP TlIC CX>VnaU_

And why, with what thought
the head of the church called (
great tribunal of catholicity
whom he names as being " his '
able brothers, the bisho]>s of the i
olic world, whose sacred char»ctB,
has called them to parta'
licitudcs? ** Omnes fjotfrtr
toHus (atkalid orbis sacrorum i
/«•, fui in solkitmimu n^stnu
v<KaH sunt, " The apostolioi] Ic
inform us clearly ♦ It is nee
read them and to judge the <
with equity by her own utalem^oi;
not by rancorous or frivolmii^
mcntarics. The programme i
future council is thus trac^
bull of the Sovereign PoniiflT ?

" This ecumenical t
have to examine with r
care, and determine what is
do in times so diificuft and so j
verse as these, for the greater j
of God, for the integrity of 1
for the honor of divine woK
the eternal salvation of men* \
discipline of the regitlar and \
clergy, for their useful and soli^
struction, for the olr -'^ ^cj
clesiastical laws* for
of customs, for f
tion of youiJi, k^
universal concord, '

The Approaching General Council,

803

" It is necessary for us to use every
exertion that, by God's help, we may
separate every evil from the church
and from society ; to lead back into
the straight way of truth, justice, and
salvation, those unfortunate people
who have wandered from it ; to re-
press vice and refute error, so that
our august religion and its salutary
doctrine may acquire a new vigor
throughout the world, that it may be
extended further every day, that it
regain its empire, and thus that piety,
honesty, justice, charity, and all Chris-
tian virtues may be strengthened and
flourish for the greatest good of
humanity."

The entire programme, all the
work of the future council, is in these
words. There are, then, two great
objects, the good of the church and
the good of human society. This
is its object and its only object

But especially does the church as-
semble her bishops that her interior
life may be reanimated, and, as the
apostle says, " To stir up the grace
of God which is within us." The
reason of this is because the church
has the wonderful privilege that I
have already mentioned — she is the
only body which possesses the power
of perpetually renewing her youth in
the course of a perpetual life. It is in
virtue of this divine constitution that
none of the truths which she has pre-
served can change, can be lost, can
be increased — that not even a sylla-
ble can be altered or an iota destroy-
ed ! " One jot or one tittle of the
law shall not pass away until all be
fulfilled," said Jesus Christ. The
church is a living institution com-
posed of men, borrowing its head
and its members from every nation
and from all ranks, always open to
receive those who wish to come to
her, aM unceasingly increased by
Hb^'M of new races of men

ail dren. A river which

has received many streams into its
current reflects the objects along its
banks and adapts its course to the
climate, and to the country with its
irregularities; so the Catholic Church
has the gift of accommodating herself
to the times, to the institutions, and
to the requirements of the genera-
tions through which she passes and
the centuries which she civilizes.

And more than this is true, be-
cause in the world she labors perpe-
tually in order that she may ever
become more worthy to speak of
God to men, and in a way to be
heard. and understood by them. She
is continually examining,with respect,
and at the same time with sovereign
authority, her disciplinary books, her
laws, her institutions, her works, and
especially her members, distributed
in the diflerent grades of the hierar-
chy. Indeed, we do not believe that
we are without faults or blemishes.
"Ah! should we be astonished,"
F^n^lon used to say, " to find in man
the Jelics of humanity I" But, eternal
thanlcs be given to God, we find in
the imperishable treasury of truth,
and of the divine laws which we are
called to guard, the means of recog-
nizing our faults and reforming our
manners.

Thus it is especially against our-
selves, or rather for ourselves, that
this council is going to assemble.
There will not be one among us to
take his seat in this august assembly,
who has not in the early morning
bent his knee upon the lowest step
of the altar, bowed his head, struck
his breast, and said, " If God is not
better known, if he is not better
served than by me, if the truth suffers
violence, if the poor are not assisted,
if justice is in peril, O God ! it is my
fault, it is my fault, it is my most
grievous fault I" Monarchs of the
earth, who settle the fate of nations
with such a frightfiil boldness, an

804

The Approaching General CounciL

examination like this would be good
even for you, if you could only en-
t4ure it ! O hum.in asseniblies, par-
[liaments, tribunals, popular conven*
I lions, do you think that this rigid
Ifelf examination, these confessions,
lihese scruples, and these courageous
habits of discipline and reform, will
be useless in appeasing blind agita-
tion and arrogant passion, or in
rousing up sleepy routine ?

When each of us has thus examin-
ed, questioned, and accused himself,
we shall ask ourselves, What are the
obstacles which to-day prevent the
propagation of the faith among those
who have not yet received it, and its
reestablishment among those who
have lost it? We shall revise regula-
tions, we shall refonti abuses, we shall
reestablisli forgotten laws, we shall
modify whatever requires modifica-
tion. Under the supreme authority
of a common father, of the bishop
of bishops, the experience of old
men, the zeal of the young, the in-
spiration of the holy and the wisdom
oflhe wise,will all concur in declaring
the present condition of Ihc church,
its mission upon the earth, and its
duties in the future. This examina-
tion will be made in the most uncon-
strained and fraternal discussion,
which will soon be followed by solid
resolutions, which will become, thenj
and for centuries, the rule of tlic
church's life.

Such will be tlie first object of the
assembly of bishops. An object at
once subiime and humble, one which
fills the children of the church with
respectful admiration, and which
strikes her enemies with an astonish-
ment that they seek in vain to
disguise. Yes, our ministry is so
noble, our assemblies so elevated
above other assemblies, that the lan-
guage of man contains the involun-
tary admission of its superiority. If
they desire to designate a noble office,

a superior mission, they call it, <
even with exaggeration, a prmik
If they wish to speak of soro«
usually imposiiig and solemn gathe-
ring, which will have a place is
history, they say it was a
of kings or legislators. Ufl
language has no more * '
than these: not that we
ourselves npon them, for our
have not done these things,
come from God, and the dignii
the words which express them re
to our humility at once the ma
of our vocation and the formid
extent of our duties.

But what is the cause, in oar|
and at this hour, of the retreat i
entire catholic episcopate into |
breast of a new cenacle ? If I
presume to put it thus, what do»
this vigil of arms mean ?• Why diese
preparations, this work of 9l_
council? Why has the
Pontil^ under the eye of
from his inspiration, judged it ptt
to call the churdi together in
second half of the nineteenth c«|^
tury >

It was said of our Master,
divine Saviour of the worlds thai )
was wounded because of <
ties,*' Yes, it is for the iniij^
man, and for our own, that'
going to impose such a work i
ourselves. The more dangeriHis tli!
times are, the more necessary
for us to be pure enough to wit
the most formidable co
enough to enter into the i
discussions, prepared to ecig^i
the rudest conflicts. And if mettl
why we are striving to increase know-
ledge and charity among ourscli
we will answer that, not for^^
ourselves and our own tieeds^ we 3

♦ The BU))Oi> of Ortant » !»«»» ivfeiT^ it is
pkotu ciittom of the dUr< of dur&lry, «KkA <Maf^M
the kiitgln who Will lo nerife ti>« ir
tttne un the I'otlowiAi; Riocn^fif i« |^m
ing m the chapel, wlicre hit Aiim i
upon the aJtAT,

The Approaching General Council.

805

doing it also on their account, look-
ing earnestly upon their condition,
their aspirations, and their sufferings,
and with a hearty desire to do them
more good.

III.

CAUSES OF THE COUNCIL.

What is the condition, then, to-day,
of the souls and the state of the races
which are spread over the surface* of
the earth ? There are few who have
not been interested in this question.
The Pope, looking upon the world
and lending his ear to the sound of
the struggles of contemporary society,
could not help seeing, what every one
knows, that now is a time of profound
crisis ; or, as it is expressed in the
papal bull, there are torments which
are afflicting at this time both church
and society : " Jam vero omnibus
comperttim exploratumque est qua hor-
rUnli tempestate nunc jactetur ecdesia^
et quibus quantisquc malis ipsa affliga-
tur socictas,** What is this crisis of
the church and the world? If we
collect in our mind the course of his-
tory and the vast ocean of ages on
which we are borne for a moment,
only to be swallowed up in our turn,
you will first answer that this crisis
is only an incident of a perpetual
crisis, an interrupted scene of the
drama which the destiny of the hu-
man race is composing. Untried
travellers are ever thinking the voy-
age a long one, and that the sea has
dashing waves and tempests only for
them. Old sailors know that the
ocean is always uncertain and that
the storm of to-day has been preceded
by many a severe gale.

But if we are just, as well as atten-
tive, we shall recognize that the crisis
of the present time is not a chance
one, and that, like others which have
gone before, it will not escape the
guidance of God. I say even, when

I remember the profound designs of
providence, that this crisis is not
without its grandeur, that it has both
beauty, laws, and an end, just as do
those natural phenomena which ap-
pear the most confused and dis-
ordered. Through continual struggles
and obstacles, the evangelical ideal
is followed by the church, who knows
where she is going, and by men, often
without their knowledge. The church,
since her mission is to raise souls
to that standard, is sorrowful here
below, because that ideal is never
realized perfectly enough for the
glory and happiness of humanity. Un-
doubtedly the industry, the science,
and the courage which men display
to-day should be admitted. Within
a few hundred years, vast treasures
of science, wealth, and power have
been developed. In two worlds, a
most wonderful harvest of gifted men
have appeared ; artists and orators,
savants and generals, legislators and
publicists, whose names will be re-
cognized by posterity with well-merit-
ed gratitude. Yet after we have
been just toward the good, let us be
just to the evil, and acknowledge,
with the august and truthful Pius IX.,
that human society is at this moment
profoundly troubled.

But do not think that I intend to
speak of political trouble and of war.
I know that Europe has, within a few
years, resounded more than once
with the shock of battles, and that at
the present moment many feel a dull
restlessness. The people are arming
and preparing, it is said, for gigantic
struggles. Does the Sovereign Pon-
tiff wish to speak of the mighty in-
terests of political affairs, of ques-
tions of nationalities, of the frontiers
of kingdoms, and of the balance of
power? The church is not indeed
indifferent to peace or war between
nations, for every day her prayers
ascend to heaven for concord between

8o6

The Approaching General Council,

Christian peoples and Christian prin-
ces. But yet, as I have already stat-
ed, she does not gather her council
to solve these questions ; the pacific
assembly at Rome will meditate
neither revolutions nor conquests,
neither leagues of sovereigns nor
treaties of nations, neither the esta-
blishment of dynasties nor their
downfall.

While all Europe — and, if we look
further, whi!e the new world as well,
as the old — is trembling at the threat-
ening signs of war and revolution, at
RonK% that august centre, that re-
served place, gathered about the suc-
cessor of St. Peter, around the chair
of truth, the pastors of nations — their
feet, it is true, upon tiie earth and on
the immovable rock, but their eyes
turned toward heaven — will be occu-
pied with souls, the needs of souls
the eternal salvation of souls ; in one
word, with the highest and permanent
interests of humanity.

And surely they will do well ; for,
who can disguise it? are not souls in
peril and the faith of whole nations
menaced ?

Do you ask, what new heresy has
arisen ? From the bosom of the
church, none ; the clergy have never
been more closely united in the faith
from one end of the world to the
other. Without the pale of the
church the same attacks, a hundred
times repelled and a hundred times
renewed, are levelled against all the
points of Christian doctrine, but
under new forms and a fresh vigor.
Yet there is more than this. With
an impiety which outstrips even the
eighteenth century, the natural truths,
those first principles on which every
thing here reposes as its safeguard,
even the natural truths, are denied or
boldly discussed. Science is also to
have its heresies. There is a schism
among the philosophers. Reason
has to Cake its turn in assaults which

seemed reserved for Ibe
Strange thing ! Faith to-day b j
ing the treasures of reasoo,!
serves as their rampart 1 To
is you, O savants, O
who have need for us \ You haw
often accused us of having ncsdie
science nor intelligence ; but \
poor brethren, who are so wis
so intelligent, have scarcely
able to defend a single u*e{14
truth I And you, O Protestants l]
expected to reform the chun
God^ it is you who to-dajr need i
ing I it is you who feel most
how great an injury is the loss of tlsi
blessing of authorit)^ I

Look for a moment at the stateol
the intelligent minds <
Wliere have discordant
led tliem? For three ceii|
Gcrmanyjmpctuous minds J
who, rejecting the guiding
faith, have shown to the astoni!
world the audacity, and at tbi: \
lime the feebleness, of *trasc
too has quickly been foUd
like audacity and feebleness of
rals. What has come from j
proiligious efforts of talent and i
tion? Nothing more admirable |
the resurrection of every eiror i
gan limes — pantheism, atheism, j
ticism — and among those who yd
cling to some form of religion, Chris*
tiantty has in reality I^eri5hcd because
of their many contradictory and rkfr
culous explanations of its doct
Thus have ended, tinder o«c
eyes, eighteen centL.
Christ, all these woi _
ual labors which are the gr
that the world has ever wilfi

And what is the state, to-da|
France ? Religious belief is vigofCM^
ly attacked and even philci
faith seems ready to disapjicar-
truths of reason are overthrown,!
a pretended science, intoxicated |
itself, denies human reaio«v

The Approaching General CotmciL

807

wishes, in the name of atheism and
materialism, to snatch from man his
belief in the immortality of the soul
and his faith in God. The most
dangerous doctrines concerning mo-
rals, society, the soul, the family, a
future life, and God, are warmly de-
fended by means of journals, pamph-
lets, and even novels. Our contempo-
raries are either wrecked on this sea
of errors, or float, without a helm or
a compass, at the mercy of every
wind of doubt. Dark storms are
rising in human souls, and they
penetrate the very depths of the
masses of the people.

At the same time, there are many
misunderstandings in regard to the
church, and consequently there is an
animated attack upon her doctrines.
When the revolution, which is now
making a tour through Europe and
the rest of the world, appeared in
France, the church was attached by
bonds, which time had forged, to the
old political order. She was carried
with that political system into the
struggle. Hence it comes that men
have not been able to distinguish that
which belongs to a legitimate state of
society, without being at all necessary
to the church, and that which con-
stitutes the essential principles and
immutable spirit of Christianity.

With certain men there is only one
feeling toward the church — that of
blind and implacable hatred. For-
getting eighteen centuries of benefits,
they continue to wage an ungrateful
war. The waves of revolution sweep
in their course both truth and false-
hood, virtue and crime, benefits and
injuries, and the church, because
she can make no compromise with
error and vice, must persist in point-
ing out the illusion of deceitful
words and the danger of false doc-
trines. Many stubbornly charge the
ehurchwith thoughts and doctrines
which are hot hers. An infidel

press and unscrupulous blasphemy
against the church strive to separate
the people from her fold. We hear,
both in disorderly conventions and in
the writings of those journalists who
convene them, the most stupid and
reckless assertions against the church
mingling with threats of social war.
And even in our legislative assem-
blies this unreasonable enmity ap-
pears, demanding a violent separation
of the church and society.

And lately, when the voice of the
Sovereign Pontiff was raised to de-
scribe the overflow of those impious
and immoral theories which now
inundate us, how many complaints,
how many unmerited accusations
were everywhere made I Without
caring to understand his meaning,
the Holy Father was calumniated^
And with grief we saw statesmen,
under the influence of violent pas-
sion and without asking or writing
for any explanation, hasten to pro-
claim an antagonism which, thank
God, does not exist

These hostilities against the
church, while separating from her
the people who are deluded, render
the peril in which these contem-
porary errors would drag us far
more formidable. Doctrines are
not inoffensive ; M. De Bonald pro-
mulgated a law of history which is.
confirmed by constant experience,,
when he wrote these forcible words :
"There are always great disorders,
where there are great errors, and'
great errors where there are great
disorders." It is thought that brings,
forth facts; storms come from above.

And I say to men of good faith,,
you expected to establish the govenr-
ment of people and the conduct of
life on reason alone. This experi-
ment has been tried for three quar-
ters of a century in France ; what is
the result ? Are the morals of our
people better? Is the civil authority

The Approaching General Cauncil.

respected? Is liberty well establish-
ed ? Has war disappeared ? Or
mbery ? Or ignorance ? And what
can be said of those questions which
reason asks with a rare fertility of
invention, but which she cannot
answer, and which concern the very
organization of society — questions
about labor, wages, and workmiin ?
I do not exaggerate when I assert
Etliat since reason has pretended to
f feign alone, she reigns, like the night
tar, over shadows which she cannot
dissipate. Even in the most civilized
countries, the earth has become an
•bode of anxiety, distress, strife, and
terror. The nineteenth century will
TOOn close, agitated, weary, barren,
and incontestably diseased. Rash
indeed would be the one who would
venture to predict that it would close
in glory and not in perdition.

IV,

REVIEW OP THK PAST

However, I beseech my friends
and brethren in the faith not to ex-
aggerate anything. It is permitted
to be sad, I repeat, when we con si-
der the present times ; and I should
feel bound to consider the soul
which is not saddened by these
things as possessing very little true
nobility. The sons of the nineteenth
century, the men of my day, have
had many enchanting dreams ; we
have nourished many generous
hopes ; but now we are going to die,
and to die deluded. But whatl is
our short life the whole of history*?
We did not live in the sixteenth cen*
tury ; we shall not see the twentieth ;
but the church lived yesterday, and
she will live to-morrosv. If I should
say what she hopes, all my prophe-
cies would not be forebodings ; and
if I should question her memory, the

present times would appear
brighter by being compared witlilli
past. If we glance at ag«
are no more, shall we find mani
turies which did not have tdeirj
bles and their dangers? All]
discouragement of certain Cati
calls to mind the sentence of <
the sapiential books : " Say
what thinkest thou is the caus
former times were better thao-i
are now? for this manner of qu
is foolish/'* I was reading a ftl
days since some of the bulls of coa
vocation of the ancient coun
the middle ages. The lament
of those popes of the misfo
of their time far exceeds an^
which is heard to-day. And, i
go further back than the Coujw
Trent, let the church tell us of I
times, for she was present to
What did she see then I

That century was much like
because of its great dis<ovcricS| i<l
appreciation of learning, and its T^
viva! of the arts ; it was like the j
sent century, also, in the bad
made of these gifts. The sixtt
century peopled America, which bid
been only recently discovered ; abaa^
doned itself to cruel excesses of
crime and avarice there, and intra*
duced the disgiacc of human
very. It received treasures
that country^ and it used them]
the corruption of the morals of ^
rope. Whether we look
thrones, or among the mas
people, or even in the chuich he
wc find many a sad spectacle,
century was the witness of the crimo
ofHenryVin.;Eliir.ibeT' '
Terrible ; Christian II. ; i
Charles IX.; and Henr)- lU.
century saw the pillaging tjf Ra
and the siege of Paris, llits
tury saw the pretended rclbr

The Approaching General OmneiL

809

rend the church, disturb the peace
of all Europe, and divide Christians
into two parts. If one desires to
find out the evils which existed in the
church and in society in those days,
let him read the lives of great and
holy people of that time; let him
read of Bartholomew, of the Martyrs
St. Charles Borromeo and St Fran-»
CIS of Sales. I have already men-
tioned the papal bulls of the middle
ages ; but read those of the pontiffs
who convoked the Council of Trent,
and it will be soon seen that Adrian
VI., Paul III., Pius IV., were then
more alarmed at the dangers of the
Christian republic than Pius IX. now
is. There was tepidity, disorder, and
scandal ; the clergy poorly organ-
ized ; the religious orders much re-
laxed ; and then, too, princes were
divided, the people oppressed, and
war a daily occurrence in every coun-
try. And the council which had
assembled amid such sad circum-
stances was compelled to meet in a
little village hidden in the mountains
of Tyrol, and or six years it was at
the mercy of temporal princes to sus-
pend or to allow it to proceed ; and
thus it was compelled to endure a
perpetual conflict.

But vain are obstacles to God's
church! Her virtue will triumph
over everything. What great works
and great men came forth from
this council and from the regenera-
ting breath that it breathed over
Christian society ! St. Charles Bor-
romeo, St. Philip Neri, St. Peter of
Alcantara, St. Theresa, St. John of
ih Cross, St. Francis of Sales, St.
Jane of Chautal, St. Vincent de
Paul, St. Francis Borgia, and St.
Francis Regis, heirs of the spirit of
St. Ignatius and St. Francis Xavier.
Then closely following these cano-
nized saints were such apostolic men
as the B. Peter Fourrier, Cardinal

Benille, M. Olier, M. Eucles, M.
Bourdoise, the Abb6 of Rauc^, and
many others. Then too came many
congregations, which were fruitful in
showing again the true standard of
clerical and religious life, and in re-
animating everywhere the love of
study, regularity, and charity. Such
was the universal improvement which
the church displayed. This was
followed by F^n^lon and Bossuet
and the majestic unity of the seven-
teenth century. And notwithstand-
ing all the misfortunes that this im-
mortal Mother of men has had to
overcome, the church has now places
of worship in Jerusalem, liberty in
Pekin and Constantinople, the epis-
copal hierarchy in England and Hol-
land, her councils in Baltimore, and
her missionaries in Africa, Ocean ica,
and Japan. The church rejoices
from the very depths of her soul to
see that, although religion has got
much to wish for and much to de-
plore, still in every part of the world
the laws are now more equitable, the
powerful are less oppressive, the
weak are better protected, the poor
more generously assisted, and slaves
are declared free. But when the
church turns to that pretended re-
form which so audaciously rose up
against the spouse of Christ in the
sixteenth century, she finds that its
doctrines have almost vanished ; it
has run its course and exhausted its
arms. How different is the present
condition of the Holy Church!
That church, whose abuses were so
fearful that they could no longer be
endured, to-day presents a Pope
whose eminent virtue compels re-
spect ; her bishops are more nume-
rous and zealous ; her priests faith-
ful, united, devoted; her religious
orders, tempered by the fire of per-
secution and poverty, are learned
and exemplary. And when this

8io

The Approaching General Council,

church desires to assemble a coun-
cil, it is lo Rome she bids her chil-
dren come, by the reliable roads» the
rapid carriages and the facilities of
every kind which she owes to the
genius, the justice, and the resources
of modern limes.

It is well enough known that I am
not among those who close their
eyes and preserve silence in regard
to the evils of the day and the many
perils which He in the way of souls.
But neither do I wish to be ungrale-
fiil for the benefits of God, or to re-
fuse to see the power which lends its
strength to the church, and the help
which he gives to the good cause,
even in the worst times. Nor should
it be forg^otten that man's duty is to
struggle for tnuh, and that each cen-
tury has its task and its difficulty.
I pity, I do not execrate, the present
time. I do not despair of the peo-
ple, and I do not anathematize their
rulers. They are not omnipotent,
and they have to contend with many
difficulties. I pray for them, as the
Catholic Church has always done ; I
caution them, both princes and peo-
ple, as much as hes within ray po-
wer, and I ask a loyal and sincere
concurrence to the great work of tlie

church, which is the i
and civilization of the world.

There are three things wl
should cause us all the keenest ;
ety ; these are, the desinicik>n '
faith, which has been hAstened bf
the impious direction %1'htch sdefit&
and philosophical studies have li*
ken; the prevailing 1 mortU,

which may fairly be an ^d to the

thousand new and seductive fbrnf
of vice ; and lastly, the itnjtisl stite*
ments which the enemies of relipOft
delight in perpetuating betwireil the
church and the masses oi the peofik.
These are three diseases whidiwlif
God's grace, will be cured.

There are certain persons fli
whose eyes these three scouiijcs are
only tlie partial results of tliai nhicfc
is now, and has always b«
greatest of all scourges, na
volution. I do not like to u§c
vague and indefinite word wliil
like a spectre, appears and
formidable at one*s will ; but jpet IT
is very true that these evils do fo
in the bosom of society a divbil
mind, a scorn of God and of all
thority, a pride and a batrctl, wl
are continually threatening these i^
cietics with a return lo revc

Catholicity and Pantheism.

8ii

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER FIVE.

I^WS ACCORDING TO WHICH THE MYSTERY OF THE TRINITY SHOULD BE

UNDERSTOOD.

We proceed, in this article, to lay
down some general laws which go-
vern, SO to speak, the organism of the
life of the infinite. The ignorance
or the overlooking of these laws has
ever caused those who plunged into
the abyss of infinite life to search
its genesis, to fall into one form or
other of pantheism, as will be seen
in the course of this article.

The first and principal law may
be enunciated as follows : No other
distinction can be predicated of the
infinite^ but that arising from the re-
lative opposition of origin between the
terms*

We have already demonstrated
that the life of the infinite is ter-
minated by three distinct personali-
ties, which establish a multiplicity in
its bosom. A distinction, therefore,
must be predicated of the infinite.
But of what sort ?

This distinction, in the first place,
could not fall upon the essence,
without breaking its absolute sim-
plicity. It must, consequently, be
found among the terminations of the
essence, or personalities. But, again,
these three persons being possessed
of the same identical essence, and
thus participating in all its perfec-
tions, how can they be distinguished,
one from the other ? By a real op-
position of origin. One person
originates ; the other is originated ;
as principle and term they are neces-

•RMfit abtJDCtio inter rdatiooes divtiuu non est
rfrf iMiiiiw niiiiriiiuiih wlrtwe. S. Th., S. T. : qu.

sarily opposed to each other, and
consequently distinct.

This law maintains both the unity
and the multiplicity in the infinite.
It maintains the unity ; for the law
does not require any real distinction
between the persons and the essence,
but only a distinction made by our
reason to facilitate our apprehension;
hence the three divine persons are
truly and essentially the infinite. It
maintains multiplicity, because the
three divine persons are opposed on
the ground of opposition of origin,
and are consequently distinct.
Here lies the whole difficulty, the
reader will say ; three things opposed
one to another, and thus distinct from
each other, how are they one in es-
sence ?

We might reply, in the first place,
that the possibility of this is grounded
on a psychological fact, which every
one accustomed to reflection may
easily ascertain. Take the operation
of the human spirit. Man knows
himself; in this fact the me enters
twice ; because the me is the subject
which knows, and at the same time
the object known. The me knowing
is the being in the subjective form ;
the me known is the being in the
objective form. Again, man loves
himself through the idea of himself :
the me here enters three times — the
me under the subjective form of
knowing and of loving ; the me under
the objective form of known ; the me
under the objective- form of being
loved. Nevertheless, all three are

812

Catholicity and PoHtheism,

one and the same being: the mi
under the subjective form knows and
loves the me under the objective
form I a multiplicity and a unity
which cannot be disputed ; not only
because of the testimony of consci-
ousness, which avers to the fact, but
because on this multiplicity and
unity are founded two distinct scien-
ces, psychology and ideolog}-; psy-
chology, which treats of the me as
subject, of its nature and properties ;
ideology, which treats of the product
of the me^ or ideas.

This operation of man is an image
of the genesis of God's life. The
infinite knows and loves himself.
Into this fact of his eternal life he
enters three times ; the infinite, so to
speak, as subject knowing and loving
himself; the infinite as object known;
the infinite as object loved. The
infinite knowing liimself is neces-
sarily opposed to the infinite known,
because it originates him by an in-
tellectual operation ; the infinite
known Is necessarily opposed to the
infinite knowing, because originated
by him. Again, the infinite loving
himself and the infinite known (be-
cause the infinite cannot love him-
self except through the infinite
known) are necessarily opposed to
the infinite loved, because they origi-
nate hira ; the infinite loved is neces-
sarily opposed to the infinite loving
and known, because emanating from
both. This relative opposition of
origin causes a real distinction among
the terms without breaking the unity
of the essence,

But^ the better to illustrate this
law, and to show how well it main-
tains unity and multiplicity in the
infinite, wc shall here investigate

I the metaphysical law of the fact;

[ that is, why and how things which
opposed to each other can bar-
and be brought into unity,
I ia third thin^p.

We have given an example^
fact in the operation of man ; 1
us give a few more instances tdj
alire It more and more. TUtsl
observed in both the ideologic
ontological orders. First, as to I
der of ideas. Two u^
own order are opp*^^ ci

harmonize and are brought tc
in a third idea. Take, for ins
the idea of substance and modifk
tion ; substance conveys the ;
something subsisting by itscli
which requires no being to \t
in order to subsist. It means i
thing standing permanent. The id
of modification is that of son
which is not permanent in it
requires another being to
to cling to, in order to subsist,
two ideas, as it appears, are difcfi
opposed to each other, since
notions are contradictory; yt(j
ideas, contradictory one to Ihcl
in their own order, agree anil
brought into companionship
common idea of existence, one <
ing permanently, the other
by leaning on another.

Moreover, take the transcend
idea of unity, truth, and
Unity implies a negation of mu
cit}\ something undivided in
and distinct from others,
plies a multiplicity, because it i
sentially a relation of an object I
intelligence ; istqmttio ra ft mtri
as St. Thomas defines iL Go
also implies a multiplicity,
it is essentially a relation <^ a bdn
to a tendency or faculty.

Tliese three ideas, contrad
or diverse, arc brought i;
in the common idea l
every metaphysician knows xlin
ty» truth, goodness, are the trac
dental qualities of being,
identified with it

The fact is therefore in
in the ideological order, that

lodtm

IS 41
rbeid

its^l

»t>t,^|

difcfi

in H
cr c:^|

Catholicity attd PantJuism.

813

ideas contradictory one to another
or diverse, agreeing in a common
idea. It is no less true in the or-
der of reality, because ideology is
founded on ontology. Take, for in-
stance, a body ; it has length, breadth,
height, and depth. These qualities
of bodies are contrary to each other
in their own order, yet they harmo-
nize in the body. Take the forces
of attraction and repulsion ; both are
contradictory laws, yet both agree in
the same body. Man harmonizes
and brings together in himself the
laws of movement, of vegetation, of
animality and of intelligence, which
are different and contradictory to
each other. And in his spirit, as we
have said before, he opposes himself
as an object to himself, as subject
without breaking the unity of the
soul. Now wherein lies the reason of
this fact ? In the ideological order
it lies in the universality of ideas; in
the order of reality, in the intensity
of being, or in the amount of perfec-
tion. A universal idea comprehends
and harmonizes in itself inferior and
more particular ideas, opposed to or
different from each other; a more
perfect being, or a greater reality
harmonizes and brings together in-
ferior realities opposed to and diverse
from each other, for the reason of its
very intensity of perfection. A doc-
trine of St. Thomas beautifully illus-
trates this truth. He inquires into
the distinction between intelligent
and non-intelligent entities, and, af-
ter having remarked that intelligent
beings are distinguished from those
not intelligent by this — that the
second are only capable of contain-
ing their own forms or actuality^
whereas the first, besides their own
actuality, are capable of receiving
the forms or actuality of other things,
because in intelligent beings is found
the ideal similitude of the object
known, he alleges, as a reason for

this distinction, contraction or limita-
tion. "From this it appears," he
concludes, " that the nature of unin-
telligent beings is more contracted
and limited, while the nature of in-
telligent beings is endowed with the
greater extension ; hence the philo-
sopher said that the soul is as it were
every thing." *

This reason, however, which ac-
counts for a more general idea or
for a greater reality harmonizing in
itself particular ideas or lesser reali-
ties opposed to each other in their
own order, does not account for an
opposition lying in the very bosom
of a being. In other words, when
the particular ideas and the lesser
realities are taken as opposed to
each other, they are considered dis-
tinct and apart from the general idea
or greater reality. When they are
harmonized in the general idea or
greater reality, their limits and op-
position are supposed to be elimi-
mated ; and this is the reason why
the harmony becomes possible. But
when the opposition is to be found in
the same being, that is to say, when
terms opposed to each other are not
distinct from the general idea or
greater reality, but lie in its very
bosom, then what is it that main-
tains both the opposition of the
terms and the unity and simplicity
of the being ?

In this case, a relation of origin
causes the opposition without break-
ing the unity of the being.

The same being supposed subsis-
tent, being capable of intelligencing
itself, can beget an ideal conception
of itself; in other words, the same
being can exist as object understood
in itself, as subject understanding, as
object loved in itself, and as subject
loving. In this origination, the rela-
tion between the terms originated is

* & Th., S. T. ; part i, qu. 14, art x.

8r4

Catholicity and Pantheism*

true and real ; because the being as
subject, as such, is really opposed to
itself as object, and truly relative to
itself. The being could not be sub-
I ject, without opposing itself as ob-
Iject to itself as subject. Yet this
Stakes place without addition to or
subtraction from the unity and the
simplicity of the being ; ontologically,
the being is absolutely the same.
J What prevents us from perceiving
I lliis fully and clearly, is the action of
j'the imagination and the essential
[condition of our intelligence, which
[cannot be exercised except by the
[help of a sensible phenomenon.
I Thus, when we strive to perceive a
relation, it is pictured to our imagina-
tion as being something real, a kind
of link or chain between the terms
[ related. Now, when it is considered
[that this is only imaginary, and that
{ontologically a relation is nothing
[fnorc than the attitude, to speak* the
llanguage of schoolmen, of one object
I toward another^ it is evident that a
pbeing, capable of intelligence and of
llove, can oppose itself, as object, to
■itself as subject, without addition to
lor diminution from or breaking up
af the simplicity of the being.
We conclude — particular ideas or
Plesscr realities, opposed to each other,
[can be harmonized in general idea,
[or greater realities.

The metaphysical reason of this
that opposition proceeds often-
imes from limitation, and that gen-
Icral idea or greater reality, by elimi-
rftation of the limits, can harmonize
things opposed in their own order.
This reason is satisfactory when the
particular ideas or lesser realities are
considered distinct and apart from
the general idea or greater reality ;
that is, they are opposed when dis-
tinct — the opposition vanishes when
identified. But the reason is not
satisfactory to explain how there

may be terms distinct and '
to each other in tlie same
without breaking the
being. The law of - _
origin, and the relation
therefrom, fully explains and
tains both the multiplicily
unity in the same being.

Applying these ideas to the in
it is evident that, the distinct!
the divine personalities taking '
according to the law of o^ipositb
of origin, both the multiplicity of pa
sons and the absolute simplicity c
the divine essence are ntaintJUfiCfl
Because the distinction of the dim
persons is caused by a reJatioci Q
origin. Now, as we have seca, \
lation of origin neither adds
subtracts from the essence;
other hand, the relation bcti
terms is true and rcaL Cons
ly, the law of opposition of ^
explains, as far as human inti
can fathom, how the distinctiQ
the divine personalities can be i
tained without at all detracting 1
the unity of the essence.

It will not do to say that thco
logtans have imagined this bi
suit their systems. This lawisf
by the fact of human thought
the ontological requirements of l
As we have already obser\*ed, 1
is essentially one, true^ and
Now these qualities at tlie swtvm^ j
are identified with being,
when the mind tries to Dithooi
it finds hothing added to being^l
yet are they essentially a rdi
Here we have identity and distSF
tion, and nothing can explain ft» »
far as the mystery of being cm br
explained, except the law of opfot*-
tion of origin. Our readers, fnm
the above remarks^ may see friuri
becomes of that great objectton, »
often urged against the dc^goia d
the trinity, and so many '

Catholicity and Pantheism.

815

posed of by the doctors of the
church, yet repeated again and
again which the same assurance.

It is said, qu<z sunt idem tertio^ sunt
eadtm inter se; that is, things which
are identical with a third thing are
identical with each other. Now, the
three divine persons, according to
catholic doctrine, are identical with
infinite essence ; therefore they are
identical with each other ; that is, not
distinct, and consequently cannot
exist. Oftentimes, in thinking over
this objection so triumphantly brought
forward, we have thought of the well-
known lines of Pope :

" A little learning is a dangeroas thing ;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ;
l*hose shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
But drinking largely sobers us again."

For the principle, when examined
carefully, does not apply to those
cases in which a distinction is predi-
cated of a being caused by a relation
to itself.

For instance, upon that principle
we might reason thus : things which
are identical with a third thing are
identical with each other. But height,
length, breadth, and depth are one and
the same thing with bodies; there-
fore, are identical among themselves;
and all distinction between height and
depth, length and breadth, is a pure
figment; and architects, calculating
the proportions of a building, would
do well to remember the principle,
for it would save them considerable
time and trouble.

Again : unity, truth, and goodness
are identical with reality. But those
things which are identical with a
third are identical with each other ;
therefore, unity, truth, goodness are
identical among themselves, and it
is the same thing to be one, true, and
good, as to be. And all the different
apiences formed on these relations
of being are useless wastes of thought
and m^Utation.

Moreover, the thinking and loving
subject in man, the thought and the
love, are identical with the soul;
therefore, according to the said prin-
ciple, there is no distinction between
the thinking subject and the thought,
and all ideology and grammar is
nothing but useless pastime, and we
could correctly say, the soul is a
thinking subject — the soul is a
thought

The truth is, that the principle ap-
plies only to particular cases, and is
by no means general ; because, as
we have demonstrated, being, in gen-
eral, requires three distinct relations
to be conceived, and which, remain-
ing distinct among themselves, are
yet identical with being.

The infinite being could neither
be conceived, nor be actual, without
three distinct relations, which must
be identical with the essence, with-
out ceasing to be distinct one from
another. If its truth were general
and it applied \o all cases, it would
abolish all distinction in the infinite
being, and consequently, abolish its
actuality and intelligibility, and leave
it only as an abstraction — the Hegel-
ian being — nothing.

Moreover, that the principle does
not apply to the infinite is evident
from the very enunciation and mean-
ing of the principle. Things which are
identical with a third are identical
with each other. In the enunciation
and in the meaning, the principle
supposes a plurality, and, conse-
quently, a distinction; for the gist
of the principle is to compare a mul-
tiplicity to a unity. Now, who does
not see that, if there were not a
supreme identity and a supreme
multiplicity beyond the sphere and
subordination of this principle, the
principle itself would be destroyed ?

For if it be asked, what is the
origin, the cause, and the supreme
expression of plurality and distinc-

8i6

Catholicity and Pantheism.

tion, whicli ihis principle supposes,
we must rise to a supreme and typi-
cal distinction and identity, not sub-
ject to the principle ; else we could
never account for the existence of
the principle.

The infinite is the supreme iden-
tity and the supreme mulliplrcity,
the cause of all distinction and idun-
tit)% and consequently, to it the prin-
ciple cannot apply.

We conclude, therefore, that the
first law governing the genesis of
God's life is the law of opposition
of origin, and that this law accounts
both for the unity of essence and the
trinity of persons in God.

We pass to the second law, which
is as follows t In the infinite^ there
mtist he a person who does not proceed
from anything^ and who is neither
begotten nor tnade^ but who subsists by
himself. The metaphysical reason
of this law is, that there must be a
first principle in everything, both in
the ontological and in the ideological
orders.

In the ontological order, because
if every principle of reality, if every
cause called for the existence of an-
other to explain its existence, it is
evident that there would be a process
ad infinitum without explaining any-
thing. For an infinite number of
causes, each requiring another cause
to explain their existence, would
multiply, ad infinitum^ the necessity
of first cause, existing by itself and
containing in itself the reason of its
existence.

In the ideological order, because
every science must have a principle
which is not derived from any other,
and which must be taken for grant-
ed, otherwise science would become
impossible. Ask a proof and a de-
monstration for every principle, say
of mithemntics, and you will never
be able to learn it.

Thus, in the genesis of infinite life.

there must be m first per
subsists by himself, otherwia
of the infinite becomes imp

But, besides this g^cncril
which requires a first per ~
rived from anything, there
ticular reason, more cic
the subject^ which den
Because, if there vi^ete noc
person in the infinite, iiot[
from any other thing, it woftld
nate either from the essence or i
another person. Now, it could no
originate from the essence ; bccvni
between the principle and iti pfnbc
there is a real opposition of ori|:io
therefore, in the s^
would be a real op[
the essence of the infinite aitid tb
first persorL Now, the esscQC
question is infinite, and only the I
can be opposed to it The fin!
son, therefore, proceeding frgn
essence^ would be ti i \\

finite; that is, he wt»i:
Moreover, it would he .:-.^\
the first person shoulii j^u
the essence, because die
without subsistence is an abitn^
tion, and an abstractioia could sol
originate a ruality.

It could not proceed from ;
person, because, as we have re
this other person, unless subststi
himself, would require another aib{|
principle, and so on ad infittiii

As a corollary of ibis law, i^
lows that whatever other pcr»oci9|
be supposed to exist in the je
they must originate from the
because — no other distinctloD 1
possible in the infinite, but
ing from opposition of or
lows that, if there were oihc
in the infinite, and if iheyi
ginate from the first, ihey
be opposed to it, and ther
could not be distinguished
in other words, tlicy coiild i

A third law governs the hit oTlH

in aoqtt|
rcma^l
bststi^l

Catholicity and Pantheism.

817

infinite; which, if possible, is yet
more important than the former two.
It is the law of immanence, which
may be expressed in the following
formula.

Tfu action^ by which the persons in
the. infinite are originated^ terminates
inside of the infinite^ and is permanent^
eternal^ and complete.

Let it be observed that the action
of an agent is always interior to it,
because it is its own movement. But
the product of the agent is not always
so ; sometimes it is laid inside the
agent ; sometimes it terminates out-
side the agent In the first case,
the action is called immanent or in-
terior; in the second, transient or
exterior ; not because the action is
not always interior to the subject,
but because the effect or term of the
action is exterior or foreign to the
subject. The first sense, then, in
which the law of immanence is tp be
applied to the infinite is, that the
terms of the action of the first person
terminate inside the infinite j because,
if they were to terminate outside of
God, they would be something diffe-
rent firom him, and consequently not
divine persons, but finite beings.

But the law has a higher and more
important bearing: it implies that
the action by which the divine per-
sons are originated is not transitory,
successive, and incomplete, but per-
manent, eternal, and complete ; be-
cause God is infinite actuality, or
actuality itself.

Forget for one sS^le moment to
apply this law to the genesis of God's
life, and you fall at once into panthe-
ism. For suppose the act, by which
the divine persons are originated, to
be transient, successive, temporary,
incomplete, and it would follow at
once that God is in continual devel-
opment and explication. For He is
ehher complete and perfect, or on
VOL. VIII. — 52

the road to perfection. He is in fieri^
or becoming.

And since, as we have often re-
marked, every development consists
of different stages of explication,
the last of which is always more
perfect than those which precede it,
it would follow that the genesis of
God's life consists of a successive
series of evolutions, the last of which
is always more perfect than that
which precedes it Now, assuming
the genesis of God's life at one deter-
minate stage, and travelling backward
to arrive at the first stage of explica-
tion from which He started, we should
pass fix)m a more perfect, defined,
concrete stage of development, to
one less perfect, less defined, less
determinate, and thence to one still
less so, until we should arrive at the
most indeterminate, undefined, ab-
stract stage of evolution ; at the /east
being— ttiQ being not being, the first
principle of pantheism.

But, keeping in view the law of
immanence, every one can see that
God's action is supposed at once all
perfect, complete, and adequate — in
one word, eternal ; and consequently
every idea of development, progress,
and succession is eliminated; and
the consequence is, that the infinite
is at once conceived as being infinite
actuality ; the first principle of Ca-
tholic tiieology — ^the precise contra-
dictory of pantheism.

Hence, according to this law, the
first person is always originating, and
his origination is sdways perfect ; the
others are always originated, and
their existence is always perfect,
adequate, and complete. We say
cUways and are originated, not be-
cause the expressions convey the
idea of eternal actuality and com-
pleteness, but because, our mind
being measured by time, we can find
no better words to exhibit the idea..

8i8

Catholicity and Pa$aheism.

Let this remark be made once far
alL

A corollary of this law is, that
whatever persons are originated in
the infinite, being within the essence
of God and terminating in Him, they
^e — the infimtiy because nothing can
be added to the lufinite.

Fourth law : In th€ infinite there are
na more than two processions.

By processions we mean the origi*
nation of one person from another.

Now, tliat in God there are no
more than two processions will ap-
pear evident, if we consider the proper
operation of God, God b a spiritual
nature ; the proper operadon of a
spiritual nature is by intelligence and
by will \ therefore, the operation of
God is by intelligence and by will,
and consequently one origination is
by the intelligence, tlie other by the
will.

So far we have given those laws
which govern, in general, the genesis
of God's life. We must now proceed
to those laws which govern the par-
ticular origination of each of the two
divine persons.

Now, the law governing the origi'
nation of the second person is the law
'Of intellectual generation. Genera-
tion implies the following elements:
I St, the production of a living being
-from a living principle ; 2d, identity
of nature between the two j 3d, this
identity required by the very natural,
essential, and direct tendency of the
action by which the term is produced.
]It is according to these elements of
f-gcnerative law that the second per-
son in the infinite is produced ; and
consequently he is really and truly
the Son of God, as the producer is
Father,

For the first person, whom we
have said to be subsisting by himself,
being intelligent activity, necessarily
intelligences himself. He is die God-
head intelligencing himself.

Now, an object undcrstc
much as it is undenvtood, (
the understanding in an ini
state ; for to understand mcaosl
to apprehend, to grasp intcB
that which is understoocL

The Godhead, therefore, i
self as the Godhead tinde
in the Godhead oiMle
Now, tlie object understood
in the intelligence, is what is \
mental word, intellectual come
and by the Greeks, io/^os.

Hence in tlic Godhead exists
Godhead as mental word or l(^
St. John, with a sublime ejcpn
which electrified all the
philosophers, began his Gospel '
** In the beginning (the Father)!
the Word."

This Word of the Godhead 1
conceived by an immanent act,^
act which has neither be^nning ;
end, which is not power
act, is conceived therefo;
and consequently is cutlcrn-ii
the conceives It is God or the in-
finite \ because tiie first persoo, or
intelligent activit)', begets him by in
operation which terminates titfi^
himself, by die law of immanence;
consequently the Word ts idcfttiol
with his essence, and is» therdbft,
the infinite.

Yet is he a distinct perso«) fnw
the first as Word*

For although the intelligeni 3
and the Word are both God, yell
they distinct from each other
law of opposition of origin, '
implies that a term proceciitng I
a principle is necessarily oppoised b
it, and consequently distinct from it
Thus the intelligent activit)-, as pd^,
ciple, is necessarily opposed XaV
Word as term; and, vice fyrM»|
Word as term is necessarily op
to the intelligent activity as \
In other wtjrds, the tnteUj|
tivity could not be what if i»,"i

Catholicity and PanthHsm,

819

it were the opposite of the Word,
and this could not be the Word
unless it were the very opposite of
intelligent activity. Hence, to be
intelligent, activity belongs so ex-
clusively to the First, as to exclude
any other from partaking in that
distinctive constituent; and to be
Word is claimed so exclusively by
the Second, as to be attributed to no
other. The result is a duality of
terminations, possessed of the same
infinite nature and its essential attri-
butes, each having a constituent so
exclusively its own as to be alto-
gether incommunicable. Now, two
terminations, possessed of the same
infinite nature and its essential at-
tributes, with a constituent so ex-
clusively their own as to be attribut-
ed to no other, convey the idea of
two persons. For what is a person ?
A spiritual being with a termination
of his own, which makes him distinct
from any other, gives him the owner-
ship of himself and renders him soli-
dary of his action.

Now, the intelligent activity is a
spiritual being, since he is the God-
head j is possessed of a constituent
of his own, intelligent activity ; has
the ownership of himself; for, as in-
telligent activity, he is himself arid
no other, and cannot communicate
himself; and is solidary of his no-
tional action, that is, the action which
constitutes him what he is : he is,
therefore, a person.

Likewise the Word is a spiritual
nature ; for he is the same Godhead
as to substance; as a relation or
Word, he is the owner of himself,
incommunicable, and solidary of his
notional action ; hence, he is also a .
person.

In other words, the Godhead is
an infinite spirit ; all that constitutes
him, both substance and terms of re-
lation, is spirit. Consequently, each
term of the divine relation, as such

term, has an individuality of his own
and, as infinite spirit, has know-
ledge and intelligence of himself;
he beholds himself distinct from the
other as term of relation, one with
the other as substance. His dis-
tinction causes his relative indi\idu-
ality; consciousness and intelligence
of this relative individuality make
him a person.

Here an objection might be raised;
to be a person implies, necessarily,
to be intelligent, which is an essen-
tial attribute of spiritual being.
Therefore the Word also must be in-
telligent, otherwise he would have
neither knowledge nor consciousness
of his individuality. But you have
attributed intelligence to the first
person as being his particular termi-
nation ; therefore how can the Word
be a person, if intelligence be the
particular termination of the first?
Either the Word is not intelligent,
and then he cannot be a person, or
intelligence is not the particular
termination of the first, and in that
case they cannot be persons, for they
cannot be distinct.

The diflSculty will vanish if it be
observed that we have not attributed
intelligence to the first person as his
particular termination, but intelligent
activity,

A slight attention to the manner
according to which the Word is pro-
duced in the infinite, will illustrate
this distinction. The intelligence of
the Godhead is infinite in its activity
and actuality, as well as infinite in
its term ; which means that the God-
head understands itself infinitely,
and an infinite term is the product
of this intellection. Hence, once
God has understood himself and
conceived the expresssion of his in-
telligence, the activity is complete
and fully terminated ; consequently,
the Word, the term of this intelligen-
cing, has the Godhead with all its

820

CaihoiicUy and PantJuism^

essential attributes communicated to
him; except the activity of intclJi-
gencing, because the activity is com-
plete in the production of the Word

In other words, the act of the first
person is eternal, complete, and per-
fect, by the laws of immanence. Its
activity is fully and perfectly exer-
cised in engendering the Word, hence
it cannot be communicated- If it
were communicated, it would argue
imperfection and incompleteness in
the act and in its term. In the act,
for iT any portion of activity remained
to be communicated, the Godhead
would not intelligence himself to the
fullest extent of his infinity ; in the
term, because the Godhead not in*
lelligencing himself to the full extent
of his infinity, the intellectual ut-
terance which would be produced
would not fully and perfectly express
the object.

Consequently both would be im-
perfect, incomplete, and potential
This happens in human conception*
Our mind, being finite, that is, partial
and imperfect, is forced to exert
itself partially and conceive various
mental words, which would not be
the case if its activity were perfect
and complete, as it is in the in-
finite,

Thris answers another objection
which is brought forward by those
who lose sight of the law of im-
manence in the divine operation. It
is said. If the Word be intelligent,
there is nothing to prevent his en-
gendering another Word, and this
second, a thkd, and so on ad tnfinh
turn.

The Word is intelligent, but not
intelligent activit)^ When intelli-
gence, so to speak, is communicated
to him, it has been exercised in the
engendering of himself; or belter,
the eternal immanent act of the in-
telligent activity communicating in-
telligence to the Word, is continually

being exercised tn the
gendering of the Word ; thcrdore
cannot be communicated to
Hence that magnificent expit
of the Scripture, ^' SrmrJ /s
Deus,-^ " God speaks bui cw/r,*^
because the activity of cngen
another Word b not commun
to him, it does not follow tbaif
not endowed with the act of
gencing the Father or himseU
Father as his principle, hin
the product of the Father, For it
one thing to be intclUgeiiit asotJa
thing to be mtelligent principli
give some examples of this T
tion. The architect of a bn
who has planned it, is the i«te
principle of the building ; as
who understands tb« plan of li
building, is the intelligeni hekMtr
the building.

God is the intelligent oiuse of 1l
world, man is the ifiteltigeot pi
ceiver of the world*

There being, therefore* n distic
tion between intelligence as priiici|;
or cause, and intelligence as pern
tion, one may easily conceive how ^
Word in the infinite may be possd
ed of intelligence, without ht^aag i
principle of intelligence.

The Word, who is one
with the first person, a disiic
son himself, is also the sub
image of the first person,
in force of the act by which he
uttered, which is essentially assivil
tive^ he is produced as the VktM
of him whose expression and ^|
ance he is ; and as he is one^B
substance with the conceiver, he
consequently, his subi-
and likeness. We co
fore, that the production of
ond person in the mfinite
in a person, the substantial tnuige

• to rnio noQ Isabel wfaBufAw DkMi t^a/rf •*<
Um qub Mm labint Kd

Catholicity and Pantheism*

821

the conceiver, in force of the act of
intelligencing by which he is pro-
duced, which is essentially assimila-
tive — ^is governed by the law of gene-
ration; and that, consequently, the
first person in the infinite is Father^
and the second, Son, " Thou art my
Sony to-4ay I have begotten thee?^*

The law by which the third per-
son in the infinite is produced, is
different from that which governs the
production of the second.

The latter takes place according
to the law of generation or assimila-
tion ; the former is subject to the law
of aspiration, which must be under-
stood *as follows.

By his Word, the intelligent activi-
ty apprehends and conceives his in-
finite perfection and goodness. For
the Word, as we have seen, is nothing
but the infinite and most perfect ex-
pression or image of the intelligent
activity, and as the intelligent activity
is infinite perfection and excellence,
so the Word is the utterance, the
intellectual reproduction of that ex-
cellence and goodness. Hence the
intelligent activity, by his Word, con-
ceives and utters himself as infinite
perception and excellence. But per-
fection or goodness apprehended is
necessarily loved. For goodness,
once apprehended, awakens the will,
and necessarily inclines it toward it-
self; it necessarily attracts and affects
it. The intelligent activity, therefore
by apprehending himself through his
Word as infinite perfection and good-
ness, necessarily loves himself.

Love implies the insidence or in-
dwelling of the object loved in the
subject loving. The intelligent ac-
tivity, therefore, who necessarily
loves himself through his Word,
must be as object loved in himself
as subject loving.

This love as object must be co-

*Pfc iL 7,

eternal with the infinite, because by
the law of immanence which governs
the genesis of infinite life, every ori-
gination in the infinite must be co-
eternal with the infinite.

By the same law also, it must be
identical and one with the infinite ;
because love, being originated by an
inmianent act, terminates inside of
the infinite, and is, therefore, identical
with the infinite. The love as ob-
ject, therefore, is coetemal and iden-
tical with the infinite ; it is the in-
finite.

It is distinct from love as subject
and from the Word, by the law of
opposition of origin, which implies
that a term which originates from a
principle is necessarily oppqped to
it, and consequently distinct. Now,
love, as object in the infinite, origi-
nates from the intelligent activity
and from the Word. The intelligent
activity, by apprehending himself,
as infinite goodness and excellence,
through his Word, loves himself.
Hence, this love proceeds from both
— the intelligent activity, who con-
ceives his infinite goodness — the
Word, who represents it, and makes
it intelligible. This love-object is
a third person. For, from what we
have said, it appears that love-object
is identical with the infinite, with the
divine essence, and consequently
partakes of all the infinite attributes
of the essence ; hence he is a spiri-
tual and intelligent being ; as distinct
from both the intelligent activity and
the Word, he is possessed of a ter-
mination exclusively his o\sti, which
makes him the owner of himself in-
communicable and solidary of his no-
tional action. Hence he is a person.
This third person, not being origi-
nated according to a likeness of na-
ture, cannot, like the second person,
be called son. He is the personal
and subsisting love of the Father
and of the Son ; and as the object

822

Catholicity and Pantheism,

loved exists in the subject loving, as
incliniDg, and in a certain manner as
impelling, tlie subject toward it, as
raising in the subject an attraction
or aspiration toward it, hence the
third person is called the living and
subsisting Spirit of God.

The better to conceive diis distinc-
tive termination of the third term in
the infinite, let us suppose an attrac-
tion between two persons. It is
needless to remark that we use this
term for want of a better and more
spiritual one. Suppose, therefore,
an attraction between two persons ;
do not make it an accident or
modification, but substantial ; cany
it to its utmost perfection, actualize
it ad infinitum; so that it may be
able to return upon itself, to have
consciousness of itself, to possess
and own itself, and in this sense to
feel itself distinct from and indepen-
dent of al! others — and you will have,
as product, a subsisting or personal
attraction, a third person.

Such is the idea we can form of
the Holy Spirit The Father be-
holds himself totally in the Son as
an offspring of himself, and loves
himself in his ofJspring, his perfect
and substantial expression.

The Son beholds himself totally
in the Father as his author, and loves
the Father as his principle and origin.
This common love, this mutual at-
traction, this aspiration of the Father
toward the Son, and of the Son to-
ward» the Father, being infinite, is
most actual, perfect, and complete —
a living, subsisting attraction, w4th
consciousness and the ownership of
himself, a subsistence personifying
their mutual love and binding both
in one eternal tie of affection.

Hence, by this distinctive consti-
tuent of common love, the Spirit is
the archet^^e of harmony and order;
since in his personality he brings
the opposition existing between the

conceiver and the conceived i
mony and unity of love.

He is also the archetype of iIk
hcauii/til^ being ihc vcjy beamy aod
loveliness of God.

Beauty, in its highest mctapbysNil
expression, is variety reduced to tnii-
ty, by order and proportiacu Now,
the Spirit harmonizes the reality axMl
the intelligibility of God mto a unjiy
of love. Hence he is die beauty <if
the Father and the Son — their pesso-
nal and eternal loveliness; axid is
such, the archet)'pe of the beattfifai
in all orders.

He is the very bliss of the mfifiitib
because bliss is Uie perfect posso^
sion of infinite life, Now» it t$ is
the production of the > it tbc

genesis of infinite life t >and

is complete. He is, then, the
pression of the perfect possessidj
and enjoyment of the infinite lif
tlie living Blessed ii " ' fir

The last law whicl j

tery of God's life, and wht^
consequence of all the laws
explained, is the law of insiJ^nu^

This implies the indwelling of ;
the divine persons in each oil>er*
is founded both on the communil
ot essence and the very nattirc of]
sonalities.

For ilie essence of the three dii
persons, being one and most sin
it follows that they all meet
and consequently dwell in
other. On the other hand, whil
constitutes them persons ts esseii*
tially a relation. Now, a leUtioa
necessarily asks for and includes the
relative terra. The intelligent a/ct}*
vity is such, because in him dwdb
the Word, his infinite expression
The Word Is such, because he is tJtfH
expression of the intelligent acti^itj^^
and dwells in him. The Spirit OC'
cessarily dwells in both, because
is the subsisting aspiration of
activity toward its conception^

Catholicity and Pantheism,

823

of the conception toward its prin-
ciple.

^^ Believe that the Father is in me^
and I in the Father r (St. John.)

With these laws, we conclude the
first part of the problem of multipli-
city raised by pantheism. It is true,
as pantheism affirms, that there must
be a certain multiplicity in the unity
of infinite essence. For, without
a certain multiplicity, no being can
exist or be intelligible. Pantheism,
in giving such prominent importance
to the problem, has rendered great
service to philosophy and to religion,
and has cut off, in the very bud, all
those objections raised by the super-
ficial reason of Arians or anti-trini-
tarians of old, or Unitarians of mod-
em times. But, as we have seen,
however able in raising the problem.
Pantheism utterly fails in resolving
it ; and, in its effort to explain the
problem, destroys both the terms
to be reconciled. Catholicity, fully
conscious of the immense value of
the problem, unflinchingly asserts
that it alone has the secret of its
solution. Without at all assuming
to explain away its super-intelligibil-
ity, it lays down such an answer as
fiilly satisfies the mind which can
appreciate the importance and the

sublimity of the problem, and follow
it into the depths of its explanation.
The infinite, says Catholicity, is not
infinite as an abstraction or poten-
tiality, a germ as Pantheism affirms,
which ceases to be infinite when it
passes into multiplicity ; the infinite
is actuality itself.

This actuality consists in a first
personality unborn and unbegotten,
with fiill consciousness of himself
and his infinite perfection. This
personality is active intelligence, and
in intelligencing his infinite perfec-
tion, begets a conception, an intel-
ligible expression of that perfection,
a second person. The active intel-
ligence loves his infinite personality
conceived by him in his intelligence.
This love is a third personality.

Three personalities or terminations
of one infinite actuality : a multipli-
city in unity; unity without being
broken by multiplicity 3 multiplicity
without being destroyed by unity.

Hence the infinite is not a dead,
immovable, unintelligible unity, but
a living, actual, intelligible unity;
because it is unity of nature and a
trinity of persons ; because the unity
falls in the essence, the multiplicity,
in the terminations of the essence.

824

A Legmd for Husbands.

A LEGEND FOR HUSB.\NDS— 1699.

WHICH WIVES, TOO, MAY READ — POSSIBLY NOT WirHOUT PHOFTT."

My story is of people that ha^re
long since passed away, so that no
one need take it as personal.

American travellers sometimes
differ — though for my part, I do not
see why they should — as to the rela-
tive attractions of Paris and London.
But they seldom fail to concur in
their estimate of Brussels as one of
the most interesting and agreeable
cities in Europe*

And really the Flemish metropolis
presents a remarkable variety of at-
tractions. Parks, boulevards, bota-
nic gardens, museums, quaint old
streets, quainter old houses, libraries,
» great pictures, treasures of Rubens,
wealth of old MSS., and last, not
least, grand specimens of middle-age
architecture, such as the Hotel de
Ville and die Catliedral of St. Gu-
dule.

Indeed, in mediaeval monuments
no country in Europe is richer than
Belgium.

In presence of her grand old ca-
thedrals you can well understand
the enthusiasm of those artists who
maintain that our age takes entirely
too much credit to itself for its en-
■ courage me nt of the fine arts, Nei*
ther the past nor the present centu-
ry, they maintain, will leave to pos-
terity monuments of such grandeur,
I 'boldness, beauty, and originality as
rhave been bequeathed to us by the
iperiod til at im mediate!} followed the
•crusades ; and strangely enough,
these bequests of the "dark ages'*
can b«ar any lest of critical scrutiny,
■€Yen in the full blaze of our nine-
teenth century enlightenment.

Will our architectural legacies ap-

pear as well in the eyes of fiite

generations ?

" Why, look around yoo,** Slid to "
me a Flemish artist ; ^ in those ixjk
the erection of a costly edifice ww
not handed over to mere mechasncL
The body of iX was intrusted to a^
chitects. Sculptors created hs woo^
work. Carv^ers executed what
now turned out by machinery ; pIJll^
ers gave you pictures wheie jw
now get plaster, and the Benveisotd
Cell in is of the day worked thdr
miracles of art in metals whkfc tch
day the blacksmith hamraers out at
his forge. Ah I that was the gold^
age of artists, when the pulpit% tin
altars, the stalls, and the organ4om
were monuments ; when fumlus^
doors, chairs, and tables were poan
in wood ; when the family goblets,
the mere handle of a poignjud or a
sword w*ere chased and embclltslied;
when exquisite miniatures, iHus&V
nated missals, and wood engrftvinss
made a picture-gallery of the drjiart
chronicle ; when fresco aod cQaB»
tic decorated the walls and Haon;
when ceilings and beanis shoi>e vtt
arabesques, windoW^ were bright
with stained glass ; when, in short,
all the arts brought their tiibtite rf
beauty to a church or to a palio^
It was in the fadint of theie

artistic glories that - in wood

still flourished among the artists of
ancient Flanders."

Somewhat thus discoursed to I
an entiiusiastic young Belgian pM^ j
ter, as we stoo<l together adfiiirii]|l
that grand work of art, the carrrf
oak pulpit in the catiiedral of St Go-
dule, at Brussels,

A Legend for Husbands.

825

This pulpit is a work to which the
term unique may -be applied with
scrupulous fidelity.

The admiration drawn from you
by sculptures in wood elsewhere cul-
minates in presence of this singular
creation of genius. No description
can adequately place it before you
or render it justice. In its exquisite
architecture and sculpture, a poem
as grand as that of Milton is spread
out before you.

An outline, only, the merest out-
line, can be attempted to supply de-
scription.

Adam and Eve apparently sustain
the terrestrial globe. An angel
chases them from Paradise, and
Death pursues them. The life^ize
figure of Adam, in particular, is ad-
mirable. Carved in marble, it would
have been something for Canova to
have been proud of The preacher
stands in the concavity of the globe,
which is overshadowed by the bran-
ches of the tree of good and evil,
covered with birds and animals cha-
racteristically grouped. By the side
of Adam is an eagle ; on that of Eve,
a peacock and a squirrel.

To the top of the tree is attached
a canopy upheld by two angels and
a female figure symbolical of truth.
Above stands the Blessed Virgin
with the infant Saviour, who, with
a cross in his hand, crushes the head
of the Serpent, whose hideous body,
in huge folds, twines around the tree.
" This pulpit was made," said, or
rather sang, to me, the old gray-
haired sexton or bedeauy to the tune
in which he had shown the lions of
the cathedral for more than thirty
years — "This pulpit was made by
Verbruggen, of Antwerp, in 1699,
for the Jesuits of Louvain. Upon
the suppression of their order, it was
presented to this cathedral by the em-
piess Maria Therest^ This pulpit— "

Here I interrupted him with ques-
tions as to Verbruggen — what was
known of him? Had he left any
other works ? and so on, to the end
of the chapter. All in vain ; I could
obtain nothing but a negative shake
of the head, and a hint that it was
time to close the cathedral doors.

My stay in Brussels was prolonged
many weeks ; and besides my atten-
dance on Sundays, I frequently, in
my rambles between the grand park
and what Mrs. Major 0*Dowd calls
the Marchy CflureSy strayed into
St Gudule to admire the finest spe-
cimens of stained glass in the world ;
to read the inscriptions on the tombs
of the Dukes of Brabant, and to
feast my eyes and imagination on
the grand old pulpit.

In the course of these visits I be-
came better acquainted with the be-
deau in charge, and after some per-
suasion and a few well-timed atten-
tions, the old man at last acknow-
ledged to me that there was some-
thing more than mere names and
dates connected with the history of
the pulpit

Finally, upon my solemn assur-
ance that I was not an Englishman,
and would not write a book and put
him and the pulpit therein, he pro-
mised to tell me all he knew about it

Accordingly, by arrangement with
him, I loitered in the cathedral one
evening after vespers until the faith-
ful had finished their devotions and
left the church.

Taking a couple of rush-bottom
chairs from one of the huge pyra-
mids of them piled up at the lower
end of the building, we seated our-
selves just outside the grand portal,
and the old man began his recital.
Years have since gone by, and I
cannot repeat it in his quaint man-
ner; but, substantially, he thus told
me the

826

A Ligind for Husbands.

STORY OF THE CARVED OAK PULPIT.

Henry Verbruggen was heart
and soul an artist. Gay, careless,
pleasure-loving, he appeared to live
but for two things ; his art, first, and
then his amusements.

Verbruggen married Martha Van
Meeren, the pretty, the timid, the
good Martha Van Meeren. In the
mirage of his artist's enthusiasm her
sweetness, her grace, her beauty,
made her at first appear to him a
sylph, a muse, an angeU

Alas I though gentle and attrac-
tive, Martha was, after all, only
a woman, of the earth, earthy. In a
quiet, well-ordered household Mar-
tha would have been a treasure ; but
in the eccentric home of the artist
she was out of her element

A pattern of neatness and econo-
my, an accomplished Flemish house-
wife, a neat domicil and well-spread
table possessed for Martha more at-
traction than the imaginary world of
beaut)' in which her artist husband
revelled, even when poverty threat-
ened or want oppressed them.
Poor Martha I In vain she remon-
strated ; in vain she implored. Hen-
ry would neglect his work ; he would
be idle and sjiend his days at the
cahard, in the society of tJiose who
were even more Idle and more dissi-
pated than himself.

Thus years went on, Martha was
not happy. A tinge of moroseness
shaded the clear sunshine of her
usual mildness. Occasionally, too,
she came out of her quiet sadness
and found sharp words of reproof
for Henrj', and anger for the com-
panions who kept him from home.
^And so it came about that soon, in
"Terbruggen's eyes, Martha appeared
fcliarsh and repulsive. I'hen swiftly
followed dispute and recrimination.
teis early enchantment had disap-
rpcared \ Martha was not the wife
for him, thought Verbruggen. He

should have had one as
enthusiastic as himself. Would soc
a wife have suited him> think foe-
you who know the human heart ?

Meantime things went from bad I
worse. Verbruggen scarcely cam
home, totally neglected his art, it
into utter idleness and the slougb <
despond, and his family was st>oii r»
duced to want — ^almost to beggtr

In this crisis — it was in the yes
1699 — a Jesuit father who had bcu
of Verbruggen's talent, called
him, supplied him with meani
ordered a pulpit, the most bea
his art could produce, for the dime
at Lou vain.

Surprise, gratitude, joy, en
asm, all contributed to arc
dormant energies of the artist 1
set himself energetically at the|
position of a design for his

*M will make," said he, V^ofi

pulpit my greatest production

shall be," he exclaimed, growifl

diant with artistic inspiration, *

thin^ that shall display at a

the history of the Christian rcll

I will place," thus he mused,

the terrestrial globe, Adam an

the moment after the fatal

disobedience. This globe sha

the pulpit. Around it shall watd

the four Evangelists. Over it shd

hang the canopy of heaven, support

ed on the right by angels, on the lef

by Truth herself. The datetrc<

shall lend its shade. The long seal]

wings of the serpent shall cncsick

it, reaching from man on earth tatb

Blessed Virgin in heaven. B|

side of man 1 will place the <

bim armed with his Gaining sn

and near Eve, young and be

a hideous figure of Death.

up shall be the dii'ine ioG

one foot on the head of the 1

he shall stand by the side of Uj

gust mother, resplendenl in ^

crown of stars, surrounded by i

A Legend for Husbands.

827

cherubs, and seraphs. Yes, all
this and more will I do. The very
wood shall grow into life under my
hands, and ages yet unborn shall
hear of Henry Verbruggen of Ant-
werp."

The artist w6nt at his work with
all the enthusiasm of genius, and
had completed the body of the pul-
pit without placing the Evangelists
according to his original design,
when, in a moment of malicious
spite, he imagined he would punish
Martha by displaying near Eve va-
rious satirical emblems of her sex's
qualities.

On the branches, then, that en-
twine the staircase leading up on
the side of Eve, he placed a pea-
cock, symbol of pride; a squirrel,
symbol of destruction ; a cock, sym-
bol of noise; and an ape, image of
malice ; of all which defects, poor
Martha, as the angels well knew,
was as innocent as an infant.

Of the statue of Adam, Verbrug-
gen made a chef (Tcsuvre — a figure
full of dignity and manly beauty.
The figure of Eve is inferior, and has
less grace and animation.

And now to complete his sculp-
tured marital spite, on Adam's side
he carved an eagle, symbol of ge-
nius.

Thus far had he progressed when
poor Martha sickened and died. In
his motherless household Verbrug-
gen soon discovered the extent of
his misfortune, and learned, as
Shakespeare has so well toIJ the
world, that

" What we have we prize not to the worth ;
But being lacked and loct,
We then do know iu value."

And now came the reaction. Ver-
bruggen deeply mourned Martha.
He sincerely deplored her. Her ad-
mirable qualities came fresh upon
his memory, and he bitterly re-

proached himself for his unkindness
and neglect.

Soon he fell into fits of despon-
dency. Discouragement took pos-
session of him, and his pulpit, begun
with so much energy, stood unfin-
ished.

Accustomed to find his home in
order, his table spread, he soon dis-
covered their loss, as well as the
want of a thousand little attentions
and kindnesses which none could
now give him ; and in short, as he
was in the high road Jbr discoveries,
we may safely conclude that he found
out, with Ben Franklin, that a lone
man is but the half of a pair of scis-
sors.

Twelve months passed by. Ver-
bruggen's friends counselled him to
remarry. " You are but thirty -six,"
said they. "You have sincerely
mourned Martha's loss, and have
done full justice to her excellent
qualities ; but you can yet do as well,
if not better. There is Cecily Van
Eyck, talented, a painter, an artist,
like yourself. Your dispositions ac-
cord, and if she consents to have
you, she will be a mother to your lit-
tle girl and make you an admirable
wife."

Henry listened to his friends,
thought over what they said, and fol-
lowed their advice. He became Ce-
cily's suitor, and was accepted.

Now Cecily Van Eyck was very
smiling, very sweet, very charming ;
but Cecily had a will of her own.

Scarcely had the honeymoon gone
by, when she enlightened Henry with
some new ideas, and gave him seve-
ral very distinct notions as to the
proper distribution of domestic pow-
er in a household. In a more pro-
pitious age Cecily would have made
her mark in a Sorosis^ and been a
leader of the most advanced radical
wing of a woman's rights party.

Her mastery over Verbruggen

828

The Ftiturc of Ritualism,

ViVLS complete, and the poor artist
even kissed his chains.

One day she said to him, "WTiat
are you doing? Your apathy is
complained of, and I am taunted
with it. Remember, if you please,
that Van Eyck is a name not un-
knoMTi. Let me not lose, I pray
you, by changing it for that of Ver-
bruggen. Where is the pulpit, that
chefifamfre you so long since an-
nounced ?"

In reply he led her to his studio.
Cecily had an artist's eye, and more
^-^ woman's,

"What mean/' said she, "these
emblems by the side of Eve?"

The sculptor blushed.

*'When I made them," he an-
swered, " I did not know Cecily Van
Eyck,"

**Tis well. But after these em-
blems of defects, which perhaps wo-
men have not, what do you intend to
bestow upon your own sex ?"

** I had already commenced,"
stammered Verbruggen — "you see
the eagle, Twas perhaps somewhat
vain."

*' Vain ! Oh 1 no ; not at allj
eagle — a bird of prey and rapifl
s}Tnbol of brutal tyranny-
could be fitter. Well, and whai ft
ther do you intend ?"

Verbniggen could find no i

"Well, then, listen," con tint
wife, "to render fiall justice to^
sex, near the eagle you wiU pla^
fox, emblem of deceit ; a panoc, ef
blem of noisy chatter; a ixkmiIh
eating grapes, s\Tnbal of tntoiic
Hon ; and a jackdaw, emblem of siE
pride."

Verbruggen executed her ori|
with a docility most edifyiog. S[
pulpit was soon finished, ai>d, faW
nately for us, has been
tact through years of war mxidi
lution. Higher teachings havei

proclaimed from it, but to the

know its story even its dcnnb w«
speaks a salutary lesson.

•* Ah sir !" ejaculated the old ses
ton, when he had finished the stor
of the pulpit, ** if I had kfK»irn ift
history of that pulpit belbre
ried a second time., I — ^*

Just then I came away.

THE FUTURE OF RITUALISM.

We propose to devote a few pages
to the consideration of Ritualism and
its probable future, because it is an
interesting religious movement which
is of great importance to many souls,
and beoiuse tt seems to tis to have
reached its crisis. A writer in the
Chttrckmifm (an EpiscopaliaQ jour-
nal of Hartford, Ct) wooders that
CriTho>fcs lake s«ch an Intenst in hts
on and its members. **OaEr
, being no bishops," be says*
"our clei]^' only decentJj bdiafcd

laymen, our laity a penrcrse
tion whose only diaoce of ;
lies in the charitable hope
invincible ignoranoet sorelf it ta
mg powder and shol upon tis 1
ticise our doings wl^n we
only playing at being a
It is certainly true thai: in the|
of the Catholic Chmdv M»d
every ecclesiastica) body which In
the apo8«otic soocessiop, the bishO|
of ^ Eptsfmpal Chcifch are i
bishojpsto and the deigr a^ aicit li;

The Future of Ritualism.

829

men. It is also true that the extreme
High-Churchmen are " playing at be-
ing a church." But cannot the writer
understand 'our zeal for the salvation
of souls and our honest desire to
help those whose religion is only a
logical farce ? We assure him that
if he does not appreciate our sincer-
ity, he does injustice to the feelings
which should animate every Christian
heart We see that which every intel-
ligent and unbiassed mind can seei
a party in the Episcopal Church hold-
ing opinions which are suicidal to
every species of Protestantism, and
which lead directly to the Catholic
faith, and we know that those who
belong to this party cannot long con-
tinue in their present position. They
must come honestly forward to us,
or go backward to lose what little
faith they have. Is it wonderful that
for the love of Christ we beg them
to be truthful to their convictionsi
and manly in their profession ? Is it
strange that we attempt to show them
that the doctrines they profess to
hold have no home in Protestantism,
and that the church they pretend to
venerate is only a fiction of their im-
agination ?

In this spirit we write now a few
words which will, we hope, fall into
the hands of Ritualists, and help at
least some to the knowledge of the
truth. Let us say at once, and in all
candor, that our sympathy is with the
movement which is called Ritualism,
and that from its beginning we have
earnestly prayed to God to bless it to
the conversion of many souls. We
hope it will go on and prosper, and be
truthfully developed ; for we can think
of nothing so fearful as "playing
church," when the question is one of
salvation. There is, however, among
some of the leaders of this movement,
a want of honesty and a direct un-
truthfulness which surprise us great-
ly. If this dishonesty be not wilful.

it is owing to an obliquity of mind
which it is hard to comprehend. The
object of this article is to show that
Ritualism can have no standing in
the Episcopal Church, and that they
who would propagate it had better
lay down the weapons of insinua-
tion and falsehood and be brave
enough to look the truth full in the
face.

There is nothing gained by attempt-
ing to skulk away under the general
meaning of the name which the
world has applied to a particular
signification. " There can be no reli-
gion without external ceremonies,
say the High-Churchmen, "therefore.
Ritualism is proper and necessary."
This argument is as fallacious as the
following " There is no man without
a body, therefore the negro is a
necessity to the human race." The
question, honest friends, is not
whether the religion of Christ de-
mands ceremonies, but whether it
demands the particular ceremonies
advocated at St. Alban's and other
ritualistic churches. And Ritualism
does not mean the adoption of any
rites in the service of God, but the
use of the peculiar ones which are
recommended by the leaders of the
movement in the Episcopal Church.
Why, then, not say so at once with
manliness ? A man will make little
progress in our day who is afraid to
avow his creed.

Ritualism means a good deal more
than mere rites and ceremonies. We
do not take our good friends who
put on Catholic vestments as auto-
matons who are dressed up by the
tailor to show off his art They are
not so senseless as to play for the
benefit of the dress-maker alone.
There is doctrine beneath all this
external ritual which is intended to
show forth the sacrifice of the mass,
and the real presence of our Lord in
the holy eucharist It includes the

830

The Future of Riiualism.

whole sacTamental system, and the
power of the priesthood. There is
little outward distinction between
the tenets of the Ritualists and the
creed of the Catholic Church. They
may pretend to draw a line for the
satisfaction of fearful disciples, but
really there is little diflference. As
far as we can see, they are willing to
accept our faith, so long as they can
enjoy it without submitting to the
Catholic Church. They go to con-
fession, and invoke the saints, and
pray for tlie dead, and believe in the
se^'en sacraments, and kneel devout-
ly before the bread and wine which
they elevate for the adoration of the
people. *• You can have," said a
leading Ritualist of this city, ** everj^-
thing in the Episcopal Church which
you can find in the Catholic commu-
nion, and why therefore should you
go away from the fold in which you
were l>orn ?" We ought, therefore,
to define Ritualism as a movement
toward the actual faith and worship
of the one church of Christ, which
were rejected by all Protestants at
the Reformation. This is its true
definition before ever}^ honest mind,
and any attempts to hide under gen-
eralities, are attempts at deception.
, It will perhaps bring our remarks
to more clear conclusions, if we show,
first, that tliese doctrines which un-
derlie the whole movement can have
no status in the Episcopal Church;
secondly, that any attempts at dis-
guising the truth, only injure the
leaders in their enterprise; and lastly,
from the indications of the present,
conclude the future of Ritualism,

Little time need be spent to per-
suade any honest mind that the sa-
cramental system can have no home
in the Anglican communion. First
of all, the great body of the people
R'ject it, and can never be made to
accept it, while they say with since-
rity that they see no distinction be-

ne<^H

tween it and the teachings of I
tholic Church, Ifil be de«nie
while to profess subst;intidly \
doctrines of Trent, why not undo \
Reformation and go back at once
the fold which their forefalhc
sook ? And, as Bishop Lcc re
at the opening of the late Epil
Convention, what right ha
church organized by Queen j
to set forth articles of faf
fact to be a church at all. If i
the Protestant principle of
judgment? The majority or
copalians have the greatest
aversion to anything that
called Romanism, and will, as \
never allow themselves to be
licised. In this country ihet^
great liberty of speedi, and great pi
tensions are easily lolcnted \ b
when it is understood that such pi
tensions mean more than word^f
spirit of Protestantism, which i
only living thing in the Kpi^
Communion, shows itself
armor. Individuals daily cci
the one fold of Christy
body will never move from it
tile attitude. It will stand
ent to its own principle unti
hour of dissolution* If any
ist doubts this, let him actualljr]
tise all he preaches^ and
avow all he believes. His<
soon be opened sufficient
that the antagonism beln
self and his surroundings oin af*i
be removed.

Our friends, the High-Churdimec
are zealous upholders of chtntl
authority ; but where is the auti
to which they stibmit ? Their \
church ought to be an authori
them, yet we find that its dec
have no weight for their mindsi.
articles are against them, and <
doctrinal judgment thai has
made throughout the historf
controversy is distinctly adroM ti

The Future of Ritualism.

831

their views ; yet they insist on holding
on, and appealing from the stern pre-
sent to the impossible future. The thir-
ty-nine articles are really the doctri-
nal standards of the English Church
and truly express the belief which
formed and animates their commu-
nion. When these articles are given
up, if such an event should ever take
place, the Episcopal brotherhood
will commit suicide and vote itself
out of existence. These remarka-
ble canons of doctrine condemn the
whole sacramental system, deny any
real presence of Christ in the blessed
Eucharist, and cut away, root and
branch, any encouragement which
the Ritualists might find in the other
portions of the Prayer-Book. What-
ever authority therefore the Episco-
pal Church has, is most decidedly
against the unnatural children who
profess great fondness for their mo-
ther, call her by great names which
she disowns, and still never obey
her. We have before us a declara-
tion of principles made in the year
1867, in which are contained the
very doctrines which the articles con-
demn, and which the bishops, when-
ever they have spoken, have rebuked.
One sentence particularly pleases us
by its great frankness and amiable
sincerity. "We heartily and loy-
ally obey the authority of our ^wn
particular church, receive every one
of her doctrines, and adopt, as our
own, her every act of devotion."
Article xxviii says, "^The sacrament
of the Lord's supper was not by
Christ's ordinance reserved, carried
about, lifted up, or worshipped."
The declaration of these loyal chil-
dren declares that " Christ is really
present in the Holy Eucharist, and
being present, is of course to be
adored."

Now, if the bishops of the Angli-
cian communion have any right to
decide in litigated questions, they

have spoken with sufficient plainness.
The " Catholic school " in England
has had a hard road to travel while
one after another their favorite posi-
tions have been condemned. The
last decision of the Privy Council is
adverse to the ceremonies of Ritual-
ism, and ot course to the doctrines
" which underlie them. Twenty-eight
bishops of the American Episcopal
Church have published an open pro-
test against the new movement, and
the late Pastoral of the Convention
reasserts the principles of the Refor-
mation, denies the presence of our
Lord in the Eucharist, and concludes
the subject by saying : " We would
most earnestly deprecate those extra-
vagances in Ritualism, recently in-
troduced, which tend to assimilate
our worship to that of a church hos-
tile to our own. And we must urge
you to remember that the reverent
obedience to their Bishops and other
chief ministers, promised by the
clergy at their ordination, would, if
faithfully rendered, prevent these
evils." We are not aware that any-
thing more explicit be required by
our friends who " love their own par-
ticular church " so well ; but if the
above be not enough, we imagine
they will not wait very long for some-
thing more.

The most painful feature, however,
in this movement, is an apparent
want of truthfulness and a disin-
genuousness which are inconsistent
with the earnest desire to know the
faith of Christ. It is very hard to
comprehend the course of some of
the leaders in this " Catholic re-
volution," unless their aim be to
maintain a cause without any regard
for truth or justice. They are some-
times very insincere in their condem-
nations of Romanism before the peo-
ple, when in their hearts they must
see that they are making dupes of
the ignorant.

The Future of Rkualism*

A very vapid book has been hand*
ed to us, entitled Ctmversatwns on
Mittdolisfn. The Rev. Mr. Wilson
■ (Ritualist) instructs Mr. Brown, and
(opens his eyes to see that there is
a pure Catholicity all unknown to
Rome, and even to the (beloved)
East, which is now about to revive and
do wonders. Mr. Brown is informed
that the American Church has not
yet been put together. The elements
of which it is composed are floating
around ; but so sure as the sun rises
some bright day, the chaos will be
one beautiful scene of order and
unity, when all shall think alike, and
the brilliant altars shall blaze witli
candles and smoke with incense.
Now, Rev. Mr. Wilson ** doubts if
there are many of his bishops and
priests who know more than the
mere A, B, C, of the real question
of the church worship." They will,
however, be enlightened, because
the world is to see the ** gorgeous Ri*
tual without tlie doctrinal errors and
corruptions of Rome/* and to take
a ** pill which is not to be gilded.**
Puritanism comes in for a terrible
malediction. ** If ever an evil spirit
has appeared on the earth, of such
a character as to put men out of
patience with its inconsistencies and
absurdities, that spirit is Puritanism."
O Puritanism, Puritanism, thou that
abhorrcst pictures and flowers,
stained glass and altar-cloths, thou
that lovest whitewash and blank
hard-finish, with what amazement
shalt thou hereafter discern the glo-
ries of the heavenly city, the New^
Jerusalem I " This Puritanism is a
very subtle and persistent poison ; I
have known it to crop out where
least expected ; I have even known
of mitred heads which seem in some
way turned by it.*' But, bad as it is,
it is not worse than Popery, which
good Mr. Brown is taught to distin*
guish well from Ritualism, Then Rev.

Mr. Wilson^ speaking gxtaikedra^ de
fines what this Popery is. Its <!aH
arc " the cultus of the Blesscjd Vd^l
adoration of the cross, images, 2xA
relics ; the doctrine of purgatory
Transubstantiation, Papa! pardons
indulgences and dispensations, super*
erogatory merits, and forbidding!
• clergy to marry." Pope Wilson,!
rejects the authority of Pius
pronounces these doctrines and |
tices as grave errors. There ca
no doubt, therefore, of the
ness of his vision, and discu
were useless and certainly inappn
ate. But, behind the scenes^ ^
is the practical difference bet
the Catholic doctrine conde
and the belief symboH/ed by
Ritualists? Mr. Brown has gone
home quite s;»'^ * ' x\d he
not hear our ci i»n, and

can afford to talk our
convictions. Tbc cultus
Blessed Virgin and tlie saints il
thing more than the devotion '
our friend, Mr, Mackooochie 1
proves under another name. Ci|
lies do not adore the cross, nor 1
gcs, nor relics. *rhey treat
with veneration and reli^ous resfl
and so do the Ritualists, Rev. 1
Wilson prays for his departed firie
though for the world he would
say out loud Purgatory-
substantiation he does not
though he believes that the hi
and wine are the body and blc
Christ, and to be adored with tvt
outward symbol of devotion.
dons are very good in themselvt
the Pope has nothing to do
them; and as for forbidding the (
gy to marry, he would leave
open question. Many of the Riti
ists have evinced a preference 1
single life, and a desire ei^en to \
lish convents and monasteries. Ml.
Brown is sleeping quietly on his Pl«*
testant pillow while Mr. Wilson pri|'

The Future of Ritualism.

833

before his crucifix, and is a Romanist
at heart though not in name. We
fear there are many Mr. Browns, and
Madame Browns, and Misses Brown,
who are likewise deceived. In reli-
gion we would prefer more manliness
and outspokei\ honesty. These
Conversations on Ritualism are only
an example of what we have often
seen and heard with much pain.
We have great hopes of any man who
is truthful ; but when there is a desire
to deceive, and an unwillingness to
follow truth to its just conclusions,
there is little chance for argument.
But some of the Ritualists are as
unfair toward their own church as
they are toward us. It cannot con-
demn them ; for whatever language it
may use, they will interpret it to suit
their own case. When Tract No.
XC. appeared, the entire English
communion scouted its attempt to
reconcile the articles with Catholic
doctrine. Now, there is no difficulty
in explaining away every objection-
able point and making those thirty-
nine daggers inoffensive. The Bap-
tist Quarterly says : " The twenty-fifth
article declares, * The sacraments
were not ordained to be gazed upon,'
an unquestionable interdiction of eu-
charistic adoration. But this, we are
told, must mean that they are not to
be looked upon without reverence
and devotion. So article twenty-
eight says,* The sacrament of the
Lord's supper was not by Christ's
ordinance lifted up or worshipped.'
This, it is said, may mean that eleva-
tion may not be practised, on the
ground of its being done by Christ's
ordinance, but it may be done on
some other ground. What may be
the casuistry of men who can so de-
fend their principles, it is difficult for
minds accustomed to frank and
straightforward actions to compre-
hend." If the Privy Council forbids
the practices of the Ritualists, the

VOL. VIII.— 53

Church Record tells us that " they
must indeed be short-sighted who
suppose that the disuse under com-
pulsion of the ritual expression of
a doctrine will hinder it from being
taught and believed." If the whole
house of American bishops distinctly
deny any presence of the body and
blood of Christ in the eucharist, and
forbid any worship of the elements,
on the ground that Christ is not there,
then these loyal churchmen are
"cheered," and take refuge under
the incautious use of a term which
in one sense might be objected to
even by Catholics. Say the bishops,
" Especially do we condemn any doc-
trine of the holy eucharist which
implies that, after consecration, the
proper nature of the elements of
bread and wine does not remain;
which localizes in them the bodily
presence of our Lord." The prelates
meant to say that our Lord is not
really in the sacrament, and had no
idea of the theological objection which
Catholic doctors might find to the
use of the word localize. The Cate-
chism of the Council of Trent tells
us that our Lord is not in the sacra-
ment " ut in locoy^ that is, he is not
limited or circumscribed by the or-
dinary laws of quantity and exten-
sion. This is evident, because our
Lord is present by miracle and ac-
cording to the conditions of his
glorified humanity. "When the Pas-
toral is examined," says the Church-
man^ " it turns out to be a denial
of a physical or carnal presence,
which the writer (in The Catholic
World) not having the fear of the
Council of Trent before his eyes, de-
clares must be local,^^ The Pastoral
says nothing about a physical or car-
nal presence, the precise meaning
of which in high-church casuistry
we do not know ; but it denies any
"bodily presence." Now, if our
Lord's body is there at all, there is

834

The Future of Ritualism.

a bodily presence, and that presence
is localized, that is to say, he is
within the species of bread and wine.
To use the words of St. Cyril, " That
which appears to be bread is not
bread, but the body of Christ ; and
that which appears to be wine is not
wine, but the blood of Christ." It is
hard for us to believe that the au-
thor of the above stricture on the
Pastoral knows what he means him-
self If by " physical " he means ac-
cording to the ordinary laws of phy-
sics, he need not beat the air any
more. If by "carnal" he intends
to say that our Lord is not in the
eucharist, as when in the days of his
sojourn on earth, he was subject to
all the natural conditions of flesh and
blood, he will find no adversary in
the Catholic Church. The substance
of the bread and wine is changed into
the substance of the body and blood
of Christ, and he is in the eucharist
sacramentally, but as truly and really
as he is at the right hand of the
Father in heaven. Two substances
cannot coexist at one time in one
and the same space, and so, accord-
ing to the plain definition of our
creed, the Incarnate Word is mira-
culously present, whole and entire in
either form, and under every consecra-
ted host in the world. That the bish-
ops meant to deny distinctly any true
presence of Christ in the sacrament,
is evident enough to any mind, and
we cannot admire the candor of the
writer who would try to escape from it
by a quibble upon a word whose com-
mon acceptation is quite plain. The
Church Record \io\j\i\ have us believe
that anything can here be tolerated,
provided you do not use the word
" Transubstantiation."

But what shall we say of the fol-
lowing language taken from the
Churchman 1 " The Romish Church
does not, comparatively speaking,
• care one fig for transubstantiation,

the celibacy of the cleigy, the <
ployment of her particular litu
and ceremonial. She has sacrifi<
these for dominion in times p<
She will do it again. She will
plain away transubstantiation, *
will admit the marriage of the cler
she will make almost any other c
cession, if she can get her penn
worth in return. But one thing j
does care about, and that is the Pop
supremacy." The author of t
famous passage is unsafe in anycc
munity, and ought to be continw
watched by detectives. It is c;
to write falsehood, and not very h;
to speak it ; but it avails very lit
those who have the hardihood to \
it. We have come to the conclust
from a long experience, that hij
churchmen will never be driven fn
their ground by any decisions
their own church, and that many
them are exceptions to the ordin;
laws of humanity. They are in
cessible to reason. On this grou
they will excuse us if we pr.iv i
more earnestly for them, or endear
to point out to the world their \r<
derful inconsistency. They advoc;
a kind of infallibility which, to
sure, is not within the reach of a
one, and yet when the Catho
Church is called infallible, they fi
the very idea inconsistent with thi
reason. " So long as Rome kee
to itself, it is grand, imposing, ai
may pass for powerful. But wh
it appeals to argument and ventur
into the province of reason, it adm
the possibility of an adverse conci
sion. Infallible men must not reasc
they can only pronounce." Perha
it was a hoary head that inditi
these words in the Churchman, or
may have been a young and inexpe
enced warrior. Is there any obji
tion to show the grounds of c*
faith to one who asks for them,ai
may not even the writer of ti

The Future of Ritualism.

835

above enter upon an argument to
prove the existence of God, " without
admitting the possibility of an ad-
verse conclusion " ? It is something
new to us that we can only defend
by argument the things that we
doubt. We do not reason on the
intrinsic credibility of the doctrine
proposed to our belief, but upon the
extrinsic evidence that God, the only
revealer, really proposes the doctrine.
And we are quite ready ta show to
any honest mind the proofs that
the Catholic Church is the one and
only church of God. Nay, this has
been done by our fathers and doctors
from the beginning. Every Catholic
is infallible so far as his faith goes,
because he relies upon the church
which is infallible ; but this does not
prevent him from defending by rea-
son the creed which he holds. The
same luminous author asks if " Rome
will stand equally well the daylight
which will be let into her secret
places." So also the accusation has
been made, that " the Romish Church
has one set of doctrines for the pub-
lic and another for the initiated ; that
to converts she always showed her
best face, and did not reveal her true
features until she had fiurly caught
them in her iron grasp." In reply
to these nursery tales, meant for
crying children only, we say briefly
that Rome has no " secret places "
whatever ; that the daylight shines in
her, and through her; and that all
she holds and teaches is in her cate-
chism, which is taught to young and
old. Any one who wishes to know
her creed can easily find it out, and
it is as much in the possession of the
unlettered peasant as it is of the
learned philosopher. It is barely
possible that they who write and speak
such silliness as the above may be hon-
est; but surely, if they are in their right
inindS} there is no excuse for their
%ttoMRlo6. Dear Ritualists, when

you wish to keep your friends or
parishioners from going Romeward,
pray tell the truth ; for when they find
'but that you have tried to deceive
them, they will all the faster run
from a system which cannot bear
honesty and plain-dealing.

There is another point in which
our good friends who like to call
themselves Catholics are manifestly
either ill-informed or disingenuous.
They profess to see a great distinc-
tion between the schismatic Greek
communion and the Catholic Church,
and speak as if there were the slight-
est hope of any intercourse between
themselves and the Eastern sects.
The separated Greeks are certainly
in a lifeless state, owing to their
schism and their slavish subjection
to the state; but their standards are
as decisive against Protestantism
and the English pretensions as even
the canons of Trent. To speak
otherwise, and to represent to an un-
lettered person that there is any
approximation between Anglicanism
and the East, is only an attempt to
deceive. The position of the schis-
matic Christians of the East is quite
simple upon our views of Catholic
unity ; but we venture to again urge
our brethren of the Episcopal Church,
to prosecute their investigations and
do something more than pass resolu-
tions such as are every year trium-
phantly carried at the sessions of
the American and Foreign Christian
Union. "Why not quietly wait,"
says the Churchman^ " and let
us be snubbed ?" We are quite
willing to wait; but in this day of
telegraph and steam improvements,
may we not beg the committee to
move a little faster? In the mean
time, we would place in their hands
a little manual, by Dr. Overbeck, a
Russian priest, who speaks only the
sentiments of his whole communion.
We quote from the English edition

836

The Future of Ritualism.

of his work on Catholic orthodoxy.
Speaking in the name of the Greek
Church, he says in answer to Dr.
Pusey's Eirenicon^ (page 97,) ** We
do not want your power nor your
riches; these are no baits for us.
We Are content with our poverty and
our pure faith, which nobody shall
sully; and are we to commune with a
churc)i so repute with heresy as the
English Church is I Are we to ex-
pose our only treasure, our pure faith !
You have installed heresy in your
pulpits ; you do not cast it out ; nay,
you cannot cast it out, because your
church is historically a Protestant
Church, and Protestants framed your
articles which you contrive in vain to
unprotestantize. God forbid ! iV^ ^^w-
munion tcith an heretical church!
No communion with the English
Church — it would be the grave of
orthodoxy.^' Again, (page 89,) " The
Orthodox Church docs not recognize
the English Church to be a churchy
in her own meaning of the word, any
more than the Lutheran, Reformed,
or any other Protestant Church. If
we, nevertheless, use the term church
in the controversy, it is only a con-
ventional mode of speaking, while
disproving the fact, and denying the
truth of the underlaid idea." "The
English Church is not, and never was
recognized by any Catholic Church."
From what we have seen, the
prospects of Ritualism are not very
bright. Whatever authority the
Episcopal Church possesses will
undoubtedly be used to prevent
its growth and influence. It is quite
certain that it can never be grafted
upon the service or discipline of a
communion whose ver)- existence de-
pends upon its Protestantism. The
bishops are in a directly hostile
altitude toward the movement ; and
if some of them let it alone, it is,
perhaps, because they think that it
it will the sooner die out. Ritualists

will go fon^'ard to a certain
and High-Churchmen will sta
generously behind to take any ;
tage of their success, and to d
all responsibility^ when the h
trouble comes.

After a while, the whole revc
will cease, and while many w
come Catholics, others will ret
indifference, and to greater toi
than at the beginning. A
there are signs of division :
the movers in the drama. Th
not agreed on the question of
tity, some proposing to go mu<
ther Romeward than others ar
ing to follow. English Riti
are dissatisfied with their Am
friends, and accuse them of cc
ice or want of frankness. The
ops snub them at ever}' oppod
the powers of the state fall
upon them, and they cannot co
any settled conclusion what I
In this country they can act a!
like, untouched by civil auih
and yet the whole land can bo:
only one or two churches where
monies are carried out accoril:
the code. It is doubtful how
these churches can be supports
the voluntary principle. Our
judgment is, that a few years \\\
the end of a movement which c
to result in many conversions t
Catholic faith. If there were
honesty among the leaders, we si
be more hopeful; but when false :
ments are constantly made, an(
" No Poper}* " cr}' is held up
blind by even the advance-guanl
wear chasubles and hear confess
what encouragement have wi;
the future ? It is so easy to re;
one's steps and to look unconsc
of all harm if the tide of battle X\
We know of more than one bi>
and many ministers in the Kpisc
Church, who have recanted 1
errors with more or less manlii

The Future of Ritualism.

837

and are now in the surgeon's tent,
far away from all danger. The lawn-
sleeves and the fair heritage have
proved too much for their faith in
things eternal. They who once were
ready to accept all the decrees of Trent
and utterly reject the articles of their
own church, have become doctors of
divinity, with large families of chil-
dren, and the pangs of conscience
have ceased. Monasteries well or-
ganized have been broken up by the
marriage of nearly all the reverend
monks, and communities of sisters
have been seriously embarrassed by
the drafts the clergy have made upon
their number. We mention these
facts in sorrow; for it is a sad proof
of the inconsistency of man in mat-
ters of religion. Why should we ex-
pect any more from the Ritualists
than we have' realized from their co-
temporaries or progenitors ? Espe-
cially, when we behold among them
a self-sufficiency and untruthfulness
which have no parallel in ecclesiasti-
cal history, what shall we dare hope ?
The Anglican communion can
never be unprotestantized. It may
in the course of time fall to pieces,
and every living moment within its
bosom will help its dissolution. As
a body, it never can take any Catho-
lic position, nor wash off the birth-
marks which prove its parentage.

Those who really wish for a divine
church and the rites which speak the
old unchangeable faith, will come one

by one " to the pillar and ground of
truth." Having tried shadows long
enough, being wearied by " playing at
church," and tired of holding up a reli-
gion by their own strength, Ihcy will
come where God hath established his
covenant in Zion and his mercy in Je-
rusalem. No honest man can long
hold the doctrine of the Real Pre-
sence and remain away from the al-
tars where alone the Holy of Holies
can be found. No man can seek to
confess his sins and often kneel to
one who is afraid to hear him openly,
who presents at best a doubtful code
of morals, and plays, like a foolish
child, with tools whose proper use he
knows not. The end will soon come.
The Catholic Church would have
perished long ago, if her life had
not been the life of God, and no
counterfeit of her august creed can
survive the changes of time. Ritual-
ism will pass away, and something
else \vill take its place. The Holy
Spirit of truth speaks through this
movement to honest hearts who will
hear and obey. Many are like the
young man in the gospel, who went
away from Christ because the sacri-
fice was too great. He was "not far
from the kingdom of God," neither
are our Ritualistic breth ren far dis-
tant from the portals of the true Zion.
God grant that they may be not un-
faithful to the truth they know, nor
lastingly unwilling in the day of the
divine power.

838

Inland's Martyrs.

IRELAND'S MARTYRS.

The Catholic Church in Ireland,
oppressed from the days of the Nor-
man invasion, became, from the time
of Henry VIII., a living martyr ; her
sufferings having no parallel in Eu-
rope from the time of the three cen-
turies of persecution under the Ro-
man emperors. It was not so much
the persecution and martyrdom of
individuals so much as of a race and
nation. Hence, while the Acts of
the Early Roman Martyrs^ formally
drawn up, have long since been col-
lected by Ruinart; while a Chal-
loner, for England, collected records
of the martyrs of the faith in his
Missionary Priests^ that all-absorbing
favorite of our earliest days ; while
even the memorials of the missionary
martyrs in our own land had been
collected, no one seemed to think of
selecting the records of Ireland's
martyred priests from the harrowing
tale of the suffering and unconquer-
ably faithful people amid whom they
perished.

It has been well that this pious
task has at last been undertaken,
and so well accomplished. This
work of Mr. O'Reilly is a plain, un-
varnished collection of contemporary
accounts, with no attempt to make,
from the simple details given, a
graphic and affecting picture. Brief,
too brief, indeed, many of these re-
cords are ; but further researches,
unexplored archives, correspondence
not hitherto consulted, will, we trust,
ere long, give more extended and
edifying memorials of these faithful

^Memorials of those xvho suffered for the Catholic
Faith in Ireland in the Sixteenth, Sex'enteenik, and
Ei^hteenih Centuries. Collected and edited from
the ori^iinl authorities. By Myles O'Reilly, B.A-,
LL.I). New V'ork : Catholic Publication Society.
1869. x2mo, pp. 462.

clergymen, these bishops, pr
secular and regular, of the Is!
Saints.

During much of the period o
great Irish persecution, during
long interval between 1540 and
it was scarcely possible to dra
and send out of Ireland, much
preserve in it, extended accoun
the martyrdom of those who die
the faith. Research or inquiry
their births or early lives was o;
the question.

The chief sources w^here we
now seek information as to i
heroic men are the historical
ings of the religious orders wh<
bored in Ireland. Among the P
ciscans, the great annalist of th<
der is Father Luke Wadding,
Irishman, who has preserved n
valuable accounts relating to his
tive country. Colgan, another I
writer of the same order, in the
face to the Acta Sanctorum Ilibcr
gives an account of the death of
of his literary associates, Fat]
Fleming and Ward.

De Burgo, of the order of Pre;
ers, published a well-known w
Hibcrnia Dominicana^ devoted to
history of his order in Ireland.

The Jesuit, Father Tanner, in
Socictas Jcsu Mi I i tans ^ record >
lives of many of his order who t
for the faith in Ireland, and, in
other work, not cited by our airJ
his Mortcs Jliustres, while treating
distinguished Irish members, eni
into the persecutions of the chu
in their native land.

Then there were special works
the various persecutions : the -AV.'
JWseiUtionis Hibcrniit^ by Fatlier ]
minic a Rosario, published at Lis!

Itrland's Martyrs,

839

in 1655 ; Bruodin's Propugnaculum
Catholica Veritatis^ issued at Prague
in 1669 ; Bishop Rolhe's Analecta
Sacra Nova et Mira de Rebus Catholi-
corum in Hibemia pro Fide et Religi-
one GestiSy published at Cologne, in
16 1 7, under the assumed name of
Philadelphus ; and the Processu
Martyrialis of the same authoi,
which appeared two years later ; the
Persecutio Hibemia^ 1619; Morri-
son's Threnodia HibernoCatholica^
sroe Planctus Universalis totius Cleri
et Populi Regni Hibernia^ published
at Innspruck, in 1659 ; and Carve's
Lyra, Sulzbach, 1666, with other
works of more general scope.

Besides these printed works, Mr.
O'Reilly cites several manuscripts
preserved in the Burgundian Library
at Brussels — Magna SuppUcia, writ-
ten about 1600 ; an account of the
martyrdom of Bishop Dovany in
1612 ; Mooney's account of the
Franciscan Province in Ireland ; and
unpublished letters of Irish Jesuits.

The first blows at the Catholic
Church in Ireland were struck under
Henry VIII. at the monasteries ;
then came the intrusion of men, as
bishops, who acknowledged that
monster as head of the church, and
the expulsion of those who refused
to admit this new power in the
crown. In the reign of his daughter
Elizabeth came the doctrine that the
sovereign, provided always, never-
theless, that he be not a Catholic, is
not only head of the church, but
empowered to make creeds and a
ritual for worship. In a few reigns
more came the doctrine that the Cal-
vinists in a nation are the head of
the church and state, may behead
kings, make and unmake worships
and creeds, and put to death all who
gainsay them.

The persecution under Henry was
comparatively bloodless ; the plun-
der was too plentiful for men to stop

to slay. Only one instance is re-
corded — thai of the beheading of the
guardian of the Franciscan convent
at Monaghan, and of several of his
friars; but we can scarcely credit
that under so sanguinary a tyrant so
little blood was shed in Ireland,
where no scruple ever held back the
English sword from slaughter, only
a few Irish families or bloods being
recognized as men whom to kill was
murder.

England had her illustrious mar-
tyr, Cardinal John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester ; Ireland in her hierarchy
had an illustrious confessor in Wil-
liam Walsh, Bishop of Meath, a Cis-
tercian, bom at Dunboyne, and a
monk in the Abbey of Bective, till its
suppression.

" Whatever doubt there may be about the
place of his birth and his early history,
there is noi^e whatever as to his eminent
virtues, distinguished abilities, and the he-
roic fortitude with which he bore numerous
and prolonged sufferings for the faith. His
unbending orthodoxy and opposition to the
innovations of Henry VHI. and Edward
VI. marked him out for promotion after the
accession of Mary, and accordingly we find
him associated with the zealous primate.
Dr. Dowdall, in the commission to drive
from the sanctuary all such as were faithless
to their trust.

"Dr. Walsh was consecrated about the
close of 1554, and immediately applied him-
self with zeal and energy to reform abuses,
and to heal the wounds which during the
last two reigns had been inflicted on faith,
morals, and discipline. The period of his
usefulness was, however, destined to be
brief, and he had time merely to stimulate
his priests and to fortify his diocese when
the gathering storm burst over the Irish
church, and sacrificed the Bishop of Meath
among its first and noblest victims. Queen
Mary died in 1558, and was succeeded bv
Elizabeth, who at once publicly embraced
the reformed tenets, and proceeded to have
them enforced on all. In 1560, an act was-
passed, under the deputyship of the Earl of
Suffolk, which ordered all ecclesiastical per-
sons, judges, officers, justices, mayors, and
all the other queen's officers, to take the
oath of supremacy under penalty of forfeit-
ure, and also enacted that if any person

«40

Ireland's Martyrs.

should, by writing, printing, teaching,
preaching, by express words, deed, or act,
maintain any foreign spiritual jurisdiction,
he should for the first offence forfeit all his
goods and suffer one year's imprisonment,
for the second offence should incur the pen-
alty of praemunire, and for the third be
deemed guilty of high treason."

He was first imprisoned in 1560, and
after a brief respite, was, in 1565,

" reconducted to his former prison ; this
was *a subterraneous dungeon, damp and
noisome — not a ray of light penetrated thi-
ther; and for thirteen years this was his
unvarying abode.* During all that time his
food was of the coarsest kind, and, with the
exception of rare intervals, when the inter-
cession of some influential friends obtained
- a momentary relaxation, he was allowed no
occtipation that could cheer the tedium of
his imprisonment In all this lengthened
martyrdom, prayer was his resource, and, as
he himself subsequently avowed, he often-
times passed whole days and nights over-
whelmed with heavenly consolations, so
that his dungeon seemed transformed into a
paradise of delights. To preclude the pos-
sibility of idleness, he procured a bed made
of twisted cords, and whensoever his mind
•was fatigued with prayer, he applied himself
to untie those cords, and often was he well
wearied with the exertion before he could
reunite them to compose himself to sleep.
"His persecutors, overcome by his con-
stancy, and finding his fervor in spiritual
contemplation a continual reproach to their
own wickedness, at length, about Christmas,
1572, connived at his escape."

Reaching the continent, he died at
Alcala, in 1577, bearing to the grave
the marks of his thirteen years* im-
prisonment.

Next in importance among the
sufferers for the faith was a most re-
markable man, David Wolf, a native
of Limerick, a priest of the Society
of Jesus, whose labors, perils, suffer-
ings of every kind, while acting as
nuncio to the Pope in Ireland from
7560 to 1578, form the matter for a
most interesting volume — not only
from the personal interest attaching
to a man of his abilit}', learning, and
courage, but from the influence ex-
ercised by hira in perpetuating the

episcopacy, and, consequently,
priesthood and the faith in Irela
The first martyr of whom we h
any details is the Franciscan, Dai
O'Duillian, of the convent of Y
ghal, put to death in 1569. Ind
ment, trial, judge, or jury seem
have had no part in his cause. \
ther Mooney thus describes
death as he obtained authentic ini
mation within fifty years after its 1
currence :

"When one Captain Dudal (probal
Dowdall) with his troop were torturing hi
by order of Lord Arthur Grey, the vicer*
first they took him to the ifate which
called Trinity Gate, and tied his hands t
hind his back, and, having £i$tened bea
stones to his feet, thrice pulled him up m\
ropes from the earth to the top of the tow«
and left him hanging there for a spai
At length, after many insults and tortur«
he was hung with his head do^n and h
feet in the air, at the mill near the muna
tery ; and, hanging there a long time, whi
he lived he never uttered an impaticr.t wc»r
but, like a good Christian, incessantly r
peated prayers, now aloud, now in a I *
voice. At lengtli the soldiers were onlirc
to shoot at him, as tliouj;h he wcrcat.irp!
but yet, that his sufferings might \k \l
longer and more cruel, they might n«-t lii
at his head or heart, but as much as th:
pleased at any other part of his body. Arre
he had received many balls, one, with
cruel mercy, loaded his gun with two I al"
and shot him through the hearu Thus d!
he receive the glorious crown of martyrd. :
the 22d of April, in the year aforesaid."

Similar disregard of all law an«
forms of justice appears in the icTri
ble martyrdom of the Francisco:
F'ather O'Dowd, who died like S:
John Nopomucen, a martyr of :h<
seal of confession.

With some other prisoners, he fell
in 1577, into the hands of the >.''
diers of Felton, then president 0:
Connaught.

** They pressed a certain secular, who aa
one of their captives, to tell them somcth.-r,
of the plots wliich they said he had nu
with others against the queen o( Kn^hr-:
but he protested he could tell nothing \^
the truth, and that there were no plots ; >■

Ireland^s Martyrs.

841

they determined to hang him. When they
said this, he begged he might be allowed to
make his confession to Father O'Dowd;
this they granted the more readily that they
thought the priest, if he were tortured,
would reveal what might be told him. As
soon as the confession was over, the secular
was hung ; and then they asked the priest,
who was also to be hung, if he had learned
aught of the business in confession. He
answered in the negative, and, refusing to
reveal anything of a confession, they offered
him life and freedom if he would reveal, and
threatened torture if he refused. He an-
swered he could not, and they immediately
knotted a cord round his forehead, and,
thrusting a piece of wood through it, slowly
twisted it so tightly that at length, after en-
during this torment for a long time, his
skull was broken in, and, the brain being
crushed, he died, June 9th, 1577."

Father Mooney recorded this hor-
rid statement from the lips of some of
the very soldiery who perpetrated it

When Dr. Patrick 0*Hely, Bishop
of Mayo, and his companion, Father
Cornelius O'Rorke, were arrested in
the County Kerry, soon after land-
ing, they were loaded with chains
and imprisoned in Limerick till Sir
William Drury arrived.

" The two prisoners were first placed on
the rack, their arms and feet were beaten
with hammers, so that their thigh-bones were
broken, and sharp iron points and needles
were cruelly thrust under their nails, which
caused an extreme agony of suffering. For
a considerable time they were subjected to
these tortures, which the holy confessors
bore patiently for the love of Christ, mutu-
ally exhorting each other to constancy and
perseverance.

"At length they were taken from the
rack, and hanged from the branches of a
neighboring tree. Their bodies were left
suspended there for fourteen days, and were
used in the interim as a target by the brutal
soldiery."

Here began, it will be seen, a sort
of process, or at least arraignment,
torture, and execution ; although any-
thing like a trial is wanting.

But in the fearful deaths of Rev.
Daniel O'Nielan, (March 28th, 1580,)
Rev. Maurice Kinrehan, Rev. Mau-

rice Scanlan, and his companions,*
in the same year, no pretence of ex-
amination was made; the soldiery
either killing them on the spot, or
wreaking on them any and every
cruelty that wanton malignity could
devise or suggest.

In the case of the heroic Cister-
cian, Abbot of Boyle, Father Gelasius
O'Quillenan, and his companions,
arrested while in Dublin, in 1580,
there was not the wanton cruelty of
lawless soldiers, or the mere blood-
thirstiness of officers accustomed to
every barbarity. Here the action
proceeded from the very highest
English authority in Ireland, in ther
days of Lord Coke, who tells us in
those legal treatises which have
come down to us as oracles, that he
never knew of torture having been
used in England.

The abbot and his companions
underwent preliminary examinations.

"John O'Garvin, then Protestant Dean
of Christ Church, was among those who as-
sisted at his first interrogatory, and, having
proposed many inducements to the abbot
* to abandon the popish creed,' Gelasius. in
reply, reproved him for preferring the de-
ceit^l vanities of this world to the lasting
joys of eternity, and exhorted him * to re-
nounce the errors and iniquity of heresy by
which he had hitherto warred against God,
and to make amends for the past by joining
with him in professing the name of Christ,
that he might thus become worthy to re-
ceive a heavenly crown.* The holy abbot
and his companion were then subjected to
torture, and, among their other sufferings,
we find it commemorated that their arms
and legs were broken by rc(>eated blows,
and fire was applied to their feet. The only
words of Gelasius during all this torture
were, 'Though you should offer me the
princedom of England, I will not forfeit my
eternal reward.* Sentence of death being
passed against them, they were led out with
all i>ossible ignominy to execution. They,
however, were filled with consolation ; the
sight of the joyous sufferers excited the ad-

* TheM three in 1580. and the three Franciscans,
of the tame names, nearly and at the same places
in 158^ moat be identieaL

842

Ireland's Martyrs.

miration of the assembled multitude, and
many even of the heretics declared that they
were more like angels than men. It was
on the 2 1 St November, 1580, that they were
happily crowned with martyrdom. The
garments which they wore, and the imple-
ments of their torture, were eagerly pur-
chased by the Catholics, and cherished by
Ihem with religious veneration."

Nor can it be said that in the use
of torture thus used to wring from
the Irish clergy admissions to justi-
fy their execution, the authorities in
Dublin acted without the knowledge
or consent of the queen. Any such
pretext is at once scattered to the
winds by English records in the case
of one of the most illustrious martyrs
in the whole honored list of Ireland's
witnesses for the faith — Dermod
O'Hurley, Archbishop of Cashel.

" The birthplace of this glorious martyr
was a little village in the diocese of Lime-
rick, less than three miles from that city,
called Lycodoon, where his parents lived
respectably by farming, both of tillage and
cattle ; they were held in good estimation
by their neighbors, both rich and poor, es-
pecially James Geraldine, Earl of Desmond.

** Having then been raised to the episco-
pacy by Gregory XIII., and named Arch-
bishop of Cashel, he took his route toward
Ireland."

At Waterford he was detected by
a Protestant named Baal, on whose
information he was pursued to the
Castle of Slane, where he had, in-
deed, taken refuge for a time, but
had proceeded further. When Lord
Slane found himself in danger, he
joined in the pursuit of the arch-
bishop, and, overtaWng him at Car-
rick-on-Suir, induced him to proceed
to Dublin, where his arrival is noted
by Archbishop Loftus and Sir H.
Wallop, in a letter to Robert Be.ile,
temporary chief secretary to the
queen, dated Oct. 8th, 1583, and still
preserved in the Public Record Of-
fice in London. In a subsequent
letter, on the lolh of December, ad-
dressed to Sir Francis Walsingham,
they say : " Among other letters di-

rected to us, and brought by this h
passage, we received one fi-om yo
honor declaring her Majesty's pk
sure for the proceeding with E
Hurley by torture or any other s
vere manner of proceeding to ga
his knowledge of all foreign pra
tices against her majesty's stat
wherein we partly forebore to de
till now." Then they remark, " fi
that we want here either rack (
other engine of torture to terrify hii
... the Tower of London shod
be a better school than the Castle c
Dublin ... we do wish that we ha
directions to send him thither."

The pretext here was shallow
there was wit enough in the dom
nant party in Ireland to invent an
necessary racks. Walsingham ev
dently directed them to proceed i
Dublin, and himself suggested ih
mode of torture. On the 7th
March, 1584, they again write, **\V
made commission to Mr. Waterhous
and Mr. Secretary Fenton to p'j
him to the torture suc/i as your hone
advised us, which was, to toast hi
feet against the fire with hot boots.
What these W\ilsingham boots wen
we learn from contemporary stat«
ments taken down from eye-wi
nesses. " The executioners place
the archbishop*s feet and calves i
tin boots filled with oil ; they the
fastened his feet in wooden shackle
or stocks, and placed fire umit
them. The boiling oil so penetrate
the feet and legs thart morsels of th
skin and even flesh fell oft and Ici
the bone bare. The officer whoa
duty it was to preside over the to
ture, unused tc^ such unheard-of su
fering, and unable to look upon sue
an inhuman spectacle, or to hear t':
piteous cries of the innocent prelai
suddenly left his seat and quitte
the place.-* (Pages 91-2.) All ih
failed to extort from him anything t
justify his arraignment even, thoug

Ireland^ s Martyrs.

843

the torture was continued till the
executioners believed life extinct,
and hastily endeavored to restore
animation ; for he " lost all voice and
sense, and when taken out lay on
the ground like dead." (lb. 93.)

The lords justices were in great
perplexity. The judges, on being
consulted, had positively declared
that, as no act of treason had been
^committed by him in Ireland, he
could not by law be arraigned.
Their opinion, still preserved in the
Public Record Office, is given by our
author, (p. 109.) Again they apply
to Walsingham, and the whole pas-
sage is so curious that we cite it at
length :

" And herein we thought good to remem-
ber your honor by way of our opinion that,
considering how obstinate and wilful we find
him every way, if he should be referred to a
public trial, his impudent and clamorous de-
nial might do great harm to the ill-affected
here, who in troth have no small admiration
of him. And yet, having had conference
with some of the best lawyers in the land,
we find that they make a scruple to arraign
him here, for that his treasons were com-
mitted in foreign parts, the statute in that
behalf being not here as it is in England.
And therefore we think it not amiss (if it be
allowed of there) to have him executed by
wtartial law^ against which he can have no
just challenge, for that he hath neither lands
nor goods, and as by that way may be
avoided many harms, which by his presence,
standing at ordinary trial, and retaining still
his former impudence and negative protes-
tations, he may do to the people."

The idea of any man impudently
objecting to submit to the honor of
being executed by martial law, when
a trial at law must resuU in his ac-
quittal, is indeed extraordinary, and
sufficient to disquiet Christian rulers.

Elizabeth relieved them. A letter
of April 29th, 1584, announced her
majesty's resolution for the course to
be holden with Hurley, namely, " that
they should proceed to his execution
(if it might be) by ordinary trial by
laW| or otherwise, by martial law."

Lofhis and Wallop, accordingly, on
the 19th of June, 1584, gave warrant
to the knight-marshal in her majes-
ty's name to do execution upon him."
(Letter July 9th, 1584.)

Accordingly, on Friday before Tri-
nity-Sunday, Hurley — whose wounds
had been so skilfully treated by a
Jesuit who was enabled to reach
him, as to enable the holy sufferer
to regain sufficient strength to sit up
and even rest on his feet — was or-
dered to prepare for execution. He
was taken out at early dawn, amid
the cries of his fellow Catholic pri-
soners, proclaiming his innocence,
one bishop, who was expiating in fet-
ters a guilty pusillanimity, exclaim-
ing that he himself, for the scandal
he had given, deserved to die, but
that the archbishop was an innocent
and holy man. He was drawn on a
hurdle through the garden gate to a
wood near the city, and "there he
was hanged on a withey, calling on
God, and forgiving his torturers with
all his heart." At evening his body
was buried in the half-ruined church
of St. Kevin. So great was the
veneration felt for this holy man, that
the church was restored to satisfy
the devotion of those who flocked to
the spot to recommend themselves
to his prayers, and many of whom
averred that miracles were wrought
there.

Elizabeth and the ministers of her
godless tyranny, in thus trampling on
law and justice, had gained nothing
toward the advancement of the new
doctrines in Ireland. The death of
Dr. Hurley but confirmed the Irish
Catholics more immovably in the
faith.

In another case, Dr. Richard
Creagh, Archbishop of Armagh, who
escaped from the Tower of London
in 1565, but, after two years' labors
in Ireland, was seized in Connaught
in 1567, the government ventured on

844

Ireland's Martyrs.

a trial at law j but the jury acquitted
him. Little did this avail : he
was kept a prisoner, but at last
effected his escape, and, for a short
time, labored to console the afflicted
Catholics. Falling again into the
hands of the persecutors, he was sent
to England, and died of poison in the
Tower of London, (Oct. 14th, 1585,)
leaving one of the most venerated
names in the annals of the Irish
chiu-ch. Another prelate, Murlagh
O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, died the
same year in prison, at Dublin, after
undergoing tortures.

The interesting biography of an-
other martyr, Rev. Maurice Kinrech-
tin, gives a picture of a Catholic
Easter during these dark ages in
Ireland that is too touching to omit.
It is in a letter from Father Robert
Rochfort :

' I send you an account of the glorious
martyrdom of a friend of mine, Maurice
Kinrechtin, a pious priest, chaplain to the
Earl of Desmond, whom you know. lie
was for this cause taken prisoner by the
English, and taken to your native town ot
Clonmel, where he lay in prison for more
than a year. On the eve of Easter, 1585,
Victor \Vhitc, one of the principal citizens
of Clonmel and a pious Catholic, obtained
from the head jailer permission for the
priest to pass the night in his house ; this
the jailer agreed to, but secretly informed
the President of Munstcr, an English here-
tic, who chanced to be in the town, that, if
he wished, he might easily sci/e all the
principal citizens while hearing mass in the
house of Mr. White at daybreak ; at the
same time he bargained to be paid for his
perfidy. At the hour agreed on, the soldiers
rushed into the house and seized on Victor ;
but all the others, hearing the noise, tried
to escape by the back-doors and windows ;
a certain matron, tr>'ing to escape, fell and
broke her arm. The soldiers found the
chalice and other things for mass ; they
sought everywhere for the priest, (who had
not yet begun the mass,) and came at length
to a heap of straw, under which he lay hid,
and, thrusting their swords through it,
wounded him in the thigh ; but he preserved
silence, and, through fear of worse, con-
cealed his suffering, and soon after escaped
from the town into the country. But the in-

trepid Victor (who, although he had for tUi
reason suffered much, could never be in-
duced to attend the convenudes of the here-
tics) was thrown into prison because he
would not give up the pnest, and would, do
doubt, have been put to death, had not Mau-
rice, hearing of the danger of his friend,
voluntarily surrendered himself to the presi-
dent, showing a friendship truly Christian.
The president upbraided him much, and,
having sentenced him to death, offered hia
his life if he would abjure our Catholic
faith and profess the queen to be head
of the church. There came to him also 1
preacher, and strove long, but in vain, to se-
duce the martyr ; nor would he on any ac-
count betray any of those who had heard
his mass, or to whom he had at any time
administered the sacraments. At length he
was dragged at the tail of a horse to the
place of execution as a traitor. Being come
there, he devoutly and learnedly exhorted
the people to (constancy in the faith. The
executioner cut him down from the galloirs
when yet half alive, and cut off his sacred
head, and the minister struck it in the face.
Then the Catholics by prayers and bribes
obtained of the executioners that they should
not lacerate his body any further, and they
buried it as honorably as they could. Fare-
well, and peace in the Lord, and be ye imi-
tators — if occasion offers — of the courageous
Maurice Kinrechtin, and till then prepare
your souls for the trial. Your devoted ser-
vant, dated from the College of St. Antho-
ny, 1586, 2oth March, Kobert Koch-
fort."

Thus it went on during the reifl^n
of Elizabeth. The year 1588 wit-
nessed many hanged, drawn, and
quartered — the Rev. Peter Miller, at
Wexford ; Peter Meyler, at Galway,
and Maurice Eustace — both candi-
dates for the priesthood, the Francis-
can fathers, O'Molloy, Doglicrty, and
Ferrall, at Abbeylcix. llie next
year another of the same order at
Clonmel.

Curr)', in his Civil Wars in Ire-
iantf, thus sums up other examples:

" John Stephens, priest, for that he «aid
mass to Teaguc McHugh, was hanged ard
quartered by the Lord Burroughs, in 1507;
Thady O'Boyle, guardian of the monastery
of Donegal, was slain by the English in his
own monastery ; six friars were slain m the
monastery of Moynihigan ; John 0*Cabrte
and Bryan OTrevor, of the Older « SL

Ireland's Martyrs.

84s

Bernard, were slain in their own monastery,
De Sancta Maria, in Ulster ; as also Feli*
my 0*Hara, a lay-brother ; so was iEneas
Penny, parish priest of Killagh, slain at the
altar in his parish church there ; Cahill
McGoran; Rory 0*Donnellan; Peter Mc-
Quillan ; Patrick O'Kenna ; George Power,
vicar-general of the diocese of Ossory;
Andrew Stritch, of Limerick ; Bryan O'Mu-
rihirtagh, vicar-general of the diocese of
Clonfert ; Doroghow O'Molowny, of Tho-
mond ; John Kelly, of Louth ; Stephen
Patrick, of Annaly ; John Pillis, friar ; Rory
McHenlea ; Tirilagh Mclnisky, a lay-bro-
ther. All those that come after i^neas
Penny, together with Walter Feman, priest,
died in the Castle of Dublin, either through
hard usage and restraint or the violence of
torture."

To whom may be added the Rev.
George Power ; Rev. John Walsh ;
Bishop Brady, of Kilmore, and his
companions, whose sufferings are
here most touchingly given ; the Rev.
Donatus O'Mollony, so tortured by
iron boots and thumbscrews, as well
as the rack — of all which there was
now, apparently, a full supply in Ire-
land — that he died a few hours after.

But single executions were not
prompt enough. In 1602, the au-
thorities intimated that such of the
clergy as presented themselves to
the magistrates would be allowed to
take their departure from the king-
dom. Forty-two, secular priests and
fathers of the Dominican and Cis-
tercian orders, believing that a Pro-
testant government would keep faith
with Catholics, accepted the offer,
and assembling, as directed, at In-
niscattery, were put on board a ves-
sel of war to sail for France. But no
sooner had they reacfied the broad
Atlantic, than the whole of these
priests were thrown overboard. On
the return of the vessel to port, great
indignation was pretended by the
authorities, and the queen cashiered
the officers \ while they were, in fact,
secretly rewarded.

This martyrdom, fearful for its
tmdieiyy and the number of the

priestly victims, closed, so to say, the
reign of bloody Elizabeth. The ha-
tred of Catholicity was intense ; but
yet there was apparent from first to
last, a sense. of respect for the opin-
ion of the Catholic powers, an at-
tempt to justify the executions by
color of law, or excuse them as unin-
tended acts of severity in putting
down revolts or conducting military
operations.

When the son of Mary, herself a
martyr and sufferer, ascended the
throne, his accession was hailed by
the Catholic Irish with a burst of
joy. A prince of their own race,
they could regard him with feelings
never awakened by former sovereigns
of England. The memory of his
mother would have bound them to
him. He might have rendered Ire-
land a happy country. Led away
by this vision, the Irish Catholics .
openly celebrated the long proscribed
worship ; but they soon were rudely
awakened from their delusion. The
glorious army of martyrs under James
I. begins with Redmond O'Galla-
gher. Bishop of Derry, hacked to
pieces by a party of horse in 1604.
Among all the martyrs of this
reign, however, the most illustrious
was Cornelius O'Dovany, Bishop of
Down and Connor, put to death at
Dublin, February ist, 161 1. At an
early age he embraced the rule of
St Francis, and became a model of
piety and patience. Raised to the
perilous dignity of the episcopate, he
labored strenuously to fulfil its du-
ties. At last, he was arrested and
sent to Dublin Castle, where he
nearly perished from want of food
and of all comforts. As the perse-
cutors admitted that they could not
legally compass his death, he was at
last released. But it was only for a
time. Seizing as a pretext his pres-
ence in the district held by the Earl
of Tyrone in his rising against the

church, Anolher preld
O'Brien, Bishop of Emly,

same year in prison, at Dul
undergoing tortures.

The interesting biogr^^pS
other martyr, Rev. M.ni:rit-r
tin, gives 'a picture of si
Eas^lar during these dark
Ireland lh*it i^ too touching
It is in a letter from Father
Rocliforc :

* I ftt'ful yoTi an account of flir
ninriyrdom of a friend of mJin ,
Kinicchtui, a piuus pricftt, tli.n i i
E;irl of De^mortcf, whom yc*u km
was for this cause lakcn priiont
Kfiijli^ili, *i)d totken to your nulm
C!lonmel, wKcrc be lay in ph*mi J
ihwi ii yciT* On the eve flf V„\'^u
Victor WIutc» otic of the prindjvai
of Clonmct and a pious Catb'>Iii
from, the head jdkr pen
pritrnt In pa** the (nuhl tu In '
the JaiJer agreed u>, Imt fieactly tm
the l*TC&idcnt of Mimstef^ ari Eu^tisf:
tk, who chiiiccd to be tn the toMti, f
he wished, he might cniily ?^ivi: n'
|]njidii:i1 titi/fm vliiU he si ring inri'-s i
houjic of Mr. While at d:iyliir;ik : i«i
same time he bargained to l>e [kw.I \
perfidy. At the huwr agreed on, the : .
riishcd into the house and sciJcd on V ii
btit a\] the others, hearing the tioise,
to esoipe by the l»ack*€ioots amd mi

Ireland's Martyrs.

847

The priest Patrick followed the same
singing, as he mounted the ladder,
nticle of Simeon, * Now, O Lord ! dis-
hy servant in peace,' and, after the ex-
of the bishop, he prayed for the by-
rs, blessed them, and forgave all his
». The rope being put round his
be hung for a short time, was then cut
[lalf alive, mutilated, and cut in pieces.
)ldiers, warned by the loss of the bish-
sad, resisted the unarmed crowd, who
to catch the martyr's blood and other
^d wounded many. The day after,
Hes were buried at the gallow's foot,
lie stillness of the night were remov-
^e Catholics to a chapel."

a not enter on the other suffer-

\h% reign whose records are

\ collected in the Memorials,

tign of Charles I. opens

, deeply interesting life of

Blingsby, showing how, even

be terrible persecutions of

^ God called his own elect

tof his truth, and endowed

^firmness. He was a son

rtCTs Slingsby, an English

|led in Ireland, and was

After being educated

travelled on the conti-

I Rome was converted to

dd, at the tomb of St.

>1y resolved to enter the

sus. At the earnest

\ father and mother, he

pland ; but after an in-

^rchbishop Usher and

, he was thrown into

Barberini exerted

|th the cjueen of Eng-

sy* 1635, he was ad-

His slay in Ireland

for he converted

Ottnger brother, his

|l others. This in-

ers, and, the Gen-

Bty urging him to

lome, he proceeded

but learning that

whom he had con-

*) the order he him-

had been struck

•le returned to Ire-

land, tended him in his illness, and
then both reached Rome in 1639.
Renouncing all his worldly prospects
in favor of his brother, he began his
studies, and, after his ordination,
entered the novitiate of the Society
of Jesus in 1641 ; but died at Naples
before he could return to Ireland to
labor in the field where his words,
example, and fetters had preached
so eloquently. The sketch of this
heroic young man, and that of Mau-
rice Eustace, son of Sir John Eus-
tace, and a novice in the Society of
Jesus, who, returning to his family
by permission of his superiors, was
seized, tried, hung, drawn, and quar-
tered, on the 9th of June, 1588, form
a most interesting addition to our
biographies, and show us in Ireland
two young imitators of St. Aloysius
and St. Stanislaus, whose virtues and
example can be held up to the young
with the power that flows from the
fact that they lived among scenes and
trials so familiar to us.

When the civil war began between
the Puritans and Charles I., the per-
secution, bitter already under the
king, became fiendish under the Par-
liament. Hitherto some form, some
limit, had been observed ; but the
Puritans revelled in blood with all
the ferocity of tigers, and with as lit-
tle scrapie.

"The Parliament of England resolved,
on the 24th of October, 1644, *that no quar-
ter shall be given to any Irishman, or to
ayn papist born in Ireland ;^ and their his-
torian, Borlase, adds, * The orders of Par-
liament were excellently well executed.*
{/fist, ofRebclliony p. 62.) Inland and War-
ner refer to the letters of the lords-justices
for the fact that the soldiers ' slew all per-
sons promiscuously, not sparing even the
women.* Cromwell declared on landing in
Dublin that no mercy should be shown to
the Irish, and that they should be dealt
with as the Canaanites in Joshua's time. It
is impossible to estimate the number of
Catholics slain in the ten years from 1642 to
1652. Three bishops and more than 300
priests were put to death for the £iith.

K.|K Inlzr^f: J/jt?—

'I liiiH ■■ iii'l •. *.\ I .' .». t-.''.\ \' '. .':■', ' ' 'w. ' 7 '" "*■-■■»* -" "A:'.

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.'^li W I'lMy 111* ..?.'.■ t '. :.- ■/ ■ .. L-.l , . . - . - ! . ._ '...*.•!

Iii.yn fiml Willi" ii A- f. '...'. '.-. ':, /■.-.. ^ ' ' ' ■ . : - — . -. _ _.,

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ii II ill i^'/i, '|ij'-r'i ,/ ;,,«.'., ^, . • -.-..i *.-,- 1,.. , .:I.."z. ■_ ":T."r-'., Ir^:.:.

iniiiilii I ,ii /i«,//A; ;!■. .4V. i- rV/l •.-.•:: " -- '-, -_ — -- _- •-.-

Win ij/^^i iii'K -.if.'; '• j"*-.":': -:'•-. -jj ....*. .- -_._■_;. •»!• .-.,:

III! \Vi.;l ii.'li..!. f:;if.'>.. '!>;••':? .:';■;.. ■";'". .' ; '" ."^ " r"---^ '-^-•-;

I. t.i.iii, ^^.iiii'ii II. i^//f, it;*. M -.'i.'., ;,. --■.■'.-; • — "-';•.. ^.:"^ir-i Z-";'-

I.J7 ) .|ii/.'/, ffi-.li r.i':.'...' : ::■; : •, •-.'i rr.-.-ri::-.-. ■■-.-.-.----..--.: 2^- -J :..:sx

t ••nrnii III, .iii'l ?',///'* !',/!< ff.;/': J.'j •-.€ r'^^ ■ T'.\Li^ L ?". i'K 1 :;".•_:':: a r. icr^ir^

Ml ImmIi . .iikI olii' f :i"ifri-Ji i-^li.','!-.. ".f /- :, .*. ^ :^ ._.:..__-.... _\. ..^ 7"-^ .-»i«<j

liih, |i. *;•; ; In a v/'ml, .t\ Sir vV. }''.**■/ ''^ i ' i^. '•'..'..■ ' V'.-

wtili I, iIk- |Mi|iiil.ilion *A \iv.\axA in i^.\i '* "'-* *'".'.V'* --"-■■■- * ' ""''

»vi-i i.-J^'t.'*"", «il whom 'aflioli'H A^rt b"':'. 'j/.-'.-jT i .-.iC-: ..C J.. pcSScSs/jI

iitniiii \,i.y,,t^^t\ ill f/i7>, ili» wl.'fl': i«'.,M;ia* or a m-jr.iil ■ilirjji.ie.

iimii Mr.io iiiily V'"i'''^i> '*' whom IfMi w';rc .^ 2rir'''-"r ■" ■" ^ r C'l ires C'>":;c

iHily .1 'K.inrfi, :tii lli.il viiy ii»;irly or r.'iitc: . * 11 ' ". * . 1" 7-'

..... ..:,il...M .1 li..v..- pi.M..Ml. (Sir W. l^^:^-omcRarir: Iio..orr.or.i,^vas.s.ia

iMiy. I'rltf. .lii.if. p. i{, :i|i. M-iraii, and y*-''^rs ailcr, m.-ilc Govcrr.or cl Nc^

M ii.tiiifM 'i ( './/.//I I'/ itr\'f y York ar.d of N\;v England, ami wa

111 lliii ^'.iiiii.il .111(1 I'tMrful sl:iu;;h- slrop.;;ly suspocLcd of complichy i:

In 111 jiiii-.l .mil |ir(»|il<', ii-f.«irds were ihc piracies of Captain Kiild. H

iiu|>ip.'.ililr ; .nil! Ill in:iny of the certainly showed the fierce ari".i

piH'.l'i .III. I iili;;i.»ns who jiirished Catholic spirit of his father ar.i

ii.i ir.m- i.'iii.rm.. Al the si^ht of j^randsire, havinp; introduced ar.

Mil h .ipp.dhii;' iin'.sacirs ihtr mind forced throu;:;h, both in New Yo:

■•liiiiiL-. Ii.i. L In M-rk irfii;;e in doubt ; and Massachusetts, laws to pui.i^

but ili.il iliMibt x.ini'.lifs bffnrr llie with imprisonment fur lite, t-r. u:i i«

I.I .imI. Ill iln- bull hns, wlm, reckiii;; capture, with death, any C..:):.'-

With •.I.m;'.liii"i, .i-.kt.l mankind to i)riest entering tho^e colo:iius.

.tihniii- ihi-ii wnik as a mercy of Amonj; the more illu>:ri..us r.:i.

(io.l, .ind rvin in our d.iy, thrir de- tyrs we notice the Mv^st Re\. ^! ..

.'.. tnd.int-. a-.k us to piaisi* lliein as chy O'Queely, Archbishop ^.>\ T^.v.

I h.iinpioiis nt leli^i.ms freedom. who was overtaken at C:\i:c. :..

We < .in M auily i»e accused of be- Sligo, in 1645, ^Y i>*^"^«-" l'-:'-^

inj', iiu» Nc\i!c in oui lanj;ua;;e when cavalry. 'I'hey hacked oiY h> r.^

Nbili' iT \nbi:Mic, a piofcssed eulo- arm, and then cruelly ma:-,;!c :

•M-.l ol t'luniwcil, .ulmits that lie used body, cuttin*:; it into sn. i",. ::\:^

"a j'.ic.iici .sc\ciiiy th.ni liad per- In 1650, Doetius K:;a:\ T, -! j .

h.ip'. bciii c\euiscd by the pagan Ross, a holy rrancisci:: :'r:.*r. .:

Ic.idcis oT aniiviuity." pointed to that see in i.i'. r '

.\lili.»Ui;h, nocos.itily, for many recommendation of :I:e N. .:'■.. . :■

\«t ilu'u \icinns iluie aio no details nuccini, let't the rctr^a: : . w:. .: .

\\halc\ci. nv'\e!iluloss nearly one- had been hidden f.: nv. ■:/.:;.: . ^

Iv'inili v»l' {\\\> whole woik o( Mr. some distant a::d aL j.v " :*■_ i -..■

O'U^mHn isvlevoiod to memorials of of his dioccsc. al:!:.v.^>. L:. ••

ihi'se N\iiv» peii^hevl b\ the hands of Turitan barids v.^re "..v.: -^ -. ::r..

ll'e TuiiMns in the brief period of country. A:":-^r jcr:". ::■. \; ■..: . .

iWv-niN \ea:*i ; .uul lie mi^lit well ti^lic dutier^ :!:a:

\!v»N,' -.1 bv iho to' nulla at the enil of he was relv.r:;:::

e.icli vl.iv [\\ I'.'.e Romap. mariyrolo^y, ing- place, w/.t.::

/■V .:.'./; .:.':,' :*w aV« 'vWi v.vw JAir- a troop of ::::?

.■.»;.

Ireland^s Martyrs.

849

n besieging Clontnel.
nder of this troop, Lord
om our readers may not
5 Robert Boyle, subse-
l of Orrery, offered him

i deny his faith and join
tarians, but he rejected the
th disdain. He was then
the soldiers' fury, and, his
it severed from his body, he
long the ground to a neigh-
td, being hanged firom one of
J the reins of his own horse,
nmated his earthly course in
50."

>f Limerick enabled Ire-
in the blood of Catholic
le martyrs were led by
t>ert O'Brien, Bishop of
n Limerick in 1600, and
)usly by a devoted mo-
n early age he entered
• St. Dominic, and, after
studies in Spain, return-
in his native city. In
jcame provincial of his
ittended a general chap-
. Four years afterward,
ecrated Bishop of Emly,
I there earnestly till he
rest who took refuge in

the fate that was reserved
O'Brien retired to the pest-
le r to devote the last hours
le benefit of his suflfering fel-
ind to preparing himself for
he was found by the officers
him, and brought before Ire-
him he was to be tried by a
and imprisoned till the sen-
nounced. The bishop heard

and when asked did he want
y replied that all he required
sor. This boon was granted,
anrahan, a member of his own
fered to pass the whole day and
;oth of October in his prison.
ing evening he was led out to
!, as Father Hanrahan related,
fully to the place as to a feast
)rary, De Marinis, relates his
J : * He went with joy to the
ition, and then, with a serene
VOL. VIII. — NO. 54

countenance, turning to his Catholic friends,
who stood in the crowd inconsolable and
weeping, he said to them, ** Hold firmly by
your faith, and observe its precepts ; mur-
mur not against the arrangements of God's
providence, and thus you will save your
souls. Weep not at all for me, but rather
pray that in this last trial of death I may, by
firmness and constancy, attain my heavenly
reward.'' The head of the martyr was
struck off and placed on a spike on the to-
wer,' (* which is on the middle of the bridge.'
— A Rosario^ 'and long after seemed to
drop fresh blood, and uncorrupted and un-
changed in aspect, flesh, or hair — a tribute,
as may be thought, to that virginal purity
which it is universally believed he preserved
to the end.' Thus he went to his reward,
on the vigil of All Saints', 165 1. De Mari-
nis and A Rosario relate that the holy
bishop summoned Ireton to the judgment-
seat of God to answer for his crimes ; and
on the i8th day afterward that bloody per-
secutor was seized with the plague, and, af-
ter sixteen days, expired in great torments.
Dr. Moran mentions that die spot where
this holy bishop was martyred is yet pointed
out and venerated by the Catholics of Lim-
erick."

Another Dominican martyr of this
scene, Father James Wolf,

**was an old man, and preacher-general,
who had before been a long time in prison
for the faith, and in this last persecution was.
as a wall against the enemies of the faith.
He was taken in Limerick while offering the
mass, and in a few hours afterward was
sentenced to be hung, and brought out into
the market square, where he made a public
profession of his faith, and exhorted the
Catholics to constancy in the religion of
their ancestors, and that with so much ardor
that it moved his very enemies. Standing
on the top step of the ladder, and about to
be swung o£^ he joyously exclaimed, ' We art
made a spectacle to God and angels and men^
of^ory to Godf of Joy to angels^ 0/ contempt to
men^ Having said this, he was huiig, and
so went to his crown."

It is a strange fact, and one that
we must regret, that England should
owe the final conquest of Canada to
one who should have honored this
martyr of his family, but who was
really intensely English, and rivalled
Ireton by his bloody march up the
St. Lawrence, butchering priests at
their own church doors with as little

$So

rndmtiPs Marfyrr.

compunction as Ireton felt for Fa-
ther James Wolf. That martyr had
a brother George, an officer in the
Irish army. Although doomed, he
managed to escape, and reaching
England, finally settled in Yonc-
shire. His grandson Edward fought
under Marlborough, and rose to the
rank of general. His son, a name-
sake of the Limerick martyr, was
General James Wolfe, who died in
the arms of victory at Quebec, hav-
ing struck the blow that seemed to
crush for ever Catholicity in Can-
ada,

Another bishop, Arthur Magen*
nis, a Cistercian, Bishop of Down
and Connor, was, in spite of his in-
firmities and years^ dragged on ship-
board, to be carried to some other
land. Death was, however, the ob-
ject of his tormentors, not exile ;
and, as he lingered too long to
please their impatience, they drag-
ged one of the ship's cannon beside
his berth, and, firing it, caused such
a shock to the invalid that he ex-
pired.

The clergy who suffered met death
in every form. Some perished of
starvation in the mountain, like the
Rev. John Carol an ; some were
starved to death in prison, like the
Dominican father, John O'Laighlin ;
some, tracked to their hiding-places,
were shot in their caves, like the
Franciscan father, Francis Sullivan ;
some were stoned to death, and
flung into rivers, like the Dominican
father, John Flaverty; many cut
down by the roadside, or shot and
hacked to pieces, like Stephen Pet*
tit, the Dominican fathers, Peter
Costello, Dominic Neagan, Lawrence
O'Ferral ; others more deliberately
hanged on sea or land, like the Fran-
ciscan fathers, Fergal Ward, Denis
Nelan, Rev. Peter Higgins, the Do-
minican Bonavcnture de Burgo, and
many more ; or drowned at sea, like

nrmcli 1 M

the Trinitarian fathers O'Cc
Daly ; or tied to stakes aod
like the Jesuit, Father Ball
his brother at Drogheda.

**Of the many thousa^nds of Ir
women, and children who were sold j
very ii\ the West Indies, ihc i
few hjive been preserved* AllHMlf A
wai Father David Roche, Dooiinkaa I
details of this infamous traUSc aire giirw
Pf endcripisu Cr^mmeliian S^itifmmi,^
a government order, pyUtahed
4th, 1655, states that, in the torn ;
year*. 6400 Irish, men and 1
maidens, had been disposed of \
li»h slave- dealers. On the i^t
1653, two English merchantA, 1
and Leader, signed a contract wil
ernmcnt commtsstonera, by which 1 j
was granted to them of 250 \
men of the Irish nation, to be 1
twenty miles of Cork, VoogluKl,
Waterford, and Wcxibrd. RofEir Bd]
I>ord Broghin, (afterward Earl of Orfs
deemed It unnccejsary to ta.lce «acb tTM
in visiting different parts of 1
and undertook to supply the 1
from the county of Cork alon
received an order empowering hmi {
for and seixe upon that ntin
person, being once apprebe«i
released l>ut by special order 1
der the hand of Lord BrpsJbUt H
month of November, 1655^ a5 th-e Ijtil
the townland of I^ackagh* co«iily of KSU
were seiied on by the agefitft of I '
mcnt They were only forty
and of these four were ba _
of ccnirt-martiaJ ; the remaiitlag^
including two priests, were '
Mr. Norton, a Bristol mere
as bond-slaves 10 the »ugat-{
Barbadoes/ Again, on the
1655, we find a letter from the <
crs lo the Governor of BarbaiSoet, •
him of the approach of a ship witb aa
of proprietors, deprived of thcti laad^
seized for not transplantinij/ Tliqr
that among them were three prkMs^iM
commissioners particulaxly dcsifv tiMl ll
may be so employed that thc^r msKf M
turn again where that nmt ot giBopie
able to do so much mIschieC havb^aojf
an in floe nee over the popish Imh.*"

Of iheir suflferings at 8C
author gi\*es no record ; bol .

son. in ^ " >r

Ireland's Martyrs.

8SI

petition to Parliament^ the sufferings
of English prisoners " crowded into
close holds amid horses," " sold, on
arriving, to the most inhuman per-
sons," and treated worse than beasts ;
** sleeping in styes, worse than hogs
in England, and many other ways
made most miserable beyond expres-
sion of Christian imagination." And
nothing in the annals of history will
justify the supposition that the Irish
fared better.

During long examinations of early
records and manuscript matter re-
lating to the colonies which formed
the American Union, no allusion has
met our eye relating to any of these
priests sold as slaves in America by
the Puritans. It is doubtful, there-
fore, whether any ever reached our
shores. But it seems to us that re-
searches will yet lead to some clue
or trace in the West India Islands,
that favorite mart for the Puritan
slave-dealers, who sold alike there the
Irish Catholic, or the Christian or Pa-
gan Indian of New England. It is,
however, a curious fact that the first
victim of the witchcraft excitement
in New England was one of the
Irish slaves, a poor woman, who
though able to repeat the Lord's
Prayer in Latin and Irish, failed to
pray in the to her unknown English
tongue, was adjudged a witch, and
put to death.

Of the Irish transported to St.
Christopher's we find some account
in the Jesuit Father Peter Pelleprat's
Rdaium des Missions des P^res de la
Compagnie de jfesus dans Us Isles et
dans la Terre Femu de PAmirique
Miridionale, (Paris, 1655.) ^^^ o^
the island belonged to the French,
and Father John Destriche (Stritch ?)
an Irish member of the Society, was
sent in 1650, to the boundary. His
long-forsaken countrymen flocked
around, braving all dangers from
their cruel task-masters; and he

spent three months hearing confes-
sions, baptizing, instructing, consol-
ing and fortifying with the sacra-
ments these poor exiles. He then,
in the disguise of a merchant, visited
Montserrat, which was, for a time,
an independent Irish isle, and so
laid down on maps, and where even
the negroes spoke Irish. But, at
this time of Puritan rule, the Eng-
lish had reduced them to slavery.
Here he raised a little chapel in the
depth of a forest, and the Irish every
day, under pretext of cutting wood,
made their way to the spot, and, af-
ter giving the day to religion, cut
some wood to carry back.

Returning to St. Christopher's, he
found the English renewing the per-
secution. One hundred and twenty-
five of the most fervent Catholics
were carried off and set ashore on
the barren island of Crabs or Bori-
quen. Here some undoubtedly per-
ished of starvation ; a few reached
St. Domingo, but, on the refusal of
the Spaniards to receive them, man-
aged to find transport to Tortugas,
then in the hands of the French.

Father Destriche then collected
all the Irish he could, and conveyed
them to Gaudeloupe, making excur-
sions fi-om time to time to bring in
others to swell this settlement ; and
visiting in disguise the various Eng-
lish islands.

No allusion is made to any priest
among these exiles ; but this father
was not probably alone. Research
in this field may yet enlarge the
touching memorials which Mr.
O'Reilly deserves so great credit for
presenting to us.

The persecution may be said to
close with the Puritan rule ; Arch-
bishop Plunkett, whose life is well
and concisely given, having been a
victim to the infamous fiction of plots
in the reign of Charles II., and
brought to the scaffold by the false

852 De ProfufuUs.

testimony of men of his own country scendants of the wrong-doers ; for,

and &ith. in the case of Wolfe, the later gei

The last of the martyred clergy rations fall away at times, and 1

was the Dominican Father Gerald priest we revere may trace his <

Gibbon, sub-prior of Kilmallock, scent from a persecutor. But t

killed by some of William III.'s rov- lives of these martyrs remind us

ing cavalry at Lbtuahilli in the these days of insidious pro sp cri

County of Kerry, in 1691. that we ^ould struggle as manfb

Mr. O'Reilly has done an excel- against the persecution of religic

lent work. The records of the lives indifference as they did against I

and deaths of these illustrious men persecution of rack, and sword, a

should be familiar to all their coun- halter, and show that we deem t

trymen, not to excite feelings of hos- religion they died for, worthf of

tility and vengeance against the de- life of love and sacrifice.

DE PROFUNDIS.

O WEARY, weary heart, O fainting soul 1

Thy struggle is in vain ;
The fiery waves of woe that o'er thee roll

O'erwhelm with fiercest pain.
There is for thee no rest, for thee no peace
Till, thought and mem'ry, life itself shall cease.

" Rest for the weary " — ^words that flatteringly

Promise thy heart relief;
The words of peace are meaningless to thee.

They mock thy endless grief.
Think not thy soul from fiuther woe to save.
Seek not for rest, or — seek it in the grave !

Sweet rest, sweet peace. O Jesu 1 thou canst give

E'en in my mortal woe \
Thou bidst my struggling, dying soul to live,

And lead^st me gently through
The waves that dash against my tired feet.
To fields of living green and verdure sweet.

Jesu ! sweet Jesu I in my darkest hour

On thee alone I call ;
Though waves may dash and darkening skies may lower,

And raging storms appall,
I heed them not — I look beyond, above.
And find my refiige in thy Heart of Love !

K. A

The Legend of St. Michael and the Hermit.

8S3

nOM LA 8SMAINS LITVSGIQUB Ml fOITISBS.

'HE LEGEND OF ST. MICHAEL AND THE HERMIT.

** Coosummattti in brevi, ezplent tempora mnlta.*'— ^^1 qf H^isdam.

»ooR but venerable hermit, wear-
lie habit, sandals, and cord of
rancis of Assisi, travelled, from
till the going down of the sun,
the flowery highways of verdant
landy, passing through boroughs
illages, castles and towers. Wais
palmer from the Holy Land,
to rekindle the ardor of noble
aliant men of arms with tales
: woes of the Christians in Pales-
No, the times of Philip Augus-
id Louis IX. had passed away.
)ur hermit kept steadily on, al-
g himself not a day of rest but
ord's day, seeking some one or
thing.

^hat art thou seeking, pious tra-
? Thy ardor is greater than
)f a knight-errant longing to
a lance in honor of the fair
vhose color he wears."
am seeking a soul," replies the
t, "because St. Michael the
ingel has made known to me
throne in the eternal mansions
i some soul from eartli, a throne
zzling beauty, resplendent with
ires and diamonds, and the
a palms of the heavenly Jeru-
. But the soul thus summoned
iirone on high must not be too

eep on thy way. Old men are
found in every country on the

i the hermit kept on his way
the earliest dawn till eventide.
St he finds an aged abbot be-
the Gothic arches of an old
lictine abbey; His reputation
nctity and his great age, which

was fourscore years, made our pilgrim
hope that he had found the object*of
his search. So, on Sunday, after the
hour of lauds, the hermit joyfully of-
fered St Mkhael, on bended knee,
the name of the venerable abbot, with
an account of his exemplary life ; but,
in the evening, after the hour of com-
pline, the archangel said unto him,
" Continue thy search. The abbot
Fulgentius, worthy* as he is, merits
not this high reward. That servant
of the Lord is still too young^* ^

" He is fourscore years of age, of
which sixty-four have been spent in
the monastic state and in the same
monastery."

" He has not yet lived twenty years
as years are reckoned by the guar-
dian angels. Pursue thy way, good
hermit, and continue thy search."

After three months the pilgrim
worn by fatigue and prolonged vigils
joyfully brought four names to St.
Michael. It will be understood that
these names were chosen from among
thousands by the zealous pilgrim.
The first bright name on the list was
that of a Lord of Falaise, illustrious
through his ancestors, and still more
so for his own charity. His castle
with its square towers, surrounded by
crags, deep moats, and high walls,
was always hospitably open to all pil-
grims and strangers as well as to the
unfortunate. There he himself wait-
ed upon them at table, after having
washed their feet with his own hands,
count and baron as he was, and he
never suffered them to depart till he
had given them alms and chanted the
divine office with them in the nave

854

The Lrgtftd of St Midmtl and the Hermit

of liis chapel of St. Prix, A Dume-
rous progeny reverenced him, and all
his vassals proclaimed his fatherly
kindness. What more could be asked
that he might exchange his feudal
power for a throne in heaven ?

The second on the list was the mo*
i ther of fifteen children, seven of whom
I served their king as brave soldiers,
[seven others served the altar as
[priests or monks, and the remaining
I one, a daughter, had many children,
Vmho w^ere reared under tiie careful
I snd vigilant eye of their grandmother
[of pious renown* Wiat more could
J be asked that she might pass from
|family honors to a throne in heaven?
Tlie third was a noble warrior of
[the Knights of Malta, covered with
[irounds and scars gained in the ser-
I vice of God. Having been made ^ at
the age of thirteen years, knight of
his order and page of the grand
master, he was appointed, at the
age of twent}^-two, to the command
of three war- vessels which he armed
at his own expense. He made him-
self formidable to all the Turks on
the seas of the Levant Being ap-
pointed captain of one of the galleys
of Malta, our knight took twenty-
two vessels from the paynim and de-
livered many thousand Christian
slaves. The Emir Fraycardin, who
held sway over the Druses of Mount
Lebanon, and boasted of his de-
scent from Baldwin, King of Jenisa-
lem, conceived so high an esteem for
him that he came forth from the
town of Sayeda to visit him on board
of one of his vessels, and on that oc-
casion gave him a scimitar from Da-
mascus, with a scabbard of wrought
silver, inlaid with diamonds and rare
pearls, which our hero presented to
the king of France, in presence of
the same emir of illustrious memory*.
The escutcheon of our knight bore
a chevron gules, on a field or, charged

at the bend with a flo^*cr-<ic-ltj
and surmounted by the silver i
of the Order of Malta.

He seemed truly endowed]
valor and sanctity, which made i
want of age, for he was only I
nine* What more could be
that he might pass from the mM
combats to the bosom of everl
peace, and from the triumphs (
XoTf to a glorious throne in

Finally, the fourth name wail
of a widow, like the prophctcssJ
na, who departed not from thcf
pie of Jerusalem, by fasiiflf ]
prayers serving God day MXxA i
Like her, she was devoted to j
works, to the care of the
help of the infirm, and tlie c|
of orphans. She was cmlled
eye of the blind/' and ** the
tion of the afflicted," and thro
old Neustria with its greeo <
the echoes of the manor-housctl
the huts alike knew of the
deeds of good Dame Lois.

Proud of all these names, tbel
mit at the early hour of lauds j
sented the list to St* Michael j vtaB
evening had brought ihc hoiir_
compline, the holy chant being i
ed, St Michael gave back to
mit the preciotis paper, all pcrft^
with the incense of para "
said to him : " Faithful ser
tinuc tliy search: all these nauicsi
dear and precious in the eyes of <
but they who bear them ue
young:'

** But the sire of Falaise has
almost a hundred years ]
now bald head, and his l>
er than the snows of Mount
Bernard V

**That noble lord of a hii
years is only reckoned fifte<!
calendar of the guardian an|
plied the archangel,

** But this mother of fifteen child

The Legend of St. Michael and the Hermit.

855

and twelve grandchildren who are
her crown and her glory ? . . . And
the pious widow ?"....

" The mother will only be eight years
old come the festival of the Assump-
tion of Our Lady, her holy Patroness ;
and the pious and chaste widow is
hardly older than the sire of Falaise."

" And the Knight of Malta? 11-
lustrious and brave above his fellow-
knights, he is only twenty-nine years
old according to the record of his bap-
tism ; but these few years have been
well employed in defending Christen-
dom against the infidel Turks who
tremble before his Damascus blade."

"The knight has made progress,
it is true, in the way of real life. He
is almost old enough to reign j but his
guardian angel demands yet a space
of time before imprinting on his soul
the seal of the eternal and heavenly
life. Go thy way, and continue thy
search."

The hermit, in the silence of his
cell, was terrified to see how hard it
was to attain length of years accord-
ing to the reckoning of the angels ;
but he redoubled his zeal to discover
the rare treasure demanded by St
Michael. Seven Sundays having
passed away weeping and praying in
the undercroft of the church of St.
Gerbold, shepherd of Bayeux, of
learned memory, he saw the arch-
angel with his sword of gold coming
toward him resplendent with light.
Troubled in the depths of his heart,
the hermit said to him humbly : '' I
have only one name to present thee,
and this name offers but little that is
worthy of relating ; yet I lay it before
thee." And he held forth the paper
wet with his tears to St Michael, who
took it, smiling meanwhile on the
trembling hermit

The paper had hardly been placed
in the angel's hands when the sombre
crypt was filled with a soft light ; an
unknown perfume embalmed the air,

and the hermit, almost ravished with
ecstasy, at once understood that the
chosen one so long sought afler was
at length found. . . .

The elect soul rose like a blue va-
por above the tower of the church,-
above the lofty mountains, beyond
the stars : it rose luminous and full
of majesty, till it came to the courts of
the New Jerusalem to take its place
upon the dazzling throne awaiting it
among the angels.

"How old, then, is this soul ac-
cording to the calendar of eternal
life ?" were the first words addressed
St Michael by the hermit, still on
his knees.

And St Michael graciously re-
plied: "This saint was only twenty-
one years old according to the reck-
oning on earth, but he was a hundred
by that of the guardian angels who
watch over souls. Not one hour of
his short life was lost for eternity. It
was not only not lost, but — ^which is
necessary to attain length of years
that are meritorious and venerable in
our eyes — not one hour failed to be
reckoned twice or thrice, and some-
times a hundredfold, by the merit
of his deeds of faith, hope, charity,
and mortification. Nothing is lost
which is pleasing in the eyes of the
Lord. A glass of water given with
love in his name becomes a ma-
jestic river flowing on for ever and
ever; while a treasure given with-
out love or from human motives is
counted as nothing in the great Book
of Life I To really live, thou must
love God while exiled here below,
as we love him in the home of the
blessed. Thou must also love thy
neighbor, whose soul reflects the
image of its Maker."

With these words the angel disap-
peared, leaving behind him a long
train of light in the dim vaults of the
crypt of St. Gerbold.

"O Lordl" cried the hermit

'•1

856

New Publicatiotts.

''grant me a true knowledge of the
Christian life — ^the only life really
worth the name — ^that at my last
hour I may not hear resounding
above my head the terrible words,
Too young/ Teach me, O my God 1
the value of time, which is only given
us that we may lay up treasures for
heaven. Time is the money of

eternity ! time is the price of \
Saviour's blood 1 time, so fieed
which we seek to kill, and which 1
surely kill us ; time, the inflexi
tyrant who spares no one 1 Oh I t
I might in turn triumph over time
making it serve to the sanctificat
of my soul and the winning of
eternal crown."

.li

ir:

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Dissertations, chiefly on Irish
Church History. By the late Rev.
Matthew Kelly, D.D. Dublin : James
Duffy. 1869.

Rev. Matthew Kelly, a canon of his
native diocese of Ossory, Ireland, and a
Professor in Maynooth College, was
one of the most accomplished of the
tontemponiries of Dr. John O'Donovan,
Professor Eugene O' Curry, George Pe-
trie. Rev. Dr. Todd, Very Rev. Dr.
Rcnehan, and the few other truly great
Irish scholars of the past and passing
generations. He was a native of Kil-
kenny City, and was barely in the forty-
fourth year of his age when called to his
reward, Saturday, October 30th, 1858.
He was a vcr}- able writer on and inves-
tigator of Irish history, in all its bran-
ches, particularly in the ecclesiastical
and ethnological lines, of which his edi-
torial labors for the Celtic and Archaeo-
logical Societies of Dublin, his editions
of White's and O' Sullivan's WTitings
relative to Ireland, as well as of the
Martyrology of Tallacht, and his contri-
butions to the Dublin Review^ Duffy's
Catholic Magazine^ the London Ram-
bler, etc., etc., have given abundant
proof. He is more widely known by
general readers through his remarkable
translation of Gosselin's great work. On
the P(nver of the Pope during the Mid-
dle Ages, His friend and fellow-labo-
rer, Rev. Dr. McCarthy, has collected
from the periodicals named, chiefly

from the Dublin Review^ into this \
lume — ^for a copy of which we are
debted to the Catholic Publication 5
ciety — ^several dissertations by the
mcnted Dr. Kelly, chiefly on Iri
church history — an examination
which makes us deeply regret that
was not spared to complete the labc
in which he was engaged, and which
had in contemplation at the time of 1
death — which included nothing less i
sirable than a new and thorou;^h editi
of the Acta Sane torn in of Coljan;
new edition and a continuation of Ri
Dr. John Lanigan's Ecclesiastical H
tory of Ireland; and the completion
the publication, under such care as
was capal)le of bestowing, of the V«
Rev. Dr. Renehan's Collections on Ir
Church History. The volume bcii
us sliould find a place in every priv
as well as i)ublic collection that aims
have represented in it the genuine scl
larship of Ireland.

A Few Friends, and how tb

AMUSED THEMSELVES. A Tale

nine chapters; containing desci
tions of twenty Pastimes and Gm
and a fancy-dress party. Wy M.
Dodge, author of Hans Brinktrr J
the Irvington Stories. Philadelph
J. B. Lippincott & Co.

The author in this little book mal
a happy effort to revive amongst

New Publkatioiis,

8S7

again those pleasant, home-like games
that give such a charm to the fireside.
Many of these pastimes are new, and
all of them interesting and amusing, re-
quiring enough thought and wit to keep
one's fiiculties in pleasant activity. So-
ciety, it is true, will scarcely condescend
to be amused in so simple and cheerful
a way ; but as it is a question whether
it is ever heartily amused, we can very
well afford to set aside its ruling, and
enjoy ourselves with the pleasant pas-
times of our " Few Friends." A picture-
gallery, such as is described in its pages,
although it might not provoke such ar-
tistic and wonderful criticisms as the
Academy of Design, would not yet fail
to be very amusing. The great charm
of these games, as the author remarks
in her preface, is the bringing together
the old and young, in the common pur-
suit of pleasure.

A Short Grammar of Plain Chant,
for the use of schools, seminaries, and
religious communities. Troy, New
York: P. J. Dooley. 1868.

It is with the sincerest pleasure we
meet with any evidences of a desire to
return to the use of the Gregorian chant
in the offices of the church. Perfectly
rendered, we know of no modern com-
positions in figured music which can
equal it in fitness or grandeur. The best
that can be said of timed music is, that
it is pleasing ; that its varied harmonies
delight the ear; and that in the most
worthy of such compositions there are
pathetic, joyous, and at times sublime ex-
pressions. But of the Gregorian chant
only can it be sjiid that it edifies, com-
pels to prayer and praise, and never hints
at the world, the flesh, or the devil. Like
the sacred vestments of tlie priest and
the solemn ceremonies of Catholic wor-
ship, it is a part of the outward expres-
sion of the church's homage to God. It
is the befitting song of the sanctuary,
and we arc thankful the church has
never sanctioned any other.

To sing Gregorian chant as it .should
be sung is a science of its own ; a fact
not a few of our musicians appear to Iw
ignorant of; and although the present

little handbook does not pretend to be a
treatise on the subject, yet it may per-
haps be found, in the present state of our
knowledge, a work better adapted to our
wants than a more extended and philo-
sophical treatise would be.

It is a first book on chant for begin-
ners, and gives in a concise form all the
preliminary notions upon which a further
study may be based. The author has
divided i( into three parts : the first treat-
ing of the notadon of plain chant ; the
second, of the structure and peculiarities
of the modes or tones ; and the third, or
psalmody.

A convenient appendix has been add-
ed containing the different intonations fof
High Mass and the Divine Office. The
whole will be found in strict conform-
ity with the Roman Missal and Office
Books, a matter which we deem of no
slight consequence. The author, we ob-
serve, has followed the ordinary method
(a faulty one, we think) in the matter of
the division of the Psalm tones and the
corresponding adaptation of the words.
According to the system commonly
adopted in our choir-books and in works
on plain chant hitherto published in this
country, the different mediations and ca-
dences would require at least four differ-
ent divisions or pointings of the Psalms.
In fact, the rules laid down by all mas-
ters in Gregorian chant for accentuation
and the adaptation of dactylic and mo-
nosyllabic words require only one point-
ing of the Psalms for all the tones and
their various conclusions. We think this
important point can be demonstrated, al-
though it would be out of place here.

As a book of first principles of the
chant, we most heartily commend this
little volume to those for whose use it
has been prepared, and have no doubt
that it will find its way into all our semi-
naries and religious communities, and,
we venture to hoi>e as well, into our
schools. To our Catholic youth the
song of the church ought not to be an
unintelligible jargon of sound. Let us
add, that the eflbrt of the publisher in
putting out a work of this kind is deserv-
ing of the highest praise, and we trust
will be fully ai>i>rcciatcd. The work
bears the imprimatur of the Rt. Rev.
Bisliop of All>anv.

858

New Publications,

The Law of Love and Love as a
Law ; or, Moral Science, Theoretical
and Practical By Mark Hopkins,
D.D., LL.D., President of Williams
College. New York : Ciiarles Scrib-
ner & Co. 1869.

This volume, albeit of moderate size
and pretensions, would require an ela-
lx>rate review to do it justice. The brief
notice we bestow on it must not there-
fore be taken as a criterion of our es-
timate of its ability, or as a full and ma-
tured judgment upon its doctrines and
arguments in detail or in reference to
special points. Its general scope and
tenor of thought and reasoning, we can
say without hesitation, are in accordance
with Catholic doctrine in respect to those
matters which are clearly defined, and in
accordance with that system of moral
philosophy which we regard as the
soundest and most rational on matters
which are open to discussion. The tone
and spirit of the work are elevated^ its
thought is strong, its style limpid and
tranquil, its sentiments generally moder-
ate and conservative. The author de-
molishes the wretched system of utilita-
rianism and several other sophisms, by a
few blows as quietly yet as effectually
given as those of a polar bear. He es-
tablishes also the freedom of the will as
the necessar)' condition of obligation, and
thus cuts up Calvinism root and branch.
We should be glad to see a more distinct
statement of the absolute right of God
over his creatures as the author and
preserver and sovereign Lord of the
creation, as the basis of the obligation to
obey his laws and those of his delegates
even in things indifferent in themselves.
This would in no wise conflict with the
doctrine of the author that the reason of
the eternal law is situated not merely in
the free determination of the divine will,
but chiefly and radically in the divine
intelligence. The argument proving
that all morality is determined by the
final cause, or the relation of human acts
to the ultimate end of man and creation,
is admirable. So also is the resolution
of all the ends and motives of creation
into the amor cntis^ which is really the
dominant idea in the author's philosophy

and forms the character of his hoi
is chiefly on account of this not
elevated view that we take oca
commend it, and expect a vei
good to be done by it within the
the distinguished author's infiuc

Mental Science. A Compel
Psychology- and the History
sophy. Designed as a text-
high-schools and colleges,
ander Bain, M.A., Professc
University of Aberdeen, et
York: Appletons. 186S.

We are willing to believe
book may contain much \-alua
mation in regard to the histor;
sophy, physiology-, and psy
phenomena. But as a tex
" Mental Science/' it is an utt
ity, since its fundamental pri
stro)*s all metaphysical certii
the quintessence of the worst
absurd opinions of the em 'irii
of Herbert Spencer and Mill,
fore simply a dose of intellecti
nine. For the refutation of
called •• Mental Science," we 1
the philosophical articles uf t
zinc.

Light on the Last Thi
William B. Hayden. 1
House of the New Jems;
Cooper Union. 1869.

We are rather surprised not
the title-pajjc of this lx>ok, •• pu
order of the archangel Gab
gravely informs us that the " 1
ment foretold by Daniel, and ir
of Revelation. t«x»k place as
in that book, in the WorM cf
the year 1757. upon those wh
cumulated there since the Lor J
pearinjL; thus f.nishinij ihe di-
in hades. The last ju-!gnier.
augurated. continues to • s::,' .
sed in Daniel : it cons:arj:!v
hereafter, as explained in chn
the vast accum-jlation of the
munities there will no more b€
it takes enect upon the muliit

New Publications.

859

longest, in a very few years."
We are glad to have authentic
ace of such a gratifying nature,
is not the best of it " This re-
vil influences, for the most part,
B intermediate world, replacing
th good influences. The heavens
icrease of numbers, and by an
d endowment of love and wis-
ft the Lord, became more power-
began immediately, as a conse-
to shed down their influences
verfully upon mankind,the church
world. And they were moved

men by the Lord that they
'ect this purpose." We shrewdly
that our author has taken a moon-
* on Mohammed's Aiborac, Who-
. the curiosity to seek for a brief
ly readable summary of that fiin-
stem called Swedenborgianism
it in this little volume. In point
bility and reasonableness the

of the New Jerusalem Church
on a level with that of the Koran
Book of Mormon, though more
and pure in its morality. There
tv anything more ridiculous than
:ension of its adepts to be the
»stics or spiritual men, and to
vn on Catholics as the psychical
:arnal. Their doctrine of the in-
tion of the Godhead is a crude
is notion incompatible alike with
ciples of reason and revelation,
lering the formation of either a
heology or a sound philosophy
Die. The rest of their system is
of dreams and £uicies resting on
more solid than the imagination
enborg, and without the slightest

1 the attention of any reasonable

• THE Blessed Charles Spi-
, S.J., with a sketch of the other
ese Martyrs beatified on the
'July, 1867. By Joseph Brock-
S.J. New York. John G. Shea,

ubjcct of this memoir was a Jesuit
ary in Japan in the seventeenth
illustrious by birth but still more
s virtue. Interwoven ¥dth the

sketch of his life and martyrdom are many
incidents of the history of Christianity
and its glorious confessors in Japan, and
an interesting account of the recent dis-
covery of many thousands of Christians
who have preserved the £uth handed
down by their ancestors from the days of
persecution until the present time. The
history of Japanese Christianity will
compare with that of the first ages of the
church, and is by itself a sufficient and
overwhelming proof of the divine truth
of the Catholic religion. Such books as
this might be read with profit by every
Catholic and by all who profess the name
of Christ

The Conscript: A Story of the
French War of 1813. By MM. Erck-
mann-Chatrian. Translated from the
twentieth Paris edition. With eight
full-page illustrations. New York :
Charles Scribner & Co. 1869.

Those of our readers who have al-
ready perused this story in our pages,
will doubtless be pleased to learn that it
is at length issued in a permanent and
separate form. The volume needs no
commendation from us ; and we believe
that many American readers will find in
its pages new ideas of war and its hor-
rors, even although our own battle-fields
are yet scarcely green.

Outlines of Composition. Designed
to simplify and develop the princi-
ples of the Art by means of Exercises
in the preparation of Essays, Debates,
Lectures, and Orations. For the use
of schools, colleges, and private stu-
dents. By H. J. Zandee, and T. E.
Howard, A.M. Boston : Published by
Robert S. Davis & Co. New York :
D. & J. Sadlier, and Oakley & Mason.
Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott & Co.
Baltimore : Kelly & Piet Chicago i
S. C. Griggs & Co. St Louis : Hen-
dricks and Chittenden. 1869.

We take pleasure in noticing this
Manual as an effort in the right direc-
tion. In all the experience of school-
children there is nothing more difficult
or perplexing than the art of composi-

EBJr

w:v v:« •:.

Sunfofd Unlvtrally Ubrartn

iiiiHiiiiiiiiii ,^

3 bios DD7 ABb 171 yL O D

STANFORD UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

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